THE PURPLE BEAST--1503
'The beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit.'--Rev. xi. 7.
I
Leonardo was threatened with a lawsuit touching his vineyard at Fiesole,
a slice of which was coveted by the neighbouring _contadino_. He had
entrusted the matter to Giovanni Boltraffio; and wishing to speak to
him, had sent for him to Rome. On his way, Giovanni visited Orvieto to
see the famous frescoes lately painted by Luca Signorelli in the
Cappella Nuova of the cathedral. One of these frescoes showed the coming
of Antichrist.
Giovanni was greatly impressed by the countenance of the enemy of God.
It was not evil; it was only a face of infinite grief. In the clear
eyes, with their troubled gentleness, was reflected the final remorse of
the wisdom which has renounced its God. The figure was beautiful,
notwithstanding the satyr ears, the claw-like fingers. And, as occurs
sometimes in delirium, Giovanni saw behind this face Another terribly
like it, a divine face, which he dared not own he recognised.
In the same picture, at the left, was seen the fall of Antichrist.
Soaring upward on invisible wings, assuming the character of the Son of
Man coming in the clouds to judge the quick and the dead, he was hurled
back, down to the pit by the Archangel. These human wings, this failing
flight reawakened in Giovanni the old appalling doubts about Leonardo,
his master.
There were two other persons in the chapel with Giovanni also looking at
the frescoes; a stout monk, and a long lean man of uncertain age with a
keen hungry face, in the garb of a 'goliard,' as the itinerant scholars
of the middle ages were called. They made friends with Giovanni, and
the three continued their journey in company. The monk was a German,
Tomaso Schweinitz, the librarian of an Augustinian monastery at
Nuremberg; he was going to Rome about certain disputed benefices. His
companion was also German, Hans Platter, from Salzburg; he was acting
partly as Schweinitz's secretary, partly as his jester, partly as his
groom. On the journey the three discussed ecclesiastical affairs. Calmly
and with scientific acumen, Schweinitz demonstrated the absurdity of
imputing infallibility to the Pope, and prophesied that within twenty
years Germany would shake off the intolerable yoke of the Romish church.
'This man will never die for his creed,' thought Giovanni, looking at
the full-fed round face of the Nuremberg monk; 'he will not face the
fire like Savonarola; yet, who knows? he may be more dangerous to the
church.'
One evening soon after their arrival in Rome, Giovanni met Hans Platter
in the square of St. Peter's, and the German took him to the
neighbouring Vicolo de' Sinibaldi, where among a number of foreign
taverns was a small wine-cellar with the sign of the Silver Hedgehog.
Its host was a Czech of the Hussite heresy, Yan Khromy, who entertained
with his choicest wines all free-thinkers or enemies of the papacy--such
were indeed daily increasing, and preparing the way for the great
reformation of the church.
In an inner room, where only the elect were admitted, was a fairly
numerous company; and at the head of the table sat Schweinitz, leaning
back against a cask, his fat hands resting on his paunch, his face
bloated and stupid. Now and then he raised his glass level with the
candle-flame admiring the pale gold of the Rhenish; apparently he had
already drunk more than enough.
Fra Martino, a violent little monk, was pouring out vials of wrath
against the extortions of the Curia Romana.
'Better to fall into the hands of brigands than of the prelates here!
Daily pillage! Give to the Penitenziere, to the Protonotary, to the
Cubiculary, to the door-keeper, to the groom, to the cook, to the man
who empties the slops of her reverence, the cardinal's concubine; Lord,
forgive us! 'Tis like the song:--
'"New Pharisees they,
The Lord they betray!"'
Then Hans Platter rose, his face grave, his voice drawling, and said:--
'The cardinals went to their lord the Pope and inquired--"What shall we
do to be saved?" And Alexander answered: "Why do ye ask of me? Is it not
written in the Law? 'Love silver and gold with all thine heart and with
all thy mind and with all thy strength, and love thy rich neighbour as
thyself. Do this and ye shall live.'" And the Pope took his seat upon
his throne and said: "Blessed are they who have, for they shall see my
face. Blessed are they who bring offerings, for they shall be called my
sons. Blessed are they who come in the name of gold and silver, for of
them is the Curia Romana. But woe unto you, ye who present yourselves
with empty hands! It were better that a millstone were hanged about your
necks and ye were cast into the depth of the sea." And the cardinals
answered: "All that thou sayest we will do." And the Pope said: "Lo, I
set before you an example, that ye may spoil the people, even as I have
spoiled the living and the dead."'
This sally provoked great mirth. Next Otto Marburg the organ-master, a
handsome old man, with a boyish smile, read a satire just printed and
already handed about all over the city. It was in the form of an
anonymous letter to Paolo Savelli, a rich noble who had fled to the
emperor from the persecutions of the Church. A long catalogue was set
forth of the crimes and abominations in the house of the pontiff,
beginning with simony, and ending with Cæsar's fratricide and the pope's
criminal amours with his own daughter. The epistle concluded with a
passionate appeal to all princes and rulers in Europe, calling on them
to unite and destroy this nest of assassins, these filthy reptiles
disguised in the semblance of men; and asseverated that the reign of
Antichrist had commenced, for of a truth the faith of the church of God
had never had such foes as Pope Alexander VI. and Cæsar his son.
A discussion now arose as to whether, in very truth, the Pope were
Antichrist. Otto Marburg said No; not he but Cæsar, who, it was clear,
intended to be Alexander's successor. Fra Martino argued that Antichrist
would be an incorporeal phantom; for, as said St. Cyril of Alexandria,
'The Son of Perdition, called Antichrist, is none other than Satan
himself.'
Schweinitz shook his head and quoted St. John Chrysostom, who said, 'Who
is this? Is he Satan? By no means, but a man who shall have inherited
Satan's power, for there are two beings in him: one human, the other
devilish. And he shall be the son of a virgin, which could never have
been said of Alexander or of Cæsar.'
But Schweinitz further quoted from Ephraim of Syria: 'The devil shall
seduce a virgin of the tribe of Dan, and she shall conceive and bring
forth.'
All crowded round him with questions and doubts; but imposing silence
with his finger, and quoting from Jerome, Cyprian, Irenæus, and other of
the fathers, he spoke further of the coming of Antichrist.
His face shall be as the face of a were-wolf, yet to many it shall seem
like the face of Christ. And he shall do marvellous things. He shall bid
the sea be still, and the sun turn into darkness; and the mountains
remove, and the stones become bread. And he shall feed the hungry, and
heal the sick, and the deaf, and the blind, and the feeble-kneed.
'Ah, the abominable dog!' cried Fra Martino beside himself, and thumping
his fist on the table; 'but who will believe in him? Fra Tomaso, I think
that not even babes could be taken by his deceits!'
'They will believe. Many will believe,' said Schweinitz shaking his
head. 'He shall lead them astray by the mask of sanctity. For he shall
mortify his flesh, live chastely, contemning the love of women; he shall
taste no meat, and shall be loving not only to men but to all living
creatures which have breath. And like the wild partridge he shall utter
a strange call and shall deceive with his voice; "Come unto me," he
shall say, "all ye that labour and are heavy laden and I will give you
rest."'
'Then,' interrupted Giovanni with bated breath, 'who shall recognise,
who unmask him?'
The monk fixed on the youth a profound and scrutinising regard and
answered: 'It will be impossible for men, but not for God. Even the
saints shall not know to distinguish the light from the darkness. And
there shall be weariness unto all nations, and confounding such as there
was not from the beginning of the world. And they shall say to the
mountains, "Fall on us, and to the hills, cover us," and shall faint for
fear and for expectation of the woes which are coming on the earth, for
the powers of heaven shall be shaken. Then he who impiously sitteth on
the throne, in the very Temple of the Most High, shall say, "O faithless
generation! Ye ask for a sign and a sign shall be given unto you. Ye
shall behold me, the Son of Man, coming in the clouds to judge both the
quick and the dead." And he shall take great wings, formed by devilish
cunning, and shall soar into the sky amid thunders and lightnings,
surrounded by his disciples in the semblance of angels.'
Giovanni listened, pale as death, his eyes terror-struck; he remembered
the broad folds of the raiment of Antichrist in Luca Signorelli's
fresco; and he remembered also the folds flapping in the wind on
Leonardo's shoulders as he stood upon the precipice edge on the lonely
summit of Monte Albano.
At this moment, from the larger room, whither Hans Platter had fled from
the too serious discussion, came cries and the laughter of girls, the
sound of running to and fro, the noise of overturned chairs and broken
glasses--evidently Hans romping with the servant-maids. Presently to the
jangling of strings rang out the old song:--
'Virgin of the wine-cellar,
Sweet and fragrant Rosa,
"Ave! Ave!" I must sing
_Virgo gloriosa_.
A sober knave is he our host
With his fox's mask, Sir.
More than Holy Church, I boast,
Do I love his cask, Sir!
From the wiles of Cypris fair
And from Cupid's darts, oh!
Cowls nor tonsures can avail
To defend our hearts, oh!
For a solitary kiss
I'd go to the block, Sir;
Fill me full of wine, Monk,
Or I'll thee unfrock, Sir!
Holy fathers fear I not--
It is troth they say, Sir,
Gold in Rome has but to chink
And the laws give way, Sir.
Rome! the robbers' shrine is,
Thorny road to Hades--
And the Bishop's wine is
Made to toast the ladies!
Come then, wench, and kiss us.
_Dum vinum potamus_,
To Bacchus on Ilissus--
_Te Deum Laudamus_.'
Thomas Schweinitz listened, and his fat visage expanded in a beatific
grin.
II
At the hospital of San Spirito in Rome Leonardo had returned to his
anatomical studies, assisted by Giovanni.
Noticing his pupil's low spirits, and wishing to divert him, the Master
one day proposed to take him to the Vatican. The Pope had convened an
assembly of learned men to discuss the boundaries of Spanish and
Portuguese territory in the new world, with regard to which decision had
been requested from the head of the church. Curiosity prompted Giovanni
to accept the invitation. Accordingly the two set out for the Vatican.
Passing through the Hall of the Popes, where Alexander had invested
Cæsar with the Golden Rose, they entered the inner chambers (now called
the Apartamenti Borgia). The arches and vaulting, and the mural spaces
between the arches had all been decorated by Pinturicchio with brilliant
frescoes--scenes from the New Testament, from the lives of the saints;
scenes also from the pagan mysteries. Osiris was seen at his espousals
with Isis, teaching men to till the ground, to gather fruits, to plant
the vine; he was shown slain of men, rising again, leaving the earth,
reappearing as the White Bull, the blameless Apis. However strange this
deification of the Bull of the House of Borgia might seem in the
chambers of the High Priest of Christendom, the all-pervading joy of
life harmonised the two sets of subjects, the sacred and profane, the
Christian and the pagan mysteries, the son of Jupiter and the Son of
Jehovah. In each picture slender cypresses bent before the breeze, among
the broad hills proper to the painter's native Umbria; birds played at
the vernal sports of love; St. Elizabeth embracing the Virgin cried,
'Blessed is the fruit of thy womb'; by her side a boy was teaching a dog
to stand on his hind legs; in the Espousals of Osiris and Isis just such
another boy was riding naked on a sacred goose. The same spirit of
delight breathed everywhere; in the rich saloons, flower-garlanded; in
the angels, with their censers and crosses; in the dancing, goat footed
fauns carrying thyrsi and baskets of fruit; in the mystic Bull, the
purple Beast, who, radiant as the morning sun, seemed to pour forth the
joy of living.
'What is this?' questioned Giovanni of himself, 'is it blasphemy, or a
childlike artlessness? Is not the sacred emotion on the face of
Elizabeth the same as that on the face of Isis? Is there not the same
prayerful ecstasy on the face of Pope Alexander, bending the knee before
the rising Lord, and on the countenance of the Egyptian priest receiving
the sun-god slain of men and risen again in the shape of Apis? And this
god before whom the people bow, singing hymns of praise and burning
incense on his altar, this heraldic Bull of the Borgias, transformed
into a Golden Calf--is nothing else than the Roman pontiff himself, whom
the servile poets have called a god.'
Cæsare magna fuit, nunc Roma est maxima · Sextus
Regnat Alexander, ille vir, iste Deus.
This identification of the God and the Beast seemed to Giovanni absurd,
yet awful.
As he examined the magnificent paintings with which the walls were
adorned, he listened to the talk of the prelates and great men who
filled the saloons, and waited for the Pope.
'Whence come you, Messer Bertrando?' asked Cardinal d'Arborea of the
envoy from the court of Ferrara.
'From the cathedral, Monsignore.'
'How is His Holiness? Tired?'
'Not at all. He chanted as well as could possibly be. There is in his
voice something so holy, so majestic, so angelic, that I could have
imagined myself in heaven. When he lifted the cup, not I only, but many,
could scarce restrain their tears.'
'Of what disorder did Cardinal Miquele die?' asked the French ambassador
abruptly.
'Of drinking something disagreeable,' answered Don Juan Lopez dryly. The
majority at Alexander's court were Spaniards like himself.
'They say,' observed Bertrando,'that on the day after the cardinal's
death His Holiness declined to receive the Spanish ambassador on account
of his grief.'
All exchanged glances. There were covert meanings in these remarks. The
Pope's grief had been connected with counting the dead man's money which
proved less than he had expected; and the unwholesome drink was the
Borgia poison, a sweet white powder which killed slowly. Alexander had
invented this easy method of acquiring money. He knew the incomes of all
the cardinals, and when he wanted money would despatch the wealthiest of
them to the other world, and declare himself the heir. He fattened them
for the table. The German, Johann Burckhardt, master of the ceremonies,
frequently noted deaths of prelates in his diary, adding the pregnant
laconicism, _Biberat calicem_--'He had drunk of the cup.'
'Is it true, Monsignore,' asked Don Pedro Carranca, a chamberlain, 'that
Cardinal Monreale is taken ill?'
'Really? What ails him?' cried d'Arborea alarmed.
'Vomiting.'
'_Dio mio! Dio mio!_ the fourth!' sighed the poor cardinal. 'Orsini,
Ferrari, Miquele, and now Monreale!'
'The waters of Tiber must be bad for your Eminences,' said Messer
Bertrando slyly.
'One after the other! one after the other!' sighed d'Arborea; 'to-day
strong and well, to-morrow----'
All became silent. From the next room entered a fresh crowd of courtiers
marshalled by Don Rodriguez Borgia, the Pope's nephew. A murmur ran
through the room.
'The Holy Father! The Holy Father!'
The crowd parted, the doors were thrown open, and into the
audience-chamber came Pope Alexander VI.
III
He had been singularly handsome in his youth. It was said then that he
had only to look at a woman to inspire her with the wildest passion, as
if in his eyes a force was concentred which drew women like a magnet.
Even now his features, though blunted and coarsened by age and fat,
retained an imposing beauty of line. His skin was bronzed, his head
bald, with a few tufts of grey hair at the nape. The nose was large and
aquiline, the chin receding, the eyes vivacious. The full protruding
lips showed sensuality, yet had something simple and naïve in their
expression.
Giovanni could see nothing terrible or cruel in his face. Alexander
Borgia possessed in the highest degree the gift of taste; he had that
attractive exterior which made whatever he said or did appear said or
done in the only right way.
'The Pope is seventy,' said the ambassadors, 'but he grows daily
younger. His heaviest cares last but twenty-four hours. His temperament
is cheerful; everything to which he puts his hand turns out well. He
thinks of nothing but the reputation and the happiness of his children.'
The Borgias were descended from Moors of Castile; it was, indeed, not
difficult to recognise in the Pope the bronze skin, the full scarlet
lips, the flashing eyes of the African Arab.
'He could not have a more appropriate background,' thought Giovanni,
'than these pictures of the joys and triumphs of Apis, the ancient
Egyptian Bull.'
Indeed the septuagenarian Pope seemed, in the vigour of his health, like
enough to his own heraldic Beast, the sun-god, the god of merriment,
lubricity, and generation.
As he entered, he was in conversation with a Jew, the goldsmith Salomone
da Sessa, who had engraved the Triumph of Cæsar on the sword of the
_gonfaloniere_. He had also pleased the Pope by so exquisitely cutting
an emerald with a figure of Venus that Alexander had had it set on the
cross which he used when blessing the people on solemn festivals, so
that when he kissed the crucifix he should kiss also the Goddess of
Love. In spite of his crimes, Alexander was not impious; he was really
devout, particularly reverential of the Blessed Virgin, whom he
considered his gracious Mediatress at the throne of the Most High. He
was ordering a lamp now of Salomone, an offering he had vowed to St.
Maria del Popolo, in gratitude for the recovery from illness of Madonna
Lucrezia his daughter.
Seating himself at the window, the Pope inspected some precious stones;
he was passionately fond of jewels. With long shapely fingers he touched
the crystals gently, his thick lips parted in a smile; especially he
admired a large chrysoprase--darker than an emerald, with mysterious
sparkles of gold, green, and purple. Then he called for a casket of
pearls from his treasure-chest. Whenever he opened this casket he
thought of his beloved daughter, who was herself like a pearl. He called
the envoy from Ferrara, whose duke, Alfonso d'Este, was his son-in-law.
'Take heed, Bertrando, that you do not leave Rome till I have given you
a present for Madonna Lucrezia. You mustn't leave the old uncle with
empty hands.' (He had sufficient care for appearances sometimes to call
Lucrezia his niece.)
Taking a priceless pink Indian pearl, the size of a hazelnut, from the
casket, he held it up to the light and gloated over it. He pictured it
on Lucrezia's white bosom; he hesitated whether he should give it to her
or to the Blessed Virgin. But reminding himself that it was sinful to
take away what had been vowed to Heaven, he handed the pearl to
Salomone, and bade him set it in a lamp between the chrysoprase and the
carbuncle, gift from the Sultan.
'Bertrando,' he turned again to the ambassador, 'when you see the
duchess, tell her from me to keep well, and to pray earnestly to the
Queen of Heaven. Tell her we are in the best of health, and give her our
apostolic blessing. This evening I will send you the little gift for
her.'
The Spanish ambassador exclaimed, drawing nearer:--
'Of a truth, I have never seen such richness of pearls!'
'Yes,' said the Pope complacently, 'I have a fine collection. I have
been making it for twenty years. My daughter is very fond of pearls.' He
laughed. 'She knows what suits her, the little rogue!'
Then after a pause he added solemnly, 'When I die, Lucrezia shall have
the best pearls in Italy!'
And plunging his hands in them he let them trickle through his fingers,
delighting in their soft pale splendour and smooth, satin-like texture.
'All for her! All for her, our delicious daughter,' he repeated in a low
hoarse voice.
And suddenly a fire sparkled in his eyes; and Giovanni, remembering
whispers of the monstrous passion of the aged Borgia for this Lucrezia,
froze at heart with horror and shame.
IV
Just then a page announced that, according to His Holiness's order,
Cæsar was waiting in the next saloon. Alexander had summoned him on a
matter of urgent importance: the French king had expressed disapproval
of Valentinois' designs against Florence, and had charged the Pope with
countenancing them.
After listening to the page's announcement, Alexander glanced at the
French ambassador, drew him adroitly aside, left him (accidentally,
apparently) by the door of the room where Cæsar was waiting, and passing
through the door, left it (accidentally again) slightly ajar, so that
the ambassador and those about him should hear all that passed between
father and son.
Soon vehement reproaches were audible. Cæsar spoke calmly and
respectfully, but the old man, stamping his foot, cried furiously:--
'Out of my sight! Choke, son of a cur! son of a harlot!'
'_Dio mio_, do you hear?' whispered the Frenchman to Messer Antonio
Giustiniani, the Venetian ambassador, 'he will strike him!'
The Venetian shrugged his shoulders. If it came to blows, he thought the
son more likely to stab the father, than the father the son. Since the
murder of the Duke of Candia, the Pope had feared Cæsar; his paternal
pride and doting fondness had become mixed with a superstitious terror.
All remembered how Perotto, the youngest of the chamberlains, had taken
refuge from Cæsar under the folds of the papal mantle, and Cæsar had
poniarded him on the pontiff's breast, splashing Alexander with his
blood. Giustiniani guessed also that the present dispute was a feint,
got up for the Frenchman's benefit, to persuade him that if the duke had
designs against Florence the Pope was innocent of them. Giustiniani
believed that the two always supported each other; the father never
doing what he said, the son never saying what he did.
Having threatened, cursed, and all but excommunicated his son, the Pope
returned to the hall of audience still trembling, panting, and wiping
the perspiration from his empurpled face. Nevertheless, in his eyes
shone a gleam of amusement. Again he called the Frenchman, and this time
drew him towards the Cortile del Belvedere.
'Your Holiness knows,' began the envoy, much distressed, 'I had no
desire to breed discord----'
'What? did you hear?' cried the Pope, seeming much astonished. And
without giving him time to think, he took him familiarly by the chin
with finger and thumb (a sign of great amity), and spoke impetuously of
his devotion to the Most Christian King, and of the extraordinary purity
of Cæsar's motives. The Frenchman was bewildered, and though he had
irrefragable proof of the deception, felt disposed rather to deny the
evidence of his own eyes than to disbelieve that voice, those eyes,
those lips. Indeed, Alexander always lied like one inspired. He never
pre-arranged what he was going to say, but lied as artlessly, as
innocently as a woman in love. He had practised this art so long that he
had attained perfection in it; he was an artist carried away by his
imagination.
V
At this moment his secret body-servant approached the pope and whispered
to him. Alexander with an anxious air passed into the next room, and
thence through a concealed door into a narrow vaulted passage where
Cardinal Monreale's cook was awaiting him.
He brought news that the quantity of poison had been insufficient and
the cardinal was recovering. However, after minutely catechising the
cook, the Pope convinced himself that his victim would die in two or
three months' time, which would be all the better as averting suspicion.
'It seems a pity, too!' thought Alexander. 'The poor old man was amusing
and a good Christian.'
Wishing he could have got the money in some other way, he sighed and
returned to the audience hall. In the adjoining chamber, sometimes used
as a refectory, he saw a table laid and felt hungry. Deferring the
business matters, he invited the company to dinner. The table was
ornamented with white lilies, the flower of the Annunciation, a
favourite with the pope, who said it reminded him of Madonna Lucrezia.
The dishes were not numerous, for the pope was plain and sparing in his
diet. Giovanni listened to the talk among the chamberlains.
Don Juan Lopez, the 'laterculensis,' spoke of the late dispute between
father and son, and defended Cæsar as if he had no suspicion that the
whole affair had been a comedy. The rest agreed with him and lauded
Cæsar to the skies.
'Ah no,' said the Pope shaking his head with reproachful tenderness,
'you don't know what he is. A day never passes in which I am not in
terror about him lest he should commit some new imprudence. He will end
by breaking his neck and bringing us all to ruin.'
His eyes sparkled with paternal pride.
'But what makes Cæsar like this?' he went on; 'whom does he take after?
You know me, a simple and guileless old man; what I have in my heart,
that comes from my tongue! But Cæsar, Lord knows, keeps counsel; always
hiding something. Believe me, sirs, sometimes I reprove and scold at
him, and at the same time I have terror in my soul. That's it. I am
afraid of my own son! He is polite--ay, too polite; and then of a sudden
he looks me a look like a dagger in my heart.'
The guests, however, defended Cæsar still more warmly.
'Oh, I know! I know!' said the Pope, 'you love him like your own, and
won't let us abuse him.'
The room was suffocatingly hot, and Alexander's head swam, not from
wine, but from the intoxication of his son's glory. They all rose and
went forth on the balcony which gave on the Cortile del Belvedere. The
air was pure and delicious; below, the grooms were bringing fiery mares
and ardent stallions out of the stables.
* * * * *
Surrounded by the cardinals and dignitaries, the Pope stood watching the
horses, long silent. Gradually his face clouded, for he remembered
Lucrezia. Her image rose before him; her blue eyes, the pale gold of her
hair, her rosy lips a little full like his own; pure and dainty as a
pearl; docile and gentle; in the midst of evil, knowing it not;
passionless and unsullied. Why had he consented to her marriage with
Alfonso d'Este, the Duke of Ferrara?
* * * * *
Sighing heavily, with drooping head, as if for the first time the burden
of age had fallen on his shoulders, he led the company back to the Hall
of Audience.
VI
Globes, maps, compasses were there lying ready for the marking out of
the meridian, which was to pass over a point three hundred and seventy
Portuguese leagues to the south of the Azores and the island of Cape de
Verde. This point was chosen because, according to Columbus, the 'navel
of the earth' was there; the pear-like projection, the mountain
reaching to the lunar sphere, which he had postulated on account of the
deviation in his compass.
From the extreme western point of Portugal on the one side and the
coasts of Brazil on the other, even distances were to be measured to the
proposed line. Then shipmasters and astronomers were bidden to calculate
how many days of sailing were equal to these distances. The Pope offered
prayer, blessed the globe, and dipping a brush in red ink, drew across
the Atlantic from the North Pole to the South the broad line which was
to secure peace. All islands and lands to the east of this line were to
belong to Spain, all to the west, to Portugal. Thus by one motion of his
hand he parted the globe in halves and divided it between the Christian
nations. At this moment Alexander seemed grand and majestic to Giovanni;
full of the consciousness of his power, the world-swaying Cæsar-Pope,
centre of two kingdoms--the earthly and the heavenly.
That same evening in his apartments in the Vatican, Cæsar Borgia gave a
feast to His Holiness and the Sacred College of Cardinals, at which were
present 'fifty of the fairest and most famous of the Roman _cortigiane
oneste_;' called officially '_meretrices honestæ nuncupatæ_.'
* * * * *
Thus was celebrated that memorable day in the annals of the Church,
which had been marked by the partition of the globe.
Leonardo was present at the supper and witnessed everything. Invitations
to such feasts were great favours, and could not be declined. On
returning home he said to Giovanni:--
'In every man there is a god and a beast, coupled.'
Going on with his anatomical drawing, he added--
'Persons with base minds and unworthy passions do not merit so complex
and beautiful a physical structure as others, of high intelligence and
lofty thoughts. 'Twere enough if they had a bag with two openings, one
to receive, the other to eject food; for, in plain fact, they be no more
than a passage for nourishment.'
Next morning Giovanni found the Master at work on his painting '_San
Gerolamo nel deserto_.' In a savage den, the recluse, kneeling and
gazing at the Crucified, beats his breast so vehemently that the lion at
his feet looks into his eyes, and has opened his jaws in a long and
pitiful moan, as if in compassion for his master.
Boltraffio remembered that other picture, white Leda embraced by the
swan, the Goddess consumed by the flames of Savonarola's pyre. And as so
often before, he asked himself again which of these opposed conceptions
was dearest to the heart of the master? or could the two be equally
dear?
VII
Summer came. Putrid fever of the Pontine marshes, the 'malaria,' began
to rage in the city; at the end of July there were daily deaths among
those about the Pope. He himself appeared troubled and sad; but it was
less the fear of death which was oppressing him, than the absence of his
idolised Lucrezia. He had before now had several attacks of fierce
desire, blind and dumb, like madness, terrifying even to himself; he
fancied that if he did not satisfy them at once they would suffocate
him. He wrote begging her to come for a few days; she replied that her
husband would not permit her to leave him. The aged Borgia would have
shrunk from no crime to rid himself of this detested son-in-law as he
had rid himself of Lucrezia's earlier husbands. But there was no jesting
with the Duke of Ferrara, for he had the finest artillery in Italy.
At the beginning of August Alexander went to the villa of Cardinal
Adrian of Corneto. At supper he ate more heartily than usual, and drank
heavy Sicilian wines; afterwards he sat long on the terrace, enjoying
the insidious freshness of the Roman night. Next morning he felt himself
indisposed. It was told afterwards that having approached the window he
saw two funerals, that of his favourite chamberlain, and that of Messer
Guglielmo Raimondi, both men heavy in figure like himself.
'The season is dangerous for us fat folk,' he murmured forebodingly. The
words were no sooner uttered than a dove flew in at the window, dashed
itself against the wall, and fell stunned at the feet of His Holiness.
'Another omen,' he muttered, turning pale; and at once he went to his
apartment and lay down. In the night he was seized with violent
vomiting. The physicians had different opinions about his malady; some
called it a tertian fever; others apoplexy, others inflammation of the
gall bladder. In the town it was said that he was poisoned.
Every hour his strength declined. Ten days later they had recourse to
their extreme measure, and gave him a decoction of precious stones
reduced to powder. Still he grew worse.
One night, awaking from delirium, he fumbled anxiously in his breast for
a small gold reliquary worn by him for many years and containing minute
particles of the body and blood of the Lord. The astrologers had told
him his life was safe so long as he carried it. But now, whether it had
been lost or stolen, it could nowhere be found, and he closed his eyes
in the calm of despair, saying--
'It means I am to go: all is ended.'
Next morning, feeling the weakness of death coming over him, he required
all to leave him except his favourite physician, the Bishop of Venosa.
Him he reminded of the remedy employed by a Hebrew doctor on his
predecessor, Innocent VIII., namely, the injection into the veins of the
dying Pope of the blood of three children newly slain.
'Does your Holiness know how it ended?' asked the bishop.
'I know! I know!' said Alexander faintly. 'But the children were seven
years old and they should have been unweaned.'
The bishop made no reply; already the sick man's eyes were clouding, and
he fell back into delirium.
'Yes; quite young: little white ones! They whose blood is pure and
scarlet. I love children! Let them come to me. _Sinite parvulos ad me
venire!_ Suffer little children to come unto me!' ...
At these ravings, even the imperturbable bishop, long inured to the
horrors of the court, could not repress a shudder. With monotonous
convulsive movements, the Pope still fumbled and groped in his bosom for
the vanished reliquary.
During his illness he had never once mentioned his children. They told
him that Cæsar, like himself, lay at death's door, but he remained
unmoved. Now they asked him if he desired any last message to his son or
his daughter, but he turned away his head and said no word. It seemed as
if those, whom in his lifetime he had so passionately loved, no longer
had any existence for him.
On the 18th, Friday, he confessed to his chaplain, and made his
communion. At the hour of vespers they read the prayers for the dying.
Several times he made an effort to speak, and Cardinal Ilerda, bending
down, at last caught the faint sounds coming from his cold lips:--
'Quick! quick! The Stabat Mater! the hymn to my Mediatress!' he
whispered.
The hymn is not included in the office for the dying, but Ilerda
repeated it:--
'Stabat Mater dolorosa
Juxta Crucem lacrimosa
Dum pendebat Filius....'
An ineffable comfort shone in the dying eyes, as if he saw heaven opened
and his Mediatress waiting. He stretched out his hands, shuddered,
raised himself, and murmured:--
'Cast me not away, O Holy Virgin!'
Then he fell back on his pillows. He was dead.
VIII
At the same time Cæsar Borgia likewise lay between life and death.
Monsignor Gaspare Torella, his episcopal physician, ordered a heroic
remedy; the patient was to be plunged into the belly of a newly-slain
mule, then into icy water. Whether by virtue of this severe treatment,
or of his extraordinary strength of will, Cæsar recovered.
During all those terrible days he had maintained complete calmness and
self-possession. He followed the course of events, listened to reports,
dictated letters, and issued orders. When news came of the Pope's death,
he had himself transported by the secret passage from the Vatican to the
Castle of St. Angelo.
Strange stories touching Alexander's death were circulated through the
town. Marin Sanuto reported to the Republic of Venice that an ape had
come into his room, and when one of the cardinals would have captured
it, the Pope cried out:--
'Let it alone! Let it alone! It is the devil!'
'It was also said that he frequently cried out:--
'I will come! I will come! Do but wait a little longer!'
And the explanation ran, that upon the death of Innocent VIII., Rodrigo
Borgia had sold himself to the Evil One for the sake of twenty years of
the papal power.
Again it was related that at the moment of death, seven demons appeared
at his pillow; and he was no sooner dead than the body began to rock and
to boil, and steam came from his mouth as from a cauldron; his form
swelled till it had lost all human shape, and his face became black as
an Ethiopian's.
It was the custom upon the death of a Pope to say funeral masses for
nine days at St. Peter's, but such was the terror inspired by this
deformed and putrefying corpse, that none could be induced to undertake
these extreme offices. There were no lights about the bier, nor incense,
nor guards, nor mourners. It was long before any could be found to put
him in a coffin. At last six ruffians undertook the task for a bottle of
wine. The coffin was too small, but the triple crown having been lifted
from the head, the body was rolled in a ragged cloth and forced into the
receptacle. It was indeed whispered that he had no coffin, but was
dropped into a pit head foremost like a victim of the plague.
But even after its burial this poor corpse was allowed no pardon; the
superstitious terrors of the people augmented daily. The very air seemed
polluted, and a pervading loathsome stench was added to the epidemic
fever. A black dog appeared in St. Peter's, running round and round in
ever widening circles. The inhabitants of the Borgo dared not leave
their homes after nightfall. Many were convinced that Alexander had not
died a natural death, but would reappear on the throne, and the reign of
Antichrist would begin.
All these and similar reports did Giovanni Boltraffio hear in the Vicolo
Sinibaldi, in the wine-cellar of Yan Khromy, the lame Czech Hussite.
IX
Meantime Leonardo, careless of political events and removed from all his
friends, was working on a picture begun some time ago to the order of
the Servite monks of Santa Maria Annunziata at Florence. It represented
St. Anne and the Virgin Mary; perfect knowledge and perfect love. St.
Anne was like a sibyl, eternally young; on her downcast eyes, on her
delicately curved lips, there played a mystery of seduction, full of the
wisdom of the serpent, not unlike Leonardo's own smile. Beside her, the
face of Mary, childish and simple, breathed the innocence of the dove.
She knew because she loved, while Anne loved because she knew. Looking
at this picture, Giovanni thought that for the first time he understood
the master's saying, 'that Great Love is the daughter of Great
Knowledge.' Leonardo at this time was also designing machines of various
kinds and shapes, gigantic cranes, pumps, saws, borers; weaving,
fulling, rope-making, and smith's apparatus.
As often before, Giovanni was astonished that he could occupy himself
simultaneously in such widely different ways, but the seeming discord
was intentional.
'I maintain,' he wrote in his _Principles of Mechanics_, 'that Force is
something spiritual and unseen--spiritual, because the life in it is
incorporeal; unseen, because the body in which the force is generated
changes neither its weight nor its aspect.'
Leonardo's destiny was decided with that of Cæsar Borgia. The latter,
though he never lost audacity and calm, felt that fortune had betrayed
him. At the time of the Pope's death and Cæsar's own illness, their
enemies leagued themselves and seized the Roman Campagna. Prospero
Colonna advanced to the city gates, Baglioni on Perugia. Urbino,
Camerino, Piombino recovered their independence. The conclave, assembled
for the election of the new Pope, demanded the removal of the duke from
Rome. The whole order of things was changed; it seemed as if all were
lost.
Those who had trembled before 'the elect of Heaven,' as Machiavelli had
called him, now rejoiced at his overthrow, and kicked the dying lion
with asses's hoofs. The poets furnished epigrams:--
'Cæsar or nothing! Both we find in thee,
Who Cæsar wast, and soon shalt nothing be.'
Leonardo, conversing one day in the Vatican with Antonio Giustiniani the
Venetian, turned the conversation on Machiavelli.
'Has he told you of his book on statecraft?'
'Oh yes; he has mentioned it frequently, but no doubt he spoke in jest.
That is not a book to give to the world! Who writes such books? Counsel
to rulers? Revelation of the secrets of government?--showing that all
rule is violence covered by a mask of justice? 'Twere to teach the hens
the methods of the fox; to arm the sheep with wolf's teeth! God guard
us from such politics!'
'Then you think Messer Niccolò in error, and that he will change his
opinions?'
'Nay! my opinion is with him! We do well to act as he counsels; only let
us not _speak_ it. Yet if he do give his book to the world, I doubt it
will harm any but himself. The sheep and the fowls will go on trusting
the wolves and the foxes. All will be invariable as before. God is
merciful; the world will last our time.'
X
In the autumn of 1503 Piero Soderini, Perpetual Gonfaloniere of
Florence, invited Leonardo to enter his service, intending to employ him
in the construction of military engines for the siege of Pisa. The stay
of the artist in Rome was therefore nearing its close.
One evening he wandered on the Palatine Hill, where had stood the
palaces of Augustus, Caligula, and Septimius Severus. Now only the wind
howled in the ruins, and among the olives and the acanthus was heard the
bleating of sheep and the chirrup of the grasshopper. The ground was
strewn with marble fragments, and Leonardo knew that statues of rare
beauty of the gods and heroes of the ancient world were buried under the
ruins, like dead men awaiting the resurrection. The evening was serene
and fair; the brick skeletons of arches, vaults, and walls, glowed fiery
in the rays of the sinking sun. The autumn foliage was all scarlet and
gold, as once had been the chambers of the Roman emperors.
On the northern slope of the hill, not far from the gardens of
Capranica, Leonardo knelt to examine a fragment of marble. At this
moment a man appeared on the tangled footpath.
'Is it you, Messer Niccolò?' said Leonardo, rising and embracing him.
The Florentine secretary seemed still shabbier than when Leonardo had
made his acquaintance on the road to Fano; it was evident that the
Signoria still neglected him. He was thin, his shaven cheeks seemed
quite blue, his long neck bent wearily, his nose seemed more prominent
and beak-like, his eyes more fevered. Leonardo asked him of his
whereabouts and his affairs; but when he spoke of Cæsar, Niccolò turned
away, shrugging his shoulders and replying with simulated
indifference:--
'I have seen strange things in my life; I no longer wonder at anything;'
and then he fell to questioning Leonardo as if anxious to change the
subject. When he heard that his friend had entered the service of
Florence, Machiavelli cried:--
'Be not elated! God only knows which is the worse, the crimes of a hero
like Cæsar, or the virtues of our ant-hill of a republic. Oh, I know the
beauties of a popular government!' and he smiled bitterly.
Leonardo told him Giustiniani's parable of the hens and the foxes, the
sheep and the wolves.
'Truth remains truth,' said Niccolò, restored to good humour. 'True, I
irritate the hens and the foxes too; they are ready to burn me at the
stake for being the first to describe what they have all being doing
ever since the world began. The tyrants think me an inciter to
revolution, the populace believe me in league with the tyrants, the
religious call me an infidel, the good call me wicked, and the wicked
hate me more than they all because I seem to them more wicked than
themselves. Ah, Messer Leonardo, do you recall our conversations? You
and I have a common fate. The discovery of new truths is, and has ever
been, more dangerous than discovery of new lands. You and I are solitary
in a crowd, strangers, superfluous, homeless wanderers, perpetual
outcasts. He who is unlike others is alone against all; for the world
has been created for the masses, and outside the vulgar no one is
anything. Ay, my friend, this is a serious matter, for it means that
life is tedious; and the worst misfortune in life is not sickness, nor
poverty, nor grief; but tediousness.'
In silence they descended the western slope of the Palatine, and by the
Via della Consolazione reached the foot of the Capitol, the ruins of the
temple of Saturn, the place where in the days of glory had stood the
Forum Romanum.
From the Arch of Septimius Severus, as far as to the Flavian
amphitheatre, the Via Sacra was flanked by wretched hovels. Their
foundations were formed of fragments of statues, of the limbs and torsos
of Olympian gods. For centuries the forum had been a quarry. Christian
churches languished on the ruins of pagan shrines. Layer upon layer of
street rubbish, of dust, of filth, had raised the level of the ground
more than ten cubits. Yet still lofty columns soared upwards and carried
sculptured architraves--last traces of a vanished art.
Machiavelli showed his companion the site of the Roman Senate, the
Curia, where now a cattle-market was held, giving to the whole glorious
area the ignoble name of 'Campo Vaccino.' Huge white bullocks, and the
black buffaloes of the Pontine marshes lay on the ground, swine routed
in the puddles, liquid mire and every sort of filth befouled the fallen
columns, the marble slabs, the half-defaced inscriptions. A feudal
tower, once the stronghold of the _Frangipani_, leaned against the Arch
of Titus; beside it was a tavern for the peasants who came to the
market. Cries of brawling women were heard through the windows, and the
refuse of meat and fish was flung out by careless hands. Half-washed
rags were dried on a string, and beneath them sat an aged and deformed
beggar, bandaging his sore and swollen foot. Behind this squalor rose
the arch, white and pure, less shattered than the remaining monuments.
Bas-reliefs adorned both sides of the interior; on the right Titus the
conqueror, on the left the captive Jews with their altar, shewbread, and
seven-branched candlestick, mere trophies for the victor; at the top of
the arch a broad-winged eagle bearing the deified Cæsar to Olympus.
Machiavelli read the inscription in sonorous tones: '_Senatus Populusque
Romanus divo Tito divi Vespasiani filio Vespasiano Augusto_.'
The sunlight coming through the arch from the direction of the Capitol
lit up the emperor's triumph, the malodorous curls of smoke from the
tavern seemed like clouds of incense. Niccolò's heart beat as, turning
once more to the Forum, he saw the light on the three exquisite columns
before the church of St. Maria Liberatrice; the dreary jangling of the
bells sounding the Ave Maria seemed to him a dirge over fallen
greatness. They directed their steps to the Coliseum.
'Ay,' he said, contemplating the titanic blocks of which the
amphitheatre's walls are made, 'those who could erect such monuments
were more than our equals. 'Tis only here in Rome that one can feel the
difference between us and the ancients. We are unable even to figure
what men they were.'
'I know not,' said Leonardo, awaking with an effort from his musing; 'we
of this age have not less force than the ancients; only 'tis force of
another sort.'
'Christian humility, I suppose?'
'Ay, humility amongst other things, perhaps.'
'It may be so,' said Niccolò coldly.
They seated themselves on a broken step of the amphitheatre.
'Men should either accept Christ or reject him,' exclaimed Machiavelli
in a sudden outburst; 'we do neither the one nor the other. We are
neither Christian nor heathen. We have fallen away from the one, and
have not submitted to the other. We have not the strength for
righteousness, we have not the courage for wickedness. We are neither
black nor white, but a scurvy grey; neither cold nor hot, but a mawkish
lukewarm. We have become so false, so pusillanimous, we have twisted
about, and halted so long between Christ and Belial, that now we neither
know what we want nor whither we are tending. The ancients at least knew
that much, and were logical to the end; did not pretend to turn the
right cheek to him who smote the left. But since men began to believe
that to earn paradise they should suffer any injustice, any violence on
earth, an open door has been set before rascals. Is it not a fact that
Christianity has paralysed the world, and made it a prey to villains?'
His voice shook, his eyes flashed with consuming hatred, his face was
contorted as if from unendurable pain.
Leonardo made no answer. He gazed at the blue heavens shining through
gaps in the Coliseum walls; and he reflected that nowhere did the azure
sky seem so radiant and stainless as in the interstices of ruins. Birds
were flitting in and out of the holes left where the barbarians had
wrenched away the iron bars. Leonardo watched them fluttering to their
roosting places; and he thought how the world-swaying Cæsars, who had
erected the building, and the northern hordes who had pillaged it, had
worked for those of whom it is written: 'They sow not, neither do they
reap; and God feedeth them.'
Everything to Leonardo was joy, to Niccolò all was vexation; honey to
one was gall to the other; perfected knowledge had bred love in the one,
hatred in the other. But Machiavelli interrupted these musings, as usual
anxious to end the conversation with a joke:--
'I perceive, Messer Leonardo, that they who think you impious stand in
gross error. In the Judgment, when the angelic trump shall separate the
lambs from the wolves, you will be among lambs.'
'Well,' said the painter, falling in with his humour, 'if I get to
Paradise, you will come with me.'
'I cry you mercy! I have suffered overmuch in this world from tedium! My
place I will give to any anxious for it. Hearken, good friend, and I
will relate to you a dream. I was taken into an assembly of hungered,
unwashen outcasts, monks with yellow faces, old beggars, slaves,
cripples, idiots, and taught that these were they of whom it is written:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven."
Then they had me to another place, where I saw an assembly of men in
semblance like Senators. Among them were emperors, and popes, and
captains, and lawgivers, and philosophers; Homer, Alexander the Great,
Marcus Aurelius. They talked of learning and of statecraft. And to my
wonderment I was told this was hell, and these were all sinners cast out
by God, because they had loved the world and the wisdom of the world,
which is foolishness with the Lord. And I was bidden to choose between
hell and heaven, and I cried: "To hell with me! With the sages and the
heroes!"'
'If the reality be as you describe it,' said Leonardo, 'I also should
prefer ...'
'Nay, it is too late! You have made your choice. You will be rewarded
for Christian virtues by a Christian heaven!'
They lingered in the Coliseum till dark. The yellow moon had sailed up
from behind the stupendous arches of the Basilica of Constantine,
severing with her rays a bed of cloud, transparent and delicately tinted
as mother-o'-pearl. The three columns in front of St. Maria Liberatrice
shone like phantoms. And the cracked bell sounding the Christian
'Angelus' seemed more than ever like a dirge over the trampled and
forgotten Romans.