On the sunny slopes of Monte Albano, between Florence and Pisa, the
little town of Vinci lay high among the rocks that crowned the steep
hillside. It was but a little town. Only a few houses crowded together
round an old castle in the midst, and it looked from a distance like a
swallow's nest clinging to the bare steep rocks.
Here in the year 1452 Leonardo, son of Ser Piero da Vinci, was born. It
was in the age when people told fortunes by the stars, and when a baby
was born they would eagerly look up and decide whether it was a lucky
or unlucky star which shone upon the child. Surely if it had been
possible in this way to tell what fortune awaited the little Leonardo,
a strange new star must have shone that night, brighter than the others
and unlike the rest in the dazzling light of its strength and beauty.
Leonardo was always a strange child. Even his beauty was not like that
of other children. He had the most wonderful waving hair, falling in
regular ripples, like the waters of a fountain, the colour of bright
gold, and soft as spun silk. His eyes were blue and clear, with a
mysterious light in them, not the warm light of a sunny sky, but rather
the blue that glints in the iceberg. They were merry eyes too, when he
laughed, but underneath was always that strange cold look. There was a
charm about his smile which no one could resist, and he was a favourite
with all. Yet people shook their heads sometimes as they looked at him,
and they talked in whispers of the old witch who had lent her goat to
nourish the little Leonardo when he was a baby. The woman was a dealer
in black magic, and who knew but that the child might be a changeling?
It was the old grandmother, Mona Lena, who brought Leonardo up and
spoilt him not a little. His father, Ser Piero, was a lawyer, and spent
most of his time in Florence, but when he returned to the old castle of
Vinci, he began to give Leonardo lessons and tried to find out what the
boy was fit for. But Leonardo hated those lessons and would not learn,
so when he was seven years old he was sent to school.
This did not answer any better. The rough play of the boys was not to
his liking. When he saw them drag the wings off butterflies, or torture
any animal that fell into their hands, his face grew white with pain,
and he would take no share in their games. The Latin grammar, too, was
a terrible task, while the many things he longed to know no one taught
him.
So it happened that many a time, instead of going to school, he would
slip away and escape up into the hills, as happy as a little wild goat.
Here was all the sweet fresh air of heaven, instead of the stuffy
schoolroom. Here were no cruel, clumsy boys, but all the wild creatures
that he loved. Here he could learn the real things his heart was hungry
to know, not merely words which meant nothing and led to nowhere.
For hours he would lie perfectly still with his heels in the air and
his chin resting in his hands, as he watched a spider weaving its web,
breathless with interest to see how the delicate threads were turned in
and out. The gaily painted butterflies, the fat buzzing bees, the
little sharp-tongued green lizards, he loved to watch them all, but
above everything he loved the birds. Oh, if only he too had wings to
dart like the swallows, and swoop and sail and dart again! What was the
secret power in their wings? Surely by watching he might learn it.
Sometimes it seemed as if his heart would burst with the longing to
learn that secret. It was always the hidden reason of things that he
desired to know. Much as he loved the flowers he must pull their petals
of, one by one, to see how each was joined, to wonder at the dusty
pollen, and touch the honey-covered stamens. Then when the sun began to
sink he would turn sadly homewards, very hungry, with torn clothes and
tired feet, but with a store of sunshine in his heart.
His grandmother shook her head when Leonardo appeared after one of his
days of wandering.
'I know thou shouldst be whipped for playing truant,' she said; 'and I
should also punish thee for tearing thy clothes.'
'Ah! but thou wilt not whip me,' answered Leonardo, smiling at her with
his curious quiet smile, for he had full confidence in her love.
'Well, I love to see thee happy, and I will not punish thee this time,'
said his grandmother; 'but if these tales reach thy father's ears, he
will not be so tender as I am towards thee.'
And, sure enough, the very next time that a complaint was made from the
school, his father happened to be at home, and then the storm burst.
'Next time I will flog thee,' said Ser Piero sternly, with rising anger
at the careless air of the boy. 'Meanwhile we will see what a little
imprisonment will do towards making thee a better child.'
Then he took the boy by the shoulders and led him to a little dark
cupboard under the stairs, and there shut him up for three whole days.
There was no kicking or beating at the locked door. Leonardo sat
quietly there in the dark, thinking his own thoughts, and wondering why
there seemed so little justice in the world. But soon even that wonder
passed away, and as usual when he was alone he began to dream dreams of
the time when he should have learned the swallows' secrets and should
have wings like theirs.
But if there were complaints about Leonardo's dislike of the boys and
the Latin grammar, there would be none about the lessons he chose to
learn. Indeed, some of the masters began to dread the boy's eager
questions, which were sometimes more than they could answer. Scarcely
had he begun the study of arithmetic than he made such rapid progress,
and wanted to puzzle out so many problems, that the masters were
amazed. His mind seemed always eagerly asking for more light, and was
never satisfied.
But it was out on the hillside that he spent his happiest hours. He
loved every crawling, creeping, or flying thing, however ugly. Curious
beasts which might have frightened another child were to him charming
and interesting. There as he listened to the carolling of the birds and
bent his head to catch the murmured song of the mountain-streams, the
love of music began to steal into his heart.
He did not rest then until he managed to get a lute and learned how to
play upon it. And when he had mastered the notes and learned the rules
of music, he began to play airs which no one had ever heard before, and
to sing such strange sweet songs that the golden notes flowed out as
fresh and clear as the song of a lark in the early morning of spring.
'The child is a changeling,' said some, as they saw Leonardo tenderly
lift a crushed lizard in his hand, or watched him play with a spotted
snake or great hairy spider.
'A changeling perhaps,' said others, 'but one that hath the voice of an
angel.' For every one stopped to listen when the boy's voice was heard
singing through the streets of the little town.
He was a puzzle to every one, and yet a delight to all, even when they
understood him least.
So time went on, and when Leonardo was thirteen his father took him
away to Florence that he might begin to be trained for some special
work. But what work? Ah! that was the rub. The boy could do so many
things well that it was difficult to fix on one.
At that time there was living in Florence an old man who knew a great
deal about the stars, and who made wonderful calculations about them.
He was a famous astronomer, but he cared not at all for honour or fame,
but lived a simple quiet life by himself and would not mix with the gay
world.
Few visitors ever came to see him, for it was known that he would
receive no one, and so it was a great surprise to old Toscanelli when
one night a gentle knock sounded at his door, and a boy walked quietly
in and stood before him.
Hastily the old man looked up, and his first thought was to ask the
child how he dared enter without leave, and then ask him to be gone,
but as he looked at the fair face he felt the charm of the curious
smile, and the light in the blue eyes, and instead he laid his hand
upon the boy's golden head and said: 'What dost thou seek, my son?'
'I would learn all that thou canst teach me,' said Leonardo, for it was
he.
The old man smiled.
'Behold the boundless self-confidence of youth!' he said.
But as they talked together, and the boy asked his many eager
questions, a great wonder awoke in the astronomer's mind, and his eyes
shone with interest. This child-mind held depths of understanding such
as he had never met with among his learned friends. Day after day the
old man and the boy bent eagerly together over their problems, and when
night fell Toscanelli would take the child up with him to his lonely
tower above Florence, and teach him to know the stars and to understand
many things.
'This is all very well,' said Ser Piero, 'but the boy must do more than
mere star-gazing. He must earn a living for himself, and methinks we
might make a painter of him.'
That very day, therefore, he gathered together some of Leonardo's
drawings which lay carelessly scattered about, and took them to the
studio of Verocchio the painter, who lived close by the Ponte Vecchio.
'Dost thou think thou canst make aught of the boy?' he asked, spreading
out the drawings before Verocchio.
The painter's quick eyes examined the work with deep interest.
'Send him to me at once,' he said. 'This is indeed marvellous talent.'
So Leonardo entered the studio as a pupil, and learned all that could
be taught him with the same quickness with which he learned anything
that he cared to know.
Every one who saw his work declared that he would be the wonder of the
age, but Verocchio shook his head.
'He is too wonderful,' he said. 'He aims at too great perfection. He
wants to know everything and do everything, and life is too short for
that. He finishes nothing, because he is ever starting to do something
else.'
Verocchio's words were true; the boy seldom worked long at one thing.
His hands were never idle, and often, instead of painting, he would
carve out tiny windmills and curious toys which worked with pulleys and
ropes, or made exquisite little clay models of horses and all the other
animals that he loved. But he never forgot the longing that had filled
his heart when he was a child--the desire to learn the secret of flying.
For days he would sit idle and think of nothing but soaring wings, then
he would rouse himself and begin to make some strange machine which he
thought might hold the secret that he sought.
'A waste of time,' growled Verocchio. 'See here, thou wouldst be better
employed if thou shouldst set to work and help me finish this picture
of the Baptism for the good monks of Vallambrosa. Let me see how thou
canst paint in the kneeling figure of the angel at the side.'
For a while the boy stood motionless before the picture as if he was
looking at something far away. Then he seized the brushes with his left
hand and began to paint with quick certain sweep. He never stopped to
think, but worked as if the angel were already there, and he were but
brushing away the veil that hid it from the light.
Then, when it was done, the master came and looked silently on. For a
moment a quick stab of jealousy ran through his heart. Year after year
had he worked and striven to reach his ideal. Long days of toil and
weary nights had he spent, winning each step upwards by sheer hard
work. And here was this boy without an effort able to rise far above
him. All the knowledge which the master had groped after, had been
grasped at once by the wonderful mind of the pupil. But the envious
feeling passed quickly away, and Verocchio laid his hand upon
Leonardo's shoulder.
'I have found my master,' he said quietly, 'and I will paint no more.'
Leonardo scarcely seemed to hear; he was thinking of something else
now, and he seldom noticed if people praised or blamed him. His
thoughts had fixed themselves upon something he had seen that morning
which had troubled him. On the way to the studio he had passed a tiny
shop in a narrow street where a seller of birds was busy hanging his
cages up on the nails fastened to the outside wall.
The thought of those poor little prisoners beating their wings against
the cruel bars and breaking their hearts with longing for their wild
free life, had haunted him all day, and now he could bear it no longer.
He seized his cap and hurried off, all forgetful of his kneeling angel
and the master's praise.
He reached the little shop and called to the man within.
'How much wilt thou take for thy birds?' he cried, and pointed to the
little wooden cages that hung against the wall.
'Plague on them,' answered the man, 'they will often die before I can
make a sale by them. Thou canst have them all for one silver piece.'
In a moment Leonardo had paid the money and had turned towards the row
of little cages. One by one he opened the doors and set the prisoners
free, and those that were too frightened or timid to fly away, he
gently drew out with his hand, and sent them gaily whirling up above
his head into the blue sky.
The man looked with blank astonishment at the empty cages, and wondered
if the handsome young man was mad. But Leonardo paid no heed to him,
but stood gazing up until every one of the birds had disappeared.
'Happy things,' he said, with a sigh. 'Will you ever teach me the
secret of your wings, I wonder?'
It was with great pleasure that Ser Piero heard of his son's success at
Verocchio's studio, and he began to have hopes that the boy would make
a name for himself after all. It happened just then that he was on a
visit to his castle at Vinci, and one morning a peasant who lived on
the estate came to ask a great favour of him.
He had bought a rough wooden shield which he was very anxious should
have a design painted on it in Florence, and he begged Ser Piero to see
that it was done. The peasant was a faithful servant, and very useful
in supplying the castle with fish and game, so Ser Piero was pleased to
grant him his request.
'Leonardo shall try his hand upon it. It is time he became useful to
me,' said Ser Piero to himself. So on his return to Florence he took
the shield to his son.
It was a rough, badly-shaped shield, so Leonardo held it to the fire
and began to straighten it. For though his hands looked delicate and
beautifully formed, they were as strong as steel, and he could bend
bars of iron without an effort. Then he sent the shield to a turner to
be smoothed and rounded, and when it was ready he sat down to think
what he should paint upon it, for he loved to draw strange monsters.
'I will make it as terrifying as the head of Medusa,' he said at last,
highly delighted with the plan that had come into his head.
Then he went out and collected together all the strangest animals he
could find--lizards, hedgehogs, newts, snakes, dragon-flies, locusts,
bats, and glow-worms. These he took into his own room, which no one was
allowed to enter, and began to paint from them a curious monster,
partly a lizard and partly a bat, with something of each of the other
animals added to it.
When it was ready Leonardo hung the shield in a good light against a
dark curtain, so that the painted monster stood out in brilliant
contrast, and looked as if its twisted curling limbs were full of life.
A knock sounded at the door, and Ser Piero's voice was heard outside
asking if the shield was finished.
'Come in,' cried Leonardo, and Ser Piero entered.
He cast one look at the monster hanging there and then uttered a cry
and turned to flee, but Leonardo caught hold of his cloak and
laughingly told him to look closer.
'If I have really succeeded in frightening thee,' he said, 'I have
indeed done all I could desire.'
His father could scarcely believe that it was nothing but a painting,
and he was so proud of the work that he would not part with it, but
gave the peasant of Vinci another shield instead.
Leonardo then began a drawing for a curtain which was to be woven in
silk and gold and given as a present from the Florentines to the King
of Portugal, and he also began a large picture of the Adoration of the
Shepherds which was never finished.
The young painter grew restless after a while, and felt the life of the
studio narrow and cramped. He longed to leave Florence and find work in
some new place.
He was not a favourite at the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent as
Filippino Lippi and Botticelli were. Lorenzo liked those who would
flatter him and do as they were bid, while Leonardo took his own way in
everything and never said what he did not mean.
But it happened that just then Lorenzo wished to send a present to
Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, and the gift he chose was a
marvellous musical instrument which Leonardo had just finished.
It was a silver lute, made in the form of a horse's head, the most
curious and beautiful thing ever seen. Lorenzo was charmed with it.
'Thou shalt take it thyself, as my messenger,' he said to Leonardo. 'I
doubt if another can be found who can play upon it as thou dost.'
So Leonardo set out for Milan, and was glad to shake himself free from
the narrow life of the Florentine studio.
Before starting, however, he had written a letter to the Duke setting
down in simple order all the things he could do, and telling of what
use he could be in times of war and in days of peace.
There seemed nothing that he could not do. He could make bridges, blow
up castles, dig canals, invent a new kind of cannon, build warships,
and make underground passages. In days of peace he could design and
build houses, make beautiful statues and paint pictures 'as well as any
man, be he who he may.'
The letter was written in curious writing from right to left like
Hebrew or Arabic. This was how Leonardo always wrote, using his left
hand, so that it could only be read by holding the writing up to a
mirror.
The Duke was half amazed and half amused when the letter reached him.
'Either these are the words of a fool, or of a man of genius,' said the
Duke. And when he had once seen and spoken to Leonardo he saw at once
which of the two he deserved to be called.
Every one at the court was charmed with the artist's beautiful face and
graceful manners. His music alone, as he swept the strings of the
silver lute and sang to it his own songs, would have brought him fame,
but the Duke quickly saw that this was no mere minstrel.
It was soon arranged therefore that Leonardo should take up his abode
at the court of Milan and receive a yearly pension from the Duke.
Sometimes the pension was paid, and sometimes it was forgotten, but
Leonardo never troubled about money matters. Somehow or other he must
have all that he wanted, and everything must be fair and dainty. His
clothes were always rich and costly, but never bright-coloured or
gaudy. There was no plume or jewelled brooch in his black velvet
beretto or cap, and the only touch of colour was his golden hair, and
the mantle of dark red cloth which he wore in the fashion of the
Florentines, thrown across his shoulder. Above all, he must always have
horses in his stables, for he loved them more than human beings.
Many were the plans and projects which the Duke entrusted to Leonardo's
care, but of all that he did, two great works stand out as greater than
all the rest. One was the painting of the Last Supper on the walls of
the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and the other the making of
a model of a great equestrian statue, a bronze horse with the figure of
the Duke upon its back.
'Year after year Leonardo worked at that wonderful fresco of the Last
Supper. Sometimes for weeks or months he never touched it, but he
always returned to it again. Then for days he would work from morning
till night, scarcely taking time to eat, and able to think of nothing
else, until suddenly he would put down his brushes and stand silently
for a long, long time before the picture. It seemed as if he was
wasting the precious hours doing nothing, but in truth he worked more
diligently with his brain when his hands were idle.
Often too when he worked at the model for the great bronze horse, he
would suddenly stop, and walk quickly through the streets until he came
to the refectory, and there, catching up his brushes, he would paint in
one or perhaps two strokes, and then return to his modelling.
Besides all this Leonardo was busy with other plans for the Duke's
amusement, and no court fete was counted successful without his help.
Nothing seemed too difficult for him to contrive, and what he did was
always new and strange and wonderful.
Once when the King of France came as a guest to Milan, Leonardo
prepared a curious model of a lion, which by some inside machinery was
able to walk forward several steps to meet the King, and then open wide
its huge jaws and display inside a bed of sweet-scented lilies, the
emblem of France, to do honour to her King. But while working at other
things Leonardo never forgot his longing to learn the secret art of
flying. Every now and then a new idea would come into his head, and he
would lay aside all other work until he had made the new machine which
might perhaps act as the wings of a bird. Each fresh disappointment
only made him more keen to try again.
'I know we shall some day have wings,' he said to his pupils, who
sometimes wondered at the strange work of the master's hands. 'It is
only a question of knowing how to make them. I remember once when I was
a baby lying in my cradle, I fancied a bird flew to me, opened my lips
and rubbed its feathers over them. So it seems to be my fate all my
life to talk of wings.'
Very slowly the great fresco of the Last Supper grew under the master's
hand until it was nearly finished. The statue, too, was almost
completed, and then evil days fell upon Milan. The Duke was obliged to
flee before the French soldiers, who forced their way into the town and
took possession of it. Before any one could prevent it, the soldiers
began to shoot their arrows at the great statue, which they used as a
target, and in a few hours the work of sixteen years was utterly
destroyed. It is sadder still to tell the fate of Leonardo's fresco,
the greatest picture perhaps that ever was painted. Dampness lurked in
the wall and began to dim and blur the colours. The careless monks cut
a door through the very centre of the picture, and, later on, when
Napoleon's soldiers entered Milan, they used the refectory as a stable,
and amused themselves by throwing stones at what remained of it. But
though little of it is left now to be seen, there is still enough to
make us stand in awe and reverence before the genius of the great
master.
Not far from Milan there lived a friend of Leonardo's, whom the master
loved to visit. This Girolamo Melzi had a son called Francesco, a
little motherless boy, who adored the great painter with all his heart.
Together Leonardo and the child used to wander out to search for
curious animals and rare flowers, and as they watched the spiders weave
their webs and pulled the flowers to pieces to find out their secrets,
the boy listened with wide wondering eyes to all the tales which the
painter told him. And at night Leonardo wrapped the little one close
inside his warm cloak and carried him out to see the stars--those same
stars which old Toscanelli had taught him to love long ago in Florence.
Then when the day of parting came the child clung round the master's
neck and would not let him go.
'Take me with thee,' he cried, 'do not leave me behind all alone.'
'I cannot take thee now, little one,' said Leonardo gently. 'Thou art
still too small, but later on thou shalt come to me and be my pupil.
This I promise thee.'
It was but a weary wandering life that awaited Leonardo after he was
forced to leave his home in Milan. It seemed as if it was his fate to
begin many things but to finish nothing. For a while he lived in Rome,
but he did little real work there.
For several years he lived in Florence and began to paint a huge
battle-picture. There too he painted the famous portrait of Mona Lisa,
which is now in Paris. Of all portraits that have ever been painted
this is counted the most wonderful and perfect piece of work, although
Leonardo himself called it unfinished.
By this time the master had fallen on evil days. All his pupils were
gone, and his friends seemed to have forgotten him. He was sitting
before the fire one stormy night, lonely and sad, when the door opened
and a tall handsome lad came in.
'Master!' he cried, and kneeling down he kissed the old man's hands.
'Dost thou not know me? I am thy little Francesco, come to claim thy
promise that I should one day be thy servant and pupil.
Leonardo laid his hand upon the boy's fair head and looked into his
face.
'I am growing old,' he said, 'and I can no longer do for thee what I
might once have done. I am but a poor wanderer now. Dost thou indeed
wish to cast in thy lot with mine?'
'I care only to be near thee,' said the boy. 'I will go with thee to
the ends of the earth.'
So when, soon after, Leonardo received an invitation from the new King
of France, he took the boy with him, and together they made their home
in the little chateau of Claux near the town of Amboise.
The master's hair was silvered now, and his long beard was as white as
snow. His keen blue eyes looked weary and tired of life, and care had
drawn many deep lines on his beautiful face. Sad thoughts were always
his company. The one word 'failure' seemed to be written across his
life. What had he done? He had begun many things and had finished but
few. His great fresco was even now fading away and becoming dim and
blurred. His model for the marvellous horse was destroyed. A few
pictures remained, but these had never quite reached his ideal. The
crowd who had once hailed him as the greatest of all artists, could now
only talk of Michelangelo and the young Raphael. Michelangelo himself
had once scornfully told him he was a failure and could finish nothing.
He was glad to leave Italy and all its memories behind, and he hoped to
begin work again in his quiet little French home. But Death was drawing
near, and before many years had passed he grew too weak to hold a brush
or pencil.
It was in the springtime of the year that the end came. Francesco had
opened the window and gently lifted the master in his strong young
arms, that he might look once more on the outside world which he loved
so dearly. The trees were putting on their dainty dress of tender
green, white clouds swept across the blue sky, and April sunshine
flooded the room.
As he looked out, the master's tired eyes woke into life.
'Look!' he cried, 'the swallows have come back! Oh that they would lend
me their wings that I might fly away and be at rest!'
The swallows darted and circled about in the clear spring air, busy
with their building plans, but Francesco thought he heard the rustle of
other wings, as the master's soul, freed from the tired body, was at
last borne upwards higher than any earthly wings could soar.