From the distance sang the morning cry of the cock, and a sharp odour of fog and smoke greeted the nostrils. Slowly through the air came the sound of a bell, and at this sound the mountain was convulsed. Again the Mænads became the monstrous hags, the Satyrs or Fauns were demons, and the beautiful Dionysus resolved once more into the hideous and fetid Hircus Nocturnus.
'Homewards! Fly! Escape!'
'They have stolen my muck-rake!' the gorbellied ecclesiastic roared despairingly.
'Hog! return to me!' screamed the red-haired vampire, shivering and coughing in the mountain damp.
The setting moon once more shone out from behind the clouds, and in the pallid crimson of her light, the frightened witches, swarm after swarm, like unclean flies, streamed away from the mountain.
'Garr-r! Garr-r! Up from the depths! Do not knock your heads. Save yourselves. Fly!'
The Becco Notturno, bleating lamentably, sank through the earth, leaving the rotten and stifling odour of sulphur. And slow and solemn the church bells sounded more triumphantly through the purer air.
Cassandra returned to herself in the darkened chamber of the little house by the Porta Vercellina. She was nauseated as if after drunkenness. Her head was like lead; her body broken with weariness.
The bell of St. Radegonda was tolling heavily and monotonously. Outside some one was knocking insistently; someone who had already knocked more than once.
Cassandra listened, and recognised the voice of her suitor, the horsedealer from Abbiategrasso.
'For the Lord's love, open, Monna Sidonia! Monna Cassandra! Nay, then, are ye all gone deaf? I am wet through; would ye have me turn back through this fury of the elements?'
The girl dragged herself to her feet, crept to the shutters, and pulled out the rags with which her aunt had wedged them close. The dull light of a wet day streamed into the room, and fell on the naked crone, still sleeping a deathly sleep on the floor beside the trough, still stained with the unguent, and snoring profoundly.
Cassandra peeped out. The weather was detestable; the rain descending in torrents. Through the network of drops she could see the impatient lover, beside him his little ass, her head dolorously drooping as she leaned against the shafts of the cart, in which a calf, its feet tied together, mooed plaintively, stretching forth its muzzle.
The horsedealer getting no answer knocked louder than ever, and Cassandra waited to see what would happen. At last one of the laboratory windows opened, and the old alchemist looked out, his face sullen, as it generally was in the early morning.
'What's all this noise?' he cried; 'have you gone out of your five wits, you old devil? Go to hell with you! Can't you see we're all asleep? Take yourself off!'
'Why insult me thus, Messer Galeotto? I have come on an affair of importance. I bring a present for your exquisite niece—a sucking calf——'
'Go to the devil, blockhead,' cried Galeotto, 'you and your calf!'
And the shutter was slammed to. The horsedealer stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, recovering himself, he knocked again, violently, as if he would smash the door with his fists.
The donkey's head drooped still lower, the rain pouring in streams off her long ears.
'God! how dull it all is!' murmured Cassandra, closing her eyes. And she thought of the frenzy of the Sabbath, the transformation of the Becco Notturno into Dionysus, the resurrection of the old gods, and she asked herself:—
'Was it reality or dream? In good sooth, 'twas a dream,and this is the reality! After Sunday always there is—just Monday!'
'Open! open!' yelled the horsedealer, hoarse and desperate. And the raindrops plashed monotonously in the miry pools, the calf bleated piteously, and the bell of the neighbouring convent tolled on, with even and melancholy strokes.
'O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore, tu non ai voluto mancare a nessuna potenzia l'ordine e qualità de suoi necessari effetti! O Stupenda Necessità.'—Leonardo da Vinci.(O admirable Justice of Thee, Thou Prime Mover! To no force hast Thou permitted lack of the order and quality of its necessary effects. O Thrice-Marvellous Necessity!)'Thy Will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.'—Paternoster.
'O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore, tu non ai voluto mancare a nessuna potenzia l'ordine e qualità de suoi necessari effetti! O Stupenda Necessità.'—Leonardo da Vinci.
(O admirable Justice of Thee, Thou Prime Mover! To no force hast Thou permitted lack of the order and quality of its necessary effects. O Thrice-Marvellous Necessity!)
'Thy Will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.'—Paternoster.
Corbolo the shoemaker, a citizen of Milan, having returned home one night over merry, received from his wife, as he said, 'more blows than would have driven a tired ass from Milan to Rome.' The next morning, when his spouse had gone to her neighbour's to fetch the black pudding, Corbolo rooted some concealed coins out of his pouch, left the shop to his apprentice, and went off for a drink, to recover himself.
His hands in the pockets of his threadbare breeches, he sauntered along the narrow street—so narrow that a horseman must needs prick the foot-passengers with his spurs—and sniffed the eternal smell of oil, rotten eggs, sour wine, and mouldy cellars. Whistling a tune, he looked up at the narrow strip of blue sky between the roofs, and at the many-coloured rags and torn garments stretched across the lane on lines that they might be dried in the sun, and solaced himself with his favourite proverb (of which, however, he never took the advice), 'Mala femina, buona femina, vuol bastone.'
To shorten his road he passed through the cathedral,which was still in process of construction. Here there was noise and bustle as in a market-place. From door to door, notwithstanding the fine of fivesoldiimposed upon intruders, there passed persons carrying wine, baskets, cases, trunks, trays, planks, beams, bundles, some even leading asses and mules. The priests were praying and chanting; lamps burned on the altars, and murmurs came from the Confessional; yet the boys played at leap-frog, the dogs barked and fought, and sturdy beggars jostled each other in the quest for alms. Corbolo stood for a space in the crowd, listening with sly amusement to a dispute between two monks, a Franciscan, and a Domenican, on the comparative claims of St. Francis and St. Catharine to occupy the seat in heaven which had been left vacant by the fall of Lucifer.
Corbolo's eyes blinked as he came out of the cathedral gloom into the strong sunlight of the Piazza dell' Arrengo. This was the liveliest part of Milan, crowded with the booths of small vendors, and so overfilled with packing-cases and rubbish, that foot passengers could hardly make their way. From time immemorial these booths had lumbered the square, and no laws nor penalties could expel them.
'Salad of Valtellina! lemons! oranges! artichokes! asparagus!' cried the vegetable-seller.
The rag-wives babbled and cackled like brood-hens. A donkey, almost concealed under a mountain of grapes, oranges, cauliflowers, fennel, beetroot, tomatoes and onions, brayed in lacerating tones:—
'Hee—ho—Hee—ho.' While his driver lustily thumped his shrunken sides, and yelled forth his guttural:—
'Arri—Arri!'
A long string of blind persons with sticks, and guides, chanted a doleful and tedious supplication. A street-dentist, his hat ornamented with a chaplet of teeth, was standing over a man whose head he held between his knees, and with the rapid movements of a juggler, was drawing his teeth with huge pincers. Children were spinning tops under the feet of the pedestrians, and teasing a Jew with offers of a pig's head; Farfanicchio, the leader of the scamps, had let a mouse loose among the market-women. It rushed up the ample petticoats of Barbacchia, the fruit-seller, who jumped up as if she had been scalded, cursing the ragamuffins, and shaking her garments regardless of propriety.
A porter, carrying a pig's carcase, turned round suddenly to see the fun, and terrified the horse of Messer Gabbadeo, the surgeon; it reared and plunged, and overturned a whole pile of kitchenware in the booth beside it; saucepans, frying-pans, skimmers, graters, rolled over with a deafening crash; the horse bolted and carried away the terrified surgeon, his arms round its neck, his great bass voice alternately imploring God and the devil to rescue him. The dogs barked, curious faces were thrust from windows; laughter, cries, curses, whistling, shouting rose on all sides; and the donkeys brayed from every side of the square.
Watching this diverting spectacle, the shoemaker said to himself philosophically:—
'The world would be a good place enough, if it were not for the women, who devour their husbands as rust devours iron.'
Then shading his eyes with his hand, he looked up at the vast unfinished pile surrounded with scaffolding. This was the great cathedral, the magnificent temple which Milan was erecting in honour of the Birth of the Virgin. All, small and great, had contributed to the shrine. The queen of Cyprus had sent a precious cloth embroidered with gold. Caterina, the old rag-woman, had laid on the altar of the Virgin her only cloak, worth twentysoldi. Corbolo, who from his childhood had watched the progress of the building, saw this morning a new pinnacle, and rejoiced.
All around was heard the tapping of mallets and hammers. The immense blocks of sparkling marble brought from the quarries on the Lago Maggiore were landed on the wharf at Laghetto de Santo Stefano, not far from the Ospedale Maggiore, and were still arriving at the building; cranes creaked and rattled their chains, iron saws grated on the marble, the workmen swarmed around the scaffolding like flies. And daily the great temple was growing, with its countless spires, its belfries and turrets of pure white gleaming against the azure heavens; a perpetual hymn raised by the people of Milan to the glory of Maria Nascente.
Corbolo descended by steep stairs from the piazza to a cool arched cellar set with wine casks, of which the master was aGerman named Tibaldo. The shoemaker greeted the company, and sitting down by his friend Scarabullo the tinman, ordered a flask of wine and hot pastry flavoured with thyme; then he drank a long slow draught, filled his mouth, and said:
'Scarabullo, if you desire wisdom, take unto yourself no wife.'
'Why not?' demanded Scarabullo.
'Because, friend, to marry is to thrust your hand into a bag of serpents in order to draw out an eel. Better have the gout than a wedded wife, Scarabullo.'
At the table beside them, surrounded by a hungry and credulous crowd, Mascarello, the jolly goldsmith, was singing the praises of a fabulous land, where the vines are hung with sausages, and a goose and a gosling together cost a single penny; where there are mountains of cheese ready grated, andgnocchiand macaroni are cooked in the fat of capons and thrown to him who asketh; andvernaccia, the best white wine, into which enters not one drop of water, springs from the soil in a natural fountain. A little man named Gorgoglio, a glass-blower, at this moment came running into the tavern: by reason of the king's evil, his eyes were half-shut, like those of a new-born puppy. He was bibulous and a great lover of talk.
'Sirs, sirs!' he cried, raising his hat and wiping his streaming face, 'I have seen the Frenchmen!'
'Gorgoglio, you dream. 'Tis impossible they be here yet.'
'I' faith, they be here; they are at Pavia. Let me but breathe! 'Tis not weather for running, and I have run the whole course to be first with the news.'
'Take my bottle. Drink and recount: of what sort be these French?'
'A bad sort, friends; a very bad sort. Heaven defend us from them! trust not your fingers in their mouths, friends. Choleric, savage infidels, like ferocious brutes; in a word, barbarians. They carry arquebuses eight braccia long, partisans of brass, iron bombards which belch stones; their horses are sea-monsters, shaggy, with docked ears and tails.'
'Be they many?'
'Ay, a crowd; they beset the plain as locusts; you can see no end to them. The Lord hath sent them for the chastisement of our sins, this Black Death, these northern devils.'
'But why, Gorgoglio, speak thus ill of them?' asked Mascarello; 'they come as our friends—our allies.'
'Allies! Hold your peace. Look after your pockets, say I, for that kind of ally is worse than an enemy. He'll buy the horn and steal the bullock.'
'Rave not, Gorgoglio. Expound simply why you hold these French inimical.'
'Because they trample down our crops; because they fell our trees, carry off our beasts, ravish our women. Their king is a baboon; no soul behind his teeth; but he is a great lover of women. He carries a book, pictures of our handsomest women. And they say that, God helping them, they will not leave a maid between Milan and Naples.'
'The villains!' cried Scarabullo, thumping with his fist so that the glasses rang.
'And our Moro,' continued Gorgoglio, 'dances on his hind legs to the sound of the French pipe. And they don't count us to be men, neither. "You," they say, making their grimaces, "you are all thieves and assassins. You have poisoned your rightful duke, you have murdered an innocent boy. For this God punishes you and gives us your land." And we, friends, are receiving them into our arms and feeding them!'
'These be old wives' tales, Gorgoglio.'
'Blind me, cut out my tongue if I speak not the truth! Nor have I told all. Hearken,signori miei, to what they have the audacity to say. They say "We are destined to overcome all the peoples of Italy, to subdue all the seas and the nations of the sea, to destroy the grand Turk, and plant the true cross on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem; then we will come back to you, and we will execute on you the fury of God. And if you submit not yourselves, your name shall be wiped off from the face of the earth." That's what they say!'
''Tis ill news,' sighed Mascarello the goldsmith. 'Unheard-of news!'
The rest were silent.
Then Fra Timotea, the lean Domenican, who had been disputing in the cathedral with Fra Cipolla about the saints in glory, raised his hands to heaven and said solemnly:—
'Such were the words of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, that great prophet of the Lord. "Behold," said he, "the man cometh who is destined to conquer Italy without drawing the sword from the scabbard. O Florence! O Rome! O Milan!Past is the hour of feasting and of song! Repent ye, repent! The blood of Gian Galeazzo, the blood of Abel which was spilt by Cain, crieth for vengeance before the throne of God."'
At this moment a brace of soldiers came in.
'The French! the French! See!' exclaimed Gorgoglio, nudging his companions.
One of the newcomers was a Gascon; young, tall, and shapely, with a handsome impudent face adorned by red moustachios; a cavalry sergeant named Bonnivart. The other old, fat, bull-necked, red-faced, swollen-eyed, ear-ringed, was a gunner from Picardy named Groguillioche. Both were a little drunk.
'Sacrement de l'autel!' said the sergeant slapping the others on the back. 'Shall we at last find a mug of good wine in this accursed town? The sour stuff of this Lombardy burns my throat like vinegar.' And stretching himself on a bench, and throwing a contemptuous glance at the company, he rapped with his knuckles, and shouted in bad Italian:—
'White wine, dry, your oldest; and brain-sausage for the first course!'
'You are right, comrade,' said Groguillioche; 'when I think of our wine of Burgundy, of the preciousBeaunegold as my Lison's hair, my heart bursts with melancholy. Most true is it: "Like people, like wine." Let us drink, comrade, to the prosperity of our France.'
'Du grand Dieu soit mauldit à outranceQui mal vouldroit au royaume de France!'
'Du grand Dieu soit mauldit à outranceQui mal vouldroit au royaume de France!'
'Du grand Dieu soit mauldit à outranceQui mal vouldroit au royaume de France!'
'Du grand Dieu soit mauldit à outrance
Qui mal vouldroit au royaume de France!'
'What say they?' murmured Scarabullo into Gorgoglio's ear.
'Scurvy talk!' said the latter. 'They praise their own wine, and praise not ours.'
'Just look at those two French cocks,' grumbled the tinman; 'my hand itches to be at them.'
Meanwhile Tibaldo, the German host, with fat belly on thin legs, and a formidable bunch of keys at his leathern girdle, drew from the cask halfbrentasof wine, and served them to the foreigners in an earthenware jug, looking most suspiciously at his guests. Bonnivart drank his potion at onedraught, and found it excellent: none the less, he spat, making a face of disgust. Just then Lotte, Tibaldo's daughter passed by; a slim, flaxen-haired little lass, with kind blue eyes like her father's. The Gascon nudged his comrade, twirled his moustaches seductively, drank, and trolled out a song, to which Groguillioche added a husky chorus:—
'Charles fera si grandes bataillesQu'il conquerra les Itailles,En Jerusalem entreraEt mont Olivet montera.'
'Charles fera si grandes bataillesQu'il conquerra les Itailles,En Jerusalem entreraEt mont Olivet montera.'
'Charles fera si grandes bataillesQu'il conquerra les Itailles,En Jerusalem entreraEt mont Olivet montera.'
'Charles fera si grandes batailles
Qu'il conquerra les Itailles,
En Jerusalem entrera
Et mont Olivet montera.'
Presently Lotte passed them again, modestly dropping her eyes, but the sergeant caught her by the waist and tried to pull her to his knee. She pushed him away, broke loose, and fled. He jumped up, caught her and kissed her cheek, his lips still wet with wine. The girl screamed, dropped the pitcher she was carrying, and struck the Frenchman so hard a blow that for a moment he was stunned, at which there was a general laugh.
'Well done, wench!' cried the goldsmith. 'By St. Gervaso, I ne'er saw a heartier smack, nor one more seasonably applied.'
Groguillioche tried to restrain his companion.
'Let her alone. Don't make a fool of yourself,' he said.
But the Gascon was flown with wine, and, laughing with a laugh that was but at one side of his mouth, he cried:—
'That's your way, is it, my beauty?Ventre bleu!next time it shall not be on your cheek, but fair on your lips.'
Upsetting the table, he sprang after her, captured her, and would have executed his threat, had not the powerful hand of Scarabullo seized him by the throat.
'Ha! son of a dog! Hideous mug of a Frenchman! I'll teach you how to insult the girls of Milan!' and he shook his victim backwards and forwards, nearly choking him.
'Sacrebleu! Sacrebleu!' roared Groguillioche infuriated; 'hands off, ruffian!Vive la France! St. Denis et St. George!' His sword was out, and prompt to be thrust into the tinman's back, but Mascarello, Gorgoglio, Maso, and the rest intervening, tied his hands. Now was utter confusion; tables overset, benches smashed, casks rolling, shards of smashed pitchers under the feet, everywhere pools of wine. Seeing blood, naked swords, and brandished knives, Tibaldo rushed into the street, and, in a voice fit to fill the square, yelled:—
'Assassination! Homicide! The French are sacking the town!'
At once the market bell rang forth and was answered by its brother of the Broletto. The dealers closed their shops. Fruit-sellers and rag-wives ran hither and thither packing their goods.
'San Gervaso and San Protaso! our protecting saints; lend us aid!' cried the fat vegetable-woman with the tremendous voice.
'What is on foot? What is happening? Is it a conflagration?'
'Down! Down with the Frenchmen!'
Farfannichio, the naughty boy, danced with delight, whistling and yelling.
'Down with the Frenchmen! Down with the Frenchmen!'
Guards and soldiers now appeared on the scene, mighty with arquebuses and pikes. They were just in time to rescue Groguillioche and Bonnivart from death at the hands of the mob. Laying hands right and left, they arrested amongst others Corbolo the shoemaker.
His wife, who had run up on sound of the tumult, now wrung her hands piteously, and wailed:—
'For pity's sake, let him go! Have mercy on my poor little husband! I will chastise him at home, and never allow him into a street squabble again. Believe me, Messeri, he is a perfect natural, and not worth the rope you would hang him with.'
But Corbolo, hanging his head, fixing his eyes on the ground, and pretending not to hear these intercessions, hid behind the stout person of one of the guards, who seemed to him far less terrible than his spouse.
Right above the scaffolding of the unfinished cathedral, up a narrow stair of rope to one of the slender pinnacles, not far from the principal tower, a certain young mason clomb, bearing a small statue of St. Catharine, to be fixed on the very top of the little spire. Around him rose a perfect forest of pinnacles, sharp-pointed like stalactites; spires, flying arches, stone lacework of unexampled flowers and foliage, prophets, martyrs,and angels, the grinning masks of devils, monstrous birds, sirens, harpies, dragons with scaly wings and gaping mouths, every sort of gargoyle at the terminals of the water-pipes. All was of marble very pure and white, upon which the shadows showed blue as smoke, the whole suggesting a winter wood clothed in sparkling frost. It was quiet, save that the swallows and swifts made joyous cries as they continually circled above and around the building. The hum of the crowd in the square reached the young mason like the low murmur of an ant-hill. At times he fancied organ-notes and prayerful sighs rose from the interior of the temple as from the depth of its stony heart; and then it seemed as if the whole vast edifice breathed and grew and heaved to the sky like the eternal praise of the birth of Mary; like the glad hymn of all ages and of all peoples to the Immaculate Virgin.
Suddenly the hum from the square increased in volume, and an uproar became plain to the ear. The mason paused in his work and looked down. Then his head swam and his eyes grew dim. He felt the edifice rocking under him, and the slender pinnacle towards which he was climbing bent like a reed.
'It is all over!' he said. 'I am falling. Lord receive my spirit.'
He clung desperately to the rope, closed his eyes, and murmured:—
'Ave Maria, piena di grazia.'
Then he felt more at ease. From above swept a breath of cool wind; he recovered himself, collected his strength and climbed higher, listening no longer to the humming of earth, but ascending towards the serene and quiet heaven, saying with great unction:—
'Ave, dolce Maria, di grazia piena.'
At this moment, traversing the broad marble roof, came the members of the building committee, Council of the Fabric, architects both native and foreign, summoned by the duke to consult about the Tiburio, the principal tower, which was to rise even higher than the cupola. Among them was Leonardo da Vinci; he had submitted his plan, but the council had rejected it as too daring, too extravagant, and not sufficiently in accord with the traditions of church architecture. The council quarrelled over the matter, and could not arrive at an agreement. Some said the building had beencommenced by ignorant people, and that the inner columns were not stable enough to carry the Tiburio and all the lesser towers and pinnacles. According to others the cathedral was like to stand firm till Doomsday.
Leonardo took no part in the dispute, but stood aside, silent and alone. One of the workmen approached and handed him a letter.
'Messere,' he said, 'it has been brought to Your Magnificence by a messenger from Pavia.'
Leonardo read the letter:—
'Leonardo, I need thee. Come to me at once. October 14.Gian Galeazzo, the Duke.'
The Master excused himself to his fellow-councillors, descended to the square, mounted, and rode off to the Castle of Pavia, a few hours' distant from Milan.
In the great park the chestnuts, elms, and maples glowed golden and purple under an autumn sun. Slowly, like dead butterflies, the leaves dropped from the branches. There was no bubbling of water in the grass-grown fountains. Asters were withering in neglected flower-beds.
Approaching the castle Leonardo saw a dwarf; it was Gian Galeazzo's old jester, the only servant who had remained faithful to the dying duke. Recognising the painter, he advanced running and leaping.
'How is His Highness?' asked Leonardo.
The dwarf made no reply, only waved his hands with a gesture of despair; Leonardo directed his horse to the principal entrance, but the other stopped him.
'Nay, not by this road,' said he, 'it hath too many eyes. His Highness prays you to come secretly, for Madonna Isabella would forbid your entry did she know of it. Come by this path.'
They entered by a corner tower, then mounted a stair and traversed apartments once magnificent but now gloomy and deserted. The gilded Cordovan leather had been torn from the walls; the throne and its silken canopy was hung with cobwebs; autumn winds had blown yellow leaves through the broken window panes.
'Thieves! ruffians!' muttered the dwarf, pointing out tohis companion these marks of desolation. 'Believe me, Messere, eyes cannot bear to look on the things done here. I would have fled to the uttermost ends of the earth were it not that my lord hath no one to look to but me, his ancient deformity. This way, I pray you, this way.'
Opening a door he introduced Leonardo into a close dark room, heavy with the odour of drugs.
At that moment Gian Galeazzo was being bled: according to the rules of surgery the operation was performed by candle-light, and with closed shutters. The surgeon, or rather the barber, a timid old man, was opening the vein, and his assistant held the brass basin; the physician, a man of grave and impenetrable countenance, wearing spectacles and a hood of dark purple velvet and squirrel's fur, merely watched, for to handle surgical instruments was derogatory to the dignity of a Doctor of Medicine.
'Before night he shall be bled again,' said the great man when the arm had been bandaged and the duke was restored to his pillows.
'Domine magister,' objected the barber respectfully, 'were it not wiser to wait? The patient is weakened, and an excessive drain of blood——'
But he stopped short, for the doctor looked at him with freezing irony.
''Tis time you knew that of the twenty-four pounds of blood in the human body you may let twenty without damage. I have bled sucking babes and seen them recover.'
Leonardo listened to this conversation, but reminded himself that to dispute with doctors was vain as to argue with alchemists. He held his peace till the empirics had departed and the dwarf had covered the patient and shaken his pillows. Above the bed hung a little green parrot in a cage; cards and dice strewed the table. On it was also a glass with gold-fish, at the duke's feet slept a little white dog,—all the faithful servant's last attempts at ministering to his master's amusement.
'Has the letter been sent?' asked the sick man, not opening his eyes.
'Excellency, Messer Leonardo has come. We waited, fearing to disturb your Grace's slumber.'
A feeble smile illuminated the duke's countenance. He tried to raise himself.
'Master, at last! And I had been fearing you would not come!'
Gian Galeazzo took the artist's hand in his, and a faint colour spread over his beautiful young face:—he was but four-and-twenty. The dwarf left the room to keep guard at the door.
'Friend,' began the duke, 'you have heard the slander?'
'Which slander, my lord?' asked the painter.
'If you know not which, 'tis that you have heard nothing, and it is not worth the trouble of telling you. Yet no, I will tell you, that we may have our mock at it together. They say——' He paused, looked the artist full in the eyes, and, smiling calmly, completed the phrase; 'they say 'tis you have murdered me.'
Leonardo thought him delirious, but he repeated:—
'Just that. They say 'tis you have murdered me. Three weeks ago Il Moro and his Beatrice sent me a basket of delectable peaches. But Madonna Isabella says that from the moment I tasted them I have pined away; that in your garden you have a peach-tree which bears poison.'
'In very truth,' assented Leonardo, 'I have such a tree.'
'Amico mio!can it be possible——'
'Nay; not if the fruit be really that from my garden. I can explain the reason of these rumours. To study the effect of poison upon trees, I inoculated my peach-tree with arsenic, and warned Zoroastro, my disciple, to beware of the fruit. Probably he was over hasty in relating the fact, for as matter of truth the experiment failed and the peaches have proved innocuous.'
'I knew it! I knew it!' cried the duke with relief. 'No one is guilty of my death. Yet here each one is suspecting the other, and hating and fearing him! If it were but possible to speak openly, as you and I speak to each other at this instant! My uncle is suspected of the deed; but I know him to be a kindly man, though timorous and weak. What interest could he have in my death when I myself am willing to give him my throne? I want nothing; I would gladly have left all these people and lived in retirement and liberty with a few chosen friends. I would have been a monk, or thy pupil, Leonardo. But no one willbelieve that I do not desire power. Why have they done this evil?Dio mio!they have not poisoned me, but they have poisoned themselves, poor blind ones! with the harmless fruit of thy harmless tree. I have grieved over perverse fate which makes me to die young, but now I am calm, I am at ease, Master, as though on a scorching day I had thrown off dusty clothes and cast myself into pure water. I know not how to tell thee, dear friend, but of a surety thou dost comprehend, thou who art thyself——'
Leonardo smiled serenely, and pressed the poor wasted hand, but did not answer.
'I knew that you would understand,' continued the invalid with animation. 'Do you remember how once you said to me that the study of those eternal laws which govern the vicissitudes of nature conducts men to humility and to great tranquillity of soul? Your phrase struck me even then; but now in sickness, in loneliness—ay, in delirium—how often do I remember thy words, and thyself, and thy countenance, and thy voice, O Master! Sometimes it seems to me that by different ways thou and I have reached the same end: thou by the way of life—I by death.'
At this moment the door opened, and the dwarf burst into the room, and announced with agitation:—
'Monna Druda!'
Leonardo would have retired, but the duke detained him, and Gian Galeazzo's old nurse came in bearing a phial of scorpion ointment. It was a precious balsam, made by catching scorpions in the height of summer, when the sun is in Cancer, keeping them for fifty days exposed to the sun, then plunging them alive into hundred-year-old olive oil, mixed with groundsel, mithridates, and snake-root. Nightly the patient must be anointed at the temples, in the armpits, on the belly, round the heart; and then the wise woman swore he would take no ill from spells, from witchcraft, nor eke from poison.
The old nurse, seeing Leonardo seated on the bed, stopped, turned ashy-white, and came nigh dropping her priceless balm.
'Santa Vergine benedetta!Defend us!' she murmured. And crossing herself, and mumbling exorcisms and prayers, she ran as fast as her old legs would carry her, to bring Madonna Isabella the terrible tidings.
Monna Druda was entirely convinced that Ludovico the assassin, and Leonardo his accomplice, had brought Gian Galeazzo to his death, if not by poison, at any rate by witchcraft and the evil eye. The duchess Isabella, kneeling in her private chapel before the most sacred image, was praying fervently, when Monna Druda, greatly agitated, rushed in to tell her Leonardo was with the duke. The lady leaped to her feet, and cried, her face scarlet with indignation:—
'It cannot be! Who has allowed him to pass?'
'Nay, Most Illustrious, who can tell how this accursed sorcerer should pass? Have I not been saying to your Excellency——' She was interrupted by a page, who knelt before the lady.
'Most Excellent Madonna, will your ladyship and your ladyship's most illustrious consort deign to receive His Majesty the Most Christian King of France?'
CharlesVIII.was lodged in the lower floor of the Castle of Pavia, luxuriously prepared for him by Ludovico Il Moro. Reposing after his dinner, he was listening to the reading of a book, absurdly translated out of the Latin into French, and calledMirabilia urbis Romæ.
Charles had been a solitary, sickly child, frightened to death by his father. During many weary years, in the Castle of Amboise, he had beguiled his melancholy by the reading of chivalric romances, till his brain, never of the strongest, was completely turned. At twenty years of age he was on the throne; and, his mind full of Lancelot, Tristram, and the other heroes of the Round Table, believed himself destined to rival these legendary persons, and to put into the reality of life what belonged only to books and to dream. The court poets bathed him in an atmosphere of perpetual adulation, calling him the offspring of Mars, the heir of Julius Cæsar, when at the head of a great host he had crossed the Alps, and made his descent into Lombardy, lured by the extravagant hope of conquering Italy and the East, and destroying the heretical Mahometan religion.
To-night, listening to the description of the wonders of Rome, the King smiled, thinking of the glory to accrue tohim from the Eternal City. His thoughts were, however, somewhat confused. He had dined heavily, and was now troubled by stomach-ache and headache, and above all by the recollection of a certain Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli, whose beauty had haunted him for a day and a night.
CharlesVIII.was low in stature and sufficiently ugly. His chest was narrow, his shoulders crooked, his legs thin as a pair of tongs. His nose was too large, his mouth hung open, his projecting eyes were so short-sighted as to give him a perpetually strained expression; his light hair was scanty, and he had no moustache; his hands and face twitched convulsively, his speech was thick and abrupt, it was said he had six toes, and for this reason had set the court fashion of broad soft shoes of black velvet, rounded at the top to the form of a horse-shoe. This general ungainliness, together with his habitual melancholy and distraction, produced an impression not too ill warranted of natural imbecility.
'Thibaut! Thibaut!' he cried suddenly to his valet, interrupting the reading with his customary abruptness, and stammering with the effort to find his words. 'Thibaut! I—somehow think I am thirsty. Eh? Perhaps the heat——Bring me some wine—Thibaut——'
The Cardinal Brissonet, entering, announced that the duke was expecting His Most Christian Majesty.
'Eh—eh? What? The duke? Good; we come immediately. Let me first drink——'
And he stretched his hand for the cup brought by his servant. Brissonet, however, stopped him, and demanded of Thibaut:—
'Is it of our own?'
'No, Monsignore; from the ducal cellar. Our own is consumed.'
Brissonet upset the cup.
'Your Majesty will pardon me, but the wines of this place may be unwholesome. Thibaut, send a messenger at once to the camp, and let him fetch a barrel from the field cellar.'
'Why—eh? What is this?' asked the King disconcerted.
The cardinal whispered that he feared poison; anything might be expected from men who had done to death their legitimate sovereign; true, nothing suspicious had yet occurred, but prudence never comes amiss.
'Eh? All child's folly!' grumbled Charles, twitching one shoulder: however, he submitted.
The heralds took their places before the king; pages raised over his head the splendid baldachin of blue silk, embroidered with the silver lilies of France; the seneschal threw on his shoulders a scarlet mantle, ermine-bordered, and embroidered with golden bees, and the motto, 'Roi des abeilles n'a pas d'aiguillons'; the procession traversed gloomy and deserted halls, and took its way to the apartments of the dying man.
Passing the chapel, the king caught sight of the Duchess Isabella at her faldstool. He gallantly removed his cap, stopped, and calling her 'dear sister,' would have kissed her on the lips, according to the French ceremonial, but the duchess hurried to throw herself at his feet.
'Have compassion on us, most clement lord,' she began hurriedly, in set words. 'Defend the innocent, O magnanimous knight-errant, and God shall give thee thy reward! Il Moro has robbed us of everything; he has usurped our throne; has given poison to Gian Galeazzo, my husband, legitimate inheritor of the Lords of Milan! In our own house he has surrounded us with spies and assassins....'
Charles scarcely understood or even listened.
'Eh? Eh? What?' he asked, stammering and twitching. 'No, no, sister. No occasion.... Rise, rise, I beseech you.'
But the unhappy lady knelt on, embracing his knees, weeping, and covering his hands with kisses.
'Ah, Sire, if you also fail me, what remains to me but to take my life?'
This completed the king's embarrassment; puckering his face like a child about to cry, he stuttered:—
'There, there! Good God! 'tis impossible! Brissonet! Brissonet!—I can't. You tell her that——'
Before this lady, who in her humility and her desperation appeared to him sublime as some heroine of antique tragedy, he felt no sentiment of compassion, but only an inane desire to make his escape.
'Most noble lady, calm yourself,' said the cardinal, coldly courteous. 'His Majesty will do all that is in his power for you and for your consort, Messer Jean Galeas.' (So he Gallicised the name.)
The duchess looked at the cardinal; then looked at the king; and as if realising for the first time the sort of being to whom she was making supplication, became silent.
Deformed, pitiful, ridiculous, he stood before her, his mouth gaping, a foolish smile over his whole countenance, his light eyes opened in a senseless stare.
'I, the grand-daughter of Ferdinand of Aragon, at the feet of this abortion!—this idiot!'
She rose, and a flush mounted on her pale cheek.
The king felt it incumbent on him to say something, to end somehow this embarrassing silence. He made a great effort, shrugged his shoulders, blinked, but could get no further than his usual—
'Eh? eh? What?' Then he waved his hand in despair, and relapsed into dumbness. Isabella measured him with her eyes in undissembled scorn, and Charles was abashed and hung his head.
'Brissonet! Brissonet! Let us go! Eh? What?'
The pages threw open the doors, and his progress continued till he had reached the room where Gian Galeazzo lay dying. Here the shutters had been thrown back, and the calm light of the autumn evening fell across the gilded tree-tops and streamed in through the windows.
The king approached the sufferer, and inquired solicitously after his health, calling him 'cousin,' 'mon cousin.' Gian Galeazzo answered with such a gentle smile that the poor king was relieved, and gradually recovered from his confusion.
'May the Lord send victory to the hosts of your Highness,' said the duke. 'And when you shall be at Jerusalem, at the Holy Sepulchre of Christ, oh, then, pray for the health of my poor soul; for by that time, sire, I——'
'Oh, no! no, brother! Speak not thus,' protested Charles, 'you shall recover. We must march together against these unclean Turks. Eh? Believe my words. I give you my word—Eh? what?'
Gian Galeazzo shook his head.
'Impossible,' he murmured, looking into the king's eyes with his penetrating glance. 'And, sire, when I shall be dead, I pray you, abandon not my little Francesco and my unhappy Isabella. They will have none other to look to.'
'Good God! Good God!' murmured Charles, overcomeby unlooked-for emotion. His lips quivered, their corners drooped, and, as by a sudden light from within, his face shone with an immense kindliness. He bent over the sick man and folded him in his arms.
'Brother! my poor dear brother!' They smiled sadly, like a pair of poor sick children; and kissed each other.
When he had left the room, the king turned to the cardinal.
'Brissonet—Brissonet! We must do something—eh? Defend—protect——This will not do! It cannot be permitted. I am a knight; I must succour the unfortunate. Do you understand?'
'Sire,' replied the cardinal, 'what is the use? His destiny is to die. We cannot profit him, but we can damn ourselves. Moreover, 'tis Il Moro who is your ally.'
'Il Moro is a murderer! that is it; a proper murderer,' exclaimed Charles, his eyes sparkling with indignation.
'Is it our business?' asked Brissonet, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile. 'Il Moro is neither better nor worse than others. 'Tis political necessity. We are but men, sire.'
The cup-bearer now came with a goblet of French wine, which Charles drank thirstily. It refreshed him, and scattered his sad thoughts. With the cup-bearer had entered a messenger from Ludovico, bearing an invitation to supper for the king. Charles declined it: the envoy pressed his suit, but unavailingly. Then the messenger whispered to Thibaut, who in turn whispered to the king.
'Your Highness—Madonna Lucrezia——'
'Eh? what? What Lucrezia?'
'The lady with whom your Majesty danced last night.'
'Ah, yes; to be sure. I recall her. Madonna Lucrezia; a pretty little mouthful! Do you hint she would be at supper?'
'Certes, she will be there. And she supplicates your Highness——'
'She supplicates? Eh? What say you, Thibaut? I, forsooth——Well, well, to-morrow we take the field—'tis the last time. Messere, give your master my thanks, and tell him that I—forsooth——'
The King took Thibaut aside.
'Hark you—this Madonna Lucrezia—who is she?'
'Sire, the leman of Il Moro.'
'Alas!'
'A single word from your Majesty and all can be accompolished this evening itself, if you will, sire.'
'No! no! How? I—his guest?'
'Il Moro will find his pleasure in it. Sire, you understand not this people here!'
'Well then, well! As you will. It is your affair.'
'Your Majesty may be at ease. A single word——'
'Speak no more, Thibaut. It mislikes me. Have I not said 'tis your work. I have nothing to say to it. Do what you choose!'
Thibaut bowed and withdrew.
Upon reaching the foot of the stair the king frowned and scratched his head, trying to recall his thoughts.
'Brissonet! Brissonet! What was I saying? Ah yes—to defend—offended innocence. I am sworn knight——'
'Your Majesty must quit these thoughts. They fit not with the present moment. Later, when we shall have returned victorious from Jerusalem——'
'Jerusalem!' echoed the king, and his eyes dilated, and on his lips came a pale, faint, dreamy smile.
'The hand of the Lord leads your Majesty to victory,' continued Brissonet; 'the finger of God points the way to the army of the cross.'
Charles raised his eyes to heaven as if inspired, and repeated, 'Finger of God! Finger of God!'
The young duke died eight days later. Before his death he prayed for an interview with Leonardo, but Isabella refused to permit it, Monna Druda having told her that the bewitched have always an insuperable and fatal wish to see those who have enchanted them. The old woman indefatigably anointed the patient with scorpion ointment, the doctor ordered bloodletting, the barber opened veins. Nevertheless he quietly died.
'Thy will be done,' were his last words.
Ludovico had his body taken from Pavia to Milan, and buried him under the shadow of the cathedral.
Nobles and elders of the city assembled at the castle, and Ludovico, after assuring them of the profound grief hesuffered at the untimely death of his nephew, made proposal that the child Francesco, Gian Galeazzo's son, should be declared duke. The assembly maintained it were madness to invest an infant with such power. Il Moro himself was implored, in the name of the people, to assume the sceptre. He feigned refusal, but reluctantly yielded to their prayers.
Gold brocade was brought, and the duke put it on; he then rode to the basilica of Sant' Ambrogio surrounded by a crowd of courtiers—Viva il Moro! Viva il duca!—amid the sounding of trumpets, the firing of cannon, the clashing of bells, and—the silence of the people.
A few days later the most sacred relic in Milan, one of the nails of the True Cross, was solemnly transported to the cathedral. By this function Il Moro hoped to please the populace and to consolidate his power.
That night a crowd assembled before Tibaldo's wine-cellar in the Piazza dell' Arrengo. There were present the tinman Scarabullo, Mascarello the goldsmith, Maso the furrier, Corbolo the shoemaker, and Gorgoglio the glass-blower. Standing on a cask in the middle of the crowd was Fra Timoteo, the Domenican, delivering a sermon.
'Brothers! when Santa Elena had found the life-giving Tree of the Cross and the other instruments of the Lord's Passion, which had been buried by the heathen in the earth under the shrine of Venus, then the Emperor Constantine, taking one of these most holy and awful nails, bade the smiths work it into the bit of his war-horse, that thus the word of the prophet Zechariah might be fulfilled: "In that day shall there be upon the bells of the horses Holiness unto the Lord." And this ineffable relic gave him the victory over his enemies and over the adversaries of the Roman Empire.' ... Here Fra Timoteo made a pause, then raising his hands to heaven he cried in a lamentable voice:—'And now, brethren beloved, a great abomination is being committed. Il Moro, the evildoer, the homicide, the usurper, seduceth the people with impious festivals, and would use the most Holy Nail for the support of his trembling throne.'
The crowd showed agitation, and low cries were heard.
'And know ye, my brethren, upon whom he hath devolvedthe construction of the machine for raising the Nail to its place in the cupola above the high altar?'
'To whom?'
'To Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine.'
'Who is this Leonardo?' asked several persons.
'Nay,' returned others, 'we know him; the poisoner of the young duke!'
'Leonardo the sorcerer! Leonardo the heretic! the infidel!'
Corbolo timidly undertook the defence.
'Friends, I have heard say that Leonardo is a good man, who does ill to none, and is compassionate not only of men but of the meanest animals.'
'Speak not foolishly, Corbolo!'
'Hold your tongue. How can a sorcerer be good?'
'My sons! my sons!' declaimed Fra Timoteo, 'there shall be a day when men shall praise the great deceiver, him who walketh in darkness, saying of him, "He is kind, he is just, he is good"; for his face shall be like unto the face of the Christ, and he shall have a voice comforting and pleasant like the voice of a singing woman. And many shall be led astray by his wily kindness. And by the four winds of heaven he shall call together tribes and nations, as a partridge with a deceiving cry calls into her nest the brood of another. Be watchful, O brethren! Behold the angel of darkness, the prince of this world, who is called Antichrist, cometh in human shape. Be watchful, I say, because this Florentine, this Leonardo, is the precursor and the servant of Antichrist.'
''Tis true!' cried Gorgoglio (who, however, had never before even heard of Leonardo); 'they say he has sold his soul to the devil, and has signed the covenant with his blood.'
'Holy Mother of God, have mercy upon us!' babbled Barbaccia the fruit-woman. 'Stamma, the wench at the hangman's who does charing at the prison, told me that this Leonardo (Heaven defend me from speaking his name after dusk) wrests the bodies from the gallows—cuts them up—takes out their bowels——'
'You know not what you speak,' said Corbolo; ''tis a matter of science, and called Anatomy.'
'They say he has made a contrivance to fly in the air on bird's wings,' observed Mascarello the goldsmith.
'Veglias also, that old winged serpent, rebelled against God,' commented Fra Timoteo; 'Simon Magus also raised himself into the air for flight, but the holy Apostle Saint Paul threw him down.'
'He walketh on the water,' cried Scarabullo. 'He says, "God walked on the sea and so will I." Heard you ever so great blasphemy?'
'He goes into a bell, and descends to the bottom of the deep,' added Maso.
'Nay, brothers, credit not that!' cried Gorgoglio. 'What need hath he of a bell? He transforms himself into a fish and swims; he transforms himself into a bird and doth fly.'
'Ahi!beloved brothers!' cried Timoteo; 'and the nail, the Holy Nail is in the hands of this Leonardo!'
'It shall not be!' shouted Scarabullo, clenching his fists; death to us sooner than profanation of our holy things! We will tear the Nail from the hands of the infidel.'
'Vengeance for the Holy Nail! Vengeance for our poisoned lord! Burn him! Hang him!'
'Brothers, what do ye?' cried the shoemaker with imploring hands; 'the night patrol will pass in a moment, and the captain of justice——'
'To the devil with the captain of justice! Run if you're frightened, Corbolo; run under your wife's petticoat.'
And armed with cudgels, staves, poles, and stones, the crowd surged through the streets, shouting and cursing. In front went the monk, bearing the crucifix and chanting the psalm, 'Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered! As wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God!'
The torches smoked and flared. In their scarlet light the lonely moon grew pale, and the quiet stars trembled in the heavens.
Leonardo in his quiet workshop was occupied with the machine for the elevation of the Holy Nail. Zoroastro was making a casket, all glass and gold, in which the relic was to be displayed. Giovanni Boltraffio was sitting in a dark corner watching the Master.
Gradually, however, Leonardo had forgotten his machine, his thoughts having wandered to theories as to the transmission of force by means of blocks and levers. He had made a complicated calculation in which the mathematical law (the inner principle of reason) had explained to him the mechanical law (the outer principle of nature); two great secrets were thus fused into one still greater secret.
'Man,' thought he, 'will never invent anything so perfect, as doth Nature, which of necessity so disposeth her laws that every effect is straitly bound up with its cause.'
In face of the infinite abyss into which he was directing his penetrating gaze, his soul was filled with that sense of overwhelming wonder which has no likeness to the other sentiments of men. On the margin of the paper, covered with the calculations for the simple machinery required for the elevation of the Holy Nail, he wrote these words which echoed in his heart like a prayer:——
'O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore! tu non hai voluto mancare a nessuna potenza l'ordine e qualità de suoi necessari effetti!' (O admirable justice of Thee, Prime Mover! To no force hast Thou permitted lack of the order and quality of its necessary effects!)
But the artist's meditations were interrupted by a furious knocking at the outer door, together with chanting of psalms, and the objurgations and yells of an inflamed rabble. Giovanni and Zoroastro were rushing to see what had happened, when Maturina the cook, with dishevelled hair, burst half dressed into the room, crying:—
'Thieves! Robbers! Murderers! Holy Mother of God have mercy on us!'
'What is it?' asked Leonardo of Marco d'Oggionno, who had also entered, arquebus in hand, and was beginning to shut the shutters.
'I know not exactly. It would seem a crowd of housebreakers, egged on by monks.'
'What is their demand?'
'Only their father can understand these sons of the devil! They demand the Holy Nail.'
'I have it not. 'Tis in the sacristy in the care of Monsignor Arcimboldi.'
''Tis what I told them. But being mad as dogs in the time of the summer solstice, they hearkened not, but continuedto vilify Your Worship as an infidel and a sorcerer, and the poisoner of Gian Galeazzo.'
During this colloquy the noise in the street grew apace.
'Open, or we will fire this accursed nest. In one moment, Leonardo, you shall be flayed! Demon! Antichrist!'
'Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered!' chanted Fra Timoteo to the accompaniment of Farfanicchio's stridulous whistle.
Suddenly Jacopo, the wicked little servant, ran in, sprang on the window ledge, opened the shutter, and was going to jump into the courtyard, but Leonardo held him back.
'Whither art going, child?'
'To call the guard. The captain of justice passes at this hour.'
'No, no. If they catch you they will kill you without a word spoken.'
'They shall not see me. I will get over the wall, through Aunt Trulla's garden, over the green ditch into the backyard. 'Tis as good as done! Likewise it were better they killed me than you, Master.'
And glancing back with eyes full of love and daring, the lad leaped from the window, and was off like a flash.
'For once the little devil is some use,' said Maturina shaking her head.
A stone came crashing through the window, and shrieking and wringing her hands, the fat woman fled, felt her way down the dark stairs to the cellar, and hid in a wine-cask. Marco hurried upstairs to bar the windows; Giovanni, pale, distressed, but indifferent to the peril, turned a woeful countenance to Leonardo, and fell at his feet.
'O Master, they say——I swear it is not true—nay, I believe it not—but for God's sake tell me yourself——!' and he stopped short, panting with agitation. Leonardo smiled sadly.
'You fear they speak truth that I am a murderer?'
'A word, master! a single word from your own lips!'
'But why, friend? If you can harbour a doubt, you would not believe me.'
'Oh, Messer Leonardo, I am in torture ... A word, a single word!'
Leonardo did not answer immediately; then he said in a shaking voice:—
'You also, Giovanni, with them! You, also, against me!'
Outside the blows were such that the whole house shook. Scarabullo was forcing the door with an axe. Leonardo, hearing the imprecations and the insults of the infuriated crowd, felt his heart contracted with anguish and great solitude. His chin drooped, and his glance fell on the lines just written: 'O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore!'
He smiled, and with great humility repeated the words of the dying Gian Galeazzo:—
'All is well. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.'
L'amore di qualunque cosa è figliuolo d'essa cognitione. L'amore à tanto più fervente, quanto la cognitione è piu certa.Leonardo da Vinci.(Knowledge of a thing engenders love of it; the more exact the knowledge, the more fervent the love.)'Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.'—St. Matt.x. 16.
L'amore di qualunque cosa è figliuolo d'essa cognitione. L'amore à tanto più fervente, quanto la cognitione è piu certa.
Leonardo da Vinci.
(Knowledge of a thing engenders love of it; the more exact the knowledge, the more fervent the love.)
'Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.'—St. Matt.x. 16.
Giovanni's Diary
On the 25th of March 1494 I entered myself as a disciple in the studio of Messer Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine master.
This is the order of his teaching:—perspective; the dimensions and proportions of the human body; drawings from examples by the best masters; drawings from nature.
To-day Marco d'Oggionno, my fellow-disciple, has given me a book, taken down entirely from the words of our Master. The book begins thus:—
'The purest joy is given to the body by the light of the sun; to the spirit, by the clear shining of mathematics. That is why the science of Perspective (in which the contemplation of the bright line—la linia radiosa—true solace of the eye, goes hand in hand with the clearness of mathematics—true solace of the mind) must be exalted above all other human research and science. May He who said, "I am the true Light," lend me His aid that I may know the science of Perspective—the science of His light. I divide this book into three parts: the first, the diminishing, by distance, of thesize of objects; the second, the diminishing of thedistinctness of the colour; the third, the diminishing of theclearness of the outline.'
The Master cares for me like a father. When he learned of my poverty, he refused to take the monthly payment agreed on.
The Master says:—
'When you shall have grasped well your Perspective, and hold in your mind the proportions of the human body, then in your walks abroad notice assiduously the postures and movements of men, how they stand, walk, talk, and quarrel; how they laugh and fight; the manner of their faces when they are doing these things, and the manner of the faces of the bystanders who want to separate the fighters; and the faces of those who look on with apathy. Set all in pencil in a note-book of coloured paper, which you should always have about you. When the booklet is filled, take another; put the first one away and keep it. In no wise destroy nor rub out these sketches; for the movements of the body are so endless that no memory could hold them all. That is why you must look on these rough sketches as your best teachers.'
I have made myself such a sketch-book.
To-day in the Vicolo dei Pattari, not far from the cathedral, I encountered my uncle, Oswald Ingrim. He told me he renounced me; and accused me of ruining my soul in the house of the heretic and the infidel.
Whenever I am heavy of heart, I have but to look on his face to grow light and gay. How wondrous are his eyes; clear, blue, pale, and cold—cold as ice. The voice, most pleasant and soft. The most cruel, the most obdurate, can by no means resist his persuasiveness. He sits at his work-table, immersed in thoughts, parting and smoothing his golden beard, long and soft as the silk of a maiden. When he talks with any one, then he partly closes one eye with a merry and kind expression; his glance from under the thick and overhanging eyebrows penetrates the very soul.
He dislikes lively colours, and new and discommodingfashions; nor does he affect perfumes. His linen is of Rhenish stuff, marvellous clean and fine. His black velvetberrettocarries no plumes nor ornaments. His suiting is of black; but he wears a mantle of dark red which reaches to the knee, and hangs in straight folds, as was the old mode in Florence. His movements are easy and quiet, but notable. He is like no one else.
Shoots excellently with the bow or arbalist, rides, swims, is a master of fence with the small sword. To-day I saw him hit the highest point of the cupola of a church with a small thrown coin. Messer Leonardo, by the skill and the strength of his hand, surpassed every competitor.
He is left-handed; but with that same left hand, for all it looks delicate and soft as a woman's, he bends iron fetters and twists the tongue of a brazen bell.
While I was watching him, the child Jacopo ran in laughing and clapping his hands.
'Cripples, Messer Leonardo, monsters! Come your ways into the kitchen, I have brought you such beauties that you shall lick your fingers for joy!'
'Whence came they?'
'From the porch of Sant' Ambrogio. Beggars from Bergamo! I promised you'd give them supper if they'd let themselves be painted.'
Leaving the picture of the Virgin unfinished, Leonardo betook him to the kitchen, I following. We found two brothers, very old and swollen with dropsy, great hanginggoîtreson their throats. With them was the wife of one of them, a withered little old body, whose name Ragnina (little spider) seemed very suitable.
'You see,' cried Jacopo triumphantly, 'I said you would be pleased! Don't I know exactly what you like?'
Leonardo sat down by the hobgoblin cripples, ordered wine to be brought, served it to them himself, questioned them kindly, told them absurd stories to make them laugh. At first they were restive and suspicious, not understanding why they had been brought in. But when he related an anecdote about a dead Jew, whom his compatriots, to evade the law forbidding the burial of Hebrews within the confines of Bologna, had cut in pieces, pickled, spiced, and sent to Venice wherehe was eaten by a Florentine Christian, the Little Spider was like to burst with laughter. Soon all three were tipsy, and laughing and talking and making the most horrible faces. I was disgusted and looked away; but Leonardo watched them with deep and eager curiosity; and when their hideousness had reached its height, took out his sketch-book and drew with the same delighted attention that he had lavished on the smile of the Virgin.
In the evening he showed me a whole collection of caricatures; grotesques not only of men but also of beasts—terrible shapes, like those which haunt sick men in their delirium, the human and the bestial compounded to make one shudder. The muzzle of a porcupine, its quills bristling, its under lip pendent, loose, and thin as a rag, displaying in a human grin two long white teeth like almonds; an old woman, her nose spread and hairy, and scarce bigger than a mole, her lips monstrously thick, like those squat and viscid fungi which grow out of withered trunks.
Cesare da Sesto tells me that sometimes the Master, having met some monstrosity in the street, will follow it for a whole day. Great deformity, he says, is as rare as great beauty; only mediocrity is negligible.
Marco d'Oggionno works like an ox, and carries out all the teacher's rules; the more he tries the less is his success. He is endowed with an invincible constancy. He thinks patience and labour shall possess all things; nor doth he despair of some day becoming a great painter.
He takes also, more than any of us, rare delight in the master's inventions. One of these days he carried his note-book to the Piazza del Broletto, and according to the Master's system he made the required indexed notes of those faces which struck him chiefly in the crowd. But on reaching home he could in no wise translate his notes into a living face. Likewise did he fail in the use of Leonardo's spoon for measuring out colour. His shadows remain thick and unnatural, just as his faces are wooden and devoid of all charm. Marco accounts for this by some small failure in his obedience to the rules. Cesare da Sesto ridicules him.
'This most excellent Marco,' he says, 'is a martyr in the cause of science. His example shows that all thesemeasures and rules be worth nothing. To know how infants are born does not suffice to beget one. Leonardo deceiveth himself and others; he teaches one thing and performs another. When he paints he follows no rule save that of inspiration; yet he is not content to be a great artist, but would be a man of science also. I fear lest, coursing two hares, he run down neither.'