Andrea del Sarto
(called “The Faultless Painter”)

by Robert Browning
     
But do not let us quarrel any more,  
Below are images of some relevant paintings.
Some are links to larger versions.
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:  
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.    
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?  

Self-Portrait
by Andrea del Sarto
I’ll work then for your friend’s friend, never fear,  
Treat his own subject after his own way,  
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,  
And shut the money into this small hand  
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?  
Oh, I’ll content him, — but to-morrow, Love! 10
I often am much wearier than you think,  
This evening more than usual, and it seems  
As if — forgive now — should you let me sit  
Here by the window with your hand in mine  
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,  
Both of one mind, as married people use,  
Quietly, quietly the evening through,  
I might get up to-morrow to my work  
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.  
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! 20
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,  
And mine the man’s bared breast she curls inside.  
Don’t count the time lost, neither; you must serve  
For each of the five pictures we require:  
It saves a model. So! keep looking so —    
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!    
— How could you ever prick those perfect ears,    
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet —    
My face, my moon, my everybody’s moon,    
Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30  
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,    
While she looks — no one’s: very dear, no less.    
You smile? why, there’s my picture ready made,    
There’s what we painters call our harmony!    
A common greyness silvers everything, —    
All in a twilight, you and I alike    
— You, at the point of your first pride in me    
(That’s gone you know), — but I, at every point;    
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down    
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 40  
There’s the bell clinking from the chapel-top;    
That length of convent-wall across the way    
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;    
The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,    
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.  
Madonna of the Harpies
by Andrea del Sarto
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape  
As if I saw alike my work and self  
And all that I was born to be and do  
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God’s hand.  
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; 50
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!  
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!  
This chamber for example — turn your head —  
All that’s behind us! You don’t understand  
Nor care to understand about my art,  
But you can hear at least when people speak:  
And that cartoon, the second from the door  
— It is the thing, Love! so such things should be —  
Behold Madonna! — I am bold to say.  
I can do with my pencil what I know, 60
What I see, what at bottom of my heart  
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep —  
Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly,  
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge,  
Who listened to the Legate’s talk last week,  
And just as much they used to say in France.  
At any rate ’tis easy, all of it!  
No sketches first, no studies, that’s long past:  
I do what many dream of, all their lives,  
— Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, 70  
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such    
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,    
Who strive — you don’t know how the others strive    
To paint a little thing like that you smeared    
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, —    
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,    
(I know his name, no matter) — so much less!    
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.    
There burns a truer light of God in them,    
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, 80  
Heart, or whate’er else, than goes on to prompt    
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mine.    
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,    
Reach many a time a heaven that’s shut to me,    
Enter and take their place there sure enough,    
Though they come back and cannot tell the world.    
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.    
The sudden blood of these men! at a word —    
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.    
I, painting from myself and to myself, 90  
Know what I do, am unmoved by men’s blame    
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks    
Morello’s outline there is wrongly traced,    
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,    
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?    
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?    
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,    
Or what’s a heaven for? All is silver-grey,  

Madonna of the Goldfinches
by Raphael
Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!  
I know both what I want and what might gain, 100
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh  
“Had I been two, another and myself,  
“Our head would have o’erlooked the world!” No doubt.  
Yonder’s a work now, of that famous youth  
The Urbinate who died five years ago.  
(’Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)  
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,  
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,  
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,  
Above and through his art — for it gives way; 110
That arm is wrongly put — and there again —  
A fault to pardon in the drawing’s lines,  
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,  
He means right — that, a child may understand.  
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:  
But all the play, the insight and the stretch —  
Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?  
Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,  
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!  
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 120
More than I merit, yes, by many times.  
But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow,  
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,    
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird  

Madonna della Granduca
by Raphael
The fowler’s pipe, and follows to the snare —  
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!  
Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged  
“God and the glory! never care for gain.  
“The present by the future, what is that?  
“Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 130
“Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!”  
I might have done it for you.  So it seems:  
Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules.  
Beside, incentives come from the soul’s self;  
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?  
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?  
In this world, who can do a thing, will not;  
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:  
Yet the will’s somewhat — somewhat, too, the power —  
And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 140
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.  
’Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,  
That I am something underrated here,  
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.  
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,  
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.  
The best is when they pass and look aside;    
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.    
Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,    
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! 150  
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,    
Put on the glory, Rafael’s daily wear,    
In that humane great monarch’s golden look, —    
One finger in his beard or twisted curl    
Over his mouth’s good mark that made the smile,    
One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,    
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,    
I painting proudly with his breath on me,    
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,    
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 160  
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, —    
And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,    
This in the background, waiting on my work,    
To crown the issue with a last reward!    
A good time, was it not, my kingly days?    
And had you not grown restless . . . but I know —    
’Tis done and past: ’twas right, my instinct said:    
Too live the life grew, golden and not grey,    
And I’m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt    
Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 170  
How could it end in any other way?    
You called me, and I came home to your heart.    
The triumph was — to reach and stay there; since    
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?    
Let my hands frame your face in your hair’s gold,    
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!    
“Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;    
“The Roman’s is the better when you pray,    
“But still the other’s Virgin was his wife —”    
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 180  
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows    
My better fortune, I resolve to think.    
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,    
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,    
To Rafael . . . I have known it all these years . . .    
(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts    
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,    
Too lifted up in heart because of it)  

“Friend, there’s a certain sorry little scrub    
“Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, 190


Doni Tondo (Doni Madonna)
by Michelangelo

“Who, were he set to plan and execute  
“As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,  
"Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!”  
To Rafael’s! — And indeed the arm is wrong.  
I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see,  
Give the chalk here — quick, thus, the line should go!  
Ay, but the soul! he’s Rafael! rub it out!  
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,  
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?  
Do you forget already words like those?) 200
If really there was such a chance, so lost, —  
Is, whether you’re — not grateful — but more pleased.  
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!  
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?  
If you would sit thus by me every night  
I should work better, do you comprehend?  
I mean that I should earn more, give you more.  
See, it is settled dusk now; there’s a star;  
Morello’s gone, the watch-lights show the wall,  
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210
Come from the window, love, — come in, at last,    
Inside the melancholy little house    
We built to be so gay with. God is just.    
King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights    
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,    
The walls become illumined, brick from brick    
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,    
That gold of his I did cement them with!    
Let us but love each other. Must you go?    
That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 220  
Must see you — you, and not with me?  Those loans?    
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?    
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?    
While hand and eye and something of a heart    
Are left me, work’s my ware, and what’s it worth?    
I’ll pay my fancy. Only let me sit    
The grey remainder of the evening out,    
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly    
How I could paint, were I but back in France,    
One picture, just one more — the Virgin’s face, 230  
Not yours this time! I want you at my side    
To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo —    
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.    
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.    
I take the subjects for his corridor,    
Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there,    
And throw him in another thing or two    
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough    
To pay for this same Cousin’s freak. Beside,    
What’s better and what’s all I care about, 240  
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!    
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,    
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?  

Madonna Litta
by Leonardo da Vinci
   
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.  
I regret little, I would change still less.  
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?  
The very wrong to Francis! — it is true  
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,  
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.  
My father and my mother died of want.  250
Well, had I riches of my own? you see  
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.  
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:  
And I have laboured somewhat in my time  
And not been paid profusely. Some good son  
Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try!  
No doubt, there’s something strikes a balance. Yes,  
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.  
This must suffice me here. What would one have?  
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — 260
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,  
Meted on each side by the angel’s reed,  
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me  
To cover — the three first without a wife,  
While I have mine! So — still they overcome  
Because there’s still Lucrezia, — as I choose.  
     
Again the Cousin’s whistle! Go, my Love.
    
 

 
Andrea del Sarto — As with “Fra Lippo Lippi,” in this dramatic monologue from Men and Women (1855), Browning’s speaker is a real-life Renaissance Italian painter. Andrea d’Agnolo di Francesco di Luca di Paolo del Migliore (1486-1530 or 1531) was a masterful fresco painter with superb technique, but he is not renowned for making any new advances in technique or style. Once again, Browning took all his facts for Andrea’s life from the not always reliable book Lives of the Painters by Giorgio Vasari. According to that book, Andrea fell in love with Lucrezia del Fede, the widow of a hatter, who proceeded to make him miserable by being an unfaithful nag. Then, also according to Vasari (who was Andrea’s pupil), under pressure from Lucrezia Andrea embezzled funds from Francis I of France, the only patron who had ever paid him well. Whether this happened or not, Browning makes use of it in the poem, as he considers the relationship between superior technique, true artistic genius, and character.
 
Lucrezia — Andrea often used Lucrezia as the model for the Madonna; this monologue (and implied conversation) takes place as she is posing.
 
Fiesole— a town near Florence, the center of the Renaissance
 
cartoon — a sketch made as preparation for a painting
 
Legate’s — a church official who represents the Pope
 
Morello’s outline — Morello is a mountain near Florence.
 
Rafael — Raffaello Sanzio, known popularly as Raphael (1483-1520), was one of the greatest Renaissance artists.
 
Urbinate — Raphael was from the town of Urbino.
 
George Vasari —author of Lives of the Artists
 
That arm is wrongly put — Browning may well have had the painting Madonna of the Goldfinches in mind. If you look at the painting carefully, the Christ-child’s right arm is poorly positioned and too short.
 
risen to Rafael — reached his level of achievement and fame
 
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? — Raphael reluctantly married towards the end of his life; Michelangelo never did.
 
Paris lords — presumably French nobles acting as agents for Francis I
 
Fontainebleau — where Francis held court, near Paris
 
Michel Agnolo — alternative name for Michelangelo
 
Cousin — euphemism for lover
 
freak — something done to excess, in this case his gambling
 
scudi— a silver coin
 
old age — In fact, Andrea died during an outbreak of the plague when he was forty-three or forty-four, so the “old age” mentioned here clearly reflects his emotional state rather than being literal