The Castle Terrace. Vittoria Colonna, and Julia Gonzaga

Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon,To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?

To-morrow, dearest.

Do not say to-morrow.A whole month of to-morrows were too soon.You must not go. You are a part of me.

I must return to Fondi.

The old castleNeeds not your presence. No one waits for you.Stay one day longer with me. They who goFeel not the pain of parting; it is theyWho stay behind that suffer. I was thinkingBut yesterday how like and how unlikeHave been, and are, our destinies. Your husband,The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemedA father to you rather than a husband,Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flowerAnd promise of his youth, was taken from meAs by a rushing wind. The breath of battleBreathed on him, and I saw his face no more,Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our loveWas for these men, so is our sorrow for them.Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears;But mine the grief of an impassioned woman,Who drank her life up in one draught of love.

Behold this locket. This is the white hairOf my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love,This amaranth, and beneath it the deviceNon moritura. Thus my heart remainsTrue to his memory; and the ancient castle,Where we have lived together, where he died,Is dear to me as Ischia is to you.

I did not mean to chide you.

Let your heartFind, if it can, some poor apologyFor one who is too young, and feels too keenlyThe joy of life, to give up all her daysTo sorrow for the dead. While I am trueTo the remembrance of the man I lovedAnd mourn for still, I do not make a showOf all the grief I feel, nor live secludedAnd, like Veronica da Gambara,Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forthIn coach of sable drawn by sable horses,As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-dayIs worth for me a thousand yesterdays.

Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousiesAs well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?

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 RomeTo paint my portrait. That is not a sin.

Only a vanity.

He painted yours.

Do not call up to me those days departedWhen I was young, and all was bright about me,And the vicissitudes of life were thingsBut to be read of in old histories,Though as pertaining unto me or mineImpossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams,And now, grown older, I look back and seeThey were illusions.

Yet without illusionsWhat would our lives become, what we ourselves?Dreams or illusions, call them what you will,They lift us from the commonplace of lifeTo better things.

Are there no brighter dreams,No higher aspirations, than the wishTo please and to be pleased?

For you there are;I am no saint; I feel the world we live inComes before that which is to be here after,And must be dealt with first.

But in what way?

Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odorOf orange blossoms, let the laughing seaAnd the bright sunshine bathing all the world,Answer the question.

And for whom is meantThis portrait that you speak of?

For my friendThe Cardinal Ippolito.

For him?

Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent.'T is always flattering to a woman's prideTo be admired by one whom all admire.

Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a doveIs eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard,He is a Cardinal; and his adorationShould be elsewhere directed.

You forgetThe horror of that night, when Barbarossa,The Moorish corsair, landed on our coastTo 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 thereAmong the brigands. Then of all my friendsThe Cardinal Ippolito was firstTo come with his retainers to my rescue.Could I refuse the only boon he askedAt such a time, my portrait?

I have heardStrange stories of the splendors of his palace,And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince,He rides through Rome with a long retinueOf Ethiopians and NumidiansAnd Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses,Making a gallant show. Is this the wayA Cardinal should live?

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 playerOn many instruments. In Rome, his palaceIs the asylum of all men distinguishedIn art or science, and all FlorentinesEscaping from the tyranny of his cousin,Duke Alessandro.

I have seen his portrait,Painted by Titian. You have painted itIn brighter colors.

And my Cardinal,At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace,Keeps a tame lion!

And so counterfeitsSt. Mark, the Evangelist!

Ah, your tame lionIs Michael Angelo.

You speak a nameThat 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 modelThat all should follow; one who works and prays,For work is prayer, and consecrates his lifeTo the sublime ideal of his art,Till art and life are one; a man who holdsSuch place in all men's thoughts, that when they speakOf great things done, or to be done, his nameIs ever on their lips.

You too can paintThe portrait of your hero, and in colorsBrighter than Titian's; I might warn you alsoAgainst the dangers that beset your path;But I forbear.

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.

Does he ride through RomeUpon his little mule, as he was wont,With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan,As when I saw him last?

Pray do not jest.I cannot couple with his noble nameA trivial word! Look, how the setting sunLights 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 shoreAs in a dream!