Introduction to Robert Browning [105]
in a twilight, you and I alike -- You, at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone, you know) -- but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. [40] There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in every thing. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; [50] So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! This chamber, for example -- turn your head -- All that's behind us! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak: And that cartoon, the second from the door -- It is the thing, Love! so such things should be: Behold Madonna! -- I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know, [60] What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep -- Do easily, too -- when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate's talk last week; And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: I do what many dream of, all their lives, -- Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, [70] And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive -- you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, -- Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter) -- so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, [80] Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men! at a word -- Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself, [90] Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray, Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain; [100] And yet how profitless to know, to sigh "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, Above and through his art -- for it gives way; [110] That arm is wrongly put -- and there again -- A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, He means right -- that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight and the stretch -- Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you. Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think -- [120] More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you -- oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's