by
Robert Browning

The Lady and the Painter

She. Yet womanhood you reverence,
So you profess!

He. With heart and soul.

She. Of which fact this is evidence!
To help Art-study, — for some dole
Of certain wretched shillings, — you
Induce a woman — virgin too —
To strip and stand stark-naked?

He. True.

She. Nor feel you so degrade her?

He. What
— (Excuse the interruption) — clings
Half-savage-like around your hat?

She. Ah, do they please you? Wild-bird-wings!
Next season, — Paris-prints assert, —
We must go feathered to the skirt:
My modiste keeps on the alert.

Owls, hawks, jays — swallows most approve.

He. Dare I speak plainly?

She. Oh, I trust!

He. Then, Lady Blanche, it less would move
In heart and soul of me disgust
Did you strip off those spoils you wear,
And stand — for thanks, not shillings — bare
To help Art like my Model there.
She well knew what absolved her — praise
In me for God’s surpassing good,
Who granted to my reverent gaze
A type of purest womanhood.
You — clothed with murder of his best
Of harmless beings — stand the test!
What is it you know?

She. That you jest!

Ponte Dell’ Angelo, Venice

Stop rowing! This one of our bye-canals
O’er a certain bridge you have to cross
That’s named, “Of the Angel:” listen why!
The name “Of the Devil” too much appalls
Venetian acquaintance, so — his the loss,
While the gain goes … look on high!

An angel visibly guards, yon house:
Above each scutcheon — a pair — stands he,
Enfolds them with droop of either wing:
The family’s fortune were perilous
Did he thence depart — you will soon agree,
If I hitch into verse the thing.

For, once on a time, this house belonged
To a lawyer of note, with law and to spare,
But also with overmuch lust of gain:
In the matter of law you were nowise wronged,
But alas for the lucre! He picked you bare
To the bone. Did folk complain?

“I exact,” growled he, “work’s rightful due:
‘T is folk seek me, not I seek them.
Advice at its price! They succeed or fail,
Get law in each case — and a lesson too:
Keep clear of the Courts — is advice ad rem:
They’ll remember, I’ll be bail!”

So, he pocketed fee without a qualm.
What reason for squeamishness? Labor done,
To play he betook him with lightened heart,
Ate, drank, and made merry with song or psalm,
Since the yoke of the Church is an easy one —
Fits neck nor causes smart.

Brief: never was such an extortionate
Rascal — the word has escaped my teeth!
And yet — (all’s down in a book no ass
Indited, believe me!) — this reprobate
Was punctual at prayer-time: gold lurked beneath
Alloy of the rankest brass.

For, play the extortioner as he might,
Fleece folk each day and all day long,
There was this redeeming circumstance:
He never lay down to sleep at night
But he put up a prayer first, brief yet strong,
“Our Lady avert mischance!”

Now it happened at close of a fructuous week
“I must ask,” quoth he, “some Saint to dine:
I want that widow well out of my ears
With her ailing and wailing. Who bade her seek
Redress at my hands? ‘She was wronged!’ Folk whine
If to Law wrong right appears.

“Matteo da Bascio — he’s my man!
No less than Chief of the Capucins:
His presence will surely suffumigate
My house — fools think lies under a ban
If somebody loses what somebody wins.
Hark, there he knocks at the grate!

“Come in, thou blessed of Mother Church!
I go and prepare — to bid, that is,
My trusty and diligent servitor
Get all things in readiness. Vain the search
Through Venice for one to compare with this
My model of ministrants: for —

“For — once again, nay, three times over,
My helpmate’s an ape! so intelligent,
I train him to drudge at household work:
He toils and he moils, I live in clover:
Oh, you shall see! There’s a goodly scent —
From his cooking, or I’m a Turk!

“Scarce need to descend and supervise:
I’ll do it, however: wait here awhile!”
So, down to the kitchen gayly scuttles
Our host, nor notes the alarmed surmise
Of the holy man. “O depth of guile!
He blindly guzzles and guttles,

“While — who is it dresses the food and pours
The liquor? Some fiend — I make no doubt —
In likeness of — which of the loathly brutes?
An ape! Where hides he? No bull that gores,
No bear that hugs — ‘t is the mock and flout
Of an ape, fiend’s face that suits.

“So — out with thee, creature, wherever thou hidest!
I charge thee, by virtue of … right do I judge!
There skulks he perdue, crouching under the bed.
Well done! What, forsooth, in beast’s shape thou confidest?
I know and would name thee but that I begrudge
Breath spent on such carrion. Instead —

“I adjure thee by —— ” “Stay!” laughed the portent that rose
From floor up to ceiling: “No need to adjure!
See Satan in person, late ape by command
Of Him thou adjurest in vain. A saint’s nose
Scents brimstone though incense be burned for a lure.
Yet, hence! for I’m safe, understand!

“‘T is my charge to convey to fit punishment’s place
This lawyer, my liegeman, for cruelty wrought
On his clients, the widow and orphan, poor souls
He has plagued by exactions which proved law’s disgrace,
Made equity void and to nothingness brought
God’s pity. Fiends, on with fresh coals!”

“Stay!” nowise confounded, withstands Hell its match:
“How comes it, were truth in this story of thine,
God’s punishment suffered a minute’s delay?
Weeks, months have elapsed since thou squattedst at watch
For a spring on thy victim: what caused thee decline
Advantage till challenged to-day?”

“That challenge I meet with contempt,” quoth the fiend.
“Thus much I acknowledge: the man’s armed in mail:
I wait till a joint’s loose, then quick ply my claws.
Thy friend’s one good custom — he knows not — has screened
His flesh hitherto from what else would assail:
At ‘Save me, Madonna!’ I pause.

“That prayer did the losel but once pretermit,
My pounce were upon him. I keep me attent:
He’s in safety but till he’s caught napping. Enough!”
“Ay, enough!” smiles the Saint — “for the biter is bit,
The spy caught in somnolence. Vanish! I’m sent
To smooth up what fiends do in rough.”

“I vanish? Through wall or through roof?” the ripost
Grinned gayly. “My orders were — ‘Leave not unharmed
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 means white
As Guido’s practice teaches: you ate 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: ‘t is 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? ‘T is 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!”