The abode of this lawyer! Do damage to prove
‘T was for something thou quittedst the land of the lost —
To add to their number this unit!’ Though charmed
From descent there, on earth that’s above
“I may haply amerce him.” “So do, and begone,
I command thee! For, look! Though there’s doorway behind
And window before thee, go straight through the wall,
Leave a breach in the brickwork, a gap in the stone
For who passes to stare at!” “Spare speech! I’m resigned:
Here goes!” roared the goblin, as all —
Wide bat-wings, spread arms and legs, tail out a-stream,
Crash obstacles went, right and left, as he soared
Or else sank, was clean gone through the hole anyhow.
The Saint returned thanks: then a satisfied gleam
On the bald polished pate showed that triumph was scored.
“To dinner with appetite now!”
Down he trips. “In good time!” smirks the host. “Didst thou scent
Rich savor of roast meat? Where hides he, my ape?
Look alive, be alert! He’s away to wash plates.
Sit down, Saint! What’s here? Dost examine a rent
In the napkin thou twistest and twirlest?” Agape . . .
Ha, blood is it drips nor abates
“From thy wringing a cloth, late was lavendered fair?
What means such a marvel?” “Just this does it mean:
I convince and convict thee of sin!” answers straight
The Saint, wringing on, wringing ever — oh, rare! —
Blood — blood from a napery snow not more clean.
“A miracle shows thee thy state!
“See — blood thy extortions have wrung from the flesh
Of thy clients who, sheep-like, arrived to be shorn,
And left thee — or fleeced to the quick or so flayed
That, behold, their blood gurgles and grumbles afresh
To accuse thee! Ay, down on thy knees, get up sworn
To restore! Restitution once made,
“Sin no more! Dost thou promise? Absolved, then, arise!
Upstairs follow me! Art amazed at yon breach?
Who battered and shattered and scattered, escape
From thy purlieus obtaining? That Father of Lies
Thou wast wont to extol for his feats, all and each
The Devil’s disguised as thine ape!”
Be sure that our lawyer was torn by remorse,
Shed tears in a flood, vowed and swore so to alter
His ways that how else could our Saint but declare
He was cleansed of past sin? “For sin future — fare worse
Thou undoubtedly wilt,” warned the Saint, “shouldst thou falter
One whit!” “Oh, for that have no care!
“I am firm in my purposed amendment. But, prithee,
Must ever affront and affright me yon gap?
Who made it for exit may find it of use
For entrance as easy. If, down in his smithy
He forges me fetters — when heated, mayhap,
He’ll up with an armful! Broke loose —
How bar him out henceforth?” “Judiciously urged!”
Was the good man’s reply. “How to balk him is plain.
There’s nothing the Devil objects to so much,
So speedily flies from, as one of those purged
Of his presence, the angels who erst formed his train —
His, their emperor. Choose one of such!
“Get fashioned his likeness and set him on high
At back of the breach thus adroitly filled up:
Display him as guard of two scutcheons, thy arms:
I warrant no devil attempts to get by
And disturb thee so guarded. Eat, drink, dine, and sup,
In thy rectitude, safe from alarms!”
So said and so done. See, the angel has place
Where the Devil has passage! All’s down in a book.
Gainsay me? Consult it! Still faithless? Trust me?
Trust Father Boverio who gave me the case
In his Annals — gets of it, by hook or by crook,
Two confirmative witnesses: three
Are surely enough to establish an act:
And thereby we learn — would we ascertain truth —
To trust wise tradition which took, at the time,
Note that served till slow history ventured on fact,
Though folk have their fling at tradition forsooth!
Row, boys, fore and aft, rhyme and chime!
Beatrice Signorini
THIS strange thing happened to a painter once:
Viterbo boasts the man among her sons
Of note, I seem to think: his ready tool
Picked up its precepts in Cortona’s school —
That’s Pietro Berretini, whom they call
Cortona, these Italians: greatish-small,
Our painter was his pupil, by repute
His match if not his master absolute,
Though whether he spoiled fresco more or less,
And what’s its fortune, scarce repays your guess.
Still, for one circumstance, I save his name
— Francesco Romanelli: do the same!
He went to Rome and painted: there he knew
A wonder of a woman painting too —
For she, at least, was no Cortona’s drudge
Witness that ardent fancy-shape — I judge
A semblance of her soul-she called, “Desire”
With starry front for guide, where sits the fire
She left to brighten Buonarroti’s house.
If you see Florence, pay that piece your vows,
Though blockhead Baldinucci’s mind, imbued
With monkish morals, bade folk “Drape the nude
And stop the scandal!” quoth the record prim
I borrow this of: hang his book and him!
At Rome, then, where these fated ones met first,
The blossom of his life had hardly burst
While hers was blooming at full beauty’s stand:
No less Francesco — when half-ripe he scanned
Consummate Artemisia — grew one want
To have her his and make her ministrant
With every gift of body and of soul
To him. In vain. Her sphery self was whole —
Might only touch his orb at Art’s sole point.
Suppose he could persuade her to enjoint
Her life — past, present, future — all in his
At Art’s sole point by some explosive kiss
Of love through lips, would love’s success defeat
Artistry’s haunting curse — the Incomplete?
Artists no doubt they both were, — what beside
Was she? who long had felt heart, soul spread wide
Her life out, knowing much and loving well,
On either side Art’s narrow space where fell
Reflection from his own speck: but the germ
Of individual genius — what we term
The very self, the God-gift whence had grown
Heart’s life and soul’s life — how make that his own?
Vainly his Art, reflected, smiled in small
On Art’s one facet of her ampler ball;
The rest, touch-free, took in, gave back heaven, earth,
All where he was not. Hope, well-nigh ere birth
Came to Desire, died off all-unfulfilled.
“What though in Art I stand the abler-skilled”
(So he conceited: mediocrity
Turns on itself the self-transforming eye)
“If only Art were suing, mine would plead
To purpose: man — by nature I exceed
Woman the bounded: but how much beside
She boasts, would sue in turn and be denied!
Love her
? My own wife loves me in a sort
That suits us both: she takes the world’s report
Of what my work is worth, and, for the rest,
Concedes that, while his consort keeps her nest,
The eagle soars a licensed vagrant, lives
A wide free life which she at least forgives —
Good Beatricé Signorini! Well
And wisely did I choose her. But the spell
To subjugate this Artemisia — where?
She passionless? — she resolute to care
Nowise beyond the plain sufficiency
Of fact that she is she and I am I
— Acknowledged arbitrator for us both
In her life as in mine which she were loth
Even to learn the laws of? No, and no,
Twenty times over! Ay, it must be so:
I for myself, alas!”
Whereon, instead
Of the checked lover’s utterance — why, he said
— Leaning over her easel: “Flesh is red”
(Or some such just remark) — ”by no mean, white
As Guido’s practice teaches: you are right.”
Then came the better impulse: “What if pride
Were wisely trampled on, whate’er betide?
If I grow hers, not mine — join lives, confuse
Bodies and spirits, gain her not but lose
Myself to Artemisia? That were love!
Of two souls — one must bend, one rule above:
If I crouch under proudly, lord turned slave.
Were it not worthier both than if she gave
Herself — in treason to herself — to me?”
And, all the while, he felt it could not be.
Such love was true love: love that way who can!
Some one that’s born half woman, not whole man:
For man, prescribed man better or man worse,
Why, whether microcosm or universe,
What law prevails alike through great and small,
The world and man — world’s miniature we call?
Male is the master. “That way” smiled and sighed
Our true male estimator — ”puts her pride
My wife in making me the outlet whence
She learns all Heaven allows: ‘tis my pretence
To paint: her lord should do what else but paint?
Do I break brushes, cloister me turned saint?
Then, best of all suits sanctity her spouse
Who acts for Heaven, allows and disallows
At pleasure, past appeal, the right, the wrong
In all things. That’s my wife’s way. But this strong
Confident Artemisia — an adept
In Art does she conceit herself? ‘Except
In just this instance,’ tell her, ‘no one draws
More rigidly observant of the laws
Of right design: yet here, — permit me hint, —
If the acromion had a deeper dint.
That shoulder were perfection.’ What surprise
— Nay scorn, shoots black fire from those startled eyes!
She to be lessoned in design forsooth!
I’m doomed and done for, since I spoke the truth.
Make my own work the subject of dispute —
Fails it of just perfection absolute
Somewhere? Those motors, flexors, — don’t I know
Ser Santi, styled ‘Tirititototo
The pencil-prig,’ might blame them? Yet my wife —
Were he and his nicknamer brought to life,
Tito and Titian, to pronounce again —
Ask her who knows more — I or the great Twain,
Our colorist and draughtsman!
”I help her,
Not she helps me; and neither shall demur
Because my portion is” — he chose to think —
“Quite other than a woman’s: I may drink
At many waters, must repose by none —
Rather arise and fare forth, having done
Duty to one new excellence the more,
Abler thereby, though impotent before
So much was gained of knowledge. Best depart,
From this last lady I have learned by heart!”
Thus he concluded of himself — resigned
To play the man and master: “Man boasts mind:
Woman, man’s sport calls mistress, to the same
Does body’s suit and service. Would she claim
— My placid Beatricé-wife — pretence
Even to blame her lord if, going hence,
He wistfully regards one whom — did fate
Concede — he might accept queen, abdicate
Kingship because of? — one of no meek sort
But masterful as he: man’s match in short?
Oh, there’s no secret I were best conceal!
Bicé shall know: and should a stray tear steal
From out the blue eye, stain the rose cheek — bah!
A smile, a word’s gay reassurance — ah,
With kissing interspersed, — shall make amends,
Turn pain to pleasure.”
”What, in truth so ends
Abruptly, do you say, our intercourse?”
Next day, asked Artemisia: “I’ll divorce
Husband and wife no longer. Go your ways,
Leave Rome! Viterbo owns no equal, says
The by-word, for fair women: you, no doubt,
May boast a paragon all specks without,
Using the painter’s privilege to choose
Among what’s rarest. Will your wife refuse
Acceptance from — no rival — of a gift?
You paint the human figure I make shift
Humbly to reproduce: but, in my hours
Of idlesse, what I fain would paint is — flowers.
Look now!”
She twitched aside a veiling cloth,
“Here is my keepsake — frame and picture both:
For see, the frame is all of flowers festooned
About an empty space, — left thus, to wound
No natural susceptibility:
How can I guess? ‘Tis you must fill, not I,
The central space with — her whom you like best!
That is your business, mine has been the rest.
But judge!”
How judge them? Each of us, in flowers,
Chooses his love, allies it with past hours,
Old meetings, vanished forms and faces: no —
Here let each favorite unmolested blow
For one heart’s homage, no tongue’s banal praise,
Whether the rose appealingly bade “Gaze
Your fill on me, sultana who dethrone
The gaudy tulip!” or ‘twas “Me alone
Rather do homage to, who lily am,
No unabashed rose!” “Do I vainly cram
My cup with sweets, your jonquil?” “Why forget
Vernal endearments with the violet?”
So they contested yet concerted, all
As one, to circle round about, enthrall
Yet, self-forgetting, push to prominence
The midmost wonder, gained no matter whence.
There’s a tale extant, in a book I conned
Long years ago, which treats of things beyond
The common, antique times and countries queer
And customs strange to match. “‘Tis said last year,”
(Recounts my author) “that the King had mind
To view his kingdom — guessed at from behind
A palace-window hitherto. Announced
No sooner was such purpose than ‘twas pounced
Upon by all the ladies of the land —
Loyal but light of life: they formed a band
Of loveliest ones but lithest also, since
Proudly they all combined to bear their prince.
Backs joined to breasts, — arms, legs, — nay, ankles, wrists,
&nb
sp; Hands, feet, I know not by what turns and twists,
So interwoven lay that you believed
‘Twas one sole beast of burden which received
The monarch on its back, of breadth not scant,
Since fifty girls made one white elephant.”
So with the fifty flowers which shapes and hues
Blent, as I tell, and made one fast yet loose
Mixture of beauties, composite, distinct
No less in each combining flower that linked
With flower to form a fit environment
For — whom might be the painter’s heart’s intent
Thus, in the midst enhaloed, to enshrine?
“This glory-guarded middle space — is mine?
For me to fill?”
”For you, my Friend! We part,
Never perchance to meet again. Your Art —
What if I mean it — so to speak — shall wed
My own, be witness of the life we led
When sometimes it has seemed our souls near found
Each one the other as its mate — unbound
Had yours been haply from the better choice
— Beautiful Bicé: ‘tis the common voice,
The crowning verdict. Make whom you like best
Queen of the central space, and manifest
Your predilection for what flower beyond
All flowers finds favor with you. I am fond
Of — say — yon rose’s rich predominance,
While you — what wonder? — more affect the glance
The gentler violet from its leafy screen
Ventures: so — choose your flower and paint your queen!”
Oh, but the man was ready, head as hand,
Instructed and adroit. “Just as you stand,
Stay and be made — would Nature but relent —
By Art immortal!”
Every implement
In tempting reach — a palette primed, each squeeze
Of oil-paint in its proper patch — with these,
Brushes, a veritable sheaf to grasp!
He worked as he had never dared.
”Unclasp
My Art from yours who can!” — he cried at length,
As down he threw the pencil — ”Grace from Strength
Dissociate, from your flowery fringe detach
My face of whom it frames, — the feat will match
With that of Time should Time from me extract
Your memory, Artemisia!” And in fact, —
What with the priming impulse, sudden glow
Of soul — head, hand cooperated so
That face was worthy of its frame, ‘tis said —
Perfect, suppose!
They parted. Soon instead
Of Rome was home, — of Artemisia — well,
The placid-perfect wife. And it befell
That after the first incontestably
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 232