Vittoria Colonna

VITTORIA.Come to my arms and to my heart once more;My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you,For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow.I know what you have suffered.

JULIA.Name it not.Let me forget it.

VITTORIA.I will say no more.Let me look at you. What a joy it isTo see your face, to hear your voice again!You bring with you a breath as of the morn,A memory of the far-off happy daysWhen we were young. When did you come from Fondi?

JULIA.I have not been at Fondi since--

VITTORIA.Ah me!You need not speak the word; I understand you.

JULIA.I came from Naples by the lovely valleyThe Terra di Lavoro.

VITTORIA.And you find meBut just returned from a long journey northward.I have been staying with that noble womanRenee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.

JULIA.Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heardFlaminio speak her praises with such warmthThat I am eager to hear more of herAnd of her brilliant court.

VITTORIA.You shall hear allBut first sit down and listen patientlyWhile I confess myself.

JULIA.What deadly sinHave you committed?

VITTORIA.Not a sin; a follyI chid you once at Ischia, when you told meThat brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.

JULIAWell I remember it.

VITTORIA.Then chide me now,For I confess to something still more strange.Old as I am, I have at last consentedTo the entreaties and the supplicationsOf Michael Angelo--

JULIATo marry him?

VITTORIA.I pray you, do not jest with me! You now,Or you should know, that never such a thoughtEntered my breast. I am already married.The Marquis of Pescara is my husband,And death has not divorced us.

JULIA.Pardon me.Have I offended you?

VITTORIA.No, but have hurt me.Unto my buried lord I give myself,Unto my friend the shadow of myself,My portrait. It is not from vanity,But for the love I bear him.

JULIA.I rejoiceTo hear these words. Oh, this will be a portraitWorthy of both of you! [A knock.

VITTORIA.Hark! He is coming.

JULIA.And shall I go or stay?

VITTORIA.By all means, stay.The drawing will be better for your presence;You will enliven me.

JULIA.I shall not speak;The presence of great men doth take from meAll power of speech. I only gaze at themIn silent wonder, as if they were gods,Or the inhabitants of some other planet.

VITTORIA.Come in.

I fear my visit is ill-timed;I interrupt you.

VITTORIA.No; this is a friendOf yours as well as mine,--the Lady Julia,The Duchess of Trajetto.

MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA.I salute you.'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady;Pardon me if I say that having seen it,One never can forget it.

JULIA.You are kindTo keep me in your memory.

It isThe privilege of age to speak with frankness.You will not be offended when I sayThat never was your beauty more divine.

JULIA.When Michael Angelo condescends to flatterOr praise me, I am proud, and not offended.

VITTORIA.Now this is gallantry enough for one;Show me a little.

Ah, my gracious lady,You know I have not words to speak your praise.I think of you in silence. You concealYour manifold perfections from all eyes,And make yourself more saint-like day by day.And day by day men worship you the wore.But now your hour of martyrdom has come.You know why I am here.

VITTORIA.Ah yes, I know it,And meet my fate with fortitude. You find meSurrounded by the labors of your hands:The Woman of Samaria at the Well,The Mater Dolorosa, and the ChristUpon the Cross, beneath which you have writtenThose memorable words of Alighieri,"Men have forgotten how much blood it costs."

And now I come to add one labor more,If you will call that labor which is pleasure,And only pleasure.

VITTORIA.How shall I be seated?

VITTORIA.I am ashamed to steal the time from youThat should be given to the Sistine Chapel.How does that work go on?

MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing.But tardily.Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alikeAre dull and torpid. To die young is best,And not to be remembered as old menTottering about in their decrepitude.

VITTORIA.My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgottenThe story of Sophocles in his old age?

What story is it?

VITTORIA.When his sons accused him,Before the Areopagus, of dotage,For all defence, he read there to his JudgesThe Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,--The work of his old age.

'T is an illusionA fabulous story, that will lead old menInto a thousand follies and conceits.

VITTORIA.So you may show to cavilers your paintingOf the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.

Now you and Lady Julia shall resumeThe conversation that I interrupted.

VITTORIA.It was of no great import; nothing moreNor less than my late visit to Ferrara,And what I saw there in the ducal palace.Will it not interrupt you?

Not the least.

VITTORIA.Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a manCold in his manners, and reserved and silent,And yet magnificent in all his ways;Not hospitable unto new ideas,But from state policy, and certain reasonsConcerning the investiture of the duchy,A partisan of Rome, and consequentlyIntolerant of all the new opinions.

JULIA.I should not like the Duke. These silent men,Who only look and listen, are like wellsThat have no water in them, deep and empty.How could the daughter of a king of FranceWed such a duke?

The men that women marryAnd why they marry them, will always beA marvel and a mystery to the world.

VITTORIA.And then the Duchess,--how shall I describe her,Or tell the merits of that happy nature,Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing?Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature,Yet with an inward beauty, that shines throughEach look and attitude and word and gesture;A kindly grace of manner and behavior,A something in her presence and her waysThat makes her beautiful beyond the reachOf mere external beauty; and in heartSo noble and devoted to the truth,And so in sympathy with all who striveAfter the higher life.

JULIA.She draws me to herAs much as her Duke Ercole repels me.

VITTORIA.Then the devout and honorable womenThat grace her court, and make it good to be there;Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted,Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini,The Magdalena and the Cherubina,And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly;All lovely women, full of noble thoughtsAnd aspirations after noble things.

JULIA.Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.

VITTORIA.No; his Fiammettas and his PhilomenasAre fitter company for Ser Giovanni;I fear he hardly would have comprehendedThe women that I speak of.

Yet he wroteThe story of Griselda. That is somethingTo set down in his favor.

VITTORIA.With these ladiesWas a young girl, Olympia Morate,Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar,Famous in all the universities.A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel,And in the daily round of household cares,Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is nowA favorite of the Duchess and companionOf Princess Anne. This beautiful young SapphoSometimes recited to us Grecian odesThat she had written, with a voice whose sadnessThrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me lookInto the future time, and ask myselfWhat destiny will be hers.

JULIA.A sad one, surely.Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season;And these precocious intellects portendA life of sorrow or an early death.

VITTORIA.About the court were many learned men;Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps,And Celio Curione, and Manzolli,The Duke's physician; and a pale young man,Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the DuchessDoth much delight to talk with and to read,For he hath written a book of InstitutesThe Duchess greatly praises, though some call itThe Koran of the heretics.

JULIA.And what poetsWere there to sing you madrigals, and praiseOlympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses?

VITTORIA.No; for great Ariosto is no more.The voice that filled those halls with melodyHas long been hushed in death.

JULIA.You should have madeA pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb,And laid a wreath upon it, for the wordsHe spake of you.

VITTORIA.And of yourself no less,And of our master, Michael Angelo.

Of me?

VITTORIA.Have you forgotten that he calls youMichael, less man than angel, and divine?You are ungrateful.

A mere play on words.That adjective he wanted for a rhyme,To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.

VITTORIA.Bernardo Tasso is no longer there,Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony,Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterersThe Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes,Who, being looked upon with much disfavorBy the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.

There let him stay with Pietro Aretino,The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine.The title is so common in our mouths,That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi,Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of RomeAt the Epiphany, will bear it soon,And will deserve it better than some poets.

VITTORIA.What bee hath stung you?

One that makes no honey;One that comes buzzing in through every window,And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thoughtPassed through my mind, but it is gone again;I spake too hastily.

JULIA.I pray you, show meWhat you have done.

Not yet; it is not finished.