Beatrice Signorini

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 Cortonas school     Thats 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 whats 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 Cortonas 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 Buonarrotis house.     If you see Florence, pay that piece your vows,     Though blockhead Baldinuccis 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 beautys 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 Arts sole point.     Suppose he could persuade her to enjoint     Her life past, present, future all in his     At Arts sole point by some explosive kiss     Of love through lips, would loves success defeat     Artistrys 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 Arts 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     Hearts life and souls life how make that his own?     Vainly his Art, reflected, smiled in small     On Arts 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 worlds 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 lovers utterance why, he said     Leaning over her easel: Flesh is red     (Or some such just remark) by no mean, white     As Guidos practice teaches: you are right.     Then came the better impulse: What if pride     Were wisely trampled on, whateer 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 thats 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 worlds 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. Thats my wifes 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!     Im 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, dont 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 womans: 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, mans sport calls mistress, to the same     Does bodys 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: mans match in short?     Oh, theres 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 words 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: Ill 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 painters privilege to choose     Among whats 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 hearts homage, no tongues 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.     Theres 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 painters hearts 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 roses 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 Calypsos 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 medals 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 ladys 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, theres an undivulged     Surprise in store for you: the moments 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!     Theres 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 florists 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 theres 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 loves laughter, first     Freed from its unsuspected source. Some throe     Must needs unlock loves 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! Hearts 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 painters 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.