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.