Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ASOLANDO: BEATRICE SIGNORINI, by ROBERT BROWNING Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: This strange thing happened to a painter once Last Line: The pretty incident I put in rhyme. Subject(s): Infatuation; Paintings & Painters | ||||||||
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 Beatrice 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 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: '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 Beatrice-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! Bice 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!" 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 't was "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, enthral 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. "'T is 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 't was 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, Hands, feet, I know not by what turns and twists, So interwoven lay that you believed 'T was 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 Bice: 't is 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 pricking impulse, sudden glow Of soul -- head, hand cooperated so That face was worthy of its frame, 't is 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 Blessedest of all blisses (-- wherefore try Your patience with embracings and the rest Due from Calypso's all-unwilling guest To his Penelope?) -- there somehow came The coolness which as duly follows flame. So, one day, "What if we inspect the gifts My Art has gained us?" Now the wife uplifts A casket-lid, now tries a medal's chain Round her own lithe neck, fits a ring in vain -- Too loose on the fine finger, -- vows and swears The jewel with two pendent pearls like pears Betters a lady's bosom -- witness else! And so forth, while Ulysses smiles. "Such spells Subdue such natures -- sex must worship toys -- Trinkets and trash: yet, ah, quite other joys Must stir from sleep the passionate abyss Of -- such an one as her I know -- not this My gentle consort with the milk for blood! Why, did it chance that in a careless mood (In those old days, gone -- never to return -- When we talked -- she to teach and I to learn) I dropped a word, a hint which might imply Consorts exist -- how quick flashed fire from eye, Brow blackened, lip was pinched by furious lip! I needed no reminder of my slip: One warning taught me wisdom. Whereas here ... Aha, a sportive fancy! Eh, what fear Of harm to follow? Just a whim indulged! "My Beatrice, there's an undivulged Surprise in store for you: the moment's fit For letting loose a secret: out with it! Tributes to worth, you rightly estimate These gifts of Prince and Bishop, Church and State: Yet, may I tell you? Tastes so disagree! There's one gift, preciousest of all to me, I doubt if you would value as well worth The obvious sparkling gauds that men unearth For toy-cult mainly of you womankind; Such make you marvel, I concede: while blind The sex proves to the greater marvel here I veil to balk its envy. Be sincere! Say, should you search creation far and wide, Was ever face like this?" He drew aside The veil, displayed the flower-framed portrait kept For private delectation. No adept In florist's lore more accurately named And praised or, as appropriately, blamed Specimen after specimen of skill, Than Bice. "Rightly placed the daffodil -- Scarcely so right the blue germander. Gray Good mouse-ear! Hardly your auricula Is powdered white enough. It seems to me Scarlet not crimson, that anemone: But there's amends in the pink saxifrage. O darling dear ones, let me disengage You innocents from what your harmlessness Clasps lovingly! Out thou from their caress, Serpent!" Whereat forth-flashing from her coils On coils of hair, the spilla in its toils Of yellow wealth, the dagger-plaything kept To pin its plaits together, life-like leapt And -- woe to all inside the coronal! Stab followed stab, -- cut, slash, she ruined all The masterpiece. Alack for eyes and mouth And dimples and endearment -- North and South, East, West, the tatters in a fury flew: There yawned the circlet. What remained to do? She flung the weapon, and, with folded arms And mien defiant of such low alarms As death and doom beyond death, Bice stood Passively statuesque, in quietude Awaiting judgment. And out judgment burst With frank unloading of love's laughter, first Freed from its unsuspected source. Some throe Must needs unlock love's prison-bars, let flow The joyance. "Then you ever were, still are, And henceforth shall be -- no occulted star But my resplendent Bice, sun-revealed, Full-rondure! Woman-glory unconcealed, So front me, find and claim and take your own -- My soul and body yours and yours alone, As you are mine, mine wholly! Heart's love, take -- Use your possession -- stab or stay at will Here -- hating, saving -- woman with the skill To make man beast or god!" And so it proved: For, as beseemed new godship, thus he loved, Past power to change, until his dying-day, -- Good fellow! And I fain would hope -- some say Indeed for certain -- that our painter's toils At fresco-splashing, finer stroke in oils, Were not so mediocre after all; Perhaps the work appears unduly small From having loomed too large in old esteem, Patronized by late Papacy. I seem Myself to have cast eyes on certain work In sundry galleries, no judge needs shirk From moderately praising. He designed Correctly, nor in color lagged behind His age: but both in Florence and in Rome The elder race so make themselves at home That scarce we give a glance to ceilingfuls Of such like as Francesco. Still, one culls From out the heaped laudations of the time The pretty incident I put in rhyme. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...1801: AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE ENVOY TO CONSTANTINOPLE by RICHARD HOWARD VENETIAN INTERIOR, 1889 by RICHARD HOWARD THERE IS A GOLD LIGHT IN CERTAIN OLD PAINTINGS by DONALD JUSTICE DUTCH INTERIORS by JANE KENYON INVITATION TO A PAINTER: 3 by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE CHINA PAINTERS by TED KOOSER ELEGY FOR SOL LEWITT by ANN LAUTERBACH ON THE SEPARATION OF ADAM AND EVE by TIMOTHY LIU CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME' by ROBERT BROWNING |
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