Robert Browning
Frà Lippo Lippi
from Men and Women
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
Robert Clark