Michael Angelo. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
Год издания: 0
isbn: 4064066435103
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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