Filippo Baldinucci On The Privilege Of Burial

A Reminiscence of A.D. 1676     No, boy, we must not, so began     My Uncle (hes with God long since),     A-petting me, the good old man!     We must not, and he seemed to wince,     And lost that laugh whereto had grown     His chuckle at my piece of news,     How cleverly I aimed my stone,     I fear we must not pelt the Jews!     When I was young indeed, ah, faith     Was young and strong in Florence too!     We Christians never dreamed of scathe     Because we cursed or kicked the crew.     But now, well, well! The olive-crops     Weighed double then, and Arnos pranks     Would always spare religious shops     Whenever he oerflowed his banks!     Ill tell you, and his eye regained     Its twinkle, tell you something choice!     Something may help you keep unstained     Your honest zeal to stop the voice     Of unbelief with stone-throw, spite     Of Laws, which modern fools enact,     That we must suffer Jews in sight     Go wholly unmolested! Fact!     There was, then, in my youth, and yet     Is, by our San Frediano, just     Below the Blessed Olivet,     A wayside ground wherein they thrust     Their dead, these Jews, the more our shame!     Except that, so they will but die,     Christians perchance incur no blame     In giving hogs a hoist to sty.     There, anyhow, Jews stow away     Their dead; and such their insolence,     Slink at odd times to sing and pray     As Christians do all make-pretence!     Which wickedness they perpetrate     Because they think no Christians see.     They reckoned here, at any rate,     Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!     For, what should join their plot of ground     But a good Farmers Christian field?     The Jews had hedged their corner round     With bramble-bush to keep concealed     Their doings: for the public road     Ran betwixt this their ground and that     The Farmers, where he ploughed and sowed,     Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.     So, properly to guard his store     And gall the unbelievers too,     He builds a shrine and, what is more,     Procures a painter whom I knew,     One Buti (hes with God), to paint     A holy picture there no less     Than Virgin Mary free from taint     Borne to the sky by angels: yes!     Which shrine he fixed, who says him nay?     A-facing with its picture-side     Not, as youd think, the public way,     But just where sought these hounds to hide     Their carrion from that very truth     Of Marys triumph: not a hound     Could act his mummeries uncouth     But Mary shamed the pack all round!     Now, if it was amusing, judge!     To see the company arrive,     Each Jew intent to end his trudge     And take his pleasure (though alive)     With all his Jewish kith and kin     Below ground, have his venom out,     Sharpen his wits for next days sin,     Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!     Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds     Mary, I warrant, soaring brave!     And in a trice, beneath the folds     Of filthy garb which gowns each knave,     Down drops it, there to hide grimace,     Contortion of the mouth and nose     At finding Mary in the place     Theyd keep for Pilate, I suppose!     At last, they will not brook, not they!     Longer such outrage on their tribe:     So, in some hole and corner, lay     Their heads together, how to bribe     The meritorious Farmers self     To straight undo his work, restore     Their chance to meet and muse on pelf,     Pretending sorrow, as before!     Forthwith, a posse, if you please,     Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That     Almost go down upon their knees     To get him lay the picture flat.     The spokesman, eighty years of age,     Gray as a badger, with a goats     Not only beard but bleat, gins wage     War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:     Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil     Through life in Florence, why relate     To those who lay the burden, spoil     Our paths of peace? We bear our fate.     But when with life the long toil ends,     Why must you, the expression craves     Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!     Why must you plague us in our graves?     Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!     For how can you, the lords of ease     By nurture, birthright, een conceive     Our luxury to lie with trees     And turf, the cricket and the bird     Left for our last companionship:     No harsh deed, no unkindly word,     No frowning brow nor scornful lip!     Deaths luxury, we now rehearse     While, living, through your streets we fare     And take your hatred: nothing worse     Have we, once dead and safe, to bear!     So we refresh our souls, fulfil     Our works, our daily tasks; and thus     Gather you grain earths harvest still     The wheat for you, the straw for us.     What flouting in face, what harm,     In just a lady borne from bier     By boys heads, wings for leg and arm?     You question. Friends, the harm is here,     That just when our last sigh is heaved,     And we would fain thank God and you     For labor done and peace achieved,     Back comes the Past in full review!     At sight of just that simple flag,     Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like     From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag,     Though fangless, forth what needs must strike     When stricken sore, though stroke be vain     Against the mailed oppressor! Give     Play to our fancy that we gain     Lifes rights when once we cease to live!     Thus much to courtesy, to kind,     To conscience! Now to Florence folk!     Theres core beneath this apple-rind,     Beneath this white-of-egg theres yolk!     Beneath this prayer to courtesy,     Kind, conscience, theres a sum to pouch!     How many ducats down will buy     Our shames removal, sirs? Avouch!     Removal, not destruction, sirs!     Just turn your picture! Let it front     The public path! Or memory errs,     Or that same public path is wont     To witness many a chance befall     Of lust, theft, bloodshed, sins enough,     Wherein our Hebrew part is small.     Convert yourselves! he cut up rough.     Look you, how soon a service pair     Religion yields the servant fruit!     A prompt reply our Farmer made     So following: Sirs, to grant your suit     Involves much danger! How? Transpose     Our Lady? Stop the chastisement,     All for your good, herself bestows?     What wonder if I grudge consent?     Yet grant it: since, what cash I take     Is so much saved from wicked use.     We know you! And, for Marys sake,     A hundred ducats shall induce     Concession to your prayer. One day     Suffices: Master Butis brush     Turns Mary round the other way,     And deluges your side with slush.     Down with the ducats therefore! Dump,     Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece     Hard gold. Then out of door they stump,     These dogs, each brisk as with new lease     Of life, I warrant, glad hell die     Henceforward just as he may choose,     Be buried and in clover lie!     Well said Esaias stiff-necked Jews!     Off posts without a minutes loss     Our Farmer, once the cash in poke,     And summons Buti ere its gloss     Have time to fade from off the joke,     To chop and change his work, undo     The done side, make the side, now blank,     Recipient of our Lady, who,     Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!     Now, boy, youre hardly to instruct     In technicalities of Art!     My nephews childhood sure has sucked     Along with mothers-milk some part     Of painters-practice, learned, at least     How expeditiously is plied     A work in fresco, never ceased     When once begun, a day, each side.     So, Buti, (hes with God), begins:     First covers up the shrine all round     With hoarding; then, as like as twins,     Paints, tother side the burial-ground,     New Mary, every point the same;     Next, sluices over, as agreed,     The old; and last, but, spoil the game     By telling you? Not I, indeed!     Well, ere the week was half at end,     Out came the object of this zeal,     This fine alacrity to spend     Hard money for mere dead mens weal!     How think you? That old spokesman Jew     Was High Priest, and he had a wife     As old, and she was dying too,     And wished to end in peace her life!     And he must humor dying whims,     And soothe her with the idle hope     Theyd say their prayers and sing their hymns     As if her husband were the Pope!     And she did die, believing just     This privilege was purchased! Dead     In comfort through her foolish trust!     Stiff-necked ones, well Esaias said!     So, Sabbath morning, out of gate     And on to way, what sees our arch     Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight,     The corpse, on shoulder, and so, march!     Now for it, Buti! In the nick     Of time tis pully-hauly, hence     With hoarding! Oer the wayside quick     Theres Mary plain in evidence!     And heres the convoy halting: right!     Oh, they are bent on howling psalms     And growling prayers, when opposite!     And yet they glance, for all their qualms,     Approve that promptitude of his,     The Farmers, duly at his post     To take due thanks from every phiz,     Sour smirk, nay, surly smile almost!     Then earthward drops each brow again;     The solemn tasks resumed; they reach     Their holy field, the unholy train:     Enter its precinct, all and each,     Wrapt somehow in their godless rites;     Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo,     They lift their faces! What delights     The mourners as they turn to go?     Ha, ha! he, he! On just the side     They drew their purse-strings to make quit     Of Mary, Christ the Crucified     Fronted them now these biters bit!     Never was such a hiss and snort,     Such screwing nose and shooting lip!     Their purchase, honey in report,     Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!     Out they break, on they bustle, where,     A-top of wall, the Farmer waits     With Buti: never fun so rare!     The Farmer has the best: he rates     The rascal, as the old High Priest     Takes on himself to sermonize,     Nay, sneer, We Jews supposed, at least,     Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!     Theft? cries the Farmer. Eat your words!     Show me what constitutes a breach     Of faith in aught was said or heard!     I promised you in plainest speech     Id take the thing you count disgrace     And put it here, and here tis put!     Did you suppose Id leave the place     Blank therefore, just your rage to glut?     I guess you dared not stipulate     For such a damned impertinence!     So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate     And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!     As long as I have house and land,     To spite you irreligious chaps,     Here shall the Crucifixion stand,     Unless you down with cash, perhaps!     So snickered he and Buti both.     The Jews said nothing, interchanged     A glance or two, renewed their oath     To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged     From grace, for all our Church can do;     Then off they scuttle: sullen jog     Homewards, against our Church to brew     Fresh mischief in their synagogue.     But next day, see what happened, boy!     See why I bid you have a care     How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ     Such methods of revenge, forbear     No outrage on our faith, when free     To wreak their malice! Here they took     So base a method, plague o me     If I record it in my Book!     For, next day while the Farmer sat     Laughing with Buti, in his shop,     At their successful joke, rat-tat,     Door opens, and theyre like to drop     Down to the floor as in there stalks     A six-feet-high herculean-built     Young he-Jew with a beard that balks     Description. Help ere blood be spilt!     Screamed Buti: for he recognized     Whom but the son, no less no more,     Of that High Priest his work surprised     So pleasantly the day before!     Son of the mother, then, whereof     The bier he lent a shoulder to,     And made the moans about, dared scoff     At sober Christian grief, the Jew!     Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!     No apprehension! (Buti, white     And trembling like a tub of size,     Had tried to smuggle out of sight     The pictures self, the thing in oils,     You know, from which a frescos dash     Which courage speeds while caution spoils)     Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!     Praised, ay, and paid too: for I come     To buy that very work of yours.     My poor abode, which boasts well, some     Few specimens of Art, secures,     Haply, a masterpiece indeed     If I should find my humble means     Suffice the outlay. So, proceed!     Propose, ere prudence intervenes!     On Buti, cowering like a child,     These words descended from aloft,     In tone so ominously mild,     With smile terrifically soft     To that degree, could Buti dare     (Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?     He asked, thus taken unaware,     No more than just the proper price!     Done! cries the monster. I disburse     Forthwith your moderate demand.     Count on my custom, if no worse     Your future work be, understand,     Than this I carry off! No aid!     My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:     The burdens easy, and were made,     Easy or hard, to bear, we Jews!     Crossing himself at such escape,     Buti by turns the money eyes     And, timidly, the stalwart shape     Now moving doorwards; but, more wise,     The Farmer, who, though dumb, this while     Had watched advantage, straight conceived     A reason for that tone and smile     So mild and soft! The Jew, believed!     Mary in triumph borne to deck     A Hebrew household! Pictured where     No one was used to bend the neck     In praise or bow the knee in prayer!     Borne to that domicile by whom?     The son of the High Priest! Through what?     An insult done his mothers tomb!     Saul changed to Paul, the case came pat!     Stay, dog-Jew . . . gentle sir, that is!     Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,     Mary, by miracle, oh bliss!     My prevent to your burial-ground?     Certain, a ray of light has burst     Your vale of darkness! Had you else,     Only for Marys sake, an pursed     So much hard money? Tell oh, tells!     Round, like a serpent that we took     For worm and trod on-turns his bulk     About the Jew. First dreadful look     Sends Buti in a trice to skulk     Out of sight somewhere, safe, alack!     But our good Farmer faith made bold:     And firm (with Florence at his back)     He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled,     Ay, sir, a miracle was worked,     By quite another power, I trow,     Than ever yet in canvas lurked,     Or you would scarcely face me now!     A certain impulse did suggest     A certain grasp with this right-hand,     Which probably had put to rest     Our quarrel, thus your throat once spanned!     But I remembered me, subdued     That impulse, and you face me still!     And soon a philosophic mood     Succeeding (hear it, if you will!)     Has altogether changed my views     Concerning Art! Blind prejudice!     Well may you Christians tax us Jews     With scrupulosity too nice!     For, dont I see, lets issue join!     Whenever Im allowed pollute     (I and my little bag of coin)     Some Christian palace of repute,     Dont I see stuck up everywhere     Abundant proof that cultured taste     Has Beauty for its only care,     And upon Truth no thought to waste?     Jew, since it must be, take in pledge     Of payment so a Cardinal     has sighed to me as if a wedge     Entered his heart this best of all     My treasures! Leda, Ganymede     Or Antiope: swan, eagle, ape.     (Or whats the beast of whats the breed,)     And Jupiter in every shape!     Whereat if I presume to ask     But, Eminence, though Titians whisk     Of brush have well performed its task,     How comes it these false godships frisk     In presence of what yonder frame     Pretends to image? Surely, odd     It seems, you let confront The Name     Each beast the heathen called his god!     Benignant smiles me pity straight     The Cardinal. Tis Truth, we prize!     Arts the sole question in debate!     These subjects are so many lies.     We treat them with a proper scorn     When we turn lies called gods forsooth     To lies fit use, now Christ is born.     Drawing and coloring are Truth.     Think you I honor lies so much     As scruple to parade the charms     Of Leda, Titian, every touch,     Because the thing within her arms     Means Jupiter who had the praise     And prayer of a benighted world?     He would have mine too, if, in days     Of light, I kept the canvas furled!     So ending, with some easy gibe.     What power has logic! I, at once,     Acknowledged error in our tribe     So squeamish that, when friends ensconce     A pretty picture in its niche     To do us honor, deck our graves,     We fret and fume and have an itch     To strangle folk, ungrateful knaves!     No, sir! Be sure that, whats its style,     Your picture? shall possess ungrudged     A place among my rank and file     Of Ledas and what not, be judged     Just as a picture! and (because     I fear me much I scarce have bought     A Titian) Master Butis flaws     Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!     So, with a scowl, it darkens door,     This bulk, no longer! But makes     Prompt glad re-entry; theres a score     Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes     From what must needs have been a trance,     Or he had struck (he swears) to ground     The bold bad mouth that dared advance     Such doctrine the reverse of sound!     Was magic here? Most like! For, since,     Somehow our citys faith grows still     More and more lukewarm. and our Prince     Or loses heart or wants the will     To check increase of cold. Tis Live     And let live! Languidly repress     The Dissident! In short, contrive     Christians must bear with Jews: no less!     The end seems, any Israelite     Wants any picture, pishes, poops,     Purchases, hangs it full in sight     In any chamber he may choose!     In Christs crown, one more thorn we rue!     In Marys bosom, one more sword!     No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew!     O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?