These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear To see the young spring forward in the race, TITIAN. Men die and are forgotten. The great world Goes on the same. Among the myriads Of men that live, or have lived, or shall live, What is a single life, or thine or mine, That we should think all nature would stand still If we were gone? We must make room for others. MICHAEL ANGELO. And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danaë, of which I hear such praise. TITIAN, drawing back the curtain. What think you? Possibly. TITIAN. MICHAEL ANGELO. Or from sunshine through a shower On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. Nature reveals herself in all our arts. The pavements and the palaces of cities Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills. Red lavas from the Euganean quarries Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam Reflected in your waters and your pictures. And thus the works of every artist show Something of his surroundings and his habits. The uttermost that can be reached by color Is here accomplished. Warmth and light and softness Mingle together. Never yet was flesh TITIAN. I am grateful MICHAEL ANGELO. That Acrisius did well To lock such beauty in a brazen tower, And hide it from all eyes. For so much praise from you, who are a master; While mostly those who praise and those who blame Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly Their censure sounds like praise, their praise like censure. I. MONOLOGUE. Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO's house. MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's. MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And swing them to their places; if a breath Upon his hand the model of a church, As German artists paint him; and what years, What weary years, must drag themselves along, Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances Must block the way; what idle interferences I must then the short-coming of my means tan Was told to add a step to his short sword. [A pause. |