Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.

Michael Angelo: A Fragment

Part First. V. Vittoria Colonna

COME to my arms and to my heart once more;

My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you,

For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow.

I know what you have suffered.

Name it not.

Let me forget it.

I will say no more.

Let me look at you. What a joy it is

To see your face, to hear your voice again!

You bring with you a breath as of the morn,

A memory of the far-off happy days

When we were young. When did you come from Fondi?

I have not been at Fondi since—

Ah me!

You need not speak the word: I understand you.

I came from Naples by the lovely valley,

The Terra di Lavoro.

And you find me

But just returned from a long journey northward.

I have been staying with that noble woman,

Renée of France, the Duchess of Ferrara.

Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard

Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth

That I am eager to hear more of her

And of her brilliant court.

You shall hear all.

But first sit down and listen patiently

While I confess myself.

What deadly sin

Have you committed?

Not a sin; a folly.

I chid you once at Ischia, when you told me

That brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait.

Well I remember it.

Then chide me now,

For I confess to something still more strange.

Old as I am, I have at last consented

To the entreaties and the supplications

Of Michael Angelo—

To marry him?

I pray you, do not jest with me! You know,

Or you should know, that never such a thought

Entered my breast. I am already married.

The Marquis of Pescara is my husband,

And death has not divorced us.

Pardon me.

Have I offended you?

No, but have hurt me.

Unto my buried lord I give myself,

Unto my friend the shadow of myself,

My portrait. It is not from vanity,

But for the love I bear him.

I rejoice

To hear these words. Oh, this will be a portrait

Worthy of both of you![A knock.

Hark! he is coming.

And shall I go or stay?

By all means, stay.

The drawing will be better for your presence;

You will enliven me.

I shall not speak;

The presence of great men doth take from me

All power of speech. I only gaze at them

In silent wonder, as if they were gods,

Or the inhabitants of some other planet.

Come in.

I fear my visit is ill-timed;

I interrupt you.

No; this is a friend

Of yours as well as mine,—the Lady Julia,

The Duchess of Trajetto.

I salute you.

’T is long since I have seen your face, my lady;

Pardon me if I say that having seen it,

One never can forget it.

You are kind

To keep me in your memory.

It is

The privilege of age to speak with frankness.

You will not be offended when I say

That never was your beauty more divine.

When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter

Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended.

Now this is gallantry enough for one;

Show me a little.

Ah, my gracious lady,

You know I have not words to speak your praise.

I think of you in silence. You conceal

Your manifold perfections from all eyes,

And make yourself more saint-like day by day,

And day by day men worship you the more.

But now your hour of martyrdom has come.

You know why I am here.

Ah yes, I know it;

And meet my fate with fortitude. You find me

Surrounded by the labors of your hands:

The Woman of Samaria at the Well,

The Mater Dolorosa, and the Christ

Upon the Cross, beneath which you have written

Those memorable words of Alighieri,

“Men have forgotten how much blood it costs.”

And now I come to add one labor more,

If you will call that labor which is pleasure,

And only pleasure.

How shall I be seated?

Just as you are. The light falls well upon you.

I am ashamed to steal the time from you

That should be given to the Sistine Chapel.

How does that work go on?

But tardily,

Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alike

Are dull and torpid. To die young is best,

And not to be remembered as old men

Tottering about in their decrepitude.

My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten

The story of Sophocles in his old age?

What story is it?

When his sons accused him,

Before the Areopagus, of dotage,

For all defence, he read there to his Judges

The Tragedy of Œdipus Coloneus,—

The work of his old age.

’T is an illusion,

A fabulous story, that will lead old men

Into a thousand follies and conceits.

So you may show to cavillers your painting

Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.

Now you and Lady Julia shall resume

The conversation that I interrupted.

It was of no great import; nothing more

Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara,

And what I saw there in the ducal palace.

Will it not interrupt you?

Not the least.

Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man

Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent,

And yet magnificent in all his ways;

Not hospitable unto new ideas,

But from state policy, and certain reasons

Concerning the investiture of the duchy,

A partisan of Rome, and consequently

Intolerant of all the new opinions.

I should not like the Duke. These silent men,

Who only look and listen, are like wells

That have no water in them, deep and empty.

How could the daughter of a king of France

Wed such a duke?

The men that women marry,

And why they marry them, will always be

A marvel and a mystery to the world.

And then the Duchess,—how shall I describe her,

Or tell the merits of that happy nature

Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing?

Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature,

Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through

Each look and attitude and word and gesture;

A kindly grace of manner and behavior,

A something in her presence and her ways

That makes her beautiful beyond the reach

Of mere external beauty; and in heart

So noble and devoted to the truth,

And so in sympathy with all who strive

After the higher life.

She draws me to her

As much as her Duke Ercole repels me.

Then the devout and honorable women

That grace her court, and make it good to be there;

Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted,

Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini,

The Magdalena and the Cherubina,

And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly;

All lovely women, full of noble thoughts

And aspirations after noble things.

Boccaccio would have envied you such dames.

No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas

Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni;

I fear he hardly would have comprehended

The women that I speak of.

Yet he wrote

The story of Griseldis. That is something

To set down in his favor.

With these ladies

Was a young girl, Olympia Morata,

Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar,

Famous in all the universities:

A marvellous child, who at the spinning-wheel,

And in the daily round of household cares,

Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is now

A favorite of the Duchess and companion

Of Princess Anne. This beautiful young Sappho

Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes

That she had written, with a voice whose sadness

Thrilled and o’ermastered me, and made me look

Into the future time, and ask myself

What destiny will be hers.

A sad one, surely.

Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season;

And these precocious intellects portend

A life of sorrow or an early death.

About the court were many learned men;

Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps,

And Celio Curione, and Manzolli,

The Duke’s physician; and a pale young man,

Charles d’Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess

Doth much delight to talk with and to read.

For he hath written a book of Institutes

The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it

The Koran of the heretics.

And what poets

Were there to sing you madrigals, and praise

Olympia’s eyes and Cherubina’s tresses?

None; for great Ariosto is no more.

The voice that filled those halls with melody

Has long been hushed in death.

You should have made

A pilgrimage unto the poet’s tomb,

And laid a wreath upon it, for the words

He spake of you.

And of yourself no less,

And of our master, Michael Angelo.

Of me?

Have you forgotten that he calls you

Michael, less man than angel, and divine?

You are ungrateful.

A mere play on words.

That adjective he wanted for a rhyme,

To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino.

Bernardo Tasso is no longer there,

Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony,

Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers

The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes,

Who, being looked upon with much disfavor

By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice.

There let him stay with Pietro Aretino,

The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine.

The title is so common in our mouths,

That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi,

Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome

At the Epiphany, will bear it soon,

And will deserve it better than some poets.

What bee hath stung you?

One that makes no honey;

One that comes buzzing in through every window,

And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thought

Passed through my mind, but it is gone again;

I spake too hastily.

I pray you, show me

What you have done.

Not yet; it is not finished.