Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

Home > Fantasy > Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series > Page 195
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 195

by Robert Browning


  Pacchiarotto. III

  Pacchiarotto. IV

  Pacchiarotto. V

  Pacchiarotto. VI

  Pacchiarotto. VII

  Pacchiarotto. VIII

  Pacchiarotto. IX

  Pacchiarotto. X

  Pacchiarotto. XI

  Pacchiarotto. XII

  Pacchiarotto. XIII

  Pacchiarotto. XIV

  Pacchiarotto. XV

  Pacchiarotto. XVI

  Pacchiarotto. XVII

  Pacchiarotto. XVIII

  Pacchiarotto. XIX

  Pacchiarotto. XX

  Pacchiarotto. XXI

  Pacchiarotto. XXII

  Pacchiarotto. XXIII

  Pacchiarotto. XXIV

  Pacchiarotto. XXV

  Pacchiarotto. XXVI

  Pacchiarotto. XXVII

  Pacchiarotto. XXVIII

  Pacchiarotto. XXIX

  Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper

  Pacchiarotto. I

  QUERY: was ever a quainter

  Crotchet than this of the painter

  Giacomo Pacchiarotto

  Who took “Reform” for his motto?

  Pacchiarotto. II

  He, pupil of old Fungaio,

  Is always confounded (heigho!)

  With Pacchia, contemporaneous

  No question, but how extraneous

  In the grace of soul, the power

  Of hand, — undoubted dower

  Of Pacchia who decked (as we know,

  My Kirkup!) San Bernardino,

  Turning the small dark Oratory

  To Siena’s Art-laboratory,

  As he made its straitness roomy

  And glorified its gloomy,

  With Bazzi and Beccafumi.

  (Another heigho for Bazzi:

  How people miscall him Razzi!)

  Pacchiarotto. III

  This Painter was of opinion

  Our earth should be his dominion

  Whose Art could correct to pattern

  What Nature had slurred — the slattern!

  And since, beneath the heavens,

  Things lay now at sixes and sevens,

  Or, as he said, sopra-sotto —

  Thought the painter Pacchiarotto

  Things wanted reforming, therefore.

  “Wanted it” — ay, but wherefore?

  When earth held one so ready

  As he to step forth, stand steady

  In the middle of God’s creation

  And prove to demonstration

  What the dark is, what the light is,

  What the wrong is, what the right is,

  What the ugly, what the beautiful,

  What the restive, what the dutiful,

  In Mankind profuse around him?

  Man, devil as now he found him,

  Would presently soar up angel

  At the summons of such evangel,

  And owe — what would Man not owe

  To the painter Pacchiarotto?

  Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!

  Pacchiarotto. IV

  But Man, he perceived, was stubborn,

  Grew regular brute, once cub born;

  And it struck him as expedient —

  Ere he tried to make obedient;

  The wolf, fox, bear, and monkey

  By piping advice in one key, —

  That his pipe should play a prelude

  To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued,

  Something not harsh but docile,

  Man-liquid, not Man-fossil —

  Not fact, in short, but fancy.

  By a laudable necromancy

  He would conjure up ghosts — a circle

  Deprived of the means to work ill

  Should his music prove distasteful

  And pearls to the swine go wasteful.

  To be rent of swine — that was hard!

  With fancy he ran no hazard:

  Fact might knock him o’er the mazard.

  Pacchiarotto. V

  So, the painter Pacchiarotto

  Constructed himself a grotto

  In the quarter of Stalloreggi —

  As authors of note allege ye.

  And on each of the whitewashed sides of it

  He painted — (none far and wide so fit

  As he to perform in fresco) —

  He painted nor cried quiesco

  Till he peopled its every square foot

  With Man — from the Beggar barefoot

  To the Noble in cap and feather;

  All sorts and conditions together.

  The Soldier in breastplate and helmet

  Stood frowningly — hail fellow well met —

  By the Priest armed with bell, book, and candle.

  Nor did he omit to handle

  The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer:

  Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor —

  He diversified too his Hades

  Of all forms, pinched Labor and paid Ease,

  With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies.

  Pacchiarotto. VI

  Which work done, dry, — he rested him,

  Cleaned palette, washed brush, divested him

  Of the apron that suits frescanti,

  And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty,

  This hand upon hip well planted,

  That, free to wave as it wanted,

  He addressed in a choice oration

  His folk of each name and nation,

  Taught its duty to every station.

  The Pope was declared an arrant

  Impostor at once, I warrant.

  The Emperor — truth might tax him

  With ignorance of the maxim

  “Shear sheep but nowise flay them!”

  And the Vulgar that obey them,

  The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling,

  They failed not of wholesome schooling

  On their knavery and their fooling.

  As for Art — where’s decorum? Pooh-poohed it is

  By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties,

  And Painters that pester with nudities!

  Pacchiarotto. VII

  Now, your rater and debater

  Is balked by a mere spectator

  Who simply stares and listens

  Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens

  Nor brow grows hot and twitchy,

  Nor mouth, for a combat itchy,

  Quivers with some convincing

  Reply — that sets him wincing?

  Nay, rather — reply that furnishes

  Your debater with just what burnishes

  The crest of him, all one triumph,

  As you see him rise, hear him cry “Humph!

  Convinced am I? This confutes me?

  Receive the rejoinder that suits me!

  Confutation of vassal for prince meet —

  Wherein all the powers that convince meet,

  And mash my opponent to mincemeat!”

  Pacchiarotto. VIII

  So, off from his head flies the bonnet,

  His hip loses hand planted on it,

  While t’ other hand, frequent in gesture,

  Slinks modestly back beneath vesture,

  As — hop, skip and jump, — he’s along with

  Those weak ones he late proved so strong with!

  Pope, Emperor, lo, he’s beside them,

  Friendly now, who late could not abide them,

  King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess;

  And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges,

  How minikin-mildly it urges

  In accents how gentled and gingered

  Its word in defence of the injured!

  “Oh, call him not culprit, this Pontiff!

  Be hard on this Kaiser ye won’t if

  Ye take into con-si-der-ation

  What dangers attend elevation!

  The Priest — who expects him to descant

  On duty with more zeal and less cant?

  He preaches but r
ubbish he’s reared in.

  The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din

  Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling

  And what not of vice while a stripling.

  The Lawyer — his lies are conventional.

  And as for the Poor Sort — why mention all

  Obstructions that leave barred and bolted

  Access to the brains of each dolt-head?”

  Pacchiarotto. IX

  He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet?

  Precedence to males in the alphabet!

  Still, disposed of Man’s A B C, there’s X

  Y Z want assistance, — the Fair Sex I

  How much may be said in excuse of

  Those vanities — males see no use of —

  From silk shoe on heel to laced poll’s-hood!

  What’s their frailty beside our own falsehood?

  The boldest, most brazen of . . . trumpets,

  How kind can they be to their dumb pets!

  Of their charms — how are most frank, how few venal!

  While as for those charges of Juvenal —

  Quœ nemo dixisset in toto

  Nisi (œdepol) ore illoto —

  He dismissed every charge with an “A page!”

  Pacchiarotto. X

  Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee,

  Right hand disengaged from the doublet

  — Like landlord, in house he had sublet

  Resuming of guardianship gestion,

  To call tenants’ conduct in question —

  Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside

  Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed

  With such transformation of visage

  As fitted the censor of this age.

  No longer an advocate tepid

  Of frailty, but champion intrepid

  Of strength, — not of falsehood but verity, —

  He, one after one, with asperity

  Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses,

  Disposed of sophistic excuses,

  Forced folly each shift to abandon,

  And left vice with no leg to stand on.

  So crushing the force he exerted,

  That Man at his foot lay converted!

  Pacchiarotto. XI

  True — Man bred of paint-pot and mortar!

  But why suppose folks of this sort are

  More likely to hear and be tractable

  Than folks all alive and, in fact, able

  To testify promptly by action

  Their ardor, and make satisfaction

  For misdeeds non verbis sed factis?

  “With folks all alive be my practice

  Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O,

  Farewell to ye I” cried Pacchiarotto,

  “Let only occasion intérpose!”

  Pacchiarotto. XII

  It did so: for, pat to the purpose

  Through causes I need not examine,

  There fell upon Siena a famine.

  In vain did the magistrates busily

  Seek succor, fetch grain out of Sicily,

  Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open —

  Such misery followed as no pen

  Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter

  Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter,

  Emboldened by triumph of recency,

  How could he do other with decency

  Than rush in this strait to the rescue,

  Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue

  To each and all slips in Man’s spelling

  The law of the land? — slips now telling

  With monstrous effect on the city,

  Whose magistrates moved him to pity

  As, bound to read law to the letter,

  They minded their hornbook no better.

  Pacchiarotto. XIII

  I ought to have told you, at starting,

  How certain, who itched to be carting

  Abuses away clean and thorough

  From Siena, both province and borough,

  Had formed themselves into a company

  Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any

  Obstruction of scruple, provoking

  The nicer throat’s coughing and choking:

  Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified

  Of “Freed Ones” — ”Bardotti” — which signified

  “Spare-Horses” that walk by the wagon

  The team has to drudge for and drag on.

  This notable Club Pacchiarotto

  Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to,

  As free and accepted “Bardotto.”

  The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye

  The outrage thus done to society,

  And noted the advent especially

  Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally.

  Pacchiarotto. XIV

  These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled:

  Neighed words whereat citizens trembled

  As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by

  The Duomo, proposed a way whereby

  The city were cured of disaster.

  “Just substitute servant for master,

  Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty,

  Unloose Man from overt and covert tie,

  And straight out of social confusion

  True Order would spring!” Brave illusion —

  Aims heavenly attained by means earthly!

  Pacchiarotto. XV

  Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy, —

  Brain practised and tongue no less tutored,

  In argument’s armor accoutred, —

  Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed

  Proposals like those to which “Yes” said

  So glibly each personage painted

  O’ the wall-side wherewith you’re acquainted.

  He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick:

  “Red soon were our State-candle’s paly wick,

  If wealth would become but interfluous;

  Fill voids up with just the superfluous;

  If ignorance gave way to knowledge

  — Not pedantry picked up at college

  From Doctors, Professors et cætera —

  (They say: ‘kai to loipa’ — like better a

  Long Greek string of kappas, taus, lambdas,

  Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass) —

  No knowledge we want of this quality,

  But knowledge indeed — practicality

  Through insight’s fine universality!

  If you shout ‘Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie,

  Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi,

  Who shieldest the rogue and the clot poll!’

  If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole

  I leave ye to fancy, our Siena’s

  Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas — ”

  (Whoever to scan this is ill able

  Forgets the town’s name’s a disyllable) —

  “If, this done, ye did — as ye might — place

  For once the right man in the right place,

  If you listened to me” . . .

  Pacchiarotto. XVI

  At which last “I.”

  There flew at his throat like a mastiff

  One Spare-Horse — another and another!

  Such outbreak of tumult and pother,

  Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering,

  Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering,

  Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff

  Whose impudence ventured the late “If” —

  That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto

  Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe,

  Away from the scene of discomfiture —

  Had he stood there stock-still in a dumbfit — sure

  Am I he had paid in his peison

  Till his mother might fail to know her son,

  Though she gazed on him never so wistful,

  do the figure so tattered and tristful.

  Each mout
h full of curses, each fist full

  Of cuffings — behold, Pacchiarotto,

  The pass which thy project has got to,

  Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot — tow!

  (The paraphrase — which I much need — is

  From Horace “per ignes incedis.”)

  Pacchiarotto. XVII

  Right and left did he dash helter-skelter

  In agonized search of a shelter.

  No purlieu so blocked and no alley

  So blind as allowed him to rally

  His spirits and see — nothing hampered

  His steps if he trudged and not scampered

  Up here and down there in a city

  That’s all ups and downs, more the pity

  For folks who would outrun the constable.

  At last he stopped short at the one stable

  And sure place of refuge that’s offered

  Humanity. Lately was coffered

  A corpse in its sepulchre, situate

  By St. John’s Observance. “Habituate

  Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows,

  And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!”

  So Misery counselled the craven.

  At once he crept safely to haven

  Through a hole left unbricked in the structure.

  Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your

  Poor client and left him conterminous

  With — pah! — the thing fetid and verminous!

  (I gladly would spare you the detail,

  But History writes what I retail.)

  Pacchiarotto. XVIII

  Two days did he groan in his domicile:

  “Good Saints, set me free and I promise I’ll

  Adjure all ambition of preaching

  Change, whether to minds touched by teaching

  — The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments

  Created by plaster and pigments, —

  Or to minds that receive with such rudeness

  Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness,

  — The rough folk of fact, life’s true specimens

  Of mind — ’haud in posse sed esse mens’

  As it was, is, and shall be forever

  Despite of my utmost endeavor.

  O live foes I thought to illumine,

  Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in!

  I need my own light, every spark, as

  I couch with this sole friend — a carcase!”

  Pacchiarotto. XIX

  Two days thus he maundered and rambled;

  Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled

  From out his receptacle loathsome.

  “A spectre!” — declared upon oath some

  Who saw him emerge and (appalling

  To mention) his garments a-crawling

  With plagues far beyond the Egyptian.

  He gained, in a state past description,

 

‹ Prev