An Introduction to the Study of Robert Browning's Poetry Part 43

189. Giotto di Bondone (1266-1337): a pupil of Cimabue, and regarded as the princ.i.p.al reviver of art in Italy. He was a personal friend of Dante. See note under 'Old Pictures in Florence', St. 2.

223. I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: all the editions are so punctuated; but it seems the comma should be after "man", connecting "no doubt" with "I've broken bounds".

235. "Giovanni da Fiesole, better known as Fra Angelico (1387-1455).

Angelico was incomparably the greatest of the distinctively mediaeval school, whose 'dicta' the Prior in the poem has all at his tongue's end. To 'paint the souls of men', to 'make them forget there's such a thing as flesh', was the end of his art. And, side by side with Angelico, Masaccio painted. His short life taught him a different lesson--'the value and significance of flesh'.

He would paint by preference the BODIES of men, and would give us NO MORE OF SOUL than the body can reveal. So he 'laboured', saith the chronicler, 'in nakeds', and his frescoes mark an epoch in art."--Ernest Bradford (B. S. Ill.u.s.trations).

"One artist in the seclusion of his cloister, remained true to the traditions and mode of expression of the middle ages, into which, nevertheless, the incomparable beauty and feeling of his nature breathed fresh life. Fra Giovanni Angelico, called da Fiesole from the place of his birth, occupies an entirely exceptional position.

He is the late-blooming flower of an almost by-gone time amid the pulsations of a new life. Never, in the whole range of pictorial art, have the inspired fervor of Christian feeling, the angelic beauty and purity of which the soul is capable, been so gloriously interpreted as in his works. The exquisite atmosphere of an almost supernaturally ideal life surrounds his pictures, irradiates the rosy features of his youthful faces, or greets us, like the peace of G.o.d, in the dignified figures of his devout old men.

His prevailing themes are the humility of soul of those who have joyfully accepted the will of G.o.d, and the tranquil Sabbath calm of those who are lovingly consecrated to the service of the Highest.

The movement and the changing course of life, the energy of pa.s.sion and action concern him not."--'Outlines of the History of Art'.

By Dr. Wilh. Luebke.

236. Lorenzo Monaco: a monk of the order of Camaldoli; a conservative artist of the time, who adhered to the manner of Taddeo Gaddi and his disciples, but Fra Angelico appears likewise to have influenced him.

238. Flower o' the pine, etc.: this s.n.a.t.c.h of song applies to what he has just been talking about: you have your own notions of art, and I have mine.

276. Tommaso Guidi (1401-1428), better known as Masaccio, i.e., Tommasaccio, Slovenly or Hulking Tom. "From his time, and forward," says Mr. Ernest Radford (B. S. Ill.u.s.trations), "religious painting in the old sense was at an end. Painters no longer attempted to transcend nature, but to copy her, and to copy her in her loveliest aspects. The breach between the old order and the new was complete." The poet makes him learn of Lippi, not, as Vasari states, Lippi of him.

"When Browning wrote this poem, he knew that the masters.h.i.+p or pupils.h.i.+p of Fra Lippo to Masaccio (called 'Guidi' in the poem), and vice versa, was a moot point; but in making Fra Lippi the master, he followed the best authority he had access to, the last edition of Vasari, as he stated in a Letter to the 'Pall Mall' at the time, in answer to M. Etienne {a writer in the 'Revue des deux Mondes'.} Since then, he finds that the latest enquirer into the subject, Morelli, believes the fact is the other way, and that Fra Lippo was the pupil."--B. Soc. Papers, Pt. II, p. 160.

The letter to the 'Pall Mall Gazette' I have not seen.

M. Etienne's Article is in Tome 85, pp. 704-735, of the 'Revue des Deux Mondes', 1870, and the letter probably appeared soon after its publication. What edition of Vasari is referred to, in the above note, as the last, is uncertain; but in Vasari's own editions of 1550 and 1568, and in Mrs. Foster's translation, 1855, Lippi is made the pupil, and not the master, of Masaccio.

323. Saint Laurence: suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Valerian, A.D. 258. He was broiled to death on a gridiron.

327. Already not one phiz of your three slaves. . .but's scratched: the people are so indignant at what they are doing, in the life-like picture.

336. That is--: he fears he has spoken too plainly, and will be reported.

339. Chianti: a wine named from the part of Italy so called.

345. There's for you: he tips them.

346. Sant' Ambrogio's: a convent in Florence.

354. Saint John: John the Baptist is meant; see v. 375.

355. Saint Ambrose: born about 340; made archbishop of Milan in 374; died 397; inst.i.tuted the 'Ambrosian Chant'.

377. Iste perfecit opus!: this is on a scroll, in the picture, held by the "sweet angelic slip of a thing".

389. The picture referred to is 'The Coronation of the Virgin', in the 'Accademia delle Belle Arti', in Florence. There is a photograph of it in 'Ill.u.s.trations to Browning's Poems', Part I., published by the Browning Society, with an interesting description of the picture, by Mr. Ernest Radford. There's no "babe" in the picture.

392. Zooks!: it's high time I was back and in bed, that my night-larking be not known.

A Face.

If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!

No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. {10} Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver, on the pale gold ground, Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

I know, Correggio loves to ma.s.s, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only ma.s.sed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), {20} All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

-- 1. If one could have: Oh, if one could only have, etc.

9, 10. to kiss and capture: gerundives: to be kissed and captured.

14. Correggio: Antonio Allegri da Correggio, born 1494, died 1534.

"He was the first master--the Venetians notwithstanding-- to take a scheme of color and chiaro-scuro as the 'raison d'etre'

of a complete composition, and his brush, responding to the idea, blends light and shade in delicious harmony."--Woltmann and Woermann's 'History of Painting'.

The Bishop orders his Tomb.

{Rome, 15--.}

-- * The tomb is imaginary; though it is said to be pointed out to visitors to Saint Praxed's who desire particularly to see it.

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?

Nephews--sons mine. . .ah G.o.d, I know not! Well-- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!

What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.

Life, how and what is it? As here I lie {10} In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.

Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that s.n.a.t.c.h from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, G.o.d curse the same!

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence {20} One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk; And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. {30} --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!

Draw close: that conflagration of my church --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!

My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find. . . Ah G.o.d, I know not, I! . . .

Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, {40} And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah G.o.d, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast. . .

Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like G.o.d the Father's globe on both his hands Ye wors.h.i.+p in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! {50} Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?

Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?

The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan {60} Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables. . .but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!

Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!

'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! {70} One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek ma.n.u.scripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?

--That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!

And then how I shall lie through centuries, {80} And hear the blessed mutter of the ma.s.s, And see G.o.d made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work: {90} And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?

No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! {100} Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.

All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?

Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, {110} To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!

For ye have stabbed me with ingrat.i.tude To death: ye wish it--G.o.d, ye wish it! Stone-- Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- And no more lapis to delight the world!