Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Collector Cleans His Picture
Fili hominis, ecce ego tollo a te desiderabile oculorum tuorum in plaga. – EZECH., XXIV 16 How I remember cleaning that strange picture!... I had been deep in duty for my sick neighbour – His besides my own – over several Sundays, Often, too, in the week; so with parish pressures, Baptisms, burials, doctorings, conjugal counsel – All the whatnots asked of a rural parson – Faith, I was well-nigh broken, should have been fully Saving for one small secret relaxation, One that in mounting manhood had grown my hobby. This was to delve at whiles for easel-lumber, Stowed in the backmost slums of a soon-reached city, Merely on chance to uncloak some worthy canvas, Panel, or plaque, blacked blind by uncouth adventure, Yet under all concealing a precious artfeat. Such I had found not yet. My latest capture Came from the rooms of a trader in ancient house-gear Who had no scent of beauty or soul for brushcraft. Only a tittle cost it – murked with grimefilms, Gatherings of slow years, thick-varnished over, Never a feature manifest of man’s painting. So, one Saturday, time ticking hard on midnight Ere an hour subserved, I set me upon it. Long with coiled-up sleeves I cleaned and yet cleaned, Till a first fresh spot, a high light, looked forth, Then another, like fair flesh, and another; Then a curve, a nostril, and next a finger, Tapering, shapely, significantly pointing slantwise. ‘Flemish?’ I said. ‘Nay, Spanish... But, nay, Italian!’ – Then meseemed it the guise of the ranker Venus, Named of some Astarte, of some Cotytto. Down I knelt before it and kissed the panel, Drunk with the lure of love’s inhibited dreamings. Till the dawn I rubbed, when there leered up at me A hag, that had slowly emerged from under my hands there, Pointing the slanted finger towards a bosom Eaten away of a rot from the lusts of a lifetime... – I could have ended myself at the lashing lesson! Stunned I sat till roused by a clear-voiced bell-chime, Fresh and sweet as the dew-fleece under my luthern. It was the matin service calling to me From the adjacent steeple.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
913
