"Bring lights," said Lorenzo to a girl who appeared as the song
concluded; and he sighed as if some sweet dream had been broken and
passed away. "Oh! music--music such as that is indeed divine."
"Ay," answered the singer "music is divine and so is poetry--so
sculpture, painting, architecture. Every art, every science that
raises man from his primitive brutality has a portion of divinity
about it; for it elevates toward the Creator. Christ has said, 'Be ye
perfect, even as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect;' and
though we cannot reach perfection, we may strain for it.
"Nor, as some have supposed, do the arts render effeminate. They may
soften the manners, as the old Roman says, but not the character. On
the contrary, all that tends to exercise tends to strengthen. It is
idleness, it is luxury which enfeebles. Athens in her highest pride of
art was in her highest pride of power, and her artists learned by the
pencil or the chisel to put on the buckler and to grasp the sword. And
what does the combination of art and science do? What has it done, and
what will it not do?"
He gazed up for a moment like one inspired, and then added, "God
knows, for in extent and majesty the results are beyond even our
dreams. But I ever see the times afar when the yet undeveloped powers
of man and nature shall work miracles--when mountains shall be moved
or forced from side to side to smooth the path of our race, and bring
nation closer to nation--when the very elements shall become
subservient to the will of man, and when the energies of his nature,
directed by science, shall no longer be squandered in war and
bloodshed, but shall render war impossible, and bloodshed, under
whatever name, a crime.
"Oh peace, how beautiful art thou! Oh goodness, how wide and
comprehensive ought to be thy reign! Angel of love, thou art the
seraphim nearest to the throne of God! So help me Heaven, I would not
kill the smallest bird that flutters from spray to spray, nor tread
upon a beetle in my path!"
There was something so exquisitely sweet in his voice, so sublime in
his look, so marvellously graceful in his manner, that the two young
lovers, while they gazed and listened, could almost have fancied him
the angel of love whom he apostrophized. They sat silent when he
paused, listening eagerly for more; but when he began to speak again,
all was changed except that captivating power which seemed to command
the assent or overrule the judgment of all who heard him. His mood was
now changed, and nothing could be more light and playful than his
talk, till the door was opened and another mood came over him.
"Ah, Catarina," he said to the girl who tardily brought in the lights,
"if the world waits upon you for illumination, we shall have another
dark age upon us. Now see what it is: this little candle in a moment
brings out of obscurity a thousand things which would not be discerned
before. Thus it is in this world, Catarina; we grope our twilight way
among things unseen till comes some light of science, and we find
ourselves surrounded by multitudes of beautiful things we could not
before discern. Do you understand me, Catarina?"
"No, signor," answered the girl, opening her great black eyes, "but I
love to hear you speak, even when I know not what you are speaking
of."
"How can she understand such things?" asked Leonora. "Probably she has
never been out of the village."
"And she is wise not to go," answered the stranger. "What would she
gain by going, to what she might lose? Do you love the cultivation of
flowers, sweet lady? If so, you will know that there be some which
love the shade and will not bear transplanting. That poor girl, right
happy here, with youth, and health, and a sufficiency of all things,
might be very miserable in a wider scene. Oh no, God's will is best.
We should never pray for anything but grace and peace, I cannot but
think that prayers--importunate, short-sighted prayers--are sometimes
granted in chastisement. There is one eye alone which sees the
consequence; of all things. There may be poison in a cup of nectar;
but you cannot so well conceal the venom in a draught of pure water
from the well. Let the poor girl stay here. Now sit you still, and I
will draw you both, one for the other; but talk at will; I would not
have you dull and silent. Any bungler can draw the body. I want to
sketch the spirit likewise. Eyes, nose, and mouth are easily drawn;
the heart and the soul require a better pencil. Ay, now you are
smiling again. You were all too grave just now."
"But your discourse has been very serious," replied Lorenzo. "Some
things might well puzzle, some sadden us."
"'Tis well," said the artist gravely, "to prompt thought, and I sought
to do it. You two were dreaming when first I saw you. I have but
awakened you. I know not your names nor your history; but you are both
very young; and when the Jove-born goddess took on bodily the part of
Mentor, she knew that youth and inexperience require an almost
superhuman monitor. I can give no such counsels, but every man can
bring a little cool water where he sees a fire. Ah! lady, would I had
my colours here to catch that rosy blush before it flies."
"Fie! fie!" she answered, "or you will make me fly also. You cannot
suppose that either Lorenzo or I would wish or do aught that is wrong.
Your admonitions were cast away upon us, for we needed them not."
"God knows," said the artist, laughing, "but neither you nor I, young
lady. Your speech is not Florentine, but his is: how comes that? Is he
carrying home a bride?"
"The difference of our speech is soon explained," said Lorenzo,
"though we are both of the same land. But she has ever lived in
Lombardy. I have travelled far and wide, but my youth was all spent in
Florence. I came there when I was very young, and remained till the
death of Lorenzo de Medici, whose godson I am."
"Then you are Lorenzo Visconti," said the artist; "but who is this?"
and he pointed toward Leonora with the end of his pencil.
"You divine," answered the young man without noticing his question;
"are you skilled in the black art among all your other learning,
signor?"
"I am really skilled in very little," replied their companion. "In a
life neither very long nor very short, but one of much labour and much
study, I have never produced one work--nay, done one thing with which
I was wholly satisfied. The man who places his estimate of excellence
very high may surpass his contemporaries, and yet fall far short of
his own conceptions. Hereafter men may speak of me well or ill, as
they please. If ill, their censure will not hurt me: if well, their
faintest applause will go beyond my own. As to the black art, Signor
Lorenzo, the blackest arts are not those of the magician; yet many
things seem magical which are very simple. Lorenzo de Medici had but
one Lombard godson; and I remember you well, now, when you were a
little boy in Florence. The only marvel is that I ever forgot you. But
you have not introduced me to this lady."
"Nay, I know not whom to introduce," answered the young man.
"Ah! you have entangled me in my own net," said the artist. "Well it
is right you should both know who it is gives counsels unsought, and
teaches lessons perhaps unneeded. A good many years ago there lived in
Florence a poor gentleman named Ser Pietro da Vinci. His means were
small, but he had great capacity, though he turned it to but little
account. His taste for art was great, however, and he frequented the
houses of the best painters and sculptors in Italy.
"Well, he had a son, a wild, fitful boy, who studied everything,
attempted much, and perfected little. He plunged into arithmetic,
mathematics, geometry, and used to find a good deal of fun in puzzling
his masters with hard questions. Again, he would work untaught in
clay, and make heads of children and of laughing women; and again he
would sing his own rude verses to the lute, or sketch the figures and
faces of all who came near him.
"This was all when he was very young--a mere boy, indeed; but among
his father's friends was the well-known Andrea Verrocchio, the great
painter; and in his bottega was soon found the boy, studying hard, and
only now and then giving way to his wild moods by darting away from
his painting, sometimes to some sister art, sometimes to something
directly opposite. He drew plans for houses, churches, fortresses; he
devised instruments of war, projected canals, laid out new roads, sung
to his lute, danced at the village festivals, studied medicine and
anatomy.
"But his fancies and designs went beyond the common notions of the
day; men treated them as whims impossible of execution, projects
beyond the strength of man to complete. His drawings, and his
paintings, and his sculpture, however, they admired, patted him on the
head, and called him the young genius.
"At length he was set to paint part of a picture which his master had
commenced, and the result was that Verrocchio threw away his pallet,
declaring he would never paint more, as he had been excelled by a boy.
That boy went on to win money and fame till people began to call him
Maestro, and the wild little boy became Maestro Leonardo da Vinci,
who, some say, is a great painter. By that name, Signor Lorenzo, you
may introduce me to the lady, for my sketches are now finished."
The love for art in Italy at that time approached adoration: the name
of Leonardo da Vinci was famous from the foot of the Alps to the
Straits of Messina, and Leonora took the great painter's hand and
kissed it with as much veneration as if he had been her patron saint.
"Ah! and so this is the fair Signora d'Orco?" said Leonardo. "Now I
understand it all. You are travelling to join your father. I met with
him at Bologna as I passed."
"How, long ago was that, Maestro Leonardo?" asked Leonora, with some
surprise.
"It was some days since," replied the painter, "and he must be in Rome
by this time."
The lovers looked inquiringly into each other's faces, and after a
moment's thought, Lorenzo said:
"We expected to overtake him at Bologna. His letters led us to believe
we should find him there; but doubtless he has left directions for our
guidance."
"Perhaps so," replied Leonardo, in a somewhat sombre and doubtful
tone; "but, if you do not find such directions, what will you do?"
"We can but go on, I suppose," answered Leonora; "Lorenzo must march
with the French army, which directs its course to Rome, and I cannot
be left without some one to protect me."
The painter shook his head gravely.
"Far better, my child," he said, "that you should remain in Bologna.
The ways are dangerous; Rome is no fit place for you. Besides, your
father has gone thither, I am told, on affairs of much importance, and
you would be but a burden to him. He goes, they told me, to hold a
conference with Cardinal Cæsar Borgia, who seeks a man of great skill
and resolution to hold in check the somewhat turbulent and
discontented inhabitants of the territories in Romagna, bestowed upon
him by his father, Pope Alexander. Go not after him to Rome, but by
his express desire. I will give you a letter to the Abbess Manzuoli,
in Bologna, who will be a mother to you for the time you have to
stay."
"All must be decided by my father's will," replied Leonora; "but I
thank you much, Signor da Vinci, for the promised letter, which cannot
but be of service to me in case of need."
"Well, then," replied the great painter, changing his tone, "come
round here, and look over my shoulder. Here are the two portraits.
'Did you ever see two uglier people? Is he not frightful, Signora
Leonora? and as to her face and figure, they are, of course, hideous,
Lorenzo."
Leonora took the rapid sketch, which represented Lorenzo with a drawn
sword in one hand and a banner in the other, looking up to a cloudy
sky, through which broke a brighter gleam of light, gazed at it a
moment with what may well be called ecstasy, and then placed it in the
scarf which covered her bosom, while he pressed his lips upon the
other paper in silent delight.
"You need not do that, Lorenzo," said the painter, with a quiet smile;
"your lips will soil my picture--my picture will soil your lips. There
are others near where the paint will not come off, for they are limned
by a hand divine. But are you both satisfied?"
"Oh, yes," exclaimed Leonora, joyfully; but Lorenzo answered at once,
"No, unless you will promise me, Signor da Vinci, to paint me a
portrait of her, as you can only paint, I cannot be satisfied."
"When she is your wife," answered Leonardo, "you have but to write to
me that Mona Leonora Visconti will sit, and be I at the distance of
two hundred leagues, I will come. But now, I will hie me to the little
chamber they have given me, and write the letter I spoke of, and then
return. Perchance the lady may have retired ere then, but I shall find
you here, Lorenzo. Is it not so?"
"Assuredly," replied the young man; "I have to visit the guards, and
see that all is rightly disposed in the town; but I will not go till
you return."
I will not follow the indiscreet example of Leonardo, and try to
sketch them as they sat alone after his departure. Indeed, it were not
an easy task. They were very happy, and happiness is like the
chameleon, ever changing its hues. An hour and a half, or a moment;
for such it seemed to them, had passed when old Mona Mariana, on whose
discreet and reasonable forbearance be a benediction, put her head
into the room, and said, in a sleepy tone:
"Is it not time for rest, dear lady?"
"You seem to think so Mariana, for you are half asleep already."
"Ah, young hearts! young hearts!" said the old lady, who had slept for
several hours; "they have thoughts enough to keep them waking, and
strength to bear it. Old people have only to pray and sleep. But,
indeed, you had better come to rest; we have all to rise betimes."
After a word or two more, Leonora parted from her lover, and soon
seeking her bed, lay down and dreamed, but not asleep.
As if the painter had heard her light foot on the stairs, she had not
been gone a minute when Leonardo appeared. He took Lorenzo's hand
eagerly in his, and said, in a low, earnest tone:
"Let her not go to Rome, I beseech you, young gentleman--let her not
go to Rome."
"And why are you so eager she should not go there?" asked Lorenzo,
somewhat surprised, and even alarmed by his new friend's manner. "Is
there any danger?"
"Every danger," answered Da Vinci.
"Why?"
"For a thousand reasons, but they are difficult to explain. Yet stay;
I remember rapping a fellow student's knuckles to prevent his putting
his profane hand on a bunch of beautiful grapes, all covered with
their vineyard bloom, when I was about to paint them. This young
lovely girl--this Signora d'Orco, is like one of those grapes, rich in
the bloom of innocence. There is the sweet fruit within--there is, or
is to come the ardent wine of love and passion, but the bloom is there
still. Oh, let it not be brushed away too soon, Lorenzo! Now listen:
Rome is a place of horror and vice. In the chair of the Apostle sits
the incarnation of every sin and crime. The example is too widely, too
eagerly followed by people ever ready to learn. The very air is
pollution. The very ground in foul. Would you take her into a
pest-house? But more, still more--nay, what shall I say? How shall I
say it? Her father--her very father has been gained by the foulest of
the foul offspring of Borgia. Ramiro d'Orco is now the bosom
counsellor of Cæsar, who, in a shorter space of time than it took his
great namesake to make himself master of the Roman State, has
accumulated more vices,--committed more crimes, than any man now
living, or that ever lived."
"But how have they gained him? Why have they sought him?" asked
Lorenzo. "He is himself wealthy; his daughter is more so. They cannot
approach him by mercenary means: and then, why should they seek a man
who has no political power?"
"A tale long to tell, an intrigue difficult to explain," replied Da
Vinci. "I can show you why and how, in a few words indeed; but if you
must seek proofs of what I say, you may have to buy them dearly.
Listen then to them, Lorenzo Visconti. Men seek that which they have
not. Money might not tempt Ramiro d'Orco. The prospect of that
political power which he does not possess has tempted him. They have
promised him what I may well call prefectal power in one half of
Romagna, and he has yielded. What would he not sacrifice for that? His
own honour--perhaps his child's. Thus your first question is answered.
Thus they have approached and gained him.
"Now to your second question, Why they have sought him? The first
motive was to control, or, rather to restrain and mollify the
bitterest and now most powerful enemy of the house of Borgia. Do you
know that he is nearly related to the family of Rovera? that he is not
only first cousin, but schoolfellow and playmate of that famous
cardinal, Julian de Rovera, whose enmity to Alexander and to Cæsar is
so strong that, were it at the peril of his own life and the disorder
of all Christendom, he would attempt to hurl the present pontiff from
his seat, and has already branded the head of the Church with all the
infamies that can disgrace a man, much more a priest--ambition,
avarice, fraud, heresy, adultery, murder?
"With him, who now journeys with the King of France, Alexander and his
bastard hope to negotiate, and to mollify him through the intercession
of Ramiro d'Orco, the only one on earth who has influence worth
consideration with the stern Cardinal Julian. This is why they seek
him. There are many other motives, but this is enough. Take her not to
Rome, young man. Listen to the counsel of one who can have no object
but your good and hers. If you do not listen, you are responsible for
all the results."
"I fear not that anything can make her aught but what she is," replied
Lorenzo, with all the proud enthusiasm of young love. "Better, nobler
she cannot be, and as the foulest breath cannot sully the diamond, so
can no foul atmosphere tarnish her purity."
A faint smile fluttered for a single instant round the lips of Da
Vinci; but he resumed his serious aspect instantly--nay, his
countenance was more grave and stern than before.
"Doubtless," he said, "doubtless; for they who study much the human
face, learn to read it as a book; and hers is a beautiful page--clear,
and pure, and bright. But there are arts, young man, you know not
of--drugs of terrible power, which lull the spirit into a sleep like
that of death, and leave the body impotent for resistance or defence.
Nay, violence itself--coarse, brutal violence, may be dreaded in a
place--"
"They dare not!" exclaimed Lorenzo, fiercely, "they dare not!"
"What dare not a Borgia do?" asked Leonardo. "When they have set at
nought every tie, moral and religious--when they have made crime their
pastime, vice their solace, poison and murder their means--provoked to
the utmost, without a fear, the wrath of man and the vengeance of
God--what dare not the Borgias do? And what could be your vengeance,
that they should fear it?"
"But her father," said Lorenzo, "her father!"
An expression almost sublime came upon the great painter's
countenance, and he answered, in a tone of stern warning.
"Trust not to her father. His God is not our God! There are things so
abhorrent to the first pure, honest principles which Nature has
planted in the hearts of the young, that it is too dreadful a task to
open innocent eyes to their existence. But mark me, Lorenzo Visconti,
there have been men who have sold their children for money. Ambition
is a still fiercer passion than avarice. I have done. My task is
performed, and I may say no more than this: take her not to Rome: let
her not set foot in it, if you can prevent it."
"I will not--no, I will not," replied the young man, thoughtfully. "I
will prevent it--nay, it might be wise to acquire a right to prevent
it."
"Never do a wrong to attain what you judge right," answered Da Vinci.
"And now good-night. You have your posts to look to; a calm walk
beneath the moon, with thought for your companion, will do you good."
Lorenzo pressed his hand and they parted.