E-text prepared by Katie Hernandez, Shaun Pinder, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustration.
      See 47902-h.htm or 47902-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47902/47902-h/47902-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47902/47902-h.zip)


      Images of the original pages are available through
      Internet Archive. See
      https://archive.org/details/forerunnerdavinci00mererich


Transcriber's note:

      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

      A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
      single character following the carat is superscripted
      (example: 12^o).

      Small capitals are presented as all capitals in this
      e-text.





THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI

The Forerunner


       *       *       *       *       *

  By DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI

    THE DEATH OF THE GODS. Authorized English Version by HERBERT
    TRENCH. 12^o     $1.50

    THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI: THE FORERUNNER. (The
    Resurrection of the Gods.) Authorized English Version edited by
    HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o     $1.50

    THE ANTI-CHRIST. (Peter the Great and Alexis.) Translated by
    HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o (_In Press._)

    TOLSTOI AS MAN AND ARTIST, With an Essay on Dostoievski.
    Authorized English Version.

  G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
  New York     London

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI

AFTER THE PORTRAIT IN THE UFFIZI GALLERY, FLORENCE]


Christ and Anti-Christ

THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI

The Forerunner

by

DIMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI

Author of "The Death of the Gods."

Exclusively Authorised Translation from the Russian of
"The Resurrection of the Gods."

By Herbert Trench







G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
1904




This Romance is the Second of the historical Trilogy, of which the first
volume, dealing with the times of the Emperor Julian, was the _Death of
the Gods_. The present story of the Italian Renaissance has been
published in Russia as _The Resurrection of the Gods_; in France under
the title, _The Romance of Leonardo da Vinci_. This translation is
direct from the Russian, and is the only one in the English language
which is or will be authorised by the Author.


Published, July, 1902
Reprinted, October, 1902; February, 1903; July, 1904




                                         ST. PETERSBOURG, 3, ix, 1901.

À Monsieur Herbert Trench j'accorde l'autorisation _exclusive_ de
traduire du Russe en Anglais mon livre _La Résurrection des Dieux_.

                                                   DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI.




CONTENTS


                                                                  PAGE
  BOOK I
  THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL--1494                                          3

  BOOK II
  ECCE DEUS--ECCE HOMO--1494                                        36

  BOOK III
  THE POISONED FRUITS--1494                                         57

  BOOK IV
  THE WITCHES' SABBATH--1494                                        82

  BOOK V
  THY WILL BE DONE--1494                                           104

  BOOK VI
  THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO--1494-1495                      129

  BOOK VII
  THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES--1496                                    151

  BOOK VIII
  THE AGE OF GOLD--1496-1497                                       172

  BOOK IX
  THE SIMILITUDES--1498-1499                                       210

  BOOK X
  CALM WATERS--1499-1500                                           260

  BOOK XI
  THERE SHALL BE WINGS--1500                                       300

  BOOK XII
  'AUT CÆSAR AUT NIHIL'--1500-1503                                 320

  BOOK XIII
  THE PURPLE BEAST--1503                                           361

  BOOK XIV
  MONNA LISA GIOCONDA--1503-1506                                   385

  BOOK XV
  THE HOLY INQUISITION--1506-1513                                  411

  BOOK XVI
  LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, AND RAPHAEL--1513-1515                   425

  BOOK XVII
  DEATH--THE WINGED PRECURSOR--1516-1519                           437

  EPILOGUE                                                         459




  LEONARDO DA VINCI


     'Sentio rediit ab inferis Julianus.'
     (I feel that Julian has risen again.)--PETRARCH.

     'We see the encounter of vast contraries: Man-god against
     God-man--Apollo Belvedere against Christ.'--DOSTOIEVSKY.




BOOK I

THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL--1494


     'At Siena was discovered another statue of Venus, to the huge joy
     of the inhabitants. A great concourse, with much feasting and
     honour, set it up over the fountain called "Il Fonte Gaja," as an
     adornment....

     'But great tribulation having come upon the land by reason of the
     Florentines, there arose one of the council, a citizen, and spake
     in this wise: "Fellow-citizens, since the finding of this figure we
     have had much evil hap, and if we consider how strictly idolatry is
     prohibited by our faith, what shall we think but that God hath sent
     us this adversity by reason of sin? I advise that we remove this
     image from the public square of the city, deface it, break it in
     pieces, and send it to be buried in the territory of the
     Florentines."

     'All agreeing with this opinion, they confirmed it by a decree; and
     the thing was put into execution, and the statue was buried within
     our confines.' (_Notes of the Florentine sculptor, Lorenzo
     Ghiberti, XVth. century._)


I

In Florence the guild of dyers had their shops hard by the Canonica of
Orsanmichele. The houses were disfigured by every sort of shed,
outhouse, and projection on crooked wooden supports; tiled roofs leaned
so close to each other as almost to shut out the sky, and the street was
dark even in the glare of noon. In the doorways below, samples of
foreign woollen-stuffs were suspended, sent to Florence to be dyed with
litmus-lichen, with madder, or with woad steeped in a corrosive of
Tuscan alum. The street was paved roughly, and in the kennel flowed
many-coloured streams, oozings from the dye vats. Shields over the
portals of the principal shops, or _Fondachi_ were blazoned with the
arms of the Calimala (so the guild of dyers was named), 'on a field
gules, an eagle or, upon a ball of wool argent.'

Within one of these _Fondachi_, among huge account-books and piles of
commercial documents, sat Messer Cipriano Buonaccorsi, a worthy
Florentine merchant, and Master of the Noble Guild of the Calimala.

It was a cold March evening, and damp exhaled from the choked and
cumbered cellars; the old man was a-cold, and he drew his worn
squirrel-mantle tightly round him. A goose-quill was stuck behind his
ear, and with omniscient, though weak and myopic eyes, that seemed at
once careless and attentive, he conned the parchment leaves of his
ponderous ledger; debit to the left, credit to the right; divided by
rectangular lines, and annotated in a round, even hand, unadorned by
stops, or capitals, or Arabic numerals, which were considered frivolous
innovations, impertinent in business-books. On the first page was
inscribed in imposing characters: 'In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ
and the most blessed Virgin Mary, this book is begun in the year of the
Lord MCCCCLXXXXIV.'

Having corrected an error in the number of bales received in pledge, and
satisfied himself as to the latest entries of podded pepper, Mecca
ginger, and bundles of cinnamon, Messer Cipriano leaned wearily against
the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and meditated upon an epistle he
must indite for his emissary at the Wool Fair in Montpellier of France.
Just then some one entered, and the old man raising his glance saw his
_contadino_, Grillo, who rented from him certain vineyards and fields
belonging to his mountain-villa of San Gervaso in the valley of the
Mugnone. Grillo did obsequious reverence, tendering a basket of brown
eggs, carefully packed, while at his belt clucked two fat chickens,
their feet tied and their heads hanging.

'Ah, Grillo!' exclaimed Buonaccorsi, with his customary urbanity, 'has
the Lord been gracious to you? Meseems, we have the spring season at
last.'

'Messer Cipriano, to us old men even the spring brings no delight. Our
old bones ache worse than before and cry louder for the grave. I have
brought your worship eggs and young cockerels for Easter.' And he
screwed up his greenish eyes, revealing innumerable small creases all
round them, the effect of rude acquaintance with wind and sun.
Buonaccorsi, having thanked him for the gift, turned to business.

'Well, have you the men ready at the farm? Can we get all done before
day-break?'

Grillo sighed prodigiously, and meditated, leaning heavily on his
staff. 'All is ready, and there are men enough. But I ask you, Messer
Cipriano, were it not better we waited a little?'

'Nay, old man, you have said yourself that we must not wait, lest the
matter become known.'

'True. Yet the thing is terrible. It is sin. And the days now are
holy-days, days of fasting; and our work is of another sort.'

'Well, I will take the sin on my own soul. Fear naught; I will not
betray you. Only tell me--shall we find what we seek?'

'Why should we not? We have signs to guide us. Did not our fathers know
of the hill behind the mill at the Humid Hollow? And at night there's
the Jack o' Lantern over San Giovanni. That means lots of this rubbish
all round. I have heard tell that not long ago, when they were digging
in the vineyard at Marignola, they drew a whole devil from out the
clay.'

'A devil? What manner of devil?'

'A bronze one with horns. He had hairy legs--goat's legs--with hoofs.
And a face which laughs. And he dances on one leg and snaps his fingers.
'Twas very old; all green and crumbled.'

'What did they do with it?'

'They made it into a bell for the new chapel of San Michele.'

Messer Cipriano was beside himself. 'Grillo, you should have told me of
this before!'

'Your worship had gone to Siena.'

'You should have sent after me. I would have despatched some one--I
would have come myself--I would have grudged no expense--I would have
cast ten bells for them in its place. The idiots! To make a Dancing
Faun--perhaps a real Scopas--into a bell!'

'Ay, they showed their folly. But, Messer Cipriano, be not wroth. They
are punished: for since they hung that new bell the worms have eaten the
apples, and the olives have failed. And the tone of the bell is bad.'

'How so?'

'That's not for me to say. It hasn't the proper note. It brings no joy
to the Christian heart. Somehow it sounds unmeaning. 'Tis what one might
expect: one can't get a Christian bell out of a dumb devil. Be it not
spoke to anger your worship, but, Messer Cipriano, the good Father is
right; of all this filth they dig up, no good is going to come. We must
go to work with prudence and defend ourselves with the cross and with
prayers; for the Devil is subtle and powerful and the son of a dog, and
he creeps in at one ear and out at the other. We were led into
temptation even by that stone arm which Zaccheo found at the Hill of the
Mill. 'Twas the Evil One tempted us, and we came to harm by it. Lord
defend us! 'Tis dreadful even to remember!'

'How got you it, Grillo?'

'The thing happened last autumn on the Eve of Martinmas. We were sitting
us down to sup, and the good woman had put the porridge on the table,
when my nephew Zaccheo came bursting in from his digging in the field on
the Hill of the Mill. "Master! O master!" he cried, and his face was all
drawn and changed, and his teeth chattered. "The Lord be with you, my
son!" says I, and he went on: "O Lord, master! there's a corpse creeping
out from under the pots! Go yourself, master, and see." So we crossed
ourselves and we went. By this time 'twas dark, and the moon was getting
up behind the trees. There was the old olive-stump, and beside it where
the earth was dug was some shining thing. I stooped, and saw 'twas an
arm, very white, and with round dainty fingers, like those of the city
ladies. "Good Lord," thinks I, "what sort of devilment is this?" I let
down the lantern into the hole, and that arm moved and signalled to me
with its finger! That was more than I could bear, and I cried out, and
my knees bent under me. But Monna Bonda, my grandame, whom they call a
wise woman, and who has all her life in her though she be so old, chided
me, saying, "Fool, what is it you fear? Do not your eyes tell you yon
thing is neither of the living nor of the dead, but is a stone?" And she
snatched at it and pulled it forth out of the earth. "Nay, grandame," I
bade her, "let it be; touch it not; rather let me bury it lest mischief
befall us." "Not so," quoth she; "but take we it to the church, and let
the Father exorcise it." But she deceived me, for she brought it not to
the priest, but hid it in the chimney-corner, where in her cot she keeps
gear of all sorts--rags, unguents, and herbals, and spells. And when I
made insistence, she insisted too and kept it. And from that day 'tis
very certain the old beldame hath done cures of great marvel. Is it a
toothache? she doth but touch the cheek with the idol and the swelling
is gone. She salves fevers, colics, falling sickness. If a cow is in
labour and cannot bring forth, Monna Bonda touches her with that same
stone hand, and the cow lows, and there's the calf, kicking in the
straw. The noise of these wonders has gone abroad, and the old woman has
swelled her money-chest. But no good has come of it, for Don Faustino
has not allowed me one day's peace. He speaks against me in his
preaching, in church before them all. He calls me the son of perdition
and the child of the Devil, and he declares he will tell of it to the
bishop, and will deny me the Communion. The boys run after me in the
street, and point and say, "There goes Grillo, the sorcerer, and his
grandame is a witch, and they have sold themselves to the Evil One."
Even in the night I get no rest. Meseems that stone hand rises up and
lies softly on my neck, and then of a sudden takes me by the throat and
would strangle me, till I essay to cry out, and cannot. "Bad jesting,
this," I think to myself. So at last one morning, ere it was light, the
old woman having gone forth to pick her herbs, I got up and broke open
her cot, and found the thing, and brought it to you. Lotto, the
rag-picker, would have given me ten _soldi_ for it, and of you I only
had eight; but I am ready to sacrifice not only two _soldi_, but even my
life for your worship. May the Lord give you His holy benediction, and
to Madonna Angelica, and to your sons and your grandsons!'

'It seems, then, by what you tell me, Grillo,' said Messer Cipriano
thoughtfully, 'that we shall have findings on that Hill of the Mill?'

'We are like enough to find,' said the old man with a profound sigh;
'only we may not tell Don Faustino. If he hear of it he will dress my
head without a comb; and he can do your worship a mischief, too, for he
can raise the people and not let you finish your work. Well, well--we
must pray the Lord to show us mercy! But in the meanwhile, my honoured
benefactor, do not abandon me, but say a word for me to the judge.'

'What? anent the strip of land the miller would take from you?'

'That is it, master. The miller is a cunning rascal, and he knows how
to catch the devil by the tail. I, you see, gave a heifer to the judge;
but the miller gave him a lined cow. I fear me the judge will decide for
the miller, because the suit is not yet concluded, and already the cow
has a fine bull-calf. I pr'ythee, speak for me--father that you are to
me. This which we do on the Hill of the Mill, I do only for your
kindness. There is no other I would have let bring such a sin upon my
conscience.'

'Be at ease, Grillo. I will speak for you; the judge is my friend. Now
take your steps to the kitchen, and eat and drink. To-night we will go
together to San Gervaso.'

The old man, with many reverences, went out, and Messer Cipriano betook
himself to his little chamber near the storehouse. It was a museum of
marbles and bronzes, hung on walls, arranged on benches. Medals and old
coins were assorted on cloth-covered benches; and fragments of statues,
not yet pieced together, were waiting in huge cases. Through his
trade-agents in many countries he procured antiquities from all classic
grounds; from Athens, Smyrna, Halicarnassus, Cyprus, Leucosia, Rhodes,
from the remoter Egypt, from the heart of the Levant. The Master of the
Guild of the Calimala glanced over his treasures, and then sank into
profound consideration of customs-dues on the import of fleeces; and
finally composed the letter to his factor at the Wool Fair in
Montpellier.


II

Meantime, in the hinder-part of the warehouse, heaped with bales, and
lighted only by the glimmer of a lamp before the image of the Madonna,
three lads, Dolfo, Antonio, and Giovanni were gossiping together. Dolfo,
Messer Buonaccorsi's clerk, a red-haired, snub-nosed, good-natured
youth, was entering the number of ells of cloth which Antonio da Vinci,
old for his years, with glassy eyes and thin, rough, black locks, was
rapidly measuring with the Florentine measure, called a _canna_:
Giovanni Boltraffio, a student of painting from Milan, a big boy of
nineteen, but shy and awkward, with innocent, sad, grey eyes, and an
irresolute expression, was sitting cross-legged on a made-up bale, and
listening with all his ears.

'This is what we have come to,' cried Antonio excitedly; 'digging
heathen gods out of the ground!' Then he added, dictating to Dolfo, 'of
brown Scotch faced-cloth, 32 _braccia_,[1] 6 fingers, 8 nails.' Then,
having folded the measured piece, he threw it into its place, and
raising his finger with the gesture of a menacing prophet, in imitation
of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, he cried, '_Gladius Dei super terram cito et
velociter!_ In the island of Patmos San Giovanni had a vision: he saw
the angel lay hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil,
and bind him a thousand years, and cast him into the bottomless pit, and
shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations
no more till the thousand years should be fulfilled. To-day Satan has
been released from his prison; to-day the thousand years are at an end;
the false gods, forerunners and followers of Antichrist, are creeping
forth from under the seal of the angel back into the world for the
temptation of men! Woe to those who live on the earth or on the sea!--Of
thin, yellow, Brabant cloth, 17 _braccia_, 4 fingers, 9 nails!'

  [1] _Braccio_, a measure considerably less than a metre, still in use
      in Florence.

'How think you, then, Antonio?' asked Giovanni, with alarmed and eager
interest; 'all these signs bear witness----'

'Ay, ay! You see, the hour has come. Not alone are they digging up the
old gods, but they are creating new ones in their likeness. Painters and
sculptors alike weary themselves in the service of Moloch--that is, the
Devil. They turn the House of God into the temple of Satan; in the
sacred pictures, under the guise of martyrs and saints, they paint the
gods of uncleanness, and to these the people pray; in place of John the
Baptist they give us Bacchus; for the holy Mother of God we get the
shameless Venus. The pictures should be burned with fire, and their
ashes strewn upon the wind!'

Suppressed fire flashed from the dull, dark eyes of the zealous clerk;
and Giovanni, not daring a retort, held his peace. His delicate,
childlike eyebrows contracted under the stress of thought. At last,
however, he said: 'Antonio, they tell me Messer Leonardo, your kinsman,
takes scholars into his painting-room. I have long wished----'

Antonio frowned and interrupted him. 'If you would lose your soul,
Giovanni, then go to Messer Leonardo!'

'What? Why?'

'Though he be my near kinsman, and though he have lived twenty years
longer than I, nevertheless in the Scripture it is written: "From an
heretic, after the first and second admonition, turn thou away."
Leonardo is a heretic and an infidel. His mind is darkened by Satanic
pride; he seeks to penetrate into the mysteries of nature by steeping
himself in mathematics and black magic.' Then, raising his eyes to
heaven, he repeated from Savonarola's latest discourse: '"The wisdom of
this world is foolishness with God. We know them, these learned men;
they all go to the house of the devil."'

'And have you heard, Antonio,' persisted Giovanni, still shyly, 'that
Messer Leonardo is here in Florence? He has even now arrived from
Milan.'

'For what purpose?'

'The duke has sent him to buy, if possible, pictures from the galleries
of the late Lorenzo the Magnificent.'

'Well, if he be here, then here he is. 'Tis of no moment to me,' said
Antonio, turning away; and he proceeded to measure a length of green
cloth with his _canna_.

From the church, bells rang out the call to vespers, and Dolfo stretched
himself and clapped-to the ledger with an air of relief; for this day
work was over, and the shops and the warehouses were shutting.

Giovanni stepped into the street. A narrow strip of grey sky, faintly
tinged with the roseate of evening, showed between the humid roofs: a
fine rain fell through the windless air. Suddenly from a window in a
neighbouring alley was wafted a song:--

     'O vaghe montanine pastorelle
     Donde venite si leggiadre e belle?'

     (O shepherd-girls so fair,
     Say from what mountain air
       Light-footed have ye strayed?)

The voice was resonant and young: from the measured beat of the treadle
Giovanni guessed at a loom, and at a girl singing as she threw the
shuttle. He listened with vague enjoyment, and remembered that the
spring had come, and felt his heart swelling with strange emotions of
tenderness and melancholy.

'Nanna! Nanna! Where hast thou got to, thou little devil? What hath
happened to thine ears? Haste thee! The vermicelli grows cold.' After
which there was a swift clapping of wooden pattens across the floor, and
then silence.

Giovanni stood long, his eyes on the window, the gay song echoing in his
ears like the far-off beatings of some shepherd's pipe--

     'O vaghe montanine pastorelle----'

Then sighing softly to himself he entered the house of the Master of the
Calimala, and mounting the winding stair, with its worm-eaten banisters,
he presented himself in the great room, which served as a library, and
in which, bending over a desk, was Giorgio Merula, the historiographer
of the Court of the Duke of Milan.


III

Merula had come to Florence on a mission from his lord, to purchase rare
books from the library of the great Lorenzo. He was lodged in the house
of Buonaccorsi, as great an enthusiast as himself for the learning and
the arts of the ancients. Journeying to Florence he had fallen into an
acquaintance with Giovanni Boltraffio at a road-side inn, and under the
pretext that he required an amanuensis, he had brought him in his
company to Messer Cipriano's house.

When Boltraffio entered, Merula was in the act of examining with
reverent attention a much-worn volume, which had the appearance of a
Missal or a Psaltery. He gingerly passed a damp sponge over the
parchment--parchment of the most delicate kind, made from the skin of a
still-born lamb; here and there he rubbed it with pumice-stone, smoothed
it with the blade of a knife and with a polisher; then holding it up to
the light, studied it afresh.

'Dainty darlings!' he murmured, sucking in his lips with delight; 'come
forth to the light of heaven! Ah, how many and how beautiful ye are!'

He raised his bald head from his work and showed a bloated, red-nosed
countenance, mobile brows, and eyes small and colourless, but brimming
with vivacity; poured wine into a cup beside him on the window-sill,
drank it, coughed, and was returning to his work when he caught sight of
Giovanni.

'Ha, little monk!' he called out merrily. 'You have been lacking to me:
"Where can my little monk be gone?" quoth I. "Fallen in love, of a
surety, with one of the fair maids of Florence." Fair enough, I warrant
you, and falling in love is no sin. Nor have I been wasting my time
neither. You never have seen such a pretty piece in your life. Will you
have me show her to you? Not I; for you'll be whispering the thing to
the four winds! And to think I bought her for a song from a Hebrew
rag-vendor! Well, well, I suppose I must show you; you only!' And
beckoning mysteriously he whispered, 'Come here with you--closer--here!'

And he pointed to a page closely covered with the angular characters of
ecclesiastical writing: praises of the Virgin, psalms, prayers,
interspersed with huge musical notation. Then he opened the book at
another page, and raised it to the light on a level with Giovanni's
eyes; the boy noticed that where Merula had scraped away the
ecclesiastical writing there emerged other characters--barely
distinguishable--not letters, but the ghosts of letters, pallid,
attenuated, faint, still lingering impressed upon the parchment.

'See you? See you?' cried Merula, triumphantly; 'is it not a darling?
Did I not tell you, little brother, 'twas a pretty piece!'

'But what is it?' asked Giovanni, astounded.

'That's what I can't yet tell you. Fragments of an antique anthology;
new riches it may be of the Hellenic muse. And, perchance, but for me
they would never have come out into God's light--would have been
entombed to the end of time under antiphons and psalms of penitence!'
And Merula explained to his pupil how some Middle Age, monkish copyist,
wishing to use the precious parchment, had expunged, as he thought, the
old Pagan writing, and scrawled his pieties over it. As the old man
spoke, the sun filled the room with its slowly dying, evening red; in
this last radiance the shade of the antique letters, the ghost of the
ancient writing, showed itself with redoubled clearness.

'You see! you see!' cried Merula in an ecstasy, 'The dead are rising
from their age-long sepulchres! It is a hymn to the Olympian gods!
Already you can decipher the first lines!'

And translating from the Greek, he read:--

     'Glory to the gentle, the richly-crowned Dionysus,
      Glory to thee, far-darting Phoebus, silver-bowed, terrible,
      God of the flowing curls, slayer of the sons of Niobe----'

And here is a hymn to that Venus, of whom you, little monk, have such a
mighty dread:--

     'Glory to thee, golden-limbed mother, Aphrodite,
      Delight of the gods and of mortals.'

But here the verses broke off, hidden under the pious over-writing.
Giovanni lowered the book, and at once the traces of the old Greek
letters grew faint and confused, sinking into the yellow smoothness of
the parchment. Nothing was visible but the clear, black, greasy
characters of the monkish scribe, the penitential psalm, and the huge
square notes for the chant:--

     'Give ear to my prayer, O God, and hide not thyself from my
     supplication. My heart is sore pained within me, and the terrors of
     death are fallen upon me.'

The roseate reflection faded away, and darkness filled the room. Merula
poured wine from the earthen pitcher, drank, and offered it to his
companion.

'To my health, boy. _Vinum super omnia bonum diligamus!_ You refuse?
Well, well! as you will. I will drink for you. But what is ill with you,
little monk? You are as green as if you were drowning. Has that bigot of
an Antonio been scaring you with his prophesyings? Spit on them,
Giovanni, spit on them! A pox upon all these croakings of ill-voiced
ravens! Confess now, you have been with Antonio?'

'Ay.'

'And of what did he speak?'

'Of Antichrist, and of Messer Leonardo da Vinci.'

'So I thought! You have no speech but of Leonardo! Has he bewitched you,
simpleton? Hear me now, lad; remove that folly out of your head, and
content you as my secretary. I will show you the world; teach you
grammar, law; make you an orator and a court poet. There's the road to
riches and fame. Painting! what rubbish is that? Seneca called it a
trade--no business for a free man. Turn your eyes upon the artists; are
they not all ignorant, rude persons----'

'Nay, I have been told Messer Leonardo is a great scholar.'

'You tell me news. Where is his Latin, pr'ythee? He confounds Cicero and
Quintilian, and has not even a smack of Greek about him. A scholar you
call him, do you?'

'But,' urged Boltraffio, 'he has made wondrous machines; and his studies
of the phenomena of nature----'

'Machines! pf--f! Studies of nature! How far is that going to take you?
In my _Elegantiæ Linguæ Latinæ_ I have culled more than two thousand
turns of speech; on my soul, new, and elegance itself. Would you know
how much it cost me? But to apply wheels to machinery, and to watch the
manner of the flying of birds and the sprouting of the grass in the
fields--call you that learning? 'Tis the idleness, the vain toying of
babes.'

The old man paused: his face had grown stern. Then taking his young
friend by the arm, he continued with gravity:--

'Hearken, Giovanni; and what I say to you burn it deep into your mind.
Our teachers are the Greeks and the Romans; they have done all that the
mind of man can do upon this earth. For us there is nothing left but to
follow in their footsteps: is it not written, "The disciple is not
greater than his lord?"' He lifted his wine, and looking straight into
Giovanni's eyes with malicious mirth, all his lines and wrinkles
dissolving in one broad smile, he added:--

'O youth! youth! I look upon you, little monk, and I envy you. You are a
bud blowing in the spring, that is what you are. And you, simpleton,
contemn women, and scorn wine, and would make of yourself a hermit and a
recluse. For all that, you have a little devil there in your heart; oh,
I read you well enough, my friend, through and through to your very
soul! Some day that little devil will peep out; it is vain for you to
deny it. However glum you may be, there are those who will be merry in
your company. See, Giovanni, _carino_ you're this parchment--penitential
psalms outside, and under them a hymn to Aphrodite!'

'Messer Giorgio,' said Giovanni, 'it grows dark; were it not well I
brought the lights?'

'Why this haste, lad? It pleases me to converse in the twilight, and to
recall my lost youth.' His tongue had grown stammering and his phrases
less perspicuous. 'I know,' he muttered, 'that you are gazing at me, and
thinking, "He is drunk, the old rascal, and talking his folly." Yet I
have that here within me,' and he tapped his bald forehead complacently
and nodded. 'I speak not for boasting,' he went on, 'but inquire of the
scholars whether any have ever surpassed Merula in the elegance of his
Latin. Who was it who discovered Martial? Who read the famed inscription
on the gate of Tibur? That meant climbing till your head reeled, stones
breaking from under your feet, as you clung to a bunch of twigs and
thought to fall headlong. Whole days under the blazing sun, just to read
and to copy those few ancient letters! And the peasant maids as they
passed would cry to each other, "See yon fat quail up there seeking a
nesting place!" And I would answer them with some gallantry, and when
they had passed by would set me to my work again. Once, concealed under
the ivy and the thorns, where the stones had fallen in ruin, I found
these two sole words, "_Gloria Romanorum!_"' And as if listening to the
echo of majestic utterance too long silenced, Merula repeated in low,
awestruck tones, '"_Gloria Romanorum!_"'--Glory of the Romans!'

But then, with an uncertain wave of the hand, he added, 'By my troth!
'tis something to remember, even though the past returns no more.' And
raising his glass, he sang hoarsely the students' drinking-song:--

     'Not a single jot miss I,
      Not a single drop, Sir!
      All my life to the cask I go,
      And by the cask I'll stop, Sir.
      Wine I love and singing to 't,
      And the Latin Graces;
      If I drink my throat'll do 't
      Better than Horatius.
      Vintage spins our brains about
      _Dum vinum potamus_;
      Lads, to Bacchus let us shout,
      _Te Deum laudamus!_'

He fell a-coughing and was unable to finish. By this time it was dark,
and Giovanni could barely see his master's face. Outside it was still
raining, and the swollen and frequent drops plashed noisily in the
streaming courtyard below.

'Hear me, little monk,' stuttered Merula; 'what was it I was saying? My
wife is a handsome woman--no--that wasn't it. Have patience. Yes, I have
it now. You know the line: "_Tu regere imperio populos, Romane,
memento_." Ah! they were the giants, the lords of the universe!' Here
his voice shook, and Giovanni saw tears in his eyes. 'I repeat, giants.
While to-day--it is a scandal to speak it! but let us take this duke of
ours, Ludovico Il Moro, Duke of Milan. True it is I am paid by him, am
writing his history, am a sort of Titus Livius, and am comparing the
cowardly hare, the man of straw, to Pompey and to Cæsar; but in my soul,
Giovanni, in my soul'--He stopped, and glanced at the door with the
suspiciousness of a practised courtier; then bending closer to his
companion, he whispered, 'In the soul of old Merula the love of liberty
is not dead, and will never die. Repeat it not, but I tell you our times
are evil, evil as never before. And the men! it sickens me to see them;
rotten! mere clods of earth! And they curl up their noses, and think
themselves as the ancients. I would fain know what they are so proud of.
Hearken; an acquaintance of mine writes to me from Greece, that not many
weeks ago in the island of Chios, the convent washer-women as they were
beating the linen at dawn, found on the seashore--a god! a real ancient
god; a Triton with his fishy-tail, and fins, and scales. The silly fools
were affrighted and fled, thinking it the Devil. But when they saw him
weak and old, and it would seem sick, lying on his belly on the sand,
and warming his green scales in the sun, his hair grey, and his eyes dim
as those of a sucking babe, then they took courage, the cowardly
wretches! and came around him showering him with Christian prayers, and
beat him to death like a dog; he, the ancient deity, last of the mighty
gods of the ocean; it might be a scion of Poseidon himself!'

And the old man shook his head sorrowfully, and maudlin tears rolled
down his cheeks as he thought of the sea-monster done to death by
Christian laundresses. A servant entered bearing a candle, and closed
the shutters; with the darkness the pagan phantoms shrank away and
vanished. The pair were called to supper, but Merula was so heavy with
wine that they had to carry him to bed.

It was long before Boltraffio slept, and as he listened to the peaceful
snores of Messer Giorgio, he thought, as usual, of Leonardo da Vinci.


IV

Giovanni had been sent to Florence by his uncle, Oswald Ingrim, the
painter on glass (_magister a vitreis_), a German from Grätz, and pupil
of Johann Kirchheim, the famous Strasburg master. He was to buy certain
transparent and brilliant pigments which could be obtained only in the
Tuscan city, and were required by Ingrim for his work in Milan
Cathedral. The boy was the natural son of Reinold the lapidary, Oswald's
brother, and had got the name of Boltraffio from his Lombard mother,
whom Oswald asserted to be a shameless woman and the cause of his
brother's ruin. Brought up by his crabbed uncle, Giovanni was a lonely
and frightened child, reared on tales of unclean powers, demons, hags,
sorcerers, and were-wolves. His special horror was a certain demon
which, according to the North Italian tradition, appeared under the form
of a woman, and was called the 'White She-devil,' or the 'Mother of the
Snowy Eyebrow.' Yet even in his earliest infancy, when his uncle would
silence his sobs with threats of the _Diavolessa bianca_, the child felt
a curiosity mingling with his terror, a shrinking wish that some day he
might meet the white one face to face, and behold her countenance with
his own eyes.

When the boy was grown, Ingrim handed him over as pupil to Fra Benedetto
the sacred painter. This was a kind and simple-minded old man, who
taught that the first step in beginning a picture was to invoke God
Omnipotent and the beloved Virgin, St. Luke the first Christian painter,
and all the saints in Paradise; the second to put on the cloak of
charity, fear, patience, and obedience; the last, to temper his colours
with yelk of egg, and the juice from young fig-branches mixed with wine,
and to prepare his panels of old beechwood by rubbing them with the
ashes of bones--if possible the wing bones of capons. His precepts were
endless and minute: Giovanni soon learned the contemptuous phrase with
which he dismissed the colour known as Dragon's Blood. 'Let it lie;
'twill bring you no credit,' and Giovanni surmised that the same words
had been said by Fra Benedetto's teacher, and by the teacher of his
teacher before him. Constant was the smile of quiet pride with which
Benedetto initiated his pupil into the secrets of his art. For instance,
in the painting of youthful faces the eggs of urban hens were essential:
the rural hen laying an egg with a ruddy yelk only suited for the
delineation of countenances wrinkled and swarthy. Notwithstanding these
subtleties, Fra Benedetto was a painter simple and innocent as a child:
he prepared himself for work by fast and vigil; each time he depicted
the Crucifixion his face was bathed in tears.

Giovanni loved his master, and had considered him the first of painters;
this opinion had however been shaken of late. Fra Benedetto, expounding
his one anatomical rule, viz., that the length of a man's body must be
reckoned at eight faces and two-thirds, was used to add in the same
perfunctory tone in which he spoke of Dragon's Blood: 'As for the bodies
of women, we will not allude to them, for they have no proportions.'
This dogma was as much an article of faith with him as these others:
that all fish are dark-coloured above and bright below; or that men's
ribs are fewer than women's by reason of God's method in the creation of
Eve. For an allegorical representation of the elements, he drew a mole
to signify earth; a fish, water; a salamander, fire; a chameleon, air;
but, supposing the word 'chameleon' an augmentative of 'camel,' the
simple monk showed the fluid element as a colossal camel, its jaws
gaping alarmingly in its efforts to breathe. Nor were his remaining
notions more accurate. Doubts therefore crept into Giovanni's mind, and
a mutinous spirit, which Fra Benedetto called 'the devil of worldly
knowledge.' When, shortly before his journey to Florence, the lad
chanced to see certain drawings of Leonardo da Vinci's, his doubts grew
with such rapidity that he was no longer able to stifle them.

To-night, here in the Tuscan city, as he lay beside the
peacefully-snoring Messer Giorgio, he turned all this over in his mind
for the thousandth time; but the more he thought the more puzzled he
became. Then he resolved to invoke celestial aid, and full of hope,
raising his eyes to the impenetrable darkness of night, he prayed
thus:--

'Lord, help me and forsake me not. If Messer Leonardo be truly a godless
man, in whose skill lieth temptation and sin, rid me of the thought of
him; purge my mind of the memory of his drawings, and deliver me from
evil. But if, while pleasing Thee and glorifying Thy name in the noble
art of painting, it be yet possible to know all which is hidden from Fra
Benedetto, and which I am so fain to learn (such as anatomy,
perspective, and the laws of light and shade), then, O God, make strong
my will, and lighten my eyes, that I may doubt no more; and permit that
Messer Leonardo may receive me into his studio, and that Fra Benedetto
may grant me his pardon, and may know that I am in nowise guilty in Thy
sight.'

After this fervent prayer, Giovanni felt a balsam descend upon his
heart: little by little confusion came upon his thoughts; he fancied
himself back with his uncle, the glass-worker, and listening to the
hissing of the glass as the white-hot steel was plunged into it. He saw
the twisting of the leaden ribbons, which form the frames for the
several pieces of coloured glass: he heard the voice of Oswald
commanding more notches at the edge of the lead for the fixing of the
glass; then all vanished: he rolled to his other side and slept.

And a vision came to him, which in after years he often recalled to
mind. For he saw himself standing in the gloom of a vast cathedral, and
before a many-coloured, Gothic window. On it was depicted the vintage of
that mystic vine whereof the Saviour had said, 'My Father is the
husbandman.' The naked body of the Crucified lay in the winepress, blood
flowing from His wounds. Popes, cardinals, emperors were receiving it
into vats and casks. The Apostles were throwing in grapes; St. Peter was
treading them. In the background, prophets and patriarchs were trenching
the vineyard and pruning the vines. A waggon was passing, drawn by the
lion, the bull, and the eagle, driven by St. Matthew.

Such painted allegories Giovanni had seen in his uncle's workshop;
nowhere such colours, dark, yet with the gleam of jewels. Chiefly he
marvelled at the crimson of the Saviour's blood. From the depths of the
cathedral came the faint echoing of his favourite chant:--

     'O fior di castitate,
      Odorifero giglio
      Con gran suavitate
      Sei di color vermiglio.'

But the song died away, the window glowed no longer, and the harsh voice
of Antonio da Vinci shouted in his ear:--

'Flee! Flee for your life! _She_ cometh!'

Nor did he need to inquire who, for he knew the _Diavolessa bianca_ was
behind him. A waft of icy air; and then a heavy hand, not human, had
taken hold at his throat, and was choking him. He seemed to be dying,
cried out, and awoke--to see Messer Giorgio standing by his side and
dragging away the coverlet.

'Eh! pull yourself from your bed or they will depart without us. Arise!
the hour is already past,' cried the antiquarian.

'What! Whither?' stammered Giovanni, half-asleep.

'Whither? Can you forget? To the villa of San Gervaso, to dig at the
Hill of the Mill.'

'I go not thither.'

'You go not? What have I waked you for? Why have I bidden them saddle
the black mule that the two of us may travel at ease? A truce to this
stubbornness. Get up! Get up! Nay, then, a word in your ear, Giovannino:
Messer Leonardo will be there.'

Giovanni leaped to his feet, and without another word threw on his
clothes.

Presently they were in the courtyard, where all was ready for the start.
Grillo was running hither and thither advising and directing. At last
they set out. Other friends of Cipriano's, and among them Leonardo da
Vinci, were to meet them later, by another path to San Gervaso.


V

The rain was over, and the north wind had banished the clouds. Stars
scintillated in the moonless heaven, like little wind-blown lamps.
Resin-torches flared and fluttered, scattering sparks. The horsemen took
their way by the Via Ricasoli, past San Marco and the serrated gate of
San Gallo. Here the sentinels argued and swore, but were too sleepy to
perceive what was on foot; and presently egress was secured by a good
bribe. Outside the gate, the road followed the deep and narrow valley of
the Mugnone. After passing several meagre villages, where the streets
were even narrower than those in Florence, and the rough stone houses
were as tall as fortresses, the party emerged into an olive-grove owned
by the _contadini_ of San Gervaso. Dismounting at the junction of two
roads, they walked to the Hill of the Mill, hard by Messer Cipriano's
vineyard. Here men awaited them with spades and mattocks; and here,
behind the hill, beyond the marsh known as the Humid Hollow, the villa
walls showed shadowy white through the darkness of the trees. Tall
cypresses stood up black from the summit of the hill, and down below on
the Mugnone was the name-giving watermill.

Grillo signified where, to his thinking, they ought to dig; Merula
suggested another place; and Strocco, the gardener, swore they must go
lower down, much nearer to the Humid Hollow, because the devils always
hide themselves nearest to the slough. Cipriano, however, bade dig where
Grillo advised; the spades grated, and soon there was an odour of
new-dug earth. Giovanni shuddered, for a bat had brushed his face with
its weird pinions; but Merula clapped him on the shoulder, crying, 'Fear
nothing, little monk! we shall find no devil here. This Grillo is an
ass. Thank heaven, it's not the sort of excavation I'm used to. At Rome,
in the 45th Olympiad' (Merula scorned the Christian calendar), 'in the
days of Pope Innocent VIII., diggers from Lombardy, who were working on
the Appian Way close to the tomb of Cæcilia Metella, found an ancient
sarcophagus with the inscription, "Julia, daughter of Claudius," and in
it a body clothed in wax--a fair maid of fifteen, with the semblance of
one asleep. You would have sworn she breathed: the flush of life was on
her cheek. Multitudes flocked to the tomb and refused to leave it; for
such was Julia's beauty, as to be incredible to those who had not beheld
it. But it ill-suited the Pope that his children should adore a dead
heathen, and he caused the body to be interred secretly under the
Pincian Hill. Do you take me, lad? That was something like excavating!'

And Merula contemptuously kicked the clods which the diggers were
throwing up at his feet. Suddenly all the onlookers started, for a
jarring sound had come from one of the spades.

'Bones!' said the gardener; 'the ancient burying-place was here.'

At this moment the long-drawn howl of a dog was heard from San Gervaso,
and Giovanni thought, 'We are profaning a grave. May it prove nothing
worse!'

'Bones of a horse!' cried Strocco contemptuously, and dragged out a
mouldered, long-shaped skull.

'Grillo,' said Messer Cipriano anxiously, 'were it not better we tried
elsewhere?'

'Did I not say so?' cried Merula; and taking two of the workmen with him
he began new operations at the base of the hill. Strocco also had
detached a party to dig in the Humid Hollow.

Presently excited shouts were heard from Messer Giorgio.

'Hither all ye simpletons! Did not I know where ye should dig?'

All ran to his side; but again the treasure proved naught; the great
man's marble fragment was only an ordinary stone. They had all deserted
Grillo, who, openly humiliated, was digging alone by the light of a
broken lantern.

The wind had fallen and the air grew warmer: out of the Humid Hollow
exhaled a mist. The breath of primroses and violets mingled with the
dankness of stagnant water. Dawn was in the sky, and the cocks crowed
for the second time, signal of the departing of night.

Suddenly from the depths of the pit in which Grillo was concealed there
arose a despairing yell.

'Help! Help! I am falling! The ground has given way!'

His lantern was extinguished, and at first nothing could be seen. He was
heard struggling and panting, groaning and moaning. Lights were fetched,
and disclosed the roof of a subterranean vault broken through by
Grillo's weight. Two lads crept into the hole.

'Eh, Grillo! Where are you? Give us your hand! or are you buried alive,
poor fool?'

But Grillo seemed to have lost his voice. Heedless of a sprained arm, he
dragged himself along, kicking and struggling most strangely. At last he
burst into an ecstasy:--

'An idol! An idol! Hasten, Messer Cipriano! 'tis a magnificent idol!'

'Idiot,' said Strocco, 'you have got the head of another horse.'

'I tell you, No! There is but a hand missing. The rest is perfect--feet,
head, shoulders!' shouted Grillo beside himself.

Then the labourers descended into the pit, carefully turning over the
brickwork ruins. Giovanni, stretched on the ground, looked down into the
vault, from which came the chill of a grave, and the mouldy breath of
long-covered damp.

Messer Cipriano bade the men stand aside, and Giovanni could see in the
profundity between the walls of ancient red brick, a white and naked
body which lay like a corpse upon a bier, yet in the flaring of the
torchlight seemed rosy and warm with life.

'Venus!' cried Messer Giorgio: 'As I live, the Venus of Praxiteles! I
cry you honour, friend Cipriano! Not the dukedoms of Milan or Genoa
could bring you greater felicity!'

As for Grillo, they dug him out; and though his face was clotted with
blood, and his arm had swelled into uselessness, in his old eyes shone
the pride of a conqueror.

'Grillo! friend! beloved! benefactor! And I scorned you for a fool: and
you--you are the cleverest of men!' cried Messer Giorgio, and falling
into his arms he kissed him with deep emotion.

'Once,' he continued garrulously, 'Filippo Brunelleschi found a Hermes
in just such a vault under his own house. Doubtless the pagans, knowing
the value of these statues, hid them from the fury of the Christians,
who were exterminating the old worship.'

Grillo listened, smiling beatifically, inattentive to the pipe of the
shepherd and the bleating of sheep. He saw not that the sky shone now
with a white and watery brilliance, nor knew that from Florence the
belfries were exchanging their morning salutation.

'Gently! gently! To the right there! So! Keep it out from the wall!'
cried Messer Cipriano. 'Five silver pieces to each, if you can get it
out without breakage.'

By this time the stars had all disappeared with the exception of the orb
of Venus, which still sparkled like a diamond in the glow of day. And
slowly, slowly, with her ineffable smile, the goddess herself arose--as
once she had risen from the foam of the sea, so now she ascended from
her millennial tomb in the darkness of the earth:--

     'Glory to thee, golden-limbed Aphrodite,
      Delight of the gods and of mortals ...'

declaimed Merula.

But Giovanni saw her face blanched in the illumination of the white
sunlight; and himself paling with terror, the boy murmured, '_La
Diavolessa bianca!_'

He rose up and would have fled; but wonder overcame his fear. Not though
he had known himself guilty of the mortal sin which is punished with
eternal fire, could he have torn his gaze from that chaste and naked
body, from that countenance flaming with the effulgence of beauty. Never
in the days when Aphrodite was queen of the world had any worshipped her
with devouter trembling.


VI

Suddenly from the little church of San Gervaso the bells rang out, and
the whole company turned and involuntarily paused in their work, for in
the morning stillness the sound seemed irate and menacing.

'Lord have mercy on our souls!' murmured Grillo, putting his hand to his
head with a despairing gesture. 'Here is Don Faustino, and a multitude
with him! They have seen us! Look how they beat their hands and beckon.
See, they rush upon us! I am a lost man!'

At this moment arrived those friends of Messer Cipriano's, who had
intended to have been present for the excavation, but who had lost their
way. Boltraffio threw a glance at them, and, absorbed though he still
was in the new-found goddess, his attention was caught on the instant by
one of the newcomers. This personage was already inspecting the Venus,
with a cold, imperturbable composure, so different from Giovanni's
personal agitation, that the lad could not but be struck with
astonishment. He continued to gaze at the statue, but his consciousness
now was entirely for the man by his side.

'Hearken!' said Messer Cipriano after a few moments' thought, 'the villa
is not two paces distant, and the doors are strong enough for a siege.'

'Yea, verily,' cried Grillo; 'courage, brothers, we shall save her!' He
felt jealous for the image which had cost him so much, and directing the
operations himself, he contrived to get it safely transported across the
Humid Hollow. Then the statue was borne into the house; but scarcely had
it crossed the threshold, when on the hill-top appeared the threatening
figure, inflamed countenance and brandished arms of Don Faustino.

The lower part of the villa was at present uninhabited, and its great
hall was used as a storehouse for agricultural implements and great jars
of olive-oil: in one corner was a mountain of golden straw. Upon this
straw, a humble, rustic bed, Aphrodite was delicately laid to rest. But
this was no sooner accomplished and the doors barred than the latter
were assailed by blows, by shouts, and by curses loud and deep.

'Open! Open!' cried the cracked voice of Don Faustino; 'in the name of
the true and living God, I bid you open!'

Messer Cipriano mounted the stone inner staircase and surveyed the crowd
from a grated window above the hall. Seeing that the assailants were
few, he entered into parley, his face wearing his customary smile. But
the priest put his fingers in his ears, and vociferously demanded the
idol--so he named it--which had been dug out of the ground.

The Master of the Calimala now had recourse to a _ruse de guerre_.

'Beware,' he said calmly; 'I have summoned the captain of the town
guard, and in two hours the horsemen will be on you. I allow none to
enter my house by force.'

'Break down the door,' cried the priest. 'God is with us. Fear nothing!
Assault!' And snatching an axe from a gentle-faced old peasant beside
him, he battered upon the great door with all his strength.

'Don Faustino! Don Faustino!' cried the old man, feebly restraining the
furious ecclesiastic, 'we are poor folk, and we do not dig up money in
our fields. This will be our ruin; they will have us to prison!'

The mention of the redoubtable town guard had struck terror into the
rabble; and many were already deserting.

'If it had been on the church-ground, 'twere another matter,' muttered
some of them.

'The confines established by law----'

'The law? A spider's web, set to catch flies, not hornets. The law does
not exist for great folk.'

'True for you. And every man is master on his own land.'

All this time Giovanni was gazing at the rescued Venus.

The sunshine pouring through a side window seemed waking the tender body
to warmth and softness after its long imprisonment in the gloom and the
chill of the vault; the golden straw surrounding it shone like an
aureole.

Giovanni once more noted the stranger. He was on his knees beside the
statue, measuring it with his compasses, his square, and a half-circle
made of copper; on his face was the same imperturbable calm; in his
cold, blue eyes the same piercing curiosity.

'What is he doing? Who is he?' Giovanni asked himself, almost awestruck,
as he watched the quick, bold fingers exploring the limbs of the
goddess, the secrets of her beauty, all the subtleties of the marble,
too delicate for the apprehension of the eye.

At the gate of the villa the priest was still heard yelling at the
melting crowd.

'Stay, rascals! Sellers of Christ! fearful of the town guard, but
careless of Antichrist! _Ipse vero Antichristus opes malorum effodiet et
exponet_, as said the great preacher St. Anselm of Canterbury.
_Effodiet_, hear you? Antichrist shall dig up the old idols from the
earth and again bring them forth to the world.'

But none heeded him.

'He is a pestilent fellow, this Don Faustino of ours!' said the prudent
miller shaking his head; 'his life hangs by a thread, yet see how he
storms. For my part, I rejoice they have found the treasure.'

'They say the image is of silver.'

'Silver? Nay, I saw it myself, and 'tis of marble; naked and shameless.'

'Lord forgive us! Are we to soil our hands for such rubbish as that?'

'Whither art going, Zacchello?'

'To the field; to my work.'

'God go with you! And I'll to the vineyard.'

At this all the fury of the priest was let loose on his parishioners.

'Infidel dogs, abortions of Cain! would you abandon your pastor? Know ye
not, spawn of Satan, that did I not pray for you day and night, and beat
my breast with weeping and fasting, your whole sinful village would long
ere this have been sunk into the earth? But it is ended! I leave you,
shaking off the dust from my feet. Cursed be the land! Cursed the corn
and the water and the flocks; and your sons and your sons' sons. I am
your father, your shepherd no more. I renounce you! Anathema!'


VII

In the restored calm of the villa, where the goddess lay on her golden
bed, Giorgio Merula went up to the stranger who was still measuring.

'You are studying the proportions of divinity?' said the scholar
patronisingly: 'You would reduce beauty to mathematics?'

The other raised his eyes for an instant; then silently, as if he had
not heard the question, continued his work. The compasses contracted and
expanded, describing geometrical figures; quietly and firmly the
stranger put the angle measure to the fair lips of Aphrodite--lips whose
smile had struck terror into Giovanni's heart--reckoned the result, and
set it in a note-book.

'Pardon my curiosity,' insisted Merula, 'how many divisions are there?'

'This is a rough measurement,' said the unknown, unwillingly; 'generally
I divide the human face into degrees, minutes, seconds and thirds, each
division being the twelfth part of the preceding one.'

'Say you so?' cried Merula, 'meseems the last subdivision must be less
than the finest hair.'

'A third,' explained the other still grudgingly, 'is 1/48823 of the
whole face.'

Merula lifted his eyebrows with an incredulous smile. 'Well, we live and
learn. I never thought it were possible to reach such accuracy.'

'The more accurate the better,' returned his companion.

'Truly it may be so; yet, you know, in Art, in Beauty, all these
mathematical calculations--What artist in the glow of enthusiasm, of
fiery inspiration, breathed upon by God----'

'Yes, yes,' assented the unknown, evidently wearied; 'none the less I am
anxious to know----'

And stooping he measured the distance from the roots of the hair to the
chin.

'To know?' thought Giovanni. 'Can one _know_ these matters? Folly! Does
he not _feel_? understand?'

Merula, anxious to probe the other to the quick, talked on of the
ancients, and how they should be imitated. The stranger waited till he
had concluded, then said, smiling into his long golden beard:--

'He who can drink from the fountain will not drink from the cup.'

'By your leave!' shouted the scholar, 'if you call the ancients a cup,
whom do you call the fountain?'

'Nature,' said the unknown quietly.

And Merula presumptuously and provokingly continuing to prate, he
disputed no further, but assented with evasive politeness. Only in his
cold eyes weariness and reserve became more manifest. At last Messer
Giorgio, having come to the end of his argument, was reduced to silence.
Then the other pointed out certain depressions in the marble, which in
no light could be detected by the sight, yet were plain to the touch as
the hand moved over the smooth surface. '_Moltissime dolcezze_,' he
called them; and then his eye travelled over the figure, as if in one
look he would possess himself of its sum.

'And I who thought he did not feel!' said Giovanni to himself. 'Yet if
he feels, how can he measure and split it up into numbers? Who is he,
Messer Giorgio?' he whispered; 'tell me the name of this man?'

'Ha, little monk! is it you?' said Merula turning round; 'I had forgot
you. Nay, but it is your idol: can it be that you knew him not? It is
Messer Leonardo da Vinci.'

And the historian presented Giovanni to the Master.


VIII

Through the perfect stillness of early morning in the early spring, when
the grass shone emerald between the black olive-roots and the blue
iris-flowers were motionless on their slender stems, Giovanni and
Leonardo, he on horseback, the lad on foot, returned together to
Florence.

'Is this really he?' thought Giovanni, watching him and finding his
minutest gesture interesting.

He was over forty. When silent and pensive his small, keen, pale-blue
eyes, under overhanging golden eyebrows, seemed cold and piercing; yet
when he talked they took an expression of great good nature. The long,
fair beard and curling and luxuriant hair gave him an air of majesty. He
was tall and powerful in build, yet his face had a subtle charm which
was almost feminine, and his thin high voice, though pleasant, was not
manly. His hand, reining a restive steed, was very strong, yet it also
was delicate, with long, slender fingers like a woman's.

They were nearing the town walls; and the misty morning sun shone upon
the dome of the cathedral, and the quaint tower of the Palazzo Vecchio.

'This is my opportunity,' thought Boltraffio. 'I must tell him I would
fain enter his studio as a pupil.'

Just then Leonardo checked his horse and fixed his eyes on a young
falcon circling slowly and easily in the air above its quarry--some duck
or heron in the reeds of the Mugnone's bank. Presently, with a short
cry, it dropped headlong, like a stone, swooping down from the height
and disappearing behind the trees. Leonardo had followed it with his
gaze, not losing a single turn, a movement, a flap of the strong wings;
then he took his note-book from his girdle and jotted down the result of
his observation.

Boltraffio noticed that he held the pencil in his left hand; and
remembered strange tales he had heard of his writing in a mysterious
reversed hand only to be read in a mirror, from right to left, as men
write in the East. Some said he wrote thus to make an enigma of his
wicked heretical opinions about nature and about God.

'Now or never!' Giovanni was saying to himself; but all at once
Antonio's harsh words flashed across his mind: '"Go to him if you would
lose your soul: he is a sinner and an atheist."'

Smiling, Leonardo drew his attention to an almond-tree, on the crest of
a bare, wind-swept hill, very small, very feeble, very solitary, yet
already hopeful and joyous, and decking itself with pale blossoms, which
gleamed and glistened against the azure of the sunlit sky.

Boltraffio could not admire it, for his heart was heavy and perplexed.
Then Leonardo, as if guessing at his disquietude, spoke gentle words
which the young man remembered long afterwards.

'If you wish to be an artist, put away all grief and care from your
mind, save that for art itself. Let your soul be as a mirror reflecting
all objects, all colours, all movements, but itself remaining ever clear
and unmoved.'

They passed in through the gates of Florence.


IX

Boltraffio went to the cathedral, where that morning Fra Girolamo
Savonarola was to preach. As he entered, the last notes of the organ
were dying away under the resounding arches of Santa Maria del Fiore.
The throng had filled the church with suffocating heat and with the low
rustlings of unceasing small movements. Men, women, and children were
separated from each other by drawn curtains. Under the arches, slender
and narrow like arrow-heads, deep gloom and mystery reigned as in a
sleeping forest. The rays of sunlight, refracted by brilliantly coloured
glass, fell in rainbow hues upon the congregation and upon the grey
marble of the pillars. The semi-darkness surrounding the altar was
broken by the glare of candles. Mass was over and the crowd was awaiting
the preacher. All looks were fixed on the wooden pulpit.

Giovanni found a place in the crowd and listened to the whisperings of
his neighbours.

'Will he come soon?' was asked impatiently by a carpenter of low
stature, with a pale perspiring face and lank hair bound by a fillet.

'God knows!' responded a tinker, big and red-faced, but asthmatic. 'He
has with him at San Marco a certain little brother named Marufi, with a
hunchback and a stammering tongue, and 'tis he chooses the hour for his
coming. We waited four hours once, and had thought there would be no
preaching, yet in the end he came.'

'_Santo Dio Benedetto!_ And I have waited since midnight! I am blind for
sleep and for want of a crumb in my mouth. I could sit down upon
knives!'

'Did I not tell thee, Damiano, 'twas matter of patience? Even now we are
so far from the pulpit we shall hear naught.'

'Eh! We shall hear well enough. When he falls to at his shouting and his
thundering, not the deaf only but the very dead must needs hear.'

'They say now, that he prophesies.'

'Not yet! Not till he has built Noah's Ark.'

'He has built it; to the last plank. Yea, and made a parabolic
description thereof. Its length, Faith; its breadth; Charity; its
altitude, Hope. Haste, he says, haste to the Ark of Salvation, while
the doors stand wide. The day cometh when the doors will be put to, and
then many shall weep that they have not repented and have not come in
time to enter within. To-day he preaches of the Flood, the seventeenth
verse of the sixth chapter of the book of Genesis.'

'They say he has had another vision, War, Pestilence!'

'The horsedealer in Vallombrosa said that a night or two agone great
hosts fought in the sky over the city, and one could hear the clash of
swords and the dinting of armour.'

'And it is a certainty, good folk, that on the _Nunziata_ in the Chiesa
dei Servi has been seen a bloody sweat.'

'Go to! And tears run nightly from the Madonna on the Rubaconte bridge.
Lucia, my aunt, saw it herself!'

'And it means no good, rest assured. The Lord have mercy on us,
miserable sinners!'

Meanwhile, among the women, there was a disturbance. An old woman
fainted, and when lifted up, still did not recover her senses. The whole
multitude indeed was worn by the interminable waiting; the pale
carpenter seemed unable to sustain himself longer.

But suddenly a wave stirred the sea of heads, and a whisper ran through
the church.

'He is coming!'

'Nay, 'tis not he, 'tis Fra Domenico da Pescia.'

'I tell you, yea, 'tis he! He has come.'

Giovanni saw a man in the black and white Dominican habit girdled with a
rope, who slowly ascended the pulpit-stair and removed his cowl. His
face was emaciated and yellow as wax, his lips thick, his nose aquiline,
his forehead low. His left hand fell weakly on the desk, his right he
raised clutching the crucifix; and silently with burning eyes he looked
upon the trembling and expectant crowd. Profound silence reigned, in
which each man could hear the beating of his own heart. The eyes of the
monk glowed increasingly, till they were like fiery coals; but he still
kept silence, and the strain of waiting became unendurable. It seemed
that in another moment the crowd would burst into screams.

Yet the calm became deeper, more awful; till suddenly, rending the
silence, came the terrible, lacerating, superhuman cry of the friar:--

'_Ecce ego adduco aquas super terram_, Behold I bring a Flood upon the
earth!'

A shudder passed through the crowd, raising the hair from the head.
Giovanni paled; he fancied the earth quaking, the cathedral arches about
to fall. Beside him the stalwart tinker was shaking like a leaf, his
teeth chattering. The head of the feeble carpenter had sunk backward on
his shoulders as if he had received a blow, his face was shrivelled, his
eyelids closed.

What followed was not a sermon but a delirium, which took hold of these
thousands of people and shook them as a storm shakes the withered
leaves. Giovanni listened, scarcely understanding. Detached phrases
reached his ear:--

'See ye, see how the heavens have already darkened; the sun is purple,
like clotted blood. Flee! Hide yourselves! There cometh even now a rain
of brimstone and fire; a hail of fiery stones and thunderbolts. _Fuge O
Sion quae habitas apud filiam Babylonis!_ O Italy, chastisement cometh
upon chastisement. After pestilence, war; and hunger after war! Judgment
is here, judgment is there! Everywhere there is judgment. Among you the
living suffice not to carry the dead. The dead in your houses shall be
so many that the grave-diggers shall call to you to throw them out, and
shall heap them on carts, yea, to the very necks of the horses, and
shall throw them one upon the other and burn them. And then again they
shall go through the streets and cry, "Who has any dead? Who has any
dead?" And you will answer them: "I throw to you my son, I throw to you
my brother, I throw to you my husband!" And then they shall go further,
and always they shall cry: "Bring forth your dead! bring forth your
dead!" O Florence! O Rome! O Italy! Past is the time of songs and of
feasting; ye are sickened unto death. Lord, Thou art witness, that with
my words I would have averted this ruin! But I can no more. I have no
words more. I can but weep, and run over with my tears. Mercy! Mercy! O
merciful Lord! Alas! my poor people! Alas! my Florence!'

He opened his arms, and the last words had sunk to a scarcely audible
whisper. They passed over the crowd and died away, like the rustle of
wind in the leaves--a sigh of infinite pity.

Pressing his white lips on the crucifix, he knelt and burst into sobs.
The sermon was ended. The slow, heavy organ-notes rolled out, persuasive
and immense, increasingly solemn and terrible, like the sound of the
mighty ocean.

A woman's voice cried _'Misericordia!_'

And thousands of voices answered, calling one to another; and like corn
stalks bowing before the wind, the people fell upon their knees, line
upon line, wave upon wave, crowding upon, striking against each other,
like a flock of sheep panic-struck at the advance of a storm; and the
long, agonising wail of penitents upon whom pressed the terror of
immediate ruin, rose to Heaven, mingling with the pealing of music,
shaking the ground, the marble pillars, and the vaults of the cathedral.

'_Misericordia! Misericordia!_'

Giovanni also sank to his knees, sobbing. The tall tinker rolled against
him, breathing hard; the pale carpenter caught his breath and cried like
a child, moaning--

'_Misericordia!_'

And Boltraffio remembered his pride, and his love of life, his desire to
escape from Fra Benedetto, and to give himself up to the dangerous arts
of Messer Leonardo, the enemy of God; he recalled the past fearful night
on the Hill of the Mill, the recovered Venus, his sinful enthusiasm for
the heathen beauty of the 'White She-devil'; stretching forth his hands
to heaven, he mingled his voice with that of the despairing crowd, and
cried--

'Lord! Lord! have compassion on me! I have sinned before thee. Pardon,
and have mercy.'

At that moment, raising his face, wet with tears, he saw at his side the
tall, upright form of Leonardo da Vinci. The artist, leaning carelessly
against a column, held in his right hand his unfailing sketch-book; with
his left he was drawing; now and then he glanced at the pulpit as if
hoping to see once more the head of the preacher.

A stranger, and surrounded by the terrified crowd, Leonardo maintained a
superb composure. In his cool, blue eyes, on his thin lips, tightly
compressed like those of a man of minute observation, there was the same
aloofness and curiosity with which he had mathematically measured the
body of the Aphrodite. At sight of him the tears dried in Giovanni's
eyes, and the prayer was silenced upon his lips.

Leaving the church he followed the artist and asked permission to see
his sketch. Leonardo demurred, but presently handed the boy his
sketch-book. And Giovanni saw a frightful caricature; not Savonarola,
but an old and hideous devil in the dress of a monk, like the preacher
indeed, but as if disfigured by self-inflicted and torturing penance,
his pride and his desires still unsubdued. The lower jaw protruded,
wrinkles intersected the cheek, the neck was twisted and black as a
mummy's, the bushy, beetling brows, the rabid glance scarce preserved a
semblance of humanity. All that was dark, terrible, and superstitious,
all which gave Savonarola into the power of the deformed, tongue-tied
visionary Marufi, was expressed by Leonardo in this sketch; brought out
with neither anger nor pity, but with an imperturbable and impartial
clear-sightedness.

And Giovanni remembered his words: '_L'ingegno dell' pittore vuol essere
a similitudine dello specchio_. The genius of the painter should be as a
mirror, reflecting all objects, and colours, and movements, itself ever
transparent and serene.'

The pupil of Benedetto raised his eyes to the artist's face, and felt
that though threatened by eternal damnation, though he were to find in
Messer Leonardo a veritable servant of Antichrist, yet to leave him had
become impossible; an irresistible force was drawing him to this man;
woe unto him if he failed to penetrate into the very depths of this
being and of his art.


X

Two days later, Messer Cipriano having been detained by affairs in
Florence, and unable to arrange for the transport of the Venus, Grillo
burst in upon him with most unwelcome tidings. Don Faustino, it seemed,
had left San Gervaso and betaken himself to San Maurizio, the
neighbouring village. Here, having terrified the people with talk of the
chastisement of Heaven, he had collected a party by night, besieged the
villa, broken in the doors, thrashed Strocco the gardener, who had been
left in charge of the statue, and bound him hand and foot. Then the
priest had recited over the goddess an ancient prayer called '_Oratio
super effigies vasaque in loco antiqua reperta_,' in which the servant
of the Church asks God to purify all statuary, vessels, and other
objects dug out of the ground, and to convert them to the profit of
Christian souls, to the glory of the Trinity, '_ut, omni immunditia
depulsa, sint fidelibus tuis utenda per Christum dominum nostrum_.' Then
they broke up the statue of the goddess, cast the fragments into a
furnace, made of them a cement, and with it daubed the new-raised wall
of the village cemetery.

As he told this tale the old man wept for grief. But the event helped
Giovanni Boltraffio to a decision. That very day he presented himself
before Messer Leonardo and begged to be received as a pupil. Leonardo
accepted him.

A little later, tidings were brought to Florence that Charles VIII.,
Most Christian King of France, had taken the field with a countless host
for the conquering of the Two Sicilies, and probably also of Rome and
Florence. Panic spread among the citizens. They perceived that the
prophecy of Savonarola was being fulfilled. Punishment was at their
door! The sword of the Lord was drawn upon Italy!




BOOK II

ECCE DEUS--ECCE HOMO--1494


     'Behold the man!'--ST. JOHN xix. 5.
             'Behold the God!'

     (Inscription on the monument of Francesco Sforza.)


I

'If the eagle can sustain himself in the rarest atmosphere, if great
ships by sails can float across the waves, why cannot likewise Man, by
means of powerful wings, make himself lord of the winds, and rise, the
conqueror of space?'

Leonardo found these words in one of his old note-books, written five
years earlier with the buoyancy of hope. Opposite was the sketch of a
machine; a beam, to which by means of iron rods, were attached wings to
be moved by cords and pulleys. Now the apparatus seemed to him clumsy
and absurd.

His new machine was like an enormous bat. The body of the wings was
formed by five wooden fingers, like a skeleton hand, with many joints
and pliant articulations. Tendons and muscles connecting these fingers
were formed by strips of tanned leather and laces of raw silk. The wing
rose by means of a crank and a moveable piston, and was covered by
impermeable taffeta. It resembled the webbed foot of a goose. There were
four wings moving in turn like the legs of a horse. Their length was
forty _braccia_, their spread, eight. They bent backward for propulsion,
and dropped to make the machine rise. A man was to sit in it astride,
and with his feet in stirrups was to move the wings by a machinery of
cords, blocks, and levers. A great rudder, feathered like the tail of a
bird, was to be turned by his head.

But a bird, before the first flap of his wings carries him from the
earth, must first raise himself by his feet. The short-legged swift, for
instance, if placed upon the ground struggles but cannot fly. Therefore
in the machine two cane stilts were indispensable, although their
inelegance greatly disturbed the inventor. Perfection could not exist
without beauty. He plunged into calculations, hoping to lay his finger
on a blunder. Failing, he impatiently drew a pencil across a whole page
of figures and wrote on the margin--

'Incorrect'; and presently, '_Satanasso!_' He was enraged.

Then he recommenced; but his calculations became more and more confused,
and the scarce perceptible error grew increasingly distinct, as he
worked on and on by the light of a flickering candle which offended his
eyes.

Then his cat, suddenly waking, leaped on the work-table, stretched
himself, humped his back, and began to play with a moth-eaten scarecrow
of a stuffed bird dangling from a wooden perch--a contrivance for
studying the centre of gravity in the act of flight. The inventor pushed
the cat angrily away, nearly knocking him down and causing a plaintive
mewing.

'Bless your heart! you may go where you like so long as you don't
interfere with me,' said Leonardo apologetically, rubbing the smooth,
black fur which emitted electric sparks. The cat purred, sat down
majestically, doubling his velvet paws under him, and fixing on his
master steady green eyes full of self-satisfaction and mystery.

Once more figures, fractions, brackets, equations, cubic and square
roots appeared upon the paper. It was the second night he had passed
without sleep; for a whole month since his return from Florence he had
scarcely set foot outside the house, but had worked unceasingly at the
flying-machine.

The branches of a white acacia intruded through an open window, and
sometimes cast on the table their tender, odorous blossoms. The
moonlight, softened by a mist of clouds, tinted like mother-o'-pearl,
flooded the chamber, and mingled with the murky illumination from the
tallow candle. The room was choked with machinery and instruments,
astronomical, physical, chemical, mechanical, and anatomical. Wheels,
levers, springs, screws, chimneys, pistons, arcs, suction-tubes, brass,
steel, iron, and glass, like the limbs of half-seen monsters or colossal
insects, peered out of the darkness. There was a diving-bell, beside it
the dulled crystal of an optical apparatus resembling a great eye; then
the skeleton of a horse, a stuffed crocodile, a human abortion preserved
in spirit, a pair of boat-shaped shoes for walking on the water, and
lastly, the clay head of a child or of an angel, strayed hither from the
sculptor's studio, and smiling slyly and mournfully at its surroundings.
In the background was a crucible and blacksmith's bellows, and coals lay
red upon the ashes of a furnace. Gigantic wings, one still bare, the
other already invested with its membrane, were spread out over all the
room, dominating the whole from floor to ceiling. And sprawling on the
ground, with nodding head, lay a man, Zoroastro, Leonardo's assistant,
who had fallen asleep at his post, oil flowing from the blackened brass
ladle which he held in his hand. One of the wings touched the chest of
the sleeper, and was softly vibrating as he breathed; it seemed alive,
and its sharp upper end rustled against the rafters of the ceiling.

In the uncertain light the machine, with this man between its extended
and moving wings, was like some stupendous vampire ready to rise and
fly.


II

Gardens surrounded Leonardo's house outside Milan--between the fortress
and the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie--and thence came a fine
perfume of fruits and herbs, thyme, and bergamot, and fennel. The moon
had set. Swallows under the windows were twittering and preparing to
fly, ducks splashed and quacked in the neighbouring pond. The candle was
dying in its socket; voices of the pupils were heard from the studio
hard by.

The students were two, Giovanni Boltraffio and Andrea Salaino. Giovanni
was copying an anatomical figure, and sitting before a contrivance for
the study of perspective--a wooden frame with a string network which
corresponded with lines traced on the drawing-paper: Salaino was fitting
a slab of alabaster to a wooden panel. He was a pretty lad with
innocent eyes and fair curls, petted by the Master, who drew his angels
from him.

'How think you, Andrea?' asked Boltraffio, 'will Messer Leonardo soon
finish this machine?'

'God knows!' answered Salaino whistling, and settling the embroidered
flaps of his new slippers. 'Last year he sat two months at it and
nothing resulted but laughter. That crooked bear Zoroastro set himself
to fly at all hazards. The master forbade him, but he did it. The fool
hung himself all round with a necklace of bullock's bladders, lest he
should break anything if he fell; then he mounted the roof, flapped his
wings; and true it is he rose, but God wot 'twas the wind carried him,
and presently he turned topsy-turvy and fell plump on to a dunghill; by
the Lord's mercy 'twas soft and he broke no bones, but the bladders
burst with a roar like a cannon, the daws in the belfry fled away for
very terror, and there lay the new Icarus kicking the air, on his head
in the manure.'

Just then the third pupil entered, Cesare da Sesto, a man no longer
young; sickly, and splenetic, with malicious but intelligent eyes. He
had a sandwich in one hand, wine in the other.

'Peuh! the sour stuff!' he said frowning and spitting, 'and the ham, by
my troth, is boot-leather--yet one pays two thousand ducats annually for
these delicacies!'

'Try the other cask from under the pantry stair.'

'I have tried it. Of the two 'tis the worse;' then pointing to Salaino's
new plum-coloured and gaily-feathered cap, he added, 'Oho! oho! some of
us, it seems, get new things. But 'tis the second month since they got
any new ham in the kitchen. Of a certainty things are well managed here!
We lead dog's lives. Marco vows on the bones of his mother that the
master has not one _soldo_ left in the bag. He has squandered everything
on these cursed wings of his, and begins his sparing by starving us. But
I'll teach you where else his money goes. In gifts for his darlings, in
medals and velvet caps. Have you no shame, Andrea, to receive alms? Is
Messer Leonardo your father or your brother? or are you still a baby?'

'Cesare,' interrupted Giovanni, to give a new turn to the discourse,
'you made promise to expound me the axioms of perspective. We waste time
expecting the master, who is overstudious of his machine----'

'Ay, ay, my friend. We shall all be confounded some day by that machine,
devil take it! And if it is not this machine 'tis another. I remember
how in the very middle of the _Cenacolo_, the Master, forsooth, must
needs break off to invent a new mincing-machine for sausages; and the
head of St. James could not get stuck on his shoulders, because Leonardo
was dissatisfied with the blades of the cutter. And the best of his
Madonnas had to wait in the corner, while he devised a spit for the
roasting of sucking-pigs. And what think you of that his other grand
discovery, the lye of fowl's-dung for the washing of linen? There is no
folly for which Messer Leonardo will not sacrifice his time if he can
but get away from his paint-brush;' and Cesare's face puckered itself,
and his lips curled in a malicious laugh.

'Why, I pr'ythee, why does God give genius to such men?' he added in a
low, trembling voice.


III

Leonardo was still at work, bending over his writing-table. A swallow
flew in at the window and wheeled about the room, brushing against the
ceiling and the walls, till caught by the great bat, its little, living
wings fast held by the network of artificial tendons. Cautiously
Leonardo rose and delicately freed the prisoner, took it in his hand,
kissed the silky black head, and let it fly away. The swallow soared,
and was lost in the blue air, screaming its cries of joy.

'How simple, how easy its flight,' he thought, as he followed it with
disappointed, envious eyes. He threw a contemptuous glance at his
machine, the dark skeleton of that tremendous bat.

The man who was lying on the floor suddenly awoke. He was a Florentine,
a skilful mechanic and smith, by name Zoroastro, or more shortly, Astro
da Paretola. A clumsy giant, with the simple face of a child, always
covered with soot and grime, he looked a Cyclops, for he had but one
eye, the other having been long ago destroyed by a spark from some
blazing metal.

Rubbing his single orb and scratching his shaggy head he cried, 'The
devil take me for a blockhead! Master, why did you not hinder me from
slumbering? I who was so zealously affected, who only thought how to
hurry the evening that the morning and the flying might come!'

'You were wise to sleep,' said Leonardo, 'for the wings have failed.'

'What! these also? Nay, master, but I will not make your machine again.
Think of the money, the labour we have thrown to the wind! What better
can you want? Not to fly, on wings like those, would be impossible! An
elephant could rise on them. Pr'ythee, master, let me try! I will prove
them over water, and then if I fall I'll come off with no worse than a
bathing. I can swim as a fish; I wasn't born to be drowned.'

And he clasped his hands supplicatingly. Leonardo, however, shook his
head.

'Patience, friend, have yet patience. It will come in its own time, and
then--'

'_Then?_' cried the smith, almost in tears. 'Why not _now_? Of a surety,
master, as true as God is in heaven, I shall fly.'

'No, Astro, fly thou wilt not. By a mathematical law----'

'I could have sworn you would say that! To the devil with your
mathematical laws, for they upset everything. And to think of the years
we have laboured! I am sick to remember it! Every gnat, mosquito, fly, I
pray you license--every _muck_-fly, every _dunghill_-fly--has its wings;
and men crawl like worms. 'Tis rank injustice! And why should we doubt?
There they are, your wings, ready, and beautiful; ready to be blessed of
God, and spread, and to be off! And then we shall see what we shall
see!'

He paused, seemed to recall something, and continued more calmly:--

'I would tell you a thing, master. This very night I dreamed, nay, but I
dreamed----'

'I conceive you! You flew.'

'Ay. But how? Hear me. I stood in a chamber, where I know not, and amid
a throng. They looked at me and pointed, and then they laughed. And I
said to myself, "cursed spite 'twill be if I fly not." So I got up and I
shook my arms and I rose; I warrant you 'twas hard, as though I would
raise a mountain on my back! But 'twas soon lighter, and I rose till my
head was in the roof. And they cried aloud, Behold him! he flieth! Ay,
and I passed through the window like yon bird, and I circled higher and
yet higher, till I touched the sky. And the wind whistled in my ears,
and I laughed for very joy. "Why," I questioned of myself, "did I never
fly till now? 'Tis mighty easy; and there is no call for any machinery
at all."'


IV

Shouts, oaths, and the quick thump of footsteps interrupted them. The
door was flung wide, and a fiery-haired, freckle-faced man, dragging a
child of ten by the ear, burst into the chamber. It was Leonardo's
pupil, Marco d'Oggione.

'May the Lord send you an ill Easter!' he shouted; 'Rascal, I will set
my heels upon your throat!'

'What coil is this, Marco?' asked Leonardo.

'I pray you listen, Master. This same young rogue has filched my silver
buckles; ten florins each did they cost me! One he has gambled away at
his dice; the other I have found in his stocking. I did but pull him by
the hair, and now, son of the devil that he is, he hath bitten my finger
to the bone.'

And he would again have attacked the little lad by his curls had not
Leonardo rescued him. Then Marco, who kept the keys of the house, took
them from his pouch and flung them on the ground.

'Take them up, sir! I will be warden no longer. I live no longer in the
house with rascals and with thieves!'

'Peace, Marco, peace; and leave this babe to me.'

The other three now came from the studio, and presently Maturina, the
fat cook, squeezed herself into the group, carrying her market basket.
Seeing the little sinner, she flung up her hands and gabbled with the
monotony of dry peas pouring through a broken bag. Cesare talked also
volubly, demanding why this 'pagan of a Jacopo' was allowed to stay, for
the playing of every malicious and spiteful trick capable of invention;
had he not maimed the watch-dog, stoned the nests of the swallows, torn
wings from butterflies?

Jacopo had taken refuge with the Master, his pale pretty face quite
impassive, his eyes, sinister in their brilliance, turned to Leonardo
with mute supplication.

Leonardo would have appeased the tumult, but on his face sat a strange
air of perplexity and weakness, not lost upon the contemptuous Cesare.

Presently the noise subsided of itself; and then Leonardo, with his
customary calm, called Giovanni and invited him to an inspection of the
_Cenacolo_, the Last Supper; his greatest work. Giovanni flushed with
pleasure, and they went together.


V

However they paused by the courtyard fountain that Leonardo, after his
sleepless night, might refresh himself by bathing his face. The day was
cloudy, but windless, and over all things streamed an argent light which
seemed to come from under water; days like these pleased the artist best
for painting. They were still at the well when the boy Jacopo crept up,
bearing in his hands a little case made of bark.

'Messer Leonardo,' he murmured, 'I have brought it--for you,' and
cautiously raising the lid he showed a huge imprisoned spider. 'I have
watched it this three days,' he said enthusiastically; ''tis poisonous!
And 'tis a terror to see how he devoureth flies!'

His face was radiant now, and catching a fly he gave it to the captive.
The spider seized the victim with its hairy legs, and there was a fight
and great buzzing.

'He sucks it! He sucks it!' cried the child in an ecstasy; and Leonardo
bent over the struggling creatures to watch.

It seemed to Giovanni that on the two so different faces was the same
expression: a hideous pleasure in the horrible.

When the fly had been murdered and devoured the boy closed the little
box, and said, 'I will put it on your table, Messer Leonardo; you will
like to see how he fights with other spiders.'

Then he raised supplicating eyes, and went on with quivering lips,
'Messere, be not wroth with me. I will go from you. I see that I am a
trouble to you; you are good, but those others are evil; as truly am I
also--I who understand not pretending, as do they! So be it; I will go
very far away, and will live alone. 'Twill be better so. Only do thou
pardon me, Master, I pray, I supplicate. Pardon thou me.' And great
tears shone on the child's long lashes as he went on. 'Pardon me, Master
Leonardo, and I will leave you the spider for a remembrance of me.
Spiders live many years; and I will ask Astro to feed it.'

'Whither would you go, poor child? Nay, Marco shall forgive thee; I am
not wroth with thee, and truly I will accept thy spider. In the future,
little one, seek to live harmlessly.'

Jacopo turned his eyes to his Master, and in them was no gratitude, only
unbounded astonishment; and Leonardo smiled at him, as if in his great
wisdom he understood the child, and knew him one of those innocent in
their wrong doing, because by nature formed for evil.

'It grows late, Giovanni; let us go on,' said Leonardo; and together
they trod the silent street which presently led them between the walls
of gardens, vineyards, and orchards, to the convent of Santa Maria delle
Grazie.


VI

Boltraffio had for some time been distressed by the fact that he could
no longer pay his master the monthly fee of six florins which had been
arranged. His uncle had quarrelled with him, and now refused him further
assistance, and Fra Benedetto, who had lent him the means for two
months, could do no more.

So this morning Giovanni determined to explain matters to his master. He
turned deprecatingly to him, and reddening to the roots of his hair,
stammered:--

'Messere, we are at the 14th of the month, and it was agreed I should
pay you on the 10th. It irks me to confess it, but I have no more than
these three florins. Would you consent to wait? Soon I have hope to get
money. Merula has promised me copying.'

Leonardo looked at him astonished.

'What speech is this, Giovanni? Are you not ashamed?'

By his disciple's blush, by his confusion, by his patched shoes and
threadbare clothes he guessed that Giovanni was very poor. So he
frowned, and talked of something else; but presently took occasion to
hand the boy a gold piece, saying carelessly, 'Lad, go buy me twenty
sheets of the blue paper for my drawings, and a parcel of red chalk,
and another of badger brushes. Take the money.'

'A ducat? to pay a matter of ten _soldi_? I will bring you the surplus.'

'By no means. I care not for such trifles. Some day, perchance, you will
be able to pay it back. And talk no more to me of money: do you hear?'

He went on at once to remark on the misty outlines of the larch trees
along both banks of the straight canal called the Naviglio Grande, which
carried the eye into the distance by their long rows.

'Have you observed, Giovanni, that in a light mist the trees show blue,
in a thick mist, grey?'

And he talked further of the shadows thrown by the clouds upon the
hills, one tone in summer when their trees are in leaf, another in
winter when their trees are bare. Then he said abruptly.

'You have thought me a skinflint because on our first coming to terms
you saw me note every detail of the bargain in a book. I caught that
trick from my good father, Piero, the notary, who knows his way in
affairs passing well. But the habit is an idle one for me. I am extreme
to mark trifles such as the price of the feather in Salaino's cap; yet
thousands of ducats go from me, and I know not whither. For the future,
boy, regard not this trick. If thou hast need of money, take it; and be
sure I give it to thee as a father gives to a son.'

And Leonardo looked at him with a smile so tender, that the pupil's
heart was lightened and overflowed with joy. Then again the master
talked of trees, and pointing to a misshapen white mulberry, bade his
disciple observe that not only every tree but also every leaf has its
own figure different from its fellows, even as every son of man has his
own face. It seemed to Giovanni that he spoke of trees with no less
insight than he had shown in speaking of his needy disciple; as though
loving observation of all things living had sharpened his eye to the
penetration of a seer and a clairvoyant.

They were now in sight of Santa Maria delle Grazie, the church belonging
to the Dominican convent; a brick edifice with a broad dome like a
tent--the early work of Bramante. It rose from the plain behind a grove
of dark mulberry trees, and seemed rosy and gay against its background
of white and rainy clouds.

The pair passed at once into the convent refectory.


VII

It was a long bare hall, whitewashed, and with a roof of wooden rafters.
There was a smell of damp, of incense, and of fast-day fare. The Father
Superior had his dining-board in the recess by the entrance; on either
side were the long narrow tables for the monks. So still was it that the
buzz of the flies was audible in the windows, glazed with small, yellow,
and dusty panes, and hollowed like the cells of a honeycomb. Now and
then voices came from the kitchen with a clatter of iron saucepans.

Opposite the prior's table, at the end of the hall, there rose a
scaffolding of wood covered with coarse grey linen; Giovanni divined
that behind it was the _magnum opus_, upon which the Master had already
laboured for twelve years; the _Cenacolo_, the Last Supper.

Leonardo having ascended the scaffold and opened a wooden case which
contained his sketches, cartoons, paints, etc., took a small, well-worn,
much-annotated Latin book, and handing it to Giovanni, bade him read the
thirteenth chapter of St. John. Then he removed the covering from the
fresco.

Giovanni's first impression was that he saw not a painting but a
prolongation of the room itself against an actual background of air.
Another chamber seemed to have opened out behind the withdrawn curtain;
the beams of the ceiling passed on into it, contracting in the distance,
and the light of day was blended in the quiet evening light above the
hills of Zion, which glowed through the triple window. This second
supper-room was little less austere and bare than the convent refectory.
Though more solemn, the sacred table, with its cups, plates, knives, and
flagons, was like the board at which the monks nightly supped; the cloth
with its narrow stripes, its knotted corners, its unsmoothed folds,
seemed still damp, as if but just taken from the convent linen room.

Giovanni opened the Gospel and read:--

'Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour was
come that he should depart out of this world unto the Father, ... and
supper being ended, the devil having put into the heart of Judas
Iscariot, Simon's son, to betray him....

'Jesus was troubled in spirit, and testified and said, Verily verily, I
say unto you, that one of you shall betray me. Then the disciples looked
one on another, doubting of whom he spake. Now there was leaning on
Jesus' bosom one of his disciples whom Jesus loved.'

Giovanni again raised his eyes to the fresco. The faces of the apostles
were so animated that he seemed to hear their speech, to look into the
depths of their souls, confounded as they were by the most mysterious,
the most terrible of all catastrophes that have ever taken place--the
birth of that sin by which God was to die.

Specially was he impressed by Judas, by St. Peter, and St. John. The
head of Judas was not yet painted, and the body, bent backward, but
dimly outlined. Clutching desperately at the bag with convulsive
fingers, he had overturned the salt-cellar, and the salt was spilled.
Peter, impetuous in his wrath, was starting up from behind, a knife
still in his right hand, his left on the shoulder of John, as if asking
the beloved disciple 'of whom doth He speak?' With his silver hair, with
his splendid resentment, his whole frame showed that fiery zeal, that
thirst for great deeds, with which, upon understanding the ineluctable
sufferings of his Master he was to cry 'Lord, why cannot I follow thee
now? I will lay down my life for thy sake!' John, on the contrary, with
his long silken tresses, his eyelids lowered as if in the peace of
sleep, his folded hands, the long oval of his face--seemed the ideal of
calm and heavenly serenity. Alone among the disciples he knew no
suffering, no fear, no wrath.

Giovanni saw, and he said to himself, 'Here is the true Leonardo! And I
had doubted and wellnigh believed the calumnies. The man impious who
created that? Nay, who among men is closer to Christ than he?'

The painter, meantime, having completed the face of John with delicate
touches of the brush, began the charcoal outline of the head of Jesus.
Vainly, however; he had meditated upon that head for ten years, yet
still he could not accomplish even the first sketch. Always when
confronted by that emptiness where the divine countenance should appear,
the artist trembled with mortal anguish and the sense of his own
impotence. Throwing the charcoal aside, passing a cloth over the few
lines he had lightly traced, he fell into one of those reveries which
sometimes lasted for entire hours. Giovanni ventured to approach him,
and saw his face as it were aged, severe, wearing the imprint of
unremitting tension, of silent despair.

Yet, his eyes falling on those of his pupil, Leonardo said kindly--

'Well, then, _amico mio_, what say you of it?'

'What words have I, Master? It is beautiful, with a beauty beyond aught
in this world. None other has so understood that scene! But nay, I will
not speak--I cannot.'

His voice shook with tears; but presently he added in a low voice, 'One
thing I would ask. Among such faces, what can be the face of Judas?'

The master, without answering, handed him a paper sketch. It showed a
face terrible but not repulsive, not wicked even, but big with infinite
grief, with the profound bitterness of great knowledge.

Giovanni compared it with that of St. John. 'Yes,' he exclaimed
awestruck; 'it is he! He of whom it is said, Satan entered into him; who
perhaps knew more than any of them, but who would not accept the cry,
that 'all may be one!' because he desired to be _an one_ by himself.'

He was interrupted by Cesare da Sesto, who burst into the refectory,
followed by a man in the court livery.

'At last! at last!' he cried; 'Master, we have sought you in every
place! The duchess requires you--on a grave matter.'

'Your Worship will have the kindness to come with me to the palace,'
said the servant.

'What is the cause?'

'A disaster, Messer Leonardo. The water pipes do not work; and this
morning when Her Excellence was pleased to get into her bath, and her
woman had gone to the adjoining chamber for linen, the tap broke, so
that Her Excellence was nearly scalded. She is pleased to be very wroth;
and Messer Ambrogio Ferrari, the steward, complains greatly, and saith
he hath more than once warned your Worship about these pipes.'

'What puerility is this?' replied Leonardo; 'can you not see I am at
work? Go to Zoroastro. In half an hour he will repair everything.'

'Messere, I was told not to return without your Worship.'

Leonardo, however, went back to his picture. But when his eye fell on
the blank space destined for the Saviour's head, his brows knit with
discouragement, and, realising fresh failure, he descended from the
easel.

'Well, we will go. You, Giovanni, come for me to the outer courtyard of
the castle, Cesare will show you the way; I will expect you by the
_Cavallo_.'

By this name he spoke of his great equestrian statue of Francesco
Sforza.

And to Giovanni's amazement, without another glance at the _Cenacolo_,
the Master followed the scullion to mend the pipes of the ducal bath.

'So you can't take your eyes off the thing?' said Cesare mockingly to
Boltraffio; 'certes, 'tis a wonderful work; at least until one sees
through it.'

'What is your meaning?'

'Ask me not. I won't spoil your faith. Mayhap in the end you will
discover for yourself. Meanwhile, admire.'

'Cesare, tell me your thought.'

'Good, then. Only be not wroth at the truth. I know all you will find to
say and I will not dispute with you. In good sooth, it is wonderful. No
master hath so much anatomy, such perspective, such science of
chiaroscuro. I challenge it not. All is direct from nature, the face
wrinkles, the folds in the cloth, everything. But the living spirit,
where is that? the God is absent; and will absent Himself for ever. At
bottom, in the soul, all is ice and death! Look, Giovanni! use your
eyes! See the geometrical regularity; four triangles, two contemplative,
two active; and their centre is Christ. Look narrowly. On the right you
have perfect goodness in John, perfect badness in Judas, the dividing of
good and evil (that is, justice) in Peter. Beside them the active triad,
Andrew, James, and Bartholomew. Now turn to the left; another
contemplative triangle; the love of Philip, the faith of James, the
wisdom of Thomas; then again, activity in another triad. Not
inspiration, Giovanni, but geometry; mathematics in the seat of
beauty. All calculated, reasoned _ad nauseam_, tested to repulsion,
weighed in the balance, measured by the compasses. Under the holy
things--contempt.'

'Cesare, Cesare!' cried Giovanni with gentle reproof. 'How little you
know the Master! Why do you hate him?'

'And you think perchance you know him, and therefore you love him?'
returned Cesare quickly, turning to his companion with a bitter smile.
In his eyes blazed such unextinguishable malice that Giovanni
instinctively averted his own.

'You are unjust, Cesare,' he resumed after a pause; 'the picture is
incomplete; the Christ is not yet there.'

'And will He be there? Do you expect it? Well, we shall see. Only mark
you my words. I say Messer Leonardo will never finish the _Cenacolo_;
never paint the Judas, nor the Christ! For, see you, my friend, one may
do much by mathematics and by experiments in science; but not
everything. More is needed. There is a limit which he, with all his
learning, can never pass.'

They left the monastery and moved towards the Castello di Porta Giovia.
Boltraffio was long silent, then he said:--

'In one point, Cesare, you certainly are in error. The Judas exists
already; I have seen it.'

'When? Where?'

'Just now--in the convent. He showed me the drawing.'

'You?'

Cesare stared, then said slowly, and as if by an effort.

'How was it? Good?'

Giovanni nodded; and Cesare after this kept silence.


VIII

Arrived at the castle gates, they crossed the drawbridge to the Torre
del Filarete, which looked to the south, and was deeply moated. Here
even at noon it was dark; and the air was laden with an undefinable
odour of barracks--the smell of stables, straw, and sour bread. Under
the resounding arches came echoes of the laughter and curses of the
hired foreign soldiery.

Cesare had the pass; but Giovanni was regarded with mistrust, and his
name entered in the guard-book. Crossing a second drawbridge, where they
submitted to a second examination, they reached the deserted inner court
of the castle called the Piazza d'Arme. Straight before them was the
stern Torre di Bona; to the right, the entrance to the Corte Ducale; to
the left, the Rocchetta, a veritable eagle's nest, the part of the
castle most difficult of access. In the centre of the square, surrounded
by ill-made wooden fences, which were already moss-grown and
weather-stained, rose an unfinished colossal equestrian statue in
greenish clay; _Il Cavallo_, the bold achievement of Leonardo da Vinci,
no less than twenty _braccia_ in altitude. The tremendous horse, dark
against the watery sky, was rearing; a fallen warrior was beneath his
hoofs; on his back, Francesco Sforza, the great _condottiere_,
half-soldier, half brigand, wholly adventurer, who had served with his
sword and his blood for money. The son of a peasant, strong as a lion,
astute as a fox, he attained by sagacity, by crime, and by great
exploits, the summit of power, and died on the throne of the Dukes of
Milan. Pale sunshine fell full on the colossal figure, and in the
grossness of the double chin, in the rapacity of the fierce and vigilant
eye, Giovanni saw the calm of the gorged wild beast. Leonardo himself
had inscribed the clay with this distich:--

     'Expectant animi molemque futuram
      Suscipiunt; fluat aes; vox erit; Ecce Deus.'

The last two words were astounding to Giovanni. 'Behold the god.'

'A god?' he repeated, looking at the colossal clay, at the victim
trampled by the violent conqueror. He remembered the quiet convent
refectory of 'Our Lady of Grace,' the hills of Zion, the celestial
beauty of St. John, the stillness of the Last Supper: and that God, of
whom it was said, 'Behold the Man!'

At this moment Leonardo himself appeared.

'Let us hurry,' he said; 'it seems that the kitchen chimneys are
smoking; and if we do not flee they will be calling me back to mend
them.'

Giovanni could not answer him; he stood downcast and pallid.

'Master,' he said presently, 'I crave your pardon; but I have thought
long, and still I comprehend not how you were able to create the
_Cavallo_ and the _Cenacolo_ at one and the same time.'

Leonardo looked at his disciple in quiet surprise.

'Why not?'

'Oh, Messer Leonardo! do you not feel yourself that they are impossible
together?'

'No, Giovanni. To my thinking, one helps out the other. My best ideas
for the _Cenacolo_ come to me when I am working at the Colossus; and in
that convent refectory yonder, I love to think upon this monument of
Duke Francesco. The works are twins. I began them together, and together
I shall finish them.'

'Together! Christ, and this man? It is impossible!' And ignorant how to
express his thought, yet feeling his heart on fire, he repeated
passionately, 'It is impossible!'

'And why?' asked the master with his quiet smile.

Giovanni would have tried to reply; but meeting those calm
uncomprehending eyes, the words died upon his lips, for Leonardo would
not have understood them. So he held his peace and thought within
himself.

'Strange! An hour ago, looking at his picture, I fancied that I knew
him. And now I find I do not know him at all. Of which of those twain
does he say in his heart: 'Behold the god?''


IX

That night when all others slept, Giovanni, tormented by insomnia, rose
and went into the court, where was a stone bench under a tent of vine
branches. The court was square, and in its centre was a well; behind the
bench was the wall of the house, opposite the stable; to the left a
stone wall with a wicket-gate which opened on the street of the Porta
Vercellina; to the right the wall of a little garden and a door always
locked and leading to a separate building. Here Astro alone was allowed
ingress, and here Leonardo was wont to work in complete seclusion.

The night was still and warm, with a thick mist, penetrated by dim
moonlight. A low knock sounded on the gate which opened on the road; the
shutter of one of the lower windows was opened, and a man peered out,
asking:--

'Monna Cassandra?'

''Tis I. Open!'

Astro came from the house and let her in; a girl clad in white, which
the moonlight and the mist changed to a strange green. They parleyed
together at the gate; then passed Giovanni without seeing him, where he
sat in the deep shadow of the vine branches.

The girl seated herself on the low wall of the well. Her face was an odd
one, immobile and placid, like the faces of old statues. She had a low
forehead, straight black eyebrows, too small a chin, and eyes of
transparent amber. But what chiefly struck Giovanni was her hair, so
light, so soft, so crisp, as if possessed of life. Like the Medusa's
aureole of serpents, its blackness framed her face, making its paleness
paler, its lips more scarlet, its amber eyes more translucent.

'Then you too, Astro, have heard speak of Frate Angelo?' said the girl.

'Yes, Monna Cassandra. They say the Pope hath sent him to extirpate
heresy and black magic. And I tell you, merely to hear what is told of
the Fathers Inquisitors raises the hair of your skin! God keep us from
their claws! Monna Cassandra, be discreet; and, above all, warn your
aunt.'

'A pretty aunt she is to me!'

'It matters not. Warn that Monna Sidonia with whom you live.'

'Then, blacksmith, you suppose us witches?'

'I suppose nothing. Messer Leonardo hath taught me there is no
witchcraft; nor can be none, by the law of nature. Messer Leonardo knows
everything and believes in nothing.'

'Believes in nothing? Not in the devil? Not in God?'

'Jest not! Messer Leonardo is a saint.'

'And your flying-machine?' she said contemptuously; 'is it ready?'

The smith waved his hand despairingly.

'Ready? We are going to make it all over again!'

'Astro! Astro! You credit this nonsense? These machines are dust cast
into the eyes. I wager Messer Leonardo has flown many a time ere now.'

'Flown? How?'

'He flies--as I fly.'

He surveyed her thoughtfully.

'You fly in dreams, Monna Cassandra.'

'You think that is it? Nay, others have seen me fly. Perhaps you know
not the tale?'

The smith scratched his head hesitatingly.

'But I forget,' she said mockingly; 'you are all learned folk here, who
believe not in miracles, but in mechanics.'

'S'death! Those same mechanics are a weight on my neck. Did you but
know----' He spread out his hands appealingly, and continued: 'Monna
Cassandra; you know my faithfulness. Nor is there temptation to chatter,
lest Frate Angelo play eavesdropper. Tell me, then, in all secrecy, tell
me of your charity with all the particulars----'

'Tell you what?'

'How you fly.'

'Not that, my friend; no. If you know too much you will age too soon.'

She paused; then said softly, after a long look straight into his eyes.
'What avails it to talk? You must act.'

'What is required?' asked Astro in trembling tones, and turning pale.

'You must know a certain word, and you must anoint your skin with a
certain unguent.'

'Have you this unguent?'

'Yes.'

'And you know the word?'

She nodded.

'And then one can fly?'

'Try. You will find my method simpler than your mechanics.'

The single eye of the smith blazed with the madness of desire.

'Monna Cassandra, give me your unguent.'

She suppressed a laugh.

'You are a simpleton, Astro. Five minutes ago you called magic foolery;
now, it seems, you believe in it.'

Astro hung his head, convicted, but unrepentant.

'I wish to fly. I care little if I attain by mechanics or by miracles.
What I can endure no longer is waiting.'

The girl laid her hand on his shoulder.

'I see, I see. Truly, I pity you. It is clear your brain will crack if
you don't get to your flying. Good, then; I will give you the drug and I
will teach you the word. But you likewise, Astro, you must do what I ask
of you.'

'I will, Monna Cassandra. I will do anything. Speak.' The girl pointed
to the wet roof beyond the garden wall.

'Let me enter there.'

But Astro frowned and shook his head.

'Nay. I will do whatever you ask, saving only that.'

'And why not that?'

'I have promised my master to let none in.'

'But you go thither?'

'Yea.'

'What is there within?'

'No mystery, Monna Cassandra; nothing of moment. Machines, appliances,
books, manuscripts. Certain strange plants, beasts, creeping things.
Travellers bring them from distant lands. And there is one tree which
has been poisoned.'

'What? poisoned?'

'Ay. He has it for experiments; that he may know the effect poison has
upon plants.'

'Good Astro, tell me all you know of that tree.'

'There is naught to tell. Early in the spring season he bored him a hole
in its trunk, to the very core; and with a long thin needle he squirted
in some venom.'

'What strange experiments! And of what sort is the tree?'

'A peach-tree.'

'What followed? Was the fruit also poisoned?'

'It will be so when ripe.'

'Can you see in the peaches that they are poisoned?'

'No; and that is why he permits no entry, lest some one might eat the
fruit and die.'

'Have you the key?'

'Ay.'

'Good Astro, give it to me!'

'Monna Cassandra! Have I not sworn to him?'

'Give me the key; and I will compass it that to-night you shall
fly--this very night. See, this is the drug.'

She drew from her bosom a phial which contained a dark liquid; and
putting her face close to his, she whispered wheedlingly, 'What is it
you fear, simpleton? You say there are no mysteries. Well, then, let us
go and make sure. The key, Astro, the key!'

'No,' he replied, 'I will not let you enter; and I care nothing for your
secret. Leave me.'

'Coward!' cried the girl, fine scorn on her face; 'it is possible for
you to know the secret, and you dare not hear it! Now I see plainly he
is a sorcerer, and he tricks you as he would trick an infant!'

But neither could scorn move him; he turned away his head, listening
sullenly. Then Cassandra drew nearer again.

'Well, Astro, so be it. I will not enter. Only do you set the door ajar
and let me peep----'

'You will not go in?'

'No; only open and let me just look.'

At this he drew forth the key and unlocked the door.

Giovanni, rising softly and drawing nearer, saw a common peach-tree at
the far end of the little walled garden; under the dim green moonlight
the tree seemed weird and ill-omened.

Standing in the doorway, the girl looked about her with the wide eyes of
eager curiosity. Then she took a step forward. The smith held her back;
but she freed herself and slipped through his hands like a snake. He
again pushed her out, almost overthrowing her. But she recovered her
balance easily, and looked him full in the eyes. Her face pale, livid,
and contracted with rage, was terrifying; at that moment she truly
seemed a witch.

The smith clapped to the door, and without further speech retreated to
the house, she following him with her golden eyes. Presently she strode
hastily past Giovanni, and through the wicket into the road of the Porta
Vercellina. Once more silence reigned, and the mist thickened; all
things vanished in it.

Giovanni, left alone, closed his eyes painfully. Before him rose as in a
vision the awful tree, the heavy drops on its damp leaves, its poisoned
fruits, pallidly illuminated. And he thought of the words:--

'Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of
the knowledge of good and evil thou shalt not eat. For in the day that
thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.'




BOOK III

THE POISONED FRUITS--1494


     'And the Serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die. For
     God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall
     be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.--GEN.
     iii. 4 and 5.

     'Faciendo un bucho con un succhiello dentro un albusciello, a
     chacciandovi arsenicho e risalgallo e sollimato stemperati con
     acqua arzente, a forza di fare e sua frutti velenosi.'--LEONARDO DA
     VINCI.

     (Having pierced the heart of a young tree, inject arsenic, a
     reagent and corrosive sublimate, diluted with alcohol, so as to
     envenom even the fruit.)


I

Beatrice, the duchess, used every Friday to bathe her hair, and then
tincture it with gold, after which she dried it in the sunshine. For her
convenience she had caused balustraded '_altane_,' or platforms, to be
erected on the roof of the splendid ducal villa of the Sforzesca, which
stood on the right bank of the Ticino, near the fortress of Vigevano,
among the fat pastures and the ever green water-side meadows of the
province of Lomellina. Here, then, she sat, patiently supporting the
blazing heat at an hour when even husbandmen and their oxen were wont to
creep into the shadow. She wore a _schiavinetta_--a loose white silk
wrapper without sleeves. On her head was a kind of straw sunshade, or
hat, from the opening in the top of which flowed out the broad masses of
her gilded and rippling hair. An olive-skinned Circassian slave was
moistening the hair with a sponge, fixed on the point of a spindle; and
a Tartar, slit-eyed and crooked, was combing it with an ivory comb.

The dye was made in May of the roots of walnut trees, saffron, ox-gall,
swallows' lime, ambergris, bears' claws, and the fat of lizards. Close
beside the duchess, and watched by herself, an infusion of musk roses
and precious spices was simmering in a long-necked retort, upon a tripod
over an invisible flame.

Both the waiting-maids were bathed in perspiration; even the duchess's
lapdog was ill at ease on this burning _altana_, and, panting and
lolling out his tongue, gazed reproachfully at his mistress, nor
responded as usual to the provocation of the monkey. The latter was
luxuriating in the heat, however, like the negro page, who held the
gemmed and jewelled mother-o'-pearl mirror.

Though the Lady Beatrice constantly endeavoured to compose countenance
and deportment to the severity becoming her rank, it was hard to believe
that she was nineteen, had been married three years, and had borne two
children. In the girlish roundness of her dark cheek, in the childish
dimple, the slender throat, the chin too plump; in the full lips tightly
compressed as if always tempted to pout; in the slight shoulders and
flat bosom; in the abrupt boyish movements, she appeared still a
schoolgirl, spoiled, wilful, restless and even selfish. Yet prudence and
intelligence shone from the steady, dark eyes; and the Venetian
ambassador, Marino Sanuto, most astute of statesmen, had written in his
private letters to his government that this girl was hard as flint, and
gave him far more trouble than did her husband, Il Moro; who indeed
showed his wisdom by obeying her about everything.

The dog barked angrily, and up the winding stair which led to the
_altana_ came laboriously an old woman habited like a widow. In one hand
she held a crutch, in the other a rosary; the wrinkles in her face might
have given her a reverend aspect, had not the withered mouth smiled
hypocritically, and the eyes sparkled with audacious cunning.

'Ugh, ugh! How detestable is old age! I could hardly drag myself hither.
May the Lord preserve youth and health to your Excellency,' said the old
woman, kissing the hem of the _schiavinetta_.

'Well, Monna Sidonia, is it ready?'

The crone drew from her pouch a carefully wrapped, closely-stoppered
phial, containing a turbid, whitish liquid,--the milk of a red goat and
of an ass, distilled with wild anise, asparagus, and white lilies.

'In good sooth, her Excellency should keep it two little days more in
good horse litter. Yet it can be used at once if needful; only first
strain it through a filter. Wet with it crumbs of stale bread, and then
be pleased to rub your noble countenance for such a period as would take
the reciting of three _credos_. In five weeks' time all swarthiness will
be removed, and pimples beside.'

'Hearken, old woman,' said Beatrice; 'in this lotion there are again,
mayhap, some of the abominable things used in black magic,--snakes' fat,
perchance, or plovers' blood; or powdered lizards, fried in a
frying-pan; such as there were in that unguent you gave me for withering
the hair in my cheek-moles. If it be so, tell me at once.'

'Your Excellency should not lend her ear to the calumnies of the
malignant. I work honestly, as my conscience dictates; but no one can do
without dirt sometimes. The magnificent Madonna Angelica, for example,
all last year washed her head with dogs' urine, so as to preserve her
hair, which was falling out; and thanked God and me it cured her.' Then,
bending down to the duchess's ear, she told the latest gossip:--how the
young wife of the Master of the Guild of the Salters, the lovely Madonna
Filiberta was deceiving her husband with a Spanish cavalier, and
diverting herself hugely.

'And doubtless,' said Beatrice, jestingly threatening with her finger,
''twas you who brought the poor thing to it, you old bawd!'

'Does your Excellency call her _poor_? Nay, she sings me her thanks
every hour. Now she knows the difference between the kiss of a spouse
and the kiss of a lover.'

'But the sin? Doth not her conscience bite her?'

'Her conscience? Madam, I hold the sin of love the work of nature. And a
few drops of holy water can wash the sin away. Madonna Filiberta is but
giving her spouse a Roland for his Oliver.'

'Is your meaning that likewise the husband----'

'Say it for certain, I do not--but sure it is that all married men harp
on one string. There is none of them but would sooner have a single hand
than a single wife.'

The duchess laughed. 'Ah, Monna Sidonia, Monna Sidonia, there's no
tripping you! But where do you learn all these things?'

'Believe the word of an old woman; what I tell you is gospel truth. And
in matters of conscience I know the difference between a beam and a
mote. All fruit gets ripe in its season. If she have not her fill of
love when she be young, a woman will fall into such longing when she is
old, that she will go straight into the claws of the devil.'

'You preach like a doctor of theology.'

'Nay, I am unlearned; but I speak from my heart, and I tell your
Excellency that youth comes but once in life; for what the devil--Lord
forgive me!--is the use of us women when we are old? Perhaps to throw
charcoal on the brazier, and to count the pots and the pans in the
kitchen. Not for nothing says the proverb.

     "La giovane mangia, la vecchia s'ingozza."[2]

  [2] _Ingozzare_, to swallow; also, to bear an affront meekly.

Beauty without love is like matins without a paternoster.'

'What! say that over again!' laughed the duchess.

The old woman, thinking she had now trifled enough, again bent to the
lady's ear and whispered. Beatrice ceased to laugh, her face darkened.
She dismissed her attendants, excepting the little blackamoor who had no
Italian. Around them was only the still and glowing air, which seemed to
have paled under the fury of the heat.

'Folly!' answered the duchess; 'such chattering is of no moment.'

'Signora, I saw with my eyes, I heard with my ears. Others will tell you
the like.'

'Were there many persons?'

'Ten thousand. The piazza before the Castle of Pavia was thronged.'

'What heard you?'

'When Madonna Isabella came forth bearing the little Francesco there was
a beating of hands, a waving of caps, and a many who shed tears. "_Viva_
Isabella of Aragon," they cried, "_Viva_ Gian Galeazzo and his heir, our
true and legitimate lord! Death to the usurpers of his throne!"'

Beatrice frowned. 'Those were the very words?'

'Ay; but there was worse.'

'Speak--fear nothing.'

'They cried--my tongue, _Signora mia_, refuses--but they cried "Death to
the Robbers!"'

Beatrice shivered; mastering herself, however, she asked calmly, 'Was
there more?'

'Of a truth, I know not how to tell it to your Excellency.'

'Haste thee, I would know all.'

'Believe me, madam, they said that the most noble duke, Ludovico il
Moro, the guardian and the benefactor of Gian Galeazzo, holds his nephew
in the fortress of Pavia, and surrounds him with assassins and spies.
Then they demanded that the duke himself should come out to them, but
Madonna Isabella answered that he lay sick.'

And again Monna Sidonia whispered in the duchess's ear.

'But you are distraught, you old hag,' cried the lady. 'Beware, lest I
have you thrown from this roof, so that not even a crow can get your
bones together.'

The threat did not frighten Monna Sidonia. Beatrice also soon calmed.

'I don't believe a word of it,' she said, observing the crone furtively.

'As you please, Excellency,' answered the other, shrugging lean
shoulders, 'but nothing can prevent my words from being true. See you,'
she continued insinuatingly, 'you make a small figure of wax, and you
put a swallow's heart in at the right side, at the left its liver, then
you pierce it with a needle, uttering charms the while; and he will die
of a slow death, nor is there doctor who can save him.'

'Silence!' commanded the duchess.

The hag again devoutly kissed the hem of the _schiavinetta_. 'Your Grace
is my sun. I love you overmuch, 'tis my worst fault.' She paused, then
added, 'It can be done also without witchcraft.'

The duchess was silent, but she looked at the woman curiously.

'As I came by the palace garden,' resumed Monna Sidonia, dryly, 'I saw
the gardener collecting fair ripe peaches in a basket, a present
doubtless for Messer Gian Galeazzo.' Another pause, and she continued,
'And likewise in the garden of Messer Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine,
there are fair ripe peaches, but empoisoned.'

'Empoisoned?'

'Ay, Monna Cassandra, my niece, saw----' And again she whispered.

The duchess made no answer. By this time her hair was dry, and she rose,
threw off the _schiavinetta_, and descended to the apartment known as
the wardrobe. Here were three huge presses; the first, large as that in
some great sacristy, contained the eighty-four dresses which she had
found time to acquire in the three years of her married life; some so
stiff with gold and jewels that they could stand on the floor by
themselves, others diaphanous, imponderous as the web of a spider. In
the second press were riding-dresses, and all furniture for hawking. In
the third, essences, waters, washes, unguents, powders for the teeth of
white coral and seed-pearls, innumerable vases, retorts, rectified
alembics, crucibles, in short, a complete laboratory of female alchemy;
precious cedar-wood chests, also, covered with paintings and embroidery.
From one of these the waiting-woman drew forth a chemise of the purest
whiteness. The room filled with a scent of lavender, oriental iris, and
dried Damascus roses.

While she dressed, Beatrice conversed about the trimming of a new gown
just received by courier from her sister, Isabella d'Este, the
Marchioness of Mantua. The sisters vied with each other in elegance, and
Beatrice paid a court spy to keep her informed of all the novelties in
the Mantuan wardrobe.

The duchess attired herself in her favourite robe, which, striped with
gold satin and green velvet, made her seem taller than she was. The
open-work sleeves were tied with bands of grey silk, slashed in the
French mode, and showing the white puffings of the undergarment. Her
hair was plaited and confined in a gold net and fine gold cord, which
was clasped by a scorpion of rubies.


II

She was in the habit of spending so long a time at the morning toilette
that the duke said he could as quickly have fitted a merchant ship for
the Indies. On this occasion, however, hearing a distant sound of horns
and the baying of hounds, she remembered that she had ordered a hunt,
and consequently hurried. When dressed she paid a passing visit to the
chamber of her dwarfs, which, in imitation of the royal play-room of
Isabella d'Este, she nicknamed 'the Apartment of the Giants.' Here
everything was arranged for a population of pygmies: chairs, beds,
furniture, ladders, even a chapel with a toy altar at which daily
service was read by a learned dwarf named Janachi in archiepiscopal
robes and mitre. Among the 'giants' was always much noise: laughter and
weeping, the cries of various and eerie voices from hunchbacks, apes,
parrots, idiots, Tartars, buffoons, and other absurd creatures, with
whom the youthful duchess sometimes passed whole days playing. To-day
she looked in merely to inquire after the health of a little negro named
Nannino, lately sent from Venice. His skin had been so black, that in
the words of his former mistress, 'Nothing more exquisite could be
desired,' but now that he had fallen ill it had become apparent that his
hue was not entirely natural, for a coating, black and shining like
lacquer, was peeling off and causing great chagrin to Beatrice. However,
she loved him in spite of his growing fairness, and hearing with
distress that he was likely to die, she gave orders to have him
christened as quickly as possible.

Descending the staircase, she met Morgantina, her favourite female fool,
who was young, pretty, and so whimsical that she 'could rouse even the
dead to laughter.' She stole and hid booty like a magpie, but if spoken
to kindly would confess her crimes, and was simple and innocent as a
child. Sometimes, however, she fell into fits of melancholy, wailing for
her lost son (who had never existed). This morning she was sitting on
the stair hugging her knees and sobbing distractedly. Beatrice patted
her on the head.

'Cease, little one, cease,' she said, 'be good.'

The fool, raising her childish blue eyes streaming with tears, made
reply, 'Oh! oh! oh! they have taken my baby away! And, O Lord, why? What
harm had he done?'

Without another word the duchess went down into the courtyard where the
huntsmen were awaiting her.


III

Surrounded by outriders, falconers, beaters, equerries, pages, and
court-ladies, Beatrice sat her slender dark bay Arab--a superb creature
from Gonzaga's stables--like an expert horseman. 'A true queen of
Amazons,' thought her husband proudly, as he came out of the pleached
alley before the palace to watch his consort's start.

Behind the duchess rode a falconer in a sumptuous livery, embroidered
with gold. A snow-white Cyprus falcon, a gift from the Sultan, its
golden hood glittering with emeralds, and little bells attached to its
claws, sat on his left hand.

Beatrice was in lively humour; she looked at her husband with a smile,
but when he said--

'Be wary! the horse is mettlesome,' she signed to her companions and
darted off at a gallop, first along the road, then over the open fields,
across ditches, hillocks, and trenches. Her retinue fell behind; but
Beatrice was attended by a huge wolf-hound, and by her side, on a black
Castilian mare, the gayest and boldest of her maidens, rode Madonna
Lucrezia Crivelli. The duke was by no means indifferent to this lady,
and as he watched her and Beatrice side by side in this mad gallop, it
would have perplexed him to say which of the two he admired the more.
However, he certainly experienced an invincible anxiety for his young
wife, and when she leaped a deep chasm, he closed his eyes and caught
his breath. Often he had reproved her for these follies, but had not the
heart to forbid them; deficient himself in physical courage, he was
proud of the daring of his lady.

The party descended into the ravine and disappeared among the osier
thickets of the low banks of the Ticino, the breeding place of ducks,
woodcock, and herons.

Then the duke returned to his _studiolo_, where Messer Bartolomeo Calco,
his chief secretary, who had charge of the embassies from the foreign
courts, was awaiting commands.


IV

Sitting in his high-backed armchair, Ludovico Sforza softly stroked his
smooth-shaved chin with a white and well-kept hand. His handsome face
wore that expression of perfect candour which is acquired by past
masters in political trickery; his high-bridged aquiline nose, and
subtly writhen lips recalled his father Francesco, the great
_Condottiere_; though if Francesco were, as the poets said, at once
lion and fox, Ludovico was merely fox. He was attired in pale blue silk,
puffed and embroidered; his smooth hair covered ears and brow like a
wig, and a gold chain dangled on his breast; in word and gesture he was
uniformly courteous and urbane.

'Have you certain intelligence, Messer Bartolomeo, of the departure of
the French army from Lyons?'

'None, your Excellency. Every evening they say "to-morrow," every
morning they say "to-night." The king wastes himself in unwarlike
amusements.'

'Who is his first favourite?'

'Many names are mentioned, the taste of his Majesty is variable.'

'Write to Count Belgioioso that I send him thirty--no--forty or fifty
thousand ducats to spend in new donatives, let him spare nothing. We
must draw this king out of Lyons by golden chains. And, Bartolomeo--but
repeat this not--it were well to send his Majesty the portraits of some
of our fairest ladies. By the way, is the letter ready?'

'It is, Signore.'

'Show it to me.'

Il Moro rubbed his white hands for pleasure. Every time he contemplated
his huge web of policy, he felt an agreeable stirring at heart; he loved
the dangerous game. Nor did he blame himself for having summoned the
foreigners, the northern barbarians, into Italy; his enemies had forced
him to this extreme measure, chiefly the consort of Gian Galeazzo,
Isabella of Aragon, who openly accused him of having usurped the throne
of his nephew. Yet it had not been till her father, Alfonso of Naples,
had intervened, threatening war and dethronement, that Ludovico had
appealed to Charles VIII. King of France.

'Inscrutable are thy ways, O Lord!' thought the duke piously, while his
secretary searched for the letter in a pile of papers; 'the salvation of
my kingdom, of Italy, perhaps of all Europe, is in the hands of this
abortion of nature, this libertine, this witless boy, whom they name the
Most Christian King of France; before whom we, the heirs of the glory of
the Sforzas, must crouch, and creep, and play the pander. But such are
politics; he who hunts with wolves must howl with them.'

He read over the letter, which seemed to him sufficiently well
expressed.

'May the Lord bless thy crusading army, O most Christian,' so it ran;
'the gates of Ausonia stand open to thee. Hesitate not to enter in
triumph, a new Hannibal! The peoples of Italy yearn to bow beneath thy
gentle yoke, O anointed of the Most High....'

So far the duke had read when a humpbacked, bald, old man looked in at
the door. Ludovico smiled, but motioned to him to wait. The head
vanished, and the door closed again softly; but the secretary saw he had
lost his master's attention. Messer Bartolomeo therefore concluded the
letter and went out. The duke cautiously stepped to the door on the tips
of his toes, and called softly--

'Bernardo! Hist! Bernardo!'

'Here, my lord.' And the court poet, Bernardo Bellincioni, advanced with
an air of mystery and servility, and he would have fallen on his knees
to kiss the duke's hand: the latter, however, restrained him.

'Well? Well?'

'All is right, my lord.'

'Is she brought to bed?'

'Last night saw her released from her burden.'

'Felicitously? Or shall I send my physician?'

'Nay, the mother is doing perfectly.'

'Glory be to God! And the child?'

'Perfect.'

'Male or female?'

'A man-child. And with a voice--! Fair hair as his mother's; but the
eyes black, burning and quick like those of your Grace. The princely
blood shows itself. A little Hercules! Madonna Cecilia is beside herself
with joy; and bade me inquire the name that will please your
Excellency.'

'I have considered that. We will call him Caesar. What think you of
that?'

''Tis a fine name; well mouthing, and ancient. Cesare Sforza! A name
meant for a hero.'

'Well now--about the husband?'

'The illustrious Count Bergamini is good and courteous as ever.'

'Admirable man!' cried the duke.

'Your Excellency will permit me to pronounce him a man of rare virtue.
Such men are to seek nowadays. If the gout permit, he would desire to
sup with your Worship, to testify to his respect.'

The Countess Cecilia of whom they spoke had long been Ludovico's
mistress. But Beatrice, his bride, daughter of Ercole d'Este, Duke of
Ferrara, having discovered the amour, became furiously jealous; and by
threats of return to her paternal home, she induced her lord not only to
swear better observance of his conjugal fidelity, but also to bestow
Cecilia in wedlock. The husband selected by Ludovico was the ancient and
complaisant Count Bergamini.

Bellincioni, taking a small paper from his pocket, presented it to the
duke. It was a sonnet in honour of the newly born:--

     'Thou weepest, Phoebus! Why this silver rain?
      Because this day upon the amazèd skies,
      Lo! I have seen a second sun arise,
      Before whose splendours all my glories wane.'
      'This is a tale for laughter!' 'Nay, for pain,
      Truth suffers no derision from the wise.'
      'Then tell me more, and still my loud surprise,
      That queries whence this newer king shall reign.'
      'The offspring of a Moor, he makes his nest
      In sweet Cecilia's arms--I saw his light
      Shine through the brooding feathers of her love;
      Now, must I hide me in the cloudy west,
      Eclipsed by one more radiant and more bright,
      Who shall greater God than Phoebus prove.'

The duke bestowed a silver piece upon the poet.

'Bernardo, let it not slip your memory that Saturday is the birthday of
the duchess.'

Bellincioni hastily fumbled in the folds of his courtly but threadbare
raiment, and from some recess therein drew forth a whole sheaf of
tumbled papers; and among grandiloquent odes on the death of Madonna
Angelina's falcon, and the disorder of Signor Paravicino's dappled
Hungarian mare, found the verses required.

'Here be three for my lord to choose from,' he said. 'I vow by the
sacred footprints of Pegasus, you will be content.'

In those times sovereigns used their court poets as musical instruments,
to serenade not their mistresses only, but also their wives; fashion
demanded that between husband and wife at least platonic love should be
assumed.

The duke ran through the verses curiously; though he could not himself
string two lines together. In the first sonnet he found two lines to his
taste, where the husband turns to his wife with these words:--

     'Where thy light spittle falls, flowers gem the earth
      As dews of spring bring violets to birth.'

In the second the poet, comparing Madonna Beatrice with the goddess
Diana, asserted that boars and stags felt happiness in falling by the
hand of so fair a huntress. The third poem pleased Il Moro better than
all the rest. It was put into the mouth of Dante, who prays that God may
permit him to return to earth, since there he would once more find his
Beatrice in the person of the Duchess of Milan.

'O great Jove!' cried Alighieri, 'since thou hast again given her to the
earth that she may gladden it with the light of love, permit me also to
be with her, and to see him whose felicity she is, and whose life she
maketh most proud and glad.'

Il Moro graciously slapped the poet on his back, and promised him some
scarlet Florentine cloth at ten _soldi_ the _braccio_ for his winter
cloak. Bernardo, by no means satisfied, made many bowings and bendings,
and obtained at last the promise of some fox skin linings. He explained
that his furs had become by long wear as hairless and transparent as
vermicelli drying in the sun.

'Last winter,' he continued, 'I was so cold that I was ready to burn not
only my own staircase but the wooden shoes of St. Francis.'

The duke laughed, and promised him firewood, and Bellincioni instantly
improvised a laudatory quatrain.

     'When to thy servants thou dost promise bread
      Like God thou giv'st them heavenly manna,
      For which great Phoebus and the choir of nine
      Chant, noble Moor, to thee Hosanna.'

'You seem in the vein to-day, Bernardo. Hearken, I require yet another
poem.'

'Erotic?'

'Ay; and impassioned.'

'For the duchess?'

'By no means. But, beware you speak not of this!'

'My lord is pleased to insult me. Have I ever----'

'Not yet.'

'I am dumb as any fish,' and he blinked his eyes obsequiously and
mysteriously. 'Impassioned? That I understand. But of what kind?
Grateful? Imploring?'

'The last.'

The poet drew his brows together with an air of grave solicitude.

'Wedded?'

'A maid.'

'Good. But I shall need the name.'

'What on earth matters the name?'

'Can't do imploring without the name.'

'Madonna Lucrezia.--You have nothing ready?'

'Truly, my lord, I have; but something fresh would please better. Permit
me the seclusion of the next apartment; 'twill be the affair of a
moment. Already I feel the rhymes crawling in my head.'

Just then a page announced 'Messer Leonardo da Vinci,' and Bellincioni
disappeared through one door as Leonardo entered at the other.


V

After the opening salutations the duke and the artist fell to discussing
the new canal which was to connect the Sesia and the Ticino, and by a
branching network of trenches was to irrigate the meadows and pastures
of the Lomellina. Leonardo was superintendent of the excavations for the
canal, though he had not the title of Ducal Architect; neither was he
called the Court Painter, but only the _Sonatore di lire_, a title which
gave him precedence of the court poets like Bellincioni, and had been
accorded to him because on arrival in Milan he had presented Sforza with
a silver lyre, made by his own hand in the shape of a horse's head.

Having explained his design for the canal, Leonardo requested of the
duke that he might be put in possession of the further moneys necessary
for the prosecution of the work.

'How much?' asked Ludovico.

'Five hundred and six ducats for every league: in all, fifteen thousand
one hundred and eighty-seven.'

Ludovico frowned, remembering the fifty thousand he had just devoted to
the corruption of French nobles.

'Too much, too much, Messer Leonardo. You would ruin me. It is
impossible, unexampled. Why these boundless designs? I might consult
Bramante, you know, who is also an expert in construction. He works more
cheaply.'

Leonardo shrugged his shoulders.

'As you please, my lord. Entrust it to Bramante.'

'Nay, be not offended. I have no thought of slighting you.' And they
fell to bargaining.

'_Va bene, va bene!_' said the duke at last, deferring the conclusion of
the agreement; and he took up Leonardo's sketch-book and turned over the
unfinished drawings, chiefly architectural and mechanical: the artist,
somewhat impatient, had to furnish explanations and commentaries.

On one sheet there was a huge mausoleum, an artificial mountain crowned
with a colonnaded temple, its dome pierced like that of the Pantheon; on
the next, the exact calculations and the ground-plan for the edifice,
with details for the disposition of stairs, cells, corridors; the whole
being destined for the reception of five hundred sepulchral urns.

'What is this?' asked the duke; 'when and for whom have you designed
it?'

'For no one. 'Tis a fantasy.'

'Strange fantasy!' commented Ludovico shaking his head; ''tis a cemetery
for the gods or the Titans, like a building in a city of dreams.'

The next sketch showed the plan for a town with the streets in tiers,
one above the other, the upper for the rich, the lower for the poor, for
animals, and for refuse; a town to be built in conformity with natural
laws; for men without a conscience to be offended by glaring inequality.

'Not so bad!' observed the duke. 'You think it would be practicable?'

'Certainly,' said Leonardo brightening, 'I have long wished your
Excellency could be induced to try it, say in one of the suburbs. Five
thousand houses would suffice for thirty thousand people; they would be
decently divided, whereas now they herd together in dirt and distemper,
disseminating the seeds of disease. My plan, Signore, if literally
carried out, would provide the finest city in the world.'

The duke's laughter checked the enthusiast.

'You are finely crazed, Messer Leonardo. If I gave you the reins you
would turn the State topsy-turvy. You do not see that the most
submissive of slaves would resent your two-storeyed streets, would spit
upon your boasted cleanliness--your pipes and conduits--your finest city
in the world, _perdio_; and would flee back to their lousy old towns
again, where, as you say, they have a good modicum of filth and
distemper, but no insults to their self-respect. Well, and this?' he
added, pointing to another drawing.

This proved to be a design for a 'house of accommodation,' with secret
rooms, doors, and passages, so disposed that the visitors should not
meet each other.

'Ah! this is admirable!' cried the duke. 'I am weary of the robbings and
the murderings in these places. Here there would be order and security.
I will build at once on your plan.' He smiled and added, 'Bravo! Bravo!
I see nothing is beneath your ingenuity. _A proposito!_ I remember once
reading of the "Ear of Dionysius," a construction at Syracuse, which
permitted the tyrant in his palace to hear the speech of his prisoners
in the quarry. Think you it were possible to construct an Ear in my
palace?'

As he spoke the duke had stammered and blushed a little, but he
recovered himself immediately: before such a man as this artist no shame
was required. And Leonardo, without trenching on morals, eagerly
discussed the acoustics of the notion.

Then Bellincioni reappeared, announcing that his sonnet was ready and
passing beautiful; at which Leonardo took flight, having accepted the
duke's invitation to supper.

Ludovico requested the poet to read his work. The salamander, so the
sonnet ran, lives in the fire, but a lady, of virgin ice, has her
dwelling in the lover's fiery heart. The concluding quatrain seemed to
the duke surprisingly tender:--

     'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years,
      But singing brings my torture no relief;
      Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief,
      And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."'


VI

While waiting till his consort should have returned from the chase, the
duke took a walk through his domain. He inspected the stables, built
like a Greek temple, with columns, porticos, and doubly-lighted windows;
the splendid dairy, where he tasted junkets and new-made cheese; then,
passing numberless hay-barns and sheds, came to the farm and the
cattle-yards. Here every detail rejoiced his heart; the sound of the
milk falling from the udders of his favourite Languedoc cow; the
newly-littered sow's motherly gruntings; the smell of honey from the
swarming hives. A smile of satisfaction illumined his dark face; truly
his home was like a filled goblet! He returned to the house and waited
under the gallery. It was towards evening, but not yet the hour of
sunset; from the water-meadows of the Ticino came the pungent freshness
of the grass. The duke cast his eyes slowly over his estate; pastures,
meadows, fields watered by a network of ditches, planted with long rows
of apple, and pear, and mulberry trees, trellised with the hanging
garlands of the vines. From Mortara to Abbiategrasso and further to the
very horizon, where in the creeping twilight the snows of Monte Rosa
gleamed with unearthly radiance, the boundless plain of Lombardy
flowered like the Paradise of God.

'I thank thee, Lord,' said the devout duke raising his eyes heavenward.
'I thank Thee for all. What more is there that I could desire of Thee?
Once a barren and leafless wilderness stretched on every side, but I and
Leonardo have made these canals, watered this land, and now every blade
of grass, every ear of corn blesses me as I bless thee, O Lord!'

Then was heard the tongue of the hounds, and the cry of the huntsmen,
and above the vines was seen a red lure, a formless object with
partridge wings, for bringing back the falcons. Ludovico and his _major
domo_ went the round of the tables to be sure that all was ready for the
evening feast. Presently the duchess made her entry, and then the guests
trooped in, among them Leonardo. A grace was recited, and they sat down
to table.

The first course consisted of artichokes sent by express from Genoa, fat
eels and carp from the Mantua ponds, gift from Isabella d'Este, and a
jelly of the breasts of good capons. The company ate with their fingers
and with knives, forks being reserved for state occasions. Certain tiny
golden ones with crystal prongs were, however, accorded to the ladies at
the fruit course. The munificent host assiduously pressed his guests to
eat; and as none ever blushed to be hungry, the food and the liquors
circulated freely and long.

Lucrezia had her seat beside the duchess, and the admiring eyes of the
duke rested on them both. It pleased him that his wife should honour the
maiden of his fancy, passing dainties from her own plate to the girl's,
and caressing her hand with that expansive and playful tenderness which
young women sometimes exhibit towards one another.

The conversation centred in the hunt, and Beatrice told how the sudden
burst of a stag from the thicket had almost thrown her from her horse.
Much laughter followed when the fool Gioda, the boaster, told of the
boar he had slain, singly, and with superhuman boldness and dexterity.
The animal was a tame pig, cast in his path designedly, and the carcase
was brought in and exhibited. The fool displayed excesses of rage at
these aspersions; but his fury and simplicity were equally assumed. He
knew a bad jest from a good one.

By degrees the laughter grew louder, and abundant potations reddened all
faces; the ladies surreptitiously loosened their stay-laces. The
cellarers brought round light Cyprus wine, both red and white, mulled at
the fire, and spiced with pistachios, cinnamon, and cloves. When the
duke called for wine, his command was passed out from one to the other
of the stewards in a solemn chant, as of a church function; a goblet was
brought from the buffet, and the chief Seneschal dipped a talisman--an
unicorn on a gold chain--into the liquor. If it were poisoned the horn
of this animal was to turn black and to shed drops of gore. Similar
talismans, of toad's-stone and serpent's-tongue, were put in the
salt-cellars. Count Bergamini, Cecilia's husband, had been given the
seat of honour, and was especially gay to-night, in spite of age and
gout. Pointing to the unicorn, he cried:--

'I fancy not the King of France has such a horn as your most illustrious
Excellency!'

'Hee! hee! hee!' crowed Janachi the hunchback, shaking his rattle and
clanging the bells of his motley cap, surmounted by ass's ears. 'Believe
him, nuncle, believe him!'

And the duke good-humouredly threatened the jester with his finger. Now
silver trumpets blared to announce the entry of the roasts--boar's head
and peacocks. Last came a pasty in the figure of a castle; from its
walls sounded a trumpet, and when the crust was cut a dwarf in parrot's
plumage sprang out and hopped round the table, till captured and
imprisoned in a gilded cage. Thence he screamed out a paternoster.

'Messer,' said the duchess to her lord, 'to what joyful event must we
attribute the unexpected good fare of this feast?'

Il Moro made no answer, but exchanged sly glances with Count Bergamini.
Cecilia's husband understood that the celebration was for the new-born
Cesare.

They sat over the boar's head for more than an hour, making no economy
of time, and remembering the proverb, 'At table none groweth old.' At
the close of the repast, Fra Talpone caused general hilarity. He was a
monk of great corpulence, quarrelled for by princes, being renowned for
voracity. He had greatly diverted His Holiness the Pope by devouring the
third part of a bishop's cassock, cut in pieces, and steeped in vinegar.
Now at a signal from the duke a huge platter of '_buzecchio_'--tripe
stewed with quinces--was placed before the friar. He sighed, crossed
himself, rolled up his sleeves, and consumed it with relish and
incredible rapidity.

     'If thou had'st dined with Christ when He divided
      The loaves and fishes miracle provided,
      No morsel had remained a dog to fill,
      Whilst thou unsatisfied had'st hungered still,'

sang Bellincioni on the spur of the moment. Roars of laughter broke from
the company. Only the face of the lonely and taciturn Leonardo retained
its expression of resigned _ennui_.

When the concluding dish of gilded oranges had been served on silver
plates, and handed with Malvoisie, then Antonio Camella da Pistoja, a
court poet, recited an ode in which the duke was addressed by the Arts
and Sciences and Elements in these terms:--

'We were slaves; thou camest, and we are free. _Evviva il Moro_.'


VII

After supper the guests adjourned to the garden called 'The Paradise';
laid out in geometrical figures with shorn edgings of box, alleys of
laurel and myrtle, shaded walks, labyrinths, loggias, and woven arbours.
Rugs and silken pillows were thrown on a lawn freshened by a glittering
fountain. The ladies and their cavaliers grouped themselves with
relaxing ceremony before the little court theatre, and an act of the
'_Miles Gloriosus_' of Plautus was performed. It was tedious, but the
audience, out of reverence for the ancients, feigned attention. After
the comedy the young people played ball, tennis, and blind-man's-buff,
running about, laughing and catching each other like children among the
luxuriant and fragrant roses and orange-trees, while the elders were at
dice, draughts, and chess. Others of the company gathered in a close
circle on the steps of the fountain, and told _novelli_ after the
fashion of the youths and ladies of the _Decameron_.

Then they danced to the tune of the favourite air of 'Lorenzo dei
Medici':--

           'Quant e bella giovinezza
            Ma si fugge tuttavia
            Chi vuol esser lieto, sia
            Di doman non c'è certezza.'

     (Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness;
     He knows not if to-morrow curse or bless.)

After the dance Madonna Diana, a gentle girl with a pale and lovely
face, sang to the low notes of the lute a plaint on unrequited love. As
by enchantment the noise and the laughter ceased, and all listened with
thoughtful and reminiscent attention. It was long before any one spoke,
and after the ending of the song the hush was broken only by the quiet
rustling of the fountain. But presently the voices and the mirth and the
music awoke again, and were to be heard till late at night, when the
laurels were lighted by fireflies, and in the darkened heaven reigned
the new-born moon. And over all the Paradiso floated a soft air, rich
with perfume of orange-blossom; and still trembled the notes of the
Medicean canzone:--

     'Chi vuol esser lieto, sia
      Di doman non c'è certezza.


VIII

The duke saw a glimmer of light in one of the four palace towers. It was
the lamp of Messer Ambrogio da Rosate, prime astrologer, and a member of
the Secret Council, who was observing the conjunction of Mars, Jupiter,
and Saturn in the sign of Aquarius, a matter of profound significance
for the house of Sforza.

As if pricked in his memory, the duke hastily saluted Madonna Lucrezia,
with whom he had been engaged in tender discourse, and entered the
palace. He looked at the clock, and having awaited the precise minute
and second enjoined by the astrologer, swallowed a rhubarb pill, and
consulted a calendar in which he read the following note:--

'_August 5th._--Eight minutes past ten of the evening, pray heartily on
your knees, after folding your hands and raising your eyes to Heaven.'

Fearing to be late, and so miss the prescription's efficacy, he hurried
to the chapel, unlighted save by a single lamp before a picture. The
duke loved the picture; it was by Leonardo, and represented Cecilia,
Countess of Bergamini, arrayed like the Madonna, blessing a
hundred-petalled rose. He counted eight minutes by the hour-glass, sank
on his knees, folded his hands, and recited the _Confiteor_. He prayed
long and fervently, his eyes on the picture.

'Mother of God,' he murmured, 'protect, save, and have mercy on me, on
my son Massimiliano, and Cesare, the newly-born. I commend unto thee
Beatrice, my consort, and Madonna Cecilia. And likewise Gian Galeazzo,
my nephew, for thou see'st my heart, and knowest that I wish no evil to
my nephew, though it may be that his death would set free not only my
state, but all Italy.'

Here he remembered the proof of his right to his throne which he had
obtained from the jurisconsult, and which stated that his elder brother
(father of Gian Galeazzo) having been born unto Francesco Sforza, the
condottiere, before he became Francesco Sforza and Duke of Milan,
whereas Ludovico was born unto the said Francesco _after_ he had become
duke--the younger not the elder was obviously the heir to the ducal
dignities of the common father.

At this moment, however, the decision seemed to Ludovico rather
ingenious than convincing. He hesitated to put it before the Mother of
God, contenting himself thus:--

'If in anything I have sinned or shall sin before thee, O Queen of
Heaven, thou knowest that I do so not for myself but for the good of my
people and of Italy. Mediate for me with God, and I will glorify thee by
the building in splendour of the cathedral in this town of Milan, and of
the Certosa at Pavia, and of other glorious monuments.'

After his prayer, candle in hand, he went toward his bedchamber, passing
through the dark rooms of the sleeping palace. In one of them, however,
he encountered Madonna Lucrezia.

'Truly, the god of Love favours me!' he thought.

'Signore!' exclaimed the girl; her voice broke, she would have thrown
herself on her knees before him, as she added, 'have pity on me, my
lord!'

And she told him that her brother Matteo Crivelli, chief of the
chamberlains, a man of abandoned life but whom she devotedly loved, had
lost at play great sums of the public money.

'Fear not, madonna! I will save your brother.'

He was silent for a moment, and added with a deep sigh:--

'And you too, O madonna, will you not be to me less cruel?'

She looked questioningly at him with serene and innocent eyes.

'I do not understand you, signore. What is your meaning?'

Her modesty rendered her yet fairer.

'It means, my sweet,' he said, throwing his arm almost roughly round
her, 'it means--but, Lucrezia, have you not seen that I love you?'

'Loose me! Let me go! What do you, signore! Madonna Beatrice----'

'Shall not know!' said the duke.

'No, my lord, no. She is so good, so generous to me. Leave me, for
pity's sake--'

'I will save your brother--do all your desire--be your slave. Only have
pity on me.'

And half-sincere in his passion and his tears, he murmured in trembling
tones those lines of the poet's:--

     'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years,
      But singing brings my torture no relief;
      Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief,
      And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."'

'Let me go! Let me go!' said the girl desperately.

But he bent over her, feeling the freshness of her breath, the perfume
of violet and musk, and forcibly kissed her on the lips. For one moment
Lucrezia languished in his embrace, then, with a despairing cry, broke
from him and fled.


IX

Having reached the nuptial apartment, he found the lamp extinguished,
and Beatrice already reposing in the huge, mausoleum-like couch on a
dais in the middle of the floor under a blue silk baldachin. It was
adorned with silver curtains, and a coverlet, costly as the vestment of
a priest, of cloth of gold and pearls.

'Bice,' he whispered caressingly; 'Bice, dost thou sleep?' and he would
have saluted her, but she repulsed him.

'Bice--why is this?'

'Leave me in peace; I am fain of sleep.'

'But why, dear one, why? If thou knew'st how I adore thee!'

'Yes, yes, I know you adore us all together. Your consort, and Cecilia,
and _perdio_! the Muscovy slave-woman, the red-haired fool whom you
kissed in the obscurer angle of my wardrobe room!'

''Twas a jest.'

'A jest I care not for.'

'Alas, Bice, these many days thou hast been harsh to me! Well, I confess
it--I am guilty; 'twas a scurvy jest--a caprice.'

'Your caprices, my lord, are many.'

She turned towards him angrily. 'How is it you have no shame? Why, why
these lies? Do I not know you?--read you to the soul? I would not have
you think this jealousy; but I will not, hear you, my lord?--I _will
not_ be one among your lemans.'

'I swear to thee, Bice, I have loved none save thee. By my soul's
eternal weal, I swear it.'

She was silent, surprised less by his words than by the tone in which
they were uttered. He was not wholly lying. The more he deceived her the
more he felt he loved her, as if passion were inflamed by fear, qualms
of conscience, pity, and remorse.

'Pardon, Bice, pardon,' he implored; 'consider my love for thee----'

She submitted herself; and as he embraced her, invisible in the
darkness, he remembered serene and innocent eyes, and a perfume of
freshness, of violet and musk; the two loves confused themselves in an
exquisite sensation.

'Truly to-day thou art something like a lover!' she said with inward
pride.

'Of a truth, dear one; it is still as it was in our first days----'

'Foolishness!' cried Beatrice laughing; 'Fie on this trifling. Rather
should'st thou be thinking of deeper matters. It seems as though _his_
health were mending.'

'Nay, 'tis but few days since Luigi Marliani assured me there was no
hope for him,' replied the duke; ''tis true we have now a little
amendment, but it will not be for long; he is doomed beyond remission.'

'Who can tell?' urged Beatrice; 'he is over-tended. Of a truth,
Ludovico, I marvel at your patience. You bear insults like a sheep. You
say "The power is in our hands," but were it not better to renounce
power at once than to tremble for it night and day like thieves; to lick
the dust before that haughty bastard who is the King of France; to be
slaves at the mercy of the impudent Alfonso; to weary ourselves in
propitiating that perfidious sorceress of Aragon! They say she is
pregnant again: a new serpent will come forth from that cursed nest. And
to fare thus for our whole lives! Consider, Ludovico, for our whole
lives! And you call that having the power in our own hands!'

'But the physicians constantly aver,' repeated the duke, 'that this
malady is incurable; sooner or later----'

'Ay, 'tis later then. For ten years he hath been dying.'

There was a silence. Suddenly she threw her beautiful arm round his
neck, and drawing herself to him, she whispered in his ear--words which
made him shudder.

'Bice! may Christ and His most holy Mother pardon thee! Never--dost heed
me?--never again speak to me of that.'

'You are afraid, perhaps? Would you wish _me_ to try?'

He did not answer, but asked presently:--

'Of what thinkest thou?'

'My lord,' she answered, 'I am thinking about peaches.'

'Ay; I have bidden the gardener send thee of the ripest.'

'I care not for them. My thought was of the peaches of Messer Leonardo.
Hast thou heard aught of those?'

'What should I have heard?'

'That they be poisoned.'

'How poisoned?'

''Tis true. He hath poisoned them himself, by magic, for his
experiments. Monna Sidonia told me; wonderfully beautiful peaches!'

And again they were silent, embracing thus in the stillness and the
dark; their thoughts united, each listening to the quickened beat of the
other's heart--no further speech needed. At last Il Moro, with almost
paternal tenderness, kissed his young wife on the brow, and made the
sign of the cross.

'Sleep, dear one,' he said, 'sleep in peace.'

That night the duchess saw in her dreams fair peaches on a platter of
gold. She proved one and found it succulent and toothsome; but of a
sudden a voice cried unto her:--

'Poison! poison!' and again, 'Poison!'

The duke likewise dreamed his dream. And in it he fancied himself
walking on the shining lawn beside the fountain. And before him at a
little distance he saw three women, white-clad and embracing like fair
sisters. And nearing himself, he perceived the one to be Beatrice, and
the second Lucrezia, and the third Cecilia. He thanked his God that at
last they were friends; but in his heart he blamed them that they had
not been friends from the first.


X

The clock in the castle tower struck the hour of midnight, and
everywhere was the silence of sleep, saving only on the _altana_, where
the duchess was wont to gild her hair; for thither Morgantina, the
dwarf, had fled, having escaped from the closet in which she had been
confined: there, alone in the darkness, she bewailed the loss of her
baby.

'They have slain me my son! And wherefore, O Lord, wherefore? He had
done no wrong to any one; he alone comforted me!'

The night was serene; the air so pure, so transparent, that against the
horizon the icy summits of the Alps were visible, like everlasting
crystals. The stillness was long perturbed by the mournful cries of the
madwoman, like the keening of some bird of evil omen. Suddenly she gave
a sigh, raised her eyes to heaven, and was silent.

The stillness of death followed; and the fool smiled at the stars which,
far above in the measureless blue of a summer night, were shining upon
her--innocently and mysteriously shining.




BOOK IV

THE WITCHES' SABBATH--1494


     'Heaven above--heaven below,
      Stars above--stars below,
      All which is over man--under him shows;
      Glory to him who the riddle readeth!'
                                   TABULA SMARAGDINA.


I

In an obscure outskirt of Milan, near the Porta Vercellina, the Customs
House, and the canal called the Acqua Cantarana, stood an old house,
very solitary, and remarkable for the smoke which day and night ascended
in large spirals from an immense, winding, and blackened chimney. Here
dwelt Monna Sidonia, the wise woman. The upper floor she hired to Messer
Galeotto Sacrobosco, an alchemist; and in the lower she lived herself
with Cassandra, his niece, the young daughter of Luigi Sacrobosco, a
celebrated traveller, who had traversed Greece, the islands of the
Archipelago, Syria, Asia Minor, and Egypt, in the quest for specimens of
ancient art. He possessed himself of all that came to hand: a Greek
marble, or a trifle of amber, a sham inscription from the tomb of Homer,
a new tragedy by Euripides, or a peroration by Demosthenes. Some thought
him a great man, but others dubbed him an impostor; and not a few
believed him crazy. His imagination was so enthralled by pagan
recollections that though to the last a good Catholic, he prayed to the
Olympian Hermes, and regarded Wednesday (_Mercoledi_) his day, as one
singularly propitious for mercantile ventures. No toil, no privations,
daunted him in his enterprises. On one occasion, having already put out
ten leagues to sea, he returned to copy an inscription of which
accident had informed him. Having lost his collection in a shipwreck,
his hair turned white with grief. If asked why he so plagued himself and
spent his days in such sore labour, he always replied:--

'I desire to raise the dead.'

In the little town of Mistra, near the ruins of Lacedæmon, he met a
maiden of extraordinary beauty, resembling the statues of Artemis. She
was the daughter of a poor and drunken village deacon; Luigi married her
and took her to Italy with a new copy of the Iliad, the fragments of a
Hecate, and the shreds of an earthenware amphora.

To the pair was born a daughter, whom they called Cassandra, Luigi being
at that time impassioned for Æschylean tragedy. The wife died, and the
father was off on his wanderings, so the child was left to the care of
Demetrius Chalcondylas, a learned Greek from Constantinople who had been
brought to Milan by the Sforzas. This old man of seventy, a
double-faced, cunning, and secretive person, pretended a vast zeal for
the Catholic Church; in his heart, however, like Cardinal Bessarione,
and most of the immigrant Greeks, he was a disciple of the last of the
masters of the ancient wisdom, Gemistus Pletho, the Replete with
Learning, the neoplatonist who had died forty years before at Mistra,
where Luigi had become enamoured of his Artemis. This man had been
affirmed by his disciples to be a re-incarnation of the illustrious
Plato himself; the theologians, on the contrary, maintained that he had
revived the anti-Christian heresies of Julian the Apostate, and that he
was to be fought not by argument and controversy, but by the Inquisition
and the stake. Chiefly they accused him on account of certain words
uttered to his disciples three years before his death. He had said: 'But
a few years after I shall have died, one sole Truth shall reign over all
peoples and nations, and men shall unite in the single faith' (_unam
eandemque religionem universum orbem esse suscepturam_). Being
questioned whether he meant the faith of Christ or of Mahomet, he
answered: 'Neither the one nor yet the other, but a faith which in
naught shall differ from the ancient paganism' (_neutram, inquit, sed a
gentilitate non differentem_).

Cassandra was bred by Chalcondylas in strict though feigned Christian
piety. Overhearing, however, much neoplatonic talk, and not
understanding its philosophical subtleties, the maid wove for herself a
fantastic dream of the coming Resurrection of the Gods. On her breast
she wore a talisman against fever, a present from her father; it was a
gem representing Dionysus as a naked youth, with thyrsus and
vine-branch, a rearing panther trying to lick the grapes in his hand.
Sometimes, when quite alone, she would hold her amethyst up to the sun
and gaze into its purple depths until her head swam, and she saw the god
in a vision, living, and ever young and adorable.

Messer Luigi ruined himself at last in his quest for treasures, and died
miserably of a putrid fever in a shepherd's hut beside the ruins of a
Phoenician temple, which he had himself discovered. Soon after,
Galeotto, his brother, who also had wandered for many years in pursuit,
not of antiquities but of the philosopher's stone, came to Milan,
established himself in the little house by the Vercellina gate, and took
his niece to live with him.

She still, however, frequented the house of Chalcondylas, and thither
came Giovanni Boltraffio to execute some copying for Messer Giorgio
Merula.

Encountering Cassandra again, Giovanni remembered the talk he had
overheard between her and Zoroastro about the poisoned tree, and he
shuddered. Many told him the maiden was a sorceress, but her charm was
not to be resisted, and almost every evening when his work was done he
sought her in the lonely cottage by the Vercellina gate. They sat on a
hillock together above the dark and silently swift waters of the canal,
not far from the sluice gates near the convent of St. Radegonda. A
scarce visible path, tangled with elder-bushes, wormwood, and nettles,
led to the little hillock; no one ever passed that way, and there the
two met and loitered and talked long together.


II

It was a sultry evening; at rare intervals a gust came flying, raising
the white dust and rustling in the leaves. It passed by, leaving the
stillness stiller than before. Nothing was heard but the dull, seemingly
subterranean growl of distant thunder, and against this low,
threatening, and solemn roar, the broken shrillness of a lute and the
drunken song of the customs-collector celebrating the Sunday feast in
the neighbouring tavern. At times a flash broke across the clouds, and
then for a moment the little house with the brick chimney, and the black
smoke of the alchemist's furnace, the long lean sacristan fishing from
the bank, the straight canal with the rows of larches and willows, the
flat-bottomed barges from the Lago Maggiore bringing white marble for
the cathedral, and drawn by sorry horses, their loose towing-ropes and
the long whips of the drivers dipping in the water--all stood out sharp
and clear against the prevailing blackness. All was again wrapped in
gloom, save for the alchemist's fire always vividly glowing. It was
reflected in the Cantarana, whence came noisome odours of stagnant
backwaters, rotting fern-leaves, tar, and decaying wood.

Giovanni and Cassandra were in their accustomed haunt.

''Tis tedious!' cried the girl, stretching herself wearily and snapping
her delicate white fingers behind her head; 'every day the same dull
round. To-day as yesterday, and to-morrow as to-day. That same foolish
sacristan catching nothing; the same filthy smoke from Messer Galeotto's
workshop, where he, too, eternally seeks what he will never find; the
same boats towed by the same hateful horses; the same cracked lute! Ah,
if it would but change! If the French would come and rid us of Milan! if
the sacristan would catch a fish, or my uncle find some gold. _Dio Mio!_
what weariness!'

'I know!' cried Giovanni. 'I also at times find life so wearisome that I
am fain to die. But Fra Benedetto taught me a prayer very prevalent
against the demon of discontent. Shall I recite it for you?'

'Nay, Giovanni. It is long since I have been able to pray to your God.'

'My God? What god is there but my God? the only God?'

A quick flash, like the lightning of the storm, illumined her face;
never had it seemed to him so mystic, so unearthly, so fair. She was
silent for a time, passing her hand over the dark aureole of her hair.

'Hearken, friend. It was long ago--yonder--in my native land. I was
scarce more than a babe. My father had taken me with him on a journey.
We visited the ruins of an ancient temple. They stood high on a
promontory; the sea was around us and the screaming gulls; the waves
were breaking endlessly on black rocks, sharp as needles, and covered
with salt foam, which rose and fell, running off the sharp points of the
rocks in a seething stream. He found a half-faded inscription on the
fragment of a marble slab. I sat long alone on the temple steps,
listening to the sea and breathing in its freshness, mixed with the
scent of the sea-herbs. Then I went into the abandoned shrine. The
columns were yellow, but scarce crumbled by time, and between them the
azure sky seemed dark. There were poppies growing in the crevices
between the stones--pink poppies--the poppies of Greece! It was quite
still, but for that muffled roar of the waves which filled the temple as
if with the voices of prayer. And I fell on my knees and prayed to the
god who had once been enshrined there--unknown and now rejected by men.
I kissed his marble steps, and I wept and loved him because no one on
earth loved him any more, nor prayed to him--because he was dead. Never
since have I prayed so fervently! And that temple--it was the temple of
DIONYSUS!'

'By the love of God, Cassandra, what are you saying? This Dionysus, whom
you call God, exists not, nor did exist.'

'Did he not?' cried the girl, scornfully; 'then why teach the holy
fathers, whom you reverence, that the gods, banished in the days of the
conquering Jesus, were changed into most potent demons? How could
Giorgio da Novara, the great astronomer, learn by exact observation that
the conjunction of Jupiter with Saturn produced the teaching of Moses;
with Mars, that of the Chaldeans; with Venus, that of Mahomet; with
Mercury, that of Christ; and that conjunction with the moon--future for
him--would bring the teaching of Antichrist and the Resurrection of the
Gods?'

The storm was drawing nearer, the thunder roared louder, the flashes
grew ever brighter, heavy clouds were spreading overhead, yet still the
broken lute sobbed forth its insistent melody on the threatening air.

'O madonna!' cried Boltraffio clasping his hands, 'do you not see that
'tis the devil who is tempting you that he may lure you to the abyss!
Eternal curses upon him!'

The girl turned, laid both hands on his shoulders, and said:--

'And does he not tempt you also? Why did you leave your sainted
teacher, Benedetto? Why did you enter into the school of the impious
Leonardo? What brings you hither unto me? Do you not know I am a witch?
Are you not affrighted lest you lose your soul talking here with me?'

'The strength of the Lord defend us!' he stammered, shuddering.

She silently drew near him, fixing him with her wondrous eyes. At that
moment the lightning rent the cloud and flashed on her pale face. Was
she the goddess who had risen before Giovanni's awestruck gaze from her
tomb on the Hill of the Mill?

''Tis she!' he thought in terror. 'She has found me again, the White
She-devil!'

He would have risen, but his forces seemed to have left him. He felt the
girl's hot breath on his cheek, and listened as she whispered:--

'Will you that I reveal everything to you? Will you fly with me thither
where He is? Ah, it is good there! _There_ is no weariness; nothing
maketh ashamed. There all things are permitted as in Paradise!'

A cold sweat broke out on Giovanni's brow, but curiosity impelled him,
and in a low voice he asked:--

'Where?'

'_Al Sabbato!_' she answered with passionate languor, her lips almost
touching his cheek.

A peal of thunder, now quite overhead, shook earth and sky, rolling
through the air in majestic reverberation, like the laugh of unseen
giants. Then slowly it died away into the great silence.

And then rang out the melancholy peaceful sound of the convent bell, the
evening Angelus. Giovanni made the sign of the cross.

'It is late,' said the girl rising; 'I must return homeward. Do you see
those torches, there on the road? 'Tis the duke coming to visit Messer
Galeotto, who is to show him an interesting experiment with lead. He
thinks it can be turned into gold.'

True it was, the tramping of hoofs was heard coming from the Porta
Vercellina. Cassandra lingered for a moment, then darted through the
tangled elder-bushes and disappeared.


III

Messer Galeotto had consumed his whole life in the search for the
philosopher's stone. Having finished his medical course at Bologna
University, he had entered as _famulus_ the service of Count Bernardo
Trevisani, renowned as an adept in the occult sciences. Afterwards, for
fifteen years, he had sought the transforming mercury in all possible
substances; in volatile salts, bismuth, arsenic, human blood, gall, and
hair, in animals and plants. In this fashion the six thousand ducats of
his patrimony had been dissipated in the smoke which ascended from his
chimney. He must needs live on the wealth of others. Money-lenders cast
him into prison; he escaped; and for eight years experimented with eggs,
destroying some twenty thousand. Next he studied copperas with Maestro
Enrico, the papal pronotary, fell ill from the poisonous fumes, lay in
bed for fourteen months, and, deserted by every one, came near dying.
Having endured all humiliations and persecutions, starvation, beggary,
contempt, and even judicial torture, he wandered as an itinerant
artificer through France, Spain, the countries of the Empire, Holland,
Greece, Persia, Palestine, Northern Africa. At last, old and worn out,
but not yet disillusioned, he returned to Lombardy, where Il Moro
promised him the office of court alchemist.

At Milan, in the lonely cottage by the Porta Vercellina, he had set up
his laboratory. It was a large chamber, in the middle of which was a
clumsy stove of fire-proof earth divided into compartments, and fitted
with valves, crucibles and bellows. In one corner of the room was a pile
of refuse. The working-table was heaped with every sort of complicated
apparatus, cubes, rectifiers, receivers, retorts, funnels, mortars,
test-tubes, bottles, baths. A pungent smell was given off by poisonous
alkalis and acids. Here the seven gods of Olympus, the seven heavenly
planets, a whole occult and mystic universe had its counterpart in
metal: the sun in gold, the moon in silver, Venus in brass, Mars, iron,
Saturn, lead, Jupiter, tin, and Mercury in quicksilver. Here were
substances with barbaric names which struck terror into the profane.
Here were wolf's milk, the iron of Achilles, anacardines, asterites
(clear-shining stones, having in the midst an image of a full moon),
androgyna, and rhaponticum, aristolochia or hart-wort (for giving ease
in childbirth); and a priceless drop of the blood of a lion which had
cost years to obtain, a gem, red as a ruby, which cures all diseases and
blesses with eternal youth.

At his table sat the alchemist, meagre, small, wrinkled as an old
mushroom, but still alert and tireless. His head supported on his two
hands, Messer Galeotto was gazing intently at a retort, in which with
low noise and bubbling was burning oil of Venus, a clear green fluid.
The candle that burned by the philosopher's side sent an emerald light
through the retort on an ancient parchment folio, a work by the Arab
chemist Djabira Abdallah.

Hearing voices and footsteps on the stair, Galeotto rose, threw a glance
round the laboratory to make sure all was ready, signed to his silent
_famulus_ to throw fuel on the furnace, and sallied forth to meet his
guests.


IV

They were a merry company of knights and dames, just risen from supper
and Malvoisie. Leonardo was there, and Marliani, the court physician, a
man profoundly versed in alchemy. The ladies entered, and the quiet cell
of the student was filled with perfumes, with the rustle of silk, with
light chatter and laughter like the hum of birds. One damsel overturned
a retort with her hanging sleeve, another meddling with a piece of iron
slag cut her dainty glove, another spilt the mercury on the table and
screamed with delight on seeing the living silver drops.

'And shall we really see Messer Satan in the fire at the moment of the
lead's conversion?' asked Madonna Filiberta of her Spanish lover; 'is it
not a sin to assist at such experiments?'

The alchemist whispered in Leonardo's ear:--

'Believe me, Messere, I hold myself much honoured by your visit.' And he
warmly clasped his hand, adding before Leonardo could respond:--

'Oh, I know, I know! 'Tis a secret from the crowd; but we understand
each other, do we not?'

Then with a smile of great affability he said aloud:--

'With licence from my most illustrious protector, the renowned duke, and
of all these loveliest ladies, I will adventure, now to exhibit the
divine metamorphosis. Will you all condescend to lend me your honourable
attention?'

First he showed his crucible, a melting-pot with thick sides of
fire-proof clay; he begged each one to examine it, and tap it, and
convince himself there was no concealed deception, while he animadverted
on the frauds of pretended philosophers who were wont to have vessels
with false bottoms in which gold had been placed, not made. He also
craved inspection of the pewter, the fuel, the bellows, and all else, to
prove his good faith. Then the lead was chopped into small pieces and
consigned to the crucible, which was then put on the hottest place of
the furnace. The silent, cross-eyed _famulus_--so pale, corpse-like and
surly, that one of the ladies near fainted, believing him the expected
Messer Satan--began to work a huge pair of bellows, and the fire quickly
leaped into flame. Galeotto meanwhile entertained his visitors with
conversation, and awakened general mirth by calling his science of
alchemy _casta meretrix_, who had many lovers but deluded them all,
offered easy conquest to everybody, but had so far yielded to the
embraces of none.

Luigi Marliani, the court physician, a fat, taciturn, gloomy man with a
dignified and intelligent face, lost patience with this chatter, and
wiping his brow, cried out:--

'Messer Galeotto, methinks 'tis time for business. Your metal is already
bubbling.'

Galeotto opened a little blue paper packet which contained a bright
yellow powder, viscous and sparkling, like highly polished glass. It had
a strong smell of burnt sea-salt. This was the momentous tincture, the
long-sought, priceless jewel of alchemy, the wonder-working _lapis
philosophorum_.

With the point of a knife he detached a speck of the powder no larger
than a turnip-seed, wrapped it in a ball of bees-wax, and tossed it into
the boiling pewter.

'And what do you consider the strength of that solution?' asked
Marliani.

'One to two thousand eight hundred and twenty of the metal to be
converted,' replied Galeotto. 'Naturally my solution is not yet
perfected, but shortly, I hope, the figures will be one to a million.
Then it will suffice to take of it the weight of a grain of millet, to
dissolve it in a barrel of water containing the parings of a hazelnut;
and finally, to sprinkle your vines therewith; in result you will have
your vintage in May. _Mare tingerem si Mercurius esset._ I would turn
the sea into gold had I competency in quicksilver.'

Marliani turned away with a shrug. This bombast infuriated him, and he
hinted the impossibility of such transformations by arguments supported
by Aristotle.

'Have patience, _domine magister_,' said Galeotto with a smile; 'in a
little space I will propound to you such a syllogism as not all your
logic can confute.'

Therewith he threw a handful of white powder in the fire. Clouds of
thick smoke filled the laboratory. Hissing and crackling, up leapt a
many-coloured flame, changing like a rainbow from blue to green, from
red to yellow. The spectators were alarmed, and Filiberta afterward
swore that at the instant the flame was purple, she saw in it the face
of the Devil. The alchemist with a long hooked iron raised the lid of
the crucible. The metal, white-hot, bubbled and hissed and gurgled. Then
the lid was replaced; the bellows soughed and whistled, and when ten
minutes later a thin iron rod was dipped into the molten liquid, all saw
hanging on its end a yellow drop.

'Ready!' cried the alchemist.

The pot was now removed from the furnace and allowed to cool. Then
before the astounded spectators, there fell from it, sparkling and
resounding on the earthen floor, a bar of gold. The alchemist pointed
dramatically, and exclaimed:--

'_Solve mihi hunc syllogismum!_'

'Unheard of! Incredible! Against all the laws of nature and of logic!'
murmured Marliani in stupefaction.

The face of Galeotto was white, his eyes glowed with the fire of
inspiration, and looking up to heaven, he cried:--

'_Laudetur Deus in æternum!_ Praise God in eternity who deigns to give
part of his infinite power unto us, the most abject of his creatures.'

The gold was tested with sulphuric acid. It proved to be purer than the
finest of Hungary or Arabia. The company pressed about the venerable
philosopher, congratulating him, and wringing his hands. Il Moro took
him aside.

'You serve me in fidelity and truth, Messer Galeotto?'

'I would I had more lives than one, that I might dedicate them all to
your Excellency,' replied the alchemist.

'Then, Galeotto, beware lest any of the other princes----'

'_Illustrissimo_, if there be one of them who shall get even a scent of
it, have me hanged for a hound.' And after a pause he added, bowing very
low, 'I would pray of your Excellency----'

'What? Again?'

'God is my witness, 'tis for the last time.'

'How much?'

'Five thousand ducats.'

The duke reflected, reduced the sum by a thousand, and promised. It was
now late; Madonna Beatrice might be anxious; the company hastened to
take their leave, each one receiving from the alchemist a fragment of
the new-made gold. Only Leonardo remained behind.


V

When they were alone Galeotto said to him, 'Well, Master, what think you
of my experiment?'

'The gold was in the rods,' replied Leonardo dryly.

'What rods? What do you mean, Sir?'

'The rods with which you stirred the molten metal. I saw all.'

'Did you not yourself examine all my utensils?'

'These rods were not those we examined.'

'Not those! Master, permit me----'

'Have I not told you I saw everything?' repeated Leonardo with a smile.
'Be not obstinate, Galeotto. The gold was concealed in hollow rods
tipped with wood. When the wooden ends were consumed in the molten mass,
the gold fell into it.'

The old man's legs shook; over his face spread a look at once abject and
pathetic. Leonardo touched him on the shoulder.

'Fear not, Messer Galeotto, none shall know. I am no tale-bearer.'

The impostor seized his hand feverishly and cried:--

'You will not betray me?'

'No. I wish you no ill. But, Messer Galeotto, why these frauds?'

'Oh, Messer Leonardo,' cried the other, and immediately the boundless
despair in his eyes was transfigured by a flash of hope, 'I swear to you
by God, that if I seem to have practised deception, 'tis but for the
welfare of the duchy, for the triumph of science, and because my
deception shall endure but a brief space. For, Messer Leonardo, truth it
is that I have verily found the philosopher's stone. I do not assert
that I have it yet in my possession, but I know that it already exists.
That is to say, it as good as exists; for I have found the way, and you
know that the way is everything. Three or four more experiments, and lo!
it is accomplished. What was I to do, Messere? Is not the discovery of
so grand a truth justification for so small a deception?'

'Nay, Messer Galeotto,' replied Leonardo gravely, 'to what purpose would
you play with me at blind-man's-buff? You know right well, even as I
know, that the transmutation of metals is a baseless dream: that there
is no philosopher's stone, nor can be one. Alchemy, necromancy, black
magic, all these sciences not founded on mathematics and exact
experiment are delusion or deception--flags of charlatans, swelled but
by the bellying of the wind, after which runs the gaping herd,
applauding it knows not what.'

His eyes round and bright with astonishment, the alchemist hung on the
lips of the master, and when Leonardo stopped he did not reply.
Presently, however, he nodded his head intelligently and winked.

'Ah! ah! Messer Leonardo, but this will not serve. Am I not of the
initiated? And do we not all know that thou thyself art the prince of
alchemists, the possessor of the most recondite mysteries of nature, the
new Hermes Trismegistus, the new Prometheus.'

'I?'

'Thou thyself, Master.'

'Call you this jesting, Messer Galeotto?'

'Contrariwise. 'Tis you, Messer Leonardo, who would jest. How astute and
impenetrable you are! In my time I have seen many who were jealous of
their secrets of science, never an one like you.'

Leonardo looked at him searchingly; he strove in vain to be angry. He
smiled involuntarily.

'Do you seriously believe in these arts?' he asked.

'Do I believe in them? Messere, if God Himself came to me hither at this
moment and said to me: "Galeotto, there is no philosopher's stone," I
should answer him: "Lord, even as it is true that thou hast created me,
so is it true that there is that stone, and that I shall find it."'

After this Leonardo disputed no more, but listened with interest to the
speculations of the alchemist. Presently the talk swerved to the
possible assistance of the Devil in the occult sciences; the old man,
however, would none of this. He declared the Devil to be the weakest,
the most miserable, the most impotent of all the creations of God; he
himself had faith only in the human mind, and believed that to science
all things were possible.

Then suddenly, without any consciousness of an abrupt transition, and as
if playing with some agreeable and diverting recollection, he asked
whether Messer Leonardo had frequent apparitions of elemental spirits.
And when his interlocutor confessed to never having seen any, Galeotto
again refused to believe him; and with relish told how the salamander
has a body a finger and a half in length, spotted, thin, and harsh,
while the sylphide is blue as the sky, transparent, and ethereal. He
spoke also of the nymphs and undines that live in the rivers and the
sea; of the gnomes, pygmies, and underground dwarfs; of the durgans and
dryads, dwellers in trees, and the rare spirits that inhabit precious
stones.

'I cannot convey to you,' concluded Galeotto, 'how beneficent and
exquisite are these genii!'

'Why, then,' asked Leonardo, 'do they appear only to the elect?'

'Would you have them appear to all? They dread vulgar persons,
libertines, materialists, drunkards, and gluttons. They affect the
innocent, the childlike, simple ones. They live only where there is no
malice nor cunning. Timid and fearful as gazelles they take refuge from
human eyes in their native elements.'

And a smile of infinite tenderness illuminated the old man's face, as if
at the memory of long-ago dreams.

'What a charming old fool!' thought Leonardo, no longer scornful, but
ready to simulate participation in any scientific absurdity to please
this man, whom now he treated with affectionate consideration, like a
child.

They parted as friends; and the moment he was alone the alchemist
plunged into new experiments with the oil of Venus.


VI

All this time Monna Sidonia, the mistress of the house, and Cassandra
sat before an immense open fireplace in the room below Messer Galeotto's
laboratory. Their supper of coarse vegetables was stewing on the hearth,
and the old woman with unvarying motion of her wrinkled finger spun the
linen thread with her distaff. Cassandra watched her idly, and
thought:--

'Always the same thing. To-day as yesterday, to-morrow as to-day. The
cricket chirps, the mouse squeaks, the spindle hums. There is a
crackling in the dry sticks on the hearth, and I smell turnips and
garlic.'

Presently the old woman began prating in her usual way; saying that she
was not rich, whatever the people might say about her money-pot buried
in the vineyard. That was all an idle tale. The truth was, she was
ruining herself for Galeotto and his niece. She had too much heart, that
was it, or she would never keep them, the two of them hanging on to her
neck like a pair of millstones. And of a truth Cassandra was no longer a
child, and ought to be thinking of the future; her uncle would die some
day or other, and leave her as poor as Job. She might at least get a
husband. She might at least accept the hand of the rich horsedealer at
Abbiategrasso, who had the folly to run after her. He was not young, but
he was a staid, God-fearing man without any bees in his bonnet; had a
good business and a mill, and an olive-press. What more did she want?

Cassandra listened in silence; but tedium sat on her like a nightmare;
seized her by the throat and suffocated her. She felt an irresistible
longing to break out into rebellious weeping and rage.

Monna Sidonia fished in the pot for a succulent turnip, mashed it up
with grape-juice, and munched with apparent appetite; but the young
girl, submissive though with growing desperation, stretched herself and
interlaced her fingers behind her hair. After supper the old woman, like
a wearied Fate, nodded over her distaff, and her talk died down into
disconnected mumbling. Then Cassandra drew forth her talisman, and the
firelight shining through its purple depths, she studied the figure of
the naked god, and her heart filled with love for the beautiful Hellenic
deities.

She sighed heavily, concealed her amulet, and said diffidently:--

'Monna Sidonia! to-night at Barco di Ferrara and at Benevento there is
the gathering. Aunt! good kind aunt! we will not dance. We will go only
to see. We will come back at once. I will do whatever you wish; I will
even try to get a present out of the horsedealer--only be kind for once.
Let us fly! let us fly together--now--at once!'

And the girl's eyes sparkled hungrily. The beldame surveyed her
curiously; then her blue and withered lips parted in a smile which
displayed her one tusk-like yellow tooth, and her face lit up with a
hideous joy.

'Ah, you wish it? Very much, do you? You have caught the taste? Was
there ever such a girl? For my part, I am ready to fly every night. But
see you here, Cassandra, you take the sin on your own soul. To-night I
wasn't even thinking of it. I'll do it only for your sake, out of my too
great goodness of heart.'

Without haste the old woman went about the room, shut the shutters,
stuffed rags into the chinks, locked all doors, poured water on the
fire, lighted a black candle endued with magical properties, and from an
iron locker took an earthen vessel containing a pungent ointment. She
made show of being deliberate and sensible, but her hands shook as
though she were drunk, her sunken eyes were at times turbid, at times
they sparkled like coals. Cassandra had dragged the two great troughs
used for the kneading of dough into the centre of the room.

Now Monna Sidonia stripped herself, and sitting astride of a broomstick
on one of the troughs, she smeared herself with the ointment which she
had taken from the locker. A hideous odour filled the room; the
medicament, infallible for making witches fly, was composed of poisonous
lettuce, hemlock, nightshade, mandragora, poppy, henbane, serpent's
blood, and the fat of unchristened children.

Cassandra could not look at the hag's deformity. At the eleventh hour
she recoiled.

'What are you about?' grumbled the crone; 'are you going to leave me to
fly alone? Come--make haste. Take your clothes off.'

'All right. But, Monna Sidonia, put the light out. I can't do it in the
light.'

'Bah! what modesty! Never mind, there'll be no modesty on the mountain.'

She blew out the candle, making the sign of the cross with the left hand
for the pleasing of the devil, her master.

Then the girl rapidly undressed, knelt in the trough, and smeared
herself.

In the darkness the old woman was heard mumbling the senseless
disconnected words of an incantation.

'Emen Hetan, Emen Hetan, Palu, Baalberi, Astaroth, help us. Agora,
Agora, Patrisa, come and help us!'

Cassandra eagerly snuffed the strong odour of the unguent. Her skin
burned; her head swam; delicious thrills ran down her back. Red and
green interlacing circles swam before her eyes, she heard the abandoned
stridulous voice of Monna Sidonia as if from afar.

'Garr-r! Garr-r-r! Up! Up! Don't knock your head! We fly! We fly!'


VII

Forth from the chimney-top flew Cassandra astride on the soft hide of a
black goat. Ravished, panting, with exaltation filling her soul, she
screamed like a young swift, plunging for the first time through the
blue air.

'Garr-r! Up! Up! We fly! We fly!'

The deformed and withered body of Aunt Sidonia flew beside her on a
broomstick; her thin hair streaming in the blast.

'To the north! To the north!' yelled the hag, managing her broomstick
like a horse.

Cassandra burst into peals of laughter, remembering poor Messer Leonardo
and his cumbrous mechanism.

Now she ascended, and the black clouds rolled together beneath her; now
they burned blue in the flashes of jagged lightning. But above the
clouds the sky was clear. A full moon shone, huge and round as a
millstone, and so near she could touch it with her hand. Affrighted, she
guided the goat downwards again, and he plunged with her headlong into
the void.

'Devil of a wench, you'll break your neck,' screamed Sidonia.

Now they were skimming so close to the ground that they brushed the
rustling meadow-grasses; will-o'-the-wisps guided their course past old
tree-trunks gleaming with rottenness; while the owl, the bittern, and
the goatsucker mourned plaintively among the reeds.

Presently they flew across the summits of the Alps, their icy spars
glittering in the moonshine; and again they dropped to the surface of
the sea. Cassandra, scooping water in her hand, tossed it in the air,
and rejoiced in the sapphire splashes.

Momently their pace increased, and they came up with and distanced
fellow-travellers; a sorcerer with long grey hair, in a tub; an
ecclesiastic on a muck-rake, red, gorbellied, jovial as Silenus himself;
a golden-haired, blue-eyed lass on a broom, a young and red-haired
vampire on a grunting porker, and a hundred others.

'Whence come you, little sister?' cried Sidonia, and twenty voices
answered her.

'From Candia! From the Isles of Greece! From Valenza! From the Brocken!
From Mirandola, Benevento, from the caves and the fjords!'

'Whither go ye?'

'To Biterne! To Biterne! For the marriage of the great goat, the Buck of
Biterne. Fly! Fly! Haste to the supper.' And they passed over the dreary
plain like a cloud of rooks on a whirlwind. The moon shone purple, and
against it in the distance gleamed the cross upon a village church. The
vampire hurled herself against it, tore away the cross and the great
bell, casting them far off into the swamp, where they sank with a
despairing clang. The vampire barked like a joyous dog, and the
flaxen-headed lass on the cantering broomstick clapped her little hands
with glee.


VIII

The moon was now hidden by the clouds. Torches flared with flames of
green and blue, and upon the chalky plateau the black shadows of the
dancing witches spread and wheeled and interlaced and disentwined.

'Garr-r! Garr-r! 'Tis the Sabbath! 'Tis the Sabbath! From right to left!
From right to left!'

They flew and they danced in their endless thousands like the withered
and perishing autumn leaves. In their midst sat Hircus Nocturnus, the
great he-goat, enthroned upon the mountain.

'Garr-r! Garr-r-r. Praise to the great Becco Notturno! The Buck of
Biterne! The Buck of Biterne! Our wars are ended! Rejoice ye and
rejoice!'

There was a screeching of pipes made of dead men's bones; the drum,
stretched with the skin of the hanged, was beaten with the tail of a
wolf. A loathsome stew was boiling in a vast cauldron, not seasoned with
salt, for salt is abhorrent to the lord of that place.

Black were-cats were there dancing, lustful and emerald-eyed; slender
maidens white as lilies; a shapeless capering incubus, grey as a spider;
shuddering nuns; on a low bank, a white-bodied, plump, gigantic witch,
with a stupid and good-natured face, was suckling two newly-hatched
demons, already greedy and malicious. Three-year-old children, not yet
admitted to the revelry, were feeding herds of toads, dressed as
cardinals, with the sacred Host in their claws.

Sidonia and Cassandra joined the dance which sucked them in and whirled
them away like a howling storm.

'Garr-r-r! from right to left! From right to left!'

Long wet whiskers like those of a walrus swept Cassandra's neck; a thin
winding tail tickled her face, she was impudently pinched and bitten,
hateful endearments were whispered in her ears. She made no resistance;
the wilder the merrier; the more shameless the more intoxicating.

Suddenly petrifaction fell on the assembly; all voices were hushed, all
movement was arrested. From the black throne, surrounded by terror,
where sat the great Unknown, came a dull hoarse roar, like the growl of
an earthquake.

'Receive you my gifts! To the weak, my strength; my pride to the humble;
to the poor-spirited, my wisdom; to the afflicted, my joy. Receive my
gifts!'

Then an old man of venerable aspect, his grey beard flowing--one of the
fathers of the Holy Inquisition, at the same time patriarch of the
sorcerers, and celebrant of the Black Mass, chanted in solemn tones:--

'_Sanctificetur nomen tuum per universum mundum et libera nos ab omni
malo!_ Be in awe, ye faithful ones, and fall prostrate!'

They knelt, falling on their knees with a crash, and as from one voice
resounded the Sorcerer's Confession:--

'_Credo in Deum patrem Luciferum, qui creavit coelum et terram. Et in
filium suum Beelzebub._'

When the last sounds had died away, and there was renewed stillness, the
same voice of the Unknown, deafening as an earthquake cried:--

'Bring hither my bride--my stainless dove!'

And the old man with the flowing beard inquired:--

'What is the name of thy bride, thy stainless dove?'

'Madonna Cassandra! Madonna Cassandra!' roared the great voice.

Hearing the pronouncement of her name, the girl's blood froze in her
veins. Her hair stood erect.

'Madonna Cassandra! Cassandra!' rang the cry from the crowd. 'Where
hideth she? Where is our sovereign? _Ave Arcisponsa Cassandra!_'

She hid her face and would have fled; but bony fingers, claws, antennæ,
and probosces, and the hairy legs of spiders seized her; and dragged her
trembling before the throne. The rank odour of a goat, and a chill as of
death smote her; she closed her eyes in dread. Then he upon the throne
cried: 'Come!'

Her head hanging, she saw at her feet a fiery cross gleaming through the
darkness. She made a supreme effort, took a step forward, and raised her
eyes.

Then a miracle took place.

The goat's skin fell from him as the scales from a sloughing snake; she
was face to face with Dionysus the Olympian; thyrsis and vine-branch in
his hands, a smile of eternal joy upon his lips, the panther at his feet
pawing at the grapes.

And the _Sabbato diabolico_ changed into the divine orgies of Bacchus;
the witches became Mænads, the monstrous demons were kindly goat-footed
Satyrs; the chalk rocks were colonnades of shining marble, lighted by
the sun, and between them in the distance was the purple sea. The
radiant gods of Hellas, surrounded by an aureole of fire, were gathering
in the clouds, and the Satyrs and the Bacchantes, beating their
timbrels, cutting their breasts with knives, squeezing the grape-juice
into goblets of gold, and mingling it with their blood, danced and
circled and sang:--

'Glory to Dionysus! Glory to Dionysus! The gods have risen! Glory to the
eternal gods!'

And Bacchus, the ever young, opened his arms to Cassandra. His voice was
like thunder, shaking earth and sky as he cried:--

'Come hither my bride! my stainless dove!'

And she sank into the god's embrace.


IX

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.


X

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.




BOOK V

THY WILL BE DONE--1494


     '_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.


I

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 five
_soldi_ imposed 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 twenty _soldi_. 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.


II

Corbolo descended by steep stairs from the piazza to a cool arched
cellar set with wine casks, of which the master was a German 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, and _gnocchi_ and macaroni are cooked in the fat of capons and
thrown to him who asketh; and _vernaccia_, 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."'


III

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 precious _Beaune_ gold 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 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 half
_brentas_ of wine, and served them to the foreigners in an earthenware
jug, looking most suspiciously at his guests. Bonnivart drank his potion
at one draught, 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 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.


IV

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 been commenced 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.


V

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 to his 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.


VI

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 will believe 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?'


VII

Charles VIII. 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 called _Mirabilia 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 to him 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.

Charles VIII. 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, overcome by 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!'


VIII

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 he suffered 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.


IX

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 devolved the 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.


X

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 continued to 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.'




BOOK VI

THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO--1494-1495


     _L'amore di qualunque cosa è figliuolo d'essa cognitione. L'amore à
     tanto più fervente, quanto la cognitione è più 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 the _size of objects_; the second, the
diminishing of the _distinctness of the colour_; the third, the
diminishing of the _clearness 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 discommoding fashions; nor does
he affect perfumes. His linen is of Rhenish stuff, marvellous clean and
fine. His black velvet _berretto_ carries 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 hanging _goîtres_ on 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 where he 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 these measures 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.'

It may be that in this mockery of Cesare's there is a modicum of truth;
but no love for the Master. Leonardo hearkens to him, praises his
intelligence, and never is wroth with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am watching how he works at his _Cenacolo_. Betimes, before sunrise,
he goes to the convent refectory, and paints till the shadows close in
on him, nor does the brush fall from his hands, nor does he remember
food and drink. Sometimes he lets whole weeks go by in which he touches
not his paints. Sometimes he will stand for two hours on the scaffold
before the picture examining it and criticising what he has done. At
other times I have known him rush forth in the mid-day heat through the
blazing streets, being drawn by some viewless power to the monastery; he
will mount his scaffold, do two touches or mayhap three, and rush away
at once.

       *       *       *       *       *

He is working at the countenance of the Apostle John. To-day he should
have completed it. Instead he remained at home with the child Jacopo,
watching the flight of hornets, wasps, and flies. So absorbed is he in
studying the construction of their bodies that 'twould seem on it
depended the destiny of the human race. Having perceived that the hind
legs of flies serve them as a rudder, he experienced greater pleasure
than if he had found the secret of perpetual felicity. He thinks the
discovery useful, and like to serve his apparatus for flight. Poor
Apostle John!

       *       *       *       *       *

To-day there is a new distraction, and the flies are abandoned. The
Master is working on a design, beautiful and wondrous delicate, which is
to form the coat-of-arms of an academy not yet existing outside the
brain of the duke. The device is a square containing a crown of cords,
geometrically intertwined, in knots without beginning or end. I could
not restrain myself, but reminded him of the unfinished apostle. He
shrugged his shoulders, and without raising his eyes from the crown of
cords, he said through his closed teeth:--

'Patience! time enough! The head of John will not run away!'

I begin to comprehend Cesare's malice!

       *       *       *       *       *

The duke has entrusted to him the construction within the palace of
hearing-tubes concealed in the thickness of the walls, after the fashion
of the Ear of Dionysius. Leonardo began with ardour, but now has cooled
and catches at every pretext for laying the work aside. The duke hurries
him and is wroth; this morning he summoned him several times to the
palace, but the Master is occupied with experiments on vegetables. He
has cut away the roots from a pumpkin, leaving but one small shoot,
which he assiduously drenches with water. To his great joy the plant has
not withered. 'The mother,'says he, 'nourishes well her children.' Sixty
little oblong pumpkins have formed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cesare says Leonardo is the greatest of the libertines. He has written a
hundred and twenty volumes on matters of natural science, but all in
fragments, in dispersed notes on flying leaves; and he keeps a MS. of
over five thousand pages in such disorder that he himself cannot find
anything in it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Coming into my little room, he said: 'Giovanni, have you noticed that
small rooms dispose the mind to profundity, large ones to breadth? And
have you observed how the images of things, seen through the shadow of
rain, are clearer than in the sunlight?'

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days of work on the head of John the Apostle. But, alas! something
has been lost through flies, pumpkins, cats, and the ear of Dionysius.
He has again failed to complete the head, and now, disgusted with his
paint-box, retired into geometry. He says that the odour of the paint
nauseates him, and the sight of the brushes. Thus the days pass; at the
caprice of chance, and submitting to the will of God, we, as it were,
lie in port waiting for a wind. Fortunately he has forgotten the
flying-machine or we should starve.

What to others appears perfection is to him teeming with error. He aims
at the highest, at the unattainable, at what is for ever beyond the
reach of the hand of man. Therefore his productions rest incomplete.

       *       *       *       *       *

Andrea Salaino has fallen sick. The Master nurses him, sits up at night,
watches by his pillow; but no one dare speak to him of medicine. Marco
d'Oggionno surreptitiously introduced a pill-box, but Leonardo found it,
and cast it from the window. Andrea himself desired to be bled, and
spoke of a most skilled phlebotomist of his acquaintance; but the Master
grew properly indignant, speaking of all doctors with epithets most
injurious.

'Heed rather to preserve than to cure your health; and beware of
physicians.' He added with a smile, good-natured yet malicious, 'Every
man scrapes up his money only to give it to them, the destroyers of
lives.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The Master has taken in hand a treatise on painting; the Lord knows when
he will finish it. Latterly he has been much busied (I likewise, helping
him) with aerial and line perspective, both in light and shade, and he
has given me discourses and fugitive thoughts upon art. I will now write
down such as I can remember of the noblest of sciences; and may those
into whose hands these pages shall fall, remember in their prayers the
soul of the great Florentine master, Leonardo da Vinci, and the soul of
Giovanni Boltraffio, his humble disciple.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Master says 'All which is beautiful, even humanly beautiful, dies,
except in art. (_Cosa bella mortal passa e non d'arte._)

'He who despises painting despises the philosophical and refined
contemplation of the world. Painting is the grandchild of Nature and the
kinswoman of God.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'_Il pittore deve essere universale._ O painter, be thy variety infinite
as the phenomena of Nature! Carrying on what God has begun, seek to
multiply, not the works of men's hands, but those of the eternal hands
of God. Imitate no one; let thy every work be a new phenomenon of
Nature.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'For him who is master of the fundamental natural laws; for him who
_knows_, it is easy to be universal; because all bodies, whether of men
or of beasts, are really formed on the same principles.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Take heed lest in thee the greed for gold suffocate the love of art;
and remember that the conquest of glory excels the glory of conquest.
The memory of the rich perishes with them, the memory of the wise
endures for ever; because science and wisdom are the legitimate children
of their father, and money is but his bastard. Love glory, and be not
fearful of poverty. Consider how many philosophers have laid down the
wealth to which they were born, that they might enrich their souls with
virtue, and have lived content in misery.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Knowledge rejuvenates the soul, and lightens the burden of old age.
Therefore gather wisdom, that thou mayest gather sweets for thine age.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'There is a generation of painters who, to hide their meagre knowledge,
shelter themselves behind the beauty of gold and azure, and say they
give not of their best because of the scanty payment they receive, and
that they could surpass any man were they as well rewarded as he. O
fools! what hinders them to make something beautiful, and to say, "This
picture is such a price, and this other is less, and this, third least
of all; showing that they have work for every price?"'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Not infrequently the lust for gold brings even the good masters down to
the level of craftsmen. Thus my countryman and comrade, Perugino the
Florentine, arrived at such rapidity of execution, that once he replied
to his wife, who called him to dinner, "Serve the soup while I paint one
more saint!"'

       *       *       *       *       *

'The artist who has no mistrust of himself will never attain to the
supreme heights of art. Well for thee if thy work be higher, ill for
thee if it equal, woe to thee if it fall below, thine own estimation!
Pitiful is that artificer who, persuaded that he has produced a
masterpiece, questions wonderingly how God can have helped him to such
purpose.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Listen with long suffering to the criticisms which men pass on your
picture; and weigh their words to see if, perchance, they, faulting it,
be in the right. If they be right, correct; if they be wrong, feign
deafness; or if they be persons worthy of notice, show them their error.
The judgment of an enemy is often nearer the truth than the judgment of
a friend; hatred is often profounder than love. The intellect of him who
hates, sees and penetrates better than the intellect of him who loves. A
true friend is like thyself; but an enemy resembles thee not, and in
this is his strength. Hatred throws light. Remember this, and despise
not the criticisms of thine enemy.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Bright colours captivate the vulgar, but the true artist seeks not to
please the vulgar, but the elect. His pride and his aim is not in the
dazzling by colour, but in the performance of a miracle, namely, that by
the play of light and shadow, things which are flat should appear round.
He who neglecting the shadows, sacrifices them to the splendour of
tinting, is like the vain babbler who sacrifices significance for
sounding and furious words.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Above all, beware of coarse, sharp outlines. The shadows on a young and
delicate body should be neither dead nor stony, but light, evasive, and
transparent like air; for the human body is itself transparent, as you
can convince yourself by looking through your fingers at the sun. Too
brilliant a light gives not good shadows; wherefore be wary of it.
Observe the tenderness and charm on the faces of men and women as they
pass along the shadowed street between the dark walls of the houses
under twilight on clouded days. This is the most perfect light; your
shadow, gradually vanishing into the light, will fade like smoke--like a
soft music. Remember that between the light and the dark there is
something which participates in both; a bright shadow or a dark light.
Seek for it, O painter! for therein lies the secret of captivation--of
charm.'

These words he spoke, and raising his hands as if wishing to imprint the
lesson on our memories, he repeated, with indescribable emphasis,
'Reject coarse and heavy outlines; confound your shadows in the light,
letting them vanish little by little, like smoke; like a tender music.'

Cesare, who was listening attentively, raised his eyes and smiled, as if
about to dispute; nevertheless he remained silent.

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, speaking on another topic, Leonardo said:--

'Falsehood is so shameful that even in praising God it dishonours Him.
Truth is so excellent that in speaking of the vile it ennobles. Between
truth and falsehood there is a difference no less than between light and
darkness.'

Here Cesare, suddenly struck by an idea, fixed scrutinising eyes on the
Master.

'How?' he said. 'Yet, Master, have you not told us that between the
darkness and the light there exists an intermediary, something which
participates in both, and is, as it were, bright shadow and dark light.
Then, between truth and lie--but no, 'tis absurd. Master, your metaphor
lands me in great temptation! For the painter who, you say, seeks
enslaving charm in the compounding of light and shadow, may rightly seek
also the twilight between true and false.'

At first Leonardo frowned, and seemed indignant that one of his pupils
should exhibit such an obsession; then he replied smiling:--

'Tempt me not! Get thee behind me, Satan!'

I had expected a different answer; to my thinking, Cesare's words
merited better than an idle jest. In me, at any rate they excited a
tumult of strange and tormenting ideas.

       *       *       *       *       *

To-night I beheld him, standing in the rain in a close and fetid alley,
absorbed in the contemplation of certain spots of dampness on a stone.
He stood there a long while, and the urchins in the street nudged each
other and mocked him. I asked him what he beheld in the stone.

'Giovanni,' he said, 'see the splendid monstrous figure! Chimera, with
her jaws wide; and beside her an angel with flying hair and airy flight,
fleeing from the monster. The caprice of chance has produced a picture
worthy of a great artist.'

He traced with his finger the outline of the damp spot, and to my
amazement I recognised that what he said was true.

'Many,' he said, 'think this habit of mine an absurdity; but experience
has taught me how useful it is for the education of the fancy. I have
taken from such things what I wanted, and brought them to completeness.
Listen to far-off bells; you can find in their confused clang the very
names and words you lack.'

       *       *       *       *       *

For tears the eyebrows contract; for laughter they expand.

The Master goes gladly with those condemned to death, watching in their
faces the degrees of their agony and terror; and the very executioners
wonder at him, when he makes a study of the last quivering of the
muscles.

'Nay, Giovanni, you understand not the man he is!' cried Cesare. 'He
will lift a worm from the path lest his foot crush it; but if his own
mother were a-dying he would watch the contracting of her eyebrows, the
wrinkling of her forehead, the drooping of the corners of the mouth.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'Note the expression and the gestures of deaf-mutes.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'When you watch persons, do it without letting them know; so shall their
movements, their laughter, and their tears be more natural.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'An artist whose own hands are angular and bony, is apt to depict people
with angular and bony hands; for every man likes the faces and the
bodies which resemble his own. The ugly painter will choose ugly models,
and _vice versâ_. Let not the men and the women whom you paint seem your
blood-brothers either in beauty or in deformity. This is a fault which
attaches to many Italian artists. In painting there is no error more
treacherous. I consider the temptation arises from the fact that the
soul makes the body which belongs to it. Of old it shaped and fashioned
it in its own likeness; and now when again it is called upon to fashion
a new body with brushes and paint, it yearns to reproduce the shape in
which it has long had its habitation.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The Master tells us, ''Tis not experience, the mother of all arts and
sciences, which deceives men, but imagination, which promises them what
experience cannot give. Experience is not to blame, but our own vain and
senseless lusts. Experience would have us aim at the possible, and not
strive ignorantly for what we can never obtain; lest we become the prey
of despair.'

When we were alone Cesare repeated these words, and cried as in
disgust:--

'Hypocrisy and lies!'

'How has he lied?' asked I.

'Not to aim at the impossible! not to follow the unattainable! Well, it
may be some one will believe his words, but 'twill not be I nor you! I
have penetrated to his inmost soul.'

'And what see you there, Cesare?'

'All his life through, he has done nothing but aim at the impossible,
nothing but follow the unattainable! What else is he about in this
machine to turn men into birds, in that other to set them in water like
fish? And the chimerical monsters he finds in the spots on walls and in
the outline of the clouds; and the mystic charm of divine faces seen in
angelic visions--whence does he derive all this? From experience? from
his diagram of noses, and his ladle for measuring out paint? Why does he
deceive himself? Why lie? His mechanical studies are for the performance
of a miracle; for raising himself into heaven by flight, for using
natural forces to do that which is against Nature. He stretches out
towards God or devil, he cares not which, provided 'tis something
unexampled, beyond possibility. The less is his faith, the greater is
his quenchless curiosity.'

These words of Cesare's have filled my soul with anxiety. For several
days I have thought them over: I would fain forget them, but I cannot.

To-day, however, the Master, as if in answer to my doubts, has said to
me:--

'A little knowledge puffs up; great knowledge makes humble. Blasted ears
raise proud heads; those full of grain bow down.'

'Then,' asked Cesare with his accustomed ironic smile, 'how happed it
that Lucifer, prince of the cherubim, and renowned for wisdom, was
moved by wisdom not to humility, but to pride that cast him into hell?'

Leonardo did not answer at once; presently he told us this fable.

'Once a drop of water aspired to reach the sky. Winged by fire, it rose
up in fine steam. But mounted on high it met air still finer and very
cold, and the fire deserted it. Then it shivered and grew heavy, and,
its presumption changing into terror, fell as rain. And cast down from
heaven it fell upon the earth, and was drunk up by dryness; and for long
time it was shut up in prison underground, and there did penance for its
sin.'

He added no more, but I thought I understood.

       *       *       *       *       *

The longer I live with him the less I know him. To-day he has again been
playing like a child. And such strange pranks! Before going to bed I was
sitting in my chamber reading my favourite book, _The Little Flowers of
Saint Francis_, when suddenly a cry rang through the house from our old
woman, the kind and faithful Maturina--

'Fire! Help! Help! Fire!'

I rushed out. An appallingly thick white smoke filled the Master's
studio. He was there himself, standing among clouds like some ancient
magi, and illumined by unearthly blue flames. His face was merry, and he
looked jovially at the pale and terrified Maturina, and at Marco, who
had rushed in with two buckets of water, to empty over the drawings and
manuscripts strewing the table. Leonardo, however, stopped him, saying
it was all a jest. Smoke and flames came from a heated brazier
containing a powder of frankincense and resin. I cannot say which took
the greater pleasure in the joke, Leonardo or the little scamp, that
jackanapes Jacopo. Only a good man could laugh as does Leonardo! I swear
it is not true what Cesare says of him! The Master set down in his
note-book the effect produced by terror upon Maturina's wrinkles.

       *       *       *       *       *

He speaks scarce at all of women. Once, however, he said that men
maltreat them even as they do their beasts. He ridicules the platonic
love which is the fashion; and when a certain youth read to him a
peevish sonnet in the manner of Petrarch, he replied in three lines,
about Petrarch's loving Laura merely to season his own daily food.

Cesare says that Leonardo has so wasted himself on mechanics and
geometry that he has had no time for love of women. But he adds, depend
upon it he is no Galahad; he must certainly have embraced a woman at
least once, out of mere curiosity.

       *       *       *       *       *

I should never have talked to Cesare about Leonardo. We seem to watch
him like spies, and Cesare finds a malevolent pleasure in detecting new
blots in his character. And what does Cesare want with me? Why does he
poison my mind?

We now frequently visit a scurvy little tavern by the Cantarana Canal,
just beyond the Porta Vercellina. We talk for hours over a half-flagon
of sour wine, amid the oaths of boatmen who finger filthy cards and lay
plots together for extortion. To-day Cesare asked me if I knew that at
Florence Leonardo had been accused of immorality. I could not believe my
ears, and thought him raving or drunken. Then he told me the story in
detail. When Leonardo was twenty-four years of age, and his master, the
famous Florentine, Andrea Verrocchio, forty--an anonymous charge against
them both was put into one of those round wooden boxes called _tamburi_,
which hang on the pillars in the churches, most notably in the Cathedral
of Santa Maria del Fiore. In April 'the guardians of the night and of
monasteries' inquired into the matter, and acquitted the accused on the
condition, however, that the charge should be repeated. The fresh
accusation was made in June, and they both were finally acquitted.
Nothing more was heard of the accusation; but Leonardo soon left
Verrocchio and Florence, and came hither to Milan.

'Oh, doubtless, 'tis an abominable calumny,' said Cesare with his
meaning smile; 'though, friend Giovanni, you do not yet know what
contradictions nestle in his heart. 'Tis a labyrinth so intricate that
even the devil would lose himself therein. He certainly appears chaste,
but----'

I had started to my feet, probably pale enough, and cried:--

'How dare you, Cesare?'

'What the devil is the matter with you? Calm yourself. I will say no
more. I was a hundred miles from _that_ construction----'

'What are you insinuating? Speak out!'

'What folly is this? Why so hot? Is it worth the separating of two such
friends as we? Rather let us drink. To your health, sir. _In vino
veritas._'

And we drank and resumed our talk.

But no, no! this suffices! I will forget it; I will abstain from
speaking of the Master with this man. Cesare is not his enemy alone, but
also mine. He is a bad fellow.

Now I feel nauseated. It is odious to see the hideous delight some men
feel when they have thrown mud upon the great.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Master says: 'Thy strength, O painter, is in solitude! When you are
alone you belong wholly to yourself (_Se tu sarai solo tu sarai tutto
tuo_), but if you have even one companion then you are only half your
own; possibly less than half if your friend be indiscreet. If you have
many friends, you fall deeper into the same slough. And if you say, "I
will withdraw myself, and practise the contemplation of Nature," you
will not succeed, for you will be lending one ear to the chatterings of
your friends, and inasmuch as no man can serve two masters, you will
perform ill the duties of a friend, and still worse the observances of
art. And if you say, "I will withdraw beyond the reach of their voices,"
then you will be reckoned a madman, and you practically end by being
alone.

'But if you must have company, let it be that of the painters and
scholars in your studio; all other friendships will be to your
detriment. Remember, O painter, that your strength is in solitude!'

Leonardo consorts not with women, because his soul must be absolutely
free.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sometimes Andrea Salaino complains that our existence alternates between
the monotony of hard work and the tedium of inaction; and he declares
that the pupils of other Masters lead a gayer life. He is as fond of
fine clothes as a maid, and would like the noise of feastings and
merriment and the fire of amorous eyes.

Leonardo to-day, having overheard the reproaches and laments of his
favourite, stroked his long curls affectionately, and said smiling:--

'Be of good cheer, lad. I'll take you to the next feast at the castle.
Meantime, shall I tell you a fable?'

Andrea clapped his hands like a child, and threw himself at the Master's
feet, all attention. Leonardo began:--

'Once upon a time a large stone, lately washed up by the stream, lay in
a retired place high up above the road and surrounded by trees, moss,
flowers, and grasses. Looking down on his road he saw a number of stones
like himself, and he said, "What profit have I here among these
short-lived plants? I will descend among my kinsmen and live with stones
like myself." Thereupon he rolled himself down to the road, and took a
place amongst his brothers. And the wheels of heavy wains ground him,
and the hoof of the ass, and the nailed boot of the pedestrian. Then he
lifted himself a little, and thought he should breathe more freely; but,
lo! became bespattered with mud, and the droppings of animals; and his
former fair retreat in the garden of flowers seemed to him a paradise.
Thus it is, Andrea, with those who leave their meditation and plunge
into city disquiet.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The master permits harm to no living creatures, not even to plants.
Zoroastro tells me that from an early age he has abjured meat, and says
that the time shall come when all men such as he will be content with a
vegetable diet, and will think on the murder of animals as now they
think on the murder of men.

       *       *       *       *       *

To-day we passed by a butcher's shop, and he pointed to the dead
carcases of calves and oxen and pigs, and said with disgust:--'Truly man
is the king of beasts, for his brutality exceeds theirs.' And then added
sorrowfully: 'We live by the death of others. We are burial-places.'

       *       *       *       *       *

God forgive me, I have again been with Cesare to that accursed tavern!
We spoke of the Master's compassionateness for animals.

'You refer, Giovanni, to his eating no flesh?'

'It may be so. I know----'

'You know nothing! Messer Leonardo is not moved by goodness, but by the
love of singularity.'

'What mean you by that?'

He laughed somewhat forcedly.

'Peace. Let us not quarrel. Wait, and I will show you certain of his
drawings--i' faith, very interesting drawings.'

So upon our return we crept, thief-like, into the Master's studio.
Cesare rummaged till he had found a certain concealed sketch-book which
he showed to me. My conscience pricked me; nevertheless I looked with
interest.

They were drawings of colossal bombards, explosive balls, many-barrelled
guns, and such like engines of war, executed with no less delicacy than
he lavished on the divine countenances of his Madonnas. Especially do I
remember one bomb, half a _braccio_ in diameter, called 'Fragilità,' the
construction of which Cesare explained to me. It was cast of bronze, the
hollow within being filled with layers of gypsum. Leonardo had written
on the margin beside the sketch:--

'Most beautiful bomb. Very useful. After leaving the gun it ignites
while one might pronounce an _Ave Maria_.'

'_Ave Maria!_' cried Cesare. 'How does this use of a Christian prayer
please you, my friend? You see the breed of his inventions! And have you
heard his definition of war?'

'No.'

'"_Pazzia bestialissima_, the most brutal of madnesses." A pretty
definition, methinks, for the inventor of these engines. Here is your
holy man who eats no flesh, who lifts a worm from the path lest a boot
should tread on it! Both one and the other simultaneously! to-day a
devil, to-morrow a saint. A Janus, with one face toward Christ, the
other towards Antichrist. Which is the true Leonardo, which the false!
Who can say? And he does it all with a light heart, with a mystic
seductive grace. _He is at play._'

I listened in silence, a chill like the chill of death piercing my
heart.

'Eh? What is the matter, friend Giovanni? Quite chapfallen? You take it
overmuch to heart. Oh, you'll soon be used to it, just as I am. And now
let us go back to the _Tartaruga d'oro_, and sing:--

     "Dum vinum potamus
      Fratelli cantiamo
      A Bacco sià onore!
      Te deum laudamus."'

I said no word, but fled from him.

       *       *       *       *       *

To-day Marco d'Oggionno said to the Master:--

'Messer Leonardo, they accuse us of too scanty church-going, and of work
on holy days as on others.'

'Let bigots talk at leisure, and heed them not,' answered Leonardo. 'The
study of Nature is well-pleasing to God, and is akin to prayer. Learning
the laws of Nature, we magnify the first Inventor, the Designer of the
world; and we learn to love Him, for great love of God results from
great knowledge. Who knows little, loves little. If you love the Creator
for the favour you expect of Him, and not for His most high goodness and
strength, wherein do you excel the dog who licks his master's hand in
the hope of dainties? But reflect how that worthy beast, the dog, would
adore his master could he comprehend his reason and his soul! Remember,
children, love is the daughter of knowledge; and the deeper the
knowledge of God the greater the fervency of love. Wherefore in the
Scripture it is written, "Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as
doves."'

'But who,' retorted Cesare, 'can combine the sweetness of the dove with
the cunning of the serpent? To my thinking we must choose between the
two.'

'Not so,' cried Leonardo; 'there must be a fusion. I TELL YOU PERFECT
KNOWLEDGE OF THE UNIVERSE AND PERFECT LOVE OF GOD ARE ONE THING AND THE
SAME.'

       *       *       *       *       *

How fain would I return to thy silent and holy cell, O Fra Benedetto!
Tell thee all my grief, and fall upon thy breast, that thou mightest
pity me and remove from my soul this burden, O beloved father! O gentle
shepherd, who dost abide by the word of Christ--'Blessed are the poor in
spirit!'

       *       *       *       *       *

At times the Master's face is so peaceful and innocent, so full of
dovelike harmlessness, that I am ready to pardon all, to believe all, to
trust him with my very soul. Then of a sudden the subtle lines of his
lips take on an expression so incomprehensible, something which so
inspires me with fear, that I seem to be looking through the
transparency of water into the profundity of the abyss. There is in his
soul some impenetrable mystery; and I recall one of his sayings:--

'Very deep rivers flow underground.'

       *       *       *       *       *

The Duke Gian Galeazzo is dead; and they say that Leonardo has been the
occasion of his death by means of poisoned fruit. God is my witness,
that 'tis not of my own will I lend an ear unto this terrible
accusation, and that I would fain reject it out of hand. Yet there
stands ever before my eyes that vision of the tree, with its leaves
distilling dew, and its fatal fruit maturing in the greenish mist, lit
by the moon, pregnant with terror and death. Oh, that I had never seen
it!

'"Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat; but of the tree of
the knowledge of good and evil thou shalt not eat of it, for in the day
that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."'

       *       *       *       *       *

Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord! Lord hear my voice; let Thine
ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications! Like the thief upon
the Cross, I confess Thy name: Remember me, O Lord, when Thou comest
into Thy kingdom.

       *       *       *       *       *

Leonardo has begun to work on the countenance of the Christ.

       *       *       *       *       *

The duke has commanded him to construct an engine for raising the Holy
Nail. With mathematical accuracy he weighs in a scale the instrument of
the Passion of the Saviour, as if it were a fragment of old iron; so
many ounces, so many grains. To him it is only a figure among figures; a
part among parts of a lifting machine; ropes, wheels, levers, and
pulleys.

       *       *       *       *       *

Says the apostle, 'Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have
heard that Antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists,
whereby we know that it is the last time.'

       *       *       *       *       *

To-night a crowd of people demanding the Holy Nail surrounded our house,
crying, 'Sorcerer! infidel! poisoner! Antichrist!' Amused, Leonardo
listened to the howl of the mob, and when Marco would have discharged
his arquebus at them, it was the Master who restrained him.

The Master did not change from his impenetrable serenity, and when I
fell at his feet supplicating a word, a single word, to dispel my
doubts--and I swear by God I should have believed him--he would not or
could not speak.

Little Jacopo, stealing out, evaded the crowd, and having met the guard
of the captain of justice, led them to the house: and at the instant
when the doors were giving way under the weight and the blows of the
crowd, soldiers took them in the rear, and the rioters scattered. Jacopo
is wounded, struck on the head by a stone, and like to die.

       *       *       *       *       *

To-day I assisted in the cathedral at the Feast of the most Holy Nail.
At the moment recommended by the astrologers it was raised on high.
Leonardo's machine acted without a hitch: neither rope nor pulley was
visible. Through clouds of incense the round casket with the crystal
sides and the golden rays in which the nail was set, rose of itself like
the rising sun. 'Twas a triumph of mechanics! The choir sang:--

     'Confixa clavis viscera
      Tendens manus vestigia
      Redemptionis gratia,
      Hic immolata est Hostia.'

Then the casket was arrested and lodged in a dark niche above the high
altar, surrounded by five ever-flaming lamps.

The Archbishop intoned:--

'_O Crux benedicta quae sola fuisti digna portare Regem cælorum et
Dominum, Alleluia!_'

The whole assembled multitude fell on their knees repeating Alleluia!

And the usurper of the throne of Milan, Ludovico the assassin,
prostrated himself with the rest, and weeping, raised his hands to the
Holy Nail.

After which the populace was glutted with wine, with the flesh of
beasts, with five thousand measures of pease, and six hundredweight of
salt. Forgetting their murdered lord, they feasted and drank, and
cried--'_Viva Il Moro! Viva il Chiodo!_'

Bellincioni has composed some hexameters, in which we learn that by
virtue of the ancient nail of iron the age of gold shall be renewed.

After leaving the cathedral the duke came to Leonardo and embraced him;
kissing his lips, calling him his Archimedes, and, thanking him for the
beautiful machine, he promised to present him with a pure-blooded
Barbary mare and two thousand imperial ducats. Then condescendingly
tapping him on the shoulder, he said, 'Now you'll have time to finish
the head of your Christ.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.'

I can no longer endure my torment; I perish; I become crazed! My reason
loses itself in the duplicity of these thoughts.

Fly, fly, ere it be too late!

       *       *       *       *       *

I rose in the night-time, tied up my clothes and my books in a bundle,
took a thick stick, felt my way through the darkness to the studio,
where I left on the table the thirty florins which I owe for the last
six months' teaching--I have sold my mother's emerald ring to do
this--and without leave-takings, abandoned Leonardo's house for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fra Benedetto tells me that from the time I left him he has not ceased
to pray for me; and he has had a revelation in his sleep that God has
brought me back into the true path. He is faring to Florence to visit
his sick brother, a Dominican in the monastery of San Marco, where Fra
Girolamo Savonarola is prior.

       *       *       *       *       *

Praise and thanksgiving unto Thee, O Lord! Thou hast brought me out of
the shadow of death, from the mouth of the pit. I renounce to-day the
wisdom of this world, upon which is the seal of the dragon with the
seven heads, the beast which walketh in darkness, which is Antichrist. I
renounce the fruit of the poisonous tree of knowledge, the pride of vain
understanding, of that wisdom which is inimical to God, of whom the
Devil is the father.

I renounce every aspiration after the enchantments of the world. I
renounce all that is not subordinated to Thy glory, Thy will, Thy
wisdom, O Christ!

Illumine my soul with Thy light, deliver me from fatal duplicity of
thought; make sure my footsteps in Thy paths, and shelter me under the
shadow of Thy wings.

My soul, praise the Lord! I will praise the Lord so long as I have my
being; I will yet sing praises unto my God.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days hence, Fra Benedetto and I go to Florence. I desire, with the
blessing of this my second father, to enter as novice in the Convent of
San Marco, under the guidance of the holy and elect Fra Girolamo
Savonarola.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here ends the diary of Giovanni Boltraffio.




BOOK VII

THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES--1496


     '_Dov' è più sentimento, li è più, ne' martiri, gran martire._'
                                                    LEONARDO DA VINCI.

     (He who feels most, is the greatest of the martyrs.)

     'A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.'
                                                       ST. JAMES i. 8.


I

More than a year had passed since Giovanni Boltraffio had been received
as a novice in the Convent of San Marco.

On a winter's day towards the close of the carnival of 1496, shortly
after noon, Fra Girolamo was writing the account of a vision which had
lately appeared to him. He had seen two crosses waving above the city of
Rome, one black and enveloped in storm, inscribed--'The Cross of the
fury of the Lord'; the other of gleaming azure, with the
inscription--'The Cross of the Lord's mercy.'

February sunshine flooded the narrow cell with its white and naked
walls, great black crucifix, and the thick parchment books in antique
leather. Now and then from the blue sky came the joyous twitter of the
swallows.

Fra Girolamo felt unwonted weariness, and now and then trembled. Laying
down his pen, he dropped his head on his hands, closed his eyes, and
meditated upon what he had that morning heard about Pope Alexander VI.
from Fra Paolo, a monk who had been on a secret mission to Rome.
Monstrous images like those described in the Apocalypse passed and
whirled before the mind of the prior; he saw the blood-stained bull of
the shield of the Borgias, reminding him of Apis, the heathen god; the
golden calf borne before the pontiff instead of the humble Lamb of God;
nightly orgies at the Vatican in the presence of the Holy Father, of his
favourite daughter, and of the College of Cardinals; the beautiful
Giulia Farnese, mistress of the sexagenarian pope, and the model for
contemporary portraits of the saints; his two sons, Cesare the young
Cardinal of Valenza, and Giovanni the Duke of Candia, who out of
criminal love for Lucrezia their sister, hated each other to the point
of fratricide. And haunted by what Fra Paolo had scarcely dared to
whisper, the tale of the strange relations between the pope and this
Lucrezia his daughter, Girolamo trembled.

'But no, 'tis calumny. It were too great an enormity! God sees that I
cannot believe it,' he murmured.

But in the depths of his soul he felt that nothing was impossible in
that terrible nest of the Borgias, and drops of cold sweat stood out
upon his forehead. He had fallen on his knees before the crucifix, when
a low knocking was heard at the door of his cell.

'Who is it?'

'It is I, father.'

He recognized the voice of his trusty friend, Fra Domenico Buonvicino.

'Ricciardo Becchi, secret legate from the pope, prays for an audience.'

'Good. Let him wait. Meanwhile send me Fra Silvestro.'

Fra Silvestro Maruffi was epileptic and of weak intellect, but Fra
Girolamo, considering him a chosen vessel of the grace of God, both
loved and feared him. He interpreted Maruffi's visions according to the
precise rules of St. Thomas Aquinas and the Schoolmen, finding by
ingenuity, by the arguments of logic, by enthymemes, apophthegms, and
syllogisms, prophetical meaning in the vain babble of an idiot. Maruffi
showed no respect for his superior, insulted him publicly, and even
struck him; offences which Fra Girolamo received with the utmost
meekness. So that if the people of Florence were in the hands of
Savonarola, Savonarola was in the hands of the half-witted Maruffi.

Having entered, Fra Silvestro sat on the floor and scratched furiously
at his red and naked feet, chanting a monotonous song. His face was
freckled, with a sharp nose, and a hanging lower lip. His rheumy eyes of
a dull green were melancholy.

'Brother,' said Savonarola, 'the pope has sent me a secret messenger.
Tell me, shall I receive him? What should I say? Have you had any voice
or vision?'

Maruffi grimaced, barked and grunted. He had great gifts in the
imitation of animals.

'Beloved Brother,' said Savonarola, 'be kind! Speak! My soul faints
under the burden of mortal sadness. Pray God that He illuminate thee
with His spirit of prophecy.'

The other opened wide his mouth and rolled his tongue; his face was
strangely contorted; and he burst out angrily:

'Why should you trouble me, you tedious talker, you sheep's-head, you
brainless quail? May the rats devour your nose! You have made your
bed--lie on it. I am neither prophet nor councillor.'

He paused, looked at Savonarola from under his scowling eyebrows, and
continued more quietly:--

'Brother, I'm sorry for you! But as for my visions, how know you if they
come from God or from the devil?'

Silvestro closed his eyes. His countenance took an expression of repose.
Savonarola held his breath in holy expectancy.

Suddenly Maruffi opened his eyes, slowly turned his head like one
listening, looked out of the window, and a smile of good nature, peace,
almost of intelligence, brightened his face.

'The birds!' he said; 'do you hear the birds? To be sure, the grass is
springing in the meadows, and the first little yellow flowers! 'Tis
enough. It's time to think of God now. Come! let us flee this sinful
world; let us flee together to the desert!' And rocking himself, he
began to sing in a sweet, lazy voice.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, ran to Savonarola, seized his hand and
cried, choking with excitement:--

'I have seen--I have seen--May the rats devour your nose! You head of an
ass--I have seen----'

'Speak, dear brother; speak quickly!'

'Flames! Flames!' cried Maruffi.

'Well? And besides?'

'Flames rising from a stake, and in the midst of the flames a man----'

'Who?'

Nodding his head, and motioning with his hand, Silvestro did not reply
at once; then fixing his penetrating eyes on the other, he laughed
softly and foolishly, and murmured:--

'Thou!'

Fra Girolamo shuddered, paled, and drew back involuntarily. Maruffi
turned away, and shambled out of the cell, singing:--

     'Hie we to the smiling woods,
       The shy retreat of spring,
      Where the streams unsealèd flow,
       And the yellow-hammers sing!'

Recovering himself, Fra Girolamo gave orders to admit His Magnificence
Ricciardo Becchi.


II

This man, Scriptor of the Papal Court of Chancery, entered Savonarola's
cell, rustling a long silk garment shaped like the habit of a monk, but
of the modish violet colour, and with hanging embroidered sleeves lined
with fox-skin, his whole person emitting a perfume of musk. The studied
grace of his movements, his pleasant and intelligent smile, his calm
eyes, his dimpled and well-shaven cheek, showed him a master of
dignified urbanity. He bent in a courtly reverence, kissed the hand of
the Prior of San Marco, and asked his blessing; then entered upon a long
speech in Latin beflowered with Ciceronianisms and resounding
sententiousness. He began with what in the rules of oratory is called
the appeal for goodwill, dilating upon the fame of the Florentine
preacher; then he gradually approached the mission entrusted to him. The
Holy Father, though righteously angered by Fra Girolamo's refusal to
present himself in Rome, nevertheless burning with zeal for the Church's
good, for the perfect union of the faithful in Christ, and for the peace
of the whole world, declared his fatherly readiness, in the event of Fra
Girolamo's repentance, to restore him to favour.

Savonarola raised his eyes and said very quietly:--

'Messere, what think you? do you believe that the Holy Father and our
lord has faith in Christ?'

Ricciardo allowed this unseemly question to pass without reply; he
continued to dilate on his mission, giving the prior to understand that
if he submitted himself, the red hat of a cardinal awaited him in Rome;
then, bowing a second time, and touching Savonarola's hand with his
lips, he added insinuatingly:--

'One little word, Father Girolamo, one little word, and the red hat is
yours.'

Savonarola fixed his unflinching eyes on the speaker, and said slowly:--

'And if I refuse to submit, Messere? If I refuse to hold my peace? If
the infatuated monk prefer to continue his barkings as the faithful
watch-dog of the house of God?'

Raising his eyebrows in a faint grimace, Messer Ricciardo looked at the
monk, then turned his eyes to his beautiful almond-shaped nails, and
adjusted his priceless rings. Presently he drew slowly from his pocket,
unfolded, and handed to the prior a bull of excommunication, to which
nothing was lacking but the papal seal. In it Savonarola was called the
son of perdition, 'the most contemptible of insects' _neauissimus
omnipedum_.

'And you are waiting for an answer?' asked the monk quietly, when he had
read the document.

The Scriptor assented with a light nod of his head.

Savonarola rose, and flung the bull at the feet of the emissary.

'There,' he said, 'there is my answer! Return to Rome and tell him who
has sent you that I accept his challenge. Minister of Antichrist! We
shall see whether he will excommunicate me, or whether it is I who shall
drive him out of the pale of the Church!'

The door of the cell was softly opened and showed the head of Fra
Domenico who, hearing the sonorous voice, was anxious to know what could
be taking place. The monks were massed round the entrance.

Messer Ricciardo, who had cast several furtive glances at the door, now
said politely:--

'May I remind you, Fra Girolamo, that I am charged only with a private
mission?'

Savonarola moved to the door, and throwing it wide he cried:--'Hear all
of ye; for not only to you but to the whole people of Florence I will
proclaim the infamous traffic which has been proposed to me, choice
between the cardinal's purple and the excommunication of the _Curia
Romana_!' Under his low forehead his sunken eyes shone like coals; his
ill-shaped lower jaw, trembling with wrath and almost satanic hatred and
pride.

'Yea, the hour has come! I will thunder against you, all ye prelates and
cardinals of Rome, even as once the holy fathers thundered against the
pagans. I will force the key of this unclean house; the Church of God,
which you have slain, shall hear my cry: "Lazarus, come forth!" and
shall raise its head and issue from its tomb! What need I your mitres
and your cardinal's hats? Give me the red hat of death; the
blood-stained crown of martyrdom!'


III

Among the monks who crowded to hear these words of Savonarola was the
novice, Giovanni Boltraffio. When the company had dispersed, he too
descended by the main staircase of the convent, and sat in his
accustomed spot under the portico, where at this hour reigned solitude
and calm.

The court was surrounded by the white monastery walls, and in it grew
laurels, cypresses, and a thicket of damask roses. Report said that
these roses were watered by angels. Fra Girolamo loved to preach amongst
them.

The novice opened the Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians, and read:
'Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of devils; ye cannot be
partakers of the Lord's table and of the table of devils.'

Then he rose and paced the cloister, recalling his thoughts and emotions
during the year he had spent within the walls of San Marco. After the
moral torture of the preceding months, he had at first experienced great
peace in this retreat among the disciples of Savonarola.

Sometimes Father Girolamo would lead them out beyond the confines of the
city. Following a steep path, which seemed to lead to heaven, they
climbed the heights of Fiesole, from whence the City of Flowers,
surrounded by smiling hills, appeared like some silver vision. The prior
would seat himself in a meadow, enamelled with iris, tulips, and
violets; the monks reclined in a circle round him, and talked and danced
and frolicked like so many children, or played on viols and citherns,
like those which the _beato Angelico_ placed in the hands of his angels,
circling as they sing in the choir of heaven. Fra Girolamo did not
preach nor play the master, but talked affectionately and took his part
in the games and laughter. And Giovanni, looking at the radiant smile on
his countenance, there on the retired Fiesole hill, under the heaven of
most pure azure, hearing the vibrating tones of the stringed
instruments, and the voices blended in holy song, fancied himself an
angel in the paradise of God. Sometimes at dawn Savonarola would walk to
the edge of the slope, and look down on his Florence, bathed in the
morning mist, even as a mother looks on her sleeping babe, and from
below would rise the first clanging of the bells announcing the
beginning of day, like the sleepy babble of a half-awakened child.

And on summer nights, when the fireflies moved through the embalmed air
like the torches of unseen angels, and the roses exhaled their mystic
odour in the convent-yard, Fra Girolamo would tell of the stigmata of
St. Francis, of the wounds, perfumed like roses, which her divine love
had impressed on the tender body of St. Catharine. The brethren sang:--

     'Fac me plagis vulnerari,
      Fac me Cruce inebriari,
        Ob amorem Filii.'

And Giovanni would tremble in the anguished expectation of miracle--the
trembling hope that rays of fire, springing from the cup of the Holy
Sacrament, would burn his body likewise with the sacred wounds of the
Crucified. '_Gesù, Gesù mio, amore!_' he sighed, fainting in
voluptuous ecstasy.

Once the prior sent him on a mission to the Villa Carreggi, two miles
from Florence, where Lorenzo dei Medici had long sojourned, and at last
had died. In one of the deserted saloons, lit by a ghostly light coming
through the chinks of the shutters, Giovanni saw a picture of
Botticelli's, called 'The Birth of Venus.'

White as a water-lily, bedewed with the briny freshness of the sea,
standing on a pearly shell, the goddess floated over the waves, veiled
in the abundant gold of her serpentine tresses, which she gathered in
her hand. The fair naked body breathed the enticement of sin; yet was
there a strange pathos in the pure childlike lips and the innocent eyes.

Giovanni shuddered; for it seemed to him that the face of the goddess
was not new to him; he looked long at it, and remembered that he had
already seen that countenance, those ingenuous, dewy eyes, those
innocent lips with their tender sadness in another picture by that same
Botticelli--a picture of the Mother of God. Inexpressible consternation
filled his soul; he averted his eyes and fled from the villa.

Returning to Florence by a narrow lane, he saw at the angle of a
cross-way an ancient Rood, and he sank on his knees and prayed for the
driving from him of temptation. But at that moment came the trill of a
mandoline from the roses behind the wall; a voice cried out, then
murmured in a frightened whisper, 'No, no--leave me!' and another voice
replied, 'Beloved! Love!--my love!' and then the mandoline fell, and a
kiss was heard.

Giovanni sprang to his feet, reiterating, '_Gesù! Gesù_!' but this time
he dared not add '_amore_!'

'Here also is _she_!' he said; 'everywhere! in the face of the Madonna,
in the words of the holy hymns, in the breath of the roses which crown
the crucifix!'

And hiding his face in his hands he fled, as if escaping from an unseen
persecution.

Back in the convent, he went to Savonarola and told him all, and the
prior exhorted him to fight against the devil by fasting and by prayer;
and when the novice sought to explain that this torment was not the
temptation of fleshly lust, but the seduction breathing from all the
beauty of pagan antiquity, Savonarola, uncomprehending, at first showed
astonishment, then told him sternly that he lied in thinking there could
be aught in the pagan gods but concupiscence and pride. All beauty was
contained in the Christian virtues. And Giovanni, not having found the
looked-for comfort, from that day forth was possessed by the demons of
restlessness and revolt.

Once Boltraffio heard Fra Girolamo, discoursing on painting, insist that
every picture should have some moral utility for men, exciting them to
the practice of those ascetic virtues which alone are healthful for the
soul. And he added that the Florentines would do a work well-pleasing to
God if they should destroy, at the hands of the executioner, all those
images which entice to sin.

Then he went on to speak of knowledge:--'That man is a fool,' he said
'who conceives that by logic and by philosophy the truths of faith can
be confirmed. Does a strong light need the help of a weak one? or the
divine wisdom that of the human? Which of the apostles and the martyrs
studied philosophy and logic? An old woman who can neither read nor
write, but who prays fervently before the image of a saint, is nearer to
the knowledge of God than all the sages and philosophers of the world.
Neither logic nor science will stead them in the day of judgment: Homer
and Virgil, Plato and Aristotle, all go to their end in the house of the
devil; because, like the sirens, bewitching the ear with magic songs,
they draw souls to eternal ruin. Science gives men stones for bread,
and, verily, if you look at those who follow the teaching of this world,
you will find in them that even their hearts are become as stones.'

'Who knows little, loves little. Great love is the daughter of great
knowledge!' had said Leonardo da Vinci.

Only now did Giovanni realise the profundity of these words, as he
listened to the anathema of the monk against knowledge and art, and
remembered the wise reasonings of Leonardo, the calm of his countenance,
his cold look, his wise and enchanting smile. Not that he had forgotten
the poisoned tree, the Ear, the crane for the Holy Nail, but now he felt
that he had not fathomed the depth of his master's soul, had not
penetrated into the mysteries of his heart, nor untied the prime knot in
which all the threads must meet.

Such were the memories upon which Giovanni looked back at the end of his
first convent year. Deep in thought he paced the darkening cloister,
till the evening had fallen and the _Ave Maria_ rang through the dusk.
The monks wended to the chapel, but Giovanni remained outside, reseating
himself.

Then with a bitter smile he raised his eyes to the silent heaven, where
shone the evening star, the torch of Lucifer, the most beautiful of
angels, the bringer of light, son of the morning.

He returned to his cell and slept: towards the dawning he dreamed. And
in his dream he was with Monna Cassandra, astride of a black goat, and
fleeting through the morning air, 'To the Sabbath! to the Sabbath!'
cried the witch, turning to him her clear amber eyes; and he knew in her
the goddess of earthly love, she with the heavenly sadness in her
eyes--the _diavolessa bianca_. The full moon shone on her body. Sweet
odours almost overpowered him. His teeth chattered with desire and with
fear. '_Amore! Amore!_' she cried and laughed, and the black goat-skin
sank beneath them. Away! Away! they careered.


IV

Giovanni was awakened by the sun, by the sound of bells and of childish
voices. He dressed hurriedly, and descended into the court where was a
great crowd of people, and among them children all dressed in white, and
carrying olive-branches and small red crosses. It was 'The Sacred Legion
of the Child Inquisitors,' founded by Savonarola to watch over and
reform the purity of morals in the town. Giovanni mixed in the crowd,
and listened to their talk.

Then a wave passed over the ranks of the sacred troop; innumerable small
hands waved the olive-branches and the red crosses above their heads,
acclaiming Savonarola, who was entering, and a chorus of silver voices
intoned a psalm in his honour:--

     '_Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis Israel._'

The children made a circle round the Prior, covering him with a rain of
violets and anemones, and they knelt before him, kissing his feet.
Illumined by a ray of the sun, silently, with a tender smile, the
worn-faced Savonarola blessed them.

'Long live Christ, King of Florence! Hallelujah to Christ, the King of
Florence. Hail Mary, Blessed Virgin, and our Queen!' shouted the young
voices.

The captains gave the order to march, drums beat, flags fluttered, and
the sacred troop moved off. For in the Piazza della Signoria was
prepared the pyre for the burning of the vanities, and the children were
once more to make the circuit of the city to collect 'vanities and
things under anathema.'


V

When the court was clear, Giovanni saw Messer Cipriano Buonaccorsi,
Master of the noble Guild of the Calimala, the lover of pagan
antiquities, on whose property by the Hill of the Mill the marble figure
of the goddess of Love had been found. They greeted each other warmly,
and spoke for some time. From Messer Cipriano Giovanni learned that
Leonardo had come from Milan, charged by the duke to purchase such works
of art as could escape the Legion of Children. Giorgio Merula was with
the painter. Presently Messer Cipriano asked Giovanni to conduct him to
Savonarola. The master of the Calimala entered Fra Girolamo's cell, and
Giovanni waiting outside heard their talk. Messer Cipriano offered
twenty-two thousand gold florins if he might buy all the books, the
pictures, the statues, and other treasures which were ordained for the
burning. Savonarola refused. Messer Cipriano increased his offer by
eight thousand florins. To this the Monk deigned no reply; only his
stern and rigid face became yet sterner and more rigid. Buonaccorsi's
toothless mouth quivered. He wrapped his fox-skin cloak round his
shivering knees; he sighed heavily, and closing his myopic eyes, he said
in his quiet voice: 'Well, Father Girolamo, I will ruin myself. I will
give you all I possess: forty thousand florins.'

Savonarola grimly raised his head. 'And what were your profit,' he
asked, 'if you ruined yourself?'

'I was born in this city,' replied Messer Cipriano. 'I love my land; and
for no condition in the world can I endure that we, like the barbarian
hordes, should destroy the masterpieces of wisdom and of art.'

'Would that thou didst love thy heavenly country as thou lovest thine
earthly one, my son!' exclaimed the Monk, turning on the old man a look
full of admiration; 'but be consoled, only things meet for burning shall
be burned. What induces to wickedness and vice cannot include anything
of beauty, as, indeed, your same wise ancients have said.'

'Alas, father!' returned the merchant, eagerly, 'are you certain that
babes can distinguish so precisely between the evil and the good?'

'Truth and innocency is in the mouth of babes. "Except ye become as
children ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven." Is it not written:
"I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the
understanding of the prudent"? Messere, I pray day and night that God
may enlighten my babes, so that by His Holy Spirit their minds may be
opened to discover all the vanities of science and of art.'

'I beseech you to consider--perhaps even a part----'

'You are wasting your breath, messere. My decision is unalterable.'

Again Messer Cipriano's old lips moved, but Savonarola heard only one
word--'Madness!'

'Madness?' he echoed, his eyes flashing; 'and the golden calf of the
Borgias offered to the pope in his sacrilegious festivals--is that not
madness? And the elevation of the Holy Nail, to the glory of God, by a
diabolical machine at the command of an impious assassin and usurper--is
that not madness? You dance madly round the golden calf in honour of
your God, which is Mammon; let us, then, who are poor in spirit, be mad
in honour of our God, who is Christ Jesus the Crucified. You bemock the
monks who on the piazza dance around the cross. Wait! There are other
spectacles which wait for you. What will you wise men say when I lead
not only the monks, but the whole people of Florence, adults as well as
children, men and women, to dance around the Cross-Tree of Salvation, as
of old David danced before the Ark of the Covenant to the glory of the
Most High!'


VI

Leaving the prior's cell, Giovanni Boltraffio turned his steps towards
the Piazza della Signoria. In Via Larga he met the sacred troop. The
children had stopped a palanquin carried by black slaves, in which
reclined a woman gorgeously attired. A lapdog slept on her knee, a
parrot and a monkey were on perches by her side, the litter was followed
by servants and by guards. She was a courtesan, Lena Griffi, not long
come from Venice, one of those whom the most Serene Republic called
'_meretrix honesta_,' or playfully 'Mammola' (little dear); and whose
name in the placard, drawn up for the convenience of travellers, was set
down in large characters and in a place of honour at the top of the
list.

Lolling on her cushions like Cleopatra, or a Queen of Sheba, Lena was
reading a love-missive from a youthful bishop. Its postscript was a song
ending thus:--

     'Listening to thy voice I rise
      From this globe towards the skies,
      Plato's Sphere of Ecstasies.'

The courtesan was meditating on a return sonnet, for she was an
accomplished versifier, and used to say that had it depended on herself,
she would gladly have passed her whole existence in the _Accademia degli
vomini virtuosi_--in the Academy of the Virtuous.

The sacred troop of children encircled the litter. Dolfo, the leader of
one of the bands, advanced raising his red cross, and cried: 'In the
name of Jesus, the King of Florence, and of the Blessed Mary our Queen,
we bid you strip off these sinful ornaments, these vanities and
anathemata. And if you refuse, may you fall under the malediction of
God!'

The dog suddenly awakened began to bark, the monkey chattered, the
parrot, flapping its wings, screamed out a verse it had learned from its
mistress:--

     'Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona!'

Lena was about to bid her attendants rid her of the crowd when her eyes
fell on Dolfo, and she beckoned to him.

The boy came, his eyes on the ground.

'Away with these ornaments!' shouted the children. 'Away with the
vanities and the anathemata.'

'Ah, you handsome boy!' said the courtesan softly, disregarding the
cries of the crowd. 'Mark you, my little Adonis, I would willingly give
you all my poor toys, but the matter is they are not mine own!'

Dolfo raised his eyes; and Lena, with a scarcely perceptible smile,
nodded as if confirming his secret thoughts, then added caressingly, in
her soft Venetian accent: 'In the Vicolo de' Bottai, near the Santa
Trinità, ask for Lena, the lady from Venice. I'll be expecting you.'

Dolfo looked round and saw that his followers had become involved with a
party of Savonarola's enemies (called the _Arrabbiati_, the Enraged),
and had forgotten the courtesan. It was his duty to bid them fall upon
her, but suddenly he felt himself vanquished, and flushed and hung his
head.

Lena laughed, showing her white teeth; and behind the sumptuous
Cleopatra and Queen of Sheba there shone out the Venetian 'Mammola,' the
saucy street-girl, mischievous and naughty.

The slaves lifted the litter and she pursued her way unmolested, spaniel
on lap; the parrot settled down on his perch; only the monkey still
grimaced, and tried to snatch the pencil with which the courtesan was
beginning verses to the bishop:--

     'My love is purer than a seraph's sigh....'

Dolfo, meantime, preceding his company, but without his former
braggadocio, mounted the stair of the Palazzo dei Medici.


VII

In the dark, silent, and spacious halls of the Medicean palace, where
all breathed the solemn grandeur of the past, the children became
awestruck. But when the shutters had been flung open, the trumpets had
blared, and the drums beat, then the youthful inquisitors scattered
themselves through the rooms, shouting and laughing, and singing hymns,
and executing the judgment of God on the sins of learning and art,
gleefully prying into vanities by the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

Giovanni watched them at work, and noted some who, with frowning
foreheads, hands decently folded, and the gravity of judges, paced among
the statues of the philosophers and heroes of pagan antiquity.
'Pythagoras, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus,'
read one of the boys from the Latin inscriptions on the marble bases.

'Epictetus?' said Federici, with the tone of a profound connoisseur,
'that is the particular heretic who permitted all pleasures and denied
the existence of God. He merits burning; 'tis pity he is marble.'

'Never mind,' cried the cross-eyed Pippo, 'we'll have him in to the
feast.'

'Nay,' interposed Giovanni; 'you are confounding Epictetus with
Epicurus.'

He was too late; down came Pippo's hammer so clean on the philosopher's
nose that the boys yelled in admiration.

'Epictetus or Epicurus, it's all one! If it isn't the broth, it's the
sippets of bread! They shall all go to the house of the devil,' they
cried, quoting Fra Girolamo.

However, contention arose before a picture of Botticelli's. Dolfo
declared it was the naked Bacchus pierced by the shafts of love, but
Federici, whose eye for 'anathemata' rivalled Dolfo's, examined the
picture attentively and pronounced it a portrait of Stephen the
proto-martyr.

The children stood round in perplexity, for the attire and the
expression of the figure in nowise suggested a saint.

'Don't you believe him!' cried Dolfo; ''tis Bacchus, the abominable
Bacchus!'

'You blasphemer!' shouted Federici, raising his crucifix for weapon, and
the two boys fell upon each other with such goodwill that their
followers could hardly separate them. The picture was left for future
consideration.

Standing in wondering groups, the children rummaged amongst the
properties of old carnivals--amongst the horrid masks of satyrs, grapes
for bacchantes, bows, amongst quivers, and wings of Eros, the wands of
Hermes, the tridents of Poseidon. Finally, drawing them forth amid
shouts of laughter, they lighted on the wooden, gilded, cobwebbed
thunderbolt of Jupiter Tonans, and the moth-eaten body of the Olympian
eagle, with moulted tail, and wires and nails protruding from his
perforated crop. A rat jumped out from the dusty golden wig once worn by
Aphrodite, girls screamed, jumped on the couches and gathered up their
petticoats. The shadows of terrified bats beating against the ceiling
seemed the wings of unclean spirits, and a chill of horror and repulsion
settled on the children as they touched this heathen lumber, this
sepulchral dust of deities.

Dolfo running up announced that there was yet another room, its door
guarded by a little, bald, furious, red-nosed, detestable man, who was
hurling blasphemy and curses, and would permit no one to pass. The troop
filed off to reconnoitre; and Giovanni, following them, found in the
janitor his friend the bibliophile, Messer Giorgio Merula.

Dolfo gave the signal for attack; Messer Giorgio stood before the door
preparing to defend it with his body. The children fell upon him, rolled
him over, beat him with their crosses, searched his pockets till they
had found the key, and opened the door. It was a small room with a
library of precious books.

'Here, here!' suggested Merula, cunningly, 'the books you seek are in
this corner. You needn't waste your time over the top shelves. There's
nothing there.'

But the inquisitors heeded him not. All that came to hand they piled in
a vast heap, especially the books in rich bindings. Then they opened the
windows and flung the fat folios straight into the street, where carts
were being loaded with 'vanities.' Tibullus, Horace, Ovid, Apuleius,
Aristophanes, rare copies, unique editions flew through the air before
Merula's very eyes. He rescued one small volume and hid it in his bosom.
It was the history of Marcellinus, containing the life of Julian the
Apostate. Seeing on the floor a delicately-illuminated manuscript of the
tragedies of Sophocles, he snatched it up and made piteous
supplication:--

'Children, dear children! spare Sophocles. He is the most innocent of
poets. Let him alone! Let him alone!'

And he pressed the precious leaves convulsively to his breast, but
finding them tear beneath his too loving hands he burst into sobs and
groans, dropped his treasure, and cried in impotent fury:--

'Know, ye sons of dogs, that one line of this inestimable Sophocles is
worth all the prophecies put together of your madman, Fra Girolamo.'

'Old man, if you don't want to be taken by the heels and thrown after
your pagan poets, you'll hold your tongue!' cried the children, dragging
him from the library.

Then leaving the palace, they passed by Santa Maria del Fiore, and
marched to the Piazza della Signoria.


VIII

In front of the dark and slender tower of the Palazzo Vecchio the pyre
stood ready. It was thirty cubits in height, one hundred and twenty in
circumference; an octagonal pyramid with at least fifteen steps. On the
lowest were the comic masks, dresses, wigs, and other carnival
properties; on the next three, profane books from Anacreon and Ovid to
the _Decameron_, and the _Morgante Maggiore_ of Messer Luigi Pulci.
Above the books were the instruments of female beauty--washes, essences,
mirrors, puffs, curling-tongs, hair-pins, nail-nippers. Still higher
were lutes and mandolines, cards, chessmen, balls, dice--all the games
by means of which men serve the devil. Then came drawings, voluptuous
pictures, portraits of light women; lastly, on the summit of the
pyramid, the gods, heroes and sages of pagan antiquity, made of wood and
of coloured wax. Above the pile, towering higher than anything else, the
figure of Satan was enthroned, the lord of all 'vanities and things
accursed,' a monstrous puppet, filled with gunpowder and sulphur, with
goat's legs and a hairy skin, like Pan, the ancient god of the woods.

It was evening: the air was cold, but serene and clear, and one by one
the stars were beginning their nightly shining. The crowd in the piazza
surged and swayed, and pious murmurings filled the air. Hymns went up
from Savonarola's followers--_Laudi spirituali_--which retaining the
rhymes, the metre, and the air of carnival songs, had been radically
changed in words and sense. Giovanni listened, and the incongruity
between the lively music and the gloomy words resounded in his ears like
some barbarous funeral chant.

     'Hope with Faith and Love agrees,
      Take three ounces each of these;
      Two of tears, and mix them well
        On the fire of Fear.
      Let them boil for minutes three,
      Spice them with Humility,
      Adding Grief to make the spell
        Of this madness clear;
      Lo! my soul, I offer thee
      A most sov'ran remedy,
      Worthy cure for every ill,
      Called by man a madness still.'

A man on crutches, paralysed but not old, his face quivering like the
wing of a wounded bird, approached Fra Domenico Buonvicino and handed
him a parcel.

'What is it,' asked the friar; 'more drawings?'

'A matter of anatomy. Yesterday I forgot to hand it over, but to-night a
voice reproved me: "Sandro," it said, "you have still some 'vanities and
anathemata' in the loft above your shop." So I got up and hunted for
these drawings of nude bodies.'

The monk took the parcel with a good-natured smile.

'We shall light a famous fire, Ser Filippepi!' he said.

The paralytic looked at the pyramid and heaved a profound sigh.

'Lord! Lord! have mercy on us miserable sinners! And to think that but
for Fra Girolamo we should be still in our sins! And even now, who knows
if we shall save our souls?'

He crossed himself and murmured prayers, fingering his rosary.

'Who is that?' Giovanni asked of Fra Domenico.

'Sandro Botticelli,' was the answer, 'son of Ser Mariano Filippepi, the
tanner.'


IX

When at last the curtain of night had fallen upon Florence, a whisper
ran through the crowd.

'They come! They come!'

Slowly, silently, without torches, without hymns, the procession
advanced. Before the white-robed troop of the child inquisitors was
borne the waxen image of the child Jesus, pointing with one hand to his
crown of thorns, with the other blessing the people. After the children
came monks, the clergy of the whole town, the _gonfalonieri_, the
magnificent gentlemen of the Council of Eighty; the cathedral canons,
the doctors of theology, the magistrates, the cavaliers, the guards of
the Bargello, the heralds and trumpeters. Upon reaching the piazza the
procession stood still, and a deathly silence came over the multitude,
such as precedes an execution. Then Savonarola mounted the _Ringhiera_,
a stone platform before the Palazzo Vecchio, lifted the crucifix, and
commanded in sonorous tones:--

'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, kindle the
flame!'

Four monks approached the pyre with torches, and immediately fire broke
out at the four opposing corners. The flames crackled, and a smoke at
first grey, then blackening, rose in wreaths to heaven. Trumpets
sounded, the monks chanted a canticle in honour of the Lord, and the
children sang in chorus:--

     'Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis Israel.'

The great bell of the Palazzo Vecchio rolled a solemn and majestic sound
upon the air, and was answered from all the belfries of the town. The
fire rose ever fiercer and more brilliant; and the delicate parchment
leaves of the old books curled up and perished. From the lowest step a
bunch of false hair rose flaming and floated away, amid the jeers and
laughter of the crowd. Among the people were some who prayed, some who
wept; others screamed and danced, and waved their arms and kerchiefs and
caps; others prophesied.

'Sing, brothers, sing unto the Lord a new song!' shouted a limping
shoemaker with wild eyes: 'All the world is crumbling! burning, burning
to a horrible destruction, even as these vanities in the purifying
fire--all--all--all!--Church, laws, governments, powers, arts,
learning--one stone shall not be left upon another!--there shall be a
new heaven and a new earth; and God shall wipe away all tears from our
eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor weeping nor
sickness! O Lord Jesus, come! come!'

A young woman, with a thin and suffering face, pregnant, no doubt the
wife of some poverty-stricken artisan, fell on her knees, spreading her
hands towards the flame, as if in very truth she saw in it a vision of
the Christ Himself; then starting up and calling like one possessed, she
cried:--

'My Jesus! my Jesus! Come, Lord Jesus! Come!'


X

Among the objects burning at the stake Giovanni could not take his eyes
off a picture lighted up but not yet touched by the flame. It was by
Leonardo: a shining white Leda, lying on the waves of a mountain-girdled
lake, among the low-toned reflections of twilight. A great swan spread
his wings over her, bending his long neck, and filling the sky and the
earth with his triumphant hymn of love, while Leda watched her twin
sons. Giovanni stared at the advance of the flame, his heart beating
high in nervous horror.

Just then the monks elevated a sombre cross in the centre of the square,
and in honour of the Trinity made themselves into three circles, joining
their hands; then testifying to the spiritual joy of the faithful, they
danced, first slowly, then faster and faster, till at last they were as
a mighty whirlwind, and they sang the while:--

'_Ognun gridi com' io grido! Sempre pazzo, pazzo, pazzo!_'

     'Each and all with me cry out,
      Ever madly, madly shout!
        All that wise men follow after
      Jesu's fools delight in spurning,
        Riches, honour, feasting, laughter,
      Pomp and pleasure, golden earning--
      Unto those things fondly turning
      That to wisdom hateful be:
      Grief, and pain, and penury.
      Christians still may boast of madness--
      Never was there greater gladness,
        More delightsome solace never
        Than for love of Jesu ever
      Thus to rage in holy madness.'[3]

  [3] Hieronymo Benivieni.

The heads of the spectators reeled, and their hands and feet were set in
motion; suddenly children, men, feeble women joined in the frantic
dance. One old and unwieldy monk, like an aged faun, tripped, fell, and
was hurt so that the blood flowed; he was flung aside, barely escaping
trampling, and the dance rolled on. The fire's crimson and flickering
glow lighted convulsed faces: a vast shadow was thrown by the crucifix,
the moveless centre of the whirling circles.

     'If of wit my mind doth show,
          Jesu, in thy courtesie,
      Rid it thence and let me know
          Ever only phrenesie!
          For of all philosophie,
      Wisdom, prudence, and the rest,
      Loathing such hath me possessed
      That I would only ask for madness.

          Jesu mine, it doth appear
      Wisdom all and man's contriving
          In God's sight is folly mere;
      All things else but vainest striving,
      Saving Thee, Thou fount reviving,
      Whence flow out such waters rare,
      That who slakes his thirst once there
      For love of Thee is seized with madness.'

At last the creeping flame had reached the Leda, with its scarlet tongue
had licked the pure body, flushed as if living, and grown momentarily
yet more mystic and exquisite. Giovanni gazed, shuddering and turning
pale, and for him Leda smiled her last smile; then dissolving in the
fire, like a cloud in the sunrise, she was lost for ever.

And now the flame had attained the huge devil on the apex of the
pyramid: its paunch, filled with powder, burst with a tremendous crash.
A pillar of fire rose to the sky. The monster tottered on his blazing
throne, bowed, fell, and was scattered in a powder of dying embers.

Drums and trumpets sounded. All the bells pealed, the crowd raised a
roar of triumph, as though Satan himself had perished in the flames of
the holy pile, together with all the falsehood, pain and sins of the
whole earth. Giovanni clapped his hands to his temples and would have
fled. But a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned and looked:
beside him stood Leonardo, with his quiet untroubled face. The Master
took him by the hand and drew him forth from the crowd.


XI

They moved from the square, pervaded by clouds of stifling smoke, and,
lit up by the glow of the dying bonfire, by an obscure lane they took
their way to the banks of the Arno. Here all breathed quietness and
calm: the stream glided by, gently murmuring: the stars scintillated,
coldly brilliant, and the moon bathed the hills in a flood of silver
glory.

'Giovanni,' said Leonardo, 'why did you forsake me?'

The disciple raised his eyes and tried to speak; but his voice died in
his throat, his lip trembled, and he burst into tears.

'Master--forgive me!'

'You have done me no wrong.'

'I knew not what I did,' murmured Boltraffio. 'How, O God! how could I
have left you?'

He would have told his sufferings, his madness, the anguish of his
terrible doubts. But as when at Milan he had stood before the Colossus
of Francesco Sforza, he felt that Leonardo would have no comprehension;
and in hopeless entreaty he looked into his eyes--eyes clear, calm, and
alien as the stars.

As if divining the conflict in his soul, the Master did not question
him; he smiled with infinite kindness, and laying his hand on the young
head he said:--

'God help you, my poor boy: you know I have ever loved you as my
favourite son! Will you come back to me? I will receive you with joy.'

Then, scarce audibly, as if speaking to himself, he added:--

'The deeper the sensitiveness, the greater the grief. A martyr among the
martyrs!'

From afar came the clash of the bells, the scream of the chant, the cry
of the frenzied mob. But Master and pupil were happy.




BOOK VIII

THE AGE OF GOLD--1496-1497


     _'Tornerà l'età dell' oro
       Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'_
                                BELLINCIONI.

     [The Age of Gold shall brighten as of yore,
     And all exulting sing, 'Long live the Moor!']


I

Beatrice d'Este, Duchess of Milan, sat in her boudoir writing a letter
to her sister Isabella, wife of the Marchese Francesco Gonzaga, lord of
Mantua:--

'Most excellent madonna and well-beloved Sister, I and _il Signor_
Ludovico, my spouse, desire your good health, and that of _il Signor_
Francesco, your illustrious consort.

'In obedience to your desire I send you the portrait of Massimiliano, my
Son, only I pray you not to conceive of him as of the smallness here
indicated. I would send you the precise measurements of how tall he is,
but that I am afraid, for the nurse tells me such measurement would
impede his growth. He grows _amazingly_. If I see him not for a couple
of days, I find him so greatly enlarged that I jump for joy.

'Here at court we have a great grief: the little Fool Nannino hath died.
You, my sister, knew him and loved him well; you will therefore
comprehend that while I might have replaced any other loss, Nature
herself could not fill the void left by Nannino, since in this Being,
formed expressly for the delight of princes, she had united the
perfection of imbecility with the most entrancing hideousness.
Bellincioni has composed a most elegant Elegy, declaring that if Nannino
is in Heaven then all paradise must laugh, if he is in hell even
Cerberus grinneth. We have buried him, with many tears, in our family
tomb in St. Maria delle Grazie, beside my favourite falcon, and the
memorable bitch Puttina. Death shall not wholly separate me from so
delightful a possession. I have wept for two entire nights, and
Ludovico, my lord, in the hope to console me, has promised me for a
Christmas gift a magnificent silver bedside Seat, ornamented with a
relief of the fight between the Centaurs and the Lapithæ. Its interior
will be of pure gold, very massive, and it hath a Baldachin of velvet,
embroidered with our ducal arms. A similar seat has no other prince,
neither the Pope, nor the Emperor, nor the grand Turk. It will excel in
beauty that one famed by Martial in his epigram. My lord, Ludovico, had
wished Leonardo da Vinci to contrive a musical-organ in its Interior,
but he hath excused himself on some flimsy pretext, such as the
finishing of his Colossus, or his _Cenacolo_. You prayed me, beloved
Sister, to lend you this Painter for a time. With pleasure would I
accede to your request, and verily not lend but give him to you for
ever; but my lord, Ludovico, for what reason I cannot say, is exceeding
well-disposed toward this man, and would not consent to his removal for
all the gold in the world. Be not disappointed overmuch, for verily this
Leonardo is occupied to such a degree with alchemy, mechanics, Magic,
and other such like follies, that he scarce attends to his painting;
secondly, he executes all commissions with a slowness that would lose an
Angel his patience; thirdly, he is an infidel.

'Of late we have had a wolf-hunt. They do not permit me to mount on
horseback, for I am now advanced in my fifth month; but I watched the
hunt from the high platform of a conveyance made expressly for me, in
form like a pulpit. I assure you that in this box I was rather tortured
than diverted. When the Wolf made his escape into the forest I wept with
rage. Had I been upon my horse I swear he should not thus have got away,
though I had broken my collar-bone.

'My little sister, do you recall how we used to leap our horses? And how
Penthesilea fell in the Ditch and almost destroyed herself? And the
boar-hunt at Cusnago? And the tennis? and the angling? What fine times
were those!

'Here we amuse ourselves as best we can. We play at cards, and we skate,
which is a most pleasing diversion, introduced among us by a Flemish
gentleman, for the winter is very severe, and not only the lakes but
likewise the rivers are completely frozen. In the park Leonardo hath
built out of snow a most elegant Leda embraced by the swan. Pity 'tis
that in the spring it will melt!

'And you, delightful sister, how fare you? And has your breed of cats
with long hair succeeded well? If you have a male Kitten with tawny hair
and blue eyes, I pray you to send him with the young Negress you have
promised me; I will give you in exchange my little bitch's next litter.

'Pray you, do not omit to send the model of the Wrapper of azure satin,
with the cross-cut collar and the trimming of sables. I asked for it in
my last letter. Pray you, despatch it at once; 'twere best to-morrow at
day-break, and by a mounted messenger. And send me also a vessel of your
boasted ointment for the king's evil, and some of that foreign wood for
the finger-nails.

'Our astrologer predicts a very hot summer, and War. What saith your
prophet? One's faith jumps always with the astrologer belonging to
somebody else.

'I and Ludovico, my lord, commend ourselves to your gracious
remembrance, beloved sister, and that of your illustrious consort, the
Signor Marchese Francesco.

                                                     BEATRICE SFORZA.'


II

Notwithstanding the frank tone of this letter, it was full of finished
policy. Beatrice concealed from her sister her private anxieties and
annoyances, for, as matter of fact, peace was very far from reigning
between husband and wife. The lady hated Leonardo neither for heresy nor
atheism, but because he had painted the portrait of Cecilia Bergamini,
the Duchess's most detested rival. Of late, also, she had suspected an
intrigue with one of her ladies, Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli.

At this time Ludovico was at the zenith of his power. Son of Francesco
Sforza--that daring mercenary from the Romagna, half soldier, half
brigand--he dreamed of making himself lord of an united Italy.

'The Pope,' he boasted, 'shall be my chaplain, the Emperor my captain,
Venice my treasury, and the King of France my courier.'

He signed himself '_Ludovicus Maria Sfortia Anglus Dux Mediolani_,'
deducing his descent from Anglus the Trojan, companion of Æneas. The
Colossus, monument to his father Francesco, with the inscription _Ecce
Deus_, was designed as a testimony to the divine origin of the Sforzas.
For all his external prosperity, however, the Duke was tortured by
anxiety and secret fear. He knew himself unloved by the people, and
reckoned a usurper. Once in the Piazza dell' Arrengo the people, seeing
the widow of Gian Galeazzo with her eldest son, had shouted, 'Long live
Francesco, our rightful Duke!'

The boy was eight years old, and famed for his intelligence and beauty.
Marin Sanuto, the Venetian, wrote of him: 'The people desire him for
their prince, even as they desire God.' Beatrice and her husband had
recognised that the death of Gian Galeazzo had not been sufficient to
make them lords of Milan, since in this child the shade of his father
was rising from the tomb.

There was talk in the city of mysterious portents. At night, above the
castle towers, a strange glow had appeared as that of a conflagration.
In the palace chambers agonising groans had been heard. It was
remembered that when Gian Galeazzo had lain dead it had been impossible
to shut his left eye, omen of the imminent death of one of his near
kinsmen; the eyelids of the Madonna dell' Albore had quivered; outside
the Porta Ticinese an old woman's cow had dropped a double-headed calf.
The Duchess herself had seen an apparition in the Sala della Rocchetta,
had fainted with terror, and refused to discuss it with any one, even
her husband. She had altogether lost that vivacity and grace which had
been so attractive to her spouse, and, filled with the gloomiest
prognostications, was awaiting the approaching birth of her child.


III

On a melancholy December evening, while snowflakes were slowly falling
on the streets of Milan, Il Moro sat in the little detached apartment of
the palace in which he had installed his new love, Madonna Lucrezia
Crivelli. The flames from the fire on the open hearth lighted up the
polished doors with their inlaid views of the ancient buildings in
Rome, the moulded and chequered lacework of the ceiling touched up with
gold, the walls covered with Cordovan leather and gold hangings, the
tall black chairs and settles, the round table, the novel by Boiardo
lying open, the sheets of music, the mother-o'-pearl mandoline, and the
crystal goblet of _Balnea aponitana_, a spa water, at that time greatly
in fashion. On the wall hung the lady's portrait painted by Leonardo.
Caradosso had carved the marble reliefs of the chimney-piece--curled
serpents gnawing a vine, and naked children, half cherubs, half cupids,
playing with the sacred instruments of the Lord's Passion; nails,
sponge, lance, and crown of thorns.

The fierce wind howled in the chimney, but within the dainty _studiolo_
all was comfort and luxury. Madonna Lucrezia, seated on a cushion at the
Duke's feet, was sorrowful, for he had chided her, the ground of his
complaint being that she did not visit Beatrice, his duchess.

'Your Excellency!' cried the girl, with drooping eyelids, 'I beseech
you, constrain me not! I am incapable of lying.'

'Lying?' echoed Il Moro; 'but this is concealment, not lying! Did not
the Thunderer himself hide his pranks from his jealous spouse? And
Theseus? and Phædra? and Medea? All the gods and heroes of antiquity!
We, poor mortals, cannot resist the might of the god of Love. But would
it be well to have the evil flagrant? Then you lead your neighbour into
temptation, which is contrary to all Christian charity. And charity, you
know, covers a multitude of sins.'

He laughed; but Lucrezia shook her head and looked at him with her large
eyes, innocent and pensive as a child's.

'You know, my lord, I am happy in your love; but sometimes I fall into
such a remorse, remembering that I am deceiving Madonna Beatrice, who
loves me as a sister, that I know not how to endure it.'

'Enough, enough, my child!' cried the Duke, and drew her to his knee,
throwing one arm round her waist, and with the other hand caressing her
smooth raven tresses, which were confined by the _ferroniera_, a thread
of gold fastened over the brow by a diamond, which glistened like a
tear. Lowering her eyelashes she permitted his caresses coldly, and
without returning them.

'Ah, if you knew how I loved thee, my gentle one! so sweet, so modest!
Thee only!' he sighed, breathing again that odour of violet and musk.

The door opened, and a frightened maid-servant rushed in.

'Madonna! madonna!' she cried; 'there! down by the great door! O Lord,
have pity on us sinners!'

'Speak!' said the Duke, 'who is at the great door?'

'Beatrice, the Duchess.'

Il Moro turned pale.

'The key! Quick, the key of the little door! I will go through the
courtyard. Give me the key--at once.'

'But the cavaliers of Madonna Beatrice are surrounding the house!' cried
the servant, wringing her hands.

'Then it's a trap,' said the Duke rubbing his brow. But how has she come
by the knowledge? Who can have told her?'

'Surely Monna Sidonia, the accursed witch who creeps in to vex us with
her unguents and her phials. I warned you, Madonna, to beware of her.'

'What's to be done? _Dio mio!_ What's to be done?' muttered the Duke,
ever paler.

From the street came a violent knocking on the great door and the
servant rushed to the staircase.

'Hide me, Lucrezia. Hide me!'

'Most Excellent, if Madonna Beatrice suspects, she will search the
house. Were it not better that you went straight up to her?'

'God forbid! You know not the manner of woman she is. Good Lord, to
think what may come of this! Remember her state--the danger to the
infant! Hide me; hide me at once--no matter where.'

At this moment the Duke more nearly resembled a thief detected than a
descendant of Anglus, the companion of Æneas.

Lucrezia took him to her dressing-chamber and hid him in the wardrobe, a
large press let into the wall, with white doors inlaid with gold; here
he effaced himself in a corner among the dresses.

'What a position!' he said to himself. 'Exactly like the ridiculous
heroes of Boccaccio or Sacchetti.'

Il Moro was, however, in no mood to appreciate the ridiculous side of
the adventure. He drew from his bosom a small case with relics of St.
Christopher; another containing a morsel of Egyptian mummy, a talisman
much in vogue. In the dark he could not distinguish which was which of
these treasures, so he kissed them both, crossing himself and praying.

Hearing the voices of his wife and his mistress entering the closet
together, he turned cold with fear. But they were talking amicably as
though nothing were amiss. Lucrezia was showing the Duchess her new
house, at her own urgent request. Probably Beatrice had no clear proofs
of her case, and therefore was dissembling her suspicion. It was a duel
of feminine cunning.

'What! gowns here, too?' said the Duchess indifferently, as she
approached the press in which her husband had settled himself down half
dead with fear.

'Yes, old gowns. What I wear at home. Would your Excellence like to
look?' said Lucrezia, also indifferently, and she partly opened the
door.

'Hearken, my dear. Where do you keep that robe I was so fond of--don't
you remember?--which you wore at the Pallavicini fête last summer?
Little golden caterpillars sparking like fireflies on a purple ground.'

'I don't remember,' said Lucrezia. 'Oh, yes, though--it must be here,'
and she moved away from her lover's hiding-place, leaving its door ajar,
and drew the Duchess to the other wardrobe.

'And she declared she could not deceive!' thought the duke, pleased
notwithstanding his terror. 'What presence of mind! Oh, women! 'tis from
you princes should learn diplomacy.'

Presently the ladies moved away into the adjoining apartment, and Il
Moro breathed more freely, though he still convulsively clutched at the
relics of St. Christopher and the morsel of mummy.

'Two hundred imperial ducats to the monastery of St. Maria delle Grazie
for oil and candles, if it ends well!' he vowed.

At last the maid came running, opened the press, and with an air both
respectful and sly let the prisoner out, telling him the danger was
passed, and the most excellent Madonna Beatrice had been pleased to
retire, after taking a gracious leave of Madonna Lucrezia.

Having crossed himself, he returned to the _studiolo_, drank a glass of
the _Balnea aponitana_ water, looked at Lucrezia, who sat by the
fireplace as before, her head drooping, and smiled. Then he stepped
cautiously to her side, bent down and took her in his arms. The girl
shuddered.

'Leave me! Leave me, I pray you. I beseech you to go away. How can you
do this after what has happened?'

But the Duke unheeding, covered her face and neck and hair with ardent
kisses. He had found a new charm in her unsuspected talent for
deception, and never had she seemed to him more lovely.

The December storm still howled in the chimney; but the glow of the fire
illuminated the chain of laughing naked children who, among the
vine-branches of Bacchus brandished nail, hammer, spear, and crown of
thorns.


IV

For three months, under the direction of Bramante, Caradosso, and
Leonardo da Vinci, preparation had been making for the great ball,
decreed by the Duke for New Year's Day. No less than two thousand
persons had been invited. On the appointed day, at about five o'clock in
the afternoon, the guests assembled at the palace. A snowstorm had
damaged the roads; the castle towers and battlemented walls with the
loop-holes for the mouths of cannon showed with ghastly whiteness
against the heavy clouds. Fires had been kindled in the wide courtyard,
and round these were assembled noisy groups of equerries,
palanquin-bearers, grooms, couriers, outriders, and their like. Gilded
chariots and coaches, very cumbrous, and drawn by cart-horses, were
setting down fur-wrapped ladies and cavaliers at the entrance of the
palace, or crossing the drawbridge which led to the inner court of the
Rocchetta. The frosted windows glittered in the festal illuminations
within.

Entering the vestibule, the guests passed between two long rows of ducal
guards, Turkish _mamelukes_, Greek _stradiotes_, Scotch bowmen, Swiss
_lanzknechts_, all in armour, and bearing heavy halberts. In front of
them stood the pages, pretty as maidens, in parti-coloured liveries, the
right side pink velvet, the left blue satin, trimmed with swan's-down,
and silver-embroidered with the arms of Sforza and Visconti. Their
garments were so tight as to display every outline of their lithe and
graceful bodies; and in their hands these charming candlebearers held
torches of red and yellow wax, such as were used in the churches. As
each guest entered the great hall, a herald, attended by two trumpeters,
proclaimed his style and titles; then a vista opened before him of vast
dazzlingly-lighted saloons: 'the hall of the white doves on a red
field'; 'the hall of gold,' with the ducal hunting trophies; 'the hall
of purple,' hung with gold-embroidered purple satin, adorned with
buckets and firebrands (the insignia of the Dukes of Milan, who at
pleasure could blow up the fire of war, or quench it with the waters of
peace). Last was the small and exquisite 'black saloon,' designed by
Bramante, and adorned on walls and ceiling with frescoes by Leonardo,
still unfinished.

The richly-dressed crowd buzzed like a swarm of bees. Their attire was
iridescent, gorgeous, not seldom tasteless through over-richness, in
fashions borrowed from many lands, so that a witty writer of the day
said that he read the invasion of foreigners, and the enslavement of
Italy, in the garb of his own countrymen. The robes of the ladies,
hanging in heavy folds, and stiff with gold and jewels, suggested
ecclesiastical vestments. Many were heirlooms handed down from
long-forgotten grandmothers. There was ample display of fair shoulders
and bosoms, and hair was confined in golden nets, and plaited in thick
strands, artificially lengthened by ribbons and false hair. Fashion
proscribed eyebrows; therefore ladies whom nature had disfigured by
those superfluities carefully removed them, hair by hair, with steel
tweezers called '_pelatoio_.' Rouge, and heavy perfumes such as musk,
amber, viverra, and cypress powder, were regarded as mere necessary
decencies.

Here and there in the crowd might be seen girls and women inheritors of
that peculiar charm only seen in Lombardy, that beauty, as it were, of
vaporous shadows, melting like mist into the transparent pallor of the
skin; of oval faces, and delicate chiselling of features such as
Leonardo delighted to paint.

Madonna Violante Borromeo was by universal consent acclaimed queen of
the festival, with her black and brilliant eyes, her tresses dark as
night, her triumphant beauty patent to all. Her dress was embroidered
with moths burning their wings in flames--a warning to all heedless
admirers. Yet it was not Madonna Violante who attracted the eyes of
veritable connoisseurs in female loveliness so much as the graceful
Diana Pallavicino. Her eyes were clear and cold as ice, her fair hair
was almost colourless, her smile calm, her voice slow, melodious, and
thrilling as the strings of a viol. She wore a simple dress of white
damask with long floating lines, trimmed with ribbons of palest green:
amid the noise and splendour of the feast she seemed a being apart,
alien, solitary, like a water-lily slumbering on some silent moonlit
pool.

Suddenly the horns and trumpets sounded, and all the guests moved to the
great Hall of the Tennis Court. Here waxlights burned in fiery clusters
upon huge candelabra, and woke sparkles in the golden stars which
strewed the azure ceiling-vault. The balcony, in which the choir was
concealed, was hung with silken carpets, and with garlands of
evergreens.

Punctual to the moment prescribed by the astrologers (for the Duke never
moved a step nor, as the wits had it, changed his shirt nor kissed his
wife, without first consulting the stars), Il Moro and Beatrice made
their entry, robed in ermine-lined brocaded mantles, followed by pages,
chamberlains, and lords-in-waiting. On the breast of the Duke, set as a
brooch, glowed a ruby of extraordinary brilliance and size, taken from
the treasure of Gian Galeazzo.

As for Beatrice, she had of late greatly declined in beauty; her
unformed still girlish expression and manner had a strange pathos,
contrasted with the state of her health and evident sufferings.

The Duke gave the signal, the seneschal raised his staff, the music
struck up, and the guests took their allotted seats at the splendid
banquet.


V

And now a commotion arose. The ambassador of the Grand Duke of Muscovy,
Danilo Mamiroff, refused to sit below the envoy of the Most Serene
Republic of St. Mark. To all explanations, persuasions and entreaties
the old man was obstinate, and only repeated:--

'I will not sit down. I will not sit down. 'Tis an affront!' Nor recked
he of curious looks and ironical smiles turned on him from every side.

'What's the matter? More trouble with the Muscovites? Good Lord, what
barbarians they show themselves! They always expect the best places, and
won't listen to reason. They are for ever in the way. Mere savages! And
such a language! They might as well be Turks! A nation of wild beasts!'

Messer Boccalino, the interpreter, a Mantuan of great resource, hurried
to the ambassador:--

'But Messer Daniele, Messer Daniele!' he cried in broken Russian, bowing
low, and making gestures of perfect servility, 'Messer Daniele, you
really must sit! 'Tis a mere Milanese custom. Sit down, I beseech you,
or his Highness will be offended.'

Nikita Karachiarov, Mamiroff's young secretary, had come likewise to the
old man.

'Danilo Kusmitch, little father, do not, I pray you, be wroth. No one
can keep his own rule in a strange monastery! What would you have? These
foreigners are ignorant of our usages. Pray you beware lest they take
you by the arms and exclude you from the banquet. Think what a figure we
should cut!'

'Nikita, hold your tongue. 'Tis not for you to teach a man of my years.
I know very well what I am about. I am not going to give in. I will
never sit below that man from Venice. I represent my sovereign; and my
sovereign is the Autocrat of all the Russias....'

'Messer Daniele! Messer Daniele!' stammered Boccalino.

'Leave me alone, you monkey-face. What are you squeaking about? Get
away. I have said I will not sit down, and sit down I will not!'

The old man's small eyes, gleaming like those of a bear under his
frowning brows, flashed fires of pride, fury, and indomitable obstinacy.
His emerald-studded staff trembled in the tight grasp of his nervous
fingers. It was clear that he was not to be subdued by any human force.
The Duke summoned the Venetian envoy, and with that happy courtesy which
was his characteristic, he begged as a personal favour to himself that
the Italian guest would consent to the change in his seat. He added that
no one attached the slightest importance to the childish arrogance of
these utter barbarians. Yet in point of fact Ludovico greatly prized the
favour of the Grand Duke of Muscovy; he reckoned on his countenance to
conclude an advantageous treaty with the Sultan. The Venetian looked at
Mamiroff, contemptuously shrugged his shoulders, remarked that his
Excellency spoke well, and quarrels over precedence were unworthy of
educated persons; then calmly seated himself in the chair allotted.
Danilo Kusmitch had not understood the conversation, nor would it have
altered his sense of his own importance. Unconcerned at the fire of
hostile eyes, complacently stroking his beard and adjusting the sash and
the sable-trimmed satin pelisse upon his corpulent person, Danilo seated
himself heavily and majestically upon the chair he had conquered; while
Nikita and Boccalino retired to the lower table, and sat beside Leonardo
da Vinci.

The boastful Mantuan told tales, half fact, half fiction, of the wonders
he had seen in Muscovy; but Leonardo, desiring more dependable
information about the far-off land which, like all things vast and
mysterious, excited his immediate interest, addressed himself to
Karachiarov, asking questions about its boundless plains, its immense
rivers and forests, the flood-tide in its Hyperborean ocean and its
Hyrcanian sea, the sunlit northern nights; finally about certain of his
friends who had gone thither--Pietro Solari, who was engaged in the
building of the Granite Palace in Moscow, and Fioravanti of Bologna, who
was putting up certain fine edifices in the square of the Kremlin.

'Messere,' said the lovely Madonna Ermellina to the interpreter at her
side, 'I have heard that astonishing country of which you speak called
"Rossia" because of its wondrous abounding in roses. Pray you, is this
to be credited?'

Boccalino laughed, and assured her that in 'Rossia' there was, on the
contrary, sad lack of the queen of flowers, on account of the
intolerable cold; and he told the following tale:--

'Certain Florentine merchants once went to Poland, but were not allowed
further into 'Rossia' because of the state of war between Poland and the
Grand Duke of Muscovy. The Florentines, desirous of buying sables,
invited Russian merchants to the bank of the Borysthenes, which flowed
between the two countries; and bargaining began across the river, each
party shouting their loudest. But so great was the cold that the words
froze in the air and reached not the opposite bank. Certain ingenious
peasants then made a huge fire on the midmost point of the ice-bound
river; and presently, lo! the words which had remained a whole hour in
mid-river air unable to move, began to thaw and to drip, gurgling and
clattering like the droppings in the melting time of spring; and at last
they were distinctly heard on the far shore by the Florentines,
notwithstanding the fact that the Muscovites who had uttered them had
long since left the opposite bank.'

After listening to this anecdote, the ladies looked with great
compassion at Nikita, the inhabitant of so unpleasing a country. Nikita,
however, did not respond to their glances, for his attention had been
arrested by a wondrous dish just served; a naked Andromeda, made of the
breasts of capons, bound to a rock of cream-cheese, and about to be
loosed by a winged Perseus of veal.

The meat courses had all been served on plates of gold, but the fish was
eaten off silver, as more appropriate to the watery element; silvered
bread and silvered lemons were handed round, and then among oysters,
lampreys, and trout appeared Amphitrite herself, made of the white flesh
of eels, riding in a mother-o'-pearl chariot drawn by dolphins over an
ocean of quivering blue jelly.

After this came the sweets, marchpane, pistachios, cedar-cones, almonds,
and burnt sugar, edifices designed by Bramante and Leonardo--Hercules in
the garden of the Hesperides, Hippolytus and Phædra, Bacchus and
Ariadne, Danae and Zeus--a whole Olympus of resuscitated gods.

Nikita stared with childish enjoyment, but Danilo was so much shocked
that he lost his appetite, and growled between his teeth--

'Antichristian abominations! Horrible paganism! Horrible!'


VI

Dancing began; slow and stately measures known as 'Venus and Zephyr,'
'Cruel Destiny,' 'Cupid,' etc.; the dresses of the ladies, being long
and heavy, did not admit of rapid motion. The music was tender and soft,
full of passionate languor like the sonnets of Petrarch, and to it moved
dames and cavaliers, meeting and parting with bows, sighs, and smiles,
all the perfection of dignity and grace.

Messer Galeazzo Sanseverino, the young commandant of Il Moro's guards,
was the cynosure of the ladies' eyes; he was attired in white, with
open-work sleeves upon a pink lining; his white shoes had diamond
buckles, and his face was handsome, but fatigued, dissipated, and
effeminate. An approving murmur ran through the crowd when in the dance,
'_Sorte crudele_' he dropped (of course accidentally), first his shoe,
and then his mantle, but continued gliding and circling with that air of
saddened negligence which was considered the mark of breeding. Danilo
Mamiroff watched him in astonishment, spat contemptuously, and
exclaimed--

'Good Lord, what a fool!'

The Duchess was not dancing; her heart was heavy, and only long practice
enabled her to play her part of amiable hostess, to receive the
New-Year's congratulations, and to respond with suitable banalities to
the fine speeches of the courtiers. At times she felt unable to carry
the business through; she longed to escape into some corner where she
could burst into sobs.

Presently she entered a small and secluded apartment, where by a fire
certain young ladies and courtiers were talking in a close ring. She
asked them of what they spoke.

'Of platonic love, your Excellency,' replied one of the ladies. 'Messer
Antoniotto Fregoso maintains that a lady does no violence to her modesty
by kissing a man on the lips so it be by the way of ideal love.'

'And how does he prove that?' asked the Duchess absently.

Messer Antoniotto answered eagerly himself.

'With your Grace's permission, I maintain that the lips are the gates of
the soul, and when they meet in a platonic salutation the souls of the
lovers rise as to their natural outlet. Plato condemns not a kiss; and
Solomon, in the Song of Songs, typifying the mystical union of the soul
with God, says, "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth."'

An old baron, a country knight, with a blunt and honest face, objected
from the point of view of a husband; but the pretty lady, Fiordiligi,
shrugging her graceful bare shoulders, reproved his barbarism.

'_Dio mio!_ we speak of love, not of marriage! Would you profane the
sacred names "Lover" and "Beloved" with those ignoble, rude, shameless
titles, "husband" and "wife"?'

The baron would have answered her, but Messer Antoniotto interrupted
with further descant; the Duchess, however, was tired, and moved away.

In the next saloon, verses were being recited by a noted poet from Rome,
Serafino d'Aquila, surnamed the Unique; a little man very carefully
washed, shaved, curled, and scented, with pink cheeks and a languishing
smile, irregular teeth, and wily eyes.

Seeing Lucrezia in the circle of ladies surrounding this servant of the
Muses, Beatrice paled, but instantly recovering herself, she advanced
and kissed her with her usual graciousness. Before she could speak,
however, an interruption occurred in the entry of a stout and gorgeous
lady, who was suffering from bleeding of the nose.

''Tis an event upon which even Messer Unico himself could scarce make
love-verses,' observed one of the courtiers contemptuously, for the
sufferer was old and ugly.

Messer Unico, feeling his reputation at stake, sprang to his feet,
passed his hand through his hair, threw back his head, and raised his
eyes to heaven.

'Hush! hush!' murmured the ladies. 'Messer Unico composes! If your
Excellency would move a little further she would hear better!'

Madonna Ermellina took a lute and ran her fingers over the strings; thus
softly accompanied, the poet, in a voice guttural and majestic as that
of a ventriloquist, declaimed his lines. They were to the effect that
Love, moved by a lover to shoot at the heart of a fair one, had, owing
to the bandage over his eyes, shot awry, and wounded not the heart but
the nose of the unfortunate lady.

The audience applauded.

'Most beautiful! Stupendous! Unsurpassable! What conceits! What
facility! Not like our Bellincioni who melts away under the exertion of
putting a sonnet together! Truly, when he raised his eyes I felt the
very wind of his inspiration making me wellnigh afraid!'

One lady offered him wine, another cooling tablets of mint; another
placed him in an armchair and fanned him. He drooped and languished and
blinked his eyes like a gorged cat in the afternoon sunshine.

Then he produced another sonnet in praise of the Duchess, which told how
the snow, put to shame by the whiteness of her skin, had in vengeance
turned itself to ice, and caused her to slip and wellnigh to fall upon
the courtyard pavement.

Then he celebrated a lady who had lost a front tooth; 'twas the device
of Love, who, dwelling in her mouth, required a loophole for the
shooting of his arrows.

'But this man is a genius!' cried the ladies; 'his name will go down to
posterity linked with that of Dante!'

'Nay, higher than Dante's. Where in the verses of Dante will you find
these subtleties of our Unique one?'

'Ladies,' said the poet humbly, 'methinks you go too far. Dante has his
special merits. Every one has his own qualities! As for me, I would give
Dante's glory for your applause.'

He began another sonnet; but the Duchess had lost patience, and went
away.

Returning to the main saloon, she commanded her page, Ricciardetto, a
faithful lad, enamoured of her she sometimes fancied, to attend with a
torch at the door of her bedchamber. Then she hurried through the long
line of brilliant and crowded rooms, passed along a distant and deserted
gallery, and ascended the winding stair. The immense vaulted apartment,
now used as the ducal bedchamber, lay in the rectangular northern tower
of the castle; she entered, took a candle, and went to a small oaken
cupboard let into the thickness of the wall, in which the Duke kept
important papers and his private letters. She had stolen the key from
her husband, and now, nervous and agitated, fitted it to the lock.
However, the attempt showed the lock to be broken, and she tore open the
brass fastenings, only to find that the shelves had been emptied of
their contents. Obviously Il Moro, noting the loss of his key, had
transported his letters elsewhere. Beatrice stood motionless.

Snowflakes were fleeting past the window like white phantoms. The wind
whistled, and howled, and moaned, and the lady shuddered as she
listened, for these voices of the storm and of the night recalled to her
mind a something terrible which she was never able to forget for long.

Her eye fell on the round lid of iron which covered the aperture to the
Dionysius ear, the hearing-tube which Leonardo had run from the lower
chambers of the palace to the Duke's bedchamber. She put her ear to it
now and listened. Waves of sound reached her like the rolling of the
sea heard in shells. She listened to the festal cries of the company,
the laughter, the revels, the passionate sighing of the music, but with
it mingled the whistle and roar of the storm.

Suddenly it seemed to her that, close by her side, some one murmured
'Bellincioni! Bellincioni!'

She gave a cry, the colour leaving her cheeks.

'Bellincioni! Of course! Why did I never think of him before? He is the
one who will tell me everything. I must go to him this minute. Only so
that no one shall notice me! Yet, truly, I care not if I am seen. I must
_know_! I can endure this atmosphere of deceit no longer.'

She remembered that Bellincioni, on the pretext of indisposition, had
not come to the ball. At this hour he would be at home, and alone!

So she called Ricciardetto, who was at the door.

'Tell two runners, with a litter, to await me below at the private gate.
Despatch. Only see, if you desire my favour, that the matter is not
known. Hear you? It must be known to none.'

He kissed her hand and set off with the message.

Beatrice threw on a sable pelisse and a mask of black velvet. A few
minutes more and she was in the litter, being carried toward the Porta
Ticinese, where the court poet had his lodging.


VII

Bernardo Bellincioni called his old ruinous house 'the lizard's hole.'
He was the recipient of many munificent gifts, but his life was
irregular; he drank, and gambled away whatever he had, so that 'misery,'
as he was accustomed to say, 'followed him like a wife, unloved and
faithful.'

Lying on a broken couch, of which the fourth leg was replaced by a
billet of wood, and the mattress thin as a girdle-cake, he was sipping
his third glass of sour wine, and composing an epitaph for Madonna
Cecilia's deceased lapdog. Listening to the north wind, and making
gloomy prognostications as to the sort of night he was going to spend,
he watched the dying-out of the remnant of fire, and vainly tried to
warm his thin legs in the moth-eaten squirrel cloak, which he had
thrown over them. He had not presented himself at the court ball (where
his masque, _Paradiso_, was to be performed) for other reasons than
illness; though indeed he had been ill for some while, and was so lean
that, as he said, 'in his body it were possible to study the anatomy of
the bones, muscles, and veins of the human subject.' Had he been dying
he might still have dragged himself to the festival; more potent than
illness was, however, jealousy; he preferred freezing in his kennel to
witnessing the triumph of his rival, that interloping and pretentious
humbug, Messer Unico, who had turned the heads of all the silly women.
The mere thought of Messer Unico overflowed his heart with black bile;
he clenched his fist, gnashed his teeth, and jumped frantically from his
bed. But the room was so cold that he returned to its inadequate
shelter, coughed, shivered, and rolled angrily from side to side.

'The villains!' he grumbled; 'have I not written four sonnets in the
best rhyme praying for firewood, and not a stick has come. I shall
certainly be reduced to burning my banisters: no one comes to visit me
save Jews, and if they break their necks so much the better.'

However, he spared the banisters. His eye fell on the makeshift leg of
his bed, and he considered which were the more dangerous, a fireless
room or an insecure sleeping-place. The storm swept through the room,
blowing in at the chinks and shrieking in the chimney like a witch. With
desperate decision Bernardo tore away the support of his couch, chopped
it up and cast it on the hearth. The fire blazed up anew, and he sat
before it on a stool, putting his blue fingers to the flame, and
apostrophising the last warm friend of a lonely poet.

'A dog's life!' he muttered presently; 'and of a truth I merit these
castigations less than others. Was it not of my forefather, the
Florentine, who lived before the house of Sforza had been heard of, that
the divine poet wrote:--

     "Bellincion Berti vid' io andar cinto
      Di cuoio e d'osso"?

Good Lord, when I came to Milan this herd of creeping animals did not
know a sonnet from a _strambotto_. Who is it has taught them the
elegancies of the new poetry? Was it not through my facile fingers that
the waters of Hippocrene enriched the Lombard plain, and even
threatened an inundation? And this is my reward! To lie like a dog in a
kennel! To be neglected by all because, forsooth, I am poor! A poet
situated as I am, is unknown as he whose face is hidden by a mask or
deformed by the smallpox.'

And he recited certain lines from his epistle to Ludovico, the Duke:--

     'I cry for aid to every one,
      But each in turn replies, "Begone!"
      Ah, wretched poet! for his pains,
      Thou generous lord, what meed remains?
      The very cap and bells to him denied,
      Among the beasts of burden harness thou his pride!'

And he hung his bald head, smiling bitterly; on his stool by the fire,
crouching, and very thin, with a long red nose, he looked like some
melancholy roosting bird.

Presently a knock was heard at the house-door below; then the sleepy
grumbling of the surly old woman who was the poet's sole attendant; and
then steps upon the brick floor.

'What, the fiend!' wondered Bellincioni; 'can it be that abominable Jew
come again after his money? The infidel hound! Can he not leave me in
peace even at night?'

The staircase creaked, the door opened, and into the wretched room came
a woman in a sable mantle and a black velvet mask. Astounded and
staring, Bernardo sprang to his feet. The lady, without a word, was
about to seat herself on a chair.

'For God's love, be careful, madam!' cried the poet, 'the back is
broken!' Then in the ceremonious tone of a courtier he added: 'To what
good genius am I indebted for the happiness of seeing an illustrious
lady in my poor abode?'

'Surely,' he thought, ''tis a customer come to order a madrigal! Well,
it brings money, and that brings firewood! Yet the hour is strange for a
lonely lady! 'Tis clear my name is not unknown. And if this one, who
knows how many more are my admirers?'

With reviving spirits he threw the rest of the wood on the flame, which
already had begun to languish.

The fair unknown raised her mask.

'It is I, Bernardo.'

In his astonishment he staggered against the doorpost.

'Jesus! Holy Virgin! Angels and martyrs!' he exclaimed. 'What? Your
Excellency! Most shining lady----'

'Bernardo, you can do me a great service,' she looked round uneasily;
'but can any one hear us?'

'Be at ease, madam. No one except the rats and the mice.'

'Listen!' said Beatrice slowly, fixing her piercing eyes on his. 'I am
aware that you have composed verses for Madonna Lucrezia; doubtless you
have kept the letter of commission from the Duke.'

He turned pale, and observed her silently, consternation in his eyes.

'Fear nothing,' she continued; 'no one shall know. I shall study how to
reward you, Bernardo.'

'Your Excellency!' stammered the unlucky poet, whose tongue had lost its
glibness, 'do not believe--nay, 'tis all calumny! No letters--before
God, I swear there are no letters!'

Her eyes flashed, and her brows contracted in an ominous frown. She rose
and drew nearer, still fixing him with her gaze.

'Lie not. I know all. As you value your life, give me the Duke's
letters. Give me them! Hear you? Bernardo, be careful, my servants are
at the door. Think you I have come to jest with you?'

He fell before her on his knees.

'But, most illustrious lady, I have no letters!'

'You say you have no letters?'

'None.'

Fury overcame her. 'Wait then, accursed pander, till I tear the truth
from your lips. Oh, I'll wring confession from you! I'll strangle you
with my own hands, you rubbish, you rogue!' she cried: in good sooth
driving her slender fingers into his throat with such force that the
veins swelled on his forehead. Unresisting, rolling his eyes and hanging
his hands helplessly, he more than ever resembled a sick bird.

'She is strangling me!' thought Bellincioni; 'well, it can't be helped.
Not for so poor a reason will I betray my lord!'

Dissipated rascal, and venal flatterer the poetaster had always been,
but never traitor. In his veins flowed better blood than that of the
Sforzas, and the moment had come for showing it.

The Duchess, however, recovered herself. With a gesture of disgust she
flung him from her, snatched up the little lamp with its broken sides
and charred wick, and made for the adjoining cabinet, which she guessed
to be the poet's working _studiolo_. Bernardo, placing himself against
the door, barred the entrance. But the haughty glance of the Duchess
awed him, and he withdrew. She swept past and entered the poor refuge of
his threadbare muse. A smell of mould came from the books, great patches
of damp showed on the plaster walls. The broken glass of the frosted
windows was repaired with tow. On the sloping ink-splashed board were
quills, gnawed and twisted in the agony of finding rhymes, and papers,
doubtless rough copies of poems.

Heedless of the author, Beatrice stood the lamp on a shelf and began to
rummage among these sheets. She found sonnets addressed to chamberlains,
treasurers, and dispensers, with burlesque complaints and prayers for
firewood, clothes, wine, and bread. In one he asked of Messer
Pallavicini a roast goose for the due celebration of All Saints' Day. In
another, headed '_Del Moro a Cecilia_,' the poet recounted how Jupiter,
returning from his mistress, had been forced to brave the storm lest
_jealous Juno_ should guess his treachery, and tearing the diadem from
her brow scatter its pearls like hailstones and raindrops from the sky.

Presently the search brought the Duchess to a dainty case of black wood;
she opened it, and saw a carefully tied-up packet of letters. Bernardo,
watching her, wrung his hands in dismay. The Duchess looked at him, then
at the letters; read the name of Lucrezia, recognised the handwriting of
her husband, and knew she had found the thing she sought, his
letters--the rough draft of the love-verses he had commanded for
Lucrezia. She thrust the packet into the bosom of her dress, flung a bag
of ducats at the poet, as one might fling a bone to a dog, and departed.

He heard her descend the stair, heard the bang of the door, and stood
motionless in the centre of the room as if thunderstruck, though the
floor seemed shaking under him like the deck of a ship in storm. At
last, exhausted, he flung himself on the three-legged couch, and sank
into a deathlike slumber.


VIII

The Duchess returned to the castle, where the guests had noticed her
absence with surprise, and the Duke himself become alarmed. He met her
in the hall, and she accosted him, her face somewhat blanched, and
explained that having felt fatigued after the banquet she had gone into
an inner room to snatch some repose.

'Bice!' cried the Duke, taking her hand, which was trembling and cold,
'you are ill! Tell me, for pity's sake, what is the matter. Shall we put
off the second part of this entertainment? Dear one, did I not arrange
it solely to give pleasure to thee?'

'There is nothing the matter,' replied Beatrice. 'Why this anxiety,
Vico? I have not felt so well this many a day. I wish to see the
_Paradiso_. I intend to dance.'

Il Moro was partly reassured.

'God be thanked, beloved,' he said, kissing her hand.

The guests now streamed into the _Sala del giuoco alla palla_, which had
been arranged for the representation of the _Paradiso_, by Leonardo da
Vinci, the court mechanician. When every one was seated, and the lights
had been extinguished, it was his voice which cried 'Ready!' Then a
train of powder exploded, and crystalline globes, like planets, were
seen disposed in a circle, filled with water, and illumined by a myriad
of living fires sparkling with rainbow colours.

'See!' said the lively Madonna Ermellina, pointing out Leonardo to her
neighbour; 'see that face! He is a wizard capable of carrying away the
castle bodily, as one reads in the romances.'

'I mislike this playing with fire,' replied the other. 'Heaven grant we
have not a real fire presently!'

Presently, from a black chest concealed behind the fiery globes, a
white-winged angel arose and recited the prologue. At the line--

     'The great King makes his spheres revolve'--

he pointed to the Duke, as if indicating that he governed his people
with the same wisdom shown by the monarch of heaven in turning his
celestial spheres. At the same moment the crystal globes began to turn
to the accompaniment of a low strange music, representing the celestial
harmony told of by Pythagoras. Again the planets stood still; upon each
appeared its presiding deity, and each one recited a hymn in praise of
Beatrice.

Mercury said:--

     'Thou Nature's miracle! Diviner Sun!
      Lightning, by whom the clouds are overrun!
      Thou Lamp, by whom the stars are all outshone!
      The pride and glory of a future race!

      In that angelic figure, half concealed,
      The secret of the higher world lies sealed,
      And all of heaven's glory is revealed
               In that fair face.'

And again Venus, kneeling before the Duchess, exclaimed:--

     'O Jove! whose justice never errs,
      And at whose voice all nature stirs
      And quickens to a goodly heritage,
      I bless thee for thy coming unto earth,
      Since thus fair Beatrice was given birth,
      Whose fruit is nurtured by the Hesperides,
      My beauty at her feet in ashes lies,
      Despoilèd Venus none shall recognise.'

And Diana prayed that she might be given as a slave to Beatrice the
beauteous, since never had a star like her shone in the heavenly
firmament. Then came the epilogue, in which Jove presented to Beatrice
the three Hellenic graces and the seven Christian virtues; and the whole
Olympus and Paradise, under the shadow of the radiant angelic plumes,
and of a cross gleaming with green lamps, symbols of hope, once more
began to revolve, while gods and goddesses sang hymns in praise of
Beatrice, accompanied by the music of the spheres and by the
acclamations of the spectators.

'And why,' asked the Duchess of Messer Gaspare Visconti who sat at her
side; 'why is there here no jealous Juno to tear the diadem from her
brow, and to rain pearls upon the earth in the form of hailstones and
raindrops?'

On hearing these words Il Moro turned quickly and looked at her. She
laughed a laugh so wild and forced that the Duke felt ice fall round his
heart; but immediately Beatrice composed herself, and turned the
conversation; Only she pressed the incriminating letters more closely
to her bosom, intoxicated by the hope of revenge, strong, calm, almost
gay, in her mood of triumph.

The masque ended, the guests passed into another hall where a new
spectacle awaited them. The triumphant chariots of Numa Pompilius,
Cæsar, Augustus, and Trajan crossed the stage, drawn by negroes,
leopards, griffons, centaurs, dragons, and adorned with allegorical
pictures and inscriptions, which set forth that all these heroes were
but precursors of Ludovico of Milan. Then a chariot came alone, drawn by
unicorns, and bearing an immense globe representing the earth, upon
which was stretched a warrior in a cuirass of rusty iron; a naked and
gilded child, holding a branch of mulberry (_moro_) in his hand, issued
from a cleft in the cuirass, to signify the death of the Age of Iron and
the birth of the Age of Gold under the sage rule of Ludovico. To the
delight of the spectators the Golden Age proved to be a living child; he
was, however, in great discomfort from the plaster of gold which covered
his little body, and tears shone in his frightened eyes. In a tremulous
and miserable voice he whined a _canzonetta_, praising the Duke, with
the monotonous and lugubrious refrain:--

     'Tornerà l'età dell' oro,
      Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'

     (The age of gold shall brighten as of yore,
     And all exulting sing, 'Long live the Moor.')

Around the chariot of the Golden Age the dancing was renewed, and though
no one heeded him any longer, the unhappy golden child still sobbed out
his piteous song:--

     'Tornerà l'età dell' oro,
      Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'

Beatrice was dancing with Gaspare Visconti. At times she laughed and
sobbed hysterically, and her throat convulsively contracted. With
unsupportable agony the blood throbbed at her temples, and a mist rolled
before her eyes; yet her face was calm, and she even smiled.

At the dance's conclusion she again slipped unnoticed from the revelling
crowd, and sought seclusion in her private apartments.


IX

She went to the retired _Torre della Tesoreria_, where no one ever came
save the Duke and herself. Taking the candle from Ricciardetto and
bidding him await her at the entrance, she passed into a lofty hall,
dark and cold as a cellar, sat down, drew forth the packet of letters
and was about to read. But suddenly a strange and eerie gust of wind
swept shrieking round the tower, howled in the chimney, invaded the room
with an icy breath almost extinguishing the candle. There was a great
hush; it seemed to her she could hear the distant music of the ball, the
murmur of voices, the patter of dancing feet, the sound of iron fetters
from the vaults below, where was the prison.

And at the same moment she felt a presence in the room with her: there,
in the dark angle of the wall, with eyes fixed upon hers. An anguish of
terror seized her soul. She felt she must not move, must not look. But
it was unendurable, and she did look. He stood there, as once she had
seen him before, a long, long, black figure, blacker than the investing
darkness, his head bent, and shrouded in the cowl of a monk. She tried
to scream, to call Ricciardetto, but her voice failed. She rose to flee
and her legs refused to support her; she fell on her knees groaning:--

'Thou? Again? And wherefore?'

He raised his head slowly and threw back the cowl, and showed the visage
of Gian Galeazzo Sforza, _the murdered duke_. The face had nothing in it
corpse-like, nothing appalling, and he spoke gently and distinctly:

'Poor thing! Poor woman! Pardon me!'

He made a step towards her, and she felt a freezing and unearthly cold.
She shrieked, and fell unconscious to the earth.

Ricciardetto heard the cry and ran to her succour. When he saw his
beloved mistress stretched senseless, he too shrieked, rushed away along
the dark galleries, where at long intervals sentries stood holding dim
lanterns, then into the crowded guest-chambers seeking the Duke, and
crying wildly:

'Help! Help!'

It was midnight, and the revelry was at its height. The modish dance
called '_Fedeli Amanti_' had just begun. In it lady and cavalier must
pass under an arch upon which stood the Genius of Love blowing a
trumpet; at its foot were judges; and when true lovers approached, the
Genius greeted them with tender strains, and the judges smiled and
applauded and let them pass; but the untrue were hindered, and the
trumpet stunned them with terrible noise, the judges pelted them with
hail of _confetti_, and the luckless couple, loudly bemocked, were
forced to turn and flee.

The Duke, to sweetest strains like the cooing of doves, had just made
his passage of the arch, when, the crowd parting in dismay to admit his
approach, Ricciardetto hurled himself at his master, still shrieking his
wild, 'Help! Help!'

Ludovico laid a hand upon his shoulder.

'What is it? What has happened?'

'The Duchess! She is dying! Help!'

'The Duchess is ill? Where? Speak, in the name of God!' cried the Duke.

'In the _Torre della Tesoreria_.'

The Duke rushed from the hall, his golden chain rattling, his hair
flying.

The Genius of the arch of true lovers went on blowing his trumpet, but
now the dancers left him and he stopped. Some had followed the Duke--in
a moment the whole brilliant throng had scattered like a flock of
frightened sheep. The arch was overthrown and trampled, the trumpeter
nearly fell, was hustled, and sprained his ankle.

Some cried 'Fire!'

'I said it was madness to play with fire,' wailed the lady who had
disapproved Leonardo's rotating planets; and others fainted.

'Calm yourselves, ladies. There is no fire!' said the seneschal.

'Then what is it?'

'The Duchess is indisposed.'

'Nay, she is dying! She has been poisoned!'

'Impossible! Her Grace was here but now. She was dancing!'

'But don't you see? Isabella of Arragon, to avenge her lord, has with
slow poison----'

'_Oh Dio! Dio!_'

But in the next saloon the music continued, for there nothing was known
of the disturbance. The dance 'Venus and Zephyr' was in progress, the
smiling ladies leading their cavaliers by golden chains, and when these
fell on their knees with lamentable sighs, placing their feet upon their
necks. But a chamberlain now entered, waving his hand to the musicians.

'Silence! The Duchess is ill.'

There was an instant hush, save for one viol played by a deaf and
purblind old man, which long continued to pour forth its plaintive
quiverings.

The servants passed through the hall carrying a bed, long and narrow,
with hard stuffing, and bars at sides and ends, kept from time
immemorial in the wardrobes of the palace, and _de rigueur_ for the
birth of the princes of Milan. Strange and ill-omened seemed this
portentous couch in the midst of the festivity, the lights, the crowds
of gorgeous ladies. They looked from one to the others mysteriously.

''Tis from a fall or, mayhap, a fright,' said one of mature age. 'She
should have swallowed at once the white of an egg in which were lengths
of scarlet silk, cut small.'

From the upper room, meantime, (Ricciardetto being stationed in the
adjoining closet) came such a terrible cry, that the page seized the arm
of one of the women who were passing with warming-pans, baskets of
linen, and so forth, and cried in an agony:--

'For God's sake, tell me what is the matter?'

She did not answer, and another, clearly the midwife, ordered him away.

''Tis no place for boys,' she said sternly.

Yet the door was left ajar for a moment, and looking into the disordered
room he saw the suffering face of her whom he loved with his hopeless
boy's love, her lips parted in a continuous groan.

He turned pale, and hid his face in his hands.

Beside him chattered a group of gossips each with her infallible recipe;
snake's skin, a bath in a heated cauldron, decoctions of cochineal and
of stag's antlers, the tying of her husband's _berretto_ round the neck
of the patient, and so forth.

The Duke entered hurriedly and sank upon a chair, clutching his head
with his hands and weeping distractedly.

'Lord God! What torture!' he murmured. 'I cannot support it! I cannot!
Ah Bice! Bice! And 'tis all my doing! mine!' Still echoed in his ears
the furious cry with which she had greeted his approach.

'Go away! Go away! Go to your Lucrezia!'

One of the busybodies brought him a pewter plate piled with meat.

'Your Excellency will be pleased to eat it.'

'Good Lord, what are you giving me?'

'Wolf's flesh. 'Tis of great benefit to the wife in her labour, if the
husband will eat the flesh of wolves.'

The Duke, submissive and self-denying, did his best to swallow the
repulsive black substance, which was so hard as to stick in his throat,
and the old woman gabbled as she bent over him:--

               'Our Father which art in Heaven,
                 Seven wolves and the mate of one,
                Blow the wind from us this even,
                 Praise Thy name, the storm is done!
     Holy, Holy, Holy, in the name of the Trinity, one and eternal.
     Let the word stand for ever! Amen.'

She was interrupted by Messer Luigi Marliani, the first of the court
physicians, who came from the sick room, followed by his colleagues.

'Well? well?' asked Ludovico.

There was a silence; then Messer Luigi spoke.

'Your Excellency, we have done all that is possible. Now we must put our
hope in the clemency of the Lord.'

'No! No!' cried the Duke seizing his hand, 'there must be some means! It
is unendurable! Try something!'

The physicians exchanged glances like augurs, hoping thus to reassure
him. Then Marliani, knitting his brows, said in Latin to the young
doctor beside him:--

'Three ounces of river snails, with nutmeg and red coral,'

'A bleeding, perhaps?' suggested another, an old man, with a gentle and
diffident face.

'I had thought of it,' said Marliani; 'but Mars is in Cancer and in the
fourth house of the sun. And, further, to-day's date is an uneven
number.'

The old man sighed, shook his head and forbore to urge his point.
Various other loathsome medicaments were proposed, till the Duke could
no longer contain himself. He turned furiously to the doctors.

'To the devil with all your science!' he exclaimed; 'she is dying, do
you hear me? She is dying! and you have nothing better to propose than
three ounces of snails and a plaster of cow's dung! Rascals, charlatans,
fools! I will hang every one of you!'

He paced the room a prey to mortal anguish, listening to the sufferer's
unceasing groans. Suddenly his eye fell on Leonardo and he drew him
aside.

'Listen,' he cried wildly, 'Leonardo, you are master of great secrets.
No, no, deny it not, I _know_. Ah, my God! my God!--that cry! What was I
saying? Yes, yes! Help me, Leonardo! Do something! I would give my soul
to succour her--even for a short space--only to still that cry!'

Leonardo would have replied; but the Duke, forgetting that he had
appealed to him, hurried to meet the chaplain and two monks entering at
that moment--

'At last! God be praised. What have you brought? Ah! a particle of the
remains of St. Ambrose, the belt of St. Margaret--is she not the
patroness of women in childbed?--and a hair of the Blessed Virgin! Ah,
how I thank you! And surely your prayers----'

Following the monks he was entering the sick-chamber when the continual
low groaning suddenly gave place to shrieks so appalling that, stopping
his ears, he turned and fled, passing through the dark galleries like
one possessed. He hurried to the chapel and cast himself on his knees
before the most revered picture.

'Holy Mother of God,' he implored with clasped hands and streaming eyes,
'I have sinned--I have sinned horribly--I have slain an innocent
youth--my lawful sovereign. O thou merciful Mediatress, have mercy upon
me! Take my life--take my soul; but in pity, O Holy Mother, save
Beatrice!'

Shreds of thoughts and senseless fancies crowded in his brain and stole
his attention from his prayers. He remembered a story of a drowning
sailor who had thought to buy salvation by the promise of a candle as
big as the mast of a ship; and when asked how the wax for this colossus
was to be provided, had answered: 'Hold your tongue; our present task is
to get saved, and afterwards we'll get the Virgin to be content with a
smaller candle.'

'Oh God, where are my thoughts!' cried the Duke bethinking himself. 'I
must be going mad! God help me!' And he fell a-praying with renewed
fervour; but now visions of Leonardo's crystal globes tormented him, and
the tiresome chant of the gilded boy--

     'Tornerà l'età dell' oro,
      Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'

Then all vanished, and he sank in a profound slumber. When he awoke he
fancied but two or three minutes had elapsed. He left the chapel, and
saw through the frosted window-pane the grey light of the winter's dawn.


X

Il Moro returned to the _Sala della Rocchetta_, where reigned a mournful
silence. A woman passing with a basket of swaddling clothes, approached
him and said.

'Her Excellency has been delivered.'

'Does she live?' he stammered, very pale.

'Yes, she lives; but the infant is still-born. She is very weak; and she
desires to speak with your Highness.'

He went to her room; and there on the pillows he saw a small shrunken
face like a child's, pallid and calm, with great eyes surrounded by
livid circles, and turbid as if a spider's web were drawn over them;
familiar and yet strange. He bent over her silently.

'Send for Isabella! Quickly!' she gasped.

He gave the order; and presently the tall, young, graceful woman with
the proud sad look, the widow of Gian Galeazzo, entered the room and
approached the dying Beatrice. All retired except Ludovico and the
confessor.

For a few minutes the two women whispered together. Then Isabella kissed
the other's cold forehead, knelt by the bedside and prayed, covering her
face with her hands.

Beatrice signed to her husband.

'Vico, forgive me! Weep not. Remember my spirit will be always with you.
I know it was I only--I only whom----'

She could not complete the sentence, but he understood her meaning.

'It was I only whom you loved.' Slowly she turned her eyes to him, eyes
already darkening, and murmured:--

'One kiss--on my lips....'

The monk was reciting the last prayers for the dying, and the
attendants, who had re-entered, responded in chorus.

The Duke felt the lips beneath his own turn cold and stiff; in that long
kiss she had breathed her last faint sigh.

'She is dead,' said Marliani.

All knelt, making the sign of the cross. Il Moro raised himself very
slowly, his face rigid, expressive less of grief than of extreme tension
of spirit; he breathed heavily and loud like one toiling up the steep
hillside. Suddenly he stretched out his arms, gave one wild cry:--

'Bice!' and fell senseless upon the corpse.

Of the spectators Leonardo alone had remained calm; his clear searching
eyes were fixed upon the Duke. The look of supreme suffering in a human
face, or its expression in the gestures of the body, was to his eyes a
rare and beautiful manifestation of nature, an exceptional experience.
Not a wrinkle, not the quivering of a muscle escaped his passionless
all-seeing eyes. Presently, over-mastered by the desire to draw, he
slipped from the room to fetch his sketch-book.

In the lower halls, whither the artist bent his steps, the candles were
dying out in black smoke and gutterings of wax. The chariots of Numa and
Augustus, and all the pompous allegorical paraphernalia employed to
glorify Il Moro and his Beatrice, were unspeakably melancholy and
wretched in the morning brilliance. In one room he saw the overthrown
and trampled _Arco dell' Amore_.

Standing by the moribund fire he was beginning his sketch, when in the
chimney-corner he noticed the boy who had personified the Golden Age. He
had fallen asleep, huddled up, his hands clutching his knees, his head
dropped upon them. The faint heat from the dying embers had not sufficed
to warm the poor little naked and gilded body. Leonardo touched him on
the shoulder, but the child did not look up. He moaned piteously and the
artist took him in his arms. Then he opened frightened eyes, blue as
violets, and wailed.

'Let me go home! Let me go home!'

'What is your name?' asked Leonardo.

'Lippi. Let me go home! Let me go home! I am so cold. I feel so sick.'

His eyelids fell heavily, and he babbled deliriously.--

     'Tornerà l'età dell' oro,
      Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'

Leonardo wrapped the boy in his own cloak, laid him in a chair and
roused the servants in the ante-chamber who were sleeping off the
effects of their cups. He learned from them about the child: that he was
motherless, the son of a tinker in the _Broletto Novo_, who, for twenty
scudi, had sold his child to the mumming, though warned that he might
die of being gilded. Leonardo returned, wrapped the boy snugly in his
furs, and was carrying him out of the palace to the nearest drug shop
that the paint might be removed from his skin. Suddenly, however, he
paused, for he remembered the drawing he had just commenced, and the
interesting look of despair in Ludovico's face.

'Ah, well,' he thought, 'I shall scarce forget it. The chief thing is
the wrinkle over the arched eyebrows, and the strange smile which one
might think full of serenity, even of enthusiasm. The expression of
immense grief is like enough to that of immoderate joy; and truly Plato
has said that the two emotions, rising upon different bases, converge at
their apex.'

Then feeling the tremble of the frozen child, he added to himself
ironically--

'Poor little sick bird--our Age of Gold!'

And he pressed him with such tenderness to his heart that the little lad
fancied his mother had risen from her grave, and was comforting him.


XI

Beatrice Sforza d'Este died on Tuesday, the 2nd of January 1497, at six
in the morning. The Duke remained by her corpse for twenty-four hours,
refusing food and sleep. It was feared his reason would give way. On
Thursday morning he called for writing materials and wrote to Isabella
d'Este, sister of the dead Duchess, a long letter breathing bitterest
grief.

'It had been easier for me to have died myself,' he wrote; 'I pray you
send me no condolence nor messenger.'

After writing he was induced to eat a little, not presenting himself at
table but being served in solitude by Ricciardetto.

He had proposed to leave the disposing of the funeral to Bartolomeo
Calco, his secretary; arranging himself merely the order of the
procession. But his interest became aroused, and presently he was
planning details of the ceremonial with the same zeal he had shown in
ordering the magnificent festival of the Golden Age. He fixed the
precise weight of the funeral tapers; the number of _braccia_ of gold
brocade and of black cramoisie for the altar cloths; the largess of
small coin, pease, and tallow to be distributed among the poor in the
name of the deceased. Choosing the cloth for the mourning of the court
functionaries, he did not omit to feel its weight with his fingers, and
to make sure of its quality by holding it to the light. For himself he
ordered a special mourning garb (_abito solenne di lutto profondo_)
having holes torn in it to simulate the rendings of despairing frenzy.

A few days later Il Moro caused the tomb of the still-born child to be
inscribed with a pompous epitaph composed by himself and translated into
Latin by Merula.

'I, unhappy child, have perished before I have seen the light; more
unhappy in that, dying, I have ravished life from my mother--from my
father his consort. In this adverse fate but one consolation remains to
me; that I was born of parents equal unto gods. In the year 1497, the
third of the Nones of January.'

Il Moro stood a long time contemplating this inscription, cut in gold
letters upon a slab of black marble covering the infant's grave. It was
in the Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where Beatrice also slept
her last sleep. The Duke shared the naïve enthusiasm of the stone-mason,
who having finished his work drew back and admired it from a distance,
putting his head on one side, closing one eye, clucking his tongue, and
murmuring in an ecstasy of satisfaction:--

'This is no tomb, but a jewel.'

One morning when the snow on the housetops shone white against the rich
blue of the sky, and in the crystal air was that freshness like the
fragrance of lilies which seems to be the perfume of snow, Leonardo da
Vinci passed from the sunlit frost into a dark close chamber hung with
black taffeta, where the shutters were rigorously closed, and funeral
tapers were still alight--the chamber of Ludovico, who for many days had
refused to leave it.

The Duke spoke of the _Cenacolo_ which was to glorify the place where
Beatrice was laid. Then he said:--

'Leonardo, they tell me you have taken under your wing that urchin who
played the Golden Age at our ill-omened feast. What of him?'

'He is dead, Most Illustrious. He died on the day of Her Grace's
funeral.'

'Died!' echoed the Duke. 'Nay, but that is strange!' And he dropped his
head on his hands, sighing heavily. Then he stretched his hand to
Leonardo.

'Yes! yes!' he cried; ''twas destined to fall out thus. Truly our Golden
Age is dead; dead together with my incomparable one, for it could not,
it should not, survive her. Is it not a truth, _amico mio_, that here we
have a strange coincidence--theme for a tremendous allegory?'


XII

The whole year was passed in the deepest mourning. The Duke did not lay
aside his garment of woe, nor did he present himself at table, but ate
off a tray held before him by courtiers.

'Since his lady's death,' wrote the Venetian ambassador, Marin Sanuto,
'Il Moro has become very devout, is present at all church ceremonies,
fasts, and lives continently (so at least they say), and has in his
plans the fear of God constantly before his eyes.'

In the daytime the Duke was able to forget his bereavement in the
affairs of state, though even here he felt the lack of Beatrice; during
the night the intensity of his grief redoubled. Often in dreams he saw
her as she had been when he had married her; sixteen, childish and
wilful, slim, dark; almost like a boy; so untamed that sometimes she hid
herself in cupboards to avoid assisting at state ceremonials, and for
three months after their marriage defended herself with her teeth and
her nails from her husband's caresses. One night, five days before the
first anniversary of her death, he dreamed of her as she had been one
day long ago when there had been a fishing party on the banks of the
lake in her favourite country house of Cusnago. Fish had been plentiful,
and the buckets were filled to the brim. Having turned up her sleeves,
the young Duchess had amused herself throwing the creatures by handfuls
back into the water, laughing and delighting in the joy of the released
captives, in the flash of their scales as they plunged deep into the
clear water. The perch, the roach, the bream wriggled in her bare hands,
then catching the sun they glowed like brilliants; and the smooth olive
cheek of the beautiful girl glowed too. Upon awaking, Ludovico found his
pillow wet with tears. He rose and went to the Convent delle Grazie, and
prayed long at his wife's tomb; then he dined with the prior and
disputed with him upon the burning theological question of the hour, the
Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin. When it grew dark, Il Moro
left the monastery, and went straight to the dwelling of Madonna
Lucrezia.

His grief for his wife, his fear of God, in no wise militated against
love for his mistresses. On the contrary, he clung to them more closely
than before; the more so that of late the Countess Cecilia and Madonna
Lucrezia had become bosom friends. Cecilia, though a blue-stocking or
_dotta eroina_, as it was then called, and famed as the 'new Sappho,'
was at bottom a simple good-hearted creature, somewhat easily run away
with by enthusiasms. Upon the death of the Duchess she found opportunity
for one of those exploits of love of which she had read in romances; she
would make common cause with Lucrezia, her young rival, that together
they might comfort the duke! At first Lucrezia was jealous and hard to
win, but the magnanimity of the _dotta eroina_ finally disarmed her, and
she opened her heart to this anomaly in female friendship.

In the summer Lucrezia bore a son; the Countess desired to be his
godmother, and though herself the mother of children by the Duke,
lavished on the infant extravagant tendernesses and called herself his
grandam. Thus Il Moro's prophetic dream had been realised, and his
mistresses were friends. To celebrate the auspicious arrangement, he
caused Bellincioni to write a sonnet in which Lucrezia and Cecilia were
figured as the Morning and the Evening glow; while he, disconsolate
widower, stood between them.

This evening, entering the familiar luxurious chamber of the Palazzo
Crivelli, he found the ladies side by side before the fire. Of course,
like the rest of the court, they were dressed in the deepest mourning.

'How is your Excellency in his health?' asked the Evening Glow. She was
quite unlike her rival, but no less attractive, with her white skin,
flame-coloured hair, and hazel eyes clear as the water in a mountain
tarn.

The Duke had complained of ill health lately, and though this evening
he felt rather better than usual, languidly answered, from force of
habit:--

'Ah, madam, you can easily conceive to what condition I am reduced. My
mind is occupied but with one subject, how soonest I may be laid to rest
beside my dove.'

'Nay, nay, your Excellency must not speak so!' said Cecilia with
deprecating hands. 'Think, if Madonna Beatrice could hear you! All
sorrow comes from God, and must be accepted even with thankfulness.'

'You speak well,' replied Il Moro, 'I would not murmur. Nay, then, God
forbid! Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.'

And he raised his eyes to heaven, pressing closely the hands of the two
ladies.

'May the Lord reward you, my dear ones, that you have not abandoned the
poor widowed one!'

He wiped his eyes, and then drew two papers from the pocket of his
mourning attire. One was a deed of gift by which he gave the rich lands
of the Villa Sforzesca to the Monastery delle Grazie.

'But,' said the Countess, astonished, 'I had thought your Highness
adored this villa.'

'My love for terrestrial things is dead. And, madam, what need has one
man with lands so large?'

Cecilia laid her rosy fingers on his lips with sympathetic reproach.
Then she asked curiously:--

'And this other paper, what is it?'

At this his face cleared, and the old, gay, somewhat cunning smile
appeared on his lips.

He read the second document aloud, also a deed of gift, with recital of
the lands, woods, hamlets, hunting rights, and other advantages which
he, Ludovico, Duke of Milan, was conferring on Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli
and his natural son Giampaolo. With the rest was included the villa of
Cusnago, Beatrice's favourite country house, renowned for its fisheries.

The last words of the document Ludovico read in trembling tones:--

'In the wondrous and rare bonds of great love, this lady has showed unto
us entire devotion and displayed such loftiness of sentiment that often
in our intercourse with her we have experienced an entrancing and
exceptional delight, added to great lightening of our cares.'

Cecilia clapped her hands and fell on her friend's neck, her eyes wet
with maternal tenderness.

'Did I not tell you, my sweet sister, that he had a heart of gold? Now
my little grandson, Giampaolo, has the richest inheritance in Milan.'

'What date have we?' asked Il Moro.

''Tis the 28th of December,' replied Cecilia.

'The 28th!' he echoed pensively.

It was the day, the hour, when a year ago Beatrice had surprised her
husband with his mistress. The room was unchanged; the same winter wind
howled in the chimney; the bright fire burned on the hearth, and above
it danced the chain of naked cupids or cherubs. On the round table with
the green covering stood the same crystal goblet of _Balnea aponitana_;
the same mandoline, the same sheets of music littered the floor. The
doors opened into the bedroom, and there was the wardrobe in which he
had taken refuge.

What would he not give, so he thought, if he might at this moment hear
the rap of the knocker on the great door, if the frightened maid should
run in with the cry, 'Madonna Beatrice!' Yes, he would gladly once again
tremble in the wardrobe like a caught thief, hearing in the distance the
indignant voice of the lady of his love. Alas! it could not be, that
time had gone by for ever! His head sank and tears filled his eyes.

'Oh, _Santo Iddio_!' said Cecilia, turning to her friend, 'he weeps
anew. Rouse yourself! Coax, comfort him! Console him! How can you be so
cold?'

And gently she pushed her rival into the Duke's arms.

Lucrezia had long felt sickened by this unnatural friendship. She would
have liked to get up and go away; nevertheless she took the Duke's hand.
He smiled at her through his tears and laid it upon his heart.

Cecilia took the mandoline, and, assuming the pose in which twelve years
ago Leonardo had painted her, sang one of Petrarch's lyrics for Laura:--

     'Levommi il mio pensiero in parte ov' era
      Quella ch'io cerco e non ritrovo in terra.'

The Duke, much moved, wiped his eyes, and stretching out his hands as to
a dissolving vision, he repeated the last line:--

     'E compie' mia giornata innanzi sera.'

'Ah, yes, my dove, thou didst indeed finish thy day before the
evening!... Ladies, sometimes it seems to me as if she smiled upon us
three from heaven. Ah, Bice, Bice, _mia adorata!_'

He drew Lucrezia to him, and presently Cecilia rose and left them
together. The 'Evening Glow' was not jealous of the 'Dawn'; from long
experience she knew that soon again her turn would come. Her mandoline
sounded from the next room.

And above the merry firelight, the naked cupids of Caradosso's moulding
prolonged their eternal dance, laughing madly around the nails, the
lance, the crown of thorns.




BOOK IX

THE SIMILITUDES--1498-1499


     _'I sensi sono terrestri, la ragione sta fuor di quelli, quando
     contempla.'_
                                                    LEONARDO DA VINCI.

     (The Senses belong to earth: Reason, when she contemplates, stands
     outside them.)

     [Greek: 'Ouranhos anô ouranhos katô.']
     (Heaven above--heaven below.)
                            TABULA SMARAGDINA.


I

'See here! On the map of the Indian Ocean, westward of the island of
Taprobane, we find a note--"The Sirens: prodigies of the sea."
Christopher Columbus told me that having come there and found no sirens,
he was greatly astonished. But you smile. Why?'

'Oh, nothing! Go on, Guido; I am listening.'

'I know very well, Messer Leonardo, that you don't believe in sirens!
Well, and what would you say of the skiapodes, who use their feet as
parasols; or the pygmies, whose ears are so large that they make one a
bolster, the other a blanket; or of the tree which bears eggs for its
fruit, from which come yellow downy chickens, so fishy-flavoured they
may be eaten on fast-days; or of that marine monster upon which certain
mariners, believing it an island, disembarked and lighted a fire for the
cooking of their supper? This last is a very true tale, related by an
aged mariner from Lisbon, a man in no wise given to wine, and who swore
and swore again by the blood and the body of Christ, that he spoke what
was true.'

This conversation took place six years after the discovery of the New
World, on Palm Sunday, at Florence, in a room above the storehouse of
Messer Pompeo Berardi, a shipbuilder, who had a branch establishment at
Seville, and superintended there the building of ships for sailing to
the New Continent. Messer Guido Berardi, Pompeo's nephew, was an
impassioned seaman; he had prepared to take part in Vasco di Gama's
expedition, when he was stricken by the terrible disease called French
by the Italians, and Italian by the French; German by the Poles, Polish
by the Muscovites, Christian by the Turks. In vain he had consulted all
physicians, in vain he had made waxen offerings at every wonder-working
shrine; paralysed, condemned to eternal immobility, he preserved an
extraordinary activity of mind, and by listening to sailors' stories,
and sitting up all night over books and maps, he sailed the oceans of
imagination, and made discoveries by proxy. His room, which sextants,
compasses, astrolabes, made like a ship's cabin, opened on to a balcony,
a Florentine loggia. The clear sky of a spring evening was already
darkening; the flame of the lamp flickered in the wind; from the
storehouse below were wafted odours of spices--cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg
and cloves.

'And so, Messer Leonardo,' he concluded, rubbing his unhappy legs under
their coverlet, ''tis not meaningless the saying that faith removes
mountains. Had Columbus doubted like you, he had accomplished naught.
Confess, I pray you, is it not worth grey hair at thirty to have found
the Earthly Paradise?'

'Paradise?' said Leonardo; 'nay, how is that?'

'What? Have you not heard? Know you not that by observations on the Pole
Star, taken by Messer Cristoforo near the Azores, he has proved that the
world has not the shape of an apple, as is commonly supposed. 'Tis a
pear, with a protuberance like the nipple of a woman's breast. On this
nipple, a mountain so high that its summit leans against the lunar
sphere, lies the Earthly Paradise.'

'But, _caro_ Guido, science....'

'Science!' cried the other contemptuously. 'Know you, Messere, what
Columbus says of science? I will quote you his words in his _Libro de
las Profecias_. He says: "Not mathematics, nor the charts of
geographers, nor the arguments of reason, helped me to my deed, but
solely the prophecy of Isaiah touching a new heaven and a new earth."'

Here Guido fell silent, for at this hour began the nightly racking of
his joints. He was carried to his bed; and Leonardo, left alone,
entertained himself verifying those observations upon the Pole Star
which had led to so singular a delusion; and, in truth, he found errors
so gross that he could not believe his eyes.

'What ignorance!' he said to himself more than once; 'it would seem he
has discovered the New World by chance, groping at random. He himself
sees no more than a blind man, nor doth he know what it is he has
discovered; he thinks it is China or Solomon's Ophir; or, by my faith,
the Earthly Paradise! Death will overtake him before he has learned the
truth.'

He read the first letter, dated April 29th 1493, in which Columbus
informed Europe of his discovery: 'the letter of Christopher Columbus,
to whom our age oweth much touching the newly-found islands beyond the
Ganges.'

Leonardo spent the whole night over the calculations and the maps. At
times he went out upon the loggia and looked at the stars, thinking of
this finder of the new heaven and the new earth--that strange dreamer
with the mind, and the heart, of a child. Involuntarily he compared this
man's destiny with his own.

'How little he knew; how much he did! And I, with all my knowledge, am
helpless as the paralysed Berardi. I, too, have aimed at unknown worlds,
but have made no step towards them. Faith, say they, faith! But is not
perfect faith the same as perfect knowledge? Cannot these eyes of mine
see farther than those eyes of Columbus, the blind prophet? Or is it the
caprice of Fate that men must see to know; must be blind to act?'


II

Leonardo did not notice that the night was passing. The stars went out
one by one; rosy light overspread the sky and shone upon the tiled roofs
and the wooden cross-beams of the old brick houses; the street became
gay with the hum of the people going forth to their daily toil.
Presently a knock came to the door, and Giovanni Boltraffio entered, to
remind his master that this was the day for the 'Trial by fire.'

'What trial?' asked Leonardo.

'Fra Domenico on behalf of Fra Girolamo, and Fra Giuliano Rondinelli on
behalf of his enemies, will pass through the fire. That one who is
unhurt will be proved by God to be in the right.'

'Very good; you can go, Giovanni, and I wish you good entertainment.'

'Will you not come also, Master?'

'No. I am busy.'

Giovanni took a step towards the door; then, trying to appear
indifferent, he said:--

'I am sorry you are so occupied. As I came hither I met Messer Paolo
Somenzi, who promised to bring us to a place where we could see
excellently. The trial is not till mid-day. If you could finish your
work by then, we might yet be in time.'

Leonardo smiled. 'You want me so much to see the prodigy? Very well,
then; we'll go together.'

At the appointed time Messer Paolo Somenzi arrived. He was a spy in the
pay of the Duke of Milan, and a bitter enemy of Savonarola's: a
restless, fussy little man, with brains of quicksilver.

'How is this, Messer Leonardo?' he began in a harsh disagreeable voice,
with much gesticulation. 'You thought of refusing your presence? Has
this physical experiment no attraction for the devotee of natural
science?'

'But will the magistrates really permit them to go into the fire?' asked
Leonardo.

'_Chi lo sa?_ But one thing is certain, that Fra Domenico will not
shrink from the flames. Nor is he the only one! More than two thousand
of the citizens, rich and poor, wise and simple, women and children,
declared last night at the Convent of San Marco that they were ready to
follow Fra Domenico to this singular test. I tell you there is such a
frenzy abroad that the most sensible feel their heads go round. The very
philosophers are taking fright, and asking themselves if there is not a
chance of neither champion being burned. But for my part, I am wondering
how the Piagnoni will look when, on the contrary, the two poor fools are
slain before their eyes!'

'Does Savonarola really believe?' exclaimed Leonardo, as if thinking
aloud.

'I suspect he has his doubts and would fain draw back. But 'tis too
late. To his own hurt he has so debauched the imagination of this people
that now they require a miracle at all costs. See you, Messere, 'tis a
pure question of mathematics, and of a kind no less interesting than
yours: if God really exist, why should he not do a miracle--why should
he not cause two and two to make five? as, verily, the faithful daily
request, that the impious like you and me, Messer Leonardo, may be put
to eternal confusion.'

'Well, let us set forth,' said Leonardo, interrupting Messer Paolo with
ill-concealed aversion.

'Soft, though,' said the other; 'one little whisper more. You and I,
Messer Leonardo, are of one mind in this matter; and at the day's end we
shall cry "Victory!" whether God exist or no. Two and two will always
make four. _Viva la Scienza!_ and long live logic!'

The streets were crowded, and on all faces was that air of curiosity and
happy expectation which Leonardo had already remarked in Giovanni. The
press was greatest in the Via de' Calzaioli before the Orsanmichele,
where was a bronze statue by Andrea Verrocchio:--the apostle Thomas
thrusting his fingers into the wounds of his Lord. Here the eight
theses, the truth or falsity of which was to be demonstrated by the
fire, were appended to the wall, 'writ large' in vermilion letters. Some
of the crowd were spelling them out, others listening and making their
comments.

     I. The Church of the Lord needs to be born again.
    II. God will chastise her.
   III. God will transform her.
    IV. After the chastisement, Florence also shall be renewed and
        shall rise above all peoples.
     V. The infidels shall be converted.
    VI. All this shall happen forthwith.
   VII. The excommunication of Savonarola by Pope Alexander VI. is
        invalid.
  VIII. He committeth no sin who holds this excommunication invalid.

Jostled by the crowd, Leonardo and his companions stopped to listen to
the remarks of the people.

'It is all gospel truth,' said an old artisan; 'nevertheless deadly sin
may come of it.'

'What sin is stinking in your old nostrils, Filippo?' asked a lad,
smiling contemptuously.

'There can be no sin in it,' said another.

'It's a trap of the Evil One,' said Filippo undaunted. 'We are demanding
a miracle. But we may be unworthy of a miracle. Is it not written in
Scripture, "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God?"'

'Hold your tongue, old man! Is not a mustard-seed of faith able to raise
mountains? God cannot avoid a miracle once we have faith.'

'No! He can't! He can't!' cried many voices.

'But who is to go into the fire first? Fra Domenico or Fra Girolamo?'

'The two together.'

'No, Fra Girolamo will only pray. He is not going in.'

'You don't know what you are talking about. 'Twill be first Fra
Domenico, then Fra Girolamo, and then all of us who wrote ourselves down
last night at the convent.'

Is it true that Fra Girolamo is going to raise a dead man?'

'Of course it is true! First the trial by fire, and then the
resurrection of the dead. I, myself, have seen his letter to the pope.
He challenges him to send a man who shall descend into a tomb with Fra
Girolamo, and say to the dead, "Come forth!" He who shall resuscitate
the corpse shall be the true prophet; and the other the deceiver.'

'Have faith, brothers, only have faith! Many miracles await you. Ye
shall see the Son of Man in his flesh and bones coming on the clouds,
and other wonders, of which ancient times had not even the conception!'

At these words several cried 'Amen'; and all faces grew pale, and all
eyes burned with the wild fires of fanaticism. The crowd moved on,
carrying Messer Paolo and the others with it. Giovanni threw one more
look at Verrocchio's bronze figure. In the good-humoured,
half-contemptuous smile of the incredulous apostle, he seemed to see the
smile of Leonardo.


III

As they approached the Piazza della Signoria, the press was so great
that Paolo requested one of the mounted guards to escort them as far as
the balcony, where places were reserved for the orators, and for the
more important of the citizens.

Never, thought Giovanni, had he seen so great a multitude. Not only was
the square packed with spectators, but the loggias, the towers, windows,
and roofs of the houses. Like limpets, they clung to the iron
lamp-brackets, gratings, gutters, eaves, rain-pipes. They hustled each
other and fought for room, and some fell and were trampled out of life.
All the approaches to the piazza were rigorously barred with iron posts
and chains; at three places only, men of full age and unarmed were
permitted to pass singly.

Messer Paolo explained to his companions the manner in which the pyre
was constructed. There were two long narrow piles of wood smeared with
tar and sprinkled with powder, which extended from the Ringhiera or
rostrum, where stood the Marzocco (the ancient lion of Florence), as far
as to the Tettoia del Pisani. Between the two piles was a narrow lane,
paved with stones, sand, and clay, along which the two friars were to
pass.

At the appointed hour the Franciscans appeared from one side, the
Dominicans from the other; the procession was closed by Fra Domenico, in
a velvet habit of brilliant red, and Fra Girolamo dressed in white, and
bearing the _Ostensorio_, which glittered in the sunlight. The
Dominicans intoned a Psalm:--

'Come and see the works of God, he is terrible in his doing toward the
children of men!'

And the crowd responded, 'Hosanna, Hosanna! Blessed is he who cometh in
the name of the Lord!'

The enemies of Savonarola occupied half the Loggia dei Lanzi, his
followers the opposite half, a partition having been erected between
them. All was now ready; nothing remained but to light the fire and call
forth the champions.

At last the judges of the trial came from the Palazzo Vecchio, and every
one held his breath and watched what they would do; but after speaking a
few words in a low voice with Fra Domenico they retired again, and
suspense reigned as before. Fra Giuliano Rondinelli had gone out of
sight. Then the tension of spirit became almost insupportable, and the
crowd stood on tiptoe, and craned their necks, making the sign of the
cross and telling their beads, and murmuring childish prayers: 'Lord,
Lord! perform us a miracle!'

The air was sultry; a thunderstorm was drawing nearer, and growls of
thunder which had been heard at intervals all day, were becoming louder
and more insistent. Certain members of the council, in long robes of red
cloth, like the togas of ancient Rome, issued from the Palazzo Vecchio
and took places on the Ringhiera; an old man with spectacles and a quill
behind his ear, evidently the clerk, tried to recall them with shouts
of:--

'Messeri! Messeri! the sitting is not ended! the voting is in progress!'

'To the devil with the voting,' said one of the magistrates; 'I have had
my fill of this stupid discussion. The noise has broken my ear-drum.'

'What is the use of deliberation?' said another. 'If they wish to burn
themselves let them do it, and Good-night to them!'

'By my troth, it were homicide!'

'And an excellent homicide, too! Two fools less on earth.'

'But they must be burned according to the rule and canon of the Holy
Church. It's a delicate theological question.'

'Well, then, propose the question to the pope.'

'What have we to do with the pope? We are concerned with the people. If
by such means one could restore the people to sanity, there would be no
great evil in sending all the priests and friars in the world, not only
into the fire, but into the water and under the ground likewise.'

'Water will serve. Throw them both into a tub of water, and let him who
comes forth dry be the victor. 'Twould be a thought less dangerous than
these pranks.'

'Have you heard, most honourable signiors,' said Messer Paolo with deep
reverences, 'that poor Fra Giuliano has fallen sick in his stomach? 'Tis
a malady caused by fear, and he has been bled for it.'

'Sir,' exclaimed an old man of imposing aspect, his face showing at once
distress and intelligence, 'you make a jest of everything. But I, when I
hear such talk from the men highest in the state, I ask myself whether
it were not better to die. Truly, if the founders of this city could
rise from the dead and see the folly and the infamy of this day's
proceedings, they would flee back into their graves for shame.'

The judges, meanwhile, came and went incessantly from the Loggia to the
Palazzo, from the Palazzo to the Loggia, and it seemed as if the
deliberations were to have no end.

The Franciscans first accused Savonarola of having enchanted Fra
Domenico's habit; he therefore removed it, but it was alleged that
sorcery might have influenced his under garments. He retired into the
Palazzo Vecchio, stripped himself naked, and donned the vesture of
another. Then the Franciscans demanded that he should hold aloof from
Savonarola, lest his new garments should be enchanted; and that he
should give up the cross which he held. To this Domenico consented, but
protested that he would not enter the flames without the Holy Sacrament
in his hands. The Franciscans at this swore that Savonarola's disciple
wished sacrilegiously to burn the body and blood of Christ. In vain
Domenico and Girolamo replied that the Holy Sacrament could not be
reduced to ashes; the material part (_modus_) might indeed be burned,
but not the eternal and incorruptible part (_substantia_). An
interminable scholastic dispute now began between the two parties.

The crowd in the piazza was beginning to murmur, and dense black clouds
were spreading over the sky. Suddenly from behind the Palazzo Vecchio
and the Via de' Leoni where the lions of Florence were kept in cages, a
prolonged and hungry roar was heard. The mob imagined that the bronze
Marzocco, indignant with his city, was roaring out his wrath. They
responded with a sound no less furious, no less hungry.

'Have done! Have done! To the fire at once! Fra Girolamo! We _will_ have
the miracle! We _will_ have the miracle!'

At this cry Savonarola, who had been kneeling in prayer, rose, shook
himself, approached the parapet of the Loggia, and with imposing gesture
commanded silence. But the people refused to be silent. And then some
one from under the Tettoia de' Pisani cried:--

'He's afraid!'

And this cry was taken up and passed along.

A company of horsemen of the Arrabbiati tried to push their way to the
Loggia to fall upon Savonarola and seize him, making their profit of the
confusion.

'Kill him! Kill him! Down with the cursed schismatic!' was the shout

Boltraffio closed his eyes that he might not see those furious faces
which had now lost all look of humanity; nothing, he thought, could save
Savonarola from being torn to pieces.

At this moment the storm broke. Rain descended, the like of which had
not been seen in Florence.

It endured but a short time, and when it was over the trial by fire had
become an impossibility. For between the twin piles of faggots the water
ran with the fury of a channel hemmed in between dykes.

Some laughed.

'Well done, friars! They undertook to tread the fire, but they've got to
swim for it! That's their miracle, eh?'

Cursed by the crowd, Savonarola on his return to his convent was
escorted by soldiers, and Giovanni's heart bled as he watched the
deposed prophet, kicked and buffeted, making his way with faltering
step, his eyes on the ground, his white garb splashed with the mire of
the streets. Leonardo saw his disciple's wan face, and, as before at the
'Burning of Vanities,' took his hand and led him away.


IV

Next day in the Casa Berardi, sitting in the chamber which was so like a
ship's cabin, Leonardo tried to prove to Messer Guido that Columbus had
erred in locating Paradise on a swelling upon a pear-shaped earth. At
first Guido listened and argued, then mournful silence fell on him. He
was vexed with his friend for telling him the truth. Presently he
discovered pains in his legs, and had himself carried away.

'Why have I hurt him?' thought Leonardo; 'He wants a miracle too!'

Turning over his note-book, his eyes fell on the words he had written
that night when the Milanese mob had attacked his house for the seizure
of the Holy Nail: 'O marvellous justice of Thee, Thou Prime Mover, who
hast denied to no force the order and the qualities of its necessary
effect!'

'There!' he exclaimed, 'there is the miracle!'

And his thoughts turned to his _Cenacolo_ and to the face of Christ,
still sought for, not yet found; and he felt that between this
inviolable law of Necessity, and the perfect wisdom of Him who said,
'One of you shall betray me,' there existed a deep correlation.

In the evening Giovanni came with the day's news. The Signoria had
exiled Fra Girolamo and Fra Domenico from the city; and the 'Enraged,'
brooking no delay, had besieged San Marco with a countless throng of
armed persons, and had broken into the church where the brothers were at
vespers. They defended themselves, fighting with burning tapers,
candlesticks, and crucifixes; in the cloud of smoke they seemed
ridiculous as angry doves. One climbed on the roof and hurled stones
down from it. Another fired an arquebus from the altar, shouting at each
discharge '_Viva Cristo!_' Presently the monastery was taken by storm.

The brethren entreated Savonarola to flee, but he, together with
Domenico, gave himself up, and they were haled to prison. The guards
were unable or unwilling to defend them from the insults of the crowd,
who struck Fra Girolamo from behind, crying:--

'Prophesy unto us, thou man of God, who is he that smote thee?'

Others crawled at his feet as though seeking something, and cried: 'The
key? The key? Where is Fra Girolamo's key?'

--in allusion to the key often spoken of in his sermons, with which he
would unlock the secrets of the abominations of Rome.

The very children who had belonged to the Sacred Troop of inquisitors
now pelted him with apples and rotten eggs. Those who could not
penetrate the crowd howled from a distance, reiterating their abuse till
their throats were hoarse.

'Dastard! Coward! Judas! Sodomite! Sorcerer! Antichrist!'

Giovanni followed him to the doors of the prison of the Palazzo Vecchio,
whence he was not to issue till the day of his execution.

On the following morning Leonardo and Boltraffio quitted Florence.

At once, on arrival in Milan, the painter set himself to the task which
had baffled him for eighteen years--the face of the Christ in the 'Last
Supper!'


V

On the very day of that trial by fire, which in Florence had had such
bad results--Charles VIII., King of France, died very suddenly. The news
was of sinister import to Il Moro, for the Duke of Orleans, who was now
to ascend the throne as Louis XII., was descended from Valentina
Visconti, daughter of the first Duke of Milan. He claimed to be the only
legitimate heir of the dominion of Lombardy, and now proposed to
reconquer it, annihilating 'the robber nest of the Sforzas.'

Shortly before the change of sovereigns in France, there had taken place
at the Milanese court what was called a 'scientific duel,' and Il Moro
had found so much entertainment that he proposed another for a day two
months later. Now that war was impending some supposed he would postpone
this duel, but Ludovico, who was an adept in the arts of dissimulation,
had no such intention. He wished his enemies to think he cared little
for their designs, but was absorbed in that revival of art and learning,
'the fruit of golden peace,' which flourished under his mild rule, and
brought him the fame of being the most enlightened Italian potentate,
the protector of the Muses, protected not merely by the arms but by the
admiration of his people.

Accordingly on the appointed day, in the Great Hall of the Rocchetta,
which was called the _Sala per il giuoco della palla_, there assembled
all the doctors, deans, and masters of the University of Pavia, wearing
their scarlet four-cornered _berrette_, their ermine-bordered hoods,
their violet gloves, and pouches of gold embroidery. Ladies were present
dressed in sumptuous festal robes, amongst them Lucrezia and Cecilia,
sitting together at the foot of Ludovico's throne. The proceedings were
opened by a pompous oration from Giorgio Merula, in which the Duke was
likened to Pericles, Epaminondas, Scipio, Cato, Augustus, Mæcenas, and
other worthies, while Milan was celebrated as the new Athens, of
surpassing glory. Then followed a theological dispute on the Immaculate
Conception, then medical discussions on the following questions:--

'Is a handsome woman more prolific than an ugly one?'

'Was the healing of Tobias natural?'

'Is woman an incomplete creation?'

'In what part of the body was formed the water which issued from the
side of the crucified Christ?'

'Is woman more sensual than man?'

Then came the turn of the philosophers, on the unity or the plurality of
primal matter.

'Be good enough to expound me this apophthegm,' said a toothless old man
with venomous smile, and eyes dull and troubled as those of a sucking
babe; a great doctor of scholastics, who thoroughly understood the
confounding of opponents by subtle distinctions (_quidditas et habitus_)
which nobody could understand.

Alone and thoughtful as was his custom, Leonardo was listening, and now
and then his lips curled.


VI

Pointing to Leonardo, the Countess Cecilia whispered to the Duke, who
called up the artist, and begged him to take part in the discussion.

'Be kind,' insisted the countess. 'Do it for my sake----'

'Lay aside your bashfulness,' said Ludovico, 'and tell us something
entertaining. Speak to us of your observations upon nature. Do we not
know that your brain is always stuffed with chimeras?'

'Your Excellency must excuse me. Madonna Cecilia, I would gladly please
a lady, but, truly, I cannot----'

Leonardo was not feigning. He was neither able nor willing to speak
before a crowd. An insuperable barrier seemed to lie between his thought
and his word, as if speech must either exaggerate or be inadequate to
the sense, modify or vitiate it. In his note-books he continually
cancelled, erased, corrected, and revised; in conversation he stammered,
lost the thread, sought for words and could not find them. He called
both orators and authors 'babblers,' but in secret he envied them. The
frequent glibness of insignificant persons was a wonder and an annoyance
to him.

'That God should give such men such skill!' he would say, with a kind of
ingenuous admiration.

However, the more firmly Leonardo declined the task offered him, so much
the more did the ladies insist.

'We beseech you, Messere! We all pray you with one voice. Tell us, tell
us something entertaining!'

'Tell us how men are to fly!' suggested Madonna Fiordiligi.

'Nay, but speak to us of sorcery!' cried Madonna Ermellina; 'something
of black magic! 'Tis so interesting, this necromancy. Explain to us how
they raise the dead men from their graves!'

'I assure you, Madonna, I have never raised any dead person from his
grave.'

'Then take some other theme, so it be terrible, and have no savour of
mathematics.'

Leonardo was always hard put to it to refuse a beggar, and he could only
repeat with embarrassment:--

'Truly, Madonna, I am incapable----'

But Ermellina interrupted him, clapping her hands.

'He consents! He consents! Silence for Messer Leonardo! Listen ye all!'

'Eh? Who? What?' asked the dean of the theological faculty, who was
deaf, and somewhat fallen into dotage.

''Tis Leonardo!' shouted his neighbour into his ear.

'Leonardo Pisano, the mathematical professor?'

'No, Leonardo da Vinci himself.'

'Is he doctor or master?'

'No, nor even bachelor. Leonardo, the painter of the _Cenacolo_.'

'Is he going to speak of painting?'

'It seems he will speak of natural science.'

'Are the painters so learned? I have never heard of this Leonardo. What
has he written?'

'Nothing that I know of.'

'Nay,' said another, ''tis certain that he writes, for they say he uses
his left hand, and produces a caligraphy proper only to himself, which
none can read.'

'Which none can read? With his left hand?' said the old dean.

'I take it, gentlemen, this speech will be some jest; an interlude to
entertain the Duke and the ladies.'

'Very like 'twill be ridiculous. We shall see.'

'Just so, just so. 'Tis necessary to amuse the folk of the court. And
painters are witty fellows enough. Buffalmacco, now--they said he was a
perfect jester. Well, let us see what this Leonardo is good for.'

And the old man polished his spectacles, the better to enjoy the comedy.

Leonardo was still looking supplicatingly at the Duke, but though
smiling, Ludovico was determined; and the Countess Cecilia menaced the
hesitant with her finger.

'If I refuse I shall offend them,' thought the artist; 'and very soon I
shall be requiring bronze for the Cavallo. Well, I will say the first
thing that comes into my head, just to be quit of the business.'

And with desperate resolution he mounted the tribune and threw a glance
upon the learned assembly. Then, blushing and stammering like a boy who
does not know his lesson, he began:--

'I must warn you, gentlemen, I am not prepared.... 'Tis to please the
Duke. I would say--I mean--in fine, I will speak to you about shells.'

And he told of petrified marine animals, the imprints of coral, and
water-plants found on hills and in valleys far removed from the sea,
evidence of how the face of the earth has been changing from time
immemorial. There, where now are hills and dry land, once was the ocean.
Water, the mover of Nature, her 'charioteer,' creates and destroys the
very mountains; the shores gradually remove into the centre of the sea,
and the inland seas lay bare their beds, traversed by some river which
ever hurries towards the sea, scoring for itself a deep channel. Thus
the Po, which now rushes across the dried-up lake of Lombardy, will
eventually score itself a deep channel across the dried-up Adriatic; and
the Nile, when the Mediterranean has become a country of hills and
plains like Egypt and Libya, will empty itself into the Atlantic Ocean
beyond the Pillars of Hercules.

'I am convinced,' said Leonardo in conclusion, 'that the study of
petrified plants and animals, which we have hitherto neglected, will lay
the foundation of a new science of our earth; of its past, and of its
future.'

Notwithstanding the awkwardness of his delivery, Leonardo's ideas were
so clear and precise, his faith in knowledge was so sure, all he had
said was so unlike the Pythagorean ravings of the previous disputant,
and the dry bones of logic in the mouths of the learned doctors, that
when he stopped speaking a stupor of amazement was seen on the faces of
the audience. Were they to laugh or to applaud? Was this talk of a new
science the vain chatter of a presumptuous fool?

'Truly, my Leonardo,' said the Duke condescendingly, as if speaking to a
child, 'it would be famous fun if the Adriatic were to dry up and leave
our enemies, the Venetians, stranded like crabs on a sandbank.'

At this they all laughed, well pleased to be told the line they were to
take, for courtiers are ever weathercocks turned by the wind. Messer
Gabriele Pirovano, the Rector of the University of Pavia, an old
gentleman with silver hair, fine manners, and a dignified but somewhat
foolish face, thus delivered himself, reflecting in his smile the
condescending kindness of the Duke:--

'Messer Leonardo, the information you have given us is very interesting;
but were it not perhaps simpler to explain the origin of these little
shells, as a charming (we might even say poetic) but wholly accidental
freak of nature, rather than as the foundation of an entire new science?
Or, as others have done before us, we might account for their presence
by the catastrophe of the universal Deluge.'

'Oh, the Deluge!' said Leonardo, who had conquered his shyness and now
spoke with a freedom which to many appeared excessive and even
irreverent; 'I know that explanation, but it won't do at all. Judge for
yourself, Messer Gabriele. According to the man who measured it, the
level of the waters of the flood exceeded by ten cubits the tops of the
highest mountains. The shells would have settled on the summits, not on
the sides or the feet of the mountains, nor within caverns; and, withal,
they would have settled at haphazard according to the pleasure of the
waters, and not everywhere at the same level, not in consecutive layers,
as we find by observation. And further, here is a wondrous thing. We
find collected together all those creatures which are used to live in
societies, such as oysters, cuttlefish, molluscs; while those which are
used to be solitary are scattered singly in their fossil state just as
we find their descendants now on the seashore. I myself have often noted
the position of these petrified shells in Tuscany and in Lombardy and in
Piedmont. And if you tell me 'twas not the waves carried them, but that
of themselves they gradually rose in crowds above the water as it grew
higher, that, too, is easily refuted, for a shellfish is as slow a beast
as a snail. It floats not, but crawls with its valves over sand and
stones, and the furthest it can go in a day's hard journeying is some
three or four arm-lengths. How then, Messer Gabriele, would you explain,
that in the forty days of the flood's duration, your shellfish could
creep the two hundred and fifty miles which divide the hills of
Monferrato from the shores of the Adriatic? Only he who, despising
experiment and observation, judges of Nature from books, can maintain
such an argument; not he who has had the curiosity to see with his own
eyes those things of which he speaks.'

An uncomfortable silence followed; all felt that the Rector's reply had
been a trifle weak. Then the court astrologer, Ambrogio da Rosate, a
great favourite of the Duke's, advanced another explanation based on
Pliny's natural history; which was that the petrified shapes which
looked like marine animals had been formed in the interior of the earth
by the magic working of the stars.

At the word magic, a resigned smile played over Leonardo's lips. 'Then,
Messer Ambrogio,' he replied, 'how would you explain the fact that the
stars in the one place should make animals not only of many kinds but of
various ages? (for the age of shells can be ascertained no less than the
age of horns or of trees). What say you to finding some of these shells
entire, some broken, some mixed with sand, mud, the claws of crabs,
fish-bones, and rubble, such as you may see any day on the seashore; and
the delicate imprint of leaves on the rocks of the highest mountains,
and marine weeds clinging to the shells, petrified and blended into one
lump with them? From the working of the stars, say you? If this is to be
our reasoning, Messere, then in all Nature there will be no phenomenon
for which you cannot account by the starry influences, and all science
outside astrology is useless.'

Here an old Doctor of scholastic interposed, saying that the dispute was
irregular.

'For,' he exclaimed, 'either this question of fossils belongs to a
vulgar, mechanical science, alien to metaphysic, and hence not to be
discussed in an assembly met to contend solely about philosophical
questions, or it verily pertains to the true, the sublime science of
dialectic; in which case it must be discussed according to the laws of
dialectic, which alone allows theory to ascend to the sphere of pure
speculation.'

'I understand you, Messere,' said Leonardo patiently; 'I have thought of
what you say. But the alternative is not as you state it.'

'Not as I state it?' cried the veteran smiling angrily, 'not as I state
it? Then, sir, pray let us hear how _you_ propose to state it!'

'Nay, nay; I had no wish to offend. In fine, I spoke but of shells. I
think--nay, Messere, but there is no vulgar science, nor is there
sublime science. There is but one science; that which is based upon the
experience of the senses.'

'The experience of the senses? Then where would you put the metaphysic
of Aristotle, of Plato, of Plotinus, and of all the ancient philosophers
who speculated upon God, upon the soul, and upon the essences? Would you
say of all this----?'

'That it is not science,' replied Leonardo calmly. 'I recognise the
greatness of the ancients, but not in that respect. In science they
mistook the road. They wished to learn what was beyond the reach of
knowledge, and what was within their reach they despised. They led men
astray for many ages. Discussing matters which admit not of proof, it is
impossible for men to agree; the less so if they would make up for the
lack of proof by vehemence of clamour. He who truly _knows_ has no
occasion to shout. The voice of truth is unique; and when it has spoken,
all the noise of dispute must be hushed. If the cries continue, it means
that the truth has not yet been found. Do we need mathematical dispute
as to whether twice three be six or five? or whether the angles of a
triangle be or be not equal to two right angles? In these instances doth
not contradiction cease in the presence of truth? and is not truth to be
enjoyed as it never can be enjoyed in sophistical and imaginary
sciences?'

Leonardo would have spoken further, but after a glance at the face of
his opponent he became silent.

'Ah!' said the doctor of scholastic, ironically, 'I thought we should
arrive at an agreement! You and I were certain to understand one
another! But one thing I do not understand. Pardon the ignorance of an
old man! If our knowledge of God and of a future life, not being
confirmed by the testimony of our senses, but by the testimony of Holy
Writ----'

'I spoke not of this,' interrupted Leonardo; 'I leave out of the dispute
the books inspired by God, for they are of the substance of supreme
truth.'

He was not allowed to continue; uproar ensued. Some shouted, some
laughed; some, springing from their chairs, turned wrathful faces on
him, while others, shrugging their shoulders, left the assembly.

'Make an end! Make an end!'

'But, gentlemen, permit me to reply----'

'There is no occasion for reply.'

'When things are stated contrary to sense----'

'I desire to speak!'

'Plato and Aristotle!' ...

'Not worth a rotten egg!'

'But I ask, shall this be permitted? The truth of our Holy Mother
Church----'

'Heresy! Heresy! Atheism!'

Leonardo remained silent, his face calm and sad. He was alone among
these men who believed themselves the servants of knowledge, and he saw
the impassable gulf which separated him from them. He was displeased,
not with his opponents, but with himself for having broken his
accustomed silence, and become entangled in an argument; for having
conceived (in defiance of experience) that it were possible to reveal
the truth unto men, or that they were able to receive it.

As for the Duke, though he had long lost the thread of the argument, he
continued to follow the disputation with delight.

'Good! Really good!' he applauded, rubbing his hands. 'Madonna Cecilia,
will they not, think you, presently come to blows? Look at that old
fellow, shaking all over, brandishing his cap, clenching his fists! And
the little black one behind him, foaming at the mouth! And all about a
few fossil shells! Fine madmen, these scholars! kittle cattle! And our
Leonardo, who pretended to be possessed by a dumb devil!'

And they laughed, watching the scientific duel as if it were a
cock-fight.

'I shall have to save my Leonardo,' said Il Moro at last, 'or these
red-capped folk will claw him.'

And he rose and passed through the crowd of infuriated philosophers, who
suddenly were hushed into silence as they made way for him. Soothing oil
had been poured upon stormy waves; one smile from the prince sufficed
for the reconciliation of metaphysics and natural science. He closed the
discussion by a courteous invitation to supper.

'I am glad,' he said with his usual gaiety, 'that the Adriatic is not
yet dry; because I trust that its oysters, which I have had cooked for
your entertainment, may give rise to less contention than the shells of
Messer Leonardo.'


VII

During the supper Fra Luca Pacioli, who was sitting beside Leonardo da
Vinci, whispered in his ear:--

'Forgive me, friend, that I kept silence when they attacked you. They
did not understand your meaning, but you might easily make an alliance
with them, for the one opinion does not exclude the other. Avoid
extremes.'

'I entirely agree with you, Fra Luca,' replied Leonardo.

'That's the way; love and concord. What is the object of dissension?
Metaphysics are good, and mathematics are good! Room for both. Is it not
so, dear friend?'

'Precisely so, Fra Luca.'

'I was sure you would agree. You give in to me, I give in to you; we are
allied, you with us, we with you.'

Leonardo looked at the astute countenance of the mathematical monk, who
reconciled Pythagoras and Thomas Aquinas so easily; and he thought--

'The calf sucks from two dams.'

Then the alchemist, Galeotto Sacrobosco, raising his glass and bending
towards Leonardo with the air of an accomplice, said--

'To your good health, Master! How skilfully you played them on the line!
What a subtle allegory!'

'Allegory?' repeated Leonardo, stupefied.

'To be sure, Messere. No call for mystery with me. We shall not betray
one another. By dry land you meant sulphur; by the sun, salt; by the
ocean which overflowed the mountains, quicksilver. Do I catch your
meaning?'

'Precisely, Messer Galeotto.'

'You see even we are good for something! As for the shells, by them you
intended the philosopher's stone, the alchemist's secret, composed of
what? why of sulphur, salt, and quicksilver!'

And he laughed his jolly childlike laugh, raising his forefinger and
arching his brows, which were scorched by the fury of his immense
furnaces.

'And all these great doctors with their red caps understand not a word
of it! To your health, Messer Leonardo, and to the glory of alchemy, our
common mother!'

'I honour the toast, Messer Galeotto. And as I see nothing can be
concealed from you, I will vex you with no further mysteries.'

After supper the party broke up: only a small and selected company were
invited by the Duke into a cool snug room, where wine and fruits were
served.

'Most charming! Insurpassable!' cried Madonna Ermellina. 'I should never
have conceived it could be so diverting. Better than a _festa_! How they
shouted at Leonardo! Pity he might not finish--he would have told us of
his spells and necromancy.'

'Perchance 'tis calumny,' said an old courtier; 'but I am told the
infection of heresy has so taken hold of Leonardo, that he scarce
credits the existence of God. He holds it of greater moment to be a
philosopher than a Christian.'

''Tis mere babble,' said the Duke. 'I know the man well, and I swear he
has a heart of gold. He is violent in word, but in practice would not
hurt a flea. He dangerous! Would that all dangerous ones were as he! The
Father Inquisitors would have him, but let them roar! None shall hurt a
hair of my Leonardo!'

'And our posterity will praise your Excellency for having protected a
genius so extraordinary,' said Messer Baldassare Castiglione, a very
elegant cavalier from the court of Urbino. ''Tis pity,' he added, 'that
the man should neglect his art to give himself to dreams and chimeras.'

'True, Messer Baldassare; I have often reproached him. But painters, you
know, are an unmanageable race.'

'Your Excellency speaks well,' said the Commissioner of the Salt Tax,
who was burning to tell a tale of Leonardo; 'painters are impracticable
folk. T'other day I came to his studio seeking an allegorical drawing
for a marriage chest. "Is the master at home?" say I. "No," is the
reply, "he hath gone forth, greatly busied, to measure the weight of the
air." Truly, I thought the youth mocked me; but when I met Leonardo
himself and taxed him with this folly, he confessed it, looking at me as
if he thought I were a fool. Ladies, how like you the notion? and how
many grains will you find in the spring zephyr?'

'I know worse of him than that,' said a young lord with a vulgar
self-complacent face; 'he has invented a boat which travels up stream,
yet without oars.'

'How doth it travel?'

'On wheels, by steam.'

'A boat with wheels? Nay, sir, this must be your invention of this
moment!'

'I had it of Fra Luca Pacioli, who had seen the design. Leonardo
conceives that in steam lies a force able to move large ships, let alone
little boats.'

'You see! You see! Did I not tell you!' cried Madonna Ermellina, 'this
is his necromancy, black magic pure and simple!'

''Tis not to be denied he is mad!' said the Duke with his urbane smile;
'for all that I wish him well. In his company I never weary!'


VIII

Leonardo went homewards by the quiet suburb of Porta Vercellina. It was
a lovely evening. Goats were contentedly browsing along the edge of the
road; and a rugged sunburnt little lad was driving a flock of geese.
Storm-clouds, lined with gold, were rising in the north over the unseen
Alps, and high up in the clear sky there burned a single star.

The artist walked slowly; he was thinking of the scientific dispute
which he had just left, and then his thoughts went back to the trial by
fire at which he had been present in Florence. He could not but think
the two duels resembled each other like twins.

A little girl of six was eating rye-bread and onions on the outside
staircase of a cottage. He called her, and after a moment's hesitation,
reassured by his smile, she trotted to him, smiling herself. He gave her
a sugared and gilded orange which he had brought from the supper.

'Gold ball!' said the child.

'No, not a ball. A sort of apple. Try it; 'tis sweet within.'

She continued to stare ecstatically at the unfamiliar dainty.

'What is your name?' he asked.

'Maia.'

'I wonder, Maia, if you know how the cock, the goat, and the donkey went
a-fishing together?'

'No.'

'Shall I tell you?'

And he fondled her soft wild curls with his delicate, almost womanish,
hand. 'Come here then! Let us sit down! Wait a minute, though, I think I
have some nice cakes also, as you won't try my golden apple!' And he
turned out his pockets. A young woman now appeared, looked at Maia and
at the stranger, nodded approvingly, and seated herself with her
distaff. Then came also the grandmother, a bent old woman with eyes like
Maia's. She, too, looked at Leonardo; but suddenly, as if recognising
him, she made a sign with her hands and whispered to her daughter, who
sprang up saying:--

'Maia! Maia! Come away at once!'

The child hesitated.

'Come, run, naughty one; unless you wish----'

The little girl was frightened and fled to the grandmother, who snatched
the orange from her and flung it over the wall to the pigs. The child
cried, but the old woman whispered something in her ear which at once
checked her sobs, and she sat gazing at Leonardo with wide eyes full of
terror. The painter turned away, well understanding. The old woman
thought him a sorcerer capable of bewitching the child. A sad smile on
his lips, still mechanically searching for the cakes no longer needed,
pained at heart by the little one's needless fear, he felt himself more
of an outcast than in face of the crowd which had sought to kill him,
the learned men who fancied his truths the ravings of a madman. He felt
himself as far removed from his fellows as was that solitary star
shining in the still undarkened sky.

He went home and shut himself into his study. With its dusty scientific
instruments and its dull books, it seemed to him gloomy as a prison.
However, he lighted a candle, seated himself, and became immersed in his
latest research, in inquiry into the laws of the motion of bodies
travelling on an inclined plane. Like music, mathematics had ever for
him a soothing influence; and to-night, they brought him the hoped-for
consolation. Having finished his calculations, he took his diary, and
writing with his left hand, and from right to left, so that reading must
be in a mirror, he recorded a few thoughts roused by the scientific
disputation.

'The disciples of Aristotle, men of words and of books, because I am not
a _letterato_ like themselves, think me incapable of speech on my own
subjects. They perceive not that my matters are to be expounded rather
by experience than by words; experience, which truly was mistress of all
those who have written well; which I will take for my mistress, by
which, in all cases, I will stand or fall.'

The candle had burned low; and the cat, faithful comrade of his
sleepless nights, sprang on the table, purring and rubbing herself
against him. The solitary star, seen through the undusted windows,
seemed still farther away, still less attainable. He remembered Maia's
frightened eyes, but he had vanquished his melancholy. He was solitary,
yes, but undaunted and serene. Nevertheless, unknown to himself, there
was bitterness in the secret depth of his heart like a hot spring
beneath the ice of a frozen river; there was almost remorse, as if,
verily, he were guilty concerning Maia; as if there were something for
which he was unable entirely to forgive himself.


IX

Next morning Leonardo, with Astro carrying sketch-books, paint-boxes and
brushes, was on his way to the monastery for a day's work on the figure
of the Saviour. He stopped in the courtyard to speak to Nastasio, who
was busily grooming a grey mare.

'Bravo!' said the master, 'and how is Giannino to-day?' Giannino was his
favourite horse.

'Giannino is all right,' answered the groom, 'but the piebald is lame.'

'The piebald?' said Leonardo, vexed; 'and since when?'

'Since four days agone,' replied Nastasio surlily; and without looking
at his master, he continued curry-combing the mare's hindquarters with
such energy that she changed her feet.

Leonardo, however, wished to see the piebald, and the groom took him to
the stable. When Giovanni Boltraffio, a few minutes later, came to the
courtyard fountain for his morning wash, he heard the master talking in
loud piercing tones almost feminine in their shrillness, which he used
in rare passions of sudden, violent, but not dangerous anger.

'Tell me this instant, you fool, you drunken ape, tell me who bade you
summon the horse-leech?'

'I pray you, Messere, could a sick horse be left without a leech?'

'A pretty leech! Think you, fool, that stinking plaster----'

''Tis not so much a plaster as a charm. You are not learned in these
matters, and that is why you are so wroth.'

'The devil take you and your charms together! How could that ignoramus
cure anything when he knows naught of the structure of the body, and has
never heard the name of anatomy?'

'Anatomy, forsooth!' said Nastasio, raising lazy contemptuous eyes to
his master.

'Ass!' shouted the latter; 'take yourself off out of my service!'

The groom did not move an eyelash.

'I was on the stroke of leaving you on my own account. Your Excellency
owes me three months' wages; and as regards the oats, 'tis no fault of
mine. Marco gives me no money for oats.'

'What's the meaning of all this? Once I issue my orders----'

Nastasio shrugged his shoulders and returned to his grooming of the grey
mare, working violently as if venting his spleen on the dumb animal.

Meantime Giovanni, amused by the altercation, was smiling as he scrubbed
his face with a coarse towel.

'Shall we set out, Master?' asked Astro, wearied by the delay.

'Wait,' replied Leonardo; 'I must ask Marco about the oats. I would know
how much truth is in the words of this scoundrel.'

And he returned to the house, Giovanni following him. Marco was in the
studio, working as usual by rule and with mathematical accuracy,
perspiring and panting as if he were rolling a weight uphill. His
closely compressed lips, the disorder of his red hair, his red fat
ineffectual fingers, seemed to say, 'Patience and perseverance will
conquer all things.'

'Marco! Is it true you give out no money for the horses' oats?'

'Of a surety it is true.'

'How is that, friend?' exclaimed the painter, his look having already
become timorous before the stern face of him who was steward of the
household. 'I bade you, Marco, take heed to remember the oats. Have you
forgotten?'

'No, I have not forgotten; but there is no money.'

'I guessed as much. There is always this lack of money. None the less,
Marco, I ask you, can horses live without oats?'

Marco threw his brush away angrily. And Giovanni noticed how the master
and the scholar seemed to have changed places.

'Hearken, Master!' said Marco. 'You bade me take charge of the
housekeeping, and not trouble you. Why do you yourself re-open the
matter?'

'Marco!' said Leonardo, with gentle reproach, ''twas but a week ago that
I gave you thirty florins.'

'Thirty florins! Pr'ythee count it up. Of this thirty, four were a loan
to Pacioli, two to that eternal sponge, Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco; five
went to the body-snatchers for your anatomy studies; three for mending
the glass and the stoves in the hot room for your reptiles and fishes;
and six golden ducats went for that spotted devil----'

'Do you mean the camelopard?'

'Precisely; the camelopard. We have nothing to eat ourselves, but we
feed that cursed beast. And whether we feed him or not, 'tis clear that
he will die.'

'Never mind, Marco,' said Leonardo gently; 'if he die I will dissect
him. The neck vertebræ of these animals are very curious.'

'The neck vertebræ! Oh, Master! Master! if you had not all these fancies
for horses, and corpses, and giraffes, and fish, and every sort of
beast, we might live as lords, asking alms of no one. Is not daily bread
better than caprices?'

'Bread? Have I ever asked for anything better than bread? Oh, I know
very well, Marco, you would like to see the death of all my creatures,
though they cost me so much trouble and expense to obtain. They are
indispensable to me--more so than you can imagine. You want to have
everything your own way.'

Helpless injury trembled in the voice of the Master; and Marco
maintained a sulky silence.

'But what is to become of us?' continued Leonardo. 'Already a famine of
oats? We were never in such straits before.'

'We have always been in straits,' said Marco, 'and we always shall be.
What can you expect? For a year we have not had a _quattrino_ from the
Duke. Messer Ambrogio Ferrari says daily, "to-morrow! to-morrow!" and to
my thinking he but mocks us.'

'Mocks us! Well, I will show him how to mock at me! I will complain to
the Duke! I will give that scurvy piece, Ambrogio, a lesson he shall not
forget! the Lord send him an evil Easter!'

Marco made a vague gesture, as if to say it was not Leonardo who would
teach lessons to the Duke's treasurer. Then an expression of kindness
and love came over his hard features, and he added soothingly:--

'No, no, Master, let it be! God is merciful, and we shall get along in
some fashion. If you really take it to heart, I will find the money even
for your oats.'

And Marco reflected that he could use some of his own money, a little
hoard he had been making for his mother.

'The oats are not the major question,' said Leonardo, sinking wearily on
a chair, and defending his eyes as if from a cruel wind. 'Hearken,
friend, there is a thing I have not yet told you; next month I shall
absolutely require eighty ducats, which I have had on loan. There is no
need to stare at me with those eyes, Marco.'

'Of whom had you the loan?'

'Of the money-changer, Arnoldo--'

'Of Arnoldo! Oh, Master! what have you done? Don't you know he is worse
than any infidel or any Jew? Why did you not tell me at once?'

Leonardo hung his head.

'I wanted the money--be not so wroth, Marco!' he said; and added
piteously, 'Bring the reckonings, perhaps we shall be able to devise
something.'

Marco was convinced they could devise nothing; however, finding absolute
obedience the best way of influencing the Master, he fetched the
account-books. Leonardo's brow contracted in a look of disgust, and he
watched the opening of the too familiar green volume with the air of one
looking into a gaping wound; then together they plunged into
calculations, and it was wonder and pity to see the great mathematician
making the blunders of a child in the additions and the subtractions.
Now and then he suddenly remembered some mislaid account of a thousand
ducats, sought it, fumbled in cases and boxes, and dusty piles of
papers, but found in its place trifling and useless memoranda written in
his own hand, such, for instance, as that one of Salaino's cloak:--

    Silver brocade,                 Livre 15 soldi  4
    Crimson velvet for trimming,      "    9   "    0
    Braid,                            "    0   "    9
    Buttons,                          "    0   "   12

He tore them angrily, and blushing and swearing threw them under the
table.

Giovanni, seeing on the great man's face these marks of human weakness,
murmured to himself:--

'A new Hermes Trismegistus halved with a new Prometheus? Nay, neither
god nor Titan, but a simple mortal like the rest of us! And to think
that I feared him! the poor kind soul!'


X

Two days passed, and as Marco had foreseen, Leonardo forgot the money
question completely. He demanded three florins for the purchase of a
fossil with so confident an air that Marco lacked courage to refuse him,
and handed out the money from his private hoard. The ducal treasurer,
deaf to Leonardo's entreaties, had still not paid the year's salary, and
was the less likely to do so that Ludovico himself required great sums
to spend in preparation for war with France. Leonardo was obliged to
borrow wherever he could, even from his own pupils.

Nor was the money forthcoming for the completion of the Sforza monument.
The plaster cast, the mould, the receiver for the molten metal, the
furnace--all were ready; but when the artist presented his estimate for
the bronze, Il Moro was alarmed, and even refused him an interview.

At last, in the end of November, urged by want, he wrote a letter to the
Duke; sentences fragmentary, disconnected, like the stammering of one
overcome by confusion, who does not know how to beg.

'Signore, knowing that the mind of your Excellency is occupied with
affairs of greater moment, yet fearing that silence may be a cause of
anger to my most gracious patron, I take freedom to remind your
Excellency of my humble necessities, and of the needs of my art, now
condemned to inactivity.... Two years have passed since I have received
my salary....

'Some persons in your Grace's service can afford to wait, since they
have other revenue, but I with my art, which, however, I would gladly
abandon for one more lucrative....

'My life is at your Excellency's service; and I shall always be prompt
in obedience.

'I speak not of the monument, for I know that the times....

'It irks me that owing to the necessity of earning my livelihood I must
break off my work, and occupy myself with trivialities.

'I have had to provide for six persons during fifty-six months, with
only fifty ducats....

'I know not to what I must dedicate my activity....

'Am I to study glory, or only my daily bread ...?'


XI

One November evening, after a day spent in soliciting the munificent
Gaspare Visconti, and Arnoldo the usurer, and in coming to terms with
the hangman--who demanded payment for two corpses (used by the artist
for studies), threatening in default to denounce the purchaser to the
Holy Inquisition--Leonardo came home greatly wearied and out of heart.
Having dried his clothes by the kitchen fire, and received the key of
his workshop from Astro, he was proceeding thither when he was surprised
by the sound of voices behind the door.

'What?' he said, 'is it not locked? Can it be thieves?'

Recognising the tones of his pupils, Giovanni and Cesare, he suspected
them of prying into his private papers. About to throw open the door,
he was arrested by a vivid imagination of their confusion, and the wide
eyes of terror with which they would greet him. He felt ashamed for
them, and went away, walking on tiptoe as if himself the culprit;
presently he called from the studio:--

'Astro! Astro! Bring me a light! Where have you all got to? Andrea!
Marco! Giovanni! Cesare!'

The voices in his room were silenced, some glass thing fell with a
crash, there was a shutting of windows. Leonardo still hesitated, unable
to resolve upon entry. In his heart was not so much anger as disgust.

His suspicions were not amiss. Having entered by the courtyard window,
Giovanni and Cesare had searched his drawers and opened his papers,
drawings, and diaries. Boltraffio, very pale, held a mirror, and Cesare
read the master's inverted writing:--

'_Laude del Sole. I cannot but blame Epicurus, who maintained that the
sun's magnitude is no other than it seemeth. Socrates astounds me, who,
depreciating so great a light, calls it but a molten stone. And would I
had vocables strong enough to confound those who prefer the apotheosis
of man to the apotheosis of the sun!_'

'Shall we pass on?' asked Cesare.

'Read to the end,' said Giovanni.

'_Those who worship men for gods_,' continued the reader, '_are greatly
in error; for man, though he were of the magnitude of the earth, would
appear smaller than the smallest star, a scarce visible spot upon the
universe; and seeing, further, that men in their sepulture are subject
to putridity and decay_--'

'Strange,' observed Cesare, 'that he can reverence the sun, but appears
not to recognise Him who, dying, was the vanquisher of death.'

He turned the page. 'Let us try this.'

'_In all parts of Europe, by great peoples, will be bewailed this day
the death of a man who died in Asia_--'

'You don't understand, Giovanni. I will explain: he treats of Good
Friday. Shall I go on?'

'_O mathematicians, throw light upon this error! Spirit exists not
without body, and where is no flesh, nor blood, nerves, tongue, bone,
and muscle, can be neither voice nor movement._'

'I can't make it out; the next lines are erased. We will pass to the
end.'

'_Other definitions of spirit I leave to the Holy Fathers, who know the
secrets of Nature by revelation from above._'

'H'm, I would not be Messer Leonardo if these lucubrations should fall
into the hands of the Holy Fathers! Here we have another of his
prophecies.'

'_Enough shall there be, who, leaving the ascesis of labour and poverty,
think to serve God by living luxuriously in buildings like palaces, and
in amassing visible wealth at the expense of the wealth invisible._'

'I conclude he here treats of Indulgences. Quite in Savonarola's vein! A
stone slung at the pope.'

'_Those who have been dead a thousand years will be the food of the
living._'

'That passes me! Nay, though, the thousand-year dead must be the saints
in whose name the monks collect money. A pretty riddle!'

'_They shall adore those who do not hear; they shall burn lamps before
those who do not see._'

'Images of saints.'

'_Women shall disclose to men their passions, their secret and shameful
deeds._'

'The confessional! How does it like you, Giovanni? A strange man, is he
not? But there is no real malice in these riddles. It is only
jest--sporting with blasphemy.'

'_Many who cozen the simple by dealing in pretended miracles, punish
those who unmask their deceits._'

'The trial by fire, of which the reckless Savonarola was the victim.'

He laid down the book and looked at his companion.

'Well, is it enough? or do you want further proof?'

Boltraffio shook his head: 'No, Cesare, it is not enough. Could we but
find a place where he speaks _plainly_!'

'Plainly? Ask not for that. Such is his disposition. He deals ever
double, conceals himself, feigns like a woman. Riddles are his nature.
Nor does he know himself. He is his own greatest enigma.'

'Cesare is right,' thought Giovanni. 'Better open blasphemy than these
mockings--this smile as of the unbelieving Thomas, who thrust his
fingers into the wounds of the Lord.'

Then Cesare showed a drawing in red chalk, tossed carelessly among the
machines and the tables of calculations--the Virgin with the Child in
the desert; seated on a stone, she was drawing triangles and circles
with her finger on the sand--the Mother of God teaching the Divine Son
geometry, the principle of all knowledge.

Giovanni gazed long at this strange drawing; then he held it to the
mirror that they might decipher the inscription. Cesare had scarce read
the first words, '_Necessity, the eternal teacher_,' when Leonardo's
call was heard:--

'Astro! Bring me a light! Andrea! Marco! Giovanni! Cesare!' Then
Giovanni turned pale. The mirror fell from his hands, breaking into
pieces.

'An evil omen,' said Cesare with a smile.

Like thieves caught in the act they pushed the papers into their places,
picked up the fragments of the mirror, opened the window, sprang to the
ledge and, clinging to the water-pipe and the branches of the vine,
dropped into the court. Cesare missed his hold, fell, and sprained his
foot.


XII

That evening Leonardo did not find his accustomed solace in his
mathematics. He walked the room, seated himself, began a drawing, flung
it aside. His mind was vaguely uneasy; there was something he must
decide, yet could not. His thought reverted continually to the same
thing; how Boltraffio had fled to Savonarola, had returned, and for a
time had settled down to work, recovering his calm in the pursuit of
art; but ever since that disastrous trial by fire, and especially since
the news of the prophet's approaching execution had reached Milan, he
had again been racked by doubts and regret. Leonardo understood how he
suffered; how again he felt the necessity to go away, yet could not make
up his mind to leave; how terrible was the struggle in a nature too deep
not to feel, too weak to overcome its own contradictions. Sometimes
Leonardo fancied he must himself drive his disciple away in order to
save him.

A bitter smile came to his lips as he thought:--

'It is true that I--I only--have ruined him! 'Tis a just accusation that
I have the evil eye! How am I to help him?'

He rose and mounted the steep dark stair, knocked at a door, and
receiving no answer opened it and went in. In the narrow room the
darkness was scarce broken by the little lamp burning before the figure
of the Madonna; rain was splashing on the roof, and the autumn wind
howled mournfully. A black crucifix was suspended against the white
wall. Giovanni, still dressed, his face hidden in the pillow, lay in the
unrestful position of a suffering child.

'Are you asleep?' asked the Master, bending over him.

He started up, with a faint cry, gazing with the same terror-struck eyes
and defensive hands that Leonardo had seen with the little Maia.

'Why, Giovanni! Giovanni! What is the matter? It is only I!'

Boltraffio came to himself, passing his hand slowly over his eyes.

'Ah! it is you, Messer Leonardo! I fancied--I have had a terrible dream!
But is it really _you_?' he repeated, his brows contracted as if he
could hardly believe his eyes.

The Master sat on the bedside and touched the lad's forehead.

'You have fever. Why did you not tell me?'

Giovanni would have turned away, but looking afresh at Leonardo, and
joining his hands supplicatingly, he said:--

'Drive me out! Drive me from you, Master! I shall never myself have the
courage to go. I am guilty towards you--a vile traitor.'

For answer Leonardo embraced him, drawing him to his breast.

'What say you, my son? Do you think I have not seen your distress? If
there is anything in which you think you have wronged me, I pardon it.
Perhaps some day you will be asked to pardon me!'

Astonished, Giovanni gazed at him with dreaming eyes, then suddenly hid
his face in his breast, sobs shaking his frame as he murmured:--

'If ever again I am obliged to leave you, oh, Master, do not think it is
for lack of love! I myself know not what has happened to me. Sometimes I
fear I am losing my reason. God has forsaken me! Oh, never, never
suppose--for truly I love you more than all else in the world! I love
you more than Fra Benedetto, who is as my father. Never will any one
love you as do I!'

Leonardo soothed him like a child. 'Enough! Enough! Think you I credit
not your love, my poor lad? Has Cesare suggested--but why do you heed
Cesare? He is clever, and he, too, loves me well, for all he thinks to
hate me; but there are matters beyond him.'

The disciple had become calm, and his tears were dry. Raising himself,
and fixing scrutinising eyes on the Master, he shook his head.

'No; it was not Cesare. 'Twas I myself. And yet no; it was not I, but
_he_.'

'Who is _he_?'

Giovanni again trembled, and pressed closer to his friend. 'No, no! For
God's sake let us not speak of _him_!'

'Listen, my son,' answered Leonardo, in that soothing yet severe and
almost rough tone in which a doctor speaks to a sick child; 'I see you
have a weight upon your heart. You must tell me all; all, do you hear?
Thus only shall I be able to help you;' and after a pause he added:
'Tell me of whom you spoke just now.'

Giovanni looked round as if in fear; then whispered in low, awestruck
tones:--

'Of your Semblance.'

'My Semblance? How mean you? Did you see it in a dream?'

'No; in reality.'

For a moment Leonardo thought him delirious.

'Messer Leonardo, three nights ago you, yourself, came to me as you have
come to-night?'

'No, I did not come. Why do you ask? Can you not remember yourself?'

'I do remember. Master, now I am certain it was _he_!'

'But what has given you this idea? What happened?' He felt that Giovanni
wished to speak, and sought to force him to do so, in the hope it would
afford him relief.

'This is what happened. Three nights ago he came to me as you have come
to-day at this very hour, and he sat on the edge of the bed as you do
now, and in every word, in every motion he was as you; and his face was
like yours, only as if seen in a glass, nor was he, like you,
left-handed, so I thought at once within myself, perchance it was not
you; and he knew my thought, yet dissembled and made no sign, but
pretended that we both knew naught. Only on leaving he turned himself
round to me and said: "Hast thou never, Giovanni, seen that one in my
likeness? If so be thou dost see him, be not at all afraid." And from
his saying this I understood all.'

'And you still believe this, my poor boy?'

'How should I not believe it, when I saw him as now I see you? Ay, and
he spoke with me!'

'Of what did he speak?'

Giovanni covered his face with his hands, and did not answer at once.

'It was not good,' he said at last in deprecating tones; 'he said
terrible things to me. He said that there was nothing in the world but
Mechanics--things like that terrible spider with the bloody revolving
arms, which he--no, not he--which _you_ have invented.'

'What spider? Ah yes, yes! I understand; you have seen my drawing of the
scythed chariot?'

'And he said,' resumed Giovanni, 'that what men call God is the eternal
force by which the hideous spider is moved, by means of which its
blood-stained arms revolve; and that this God cares nothing for truth or
untruth, for good or evil, for life or death. And that praying to him is
bootless, for he is inexorable as mathematics; two and two will never,
never make five.'

'I see. I see. You torture yourself uselessly. I know how it is.'

'No, Messer Leonardo, you do not yet know all. He said that Christ had
died in vain, had not risen triumphant from the grave, had not
vanquished death, but that His body lay mouldering in the tomb. And when
he said this, I burst into weeping, and he had compassion on me, and
tried to bring me comfort. And he said: "Weep not! There is no Christ,
but there is Love, Great Love, the daughter of Great Knowledge. Who
knoweth all, loveth all." Master, he used your very words! "Of old," he
said, "they taught that love came of weakness, of wonder, of ignorance;
but I tell you it comes of strength, of truth, of wisdom; for the
serpent lied not when he said, Eat of the tree of the knowledge of good
and evil, and ye shall be as gods." And then I knew him that he came of
the devil! I cursed him, and he withdrew himself; but he said he would
come again.'

Leonardo listened with as much interest as if this were no longer the
delirium of sickness. He felt the gaze of his disciple, now almost
calm, but terribly accusatory, sink into the secret depths of his soul.

'And the most fearsome thing,' continued Giovanni, slowly withdrawing
himself from the Master, and looking him full in the face with fixed and
piercing eyes; 'the most fearsome was that, as he spake to me thus, he
smiled. Yes, he could smile! He smiled, as you smile upon me
now--_you_!'

And his face became suddenly pale as wax, and with starting eyes and
contorted features, he pushed Leonardo from him, and cried in a wild
shout of terror:--

'Thou! Thou again! Thou hast cozened me! In the name of God, begone. Get
thee behind me, Accursed One!'

At these words the Master rose, and with compelling eyes fixed on his
disciple, he said:--

'Giovanni, of a truth you will do well to leave me. You remember it is
said in the Scripture, "He that feareth is not made perfect in love." If
you loved me with perfect love you would have no fear; you would know
that all this is delusion and madness; that I am not what men suppose;
that I have no Semblance; and that, perchance, I believe more truly in
Christ my Saviour than do those who call me Antichrist. Farewell,
Giovanni.'

His voice shook with inexpressible bitterness, which was, however,
unresentful. He rose to go.

'Have I spoken truth?' he asked himself, and felt that if his pupil
could only be saved by lies, he still was unable to lie. Boltraffio
flung himself upon his knees at Leonardo's feet.

'Master! pardon me. Nay, I know it is madness! I will drive away these
hideous thoughts! Only forgive me. Let me stay!'

Leonardo looked at him, his eyes glistening with tenderness; then he
bent over him and kissed his brow.

'Then forget not, Giovanni, that you have promised!' he exclaimed; and
added calmly, 'Now let us go down; the cold is too nipping here. I
cannot leave you in this room till you are completely cured. I have some
urgent business on hand, in which you can help me.'


XIII

He took his disciple into his own sleeping-chamber, which adjoined the
studio, blew up the fire, and when the crackling flame had diffused a
pleasant light upon everything, bade Giovanni prepare him a panel for a
picture. He hoped that work would calm the sick youth, nor was he
mistaken; by degrees Giovanni became completely absorbed in his
occupation.

With concentrated and serious attention, as if the task were of the most
curious and important in the world, he helped the Master to soak the
wood in acquavita, bi-sulphate of arsenic and corrosive sublimate, to
keep it from becoming worm-eaten; they filled in the dents and chinks
with alabaster, cypress lac, and mastic, and smoothed the unevenness
with a plane. As usual, under the hands of Leonardo, the work went on
easily as child's play. He talked also, and gave instruction on the
making of brushes, the coarser of pigs' bristles fixed in lead, and the
finer of squirrels' hair set in goose-quill; of varnish also, and the
driers to be used, of Venetian green and ferruginous ochre. A pleasant,
pungent, business-like scent diffused itself through the room, and as
Giovanni rubbed the panel lustily with linseed oil, the exertion made
him hot. His fever had disappeared. Once, stopping to take breath, he
looked at Leonardo, but the latter cried:--

'Make haste! make haste! if you let it grow cold the oil won't sink in!'

And Giovanni, bending his back, compressing his lips, and straining his
legs, rubbed on with increased energy and good will.

'How do you feel now?' asked Leonardo.

'Well!' replied the other smiling.

The rest of the pupils gathered also in the bright room. The comfort and
warmth within was redoubled by the howl of the wind and the patter of
the rain outside. Salaino came, shivering but light-hearted; Astro, the
one-eyed Cyclops; Jacopo and Marco; but Cesare da Sesto, as usual, kept
aloof from this friendly circle.

Then the panel was laid aside to dry, and Leonardo discoursed on the
purest oil for painting. An earthen dish was brought, in which was white
walnut juice covered with amber-coloured grease. Long coils, like
lamp-wicks, were laid in it and allowed to drip into a glass vessel.

'See, see!' cried Marco, 'what purity! Mine is always turbid, however
often I strain it!'

'Do you skin your nuts?' said Leonardo; 'if you do not, your colours
will turn black.'

'Then,' said Marco, 'the thin peel of a nut might ruin the best painting
in the world! Hear you, lads? you who mock me because I carry out the
Master's instructions with mathematical rigidity!'

The pupils laughed and talked and jested while they watched the
preparation of the oil. It was late, but no one cared for sleep, and
without heeding the protests of Marco the steward, they continually
threw new logs upon the fire. All were unaccountably merry.

'Let us tell stories,' said Andrea; and began with the tale of the
priest who on Holy Saturday took upon himself to sprinkle a particular
picture with holy water. 'Why so?' asked its painter. 'Because it is
written that for a good work one shall receive a hundredfold,' replied
the priest. And presently, as he left the house, the painter from an
upper window poured a pail of water on his head and cried--'Here is the
hundredfold for the good you have done me in spoiling my best picture.'

Other tales followed, and none enjoyed them more than Leonardo, who
indeed laughed like a child, nodding his head and wiping tears from his
eyes, and cackling with a strange thin laugh, incongruous with his great
height and powerful build.

About midnight they agreed it were impossible to go to bed without
eating, especially as they had supped sparingly, for Marco kept them on
short commons. Astro brought all there was in the pantry, some stale
ham, cheese, a few olives, and some bread. Wine there was none.

'Have you tilted the cask?'

'In all directions. There is not a drop.'

'Ah, Marco! Marco! what are we to do? How can we go without wine?'

'Can I buy wine without money?' said Marco.

'There is money, and there shall be wine!' cried Jacopo, tossing a gold
piece.

'How got you it, imp of the devil? Marry, stealing again. I suppose!
Come here and I'll box your ears for you,' said Leonardo, shaking his
finger at him.

'I swear by God, Master, I did not steal it. Cut out my tongue and send
me to the pit if I did not win it at dice.'

'Well, stolen or not, fetch us some wine.'

Jacopo ran off to the Golden Eagle hard by, much frequented by the Swiss
mercenaries, and kept open all night; presently he returned with pewter
cans. The wine increased the mirth; the little Ganymede holding the
vessel high so that beaded bubbles winked on the red liquid; and
overflown with pride in entertaining the company at his own expense, he
played pranks and jested and jumped; and mimicking the hoarse voice of a
confirmed toper, he sang the song of the unfrocked monk:--

     'To the devil with cowl and with frock, oh!
       With hood and with scapularie!
      Pretty nun, the lord Abbot bemock, oh!
       And dance at the junket with me!
                   Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!'

and then the solemn chorus from the Bacchanalian Mass, written in Latin,
and sung by the students on festive occasions:--

     'Who waters wine at this high feast supernal
      Shall drown in it for ages sempiternal,
      And after roast at fires of realms infernal!'

They drank toasts to the Master's health, to the glory of his studio, to
the hopes of future wealth; and Giovanni never supped so much to his
liking as at this beggars' feast, on cheese hard as rock, stale bread,
and Jacopo's stolen wine. Presently Leonardo said with a smile--

'I have heard, friends, that St. Francis called melancholy the worst of
sins, and preached that whoso wished to please God must be cheerful. Let
us drink to the wisdom of Francis and to eternal cheerfulness in God.'

These words were surprising to all the youths except Giovanni, who
understood their intention.

'Eh, Master,' said Astro, shaking his head, 'it is very well to speak of
cheerfulness, but how can we be cheerful while we crawl along the ground
like grave-worms? Let the others toast what they please, but I will
drink to wings and to the flying-machine. May the devil carry away the
laws of gravity and of mechanics which interfere with us.'

'Without mechanics you won't fly far, my friend,' said the Master
laughing.

After this the party broke up, and Leonardo would not allow Giovanni to
return to his cold attic; he aided him to improvise a bed in his own
room as near as might be to the hearth, where a few cinders still glowed
red.


XIV

Giovanni had learned from Cesare that the master had all but finished
the face of the Christ in the 'Last Supper'; he had asked several times
to be allowed to see it, but Leonardo had always postponed the matter.

At last, one morning he took the lad to the Refectory, and there, in the
place which had been vacant for sixteen years, between St. John and St.
James, against the square of the open window, with the background of the
quiet evening sky and the blue hills of Zion, Giovanni saw the Christ.

A few days later Leonardo sent him for a rare mathematical book to the
house of the alchemist, Sacrobosco. He was returning late in the
evening. The air was frosty and still, after a day of high wind and
thaw; the pools and the ruts of the road were coated with ice; the low
clouds seemed to cling motionless to the purple tops of the larches, in
which were a few ruined and deserted nests. Darkness came on apace; on
the dim verge of the horizon stretched the long copper and golden streak
where the sun had gone down. The water in the Cantarana Canal, still
unfrozen, seemed heavy, black as iron, and unfathomably deep.

Giovanni did not own it to himself, and indeed used every effort to
suppress the thought, but he was comparing, not without dismay,
Leonardo's two renderings of the Lord's face. If he shut his eyes, both
rose before him like living things; the one face that of a brother, and
full of human weakness, the face of Him who had agonised in bloody
sweat, and prayed a childlike prayer for a miracle; the other,
superhuman, calm, wise, alien, and terrible.

And Giovanni thought that, perhaps, notwithstanding their inexplicable
contradiction, the one was a likeness no less true than the other.

He grew confused, as if delirium were returning, and sitting on a stone
above the black canal waters, he bowed himself in exhaustion, and buried
his head in his hands.

'What are you doing here, like a shade on the banks of Acheron?' cried a
mocking voice; and he felt a hand on his shoulder, turned, and saw
Cesare, like some ill-omened ghost, in the wintry twilight; a long, lean
figure, with a long, lean, pale face, and muffled in a long grey cloak.
Giovanni rose, and they moved on together, the dead leaves rustling
under their feet.

'Does he know we ransacked his papers?' asked Cesare.

'Yes.'

'And is not angered. That I expected;' and Cesare laughed maliciously.
'Everlasting pardon, of course!'

There was a silence; a crow flew across the canal, cawing hoarsely.

'Cesare,' said Boltraffio in a loud voice, 'have you seen the face of
the Christ in the _Cenacolo_?'

'I have,'

'And--what think you of it?'

'What think _you_?' said Cesare, turning abruptly to his companion.

'I can hardly say; but it seems to me----'

'Speak frankly. It does not satisfy you?'

'That is not what I mean. But it seems to me, perhaps, that it is not
Christ.'

'Not Christ? Who then else?'

Giovanni did not reply; his eyes were on the ground, and without knowing
it, his pace slackened. At last he said--

'That other sketch in coloured chalk, the young Christ--have you seen
that?'

'Yes. A Jewish boy with chestnut curls, full lips and a low brow; the
son of old Barucco. You like it better?'

'No. But I was thinking how little alike they are, those two pictures!'

'Little alike? But it is the same face--fifteen years older, that is
all! However, it may be you are right. They may be two Christs, but as
like each other as a man and his own phantom.'

'As a man and his own phantom!' echoed Giovanni, shuddering and
stopping. 'What say you, Cesare? A man and his own phantom?'

'Well, what is so alarming in those words? Don't you agree with me?'

They walked on.

'Cesare!' cried Boltraffio suddenly and impulsively, 'do you not see
what I mean? How could He, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient, whom Leonardo
has painted in the _Cenacolo_, how could He have been tortured on the
Mount of Olives, not a stone's throw away, till He sweated blood and
prayed a human prayer for a miracle? "Let not that take place, to
accomplish which I came into the world, that which I know cannot fail to
be! Father, let this cup pass from me!" Cesare, everything is contained
in that prayer! Without it there is no Christ, and I would not
relinquish it for all the wisdom of Solomon! The Christ who prayed not
that prayer was never a man; He did not suffer and die like us!'

'I see your meaning,' replied Cesare slowly; 'certainly the Christ of
the _Cenacolo_ never prayed that prayer.'

The darkness was falling around them, and Giovanni could not accurately
see the face of his companion, which, however, seemed strangely
illuminated. Suddenly Cesare stopped, raised his hand, and spoke in a
low solemn voice.

'You wish to know whom he has painted, if 'tis not the weaker Christ who
prayed for a hopeless miracle in the garden of Gethsemane? Well, I will
tell you. Remember that beautiful invocation of Leonardo's when he spoke
of the laws of the mechanical sciences, "O divine justice of Thee, Thou
Prime Mover!" His Christ is the Prime Mover, who, principle and centre
of every movement, is Himself moveless. His Christ is the eternal
necessity, which is divine justice, which is the Father's will. "O
righteous Father, the world hath not known Thee, but I have known Thee
and I have declared unto these Thy name, that the love wherewith Thou
hast loved Me may be in them, and I in them." Do you see? Love born of
knowledge. '_Grande amore è figlio di grande sapienza._' Great love is
the child of great knowledge. And Leonardo, who alone of men has
understood this saying of the Lord's, has incarnated it in his Christ,
who loves all because he knows all.'

Cesare ceased, and for long they walked silently in the profound calm of
the winter twilight. At last Boltraffio said:--

'Do you remember, Cesare, how four years ago, you and I, walking along
this path together, were discussing the Cenacolo? Then you mocked at the
Master, and said he would never finish the face of the Christ, and I
contradicted you. Now it is you who defend him against me. Of a surety I
should never have believed that you--_you_! would one day speak of him
as now you have spoken!'

And Giovanni tried to see his companion's face, but the other turned
away.

'Now, I see with joy, Cesare, that you also love him! Yes, you love him,
you who wish to hate him; you love him perhaps better than do I!'

'Did you imagine anything else?' replied Cesare, slowly turning to his
companion a pale moved face; 'and yet I would indeed be glad to hate
him, but instead I must love him, for he has done, in the 'Last Supper,'
what no one has ever done, what perhaps he himself does not understand
so well as I--I, his most mortal enemy.' And Cesare laughed a forced
laugh. 'How odd is the human heart!' he went on. 'I will confess the
truth, Giovanni; perhaps I love him less to-day than I did at the time
you have alluded to.'

'Why so, Cesare?'

'Perchance because I value my own individuality. To be lowest among the
lowest--yes, better that than to be but a member of his body, a toe of
his foot! Let Marco find contentment in ladles for the measuring out of
paint, and rules for the proportions of noses. _I_ should like to ask
with which of these Leonardo made that countenance of Christ! True, he
does his best to teach us, poor chickens, to fly like eagles from the
eagles' nest; for he is compassionate, and sorry for us, as he is sorry
for the blind pups in the yard, or for a lame horse, or for the criminal
whom he accompanies to execution that he may watch his dying
convulsions. Like the sun, he shines upon everything. Only, see you, my
friend, each man hath his own fancy; you may like to be the worm which,
in St. Francis' fashion, Leonardo lifts from the highway and sets on a
green twig; I'd sooner be crushed by him!'

'Then, Cesare, if you feel thus, why do you not leave him?'

'And you--why do _you_ not leave him? You have burnt your wings like a
moth in a candle, and still you flutter round the flame. Perchance I
also am fain to burn myself in that flame. Yet, maybe, one hope remains
to me!'

'What hope?'

'A foolish hope. The dream of a madman! Yet I often dwell upon
it. The hope that one day a man shall arise, unlike him, yet his
equal; not Perugino, nor Borgognone, nor Botticelli, nor the great
Mantegna--Leonardo surpasses all these; but another, one who is still
unknown, reserved for a later day. I would fain see the glory of this
new one immense! I would fain look in the face of Messer Leonardo and
remind him that even a spared worm like me can prefer another to him,
can be pleased in the humiliation of his pride; for, Giovanni, he is
proud as Lucifer, in spite of his lamb-like meekness and his universal
charity.'

He broke off abruptly, and Giovanni felt his hand tremble.

'Hark you, Giovanni,' he said in a changed voice, 'who told you I loved
him? You never guessed it?'

'He told me himself.'

'He? Then he believes----'

His voice broke. Nothing remained to be said, and each was lost in his
own thoughts, his own griefs. At the next cross-road they parted.

Giovanni, with eyes on the ground, walked mechanically along the narrow
path skirting the canal in whose dark waters no star was reflected. He
repeated to himself, scarce consciously, 'As like as a man and his own
phantom! His own phantom!'


XV

At the beginning of March 1499, and at the moment when he least expected
it, Leonardo received his salary, which had been for two years unpaid.
It was reported at this time that Il Moro, overwhelmed by the news of
the alliance concluded against him by the Doge of Venice, the Pope, and
the King of France, intended to flee to the German Emperor upon the
first appearance in Lombardy of the French forces; and that it was in
order to secure the fidelity of his subjects during his absence that he
lightened the taxes, paid his creditors, and heaped largesses upon his
friends. A little later Leonardo received a fresh mark of his patron's
favour: the gift of sixteen perches of vineyard land, acquired from the
monastery of San Vittore near the Porta Vercellina, 'which,' so ran the
deed of gift, 'Ludovico Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan, confers on
Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine, most famous of painters.'

Leonardo went to express his thanks to the Duke, and was not granted an
interview till very late in the evening, owing to the pressure of state
affairs. Il Moro had passed the whole day in tedious conversation with
secretaries and treasurers, in verifying accounts for munition of war,
in loosing old knots and tying new ones in that web of deceit and
treachery, which had pleased him well when he had been the spidery
master of the threads, but which was another matter now he found himself
in the position of a fly.

His business despatched, the Duke went to the Gallery of Bramante, which
looked down upon the castle moat. The stillness of the night was broken
at times by the blare of a trumpet, by the challenge of sentinels, by
the clank of the drawbridge chains. As soon as he had entered the
gallery, his page, Ricciardetto, fixed torches in iron sconces against
the wall, and handed his master a gold platter with small pieces of
bread. These Ludovico threw to the swans which, attracted by the
reflection from the windows, had come sailing over the black mirror of
the water in the moat. Isabella d'Este, his lost Beatrice's sister, had
sent him these swans from Mantua, where the flat shores of the Mincio,
thick with reeds and willow-trees, were a renowned breeding-place for
great flocks of these beautiful birds. Feeding them was his chief
recreation after the business and anxieties of the day. They reminded
him of his childhood, by the weed-grown pools of Vigevano; and here in
the gloomy castle moat, among frowning embrasured walls, high towers,
cannon balls, and bombards, the noiseless snow-white creatures, gliding
like phantoms through the silver moonlit mist upon the scarce visible
water in which stars were reflected, seemed to him full of mystery and
charm.

Leaning out of the window, and still absorbed in his amusement, the Duke
did not hear the creak of a small door, nor notice the approach of a
chamberlain, until, with a deep reverence, the man had handed him a
paper.

'What is this?' asked the Duke.

'Messer Borgonzio Botta sends your Excellency the account for munition
of war, powder and bullets; he is grieved that he must trouble your
lordship, but at dawn the convoy starts for Mortara.'

Il Moro snatched the paper angrily, crumpled it, and threw it aside.

'How many times have I said I transact no business after supper? Good
God! soon I shall not be allowed even to sleep!'

The chamberlain, still bowing, retreated backwards, announcing in a low
voice which the Duke need not hear unless it so minded him:

'Messer Leonardo.'

'Leonardo! Why not have brought him in before? Conduct him hither at
once.'

And returning to the feeding of his swans, he added to himself,
'Leonardo will not worry me!'

When the painter entered, Il Moro smiled at him much as he smiled at his
pets; and when Leonardo would have knelt, restrained him, and kissed his
forehead.

'Welcome! 'Tis long since I have seen you. How fare you, friend?'

'I have to thank your Excellency----'

'Enough! Enough! You are worthy of better gifts. Give me time, and I
will recompense you properly.'

Then they talked of the diving-bell, the shoes for walking the water,
the wings. But when Leonardo would have diverted the conversation to
business, to the fortifications, the Martesana Canal, the casting of the
great _Cavallo_, Ludovico evaded the subject with an air of disgust.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, he fell into a fit of
abstraction, oblivious of his companion's presence, sitting quite
silent, with eyes on the ground, and Leonardo, supposing himself
dismissed, would have taken his leave. The Duke nodded absently, but
when the painter had reached the door he recalled him, and laying both
his hands on his shoulders, looked at him with a long sad gaze.

'Farewell, my Leonardo. Who knows if ever again we shall see each other,
we two alone, face to face, as at this minute!'

'Is your Excellency going to abandon us?'

Il Moro sighed heavily and paused before replying.

'We have been together for sixteen years,' he said at last, 'and in all
that time I have never disapproved you, nor, I think, have you
disapproved me. The vulgar may murmur; yet I think in after ages, when
they speak of Leonardo, they will have a good word for Il Moro, his
friend.'

The painter, who did not like outbursts of tenderness, replied in the
one courtly phrase which he reserved for moments of necessity:--

'I would I had more than a single life to dedicate to the service of
your Highness.'

'I believe it,' said Ludovico; 'some day, Leonardo, perhaps you will
remember me, and will weep----'

And himself scarcely restraining a sob, he embraced him, kissing his
lips.

'Leave me now, and may God go with you!' he said; and after Leonardo had
gone he remained long in the Bramante Gallery, where no sound broke the
stillness save the slow droppings from the torches, watching his swans,
and thinking strange thoughts. He fancied that across his dark, and even
criminal, life Leonardo had passed like these white swans across the
black waters of the castle moat, under those embrasured walls, towers,
and magazines; Leonardo, useless as they, delightful, immaculate, and
pure.


XVI

Late as was the hour, the artist, having left the Duke, went to the
Convento of Saint Francis to inquire for his pupil, Giovanni Boltraffio,
who was lying there grievously sick of a brain fever.

Visiting his former teacher, Fra Benedetto, in December 1498, Giovanni
had found Fra Paolo, a Dominican from Florence, with him, and this man
had given them the account of Savonarola's death.

The execution--thus Fra Paolo related--had been appointed for nine of a
May morning, to take place in the Piazza della Signoria, exactly where
had been the burning of vanities and the ordeal by fire. A pyre was
raised at the end of a long platform; and above it a gibbet--a stout
beam driven into the ground, with a crosspiece, from which dangled three
halters and iron chains. No effort of the carpenters could prevent this
erection from looking like a cross. The square, the loggias, the windows
and roofs of the houses were thronged by as great a multitude as had
assembled for the trial by fire. The condemned--Fra Girolamo Savonarola,
Fra Domenico da Pescia, and Fra Silvestro Maruffi--issued from the
Palazzo Vecchio, advanced along the platform and stood before the Bishop
of Pagagliotti, the papal nuncio. The bishop rose, took Savonarola's
hand, and in trembling tones, not daring to meet the unfaltering gaze of
the monk, he pronounced the ritual of degradation. Almost hesitatingly
he uttered the concluding words: '_Separo te ab Ecclesia militante atque
triumphante_.' (I cut you off from the Church militant and triumphant.)

To which Fra Girolamo replied:--'_Militante, non triumphante; hoc enim
tuum non est._' (From the Church militant, yes; from the Church
triumphant, no; that is not within your power!)

The three brothers were unfrocked; then, covered merely with their
under-tunics, they advanced further and stood before the tribune of the
Apostolic Commissaries who pronounced them heretics and schismatics; and
then again before the '_Otto Uomini della Repubblica Fiorentina_' (The
Eight of the Florentine Republic), who solemnly, in the name of the
people, pronounced the death sentence. During this last progress, Fra
Silvestro stumbled and nearly fell, and Fra Domenico and Savonarola
likewise were seen to totter. Later it was discovered that this was due
to a jest of certain of the Sacred Troop of Youthful Inquisitors, who
had crept under the planks and run nails through them, so as to wound
the naked feet of the condemned.

Fra Silvestro, the imbecile, was the first taken to the scaffold. With
his customary apathetic expression, seemingly unconscious of what was
befalling him, he ascended the steps; yet when the hangman put the noose
upon his neck he cried, raising his eyes to heaven: 'Lord, into Thy
hands I commend my spirit.' And not waiting for the executioner's
thrust, he leaped deliberately and fearlessly from the ladder. Then Fra
Domenico, who had expected his turn with joyous impatience, immediately
on receiving the signal, sprang to the scaffold smiling ecstatically as
if summoned to Paradise.

Fra Silvestro's body hung from one end of the crossbeam, Fra Domenico's
from the other; the centre was for Savonarola. As he neared the place,
he stood still, and looked down upon the crowd. Then there was a
silence, profound as once in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore,
when his expectant followers awaited the commencement of his preaching.
But now he said no word; and the halter was adjusted; then a voice
called out (and no one knew if it were mockery or the wild cry of
agonising faith): 'Perform a miracle, O prophet! Perform a miracle!' But
the executioner had already swung off the martyr from the ladder.

Then an old workman, whose face was resigned yet full of ascetic
fervour, and who for several days had had the custody of the pyre,
crossed himself hurriedly and threw the lighted torch upon the pile,
ejaculating, as Savonarola had done when he had set fire to the
'vanities and anathemata'--'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the
Holy Ghost!'

The flames leaped into the air; but the wind blew strongly and drove
them in the contrary direction from the scaffold. Wherefore the crowd,
smitten with a sudden fear, fell into tumult, and swayed hither and
thither, pressing upon and trampling one another, and bursting into the
cry: 'They burn not! Lo! a miracle! a miracle!' But the wind fell and
the flames rose straight and high, and licked round Fra Girolamo's
corpse. And the cord wherewith his hands had been tied was sundered by
the fire, and the hands fell loose and dropped and moved in the flame;
and to many of the people it seemed that for the last time he blessed
them.

When the fire was spent, and of the three brothers there remained only
charred bones and morsels of blackened flesh quivering on the iron
chains, then the faithful pressed forward and would have collected
relics of the martyrs. But the guards, driving them away, piled the
ashes into a cart and took them to the Ponte Vecchio with intent to cast
them into the river. And on the way thither the Piagnoni succeeded in
snatching some few handfuls of the sacred ashes, and certain rags of
flesh which they believed to have been the heart of their murdered
prophet.

Fra Paolo ended his recital; and he showed his hearers a little purse in
which he had saved some of these sacred ashes. Fra Benedetto kissed it
again and again, watering it with his tears; then the two monks went
together to vespers. When they returned to the cell, they found Giovanni
lying senseless on the ground before the crucifix, clutching the little
casket of ashes in his frozen fingers.

For three months the young man lay between life and death; and Fra
Benedetto never left him day nor night. He was long delirious, and the
good monk shuddered as he listened to his wanderings. He raved of
Savonarola, of Leonardo, of that blessed Mother of God, who, drawing
with her finger on the sand of the desert, taught the divine Child
geometrical figures and the laws of eternal necessity.

'For what dost Thou pray?' the sick man would repeat with unutterable
grief: 'Knowest Thou not that there is no relief--no miracle--? The cup
cannot pass from Thee; even as a straight line cannot fail to be the
shortest way between two points.'

He was haunted by the vision of the two faces of the Lord, unlike, yet
like as a man and his own phantom; the one overborne with human woe and
weakness, who in His agony had prayed for a miracle; the other the face
of the Omnipotent, of the Omniscient; of the Word made flesh, of the
Prime Mover. They were turned towards each other like irreconcilable and
eternal foes. And while Giovanni gazed at them, gradually the one Face,
that of the Lamb of God, gentle, sorrowful, long-suffering, became
obscured; and changed into the face of the demon which Leonardo had once
drawn, caricaturing Savonarola. And this demon-face, denouncing the
semblance of the Omnipotent, named him Antichrist.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fra Benedetto's loving care saved the life of his adopted son. By the
beginning of June Giovanni had so far recovered as to be able to walk;
and then, notwithstanding all the warnings and the entreaties of the
affectionate monk, he returned to Leonardo's studio.

Towards the close of July the army of Louis XII. of France, commanded by
Marshal d'Aubigny, Louis of Luxemburg, and Gian Giacomo Trivulzio,
crossed the Alps and burst down upon the plains of Lombardy.




BOOK X

CALM WATERS--1499-1500


     '_Le onde sonore e luminose sono governate dalle stesse leggi che
     governano le onde delle acque: l'angolo incidente deve eguagliare
     l'angolo riflettente._'
                                                    LEONARDO DA VINCI.

     (The waves of light and sound are governed by the same mechanical
     law as that governing waves of water: the angle of incidence equals
     the angle of reflection.)

     '_Il duca ha perso lo Stato e la roba e la libertà; e nessuna sua
     opera si fini per lui._'
                                                    LEONARDO DA VINCI.

     (The duke has lost state, wealth, and liberty; not one of his works
     will be finished by himself.)


I

The Duke's treasury, a subterranean chamber very long and narrow and
piled with huge oak chests, was entered from the north-west tower of the
Rocchetta by a small iron door set in the thickness of the wall and
adorned with an unfinished painting by Leonardo. On the first night of
September 1499, Messer Ambrogio Ferrari the court treasurer, and Messer
Borgonzio Botta the comptroller of the ducal revenue, with their
assistants, shovelled coins, pearls, and other treasures hastily from
the oak chests, threw them into leathern bags, which they sealed with
the ducal seal, and consigned to servants to be packed upon mules.
Already two hundred and forty bags had been sealed and thirty mules had
been loaded, yet the guttering candles still showed that the chests
contained great heaps of silver. Il Moro, meanwhile, sat at a portable
writing-desk heaped with registers and account-books, but gazed blankly
at the flame of the candle, and paid no attention to the work of the
treasurers. Since the terrible news had reached him of the defeat of
Galeazzo Sanseverino, the commander of his forces, and of the
inevitable nearing of the French, he seemed to have fallen into some
strange torpor which resembled insensibility.

Presently Ambrogio Ferrari inquired whether the Duke wished to take the
gold and silver plate also; but Ludovico, after frowning and apparently
making an effort to attend, turned away, waved his hand, and once more
fixed his eyes upon the candle. The question was repeated, but this time
he did not even feign attention; and presently the treasurers, unable to
obtain an answer, went away. Il Moro remained alone.

A few minutes later, the old chamberlain announced Messer Bernardino da
Corte, the newly appointed commandant of the fortress. The Duke roused
himself, passed his hand over his brow, and bade his approach.

Ludovico, distrustful of the scions of great families, liked raising men
from nothing, making the first last, and the last first. This Bernardino
was the son of a footman, and had himself in his boyhood worn the court
livery. The Duke had, however, exalted him to the highest offices of
state, and now, as a proof of final confidence in his ability and good
faith, had charged him with the defence of the castle of Milan, his last
stronghold.

The Duke received the new governor graciously, bade him sit, spread
before him the plan of the castle, explained the signals concerted
between the fortress and the town. For example, in the daytime a curved
gardening knife (or at night a flaming torch) displayed from the main
tower of the castle was to show the need for instant help; a white
sheet, hung on the tower of Bona, signified treachery within the walls;
a chair suspended by a rope meant lack of powder; a petticoat, lack of
wine; a pair of breeches, scarcity of bread; an earthenware pot, the
need of a doctor.

Il Moro had himself invented this code, and was childishly pleased with
it, as if in it lay somehow his chief hope of safety.

'Remember, Bernardino,' thus he concluded his exordium, 'everything has
been foreseen. You have sufficiency of money, powder, provisions,
fire-arms; the three thousand mercenaries are already paid; the fortress
is in your hands, and should be able to stand a three years' siege. I,
however, only ask you to hold it for three months; if at the end of
that time I have not returned to your relief, you must do what you
think best. Now you know all. Farewell, my son; may the Lord protect
you!' And he favoured him with an embrace.

The governor of the castle dismissed, Il Moro bade the page prepare his
camp bed. He prayed, and laid himself down, but sleep proved impossible.
He lighted a candle, took a packet of papers from his wallet, and found
a poem by one Antonio Cammelli da Pistoia, Bellincioni's rival, who on
the first appearance of the French had deserted his patron. The poem
represented the war between Ludovico and Louis XII. as a conflict
between a winged serpent and a cock:--

     'Italia's lord, we lay to heart thy fate,
      For good it is to learn by other men's undoing.
      O bitter word to speak, the loss of all things rueing--
      When fickle fortune smiled, I was a potentate!
      The world to Ludovico seemed a fief but late;
      Itself and all its glory appeared but of his doing;
      Yet Heav'n, his stomach high and proud presumption viewing,
      His every hope and scheme did suddenly frustrate.'

The Duke's soul was pervaded by melancholy, which was not, however,
entirely disagreeable. It was partly the pride of a martyr. He
remembered the servility of the sonnets the same poet had dedicated to
him not long ago:--

     'Speak, potent lord, and say, The world to me is given!'

It was midnight, and the flame of the dying candle flickered and grew
dim, but still the Duke continued to pace the gloomy room, thinking of
his griefs, of the injustice of blind fortune, of the ingratitude of
men.

'What wrong have I done them? Why do they hate me? They call me a
villain and an assassin; but what have I done more than Romulus who
killed his brother, and Cæsar, and Alexander, and all the heroes of
antiquity? Were _they_ villains and assassins? My desire was to give
them a new age of gold, such as had not been seen since the days of
Augustus and the Antonines. A little longer, and under my rule Italy
would have been united; the laurels of Apollo would have bloomed, and
the olives of Pallas; the reign of peace would have begun, and the
worship of the muses. First among princes, I sought greatness not in
deeds of war, but in the fruits of golden peace, in the protection of
talent, Bramante, Pacioli, Caradosso, Leonardo, and how many others! In
days to come, when the noise of arms shall be forgotten, their names
will be remembered, together with the name of Sforza. To what a height
should not I, the new Pericles, have raised my new Athens, but for this
horde of northern barbarians who have cut short my work? Why, O my God
_why_ is this permitted?'

And, his head drooping on his breast, he thought again of the lines:--

     'O bitter word to speak, the loss of all things rueing--
      When fickle fortune smiled, I was a potentate!'

The candle flared for the last time, illuminating the vaulting of the
roof, and the fresco of Mercury above the treasure-house door. Then it
sank down and went out. The Duke shuddered, for he thought it a bad
omen. Fearful of awakening Ricciardetto, he groped his way to the bed,
lay down again, and this time fell asleep at once.

He dreamed that he knelt to Madonna Beatrice, who having discovered his
intrigue with Lucrezia was taxing him with it, and striking him full in
the face. He was pained, yet rejoiced that she had returned to life. He
submitted to her chastisement, caught her hands that he might kiss them,
and wept for love. But suddenly there stood before him, not Beatrice,
but the Mercury of Leonardo's fresco over the door. The god seized him
by the hair, crying:--

'O fool, and blind! In what dost thou yet hope? Will all your deceits
save you from the just punishment of God? Murderer and villain!'

When he awoke, the morning light was shining on the windows. The lords,
the knights, the captains, the German mercenaries, who were to escort
him to the court of Maximilian, in all, some three thousand horsemen,
were awaiting his presence by the main road which led north--towards the
Alps.

Ludovico mounted, and rode to the Monastery delle Grazie, that he might
pray for the last time beside the grave of his lost Beatrice. Later,
when the sun was high in the heavens, the cortège began its march
through Como, Bellaggio, Bormio, Bolzano, and Brisina, to the Tyrol, and
the city of Innsbrück.


II

The journey took over a fortnight, for a rainy autumn had spoiled the
roads. On the 18th of September, the Duke, being fatigued and
indisposed, determined to pass the night in a mountain cave, which
afforded shelter to a few herdsmen. It would not have been difficult to
find a more commodious resting-place, but Il Moro deliberately chose
this wild spot for his reception of the ambassador from Maximilian. The
watch-fires illumined the stalactites and the natural vaulting of the
cavern; pheasants were roasting for supper; and the Duke, seated on a
camp-chair, his feet on a brazier, and his head muffled--for he was
suffering from toothache--reflected, not without a certain satisfaction,
on the greatness of his misfortunes. Lucrezia Crivelli, bright and
gentle as ever, was preparing an anodyne of wine, pepper, cloves, and
other potent spices for the illustrious sufferer.

'So, then, Messer Odoardo,' said Il Moro to the Emperor's envoy,' you
can tell his Majesty where, and in what condition you found the
legitimate ruler of Lombardy.'

Ludovico was in one of the fits of loquacity which sometimes succeeded
to long periods of silence and dejection. 'Foxes have holes,' he went
on, 'and birds of the air have nests, but I have not where to lay my
head. Corio,' he turned to the chronicler, 'in compiling your annals
omit not description of this lodging, the refuge of the last heir of the
great Sforzas, of the descendant of Anglus, the Trojan, the comrade of
Æneas.'

'My lord,' said Odoardo, 'your misfortunes deserve the pen of a new
Tacitus.'

Lucrezia brought the anodyne, and the Duke paused to look at her
admiringly. Her pale clear face was bright in the rosy glow of the
firelight, her black hair coiled smoothly above her pure forehead, upon
which glowed the single diamond of the _ferroniera_. She looked at her
lover with her grave, innocent, and observant eyes; on her lips was a
smile of almost maternal tenderness.

'Sweet heart!' thought Ludovico, 'here is one who will never betray me!'
and receiving the medicament from her hand, he again turned to the
chronicler and said, with swelling sententiousness: 'Corio, set down
likewise this; "true friendship is proved in the furnace of affliction,
as gold is proved in the fire."'

'Eh, old fellow, why so gloomy?' cried Janachi, seating himself at the
Duke's feet, and slapping his knee, 'a truce to this black bile! There's
remedy for every ill save death, and trust me, old man, it's better to
be a living ass than a dead prince! Kiki riki! Look! look! what a throng
of ass-saddles we have here!'

'Well, what of it?' asked the Duke, wearily.

_'Moro mio, moro mio_, there's an old Story which says--'

'Well--go on; relate the story!'

The fool jumped to his feet, ringing his bells and shaking his rattle.

'Once upon a time there was a king in Naples, and he bade Giotto the
painter make him a wall-picture of his kingdom. And the saucy painter
drew a stout Ass carrying on his back a Saddle with the royal arms, the
sceptre, and the crown; and the Ass was sniffing at another Saddle, also
emblazoned with arms, sceptre and crown. Wherefore, dear Sir, I say to
thee, to-day the people of Milan are sniffing at the French Saddle. Let
them alone! Soon enough will it gall their backs, and they'll wish to be
quit of it!'

'_Stulti aliquando sapientes_,' said the Duke, with a melancholy smile
at this piece of imbecility. 'Corio, write in the chronicle----'

But he did not finish the phrase, for the snorting of horses, the tramp
of hoofs, and the buzz of voices were heard outside the cavern. Mariolo
Pusterla the chamberlain, his face pale and agitated, entered hastily,
and whispered with Calco the chief secretary.

'What has happened?' asked the Duke.

No one was willing to reply, and all eyes fell.

'Your Excellency----' began the secretary, in trembling tones, and broke
off.

'May the Lord support your Excellency!' said Luigi Marliani. 'Be
prepared; bad news has arrived from Milan.'

'Speak, then; speak! For God's sake, speak!' cried Ludovico, turning
pale. Then looking towards the entrance, he caught sight of a man
splashed with mud, and travel-worn. The Duke brushed Marliani aside,
hurried to the messenger, and snatching a letter from his hand, broke
the seal, read with lightning glance, uttered a cry, and sank senseless
to the ground. Marliani and Pusterla were barely in time to break his
fall.

On the 17th of September, the feast of San Satiro, the traitor
Bernardino da Corte had opened the gates of the Castle of Milan to the
French marshal, Gian Giacomo Trivulzio.

Ludovico was practised in the simulation of diplomatic faintness. This
time, however, the physicians had trouble in restoring him to
consciousness. When at last he regained his senses, he sighed, made the
sign of the cross, and murmured:--

'Since Judas there never was a traitor like Bernardino da Corte.'

And for the rest of the evening he did not utter a single word.

A few days later the Duke arrived at Innsbrück, where he was graciously
received by the Emperor and lodged in the imperial palace. One evening
he was walking up and down his chamber, and dictating to Bartolomeo
Calco credentials for the envoys whom he was secretly despatching to the
Sultan. The face of the old secretary expressed nothing but attention,
and his pen travelled rapidly over the paper, as the words fell from his
master's lips.

'"Firm and invariable in our good disposition towards your
Highness"'--so ran the document--'"and trusting that in the task of
recovering our lost dominions, we may look for aid to the magnanimity of
the powerful ruler of the Ottoman Empire, we have resolved to send three
different messengers by three different roads, so that at least one of
them may arrive and present our letter. The Pope, who by nature is
perfidious and wicked----"'

Here the pen of the dispassionate secretary stopped; he looked up,
wrinkling his brows. He could not believe his ears.

'The Pope?'

'Yes, the Pope. Go on,'

The secretary looked at his work again, and the pen scratched faster
than before.

'"The Pope, being by nature wicked and perfidious, has instigated the
French king to carry war into Lombardy."'

Then came the list of French victories.

'"Dismayed by these misfortunes,"' continued Il Moro frankly, '"we have
judged it prudent to seek refuge at the court of the Emperor Maximilian,
while awaiting the assistance of your Highness. All have betrayed us;
but more than the rest, Bernardino"'--here his voice shook--'"Bernardino
da Corte, a serpent warmed in our bosom, a slave whom we had heaped with
favours and benefactions; a traitor like unto Judas"--Nay, 'tis vain to
speak of Judas to an infidel; scratch out "Judas."'

He prayed the Sultan to assail Venice by sea and by land, assuring him
of easy victory and the complete destruction of that secular enemy of
the Ottomans, the arrogant Republic of St. Mark.

'"And we pray your Highness to remember,"' he concluded, '"that in this
war, as in every other undertaking, all we have is at the disposal of
your Highness, who in all Europe will find no more faithful ally than
Ourselves."'

He had approached the table and seemed desirous of adding yet another
few words; but in a sudden access of discouragement he waved his hand,
and threw himself on a seat. Calco carefully strewed the wet writing
with sand; then he looked up and saw that the Duke had covered his face
with his hands, and was weeping, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

'Lord, why hast thou permitted this? Where, where is Thine eternal
justice?' he mourned. Then uncovering his distorted face, which at that
moment seemed to belong to some feeble old woman, he said:--

'Bartolomeo, you know that I repose confidence in you. Tell me, on your
conscience, am I acting wisely?'

'Does your Excellency refer to the embassy to the Grand Turk?'

Il Moro nodded.

The old man wrinkled his forehead and puffed his lips meditatively.

'Certes, those who hunt with wolves must howl with them; yet if we look
at the matter from another point of view--in fine, if I am permitted to
counsel your Excellency, I would say, wait!'

'I have waited. Now I will demonstrate that the Duke of Milan is not to
be tossed aside like a mere pawn. My friend, I have been ever on the
side of right, and I have been most iniquitously abused. Who shall blame
me if I appeal, not only to the Grand Turk, but to the very devil
himself?'

'Yet an invasion by the infidel,' suggested the secretary, 'might
perchance be cause of grave peril to the Christian Church.'

'God forbid, Bartolomeo! I have considered that. I would suffer a
thousand deaths rather than bring damage to our holy Mother Church. But
hark you! You do not fully understand my design.'

At these words his lips took on their old rapacious smile. 'We will brew
these villains such a broth,' he continued; 'we will entangle them in
such nets, that none of them shall look again on God's world! But the
Grand Turk!--why, the Grand Turk is no more than a tool in my hands!
When the time is ripe we will cast him aside, and then we will root out
all that vile sect of Mahometans, and free the sacred sepulchre of the
Lord from the unclean domination of infidel dogs!'

Calco discreetly lowered his eyes and made no answer.

'This is bad,' he said to himself; 'these are dreams; in all this there
is no policy. He lets himself be carried too far, and he perceives not
consequences.'

But that night Ludovico, animated by hope in God and in the Grand Turk,
prayed long before his favourite picture, by Leonardo, in which the
Virgin was pourtrayed with the features and smile of Cecilia, Countess
Bergamini.


III

Ten days before the surrender of the castle, the French marshal,
Trivulzio, had made entry into Milan amid the pealing of bells and the
acclamation of the populace. The king's entry was fixed for the 6th of
October, and the citizens were preparing for his reception. The two
great angels which, fifty years earlier in the days of the 'Repubblica
Ambrosiana,' had represented the genii of popular liberty, were taken
from the cathedral treasury for use in the royal procession. Long disuse
had stiffened the springs by which their gilded wings were moved, and
they were accordingly sent for repair to the court mechanician, Leonardo
da Vinci.

Early one autumnal morning, while it was still dark, Leonardo sat at his
desk, busy with his calculations and his geometrical designs. Of late he
had resumed his study of aerostatics, and was constructing another
flying-machine. Its skeleton was spread across the room, not, like its
predecessor, resembling a bat, but rather a gigantic swallow. One of
the wings was completed; slender, sharply outlined, beautiful in form
and texture, it rose from floor to ceiling, and under its shadow Astro
was working at the two wooden angels of the former Milanese Republic. In
this latest apparatus Leonardo had determined to follow, as closely as
he might, the structure of those winged creatures which nature had
provided as models for a flying-machine. He still hoped to solve the
problem by close observance of mechanical laws; but though apparently he
knew all that could be known, there was still something which eluded his
comprehension, and which perhaps lay outside these laws with which he
was so familiar. As in his earlier experiments, he found himself brought
up against that subtle dividing line which separates the creations of
nature from the work of human hands; the structure of the living body
from the structure of the lifeless machine; and he began to think he was
aiming at the impossible--the irrational.

'Thank God, that is finished!' exclaimed Astro, winding up the springs
of the wooden angels.

Their heavy wings moved, and in the resultant waft of air, the delicate
wing of the great swallow stirred and rustled. The smith looked at it
with inexpressible tenderness.

'The time I have squandered on these stupid monsters!' he exclaimed,
pushing the angels away. 'From this out, Master, you may say what you
please, but I will not go from this room till I have finished my
swallow! Give me, pr'ythee, the design for the tail.'

'It is not ready, Astro. It demands further calculation.'

'But, Master, you promised it to me three days ago!'

'It cannot be helped. The tail of our bird is the rudder. The smallest
mistake will ruin the whole.'

'You know best, I suppose! I will get on with the second wing.'

'We had better wait. It may be necessary to introduce some
modification.'

The smith very carefully lifted the cane skeleton, overlaid with a
network of bullocks' tendons; he turned it round, and contemplated it
under every aspect. Then, his voice thick and trembling with excitement,
he cried:--

'Master, be not wroth, but hear! If your calculations lead you to the
conclusion that this machine also is useless, I swear to you that none
the less _I_ intend to fly. Yes, I will fly in spite of all your
damnable mechanics. I have no longer patience for waiting, because----'

He stopped short. Leonardo gazed at the wide, irregular, obstinate face,
impressed with a single, senseless, all-absorbing idea.

'Messere,' he added, more quietly, 'be so kind as to say plainly, are we
going to fly, or are we not?'

Leonardo had not the heart to tell him the naked truth.

'We cannot be quite certain till we have made the experiment,' he
replied; 'but I think we shall fly.'

'That is enough; I ask no more,' said the mechanic, clapping his hands.
'If _you_ say we shall fly, then the thing is done.'

He presently burst into a great laugh.

'What the devil amuses you?' asked Leonardo.

'Ah, forgive me, Master! I am always disturbing you. But when I fall
a-thinking of the poor folk of Milan, and of the French soldiers, and Il
Moro, and the king, I have to laugh because I feel so sorry for them.
Poor little creeping worms, poor little jumping grasshoppers! Always on
the same plot of earth to which they are chained by their feet, they
fight and they bite each other, and they think they are doing some very
great thing! How they will stare and gape when they see men alive and
flying. I misdoubt that they will believe their eyes. "These be two
gods," they will say. Astro, a god! I doubt the whole world will be
changed. I doubt wars and laws will be done with, and masters and
slaves. We cannot conceive how it will be! Soaring up to heaven like the
choirs of angels, all the people will shout Hosanna! O Messer Leonardo,
Messer Leonardo! is it true that verily thus it will be?'

He spoke wildly, like one in delirium.

'Poor fool!' thought Leonardo; 'what blind faith! What is to be done?
How can I tell him the truth? He will go crazed!'

At this moment there was a great knock at the street door, then a noise
of voices and steps, and then a rap at the door of the studio.

'What devil comes at this hour?' growled Astro. 'A pox on him! Who is
there? You won't see the Master. He has gone away from Milan.'

'Tis I, Astro--Luca Pacioli, the mathematician! Open, open, for God's
sake!'

The smith opened and let the friar enter. His face was blanched with
terror. Leonardo asked him hurriedly what had happened.

'To me, Messer Leonardo, nought--or leastways of that I will speak
later. I come from the castle. Oh, Messer Leonardo! The Gascon
bowmen--in fact the French--I saw it with my own eyes! _They are
destroying your Cavallo._ Let us run! Let us run!'

'Soft!' said the painter, though he also had paled. 'What shall we do by
running?'

'But you cannot sit here with folded hands while your masterpiece is
perishing? I have a recommendation to Monsieur de la Trémouille. We must
implore him----'

'We are too late.'

'No, no! there is still time! We can run by the garden, through the
hedge. If we but make haste!'

Dragged along by the monk, Leonardo set forth for the castle. On the way
Fra Luca told him of his own misadventure. The _lanzknechts_ had
plundered the cellar of the _Canonica_ of San Simpliciano, where he
dwelt; and being drunken, had wrought havoc through the house; and in
Fra Luca's cell, having chanced on certain geometrical models made in
crystal, had taken them for instruments of magic, and smashed them to
atoms.

'My poor innocent crystals, which had done them no manner of wrong,'
mourned the friar! Reached the piazza before the castle, they saw a
young French dandy attended by a numerous suite on the drawbridge.

'Maître Gilles!' cried Fra Luca overjoyed; and he explained to Leonardo
that this was a considerable and authoritative personage; his title,
'Whistler to the woodhens,' his office, to teach the finches, magpies,
parrots, and thrushes of the most Christian king their feats of singing,
talking, dancing, and other performances. Rumour asserted that the
'woodhens' were not the only bipeds who danced to the piping of Maître
Gilles; and altogether Fra Luca had long felt that he must be presented
with his books (richly bound) _De Divina Proportione_ and _Summa
Aritmetica_.

'Fra Luca,' said Leonardo, 'do not lose your opportunity--attend Maître
Gilles. I can manage my own case.'

'No, no,' said the other, somewhat ashamed, 'I can wait; or I will just
fly to him for an instant and learn whither he is going, and in a trice
I will be back with you--go you on towards Monsieur de la Trémouille.'

And gathering up the skirts of his brown habit, his bare feet shod with
clattering wooden pattens, the nimble monk ran after the 'Whistler to
the Woodhens'; while Leonardo crossed the drawbridge and entered the
inner court of the castle.


IV

The morning mists were rising, and the watch-fires already dying down.
The courtyard was crowded with cannon, ammunition, camp equipage, stable
provender and refuse. All around were movable booths and cooking-spits,
empty barrels serving as card-tables, hogsheads of wine, barrows of
provisions; great noises of laughter, curses, quarrelings in many
tongues, blasphemies, drunken shoutings and songs. At times an interval
of sudden stillness when officers of rank passed. At times drums beat
and brazen trumpets gave signal to the Rhenish and Suabian
_lanzknechts_, or Alpine horns were blown from the walls by mercenaries
from the Free Cantons of Uri and Unterwalden.

Making his way through the crowd of men and things, Leonardo reached the
centre of the square and found that the Colossus, the happy labour for
years of his maturest art, was still intact. The great duke, conqueror
of Lombardy, Francesco Attendolo Sforza, with his bald head, in form
like that of some Roman emperor, and his expression of leonine cruelty
and vulpine cunning, erect as ever, still sat his huge plunging charger
and trampled on his foe.

A great crowd of archers of various nationalities surrounded the statue,
disputing each in his own language, and gesticulating. Leonardo gathered
that a contest was imminent between a French and a German marksman, who,
after drinking four tankards of wine were to shoot at a distance of
fifty paces at the birthmark on the cheek of the great Sforza. The paces
were measured; lots were drawn as to who should shoot first; the wine
was poured out. The German drank the fill of a tankard without drawing
breath, another, and another, and another. Then he took his aim, bent
the bow, launched his arrow, and missed the mark. The arrow grazed the
cheek, and took off the tip of the left ear, but did no further damage.
It was now the turn of the Frenchman. He had brought his arbalist to his
shoulder, when a commotion arose among the onlookers. The crowd divided,
making space for the procession of a knight and his escort of
resplendent followers. He rode past, not heeding the marksmen.

'Who is that?' inquired Leonardo.

'Monseigneur de la Trémouille.'

'Then I am in time,' thought the artist; 'I must pursue him and make
supplication.'

Nevertheless he actually stood motionless where he was; oppressed by an
inability, a paralysis of the will, that would have hindered the
stirring of a finger had his very life been in danger. Repugnance,
shame, seized him at the thought of pushing his way through the crowd
that he might, like Fra Luca Pacioli, run after and pull at the skirts
of a person of quality. The Gascon shot his arrow; it whizzed through
the air, hit the mark, and penetrated deeply into the mole on
Francesco's cheek.

'_Bigorre! Bigorre! Montjoie! Saint Denis!_' shouted the soldiers,
throwing their caps into the air, '_Vive la France_!' The noisy crowd
again encircled the Colossus, the jargon of many tongues broke forth
anew; a fresh match was arranged, and again arrows whistled on the air
and wounded the great Duke. Leonardo could not move. Inconceivable as it
may seem, rooted to the spot as in some hideous dream, he watched the
slow destruction of the work of the six best years of his life; of
perhaps the greatest monument of the sculptor's art since the days of
Phidias and Praxiteles. Under a hail of bullets, arrows, and even
stones, the brittle clay was broken off in lumps or resolved into dust;
the supports were laid bare. The Colossus had become an immense iron
skeleton.

The sun streamed out from behind a bank of clouds. Nothing remained but
the headless body of a man, the trunk of a horse, the fragment of a
sceptre, and the inscription on the pedestal. 'Behold a god!' Just then
the commandant of the French troops, the old Marshal Gian Giacomo
Trivulzio, rode up. He looked at the place of the Colossus, stopped in
sheer astonishment, looked again, shading his eyes from the sun; then
turned to his attendants and asked--

'In the name of God, what has taken place?'

'_Monseigneur_,' replied a lieutenant. 'Captain Cockburn gave permission
to his cross-bowmen----'

'The Sforza monument! the work of Leonardo da Vinci--I made a target for
the archers of Gascony!' cried the marshal, and he rushed at the men,
who, intent on their work of destruction, had not observed his
displeasure; seized a Frenchman by the collar and flung him to the
ground, rating him soundly. In his fury the old general had become quite
purple.

'_Monseigneur_,' stammered the soldier, struggling to his knees, shaking
with fright, '_Monseigneur_, we did not know! Captain Cockburn had
said----'

'To hell with your Captain Cockburn! I'll hang every man jack of you!'

He flourished his sword and would have wounded some one had not Leonardo
caught his wrist with such force that the brazen sword-hilt was bent.

Trivulzio stared at the stranger in dire amazement while struggling to
free himself.

'Who is this man?' he exclaimed indignantly, and the artist himself
replied:--

'Leonardo da Vinci.'

'And how do you dare----' began the old marshal, still beside himself,
but meeting the clear unfaltering gaze of the eyes fixed upon him, he
broke off. 'Eh? you are Leonardo?' he said. 'I pray you loose my
arm--you have crushed the hilt.'

'_Monseigneur_,' said Leonardo, 'I beseech you.--Pardon these poor
fools!'

The marshal again stared in amazement; then smiled, and shook his head.

'A strange fellow! What? You entreat for them?'

'If your Excellence hangs every mother's son among them, what will it
profit me? They knew not what they did.'

The old man became thoughtful, then his face cleared, and his small
intelligent eyes shone with good nature.

'Hark ye, Messer Leonardo! There is one thing passes me. How could you
stand there stock-still, looking on? Why did you not complain to me? or
to Monseigneur de la Trémouille? He must have passed by within an hour!'

Leonardo looked down and reddened. 'I was not in time,' he stammered,
'I----I don't know Monsieur de la Trémouille.'

''Tis a misfortune,' said the old man; and surveying the ruin, he
exclaimed with great vehemence, 'I would have given a hundred of my best
troopers for your Colossus!'

On his way home, Leonardo crossed the bridge just under Bramante's
loggia, the scene of his last interview with the Duke. Pages and grooms
were chasing the swans which were so dear to Il Moro; and the poor
creatures unable to escape from the moat, fluttered and screamed in
agonies. The water was flecked with down and snowy feathers; here and
there on its blackness floated a white blood-stained body. One
newly-wounded bird stretched its graceful neck in the convulsions of
death, uttering piercing cries and flapping its weakening wings, as if
in a last vain effort for flight. Leonardo averted his eyes and hurried
away.


V

Louis XII. made his entry into the Lombard capital punctually on the 6th
of October. Great crowds assembled to see the procession; and the
newly-mended angels of the Milanese Commune waved their gilded wings to
the admiration of all.

Leonardo had not touched his flying-machine since the day of the
destruction of the _Cavallo_; but Astro still laboured at it
indefatigably, now and then looking reproachfully at the Master with his
one eye, in which blazed fires of zeal and hope.

One morning Pacioli came running with a message from the king, summoning
Messer Leonardo to the castle. The artist was unwilling to leave Astro,
for he had not confessed that the new apparatus was a failure, and he
feared lest the enthusiast should endanger his neck in some rash
experiment. However, he set forth, and presently arrived at the _Sala
della Rocchetta_ where Louis XII. was receiving the magistrates and
chief citizens of the city.

Leonardo looked at his new sovereign with attention, but discovered
nothing regal in his aspect. He was lean and feeble, with narrow
shoulders, a hollow chest, and a face curiously wrinkled. Evidently used
to suffering, it had conferred on him neither nobility nor grace; his
virtues were at best of the _bourgeois_ type.

A young man, twenty years of age, dressed simply in black, stood on the
first step of the throne. He wore no ornaments except a few pearls in
the looping of his hat, and the gold chain of the Order of St. Michael:
his face was pale, his flaxen hair was worn long, and he had dark blue
eyes, soft, but singularly penetrating and observant.

'Tell me, Fra Luca,' whispered Leonardo, 'who is that young noble?'

'Cæsar Borgia, the son of the pope, the Duke of Valentinois,' replied
the monk.

Leonardo was not ignorant of the crimes imputed to this young man. There
was little doubt that he had murdered his brother in order that,
exchanging the cardinal's purple for the title of _Gran Gonfaloniere_ of
the Roman Church, he might himself have the chief place in the family
honours. Further, the whisper ran, that the motive of the fratricide was
not ambition only, but a monstrous rivalry between the brothers for the
favour of their sister Lucrezia.

'That, at least, is impossible,' thought Leonardo, looking at the calm
face and clear soft eyes.

Cæsar probably felt Leonardo's scrutinising gaze, for he turned and
asked his secretary some question, pointing at the artist as he spoke.
The secretary, a man of venerable aspect, replied in a whisper, and
Cæsar in his turn looked intently at Leonardo, while a subtle smile
played upon his lips.

'Nay, it is not impossible,' thought the artist, answering his own hasty
judgment; 'anything is possible to that face; perhaps even worse than we
have heard.'

The spokesman of the town syndics, having finished the reading of a long
and tedious document, approached the throne and presented the parchment
to the king. Louis accidentally dropped it, and before the citizen could
pick it up, Cæsar had stooped dexterously and quickly, had lifted the
roll, and placed it in the king's hand.

'He never loses an opportunity,' grumbled some one standing near
Leonardo.

'You are right,' responded another; 'the pope's son understands the arts
of service. You should see him of a morning at the king's dressing! He
warms his shirt for him! I daresay he'd be ready even to wash out the
stable.'

Leonardo also had observed Cæsar's too obsequious action, which seemed
to him terrible rather than servile, like the caress of a wild beast;
but he was no longer permitted to play the part of a spectator, for
Pacioli dragged him forward and presented him to the king with a short
speech made up of superlatives--'_stupendissimo! prestantissimo!
invincibilissimo!_' and the like. Louis spoke at once of the
_Cenacolo_, praising the figures of the Apostles, and waxing
enthusiastic over the perspective of the roof. Fra Luca was quite sure
his Majesty had a post ready to offer to the great artist; but unluckily
at this moment a page brought in letters from France, and the king's
attention was engrossed by the news that his loved wife, Anne of
Brittany, had been delivered of a princess. The courtiers crowded round
with their congratulations, and Leonardo and Pacioli were pushed into
the background. Pacioli would again have dragged his friend forward, but
Leonardo objected, and presently left the palace.

On the drawbridge he was overtaken by Messer Agapito, Borgia's
secretary, who by command of his master offered him the post of
'_Ingegner ducale_' (chief engineer), which he had already filled under
Il Moro.

Leonardo said he would reply after a few days' reflection, and went on
towards his house.

Presently he saw a crowd of people, and hurried his steps with a
presentiment of disaster. The fear was well grounded; his pupils
Giovanni, Marco, Salaino, and Cesare, unable to procure a litter, were
carrying the unfortunate Astro on the broken wing of the new and
ill-fated flying-machine, his garments blood-stained and torn, his face
white as death. Leonardo guessed at once what had occurred. The smith,
great in resolution and in faith, had adventured on the machine. He had
fitted the apparatus to his shoulders, and leaped into the air. Then he
had fallen, and would probably have been killed had not one of the wings
caught in the boughs of a tree. Leonardo helped to carry the poor wretch
home; with his own hands he laid him on a bed and bent over him to
examine his hurts. Astro recovered from his swoon, and looking up with
supplicating eyes, murmured--

'O Master! Forgive!'


VI

Louis XII. celebrated the birth of his daughter with great feasts, and a
solemn thanksgiving mass was performed in the cathedral. The city was
quiet, and all seemed peaceful and prosperous. Having exacted an oath
of fealty from his new subjects, he appointed Marshal Trivulzio his
viceroy, and returned to France early in November.

The calm was, however, deceitful; Trivulzio soon made himself detested
by his cruelty and greed; the adherents of the banished Ludovico took
heart, and inflamed the people by liberal distribution of seditious
letters. Soon those who had sent Il Moro forth with objurgations and
jeers, proclaimed him the best and wisest of sovereigns.

Towards the end of January a crowd wrecked the offices of the
tax-collector beside the Porta Ticinese; next day there was rioting near
Pavia. The cause of the latter disturbance was an attempt made by a
French soldier on the chastity of a peasant girl, who struck her
assailant with a broom handle and was then threatened by him with an
axe. She screamed; her father ran up with a cudgel and was killed by the
soldier. Then the crowd fell upon the soldier and he was killed; after
which the French drew on the populace and sacked the village.

When the news of this outrage reached Milan it acted like a spark upon
gunpowder. The people poured into the squares, the streets, the
market-places, shouting 'Down with the king! Down with Trivulzio! Death
to the foreigners! _Viva Il Moro!_'

The French troops were too few to withstand attack from the three
hundred thousand inhabitants of Milan. Trivulzio placed guns upon the
tower which for the present was in use as the cathedral belfry, but
before giving the order to fire on the crowd he tried one more effort at
pacification. He was hustled, hunted into the Palazzo del Comune, and
would have perished there but for the timely intervention of the Swiss
mercenaries. Then ensued burning and pillaging; torture and murder of
all foreigners and their sympathisers who fell into the hands of the
citizens. On the 1st of February Trivulzio fled, leaving the fortress in
charge of the Captains d'Espe and Codecara. That very night Il Moro
returned from Germany, and was received with great joy by the town of
Como; all Milan anxiously awaited him as its saviour.

In these last days of the revolt, when the streets were being wrecked on
all sides by the cannonade, Leonardo transferred his household to the
ample cellars of his house, contriving living-rooms of tolerable
comfort, and storing everything of value: pictures, drawings,
manuscripts, scientific instruments.

He had definitely resolved to enter Cæsar Borgia's service, and was to
present himself in Romagna not later than the summer of 1500; meanwhile
he proposed to visit his friend, Girolamo Melzi, at his villa of Vaprio
in the vicinity of Milan, living there in retirement till the
disturbances were at an end. On the morning of February the 2nd, the
Feast of the Purification, Fra Luca brought him the tidings that the
castle had been flooded. A Milanese, Luigi da Porto, who had been in
Trivulzio's service, had deserted to the rebels, first opening all the
sluices which fed the moats of the fortress. The water spread over the
circumjacent lands, reaching to the walls of the Rocchetta; and, making
its way into the magazine and provision stores, almost forced the French
to surrender, which was precisely what Messer Luigi had hoped. The flood
had also overflowed the canal, had inundated the low lying suburb of
Porta Vercellina, where was situated the Monastery delle Grazie. Fra
Luca expressed grave fears for Leonardo's _Cenacolo_ and offered to go
with him and see how it fared.

The painter, feigning indifference, replied that he was too busy, and
that he believed the height of the fresco would preserve it from injury.
No sooner, however, was he rid of Pacioli than he hastened to the
convent refectory, on the brick floor of which pools were still left,
and where there was a pervading odour of miasma and stagnant water. A
monk told him that the flood had risen to the fourth of a cubit.

The _Cenacolo_ had not been painted in water-colours, according to the
usage for fresco; such process requiring a rapidity of execution alien
to Leonardo's genius.

'A painter who has no doubts will have small success,' he used to say;
and for his doubts, his vacillations, his experiments, corrections, and
extreme slowness, only the medium of oil was suitable. It was in vain
that experienced masters told him that oil paints were impossible for a
damp wall standing on the verge of a marsh. His love of experiment, and
of new paths and devices induced him to disregard all warnings; he mixed
his paints in a special way, and prepared the wall by coating it first
with clay, varnished and oiled, then with a mixture of mastic, pitch and
plaster.

Having dismissed the monk, Leonardo crossed the still soaking refectory
floor, and stepped close to examine his picture. The transparent and
delicate colours seemed uninjured, and not even blurred; however he took
a magnifying-glass and explored the surface in every part. To his
dismay, there in the left-hand corner, just where the tablecloth was
represented hanging in ample folds by the feet of St Bartholomew, he
discovered a small crack; beside it the colours were already fading, and
on the surface was a white velvety patch, scarce observable, but the
beginning of mould. Sudden paleness overspread Leonardo's features; he
composed himself, however, and continued his examination with minuter
care. Very soon he realised what had happened. The first coating of
varnished clay had bulged in consequence of the damp and had come away
from the wall, raising the upper coating of plaster which carried the
paint; and in the plaster tiny almost invisible cracks had formed,
through which a salt sweat exuded from the porous brickwork. The
_Cenacolo_ was doomed. The colours might last forty or fifty years and
Leonardo himself never see their decay, but it was impossible to doubt
that this his greatest work must irretrievably perish. He stood looking
at the face of his Christ; realising for the first time how dear to him
was this, his supreme creation.

The ruin of the _Cenacolo_, the destruction of the _Cavallo_, snapped
the last threads which bound him to men, which united him to friends
perhaps still unborn. His soul had long been solitary; now his solitude
was deeper than before. The clay of the Colossus, resolved into dust,
was the sport of the winds of heaven; mould was gathering on the very
countenance of the Lord, dimming its outline, blurring and fading its
colours. All that had been his very life was vanishing as a shadow.

He came away, leaving the monastery without speaking to any one; made
his way to his deserted house, and descended to the place of refuge
underground. He passed through the room where lay the unfortunate Astro,
and stopped for a moment to speak to Giovanni who was preparing a
compress for the sick man's brow.

'Fever again?' asked the Master.

'Yes; he is delirious.'

Leonardo watched the bandaging, and listened for a few minutes to the
rapid disconnected babble which came from the lips of the poor broken
enthusiast.

'Higher! Higher! Straight to the sun--so long as the wings don't catch
fire! Ha! little one! who are you? What is your name? Mechanics? That is
a scurvy name! I never heard of a devil named Mechanics! What are you
jeering at? Is it a joke? That's enough now; you have had your joke, and
I've done with you. Ah!--Lift me! Lift me! I can bear no more! Let me
just get my breath. Oh--death and damnation!' His face was anguished;
cries of terror burst from his lips; he fancied himself falling into the
abyss. But this passed and the rapid babbling recommenced.

'No, no! mock not! The fault was mine own. He told me they were not
ready. Ay, he said so. I have betrayed the Master! I have betrayed the
Master! Hush! Hush! O yes, I know him! the smallest and the heaviest of
all the devils--the little one named Mechanics.'

Leonardo, leaning over the bed, could not avert his gaze. He was
thinking--

'Here is another man whom I have destroyed.'

He laid his hand on Astro's burning forehead. It appeared to calm him,
little by little he became quieter, and presently he sank into heavy
sleep. Leonardo retired to his underground cell, and buried himself in
his calculations. He was now studying the laws of the wind, and the
aerial currents, and comparing them with the laws of the waves and
currents of the sea--all still with reference to this question of
flight.

'If you throw two stones of equal size into a pool, at a little distance
from each other,'--he said slowly to himself--'two widening circles will
be formed on the surface of the water. Then will come a moment in which
the first circle will meet the second; will it enter and bisect it? or
will the waves be refracted at their point of contact? I answer, taking
my stand on experience: the two circles will intersect each other,
remaining, however, distinct and keeping their respective centres at the
points where the stones fell.'

The simplicity with which nature had solved this mechanical problem
filled him with enthusiasm: 'How subtle is this! How beautiful!'

He made a calculation, and the result added to his conviction that the
mathematical sciences, with their laws founded on the essential
necessities of reason, justified the natural necessities of mechanics.

Hour after hour flew by unnoticed, and evening came on. After supper,
and relaxation in talk with his pupils, he again set to work. The acumen
and lucidity of his thoughts convinced him that he was on the verge of
some great discovery.

'Behold how the wind, blowing across the fields, drives waves over the
rye, one succeeding the other, while the stalks, though they bend,
remain fixed in the ground! In like manner do the waves run over the
immovable water. The ripple caused by the throwing of a stone, or by the
force of the wind, should rather be called a shiver than a movement of
the water. And of this you may persuade yourself by throwing a straw
into the widening rings of wavelets, and watching how it rises and
falls, but does not leave its place.'

This experiment with the straw reminded him of a similar test which he
had applied when studying the waves of sound. He mused--

'The striking of a bell will induce a slight quiver and a low resonance
in a neighbouring bell; a note sounded on a lute will awake the same
note in a lute by its side; and a straw laid upon the string which
produces that note will show its vibration.'

The soul of the student was greatly stirred; he divined some connection,
a whole world of undiscovered knowledge, between the two oscillating
straws; the one trembling on the surface of the waves, the other
quivering on the vibrating string. And an idea, swift as lightning,
flashed across his mind.

'The mechanical law is the same in the two cases! Like the waves on the
water when a stone drops into it, so the waves of sound widen in the
air, intersecting others, but not mingling with them, keeping their own
centre in the place of their origin. What, then, of light? As an echo is
the reproduction of a sound, the reflection in a mirror is an echo of
light. There is but one mechanical law in all the phenomena of physical
force; there is but one will; and this will is thy justice, O Prime
Mover! the angle of incidence must be equal to the angle of reflection.'

His face pale, his eyes burning with enthusiasm, Leonardo felt that once
again, and this time more certainly than before, he was about to sound
an abyss into which no man had looked before. He knew that this
discovery, if confirmed by experiment, was the greatest mechanical
discovery since the days of Archimedes. Two months ago, when he had
heard that Vasco di Gama had doubled the Cape of Good Hope and
discovered a new route to India, Leonardo had envied him, but now he had
made a greater discovery than di Gama or Columbus; he had sighted more
mysterious expanses, and no less than they had found a new heaven and a
new earth.

But through the wall there reached his ears the groans and the ravings
of the sufferer. He listened, and remembered his mechanics, the
senseless destruction of the Colossus, the inevitable ruin of the
_Cenacolo_, Astro's foolish and horrible fall; and asked himself:--

'Will this discovery be lost as completely, as ignominiously as all else
which I have done? Will no man heed my voice? shall I ever be solitary
as now? here alone in the darkness, underground, as if buried alive? I
who have dreamed of wings!' After a short pause, he added: 'Be it so!
Darkness, and silence, and oblivion, and none to know what I have done!
_I_ know it!'

And indomitable pride, a sense of inalienable victory and strength
filled his soul, as if the wings to which he had aspired were already
lifting him above the earth.

The subterranean chamber suddenly became too strait for him; he felt
stifled, and the longing was irresistible to behold the sky, and the
open country. He left the house, and walked swiftly towards the
cathedral.


VIII

The night was moonlit, serene, and warm; from the conflagration sullen
flames still glowed, and smoky spirals still rose into the sky.

The crowd increased as he drew nearer to the centre of the town. The
blue rays of the moon, the scarlet glare of the torches, illuminated
faces haggard with excitement, seamed with anxiety, and played on the
white banner with the scarlet cross which had been used by the ancient
Milanese Commune, on lantern-poles, arquebuses, pistols, clubs,
halberts, scythes, pitchforks, stakes, all pressed into service against
the foreigner. The people swarmed like ants, the tocsin pealed, the
guns roared. From the fortress the French were firing down the street,
and their boast was that they would not leave one stone upon another
within the city walls. Louder than the bells, more piercing than the
booming of the cannon, rose the incessant yell of the citizens: 'Death
to the French! Death to the foreigners! Down with the king! _Viva Il
Moro!_'

To Leonardo it gave the impression of a wild and hideous dream. Near the
eastern gate, a drummer from Picardy, a boy of sixteen, was being
hanged, Mascarello the goldsmith playing the part of executioner.
Flinging the rope round the lad's neck, and tapping him lightly on the
head, he cried with ribald solemnity:--

'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, we dub this
servant of God, this Frenchman, Saltamacchia, Knight of the Hempen
Necklace.'

'Amen!' responded the crowd.

The little drummer, ill understanding his danger, half smiling, blinking
his eyes like a child about to cry, shrank into himself, twisting his
neck that he might ease the noose. Then suddenly, as if awaking from a
lethargy, he turned his beautiful but white and trembling face to the
crowd, and would have attempted entreaty. His voice was drowned by howls
and derisive laughter, and he gave up the attempt, holding his peace
with the forlorn air of a resigned and innocent victim, and kissing a
little cross, the gift of his mother or sister, which he had worn on a
blue ribbon round his neck. Then Mascarello swung him into the void,
with the jeer: 'Courage, Knight of the Necklace! Show us how you dance
the French _gaillard_!'

And, mid the laughter of the crowd, the child's body shuddered horribly,
and was convulsed in the spasms of death, as if indeed it were dancing.

Leonardo walked on, and presently he saw a woman, dressed in rags,
kneeling before a miserable half-ruined hovel, and stretching out thin
bare arms to the passers-by.

'Help; Help! Help!' she cried incessantly.

Corbolo the shoemaker, running up, asked what ailed her.

'My baby! My baby! He was sleeping, so pretty in his little bed! He has
fallen through the floor! Perhaps he is still alive! Oh, save him! Try
and save him! _Help!_'

Just then a cannon-ball, rending the air with a shriek, struck the roof
of the hovel. The beams cracked, dust rose in a column, the roof fell,
the walls crumbled, and the woman was for ever silenced.

Again Leonardo moved on, and presently he reached the Palazzo del
Comune. Here, in front of the Loggia degli Osii, an university student
was haranguing the crowd, descanting on the ancient glory of the
Milanese, and exhorting the people to annihilate all tyrants, and
establish the reign of equality. His hearers, however, seemed hard of
persuasion.

'Citizens!' he cried, brandishing the knife which on ordinary occasions
served him for mending pens, slicing sausages, and cutting his
sweetheart's name on the bark of trees, but which now he had christened
'the Poniard of Nemesis,' 'Citizens! the hour has come in which we must
die for Liberty! We will wash our hands in the blood of the tyrants; in
their breasts we will plunge this Poniard of Nemesis. _Viva la
Repubblica!_'

'Folly!' cried voices from the audience. 'We know the wine of your
vintage! We know the liberty you would give us, you spy, traitor, dog of
a Frenchman! To the devil with you and your republic! _Viva Il Moro!_
Death to all enemies of the duke!'

The orator continued to prate, enforcing his doctrine by instances from
Cicero and Tacitus, but the mob overthrew his bench, knocked him down
and beat him, shouting:--

'Here's for your Liberty! Here's for your Republic! Here's for inflaming
fools against their legitimate ruler!'

Leonardo stood for a minute in the Piazza dell' Arengo to admire the
imposing pile of the cathedral--that marble forest of pinnacles and
towers, fantastic in the double light, blue rays of the moon and crimson
flare of torches. In front of the archbishop's palace the press was so
great that there was scarce standing-room, and from the centre of the
throng came groans and ferocious howls.

'What has happened?' asked the painter of an old workman, whose gentle
dignified face was blanched with horror.

'Who can understand? They themselves know neither what they want nor
what they do. They are accusing Messer Jacopo Crotta of selling poisoned
flour, and of being a French spy! _O Dio! Dio!_ It is a lie! But they
fall on the first man they meet, and listen to none! 'Tis horrible,
'tis most horrible! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!'

Just then Gorgoglio the glass-blower detached himself from the dense
pack of human bodies, holding aloft a bloody human head stuck on a pole;
and Farfannicchio, the madcap of the streets, danced round it, screaming
and yelling.

'Down with the traitors! down with the foreigners! Death to the devils
of Frenchmen!'

'_A furore populi, libera nos, Domine!_' murmured the old workman,
crossing himself.

From the castle came an incessant sound of trumpets, drums, explosions
of cannon, crackling of guns, cries of soldiers. The monster bombard,
called by the French _Margot la Folle_, and by the Germans _die tolle
Grete_, was fired; the earth shook, it seemed that the whole town must
crash into ruins. The bomb fell beyond the Borgonuovo, and set fire to a
house; pillars of flame rose into the quiet moonlit sky, and the piazza
was lit with a crimson glare. The people hurried hither and thither,
jostling, pushing, trampling each other like black shadows, like living
phantoms.

Leonardo stood watching the wild scene, noting every detail, his mind
preoccupied. The fiery glow, the voices of the crowd, the pealing of the
bells, the boom of the guns, all brought back his discovery. Imagination
pictured the waves of sound, the waves of light swelling tranquilly,
circling outwards like the ripple on water where a stone has fallen,
intersecting each other without mingling or confusion, each keeping its
own centre in the point of its origin. Great gladness filled his soul as
he thought that never at any time could men interrupt the harmonious
play of these ordered waves, nor the mechanical law which rules them,
the unchanging fiat of their creator, the rule of divine justice, making
the angle of incidence equal to the angle of reflection.

In his soul re-echoed--

'O wondrous justice of thee, thou Prime Mover! No force hast thou
permitted to lack the order and the quality of its necessary effect!'

In the frenzied crowd, the soul of the artist preserved the eternal calm
of contemplation; even as the blue rays of the moon shone with heavenly
effulgence supreme over glare of torches and flames of conflagration and
war.

       *       *       *       *       *

On a certain morning in February 1500, Ludovico Sforza, Il Moro,
re-entered Milan by the Porta Nuova. Leonardo had started the previous
night for Vaprio, his friend Melzi's villa.


IX

Girolamo Melzi had once belonged to the court of the Sforzas, but on the
death of his young wife in 1494 he had retired to his lonely villa at
the foot of the Alps, a few hours' journey from Milan. Far from the
noise of the world, he lived the life of a philosopher, gardening with
his own hands, and devoting himself to music and to the study of the
occult sciences. Some said he was an adept in black magic, accustomed to
call up the shade of his lost wife from the lower world. The
mathematician, Fra Luca Pacioli, and Sacrobosco, the alchemist, often
visited him, and whole nights were spent in argument about Plato's
ideas, and the laws of the Pythagorean numbers which governed the music
of the spheres. But Melzi found his chief pleasure in the visits of
Leonardo, which were not infrequent, as the works on the Martesana Canal
often brought him to the vicinity.

Vaprio was situated on the left bank of the Adda; and the canal,
skirting the villa garden, ran for a certain distance parallel to the
river, the course of which was just here obstructed by rapids. All day
the roar of the cataract made itself heard, loud as the billows of the
sea surf. Free, wild, storm-tossed, untamed by man, the Adda hurled its
green waves between winding precipitous banks of yellow sandstone. By
its side, the same cold, green, mountain water swam noiselessly by
within the straight-drawn confines of the canal; smooth as a mirror,
calm, slow, submissive and subdued. The contrast delighted Leonardo, and
seemed to him of pregnant meaning. Which of the two streams was the more
beautiful--the Martesana, his own creation, the work of human
intelligence and will, or its elder sister, the foaming Adda, savage,
threatening, superb in its untrammelled freedom? He understood each,
sympathised with each, and loved them with equal love.

From the upper terrace of the villa garden was a wide prospect of the
immense Lombard plain, one vast and smiling garden. In the summer the
fields were rank with verdure; hay scented the air; the wheat and the
maize grew so tall as to overtop the vines; ears of corn kissed the
pears and the apples, the cherries and the plums. The hills of Como rose
dark towards the north; above them towered the first spurs of the Alps;
higher still the snow-clad summits glowed in the sunset gold.

Fra Luca and Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, whose cottage by the Porta
Vercellina had been destroyed by the French, were both at the villa when
Leonardo arrived; but he kept himself apart, preferring solitude. He
conceived, however, a great fondness for the company of Francesco, his
host's little son.

Timid and shy as a girl, the boy at first stood in great awe of the
painter; one day, however, he came into his room at a moment when
Leonardo, studying the laws of colour, was experimenting with coloured
glass. He pleased the child by letting him look through the different
pieces, yellow, blue, purple, or green, which gave a fairy aspect to
familiar objects, and made the world seem now smiling, now frowning,
according to the colour of the glass. Another of Leonardo's inventions
proved very attractive. This was the 'Camera obscura,' by means of which
living pictures appeared on a sheet of white paper; and Francesco saw
the turning of the mill-wheel, the swallows circling round the church,
the woodcutter's grey donkey with his load of faggots stepping daintily
along the miry road while the poplars bowed their heads under the
breeze. Still more fascinating was the weather-gauge: a copper ring, a
small stick like the beam of a balance, and two little balls, the one
covered with wax, the other with wadding. When the air was saturated
with moisture the wadding grew heavy, and the little ball, falling down,
inclined the beam till it touched one or other of the divisions marked
on the copper ring. The degree of damp could thus be accurately
measured, and the weather predicted for two or three days. The little
boy constructed a similar apparatus for himself and was jubilant when
the prophecies were fulfilled which he had deduced from its variations.
Francesco went to the village school where he was taught by the old
prior of the neighbour convent. The dog-eared Latin grammar and
arithmetic primer were odious to him, and he learned but slackly.
Leonardo's lore was of a new sort, pleasant to the child as a fairy
tale. The instruments for the study of optics, acoustics, hydraulics,
were to him new and magical toys, nor was he ever tired of hearing the
painter's talk. Fearing ridicule or suspicion, Leonardo spoke but
cautiously with adults; to Francesco he talked with the utmost frankness
and simplicity. He not only taught the child, but learned of him.
Paraphrasing the text of Holy Writ, he told himself--'Except ye be
converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the
kingdom of knowledge.'

It was at this time that he was writing his _Book of the Stars_. On
March evenings, when in the still chilly air there was a waft of spring,
he would stand on the roof with Francesco, watching the tide of stars
and sketching the spots on the face of the moon. Then rolling a piece of
paper into an inverted cone, he bade the child look through the aperture
at the end, and Francesco saw the stars robbed of their rays, and like
bright, round, infinitely minute globules.

'Those globules,' said Leonardo, 'are of great size, many of them a
hundred, nay, a thousand times larger than our earth, which, however, is
not less beautiful nor more contemptible than they. The mechanical laws
which obtain in our world, and which have been discovered by human
sagacity, guide also those stars and suns.'

'What is there beyond the stars?' murmured the child.

'More stars, Francesco; worlds which we cannot see.'

'And beyond those?'

'Yet others.'

'But at the end, at the very end?'

'There is no end.'

'No end,' cried the boy, and Leonardo felt the trembling of the little
hand within his own. The child's face had grown pale.

'Then where--where,' he said slowly, 'where is Paradise, Messer
Leonardo, and the angels, and the saints, and the Madonna, and God the
Father who sits upon the throne with God the Son and the Holy Spirit?'

The teacher would have liked to answer that God was everywhere; in the
grain of sand no less than in the celestial globe; in the hearts of men
no less than in the outside universe. But fearing to disturb the simple
faith of the little one he held his peace.

With the first budding of the trees, the painter and the child spent
whole days together in the garden or in the neighbouring woods watching
the reviving of life in the vegetable world. Sometimes Leonardo would
draw a flower or tree, trying to seize the living likeness as in the
portrait of a man; that unique particular aspect of his model which
would never be repeated. He taught Francesco how the rings seen in the
wood of the trunk reveal the age of the tree; and how the thickness of
each ring shows the amount of moisture in the year when it was formed;
how the core of the trunk is always on the southern side, which has had
the most of the sun's heat. He told how in the spring-time the sap,
gathering between the inner green of the trunk and the outer bark,
thickens and expands and bursts the bark; how, if a branch is cut, the
vital power draws an abundance of nutritive juices to the wounded place,
so that the bark thickens and the wound is healed; yet its mark remains
because the abundance of the nutritive juices has been too great, and
has overflowed and made lumps and knots. Always he spoke of nature dryly
and with apparent frigidity, seeking only scientific accuracy. With
passionless exactitude he defined the tender details of the action of
the spring upon the life of plants, as he would have spoken of the
performance of a machine. He showed from abstract mathematics the
wonderful laws which shape the needles of pine-trees and the facets of
crystals. Yet for all his coldness and impartiality, the child discerned
his love for all living things, for the withered leaf no less than for
the mighty boughs which spread suppliant arms to their great lord, the
sun. At times, in the depth of the forest, he would pause and note
smilingly how under last year's withered leaves still hanging on the
branches, green shoots were sprouting to oust them from their place; how
the bee, weak from her winter torpor, could scarce crawl into the
snowdrop's cup. In the great stillness Francesco could hear the beating
of his friend's iron heart; timidly he would raise his eyes to the
Master. The sun shining athwart the branches lit up his long curling
hair, flowing beard, and overhanging brows, and surrounded his head with
a halo: he seemed like Pan himself who listens to the growing of the
grass, the murmuring of spring below the earth, the mystical forces of
awakening life. To Leonardo all things lived. The world was one great
body, like the body of man, who himself is a little world. In the
dewdrops he saw the similitude of the watery sphere which surrounds the
earth. The cataracts of the Adda near Trezzo gave him occasion to study
the cascades and whirlpools of rivers which he compared to the twisting
of a woman's curls. Mysterious resemblances attracted him, concords in
nature's harmony like voices answering each other from distant worlds.
Inquiring into the origin of the rainbow, he noted that the same
prismatic colour is seen in the plumage of birds, precious stones, in
the scum on stagnant water, in old dulled glass. In the patterns on
frosted window-panes, he found a resemblance to living leaves and
flowers, as if nature in this world of frozen crystal had seen prophetic
visions of the coming spring. At times he felt himself drawing near new
realms of knowledge, perhaps to be entered only by men of ages to come.
He used to say about the attractive powers of amber:--

'I see not the mode by which the human mind shall apprehend the mystery.
These powers of the magnet and the amber are among those occult forces
which are as yet unrevealed.'

And further--

'The world is full of countless possibilities of which yet there has
been no experience.'

One day, a certain Messer Guidotto Prestinari, a poet from Bergamo, came
to the villa. Offended with Leonardo, who did not sufficiently praise
his verses, he began a discussion on the comparative excellence of
poetry and painting. Leonardo spoke little, but the fury with which
Messer Guidotto assailed his art at last amused him and he said, half
jesting:--

'Painting is higher than poetry, inasmuch as it reproduces the eternal
works of God and not human inventions, to which the poets, at least of
our day, are too apt to confine themselves. They depict not, but
describe, borrowing all they have and trading with each other's wares.
They but put together and combine the refuse of knowledge. They may be
compared to the receivers of stolen goods....'

Fra Luca, Messer Galeotto, and Melzi himself cried out; but Leonardo had
now warmed to the subject and cried:--

'The eye gives a more complete knowledge of nature than the ear! Things
seen are less to be doubted than things heard. Painting, which is silent
poetry, comes nearer to positive science than poetry, which is invisible
painting. Words give but a series of isolated images following one
another; but in a picture, all the forms, all the colours appear
synchronously, and are blended into a whole, like the notes of a chord
in music; and thus both to painting and to music a more complex harmony
is possible than to poetry. And the richer the harmony, the richer is
that delight which is the aim and the enchantment of art. Question, say,
any lover, whether he would not rather have a portrait of his loved one
than a description in words of her countenance, though it were composed
by the greatest of poets?'

This argument provoked a smile, and presently Leonardo continued:--

'Hear a narrative from my own experience. A certain Florentine youth
fell into such a longing for the face of a woman whom I had painted in
one of my sacred pictures, that, having bought it, he cancelled all the
signs of its religious character, so that he might kiss his adored one
without fear or scruple. But soon the voice of conscience overcame the
passion of love, nor could he recover his tranquillity of mind till he
had removed the picture from his dwelling. Think ye, O poets, that with
your words you could rouse a man to like vehemence of desire? Believe
me, Messeri, I speak not of myself, for I know how greatly I fall short,
but of that painter who attains to the perfection of his art. He is no
longer a man; rapt in the contemplation of divine and eternal beauty, or
turned to the study of monstrous forms, grotesque, pathetic, terrible,
he can comprehend and give shape to all; he is a sovereign--a god.'

Many such ideas Leonardo had inscribed in his note-books; and Fra Luca
urged him to order his manuscripts and give them to the public. He even
offered to find him an editor. Leonardo, however, refused, and remained
firm in his resolution that he would publish nothing. Yet all his
writings were couched in the form of address to a reader; and at the
commencement of one of his diaries he apologised in these words for the
disconnected style and frequent repetitions:--

'Blame me not, O reader, for the subjects are numberless and my memory
is weak, and I write at long intervals in different years.'


XI

In the last days of March disquieting tidings reached the Villa Melzi.
The French army, led by Monsieur de la Trémouille, had crossed the Alps
and was descending for the reconquest of Milan. Il Moro, suspicious of
all, and oppressed by superstitious fears, dared not meet the enemy in
the open field, and daily showed himself _più pauroso d'una
donniccuola_, 'more panic-stricken than a silly girl.'

But at the villa news of the great world seemed but a faint and far off
hum. Careless of duke and king, Leonardo roamed the neighbouring hills
and glens and woods, accompanied only by the little Francesco. Sometimes
they ascended the river to its source among the pine-clad mountains; and
there they hired workmen and made excavations, seeking fossil shells and
plants.

One evening, wearied by a long day's march, they rested under an old
lime-tree, overhanging the steep bank of the Adda. The unbounded plain,
with its long rows of wayside poplars, lay stretched at their feet. The
white houses of Bergamo shone in the evening sunlight: the snowy
mountain-tops seemed to float in the air. All the sky was clear, save
that in the far distance, almost on the horizon, between Treviglio,
Brignano, and Castel Rozzone, there suddenly appeared a light cloud of
smoke.

'What is it?' asked Francesco.

'I know not. It may be a battle. I see what may be fire, and think I
hear the sound of cannon. It may be a skirmish between our folk and the
French.'

Latterly, such chance encounters had not been infrequent. They watched
the cloud silently for a few minutes, then turned their attention to the
fruit of their day's digging. The master picked up a large bone, sharp
as a needle, the fin of some primeval fish.

'How many kings, how many nations has not time destroyed since this
creature fell on its sleep in that great cavern, where to-day we have
found it? How many thousands of years has the world seen, what changes
have taken place, while it was lying hid, concealed from all eyes,
supporting heavy masses of earth with its bare skeleton?'

He made a large gesture with his hand, as if to embrace the verdant
plain stretched at their feet; then continued:--

'All that you see, Francesco, was once the bed of an ocean which covered
the chief parts of Europe, Africa, and Asia; the summits of the
Apennines were islands in a great sea, and fishes swam in these fields
of singing birds.'

He interrupted himself, and they looked once more at the distant
smoke-drift, and the flashes of fire from the cannon, so insignificant
in the boundless expanse, which lay all peaceful and rose-tinted in the
sunset glow. It was hard to believe that a fight was taking place, and
that men were killing each other almost within range of their eyesight.
More vivid to Francesco were the birds flying to roost, the fish of that
forgotten sea. Neither spoke, but at that moment the painter and the
child had the same thought:--

''Tis a small matter whether the Lombards prevail or the Frenchmen;
Ludovico the duke, or Louis the foreign king; our own people or the
strangers. Country, glory, war, the strife of policy, the fall of
thrones, the upheaval of nations, all that to man seems great or
terrible--all are no more than yonder little cloud of smoke, melting
into the peaceful twilight, dissolving in the immutable serenity of
Nature.'


XII

It was at Vaprio that Leonardo finished a picture begun long ago at
Florence. In a cavern, surrounded by great rocks, the Mother of God was
folding one arm round the infant John the Baptist, with the other
clasping her Son, as if she desired to unite the Human and the Divine in
the indissoluble embrace of a single love. John, devoutly joining his
little hands, bent his knee before Jesus, who blessed him with two
fingers raised. The attitude of the infant Saviour, sitting naked on the
naked earth, one plump dimpled leg tucked under the other, while he
leaned on a plump hand, all its fingers outspread upon the
sand--suggested the baby still unable to walk; yet already on his face,
perfect wisdom was blent with the simplicity of infancy. A kneeling
angel supporting the little Jesus, and pointing at the Precursor, turned
to the spectator a face instinct with mournful foreboding, yet illumined
by a strange and tender smile. Behind the rocks a pale sun shone through
drizzling rain, and blue mountains rose into the sky, their sharp peaks
weird and unearthly; the rocks, smoothed and polished as if by the
action of salt water, suggested some dried-up ocean bed; and in the
cavern was most profound shadow, almost concealing a bubbling spring,
leaves of water-plants, pale dim cups of purple iris-flowers. One could
fancy slow tricklings and droppings from the overhanging arch of black
dolomite; and the creeping weeds and grasses were heavy with the
continuous ooze of the ground and the damp saturation of the air. The
face of the Madonna alone shone with the delicate brilliance of
alabaster within which glows a light. Queen of Heaven, she was shown to
men in the gloom of twilight, in a subterranean cavern, in the most
secret of the recesses of nature, perhaps the last refuge of ancient Pan
and the wood nymphs--she, the mystery of mysteries, the mother of the
God-man, in the very bosom of mother earth.

It was the creation at once of a great artist and of a great student;
the play of light and of shadow, the laws of vegetable life, the anatomy
of the human body, the science of drapery, the spirals of a woman's
curls (which he had compared to the circling of a whirlpool), all that
the natural philosopher had searched into with 'unrelenting severity,'
had measured with mathematical accuracy, had dissected as one dissects a
corpse--all this the artist had recombined into a new creation, living
beauty, a silent melody; into a mystic hymn to the Holy Virgin, the
Mother of God. With knowledge equalled by love he had depicted the veins
in the iris petals, the dimples in the baby's elbow, the ancient cleft
in the dolomite rock, the quiver of the water in the secret spring; the
quiver of infinite grief in the angel's smile. He knew all and loved
all. Great love is the daughter of great knowledge.


XIII

One day the alchemist, Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, undertook to
experiment with the 'Rod of Mercury,' under which name were known all
those staves of myrtle, almond, tamarind, or other 'astrological' woods,
which were supposed to have a kinship with metals, and the property of
discovering veins of gold, silver, and copper in the rocks. Accompanied
by Messer Gerolamo, he went to the east side of the lake of Lecco, known
to be rich in ores; and Leonardo joined the company, though he had no
faith in the 'Rod of Mercury,' and mocked at it no less than at the
other delusions of the alchemists.

Near the village of Mandello, at the foot of Monte Campione, there was
an abandoned iron mine. Some years before the ground had fallen in and
buried a number of the miners; and it was reported that sulphurous
exhalations rose from a rent in the lowest depths of the mine, into
which, if a stone were thrown, it fell, and fell, and fell, but was
never heard to strike the bottom, for the sufficient reason that the pit
was bottomless. Leonardo's curiosity was excited by these tales, and he
determined to explore the mine while his companions were busied with the
magic rod. Not without difficulty, for the peasants believed the mine to
be the dwelling-place of a devil, he obtained the services of an old man
as guide. A subterranean passage, very steep and dark, and with broken
and slippery stairs, led to the central shaft. The guide walked stolidly
in front with a lantern, and Leonardo followed, carrying Francesco, who
had insisted on accompanying his friend. They descended more than two
hundred steps, and were still going down, the passage becoming ever
narrower and more steep. A stifling smell of subterranean damp assailed
the nostrils. Leonardo struck the wall with a spade, listened to the
sound it made, and examined the piece of rock he had detached, the
nature and layers of the soil, and the bright mica sparkling in the
veins of granite.

He felt the child clinging to him very tightly, and he asked with a
smile whether his little comrade were afraid.

'With you, I am never afraid,' said Francesco; presently he added shyly,
'is it true what my _babbo_ says, that you are going to leave us?'

'Yes, Francesco.'

'Where are you going?'

'To Romagna; to the Duke Valentino.'

'Is it very far?'

'Several days' journey.'

'Several days!' sighed Francesco; 'then shall we never see you again?'

'Why not? The first minute I can, I will come and see you.'

The boy became thoughtful. Squeezing Leonardo's neck tightly with his
two arms, he cried:--

'Take me with you! Oh, Messer Leonardo, take me with you.'

'Alack, my child! How is it possible? There is war there.'

'I don't care for the war. Have I not said that with you I am never
afraid? Even if it be more fearsome than it is in this place where we
are now, I shall not be afraid. I will be your servant, brush your
clothes, carry hay to your horses; and I will seek shells for you, and
make you drawings of leaves. Did you not say to me I drew them well? I
will do everything like a man. I will obey you in whatever you command.
Take me with you, Messer Leonardo!'

'And how about Messer Gerolamo? Would he consent?'

'He will consent if I cry for it. And if he doesn't consent, then I will
run away. Say you will take me with you! Say it!'

'No, Francesco; it is idle talk. I know thou would'st not leave thy
father. He grows old, and thou must have a fondness for him.'

'Of a surety I have a fondness for him. But for you, too, Messer
Leonardo! You think me very little, but truly I comprehend everything.
Aunt Bona says you are a sorcerer, and Don Lorenzo, my schoolmaster,
says it likewise, and that you are wicked, and that with you I shall
lose my soul. But when he speaks ill of you, I answer him in such wise
that he comes near beating me.'

Suddenly Francesco's eyes filled and the corners of his lips drooped.

'I understand,' he said; 'I understand why you don't want me. You don't
love me. And I----.' He burst into tears.

'Hush! hush! Thou should'st cry shame to weep! Hearken to what I tell
thee. In a few years, when thou art grown, then I will take thee for my
disciple, and keep thee always at my side.'

The child raised his eyes, tears still trembling on their long lashes.

'But do you mean it? or is it said to comfort me, and afterwards will
you forget?'

'No, Francesco, I promise.'

'You promise? And how long must I wait?'

'Eight or nine years; till thou art at the least fifteen.'

'Eight years,' sighed the child, reckoning on his fingers 'and I shall
be always with you?'

'Unless we die.'

'Eight years! Well, if you say it, it is certain.'

Francesco smiled, and rubbed his cheek against Leonardo's with a pretty
gesture peculiar to himself.

'Messer Leonardo, once I dreamed I was in the dark, going down a long,
long stair like this one, only it had no beginning and no end. But I was
not frightened, for some one was carrying me. I thought it was my
mother, who died ere ever I saw her; but now I know it was you. I am as
happy with you as if I was with her.'

Leonardo looked at the child with inexpressible tenderness. The innocent
eyes shone; he put out his bright lips as confidingly as to a mother,
and when Leonardo kissed them he felt the child was giving him his soul.
Thus, with the little heart beating against his own, he descended with
firm steps into the subterranean night.


XIV

Upon their return to Vaprio they found alarm in the villa; the French
were approaching. Louis, furious at the revolt of the Milanese, had
given their city over to pillage. Many of the inhabitants fled to the
mountains. Along the road was an endless procession of carts laden with
household stuff, and of weeping women dragging children by the hand. At
night, from the top windows of the villa, flames were still seen
citywards. At Novara a battle was daily expected which should decide the
fate of Lombardy.

At last Fra Luca brought news of the sad event which had ended the war.
The battle was ordered on the 10th of April, but when the duke was
reviewing his forces, prior to its commencement, the Swiss mercenaries
refused to advance, for they had been secretly bought by Trivulzio. In
vain Il Moro conjured them with tears not to bring him to ruin, and
promised them extravagant reward in recompense for fidelity. They
remained obdurate.

Then Ludovico, disguised as a monk, sought to flee; but a Swiss named
Schattenhalb betrayed him to the French captains. He was seized and
carried before the marshal, who rewarded the Swiss with thirty pieces of
silver.

The Sire de la Trémouille had charge of the prisoner to escort him to
France. He, who, in the words of the court poet, 'first after God had
guided the wheel of Fortune,' was placed in a barred cage and carried in
a cart, like a trapped wild beast. The duke asked one favour of his
captors, that he might carry a copy of the _Divina Commedia_ with him
into his exile, '_per istudiari_.'

Life at the Villa Melzi became daily more perilous. The French had
sacked Lomellina. The Venetians had destroyed the Martesana. Robbers
roamed in the neighbourhood of Vaprio; already Messer Gerolamo Melzi was
preparing to carry Francesco and Aunt Bona into refuge at Chiavenna.

Leonardo's last night came; he inscribed in his diary the thoughts of
the day:--

'A bird having little tail but broad wings, flaps them with great
violence, and turns _so that the wind may blow under them_ and raise her
_aloft_. This I observed watching a young hawk above the canonry of
Vaprio, on the road to Bergamo, to-day, April 14th.'

And in the margin he added incidentally: 'Il Moro has lost his state,
his goods, and his liberty; not one of his undertakings will be achieved
by himself.'

The overthrow of the great house of Sforza, the ruin of the man he had
served for sixteen years, were to him of far less interest than the
flight of a bird of prey.




BOOK XI

THERE SHALL BE WINGS--1500


     '_Piglierà il prima volo il grande ucello sopra del dosso del suo
     magno Cecero, empiendo l'universo del stupore, empiendo di sua fama
     tutte le scritture, e gloria eterna al nido dove
     nacque._'--LEONARDO DA VINCI.

     (The human bird shall take his first flight, filling the world with
     amazement, all writings with his fame, and bringing eternal glory
     to the nest whence he sprang.)


I

The little town of Vinci, Leonardo's native place, lay on the western
slope of Monte Albano, in Tuscany, between Florence and Pisa, and not
far from Empoli. There he had an uncle, Ser Francesco da Vinci, who had
amassed wealth in the silk industry, and who, unlike the rest of the
family, was friendly to his nephew. Before journeying to Romagna the
painter proposed to visit Ser Francesco, and if possible to leave Astro
in his charge, the unfortunate smith not yet having recovered from the
effects of his fall. Leonardo hoped that the mountain air, with quiet
and rest, might accomplish more for him than the drugs and experimental
surgery of ignorant physicians. The artist, who had been in Florence for
a few days, journeyed to Vinci alone, riding a mule. He left the town by
the Porta a Prato, and took his way along the banks of the Arno; at
Empoli he left the high road and followed a narrow and winding mountain
path. The day had been clouded and cool; at evening the sun set in a
bank of mist which foreboded a north wind. The prospect on either side
continually widened; the hills became higher; and though their
undulations were still gentle, they gave promise of higher mountains
behind. The ground was carpeted with scanty herbage of a dull green; and
the fields, with fallow stripes of brown earth, the stone walls, the
grey olives were all dull and whitish in tone, suggestive of the calm,
the simplicity, the poverty of the north. Here and there in the
distance, beside some solitary chapel or farmhouse with yellow walls and
barred windows, dark pointed cypresses, such as may be seen in the
pictures by early Florentine masters, rose against quiet hills and an
even background of clear, delicately gradated sky.

The path became gradually steeper, the air fresher and more
invigorating. Sant' Ausano, Calistri, Lucardi, and the Chapel of San
Giovanni were already past. Now the day closed, and one by one the stars
came out in the blue sky, from which the clouds had disappeared. The
wind freshened; the _tramontana_, that piercing wind from the Alps, was
beginning to blow. Every appearance of the lowlands had vanished; as the
plain had passed into hills, so now the hills passed into mountains.
Quite suddenly, at a turn of the road, Vinci came in sight, a little,
crowded, stone-built town, clustering round the black tower of its
ancient castle, clinging to the rock, crowning the peaked summit of a
low but sharply precipitous hill. Lights were gleaming in the windows of
the houses.

At the cross-roads near the foot of the hill there was a little shrine
known to Leonardo from his earliest childhood; a clay image of the
Virgin glazed in blue and white, before which a lamp burned continually.
As he passed he saw a woman kneeling, bowed together dejectedly,
covering her face with her hands, a poor peasant woman, in a thin dark
dress, torn and weather-stained.

'Caterina!' murmured Leonardo. It was his mother's name; she too had
prayed here, a poor peasant.

After crossing the swift mountain stream, the path turned to the right
between garden walls overgrown with weeds. Here it was quite dark, and
the traveller did not see the rose-branch which kissed his face as he
passed, and scented the air with balm. He dismounted at an ancient
wooden door let into the wall, and knocked with a stone on the iron
cramp. It was the house which had belonged to Leonardo's grandfather,
and from him had passed to Ser Francesco. The painter himself had spent
his childhood within its walls. No one answered the knock, nor was there
for a long time any sound but the rushing of the mill-stream, and
presently the quavering bark of an old watch-dog.

An old man came out, very much bowed and wrinkled, with silvery hair. He
carried a lantern, and was very deaf and rather stupid, so that it took
him time to understand who Leonardo was.

However, when at last he recognised him whom he had carried in his arms
forty years earlier, he burst into tears of joy, dropped his lantern,
and, stooping over the painter's hand, mumbled it with his lips, sobbing
out:--

'_O Signore! Signore! Leonardo mio!_'--while the dog wagged his tail to
please the old gardener, pretending that he clearly comprehended what
was taking place. Gian Battista, the old man, explained that Ser
Francesco was away at Marcigliano, where a monk of his acquaintance had
promised a drug to cure him of the stomach-ache; he would not be home
for two days. Leonardo determined, however, to wait for him; more
especially because next day Boltraffio was to bring up Zoroastro from
Florence.

The old man ushered the visitor into the house, and bade his
grand-daughter, a pretty fair-haired girl of sixteen, to prepare supper.
Leonardo declined anything but bread, home-grown wine, and iron-water
from the spring on the property. Ser Francesco, though well-to-do,
continued the hardy, simple style of living which had been a necessity
to his forefathers, and his house was anything but luxurious.

Leonardo entered the familiar apartment, at once kitchen and parlour,
where the few clumsy chairs, settles, and chests had become smooth and
polished with age; a dresser carried heavy pewter dinner-plates, and
medicinal herbs were hanging from the beams of the raftered ceiling. The
walls were whitewashed, and quite bare; there was a brick floor, and an
immense fireplace begrimed with soot.

All this was as Leonardo remembered it, but there was one innovation;
thick dull green glass had been inserted in the window-panes, formerly
covered only with oiled cloth, causing twilight in the room on the
brightest day. Upstairs, in the sleeping rooms, the windows were
protected by wooden shutters, which did not fit close enough to keep out
the cold.

The gardener made a fire of fragrant juniper and mountain heather, and
lit a hanging earthenware lamp, in shape much like the lamps found in
Etruscan tombs. In this remote corner of Tuscany the furniture, the
customs, even the language had preserved traces of immemorial
antiquity. While the young girl was preparing the supper of wine, bread,
and a lettuce salad, Leonardo mounted to the upper rooms, where little
had been changed since his last visit. He saw the same immense
four-poster bed, in which his grandmother had sometimes permitted him to
sleep, and which had now passed, with the other heirlooms, to his uncle
Francesco. On the wall hung the well-remembered crucifix, the image of
the Madonna, the shell for holy water, a bunch of dried grass, called
_nebbia_, and a book of Latin prayers in cursive script, written on
paper deeply yellowed by time.

Returning to the parlour, he sat in the chimney-corner, drank from a
wooden cup with a pleasant scent of olive-wood, and remaining in the
room alone, after Gian and his grand-daughter had gone to bed, abandoned
himself to happy recollections.


II

He thought of his father, Ser Piero da Vinci, the notary of the
Florentine Commune, a man of seventy, white-haired, but still vigorous,
whom he had seen a few days ago at Florence, in his house in the Via
Ghibellina. No one had ever loved life better than Ser Piero, with a
love simple and unabashed. He had cherished a great tenderness for his
first-born, but his legitimate sons, Antonio and Giuliano, fearing lest
their father should alienate part of his patrimony in favour of the
bastard, had done all in their power to induce bad blood between them.

Leonardo now felt himself a stranger in his father's house. His youngest
half-brother, Antonio, was more especially prejudiced against him on
account of his supposed atheism, for Antonio was one of the Piagnoni, a
zealous and rigid follower of Savonarola, and also a conventional,
virtuous, and money-loving trader of the guild of the woolstaplers.
Antonio often addressed his half-brother on the subject of the Christian
faith, the need for repentance, the heresies of the philosophical
thinkers of the day, and he had given him a book compiled by himself, a
_Manual of the Art of Saving the Soul_. Leonardo carried this book in
his pocket, and now, seated in his uncle's chimney-corner, he drew it
forth. It was a little volume, written in the small laborious hand
which befitted a merchant's office.

'The book of confession compiled by me, Antonio di Ser Pietro da Vinci,
a Florentine, sent to Nanna, my sister-in-law; most useful to all who
desire to confess their sins.'

For Leonardo, his brother's book breathed the air of conventional and
bourgeois piety, which had weighed upon his childhood, and had been an
inheritance in his family. A century before his birth the founders of
the house of Vinci were just as prudent, just as avaricious, just as
pious servants of the Florentine Commune as was now Ser Pietro, his
father. Their name appeared first in a writing of 1339, where mention
was made of one Michele da Vinci, a notary. Leonardo imagined him like
Antonio, his well-remembered grandfather. Antonio instructed his sons to
aspire to nothing over high, not to fame, nor to honours, nor to public
office, civil or military, nor to exceptional wealth, nor to exceptional
learning.

'_Starsi mezzanamente è cosa più sicura_,' ''Tis safest to keep the
mean,' was his constant saw; and Leonardo remembered the gravity and
calm assurance with which he enunciated this infallible rule.

After thirty years' absence, sitting under the roof of his grandfather's
house, listening to the moaning wind and watching the logs burning in
the fireplace, Leonardo thought how his own life had been one long
breach of this 'ant and spider' policy; had been an exuberant blossoming
which, according to his brother Antonio, temperance should have measured
with compasses and shorn away with iron shears.


III

Next morning, before the old gardener was awake, Leonardo left the
house, and having traversed the poor little town of Vinci ascended to
Anchiano, the neighbouring hamlet. The path was steep, and as on the
previous day, the sun colourless and wintry. At the verge of the
horizon, the cold cloudless blue of the sky melted into a dull purple.
The _tramontana_ blew steadily from the north, whistling monotonously in
the ears. The vegetation was still colourless and poor; little meagre
vineyards in semicircles, sparse dull grasses, mingled with fluttering
poppies; on all sides dusty grey olives, with knotted, blackened, and
twisted trunks of great antiquity. Entering Anchiano, Leonardo halted,
for he did not recognise the place. Where had been the Castello degli
Adimari with a wine-shop in its only unruined tower, there was now a
vineyard and a new house, with smoothly whitewashed walls. A husbandman
digging trenches among the vines, explained that mine host of the tavern
having died, the land had been sold to a sheepbreeder from Orbignano,
who had cleared away the ruins, and made a vineyard and an olive-grove
on their site.

Leonardo had good reason to ask after that little tavern, for it was
there he had been born.

Fifty years earlier, the village wine-shop had been lively enough. It
stood a little back from the road, its signboard swinging merrily. The
inhabitants of the surrounding hamlets on their way to the fairs of San
Miniato or Fucecchio, chamois-hunters, mule-drivers, custom-house
officers, and other persons who were not too exclusive in their taste
for company--all met here. The maid of the tavern was a girl of sixteen,
an orphan, a _contadina_ from Vinci; her name Caterina.

One day, in the spring-time of 1451, Piero di Ser Antonio da Vinci, a
young notary from Florence, was called to Anchiano to draw up an
agreement for the lease of the sixth part of a certain oil-press.
Business concluded, the peasants invited the notary to drink at the
tavern in the old tower of the Adimari. Ser Piero, always affable, even
among simple folk, accepted the invitation. The party was served by
Caterina, and the young notary, as he afterwards confessed, became
enamoured at first sight. Under pretext of quail-shooting, he delayed
his return to Florence; he haunted the tavern, and laid siege to
Caterina. Ser Piero was already celebrated as a conqueror of women; he
was four-and-twenty, handsome, strong, something of a coxcomb. He
possessed that self-confident eloquence which in a lover is
irresistible. Caterina hesitated, prayed to the Virgin for assistance,
finally succumbed. At the time when the quails took their flight from
the Val di Nievole, she was with child.

Ser Antonio da Vinci soon learned that his son had entangled himself
with the maid-servant at a village hostelry. He despatched him to
Florence and wedded him as quickly as possible to Madonna Albiera di Ser
Giovanni Amadori, who was neither very young nor very fair, but had a
substantial dowry. Caterina he mated also with a peasant named
Accattabrighe di Piero del Vacca, who was said to have beaten his first
wife to death in a drunken fit. The girl resigned herself without
protest, but with inward grief which threw her into a fever when she was
brought to bed. She was unable to suckle her child, and the little
Leonardo was wet-nursed by a goat from Monte Albano. Piero, however,
begged his father to take Caterina's child to be bred in his house. In
those times no one was ashamed of bastards, and they were frequently
educated on the same footing as their legitimate brethren, and even
preferred to them. Leonardo accordingly entered the virtuous and pious
family of da Vinci, and was entrusted to the care of his grandmother,
Lena di Piero da Baccareto.

As the vision of a dream, Leonardo remembered his mother; more
especially her smile, so delicate, so fleeting, full of mystery, and
gently malicious; singularly in contrast with the habitual expression of
her beautiful but melancholy face, which to some seemed even harshly
severe. Once he found that smile again, on the face of a small antique
bronze statue of Cybele, the immemorially ancient goddess of the earth;
the same subtle smile which he remembered as the characteristic of the
young peasant woman of Vinci--his mother.

He thought:--

'Ah, how the mountain women, dressed in poor coarse raiment, excel in
beauty those who are adorned!'

It was said by persons who had known Caterina that her son resembled
her; his long and slender hands, his golden hair, his smile, were
inherited from her. From his father he had a powerful frame, health,
zest of life; from his mother that almost feminine charm. Brought up in
the paternal house, Leonardo had never been entirely separated from his
mother. Her cottage was not far from Ser Antonio's villa; and at mid-day
when Accattabrighe had gone forth with the oxen, the boy would make his
way through the vineyard, climb the wall, and run to his mother. She was
awaiting him on the threshold, distaff in hand; she stretched out her
arms, and when he came she covered his eyes, his lips, his hair with her
kisses. Or at night when Accattabrighe would be at the tavern, dicing
and swilling, the child would escape from his bed, crawl through the
window and down the fig-tree, and run to Caterina's home. Sweet to him
was the cool of the dewy grass, the cry of the night-jar, the very
nettles and stones which wounded his feet; the glow of the far-off
stars, and the very anxiety lest his grandam should awake and miss him.

Yet Monna Lena likewise loved and pampered her grandson, and he
remembered her well, her one vesture of dark brown, her white kerchief,
her dark, wrinkled, kind old face, her lullabies, and the appetising
odour of the 'berlingozzi' which she baked after the ancient Tuscan
recipe. With his grandfather, he had not agreed so well. At first Ser
Antonio had taught him personally; but Leonardo was an unwilling pupil,
and at seven he was sent to school at the Oratory of Santa Petronilla.
But neither was the Latin grammar to his liking. He played truant,
wandering to a wild ravine behind the town where he would lie on his
back watching the flight of the cranes with torturing envy; or unfolding
the cups of flowers, wondering at their coloured petals and
pollen-covered stamens, moist with honey. Sometimes during his
grandfather's absence the little Nardo would escape for whole days into
the mountains, making his way by the tracks of goats and along the edges
of precipices to the summit of Monte Albano. Thence he could see a
boundless expanse of meadows, pastures, groves, and forests; the marshes
of Fucecchio; and Prato, Pistoia, Florence, and the snowy peaks of the
Alps; when the sky was clear, the misty blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
At last he would return home, dusty, sunburnt, his hands scratched, his
garments torn; but his grandam, seeing his happiness, had not the heart
to punish him, or to betray him to Ser Antonio. The boy lived alone; his
father and his uncle Francesco he saw but seldom, for they were away in
Florence; with his schoolmates he did not associate. Their sports
displeased him; on one occasion when they tore the wings from a
butterfly and laughed at its writhings, he frowned, turned pale, and
went away. Complaints of his surliness were in consequence made to Ser
Antonio; great displeasure followed, threats of flogging, and an actual
imprisonment for three days in a cupboard under the staircase.

Later, recalling this link in a long chain of injustice, he wrote in his
diary:--

'If as a child you were put in prison for doing your duty, what will
they do to you as a man?'


IV

Not far from Vinci a large villa was in course of construction by the
Florentine architect, Biagio da Ravenna, a pupil of Alberti. Leonardo
watched the raising of the walls, the levelling of the stonework, the
elevation of huge blocks by machinery. One day Ser Biagio talked with
the lad, and was astonished by the understanding which he showed. At
first in jest, then seriously, he taught him the first principles of
arithmetic, algebra, geometry, and mechanics. The teacher marvelled at
the facility with which the boy caught each idea as it were on the wing,
and made it his own; it seemed as though he were not learning but
remembering. The grandfather looked askance at what he called
'caprices,' and he thought it a bad omen that the boy used preferably
his left hand when he wrote; for sorcerers, necromancers, and those who
make compacts with the devil are, of course, always born left-handed!
His suspicion of the lad increased when a neighbour from Fortuniano
assured him that the old woman of the village on Monte Albano who had
provided the black goat for the suckling of the babe was an undoubted
witch.

'Do what you will,' thought the old notary, 'but if you bring up a wolf
he will always have his eye on the forest. Well, well! Submit to the
will of Heaven! There's no family without _one_ abortion.'

And he waited with desperate anxiety for the birth of a legitimate heir
to Piero, his favourite son; since Nardo, the product of illicit love,
was showing himself thus clearly 'ill-born' into this eminently
respectable family. 'Twas a tale of Monte Albano, which indeed accounted
for its name, that many plants and animals there mysteriously changed
their natural colour into white; so that the traveller, roaming its
woods and meadows, would chance upon white violets, white strawberries,
white sparrows, white nestlings in a brood of blackbirds. In like manner
the little Nardo was one of the wonders of the White Mountain; a
changeling in the virtuous and commonplace family of the Florentine
notary; a big white cuckoo in a nest of blackbirds.


V

When the boy had reached the age of thirteen, his father removed him
from Vinci to his house. Florence; since then he had rarely visited his
birthplace. But long after, in one of his note-books of the year 1494,
when he was in the service of the Duke of Milan, he wrote, 'Caterina,
came in July last year.' It might signify the beginning of some kitchen
wench's service; in reality it referred to his mother. Her husband had
died, and feeling that her own time might be short, she desired to see
her son at least once again. She joined a party of pilgrims on their way
to Milan for adoration of the Holy Nail; journeyed from Tuscany, and
presented herself at Leonardo's house. He received her with pious
affection; for her he was ever the little Nardo, who had come secretly
by night with bare feet and nestled at her side.

She would have returned to Anchiano, but her son would not permit it. He
placed her in a quiet and commodiously-fitted cell of the Convent of
Santa Chiara, near the Porta Vercellina. Later she fell ill, and at her
own request was taken to the _Ospedale Maggiore_, built by Francesco
Sforza and the finest hospital in Milan. Here he visited her for months
every day, at the last scarcely leaving her for an hour. Yet he had told
none of his friends nor even his pupils of her presence in Milan.

But when for the last time he had pressed his lips on the cold hand of
this peasant woman who had been his mother, it seemed to him that to her
he owed everything. He honoured her with a sumptuous funeral.

Six years later, after the fall of Ludovico Sforza, when he was leaving
Milan, he found a small carefully wrapped bundle in one of his chests.
It contained a couple of coarse canvas shirts and three pair of
goats'-hair stockings, all made by Caterina's hand, and brought to him
from Vinci. He had never worn them, but now coming upon the poor things
among his scientific books and mechanical apparatus, and the garments of
fine linen to which he had habituated himself, he felt inexpressibly
touched. Nor in the years which followed, when he was a solitary and
weary wanderer from country to country, from town to town, did he ever
omit to take this poor little parcel with him, packed among the dearest
of his treasures.


VI

Such were Leonardo's recollections as he climbed the slopes of Monte
Albano, familiar to him in his childhood. He sat down under the shelter
of a rock and surveyed the well-remembered landscape. Dwarfed and
gnarled oak-trees surrounded him still hung with withered leaves,
perfumed juniper, which the peasants called _scopa_ (besom), pale shy
violets, and low bushes of dried mountain heather, exhaled that
intangible freshness which is the odour of spring. Far away the valley
of the Arno met the sky; but to the right rose bare lofty mountains with
undulating shadows, twisted hollows like gigantic serpents, and wide
ravines, delicate purple in colour. At his feet was Anchiano, white and
shining in the sunlight; further away, Vinci clung to its little conical
hill like a wasp's nest; the castle tower distinct and black as the two
cypresses by the side of the Anchiano road.

Nothing was changed since the day when he had first climbed these paths.
Forty years before the _scopa_ had grown as luxuriantly, the violets and
thyme had scented the air, the oaks had rustled their withered leaves;
as now, Monte Albano had seemed colourless, bare, northern. Etruria of
the ancients, now Tuscany, land of perpetual spring, land of unfailing
renaissance--to Leonardo it wore that subtle and tender smile
brightening a beauty otherwise too austere, which he had first seen on
the countenance of Caterina his peasant mother.

He rose and pursued his way, the path growing more rugged, the wind
colder, sharper, more northerly. Memories of his youth crowded upon his
soul.


VII

Ser Piero da Vinci had prospered. Skilful and good-hearted, his life ran
upon greased wheels. Live and let live, was his maxim, and he stood well
with all, more especially with the clerical party. Procurator of the
monastery of the Santissima Annunziata, and of many other rich
foundations, he acquired wealth in abundance, adding largely to his
property, but never changing the modest fashion of life which he had
learned from Ser Antonio. His wife died when he was eight-and-thirty,
but he soon married a young and beautiful girl, Madonna Francesca di Ser
Giovanni Lanfredini. She, like her predecessor, was childless; and
Leonardo, the bastard, lived with his father, and had every prospect of
becoming his heir.

At that time Paola dal Pozzo Toscanelli, a famous astronomer and
mathematician, lived at Florence. He had written a letter to Christopher
Columbus, assuring him on the authority of his calculations that the
route to India by the Antipodes was neither so long nor so arduous as
had been supposed, encouraging him to make the adventure, and
prophesying its success. Columbus therefore carried out what had been
conceived in the lonely cell of the Florentine scholar, and was, as it
were, the instrument played by the hand of a skilled musician.
Toscanelli was said by his contemporaries to 'live like a saint';
reserved, frugal, chaste, he frequented neither the brilliant Medicean
court, nor the vain assemblies of the Neo-Platonist imitators of
antiquity. His face was curiously ugly, but redeemed by eyes of great
brilliance.

One evening a lad, scarcely more than a child, knocked at his door and
was coldly received, being suspected of mere idle curiosity. But short
conversation with the young Leonardo--for it was he--convinced the
astronomer, as before it had convinced Biagio da Ravenna, of his
wonderful aptitude for mathematics. Ser Paola became his teacher; on
summer nights they went together to Poggio del Pino, one of those
fragrant, pine-clad, heather-carpeted hills, girdling the City of
Flowers; there Toscanelli had built his observatory. He taught the boy
all he himself knew of the laws of the universe. It was from these
lessons that Leonardo dated his faith in the experimental study of
nature, as yet too much neglected by the philosophers.

Ser Piero da Vinci, though he put no difficulties in the way of his
son's studies, advised him to choose some more lucrative occupation;
having noticed his bent towards modelling and drawing, he showed some of
the boy's work to Andrea Verrocchio, the painter and goldsmith; and
shortly afterwards Leonardo was formally entered as one of this artist's
pupils.


VIII

Verrocchio, the son of a poor furnace-stoker, was seventeen years the
senior of Leonardo. His face was placid, flat, and pale, with a double
chin. Only in his tight shut lips and piercing eyes was there evidence
of singular intelligence. Spectacles on nose, magnifier in hand, he sat
in his dark _bottega_ near the Ponte Vecchio, looking more like a small
shopkeeper than a great artist. A disciple of Paolo Uccello, he, like
his master, affirmed that Perspective must be based on science.
'Geometry,' he said, 'being a part of mathematics, mother of all
knowledge, is also the mother of drawing, which is the father of all the
arts.' Complete knowledge and complete enjoyment of beauty were to him
identical. Unlike Botticelli, and others of his kidney, Verrocchio was
neither ravished by extraordinary beauty nor repelled by unusual
deformity. In both he found occasion for study. He was also the first
master who made anatomical models. If Botticelli had found the
fascination of art in the miraculous, in the fabulous, in that mystic
haze which confounds Olympus with Golgotha--for Verrocchio it lay in
patient investigation and a firm grasp of the verities of nature. The
miraculous was not true for him. Truth was the miracle.

This was the man to whom Ser Piero brought his seventeen-year-old son;
he became Leonardo's teacher; further, he became his disciple. The monks
of Vallombrosa had commissioned Ser Andrea to paint them a Baptism of
Christ, and the master set his pupil to execute the kneeling angel which
formed part of the composition. The result showed Verrocchio that his
scholar knew intuitively and clearly all that he himself had dimly
guessed and sought for gropingly, slowly and laboriously, through a fog.

Later it was said that Verrocchio gave up painting because jealous of
the young man's superiority; in reality there was never anything but
harmony between the two. Each supplied the deficiency of the other. The
pupil had lightness and precision of touch; Verrocchio, perseverance and
concentrated attention. They worked together without envy, without
rivalry, scarce knowing how much they owed each other.

At that time Verrocchio executed the bronze group for Orsanmichele,
which was known as the 'Incredulity of St. Thomas.' It was altogether
unlike the celestial dreams of the Beato Angelico or the delirious
idealism of Sandro Botticelli. In St. Thomas's mysterious smile, as he
put his fingers into the print of the nails, was exhibited for the first
time the boldness of man before his God; Reason face to face with
Miracle.


IX

Leonardo's first independent work was a cartoon for a curtain of
Flanders tissue, a gift from the Florentines to the King of Portugal.
The subject was the Fall of Man; and such was the accuracy with which
the palm branches, the flowers, and the animals of Paradise were drawn,
that Vasari the critic was stupefied at so great patience.

Eve, stretching out her hand to the Tree of Knowledge, wore the same
smile of bold curiosity which Verrocchio had given to St. Thomas.

A little later Ser Piero employed his son to paint one of those round
wooden shields called _rotelle_, which were used as ornaments for
houses, and which generally carried some allegorical design. Leonardo
painted an animal, terrible as the face of Medusa. He had collected
lizards, snakes, crickets, spiders, centipedes, moths, scorpions, bats,
every sort of noxious creature, and had studied their characteristics.
By a process of selection and exaggeration of their individual truth, he
had put together a monster, such as had never existed, yet which might
have been possible, deducing what is not from what is with the precision
of an Euclid or a Pythagoras. The beast was issuing from its den in the
rock; grating its black and shining scales upon the gravel. Fetor
exhaled from its gaping jaws, smoke from its nostrils; its eyes were
flame. Horrible as was the monster, the wonder of it lay less in its
deformity than in its charm, which was no less powerful than the charm
of beauty.

Day and night Leonardo had studied and painted in the stifling room
empoisoned by the stench from the dead reptiles; at last the picture was
finished, and he summoned his father to see it. He had placed it on a
wooden stand surrounded by black cloth, the light being so disposed that
only the monster was illuminated. Ser Piero came in, saw the beast, and
involuntarily drew back. Recovering himself, he looked again, and his
expression changed from great fear to great pleasure.

'The _rotella_ is ready,' said Leonardo; 'it produces the effect at
which I have aimed. You may take it away.'

Next he received an order for an 'Adoration of the Magi' from the monks
of San Donato a Scopeto. In the sketch for this picture he exhibited a
knowledge of anatomy and of the outward expression of the emotions,
surpassing that of any previous painter. Against a background almost
Hellenic in its beauty, he showed the Mother of God with the divine
Infant, who, smiling shyly, seemed to marvel at the precious gifts
brought by the strangers. They, wearied and bowed down by the load of
ancient and earthly wisdom, bending their heads, shading their eyes,
were absorbed in contemplation of that miracle of miracles, the Epiphany
of God in man.

In his picture of the Fall, Leonardo had realised the boldness of
reason--the wisdom of the serpent; in this of the Adoration he had shown
the innocence of the dove, the humility of faith. One picture the
complement of the other; the two exhibited the full circle of his
philosophy.

But the second picture was never finished. In the quest for perfection
he made difficulties for himself which his brush could not overcome. In
the words of Petrarch, '_al dissetamento era d'ostacolo l'eccessiva
brama_'--'excessive thirst hindered its own quenching.'

Meanwhile, Ser Piero married his third wife, Margherita, who brought him
two sons, Antonio and Giuliano. The step-mother hated Leonardo, and
accused her husband of wasting the inheritance of his lawful children
upon a bastard, foster-child of a witch's goat. The young painter had
enemies also among his fellow-students; and it was one of them who
brought against him and against Verrocchio the accusation of which
Cesare da Sesto had told Giovanni Boltraffio. The calumny had acquired
some verisimilitude from the exceptional friendship between master and
scholar, and from the fact that Leonardo, though the handsomest man of
young Florence--('in his exterior, says a contemporary, there was such
radiance of beauty that at sight of him sad hearts were
gladdened')--eschewed the society of women. The accusation came to
nothing, but he left Verrocchio, and henceforth painted independently.

Reports now got about touching his heresies and atheism, and it became
increasingly difficult for him to remain in Florence. Ser Piero
introduced him to Lorenzo de' Medici; uselessly, however, for _Il
Magnifico_ disapproved spirits too daring and unconventional, and
demanded a constant and servile adulation which Leonardo was ill fitted
to supply. The tedium of inaction oppressed him. He entered into
negotiations with the Egyptian ambassador for the purpose of obtaining
the post of chief architect to the 'diodario' of Syria, though he knew
that it would require his embracing the Mahometan faith. His one desire
was to escape from Florence. Chance favoured him. He made a
many-stringed silver lute in the form of a horse's head, which took
Lorenzo de' Medici's fancy. Lorenzo sent it by the hand of the inventor
to Milan, as a gift to Ludovico Sforza.

Leonardo was received at the Lombard court not as a man of science, not
as a painter, but as the _sonatore di lira_--the 'player of the lyre.'

But before starting he had written a long letter to the duke, setting
forth how useful he might be to him.

'Most Illustrious Lord,--Having studied and estimated the works of the
present inventors of warlike engines, I have found that in them there is
nothing novel to distinguish them. I therefore force myself to address
your Excellency that I may disclose to him the secrets of my art.

'1st. I have a method for bridges, very light and very strong; easy of
transport and incombustible.

'2nd. New means of destroying any fortress or castle (which hath not
foundations hewn of solid rock) without the employment of bombards.

'3rd. Of making mines and passages, immediately and noiselessly, under
ditches and streams.

'4th. I have designed irresistible protected chariots for the carrying
of artillery against the enemy.

'5th. I can construct bombards, cannon, mortars, 'passavolanti': all new
and very beautiful.

'6th. Likewise battering rams, machines for the casting of projectiles,
and other astounding engines.

'7th. For sea-combats I have contrivances both offensive and defensive;
ships whose sides would repel stone and iron balls, and explosives,
unknown to any soul.

'8th. In days of peace, I should hope to satisfy your Excellency in
architecture, in the erection of public and private buildings, in the
construction of canals and aqueducts. I am acquainted with the arts of
sculpture and painting, and can execute orders in marble, metal, clay,
or in painting with oil, as well as any artist. And I can undertake that
equestrian statue cast in bronze, which shall eternally glorify the
blessed memory of your lordship's father and of the illustrious house of
Sforza.

'And if any of the above seem extravagant or beyond the reach of
possibility, I offer myself prepared to make experiment in your park; or
in whatsoever place it may please your Excellency to appoint; to whose
gracious attention I most humbly recommend myself. LEONARDO DA VINCI.'

When he caught his first glimpse of the snow-clad Alps shining above the
green plain of Lombardy, he felt himself entering upon a new life, in a
strange land which was to become his true country.


X

Such was the half century of life upon which Leonardo looked back as he
ascended Monte Albano. The path had become direct, vegetation was left
below, the mountains were bare, solitary, and terrible, as belonging to
another planet. He was blinded by fierce gusts of icy wind. Stones
breaking away from his feet fell noisily into the ravine. He was still
ascending, and at every step the prospect widened. He found exhilaration
in the effort of climbing, gradually conquering the great mountains and
compelling them to give up their treasures. Florence was out of sight,
but the spacious district of Empoli was spread at his feet; first the
mountains, cold dull purple with broad shadows; then the unnumbered
billowy hills from Livorno to San Geminiano. Everywhere was air,
emptiness, space. The narrow footpath seemed to vanish; he fancied
himself flying over this boundless expanse on gigantic wings. The
realisation that he had no such equipment produced in his mind the
wondering alarm felt by a man who is suddenly deprived of his legs. He
remembered how in boyhood he used to watch the flight of cranes; and
how, hearing their cry, he had fancied it a summons to himself, and had
wept for disappointment that he could not obey. He remembered releasing
his grandfather's cage-birds, and joying in the wild swoops of their
recovered liberty. He remembered listening to the tale of Icarus, who
had thought to fly on waxen wings, but had fallen and perished; and how,
when bidden by his teacher to name the greatest of ancient heroes, he
had answered without a moment's hesitation 'Icarus, son of Dædalus.' He
remembered, too, his pleasure in finding a clumsy representation of his
hero among the bas-reliefs of Giotto's campanile in Florence. He
retained one other memory of his childhood which, however absurd it
might have seemed to another, had for him a prophetic meaning. He wrote
of it:--

'I remember that once in infancy, lying in my cradle, I fancied that a
kite flew to me and opened my lips, and rubbed his feathers over them.
It would seem to be my destiny all my life to talk about wings.'

The question of human flight had indeed become the preoccupation of his
whole life. Now, even as forty years before, standing again on the slope
of the White Mountain it seemed to him an intolerable injury, even an
impossibility, that men should remain wingless.

'He who knows all can do all,' thought Leonardo. 'I have only to _know_;
and there shall be wings.'


XI

On one of the final zigzags of the path he felt himself touched from
behind, and turning saw Giovanni Boltraffio who, hat in hand, eyes half
shut, head bent, was battling with the wind, and had evidently been
calling for some time unheard. When he saw the Master with long hair
streaming on the blast, and look of indomitable will, his thoughtful
eyes, deep lines on his forehead, and overhanging brows contracted in a
frown, seemed to the disciple so strange and terrible as to be barely
recognisable. Even the broad folds of his red cloak bellying in the wind
were like the pinions of some strange bird.

Giovanni shouted as loud as he could, but he was so much out of breath
he could only articulate broken phrases.

'Just come--from Florence. Letter--important--told to give it into your
hands at once!'

Leonardo guessed at a communication from Cæsar Borgia, and quickly
recognised the writing of Messer Agapito his secretary.

'Go down at once,' said Leonardo, seeing Giovanni blue with cold. 'I
will follow you immediately.' And he watched Boltraffio as he fought his
way through the storm, clinging to frail boughs of low-growing shrubs,
crawling over rocks, bending double, absurdly small and weak in
comparison with his surroundings and the fury of the elements. He
appeared an epitome of all human weakness; and, watching him, Leonardo
was reminded of the curse of some grave impotence which seemed to have
lain upon his whole life, which had, he feared, condemned him to eternal
sterility, besides depriving him of the sympathy of his fellows.

'My Wings!' he thought, 'Ah! will not they fail like everything else?'

And he remembered the words spoken by Astro in his delirium, the answer
of the Son of Man when the devil would have seduced him by the terror of
the abyss, by the fascination of flight: 'Thou shalt not tempt the Lord
thy God!'

He raised his head, set his teeth, and again addressed himself to the
ascent, conquering the mountain and the storm. The path had disappeared.
He guided himself over the bare rocks where, perhaps, none had trodden
before. Suddenly he found himself upon the edge of a precipice, till now
unseen; misty dull purple filled with air and yawned beneath his feet as
if the void and endless heaven were below no less than above. The wind
had become a hurricane, and howled and roared like continuous thunder.
Leonardo could have fancied that unseen evil birds--flock after
flock--were sweeping past him on gigantic wings. No further advance was
possible; never had the long familiar idea appealed to him with such
force; never had he been so impressed by the logic, by the necessity, of
the power of flight.

'_There shall be wings!_' he cried, 'if the accomplishment be not for
me, 'tis for some other. It shall be done. The spirit cannot lie; and
Man, who shall know all and who shall have wings, shall indeed be as a
god.'

And he pictured to himself the King of the Air, Him who can pass all
bounds and supersede all the laws which limit human intelligence, the
Son of Man coming in his glory and power, the _Magno Cecero_, 'the Great
Swan,' borne on wings immense, white, shining as light itself, in the
blue of heaven.

And his soul was filled with a joy akin to terror.


XII

As he descended from Monte Albano the sun was setting. The pointed
cypresses were black against the golden sky; the receding mountains
tender and translucent as amethyst. The wind had subsided. He was
approaching Anchiano, and the hill town of Vinci was already in sight.

He stopped, and murmured:--

'From the mountain which takes its name from the conqueror
(Vinci--Vincere) Man shall take his first flight!'

And gazing at his birthplace, there at the foot of the White Mountain,
he repeated: 'Eternal glory to the nest from whence he sprang!'

The letter from Messer Agapito announced the approaching siege of
Faenza, and demanded the immediate presence of the new engineer and
architect in Cæsar Borgia's camp.

Two days later Leonardo left Florence for Romagna.




BOOK XII

'AUT CÆSAR AUT NIHIL.'
                CÆSAR BORGIA.

1500-1503


     'A prince must be a beast as well as a man.'
                   NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI.--_Il Principe._


I

'We, Cæsar Borgia of France, by the Grace of God, Duke of Romagna, Lord
of Piombino, Gonfaloniere of the Holy Roman Church, and Captain-General;

'To all our lieutenants, castellans, captains, condottieri, officers,
and subjects;

'We commend unto you the most famous and well-beloved Leonardo Vinci,
our architect and chief war-engineer, and command that ye give him
everywhere unhindered passage, permitting him to examine, measure, and
judge of everything he may desire to see in our fortresses, and
affording him all co-operation, and as many men as he may need to help
him. And we bid our other contractors to enter into accord in all
matters with the will of the above-mentioned Leonardo, to whom we
entrust the oversight of all the fortresses and castles in our
dominions.

     'Given at Pavia on August 18th, in the year of our Lord, 1502, and
     the second of our reign in Romagna.
                                              'CÆSAR, dux Romandiolæ.'

So ran Leonardo's new credentials.

These were the years in which Cæsar Borgia was gradually recovering for
Alexander VI. the ancient States of the Church, said to have been
conferred on the papacy by Constantine the Great. He had taken the town
of Faenza from the eighteen-year-old Astorre Manfredi; and Forlì from
Caterina Sforza. The lad and the woman had been confided to his
protection. He threw them both into the Castle of St. Angelo. He
concluded a fraudulent treaty with the Duke of Urbino, and in 1502
planned a campaign against Bologna. He was intent upon making himself
sole and absolute ruler of Italy. In September his enemies, including
the dukes of Perugia and Siena, as well as other important personages,
assembled at Mugione, and concluded a secret alliance against him.
Vitellozzo Vitelli swore the oath of Hannibal, that within a year he
would slay, imprison, or exile the common foe. Report of this alliance
having been bruited abroad, it was joined by some of the greater
princes. Urbino rose in revolt; Cæsar's own troops mutinied; the King of
France was slow in coming to his help; he seemed on the verge of ruin.
Nevertheless he still had resources, and his enemies were dilatory. The
opportunity was let slip, and presently these, his allied enemies,
entered into negotiations with the usurper. He overreached them,
contriving to set them at variance with each other; by profound
dissimulation and courteous manners converted them to a more or less
favourable attitude; and presently made an urgent appointment to meet
his foes in parley at the newly-conquered town of Sinigaglia.

Leonardo had quickly become a prominent personage at Cæsar's court. The
duke employed him in adorning the various towns with palaces, libraries,
schools, barracks, and canals. He constructed engines of war, made
military maps, and was present at all Cæsar's bloodiest exploits.

Leonardo did not wish to see too clearly, or to know too accurately,
what was taking place around him. He eschewed politics. He confined
himself almost entirely to observations on physical and social
phenomena: the manner of planting orchards, the machinery for ringing
the bells at Siena Cathedral, the low music of the falling water in the
fountain of Rimini, the dove-cot in the Castle of Urbino. He noted how
the shepherds at the foot of the Apennines placed their horns in the
narrow openings of deep hollows, so that echo should increase the volume
of their sound. For whole days he stood on the desolate shore of
Piombino, watching the falling of the waves; and while all around him
the laws of human justice were being broken, mused on the invariability
of nature, and found deep-seated joy in the eternal justice of the Prime
Mover.

On a day in June the corpses of the young Astorre and his brother were
found in the Tiber, stones tied round their necks. The crime was
universally attributed to Cæsar. But that day Leonardo noted--

'In Romagna four-wheeled carts are used, the front wheels small, the
back large: the construction is faulty, for all the weight rests on the
front.'


II

In the latter half of December 1503 the Duke of Valentinois, with his
whole court, moved from Cesena to Fano, on the shores of the Adriatic,
twenty miles from Sinigaglia, where the meeting was appointed with his
former enemies, Oliverotto da Fermo, Vitellozzo Vitelli, and Gian Paolo
Baglioni. A few days later Leonardo came from Pesaro to join his patron.

On the way he was overtaken by a storm. The mountains were covered with
impassable snow-drifts, the mules slipped on the ice; great waves were
heard breaking on the seashore at the foot of the precipice. As darkness
came on the travellers lost the path, and, dropping the reins, they
trusted themselves to the instinct of their beasts. The mule Leonardo
was riding suddenly stopped and grew restive, scenting the corpse of a
man who had been hanged, which still dangled from the branch of a
solitary tree.

At last they saw a distant light, and the guide recognised the inn at
Novilara, a mountain town half way between Pesaro and Fano. The
travellers quickened their steps, and presently were knocking at the
massive entrance door, studded with nails like the gate of a fortress. A
sleepy ostler came first; then the landlord, who declined to receive the
new arrivals. All his rooms, all his stables were overfilled; there was
not a bed in which three or four were not sleeping--all persons of
quality, soldiers and courtiers of the duke's suite.

Leonardo told his name and exhibited his credentials, sealed with the
duke's seal. The host poured forth a torrent of apology, and made offer
of his own chamber, which at present contained only three French
captains, all passably drunk and sound asleep.

Leonardo entered the kitchen, which according to the wont of the Romagna
inns served also as a parlour. It was very dirty, with patches of damp
on the bare walls; guinea-fowl were sleeping on their perches, and baby
porkers squeaking round the door; onions, gherkins, and sausages were
suspended from the ceiling. A whole pig was roasting before the immense
glowing fire. Guests crowded at long tables, drinking and quarrelling
over cards.

Leonardo sat down by the stove, and presently, at a square board close
by, he saw Baldassarre Scipioni, an old man, formerly captain of the
duke's Lancers; Alessandro Spanocchia, the treasurer; Pandolfo
Collenuccio, legate from Ferrara, and a fourth gentleman, a stranger,
who was gesticulating forcibly, and crying in a thin squeaky voice:--

'I can prove this also, _Messeri_! I can prove this by instances from
ancient and from modern history! Call to mind the states which have
acquired military glory--Romans, Spartans, Athenians, Ætolians, and the
trans-Alpine hordes. All the great commanders collected their armies
from the citizens of their own country. Ninus from the Assyrians, Cyrus
from the Persians, Alexander from the Macedonians. I grant you that
Pyrrhus and Hannibal won victories by means of mercenaries, but these
were generals of exceptional genius. Nor must ye forget my main
proposition--the very corner-stone of military science--viz., that in
infantry, and infantry alone, lies the strength of an army. Not in
cavalry, not in fire-arms and powder, ridiculous toy inventions of
modern times.'

'You go too far, Messer Niccolò,' replied the captain of lancers with a
smile; 'fire-arms are becoming of some importance. Whatever you say
about the Romans and the Spartans, I venture to think our troops are
much better equipped. A squadron of our French soldiers, or a battery of
thirty bombards, would have made short work of your ancient Romans.'

'Sophisms! Sophisms!' retorted Messer Niccolò with increasing
excitement. 'I perceive in your words fearfully perilous error! Some day
the Italians will be taught, by a rude lesson, the weakness of mercenary
armies, and the pitiful powerlessness of cavalry and artillery. Remember
how the handfuls of Lucullus routed 150,000 horsemen, among whom were
cohorts of mounted men exactly similar to the squadrons of the present
French cavalry!'

Leonardo looked curiously at this man who spoke like an eye-witness of
the victories of Lucullus. The stranger wore a long garment of dark red
cloth, falling in straight folds; it resembled that worn by the
statesmen of the Florentine Republic and the secretaries of the
embassies. It was, however, old and stained. The sleeves were
threadbare, and such linen as was to be seen was frayed and soiled. The
man had great bony hands, copiously dyed with ink, and a wart on one
finger. There was little dignity in his air; he was lean and narrow
shouldered, about forty years of age, and with sharp irregular features.
Sometimes when he was speaking he would look over the head of his
interlocutor, as if peering into space like some long-sighted rapacious
bird. In his restless movements, in the feverish flush of his swarthy
cheeks, above all, in the intentness of his large grey eyes, there was
evidence of smouldering fire within. The eyes themselves were malicious;
yet at times, in their sardonic smile, in their cold displeasure, there
was an expression of weakness almost pathetic.

Messer Niccolò continued to pour forth his notions; and Leonardo
marvelled at the strange mixture of truth and error in his talk, at his
audacity, and his slavish appeal to the authority of the ancients. He
approved him when he spoke of the scientific difficulty in using guns of
large calibre, owing to the inaccuracy of their range; but the next
minute he asserted that fortresses were useless, because the Spartans
and the Romans built none. He appeared to regard the opinions of the
Greeks and Romans much as Leonardo regarded mathematical axioms. The
latter, however, did not hear the conclusion of the dispute, as the
landlord called him to the bedchamber reserved for him upstairs.


III

It snowed all night, and in the morning the guide refused to continue
the journey, the weather being in his opinion not fit even for a dog to
go out in. Leonardo was forced to remain at the inn. He amused himself
trying a self-turning roasting-spit which he had invented.

'With this mechanism,' he expounded to the astonished onlookers, 'the
cook need have no fear of burning the meat, for the action of the fire
remains even. With increase of heat it turns faster, that is all.'

It would seem that the success of his flying-machine could hardly have
afforded him greater pleasure than the perfection of this cooking
engine.

In the same room Messer Niccolò was explaining to certain young
artillery sergeants an infallible system, based on abstract mathematics,
for winning at dice--'circumventing,' as he called it, 'the caprices of
the strumpet Fortune.' Every time he tried to give a practical
illustration of its value, he lost, greatly to his own astonishment and
to the amusement of his audience. The conclusion of the game was
unexpected and not entirely to Messer Niccolò's glory. It revealed that
his pouch was empty, and that he could not meet his losses.

Late that evening there arrived another guest, with a great array of
servants, pages, grooms, jesters, negroes, animals, boxes, and chests.
It was the elegant Venetian courtesan, the _magnifica meretrice_, Lena
Griffi, who had been so nearly despoiled by Savonarola's 'youthful
inquisitors.' Two years ago, following the example of many of her
sisterhood, the repentant Magdalen had cut her hair and shut herself up
in a convent. This was, however, merely an artifice to raise her price
in the city tariff of courtesans, drawn up for the use of strangers.
From the monastic chrysalis she had emerged like a butterfly awakened to
a new and more splendid life. Very soon the _mammola veneziana_ had
risen to great celebrity, and had fashioned for herself, according to
the usage of the principal courtesans, a fine genealogical-tree, by
which it appeared that she was the daughter of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza,
brother of Ludovico, Duke of Milan. She became the mistress of an old
and doting cardinal, whose infirmities were palliated by his wealth, and
was now journeying to Fano, where her elderly lover was attached to
Cæsar Borgia's camp. The host could not refuse admission to so exalted a
personage. He accommodated her suite by turning out certain Ancona
merchants from a fair-sized bedroom, housing them in the forge, and
promising them a reduction in their bill. Similar treatment he proposed
for Messer Niccolò and his room-mates, the French captains, in order to
provide a chamber for the lady herself.

Messer Niccolò, however, protested, and grew very angry, asking the
landlord if he had lost his reason, if he knew with whom he was
speaking? if it were not unheard-of insolence to insult respectable
people for the pleasing of the first jade tumbled in out of the street?
Here intervened the hostess, a masterful lady who, in the words of the
proverb, had not 'pawned her tongue to a Jew'; she suggested that before
making so much noise he had better pay the bill for himself, his
servant, and his three horses; and also return the four ducats lent him
last Friday by her husband. And she added, in a stage whisper, that she
wished a bad Easter to all the adventurers and beggars who swarmed on
the high roads, and, pretending to be great ones, lived at free quarters
and mocked at honest people. No doubt there was some applicability in
all this, for Messer Niccolò was reduced to silence, and seemed
considering how he could retire with the best grace from his position.
Meantime servants were already removing his goods, and Madonna Lena's
monkey was grimacing at him, and jumping over the table among his papers
and great leather books, the _Decades_ of Livy and Plutarch's _Lives_.

Leonardo now approached and said, raising his berretto:--

'Messere, if it would please you to share my room, I shall account it an
honour, if your worship will permit me to render so slight a service.'

Niccolò seemed astonished, and even confused; recovering himself,
however, he accepted the offer with suitable thanks. Leonardo took him
to his room, and assigned him the best place. The more he looked at this
strange man the more attractive and interesting did he seem to him. He
presently learned his name: He was Machiavelli, secretary to the Council
of Ten in the Florentine Republic.

Three months earlier the astute and vigilant Signoria had sent
Machiavelli to make a treaty with Cæsar Borgia. The latter had proposed
a defensive alliance against their common enemies, Bentivoglio, the
Vitelli, and the Orsini; but the Florentines, fearing the duke too much
to desire either his friendship or his enmity, had commanded their envoy
to meet his propositions merely with diplomatic and ambiguous
expressions of goodwill, and secretly to obtain free passage for their
traders through the duke's territory along the shores of the Adriatic, a
matter of no small importance to their commerce.

Leonardo also disclosed his name and rank; and soon he and his new
friend were conversing with that ease and mutual confidence occasionally
natural to persons of opposite character, and habitually solitary and
meditative.

'Messere,' burst out Niccolò, and his candour was not unattractive, 'I
know you by repute as a great painter; but I warn you I have no
knowledge of painting, nor am I even fond of it. Of course you may
respond, as did Dante to the street mocker who offered him a fig, "I
wouldn't change one of mine for twenty of yours!" but I confess I am
more interested in having learnt from the duke that you are an expert in
military science. How important that is! Civil greatness is founded upon
war, and depends on the regular army. I am writing a book on monarchies
and republics, wherein I shall discuss the natural laws which govern the
life, growth, decline, and death of every state, just like a
mathematician discussing the laws of number, or a natural philosopher
physics. Hitherto, sir, all who have written about the state----'

Here he stopped, and chid himself with a good-humoured smile.

'Forgive me, Messere, I am taking a mean advantage. It may be that
policy interests you as little as painting interests me?'

'Not so,' said Leonardo. 'I tell you candidly I don't affect statecraft,
because such talk is apt to be idle. But your opinions are so new and
surprising, that, believe me, I am thrice happy to learn.'

'Beware, Messer Leonardo,' said the other; 'these matters are my
hobby-horse. I will go without bread, if I may but talk upon politics
with a man of understanding. The mischief is, to find the man of
understanding! Our great ones think of naught but the price of wool and
of silk, while I' (he smiled bitterly) 'am made of neither.'

Leonardo reassured him, and added, in order to keep the conversation
going:--

'You have said, Messere, that politics should be an exact science
founded upon mathematics, like mechanics, which finds its certainty in
the observation and experience of nature. Did I understand you aright?'

'Perfectly!' cried Machiavelli, frowning, and looking into space beyond
his companion's head, with that air of a far-sighted bird habitual to
him. 'I desire to reveal a new thing to men about human affairs. The
Laws of nature, which are outside man's will, outside good and evil, are
the laws which guide the life of every society. All former writers on
this subject have dealt with the good and the bad, the noble and the
base. I do not concern myself with governments which ought to be, nor
with what seems to be, but with that which really is. I inquire into the
nature of the great bodies, known as republics and monarchies, and I
commit myself neither to praise nor to blame, like a mathematician or an
anatomist. I will tell men the truth, even if they burn me for it, as
they burned Fra Girolamo. For the task is dangerous.'

Leonardo smiled, observing Machiavelli's excitement, and thought: 'With
what passion he praises dispassionateness!'

'Messer Niccolò,' he said aloud, 'if you succeed according to your
intentions, you will have done more than Euclid or Archimedes.'

Leonardo was struck by the unconventionality of what he had heard. He
remembered how, thirteen years earlier, he had himself written on the
margin of certain anatomical sketches:--

'May the Most High assist me to study the nature of human beings, their
temperaments and habits, even as here I have studied their internal
organs!'


IV

Suddenly Machiavelli exclaimed, his eyes sparkling merrily: 'The more I
listen to you, Messer Leonardo, the more I am astounded that we should
have met. Some most rare combination of the stars! The minds of men are,
I protest, of three qualities. First, those who see of themselves;
secondly, those who see when they are shown; thirdly, those who see not
of themselves, neither see when they are shown. Your worship, and I
myself (for I would not be guilty of false modesty) belong to the first
category. But you laugh? Ah! such a meeting will not easily come to me
again on this side the grave, for on earth the elect are few. Permit me
to read you a most beautiful piece of Livy.'

He took a book from the table, adjusted the tallow candle, put on iron
spectacles (broken and tied up with string), the large round glasses of
which gave him a grave and devout expression, as if he were addressing
himself to some act of worship. But no sooner had he found his passage,
and opened his lips, than the door opened, and a little wrinkled old
woman came in, curtseying and bowing.

'I crave your pardon, gentlemen, for this annoyance,' she mumbled, 'but
my illustrious lady, Madonna Lena Griffi, has lost her favourite
animal--a rabbit with a blue ribbon round its neck. We have searched two
hours for it, but vainly.'

'There are no rabbits here,' said Messer Niccolò, angrily; 'go to the
devil!' And he was about to eject her, but suddenly checked himself, and
having looked at her narrowly, both with and without his spectacles, he
cried:--

'Monna Alvigia! Is it really you, you old witch? I thought the devil had
long ago roasted your old carcase!'

The woman blinked and cowered, answering his polite greeting with a
sorry smile.

'Oh, Messer Niccolò! how many years, how many winters since we have seen
each other! I had never expected God would give us this pleasure again!'

Machiavelli invited the old woman to follow him to the kitchen for a
crack; but Leonardo, providing himself with a book and seating himself
in a corner, begged them to remain. Then Messer Niccolò sent for wine
with a lordly air, as if he were the most honoured guest in the inn.

'Hark ye, friend,' he said to the servant who took his order, 'bid that
skinflint, your master, beware how he serve us that acid stuff we had
yesterday, for Monna Alvigia and I are like Arlotto the priest, who
would not kneel if the wine were bad.'

Monna Alvigia forgot her rabbit and Niccolò his Livy; over their pitcher
of wine they gossiped like old friends. Alvigia told tales of her youth
when she had been fair to see and much courted, and she had done what
she wished and it had not mattered what she did. Had she not once in
Padua lifted the mitre from the head of the bishop and placed it upon
her own? But years passed by, and her beauty faded, and her lovers
abandoned her, and she had to support herself by hiring rooms and by
taking in washing. Then she fell ill, and she thought of sitting among
the beggars at the church door, and even of ending herself by poison.
But the Holy Virgin came to her aid and rescued her from death. With
the aid of an old abbot, who was in love with the young wife of a
blacksmith, she entered upon a trade far more profitable than that of a
laundress.

The story was interrupted by a summons from Madonna Lena, who required
pomade for her monkey's wounded paw, and Boccaccio's _Decameron_, which
she always kept under her pillow beside her prayer-book.

The old woman gone, Messer Niccolò mended a pen, took paper, and began
his report to the Magnificent Signori of Florence, on the dispositions
and actions of the Duke of Valentinois, a piece of profound
statesmanship, written in easy, almost jocular style.

'Messere' he exclaimed, raising his eyes to Leonardo, 'confess I
surprised you by my sudden passage from discussion of the virtue of
ancient Sparta to vain gossip about women with that old hag! Judge me
not too harshly! We must imitate nature. Are we not men? Is it not
legended that Aristotle, in the very presence of Alexander his pupil,
permitted the leman whom he loved to ride on his back while he caracoled
on all fours? Shall simple sinners be more discreet?'

By this time the household slept. All was silent save for the chirp of
the cricket, the muttering of Monna Alvigia, and the growling of the
monkey as she anointed its paw. Leonardo had gone to bed, but lay
watching his quaint companion, who still gnawed his pen and stooped over
his writing. The candle flame threw on the wall a vast shadow of his
head with its sharp-cut angles, its protruding lower lip, its thin neck
and long beak-like nose. Having finished his report he sealed it up, and
wrote the words usual on despatches: '_Cito, citissime, celerrime_.'
Then he opened his Livy and pursued his occupation of many years, the
compiling of notes for the _Decades_.

The shadow on the wall danced and wavered and grimaced as the candle
flickered and burned low; but the face of the Florentine secretary
preserved its stern and dignified calm; the reflection of the greatness
of ancient Rome. Only in the depth of his eyes, in the corners of his
lips there showed sometimes a two-faced cunning, a mocking cynicism.


V

Next day the storm was over. The sun sparkled on the frozen windows; the
snowy fields and hills, soft as down, shone dazzlingly white under the
azure sky. His companion was no longer in the room when Leonardo awoke.
He dressed and descended to the kitchen where, to the joy of the cook, a
joint was roasting on the automatic spit.

He ordered his mule and sat down to breakfast. Beside him was Messer
Niccolò talking excitedly to a couple of newcomers. One of these was a
faultlessly fashionable youth with an undistinguished face, a certain
Messer Lucio, related to Francesco Vettori. This Vettori was a man of
note in Florence, intimately connected with Piero Soderini the
_Gonfaloniere_, and very favourably disposed to Machiavelli. He had sent
Lucio with letters to Messer Niccolò from his friends.

'Be not disquieted about the money,' Lucio was saying; 'my uncle assures
me that last Thursday the Signori promised----'

'But, my dear sir,' interrupted Machiavelli, 'can two servants and three
horses be fed with promises? At Imola I received sixty ducats and paid
debts of seventy. If it were not for the compassion of the benevolent,
the secretary of the Florentine Republic would starve. It is vain for
the Signori to talk of the honour of their town if they force the man
whom they send to a strange court to beg for his sheer necessities.'

Messer Niccolò knew these complaints were useless, but it solaced him to
make them. The kitchen being nearly empty, he spoke without reserve.

'Here is our fellow-citizen, Messer Leonardo da Vinci--the
_Gonfaloniere_ must know him,' resumed Machiavelli, indicating the
painter, to whom Lucio bowed courteously. 'Messer Leonardo was witness
only last night of the humiliations to which I am daily subjected. I
demand--hear you?--I do not ask, but I demand leave to resign my
office,' he concluded, his anger still waxing, and addressing the young
Florentine as if he saw in him the whole Magnificent Signoria. 'I am a
poor man, sir, and my affairs go from bad to worse, and my health
likewise. If matters continue as they are I shall return home in my
coffin. Moreover I have done all which is possible to do, with the poor
powers accorded me. To drag out the negotiation, to go around and
about, one step forward and two steps back, "I will" and "I won't"--that
is not work for me! The duke is too clever for such childishness! Well,
I have written to your uncle----'

'My uncle,' interrupted Lucio, 'will doubtless do all he can for you,
Messer Niccolò; but the Magnificent Ten, to tell truth, consider your
reports so essential to the weal of the republic that they will not
permit you to retire. "Who is there," they say, "able to take his place?
He is a man of gold; he is the ear and the eye of our commonwealth!" I
swear to you, Messere, that your letters have so great a success in
Florence that you could not desire a greater. All are bewitched by the
incomparable felicity of your style. My uncle informed me that at a late
meeting in the council chamber, upon the reading of one of your merry
letters, the Signori burst themselves with laughter----'

'Oh, that's it, is it?' exclaimed Machiavelli, his face contorted with
rage. 'Ah, now I understand! My letters are amusing to the Magnificent
Signori; they burst themselves with laughter, and they admire my
diction. Thank God, Niccolò Machiavelli is capable of something! Yet I
live here like a dog, I freeze and go hungry, I shake with fever, and am
insulted by landlords, all for the good of the republic. The devil take
the republic, and the _Gonfaloniere_ too, snivelling old woman! May you
all be buried unshriven and uncoffined!' And he burst into the vulgar
vituperation of the market-place, helplessly furious at the thought of
these chiefs of the people, so utterly despicable, and yet his masters.
To divert his thoughts Lucio handed him a letter from his young wife,
Marietta; a few lines written in a round childish hand on coarse grey
paper.

'_Carissimo Niccolò mio_,' so she wrote, 'I am told that in those parts,
where you are now, fevers and other sicknesses abound. You may fancy my
care for you. My thoughts give me no peace day nor night. The boy, thank
God, is well. He grows apace, and is like you. His little face is white
as the snowdrift, but his head, with its thick black curls, is like
yours. He seems beautiful to me because he is like you. He is lively and
merry as though he were a year old. Believe me, directly he was born he
opened his eyes and he shouted with a voice which filled the house. I
pray you, forget us not. I entreat, return to us at the earliest moment,
for to wait longer passeth my endurance. And, meanwhile, may the Lord
protect you, and the blessed Virgin! I send you two shirts and two
handkerchiefs and a towel. Your,

                                                 MARIETTA in Florence.

Leonardo observed that Machiavelli reading this letter seemed another
man. His face lit up with a tender smile not to be expected on his harsh
features. The smile, however, quickly disappeared. He shrugged his
shoulders, crumpled the letter and stuffed it into his pouch, then said
savagely--

'Who told her I was ill?'

'Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio, 'every day Monna Marietta has been to
the members of the council asking for you, and inquiring where you are
and how you fare.'

'I know! I know! 'Twas like to be so. Affairs of state should be
reserved for celibates. One of the two--politics or a wife--not both.'
Then he turned abruptly and said, 'And you yourself, good youth; you are
perhaps thinking of wedding?'

'Not at present, Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio.

'Never commit that folly; unless you have the shoulders of Atlas. Eh!
Messer Leonardo?'

The painter understood that Messer Niccolò loved Marietta passionately,
but was ashamed to admit the fact.

The inn was now emptying fast; Leonardo prepared for his start and
invited Machiavelli to ride with him. But Messer Niccolò shook his head,
saying he must wait for money from Florence before he could pay his
bill. He spoke sadly, his assumed levity having suddenly collapsed. He
looked ill and wretched. Inaction, long stay in one place was misery to
him. Not without cause had the Council of Ten complained of his
frequent, causeless, and unexpected removals, which were great
embarrassment to their affairs.

Leonardo took him aside and offered to lend the requisite money.
Machiavelli declined.

'You hurt me, my friend,' said the painter; 'remember this rare
conjunction of the stars! You would confer a benefit upon me.'

There was so much kindness in Leonardo's voice that Messer Niccolò had
not the courage to persist in his refusal. He took twenty ducats which
he promised to return on receipt of his money from Florence; then
immediately paid his score, with the lavishness of a great noble.


VI

They started. The morning was calm and exquisite; the air, still
freezing in the shade, was in the sunshine almost spring-like in its
warmth. The deep blue-shadowed snow crackled under the feet of the
beasts. Between the white hills shone the pale green of the winter sea,
and yellow lateen sails glanced here and there like poised butterflies.

Niccolò talked, jested, and laughed. Every trifle excited him to some
amusing or cynical reflection.

Passing a fishing village the travellers saw a group of fat and jolly
friars on the church steps selling rosaries to the women, whose husbands
and brothers stood aloof staring stupidly.

'Fools!' shouted Messer Niccolò, 'know you not that fat easily goes
aflame; and that holy fathers like pretty women not only to call them
fathers but to make them so?'

Leonardo asked him what he had thought of Savonarola. Niccolò replied
that at one time he had been Fra Girolamo's zealous partisan, hoping to
find him the saviour of his country; but too soon he had begun to see
the weakness of the prophet.

'The whole splenetic gang became nauseous to me,' he mused. 'I detest
even to think of it. The devil take them!' he added energetically.


VII

About noon they rode in at the gates of Fano. The houses were alive with
Cæsar's courtiers, captains, and troopers. Two rooms in the best
situation had been assigned to the ducal engineer; he offered one of
them to his travelling companion, who in such a crowd might have had
difficulty in procuring a lodging.

Machiavelli presented himself at once at the palace, and when he
returned he brought important news.

Don Ramiro de Lorqua, who had been governing in the duke's name, had
been executed. On Christmas day the people had found the headless corpse
wallowing on the ground in a pool of blood, an axe beside it, the
ghastly head stuck on a spear.

'The cause of the execution is unknown,' said Messer Niccolò, 'but 'tis
the talk of the whole town. Let us go together and listen to the
conjectures of the rabble. 'Tis an opportunity to study the natural laws
of politics.'

Before the old cathedral of San Fortunato a crowd was expecting the
coming forth of the duke, who was about to review his troops. Leonardo
and Machiavelli joined the throng in which but one subject was being
discussed.

'I can make nothing of it,' said a young workman with a dull,
good-natured face. 'I thought Don Ramiro had been loved and enriched
above all the court.'

'The very reason of his chastisement,' replied a respectable shopkeeper,
dressed in a squirrel pelisse; 'Don Ramiro has been deceiving our duke.
He has oppressed, imprisoned, plundered the people. Before his lord he
wore sheep's clothing; he fancied things hid were not things forbid. But
his hour came; the sovereign's patience was exhausted, and for the good
of the people he did not spare his friend; he cut off his head without
trial, without hesitation, without delay, as a warning to others. Now
they see how terrible is the duke's wrath, how impartial his justice. He
puts down the mighty from their seats and exalteth them of low degree.'

'_Reges eos in virga ferrea_,' declaimed a monk. 'Thou rulest them with
a rod of iron.'

'Ay, ay! They need an iron rod, the sons of dogs, the oppressors of the
people!'

'He knows when to pardon, and when to strike.'

'We want no better sovereign.'

'Truly,' said a peasant, 'the Lord has at last had pity on Romagna.
Before, there was flaying both of the living and of the dead and the
taxes were our starvation. The last pair of oxen in our stalls had to
go! But since the Duke Valentino came we have been able to breathe. May
the Lord keep him in health!'

'And the judges!' said the shopkeeper; 'their delay used to eat one's
very heart! 'Tis different now.'

'He has protected the orphan and consoled the widow,' put in the monk.

'He is merciful. 'Tis not to be denied he is merciful to the people.'

'He gives offence to none.'

'O Santo Iddio!' murmured a feeble old woman, beside herself with
admiration; 'may the Blessed Virgin preserve to us our father, our
benefactor, our bright sun!'

'Do you hear them?' whispered Machiavelli. '_Vox populi vox dei._ I have
always said one must be in the plains to see the mountains; one must be
among the people to know the sovereign. I'd like to get them here, those
folk who call the duke a tyrant! These things are hid from the wise and
prudent, but revealed unto the simple.'

Martial music was heard and the crowd was astir.

'He comes! Look!'

They stood on tiptoe and craned their necks, curious heads were thrust
from windows, women and girls, their eyes full of love, ran out on the
balconies and _loggie_ to see their hero, _Cesare bello e
biondo_--'Cæsar, the blond and beautiful.' It was rare good luck, for he
hardly ever showed himself to the people.

The musicians walked first, making a deafening clatter of kettledrums in
time with the heavy tread of the soldiers. Next came the duke's
Romagnole guard, all picked and handsome men, carrying halberts three
cubits long. They wore cuirasses, and helmets of steel, and their
garments were parti-coloured, the right side yellow, the left red.
Niccolò could not admire enough this truly Roman array. After the guard
came equerries and pages, in clothes of unsurpassed splendour; camisoles
of gold brocade, mantles of pounce velvet with gold-embroidered
slashings, their scabbards and belts of snakes' scales, with knobs
representing the seven heads of the viper vomiting poison--the
cognisance of the Borgias. Embroidered on their breasts was the word,
'Cæsar.' They were followed by the bodyguard, Albanian _stradiotes_,
with curved yataghans. Then Bartolomeo Capranica, the _Maestro del
Campo_, carried the naked sword of the Gonfaloniere of the Roman Church.
After him came the ruler of Romagna himself, Cæsar Borgia, Duke of
Valentinois. He was mounted on a black Barbary stallion, with a diamond
sun on its headband: he wore a pale blue silk mantle with the white
lilies of France embroidered in pearls, and a corselet wrought into the
gaping mouth of a lion. His helmet was a dragon, with scales, wings, and
fins of wrought brass, resounding at every movement.

At this time Cæsar Borgia was six and twenty; his face had grown thin
and worn since Leonardo had seen him at Louis XII.'s court at Milan.
His features were sharper, and his eyes, with their glow like polished
steel, were graver and more impenetrable. His hair and pointed beard had
darkened; his long nose seemed more aquiline. Complete serenity still
reigned upon his impassive face; only now there was a look of still more
strenuous daring, of terrifying keenness, like the edge of a bared and
sharpened sword.

The duke was followed by his artillery, the best in Italy. Brass
culverins, falconets, iron mortars firing stones--drawn by oxen, their
heavy chariots rolling along with a dull roar and mixing with the voices
of the trumpets and kettledrums. In the glow of the setting sun, cannon,
cuirasses, helmets, spears, flashed lightning; Cæsar was riding in the
imperial purple of a conqueror, straight towards the immense blood-red
sun.

The crowd gazed at the hero in silence, holding its breath, wishing, yet
fearing, to greet him with applause, in an ecstasy of admiration akin to
terror. Tears flowed down the cheeks of the old beggar woman, and she
murmured:--

'Holy saints! Holy mother! The Lord has permitted me to see his face! O,
our beauteous sun!'

The flashing sword entrusted to Cæsar by the pope was the fiery glaive
of the archangel Michael himself.

Leonardo smiled, seeing on Machiavelli's face the very same look of
artless enthusiasm.


VIII

On reaching home Leonardo found a letter from Messer Agapito, bidding
him wait on his Excellency the next day. A little later, Lucio, who was
passing through Fano on his way to Ancona, came in for a visit, and
Machiavelli spoke to him of the execution of Don Ramiro de Lorqua.

'To divine the real reasons for the actions of a ruler like Cæsar
Borgia, is almost impossible,' he said, 'but as you ask me what I think
of this deed, I will tell you. Till its conquest by the duke, Romagna
was under the yoke of a number of petty tyrants, and full of disorder,
plundering and violence. To end this state of turbulence Cæsar appointed
his astute and faithful servant, Don Ramiro, as his lieutenant. This man
accomplished his task; he inspired the people with a salutary terror,
and established perfect tranquillity throughout the country, but he did
it by a long series of cruel punishments. When the prince saw that his
object was gained he determined to destroy the instrument of his
severity. Don Ramiro has been seized, on the ground of extortion, and
executed; his dead body lies exposed to public view. This terrible
spectacle has at once gratified and awed the people. The duke's action
has been wise, for he has reaped three clear advantages. First, he has
slain the tyrants; secondly, by condemning Ramiro he has disassociated
himself from his lieutenant's ferocity and so has gained a character for
gentleness; thirdly, by sacrificing his favourite servant he has set an
example of incorruptible equity.'

Machiavelli spoke in a low dry voice, with expressionless countenance,
as if stating his reasoning on some theorem.

'From your own words, Messer Niccolò,' cried Lucio, 'I perceive that
this supposed equity is the excess of villainy!'

Sparks of fire appeared in the secretary's eyes, but he looked away and
spoke as coldly as before.

'It may be so,' he assented, 'but what of it?'

'What of it? Would you approve such scoundrelly statecraft?'

'Young man, you speak with the inexperience of youth. In politics, the
difference between the way men should and the way they do act, is so
great, that to forget it means to expose yourself to certain ruin. For
all men are by nature evil and vicious; they are virtuous only for
advantage or through fear. A prince who would avoid ruin, must at all
hazards learn the art of appearing virtuous; and he must be or not be
virtuous as the case may require. He must disregard all uneasiness of
conscience as to those secret measures without which the preservation of
power is impossible; for upon accurate knowledge of the nature of good
and evil, it is clear that the power of a prince will often be
undermined by his virtuous actions and augmented by his crimes.'

Lucio again protested. 'Reasoning thus,' he cried, 'anything would be
permissible, and there is no wickedness which you could not justify!'

'That is so,' replied Machiavelli with perfect serenity, and, as if
insisting upon the significance of his words, he raised his hand and
added solemnly: 'All is permissible to the man who knows how to rule.'
Then he resumed in his former dry tone of ratiocination, 'Therefore, I
conclude that the severity of the Duke of Valentinois, who has put an
end to pillage and violence throughout Romagna, has been more rational
and no less merciful than the leniency of our Florentines, who have
permitted continued revolts and have fomented disorder in all the
provinces under their sway. For it is better to strike down a few than
bring a whole state to ruin as result of its licence.'

'But,' said Lucio, somewhat overwhelmed, 'have there been no rulers that
were strangers to this cruelty? Think of Antoninus and Marcus Aurelius.'

'Do not forget, Messere, that I am discussing the government of
conquered, not of hereditary principalities; and the acquisition, not
the maintenance, of authority. The emperors you have named could afford
clemency, because in the preceding years there had been sufficiency of
bloody deeds. The founder of Rome slew his brother--a horrid crime--but
this fratricide was necessary to the establishment of a sole authority,
without which Rome would have perished from the weakness consequent on
domestic strife. Who shall be able certainly to balance a single
fratricide against all the virtue and wisdom of the Eternal City?
Doubtless we ought to prefer the most humble fortune to greatness
founded upon evil deeds; but he who has once abandoned the path of
abstract righteousness, must, if he would not perish, walk resolutely in
the path of evil and follow it to the end: for men revenge themselves
only for small offences, great offences depriving them of the power of
revenge. Therefore, a prince must inflict only serious injuries on his
subjects, and must refrain from minor injustices. Yet the generality
persist in choosing the middle course between wrong and right, which is
the most perilous. They recoil from crimes which demand great courage,
and commit only vulgar baseness which profits them not.'

'Your words make my hair stand on end, Messer Niccolò,' said Lucio, much
shocked, but thinking a jest the most courteous form of reply: 'You may
speak the truth, but I shall flatly refuse to believe these your real
opinions.'

'Truths always seem improbable,' said Machiavelli dryly.

Leonardo, who was listening, had already observed that Messer Niccolò,
while pretending indifference, was casting sly glances at Lucio as if
to gauge the effect his words were producing. It was evident that
Machiavelli had little self-command, was not possessed of calm and
conquering strength. Unwilling to think like other men, hating the
commonplace, he had fallen into the opposite error, into exaggeration,
into the affectation of views rare and startling, but incomplete and
paradoxical. He played with such words as _virtue_ and _ferocity_, much
as a juggler plays with naked swords. He had a whole armoury of these
polished, shining, tempting and dangerous weapons, ready for the
disabling of men like Messer Lucio; men of the herd, respectable,
sensible, conventional. He punished them for their triumphant
mediocrity, and for his own disregarded superiority; he cut and
scratched them; but did not kill or even seriously wound them. Leonardo
remembered the monster which he had once painted on the wooden 'rotello'
for Ser Piero da Vinci; an animal put together from the different parts
of a variety of repulsive reptiles. Had not Messer Niccolò put together
as useless and impossible a monstrosity in his superhumanly astute and
conscienceless prince? A being contrary to nature, fascinating as
Medusa, invented for the terrifying of the vulgar? Yet under this
wantonness of imagination, this artistic dispassionateness, Leonardo
perceived great suffering in the soul of Messer Niccolò, as if a
juggler, playing with swords, were himself cut to the quick.

'Is he not one of those unhappy sick men,' thought the painter, 'who
seek relief from pain in envenoming their wounds?' He did not know the
last secret of this dark spirit, so like, and yet so unlike, his own.

Messer Lucio, like a man in a nightmare, was struggling with the Medusa
head evoked by Messer Niccolò.

'Well, well!' he said, 'I will not dispute with you. Severity may have
been necessary to princes in the past. We can pardon them a good deal
for the sake of their heroic virtues and exploits. But, pardon me, what
has this to do with the Duke of Romagna? _Quod licet Jovi non licet
bovi._ What is permitted to Alexander the Great or to Julius Cæsar, may
be unpardonable in Alexander the pope or in Cæsar Borgia, of whom we
cannot yet say whether he be Cæsar or nothing. I at least think, and all
will agree with me----'

'Oh, of course, all will agree with you,' interrupted Niccolò, out of
patience, 'but that is no proof, Messer Lucio. The truth does not lie on
the high road where all men pass. But to conclude the discussion, here
is my last word. As I observe the acts of Cæsar, I find them perfect;
and I would suggest him as a model to all who would obtain power by
force of arms and by successful adventure. He combines cruelty so well
with virtue, he knows so accurately when to caress and when to crush,
the foundations of his power are so firmly though so quickly laid, that
already he is an autocrat, the only one in Italy, perhaps the only one
in Europe. It is hard to imagine what may not lie before him in the
future.' Machiavelli's eyes burned, his voice shook, and red spots
glowed on his sunken cheeks; he seemed like a seer. From the mask of a
cynic looked out the face of the former disciple of Savonarola, the
fanatic.

But Lucio, weary of the discussion, had no sooner suggested sealing a
truce with two or three bottles from the neighbouring cellar than the
visionary disappeared.

'Nay,' cried Messer Niccolò eagerly, 'let us go to a different tavern. I
have a good scent in such matters, I know where we shall find handsome
women.'

'What, in this scurvy little town?' said Lucio.

'Listen, my lad,' said the dignified secretary of the Florentine
Republic, 'never you despise these same small towns. In their vile
alleys you can sometimes find what will make you lick your fingers for
delight.'

At these words Lucio slapped Messer Niccolò on the back, and called him
a sly dog.

'We will take lanterns,' continued Niccolò, 'we will wear cloaks and
vizards. On such expeditions mystery is half the pleasure. Messer
Leonardo, you accompany us?'

The artist excused himself.

He did not enjoy the customary gross talk about women, and avoided it
with instinctive repulsion. This man of fifty, the intrepid student of
the secrets of nature who could accompany criminals to their execution
that he might see the last look of terror in their eyes, was often put
out of countenance by a jest, did not know which way to look, and
blushed like a schoolboy.

Niccolò, without more ado, carried off Messer Lucio.


IX

Early next day a chamberlain came to inquire whether the ducal engineer
were satisfied with his quarters, and to bring him a present from Cæsar.
According to the hospitable custom of the time it consisted of
provisions, a sack of flour, a cask of wine, a sheep, a dozen fat
capons; and also two large torches, three packets of wax candles, and
two boxes of _confetti_. Impressed by these compliments, Machiavelli
begged Leonardo to say a word for him to the duke, and obtain him the
favour of an interview. At eleven in the evening, Cæsar's customary
reception-hour, they went together to the palace.

The duke's manner of life was strange enough. Summer and winter he went
to bed at four or five in the morning, so that for him it was dawn at
three in the afternoon, sunrise at four; at five he began to dress and
to dine and to conduct his business affairs all simultaneously. He
surrounded his doings with mystery, not only out of natural
secretiveness, but by studied calculation; he seldom left his palace,
and always masked. Only on great festivals did he show himself to the
people, and to the troops only in moments of extreme danger. He liked to
astonish; his appearances were always dramatic, like those of a
demi-god.

Scarce credible reports were current as to his profuseness. All the gold
continually flowing into the treasury of St. Peter's did not suffice for
the expenditure of the _Gonfaloniere_ of the Church. Envoys reported
that he spent not less than eighteen hundred ducats daily; and that when
he rode through the streets crowds followed him to pick up the easily
dropped silver shoes, with which his horses were shod, solely as
largesse to the people. Wonders were told also as to his physical
strength. He could bend horse-shoes in his fingers (thin and delicate as
a woman's), twist iron rods, break the cables of ships. At a bull-fight
in Rome some years ago, when he had been Cardinal of Valenza, the
youthful Cæsar had cut a bull in half with a single stroke of his sword.
Inaccessible to his courtiers and to the ambassadors of great
potentates, he was often to be seen on the hills round Cesena watching
the boxing matches of the wild Romagna herdsmen, and sometimes taking
part in the sport.

At the same time he was the ideal of a cavalier and the paragon of
fashion. On the day of his sister Lucrezia's marriage with Alfonso
d'Este, he left the siege of a fortress and rode from the camp to the
wedding, unrecognised, and clad in black velvet with a black mask. He
passed through the crowd of guests, bowed, and when all drew back in
surprise, danced to the strains of the music with such grace that at
once the cry was raised, '_Cesare! Cesare! L'unico Cesare!_'

Heeding neither guests nor bridegroom, he drew Lucrezia aside and
whispered in her ear. Her eyes fell, she flushed, then grew white, to
the enhancement of her dainty pearl-like beauty. It might be she was
innocent; there was no question that she was frail; report added
submissive, perhaps even criminally submissive, to the terrible will of
this her brother.

He, it seemed, cared for one point only, that there should be no proofs.
Fame probably exaggerated his sins; but possibly the reality was more
terrible than fame. At any rate he knew how to conceal his actions, and
to wipe out every trace of them.


X

The old Gothic municipal palace of Fano served as the duke's residence.
Leonardo and Machiavelli crossed the dreary hall where less important
visitors were received, and entered an inner apartment, once a chapel.
There was stained glass in the lancet windows; and the Apostles and
Fathers of the Church were carved in oak on the high stalls of the
choir. On the ceiling was a faded fresco of the Holy Dove hovering over
clouds and angels. The courtiers were standing and talking in
undertones, for the near presence of the sovereign was felt even through
the walls. The ill-starred envoy from Rimini, a bald and feeble old man
who had been waiting three months for his audience of the duke, clearly
worn out by many sleepless nights, had fallen into a doze. Now and then
the door opened, and the secretary Agapito, with an anxious air,
spectacles on nose and pen behind his ear, looked in, and summoned to
his Highness one or other of those waiting. Each time, the bald old man
from Rimini shuddered, started up, saw it was not his turn, sighed
heavily, and again sank into his doze. His slumbers were soothed by the
sound of an apothecary's pestle beating in a mortar; for, a suitable
room being lacking, this chapel was used not only as the ante-chamber to
the presence but also as the surgery. Where the altar had stood was a
table crowded with the bottles, gallipots, and retorts of a physician's
laboratory, and behind it Gaspare Torella, the bishop of Santa Giusta,
and the chief physician to the Duke of Valentinois, was preparing a
fashionable medicine, a decoction of '_guaiaco_,' or, as it was commonly
called, 'Holy tree,' brought from the new islands discovered by
Columbus. The bishop-doctor, while he rubbed the yellow lumps in his
shapely hands, was discoursing on the nature of this healing tree; and
the oaken saints on the stalls seemed listening in amazement to the
strange talk of these new shepherds of the Lord's flock. The chapel was
lighted only by the physician's blinking lamp; the air was choked by the
pungent smell of the medicine, mingled with faint perfume of the incense
of earlier years; one might have fancied this an assembly of prelates
engaged in the performance of some strange mystic rite. Meantime the
Florentine secretary was taking now one, now another of the courtiers
aside, and adroitly questioning them as to Cæsar's policy. Presently he
approached Leonardo and whispered to him very mysteriously.

'I shall eat the artichoke; I shall eat the artichoke!'

'What artichoke?' asked the painter, bewildered.

'Precisely; what artichoke? It seems the duke propounded a riddle to
Messer Pandolfo Collenuccio, the Ambassador from Ferrara. He said, "I
shall eat the artichoke, leaf by leaf." It may signify the league of his
enemies whom he means to separate, and so destroy one by one. I have
puzzled my brains over it for an hour.' Speaking still lower, he
continued, 'Here all is riddle and trap. They chatter about every kind
of nonsense, but directly you speak of affairs they become dumb as monks
at dinner. But they shall not deceive me; I know very well there is
something in the air. I' faith, sir, I would sell my soul to know what.'

And his eyes glowed like a desperate gamester's. Before Leonardo could
reply, he was summoned by Messer Agapito. Through a long gloomy passage
guarded by the Stradiotes, Leonardo arrived at the duke's bedchamber, a
spacious room hung with tapestry and silk. On the ceiling were painted
the amours of Pasiphae and the bull. The bull, the heraldic emblem of
the Borgias, was repeated on all the ornaments of the room, together
with the triple tiara and the keys of St. Peter. The room was warm and
scented. A fire of juniper burned on the marble hearth, and the lamp oil
was perfumed with violets. Cæsar, elegantly dressed, lay on a flat couch
in the middle of the room; he cared for two postures only, reclining, or
sitting on horseback. Apparently indifferent to everything, he leaned
his elbow on a pillow, listened to a report from a secretary, and
watched a game of chess which two of his attendants were playing on a
jasper table by his side. He had the faculty of divided attention. With
a slow, uniform, mechanical movement he passed backwards and forwards
from one hand to the other a golden ball filled with scent, which he
carried as religiously as his Damascene dagger.


XI

He received Leonardo with a peculiar and charming courtesy. Not
permitting him to kneel, he held his hand and made him sit in an
armchair by his side. The duke wished to consult him about plans
tendered by Bramante for a new monastery at the town of Imola, which was
to be called Valentino, and to have a superb chapel, a hospital, and a
refuge for pilgrims. By such munificent works of charity he wished to
erect a monument to his own Christian beneficence. After Bramante's
designs, he exhibited letters just cut for Girolamo Soncino's new
printing-press at Fano, being zealous in the encouragement of the arts
and sciences in his dominions. Agapito then gave his master a collection
of eulogistic odes by Franceso Uberti the court poet; these Cæsar
received graciously, commanding a liberal reward for the author. Then,
as he insisted upon seeing satires no less than eulogies, the secretary
handed him a poem by Mancioni the Neapolitan, who had been seized and
confined in the Castle of St. Angelo in Rome. This sonnet was full of
savage abuse; in it Cæsar was called a mule, the mongrel offspring of a
harlot and a pope, sitting on a throne, once Christ's now Satan's; a
circumcised Turk, a disfrocked cardinal, incestuous, apostate,
fratricidal.

'Why, O God, waitest Thou?' cried the poet; 'carest thou not that Holy
Church has become a stall for mules, a den of orgies?'

'How does your Excellency wish the villain to be dealt with?' asked
Agapito.

'Leave him till my return,' replied the duke quietly, 'I will deal with
him myself. I shall know how to teach these scribblers manners!' he
added, in a low voice.

Cæsar's method of teaching manners was not unknown. For less serious
affronts he had cut off hands, and seared tongues with red hot irons.
His report finished, the secretary withdrew. Then audience was given to
Valguglio, the astrologer, who had drawn a new horoscope. The duke
listened attentively, for he was a believer in the influences of the
stars. Valguglio explained that Cæsar's late illness was due to the
entrance of Mars into the sign of the Scorpion; the complaint would pass
when Venus had reached her rising in Taurus. Had the duke any matter of
importance in hand, let him choose for its date the afternoon of the
31st of December, as the conjunction of stars that day was propitious;
and bending toward the duke's ear and raising his finger impressively,
the astrologer repeated thrice in a mysterious whisper--

'_Fatilo_, _Fatilo_, _Fatilo_'--'Do it. Do it. Do it!'

Cæsar made no reply, but it seemed to Leonardo that a shadow passed over
his face. Then he dismissed the seer and turned again to the _Ingegnere
Ducale_.

Leonardo unfolded military plans and maps. Not merely scientific,
showing the nature of the soil, the direction of the watersheds, the
mountains, the windings of the rivers--they were also artistic
bird's-eye pictures of the localities, coloured after Nature, and with
every detail executed in perfection. Squares, streets and towers of the
towns could be recognised; the spectator felt as if flying over the
earth, and seeing at his feet an infinite expanse. Cæsar examined with
great attention the topography of the district bounded on the south by
the lake of Bolsena, on the north by the Val d'Ema, on the east by
Arezzo and Perugia, on the west by Siena and the littoral. This was the
heart of Italy, Leonardo's home, the territory of Florence, long coveted
by the duke. Immersed in thought, enjoying this fancied flight, Cæsar
gazed long at Leonardo's drawing, and felt as if he and the great
inventor were in such sort engaged in the same work. He raised his eyes
to the artist and cordially pressed his hand.

'I thank you, my Leonardo. Continue to serve me thus and I shall know
how to reward you. Are you comfortable among us?' he continued
solicitously; 'are you satisfied with your salary? Have you any request
to make? You know my pleasure in gratifying you.'

Leonardo, profiting by the opportunity, asked an audience for Messer
Niccolò. Cæsar shrugged his shoulders with a good-humoured smile.

'He is a strange man, your Messer Niccolò. He demands audience, and,
when I receive him, talks about nothing at all. Why did they send me
such a mysterious person?' Presently he asked Leonardo's opinion of the
man.

'I find him, Excellence, one of the most astute and most clear-sighted
persons I have met in my whole life.'

'He is certainly intelligent,' said the duke, 'and I doubt not he has
understanding of affairs. And yet--he is unreliable. He knows no mean in
anything. However--I wish him well, especially since he has your good
word. He is guileless, though he thinks himself the most cunning of men,
and would deceive me, whom he considers the enemy of your Republic. I
pardon him, understanding that he loves his country better than his
soul. Well, I will receive him; tell him so. By the way, have I not
heard he is compiling a book on Statecraft and the Art of War?'

Cæsar laughed his low pleasant laugh, as if reminded of something which
had tickled him.

'Have you heard about the Macedonian phalanx? No? Then listen. Once,
Messer Niccolò explained from this very book on war to my Master of the
Camp, Bartolomeo Capranica, and other captains, the laws of ranging
troops after the manner of the phalanx. He spoke with such eloquence
that all desired to see the phalanx in actual fact. We went to a
suitable field and Niccolò was to give orders. Well, he wrestled with
two thousand soldiers for nearly three hours exposing them to the cold,
the wind, the rain, but he could not form his own phalanx. At last
Bartolomeo lost patience; he had never read a military book in his life,
but he took the troop in hand, and in the twinkling of an eye he had
drawn up the infantry in the desired order. There we see the difference
between practice and theory. But take care how you allude to it! Messer
Niccolò does not like to be reminded of anything Macedonian!'

By this time it was three o'clock and the duke's supper was brought, a
dish of fruit, trout, and some white wine; like a true Spaniard he ate
and drank most sparingly. Leonardo was dismissed, but not before Cæsar
had again thanked him for the maps. Three pages carrying torches were
detailed to escort him to his lodging.

The painter told Machiavelli about his interview with the duke. When he
spoke of the maps of the Florentine territory Messer Niccolò grew
thoughtful.

'What? You? A citizen of our republic, for our bitterest enemy? Do you
know, sir, that for this you may be accused of treason?'

'Really?' said Leonardo, astonished: 'I don't wish to think so, Niccolò.
I am no politician, but obey like a blind man.'

Silently they looked into each other's eyes; and each recognised the
profound difference between them. The one might be said to have no
country: the other loved his country, in Cæsar's phrase, 'above his own
soul.'


XII

That night Niccolò went away, leaving no word as to the Whither and the
Why.

He returned next day, weary and frozen, entered Leonardo's room, bolted
the door, and announced that he wished to speak on a matter of
profoundest secrecy. Then he began a narrative.

Three years ago, one winter evening, in a deserted corner of Romagna
between Cervia and Porto Cesenatico, a body of cavalry was escorting
Madonna Dorotea, wife of Battista Caracciolo, captain of infantry in the
service of the _Serenissima Signoria_ of Venice, and her cousin, Maria,
a fifteen year old novice in an Urbino convent, from Urbino to Venice.
Horsemen armed and masked fell on the party, seized the ladies, put them
on horses, and carried them off. From that day they had not been heard
of. The Council and Senate of Venice, considering themselves outraged in
the person of their captain, appealed to Louis XII., to the King of
Spain, and to the pope, openly accusing the Duke of Romagna of the
abduction of Dorotea. However, they could not prove their case, and
Cæsar replied mockingly that, having no lack of women, he had not
occasion to steal them by highway robbery. Reports began to be current,
moreover, that Dorotea had quickly consoled herself, and that, having
forgotten her husband, she followed the duke in all his campaigns.

Maria, however, had a brother, Messer Dionigi, a young captain in the
service of Florence. When all the complaints of the Florentine Signoria,
before whom he had laid the matter, proved as vain as the
representations of the Venetians, Dionigi determined to act on his own
authority. He presented himself before the duke under a feigned name,
gained his confidence, obtained admission to the dungeon of the Castle
of Cesena, found his sister, disguised her as a boy, and made his escape
with her. But at the Perugian frontier the fugitives were overtaken,
Dionigi was killed, and Maria haled back to her prison.

Machiavelli, as Secretary of the Florentine Republic, was interested in
the event. He had been in Dionigi's confidence, and had learned from him
not only the plan of rescue, but the accounts which the brother had
acquired of his sister's ill-fortune, and of her reputation as a
miracle-working saint, bearing the 'stigmata' like St. Catharine of
Siena.

Cæsar, tired of Dorotea, had cast his eyes on Maria, and having never
experienced difficulty with women, not even with the most discreet,
counted on an easy conquest. He was mistaken. The girl met him with a
resistance which he could not overcome. Report said that of late the
duke had constantly visited her in her cell, staying for long periods
alone with her. But what passed at these interviews no one knew.

Machiavelli ended his recital with expression of a fixed determination
to rescue Maria.

'If you, Messer Leonardo, will consent to help me, I will so arrange the
matter that none shall know of your share in it. First I shall require
of you information as to the internal construction and arrangement of
the Castle of San Michele, where Maria is kept in durance. You, as the
court engineer, will find it easy to obtain entrance and to discover all
we need to know.'

Leonardo for all reply gazed at his friend in amazement, and presently
Messer Niccolò broke into a forced and somewhat angry laugh.

'I hope,' he said, 'you do not honour me by thinking me over
sentimental, too chivalrously generous? Whether Cæsar seduce this minx
or no is nothing to me. Would you know why I concern myself in the
affair? First, to show the illustrious Signoria that I am good for
something besides foolery; but secondly and chiefly, because I require
amusement. If a man commit no follies he loses his wits through
weariness. I am sick of chattering, playing dice, going to bawdy houses,
and making vain reports to the Florentine Wool-staplers. So I have
devised this adventure: action I assure you, not mere talk. The
opportunity must not be wasted. My whole plan is ready and I have taken
all necessary precautions.'

He spoke hurriedly as if excusing himself. Leonardo, however, understood
that he was ashamed of genuine kind-heartedness, and was trying to
conceal it under a mask of cynicism.

'Messere,' said the artist, 'I pray you to rely on me in this matter as
on yourself. But on one condition, that if we fail, I shall share your
responsibility.'

Niccolò, visibly touched, clasped his hand, and at once set forth his
design. Leonardo made no criticism, though in his heart he doubted
whether it would prove practical. The liberation of the captive was
fixed for the 30th of December.

Two days before the date agreed upon, one of Maria's gaolers, who was in
Niccolò's pay, came running to inform him that Cæsar knew all.
Machiavelli being absent, Leonardo went in search of him to give him
this news. He found the Florentine Secretary in a tavern, where a troop
of gamesters, chiefly Spanish soldiers, were fleecing inexpert players
at dice or cards. Surrounded by a merry group of young libertines,
Machiavelli was expounding that famous sonnet of Petrarch's on Laura,
which ends:--

     'E lei vid' io ferita in mezzo 'l core'

and discovering some obscene allusion in every line, while his hearers
were convulsed with laughter.

Suddenly an uproar arose in the next room; women screamed, tables were
overthrown, swords clashed, coins and broken bottles were dashed against
the walls and floor. One of the players had been detected cheating.
Niccolò's audience ran to join the fray, and Leonardo whispered his news
to his friend, and led him home.

It was a still, star-lit night. New fallen snow creaked under their
feet; the fragrance of the air was delicious after the stifling tavern.
When Messer Niccolò heard that their plot for the rescue of the girl
Maria had come to the knowledge of the duke, he replied coolly that for
the moment there was no occasion for alarm. Then he continued with
voluble apology.

'You were surprised to find me acting cheap jack to that Spanish rabble?
What of it? 'Tis law of necessity. Necessity jumps, Necessity dances,
Necessity trolls catches. They may be rascals, but they are more
generous than the magnificent Signoria of Florence.'

There was so much bitterness and self-accusation in his tone that
Leonardo could not bear it.

'You are wrong, Messer Niccolò,' he said, 'to speak thus with me. I am
your friend and shall not judge like the vulgar.'

Machiavelli turned away--and answered in a low voice, 'I know it--judge
me not harshly, Leonardo. Often I jest and laugh lest my heart's grief
should set me weeping. Such is my lot! I was born under a luckless star.
While my fellows, men of no intelligence, succeed in everything, live in
honour and luxury, acquire power and wealth, I remain behind them all,
out-jostled by fools. They think me a buffoon, perchance they be right.
Yet I fear neither great labours nor certain perils; but what I cannot
suffer is that my life should be consumed in the pitiful effort to make
two ends meet, to tremble over every groat, to endure paltry affronts
daily from my inferiors! 'Tis an accursed life! If God do not come to my
aid, I shall end by abandoning my work, my Marietta, and my son. What am
I but a burden to them and to all? Let them think what they will: let
them imagine me dead. I will hide me in some distant hamlet, some corner
of the earth where none shall know me; where I shall be clerk to the
_podestà_, or teacher of the alphabet in a village school, that I may
not die of starvation so long as I retain my senses. My friend, there is
naught more terrible than to feel in yourself the power to do something,
and to know that you will perish and die without ever having
accomplished anything whatsoever.'


XIII

As the day for the adventure approached, Leonardo perceived that
Machiavelli, notwithstanding his anticipations of success, was losing
his coolness, and becoming inclined either to undue caution or to over
precipitancy. The artist knew well this state of mind: the result, not
of cowardice nor of pusillanimity, but of that treachery of the will,
that fatal irresolution when the moment for striking has arrived, which
is inherent in men made for contemplation rather than for action.

On the eve of the eventful day Niccolò went to a little place near the
Torre di San Michele, to make the final preparations. Leonardo was to
join him early in the morning. Left alone, the latter momentarily
expected disastrous news; he felt very little doubt that the affair
would end in some stupid failure, on a par with the prank of a
schoolboy.

The dull winter morning was dawning, and he was about to make his start
when Niccolò returned. Pale and woe-begone, he sank half-fainting on a
chair.

''Tis at an end,' he said shortly.

'I expected as much!' cried Leonardo. 'I guessed we should fail.'

'We have not failed, but we are too late; the bird has flown.'

'How has she flown?'

'This morning, before the dawn, Maria was found on the prison floor with
her throat cut.'

'And the murderer is----?'

'The murderer is unknown, but it is not the duke. Cæsar and his
executioners are no bunglers, and this poor child has been
hacked----They say she has died a maid. My notion is that she
herself----'

'Impossible! She would not have done it. She was a saint----'

'Anything is possible. You don't know this crew yet. And that infamous
assassin--I tell you that infamous assassin is capable of anything! He
could force even a saint to lay hands on herself! Ah! I saw her twice in
the beginning of her martyrdom, when she was not so closely watched. She
was fragile, with an innocent face like a child's. Her hair was thin and
of pale gold, like Lippo Lippi's Madonna in the Badia. There was no
special beauty about her. Oh, Messer Leonardo, you cannot know what a
sweet, helpless child she was!'

He turned away, tears glistening on his eyelashes. But he continued in a
sharp, forced voice:--

'I have always said it! An honourable man in this court is like a fish
in a frying-pan. I have had enough of it! I was not made to be a slave.
The Signoria must transfer me. I won't stay here.'

Leonardo was sincerely grieved for Maria, and he would have done his
utmost on her behalf. Nevertheless it was a relief both to him and to
Messer Niccolò that there was no longer any demand upon them for
decisive action.


XIV

The larger part of Cæsar's army marched out of Fano at dawn on the 30th
of December, and encamped outside Sinigaglia. Next day (the date
recommended by the astrologer), the duke himself was to arrive.
Sinigaglia had been besieged by the confederates of Mugione, who had
come to terms with Cæsar, and were now acting for him. The town had
surrendered, but the commandant of the castle swore he would open his
gates only to Cæsar in person. Accordingly the duke had sent word that
he was coming, and he had invited the repentant confederates to meet him
on the banks of the Metauro, where his camp lay, that they might hold a
council of war. These men, his former enemies, now his allies, had
perhaps a presentiment of evil, and would have declined to meet him.
However, he reassured them, 'bewitching them,' as Machiavelli afterwards
wrote, 'like the basilisk which entices its victims by the sweetness of
its singing.'

Machiavelli left Fano with the duke. Leonardo followed alone some hours
later.

The road led southwards along the seashore. On the right, mountains
descended sheer to the sea, scarcely allowing room for the narrow road
at their base. It was a grey day, very still; the water was grey and
unruffled as the sky. The drowsy air, the chirping of the birds, black
spots and holes in the surface of the snow, all portended a thaw.

At last the brick towers of Sinigaglia came in sight; the town lay like
a trap between the mountains and the sea, not a mile from the Adriatic,
not a cross-bow shot from the foot of the Apennines. Upon meeting the
stream of the Misa, the road turned sharply to the left; here was a
bridge slanting across the little river, and behind it the gates of the
town frowned across a square with low buildings, chiefly storehouses
belonging to Venetian merchants. At that time Sinigaglia was a large
semi-Oriental bazaar, where Italian traders exchanged their wares with
Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Persians, and Slavs from Montenegro and
Albania. At this moment, however, even the busiest streets were empty.
Leonardo met only soldiers. Here and there in the long arcades, which
extended monotonously along each side of the street, in the shops, the
warehouses, the _fondachi_, he saw traces of plunder--broken glass,
forced locks, severed bolts and bars, doors thrown open, and wares and
bales ruthlessly exposed. There was a smell of fire, and some
half-consumed houses were still smoking; corpses hung from the iron
lamp-stanchions at the corners of the palace.

It was growing dark when, in the principal piazza near the palace,
Leonardo saw Cæsar Borgia surrounded by his guards. He was punishing the
soldiers who had pillaged the town. Messer Agapito was in the act of
reading their sentences; then at a sign from the duke the condemned were
conducted to the gallows. At this moment Leonardo was joined by
Machiavelli.

'What do you think of it?' asked Messer Niccolò eagerly, 'if indeed you
have heard----'

'I have heard nothing, and am glad to meet you. Pray tell me.'

Machiavelli took him into the next street, then through several narrow
lanes, choked with snow, to a deserted district by the shore. Here in a
lonely tumble-down hovel, belonging to the widow of a shipbuilder, he
had succeeded in finding the only vacant quarters in the town, two
diminutive rooms for himself and his friend. He lit a candle, drew a
bottle of wine from his pocket, broke its neck against the wall, and
seated himself opposite Leonardo, gazing at him with glowing eyes.

'You have not heard?' he said gravely. 'A rare and memorable thing has
been done. Cæsar has revenged himself on his enemies. The conspirators
have been seized; Oliverotto, Orsini, and Vitelli are awaiting sentence
of death.' He threw himself back in his chair, watching Leonardo, and
enjoying his astonishment. Then making an effort to appear calm and
dispassionate, he told the story of the trap of Sinigaglia.

Arrived early at the camp on the Metauro, Cæsar sent forward two
hundred horsemen, set the infantry in motion, and followed them himself
with the rest of the cavalry. He knew that the allied generals would
come to meet him, and that their forces had been distributed in the
forts surrounding the town, so as to make room for the new troops.
Outside the gates where the road curved, following the bank of the Misa,
he drew up his cavalry in two lines, leaving space between them for the
passage of the infantry, which, without a halt, crossed the bridge and
entered the gates of the town.

The allies, Orsini, Gravina, and Vitellozzo, rode out to meet the duke,
escorted by a few horsemen. As if presaging disaster, Vitellozzo was so
gloomy and abstracted that those about him who knew his customary phlegm
were astounded; it was known that he had taken leave of his family as if
going to his death. The generals dismounted from their mules and saluted
the duke. He also left his horse, gave his hand to each, and then
embraced and kissed them, calling them his 'beloved brothers,' with many
demonstrations of courtesy. According to a preconcerted arrangement,
Cæsar's captains surrounded the generals in such a way that each was the
centre of a group of Borgia's adherents; meantime the duke, observing
the absence of Oliverotto, signed to Don Michele Corella, his captain,
who rode off, and having found Oliverotto with his troops, made a
pretext for bringing him also to Cæsar's presence. Then, conversing
amicably on military matters and future tactics, they went all together
to the palace, which stood just in front of the fortress.

At the entrance the generals would have taken their leave, but the duke,
with the same urbanity as before, invited them into the palace.

Scarcely had they set foot in the first chamber, when the doors were
secured, armed men rushed on the four generals, seized, disarmed, and
bound them. Such was their astonishment that they scarce offered any
resistance. The duke intended to disembarrass himself of his victims
that very night by strangling them in a secluded part of the palace.

'Truly, Messer Leonardo,' cried Machiavelli, 'I would you had seen how
he embraced them and kissed them! One mistrustful glance, one suspicious
gesture might have betrayed him; but there was such sincerity in his
voice, on his countenance, that till the final moment I guessed naught,
nor could have believed he was acting a part. Of all stratagems since
politics began, this must be the finest!'

Leonardo smiled. 'Doubtless,' he said, 'his Excellency has exhibited
audacity and craft; but I comprehend not what in this betrayal so moves
your admiration.'

'Betrayal? Nay, sir, when it is a question of saving your country, there
can be no question of betrayal or of loyalty, of good or evil, of
clemency or cruelty. All means are alike, provided the object is
gained.'

'Is this a question of saving his country? Methinks the duke has studied
but his own advantage.'

'Can it be that even you do not understand? Cæsar is the future autocrat
of an united Italy. Never was a time more favourable for the advent of a
hero. If Israel had to serve in bondage in order that Moses should
arise; if the Persians had to lie under the yoke of the Medes that Cyrus
might be exalted; if the Athenians had to waste themselves in
internecine strife that Theseus might have eternal glory, then it is
necessary also, in this our own day, that Italy be shamed, and enslaved,
bound, and divided, without a head, without a leader, without a guide;
devastated, trampled on, crushed by all the woes which a nation can
endure, in order that a new hero shall rise to be the saviour of his
land. Many times men have appeared whom she has fancied the destined
one, and have died leaving the great deed undone. Half-dead, scarce
breathing, she still awaits her deliverer, who shall heal her wounds,
put an end to disorder in Lombardy, plunder in Tuscany, extortion and
murder in Naples. Day and night Italy cries to her God, if, perchance,
He will send her a saviour!'

His voice rang like a chord too tightly stretched, and broke. He was
white and shaking, and his eyes glowed. In his excitement was something
convulsive, powerless, akin to epilepsy.

Leonardo remembered how, speaking of Maria's suicide, he had called the
Duke of Valentinois a monster of crime. He did not point out the
inconsistency, knowing that Messer Niccolò, in his exaltation, would
repudiate his softer mood.

'Who lives long, sees much, _Niccolò mio_. But permit me one question.
Why is it _to-day_ that you have assured yourself of Cæsar's divine
election? Has the _inganno di Sinigaglia_ proved his heroism?'

'Yes,' replied Machiavelli, recovering his impartial air; 'the violence
of his action has shown that he has the rare combination of great
qualities and their opposites. I do not blame. I do not praise. I simply
examine. Here is my reasoning on the matter: there are two ways open to
him who would arrive at a particular end. The first is law, the second
violence. The first belongs to men--the second to beasts. He who wishes
to rule must tread both ways, must know how to be either beast or man.
Such is the inner meaning of the old legends of Achilles and other
heroes nurtured by Chiron, the centaur, half-god, half-beast. The major
part of men cannot support the weight of liberty, and fear it more than
death. When they have committed a crime they are crushed under the
burden of repentance. 'Tis only the hero, the man of destiny, who has
the strength to support liberty, who breaks laws without fear, without
remorse, who remains innocent even in evil, as do beasts and gods.
To-day, for the first time, I have seen in Cæsar the infallible sign
that he is elect of God!'

'Yes, yes, I understand,' said Leonardo moodily; 'but to my thinking
that man is not free who, like Cæsar, dares all because he knows naught
and loves naught. _I call him free who dares all because he knows all
and loves all._ That is the liberty whereby men shall conquer both good
and evil, the height and the abyss, the bounds of earth, its obstacles
and burdens; shall become as gods, and fly.'

'Fly?' said Machiavelli bewildered.

'When they have perfect knowledge they will make themselves wings. 'Tis
a subject upon which I have thought much. Perhaps nothing will come of
it. I care not; if it be not I, 'twill be another. The day will come
when there shall be wings.'

'Well, let us congratulate each other. Our talk has led us to a new
creation. My prince is to be half-god, half-beast; and you have given
him wings.'

But the striking of a clock in the neighbouring tower drove Messer
Niccolò forth; he had to hasten to the palace that he might learn of the
impending execution of the generals.

Isabella Gonzaga, Marchesa of Mantua, by way of congratulation, sent
Cesare a carnival gift of a hundred pretty masks in coloured silk.


XV

Cæsar returned to Rome in the beginning of March 1503. The Pope proposed
to reward the hero with the Golden Rose, the highest distinction which
the Church could confer on her champions. The cardinals assented, and
two days later the ceremony of investiture took place. The Roman Curia
and the envoys of the great powers assembled in the Sala de' Pontefici,
which looks out on the Cortile del Belvedere. Alexander VI., seventy
years of age and corpulent, but still vigorous and majestic, ascended
the dais, wearing the begemmed mantle and triple crown, the ostrich fans
waving over his head.

Trumpets blared, and at a signal from Johann Burckhardt, Master of
Ceremonies, the armour-bearers, pages, couriers, and guards of the Duke
of Romagna, entered the hall, accompanied by Bartolomeo Capranica, his
Master of the Camp, bearing the naked sword of the _Gonfaloniere_ of the
Roman Church. The sword was gilded and damascened with delicate designs.
First, the Goddess of Fidelity seated on a throne, with the legend,
'Fidelity is stronger than Arms.' Secondly, Julius Cæsar in his
triumphal car, with the legend, '_Aut Cæsar aut Nihil_.' Thirdly, the
passage of the Rubicon with the legend, 'The die is cast.' Lastly, a
sacrifice to the Bull of the House of Borgia--naked priestesses burning
incense over a human victim, and on the altar the inscription '_Deo
optimo maximo Hostia_,' and lower, '_In nomine Cæsaris omen_.' The human
sacrifice to the beast acquired a more terrible meaning from the fact
that these engravings and mottos had been ordered at the moment when
Cæsar was contemplating the murder of his brother Giovanni, in order to
take from him this sword of the standard-bearer of the Church.

Following the insignia of his office came the hero himself, crowned with
the lofty ducal _berretto_, embroidered in pearls with the Holy Dove. He
approached the Pope, removed the _berretto_, knelt and kissed the ruby
cross on the shoe of the Pontifex Maximus. Cardinal Monreale handed the
Golden Rose to His Holiness. It was a marvel of the jeweller's art; from
a phial concealed under the gold filigree petals exhaled the perfume of
innumerable roses. The Pope stood, and in a voice quivering with emotion
uttered the words:--

'Receive, most beloved son, this rose, symbol of the joy of the two
Jerusalems, earthly and heavenly, of the two churches, militant and
triumphant; the incorruptible flower, the delight of the saints, the
beauty of imperishable crowns. May thy virtue flower in Christ as this
rose, which blossoms on the shore of many waters! Amen.'

Cæsar received the mystic rose from the paternal hands.

It was more than the old man could bear. To the disgust of Burckhardt,
the stolid German master of the ceremonies, he broke through the
prescribed ceremonial; bending over his son he stretched out his
trembling hands, his face contracting and his shoulders shaking as he
murmured:--

'Cesare! Cesare! _figlio mio!_'

The duke handed the rose to the Cardinal di San Clemente, and the Pope
embraced him in a frenzy of joy, laughing and weeping.

Again the trumpets blared, the great bell of St. Peter's pealed, and was
answered by the bells of all the churches in the city, and by salvos of
artillery from the Castle of St. Angelo. In the Cortile del Belvedere
the Romagnole guard shouted:--

'_Viva Cesare!_ _Viva Cesare!_'

And the duke came out on the balcony to greet his troops. Under the blue
sky, in the brilliance of the morning sun, his vesture gold and purple,
the Dove of the Holy Spirit on his head, the mystic rose in his hand, to
the people he was not a man, but a god.


XVI

That night there was a splendid masked procession; the triumph of Julius
Cæsar as it was shown on the sword of the Duke of Valentinois and
Romagna. He himself took his seat in the chariot bearing the inscription
'Cæsar the divine'; his head was crowned with laurel, and he carried a
palm-branch in his hand. The chariot was surrounded by his soldiers,
dressed as Roman legionaries, with eagles and javelins. All was
correctly ordered in accordance with descriptions on books and
representations in monuments and medals.

Before the chariot walked a man in the long white robe of an Egyptian
hierophant, carrying a banner with the Borgia Bull, purple and gilded;
the bloody Apis, protecting god of Alexander VI. Boys in cloth of silver
sang to the clashing of timbrels:--

'_Vive diu Bos!_ _Vive diu Bos!_ _Borgia vive!_' Glory to the Bull!
Glory to the Bull! Glory to Borgia!' And high above the crowd, lighted
by the flare of torches, swung the image of the beast, fiery as the
rising sun.

In the crowd was Leonardo's pupil, Giovanni Boltraffio, who had newly
arrived from Florence. Looking at the purple beast he remembered the
words in the Apocalypse:--

'And they worshipped the Beast, saying, Who is like unto the Beast? who
is able to make war with him?

'And I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of names of
blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And upon her forehead was a
name written--"MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND
ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH."'

Like the Seer of Patmos, Giovanni 'wondered with a great wonder.'




BOOK XIII

THE PURPLE BEAST--1503


     'The beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit.'--Rev. xi. 7.


I

Leonardo was threatened with a lawsuit touching his vineyard at Fiesole,
a slice of which was coveted by the neighbouring _contadino_. He had
entrusted the matter to Giovanni Boltraffio; and wishing to speak to
him, had sent for him to Rome. On his way, Giovanni visited Orvieto to
see the famous frescoes lately painted by Luca Signorelli in the
Cappella Nuova of the cathedral. One of these frescoes showed the coming
of Antichrist.

Giovanni was greatly impressed by the countenance of the enemy of God.
It was not evil; it was only a face of infinite grief. In the clear
eyes, with their troubled gentleness, was reflected the final remorse of
the wisdom which has renounced its God. The figure was beautiful,
notwithstanding the satyr ears, the claw-like fingers. And, as occurs
sometimes in delirium, Giovanni saw behind this face Another terribly
like it, a divine face, which he dared not own he recognised.

In the same picture, at the left, was seen the fall of Antichrist.
Soaring upward on invisible wings, assuming the character of the Son of
Man coming in the clouds to judge the quick and the dead, he was hurled
back, down to the pit by the Archangel. These human wings, this failing
flight reawakened in Giovanni the old appalling doubts about Leonardo,
his master.

There were two other persons in the chapel with Giovanni also looking at
the frescoes; a stout monk, and a long lean man of uncertain age with a
keen hungry face, in the garb of a 'goliard,' as the itinerant scholars
of the middle ages were called. They made friends with Giovanni, and
the three continued their journey in company. The monk was a German,
Tomaso Schweinitz, the librarian of an Augustinian monastery at
Nuremberg; he was going to Rome about certain disputed benefices. His
companion was also German, Hans Platter, from Salzburg; he was acting
partly as Schweinitz's secretary, partly as his jester, partly as his
groom. On the journey the three discussed ecclesiastical affairs. Calmly
and with scientific acumen, Schweinitz demonstrated the absurdity of
imputing infallibility to the Pope, and prophesied that within twenty
years Germany would shake off the intolerable yoke of the Romish church.

'This man will never die for his creed,' thought Giovanni, looking at
the full-fed round face of the Nuremberg monk; 'he will not face the
fire like Savonarola; yet, who knows? he may be more dangerous to the
church.'

One evening soon after their arrival in Rome, Giovanni met Hans Platter
in the square of St. Peter's, and the German took him to the
neighbouring Vicolo de' Sinibaldi, where among a number of foreign
taverns was a small wine-cellar with the sign of the Silver Hedgehog.
Its host was a Czech of the Hussite heresy, Yan Khromy, who entertained
with his choicest wines all free-thinkers or enemies of the papacy--such
were indeed daily increasing, and preparing the way for the great
reformation of the church.

In an inner room, where only the elect were admitted, was a fairly
numerous company; and at the head of the table sat Schweinitz, leaning
back against a cask, his fat hands resting on his paunch, his face
bloated and stupid. Now and then he raised his glass level with the
candle-flame admiring the pale gold of the Rhenish; apparently he had
already drunk more than enough.

Fra Martino, a violent little monk, was pouring out vials of wrath
against the extortions of the Curia Romana.

'Better to fall into the hands of brigands than of the prelates here!
Daily pillage! Give to the Penitenziere, to the Protonotary, to the
Cubiculary, to the door-keeper, to the groom, to the cook, to the man
who empties the slops of her reverence, the cardinal's concubine; Lord,
forgive us! 'Tis like the song:--

     '"New Pharisees they,
       The Lord they betray!"'

Then Hans Platter rose, his face grave, his voice drawling, and said:--

'The cardinals went to their lord the Pope and inquired--"What shall we
do to be saved?" And Alexander answered: "Why do ye ask of me? Is it not
written in the Law? 'Love silver and gold with all thine heart and with
all thy mind and with all thy strength, and love thy rich neighbour as
thyself. Do this and ye shall live.'" And the Pope took his seat upon
his throne and said: "Blessed are they who have, for they shall see my
face. Blessed are they who bring offerings, for they shall be called my
sons. Blessed are they who come in the name of gold and silver, for of
them is the Curia Romana. But woe unto you, ye who present yourselves
with empty hands! It were better that a millstone were hanged about your
necks and ye were cast into the depth of the sea." And the cardinals
answered: "All that thou sayest we will do." And the Pope said: "Lo, I
set before you an example, that ye may spoil the people, even as I have
spoiled the living and the dead."'

This sally provoked great mirth. Next Otto Marburg the organ-master, a
handsome old man, with a boyish smile, read a satire just printed and
already handed about all over the city. It was in the form of an
anonymous letter to Paolo Savelli, a rich noble who had fled to the
emperor from the persecutions of the Church. A long catalogue was set
forth of the crimes and abominations in the house of the pontiff,
beginning with simony, and ending with Cæsar's fratricide and the pope's
criminal amours with his own daughter. The epistle concluded with a
passionate appeal to all princes and rulers in Europe, calling on them
to unite and destroy this nest of assassins, these filthy reptiles
disguised in the semblance of men; and asseverated that the reign of
Antichrist had commenced, for of a truth the faith of the church of God
had never had such foes as Pope Alexander VI. and Cæsar his son.

A discussion now arose as to whether, in very truth, the Pope were
Antichrist. Otto Marburg said No; not he but Cæsar, who, it was clear,
intended to be Alexander's successor. Fra Martino argued that Antichrist
would be an incorporeal phantom; for, as said St. Cyril of Alexandria,
'The Son of Perdition, called Antichrist, is none other than Satan
himself.'

Schweinitz shook his head and quoted St. John Chrysostom, who said, 'Who
is this? Is he Satan? By no means, but a man who shall have inherited
Satan's power, for there are two beings in him: one human, the other
devilish. And he shall be the son of a virgin, which could never have
been said of Alexander or of Cæsar.'

But Schweinitz further quoted from Ephraim of Syria: 'The devil shall
seduce a virgin of the tribe of Dan, and she shall conceive and bring
forth.'

All crowded round him with questions and doubts; but imposing silence
with his finger, and quoting from Jerome, Cyprian, Irenæus, and other of
the fathers, he spoke further of the coming of Antichrist.

His face shall be as the face of a were-wolf, yet to many it shall seem
like the face of Christ. And he shall do marvellous things. He shall bid
the sea be still, and the sun turn into darkness; and the mountains
remove, and the stones become bread. And he shall feed the hungry, and
heal the sick, and the deaf, and the blind, and the feeble-kneed.

'Ah, the abominable dog!' cried Fra Martino beside himself, and thumping
his fist on the table; 'but who will believe in him? Fra Tomaso, I think
that not even babes could be taken by his deceits!'

'They will believe. Many will believe,' said Schweinitz shaking his
head. 'He shall lead them astray by the mask of sanctity. For he shall
mortify his flesh, live chastely, contemning the love of women; he shall
taste no meat, and shall be loving not only to men but to all living
creatures which have breath. And like the wild partridge he shall utter
a strange call and shall deceive with his voice; "Come unto me," he
shall say, "all ye that labour and are heavy laden and I will give you
rest."'

'Then,' interrupted Giovanni with bated breath, 'who shall recognise,
who unmask him?'

The monk fixed on the youth a profound and scrutinising regard and
answered: 'It will be impossible for men, but not for God. Even the
saints shall not know to distinguish the light from the darkness. And
there shall be weariness unto all nations, and confounding such as there
was not from the beginning of the world. And they shall say to the
mountains, "Fall on us, and to the hills, cover us," and shall faint for
fear and for expectation of the woes which are coming on the earth, for
the powers of heaven shall be shaken. Then he who impiously sitteth on
the throne, in the very Temple of the Most High, shall say, "O faithless
generation! Ye ask for a sign and a sign shall be given unto you. Ye
shall behold me, the Son of Man, coming in the clouds to judge both the
quick and the dead." And he shall take great wings, formed by devilish
cunning, and shall soar into the sky amid thunders and lightnings,
surrounded by his disciples in the semblance of angels.'

Giovanni listened, pale as death, his eyes terror-struck; he remembered
the broad folds of the raiment of Antichrist in Luca Signorelli's
fresco; and he remembered also the folds flapping in the wind on
Leonardo's shoulders as he stood upon the precipice edge on the lonely
summit of Monte Albano.

At this moment, from the larger room, whither Hans Platter had fled from
the too serious discussion, came cries and the laughter of girls, the
sound of running to and fro, the noise of overturned chairs and broken
glasses--evidently Hans romping with the servant-maids. Presently to the
jangling of strings rang out the old song:--

     'Virgin of the wine-cellar,
      Sweet and fragrant Rosa,
      "Ave! Ave!" I must sing
      _Virgo gloriosa_.
      A sober knave is he our host
      With his fox's mask, Sir.
      More than Holy Church, I boast,
      Do I love his cask, Sir!
      From the wiles of Cypris fair
      And from Cupid's darts, oh!
      Cowls nor tonsures can avail
      To defend our hearts, oh!
      For a solitary kiss
      I'd go to the block, Sir;
      Fill me full of wine, Monk,
      Or I'll thee unfrock, Sir!
      Holy fathers fear I not--
      It is troth they say, Sir,
      Gold in Rome has but to chink
      And the laws give way, Sir.
      Rome! the robbers' shrine is,
      Thorny road to Hades--
      And the Bishop's wine is
      Made to toast the ladies!
      Come then, wench, and kiss us.
      _Dum vinum potamus_,
      To Bacchus on Ilissus--
      _Te Deum Laudamus_.'

Thomas Schweinitz listened, and his fat visage expanded in a beatific
grin.


II

At the hospital of San Spirito in Rome Leonardo had returned to his
anatomical studies, assisted by Giovanni.

Noticing his pupil's low spirits, and wishing to divert him, the Master
one day proposed to take him to the Vatican. The Pope had convened an
assembly of learned men to discuss the boundaries of Spanish and
Portuguese territory in the new world, with regard to which decision had
been requested from the head of the church. Curiosity prompted Giovanni
to accept the invitation. Accordingly the two set out for the Vatican.

Passing through the Hall of the Popes, where Alexander had invested
Cæsar with the Golden Rose, they entered the inner chambers (now called
the Apartamenti Borgia). The arches and vaulting, and the mural spaces
between the arches had all been decorated by Pinturicchio with brilliant
frescoes--scenes from the New Testament, from the lives of the saints;
scenes also from the pagan mysteries. Osiris was seen at his espousals
with Isis, teaching men to till the ground, to gather fruits, to plant
the vine; he was shown slain of men, rising again, leaving the earth,
reappearing as the White Bull, the blameless Apis. However strange this
deification of the Bull of the House of Borgia might seem in the
chambers of the High Priest of Christendom, the all-pervading joy of
life harmonised the two sets of subjects, the sacred and profane, the
Christian and the pagan mysteries, the son of Jupiter and the Son of
Jehovah. In each picture slender cypresses bent before the breeze, among
the broad hills proper to the painter's native Umbria; birds played at
the vernal sports of love; St. Elizabeth embracing the Virgin cried,
'Blessed is the fruit of thy womb'; by her side a boy was teaching a dog
to stand on his hind legs; in the Espousals of Osiris and Isis just such
another boy was riding naked on a sacred goose. The same spirit of
delight breathed everywhere; in the rich saloons, flower-garlanded; in
the angels, with their censers and crosses; in the dancing, goat footed
fauns carrying thyrsi and baskets of fruit; in the mystic Bull, the
purple Beast, who, radiant as the morning sun, seemed to pour forth the
joy of living.

'What is this?' questioned Giovanni of himself, 'is it blasphemy, or a
childlike artlessness? Is not the sacred emotion on the face of
Elizabeth the same as that on the face of Isis? Is there not the same
prayerful ecstasy on the face of Pope Alexander, bending the knee before
the rising Lord, and on the countenance of the Egyptian priest receiving
the sun-god slain of men and risen again in the shape of Apis? And this
god before whom the people bow, singing hymns of praise and burning
incense on his altar, this heraldic Bull of the Borgias, transformed
into a Golden Calf--is nothing else than the Roman pontiff himself, whom
the servile poets have called a god.'

     Cæsare magna fuit, nunc Roma est maxima · Sextus
       Regnat Alexander, ille vir, iste Deus.

This identification of the God and the Beast seemed to Giovanni absurd,
yet awful.

As he examined the magnificent paintings with which the walls were
adorned, he listened to the talk of the prelates and great men who
filled the saloons, and waited for the Pope.

'Whence come you, Messer Bertrando?' asked Cardinal d'Arborea of the
envoy from the court of Ferrara.

'From the cathedral, Monsignore.'

'How is His Holiness? Tired?'

'Not at all. He chanted as well as could possibly be. There is in his
voice something so holy, so majestic, so angelic, that I could have
imagined myself in heaven. When he lifted the cup, not I only, but many,
could scarce restrain their tears.'

'Of what disorder did Cardinal Miquele die?' asked the French ambassador
abruptly.

'Of drinking something disagreeable,' answered Don Juan Lopez dryly. The
majority at Alexander's court were Spaniards like himself.

'They say,' observed Bertrando,'that on the day after the cardinal's
death His Holiness declined to receive the Spanish ambassador on account
of his grief.'

All exchanged glances. There were covert meanings in these remarks. The
Pope's grief had been connected with counting the dead man's money which
proved less than he had expected; and the unwholesome drink was the
Borgia poison, a sweet white powder which killed slowly. Alexander had
invented this easy method of acquiring money. He knew the incomes of all
the cardinals, and when he wanted money would despatch the wealthiest of
them to the other world, and declare himself the heir. He fattened them
for the table. The German, Johann Burckhardt, master of the ceremonies,
frequently noted deaths of prelates in his diary, adding the pregnant
laconicism, _Biberat calicem_--'He had drunk of the cup.'

'Is it true, Monsignore,' asked Don Pedro Carranca, a chamberlain, 'that
Cardinal Monreale is taken ill?'

'Really? What ails him?' cried d'Arborea alarmed.

'Vomiting.'

'_Dio mio! Dio mio!_ the fourth!' sighed the poor cardinal. 'Orsini,
Ferrari, Miquele, and now Monreale!'

'The waters of Tiber must be bad for your Eminences,' said Messer
Bertrando slyly.

'One after the other! one after the other!' sighed d'Arborea; 'to-day
strong and well, to-morrow----'

All became silent. From the next room entered a fresh crowd of courtiers
marshalled by Don Rodriguez Borgia, the Pope's nephew. A murmur ran
through the room.

'The Holy Father! The Holy Father!'

The crowd parted, the doors were thrown open, and into the
audience-chamber came Pope Alexander VI.


III

He had been singularly handsome in his youth. It was said then that he
had only to look at a woman to inspire her with the wildest passion, as
if in his eyes a force was concentred which drew women like a magnet.
Even now his features, though blunted and coarsened by age and fat,
retained an imposing beauty of line. His skin was bronzed, his head
bald, with a few tufts of grey hair at the nape. The nose was large and
aquiline, the chin receding, the eyes vivacious. The full protruding
lips showed sensuality, yet had something simple and naïve in their
expression.

Giovanni could see nothing terrible or cruel in his face. Alexander
Borgia possessed in the highest degree the gift of taste; he had that
attractive exterior which made whatever he said or did appear said or
done in the only right way.

'The Pope is seventy,' said the ambassadors, 'but he grows daily
younger. His heaviest cares last but twenty-four hours. His temperament
is cheerful; everything to which he puts his hand turns out well. He
thinks of nothing but the reputation and the happiness of his children.'

The Borgias were descended from Moors of Castile; it was, indeed, not
difficult to recognise in the Pope the bronze skin, the full scarlet
lips, the flashing eyes of the African Arab.

'He could not have a more appropriate background,' thought Giovanni,
'than these pictures of the joys and triumphs of Apis, the ancient
Egyptian Bull.'

Indeed the septuagenarian Pope seemed, in the vigour of his health, like
enough to his own heraldic Beast, the sun-god, the god of merriment,
lubricity, and generation.

As he entered, he was in conversation with a Jew, the goldsmith Salomone
da Sessa, who had engraved the Triumph of Cæsar on the sword of the
_gonfaloniere_. He had also pleased the Pope by so exquisitely cutting
an emerald with a figure of Venus that Alexander had had it set on the
cross which he used when blessing the people on solemn festivals, so
that when he kissed the crucifix he should kiss also the Goddess of
Love. In spite of his crimes, Alexander was not impious; he was really
devout, particularly reverential of the Blessed Virgin, whom he
considered his gracious Mediatress at the throne of the Most High. He
was ordering a lamp now of Salomone, an offering he had vowed to St.
Maria del Popolo, in gratitude for the recovery from illness of Madonna
Lucrezia his daughter.

Seating himself at the window, the Pope inspected some precious stones;
he was passionately fond of jewels. With long shapely fingers he touched
the crystals gently, his thick lips parted in a smile; especially he
admired a large chrysoprase--darker than an emerald, with mysterious
sparkles of gold, green, and purple. Then he called for a casket of
pearls from his treasure-chest. Whenever he opened this casket he
thought of his beloved daughter, who was herself like a pearl. He called
the envoy from Ferrara, whose duke, Alfonso d'Este, was his son-in-law.

'Take heed, Bertrando, that you do not leave Rome till I have given you
a present for Madonna Lucrezia. You mustn't leave the old uncle with
empty hands.' (He had sufficient care for appearances sometimes to call
Lucrezia his niece.)

Taking a priceless pink Indian pearl, the size of a hazelnut, from the
casket, he held it up to the light and gloated over it. He pictured it
on Lucrezia's white bosom; he hesitated whether he should give it to her
or to the Blessed Virgin. But reminding himself that it was sinful to
take away what had been vowed to Heaven, he handed the pearl to
Salomone, and bade him set it in a lamp between the chrysoprase and the
carbuncle, gift from the Sultan.

'Bertrando,' he turned again to the ambassador, 'when you see the
duchess, tell her from me to keep well, and to pray earnestly to the
Queen of Heaven. Tell her we are in the best of health, and give her our
apostolic blessing. This evening I will send you the little gift for
her.'

The Spanish ambassador exclaimed, drawing nearer:--

'Of a truth, I have never seen such richness of pearls!'

'Yes,' said the Pope complacently, 'I have a fine collection. I have
been making it for twenty years. My daughter is very fond of pearls.' He
laughed. 'She knows what suits her, the little rogue!'

Then after a pause he added solemnly, 'When I die, Lucrezia shall have
the best pearls in Italy!'

And plunging his hands in them he let them trickle through his fingers,
delighting in their soft pale splendour and smooth, satin-like texture.

'All for her! All for her, our delicious daughter,' he repeated in a low
hoarse voice.

And suddenly a fire sparkled in his eyes; and Giovanni, remembering
whispers of the monstrous passion of the aged Borgia for this Lucrezia,
froze at heart with horror and shame.


IV

Just then a page announced that, according to His Holiness's order,
Cæsar was waiting in the next saloon. Alexander had summoned him on a
matter of urgent importance: the French king had expressed disapproval
of Valentinois' designs against Florence, and had charged the Pope with
countenancing them.

After listening to the page's announcement, Alexander glanced at the
French ambassador, drew him adroitly aside, left him (accidentally,
apparently) by the door of the room where Cæsar was waiting, and passing
through the door, left it (accidentally again) slightly ajar, so that
the ambassador and those about him should hear all that passed between
father and son.

Soon vehement reproaches were audible. Cæsar spoke calmly and
respectfully, but the old man, stamping his foot, cried furiously:--

'Out of my sight! Choke, son of a cur! son of a harlot!'

'_Dio mio_, do you hear?' whispered the Frenchman to Messer Antonio
Giustiniani, the Venetian ambassador, 'he will strike him!'

The Venetian shrugged his shoulders. If it came to blows, he thought the
son more likely to stab the father, than the father the son. Since the
murder of the Duke of Candia, the Pope had feared Cæsar; his paternal
pride and doting fondness had become mixed with a superstitious terror.
All remembered how Perotto, the youngest of the chamberlains, had taken
refuge from Cæsar under the folds of the papal mantle, and Cæsar had
poniarded him on the pontiff's breast, splashing Alexander with his
blood. Giustiniani guessed also that the present dispute was a feint,
got up for the Frenchman's benefit, to persuade him that if the duke had
designs against Florence the Pope was innocent of them. Giustiniani
believed that the two always supported each other; the father never
doing what he said, the son never saying what he did.

Having threatened, cursed, and all but excommunicated his son, the Pope
returned to the hall of audience still trembling, panting, and wiping
the perspiration from his empurpled face. Nevertheless, in his eyes
shone a gleam of amusement. Again he called the Frenchman, and this time
drew him towards the Cortile del Belvedere.

'Your Holiness knows,' began the envoy, much distressed, 'I had no
desire to breed discord----'

'What? did you hear?' cried the Pope, seeming much astonished. And
without giving him time to think, he took him familiarly by the chin
with finger and thumb (a sign of great amity), and spoke impetuously of
his devotion to the Most Christian King, and of the extraordinary purity
of Cæsar's motives. The Frenchman was bewildered, and though he had
irrefragable proof of the deception, felt disposed rather to deny the
evidence of his own eyes than to disbelieve that voice, those eyes,
those lips. Indeed, Alexander always lied like one inspired. He never
pre-arranged what he was going to say, but lied as artlessly, as
innocently as a woman in love. He had practised this art so long that he
had attained perfection in it; he was an artist carried away by his
imagination.


V

At this moment his secret body-servant approached the pope and whispered
to him. Alexander with an anxious air passed into the next room, and
thence through a concealed door into a narrow vaulted passage where
Cardinal Monreale's cook was awaiting him.

He brought news that the quantity of poison had been insufficient and
the cardinal was recovering. However, after minutely catechising the
cook, the Pope convinced himself that his victim would die in two or
three months' time, which would be all the better as averting suspicion.

'It seems a pity, too!' thought Alexander. 'The poor old man was amusing
and a good Christian.'

Wishing he could have got the money in some other way, he sighed and
returned to the audience hall. In the adjoining chamber, sometimes used
as a refectory, he saw a table laid and felt hungry. Deferring the
business matters, he invited the company to dinner. The table was
ornamented with white lilies, the flower of the Annunciation, a
favourite with the pope, who said it reminded him of Madonna Lucrezia.
The dishes were not numerous, for the pope was plain and sparing in his
diet. Giovanni listened to the talk among the chamberlains.

Don Juan Lopez, the 'laterculensis,' spoke of the late dispute between
father and son, and defended Cæsar as if he had no suspicion that the
whole affair had been a comedy. The rest agreed with him and lauded
Cæsar to the skies.

'Ah no,' said the Pope shaking his head with reproachful tenderness,
'you don't know what he is. A day never passes in which I am not in
terror about him lest he should commit some new imprudence. He will end
by breaking his neck and bringing us all to ruin.'

His eyes sparkled with paternal pride.

'But what makes Cæsar like this?' he went on; 'whom does he take after?
You know me, a simple and guileless old man; what I have in my heart,
that comes from my tongue! But Cæsar, Lord knows, keeps counsel; always
hiding something. Believe me, sirs, sometimes I reprove and scold at
him, and at the same time I have terror in my soul. That's it. I am
afraid of my own son! He is polite--ay, too polite; and then of a sudden
he looks me a look like a dagger in my heart.'

The guests, however, defended Cæsar still more warmly.

'Oh, I know! I know!' said the Pope, 'you love him like your own, and
won't let us abuse him.'

The room was suffocatingly hot, and Alexander's head swam, not from
wine, but from the intoxication of his son's glory. They all rose and
went forth on the balcony which gave on the Cortile del Belvedere. The
air was pure and delicious; below, the grooms were bringing fiery mares
and ardent stallions out of the stables.

       *       *       *       *       *

Surrounded by the cardinals and dignitaries, the Pope stood watching the
horses, long silent. Gradually his face clouded, for he remembered
Lucrezia. Her image rose before him; her blue eyes, the pale gold of her
hair, her rosy lips a little full like his own; pure and dainty as a
pearl; docile and gentle; in the midst of evil, knowing it not;
passionless and unsullied. Why had he consented to her marriage with
Alfonso d'Este, the Duke of Ferrara?

       *       *       *       *       *

Sighing heavily, with drooping head, as if for the first time the burden
of age had fallen on his shoulders, he led the company back to the Hall
of Audience.


VI

Globes, maps, compasses were there lying ready for the marking out of
the meridian, which was to pass over a point three hundred and seventy
Portuguese leagues to the south of the Azores and the island of Cape de
Verde. This point was chosen because, according to Columbus, the 'navel
of the earth' was there; the pear-like projection, the mountain
reaching to the lunar sphere, which he had postulated on account of the
deviation in his compass.

From the extreme western point of Portugal on the one side and the
coasts of Brazil on the other, even distances were to be measured to the
proposed line. Then shipmasters and astronomers were bidden to calculate
how many days of sailing were equal to these distances. The Pope offered
prayer, blessed the globe, and dipping a brush in red ink, drew across
the Atlantic from the North Pole to the South the broad line which was
to secure peace. All islands and lands to the east of this line were to
belong to Spain, all to the west, to Portugal. Thus by one motion of his
hand he parted the globe in halves and divided it between the Christian
nations. At this moment Alexander seemed grand and majestic to Giovanni;
full of the consciousness of his power, the world-swaying Cæsar-Pope,
centre of two kingdoms--the earthly and the heavenly.

That same evening in his apartments in the Vatican, Cæsar Borgia gave a
feast to His Holiness and the Sacred College of Cardinals, at which were
present 'fifty of the fairest and most famous of the Roman _cortigiane
oneste_;' called officially '_meretrices honestæ nuncupatæ_.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus was celebrated that memorable day in the annals of the Church,
which had been marked by the partition of the globe.

Leonardo was present at the supper and witnessed everything. Invitations
to such feasts were great favours, and could not be declined. On
returning home he said to Giovanni:--

'In every man there is a god and a beast, coupled.'

Going on with his anatomical drawing, he added--

'Persons with base minds and unworthy passions do not merit so complex
and beautiful a physical structure as others, of high intelligence and
lofty thoughts. 'Twere enough if they had a bag with two openings, one
to receive, the other to eject food; for, in plain fact, they be no more
than a passage for nourishment.'

Next morning Giovanni found the Master at work on his painting '_San
Gerolamo nel deserto_.' In a savage den, the recluse, kneeling and
gazing at the Crucified, beats his breast so vehemently that the lion at
his feet looks into his eyes, and has opened his jaws in a long and
pitiful moan, as if in compassion for his master.

Boltraffio remembered that other picture, white Leda embraced by the
swan, the Goddess consumed by the flames of Savonarola's pyre. And as so
often before, he asked himself again which of these opposed conceptions
was dearest to the heart of the master? or could the two be equally
dear?


VII

Summer came. Putrid fever of the Pontine marshes, the 'malaria,' began
to rage in the city; at the end of July there were daily deaths among
those about the Pope. He himself appeared troubled and sad; but it was
less the fear of death which was oppressing him, than the absence of his
idolised Lucrezia. He had before now had several attacks of fierce
desire, blind and dumb, like madness, terrifying even to himself; he
fancied that if he did not satisfy them at once they would suffocate
him. He wrote begging her to come for a few days; she replied that her
husband would not permit her to leave him. The aged Borgia would have
shrunk from no crime to rid himself of this detested son-in-law as he
had rid himself of Lucrezia's earlier husbands. But there was no jesting
with the Duke of Ferrara, for he had the finest artillery in Italy.

At the beginning of August Alexander went to the villa of Cardinal
Adrian of Corneto. At supper he ate more heartily than usual, and drank
heavy Sicilian wines; afterwards he sat long on the terrace, enjoying
the insidious freshness of the Roman night. Next morning he felt himself
indisposed. It was told afterwards that having approached the window he
saw two funerals, that of his favourite chamberlain, and that of Messer
Guglielmo Raimondi, both men heavy in figure like himself.

'The season is dangerous for us fat folk,' he murmured forebodingly. The
words were no sooner uttered than a dove flew in at the window, dashed
itself against the wall, and fell stunned at the feet of His Holiness.

'Another omen,' he muttered, turning pale; and at once he went to his
apartment and lay down. In the night he was seized with violent
vomiting. The physicians had different opinions about his malady; some
called it a tertian fever; others apoplexy, others inflammation of the
gall bladder. In the town it was said that he was poisoned.

Every hour his strength declined. Ten days later they had recourse to
their extreme measure, and gave him a decoction of precious stones
reduced to powder. Still he grew worse.

One night, awaking from delirium, he fumbled anxiously in his breast for
a small gold reliquary worn by him for many years and containing minute
particles of the body and blood of the Lord. The astrologers had told
him his life was safe so long as he carried it. But now, whether it had
been lost or stolen, it could nowhere be found, and he closed his eyes
in the calm of despair, saying--

'It means I am to go: all is ended.'

Next morning, feeling the weakness of death coming over him, he required
all to leave him except his favourite physician, the Bishop of Venosa.
Him he reminded of the remedy employed by a Hebrew doctor on his
predecessor, Innocent VIII., namely, the injection into the veins of the
dying Pope of the blood of three children newly slain.

'Does your Holiness know how it ended?' asked the bishop.

'I know! I know!' said Alexander faintly. 'But the children were seven
years old and they should have been unweaned.'

The bishop made no reply; already the sick man's eyes were clouding, and
he fell back into delirium.

'Yes; quite young: little white ones! They whose blood is pure and
scarlet. I love children! Let them come to me. _Sinite parvulos ad me
venire!_ Suffer little children to come unto me!' ...

At these ravings, even the imperturbable bishop, long inured to the
horrors of the court, could not repress a shudder. With monotonous
convulsive movements, the Pope still fumbled and groped in his bosom for
the vanished reliquary.

During his illness he had never once mentioned his children. They told
him that Cæsar, like himself, lay at death's door, but he remained
unmoved. Now they asked him if he desired any last message to his son or
his daughter, but he turned away his head and said no word. It seemed as
if those, whom in his lifetime he had so passionately loved, no longer
had any existence for him.

On the 18th, Friday, he confessed to his chaplain, and made his
communion. At the hour of vespers they read the prayers for the dying.
Several times he made an effort to speak, and Cardinal Ilerda, bending
down, at last caught the faint sounds coming from his cold lips:--

'Quick! quick! The Stabat Mater! the hymn to my Mediatress!' he
whispered.

The hymn is not included in the office for the dying, but Ilerda
repeated it:--

     'Stabat Mater dolorosa
      Juxta Crucem lacrimosa
      Dum pendebat Filius....'

An ineffable comfort shone in the dying eyes, as if he saw heaven opened
and his Mediatress waiting. He stretched out his hands, shuddered,
raised himself, and murmured:--

'Cast me not away, O Holy Virgin!'

Then he fell back on his pillows. He was dead.


VIII

At the same time Cæsar Borgia likewise lay between life and death.
Monsignor Gaspare Torella, his episcopal physician, ordered a heroic
remedy; the patient was to be plunged into the belly of a newly-slain
mule, then into icy water. Whether by virtue of this severe treatment,
or of his extraordinary strength of will, Cæsar recovered.

During all those terrible days he had maintained complete calmness and
self-possession. He followed the course of events, listened to reports,
dictated letters, and issued orders. When news came of the Pope's death,
he had himself transported by the secret passage from the Vatican to the
Castle of St. Angelo.

Strange stories touching Alexander's death were circulated through the
town. Marin Sanuto reported to the Republic of Venice that an ape had
come into his room, and when one of the cardinals would have captured
it, the Pope cried out:--

'Let it alone! Let it alone! It is the devil!'

'It was also said that he frequently cried out:--

'I will come! I will come! Do but wait a little longer!'

And the explanation ran, that upon the death of Innocent VIII., Rodrigo
Borgia had sold himself to the Evil One for the sake of twenty years of
the papal power.

Again it was related that at the moment of death, seven demons appeared
at his pillow; and he was no sooner dead than the body began to rock and
to boil, and steam came from his mouth as from a cauldron; his form
swelled till it had lost all human shape, and his face became black as
an Ethiopian's.

It was the custom upon the death of a Pope to say funeral masses for
nine days at St. Peter's, but such was the terror inspired by this
deformed and putrefying corpse, that none could be induced to undertake
these extreme offices. There were no lights about the bier, nor incense,
nor guards, nor mourners. It was long before any could be found to put
him in a coffin. At last six ruffians undertook the task for a bottle of
wine. The coffin was too small, but the triple crown having been lifted
from the head, the body was rolled in a ragged cloth and forced into the
receptacle. It was indeed whispered that he had no coffin, but was
dropped into a pit head foremost like a victim of the plague.

But even after its burial this poor corpse was allowed no pardon; the
superstitious terrors of the people augmented daily. The very air seemed
polluted, and a pervading loathsome stench was added to the epidemic
fever. A black dog appeared in St. Peter's, running round and round in
ever widening circles. The inhabitants of the Borgo dared not leave
their homes after nightfall. Many were convinced that Alexander had not
died a natural death, but would reappear on the throne, and the reign of
Antichrist would begin.

All these and similar reports did Giovanni Boltraffio hear in the Vicolo
Sinibaldi, in the wine-cellar of Yan Khromy, the lame Czech Hussite.


IX

Meantime Leonardo, careless of political events and removed from all his
friends, was working on a picture begun some time ago to the order of
the Servite monks of Santa Maria Annunziata at Florence. It represented
St. Anne and the Virgin Mary; perfect knowledge and perfect love. St.
Anne was like a sibyl, eternally young; on her downcast eyes, on her
delicately curved lips, there played a mystery of seduction, full of the
wisdom of the serpent, not unlike Leonardo's own smile. Beside her, the
face of Mary, childish and simple, breathed the innocence of the dove.
She knew because she loved, while Anne loved because she knew. Looking
at this picture, Giovanni thought that for the first time he understood
the master's saying, 'that Great Love is the daughter of Great
Knowledge.' Leonardo at this time was also designing machines of various
kinds and shapes, gigantic cranes, pumps, saws, borers; weaving,
fulling, rope-making, and smith's apparatus.

As often before, Giovanni was astonished that he could occupy himself
simultaneously in such widely different ways, but the seeming discord
was intentional.

'I maintain,' he wrote in his _Principles of Mechanics_, 'that Force is
something spiritual and unseen--spiritual, because the life in it is
incorporeal; unseen, because the body in which the force is generated
changes neither its weight nor its aspect.'

Leonardo's destiny was decided with that of Cæsar Borgia. The latter,
though he never lost audacity and calm, felt that fortune had betrayed
him. At the time of the Pope's death and Cæsar's own illness, their
enemies leagued themselves and seized the Roman Campagna. Prospero
Colonna advanced to the city gates, Baglioni on Perugia. Urbino,
Camerino, Piombino recovered their independence. The conclave, assembled
for the election of the new Pope, demanded the removal of the duke from
Rome. The whole order of things was changed; it seemed as if all were
lost.

Those who had trembled before 'the elect of Heaven,' as Machiavelli had
called him, now rejoiced at his overthrow, and kicked the dying lion
with asses's hoofs. The poets furnished epigrams:--

     'Cæsar or nothing! Both we find in thee,
      Who Cæsar wast, and soon shalt nothing be.'

Leonardo, conversing one day in the Vatican with Antonio Giustiniani the
Venetian, turned the conversation on Machiavelli.

'Has he told you of his book on statecraft?'

'Oh yes; he has mentioned it frequently, but no doubt he spoke in jest.
That is not a book to give to the world! Who writes such books? Counsel
to rulers? Revelation of the secrets of government?--showing that all
rule is violence covered by a mask of justice? 'Twere to teach the hens
the methods of the fox; to arm the sheep with wolf's teeth! God guard
us from such politics!'

'Then you think Messer Niccolò in error, and that he will change his
opinions?'

'Nay! my opinion is with him! We do well to act as he counsels; only let
us not _speak_ it. Yet if he do give his book to the world, I doubt it
will harm any but himself. The sheep and the fowls will go on trusting
the wolves and the foxes. All will be invariable as before. God is
merciful; the world will last our time.'


X

In the autumn of 1503 Piero Soderini, Perpetual Gonfaloniere of
Florence, invited Leonardo to enter his service, intending to employ him
in the construction of military engines for the siege of Pisa. The stay
of the artist in Rome was therefore nearing its close.

One evening he wandered on the Palatine Hill, where had stood the
palaces of Augustus, Caligula, and Septimius Severus. Now only the wind
howled in the ruins, and among the olives and the acanthus was heard the
bleating of sheep and the chirrup of the grasshopper. The ground was
strewn with marble fragments, and Leonardo knew that statues of rare
beauty of the gods and heroes of the ancient world were buried under the
ruins, like dead men awaiting the resurrection. The evening was serene
and fair; the brick skeletons of arches, vaults, and walls, glowed fiery
in the rays of the sinking sun. The autumn foliage was all scarlet and
gold, as once had been the chambers of the Roman emperors.

On the northern slope of the hill, not far from the gardens of
Capranica, Leonardo knelt to examine a fragment of marble. At this
moment a man appeared on the tangled footpath.

'Is it you, Messer Niccolò?' said Leonardo, rising and embracing him.

The Florentine secretary seemed still shabbier than when Leonardo had
made his acquaintance on the road to Fano; it was evident that the
Signoria still neglected him. He was thin, his shaven cheeks seemed
quite blue, his long neck bent wearily, his nose seemed more prominent
and beak-like, his eyes more fevered. Leonardo asked him of his
whereabouts and his affairs; but when he spoke of Cæsar, Niccolò turned
away, shrugging his shoulders and replying with simulated
indifference:--

'I have seen strange things in my life; I no longer wonder at anything;'
and then he fell to questioning Leonardo as if anxious to change the
subject. When he heard that his friend had entered the service of
Florence, Machiavelli cried:--

'Be not elated! God only knows which is the worse, the crimes of a hero
like Cæsar, or the virtues of our ant-hill of a republic. Oh, I know the
beauties of a popular government!' and he smiled bitterly.

Leonardo told him Giustiniani's parable of the hens and the foxes, the
sheep and the wolves.

'Truth remains truth,' said Niccolò, restored to good humour. 'True, I
irritate the hens and the foxes too; they are ready to burn me at the
stake for being the first to describe what they have all being doing
ever since the world began. The tyrants think me an inciter to
revolution, the populace believe me in league with the tyrants, the
religious call me an infidel, the good call me wicked, and the wicked
hate me more than they all because I seem to them more wicked than
themselves. Ah, Messer Leonardo, do you recall our conversations? You
and I have a common fate. The discovery of new truths is, and has ever
been, more dangerous than discovery of new lands. You and I are solitary
in a crowd, strangers, superfluous, homeless wanderers, perpetual
outcasts. He who is unlike others is alone against all; for the world
has been created for the masses, and outside the vulgar no one is
anything. Ay, my friend, this is a serious matter, for it means that
life is tedious; and the worst misfortune in life is not sickness, nor
poverty, nor grief; but tediousness.'

In silence they descended the western slope of the Palatine, and by the
Via della Consolazione reached the foot of the Capitol, the ruins of the
temple of Saturn, the place where in the days of glory had stood the
Forum Romanum.

From the Arch of Septimius Severus, as far as to the Flavian
amphitheatre, the Via Sacra was flanked by wretched hovels. Their
foundations were formed of fragments of statues, of the limbs and torsos
of Olympian gods. For centuries the forum had been a quarry. Christian
churches languished on the ruins of pagan shrines. Layer upon layer of
street rubbish, of dust, of filth, had raised the level of the ground
more than ten cubits. Yet still lofty columns soared upwards and carried
sculptured architraves--last traces of a vanished art.

Machiavelli showed his companion the site of the Roman Senate, the
Curia, where now a cattle-market was held, giving to the whole glorious
area the ignoble name of 'Campo Vaccino.' Huge white bullocks, and the
black buffaloes of the Pontine marshes lay on the ground, swine routed
in the puddles, liquid mire and every sort of filth befouled the fallen
columns, the marble slabs, the half-defaced inscriptions. A feudal
tower, once the stronghold of the _Frangipani_, leaned against the Arch
of Titus; beside it was a tavern for the peasants who came to the
market. Cries of brawling women were heard through the windows, and the
refuse of meat and fish was flung out by careless hands. Half-washed
rags were dried on a string, and beneath them sat an aged and deformed
beggar, bandaging his sore and swollen foot. Behind this squalor rose
the arch, white and pure, less shattered than the remaining monuments.
Bas-reliefs adorned both sides of the interior; on the right Titus the
conqueror, on the left the captive Jews with their altar, shewbread, and
seven-branched candlestick, mere trophies for the victor; at the top of
the arch a broad-winged eagle bearing the deified Cæsar to Olympus.
Machiavelli read the inscription in sonorous tones: '_Senatus Populusque
Romanus divo Tito divi Vespasiani filio Vespasiano Augusto_.'

The sunlight coming through the arch from the direction of the Capitol
lit up the emperor's triumph, the malodorous curls of smoke from the
tavern seemed like clouds of incense. Niccolò's heart beat as, turning
once more to the Forum, he saw the light on the three exquisite columns
before the church of St. Maria Liberatrice; the dreary jangling of the
bells sounding the Ave Maria seemed to him a dirge over fallen
greatness. They directed their steps to the Coliseum.

'Ay,' he said, contemplating the titanic blocks of which the
amphitheatre's walls are made, 'those who could erect such monuments
were more than our equals. 'Tis only here in Rome that one can feel the
difference between us and the ancients. We are unable even to figure
what men they were.'

'I know not,' said Leonardo, awaking with an effort from his musing; 'we
of this age have not less force than the ancients; only 'tis force of
another sort.'

'Christian humility, I suppose?'

'Ay, humility amongst other things, perhaps.'

'It may be so,' said Niccolò coldly.

They seated themselves on a broken step of the amphitheatre.

'Men should either accept Christ or reject him,' exclaimed Machiavelli
in a sudden outburst; 'we do neither the one nor the other. We are
neither Christian nor heathen. We have fallen away from the one, and
have not submitted to the other. We have not the strength for
righteousness, we have not the courage for wickedness. We are neither
black nor white, but a scurvy grey; neither cold nor hot, but a mawkish
lukewarm. We have become so false, so pusillanimous, we have twisted
about, and halted so long between Christ and Belial, that now we neither
know what we want nor whither we are tending. The ancients at least knew
that much, and were logical to the end; did not pretend to turn the
right cheek to him who smote the left. But since men began to believe
that to earn paradise they should suffer any injustice, any violence on
earth, an open door has been set before rascals. Is it not a fact that
Christianity has paralysed the world, and made it a prey to villains?'

His voice shook, his eyes flashed with consuming hatred, his face was
contorted as if from unendurable pain.

Leonardo made no answer. He gazed at the blue heavens shining through
gaps in the Coliseum walls; and he reflected that nowhere did the azure
sky seem so radiant and stainless as in the interstices of ruins. Birds
were flitting in and out of the holes left where the barbarians had
wrenched away the iron bars. Leonardo watched them fluttering to their
roosting places; and he thought how the world-swaying Cæsars, who had
erected the building, and the northern hordes who had pillaged it, had
worked for those of whom it is written: 'They sow not, neither do they
reap; and God feedeth them.'

Everything to Leonardo was joy, to Niccolò all was vexation; honey to
one was gall to the other; perfected knowledge had bred love in the one,
hatred in the other. But Machiavelli interrupted these musings, as usual
anxious to end the conversation with a joke:--

'I perceive, Messer Leonardo, that they who think you impious stand in
gross error. In the Judgment, when the angelic trump shall separate the
lambs from the wolves, you will be among lambs.'

'Well,' said the painter, falling in with his humour, 'if I get to
Paradise, you will come with me.'

'I cry you mercy! I have suffered overmuch in this world from tedium! My
place I will give to any anxious for it. Hearken, good friend, and I
will relate to you a dream. I was taken into an assembly of hungered,
unwashen outcasts, monks with yellow faces, old beggars, slaves,
cripples, idiots, and taught that these were they of whom it is written:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven."
Then they had me to another place, where I saw an assembly of men in
semblance like Senators. Among them were emperors, and popes, and
captains, and lawgivers, and philosophers; Homer, Alexander the Great,
Marcus Aurelius. They talked of learning and of statecraft. And to my
wonderment I was told this was hell, and these were all sinners cast out
by God, because they had loved the world and the wisdom of the world,
which is foolishness with the Lord. And I was bidden to choose between
hell and heaven, and I cried: "To hell with me! With the sages and the
heroes!"'

'If the reality be as you describe it,' said Leonardo, 'I also should
prefer ...'

'Nay, it is too late! You have made your choice. You will be rewarded
for Christian virtues by a Christian heaven!'

They lingered in the Coliseum till dark. The yellow moon had sailed up
from behind the stupendous arches of the Basilica of Constantine,
severing with her rays a bed of cloud, transparent and delicately tinted
as mother-o'-pearl. The three columns in front of St. Maria Liberatrice
shone like phantoms. And the cracked bell sounding the Christian
'Angelus' seemed more than ever like a dirge over the trampled and
forgotten Romans.




BOOK XIV

MONNA LISA GIOCONDA--1503-1506


     'The darkness of that subterranean place was too deep, and when I
     had passed some time therein, two feelings awoke within me and
     contended--fear and curiosity; fear of exploring that dark depth;
     curiosity as to its secret.'
                                                    LEONARDO DA VINCI.


I

Leonardo used to say:--

'For portraits, have a special studio; a court, oblong and rectangular,
ten _braccia_ in width, twenty in length, the walls painted black, with
a projecting roof and canvas curtains for the sun. Or, if you haven't
the canvas curtains, paint only in the twilight, or when it is clouded
and dull. That is the perfect light.'

Just such a court for the painting of portraits he had made for himself
in the house of the Florentine citizen who lodged him; a notable
personage, commissary of the Signoria, a mathematician, a man of
intellect and of amiability, his name Ser Piero di Braccio Martelli. His
house was the second in the Via Martelli, on the left as one goes from
San Giovanni to the Palazzo Medici.

It was a warm misty afternoon, towards the close of spring, in the year
1505. The sun shone through clouds; there was a dull light, which seemed
as if shining under water, throwing delicate liquid shadows--Leonardo's
favourite condition of the atmosphere; which, he thought, gave special
charm to the face of a woman.

'Will she come?' he asked himself, thinking of her whose portrait he had
been painting for nearly three years, with a tenacity and a zeal
unwonted.

He arranged the studio for her reception. Boltraffio, watching him,
marvelled at his unusual solicitude.

He prepared palette, brushes, and skins of paint, each one coated with a
transparent film of gum arabic. He removed the cover from the portrait,
which was disposed on a movable three-legged stand called a _leggio_. He
set the fountain playing in the middle of the court. It had been
constructed for her delight--falling streams striking against glass
spheres put them in motion and produced a strange low music. Her
favourite flowers had been planted round the fountain--pale irises--the
lilies of Florence. Then he crumbled bread in a basket for the tame doe
which lived in the court, and which she used to feed with her own hands;
lastly, he arranged her chair, of smooth dark oak with carved back and
arms; before it placed a soft rug, upon which was already curled and
purring a white cat of a rare breed, procured for her pleasure, a dainty
foreign beast with varicoloured eyes, the right yellow as a topaz, the
left sapphire blue.

Meantime, Andrea Salaino had begun to tune the viol; another musician,
one Atalante, whom Leonardo had known at the Milanese court, brought the
silver lyre, shaped like a horse's head, which the artist had invented.

The best musicians, singers, story-tellers, and poets, the most witty
talkers, were invited by Leonardo to his studio to amuse _her_, and
avert the tedium of her sittings. He studied the changeful beauty of
_her_ expression as reflects of thought and feeling were awakened by
talk, music, poetry, in turn.

Now all was ready, but still she delayed her coming.

'Where is she?' he thought; 'the light and the shadow to-day are just
her own. Shall I send to seek her? Nay, but she knows how ardently I
await her! She will come.'

And Giovanni noticed that his impatience grew.

Suddenly a light waft of the breeze swayed the jet of the fountain, the
delicate irises shook as the spray fell on them. The keen-eared doe was
on the alert, with outstretched neck. Leonardo listened. And Giovanni,
though he heard nothing, knew it was _she_.

First, with a humble reverence, came Sister Camilla, a lay-companion who
lived with her, and always attended her to the studio, sitting quietly
apart studying a prayer-book, and effacing herself, so that in three
years Leonardo had hardly heard her voice. The sister was followed by
the woman all expected; a woman of thirty, in a plain dark dress, and a
dark transparent veil which reached to the centre of her forehead--Monna
Lisa Gioconda.

She was a Neapolitan of noble birth; her father, Antonio Gherardini, had
lost his wealth in the French invasion of 1495, and had married his
daughter to the Florentine, Francesco del Giocondo, who had seen the
death of two wives already. Messer Francesco was five years younger than
Leonardo; was one of the twelve _Bonuomini_, and was likely later to be
made Prior. He was a mediocre personage, of a type to be found in every
country and in every age; neither good nor bad; busy in a commonplace
way, absorbed in his affairs, content with daily routine. He regarded
his young wife as nothing more than an ornament for his house. Her
essential charm he understood less than the points of his Sicilian
cattle, or the impost upon raw sheepskins. She was said to have married
this man solely to please her father, and by her marriage to have driven
an earlier lover to a voluntary death. It was also said that she still
had a crowd of passionate adorers--persevering, but hopeless. The
scandalmongers could find nothing worse than this to insinuate. Calm,
gentle, retiring, pious, charitable to the poor, she was a faithful
wife, a good housekeeper, a most tender mother to Dianora, her
twelve-year-old step-daughter.

Giovanni knew all this of Monna Lisa. Yet she never visited Leonardo's
studio without seeming to the pupil a wholly different person from
Messer Francesco's wife. She had been coming now for three years, and
Giovanni's first impressions had been only confirmed by subsequent
observations. He found something mysterious, illusory, phantasmal about
her which filled him with awe. Leonardo's portrait seemed more real than
she was herself. She and the painter--whom she never saw except when
sitting to him, and then never alone--appeared to share some secret; not
a love-secret, at least not in the ordinary sense of the term.

Leonardo had once spoken of the tendency felt by every artist to
reproduce his own likeness in his pictures of others, the reason of this
tendency being that both his own material semblance and his work are the
creation and manifestation of his soul. In this case Giovanni found that
not merely the portrait, but the woman herself, was growing daily more
like the painter. The likeness was less in the features than in the
expression of eyes and in the smile. But he had already seen this smile
on the lips of Verrocchio's Unbelieving Thomas; of Eve before the Tree
of Science, Leonardo's first picture; in the Leda; in the Angel of the
_Madonna delle Roccie_; and in a hundred other drawings, executed before
ever he had met Monna Lisa: as though, throughout life, he had sought
his own reflection, and had found it completely at last.

When Giovanni looked at that smile, he felt perturbed, alarmed, as if in
presence of the supernatural; reality seemed a dream, and the
dream-world reality; Monna Lisa, not the wife of Giocondo, the very
ordinary Florentine citizen, but a phantom evoked by the will of the
master, a female semblance of Leonardo himself.

Lisa took her seat, and the white cat jumped on her lap; she stroked it
with delicate fingers, and faint cracklings and sparks came from the
silky fur. Leonardo began his work; but presently he laid it aside and
sat silent, looking into her face with an intentness that no faintest
shadow of change in her expression could have escaped.

'Madonna,' he said at last, 'you are preoccupied--troubled about
something to-day.'

Giovanni had observed that to-day she did not resemble the portrait.

'I am a little troubled,' she replied; 'Dianora ails, and I have been up
with her the whole night.'

'Then you are wearied, and the pose will try you. We will defer the
sitting to another time.'

'Nay, we cannot lose this delightful day! See the misty sunlight and the
delicate shadows! It is _my_ day!'

There was a short silence. Then she went on: 'I knew you expected me. I
was ready to come earlier; but I was kept. Madonna Sophonisba----'

'Who? Ah, I know. She with the voice of a fishwife and the scent of a
perfumer's shop!'

Monna Lisa smiled quietly. 'She had to tell me about the fête at the
Palazzo Vecchio, given by Argentina, wife of the _Gonfaloniere_; of the
supper, the dresses, the lovers----'

'Ay, 'tis not Dianora's indisposition has disturbed you, but this
woman's senseless gossip. Strange case! Have you never noticed,
madonna, how sometimes a single absurdity on an indifferent subject from
an uninteresting person will throw a gloom over the mind, and afflict us
more than our proper cares?'

She bent her head silently; it was clear they understood each other too
well for words to be always necessary.

Leonardo again addressed himself to work.

'Tell me something!' she cried.

'What shall I tell you?'

She smiled. 'Tell me about _The Realm of Venus_.'

The artist had certain favourite stories for La Gioconda; tales of
travel, of natural phenomena, of plans for pictures. He knew them by
heart, and would recite always in the same simple half-childlike words,
accompanied by soft music, in his feminine voice, the old fable, or
cradle-tale. Andrea and Atalante took their instruments, and when they
had executed the _motif_ which invariably preluded _The Realm of Venus_,
he began:--

'The seafarers who live on the coasts of Cilicia tell of him who is
destined to drown, that for a moment, during the most tremendous storms,
he is permitted to behold the island of Cyprus, realm of the Goddess of
Love. Around boil whirlwinds and whirlpools, and the voices of the
waters; and great in number are the navigators who, attracted by the
splendour of that island, have lost ships upon its rocks. Many a gallant
bark has there been dashed to pieces, many sunk for ever in the deep!
Yonder on the coast lie piteous hulks, overgrown with seaweed, half
buried by sand. Of one the prow juts exposed; of another the stern; of
another the gaping beams of its side, like the blackened ribs of a
corpse. So many are they, that there it looks like the Resurrection Day,
when the Sea shall give up its dead! But over the isle itself is a
curtain of eternal azure, and the sun shines on flowery hills. And the
stillness of the air is such, that when the priest swings the censer on
the temple steps, the flame ascends to heaven straight, unwavering as
the white columns and the giant cypresses mirrored in an untroubled lake
lying inland, far from the shore. Only the streams that flow from that
lake, and cascades leaping from one porphyry basin to another, trouble
the solitude with their pleasant sound. Those drowning far at sea hear
for a moment that soft murmur, and see the still lake of sweet waters,
and the wind carries to them the perfume of myrtle and rose. Ever the
more terrible the outer tempest, the profounder that calm in the island
realm of the Cyprian.'

He ceased: the strains of lute and viol died away, and that silence
followed which is sweeter than any music. As if lulled by the words just
spoken, as if caught away from actual life by the long hush, a stranger
to all things except the will of the artist, Monna Lisa, like calm and
pure and fathomless water, looked into Leonardo's eyes with that mystic
smile which was the very counterpart of his own. Giovanni Boltraffio,
watching now one, now the other, thought of two mirrors, each
reflecting, absorbing the other into infinity.


II

Next morning Leonardo was working in the Palazzo Vecchio at his 'Battle
of Anghiari.'

In 1503, when he had come from Rome, he had received an order from Piero
Soderini, then the supreme authority in the republic, to paint some
memorable battle on the wall of the new council-chamber. He chose the
famous Florentine victory of 1440, over Niccolò Piccinino, the general
of Filippo Visconti, Duke of Lombardy.

A portion of the picture was already completed: four horsemen struggling
for possession of a standard--little more than a rag fluttering on a
staff, its pole snapped and about to be shivered into pieces. Five hands
have seized the shaft, and are pulling furiously in contrary directions.
Sabres cross in the air; mouths are opened in a horrific yell. The
distorted human faces are not less hideous than the jowls of the
monstrous creatures on their helmets. The horses have been infected with
the fury of their riders, and are rearing and striking each other with
their forelegs, their ears laid back, their eyeballs rolling and
glaring, as they gnash their teeth and bite like tigers. Below, in a
pool of blood, one man is killing another, clutching his hair and
dashing his head against the ground, not noticing that in a moment they
will both alike be trampled down by the advancing hoofs.

This was war in all its horror, the supreme folly of humanity, the 'most
bestial of madnesses,' according to Leonardo's own expression, 'which
leaves no footprint unfilled with blood.'

This morning the painter had scarcely taken his work in hand when he
heard steps upon the brick floor; he recognised them, and frowned
without looking up. It was Piero Soderini, the _Gonfaloniere_.

Soderini required a precise account of every _soldo_ advanced by the
treasury for the purchase of wood, lac, chalk, paints, linseed oil, and
other trifles. Never, when in the service of 'tyrants,' as the
_Gonfaloniere_ contemptuously called them, at the courts of Ludovico
Sforza, or of Cæsar Borgia, had Leonardo been subjected to such petty
interferences as here in the service of the free republic, in the region
of civil equality.

'For what had you hoped?' asked the painter with a certain curiosity.

'We had hoped that your work would immortalise the warlike renown of the
republic, and show the memorable exploits of our heroes; had hoped for
something to elevate the soul, to give a noble example of patriotism. I
grant you that war is as you have shown it; but, I ask you, Messer
Leonardo, why not ennoble and adorn it, and modify its extremes? for the
great thing is "moderation in all things!" I may be mistaken, but to my
thinking the painter's true business is to benefit the people by
instructing them.'

He had now touched on his favourite theme, and with brightened eyes he
talked on; his monotonous voice had the ceaseless trickle of water,
wearing away a stone. The painter scarcely replied; though, curious to
know what this worthy citizen really thought on the subject of art, he
listened at intervals with some attention. He felt as if he had gone
into a dark and narrow room, crowded with people, and with an absolutely
stifling atmosphere.

'Art which has no profit for the people,' said Messer Piero, 'is merely
an amusement for the rich, a distraction for the idle, a luxury for
tyrants. You agree, my good sir?'

'Certainly,' assented Leonardo, and he continued, sarcastic purpose
scarce visible in the twinkle of his eyes. 'Permit me, sir, to suggest a
practical method of terminating our perennial debate. Let the citizens
of the Florentine Republic assemble in this very chamber, and take a
vote on the question whether or no my picture be moral--that is,
popular. There would be great advantage in this course. The question
would be settled with mathematical certainty by counting heads; for the
voice of the people is, as you are aware, the voice of God.'

Soderini weighed the suggestion. He was so impressed by the virtue of
the black and white balls used for voting, that it never occurred to him
a mock could be made at the mystery. Presently, however, he understood,
and fixing his eyes on the painter, stared in blank astonishment, almost
terror. Yet he quickly recovered himself. Artists are known to be
persons unreliable and devoid of common sense, and it ill behoved him to
take offence at this painter fellow's gibe.

Messer Piero did not pursue the subject; in the tone of a superior
addressing a dependent, he mentioned that Michelangelo Buonarroti had
received an order to paint the second wall of the council chamber, and
curtly took his leave. Leonardo followed him with his eyes. Sleek, grey,
with crooked legs and a bent back, he seemed even more closely than
usual to resemble a rat.


III

On leaving the Palazzo Vecchio Leonardo paused in the piazza before
Michelangelo's 'David.' It stood as if on guard, a giant of white
marble, relieved against the background of dark stone. Young, thin,
naked, the veins swollen in his right hand which held the sling, his
left arm was raised in front of his breast, the stone within the hand.
His brows were knit, his gaze far away, like one taking aim. The curls
upon his low forehead seemed already the garland of victory. Leonardo
remembered the description in the Book of Kings; and seeing him stand
there where Savonarola had been burned, he thought of the prophet Fra
Girolamo had desired in vain, the hero for whom Machiavelli was still
waiting.

In this work of his rival's Leonardo recognised the expression of a soul
great as his own, but eternally opposed to it; opposed as action is to
contemplation, passion to apathy, storm to tranquillity. This alien
force attracted him; he felt the inevitable fascination of something
new, the desire to come close to it, to study, and understand it.

Two years earlier, among the building stones of Santa Maria del Fiore,
lay a huge block of white marble, spoilt by an unskilled sculptor. The
best masters had refused it, thinking it no longer good for anything. It
had been offered to Leonardo himself, and with his usual slowness he
had meditated, measured, calculated, hesitated. Then came another,
twenty-three years younger than he, who had undertaken the task without
misgiving; with incredible rapidity, working by night as well as by day,
he had made this giant in two years and one month. Leonardo had worked
for six years at the clay of his Colossus; he dared not think how long
he would have required for a marble statue like this David.

The Florentines had proclaimed Michelangelo Leonardo's rival in the art
of sculpture, and the young man had not hesitated to accept his
challenge. Now it seemed he was about to place himself in competition
with the older master as a painter also. He had yet hardly taken a brush
in his hand, but with a daring which might seem presumption, he was
about to paint the second war-picture in the council chamber.

Leonardo had met his youthful rival with goodwill and every
consideration; but Michelangelo hated him with all the fire of his
impetuous nature. Leonardo's calm he fancied contempt: he listened to
calumnies, he sought pretexts for quarrels, he seized every occasion to
damage his rival. When the 'David' was finished the best painters and
sculptors were invited by the Signoria to discuss where it should be
placed. Leonardo agreed with Giuliano da San Gallo, the architect, that
the most suitable position would be under the Loggia de' Priori, and
not, as others suggested, in front of the Palazzo della Signoria.
Michelangelo swore that Leonardo, prompted by envy, wished his rival's
work hidden in a corner where no one could properly see it.

Discussions on abstract questions were at this time much the vogue, and
on one occasion a company, including the brothers Pollaiuoli, the aged
Botticelli, Filippino Lippi, and Lorenzo di Credi, assembled in
Leonardo's studio to debate whether sculpture or painting held the
higher place among the arts. Leonardo quickly, with a whimsical
expression, gave his opinion thus:--

'The further art is removed from a handicraft the nearer it approaches
perfection. The major distinction between the two arts lies in the fact
that painting demands greater effort of mind, sculpture greater effort
of body. The shape, contained like a kernel in the block of marble, is
slowly set free by the sculptor's blows of chisel and mallet, needing
the exertion of all his bodily powers. Great fatigue ensues, the
labourer is drenched with sweat, which mingling with dust becomes a miry
crust upon his garments; his face is smeared and covered with white like
a baker's, his studio is filled with chips. Whereas the painter,
perfectly calm, in elegant habiliments, seated at ease in his chair,
plies a light brush and manipulates pleasant paints. His house is clean,
and quiet, so that his toil can be sweetened by converse, or music, or
reading, undisturbed by hammerings or scrapings.'

These words came to the ears of Michelangelo, who imagined them aimed at
himself. He took occasion to make venomous reply:--

'Let this Messer da Vinci, a kitchen-wench's bastard, be ashamed of
dirty work; I, the heir of an old and honourable house, despise neither
sweat nor mire. The dispute is foolish, for all the arts are equal,
proceeding from one source, aiming at one goal. He who maintains that
painting is nobler than sculpture knows no more of either than my
serving-maid.'

He set to work with feverish energy on his picture for the council
chamber, wishing to overtake his rival--a feat by no means difficult.
His subject was an incident in the Pisan campaign: a sudden attack by
the enemy while the soldiers were bathing. The men hurry to the bank,
scramble out of the pleasant waves, draw on their sweated and dusty
clothes, don their cuirasses and helmets, which are burning hot under
the fiery sunshine. Michelangelo thus showed war as a contrast to
Leonardo's representation: not as 'the most bestial of madnesses,' but
as the performance of hard and manful duty to the denial of ease and
pleasure; as the struggle of heroes for the greatness and glory of their
country.

The Florentines watched the growth of the two pictures and the rivalry
between the artists with all the keenness of spectators at a raree show;
and as strife unconnected with politics seemed to them tasteless as
broth without salt, they affirmed that Michelangelo was for the republic
against the Medici, Leonardo for the Medici against the republic. The
artistic duel now became intelligible to everybody; the town was divided
into two parties; and men, to whom art was a sealed book, declared
themselves the adherents of one or other of the two artists whose works
had become the ensigns of hostile camps. Stones were thrown secretly at
the 'David'; the rich accused the poor of this outrage, the demagogues
accused the substantial burghers; the artists, the pupils; and
Buonarroti, in the presence of the _Gonfaloniere_, asserted that
ruffians had been hired by Leonardo to damage his statue.

One day Leonardo, working at his portrait in the presence of Boltraffio
and Salaino, said to Monna Lisa:--

'Could I but come to speech with Messer Michelangelo, face to face, as I
speak with you, madonna, all would be explained, and no trace would
remain of this stupid quarrel. He would learn that I am not his enemy,
and that there is no man living could love him better than I.'

Madonna Lisa shook her head.

'Nay, Messer Leonardo, he would not understand you.'

'Such a man could not fail to understand. The mischief is that he is
diffident and has too little self-confidence. He fears and tortures
himself and is jealous, because he does not yet know his own strength.
It is folly in him. I would reassure him. What has he to fear in me? I
have seen his sketch for the 'Soldiers bathing' and, believe me,
madonna, I was astounded, and could scarce believe my own eyes. No one
can conceive the value of this young man, nor what he will rise to. Even
now he is not only my equal, but stronger than I. Deny it not, madonna,
for I speak what I know to be true: he is my superior.'

She smiled, reflecting his expression like an image in a mirror.

One day in Santa Maria del Carmine, in the Cappella Brancacci, where
were the famous frescoes of Tomaso Masaccio, the school of all the great
masters, he saw a lad, scarcely more than a boy, studying and copying as
he had done himself in his youth. He wore a paint-stained old black
frock, clean but coarse and homespun linen. He was tall and willowy,
with a slight neck, very white and long, delicate as a girl's. His face
was oval, clear cut, and pale, with a somewhat sensuous beauty, and
great dark eyes like those of the Umbrian peasant women from whom
Perugino painted his Madonnas, eyes with no depth of thought, deep and
void as the sky. Leonardo saw the youth a second time in the Sala del
Papa at Santa Maria Novella, where his own cartoon for the 'Battle of
Anghiari' was exhibited. This the lad was studying and copying with no
less care than he had bestowed on Masaccio's frescoes. He evidently
knew Leonardo by sight, but did not venture to speak to him.

The Master addressed him; and then hurriedly, excitedly, and with many
blushes, half-presumptuous yet childishly artless, the boy confessed
that he looked on Leonardo as his master, as the greatest of all Italian
masters, whose shoe's-latchet Michelangelo Buonarroti was not worthy to
unloose.

Leonardo examined his drawings, and after further converse, on other
occasions, became convinced that here was a great master of the future.

Sensitive and responsive as an echo to all voices, submissive to
influence as a woman, he at present imitated both Perugino and
Pinturicchio (with whom he had recently been working in the library at
Siena), and also Leonardo; but under this immaturity the latter found a
freshness of feeling in him superior to any he had met. And the lad
seemed to have already fathomed by guesswork the deepest mysteries of
art and life; had surmounted the greatest obstacles as if involuntarily,
lightly, by chance, almost in play. Every gift seemed to have been
bestowed on him freely; he knew no searchings of heart, no weary toil,
no hesitation, no despairing efforts, no hopeless puzzles, such as had
always been to Leonardo an incubus and a curse. And when the Master
spoke to him of the need for patient study of nature, and of the laws of
painting, the youth fixed on him soft wondering eyes, and, it was
evident, listened merely out of reverence for the great man's opinion.

One day he made an observation which surprised Leonardo by its depth:--

'I have noticed,' he said, 'that while one is painting one should not
think. Everything then turns out better.'

It seemed as if this youth's whole being was a proof that the perfect
harmony of reason and feeling, of love and science, which the Master
sought so ardently, did not, nor could not exist. And in face of the
modest and careless frankness which shone in those unanxious eyes,
Leonardo felt greater doubt of the work of his own whole life, greater
doubt of the future destiny of art, than had ever tormented him when
confronted by the rivalry and scorn of Michelangelo.

At one of their first meetings Leonardo had asked the lad his name,
parentage and native place.

'I come from Urbino,' he replied; 'my father is Giovanni Sanzio the
painter, and my name, Raphael.'


IV

The evening before Leonardo's departure from Florence to mend a dam
which had burst on the river Arno, he was returning from a visit to
Machiavelli, who had alarmed him by his admissions with regard to
Soderini.

He was crossing the bridge of the Santa Trinità, towards the Via
Tornabuoni. The hour was late, and few people were about; after a hot
day a shower had freshened the air. From the river came the sharp
perfume which water acquires in the warmth of summer; the moon was
rising behind the dark hill of San Miniato. On the bank near the Ponte
Vecchio a cluster of very ancient houses, with uneven balconies and
wooden supports, were reflected in the dull green water. Behind Monte
Albano glittered a single star. The outline of Florence was cut against
the clear sky like a golden capital letter in some ancient manuscript;
an outline unique in the world, familiar to Leonardo as the outline of a
human face. To the north rose the ancient belfry of Santa Croce, near it
the straight slender stem of the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio; then
Giotto's marble campanile, and the red cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore,
like the gigantic expanding blossom of the purple lily, the flower of
Florence on her standards and escutcheons. All Florence, bathed in
moonlight seemed a huge silver flower.

Leonardo noted that every city has its own especial perfume; that of
Florence was a mingling of the scent of iris flowers, and the faint
odour of dust and damp and old varnish which belongs to ancient
pictures.

His thoughts veered to her who was becoming their constant
preoccupation--Monna Lisa Gioconda. He knew scarce more of her life than
did Giovanni his pupil; it was less an annoyance than a perpetual
astonishment to him to reflect that she had a husband--Messer Francesco,
so tall and lean, with a wart on his cheek, thick eyebrows; a positive
soul; whose talk was of Sicilian cattle and the tax upon sheepskins.
There were moments in which Leonardo rejoiced in her ethereal charm,
which seemed above common humanity, yet was more real to him than aught
belonging to everyday life. There were other moments in which he
acutely felt the beauty of the living woman.

Lisa was not one of those celebrated by the poetasters as _dotte eroine_
(learned heroines). She never displayed her knowledge of books; only by
chance he found out that she read both Latin and Greek. She spoke so
simply that many imagined her stupid. But Leonardo found in her what is
most rare, especially among women, instinctive wisdom. Sometimes by a
chance sentence she would reveal herself so near, so akin to him in
spirit, that he felt her his one and eternal friend, the sister of his
soul. At these moments he would fain have overpassed the magic circle
which divides contemplation from life; but such desires he quenched at
once. Was this love which united them? Platonic ravings, languid sighs
of ideal lovers, syrupy sonnets in the Petrarchan style, had never
excited in him anything but amusement or boredom. Equally alien to his
nature was the passion which most men call love. Just as he ate no meat,
because it seemed to him repulsive, so he refrained from women, because
all material possession--in marriage or outside it--seemed to him
coarse. He avoided it as he avoided the shambles, neither blaming nor
approving, acknowledging the law of natural struggle for hunger or for
love, but refusing to take any part in it himself, and obeying a purer
law of chastity and love.

Yet even if he had loved her, what more perfect union with the beloved
could he have wished than in this secret and mystic intercourse, in the
creation of this immortal image, this new being, born of them both, as a
child of its parents, in which he and she were one? Nevertheless he felt
that even in this mystic union, stainless as it was, there was
danger--it might be greater danger than in the bond of ordinary fleshly
love. They walked on the verge of a precipice where none had walked
before, resisting the vertigo and the fatal attraction of the abyss.
Between them were simple words, vague and uncompleted phrases, through
which their secret showed as the sun shines through the morning mist. At
times he thought, What if the mist should scatter, and the blinding sun
shine out which kills mystery, dissolves all phantoms? What if he or she
should prove unequal to the strain, should overstep the magic circle,
materialise imagination into fact, contemplation into life? Had he the
right to test a human soul, the soul of his life-long friend, his
spiritual sister, as he tested the laws of mechanics, the structure of
plants, the action of poisons? Would she not revolt, cast him from her
with contempt and hatred?

Again at times he fancied he was subjecting her to a slow and a terrible
death. Her submissiveness alarmed him; it seemed limitless, like his own
eternal search for knowledge, the delicate yet penetrating scrutiny to
which he subjected her. Sooner or later he would have to decide what she
was to him, a woman or a spirit. He had been hoping that temporary
absence would postpone this inevitable decision, and for this reason was
glad to be leaving Florence.

But now that the moment had come, that separation was imminent, he
realised that he had been mistaken, and that instead of deferring, his
departure must hasten the decision.

Absorbed in these thoughts, he did not notice that he had wandered into
a lonely blind alley, and on looking about him did not at once recognise
where he was. Giotto's campanile appearing above the houses showed he
was in the vicinity of the cathedral. One side of the narrow street was
lost in blackest shadow, the other was white under the rays of the moon.
A distant light glowed red. It came from one of the _loggie_
characteristic of Florence, with a balcony and semi-circular arches on
slender pillars; a company in masks and cloaks were singing a serenade,
to the gentle tinkling of a lute.

It was the old love-song, composed by Lorenzo Il Magnifico, which had
once sounded in the carnival procession; a melancholy yet joyous melody,
pleasant to Leonardo's ears because he had know it in his youth.

           Quanto è bella giovinezza!
           Ma sen fugge tuttavia
           Chi vuol esser lieto sia
           Di doman non v'è certezza.

     (Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness:
     He knows not if to-morrow curse or bless.)

The last line lingered sadly in his ears with mournful foreboding.

Already on the threshold of old age, and approaching darkness and
solitude, had not Fate sent him at last a living soul, a kindred soul?
Must he repulse it? must he deny it? sacrifice life for contemplation,
as he had so often done before? renounce the near for the faraway, the
real for the ideal? Which was he to choose, the true and living and
mortal Gioconda or the immortal, which had no material existence? They
were equally dear to him, yet he must choose between them; choose at
once, for her sake. But his will was weak. He could arrive at no
decision, and wandered on aimlessly through the streets, debating,
debating with himself.

Presently he reached the house of Piero Martelli, where he lodged. The
doors were shut, the lights extinguished. He raised the hammer hung on a
chain, and knocked. The porter did not come. Repeated blows were only
answered by echoes from the sounding arches of the stone staircase.
Echoes died away and silence succeeded, seeming the more profound for
the brightness of the moonlight.

A clock boomed from a neighbouring tower. The heavy measured clanging
told of the silent and dreadful flight of time, of the darkness and
loneliness of age, of the past which could never return. And long did
the last clang vibrate in the moonlit stillness, quivering on the air,
now weakening, now strengthening again in ever widening waves of sound,
as if repeating--

     Di doman non v'è certezza.


V

The next day, at her habitual hour, Monna Lisa came to the studio for
the first time unaccompanied. She knew it was their last interview. It
was a brilliant morning, and Leonardo lowered the canvas curtain to
produce that dim and tender light, transparent as submarine shadows,
which gave her face its greatest charm.

They were alone.

He kept working on in silence, calm and absorbed, forgetting his
thoughts of the previous night, forgetting the parting, the inevitable
choice. Past and Future had alike vanished from his memory; time had
come to a standstill; it seemed as if she had always sat, and would ever
thus sit before him, with that calm strange smile. What he could not do
in life he did by imagination; he blended the two images in one--mingled
the reality and its reflection--the living woman and the immortal.

He had now the sense of a great deliverance. He no longer either pitied
her or feared her. He knew her submissiveness, that she would accept
all, endure all; die, perhaps, but never revolt. And momently he looked
at her with that curiosity which had taken him to the execution of the
condemned, that he might watch the last shudders of fear on the dying
faces.

Suddenly he fancied that a strange shadow, as of an unbidden thought,
which he had not evoked, which he wished away, appeared upon her
countenance, like the cloud of human breath upon the surface of a
mirror. To preserve her, to recall her anew to the Type, within the
fatidic circle, to banish from her this human shadow, he related
gravely, like a magician pronouncing an incantation, one of his mystic
tales.

'Unable to resist the desire of beholding new forms, the secret
creations of nature, I at length reached the cavern, and there at the
entrance stood still in terror. I stooped, the left hand on the right
knee, and shading my eyes with my hand to accustom myself to the
darkness, I presently took heart and entered, and moved forward for
several steps. Then, frowning, straining my sight to the utmost, I
unwittingly changed my course and wandered hither and thither in the
darkness, feeling my way and groping after the definite. But the
obscurity was overpowering, and when I had passed some time in it, Fear
and Curiosity contended most mightily within me: fear of searching that
dark cavern, and curiosity after its secret.'

He was silent. The unwonted shadow lay still upon her face.

'Which of the two feelings gained the day?' La Gioconda murmured.

'Curiosity.'

'And you learned the stupendous secret?'

'I learned ... what could be learned.'

'And will reveal it to men?'

'I would not, nor could not, reveal all. But I would inspire them also
with curiosity strong enough to vanquish fear.'

'_And if curiosity be not enough_, Messer Leonardo?' she said slowly, an
unwonted fire in her eyes; 'if something further, a profounder feeling,
were needed to lay bare the cavern's last and greatest treasure?'

And she turned toward him a smile he had never seen before.

'What more is needed?' he asked.

She was silent. Just then a slender blinding ray shone through a rent in
the curtain; the dimness vanished; the mystery, the clear shadows,
tender as distant music, fled.

'You leave to-morrow?' she said suddenly.

'No. To-night.'

'I, too, am soon departing.'

The artist looked at her steadily, attempted speech, and said nothing.
He devined her meaning; that she would not stay in Florence without him.

'Messer Francesco,' she continued, 'goes presently for three months to
Calabria. I have asked him to take me with him.'

He frowned. This sunshine was not to his mind; the fountain had been
ghostly white; now it had taken the rainbow hues of life. Leonardo felt
that he was returning to life, timid, weak, pitiable.

'No matter,' said Monna Lisa, 'draw closer the curtain. It is early yet.
I am not tired.'

'I have painted enough,' he said, throwing down his brush.

'You will not finish my portrait?'

'Why not?' he cried hastily, as if alarmed. 'Will you not come to me
when you return?'

'I will come. But shall I be the same? You have told me that faces,
especially the faces of women, quickly change.'

'I long to finish it. But sometimes to me it seems impossible?'

'Impossible?' wondered La Gioconda. 'Ay, they tell me you finish nothing
because you are always seeking the impossible.'

In these words he fancied a tender reproach.

'The moment has come!' he thought.

She rose and said with her usual calm:--

'Farewell, Messer Leonardo. I wish you a good journey.' He also had
risen, and looking at her he saw again helpless entreaty and reproach on
her face. He knew that this moment was irrevocable for both--final and
solemn as death. He felt he must break this pregnant silence, yet no
words came to him. The more he forced his will to find a solution, the
more he was conscious of his own powerlessness and the profundity of the
abyss which must divide them. Monna Lisa still smiled her quiet smile;
that calmness, that brightness, seemed to him now the smile of the dead.
Intolerable pity filled his heart and weakened him still more.

She stretched out her hand; he took it and kissed it for the first time
since he had known her. As he did so she bent quickly, and he felt that
La Gioconda touched his hair with her lips.

'May God have you in his keeping,' she said simply.

When he recovered from his wonder--she was gone. Around him was the dead
silence of a summer afternoon, more menacing than midnight. Again he
heard the heavy measured clanging of the clock, telling of the
irremediable flight of time, of the darkness and loneliness of age, of
the past, which can return no more. And as the last vibrations died away
the words of the plaintive love song echoed in his ears:--

     'Di doman non v'è certezza.'
     '_And count not on the day to come._'


VI

Learning that Messer Giocondo was not returning from Calabria till
October, Leonardo deferred his return to Florence for ten days that he
might not reach the city till Madonna Lisa was there. He counted the
hours till that moment should arrive; superstitious dread oppressed his
heart when he remembered that accident might easily prolong the
separation. He strove not to think; he asked no one for news lest he
should hear something disappointing.

At last the day came, and he reached Florence early in the morning.
Autumnal, damp and dull, the city yet seemed especially fair. It spoke
to him of La Gioconda. It was one of _her_ days; misty, transparent,
with subdued light, as of sunlight seen through water.

He no longer asked himself how they would meet, what he should say, nor
how he must act that they might part no more, that he might keep her for
ever as his only friend, the sister of his soul.

'Things turn out best when one does not think too much. The great thing
is, not to think,' he said to himself, quoting the lad Raphael. 'I will
question her; and she will tell me all which that day we left unsaid;
she will explain what more than curiosity is necessary if one is to
discover the marvel of the cavern.'

Gladness filled his soul as if he were a boy of sixteen with his life
before him; yet deep down under this gladness there lingered a half
unconscious presentiment of mishap.

In the evening he visited Machiavelli, intending to go to Messer
Giocondo's house next day. Impatience, however, overcame him, and he
decided to call at once and ask for news from the porter of Madonna
Lisa's safe arrival. He went down the Via Tornabuoni towards the Ponte
Santa Trinità, the same route, though in the opposite direction, which
he had followed the night before his departure. The weather had suddenly
changed, as often happens in Florence on autumn evenings. The north
wind, piercing as a knife, blew down the valley of the Mugnone, and the
crest of the Mugello was whitened with snow. In the town it was raining;
but just above the horizon there remained a narrow strip of clear sky,
and from it the sun suddenly burst forth, flooding the wet streets and
shining roofs and the faces of the passers-by with a harsh yellow light.
The rain seemed like copper dust, and the glass of distant windows
glowed like live coals.

Near the bridge and opposite the church of Santa Trinità, in the angle
formed by the river bank and the Via Tornabuoni, rose the imposing
Palazzo degli Spini, built of large warm-grey stones, with barred lancet
windows and castellated roof like a fortress. Down below was the
customary row of stone benches, where the citizens congregated to tell
the news, to sun or to shade themselves, to play at dice or draughts.
There was a loggia at the other side of the palace, looking out upon the
Arno.

As he passed, Leonardo saw in this loggia a group of persons, strangers
to him for the most part, disputing so vehemently that they did not
notice the storm.

'Messer Leonardo! come hither and resolve our question!' they called to
him. He stopped. The dispute was about certain lines in the
thirty-fourth canto of Dante's _Inferno_, where Lucifer is described
buried breast-high in the ice at the very bottom of the accursed Pit.

The matter was expounded to Leonardo by one of the disputants, a rich
old wool merchant. The artist, however, was but half attending, for his
eyes were fixed on a man coming along the Lungarno Acciaioli. This
person walked heavily, shambling like a bear: he was bent and bony,
with a large head, black hair, and ill-shaped beard; his clothes were
poor and carelessly thrown on. He had a broad-browed heavy face, with
projecting ears and a broken nose. His small eyes dilated and glowed
strangely under excitement, and much night-work had reddened his
eyelids. Indeed he was said to work preferably in underground darkness,
with a small round lamp attached to his forehead, like a new Cyclops. It
was Michelangelo.

'Give us your opinion,' urged the disputants of Leonardo.

'I have heard,' replied the painter, 'that Messer Buonarroti is a
student of the great Alighieri. Ask him; he will answer your question
better than I.'

For Leonardo had always hoped that his difference with Michelangelo
would die a natural death; and he was anxious for an occasion which
would bring them to speech together.

The younger man, hearing his name pronounced, stopped and raised his
eyes. He was reserved and shy, even to wildness, dreading the stare of
strangers, and fancying that they scorned his ugliness, which he himself
was never able to forget. Now he looked suspiciously at the company in
the loggia; but when he saw Leonardo's smile, and his piercing glance
bent down upon him, for the older man was much the taller of the two,
shyness changed into rage. He grew pale and red by turns; words choked
him; but at last he blurted out:--

'Explain it yourself, most intelligent of sages, sold to the Lombards!
Books are your proper pastime; you who spent sixteen years trying to
hatch a clay horse, and when you tried to cast it in bronze threw up the
task in despair.' He knew he was speaking outrageously; but such was his
fury that no words seemed to him sufficiently insulting to hurl at his
rival.

Leonardo made no reply; he looked the other full in the face, and the
bystanders also were silent, watching the two men.

Before the violence of Buonarroti, Leonardo's calm almost feminine
smile, tinged with sadness, suggested weakness. But he himself
remembered Monna Lisa's words, that Michelangelo would never pardon him
for his gift of that quietness which is mightier than storm.

Michelangelo finding no more words waved his hand, turned quickly, and
went on his way, with his shambling gait, his dull unconscious habit of
growling, his bent head and bowed shoulders, upon which seemed to rest
some superhuman burden. Soon he disappeared as if dissolved into the
turbid copper-coloured rain and the wild and threatening sunlight.

Leonardo walked on. On the bridge one of the company in the loggia of
the Palazzo Spini overtook him--a little man with the aspect of a Jew,
though a pure-blooded Florentine, known to Leonardo as a scandal-monger.
The painter crossed the bridge, the other running by his side, talking
of Michelangelo, and trying to force Leonardo into some adverse
criticism of his rival, which no doubt he intended to repeat at the
earliest opportunity. Leonardo, however, refused to be drawn into this
trap, and remained silent.

The intruder was not to be shaken off.

'Tell me, Messere,' he said, 'have you yet finished your portrait of La
Gioconda?'

'I have not,' answered the painter. 'Why are you interested?'

'Nay, I was only considering the matter. For three years you have
laboured at one picture, and you say it is still incomplete. But to us
ignorant amateurs it seems already perfection, and we can conceive of
nothing further to be done.'

And he smiled obsequiously. Leonardo would have liked to take the little
man by the collar and fling him into the river.

'And what will you do now?' continued the irrepressible one. 'But
perhaps you have not heard, Messer Leonardo?'

Through his aversion the artist felt a spasm of dread. The other had
evidently something on his tongue; his eyes danced, his hands shook. He
seemed like some noxious insect.

'Oh, _Santo Iddio benedetto_!' he exclaimed; 'forsooth you only returned
to Florence this morning, so the news may not have reached you. Poor
Messer Giocondo! to be thrice widowed! Conceive what bad luck! 'Tis now
a month since Madonna Lisa, by the will of Heaven, expired!'

Darkness fell upon Leonardo's eyes; for a moment it seemed to him he
must swoon. But the keen inquisitive gaze of his tormentor helped him to
a superhuman effort of self-control; he turned pale, but his face
remained inscrutable. The other, disappointed, presently took his leave.
Left alone, Leonardo gradually recovered his composure. His first
thought was that the busybody had lied; inventing the evil tidings on
purpose to see what effect they would produce on the artist whose name
had long been whispered as a lover of La Gioconda's. It was incredible
that she could really be dead.

Before nightfall, however, he had learned all. Madonna Lisa, victim,
said some, of a contagious malady of the throat, had died at the obscure
town of Lagonero, on the return journey from Calabria to Florence.


VII

The attempt to divert the Arno from Pisa ended in disaster. Floods
destroyed the works, and turned the blooming lowland into a pestilential
swamp, where the workmen died of malaria. The labour, the money, the
lives had been expended for naught: the Ferrarese engineers threw the
blame upon Soderini, Machiavelli, and Leonardo. They were placed under a
ban, and their acquaintances turned from them in the streets. Niccolò
fell ill of vexation.

Two years before this, Leonardo's father, Ser Piero da Vinci, notary of
the palace of the Podestà, had died at the age of eighty.

In the matter of inheritance Ser Piero had frequently expressed an
intention of placing Leonardo on an equal footing with his legitimate
sons. They refused to execute his will. Leonardo's affairs were at this
time much involved, and he was induced to assent to the proposal of one
of the Hebrew usurers, from whom he had borrowed on the security of his
expectations, that he should sell him his claim on the paternal
inheritance. A lawsuit followed which lasted for six years. Taking
advantage of Leonardo's unpopularity, his brothers poured oil on the
flames, accusing him of sorcery, atheism, high treason during his
service with Cæsar Borgia, and violation of tombs by digging up corpses
for dissection; they even insulted the memory of his dead mother,
Caterina, and revived the twenty-year-old slander, accusing him of vice.

In addition to all these trials was added the failure of the picture in
the Council Chamber. Notwithstanding his experience with regard to the
_Cenacolo_, he had used oil paints also for the 'Battle of Anghiari,'
though with what he believed an improved method. When the work was half
finished he attempted to hasten the fixing of the paint in the plaster
by means of a great fire in a brazier before the picture. But the heat
acted only on the lower part of the surface; the varnish and paint
higher up would not dry.

After many fruitless experiments he realised that the second attempt at
wall-painting in oil was unsuccessful as the first, and that the
'Battle' would fade away as surely as the 'Last Supper.'

Once more, in Michelangelo's words, he was obliged to throw up his task
in despair.

The picture troubled him more than the Pisan canal or the fraternal
lawsuit. Soderini had harassed him with demands for mercantile exactness
in the carrying out of the order for the fresco, pressed for completion
within a given time, threatened him with penalties, finally accused him
openly of having misappropriated public money. Yet when Leonardo, having
borrowed from his friends, proposed to restore all he had received from
the treasury, Messer Piero refused to accept his offer, and meanwhile
was not ashamed to write to the Seigneur Charles d'Amboise, governor of
Lombardy, who was negotiating for the transfer of the painter from
Florence to Milan:--

'The conduct of Leonardo da Vinci has not been honourable: for having
received a large sum for the execution of a great work, he abandoned it
when he had completed but a very little, and in this matter had acted as
a traitor to the republic.'

One winter night Leonardo sat alone in his working room. The wind howled
in the chimney, the walls shook, the candle flickered, the stuffed bird,
suspended from a wooden bar, swayed as if attempting to fly; above the
bookshelf the familiar spider ran in alarm about his web. Drops of rain
battered the window like the knocks of one wishing to enter.

After a day spent in working for his livelihood, Leonardo felt
exhausted, as by a night of fever. He tried to employ himself by
scientific study, by drawing a caricature, by reading; but everything
fell from his hands. He had no inclination to sleep, and the whole night
was before him.

He looked at the piles of books, at the crucibles, the retorts, the
bottles containing monstrosities preserved in spirit; at the brass
quadrants, the globes, the apparatus for the study of mechanics,
astronomy, physics, hydraulics, optics, and anatomy. An unwonted
repugnance to them all filled his soul. Was not he the fellow of yonder
old spider in the dark corner above the mouldy books, the human bones,
the limbs of lifeless machines? What was left to him, what lay between
him and death, between him and utter oblivion except certain sheets of
paper, which he was covering with writing that no one could read? And he
remembered his happiness when as a child he had climbed the heights of
Monte Albano, had seen the flocks of cranes, had smelt the freshness of
spring, had gazed at the fair city of Florence, lying in the sunlight
haze like an amethyst, so small that it could be framed between two
branches of juniper. Yes, he had been happy; thinking of nothing,
knowing nothing.

Was the whole labour of his life a mockery? Was Love, after all, _not_
the daughter of Knowledge?

He listened to the howling, the shrieking, the roaring of the storm, and
he remembered Machiavelli's words: 'The most fearful thing in life is
not poverty nor care, sickness nor sorrow, nor death itself. It is
weariness of spirit.'

And still the inhuman voice of the night wind spoke of things
unavoidable yet unintelligible to the mind of man; of the loneliness,
the blackness of utter darkness on the bosom of old Chaos, mother of all
that is; of the boundless weariness of the spirit of the world. Leonardo
rose, took a candle, went into the next room, uncovered a picture
standing on an easel and veiled with a heavy drapery like a shroud. It
was the portrait of Monna Lisa Gioconda.

He had not looked at it since their parting. Now it seemed that he saw
it for the first time; such vigour of life was in it that he trembled
before his own creation. He remembered old-world traditions of magic
portraits which, if pierced by a needle, caused the death of the living
originals. In this case had he not done the contrary, taken life from
the living woman to give it to the dead?

It was all vivid and exact, to the last fold of her dress, to the little
stars of the delicate embroidery garnishing the opening round her neck.
It seemed as if the white bosom heaved, the blood beat warm in the
arteries, the expression of the face changed. Yet was she spectral, far
off, alien; more antique, in her deathless youth, than the cliffs in the
picture background--strange, sky-blue rocks, like stalactites, that
seemed visions of a world long extinct Ah! and the waves of her hair
fell from under the dark transparent veil, by the same laws of divine
mechanics as fell the waves of water in the cataract! It was only now,
when he had lost her, that he knew the charm of Monna Lisa. Hers was the
charm which he had sought in nature; the secret of the universe was the
secret of this woman, whom he had loved.

And it was no longer he who was putting her to the test, but she who was
trying him. What meant the gaze of those eyes, reflecting his own soul?
Was she repeating what she had said at their last meeting--telling him
that more than curiosity is needed, if the most wondrous secret of the
cavern is to be discovered? Or was this the alien smile of perfect
knowledge with which the dead look at the living? For the first time he
realised that she was truly dead. Could he or could he not have saved
her? Never before had he looked into the face of Death so directly, so
near. Terror turned his soul to ice. He drew back from the horror: for
the first time in his life he did not wish to _know_.

With a hasty and furtive movement he dropped the shroud again over the
canvas, and turned away.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the succeeding spring, by the good offices of Charles d'Amboise,
Leonardo was freed from his engagements to the Florentine Republic, and
able to return to Milan. Now, as twenty-five years before, he was glad
to leave his home, and to see the snowy crests of the Alps rising above
the great plain of Lombardy. Now, as then, he was an exile, cast out
from his country and his home.




BOOK XV

THE HOLY INQUISITION--1506-1513


     Know all; but be known of none.
                                 ASIL THE GNOSTIC.


I

In the year 1507 Leonardo definitely entered the service of Louis XII.,
established himself at Milan, and went no more to Florence, except for
small matters of business.

Four years passed uneventfully.

Towards the close of 1511 Giovanni Boltraffio, who was now a master of
repute, was working at a wall-painting in the new Church of San
Maurizio. It belonged to the ancient foundation of the Monastero
Maggiore, and was built on the ruins of the Roman circus. Beside it,
enclosed by a high fence and abutting on the Via Della Vigna, was a
neglected garden, and the once splendid but now deserted and ruined
palace of the Counts of Carmagnola. The nuns of the Monastero Maggiore
had let this house and garden to Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, the old
alchemist, who had lately returned to Milan with Cassandra his niece.
Their cottage by the Porta Vercellina having been destroyed at the time
of the first French invasion, the pair had wandered for nine years in
Greece, the islands of the Archipelago, Asia Minor, and Syria. Strange
tales were told of them: Galeotto had found the philosopher's stone; he
had appropriated vast sums lent him by the Devâtdâr of Syria for
experiments, and had fled for his life. Monna Cassandra, by the help of
the devil, had found treasure on the site of an ancient Phoenician
temple; she had bewitched, drugged, and plundered a wealthy merchant at
Constantinople; at any rate the pair had left Milan beggars, and had
returned rich--that much was certain. Pupil of Demetrius Chalcondylas,
and also of Sidonia the witch, Cassandra appeared now a devout daughter
of the Church. She observed all fasts and ceremonies, she attended the
holy offices, and by her charities had acquired the favour not only of
the sisters of the Monastero Maggiore, but that of the archbishop
himself. Evil tongues, however, declared that her religion was a
pretence, that she was still a pagan, that she and her uncle had only
escaped the Inquisition by flight from Rome, and that sooner or later
she was certain to be burned at the stake. Messer Galeotto still
reverenced Leonardo, and considered him his master in the occult wisdom
of Hermes Trismegistus. The alchemist had collected many rare books in
the course of his travels; for the most part those of Alexandrian
scholars of Ptolemaic times. Leonardo borrowed these sometimes, and
generally sent Giovanni to fetch them, since he was working close to the
alchemist's house. As had happened before, Giovanni fell under the spell
of Cassandra, and his visits became more frequent. At first she spoke to
him guardedly, acting up to her part of repentant sinner, and expressing
a desire to take the veil. Little by little she dismissed her fears, and
became confidential. They recalled their meetings of ten years ago, when
they had both been little more than children--the lonely terrace above
the quiet Cantarana, the walls of the Convent of St. Radegonda;
especially that sultry evening when she had spoken to him of the
Resurrection of the Gods, and had invited him to the Witches' Sabbath.
Now she lived as a recluse; was ill, or pretended to be so; and when she
was not at church she hid herself in a remote secluded dark chamber,
where the windows looked out on the neglected garden, densely shadowed
by cypress trees. The room was furnished like a library or a museum.
Here were the antiquities she had brought from the East; fragments of
statues, dog-headed gods of black syenite from Egypt, mysterious stones
upon which was incised the magic word _Abraxas_, signifying the three
hundred and sixty-five celestial spheres of the Gnostics; precious
Byzantine parchments, which time had rendered hard as ivory; fragments
from Greek manuscripts, hopelessly lost; earthen shards, with cuneiform
Assyrian inscriptions; books of the Persian magi, clasped with iron;
Memphian papyri, transparent and thin as the petals of a flower.

Cassandra told Giovanni of the wonders she had seen; of the desolate
grandeur of marble temples standing on sea-worn cliffs, at their feet
the blue Ionian waves, their columns bedewed with the brine, like the
naked body of the foam-born goddess long ago. She told of her incredible
exertions, dangers, accidents. He asked her what she had sought, why she
had collected these things at the cost of so much toil, and she answered
in the words of Luigi her father:--

'To bring the dead to life.'

And her eyes glowed with the fire that had belonged to Cassandra, the
witch of days gone by.

In appearance she was little changed; she had the same face, untouched
by grief or joy--impassive as the faces of the ancient statues; the same
broad low forehead, straight fine eyebrows, firm unsmiling lips, and
amber eyes. Yet now her face, refined by illness, or perhaps by the
over-insistence of a single thought, had taken an expression calmer and
more austere than it had worn in her girlhood. Her dark hair, twined and
wreathed like Medusa's snakes, still gave the impression of having a
life of its own, still formed a frame for her pale face, and enhanced
the brilliance of her eyes, the scarlet of her lips. The charm of the
girl attracted Giovanni irresistibly as of old, and renewed in his soul
the old feelings of curiosity, compassion, and fear.

In her journey across the land of Hellas she had visited her mother's
native place, the lonely little town of Mistra, near the ruins of
Sparta, among the bare hills where, half a century before, had died
Gemistus Pletho, last teacher of the Hellenic philosophy. Telling
Giovanni of her visit to his grave, she repeated Pletho's prophecy that
after a few years the world would return to a single faith, not
differing from the ancient paganism.

'The prophecy is not fulfilled,' said Giovanni, 'though more than fifty
years have passed. Have you still faith in him, Monna Cassandra?'

'There was not perfect truth in Pletho,' she replied calmly, 'for there
was much he did not know.'

'What?' asked Giovanni; and under the intentness of her glance he felt
his heart sink.

She took a parchment from the shelf, and read to him certain lines from
the _Prometheus_, in which the Titan, having enumerated his gifts to
men, more especially that fire which he had stolen from heaven, and
which would make them equal with the gods, goes on to prophesy the fall
of Zeus.

'Giovanni, have you never heard of the man who, ten centuries ago,
dreamed, like Pletho, of reviving the dead gods--the Emperor Flavius
Claudius Julian?'

'Julian the Apostate?'

'Ay, so they called him.'

'He gave his life in vain for the Olympians.' She hesitated, then
continued in a lower voice: 'If I were to tell you all, Giovanni! But
for to-day I will say only this. Among the Olympians is a god nearer
than all others to his brethren below; a god both bright and dark; fair
as the dawn, yet pitiless as death; who came to earth and gave to
mortals--as Prometheus had done--the forgetting of death and the boon of
fire--new fire--in his own blood, in the intoxicating juice of the vine;
and, my brother, who is there among men who will understand? who will go
boldly forth and say to the world, "The love of him who is crowned with
the vine is like the love of Him who is crowned with thorns (who said,
'I am the true vine'); of Him who, no less than Dionysus, makes the
world drunk with his blood?" Have you understood, Giovanni, of whom I
speak? If not, ask me nothing, for here is a secret which we may not, as
yet, reveal.'

Of late a great audacity of thought had come to Giovanni. He feared
nothing, because he had nothing to lose. He had convinced himself that
neither in the faith of Fra Benedetto, nor in the knowledge of Leonardo,
would he find peace. Cassandra's prophecies gave him a glimpse of a new
idea, so startling as to be terrible. Instead of turning away he
approached it with the courage of despair. Day by day their souls came
closer to each other.

Once he asked her why she hid what she believed to be the truth, why she
even dissembled?

'All things are not for all men,' she answered. 'Martyrdoms, wonders,
and signs are necessary for the crowd. Only those whose faith is
imperfect die for their faith, that they may convince others, and
themselves. But perfect faith is the same thing as perfect knowledge.
Did the truths of geometry discovered by Pythagoras require that he
should die in proof of them? Perfect faith is silent; and its secret is
above profession, for the master said, "Ye know all, but be ye known of
none."'

'What master?' asked Giovanni, thinking of Leonardo.

'Basil, the Egyptian Gnostic,' she replied; and explained that the great
teachers of the early Christian ages, to whom faith and knowledge had
been one, had called themselves Gnostics, or Knowers; and she went on to
repeat to him many of their sayings, often strange and monstrous, like
the visions of the delirious.

He was especially impressed by a legend as to the creation of the world
and of man, put forth by the Alexandrine Ophites, or snake worshippers.

'"Above all the heavens is boundless Darkness, immovable, fairer than
any light; the Unknown Father, the Abyss, the Silence. His only-begotten
daughter, the Wisdom of God, separating from the Father, knew life, and
sorrow, and darkened her splendour. The son of her travail was
Jaldavaoth, the creating God. Falling away from his mother he plunged
yet more deeply into existence, and created the world of the body, a
distorted image of the spiritual world. In it was Man, formed to reflect
the greatness of his creator, and to bear witness to his power. The
elemental spirits, the ministers of Jaldavaoth, brought the senseless
mass of flesh to Jaldavaoth to be endowed with life; but the Wisdom of
God inspired it also with a breath of the divine wisdom, received by her
from the Unknown Father. And then this mean creature, formed of earth
and dust, became greater than Jaldavaoth its creator, and grew into the
shape and the likeness not of him but of the true God, the Unknown
Father. Four-footed Man raised his face from the earth, and Jaldavaoth,
at the sight of the being which had slipped from his power, was filled
with anger and alarm. He formed another creature, the Angel of Darkness,
the serpent-like Satan, the wisdom accursed. And by the help of the
serpent Jaldavaoth formed the three kingdoms of Nature; and set Man
therein, and gave him a law. "Do this; do not that: if thou breakest
the law, thou shalt die." For he hoped by the yoke of the law, and by
the fear of death to recover his power over man. But the Wisdom of God
still protected Man, and sent him a comforter, the Spirit of
Knowledge--snake-like also, but winged like the morning star, the Angel
of the Dawn, him to whom allusion is made in the saying, "Be ye wise as
the serpent." And the Spirit of Knowledge went down to men and said,
"Taste and know, and your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as
gods."'

'Hearken, Giovanni,' concluded Cassandra; 'the men of the crowd, the
children of this world, are the slaves of Jaldavaoth and of the serpent
Satan, living under the fear of death, bound by the yoke of the law. But
the children of light, those who _know_, the chosen of Sophia, the
Wisdom of God, transcend all laws, overstep all bounds, are free as
gods, are furnished with wings, remain pure in the midst of evil, even
as gold glitters in the mire. And the Spirit of Knowledge, the Angel of
the Dawn, leads them through life and death, through evil and through
good, through all the curses and the terrors of the world of Jaldavaoth,
to the great mother, Sophia, the Wisdom of God; and she bringeth them to
the bosom of the great Darkness, which reigns above the heavens, which
is immovable and fairer than any light; to the bosom of the Father of
all things.'

And hearing this legend of the Ophites, Giovanni could not help inwardly
comparing Jaldavaoth to the son of Kronos; the breath of Divine Wisdom
to the fire of Prometheus; the Beneficent Serpent the Angel of the Dawn,
Lucifer, Son of the Morning, to Prometheus the Titan. In all ages and
nations, in the tragedies of Æschylus, in the legend of the Gnostics, in
the history of Julian the Apostate, in the teaching of Pletho the
philosopher, Giovanni found the echoes of the great discord, the same
great struggle, which darkened his own spirit. Ten centuries ago men
were suffering as he suffered now, were contending with the same double
thoughts, were the victims of the same contradictions, the same
temptations. The knowledge that this was so solaced him, yet it deepened
his anguish. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed by all these thoughts as by
drunkenness or delirium. And then it seemed to him that Cassandra only
pretended to be strong and inspired and initiated into the mystery of
truth, while in reality she was no less ignorant, no less astray than he
was himself; and that the two of them were as helpless and lost as they
had been twelve years before; and this new sabbath of half divine, half
satanic lore was even more senseless than the Witches' Sabbath to which
she had once invited him, and which she now despised as childishness.
Giovanni became alarmed and wished to flee, but it was too late;
curiosity drew him like a spell, and he felt he would not leave her till
he knew all to the end; till he had found salvation and had perished
with her.

Now about this time there came to Milan a famous inquisitor and doctor
of theology, Fra Giorgio de Casale.

The Pope, Julius II., alarmed by the spread of sorcery in Lombardy, had
sent him with bulls and powers of committal and of extraordinary
punishments. Monna Cassandra stood in grave peril; and was warned both
by the nuns of the Monastero Maggiore and by the archbishop. She and
Messer Galeotto had already fled from Rome to escape this same Fra
Giorgio; they knew that once fallen into his hands they would find no
escape, and determined to take refuge in France, perhaps in England or
even Scotland.

Two days before their setting forth, Giovanni was with Cassandra in her
lonely room of the Palazzo Carmagnole. The sunshine, veiled by the thick
cypress branches, was scarce brighter than moonlight; the girl seemed
even fairer and calmer than was her wont. Now that parting was at hand,
Giovanni realised how dear she was to him.

'Shall I not see you yet once more?' he asked her. 'Will you not reveal
to me that mystery of which you have spoken?'

Cassandra looked fixedly at him; then drew from a casket a flat
four-cornered stone of transparent green. It was the famous 'Tabula
Smaragdina,' the emerald tablet said to have been found in a cave near
Memphis in the hands of the mummy of a certain priest, who was an
incarnation of Hermes Trismegistus, the Egyptian Horus, the god of
boundaries, the guide of the dead to the underworld. It was engraved
both in Coptic and in Greek with these verses.

     [Greek: Ourano anô ourano katô
     Astera anô astera katô
     Pan anô pan touto katô
     Tauta labe kai eutyche.]

     (Heaven above, heaven below;
     Stars above, stars below;
     All that is over, under shall show.
     Happy thou who the riddle readest.)

'Come to me this night,' she said gravely and softly, 'and I will tell
you all that I know myself--do you hear?--all, to the very end. And now
before we part, let us drink together the cup of friendship.'

She fetched a small pottery vessel, sealed with wax as in the far East,
poured out wine, thick as oil, golden-ruddy, and with a strange perfume,
into an ancient goblet of chrysolite, with a relief of Dionysus and the
Bacchantes. Going to the window she raised the cup as if about to pour a
libation; the rosy wine, like warm blood, gave life to the figures of
the naked Mænads on the transparent cup.

'There was a time, Giovanni,' she said, 'when I fancied that your Master
Leonardo possessed the great secret, for his face is as that of an
Olympian god, blended with a Titan. But now I see he aims, but he does
not attain; seeks and finds not; knows, but understands not. _He is the
precursor of him who shall come after him, who is greater than he._ Let
us drink together, O my brother, this farewell goblet to the Unknown
whom we both invoke; to the supreme Reconciler.'

Devoutly, as if performing a religious rite, she drank half the cup and
handed it to Giovanni.

'Fear not!' she said, 'this is no poisoned philtre; this wine is from
grapes of Nazareth; 'tis the purest blood of _Dionysus, the Galilæan_!'

When he had drunk, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and whispered
rapidly and solemnly--

'If you would know all, Come! Come, and I will tell you the secret,
which never yet have I uttered to any one. I will reveal the extreme
joy, the extreme sorrow which shall unite us for ever, as brother and
sister, as bridegroom and bride.'

In the sun's rays, veiled by the thick cypresses, and pale as moonlight,
just as once before by the Cantarana water in the whiteness of the
summer lightning, she put her face close to his, her face white as
marble, framed by its Medusa locks, with its scarlet lips, its amber
eyes.

The chill of a familiar terror froze Giovanni's heart, and he said to
himself:--

'_La Diavolessa bianca!_'

That night at the appointed hour Giovanni stood at the door of the
Palazzo Carmagnole. He knocked long, but none opened to him. At last he
went to the Monastero Maggiore, and there he learned the terrible news.
Fra Giorgio da Casale had appeared suddenly, and had given orders at
once to apprehend Galeotto Sacrobosco and his niece Cassandra on a
charge of black magic.

Messer Galeotto had succeeded in escaping, but Cassandra was already in
the clutch of the Holy Inquisition.


II

Next day Boltraffio did not leave his bed. He was indisposed, and his
head ached; he was half unconscious, and cared for nothing.

At nightfall there was an unwonted pealing of bells, and through his
room spread a faint but repulsive odour. His headache increased, he felt
sick, and he went out into the air. The day was warm and damp, a day of
_scirocco_, frequent at Milan in the early autumn. There was no rain,
but the roofs and the trees dripped, and the brick pavement was shining
and slippery. Yet in the open air Giovanni found the noisome odour still
stronger than in his room.

The streets were thronged, the people all coming from the Piazza del
Broletto; as Giovanni looked in their faces he fancied them in the same
state of semi-unconsciousness as himself. Presently chance words from a
passer-by explained to him the noisome odour which pursued him; it was
the appalling stench of burned human bodies. They were burning witches,
sorceresses. Perhaps--O God!--burning Cassandra!

He began to run, not knowing whither, jostling people, staggering like a
drunken man, trembling with ague, feeling the foul savour in the greasy
and yellow mist, feeling it follow him, catch him by the throat, stifle
his lungs, bind his temples with a dull and gnawing pain.

He never remembered how he made his way to the Monastery of San
Francisco and to Fra Benedetto's cell. It was empty, for Benedetto was
at Bergamo. Giovanni shut the door, lit a candle, and sank exhausted on
the pallet-bed.

In this familiar and peaceful retreat all breathed of holiness and
peace. The stench had dissipated, he smelt only incense, fast-day
olives, old books, and the varnish for Benedetto's simple paintings. On
the wall hung a crucifix and an ancient gift of Giovanni's, a withered
garland of flowers gathered on the heights of Fiesole in those days when
he sat at the feet of Savonarola.

He raised his eyes to the Crucified. The Saviour still extended his
nailed hand as if calling the world to his embrace: 'Come unto me all
ye that are weary and heavy-laden.' Was not that the one, the perfect
truth?

But the prayer died on his lips. Not though eternal damnation threatened
him could he cease to know what he did know, could he drive out or
reconcile the two truths which were contending in him. In his old calm
despair he turned away from the Crucified, and at the same moment he
fancied that the noisome mist, the terrible stench of the burning had
reached him even here in this last refuge.

And there rose before him a vision which he had seen often of late, so
distinct he scarce knew if it were reality or dream; the vision of
Cassandra in the glow of the scarlet flame, among the instruments of
torture and stains of blood; she white, virginal, firm as the marble of
a statue, preserved by the power of the Beneficent Serpent, the
Reconciler, the Deliverer, insensible to the iron and the flame and the
gaze of her tormentors.

Coming to himself, he knew by the dying candle, by the strokes of the
convent clock, that hours had passed in oblivion, and that it was now
past midnight. It was very still, and the air was hot. Through the
window were seen pale blue flashes of lightning, as on that memorable
night long ago by the Cantarana. The dull roar of distant thunder seemed
to come from below the earth. His head ached, his mouth was parched,
thirst tortured him; he remembered having seen a pitcher of water in the
corner. He rose, dragging himself along by the wall, found it, drank,
and was returning to his couch when he became conscious that some one
was with him in the cell. Seated on the couch was a figure in the long
dark habit of a monk, a hood covering the face. He was astonished, for
the door was locked, yet he felt relieved rather than alarmed. His head
ceased to ache, his senses were quickened. He approached the seated
figure. It rose, and the cowl fell back; Giovanni saw the face, marble
white, passionless, the lips red as blood, the amber eyes, the halo of
black hair like Medusa's snakes.

Solemnly, slowly, as if for an incantation, Cassandra rose, her arms
extended. The black robe fell back. He saw the glowing warmth and beauty
of her neck. Was she alive? My God! was she alive?

For the last time Giovanni murmured, 'The white sorceress!' It seemed as
if the veil of life were rent before him. He was face to face with the
mystery of the supreme union. She knelt before him.... She folded him in
her arms.... Ah! the inexpressible sweetness! the inexpressible fear!...
Delirium! delirium!


III

Zoroastro da Peretola had not died, neither had he recovered from his
fall. He was a cripple, and able to mutter only fragmentary words
intelligible to none but the Master. Sometimes he roamed about the
house, clattering on his crutches; sometimes he listened to conversation
as if trying to understand it; or he would sit in a corner winding
strips of linen, or planing wooden staves, whittling sticks or carving
tops, for his workman's hands had not lost their need of movement, nor
entirely their skill. But often he would rock himself for hours
together, a smile on his face, and his arms waving as if they were
wings, while he crooned an unending ditty:--

     'Cucurlu! Curlu!
      Cranes and eagles
      Up they flew!
      Up they flew,
      Cranes and eagles,--
      Cucurlu!'

And then, looking at the Master, he would weep--a sight too painful for
Leonardo to bear. He never deserted the broken creature, but cared for
him, gave him money, and whenever possible kept him in his house. Years
passed, and the cripple remained a living reproof, a mockery of his
life-long effort, his fashioning of wings for men.

Scarce less distressed was Leonardo by the attitude of Cesare da Sesto,
that one of his pupils who was perhaps nearest to his heart. Like Astro
and Giovanni he was mentally crippled, anxious to stand alone, but
overwhelmed by the Master's influence, and reduced to nullity. Not
content to be an imitator, not strong enough to be independent, he wore
himself out with fruitless fretting and impotent rage, incompetent
either to save himself or to perish. He was one of those upon whom
Leonardo was accused of having cast the Evil Eye.

Cesare was said to be in secret correspondence with Raphael, who was
working at the frescoes of the Vatican Stanze, and Leonardo sometimes
thought treachery was meditated. But worse than the treachery of enemies
was the so-called fidelity of friends. Under the name of the _Accademia
di Leonardo_, a school of young painters had grown up in Milan, a few of
them his pupils, the greater number newcomers, who clung to him like
parasites, and persuaded themselves and others that they were following
in his steps. He stood aloof, and watched them. At times disgust
overwhelmed him when he saw how all that he had reverenced as great and
sacred had become the property of the common herd; how the Lord's face
in the _Cenacolo_ was copied till it was mere ecclesiastical
commonplace; how the smile of La Gioconda was imitated, exaggerated,
vulgarised, till it became stupid, if not sensual.

One winter's night Leonardo was sitting alone, listening to the shriek
and roar of the storm; it was just such a night as that in which he had
heard of Monna Lisa's death; he was thinking of her, and thinking of
Death itself, of the last dread solitude in the bosom of ancient Chaos,
of the infinite weariness of the world. There was a knock; he rose and
opened the door. A young man entered, a lad of nineteen, with bright
eyes, fresh cheeks reddened by the cold, melting snowflakes in his
chestnut curls.

'Oh Messer Leonardo!' he exclaimed, 'do you not know me?'

Leonardo looked and recognised his little friend, the child with whom he
had roamed the woods of Vaprio, Francesco Melzi. He embraced him with
fatherly tenderness. The youth related how, after the French invasion of
1500, his father had taken his family to Bologna, and there had fallen
sick of a malady which had lasted for long years. Now he was dead, and
the son had hastened to Leonardo, remembering his promise.

'But what promise?' asked the painter, bewildered.

'Ah! you have forgotten! And I, poor simpleton, have been counting on
it! Nay, then! do you not remember? You were carrying me in the mine at
the foot of Monte Campione, and you told me how you were to serve Cæsar
Borgia in Romagna. And I wept, and prayed you to take me with you, and
you promised that after ten years' time, when I should be grown----'

'Ay! I recall it!' said Leonardo warmly.

'You see? Ah, Messer Leonardo, I know you have no need of me. But I will
be no burden to you, I will not disturb you. Pr'ythee drive me not
hence! If you drive me hence, I will not go! I will never leave you
again!' cried the lad.

'My dear, dear boy!' said the Master, and his voice shook.

He embraced him again, and Francesco clung to his breast as he had done
years ago when Leonardo had carried him into the subterranean darkness
of the forgotten pit.


IV

Since Leonardo had left Florence in 1507, he had been enrolled as court
painter in the service of the French King, Louis XII. He had no fixed
salary, but relied on the royal bounty. The treasurers frequently forgot
him altogether, nor was he able to call opportune attention to himself
by his productions, for as years increased upon him he worked less and
less. He was consequently, as of old, in continual straits and
entanglements; he borrowed wherever he could, and contracted new debts
before he had paid off the old. He wrote the same timid, clumsy
petitions to the French Viceroy and Treasurer as formerly to the
officials of Ludovico Il Moro.

'Not wishing to fatigue your Excellency's generosity, I permit myself to
request that I may receive a regular salary. More than once have I
addressed your lordship on this subject, but hitherto have been
vouchsafed no reply.'

In the ante-chambers of his patrons he quietly waited his turn among
other suppliants, though with advancing years he increasingly knew--

     'How salt another's bread is, and the toil
      Of going up and down another's stairs.'

The service of princes was as bitter to him as had been the service of
the republic; everywhere and always he felt himself a stranger. Raphael
had become rich and splendid as a Roman patrician; Michelangelo was
hoarding money against the evil days; Leonardo was still a homeless
wanderer, not knowing where he could lay his head when he came to die.

Wars, victories, the defeat of his friends, changes in governments and
laws, the enslaving of peoples, the chasing forth of tyrants--all that
to the generality seems important, was to him as a whirl of dust to a
wayfarer on a high road. With equal indifference he fortified the Castle
of Milan for the French king against the Lombards, as once he had
fortified it for the Duke of Lombardy against the French.

Trivulzio, the ambitious general, was intriguing against Massimiliano,
and Leonardo saw the fate of the father, Il Moro, threatening Il
Moretto. Wearied by these monotonous and arbitrary political changes,
sickened by the manufacture of triumphal arches and the mending of the
wings of the trumpery angels, he determined to leave Milan and pass into
the service of the Medici.

In Rome, however--for Giovanni de Medici, having become pope, with the
style of Leo X., had nominated his brother Giuliano as Gonfaloniere of
the Holy Church. He had already gone to Rome, and it was arranged that
Leonardo should join him in the autumn. He was to be both painter and
'alchemist' in Giuliano's service.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morrow of the day when the hundred and thirty-nine witches had
been burned in the Piazza del Broletto, the monks of San Francesco had
found Giovanni Boltraffio stretched senseless on the floor of Fra
Benedetto's cell. Clearly he was suffering, as he had suffered fifteen
years earlier, after having heard the tale of Savonarola's martyrdom. On
this second occasion his recovery was rapid; nevertheless there were
times when his unspeculative eye, his strangely impassive face inspired
Leonardo with greater fear than during his long illness of years ago.

However that might be, on the 23rd of September 1513 Leonardo rode out
of Milan for Rome to join his new patron Giuliano, with Francesco Melzi,
Salaino, Cesare, Astro, and Giovanni.




BOOK XVI

LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, AND RAPHAEL--1513-1515


     _La pazienza fa contra alle ingiurie non altrimenti che si faccino
     i panni contra del freddo; imperò che, se ti multiplicherai di
     panni secondo la multiplicazione del freddo, esso freddo nocere non
     ti potrà; similmente alle grandi ingiurie cresci la pazienza, essa
     ingiurie offendere non ti potranno la tua mente._--LEONARDO DA
     VINCI.

     (Patience acts against insults as garments act against cold. With
     the doubling of your misfortunes, put on a double cloak of
     endurance.)


I

Pope Leo X., true to the traditions of the house of the Medici, posed as
patron of art and learning. When he heard of his own election he said to
his brother:--

'Let us _enjoy_ the papal power, since God has conceded it to us!'

And Fra Mariano, his favourite jester added:--

'Seek your own pleasure, Holy Father! All else is folly.'

The pope surrounded himself with poets, musicians, painters, and
scholars. A golden age had dawned for imitative men of letters, who had
one unassailable article of faith, the perfection of Cicero's prose and
of Virgil's poetry.

The shepherds of Christ's flock avoided the mention of His name, because
it was a word unknown to Cicero's _Orations_. They called nuns, vestals;
the Holy Ghost, the Inspiration of the Supreme Jove; and they requested
the Pope to include Plato in the roll of saints. Bembo, a future
cardinal, owned that he did not read the Epistles of Paul (he called
them _Epistolaccie_) lest he should spoil his style. When Francis I.
asked for the Laocoön, Leo X. replied that he would sooner give him the
head of Peter the Apostle.

The pope loved his scholars and artists, his poets and pedants; but
above all he loved his jesters. He solemnly crowned Cuerno, the
celebrated rhymster and drunkard, and was no less liberal to him than to
Raphael. He spent huge sums on feasts, though he ate sparingly himself,
being afflicted with a weak digestion, and an incurable purulent
disease; and his soul was no less sick than his body, for he suffered
from continual _ennui_.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Leonardo first presented himself at the Vatican he was told that
his only hope of obtaining audience of His Holiness was to declare
himself a buffoon. He did not follow this good advice, and failed of
admission time and again. Of late he had experienced strange forebodings
which he tried to put from him as senseless and absurd. It was not
anxiety as to his affairs which oppressed him; nor was it his failure to
gain adequate recognition from Leo X. or Giuliano de' Medici. He had
been too long used to annoyances of this kind. But his vague disquiet,
his ominous apprehension, continually increased; till one radiant autumn
evening, as he was returning from the Vatican, his heart sank, under the
pressure of imminent catastrophe.

He was living in the same house where he had lived during his former
visit to Rome; one of the small detached buildings behind St. Peter's,
which had belonged to the Papal Mint. It was old and gloomy, and having
been unoccupied for several years was exceedingly damp. He entered a
large vaulted apartment with cracks on walls and ceiling, and windows
overshadowed by the wall of the adjoining house.

In the corner sat Astro the imbecile, his feet drawn up under him, his
hands busy whittling sticks, while he purred his monotonous lullaby--

     Cucurlu, curlu!
     Eagles and cranes
     Up they flew!

Leonardo's anxiety perceptibly increased.

'What's the matter, Astro?' he asked kindly, laying his hand on the
cripple's head.

'Nothing,' said Astro, with a curious look of intelligence, 'nothing
with me. It's Giovanni. But it's all the better for him. He has flown
away.'

'Giovanni? Where is Giovanni?' cried Leonardo, suddenly realising that
his forebodings had centred on this unhappy disciple. 'Astro! I implore
you, my friend, try to remember! Where is Giovanni? I must see him at
once. Where is he? What has happened?'

'Don't you understand?' muttered Astro, vainly seeking for the right
words. 'He is up there--he has escaped--flown away. You don't
understand? I will show you then. It is better for him to have flown
away.'

He rolled himself to his feet and shuffled along on his crutches,
leading his master up the creaking stair to the attic, where the sun
burned hot on the tiled roof, and the sunset rays shone upon the
dormer-window. As they entered, startled pigeons fluttered their wings
noisily and flew away.

'There he is,' said Astro, simply, and pointed to a dark corner.
Leonardo saw the figure of Giovanni, apparently standing, very erect and
quite motionless, his widely opened eyes staring fixedly straight before
him. 'Giovanni!' cried Leonardo, with shaking voice, a cold sweat
bursting out on his forehead.

He drew nearer; saw that the face was strangely distorted; touched the
nerveless hand, and felt it cold. The body oscillated heavily to and
fro. Giovanni had hanged himself from an iron hook lately inserted for
mechanical purposes into the cross beam; and by means of a strong silken
cord, one of the attachments of the flying machine.

Astro had fallen back into his torpor, and was looking serenely out of
the window. The house stood high, and commanded a view of the tiled
roofs, the domes and towers of Rome, of the Campagna spreading like a
sea, traversed by long lines of ruined aqueducts, of the hills of Albano
and Frascati, of the clear sky where the swallows swooped and circled.
Astro watched them, and smiled, and waved his arms joyously as if
imitating their flight.

     Cucurlu!
     Up they flew!
     Curlu!

he crooned contentedly.

Leonardo stood, still as a stone, between his two disciples, the
imbecile and the suicide.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few days later he found Giovanni's diary and read it attentively.

'The white witch!' always and everywhere! May she be accursed. The last
mystery: two shall be in one. Christ and Antichrist are one. The heaven
above--the heaven below!

'No! No! This shall not, must not be! Rather, death!'

'Into thy hands I commit my spirit, O God! Be thou my Judge!'

There came an abrupt end to the entries. Leonardo understood that these
words had been penned on the day of the writer's suicide.


II

After the death of Giovanni, Leonardo wearied of his life in Rome.
Uncertainty, waiting, forced inaction enervated him. His usual
occupations, his books, machines, experiments, paintings failed in
interest.

Leo X. had not yet found time to receive him, nor to give him the order
for a painting. However, he set the artist to the mechanical task of
perfecting the coining mill for the Papal Mint. Leonardo despised no
work, however humble; he did what was required, and devised new
machinery, by means of which the coins, uneven and jagged before, were
cut perfectly true. The artist was at this time overwhelmed with debts,
and the greater part of his salary went in the payment of the interest
on his borrowings. But for the generosity of Francesco Melzi, who had
inherited property from his father, he would have been in extreme want.

In the summer of 1514 he was attacked by the malaria. It was his first
serious illness. He refused doctors and medicines, but allowed Francesco
to wait upon him. Every day he became more attached to this lad, and
felt that God had sent him a guardian angel, a prop for his old age. Men
seemed to be forgetting him, but from time to time he made attempts to
remind them of his existence. From his sick-bed he wrote to Giuliano de'
Medici with striving after the fashionable compliments which did not
come easily to his lips or pen.


III

After much rain the end of November brought sunny days, never so
beautiful as in Rome, where the decaying splendour of autumn harmonises
well with the ruined glories of the Eternal City.

One morning Leonardo went with Francesco to see the Sistine Chapel and
the frescoes of Michelangelo; a visit long purposed, but deferred as if
from a secret sense of fear.

The chapel is a long, narrow, very lofty building, with plain walls and
Gothic windows. Buonarroti had covered the ceiling and arches with
biblical scenes. Leonardo looked, and staggered, as if faint; whatever
his secret expectation, he had never thought to behold such potency of
art.

In face of the colossal figures, sublime as the visions of delirium--the
God of Sabaoth dividing light from darkness in the bosom of Chaos,
blessing the waters and plants, creating Adam from the earth, and Eve
from Adam's rib--in face of the representations of the Fall, the
Redemption and all the incidents of Scripture history; in face of the
beautiful nude youths, spirits of the elements accompanying the tragedy
of the Universe, the conflict of God and Man, with eternal dancing and
song; prophets and sibyls, terrible giants that seemed weighed down with
more than human wisdom and with more than human woe; the ancestors of
the Messiah, a long file of obscure patriarchs passing on from one to
the other the purposeless burden of life, awaiting in darkness the
coming of the unknown Redeemer;--in face of these stupendous creations
of his rival Leonardo did not measure, nor compare nor judge; he felt
himself and his work annihilated.

He enumerated his own productions; the _Cenacolo_, which was perishing,
the Colossus, which had been destroyed, the 'Battle of Anghiari,' and an
endless number of other unfinished paintings; a succession of vain
endeavours, ridiculous failures, inglorious defeats. He had spent his
life in beginning, intending, making ready; he had achieved nothing. Why
deceive himself? It was too late now; he would never accomplish
anything. His life had been expended in incredible labour; yet now at
its close he felt like the slothful servant in the parable who had
buried his talent in the earth.

Yet he was conscious that he had aimed at something higher than this
other man; to Michelangelo all was turmoil, chaos; Leonardo had seen,
and had tried to show, the eternal harmony. He remembered Monna Lisa's
parable of the mighty wind, and of the still small voice where the Lord
was; he felt that she had discerned a truth, that sooner or later the
human mind would return to the path he had shown, the path from discord
to harmony, from division to unity, from storm to quietness. The
consciousness of how entirely right he had been in theory made still
more painful to him, the consciousness of impotence in action.

They left the chapel in silence. Francesco ventured no questions; but he
fancied that the Master had suddenly aged, had become feeble and broken.
Years had apparently passed since they had entered the chapel.

Crossing the Piazza of St. Peter's, they went by the Borgo Nuovo towards
the bridge of St. Angelo. Leonardo was thinking of another rival whom he
had perhaps no less reason to fear, Raphael Sanzio. He had seen the
young painter's newly finished frescoes in the Stanze of the Vatican,
and had felt unable to decide whether the greatness of the execution
were not equalled by the poverty of the conception, the perfection of
eye and hand by the servile flattery of the princes of this world.
Julius II. had dreamed of expelling the French from Italy; therefore
Raphael had shown him watching the expulsion of Heliogabalus from the
profaned temple of the most high God. Leo X. posed as a great orator;
therefore Raphael celebrated him in the person of Leo the Great, warning
Attila to retreat from Rome. He had been taken prisoner by the French
and had escaped; Raphael represented this by the miraculous deliverance
of St. Peter. Thus he degraded his art into the nauseous incense of a
courtier's flattery.

This stranger from Urbino, this dreamy youth with the face of a sinless
angel, had managed his mundane affairs to the best advantage. He painted
the stables of Chigi the banker; made designs for the table-service of
gold which, after the entertaining of the Holy Father, the banker threw
into the Tiber, that it might never be used by any one less illustrious.
The 'fortunate boy,' as Francia called the young painter, acquired fame
and wealth as if by play. He disarmed his worst enemies by kindliness;
he was what he appeared to be, the friend of all. In everything he
succeeded. The gifts of Fortune dropped unsought into his hands. He
replaced Bramante on the architectural conclave for the building of the
new cathedral; Cardinal Bibbiena offered him his niece in marriage; it
was said he had been promised a cardinal's hat. He built a dainty
mansion in the Borgo, and furnished it with regal splendour. His
ante-chamber was crowded with official personages, and with envoys from
abroad, who either wanted their portraits painted, or desired to take
home some specimen of the great man's art. He was overwhelmed with
patrons and refused new ones. They insisted. Time was wanting to execute
his innumerable orders, and many of his pictures were chiefly painted by
his pupils. His studio became a factory where such skilful workmen as
Giulio Romano turned canvas and paint into ready-money with amazing
facility. He himself apparently desisted from the search after
perfection, and was content with popularity. He served the people, and
they accepted him enthusiastically as their chosen, their beloved, bone
of their bone, flesh of their flesh, the incarnation of their own
spirit.

The worst of it was, that in his fall he was still great; a seduction
not only to the vulgar herd, but also to the elect. He seemed unspoiled
by the glittering baubles showered on him by Fortune. He remained
innocent and pure. The _fortunato garzone_ had no consciousness of the
danger for himself and for art. For in this superficial harmony, in this
pseudo-reconciliation of discordant elements, there was greater danger
for the future than in the chaos and contradictions and wars introduced
by Michelangelo. Leonardo could see nothing beyond the work of these two
painters; after them, all seemed abysmal and void. He felt how much both
owed to himself. From him they had had their science of light and shade,
their anatomy, their perspective, their knowledge of Nature and of man.
Yes, they had grown out of him; and now the two of them, they had
destroyed him! Leonardo walked silently beside his young companion, his
eyes downcast, his head bent, his face intensely sorrowful and _old_: he
seemed in a trance.

As they approached the bridge, they had to draw aside to give room to a
cavalcade--some great man, a cardinal, perhaps, or an ambassador,
escorted by sixteen horsemen richly attired. The personage proved a
young man, sumptuously clad, riding a grey Arab with gilded and jewelled
trappings. His face seemed familiar; and suddenly Leonardo remembered
the pale shy youth in the girlish frock, daubed with paint and worn into
holes at the elbow, who eight years before had said, 'Michelangelo is
not worthy to tie the latchet of your shoe!'

Now this boy was the rival both of Leonardo and Michelangelo, and was
called 'the God of Painting'!

His face, though still boyish, innocent, and unseared by emotion, was
somewhat less of a seraph's. He was a man of the great world now; riding
from his villa in the Borgo to an interview with the pope, he was
accompanied by a troop of pupils, admirers, and friends. Indeed he never
went out with an escort of less than fifteen. His every ride seemed a
triumphal procession.

He recognised Leonardo; flushed slightly, and with quick, even
exaggerated respect, doffed his cap and bowed. His younger pupils looked
wonderingly at the old man to whom the 'Divine One' showed so much
respect; the quiet shabby old man, hugging the wall to let the cavalcade
dash by.

Leonardo's attention was caught by the man riding at Raphael's side,
apparently the most favoured of his pupils. It was Cesare da Sesto.
Leonardo gazed in amazement, scarce able to believe his eyes. Now he
understood Cesare's long absence, Francesco's clumsy explanation. The
last of his disciples, he whom he had trusted to follow in his footsteps
and carry on his method, had deserted and betrayed him. Cesare braved
his gaze without flinching; nay, it was Leonardo whose eyes fell in
confusion, as if guilty before the other of some unintended crime.

The cavalcade passed on, and the old man, leaning upon Francesco, went
his way. They crossed Hadrian's bridge, and went by the Via dei Coronari
to the Piazza Navona, where was the bird fair. Leonardo bought magpies,
finches, thrushes, pigeons, a falcon, and a young wild swan. He spent
all the money he had with him, and borrowed also of Francesco. Slung
from head to foot with cages, the quaint pair attracted general
attention. The passers-by stared curiously, the little boys ran after
them. They walked past the Pantheon and Trajan's Forum, crossed the
Esquiline, and left the town by the Porta Maggiore, following the
ancient Roman road called the Via Labicana. Presently they turned into a
narrow footpath leading into the solitude of the wild country.

Before them spread the boundless, the silent, the monotonous Campagna;
through the arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, low hills were seen,
uniform grey-green, like sea waves in the light of evening; here and
there was a solitary tower, the deserted nest of robber knights; misty
blue mountains surrounded the great plain, like the tiers of a colossal
amphitheatre.

Over the city brooded the great peace of autumn twilight. The last rays
of the sun, streaming from between heavy clouds, lay across the
landscape in broad zones of brilliance, and shone on a herd of white
cattle, which scarce turned their heads at the sound of footsteps. The
chirp of the grasshopper, the rustle of the breeze in the stalks of the
withered summer flowers, the dull sound of the distant bells, but
enforced the stillness; it seemed that here in this immense plain, so
desolate so solemn, had already been fulfilled the prophecy of the angel
who swore by him that liveth for ever and ever, there should be time no
longer. They chose a convenient hillock, and relieved themselves of the
cages; then Leonardo set the birds free.

As they flew away, with the joyous flutter and rustle of their wings, he
followed them with loving eyes. He smiled, he forgot his griefs, and was
happy as in his childhood. Only the falcon and the swan were still in
their cages; their emancipation was reserved for a later hour.

Now he and Francesco ate a frugal supper of bread, chestnuts, dried
cherries, cheese, a flask of the golden Orvieto wine. They were still
silent. Francesco glanced at his master from time to time. Leonardo's
hair was silvered and thin, his forehead lined, his deep-set eyes were
still luminous and thoughtful, but weary. Age had set its effacing
finger on the beauty of every feature. It was the face of an enfeebled,
patient Titan.

Francesco pitied him, as he pitied all persons who were lonely and
sorrowful. The Master, whom of all men he admired and loved, whom he set
above the Michelangelo and the Raphael of the people's applause, was but
a lonely and poor and despised old man, sitting on the grass among empty
bird-cages, cutting his cheese with an old broken clasp-knife, chewing
his bread with an effort because his jaws were weakened by age, his
appetite lost by recent illness. A lump rose in Francesco's throat, and
he would gladly have knelt and assured his friend of his devotion, but
he did not do so--he lacked the courage. At all times, even to those who
loved him the best, Leonardo showed something alien and unapproachable.

The modest supper ended, Leonardo rose, let loose the hawk, then opened
the last and largest cage, that one containing the wild swan. The great
white bird came out noisily, stood dazzled for a minute flapping its
wings, then flew straight towards the sun. Leonardo watched it with eyes
full of unspoken grief. It was grief for the idle dream of his whole
life, for the human wings, for the 'Great Bird' of which he had written
in his diary: 'Man shall fly like a mighty swan.'


IV

At last the Pope, yielding to the persuasions of his brother Giuliano,
ordered a small picture from Leonardo. As usual he hesitated, put off
beginning from day to day, spent his time in preliminary attempts, in
perfecting his paints, in the invention of a new varnish.

His Holiness exclaimed in mock despair--

'Alack! this dull fellow will never perform anything; he studies the end
before he has mastered the beginning.'

The saying was repeated by the courtiers, and all over the town, and it
sealed the fate of the painter. Leo, the supreme judge in matters of
art, had pronounced sentence. Hence-forward Raphael, Buonarroti, Bembo
the pedant, and Baraballo the buffoon, need fear no rivalry; the pope
had jested, and the painter's reputation was crushed. The world forgot
him, as it forgets the dead. When some one repeated Leo's witticism for
his entertainment, he smiled indifferently, as if mockery were no worse
than he had expected. That night however, he wrote in his diary:--

'Patience is to the injured what clothes are to the frozen. With keener
cold, augment your clothing and it shall not hurt you; with the increase
of humiliation, double your cloak of patience.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Louis XII., King of France, died in 1515. Having no son, his crown
passed to his nearest relative, Francis of Valois, Duke of Angoulême,
who assumed the title of Francis I.

The young king at once took the field for the reconquest of Lombardy. He
crossed the Alps, appeared suddenly in Italy, gained a victory at
Marignano, deposed Il Moretto, and entered Milan in triumph. About the
same time Giuliano de' Medici left Rome for Savoy, and Leonardo, out of
favour with the Pope, determined to try his fortune with the new
sovereign. In the autumn he went to Pavia to the court of Francis. Here
the conquered were celebrating the conquest and the glory of the
conqueror, and Leonardo was at once invited to arrange the festival, his
reputation as mechanician in the time of Il Moro being remembered. He
agreed; and amongst other things constructed a lion which ran
automatically across the hall, stood rampant before the king, and opened
his breast, from which fell a shower of the white _fleurs de lys_. This
toy made Leonardo more famous than all his great works, inventions, and
discoveries. Francis was anxious to see Italian scholars and artists at
his court, but the pope refused to spare either Michelangelo or Raphael,
so Leonardo was offered a salary of seven hundred crowns and the little
château of Cloux, in Touraine, near the town of Amboise, between Tours
and Blois.

The artist accepted the offer; and in the sixty-fourth year of his life
began once more his endless wandering; left his country without hope of
return, and settled in the foreign land. He was accompanied by Francesco
Melzi, Zoroastro, and his old servants, Battista de Villanis and the fat
cook Maturina.


V

The road, especially in winter, was difficult; it led through the passes
of Piedmont and Mont Cenis. Early, while it was still dark, they left
Bardonecchia, so as to cross the Alps before nightfall. The mules
clattered their hoofs and jangled their bells as they clambered along a
narrow path skirting the ravine. Spring had descended upon the southern
valleys, but up here winter reigned supreme. The morning was just
breaking; against the faintly tinted sky the Alps shone as if lighted by
internal fire. Leonardo, wishing to see more of the mountains, left his
beast, and with Francesco followed a steeper path at a little distance
from the mule track. Perfect stillness surrounded them, only interrupted
by the distant long-drawn roar of an avalanche. They scrambled higher,
Leonardo leaning on the young man's arm. Francesco remembered the
descent of the iron-mine when the Master had carried him, now it was he
who supported the Master.

'Oh, Messer Leonardo!' he cried suddenly, pointing to the ravine below,
'look at the valley of the Dora! We see it for the last time! We are
almost at the summit, and we shall not see it again! Yon lies all
Lombardy! Italy!' he cried, his eyes wet with conflicting emotions; and
he repeated, 'Lombardy! Italy! For the last time!'

The Master's face remained unmoved. He looked, then turned silently and
pressed onward towards the snows. Forgetting his weariness, he now
walked so quickly that Francesco, who had lingered bidding farewell, was
left behind.

'Nay, Master, whither go you?' he cried. 'There is no path there; you
can ascend no higher. I pray you take heed!'

But Leonardo went on, higher and higher, his step firm and light, as if
his feet were winged.

Against the pale sky the icy masses towered one above the other; a
stupendous wall raised by God between two worlds. They beckoned to
Leonardo and drew him up and onwards. It seemed as if behind them rose
the last secret,--which alone could satisfy his soul. Divided from him
by impassable gulfs, they appeared near, almost within touch. They
looked at him as the dead look at the living; they smiled at him with
the smile of Monna Lisa.

His pale face lighted with the same glow that was shining upon the
mountains and the ice. To him the thoughts of death and of Monna Lisa
were now but one.




BOOK XVII

DEATH--THE WINGED PRECURSOR--1516-1519


     [Greek: Phereis pterugas hôs isôtheis angelois.]

     Inscription on the figure of St. John the Baptist.

     (Thou hast wings, like unto the angels.)

     Spunteranno le ali.--LEONARDO DA VINCI.

     (There shall be wings.)


I

In the heart of France, overhanging the Loire, stood the royal castle of
Amboise. It was built of stone, mellow in colour as the bloom on a
golden plum, which in the pale blues and greens of the fading sunset
gleamed soft as a floating cloud. From the square tower the view
extended over a forest of primeval oak, beyond the broad meadows
flanking the river. In the early summer they were brilliant with poppies
invading the azure lines of the flax. Damp mists hung over the valley,
dark poplars and silvery willows stood in long rows. It resembled the
plain of Lombardy: only the rivers were unlike each other:--the Adda, a
torrent, passionate, storm-tossed, young; the Loire, quiet and slow,
gliding gently over shallows, wearied and very old.

At the foot of the castle clustered the peaked roofs of the town,
slated, black, smooth and shining in the sun, and among them massive
brick chimneys. The streets, narrow, winding, and sunless, belonged to
the Middle Ages. Everywhere, under all cornices and along all
water-pipes, at the angles of the windows, door-frames, lintels, were
small stone figures--jolly friars with flagons, rosaries and wooden
sandals, grave doctors of theology, thrifty citizens with fat purses
hugged to their breasts. The same types were to be seen to-day walking
the city streets; all here was _bourgeois_, prosperous, conventional,
pious, and cold.

When the king came to Amboise for the hunting, the little town changed
its aspect. The streets grew noisy with the baying of dogs, the champing
of horses, the blare of trumpets. Music resounded nightly from the
palace, and its walls shone red with the flaring of torches. The king
gone, silence descended again upon the streets, the palace was like an
abode of the dead; no human step nor voice, save at mass-time on
Sundays, and in the spring evenings when the children sang the old song
of St. Denis under apple-trees which showered rosy petals on their
heads. Night fell, the song was hushed, the children went away, and
again there was silence; such silence as made audible the measured beat
of the clock over the gate of the Horloge Tower, and the cry of the wild
swans far away on the sand-banks of the Loire.

Half a league from the castle, on the road to the Mill of St. Thomas,
was a small château called Cloux, once the residence of the royal
armourer. It was surrounded partly by a high wall, partly by a stream;
in front of the house was a meadow, and a tangle of willows, alders, and
hazel bushes descending to the river. The pink walls of the château were
sharply defined against a background of chestnuts and elms; the windows
and doors ornamented by a dog-tooth moulding in yellow Touraine stone.
It was a small building with a high-pitched slatted roof; a tiny chapel
on the right of the main entrance, and an octagonal tower, in which was
a winding-stair, made it resemble a villa. Rebuilt forty years earlier,
the outside was still new, cheerful, and inviting.

This little château Francis I. assigned as lodging to Leonardo da Vinci.


II

The king received the artist with cordiality, and talked long with him
of his works, past and future, respectfully saluting him as 'father' and
'teacher.'

Leonardo proposed to remodel the castle of Amboise, also to construct an
immense canal, which, converting the barren marshes into a luxuriant
garden, should connect the Loire and the Saône at Macon, and thus open a
new route from Northern Europe to the Mediterranean. In this wise he
thought to benefit a foreign country by those gifts of knowledge which
his fatherland had contemned. The king was pleased by the project, and
at once Leonardo set out to explore the locality, studying the soil of
the Sologne near Romorantin, the tributaries of the Loire and the Cher,
the level of the waters, the topography of the whole district.

One day he visited Loches, a small town to the south of Amboise, where
was the castle in which Ludovico Il Moro, Duke of Lombardy, had been
incarcerated for eight years. The old warden told Leonardo how Il Moro
had once made his escape, by hiding in a cart loaded with straw; not
knowing the roads, however, he had lost his way in the forest, and next
day had been easily recaptured. His last years had been spent in pious
meditation, in prayer, and in the study of Dante's _Commedia_, the only
book he had been allowed to bring out of Italy. At fifty he was a feeble
wrinkled old man; only at rare intervals did his eyes flash, when
rumours reached him of grave political changes. He died in May 1508
after a short illness.

The warden told further how Ludovico had, a few months before his death,
devised a pastime for himself; had begged for brushes and paints and had
decorated the walls and arches of his prison. Leonardo found traces of
his work on the damp and mouldy plaster; involved patterns, stripes and
bars; stars and crosses; red on a white, yellow on a blue ground; in the
middle, the helmeted head of a warrior, probably himself, thus inscribed
in broken French, '_Je porte en prison pour ma devise que je m'arme de
pacience par force de peines que l'on me fait porter._'

Another sentence ran all round the ceiling; it began with huge letters:
'_Celui qui_,' then, space failing, continued in characters small and
cramped, '_net pas contan_.' Reading these piteous inscriptions and
looking at the clumsy drawings, Leonardo remembered how Il Moro had
smiled admiringly on the swans in the moat of the fortress at Milan.
'Perhaps,' thought he, 'the love of beauty which is certainly in his
soul will justify him before the tribunal of the Most High.'

Meditating on the fall of the hapless duke, he remembered also what he
had been told of the fate of another of his patrons, Cæsar Borgia.
Julius II. had treacherously handed Cæsar over to his enemies, who had
carried him to Spain and confined him in the tower of Medina del Campo.
Daring and ingenious, he escaped by means of a rope let down from his
prison window. The jailers had time to sever the rope; he fell and was
seriously hurt, but none the less crawled to the horse provided by an
accomplice, and rode away. He went to Pampeluna to the court of his
brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, where he took service as a
condottiere.

Consternation spread through Italy; the pope trembled; and ten thousand
ducats were set upon the head of the fugitive. On a wintry night of 1507
in an encounter with the French mercenaries under Beaumont, Cæsar was
deserted by his followers, and driven into the dry bed of a river,
where, like an animal at bay, he defended himself with desperate
courage. At last he fell, pierced by twenty wounds. The mercenaries tore
the splendid trappings from the dead warrior, and left him naked where
he had fallen. Later, when the Navarrese came to seek him they knew him
not; only Juanito, his little page, recognised his lord by reason of his
great love for him; and flinging himself on the corpse he embraced it
sobbing. Beautiful was the dead face, upturned to the heavens; and it
seemed he had died even as he had lived, fearless, and without knowledge
of remorse. Madonna Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara, wept ever for her
brother; and when she died they found a hair shirt chafing her tender
body. And Cæsar's youthful widow, Charlotte d'Albret, who in the few
days she had been with him had come to love him as a very Griselda,
having learned of his death, retired to perpetual seclusion in the
castle of La Motte Feuillée, buried in the heart of a forest, where only
winds rustled the dry leaves; nor used to leave her chamber, hung with
perpetual mourning, save to distribute alms, imploring pensioners to
pray for the soul of Cæsar.

And likewise the duke's subjects in Romagna, husbandmen and half-savage
shepherds from the valleys of the Apennine, kept most grateful memory of
him. Long they refused to believe him dead, but waited for him as a god
who should some day return and establish justice in the land, cast down
the tyrants, and defend the poor. Beggars who wandered from village to
village chanted 'the woeful lament for the Duca Valentino,' in which was
the line--

     'Fe' cose estreme, ma senza misura.'

Thus Leonardo mused on these two men, Ludovico and Cesare, whose lives
had been signalled by great events, yet had passed away like shadows,
leaving no trace. And he felt, after all, that his own life, spent in
lofty contemplation, had been at least as fruitful.

Thus thinking, he ceased to murmur at the untowardness of Fate.


III

Like the majority of Leonardo's projects, the making of the Sologne
canal ended in nothing. Timorous counsellors persuaded Francis of the
impracticability of the enterprise. His Majesty grew cold, was
disenchanted, and soon forgot all about it; Leonardo found that the King
of France was no more to be relied upon than Il Moro, Soderini, or Leo
X. He resolved to abandon all hope of enriching mankind by the treasures
of his knowledge, and to retire for the rest of his life into solitude.

In the spring of 1517 he returned to Cloux, sick of fever contracted in
the marshes of the Sologne. He recovered partially, and by the summer
season had strength sufficient to leave his room, and leaning on
Francesco's arm to walk daily as far as to the woods. Here he would sit
in the shadow of the trees, his pupil at his feet. Sometimes Francesco
read to him; sometimes he was content merely to enjoy the sights and
sounds of peaceful nature, gazing at the sky, the leaves, the stones,
the grasses, the golden moss on the huge tree-trunks, as if bidding them
all a last farewell. A sorrowful presentiment, a great pity for the
Master oppressed Francesco's heart. Silently he would touch Leonardo's
hand with his lips; and then feel that trembling hand laid upon his head
in a mournful caress, which deepened his sense of a coming doom.

At this time the Master began a strange picture.

Sheltered by overhanging rocks, in a cool shadow among flowering
grasses, sat a god; he was long-haired and fair as a woman, but languid
and pale; his head crowned with vine-leaves, a spotted skin round his
loins, a thyrsus in his hand. He sat with legs crossed and seemed to be
listening, a hinting smile on his lips, his finger pointed in the
direction whence came the sound, perhaps the song of Mænads, perhaps
the voice of great Pan, that thrilling sound from which all living
things must flee.

In Boltraffio's casket Leonardo had found an amethyst gem, doubtless a
gift from Monna Cassandra, with an engraving of Dionysus. There were
also stray leaves from Euripides' tragedy, the _Bacchæ_, translated from
the Greek and copied out by Giovanni. Many times had Leonardo read these
fragments; amongst them the address of Pentheus to the unknown god.

     'Ha! of thy form thou art not ill-favoured, stranger,
      For woman's tempting!
      No wrestler thou, as show thy flowing locks
      Down thy cheek floating, fraught with all desire;
      And white from heedful tendance is thy skin,
      Smit by no sunshafts, but made wan by shade,
      While thou dost hunt desire with beauty's lure.'

And the chorus of Bacchantes, answering the impious king, extol Dionysus
as 'the most terrible, the most beneficent of gods, who giveth to
mortals the drunkenness of ecstasy.'

On the same page, side by side with the verses from Euripides, Giovanni
had copied verses from the Bible.

Leaving his Bacchus unfinished, Leonardo began another picture, still
more strange, of St. John the Baptist. He worked at it more continuously
and more rapidly than was his wont, as if feeling that his days were
numbered, that his strength was every day declining, and that now or
never he must give expression to that mystery which all his life he had
hidden from men,--even from himself.

Soon the picture was sufficiently advanced for the conception to be
clear. The background was dark, recalling the gloom of that cavern he
had once described to Monna Lisa as the occasion both of curiosity and
of fear. Yet the dimness was not impenetrable, but blent with light,
melting into it as smoke dissolves into sunlight, as distant music
vibrates away into silence. And between the darkness and the perfect
light appeared what at first seemed a phantom, but presently snowed more
distinct than life itself; the face and figure of a naked youth,
womanish, seductively beautiful, recalling the words of Pentheus.

But instead of the leopard's skin he wore a garment of camel's hair;
instead of the thrysus he carried a cross. Smiling, with bent head, as
if listening, all expectation, all curiosity, yet half afraid, he
pointed with one hand to the cross, with the other to himself, and on
his lips the words seemed to tremble:--

'There cometh one after me whose shoe's-latchet I am not worthy to
unloose.'


IV

After a tedious morning spent in touching for the king's evil, Francis
I. felt a desire for something beautiful to divert his mind from the
spectacle of deformity and sickness. He resolved to visit Leonardo's
studio. Accordingly, with a few attendants, he presented himself at
Cloux.

All day the painter had worked at his Baptist. His room was large and
cold, with a brick floor and a high-raftered ceiling. The last slanting
rays of the sun streamed in through the narrow window; and Leonardo was
hastening to finish his day's task before the coming on of twilight.
When he heard voices and footsteps under the window, he said to Melzi:--

'I admit no one. Say I am ill.'

Francesco went out obediently to stop the intruders; but seeing the king
he bowed respectfully and threw open the doors. Leonardo had barely time
to cover the portrait of La Gioconda; this he always did if he expected
strangers.

Francis entered; he was richly but gaudily dressed, with excess of
jewellery and gold trimmings. He was twenty-four years of age, well
built, tall and strong, majestic, and of agreeable manners. Yet there
was something displeasing in his face, something at once sensual and
sly, suggestive of a satyr.

He refused to allow Leonardo to kneel, bowed respectfully himself, and
even embraced the aged painter.

'It is long since we saw each other, Maître Léonard,' he said. 'How is
your health? Do you paint much? Have you done many new pictures? What is
that one?' and he pointed to the curtained Monna Lisa.

'An old portrait, sire, which your Majesty has already seen.'

'Let me see it again. The oftener one sees your pictures the more one
admires them.'

The painter hesitated, but to his annoyance a courtier removed the veil,
and La Gioconda was revealed.

The king, throwing himself on a chair, gazed long without a word.
'Marvellous!' he exclaimed at last. 'That is the fairest woman I ever
saw! Who is she?'

'Madonna Lisa, wife of a Florentine citizen.'

'Did you paint it lately?'

'Ten years ago.'

'Is she still beautiful?'

'Sire, she is dead.'

'Maître Léonard da Vinci,' said Saint Gelais, the court poet, 'worked
five years at yon portrait, and has left it unfinished--so at least he
avers.'

'Unfinished?' cried the king. 'I pray you, what does it lack? She seems
alive--on the point to speak. You are enviable, Maître Léonard! Five
years with that woman! Had she not died, I trow, you would not have
finished it yet.' He laughed, and the resemblance to a satyr increased.
It never occurred to him that Monna Lisa might have been a faithful
wife.

'I see, sir, you have a pretty taste in women,' resumed His Majesty
gaily. 'What shoulders! what a bosom! And one may guess at further
beauties!'

Leonardo remained silent; he grew pale, and his eyes were fixed on the
ground.

'To paint such a likeness,' continued the king, ''tis not enough to be
an artist; you must fathom all the secrets of a woman's heart, that
labyrinth, that tangle, impossible to the devil himself. Yon lady seems
modest; she folds her hands like a nun; but wait a bit; guess what is in
her heart.

     'Souvent femme varie
      Bien fol qui s'y fie!'

Leonard stepped aside, as if to move another picture to the light, and
Saint Gelais whispered scandal to his master concerning Leonardo's
supposed tastes in matters of the heart.

Francis seemed surprised, but shrugged his shoulders indulgently, and
turned to an unfinished cartoon on an easel near the portrait.

'What is this?'

'Bacchus, methinks,' said the poet, pointing to the thyrsus.

'And this?'

'It would seem, Bacchus again,' said Saint Gelais.

'The hair and the breast are like a girl,' said the king; 'it has the
same smile as La Gioconda.'

'A hermaphrodite then,' returned the poet; and repeated Plato's fable of
the original men-women, and the origin of the passion of Love. 'Maître
Léonard would fain restore the primitive type,' he concluded mockingly.

Francis turned to the painter.

'Resolve our doubts, Master,' he said; 'is it Bacchus or a
hermaphrodite?'

'Sire,' said Leonardo, reddening, 'it is St. John the Baptist.'

The king shook his head in bewilderment. This mixture of the sacred and
the profane seemed blasphemous to him, yet rather attractive. Not that
the blasphemy mattered; every one knows that painters have queer
fancies!

'I will buy both pictures,' he said; 'the Bacchus--I mean the Baptist,
and Lisa la Gioconda. What is the price?'

'Your Majesty,' began the painter, embarrassed, 'they are not yet
finished.'

'Tut, man! St. John you can finish at once, and as for Lisa, I will not
have her touched. I want her with me at once, hear you? Tell me the
price, and fear not. I will not try to cheapen her.'

What was Leonardo to say to this frivolous coarse man? How explain what
the portrait was to its painter, and why no price could induce him to
give it up?

'You will not speak? Then I will name a price myself. Three thousand
crowns? How say you? 'Tis not enough? Three and a half?'

'Sire,' implored the artist, his voice shaking; 'I can assure you----'

'Well! well! Maître Léonard, four thousand?'

A murmur of astonishment came from the courtiers. Not Lorenzo de' Medici
himself had ever set such a price upon a picture. Leonardo raised his
eyes in unutterable confusion. He was ready to fall on his knees, to beg
as men beg for their lives, that he might not be robbed of La Gioconda.
Francis took his embarrassment for gratitude, rose to leave, and as a
farewell, again embraced the painter.

'Then that's settled. Four thousand crowns, and the money is ready for
you when you choose. To-morrow I shall send for her. Make yourself easy.
I will hang her with such honour as shall content you. I know her value!
I will preserve her for posterity!'

When the king had gone, Leonardo sank into a chair, looking at his
picture, scarce believing what had happened. Absurd, childish devices
suggested themselves to him: he would hide the portrait; he would refuse
to give it up, though threatened with capital punishment. He would send
Melzi to Italy with it--nay, he would flee himself.

Night fell. Francesco looked several times into the room, but did not
venture to speak. Leonardo still sat before Monna Lisa, his face pale
and rigid as that of a corpse. At midnight he went into Francesco's
room.

'Get up. We must go to the castle. I have to see the king.'

'Master, it is late. You are weary. You have not the strength. Let us
wait for the morrow.'

'No, it must be now. Light me the lantern, and come with me. If you will
not, I will go alone.'

Francesco rose and dressed himself, and they went together to the
castle.


V

The walk took a quarter of an hour; the path was steep and badly paved.
Leonardo moved slowly, leaning on the young man's arm. It was a warm and
starless night, black as the pit. The boughs of the trees swayed
painfully under the gusts of wind. There were lights in the castle
windows, and music made itself heard. The king was supping late with a
small company, and amusing himself by making the young ladies of the
court drink from a silver cup chased with obscene figures. Among these
ladies was his sister Marguerite, called 'The Pearl of Pearls,' and
celebrated for her beauty and erudition. 'The art of pleasing was more
important to her than daily bread,' so said her admirers. At heart,
however, she was indifferent to all except her brother, to whom she was
devotedly attached. His weaknesses seemed to her charms, his vices
strength, his faun's mask the countenance of Apollo. For him she
declared herself ready not merely to scatter the ashes of her body to
the wind, but to sell her immortal soul. Francis abused her affection,
for he made use of her not only in difficulties and dangers, but also in
his amorous adventures.

Leonardo's coming was announced; and Francis, having sent for him to the
supper-room, advanced with his sister to greet him. The cavaliers and
court-ladies watched the artist's entry with glances half respectful,
half contemptuous. The tall old man, with the long hair, the melancholy
face, the nervous manner, seemed to have dropped from an alien sphere,
and sent a chill through the company as if he had come out of a
snowstorm.

'Ah! Maître Léonard!' cried the king with his customary cordiality, 'you
are a rare guest. What shall we offer you? You eat no flesh, I know; but
you will partake of sweetmeats and fruit?'

'I thank your Majesty. Sire, you will excuse me; I am fain to speak a
few words with your Majesty.'

Francis led him aside, and asked if Marguerite might be present.

'I venture to hope that her Highness will intercede for me,' said
Leonardo with a bow. Then he spread out his hands to the sovereign. 'I
come, sire, about my picture, which your Majesty has desired to buy--the
portrait of Monna Lisa.'

'Had we not agreed upon the price?' asked the king.

'I come not about money,' said Leonardo.

'Then what is the matter?'

The painter felt again that to speak of La Gioconda to this indifferent
affable young monarch was impossible. Nevertheless he forced himself to
say:--

'Sire, be merciful to me. Do not take this portrait from me. It shall be
yours; I ask no money for it. Only leave it with me till--my death.'

He paused, looking entreatingly at Marguerite.

The king shrugged his shoulders and frowned.

'Sire!' said the young lady, 'grant the prayer of Maître Léonard. He
deserves it! Be compassionate!'

'What, Madame Marguerite, are you on his side? A plot, I declare, a
plot! a plot!'

Laying her hand on her brother's shoulder, she whispered:--'Do you not
see? He still loves her!'

'But she is dead!'

'Do men never love the dead? You said yourself she lived in her
portrait! Leave him his memorial of her. Do not afflict the old man!'

Francis had a dim recollection of having somewhere heard of eternal
unions of soul, of fidelity, of love that had no grossness in it. He
felt inspired by magnanimity.

'You have a sweet intercessor, Maître Léonard. Be of good cheer. I will
do as you ask; only remember the picture belongs to me, and you shall
receive the money at once.'

Something wistful and plaintive in Leonardo's eyes touched the king, and
he tapped him good-naturedly.

'Fear not! I give you my word! None shall part you from your Lisa!'

Marguerite smiled and her eyes shone. She gave her hand to the painter,
who kissed it fervently and in silence.

The band struck up and dancing began. No one thought any more of the
uncourtly guest, who had come in like a shadow and vanished again into
the starless night.


VI

As soon as the king went away the usual quiet settled upon Amboise.
Leonardo worked on at his St. John, but as the picture advanced it
became more difficult, and his progress was less rapid. Sometimes in the
twilight he would lift the veil from the portrait of Monna Lisa, gaze
long at it, and then at St. John, which stood beside it. Apparently he
was comparing the two pictures. Francesco, watching breathlessly,
fancied at those times that the expression of the two faces, the woman's
and the youth's, mysteriously changed; they stood out from the canvas
like apparitions, and under the fixed gaze of the painter lived with a
supernatural life. St. John grew like Monna Lisa, and like Leonardo
himself, even as a son resembles his parents.

Meantime the Master's health was declining. Melzi begged him to rest and
leave his work, but this he resolutely refused to do. One day, in the
autumn of 1518, he was greatly indisposed. He desisted earlier than
usual from his work, and asked Francesco to help him to his bedroom. The
winding stair was steep, and often of late he had been unable to ascend
it without assistance. So Francesco supported him, and he went up
slowly, halting frequently to recover his breath. Suddenly he staggered
and fell into the young man's arms. Francesco called the old servant
Battista Villanis. Together they lifted the Master and carried him to
his bedroom.

He lay six weeks in bed, refusing all medical advice according to his
wont. His right side was paralysed, his right arm useless. The winter
found him better, but his recovery was slow. He was ambidextrous, but
required both hands at once for his work. With the left he drew, with
the right he painted; and he maintained that it was this division of
labour which had given him superiority over other painters. He feared
now that painting had become impossible to him. In the early days of
December he rose from his bed, and before long came downstairs to his
painting-room, but did not resume his work.

One day at the hour of siesta, Francesco, not finding him in the upper
rooms, cautiously opened the studio door and looked in. Of late Leonardo
had been increasingly disinclined to society; he spent many hours alone,
and would allow no one to enter unbidden. Francesco, peeping now through
the half-opened door, saw him standing before the picture of St. John,
and trying to paint with his disabled hand. His face was distorted by
the anguish of effort, the corners of his mouth drooped, the brows were
contracted, and the strands of grey hair, falling over his forehead,
were bathed in sweat. His fingers would not obey him, and the brush
shook in the hands of the great Master as in the hand of a clumsy
beginner. With bated breath Francesco watched this last struggle between
the living spirit and the dying body.


VII

That year the winter was very severe. Drifting ice broke the bridges of
the Loire, people were frozen on the roads, wolves came into the suburbs
of the town, and prowled even under the windows of the château. One
morning Francesco found a half-frozen swallow on the verandah and
carried it to Leonardo, who revived it with the warmth of his breath,
and established it in a cage near the fire, meaning to restore it to
liberty in the spring. The Master no longer attempted to paint, and had
hidden the unfinished picture with his brushes and paints in the darkest
corner of the studio. The days went by in idleness. Sometimes the notary
visited them and talked of the harvests, the salt tax, and the
comparative merits of Languedoc and Limousin sheep. Sometimes
Francesco's confessor came, Fra Guglielmo, an Italian by birth, but
long settled at Amboise, a simple pleasant old man, who could tell
stories about the Florence of his youth which made Leonardo laugh.

The early twilight came on, and the visitors took their departure. Then
for hours at a time Leonardo would pace up and down the room,
occasionally glancing at Astro. Now more than ever the cripple seemed to
him a living reproach, the mockery of the one great aim of his life, the
making of wings for men. Astro sat in a corner, his feet drawn up under
him, winding long strips of linen on a stick, whittling sticks, carving
tops, or with his eyes blinking he would rock himself slowly and,
smiling, sing his unchanging song:--

     'Cucurlu! Curlu!
      Eagles and cranes,
      Up they flew!'

At last it became quite dark, and silence descended upon the house. Out
of doors the boughs of the old trees creaked and roared in the storm,
and the roar was like the voice of malignant giants. The eerie howling
of wolves was heard in the outskirts of the forest. Francesco piled logs
on the fire, and Leonardo sat down beside it. The young man played on
the lute and could sing very pleasantly. He tried to dispel the Master's
melancholy by his music; once he sang him an old song composed by
Lorenzo Il Magnifico for the 'Mask of Bacchus and Ariadne,' a favourite
with Leonardo, who had known it in his youth:--

     'Quant' è bella giovinezza
      Ma sen fugge tuttavia?
      Chi vuol esser lieto, sia;
      Di doman non v'è certezza.'

The Master listened, greatly moved; he remembered the summer night, the
dark shadows, the brilliant moonlight in the lonely street, the sounds
of the lute from the marble loggia, the same tender love-song. And he
remembered, too, his thoughts of La Gioconda. Francesco, sitting at the
old man's feet, looked up and saw that tears were falling from the
fading eyes.

Sometimes Leonardo would read over his old diaries, and occasionally he
still wrote in them, but of the subject which now chiefly occupied his
thoughts--Death.

'Thou see'st that thy hope and thy desire to return to thy native land,
and to thy old life, is like the desire of the moth for the flame, and
that Man (who, ceaseless in desire, joyous in impatience, ever awaits a
new spring, and thinketh that his desire is slow in its fulfilment) does
not know that he expecteth but his own destruction and his end. But this
expectation is the quintessence of nature, the soul of the elements, and
finding itself in the soul of man, it is the desire to return from the
body unto Him who made it.'

'In nature nothing exists but Force and Movement; and force is the
volition of happiness, the eternal striving of the universe after final
equilibrium and the Prime Mover.'

'Every part desires to be united with its whole that it may escape
imperfection.'

'As the day well spent gives pleasant dreams, life well lived shall give
a happy death.'

'Every evil leaves bitterness in the memory, except the greatest evil,
which is death, for it destroys the memory together with the life.'

'When I thought I was learning to live, I was but learning how to die.'

'The outward necessity of nature corresponds with the outward necessity
of reason: everything is reasonable, all is good, because all is
necessary.'

Thus his reason justified death, the will of the Prime Mover; yet in the
depth of his heart something rebelled.

Once he dreamed that he awoke in a coffin buried alive under the earth,
and with desperate resolution and panting for breath he strove to raise
the lid of his prison.

Next morning he told Francesco of his desire that he should lie unburied
till the first signs of decomposition should show themselves. He still
loved life with a blind unreasoning love, still clung to it and dreaded
death as a black pit into which that day or the next he would fall with
a cry of the utmost terror. All the consolations of reason, all he had
said of divine necessity and the will of the Prime Mover, vanished like
smoke before this shrinking of the flesh. He would have relinquished his
immortality for one ray of earthly sunshine, one waft of the spring, for
the perfume of expanding leaves, for a bunch of yellow flowers from the
Monte Albano, where he had been a happy child.

At night, when he could not sleep, Francesco would read to him from the
Gospels. Never had they seemed to him so new, so rare in excellence, so
little understood of men. Some sayings, as he thought out their
meaning, deepened for him like wells.

"Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God." Was this indeed the answer to
the question of his whole life, 'Shall not men have wings?'

"And having ended all his temptation, the devil departed from him _for a
season_." What did that mean? When did the devil return to him again?

Words which might have seemed to him full of the greatest error,
contrary to experience and natural law, still did not repel him.

'If ye have faith as a grain of mustard-seed, ye shall say unto this
mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and it shall remove.'

He had always thought that the final knowledge and the final faith would
lead by different paths to the same goal, the blending of outward and
inward necessity, the will of man and the will of God. Yet was not the
sting of the words in the fact that _to have faith_, even as a grain of
mustard-seed, was more difficult than to see the mountain remove unto
yonder place?

But there was a saying of Christ's still more enigmatical: "I thank
thee, Father, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent,
and hast revealed them unto babes." How reconcile this with the
injunction, "Be ye wise as serpents"?

And, again, "Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not neither do
they spin. Take no thought saying what shall we eat or what shall we
drink, for after all these things do the Gentiles seek, and your
heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things."

Leonardo recalled his discoveries and inventions, the machines for
giving men power over nature, and asked himself:--

'Is all this care for the body--what shall we eat and what shall we
drink, and the like--is it mammon worship? Is there nothing in human
toil, in knowledge, but the mere profit? Is knowledge like Martha, who
is careful and troubled about many things, but not about the one thing
needful? Is love like Mary, who has chosen the good part and sitteth at
the Master's feet?'

He knew by experience the temptations inseparable from knowledge.

It seemed to the dying man that he was already face to face with the
black, the dreadful pit, into which, if not to-day then to-morrow, he
too must fall with a last despairing cry:--

'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?'


VIII

Sometimes of a morning, when he looked through the frosted windows at
the deep snow, the grey sky, the frozen water, he thought the winter
would never end. But in February there came a breath of warmth. Drops
trickled noisily from the icicles at the sunny side of the houses, the
sparrows twittered, and the trees were girt with dark circles where the
snow had melted, the buds swelled, and patches of blue sky were seen
among the clouds. Francesco placed his master's chair in a sunny window,
and for hours the old man would sit quite still with bent head, his
wasted hands resting upon his knees. The swallow which had been rescued
from the first frost now flew and circled about the room, perched on
Leonardo's shoulder, and allowed herself to be handled and kissed on the
head. Suddenly she would start up and again fly round the ceiling with
impatient cries as if scenting the spring. He followed every turn of her
lithe body, every movement of her pinions. The old idea of wings for men
stirred within him.

One day he opened a large chest which contained his manuscript-books,
stray drawings and sketches, chiefly mechanical, jottings from his two
hundred 'Books of Nature.' All his life he had been meaning to bring
order into this chaos, to sort the fragments and unite them in one
whole, one great 'Book of the Universe.' He knew that among them were
ideas and discoveries which could materially shorten the labours of
those men who were to come after him. He knew also that he had delayed
too long, that it was now too late, that all his sowing would fail of
fruit, that all his scientific material would perish like the
_Cenacolo_, the Colossus, the 'Battle of Anghiari.' And this, because in
science as in art he had only desired with a wingless desire, had begun
and not finished, had accomplished nothing. He foresaw that men would
seek what he had found, would discover what he had already discovered,
would walk in his paths, in his very steps; but would pass him by, would
forget him as though he had never lived. In the chest he found a small
manuscript-book, yellow with age, and entitled 'Birds.' Of late years he
had scarcely occupied himself with the flying-machine, though he still
often thought of it. To-day, watching the flight of his tame swallow, a
new idea had come to him, a new design had perfected itself in his mind,
and he determined to make a last attempt, indulging the last vain hope
that by the finally successful making of wings for men the whole labour
of his life would be justified.

He entered on this new task with the same resolution, with the same
feverish haste which he had expended on the St. John. Ceasing to brood
over death, conquering his weakness, forgetting his food and his sleep,
he sat for whole days and nights over his calculations and his drawings.
Francesco watching him sometimes feared this was not work but the
delirium of a sick mind. With increasing alarm he noticed how the
Master's face became distorted under the desperate effort of will, under
the violent desire for the impossible--which men may not seek with
impunity.

The week went by and Francesco never left him, not even to sleep. But a
night came when deadly weariness overcame the youth; he threw himself on
a chair by the fire and dozed. The morning came grey through the window,
the swallow wakened and chirruped. Leonardo was still sitting at his
work-table, a pen in his hand; he was greatly bent, his head almost
touching the paper. Suddenly he trembled strangely, the pen dropped and
his head fell. He made an effort to rise, tried to call Francesco, but
could make no sound. Heavily and helplessly he rolled with his whole
weight upon the table and overturned it. Melzi, awakened by the crash,
sprang to his feet, to find the Master lying on the floor, his candle
extinguished, his papers scattered, the terrified swallow flapping her
wings against the rafters overhead. He realised that this was a second
stroke.

For some days Leonardo lay unconscious, making occasional mutterings,
always of mathematics. When he came to himself he at once asked for his
sketches of the flying-machine.

'Nay, Master. Ask of me anything else, but I cannot let you work till
you have mended somewhat,' replied Francesco.

'Where have you put my sketches?' he demanded, angrily.

'I have locked them in the attic.'

'Give me the key.'

'Nay, Master, what can you do with the key?'

'Give it me this instant.'

Francesco hesitated; the invalid's eyes flashed with wrath. Not to
excite him, the young man gave the key. Leonardo hid it under his pillow
and seemed satisfied. His recovery after this was more rapid than could
have been hoped. In the beginning of April he was able again to play
chess with Fra Guglielmo.

One night Francesco, sleeping on his customary bench by the Master's
side, started up in alarm, for he could not hear Leonardo's usually
heavy breathing. The night-light had been extinguished; he relit it
hastily, and found the invalid's bed empty; he waked Villanis and they
visited all the rooms on that floor, but Leonardo was not there.
Francesco was going downstairs, when he remembered the sketches hidden
in the attic. He hastened thither and found the door unlocked. Leonardo,
half-dressed, was seated on the floor before an old box, which he was
using as a table. By the light of a tallow candle he was writing, while
he muttered rapidly as if delirious. His glowing eyes, his matted hair,
his brows violently contracted, his sunken helpless mouth, his whole
appearance was so strange and alarming to Francesco that for a few
minutes he dared not enter.

Suddenly Leonardo snatched up a pencil and drew it across a page of
figures so violently that it broke. Then he looked round, saw his pupil,
rose and tottered towards him.

'I told you, Francesco,' he said quickly and bitterly, 'that I should
soon make an end. Now I have finished. So have no fear, I shall not work
any more. 'Tis enough. I have grown old and dull; more dull than Astro.
I know nothing at all. What I have known I forget. Is it for me to think
of wings? To the devil even with the wings!'

And seizing his papers furiously he tore and trampled them.

From that day his health grew worse. He returned to his bed, and Melzi
foresaw that he would not again rise from it. Sometimes for whole days
he lay in a trance.

Francesco was devout, and whatever the Church taught he believed without
question. Alone of Leonardo's pupils he had not fallen under the
influence of those 'fatal spells'; that 'evil eye' attributed to the
Master. Though Leonardo did not observe the Church ceremonials, his
young companion divined by the instinct of love that he was not impious.
The lad did not try to penetrate further into the great man's opinions.
Now, however, the thought that he might die unabsolved from errors,
perhaps from heresies, was torture to the pious youth. He was afraid to
address the Master on the subject, but he would have given his life to
save him.

One evening Leonardo, seeing his anxious face, asked him what were his
thoughts. Francesco answered with some embarrassment.

'Fra Guglielmo came this morning and wanted to see you. I told him it
was impossible----'

The Master looked at his young attendant and saw alarm, entreaty, hope
on his face.

'Francesco, this was not what you were thinking. Why will you not tell
me?'

The pupil was silent, his eyes downcast. Leonardo understood; he turned
away and frowned. He had always wished to die as he had lived, in
complete liberty; in the truth, so far as he knew it. But he had
compassion on Francesco. Could he, in these last hours of his life,
embitter a simple heart, bring offences once more upon one of these
'little ones'?

He looked again at his pupil; laid his wasted hand on the lad's hand and
said with a quiet smile:--

'My son, send to Fra Guglielmo and bid him come to-morrow. I wish to
confess and to communicate. Send also for Maître Guillaume.'

Francesco did not answer--he kissed Leonardo's hand in passionate
gratitude.


IX

The next morning, Saturday in Passion Week, April 23rd, Maître Guillaume
the notary came, and Leonardo imparted to him his last wishes. He
bequeathed four hundred florins to his brothers in token of
reconciliation; to Francesco Melzi he left his books, scientific
apparatus, machines, manuscripts, and the remainder of the salary due to
him from the royal treasury; to Battista Villanis, his household
furniture, and the half of the vineyard outside the walls of Milan; the
other half he left to his pupil Andrea Salaino. Maturina was to have a
dress of good black cloth, a cloth cap trimmed with fur, and two ducats.
Melzi was named executor, and the ordering of the funeral was entrusted
to him. Francesco was solicitous that all should be arranged in a manner
to contradict popular slanders, and make it clear that the Master had
died a true son of the Catholic Church. Leonardo assented to all he
proposed.

Presently Fra Guglielmo came with the Holy Viaticum, and Leonardo made
his confession and received the Sacrament 'according to the rites of the
Church'; 'in all humility and submission to the will of God,' as the
monk afterwards told Francesco; adding that whatever might be said
against the Master he would be justified by the words of the Lord,
'Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.' All day he
suffered from breathlessness, but he survived the night, and on the
morning of Easter Sunday seemed a little easier.

Francesco opened the window. Pigeons were flying in the blue air, and
the rustle of their flight mingled with the chime of the Easter bells.

The dying man no longer heard nor saw what was passing around him. He
imagined great weights falling and rolling on him and crushing him. With
an effort he freed himself and was flying upward on gigantic wings.
Again the weights fell, again he conquered them, and so on, again and
again. And each time the weight was heavier, the struggle to overcome it
more desperate; till at last he gave up the attempt, crying aloud a
despairing cry.

He resigned himself to defeat. And then immediately he realised that the
weights and the wings, the falling and the flight were all one; 'above'
and 'below' were the same, and he was borne along on the waves of
eternal motion gently as in a mother's arms.

For some days longer his body lived, but he never recovered
consciousness. On the morning of May 2nd Francesco and Fra Guglielmo
noticed that his breathing had grown feebler. The monk read the prayers
for the dying; a little later, and the young man had closed his eyes.

The face of the dead man changed but little; it wore the expression, so
frequent in his lifetime, of profound and quiet attention.

The windows were widely opened, and Francesco and the two old servants
were performing the last offices for the corpse. Suddenly the tame
swallow, which of late had been forgotten, flew into the room, circled
over the dead man, and settled at last upon his folded hands.

He was buried at the monastery of St. Florentine, but the exact site of
his grave is unknown.

Writing to Florence to the Master's brothers Francesco thus expressed
himself:--

'I cannot tell the grief occasioned to me by the death of him who was
more to me than a father. Long as I live I shall mourn him. He loved me
with a great and tender love. The whole world will grieve for the loss
of a man whose like Nature herself will not create again.

'May the Almighty God grant him everlasting peace!'




EPILOGUE


Now it so happened that just at the time when Leonardo da Vinci died, a
certain young Russian courtier named Eutychius came a second time to
Amboise in the train of Karachiarov, the Russian ambassador. On his
journey this young courtier, who brought a gift of gold and of priceless
Persian falcons for King Francis, visited Florence, and had seen the
bas-relief on the Campanile, which represented Dædalus experimenting
with waxen wings. It had given Leonardo in his boyhood the first idea of
Wings for Man; and now it was of interest to the young Russian, who in
his spare time, for pleasure, was painting an ecclesiastical icon of
'The Winged Precursor.' With vague and half-prophetic awe he
contemplated the contrast between the material wings constructed by
Dædalus, who was perhaps assisted by demons, and the spiritual
wings--'upon which pure souls rise to God'--of the 'Incarnate Angel,'
the Precursor, St. John the Baptist.

While at Amboise, Eutychius one day obtained leave to visit the château
of Cloux, where the deceased Master, Leonardo da Vinci, had lived. The
party was received by Francesco Melzi, who showed them the studio and
all it contained. They inspected the strange instruments, the apparatus
for the study of the laws of sound, the great crystal eye for
experiments on sight, the diving-bell, the anatomical drawings, the
designs for engines of war. All this was interesting; but for Eutychius
the supreme attraction was the broken frame of a wing resembling the
pinion of a great swallow. He learned from Melzi of its history and its
purpose; and strange thoughts rose in his breast as he remembered
Dædalus on the marble tower of Santa Maria del Fiore.

Presently he stood in bewilderment before the dead Leonardo's picture of
St. John the Baptist. The appearance of the Forerunner was almost that
of a woman; yet he carried the reed cross, and was clothed with camel's
hair. He was not like the Winged Precursor familiar to the painter of
icons; but his charm was irresistible. What was the significance of the
subtle smile with which he pointed to the cross of Golgotha?

Eutychius stood spell-bound, scarce listening to the animadversions of
his fellows. 'What? this beardless, naked, effeminate youth, the
Precursor? Not of Christ, then, but of Antichrist--accursed for ever!'

Eutychius heard without heeding; and when he came away the mysterious
figure of the wingless one, fair as a woman, with flowing locks like
Dionysus, pointing to the cross--haunted him like a vision.

The young Russian painter was lodged in an attic beside the dove-cot;
and had arranged his working place in the recess of the dormer-window.

He busied himself with the painting of the icon, already nearly
completed, of St. John the Baptist. The saint stood on a sunburnt hill,
round, like the edge of a globe. It was bordered by the purple sea, and
canopied by the blue vault of heaven. The figure carried in its hand a
head, which was the duplicate of his own, but seemed that of a corpse.
Thus Eutychius had tried to show that the man who has slain in himself
all that is human may attain to a more than human flight. His face was
terrible and strange; his gaze like the gaze of an eagle, fixed upon the
sun. His hair and beard floated on the blast, his raiment was like the
plumage of a bird. His limbs were long and gave an impression of
singular lightness. On his shoulder were set great swan-like wings,
extended over the tawny earth and the purple sea.

To-night Eutychius had little more to do than to touch the inner side of
the plumes with gold. But his attention wandered, he thought of Dædalus
and of Leonardo; he remembered the face of the wingless youth in the
Master's last picture, and found it eclipsing that of the winged one
which he had drawn himself. His hand grew heavy and uncertain; the brush
fell; his strength failed. He left his room and wandered for hours along
the banks of the silent river.

The sun had set; the pale green sky, the evening stars were reflected in
the water, but in the east clouds were rising, and summer lightning
quivered in the air as if waving fiery wings.

Returning, he lit the lamp before the icon of the Virgin, and threw
himself on his bed. He could not sleep, but lay tossing and shivering
feverishly for hour after hour, fancying weird rustlings and whispers in
the stillness, and remembering all the eerie tales of the Russian
folk-lore.

Wearied and wakeful, Eutychius tried to read. He selected an old book at
random, and the familiar Russian legend of the 'Crown of the Kingdom of
Babylon,' and of the world-wide sovereignty destined by God for the land
of Russia. Then Eutychius turned a page and read another legend, that of
'The White Hood.'

In days of yore Constantine the emperor, having accepted the Christian
faith and received absolution for his sins from Sylvester the pope,
desired to give the pontiff a kingly crown. But an angel, appearing unto
him, bade him give a crown not of earthly but of spiritual supremacy--a
White Hood like unto a monkish cowl. Nevertheless the Roman Church laid
claim to temporal no less than to spiritual power; wherefore the angel
appeared to the pope and commanded him to send the Hood to Philotheus,
the Patriarch of Constantinople; and when he would have retained it,
there appeared unto the Patriarch another vision: Constantine the
emperor and Sylvester the pope, bidding him send on the Hood yet
further, into the country of Russia, to Novgorod the Great.

'For,' said Sylvester in this dream, 'the first Rome has fallen by her
pride and self-will; and Constantinople, the second Rome, is like to
perish by the fury of the infidel; but in the third Rome, which shall be
in the land of Russia, the light of the Holy Ghost is already shining,
and at the last all Christian nations shall be united in the Russian
dominion under the shadow of the Orthodox faith.'

Each time Eutychius read these tales, a vague and boundless hope filled
his soul. His heart beat and his breath caught, as though he were
standing on the edge of a precipice. For it seemed that the legend of
the Babylonian kingdom was prophetic of earthly greatness; that of the
White Hood, of heavenly glory for his native land. However poor, however
wretched she might be now in comparison with other countries, still she
was to be the third Rome, the new Zion; and the rays of the rising sun
were destined to shine on the seventeen golden domes of the Russian
church of St. Sophia, the Wisdom of God. And yet, he asked himself, how
should it be that the White Hood, the third, the holiest Rome, should
unite itself with the hateful crown of Nebuchadnezzar, who had been
cursed of God, whose city was Babylon, and accursed in the Book of
Revelation. The young painter's effort to solve the riddle brought
fantastic vision to his hot brain.

He fell asleep, and he too dreamed a dream:

He saw a Woman in shining garments, with flaming countenance and fiery
wings, standing among fleeting clouds, her feet on the crescent moon;
over her was a seven-pillared tabernacle, with the inscription:--

'Wisdom hath builded her an house.'

Prophets and patriarchs surrounded her, saints and angels, thrones and
dominions and powers, and all the company of Heaven. And among the
prophets at Wisdom's very foot stood John the Precursor with his white
plumes as on the icon, _but wearing the face of Leonardo da Vinci_, who
had dreamed of wings for men. And behind the Woman, golden cupolas and
pinnacles of churches innumerable glowed like fire in the azure sky; and
beyond them stretched a gloriously boundless expanse, which Eutychius
recognised as the land of Russia.

Belfries shook with a triumphant peal; angels sang victorious Alleluia;
the seven archangels smote their wings, and the seven thunders spoke.
And above the fire-clothed Woman, Hagia Sophia, the Wisdom of God, the
heavens opened, and bright as the sun--terrible--shone the White Hood,
the heavenly head-dress, over the land of Russia.

       *       *       *       *       *

Eutychius awoke. He opened the windows, and to him was wafted the
fragrance of leaves and grasses washed by rain. The sun had not yet
risen, but gold and purple decked the place of his coming--the skyey
verge above the woods, and the river, and the fields. The town still
slept in twilight; only the belfry of St. Hubert glistened with a pale
green light. The hush was full of great expectation. Far away on the
sand-banks of the Loire the white swans were calling.

Suddenly, like a live coal, the sun shone out behind the forest.
Something like music passed across the earth and the heaven. Pigeons
shook their wings and rose in circles. Day, entering the window, fell
full on the icon of the Forerunner; the wings, extended over lands and
seas, flashed and sparkled in the morning radiance, as if informed with
supernatural life.

Eutychius, dipping his brush into crimson, wrote these words on the
scroll upon the icon, under the Winged Precursor:--

"Behold I will send my messenger before my face, and he shall prepare my
way before me."


THE END


     'THOU ART THYSELF THY GOD, THYSELF THY NEIGHBOUR:
      O BE AS WELL THINE OWN CREATOR TOO;
      BE THE ABYSS ABOVE, THE DEPTH BELOW;
      AT ONCE THINE OWN END, AND THINE OWN BEGINNING.'




  THE DEATH OF THE GODS


  By DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI
  Author of "The Romance of Leonardo da Vinci," etc.

  Authorized English version by HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o. $1.50.

     "A fine piece of work. Out of the perplexed chapters of Julian's
     career, Mérejkowski has constructed something which might be called
     a drama, full of episodes, lurid, intense, passionate ... with a
     power to enlist and hold the attention of the reader. The Russian
     writer is evidently a close and unwearied student."--_London Daily
     Telegraph._

     "Should meet with a good hearing in England and America.... The
     subject--the career of Julian the Apostate--is certainly most
     fascinating."--_The Athenæum._

     "Here, in the enthusiasm of reading, we are ready to admit another
     to the select circle of great historical novels, and they are
     few.... Julian, as the intellectual and active meeting point of the
     old world and the new, is the most remarkable figure of his
     epoch."--_Daily Chronicle._

     "With the ardor as of Flaubert in 'Salammbo,' and with perhaps more
     skill than Sienkiewicz in 'Quo Vadis,' he has succeeded in
     recreating the wonderful rich scenes and characters of the
     period."--_The Observer._

  G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
  New York     London




  The Romance of          | The Forerunner
  Leonardo da Vinci       |
                          | (The Resurrection of the Gods)


  By DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI
  Author of "The Death of the Gods," "Tolstoi as Man and Artist," etc.

  12^o.     $1.50.

     "A novel of very remarkable interest and power. Most vivid and
     picturesque."--_Guardian._

     "A finer study of the artistic temperament at its best could
     scarcely be found. And Leonardo is the centre of a crowd of
     striking figures. It is impossible to speak too highly of the
     dramatic power with which they are presented, both singly and in
     combination. A very powerful piece of work, standing higher above
     the level of contemporary fiction than it would be easy to
     say."--_Spectator._

     "A remarkable work."--_Morning Post._

     "Takes the reader by assault. One feels the impulsion of a vivid
     personality at the back of it all."--_Academy._

     "It amazes, while it wholly charms, by the power of imagery, the
     glowing fancy, the earnestness and enthusiasm with which the writer
     conjures Italy of the Renaissance from the past into the living
     light."--_London World._

  G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
  New York     London




  GOOD FICTION


  Patricia of the Hills

  By CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.

  12^o. (By mail, $1.10.) _Net_     $1.00

     "Patriotism without unreasonableness; love of the open air and the
     free hills without exaggeration; romance without over-gush; humor
     and melancholy side by side without morbidness; an Irish dialect
     stopping short of excess; a story full of sincere feeling."--_The
     Nation._

     "No more charming romance of the old sod has been published in a
     long time."--_N.Y. World._

     "A very pretty Irish story."--_N.Y. Tribune._


  Eve Triumphant

  By PIERRE DE COULEVAIN. Translated by ALYS HALLARD.

  12^o. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_     $1.20

     "Clever, stimulating, interesting, ... a brilliant mingling of
     salient truth, candid opinion, and witty comment."--_Chicago
     Record._

     "An audacious and satirical tale which embodies a great deal of
     clever and keen observation."--_Detroit Free Press._

     "An extremely clever work of fiction."--_Louisville
     Courier-Journal._


  Monsieur Martin

  A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By WYMOND CAREY.

  12^o. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_     $1.20

     "It was with genuine pleasure that we read 'M. Martin.' ... We
     cordially admire it and sincerely hope that all who read this page
     will also read the book."--From a Column Review in the _Syracuse
     Herald_.

     "Wymond Carey's name must be added to the list of authors whose
     first books have given them a notable place in the world of
     letters, for 'Monsieur Martin' is one of the best of recent
     historical romances."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

     "Mr. Wymond Carey has given us much pleasure in reading his book,
     and we are glad to praise it."--_Baltimore Sun._


  The House Opposite

  A Mystery. By ELIZABETH KENT. 12mo, cloth, _net_, $1.00; 16mo,
  paper, 50 cts.

     "Not an unnecessary word in the whole book, and the intricacies of
     the plot are worked out so skilfully that the reader will not guess
     the final denouement until he reaches the last chapter."--_Omaha
     World-Herald._

     "A good story of its kind that can be recommended without
     reserve."--_N.Y. Sun._


  The Sheep-Stealers

  A Romance of the West of England. By VIOLET JACOB. 12mo, _net_,
  $1.20. By mail, $1.35.

     "We have seldom read a book with a happier mixture of romance and
     realism--so fresh, so original, so wholesome. Her style is
     excellent,--lucid, natural, unaffected."--_London Spectator._


  The Poet and Penelope

  By L. PARRY TRUSCOTT. 12mo (By mail, $1.10), _net_, $1.00.

     "The book is delightful from first to last. Mr. Truscott tells his
     story daintily and lightly; but he is not merely a writer of
     graceful comedy. He understands men and women. Each one of his
     characters is a personage in his or her way, and there is a
     subtlety in the drawing of the hero and the heroine that gives the
     story reality."--_London World._

       *       *       *       *       *

  New York--G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London




      *      *      *      *      *      *




Transcriber's note:

Obvious printer's errors have been corrected.

Inconsistent spellings, inconsistent uses of hyphens (e.g., "breeding
place" and "breeding-place"), and inconsistent proper names (e.g.
"Farfanicchio,", "Farfannicchio," and "Farfannichio") were not changed.