Little hope Of help is there from him.He has betrothed His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke.
What hope have we from such an Emperor?
IPPOLITO.
Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi.
We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, Or honest men the Duke.
NARDI.
We have determined To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear More than I hope.
IPPOLITO.
The Emperor is busy With this new war against the Algerines, And has no time to listen to complaints From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them, But go myself.All is in readiness For my departure, and to-morrow morning I shall go down to Itri, where I meet Dante da Castiglione and some others, Republicans and fugitives from Florence, And then take ship at Gaeta, and go To join the Emperor in his new crusade Against the Turk.I shall have time enough And opportunity to plead our cause.
NARDI, rising.
It is an inspiration, and I hail it As of good omen.May the power that sends it Bless our beloved country, and restore Its banished citizens.The soul of Florence Is now outside its gates.What lies within Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting.
Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, For you have need of rest.Good-night.
IPPOLITO.
Good-night.
Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants.
IPPOLITO.
Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine Who has just left me!
FRA SEBASTIANO.
As we passed each other, I saw that he was weeping.
IPPOLITO.
Poor old man!
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Who is he?
IPPOLITO.
Jacopo Nardi.A brave soul;
One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best And noblest of them all; but he has made me Sad with his sadness.As I look on you My heart grows lighter.I behold a man Who lives in an ideal world, apart From all the rude collisions of our life, In a calm atmosphere.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Your Eminence Is surely jesting.If you knew the life Of artists as I know it, you might think Far otherwise.
IPPOLITO.
But wherefore should I jest?
The world of art is an ideal world,--
The world I love, and that I fain would live in;So speak to me of artists and of art, Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians That now illustrate Rome.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Of the musicians, I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro And chapel-master of his Holiness, Who trains the Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.
In church this morning, I listened to a mass of Goudimel, Divinely chanted.In the Incarnatus, In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, A Neapolitan love-song.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
You amaze me.
Was it a wanton song?
IPPOLITO.
Not a divine one.
I am not over-scrupulous, as you know, In word or deed, yet such a song as that.
Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;There's something wrong in it.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
There's something wrong In everything.We cannot make the world Go right.'T is not my business to reform The Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.
Nor mine, thank Heaven.
Then tell me of the artists.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Naming one I name them all; for there is only one.
His name is Messer Michael Angelo.
All art and artists of the present day Centre in him.
IPPOLITO.
You count yourself as nothing!
FRA SEBASTIANO.
Or less than nothing, since I am at best Only a portrait-painter; one who draws With greater or less skill, as best he may, The features of a face.
IPPOLITO.
And you have had The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothing A privilege like that? See there the portrait Rebuking you with its divine expression.
Are you not penitent? He whose skilful hand Painted that lovely picture has not right To vilipend the art of portrait-painting.
But what of Michael Angelo?
FRA SEBASTIANO.
But lately Strolling together down the crowded Corso, We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature, Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover Of all things beautiful, especially When they are Arab horses, much admired, And could not praise enough.
IPPOLITO, to an attendant.
Hassan, to-morrow, When I am gone, but not till I am gone,--Be careful about that,--take Barbarossa To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor, Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, Near to the Capitol; and take besides Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say Your master sends them to him as a present.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
A princely gift.Though Michael Angelo Refuses presents from his Holiness, Yours he will not refuse.
IPPOLITO.
You think him like Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse Into the walls of Troy.That book of Virgil Have I translated in Italian verse, And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it, Be pleased to read you.When I speak of Troy I am reminded of another town And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess Julia Gonzaga.You remember, surely, The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa, And all that followed?
FRA SEBASTIANO.
A most strange adventure;
A tale as marvellous and full of wonder As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti;Almost incredible!
IPPOLITO.
Were I a painter I should not want a better theme than that:
The lovely lady fleeing through the night In wild disorder; and the brigands' camp With the red fire-light on their swarthy faces.
Could you not paint it for me?
FRA SEBASTIANO.
No, not I.
It is not in my line.
IPPOLITO.
Then you shall paint The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel Something like admiration for a man Who dared this strange adventure.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
I will do it.
But catch the corsair first.
IPPOLITO.
You may begin To-morrow with the sword.Hassan, come hither;Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs Beneath the picture yonder.Now unsheathe it.
'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscription In Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,--There is no God but God.
FRA SEBASTIANO.
How beautiful In fashion and in finish! It is perfect.
The Arsenal of Venice can not boast A finer sword.
