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.'