Part First. II. San Silvestro

A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestro on Monte Cavallo.

HERE let us rest awhile, until the crowd

Has left the church. I have already sent

For Michael Angelo to join us here.

After Fra Bernardino’s wise discourse

On the Pauline Epistles, certainly

Some words of Michael Angelo on Art

Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth.

How like a Saint or Goddess she appears!

Diana or Madonna, which I know not,

In attitude and aspect formed to be

At once the artist’s worship and despair!

Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.

I met your messenger upon the way,

And hastened hither.

It is kind of you

To come to us, who linger here like gossips

Wasting the afternoon in idle talk.

These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.

If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine.

Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered

I saw but the Marchesa.

Take this seat

Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,

Who still maintains that our Italian tongue

Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence

We will not quarrel with him.

Eccellenza—

Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza

And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.

’T is the abuse of them, and not the use,

I deprecate.

The use or the abuse,

It matters not. Let them all go together,

As empty phrases and frivolities,

And common as gold-lace upon the collar

Of an obsequious lackey.

That may be,

But something of politeness would go with them;

We should lose something of the stately manners

Of the old school.

Undoubtedly.

But that

Is not what occupies my thoughts at present,

Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.

It was to counsel me. His Holiness

Has granted me permission, long desired,

To build a convent in this neighborhood,

Where the old tower is standing, from whose top

Nero looked down upon the burning city.

It is an inspiration!

I am doubtful

How I shall build; how large to make the convent,

And which way fronting.

Ah, to build, to build!

That is the noblest art of all the arts.

Painting and sculpture are but images,

Are merely shadows cast by outward things

On stone or canvas, having in themselves

No separate existence. Architecture,

Existing in itself, and not in seeming

A something it is not, surpasses them

As substance shadow. Long, long year ago,

Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,

I saw the statue of Laocoön

Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost

Writhing in pain; and as it tore away

The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,

Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony

From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel

At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands

This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds

Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins

Of temples in the Forum here in Rome.

If God should give me power in my old age

To build for Him a temple half as grand

As those were in their glory, I should count

My age more excellent than youth itself,

And all that I have hitherto accomplished

As only vanity.

I understand you.

Art is the gift of God, and must be used

Unto His glory. That in art is highest

Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed

The horses of Italicus, they won

The race at Gaza, for his benediction

O’erpowered all magic; and the people shouted

That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art

Which bears the consecration and the seal

Of holiness upon it will prevail

Over all others. Those few words of yours

Inspire me with new confidence to build.

What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,

Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.

If strong enough.

If not, it can be strengthened.

I see no bar nor drawback to this building,

And on our homeward way, if it shall please you,

We may together view the site.

I thank you.

I did not venture to request so much.

Let us now go to the old walls you spake of,

Vossignoria—

What, again, Maestro?

Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more

I use the ancient courtesies of speech.

I am too old to change.