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Robert Browning - Fra Lippo Lippi - Read by Paul GiamattiFra Lippo Lippi (Part 2)by Robert Browning (1812-1889)Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,That sets us praising, -- why not stop with him?Why put all thoughts of praise out of our headWith wonder at lines, colours, and what not?Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!Rub all out, try at it a second time.Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,She's just my niece... Herodias, I would say, --Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off!Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?A fine way to paint soul, by painting bodySo ill, the eye can't stop there, must go furtherAnd can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for whiteWhen what you put for yellow's simply black,And any sort of meaning looks intenseWhen all beside itself means and looks naught.Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn,Left foot and right foot, go a double step,Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,Both in their order? Take the prettiest face,The Prior's niece... patron-saint -- is it so prettyYou can't discover if it means hope, fear,Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these?Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue,Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash,And then add soul and heighten them threefold?Or say there's beauty with no soul at all --(I never saw it -- put the case the same --)If you get simple beauty and naught else,You get about the best thing God invents:That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed,Within yourself, when you return him thanks."Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short,And so the thing has gone on ever since.I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds:You should not take a fellow eight years oldAnd make him swear to never kiss the girls.I'm 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 justTo plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyesAre 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'll find;Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer:Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!"Flower o' the pine,You keep your mistr- manners, and I'll stick to mine!I'm 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 lips in tight, and paintTo please them -- sometimes do and sometimes don't;For, doing most, there's pretty sure to comeA 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 each!)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 grassAfter hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,Although the miller does not preach to himThe only good of grass is to make chaff.What would men have? Do they like grass or no --May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thingSettled for ever one way. As it is,You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:You don't like what you only like too much,You do like what, if given at your word,You find abundantly detestable.For me, I think I speak as I was taught;I always see the garden and God thereA-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,The value and significance of flesh,I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.You understand me: I'm a beast, I know.But see, now -- why, I see as certainlyAs that the morning-star's about to shine,What will hap some day. We've a youngster hereCome to our convent, studies what I do,Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:His name is Guidi -- he'll not mind the monks --They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk --He picks my practice up -- he'll paint apace,I hope so -- though I never live so long,I know what's sure to follow. You be judge!You speak no Latin more than I, belike;However, you're my man, you've seen the world-- The beauty and the wonder and the power,The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,Changes, surprises, -- and God made it all!-- For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,The mountain round it and the sky above,Much more the figures of man, woman, child,These are the frame to? What's it all about?To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,Wondered at? oh, this last of course! -- you say.But why not do as well as say, -- paint theseJust as they are, careless what comes of it?God's works -- paint anyone, and count it crimeTo let a truth slip. Don't object, "His worksAre here already; nature is complete:Suppose you reproduce her" -- (which you can't)"There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."For, don't you mark? we're made so that we loveFirst when we see them painted, things we have passedPerhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;And so they are better, painted -- better to us,Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;God uses us to help each other so,Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,And trust me but you should, though! How much more,If I drew higher things with the same truth!That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,It makes me mad to see what men shall doAnd we in our graves! This world's no blot for us,Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:To find its meaning is my meat and drink."Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plainIt does not say to folk -- remember matins,Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for thisWhat need of art at all? A skull and bones,Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best,A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.I painted a Saint Laurence six months sinceAt Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style:"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?"I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns --"Already not one phiz of your three slavesWho turn the Deacon off his toasted side,But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,The pious people have so eased their ownWith 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'll not mistake an idle wordSpoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot,Tasting the air this spicy night which turnsThe unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!It's natural a poor monk out of boundsShould 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, seeSomething in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns!They want a cast o' my office. I shall paintGod in their midst, Madonna and her babe,Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood,Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweetAs puff on puff of grated orris-rootWhen ladies crowd to Church at midsummer.And then i' the front, of course a saint or two --Saint John, because he saves the Florentines,Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and whiteThe 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,Painters who need his patience). Well, all theseSecured at their devotion, up shall comeOut 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 -- I'm 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 thingForward, 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 perfecit opus!" So, all smile --I shuffle sideways with my blushing faceUnder the cover of a hundred wingsThrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gayAnd play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,Till, wholly unexpected, in there popsThe hothead husband! Thus I scuttle offTo some safe bench behind, not letting goThe palm of her, the little lily thingThat 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 churchA 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 grey beginning. Zooks!
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