Will without means and means in want of will
— Sure we might fish, from out the mothers’ sons
That welter thus, a dozen Dodingtons!
Why call up Dodington, and none beside,
To take his seat upon our backs and ride
As statesman conquering and to conquer? Well,
The last expedient, which must needs excel
Those old ones — this it is, — at any rate
To-day’s conception thus I formulate:
As simple force has been replaced, just so
Must simple wit be: men have got to know
Such wit as what you boast is nowise held
The wonder once it was, but, paralleled
Too plentifully, counts not, — puts to shame
Modest possessors like yourself who claim,
By virtue of it merely, power and place
— Which means the sweets of office. Since our race
Teems with the like of you, some special gift,
Your very own, must coax our hands to lift,
And backs to bear you: is it just and right
To privilege your nature?
V.
“State things quite
Other than so” — make answer! “I pretend
No such community with men. Perpend
My key to domination! Who would use
Man for his pleasure needs must introduce
The element that awes Man. Once for all,
His nature owns a Supernatural
In fact as well as phrase — which found must be
— Where, in this doubting age? Old mystery
Has served its turn — seen through and sent adrift
To nothingness: new wizard-craft makes shift
Nowadays shorn of help by robe and book, —
Otherwise, elsewhere, for success must look
Than chalked-ring, incantation-gibberish.
Somebody comes to conjure: that’s he? Pish!
He’s like the roomful of rapt gazers, — there’s
No sort of difference in the garb he wears
From ordinary dressing, — gesture, speech,
Deportment, just like those of all and each
That eye their master of the minute. Stay!
What of the something — call it how you may —
Uncanny in the — quack? That’s easy said!
Notice how the Professor turns no head
And yet takes cognizance of who accepts,
Denies, is puzzled as to the adept’s
Supremacy, yields up or lies in wait
To trap the trickster! Doubtless, out of date
Are dealings with the devil: yet, the stir
Of mouth, its smile half smug half sinister,
Mock-modest boldness masked in diffidence, —
What if the man have — who knows how or whence? —
Confederate potency unguessed by us —
Prove no such cheat as he pretends?”
VI.
Ay, thus
Had but my George played statesmanship’s new card
That carries all! “Since we” — avers the Bard —
“All of us have one human heart” — as good
As say — by all of us is understood
Right and wrong, true and false — in rough, at least,
We own a common conscience. God, man, beast —
How should we qualify the statesman-shape
I fancy standing with our world agape?
Disguise, flee, fight against with tooth and nail
The outrageous designation! “Quack” men quail
Before? You see, a little year ago
They heard him thunder at the thing which, lo,
To-day he vaunts for unscathed, while what erst
Heaven-high he lauded, lies hell-low, accursed!
And yet where’s change? Who, awe-struck, cares to point
Critical finger at a dubious joint
In armour, true æs triplex , breast and back
Binding about, defiant of attack,
An imperturbability that’s — well,
Or innocence or impudence — how tell
One from the other? Could ourselves broach lies,
Yet brave mankind with those unaltered eyes,
Those lips that keep the quietude of truth?
Dare we attempt the like? What quick uncouth
Disturbance of thy smug economy,
O coward visage! Straight would all descry
Back on the man’s brow the boy’s blush once more!
No: he goes deeper — could our sense explore —
Finds conscience beneath conscience such as ours.
Genius is not so rare, — prodigious powers —
Well, others boast such, — but a power like this
Mendacious intrepidity — quid vis ?
Besides, imposture plays another game,
Admits of no diversion from its aim
Of captivating hearts, sets zeal a-flare
In every shape at every turn, — nowhere
Allows subsidence into ash. By stress
Of what does guile succeed but earnestness,
Earnest word, look and gesture? Touched with aught
But earnestness, the levity were fraught
With ruin to guile’s film-work. Grave is guile;
Here no act wants its qualifying smile,
Its covert pleasantry to neutralize
The outward ardour. Can our chief despise
Even while most he seems to adulate?
As who should say “What though it be my fate
To deal with fools? Among the crowd must lurk
Some few with faculty to judge my work
Spite of its way which suits, they understand,
The crass majority: — the Sacred Band,
No duping them forsooth!” So tells a touch
Of subintelligential nod and wink —
Turning foes friends. Coarse flattery moves the gorge:
Mine were the mode to awe the many, George!
They guess you half despise them while most bent
On demonstrating that your sole intent
Strives for their service. Sneer at them? Yourself
‘T is you disparage, — tricksy as an elf,
Scorning what most you strain to bring to pass,
Laughingly careless, — triply cased in brass, —
While pushing strenuous to the end in view.
What follows? Why, you formulate within
The vulgar headpiece this conception “Win
A master-mind to serve us needs we must,
One who, from motives we but take on trust,
Acts strangelier — haply wiselier than we know —
Stronglier, for certain. Did he say ‘I throw
Aside my good for yours, in all I do
Care nothing for myself and all for you’ —
We should both understand and disbelieve:
Said he ‘Your good I laugh at in my sleeve,
My own it is I solely labour at,
Pretending yours the while’ — that, even that
We, understanding well, give credence to,
And so will none of it. But here ‘t is through
Our recognition of his service, wage
Well earned by work, he mounts to such a stage
Above competitors as all save Bubb
Would agonize to keep. Yet, — here’s the rub —
So slightly does he hold by our esteem
Which solely fixed him fast there, that we seem
Mocked every minute to our face, by gibe
And jest — scorn insuppressive: what ascribe
The rashness to? Our pay and praise to boot —
Do these avail him to tread underfoot
Something inside us all and each, that stands
Somehow instead of somewhat which commands
‘Lie not’? Folk fear to jeopardize
their soul,
Stumble at times, walk straight upon the whole, —
That’s nature’s simple instince: what may be
The portent here, the influence such as we
Are strangers to?” —
VII.
Exact the thing I call
Man’s despot, just the Supernatural
Which, George, was wholly out of — far beyond
Your theory and practice. You had conned
But to reject the precept “To succeed
In gratifying selfishness and greed,
Asseverate such qualities exist
Nowise within yourself! then make acquist
By all means, with no sort of fear!” Alack,
That well-worn lie is obsolete! Fall back
On still a working pretext — ”Hearth and Home,
The Altar, love of England, hate of Rome” —
That’s serviceable lying — that perchance
Had screened you decently: but ‘ware advance
By one step more in perspicacity
Of these our dupes! At length they get to see
As through the earlier, this the latter plea —
And find the greed and selfishness at source!
Ventum est ad triarios : last resource
Should be to what but — exquisite disguise
Disguise-abjuring, truth that looks like lies,
Frankness so sure to meet with unbelief?
Say — you hold in contempt — not them in chief —
But first and foremost your own self! No use
In men but to make sport for you, induce
The puppets now to dance, now stand stock-still,
Now knock their heads together, at your will
For will’s sake only — while each plays his part
Submissive: why? through terror at the heart:
“Can it be — this bold man, whose hand we saw
Openly pull the wires, obeys some law
Quite above Man’s — nay, God’s?” On face fall they.
This was the secret missed, again I say,
Out of your power to grasp conception of,
Much less employ to purpose. Hence the scoff
That greets your very name: folk see but one
Fool more, as well as knave, in Dodington.
WITH FRANCIS FURINI.
I.
Nay , that , Furini, never I at least
Mean to believe! What man you were I know,
While you walked Tuscan earth, a painter-priest,
Something about two hundred years ago.
Priest — you did duty punctual as the sun
That rose and set above Saint Sano’s church,
Blessing Mugello: of your flock not one
But showed a whiter fleece because of smirch,
Your kind hands wiped it clear from: were they poor?
Bounty broke bread apace, — did marriage lag
For just the want of moneys that ensure
Fit hearth-and-home provision? — straight your bag
Unplumped itself, — reached hearts by way of palms
Goodwill’s shake had but tickled. All about
Mugello valley, felt some parish qualms
At worship offered in bare walls without
The comfort of a picture? — prompt such need
Our painter would supply, and throngs to see
Witnessed that goodness — no unholy greed
Of gain — had coaxed from Don Furini — he
Whom princes might in vain implore to toil
For worldly profit — such a masterpiece.
Brief — priest, you poured profuse God’s wine and oil
Praiseworthily, I know: shall praising cease
When, priestly vesture put aside, mere man,
You stand for judgment? Rather — what acclain.
— ”Good son, good brother, friend in whom we scan
No fault nor flaw” — salutes Furini’s name,
The loving as the liberal! Enough:
Only to ope a lily, though for sake
Of setting free its scent, disturbs the rough
Loose gold about its anther. I shall take
No blame in one more blazon, last of all —
Good painter were you: if in very deed
I styled you great — what modern art dares call
My word in question? Let who will take heed
Of what he seeks and misses in your brain
To balance that precision of the brush
Your hand could ply so deftly: all in vain
Strives poet’s power for outlet when the push
Is lost upon a barred and bolted gate
Of painter’s impotency. Agnolo —
Thine were alike the head and hand, by fate
Doubly endowed! Who boasts head only — woe
To hand’s presumption should brush emulate
Fancy’s free passage by the pen, and show
Thought wrecked and ruined where the inexpert
Foolhardy fingers half grasped, half let go
Film-wings the poet’s pen arrests unhurt!
No — painter such as that miraculous
Michael, who deems you? But the ample gift
Of gracing walls else blank of this our house
Of life with imagery, one bright drift
Poured forth by pencil, — man and woman mere,
Glorified till half owned for gods, — the dear
Fleshly perfection of the human shape, —
This was apportioned you whereby to praise
Heaven and bless earth. Who clumsily essays,
By slighting painter’s craft, to prove the ape
Of poet’s pen-creation, just betrays
Two-fold ineptitude.
II.
By such sure ways
Do I return, Furini, to my first
And central confidence — that he I proved
Good priest, good man, good painter, and rehearsed
Praise upon praise to show — not simply loved
For virtue, but for wisdom honoured too
Needs must Furini be, — it follows — who
Shall undertake to breed in me belief
That, on his death-bed, weakness played the thief
With wisdom, folly ousted reason quite?
List to the chronicler! With main and might —
So fame runs — did the poor soul beg his friends
To buy and burn his hand-work, make amends
For having reproduced therein — (Ah me!
Sighs fame — that’s friend Filippo) — nudity!
Yes, I assure you: he would paint — not men
Merely — a pardonable fault — but when
He had to deal with — oh, not mother Eve
Alone, permissibly in Paradise
Naked and unashamed, — but dared achieve
Dreadful distinction, at soul-safety’s price
By also painting women — (why the need?)
Just as God made them: there, you have the truth!
Yes, rosed from top to toe in flush of youth,
One foot upon the moss-fringe, would some Nymph
Try, with its venturous fellow, if the lymph
Were chillier than the slab-stepped fountain-edge;
The while a-heap her garments on its ledge
Of boulder lay within hand’s easy reach,
— No one least kid-skin cast around her! Speech
Shrinks from enumerating case and case
Of — were it but Diana at the chase,
With tunic tucked discreetly hunting-high!
No, some Queen Venus set our necks awry,
Turned faces from the painter’s all-too-frank
Triumph of flesh! For — whom had he to thank
— This self-appointed nature-student? Whence
Picked he up practice? By what evidence
Did he unhandsomely become adept
In simul
ating bodies? How except
By actual sight of such? Himself confessed
The enormity: quoth Philip “When I pressed
The painter to acknowledge his abuse
Of artistry else potent — what excuse
Made the infatuated man? I give
His very words: ‘Did you but know, as I,
— O scruple-splitting sickly-sensitive
Mild-moral-monger, what the agony
Of Art is ere Art satisfy herself
In imitating Nature — (Man, poor elf,
Striving to match the finger-mark of Him
The immeasurably matchless) — gay or grim,
Pray, would your smile be? Leave mere fools to tax
Art’s high-strung brain’s intentness as so lax
That, in its mid-throe, idle fancy sees
The moment for admittance!’ Pleadings these —
Specious, I grant.” So adds, and seems to wince
Somewhat, our censor — but shall truth convince
Blockheads like Baldinucci?
III.
I resume
My incredulity: your other kind
Of soul, Furini, never was so blind,
Even through death-mist, as to grope in gloom
For cheer beside a bonfire piled to turn
Ashes and dust all that your noble life
Did homage to life’s Lord by, — bid them burn
— These Baldinucci blockheads — pictures rife
With record, in each rendered loveliness,
That one appreciative creature’s debt
Of thanks to the Creator more or less,
Was paid according as heart’s-will had met
Hand’s-power in Art’s endeavour to express
Heaven’s most consummate of achievements, bless
Earth by a semblance of the seal God set
On woman his supremest work. I trust
Rather, Furini, dying breath had vent
In some fine fervour of thanksgiving just
For this — that soul and body’s power you spent —
Agonized to adumbrate, trace in dust
That marvel which we dream the firmament
Copies in star-device when fancies stray
Outlining, orb by orb, Andromeda —
God’s best of beauteous and magnificent
Revealed to earth — the naked female form.
Nay, I mistake not: wrath that’s but lukewarm
Would boil indeed were such a critic styled
Himself an artist: artist! Ossa piled
Topping Olympus — the absurd which crowns
The extravagant — whereat one laughs, not frowns.
Paints he? One bids the poor pretender take
His sorry self, a trouble and disgrace,
From out the sacred presence, void the place
Artists claim only. What — not merely wake
Our pity that suppressed concupiscence —
A satyr masked as matron — makes pretence
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 223