FullReads

You understand me: I’m a beast, I know. 270
But see, now–why, I see as certainly
As that the morning-star’s about to shine,
What will hap some day. We’ve a youngster here
Comes to our convent, studies what I do,
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:
His name is Guidi–he’ll not mind the monks–
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk–
He picks my practice up–he’ll paint apace,
I hope so–though I never live so long,
I know what’s sure to follow. You be judge! 280
You speak no Latin more than I, belike;
However, you’re my man, you’ve seen the world
–The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises,–and God made it all!
–For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,
For this fair town’s face, yonder river’s line,
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What’s it all about? 290
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course!–you say.
But why not do as well as say–paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?
God’s works–paint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don’t object, “His works
Are here already; nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her (which you can’t)
There’s no advantage! you must beat her, then.”
For, don’t you mark? we’re made so that we love 300
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, painted–better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,
Your cullion’s hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me but you should, though! How much more,
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior’s pulpit-place, 310
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,
It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world’s no blot for us,
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
“Ay, but you don’t so instigate to prayer!”
Strikes in the Prior: “when your meaning’s plain
It does not say to folk–remember matins,
Or, mind you fast next Friday! “Why, for this
What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 320
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what’s best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a Saint Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style:
” How looks my painting, now the scaffold’s down?”
I ask a brother: “Hugely,” he returns–
“Already not one phiz of your three slaves
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,
But’s scratched and prodded to our heart’s content,
The pious people have so eased their own 330
With coming to say prayers there in a rage:
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year,
For pity and religion grow i’ the crowd–
Your painting serves its purpose! Hang the fools!