 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
FIG LEAF
(A Definition)
An artist's trick by which the Nude's
Protected from the eyes of prudes,
Which else with their peculiar flame
Might scorch the canvass in its frame,
Or melt the bronze, or burn to lime
The marble, in a minute's time.
For sparks are sometimes seen to dance
Where falls a dame's offended glance,
And little curls of smoke to rise
From fingers veiling virgin eyes.
O prudes I know you,—once you made
Among us here a fool crusade
Against some casts from the antique,
Great, naked, natural and Greek,
Whereto you flocked, a prurient crush,
And diligently tried to blush,
Half strangled in the vain attempt
Till some one (may the wretch be hemped!)
Depressed his lordly length of ear
Your loud lubricity to hear,
Then took his chisel up and dealt
At Art a blow below the belt.
Insulted, crimson with the shame,
Her cheeks aglow, her eyes aflame,
The goddess spread her pinions bright,
Sprang, and the town was left in night!
Protected from the eyes of prudes,
Which else with their peculiar flame
Might scorch the canvass in its frame,
Or melt the bronze, or burn to lime
The marble, in a minute's time.
For sparks are sometimes seen to dance
Where falls a dame's offended glance,
And little curls of smoke to rise
From fingers veiling virgin eyes.
204
Among us here a fool crusade
Against some casts from the antique,
Great, naked, natural and Greek,
Whereto you flocked, a prurient crush,
And diligently tried to blush,
Half strangled in the vain attempt
Till some one (may the wretch be hemped!)
Depressed his lordly length of ear
Your loud lubricity to hear,
Then took his chisel up and dealt
At Art a blow below the belt.
Insulted, crimson with the shame,
Her cheeks aglow, her eyes aflame,
The goddess spread her pinions bright,
Sprang, and the town was left in night!
Since then in vain the painter toils:
His canvass still repels the oils.
In vain with melancholy sighs
His burin the engraver plies;
Lines multiply beneath his hand—
Their meaning none can understand.
With stubborn clay and unsubdued,
The sculptor shapes his fancies crude,
Unable to refine the work,
And makes a god look like a Turk.
To marble grown, or metal, still
The monstrous image makes him ill,
Till, crazed with rage, the damaged lot
He breaks, or sells to Irving Scott.
His canvass still repels the oils.
In vain with melancholy sighs
His burin the engraver plies;
Lines multiply beneath his hand—
Their meaning none can understand.
With stubborn clay and unsubdued,
The sculptor shapes his fancies crude,
Unable to refine the work,
And makes a god look like a Turk.
To marble grown, or metal, still
205
Till, crazed with rage, the damaged lot
He breaks, or sells to Irving Scott.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |