'Old Pictures In Florence' by Robert Browning


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I.

The morn when first it thunders in March,
The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say:
As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch
Of the villa-gate this warm March day,
No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled
In the valley beneath where, white and wide
And washed by the morning water-gold,
Florence lay out on the mountain-side.

II.

River and bridge and street and square
Lay mine, as much at my beck and call,
Through the live translucent bath of air,
As the sights in a magic crystal ball.
And of all I saw and of all I praised,
The most to praise and the best to see
Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised:
But why did it more than startle me?

III.

Giotto, how, with that soul of yours,
Could you play me false who loved you so?
Some slights if a certain heart endures
Yet it feels, I would have your fellows know!
I' faith, I perceive not why I should care
To break a silence that suits them best,
But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear
When I find a Giotto join the rest.

IV.

On the arch where olives overhead
Print the blue sky with twig and leaf,
(That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed)
'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief,
And mark through the winter afternoons,
By a gift God grants me now and then,
In the mild decline of those suns like moons,
Who walked in Florence, besides her men.

V.

They might chirp and chaffer, come and go
For pleasure or profit, her men alive---
My business was hardly with them, I trow,
But with empty cells of the human hive;
---With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch,
The church's apsis, aisle or nave,
Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch,
Its face set full for the sun to shave.

VI.

Wherever a fresco peels and drops,
Wherever an outline weakens and wanes
Till the latest life in the painting stops,
Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains:
One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick,
Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster,
---A lion who dies of an ass's kick,
The wronged great soul of an ancient Master.

VII.

For oh, this world and the wrong it does
They are safe in heaven with their backs to it,
The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and buzz
Round the works of, you of the little wit!
Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope,
Now that they see God face to face,
And have all attained to be poets, I hope?
'Tis their holiday now, in any case.

VIII.

Much they reck of your praise and you!
But the wronged great souls---can they be quit
Of a world where their work is all to do,
Where you style them, you of the little wit,
Old Master This and Early the Other,
Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows:
A younger succeeds to an elder brother,
Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos.

IX.

And here where your praise might yield returns,
And a handsome word or two give help,
Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns
And the puppy pack of poodles yelp.
What, not a word for Stefano there,
Of brow once prominent and starry,
Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair
For his peerless painting? (See Vasari.)

X.

There stands the Master. Study, my friends,
What a man's work comes to! So he plans it,
Performs it, perfects it, makes amends
For the toiling and moiling, and then, _sic transit!_
Happier the thrifty blind-folk labour,
With upturned eye while the hand is busy,
Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbour!
'Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy.

XI.

``If you knew their work you would deal your dole.''
May I take upon me to instruct you?
When Greek Art ran and reached the goal,
Thus much had the world to boast _in fructu_---
The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken,
Which the actual generations garble,
Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken)
And Limbs (Soul informs) made new inmarble.

XII.

So, you saw yourself as you wished you were,
As you might have been, as you cannot be;
Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there:
And grew content in your poor degree
With your little power, by those statues' godhead,
And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway,
And your little grace, by their grace embodied,
And your little date, by their forms that stay.

XIII.

You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am?
Even so, you will not sit like Theseus.
You would prove a model? The Son of Priam
Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use.
You're wroth---can you slay your snake like Apollo?
You're grieved---still Niobe's the grander!
You live---there's the Racers' frieze to follow:
You die---there's the dying Alexander.

XIV.

So, testing your weakness by their strength,
Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty,
Measured by Art in your breadth and length,
You learned---to submit is a mortal's duty.
---When I say ``you'' 'tis the common soul,
The collective, I mean: the race of Man
That receives life in parts to live in a whole,
And grow here according to God's clear plan.

XV.

Growth came when, looking your last on them all,
You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day
And cried with a start---What if we so small
Be greater and grander the while than they?
Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature?
In both, of such lower types are we
Precisely because of our wider nature;
For time, theirs---ours, for eternity.

XVI.

To-day's brief passion limits their range;
It seethes with the morrow for us and more.
They are perfect---how else? they shall never change:
We are faulty---why not? we have time in store.
The Artificer's hand is not arrested
With us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished:
They stand for our copy, and, once invested
With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished.

XVII.

'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven---
The better! What's come to perfection perishes.
Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven:
Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes.
Thyself shalt afford the example, Giotto!
Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish,
Done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) ``O!''
Thy great Campanile is still to finish.

XVIII.

Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter,
But what and where depend on life's minute?
Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter
Our first step out of the gulf or in it?
Shall Man, such step within his endeavour,
Man's face, have no more play and action
Than joy which is crystallized for ever,
Or grief, an eternal petrifaction?

XIX.

On which I conclude, that the early painters,
To cries of ``Greek Art and what more wish you?''---
Replied, ``To become now self-acquainters,
``And paint man man, whatever the issue!
``Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray,
``New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters:
``To bring the invisible full into play!
``Let the visible go to the dogs---what matters?''

XX.

Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory
For daring so much, before they well did it.
The first of the new, in our race's story,
Beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle quiddit.
The worthies began a revolution,
Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge,
Why, honour them now! (ends my allocution)
Nor confer your degree when the folk leave college.

XXI.

There's a fancy some lean to and others hate---
That, when this life is ended, begins
New work for the soul in another state,
Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins:
Where the strong and the weak, this world'scongeries,
Repeat in large what they practised in small,
Through life after life in unlimited series;
Only the scale's to be changed, that's all.

XXII.

Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen
By the means of Evil that Good is best,
And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene,---
When our faith in the same has stood the test---
Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod,
The uses of labour are surely done;
There remaineth a rest for the people of God:
And I have had troubles enough, for one.

XXIII.

But at any rate I have loved the season
Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy;
My sculptor is Nicolo<*1> the Pisan,
My painter---who but Cimabue?
Nor ever was man of them all indeed,
From these to Ghiberti<*2> and Ghirlandaio,<*3>
Could say that he missed my critic-meed.
So, now to my special grievance---heigh ho!

XXIV.

Their ghosts still stand, as I said before,
Watching each fresco flaked and rasped,
Blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o'er:
---No getting again what the church has grasped!
The works on the wall must take their chance;
``Works never conceded to England's thick clime!''
(I hope they prefer their inheritance
Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime.)

XXV.

When they go at length, with such a shaking
Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly
Each master his way through the black streets taking,
Where many a lost work breathes though badly---
Why don't they bethink them of who has merited?
Why not reveal, while their pictures dree
Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted?
Why is it they never remember me?

XXVI.

Not that I expect the great Bigordi,
Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose;
Nor the wronged Lippino;<*4> and not a word I
Say of a scrap of Fr Angelico's:
But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi,<*5>
To grant me a taste of your intonaco,<*6>
Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye?
Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco?

XXVII.

Could not the ghost with the close red cap,
My Pollajolo,<*7> the twice a craftsman,
Save me a sample, give me the hap
Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman?
No Virgin by him the somewhat petty,
Of finical touch and tempera<*8> crumbly---
Could not Alesso Baldovinetti
Contribute so much, I ask him humbly?

XXVIII.

Margheritone of Arezzo,<*9>
With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret
(Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so,
You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?)
Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion,
Where in the foreground kneels the donor?
If such remain, as is my conviction,
The hoarding it does you but little honour.

XXIX.

They pass; for them the panels may thrill,
The tempera grow alive and tinglish;
Their pictures are left to the mercies still
Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the English,
Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize,
Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno
At naked High Art, and in ecstasies
Before some clay-cold vile Carlino!

XXX.

No matter for these! But Giotto, you,
Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it,---
Oh, never! it shall not be counted true---
That a certain precious little tablet
Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover,---
Was buried so long in oblivion's womb
And, left for another than I to discover,
Turns up at last! and to whom?---to whom?

XXXI.

I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito,
(Or was it rather the Ognissanti<*10>?)
Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe!
Nay, I shall have it yet! _Detur amanti!_
My Koh-i-noor-or (if that's a platitude)
Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's eye
So, in anticipative gratitude,
What if I take up my hope and prophesy?

XXXII.

When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard
Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing,
To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard,
We shall begin by way of rejoicing;
None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge),
Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer,
Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge
Over Morello with squib and cracker.

XXXIII.

This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot---
No mere display at the stone of Dante,
But a kind of sober Witanagemot
(Ex: ``Casa Guidi,'' _quod videas ante_)
Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence,
How Art may return that departed with her.
Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's,
And bring us the days of Orgagna<*11> hither!

XXXIV.

How we shall prologize, how we shall perorate,
Utter fit things upon art and history,
Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate,
Make of the want of the age no mystery;
Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras,
Show---monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks
Out of the bear's shape into Chimra's,
While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's.

XXXV.

Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan,
Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an ``_issimo,_'')
To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan,<*12>
And turn the bell-tower's _alt_ to _altissimo_:
And fine as the beak of a young beccaccia<*13>
The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally,
Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia,
Completing Florence, as Florence Italy.

XXXVI.

Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold
Is broken away, and the long-pent fire,
Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled
Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire
While ``God and the People'' plain for its motto,
Thence the new tricolour flaps at the sky?
At least to foresee that glory of Giotto
And Florence together, the first am I!

* 1A sculptor, died 1278.
* 2Died 1455. Designed the bronze gates of the Baptistry at Florence.
* 3A painter, died 1498.
* 4The son of Fr Lippo Lippi. Wronged, because some of his
*pictures have been attributed to others.
* 5Died 1366. One of Giotto's pupils and assistants.
* 6Rough cast.
* 7Painter, sculptor, and goldsmith.
* 8Distemper---mixture of water and egg yolk.
* 9Sculptor and architect, died 1313-
*10All Saints.
*11A Florentine painter, died 1576.
*12Tartar king.
*13A woodcock


Editor 1 Interpretation

Old Pictures In Florence: A Masterpiece of Poetry

Have you ever been to Florence? If you have, you must have been struck by the beauty of its art, architecture, and history. And if you haven't, you can still experience the magic of Florence through Robert Browning's poem "Old Pictures In Florence." This masterpiece of poetry captures the essence of Florence's art and culture, and invites us to reflect on the nature of art, memory, and time.

Let us delve into the rich tapestry of Browning's poem and explore its themes, images, and language.

Background

First, a little background on Robert Browning. He was an English poet who lived from 1812 to 1889, and is considered one of the foremost Victorian poets. He wrote many poems that are now considered classics, such as "My Last Duchess," "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," and "Porphyria's Lover." Browning was also a great admirer of Italian art and culture, and spent many years living in Italy, particularly in Florence.

"Old Pictures In Florence" was first published in 1855, as part of a collection of poems titled "Men and Women." The poem consists of two parts: "The Bishop Orders His Tomb At Saint Praxed's Church" and "Fra Lippo Lippi."

In the first part, the speaker is a bishop who is ordering his tomb to be made in a church. He describes the different elements of the tomb, such as the marble, the gold, and the jewels. He also reflects on his life and his sins, and how he hopes his tomb will be a symbol of his repentance and redemption.

In the second part, the speaker is Fra Lippo Lippi, a Renaissance painter who is being interrogated by the authorities for wandering the streets at night. Fra Lippo defends himself by saying that he needs to observe real life in order to paint it, and that his art is a way of communicating truth and beauty to the people. He also talks about his struggles as an artist, and how he has to navigate the demands of his patrons and the Church.

Themes

One of the main themes of "Old Pictures In Florence" is the relationship between art and reality. Both the bishop and Fra Lippo are engaged in creating art, but they approach it in very different ways. The bishop wants his tomb to be a representation of his ideal self, his perfect image. He sees art as a way of transcending reality, of creating something that is eternal and unchanging. Fra Lippo, on the other hand, wants his art to reflect the messy, chaotic, and unpredictable reality of life. He sees art as a way of engaging with reality, of bringing it to life in a new and meaningful way.

Another theme that runs through the poem is the idea of memory and time. The bishop is obsessed with his legacy, with how he will be remembered after he dies. He sees his tomb as a way of preserving his memory, of ensuring that his name will live on. Fra Lippo, on the other hand, is more interested in the present moment. He sees his art as a way of capturing the fleeting beauty of life, of making something that will be enjoyed by people in the here and now.

Finally, the poem explores the tensions between art and society. Both the bishop and Fra Lippo are part of a larger social structure, one that values art for different reasons. The bishop sees art as a way of glorifying God and the Church, while Fra Lippo sees it as a way of expressing his own individuality and creativity. The poem asks us to consider how art can be both a product of society and an instrument of change, and how artists can navigate the demands of their patrons and their own artistic vision.

Images

One of the most striking aspects of "Old Pictures In Florence" is its use of vivid and evocative imagery. Browning uses language to bring the art and architecture of Florence to life, to make us feel as if we are there in the city, surrounded by its beauty and history.

For example, in the first part of the poem, the bishop describes his tomb in rich detail, using metaphors and similes to help us imagine it:

Here's the intricate inlaid-work,
Here's the gold, do you see, to amuse the Beholder's eye,
You and your friend? O I told you so!
Eh? the whole should content you, what's outside?``

The bishop's tomb is not just a physical object, but a work of art that is meant to dazzle and impress. The use of the word "inlaid-work" suggests the precision and detail of the craftsmanship, while the phrase "to amuse the Beholder's eye" suggests that the tomb is meant to be a spectacle, something that is meant to entertain and impress.

Similarly, in the second part of the poem, Fra Lippo describes the streets of Florence at night, using language that is both sensual and atmospheric:

As if your cherished stare bade me, my heart
Bursting its enclosure: for, a single hour,
While the sun laughed, a minute made me mirth—
The sudden heaven-sent understanding!```

Fra Lippo's description of the night suggests a world that is full of life and energy, a world that is full of possibility and inspiration. The use of the phrase "sudden heaven-sent understanding" suggests that art is not just a product of the artist's skill, but also of something that is beyond their control, something that comes from a higher power.

## Language

Finally, let us consider the language of "Old Pictures In Florence." Browning's use of language is both poetic and conversational, using a mix of formal and informal language to create a sense of intimacy and immediacy.

For example, in the first part of the poem, the bishop switches from using formal language to using a more colloquial style, as if he is addressing the reader directly:

```"You can't conceive
How doings fade out of the odd years' reach,
How, when I was a boy, the thought of the day
Outdid the thought of any eve-of-day```

This sudden shift in tone creates a sense of intimacy and immediacy, as if the bishop is confiding in us, sharing his secrets and his regrets.

Similarly, in the second part of the poem, Fra Lippo uses language that is both poetic and conversational, a mix of formal and informal language that creates a sense of spontaneity and energy:

```"Ay, do you see, that angel?```

Fra Lippo's use of the phrase "Ay, do you see" suggests a casual, conversational tone, as if he is speaking to us as if we were his friends.

## Conclusion

"Old Pictures In Florence" is a masterpiece of poetry, a work that captures the beauty and complexity of Florence's art and culture. Through its themes, images, and language, the poem invites us to reflect on the nature of art, memory, and time, and to consider the tensions between art and society. Browning's use of language is both poetic and conversational, a mix of formal and informal language that creates a sense of intimacy and immediacy. I highly recommend this poem to anyone who loves art, poetry, and the beauty of language.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

Old Pictures In Florence: A Masterpiece of Robert Browning

Robert Browning, one of the most celebrated poets of the Victorian era, is known for his dramatic monologues that explore the complexities of human nature. Among his many works, "Old Pictures In Florence" stands out as a masterpiece that captures the essence of art and its power to evoke emotions and memories.

The poem is set in Florence, Italy, a city renowned for its rich cultural heritage and artistic treasures. Browning takes us on a journey through the city's art galleries, where he encounters a series of old paintings that trigger a flood of memories and emotions. The poem is a reflection on the power of art to transcend time and space and connect us with the past.

The poem begins with the speaker standing in front of an old painting of a woman. The painting is faded and worn, but it still retains its beauty and power. The speaker is struck by the woman's gaze, which seems to follow him wherever he goes. He is reminded of a time long ago when he was in love with a woman who had the same piercing gaze. The painting becomes a portal through which the speaker can revisit his past and relive his memories.

Browning's use of imagery is particularly striking in this poem. He describes the painting in vivid detail, using words like "faded," "dim," and "worn" to convey its age and fragility. At the same time, he also highlights the painting's beauty and power, describing the woman's gaze as "alive and intense." The contrast between the painting's age and the woman's timeless beauty creates a sense of nostalgia and longing that permeates the entire poem.

As the speaker moves through the art gallery, he encounters other paintings that evoke different emotions and memories. He sees a painting of a man with a sword, which reminds him of his own youth and the dreams he once had of being a hero. He sees a painting of a group of people gathered around a table, which reminds him of the joys of friendship and companionship. Each painting becomes a window into a different aspect of the speaker's past, and each evokes a different set of emotions.

One of the most powerful moments in the poem comes when the speaker encounters a painting of a woman who is holding a child. The painting is so lifelike that the speaker feels as though he could reach out and touch the child's hand. He is reminded of his own childhood and the love and warmth he felt from his mother. The painting becomes a symbol of the universal bond between mother and child, and the speaker is moved to tears by its beauty and power.

Browning's use of language in this section of the poem is particularly effective. He describes the painting in such detail that the reader can almost see it in their mind's eye. He uses words like "warmth," "tenderness," and "love" to convey the emotions that the painting evokes. The result is a powerful and moving tribute to the power of art to connect us with our deepest emotions and memories.

As the poem draws to a close, the speaker reflects on the transience of life and the power of art to transcend it. He realizes that the paintings he has seen will outlast him and that they will continue to evoke emotions and memories long after he is gone. He also realizes that the paintings are not just objects of beauty, but also windows into the human soul. They reveal the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, of those who came before us, and they remind us of our own humanity.

In conclusion, "Old Pictures In Florence" is a masterpiece of Victorian poetry that explores the power of art to evoke emotions and memories. Browning's use of imagery, language, and symbolism is masterful, and the poem is a testament to the enduring power of art to connect us with our past and our humanity. Whether we are standing in front of an old painting in Florence or reading a poem in our own home, we can all be moved by the beauty and power of art.

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