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A street in Rome, BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house. MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.
BINDO. GOOD-MORNING, Messer Michael Angelo! | |
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MICHAEL ANGELO. Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti! | |
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BINDO. What brings you forth so early?
MICHAEL ANGELO. The same reason | |
| That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,— | |
| The air of this delicious summer morning. | 5 |
What news have you from Florence?
BINDO. Nothing new; | |
| The same old tale of violence and wrong. | |
| Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo, | |
| When in procession, through San Gallo’s gate, | |
| Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds, | 10 |
| Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori | |
| Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people | |
| Were led as prisoners down the streets of Florence, | |
| Hope is no more, and liberty no more. | |
| Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme. | 15 |
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MICHAEL ANGELO. Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; | |
| Silence and solitude are in her streets. | |
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BINDO. Ah yes; and often I repeat the words | |
| You wrote upon your statue of the Night, | |
| There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo: | 20 |
| “Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone | |
| More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; | |
| To see not, feel not, is a benediction; | |
| Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers.” | |
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MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, | 25 |
| The fallen fortunes, and the desolation | |
| Of Florence are to me a tragedy | |
| Deeper than words, and darker than despair. | |
| I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, | |
| Have loved her with the passion of a lover, | 30 |
| And clothed her with all lovely attributes | |
| That the imagination can conceive, | |
| Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, | |
| And trodden in the dust beneath the feet | |
| Of an adventurer! It is a grief | 35 |
| Too great for me to bear in my old age. | |
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BINDO. I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, | |
| For Benvenuto writes that he is coming | |
To be my guest in Rome.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Those are good tidings. | |
| He hath been many years away from us. | 40 |
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BINDO. Pray you, come in.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I have not time to stay, | |
| And yet I will. I see from here your house | |
| Is filled with works of art. That bust in bronze | |
| Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the master | |
| That works in such an admirable way, | 45 |
And with such power and feeling?
BINDO. Benvenuto. | |
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MICHAEL ANGELO. Ah? Benvenuto? ’T is a masterpiece! | |
| It pleases me as much, and even more, | |
| Than the antiques about it; and yet they | |
| Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it | 50 |
| By far too high. The light comes from below, | |
| And injures the expression. Were these windows | |
| Above and not beneath it, then indeed | |
| It would maintain its own among these works | |
| Of the old masters, noble as they are. | 55 |
| I will go in and study it more closely. | |
| I always prophesied that Benvenuto, | |
| With all his follies and fantastic ways, | |
| Would show his genius in some work of art | |
| That would amaze the world, and be a challenge | 60 |
| Unto all other artists of his time. [They go in. | |
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