IV—THE TORCH IN ITALYLeonardo Da Vinci

The mists rolled back. I saw the City of FlowersFar down, upon the plain; and, on the slopeBeside us—we were shadows and unseen,—Giulio, the painter, sketching rocks and trees.We watched him working, till a pine-cone crackledOn the dark ridge beyond us, and we saw,Descending from the summits like a god,A deep-eyed stranger with a rose-red cloakFluttering against the blue of the distant hills.He stood awhile, above a raw ravine,Studying the furrows that the rains had madeLast winter. Then he searched among the rocksAs though for buried gold.As he drew nearGiulio looked up and spoke, and he replied.Their voices rose upon the mountain airLike a deep river answering a brook,While each pursued his work in his own way.Giulio.What are you seeking? Something you have lost?The Stranger.Something I hope to find.Giulio.You dropped it here?Was it of value? Not your purse, I hope.The Stranger.More precious than my purse.Giulio.Your lady’s ring?A jewel, perhaps?The Stranger.A jewel of a sort;But it may take a thousand years to trace itBack to its rightful owner.Giulio (laughing).O, you are bittenBy the prevailing fashion. Since the ploughUpturned those broken statues, all the worldIs relic-hunting; but, my friend, you’ll findNo Aphrodite here.The Stranger (picking up a fossil).And yet I thinkIt was the sea, from which she rose alive,That shaped these rocks and left these twisted shellsLocked up, like stone in stone. They must have livedOnce, in the sea.Giulio.Ah, now I understand.You’re a philosopher,—one of those who treadThe dusty road to Nowhere, which they callScience.The Stranger.All roads to truth are one to me.Giulio.Sir, you deceive yourself. Your road can leadOnly to error. The Adriatic liesHow many miles away? We stand up hereOn these unchanging hills; and yet, to fitYour theory, you would roll the seas aboveThe peaks of Monte Rosa.The Stranger.But these shells?How did they come here?Giulio.Obviously enough,The sea being where it is, it was the FloodThat left them here.The Stranger.Then Noah must have dropped themOut of his Ark. They never crept so far;And Noah must have dumped his ballast, too,Among our hills; for all those rippled rocksUp yonder were composed of blue sea-clay.I have found sea-weed in them, turned to stone,The claws of crabs, the skeletons of fish.Think you that, if your Adriatic layWhere it now lies, its little sidling crabsCould scuttle through the Deluge to the hills?Your Deluge must have risen above the topsOf all the mountains. If it rose so high,Then it embraced the globe, and made our earthOne smooth blue round of water. When it sankWhat chasm received those monstrous cataracts?Or was the sun so hot it sucked them upAnd turned them into a mist?Is not that taleA racial memory, lingering in our blood,Of realms that now lie buried in the sea,Or isles that heaved up shining from the deepIn old volcanic throes?Giulio.I must confessI always feel a pang, sir, when I seeA man of talent wasting his fine powersOn this blind road.The Stranger.Show me a better way.Giulio.The way of Art, sir.The Stranger.Yes. That is a roadI have wished that I might travel. But are you sureOur paths are not eventually the same?Why have you climbed up here? To paint the truth,As you perceive it, in those rocks and trees.Suppose that, with your skill of hand, you sawThe truth more clearly, saw the lines of growth,The bones and structure of the world you paint,And the great rhythm of law that runs through all,Might you not paint them better even than now?Might you not even approach the final causeOf all our art and science,—the pure truthWhich also is pure beauty?Giulio.Genius leapsLike lightning to that mark, sir, and can waiveThese pains and labours.The Stranger.O, I have no doubtThat you are right. I speak with diffidence,And as a mere spectator; one who likesTo know, and seizes on this happy chanceOf learning what an artist really thinks.Giulio.We artists, sir, are not concerned with laws,Except to break them. Genius is a lawUnto itself.The Stranger.And that is why you’ve madeYour wood-smoke blue against that shining cloud?Against the darker background of the hillIt is blue in nature also; but it turnsTo grey against the sky.Giulio.I am not concernedWith trivial points.The Stranger.But if they point to truthBeyond themselves, and through that change of colourReveal its cause, and knit your scheme in law;Nay, as a single point of light will speakTo seamen of the land that they desire,Transfiguring all the darkness with one spark,Would this be trivial? Sir, a touch will do it.Lend me your brush a moment. Had you drawnYour rocks here in the foreground, thus and thus,Following the ribbed lines of those beds of clayAs the sea laid them, and the fire upheavedAnd cracked them, you’ll forgive me if I sayThat they’d not only indicate the lawOf their creation; but they’d look like rocksInstead of——Giulio.Pray don’t hesitate.The Stranger.I speakAs a spectator only; but to me—Sponges or clouds perhaps——Giulio.We artists, sir,Aim at this very effect. To us, the factIs nothing. There is a kingdom of the mind,Where all things turn to dreams. Nothing is trueIn that great kingdom; and our subtlest workIs that which has no basis.The Stranger.Then I fearMy thoughts are all astray; for I believedThat kingdom to be more substantial farThan anything we see; and that the roadInto that kingdom is the road of lawWhich we discover here,—the Word made Flesh.Giulio.I do not understand you—quite. I fearYours is the popular view—that art requiresPurposes, meanings, even moralitiesWith which we artists, sir, are not concerned.The Stranger.O, no. I merely inquire. I wish to hearFrom one who knows. I am a little puzzled.You have dismissed so much—this outer worldAnd all its laws; and now this other, too.I am no moralist; but I must confessThat, in the greatest Art, I have always foundA certain probity, a certain splendourOf inner and outer constancy to law.Giulio.All genius is capricious. You’ll admitThat men who lived like beasts have painted well.The Stranger.Yes; but not greatly, except when their own soulsHave gripped the beast within them by the throat,And risen again to reassert the law.Giulio.Art lives by its technique, a fact the herdWill never understand. A noble soulIs useless, if it cannot wield a brush.The Stranger.May not technique include control and judgment?Alone, they are not enough; but, for the heights,More is required, not less. I’d even addSome factors you despise.Giulio.Your shells, for instance?And that mysterious and invisible sea?The Stranger.The sea whence Beauty rose.Giulio.You have an eyeFor Beauty, too. You are a lover of artAnd you are rich. What opportunitiesYou throw away! Was it not you I sawYesterday, in the market-place at Florence,Buying caged birds and tossing them into the air?The Stranger.It may have been. I like to see them fly.The structure of the wing,—I think that menWill fly one day.Giulio.It was not pity, then?The Stranger.I’d not exclude it. As I said before,I would include much.Giulio.You were speaking, sir,Of Art. There are so few, so very fewWho understand what Art is.The Stranger.Fewer stillWho know the few to choose.Giulio.Perhaps you’d careTo see some work of mine. I do not liveIn Florence; but I’d like to set your feetOn the right way. We are a little groupKnown to the few that know. You’d find our worksFar better worth your buying than caged birds.Pray let me know your name, sir.The Stranger.Leonardo.

The mists rolled back. I saw the City of Flowers

Far down, upon the plain; and, on the slope

Beside us—we were shadows and unseen,—

Giulio, the painter, sketching rocks and trees.

We watched him working, till a pine-cone crackled

On the dark ridge beyond us, and we saw,

Descending from the summits like a god,

A deep-eyed stranger with a rose-red cloak

Fluttering against the blue of the distant hills.

He stood awhile, above a raw ravine,Studying the furrows that the rains had madeLast winter. Then he searched among the rocksAs though for buried gold.As he drew nearGiulio looked up and spoke, and he replied.Their voices rose upon the mountain airLike a deep river answering a brook,While each pursued his work in his own way.

He stood awhile, above a raw ravine,

Studying the furrows that the rains had made

Last winter. Then he searched among the rocks

As though for buried gold.

As he drew near

Giulio looked up and spoke, and he replied.

Their voices rose upon the mountain air

Like a deep river answering a brook,

While each pursued his work in his own way.

Giulio.

What are you seeking? Something you have lost?

The Stranger.

Something I hope to find.

Giulio.

You dropped it here?Was it of value? Not your purse, I hope.

You dropped it here?

Was it of value? Not your purse, I hope.

The Stranger.

More precious than my purse.

Giulio.

Your lady’s ring?A jewel, perhaps?

Your lady’s ring?

A jewel, perhaps?

The Stranger.

A jewel of a sort;But it may take a thousand years to trace itBack to its rightful owner.

A jewel of a sort;

But it may take a thousand years to trace it

Back to its rightful owner.

Giulio (laughing).

O, you are bittenBy the prevailing fashion. Since the ploughUpturned those broken statues, all the worldIs relic-hunting; but, my friend, you’ll findNo Aphrodite here.

O, you are bitten

By the prevailing fashion. Since the plough

Upturned those broken statues, all the world

Is relic-hunting; but, my friend, you’ll find

No Aphrodite here.

The Stranger (picking up a fossil).

And yet I thinkIt was the sea, from which she rose alive,That shaped these rocks and left these twisted shellsLocked up, like stone in stone. They must have livedOnce, in the sea.

And yet I think

It was the sea, from which she rose alive,

That shaped these rocks and left these twisted shells

Locked up, like stone in stone. They must have lived

Once, in the sea.

Giulio.

Ah, now I understand.You’re a philosopher,—one of those who treadThe dusty road to Nowhere, which they callScience.

Ah, now I understand.

You’re a philosopher,—one of those who tread

The dusty road to Nowhere, which they call

Science.

The Stranger.

All roads to truth are one to me.

Giulio.

Sir, you deceive yourself. Your road can leadOnly to error. The Adriatic liesHow many miles away? We stand up hereOn these unchanging hills; and yet, to fitYour theory, you would roll the seas aboveThe peaks of Monte Rosa.

Sir, you deceive yourself. Your road can lead

Only to error. The Adriatic lies

How many miles away? We stand up here

On these unchanging hills; and yet, to fit

Your theory, you would roll the seas above

The peaks of Monte Rosa.

The Stranger.

But these shells?How did they come here?

But these shells?

How did they come here?

Giulio.

Obviously enough,The sea being where it is, it was the FloodThat left them here.

Obviously enough,

The sea being where it is, it was the Flood

That left them here.

The Stranger.

Then Noah must have dropped themOut of his Ark. They never crept so far;And Noah must have dumped his ballast, too,Among our hills; for all those rippled rocksUp yonder were composed of blue sea-clay.I have found sea-weed in them, turned to stone,The claws of crabs, the skeletons of fish.Think you that, if your Adriatic layWhere it now lies, its little sidling crabsCould scuttle through the Deluge to the hills?Your Deluge must have risen above the topsOf all the mountains. If it rose so high,Then it embraced the globe, and made our earthOne smooth blue round of water. When it sankWhat chasm received those monstrous cataracts?Or was the sun so hot it sucked them upAnd turned them into a mist?Is not that taleA racial memory, lingering in our blood,Of realms that now lie buried in the sea,Or isles that heaved up shining from the deepIn old volcanic throes?

Then Noah must have dropped them

Out of his Ark. They never crept so far;

And Noah must have dumped his ballast, too,

Among our hills; for all those rippled rocks

Up yonder were composed of blue sea-clay.

I have found sea-weed in them, turned to stone,

The claws of crabs, the skeletons of fish.

Think you that, if your Adriatic lay

Where it now lies, its little sidling crabs

Could scuttle through the Deluge to the hills?

Your Deluge must have risen above the tops

Of all the mountains. If it rose so high,

Then it embraced the globe, and made our earth

One smooth blue round of water. When it sank

What chasm received those monstrous cataracts?

Or was the sun so hot it sucked them up

And turned them into a mist?

Is not that tale

A racial memory, lingering in our blood,

Of realms that now lie buried in the sea,

Or isles that heaved up shining from the deep

In old volcanic throes?

Giulio.

I must confessI always feel a pang, sir, when I seeA man of talent wasting his fine powersOn this blind road.

I must confess

I always feel a pang, sir, when I see

A man of talent wasting his fine powers

On this blind road.

The Stranger.

Show me a better way.

Giulio.

The way of Art, sir.

The Stranger.

Yes. That is a roadI have wished that I might travel. But are you sureOur paths are not eventually the same?Why have you climbed up here? To paint the truth,As you perceive it, in those rocks and trees.Suppose that, with your skill of hand, you sawThe truth more clearly, saw the lines of growth,The bones and structure of the world you paint,And the great rhythm of law that runs through all,Might you not paint them better even than now?Might you not even approach the final causeOf all our art and science,—the pure truthWhich also is pure beauty?

Yes. That is a road

I have wished that I might travel. But are you sure

Our paths are not eventually the same?

Why have you climbed up here? To paint the truth,

As you perceive it, in those rocks and trees.

Suppose that, with your skill of hand, you saw

The truth more clearly, saw the lines of growth,

The bones and structure of the world you paint,

And the great rhythm of law that runs through all,

Might you not paint them better even than now?

Might you not even approach the final cause

Of all our art and science,—the pure truth

Which also is pure beauty?

Giulio.

Genius leapsLike lightning to that mark, sir, and can waiveThese pains and labours.

Genius leaps

Like lightning to that mark, sir, and can waive

These pains and labours.

The Stranger.

O, I have no doubtThat you are right. I speak with diffidence,And as a mere spectator; one who likesTo know, and seizes on this happy chanceOf learning what an artist really thinks.

O, I have no doubt

That you are right. I speak with diffidence,

And as a mere spectator; one who likes

To know, and seizes on this happy chance

Of learning what an artist really thinks.

Giulio.

We artists, sir, are not concerned with laws,Except to break them. Genius is a lawUnto itself.

We artists, sir, are not concerned with laws,

Except to break them. Genius is a law

Unto itself.

The Stranger.

And that is why you’ve madeYour wood-smoke blue against that shining cloud?Against the darker background of the hillIt is blue in nature also; but it turnsTo grey against the sky.

And that is why you’ve made

Your wood-smoke blue against that shining cloud?

Against the darker background of the hill

It is blue in nature also; but it turns

To grey against the sky.

Giulio.

I am not concernedWith trivial points.

I am not concerned

With trivial points.

The Stranger.

But if they point to truthBeyond themselves, and through that change of colourReveal its cause, and knit your scheme in law;Nay, as a single point of light will speakTo seamen of the land that they desire,Transfiguring all the darkness with one spark,Would this be trivial? Sir, a touch will do it.Lend me your brush a moment. Had you drawnYour rocks here in the foreground, thus and thus,Following the ribbed lines of those beds of clayAs the sea laid them, and the fire upheavedAnd cracked them, you’ll forgive me if I sayThat they’d not only indicate the lawOf their creation; but they’d look like rocksInstead of——

But if they point to truth

Beyond themselves, and through that change of colour

Reveal its cause, and knit your scheme in law;

Nay, as a single point of light will speak

To seamen of the land that they desire,

Transfiguring all the darkness with one spark,

Would this be trivial? Sir, a touch will do it.

Lend me your brush a moment. Had you drawn

Your rocks here in the foreground, thus and thus,

Following the ribbed lines of those beds of clay

As the sea laid them, and the fire upheaved

And cracked them, you’ll forgive me if I say

That they’d not only indicate the law

Of their creation; but they’d look like rocks

Instead of——

Giulio.

Pray don’t hesitate.

The Stranger.

I speakAs a spectator only; but to me—Sponges or clouds perhaps——

I speak

As a spectator only; but to me—

Sponges or clouds perhaps——

Giulio.

We artists, sir,Aim at this very effect. To us, the factIs nothing. There is a kingdom of the mind,Where all things turn to dreams. Nothing is trueIn that great kingdom; and our subtlest workIs that which has no basis.

We artists, sir,

Aim at this very effect. To us, the fact

Is nothing. There is a kingdom of the mind,

Where all things turn to dreams. Nothing is true

In that great kingdom; and our subtlest work

Is that which has no basis.

The Stranger.

Then I fearMy thoughts are all astray; for I believedThat kingdom to be more substantial farThan anything we see; and that the roadInto that kingdom is the road of lawWhich we discover here,—the Word made Flesh.

Then I fear

My thoughts are all astray; for I believed

That kingdom to be more substantial far

Than anything we see; and that the road

Into that kingdom is the road of law

Which we discover here,—the Word made Flesh.

Giulio.

I do not understand you—quite. I fearYours is the popular view—that art requiresPurposes, meanings, even moralitiesWith which we artists, sir, are not concerned.

I do not understand you—quite. I fear

Yours is the popular view—that art requires

Purposes, meanings, even moralities

With which we artists, sir, are not concerned.

The Stranger.

O, no. I merely inquire. I wish to hearFrom one who knows. I am a little puzzled.You have dismissed so much—this outer worldAnd all its laws; and now this other, too.I am no moralist; but I must confessThat, in the greatest Art, I have always foundA certain probity, a certain splendourOf inner and outer constancy to law.

O, no. I merely inquire. I wish to hear

From one who knows. I am a little puzzled.

You have dismissed so much—this outer world

And all its laws; and now this other, too.

I am no moralist; but I must confess

That, in the greatest Art, I have always found

A certain probity, a certain splendour

Of inner and outer constancy to law.

Giulio.

All genius is capricious. You’ll admitThat men who lived like beasts have painted well.

All genius is capricious. You’ll admit

That men who lived like beasts have painted well.

The Stranger.

Yes; but not greatly, except when their own soulsHave gripped the beast within them by the throat,And risen again to reassert the law.

Yes; but not greatly, except when their own souls

Have gripped the beast within them by the throat,

And risen again to reassert the law.

Giulio.

Art lives by its technique, a fact the herdWill never understand. A noble soulIs useless, if it cannot wield a brush.

Art lives by its technique, a fact the herd

Will never understand. A noble soul

Is useless, if it cannot wield a brush.

The Stranger.

May not technique include control and judgment?Alone, they are not enough; but, for the heights,More is required, not less. I’d even addSome factors you despise.

May not technique include control and judgment?

Alone, they are not enough; but, for the heights,

More is required, not less. I’d even add

Some factors you despise.

Giulio.

Your shells, for instance?And that mysterious and invisible sea?

Your shells, for instance?

And that mysterious and invisible sea?

The Stranger.

The sea whence Beauty rose.

Giulio.

You have an eyeFor Beauty, too. You are a lover of artAnd you are rich. What opportunitiesYou throw away! Was it not you I sawYesterday, in the market-place at Florence,Buying caged birds and tossing them into the air?

You have an eye

For Beauty, too. You are a lover of art

And you are rich. What opportunities

You throw away! Was it not you I saw

Yesterday, in the market-place at Florence,

Buying caged birds and tossing them into the air?

The Stranger.

It may have been. I like to see them fly.The structure of the wing,—I think that menWill fly one day.

It may have been. I like to see them fly.

The structure of the wing,—I think that men

Will fly one day.

Giulio.

It was not pity, then?

The Stranger.

I’d not exclude it. As I said before,I would include much.

I’d not exclude it. As I said before,

I would include much.

Giulio.

You were speaking, sir,Of Art. There are so few, so very fewWho understand what Art is.

You were speaking, sir,

Of Art. There are so few, so very few

Who understand what Art is.

The Stranger.

Fewer stillWho know the few to choose.

Fewer still

Who know the few to choose.

Giulio.

Perhaps you’d careTo see some work of mine. I do not liveIn Florence; but I’d like to set your feetOn the right way. We are a little groupKnown to the few that know. You’d find our worksFar better worth your buying than caged birds.Pray let me know your name, sir.

Perhaps you’d care

To see some work of mine. I do not live

In Florence; but I’d like to set your feet

On the right way. We are a little group

Known to the few that know. You’d find our works

Far better worth your buying than caged birds.

Pray let me know your name, sir.

The Stranger.

Leonardo.

I saw the house at Florence, cool and whiteWith violet shadows, drowsing in the sun.The fountain splashed and bubbled in the court.Beside it, in a space of softened light,Under a linen awning, ten feet high,Roofing a half-enclosure, where three wallsWere tinted to a pine-wood’s blue-black shade,I saw a woman seated on a throne,And Leonardo, with his radiant eyes,Glancing from his wet canvas to her face.Her face was filled with music. Music swelledAbove them, from a gallery out of sight;And as the soft pulsation of the stringsDied into infinite distances, he spoke.His voice was more than music. It was thoughtEbbing and flowing, like a strange dark sea.“Listen to me; for I have things to sayThat I can only tell the world through you.Were you not just a little afraid of meAt first? You know by popular reportI dabble in Black Arts, and so I wouldTo keep you here, an hour or two each day,Until the mystery we have conjured upBetween us—there again, it came and went—Smiles at the centuries in their masqueradeAs you smiled, then, at me.Not mockery—quite—Not irony either; something we evokedThat seems to have caught the ironist off his guard,And slyly observes the mocker’s naked heel.So we’ll defend humanity, you and I,Against the worst of tyrannies,—the blind sneerOf intellectual pride. The subtle foolAnd cunning sham at least shall meet one gazeMore subtle, more secure; not yours or mine,But Nature’s own—that calm, inscrutable smileWhereby each erring atomy is restoredTo its true place, taught its true worth at last,And heaven’s divine simplicity renewed.Not yours or mine, Madonna. Could I trustTo brush and palette or my skill of handFor this? Oh, no! We need Black Arts, I think,Black Arts and incantations, or you’d growWeary of sitting here.Last night I madeFive bubbles of glass—you blow them with a pipeOver a flame,—and set them there to danceUpon the fountain’s feathery crest of spray.Piero thought it waste of time. He jeersAt these mechanical arts of mine. I watchedThat dance and learned a little of the machineWe call the world. I left them leaping thereTo catch your eyes this morning, and learned more.So one thing leads to another. A device,Mechanical as the spinning of the starsIn the Arch-Mechanic’s Cosmos, woke a gleamOf wonder; and I lay these Black Arts bareTo make you wonder more.Black Arts, Madonna;For even such trifles may discover depthsDark as the pit of death; as when I laidDice on a drum, and by their trembling showedWhere underneath our armoured city wallsThe enemy dug his mines.And now—you smile,To think how wars are won.Catgut and woodHave served our wizardry. Yes; that’s why I setMusicians in the gallery overhead,To pluck their strings; and, while you listened, soPainted the living spirit that they boundWith their bright spells before me, in your face.Black Arts, Madonna, and cold-blooded, too.O, sheer mechanical, playing upon your mindAnd senses, as they too were instruments,Or colours to be ground and mixed and usedFor purposes that were not yours at all,Until the living Power that uses meBreathes on this fabric, also made by hands,The inscrutable face that smiles all arts away.How many tales I have told you sitting hereTo make you see, according to my need,The comedy of the world, its lights and shades:The sensual feast; the mockery of renown;Youth and his innocent boastings, unawareHow swiftly run the sands; Youth that believesHis own bright scorn for others’ aching faultsHas crowned him conqueror; Youth so nobly sureThat plans are all achievements; quite, quite sureOf his own victory where all others failed;Age, with blind eyes, or staring at defeat,Dishonoured; Age, in honour, with a wreathOf fading leaves in one old trembling hand,And at his feet the dark all-gulfing grave;Envy, the lean and wizened witch behind him,Riding on death, like his own crooked shadow,Snapping at heaven with one contemptuous hand,As though she hated God; and, on her face,A mask of fairness; Envy, with those barbsOf wicked lightning darting from her flesh;Envy, whose eyes the palm and olive wound;Whose ears the laurel and myrtle pierce with pain;A fiery serpent eating at her heart;A quiver on her back with tongues for arrows.Each of these pictures left its little shadow,A little memory in your spellbound face,And so your picture smiles at all of these,And at one secret never breathed aloud,Because I think we knew it all too well.Once only, in a riddle, I made you smileAt our own secret also, when I said‘If liberty be dear to you, Madonna,Never discover that your painter’s faceIs Love’s dark prison.’Sailing to the southFrom our Cilicia, you and I have seenBeautiful Cyprus, rising from the wave;Cyprus, that island where Queen Venus reigned.The blood of men was drawn to that rough coastAs tides, on other shores, obey the moon.Glens of wild dittany, winding through the hillsFrom Paphos, her lost harbour, to the peakOf old Olympus, where she tamed the gods,Enticed how many a wanderer,Odorous windsWelcomed us, ruffling, crumpling the smooth brineInto a sea of violets. We drew near.We heard the muffled thunder of the surf!What ships, what fleets, had broken among those rocks!We saw a dreadful host of shattered hulls,Great splintered masts, innumerable keelsWith naked ribs, like skeletons of whalesAll weltering there, half-buried in the sand.The foam rushed through them. On their rotted prowsAnd weed-grown poops the sea-gulls perched and screamed;And all around them with an eerie cryAn icy wind was blowing.It would seemLike the Last Judgment, should there ever beA resurrection of the ships we sawLying there dead. These things we saw and live.And now your picture smiles at all of these.The secret still evades me everywhere;And everywhere I feel it, close at hand.Do you remember when Vesuvius flamedAnd the earth shivered and cracked beneath our feet?Ten villages were engulfed. I wandered outAmong the smoking fragments of earth’s crustTo see if, in that breaking-up of things,Nature herself had now perhaps unsealedSome of her hidden wonders.On that day,I found a monstrous cavern in the hills,A rift so black and terrible that it dazed me.I stood there, with my back bent to an arch,My left hand clutching at my knee, my rightShading contracted eyes. I strained to seeInto that blackness, till the strong desireTo know what marvellous thing might lurk withinConquered my fear. I took a ball of threadAnd tied one end to a lightning-blasted tree.I made myself a torch of resinous pineAnd entered, running the thread through my left hand,On, on, into the entrails of the world.O, not Odysseus, when his halting stepsCrept through that monstrous hollow to the dead,Felt such a fearful loneliness as I;For there were voices echoing throughhisnight,And shadows of lost friends to welcome him;But my fierce road to knowledge clove its wayInto a silence deeper than the grave,Into a darkness where not even a ghostCould stretch its hands out, even in farewell.And all that I could see around me thereWas my own smoking torchlight, walls of rockAnd awful rifts where other caverns yawned.And all that I could hear was my own stepsEchoing through endless darkness, on and on.My thread ran out. My torch was burning low,When, through the darkness, I became awareOf something darker, looming up in front;Solid as rock, and yet more strange and wildThan any shadow. My flesh and blood turned coldBefore that awful Presence in the dark.I left the thread behind me, and crept on;Held up the guttering torch; and there, O there,I saw it, and I live.A monstrous thingWith jaws that might have crushed a ship, and bonesThat might upheave a mountain; a Minotaur,A dreadful god of beasts, now turned to stone,Like a great smoke-bleared idol. The wild lightSmeared it with blood; a thing that once had lived;A thing that once might turn the sea to mistWith its huge flounderings, and would make a spoilFor kingdoms with the ships it drove ashore.The torchlight flared against it, and went out;And I groped back, in darkness....And you smile.O, what a marvel of enginery was there!What giant thews and sinews once controlledThe enormous hinges of the rock-bound bonesI saw in my dark cavern. Yet it perished,And all its monstrous race has perished, too.Was it all waste? Did it prepare the wayFor lordlier races? Even, perhaps, for men?Only one life to track these wonders home,So many roads to follow. Never the lightTill all be travelled.We will not despiseMechanical arts, Madonna, while we useThese marvellous living instruments of ours.Rather we’ll seek to master for ourselvesThe Master’s own devices. Birds can fly,And so shall men, when they have learned the lawRevealed in every wing. Far off, I have seenMen flying like eagles over the highest clouds;Men that in ships like long grey swordfish glideUnder the sea; men that in distant landsWill speak to men in Italy; men that bringThe distant near, and bind all worlds in one.And yet—I shall not see it. I have exploredThis human instrument, traced its delicate treeOf nerves, discovering how the life-blood flowsOut of the heart, through every branching vein;And how, in age, the thickening arteries closeAnd the red streams no longer feed this frame,And the parched body starves at last and dies.I have built bridges. Armies tread them now.The rains will come. The torrents will roll downAnd sweep them headlong to the sea, one day.I have painted pictures. Let cicalas chirrupOf their brief immortality. I knowHow soon these colours fade.And yet, and yet,I do not think the Master of us allWould set us in His outer courts at nightAs the Magnificent, once, in the flush of wine,Set Angelo, to flatter an idle whimAnd sculpture him a godhead out of snow.The work’s not wasted. In my youth I thoughtThat I was learning how to live, and nowI see that I was learning how to die.Then comes the crowning wonder. We strip offThe scaffolding; for the law is learned at last;And our reality, Parian then, not snow,Dares the full sun of morning, fronts the gazeOf its divine Pygmalion; lives and breathes;And knows, then, why it passed through all those pains.Now—the last touch of all! And, as this faceBegins to breathe against those ancient rocks,Let music breathe these arts of mine away.”Music awoke. It throbbed like hidden wingsAbove them. Then a minstrel’s golden voice,As from a distance, on those wings aroseAnd poured the Master’s passion into song:Burn, Phœnix, burn;And, in thy burning, takeAll that love taught me, all I strove to learn,All that I made, and all I failed to make.If it be trueThat from the fire thou riseIn splendour, as men say dead worlds renewTheir light from their own embers in the skies,In thy fierce nestI’d share that death with thee,To make one shining feather on thy breastOf all I am, and all I strove to be.The worthless boughMay kindle a rich coal;And in our mingling ashes, how wilt thouKnow mine from thine, ere both reclothe thy soul?Now—as thy wingsArise from this proud fire,My dust in thy assumption mounts and sings;And, being a part of thee, I still aspire.

I saw the house at Florence, cool and white

With violet shadows, drowsing in the sun.

The fountain splashed and bubbled in the court.

Beside it, in a space of softened light,

Under a linen awning, ten feet high,

Roofing a half-enclosure, where three walls

Were tinted to a pine-wood’s blue-black shade,

I saw a woman seated on a throne,

And Leonardo, with his radiant eyes,

Glancing from his wet canvas to her face.

Her face was filled with music. Music swelledAbove them, from a gallery out of sight;And as the soft pulsation of the stringsDied into infinite distances, he spoke.His voice was more than music. It was thoughtEbbing and flowing, like a strange dark sea.

Her face was filled with music. Music swelled

Above them, from a gallery out of sight;

And as the soft pulsation of the strings

Died into infinite distances, he spoke.

His voice was more than music. It was thought

Ebbing and flowing, like a strange dark sea.

“Listen to me; for I have things to sayThat I can only tell the world through you.Were you not just a little afraid of meAt first? You know by popular reportI dabble in Black Arts, and so I wouldTo keep you here, an hour or two each day,Until the mystery we have conjured upBetween us—there again, it came and went—Smiles at the centuries in their masqueradeAs you smiled, then, at me.Not mockery—quite—Not irony either; something we evokedThat seems to have caught the ironist off his guard,And slyly observes the mocker’s naked heel.So we’ll defend humanity, you and I,Against the worst of tyrannies,—the blind sneerOf intellectual pride. The subtle foolAnd cunning sham at least shall meet one gazeMore subtle, more secure; not yours or mine,But Nature’s own—that calm, inscrutable smileWhereby each erring atomy is restoredTo its true place, taught its true worth at last,And heaven’s divine simplicity renewed.

“Listen to me; for I have things to say

That I can only tell the world through you.

Were you not just a little afraid of me

At first? You know by popular report

I dabble in Black Arts, and so I would

To keep you here, an hour or two each day,

Until the mystery we have conjured up

Between us—there again, it came and went—

Smiles at the centuries in their masquerade

As you smiled, then, at me.

Not mockery—quite—

Not irony either; something we evoked

That seems to have caught the ironist off his guard,

And slyly observes the mocker’s naked heel.

So we’ll defend humanity, you and I,

Against the worst of tyrannies,—the blind sneer

Of intellectual pride. The subtle fool

And cunning sham at least shall meet one gaze

More subtle, more secure; not yours or mine,

But Nature’s own—that calm, inscrutable smile

Whereby each erring atomy is restored

To its true place, taught its true worth at last,

And heaven’s divine simplicity renewed.

Not yours or mine, Madonna. Could I trustTo brush and palette or my skill of handFor this? Oh, no! We need Black Arts, I think,Black Arts and incantations, or you’d growWeary of sitting here.Last night I madeFive bubbles of glass—you blow them with a pipeOver a flame,—and set them there to danceUpon the fountain’s feathery crest of spray.Piero thought it waste of time. He jeersAt these mechanical arts of mine. I watchedThat dance and learned a little of the machineWe call the world. I left them leaping thereTo catch your eyes this morning, and learned more.So one thing leads to another. A device,Mechanical as the spinning of the starsIn the Arch-Mechanic’s Cosmos, woke a gleamOf wonder; and I lay these Black Arts bareTo make you wonder more.Black Arts, Madonna;For even such trifles may discover depthsDark as the pit of death; as when I laidDice on a drum, and by their trembling showedWhere underneath our armoured city wallsThe enemy dug his mines.And now—you smile,To think how wars are won.Catgut and woodHave served our wizardry. Yes; that’s why I setMusicians in the gallery overhead,To pluck their strings; and, while you listened, soPainted the living spirit that they boundWith their bright spells before me, in your face.Black Arts, Madonna, and cold-blooded, too.O, sheer mechanical, playing upon your mindAnd senses, as they too were instruments,Or colours to be ground and mixed and usedFor purposes that were not yours at all,Until the living Power that uses meBreathes on this fabric, also made by hands,The inscrutable face that smiles all arts away.

Not yours or mine, Madonna. Could I trust

To brush and palette or my skill of hand

For this? Oh, no! We need Black Arts, I think,

Black Arts and incantations, or you’d grow

Weary of sitting here.

Last night I made

Five bubbles of glass—you blow them with a pipe

Over a flame,—and set them there to dance

Upon the fountain’s feathery crest of spray.

Piero thought it waste of time. He jeers

At these mechanical arts of mine. I watched

That dance and learned a little of the machine

We call the world. I left them leaping there

To catch your eyes this morning, and learned more.

So one thing leads to another. A device,

Mechanical as the spinning of the stars

In the Arch-Mechanic’s Cosmos, woke a gleam

Of wonder; and I lay these Black Arts bare

To make you wonder more.

Black Arts, Madonna;

For even such trifles may discover depths

Dark as the pit of death; as when I laid

Dice on a drum, and by their trembling showed

Where underneath our armoured city walls

The enemy dug his mines.

And now—you smile,

To think how wars are won.

Catgut and wood

Have served our wizardry. Yes; that’s why I set

Musicians in the gallery overhead,

To pluck their strings; and, while you listened, so

Painted the living spirit that they bound

With their bright spells before me, in your face.

Black Arts, Madonna, and cold-blooded, too.

O, sheer mechanical, playing upon your mind

And senses, as they too were instruments,

Or colours to be ground and mixed and used

For purposes that were not yours at all,

Until the living Power that uses me

Breathes on this fabric, also made by hands,

The inscrutable face that smiles all arts away.

How many tales I have told you sitting hereTo make you see, according to my need,The comedy of the world, its lights and shades:The sensual feast; the mockery of renown;Youth and his innocent boastings, unawareHow swiftly run the sands; Youth that believesHis own bright scorn for others’ aching faultsHas crowned him conqueror; Youth so nobly sureThat plans are all achievements; quite, quite sureOf his own victory where all others failed;Age, with blind eyes, or staring at defeat,Dishonoured; Age, in honour, with a wreathOf fading leaves in one old trembling hand,And at his feet the dark all-gulfing grave;Envy, the lean and wizened witch behind him,Riding on death, like his own crooked shadow,Snapping at heaven with one contemptuous hand,As though she hated God; and, on her face,A mask of fairness; Envy, with those barbsOf wicked lightning darting from her flesh;Envy, whose eyes the palm and olive wound;Whose ears the laurel and myrtle pierce with pain;A fiery serpent eating at her heart;A quiver on her back with tongues for arrows.Each of these pictures left its little shadow,A little memory in your spellbound face,And so your picture smiles at all of these,And at one secret never breathed aloud,Because I think we knew it all too well.

How many tales I have told you sitting here

To make you see, according to my need,

The comedy of the world, its lights and shades:

The sensual feast; the mockery of renown;

Youth and his innocent boastings, unaware

How swiftly run the sands; Youth that believes

His own bright scorn for others’ aching faults

Has crowned him conqueror; Youth so nobly sure

That plans are all achievements; quite, quite sure

Of his own victory where all others failed;

Age, with blind eyes, or staring at defeat,

Dishonoured; Age, in honour, with a wreath

Of fading leaves in one old trembling hand,

And at his feet the dark all-gulfing grave;

Envy, the lean and wizened witch behind him,

Riding on death, like his own crooked shadow,

Snapping at heaven with one contemptuous hand,

As though she hated God; and, on her face,

A mask of fairness; Envy, with those barbs

Of wicked lightning darting from her flesh;

Envy, whose eyes the palm and olive wound;

Whose ears the laurel and myrtle pierce with pain;

A fiery serpent eating at her heart;

A quiver on her back with tongues for arrows.

Each of these pictures left its little shadow,

A little memory in your spellbound face,

And so your picture smiles at all of these,

And at one secret never breathed aloud,

Because I think we knew it all too well.

Once only, in a riddle, I made you smileAt our own secret also, when I said‘If liberty be dear to you, Madonna,Never discover that your painter’s faceIs Love’s dark prison.’Sailing to the southFrom our Cilicia, you and I have seenBeautiful Cyprus, rising from the wave;Cyprus, that island where Queen Venus reigned.The blood of men was drawn to that rough coastAs tides, on other shores, obey the moon.Glens of wild dittany, winding through the hillsFrom Paphos, her lost harbour, to the peakOf old Olympus, where she tamed the gods,Enticed how many a wanderer,Odorous windsWelcomed us, ruffling, crumpling the smooth brineInto a sea of violets. We drew near.We heard the muffled thunder of the surf!What ships, what fleets, had broken among those rocks!We saw a dreadful host of shattered hulls,Great splintered masts, innumerable keelsWith naked ribs, like skeletons of whalesAll weltering there, half-buried in the sand.The foam rushed through them. On their rotted prowsAnd weed-grown poops the sea-gulls perched and screamed;And all around them with an eerie cryAn icy wind was blowing.It would seemLike the Last Judgment, should there ever beA resurrection of the ships we sawLying there dead. These things we saw and live.And now your picture smiles at all of these.The secret still evades me everywhere;And everywhere I feel it, close at hand.Do you remember when Vesuvius flamedAnd the earth shivered and cracked beneath our feet?Ten villages were engulfed. I wandered outAmong the smoking fragments of earth’s crustTo see if, in that breaking-up of things,Nature herself had now perhaps unsealedSome of her hidden wonders.On that day,I found a monstrous cavern in the hills,A rift so black and terrible that it dazed me.I stood there, with my back bent to an arch,My left hand clutching at my knee, my rightShading contracted eyes. I strained to seeInto that blackness, till the strong desireTo know what marvellous thing might lurk withinConquered my fear. I took a ball of threadAnd tied one end to a lightning-blasted tree.I made myself a torch of resinous pineAnd entered, running the thread through my left hand,On, on, into the entrails of the world.

Once only, in a riddle, I made you smile

At our own secret also, when I said

‘If liberty be dear to you, Madonna,

Never discover that your painter’s face

Is Love’s dark prison.’

Sailing to the south

From our Cilicia, you and I have seen

Beautiful Cyprus, rising from the wave;

Cyprus, that island where Queen Venus reigned.

The blood of men was drawn to that rough coast

As tides, on other shores, obey the moon.

Glens of wild dittany, winding through the hills

From Paphos, her lost harbour, to the peak

Of old Olympus, where she tamed the gods,

Enticed how many a wanderer,

Odorous winds

Welcomed us, ruffling, crumpling the smooth brine

Into a sea of violets. We drew near.

We heard the muffled thunder of the surf!

What ships, what fleets, had broken among those rocks!

We saw a dreadful host of shattered hulls,

Great splintered masts, innumerable keels

With naked ribs, like skeletons of whales

All weltering there, half-buried in the sand.

The foam rushed through them. On their rotted prows

And weed-grown poops the sea-gulls perched and screamed;

And all around them with an eerie cry

An icy wind was blowing.

It would seem

Like the Last Judgment, should there ever be

A resurrection of the ships we saw

Lying there dead. These things we saw and live.

And now your picture smiles at all of these.

The secret still evades me everywhere;

And everywhere I feel it, close at hand.

Do you remember when Vesuvius flamed

And the earth shivered and cracked beneath our feet?

Ten villages were engulfed. I wandered out

Among the smoking fragments of earth’s crust

To see if, in that breaking-up of things,

Nature herself had now perhaps unsealed

Some of her hidden wonders.

On that day,

I found a monstrous cavern in the hills,

A rift so black and terrible that it dazed me.

I stood there, with my back bent to an arch,

My left hand clutching at my knee, my right

Shading contracted eyes. I strained to see

Into that blackness, till the strong desire

To know what marvellous thing might lurk within

Conquered my fear. I took a ball of thread

And tied one end to a lightning-blasted tree.

I made myself a torch of resinous pine

And entered, running the thread through my left hand,

On, on, into the entrails of the world.

O, not Odysseus, when his halting stepsCrept through that monstrous hollow to the dead,Felt such a fearful loneliness as I;For there were voices echoing throughhisnight,And shadows of lost friends to welcome him;But my fierce road to knowledge clove its wayInto a silence deeper than the grave,Into a darkness where not even a ghostCould stretch its hands out, even in farewell.And all that I could see around me thereWas my own smoking torchlight, walls of rockAnd awful rifts where other caverns yawned.And all that I could hear was my own stepsEchoing through endless darkness, on and on.

O, not Odysseus, when his halting steps

Crept through that monstrous hollow to the dead,

Felt such a fearful loneliness as I;

For there were voices echoing throughhisnight,

And shadows of lost friends to welcome him;

But my fierce road to knowledge clove its way

Into a silence deeper than the grave,

Into a darkness where not even a ghost

Could stretch its hands out, even in farewell.

And all that I could see around me there

Was my own smoking torchlight, walls of rock

And awful rifts where other caverns yawned.

And all that I could hear was my own steps

Echoing through endless darkness, on and on.

My thread ran out. My torch was burning low,When, through the darkness, I became awareOf something darker, looming up in front;Solid as rock, and yet more strange and wildThan any shadow. My flesh and blood turned coldBefore that awful Presence in the dark.I left the thread behind me, and crept on;Held up the guttering torch; and there, O there,I saw it, and I live.A monstrous thingWith jaws that might have crushed a ship, and bonesThat might upheave a mountain; a Minotaur,A dreadful god of beasts, now turned to stone,Like a great smoke-bleared idol. The wild lightSmeared it with blood; a thing that once had lived;A thing that once might turn the sea to mistWith its huge flounderings, and would make a spoilFor kingdoms with the ships it drove ashore.The torchlight flared against it, and went out;And I groped back, in darkness....And you smile.O, what a marvel of enginery was there!What giant thews and sinews once controlledThe enormous hinges of the rock-bound bonesI saw in my dark cavern. Yet it perished,And all its monstrous race has perished, too.Was it all waste? Did it prepare the wayFor lordlier races? Even, perhaps, for men?

My thread ran out. My torch was burning low,

When, through the darkness, I became aware

Of something darker, looming up in front;

Solid as rock, and yet more strange and wild

Than any shadow. My flesh and blood turned cold

Before that awful Presence in the dark.

I left the thread behind me, and crept on;

Held up the guttering torch; and there, O there,

I saw it, and I live.

A monstrous thing

With jaws that might have crushed a ship, and bones

That might upheave a mountain; a Minotaur,

A dreadful god of beasts, now turned to stone,

Like a great smoke-bleared idol. The wild light

Smeared it with blood; a thing that once had lived;

A thing that once might turn the sea to mist

With its huge flounderings, and would make a spoil

For kingdoms with the ships it drove ashore.

The torchlight flared against it, and went out;

And I groped back, in darkness....

And you smile.

O, what a marvel of enginery was there!

What giant thews and sinews once controlled

The enormous hinges of the rock-bound bones

I saw in my dark cavern. Yet it perished,

And all its monstrous race has perished, too.

Was it all waste? Did it prepare the way

For lordlier races? Even, perhaps, for men?

Only one life to track these wonders home,So many roads to follow. Never the lightTill all be travelled.We will not despiseMechanical arts, Madonna, while we useThese marvellous living instruments of ours.Rather we’ll seek to master for ourselvesThe Master’s own devices. Birds can fly,And so shall men, when they have learned the lawRevealed in every wing. Far off, I have seenMen flying like eagles over the highest clouds;Men that in ships like long grey swordfish glideUnder the sea; men that in distant landsWill speak to men in Italy; men that bringThe distant near, and bind all worlds in one.And yet—I shall not see it. I have exploredThis human instrument, traced its delicate treeOf nerves, discovering how the life-blood flowsOut of the heart, through every branching vein;And how, in age, the thickening arteries closeAnd the red streams no longer feed this frame,And the parched body starves at last and dies.

Only one life to track these wonders home,

So many roads to follow. Never the light

Till all be travelled.

We will not despise

Mechanical arts, Madonna, while we use

These marvellous living instruments of ours.

Rather we’ll seek to master for ourselves

The Master’s own devices. Birds can fly,

And so shall men, when they have learned the law

Revealed in every wing. Far off, I have seen

Men flying like eagles over the highest clouds;

Men that in ships like long grey swordfish glide

Under the sea; men that in distant lands

Will speak to men in Italy; men that bring

The distant near, and bind all worlds in one.

And yet—I shall not see it. I have explored

This human instrument, traced its delicate tree

Of nerves, discovering how the life-blood flows

Out of the heart, through every branching vein;

And how, in age, the thickening arteries close

And the red streams no longer feed this frame,

And the parched body starves at last and dies.

I have built bridges. Armies tread them now.The rains will come. The torrents will roll downAnd sweep them headlong to the sea, one day.I have painted pictures. Let cicalas chirrupOf their brief immortality. I knowHow soon these colours fade.And yet, and yet,I do not think the Master of us allWould set us in His outer courts at nightAs the Magnificent, once, in the flush of wine,Set Angelo, to flatter an idle whimAnd sculpture him a godhead out of snow.

I have built bridges. Armies tread them now.

The rains will come. The torrents will roll down

And sweep them headlong to the sea, one day.

I have painted pictures. Let cicalas chirrup

Of their brief immortality. I know

How soon these colours fade.

And yet, and yet,

I do not think the Master of us all

Would set us in His outer courts at night

As the Magnificent, once, in the flush of wine,

Set Angelo, to flatter an idle whim

And sculpture him a godhead out of snow.

The work’s not wasted. In my youth I thoughtThat I was learning how to live, and nowI see that I was learning how to die.Then comes the crowning wonder. We strip offThe scaffolding; for the law is learned at last;And our reality, Parian then, not snow,Dares the full sun of morning, fronts the gazeOf its divine Pygmalion; lives and breathes;And knows, then, why it passed through all those pains.

The work’s not wasted. In my youth I thought

That I was learning how to live, and now

I see that I was learning how to die.

Then comes the crowning wonder. We strip off

The scaffolding; for the law is learned at last;

And our reality, Parian then, not snow,

Dares the full sun of morning, fronts the gaze

Of its divine Pygmalion; lives and breathes;

And knows, then, why it passed through all those pains.

Now—the last touch of all! And, as this faceBegins to breathe against those ancient rocks,Let music breathe these arts of mine away.”

Now—the last touch of all! And, as this face

Begins to breathe against those ancient rocks,

Let music breathe these arts of mine away.”

Music awoke. It throbbed like hidden wingsAbove them. Then a minstrel’s golden voice,As from a distance, on those wings aroseAnd poured the Master’s passion into song:

Music awoke. It throbbed like hidden wings

Above them. Then a minstrel’s golden voice,

As from a distance, on those wings arose

And poured the Master’s passion into song:

Burn, Phœnix, burn;And, in thy burning, takeAll that love taught me, all I strove to learn,All that I made, and all I failed to make.

Burn, Phœnix, burn;

And, in thy burning, take

All that love taught me, all I strove to learn,

All that I made, and all I failed to make.

If it be trueThat from the fire thou riseIn splendour, as men say dead worlds renewTheir light from their own embers in the skies,

If it be true

That from the fire thou rise

In splendour, as men say dead worlds renew

Their light from their own embers in the skies,

In thy fierce nestI’d share that death with thee,To make one shining feather on thy breastOf all I am, and all I strove to be.

In thy fierce nest

I’d share that death with thee,

To make one shining feather on thy breast

Of all I am, and all I strove to be.

The worthless boughMay kindle a rich coal;And in our mingling ashes, how wilt thouKnow mine from thine, ere both reclothe thy soul?

The worthless bough

May kindle a rich coal;

And in our mingling ashes, how wilt thou

Know mine from thine, ere both reclothe thy soul?

Now—as thy wingsArise from this proud fire,My dust in thy assumption mounts and sings;And, being a part of thee, I still aspire.

Now—as thy wings

Arise from this proud fire,

My dust in thy assumption mounts and sings;

And, being a part of thee, I still aspire.

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