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the complete poetical works-第258章

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The gift is wanting。  I am not a painter。



GIORGIO。

Messer Michele; all the arts are yours;

Not one alone; and therefore I may venture

To put a question to you。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                       Well; speak on。



GIORGIO。

Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese

Have made me umpire in dispute between them

Which is the greater of the sister arts;

Painting or sculpture。  Solve for me the doubt。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

Sculpture and painting have a common goal;

And whosoever would attain to it;

Whichever path he take; will find that goal

Equally hard to reach。



GIORGIO。

                  No doubt; no doubt;

But you evade the question。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                        When I stand

In presence of this picture; I concede

That painting has attained its uttermost;

But in the presence of my sculptured figures

I feel that my conception soars beyond

All limit I have reached。



GIORGIO。

                      You still evade me。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

Giorgio Vasari; I have often said

That I account that painting as the best

Which most resembles sculpture。  Here before us

We have the proof。  Behold those rounded limbs!

How from the canvas they detach themselves;

Till they deceive the eye; and one would say;

It is a statue with a screen behind it!



TITIAN。

Signori; pardon me; but all such questions

Seem to me idle。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                 Idle as the wind。

And now; Maestro; I will say once more

How admirable I esteem your work;

And leave you; without further interruption。



TITIAN。

Your friendly visit hath much honored me。



GIOROIO。

Farewell。



MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO; going out。



         If the Venetian painters knew

But half as much of drawing as of color;

They would indeed work miracles in art;

And the world see what it hath never seen。







VI



PALAZZO CESARINI



VITTORIA COLONNA; seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA; standing

near her。



JULIA。

It grieves me that I find you still so weak

And suffering。



VITTORIA。

         No; not suffering; only dying。

Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn;

We shudder for a moment; then awake

In the broad sunshine of the other life。

I am a shadow; merely; and these hands;

These cheeks; these eyes; these tresses that my husband

Once thought so beautiful; and I was proud of

Because he thought them so; are faded quite;

All beauty gone from them。



JULIA。

                      Ah; no; not that。

Paler you are; but not less beautiful。



VITTORIA。

Hand me the mirror。  I would fain behold

What change comes o'er our features when we die。

Thank you。  And now sit down beside me here

How glad I am that you have come to…day;

Above all other days; and at the hour

When most I need you!



JULIA。

              Do you ever need me?



VICTORIA。



Always; and most of all to…day and now。

Do you remember; Julia; when we walked;

One afternoon; upon the castle terrace

At Ischia; on the day before you left me?



JULIA。

Well I remember; but it seems to me

Something unreal; that has never been;

Something that I have read of in a book;

Or heard of some one else。



VITTORIA。

                   Ten years and more

Have passed since then; and many things have happened

In those ten years; and many friends have died:

Marco Flaminio; whom we all admired

And loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso;

The noble champion of free thought and speech;

And Cardinal Ippolito; your friend。



JULIA。

Oh; do not speak of him!  His sudden death

O'ercomes me now; as it o'ercame me then。

Let me forget it; for my memory

Serves me too often as an unkind friend;

And I remember things I would forget;

While I forget the things I would remember。



VITTORIA。

Forgive me; I will speak of him no more;

The good Fra Bernardino has departed;

Has fled from Italy; and crossed the Alps;

Fearing Caraffa's wrath; because he taught

That He who made us all without our help

Could also save us without aid of ours。

Renee of France; the Duchess of Ferrara;

That Lily of the Loire; is bowed by winds

That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata

Banished from court because of this new doctrine。

Therefore be cautious。  Keep your secret thought

Locked in your breast。



JULIA。

                I will be very prudent

But speak no more; I pray; it wearies you。



VITTORIA。

Yes; I am very weary。  Read to me。



JULIA。

Most willingly。  What shall I read?



VITTORIA。

                            Petrarca's

Triumph of Death。  The book lies on the table;

Beside the casket there。  Read where you find

The leaf turned down。  'T was there I left off reading。



JULIA; reads。



〃Not as a flame that by some force is spent;

  But one that of itself consumeth quite;

  Departed hence in peace the soul content;

In fashion of a soft and lucent light

  Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes;

  Keeping until the end its lustre bright。

Not pale; but whiter than the sheet of snows

  That without wind on some fair hill…top lies;

  Her weary body seemed to find repose。

Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes;

  When now the spirit was no longer there;

  Was what is dying called by the unwise。

E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair〃



Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?

She doth not answer; yet is not asleep;

Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something

Above her in the air。  I can see naught

Except the painted angels on the ceiling。

Vittoria! speak!  What is it?  Answer me!

She only smiles; and stretches out her hands。



'The mirror falls and breaks。



VITTORIA。

Not disobedient to the heavenly vision!

Pescara! my Pescara!             'Dies。



JULIA。

                    Holy Virgin!

Her body sinks together;she is dead!



'Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap。



Enter MICHAEL ANGELO。



JULIA。

Hush! make no noise。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

               How is she?



JULIA。

                         Never better。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

Then she is dead!



JULIA。

                Alas! yes; she is dead!

Even death itself in her fair face seems fair。

How wonderful!  The light upon her face

Shines from the windows of another world。

Saint only have such faces。  Holy Angels!

Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest!



'Kisses Vittoria's hand。







PART THIRD



I



MONOLOGUE



Macello de' Corvi。  A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house。  MICHAEL

ANGELO; standing before a model of St。 Peter's。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

Better than thou I cannot; Brunelleschi;

And less than thou I will not!  If the thought

Could; like a windlass; lift the ponderous stones

And swing them to their places; if a breath

Could blow this rounded dome into the air;

As if it were a bubble; and these statues

Spring at a signal to their sacred stations;

As sent
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