HERE IS MUSIC: RESPICIT PICTOR by AUSTIN PHILIPS

BLUE eyes. Beethoven's forehead. Light-brown hair,
Shot through with auburn tints. A tilted nose,
Enquiring yet determined. Lips of rare
Humour when parted, purposeful when close.
A supple voice which, gentle in repose,
Strengthens, becomes compelling in command.
A master's outlook towards her maids. But bland
Towards clients. Quick to cosset and compose.
An iron frame, full-fleshed. A satin skin.
Plump hands and dimpled. Proud past all compare.
Half Gaul, half Spaniard. Scarce five feet enfold
Her faults and virtues. Born outside, not in,
Her parents' class—as those with genius are—
Save for that peasant's heart: God's gift of purest gold.

What are you doing, once blest @3Bretonne?@1 What
Harsh fate makes hard your days, since Fortune's whim
Brought me success, re-called me, run-a-gate,
Back to beloved England? Has the grim
Lot which o'erwhelms fair France alighted, too,
On un-deserving you,
The striving, staunch and true?
Has the abhorred presence of the Hun,
In bestial-wise begun
To break the pride which none
Of old, could break? Do jack-boots stamp the stair
That faithful souls kept fair?
Do futile wrath, despair
Darken your days, turn to Tartarean night
A life whose long delight
It was to make more bright
Your patrons' hours, whose passion was to give,
And, giving, richly live,
But whose superlative
Horror and hatred were the bended knee:
Born, as you were, @3aristo,@1 breathing but when free?

What are you doing now, who, from the day I stepped
Within your walls as wanderer, found in me
Physical semblance to one lost, long wept
Fiancé, first-love, feeble-soul'd trustee
Of fair affection ... found, and came, full soon,
To find love in Life's June
Far more resistless boon
Than ever in Life's April ... found me thief
Of your high heart ... so, lief,
Let fall your handkerchief,
Which I, in vanity, adventurousness,
Ardour and eagerness,
And spiritual loneliness,
Caught up ... and, conquered, on the instant came
To feel an answering flame
Consume my fibres, frame:
So that my sad and solitary soul
Seemed to be no more fool
Of Fate, or Fortune's tool,
Ceased to be centripetal: re-create,
Shone centrifugal, care-free, proud, primordiate.

What are you doing now—you who, adown dead days,
Made glad that studio perched a-top your Inn:
Mistress, abandoned body: Mother, eased my ways,
Kept me in paint and canvases, while kin
And kith at home, contemptuous and cold,
(Tale thousand times re-told
Of blatant bourgeois fold
Towards artist-brother!) in crass jealousy,
Stood aching secretly
For woes to visit me:
Me who had broken prison-bonds, had fared
Forth, a free spirit, declared
War on Philistia, dared
To live in danger, daily to explore
Life's hidden, midmost core,
Not Life's exterior:
Me who had lost my soul, but, steadfast, still,
To find it and fulfil
Myself, possessed the will
To pluck the day: me, who believed I built
Best for the future, riding, errant-knight, a-tilt!

What are you doing now—you, who filched fleeting hours,
At fearful risk, to give yourself to me,
Stole to that studio, saw that our amours,
Oft-times suspected, stayed inviolably
Un-proved: who (while your worthless, nidering,
Spouse, at his card-playing,
Surrounded by a ring
Of café-haunting cronies, tragi-comic, tried,
In ignorance and pride,
To denigrate, deride
My paintings—damned me, too, with tenuous praise)
Struck the last final phase,
Touched every diapase
In Love's large gamut, proved his mastery
O'er Pride, showed haughtiest She
Can just as shameless be
As graceless girl, gave me back all my Youth,
Brought understanding, ruth,
Taught with each kiss, fresh truth,
Un-curtained, in those hours of stolen stealth,
Eros' whole secret storehouse, Cupid's common wealth.

What are you doing now—you, for whose splendid sake
(Since true Love knows no limits!) devotee
Of dear deserving, it was mine to make
Burnt offering of my personal dignity;
Strive by all means in power of man to augment
Your clientèle; intent
Upon your weal, be blent
Cicerone, maître d'hôtel, receptionist,
Guide to that growing list
(Matron and martialist,
Dauber and dilettante, fat, effete
Official in retreat,
Old maid, and obsolete
Admiral) of ancient Britons self-exiled
And otiose. These, beguiled
By me—poor dullards!—whiled
Away their time less sadly, ceased to frown
And grumble, came to own
Your Inn worth world-renown:
So, at my instance, penned their need in praise
Of you to Travel-Journals, touts for Tourists' ways.

What are you doing now, who—finding Fortune sure,
Clientèle trebled—trusting, bade me dare;
Insistent, urged the moment was mature,
The hour full ripe, time ready for repair
To England; made me, hesitating, go
And hold a one-man show,
Unquestioningly throw
Three years of labour into Fate's grim scale,
Financed me, took no tale
Of that you gave: all bail
Proudly refused, felt but one single fear,
One which ne'er ceased to uprear
Its hateful head, and sear
Your passionate, loyal, faithful peasant's heart,
But stayed unceasing smart,
To tear and rend and thwart
Your generous joy at giving me my chance:
Ache lest allegiance
Fail in me, fled from France. ...
This it was racked and rent your happiness,
And not sad doubts lest I should fail to find success.

Success came swift, since Love—as Love alone
Can do—had breathed Love's being into Art,
And canvases and panels throbbed and shone
With all the thrills of my subjected heart,
So, thrilling, shining, touched each see-er's soul,
While critics, in quick shoal,
Came crowding to extol
Me; cried I had found fresh vision, learned to see
Out-moded Brittany
With modern eyes and free;

Hailed me as 'Rembrandt Redivivus', made
Me fashionable, bade
Trustee and Gallery trade,
Brought men to buy, obedient to their hest
While idle women pressed
Me go (unwilling guest!)
To rout and luncheon, dinner, dance and fête,
Flocked round in specious spate,
Fain for amour or mate,
Impudent flatterers, eager to inflame
One whom Success bewildered ... brought, indeed some shame.

I kept my head. Ere Summer's end I came
Back to my Breton bourg and offered all;
Half mad with hope, fierce fugitive from fame,
Urged that we fled to some meridional
Haven, and homed therein, at long last free,
Fulfilled our destiny
In domesticity;
Saw that such spate of turbulent eloquence
Stirred your sweet soul. Immense
Intoxication, tense
Delight assumed me; passionate to persuade,
To find you unafraid,
I conjured up, as aid
To growing courage, pictures of blest days
Together, sweet essays
In soft Provençal ways;
Knew you convinced, talked-over; crossed to take
You in my arms and speak
Gratitude, gladness, make
You yet more mine ... when, lo! you started back,
Shook your head sadly, turned my shattered dreams to wrack.

For there, beyond the glass-paned @3salon@1 door,
A treble voice came piping pressingly,
@3"Oû est mon maman?"@1 And a boy of four,
Back from his kindergarten, firm lessee
Of mother-love, tried, tiptoe-wise, to stand
And peer within, command
Entrance: his tiny hand—
Nay, two hands—twisting, trembling on the knob,
His cry become a throb
Of pain, his speech a sob,
@3"Oû est mon maman?"@1 Then, no more denied—
Even as you opened wide
That door—dashed to your side,
Found happy finish to his false alarms,
Caught up in soft-fleshed arms,
Full safe from fancied harms. ...
Even as cheek to cheek he clung and smiled relief,
(Thrice blest, but ungrudged, thief
Of fierce affection), Grief
Consumed my soul. Your sweet voice said, "You see,
I cannot come with you. Alas! I am not free!"

Blue eyes. Beethoven's forehead. Light brown hair,
Shot through with auburn tints. A tilted nose,
Enquiring yet determined. Lips of rare
Humour when parted, purposeful when close.
A supple voice which, gentle in repose,
Strengthens, becomes compelling in command.
A master's outlook towards her maids. But bland
Towards clients. Quick to cosset and compose.
An iron frame, full-fleshed. A satin skin.
Plump hands and dimpled. Proud past all compare.
Half Gaul, half Spaniard. Scarce five feet enfold
Her faults and virtues. Born outside, not in,
Her parents' class—as those with genius are—
Save for their peasant's heart: God's gift of purest gold.

You stayed, then. I, braced by your brave behest,
Set forth for London, when the Autumn Fair
(Full of fresh subjects for my brush, first heir
To Pagan Festival) was ended; pressed
Forward, found fit environment wherein
To plan, project, begin
Work, whose true origin
Lay in my love, else-wise inhibited:
Thought, dreamed, risked; daring, bled
Both blood and tears; in dread
Physical isolation, moral loneliness,
Hunger of heart, excess of sadness, storm and stress
Of spirit; bent and bowed, unbroken yet;
Carrying, as carcanet,
Talisman, amulet,
'Gainst griding grief, the ever-growing thought
Of Breton you, which brought
Me solace, stay, and taught
Me strength from suffering born; which sent my aim
Still soaring; firm and filled with ever-freshening flame.

Those pictures, got by Grief on passionate
Hunger for Home and domesticity,
Children of suffering, cruel fruits of Fate,
Each one, alike, exemplar and Trustee
Of long, harsh hours and hateful solitude,
Baneful, but blessèd brood
Built of man's blood, endued
With all men's sorrows, in due season, hung
On Spring-time walls. A throng,
Week-through, gaped at them, wrung
By something universal in the woe
Each canvas seemed to show. ...
Guessed, as it gazed, the glow
Of grim, fierce, personal experience,
Came to surmise and sense
The tortured and intense
Pulses of him, their Painter. Popular praise
Was mine, and, too, fine phrase
From critics. But few days
Has passed before the Chantrey Council pressed
To buy the picture I myself of all, liked least.

Fortune was at the flood. Before I fled
To France, Academicians, convocate,
Chose me as compeer in lost colleague's stead,
Electing me as their Associate.
Even as, in joy and pride, and girt with gain,
I crossed the seas, full fain
For sight of you again,
I asked myself this question ceaselessly:
"May money make her free,
At last to come to me?
Has that poor nidering, never over-nice,
Like all his kind, a price?
Can gilded benefice
Bring him to let his wife and offspring go
To larger life. Will flow
Of gold beget a show
Of generous compassion, pacify and bend
His heart, persuade him lend
Us help, behave as friend,
Accept my ultimate ounce and, thus beguiled,
Let my belov'd one come and, coming, bring her child?"

Soon as I saw you, once we were alone
In that loved studio, high above your Inn—
@3Guy,@1 your sweet son, in gay impatience gone,
After glad greeting, to his games within
The low-walled, tree-fringed, roofless market-close—
I hastened to expose
The plan I cherished, whose
Swift execution seemed, at sight, to me
Easy enough. "We three
Can go immediately
His price be paid!" I urged ... but saw you break
Into quick tears, and shake
Your head ... then heard you make
Sorrowful answer, "Ah, alas! your plan
Is but mirage. The man
Calm and complaisant, can
Endure —and profit by—his secret shame. ...
But if exposure came
He would, in self-love, claim
His legal rights: revengeful, ruthless, force
@3Guy@1 from my side, for all time, by direct divorce.

Accepting Fate, I stayed till August end,
While cruel clouds and imminence of War,
With all their dire and dreadful dividend,
Hovered, as once suspended scimitar
Dangled in distant days o'er Damocles. ...
Swift, then, to seek surcease
Of exiled, otiose ease,
I drove, in burning haste, by brake and moor,
Past orchard-close, whose store
Stood ripening, rich, mature;
Through lanes where thorns stood strong,
And drooping hedges hung
Heavy with thick, sweet throng
Of berries. Drew to me
Delicious scent of sea;
Salt kissed my lips. Lawn, lea
I left; came to that ancient Corsair town
Whence @3Jean-Bart@1 once looked down
From ramparts which yet frown. ...
There I found ship, set forth; impetuous, lief,
Passionate to serve ... thus mailed, a moment, 'gainst all grief.

Blue eyes. Beethoven's forehead. Light-brown hair,
Shot through with auburn tints. A tilted nose,
Enquiring yet determined. Lips of rare
Humour when parted, purposeful when close.
A supple voice which, gentle in repose,
Strengthens, becomes compelling in command:
A master's outlook towards her maids. But bland
Towards clients. Quick to cosset and compose.
An iron frame, full-fleshed. A satin skin.
Plump hands and dimpled. Proud past all compare.
Half Gaul, half Spaniard. Scarce five feet enfold
Her faults and virtues. Born outside, not in,
Her parents' class—as those with genius are—
Save for her peasant's heart: God's gift of purest gold.

Where are you now—you whom I first re-call
As scarcely more than girl, alone, forlorn
In alien @3métier,@1 matrimonial
Blunder: indubitable artist, born
Amid the mire, a Star—who saw in me
Your type, intuitively
(Strange perspicacity!)
Asked, without words, my help, woo'd me with gift
Of all you had—yourself; sensed me adrift
And desolate; strove to uplift
Me forth from despair and desolation; found
Affection fond, fecund,
Miraculously re-bound,
Bring to you, richly giving, Love's reward,
Material ease; make hard
Ways happy; grant safeguard
'Gainst carking cares, obliterate and end
All anxious hours; transcend
Ideals, hopes, and blend
Two fates in one ... so find us, fusing, bless
Each, thus united, for eleventh-hour success.

I see you now, standing as first I saw
You stand—a moment fled from your @3cuisine@1—
Led to the spot by Love's imperious Law,
Glance through glass panel, cast cerulean sheen
Of bright blue eyes 'cross intervening space,
Scan with a frightened face
Me, at my far-off place
Of refuge in that unforgettable room;
Still I perceive you—dumb,
Myself—and know passion numb,
Yet vivify, my being; sense my soul
Sighting pre-destined goal,
Yours beyond let, control,
Find a fresh life, discover long-lost zest
Miraculously invest,
Assault, and fill, my breast,
Know my whole being radiantly renewed
With hope, and re-endued
With fierce infinitude
Of future passion, fast-approaching fire,
Flame fanned at first by Suffering, fuelled from desire.

I see you now—secret, clandestine, stole
Up to that top-floor studio—risking all
For Love and Lover, casting self-control
To the four winds at Passion's fevered call,
Flinging from off your body blouse of blue
Linen, which matched the hue
Of your blest eyes: blouse you
Donned fresh, each morning, innocent of speck—
Blouse open at that neck
I kissed to countless fleck—
Stood in discreet, delicious @3déshabille,@1
Offering yourself to me
In sweet intimity,
Standing a silken dream, immeasurably mine
Delicious, dear, divine,
The eternal feminine. ...
So that we twain imperially drew
From our glad contact new
Forces; thus drawing, knew
Deeper delights and loftier joys each day
We gave and took, and kissed Life's lesser griefs away.

I see you now, wholly in other mood,
Seated in that sweet @3salon,@1 where I loved,
Lingering, to look on your serenitude,
Watched while you sewed, marvelled as fingers moved,
Dexterous and swift in dimpled expertise,
Hearkened to counsel wise
And kind; helped you devise
Joint plans to please, and pleasing, to augment
Your clientèle, invent
Fresh, apt advertisement;
Set forth my personal problems, stating these
Saw Light pierce Darkness, ease
Anxiety, appease
My laden bosom's burdens, bring to close
My sorrows, troubles, woes,
Rid me of all such foes
To inner Peace, born of man's secret fears. ...
Have heart, in happy tears,
Grateful, consort with peer's,
Know in such glad communion measureless,
Exquisite, unconceivable, infinite tenderness.

Where are you now—you who have failed to send
Me single syllable since France's fate,
To tell me where you walk, what ways you wend,
Whether you work or starve. Insatiate
Of news, I ask myself what woes befall
Your Inn. Imperial
Of soul, are you now thrall
In body of blonde beasts—their bellies' slave?
Do you (the beauteous, brave,
Who gladly, generous, gave
Your clients lordly measure, long subdued
Your brain, your fibres, blood
To fashioning forth their food—
Blest Brillat-Savarin, great cordon-bleu!)
Do you, to-day, em-mew
That mighty heart and true
In hot, close kitchen, toil hour after hour,
Prison'd in base men's power,
While Shame and Grief devour. ...
Stand—visions vanquished, Life's last day-dream done—
In every hateful sense the Handmaid of the Hun?

Where are you now, high, faithful heart, whose fire
Ful-filled my being, whose repose and poise
Brought me fresh courage, bade me hope, aspire,
Made Life complete, gave me undreamed-of joys,
Renewed my soul and, born to build and bless,
(Victorious votaress
Of Love!) from emptiness
Redeemed dark days; whose rare and spiritual force
Taught me to steer true course;
Who stood, still stand, as source
Of sure success; whose proud example stays
With me, though works and days
Be dull and dim, allays—
If aught can allay—the never-ceasing care
The grinding, bleak despair,
The road which I, Woe's heir,
Walk in inexorable anxiety,
From which I may not be
For one brief instant free. ...
Example which, become the very Fount and Breath
Of Life itself, alone restrains from self-sought death.

Blue eyes. Beethoven's forehead. Light-brown hair,
Shot through with auburn tints. A tilted nose,
Enquiring yet determined. Lips of rare
Humour when parted, purposeful when close.
A supple voice which, gentle in repose,
Strengthens, becomes compelling in command.
A master's outlook towards her maids. But bland
Towards clients. Quick to cosset and compose.
An iron frame, full-fleshed. A satin skin.
Plump hands and dimpled. Proud past all compare.
Half Gaul, half Spaniard. Scarce five feet enfold
Her faults and virtues. Born outside, not in,
Her parents' class—as those with genius are—
Save for their peasant's heart: God's gift of purest gold.

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