Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence.Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.Long, long years ago, Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, I saw the statue of Laocoon Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost Writhing in pain; and as it tore away The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard, Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony From its white, parted lips.And still I marvel At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands This miracle was wrought.Yet he beholds Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins Of temples in the Forum here in Rome.
If God should give me power in my old age To build for Him a temple half as grand As those were in their glory, I should count My age more excellent than youth itself, And all that I have hitherto accomplished As only vanity.
VITTORIA.
I understand you.
Art is the gift of God, and must be used Unto His glory.That in art is highest Which aims at this.When St.Hilarion blessed The horses of Italicus, they won The race at Gaza, for his benediction O'erpowered all magic; and the people shouted That Christ had conquered Marnas.So that art Which bears the consecration and the seal Of holiness upon it will prevail Over all others.Those few words of yours Inspire me with new confidence to build.
What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps, Some purpose still.The tower can hold the bells.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
If strong enough.
VITTORIA.
If not, it can be strengthened.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I see no bar nor drawback to this building, And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, We may together view the site.
VITTORIA.
I thank you.
I did not venture to request so much.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, Vossignoria--VITTORIA.
What, again, Maestro?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more I use the ancient courtesies of speech.
I am too old to change.
III.
CARDINAL IPPOLITO.
A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO.
Night.
JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.
NARDI.
I am bewildered.These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers;This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas.
My heart begins to fail me.What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment.All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost;And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.
Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.
IPPOLITO.
I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.
NARDI.
I wait to see The Cardinal.
IPPOLITO.
I am the Cardinal.
And you?
NARDI.
Jacopo Nardi.
IPPOLITO.
You are welcome I was expecting you.Philippo Strozzi Had told me of your coming.
NARDI.
'T was his son That brought me to your door.
IPPOLITO.
Pray you, be seated.
You seem astonished at the garb I wear, But at my time of life, and with my habits, The petticoats of a Cardinal would be--Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed Like an old dowager.It were putting wine Young as the young Astyanax into goblets As old as Priam.
NARDI.
Oh, your Eminence Knows best what you should wear.
IPPOLITO.
Dear Messer Nardi, You are no stranger to me.I have read Your excellent translation of the books Of Titus Livius, the historian Of Rome, and model of all historians That shall come after him.It does you honor;But greater honor still the love you bear To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals I hope your hand will write, in happier days Than we now see.
NARDI.
Your Eminence will pardon The lateness of the hour.
IPPOLITO.
The hours I count not As a sun-dial; but am like a clock, That tells the time as well by night as day.
So no excuse.I know what brings you here.
You come to speak of Florence.
NARDI.
And her woes.
IPPOLITO.
The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.
NARDI.
Alas, that such a scourge Should fall on such a city!
IPPOLITO.
When he dies, The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, The beast obscene, should be the monument Of this bad man.
NARDI.
He walks the streets at night With revellers, insulting honest men.
No house is sacred from his lusts.The convents Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor Of women and all ancient pious customs Are quite forgotten now.The offices Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri Have been abolished.All the magistrates Are now his creatures.Liberty is dead.
The very memory of all honest living Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.
IPPOLITO.
And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,--our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,--lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.
NARDI.
What a change Ten little years have made! We all remember Those better days, when Niccola Capponi, The Gonfaloniere, from the windows Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets, Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ Was chosen King of Florence; and already Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!
IPPOLITO.
Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola;
Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.
NARDI.
