at every opportunity. He introduces me to his friends:
“My Leonard!” He introduces me as “Mon Père.” He calls me
“Maestro...architect...engineer...he’s designing the main
staircase at Chambord...this is Count de Senlis, a
connoisseur of art.” The Count, an old man, is one of
Francis’ “oldest friends.” Monsignor Marais admires my
paintings. Lingers. Cardinal Chambiges compliments my
work with sincerity, makes an offer on behalf of his
church in Rheims. There are artisans from Suresnes. There
is an Italian group, enroute to Paris. However, it is not
so much the visitors, the guests, as the King himself—his
fondness for me.
Surely Cloux is everything I need.
Old paths, old benches, newly pollarded trees, beds of
flowers, autumn leaves, moonlight...at night I hear the
owls talking.
Cloux
Studio
Winter evenings, cold evenings, before a roaring fire
in my walk-in fireplace, my lamps lit, I sometimes read
aloud two or three of my fables. Guests applaud. We enjoy
hors d’oeuvres, sip claret. What lavish trays arrive from
the King’s kitchens!
The King has a poet in residence who likes to recite
female poetry—for the pomades and perfumes! He is a
hunchback, with a sharp tongue and tragic grey eyes in
his young blond face. Courtiers tell me he has completed
an epic poem about my Battle of the Anghieri...
A couple of weeks ago, Galeazzo, a local hunter,
dragged a bear cub into my studio. He was quite docile
for a while and then became too frisky, and had to be led
away. Galeazzo promises to bring him again, and I will
sketch him.
Francesco found this fable of mine in an old notebook,
one of those I used to keep in Italy:
A stone lay on a mound where an attractive woodland
shaded it. Herbs and flowers of many colors grew around.
As the stone looked about, at the stones in the road
winding below, it wanted to drop down onto the road.
The stone said to itself: “What am I doing, sitting
here, among these plants all day long? I want to be with
the other stones, my sisters and brothers.”
So, during a heavy rain, it managed to roll down and
stop among the rocks of the road. In a short while it
began to feel the weight of the cart wheels, the crack of
horse and mule hooves, the tramp of cattle, the kick of
travelers’ shoes. A man knocked the stone to one side,
another spilled trash on it. A cart wheel chipped it. The
dung of a cow splattered it. The roadway became very hot.
The stone gazed back at the place it had left—its
place of solitude.
This is what happens to those who think they can live
tranquilly in cities.
Francesco feels this is my best fable, although he does
not think much of any of them:
“Remember, Maestro, you are not Aesop.”
A nut, carried by a raven to the top of a tall
campanile, fell into a chink. As it lay there, it asked
the wall, by the grace of God and the fine bells in the
tower, to help it survive since it had fallen into a
chink without any soil. The wall was sympathetic and was
glad to help the nut roll into a place where there was
soil. After a time, the nut began to split and send out
roots. Soon the roots worked their way between the stones
of the tower. As it grew stronger it began to destroy the
campanile.
The old tower bewailed its destruction, but it was too
late!
Tonight, Francesco and I have been working for hours:
he sits at his big desk with two water-lamps close to his
bearded face, his silhouette on the wall. He is only
twenty-two, but appears to be older in the lamplight.
He will be a great painter, when he is free of my
influence. He should set up an atelier of his own in
Florence or Milan. He comes alive in Milan. He endures
this exile out of respect for me: for him I am both
maestro and father (in his own father’s eyes the world of
art is unimportant). In his patient, almost ecclesi-
astical voice, Francesco repeated the outline we have
prepared; here are items we have sorted out for further
evaluation:
1 - The inequality in the concavity of a ship.
2 - Inequalities in the curves of the sides of ships.
3 - Investigations as to the best positions of the
tiller.
4 - The meetings and unions of water coming from
different directions.
5 - A study of shoals formed under river sluices.
6 - The configuration of the shores of rivers and their
permanency.
These studies should be of value to mariners.
Francesco finds that much of the information I had
recorded is spotty.
Tomorrow we will begin with item 1.
October 28, ’18
A lavish autumn!
Gold leaves float on the river, and, as I walk along,
admiring them, a handsome riderless horse crosses, shakes
his mane vigorously, plunges wherever the water is deep,
then stands on the shore for a few moments, regarding me.
Again and again the fog becomes total master here:
blanketed by this Loire curtain, we are obliterated
almost nightly: a visitor would have a hard time locating
the château. King Francis, and his retinue and parasites,
have fled to Paris for the winter.
I have hours to contemplate his Italian plunder: in his
salons, his superb collection of Mazzoni marbles—twenty-
one major pieces.
I study and admire the King’s Bataille tapestries. My
private gallery. My autumn sun, as well. Sometimes
Francesco makes the gallery a gallery for two. With
autumn rain or wind. He sketches a Mazzoni bust; I sketch
a Mazzoni figure. I am learning to appreciate the man’s
skill: it helps my exile.
Yesterday, as I left the château, the handsome horse
re-appeared, trotting along a path that leads into the
forest. Bobbing his head as if in recognition, he walked
toward the manor house with me. He’s a grey, with mixed
mane. It was growing dark and his color blurred into the
dusk.
I came to Amboise three, or was it four years ago?
The easel of time totters against invisible walls.
I grow thinner.
Maturina urges me to eat more.
“Give up your vegetarian food. Let me fix you a strong
beef soup...let me casserole a chicken!”
A letter from Salai.
He is completing his house on the vineyard property. As
usual, his letter is brief—painfully brief. Where is the
love we once shared? I know that friendships are like old
clothes, they wear out. But we were more than friends.
If we live long enough we may achieve maturity: we will
have the past to guide us: we will confront the future
more wisely: I write this, wondering about myself: is
this something, this saying, that applies to someone
else? I know that blind courage sustains me. I know that
somehow we must circumvent the Cesares and Savonarolas.
December 2nd
At Vinci, winter, spring, summer, we used to attend
early Mass: Mother had her favorite seat, near the altar,
close to her Jesus: I remember her somber clothes, her
yellow hair in a spiral. Her face was the face of a
madonna, and the way she looked at me lit up my face; so,
we walked, hand in hand, or with her hand on my shoulder.
Through the years I have seen us walking there, at Vinci,
a hundred times: were we always alone together? It seems
that way. Was the church beautiful? It seems so.
She disapproved of the sermons:
“Latin rote...I can teach you...listen to me.”
I listened.
“There are three things for you to remember. One is
gentleness. The other: honesty. The third: beauty.
Look...look at this sky, the clouds, the birds, our
cypress trees, our church.”
I looked.
December 4th
Alone, walking in the fog along the Loire, in the early
morning, I saw him. Magnifico. Crossing. Splashing.
Approaching.
That night he appeared in a dream: the Christ of my
mural was walking along beside him, His hand buried in
Magnifico’s thick mane. Christ was saying something about
feeding him: plenty of grain in your stall, we must see
to that.
A week or so ago, Judas visited me. In the dream he
seemed to be standing at the foot of my bed: he
complained about the cold, the falling snow: his face had
become scarred; he appeared much older. Feeble.
Alone...I have learned there is something sacred about
being alone. I was...
For next Saturday and Sunday
Write to Machiavelli—invite him again
Draw steering armature for bicycle
Collect leaf specimens along Loire
Re-sketch stairway at Romorantin
Invite the King—arrange sketches for him—show him
Francesco’s copy of
my Salvator
Cloux
Visiting here, the Parisian architect, Pierre Arconati,
admires my canvas of Saint John and my Mona. What a
genial man, a student of the masters, devoted to all of
the arts, dapper, young, fluent in Italian, he brought a
portfolio of exquisite architectural renderings of
Parisian commissions.
I showed him my drawings for the Chambord and
Romorantin châteaux. We went over them in detail and he
was especially interested in my spiral staircase. He,
too, is a vegetarian. We had lunch together and swapped
dietary ideas. Of course he can find unique foods in
Paris—things we can’t obtain at Amboise.
As I showed him around the château and manor house, he
was enthusiastic about living in the country...when the
gardeners’ pet fawn ate out of his hand, he turned to me:
“I find the city difficult... I hope Amboise is right
for you,” he said. “How did you like Rome?”
Here is my list of drawings and sketches at Cloux, work
I wish retained:
Façade of a residence.
Dome of a church, with cupolas.
Lock on a canal.
Motor, with falling weight and ratchet arrangement.
Proportions of man (Vitruvius).
Star of Bethlehem plant and spurge.
Machine for grinding telescopic mirrors.
Life preserver.
Parabolic compass.
Sforza horse (Cermonino).
20 silverpoint drawings of horses.
Sketch of sailboat. Weaving machine.
Pincers for hoisting heavy objects.
Sketch of windmill.
Planetary clock.
Parachute.
Birds in flight—30.
Man in flight.
Gliders.
Helicopter.
Insects.
Drawing of Ginevra Benci.
Crayon of Cecilia Gallerani.
Silverpoints of Boltraffio, Salai, Marco d’Oggiono,
Francesco Melzi.
Head of Christ.
Disciples.
Series of Last Supper drawings.
Astronomy: distance of sun and earth.
Anatomy: 60 drawings—
Muscles of upper limbs,
muscles of legs,
muscles of back.
Bone structures,
veins.
Complete skeleton, skull,
hands.
Studies of horses for Adoration of the Magi.
Preliminaries for Leda.
Studies for Anne.
Saint John.
Geologic studies.
Deluge drawings.
Châteaux drawings.
FIFTY YEARS OF WORK:
Hours of
work
12,000 Sketches
20,000
400 Major Drawings
10,000
20 Easel Paintings
20,000
125 Treatises (still incomplete)
16,000
Murals (and their cartoons)
15,000
Bronzes
15,000
Dissections and Anatomy Studies
10,000
Engineering Projects (canals, locks,
swamps)
20,000
Architecture, Music, Horology
10,000
Maps, Geometry
5,000
Geometry, Hydraulics
5,000
146,000
N.B. I have destroyed 188 drawings. I have
retained several maps, and I may retain
several drawings of people here at Amboise.
Francesco is to destroy most of the military
sketches and drawings because many are lifted
from old books and manuscripts. It was my
intention to compile an encyclopedia of
machines of all kinds.
1519
Cloux
January 3, 1519
I
am very tired after a long horseback ride. Francesco and
I rode miles along the river—exploring. Where the ground
became swampy we road through forest (the King’s Forest),
following vague roads and paths. Somewhere, in the thick
of the woods, we roused an elk. The animal crashed into a
ravine, and disappeared. We saw fox and squirrel, ravens,
an owl. The bird was dumbwitted on a stump, too sleepy,
too careless to fly. At a clearing we alarmed poachers
who raced off, leaving their slaughtered buck, their bows
and quivers beside it.
Tired of the thick shade and the monotony of old trees,
we headed for Amboise, but soon found out that we were
lost. It was a tedious ride before Francesco detected the
sound of water; it was good to dismount and drink at the
Loire.
Back in our saddles, we trotted along a sandy road,
wide enough for a carriage. Cecchino began to sing and
whistle. There was sunlight. Evening clouds built up a
sunset. Presently we saw the hulk of Amboise in the
distance.
So we began the new year!
“Bonne Année!” Francesco yelled at the château walls.
January 7, 1519
BEATRICE D’ESTE—Painting Beatrice d’Este was troublesome
because she seldom kept her sittings. She was moody,
flighty. Her sallow features defied changes in light and
shade. I wanted to impart a special quality to her
portrait, a sense of youth, interest beyond the face
itself. I tried animals in her arms, birds, flowers.
“You’re too fussy, Leonard...all this bother...let’s
get the ugly thing finished! You don’t remember that I’m
busy. When I’m late, you fuss at me. Scowl. Tomorrow is
the Spring Ball, yes, yes, it’s tomorrow!” And she would
babble on, in French, in Italian, stamp her foot,
gesture, swear. Child-wife, she was child-model.
She felt I should concentrate on her favorite jewels,
her rubies, her pearl snood, her diamond shoulder-pin!
“I insist,” she would storm.
It was Boltraffio who painted her jewelry—when she was
away from the studio.
“I hope the paint cracks on her jewels,” he snorted,
disliking her.
When she died, in ’96, I tried to visit the Duke, to
present the finished portrait. He refused to see me.
Inconsolable, I was told.
Beatrice was twenty-two or twenty-three when she died;
she had been married to Ludovico for seven years.
Everyone said the Duke loved her profoundly. He also
adored his mistress, Lucrezia. He also adored Cecilia.
Love, for Duke Ludovico, was living.
Inconsolable? How long was he inconsolable?
GINEVRA DE BENCI—I painted her in the autumn and painted
autumn into her hair, painted it into the juniper trees
in the background, in the dress she wore, in her eyes.
I was twenty-two!
She was a sickly person, cold; yet I admired her: she
posed with patience, understanding my tedious brush
strokes, praising my skill. A woman of scientific
inclination, she had learned much from my friend Amerigo,
her geographer father.
When I studied geography with Amerigo, at his home, she
would appear from time to time, and I would try to
memorize the contours of her face, the coloring of her
skin in different lights, her bearing. I wanted to
appreciate her personality.
Sometimes, in the studio, Ginevra would preach her
father’s ideas; I think she was trying to see how much I
respected his concepts as cartographer. She could be
rude, blunt. She tried to sail to the New World. She
wanted to be the first woman to circumnavigate the world.
She thought I had no right to discourage her.
“You are no sailor... I have sailed more than you!”
In her boldness, she dictated changes in her father’s
maps. This was forty-five years ago, when some of us
believed Virtutem Forma Decorat.
Cloux
January 10, 1519
CECILIA GALLERANI—It was totally different with Cecilia’s
portrait: the painting and the sittings went well.
As Ludovico’s fourth or fifth mistress, she had learned
artfulness: she was smiles, warm hands, long, slender
fingers, warm embraces, kisses. Always in agreement.
Soft-voiced. Fond of poetry. Music. Enjoyed eating,
sipping wine, walking, flowers. When we were in bed
together, she knew how, when. Her breasts were small.
Ivory. Her body was compact, delightful. The shape of her
skull was more to my liking than any woman’s.
I like to think that all of my models are still
alive...
Here is Cecilia’s ermine, eating from his dish...he’s
very much alive...here he comes, trotting across the
floor, jumping into her lap, cuddling, ready for another
pose.
Cloux
February 2, 1519
Tomorrow there is to be a sumptuous banquet in the
château, again royalty. Three hundred guests, I hear:
Germans, Dutch, Austrian, Swiss, two or three British, a
Greek potentate; the majority will be Parisians and the
château people. I will have one of my puppets, dressed as
a hunter, in fur cap, etc., relate my fable about the
great elk of Scandinavia.
I have constructed a papier-mâché lion—in yellow,
black, and pink. He will walk a few steps down the center
aisle of the banquet room, growl at the guests, then open
his mouth to reveal a bouquet of white lilies.
Last week I was ill (my whole body ached), and I could
not attend the masque ball.
At the ball, boxers fought in an arena, sawdust-
floored; there were Swiss dancers and yodelers; sword
swallowers performed: they are the rage now.
Michelangelo sleeps on my lap.
Cloux
February 11
Outside, as I write, a girl is singing, in the chilly,
windy afternoon:
Châtaignes piquantes!
Châtaignes chatouillantes!
Que chatouillent la cuisse,
Mais qui piquent la poche!
Now I hear another child—an Italian, a boy of six or
seven, way back in time, singing, as he runs an errand.
When I was a boy...it’s true...I was happy: Mother made
me happy: hand in hand we walked, at sunset time...she
liked to sing as she worked in her kitchen...we sometimes
sang together, “bread songs,” she called them.
I made drawings for her, little gifts, on scraps of
paper, a flowering geranium, a lizard, the figure of a
clay dog...
Vinci...its hills, its sun, the trees, the caves, the
rocks...they made me happy...grapes made me happy, the
clairette, pinkish and very sweet; the yellow-green
muscats, so fat...grapes, laughter...kindness...
I still taste those grapes on Maturina’s table.
Cloux
In the afternoon heat, it was a long drive to Pliny’s
Villa, outside Rome. Enroute, I witnessed some of the
wretchedness of Rome’s slums; we were detained by waifs
and by a number of mentally retarded. My driver’s glib
humor, levelled at the poor, gnawed at me until we
reached the villa among its cypress and olive. There I
walked through derelict rooms, some with views of the
Tyrrhenian Sea...summer rooms...winter rooms...dining
rooms...library. I saw swimming pools, fountain, turrets,
Numidian columns, Luna marble. The sea boomed and Pliny,
the upright Roman, governor, senator, consul, killer of
Christians, stood before me in his white toga:
P - I respect your portico mural but it must be
finished by the New Year. Our banquet hall will be ready
at that time...we are preparing festivities—you
understand. Your unicorn motif is overdone in
color...several sea creatures are neglected, it seems to
me.
LdV - Then you are dissatisfied?
P - I wouldn’t say that, but changes, changes might be
made.
LdV - A matter of details, perhaps?
P - Correct. A matter of details. You are to consult
with Valerius. He will...
LdV - And your payments? I must remind you...they’re in
arrears.
P - You will speak to Antonius, my secretary. This is a
bad season...the harvests are poor... I have
obligations...charities. It was exceedingly hot in Rome
today...good evening.
And those walls, mosaics, turrets, frescoes, pillars,
arches; what sort of luck had their artisans, fifteen
hundred years ago? The opulence of Pliny...the opulent
sea...millions of
sesterces...banquets...Nero...Otho...Titus... Can Rome
become an art center?
After exploring the villa, I ate my bread and cheese by
the shore, sitting on the sand. Sketchbook on my lap, I
sketched seabirds and a torn shoreline tree.
Kicking aside leaves from a mosaic floor, I visioned a
mosaic: in my mosaic of green, brown and white were
squared circles, spirals, nudes, sea horses.
A pretty girl passed by, selling figs from a shoulder
basket. I bought six, three for me, and three for the
driver.
Cloux
Was it ten years ago, at Piombino, that green shadows
sprawled across the walls of bayside houses, with sun,
hot sun, on the bay? Sun on the moat of the town’s
doddering fortress, on the plumed helmets of its entry
guards.
I made sketches at the harborside inn, made them on a
long balcony table; I made harbor maps and drawings for a
windmill; I added sketches of a spool-winding machine; I
remember I evolved my machine for polishing crystals. My
sketchbook filled...my ellipsograph, my new
perspectograph, a pair of improved compasses.
Yesterday, as I sorted these sketches, memories came
back.
And here at the château, I must see to it that the
pale, long-legged, crooked-nosed Frog finishes my brass
compass. He has kept me waiting for more than a month—
these dilatory French! Can the artist live forever—like a
Pope!
At Piombino, a fisherman helped me locate fossils on
the beach. A small lizard, a multi-veined leaf. What was
the fisherman’s name? Giorgio? Paolo? Doesn’t matter. We
became friends. Bearded rogue. Fat. In his rowboat, we
sailed the harbor, weathering calms and wild gusts, in
and out of bays, eating cheese and bread, sipping port,
catching fish, his oars a pair of misshapen flippers.
With his tools, at his home, above the bay, I designed
oars, shaped them, edged them with thin copper. When he
tested them he found that he rowed with ease.
“Fine...Maestro, fine!”
Blue rowboat, blue bay.
We rigged a sail, a drab hunk but it worked. His name?
Not Paolo, but Rimini. Obese fishmonger Rimini. Excellent
bread was baked by his young, mute wife. Bread, cheese,
wine. Rimini often sang, with his Piombino slurring, sang
as we drifted, sang and rowed. We sailed far away from
the odious wars, from weaponry, forts, and death.
Rimini’s gulls, black-tipped gulls, followed his boat,
ate out of his hands—perched on my shoulders. Ah, those
wings! Those flights!
Occasionally, I slept at Rimini’s thatch, where ducks
always woke me. It was pleasant to wake to the quackings
of Rimini’s pets. His drake had been his pet for years, I
won’t guess how many. But I remember his glossy plumage
and proud head, and how gluttonous he was.
When Rimini’s pretty wife (woman) became bedridden I
prescribed omitting meat. She agreed, through our sign
language. Within a week she was out of bed. Rimini had a
festa, to honor her recovery. Poor man, he thought me
something of a wizard, an ogre, because I could explain
to him what the interior of the stomach was like.
February 13
Francesco and I have spent hours at the Château
Romorantin, where remodeling of the old rambling building
goes badly. The weather is mean. Cough weather. Stormy.
Romorantin is no place to live in February. My drawing
papers go limp there.
The King is seldom around; his disreputable workers
look as if they had come out of a tenth century
nightmare. Some have quit because of the weather; I am
told that the head architect is sick.
My supervision nets me nothing, does not help the King.
Francesco groans as we make the rounds of inspection.
Enroute to Cloux the carriage breaks an axle as we near
the château and manor house. Rain. A few days later we
backtrack to Romorantin on horses. Carriages would not
get through. The sun comes out... Francesco and I work in
the main salon.
As I work on my rendering of the new staircase, an old
pine tree crashes against a window, shattering it.
Workers snigger as I jump and drop my pad. The present
stair may collapse at any moment.
We eat lunch before a handsome Gothic fireplace. A
woodcutter tosses on chunks... I continue working...the
King appears...he is gone before I can speak to him.
Romorantin again: the Queen occupies a wing that has
been recently renovated—she and her court. I have learned
that when the King is too preoccupied with his current
mistress, the Queen moves in. Up go her tapestries. Up go
her pictures. In go her dogs, cats, guards, maids, pages—
and favorite chef.
As Francesco and I strolled through corridors, hunting
for the illusive architect (now recovered), we find doors
open into the Queen’s suites; there is sun; the weather
has improved; at one of the open doorways, Francesco
grabbed my arm, and exclaimed:
“Maestro...look...look in there!”
“Where?”
“To the right...through the door...on that
easel...that’s your painting, your Leda and her swan!”
I can’t believe what I see!
“Yes...yes...” I mumble.
“It’s your painting, your missing canvas. How did the
Queen get it?”
“Come...we’ll find out about it...come away...don’t go
inside.”
“But it’s yours.”
It was seven or eight years ago that my Leda painting
disappeared. We blamed this one and that one. We offered
a reward. The Duke promised to help...
Back at Cloux we have talked and talked about Leda.
What can I say to the King?
Why has he never mentioned the picture? Had he
purchased it from someone? Had his father purchased it?
Was it a gift? Or is it a copy? We could ascertain that
if we could inspect the painting. There were too many
questions for the moment. We needed to think. We needed
to concentrate on our work for a few days.
We will talk to people at Romorantin...some of the
Queen’s girls will talk...perhaps what Francesco saw is
an excellent copy.
The weather improves...but I am depressed: I will not
return to Romorantin.
In the sun (cold sun), Francesco and I ride slowly
along the Loire. I hope to see Magnifico.
HORSES...
Francis has some of the finest horses in France. His
stables are comparable to those of the Medici’s.