free-verse369 lines

Beatrice Signorini

by Robert Browning

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 Beatric' 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 mean, 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: 'tis 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 Beatric'-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!

Bic' 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? 'Tis 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 'twas '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, enthrall

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. ''Tis 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 'twas 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

'Twas 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 Bic': 'tis 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 priming impulse, sudden glow

Of soul head, hand cooperated so

That face was worthy of its frame, 'tis 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 ail-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 Beatric', 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 Bic'. '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 caresss,

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, Bic' 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 Bic', 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.