 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
152
PADRE BANDELLI PROSES TO THE DUKE LUDOVICO SFORZA ABOUT LEONARDO DA VINCI.
Two steps, your Highness—let me go before,
And let some light down this dark corridor;
Ser Leonardo keeps the only key
To the main entrance here so jealously,
That we must creep in at this secret door
If we his great Cenacolo would see.
And let some light down this dark corridor;
Ser Leonardo keeps the only key
To the main entrance here so jealously,
That we must creep in at this secret door
If we his great Cenacolo would see.
The work shows talent—that I must confess;
The heads, too, are expressive, every one;
But, with his idling and fastidiousness,
I fear his picture never will be done.
I pray your Highness' pardon for my zeal—
Were it for sake of us poor Frati here,
Despite the inconvenience we must feel,
Kept out from our refectory now a year
And eight long months (though that, of course, for us
Whose lives to mortify the flesh are vowed,
Even to mention seems ridiculous)—
Were it for us alone, we all had bowed;
But when we see your Highness set at nought,
Who ordered this great picture to be wrought,
We cannot rest content, for well we know
What duty to our gracious prince we owe.
And I, the unworthy prior here—(God knows
How much I feel my own unworthiness,
But He hath power the meanest hand to bless;
And if our convent prospereth in aught,
Not mine, but His, the praise, who all bestows)—
But being the prior and the head, and so
Charged to your interests, and theirs, I thought
My duty—an unpleasant one, in sooth—
Was simply to acquaint you with the truth,
And pray your Highness with your eyes to see
How things go on in our refectory;
And then your Highness only has to say
Unto this painter—“Sir, no more delay!”
And all is done, for you he must obey.
The heads, too, are expressive, every one;
But, with his idling and fastidiousness,
I fear his picture never will be done.
I pray your Highness' pardon for my zeal—
Were it for sake of us poor Frati here,
Despite the inconvenience we must feel,
Kept out from our refectory now a year
And eight long months (though that, of course, for us
Whose lives to mortify the flesh are vowed,
Even to mention seems ridiculous)—
Were it for us alone, we all had bowed;
But when we see your Highness set at nought,
Who ordered this great picture to be wrought,
We cannot rest content, for well we know
153
And I, the unworthy prior here—(God knows
How much I feel my own unworthiness,
But He hath power the meanest hand to bless;
And if our convent prospereth in aught,
Not mine, but His, the praise, who all bestows)—
But being the prior and the head, and so
Charged to your interests, and theirs, I thought
My duty—an unpleasant one, in sooth—
Was simply to acquaint you with the truth,
And pray your Highness with your eyes to see
How things go on in our refectory;
And then your Highness only has to say
Unto this painter—“Sir, no more delay!”
And all is done, for you he must obey.
'T is twenty months since first upon the wall
This Leonardo smoothed his plaster; then
He spent two months ere he began to scrawl
His figures, which were scarcely outlined, when,
Seized by some mad whim, he erased them all.
As he began the first month that he came,
So he went on, month after month the same.
At times, when he had worked from morn to night
For weeks and weeks on some apostle's head,
In one hour, as it were from sudden spite,
He 'd wipe it out. When I remonstrated,
Saying, “Ser Leonardo, you erase
More than you leave—that 's not the way to paint;
Before you finish we shall all be dead;”
Smiling, he turns (he has a pleasant face,
Though he would try the patience of a saint
With all his wilful ways), and calmly said,
“I wiped it out because it was not right;
I wish it had been, for your sake, no less
Than for this pious convent's; and indeed,
The simple truth, good Padre, to confess,
I 've not the least objection to succeed:
But I must please myself as well as you,
Since I must answer for the work I do.”
This Leonardo smoothed his plaster; then
He spent two months ere he began to scrawl
His figures, which were scarcely outlined, when,
Seized by some mad whim, he erased them all.
As he began the first month that he came,
So he went on, month after month the same.
At times, when he had worked from morn to night
For weeks and weeks on some apostle's head,
In one hour, as it were from sudden spite,
He 'd wipe it out. When I remonstrated,
Saying, “Ser Leonardo, you erase
More than you leave—that 's not the way to paint;
154
Smiling, he turns (he has a pleasant face,
Though he would try the patience of a saint
With all his wilful ways), and calmly said,
“I wiped it out because it was not right;
I wish it had been, for your sake, no less
Than for this pious convent's; and indeed,
The simple truth, good Padre, to confess,
I 've not the least objection to succeed:
But I must please myself as well as you,
Since I must answer for the work I do.”
There was St. John's head: that I verily thought
He 'd never finish. Twenty times at least
I thought it done, but still he wrought and wrought,
Defaced, remade, until at last he ceased
To work at all—went off and locked the door—
Was gone three days—then came and sat before
The picture full an hour—then calmly rose
And scratched out in a trice mouth, eyes, and nose.
This is sheer folly, as it seems to me,
Or worse than folly. Does your Highness pay
A fixed sum to him—so much every day?
If so, the reason 's very clear to see.
No? Then his brain is touched assuredly.
He 'd never finish. Twenty times at least
I thought it done, but still he wrought and wrought,
Defaced, remade, until at last he ceased
To work at all—went off and locked the door—
Was gone three days—then came and sat before
The picture full an hour—then calmly rose
And scratched out in a trice mouth, eyes, and nose.
This is sheer folly, as it seems to me,
Or worse than folly. Does your Highness pay
A fixed sum to him—so much every day?
If so, the reason 's very clear to see.
No? Then his brain is touched assuredly.
At last, however, as you see, 't is done—
All but our Lord's head, and the Judas there.
A month ago he finished the St. John,
And has not touched it since, that I'm aware;
And now, he neither seems to think or care
About the rest, but wanders up and down
The cloistered gallery in his long dark gown,
Picking the black stones out to step upon;
Or through the garden paces listlessly
With eyes fixed on the ground, hour after hour,
While now and then he stoops and picks a flower,
And smells it, as it were, abstractedly.
What he is doing is a plague to me!
Sometimes he stands before yon orange-pot,
His hands behind him, just as if he saw
Some curious thing upon its leaves; and then,
With a quick glance, as if a sudden thought
Had struck his mind, there, standing on the spot,
He takes a little tablet out to draw,
Then, muttering to himself, walks on again.
He is the very oddest man of men!
Brother Anselmo tells me that the book
('T was left by chance upon the bench one day,
And in its leaves our brother got a look)
Is scribbled over with all sorts of things,—
Notes about colours, how to mix and lay,
With plans of flying figures, frames for wings,
Caricatures and forts and scaffoldings.
The skeletons of men and beasts and birds,
Engines, and cabalistic signs and words,
Some written backwards, notes of music, lyres,
And wheels with boilers under them and fires,
A sort of lute made of a horse's skull,
Sonnets, and other idle scraps of rhyme,—
Of things like this the book was scribbled full.
I pray your Highness, now, is this the way,
Instead of painting every day all day,
For him to trifle with our precious time?
All but our Lord's head, and the Judas there.
155
And has not touched it since, that I'm aware;
And now, he neither seems to think or care
About the rest, but wanders up and down
The cloistered gallery in his long dark gown,
Picking the black stones out to step upon;
Or through the garden paces listlessly
With eyes fixed on the ground, hour after hour,
While now and then he stoops and picks a flower,
And smells it, as it were, abstractedly.
What he is doing is a plague to me!
Sometimes he stands before yon orange-pot,
His hands behind him, just as if he saw
Some curious thing upon its leaves; and then,
With a quick glance, as if a sudden thought
Had struck his mind, there, standing on the spot,
He takes a little tablet out to draw,
Then, muttering to himself, walks on again.
He is the very oddest man of men!
Brother Anselmo tells me that the book
('T was left by chance upon the bench one day,
And in its leaves our brother got a look)
Is scribbled over with all sorts of things,—
Notes about colours, how to mix and lay,
With plans of flying figures, frames for wings,
Caricatures and forts and scaffoldings.
The skeletons of men and beasts and birds,
Engines, and cabalistic signs and words,
Some written backwards, notes of music, lyres,
And wheels with boilers under them and fires,
156
Sonnets, and other idle scraps of rhyme,—
Of things like this the book was scribbled full.
I pray your Highness, now, is this the way,
Instead of painting every day all day,
For him to trifle with our precious time?
Ah! there he is now—Would your Highness look
Behind that pillar in the furthest nook,
That is his velvet cap and flowing robe.
See how he pulls his beard, as up and down
He seems to count the stones he treads upon!
'T would irk the patience of the good man Job
To see him idling thus his time away,
As if our Lord and Judas both were done,
And there was nought to do but muse and stray
Along the cloisters. May I dare to pray
Your Highness would vouchsafe one word to say;
For when I speak he only answers me,
“Padre Bandelli, go and say your mass—
That 's what you understand—and let me pass;
I am not idle, though I seem to be.”
“Not idle! then I'm nothing but an ass.”
Thus once I spoke, for he annoyed me so;
At which he answered, smiling, “Oh no, no:
Padre, you 're very wise, as all men know.”
I mention this to show what pleasant ways
This painter has, and not that I the praise
Accepted as at all deserved by me.
God save us from vain pride, and help us through
Our daily work in due humility!
Not mine the praise for what I have, for He
Hath given all! So I began anew:
“Not idle! Well, I know not what you do!
You do not paint our picture, that I see.”
To which he said, “A picture is not wrought
By hands alone, good Padre, but by thought.
In the interior life it first must start,
And grow to form and colour in the soul;
There once conceived and rounded to a whole,
The rest is but the handicraft of art.
While I seem idle, then my soul creates;
While I am painting, then my hand translates.”
Now this, I say, is nonsense, sheer enough,
Or else a metaphysical excuse
For idleness, and he should not abuse
Your Highness by this sort of canting stuff.
Look at him, sauntering there in his long dress—
If he is working, what is idleness?
Behind that pillar in the furthest nook,
That is his velvet cap and flowing robe.
See how he pulls his beard, as up and down
He seems to count the stones he treads upon!
'T would irk the patience of the good man Job
To see him idling thus his time away,
As if our Lord and Judas both were done,
And there was nought to do but muse and stray
Along the cloisters. May I dare to pray
Your Highness would vouchsafe one word to say;
For when I speak he only answers me,
“Padre Bandelli, go and say your mass—
That 's what you understand—and let me pass;
I am not idle, though I seem to be.”
“Not idle! then I'm nothing but an ass.”
Thus once I spoke, for he annoyed me so;
At which he answered, smiling, “Oh no, no:
Padre, you 're very wise, as all men know.”
I mention this to show what pleasant ways
This painter has, and not that I the praise
Accepted as at all deserved by me.
157
Our daily work in due humility!
Not mine the praise for what I have, for He
Hath given all! So I began anew:
“Not idle! Well, I know not what you do!
You do not paint our picture, that I see.”
To which he said, “A picture is not wrought
By hands alone, good Padre, but by thought.
In the interior life it first must start,
And grow to form and colour in the soul;
There once conceived and rounded to a whole,
The rest is but the handicraft of art.
While I seem idle, then my soul creates;
While I am painting, then my hand translates.”
Now this, I say, is nonsense, sheer enough,
Or else a metaphysical excuse
For idleness, and he should not abuse
Your Highness by this sort of canting stuff.
Look at him, sauntering there in his long dress—
If he is working, what is idleness?
Not there, your Highness,—on the other side
Our painter 's walking; he you look at now
Is a poor brother, pious, void of pride,
Who there performs a penitential vow.
He, like Ser Leonardo, does not stroll
Idly, but as he walks recites his prayers,
And reads his breviary; and he wears
A haircloth 'neath his serge to save his soul.
Ah! weak is man, he falls in many snares;
And we with prayer must work, would we control
Those idle thoughts were Satan sows his tares.
Our painter 's walking; he you look at now
Is a poor brother, pious, void of pride,
Who there performs a penitential vow.
He, like Ser Leonardo, does not stroll
Idly, but as he walks recites his prayers,
And reads his breviary; and he wears
A haircloth 'neath his serge to save his soul.
Ah! weak is man, he falls in many snares;
158
Those idle thoughts were Satan sows his tares.
But, as I was observing, there have passed
Some twenty long and weary months since he
First turned us out of our refectory,
And who knows how much longer this may last?
Yet if our painter worked there steadily,
I would say nothing; but the work stands still,
While he goes idling round the cloisters' shade.
Pleasant enough for him—but is he paid
For idle dreaming thoughts, or work and skill?
Some twenty long and weary months since he
First turned us out of our refectory,
And who knows how much longer this may last?
Yet if our painter worked there steadily,
I would say nothing; but the work stands still,
While he goes idling round the cloisters' shade.
Pleasant enough for him—but is he paid
For idle dreaming thoughts, or work and skill?
I crave your pardon; if I speak amiss,
Your Highness will, I hope, allowance make
That I have spoken for your Highness' sake,
And not that us it inconveniences,
Although it is a scandal to us all
To see this picture half-done on the wall.
A word from your most gracious lips, I feel,
Would greatly quicken Ser Leonardo's zeal,
And we should soon see o'er our daily board,
The Judas finished, and our blessed Lord.
Your Highness will, I hope, allowance make
That I have spoken for your Highness' sake,
And not that us it inconveniences,
Although it is a scandal to us all
To see this picture half-done on the wall.
A word from your most gracious lips, I feel,
Would greatly quicken Ser Leonardo's zeal,
And we should soon see o'er our daily board,
The Judas finished, and our blessed Lord.
But he approaches, in his hand the book;
Into its pages should your Highness look,
They would amuse you by their strange devices.
Your gracious presence now he recognizes;
That smile and bow and lifted cap I see
Are for his Prince and Patron, not for me.
Into its pages should your Highness look,
They would amuse you by their strange devices.
Your gracious presence now he recognizes;
That smile and bow and lifted cap I see
Are for his Prince and Patron, not for me.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |