Part 2

It could not have been expected that in the poetical activity which of necessity with him remained a subordinate interest, Michelangelo should have manifested the full measure of that independent force, which in two arts had proved adequate to break new channels. This third method of expression served to manifest a part of his nature for which grander tasks did not supply adequate outlets; the verse accordingly reveals new aspects of character. It was for gentle, wistful, meditative emotions that the artist found it necessary to use rhyme. If not torrential, the current was vital; no line unfreshened by living waters. This function explains the limitation of scope; essays in pastoral, in _terza rima_, served to prove that here did not lie his path; in the conventional forms of the sonnet and the madrigal he found the medium desired. The familiarity of the form did not prevent originality of substance; he had from youth been intimate with the youthful melodies of Dante, the lucid sonnets of Petrarch; but his own style, controlled by thought, is remote from the gentle music of the one, the clear flow of the other. The verse exhibits a superabundance of ideas, not easily brought within the limits of the rhyme; amid an imagery prevailingly tender and reflective, now and then a gleam or a flash reveals the painter of the Sistine and the sculptor of the Medicean chapel.

Essentially individual is the artistic imagery. As Michelangelo was above all a creator whose genius inclined him toward presentation of the unadorned human form, so his metaphors are prevailingly taken from the art of sculpture, a loan which enriches the verse by the association with immortal works. These comparisons, taken from the methods of the time, are not altogether such as could now be employed. At the outset, indeed, the procedure scarcely differed; with the sculptor of the Renaissance, the first step was to produce a sketch of small dimensions; the same thing is done by the modern artist, who commonly uses clay and plaster in place of wax. It is in the nature of the design, or, as Michelangelo said, of the “model,” that, as having the character of an impression, it must superabound in rude vitality, as much as it is deficient in symmetry and “measure.” The next step, then as now, might be the preparation of a form answering in size to that of the intended figure, but also in wax or clay. In the final part of the process, however, the distinction is complete; in the sixteenth century no way was open to the maker, but himself to perfect the statue with hammer and chisel. The advance of mechanical skill has enabled the modern artist to dispense with this labor. It may be questioned whether the consequent saving of pains is in all respects an advantage; at least, I have the authority of one of the most accomplished of modern portrait sculptors for the opinion that in strict propriety every kind of plastic work ought to receive its final touches from the hand of the designer. Even if this were done, the method would not answer to that of the earlier century, when it was the practice to cleave away the marble in successive planes, in such manner as gradually to disengage the outlines of the image, which thus appeared to lie veiled beneath the superficies, as an indwelling tenant waiting release from the hand of the carver. Moreover, the preciousness of the material had on the fancy a salutary influence; before beginning his task, the sculptor was compelled to take into account the possibility of execution. He would commonly feel himself obliged to make use of any particular block of marble which he might have the fortune to possess; it might even happen that such block possessed an unusual form, as was the case with the stone placed at the disposal of Michelangelo, and from which he created his David. The test of genius would therefore be the ability, on perception of the material, to form a suitable conception; a sculptor, if worthy of the name, would perceive the possible statue within the mass. The metaphor, so frequently and beautifully used by Michelangelo, which represents the artist as conceiving the dormant image which his toil must bring forth from its enveloping stone, is therefore no commonplace of scholastic philosophy, no empty phrase declaring that matter potentially contains unnumbered forms, but a true description of the process of creative energy. Inasmuch as by an inevitable animism all conceptions derived from human activity are imaginatively transferred to external life, the comparison is extended into the realm of Nature, which by a highly poetic forecast of the modern doctrine of evolution is said through the ages to aim at attaining an ideal excellence. The impulse visible in the art of the sculptor thus appears in his poetry, which, also perfected through unwearied toil, terminates in a result which is truly organic, and of which all parts seem to derive from a central idea.

A lyric poet, if he possess genuine talent, is concerned with the presentation, not of form or thought, but of emotion. His fancy, therefore, commonly operates in a manner different from that of the artist, whose duty it is primarily to consider the visual image; the verse of the latter, if he undertakes to express himself also in the poetic manner, is usually characterized by a predominance of detail, an overdistinctness of parts, an inability of condensation, qualities belonging to an imagination conceiving of life as definitely formal rather than as vaguely impressive. On the contrary, Michelangelo is a true lyrist, whose mental vision is not too concrete to be also dreamy. This property is a strange proof of the multiformity of his genius, for it is the reverse of what one would expect from a contemplation of his plastic work. The inspiration, though in a measure biographic, is no mere reflection of the experience; notwithstanding the sincerity of the impulse, as should be the case in lyric verse, the expression transcends to the universal.

It does not detract from his worth as a lyrical writer, that the range of the themes is narrow, a limitation sufficiently explained by the conditions. The particular sentiment for the expression of which he needed rhyme was sexual affection. In the verse, if not in the art, “all thoughts, all passions, all delights” are ministers of that emotion. Michelangelo is as much a poet of love as Heine or Shelley.

The sonnets were intended not to be sung, but to be read; this purpose may account for occasional deficiencies of music. The beauty of the idea, the abundance of the thought, the sincerity of the emotion, cause them to stand in clear contrast to the productions of contemporary versifiers.

Less attention has been paid to the madrigals, on which the author bestowed equal pains. These are songs, and the melody has affected the thought. The self-consciousness of the poet is subordinated to the objectivity of the musician who aims to render human experience into sweet sound. For the most part, and with some conspicuous exceptions, even where the idea is equally mystical, the reasoning is not so intricate nor the sentiment so biographic. A certain number have the character of simple love verse. In these compositions ardor is unchecked by reflection, and desire allowed its natural course, unquenched by the abundant flow of the thought which it has awakened. What assumes the aspect of love-sorrow is in reality a joyous current of life mocking grief with the music of its ripples. If one desired to name the composer whom the sentiment suggests, he might mention Schumann rather than Beethoven.

Other indifferent artists have been excellent poets, and other tolerable versifiers clever artists; but only once in human history has coexisted the highest talent for plastic form and verbal expression. Had these verses come down without name, had they been disinterred from the dust of a library as the legacy of an anonymous singer, they would be held to confer on the maker a title to rank among intellectual benefactors. It would be said that an unknown poet, whose verse proved him also a sculptor, had contributed to literature thoughts whose character might be summed up in the lines of his madrigal:--

_Dalle più alte stelle Discende uno splendore Che ’l desir tira a quelle; E qui si chiama amore._

SONNETS EPIGRAMS AND MADRIGALS

A SELECTION FROM THE SONNETS OF MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI

I

_Dal ciel discese, e col mortal suo, poi Che visto ebbe l’inferno giusto e ’l pio, Ritornò vivo a contemplare Dio, Per dar di tutto il vero lume a noi: Lucente stella, che co’ raggi suoi Fe chiaro, a torto, el nido ove naqqu’io; Nè sare’ ’l premio tutto ’l mondo rio: Tu sol, che la creasti, esser quel puoi. Di Dante dico, che mal conosciute Fur l’opre suo da quel popolo ingrato, Che solo a’ iusti manca di salute. Fuss’io pur lui! c’a tal fortuna nato, Per l’aspro esilio suo, con la virtute, Dare’ del mondo il più felice stato._

_From heaven he came, and clothed in mortal clay, Traversed the vengeful and the chastening woes, Living, again toward height eternal rose, For us to win the light of saving day; Resplendent star, whose undeservèd ray Made glory in the nest where I had birth; Whose recompense not all a stainèd earth, But Thou his Maker, Thou alone couldst pay. Dante I mean, and that unfair return Endured from a community ingrate, That only to the just awardeth scorn; Would I were he! To equal fortune born, For his pure virtue, for his exile stern, I would resign earth’s happiest estate._

II

_Da che concetto ha l’arte intera e diva La forma e gli atti d’alcun, poi di quello D’umil materia un semplice modello È ’l primo parto che da quel deriva. Ma nel secondo poi di pietra viva S’adempion le promesse del martello; E sì rinasce tal concetto e bello, Che ma’ non è chi suo eterno prescriva. Simil, di me model, nacqu’io da prima; Di me model, per cosa più perfetta Da voi rinascer poi, donna alta e degna. Se ’l poco accresce, e ’l mio superchio lima Vostra pietà; qual penitenzia aspetta Mio fiero ardor, se mi gastiga e insegna?_

_Some deed or form of our humanity When genius hath conceived of art divine, Her primal birth, an incomplete design, Is shaped in stuff of humble quality. More late, in living marble’s purity The chisel keepeth promise to the full; Reborn is the idea so beautiful, That it belongeth to eternity. So me did Nature make the model rude, The model of myself, a better thing By nobleness of thine to be renewed; If thy compassion, its work cherishing, Enlarge, and pare; mine ardor unsubdued Awaiteth at thy hand what chastening!_

III

_Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto, Ch’un marmo solo in sè non circonscriva Col suo soverchio; e solo a quello arriva La man che ubbidisce all’intelletto. Il mal ch’io fuggo, e ’l ben ch’io mi prometto, In te, donna leggiadra, altera e diva, Tal si nasconde; e perch’io più non viva, Contraria ho l’arte al disiato effetto. Amor dunque non ha, nè tua beltate, O durezza, o fortuna, o gran disdegno, Del mio mal colpa, o mio destino o sorte; Se dentro del tuo cor morte e pietate Porti in un tempo, e che ’l mio basso ingegno Non sappia, ardendo, trarne altro che morte._

_The chief of artists can imagine nought, Other than form that hideth in a stone, Below its surface veilèd; here alone Arriveth hand, obedient to his thought. So, fair and noble lady, e’en in thee, The good I seek, the evil that I fly, Remain enveloped; whence reluctant, I Create my aspiration’s contrary. It is not love, ’tis not thy beauty fair, Ungentle pride, thy fortune ruling so, Nor destiny of mine, that hath to bear The censure, if my genius faint and low, While Death and Pity both thou dost conceal, Though passionèd, can only Death reveal._

IV

_Com’ esser, donna, può quel ch’alcun vede Per lunga sperienza, che più dura L’ immagin viva in pietra alpestra e dura, Che ’l suo fattor, che gli anni in cener riede? La causa all’effetto inclina e cede, Onde dall’arte è vinta la natura. Io ’l so, che ’l provo in la bella scultura; Ch’ all’opra il tempo e morte non tien fede. Dunque posso ambo noi dar lunga vita In qual sie modo, o di colore o sasso, Di noi sembrando l’uno e l’altro volto: Sì che mill’anni dopo la partita Quanto e voi bella fusti, e quant’io lasso Si veggia, e com’amarvi io non fui stolto._

_How, lady, can the mind of man allow, What lapse of many ages hath made known, That image shapen of pure mountain stone Outlive the life that did with life endow? Before effect the very cause doth bow, And Art is crowned in Nature’s deep despair. I know, and prove it, carving form so fair, That Time and Death admire, and break their vow. Power, therefore, I possess, to grant us twain Estate, in color, or in marble cold, That spent a thousand summers, shall remain The face of either, and all eyes behold How thou wert beautiful, and gaze on me, Weary, yet justified in loving thee._

V

_Io mi son caro assai più ch’io non soglio; Poi ch’io t’ebbi nel cor, più di me vaglio: Come pietra ch’aggiuntovi l’intaglio, È di più pregio che ’l suo primo scoglio. O come scritta o pinta carta o foglio, Più si riguarda d’ogni straccio o taglio; Tal di me fo, da poi ch’io fui bersaglio Segnato dal tuo viso: e non mi doglio. Sicur con tale stampa in ogni loco Vo, come quel c’ha incanti o arme seco, Ch’ ogni periglio gli fan venir meno. I’ vaglio contro all’acqua e contro al foco, Col segno tuo rallumino ogni cieco, E col mio sputo sano ogni veleno._

_I feel myself more precious than of yore, Now that my life thy signature doth show, As gem inscribed with its intaglio Excelleth pebble it appeared before, Or writ or painted page is valued more Than idle leaf discarded carelessly; So I, the target of thine archery, Grow proud of marks I need not to deplore. Signed with thy seal, in confidence I dwell, As one who journeyeth in woundless mail, Or hath his way protected by a spell; O’er fire and flood I equally prevail, Do works of healing by the signet’s might, Poison allay, and yield the blind their sight._

VI

_Quanto si gode, lieta e ben contesta Di fior, sopra’ crin d’or d’una, grillanda; Che l’altro inanzi l’uno all’altro manda, Come ch’il prima sia a baciar la testa! Contenta è tutto il giorno quella vesta Che serra ’l petto, e poi par che si spanda; E quel c’oro filato si domanda Le guanci’ e ’l collo di toccar non resta. Ma più lieto quel nastro par che goda, Dorato in punta, con si fatte tempre, Che preme e tocca il petto ch’egli allaccia. E la schietta cintura che s’annoda Mi par dir seco: qui vo’ stringier sempre! Or che farebbon dunche le mie braccia?_

_The blossom-twinèd garland of her hair Delighteth so to crown her sunny tress, That flowers one before the other press To be the first to kiss that forehead fair; Her gown all day puts on a blithesome air, Clingeth, then floweth free for happiness; Her meshèd net rejoiceth to caress The cheek whereby it lies, and nestle there; More fortunate, her golden-pointed lace Taketh her breathing in as close a hold As if it cherished what it may enfold; And simple zone that doth her waist embrace Seemeth to plead: “Here give me leave to stay!” What would my arms do, if they had their way?_

VII

_Se nel volto per gli occhi il cor si vede, Altro segnio non ho più manifesto Delia mie fiamma: addunche basti or questo, Signior mie caro, a domandar mercede. Forse lo spirto tuo, con maggior fede Ch’io non credo, che sguarda il foco onesto Che m’arde, fie di me pietoso e presto; Come grazia ch’abbonda a chi ben chiede. O felice quel dì, se questo e certo! Fermisi in un momenta il tempo e l’ore, Il giorno e il sol nella su’ antica traccia; Acciò ch’i’ abbi, e non già per mie merto, Il desiato mie dolce signore Per sempre nell’indegnie e pronte braccia._

_If eyes avail heart-passion to declare, My love requires no more explicit sign, For eloquent enow are looks of mine, O dear my mistress, to convey my prayer. Perchance, more credulous than I believe, Thou seest how purely doth my passion burn, And now art ready toward desire to turn, As he who asketh mercy must receive. If so befall, on that thrice happy day Let course of time be suddenly complete, The sun give over his primeval race; That through no merit of my own, I may Henceforth forever, my desirèd sweet In these unworthy, eager arms embrace!_

VIII

_Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede Nelle tue belle membra oneste e care Quante natura e ’l ciel tra no’ può fare, Quand’ a null’altra suo bell’opra cede: Spirto leggiadro, in cui si spera e crede Dentro, come di fuor nel viso appare, Amor, pietà, mercè; cose sì rare, Che ma’ furn’ in beltà con tanta fede: L’amor mi prende, e la beltà mi lega; La pietà, la mercè con dolci sguardi Ferma speranz’ al cor par che ne doni. Qual uso o qual governo al mondo niega, Qual crudeltà per tempo, o qual più tardi, C’ a sì bel viso morte non perdoni?_

_O spirit nobly born, wherein we see Through all thy members innocent and dear, As if reflected in a mirror clear, What Heaven and Nature can make life to be; O spirit gentle, where by faith we know Indwell what doth thy countenance declare, Love, Mercy, and Compassion, things so rare, That never beauty hath combined them so; The love to charm, the beauty to retain, The tenderness, the pity, to uphold By glances mild the soul that doubteth grace; What mortal law, what custom doth ordain, What doom unmerciful to young or old, That Death may not forgive so fair a face?_

IX

_Dimmi di grazia, amor, se gli occhi mei Veggono ’l ver della beltà ch’aspiro, O s’io l’ho dentro allor che, dov’io miro, Veggio più bello el viso di costei. Tu ’l de’ saper, po’ che tu vien con lei A torm’ ogni mie pace, ond’io m’adiro; Nè vorre’ manco un minima sospiro, Nè men ardente foco chiederei. La beltà che tu vedi è ben da quella; Ma crescie poi ch’ a miglior loco sale, Se per gli occhi mortali all’alma corre. Quivi si fa divina, onesta e bella, Com’ a sè simil vuol cosa immortale: Questa, e non quella, a gli occhi tuo’ precorre._

“_Love, be my teacher, of thy courtesy; The beauty, whither my regards aspire, Doth it exist? Or is what I admire Made beautiful by force of fantasy? Thou, Love, must know, who in her company Arrivest oft to vex me with desire, Although I would not choose to quench the fire, Abate its glow, nor part with any sigh._” “_The beauty thou hast seen from her did shine, And meet thy mortal vision; but its ray Ascended to the soul, a better place; There seemed she lovely, for a thing divine Hath joy of its own image; in this way Came beauty thou beholdest in her face._”

X

_Non posso altra figura immaginarmi, O di nud’ombra o di terrestre spoglia, Col più alto pensier, tal che mie voglia Contra la tuo beltà di quella s’armi. Che, da te mosso, tanto sciender parmi, Ch’amor d’ogni valor mi priva e spoglia; Ond’ a pensar di minuir mie doglia, Duplicando, la morte viene a darmi. Però non val che più sproni mie fuga, Doppiando ’l corso alla beltà nemica; Che il men dal più velocie non si scosta. Amor con le sue man gli occhi m’asciuga, Promettendomi cara ogni fatica; Chè vile esser non può chi tanto costa._

_My strong imagination cannot make From solid earth or air of reverie, The form of beauty, that my will can take To be its shield and armor against thee. Abandoned, I decline, till everything Doth vanish, that I am and I possess; The thought that haply I may suffer less, Destroyeth me beyond all suffering. No hope of safety, when to turn and flee Will only speed an enemy’s career; The slower from the fleeter cannot stray; Yet Love consoleth and caresseth me, Declaring that my toil may yet be dear; A thing so costly is not thrown away._

XI

_La vita del mie amor non è ’l cor mio, Ch’amor, di quel ch’io t’amo, è senza core; Dov’è cosa mortal piena d’errore, Esser non può già ma’, nè pensier rio. Amor nel dipartir l’alma da Dio Me fe’ san occhio, e te luc’ e splendore; Nè può non rivederlo in quel che muore Di te, per nostro mal, mie gran disio. Come dal foco el caldo esser diviso Non può, dal bell’etterno ogni mie stima, Ch’esalta, ond’ella vien, chi più ’l somiglia. Tu c’hai negli occhi tutto ’l paradiso, Per ritornar là dov’i’ t’ama’ prima, Ricorro ardendo sott’alle tuo ciglia._

_My love doth use no dwelling in the heart, But maketh mansion only in the soul; Fie entereth not where sinful hopes control, Where error and mortality have part. From source in God commanded to depart, Myself He made the eye, the lustre, thee; I cannot choose but His eternal see, In what, alas! is thy decaying part. No more may fire be sundered from its heat, Than my desire from that celestial Fair Whence thine derives, wherewith it doth compare; My soul, enkindled, maketh her retreat To primal home, where love did first arise, The Paradise secluded in thine eyes._

XII

_I’ mi credetti, il primo giorno ch’ io Mira’ tante bellezze uniche e sole, Fermar gli occhi, com’ aquila nel sole, Nella minor di tante ch’ i’ desio. Po’ conosciut’ ho il fallo e l’ erro mio; Chè chi senz’ ale un angel seguir vole, Il seme a’ sassi, al vento le parole Indarno ispargie, e l’ intelletto a Dio. Dunche, s’ appresso il cor non mi sopporta L’ infinita beltà, che gli occhi abbaglia, Nè di lontan par m’ assicuri o fidi; Che fie di me? qual guida o quale scorta Fie che con teco ma’ mi giovi o vaglia, S’ appresso m’ ardi, e nel partir m’ uccidi?_

_I deemed when erst upon my prospect shone The mateless splendor of thy beauty’s day, That as an eagle seeks the sun alone, I might have rested only on a ray. With lapse of time, mine error have I known, For who would soar in angels’ company, On stony ground his idle seed hath sown, Lost words in air, and thought in deity. If near at hand, I may not well abide Thy brilliancy that overcometh sight, And far, appear to leave consoling light, Ah, what shall I become? what friend, what guide, Will render aid, or plead my cause with thee, If either thou consum’st or grievest me?_

XIII