Rudolf J. Wiemann
Speckles the Painter
First Chapter
Talk is a tonic to mankind -
And here one has oneself in mind -
Except for products born of fear,
For those sound scratchy to the ear. -
The fleet of thoughts, once set to sail,
With how much pleasure does it hail
The wind which through the voice box blows
To push it past those pearly rows
Whence it moves out on waves of sound
Toward near or distant, deep and round
Lobed ear ports shifting all about,
Whose owners may have tuned it out.
The pol, though, knows of, and is seeking
The benefits that come with speaking,
And when he holds that such is so,
One can be sure he’s in the know. -
But those to whom this in-your-face
Mode of address seems short on grace
May turn away to be a part
Of the engaging world of art
Where, it is said, the less one knows
The chitchat that much faster flows. -
Far be it from a chap like me
To fault a friend who likes his tea,
Who slithers through salons past patrons,
Aesthetically glowing matrons,
And raps and listens and arranges
The sauna of deep soul exchanges.
And I fault no one, if extant,
Whom all this bliss does not enchant,
Who dislikes tea and would much rather
Be present where the crowds will gather.
Him takes the carriage, pulls heartsease
To operas and symphonies
Which are, as cannot be disputed,
For dialogue superbly suited.
One seeks that congeniality,
That touch of fine upholstery,
One feels that human glow within -
But all the time there is that din,
That blowing, scraping, loud and near,
Of musical and kindred gear
Which here a troupe in formal coat,
With crooked fingers, cheeks abloat,
By Maestro Wiggles fiercely hounded,
Keeps strummed, inflated,
plucked, and pounded.
That way a proper conversation
Is nearly forced into cessation. -
I loath this din. Give me the hush,
The quiet kingdom of the brush.
And whatsoever one may say,
Engaging is the time of day
Which I amid fine artistry
Spend in my much-loved gallery -
Of course, most of the time with dames.
Here is the realm of gilded frames,
Here beauty and good taste are back,
Here wafts the scent of fine shellac,
Here not a wall space is left bare,
For paintings manifold and fair
Invest them all for your review;
And view them thoroughly I do.
Attention primed and eyeballs versed,
I gaze upon the price tag first,
And upon closer scrutiny
My praise grows with the growing fee.
I focus through the hollow hand,
I squint, I nod, “How simply grand!
These color schemes, this bold rendition,
These hues, this tasteful composition,
This luster, this fine harmony -
A master work of fantasy!
Ah, have a look, dear Countess, please!”
The countess, busy with a sneeze,
Says keenly through perfumed batiste,
“Delightful, Sir, to say the least!”
And, truly, praise be to the dear
Fine arts which decorate our sphere! -
The architect deserves much praise,
(Though building funds are hard to raise)
Because he has our earthly crust,
Though old and scarred and robed in rust,
With new, attractive buildings brimming,
Plus towers and barracks for the trimming. -
The sculptor who forever pleases
For all the famous men he freezes
In whitish, greenish, blackish-grays
Does furthermore deserve our praise,
As folks who are obliged to go
To some far town they do not know
Find in its unfamiliar square
Familiar men already there. -
But greater fame acquires truly
One who buys paints and spreads them duly.
Who daubs the halls down to their bases
With notable historic cases,
In fresco for the ages made,
Unless they do begin to fade?
Who gives us all those genre works,
So moving or so full of quirks?
Who does the landscapes and the farms,
The tavern signs, the coats of arms?
Who shapes your proud ancestral row
Of a millennium or so
In splendid oils so fair and tall?
Who is esteemed by one and all?
The painter! Naturally! His dreams
Enrich our world with color schemes. -
So, callow youth, do not be slow.
Go, don the artist’s soft chapeau
And be a painter, and, you know,
You might just make a buck or so! -
We’ll let this uplifting comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Second Chapter
This good old globe had gone putt-putt
For years in its familiar rut
When same all of a sudden knew
That, as the watchman midnight blew,
At Speckles, Main Street # 3,
A little boy had come to be.
Soon in the stats he can be found,
For one who’s not yet been around,
Who as a covert allocation,
Now as a spanking new creation,
Calls on a happy family,
Does interest the registry.
Scritch-scratch! A little Philistine
Named Bruno occupies a line. -
He early showed his energy
By screaming quite uncommonly,
For screaming at wide open throttle,
He soon found out, brought on the bottle
Which he would briskly suckle on
Until the liquid was all gone.
But ‘twas the lamp’s illumination
Which filled him with much fascination.
He marvels, stares, looks stupefied,
He follows it wide-open-eyed
As the effect of light and dark
Sets off a talent’s early spark.
He grows up strong and pursy-poo
In body and in spirit, too,
And as a tike already starts
To dabble in the graphic arts.
First, with a pencil made of slate,
He struggles faces to create -
In profile, but two eyes they gets,
Because he knows these come in sets.
Much practice tends to raise one’s ken,
And soon he makes entire men,
Though mostly he is gamely bent
On drawing up a portly gent,
And to his telling outer feature
He even adds the inner creature.
Here sits the man upon his seat
Aspiring groats of oats to eat.
The spoon guides to his mouth the groats.
They run and trickle down his throat’s
Substantial gap until down deep
They plainly pile into a heap.
Thus one may easily survey
A hidden phase of nature’s way.
But, oh, how quickly they depart -
Those fun-filled days of childlike art!
How soon from our high chair they wrench
And place us on the school’s hard bench! -
Botell, a worthy teacher man,
Though of the arts no real fan -
He takes the practical approach -
Is now young Bruno’s mental coach.
Once Bruno did behind his back
Draw him in class in white on black.
Botell, who did not order it
And deems it neither good nor fit,
Sneaks up, his wrath about to trigger,
And with quick movements of great vigor
Sets out the picture to expunge.
The artist Bruno is the sponge.
In Bruno’s breast this bitter pill
Fails grateful feelings to instill.
A church key, venerable, trusty,
Timeworn and hollow, long and rusty,
Gets an ignition hole in back
And stuffed with powder, dry and black.
And Bruno also long possessed
A squirt gun proved in many a test.
To fill it only takes a stop
At his pal’s parent’s butcher shop.
It’s night. Botell is reading. Hark!
A shot rings out, there in the dark.
He thinks, “What? Where? Who is that dunce?
I’ll look out of the window once.”
In comes the bloody spray pell-mell.
“I have been murdered!” yells Botell.
He yells no more, he is laid low,
In shock and stiff from head to toe.
His Mrs. leaves her dishes be.
Her voice fills with anxiety,
“Botell! Speak if you live! O gosh!”
“May be!” he says. “One needs a wash!”
Soon it is certain that Botell
Is quite alive, complete, and well.
Provoked one hears him pace and shout,
“That was that no-good Bruno lout!” -
When one a scoundrel proved to be,
It is ordained that he or she,
For a more thorough moral grounding
Move to a different surrounding.
The place is good, the site is new,
The same old scoundrel’s present too. -
We’ll let this time-tested comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Third Chapter
It’s after Bruno’s squirt gun sins
That his apprenticeship begins
With worthy master painter Bart -
A man who comprehends his art,
A man who papers without glitches,
A man who marbles furnace niches,
A man for whom his trade to ply
The highest ceiling none too high.
Pure pleasure is this art biz not,
Poor Bruno carries many a pot,
But he is always pleased as punch
To tote the box which holds their lunch.
He soon observes that every dog
Stops by this lunch box all agog.
“Hmm . . ,” Bruno thinks, “I see a skit!”
And opens up the lid a bit.
A dachshund, widening the slot,
Is pinched and dabbed with many a spot
Till one may be inclined to dub
The nosey mutt a leopard cub.
A greyhound, next to stop and swipe,
Is held and streaked with many a stripe.
He almost looks a zebra now,
Just skinnier and with bow-wow.
A bulldog, coming on the double,
A sausage fan, gets for his trouble
A checkered green and yellow coat,
The kind that’d make a true Brit gloat.
Bart takes a disapproving look.
Such sport is foolish in his book.
He hates this work time dissipation
And wasteful pigment application.
He does not make a single sound,
But when the lunch break comes around,
He says as mildly as he could,
“Good things will come to those who’re good!”
He does a bread loaf segmentation.
Poor Bruno gets no invitation.
He frees the sausage from its skin.
Poor Bruno watches in chagrin.
And smaller gets the sausage link.
Poor, hungry Bruno sees it shrink.
At last the sausage disappears.
Poor Bruno cries two bitter tears.
The master painter rubs his tummy
While gently saying, “That was yummy!
I’ll cancel supper preparation!”
He keeps his thoughtful declaration,
Withdrawing to the boy’s dismay
With just the following to say,
“Draw near, sweet sleep, I am all thine -
Content for I have toed the line!”
But Bruno does not think of rest,
He must get something off his chest
And shortly moves to pay him back.
First, though, he packs his shoulder pack,
Then he erects out in the hall
›From glasses, pots, and chairs and all
A pyramid-like work of art
Which shows that he must soon depart.
Then by the structure he did build,
He puts a pot with varnish filled.
At last he seizes, like two spears,
The mighty paper hanger’s shears.
For Bart’s sound sleep the customary
Stuffed feather tick is necessary,
And Bruno, sneaking in, thinks it’ll
Be best to cut it up the middle.
That done, the varnish now is shed
On Bart’s quite unsuspecting head.
Bart comes to life hell-bent-for-leather,
Flails, rails, and sticks to every feather.
He flaps and dances to and fro,
Much like a bird - a strange one, though -
And knocks with an imprudent leap
The pyramid into a heap. -
A traveler´s heart beats merrily
Provided there is do-re-mi. -
We’ll let this portentous comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Fourth Chapter
The muse’s city has a smile
For any guest who comes in style.
Poor Bruno didn’t, and to better
His lot he writes this poignant letter:
Much honored Father! At Mr. Bart
Things didn’t work out, and I chose to depart.
I arrived here last Friday, hoping to be
Enrolled in the academy.
Money I am completely without,
And this is, O Father, what I beseech you about.
Your destitute offspring who now rigs
His pitiful bed with leaves and twigs!
The father, scratching behind his ear,
Draws one hundred guilders from the cashier.
With much advice on spending refinement,
He sends his son the weighty consignment.
Now that his fortune has come to pass,
Proud Bruno signs up for drawing class.
Of all the students gathered there,
None has his pencil honing flair,
And few among them ever will
Match his eraser rubbing skill.
In shading, which is worse, or worst,
He never fails to come in first.
But at the White Horse Inn at night
He is the last to leave alright.
With ease he always savors here
His one, two, three large steins of beer.
Of course, by being that adept,
At Easter time he proudly stepped
Into the hall of classic art,
The high ideal’s very heart.
The ancient gods, yet ever young -
Though most of them no longer clung,
Beset by tempest, time, and blows,
To arm or leg or head or nose -
Are getting under Bruno’s skin,
Especially when feminine.
He draws them with black chalk on white.
But he would skip this great delight
Once in a while on summery
Fair afternoons, if it must be,
And hastened with a lit Havana
To his dear inn and its Susanna.
There in her garden of good cheer
He quaffs two, three, four steins of beer.
Of course, ere long the talk is rife:
This Speckles paints from real life.
And here, thumb in the palette’s hole,
He is already on a role
And stands and paints old Pruneface Jenny
So that she’s recognized by many.
Still, ere the Vespers bell was heard,
He customarily bestirred
Himself to Susie’s place, and here
Enjoys four, five, six steins of beer.
But suddenly one night - by golly -
Just as our Bruno felt most jolly,
This pleasant girl made one thing clear:
“It’s pay-up time or no more beer!” -
Ah, perfect joy gives those the boot
Who need to pay but lack the loot! -
We’ll let this disheartening comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Fifth Chapter
Carefree across the Schiller Place
Goes Bruno’s student friend von Kase -
A prince, a real buttercup,
So Bruno gladly hits him up.
Friend Kase’s countenance turns sad.
He’s touched. He says, “I do feel bad!
Forgot my wallet, though. How dumb!
Be patient till tomorrow, chum!”
Henceforth, though, strange how friend von Kase
Was hard to meet with face-to-face.
There’re times when he’d come down the street,
And Bruno would so love to greet,
But always missed. It was unreal
How Kase could turn right on his heel.
There’re times when Bruno would draw near
By hushed advancement from the rear.
Friend Kase, though, seemed to sense the drift
As if he had the rearview gift
And in a hackney soon reclined
Would leave friend Bruno far behind.
Now Bruno checks the tavernscape.
Look, Kase with something of the grape.
But same soon manages to steal
Out through the back slick as an eel. -
Poor Bruno knows in his frustration
But one way out of this vexation.
One time in a creative spree
He’d shown a time in history
When Berthold Schwarz two seconds past
Had hit upon black powder’s blast.
This painting shall now set him free.
He takes it to the gallery. -
It’s easy to decide to paint,
To sell one’s precious canvas ain’t.
Instead we have, lest we forgot,
The critic Johnny-on-the-spot. -
Well let this pragmatic comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Sixth Chapter
The art world’s local referee
Was Sternstab, critic, Ph.D.,
Who wrote significant reviews
Per contract for the daily news -
Bad news, in turn, for those who would
Carve from the arts their livelihood.
This paper Bruno at his leisure
Did always open up with pleasure.
He also opens it today
To see what it may have to say.
How turns his stare so dark and grim!
How did this Sternstab murder him!
At once and on his own behalf
He seeks the editorial staff.
The critic faces now a brute
Encounter with a bumbershoot.
The critic parries, though, and then
Drills Bruno’s nostril with his pen.
This ouch does hurt him all the more,
As its black the ink makes it so sore.
The bumbershoot is lance as well.
The table makes a citadel.
A high riposte is not connective;
A low one’s also ineffective.
The critic now begins to bristle
And hurls his inkwell like a missile.
The damage is, however, slight:
The bumbershoot has stopped its flight.
The critic, seeming here to shrink,
Now drags the artist through the ink.
The table tips. So hard to stand
Is for the eye the blotting sand.
Now Bruno starts a forceful drive
With Faber’s pencil No. 5,
And Sternstab, although most unwilling,
Must suffer through some painful drilling.
Here Bruno, glad to‘ve won this caper,
Departs the office of the paper. -
Ye painters! Always be equipped
With pencils that are keenly tipped! -
We’ll let this encouraging comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Seventh Chapter
Judged by these troubling incidents
It may be said that world events
Are not a subject sure to raise
His hopes for profit and for praise.
Perhaps that nature has a heart
And made the landscape for his art,
As it gives those inclined thereto
Lots of attractive points to view.
This rock, for instance, yields the drama
Of an inspiring panorama.
Who wanders over yonder brook?
Ah yes, it is Miss von der Stook.
Well-heeled, though somewhat o’er the hill,
Part spiritual, part worldly still,
She walks with Spitz and peace of soul
Toward yonder convent as her goal.
Two mutts come scampering along
Connected by a common thong.
As Spitz retreats, induced by fright,
The worthy girl is bound up tight.
Now Spitz runs off, the mutts - just look! -
They drag the Lady von der Stook.
Here bounces Bruno from his stone
And cuts the leash that holds her prone.
Our Bruno strikes a gallant pose.
The lady asks before she goes,
“Sir, may one see your studio?”
“5 Wood Lane, Ma’m.” “That’s good to know!”
In line with his good deed, one senses
For Bruno pleasant consequences. -
We’ll let this hopeful comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Eighth Chapter
She kept her word, she came, she smiled,
And when she spoke, he was beguiled.
She says, “My friend! I’m wanting so
A fitting art work to bestow
On the dear chapel on the hill,
A wish I’d love you to fulfill!
I thought of something legendary.
Here’s something down, as customary!”
She reaches toward him, and he thrills
To her soft touch and two large bills.
Now Bruno, not a legend man,
Must get a background, if he can,
And asks a codger, wise and frail,
Who recollects this ancient tale:
A Bold Knight
and the Horrible Serpent
A fearsome ancient dragon
Came from his cave a-waggin’,
Gave all an awful fright.
Each year a girl he wanted,
Or else he’d keep them daunted;
Ate everyone in sight. -
What comes from yonder gate now,
Clothed in black mourning crepe now,
For a procession, say?
It’s Irma, royal daughter,
Delivered to her slaughter.
The fiend awaits his prey. -
Hurrah! From yonder timber
A knight, so proud and limber,
Comes riding like a storm.
He stabs the monster quickly
Right through his tough hide thickly.
Dead lies and pale the worm. -
The king, he was delighted.
“Good job, my boy well-knighted.
Remain with us. Please do!
You’ll have my high opinion,
One half of my dominion,
And my young daughter, too!” -
“Oh, no!” cried countermanding,
His locks on edge now standing,
The knight so young and proud.
“Her likes did once possess me,
And it does still distress me!
Good-bye!” and left unbowed. -
O wonder, great, though dated!
We now - it may be stated -
Have stouter hearts than that.
We tip our hats in awe
To such a chicken-in-law,
And say, “My boy, stand pat!” -
Our Bruno likes the subject matter
(The first part more so than the latter)
And starts a coal delineation
For later color application. -
Miss von der Stook oft had the grace
To watch his daring charcoal trace,
Although she may have scarcely known -
Much like the artist - what was shown.
Of all the vexing things to solve,
The virgin’s likeness won’t evolve.
“Oh, Nature, how to fathom thee
Without a model!” sorrows he.
“May I help out?” she lisps demurely.
“Great! Wednesday morning?” says he. “Surely!”
Then, when the church bell Vespers sounded,
Off to the White Horse Inn he bounded,
As once he did, moved by love’s reach.
His Sue is now a real peach,
For old affections - if no lack
Of profit in it - will be back.
And their affair now grew by leaps
And bounds to one, it seems, for keeps. -
‘Twixt two bad dudes thou shan’t play games;
Much less, believe me, ‘twixt two dames. -
We’ll let this precautionary comment stand
And move on with the praiseworthy
project at hand.
Ninth Chapter
It was that carnival time once more
When here and there, now as of yore,
Folks will most resolutely plot
To seem to be what they are not.
Our Bruno this fine season took
To a well-bred and knightly look.
But pretty Susie seems to suit
A sweet, naive Arcadian beaut.
Soon every leg inside the inn
Swings to the band’s harmonic din
By dust-transfigured floor lamps’ gleam
As beat and rhythm pick up steam.
But, ah, how soon pass nights of glitter!
The morning nears, the wind is bitter.
Two people wander through the snow
As one to Bruno’s studio.
And here with kiss and sweet caress
They promise love and faithfulness.
The dream of love, ah, how sublime!
Exalted over space and time!
And Bruno, by its marvel borne,
Forgets that it is Wednesday morn.
There’s rustling in the entrance nook.
Good grief! The Lady von der Stook!
“Please, please, do hurry up, my dear,
And hide behind the canvas here!”
“Ah, welcome, comely patroness!
Step this way, dearest. Love your dress!”
The session starts. That little weasel,
The Spitz, checks up behind the easel.
The artist starts his brush work now.
The doubtful Spitz, though, makes bow-wow!
The nuisance dog receives a kick
And is about a fight to pick.
All bristle is the Spitz’s hide.
The easel sways, begins to slide,
In its collapse to disclose
The shepherdess’s bashful pose. -
This embarrassing crisis, you will understand,
Well-nigh finishes the praiseworthy
project at hand.
The End
The way things are, time never lasts.
The future soon becomes the past’s.
The years, too tuckered for encores,
Are simply changing reservoirs
Wherein the human race is surging
With here and there a head emerging.
These people, sad or in the pink,
Will splash about, again to sink
Till, in the end, chilled rather well,
They wash away for quite a spell. -
How troubled scans the eye about!
How glad one is when scouting out
Familiar faces here and there
Still looking none the worse for wear. -
The White Horse Inn’s old host is dead.
Another one stands at its head.
The same just asked the press to carry
This statement, as is customary:
To the esteemed public I hereby declare
The happy event of the birth of an heir,
As my wife Susan to our great joy
Was delivered of another, our fifth, baby boy.
A great one the year now past has been
For Bruno Speckles, Host, White Horse Inn.
Thus time, which often we berate,
Brings things which we appreciate
And happily may well unite
Folks once split up in bitter spite.
The Lady Stook, alas, with drastic
Renunciation went monastic.
Botell, though, who while on vacation
Takes in the town and his relation,
And master painter Bart who buys
Here locally his art supplies,
As well as the evasive Kase
(Already sporting much more face)
Yes, Dr. Sternstab, even he,
Who’d rather leave old rancor be,
They all enjoy without chagrin
Their nightcap at the White Horse Inn.
And here Botell was smugly heard
To say, “Innkeeper, mark my word:
If proper schooling went awry,
Where would we be? Yiyi yiyi!!” -
We’ll let Botell’s profound comment stand
And conclude the praiseworthy project at hand.
From the German ´Maler Klecksel´
by Wilhelm Busch.
Translated
by Rudolf J. Wiemann, P. E.,
St. Paul, USA
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