of pages brings them to my studio, laughter and ribaldry,
and then decorum as they file into the studio. Soufflés,
artichokes in cream and butter sauce, crêpes, pastries,
glacés, Vouvray. I am partial to grapes and someone on
the royal staff hunts them up for me.
Sometimes I find five or six silver dishes with as many
kinds of nuts. Francis claims that he could not survive
for a month on my vegetarian diet.
Maturina fusses over almost everything the King sends:
“Now, let me see, let me see,” she mutters. “You should
eat this first...it’s better for you that way...and these
pastries, why they’re much too rich for you!”
She arranges the dishes on the dining table (you must
not eat in the studio); she places my chair, lights the
candles, unfolds my napkin and spreads it across my lap.
What a splendid old ragamuffin she is! Too bad she has
lost most of her teeth; her features are leaden, her hair
is twisted under a net in lumps, her arms dangle
crookedly. She is bones hooked together with shrunken
gut. She has been working as a servant for thirty-five
years, she tells me. I’ve had her for fifteen years.
Cloux
The French call this place Le Clos-Luce, and it is a
bright enclosure. I think of the royalty who have lived
here through the years, the many mistresses who came and
went. As I look across the lawn of the manor house I can
see the little chapel of St. Hubert and the rooftops of
the château; it often seems to me that I have been here
before! With Francesco, Salai and Giovanni busy in the
adjoining studio, I try to believe I am a young
man...time is of no importance!
Salai rushed in as I worked at my easel.
“Look, look at this...”
He had found a sketch among my sketches, a sketch he
made in Florence long ago, when he was about ten. It
shows a bicycle. There it is on a scrap of paper, among
pornographic scribbles and graffiti.
“You did pretty well, riding that thing...at first,” I
reminded.
“There weren’t any brakes, remember?”
“Well, when I connected the chain drive to the pedals
and adjusted the handlebars you rode it into the Arno.”
“Some splash!” said Francesco, coming in with Giovanni.
“You could have gotten the bicycle out of the river...it
floated,” reminded Giovanni.
“I couldn’t get hold of it...the current was too fast!”
“It should have been made of steel, to last.” I said.
“Let’s make a bicycle for the King,” suggested Salai.
“I’ll show him my drawing...no, you make one for him. I
can see the courtiers riding about...we can improve on
the one we made in Florence.”
Cloux
Certainly a bird is an instrument performing according
to mathematical laws which are within the capacity of man
to understand. How does it climb, dive, spiral, hover? I
asked these questions yesterday as I watched a flock of
ducks along the Loire; I asked the same questions in
Florence, in Milan, in Rome. If we ask questions we can
eventually achieve some kind of answer. Persistence then!
Why does the heart pump a certain beat? What starts it
pumping? Just when? Why, at that given moment? Does a
nerve trigger it? Heart beats in the womb must be
automatic.
If we understand the mechanism of the heart we may be
able to help when it is damaged.
What are the essential differences between the heart of
a squirrel and the heart of a man? Between the heart of a
cat and a man? Between the heart of a cow and the heart
of a man? Knowing the differences should help.
I must check through my anatomical drawings and compare
notes and analyze the results. There is so much to be
learned. And it is all there, ready to be apprehended.
Amore sol la mi fa remirare... love only makes me
remember; love gives me pleasure...
So it was, long ago, when I loved, when I composed a
rebus every day. There was so much to sing about. I
played my lira da braccio. Made notations. As a boy, I
thought seriously of becoming a musician. Perhaps a
troubadour. At Andrea’s shop I created a silver harp, in
the shape of a horse’s skull. The fame of that harp took
me to Milan—changed my life.
“The song of men is the remedy to pain...”
I almost believed that.
I designed drums, multiple beaters; I could change the
pitch of my drums through holes in the sides...I built
three portable organs... I designed glissando
recorders...I made a lute for Nicolaio del Turco...I made
a wind-chest con gomito for the prioress...
Perhaps I should compose some rebuses for the King.
No.
The music I hear now is not that music.
I might have spent my life in the world of music; yet,
often, even as I played, I puzzled over the enigmas of
ocean and mountain, the enigmas of the body, of sound:
why was one sound more resonant than another; why were
there echoes; why was a woman’s voice unlike a man’s; why
were there changes in the songs of birds?
Ah, those apprentice years!
Those apprentice years!
Getting up at dawn, working before breakfast, working
till late, forgetting to eat, going for a swim in the
Arno, rushing back to work, forgetting to sleep; work,
work, it was a beautiful thing.
I was forever gathering plants, drying them, mounting
them, identifying them. I roamed alone. Good to get away
from the studio. I was forever dissecting animals and
birds. With every bird I asked: how does it propel
itself? How can man go aloft? Those birds, those caged
birds...it was right to hoard money, to buy them, to
liberate them. I followed them, I sat with them, I ran
with them, studying every possible angle.
I filled sketchbooks with sketches of the hawk in
flight, the raven, another with the sparrow.
My glider, based on the studies of the hawk, flew
around our workshop. Again and again we tested it,
wondering why it flew.
Andrea had me working bronze...there was so much, so
much. He was always encouraging. What a fine master. What
a fine artist. Now with gold leaf, now with new pigments,
now something in the way of a discovery with silverpoint.
He had so little money. Sometimes he went hungry.
Sometimes we had to find money for him and his family.
Little Lila, little Lila had to have a toy. Tony had to
have crayons. Bread, milk.
Writing this journal I am attempting to indicate the
important things in my life. However, I am perplexed: I
can’t decide what has been significant, I am trapped by
small things...little things crowd the important. If life
is a mural then every detail is important. As I write I
am learning who I was. And the omissions, are they
carelessness or are they deliberate? As for important
lapses I must make an effort to fill them in, if there is
time. If weariness does not overcome.
Looking back at Milan, at my first year there, I
remember: no, remember is not the word: I have never
forgotten that meeting at the Duke’s festa: I was playing
a lute; she was introduced to me; she wanted me to repeat
the song; we talked. Love? That is not the right word.
But is there better?
Caterina had my mother’s name; that meant something to
me.
I wish I could describe her as I saw her at the festa
but she has become unreal through the years. I see her in
the sunlight, I see her as I sketched her, I see her as
she lay dead. There is no easy way to describe our love.
I am unable to separate beauty from tragedy. I wish I
could.
Caterina was nineteen. She was my blonde, my Leda. Was
our love unique? Maybe it was rather ordinary. That does
not matter. It matters that there were long brush strokes
in the mind. There is no need to retouch our emotions.
Certainly her death and our daughter’s death need no
retouching.
I hear her singing one of my songs, a song I composed
for her... I hear her laughing and I hear our daughter
laughing, as they play together. Laughter—in memory—does
not blur as words and faces blur.
Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...we had three years
together: there was money enough: there was time enough:
then Milan was besieged. Both were killed by the
bombardment. But before they died, Mother visited us and
for a while I had two Caterinas, two loving women, two
gentlewomen. Our child was learning to walk. Not many
people know of those three years.
Cloux
Today, Maturina has served me her special pasta,
several kinds of bread, dried figs, camembert, her three-
layered pastry, and Moselle wine. She appreciates my
fondness for sweets.
I asked her to sit down with me. As usual, she
declined.
“I want your company...everyone’s away.”
Boltraffio, Francesco, Salai and others had gone for
the day. Another holiday!
“Are you homesick?”
Her sad face became a little sadder. She sat down and
clasped her hands in her lap and stared at them.
“I think you should visit your people.”
She nodded.
“...But I couldn’t leave you.”
“For a month or two?”
“It’s a long, long way to Vinci...and alone!”
“Salai is returning to Florence soon...”
“But I can’t...”
“You should see your family. People in Vinci would like
to hear about us, how we’re getting along. We have money
enough.”
Abruptly, hands to her face, she got up, and shuffled
away. “I’m too old,” she said.
Cloux
As we rode along the Loire, following the river road,
Francesco and I talked:
“So you received a letter from your mother yesterday?
How are things at Vaprio?”
“Quiet...everyone is well. Papa has fully recovered.
Mama says that conditions are very bad in
Milan...fighting in the streets...hungry mobs...looting.”
“Vaprio continues to escape...I hope nothing changes
that!”
“You asked me about the pigments I bought in Paris. We
have a good assortment. I’ve been grinding them. We’ll
have a beautiful green, that laurel green you’re fond
of.”
“I’m still partial to green. I suppose you bought the
Dutch pigments...”
Our horses, side by side, kept an even pace: both from
the same stable, they liked walking together: the road
was familiar to them: the afternoon was sunny; shafts of
light rebounded from the Loire; a pair of squirrels
chittered at us; hunters and their dogs passed—someone
saluted us with a playful toot of his horn.
“Mama insists that we stay away from Milan...she warns
us...she said that I’m to tell you.”
“I understand. We’re lucky to be here; Cloux is like
Vaprio; beautiful countryside; a sketch here, a sketch
there.”
“We should ride to Chambord.”
“I prefer the river trip...”
“Shall we go on the river?”
“All right, Cecchino. You arrange the trip. Certainly,
there’s no finer château than Chambord. Let’s spend a few
days there. We can find new paintings, new marbles and
bronzes...from Milan...Athens...Rome...the greatness of
stolen art...”
As we left our horses at the stable, Francesco asked:
“Did I mention that the Princess de Lamballe has a son?
He’s my age. He wants to study painting. Do you want a
Prince for a pupil?”
Cloux
The King and I talked far into the night.
Youth can be so sincere: youth can evaluate and assess:
last night, on the part of others, he apologized: the
Gascon archers were much on his mind...
“I have thought of them many, many times...those Gascon
fools...nothing else to do...made a target of your
cavello...our archers...”
Bronze for cannons...he knew about that...he searched
about for a solution, as if it might be possible to cast
the horse. As he saw it, he felt he had rescued me. Had
he? I turned over that thought. Recompense? Was Cloux
recompense? He did not say so. I think we both wished to
believe it was respect, admiration. His talk made us feel
awkward at times.
I had not complained: I had not mentioned the monument.
Divulging his sincerity got Francis beyond his scope.
He referred to Amboise and Cloux as my home. Haven, of
course. Retreat? Voluntary exile. Those thoughts could be
brought in. I tried my best to avoid any embarrassing
approach. Presently, he was excusing the battle of man
against man. Again we were faltering. His innate
shrewdness came to our rescue, and we discussed
architectural changes at Amboise...
“We must do everything we can to improve it...it can
never be like Chambord ...help me give it a manorial
feeling...walk about with me tomorrow...let’s write down
some of your ideas...that stairway...the entry...we have
to make it less grim...harmony...”
IL CAVELLO...the words haunted us as we said good
night.
I lay down under my canopy. The bed seemed to grow
immense. On one side I saw a child, a bend in a river, a
hill...the bed drifted...the room changed... I saw men
pouring bronze into a mould... I saw a great horse in a
city square...
SALAI—He is either in studio rags or elegant, foppish;
he bursts with energy (has a brisk, haughty walk); he is
quick with his pigments; he is as lean-featured as a fox;
he is yellow-headed, tall. He has a wonderful laugh, a
tooth-spread grin. His brown eyes are spoked with yellow.
A girl-chaser. My Salai will never become an accomplished
artist. I still have to remind him to wash himself. Ai,
Salaino! And will he ever quit that foreign habit, the
habit of smoking?
Almost everywhere I travel I am troubled by poverty: I
talk with the workers and some of them say they are
hungry all of the time: I talk with them about their
tools, and try to improve them. Shovels. Spades. Rakes.
Forks. I have suggested a more efficient roasting spit—I
have made detailed drawings. I have improved a wood-
planer and a file-maker. I have designed a textile
machine, a better barrow, a good water-lamp.
For most field laborers, theirs is an ox-life.
Horse, mule, donkey, ox, man...they are inextricable.
Landlord and tenant, the struggle goes on and on: they
are as much at loggerheads as pope and duke. Serfs,
beggars, greed, knights, fools—pathos.
At Vaprio, I sometimes ate with a farmer and his wife,
in their tiny stone farmhouse. They did not complain, yet
they slept on mats, ate meat now and then, worked from
dawn to sundown, shivered through the winters, saved flo-
rins in a clay pot. Their hands at mealtime were the
hands of old people and yet they were not old.
In the Vaprio region the people have to pay exorbitant
milling fees, pay to use a common oven or wine press.
Fishing rights have been stolen. For a few gentlemen
there may be no wood for winter; for many others there
may be no wood at all. Some want a civil war to put them
on their feet.
At Vaprio, I recall a child of nine or ten: I saw her
often on my visits there: she reminded me of that festa,
in May, in Florence, when I fell in love with my own
Beatrice, when I was eleven or twelve years old. My
Beatrice was beautiful, her features delicately formed,
her behavior gentle and agreeable, full of candid
loveliness... I thought of her as my angel.
In those days, in Firenze, I often passed Dante’s home:
his wooden door had a bronze knocker, a simple braided
ring. I used to imagine knocking and saying:
“Is Dante Alighieri at home?”
I expected a housekeeper to reply:
“He’s been dead a hundred and fifty years, you fool!”
I would have dashed off, laughing.
Cloux
I suppose I must admit it: I am a parasite of royalty.
During forty years I have had nine royal patrons.
Each one has hindered me; each one has helped.
I could not have survived in my vineyard at San
Vittore: I need artists, sculptors, apprentices,
courtiers, women, princes, jousting, masques, jewelry,
perfume... I need great art. I need antique art.
Libraries.
Last night, at Amboise, in the garden, at the pergola,
I explained some of my observations of the moon.
Courtiers crowded around. A duke was there. A princess.
There was an earnest exchange as I passed around lunar
drawings, in the lamplight and torchlight.
“The details are as accurate as I could draw
them...notice the craters, pits, the rills...you see, if
you keep the moon under careful observation over a period
of time, you’ll become aware of fixed landmarks. I made
those drawings from the Coliseum...in Rome...”
Francesco has copied this. It was written in Florence,
in 1508. I thought it rather interesting, so I have
included it here:
For several days I have forgotten to hang my notebooks
on my belt. I must see to it that I remember. Tomorrow I
must write down exactly what I observed when I dissected
the pigeon I found dead in front of the church.
Se sarai solo, sarai tutto tuo...
NOTE: when you sever the man’s legs tomorrow afternoon,
lay them on the floor beside him: measure length,
diameter, muscle curvatures. Dissect each foot, and
record differences. Since the man was very fat, try to
discover ways of overcoming this problem.
Remember to borrow the lancet from Tomas.
I warned my new assistant: Cosimo, squeal on me and I
will see to it that you never become a member of the
guild.
He has threatened to write the Pope (or one of the
Cardinals), and expose me. He could. He knows how to
write. Now I pay him more soldi than any of the others.
Blackmailer!
Ah, you Florentines, look, look! I render a skull—
yours! You tremble. You are afraid of learning! For
centuries you have been afraid. Afraid of yourselves, of
others, of God. You are trapped in stupidity and
lassitude.
Blood—how it scares you: You whimper at the sight of
blood. I remove a man’s guts. You are horrified. But you
will batter a man to shreds on the battlefield, and show
your gory sword. You will dump boiling oil on him...you
will blast him with gunpowder...but you won’t dissect
him...you won’t learn how we are made!
Sometimes kids overran my studio; maybe because I never
could yell at them. They would sneak in from the street;
they had to poke, to see, to talk, to giggle. One
afternoon (I remember it was such a fine day, a day to
chuck everything and walk out of town), five or six boys
and girls came in and before I could figure out what they
were up to, they rushed out with two of my models. Two or
three ran toward the Arno; others ran off into the
countryside. I couldn’t follow both. Whooping and
hollering, the kids flew their model over the river. I
watched it soar away, dip, glide, plunge into the water.
When I found the other kids, in the country, they had
my Red Hawk: they had it launched on a cord, and kite-
like, it was climbing, spiraling, staying aloft.
Kids—I miss their laughter, their enthusiasm!
There was a time when I had dirty waifs sleeping on the
studio floor. We took in two or three; then others came.
Their parents had died in the plague at Santa Maria; I
guess it was at Santa Maria. Those were hungry weeks for
all of us; yet we somehow managed, managed to feed them,
get clothes for them, find homes for them—and kept on
working.
Cloux
Copied from my 1504 Florentine notebook:
As soon as we met in the Town Hall there was a big
wrangle. Ten or twelve of us, bearded patriarchs and
upstarts, were at odds. We must decide where
Michelangelo’s David was to be placed. We must situate it
where it had shade part of the day, where it was
protected from the weather; we must have it mounted on
travertine; we must move it carefully; we must see to
it...
It was lucky for us that Michelangelo was not around.
He would have exploded—and told us off.
We walked around Florence for several hours, fighting
the heat (and each other); then, we reached our one and
only mutual agreement—to go somewhere and eat.
Later, I went with Francesco to Michelangelo’s studio,
and we sat there, the two of us, and talked about his
David, sitting on a bench facing his work. We agreed that
it equaled any classical masterpiece. It was a little
difficult to accept such beauty coming from such a
troublemaker.
It required four days for men to move it, by windlass
and rollers, to a site alongside the Town Hall: how
carefully we worked, the statue suspended in a sling.
Sometimes there were thirty of us at the job. A downpour
drenched us. As we moved forward over slippery cobbles I
thought the figure would topple. Cargadores bellowed.
Michelangelo was on hand and beat one of the cargadores
with his fists, screaming at the top of his voice.
When we had David in place we arranged a party. All the
Florentine artists. Michelangelo was absent.
A while ago Niccolò Machiavelli wrote me from his
Tuscan farm, where he is still exiled from Florence. His
disturbing thoughts linger:
“Mornings, weather permitting, I hunt or snare
thrushes, reading Dante or Ovid to make the hunts more
agreeable. After lunch, I visit an inn and throw dice
with the yokels, to taste my malign destiny in their
brutish company.
“When evening arrives I go to my library, after I have
shed my muddy, everyday clothes. Now I am dressed as if
about to appear at court, as an envoy from Florence.
Elegantly attired I enjoy the presence of great men of
the past. They receive me cordially. I talk with them,
speaking confidently; they are at ease. For a few hours I
lose myself: I am not afraid of poverty and death.”
Familiar...the thoughts of the exile.
Yesterday, I wrote Niccolò and invited him to Cloux.
“We will be a pair of exiles. Stay with me a month or
two. Amboise won’t bore you. There’s a superb library.
The King has welcomed you. There will be no expense on
your part. I will see to that.”
How he helped in Florence: I remember that I owe my
Anghiari commission to him. And that night Cesare
strangled my friend...it was Niccolò who provided the
horse.
A library.
A library can erase problems.
A library is a kind of stained glass.
Francesco and I enjoy the Cloux library. Handsome room.
A fine Mantegna—in an old style frame—hangs on the far
wall. Its mythological scene is pleasantly antique. The
shelves hold parchments, vellums, velvet-bound books,
illuminated manuscripts, scores. Francesco has turned up
a score I wrote for the Medici, one I used to play.
There is a white marble table with alabaster legs where
I spread out the manuscripts and books.
The librarian, keys at his waspish gut, is a defrocked
Jesuit, ashen-headed, ashen-faced; he admits that he has
never lifted down half of the books.
A lovely prie dieu holds a Latin volume, its pages
ornamented with pastel watercolor and gold leaf. The
carpet is a mouse-chewed Turkish weave, red on red on
red, with colorless, limp fringes.
The unchained books are in Spanish, Latin, French,
Greek, Dutch, and Hungarian—collected by King Francis’
father. He loved this room. He died there.
Sitting under the green pergola at Amboise, King
Francis and I sipped apéritifs, the afternoon warm, a
lazy hunting dog at his feet.
“I don’t understand how your army crossed the Alps in
six or seven days.”
“Five days,” he corrected me.
“By the Col d’Argentière?
“Yes...do you know that Pass?”
“I have camped there. I have seen some of it when I was
collecting fossils. But for an army to get through, it
seems impossible. You had cannons, horses, mules...”
“We were determined to surprise the Milanese.”
We watched dragonflies circle above lily pads in a
small rock-rimmed fountain, their orange wings on fire in
the afternoon light. Near the fountain men were planting
young columnar cypress. Other gardeners were spading
paths because the King was re-landscaping. Someone,
pushing a barrow, with an enormous red wheel, asked the
King if he could plant the roses in the circular beds
already prepared.
“We had good weather,” Francis said.
“Think of it...it took me almost a month to reach
here.”
“But you were in no hurry, Mon Père.”
“Snow...mud...ice...”
“I realize.”
“Did you think of Hannibal?”
“I did.”
“What Pass did he use to invade Italy?”
“Some say the Mount Genevre.”
“He was a great tactical genius.”
“Our army was well led...but there were times when I
wished we had some of Hannibal’s elephants...but fog was
our worst problem...morning fog, thick as an elephant’s
hide...maybe that fog helped us...our scouts encountered
shepherds in the fog...stopped them from informing
others...”
Most men fail to come to grips with nature’s
intricacies. When they find a fossil they are satisfied
with a cursory look. As for flowers, insects, animals,
birds, they turn away from them if they serve no
practical purpose. And because men do not care to probe,
they resent or fear my studies. I have been made to feel
this through the years.
They accuse me of wizardry...alchemy...vile practices.
My studio door is banged open.
“Help me, Maestro...oh, God, help me!”
And I try... I draw out pus... I patch a hole in a
rogue’s leg... I sew up flesh...but the same man, when he
is well, whispers lies about me :
“He steals bodies from the morgue! He steals dead men’s
legs...he slices men’s skulls in half!”
The body’s secrets, the mind’s secrets...we must unlock
them!