Pacchiarotto/Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial
FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL.
A Reminiscence of a. d. 1676.
1."No, boy, we must not"—so began My Uncle (he's with God long since),A-petting me, the good old man!"We must not"—and he seemed to wince,And lost that laugh whereto had grown His chuckle at my piece of news,How cleverly I aimed my stone— "I fear we must not pelt the Jews!
2."When I was young indeed,—ah, faith Was young and strong in Florence too!We Christians never dreamed of scathe Because we cursed or kicked the crew.But now, well, well! The olive-crops Weighed double then, and Arno's pranksWould always spare religious shops Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!
3."I'll tell you"—and his eye regained Its twinkle—"tell you something choice!Something may help you keep unstained Your honest zeal to stop the voice Of unbelief with stone-throw—spite Of laws, which modern fools enact,That we must suffer Jews in sight Go wholly unmolested! Fact!
4."There was, then, in my youth, and yet Is, by our San Frediano, justBelow the Blessed Olivet, A wayside ground wherein they thrustTheir dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame! Except that, so they will but die,Christians perchance incur no blame In giving hogs a hoist to stye.
5."There, anyhow, Jews stow away Their dead; and,—such their insolence,—Slink at odd times to sing and pray As Christians do—all make-pretence!—Which wickedness they perpetrate Because they think no Christians see.They reckoned here, at any rate, Without their host: ha, ha, he, he!
6."For, what should join their plot of ground But a good Farmer's Christian field?The Jews had hedged their corner round With bramble-bush to keep concealed Their doings: for the public road Ran betwixt this their ground and thatThe Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed, Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.
7."So, properly to guard his store And gall the unbelievers too,He builds a shrine and, what is more, Procures a painter whom I knew,One Buti (he's with God), to paint A holy picture there—no lessThan Virgin Mary free from taint Borne to the sky by angels: yes!
8."Which shrine he fixed,—who says him nay?— A-facing with its picture-sideNot, as you'd think, the public way, But just where sought these hounds to hideTheir carrion from that very truth Of Mary's triumph: not a houndCould act his mummeries uncouth But Mary shamed the pack all round!
9."Now, if it was amusing, judge! —To see the company arrive,Each Jew intent to end his trudge And take his pleasure (though alive) With all his Jewish kith and kin Below ground, have his venom out,Sharpen his wits for next day's sin, Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!
10."Whereas, each phyz upturned beholds Mary, I warrant, soaring brave!And in a trice, beneath the folds Of filthy garb which gowns each knave,Down drops it—there to hide grimace, Contortion of the mouth and noseAt finding Mary in the place They'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!
11."At last, they will not brook—not they!— Longer such outrage on their tribe:So, in some hole and corner, lay Their heads together—how to bribeThe meritorious Farmer's self To straight undo his work, restoreTheir chance to meet and muse on pelf— Pretending sorrow, as before!
12."Forthwith, a posse, if you please, Of Rabbi This and Rabbi ThatAlmost go down upon their knees To get him lay the picture flat. The spokesman, eighty years of age, Grey as a badger, with a goat's—Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:—
13."' Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil Through life in Florence—why relateTo those who lay the burden, spoil Our paths of peace? We bear our fate.But when with life the long toil ends, Why must you—the expression cravesPardon, but truth compels me, friends!— Why must you plague us in our graves?
14."' Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe! For how can you—the lords of easeBy nurture, birthright—e'en conceive Our luxury to lie with treesAnd turf,—the cricket and the bird Left for our last companionship:No harsh deed, no unkindly word, No frowning brow nor scornful lip!
15."' Death's luxury, we now rehearse While, living, through your streets we fareAnd take your hatred: nothing worse Have we, once dead and safe, to bear! So we refresh our souls, fulfil Our works, our daily tasks; and thusGather you grain—earth's harvest—still The wheat for you, the straw for us.
16."''What flouting in a face, what harm, In just a lady borne aloftBy boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?' You question. Friends, the harm is here—That just when our last sigh is heaved, And we would fain thank God and youFor labour done and peace achieved, Back comes the Past in full review!
17."'At sight of just that simple flag,Starts the foe-feeling serpent-likeFrom slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag—Though fangless—forth what needs must strikeWhen stricken sore, though stroke be vainAgainst the mailed oppressor! GivePlay to our fancy that we gainLife's rights when once we cease to live!
18."'Thus much to courtesy, to kind,To conscience! Now to Florence folk!There's core beneath this apple-rind,Beneath this white-of-egg there's yolk! Beneath this prayer to courtesy, Kind, conscience—there's a sum to pouch!How many ducats down will buy Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!
19."'Removal, not destruction, sirs! Just turn your picture! Let it frontThe public path! Or memory errs, Or that same public path is wontTo witness many a chance befall Of lust, theft, bloodshed—sins enough, Wherein our Hebrew part is small. Convert yourselves!'—he cut up rough.
20."Look you, how soon a service pair Religion yields the servant fruit!A prompt reply our Farmer made So following: ' Sirs, to grant your suitInvolves much danger! How? Transpose Our Lady? Stop the chastisement,All for your good, herself bestows? What wonder if I grudge consent?
21."'— Yet grant it: since, what cash I take Is so much saved from wicked use.We know you! And, for Mary's sake, A hundred ducats shall induce Concession to your prayer. One day Suffices: Master Buti's brushTurns Mary round the other way, And deluges your side with slush.
22."'Down with the ducats therefore!' Dump, Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece,Hard gold. Then out of door they stump, These dogs, each brisk as with new leaseOf life, I warrant,—glad he'll die Henceforward just as he may choose,Be buried and in clover lie! Well said Esaias—'stiff-necked Jews!'
23."Off posts without a minute's loss Our Farmer, once the cash in poke,And summons Buti—ere its gloss Have time to fade from off the joke—To chop and change his work, undo The done side, make the side, now blank,Recipient of our Lady—who, Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!
24."Now, boy, you're hardly to instruct In technicalities of Art!My nephew's childhood sure has sucked Along with mother's-milk some part Of painter's-practice—learned, at least, How expeditiously is pliedA work in fresco—never ceased When once begun—a day, each side.
25."So, Buti—(he's with God)—begins: First covers up the shrine all roundWith hoarding; then, as like as twins, Paints, t'other side the burial-ground,New Mary, every point the same; Next, sluices over, as agreed,The old; and last—but, spoil the game By telling you? Not I, indeed!
26."Well, ere the week was half at end, Out came the object of this zeal,This fine alacrity to spend Hard money for mere dead men's weal!How think you? That old spokesman Jew Was High Priest, and he had a wifeAs old, and she was dying too, And wished to end in peace her life!
27."And he must humor dying whims, And soothe her with the idle hopeThey'd say their prayers and sing their hymns As if her husband were the Pope! And she did die—believing just This privilege was purchased! DeadIn comfort through her foolish trust! 'Stiff-necked ones,' well Esaias said!
28."So, Sabbath morning, out of gate And on to way, what sees our archGood Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight— The corpse—on shoulder, and so, march!'Now for it, Buti!' In the nick Of time 't is pully-hauly, henceWith hoarding! O'er the wayside quick There's Mary plain in evidence!
29."And here's the convoy halting: right! Oh, they are bent on howling psalmsAnd growling prayers, when opposite! And yet they glance, for all their qualms,Approve that promptitude of his, The Farmer's—duly at his postTo take due thanks from every phyz, Sour smirk—nay, surly smile almost!
30."Then earthward drops each brow again; The solemn task's resumed; they reachTheir holy field—the unholy train: Enter its precinct, all and each, Wrapt somehow in their godless rites; Till, rites at end, up-waking, loThey lift their faces! What delights The mourners as they turn to go?
31."Ha, ha, he, he! On just the side They drew their purse-strings to make quitOf Mary,—Christ the Crucified Fronted them now—these biters bit!Never was such a hiss and snort, Such screwing nose and shooting lip!Their purchase—honey in report— Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!
32."Out they break, on they bustle, where, A-top of wall, the Farmer waitsWith Buti: never fun so rare! The Farmer has the best: he ratesThe rascal, as the old High Priest Takes on himself to sermonize—Nay, sneer 'We Jews supposed, at least, Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!'
33."'Theft?' cries the Farmer. 'Eat your words! Show me what constitutes a breachOf faith in aught was said or heard! I promised you in plainest speech I'd take the thing you count disgrace And put it here—and here 't is put!Did you suppose I' d leave the place Blank therefore, just your rage to glut?
34."'I guess you dared not stipulate For such a damned impertinence!So, quick, my greybeard, out of gate And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!As long as I have house and land, To spite you irreligious chapsHere shall the Crucifixion stand— Unless you down with cash, perhaps!'
35."So snickered he and Buti both. The Jews said nothing, interchangedA glance or two, renewed their oath To keep ears stopped and hearts estrangedFrom grace, for all our Church can do; Then off they scuttle: sullen jogHomewards, against our Church to brew Fresh mischief in their synagogue.
36."But next day—see what happened, boy! See why I bid you have a careHow you pelt Jews! The knaves employ Such methods of revenge, forbear No outrage on our faith, when free To wreak their malice! Here they tookSo base a method—plague o' me If I record it in my Book!
37."For, next day while the Farmer sat Laughing with Buti, in his shop,At their successful joke,—rat-tat,— Door opens, and they're like to dropDown to the floor as in there stalks A six-feet-high herculean-builtYoung he-Jew with a beard that baulks Description. 'Help ere blood be spilt!
38.—"Screamed Buti: for he recognized Whom but the son, no less no more,Of that High Priest his work surprised So pleasantly the day before! Son of the mother, then, whereof The bier he lent a shoulder to,And made the moans about, dared scoff At sober Christian grief—the Jew!
39."'Sirs, I salute you! Never rise! No apprehension!' (Buti, whiteAnd trembling like a tub of size, Had tried to smuggle out of sight The picture's self—the thing in oils, You know, from which a fresco's dashedWhich courage speeds while caution spoils) 'Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!
40."'Praised,—ay, and paid too: for I come To buy that very work of yours.My poor abode, which boasts—well, some Few specimens of Art, securesHaply, a masterpiece indeed If I should find my humble meansSuffice the outlay. So, proceed! Propose—ere prudence intervenes!'
41."On Buti, cowering like a child, These words descended from aloft,In tone so ominously mild, With smile terrifically softTo that degree—could Buti dare (Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?He asked, thus taken unaware, No more than just the proper price!
42."'Done!' cries the monster. 'I disburse Forthwith your moderate demand.Count on my custom—if no worse Your future work be, understand, Than this I carry off! No aid! My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:The burden's easy, and we're made, Easy or hard, to bear—we Jews!'
43."Crossing himself at such escape, Buti by turns the money eyesAnd, timidly, the stalwart shape Now moving doorwards; but, more wise,The Farmer,—who, though dumb, this while Had watched advantage,—straight conceivedA reason for that tone and smile So mild and soft! The Jew—believed!
44."Mary in triumph borne to deck A Hebrew household! Pictured whereNo one was used to bend the neck In praise or bow the knee in prayer!Borne to that domicile by whom? The son of the High Priest! Through what?An insult done his mother's tomb! Saul changed to Paul—the case came pat!
45."'Stay, dog-Jew . . gentle sir, that is! Resolve me! Can it be, she crowns,—Mary, by miracle,—Oh bliss!— My prevent to your burial-ground? Certain, a ray of light has burst Your veil of darkness! Had you else,Only for Mary's sake, disbursed So much hard money? Tell—oh, tell 's!'
46."Round—like a serpent that we took For worm and trod on—turns his bulkAbout the Jew. First dreadful look Sends Buti in a trice to skulkOut of sight somewhere, safe—alack! But our good Farmer faith made bold:And firm (with Florence at his back) He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled—
47."'Ay, sir, a miracle was worked, By quite another power, I trow,Than ever yet in canvas lurked, Or you would scarcely face me now!A certain impulse did suggest A certain grasp with this right-hand,Which probably had put to rest Our quarrel,—thus your throat once spanned!
48."'But I remembered me, subdued That impulse, and you face me still!And soon a philosophic mood Succeeding (hear it, if you will!) Has altogether changed my views Concerning Art! Blind prejudice!Well may you Christians tax us Jews With scrupulosity too nice!
49."' For, don't I see,—let's issue join!— Whenever I'm allowed pollute(I—and my little bag of coin) Some Christian palace of repute,—Don't I see stuck up everywhere Abundant proof that cultured tasteHas Beauty for its only care, And upon Truth no thought to waste?
50."''Jew, since it must be, take in pledge Of payment'—so a CardinalHas sighed to me as if a wedge Entered his heart'—this best of allMy treasures!' Leda, Ganymede Or Antiope: swan, eagle, ape,(Or what's the beast of what's the breed) And Jupiter in every shape!
51."' Whereat if I presume to ask 'But, Eminence, though Titian's whiskOf brush have well performed its task, How comes it these false godships frisk In presence of—what yonder frame Pretends to image? Surely, oddIt seems, you let confront The Name Each beast the heathen called his god!'
52."' Benignant smiles me pity straight The Cardinal. ''Tis Truth, we prize!Art's the sole question in debate! These subjects are so many lies.We treat them with a proper scorn When we turn lies—called gods forsooth—To lies' fit use, now Christ is born. Drawing and colouring are Truth.
53."''Think you I honour lies so much As scruple to parade the charmsOf Leda—Titian, every touch— Because the thing within her armsMeans Jupiter who had the praise And prayer of a benighted world?He would have mine too, if, in days Of light, I kept the canvas furled!'
54."' So ending, with some easy gibe. What power has logic! I, at once,Acknowledged error in our tribe So squeamish that, when friends ensconce A pretty picture in its niche To do us honor, deck our graves,We fret and fume and have an itch To strangle folk—ungrateful knaves!
55."'No, sir! Be sure that—what's its style, Your picture?—shall possess ungrudgedA place among my rank and file Of Ledas and what not—be judgedJust as a picture! and (because I fear me much I scarce have boughtA Titian) Master Buti's flaws Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!'
56."So, with a scowl, it darkens door— This bulk—no longer! But makesPrompt glad re-entry; there's a score Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakesFrom what must needs have been a trance, Or he had struck (he swears) to groundThe bold bad mouth that dared advance Such doctrine the reverse of sound!
57."Was magic here? Most like! For, since, Somehow our city's faith grows stillMore and more lukewarm, and our Prince Or loses heart or wants the will To check increase of cold. 'T is 'Live And let live! Languidly repressThe Dissident! In short,—contrive Christians must bear with Jews: no less!'
58."The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture,—pishes, poohs,Purchases, hangs it full in sight In any chamber he may choose!In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! In Mary's bosom, one more sword!No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"