Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems

by Coningsby Dawson

II

[ Someone sings in the street below]

Fair-fleeting Youth wends ever to the West,

He, like the sun, too soon must sink to rest.

Stars of Remorse, fast-following on his track,

Moon of Old-Age, can nothing turn ye back f

Ah, soon the golden Day'll have spent his breath!

Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death

When Youth, no longer young, all joys must lack.

[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]

"Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death!"

'Tis true, for who in Tuscany to-day

Dares breathe the Medicean name aloud?

When a man dies, the watchers by the bed

Close down his eye-lids, so is he once dead;

Twice dead is he whose mem'ry men dang down

To dark oblivion when his soul is fled.

Florence forgets her singer, but his song

Still echoes through her streets on autumn nights,

And pausing at the door of some old friend,

Bids him remember all the hope he had

In spacious days, before Lorenzo died . . .

It seems Lorenzo's soul crept back to earth

Re-seeking Joy he coveted in life,

Seeking the happiness he never found.

Yet, was his labour lost? Did he not find?

He sang one song which lingers in men's hearts

And, having sung, he surely solved his quest.

Who of Joy's seekers finds the flower itself,

And plucking, knows the snow-white from the red?

Not I, for I've been truant in my search;

I've pluck't the mauve of Honour and the green

Of cloistered Knowledge, yellow of Romance,

The blue which feigns a deep Tranquillity,

Scarlet of Boldness, purple of Despair,

Orange of Idleness which flaunts the sun,

And indigo of wizard Heresy—

And gray which gives to Weariness unrest.

Perchance I've clutched within this eager hand

The Death of Joy—the fatal flower of blood.

I know not. This I know, I have not trod

The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.

Like an unwise distiller of perfume

I've blended each new fragrance as it came,

Made something perfect for a day—two days;

Then ruined all by adding something fresh.

First I would be a scholar, so I learned

Latin and Greek, and Mathematic Law.

Then I would be a poet, so I wrote

"Chi non puô quel che vuol, quel che puo voglia;

Che quel che non si puô folle è volere.

Adunque saggio l'uomo è da tenere,

Che da quel che non puô sua vogler toglia."

I could not live the wisdom which I taught,

So I must be a master of design

And studied sculpture with Verocchio,

Verocchio who had his dusty shop

On Amo's banks in grand Lorenzo's time.

Thither, while yet a boy, I did resort

And out of terra-cotta caused to smile

Women whose beauty ne'er hath been surpassed,

Nor equalled in the flesh for Man's delight.

Still not content, I'd be an architect

And renovate this battered world for God,

Hurling across steep valleys, mile on mile

Through cloudland, spans of marble aqueduct;

Leading chained rivers from the mountain-heights

Down to the plains where men are wont to toil,

There I would cause these Samsons of the crags,

Scenting the sea, whose waves are unconfined,

To shake themselves as once at other times,

And rush in frenzy forward turning mills.

So would each city echo to the hum

Of loom, and web, and swift-revolving wheels.

Then, when prosperity had reached its height

And merhants cavilled at each other's gains,

I'd frame for them the iron beasts of war

And hound than on to harry and destroy—

And when our world was fallen, who but I,

Da Vinci, should stand forth to raise it up?

These were my dreams; I thought myself divine—

All this was long ago, when I was young.

Next I would make me wings, and I would fly

As do the morning birds straight t'ward the sun,

Piercing the mists, rise far above the clouds

To seek out where God walks and whom He loves.

I made me wings, but had not strength to fly.

Still discontent and tethered to this world,

I strove to wrench the secret out of Life,

And swept the far horizon of the stars

If there, at least, I might discern some sign

To tell me whence souls come, to where depart.

I, in my overhaste, pursued too far,

Seeking that vague and fabled Paradise

Where Adam and his many sons sing chaunts,

While Eve walks through them pale and deified.

I missed my track in pathless swamps of Time,

I chilled my hands against the cold-dead stars,

And lost my mind in unremembered Past,

Remote from God and out of human sight.

Lastly I took to painting down my thoughts,

And pictured for the King of Portugal

That fatal meadow in the Eden Land,

Where Man's first sweet and deadly sin was

wrought.

I, in this art, all others did excel;

Yet with success I was not satisfied

But hourly craved for the impossible—

To fashion men as real as flesh and blood.

To-day I'd toil with fire in my brain

And paint away the faults of yesterday,

And shadow forth the dreams of yesternight,

And so on through long months and weary years

Till, losing heart, I'd toss my brush aside

Leaving the thing unfinished as it was—

Adding this broken promise to my last.

There's Raphael with his wide unanxious eyes,

He does his work as though it were his play;

He never talks of fame, but sings the while

He paints the Virgin with Lord Jesus Christ—

Goes to the door, throws kisses to a child,

Goes to the window, smiles to some slim girl,

And so returns and flashes kiss and smile

Into the canvas quaking 'neath his brush,

Creating thus a masterpiece sublime.

And then there's surly Michelangelo

Who chisels Davids through the death-long night,

And paints Last Judgments through the livelong

day,

Pantingly running, pace on pace with Fame,

Racing dean-limbed toward his goal in life.

But I, poor changeling, wake, and dream, and

wake,

And dream again, retarded by desire.

I was eight years in painting at Milan

A fresco for the monks of Dominic—

And even this I hear's begun to fade;

It was a picture of that sacred feast

Our Saviour gave before he went to die.

Ten years I laboured on the Sforza horse

Which should have been my monument through

Time.

I built it huge and true in every line,

Studied anatomy to make it strong,

And set on top Francesco with his sword;

But, when the time for casting had arrived

And I had done one perfect work at last,

The hungry French across the border came,

Bringing their Gascons, who got drunk and shot

The clay of my poor Titan into space.

So were ten years of strenuous effort lost;

And now I'm painting Mona Lisa's face . . .

[Someone sings in the street below]

Seize then thy gladness ere it turns to dust,

Youth can make all acts lovely, all deeds just;

Heed not the tyrant, lean Morality,

But steer thy passion down to the purple sea,

Through winding hills where Beauty hath her home

And calls to travellers, until thou come

Unto the Deep of Lovés Satiety.

[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]

Ha-ha, my passion to the purple sea!

And yet, I'd go if Mona Lisa'd come.

We two, close-seated in one crimson boat

Would drift the yellow waters of Romance,

Glide down its stream through hills of mystery

Where Beauty roams, of which the song hath

sung,

Nor ever speak of where that tide should end.

We'd dip no oars, we'd set no hurrying sail,

But swept on the full current of desire

Would steer our course with unimpeded hands,

Watching the pleasure in each other's eyes.

Ah well, 'tis vain to talk! Two-thirds of life

Till now I've spent in spotless purity—

Affection's been retarded by desire

As has my work; my dreams have far excelled

The beauty God moulds into human shape.

The sweet perfection of the womankind

Who haunt my brain, has held me back from love.

This . . . this was so till Mona Lisa came.

Four years I've painted when it was her day,

A day of mist, of mingled rain and sun;

Four years before me silently she's sat

And smiled to see me strive to catch her smile

In liquid paint, with canvas and with brush,

So that her eyes, searching, inscrutable,

May question her sons' sons when she is dust.

I only just begin to know her face.

To learn its sudden changes I have paid

The skill'dest men in all our Tuscan vales,

Harpists, lute-players, masters of the viol,

To make soft music while on her I gaze.

For her content I ordered to be made

A fountain in the courtyard of my house

Whose waters falling, ere they dash to spray,

Smite on smooth spheres, which thus revolve and

hum

The chaunt the winds toll in our upland pines.

About the fountain's brink I caused to plant

Pale iris roots and dew-blanched narcissi,

Since white's the flower which most of all she loves.

Also about the pillars, where the sun

Lengthens the shadows when the evening fades,

I've sculptured . . .

[Someone sings in the street below]

Passion's a flower

While-leaf d or red—

None knows which colour

Till it is dead;

Love gives forth fragrance

Pure as God's breath;

Lust in Us dying

Yields the gatherer death.

[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]

And had Lorenzo sung those words to me

His voice had had no more familiar sound;

Had he turned back from lordly Paradise

To urge me on in my pursuit of Joy,

Knowing its flower almost within my hand,

He had not said those words more earnestly.

Lo, even now he stands without and I,

By leaning forward, may discerrn his face.

[Rises, goes to the window; looks out]

Nothing; the sky is covered with a cloud,

The moon's obscured and all the stars are dead.

[Cries, as though hailing someone]

Lorenzo, ho Lorenzo! Are you there?

I heard your singing. I am come, old friend.

[Listens; then to himself]

What's over there? I thought a shadow stirred.

There, over there! Beneath Piero's wall.

Hath Pagan Plato triumphed over Christ

And sent his chief apostle back to us?

Or hath Lord Christ in his compassion wrought

That kindness Dives craved of Abraham,

Sending Lorenzo here from off his breast

To bid me snatch my Joy ere Death befalls?

No . . . no, the moon shines through and makes

all plain.

This is some old Florentine Lazarus—

A soldier crippled in our Pisan wars

Who begs upon San Marco's steps by day.

Hi, here's a scudot Catch it in your cap.

D'you hear me fellow?

Strange, he does not stay,

But hastens on as if he . . . there, he's gone.

Perchance he's mad or deaf, or blind and mad.

And yet methought that, when he turned to go,

His face looked upward, so it caught the light;

And it was like to one . . .

[Comes hack from the window and sits down]

Ah well,

I'll think no more of spirits and of ghosts;

Let the dead past go bury up its dead.

I'll think of Mona Lisa's face alone . . .

Of Mona Lisa's face.

Just now I said

One thing I knew, that I had never trod

The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.

'Twas false. Four years I've lived and wandered

there

And seen my flower, but feared to break its stem.

Dear God, thou knowest how often I have prayed

That this temptation might not make me fall—

Yea, I have asked for death's deliverance.

Is this thy answer, that it is no sin

For men to gather that which most they love?

So be it. Silence answers every prayer;

Thy voice hath spoken—I am satisfied.

Men say in Florence, while I watched her face,

That I bewitched her, so her very eyes

Grew in expression like unto my own,

So that her hands took on my restless ways,

So that her mouth hath altered in its smile

And, when I paint her face, I paint my own.

Then let that be God's answer to my prayer.

Ah, she is like me, she is very like!

God made her for the sister of my soul;

He would not have His plans jerked out of joint

By one mistake, because she chanced to wed

Her bankrupt father's sternest creditor

To save his name—and this, some years ago;

Therefore He sent His singer here to-night

That he, in words I loved, might tell me so.

Certainly God is good and very great.

'Tis said her husband hath returned this night,

Passing at sundown through the southern gate

From Naples, where last spring he went to sell

Certain Sicilian cattle which he had.

(He sold, I'll warrant, at the highest price),

So, if the husband's come, then she is home.

That day she left me, 'twas an April day,

One of her days of mingled mist and sun,

I well remember how she paused and gazed

Full in my eyes, as if forbidden love

Were vainly seeking words which shame denied;

Then suddenly she stooped, and her lips brushed

My forehead. God gave gentle words ; she prayed,

"May the Christ-Mother have you in her care"—

Nothing besides. Passionately I rose up,

Willing for her sake to be crucified;

Stretched forth my arms to snatch her to my

breast,

And found her gone—the courtyard filled with sun.

Six months have passed since then—six tortured

months!

There hangs her portrait, it has felt no brush

Since on that April mom she went away;

And now the empty courtyard's filled with night,

And back to Florence Mona Lisa's come.

To-morrow I will go to her and say,

"Lisa, here take my life for it is yours.

Do with it as you will; but do not stay

To add, subtract, and reckon up its cost.

Act a brave part and, if your love's like mine,

We need not fear; for what we lose we gain,

And, though we gain much, still to-day's to-day

And, while we tarry, one day's love is lost."

Ah, would that I might speak those words to-night

For, while I halt, another night is gone—

Crush'd to a mem'ry 'neath the heel of Time.

I'm minded even now to venture forth,

To go to her, although the hour is late;

And through the darkness, when she hears me call,

Only to say to her this one word, "Come."

Thus unto men speak Birth, Fate, Love and Death,

The four great captains of this brief campaign;

Casting a shadow at the soul's tent-door,

Each in his turn beckons and whispers, "Come."

And I to her am Death, Birth, Love and Fate;

And she to me is Love, and only Love.

I'll go to her. How can I longer wait?

Her nearer presence sets my blood aflame;

I'll seize my flower . . .

[Commences to descend the stairway, then pauses]

Ah, the song again!

[Someone sings in the street below]

Let naught of fear Youth's laughing steps delay,

Aye, gather gladness; pluck it while ye may—

We burn not if To-morrow curse or Hess.

Who cares—one red bud more, one white bud less?

Only we burn that love was meant to spend,

And this we burn, that each life hath its end;

Therefore, O Youth, snatch all thy happiness.

[Descends slowly; passes out into the street]

[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]

There's truth in every line that song hath sung.

The hand that wrote it's twelve years turned to

dust,

The brain's become a hollow nothingness—

A little grayness lying in a skull;

And yet Lorenzo guides my steps to-night

Unto my love as truly as in life.

Oh wonderful and strange that men should die

And, being buried, still should talk with us!

When I am free, and future ages come

To stand amazed before the girl I loved,

Then I will speak with them, say thus and thus,

And, though departed, never shall be dead.

For this I'll paint her portrait till 'tis done,

Singing, like Raphael, from gray dawn to dusk,

Pausing to kiss her forehead, lips, throat, eyes,

Learning their beauty, where mine own lips touch;

So I, like Angelo, with measured stride

Will race with Fame, until the prize is won.

Yea, men attain most only when they love.

"But steer thy passion down to the purple sea,"

(How went the song?) "Until at length thou come

Unto the Deep of Love's Satiety."

Truly, that is the way that brave men love:

Reckless of blame, despising consequence,

Not counting on a better day to come,

Seizing with warrior-hands their Joy at once.

And love in life is everything to us,

And I have failed because I have not loved.

But, when her soft arms go about my neck

And I grow pale before her great desire,

A new success will pass into my blood

And I'll be strong . . .

Ah, someone's coming up!

I'll draw into the shadow of this gate;

Perhaps he'll pass. I seem to know his tread.

No good! He's seen me; I must seek the light.

Is't you Vitelli?

[Vitelli]

Leonardo?

[Leonardo da Vinci]

Yes.

[Vitelli speaks]

Well, how's the painting? Is her portrait done?

Whose portrait? Why, the one of Lisa's face.

Not finished! What, 'tis only just begun?

Well, that's a pity. Four years seems some time

To gape before a canvas with a brush.

Beg pardon. This is what I meant to say:

That since you could not paint her in her life,

You'll scarce be more successful now she's

dead . . .

You did not know? . . . Why, she's been dead

three months.

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