UC-NRLF B 3 3ME Dflh LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. Gl FT OF C/iss OF THE ITALIAN RENAI S SANCE BOOK OF WORDS PRODUCED AT THE ART INSTITUTE CHICAGO, JANUARY 26 AND 27, J909 UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY OF THE ART INSTITUTE COPYRIGHT 1909 BY THE SOCIETY OF THE ANTIQUARIANS OF THE ART INSTITUTE ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY OF THE ART INSTITUTE OFFICERS President Mrs. Martin A. Ryerson. Vice-President Mrs. Henry Robbins. Secretary Mrs. Noble B. Judah. Treasurer Miss Nellie Carpenter. RECEPTION COMMITTEE Mesdames : Benjamin F. Ayer. Edward E. Ayer. Samuel E. Barrett. Henry Blair. Watson Blair. Isabelle F. Blackstone. Ralph Clarkson. Stanley Field. John J. Glessner. Charles L. Hutchinson. Harry Pratt Judson. Bryan Lathrop. Harold McCormick. Alexander F. Stevenson. Lorado Taft. Moses J. Wentworth. 179798 THE FOLLOWING ARE THE COMMITTEES FOR THE PAGEANT OF THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE Author and Director ........... Thomas Wood Stevens. Assistant Director ............. Dudley C. Watson. Musical Director ............... Frank E. Barry. Executive Director ............. Ralph Holmes. Treasurer ..................... W. F. Tuttle. Historian ...................... Mary Van Home. Scenic Setting ................. Allen Philbrick. Publisher ...................... Ralph Fletcher Seymour Director of Costuming ......... Caroline D. Wade. Costume Executor ............. Julia O Brien. Property Manager ............. Harry L. Gage. Lighting ...................... Stacey Philbrick. Decorative Setting ............. Frederick C. Walton. ( Martin Thon. Stage Trappings ............... J Timothy McCue. ( John Pirard. Advisory Council .............. j W. M. R. French. ( N. H. Carpenter. Seating Arrangements ......... \ Thomas E. Tallmadge. ( Grace Williams. Publicity Manager ............. Richard F. Babcock. Allen Philbrick. Chicago Society of Artists Art Students League Anna Stacey. Pauline Palmer. Alfred Juergens. C. F. Browne. Ralph Clarkson. Lucy Hartrath. Edgar Cameron. Bessie P. Lacey. Edna Crampton. C. Bertram Hartman. Enoch Vognild. Palette and Chisel Club ......... \ * r * d Bertch. 1 Wilson Irvine. Henry Thiede. Alumni Association of Decorative n ^ MacDona] Designers ................... J re ? e k C * Walton - 1 Essie Myers. I Bessie Bennett. Men s Life Class Association . Evening School, Art Institute School of Decorative Design. Normal Department School of Architecture Ceramic Department, Art Insti tute . Atlan Club Robertson Players ( Frank Dillon. j Chas. Mullen. Geo. Weisenberg. ( Chas. Scheffler. j Antonin Sterba. ( Johanna S. Alexander. j Florence Cohen. (.Lucille Comley. Grace Conard. Laura Van Pappelendam. Lillian Mathias. S. Jourdan. Esther Olmstead. Flora M. Shrader. Walter Shattuck. Evelyn Beachey. Mrs. A. Barothy. Mrs. Le Roy Steward, Mrs. E. S. Humphrey. Donald Robertson. DRAMATIS PERSONAE The Herald of the Pageant Donald Robertson. Giotto Jessie Arms. Cimabue Enoch Vognild. Margaritone Harry F. Winebrenner. Dante Dudley C. Watson. Beatrice Portinari Margaret Hittle. Piccarda Donati Gertrude Spaller. Signora Donati Clare Stadeker. Mosca Fred V. Sampson. Lambertuccio Charles Mullen. Oderigo Geo. Weisenberg. Sciatta , Oscar Yampolsky. Buondelmonte Frank Dillon. Petrarch Arthur Deering. Boccaccio Ralph Bradley. Fiametta Alice John. Burleigh Withers. Maurice Gunn. Marie Lockwood. Grace Bradshaw. The Group of the Decamerone J Harriett Keene. Prologue I Alma Hewes. Matie Akeley. \ Ethel Moore. Helen Goodrich. I Alice John. Fra Angelico Harry L. Gage. Fra Lippo Lippi Fred. J. Cowley. A Prior Howard R. Weld. Lurezia Buti Edith Emerson. A Nun lone Dovey. A Prioress Belle Kinney. Domenico De Veneziano Arthur Bowen. Andrea Dal Castagno Caroll Kelly. Leonardo Da Vinci Jane Heap. Verrochio Chas. Scheffler. A Bird Seller Harry Bailey. Lorenzo De Medici John Bowers. Giuliano De Medici Frank Hardin. Poliziano Vida Sutton. Botticelli William Owen. Simonetta Vespucci Anna Titus. Savonaralo Rockaway. Ghirlandajo Margraff. Michael Angelo, as a youth Katherine Maxey. Piero Di Cosimo Ralph Holmes. Andrea Del Sarto as a youth Irma Kohn. A Bride Lucille Comley. A Groom C. A. Reid. The Bride s Father J. Manne. The Groom s Father John P. Jackson. The Bride s Mother Florence Cohen. Lorenzo Di Credi C. Bertram Hartman. Bernardetto De Medici Ralph Pearson. A Dancer Virginia Brooks. Rafael Ronald Hargrave. Cellini Chas. Mulligan. Michael Angelo Albert Sterner. Pope Julius Richard F. Babcock. Titian Oliver Dennett Grover. Tintoretto Chas. Francis Browne. Paolo Veronese as a youth Allen Philbrick. Don Diego de Mendoza Ralph Clarkson. Duke of Mantua Chas. Boutwood. Delia Casa Geo. Schultz. Pietro Aretino Adam Emery Albright. Giovanni Verdezotti F. De Forrest Schook. Vittoria Colonna Miss Marion Redlich. Cardinal Farnese Alfred Juergens. Doge of Venice John F. Stacey. Vasari Chester Brown. Bramante R. H. Salisbury. A Girl Friend of the Bride Mrs. Ralph Holmes. Giovanni Tournabuoni Ralph Harris. Jacopo L Indaco Jo Gibson Martin. Monica Laura H. Watson. Cosa Claire Sutherland. A Prioress Miss Elsie Earle. A Nun Kathleen Connery. A PAGEANT OF THE RENAISSANCE THE ARGUMENT HE HERALD ENTERS; HE AN NOUNCES THE TIME AND THE SCENE FLORENCE, IN THE LATE THIRTEENTH CENTURY; SPEAKS OF THE BIRTH OF FLORENCE, AND OF HER GLORY; ANNOUNCES THE TRIUMPH OF CIMABUE S MA DONNA; AND FORETELLS THE TRAGEDY OF BUONDELMONTE S DEATH. . The procession of Cimabue s Madonna enters, bearing the picture aloft amid great rejoicing. Cimabue, clad in white fes- tal garments, walks with King Charles of Anjou, and is fol lowed by the Priors of Florence, among them Dante, and by the artists Memmi and Taddeo Gaddi. The Herald watches the passing of the procession into the church. Giotto enters, attired as a shepherd, and carrying a green staff. He inquires for Cimabue, and the Herald tells him the master is coming; the Herald then goes on into the church. Cimabue comes out, wondering at his triumph ; he meets Giot to and welcomes him into his service. Margaritone appears as an old man; he laments the passing of the Byzantine school, and predicts that painting shall be a curse to Florence; which Cimabue disputes, foretelling the greatness of Giotto s future fame. Dante enters, meets Giotto, and speaks with him and Cim abue; the three then follow Beatrice Portinari into the church. Men of the Uberti and Amedei enter Mosca the One- Eyed, Sciatta, Lambertuccio, Oderigo, and others; they con ceal themselves in ambush to wait for Buondelmonte. Pic- carda Donati and her mother also await Buondelmonte on the steps. He comes, is attacked and slain, and a battle between the Uberti and the Donati ensues. Night falls while Piccarda is weeping for the slain Buondelmonte, as the tumult is quelled by Dante. The lights come on, and the place is empty; the Herald again speaks, telling of the passing of sixty years, of the great plague that has fallen upon the city, and of the coming of Boc caccio and Petrarch. The procession of the Brothers of the Misericordia comes out of the church; at their passing Petrarch and Boccaccio speak together, and with Fiametta. With the Ten of the De- camerone, Boccaccio goes out to Fiesole, leaving Petrarch to take his way to Avignon. The scene changes to Fiesole, and the Ten dance. The Herald enters, and speaks of the New Learning, of the wars that have rent Italy in the intervening century, and of the sculptors, Donatello, Brunelleschi, and Ghiberti, who have adorned Florence. Fra Angelico enters with Fra Filippo Lippi, Lippi speak ing of the art of Massaccio, Angelico of his own illuminations. An ecclesiastical procession enters, bringing Angelico s ap pointment as archbishop of Florence; he refers the matter to his prior, refusing the appointment. Lippi goes off wondering at the simplicity of the man. The Herald appears, and the scene changes back to Florence. 10 The curtain withdrawn discloses Lippi painting for the nuns, the tableau of the picture before him; night closes in, and Lippi persuades the novice, Lucrezia, who was posing for the madonna, to run off with him ; the prioress, coming to look for her, finds the picture but no model. Enter Bernardetto de Medici and Andrea dal Castagno. The secret of Antonello de Messina. The murder of Domeni- co; the guard comes and finds Andrea wailing over his dead friend. The day gradually comes up, and the scene discloses a street in Florence on a market day. Lionardo da Vinci enters, followed by Verrochio, who vows he will paint no more since he has seen Lionardo s angels. Lorenzo the Magnificent crosses the stage with his train, setting out for Fiesole. The scene again changes to Fiesole, Lorenzo and Giuliano holding a court of love. Botticelli and Simonetta. The Herald. Florence again. Savonarola enters, fol lowed by Botticelli and others ; he inveighs against the Medici. Lorenzo appears, saying he is near to death, and demanding that Savonarola come to give him absolution. The Fra makes his three conditions. The procession of young men, and the burning of the Vanities. A scene in the shop of Ghirlandajo, the Garland Maker. A wedding party comes in, ordering the various equipment which the artist can provide ; and being served by Michael An- gelo as a boy; also by Andrea del Sarto and the pupils of Piero de Cosimo ; the haggling over the gifts ; the bridal party goes out, and a messenger comes in for Michael Angelo calling him to the house of the Medici; his parting with Ghirlandajo. The Herald speaks of the discovery of America, of the death of Lorenzo and the like. The Herald comes on, and his speaking is followed by a dance which symbolizes the Renaissance. After this the scene changes to Rome. Then Michael Angelo, Pope Julius, Rafael, Bramante, and others appear, the Pope visiting Michael Angelo. After this, a pageant of Venice in its glory ; Titian, about to set out for Rome, receives the farewells of his townsfolk, and greetings from the Emperor, Francis the First, and other great ones of earth. Titian and Michael Angelo the two old men, about whom 11 the art of the world goes down. And at the last the supreme wisdom of Buonarroti. NOTE The scenes of the pageant represent, in a com posite fashion, Florence, Fiesole, Rome and Venice ; but as the action may be imagined to take place in various parts of each city, it has been thought proper to omit all mention of the spe cial place of each scene. Thus, the arch represents a square in Florence, and all the Florentine incidents take place in the same setting. For a similar convenience, and to avoid a mul tiplicity of separate scenes, episodes are sometimes conven tionally represented as happening in one day, when their actual occurrence may have covered a considerable period. The main chronology of the pageant is strictly historical. Many of the incidents are, of course, purely imaginary, be ing based on traditional rather than historical authority. For the bulk of the work, Vasari s Lives will furnish the material; some of the chronicle histories have also been drawn upon, the Buondelmonte episode being taken from Machiavelli. Sym- ond s history of the period has, of course, been invaluable ; and Cellini s Autobiography has been a suggestive aid in some of the lighter scenes. The episode of Botticelli and Simonetta is founded upon Maurice Hewlett s delightful story, "Quattro- centisteria" ; and the scene before Ghirlandajo s Shop was sug gested by the Blashfields intimate essay, "The Florentine Ar tist." Numerous other works have been consulted, but the effort has been to make the pageant eloquent of the spirit and tradition of the Renaissance, rather than faithful to the letter of the more modern and less picturesque historians. 12 A PAGEANT OF THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE A PAGEANT OF THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE j^^^SET 7Z<t**i*&Si SCENE I THE HERALD OF THE PAGEANT IME, WHO DOTH BIND MEN WITH HIS CHAIN OF YEARS, FATE, WHO DOTH MAKE ALL LIFE TO BLOOM AND CLOSE, DEATH, WHO DOTH REAP FOR TIME AND FATE: THESE THREE WAGE WAR AGAINST THE STAR RY CROWN OF SONG, AND STAND IN DREADED leaguer, with drawn swords, Before the garden where the Rose of Art, Like a blown flame, hath being and delight. But here, behold, a miracle; Time sleeps; Fate nods; and Death hath had his will. To-night, The centuries, like pages of a book, Turn backward, and the Rose of Art doth breathe, With a new perfume, springtides long forgot. Behold, the world awakes again from sleep, And the long darkness of the middle age Doth break and flee before the coming dawn. Here tread we now the paths that Dante knew In Florence ; the Novella Church is this, And these six hundred years of war and song, Six hundred years of glory and of shame, Are all to be as they had never been, All magically blotted out; and here We see as in a darkened glass the town The Lily Town of Florence in the spring. Behold, Our City ! From Imperial Rome And proud Fiesole she takes descent, And strife was in her blood ere she was born; Strife, and the seed of an immortal flower Blown here amid the quickening mists of war, The flower of art that withers not nor fades. And ere the sun of this one day go down The first unfading petal shall unfold, And the first messenger from the high hills Shall come to seek the garden of delight. [Trumpets heard far off, blowing joyously. The trumpets sound. The royal banners wave; The guest of Florence walks in festival. And from his house beyond the walls they bring Our Cimabue s first Madonna home. [The trumpets nearer. The city cries aloud for solemn joy, Along the streets the blessed folk do kneel, And weep with wonder as the picture passes. But my foreseeing heart doth leap with dread, For this day yet another burden hath, And deadly feuds are folded in its hours, For this day Buondelmonte to his bride Comes home, and by the dark Siena gate Hatred in scarlet mask doth wait for him. Ah, Florence ! Beauty luring Hope to death ! City of Lilies ! Art, and Love and Song Giotto, Buondelmonte, Dante: Time Before these three shall stay his pitiless hand, [The trumpets sound nearer, and the procession enters, passing into the church, Cimabue walking with Charles of Anjou. The Herald keeps his place beside the entrance. Following the procession comes Giotto attired as a shepherd boy, bearing a green staff. GIOTTO I seek for Cimabue. HERALD Lad, thy name. GIOTTO Giotto Bondone. Is the master there? HERALD (Passing into the church) He comes. [Enter Cimabue, from the church. Giotto starts at the sight of him, not having recognized the traveler of the day before as the honored figure of the procession. CIMABUE [Speaking as one in vision. How like a conqueror home from war I walk to-day; kings bear me company; I hear men speak ; I see the festival, But as one dreaming. What is this I do, That kings should condescend, the people praise? I have but wrought as best I knew, and men, Seeing I strive to make Our Lady live Pardon the wrong I do Her holy face, And praise me for it. But the vision flies. GIOTTO [Kneeling beside him. Forgive me, master. I have come. Forgive. I did not know, up there along the hills, That thou wert lord of Florence. CIMABUE I am not lord of Florence. (Sees Giotto.) Ha, the lad I found among his flocks. A welcome, boy. 1C GIOTTO My father bade me come. He gives me to thee. CIMABUE Gives thee? GIOTTO Master, to mould as thou dost choose. CIMABUE I take thee, lad, and by Our Lady s help, And by the favor of Saint Luke, I ll strive That thou shalt be a master in thy time. [Enter Margaritone, as an old man, MARGARITONE Ah, Cimabue, what new thing is this? The people clamour of a miracle, And say that thou hast painted it. CIMABUE No miracle, my master, but a thing I know too well to praise. Yet it is new. MARGARITONE I ask no more. The light from mine old eyes Fails fast, and I shall soon be dark ; and yet Too well I see the strange new thing ye do, The tinseled trifles made to stand instead Of all the rich mosaics we have wrought, Faithfully, piece by piece, full count, And circling golden round the heads of saints, Eternal from the great Byzantine source, Held in traditions that Saint Luke himself Framed while the Caesars still were throned in Rome. And this new thing ye do this painted thing, Shall prove a curse to Florence, and to Art A final doom and black forgetfulness. CIMABUE Margaritone, when I came to thee, I took thy words, and humbly honored them; Thou knowest I am humble still in heart. But this new, wondrous thing shall not drag down The high tradition of our holy Saint, But raise it to a height we dare not dream. 17 Thy day is past. Mine passes. But one comes Who shall be greater than we twain have been. A dawn-fire burns among us. [Margaritone shrinks away from him. [Dante enters from the church. GIOTTO [Seeing Dante. What man is that? CIMABUE Dante Alighieri. What of him? GIOTTO I never saw before a face so sad Master, when I have learned thine art, may I Draw him? CIMABUE If so he please to sit for thee. GIOTTO I shall not need him then. I ll not forget. DANTE I wonder, Cimabue, while the town Throngs to thy picture, thou shouldst walk aside, And while the king of Anjou and his peers Applaud thee, thou shouldst seek a shepherd lad And here hold converse in the street. Men say This quarter shall be named anew for thee Borgo Allegri Street of Joy. CIMABUE Signore, This lad is no mere shepherd. He is one Who shall surpass me, when his art is ripe. Giotto, Signore Dante shall be friend to thee. DANTE I can deny thee nothing. GIOTTO [Eagerly, Tell men then, Signore, What brings the mighty sorrow to thy face, And makes it seem like thunder, and deep grief, And winds that weep along the hills at night. I pardon me, Signore I presume 18 DANTE Is it so plainly writ, then, in my look? GIOTTO I have no skill in reading, sir. But thou Dost somehow move me strangely. I am young And had not known such things; a lamb that s lost, And little sorrows, such as shepherds know, And songs that make one laugh and weep at once These only have I known. But thou dost weep Down in thy soul, as for a world aflame. DANTE And what if that be so? There is a world Boy, let it pass. I think on Florence. Here Is cause enough for grief. And on our world- Can I find joy in this? But most of all On the strange fate of my awakened soul That may not sleep again ; and on the love That did arouse me fill me with great light Dim songs and echoes of a voice divine, And visions and desires more chaste than tears, And the new life [He pauses, as Beatrice Portinari en ters; she passes on into the church, looking straight before her. Dante looks after her; Giotto goes over to him and touches his hand, gently, and Dante grasps the boy s hand eagerly. Together, following Cima- bue, they also pass into the church, Dante hesitating, and Giotto leading him on. [As they go off, men of the Uberti enter, armed, and conceal themselves behind the statue pedestal and along the front of the church. Then Pic- carda Donati enters, with her moth er, and they go up the church steps, loitering. PICCARDA Here, mother, pause a while. Here Buondelmonte said that he would come. 19 SIGNORA DONATI Aye, he will come, for he hath looked on thee. What matter if the child of the Uberti weep, She is not fair as thou. And he will come, For Buondelmonte, if I read him right, Is one to love, and win, and have his way. [Lights go down; sunset glow. PICCARDA And yet my mother, there s a fear that stirs Deeper than all the marvel of my joy. He comes. But as we passed along, I saw Dark men of the Uberti, Amedei, And such as hate my lord and all his house. Why gather they? And last night as I gazed Out toward Siena, praying for my lord, A star fell red from Heaven. Mother, I fear. SIGNORA DONATI A maid s fear. Be thou still. He comes. [Even as she speaks, Buondelmonte draws near. He is followed by two servants. As the servants pass the statue, men of the Uberti follow, touch them on the shoulder, and as they turn, stab them; one of the servants falls; the other, wounded, breaks away, crying, "Buondelmonte thy foes." Then he too i s cut down. Buondelmonte turns on the step, catching Piccarda in his arms. The Uberti move forward, deliber ately, to surround him. As they draw nearer, Piccarda returns to her moth er, and Buondelmonte draws his sword, shouting, "Buondelmonti, your swords !" [Even as he speaks the Uberti close in. He resists, but falls, as the Buon delmonti troop out of the church. The fight rages around the church door ; Buondelmonte struggles to his feet, and fights his way out, at the head of his men, dying at the foot 20 of the statue. There is a pause. Pic- carda darts out from the doorway, and throws herself down by the body. The lights go down; Dante appears in the doorway, a torch in his hand, commanding peace. All the lights go out, except Dante s torch; for a moment Piccarda is heard, sobbing. Then the music takes up a solemn strain. The light appears again, and the stage is clear, save for the Herald, who advances and speaks. SCENE II THE HERALD RIEF IS THE SPAN OF GLORY AND OF LIFE, AND THE SWIFT YEARS, LIKE SWALLOWS IN THE AUTUMN, TAKE FLIGHT AND PASS WITH RUSHING OF KEEN WINGS. THE NIGHT THAT FELL ON BUONDELMONTE S DOOM SYMBOLS THE PASSING OF THREE SCORE OF YEARS, And this returning day in Florence brings The summer of deep woe, of the great plague. Giotto and Dante simple and august These mighty twain have passed beyond the tomb, And Italy hath mourned them; but the grief For their exalted souls grows pale, and Death Hooded and grey, with pestilential step Doth walk our streets, and man and maid and child He touches fatefully with unseen hands, And at the touch they die. This mortal plague Hath made light-hearted Florence like a grave, And filled our houses where the music swelled With sorrow and with lamentation. The Brothers of the Misericordia These only dare to lift the stricken dead And give them back to earth disconsolate. The dirge of their dark mercy draweth near ; And after them doth come Boccaccio ; For here he meets the daughter of a king, Sicilian Fiametta, bloom of love. And wise Petrarca, come from Avignon With an immortal passion in his soul That day by day drips down in golden song. The picture changes, and the morning wind Blows on the hill top of Fiesole. [A dirge is heard, and the Brothers of the Misericordia appear in pro cession, coming out of the church. Petrarch and Boccaccio enter as the procession passes. PETRARCH What men are these? The city swoons with death, And everywhere I meet these masks at work. BOCCACCIO They are the few who dare to love mankind, The few who serve the desperate need of Florence. And some of these in masks are princes ; some Are men of little worth. This holy toil They share. We call them Misericordia. PETRARCH Great hearts are these, in direful occupation. [As he speaks, the last of the proces sion pass off. BOCCACCIO I, too, have served my turn. But here I wait For certain ladies, merry friends of mine, And others gentlemen of Florence ; we Having well served the city and gone free Plan to fare forth up to Fiesole, And there in entertainment pass some days. Wilt thou not come, my Petrarch? [Enter, Fiametta, as he speaks. FIAMETTA Nay, not so cold Messer Francesco surely goes with us. How shall we learn, we folk of baser strain, The ancient high philosophy he sings? What shall we know of Vergil, or of Troy, Or of Queen Helen and Odysseus, And how she gave him a great clew of silk To guide him to the monster; and how Greece In the Republic s time, kept Caesar out? What shall we learn, if Messer Petrarch sulk, 23 Like the great Hector, in his tent at home? I warn thee, sir, our tales will all be told About light matters, love, and pleasantries, And all the telling will not mend one jot The lamentable ignorance of the world. But if thou comest, we shall all grow wise. PETRARCH Wiser and sadder, lady. For I, too, Have thought and sung on love, but not so light As thou dost hold it. FIAMETTA Lightly do I then Hold love that is the sum of my desire. PETRARCH Lightly, for thou dost touch thy bliss. BOCCACCIO Petrarch, Thou art a prayer, and not a man at all, Lifting thy love unto a cold white star While we do walk in lanes where roses lean And life s as warm and free and musical As was the old Corinthian ecstacy. Horace, and Vergil, and the Greeks we love- Have they not sung of beauty and delight? PETRARCH Aye, sung and so have I, Boccaccio. [Looking at the locket he wears. FIAMETTA What hast thou there? PETRARCH A picture that Simone In Avignon hath painted. FIAMETTA Let me look. PETRARCH [Concealing the locket as she looks at it. Forgive me, lady this is not for laughter. FIAMETTA A face I saw a lady with deep eyes. 24 PETRARCH Silence. I will not have thee mock at it. FIAMETTA I mock at love ! Nay, nor at learning neither, Boccacce hath such joy in ancient books. That thou dost love a maid in Avignon Bringeth thee nearer to my wayward heart Than all the epics, Greek and Latin script Thou hast recovered from the night of time. PETRARCH A lady Princess back in Avignon. FIAMETTA A lady? BOCCACCIO Fiametta, press him not. He hath no cold words for this inward fire. FIAMETTA And hath he made no songs for her? BOCCACCIO Such songs As only once in the deep heart of man Love and his sorrow hath made audible. FIAMETTA Signore, I ll not be denied. If this Be some great deathless love that breathes in song Like that Achilles bore Hyppolyta, Or Jason burned for Ariadne with (Thou seest, Boccacce, my learning grows apace,) I ll have thee sing, and on the wings of it, We all shall drift up to Fiesole. [A song is heard. What song is that? BOCCACCIO Tis Petrarch s song, for her In Avignon. [A girl enters, singing. [Petrarch sings. The others of the Ten come out and group themselves around Boccaccio and Fiametta. As the song closes, they all rise and pass off stage, leaving Petrarch, and singing the refrain of his song. Fi- 25 ametta, going last, runs back to Petrarch, gives him a flower from her hair, and follows the rest. PETRARCH S SONG. A glove from thy white hand, O queen, I found, and that was destiny. A glove from thy white hand, O queen, I stole, and by the flowery lea I bore my prize, and in my heart The perfume of it breathed a flame And lo ! I sang, until mine art Aroused my soul unto my shame. The glove from thy white hand, my fair I could not keep, I could not give ; The glove from thy white hand, my fair I sent it back, and now I live In honour shorn of all delight. And thoughts of thee, and of the glove They bring me through the lonely night These fiery songs of grief and love. The glove from thy white hand, O queen, It tangled in my heart strings there ; The glove from thy white hand, O queen, I gave thee back, and now I dare To face the days that follow me, But though my songs with praises glow, The songs I make can never be A solace to this golden woe. [The scene changes to Fiesole, and the Ten dance. INTERMISSION SCENE III [Enter the Herald THE HERALD AN- But And HE MIGHTY POETS OF THE TIQUE WORLD, THE SAGES AND THE ORATORS, ALL WERE FORGOT, AND ONLY THINGS OF HOLY FAME, AND DEEDS THRICE LETTERED IN TRADI TIONS OF THE CHURCH, CAME TO US FROM THAT BRIGHT ANTIQUITY. Petrarch caught some faintly echoed strain, made it live again in scholar s hearts; Boccaccio, wise amid his amorous mirth, Proclaimed the grace of Grecian song, and spoke, When he so willed, with high Latinity. And these two have aroused an endless train Of thirsty souls that drink the classic age. But Art, who woke with Cimabue, and who smiled For a brief season upon Giotto s fame Art sleeps again. And all through Italy The thunder and swift lightning of the wars Have never ceased. And so a hundred years Pass by, and men who in the Holy Land Fought out the perils of the last Crusade, Homeward returning, found no great new thing Save as the perfume of Augustan times Hath breathed into the books of Italy, And the old learning slowly comes to light ; And that the sculptors, Donatello s friends, Ghiberti, Brunelleschi, Delia Robbia, Have wrought, in Florence, beauty out of stone. But here, in still Fiesole, the seasons creep Slowly around the years, and no change comes. And one, a holy man, Angelico, Here prayerfully doth emulate Saint Luke, And when he paints a crucifix, he weeps, And when a saint doth smile beneath his hand, A rapture fills him, and immediate From God he holds the blessed stroke. Now with this worthy friar another comes, Fra Lippo Lippi, careless of his soul, And filled with all the blithe desires of earth. And him, since he is bent on some diverting deed, We ll follow, and it please you, sirs, to Florence. [Exit the Herald. [Enter, Fra Angelico, carrying a book, and Fra Lippo Lippi, carrying a branch of flowers. ANGELICO Say what thou wilt, I can not alter it ; The thing once done, is done by Heaven s will, And what are we to change it? LIPPI Ah, but how Are we to know what Heaven s will may be? 28 ANGELICO I would not paint a Savior but with prayer, And then I know it must be done aright. LIPPI I m not so sure ; Massaccio, now, doth paint, Youth that he is, more wondrously than thou. And yet he never prays before he works. ANGELICO Brother, thine are perilous words. This youth May be inspired by some special saint. Since, as thou sayest, he excels us all. LIPPI Inspired by good wine and women more. ANGELICO Now doth some evil spirit speak in thee. And not the artist, but the world s desire Hath utterance. If this mine art be good, It must be so because the Holy Church In its high purpose under God, hath use And warrant for its being. For myself, I am as dust along the trodden way ; My pictures, brother, wrought with patient prayer, Must testify the will of Heaven shown Through me. I serve the Church, and am content. LIPPI I serve it also, when the pay is good. But never have I painted half so ill As after absolution, when my soul Is clear of sin. What brothers follow us? [Enter the Prior, with a procession of people and monks. THE PRIOR Angelico, we bring thee joyful word Of thy preferment, from His Holiness. Thou are to-day in Florence, dubbed Archbishop. ANGELICO I, an Archbishop? THE PRIOR So the Pope s decree But now delivered unto us, commands. He hears but good repute of all thy works, That thou art studious and devout, and livst According to our order s rigid law. And so, he suits the honor to thy worth. ANGELICO Father, thou knowest I am weak and frail ; In this high office I should be as wax To every undeserver. Go thou, father, And pray the Pope to choose a better man. THE PRIOR I know thee, Fra Giovanni, to the heart. He could not find a better. ANGELICO I am filled With fears. I have a hand to paint, but not To govern. THE PRIOR Dost thou doubt the Pope, And his strong wisdom in electing thee? ANGELICO I know not what to say. LIPPI I ll tell thee, then. Take thou this office, and its benefice, And thy lean body shall grow fat ; thy soul Shall turn to things more human. For thine art What need of that, so thou dost serve the Church? And better painters shall rejoice in thee When thou dost buy their pictures. Take the place, And loose a little money to the craft. ANGELICO I thank thee, brother, for this heedless word. Father, I now do know the will of Heaven. I can not take the place. In humbleness I pray that it be given to a man More worthy, and more apt in government. LIPPI The doddering fool doth babble. Age and fast Have broken him, and he s no more a man. Give me the place, since good men scorn it so, And I will try the might of mirth and wine 30 To bring the folk of Florence into Heaven. [The Prior makes a gesture of dis may, and all the monks move away from him. You will not? Fare ye well. I scarcely hoped My merit could be recognized so young. [Fra Lippi runs off right; the pro cession goes off, left; the Prior with Fra Angelico. SCENE IV The scene changes back to Florence, and Fra Lippo Lippi is seen paint ing a picture for the nuns; the pic ture is seen in tableau, Lucrezia Buti posing as the Virgin and the Prioress with other nuns kneeling in adoration. The Prioress and the other nuns grow restless, while Lip- pi makes eyes at Lucrezia. THE PRIORESS Fra Lippo, does thy precious panel carry All of the blue I bought for thee, and all The gold? LIPPI Not yet, mother. PRIORESS It must all be there. LIPPI I doubt not thcu wilt seek it sharply out. PRIORESS We must be watchful over what we own, Since we are poor, and gold and blue expensive. LIPPI I know not where to put it, mother. Still Since thou desirest, it shall all appear. PRIORESS My weariness, Fra Lippo, overcomes me. May I rest now. 32 LIPPI [Without looking at her. Move, and the picture fails. PRIORESS I can endure this task no longer, Lippo. LIPPI Yet thou art often on thy knees for days And saintly vigils thou dost keep, and fasts ; Ah, thou shouldst mortify the ravening flesh, Mother, and live a hard and holy life. [Lucrezia moves uneasily. But if thy fasting makes thy body faint, I would not have thee suffer. Rest thou, mother. [The tableau is broken up, the nuns resting from their pose. Lucrezia moves as if to rise. Nay, sit thou still. I must see more of thee. [The vesper bells ring, and the nuns go in, except the Prioress, and one other. Lucrezia keeps her place. PRIORESS Fra Lippo, this thy task is slowly done. How many hours must we so serve thee, man? LIPPI Art, blessed mother, hath no birth nor end, But grows in grace as patience counsels it. For five and fifty scudi I have pledged This panel shall be done. It is so little PRIORESS And I to find the ultramarine, remember, And all the gold thereon. LIPPI True, true. Thou hast a generous heart. I had forgot. But I, a poor unworthy painter man, I long to make this panel marvelous, And so atone for some few casual sins I may have left behind me. For Our Lady Will surely hold that my delinquent life Is better spent, if She be glorified. So, mother, all the toil thou dost endure 33 Is registered in favor of my soul. For thee, a finer panel I admit that, too. But when thy body aches to bear the strain Of this, thine attitude of reverence, Remember how thou dost atone for me And this is surely Christian work, and sweet. PRIORESS How long, I asked thee, must I thus atone? [Lippi looks at Lucrezia, who leans toward him, smiling. LIPPI I think I shall not need thee any more. PRIORESS For this short quittance, thanks. Come with me, child. LUCREZIA The painter bade me sit a little while. PRIORESS I must be gone. Come in before the dusk. [The Prioress motions to the nun to stay, and goes out. LIPPI I need a sleeping angel to put here. A sleeping angel with a face like thine, So peaceful, and so eloquent of Heaven. [He poses the nun in a comfortable position, leaning against the throne; hums a refrain for a moment, moves about his canvas, and goes over to Lucrezia. He leans over her chair to satisfy himself that the nun is asleep, and pauses, looking down into Lucrezia s face. How shall mere paint and skill, madonna, breathe Into a picture this, thy loveliness. A music floating through some golden cloud, A dream of starry night-skies in the sea, And incantations deeper than the wells Of sleep enchant me; but these pallid nuns Smother thy witchery with their dross of death. Madonna, thou must come with me. My love Shall burn away their ashen durances, And give thee wings to soar unto delight. 31 LUCREZIA These are no words for thee a holy man. LIPPI To thee they are the words that must be said, Inevitable words from me to thee, Words that the constellations had decreed Before we two had birth into the world. LUCREZIA But thou dost wear this habit, and thy vows Do they not bind thee close? were they not ta en With vigils and with solemn meditation? LIPPI With meditation, surely. I was eight years old When first the brothers took me. What had I To meditate upon. When I renounced the world I did not dream that there were such as thou. LUCREZIA For me, too, there s a wrong in this. Name it Howe er thou wilt. LIPPI A sin? But man is made For sin, and for repentance. As for thee There is no sin for thee thou art not bound. LUCREZIA But thou art bound. LIPPI Bound, yea but we who serve Earn absolution. LUCREZIA Yet I cannot go. LIPPI Thou lovest me? LUCREZIA As I do live, I love thee. LIPPI Then come. LUCREZIA Thy habit frightens me. [He takes off his gown, and appears in the dress of a young Florentine 35 gentleman; he drops the gown over the sleeping nun, and Lucrezia rushes into his arms. They go out. The Prioress enters, with a candle, finds the picture, and arouses the nun, who crawls out from under the monk s gown. The screams of the Prioress arouse the nuns, who come trooping out of the door. They take in the picture and the chair, clear ing the stage. THE PRIORESS A snake Hath harbored here among us. Get within. If Holy Church doth rule in Florence, I Will have her back. This by our Lady s girdle I vow. THE NUN I doubt it, mother. They are both Filled with deceit, and with the craft of sin. Better to go to bed, and wait till morning. PRIORESS Doormouse ! I ll penance thee anon. Begone. [The Prioress goes off, attended by two of the nuns. The others retire through the door. SCENE V [Night; Bernardetto de Medici and Andrea dal Castagno enter. BERNARDETTO Andrea, what strange craft of color s this Thou and Domenico dost paint withal? Men tell me everywhere how magical The tints do gleam, and flesh doth seem to live In these new frescoes in the Nuovo Church. ANDREA A craft, Ser Bernardetto, learned so hard That we are loath to make it known at all. BERNARDETTO But unto me, since I, by service done May merit something from thy courtesy, To me thou surely wilt reveal the thing. I am no painter, but a gentleman Who, coming of a house that loves the arts, Would know somewhat of this. ANDREA So thou dost claim, As though my gratitude were limitless, A secret known to only two in Florence? BERNARDETTO Andrea, as thou art a man, shake off This black suspicion. Tell me all. They say Domenico hath done a picture here More perfect than our city ever knew. 37 ANDREA Aye, aye Domenico! BERNARDETTO And for thee, too, The rumour of the city s warm with praise. ANDREA Only two men in Tuscany BERNARDETTO For the deep interest I do bear in thee, As one who found thee in the open fields, And gave thy youth fair opportunity, Making thee grow a painter, when thy fate Had written thee a peasant otherwise, I ask thee tell me of this secret craft. ANDREA Hear, then, and never, as thou art my friend, Disclose. This secret John of Bruges, a man High standing in the Flemish Guild of Luke, Found out by patience and experience. That paint may be, as our old masters knew, Laid on new-plastered walls, we all have known, But otherwise, the highest skill we use Is waste and wanton to the hand of time. But John of Bruges hath found another way, Mixing his colors with some certain oils, And lo, the colors live, and keep their hue. The secret of these oils he sometime gave To Antonello, the Messinian. And he, in Venice, told Domenico, Who, coming hither, for the love he bore me, Gave me to know the priceless mystery. BERNARDETTO This is a fortunate tide for thee, Andrea. Only two men in Tuscany, and thou One of the two. They say Domenico Hath quite surpassed the ancient masters by it. ANDREA Ser Bernardetto, I have told thee all. Forgive me I am in an evil mood. Let s speak no further of it. Hark, who comes? [A lute is heard. 38 BERNARDETTO Some reveller, I warrant. I ll not stay. This fellow s music, and thine evil mood Are equally against my taste. Farewell. [Exit Bernardetto. ANDREA That lute is his. Domenico, thou art The only other man in Tuscany Who knows this secret, and so rivals me. Before thy picture all the motley, throng Cries out with praise of thee, and in the noise And roaring volume of this flattery I am forgotten, and my higher craft Neglected and despised. Aye, twang thy lute. My wrath doth bubble at the sound of it, And whelm me in a crimson wave of hate. [Silently he crosses and conceals himself, as Domenico enters, loiter ing and singing. DOMENICO [Sings. Flower of the thorn, Who shall kiss thy white throat, Who shall comfort thine eyes? Flower of the thorn. Flower of the rose, Who shall love a patched coat, Who shall make thee his prize- Flower of the rose? ANDREA Only we two in Tuscany. And from This hour Only one man in Tuscany. [He throws his cloak over his face, and rushing upon Domenico, stabs him. Domenico screams and falls. Andrea pounces upon him. A pause. Domenico dies. Andrea looks about him, rises, breaks the lute in a fury, and starts to go off. He hears the guard coming, and returns to the body, taking up the head in his arms. Enter Bernardetto, with the city guard at his heels. Andrea lifts up the body, crying out as if in frantic grief. My brother Ser Bernardetto, this my dearest friend, Domenico, my brother, here is slain. [They carry off the body, clearing the stage. 1!) SCENE VI THE HERALD O DOTH BLACK ENVY TURN THE SOLEMN NIGHT TO HORROR, AND THE DAY TO EXECRATION. THIS MAN, THE JUDAS OF THE CRAFT, ESCAPED THE PENALTY AND JUSTICE OF HIS DEED IN THIS BLIND WORLD. BUT OTHERWHERE HE LIES Whelmed in the fires that his dark malice kindled And we, who know his bitter secret heart, Call him Andrea degli Impicatti Andrea of the Hanged Men. So fate Doth brand the names of those who hate their kind. The night of envy unimaginable Now passeth, and the misty morning stirs, Opes drowsy eyes, and smiles on Tuscany. The market-folk, with all their luscious fruits, The merchants with their gorgeous orient wares, Money-changers, and singers of the street Arouse themselves, and day grows musical With the clear joyous tumult of the town. Now mark you, through this fair doth wander one Whom Glory hath not kissed, but who shall be Among her best beloved ere he die. This Lionardo, young and vision-rapt, Follows his starry quest; and after him In state, Lorenzo of the Medici, Who passeth with his glittering train; and if In the uncertain light of this late year He seem not as he was, Magnificent, You must impute it to old jealous Time Who shears the plume of Splendour from the helm And rends the broidered robe of Circumstance. But this Lorenzo, in his company Hath Sandro Botticelli, in whose heart The sunrise of the world is immanent, Sandro, to whom the fluttering veils of girls, The lovely lines of limbs that flash and dance, The subtile, blossomy airs of spring and youth, Are all as provinces to their conqueror; And here this Sandro, if we watch him well, Shall gain the ring great Aphrodite Venus gave To wed her beauty with his deathless fame. [The lights come up gradually, showing a street in Florence on a market day; merchants and traders, dancers, beggars, and all manner of people appear, with all sorts of wares. [Enter Verrochio, Perugino, and Lorenzo di Credi. LORENZI DI CREDI Surely, my master, we shall find him here, For he is oft among the market folk, And studies the strange faces as they pass. Shall we await him? VERROCHIO Nay, I cannot wait, For there s a fever in my blood until I come upon him. LORENZI DI CREDI Is there mischief, master, And chastisement decreed for Lionardo? VERROCHIO Nay, lad; I scarce can tell thee. He hath brought A shame upon me, and a joy as well. Lorenzo, thou art very dear to me, And Perugino, thou no less I love. Ye serve me truly ; in your art you bring Some credit to your master; yet no fear Have I with you of mine authority. 42 Yesterday nay, I ll speak to him not you. [Lionardo enters, and walks along the market slowly, as if in thought; he stops at the stall of a bird seller. LORENZI DI CREDI Master, there stands our Lionardo. Call him, An thou wilt. VERROCHIO I have no haste to utter This bleak word. LORENZI DI CREDI What folly s this he does? VERROCHIO This is the folly makes him what he is, The whim that rules, that beggars him ; and yet Lorenzo, pray thou for such glorious whims, Since godlike follies have immortal ends. THE BIRD SELLER Nay, young sir, these birds must cost thee more Than seven scudi. For them all say ten. LIONARDO Ten scudi, and the freedom of the air I purchase for so little little enough For such enchantments. Take the silver, man, And throw the cage wide open. [Pays him. THE BIRD SELLER They will fly; They are not wing-clipped! LIONARDO I have paid the price: What if I choose that they should fly? For this I buy them, free them. Man, they carry me On wings aloft. I, too, am freed for flight ; And this my shard of heavy flesh and bone For one swift instant discreate, and shred The fetters of this foul confining earth ; For one clear flash when first these wings take hold On the rebellious air, my spirit soars, And in that moment I m not wing-clipped either. 43 [He opens the cage, and the birds soar upward ; as they circle, his eyes follow them; when they alight his gaze falls, and he finds himself eye- to-eye with Verrochio. My master! Now, my folly s done. VERROCHIO Da Vinci, Here my stubborn will doth bend; I come To seek thee as a pupil seeks his master. Thou knowest well my life ; I have been quick To choose and practice many an art ; to work Wood and tough gold, and carve in rigid stone ; To draw, to play the lute and, most divine Of all the crafts, to paint. And yester-eve I left thee as the merest prentice lad Before my panel of the Baptist John. To-day I came again, and found thy work. I was thy master, and I cried for joy; I was a painter, and I wept for shame. I came to seek thee, for my wonted life Must change because of this. Henceforth, I paint no more. LIONARDO Is it so perfect, then The kneeling, wondering angel in the corner? VERROCHIO Too perfect for my skill to strive against. LIONARDO Master, thy praise doth fire me with supreme And flaming rapture. [He moves toward the bird seller. I must have more birds. VERROCHIO Thou thinkest of my praise ; not of the pride I broke to tell thee. LIONARDO True ; that is my nature. I can not alter that. 11 VERROCHIO Then fare thee well. But when wide Italy doth come to praise Remember sometime who thy master was. LIONARDO I ll not forget. [Exit Verrochio with Lorenzi di Credi and Piero Perugino. The honour I would rear for one I love Doth topple in the air, and crush him down. Yet, ah the beating, lifting, soaring wings! [Lorenzo de Medici and his train, including Giuliano de Medici, Poli- ziano, Sandro Botticelli, and Simon- etta Vespucci, cross the stage on their way to Fiesole. SCENE VII The scene changes to Fiesole, and Lorenzo and his train enter ; Loren zo is seated on a throne, and the group arranges itself to suggest Bot ticelli s picture. LORENZO Now, while the spring s flushed whiteness on the hills Makes in the air a redolent ecstacy, And the sad face of nature smiles again, I bid you to a tourney of the arts ; A Court of Love, as in Provence they sung, And lo ! I give you this for your songs burden : Beauty. Now let the lutes be strung. 46 GIULIANO My brother, This is no theme for unrelated words; The poets should have time for phrasing it. LORENZO Time for it? Nay, say rather that they speak What they must long have conned, and know Even as they know to breathe and sing. How now, Poliziano? POLIZIANO For myself, my lord, I ask no better grace than to begin, For here s a theme full-fashioned to my hand. LORENZO Thou, Sandro? SANDRO BOTTICELLI T is a thing I see, but not To speak on. GUILIANO [Noticing his gaze at Simonetta, Messer Sandro sees. Take heed, Good painter, that thou art content therewith! LORENZO Poliziano, let me hear thy voice. POLIZIANO Beauty Because the lady Flora spills her flowers, And the fleet zephyrs with their fragrances Kiss all the cloudy hill-tops in the spring, Doth dwell among us. Flora, heedless grown From her long sovranty of each sweet year, Runs on, and leaves us the faint odorous breeze To tell where she hath been, and in her track The waving legions of the star-eyed flowers. But follow her, and lo! the Graces dance, Apollo strikes his lute to fiery song, And all the murmurous and Olympian shades Breathe out their paean of the Attic time. Follow her, and we pass the groves of Greece, The pools where Artemis in splendour clove The crystal deeps with her divine delight, And round upon her nymphs the silver drops Splashed, and like moonlight burning its cold flame Lighted the gloomy woods with chastity. Follow her, and the bourgeoning sea shall move, And the white foam shall gather, crest on crest, Till, formed beneath the grave eternal hand, The foam doth flutter with inspired life, And lo ! The Lady Venus treads the laughing wave. [A movement of applause among the group. LORENZO All this we knew. What of the might of her? POLIZIANO Her beauty hath a might more deep than song, And sovran Venus, in her beauty clad Can quell the fervent heart to reverences. Nay, more; The body which doth robe the lovely soul, Itself thrice robed, the garment of a garment, Still rules men with a law delectable. As Plato says, the Golden Age returns When shame is fled, and we, its prisoners, Are free inheritors of beauty s realm, Partakers with Endymion in bliss. LORENZO [Rising and ironically kissing the poet s hand. Thus much of beauty, but no word to say For such as have not Plato by the book Where she exists? Our Sandro here could tell, If he were pleased. A Star from Genoa (If that my brother will permit me) burns Among our constellations, queen. How now, My Sandro? SANDRO BOTTICELLI The poet speaks, and from his stream of words, As they flash by, I gather this and that. Beauty doth thus and so. The lady Flora, Artemis, and the goddess from the foam All these are words, and beauty dwells in them. 48 But tis my trade to draw her otherwise. I must find something more immediate Than "Artemis" a word to conjure with. And beauty such as perfect pictures need Is not so often found, nor easily won. GUILIANO The painter hath some strangely daring quest Behind this pale complaint. SIMONETTA What if he has? The soul of Artemis, of beauty chaste As snow, must still be living in the world. LORENZO Truly, madonna, when I see thee so, I can believe it. SIMONETTA Messer Sandro, speak. Why doth the painter of his art complain? If it be rare, so much the greater gift To fix it for eternity. SANDRO So rare A thing is beauty, to mine eyes, That only once in all my seeking years Have I beheld its utter perfectness. I choose to make a picture, let us say, Such as our poet spoke of. Shall it be A Venus rising from the refluent deep, And Flora walking in her robe of flowers, The Graces dancing, and Apollo girt For visiting the world with amber light? I first must see all this, not as a dream, Or pallid vision called to life with words, But in the moving flesh. Apollo, say, From Messer Giuliano I might frame, And fall but little short. The Graces, too, I might by shift accomplish. But the Queen Of Spring, and Aphrodite s face What of these two? SIMONETTA And yet this beauty lives? 49 SANDRO BOTTICELLI She lives, for I have looked on her. SIMONETTA Not for all eyes doth beauty burn alike. SANDRO BOTTICELLI Nay, but for mine, this star doth live and blaze. SIMONETTA She liveth? Why then should thine art Enshrine her? SANDRO BOTTICELLI Because if this mine art doth fault, She soon shall bloom within the dismal grave. SIMONETTA And so thou offerest immortality. SANDRO BOTTICELLI If my hand fail not. For mine art hath power To keep her young and fadeless through the years. SIMONETTA We speak in riddles, for a maiden shame Sometimes doth overcome me. Yet, you say Great Plato calls us prisoners of shame. I break my bonds then. Sandro, look on me. SANDRO. Thy pardon, lady. Thy gracious heart doth turn In charity upon my lowliness, So kind art thou. SIMONETTA And thou dost offer me Immortal honour; for the sacred garment Of my clear soul thou askest. It is thine. I ll be thy Lady Venus. For this power Of beauty s mine inheritance. Not long I keep it. Thou shalt touch with art The brief and fragile wonder of my being. GIULIANO Nay, love, I will not have it so. SIMONETTA And thou Who speak st of love, hast nought to say of this. I do this for art s sake. A priestess now, At some forgotten shrine, some temple dim In the far morning of the world, I lay This maiden sacrifice. SANDRO BOTTICELLI This cannot be. Thou knowest that this cannot be. SIMONETTA Come thou In the morning. Fare you well. [Exit Simonetta. [Giuliano and Sandro left facing each other. GIULIANO Some spiteful witchcraft hath been set upon her. SANDRO BOTTICELLI A spell of truth, that dares to be itself. GIULIANO This will I ne er endure. Thou lovest her. SANDRO BOTTICELLI My lord, such love as I do bear to her Pulses with reverent worship, not desire. LORENZO Peace, brother ! There s a wind from down the vale That pierces me. A strange, perspicuous thing Doth knock upon my heart as on a gate. Break off. I must begone from hence. The morrow threatens. Let the lutes be still. [Lorenzo goes off with his train, and the scene changes to Florence. 51 SCENE VIII THE HERALD. As driven clouds that flee before the wind, The lustrous days and stormy nights go by ; And Simonetta, flower of Genoa, Is withered, with the hopes of yester-year. Sandro still lives, and follows in the train Of that pale prophet in whose flaming speech The sins of men are scourged as with a rod, And he, Savonarola, the Dominican, Turns all the city to his rigid rule, And in unyielding battle with the flesh, Conquers, and quakes, and at the last goes down. But ere he fall we shall have sight of him In that strange year when the Magnificent Crept to his foe for peace and final shrift. Strange year : in far-off Spain, Granada falls ; And farther still, across the utter deep, The mariner of Genoa dares, and finds A star-shown marvel of the ancient sea Where stainless waves, from immemorial time Had lapped a virgin shore that no keels ploughed. But here in Florence, only whispers sound Of these far ventures. Ere the prophet comes, We ll put on festal raiment, and set forth Along the streets, and see among his lads, Domenico the Garland-Maker s son. While the keen bargaining is hot, we ll glimpse The quaint fantastic, Piero Cosimo, And two young branches who already bear The glistering promise of their future fame Del Sarto, and the lonely Angelo. 52 [Before the Shop of Domenico Ghirlandajo, at the sign of the Gar land, in Florence. [Giovanni Tournabuoni comes knocking at the door of the shop; he is followed by a servant carrying a bag of money. GIOVANNI Ho, there, Domenico. It s I, Messer Tournabuoni. [Enter Jacopo 1 Indaco, from the shop. JACOPO Ay, Signore; serve you, sir? GIOVANNI Send me your master, lad. JACOPO My master is making a ring for a lady, Signore, and he has to day to finish a picture for an abbess ; and what with these mat ters for ladies, he will never have time to see you, Signore. May I serve you in his place? GIOVANNI Be off, and say I have come to pay him for the paintings in the Ricci chapel. JACOPO I ll serve as well for that. [Enter Ghirlandajo. GHIRLANDAJO Back to your task, you rogue. JACOPO I like it not, master, when you speak to me so. Fm minded to leave your service. How shall I ever learn to get their money from the gentlemen who come, if you never give me leave to try? And it s something you never teach me, and a very im portant part of the trade, too. GHIRLANDAJO Get within, boy. Signore, the pictures please you? GIOVANNI Remind me, Domenico, what were the terms of our bargain? I was to pay you twelve hundred gold ducats for the three pic tures ; and a good price, too. And if you pleased rne well, two 53 hundred ducats more ; which was an odd way to leave the mat ter, as you ll admit. GHIRLANDAJO And do they please you, signore ? GIOVANNI To be perfectly frank with you, they do not ; and yet they are such wonderful pictures, and in them you have outdone all the old masters, and I have never in my life seen such color, nor such style, as yours. And of all the painters in Florence, I hold you are the best, and the most to be shown favor. GHIRLANDAJO Save in the matter of the two hundred odd ducats, then, they please you? GIOVANNI Well, that s a way of putting it yes. GHIRLANDAJO But all the praise you have spoken of them, otherwise, is from the heart? GIOVANNI From the bottom of my heart, Domenico. GHIRLANDAJO I would rather hear your praise, signore, than have the two hundred ducats. GIOVANNI There s a discreet man, as well as a great artist. And these are truly marvelous works ; but having this to say, I would add further, that I have need of the odd ducats myself, and if you will not mention it, we ll say no more about the matter. And here are the twelve hundred. [Takes the purse from the servant, and pays him. Fare you well, Messer Domenico. [Exit Giovanni. GHIRLANDAJO Ho, there, Monica, Jacopo, Cosa all of you. [Enter Jacopo, Monica and Cosa from the shop. The Signore Tournabuoni has just paid me my money for the frescoes, and he has so praised me that I am minded to leave 54 everything to you, and set myself to painting for the rest of my days. Trouble me with nothing about the house. Take all orders which come to you, and execute them if you can ; let nothing pass, if it be no more than the painting of a basket handle for a market woman. MONICA And what if the lads can not do the works? JACOPO I I ll not paint the handle of a market woman s basket ! COSA Not if she wanted it done the same day. JACOPO I ll never stoop to such employments. GHIRLANDAJO Take the work, and I ll do it myself. But never trouble me with household affairs, for now that I have found the way to practice this art, I wish the whole circuit of the walls of Flor ence were given me to cover with pictures. [Enter a prioress, with nuns. THE PRIORESS Domenico, is the panel done? GHIRLANDAJO Virtually, mother, it is done. THE PRIORESS Have them bring it forth. GHIRLANDAJO I would, mother, but for a small matter of finish. It is done, but it is not dry, and I fear me you will not like it so well as the panel I made for the brothers of Santa Croce. THE PRIORESS Why not? GHIRLANDAJO Well, in that picture, mother, they gave me some good red wine; for you must know that to make good faces, with red cheeks and lips, very good red wine must be mixed with the colors; and what with the poverty of my trade, and the ill quality of the last vintage, I am nigh distracted. 55 THE PRIORESS [Aside to the nuns. I never heard of this matter before ; mixing wine with colors. A NUN I ve heard of it, and that it is the only way to make the faces glow. ANOTHER NUN We might send him a butt from our cellar. THE PRIORESS We ll no nothing of the sort. [To Domenico. Show me the panel. GHIRLANDAJO In truth, mother I can not; what with the bad quality of the wine, I have still some painting to do with it. Ah, if I only had some of the older vintage for it ! THE PRIORESS Domenico, are you quite honest with us? GHIRLANDAJO Mother, you wrong me. I am cut to the heart by your sus picions. I never knew one of your order to be so heartless. THE PRIORESS I do not understand these matters, but if this be one of the mysteries of your art, I must even help you out. I will send you a butt of our oldest wine. [She turns back to the nuns. See to it that the price of the wine be taken out of the price of the panel when we pay the painter. Fare you well, Domenico. [Exeunt the prioress and nuns. JACOPO Master, I have changed my mind. I will stay in your service, since I see that I am learning the necessary things about the craft from you. MONICA Oho, here s a wedding afoot! [Enter the wedding party the bride, the groom, and the parents of both, with others. 55 THE FATHER OF THE BRIDE Is this the shop of Messer Ghirlandajo, the goldsmith? GHIRLANDAJO At your service. [Aside, to Jacopo. Here s a rich picking ; go you and bring Piero di Cosimo. The man s Flemish, and we shall all grow rich from him. [Exit Jacopo THE BRIDE S MOTHER We have come to order the chest, for my daughter s wedding. And we desire that it shall be painted with a triumph of love, all the way about. THE GROOM S FATHER It will be enough if it be painted on the top. THE BRIDE S FATHER That s a very ill sort of chest, painted only on the top ; what of the sides ; must they be plain wood ? THE BRIDE I think I might have the triumph painted also inside the lid. THE BRIDE S MOTHER Sides of plain wood ! THE GROOM Let her have it, father, I pray you. Let her have all the love she likes on it. THE GROOM S FATHER As you will, but I hold it will be ill done, if it be painted all over; and it will cost me a farm in Flanders. [Enter Piero di Cosimo GHIRLANDAJO I pray you, submit it to this man, who is an excellent artist. Shall the bridal chest be painted on all sides, or merely across the lid. PIERO DI COSIMO Who is to paint the chest? GHIRLANDAJO I am. PIERO DI COSIMO Then across the lid will be enough. 57 GHIRLANDAJO What do you mean? This is an ill jest, Piero. Tell them to have it painted all over, and you and Andrea shall paint the sides. PIERO DI COSIMO Let me paint the lid, and I ll arrange the matter. You may do the sides. GHIRLANDAJO As you will, but do not lose me the work. PIERO DI COSIMO Gentles, let me explain this mystery. If it be a thing to be be painted by this great master, Messer Ghirlandajo, the lid alone would be a rare gift ; but if it be painted all over by him, it will be a masterwork, and such as a most generous man might well give his love; such a gift as the first families of Florence would choose. And so, though the cost is small, I leave it to your generosity to determine which it shall be. THE GROOM Let her have it as she likes it, father. THE GROOM S FATHER I ll agree, though it s a pernicious thing for a woman to have her own way, and a thing never tolerated in Flanders. PIERO DI COSIMO Now, signore, let me have a word with you. I am much called upon in such matters, and I can help you. Let me make you a list of such things as a generous man should give his bride, that they may be married in handsome style, and never regret it after. THE BRIDE S MOTHER Here s a piece of good fortune, cur finding this man. THE BRIDE S FATHER Ay, let him tell us, and we ll get the things he names. THE GROOM S FATHER Sir, you are interfering in a matter which does not concern you. PIERO DI COSIMO It will concern me enough, signore, before you have done with it. It is plain that you must give her a shrine of Our Lady, with 58 a Saint John on one side, and a Saint George on the other, since he is much favored in Flanders, and I observe that your father, signore, has something of the Fleming about him. And inside the shutters I will paint for you a portrait of you both, that she may be reminded of her husband when she is at prayer which is a very excellent thing for a woman. And my lad, Andrea, will paint the saints for us, which will make the cost less, and the pictures as good, almost, as though they were done by my own hand. A GIRL And here s the mirror, from Venice. PIERO DI COSIMO Aha a mirror from Venice. For this you must have a frame of silver. A good piece of work, nicely wrought. Ghirlan- dajo, you may make the frame for the mirror. Ah, a good steel. But this is a vanity I look into it, but it likes me not. For you, madonna, this is for you ; you shall bloom in it. And you, madame. [To the Bride s Mother. How kindly a friend is a mirror to one of your countenance; in truth, I fear me it will never be able to tell your face from the damigella s. Wonderful, wonderful. You have a daughter about to be married! Wonderful, how the beauty of some women makes them young so long. THE BRIDE Messer Domenico, do you make books of hours? PIERO DI COSIMO [Interrupting. Surely, madonna; and that s another thing you must have. THE GROOM S FATHER Come with me, son. I will not listen to this fellow any longer. THE BRIDE S MOTHER [Holding him by the sleeve. Here s the penury of the Flemish blood. Come back, sir. THE BRIDE He has never said a word about a book, nor a garland, nor a girdle, nor a ring. THE GROOM I fear, my love, for my father s sake it might be better to come again another day. PIERO DI COSIMO Foresight foresight! An excellent thing in a young bride. I commend you. A girdle; a silver girdle? THE BRIDE S MOTHER [Scornfully. A silver girdle! THE GROOM S FATHER [In agony. A silver girdle! PIERO DI COSIMO Silver will do very well, but it must have a sonnet engraved on it. Ho, there Andrea. You will set to work at once to draw me a Saint John and a Saint George for the shutters to the shrine. And you, Angelo, come forth. [Andrea del Sarto comes out of the shop. ANDREA DEL SARTO One for each shutter, master? PIERO DI COSIMO Of course. ANDREA DEL SARTO May I color them as I choose? PIERO DI COSIMO Color them as I bid you, to save the ultramarine. Make them yellow, so to use lots of ochre. THE BRIDE S MOTHER What s that you say? PIERO DI COSIMO I bade him make it golden, that it may look rich, for I see the young man is a generous soul. [Enter Michael Angelo, as an ap prentice. Michael, do you write me a sonnet for the lady s girdle; and see that it be a sweetly flowing one, and of good round num bers. MICHAEL ANGELO I will, master, but I must rhyme it as I like and no one in terfering. THE GROOM S FATHER I ll not pay for all this ; say what you will, I ll not pay. PIERO DI COSIMO Signore, I never meant you should pay for this. Pay for a sonnet! No, signore. This boy is good for little else, so I bade him write it. But we should never think of your paying for it. THE GROOM S FATHER Ay, but all these other things? PIERO DI COSIMO For them, of course, Signore, we should expect you to pay. THE GROOM S FATHER The chest with the lid painted that I agree to. Nothing else. THE GROOM And the shrine of Our Lady? THE GROOM S FATHER Not another thing. [He starts to go off, but is restrained by the others, who all hang upon his coat tails. THE BRIDE Not the book of hours! THE BRIDE S MOTHER Not the girdle with the sonnet! THE GIRL Not the frame for the mirror? THE BRIDE S FATHER Not the ring, even? THE GROOM S FATHER This is a den of thieves. I will leave it a beggar. THE BRIDE Not even the chest with the lid painted inside? PIERO DI COSIMO Will you have your son wed like a penniless fellow from the wars? THE GROOM S FATHER Begone, all of you. [Exit the entire party, hanging on to the groom s father, and all wail ing in wrath. 61 GHIRLANDAJO Piero, ruin stares me in the face. Look what you have lost me. PIERO DI COSIMO Nonsense, man. Take this to your philosophy. A Fleming boy a Fleming! And from such, may the gracious saints preserve us all. [Ghirlandajo retires into his shop, and Piero di Cosimo, somewhat crestfallen, but still confident, re turns to his. SCENE IX [A Market Place in Florence. Citi zens and market people assembled. Sandro Botticelli, attired as a lay brother, moves among them. A CITIZEN Tis said the Friar will preach again today Against the Medici. SANDRO BOTTICELLI Ay, and the walls Of this proud city tremble at his words. A WOMAN Why does he thus revile the Medici? SANDRO BOTTICELLI Because through them is the Republic slain. Through them the canker feeds upon the heart, And Florence staggers with iniquity. ANOTHER CITIZEN We ll hear him, for his fearful prophecies Have one and all come true. A VENETIAN Is this the place Where the great prophet of Saint Dominic Doth speak? SANDRO BOTTICELLI Ay, and behold along the streets The people thronging. In yon open square, To-day, by his command, the Vanities, The evil images and pictures, gems, And books unholy, like Boccaccio s, And all the works of lure and luxury There shall be builded in one reeking pyre And burnt to light the glory of the Cross. See, where the father comes. [Enter Savonarola, followed by a great crowd; he mounts the plat form and addresses the people. SAVONAROLA Men of Florence, This day I speak not of your guilty past, Nor of the crimes that break your city down, The sins that have now fallen upon your limbs Like chains. But of the silken luxury, The greed of power and lust and fatal ease That make you slaves. And for the flaming truth I here have uttered, he who holds the seal But never held the spirit of the Church, Proclaims me excommunicate, accursed. For what? Because I called you from your sins, And bade you flock unto the sinless Cross? What need of cursing for all this? Because In love for me you have shut close your streets From evil men, and vain displays, and lived According to the dictates of the Word? Is this my crime? No, men of Florence, no ! But I have spoken of the Medici In open terms, and called upon their house To give you back your ancient freedoms, arts, And all the liberties your fathers knew. 64 For this, they brand me excommunicate. [Enter Lorenzo de Medici and his train. A FRIAR Father, there comes the base Magnifico. Better we held our preaching otherwhere. SAVONAROLA Nay, he is one I most desire should hear. LORENZO [To his people. There s one who comes to live among us here, Homing within my city and my house, Who never yet hath paid me courtesy. SAVONAROLA Lord of the Medici, what bringeth thee Into the street where men do preach God s law? LORENZO I came to seek for thee, Girolamo. SAVONAROLA So much I had foretold. LORENZO Father, thou art Though I have little cause to love thee else, The only honest priest in Florence. So, I seem to flatter thee. My desperate need Drives me to thee. Father, I have come to feel About my head the beating of black wings ; Death chills me with his grisly iron clutch, And I would be, ere my last breath go out, At peace. SAVONAROLA I come not here to bring thee peace. LORENZO Yet do I trust thee, and thou art a priest. Hear my confession, name my penances, And send my soul upon its lonely flight. I come to thee, as one who dies, in ruin. SAVONAROLA As I am son and seed of Holy Church, I answer. But since he who rules in Rome Hath cast me off, I make my own conditions. LORENZO Name them, and be brief. My mortal weakness Overcomes me. SAVONAROLA That thou are quick in faith. LORENZO Else I had sought thee not. SAVONAROLA Thou shalt give back Unto the city and the poor, all gains Taken by indirection or injustice. LORENZO If I refused thee, it were plain to all, I am not truly penitent. This, too, I grant. SAVONAROLA And last, thou shalt decree the end Of thine unlawful lordship over Florence ; Restore the old republic to its own, And make the city free of all thy house Endlessly and irrevocably free. LORENZO Without this thing thou lt not absolve me? SAVONAROLA Without this pledge, I will not succor thee. LORENZO And though I die unshriven, thou art firm? SAVONAROLA And though thou die unshriven, this I hold : Florence must shake thee off, and all thy house. LORENZO My friends, the prophet dooms me, judges me. So be it. Take me home again for rest. (Exit Lorenzo and his train.) SAVONAROLA In yonder open square, devoted brothers, Let the fires be lit. [Exit Savonarola with the Domini cans, many of the people following him. A procession of young people, carrying all manner of Vanities books, pictures, gems and trinkets of all sorts moves across the stage toward the fires, from which a glow is seen shining upon the faces of the youths, and on Sandro Botticelli, who stands watching them, lost in meditation. SANDRO BOTTICELLI So do the evils of the world burn down ; A blessed glow is this the flames ray out, More sweet than many candles round a shrine, Since lures of hell here turn to lights of peace, And sin doth furnish fires for chastening. See where the books of tales unholy burn, Tales of Morganti and Boccaccio, Volumes of sorcery and magic arts. Ah, these are well destroyed, though for myself, Boccaccio might be saved. He s not all sin. And pictures, too; I had not thought on this. How deep in shame the unawakened man May delve and know it not. Before he came, I looked on beauty as a heavenly thing, And blindly courted its delusive grace. [An artist passes, bearing a Venus to the fires. Yon Venus hath a wondrous art in her, And must the plundering fires consume her? Lo! She is a shadow but a shadow of delight, So beautiful. Yon fragment of pale stone A heathen chisel shaped ere Christ was born Must it go too into the ruining flame ? Ah, this is bitter to mine eyes. [A man carrying a picture of Botti celli s goes by. My work! How shall I suffer this! From mine own hand Yon fluttering shape of girlhood, dancing, girt 67 With flowers about her maiden breast and hair From mine own hand! And she was lovelier Than the pale image shows her ; and the stars Are not more pure than she was. Pause, I say. I will not have her burn. [He starts after the bearer of the picture, but turns back with a cry of anguish as the picture is cast upon the fire. A tongue of flame Doth lick my naked heart. [He looks again and finds Savon arola confronting him. Sandro falls on his knees. Master, do thou Pray for me. I am lost in desperate sin. SCENE X INTERMISSION THE HERALD OW IS THE TIDE FULL FLOOD, AND GLORIUS NAMES SOUND ON THE TONGUES OF MEN INNUMERABLE; NOW TIME DOTH BOURGEON, AND ALL ITALY HUMS LIKE A HIVE WITH MIGHTY CONSUMMATIONS. OLYMPIAN SOULS ARE THESE, AND WHAT ARE WE That we should rouse their glories from their sleep, And in the vesture of their vanished state Tread through the masque of their mortality? So, I beseech you, let your eyes behold Not the dull poverty of our regard, But the imperial splendours of their life, And clothe us, as we pass, with their renown. So shall they live the moment in your minds, And we, their lowliest heritors, give due And seemly honour with humility. But few, of all the swarming genius-brood, Can we illume. Some lofty names our play, Though from no lack of diligence, must pass. Our scene, from Florence, where the flower of art Was nourished to the summer of its life, Shifts now to Rome, and to the stately town Where, throned upon her myriad isles, the Queen Of Commerce weds the immemorial sea. At Parma, now, Correggio toils alone, And great Mantegna, up in Mantua, Spreads on his canvas the triumphant march Of Caesar. But these both, reluctantly, We pass, their eminence forever safe From the marauding years. And here we pause In reverence ere we speak the golden names Of Rafael, Titian, Michael Angelo. [A dance follows, symbolic of the entire movement of the Renaissance ; after which the scene changes to Rome. [A garden in Rome. Bramante dis covered looking over some plans, which are held by two apprentices; Pope Julius II with several car dinals, and secretaries; also a num ber of artists. POPE JULIUS Bramante, these are my desires ; that thou Shalt straightway plan, tear down, and build anew Saint Peter s Church. This vast design is none Too glorious to house, when I am gone, The tomb that Buonarroti builds for me. BRAMANTE Your Holiness, to hear is to obey. But for this tomb it seems to threaten thee. POPE JULIUS To threaten me? What meanest thou? 70 BRAMANTE They say That he who builds his tomb invites his death. POPE JULIUS I like not that. For premonitions come, Sometimes, of words like those. Build thou The Church. The tomb shall wait. (Enter Rafael, followed by Giulio Romano, and many other artists.) A welcome, Rafael. Look Bramante s plan For the rebuilding of Saint Peter s Church. And I have changed my mind. Our Angelo Shall paint the frescoes on the Sistine walls. The tomb must not be done till I am gone. RAFAEL Your Holiness, this is not Angelo s work. He is a sculptor. POPE JULIUS He can paint as well. RAFAEL He is a sculptor, in the heart of him ; In this he doth surpass all living men, But if thou dost command that he shall paint His art must suffer change from thy coercion. POPE JUILUS I say that he shall paint. Thou dost not fear The plow of Buonarroti in thy field. RAFAEL I welcome him; and yet it does him wrong. [The Pope turns to despatch a mes senger, and Rafael speaks aside to Bramante. Bramante, if this be a strategem To bring to shame a man I do not love, I will not have it so. BRAMANTE No plot of mine, But the Pope s whim. POPE JULIUS I ve sent for Angelo. 71 RAFAEL Your Holiness, forgive mine open speech, But unto every artist is his art, His single scutcheon in the war of time ; Change thou the art the shield s reversed and danger He else avoided, strikes him unaware. I am not jealous of this mighty man But as I do revere his mastership, I hold his art is sacred to his choice. POPE JULIUS Let him serve me well, and I will choose The clay or color of his mastership. See, now, the hermit from his cave comes forth. RAFAEL The dreamer from his dream with blinking eyes. [Enter Michael Angelo. POPE JULIUS I called thee, Michael Angelo, to say The tomb must wait. When Death has taken me Then build the tomb. I ll not invite him here, Nor open a rich chamber to his gaunt And fearful presence. MICHAEL ANGELO The tomb must wait? [Enter Vittoria Colonna, unob served. POPE JULIUS Even so. MICHAEL ANGELO Then thou dost take my work away, Out of my hands. That leaves me desolate. POPE JULIUS I take away one task to give another Thou shalt adorn the Sistine Chapel walls. MICHAEL ANGELO I am no painter, Holy Father. Give me work More suited to my heavy hand. The chisel Is the tool fits best. POPE JULIUS Thou servest me? Indeed? Then thou shalt do my will. MICHAEL ANGELO There s Rafael Could spread a greater glory on those walls. I am a sculptor. POPE JULIUS Nay, my Angelo, Thou art far greater than thy sculpture is. MICHAEL ANGELO Father, I would not serve thee ill. Nor grace Nor glozing words can change me utterly. POPE JULIUS [In anger. Then hear my mandate; if thou servest me Thy task is mine to choose and to appoint. I will it so, and thou shalt bend to it. Now, Rafael, to thy works. Lead on. This man For all the wonder of his art, is strange. Sometimes I scarcely understand him. [Exeunt Pope Julius, Rafael, Bra- mante, and the others, leaving Michael Angelo and Vittoria Co- lonna. MICHAEL ANGELO The tomb shall wait? And what of me? The years Run on, and waste, and nothing comes of them. In Rome, in Florence still the tale s the same. The mighty work must have majestic stone, And Princes shift with every breeze of fear. VITTORIA Signore, I have something heard of this, And feeling, as thou dost, a subtile wrong Unto thine art, I think I understand. And yet, signore, is the hope so pale, The future day so blackened with despair? The Sistine walls are thine. MICHAEL ANGELO Ah, gracious lady, But to what end ? The walls may stand or fall, 73 The storm may wreck them, or the labouring earth May shake them down to dust. What s that to me? For now the great design, the vision vast Wherein I held the centuries in awe, Must gather mould amid the useless years, And all the adoration and the power Must waste beneath the ruin of my dream. VITTORIA Signore, might I speak with thee plain words? MICHAEL ANGELO Princess, I am thy subject. Pardon me. VITTORIA Thou art a master, and thy steadfast soul Holds to the course of its appointed star. But in the storm why shun the haven light? MICHAEL ANGELO There is no haven for the stormy soul. The rage is all within. VITTORIA Nay, then the haven lies within as well. The urge, the tempest of thy fiery heart Must have its center, and the vortex there Is calm. MICHAEL ANGELO Madonna, thou art strangely versed In the deep life that underflows the being. VITTORIA Angelo, though I am not wise, as men In this world reckon wisdom, yet some gleam I have of thee some light to see thee by As thou canst never see thyself. I know That thou art lonely ; and because my life Has given loneliness and surcease therefrom In blest communion with a human love, I know thine isolation ; and thy soul Moves in its own too fervent circle, closed To the warm radiance of the kindly sun, To lightening laughter and the rich repose Of those who find a respite after toil In the caressing voice of one they love, Or in the babbling of a little child. 74 MICHAEL ANGELO I have a wife already, in this art Who kindles me incessantly, and makes My world a home for me through loving her. And all my works are children, and shall live A little while when I am gone. VITTORIA Then if thou art not lone nor childless left, Why dost thou rail at princes? Angelo, Thy love here wears an unaccustomed gown, Smiles as she is not wont, and sings . . A song that s new. But her deep heart s the same. MICHAEL ANGELO Princess, a light doth break upon me. VITTORIA Then am I content. MICHAEL ANGELO I had not thought Mine art may change as colors change in fire, Yet never melt away the metal s form. VITTORIA A woman smiles, or frowns; and scarlet wears, Or grey. MICHAEL ANGELO I see the pictures growing on the walls. VITTORIA I see thee master of thine own. MICHAEL ANGELO Princess, A Fate hath written some unfathomed word Of thee and me. VITTORIA A word inscrutable, But we shall read it yet my friend. 75 SCENE XI [Titian s garden in Venice. [Pietro Aretino discovered. Enter Giovanni Verdezotti. GIOVANNI Signore, there s a gentleman who waits And asks to see the master. From his talk And something of a wildness in his face, I think he may be one whom some deep grief Hath struck down in the heart. ARETINO And what of that? Didst thou not tell him that to-day the master Leaves Venice? GIOVANNI The porter told him this. To him The words were nought. He looked up with sad eyes, And prayed again one word with master Titian. 76 ARETINO Is he a nobleman? GIOVANNI Of birth, a Florentine, called Delia Casa ; A poet, if I do remember rightly. ARETINO Titian hath time to-day for no such men. Bid all the weeping poets straight begone. We know them not. GIOVANNI The man doth speak in tears. I have no heart to bid him go. ARETINO Send him To me. GIOVANNI So please thee, sir, he comes. [Enter Delia Casa. DELLA CASA Signore, I have a word for Messer Titian s ear ; Deny me not. I will be brief. My hope Hangs on his answer. ARETINO Sir, the master s time To-day is all too full for visiting. Defer thy urgent suit till his return. [Enter Titian. DELLA CASA [Going over to Titian, eagerly. Signore, I have come, thus, desolate, To claim a portrait from thy wondrous hand, A picture of a lady, painted when The blessed year of yesterday was young A portrait of a lady in a gown Of green and silver. Thou lt remember it, Since she had hair of that rich smouldering hue Thou lovest so. TITIAN Yea, I remember well. 77 I painted her for thee. Thou couldst not pay, And so I kept the picture. For mine art Is not for every man to trifle with. ARETINO Titian, why dost thou trifle with it, then? The princes of the world contend for thee, And we, thy friends, and at the utmost, I Who have so brought thee to the great regard Of even the Emperor, are put to blush By whims like this to paint this fellow s dame And have about thy gate these starveling men, Scholars and poets who can build for thee No favor, nor can even celebrate In worthy fashion, thy majestic fame. TITIAN. How, now, Pietro. Why so hard with him? ARETINO Titian, my friend, to-day the Cardinal Will come. I ve told him, times and oft, That thou dost work for princes. Lo ! he comes And finds thee painting for this scarecrow here. That shames me. Titian, bid the fellow go. TITIAN [To Delia Casa. I had forgot. The Cardinal Farnese comes, And many others, and the proudest heads Of Venice will be here. Thou rt right, Pietro mine. The picture stays with me. Farewell. BELLA CASA I pray thee, master ARETINO Bid him go. The Cardinal comes. BELLA CASA Nay, Titian, hear me out. ARETINO Why dost thou pause ? By all the heathen gods I see not why this matter rose at all. 78 TITIAN I see it was the smouldering hair. [Enter Cardinal Farnese. A greeting to your Eminence. My friend, I pray you, pardon me. CARDINAL FARNESE Honored Titian, This is a fortunate day. His Holiness Hath cause for gladness, when thou dost set forth For Rome. BELLA CASA Titian, if in thy heart a spark Of mercy or of charity hath place Thou wilt not drive me off. It can not be Thou hast forgot her mortal loveliness, The picture now is all that s left to me. I could not pay thee, and I can not now. But since the darkness of my destiny Closed in about me, that one shining shape Alone can draw my spirit back from hell; Since she I loved, with all the red-gold hair About her marble face with the closed eyes, Is gone out of the sunlight, unto death. TITIAN The lady thou didst love is dead? BELLA CASA Even so. [Enter the Buke of Mantua, with his train. TITIAN Pietro, wouldst thou have me lightly shun A heart that bleeds, for some few strokes cf paint? iTour Grace, and Monsignore, and my friends. This gentleman commands me. Once, it seems, I served him. You will pardon me, Signore, The picture shall be thine. Gian, be swift. [He takes Bella Casa by the hand, and goes aside with him, giving di rections to Giovanni, who goes out. ARETINO [To the Duke and the Cardinal. Our Titian is a wayward gentleman ; Here s metal for the poet s fire : he gives To this poor fellow who hath lost his love A canvas that the Signory of Venice Hath nought to equal. TITIAN Friends, and noble sirs, I bid you welcome. Thus you honour me Too greatly for a painter in a world That hath so many traffics, governments, Wars and divisions. Humbly I welcome you. CARDINAL FARNESE And I, by express order of His Holiness, Here offer thee felicitations. Glad Is the day when thou dost honour stately Rome With thy rich presence, Titian. DUKE OF MANTUA And I, Federigo de Gonzaga, Of Mantua, bring thee greetings. When thy stay. In Rome is done, Mantua waits thee, and her bells Shall swing with joy when thou dost come to her. TITIAN There are too many years upon my head; My lord, I fear me I shall never hear The bells that swing amid the towers of Mantua. [Enter the Duke of Ferrara. DUKE OF MANTUA Still, by the invitation I do honour, And if a holy office call thee otherwhere, We must be content. TITIAN Your Grace s coming Doth make a holiday of my departure. DUKE OF FERRARA I bring thee, Titian, messages and words Of greeting from my friend and sovran liege King Francis, in whose lofty favour thou Art throned above all painters. For myself, I do rejoice thy long and glorious life Hath passed so lightly over thee, that now When many of thy youthful friends are gone, Thou still dost thrive in lusty livelihood. TITIAN I thank thee ; yet thy kindliest words Strike me with sorrow. There was one I knew, A friend, Giorgione was his name ; if he Instead of I had been thus spared to life, How great a blessing it had been to art Aye, and to Italy. CARDINAL FARNESE Titian, have done With these black thoughts. For know that to thy soul Death welded his sweet spirit when the scythe Did cut him down. [Enter Don Diego de Mendoza; Titian kneels to the Imperial ban ner. MENDOZA Titian, I humbly bring Thee greetings from my sovran lord; and he, My master, who doth hold his sway and pomp Over the Holy Empire of the Cross, O er Germany and Spain and the Low Lands, And the far North, and all the Provinces That rim the Christian world against the night, Doth pray that this thy journey unto Rome May bring thee honours equal to thy worth. And that thou still mayst conquer by thine art The ancient city of the Triple Crown. TITIAN My lord, Embassador of Caesar, I entreat But this, that I may serve the Emperor, And die when I can please his heart no longer. [Enter the Doge of Venice. THE DOGE Titian. The Senate and the Signory Of Venice send thee greetings and decree. That to the borders of our high authority All men shall serve thy journey, and make safe 81 Thy going and thy swift return. In thee, His Holiness doth honour Venice. TITIAN My lord, I thank thee, and in this regard set forth As ever I have done; whatever the world May offer to mine eyes here is my home. [Enter Paolo, Veronese and Tinto retto. And these my friends, though younger in their skill, Will yet, while I am gone, make beautiful This city of my dreams. Paolo, thy hand Jacopo, thine ; Princes, these are the peers Of mine estate. TINTORETTO Ser Titian, if unworthy pride Speak in me, pardon it, but this I hope, That where the Roman painters, men of worth, Discuss the might of this our glorious art, Thou wilt uphold our Venice to them all. PAOLO And tell them, too, that while their fading light Goes down, in Venice we look forward still. CARDINAL FARNESE Now must we all set forth, and as we ride And the long journey through the weary days Doth settle on our spirits, know you this: In every little chapel in the hills, And every echoing nave of holy Rome, Some faithful soul doth pray for Titian s journey, And doth entreat for him the care of Heaven. Fair days abroad, and prosperous return. [The procession goes out. DELLA CASA And one he leaves behind shall pray as well, While life remains, and in his humble song Shall glorify this generous soul. For me, The echo of a love around my heart, and praise For Titian These are all of life. [Lights Out. SCENE XII [Titian, Vasari and Michael Angelo Discovered. TITIAN Signore, since I came to Rome, I feel A tremor at the core ; my courage fails, Where everything is old so old, it seems, I am too young for wisdom. Yet my years Do weigh upon me. VASARI Messer Titian yearns For Venice. Master, thou must comfort him. MICHAEL ANGELO Leave us, Vasari. For between us twain There is a thing that must be spoken out And no man know of it. [Exit Vasari. TITIAN Thine art and mine Are each to each opposed as the poles, Yet thou dost praise my pictures. What of this? I cannot find, in the sun s golden light, In the rich colour of Dame Nature s robe The elements of thy supremacy. MICHAEL ANGELO Nor I the glow and glamour of thy sight. TITIAN So we have failed both failed? MICHAEL ANGELO Nay, we have wrought Each by his light, and each has found his truth, Not both the same. But when we two go down Into the night, the lamp of art shall fall, And men must grope for beauty by the faint And pale reflection of a vanished flame, As in the wakening of Italy They strove to catch the buried gleam of Greece. TITIAN In Venice there is still a day to come And men shall carry on the torch. MICHAEL ANGELO Not long It burns after thy passing. TITIAN Then with us The glory dies. And still for me the doubt Which is the truth, the sovran truth. Thou art A poet, and thou buildest lofty rhyme ; Thou art a painter, and the majesty Of Christ in Judgment o er embattled hells Is in thy ranging message; thou art one To whom the rearing of eternal domes 84 Is like the blowing of a bubble in The silent air; and marble to thy hand, As to its lord, yields virgin ecstacies. As thou art wise, I pray thee shrive my doubt, And set at rest the shaking of my soul. Thou knowest all these arts. Which one is Truth? MICHAEL ANGELO These are not Art. These are the shadowy shapes of her, the moods She masks in. Art I know of but one Art. [The light comes on, and the Herald enters, leading a processional of all the characters of the Pageant, in re versed chronological order. MCM VII ALDERBRINK PRESS CHICAGO UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW 0* JUL 31 1931 30>n-6, 14 even: Book of y 3 16 L 17 192 L 31 193 words. Llnna, S846 r 1 ^9798 3RARY