 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
165
A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM:
IN WHICH FEDERIGO DI MONTAFELTRO, DUKE OF URBINO, GIVES HIS VIEWS OF RAFFAELLE.
DEDICATED TO H. G. W.
Oh! I admit his talent,—there's no lack
Of facile talent; what in him I blame
Is that he travels in his master's track
With such a slavish, imitative aim.
'T is Perugino all, from head to foot:
Angels the same, with their affected grace,
Playing the lyre with sideway upturned face;
Round-faced, small-eyed Madonnas,—all the same.
Landscapes mere copies; subjects, branch and root,
His master's subjects,—not an arch or shaft
Of all his architecture, but you see
That too is copied. Every little shoot
Upon his genius is his master's graft.
And yet, through all, there 's clear ability.
Why will he never grow his special fruit?
Of facile talent; what in him I blame
Is that he travels in his master's track
With such a slavish, imitative aim.
'T is Perugino all, from head to foot:
Angels the same, with their affected grace,
Playing the lyre with sideway upturned face;
Round-faced, small-eyed Madonnas,—all the same.
Landscapes mere copies; subjects, branch and root,
His master's subjects,—not an arch or shaft
Of all his architecture, but you see
That too is copied. Every little shoot
Upon his genius is his master's graft.
And yet, through all, there 's clear ability.
Why will he never grow his special fruit?
Lately he 's striven to effect a change,
But still an imitator he must go,
From peaceful Perugino's timid range
To the extravagance of Angelo,
Behind them both, of course, in both their ways;
For, as uncompromising Michael says,
“Who follows after, cannot go before.”
But still an imitator he must go,
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To the extravagance of Angelo,
Behind them both, of course, in both their ways;
For, as uncompromising Michael says,
“Who follows after, cannot go before.”
Then why, too, will he try so many things?
Instead of sticking to one single art,
He must be studying music, twanging strings,
And writing sonnets, with their “heart and dart.”
Lately, he 's setting up for architect,
And planning palaces; and, as I learn,
Has made a statue,—every art in turn,—
Like Leonardo (and you recollect,
How with his many arts even he was wrecked);
But if he failed, what can this youth expect?
Instead of sticking to one single art,
He must be studying music, twanging strings,
And writing sonnets, with their “heart and dart.”
Lately, he 's setting up for architect,
And planning palaces; and, as I learn,
Has made a statue,—every art in turn,—
Like Leonardo (and you recollect,
How with his many arts even he was wrecked);
But if he failed, what can this youth expect?
A touch of this same vice his father had:
He laid aside the brush to use the pen;
And though he praised my deeds,—and I, of men,
Should be the last to call the praising bad,
Though overpraised,—yet, be the truth confest,
No man in more than one art can be best.
He laid aside the brush to use the pen;
And though he praised my deeds,—and I, of men,
Should be the last to call the praising bad,
Though overpraised,—yet, be the truth confest,
No man in more than one art can be best.
'T was but the other day I spoke to him,
With earnest hope to make him change his course;
I told him he would dissipate his force
By following the lead of every whim,
And (for I like the youth, and recognize
In all his efforts good abilities)
I urged upon him not to skip and skim
In many arts, but give himself to one,
For life was quite too short for everything,
And doing all things, nothing gets well done.
With earnest hope to make him change his course;
I told him he would dissipate his force
By following the lead of every whim,
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In all his efforts good abilities)
I urged upon him not to skip and skim
In many arts, but give himself to one,
For life was quite too short for everything,
And doing all things, nothing gets well done.
He thanked me for my kindness, disagreed
With my conclusions in a modest way
(He 's modest, that 't is only just to say);
But in a letter that he sends to-day
Here is his answer. Listen, while I read.
With my conclusions in a modest way
(He 's modest, that 't is only just to say);
But in a letter that he sends to-day
Here is his answer. Listen, while I read.
“Most noble sir,”—and so on, and so on,—
“A thousand thanks,”—hem—hem,—“in one so high,”
“Learned in art,”—et cetera,—“I shall try”—
Oh! that 's about his picture,—“critic's eye;”
“Patron,”—pho, pho—where has the passage gone?
Ah! here we come to it at last: “You thought,”
He says, “that in too many arts I wrought;
And you advised me to stick close to one.
Thanks for your gracious counsel, all too kind;
And answering, if I chance to speak my mind
Too boldly, pardon. Yet it seems to me
All arts are one,—all branches on one tree;
All fingers, as it were, upon one hand.
You ask me to be thumb alone; but pray,
Reft of the answering fingers Nature planned,
Is not the hand deformed for work or play?
Or rather take, to illustrate my thought,
Music, the only art to science wrought,
The ideal art, that underlies the whole,
Interprets all, and is of all the soul.
Each art is, so to speak, a separate tone;
The perfect chord results from all in one.
Strike one, and as its last vibrations die,
Listen,—from all the other tones a cry
Wails forth, half-longing and half-prophecy.
So does the complement, the hint, the germ
Of every art within the others lie,
And in their inner essence all unite;
For what is melody but fluid form,
Or form, but fixed and stationed melody?
Colours are but the silent chords of light,
Touched by the painter into tone and key,
And harmonized in every changeful hue.
So colours live in sound,—the trumpet blows
Its scarlet, and the flute its tender blue;
The perfect statue, in its pale repose,
Has for the soul a melody divine,
That lingers dreaming round each subtle line,
And stills the gazer lest its charm he lose.
So rhythmic words, strung by the poet, own
Music and form and colour—every sense
Rhymes with the rest;—'t is in the means alone
The various arts receive their difference.”
“A thousand thanks,”—hem—hem,—“in one so high,”
“Learned in art,”—et cetera,—“I shall try”—
Oh! that 's about his picture,—“critic's eye;”
“Patron,”—pho, pho—where has the passage gone?
Ah! here we come to it at last: “You thought,”
He says, “that in too many arts I wrought;
And you advised me to stick close to one.
Thanks for your gracious counsel, all too kind;
And answering, if I chance to speak my mind
Too boldly, pardon. Yet it seems to me
All arts are one,—all branches on one tree;
All fingers, as it were, upon one hand.
You ask me to be thumb alone; but pray,
Reft of the answering fingers Nature planned,
Is not the hand deformed for work or play?
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Music, the only art to science wrought,
The ideal art, that underlies the whole,
Interprets all, and is of all the soul.
Each art is, so to speak, a separate tone;
The perfect chord results from all in one.
Strike one, and as its last vibrations die,
Listen,—from all the other tones a cry
Wails forth, half-longing and half-prophecy.
So does the complement, the hint, the germ
Of every art within the others lie,
And in their inner essence all unite;
For what is melody but fluid form,
Or form, but fixed and stationed melody?
Colours are but the silent chords of light,
Touched by the painter into tone and key,
And harmonized in every changeful hue.
So colours live in sound,—the trumpet blows
Its scarlet, and the flute its tender blue;
The perfect statue, in its pale repose,
Has for the soul a melody divine,
That lingers dreaming round each subtle line,
And stills the gazer lest its charm he lose.
So rhythmic words, strung by the poet, own
Music and form and colour—every sense
Rhymes with the rest;—'t is in the means alone
The various arts receive their difference.”
Vague, idle talk! such stuff as this I call;
Pretty for girls—quite metaphysical,
Almost poetic, if you will; but then,
For you and me, or any reasoning men,
All visionary, vague, impractical.
Such silly jargon lacks all common-sense;
How can he dream it helps him paint, to know
The way to tinkle on ten instruments?
Or does he fancy writing rhymes assists
In laying colours? Bah! he 's in the mists.
Pretty for girls—quite metaphysical,
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For you and me, or any reasoning men,
All visionary, vague, impractical.
Such silly jargon lacks all common-sense;
How can he dream it helps him paint, to know
The way to tinkle on ten instruments?
Or does he fancy writing rhymes assists
In laying colours? Bah! he 's in the mists.
But let 's go on. Here 's something, I admit,
That shows a less deficiency of wit.
That shows a less deficiency of wit.
“Life is too short perfection to attain.
We all are maimed; and do the best we can,
Each trade deforms us with the overstrain
Of some too favoured faculty or sense,
O'er-fostered at the others' vast expense.
Yet why should one Art be the others' bane?
The perfect artist should be perfect man.
Oh! let at least our theory be grand,
To make a whole man, not to train a hand;
Rearing our temple, let it be our pride
Nought to neglect, but build with patient care
A perfect temple, finished everywhere,
And not a mere façade with one good side.”
We all are maimed; and do the best we can,
Each trade deforms us with the overstrain
Of some too favoured faculty or sense,
O'er-fostered at the others' vast expense.
Yet why should one Art be the others' bane?
The perfect artist should be perfect man.
Oh! let at least our theory be grand,
To make a whole man, not to train a hand;
Rearing our temple, let it be our pride
Nought to neglect, but build with patient care
A perfect temple, finished everywhere,
And not a mere façade with one good side.”
Of course, of course, if we were gods; but then,
Life is so short, and we are only men.
These youths, these youths—there 's really something great
In their ambitions. Let our friend but wait,
And Time will snuff his dreams out, one by one.
I had such dreams once. How they all have gone!
Life is so short, and we are only men.
These youths, these youths—there 's really something great
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And Time will snuff his dreams out, one by one.
I had such dreams once. How they all have gone!
“If I the model of a man should seek,
Where should I find him? Though the black-smith's arm
Is muscled well, his lower limbs are weak,
His shoulders curved. The student shall I take?
His o'erworked brain has cost his body harm.
No; he alone will serve who equal strain
Has given each, the body and the brain;
One who, like you, most gracious Duke, has known
The whole man into consonance to train.
Grace from consent of every force is shown,
Not where one's loss has been another's gain.”
Where should I find him? Though the black-smith's arm
Is muscled well, his lower limbs are weak,
His shoulders curved. The student shall I take?
His o'erworked brain has cost his body harm.
No; he alone will serve who equal strain
Has given each, the body and the brain;
One who, like you, most gracious Duke, has known
The whole man into consonance to train.
Grace from consent of every force is shown,
Not where one's loss has been another's gain.”
Well put, my Raffaelle; it will never do
To such an argument to say, “Not true.”
To such an argument to say, “Not true.”
“Besides, the varied tasking of the mind
Not only makes us sane, but keeps us strong.
The noblest faculty when strained too long
Turns to convention,—wearied, seeks to find
In repetition solace and repose.
'T is only the fresh arm that strikes great blows.
Fallow and change we need, not constant toil,
Not always the same crop on the same soil.
To stretch our powers demands an earnest strain.
And rest, to strengthen what by work we gain.
Sleeping, the body grows in thews and brain.”
Not only makes us sane, but keeps us strong.
The noblest faculty when strained too long
Turns to convention,—wearied, seeks to find
In repetition solace and repose.
'T is only the fresh arm that strikes great blows.
Fallow and change we need, not constant toil,
Not always the same crop on the same soil.
171
And rest, to strengthen what by work we gain.
Sleeping, the body grows in thews and brain.”
That 's true, at least—the body must have sleep!
I'm glad to find one statement here at last
With which I can most cordially agree.
Shall I read more, or is your patience past?
Oh!—as to his originality,
Here are a few words taken from a heap.
One moment first,—here 's something not to skip.
I'm glad to find one statement here at last
With which I can most cordially agree.
Shall I read more, or is your patience past?
Oh!—as to his originality,
Here are a few words taken from a heap.
One moment first,—here 's something not to skip.
“But please remember, of the famous names,
Who is there hath confined him to one art,—
Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No,—
Or our great living master, Angelo,—
These are whole men, whose rounded knowledge shames
Our narrow study of a single part;
Not merely painters, dwarfed in all their aims,
But men who painted, builded, carved, and wrote:
Whole diapasons—not a separate note.”
Who is there hath confined him to one art,—
Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No,—
Or our great living master, Angelo,—
These are whole men, whose rounded knowledge shames
Our narrow study of a single part;
Not merely painters, dwarfed in all their aims,
But men who painted, builded, carved, and wrote:
Whole diapasons—not a separate note.”
Now for that other passage,—let us see
His thoughts about originality.
His thoughts about originality.
“In one sense no man is original,—
Borrowers and beggars are we, one and all.
Art, Science, Thought, grow up from age to age,
And all are palimpsests upon Time's page.
Our loftiest pedestals are tombs;—the seed
Sown by the dead and living in us grow;
And what we are is tinged by what we know.
As from the air our sustenance we draw,
So from all thought our private thought we feed,
Germs strewn from other minds within us breed,
And no one is his own unaided law.
Nor from the age alone we take our hue,
But by the narrower mould of accident
A form and colour to our life is lent;
As under blue sky grows the water blue,
Or clouds unto the mountain's shape are bent.
Borrowers and beggars are we, one and all.
Art, Science, Thought, grow up from age to age,
And all are palimpsests upon Time's page.
Our loftiest pedestals are tombs;—the seed
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And what we are is tinged by what we know.
As from the air our sustenance we draw,
So from all thought our private thought we feed,
Germs strewn from other minds within us breed,
And no one is his own unaided law.
Nor from the age alone we take our hue,
But by the narrower mould of accident
A form and colour to our life is lent;
As under blue sky grows the water blue,
Or clouds unto the mountain's shape are bent.
“Yet each man, following his sympathies,
Unto himself assimilating all,
Using men's thoughts and forms as steps to rise,
Who speaks at last his individual word,
The free result of all things seen and heard,
Is in the noblest sense original.
Each to himself must be his final rule,
Supreme dictator, to reject or use,
Employing what he takes but as his tool.
But he who, self-sufficient, dares refuse
All aid of men, must be a god or fool.
Unto himself assimilating all,
Using men's thoughts and forms as steps to rise,
Who speaks at last his individual word,
The free result of all things seen and heard,
Is in the noblest sense original.
Each to himself must be his final rule,
Supreme dictator, to reject or use,
Employing what he takes but as his tool.
But he who, self-sufficient, dares refuse
All aid of men, must be a god or fool.
“I took Lippino's figure for St. Paul:
What then? I made it, in the taking, mine,
And gave it new life in a new design.
I worked in Perugino's style, but all
My own my pictures were in every line.
By sympathy of feeling and of thought,
Not coldly copying, in his forms I wrought.
The theme of the Entombment, I admit,
Was from an old sarcophagus of stone;
But to another purpose using it,
Its new expression made it all my own.
From all great men and minds I freely learn,
Orcagna, Giotto, Michael, each in turn,
Thank them for help, and taking what I find,
Stamp on their forms the pressure of my mind.
Well! who that ever lived did not the same?
Name me of all the great names but one name—
Old Homer? Phidias? Virgil?—and more low
In time, not power, Da Vinci? Angelo?
'T is the small nature dares not to receive,
Having no wealth within from which to give.
The greatest minds the greatest debts may owe,
And by their taking make a thing to live.
What then? I made it, in the taking, mine,
And gave it new life in a new design.
I worked in Perugino's style, but all
My own my pictures were in every line.
By sympathy of feeling and of thought,
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The theme of the Entombment, I admit,
Was from an old sarcophagus of stone;
But to another purpose using it,
Its new expression made it all my own.
From all great men and minds I freely learn,
Orcagna, Giotto, Michael, each in turn,
Thank them for help, and taking what I find,
Stamp on their forms the pressure of my mind.
Well! who that ever lived did not the same?
Name me of all the great names but one name—
Old Homer? Phidias? Virgil?—and more low
In time, not power, Da Vinci? Angelo?
'T is the small nature dares not to receive,
Having no wealth within from which to give.
The greatest minds the greatest debts may owe,
And by their taking make a thing to live.
“Did our Da Vinci scorn, with studious zeal,
Masaccio's nature, Lippi's strength to steal?
Is Giotto's campanile, soaring there
Like music up into our Florence air,
Unfathered by an ancestry of towers?
Or is the round of great St. Peter's dome,
That Michael now is swinging over Rome,
Without a debt to this grand dome of ours?
And Brunelleschi, did he never see
The globed Pantheon's massive dignity?
These men are copyists, then! But, after all,
If these are not, who is original?
“Look round upon our Florence—each to each
See! how her earnest minds and hearts unite,
And buttressed thus in strength attain a height
Which none could ever hope alone to reach!
Or, like a serried phalanx all inspired
By one great hope, and moving to one end,
How strength and daring each to each they lend,
As on they press, undaunted and untired!
Each fighting for the truth, and one for all,
With no mean pride to be original.”
Masaccio's nature, Lippi's strength to steal?
Is Giotto's campanile, soaring there
Like music up into our Florence air,
Unfathered by an ancestry of towers?
Or is the round of great St. Peter's dome,
That Michael now is swinging over Rome,
Without a debt to this grand dome of ours?
And Brunelleschi, did he never see
The globed Pantheon's massive dignity?
These men are copyists, then! But, after all,
If these are not, who is original?
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See! how her earnest minds and hearts unite,
And buttressed thus in strength attain a height
Which none could ever hope alone to reach!
Or, like a serried phalanx all inspired
By one great hope, and moving to one end,
How strength and daring each to each they lend,
As on they press, undaunted and untired!
Each fighting for the truth, and one for all,
With no mean pride to be original.”
Well! here the true and false are mixed with skill;
But let him talk and reason as he will,
I'm of the same opinion as before;—
A man must strive to be original,
And give himself to one art, not to all.
Besides, the names and facts he numbers o'er
Prove but the rule, being exceptions still.
But, after all, the subject is a bore;
And, Signor Sanzio, you and all your talk
(Which, I'll confess, is not entirely ill)
Have our permission to withdraw.
But let him talk and reason as he will,
I'm of the same opinion as before;—
A man must strive to be original,
And give himself to one art, not to all.
Besides, the names and facts he numbers o'er
Prove but the rule, being exceptions still.
But, after all, the subject is a bore;
And, Signor Sanzio, you and all your talk
(Which, I'll confess, is not entirely ill)
Have our permission to withdraw.
Pray walk
Upon the balcony. Is any sight
More fair than Florence in this hazy light,
Sleeping all silent in the afternoon,
Like the enchanted beauty, full of rest,
Her bride-like veil spread careless on her breast?
Our June this year has been a peerless June.
Upon the balcony. Is any sight
More fair than Florence in this hazy light,
Sleeping all silent in the afternoon,
Like the enchanted beauty, full of rest,
Her bride-like veil spread careless on her breast?
Our June this year has been a peerless June.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |