Michael Angelo and Benvenuto Cellini

BENVENUTO.A good day and good year to the divineMaestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor!

Welcome, my Benvenuto.

BENVENUTO.That is whatMy father said, the first time he beheldThis handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome.I come to take my leave. I start for FlorenceAs fast as horse can carry me. I longTo set once more upon its level flagsThese feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements.Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence.The Sacristy is not finished.

Speak not of it!How damp and cold it was! How my bones achedAnd my head reeled, when I was working there!I am too old. I will stay here in Rome,Where all is old and crumbling, like myself,To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to Rome.

BENVENUTO.And all lead out of it.

There is a charm,A certain something in the atmosphere,That all men feel, and no man can describe.

BENVENUTO.Malaria?

Yes, malaria of the mind,Out of this tomb of the majestic Past!The fever to accomplish some great workThat will not let us sleep. I must go onUntil I die.

BENVENUTO.Do you ne'er think of Florence?

Yes; wheneverI think of anything beside my work,I think of Florence. I remember, too,The bitter days I passed among the quarriesOf Seravezza and Pietrasanta;Road-building in the marshes; stupid people,And cold and rain incessant, and mad gustsOf mountain wind, like howling dervishes,That spun and whirled the eddying snow about themAs if it were a garment; aye, vexationsAnd troubles of all kinds, that ended onlyIn loss of time and money.

BENVENUTO.True; Maestro,But that was not in Florence. You should leaveSuch work to others. Sweeter memoriesCluster about you, in the pleasant cityUpon the Arno.

In my waking dreamsI see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi,Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower;And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glidesWith folded hands amid my troubled thoughts,A splendid vision! Time rides with the oldAt a great pace. As travellers on swift steedsSee the near landscape fly and flow behind them,While the remoter fields and dim horizonsGo with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them,So in old age things near us slip away,And distant things go with as. PleasantlyCome back to me the days when, as a youth,I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardensOf Medici, and saw the antique statues,The forms august of gods and godlike men,And the great world of art revealed itselfTo my young eyes. Then all that man hath doneSeemed possible to me. Alas! how littleOf all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!

BENVENUTO.Nay, let the Night and Morning, let LorenzoAnd Julian in the Sacristy at Florence,Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel,And the Last Judgment answer. Is it finished?

The work is nearly done. But this Last JudgmentHas been the cause of more vexation to meThan it will be of honor. Ser Biagio,Master of ceremonies at the Papal court,A man punctilious and over nice,Calls it improper; says that those nude forms,Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion,Are better suited to a common bagnio,Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel.To punish him I painted him as MinosAnd leave him there as master of ceremoniesIn the Infernal Regions. What would youHave done to such a man?

BENVENUTO.I would have killed him.When any one insults me, if I canI kill him, kill him.

Oh, you gentlemen,Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords,Are ready with your weapon; and have allA taste for homicide.

BENVENUTO.I learned that lessonUnder Pope Clement at the siege of Rome,Some twenty years ago. As I was standingUpon the ramparts of the Campo SantoWith Alessandro Bene, I beheldA sea of fog, that covered all the plain,And hid from us the foe; when suddenly,A misty figure, like an apparition,Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback.At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired.The figure vanished; and there rose a cryOut of the darkness, long and fierce and loud,With imprecations in all languages.It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon,That I had slain.

Rome should be grateful to you.

BENVENUTO.But has not been; you shall hear presently.During the siege I served as bombardier,There in St. Angelo. His Holiness,One day, was walking with his CardinalsOn the round bastion, while I stood aboveAmong my falconets. All thought and feeling,All skill in art and all desire of fame,Were swallowed up in the delightful musicOf that artillery. I saw far off,Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati,A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak;And firing at him with due aim and range,I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces.The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain.His Holiness, delighted beyond measureWith such display of gunnery, and amazedTo see the man in scarlet cut in two,Gave me his benediction, and absolved meFrom all the homicides I had committedIn service of the Apostolic Church,Or should commit thereafter. From that dayI have not held in very high esteemThe life of man.

And who absolved Pope Clement?Now let us speak of Art.

BENVENUTO.Of what you will.

Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately,Since by a turn of fortune he becameFriar of the Signet?

BENVENUTO.Faith, a pretty artistTo pass his days in stamping leaden sealsOn Papal bulls!

He has grown fat and lazy,As if the lead clung to him like a sinker.He paints no more, since he was sent to FondiBy Cardinal Ippolito to paintThe fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have seen himAs I did, riding through the city gate,In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen,Completely armed, to frighten the banditti.I think he would have frightened them alone,For he was rounder than the O of Giotto.

BENVENUTO.He must have looked more like a sack of mealThan a great painter.

Well, he is not greatBut still I like him greatly. BenvenutoHave faith in nothing but in industry.Be at it late and early; persevere,And work right on through censure and applause,Or else abandon Art.

BENVENUTO.No man works harderThen I do. I am not a moment idle.

And what have you to show me?

BENVENUTO.This gold ring,Made for his Holiness,--my latest work,And I am proud of it. A single diamondPresented by the Emperor to the Pope.Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it;I have reset it, and retinted itDivinely, as you see. The jewellersSay I've surpassed Targhetta.

Let me see it.A pretty jewel.

BENVENUTO.That is not the expression.Pretty is not a very pretty wordTo be applied to such a precious stone,Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and setBy Benvenuto!

Messer Benvenuto,I lose all patience with you; for the giftsThat God hath given you are of such a kind,They should be put to far more noble usesThan setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome.You can do greater things.

BENVENUTO.The God who made meKnows why he made me what I am,--a goldsmith,A mere artificer.

Oh no; an artistRichly endowed by nature, but who wrapsHis talent in a napkin, and consumesHis life in vanities.

BENVENUTO.Michael AngeloMay say what Benvenuto would not bearFrom any other man. He speaks the truth.I know my life is wasted and consumedIn vanities; but I have better hoursAnd higher aspirations than you think.Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo,Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness,In a celestial vision I beheldA crucifix in the sun, of the same substanceAs is the sun itself. And since that hourThere is a splendor round about my head,That may be seen at sunrise and at sunsetAbove my shadow on the grass. And nowI know that I am in the grace of God,And none henceforth can harm me.

None but one,--None but yourself, who are your greatest foe.He that respects himself is safe from others;He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

BENVENUTO.I always wear one.

O incorrigible!At least, forget not the celestial vision.Man must have something higher than himselfTo think of.

BENVENUTO.That I know full well. Now listen.I have been sent for into France, where growThe Lilies that illumine heaven and earth,And carry in mine equipage the modelOf a most marvellous golden salt-cellarFor the king's table; and here in my brainA statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountainOf Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful.I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor.And so farewell, great Master. Think of meAs one who, in the midst of all his follies,Had also his ambition, and aspiredTo better things.

Do not forget the vision.

Now in what circle of his poem sacredWould the great Florentine have placed this man?Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood,Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory,I know not, but most surely not with thoseWho walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is oneWhose passions, like a potent alkahest,Dissolve his better nature, he is notThat despicable thing, a hypocrite;He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them.Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise.