But do not let us quarrel any more,

     No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:

     Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.

     You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?

     I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,

     Treat his own subject after his own way,

     Fix his own time, accept too his own price,

     And shut the money into this small hand

     When next it takes mine.  Will it? tenderly?

     Oh, I'll content him—but to-morrow.  Love!                10

     I often am much wearier than you think,

     This evening more than usual, and it seems

     As if—forgive now—should you let me sit

     Here by the window with your hand in mine

     And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,

     Both of one mind, as married people use,

     Quietly, quietly the evening through,

     I might get up to-morrow to my work

     Cheerful and fresh as ever.  Let us try.

     To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!                 20

     Your soft hand is a woman of itself,

     And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.

     Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve

     For each of the five pictures we require:

     It saves a model.  So! keep looking so—

     My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!

     —How could you ever prick those perfect ears,

     Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet—

     My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,

     Which everybody looks on and calls his,                    30

     And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,

     While she looks—no one's: very dear, no less.

     You smile? why, there's my picture ready made,

     There's what we painters call our harmony!

     A common grayness silvers everything—

     All 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 everything.

     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,

     Sightly 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 pipe, and follows to the snare—

     Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!

     Some women do so.  Had the mouth there urged

     "God and the glory! never care for gain.

     The present by the future, what is that?

     Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo!                  130

     Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!"

     I might have done it for you.  So it seems:

     Perhaps not.  All is as God over-rules.

     Beside, incentives come from the soul's self;

     The rest avail not.  Why do I need you?

     What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?

     In this world, who can do a thing, will not;

     And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:

     Yet the will's somewhat—somewhat, too, the power—

     And thus we half-men struggle.  At the end,               140

     God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.

     'T is safer for me, if the award be strict,

     That I am something underrated here,

     Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.

     I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,

     For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.

     The best is when they pass and look aside;

     But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.

     Well may they speak!  That Francis, that first time,

     And that long festal year at Fontainebleau!               150

     I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,

     Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,

     In that humane great monarch's golden look—

     One finger in his beard or twisted curl

     Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,

     One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,

     The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,

     I painting proudly with his breath on me,

     All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,

     Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls          160

     Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts—

     And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,

     This in the background, waiting on my work,

     To crown the issue with a last reward!

     A good time, was it not, my kingly days?

     And had you not grown restless . . . but I know—

     'T is done and past; 't was right, my instinct said,

     Too live the life grew, golden and not gray,

     And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

     Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.        170

     How could it end in any other way?

     You called me, and I came home to your heart.

     The triumph was—to reach and stay there; since

     I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?

     Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold,

     You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!

     "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;

     The Roman's is the better when you pray,

     But still the other's Virgin was his wife—"

     Men will excuse me, I am glad to judge                    180

     Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows

     My better fortune, I resolve to think.

     For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,

     Said one day Agnolo, his very self,

     To Rafael's . . . I have known it all these years . . .

     (When the young man  was flaming out his thoughts

     Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,

     Too lifted up in heart because of it)

     "Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub

     Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how,            190

     Who, were he set to plan and execute

     As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,

     Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!"

     To Rafael's!—And indeed the arm is wrong.

     I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see,

     Give the chalk here—quick, thus the line should go!

     Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out!

     Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,

     (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?

     Do you forget already words like those?)                  200

     If really there was such a chance, so lost—

     Is, whether you're—not grateful—but more pleased.

     Well, let me think so.  And you smile indeed!

     This hour has been an hour!  Another smile?

     If you would sit thus by me every night

     I should work better, do you comprehend?

     I mean that I should earn more, give you more.

     See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;

     Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,

     The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.              210

     Come from the window, love—come in, at last,

     Inside the melancholy little house

     We built to be so gay with.  God is just.

     King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights

     When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,

     The walls become illumined, brick from brick

     Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,

     That gold of his I did cement them with!

     Let us but love each other.  Must you go?

     That Cousin here again? he waits outside?                 220

     Must see you—you, and not with me?  Those loans?

     More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?

     Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?

     While hand and eye and something of a heart

     Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?

     I'll pay my fancy.  Only let me sit

     The gray remainder of the evening out,

     Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly

     How I could paint, were I but back in France,

     One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face,            230

     Not yours this time!  I want you at my side

     To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo—

     Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.

     Will you?  To-morrow, satisfy your friend.

     I take the subjects for his corridor,

     Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there,

     And throw him in another thing or two

     If he demurs; the whole should prove enough

     To pay for this same Cousin's freak.  Beside,

     What's better and what's all I care about,                240

     Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!

     Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,

     The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

       I am grown  peaceful as old age to-night.

     I regret little, I would change still less.

     Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

     The very wrong to Francis!—it is true

     I took his coin, was tempted and complied,

     And built this house and sinned, and all is said.

     My father and my mother died of want.                     250

     Well, had I riches of my own? you see

     How one gets rich!  Let each one bear his lot.

     They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:

     And I have labored somewhat in my time

     And not been paid profusely.  Some good son

     Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try!

     No doubt, there's something strikes a balance.  Yes,

     You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.

     This must suffice me here. What would one have?

     In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance—        260

     Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,

     Meted on each side by the angel's reed,

     For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me

     To cover—the  three first without a wife,

     While I have mine!  So—still they overcome

     Because there's still Lucrezia—as I choose.

     Again the Cousin's whistle!  Go, my Love.

     NOTES

     "Andrea del Sarto." This monologue reveals, beside the personalities

     of both Andrea and Lucretia and the main incidents of their lives,

     the relations existing between Andrea's character, his choice of a

     wife, and the peculiar quality of his art; the whole serving, also,

     to illustrate the picture on which the poem is based. The gray tone

     that silvers the picture pervades the poem with an air of helpless,

     resigned melancholy, and sets forth the fatal quality of facile

     craftsmanship joined with a flaccid spirit.  —Mr. John Kenyon,

     Mrs. Browning's cousin, asked Browning to get him a copy of the

     picture of Andrea and his wife in the Pitti Palace.  Browning, being

     unable to find one, wrote this poem describing it, instead.  Andrea

     (1486-1531), because his father was a tailor, was called del Sarto,

     also, il pittore senza errori, "the faultless painter."

     2.  Lucrezia: di Baccio del Fede, a cap-maker's widow, says Vasari,

     who ensnared Andrea "before her husband's death, and who delighted

     in trapping the hearts of men."

     15.  Fiesole: a hillside city on the Arno, three miles west of

     Florence.

     93.  Morello: the highest of the Apennine mountains north of

     Florence.

     105. The Urbinate: Raphael Santi (1483-1520), so called because born

          at Urbino.

     106. Vasari: painter and writer of the "Lives of the Most Excellent

     Italian Painters," which supplied Browning with material for this

     poem and for "Fra Lippo."

     130. Agnolo: Michel Agnolo Buonarotti, painter, sculptor, and

     1architect (1475-564).

     149. Francis: Francis I of France (1494-1547), who invited Andrea to

     his Court at Fontainebleau, where he was loaded with gifts and

     honors, until, says Vasari, "came to him certain letters from

     Florence written to him by his wife . . . with bitter complaints,"

     when, taking "the money which the king confided to him for the

     purchase of pictures and statues, . . . he set off . . .  having

     sworn on the Gospels to return in a few months.  Arrived in

     Florence, he lived joyously with his wife for some time, making

     presents to her father and sisters, but doing nothing for his own

     parents, who died in poverty and misery.  When the period specified

     by the king had come . . . he found himself at the end not only of

     his own money but . . . of that of the king."

     184. Agnolo . . . to Rafael: Angelo's remark is given thus by

     Bocchi, "Bellezze di Firenze"; "There is a bit of a manikin in

     Florence who, if he chanced to be employed in great undertakings as

     you have happened to be, would compel you to look well about you."

     210.  Cue-owls: the owl's cry gives it its common name in various

     languages and countries; the peculiarity of its cry as to the

     predominant sound of oo or ow naming the species.  This Italian

     [a`]ulo] is probably the [Bubo], of the same family as our cat-owl.

     Buffon gives its note, [he-hoo], [boo-hoo]; hence the Latin name,

     [Bubo].

     241.  Scudi: Italian coins.

     261.  The New Jerusalem: Revelation 21.15-17.

     263.  Leonard: Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), painter, sculptor,

     architect, and engineer, who, together with Rafael and Agnolo,

     incarnates the genius of the Renaissance.  He visited the same Court

     to which Andrea was invited, and was said to have died in the arms

     of Francis I.