BROWNING'S ITALY (25 page)

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,

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!

Flower o 9 the clove,

AU the Latin I construe is "amo" I lovel

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

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

The droppings of the wax to seil again,

Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, —

His bone from the heap of offal in the street, —

Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,

He learns the look of things, and none the less

For admonition from the hunger-pinch.

I had a störe of such remarks, be sure,

Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.

I drew men's faces on my copy-books,

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,

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

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

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,

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,

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

On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf,

Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers

(The brüte 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,

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!

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

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 devirs-game!

Your business is not to catch men with show,

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 . . .

It's vapor done up like a new-born 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,

That sets us praising, — why not stop with him ?

I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns —

"Already not one phiz of your three slaves

Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,

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.

Expect another job this time next year,

For pity and religion grow i* the crowd —

Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!

— That is — you'U 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!

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

. . . 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,

Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet

As puff on puff of grated orris-root

When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.

And then P 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,

THE ARTIST AND BIS ART 257

And make him swear to never kiss the girls.

Fm 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

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;

Brother Angelico's the man, you'U find;

Brother Lorenzo Stands his single peer:

Fag on at flesh, youll never make the third!"

Flower o 9 the pine,

You keep your mistr . . . manners, and Ftt stick to minel

Fm 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 Ups in tight, and paint

To please them — sometimes do and sometimes don't;

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 eachf)

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

After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,

Although the milier does not preach to him

The only good of grass is to make chaff.

What would men have ? Do they like grass or no —-

I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns —

"Already not one phiz of your three slaves

Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,

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.

Expect another job this time next year,

For pity and religion grow V the crowd —

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!

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

. . . 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,

Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet

As puff on puff of grated orris-root

When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.

And then \* 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,

THE ARTIST AND fflS ART 261

Painters who need his patience). Well, all these

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 — Im the man!

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 ?

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 painting-brush ?

We come to brother lippo for all that,

Iste perfecü opus!" So, all smile —

I shuffle sideways with my blushing face

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

The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off

To some safe bench behind, not letting go

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!

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 gray beginning. Zooks!

Vasari describes Andrea del Sarto, whose, pupil he was, as "One in whom art and nature combined to show all that may be done in painting, when design, coloring and invention unite in one and the same person." His story in brief as gathered from Vasari's life is as follows:

" He was born in Florence in 1488, his father being a tailor, for which cause he was always called Andrea del Sarto, meaning ' the Tailor's Andrew/ At seven he was taken from school and placed with a goldsmith, where he showed more aptitude for using the pencil than the chisel. He soon attracted the attention of a Florentine painter, Gian Barile, who taught him painting. He progressed so rapidly, to Gian's delight, that the latter spoke to Piero di Cosimo, then considered one of the best masters in Florence. Piero was equally delighted with his progress and be-came very fond of him. From this he passed to a friendship with the young artist, Francia-bigio. They lived together and executed many works in Company.

"Later his friendship with the young sculp-tor, Jacopo Sansovino, seems to have done much for his development, for we are told that the conversations of these young artists were, for the most part, respecting the dif-

THE ARTIST AND HIS ART 263

ficulties of their art; wherefore, there was no reason to be surprised that both of them should ultimately attain to great excellence. Page after page in Vasari is taken up with describing the numerous and beautiful works with which Andrea adorned Florence."