| | | |
| | | |
| | | I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! |
| | | You need not clap your torches to my face. |
| | | Zooks, what’s to blame? you think you see a monk! |
| | | What, ’tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, |
| 5 | | And here you catch me at an alley’s end |
| | | Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? |
| | | The Carmine’s my cloister: hunt it up, |
| | | Do, – harry out, if you must show your zeal, |
| | | Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, |
| 10 | | And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, |
| | | Weke, weke, that’s crept to keep him company! |
| | | Aha, you know your betters! Then, you’ll take |
| | | Your hand away that’s fiddling on my throat, |
| | | And please to know me likewise. Who am I? |
| 15 | | Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend |
| | | Three streets off – he’s a certain . . . how d’ye call? |
| | | Master – a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, |
| | | I’ the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! |
| | | Remember and tell me, the day you’re hanged, |
| 20 | | How you affected such a gullet’s gripe! |
| | | But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves |
| | | Pick up a manner nor discredit you: |
| | | Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets |
| | | And count fair price what comes into their net? |
| 25 | | He’s Judas to a tittle, that man is! |
| | | Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. |
| | | Lord, I’m not angry! Bid your hangdogs go |
| | | Drink out this quarter-florin to the health |
| | | Of the munificent House that harbors me |
| 30 | | (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) |
| | | And all’s come square again. I’d like his face – |
| | | His, elbowing on his comrade in the door |
| | | With the pike and lantern – for the slave that holds |
| | | John Baptist’s head a-dangle by the hair |
| 35 | | With one hand (‘Look you, now,’ as who should say) |
| | | And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! |
| | | It’s not your chance to have a bit of chalk, |
| | | A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! |
| | | Yes, I’m the painter, since you style me so. |
| 40 | | What, brother Lippo’s doings, up and down, |
| | | You know them and they take you? like enough! |
| | | I saw the proper twinkle in your eye – |
| | | ’Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. |
| | | Let’s sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. |
| 45 | | Here’s spring come, and the nights one makes up bands |
| | | To roam the town and sing out carnival, |
| | | And I’ve been three weeks shut within my mew, |
| | | A-painting for the great man, saints and saints |
| | | And saints again. I could not paint all night – |
| 50 | | Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. |
| | | There came a hurry of feet and little feet, |
| | | A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song, – |
| | | Flower o’ the broom, |
| | | Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! |
| 55 | | Flower o’ the quince, |
| | | I let Lisa go, and what good is life since? |
| | | Flower o’ the thyme – and so on. Round they went. |
| | | Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter |
| | | Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, – three slim shapes, |
| 60 | | And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, |
| | | That’s all I’m made of! Into shreds it went, |
| | | Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, |
| | | All the bed-furniture – a dozen knots, |
| | | There was a ladder! Down I let myself, |
| 65 | | Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, |
| | | And after them. I came up with the fun |
| | | Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met, – |
| | | Flower o’ the rose, |
| | | If I’ve been merry, what matter who knows? |
| 70 | | And so as I was stealing back again |
| | | To get to bed and have a bit of sleep |
| | | Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work |
| | | On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast |
| | | With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, |
| 75 | | You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! |
| | | Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head – |
| | | Mine’s shaved – a monk, you say – the sting’s in that! |
| | | If Master Cosimo announced himself, |
| | | Mum’s the word naturally; but a monk! |
| 80 | | Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! |
| | | I was a baby when my mother died |
| | | And father died and left me in the street. |
| | | I starved there, God knows how, a year or two |
| | | On fig skins, melon parings, rinds and shucks, |
| 85 | | Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, |
| | | My stomach being empty as your hat, |
| | | The wind doubled me up and down I went. |
| | | Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, |
| | | (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) |
| 90 | | And so along the wall, over the bridge, |
| | | By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, |
| | | While I stood munching my first bread that month: |
| | | ‘So, boy, you’re minded,’ quoth the good fat father |
| | | Wiping his own mouth, ’twas refection time, – |
| 95 | | ‘To quit this very miserable world? |
| | | Will you renounce’ . . . ‘the mouthful of bread?’ thought I; |
| | | By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; |
| | | I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, |
| | | Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking house, |
| 100 | | Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici |
| | | Have given their hearts to – all at eight years old. |
| | | Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, |
| | | ’Twas not for nothing – the good bellyful, |
| | | The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, |
| 105 | | And day-long blessed idleness beside! |
| | | ‘Let’s see what the urchin’s fit for’ – that came next. |
| | | Not overmuch their way, I must confess. |
| | | Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: |
| | | Lord, they’d have taught me Latin in pure waste! |
| 110 | | Flower o’ the clove. |
| | | All the Latin I construe is, ‘amo’ I love! |
| | | But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets |
| | | Eight years together, as my fortune was, |
| | | Watching folk’s faces to know who will fling |
| 115 | | The bit of half-stripped grape bunch he desires, |
| | | And who will curse or kick him for his pains, – |
| | | Which gentleman processional and fine, |
| | | Holding a candle to the Sacrament, |
| | | Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch |
| 120 | | The droppings of the wax to sell again, |
| | | Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, – |
| | | How say I? – nay, which dog bites, which lets drop |
| | | His bone from the heap of offal in the street, – |
| | | Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, |
| 125 | | He learns the look of things, and none the less |
| | | For admonition from the hunger-pinch. |
| | | I had a store of such remarks, be sure, |
| | | Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. |
| | | I drew men’s faces on my copy-books, |
| 130 | | Scrawled them within the antiphonary’s marge, |
| | | Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, |
| | | Found eyes and nose and chin for A’s and B’s, |
| | | And made a string of pictures of the world |
| | | Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, |
| 135 | | On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. |
| | | ‘Nay,’ quoth the Prior, ‘turn him out, d’ye say? |
| | | In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. |
| | | What if at last we get our man of parts, |
| | | We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese |
| 140 | | And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine |
| | | And put the front on it that ought to be!’ |
| | | And hereupon he bade me daub away. |
| | | Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, |
| | | Never was such prompt disemburdening. |
| 145 | | First, every sort of monk, the black and white, |
| | | I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, |
| | | From good old gossips waiting to confess |
| | | Their cribs of barrel droppings, candle ends, – |
| | | To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, |
| 150 | | Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there |
| | | With the little children round him in a row |
| | | Of admiration, half for his beard and half |
| | | For that white anger of his victim’s son |
| | | Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, |
| 155 | | Signing himself with the other because of Christ |
| | | (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this |
| | | After the passion of a thousand years) |
| | | Till some poor girl, her apron o’er her head, |
| | | (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve |
| 160 | | On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, |
| | | Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers |
| | | (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. |
| | | I painted all, then cried ‘’Tis ask and have; |
| | | Choose, for more’s ready!’ – laid the ladder flat, |
| 165 | | And showed my covered bit of cloister wall. |
| | | The monks closed in a circle and praised loud |
| | | Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, |
| | | Being simple bodies, – ‘That’s the very man! |
| | | Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! |
| 170 | | That woman’s like the Prior’s niece who comes |
| | | To care about his asthma: it’s the life!’ |
| | | But there my triumph’s straw-fire flared and funked; |
| | | Their betters took their turn to see and say: |
| | | The Prior and the learned pulled a face |
| 175 | | And stopped all that in no time. ‘How? what’s here? |
| | | Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! |
| | | Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true |
| | | As much as pea and pea! it’s devil’s-game! |
| | | Your business is not to catch men with show, |
| 180 | | With homage to the perishable clay, |
| | | But lift them over it, ignore it all, |
| | | Make them forget there’s such a thing as flesh. |
| | | Your business is to paint the souls of men – |
| | | Man’s soul, and it’s a fire, smoke . . . no, it’s not . . . |
| 185 | | It’s vapour done up like a newborn babe – |
| | | (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) |
| | | It’s . . . well, what matters talking, it’s the soul! |
| | | Give us no more of body than shows soul! |
| | | Here’s Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, |
| 190 | | That sets us praising – why not stop with him? |
| | | Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head |
| | | With wonder at lines, colours, and what not? |
| | | Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! |
| | | Rub all out, try at it a second time. |
| 195 | | Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, |
| | | She’s just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say, – |
| | | Who went and danced and got men’s heads cut off! |
| | | Have it all out!’ Now, is this sense, I ask? |
| | | A fine way to paint soul, by painting body |
| 200 | | So ill, the eye can’t stop there, must go further |
| | | And can’t fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white |
| | | When what you put for yellow’s simply black, |
| | | And any sort of meaning looks intense |
| | | When all beside itself means and looks naught. |
| 205 | | Why can’t a painter lift each foot in turn, |
| | | Left foot and right foot, go a double step, |
| | | Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, |
| | | Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, |
| | | The Prior’s niece . . . patron-saint – is it so pretty |
| 210 | | You can’t discover if it means hope, fear, |
| | | Sorrow or joy? won’t beauty go with these? |
| | | Suppose I’ve made her eyes all right and blue, |
| | | Can’t I take breath and try to add life’s flash, |
| | | And then add soul and heighten them threefold? |
| 215 | | Or say there’s beauty with no soul at all – |
| | | (I never saw it – put the case the same – ) |
| | | If you get simple beauty and naught else, |
| | | You get about the best thing God invents: |
| | | That’s somewhat: and you’ll find the soul you have missed, |
| 220 | | Within yourself, when you return him thanks. |
| | | ‘Rub all out!’ Well, well, there’s my life, in short, |
| | | And so the thing has gone on ever since. |
| | | I’m grown a man no doubt, I’ve broken bounds: |
| | | You should not take a fellow eight years old |
| 225 | | And make him swear to never kiss the girls. |
| | | I’m my own master, paint now as I please – |
| | | Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! |
| | | Lord, it’s fast holding by the rings in front – |
| | | Those great rings serve more purposes than just |
| 230 | | To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! |
| | | And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes |
| | | Are peeping o’er my shoulder as I work, |
| | | The heads shake still – ‘It’s art’s decline, my son! |
| | | You’re not of the true painters, great and old; |
| 235 | | Brother Angelico’s the man, you’ll find; |
| | | Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: |
| | | Fag on at flesh, you’ll never make the third!’ |
| | | Flower o’ the pine, |
| | | You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I’ll stick to mine! |
| 240 | | I’m not the third, then: bless us, they must know! |
| | | Don’t you think they’re the likeliest to know, |
| | | They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, |
| | | Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint |
| | | To please them – sometimes do and sometimes don’t; |
| 245 | | For, doing most, there’s pretty sure to come |
| | | A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints – |
| | | A laugh, a cry, the business of the world – |
| | | (Flower o’ the peach |
| | | Death for us all, and his own life for each!) |
| 250 | | And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, |
| | | The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream, |
| | | And I do these wild things in sheer despite, |
| | | And play the fooleries you catch me at, |
| | | In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass |
| 255 | | After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, |
| | | Although the miller does not preach to him |
| | | The only good of grass is to make chaff. |
| | | What would men have? Do they like grass or no – |
| | | May they or mayn’t they? all I want’s the thing |
| 260 | | Settled forever one way. As it is, |
| | | You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: |
| | | You don’t like what you only like too much, |
| | | You do like what, if given you at your word, |
| | | You find abundantly detestable. |
| 265 | | For me, I think I speak as I was taught; |
| | | I always see the garden and God there |
| | | A-making man’s wife: and, my lesson learned, |
| | | The value and significance of flesh, |
| | | I can’t unlearn ten minutes afterwards. |
| | | |
| 270 | | You understand me: I’m a beast, I know. |
| | | But see, now – why, I see as certainly |
| | | As that the morning star’s about to shine, |
| | | What will hap some day. We’ve a youngster here |
| | | Comes to our convent, studies what I do, |
| 275 | | Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: |
| | | His name is Guidi – he’ll not mind the monks – |
| | | They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk – |
| | | He picks my practice up – he’ll paint apace. |
| | | I hope so – though I never live so long, |
| 280 | | I know what’s sure to follow. You be judge! |
| | | You speak no Latin more than I, belike; |
| | | However, you’re my man, you’ve seen the world |
| | | – The beauty and the wonder and the power, |
| | | The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades, |
| 285 | | Changes, surprises, – and God made it all! |
| | | – For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, |
| | | For this fair town’s face, yonder river’s line, |
| | | The mountain round it and the sky above, |
| | | Much more the figures of man, woman, child, |
| 290 | | These are the frame to? What’s it all about? |
| | | To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, |
| | | Wondered at? oh, this last of course! – you say. |
| | | But why not do as well as say, – paint these |
| | | Just as they are, careless what comes of it? |
| 295 | | God’s works – paint any one, and count it crime |
| | | To let a truth slip. Don’t object, ‘His works |
| | | Are here already; nature is complete: |
| | | Suppose you reproduce her – (which you can’t) |
| | | There’s no advantage! you must beat her, then.’ |
| 300 | | For, don’t you mark? we’re made so that we love |
| | | First when we see them painted, things we have passed |
| | | Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; |
| | | And so they are better, painted – better to us, |
| | | Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; |
| 305 | | God uses us to help each other so, |
| | | Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, |
| | | Your cullion’s hanging face? A bit of chalk, |
| | | And trust me but you should, though! How much more, |
| | | If I drew higher things with the same truth! |
| 310 | | That were to take the Prior’s pulpit-place, |
| | | Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, |
| | | It makes me mad to see what men shall do |
| | | And we in our graves! This world’s no blot for us, |
| | | Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: |
| 315 | | To find its meaning is my meat and drink. |
| | | ‘Ay, but you don’t so instigate to prayer!’ |
| | | Strikes in the Prior: ‘when your meaning’s plain |
| | | It does not say to folk – remember matins, |
| | | Or, mind you fast next Friday!’ Why, for this |
| 320 | | What need of art at all? A skull and bones, |
| | | Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what’s best, |
| | | A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. |
| | | I painted a Saint Laurence six months since |
| | | At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: |
| 325 | | ‘How looks my painting, now the scaffold’s down?’ |
| | | I ask a brother: ‘Hugely,’ he returns – |
| | | ‘Already not one phiz of your three slaves |
| | | Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, |
| | | But it’s scratched and prodded to our heart’s content, |
| 330 | | The pious people have so eased their own |
| | | With coming to say prayers there in a rage: |
| | | We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. |
| | | Expect another job this time next year, |
| | | For pity and religion grow i’ the crowd – |
| 335 | | Your painting serves its purpose!’ Hang the fools! |
| | | |
| | | – That is – you’ll not mistake an idle word |
| | | Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, |
| | | Tasting the air this spicy night which turns |
| | | The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! |
| 340 | | Oh, the church knows! don’t misreport me, now! |
| | | It’s natural a poor monk out of bounds |
| | | Should have his apt word to excuse himself: |
| | | And hearken how I plot to make amends. |
| | | I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece |
| 345 | | . . . There’s for you! Give me six months, then go, see |
| | | Something in Sant’ Ambrogio’s! Bless the nuns! |
| | | They want a cast o’ my office. I shall paint |
| | | God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, |
| | | Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel brood, |
| 350 | | Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet |
| | | As puff on puff of grated orris-root |
| | | When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. |
| | | And then i’ the front, of course a saint or two – |
| | | Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, |
| 355 | | Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white |
| | | The convent’s friends and gives them a long day, |
| | | And Job, I must have him there past mistake, |
| | | The man of Uz (and Us without the z, |
| | | Painters who need his patience). Well, all these |
| 360 | | Secured at their devotion, up shall come |
| | | Out of a corner when you least expect, |
| | | As one by a dark stair into a great light, |
| | | Music and talking, who but Lippo! I! – |
| | | Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck – I’m the man! |
| 365 | | Back I shrink – what is this I see and hear? |
| | | I, caught up with my monk’s things by mistake, |
| | | My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, |
| | | I, in this presence, this pure company! |
| | | Where’s a hole, where’s a corner for escape? |
| 370 | | Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing |
| | | Forward, puts out a soft palm – ‘Not so fast!’ |
| | | – Addresses the celestial presence, ‘nay – |
| | | He made you and devised you, after all, |
| | | Though he’s none of you! Could Saint John there draw – |
| 375 | | His camel-hair make up a painting brush? |
| | | We come to brother Lippo for all that, |
| | | Iste perfecit opus!’ So, all smile – |
| | | I shuffle sideways with my blushing face |
| | | Under the cover of a hundred wings |
| 380 | | Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you’re gay |
| | | And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, |
| | | Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops |
| | | The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off |
| | | To some safe bench behind, not letting go |
| 385 | | The palm of her, the little lily thing |
| | | That spoke the good word for me in the nick, |
| | | Like the Prior’s niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say. |
| | | And so all’s saved for me, and for the church |
| | | A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! |
| 390 | | Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! |
| | | The street’s hushed, and I know my own way back, |
| | | Don’t fear me! There’s the grey beginning. Zooks! |
| | | |
First published 1855.
Contributed by Robert Clark.
