Michael Angelo. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies

       As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi?

      JULIA.

       A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar.

       You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino;

       And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano,

       The famous artist, who has come from Rome

       To paint my portrait. That is not a sin.

      VITTORIA.

       Only a vanity.

      JULIA.

       He painted yours.

      VITTORIA.

       Do not call up to me those days departed

       When I was young, and all was bright about me,

       And the vicissitudes of life were things

       But to be read of in old histories,

       Though as pertaining unto me or mine

       Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams,

       And now, grown older, I look back and see

       They were illusions.

      JULIA.

       Yet without illusions

       What would our lives become, what we ourselves?

       Dreams or illusions, call them what you will,

       They lift us from the commonplace of life

       To better things.

      VITTORIA.

       Are there no brighter dreams,

       No higher aspirations, than the wish

       To please and to be pleased?

      JULIA.

       For you there are;

       I am no saint; I feel the world we live in

       Comes before that which is to be here after,

       And must be dealt with first.

      VITTORIA.

       But in what way?

      JULIA.

       Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor

       Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea

       And the bright sunshine bathing all the world,

       Answer the question.

      VITTORIA.

       And for whom is meant

       This portrait that you speak of?

      JULIA.

       For my friend

       The Cardinal Ippolito.

      VITTORIA.

       For him?

      JULIA

       Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent.

       'T is always flattering to a woman's pride

       To be admired by one whom all admire.

      VITTORIA.

       Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove

       Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard,

       He is a Cardinal; and his adoration

       Should be elsewhere directed.

      JULIA.

       You forget

       The horror of that night, when Barbarossa,

       The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast

       To seize me for the Sultan Soliman;

       How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping,

       He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped,

       And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed,

       Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there

       Among the brigands. Then of all my friends

       The Cardinal Ippolito was first

       To come with his retainers to my rescue.

       Could I refuse the only boon he asked

       At such a time, my portrait?

      VITTORIA.

       I have heard

       Strange stories of the splendors of his palace,

       And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince,

       He rides through Rome with a long retinue

       Of Ethiopians and Numidians

       And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses,

       Making a gallant show. Is this the way

       A Cardinal should live?

      JULIA.

       He is so young;

       Hardly of age, or little more than that;

       Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters,

       A poet, a musician, and a scholar;

       Master of many languages, and a player

       On many instruments. In Rome, his palace

       Is the asylum of all men distinguished

       In art or science, and all Florentines

       Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin,

       Duke Alessandro.

      VITTORIA.

       I have seen his portrait,

       Painted by Titian. You have painted it

       In brighter colors.

      JULIA.

       And my Cardinal,

       At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace,

       Keeps a tame lion!

      VITTORIA.

       And so counterfeits

       St. Mark, the Evangelist!

      JULIA.

       Ah, your tame lion

       Is Michael Angelo.

      VITTORIA.

       You speak a name

       That always thrills me with a noble sound,

       As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo!

       A lion all men fear and none can tame;

       A man that all men honor, and the model

       That all should follow; one who works and prays,

       For work is prayer, and consecrates his life

       To the sublime ideal of his art,

       Till art and life are one; a man who holds

       Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak

       Of great things done, or to be done, his name

       Is ever on their lips.

      JULIA.

       You too can paint

       The portrait of your hero, and in colors

       Brighter than Titian's; I might warn you also

       Against the dangers that beset your path;

       But I forbear.

      VITTORIA.

       If I were made of marble,

       Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo,

       He might admire me: being but flesh and blood,

       I am no more to him than other women;

       That is, am nothing.

      JULIA.

       Does he ride through Rome

       Upon his little mule, as he was wont,