« AnteriorContinuar »
With those nine columns round me, two And Moses with the tables but I and two,
know The odd one at my feet where Anselm Ye mark me not! What do they whisper
stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope ripe
To revel down my villas while I gasp 05 As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy traver-Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, tine? Put me where I may look at him! True Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckpeach,
les at! Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! Draw close: that conflagration of my 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I church
grieve -What then? So much was saved if My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70 aught were missed!
35 One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, My sons, ye would not be my death? Go There's plenty jasper somewhere in the dig
worldThe white-grape vineyard where the oil- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to press stood,
pray Drop water gently till the surface sink, Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuAnd if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, scripts, I!...
And mistresses with great smooth marbly Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40 limbs?
75 And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
- That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, word, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second breast ...
line Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, Tully, my masters?
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his all,
need! That brave Frascati villa with its bath, And then how I shall lie through cenSo, let the blue lump poise between my turies, knees,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, Like God the Father's globe on both his And see God made and eaten all day hands
long, Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, And feel the steady candle-flame, and For Gandolf shall not choose but see and taste burst!
50 Good, strong, thick, stupefying incenseSwift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: smoke! Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, 85 Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black- Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, else
And stretch my feet forth straight as Shall ye contrast my frieze to come be- stone can point, neath?
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, drop Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and Into great laps and folds of sculptor'sperchance
90 Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange The Savior at his sermon on the mount, thoughts Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60 Grow, with a certain humming in my Ready to twitch the Nymph's last gar- ears, ment off,
About the life before I lived this life, ? a cheap limestone.
i basket woven of rushes.
And this life too, popes, cardinals and I'll work then for your friend's friend, priests,
never fear, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Treat his own subject after his own way, Your tall pale mother with her talking Fix his own time, accept too, his own eyes,
96 price, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And shut the money into this small hand And marble's language, Latin pure, dis- When next it takes mine. Will it? tencreet,
derly? -Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? Oh, I'll content him,-but to-morrow, No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! 100 Love! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. I often am much wearier than you think, All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope This evening more than usual, and it My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, As if-forgive now-should you let me They glitter like your mother's for my sit soul,
105 Here by the window with your hand in Or ye would heighten my impoverished mine frieze,
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 15 Piece out its starved design, and fill my Both of one mind, as married people use, vase
Quietly, quietly the evening through, With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, I might get up to-morrow to my work And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. That in his struggle throws the thyrsus | To-morrow, how you shall be glad for down,
this! To comfort me on my entablature Your soft hand is a woman of itself, Whereon I am to lie till I must ask And mine the man's bared breast she “Do I live, am I dead?” There, leave curls inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither; you For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude must serve To death-ye wish it—God, ye wish it! For each of the five pictures we require: Stone
It saves a model. So! keep looking so- 25 Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares | My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! which sweat
-How could you ever prick those perfect As if the corpse they keep were oozing ears, through
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweetAnd no more lapis to delight the world! My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, which everybody looks on and calls his, 30 But in a row: and, going, turn your backs And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, -Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 121
While she looks -no one's: very dear, no And leave me in my church, the church less.
You smile? why, there's my picture ready That I may watch at leisure if he leers- made, Old Gandolf-at me, from his onion- There's what we painters call our harmony! stone,
A common grayness silvers everything, As still he envied me, so fair she was! 125 All in a twilight, you and I alike 36
-You, at the point of your first pride in ANDREA DEL SARTO
(That's gone you know),—but I, at every CALLED “THE FAULTLESS PAINTER"
point; But do not let us quarrel any more, My youth, my hope, my art, being all No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: toned down Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. You turn your face, but does it bring your There's the bell clinking from the chapelheart?
That length of convent-wall across the (I know his name, no matter)—so much way
less! Holds the trees safer, huddled more in- Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.
There burns a truer light of God in them, The last monk leaves the garden; days in their vexed beating stuffed and stoppeddecrease,
up brain, And autumn grows, autumn in every- Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to thing.
prompt Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's As if I saw alike my work and self
hand of mine. And all that I was born to be and do, Their works drop groundward, but themA twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's selves, I know, hand.
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut How strange now looks the life he makes us lead;
Enter and take their place there sure So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! enough,
85 I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!
Though they come back and cannot tell This chamber for example—turn your
the world. head
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit All that's behind us! You don't under
The sudden blood of these men! at a Nor care to understand about my art, 55 wordBut you can hear at least when people Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it speak:
boils too. And that cartoon, the second from the I, painting from myself, and to myself, 90 door
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's -It is the thing, Love! so such thing blame should be
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Behold Madonna SI am bold to say.
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, I can do with my pencil what I know, 60 His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, What I see, what at bottom of my heart Rightly traced and well ordered; what of I wish for, if I ever wish so deep
that? Do easily, too—when I say, perfectly, Speak as they please, what does the mounI do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, tain care? Who listened to the Legate's talk last Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his week,
65 grasp, And just as much they used to say in Or what's a heaven for? All is silverFrance.
gray, At any rate, 'tis easy, all of it!
Placid and perfect with my art: the No sketches first, no studies, that's long worse! past:
I know both what I want and what might I do what many dream of all their lives, gain, -Dream? strive to do, and agonize to And yet how profitless to know, to sigh do,
“Had I been two, another and myself, And fail in doing. I could count twenty Our head would have o'erlooked the such
world!” No doubt. On twice your fingers, and not leave this Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth town,
The Urbinate who died five years ago. 105 Who strive-you don't know how the ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) others strive
Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Topaint a little thing like that you smeared Pouring his soul, with kings and popes Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,Yet do much less, so much less, Someone | Reaching, that heaven might so replenish says,
Above and through his art-for it gives I dared not, do you know, leave home all way;
145 That arm is wrongly put—and there For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. again,
The best is when they pass and look aside; A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, But they speak sometimes; I must bear it Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, all. He means right-that, a child may under- Well may they speak! That Francis, that stand.
first time, Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: 115 And that long festal year at FontaineBut all the play, the insight and the bleau!
I surely then could sometimes leave the Out of me, out of me! And wherefore ground, out?
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, Had you enjoined them on me, given me In that humane great monarch's golden soul,
look, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! | One finger in his beard or twisted curl Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I Over his mouth's good mark that made think
155 More than I merit, yes, by many times. One arm about my shoulder, round my But had you-oh, with the same perfect neck, brow,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect I painting proudly with his breath on me, mouth,
All his court round him, seeing with his And the low voice my soul hears, as a eyes, bird
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of The fowler's pipe, and follows to the souls
160 125 Profuse, my hand kept plying by those Had you, with these the same, but brought hearts, a mind!
And, best of all, this, this, this face beSome women do so. Had the mouth there yond, urged
This in the background, waiting on my “God and the glory! never care for gain. work, The present by the future, what is that? To crown the issue with a last reward! 164 Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 130 A good time, was it not, my kingly days? Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!” And had you not grown restless . I might have done it for you. So it seems:
but I knowPerhaps not. All is as God overrules. 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my inBeside, incentives come from the soul's stinct said; self;
Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, The rest avail not. Why do I need And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should you?
tempt What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? Out of his grange whose four walls make In this world, who can do a thing, will his world.
How could it end in any other way? And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: You called me, and I came home to your Yet the will's somewhat-somewhat, too, heart. the power
The triumph was—to reach and stay And thus we half-men struggle. At the there; since end,
140 I reached it ere the triumph, what is God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. lost? 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, Let my hands frame your face in your That I am something underrated here, hair's gold,
175 Poor this long while, despised, to speak You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! the truth.
“Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
The Roman's is the better when you pray, We built to be so gay with. God is just.
215 My better fortune, I resolve to think. The walls become illumined, brick from For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, brick Said one day Agnolo, his very self, Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright To Rafael I have known it all these gold, years
185 That gold of his I did cement them with! (When the young man was flaming out his Let us but love each other. Must you thoughts
go? Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Too lifted up in heart because of it) Must see you—you, and not with me? “Friend, there's a certain sorry little Those loans? scrub
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled Goes up and down our Florence, none for that? cares how,
190 Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to Who, were he set to plan and execute
spend? As you are, pricked on by your popes and While hand and eye and something of a kings,
heart Would bring the sweat into that brow of Are left me, work's my ware, and what's yours!”
225 To Rafael's!—And indeed the arm is I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit wrong.
The gray remainder of the evening out, I hardly dare . yet, only you to Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly see,
195 How I could paint, were I but back in Give the chalk here quick, thus the line France, should go!
One picture, just one morethe Virgin's Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! face,
230 Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth Not yours this time! I want you at my (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? side Do you forget already words like To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolothose?),
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. If really there was such a chance, so lost,– Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. Is, whether you're—not grateful—but I take the subjects for his corridor, 235 more pleased.
Finish the portrait out of hand-there, Well, let me think so. And you smile in- there, deed!
And throw him in another thing or two This hour has been an hour! Another | If he demurs; the whole should prove smile?
enough If you would sit thus by me every night To pay for this same Cousin's freak. BeI should work better, do you compre- side, hend?
What's better and what's all I care about, I mean that I should earn more, give you Get
the thirteen scudi for the ruff! 241 more.
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; does he, Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the The Cousin! what does he to please you wall,
more? The cue-owls speak the name them by.
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. Come from the window, Love,-come in, I regret little, I would change still less. 245 at last,
Since there my past life lies, why alter it? Inside the melancholy little house
The very wrong to Francis!—it is true