The Norton Anthology of English literature. Volume 2

And hereupon he bade me daub away. Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, Never was such prompt disemburdening.

145 First, every sort of monk, the black and white, I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs0 of barrel droppings, candle ends� petty thefts To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,

150 Fresh from his murder, safe8 and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,

155 Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion0 of a thousand years) sufferings Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head (Which the intense eyes looked through), came at eve

160 On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. I painted all, then cried " 'Tis ask and have; Choose, for more's ready!"�laid the ladder flat,

165 And showed my covered bit of cloister wall. The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies�"That's the very man! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!

170 That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes To care about his asthma: it's the life!" But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked;9 Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face

175 And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! it's devil's game! Your business is not to catch men with show,

iso With homage to the perishable clay, But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. Your business is to paint the souls of men� Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . .

185 It's vapor done up like a newborn babe� (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! Give us no more of body than shows soul! Here's Giotto,1 with his Saint a-praising God, 190 That sets us praising�why not stop with him?

Having claimed sanctuary in the church. stylized pictures of religious subjects were admired Went up in smoke. as models of pre-Renaissance art. Great Florentine painter (1276�1337), whose

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1276 / ROBERT BROWNING

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! Rub all out, try at it a second time. 195 Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, She's just� my niece . . . Herodias,2 I would say� exactly like 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 body 200 So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks naught. 205 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 pretty 210 You 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? 215 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,

220 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 old

225 And 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!3 Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front� Those great rings serve more purposes than just

230 To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are 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;

235 Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; Brother Lorenzo4 stands his single peer: Fag on� at flesh, you'll never make the third!" work hard Flower o' the -pine,