Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  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