"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 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 10 When all beside itself means and looks nought. Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, Both in their order? Take the prettiest The Prior's niece.. is it so pretty patron-saint 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, 20 And then add soul and heighten them Or say there's beauty with no soul at all Within yourself, when you return him "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: 30 You should not take a fellow eight years old May they or mayn't they? all I want's You do like what, if given you at your You find abundantly detestable. And make him swear to never kiss the girls. For me, I think I speak as I was taught; I'm my own master, paint now as I please--I always see the garden and God there Having a friend, you see, in the Corner- A-making man's wife: and, .my lesson learned, house! Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front Those great rings serve more purposes than just 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! The value and significance of flesh, You understand me: I'm a beast, I But see, now why, I see as certainly Lorenzo Monaco, an eminent painter, a monk. 70 What will hap some day. We've a young- Comes to our convent, studies what I do, They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them He picks my practice up-he'll paint арасе, I hope so though never live so long, I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! You speak no Latin more than I, belike; 10 However, you're my man, you've seen the world If I drew higher things with the same That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, Nor blank; it means intensely, and means 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 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. 50 I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns "Who turn the Deacon off his toasted "But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content. "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. 6c - That is - you'll not mistake an idle Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! 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 him- 70 self: And hearken how I plot to make amends. Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless They want a cast o' my office. I shall God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, ANDREA DEL SARTO Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root summer. And then i' the front, of course a saint or two Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, 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, 10 Painters who need his patience). Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come - I'm what is this I see and 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! 20 Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? 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 "His camel-hair make up a paintingbrush? "We come to brother Lippo for all that, "Iste perfecit opus!" So, all smile I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 30 Under the cover of a hundred wings 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 To some safe bench behind, not letting go Like the Prior's niece. . . Saint Lucy, I And so all's saved for me, and for the church 40 A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! 451 (CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER.") [Famous painter, died 1531, aged 43.] BUT do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, 50 And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it ? tenderly? Oh, I'll content him, but to-morrow, Love! For each of the five pictures we require: It saves a model. So keep looking so My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! 60 How could you ever prick those perfect 70 ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, You smile? why, there's my picture ready There's what we painters call our har- A common greyness silvers everything, -You, at the point of your first pride in 80 me Behold Madonna! I am bold to say. And just as much they used to say in 30 At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! No sketches first, no studies, that's long I do what many dream of, all their lives, On twice your fingers, and not leave this Who strive you don't know how the To paint a little thing like that you smeared 40 (I know his name, no matter) so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged "God and the glory! never care for gain. "The present by the future, what is that? "Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! "Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" 10 I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; 453 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not grey, And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make How could it end in any other way? The triumph was there; since I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! pray, The rest avail not. Why do I need you?"The Roman's is the better when you And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 20 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. Well may they speak! That Francis, And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! 30 Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, One finger in his beard or twisted cur! One arm about my shoulder, round my The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, "But still the other's Virgin was his wife -" Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Beth pictures in your presence; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think. I have known it all these years Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, 60 |