# Michael Angelo (Longfellow)/Part I/Cardinal Ippolito

A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night.
JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone.
NARDI. I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling Of a disciple of that lowly Man Who had not where to lay his head? These statues Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, This lovely face, that with such tender eyes Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. My heart begins to fail me. What can he Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors Are open to them, and all hands extended, The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked All they possessed for liberty, and lost; And wander through the world without a friend, Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.
Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat.
IPPOLITO. I pray you pardon me that I have kept you Waiting so long alone.
NARDI. I wait to see The Cardinal.
IPPOLITO. I am the Cardinal. And you?
NARDI. Jacopo Nardi.
IPPOLITO. You are welcome I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi Had told me of your coming.
NARDI. 'T was his son That brought me to your door.
IPPOLITO. Pray you, be seated. You seem astonished at the garb I wear, But at my time of life, and with my habits, The petticoats of a Cardinal would be-- Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed Like an old dowager. It were putting wine Young as the young Astyanax into goblets As old as Priam.
NARDI. Oh, your Eminence Knows best what you should wear.
IPPOLITO. Dear Messer Nardi, You are no stranger to me. I have read Your excellent translation of the books Of Titus Livius, the historian Of Rome, and model of all historians That shall come after him. It does you honor; But greater honor still the love you bear To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals I hope your hand will write, in happier days Than we now see.
NARDI. Your Eminence will pardon The lateness of the hour.
IPPOLITO. The hours I count not As a sun-dial; but am like a clock, That tells the time as well by night as day. So no excuse. I know what brings you here. You come to speak of Florence.
NARDI. And her woes.
IPPOLITO. The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives And reigns.
NARDI. Alas, that such a scourge Should fall on such a city!
IPPOLITO. When he dies, The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, The beast obscene, should be the monument Of this bad man.
NARDI. He walks the streets at night With revellers, insulting honest men. No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor Of women and all ancient pious customs Are quite forgotten now. The offices Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri Have been abolished. All the magistrates Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. The very memory of all honest living Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue Corrupted to a Lombard dialect.
IPPOLITO. And worst of all his impious hand has broken The Martinella,--our great battle bell, That, sounding through three centuries, has led The Florentines to victory,--lest its voice Should waken in their souls some memory Of far-off times of glory.
NARDI. What a change Ten little years have made! We all remember Those better days, when Niccola Capponi, The Gonfaloniere, from the windows Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets, Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ Was chosen King of Florence; and already Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!
IPPOLITO. Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; Florence and France! But I say Florence only, Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us In sweeping out the rubbish.
NARDI. 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.
IPPOLITO. You like it? It is yours.
FRA SEBASTIANO. You do not mean it.
IPPOLITO. I am not a Spaniard, To say that it is yours and not to mean it. I have at Itri a whole armory Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. You have not been rewarded as you should be For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble Into the scale, and make the balance equal. Till then suspend it in your studio; You artists like such trifles.
FRA SEBASTIANO. I will keep it In memory of the donor. Many thanks.
IPPOLITO. Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, The old dead city, with the old dead people; Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning I start for Itri, and go thence by sea To join the Emperor, who is making war Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge The beautiful Gonzaga.
FRA SEBASTIANO. An achievement Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. Berni and Ariosto both shall add A canto to their poems, and describe you As Furioso and Innamorato. Now I must say good-night.
IPPOLITO. You must not go; First you shall sup with me. My seneschal Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,-- I like to give the whole sonorous name, It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,-- Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi, And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells: These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even; So we will go to supper, and be merry.
FRA SEBASTIANO. Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!
IPPOLITO. 'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago; Who knows?--perhaps the story is not true.