Let your heart Find, if it can, some poor apology For one who is too young, and feels too keenly The joy of life, to give up all her days To sorrow for the dead.While I am true To the remembrance of the man I loved And mourn for still, I do not make a show Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded And, like Veronica da Gambara, Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth In coach of sable drawn by sable horses, As if I were a corpse.Ah, one to-day Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays.
VITTORIA.
Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies As well as love.Who waits for you at Fondi?
JULIA.
A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar.
You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino;
And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, The famous artist, who has come from Rome To paint my portrait.That is not a sin.
VITTORIA.
Only a vanity.
JULIA.
He painted yours.
VITTORIA.
Do not call up to me those days departed When I was young, and all was bright about me, And the vicissitudes of life were things But to be read of in old histories, Though as pertaining unto me or mine Impossible.Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, And now, grown older, I look back and see They were illusions.
JULIA.
Yet without illusions What would our lives become, what we ourselves?
Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, They lift us from the commonplace of life To better things.
VITTORIA.
Are there no brighter dreams, No higher aspirations, than the wish To please and to be pleased?
JULIA.
For you there are;
I am no saint; I feel the world we live in Comes before that which is to be here after, And must be dealt with first.
VITTORIA.
But in what way?
JULIA.
Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, Answer the question.
VITTORIA.
And for whom is meant This portrait that you speak of?
JULIA.
For my friend The Cardinal Ippolito.
VITTORIA.
For him?
JULIA
Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent.
'T is always flattering to a woman's pride To be admired by one whom all admire.
VITTORIA.
Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove Is eaten by the hawk.Be on your guard, He is a Cardinal; and his adoration Should be elsewhere directed.
JULIA.
You forget The horror of that night, when Barbarossa, The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast To seize me for the Sultan Soliman;How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped, And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed, Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there Among the brigands.Then of all my friends The Cardinal Ippolito was first To come with his retainers to my rescue.
Could I refuse the only boon he asked At such a time, my portrait?
VITTORIA.
I have heard Strange stories of the splendors of his palace, And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince, He rides through Rome with a long retinue Of Ethiopians and Numidians And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses, Making a gallant show.Is this the way A Cardinal should live?
JULIA.
He is so young;
Hardly of age, or little more than that;
Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters, A poet, a musician, and a scholar;Master of many languages, and a player On many instruments.In Rome, his palace Is the asylum of all men distinguished In art or science, and all Florentines Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin, Duke Alessandro.
VITTORIA.
I have seen his portrait, Painted by Titian.You have painted it In brighter colors.
JULIA.
And my Cardinal, At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace, Keeps a tame lion!
VITTORIA.
And so counterfeits St.Mark, the Evangelist!
JULIA.
Ah, your tame lion Is Michael Angelo.
VITTORIA.
You speak a name That always thrills me with a noble sound, As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo!
A lion all men fear and none can tame;
A man that all men honor, and the model That all should follow; one who works and prays, For work is prayer, and consecrates his life To the sublime ideal of his art, Till art and life are one; a man who holds Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak Of great things done, or to be done, his name Is ever on their lips.
JULIA.
You too can paint The portrait of your hero, and in colors Brighter than Titian's; I might warn you also Against the dangers that beset your path;But I forbear.
VITTORIA.
If I were made of marble, Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo, He might admire me: being but flesh and blood, I am no more to him than other women;That is, am nothing.
JULIA.
Does he ride through Rome Upon his little mule, as he was wont, With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan, As when I saw him last?
VITTORIA.
Pray do not jest.
I cannot couple with his noble name A trivial word! Look, how the setting sun Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, And changes Capri to a purple cloud!
And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke, And the great city stretched upon the shore As in a dream!
JULIA.
Parthenope the Siren!
VITTORIA.
And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows Blaze like the torches carried in procession To do her honor! It is beautiful!
JULIA.
I have no heart to feel the beauty of it!
My feet are weary, pacing up and down These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts Treading the broken pavement of the Past, It is too sad.I will go in and rest, And make me ready for to-morrow's journey.
VITTORIA.
I will go with you; for I would not lose One hour of your dear presence.'T is enough Only to be in the same room with you.
I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak;If I but see you, I am satisfied.
[They go in.
MONOLOGUE: THE LAST JUDGMENT
MICHAEL ANGELO's Studio.He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals Come here to lay this heavy task upon me?
Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, But heeded not.The bones of Julius Shook in their sepulchre.I heard the sound;They only heard the sound of their own voices.
Are there no other artists here in Rome To do this work, that they must needs seek me?
