San Silvestro

VITTORIA.Here let us rest a while, until the crowdHas left the church. I have already sentFor Michael Angelo to join us here.

After Fra Bernardino's wise discourseOn the Pauline Epistles, certainlySome words of Michael Angelo on ArtWere not amiss, to bring us back to earth.

MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door.How like a Saint or Goddess she appears;Diana or Madonna, which I know not!In attitude and aspect formed to beAt once the artist's worship and despair!

VITTORIA.Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.

I met your messenger upon the way,And hastened hither.

VITTORIA.It is kind of youTo come to us, who linger here like gossipsWasting the afternoon in idle talk.These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.

If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine.Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I enteredI saw but the Marchesa.

VITTORIA.Take this seatBetween me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,Who still maintains that our Italian tongueShould be called Tuscan. But for that offenceWe will not quarrel with him.

Eccellenza--

VITTORIA.Ser Claudio has banished EccellenzaAnd all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.

'T is the abuse of them and not the useI deprecate.

The use or the abuseIt matters not. Let them all go together,As empty phrases and frivolities,And common as gold-lace upon the collarOf an obsequious lackey.

VITTORIA.That may be,But something of politeness would go with them;We should lose something of the stately mannersOf the old school.

Undoubtedly.

VITTORlA.But thatIs not what occupies my thoughts at present,Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.It was to counsel me. His HolinessHas granted me permission, long desired,To build a convent in this neighborhood,Where the old tower is standing, from whose topNero looked down upon the burning city.

It is an inspiration!

VITTORIA.I am doubtfulHow I shall build; how large to make the convent,And which way fronting.

Ah, to build, to build!That is the noblest art of all the arts.Painting and sculpture are but images,Are merely shadows cast by outward thingsOn stone or canvas, having in themselvesNo separate existence. Architecture,Existing in itself, and not in seemingA something it is not, surpasses themAs substance shadow. Long, long years ago,Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,I saw the statue of LaocoonRise from its grave of centuries, like a ghostWrithing in pain; and as it tore awayThe knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,Or seemed to hear, the cry of agonyFrom its white, parted lips. And still I marvelAt the three Rhodian artists, by whose handsThis miracle was wrought. Yet he beholdsFar nobler works who looks upon the ruinsOf temples in the Forum here in Rome.If God should give me power in my old ageTo build for Him a temple half as grandAs those were in their glory, I should countMy age more excellent than youth itself,And all that I have hitherto accomplishedAs only vanity.

VITTORIA.I understand you.Art is the gift of God, and must be usedUnto His glory. That in art is highestWhich aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessedThe horses of Italicus, they wonThe race at Gaza, for his benedictionO'erpowered all magic; and the people shoutedThat Christ had conquered Marnas. So that artWhich bears the consecration and the sealOf holiness upon it will prevailOver all others. Those few words of yoursInspire me with new confidence to build.What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.

If strong enough.

VITTORIA.If not, it can be strengthened.

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.

Let us now go to the old walls you spake of,Vossignoria--

VITTORIA.What, again, Maestro?

Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once moreI use the ancient courtesies of speech.I am too old to change.