7785	----	[Illustration: Plate 1--MONA LISA. Frontispiece In the Louvre. No. 1601. 2 ft 6 ½ ins. By 1 ft. 9 ins. (0.77 x 0.53)] LEONARDO DA VINCI By MAURICE W. BROCKWELL Illustrated With Eight Reproductions in Colour [Illustration] "Leonardo," wrote an English critic as far back as 1721, "was a Man so happy in his genius, so consummate in his Profession, so accomplished in the Arts, so knowing in the Sciences, and withal, so much esteemed by the Age wherein he lived, his Works so highly applauded by the Ages which have succeeded, and his Name and Memory still preserved with so much Veneration by the present Age--that, if anything could equal the Merit of the Man, it must be the Success he met with. Moreover, 'tis not in Painting alone, but in Philosophy, too, that Leonardo surpassed all his Brethren of the 'Pencil.'" This admirable summary of the great Florentine painter's life's work still holds good to-day. CONTENTS His Birth His Early Training His Early Works First Visit to Milan In the East Back in Milan The Virgin of the Rocks The Last Supper The Court of Milan Leonardo Leaves Milan Mona Lisa Battle of Anghiari Again in Milan In Rome In France His Death His Art His Mind His Maxims His Spell His Descendants LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Plate I. Mona Lisa In the Louvre II. Annunciation In the Uffizi Gallery, Florence III. Virgin of the Rocks In the National Gallery, London IV. The Last Supper In the Refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan V. Copy of the Last Supper In the Diploma Gallery, Burlington House VI. Head of Christ In the Brera Gallery, Milan VII. Portrait (presumed) of Lucrezia Crivelli In the Louvre VIII. Madonna, Infant Christ, and St Anne. In the Louvre HIS BIRTH Leonardo Da Vinci, the many-sided genius of the Italian Renaissance, was born, as his name implies, at the little town of Vinci, which is about six miles from Empoli and twenty miles west of Florence. Vinci is still very inaccessible, and the only means of conveyance is the cart of a general carrier and postman, who sets out on his journey from Empoli at sunrise and sunset. Outside a house in the middle of the main street of Vinci to-day a modern and white-washed bust of the great artist is pointed to with much pride by the inhabitants. Leonardo's traditional birthplace on the outskirts of the town still exists, and serves now as the headquarters of a farmer and small wine exporter. Leonardo di Ser Piero d'Antonio di Ser Piero di Ser Guido da Vinci--for that was his full legal name--was the natural and first-born son of Ser Piero, a country notary, who, like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, followed that honourable vocation with distinction and success, and who subsequently--when Leonardo was a youth--was appointed notary to the Signoria of Florence. Leonardo's mother was one Caterina, who afterwards married Accabriga di Piero del Vaccha of Vinci. [Illustration: Plate II.--Annunciation In the Uffizi Gallery, Florence. No. 1288. 3 ft 3 ins. By 6 ft 11 ins. (0.99 x 2.18) Although this panel is included in the Uffizi Catalogue as being by Leonardo, it is in all probability by his master, Verrocchio.] The date of Leonardo's birth is not known with any certainty. His age is given as five in a taxation return made in 1457 by his grandfather Antonio, in whose house he was educated; it is therefore concluded that he was born in 1452. Leonardo's father Ser Piero, who afterwards married four times, had eleven children by his third and fourth wives. Is it unreasonable to suggest that Leonardo may have had these numbers in mind in 1496-1498 when he was painting in his famous "Last Supper" the figures of eleven Apostles and one outcast? However, Ser Piero seems to have legitimised his "love child" who very early showed promise of extraordinary talent and untiring energy. HIS EARLY TRAINING Practically nothing is known about Leonardo's boyhood, but Vasari informs us that Ser Piero, impressed with the remarkable character of his son's genius, took some of his drawings to Andrea del Verrocchio, an intimate friend, and begged him earnestly to express an opinion on them. Verrocchio was so astonished at the power they revealed that he advised Ser Piero to send Leonardo to study under him. Leonardo thus entered the studio of Andrea del Verrocchio about 1469-1470. In the workshop of that great Florentine sculptor, goldsmith, and artist he met other craftsmen, metal workers, and youthful painters, among whom was Botticelli, at that moment of his development a jovial _habitué_ of the Poetical Supper Club, who had not yet given any premonitions of becoming the poet, mystic, and visionary of later times. There also Leonardo came into contact with that unoriginal painter Lorenzo di Credi, his junior by seven years. He also, no doubt, met Perugino, whom Michelangelo called "that blockhead in art." The genius and versatility of the Vincian painter was, however, in no way dulled by intercourse with lesser artists than himself; on the contrary he vied with each in turn, and readily outstripped his fellow pupils. In 1472, at the age of twenty, he was admitted into the Guild of Florentine Painters. Unfortunately very few of Leonardo's paintings have come down to us. Indeed there do not exist a sufficient number of finished and absolutely authentic oil pictures from his own hand to afford illustrations for this short chronological sketch of his life's work. The few that do remain, however, are of so exquisite a quality--or were until they were "comforted" by the uninspired restorer--that we can unreservedly accept the enthusiastic records of tradition in respect of all his works. To rightly understand the essential characteristics of Leonardo's achievements it is necessary to regard him as a scientist quite as much as an artist, as a philosopher no less than a painter, and as a draughtsman rather than a colourist. There is hardly a branch of human learning to which he did not at one time or another give his eager attention, and he was engrossed in turn by the study of architecture--the foundation-stone of all true art--sculpture, mathematics, engineering and music. His versatility was unbounded, and we are apt to regret that this many-sided genius did not realise that it is by developing his power within certain limits that the great master is revealed. Leonardo may be described as the most Universal Genius of Christian times-perhaps of all time. [Illustration: PLATE III.-THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS In the National Gallery. No. 1093. 6 ft. ½ in. h. by 3 ft 9 ½ in. w. (1.83 x 1.15) This picture was painted in Milan about 1495 by Ambrogio da Predis under the supervision and guidance of Leonardo da Vinci, the essential features of the composition being borrowed from the earlier "Vierge aux Rochers," now in the Louvre.] HIS EARLY WORKS To about the year 1472 belongs the small picture of the "Annunciation," now in the Louvre, which after being the subject of much contention among European critics has gradually won its way to general recognition as an early work by Leonardo himself. That it was painted in the studio of Verrocchio was always admitted, but it was long catalogued by the Louvre authorities under the name of Lorenzo di Credi. It is now, however, attributed to Leonardo (No. 1602 A). Such uncertainties as to attribution were common half a century ago when scientific art criticism was in its infancy. Another painting of the "Annunciation," which is now in the Uffizi Gallery (No. 1288) is still officially attributed to Leonardo. This small picture, which has been considerably repainted, and is perhaps by Andrea del Verrocchio, Leonardo's master, is the subject of Plate II. To January 1473 belongs Leonardo's earliest dated work, a pen-and-ink drawing--"A Wide View over a Plain," now in the Uffizi. The inscription together with the date in the top left-hand corner is reversed, and proves a remarkable characteristic of Leonardo's handwriting--viz., that he wrote from right to left; indeed, it has been suggested that he did this in order to make it difficult for any one else to read the words, which were frequently committed to paper by the aid of peculiar abbreviations. Leonardo continued to work in his master's studio till about 1477. On January 1st of the following year, 1478, he was commissioned to paint an altar-piece for the Chapel of St. Bernardo in the Palazzo Vecchio, and he was paid twenty-five florins on account. He, however, never carried out the work, and after waiting five years the Signoria transferred the commission to Domenico Ghirlandajo, who also failed to accomplish the task, which was ultimately, some seven years later, completed by Filippino Lippi. This panel of the "Madonna Enthroned, St. Victor, St. John Baptist, St. Bernard, and St. Zenobius," which is dated February 20, 1485, is now in the Uffizi. That Leonardo was by this time a facile draughtsman is evidenced by his vigorous pen-and-ink sketch--now in a private collection in Paris--of Bernardo Bandini, who in the Pazzi Conspiracy of April 1478 stabbed Giuliano de' Medici to death in the Cathedral at Florence during High Mass. The drawing is dated December 29, 1479, the date of Bandini's public execution in Florence. In that year also, no doubt, was painted the early and, as might be expected, unfinished "St. Jerome in the Desert," now in the Vatican, the under-painting being in umber and _terraverte_. Its authenticity is vouched for not only by the internal evidence of the picture itself, but also by the similarity of treatment seen in a drawing in the Royal Library at Windsor. Cardinal Fesch, a princely collector in Rome in the early part of the nineteenth century, found part of the picture--the torso--being used as a box-cover in a shop in Rome. He long afterwards discovered in a shoemaker's shop a panel of the head which belonged to the torso. The jointed panel was eventually purchased by Pope Pius IX., and added to the Vatican Collection. In March 1480 Leonardo was commissioned to paint an altar-piece for the monks of St. Donato at Scopeto, for which payment in advance was made to him. That he intended to carry out this contract seems most probable. He, however, never completed the picture, although it gave rise to the supremely beautiful cartoon of the "Adoration of the Magi," now in the Uffizi (No. 1252). As a matter of course it is unfinished, only the under-painting and the colouring of the figures in green on a brown ground having been executed. The rhythm of line, the variety of attitude, the profound feeling for landscape and an early application of chiaroscuro effect combine to render this one of his most characteristic productions. Vasari tells us that while Verrocchio was painting the "Baptism of Christ" he allowed Leonardo to paint in one of the attendant angels holding some vestments. This the pupil did so admirably that his remarkable genius clearly revealed itself, the angel which Leonardo painted being much better than the portion executed by his master. This "Baptism of Christ," which is now in the Accademia in Florence and is in a bad state of preservation, appears to have been a comparatively early work by Verrocchio, and to have been painted in 1480-1482, when Leonardo would be about thirty years of age. To about this period belongs the superb drawing of the "Warrior," now in the Malcolm Collection in the British Museum. This drawing may have been made while Leonardo still frequented the studio of Andrea del Verrocchio, who in 1479 was commissioned to execute the equestrian statue of Bartolommeo Colleoni, which was completed twenty years later and still adorns the Campo di San Giovanni e Paolo in Venice. FIRST VISIT TO MILAN About 1482 Leonardo entered the service of Ludovico Sforza, having first written to his future patron a full statement of his various abilities in the following terms:-- "Having, most illustrious lord, seen and pondered over the experiments made by those who pass as masters in the art of inventing instruments of war, and having satisfied myself that they in no way differ from those in general use, I make so bold as to solicit, without prejudice to any one, an opportunity of informing your excellency of some of my own secrets." [Illustration: PLATE IV.-THE LAST SUPPER Refectory of St. Maria delle Grazie, Milan. About 13 feet 8 ins. h. by 26 ft. 7 ins. w. (4.16 x 8.09)] He goes on to say that he can construct light bridges which can be transported, that he can make pontoons and scaling ladders, that he can construct cannon and mortars unlike those commonly used, as well as catapults and other engines of war; or if the fight should take place at sea that he can build engines which shall be suitable alike for defence as for attack, while in time of peace he can erect public and private buildings. Moreover, he urges that he can also execute sculpture in marble, bronze, or clay, and, with regard to painting, "can do as well as any one else, no matter who he may be." In conclusion, he offers to execute the proposed bronze equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza "which shall bring glory and never-ending honour to that illustrious house." It was about 1482, the probable date of Leonardo's migration from Florence to Milan, that he painted the "Vierge aux Rochers," now in the Louvre (No. 1599). It is an essentially Florentine picture, and although it has no pedigree earlier than 1625, when it was in the Royal Collection at Fontainebleau, it is undoubtedly much earlier and considerably more authentic than the "Virgin of the Rocks," now in the National Gallery (Plate III.). He certainly set to work about this time on the projected statue of Francesco Sforza, but probably then made very little progress with it. He may also in that year or the next have painted the lost portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, one of the mistresses of Ludovico Sforza. It has, however, been surmised that that lady's features are preserved to us in the "Lady with a Weasel," by Leonardo's pupil Boltraffio, which is now in the Czartoryski Collection at Cracow. IN THE EAST The absence of any record of Leonardo in Milan, or elsewhere in Italy, between 1483 and 1487 has led critics to the conclusion, based on documentary evidence of a somewhat complicated nature, that he spent those years in the service of the Sultan of Egypt, travelling in Armenia and the East as his engineer. BACK IN MILAN In 1487 he was again resident in Milan as general artificer--using that term in its widest sense--to Ludovico. Among his various activities at this period must be mentioned the designs he made for the cupola of the cathedral at Milan, and the scenery he constructed for "Il Paradiso," which was written by Bernardo Bellincioni on the occasion of the marriage of Gian Galeazzo with Isabella of Aragon. About 1489-1490 he began his celebrated "Treatise on Painting" and recommenced work on the colossal equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza, which was doubtless the greatest of all his achievements as a sculptor. It was, however, never cast in bronze, and was ruthlessly destroyed by the French bowmen in April 1500, on their occupation of Milan after the defeat of Ludovico at the battle of Novara. This is all the more regrettable as no single authentic piece of sculpture has come down to us from Leonardo's hand, and we can only judge of his power in this direction from his drawings, and the enthusiastic praise of his contemporaries. [Illustration: PLATE V.--COPY OF THE LAST SUPPER In the Diploma Gallery, Burlington House This copy is usually ascribed to Marco d'Oggiono, but some critics claim that it is by Gianpetrino. It is the same size as the original.] THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS The "Virgin of the Rocks" (Plate III.), now in the National Gallery, corresponds exactly with a painting by Leonardo which was described by Lomazzo about 1584 as being in the Chapel of the Conception in the Church of St. Francesco at Milan. This picture, the only _oeuvre_ in this gallery with which Leonardo's name can be connected, was brought to England in 1777 by Gavin Hamilton, and sold by him to the Marquess of Lansdowne, who subsequently exchanged it for another picture in the Collection of the Earl of Suffolk at Charlton Park, Wiltshire, from whom it was eventually purchased by the National Gallery for £9000. Signor Emilio Motta, some fifteen years ago, unearthed in the State Archives of Milan a letter or memorial from Giovanni Ambrogio da Predis and Leonardo da Vinci to the Duke of Milan, praying him to intervene in a dispute, which had arisen between the petitioners and the Brotherhood of the Conception, with regard to the valuation of certain works of art furnished for the chapel of the Brotherhood in the church of St. Francesco. The only logical deduction which can be drawn from documentary evidence is that the "Vierge aux Rochers" in the Louvre is the picture, painted about 1482, which between 1491 and 1494 gave rise to the dispute, and that, when it was ultimately sold by the artists for the full price asked to some unknown buyer, the National Gallery version was executed for a smaller price mainly by Ambrogio da Predisunder the supervision, and with the help, of Leonardo to be placed in the Chapel of the Conception. The differences between the earlier, the more authentic, and the more characteristically Florentine "Vierge aux Rochers," in the Louvre, and the "Virgin of the Rocks," in the National Gallery, are that in the latter picture the hand of the angel, seated by the side of the Infant Christ, is raised and pointed in the direction of the little St. John the Baptist; that the St John has a reed cross and the three principal figures have gilt nimbi, which were, however, evidently added much later. In the National Gallery version the left hand of the Madonna, the Christ's right hand and arm, and the forehead of St. John the Baptist are freely restored, while a strip of the foreground right across the whole picture is ill painted and lacks accent. The head of the angel is, however, magnificently painted, and by Leonardo; the panel, taken as a whole, is exceedingly beautiful and full of charm and tenderness. THE LAST SUPPER Between 1496 and 1498 Leonardo painted his _chef d'oeuvre_, the "Last Supper," (Plate IV.) for the end wall of the Refectory of the Dominican Convent of S. Maria delle Grazie at Milan. It was originally executed in tempera on a badly prepared stucco ground and began to deteriorate a very few years after its completion. As early as 1556 it was half ruined. In 1652 the monks cut away a part of the fresco including the feet of the Christ to make a doorway. In 1726 one Michelangelo Belotti, an obscure Milanese painter, received £300 for the worthless labour he bestowed on restoring it. He seems to have employed some astringent restorative which revived the colours temporarily, and then left them in deeper eclipse than before. In 1770 the fresco was again restored by Mazza. In 1796 Napoleon's cavalry, contrary to his express orders, turned the refectory into a stable, and pelted the heads of the figures with dirt. Subsequently the refectory was used to store hay, and at one time or another it has been flooded. In 1820 the fresco was again restored, and in 1854 this restoration was effaced. In October 1908 Professor Cavenaghi completed the delicate task of again restoring it, and has, in the opinion of experts, now preserved it from further injury. In addition, the devices of Ludovico and his Duchess and a considerable amount of floral decoration by Leonardo himself have been brought to light. Leonardo has succeeded in producing the effect of the _coup de théâtre_ at the moment when Jesus said "One of you shall betray me." Instantly the various apostles realise that there is a traitor among their number, and show by their different gestures their different passions, and reveal their different temperaments. On the left of Christ is St. John who is overcome with grief and is interrogated by the impetuous Peter, near whom is seated Judas Iscariot who, while affecting the calm of innocence, is quite unable to conceal his inner feelings; he instinctively clasps the money-bag and in so doing upsets the salt-cellar. It will be remembered that the Prior of the Convent complained to Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, that Leonardo was taking too long to paint the fresco and was causing the Convent considerable inconvenience. Leonardo had his revenge by threatening to paint the features of the impatient Prior into the face of Judas Iscariot. The incident has been quaintly told in the following lines:-- "Padre Bandelli, then, complains of me Because, forsooth, I have not drawn a line Upon the Saviour's head; perhaps, then, he Could without trouble paint that head divine. But think, oh Signor Duca, what should be The pure perfection of Our Saviour's face-- What sorrowing majesty, what noble grace, At that dread moment when He brake the bread, And those submissive words of pathos said: "'By one among you I shall be betrayed,'-- And say if 'tis an easy task to find Even among the best that walk this Earth, The fitting type of that divinest worth, That has its image solely in the mind. Vainly my pencil struggles to express The sorrowing grandeur of such holiness. In patient thought, in ever-seeking prayer, I strive to shape that glorious face within, But the soul's mirror, dulled and dimmed by sin, Reflects not yet the perfect image there. Can the hand do before the soul has wrought; Is not our art the servant of our thought? "And Judas too, the basest face I see, Will not contain his utter infamy; Among the dregs and offal of mankind Vainly I seek an utter wretch to find. He who for thirty silver coins could sell His Lord, must be the Devil's miracle. Padre Bandelli thinks it easy is To find the type of him who with a kiss Betrayed his Lord. Well, what I can I'll do; And if it please his reverence and you, For Judas' face I'm willing to paint his." * * * * * "... I dare not paint Till all is ordered and matured within, Hand-work and head-work have an earthly taint, But when the soul commands I shall begin; On themes like these I should not dare to dwell With our good Prior--they to him would be Mere nonsense; he must touch and taste and see, And facts, he says, are never mystical." [Illustration: PLATE VI.--THE HEAD OF CHRIST In the Brera Gallery, Milan. No. 280. 1 ft. 0-1/2 ins. by 1 ft. 4 ins. (0.32 x 0.40)] The copy of the "Last Supper" (Plate V.) by Marco d'Oggiono, now in the Diploma Gallery at Burlington House, was made shortly after the original painting was completed. It gives but a faint echo of that sublime work "in which the ideal and the real were blended in perfect unity." This copy was long in the possession of the Carthusians in their Convent at Pavia, and, on the suppression of that Order and the sale of their effects in 1793, passed into the possession of a grocer at Milan. It was subsequently purchased for £600 by the Royal Academy on the advice of Sir Thomas Lawrence, who left no stone unturned to acquire also the original studies for the heads of the Apostles. Some of these in red and black chalk are now preserved in the Royal Library at Windsor, where there are in all 145 drawings by Leonardo. Several other old copies of the fresco exist, notably the one in the Louvre. Francis I. wished to remove the whole wall of the Refectory to Paris, but he was persuaded that that would be impossible; the Constable de Montmorency then had a copy made for the Chapel of the Château d'Ecouen, whence it ultimately passed to the Louvre. The singularly beautiful "Head of Christ" (Plate VI.), now in the Brera Gallery at Milan, is the original study for the head of the principal figure in the fresco painting of the "Last Supper." In spite of decay and restoration it expresses "the most elevated seriousness together with Divine Gentleness, pain on account of the faithlessness of His disciples, a full presentiment of His own death, and resignation to the will of His Father." THE COURT OF MILAN Ludovico, to whom Leonardo was now court-painter, had married Beatrice d'Este, in 1491, when she was only fifteen years of age. The young Duchess, who at one time owned as many as eighty-four splendid gowns, refused to wear a certain dress of woven gold, which her husband had given her, if Cecilia Gallerani, the Sappho of her day, continued to wear a very similar one, which presumably had been given to her by Ludovico. Having discarded Cecilia, who, as her tastes did not lie in the direction of the Convent, was married in 1491 to Count Ludovico Bergamini, the Duke in 1496 became enamoured of Lucrezia Crivelli, a lady-in-waiting to the Duchess Beatrice. Leonardo, as court painter, perhaps painted a portrait, now lost, of Lucrezia, whose features are more likely to be preserved to us in the portrait by Ambrogio da Predis, now in the Collection of the Earl of Roden, than in the quite unauthenticated portrait (Plate VII.), now in the Louvre (No. 1600). On January 2, 1497, Beatrice spent three hours in prayer in the church of St. Maria delle Grazie, and the same night gave birth to a stillborn child. In a few hours she passed away, and from that moment Ludovico was a changed man. He went daily to see her tomb, and was quite overcome with grief. In April 1498, Isabella d'Este, Beatrice's elder, more beautiful, and more graceful sister, "at the sound of whose name all the muses rise and do reverence" wrote to Cecilia Gallerani, or Bergamini, asking her to lend her the portrait which Leonardo had painted of her some fifteen years earlier, as she wished to compare it with a picture by Giovanni Bellini. Cecilia graciously lent the picture--now presumably lost--adding her regret that it no longer resembled her. LEONARDO LEAVES MILAN Among the last of Leonardo da Vinci's works in Milan towards the end of 1499 was, probably, the superb cartoon of "The Virgin and Child with St. Anne and St. John," now at Burlington House. Though little known to the general public, this large drawing on _carton_, or stiff paper, is one of the greatest of London's treasures, as it reveals the sweeping line of Leonardo's powerful draughtsmanship. It was in the Pompeo Leoni, Arconati, Casnedi, and Udney Collections before passing to the Royal Academy. In 1499 the stormy times in Milan foreboded the end of Ludovico's reign. In April of that year we read of his giving a vineyard to Leonardo; in September Ludovico had to leave Milan for the Tyrol to raise an army, and on the 14th of the same month the city was sold by Bernardino di Corte to the French, who occupied it from 1500 to 1512. Ludovico may well have had in mind the figure of the traitor in the "Last Supper" when he declared that "Since the days of Judas Iscariot there has never been so black a traitor as Bernardino di Corte." On October 6th Louis XII. entered the city. Before the end of the year Leonardo, realising the necessity for his speedy departure, sent six hundred gold florins by letter of exchange to Florence to be placed to his credit with the hospital of S. Maria Nuova. In the following year, Ludovico having been defeated at Novara, Leonardo was a homeless wanderer. He left Milan for Mantua, where he drew a portrait in chalk of Isabella d'Este, which is now in the Louvre. Leonardo eventually arrived in Florence about Easter 1500. After apparently working there in 1501 on a second Cartoon, similar in most respects to the one he had executed in Milan two years earlier, he travelled in Umbria, visiting Orvieto, Pesaro, Rimini, and other towns, acting as engineer and architect to Cesare Borgia, for whom he planned a navigable canal between Cesena and Porto Cese-natico. [Illustration: PLATE VII.-PORTRAIT (PRESUMED) OF LUCREZIA CRIVELLI In the Louvre. No. 1600 [483]. 2 ft by I ft 5 ins. (0.62 x 0.44) This picture, although officially attributed to Leonardo, is probably not by him, and almost certainly does not represent Lucrezia Crivelli. It was once known as a "Portrait of a Lady" and is still occasionally miscalled "La Belle Féronnière."] MONA LISA Early in 1503 he was back again in Florence, and set to work in earnest on the "Portrait of Mona Lisa" (Plate I.), now in the Louvre (No. 1601). Lisa di Anton Maria di Noldo Gherardini was the daughter of Antonio Gherardini. In 1495 she married Francesco di Bartolommeo de Zenobi del Giocondo. It is from the surname of her husband that she derives the name of "La Joconde," by which her portrait is officially known in the Louvre. Vasari is probably inaccurate in saying that Leonardo "loitered over it for four years, and finally left it unfinished." He may have begun it in the spring of 1501 and, probably owing to having taken service under Cesare Borgia in the following year, put it on one side, ultimately completing it after working on the "Battle of Anghiari" in 1504. Vasari's eulogy of this portrait may with advantage be quoted: "Whoever shall desire to see how far art can imitate nature may do so to perfection in this head, wherein every peculiarity that could be depicted by the utmost subtlety of the pencil has been faithfully reproduced. The eyes have the lustrous brightness and moisture which is seen in life, and around them are those pale, red, and slightly livid circles, also proper to nature. The nose, with its beautiful and delicately roseate nostrils, might be easily believed to be alive; the mouth, admirable in its outline, has the lips uniting the rose-tints of their colour with those of the face, in the utmost perfection, and the carnation of the cheek does not appear to be painted, but truly flesh and blood. He who looks earnestly at the pit of the throat cannot but believe that he sees the beating of the pulses. Mona Lisa was exceedingly beautiful, and while Leonardo was painting her portrait, he took the precaution of keeping some one constantly near her to sing or play on instruments, or to jest and otherwise amuse her." Leonardo painted this picture in the full maturity of his talent, and, although it is now little more than a monochrome owing to the free and merciless restoration to which it has been at times subjected, it must have created a wonderful impression on those who saw it in the early years of the sixteenth century. It is difficult for the unpractised eye to-day to form any idea of its original beauty. Leonardo has here painted this worldly-minded woman--her portrait is much more famous than she herself ever was--with a marvellous charm and suavity, a finesse of expression never reached before and hardly ever equalled since. Contrast the head of the Christ at Milan, Leonardo's conception of divinity expressed in perfect humanity, with the subtle and sphinx-like smile of this languorous creature. The landscape background, against which Mona Lisa is posed, recalls the severe, rather than exuberant, landscape and the dim vistas of mountain ranges seen in the neighbourhood of his own birthplace. The portrait was bought during the reign of Francis I. for a sum which is to-day equal to about £1800. Leonardo, by the way, does not seem to have been really affected by any individual affection for any woman, and, like Michelangelo and Raphael, never married. In January 4, 1504, Leonardo was one of the members of the Committee of Artists summoned to advise the Signoria as to the most suitable site for the erection of Michelangelo's statue of "David," which had recently been completed. BATTLE OF ANGHIARI In the following May he was commissioned by the Signoria to decorate one of the walls of the Council Hall of the Palazzo Vecchio. The subject he selected was the "Battle of Anghiari." Although he completed the cartoon, the only part of the composition which he eventually executed in colour was an incident in the foreground which dealt with the "Battle of the Standard." One of the many supposed copies of a study of this mural painting now hangs on the south-east staircase in the Victoria and Albert Museum. It depicts the Florentines under Cardinal Ludovico Mezzarota Scarampo fighting against the Milanese under Niccolò Piccinino, the General of Filippo Maria Visconti, on June 29, 1440. AGAIN IN MILAN Leonardo was back in Milan in May 1506 in the service of the French King, for whom he executed, apparently with the help of assistants, "the Madonna, the Infant Christ, and Saint Anne" (Plate VIII.). The composition of this oil-painting seems to have been built up on the second cartoon, which he had made some eight years earlier, and which was apparently taken to France in 1516 and ultimately lost. IN ROME From 1513-1515 he was in Rome, where Giovanni de' Medici had been elected Pope under the title of Leo X. He did not, however, work for the Pope, although he resided in the Vatican, his time being occupied in studying acoustics, anatomy, optics, geology, minerals, engineering, and geometry! IN FRANCE At last in 1516, three years before his death, Leonardo left his native land for France, where he received from Francis I. a princely income. His powers, however, had already begun to fail, and he produced very little in the country of his adoption. It is, nevertheless, only in the Louvre that his achievements as a painter can to-day be adequately studied. [Illustration: PLATE VIII.-MADONNA, INFANT CHRIST, AND ST. ANNE In the Louvre. No. 1508. 5 ft. 7 in. h. by 4 ft. 3 in. w. (1.70 x 1.29) Painted between 1509 and 1516 with the help of assistants.] On October 10, 1516, when he was resident at the Manor House of Cloux near Amboise in Touraine with Francesco Melzi, his friend and assistant, he showed three of his pictures to the Cardinal of Aragon, but his right hand was now paralysed, and he could "no longer colour with that sweetness with which he was wont, although still able to make drawings and to teach others." It was no doubt in these closing years of his life that he drew the "Portrait of Himself" in red chalk, now at Turin, which is probably the only authentic portrait of him in existence. HIS DEATH On April 23, 1519--Easter Eve--exactly forty-five years before the birth of Shakespeare, Leonardo da Vinci made his will, and on May 2 of the same year he passed away. Vasari informs us that Leonardo, "having become old, lay sick for many months, and finding himself near death and being sustained in the arms of his servants and friends, devoutly received the Holy Sacrament. He was then seized with a paroxysm, the forerunner of death, when King Francis I., who was accustomed frequently and affectionately to visit him, rose and supported his head to give him such assistance and to do him such favour as he could in the hope of alleviating his sufferings. The spirit of Leonardo, which was most divine, conscious that he could attain to no greater honour, departed in the arms of the monarch, being at that time in the seventy-fifth year of his age." The not over-veracious chronicler, however, is here drawing largely upon his imagination. Leonardo was only sixty-seven years of age, and the King was in all probability on that date at St. Germain-en Laye! Thus died "Mr. Lionard de Vincy, the noble Milanese, painter, engineer, and architect to the King, State Mechanician" and "former Professor of Painting to the Duke of Milan." "May God Almighty grant him His eternal peace," wrote his friend and assistant Francesco Melzi. "Every one laments the loss of a man whose like Nature cannot produce a second time." HIS ART Leonardo, whose birth antedates that of Michelangelo and Raphael by twenty three and thirty-one years respectively, was thus in the forefront of the Florentine Renaissance, his life coinciding almost exactly with the best period of Tuscan painting. Leonardo was the first to investigate scientifically and to apply to art the laws of light and shade, though the preliminary investigations of Piero della Francesca deserve to be recorded. He observed with strict accuracy the subtleties of chiaroscuro--light and shade apart from colour; but, as one critic has pointed out, his gift of chiaroscuro cost the colour-life of many a noble picture. Leonardo was "a tonist, not a colourist," before whom the whole book of nature lay open. It was not instability of character but versatility of mind which caused him to undertake many things that having commenced he afterwards abandoned, and the probability is that as soon as he saw exactly how he could solve any difficulty which presented itself, he put on one side the merely perfunctory execution of such a task. In the Forster collection in the Victoria and Albert museum three of Leonardo's note-books with sketches are preserved, and it is stated that it was his practice to carry about with him, attached to his girdle, a little book for making sketches. They prove that he was left-handed and wrote from right to left. HIS MIND We can readily believe the statements of Benvenuto Cellini, the sixteenth-century Goldsmith, that Francis I. "did not believe that any other man had come into the world who had attained so great a knowledge as Leonardo, and that not only as sculptor, painter, and architect, for beyond that he was a profound philosopher." It was Cellini also who contended that "Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael are the Book of the World." Leonardo anticipated many eminent scientists and inventors in the methods of investigation which they adopted to solve the many problems with which their names are coupled. Among these may be cited Copernicus' theory of the earth's movement, Lamarck's classification of vertebrate and invertebrate animals, the laws of friction, the laws of combustion and respiration, the elevation of the continents, the laws of gravitation, the undulatory theory of light and heat, steam as a motive power in navigation, flying machines, the invention of the camera obscura, magnetic attraction, the use of the stone saw, the system of canalisation, breech loading cannon, the construction of fortifications, the circulation of the blood, the swimming belt, the wheelbarrow, the composition of explosives, the invention of paddle wheels, the smoke stack, the mincing machine! It is, therefore, easy to see why he called "Mechanics the Paradise of the Sciences." Leonardo was a SUPERMAN. HIS MAXIMS The eye is the window of the soul. Tears come from the heart and not from the brain. The natural desire of good men is knowledge. A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art dies not. Every difficulty can be overcome by effort. Time abides long enough for those who make use of it. Miserable men, how often do you enslave yourselves to gain money! HIS SPELL The influence of Leonardo was strongly felt in Milan, where he spent so many of the best years of his life and founded a School of painting. He was a close observer of the gradation and reflex of light, and was capable of giving to his discoveries a practical and aesthetic form. His strong personal character and the fascination of his genius enthralled his followers, who were satisfied to repeat his types, to perpetuate the "grey-hound eye," and to make use of his little devices. Among this group of painters may be mentioned Boltraffio, who perhaps painted the "Presumed Portrait of Lucrezia Crivelli" (Plate VII.), which is officially attributed in the Louvre to the great master himself. HIS DESCENDANTS Signor Uzielli has shown that one Tommaso da Vinci, a descendant of Domenico (one of Leonardo's brothers), was a few years ago a peasant at Bottinacio near Montespertoli, and had then in his possession the family papers, which now form part of the archives of the Accademia dei Lincei at Rome. It was proved also that Tommaso had given his eldest son "the glorious name of Leonardo." 
46915	----	Transcriber's Note: ################### This e-text is based on the 1802 edition. The original spelling has been retained, as well as inconsistencies, such as 'musquetry'/'musketry', 'Du Frêne'/'du Fresne', 'Melzio'/'Meltio'/'Melzi', etc. Uncommon or old-style spelling has not been altered, such as 'opake' (opaque), 'verdegris' (verdigris), 'dutchess' (duchess), etc. Errors due to bad print, as well as minor punctuation errors have been tacitly corrected. In the text, the plates are referenced by using Roman numerals, whereas the captions of the plates show Arabic numerals; the same applies to the Table of Chapters and the chapter headings, respectively. This inconsistency has been retained. Footnotes related to introductory chapters have been prefixed with the letter 'i' ([i1]-[i210]); footnotes in da Vinci's own text, however, are shown in plain Arabic numerals ([1]-[102]). Italic passages in the original version have been placed between underscores (_text_); text in small caps has been symbolised by forward slashes (/small caps/). A superscript character has been denominated by a preceding caret symbol (^). The following typographical errors have been corrected: # p. xviii: 'overspead' --> 'overspread'; 'Vincius ast oculis' --> 'Vincius est oculis' # p. lxxxiii: 'Vasari, 36,' --> 'Vasari, p. 36' # p. lxxxv: 'Maestrodi' --> 'Maestro di' # p. xcii: 'Fontainbleau' --> 'Fontainebleau' # p. 22: Plate 2: original caption points to page 2; corrected to page 22. # p. 37: 'pully' -->'pulley' # p. 117: 'andso' --> 'and so' # p. 156: 'A B E D' --> 'C B E D' # p. 181: 'that that' --> 'than that' # Footnote 62: 'tranferred' --> 'transferred' The Table of Chapters has been moved to the beginning of the text for reasons of clarity and comprehensibility. A TREATISE ON PAINTING, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI. Printed by /S. Gosnell/, Little Queen Street, Holborn, London. [Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI, from a Picture In the Florentine Museum. _London, Published by J. Taylor 59 High Holborn_] A TREATISE ON PAINTING, BY _LEONARDO DA VINCI_. FAITHFULLY TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL ITALIAN, AND NOW FIRST DIGESTED UNDER PROPER HEADS, /By/ JOHN FRANCIS RIGAUD, /Esq./ ACADEMICIAN OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF PAINTING AT LONDON, AND ALSO OF THE ACADEMIA CLEMENTINA AT BOLOGNA, AND THE ROYAL ACADEMY AT STOCKHOLM. Illustrated with twenty-three Copper-plates, and other Figures. TO WHICH IS PREFIXED _A NEW LIFE OF THE AUTHOR_, DRAWN UP FROM AUTHENTIC MATERIALS TILL NOW INACCESSIBLE, /By/ JOHN SIDNEY, HAWKINS, /Esq./ F.A.S. Ars est habitus quidam faciendi verâ cum ratione. ARISTOT. ETHIC. LIB. 6. London: PRINTED FOR J. TAYLOR, AT THE ARCHITECTURAL LIBRARY, HIGH HOLBORN. M.DCCC.II. TABLE OF CHAPTERS. _The Number at the End of each Title refers to the corresponding Chapter in the original Edition in Italian._ DRAWING. PROPORTION. Chap. 1. What the young Student in Painting ought in the first Place to learn. Chapter 1. 2. Rule for a young Student in Painting. 3. 3. How to discover a young Man's Disposition for Painting. 4. 4. Of Painting, and its Divisions. 47. 5. Division of the Figure. 48. 6. Proportion of Members. 49. 7. Of Dimensions in general. 173. 8. Motion, Changes, and Proportion of Members. 166. 9. The Difference of Proportion between Children and grown Men. 169. 10. The Alterations in the Proportion of the human Body from Infancy to full Age. 167. 11. Of the Proportion of Members. 175. 12. That every Part be proportioned to its Whole. 250. 13. Of the Proportion of the Members. 185. 14. The Danger of forming an erroneous Judgment in regard to the Proportion and Beauty of the Parts. 42. 15. Another Precept. 12. 16. The Manner of drawing from Relievos, and rendering Paper fit for it. 127. 17. Of drawing from Casts or Nature. 31. 18. To draw Figures from Nature. 38. 19. Of drawing from Nature. 25. 20. Of drawing Academy Figures. 30. 21. Of studying in the Dark, on first waking in the Morning, and before going to sleep. 17. 22. Observations on drawing Portraits. 188. 23. The Method of retaining in the Memory the Likeness of a Man, so as to draw his Portrait, after having seen him only once. 189. 24. How to remember the Form of a Face. 190. 25. That a Painter should take Pleasure in the Opinion of every Body. 19. ANATOMY. 26. What is principally to be observed in Figures. 213. 27. Mode of Studying. 7. 28. Of being universal. 22. 29. A Precept for the Painter. 5. 30. Of the Measures of the human Body, and the bending of Members. 174. 31. Of the small Bones in several Joints of the human Body. 229. 32. Memorandum to be observed by the Painter. 57. 33. The Shoulders. 171. 34. The Difference of Joints between Children and grown Men. 168. 35. Of the Joints of the Fingers. 170. 36. Of the Joint of the Wrist. 176. 37. Of the Joint of the Foot. 177. 38. Of the Knee. 178. 39. Of the Joints. 179. 40. Of the Naked. 220. 41. Of the Thickness of the Muscles. 221. 42. Fat Subjects have small Muscles. 222. 43. Which of the Muscles disappear in the different Motions of the Body. 223. 44. Of the Muscles. 226. 45. Of the Muscles. 224. 46. The Extension and Contraction of the Muscles. 227. 47. Of the Muscle between the Chest and the lower Belly. 230. 48. Of a Man's complex Strength, but first of the Arm. 234. 49. In which of the two Actions, Pulling or Pushing, a Man has the greatest Power, _Plate II._ 235. 50. Of the bending of Members, and of the Flesh round the bending Joint. 236. 51. Of the naked Body. 180. 52. Of a Ligament without Muscles. 228. 53. Of Creases. 238. 54. How near behind the Back one Arm can be brought to the other. _Plate III._ and _IV._ 232. 55. Of the Muscles. 225. 56. Of the Muscles. 194. 57. Of the bending of the Body. 204. 58. The same Subject. 205. 59. The Necessity of anatomical Knowledge. 43. MOTION AND EQUIPOISE OF FIGURES. 60. Of the Equipoise of a Figure standing still. 203. 61. Motion produced by the Loss of Equilibrium. 208. 62. Of the Equipoise of Bodies, _Plate V._ 263. 63. Of Positions. 192. 64. Of balancing the Weight round the Centre of Gravity in Bodies. 214. 65. Of Figures that have to lift up, or carry any Weight. 215. 66. The Equilibrium of a Man standing upon his Feet, _Plate VI._ 201. 67. Of Walking, _Plate VII._ 202. 68. Of the Centre of Gravity in Men and Animals. 199. 69. Of the corresponding Thickness of Parts on each Side of the Body. 269. 70. Of the Motions of Animals. 249. 71. Of Quadrupeds and their Motions. 268. 72. Of the Quickness or Slowness of Motion. 267. 73. Of the Motion of Animals. 299. 74. Of a Figure moving against the Wind, _Plate VIII._ 295. 75. Of the Balance of a Figure resting upon its Feet. 266. 76. A Precept. 350. 77. Of a Man standing, but resting more upon one Foot than the other. 264. 78. Of the Balance of Figures, _Plate IX._ 209. 79. In what Manner extending one Arm alters the Balance. 198. 80. Of a Man bearing a Weight on his Shoulders, _Plate X._ 200. 81. Of Equilibrium. 206. 82. Of Motion. 195. 83. The Level of the Shoulders. 196. 84. Objection to the above answered, _Plate XI._ and _XII._ 197. 85. Of the Position of Figures, _Plate XIII._ 89. 86. Of the Joints. 184. 87. Of the Shoulders. 172. 88. Of the Motions of a Man. 207. 89. Of the Disposition of Members preparing to act with great Force, _Plate XIV._ 233. 90. Of throwing any Thing with Violence, _Plate XV._ 261. 91. On the Motion of driving any Thing into or drawing it out of the Ground. 262. 92. Of forcible Motions, _Plate XVI._ 181. 93. The Action of Jumping. 260. 94. Of the three Motions in jumping upwards. 270. 95. Of the easy Motions of Members. 211. 96. The greatest Twist which a Man can make, in turning to look at himself behind, Plate _XVII._ 231. 97. Of turning the Leg without the Thigh. 237. 98. Postures of Figures. 265. 99. Of the Gracefulness of the Members. 210. 100. That it is impossible for any Memory to retain the Aspects and Changes of the Members. 271. 101. The Motions of Figures. 242. 102. Of common Motions. 248. 103. Of simple Motions. 239. 104. Complex Motions. 240. 105. Motions appropriated to the Subject. 241. 106. Appropriate Motions. 245. 107. Of the Postures of Women and young People. 259. 108. Of the Postures of Children. 258. 109. Of the Motion of the Members. 186. 110. Of mental Motions. 246. 111. Effect of the Mind upon the Motions of the Body, occasioned by some outward Object. 247. LINEAR PERSPECTIVE. 112. Of those who apply themselves to the Practice, without having learnt the Theory of the Art. 23. 113. Precepts in Painting. 349. 114. Of the Boundaries of Objects called Outlines or Contours. 291. 115. Of linear Perspective. 322. 116. What Parts of Objects disappear first by Distance. 318. 117. Of remote Objects. 316. 118. Of the Point of Sight. 281. 119. A Picture is to be viewed from one Point only. 59. 120. Of the Dimensions of the first Figure in an historical Painting. 91. 121. Of Objects that are lost to the Sight, in Proportion to their Distance. 292. 122. Errors not so easily seen in small Objects as in large ones. 52. 123. Historical Subjects one above another on the same Wall to be avoided. 54. 124. Why Objects in Painting can never detach as natural Objects do. 53. 125. How to give the proper Dimension to Objects in Painting. 71. 126. How to draw accurately any particular Spot. 32. 127. Disproportion to be avoided, even in the accessory Parts. 290. INVENTION /or/ COMPOSITION. 128. Precept for avoiding a bad Choice in the Style or Proportion of Figures. 45. 129. Variety in Figures. 21. 130. How a Painter ought to proceed in his Studies. 6. 131. Of sketching Histories and Figures. 13. 132. How to study Composition. 96. 133. Of the Attitudes of Men. 216. 134. Variety of Positions. 217. 135. Of Studies from Nature for History. 37. 136. Of the Variety of Figures in History Painting. 94. 137. Of Variety in History. 97. 138. Of the Age of Figures. 252. 139. Of Variety of Faces. 98. 140. A Fault in Painters. 44. 141. How you may learn to compose Groups for History Painting. 90. 142. How to study the Motions of the human Body. 95. 143. Of Dresses, and of Draperies and Folds. 358. 144. Of the Nature of Folds in Draperies. 359. 145. How the Folds of Draperies ought to be represented, _Plate XVIII._ 360. 146. How the Folds in Draperies ought to be made. 361. 147. Fore-shortening of Folds, _Plate XIX._ 362. 148. Of Folds. 364. 149. Of Decorum. 251. 150. The Character of Figures in Composition. 253. 151. The Motion of the Muscles, when the Figures are in natural Positions. 193. 152. A Precept in Painting. 58. 153. Of the Motion of Man, _Plate XX._ and _XXI._ 182. 154. Of Attitudes, and the Motions of the Members. 183. 155. Of a single Figure separate from an historical Group. 212. 156. On the Attitudes of the human Figure. 218. 157. How to represent a Storm. 66. 158. How to compose a Battle. 67. 159. The Representation of an Orator and his Audience. 254. 160. Of demonstrative Gestures. 243. 161. Of the Attitudes of the By-standers at some remarkable Event. 219. 162. How to represent Night. 65. 163. The Method of awakening the Mind to a Variety of Inventions. 16. 164. Of Composition in History. 93. EXPRESSION /and/ CHARACTER. 165. Of expressive Motions. 50. 166. How to paint Children. 61. 167. How to represent old Men. 62. 168. How to paint old Women. 63. 169. How to paint Women. 64. 170. Of the Variety of Faces. 244. 171. The Parts of the Face, and their Motions. 187. 172. Laughing and Weeping. 257. 173. Of Anger. 255. 174. Despair. 256. LIGHT /and/ SHADOW. 175. The Course of Study to be pursued. 2. 176. Which of the two is the most useful Knowledge, the Outlines of Figures, or that of Light and Shadow. 56. 177. Which is the most important, the Shadow or Outlines in Painting. 277. 178. What is a Painter's first Aim and Object. 305. 179. The Difference of Superficies, in regard to Painting. 278. 180. How a Painter may become universal. 10. 181. Accuracy ought to be learnt before Dispatch in the Execution. 18. 182. How the Painter is to place himself in regard to the Light, and his Model. 40. 183. Of the best Light. 41. 184. Of drawing by Candle-light. 34. 185. Of those Painters who draw at Home from one Light, and afterwards adapt their Studies to another Situation in the Country, and a different Light. 46. 186. How high the Light should be in drawing from Nature. 27. 187. What Light the Painter must make use of to give most Relief to his Figures. 55. 188. Advice to Painters. 26. 189. Of Shadows. 60. 190. Of the Kind of Light proper for drawing from Relievos, or from Nature. 29. 191. Whether the Light should be admitted in Front or sideways; and which is the most pleasing and graceful. 74. 192. Of the Difference of Lights according to the Situation. 289. 193. How to distribute the Light on Figures. 279. 194. Of the Beauty of Faces. 191. 195. How, in drawing a Face, to give it Grace, by the Management of Light and Shade. 35. 196. How to give Grace and Relief to Faces. 287. 197. Of the Termination of Bodies upon each other. 294. 198. Of the Back-grounds of painted Objects. 154. 199. How to detach and bring forward Figures out of their Back-ground. 288. 200. Of proper Back-grounds. 141. 201. Of the general Light diffused over Figures. 303. 202. Of those Parts in Shadows which appear the darkest at a Distance. 327. 203. Of the Eye viewing the Folds of Draperies surrounding a Figure. 363. 204. Of the Relief of Figures remote from the Eye. 336. 205. Of Outlines of Objects on the Side towards the Light. 337. 206. How to make Objects detach from their Ground, that is to say, from the Surface on which they are painted. 342. CONTRASTE AND EFFECT. 207. A Precept. 343. 208. Of the Interposition of transparent Bodies between the Eye and the Object. 357. 209. Of proper Back-grounds for Figures. 283. 210. Of Back-grounds. 160. REFLEXES. 211. Of Objects placed on a light Ground, and why such a Practice is useful in Painting. 159. 212. Of the different Effects of White, according to the Difference of Back-grounds. 139. 213. Of Reverberation. 75. 214. Where there cannot be any Reverberation of Light. 76. 215. In what Part the Reflexes have more or less Brightness. 79. 216. Of the reflected Lights which surround the Shadows. 78. 217. Where Reflexes are to be most apparent. 82. 218. What Part of a Reflex is to be the lightest. 80. 219. Of the Termination of Reflexes on their Grounds. 88. 220. Of double and treble Reflexions of Light. 83. 221. Reflexes in the Water, and particularly those of the Air. 135. COLOURS /and/ COLOURING. COLOURS. 222. What Surface is best calculated to receive most Colours. 123. 223. What Surface will shew most perfectly its true Colour. 125. 224. On what Surface the true Colour is least apparent. 131. 225. What Surfaces shew most of their true and genuine Colour. 132. 226. Of the Mixture of Colours. 121. 227. Of the Colours produced by the Mixture of other Colours, called secondary Colours. 161. 228. Of Verdegris. 119. 229. How to increase the Beauty of Verdegris. 120. 230. How to paint a Picture that will last almost for ever. 352. 231. The Mode of painting on Canvass, or Linen Cloth. 353. 232. Of lively and beautiful Colours. 100. 233. Of transparent Colours. 113. 234. In what Part a Colour will appear in its greatest Beauty. 114. 235. How any Colour without Gloss, is more beautiful in the Lights than in the Shades. 115. 236. Of the Appearance of Colours. 116. 237. What Part of a Colour is to be the most beautiful. 117. 238. That the Beauty of a Colour is to be found in the Lights. 118. 239. Of Colours. 111. 240. No Object appears in its true Colour, unless the Light which strikes upon it be of the same Colour. 150. 241. Of the Colour of Shadows. 147. 242. Of Colours. 153. 243. Whether it be possible for all Colours to appear alike by means of the same Shadow. 109. 244. Why White is not reckoned among the Colours. 155. 245. Of Colours. 156. 246. Of the Colouring of remote Objects. 339. 247. The Surface of all opake Bodies participates of the Colour of the surrounding Objects. 298. 248. General Remarks on Colours. 162. COLOURS IN REGARD TO LIGHT AND SHADOW. 249. Of the Light proper for painting Flesh Colour from Nature. 36. 250. Of the Painter's Window. 296. 251. The Shadows of Colours. 101. 252. Of the Shadows of White. 104. 253. Which of the Colours will produce the darkest Shade. 105. 254. How to manage, when a White terminates upon another White. 138. 255. On the Back-grounds of Figures. 140. 256. The Mode of composing History. 92. 257. Remarks concerning Lights and Shadows. 302. 258. Why the Shadows of Bodies upon a white Wall are blueish towards the Evening. 328. 259. Of the Colour of Faces. 126. 260. A Precept relating to Painting. 284. 261. Of Colours in Shadow. 158. 262. Of the Choice of Lights. 28. COLOURS IN REGARD TO BACK-GROUNDS. 263. Of avoiding hard Outlines. 51. 264. Of Outlines. 338. 265. Of Back-grounds. 334. 266. How to detach Figures from the Ground. 70. 267. Of Uniformity and Variety of Colours upon plain Surfaces. 304. 268. Of Back-grounds suitable both to Shadows and Lights. 137. 269. The apparent Variation of Colours, occasioned by the Contraste of the Ground upon which they are placed. 112. CONTRASTE, HARMONY, AND REFLEXES, IN REGARD TO COLOURS. 270. Gradation in Painting. 144. 271. How to assort Colours in such a Manner as that they may add Beauty to each other. 99. 272. Of detaching the Figures. 73. 273. Of the Colour of Reflexes. 87. 274. What Body will be the most strongly tinged with the Colour of any other Object. 124. 275. Of Reflexes. 77. 276. Of the Surface of all shadowed Bodies. 122. 277. That no reflected Colour is simple, but is mixed with the Nature of the other Colours. 84. 278. Of the Colour of Lights and Reflexes. 157. 279. Why reflected Colours seldom partake of the Colour of the Body where they meet. 85. 280. The Reflexes of Flesh Colours. 81. 281. Of the Nature of Comparison. 146. 282. Where the Reflexes are seen. 86. PERSPECTIVE OF COLOURS. 283. A Precept of Perspective in regard to Painting. 354. 284. Of the Perspective of Colours. 134. 285. The Cause of the Diminution of Colours. 136. 286. Of the Diminution of Colours and Objects. 356. 287. Of the Variety observable in Colours, according to their Distance or Proximity. 102. 288. At what Distance Colours are entirely lost. 103. 289. Of the Change observable in the same Colour, according to its Distance from the Eye. 128. 290. Of the blueish Appearance of remote Objects in a Landscape. 317. 291. Of the Qualities in the Surface which first lose themselves by Distance. 293. 292. From what Cause the Azure of the Air proceeds. 151. 293. Of the Perspective of Colours. 107. 294. Of the Perspective of Colours in dark Places. 148. 295. Of the Perspective of Colours. 149. 296. Of Colours. 152. 297. How it happens that Colours do not change, though placed in different Qualities of Air. 108. 298. Why Colours experience no apparent Change, though placed in different Qualities of Air. 106. 299. Contrary Opinions in regard to Objects seen afar off. 142. 300. Of the Colour of Objects remote from the Eye. 143. 301. Of the Colour of Mountains. 163. 302. Why the Colour and Shape of Objects are lost in some Situations apparently dark, though not so in Reality. 110. 303. Various Precepts in Painting. 340. AERIAL PERSPECTIVE. 304. Aerial Perspective. 165. 305. The Parts of the smallest Objects will first disappear in Painting. 306. 306. Small Figures ought not to be too much finished. 282. 307. Why the Air is to appear whiter as it approaches nearer to the Earth. 69. 308. How to paint the distant Part of a Landscape. 68. 309. Of precise and confused Objects. 72. 310. Of distant Objects. 355. 311. Of Buildings seen in a thick Air. 312. 312. Of Towns and other Objects seen through a thick Air. 309. 313. Of the inferior Extremities of distant Objects. 315. 314. Which Parts of Objects disappear first by being removed farther from the Eye, and which preserve their Appearance. 321. 315. Why Objects are less distinguished in proportion as they are farther removed from the Eye. 319. 316. Why Faces appear dark at a Distance. 320. 317. Of Towns and other Buildings seen through a Fog in the Morning or Evening. 325. 318. Of the Height of Buildings seen in a Fog. 324. 319. Why Objects which are high, appear darker at a Distance than those which are low, though the Fog be uniform, and of equal Thickness. 326. 320. Of Objects seen in a Fog. 323. 321. Of those Objects which the Eye perceives through a Mist or thick Air. 311. 322. Miscellaneous Observations. 308. MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS. LANDSCAPE. 323. Of Objects seen at a Distance. 313. 324. Of a Town seen through a thick Air. 314. 325. How to draw a Landscape. 33. 326. Of the Green of the Country. 129. 327. What Greens will appear most of a blueish Cast. 130. 328. The Colour of the Sea from different Aspects. 145. 329. Why the same Prospect appears larger at some Times than at others. 307. 330. Of Smoke. 331. 331. In what Part Smoke is lightest. 329. 332. Of the Sun-beams passing through the Openings of Clouds. 310. 333. Of the Beginning of Rain. 347. 334. The Seasons are to be observed. 345. 335. The Difference of Climates is to be observed. 344. 336. Of Dust. 330. 337. How to represent the Wind. 346. 338. Of a Wilderness. 285. 339. Of the Horizon seen in the Water. 365. 340. Of the Shadow of Bridges on the Surface of the Water. 348. 341. How a Painter ought to put in Practice the Perspective of Colours. 164. 342. Various Precepts in Painting. 332. 343. The Brilliancy of a Landscape. 133. MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS. 344. Why a painted Object does not appear so far distant as a real one, though they be conveyed to the Eye by equal Angles. 333. 345. How to draw a Figure standing upon its Feet, to appear forty Braccia high, in a Space of twenty Braccia, with proportionate Members. 300. 346. How to draw a Figure twenty-four Braccia high, upon a Wall twelve Braccia high. _Plate XXII._ 301. 347. Why, on measuring a Face, and then painting it of the same Size, it will appear larger than the natural one. 297. 348. Why the most perfect Imitation of Nature will not appear to have the same Relief as Nature itself. 341. 349. Universality of Painting. A Precept. 9. 350. In what Manner the Mirror is the true Master of Painters. 275. 351. Which Painting is to be esteemed the best. 276. 352. Of the Judgment to be made of a Painter's Work. 335. 353. How to make an imaginary Animal appear natural. 286. 354. Painters are not to imitate one another. 24. 355. How to judge of one's own Work. 274. 356. Of correcting Errors which you discover. 14. 357. The best Place for looking at a Picture. 280. 358. Of Judgment. 15. 359. Of Employment anxiously wished for by Painters. 272. 360. Advice to Painters. 8. 361. Of Statuary. 351. 362. On the Measurement and Division of Statues into Parts. 39. 363. A Precept for the Painter. 11. 364. On the Judgment of Painters. 273. 365. That a Man ought not to trust to himself, but ought to consult Nature. 20. PREFACE TO THE PRESENT TRANSLATION. The excellence of the following Treatise is so well known to all in any tolerable degree conversant with the Art of Painting, that it would be almost superfluous to say any thing respecting it, were it not that it here appears under the form of a new translation, of which some account may be expected. Of the original Work, which is in reality a selection from the voluminous manuscript collections of the Author, both in folio and quarto, of all such passages as related to Painting, no edition appeared in print till 1651, though its Author died so long before as the year 1519; and it is owing to the circumstance of a manuscript copy of these extracts in the original Italian, having fallen into the hands of Raphael du Fresne; that in the former of these years it was published at Paris in a thin folio volume in that language, accompanied with a set of cuts from the drawings of Nicolo Poussin, and Alberti; the former having designed the human figures, the latter the geometrical and other representations. This precaution was probably necessary, the sketches in the Author's own collections being so very slight as not to be fit for publication without further assistance. Poussin's drawings were mere outlines, and the shadows and back-grounds behind the figures were added by Errard, after the drawings had been made, and, as Poussin himself says, without his knowledge. In the same year, and size, and printed at the same place, a translation of the original work into French was given to the world by Monsieur de Chambray (well known, under his family name of Freart, as the author of an excellent Parallel of ancient and modern Architecture, in French, which Mr. Evelyn translated into English). The style of this translation by Mons. de Chambray, being thought, some years after, too antiquated, some one was employed to revise and modernise it; and in 1716 a new edition of it, thus polished, came out, of which it may be truly said, as is in general the case on such occasions, that whatever the supposed advantage obtained in purity and refinement of language might be, it was more than counterbalanced by the want of the more valuable qualities of accuracy, and fidelity to the original, from which, by these variations, it became further removed. The first translation of this Treatise into English, appeared in the year 1721. It does not declare by whom it was made; but though it professes to have been done from the original Italian, it is evident, upon a comparison, that more use was made of the revised edition of the French translation. Indifferent, however, as it is, it had become so scarce, and risen to a price so extravagant, that, to supply the demand, it was found necessary, in the year 1796, to reprint it as it stood, with all its errors on its head, no opportunity then offering of procuring a fresh translation. This last impression, however, being now also disposed of, and a new one again called for, the present Translator was induced to step forward, and undertake the office of fresh translating it, on finding, by comparing the former versions both in French and English with the original, many passages which he thought might at once be more concisely and more faithfully rendered. His object, therefore, has been to attain these ends, and as rules and precepts like the present allow but little room for the decorations of style, he has been more solicitous for fidelity, perspicuity, and precision, than for smooth sentences, and well-turned periods. Nor was this the only advantage which it was found the present opportunity would afford; for the original work consisting in fact of a number of entries made at different times, without any regard to their subjects, or attention to method, might rather in that state be considered as a chaos of intelligence, than a well-digested treatise. It has now, therefore, for the first time, been attempted to place each chapter under the proper head or branch of the art to which it belongs; and by so doing, to bring together those which (though related and nearly connected in substance) stood, according to the original arrangement, at such a distance from each other as to make it troublesome to find them even by the assistance of an index; and difficult, when found, to compare them together. The consequence of this plan, it must be confessed, has been, that in a few instances the same precept has been found in substance repeated; but this is so far from being an objection, that it evidently proves the precepts were not the hasty opinions of the moment, but settled and fixed principles in the mind of the Author, and that he was consistent in the expression of his sentiments. But if this mode of arrangement has in the present case disclosed what might have escaped observation, it has also been productive of more material advantages; for, besides facilitating the finding of any particular passage (an object in itself of no small importance), it clearly shews the work to be a much more complete system than those best acquainted with it, had before any idea of, and that many of the references in it apparently to other writings of the same Author, relate in fact only to the present, the chapters referred to having been found in it. These are now pointed out in the notes, and where any obscurity has occurred in the text, the reader will find some assistance at least attempted by the insertion of a note to solve the difficulty. No pains or expense have been spared in preparing the present work for the press. The cuts have been re-engraven with more attention to correctness in the drawing, than those which accompanied the two editions of the former English translation possessed (even though they had been fresh engraven for the impression of 1796); and the diagrams are now inserted in their proper places in the text, instead of being, as before, collected all together in two plates at the end. Besides this, a new Life of the Author has been also added by a Friend of the Translator, the materials for which have been furnished, not from vague reports, or uncertain conjectures, but from memoranda of the Author himself, not before used. Fortunately for this undertaking, the manuscript collections of Leonardo da Vinci, which have lately passed from Italy into France, have, since their removal thither, been carefully inspected, and an abstract of their contents published in a quarto pamphlet, printed at Paris in 1797, and intitled, "Essai sur les Ouvrages physico-mathematiques de Leonard de Vinci;" by J. B. Venturi, Professor of Natural Philosophy at Modena; a Member of the Institute of Bologna, &c. From this pamphlet a great deal of original intelligence respecting the Author has been obtained, which, derived as it is from his own information, could not possibly be founded on better evidence. To this Life we shall refer the reader for a further account of the origin and history of the present Treatise, conceiving we have already effected our purpose, by here giving him a sufficient idea of what he is to expect from the ensuing pages. THE LIFE OF _LEONARDO DA VINCI_. Leonardo da Vinci, the Author of the following Treatise, was the natural son of Pietro da Vinci, a notary of Vinci, in Tuscany[i1], a village situated in the valley of Arno, a little below Florence, and was born in the year 1452[i2]. Having discovered, when a child, a strong inclination and talent for painting, of which he had given proofs by several little drawings and sketches; his father one day accidentally took up some of them, and was induced to shew them to his friend Andrea Verocchio, a painter of some reputation in Florence, who was also a chaser, an architect, a sculptor, and goldsmith, for his advice, as to the propriety of bringing up his son to the profession of painting, and the probability of his becoming eminent in the art. The answer of Verocchio was such as to confirm him in that resolution; and Leonardo, to fit him for that purpose, was accordingly placed under the tuition of Verocchio[i3]. As Verocchio combined in himself a perfect knowledge of the arts of chasing and sculpture, and was a deep proficient in architecture, Leonardo had in this situation the means and opportunity of acquiring a variety of information, which though perhaps not immediately connected with the art to which his principal attention was to be directed, might, with the assistance of such a mind as Leonardo's, be rendered subsidiary to his grand object, tend to promote his knowledge of the theory, and facilitate his practice of the profession for which he was intended. Accordingly we find that he had the good sense to avail himself of these advantages, and that under Verocchio he made great progress, and attracted his master's friendship and confidence, by the talents he discovered, the sweetness of his manners, and the vivacity of his disposition[i4]. Of his proficiency in painting, the following instance is recorded; and the skill he afterwards manifested in other branches of science, on various occasions, evidently demonstrated how solicitous he had been for knowledge of all kinds, and how careful in his youth to lay a good foundation. Verocchio had undertaken for the religious of Vallombrosa, without Florence, a picture of our Saviour's Baptism by St. John, and consigned to Leonardo the office of putting in from the original drawing, the figure of an angel holding up the drapery; but, unfortunately for Verocchio, Leonardo succeeded so well, that, despairing of ever equalling the work of his scholar, Verocchio in disgust abandoned his pencil for ever, confining himself in future solely to the practice of sculpture[i5]. On this success Leonardo became sensible that he no longer stood in need of an instructor; and therefore quitting Verocchio, he now began to work and study for himself. Many of his performances of this period are still, or were lately to be seen at Florence; and besides these, the following have been also mentioned: A cartoon of Adam and Eve in the Garden, which he did for the King of Portugal[i6]. This is highly commended for the exquisite gracefulness of the two principal figures, the beauty of the landscape, and the incredible exactitude of the shrubs and fruit. At the instance of his father, he made a painting for one of his old neighbours at Vinci[i7]; it consisted wholly of such animals as have naturally an hatred to each other, joined artfully together in a variety of attitudes. Some authors have said that this painting was a shield[i8], and have related the following particulars respecting it. One of Pietro's neighbours meeting him one day at Florence, told him he had been making a shield, and would be glad of his assistance to get it painted; Pietro undertook this office, and applied to his son to make good the promise. When the shield was brought to Leonardo, he found it so ill made, that he was obliged to get a turner to smooth it; and when that was done, he began to consider with what subject he should paint it. For this purpose he got together, in his apartment, a collection of live animals, such as lizards, crickets, serpents, silk-worms, locusts, bats, and other creatures of that kind, from the multitude of which, variously adapted to each other, he formed an horrible and terrific animal, emitting fire and poison from his jaws, flames from his eyes, and smoke from his nostrils; and with so great earnestness did Leonardo apply to this, that though in his apartment the stench of the animals that from time to time died there, was so strong as to be scarcely tolerable, he, through his love to the art, entirely disregarded it. The work being finished, Leonardo told his father he might now see it; and the father one morning coming to his apartment for that purpose, Leonardo, before he admitted him, placed the shield so as to receive from the window its full and proper light, and then opened the door. Not knowing what he was to expect, and little imagining that what he saw was not the creatures themselves, but a mere painted representation of them, the father, on entering and beholding the shield, was at first staggered and shocked; which the son perceiving, told him he might now send the shield to his friend, as, from the effect which the sight of it had then produced, he found he had attained the object at which he aimed. Pietro, however, had too much sagacity not to see that this was by much too great a curiosity for a mere countryman, who would never be sensible of its value; he therefore privately bought for his friend an ordinary shield, rudely painted with the device of an heart with an arrow through it, and sold this for an hundred ducats to some merchants at Florence, by whom it was again sold for three hundred to the Duke of Milan[i9]. He afterwards painted a picture of the Virgin Mary, and by her side a vessel of water, in which were flowers: in this he so contrived it, as that the light reflected from the flowers threw a pale redness on the water. This picture was at one time in the possession of Pope Clement the Seventh[i10]. For his friend Antonio Segni he also made a design, representing Neptune in his car, drawn by sea-horses, and attended by tritons and sea-gods; the heavens overspread with clouds, which were driven in all directions by the violence of the winds; the waves appeared to be rolling, and the whole ocean seemed in an uproar[i11]. This drawing was afterwards given by Fabio the son of Antonio Segni, to Giovanni Gaddi, a great collector of drawings, with this epigram: Pinxit Virgilius Neptunum, pinxit Homerus, Dum maris undisoni per vada flectit equos. Mente quidem vates illum conspexit uterque, Vincius est oculis, jureque vincit eos[i12]. In English thus: Virgil and Homer, when they Neptune shew'd, As he through boist'rous seas his steeds compell'd, In the mind's eye alone his figure view'd; But Vinci _saw_ him, and has both excell'd[i13]. To these must be added the following: A painting representing two horsemen engaged in fight, and struggling to tear a flag from each other: rage and fury are in this admirably expressed in the countenances of the two combatants; their air appears wild, and the drapery is thrown into an unusual though agreeable disorder. A Medusa's head, and a picture of the Adoration of the Magi[i14]. In this last there are some fine heads, but both this and the Medusa's head are said by Du Fresne to have been evidently unfinished. The mind of Leonardo was however too active and capacious to be contented solely with the practical part of his art; nor could it submit to receive as principles, conclusions, though confirmed by experience, without first tracing them to their source, and investigating their causes, and the several circumstances on which they depended. For this purpose he determined to engage in a deep examination into the theory of his art; and the better to effect his intention, he resolved to call in to his aid the assistance of all such other branches of science as could in any degree promote this grand object. Vasari has related[i15], that at a very early age he had, in the short time of a few months only that he applied to it, obtained a deep knowledge of arithmetic; and says, that in literature in general, he would have made great attainments, if he had not been too versatile to apply long to one subject. In music, he adds, he had made some progress; that he then determined to learn to play on the lyre; and that having an uncommonly fine voice, and an extraordinary promptitude of thought and expression, he became a celebrated _improvisatore_: but that his attention to these did not induce him to neglect painting and modelling in which last art he was so great a proficient, that in his youth he modelled in clay some heads of women laughing, and also some boys' heads, which appeared to have come from the hand of a master. In architecture, he made many plans and designs for buildings, and, while he was yet young, proposed conveying the river Arno into the canal at Pisa[i16]. Of his skill in poetry the reader may judge from the following sonnet preserved by Lomazzo[i17], the only one now existing of his composition; and for the translation with which it is accompanied we are indebted to a lady. SONNETTO MORALE. Chi non può quel vuol, quel che può voglia, Che quel che non si può folle è volere. Adunque saggio è l'uomo da tenere, Che da quel che non può suo voler toglia. Però ch'ogni diletto nostro e doglia Sta in sì e nò, saper, voler, potere, Adunque quel sol può, che co 'l dovere Ne trahe la ragion suor di sua soglia. Ne sempre è da voler quel che l'uom puote, Spesso par dolce quel che torna amaro, Piansi gia quel ch'io volsi, poi ch'io l'ebbi. Adunque tu, lettor di queste note, S'a te vuoi esser buono e a' gli altri caro, Vogli sempre poter quel che tu debbi. TRANSLATION. A MORAL SONNET. The man who cannot what he would attain, Within his pow'r his wishes should restrain: The wish of Folly o'er that bound aspires, The wise man by it limits his desires. Since all our joys so close on sorrows run, We know not what to choose or what to shun; Let all our wishes still our duty meet, Nor banish Reason from her awful seat. Nor is it always best for man to will Ev'n what his pow'rs can reach; some latent ill Beneath a fair appearance may delude And make him rue what earnest he pursued. Then, Reader, as you scan this simple page, Let this one care your ev'ry thought engage, (With self-esteem and gen'ral love 't is fraught,) Wish only pow'r to do just what you ought. The course of study which Leonardo had thus undertaken, would, in its most limited extent by any one who should attempt it at this time, be found perhaps almost more than could be successfully accomplished; but yet his curiosity and unbounded thirst for information, induced him rather to enlarge than contract his plan. Accordingly we find, that to the study of geometry, sculpture, anatomy, he added those of architecture, mechanics, optics, hydrostatics, astronomy, and Nature in general, in all her operations[i18]; and the result of his observations and experiments, which were intended not only for present use, but as the basis and foundation of future discoveries, he determined, as he proceeded, to commit to writing. At what time he began these his collections, of which we shall have occasion to speak more particularly hereafter, is no where mentioned; but it is with certainty known, that by the month of April 1490, he had already completely filled two folio volumes[i19]. Notwithstanding Leonardo's propensity and application to study, he was not inattentive to the graces of external accomplishments; he was very skilful in the management of an horse, rode gracefully, and when he afterwards arrived to a state of affluence, took particular pleasure in appearing in public well mounted and handsomely accoutred. He possessed great dexterity in the use of arms: for mien and grace he might contend with any gentleman of his time: his person was remarkably handsome, his behaviour so perfectly polite, and his conversation so charming, that his company was coveted by all who knew him; but the avocations to which this last circumstance subjected him, are one reason why so many of his works remain unfinished[i20]. With such advantages of mind and body as these, it was no wonder that his reputation should spread itself, as we find it soon did, over all Italy. The painting of the shield before mentioned, had already, as has been noticed, come into the possession of the Duke of Milan; and the subsequent accounts which he had from time to time heard of Leonardo's abilities and talents, induced Lodovic Sforza, surnamed the Moor, then Duke of Milan, about, or a little before the year 1489[i21], to invite him to his court, and to settle on him a pension of five hundred crowns, a considerable sum at that time[i22]. Various are the reasons assigned for this invitation: Vasari[i23] attributes it to his skill in music, a science of which the Duke is said to have been fond; others have ascribed it to a design which the Duke entertained of erecting a brazen statue to the memory of his father[i24]; but others conceive it originated from the circumstance, that the Duke had not long before established at Milan an academy for the study of painting, sculpture, and architecture, and was desirous that Leonardo should take the conduct and direction of it[i25]. The second was, however, we find, the true motive; and we are further informed, that the invitation was accepted by Leonardo, that he went to Milan, and was already there in 1489[i26]. Among the collections of Leonardo still existing in manuscript, is a copy of a memorial presented by him to the Duke about 1490, of which Venturi has given an abridgment[i27]. In it he offers to make for the Duke military bridges, which should be at the same time light and very solid, and to teach him the method of placing and defending them with security. When the object is to take any place, he can, he says, empty the ditch of its water; he knows, he adds, the art of constructing a subterraneous gallery under the ditches themselves, and of carrying it to the very spot that shall be wanted. If the fort is not built on a rock, he undertakes to throw it down, and mentions that he has new contrivances for bombarding machines, ordnance, and mortars, some adapted to throw hail shot, fire, and smoke, among the enemy; and for all other machines proper for a siege, and for war, either by sea or land, according to circumstances. In peace also, he says he can be useful in what concerns the erection of buildings, conducting of water-courses, sculpture in bronze or marble, and painting; and remarks, that at the same time that he may be pursuing any of the above objects, the equestrian statue to the memory of the Duke's father, and his illustrious family, may still be going on. If any one doubts the possibility of what he proposes, he offers to prove it by experiment, and ocular demonstration. From this memorial it seems clear, that the casting of the bronze statue was his principal object; painting is only mentioned incidentally, and no notice is taken of the direction or management of the academy for painting, sculpture, and architecture; it is probable, therefore, that at this time there was no such intention, though it is certainly true, that he was afterwards placed at the head of it, and that he banished from it the barbarous style of architecture which till then had prevailed in it, and introduced in its stead a more pure and classical taste. Whatever was the fact with respect to the academy, it is however well known that the statue was cast in bronze, finished, and put up at Milan, but afterwards demolished by the French when they took possession of that place[i28] after the defeat of Lodovic Sforza. Some time after Leonardo's arrival at Milan, a design had been entertained of cutting a canal from Martesana to Milan, for the purpose of opening a communication by water between these two places, and, as it is said, of supplying the last with water. It had been first thought of so early as 1457[i29]; but from the difficulties to be expected in its execution, it seems to have been laid aside, or at least to have proceeded slowly, till Leonardo's arrival. His offers of service as engineer in the above memorial, probably induced Lodovic Sforza, the then Duke, to resume the intention with vigour, and accordingly we find the plan was determined on, and the execution of it intrusted to Leonardo. The object was noble, but the difficulties to be encountered were sufficient to have discouraged any mind but Leonardo's; for the distance was no less than two hundred miles; and before it could be completed, hills were to be levelled, and vallies filled up, to render them navigable with security[i30]. In order to enable him to surmount the obstacles with which he foresaw he should have to contend, he retired to the house of his friend Signior Melzi, at Vaverola, not far distant from Milan, and there applied himself sedulously for some years, as it is said, but at intervals only we must suppose, and according as his undertaking proceeded, to the study of philosophy, mathematics, and every branch of science that could at all further his design; still continuing the method he had before adopted, of entering down in writing promiscuously, whatever he wished to implant in his memory: and at this place, in this and his subsequent visits from time to time, he is supposed to have made the greater part of the collections he has left behind him[i31], of the contents of which we shall hereafter speak more at large. Although engaged in the conduct of so vast an undertaking, and in studies so extensive, the mind of Leonardo does not appear to have been so wholly occupied or absorbed in them as to incapacitate him from attending at the same time to other objects also; and the Duke therefore being desirous of ornamenting Milan with some specimens of his skill as a painter, employed him to paint in the refectory of the Dominican convent of Santa Maria delle Gratie, in that city, a picture, the subject of which was to be the Last Supper. Of this picture it is related, that Leonardo was so impressed with the dignity of the subject, and so anxious to answer the high ideas he had formed of it in his own mind, that his progress was very slow, and that he spent much time in meditation and thought, during which the work was apparently at a stand. The Prior of the convent, thinking it therefore neglected, complained to the Duke; but Leonardo assuring the Duke that not less than two hours were every day bestowed on it, he was satisfied. Nevertheless the Prior, after a short time, finding the work very little advanced, once more applied to the Duke, who in some degree of anger, as thinking Leonardo had deceived him, reprimanded him in strong terms for his delay. What Leonardo had scorned to urge to the Prior in his defence, he now thought fit to plead in his excuse to the Duke, to convince him that a painter did not labour solely with his hands, but that his mind might be deeply studying his subject, when his hands were unemployed, and he in appearance perfectly idle. In proof of this, he told the Duke that nothing remained to the completion of the picture but the heads of our Saviour and Judas; that as to the former, he had not yet been able to find a fit model to express its divinity, and found his invention inadequate of itself to represent it: that with respect to that of Judas, he had been in vain for two years searching among the most abandoned and profligate of the species for an head which would convey an idea of his character; but that this difficulty was now at length removed, since he had nothing to do but to introduce the head of the Prior, whose ingratitude for the pains he was taking, rendered him a fit archetype of the perfidy and ingratitude he wished to express. Some persons have said[i32], that the head of Judas in the picture was actually copied from that of the Prior; but Mariette denies it, and says this reply was merely intended as a threat[i33]. A difference of opinion has also prevailed concerning the head of our Saviour in this picture; for some have conceived it left intentionally unfinished[i34], while others think there is a gradation of resemblance, which increasing in beauty in St. John and our Saviour, shews in the dignified countenance of the latter a spark of his divine majesty. In the countenance of the Redeemer, say these last, and in that of Judas, is excellently expressed the extreme idea of God made man, and of the most perfidious of mortals. This is also pursued in the characters nearest to each of them[i35]. Little judgment can now be formed of the original beauty of this picture, which has been, and apparently with very good reason, highly commended. Unfortunately, though it is said to have been in oil, the wall on which it was painted not having been properly prepared, the original colours have been so effectually defaced by the damp, as to be no longer visible[i36]; and the fathers, for whose use it was painted, thinking it entirely destroyed, and some years since wishing to heighten and widen a door under it, leading out of their refectory, have given a decided proof of their own want of taste, and how little they were sensible of its value, by permitting the workmen to break through the wall on which it was painted, and, by so doing, entirely to destroy the lower part of the picture[i37]. The injury done by the damp to the colouring has been, it is true, in some measure repaired by Michael Angelo Bellotti, a painter of Milan, who viewing the picture in 1726, made an offer to the Prior and convent to restore, by means of a secret which he possessed, the original colours. His proposition being accepted, and the experiment succeeding beyond their hopes, the convent made him a present of five hundred pounds for his labour, and he in return communicated to them the secret by which it had been effected[i38]. Deprived, as they certainly are by these events, of the means of judging accurately of the merit of the original, it is still some consolation to the lovers of painting, that several copies of it made by Leonardo's scholars, many of whom were very able artists, and at a time when the picture had not been yet injured, are still in existence. A list of these copies is given by P. M. Guglielmo della Valle, in his edition of Vasari's Lives of the Painters, in Italian, vol. v. p. 34, and from him it is here inserted in the note[i39]. Francis the First was so charmed on viewing the original, that not being able to remove it, he had a copy made, which is now, or was some years since, at St. Germains, and several prints have been published from it; but the best which has yet appeared (and very fine it is) is one not long since engraven by Morghen, at Rome, impressions of which have found their way into this country, and been sold, it is said, for ten or twelve guineas each. In the same refectory of the Dominicans at Milan is, or was, also preserved a painting by Leonardo, representing Duke Lodovic, and Beatrix his duchess, on their knees; done no doubt about this time[i40]. And at or near this period, he also painted for the Duke the Nativity, which was formerly, and may perhaps be still, in the Emperor of Germany's collection[i41]. As Leonardo's principal aim, whenever he was left at liberty to pursue the bent of his own inclination, seems to have been progressive improvement in the art of painting, he appears to have sedulously embraced all opportunities of increasing his information; and wisely perceiving, that without a thorough acquaintance with anatomy, a painter could effect but little, he was particularly desirous of extending his knowledge in that branch. For that purpose he had frequent conferences on the subject with Marc Antonio della Torre, professor of anatomy at Pavia[i42], and not only was present at many dissections performed by him, but made abundance of anatomical drawings from Nature, many of which were afterwards collected into a volume by his scholar Francisco Melzi[i43]. Such perseverance and assiduity as Leonardo's, united as they were with such uncommon powers as his, had already formed many artists at that time of distinguished reputation, but who afterwards became still more famous, and might probably have rendered Milan the repository of some of the most valuable specimens of painting, and raised it to a rank little, if at all, inferior to that which Florence has since held with the admirers of the polite arts, had it not happened that by the disastrous termination of a contest between the Duke of Milan and the French, all hopes of further improvement were entirely cut off; and Milan, at one blow, lost all the advantages of which it was even then in possession. For about this time the troubles in Italy began to break in on Leonardo's quiet, and he found his patron, the Duke, engaged in a war with the French for the possession of his dukedom; which not only endangered the academy, but ultimately deprived him both of his dominions and his liberty; as the Duke was, in 1500, completely defeated, taken prisoner, and carried into France, where, in 1510, he died a prisoner in the castle of Loches[i44]. By this event of the Duke's defeat, and the consequent ruin of the Sforza family, all further progress in the canal of Martesana, of which much still remained to be done[i45], was put a stop to; the academy of architecture and painting was entirely broken up; the professors were turned adrift, and the arts banished from Milan, which at one time had promised to have been their refuge and principal feat[i46]. Italy in general was, it is true, a gainer by the dispersion of so many able and deeply instructed artists as issued from this school, though Milan suffered; for nothing could so much tend to the dissemination of knowledge as the mixing such men among others who needed that information in which these excelled. Among the number thus separated from each other, we find painters, carvers, architects, founders, and engravers in crystal and precious stones, and the names of the following have been given, as the principal: Cesare da Sesto, Andrea Salaino, Gio. Antonio Boltraffio, Bernardino Lovino, Bartolommeo della Porta, Lorenzo Lotto[i47]. To these has been added Gio. Paolo Lomazzo; but Della Valle, in a note in his edition of Vasari, vol. v. p. 34, says this last was a disciple of Gio. Battista della Cerva, and not of Leonardo. Du Fresne mentions besides the above, Francis Melzi, Mark Uggioni Gobbo, an extraordinary painter and carver; Annibal Fontana, a worker in marble and precious stones; and Bernazzano, an excellent painter of landscapes; but omits Della Porta, and Lorenzo Lotto. In 1499, the year before Duke Lodovic's defeat, Leonardo being at Milan, was employed by the principal inhabitants to contrive an automaton for the entertainment of Lewis XII. King of France, who was expected shortly to make a public entry into that city. This Leonardo did, and it consisted of a machine representing a lion, whose inside was so well constructed of clockwork, that it marched out to meet the King, made a stand when it came before him, reared up on its hinder legs, and opening its breast, presented an escutcheon with fleurs de lis quartered on it[i48]. Lomazzo has said that this machine was made for the entry of Francis the First; but he is mistaken, that prince having never been at Milan till the year 1515[i49], at which time Leonardo was at Rome. Compelled by the disorders of Lombardy, the misfortunes of his patron, and the ruin of the Sforza family, to quit Milan, Leonardo betook himself to Florence, and his inducements to this resolution seem to have been the residence there of the Medici family, the great patrons of arts, and the good taste of its principal inhabitants[i50], rather than its vicinity to the place of his birth; for which, under the circumstances that attended that event, it is not probable he could entertain much, if any predilection. The first work which he here undertook was a design for an altar-piece for the chapel of the college of the Annunciati. Its subject was, our Saviour, with his mother, St. Ann, and St. John; but though this drawing is said to have rendered Leonardo very popular among his countrymen, to so great a degree, that numbers of people went to see it, it does not appear that any picture was painted from it, nor that the undertaking ever proceeded farther than a sketch of a design, or rather, perhaps, a finished drawing. When Leonardo some years afterwards went into France[i51], Francis the First was desirous of having a picture from this drawing, and at his desire he then put it into colours; but whether even this last was a regular picture, or, which is more probable, only a coloured drawing, we are not informed. The picture, however, on which he bestowed the most time and labour, and which therefore seems intended by him as the completest specimen of his skill, at least in the branch of portrait-painting, was that which he did of Mona Lisa, better known by the appellation of la Gioconda, a Florentine lady, the wife of Francisco del Giocondo. It was painted for her husband, afterwards purchased by Francis the First, and was till lately to be seen in the King of France's cabinet. Leonardo bestowed four entire years upon it, and after all is said to have left it unfinished[i52]. This has been so repeatedly said of the works of this painter, that we are here induced to inquire into the evidence of the fact. An artist who feels by experience, as every one must, how far short of the ideas of perfection he has formed in his own mind, his best performances always fall, will naturally be led to consider these as but very faint expressions of his own conceptions. Leonardo's disposition to think nothing effected while any thing remained to be done, and a mind like his, continually suggesting successive improvements, might therefore, and most probably did produce in him an opinion that his own most laboured pieces were far from being finished to that extent of beauty which he wished to give them; and these sentiments of them he might in all likelihood be frequently heard to declare. Comparing his productions, however, with those of other masters, they will be found, notwithstanding this assertion to the contrary, as eminent in this particular also, as for the more valuable qualities of composition, drawing, character, expression, and colouring. About the same time with this of la Gioconda, he painted the portraits of a nobleman of Mantua, and of la Ginevra, a daughter of Americus Benci[i53], much celebrated for her beauty; and is said to have finished a picture of Flora some years since remaining at Paris[i54]; but this last Mariette discovered to be the work of Melzio, from the circumstance of finding, on a close inspection, the name of this last master written on it[i55]. In the year 1503, he was elected by the Florentines to paint their council-chamber. The subject he chose for this, was the battle against Attila[i56]; and he had already made some progress in his work, when, to his great mortification, he found his colours peel from the wall[i57]. With Leonardo was joined in this undertaking, Michael Angelo, who painted another side of the room, and who, then a young man of not more than twenty-nine, had risen to such reputation, as not to fear a competition with Leonardo, a man of near sixty[i58]. The productions of two such able masters placed in the same room, begun at the same time, and proceeding gradually step by step together, afforded, no doubt, occasion and opportunity to the admirers and critics in painting to compare and contrast with each other their respective excellencies and defects. Had these persons contented themselves simply with comparing and appreciating the merits of these masters according to justice and truth, it might perhaps have been advantageous to both, as directing their attention to the correction of errors; but as each artist had his admirers, each had also his enemies; the partisans of the one thinking they did not sufficiently value the merit of their favourite if they allowed any to his antagonist, or did not, on the contrary, endeavour to crush by detraction the too formidable reputation of his adversary. From this conduct was produced what might easily have been foreseen; they first became jealous rivals, and at length open and inveterate enemies[i59]. Leonardo's reputation, which had been for many years gradually increasing, was now so firmly established, that he appears to have been looked up to as being, what he really was, the reviver and restorer of the art of painting; and to such an height had the curiosity to view his works been excited, that Raphael, who was at that time young, and studying, thought it worth his while to make a journey to Florence in the month of October 1504[i60], on purpose to see them. Nor was his labour lost, or his time thrown away in so doing; for on first seeing the works of Leonardo's pencil, he was induced to abandon the dry and hard manner of his master Perugino's colouring, and to adopt in its stead the style of Leonardo[i61], to which circumstance is owing no small portion of that esteem in the art, to which Raphael afterwards very justly arrived. His father having died in 1504[i62], he in consequence of that event became engaged with his half-brothers, the legitimate sons of Pietro da Vinci, in a law-suit for the recovery of a share of his father's property, which in a letter from Florence to the Governor of Milan, the date of which does not appear, he speaks of having almost brought to a conclusion[i63]. At Florence he continued from 1503 to 1507[i64], and in the course of that time painted, among other pictures of less note, a Virgin and Child, once in the hands of the Botti family; and a Baptist's head, formerly in those of Camillo Albizzi[i65]; but in 1508, and the succeeding year, he was at Milan, where he received a pension which had been granted him by Lewis XII.[i66]; and in the month of September 1513, he, in company with his scholar Francesco Melzi, quitted Milan[i67], and set out for Rome (which till that time he had never visited), encouraged perhaps to this resolution by the circumstance that his friend Cardinal John de Medicis, who was afterwards known by the assumed name of Leo X. had a few months before been advanced to the papacy[i68]. His known partiality to the arts, and the friendship which had subsisted between him and Leonardo, held out to the latter a well-founded expectation of employment for his pencil at Rome, and we find in this expectation he was not deceived; as, soon after his arrival, the Pope actually signified his intention of setting him to work. Upon this Leonardo began distilling oils for his colours, and preparing varnishes, which the Pope hearing, said pertly and ignorantly enough, that he could expect nothing from a man who thought of finishing his works before he had begun them[i69]. Had the Pope known, as he seems not to have done, that oil was the vehicle in which the colours were to have been worked, or been witness either to the almost annihilation of the colours in Leonardo's famous picture of the Last Supper, owing to the damp of the wall, or to the peeling of the colours from the wall in the council-chamber at Florence, he probably would have spared this ill-natured reflection. If it applied at all, it could only be to a very small part of the pursuit in which Leonardo was occupied, namely, preparing varnish; and if age were necessary to give the varnish strength, or it were the better for keeping, the answer was in an equal degree both silly and impertinent; and it is no wonder it should disgust such a mind as Leonardo's, or produce, as we find it did, such a breach between the Pope and him, that the intended pictures, whatever they might have been, were never begun. Disgusted with his treatment at Rome, where the former antipathy between him and Michael Angelo was again revived by the partisans of each, he the next year quitted it; and accepting an invitation which had been made him by Francis the First, he proceeded into France[i70]. At the time of this journey he is said to have been seventy years old[i71], which cannot be correct, as he did not live to attain that age in the whole. Probably the singularity of his appearance (for in his latter years he permitted his beard to grow long), together with the effect which his intense application to study had produced in his constitution, might have given rise to an opinion that he was older than he really was; and indeed it seems pretty clear, that when he arrived in France he was nearly worn out in body, if not in mind, by the anxiety and application with which he had pursued his former studies and investigations. Although the King's motive to this invitation, which seems to have been a wish to profit by the pencil of Leonardo, was completely disappointed by his ill state of health, which the fatigues of his journey and the change of the climate produced, so that on his arrival in France no hopes could be entertained by the King of enriching his collection with any pictures by Leonardo; yet the French people in general, and the King in particular, are expressly said to have been as favourable to him as those of Rome had been injurious, and he was received by the King in the most affectionate manner. It was however unfortunately too soon evident that these symptoms of decay were only the forerunners of a more fatal distemper under which for several months he languished, but which by degrees was increasing upon him. Of this he was sensible, and therefore in the beginning of the year 1518, he determined to make his will, to which he afterwards added one or more codicils. By these he first describes himself as Leonardo da Vinci, painter to the King, at present residing at the place called Cloux, near Amboise, and then desires to be buried in the church of St. Florentine at Amboise, and that his body should be accompanied from the said place of Cloux to the said church, by the college of the said church, and the chaplains of St. Dennis of Amboise, and the friars minor of the said place; and that before his body is carried to the said church, it should remain three days in the chamber in which he should die, or in some other; he further orders that three great masses and thirty lesser masses of St. Gregory, should be celebrated there, and a like service be performed in the church of St. Dennis, and in that of the said friars minor. He gives and bequeaths to Franco di Melzio, a gentleman of Milan, in return for his services, all and every the books which he the testator has at present, and other instruments and drawings respecting his art: To Baptista de Villanis, his servant, the moiety of the garden which he has without the walls of Milan; and the other moiety of the said garden to Salay his servant. He gives to the said Francesco Meltio the arrears of his pension, and the sum of money owing to him at present, and at the time of his death, by the treasurer M. Johan Sapin; and to the same person all and singular his clothes and vestments. He orders and wills, that the sum of four hundred crowns of the sum which he has in the hands of the chamberlain of Santa Maria Nuova, at Florence, should be given to his brethren residing at Florence, with the profit and emolument thereon. And lastly, he appoints the said Gia. Francesco de Meltio, whole and sole executor[i72]. This Will bears date, and appears to have been executed on the 23d of April 1518. He however survived the making of it more than a year; and on the 23d of April 1519[i73], the day twelvemonth on which it had been originally made, he, though it does not appear for what reason, re-executed it; and the next day added a codicil, by which he gave to his servant, Gio. Battista de Villanis, the right which had been granted him in return for his labours on the canal of Martesana, of exacting a certain portion of all the wood transported on the Ticino[i74]. All this interval of time between the making and re-execution of his will, and indeed the whole period from his arrival in France, he seems to have been struggling under an incurable illness. The King frequently during its continuance honoured him with visits; and it has been said, that in one of these Leonardo exerting himself beyond his strength, to shew his sense of this prince's condescension, was seized with a fainting fit, and that the King stooping forward to support him, Leonardo expired in his arms, on the 2d of May 1519[i75]. Venturi has taken some pains to disprove this fact, by shewing[i76], that though in the interval between the years 1516 and 1519, the French court passed eleven months at different times at Amboise; yet on the 1st of May 1519, it was certainly not here, but at St. Germains. History, however, when incorrect, is more frequently a mixture of true and false, than a total fabrication of falsehood; and it is therefore not impossible, or improbable, that the King might shew such an act of kindness in some of his visits when he was resident at Amboise, and that Leonardo might recover from that fit, and not die till some time after; at which latter time the Court and the King might be absent at St. Germains. This is surely a more rational supposition than to imagine such a fact could have been invented without any foundation for it whatever. It is impossible within the limits that can here be allowed, to do any thing like justice to the merits of this extraordinary man: all that can in this place be effected is to give the principal facts respecting him; and this is all, therefore, that has been attempted. A sufficient account, however, at least for the present purpose, it is presumed has been given above of the Author, and the productions of his pencil, and it now remains therefore only to speak of those of his pen. With what view the Author engaged in this arduous course of study, how eager he was in the pursuit of knowledge, how anxious to avail himself of the best means of obtaining complete information on every subject to which he applied, and how careful to minute down whatever he procured that could be useful, have been already shewn in the course of the foregoing narrative; but in order to prevent the necessity of interrupting there the succession of events, it has been reserved for this place to describe the contents and extent of his collections, and to give a brief idea of the branches to which they relate. On inquiry then we learn, that Leonardo's productions of this kind consist of fourteen manuscript volumes, large and small, now in the library of the National Institute at Paris, whither they have been some few years since removed from the Ambrosian library at Milan; and of one folio volume in manuscript also, in the possession of his Majesty the King of Great Britain. Of those at Paris, J. B. Venturi, Professor of Natural Philosophy at Modena, and of the Institute of Bologna, &c. who was permitted to inspect them, says[i77], that "they contain speculations in those branches of natural philosophy nearest allied to geometry; that they are first sketches and occasional notes, the Author always intending afterwards to compose from them complete treatises." He adds further, "that they are written backwards from right to left, in the manner of the oriental writers, probably with intention that the curious should not rob him of his discoveries. The spirit of geometry guided him throughout, whether it were in the art of analysing a subject in the connexion of the discourse, or the care of always generalizing his ideas. As to natural philosophy, he never was satisfied on any proposition if he had not proved it by experiment." From the extracts given from these manuscripts by Venturi himself, and which he has ranged under the different heads mentioned in the note[i78], the contents of these volumes appear to be extremely miscellaneous; and it is evident, as Venturi has marked by references where each extract is to be found in the original, that from the great distance at which passages on the same subject are placed from each other, they must have been entered without any regard to method or arrangement of any kind whatever. The volume in the possession of his Britannic Majesty is described as consisting "of a variety of elegant heads, some of which are drawn with red and black chalks on blue or red paper, others with a metal pencil on a tinted paper; a few of them are washed and heightened with white, and many are on common paper. The subjects of these drawings are miscellaneous, as portraits, caricatures, single figures, tilting, horses, and other animals; botany, optics, perspective, gunnery, hydraulics, mechanics, and a great number of anatomical subjects, which are drawn with a more spirited pen, and illustrated with a variety of manuscript notes. This volume contains what is of more importance, the very characteristic head of Leonardo, as it was sketched by himself, and now engraved by that eminent artist Mr. Bartolozzi[i79]." Specimens from this volume have been published some years since by Mr. Dalton, and more recently and accurately by Mr. Chamberlaine; and though it must be confessed, that the former are extremely ill drawn, and betray the grossest ignorance of the effect which light and shadow were intended to produce, yet some of the subjects which the volume contains may be ascertained by them; and among them is also a fac simile of a page of the original manuscript, which proves this, like the other volumes, to be in Italian, and written backwards. The latter is a very beautiful work, and is calculated to give an accurate idea of Leonardo's talents as a draughtsman[i80]. From these two publications it appears, that this volume also is of a very miscellaneous nature, and that it consists of manuscript entries, interspersed with finished drawings of heads and figures, and slight sketches of mechanical engines and anatomical subjects, some of which are intermixed with the writing itself. It has been already seen, that these volumes were originally given by the will of Leonardo to Francisco Melzi; and their subsequent history we are enabled to state on the authority of John Ambrose Mazenta, through whose hands they passed. Du Fresne, in the life prefixed to the edition which he published in Italian, of Leonardo da Vinci's Treatise on Painting, has, in a very loose way, and without citing any authority, given their history; but Venturi has inserted[i81] a translation into French, from the original manuscript memoir of Mazenta; and from him a version of it into English is here given, with the addition of Venturi's notes, rendered also into English. "It is near fifty years[i82] since there fell into my hands thirteen volumes of Leonardo da Vinci in folio and quarto, written backwards. Accident brought them to me in the following manner: I was residing at Pisa, for the purpose of studying the law, in the family of Aldus Manutius the younger, a great lover of books. A person named Lelio Gavardi, of Asola, Prevost of S. Zeno, at Pavia, a very near relation of Aldus, came to our house; he had been a teacher of the _belles lettres_ in the family of the Melzi of Milan, called de Vavero, to distinguish them from other families of the same name in that city. He had, at their country house at Vavero, met with several drawings, instruments, and books of Leonardo. Francisco Melzi[i83] approached nearer than any one to the manner of De Vinci; he worked little, because he was rich; his pictures are very much finished, they are often confounded with those of his master. At his death he left the works of Leonardo in his house at Vavero, to his sons, who having tastes and pursuits of a different kind, neglected these treasures, and soon dispersed them; Lelio Gavardi possessed himself of as many of them as he pleased; he carried thirteen volumes to Florence, in hopes of receiving for them a good price from the Grand Duke Francis, who was eager after works of this sort; and the rather as Leonardo was in great reputation in his own country. But this prince died[i84] as soon as Gavardi was arrived at Florence. He then went to Pisa, to the house of Manutius. I could not approve his proceeding; it was scandalous. My studies being finished, I had occasion to return to Milan. He gave me the volumes of Vinci, desiring me to return them to the Melzi: I acquitted myself faithfully of my commission; I carried them all back to Horatio, the chief of the family of Melzi, who was surprised at my being willing to give myself this trouble. He made me a present of these books, telling me he had still many drawings by the same author, long neglected in the garrets of his house in the country. Thus these books became my property, and afterwards they belonged to my brothers[i85]. These latter having made too much parade of this acquisition, and the ease with which I was brought to it, excited the envy of other amateurs, who beset Horatio, and obtained from him some drawings, some figures, some anatomical pieces, and other valuable remains of the cabinet of Leonardo. One of these spungers for the works of Leonardo, was Pompeo Aretin, son of the Cavalier Leoni, formerly a disciple of Bonaroti, and who was about Philip II. King of Spain, for whom he did all the bronzes which are at the Escurial. Pompeo engaged himself to procure for Melzi an employment to the senate of Milan, if he succeeded in recovering the thirteen books, wishing to offer them to King Philip, a lover of such curiosities. Flattered with this hope, Melzi went to my brother's house: he besought him on his knees to restore him his present; he was a fellow-collegian, a friend, a benefactor: seven volumes were returned to him[i86]. Of the six others which remained to the Mazenta family, one was presented to Cardinal Frederic Borromeo, for the Ambrosian library[i87]. My brother gave a second to Ambrose Figini, a celebrated painter of his time, who left it to his heir Hercole Bianchi, with the rest of his cabinet. Urged by the Duke of Savoy, I procured for him a third; and in conclusion, my brother having died at a distance from Milan[i88], the three remaining volumes came also into the hands of Pompeo Aretin; he re-assembled also others of them, he separated the leaves of them to form a thick volume[i89], which passed to his heir Polidoro Calchi, and was afterwards sold to Galeazzo Arconati. This gentleman keeps it now in his rich library; he has refused it to the Duke of Savoy, and to other princes who were desirous of it." In addition to this memoir, Venturi notices[i90], that Howard Earl of Arundel made ineffectual efforts to obtain this large volume, and offered for it as far as 60,000 francs, in the name of the King of England. Arconati would never part with it; he bought eleven other books of Da Vinci, which came also, according to appearance, from Leoni; in 1637 he made a gift of them all to the Ambrosian library[i91], which already was in possession of the volume E, from Mazenta, and received afterwards the volume K from Horatio Archinto, in 1674[i92]. Venturi says, this is the history of all the manuscripts of Vinci that are come into France; they are in number fourteen, because the volume B contains an appendix of eighteen leaves, which may be separated, and considered as the fourteenth volume[i93]. In the printed catalogue of the library of Turin, one does not see noticed the manuscript which Mazenta gave to the Duke of Savoy: it has then disappeared. Might it not be that which an Englishman got copied by Francis Ducci, library-keeper at Florence, and a copy of which is still remaining in the same city[i94]? The Trivulce family at Milan, according to Venturi[i95], possess also a manuscript of Vinci, which is in great part only a vocabulary. Of the volume in the possession of his Britannic Majesty, the following account is given in the life of Leonardo, prefixed to that number already published from it by Mr. Chamberlaine: "It was one of the three volumes which became the property of Pompeo Leoni, that is now in his Majesty's cabinet. It is rather probable than certain, that this great curiosity was acquired for King Charles I. by the Earl of Arundel, when he went Ambassador to the Emperor Ferdinand II. in 1636, as may indeed be inferred from an instructive inscription over the place where the volumes are kept, which sets forth, that James King of England offered three thousand pistoles for one of the volumes of Leonardo's works. And some documents in the Ambrosian library give colour to this conjecture. This volume was happily preserved during the civil wars of the last century among other specimens of the fine arts, which the munificence of Charles I. had amassed with a diligence equal to his taste. And it was discovered soon after his present Majesty's accession in the same cabinet where Queen Caroline found the fine portraits of the court of Henry VIII. by Hans Holbein, which the King's liberality permitted me lately to lay before the public. On the cover of this volume is written, in gold letters, what ascertains its descent; _Disegni di Leonardo da Vinci, restaurati da Pompeo Leoni_." Although no part of the collections of Leonardo was arranged and prepared by himself, or others under his direction, for publication, some extracts have been made from his writings, and given to the world as separate tracts. The best known, and indeed the principal of these, is the following Treatise on Painting, of which there will be occasion to say more presently; but besides this, Edward Cooper, a London bookseller, about the year 1720, published a fragment of a Treatise by Leonardo da Vinci, on the Motions of the Human Body, and the Manner of drawing Figures, according to geometrical Rules. It contains but ten plates in folio, including the title-page, and was evidently extracted from some of the volumes of his collections, as it consists of slight sketches and verbal descriptions both in Italian and English, to explain such of them as needed it. Mr. Dalton, as has been before noticed, several years since published some engravings from the volume in our King's collection, but they are so badly done as to be of no value. Mr. Chamberlaine therefore, in 1796, took up the intention afresh, and in that year his first number came out, which is all that has yet appeared. Of the Treatise on Painting, Venturi[i96] gives the following particulars: "The Treatise on Painting which we have of Vinci is only a compilation of different fragments extracted from his manuscripts. It was in the Barberini library at Rome, in 1630[i97]: the Cav. del Pozzo obtained a copy from it, and Poussin designed the figures of it in 1640[i98]. This copy, and another derived from the same source, in the possession of Thevenot, served as the basis for the edition published in 1651, by Raphael du Frêne. The manuscript of Pozzo, with the figures of Poussin, is actually at Paris, in the valuable collection of books of Chardin[i99]. It is from this that I have taken the relation of Mazenta; it is at the end of the manuscript under this title: "Some Notices of the Works of Leonardo da Vinci at Milan, and of his Books, by J. Ambrose Mazenta of Milan, of the Congregation of the Priests Regular of St. Paul, called the Barnabites." Mazenta does not announce himself as the author of the compilation; he may however be so; it may also happen, that the compilation was made by the heir himself of Vinci, Francisco Melzo. Vasari, about 1567, says[i100], that a painter of Milan had the manuscripts of Vinci, which were written backwards; that this painter came to him, and afterwards went to Rome, with intention to get them printed, but that he did not know what was the result. However it may be, Du Frêne confesses that this compilation is imperfect in many respects, and ill arranged. It is so, because the compiler has not seized the methodical spirit of Vinci, and that there are mixed with it some pieces which belong to other tracts; besides, one has not seen where many other chapters have been neglected which ought to make part of it. For example, the comparison of painting with sculpture, which has been announced as a separate treatise of the same author, is nothing more than a chapter belonging to the Treatise on Painting, A. 105. All this will be complete, and put in order, in the Treatise on Optics[i101]. In the mean time, however, the following are the different editions of this compilation, such as it is at present: "Trattato della Pittura di Leonardo da Vinci, nuovamente dato in Luce, con la Vita dell' Autore da Raphaele du Frêne, Parigi 1651, in fol.; reprinted at Naples in 1733, in folio; at Bologna, in 1786, in folio; at Florence, in 1792, in 4to. This last edition has been given from a copy in the hand-writing of Stephano della Bella. "----Translated into French by Roland Freart de Chambray, Paris 1651, fol. reprinted ibid. 1716, in 12mo, and 1796, in 8vo. "----Translated into German, in 4to. Nuremberg 1786, Weigel. "----Translated into Greek by Panagiotto, manuscript in the Nani library at Venice. "Another manuscript copy of this compilation was in the possession of P. Orlandi, from whence it passed into the library of Smith[i102]. "Cellini, in a discourse published by Morelli, says[i103], that he possessed a copy of a book of De Vinci on Perspective, which he communicated to Serlio, and that this latter published from it all that he could comprehend. Might not this be the tract which Gori announces to be in the library of the Academy of Cortona[i104]?" The reputation in which the Treatise on Painting ought to be held, is not now for the first time to be settled; its merit has been acknowledged by the best judges, though at that time it laboured under great disadvantage from the want of a proper arrangement. In the present publication that objection is removed, and the attempt has been favourable to the work itself, as it has shewn it, by bringing together the several chapters that related to each other, to be a much more complete and connected treatise than was before supposed. Notwithstanding however the fair estimation in which it has always stood, and which is no more than its due, one person has been found hardy enough to endeavour, though unsuccessfully, to lessen its credit: a circumstance which it would not have been worth while to notice, if it had not been intimated to us, that there are still some persons in France who side with the objector, which, as he was a Frenchman, and Leonardo an Italian, may perhaps be ascribed, in some measure at least, to the desire which in several instances that people have lately shewn of claiming on behalf of their countrymen, a preference over others, to which they are not entitled. Abraham Bosse, of the city of Tours, an engraver in copper, who lived in the last century, is the person here alluded to; and it may not be impertinent in this place to state some of the motives by which he was induced to such a conduct. At the time when this Treatise first made its appearance in France, as well in Italian as in French, Bosse appears to have been resident at Paris, and was a member of the Academy of Painting, where he gave the first lessons on perspective, and, with the assistance of Mons. Desargues, published from time to time several tracts on geometry and perspective, the manner of designing, and the art of engraving, some of which at least are described in the title-page, as printed at Paris for the author[i105]. This man, in his lectures, having, it is said, attacked some of the pictures painted by Le Brun, the then Director of the Academy, had been very deservedly removed from his situation, and forced to quit the Academy, for endeavouring to lessen that authority, which for the instruction and improvement of students it was necessary the Director should possess, and attempting thus to render fruitless the precepts which his situation required him to deliver. As this Treatise of Leonardo had in the translation been adopted by Le Brun, who fully saw its value, and introduced it into the Academy for the advantage of the students, by which means the sale of Bosse's work might be, and probably was, affected; Bosse, at the end of a Treatise on Geometry and Perspective, taught in the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture, published by him in octavo in 1665, has inserted a paper with this title, which in the original is given in French, but we have preferred translating it: "_What follows is for those who shall have the curiosity to be acquainted with a part of the procedings of Mons. Desargues, and myself, against some of our antagonists, and part of their skill; together with some remarks made on the contents of several chapters of a Treatise attributed to Leonardo de Vinci, translated from Italian into French by Mons. Freart Sieur de Chambray, from a manuscript taken from that which is in the library of the illustrious, virtuous, and curious Mons. le Chevalier Du Puis at Rome_." After the explanation of his motives above given, it is not wonderful to find him asserting, that this Treatise of Leonardo was in a number of circumstances inferior to his own; nor to observe, that in a list of some of the chapters which he has there given, we should be frequently told by him that they are false, absurd, ridiculous, confused, trifling, weak, and, in short, every thing but good. It is true that the estimation of Leonardo da Vinci was in France too high for him to attack without risking his own character for judgment and taste, and he has therefore found it necessary for his purpose insidiously to suggest that these chapters were interpolations; but of this he has produced no proof, which, had it been the fact, might have been easily obtained, by only getting some friend to consult Leonardo's manuscript collections in the Ambrosian library. That he would have taken this step if he had expected any success from it, may fairly be inferred from the circumstance of his writing to Poussin at Rome, apparently in hopes of inducing him to say something to the disadvantage of the work; and his omitting to make this inquiry after the enmity he has shewn against the book, fully justifies an opinion that he forbore to inquire, because he was conscious that such an investigation would have terminated in vindicating his adversaries from his aspersions, and have furnished evidence of their fidelity and accuracy. What the letter which he wrote to Poussin contained, he has not informed us; but he has given us, as he says, Poussin's answer[i106], in which are some passages relating to this Treatise, of which we here give a translation: "As to what concerns the book of Leonard Vinci, it is true that I have designed the human figures which are in that which Mons. le Chevalier du Puis has; but all the others, whether geometrical or otherwise, are of one man, named Gli Alberti, the very same who has drawn the plants which are in the book of subterraneous Rome; and the awkward landscapes which are behind some of the little human figures of the copy which Mons. du Chambray has caused to be printed, have been added to it by one Errard, without my knowing any thing of it. "All that is good in this book may be written on one sheet of paper, in a large character, and those who believe that I approve all that is in it, do not know me; I who profess never to give sanction to things of my profession which I know to be ill done and ill said." Whoever recollects the difference in the course of study pursued and recommended by Leonardo (that of Nature), from that observed by Poussin (that of the antique), and remembers also the different fortunes of Le Brun and Poussin, that the one was at the head of his profession, enjoying all its honours and emoluments, while the other, though conscious of his own great powers, was toiling for a daily subsistence in comparative obscurity, may easily conceive why the latter could not approve a work which so strongly inculcates the adopting Nature as the guide throughout; and which was at the same time patronized by one whom he could not but consider as his more fortunate rival. It may however be truly affirmed, that even the talents of Poussin, great as they certainly were, and his knowledge and correctness in drawing, would have been abundantly improved by an attention to the rules laid down in this Treatise, and that the study of Nature would have freed his pictures from that resemblance to statues which his figures frequently have, and bestowed on them the soft and fleshy appearance for which Leonardo was so remarkable; while a minute investigation of Leonardo's system of colouring would have produced perhaps in him as fortunate a change as we have seen it did in the case of Raphael. Though Bosse tells us[i107], that he had seen in the hands of Mons. Felibien, a manuscript copy of this Tract on Painting, which he said he had taken from the same original mentioned before, for the purpose of translating it into French; and that on Bosse's pointing out to him some of these errors, and informing him that Mons. de Chambray was far advanced in his translation, he abandoned his design, and assigned to the Sieur de Chambray the privilege he had obtained for it; we have no intention here to enumerate or answer Bosse's objections, merely because such an undertaking would greatly exceed the limits which can here be allowed us. Most of them will be found captious and splenetic, and, together with the majority of the rest, might be fully refuted by a deduction of facts; it is however sufficient on the present occasion to say, that wherever opportunity has been afforded of tracing the means by which Leonardo procured his materials for any great composition, he is found to have exactly pursued the path which he recommends to others[i108]; and for the success of his precepts, and what may be effected by them, we need only appeal to his own example. To this enumeration of the productions of Leonardo's pen, and in contradiction to the fact already asserted, that no part of his collections was ever arranged or prepared for publication by himself, it is probable we may be told we should add tracts on Motion; on the Equilibrium of bodies; on the nature, equilibrium, and motion of Water; on Anatomy; on the Anatomy of an horse; on Perspective; and on Light and Shadow: which are either mentioned by himself in the Treatise on Painting, or ascribed to him by others. But as to these, there is great reason for supposing, that, though they might be intended, they were never actually drawn up into form. Certain it is, that no such have been ever given to the world, as those before noticed are the only treatises of this author that have yet appeared in print; and even they have already been shewn to be no more than extracts from the immense mass of his collections of such passages as related to the subjects on which they profess to give intelligence. If any tracts therefore in his name, on any of the above topics, are any where existing in manuscript, and in obscurity, it is probable they are only similar selections. And indeed it will be found on inspection, that his collections consist of a multitude of entries made at different times, without method, order, or arrangement of any kind, so as to form an immense chaos of intelligence, which he, like many other voluminous collectors, intended at some future time to digest and arrange, but unfortunately postponed this task so long, that he did not live to carry that intention into effect. Under these circumstances, should it happen, as perhaps it may, that any volume of the whole is confined exclusively to any one branch of science, such as hydrostatics for instance, it was not the consequence of a designed plan, but only arose from this accident, that he had then made that branch the object of his pursuit, and for a time laid aside the rest. In proof of this assertion it may be observed, that the very treatise of light and shadow above mentioned, is described as in the Ambrosian library at Milan, and as a folio volume covered with red velvet, presented by Signior Mazzenta to Cardinal Borromeo[i109]; from all which circumstances it is evidently proved to be one of the volumes now existing in France[i110], which were inspected and described by Venturi in the tract so often cited in the course of this life. Although the principal of Leonardo's productions have been already mentioned, it has been thought proper, for the satisfaction of the curious, here to subjoin a catalogue of such of them as have come to our knowledge; distinguishing in it such as were only drawings, from such as were finished pictures, and noticing also which of them have been engraven, and by whom. CATALOGUE OF THE WORKS OF _LEONARDO DA VINCI_. ARCHITECTURE. Many _designs for plans and buildings_, made by him in his youth[i111]. _A model_ made by him for raising the roof of the church of St. John, at Florence[i112]. _The house of the family of Melzi at Vaprio_, supposed by Della Valle to be designed by Leonardo[i113]. MODELS /and/ SCULPTURE. Some _heads of laughing women_, modelled by him in clay, in his youth[i114]. Some _boys' heads_ also, which appeared to have come from the hand of a master[i115]. _Three figures in bronze_, over the gate on the north side of the church of St. John, at Florence, made by Gio. Francesco Rustici, but designed with the advice of Leonardo da Vinci[i116]. _A model in clay_, in alto relievo. It is a circle of about two palms in diameter, and represents St. Jerom in a grotto, old, and much worn out by prayer. It was in the possession of Sig. Ignazio Hugford, a painter at Florence, who was induced to buy it in consequence of the great praises which in his youth he had heard bestowed on it by the celebrated Anton. Dominico Gabbiani, his master, who knew it to be of the hand of Leonardo. This model appears to have been much studied in the time of Pontormo and Rosso; and many copies of it, both drawings and pictures, are to be found throughout Florence, well painted in their manner[i117]. The _equestrian statue_ in memory of the Duke of Milan's father, which was not only finished and exposed to view, but broken to pieces by the French when they took possession of Milan. It has been said by some, that the model only was finished, and the statue never cast, and that it was the model only which the French destroyed[i118]. Vasari, p. 36, mentions a little _model_ by Leonardo in wax, but he does not say what was its subject. DRAWINGS. /Vasari/, p. 24, says, that it was Leonardo's practice to model figures from the life, and then to cover them with fine thin lawn or cambric, so as to be able to see through it, and with the point of a fine pencil to trace off the outlines in black and white; and that some such drawings he had in his collection. _A head in chiaro oscuro_, in the possession of Vasari, and mentioned by him as divine, a drawing on paper[i119]. _A carton of Adam and Eve in Paradise_, made by him for the King of Portugal. It is done with a pen in chiaro oscuro, and heightened with white, and was intended to be worked as tapestry in silk and gold; but Vasari says it was never executed, and that in his time the carton remained at Florence, in the house of Ottaviano de Medici. Whether this carton is still existing is unknown[i120]. _Several ridiculous heads of men and women_, formerly in Vasari's collection, drawn in pen and ink[i121]. Aurelio Lovino had, says Lomazzo, a book of sketches by Leonardo, of odd and ridiculous heads. This book appears to have contained about 250 figures of countrymen and countrywomen laughing, drawn by the hand of Leonardo. Card. Silvio Valenti had a similar book, in which were caricature heads drawn with a pen, like that engraven by Count Caylus. Of these caricatures mention is made in the second volume of the Lettere Pittoriche, p. 170[i122]. The passage in the Lettere Pittoriche here referred to, is part of a letter without any name or date, addressed _Al Sig. C. di C._; but a note of the editor's explains these initials, as meaning Sig. Conte di Caylus, and supposes the author to have been the younger Mariette. The letter mentions a collection of heads from Leonardo's drawings, published by the Count; and the editor, in another note, tells us, that they are caricature heads drawn in pen and ink; that the originals were bought in Holland, from Sig. Cardin. Silvio Valenti, and that the prints of which the letter speaks, are in the famous collection of the Corsini library. The author of the Letter supposes these caricatures to have been drawn when Vinci retired to Melzi's house, that he invented them as a new sort of recreation, and intended them as a subject for the academy which he had established at Milan. In another part of the same Letter, p. 173, 174, this collection of drawings of heads is again mentioned, and it is there said, that it might be that which belonged to the Earl of Arundel. This conjecture is founded on there being many such heads engraven formerly by Hollar. In fact, the number of the plates which he has done from drawings of this painter, are near one hundred, which compose different series. The author of the Letter adds, that, if a conjecture might be permitted, we might affirm, that this is the collection of heads of which Paul Lomazzo speaks; at least the description which he gives of a similar collection which was in the hands of Aurelio Lovino, a painter of Milan, corresponds with this as well in the number of the drawings as their subjects. It represents, like this, studies from old men, countrymen, wrinkled old women, which are all laughing. Another part of this Letter says, it is easy to believe that the collection of drawings of heads which occasioned this Letter, might be one of those books in which Leonardo noted the most singular countenances. In p. 198 of the same Letter, Hollar's engravings are said to be about an hundred, and to have been done at Antwerp in 1645, and the following year; and in p. 199, Count Caylus's publication is said to contain 59 plates in aqua fortis, done in 1730, and that this latter is the work so often mentioned in the Letter. _Another collection of the same kind of caricature heads_ mentioned in Mariette's Letter[i123], as existing in the cabinet of either the King of Spain or the King of Sardinia. _Four caricature heads_, mentioned, Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 190, as being in the possession of Sig. Crozat. They are described as drawn with a pen, and are said to have come originally from Vasari's collection of drawings. Of this collection it is said, in a note on the above passage, that it was afterwards carried into France, and fell into the hands of a bookseller, who took the volume to pieces, and disposed of the drawings separately, and that many of them came into the cabinets of the King, and Sig. Crozat. Others say, and it is more credible, that Vasari's collection passed into that of the Grand Dukes of Medici. _A head of Americo Vespucci_, in charcoal, but copied by Vasari in pen and ink[i124]. _A head of an old man_, beautifully drawn in charcoal[i125]. _An head of Scarramuccia, captain of the gypsies_, in chalk; formerly belonging to Pierfrancesco Giambullari, canon of St. Lorenzo, at Florence, and left by him to Donato Valdambrini of Arezzo, canon of St. Lorenzo also[i126]. _Several designs of combatants on horseback_, made by Leonardo for Gentil Borri, a master of defence[i127], to shew the different positions necessary for a horse soldier in defending himself, and attacking his enemy. _A carton of our Saviour, the Virgin, St. Ann, and St. John._ Vasari says of this, that for two days, people of all sorts, men and women, young and old, resorted to Leonardo's house to see this wonderful performance, as if they had been going to a solemn feast; and adds, that this carton was afterwards in France. It seems that this was intended for an altar-piece for the high altar of the church of the Annunziata, but the picture was never painted[i128]. However, when Leonardo afterwards went into France, he, at the desire of Francis the First, put the design into colours. Lomazzo has said, that this carton of St. Ann was carried into France; that in his time it was at Milan, in the possession of Aurelio Lovino, a painter; and that many drawings from it were in existence. What was the fate this carton of St. Ann underwent, may be seen in a letter of P. Resta, printed in the third volume of the Lettere Pittoriche, in which he says, that Leonardo made three of these cartons, and nevertheless did not convert it into a picture, but that it was painted by Salai, and that the picture is still in the sacristy of St. Celsus at Milan[i129]. _A drawing of an old man's head, seen in front_, in red chalk; mentioned Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 191. _A carton_ designed by him _for painting the council-chamber at Florence_. The subject which he chose for this purpose was, the history of Niccolo Piccinino, the Captain of Duke Philip of Milan, in which he drew a group of men on horseback fighting for a standard[i130]. Mariette, in a note, Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 193, mentions this carton, which he says represented two horsemen fighting for a standard; that it was only part of a large history, the subject of which was the rout of Niccolo Piccinino, General of the army of Philip Duke of Milan, and that a print was engraven of it by Edelinck, when young, but the drawing from which he worked was a bad one. In the catalogue of prints from the works of Leonardo, inserted Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 195, this print is again mentioned and described more truly, as representing four horsemen fighting for a standard. It is there supposed to have been engraven from a drawing by Fiammingo, and that this drawing might have been made from the picture which Du Fresne speaks of as being in his time in the possession of Sig. La Maire, an excellent painter of perspective. _A design of Neptune drawn in his car by sea horses, attended by sea gods_; made by him for his friend Antonio Segni[i131]. _Several anatomical drawings_ made from the life, many of which have been since collected into a volume, by his scholar Francesco Melzi[i132]. _A book of the Anatomy of man_, mentioned by Vasari, p. 36, the drawings for which were made with the assistance of Marc Antonio della Torre, before noticed in the present life. It is probably the same with the preceding. A beautiful and well-preserved study in red and black chalk, of the _head of a Virgin_, from which he afterwards painted a picture. This study was at one time in the celebrated Villa de Vecchietti, but afterwards, in consequence of a sale, passed into the hands of Sig. Ignazio Hugford[i133]. _Two heads of women in profile_, little differing from each other, drawn in like manner in black and red chalk, bought at the same sale by Sig. Hugford, but now among the Elector Palatine's collection of drawings[i134]. _A book of the Anatomy of a horse_, mentioned by Vasari, p. 36, as a distinct work; but probably included in Leonardo's manuscript collections. See the account before given of them. Several designs by Leonardo were in the possession of Sig. Jabac, who seems to have been a collector of pictures, and to have bought up for the King of France several excellent pictures particularly by Leonardo da Vinci[i135]. _A drawing of a young man embracing an old woman_, whom he is caressing for the sake of her riches. This is mentioned, Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 198, as engraven by Hollar, in 1646. _A head of a young man seen in profile_, engraven in aqua fortis by Conte di Caylus, from a drawing in the King of France's collection[i136]. _A fragment of a Treatise on the Motions of the Human Body_, already mentioned in the foregoing life. In the Lettere Pittoriche, vol. ii. p. 199, mention is made of a print representing _some intertwisted lines upon a black ground_, in the style of some of Albert Durer's engravings in wood. In the middle of this, in a small compartment, is to be read, "/Academia Leonardi Vin/." Vasari, it is there said, has noticed it as a singularity. In p. 200 of the same work, a similar print is also noticed, which differs only in the inscription from the former. In this last it is /Academia Leonardi Vici/. Both this and the former print are said to be extremely rare, and only to have been seen in the King of France's collection. It does not however appear from any thing in the Lett. Pitt. that they were designed by Leonardo. The Abate di Villeloin, in his Catalogue of Prints published in 1666, speaks, under the article of Leonardo da Vinci, of a print of the taking down from the Cross; but the Lett. Pitt. says it was engraven from Eneas Vico, not from Leonardo[i137]. _Two drawings of monsters_, mentioned by Lomazzo, consisting of a boy's head each, but horribly distorted by the misplacing of the features, and the introduction of other members not in Nature to be found there. These two drawings were in the hands of Francesco Borella, a sculptor[i138]. _A portrait_ by Leonardo, _of Artus, Maestro di Camera to Francis I._ drawn in black lead pencil[i139]. _The head of a Cæsar crowned with oak_, among a valuable collection of drawings in a thick volume in folio, in the possession of Sig. Pagave[i140]. _The proportions of the human body._ The original of this is preserved in the possession of Sig. Pagave. At the head and foot of this drawing is to be read the description which begins thus: _Tanto apre l'Uomo nelle braccia quanto è la sua altezza, &c._ and above all, at the head of the work is the famous Last Supper, which he proposes to his scholars as the rule of the art[i141]. _The Circumcision_, a large drawing mentioned Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 283, as the work of Leonardo, by Nicolo Gabburri, in a letter dated Florence, 4th Oct. 1732, and addressed _Al Sig. Pietro Mariette_. Gabburri says he saw this drawing, and that it was done on white paper a little tinted with Indian ink, and heightened with ceruse. Its owner then was Alessandro Galilei, an architect of Florence. _A drawing consisting of several laughing heads, in the middle of which is another head in profile, crowned with oak leaves._ This drawing was the property of the Earl of Arundel, and was engraven by Hollar in 1646[i142]. _A man sitting, and collecting in a looking-glass the rays of the sun, to dazzle the eyes of a dragon who is fighting with a lion._ A print of this is spoken of, Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 197, as badly engraven by an anonymous artist, but it is there said to have so little of Leonardo's manner as to afford reason for believing it not designed by him, though it might perhaps be found among his drawings in the King of France's collection. Another print of it, of the same size, has been engraven from the drawing by Conte de Caylus. It represents a pensive man, and differs from the former in this respect, that in this the man is naked, whereas in the drawing he is clothed. PAINTINGS. _A Madonna_, formerly in the possession of Pope Clement the Seventh[i143]. _A small Madonna and Child_, painted for Baldassar Turini da Pescia, who was the Datary[i144] at Lyons, the colours of which are much faded[i145]. It is not known where this now is. _A Virgin and Child_, at one time in the hands of the Botti family[i146]. _The Virgin sitting in St. Ann's lap, and holding her little Son_, formerly at Paris[i147]. This has been engraven in wood, in chiaro oscuro, by an unknown artist. The picture was in the King of France's cabinet, and a similar one is in the sacristy of St. Celsus at Milan[i148]. _Another Virgin with her Son, St. John, and an Angel_, mentioned by Du Fresne, as at Paris[i149]. _A Madonna and Child_, in the possession of the Marquis di Surdi[i150]. _A Madonna and Child_, painted on the wall in the church of St. Onofrio at Rome[i151]. _A Madonna kneeling_, in the King's gallery in France[i152]. _An Holy Family, with St. Michael, and another Angel_, in the King of France's collection[i153]. _A Madonna_, in the church of St. Francis at Milan, attributed to Leonardo by Sorman[i154]. _A Virgin and Child_, by Leonardo, in Piacenza, near the church of Our Lady in the Fields. It was bought for 300 chequins by the Principe di Belgioioso[i155]. _A Madonna, half length, holding on her knee the infant Jesus, with a lily in his hand._ A print of this, engraven in aqua fortis by Giuseppe Juster, is mentioned Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 196. The picture is there said to have been in the possession of Charles Patin, and was supposed by some to have been painted for Francis I. _An Herodiade_, some time in Cardinal Richelieu's possession[i156]. _The daughter of Herodias, with an executioner holding out to her the head of St. John_, in the Barberini palace[i157]. _An Herodiade with a basket, in which is the head of John the Baptist._ A print of this in aqua fortis, by Gio. Troven, under the direction of Teniers, is mentioned Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 197, and is there said to have been done from a picture which was then in the cabinet of the Archduke Leopold, but had been before in that of the Emperor. Another picture of the same subject, but differently disposed. It is also an half length. A print from it, in aqua fortis, by Alessio Loyr, is mentioned Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 197; but it is not there said in whose possession the picture ever was. _The angel_ in Verrochio's picture before mentioned[i158]. _The shield_, mentioned by Vasari, p. 26, as painted by him at the request of his father, and consisting of serpents, &c. _A head of Medusa_, in oil, in the palace of Duke Cosmo. It is still in being, and in good preservation[i159]. _A head of an angel raising one arm in the air_, in the collection of Duke Cosmo[i160]. Whether this is a picture, or only a drawing, does not appear; but as Vasari does not notice any difference between that and the head of Medusa, which he decidedly says is in oil, it is probable that this is so also. _The Adoration of the Magi_: it was in the house of Americo Benci, opposite to the Portico of Peruzzi[i161]. _The famous Last Supper_, in the Refectory of the Dominican convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie[i162]. A list of the copies made from this celebrated picture has, together with its history, been given in a former page. A print has been engraven from it under the direction of Pietro Soutman; but he being a scholar of Rubens, has introduced into it so much of Rubens's manner[i163], that it can no longer be known for Leonardo da Vinci's. Besides this, Mariette also mentions two other prints, one of them an engraving, the other an etching, but both by unknown authors. He notices also, that the Count di Caylus had etched it in aqua fortis[i164]. The print lately engraven of it by Morghen has been already noticed in a former page. _A Nativity_, sent as a present from the Duke of Milan to the Emperor[i165]. _The portraits of Lodovic Sforza, Duke of Milan, and Maximilian his eldest son, and on the other side Beatrix his dutchess, and Francesco his other son_, all in one picture, in the same Refectory with the Last Supper[i166]. _The portraits of two of the handsomest women at Florence_, painted by him as a present to Lewis XII[i167]. _The painting in the council-chamber at Florence_[i168]. The subject of this is the battle of Attila[i169]. _A portrait of Ginevra_, daughter of Americo Benci[i170]. _The portrait of Mona Lisa_, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo, painted for her husband[i171]. Lomazzo has said, she was a Neapolitan, but this is supposed a mistake, and that she was a Florentine[i172]. In a note of Mariette's, Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 175, this picture is said to have been in the collection of Francis I. King of France, who gave for it 4000 crowns. _A small picture of a child_, which was at Pescia, in the possession of Baldassar Turini. It is not known where this now is[i173]. _A painting of two horsemen struggling for a flag_, in the Palais Royal at Paris[i174]. _A nobleman of Mantua_[i175]. _A picture of Flora_, which Du Fresne mentions as being in his time at Paris. This is said to have been once in the cabinet of Mary de Medicis[i176], and though for some time supposed to have been painted by Leonardo da Vinci, was discovered by Mariette to have been the work of Francisco Melzi, whose name is upon it[i177]. In the supplement to the life of Leonardo, inserted in Della Valle's edition of Vasari, this picture is said to have been painted for the Duke de S. Simone. _A head of John the Baptist_, in the hands of Camillo Albizzo[i178]. _The Conception of the blessed Virgin_, for the church of St. Francis at Milan[i179]. This was esteemed a copy, and not worth more than 30 chequins, till an Englishman came there, who thought a large sum of money well employed in the purchase of it[i180]. _St. John in the Wilderness_, said to be at Paris[i181]. In Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 197, mention is made of a print of St. John the Baptist, half length, by Sig. Jabac, who had the original picture, which was formerly in the King of France's cabinet. _Joseph and Potiphar's wife_, which Mons. de Charmois, secretary to the Duke of Schomberg, had[i182]. _A portrait of Raphael_, in oil, in the Medici gallery. This is mentioned in Vasari, p. 47; and though not expressly there said to be by Leonardo, is so placed as to make it doubtful whether it was or not. _A Nun, half length_, by Leonardo, in the possession of Abbate Nicolini[i183]. _Two fine heads_, painted in oil by Leonardo, bought at Florence by Sig. Bali di Breteuil, ambassador from Malta to Rome. One of these, representing a woman, was in his first manner. The other, a Virgin, in his last[i184]. _A Leda_, which Lomazzo says was at Fontainebleau, and did not yield in colouring to the portrait of Joconda in the Duke's gallery. Richardson says it was in the palace Mattei[i185]. _The head of a dead man_, with all its minute parts, painted by Leonardo, formerly in the Mattei palace, but no longer there[i186]. A picture containing a study of _two most delicate female heads_, in the Barberini palace at Rome[i187]. _A portrait of a girl with a book in her hand_, in the Strozzi palace in Rome[i188]. _The Dispute of Jesus with the Doctors_, half length, in the Panfili palace[i189]. Five pictures in the Ambrosian library at Milan, the subjects not mentioned[i190]. Some in the gallery of the archbishopric at Milan, the number and subjects equally unnoticed[i191]. One picture in the sacristy of Santa Maria, near St. Celsus at Milan[i192]. _A small head of Christ_, while a youth, mentioned by Lomazzo. Probably this may be the study for the picture of Jesus disputing with the Doctors, at the Panfili palace[i193]. _St. Michael with a man kneeling_, in the King of France's collection[i194]. _A Bacchus_, in the same collection[i195]. _The fair Ferraia_, in the same collection[i196]. _A portrait of a lady_, there also[i197]. _A Christ with a globe in his hand_[i198]. A very fine picture, half length, now in the possession of Richard Troward, Esq. of Pall Mall. This was engraven by Hollar in 1650, in aqua fortis[i199]. _The Fall of Phaeton_, in the gallery of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, of which Scannelli speaks, but it is mentioned by no one else[i200]. _St. Catherine with a palm-branch_, in the gallery of the Duke of Modena[i201]. _The head of a young man armed_, in the same collection, very graceful, but inferior to the St. Catherine[i202]. _A portrait of the Queen of Naples_, which was in the Aldobrandini gallery, but afterwards to be found in a chamber of portraits in the Panfili palace. It is not equal in colouring to the Dispute of Jesus with the Doctors[i203]. _A portrait in profile of the Dutchess of Milan_, mentioned by Richardson as being in a chamber leading to the Ambrosian library[i204]. _A beautiful figure of the Virgin, half length_, in the palace of Vaprio. It is of a gigantic size, for the head of the Virgin is six common palms in size, and that of the Divine Infant four in circumference. Della Valle speaks of having seen this in the year 1791, and says he is not ignorant that tradition ascribes this Madonna to Bramante, notwithstanding which he gives it to Leonardo[i205]. _A laughing Pomona with three veils_, commended by Lomazzo. It was done for Francis I. King of France[i206]. _The portrait of Cecilia Gallarani_, mentioned by Bellincione in one of his sonnets, as painted by Leonardo[i207]. _Another of Lucrezia Cavelli_, a celebrated performer on the lute, ascribed to him on the same authority. Copies of both this and the former may be seen at Milan[i208]. _Our Saviour before Pilate_, in the church of S. Florentino, at Amboise. It is thought that the carton only of this was Leonardo's, and that the picture was painted by Andrea Salai, or Melzi[i209]. _A portrait of Leonardo_ by himself, half length, in the Ambrosian library at Milan[i210]. Della Valle has inserted a copy of this before the Supplement to Leonardo's Life, in his edition of Vasari, for which purpose Sig. Pagave transmitted him a drawing from the original picture. But Leonardo's own drawing for the picture itself, is in the possession of his Britannic Majesty, and from that Mr. Chamberlaine has prefixed to his publication before mentioned, a plate engraven by Bartolozzi. A TREATISE, _&c._ DRAWING. PROPORTION. /Chap. I./--_What the young Student in Painting ought in the first Place to learn._ /The/ young student should, in the first place, acquire a knowledge of perspective, to enable him to give to every object its proper dimensions: after which, it is requisite that he be under the care of an able master, to accustom him, by degrees, to a good style of drawing the parts. Next, he must study Nature, in order to confirm and fix in his mind the reason of those precepts which he has learnt. He must also bestow some time in viewing the works of various old masters, to form his eye and judgment, in order that he may be able to put in practice all that he has been taught[1]. /Chap. II./--_Rule for a young Student in Painting._ /The/ organ of sight is one of the quickest, and takes in at a single glance an infinite variety of forms; notwithstanding which, it cannot perfectly comprehend more than one object at a time. For example, the reader, at one look over this page, immediately perceives it full of different characters; but he cannot at the same moment distinguish each letter, much less can he comprehend their meaning. He must consider it word by word, and line by line, if he be desirous of forming a just notion of these characters. In like manner, if we wish to ascend to the top of an edifice, we must be content to advance step by step, otherwise we shall never be able to attain it. A young man, who has a natural inclination to the study of this art, I would advise to act thus: In order to acquire a true notion of the form of things, he must begin by studying the parts which compose them, and not pass to a second till he has well stored his memory, and sufficiently practised the first; otherwise he loses his time, and will most certainly protract his studies. And let him remember to acquire accuracy before he attempts quickness. /Chap. III./--_How to discover a young Man's Disposition for Painting._ /Many/ are very desirous of learning to draw, and are very fond of it, who are, notwithstanding, void of a proper disposition for it. This may be known by their want of perseverance; like boys, who draw every thing in a hurry, never finishing, or shadowing. /Chap. IV./--_Of Painting, and its Divisions._ /Painting/ is divided into two principal parts. The first is the figure, that is, the lines which distinguish the forms of bodies, and their component parts. The second is the colour contained within those limits. /Chap. V./--_Division of the Figure._ /The/ form of bodies is divided into two parts; that is, the proportion of the members to each other, which must correspond with the whole; and the motion, expressive of what passes in the mind of the living figure. /Chap. VI./--_Proportion of Members._ /The/ proportion of members is again divided into two parts, viz. equality, and motion. By equality is meant (besides the measure corresponding with the whole), that you do not confound the members of a young subject with those of old age, nor plump ones with those that are lean; and that, moreover, you do not blend the robust and firm muscles of man with feminine softness: that the attitudes and motions of old age be not expressed with the quickness and alacrity of youth; nor those of a female figure like those of a vigorous young man. The motions and members of a strong man should be such as to express his perfect state of health. /Chap. VII./--_Of Dimensions in general._ /In/ general, the dimensions of the human body are to be considered in the length, and not in the breadth; because in the wonderful works of Nature, which we endeavour to imitate, we cannot in any species find any one part in one model precisely similar to the same part in another. Let us be attentive, therefore, to the variation of forms, and avoid all monstrosities of proportion; such as long legs united to short bodies, and narrow chests with long arms. Observe also attentively the measure of joints, in which Nature is apt to vary considerably; and imitate her example by doing the same. /Chap. VIII./--_Motion, Changes, and Proportion of Members._ /The/ measures of the human body vary in each member, according as it is more or less bent, or seen in different views, increasing on one side as much as they diminish on the other. /Chap. IX./--_The Difference of Proportion between Children and grown Men._ /In/ men and children I find a great difference between the joints of the one and the other in the length of the bones. A man has the length of two heads from the extremity of one shoulder to the other, the same from the shoulder to the elbow, and from the elbow to the fingers; but the child has only one, because Nature gives the proper size first to the seat of the intellect, and afterwards to the other parts. /Chap. X./--_The Alterations in the Proportion of the human Body from Infancy to full Age._ /A man/, in his infancy, has the breadth of his shoulders equal to the length of the face, and to the length of the arm from the shoulder to the elbow, when the arm is bent[2]. It is the same again from the lower belly to the knee, and from the knee to the foot. But, when a man is arrived at the period of his full growth, every one of these dimensions becomes double in length, except the face, which, with the top of the head, undergoes but very little alteration in length. A well-proportioned and full-grown man, therefore, is ten times the length of his face; the breadth of his shoulders will be two faces, and in like manner all the above lengths will be double. The rest will be explained in the general measurement of the human body[3]. /Chap. XI./--_Of the Proportion of Members._ /All/ the parts of any animal whatever must be correspondent with the whole. So that, if the body be short and thick, all the members belonging to it must be the same. One that is long and thin must have its parts of the same kind; and so of the middle size. Something of the same may be observed in plants, when uninjured by men or tempests; for when thus injured they bud and grow again, making young shoots from old plants, and by those means destroying their natural symmetry. /Chap. XII./--_That every Part be proportioned to its Whole._ /If/ a man be short and thick, be careful that all his members be of the same nature, viz. short arms and thick, large hands, short fingers, with broad joints; and so of the rest. /Chap. XIII./--_Of the Proportion of the Members._ /Measure/ upon yourself the proportion of the parts, and, if you find any of them defective, note it down, and be very careful to avoid it in drawing your own compositions. For this is reckoned a common fault in painters, to delight in the imitation of themselves. /Chap. XIV./--_The Danger of forming an erroneous Judgment in regard to the Proportion and Beauty of the Parts._ /If/ the painter has clumsy hands, he will be apt to introduce them into his works, and so of any other part of his person, which may not happen to be so beautiful as it ought to be. He must, therefore, guard particularly against that self-love, or too good opinion of his own person, and study by every means to acquire the knowledge of what is most beautiful, and of his own defects, that he may adopt the one and avoid the other. /Chap. XV./--_Another Precept._ /The/ young painter must, in the first instance, accustom his hand to copying the drawings of good masters; and when his hand is thus formed, and ready, he should, with the advice of his director, use himself also to draw from relievos; according to the rules we shall point out in the treatise on drawing from relievos[4]. /Chap. XVI./--_The Manner of drawing from Relievos, and rendering Paper fit for it._ /When/ you draw from relievos, tinge your paper of some darkish demi-tint. And after you have made your outline, put in the darkest shadows, and, last of all, the principal lights, but sparingly, especially the smaller ones; because those are easily lost to the eye at a very moderate distance[5]. /Chap. XVII./--_Of drawing from Casts or Nature._ /In/ drawing from relievo, the draftsman must place himself in such a manner, as that the eye of the figure to be drawn be level with his own[6]. /Chap. XVIII./--_To draw Figures from Nature._ /Accustom/ yourself to hold a plummet in your hand, that you may judge of the bearing of the parts. /Chap. XIX./--_Of drawing from Nature._ /When/ you draw from Nature, you must be at the distance of three times the height of the object; and when you begin to draw, form in your own mind a certain principal line (suppose a perpendicular); observe well the bearing of the parts towards that line; whether they intersect, are parallel to it, or oblique. /Chap. XX./--_Of drawing Academy Figures._ /When/ you draw from a naked model, always sketch in the whole of the figure, suiting all the members well to each other; and though you finish only that part which appears the best, have a regard to the rest, that, whenever you make use of such studies, all the parts may hang together. In composing your attitudes, take care not to turn the head on the same side as the breast, nor let the arm go in a line with the leg[7]. If the head turn towards the right shoulder, the parts must be lower on the left side than on the other; but if the chest come forward, and the head turn towards the left, the parts on the right side are to be the highest. /Chap. XXI./--_Of studying in the Dark, on first waking in the Morning, and before going to sleep._ /I have/ experienced no small benefit, when in the dark and in bed, by retracing in my mind the outlines of those forms which I had previously studied, particularly such as had appeared the most difficult to comprehend and retain; by this method they will be confirmed and treasured up in the memory. /Chap. XXII./--_Observations on drawing Portraits._ /The/ cartilage, which raises the nose in the middle of the face, varies in eight different ways. It is equally straight, equally concave, or equally convex, which is the first sort. Or, secondly, unequally straight, concave, or convex. Or, thirdly, straight in the upper part, and concave in the under. Or, fourthly, straight again in the upper part, and convex in those below. Or, fifthly, it may be concave and straight beneath. Or, sixthly, concave above, and convex below. Or, seventhly, it may be convex in the upper part, and straight in the lower. And in the eighth and last place, convex above, and concave beneath. The uniting of the nose with the brows is in two ways, either it is straight or concave. The forehead has three different forms. It is straight, concave, or round. The first is divided into two parts, viz. it is either convex in the upper part, or in the lower, sometimes both; or else flat above and below. /Chap. XXIII./--_The Method of retaining in the Memory the Likeness of a Man, so as to draw his Profile, after having seen him only once._ /You/ must observe and remember well the variations of the four principal features in the profile; the nose, mouth, chin, and forehead. And first of the nose, of which there are three different sorts[8], straight, concave, and convex. Of the straight there are but four variations, short or long, high at the end, or low. Of the concave there are three sorts; some have the concavity above, some in the middle, and some at the end. The convex noses also vary three ways; some project in the upper part, some in the middle, and others at the bottom. Nature, which seems to delight in infinite variety, gives again three changes to those noses which have a projection in the middle; for some have it straight, some concave, and some convex. /Chap. XXIV./--_How to remember the Form of a Face._ /If/ you wish to retain with facility the general look of a face, you must first learn how to draw well several faces, mouths, eyes, noses, chins, throats, necks, and shoulders; in short, all those principal parts which distinguish one man from another. For instance, noses are often different sorts[9]. Straight, bunched, concave, some raised above, some below the middle, aquiline, flat, round, and sharp. These affect the profile. In the front view there are eleven different sorts. Even, thick in the middle, thin in the middle, thick at the tip, thin at the beginning, thin at the tip, and thick at the beginning. Broad, narrow, high, and low nostrils; some with a large opening, and some more shut towards the tip. The same variety will be found in the other parts of the face, which must be drawn from Nature, and retained in the memory. Or else, when you mean to draw a likeness from memory, take with you a pocket-book, in which you have marked all these variations of features, and after having given a look at the face you mean to draw, retire a little aside, and note down in your book which of the features are similar to it; that you may put it all together at home. /Chap. XXV./--_That a Painter should take Pleasure in the Opinion of every body._ /A painter/ ought not certainly to refuse listening to the opinion of any one; for we know that, although a man be not a painter, he may have just notions of the forms of men; whether a man has a hump on his back, a thick leg, or a large hand; whether he be lame, or have any other defect. Now, if we know that men are able to judge of the works of Nature, should we not think them more able to detect our errors? ANATOMY. /Chap. XXVI./--_What is principally to be observed in Figures._ /The/ principal and most important consideration required in drawing figures, is to set the head well upon the shoulders, the chest upon the hips, the hips and shoulders upon the feet. /Chap. XXVII./--_Mode of Studying._ /Study/ the science first, and then follow the practice which results from that science. Pursue method in your study, and do not quit one part till it be perfectly engraven in the memory; and observe what difference there is between the members of animals and their joints[10]. /Chap. XXVIII./--_Of being universal._ /It/ is an easy matter for a man who is well versed in the principles of his art, to become universal in the practice of it, since all animals have a similarity of members, that is, muscles, tendons, bones, &c. These only vary in length or thickness, as will be demonstrated in the Anatomy[11]. As for aquatic animals, of which there is great variety, I shall not persuade the painter to take them as a rule, having no connexion with our purpose. /Chap. XXIX./--_A Precept for the Painter._ /It/ reflects no great honour on a painter to be able to execute only one thing well, such as a head, an academy figure, or draperies, animals, landscape, or the like, confining himself to some particular object of study; because there is scarcely a person so void of genius as to fail of success, if he apply earnestly to one branch of study, and practise it continually. /Chap. XXX./--_Of the Measures of the human Body, and the bending of Members._ /It/ is very necessary that painters should have a knowledge of the bones which support the flesh by which they are covered, but particularly of the joints, which increase and diminish the length of them in their appearance. As in the arm, which does not measure the same when bent, as when extended; its difference between the greatest extension and bending, is about one eighth of its length. The increase and diminution of the arm is effected by the bone projecting out of its socket at the elbow; which, as is seen in figure A B, Plate I. is lengthened from the shoulder to the elbow; the angle it forms being less than a right angle. It will appear longer as that angle becomes more acute, and will shorten in proportion as it becomes more open or obtuse. [Illustration: _Page 15_. _Chap. 37_. _Plate 1_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. XXXI./--_Of the small Bones in several Joints of the human Body._ /There/ are in the joints of the human body certain small bones, fixed in the middle of the tendons which connect several of the joints. Such are the patellas of the knees, and the joints of the shoulders, and those of the feet. They are eight in number, one at each shoulder, one at each knee, and two at each foot under the first joint of the great toe towards the heel. These grow extremely hard as a man advances in years. /Chap. XXXII./--_Memorandum to be observed by the Painter._ /Note/ down which muscles and tendons are brought into action by the motion of any member, and when they are hidden. Remember that these remarks are of the greatest importance to painters and sculptors, who profess to study anatomy, and the science of the muscles. Do the same with children, following the different gradations of age from their birth even to decrepitude, describing the changes which the members, and particularly the joints, undergo; which of them grow fat, and which lean. /Chap. XXXIII./--_The Shoulders._ /The/ joints of the shoulders, and other parts which bend, shall be noticed in their places in the Treatise on Anatomy, where the cause of the motions of all the parts which compose the human body shall be explained[12]. /Chap. XXXIV./--_The Difference of Joints between Children and grown Men._ /Young/ children have all their joints small, but they are thick and plump in the spaces between them; because there is nothing upon the bones at the joints, but some tendons to bind the bones together. The soft flesh, which is full of fluids, is enclosed under the skin in the space between the joints; and as the bones are bigger at the joints than in the space between them, the skin throws off in the progress to manhood that superfluity, and draws nearer to the bones, thinning the whole part together. But upon the joints it does not lessen, as there is nothing but cartilages and tendons. For these reasons children are small in the joints, and plump in the space between, as may be observed in their fingers, arms, and narrow shoulders. Men, on the contrary, are large and full in the joints, in the arms and legs; and where children have hollows, men are knotty and prominent. /Chap. XXXV./--_Of the Joints of the Fingers._ /The/ joints of the fingers appear larger on all sides when they bend; the more they bend the larger they appear. The contrary is the case when straight. It is the same in the toes, and it will be more perceptible in proportion to their fleshiness. /Chap. XXXVI./--_Of the Joint of the Wrist._ /The/ wrist or joint between the hand and arm lessens on closing the hand, and grows larger when it opens. The contrary happens in the arm, in the space between the elbow and the hand, on all sides; because in opening the hand the muscles are extended and thinned in the arm, from the elbow to the wrist; but when the hand is shut, the same muscles swell and shorten. The tendons alone start, being stretched by the clenching of the hand. /Chap. XXXVII./--_Of the Joint of the Foot._ /The/ increase and diminution in the joint of the foot is produced on that side where the tendons are seen, as D E F, _Plate I._ which increases when the angle is acute, and diminishes when it becomes obtuse. It must be understood of the joint in the front part of the foot A B C. /Chap. XXXVIII./--_Of the Knee._ /Of/ all the members which have pliable joints, the knee is the only one that lessens in the bending, and becomes larger by extension. /Chap. XXXIX./--_Of the Joints._ /All/ the joints of the human body become larger by bending, except that of the leg. /Chap. XL./--_Of the Naked._ /When/ a figure is to appear nimble and delicate, its muscles must never be too much marked, nor are any of them to be much swelled. Because such figures are expressive of activity and swiftness, and are never loaded with much flesh upon the bones. They are made light by the want of flesh, and where there is but little flesh there cannot be any thickness of muscles. /Chap. XLI./--_Of the Thickness of the Muscles._ /Muscular/ men have large bones, and are in general thick and short, with very little fat; because the fleshy muscles in their growth contract closer together, and the fat, which in other instances lodges between them, has no room. The muscles in such thin subjects, not being able to extend, grow in thickness, particularly towards their middle, in the parts most removed from the extremities. /Chap. XLII./--_Fat Subjects have small Muscles._ /Though/ fat people have this in common with muscular men, that they are frequently short and thick, they have thin muscles; but their skin contains a great deal of spongy and soft flesh full of air; for that reason they are lighter upon the water, and swim better than muscular people. /Chap. XLIII./--_Which of the Muscles disappear in the different Motions of the Body._ /In/ raising or lowering the arm, the pectoral muscles disappear, or acquire a greater relievo. A similar effect is produced by the hips, when they bend either inwards or outwards. It is to be observed, that there is more variety of appearances in the shoulders, hips, and neck, than in any other joint, because they are susceptible of the greatest variety of motions. But of this subject I shall make a separate treatise[13]. /Chap. XLIV./--_Of the Muscles._ /The/ muscles are not to be scrupulously marked all the way, because it would be disagreeable to the sight, and of very difficult execution. But on that side only where the members are in action, they should be pronounced more strongly; for muscles that are at work naturally collect all their parts together, to gain increase of strength, so that some small parts of those muscles will appear, that were not seen before. /Chap. XLV./--_Of the Muscles._ /The/ muscles of young men are not to be marked strongly, nor too much swelled, because that would indicate full strength and vigour of age, which they have not yet attained. Nevertheless they must be more or less expressed, as they are more or less employed. For those which are in motion are always more swelled and thicker than those which remain at rest. The intrinsic and central line of the members which are bent, never retains its natural length. /Chap. XLVI./--_The Extension and Contraction of the Muscles._ /The/ muscle at the back part of the thigh shows more variety in its extension and contraction, than any other in the human body; the second, in that respect, are those which compose the buttocks; the third, those of the back; the fourth, those of the neck; the fifth, those of the shoulders; and the sixth, those of the Abdomen, which, taking their rise under the breast, terminate under the lower belly; as I shall explain when I speak of each. /Chap. XLVII./--_Of the Muscle between the Chest and the lower Belly._ /There/ is a muscle which begins under the breast at the Sternum, and is inserted into, or terminates at the Os pubis, under the lower belly. It is called the Rectus of the Abdomen; it is divided, lengthways, into three principal portions, by transverse tendinous intersections or ligaments, viz. the superior part, and a ligament; the second part, with its ligaments; and the third part, with the third ligament; which last unites by tendons to the Os pubis. These divisions and intersections of the same muscle are intended by nature to facilitate the motion when the body is bent or distended. If it were made of one piece, it would produce too much variety when extended, or contracted, and also would be considerably weaker. When this muscle has but little variety in the motion of the body, it is more beautiful[14]. /Chap. XLVIII./--_Of a Man's complex Strength, but first of the Arm._ /The/ muscles which serve either to straighten or bend the arm, arise from the different processes of the Scapula; some of them from the protuberances of the Humerus, and others about the middle of the Os humeri. The extensors of the arm arise from behind, and the flexors from before. That a man has more power in pulling than in pushing, has been proved by the ninth proposition De Ponderibus[15], where it is said, that of two equal weights, that will have the greatest power which is farthest removed from the pole or centre of its balance. It follows then of course, that the muscle N B, _Plate II._ and the muscle N C, being of equal power, the inner muscle N C, will nevertheless be stronger than the outward one N B, because it is inserted into the arm at C, a point farther removed from the centre of the elbow A, than B, which is on the other side of such centre, so that that question is determined. But this is a simple power, and I thought it best to explain it before I mentioned the complex power of the muscles, of which I must now take notice. The complex power, or strength, is, for instance, this, when the arm is going to act, a second power is added to it (such as the weight of the body and the strength of the legs, in pulling or pushing), consisting in the extension of the parts, as when two men attempt to throw down a column; the one by pushing, and the other by pulling[16]. /Chap. XLIX./--_In which of the two Actions, Pulling or Pushing, a Man has the greatest Power_, Plate II. /A man/ has the greatest power in pulling, for in that action he has the united exertion of all the muscles of the arm, while some of them must be inactive when he is pushing; because when the arm is extended for that purpose, the muscles which move the elbow cannot act, any more than if he pushed with his shoulders against the column he means to throw down; in which case only the muscles that extend the back, the legs under the thigh, and the calves of the legs, would be active. From which we conclude, that in pulling there is added to the power of extension the strength of the arms, of the legs, of the back, and even of the chest, if the oblique motion of the body require it. But in pushing, though all the parts were employed, yet the strength of the muscles of the arms is wanting; for to push with an extended arm without motion does not help more than if a piece of wood were placed from the shoulder to the column meant to be pushed down. [Illustration: _Page 22_. _Chap. 48, 49_. _Plate 2_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. L./--_Of the bending of Members, and of the Flesh round the bending Joint._ /The/ flesh which covers the bones near and at the joints, swells or diminishes in thickness according to their bending or extension; that is, it increases at the inside of the angle formed by the bending, and grows narrow and lengthened on the outward side of the exterior angle. The middle between the convex and concave angle participates of this increase or diminution, but in a greater or less degree as the parts are nearer to, or farther from, the angles of the bending joints. /Chap. LI./--_Of the naked Body._ /The/ members of naked men who work hard in different attitudes, will shew the muscles more strongly on that side where they act forcibly to bring the part into action; and the other muscles will be more or less marked, in proportion as they co-operate in the same motion. /Chap. LII./--_Of a Ligament without Muscles._ /Where/ the arm joins with the hand, there is a ligament, the largest in the human body, which is without muscles, and is called the strong ligament of the Carpus; it has a square shape, and serves to bind and keep close together the bones of the arm, and the tendons of the fingers, and prevent their dilating, or starting out. /Chap. LIII./--_Of Creases._ /In/ bending the joints the flesh will always form a crease on the opposite side to that where it is tight. /Chap. LIV./--_How near behind the Back one Arm can be brought to the other_, Plate III. and IV. /When/ the arms are carried behind the back, the elbows can never be brought nearer than the length from the elbow to the end of the longest finger; so that the fingers will not be seen beyond the elbows, and in that situation, the arms with the shoulders form a perfect square. The greatest extension of the arm across the chest is, when the elbow comes over the pit of the stomach; the elbow and the shoulder in this position, will form an equilateral triangle. /Chap. LV./--_Of the Muscles._ /A naked/ figure being strongly marked, so as to give a distinct view of all the muscles, will not express any motion; because it cannot move, if some of its muscles do not relax while the others are pulling. Those which relax cease to appear in proportion as the others pull strongly and become apparent. [Illustration: _Page 24_. _Chap. 54_. _Plate 3_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 24_. _Chap. 53_. _Plate 4_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LVI./--_Of the Muscles._ /The/ muscles of the human body are to be more or less marked according to their degree of action. Those only which act are to be shewn, and the more forcibly they act, the stronger they should be pronounced. Those that do not act at all must remain soft and flat. /Chap. LVII./--_Of the Bending of the Body._ /The/ bodies of men diminish as much on the side which bends, as they increase on the opposite side. That diminution may at last become double, in proportion to the extension on the other side. But of this I shall make a separate treatise[17]. /Chap. LVIII./--_The same Subject._ /The/ body which bends, lengthens as much on one side as it shortens on the other; but the central line between them will never lessen or increase. /Chap. LIX./--_The Necessity of anatomical Knowledge._ /The/ painter who has obtained a perfect knowledge of the nature of the tendons and muscles, and of those parts which contain the most of them, will know to a certainty, in giving a particular motion to any part of the body, which, and how many of the muscles give rise and contribute to it; which of them, by swelling, occasion their shortening, and which of the cartilages they surround. He will not imitate those who, in all the different attitudes they adopt, or invent, make use of the same muscles, in the arms, back, or chest, or any other parts. MOTION AND EQUIPOISE OF FIGURES. /Chap. LX./--_Of the Equipoise of a Figure standing still._ /The/ non-existence of motion in any animal resting on its feet, is owing to the equality of weight distributed on each side of the line of gravity. /Chap. LXI./--_Motion produced by the Loss of Equilibrium._ /Motion/ is created by the loss of due equipoise, that is, by inequality of weight; for nothing can move of itself, without losing its centre of gravity, and the farther that is removed, the quicker and stronger will be the motion. [Illustration: _Page 27_. _Chap. 62_. _Plate 5_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LXII./--_Of the Equipoise of Bodies_, Plate V. /The/ balance or equipoise of parts in the human body is of two sorts, viz. simple, and complex. Simple, when a man stands upon his feet without motion: in that situation, if he extends his arms at different distances from the middle, or stoop, the centre of his weight will always be in a perpendicular line upon the centre of that foot which supports the body; and if he rests equally upon both feet, then the middle of the chest will be perpendicular to the middle of the line which measures the space between the centres of his feet. The complex balance is, when a man carries a weight not his own, which he bears by different motions; as in the figure of Hercules stifling Anteus, by pressing him against his breast with his arms, after he has lifted him from the ground. He must have as much of his own weight thrown behind the central line of his feet, as the weight of Anteus adds before. /Chap. LXIII./--_Of Positions._ /The/ pit of the neck, between the two Clavicles, falls perpendicularly with the foot which bears the weight of the body. If one of the arms be thrown forwards, this pit will quit that perpendicular; and if one of the legs goes back, that pit is brought forwards, and so changes its situation at every change of posture. /Chap. LXIV./--_Of balancing the Weight round the Centre of Gravity in Bodies._ /A figure/ standing upon its feet without motion, will form an equipoise of all its members round the centre of its support. If this figure without motion, and resting upon its feet, happens to move one of its arms forwards, it must necessarily throw as much of its weight on the opposite side, as is equal to that of the extended arm and the accidental weight. And the same I say of every part, which is brought out beyond its usual balance. /Chap. LXV./--_Of Figures that have to lift up, or carry any Weight._ /A weight/ can never be lifted up or carried by any man, if he do not throw more than an equal weight of his own on the opposite side. /Chap. LXVI./--_The Equilibrium of a Man standing upon his Feet_, Plate VI. /The/ weight of a man resting upon one leg will always be equally divided on each side of the central or perpendicular line of gravity, which supports him. /Chap. LXVII./--_Of Walking_, Plate VII. /A man/ walking will always have the centre of gravity over the centre of the leg which rests upon the ground. [Illustration: _Page 28_. _Chap. 66_. _Plate 6_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 28_. _Chap. 67_. _Plate 7_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LXVIII./--_Of the Centre of Gravity in Men and Animals._ /The/ legs, or centre of support, in men and animals, will approach nearer to the centre of gravity, in proportion to the slowness of their motion; and, on the contrary, when the motion is quicker, they will be farther removed from that perpendicular line. /Chap. LXIX./--_Of the corresponding Thickness of Parts on each Side of the Body._ /The/ thickness or breadth of the parts in the human body will never be equal on each side, if the corresponding members do not move equally and alike. /Chap. LXX./--_Of the Motions of Animals._ /All/ bipeds in their motions lower the part immediately over the foot that is raised, more than over that resting on the ground, and the highest parts do just the contrary. This is observable in the hips and shoulders of a man when he walks; and also in birds in the head and rump. /Chap. LXXI./--_Of Quadrupeds and their Motions._ /The/ highest parts of quadrupeds are susceptible of more variation when they walk, than when they are still, in a greater or less degree, in proportion to their size. This proceeds from the oblique position of their legs when they touch the ground, which raise the animal when they become straight and perpendicular upon the ground. /Chap. LXXII./--_Of the Quickness or Slowness of Motion._ /The/ motion performed by a man, or any other animal whatever, in walking, will have more or less velocity as the centre of their weight is more or less removed from the centre of that foot upon which they are supported. /Chap. LXXIII./--_Of the Motion of Animals._ /That/ figure will appear the swiftest in its course which leans the most forwards. Any body, moving of itself, will do it with more or less velocity in proportion as the centre of its gravity is more or less removed from the centre of its support. This is mentioned chiefly in regard to the motion of birds, which, without any clapping of their wings, or assistance of wind, move themselves. This happens when the centre of their gravity is out of the centre of their support, viz. out of its usual residence, the middle between the two wings. Because, if the middle of the wings be more backward than the centre of the whole weight, the bird will move forwards and downwards, in a greater or less degree as the centre of its weight is more or less removed from the middle of its wings. From which it follows, that if the centre of gravity be far removed from the other centre, the descent of the bird will be very oblique; but if that centre be near the middle of the wings, the descent will have very little obliquity. [Illustration: _Page 31_. _Chap. 74_. _Plate 8_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LXXIV./--_Of a Figure moving against the Wind_, Plate VIII. /A man/ moving against the wind in any direction does not keep his centre of gravity duly disposed upon the centre of support[18]. /Chap. LXXV./--_Of the Balance of a Figure resting upon its Feet._ /The/ man who rests upon his feet, either bears the weight of his body upon them equally, or unequally. If equally, it will be with some accidental weight, or simply with his own; if it be with an additional weight, the opposite extremities of his members will not be equally distant from the perpendicular of his feet. But if he simply carries his own weight, the opposite extremities will be equally distant from the perpendicular of his feet: and on this subject of gravity I shall write a separate book[19]. /Chap. LXXVI./--_A Precept._ /The/ navel is always in the central or middle line of the body, which passes through the pit of the stomach to that of the neck, and must have as much weight, either accidental or natural, on one side of the human figure as on the other. This is demonstrated by extending the arm, the wrist of which performs the office of a weight at the end of a steelyard; and will require some weight to be thrown on the other side of the navel, to counterbalance that of the wrist. It is on that account that the heel is often raised. /Chap. LXXVII./--_Of a Man standing, but resting more upon one Foot than the other._ /After/ a man, by standing long, has tired the leg upon which he rests, he sends part of his weight upon the other leg. But this kind of posture is to be employed only for old age, infancy, or extreme lassitude, because it expresses weariness, or very little power in the limbs. For that reason, a young man, strong and healthy, will always rest upon one of his legs, and if he removes a little of his weight upon the other, it is only a necessary preparative to motion, without which it is impossible to move; as we have proved before, that motion proceeds from inequality[20]. /Chap. LXXVIII./--_Of the Balance of Figures_, Plate IX. /If/ the figure rests upon one foot, the shoulder on that side will always be lower than the other; and the pit of the neck will fall perpendicularly over the middle of that leg which supports the body. The same will happen in whatever other view we see that figure, when it has not the arm much extended, nor any weight on its back, in its hand, or on its shoulder, and when it does not, either behind or before, throw out that leg which does not support the body. [Illustration: _Page 32_. _Chap. 78_. _Plate 9_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 33_. _Chap. 80_. _Plate 10_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LXXIX./--_In what Manner extending one Arm alters the Balance._ /The/ extending of the arm, which was bent, removes the weight of the figure upon the foot which bears the weight of the whole body: as is observable in rope-dancers, who dance upon the rope with their arms open, without any pole. /Chap. LXXX./--_Of a Man bearing a Weight on his Shoulders_, Plate X. /The/ shoulder which bears the weight is always higher than the other. This is seen in the figure opposite, in which the centre line passes through the whole, with an equal weight on each side, to the leg on which it rests. If the weight were not equally divided on each side of this central line of gravity, the whole would fall to the ground. But Nature has provided, that as much of the natural weight of the man should be thrown on one side, as of accidental weight on the other, to form a counterpoise. This is effected by the man's bending, and leaning on the side not loaded, so as to form an equilibrium to the accidental weight he carries; and this cannot be done, unless the loaded shoulder be raised, and the other lowered. This is the resource with which Nature has furnished a man on such occasions. /Chap. LXXXI./--_Of Equilibrium._ /Any/ figure bearing an additional weight out of the central line, must throw as much natural or accidental weight on the opposite side as is sufficient to form a counterpoise round that line, which passes from the pit of the neck, through the whole mass of weight, to that part of the foot which rests upon the ground. We observe, that when a man lifts a weight with one arm, he naturally throws out the opposite arm; and if that be not enough to form an equipoise, he will add as much of his own weight, by bending his body, as will enable him to resist such accidental load. We see also, that a man ready to fall sideways and backwards at the same time, always throws out the arm on the opposite side. /Chap. LXXXII./--_Of Motion._ /Whether/ a man moves with velocity or slowness, the parts above the leg which sustains the weight, will always be lower than the others on the opposite side. /Chap. LXXXIII./--_The Level of the Shoulders._ /The/ shoulders or sides of a man, or any other animal, will preserve less of their level, in proportion to the slowness of their motion; and, _vice versâ_, those parts will lose less of their level when the motion is quicker. This is proved by the ninth proposition, treating of local motions, where it is said, any weight will press in the direction of the line of its motion; therefore the whole moving towards any one point, the parts belonging to it will follow the shortest line of the motion of its whole, without giving any of its weight to the collateral parts of the whole. [Illustration: _Page 35_. _Chap. 84_. _Plate 11_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 35_. _Chap. 84_. _Plate 12_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 35_. _Chap. 85_. _Plate 13_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LXXXIV./--_Objection to the above answered_, Plate XI. and XII. /It/ has been objected, in regard to the first part of the above proposition, that it does not follow that a man standing still, or moving slowly, has his members always in perfect balance upon the centre of gravity; because we do not find that Nature always follows that rule, but, on the contrary, the figure will sometimes bend sideways, standing upon one foot; sometimes it will rest part of its weight upon that leg which is bent at the knee, as is seen in the figures B C. But I shall reply thus, that what is not performed by the shoulders in the figure C, is done by the hip, as is demonstrated in another place. /Chap. LXXXV./--_Of the Position of Figures_, Plate XIII. /In/ the same proportion as that part of the naked figure marked D A, lessens in height from the shoulder to the hip, on account of its position the opposite side increases. And this is the reason: the figure resting upon one (suppose the left) foot, that foot becomes the centre of all the weight above; and the pit of the neck, formed by the junction of the two Clavicles, quits also its natural situation at the upper extremity of the perpendicular line (which passes through the middle surface of the body), to bend over the same foot; and as this line bends with it, it forces the transverse lines, which are always at right angles, to lower their extremities on that side where the foot rests, as appears in A B C. The navel and middle parts always preserve their natural height. /Chap. LXXXVI./--_Of the Joints._ /In/ the bending of the joints it is particularly useful to observe the difference and variety of shape they assume; how the muscles swell on one side, while they flatten on the other; and this is more apparent in the neck, because the motion of it is of three sorts, two of which are simple motions, and the other complex, participating also of the other two. The simple motions are, first, when the neck bends towards the shoulder, either to the right or left, and when it raises or lowers the head. The second is, when it twists to the right or left, without rising or bending, but straight, with the head turned towards one of the shoulders. The third motion, which is called complex, is, when to the bending of it is added the twisting, as when the ear leans towards one of the shoulders, the head turning the same way, and the face turned upwards. /Chap. LXXXVII./--_Of the Shoulders._ /Of/ those which the shoulders can perform, simple motions are the principal, such as moving the arm upwards and downwards, backwards and forwards. Though one might almost call those motions infinite, for if the arm can trace a circle upon a wall, it will have performed all the motions belonging to the shoulders. Every continued quantity being divisible _ad infinitum_, and this circle being a continued quantity, produced by the motion of the arm going through every part of the circumference, it follows, that the motions of the shoulders may also be said to be infinite. [Illustration: _Page 37_. _Chap. 89_. _Plate 14_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. LXXXVIII./--_Of the Motions of a Man._ /When/ you mean to represent a man removing a weight, consider that the motions are various, viz. either a simple motion, by bending himself to raise the weight from the ground upwards, or when he drags the weight after him, or pushes it before him, or pulls it down with a rope passing through a pulley. It is to be observed, that the weight of the man's body pulls the more in proportion as the centre of his gravity is removed from the centre of his support. To this must be added the strength of the effort that the legs and back make when they are bent, to return to their natural straight situation. A man never ascends or descends, nor walks at all in any direction, without raising the heel of the back foot. /Chap. LXXXIX./--_Of the Disposition of Members preparing to act with great Force_, Plate XIV. /When/ a man prepares himself to strike a violent blow, he bends and twists his body as far as he can to the side contrary to that which he means to strike, and collecting all his strength, he, by a complex motion, returns and falls upon the point he has in view[21]. /Chap. XC./--_Of throwing any Thing with Violence_, Plate XV. /A man/ throwing a dart, a stone, or any thing else with violence, may be represented, chiefly, two different ways; that is, he may be preparing to do it, or the act may be already performed. If you mean to place him in the act of preparation, the inside of the foot upon which he rests will be under the perpendicular line of the pit of the neck; and if it be the right foot, the left shoulder will be perpendicular over the toes of the same foot. /Chap. XCI./--_On the Motion of driving any Thing into or drawing it out of the Ground._ /He/ who wishes to pitch a pole into the ground, or draw one out of it, will raise the leg and bend the knee opposite to the arm which acts, in order to balance himself upon the foot that rests, without which he could neither drive in, nor pull out any thing. /Chap. XCII./--_Of forcible Motions_, Plate XVI. /Of/ the two arms, that will be most powerful in its effort, which, having been farthest removed from its natural situation, is assisted more strongly by the other parts to bring it to the place where it means to go. As the man A, who moves the arm with a club E, and brings it to the opposite side B, assisted by the motion of the whole body. [Illustration: _Page 38_. _Chap. 90_. _Plate 15_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 39_. _Chap. 92_. _Plate 16_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. XCIII./--_The Action of Jumping._ /Nature/ will of itself, and without any reasoning in the mind of a man going to jump, prompt him to raise his arms and shoulders by a sudden motion, together with a great part of his body, and to lift them up high, till the power of the effort subsides. This impetuous motion is accompanied by an instantaneous extension of the body which had bent itself, like a spring or bow, along the back, the joints of the thighs, knees, and feet, and is let off obliquely, that is, upwards and forwards; so that the disposition of the body tending forwards and upwards, makes it describe a great arch when it springs up, which increases the leap. /Chap. XCIV./--_Of the three Motions in jumping upwards._ /When/ a man jumps upwards, the motion of the head is three times quicker than that of the heel, before the extremity of the foot quits the ground, and twice as quick as that of the hips; because three angles are opened and extended at the same time: the superior one is that formed by the body at its joint with the thigh before, the second is at the joint of the thighs and legs behind, and the third is at the instep before[22]. /Chap. XCV./--_Of the easy Motions of Members._ /In/ regard to the freedom and ease of motions, it is very necessary to observe, that when you mean to represent a figure which has to turn itself a little round, the feet and all the other members are not to move in the same direction as the head. But you will divide that motion among four joints, viz. the feet, the knees, the hips, and the neck. If it rests upon the right leg, the left knee should be a little bent inward, with its foot somewhat raised outward. The left shoulder should be lower than the other, and the nape of the neck turned on the same side as the outward ankle of the left foot, and the left shoulder perpendicular over the great toe of the right foot. And take it as a general maxim, that figures do not turn their heads straight with the chest, Nature having for our convenience formed the neck so as to turn with ease on every side, when the eyes want to look round; and to this the other joints are in some measure subservient. If the figure be sitting, and the arms have some employment across the body, the breast will turn over the joint of the hip. [Illustration: _Page 41_. _Chap. 96_. _Plate 17_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. XCVI./--_The greatest Twist which a Man can make, in turning to look at himself behind._ Plate XVII. /The/ greatest twist that the body can perform is when the back of the heels and the front of the face are seen at the same time. It is not done without difficulty, and is effected by bending the leg and lowering the shoulder on that side towards which the head turns. The cause of this motion, and also which of the muscles move first and which last, I shall explain in my treatise on anatomy[23]. /Chap. XCVII./--_Of turning the Leg without the Thigh._ /It/ is impossible to turn the leg inwards or outwards without turning the thigh by the same motion, because the setting in of the bones at the knee is such, that they have no motion but backwards and forwards, and no more than is necessary for walking or kneeling; never sideways, because the form of the bones at the joint of the knee does not allow it. If this joint had been made pliable on all sides, as that of the shoulder, or that of the thigh bone with the hip, a man would have had his legs bent on each side as often as backwards and forwards, and seldom or never straight with the thigh. Besides, this joint can bend only one way, so that in walking it can never go beyond the straight line of the leg; it bends only forwards, for if it could bend backwards, a man could never get up again upon his feet, if once he were kneeling; as when he means to get up from the kneeling posture (on both knees), he gives the whole weight of his body to one of the knees to support, unloading the other, which at that time feels no other weight than its own, and therefore is lifted up with ease, and rests his foot flat upon the ground; then returning the whole weight upon that foot, and leaning his hand upon his knee, he at once extends the other arm, raises his head, and straightening the thigh with the body, he springs up, and rests upon the same foot, while he brings up the other. /Chap. XCVIII./--_Postures of Figures._ /Figures/ that are set in a fixed attitude, are nevertheless to have some contrast of parts. If one arm come before, the other remains still or goes behind. If the figure rest upon one leg, the shoulder on that side will be lower than the other. This is observed by artists of judgment, who always take care to balance the figure well upon its feet, for fear it should appear to fall. Because by resting upon one foot, the other leg, being a little bent, does not support the body any more than if it were dead; therefore it is necessary that the parts above that leg should transfer the centre of their weight upon the leg which supports the body. /Chap. XCIX./--_Of the Gracefulness of the Members._ /The/ members are to be suited to the body in graceful motions, expressive of the meaning which the figure is intended to convey. If it had to give the idea of genteel and agreeable carriage, the members must be slender and well turned, but not lean; the muscles very slightly marked, indicating in a soft manner such as must necessarily appear; the arms, particularly, pliant, and no member in a straight line with any other adjoining member. If it happen, on account of the motion of the figure, that the right hip be higher than the left, make the joint of the shoulder fall perpendicularly on the highest part of that hip; and let that right shoulder be lower than the left. The pit of the neck will always be perpendicular over the middle of the instep of the foot that supports the body. The leg that does not bear will have its knee a little lower than the other, and near the other leg. In regard to the positions of the head and arms, they are infinite, and for that reason I shall not enter into any detailed rule concerning them; suffice it to say, that they are to be easy and free, graceful, and varied in their bendings, so that they may not appear stiff like pieces of wood. /Chap. C./--_That it is impossible for any Memory to retain the Aspects and Changes of the Members._ /It/ is impossible that any memory can be able to retain all the aspects or motions of any member of any animal whatever. This case we shall exemplify by the appearance of the hand. And because any continued quantity is divisible _ad infinitum_, the motion of the eye which looks at the hand, and moves from A to B, moves by a space A B, which is also a continued quantity, and consequently divisible _ad infinitum_, and in every part of the motion varies to its view the aspect and figure of the hand; and so it will do if it move round the whole circle. The same will the hand do which is raised in its motion, that is, it will pass over a space, which is a continued quantity[24]. [Illustration] /Chap. CI./--_The Motions of Figures._ /Never/ put the head straight upon the shoulders, but a little turned sideways to the right or left, even though the figures should be looking up or down, or straight, because it is necessary to give them some motion of life and spirit. Nor ever compose a figure in such a manner, either in a front or back view, as that every part falls straight upon another from the top to the bottom. But if you wish to introduce such a figure, use it for old age. Never repeat the same motion of arms, or of legs, not only not in the same figure, but in those which are standing by, or near; if the necessity of the case, or the expression of the subject you represent, do not oblige you to it[25]. /Chap. CII./--_Of common Motions._ /The/ variety of motions in man are equal to the variety of accidents or thoughts affecting the mind, and each of these thoughts, or accidents, will operate more or less, according to the temper and age of the subject; for the same cause will in the actions of youth, or of old age, produce very different effects. /Chap. CIII./--_Of simple Motions._ /Simple/ motion is that which a man performs in merely bending backwards or forwards. /Chap. CIV./--_Complex Motion._ /Complex/ motion is that which, to produce some particular action, requires the body to bend downwards and sideways at the same time. The painter must be careful in his compositions to apply these complex motions according to the nature of the subject, and not to weaken or destroy the effect of it by introducing figures with simple motions, without any connexion with the subject. /Chap. CV./--_Motions appropriated to the Subject._ /The/ motions of your figures are to be expressive of the quantity of strength requisite to the force of the action. Let not the same effort be used to take up a stick as would easily raise a piece of timber. Therefore shew great variety in the expression of strength, according to the quality of the load to be managed. /Chap. CVI./--_Appropriate Motions._ /There/ are some emotions of the mind which are not expressed by any particular motion of the body, while in others, the expression cannot be shewn without it. In the first, the arms fall down, the hands and all the other parts, which in general are the most active, remain at rest. But such emotions of the soul as produce bodily action, must put the members into such motions as are appropriated to the intention of the mind. This, however, is an ample subject, and we have a great deal to say upon it. There is a third kind of motion, which participates of the two already described; and a fourth, which depends neither on the one nor the other. This last belongs to insensibility, or fury, and should be ranked with madness or stupidity; and so adapted only to grotesque or Moresco work. /Chap. CVII./--_Of the Postures of Women and young People._ /It/ is not becoming in women and young people to have their legs too much asunder, because it denotes boldness; while the legs close together shew modesty. /Chap. CVIII./--_Of the Postures of Children._ /Children/ and old people are not to express quick motions, in what concerns their legs. /Chap. CIX./--_Of the Motion of the Members._ /Let/ every member be employed in performing its proper functions. For instance, in a dead body, or one asleep, no member should appear alive or awake. A foot bearing the weight of the whole body, should not be playing its toes up and down, but flat upon the ground; except when it rests entirely upon the heel. /Chap. CX./--_Of mental Motions._ /A mere/ thought, or operation of the mind, excites only simple and easy motions of the body; not this way, and that way, because its object is in the mind, which does not affect the senses when it is collected within itself. /Chap. CXI./--_Effect of the Mind upon the Motions of the Body, occasioned by some outward Object._ /When/ the motion is produced by the presence of some object, either the cause is immediate or not. If it be immediate, the figure will first turn towards it the organs most necessary, the eyes; leaving its feet in the same place; and will only move the thighs, hips, and knees a little towards the same side, to which the eyes are directed. LINEAR PERSPECTIVE. /Chap. CXII./--_Of those who apply themselves to the Practice, without having learnt the Theory of the Art._ /Those/ who become enamoured of the practice of the art, without having previously applied to the diligent study of the scientific part of it, may be compared to mariners, who put to sea in a ship without rudder or compass, and therefore cannot be certain of arriving at the wished-for port. Practice must always be founded on good theory; to this, Perspective is the guide and entrance, without which nothing can be well done. /Chap. CXIII./--_Precepts in Painting._ /Perspective/ is to Painting what the bridle is to a horse, and the rudder to a ship. The size of a figure should denote the distance at which it is situated. If a figure be seen of the natural size, remember that it denotes its being near to the eye. /Chap. CXIV./--_Of the Boundaries of Objects called Outlines or Contours._ /The/ outlines or contours of bodies are so little perceivable, that at any small distance between that and the object, the eye will not be able to recognise the features of a friend or relation, if it were not for their clothes and general appearance. So that by the knowledge of the whole it comes to know the parts. /Chap. CXV./--_Of linear Perspective._ /Linear/ Perspective consists in giving, by established rules, the true dimensions of objects, according to their respective distances; so that the second object be less than the first, the third than the second, and by degrees at last they become invisible. I find by experience, that, if the second object be at the same distance from the first, as the first is from the eye, though they be of the same size, the second will appear half the size of the first; and, if the third be at the same distance behind the second, it will diminish two thirds; and so on, by degrees, they will, at equal distances, diminish in proportion; provided that the interval be not more than twenty cubits[26]; at which distance it will lose two fourths of its size: at forty it will diminish three fourths; and at sixty it will lose five sixths, and so on progressively. But you must be distant from your picture twice the size of it; for, if you be only once the size, it will make a great difference in the measure from the first to the second. /Chap. CXVI./--_What Parts of Objects disappear first by Distance._ /Those/ parts which are of less magnitude will first vanish from the sight[27]. This happens, because the shape of small objects, at an equal distance, comes to the eye under a more acute angle than the large ones, and the perception of them is less, in proportion as they are less in magnitude. It follows then, that if the large objects, by being removed to a great distance, and consequently coming to the eye by a small angle, are almost lost to the sight, the small objects will entirely disappear. /Chap. CXVII./--_Of remote Objects._ /The/ outlines of objects will be less seen, in proportion as they are more distant from the eye. /Chap. CXVIII./--_Of the Point of Sight._ /The/ point of sight must be on a level with the eyes of a common-sized man, and placed upon the horizon, which is the line formed by a flat country terminating with the sky. An exception must be made as to mountains, which are above that line. /Chap. CXIX./--_A Picture is to be viewed from one Point only._ /This/ will be proved by one single example. If you mean to represent a round ball very high up, on a flat and perpendicular wall, it will be necessary to make it oblong, like the shape of an egg, and to place yourself (that is, the eye, or point of view) so far back, as that its outline or circumference may appear round. /Chap. CXX./--_Of the Dimensions of the first Figure in an historical Painting._ /The/ first figure in your picture will be less than Nature, in proportion as it recedes from the front of the picture, or the bottom line; and by the same rule the others behind it will go on lessening in an equal degree[28]. /Chap. CXXI./--_Of Objects that are lost to the Sight in Proportion to their Distance._ /The/ first things that disappear, by being removed to some distance, are the outlines or boundaries of objects. The second, as they remove farther, are the shadows which divide contiguous bodies. The third are the thickness of legs and feet; and so in succession the small parts are lost to the sight, till nothing remains but a confused mass, without any distinct parts. /Chap. CXXII./--_Errors not so easily seen in small Objects as in large ones._ /Supposing/ this small object to represent a man, or any other animal, although the parts, by being so much diminished or reduced, cannot be executed with the same exactness of proportion, nor finished with the same accuracy, as if on a larger scale, yet on that very account the faults will be less conspicuous. For example, if you look at a man at the distance of two hundred yards, and with all due attention mean to form a judgment, whether he be handsome or ugly, deformed or well made, you will find that, with all your endeavours, you can hardly venture to decide. The reason is, that the man diminishes so much by the distance, that it is impossible to distinguish the parts minutely. If you wish to know by demonstration the diminution of the above figure, hold your finger up before your eye at about nine inches distance, so that the top of your finger corresponds with the top of the head of the distant figure: you will perceive that your finger covers, not only its head, but part of its body; which is an evident proof of the apparent diminution of that object. Hence it often happens, that we are doubtful, and can scarcely, at some distance, distinguish the form of even a friend. /Chap. CXXIII./--_Historical Subjects one above another on the same Wall to be avoided._ /This/ custom, which has been generally adopted by painters, on the front and sides of chapels, is much to be condemned. They begin with an historical picture, its landscape and buildings, in one compartment. After which, they raise another compartment, and execute another history with other buildings upon another level; and from thence they proceed to a third and fourth, varying the point of sight, as if the beholder was going up steps, while, in fact, he must look at them all from below, which is very ill judged in those matters. We know that the point of sight is the eye of the spectator; and if you ask, how is a series of subjects, such as the life of a saint, to be represented, in different compartments on the same wall? I answer, that you are to place the principal event in the largest compartment, and make the point of sight as high as the eye of the spectator. Begin that subject with large figures; and as you go up, lessen the objects, as well the figures, as buildings, varying the plans according to the effect of perspective; but never varying the point of sight: and so complete the series of subjects, till you come to a certain height, where terrestrial objects can be seen no more, except the tops of trees, or clouds and birds; or if you introduce figures, they must be aerial, such as angels, or saints in glory, or the like, if they suit the purpose of your history. If not, do not undertake this kind of painting, for your work will be faulty, and justly reprehensible[29]. /Chap. CXXIV./--_Why Objects in Painting can never detach, as natural Objects do._ /Painters/ often despair of being able to imitate Nature, from observing, that their pictures have not the same relief, nor the same life, as natural objects have in a looking-glass, though they both appear upon a plain surface. They say, they have colours which surpass in brightness the quality of the lights, and in darkness the quality of the shades of the objects seen in the looking-glass; but attribute this circumstance to their own ignorance, and not to the true cause, because they do not know it. It is impossible that objects in painting should appear with the same relief as those in the looking-glass, unless we look at them with only one eye. The reason is this. The two eyes A B looking at objects one behind another, as M and N, see them both; because M cannot entirely occupy the space of N, by reason that the base of the visual rays is so broad, that the second object is seen behind the first. But if one eye be shut, and you look with the other S, the body F will entirely cover the body R, because the visual rays beginning at one point, form a triangle, of which the body F is the base, and being prolonged, they form two diverging tangents at the two extremities of F, which cannot touch the body R behind it, therefore can never see it[30]. [Illustration] /Chap. CXXV./--_How to give the proper Dimension to Objects in Painting._ [Illustration] /In/ order to give the appearance of the natural size, if the piece be small (as miniatures), the figures on the fore-ground are to be finished with as much precision as those of any large painting, because being small they are to be brought up close to the eye. But large paintings are seen at some distance; whence it happens, that though the figures in each are so different in size, in appearance they will be the same. This proceeds from the eye receiving those objects under the same angle; and it is proved thus. Let the large painting be B C, the eye A, and D E a pane of glass, through which are seen the figures situated at B C. I say that the eye being fixed, the figures in the copy of the paintings B C are to be smaller, in proportion as the glass D E is nearer the eye A, and are to be as precise and finished. But if you will execute the picture B C upon the glass D E, this ought to be less finished than the picture B C, and more so than the figure M N transferred upon the glass F G; because, supposing the figure P O to be as much finished as the natural one in B C, the perspective of O P would be false, since, though in regard to the diminution of the figure it would be right, B C being diminished in P O, the finishing would not agree with the distance, because in giving it the perfection of the natural B C, B C would appear as near as O P; but, if you search for the diminution of O P, O P will be found at the distance B C, and the diminution of the finishing as at F G. /Chap. CXXVI./--_How to draw accurately any particular Spot._ /Take/ a glass as large as your paper, fasten it well between your eye and the object you mean to draw, and fixing your head in a frame (in such a manner as not to be able to move it) at the distance of two feet from the glass; shut one eye, and draw with a pencil accurately upon the glass all that you see through it. After that, trace upon paper what you have drawn on the glass, which tracing you may paint at pleasure, observing the aerial perspective. /Chap. CXXVII./--_Disproportion to be avoided, even in the accessory Parts._ /A great/ fault is committed by many painters, which is highly to be blamed, that is, to represent the habitations of men, and other parts of their compositions, so low, that the doors do not reach as high as the knees of their inhabitants, though, according to their situation, they are nearer to the eye of the spectator, than the men who seem willing to enter them. I have seen some pictures with porticos, supported by columns loaded with figures; one grasping a column against which it leans, as if it were a walking-stick, and other similar errors, which are to be avoided with the greatest care. INVENTION, /or/ COMPOSITION. /Chap. CXXVIII./--_Precept for avoiding a bad Choice in the Style or Proportion of Figures._ /The/ painter ought to form his style upon the most proportionate model in Nature; and after having measured that, he ought to measure himself also, and be perfectly acquainted with his own defects or deficiencies; and having acquired this knowledge, his constant care should be to avoid conveying into his work those defects which he has found in his own person; for these defects, becoming habitual to his observation, mislead his judgment, and he perceives them no longer. We ought, therefore, to struggle against such a prejudice, which grows up with us; for the mind, being fond of its own habitation, is apt to represent it to our imagination as beautiful. From the same motive it may be, that there is not a woman, however plain in her person, who may not find her admirer, if she be not a monster. Against this bent of the mind you ought very cautiously to be on your guard. /Chap. CXXIX./--_Variety in Figures._ /A painter/ ought to aim at universal excellence; for he will be greatly wanting in dignity, if he do one thing well and another badly, as many do, who study only the naked figure, measured and proportioned by a pair of compasses in their hands, and do not seek for variety. A man may be well proportioned, and yet be tall or short, large or lean, or of a middle size; and whoever does not make great use of these varieties, which are all existing in Nature in its most perfect state, will produce figures as if cast in one and the same mould, which is highly reprehensible. /Chap. CXXX./--_How a Painter ought to proceed in his Studies._ /The/ painter ought always to form in his mind a kind of system of reasoning or discussion within himself on any remarkable object before him. He should stop, take notes, and form some rule upon it; considering the place, the circumstances, the lights and shadows. /Chap. CXXXI./--_Of sketching Histories and Figures._ /Sketches/ of historical subjects must be slight, attending only to the situation of the figures, without regard to the finishing of particular members, which may be done afterwards at leisure, when the mind is so disposed. /Chap. CXXXII./--_How to study Composition._ /The/ young student should begin by sketching slightly some single figure, and turn that on all sides, knowing already how to contract, and how to extend the members; after which, he may put two together in various attitudes, we will suppose in the act of fighting boldly. This composition also he must try on all sides, and in a variety of ways, tending to the same expression. Then he may imagine one of them very courageous, while the other is a coward. Let these attitudes, and many other accidental affections of the mind, be with great care studied, examined, and dwelt upon. /Chap. CXXXIII./--_Of the Attitudes of Men._ /The/ attitudes and all the members are to be disposed in such a manner, that by them the intentions of the mind may be easily discovered. /Chap. CXXXIV./--_Variety of Positions._ /The/ positions of the human figure are to be adapted to the age and rank; and to be varied according to the difference of the sexes, men or women. /Chap. CXXXV./--_Of Studies from Nature for History._ /It/ is necessary to consider well the situation for which the history is to be painted, particularly the height; and let the painter place accordingly the model, from which he means to make his studies for that historical picture; and set himself as much below the object, as the picture is to be above the eye of the spectator, otherwise the work will be faulty. /Chap. CXXXVI./--_Of the Variety of Figures in History Painting._ /History/ painting must exhibit variety in its fullest extent. In temper, size, complexion, actions, plumpness, leanness, thick, thin, large, small, rough, smooth, old age and youth, strong and muscular, weak, with little appearance of muscles, cheerfulness and melancholy. Some should be with curled hair, and some with straight; some short, some long, some quick in their motions, and some slow, with a variety of dresses and colours, according as the subject may require. /Chap. CXXXVII./--_Of Variety in History._ /A painter/ should delight in introducing great variety into his compositions, avoiding repetition, that by this fertility of invention he may attract and charm the eye of the beholder. If it be requisite according to the subject meant to be represented, that there should be a mixture of men differing in their faces, ages, and dress, grouped with women, children, dogs, and horses, buildings, hills and flat country; observe dignity and decorum in the principal figure; such as a king, magistrate, or philosopher, separating them from the low classes of the people. Mix not afflicted or weeping figures with joyful and laughing ones; for Nature dictates that the cheerful be attended by others of the same disposition of mind. Laughter is productive of laughter, and _vice versâ_. /Chap. CXXXVIII./--_Of the Age of Figures._ /Do/ not bring together a number of boys with as many old men, nor young men with infants, nor women with men; if the subject you mean to represent does not oblige you to it. /Chap. CXXXIX./--_Of Variety of Faces._ /The/ Italian painters have been accused of a common fault, that is, of introducing into their compositions the faces, and even the whole figures, of Roman emperors, which they take from the antique. To avoid such an error, let no repetition take place, either in parts, or the whole of a figure; nor let there be even the same face in another composition: and the more the figures are contrasted, viz. the deformed opposed to the beautiful, the old to the young, the strong to the feeble, the more the picture will please and be admired. These different characters, contrasted with each other, will increase the beauty of the whole. It frequently happens that a painter, while he is composing, will use any little sketch or scrap of drawing he has by him, and endeavour to make it serve his purpose; but this is extremely injudicious, because he may very often find that the members he has drawn have not the motion suited to what he means to express; and after he has adopted, accurately drawn, and even well finished them, he will be loth to rub out and change them for others. /Chap. CXL./--_A Fault in Painters._ /It/ is a very great fault in a painter to repeat the same motions in figures, and the same folds in draperies in the same composition, as also to make all the faces alike. /Chap. CXLI./--_How you may learn to compose Groups for History Painting._ /When/ you are well instructed in perspective, and know perfectly how to draw the anatomy and forms of different bodies or objects, it should be your delight to observe and consider in your walks the different actions of men, when they are talking, or quarrelling; when they laugh, and when they fight. Attend to their positions, and to those of the spectators; whether they are attempting to separate those who fight, or merely lookers-on. Be quick in sketching these with slight strokes in your pocket-book, which should always be about you, and made of stained paper, as you ought not to rub out. When it is full, take another, for these are not things to be rubbed out, but kept with the greatest care; because forms and motions of bodies are so infinitely various, that the memory is not able to retain them; therefore preserve these sketches as your assistants and masters. /Chap. CXLII./--_How to study the Motions of the human Body._ /The/ first requisite towards a perfect acquaintance with the various motions of the human body, is the knowledge of all the parts, particularly the joints, in all the attitudes in which it may be placed. Then make slight sketches in your pocket-book, as opportunities occur, of the actions of men, as they happen to meet your eye, without being perceived by them; because, if they were to observe you, they would be disturbed from that freedom of action, which is prompted by inward feeling; as when two men are quarrelling and angry, each of them seeming to be in the right, and with great vehemence move their eyebrows, arms, and all the other members, using motions appropriated to their words and feelings. This they could not do, if you wanted them to imitate anger, or any other accidental emotion; such as laughter, weeping, pain, admiration, fear, and the like. For that reason, take care never to be without a little book, for the purpose of sketching those various motions, and also groups of people standing by. This will teach you how to compose history. Two things demand the principal attention of a good painter. One is the exact outline and shape of the figure; the other, the true expression of what passes in the mind of that figure, which he must feel, and that is very important. /Chap. CXLIII./--_Of Dresses, and of Draperies and Folds._ /The/ draperies with which you dress figures ought to have their folds so accommodated as to surround the parts they are intended to cover; that in the mass of light there be not any dark fold, and in the mass of shadows none receiving too great a light. They must go gently over, describing the parts; but not with lines across, cutting the members with hard notches, deeper than the part can possibly be; at the same time, it must fit the body, and not appear like an empty bundle of cloth; a fault of many painters, who, enamoured of the quantity and variety of folds, have encumbered their figures, forgetting the intention of clothes, which is to dress and surround the parts gracefully wherever they touch; and not to be filled with wind, like bladders, puffed up where the parts project. I do not deny that we ought not to neglect introducing some handsome folds among these draperies, but it must be done with great judgment, and suited to the parts, where, by the actions of the limbs and position of the whole body, they gather together. Above all, be careful to vary the quality and quantity of your folds in compositions of many figures; so that, if some have large folds, produced by thick woollen cloth; others, being dressed in thinner stuff, may have them narrower; some sharp and straight, others soft and undulating. /Chap. CXLIV./--_Of the Nature of Folds in Draperies._ /Many/ painters prefer making the folds of their draperies with acute angles, deep and precise; others with angles hardly perceptible; and some with none at all; but instead of them, certain curved lines. /Chap. CXLV./--_How the Folds of Draperies ought to be represented_, Plate XVIII. /That/ part of the drapery, which is the farthest from the place where it is gathered, will appear more approaching its natural state. Every thing naturally inclines to preserve its primitive form. Therefore a stuff or cloth, which is of equal thickness on both sides, will always incline to remain flat. For that reason, when it is constrained by some fold to relinquish its flat situation, it is observed that, at the part of its greatest restraint, it is continually making efforts to return to its natural shape; and the parts most distant from it reassume more of their primitive state by ample and distended folds. For example, let A B C be the drapery mentioned above; A B the place where it is folded or restrained. I have said that the part, which is farthest from the place of its restraint, would return more towards its primitive shape. Therefore C being the farthest, will be broader and more extended than any other part. [Illustration: _Page 68_. _Chap. 145_. _Plate 18_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 69_. _Chap. 147_. _Plate 19_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. CXLVI./--_How the Folds in Draperies ought to be made._ /Draperies/ are not to be encumbered with many folds: on the contrary, there ought to be some only where they are held up with the hands or arms of the figures, and the rest left to fall with natural simplicity. They ought to be studied from Nature; that is to say, if a woollen cloth be intended, the folds ought to be drawn after such cloth; if it be of silk, or thin stuff, or else very thick for labourers, let it be distinguished by the nature of the folds. But never copy them, as some do, after models dressed in paper, or thin leather, for it greatly misleads. /Chap. CXLVII./--_Fore-shortening of Folds_, Plate XIX. /Where/ the figure is fore-shortened, there ought to appear a greater number of folds, than on the other parts, all surrounding it in a circular manner. Let E be the situation of the eye. M N will have the middle of every circular fold successively removed farther from its outline, in proportion as it is more distant from the eye. In M O of the other figure the outlines of these circular folds will appear almost straight, because it is situated opposite the eye; but in P and Q quite the contrary, as in N and M. /Chap. CXLVIII./--_Of Folds._ /The/ folds of draperies, whatever be the motion of the figure, ought always to shew, by the form of their outlines, the attitude of such figure; so as to leave, in the mind of the beholder, no doubt or confusion in regard to the true position of the body; and let there be no fold, which, by its shadow, breaks through any of the members; that is to say, appearing to go in deeper than the surface of the part it covers. And if you represent the figure clothed with several garments, one over the other, let it not appear as if the upper one covered only a mere skeleton; but let it express that it is also well furnished with flesh, and a thickness of folds, suitable to the number of its under garments. The folds surrounding the members ought to diminish in thickness near the extremities of the part they surround. The length of the folds, which are close to the members, ought to produce other folds on that side where the member is diminished by fore-shortening, and be more extended on the opposite side. /Chap. CXLIX./--_Of Decorum._ /Observe/ decorum in every thing you represent, that is, fitness of action, dress, and situation, according to the dignity or meanness of the subject to be represented. Be careful that a king, for instance, be grave and majestic in his countenance and dress; that the place be well decorated; and that his attendants, or the by-standers, express reverence and admiration, and appear as noble, in dresses suitable to a royal court. On the contrary, in the representation of a mean subject, let the figures appear low and despicable; those about them with similar countenances, and actions, denoting base and presumptuous minds, and meanly clad. In short, in both cases, the parts must correspond with the general sentiment of the composition. The motions of old age should not be similar to those of youth; those of a woman to those of a man; nor should the latter be the same as those of a boy. /Chap. CL./--_The Character of Figures in Composition._ /In/ general, the painter ought to introduce very few old men, in the ordinary course of historical subjects, and those few separated from young people; because old people are few, and their habits do not agree with those of youth. Where there is no conformity of custom, there can be no intimacy, and, without it, a company is soon separated. But if the subject require an appearance of gravity, a meeting on important business, as a council, for instance, let there be few young men introduced, for youth willingly avoids such meetings. /Chap. CLI./--_The Motion of the Muscles, when the Figures are in natural Positions._ /A figure/, which does not express by its position the sentiments and passions, by which we suppose it animated, will appear to indicate that its muscles are not obedient to its will, and the painter very deficient in judgment. For that reason, a figure is to shew great eagerness and meaning; and its position is to be so well appropriated to that meaning, that it cannot be mistaken, nor made use of for any other. /Chap. CLII./--_A Precept in Painting._ /The/ painter ought to notice those quick motions, which men are apt to make without thinking, when impelled by strong and powerful affections of the mind. He ought to take memorandums of them, and sketch them in his pocket-book, in order to make use of them when they may answer his purpose; and then to put a living model in the same position, to see the quality and aspect of the muscles which are in action. /Chap. CLIII./--_Of the Motion of Man_, Plates XX. and XXI. /The/ first and principal part of the art is composition of any sort, or putting things together. The second relates to the expression and motion of the figures, and requires that they be well appropriated, and seeming attentive to what they are about; appearing to move with alacrity and spirit, according to the degree of expression suitable to the occasion; expressing slow and tardy motions, as well as those of eagerness in pursuit: and that quickness and ferocity be expressed with such force as to give an idea of the sensations of the actors. When a figure is to throw a dart, stones, or the like, let it be seen evidently by the attitude and disposition of all the members, that such is its intention; of which there are two examples in the opposite plates, varied both in action and power. The first in point of vigour is A. The second is B. But A will throw his weapon farther than B, because, though they seem desirous of throwing it to the same point, A having turned his feet towards the object, while his body is twisted and bent back the contrary way, to increase his power, returns with more velocity and force to the point to which he means to throw. But the figure B having turned his feet the same way as his body, it returns to its place with great inconvenience, and consequently with weakened powers. For in the expression of great efforts, the preparatory motions of the body must be strong and violent, twisting and bending, so that it may return with convenient ease, and by that means have a great effect. In the same manner, if a cross-bow be not strung with force, the motion of whatever it shoots will be short and without effect; because, where there is no impulse, there can be no motion; and if the impulse be not violent, the motion is but tardy and feeble. So a bow, which is not strong, has no motion; and, if it be strung, it will remain in that state till the impulse be given by another power which puts it in motion, and it will shoot with a violence equal to that which was employed in bending it. In the same manner, the man who does not twist and bend his body will have acquired no power. Therefore, after A has thrown his dart, he will find himself twisted the contrary way, viz. on the side where he has thrown; and he will have acquired only power sufficient to serve him to return to where he was at first. [Illustration: _Page 72_. _Chap. 153_. _Plate 20_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] [Illustration: _Page 72_. _Chap. 153_. _Plate 21_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. CLIV./--_Of Attitudes, and the Motions of the Members._ /The/ same attitude is not to be repeated in the same picture, nor the same motion of members in the same figure, nay, not even in the hands or fingers. And if the history requires a great number of figures, such as a battle, or a massacre of soldiers, in which there are but three ways of striking, viz. thrusting, cutting, or back-handed; in that case you must take care, that all those who are cutting be expressed in different views; some turning their backs, some their sides, and others be seen in front; varying in the same manner the three different ways of fighting, so that all the actions may have a relation to those three principles. In battles, complex motions display great art, giving spirit and animation to the whole. By complex motion is meant, for instance, that of a single figure shewing the front of the legs, and at the same time the profile of the shoulder. But of this I shall treat in another place[31]. /Chap. CLV./--_Of a single Figure separate from an historical Group._ /The/ same motion of members should not be repeated in a figure which you mean to be alone; for instance, if the figure be represented running, it must not throw both hands forward; but one forward and the other backward, or else it cannot run. If the right foot come forward, the right arm must go backward and the left forward, because, without such disposition and contraste of parts, it is impossible to run well. If another figure be supposed to follow this, one of its legs should be brought somewhat forward, and the other be perpendicular under the head; the arm on the same side should pass forward. But of this we shall treat more fully in the book on motion[32]. /Chap. CLVI./--_On the Attitudes of the human Figure._ /A painter/ is to be attentive to the motions and actions of men, occasioned by some sudden accident. He must observe them on the spot, take sketches, and not wait till he wants such expression, and then have it counterfeited for him; for instance, setting a model to weep when there is no cause; such an expression without a cause will be neither quick nor natural. But it will be of great use to have observed every action from nature, as it occurs, and then to have a model set in the same attitude to help the recollection, and find out something to the purpose, according to the subject in hand. /Chap. CLVII./--_How to represent a Storm._ /To/ form a just idea of a storm, you must consider it attentively in its effects. When the wind blows violently over the sea or land, it removes and carries off with it every thing that is not firmly fixed to the general mass. The clouds must appear straggling and broken, carried according to the direction and the force of the wind, and blended with clouds of dust raised from the sandy shore. Branches and leaves of trees must be represented as carried along by the violence of the storm, and, together with numberless other light substances, scattered in the air. Trees and grass must be bent to the ground, as if yielding to the course of the wind. Boughs must be twisted out of their natural form, with their leaves reversed and entangled. Of the figures dispersed in the picture, some should appear thrown on the ground, so wrapped up in their cloaks and covered with dust, as to be scarcely distinguishable. Of those who remain on their feet, some should be sheltered by and holding fast behind some great trees, to avoid the same fate: others bending to the ground, their hands over their faces to ward off the dust; their hair and their clothes flying straight up at the mercy of the wind. The high tremendous waves of the stormy sea will be covered with foaming froth; the most subtle parts of which, being raised by the wind, like a thick mist, mix with the air. What vessels are seen should appear with broken cordage, and torn sails, fluttering in the wind; some with broken masts fallen across the hulk, already on its side amidst the tempestuous waves. Some of the crew should be represented as if crying aloud for help, and clinging to the remains of the shattered vessel. Let the clouds appear as driven by tempestuous winds against the summits of lofty mountains, enveloping those mountains, and breaking and recoiling with redoubled force, like waves against a rocky shore. The air should be rendered awfully dark, by the mist, dust, and thick clouds. /Chap. CLVIII./--_How to compose a Battle._ /First/, let the air exhibit a confused mixture of smoke, arising from the discharge of artillery and musquetry, and the dust raised by the horses of the combatants; and observe, that dust being of an earthy nature, is heavy; but yet, by reason of its minute particles, it is easily impelled upwards, and mixes with the air; nevertheless, it naturally falls downwards again, the most subtle parts of it alone gaining any considerable degree of elevation, and at its utmost height it is so thin and transparent, as to appear nearly of the colour of the air. The smoke, thus mixing with the dusty air, forms a kind of dark cloud, at the top of which it is distinguished from the dust by a blueish cast, the dust retaining more of its natural colour. On that part from which the light proceeds, this mixture of air, smoke, and dust, will appear much brighter than on the opposite side. The more the combatants are involved in this turbulent mist, the less distinctly they will be seen, and the more confused will they be in their lights and shades. Let the faces of the musketeers, their bodies, and every object near them, be tinged with a reddish hue, even the air or cloud of dust; in short, all that surrounds them. This red tinge you will diminish, in proportion to their distance, from the primary cause. The groups of figures, which appear at a distance between the spectator and the light, will form a dark mass upon a light ground; and their legs will be more undetermined and lost as they approach nearer to the ground; because there the dust is heavier and thicker. If you mean to represent some straggling horses, running out of the main body, introduce also some small clouds of dust, as far distant from each other as the leap of the horse, and these little clouds will become fainter, more scanty, and diffused, in proportion to their distance from the horse. That nearest to his feet will consequently be the most determined, smallest, and the thickest of all. Let the air be full of arrows, in all directions; some ascending, some falling down, and some darting straight forwards. The bullets of the musketry, though not seen, will be marked in their course by a train of smoke, which breaks through the general confusion. The figures in the fore-ground should have their hair covered with dust, as also their eyebrows, and all parts liable to receive it. The victorious party will be running forwards, their hair and other light parts flying in the wind, their eyebrows lowered, and the motion of every member properly contrasted; for instance, in moving the right foot forwards, the left arm must be brought forwards also. If you make any of them fallen down, mark the trace of his fall on the slippery, gore-stained dust; and where the ground is less impregnated with blood, let the print of men's feet and of horses, that have passed that way, be marked. Let there be some horses dragging the bodies of their riders, and leaving behind them a furrow, made by the body thus trailed along. The countenances of the vanquished will appear pale and dejected. Their eyebrows raised, and much wrinkled about the forehead and cheeks. The tip of their noses somewhat divided from the nostrils by arched wrinkles terminating at the corner of the eyes, those wrinkles being occasioned by the opening and raising of the nostrils; the upper lips turned up, discovering the teeth. Their mouths wide open, and expressive of violent lamentation. One may be seen fallen wounded on the ground, endeavouring with one hand to support his body, and covering his eyes with the other, the palm of which is turned towards the enemy. Others running away, and with open mouths seeming to cry aloud. Between the legs of the combatants let the ground be strewed with all sorts of arms; as broken shields, spears, swords, and the like. Many dead bodies should be introduced, some entirely covered with dust, others in part only; let the blood, which seems to issue immediately from the wound, appear of its natural colour, and running in a winding course, till, mixing with the dust, it forms a reddish kind of mud. Some should be in the agonies of death; their teeth shut, their eyes wildly staring, their fists clenched, and their legs in a distorted position. Some may appear disarmed, and beaten down by the enemy, still fighting with their fists and teeth, and endeavouring to take a passionate, though unavailing revenge. There may be also a straggling horse without a rider, running in wild disorder; his mane flying in the wind, beating down with his feet all before him, and doing a deal of damage. A wounded soldier may also be seen falling to the ground, and attempting to cover himself with his shield, while an enemy bending over him endeavours to give him the finishing stroke. Several dead bodies should be heaped together under a dead horse. Some of the conquerors, as having ceased fighting, may be wiping their faces from the dirt, collected on them by the mixture of dust with the water from their eyes. The _corps de reserve_ will be seen advancing gaily, but cautiously, their eyebrows directed forwards, shading their eyes with their hands to observe the motions of the enemy, amidst clouds of dust and smoke, and seeming attentive to the orders of their chief. You may also make their commander holding up his staff, pushing forwards, and pointing towards the place where they are wanted. A river may likewise be introduced, with horses fording it, dashing the water about between their legs, and in the air, covering all the adjacent ground with water and foam. Not a spot is to be left without some marks of blood and carnage. /Chap. CLIX./--_The Representation of an Orator and his Audience._ /If/ you have to represent a man who is speaking to a large assembly of people, you are to consider the subject matter of his discourse, and to adapt his attitude to such subject. If he means to persuade, let it be known by his gesture. If he is giving an explanation, deduced from several reasons, let him put two fingers of the right hand within one of the left, having the other two bent close, his face turned towards the audience, with the mouth half open, seeming to speak. If he is sitting, let him appear as going to raise himself up a little, and his head be forward. But if he is represented standing, let him bend his chest and his head forward towards the people. The auditory are to appear silent and attentive, with their eyes upon the speaker, in the act of admiration. There should be some old men, with their mouths close shut, in token of approbation, and their lips pressed together, so as to form wrinkles at the corners of the mouth, and about the cheeks, and forming others about the forehead, by raising the eyebrows, as if struck with astonishment. Some others of those sitting by, should be seated with their hands within each other, round one of their knees; some with one knee upon the other, and upon that, one hand receiving the elbow, the other supporting the chin, covered with a venerable beard. /Chap. CLX./--_Of demonstrative Gestures._ /The/ action by which a figure points at any thing near, either in regard to time or situation, is to be expressed by the hand very little removed from the body. But if the same thing is far distant, the hand must also be far removed from the body, and the face of the figure pointing, must be turned towards those to whom he is pointing it out. /Chap. CLXI./--_Of the Attitudes of the By-standers at some remarkable Event._ /All/ those who are present at some event deserving notice, express their admiration, but in various manners. As when the hand of justice punishes some malefactor. If the subject be an act of devotion, the eyes of all present should be directed towards the object of their adoration, aided by a variety of pious actions with the other members; as at the elevation of the host at mass, and other similar ceremonies. If it be a laughable subject, or one exciting compassion and moving to tears, in those cases it will not be necessary for all to have their eyes turned towards the object, but they will express their feelings by different actions; and let there be several assembled in groups, to rejoice or lament together. If the event be terrific, let the faces of those who run away from the fight, be strongly expressive of fright, with various motions; as shall be described in the tract on Motion. /Chap. CLXII./--_How to represent Night._ /Those/ objects which are entirely deprived of light, are lost to the sight, as in the night; therefore if you mean to paint a history under those circumstances, you must suppose a large fire, and those objects that are near it to be tinged with its colour, and the nearer they are the more they will partake of it. The fire being red, all those objects which receive light from it will appear of a reddish colour, and those that are most distant from it will partake of the darkness that surrounds them. The figures which are represented before the fire will appear dark in proportion to the brightness of the fire, because those parts of them which we see, are tinged by that darkness of the night, and not by the light of the fire, which they intercept. Those that are on either side of the fire, will be half in the shade of night, and half in the red light. Those seen beyond the extent of the flames, will be all of a reddish light upon a black ground. In regard to their attitudes, let those who are nearest the fire, make screens of their hands and cloaks, against the scorching heat, with their faces turned on the contrary side, as if ready to run away from it. The most remote will only be shading their eyes with their hands, as if hurt by the too great glare. /Chap. CLXIII./--_The Method of awakening the Mind to a Variety of Inventions._ /I will/ not omit to introduce among these precepts a new kind of speculative invention, which though apparently trifling, and almost laughable, is nevertheless of great utility in assisting the genius to find variety for composition. By looking attentively at old and smeared walls, or stones and veined marble of various colours, you may fancy that you see in them several compositions, landscapes, battles, figures in quick motion, strange countenances, and dresses, with an infinity of other objects. By these confused lines the inventive genius is excited to new exertions. /Chap. CLXIV./--_Of Composition in History._ /When/ the painter has only a single figure to represent, he must avoid any shortening whatever, as well of any particular member, as of the whole figure, because he would have to contend with the prejudices of those who have no knowledge in that branch of the art. But in subjects of history, composed of many figures, shortenings may be introduced with great propriety, nay, they are indispensable, and ought to be used without reserve, as the subject may require; particularly in battles, where of course many shortenings and contortions of figures happen, amongst such an enraged multitude of actors, possessed, as it were, of a brutal madness. EXPRESSION /and/ CHARACTER. /Chap. CLXV./--_Of expressive Motions._ /Let/ your figures have actions appropriated to what they are intended to think or say, and these will be well learnt by imitating the deaf, who by the motion of their hands, eyes, eyebrows, and the whole body, endeavour to express the sentiments of their mind. Do not ridicule the thought of a master without a tongue teaching you an art he does not understand; he will do it better by his expressive motions, than all the rest by their words and examples. Let then the painter, of whatever school, attend well to this maxim, and apply it to the different qualities of the figures he represents, and to the nature of the subject in which they are actors. /Chap. CLXVI./--_How to paint Children._ /Children/ are to be represented with quick and contorted motions, when they are sitting; but when standing, with fearful and timid motions. /Chap. CLXVII./--_How to represent old Men._ /Old/ men must have slow and heavy motions; their legs and knees must be bent when they are standing, and their feet placed parallel and wide asunder. Let them be bowed downwards, the head leaning much forward, and their arms very little extended. /Chap. CLXVIII./--_How to paint old Women._ /Old/ women, on the contrary, are to be represented bold and quick, with passionate motions, like furies[33]. But the motions are to appear a great deal quicker in their arms than in their legs. /Chap. CLXIX./--_How to paint Women._ /Women/ are to be represented in modest and reserved attitudes, with their knees rather close, their arms drawing near each other, or folded about the body; their heads looking downwards, and leaning a little on one side. /Chap. CLXX./--_Of the Variety of Faces._ /The/ countenances of your figures should be expressive of their different situations: men at work, at rest, weeping, laughing, crying out, in fear, or joy, and the like. The attitudes also, and all the members, ought to correspond with the sentiment expressed in the faces. /Chap. CLXXI./--_The Parts of the Face, and their Motions._ /The/ motions of the different parts of the face, occasioned by sudden agitations of the mind, are many. The principal of these are, Laughter, Weeping, Calling out, Singing, either in a high or low pitch, Admiration, Anger, Joy, Sadness, Fear, Pain, and others, of which I propose to treat. First, of Laughing and Weeping, which are very similar in the motion of the mouth, the cheeks, the shutting of the eyebrows, and the space between them; as we shall explain in its place, in treating of the changes which happen in the face, hands, fingers, and all the other parts of the body, as they are affected by the different emotions of the soul; the knowledge of which is absolutely necessary to a painter, or else his figures may be said to be twice dead. But it is very necessary also that he be careful not to fall into the contrary extreme; giving extraordinary motions to his figures, so that in a quiet and peaceable subject, he does not seem to represent a battle, or the revellings of drunken men: but, above all, the actors in any point of history must be attentive to what they are about, or to what is going forward; with actions that denote admiration, respect, pain, suspicion, fear, and joy, according as the occasion, for which they are brought together, may require. Endeavour that different points of history be not placed one above the other on the same canvass, nor walls with different horizons[34], as if it were a jeweller's shop, shewing the goods in different square caskets. /Chap. CLXXII./--_Laughing and Weeping._ /Between/ the expression of laughter and that of weeping there is no difference in the motion of the features either in the eyes, mouth, or cheeks; only in the ruffling of the brows, which is added when weeping, but more elevated and extended in laughing. One may represent the figure weeping as tearing his clothes, or some other expression, as various as the cause of his feeling may be; because some weep for anger, some through fear, others for tenderness and joy, or for suspicion; some for real pain and torment; whilst others weep through compassion, or regret at the loss of some friend and near relation. These different feelings will be expressed by some with marks of despair, by others with moderation; some only shed tears, others cry aloud, while another has his face turned towards heaven, with his hand depressed, and his fingers twisted. Some again will be full of apprehension, with their shoulders raised up to their ears, and so on, according to the above causes. Those who weep, raise the brows, and bring them close together above the nose, forming many wrinkles on the forehead, and the corners of the mouth are turned downwards. Those who laugh have them turned upwards, and the brows open and extended. /Chap. CLXXIII./--_Of Anger._ /If/ you represent a man in a violent fit of anger, make him seize another by the hair, holding his head writhed down against the ground, with his knee fixed upon the ribs of his antagonist; his right arm up, and his fist ready to strike; his hair standing on end, his eyebrows low and straight; his teeth close, and seen at the corner of the mouth; his neck swelled, and his body covered in the Abdomen with creases, occasioned by his bending over his enemy, and the excess of his passion. /Chap. CLXXIV./--_Despair._ /The/ last act of despondency is, when a man is in the act of putting a period to his own existence. He should be represented with a knife in one hand, with which he has already inflicted the wound, and tearing it open with the other. His garments and hair should be already torn. He will be standing with his feet asunder, his knees a little bent, and his body leaning forward, as if ready to fall to the ground. LIGHT /and/ SHADOW. /Chap. CLXXV./--_The Course of Study to be pursued._ /The/ student who is desirous of making great proficiency in the art of imitating the works of Nature, should not only learn the shape of figures or other objects, and be able to delineate them with truth and precision, but he must also accompany them with their proper lights and shadows, according to the situation in which those objects appear. /Chap. CLXXVI./--_Which of the two is the most useful Knowledge, the Outlines of Figures, or that of Light and Shadow._ /The/ knowledge of the outline is of most consequence, and yet may be acquired to great certainty by dint of study; as the outlines of the different parts of the human figure, particularly those which do not bend, are invariably the same. But the knowledge of the situation, quality, and quantity of shadows, being infinite, requires the most extensive study. /Chap. CLXXVII./--_Which is the most important, the Shadows or Outlines in Painting._ /It/ requires much more observation and study to arrive at perfection in the shadowing of a picture, than in merely drawing the lines of it. The proof of this is, that the lines may be traced upon a veil or a flat glass placed between the eye and the object to be imitated. But that cannot be of any use in shadowing, on account of the infinite gradation of shades, and the blending of them, which does not allow of any precise termination; and most frequently they are confused, as will be demonstrated in another place[35]. /Chap. CLXXVIII./--_What is a Painter's first Aim, and Object._ /The/ first object of a painter is to make a simple flat surface appear like a relievo, and some of its parts detached from the ground; he who excels all others in that part of the art, deserves the greatest praise. This perfection of the art depends on the correct distribution of lights and shades, called _Chiaro-scuro_. If the painter then avoids shadows, he may be said to avoid the glory of the art, and to render his work despicable to real connoisseurs, for the sake of acquiring the esteem of vulgar and ignorant admirers of fine colours, who never have any knowledge of relievo. /Chap. CLXXIX./--_The Difference of Superficies, in regard to Painting._ /Solid/ bodies are of two sorts: the one has the surface curvilinear, oval, or spherical; the other has several surfaces, or sides producing angles, either regular or irregular. Spherical, or oval bodies, will always appear detached from their ground, though they are exactly of the same colour. Bodies also of different sides and angles will always detach, because they are always disposed so as to produce shades on some of their sides, which cannot happen to a plain superficies[36]. /Chap. CLXXX./--_How a Painter may become universal._ /The/ painter who wishes to be universal, and please a variety of judges, must unite in the same composition, objects susceptible of great force in the shadows, and great sweetness in the management of them; accounting, however, in every instance, for such boldness and softenings. /Chap. CLXXXI./--_Accuracy ought to be learnt before Dispatch in the Execution._ /If/ you wish to make good and useful studies, use great deliberation in your drawings, observe well among the lights which, and how many, hold the first rank in point of brightness; and so among the shadows, which are darker than others, and in what manner they blend together; compare the quality and quantity of one with the other, and observe to what part they are directed. Be careful also in your outlines, or divisions of the members. Remark well what quantity of parts are to be on one side, and what on the other; and where they are more or less apparent, or broad, or slender. Lastly, take care that the shadows and lights be united, or lost in each other; without any hard strokes, or lines: as smoke loses itself in the air, so are your lights and shadows to pass from the one to the other, without any apparent separation. When you have acquired the habit, and formed your hand to accuracy, quickness of execution will come of itself[37]. /Chap. CLXXXII./--_How the Painter is to place himself in regard to the Light, and his Model._ /Let/ A B be the window, M the centre of it, C the model. The best situation for the painter will be a little sideways, between the window and his model, as D, so that he may see his object partly in the light and partly in the shadow. [Illustration] /Chap. CLXXXIII./--_Of the best Light._ /The/ light from on high, and not too powerful, will be found the best calculated to shew the parts to advantage. /Chap. CLXXXIV./--_Of Drawing by Candle-light._ /To/ this artificial light apply a paper blind, and you will see the shadows undetermined and soft. /Chap. CLXXXV./--_Of those Painters who draw at Home from one Light, and afterwards adapt their Studies to another Situation in the Country, and a different Light._ /It/ is a great error in some painters who draw a figure from Nature at home, by any particular light, and afterwards make use of that drawing in a picture representing an open country, which receives the general light of the sky, where the surrounding air gives light on all sides. This painter would put dark shadows, where Nature would either produce none, or, if any, so very faint as to be almost imperceptible; and he would throw reflected lights where it is impossible there should be any. /Chap. CLXXXVI./--_How high the Light should be in drawing from Nature._ /To/ paint well from Nature, your window should be to the North, that the lights may not vary. If it be to the South, you must have paper blinds, that the sun, in going round, may not alter the shadows. The situation of the light should be such as to produce upon the ground a shadow from your model as long as that is high. /Chap. CLXXXVII./--_What Light the Painter must make use of to give most Relief to his Figures._ /The/ figures which receive a particular light shew more relief than those which receive an universal one; because the particular light occasions some reflexes, which proceed from the light of one object upon the shadows of another, and helps to detach it from the dark ground. But a figure placed in front of a dark and large space, and receiving a particular light, can receive no reflexion from any other objects, and nothing is seen of the figure but what the light strikes on, the rest being blended and lost in the darkness of the back ground. This is to be applied only to the imitation of night subjects with very little light. /Chap. CLXXXVIII./--_Advice to Painters._ /Be/ very careful, in painting, to observe, that between the shadows there are other shadows, almost imperceptible, both for darkness and shape; and this is proved by the third proposition[38], which says, that the surfaces of globular or convex bodies have as great a variety of lights and shadows as the bodies that surround them have. /Chap. CLXXXIX./--_Of Shadows._ /Those/ shadows which in Nature are undetermined, and the extremities of which can hardly be perceived, are to be copied in your painting in the same manner, never to be precisely finished, but left confused and blended. This apparent neglect will shew great judgment, and be the ingenious result of your observation of Nature. /Chap. CXC./--_Of the Kind of Light proper for drawing from Relievos, or from Nature._ /Lights/ separated from the shadows with too much precision, have a very bad effect. In order, therefore, to avoid this inconvenience, if the object be in the open country, you need not let your figures be illumined by the sun; but may suppose some transparent clouds interposed, so that the sun not being visible, the termination of the shadows will be also imperceptible and soft. /Chap. CXCI./--_Whether the Light should be admitted in Front or sideways; and which is most pleasing and graceful._ /The/ light admitted in front of heads situated opposite to side walls that are dark, will cause them to have great relievo, particularly if the light be placed high; and the reason is, that the most prominent parts of those faces are illumined by the general light striking them in front, which light produces very faint shadows on the part where it strikes; but as it turns towards the sides, it begins to participate of the dark shadows of the room, which grow darker in proportion as it sinks into them. Besides, when the light comes from on high, it does not strike on every part of the face alike, but one part produces great shadows upon another; as the eyebrows, which deprive the whole sockets of the eyes of light. The nose keeps it off from great part of the mouth, and the chin from the neck, and such other parts. This, by concentrating the light upon the most projecting parts, produces a very great relief. /Chap. CXCII./--_Of the Difference of Lights according to the Situation._ /A small/ light will cast large and determined shadows upon the surrounding bodies. A large light, on the contrary, will cast small shadows on them, and they will be much confused in their termination. When a small but strong light is surrounded by a broad but weaker light, the latter will appear like a demi-tint to the other, as the sky round the sun. And the bodies which receive the light from the one, will serve as demi-tints to those which receive the light from the other. /Chap. CXCIII./--_How to distribute the Light on Figures._ /The/ lights are to be distributed according to the natural situation you mean your figures should occupy. If you suppose them in sunshine, the shades must be dark, the lights broad and extended, and the shadows of all the surrounding objects distinctly marked upon the ground. If seen in a gloomy day, there will be very little difference between the lights and shades, and no shadows at the feet. If the figures be represented within doors, the lights and shadows will again be distinctly divided, and produce shadows on the ground. But if you suppose a paper blind at the window, and the walls painted white, the effect will be the same as in a gloomy day, when the lights and shadows have little difference. If the figures are enlightened by the fire, the lights must be red and powerful, the shadows dark, and the shadows upon the ground and upon the walls must be precise; observing that they spread wider as they go off from the body. If the figures be enlightened, partly by the sky and partly by the fire, that side which receives the light from the sky will be the brightest, and on the other side it will be reddish, somewhat of the colour of the fire. Above all, contrive, that your figures receive a broad light, and that from above; particularly in portraits, because the people we see in the street receive all the light from above; and it is curious to observe, that there is not a face ever so well known amongst your acquaintance, but would be recognised with difficulty, if it were enlightened from beneath. /Chap. CXCIV./--_Of the Beauty of Faces._ /You/ must not mark any muscles with hardness of line, but let the soft light glide upon them, and terminate imperceptibly in delightful shadows: from this will arise grace and beauty to the face. /Chap. CXCV./--_How, in drawing a Face, to give it Grace, by the Management of Light and Shade._ /A face/ placed in the dark part of a room, acquires great additional grace by means of light and shadow. The shadowed part of the face blends with the darkness of the ground, and the light part receives an increase of brightness from the open air, the shadows on this side becoming almost insensible; and from this augmentation of light and shadow, the face has much relief, and acquires great beauty. /Chap. CXCVI./--_How to give Grace and Relief to Faces._ /In/ streets running towards the west, when the sun is in the meridian, and the walls on each side so high that they cast no reflexions on that side of the bodies which is in shade, and the sky is not too bright, we find the most advantageous situation for giving relief and grace to figures, particularly to faces; because both sides of the face will participate of the shadows of the walls. The sides of the nose and the face towards the west, will be light, and the man whom we suppose placed at the entrance, and in the middle of the street, will see all the parts of that face, which are before him, perfectly illumined, while both sides of it, towards the walls, will be in shadow. What gives additional grace is, that these shades do not appear cutting, hard, or dry, but softly blended and lost in each other. The reason of it is, that the light which is spread all over in the air, strikes also the pavement of the street, and reflecting upon the shady part of the face, it tinges that slightly with the same hue: while the great light which comes from above being confined by the tops of houses, strikes on the face from different points, almost to the very beginning of the shadows under the projecting parts of the face. It diminishes by degrees the strength of them, increasing the light till it comes upon the chin, where it terminates, and loses itself, blending softly into the shades on all sides. For instance, if such light were A E, the line F E would give light even to the bottom of the nose. The line C F will give light only to the under lip; but the line A H would extend the shadow to all the under parts of the face, and under the chin. In this situation the nose receives a very strong light from all the points A B C D E. [Illustration] /Chap. CXCVII./--_Of the Termination of Bodies upon each other._ /When/ a body, of a cylindrical or convex surface, terminates upon another body of the same colour, it will appear darker on the edge, than the body upon which it terminates. And any flat body, adjacent to a white surface, will appear very dark; but upon a dark ground it will appear lighter than any other part, though the lights be equal. /Chap. CXCVIII./--_Of the Back-grounds of painted Objects._ /The/ ground which surrounds the figures in any painting, ought to be darker than the light part of those figures, and lighter than the shadowed part. /Chap. CXCIX./--_How to detach and bring forward Figures out of their Back-ground._ /If/ your figure be dark, place it on a light ground; if it be light, upon a dark ground; and if it be partly light and partly dark, as is generally the case, contrive that the dark part of the figure be upon the light part of the ground, and the light side of it against the dark[39]. /Chap. CC./--_Of proper Back-grounds._ /It/ is of the greatest importance to consider well the nature of back-grounds, upon which any opake body is to be placed. In order to detach it properly, you should place the light part of such opake body against the dark part of the back-ground, and the dark parts on a light ground[40]; as in the cut[41]. [Illustration] /Chap. CCI./--_Of the general Light diffused over Figures._ /In/ compositions of many figures and animals, observe, that the parts of these different objects ought to be darker in proportion as they are lower, and as they are nearer the middle of the groups, though they are all of an uniform colour. This is necessary, because a smaller portion of the sky (from which all bodies are illuminated) can give light to the lower spaces between these different figures, than to the upper parts of the spaces. It is proved thus: A B C D is that portion of the sky which gives light to all the objects beneath; M and N are the bodies which occupy the space S T R H, in which it is evidently perceived, that the point F, receiving the light only from the portion of the sky C D, has a smaller quantity of it than the point E which receives it from the whole space A B (a larger portion than C D); therefore it will be lighter in E than in F. [Illustration] /Chap. CCII./--_Of those Parts in Shadows which appear the darkest at a Distance._ [Illustration] /The/ neck, or any other part which is raised straight upwards, and has a projection over it, will be darker than the perpendicular front of that projection; and this projecting part will be lighter, in proportion as it presents a larger surface to the light. For instance, the recess A receives no light from any part of the sky G K, but B begins to receive the light from the part of the sky H K, and C from G K; and the point D receives the whole of F K. Therefore the chest will be as light as the forehead, nose, and chin. But what I have particularly to recommend, in regard to faces, is, that you observe well those different qualities of shades which are lost at different distances (while there remain only the first and principal spots or strokes of shades, such as those of the sockets of the eyes, and other similar recesses, which are always dark), and at last the whole face becomes obscured; because the greatest lights (being small in proportion to the demi-tints) are lost. The quality, therefore, and quantity of the principal lights and shades are by means of great distance blended together into a general half-tint; and this is the reason why trees and other objects are found to be in appearance darker at some distance than they are in reality, when nearer to the eye. But then the air, which interposes between the objects and the eye, will render them light again by tinging them with azure, rather in the shades than in the lights; for the lights will preserve the truth of the different colours much longer. /Chap. CCIII./--_Of the Eye viewing the Folds of Draperies surrounding a Figure._ /The/ shadows between the folds of a drapery surrounding the parts of the human body will be darker as the deep hollows where the shadows are generated are more directly opposite the eye. This is to be observed only when the eye is placed between the light and the shady part of the figure. /Chap. CCIV./--_Of the Relief of Figures remote from the Eye._ /Any/ opake body appears less relieved in proportion as it is farther distant from the eye; because the air, interposed between the eye and such body, being lighter than the shadow of it, it tarnishes and weakens that shadow, lessens its power, and consequently lessens also its relief. /Chap. CCV./--_Of Outlines of Objects on the Side towards the Light._ /The/ extremities of any object on the side which receives the light, will appear darker if upon a lighter ground, and lighter if seen upon a darker ground. But if such body be flat, and seen upon a ground equal in point of light with itself, and of the same colour, such boundaries, or outlines, will be entirely lost to the sight[42]. /Chap. CCVI./--_How to make Objects detach from their Ground, that is to say, from the Surface on which they are painted._ /Objects/ contrasted with a light ground will appear much more detached than those which are placed against a dark one. The reason is, that if you wish to give relief to your figures, you will make those parts which are the farthest from the light, participate the least of it; therefore they will remain the darkest, and every distinction of outline would be lost in the general mass of shadows. But to give it grace, roundness, and effect, those dark shades are always attended by reflexes, or else they would either cut too hard upon the ground, or stick to it, by the similarity of shade, and relieve the less as the ground is darker; for at some distance nothing would be seen but the light parts, therefore your figures would appear mutilated of all that remains lost in the back-ground. CONTRASTE AND EFFECT. /Chap. CCVII./--_A Precept._ /Figures/ will have more grace, placed in the open and general light, than in any particular or small one; because the powerful and extended light will surround and embrace the objects: and works done in that kind of light appear pleasant and graceful when placed at a distance[43], while those which are drawn in a narrow light, will receive great force of shadow, but will never appear at a great distance, but as painted objects. /Chap. CCVIII./--_Of the Interposition of transparent Bodies between the Eye and the Object._ /The/ greater the transparent interposition is between the eye and the object, the more the colour of that object will participate of, or be changed into that of the transparent medium[44]. When an opake body is situated between the eye and the luminary, so that the central line of the one passes also through the centre of the other, that object will be entirely deprived of light. /Chap. CCIX./--_Of proper Back-grounds for Figures._ /As/ we find by experience, that all bodies are surrounded by lights and shadows, I would have the painter to accommodate that part which is enlightened, so as to terminate upon something dark; and to manage the dark parts so that they may terminate on a light ground. This will be of great assistance in detaching and bringing out his figures[45]. /Chap. CCX./--_Of Back-grounds._ /To/ give a great effect to figures, you must oppose to a light one a dark ground, and to a dark figure a light ground, contrasting white with black, and black with white. In general, all contraries give a particular force and brilliancy of effect by their opposition[46]. REFLEXES. /Chap. CCXI./--_Of Objects placed on a light Ground, and why such a Practice is useful in Painting._ /When/ a darkish body terminates upon a light ground, it will appear detached from that ground; because all opake bodies of a curved surface are not only dark on that side which receives no light, and consequently very different from the ground; but even that side of the curved surface which is enlightened, will not carry its principal light to the extremities, but have between the ground and the principal light a certain demi-tint, darker than either the ground or that light. /Chap. CCXII./--_Of the different Effects of White, according to the Difference of Back-grounds._ /Any/ thing white will appear whiter, by being opposed to a dark ground; and, on the contrary, darker upon a light ground. This we learn from observing snow as it falls; while it is descending it appears darker against the sky, than when we see it against an open window, which (owing to the darkness of the inside of the house) makes it appear very white. Observe also, that snow appears to fall very quick and in a great quantity when near the eye; but when at some distance, it seems to come down slowly, and in a smaller quantity[47]. /Chap. CCXIII./--_Of Reverberation._ /Reverberations/ are produced by all bodies of a bright nature, that have a smooth and tolerably hard surface, which, repelling the light it receives, makes it rebound like a foot-ball against the first object opposed to it. /Chap. CCXIV./--_Where there cannot be any Reverberation of Light._ /The/ surfaces of hard bodies are surrounded by various qualities of light and shadow. The lights are of two sorts; one is called original, the other derivative. The original light is that which comes from the sun, or the brightness of fire, or else from the air. The derivative is a reflected light. But to return to our definition, I say, there can be no reflexion on that side which is turned towards any dark body; such as roofs, either high or low, shrubs, grass, wood, either dry or green; because, though every individual part of those objects be turned towards the original light, and struck by it; yet the quantity of shadow which every one of these parts produces upon the others, is so great, that, upon the whole, the light, not forming a compact mass, loses its effect, so that those objects cannot reflect any light upon the opposite bodies. /Chap. CCXV./--_In what Part the Reflexes have more or less Brightness._ /The/ reflected lights will be more or less apparent or bright, in proportion as they are seen against a darker or fainter ground; because if the ground be darker than the reflex, then this reflex will appear stronger on account of the great difference of colour. But, on the contrary, if this reflexion has behind it a ground lighter than itself, it will appear dark, in comparison to the brightness which is close to it, and therefore it will be hardly perceptible[48]. /Chap. CCXVI./--_Of the reflected Lights which surround the Shadows._ /The/ reflected lights which strike upon the midst of shadows, will brighten up or lessen their obscurity in proportion to the strength of those lights, and their proximity to those shadows. Many painters neglect this observation, while others attend to and deduce their practice from it. This difference of opinion and practice divides the sentiments of artists, so that they blame each other for not thinking and acting as they themselves do. The best way is to steer a middle course, and not to admit of any reflected light, but when the cause of it is evident to every eye; and _vice versâ_, if you introduce none at all, let it appear evident that there was no reasonable cause for it. In doing so, you will neither be totally blamed nor praised by the variety of opinion, which, if not proceeding from entire ignorance, will ensure to you the approbation of both parties. /Chap. CCXVII./--_Where Reflexes are to be most apparent._ /Of/ all reflected lights, that is to be the most apparent, bold, and precise, which detaches from the darkest ground; and, on the contrary, that which is upon a lighter ground will be less apparent. And this proceeds from the contraste of shades, by which the faintest makes the dark ones appear still darker; so in contrasted lights, the brightest cause the others to appear less bright than they really are[49]. /Chap. CCXVIII./--_What Part of a Reflex is to be the lightest._ /That/ part will be the brightest which receives the reflected light between angles the most nearly equal. For example, let N be the luminary, and A B the illuminated part of the object, reflecting the light over all the shady part of the concavity opposite to it. The light which reflects upon F will be placed between equal angles. But E at the base will not be reflected by equal angles, as it is evident that the angle E A B is more obtuse than the angle E B A. The angle A F B however, though it is between angles of less quality than the angle E, and has a common base B A, is between angles more nearly equal than E, therefore it will be lighter in F than in E; and it will also be brighter, because it is nearer to the part which gives them light. According to the 6th rule[50], which says, that part of the body is to be the lightest, which is nearest to the luminary. [Illustration] /Chap. CCXIX./--_Of the Termination of Reflexes on their Grounds._ /The/ termination of a reflected light on a ground lighter than that reflex, will not be perceivable; but if such a reflex terminates upon a ground darker than itself, it will be plainly seen; and the more so in proportion as that ground is darker, and _vice versa_[51]. /Chap. CCXX./--_Of double and treble Reflexions of Light._ /Double/ reflexes are stronger than single ones, and the shadows which interpose between the common light and these reflexes are very faint. For instance, let A be the luminous body, A N, A S, are the direct rays, and S N the parts which receive the light from them. O and E are the places enlightened by the reflexion of that light in those parts. A N E is a single reflex, but A N O, A S O is the double reflex. The single reflex is that which proceeds from a single light, but the double reflexion is produced by two different lights. The single one E is produced by the light striking on B D, while the double one O proceeds from the enlightened bodies B D and D R co-operating together; and the shadows which are between N O and S O will be very faint. [Illustration] /Chap. CCXXI./--_Reflexes in the Water, and particularly those of the Air._ /The/ only portion of air that will be seen reflected in the water, will be that which is reflected by the surface of the water to the eye between equal angles; that is to say, the angle of incidence must be equal to the angle of reflexion. COLOURS /and/ COLOURING. COLOURS. /Chap. CCXXII./--_What Surface is best calculated to receive most Colours._ /White/ is more capable of receiving all sorts of colours, than the surface of any body whatever, that is not transparent. To prove it, we shall say, that any void space is capable of receiving what another space, not void, cannot receive. In the same manner, a white surface, like a void space, being destitute of any colour, will be fittest to receive such as are conveyed to it from any other enlightened body, and will participate more of the colour than black can do; which latter, like a broken vessel, is not able to contain any thing. /Chap. CCXXIII./--_What Surface will shew most perfectly its true Colour._ /That/ opake body will shew its colour more perfect and beautiful, which has near it another body of the same colour. /Chap. CCXXIV./--_On what Surfaces the true Colour is least apparent._ /Polished/ and glossy surfaces shew least of their genuine colour. This is exemplified in the grass of the fields, and the leaves of trees, which, being smooth and glossy, will reflect the colour of the sun, and the air, where they strike, so that the parts which receive the light do not shew their natural colour. /Chap. CCXXV./--_What Surfaces shew most of their true and genuine Colour._ /Those/ objects that are the least smooth and polished shew their natural colours best; as we see in cloth, and in the leaves of such grass or trees as are of a woolly nature; which, having no lustre, are exhibited to the eye in their true natural colour; unless that colour happen to be confused by that of another body casting on them reflexions of an opposite colour, such as the redness of the setting sun, when all the clouds are tinged with its colour. /Chap. CCXXVI./--_Of the Mixture of Colours._ /Although/ the mixture of colours may be extended to an infinite variety, almost impossible to be described, I will not omit touching slightly upon it, setting down at first a certain number of simple colours to serve as a foundation, and with each of these mixing one of the others; one with one, then two with two, and three with three, proceeding in this manner to the full mixture of all the colors together: then I would begin again, mixing two of these colours with two others, and three with three, four with four, and so on to the end. To these two colours we shall put three; to these three add three more, and then six, increasing always in the same proportion. I call those simple colours, which are not composed, and cannot be made or supplied by any mixture of other colours. Black and White are not reckoned among colours; the one is the representative of darkness, the other of light: that is, one is a simple privation of light, the other is light itself. Yet I will not omit mentioning them, because there is nothing in painting more useful and necessary; since painting is but an effect produced by lights and shadows, viz. _chiaro-scuro_. After Black and White come Blue and Yellow, then Green, and Tawny or Umber, and then Purple and Red. These eight colours are all that Nature produces. With these I begin my mixtures, first Black and White, Black and Yellow, Black and Red; then Yellow and Red: but I shall treat more at length of these mixtures in a separate work[52], which will be of great utility, nay very necessary. I shall place this subject between theory and practice. /Chap. CCXXVII./--_Of the Colours produced by the Mixture of other Colours, called secondary Colours._ /The/ first of all simple colours is White, though philosophers will not acknowledge either White or Black to be colours; because the first is the cause, or the receiver of colours, the other totally deprived of them. But as painters cannot do without either, we shall place them among the others; and according to this order of things, White will be the first, Yellow the second, Green the third, Blue the fourth, Red the fifth, and Black the sixth. We shall set down White for the representative of light, without which no colour can be seen; Yellow for the earth; Green for water; Blue for air; Red for fire; and Black for total darkness. If you wish to see by a short process the variety of all the mixed, or composed colours, take some coloured glasses, and, through them, look at all the country round: you will find that the colour of each object will be altered and mixed with the colour of the glass through which it is seen; observe which colour is made better, and which is hurt by the mixture. If the glass be yellow, the colour of the objects may either be improved, or greatly impaired by it. Black and White will be most altered, while Green and Yellow will be meliorated. In the same manner you may go through all the mixtures of colours, which are infinite. Select those which are new and agreeable to the sight; and following the same method you may go on with two glasses, or three, till you have found what will best answer your purpose. /Chap. CCXXVIII./--_Of Verdegris._ /This/ green, which is made of copper, though it be mixed with oil, will lose its beauty, if it be not varnished immediately. It not only fades, but, if washed with a sponge and pure water only, it will detach from the ground upon which it is painted, particularly in damp weather; because verdegris is produced by the strength of salts, which easily dissolve in rainy weather, but still more if washed with a wet sponge. /Chap. CCXXIX./--_How to increase the Beauty of Verdegris._ /If/ you mix with the Verdegris some Caballine Aloe, it will add to it a great degree of beauty. It would acquire still more from Saffron, if it did not fade. The quality and goodness of this Aloe will be proved by dissolving it in warm Brandy. Supposing the Verdegris has already been used, and the part finished, you may then glaze it thinly with this dissolved Aloe, and it will produce a very fine colour. This Aloe may be ground also in oil by itself, or with the Verdegris, or any other colour, at pleasure. /Chap. CCXXX./--_How to paint a Picture that will last almost for ever._ /After/ you have made a drawing of your intended picture, prepare a good and thick priming with pitch and brickdust well pounded; after which give it a second coat of white lead and Naples yellow; then, having traced your drawing upon it, and painted your picture, varnish it with clear and thick old oil, and stick it to a flat glass, or crystal, with a clear varnish. Another method, which may be better, is, instead of the priming of pitch and brickdust, take a flat tile well vitrified, then apply the coat of white and Naples yellow, and all the rest as before. But before the glass is applied to it, the painting must be perfectly dried in a stove, and varnished with nut oil and amber, or else with purified nut oil alone, thickened in the sun[53]. /Chap. CCXXXI./--_The Mode of painting on Canvass, or Linen Cloth_[54]. /Stretch/ your canvass upon a frame, then give it a coat of weak size, let it dry, and draw your outlines upon it. Paint the flesh colours first; and while it is still fresh or moist, paint also the shadows, well softened and blended together. The flesh colour may be made with white, lake, and Naples yellow. The shades with black, umber, and a little lake; you may, if you please, use black chalk. After you have softened this first coat, or dead colour, and let it dry, you may retouch over it with lake and other colours, and gum water that has been a long while made and kept liquid, because in that state it becomes better, and does not leave any gloss. Again, to make the shades darker, take the lake and gum as above, and ink[55]; and with this you may shade or glaze many colours, because it is transparent; such as azure, lake, and several others. As for the lights, you may retouch or glaze them slightly with gum water and pure lake, particularly vermilion. /Chap. CCXXXII./--_Of lively and beautiful Colours._ /For/ those colours which you mean should appear beautiful, prepare a ground of pure white. This is meant only for transparent colours: as for those that have a body, and are opake, it matters not what ground they have, and a white one is of no use. This is exemplified by painted glasses; when placed between the eye and clear air, they exhibit most excellent and beautiful colours, which is not the case, when they have thick air, or some opake body behind them. /Chap. CCXXXIII./--_Of transparent Colours._ /When/ a transparent colour is laid upon another of a different nature, it produces a mixed colour, different from either of the simple ones which compose it. This is observed in the smoke coming out of a chimney, which, when passing before the black soot, appears blueish, but as it ascends against the blue of the sky, it changes its appearance into a reddish brown. So the colour lake laid on blue will turn it to a violet colour; yellow upon blue turns to green; saffron upon white becomes yellow; white scumbled upon a dark ground appears blue, and is more or less beautiful, as the white and the ground are more or less pure. /Chap. CCXXXIV./--_In what Part a Colour will appear in its greatest Beauty._ /We/ are to consider here in what part any colour will shew itself in its most perfect purity; whether in the strongest light or deepest shadow, in the demi-tint, or in the reflex. It would be necessary to determine first, of what colour we mean to treat, because different colours differ materially in that respect. Black is most beautiful in the shades; white in the strongest light; blue and green in the half-tint; yellow and red in the principal light; gold in the reflexes; and lake in the half-tint. /Chap. CCXXXV./--_How any Colour without Gloss, is more beautiful in the Lights than in the Shades._ /All/ objects which have no gloss, shew their colours better in the light than in the shadow, because the light vivifies and gives a true knowledge of the nature of the colour, while the shadows lower, and destroy its beauty, preventing the discovery of its nature. If, on the contrary, black be more beautiful in the shadows, it is because black is not a colour. /Chap. CCXXXVI./--_Of the Appearance of Colours._ /The/ lighter a colour is in its nature, the more so it will appear when removed to some distance; but with dark colours it is quite the reverse. /Chap. CCXXXVII./--_What Part of a Colour is to be the most beautiful._ /If/ A be the light, and B the object receiving it in a direct line, E cannot receive that light, but only the reflexion from B, which we shall suppose to be red. In that case, the light it produces being red, it will tinge with red the object E; and if E happen to be also red before, you will see that colour increase in beauty, and appear redder than B; but if E were yellow, you will see a new colour, participating of the red and the yellow. [Illustration] /Chap. CCXXXVIII./--_That the Beauty of a Colour is to be found in the Lights._ /As/ the quality of colours is discovered to the eye by the light, it is natural to conclude, that where there is most light, there also the true quality of the colour is to be seen; and where there is most shadow the colour will participate of, and be tinged with the colour of that shadow. Remember then to shew the true quality of the colour in the light parts only[56]. /Chap. CCXXXIX./--_Of Colours._ /The/ colour which is between the light and the shadow will not be so beautiful as that which is in the full light. Therefore the chief beauty of colours will be found in the principal lights[57]. /Chap. CCXL./--_No Object appears in its true Colour, unless the Light which strikes upon it be of the same Colour._ /This/ is very observable in draperies, where the light folds casting a reflexion, and throwing a light on other folds opposite to them, make them appear in their natural colour. The same effect is produced by gold leaves casting their light reciprocally on each other. The effect is quite contrary if the light be received from an object of a different colour[58]. /Chap. CCXLI./--_Of the Colour of Shadows._ /The/ colour of the shadows of an object can never be pure if the body which is opposed to these shadows be not of the same colour as that on which they are produced. For instance, if in a room, the walls of which are green, I place a figure clothed in blue, and receiving the light from another blue object, the light part of that figure will be of a beautiful blue, but the shadows of it will become dingy, and not like a true shade of that beautiful blue, because it will be corrupted by the reflexions from the green wall; and it would be still worse if the walls were of a darkish brown. /Chap. CCXLII./--_Of Colours._ /Colours/ placed in shadow will preserve more or less of their original beauty, as they are more or less immersed in the shade. But colours situated in a light space will shew their natural beauty in proportion to the brightness of that light. Some say, that there is as great variety in the colours of shadows, as in the colours of objects shaded by them. It may be answered, that colours placed in shadow will shew less variety amongst themselves as the shadows are darker. We shall soon convince ourselves of this truth, if, from a large square, we look through the open door of a church, where pictures, though enriched with a variety of colours, appear all clothed in darkness. /Chap. CCXLIII./--_Whether it be possible for all Colours to appear alike by means of the same Shadow._ /It/ is very possible that all the different colours may be changed into that of a general shadow; as is manifest in the darkness of a cloudy night, in which neither the shape nor colour of bodies is distinguished. Total darkness being nothing but a privation of the primitive and reflected lights, by which the form and colour of bodies are seen; it is evident, that the cause being removed the effect ceases, and the objects are entirely lost to the sight. /Chap. CCXLIV./--_Why White is not reckoned among the Colours._ /White/ is not a colour, but has the power of receiving all the other colours. When it is placed in a high situation in the country, all its shades are azure; according to the fourth proposition[59], which says, that the surface of any opake body participates of the colour of any other body sending the light to it. Therefore white being deprived of the light of the sun by the interposition of any other body, will remain white; if exposed to the sun on one side, and to the open air on the other, it will participate both of the colour of the sun and of the air. That side which is not opposed to the sun, will be shaded of the colour of the air. And if this white were not surrounded by green fields all the way to the horizon, nor could receive any light from that horizon, without doubt it would appear of one simple and uniform colour, viz. that of the air. /Chap. CCXLV./--_Of Colours._ /The/ light of the fire tinges every thing of a reddish yellow; but this will hardly appear evident, if we do not make the comparison with the daylight. Towards the close of the evening this is easily done; but more certainly after the morning twilight; and the difference will be clearly distinguished in a dark room, when a little glimpse of daylight strikes upon any part of the room, and there still remains a candle burning. Without such a trial the difference is hardly perceivable, particularly in those colours which have most similarity; such as white and yellow, light green and light blue; because the light which strikes the blue, being yellow, will naturally turn it green; as we have said in another place[60], that a mixture of blue and yellow produces green. And if to a green colour you add some yellow, it will make it of a more beautiful green. /Chap. CCXLVI./--_Of the Colouring of remote Objects._ /The/ painter, who is to represent objects at some distance from the eye, ought merely to convey the idea of general undetermined masses, making choice, for that purpose, of cloudy weather, or towards the evening, and avoiding, as was said before, to mark the lights and shadows too strong on the extremities; because they would in that case appear like spots of difficult execution, and without grace. He ought to remember, that the shadows are never to be of such a quality, as to obliterate the proper colour, in which they originated; if the situation of the coloured body be not in total darkness. He ought to mark no outline, not to make the hair stringy, and not to touch with pure white, any but those things which in themselves are white; in short, the lightest touch upon any particular object ought to denote the beauty of its proper and natural colour. /Chap. CCXLVII./--_The Surface of all opake Bodies participates of the Colour of the surrounding Objects._ /The/ painter ought to know, that if any white object is placed between two walls, one of which is also white, and the other black, there will be found between the shady side of that object and the light side, a similar proportion to that of the two walls; and if that object be blue, the effect will be the same. Having therefore to paint this object, take some black, similar to that of the wall from which the reflexes come; and to proceed by a certain and scientific method, do as follows. When you paint the wall, take a small spoon to measure exactly the quantity of colour you mean to employ in mixing your tints; for instance, if you have put in the shading of this wall three spoonfuls of pure black, and one of white, you have, without any doubt, a mixture of a certain and precise quality. Now having painted one of the walls white, and the other dark, if you mean to place a blue object between them with shades suitable to that colour, place first on your pallet the light blue, such as you mean it to be, without any mixture of shade, and it will do for the lightest part of your object. After which take three spoonfuls of black, and one of this light blue, for your darkest shades. Then observe whether your object be round or square: if it be square, these two extreme tints of light and shade will be close to each other, cutting sharply at the angle; but if it be round, draw lines from the extremities of the walls to the centre of the object, and put the darkest shade between equal angles, where the lines intersect upon the superficies of it; then begin to make them lighter and lighter gradually to the point N O, lessening the strength of the shadows as much as that place participates of the light A D, and mixing that colour with the darkest shade A B, in the same proportion. [Illustration] /Chap. CCXLVIII./--_General Remarks on Colours._ /Blue/ and green are not simple colours in their nature, for blue is composed of light and darkness; such is the azure of the sky, viz. perfect black and perfect white. Green is composed of a simple and a mixed colour, being produced by blue and yellow. Any object seen in a mirror, will participate of the colour of that body which serves as a mirror; and the mirror in its turn is tinged in part by the colour of the object it represents; they partake more or less of each other as the colour of the object seen is more or less strong than the colour of the mirror. That object will appear of the strongest and most lively colour in the mirror, which has the most affinity to the colour of the mirror itself. Of coloured bodies, the purest white will be seen at the greatest distance, therefore the darker the colour, the less it will bear distance. Of different bodies equal in whiteness, and in distance from the eye, that which is surrounded by the greatest darkness will appear the whitest; and on the contrary, that shadow will appear the darkest that has the brightest white round it. Of different colours, equally perfect, that will appear most excellent, which is seen near its direct contrary. A pale colour against red, a black upon white (though neither the one nor the other are colours), blue near a yellow; green near red; because each colour is more distinctly seen, when opposed to its contrary, than to any other similar to it. Any thing white seen in a dense air full of vapours, will appear larger than it is in reality. The air, between the eye and the object seen, will change the colour of that object into its own; so will the azure of the air change the distant mountains into blue masses. Through a red glass every thing appears red; the light round the stars is dimmed by the darkness of the air, which fills the space between the eye and the planets. The true colour of any object whatever will be seen in those parts which are not occupied by any kind of shade, and have not any gloss (if it be a polished surface). I say, that white terminating abruptly upon a dark ground, will cause that part where it terminates to appear darker, and the white whiter. COLOURS IN REGARD TO LIGHT AND SHADOW. /Chap. CCXLIX./--_Of the Light proper for painting Flesh Colour from Nature._ /Your/ window must be open to the sky, and the walls painted of a reddish colour. The summertime is the best, when the clouds conceal the sun, or else your walls on the south side of the room must be so high, as that the sun-beams cannot strike on the opposite side, in order that the reflexion of those beams may not destroy the shadows. /Chap. CCL./--_Of the Painter's Window._ /The/ window which gives light to a painting-room, ought to be made of oiled paper, without any cross bar, or projecting edge at the opening, or any sharp angle in the inside of the wall, but should be slanting by degrees the whole thickness of it; and the sides be painted black. /Chap. CCLI./--_The Shadows of Colours._ /The/ shadows of any colour whatever must participate of that colour more or less, as it is nearer to, or more remote from the mass of shadows; and also in proportion to its distance from, or proximity to the mass of light. /Chap. CCLII./--_Of the Shadows of White._ /To/ any white body receiving the light from the sun, or the air, the shadows should be of a blueish cast; because white is no colour, but a receiver of all colours; and as by the fourth proposition[61] we learn, that the surface of any object participates of the colours of other objects near it, it is evident that a white surface will participate of the colour of the air by which it is surrounded. /Chap. CCLIII./--_Which of the Colours will produce the darkest Shade._ /That/ shade will be the darkest which is produced by the whitest surface; this also will have a greater propensity to variety than any other surface; because white is not properly a colour, but a receiver of colours, and its surface will participate strongly of the colour of surrounding objects, but principally of black or any other dark colour, which being the most opposite to its nature, produces the most sensible difference between the shadows and the lights. /Chap. CCLIV./--_How to manage, when a White terminates upon another White._ /When/ one white body terminates on another of the same colour, the white of these two bodies will be either alike or not. If they be alike, that object which of the two is nearest to the eye, should be made a little darker than the other, upon the rounding of the outline; but if the object which serves as a ground to the other be not quite so white, the latter will detach of itself, without the help of any darker termination. /Chap. CCLV./--_On the Back-grounds of Figures._ /Of/ two objects equally light, one will appear less so if seen upon a whiter ground; and, on the contrary, it will appear a great deal lighter if upon a space of a darker shade. So flesh colour will appear pale upon a red ground, and a pale colour will appear redder upon a yellow ground. In short, colours will appear what they are not, according to the ground which surrounds them. /Chap. CCLVI./--_The Mode of composing History._ /Amongst/ the figures which compose an historical picture, those which are meant to appear the nearest to the eye, must have the greatest force; according to the second proposition[62] of the third book, which says, that colour will be seen in the greatest perfection which has less air interposed between it and the eye of the beholder; and for that reason the shadows (by which we express the relievo of bodies) appear darker when near than when at a distance, being then deadened by the air which interposes. This does not happen to those shadows which are near the eye, where they will produce the greatest relievo when they are darkest. /Chap. CCLVII./--_Remarks concerning Lights and Shadows._ /Observe/, that where the shadows end, there be always a kind of half-shadow to blend them with the lights. The shadow derived from any object will mix more with the light at its termination, in proportion as it is more distant from that object. But the colour of the shadow will never be simple: this is proved by the ninth proposition[63], which says, that the superficies of any object participates of the colours of other bodies, by which it is surrounded, although it were transparent, such as water, air, and the like: because the air receives its light from the sun, and darkness is produced by the privation of it. But as the air has no colour in itself any more than water, it receives all the colours that are between the object and the eye. The vapours mixing with the air in the lower regions near the earth, render it thick, and apt to reflect the sun's rays on all sides, while the air above remains dark; and because light (that is, white) and darkness (that is, black), mixed together, compose the azure that becomes the colour of the sky, which is lighter or darker in proportion as the air is more or less mixed with damp vapours. /Chap. CCLVIII./--_Why the Shadows of Bodies upon a white Wall are blueish towards Evening._ [Illustration] /The/ shadows of bodies produced by the redness of the setting sun, will always be blueish. This is accounted for by the eleventh proposition[64], which says, that the superficies of any opake body participates of the colour of the object from which it receives the light; therefore the white wall being deprived entirely of colour, is tinged by the colour of those bodies from which it receives the light, which in this case are the sun and the sky. But because the sun is red towards the evening, and the sky is blue, the shadow on the wall not being enlightened by the sun, receives only the reflexion of the sky, and therefore will appear blue; and the rest of the wall, receiving light immediately from the sun, will participate of its red colour. /Chap. CCLIX./--_Of the Colour of Faces._ /The/ colour of any object will appear more or less distinct in proportion to the extent of its surface. This proportion is proved, by observing that a face appears dark at a small distance, because, being composed of many small parts, it produces a great number of shadows; and the lights being the smallest part of it, are soonest lost to the sight, leaving only the shadows, which being in a greater quantity, the whole of the face appears dark, and the more so if that face has on the head, or at the back, something whiter. /Chap. CCLX./--_A Precept relating to Painting._ /Where/ the shadows terminate upon the lights, observe well what parts of them are lighter than the others, and where they are more or less softened and blended; but above all remember, that young people have no sharp shadings: their flesh is transparent, something like what we observe when we put our hand between the sun and eyes; it appears reddish, and of a transparent brightness. If you wish to know what kind of shadow will suit the flesh colour you are painting, place one of your fingers close to your picture, so as to cast a shadow upon it, and according as you wish it either lighter or darker, put it nearer or farther from it, and imitate it. /Chap. CCLXI./--_Of Colours in Shadow._ /It/ happens very often that the shadows of an opake body do not retain the same colour as the lights. Sometimes they will be greenish, while the lights are reddish, although this opake body be all over of one uniform colour. This happens when the light falls upon the object (we will suppose from the East), and tinges that side with its own colour. In the West we will suppose another opake body of a colour different from the first, but receiving the same light. This last will reflect its colour towards the East, and strike the first with its rays on the opposite side, where they will be stopped, and remain with their full colour and brightness. We often see a white object with red lights, and the shades of a blueish cast; this we observe particularly in mountains covered with snow, at sun-set, when the effulgence of its rays makes the horizon appear all on fire. /Chap. CCLXII./--_Of the Choice of Lights._ /Whatever/ object you intend to represent is to be supposed situated in a particular light, and that entirely of your own choosing. If you imagine such objects to be in the country, and the sun be overcast, they will be surrounded by a great quantity of general light. If the sun strikes upon those objects, then the shadows will be very dark, in proportion to the lights, and will be determined and sharp; the primitive as well as the secondary ones. These shadows will vary from the lights in colour, because on that side the object receives a reflected light hue from the azure of the air, which tinges that part; and this is particularly observable in white objects. That side which receives the light from the sun, participates also of the colour of that. This may be particularly observed in the evening, when the sun is setting between the clouds, which it reddens; those clouds being tinged with the colour of the body illuminating them, the red colour of the clouds, with that of the sun, casts a hue on those parts which receive the light from them. On the contrary, those parts which are not turned towards that side of the sky, remain of the colour of the air, so that the former and the latter are of two different colours. This we must not lose sight of, that, knowing the cause of those lights and shades, it be made apparent in the effect, or else the work will be false and absurd. But if a figure be situated within a house, and seen from without, such figure will have its shadows very soft; and if the beholder stands in the line of the light, it will acquire grace, and do credit to the painter, as it will have great relief in the lights, and soft and well-blended shadows, particularly in those parts where the inside of the room appears less obscure, because there the shadows are almost imperceptible: the cause of which we shall explain in its proper place. COLOURS IN REGARD TO BACK-GROUNDS. /Chap. CCLXIII./--_Of avoiding hard Outlines._ /Do/ not make the boundaries of your figures with any other colour than that of the back-ground, on which they are placed; that is, avoid making dark outlines. /Chap. CCLXIV./--_Of Outlines._ /The/ extremities of objects which are at some distance, are not seen so distinctly as if they were nearer. Therefore the painter ought to regulate the strength of his outlines, or extremities, according to the distance. The boundaries which separate one body from another, are of the nature of mathematical lines, but not of real lines. The end of any colour is only the beginning of another, and it ought not to be called a line, for nothing interposes between them, except the termination of the one against the other, which being nothing in itself, cannot be perceivable; therefore the painter ought not to pronounce it in distant objects. /Chap. CCLXV./--_Of Back-grounds._ /One/ of the principal parts of painting is the nature and quality of back-grounds, upon which the extremities of any convex or solid body will always detach and be distinguished in nature, though the colour of such objects, and that of the ground, be exactly the same. This happens, because the convex sides of solid bodies do not receive the light in the same manner with the ground, for such sides or extremities are often lighter or darker than the ground. But if such extremities were to be of the same colour as the ground, and in the same degree of light, they certainly could not be distinguished. Therefore such a choice in painting ought to be avoided by all intelligent and judicious painters; since the intention is to make the objects appear as it were out of the ground. The above case would produce the contrary effect, not only in painting, but also in objects of real relievo. /Chap. CCLXVI./--_How to detach Figures from the Ground._ /All/ solid bodies will appear to have a greater relief, and to come more out of the canvass, on a ground of an undetermined colour, with the greatest variety of lights and shades against the confines of such bodies (as will be demonstrated in its place), provided a proper diminution of lights in the white tints, and of darkness in the shades, be judiciously observed. /Chap. CCLXVII./--_Of Uniformity and Variety of Colours upon plain Surfaces._ /The/ back-grounds of any flat surfaces which are uniform in colour and quantity of light, will never appear separated from each other; _vice versâ_, they will appear separated if they are of different colours or lights. /Chap. CCLXVIII./--_Of Back-grounds suitable both to Shadows and Lights._ /The/ shadows or lights which surround figures, or any other objects, will help the more to detach them the more they differ from the objects; that is, if a dark colour does not terminate upon another dark colour, but upon a very different one; as white, or partaking of white, but lowered, and approximated to the dark shade. /Chap. CCLXIX./--_The apparent Variation of Colours, occasioned by the Contraste of the Ground upon which they are placed._ /No/ colour appears uniform and equal in all its parts unless it terminate on a ground of the same colour. This is very apparent when a black terminates on a white ground, where the contraste of colour gives more strength and richness to the extremities than to the middle. CONTRASTE, HARMONY, AND REFLEXES, IN REGARD TO COLOURS. /Chap. CCLXX./--_Gradation in Painting._ /What/ is fine is not always beautiful and good: I address this to such painters as are so attached to the beauty of colours, that they regret being obliged to give them almost imperceptible shadows, not considering the beautiful relief which figures acquire by a proper gradation and strength of shadows. Such persons may be compared to those speakers who in conversation make use of many fine words without meaning, which altogether scarcely form one good sentence. /Chap. CCLXXI./--_How to assort Colours in such a Manner as that they may add Beauty to each other._ /If/ you mean that the proximity of one colour should give beauty to another that terminates near it, observe the rays of the sun in the composition of the rainbow, the colours of which are generated by the falling rain, when each drop in its descent takes every colour of that bow, as is demonstrated in its place[65]. If you mean to represent great darkness, it must be done by contrasting it with great light; on the contrary, if you want to produce great brightness, you must oppose to it a very dark shade: so a pale yellow will cause red to appear more beautiful than if opposed to a purple colour. There is another rule, by observing which, though you do not increase the natural beauty of the colours, yet by bringing them together they may give additional grace to each other, as green placed near red, while the effect would be quite the reverse, if placed near blue. Harmony and grace are also produced by a judicious arrangement of colours, such as blue with pale yellow or white, and the like; as will be noticed in its place. /Chap. CCLXXII./--_Of detaching the Figures._ /Let/ the colours of which the draperies of your figures are composed, be such as to form a pleasing variety, to distinguish one from the other; and although, for the sake of harmony, they should be of the same nature[66], they must not stick together, but vary in point of light, according to the distance and interposition of the air between them. By the same rule, the outlines are to be more precise, or lost, in proportion to their distance or proximity. /Chap. CCLXXIII./--_Of the Colour of Reflexes._ /All/ reflected colours are less brilliant and strong, than those which receive a direct light, in the same proportion as there is between the light of a body and the cause of that light. /Chap. CCLXXIV./--_What Body will be the most strongly tinged with the Colour of any other Object._ /An/ opake surface will partake most of the genuine colour of the body nearest to it, because a great quantity of the species of colour will be conveyed to it; whereas such colour would be broken and disturbed if coming from a more distant object. /Chap. CCLXXV./--_Of Reflexes._ /Reflexes/ will partake, more or less, both of the colour of the object which produces them, and of the colour of that object on which they are produced, in proportion as this latter body is of a smoother or more polished surface, than that by which they are produced. /Chap. CCLXXVI./--_Of the Surface of all shadowed Bodies._ /The/ surface of any opake body placed in shadow, will participate of the colour of any other object which reflects the light upon it. This is very evident; for if such bodies were deprived of light in the space between them and the other bodies, they could not shew either shape or colour. We shall conclude then, that if the opake body be yellow, and that which reflects the light blue, the part reflected will be green, because green is composed of blue and yellow. /Chap. CCLXXVII./--_That no reflected Colour is simple, but is mixed with the Nature of the other Colours._ /No/ colour reflected upon the surface of another body, will tinge that surface with its own colour alone, but will be mixed by the concurrence of other colours also reflected on the same spot. Let us suppose A to be of a yellow colour, which is reflected on the convex C O E, and that the blue colour B be reflected on the same place. I say that a mixture of the blue and yellow colours will tinge the convex surface; and that, if the ground be white, it will produce a green reflexion, because it is proved that a mixture of blue and yellow produces a very fine green. [Illustration] /Chap. CCLXXVIII./--_Of the Colour of Lights and Reflexes._ /When/ two lights strike upon an opake body, they can vary only in two ways; either they are equal in strength, or they are not. If they be equal, they may still vary in two other ways, that is, by the equality or inequality of their brightness; they will be equal, if their distance be the same; and unequal, if it be otherwise. The object placed at an equal distance, between two equal lights, in point both of colour and brightness, may still be enlightened by them in two different ways, either equally on each side, or unequally. It will be equally enlightened by them, when the space which remains round the lights shall be equal in colour, in degree of shade, and in brightness. It will be unequally enlightened by them when the spaces happen to be of different degrees of darkness. /Chap. CCLXXIX./--_Why reflected Colours seldom partake of the Colour of the Body where they meet._ /It/ happens very seldom that the reflexes are of the same colour with the body from which they proceed, or with that upon which they meet. To exemplify this, let the convex body D F G E be of a yellow colour, and the body B C, which reflects its colour on it, blue; the part of the convex surface which is struck by that reflected light, will take a green tinge, being B C, acted on by the natural light of the air, or the sun. [Illustration] /Chap. CCLXXX./--_The Reflexes of Flesh Colours._ /The/ lights upon the flesh colours, which are reflected by the light striking upon another flesh-coloured body, are redder and more lively than any other part of the human figure; and that happens according to the third proposition of the second book[67], which says, the surface of any opake body participates of the colour of the object which reflects the light, in proportion as it is near to or remote from it, and also in proportion to the size of it; because, being large, it prevents the variety of colours in smaller objects round it, from interfering with, and discomposing the principal colour, which is nearer. Nevertheless it does not prevent its participating more of the colour of a small object near it, than of a large one more remote. See the sixth proposition[68] of perspective, which says, that large objects may be situated at such a distance as to appear less than small ones that are near. /Chap. CCLXXXI./--_Of the Nature of Comparison._ /Black/ draperies will make the flesh of the human figure appear whiter than in reality it is[69]; and white draperies, on the contrary, will make it appear darker. Yellow will render it higher coloured, while red will make it pale. /Chap. CCLXXXII./--_Where the Reflexes are seen._ /Of/ all reflexions of the same shape, size, and strength, that will be more or less strong, which terminates on a ground more or less dark. The surface of those bodies will partake most of the colour of the object that reflects it, which receive that reflexion by the most nearly equal angles. Of the colours of objects reflected upon any opposite surface by equal angles, that will be the most distinct which has its reflecting ray the shortest. Of all colours, reflected under equal angles, and at equal distance upon the opposite body, those will be the strongest, which come reflected by the lightest coloured body. That object will reflect its own colour most precisely on the opposite object, which has not round it any colour that clashes with its own; and consequently that reflected colour will be most confused which takes its origin from a variety of bodies of different colours. That colour which is nearest the opposed object, will tinge it the most strongly; and _vice versâ_: let the painter, therefore, in his reflexes on the human body, particularly on the flesh colour, mix some of the colour of the drapery which comes nearest to it; but not pronounce it too distinctly, if there be not good reason for it. PERSPECTIVE OF COLOURS. /Chap. CCLXXXIII./--_A Precept of Perspective in regard to Painting._ /When/, on account of some particular quality of the air, you can no longer distinguish the difference between the lights and shadows of objects, you may reject the perspective of shadows, and make use only of the linear perspective, and the diminution of colours, to lessen the knowledge of the objects opposed to the eye; and this, that is to say, the loss of the knowledge of the figure of each object, will make the same object appear more remote. The eye can never arrive at a perfect knowledge of the interval between two objects variously distant, by means of the linear perspective alone, if not assisted by the perspective of colours. /Chap. CCLXXXIV./--_Of the Perspective of Colours._ /The/ air will participate less of the azure of the sky, in proportion as it comes nearer to the horizon, as it is proved by the third and ninth proposition[70], that pure and subtile bodies (such as compose the air) will be less illuminated by the sun than those of thicker and grosser substance: and as it is certain that the air which is remote from the earth, is thinner than that which is near it, it will follow, that the latter will be more impregnated with the rays of the sun, which giving light at the same time to an infinity of atoms floating in this air, renders it more sensible to the eye. So that the air will appear lighter towards the horizon, and darker as well as bluer in looking up to the sky; because there is more of the thick air between our eyes and the horizon, than between our eyes and that part of the sky above our heads. [Illustration] For instance: if the eye placed in P, looks through the air along the line P R, and then lowers itself a little along P S, the air will begin to appear a little whiter, because there is more of the thick air in this space than in the first. And if it be still removed lower, so as to look straight at the horizon, no more of that blue sky will be perceived which was observable along the first line P R, because there is a much greater quantity of thick air along the horizontal line P D, than along the oblique P S, or the perpendicular P R. /Chap. CCLXXXV./--_The Cause of the Diminution of Colours._ /The/ natural colour of any visible object will be diminished in proportion to the density of any other substance which interposes between that object and the eye. /Chap. CCLXXXVI./--_Of the Diminution of Colours and Objects._ /Let/ the colours vanish in proportion as the objects diminish in size, according to the distance. /Chap. CCLXXXVII./--_Of the Variety observable in Colours, according to their Distance, or Proximity._ /The/ local colour of such objects as are darker than the air, will appear less dark as they are more remote; and, on the contrary, objects lighter than the air will lose their brightness in proportion to their distance from the eye. In general, all objects that are darker or lighter than the air, are discoloured by distance, which changes their quality, so that the lighter appears darker, and the darker lighter. /Chap. CCLXXXVIII./--_At what Distance Colours are entirely lost._ /Local/ colours are entirely lost at a greater or less distance, according as the eye and the object are more or less elevated from the earth. This is proved by the seventh proposition[71], which says, the air is more or less pure, as it is near to, or remote from the earth. If the eye then, and the object are near the earth, the thickness of the air which interposes, will in a great measure confuse the colour of that object to the eye. But if the eye and the object are placed high above the earth, the air will disturb the natural colour of that object very little. In short, the various gradations of colour depend not only on the various distances, in which they may be lost; but also on the variety of lights, which change according to the different hours of the day, and the thickness or purity of the air, through which the colour of the object is conveyed to the eye. /Chap. CCLXXXIX./--_Of the Change observable in the same Colour, according to its Distance from the Eye._ /Among/ several colours of the same nature, that which is the nearest to the eye will alter the least; because the air which interposes between the eye and the object seen, envelopes, in some measure, that object. If the air, which interposes, be in great quantity, the object seen will be strongly tinged with the colour of that air; but if the air be thin, then the view of that object, and its colour, will be very little obstructed. /Chap. CCXC./--_Of the blueish Appearance of remote Objects in a Landscape._ /Whatever/ be the colour of distant objects, the darkest, whether natural or accidental, will appear the most tinged with azure. By the natural darkness is meant the proper colour of the object; the accidental one is produced by the shadow of some other body. /Chap. CCXCI./--_Of the Qualities in the Surface which first lose themselves by Distance._ /The/ first part of any colour which is lost by the distance, is the gloss, being the smallest part of it, as a light within a light. The second that diminishes by being farther removed, is the light, because it is less in quantity than the shadow. The third is the principal shadows, nothing remaining at last but a kind of middling obscurity. /Chap. CCXCII./--_From what Cause the Azure of the Air proceeds._ /The/ azure of the sky is produced by the transparent body of the air, illumined by the sun, and interposed between the darkness of the expanse above, and the earth below. The air in itself has no quality of smell, taste, or colour, but is easily impregnated with the quality of other matter surrounding it; and will appear bluer in proportion to the darkness of the space behind it, as may be observed against the shady sides of mountains, which are darker than any other object. In this instance the air appears of the most beautiful azure, while on the other side that receives the light, it shews through that more of the natural colour of the mountain. /Chap. CCXCIII./--_Of the Perspective of Colours._ /The/ same colour being placed at various distances and equal elevation, the force and effect of its colouring will be according to the proportion of the distance which there is from each of these colours to the eye. It is proved thus: let C B E D be one and the same colour. The first, E, is placed at two degrees of distance from the eye A; the second, B, shall be four degrees, the third, C, six degrees, and the fourth, D, eight degrees; as appears by the circles which terminate upon and intersect the line A R. Let us suppose that the space A R, S P, is one degree of thin air, and S P E T another degree of thicker air. It will follow, that the first colour, E, will pass to the eye through one degree of thick air, E S, and through another degree, S A, of thinner air. And B will send its colour to the eye in A, through two degrees of thick air, and through two others of the thinner sort. C will send it through three degrees of the thin, and three of the thick sort, while D goes through four degrees of the one, and four of the other. This demonstrates, that the gradation of colours is in proportion to their distance from the eye[72]. But this happens only to those colours which are on a level with the eye; as for those which happen to be at unequal elevations, we cannot observe the same rule, because they are in that case situated in different qualities of air, which alter and diminish these colours in various manners. [Illustration] /Chap. CCXCIV./--_Of the Perspective of Colours in dark Places._ /In/ any place where the light diminishes in a gradual proportion till it terminates in total darkness, the colours also will lose themselves and be dissolved in proportion as they recede from the eye. /Chap. CCXCV./--_Of the Perspective of Colours._ /The/ principal colours, or those nearest to the eye, should be pure and simple; and the degree of their diminution should be in proportion to their distance, viz. the nearer they are to the principal point, the more they will possess of the purity of those colours, and they will partake of the colour of the horizon in proportion as they approach to it. /Chap. CCXCVI./--_Of Colours._ /Of/ all the colours which are not blue, those that are nearest to black will, when distant, partake most of the azure; and, on the contrary, those will preserve their proper colour at the greatest distance, that are most dissimilar to black. The green therefore of the fields will change sooner into blue than yellow, or white, which will preserve their natural colour at a greater distance than that, or even red. /Chap. CCXCVII./--_How it happens that Colours do not change, though placed in different Qualities of Air._ /The/ colour will not be subject to any alteration when the distance and the quality of air have a reciprocal proportion. What it loses by the distance it regains by the purity of the air, viz. if we suppose the first or lowest air to have four degrees of thickness, and the colour to be at one degree from the eye, and the second air above to have three degrees. The air having lost one degree of thickness, the colour will acquire one degree upon the distance. And when the air still higher shall have lost two degrees of thickness, the colour will acquire as many upon the distance; and in that case the colour will be the same at three degrees as at one. But to be brief, if the colour be raised so high as to enter that quality of air which has lost three degrees of thickness, and acquired three degrees of distance, then you may be certain that that colour which is high and remote, has lost no more than the colour which is below and nearer; because in rising it has acquired those three degrees which it was losing by the same distance from the eye; and this is what was meant to be proved. /Chap. CCXCVIII./--_Why Colours experience no apparent Change, though placed in different Qualities of Air._ [Illustration] /It/ may happen that a colour does not alter, though placed at different distances, when the thickness of the air and the distance are in the same inverse proportion. It is proved thus: let A be the eye, and H any colour whatever, placed at one degree of distance from the eye, in a quality of air of four degrees of thickness; but because the second degree above, A M N L, contains a thinner air by one half, which air conveys this colour, it follows that this colour will appear as if removed double the distance it was at before, viz. at two degrees of distance, A F and F G, from the eye; and it will be placed in G. If that is raised to the second degree of air A M N L, and to the degree O M, P N, it will necessarily be placed at E, and will be removed from the eye the whole length of the line A E, which will be proved in this manner to be equal in thickness to the distance A G. If in the same quality of air the distance A G interposed between the eye and the colour occupies two degrees, and A E occupies two degrees and a half, it is sufficient to preserve the colour G, when raised to E, from any change, because the degree A C and the degree A F being the same in thickness, are equal and alike, and the degree C D, though equal in length to the degree F G, is not alike in point of thickness of air; because half of it is situated in a degree of air of double the thickness of the air above: this half degree of distance occupies as much of the colour as one whole degree of the air above would, which air above is twice as thin as the air below, with which it terminates; so that by calculating the thickness of the air, and the distances, you will find that the colours have changed places without undergoing any alteration in their beauty. And we shall prove it thus: reckoning first the thickness of air, the colour H is placed in four degrees of thickness, the colour G in two degrees, and E at one degree. Now let us see whether the distances are in an equal inverse proportion; the colour E is at two degrees and a half of distance, G at two degrees, and H at one degree. But as this distance has not an exact proportion with the thickness of air, it is necessary to make a third calculation in this manner: A C is perfectly like and equal to A F; the half degree, C B, is like but not equal to A F, because it is only half a degree in length, which is equal to a whole degree of the quality of the air above; so that by this calculation we shall solve the question. For A C is equal to two degrees of thickness of the air above, and the half degree C B is equal to a whole degree of the same air above; and one degree more is to be taken in, viz. B E, which makes the fourth. A H has four degrees of thickness of air, A G also four, viz. A F two in value, and F G also two, which taken together make four. A E has also four, because A C contains two, and C D one, which is the half of A C, and in the same quality of air; and there is a whole degree above in the thin air, which all together make four. So that if A E is not double the distance A G, nor four times the distance A H, it is made equivalent by the half degree C B of thick air, which is equal to a whole degree of thin air above. This proves the truth of the proposition, that the colour H G E does not undergo any alteration by these different distances. /Chap. CCXCIX./--_Contrary Opinions in regard to Objects seen afar off._ /Many/ painters will represent the objects darker, in proportion as they are removed from the eye; but this cannot be true, unless the objects seen be white; as shall be examined in the next chapter. /Chap. CCC./--_Of the Colour of Objects remote from the Eye._ /The/ air tinges objects with its own colour more or less in proportion to the quantity of intervening air between it and the eye, so that a dark object at the distance of two miles (or a density of air equal to such distance), will be more tinged with its colour than if only one mile distant. It is said, that, in a landscape, trees of the same species appear darker in the distance than near; this cannot be true, if they be of equal size, and divided by equal spaces. But it will be so if the first trees are scattered, and the light of the fields is seen through and between them, while the others which are farther off, are thick together, as is often the case near some river or other piece of water: in this case no space of light fields can be perceived, but the trees appear thick together, accumulating the shadow on each other. It also happens, that as the shady parts of plants are much broader than the light ones, the colour of the plants becoming darker by the multiplied shadows, is preserved, and conveyed to the eye more strongly than that of the other parts; these masses, therefore, will carry the strongest parts of their colour to a greater distance. /Chap. CCCI./--_Of the Colour of Mountains._ /The/ darker the mountain is in itself, the bluer it will appear at a great distance. The highest part will be the darkest, as being more woody; because woods cover a great many shrubs, and other plants, which never receive any light. The wild plants of those woods are also naturally of a darker hue than cultivated plants; for oak, beech, fir, cypress, and pine trees are much darker than olive and other domestic plants. Near the top of these mountains, where the air is thinner and purer, the darkness of the woods will make it appear of a deeper azure, than at the bottom, where the air is thicker. A plant will detach very little from the ground it stands upon, if that ground be of a colour something similar to its own; and, _vice versâ_, that part of any white object which is nearest to a dark one, will appear the whitest, and the less so as it is removed from it; and any dark object will appear darker, the nearer it is to a white one; and less so, if removed from it. /Chap. CCCII./--_Why the Colour and Shape of Objects are lost in some Situations apparently dark, though not so in Reality._ /There/ are some situations which, though light, appear dark, and in which objects are deprived both of form and colour. This is caused by the great light which pervades the intervening air; as is observable by looking in through a window at some distance from the eye, when nothing is seen but an uniform darkish shade; but if we enter the house, we shall find that room to be full of light, and soon distinguish every small object contained within that window. This difference of effect is produced by the great brightness of the air, which contracts considerably the pupil of the eye, and by so doing diminishes its power. But in dark places the pupil is enlarged, and acquires as much in strength, as it increases in size. This is proved in my second proposition of perspective[73]. /Chap. CCCIII./--_Various Precepts in Painting._ /The/ termination and shape of the parts in general are very little seen, either in great masses of light, or of shadows; but those which are situated between the extremes of light and shade are the most distinct. Perspective, as far as it extends in regard to painting, is divided into three principal parts; the first consists in the diminution of size, according to distance; the second concerns the diminution of colours in such objects; and the third treats of the diminution of the perception altogether of those objects, and of the degree of precision they ought to exhibit at various distances. The azure of the sky is produced by a mixture composed of light and darkness[74]; I say of light, because of the moist particles floating in the air, which reflect the light. By darkness, I mean the pure air, which has none of these extraneous particles to stop and reflect the rays. Of this we see an example in the air interposed between the eye and some dark mountains, rendered so by the shadows of an innumerable quantity of trees; or else shaded on one side by the natural privation of the rays of the sun; this air becomes azure, but not so on the side of the mountain which is light, particularly when it is covered with snow. Among objects of equal darkness and equal distance, those will appear darker that terminate upon a lighter ground, and _vice versâ_[75]. That object which is painted with the most white and the most black, will shew greater relief than any other; for that reason I would recommend to painters to colour and dress their figures with the brightest and most lively colours; for if they are painted of a dull or obscure colour, they will detach but little, and not be much seen, when the picture is placed at some distance; because the colour of every object is obscured in the shades; and if it be represented as originally so all over, there will be but little difference between the lights and the shades, while lively colours will shew a striking difference. AERIAL PERSPECTIVE. /Chap. CCCIV./--_Aerial Perspective._ /There/ is another kind of perspective called aerial, because by the difference of the air it is easy to determine the distance of different objects, though seen on the same line; such, for instance, as buildings behind a wall, and appearing all of the same height above it. If in your picture you want to have one appear more distant than another, you must first suppose the air somewhat thick, because, as we have said before, in such a kind of air the objects seen at a great distance, as mountains are, appear blueish like the air, by means of the great quantity of air that interposes between the eye and such mountains. You will then paint the first building behind that wall of its proper colour; the next in point of distance, less distinct in the outline, and participating, in a greater degree, of the blueish colour of the air; another which you wish to send off as much farther, should be painted as much bluer; and if you wish one of them to appear five times farther removed beyond the wall, it must have five times more of the azure. By this rule these buildings which appeared all of the same size, and upon the same line, will be distinctly perceived to be of different dimensions, and at different distances. /Chap. CCCV./--_The Parts of the Smallest Objects will first disappear in Painting._ /Of/ objects receding from the eye the smallest will be the first lost to the sight; from which it follows, that the largest will be the last to disappear. The painter, therefore, ought not to finish the parts of those objects which are very far off, but follow the rule given in the sixth book[76]. How many, in the representation of towns, and other objects remote from the eye, express every part of the buildings in the same manner as if they were very near. It is not so in nature, because there is no sight so powerful as to perceive distinctly at any great distance the precise form of parts or extremities of objects. The painter therefore who pronounces the outlines, and the minute distinction of parts, as several have done, will not give the representation of distant objects, but by this error will make them appear exceedingly near. Again, the angles of buildings in distant towns are not to be expressed (for they cannot be seen), considering that angles are formed by the concurrence of two lines into one point, and that a point has no parts; it is therefore invisible. /Chap. CCCVI./--_Small Figures ought not to be too much finished._ /Objects/ appear smaller than they really are when they are distant from the eye, and because there is a great deal of air interposed, which weakens the appearance of forms, and, by a natural consequence, prevents our seeing distinctly the minute parts of such objects. It behoves the painter therefore to touch those parts slightly, in an unfinished manner; otherwise it would be against the effect of Nature, whom he has chosen for his guide. For, as we said before, objects appear small on account of their great distance from the eye; that distance includes a great quantity of air, which, forming a dense body, obstructs the light, and prevents our seeing the minute parts of the objects. /Chap. CCCVII./--_Why the Air is to appear whiter as it approaches nearer to the Earth._ /As/ the air is thicker nearer the earth, and becomes thinner as it rises, look, when the sun is in the east, towards the west, between the north and south, and you will perceive that the thickest and lowest air will receive more light from the sun than the thinner air, because its beams meet with more resistance. If the sky terminate low, at the end of a plain, that part of it nearest to the horizon, being seen only through the thick air, will alter and break its natural colour, and will appear whiter than over your head, where the visual ray does not pass through so much of that gross air, corrupted by earthy vapours. But if you turn towards the east, the air will be darker the nearer it approaches the earth; for the air being thicker, does not admit the light of the sun to pass so freely. /Chap. CCCVIII./--_How to paint the distant Part of a Landscape._ /It/ is evident that the air is in some parts thicker and grosser than in others, particularly that nearest to the earth; and as it rises higher, it becomes thinner and more transparent. The objects which are high and large, from which you are at some distance, will be less apparent in the lower parts; because the visual ray which perceives them, passes through a long space of dense air; and it is easy to prove that the upper parts are seen by a line, which, though on the side of the eye it originates in a thick air, nevertheless, as it ascends to the highest summit of its object, terminates in an air much thinner than that of the lower parts; and for that reason the more that line or visual ray advances from the eye, it becomes, in its progress from one point to another, thinner and thinner, passing from a pure air into another which is purer; so that a painter who has mountains to represent in a landscape, ought to observe, that from one hill to another, the tops will appear always clearer than the bases. In proportion as the distance from one to another is greater, the top will be clearer; and the higher they are, the more they will shew their variety of form and colour. /Chap. CCCIX./--_Of precise and confused Objects._ /The/ parts that are near in the fore-ground should be finished in a bold determined manner; but those in the distance must be unfinished, and confused in their outlines. /Chap. CCCX./--_Of distant Objects._ /That/ part of any object which is nearest to the luminary from which it receives the light, will be the lightest. The representation of an object in every degree of distance, loses degrees of its strength; that is, in proportion as the object is more remote from the eye it will be less perceivable through the air in its representation. /Chap. CCCXI./--_Of Buildings seen in a thick Air._ [Illustration] /That/ part of a building seen through a thick air, will appear less distinct than another part seen through a thinner air. Therefore the eye, N, looking at the tower A D, will see it more confusedly in the lower degrees, but at the same time lighter; and as it ascends to the other degrees it will appear more distinct, but somewhat darker. /Chap. CCCXII./--_Of Towns and other Objects seen through a thick Air._ [Illustration] /Buildings/ or towns seen through a fog, or the air made thick by smoke or other vapours, will appear less distinct the lower they are; and, _vice versâ_, they will be sharper and more visible in proportion as they are higher. We have said, in Chapter cccxxi. that the air is thicker the lower it is, and thinner as it is higher. It is demonstrated also by the cut, where the tower, A F, is seen by the eye N, in a thick air, from B to F, which is divided into four degrees, growing thicker as they are nearer the bottom. The less the quantity of air interposed between the eye and its object is, the less also will the colour of the object participate of the colour of that air. It follows, that the greater the quantity of the air interposed between the eye and the object seen, is, the more this object will participate of the colour of the air. It is demonstrated thus: N being the eye looking at the five parts of the tower A F, viz. A B C D E, I say, that if the air were of the same thickness, there would be the same proportion between the colour of the air at the bottom of the tower and the colour of the air that the same tower has at the place B, as there is in length between the line M and F. As, however, we have supposed that the air is not of equal thickness, but, on the contrary, thicker as it is lower, it follows, that the proportion by which the air tinges the different elevations of the tower B C F, exceeds the proportion of the lines; because the line M F, besides its being longer than the line S B, passes by unequal degrees through a quality of air which is unequal in thickness. /Chap. CCCXIII./--_Of the inferior Extremities of distant Objects._ /The/ inferior or lower extremities of distant objects are not so apparent as the upper extremities. This is observable in mountains and hills, the tops of which detach from the sides of other mountains behind. We see the tops of these more determined and distinctly than their bases; because the upper extremities are darker, being less encompassed by thick air, which always remains in the lower regions, and makes them appear dim and confused. It is the same with trees, buildings, and other objects high up. From this effect it often happens that a high tower, seen at a great distance, will appear broad at top, and narrow at bottom; because the thin air towards the top does not prevent the angles on the sides and other different parts of the tower from being seen, as the thick air does at bottom. This is demonstrated by the seventh proposition[77], which says, that the thick air interposed between the eye and the sun, is lighter below than above, and where the air is whiteish, it confuses the dark objects more than if such air were blueish or thinner, as it is higher up. The battlements of a fortress have the spaces between equal to the breadth of the battlement, and yet the space will appear wider; at a great distance the battlements will appear very much diminished, and being removed still farther, will disappear entirely, and the fort shew only the straight wall, as if there were no battlements. /Chap. CCCXIV./--_Which Parts of Objects disappear first by being removed farther from the Eye, and which preserve their Appearance._ /The/ smallest parts are those which, by being removed, lose their appearance first; this may be observed in the gloss upon spherical bodies, or columns, and the slender parts of animals; as in a stag, the first sight of which does not discover its legs and horns so soon as its body, which, being broader, will be perceived from a greater distance. But the parts which disappear the very first, are the lines which describe the members, and terminate the surface and shape of bodies. /Chap. CCCXV./--_Why Objects are less distinguished in proportion as they are farther removed from the Eye._ /This/ happens because the smallest parts are lost first; the second, in point of size, are also lost at a somewhat greater distance, and so on successively; the parts by degrees melting away, the perception of the object is diminished; and at last all the parts, and the whole, are entirely lost to the sight[78]. Colours also disappear on account of the density of the air interposed between the eye and the object. /Chap. CCCXVI./--_Why Faces appear dark at a Distance._ /It/ is evident that the similitude of all objects placed before us, large as well as small, is perceptible to our senses through the iris of the eye. If through so small an entrance the immensity of the sky and of the earth is admitted, the faces of men (which are scarcely any thing in comparison of such large objects), being still diminished by the distance, will occupy so little of the eye, that they become almost imperceptible. Besides, having to pass through a dark medium from the surface to the _Retina_ in the inside, where the impression is made, the colour of faces (not being very strong, and rendered still more obscure by the darkness of the tube) when arrived at the focus appears dark. No other reason can be given on that point, except that the speck in the middle of the apple of the eye is black, and, being full of a transparent fluid like air, performs the same office as a hole in a board, which on looking into it appears black; and that those things which are seen through both a light and dark air, become confused and obscure. /Chap. CCCXVII./--_Of Towns and other Buildings seen through a Fog in the Morning or Evening._ /Buildings/ seen afar off in the morning or in the evening, when there is a fog, or thick air, shew only those parts distinctly which are enlightened by the sun towards the horizon; and the parts of those buildings which are not turned towards the sun remain confused and almost of the colour of the fog. /Chap. CCCXVIII./--_Of the Height of Buildings seen in a Fog._ /Of/ a building near the eye the top parts will appear more confused than the bottom, because there is more fog between the eye and the top than at the base. And a square tower, seen at a great distance through a fog, will appear narrower at the base than at the summit. This is accounted for in Chapter cccxiii. which says, that the fog will appear whiter and thicker as it approaches the ground; and as it is said before[79], that a dark object will appear smaller in proportion as it is placed on a whiter ground. Therefore the fog being whiter at bottom than at top, it follows that the tower (being darkish) will appear narrower at the base than at the summit. /Chap. CCCXIX./--_Why Objects which are high, appear darker at a Distance than those which are low, though the Fog be uniform, and of equal Thickness._ /Amongst/ objects situated in a fog, thick air, vapour, smoke, or at a distance, the highest will be the most distinctly seen: and amongst objects equal in height, that placed in the darkest fog, will be most confused and dark. As it happens to the eye H, looking at A B C, three towers of equal height; it sees the top C as low as R, in two degrees of thickness; and the top B, in one degree only; therefore the top C will appear darker than the top of the tower B. [Illustration] /Chap. CCCXX./--_Of Objects seen in a Fog._ /Objects/ seen through a fog will appear larger than they are in reality, because the aerial perspective does not agree with the linear, viz. the colour does not agree with the magnitude of the object[80]; such a fog being similar to the thickness of air interposed between the eye and the horizon in fine weather. But in this case the fog is near the eye, and though the object be also near, it makes it appear as if it were as far off as the horizon; where a great tower would appear no bigger than a man placed near the eye. /Chap. CCCXXI./--_Of those Objects which the Eyes perceive through a Mist or thick Air._ /The/ nearer the air is to water, or to the ground, the thicker it becomes. It is proved by the nineteenth proposition of the second book[81], that bodies rise in proportion to their weight; and it follows, that a light body will rise higher than another which is heavy. /Chap. CCCXXII./--_Miscellaneous Observations._ /Of/ different objects equal in magnitude, form, shade, and distance from the eye, those will appear the smaller that are placed on the lighter ground. This is exemplified by observing the sun when seen behind a tree without leaves; all the ramifications seen against that great light are so diminished that they remain almost invisible. The same may be observed of a pole placed between the sun and the eye. Parallel bodies placed upright, and seen through a fog, will appear larger at top than at bottom. This is proved by the ninth proposition[82], which says, that a fog, or thick air, penetrated by the rays of the sun, will appear whiter the lower they are. Things seen afar off will appear out of proportion, because the parts which are the lightest will send their image with stronger rays than the parts which are darkest. I have seen a woman dressed in black, with a white veil over her head, which appeared twice as large as her shoulders covered with black. MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS. LANDSCAPE. /Chap. CCCXXIII./--_Of Objects seen at a Distance._ /Any/ dark object will appear lighter when removed to some distance from the eye. It follows, by the contrary reason, that a dark object will appear still darker when brought nearer to the eye. Therefore the inferior parts of any object whatever, placed in thick air, will appear farther from the eye at the bottom than at the top; for that reason the lower parts of a mountain appear farther off than its top, which is in reality the farthest. /Chap. CCCXXIV./--_Of a Town seen through a thick Air._ /The/ eye which, looking downwards, sees a town immersed in very thick air, will perceive the top of the buildings darker, but more distinct than the bottom. The tops detach against a light ground, because they are seen against the low and thick air which is beyond them. This is a consequence of what has been explained in the preceding chapter. /Chap. CCCXXV./--_How to draw a Landscape._ /Contrive/ that the trees in your landscape be half in shadow and half in the light. It is better to represent them as when the sun is veiled with thin clouds, because in that case the trees receive a general light from the sky, and are darkest in those parts which are nearest to the earth. /Chap. CCCXXVI./--_Of the Green of the Country._ /Of/ the greens seen in the country, that of trees and other plants will appear darker than that of fields and meadows, though they may happen to be of the same quality. /Chap. CCCXXVII./--_What Greens will appear most of a blueish Cast._ /Those/ greens will appear to approach nearest to blue which are of the darkest shade when remote. This is proved by the seventh proposition[83], which says, that blue is composed of black and white seen at a great distance. /Chap. CCCXXVIII./--_The Colour of the Sea from different Aspects._ /When/ the sea is a little ruffled it has no sameness of colour; for whoever looks at it from the shore, will see it of a dark colour, in a greater degree as it approaches towards the horizon, and will perceive also certain lights moving slowly on the surface like a flock of sheep. Whoever looks at the sea from on board a ship, at a distance from the land, sees it blue. Near the shore it appears darkish, on account of the colour of the earth reflected by the water, as in a looking-glass; but at sea the azure of the air is reflected to the eye by the waves in the same manner. /Chap. CCCXXIX./--_Why the same Prospect appears larger at some Times than at others._ /Objects/ in the country appear sometimes larger and sometimes smaller than they actually are, from the circumstance of the air interposed between the eye and the horizon, happening to be either thicker or thinner than usual. Of two horizons equally distant from the eye, that which is seen through the thicker air will appear farther removed; and the other will seem nearer, being seen through a thinner air. Objects of unequal size, but equally distant, will appear equal if the air which is between them and the eye be of proportionable inequality of thickness, viz. if the thickest air be interposed between the eye and the smallest of the objects. This is proved by the perspective of colours[84], which is so deceitful that a mountain which would appear small by the compasses, will seem larger than a small hill near the eye; as a finger placed near the eye will cover a large mountain far off. /Chap. CCCXXX./--_Of Smoke._ /Smoke/ is more transparent, though darker towards the extremities of its waves than in the middle. It moves in a more oblique direction in proportion to the force of the wind which impels it. Different kinds of smoke vary in colour, as the causes that produce them are various. Smoke never produces determined shadows, and the extremities are lost as they recede from their primary cause. Objects behind it are less apparent in proportion to the thickness of the smoke. It is whiter nearer its origin, and bluer towards its termination. Fire appears darker, the more smoke there is interposed between it and the eye. Where smoke is farther distant, the objects are less confused by it. It encumbers and dims all the landscape like a fog. Smoke is seen to issue from different places, with flames at the origin, and the most dense part of it. The tops of mountains will be more seen than the lower parts, as in a fog. /Chap. CCCXXXI./--_In what Part Smoke is lightest._ /Smoke/ which is seen between the sun and the eye will be lighter and more transparent than any other in the landscape. The same is observed of dust, and of fog; while, if you place yourself between the sun and those objects, they will appear dark. /Chap. CCCXXXII./--_Of the Sun-beams passing through the Openings of Clouds._ /The/ sun-beams which penetrate the openings interposed between clouds of various density and form, illuminate all the places over which they pass, and tinge with their own colour all the dark places that are behind: which dark places are only seen in the intervals between the rays. /Chap. CCCXXXIII./--_Of the Beginning of Rain._ /When/ the rain begins to fall, it tarnishes and darkens the air, giving it a dull colour, but receives still on one side a faint light from the sun, and is shaded on the other side, as we observe in clouds; till at last it darkens also the earth, depriving it entirely of the light of the sun. Objects seen through the rain appear confused and of undetermined shape, but those which are near will be more distinct. It is observable, that on the side where the rain is shaded, objects will be more clearly distinguished than where it receives the light; because on the shady side they lose only their principal lights, whilst on the other they lose both their lights and shadows, the lights mixing with the light part of the rain, and the shadows are also considerably weakened by it. /Chap. CCCXXXIV./--_The Seasons are to be observed._ /In/ Autumn you will represent the objects according as it is more or less advanced. At the beginning of it the leaves of the oldest branches only begin to fade, more or less, however, according as the plant is situated in a fertile or barren country; and do not imitate those who represent trees of every kind (though at equal distance) with the same quality of green. Endeavour to vary the colour of meadows, stones, trunks of trees, and all other objects, as much as possible, for Nature abounds in variety _ad infinitum_. /Chap. CCCXXXV./--_The Difference of Climates to be observed._ /Near/ the sea-shore, and in southern parts, you will be careful not to represent the Winter season by the appearance of trees and fields, as you would do in places more inland, and in northern countries, except when these are covered with ever-greens, which shoot afresh all the year round. /Chap. CCCXXXVI./--_Of Dust._ /Dust/ becomes lighter the higher it rises, and appears darker the less it is raised, when it is seen between the eye and the sun. /Chap. CCCXXXVII./--_How to represent the Wind._ /In/ representing the effect of the wind, besides the bending of trees, and leaves twisting the wrong side upwards, you will also express the small dust whirling upwards till it mixes in a confused manner with the air. /Chap. CCCXXXVIII./--_Of a Wilderness._ /Those/ trees and shrubs which are by their nature more loaded with small branches, ought to be touched smartly in the shadows, but those which have larger foliage, will cause broader shadows. /Chap. CCCXXXIX./--_Of the Horizon seen in the Water._ /By/ the sixth proposition[85], the horizon will be seen in the water as in a looking-glass, on that side which is opposite the eye. And if the painter has to represent a spot covered with water, let him remember that the colour of it cannot be either lighter or darker than that of the neighbouring objects. /Chap. CCCXL./--_Of the Shadow of Bridges on the Surface of the Water._ /The/ shadows of bridges can never be seen on the surface of the water, unless it should have lost its transparent and reflecting quality, and become troubled and muddy; because clear water being polished and smooth on its surface, the image of the bridge is formed in it as in a looking-glass, and reflected in all the points situated between the eye and the bridge at equal angles; and even the air is seen under the arches. These circumstances cannot happen when the water is muddy, because it does not reflect the objects any longer, but receives the shadow of the bridge in the same manner as a dusty road would receive it. /Chap. CCCXLI./--_How a Painter ought to put in Practice the Perspective of Colours._ /To/ put in practice that perspective which teaches the alteration, the lessening, and even the entire loss of the very essence of colours, you must take some points in the country at the distance of about sixty-five yards[86] from each other; as trees, men, or some other remarkable objects. In regard to the first tree, you will take a glass, and having fixed that well, and also your eye, draw upon it, with the greatest accuracy, the tree you see through it; then put it a little on one side, and compare it closely with the natural one, and colour it, so that in shape and colour it may resemble the original, and that by shutting one eye they may both appear painted, and at the same distance. The same rule may be applied to the second and third tree at the distance you have fixed. These studies will be very useful if managed with judgment, where they may be wanted in the offscape of a picture. I have observed that the second tree is less by four fifths than the first, at the distance of thirteen yards. /Chap. CCCXLII./--_Various Precepts in Painting._ /The/ superficies of any opake body participates of the colour of the transparent medium interposed between the eye and such body, in a greater or less degree, in proportion to the density of such medium and the space it occupies. The outlines of opake bodies will be less apparent in proportion as those bodies are farther distant from the eye. That part of the opake body will be the most shaded, or lightest, which is nearest to the body that shades it, or gives it light. The surface of any opake body participates more or less of the colour of that body which gives it light, in proportion as the latter is more or less remote, or more or less strong. Objects seen between lights and shadows will appear to have greater relievo than those which are placed wholly in the light, or wholly in shadow. When you give strength and precision to objects seen at a great distance, they will appear as if they were very near. Endeavour that your imitation be such as to give a just idea of distances. If the object in nature appear confused in the outlines, let the same be observed in your picture. The outlines of distant objects appear undetermined and confused, for two reasons: the first is, that they come to the eye by so small an angle, and are therefore so much diminished, that they strike the sight no more than small objects do, which though near can hardly be distinguished, such as the nails of the fingers, insects, and other similar things: the second is, that between the eye and the distant objects there is so much air interposed, that it becomes thick; and, like a veil, tinges the shadows with its own whiteness, and turns them from a dark colour to another between black and white, such as azure. Although, by reason of the great distance, the appearance of many things is lost, yet those things which receive the light from the sun will be more discernible, while the rest remain enveloped in confused shadows. And because the air is thicker near the ground, the things which are lower will appear confused; and _vice versâ_. When the sun tinges the clouds on the horizon with red, those objects which, on account of their distance, appear blueish, will participate of that redness, and will produce a mixture between the azure and red, which renders the prospect lively and pleasant; all the opake bodies which receive that light will appear distinct, and of a reddish colour, and the air, being transparent, will be impregnated with it, and appear of the colour of lilies[87]. The air which is between the earth and the sun when it rises or sets, will always dim the objects it surrounds, more than the air any where else, because it is whiter. It is not necessary to mark strongly the outlines of any object which is placed upon another. It ought to detach of itself. If the outline or extremity of a white and curved surface terminate upon another white body, it will have a shade at that extremity, darker than any part of the light; but if against a dark object, such outline, or extremity, will be lighter than any part of the light. Those objects which are most different in colour, will appear the most detached from each other. Those parts of objects which first disappear in the distance, are extremities similar in colour, and ending one upon the other, as the extremities of an oak tree upon another oak similar to it. The next to disappear at a greater distance are, objects of mixed colours, when they terminate one upon the other, as trees, ploughed fields, walls, heaps of rubbish, or of stones. The last extremities of bodies that vanish are those which, being light, terminate upon a dark ground; or being dark, upon a light ground. Of objects situated above the eye, at equal heights, the farthest removed from the eye will appear the lowest; and if situated below the eye, the nearest to it will appear the lowest. The parallel lines situated sidewise will concur to one point[88]. Those objects which are near a river, or a lake, in the distant part of a landscape, are less apparent and distinct than those that are remote from them. Of bodies of equal density, those that are nearest to the eye will appear thinnest, and the most remote thickest. A large eye-ball will see objects larger than a small one. The experiment may be made by looking at any of the celestial bodies, through a pin-hole, which being capable of admitting but a portion of its light, it seems to diminish and lose of its size in the same proportion as the pin-hole is smaller than the usual apparent size of the object. A thick air interposed between the eye and any object, will render the outlines of such object undetermined and confused, and make it appear of a larger size than it is in reality; because the linear perspective does not diminish the angle which conveys the object to the eye. The aerial perspective carries it farther off, so that the one removes it from the eye, while the other preserves its magnitude[89]. When the sun is in the West the vapours of the earth fall down again and thicken the air, so that objects not enlightened by the sun remain dark and confused, but those which receive its light will be tinged yellow and red, according to the sun's appearance on the horizon. Again, those that receive its light are very distinct, particularly public buildings and houses in towns and villages, because their shadows are dark, and it seems as if those parts which are plainly seen were coming out of confused and undetermined foundations, because at that time every thing is of one and the same colour, except what is enlightened by the sun[90]. Any object receiving the light from the sun, receives also the general light; so that two kinds of shadows are produced: the darkest of the two is that which happens to have its central line directed towards the centre of the sun. The central lines of the primitive and secondary lights are the same as the central lines of the primitive and secondary shadows. The setting sun is a beautiful and magnificent object when it tinges with its colour all the great buildings of towns, villages, and the top of high trees in the country. All below is confused and almost lost in a tender and general mass; for, being only enlightened by the air, the difference between the shadows and the lights is small, and for that reason it is not much detached. But those that are high are touched by the rays of the sun, and, as was said before, are tinged with its colour; the painter therefore ought to take the same colour with which he has painted the sun, and employ it in all those parts of his work which receive its light. It also happens very often, that a cloud will appear dark without receiving any shadow from a separate cloud, according to the situation of the eye; because it will see only the shady part of the one, while it sees both the enlightened and shady parts of the other. Of two objects at equal height, that which is the farthest off will appear the lowest. Observe the first cloud in the cut, though it is lower than the second, it appears as if it were higher. This is demonstrated by the section of the pyramidical rays of the low cloud at M A, and the second (which is higher) at N M, below M A. This happens also when, on account of the rays of the setting or rising sun, a dark cloud appears higher than another which is light. [Illustration] /Chap. CCCXLIII./--_The Brilliancy of a Landscape._ /The/ vivacity and brightness of colours in a landscape will never bear any comparison with a landscape in nature when illumined by the sun, unless the picture be placed so as to receive the same light from the sun itself. MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS. /Chap. CCCXLIV./--_Why a painted Object does not appear so far distant as a real one, though they be conveyed to the Eye by equal Angles._ [Illustration] /If/ a house be painted on the pannel B C, at the apparent distance of one mile, and by the side of it a real one be perceived at the true distance of one mile also; which objects are so disposed, that the pannel, or picture, A C, intersects the pyramidical rays with the same opening of angles; yet these two objects will never appear of the same size, nor at the same distance, if seen with both eyes[91]. /Chap. CCCXLV./--_How to draw a Figure standing upon its Feet, to appear forty Braccia_[92] _high, in a Space of twenty Braccia, with proportionate Members._ /In/ this, as in any other case, the painter is not to mind what kind of surface he has to work upon; particularly if his painting is to be seen from a determined point, such as a window, or any other opening. Because the eye is not to attend to the evenness or roughness of the wall, but only to what is to be represented as beyond that wall; such as a landscape, or any thing else. Nevertheless a curved surface, such as F R G, would be the best, because it has no angles. [Illustration] /Chap. CCCXLVI./--_How to draw a Figure twenty-four Braccia high, upon a Wall twelve Braccia high._ Plate XXII. /Draw/ upon part of the wall M N, half the figure you mean to represent; and the other half upon the cove above, M R. But before that, it will be necessary to draw upon a flat board, or a paper, the profile of the wall and cove, of the same shape and dimension, as that upon which you are to paint. Then draw also the profile of your figure, of whatever size you please, by the side of it; draw all the lines to the point F, and where they intersect the profile M R, you will have the dimensions of your figure as they ought to be drawn upon the real spot. You will find, that on the straight part of the wall M N, it will come of its proper form, because the going off perpendicularly will diminish it naturally; but that part which comes upon the curve will be diminished upon your drawing. The whole must be traced afterwards upon the real spot, which is similar to M N. This is a good and safe method. [Illustration: _Page 196_. _Chap. 346_. _Plate 22_. _London, Published by J. Taylor High Holborn._] /Chap. CCCXLVII./--_Why, on measuring a Face, and then painting it of the same Size, it will appear larger than the natural one._ A B is the breadth of the space, or of the head, and it is placed on the paper at the distance C F, where the cheeks are, and it would have to stand back all A C, and then the temples would be carried to the distance O R of the lines A F, B F; so that there is the difference C O and R D. It follows that the line C F, and the line D F, in order to become shorter[93], have to go and find the paper where the whole height is drawn, that is to say, the lines F A, and F B, where the true size is; and so it makes the difference, as I have said, of C O, and R D. [Illustration] /Chap. CCCXLVIII./--_Why the most perfect Imitation of Nature will not appear to have the same Relief as Nature itself._ /If/ nature is seen with two eyes, it will be impossible to imitate it upon a picture so as to appear with the same relief, though the lines, the lights, shades, and colour, be perfectly imitated[94]. It is proved thus: let the eyes A B, look at the object C, with the concurrence of both the central visual rays A C and B C. I say, that the sides of the visual angles (which contain these central rays) will see the space G D, behind the object C. The eye A will see all the space FD, and the eye B all the space G E. Therefore the two eyes will see behind the object C all the space F E; for which reason that object C becomes as it were transparent, according to the definition of transparent bodies, behind which nothing is hidden. This cannot happen if an object were seen with one eye only, provided it be larger than the eye. From all that has been said, we may conclude, that a painted object, occupying all the space it has behind, leaves no possible way to see any part of the ground, which it covers entirely by its own circumference[95]. [Illustration] /Chap. CCCXLIX./--_Universality of Painting; a Precept._ /A painter/ cannot be said to aim at universality in the art, unless he love equally every species of that art. For instance, if he delight only in landscape, his can be esteemed only as a simple investigation; and, as our friend Botticello[96] remarks, is but a vain study; since, by throwing a sponge impregnated with various colours against a wall, it leaves some spots upon it, which may appear like a landscape. It is true also, that a variety of compositions may be seen in such spots, according to the disposition of mind with which they are considered; such as heads of men, various animals, battles, rocky scenes, seas, clouds, woods, and the like. It may be compared to the sound of bells, which may seem to say whatever we choose to imagine. In the same manner also, those spots may furnish hints for compositions, though they do not teach us how to finish any particular part; and the imitators of them are but sorry landscape-painters. /Chap. CCCL./--_In what Manner the Mirror is the true Master of Painters._ /When/ you wish to know if your picture be like the object you mean to represent, have a flat looking-glass, and place it so as to reflect the object you have imitated, and compare carefully the original with the copy. You see upon a flat mirror the representation of things which appear real; Painting is the same. They are both an even superficies, and both give the idea of something beyond their superficies. Since you are persuaded that the looking-glass, by means of lines and shades, gives you the representation of things as if they were real; you being in possession of colours which in their different lights and shades are stronger than those of the looking-glass, may certainly, if you employ the rules with judgment, give to your picture the same appearance of Nature as you admire in the looking-glass. Or rather, your picture will be like Nature itself seen in a large looking-glass. This looking-glass (being your master) will shew you the lights and shades of any object whatever. Amongst your colours there are some lighter than the lightest part of your model, and also some darker than the strongest shades; from which it follows, that you ought to represent Nature as seen in your looking-glass, when you look at it with one eye only; because both eyes surround the objects too much, particularly when they are small[97]. /Chap. CCCLI./--_Which Painting is to be esteemed the best._ /That/ painting is the most commendable which has the greatest conformity to what is meant to be imitated. This kind of comparison will often put to shame a certain description of painters, who pretend they can mend the works of Nature; as they do, for instance, when they pretend to represent a child twelve months old, giving him eight heads in height, when Nature in its best proportion admits but five. The breadth of the shoulders also, which is equal to the head, they make double, giving to a child a year old, the proportions of a man of thirty. They have so often practised, and seen others practise these errors, that they have converted them into habit, which has taken so deep a root in their corrupted judgment, that they persuade themselves that Nature and her imitators are wrong in not following their own practice[98]. /Chap. CCCLII./--_Of the Judgment to be made of a Painter's Work._ /The/ first thing to be considered is, whether the figures have their proper relief, according to their respective situations, and the light they are in: that the shadows be not the same at the extremities of the groups, as in the middle; because being surrounded by shadows, or shaded only on one side, produce very different effects. The groups in the middle are surrounded by shadows from the other figures, which are between them and the light. Those which are at the extremities have the shadows only on one side, and receive the light on the other. The strongest and smartest touches of shadows are to be in the interstice between the figures of the principal group where the light cannot penetrate[99]. Secondly, that by the order and disposition of the figures they appear to be accommodated to the subject, and the true representation of the history in question. Thirdly, that the figures appear alive to the occasion which brought them together, with expressions suited to their attitudes. /Chap. CCCLIII./--_How to make an imaginary Animal appear natural._ /It/ is evident that it will be impossible to invent any animal without giving it members, and these members must individually resemble those of some known animal. If you wish, therefore, to make a chimera, or imaginary animal, appear natural (let us suppose a serpent); take the head of a mastiff, the eyes of a cat, the ears of a porcupine, the mouth of a hare, the brows of a lion, the temples of an old cock, and the neck of a sea tortoise[100]. /Chap. CCCLIV./--_Painters are not to imitate one another._ /One/ painter ought never to imitate the manner of any other; because in that case he cannot be called the child of Nature, but the grandchild. It is always best to have recourse to Nature, which is replete with such abundance of objects, than to the productions of other masters, who learnt every thing from her. /Chap. CCCLV./--_How to judge of one's own Work._ /It/ is an acknowledged fact, that we perceive errors in the works of others more readily than in our own. A painter, therefore, ought to be well instructed in perspective, and acquire a perfect knowledge of the dimensions of the human body; he should also be a good architect, at least as far as concerns the outward shape of buildings, with their different parts; and where he is deficient, he ought not to neglect taking drawings from Nature. It will be well also to have a looking-glass by him, when he paints, to look often at his work in it, which being seen the contrary way, will appear as the work of another hand, and will better shew his faults. It will be useful also to quit his work often, and take some relaxation, that his judgment may be clearer at his return; for too great application and sitting still is sometimes the cause of many gross errors. /Chap. CCCLVI./--_Of correcting Errors which you discover._ /Remember/, that when, by the exercise of your own judgment, or the observation of others, you discover any errors in your work, you immediately set about correcting them, lest, in exposing your works to the public, you expose your defects also. Admit not any self-excuse, by persuading yourself that you shall retrieve your character, and that by some succeeding work you shall make amends for your shameful negligence; for your work does not perish as soon as it is out of your hands, like the sound of music, but remains a standing monument of your ignorance. If you excuse yourself by saying that you have not time for the study necessary to form a great painter, having to struggle against necessity, you yourself are only to blame; for the study of what is excellent is food both for mind and body. How many philosophers, born to great riches, have given them away, that they might not be retarded in their pursuits! /Chap. CCCLVII./--_The best Place for looking at a Picture._ /Let/ us suppose, that A B is the picture, receiving the light from D; I say, that whoever is placed between C and E, will see the picture very badly, particularly if it be painted in oil, or varnished; because it will shine, and will appear almost of the nature of a looking-glass. For these reasons, the nearer you go towards C, the less you will be able to see, because of the light from the window upon the picture, sending its reflection to that point. But if you place yourself between E D, you may conveniently see the picture, and the more so as you draw nearer to the point D, because that place is less liable to be struck by the reflected rays. [Illustration] /Chap. CCCLVIII./--_Of Judgment._ /There/ is nothing more apt to deceive us than our own judgment, in deciding on our own works; and we should derive more advantage from having our faults pointed out by our enemies, than by hearing the opinions of our friends, because they are too much like ourselves, and may deceive us as much as our own judgment. /Chap. CCCLIX./--_Of Employment anxiously wished for by Painters._ /And/ you, painter, who are desirous of great practice, understand, that if you do not rest it on the good foundation of Nature, you will labour with little honour and less profit; and if you do it on a good ground your works will be many and good, to your great honour and advantage. /Chap. CCCLX./--_Advice to Painters._ /A painter/ ought to study universal Nature, and reason much within himself on all he sees, making use of the most excellent parts that compose the species of every object before him. His mind will by this method be like a mirror, reflecting truly every object placed before it, and become, as it were, a second Nature. /Chap. CCCLXI./--_Of Statuary._ /To/ execute a figure in marble, you must first make a model of it in clay, or plaster, and when it is finished, place it in a square case, equally capable of receiving the block of marble intended to be shaped like it. Have some peg-like sticks to pass through holes made in the sides, and all round the case; push them in till every one touches the model, marking what remains of the sticks outwards with ink, and making a countermark to every stick and its hole, so that you may at pleasure replace them again. Then having taken out the model, and placed the block of marble in its stead, take so much out of it, till all the pegs go in at the same holes to the marks you had made. To facilitate the work, contrive your frame so that every part of it, separately, or all together, may be lifted up, except the bottom, which must remain under the marble. By this method you may chop it off with great facility[101]. /Chap. CCCLXII./--_On the Measurement and Division of Statues into Parts._ /Divide/ the head into twelve parts, each part into twelve degrees, each degree into twelve minutes, and these minutes into seconds[102]. /Chap. CCCLXIII./--_A Precept for the Painter._ /The/ painter who entertains no doubt of his own ability, will attain very little. When the work succeeds beyond the judgment, the artist acquires nothing; but when the judgment is superior to the work, he never ceases improving, if the love of gain do not retard his progress. /Chap. CCCLXIV./--_On the Judgment of Painters._ /When/ the work is equal to the knowledge and judgment of the painter, it is a bad sign; and when it surpasses the judgment, it is still worse, as is the case with those who wonder at having succeeded so well. But when the judgment surpasses the work, it is a perfectly good sign; and the young painter who possesses that rare disposition, will, no doubt, arrive at great perfection. He will produce few works, but they will be such as to fix the admiration of every beholder. /Chap. CCCLXV./--_That a Man ought not to trust to himself, but ought to consult Nature._ /Whoever/ flatters himself that he can retain in his memory all the effects of Nature, is deceived, for our memory is not so capacious; therefore consult Nature for every thing. THE END. BOOKS _PRINTED FOR J. TAYLOR._ 1. SKETCHES for COUNTRY HOUSES, VILLAS, and RURAL DWELLINGS; calculated for Persons of moderate Income, and for comfortable Retirement. Also some Designs for Cottages, which may be constructed of the simplest Materials; with Plans and general Estimates. By /John Plaw/. Elegantly engraved in Aquatinta on Forty-two Plates. Quarto, 1_l._ 11_s._ 6_d._ in boards. 2. FERME ORNÉE, or RURAL IMPROVEMENTS; a Series of domestic and ornamental Designs, suited to Parks, Plantations, Rides, Walks, Rivers, Farms, &c. consisting of Fences, Paddock-houses, a Bath, Dog-kennels, Pavilions, Farm-yards, Fishing-houses, Sporting-boxes, Shooting-lodges, single and double Cottages, &c. calculated for landscape and picturesque Effects. By /John Plaw/, Architect. Engraved in Aquatinta, on Thirty-eight Plates, with appropriate Scenery, Plans, and Explanations. Quarto; in boards, 1_l._ 11_s._ 6_d._ 3. RURAL ARCHITECTURE, or Designs from the simple Cottage to the decorated Villa, including some which have been executed. By /John Plaw/. On Sixty-two Plates, with Scenery, in Aquatinta. Half-bound, 2_l._ 2_s._ 4. HINTS for DWELLINGS, consisting of original Designs for Cottages, Farm-houses, Villas, &c. Plain and Ornamental; with Plans to each, in which strict Attention is paid, to unite Convenience and Elegance with Economy. Including some Designs for Town-houses. By /D. Laing/, Architect and Surveyor. Elegantly engraved on Thirty-four Plates in Aquatinta, with appropriate Scenery, Quarto, 1_l._ 5_s._ in boards. 5. SKETCHES for COTTAGES, VILLAS, &c. with their Plans and appropriate Scenery. By /John Soane/. To which are added, Six Designs for improving and embellishing Grounds, with Explanations by an Amateur, on Fifty-four Plates, elegantly engraved in Aquatinta; Folio, 2_l._ 12_s._ 6_d._ half-bound. 6. THE ARCHITECT and BUILDER's MISCELLANY, or Pocket Library; containing original picturesque Designs, in Architecture, for Cottages, Farm, Country, and Town Houses, Public Buildings, Temples, Green-houses, Bridges, Lodges, and Gates for Entrances to Parks and Pleasure-grounds, Stables, Monumental Tombs, Garden Seats, &c. By /Charles Middleton/, Architect; on Sixty Plates, Octavo, coloured, 1_l._ 1_s._ bound. 7. DESIGNS for GATES and RAILS, suitable to Parks, Pleasure-grounds, Balconies, &c. Also some Designs for Trellis Work, on Twenty-seven Plates. By /C. Middleton/, 6_s._ Octavo. Printed by /S. Gosnell/, Little Queen Street, Holborn, London. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote i1: Vasari, Vite de Pittori, edit. Della Valle, 8vo. Siena 1792, vol. v. p. 22. Du Fresne, in the life prefixed to the Italian editions of this Treatise on Painting. Venturi, Essai sur les Ouvrages de Leonard de Vinci, 4to. Paris, 1797, p. 3, 36.] [Footnote i2: Venturi, p. 3.] [Footnote i3: Vasari, 23.] [Footnote i4: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i5: Du Fresne. Vasari, 25.] [Footnote i6: Vasari, 26. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i7: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i8: Vasari, 26.] [Footnote i9: Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i10: Du Fresne. Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i11: Du Fresne. Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i12: Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i13: It is impossible in a translation to preserve the jingle between the name Vinci, and the Latin verb _vincit_ which occurs in the original.] [Footnote i14: Du Fresne, Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i15: Vasari, 22.] [Footnote i16: Vasari, 22 and 23.] [Footnote i17: Lomazzo, Trattato della Pittura, p. 282.] [Footnote i18: Vasari, 23. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i19: Venturi, 37.] [Footnote i20: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i21: Venturi, 36.] [Footnote i22: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i23: Vasari, 30. Lettere Pittoriche, vol. ii. p. 184.] [Footnote i24: Venturi, 3.] [Footnote i25: Suppl. to Life of L. da Vinci, in Vasari, 65. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i26: Venturi, 36; who mentions also, that Leonardo at this time constructed a machine for the theatre.] [Footnote i27: Venturi, p. 44.] [Footnote i28: Suppl. in Vasari, 74.] [Footnote i29: Suppl. in Vasari, 63.] [Footnote i30: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i31: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i32: De Piles, in the Life of Leonardo. See Lettere Pittoriche, vol. ii. p. 187.] [Footnote i33: Lettere Pittoriche, vol. ii. p. 187.] [Footnote i34: Du Fresne. Lettere Pitt. vol. ii. p. 186.] [Footnote i35: Vasari, 31, in a note.] [Footnote i36: Let. Pit. vol. ii. 183.] [Footnote i37: Additions to the Life in Vasari, 53. My worthy friend, Mr. Rigaud, who has more than once seen the original picture, gives this account of it: "The cutting of the wall for the sake of opening a door, was no doubt the effect of ignorance and barbarity, but it did not materially injure the painting; it only took away some of the feet under the table, entirely shaded. The true value of this picture consists in what was seen above the table. The door is only four feet wide, and cuts off only about two feet of the lower part of the picture. More damage has been done by subsequent quacks, who, within my own time, have undertaken to repair it."] [Footnote i38: Additions to the Life in Vasari, 53.] [Footnote i39: COPIES EXISTING IN MILAN OR ELSEWHERE. No. 1. That in the refectory of the fathers Osservanti della Pace: it was painted on the wall in 1561, by Gio. Paolo Lomazzo. 2. Another, copied on board, as a picture in the refectory of the Chierici Regolari di S. Paolo, in their college of St. Barnabas. This is perhaps the most beautiful that can be seen, only that it is not finished lower than the knees, and is in size about one eighth of the original. 3. Another on canvas, which was first in the church of S. Fedele, by Agostino S. Agostino, for the refectory of the Jesuits: since their suppression, it exists in that of the Orfani a S. Pietro, in Gessate. 4. Another of the said Lomazzo's, painted on the wall in the monastery Maggiore, very fine, and in good preservation. 5. Another on canvas, by an uncertain artist, with only the heads and half the bodies, in the Ambrosian library. 6. Another in the Certosa di Pavia, done by Marco d'Ogionno, a scholar of Leonardo's, on the wall. 7. Another in the possession of the monks Girolamini di Castellazzo fuori di Porta Lodovica, of the hand of the same Ogionno. 8. Another copy of this Last Supper in the refectory of the fathers of St. Benedict of Mantua. It was painted by Girolamo Monsignori, a Dominican friar, who studied much the works of Leonardo, and copied them excellently. 9. Another in the refectory of the fathers Osservanti di Lugano, of the hand of Bernardino Lovino; a valuable work, and much esteemed as well for its neatness and perfect imitation of the original, as for its own integrity, and being done by a scholar of Leonardo's. 10. A beautiful drawing of this famous picture is, or was lately, in the possession of Sig. Giuseppe Casati, king at arms. Supposed to be either the original design by Leonardo himself, or a sketch by one of his best scholars, to be used in painting some copy on a wall, or on canvas. It is drawn with a pen, on paper larger than usual, with a mere outline heightened with bistre. 11. Another in the refectory of the fathers Girolamini, in the monastery of St. Laurence, in the Escurial in Spain. It was presented to King Philip II. while he was in Valentia; and by his order placed in the said room where the monks dine, and is believed to be by some able scholar of Leonardo. 12. Another in St. Germain d'Auxerre, in France; ordered by King Francis I. when he came to Milan, and found he could not remove the original. There is reason to think this the work of Bernardino Lovino. 13. Another in France, in the castle of Escovens, in the possession of the Constable Montmorency. The original drawing for this picture is in the possession of his Britannic Majesty. See the life prefixed to Mr. Chamberlaine's publication of the Designs of Leonardo da Vinci, p. 5. An engraving from it is among those which Mr. Rogers published from drawings.] [Footnote i40: Vasari, 34. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i41: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i42: Vasari, 36. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i43: Vasari, 37. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i44: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i45: Suppl. in Vasari, 64.] [Footnote i46: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i47: Suppl. in Vasari, 75, 76, 77, 78.] [Footnote i48: Vasari, 38. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i49: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i50: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i51: Vasari, 39. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i52: Vasari, 39. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i53: Vasari, 39. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i54: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i55: Supp. in Vasari, 81.] [Footnote i56: Suppl. in Vasari, 68.] [Footnote i57: Vasari, 42. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i58: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i59: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i60: Venturi, 37.] [Footnote i61: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i62: Venturi, 37.] [Footnote i63: Venturi, 38.] [Footnote i64: Venturi, 37.] [Footnote i65: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i66: Venturi, 38.] [Footnote i67: Venturi, 38.] [Footnote i68: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i69: Vasari, 44. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i70: Vasari, 44. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i71: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i72: Suppl. in Vasari, 79, 80.] [Footnote i73: Suppl. in Vasari, 80.] [Footnote i74: Suppl. in Vasari, 65.] [Footnote i75: Vasari, 45. Du Fresne.] [Footnote i76: Venturi, 39. Suppl. in Vasari, 80.] [Footnote i77: Venturi, p. 4.] [Footnote i78: Sect. 1. Of the Descent of heavy Bodies, combined with the Rotation of the Earth. 2. Of the Earth divided into Particles. 3. Of the Earth and the Moon. 4. Of the Action of the Sun on the Sea. 5. Of the ancient State of the Earth. 6. Of the Flame and the Air. 7. Of Statics. 8. Of the Descent of heavy Bodies by inclined Planes. 9. Of the Water which one draws from a Canal. 10. Of Whirlpools. 11. Of Vision. 12. Of military Architecture. 13. Of some Instruments. 14. Two chymical Processes. 15. Of Method.] [Footnote i79: See the Life prefixed to Mr. Chamberlaine's publication of the Designs of Leonardo da Vinci, p. 11.] [Footnote i80: Fac similes of some of the pages of the original work, are also to be found in this publication.] [Footnote i81: P. 33.] [Footnote i82: "J. A. Mazenta died in 1635. He gave the designs for the fortifications of Livorno in Tuscany; and has written on the method of rendering the Adda navigable. Argelati Script. Mediol. vol. ii." Venturi, 33.] [Footnote i83: "We shall see afterwards that this man was Leonardo's heir: he had carried back these writings and drawings from France to Milan." Venturi, 34.] [Footnote i84: "This was in 1587." Venturi, p. 34.] [Footnote i85: "J. Amb. Mazenta made himself a Barnabite in 1590." Venturi, 34.] [Footnote i86: "The drawings and books of Vinci are come for the most part into the hands of Pompeo Leoni, who has obtained them from the son of Francisco Melzo. There are some also of these books in the possession of Guy Mazenta Lomazzo, Tempio della Pittura, in 4^o, Milano 1590, page 17." Venturi, 35.] [Footnote i87: "It is volume C. There is printed on it in gold, _Vidi Mazenta Patritii Mediolanensis liberalitate An. 1603_." Venturi, 35.] [Footnote i88: "He died in 1613." Venturi, 35.] [Footnote i89: "This is volume N, in the National Library. It is in folio, of a large size, and has 392 leaves: it bears on the cover this title: _Disegni di Macchine delle Arti secreti et altre Cose di Leonardo da Vinci, raccolte da Pompeo Leoni_." Venturi, 35.] [Footnote i90: P. 36.] [Footnote i91: "A memorial is preserved of this liberality by an inscription." Venturi, 36.] [Footnote i92: "This is marked at p. 1 of the same volume." Venturi, 36.] [Footnote i93: Venturi, 36.] [Footnote i94: "Lettere Pittoriche, vol. ii." Venturi, 36.] [Footnote i95: P. 36. His authority is Gerli, Disegni del Vinci, Milano, 1784, fol.] [Footnote i96: P. 42.] [Footnote i97: It is said, that this compilation is now in the Albani library. Venturi, 42.] [Footnote i98: The sketches to illustrate his meaning, were probably in Leonardo's original manuscripts so slight as to require that more perfect drawings should be made from them before they could be fit for publication.] [Footnote i99: The identical manuscript of this Treatise, formerly belonging to Mons. Chardin, one of the two copies from which the edition in Italian was printed, is now the property of Mr. Edwards of Pall Mall. Judging by the chapters as there numbered, it would appear to contain more than the printed edition; but this is merely owing to the circumstance that some of those which in the manuscript stand as distinct chapters, are in the printed edition consolidated together.] [Footnote i100: Vasari, p. 37, gives the initials N. N.] [Footnote i101: Which Venturi, p. 6, professes his intention of publishing from the manuscript collections of Leonardo.] [Footnote i102: Bibliotheca Smithiana, 4to. Ven. 1755. Venturi, 44.] [Footnote i103: Libreria Nani, 4to. Ven. 1776. Venturi, 44.] [Footnote i104: Gori Simbolæ literar. Flor. 1751, vol. viii. p. 66. Venturi, 44.] [Footnote i105: See his Traité des Pratiques Geometrales et Perspectives, 8vo. Paris, 1665.] [Footnote i106: P. 128.] [Footnote i107: P. 134.] [Footnote i108: He observed criminals when led to execution (Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 182; on the authority of Lomazzo); noted down any countenance that struck him (Vasari, 29); in forming the animal for the shield, composed it of parts selected from different real animals (Vasari, p. 27); and when he wanted characteristic heads, resorted to Nature (Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 181). All which methods are recommended by him in the course of the Treatise on Painting.] [Footnote i109: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i110: Venturi, 35, in a note.] [Footnote i111: Vasari, 23.] [Footnote i112: Vasari, 24.] [Footnote i113: Suppl. in Vasari, 67.] [Footnote i114: Vasari, 23.] [Footnote i115: Ibid.] [Footnote i116: Vasari, 45.] [Footnote i117: Additions to the life in Vasari, p. 47.] [Footnote i118: Suppl. in Vasari, 74.] [Footnote i119: Vasari, 24.] [Footnote i120: Vasari, 26.] [Footnote i121: Vasari, 29.] [Footnote i122: Additions to the life in Vasari, 61.] [Footnote i123: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 171.] [Footnote i124: Vasari, 29.] [Footnote i125: Ibid.] [Footnote i126: Ibid.] [Footnote i127: Venturi, 42.] [Footnote i128: Vasari, 39. In a note in Lettere Pittoriche, vol. ii. p. 174, on the before cited letter of Mariette, it is said that Bernardino Lovino was a scholar of Leonardo, and had in his possession the carton of St. Ann, which Leonardo had made for a picture which he was to paint in the church della Nunziata, at Florence. Francis I. got possession of it, and was desirous that Leonardo should execute it when he came into France, but without effect. It is known it was not done, as this carton went to Milan. Lomazzo, lib. ii. cap. 17. Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 174, in a note. A carton similar to this is now in the library of the Royal Academy, at London.] [Footnote i129: Vasari, p. 39, in a note.] [Footnote i130: Vasari, 41. In the suppl. to the life, Vasari, 68, the subject painted in the council-chamber at Florence is said to be the wonderful battle against Attila.] [Footnote i131: Du Fresne. Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i132: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i133: Additions to the Life in Vasari, 48.] [Footnote i134: Ibid.] [Footnote i135: Additions to the Life in Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i136: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 198.] [Footnote i137: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. p. 200.] [Footnote i138: Additions to the Life in Vasari, 68.] [Footnote i139: Ibid.] [Footnote i140: Ibid.] [Footnote i141: Ibid.] [Footnote i142: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 198.] [Footnote i143: Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i144: The Datary is the Pope's officer who nominates to vacant benefices.] [Footnote i145: Vasari, 44.] [Footnote i146: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i147: Du Fresne. Additions in Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i148: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 196.] [Footnote i149: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i150: Du Fresne. Additions to Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i151: Additions to Vasari, 59.] [Footnote i152: Additions to Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i153: Additions to Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i154: Additions in Vasari, 61.] [Footnote i155: Suppl. in Vasari, 68.] [Footnote i156: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i157: Additions to Vasari, 59.] [Footnote i158: Vasari, 25.] [Footnote i159: Vasari, 28.] [Footnote i160: Vasari, 29.] [Footnote i161: Vasari, 30. In p. 29, it is said in a note, that there is in the Medici gallery an Adoration of the Magi, by Leonardo, unfinished, which may probably be the picture of which Vasari speaks.] [Footnote i162: Vasari, 30.] [Footnote i163: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 184. The real fact is known to be, that it was engraven from a drawing made by Rubens himself, who, as I am informed, had in it altered the back-ground.] [Footnote i164: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 195.] [Footnote i165: Vasari, 30.] [Footnote i166: Vasari, 33.] [Footnote i167: Venturi, 4.] [Footnote i168: Venturi, 37.] [Footnote i169: Suppl. in Vasari, 68.] [Footnote i170: Vasari, 39.] [Footnote i171: Ibid.] [Footnote i172: Suppl. in Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i173: Vasari, 44.] [Footnote i174: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i175: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i176: Suppl. in Vasari, 61.] [Footnote i177: Ibid. 81.] [Footnote i178: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i179: Du Fresne. Add. to the Life in Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i180: Suppl. in Vasari, 69.] [Footnote i181: Du Fresne. Add. to Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i182: Du Fresne.] [Footnote i183: Add. in Vasari, 47.] [Footnote i184: Add. to Vasari, 48.] [Footnote i185: Add. in Vasari, 57.] [Footnote i186: Add. to Vasari, 58.] [Footnote i187: Add. to Vasari, 59.] [Footnote i188: Ibid.] [Footnote i189: Ibid. This is the picture lately exhibited in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, and is said to have been purchased by the Earl of Warwick.] [Footnote i190: Add. to Vasari, 59.] [Footnote i191: Ibid.] [Footnote i192: Ibid.] [Footnote i193: Ibid.] [Footnote i194: Ibid. 60.] [Footnote i195: Ibid.] [Footnote i196: Ibid.] [Footnote i197: Ibid.] [Footnote i198: Ibid.] [Footnote i199: Lett. Pitt. vol. ii. 197.] [Footnote i200: Add. in Vasari, 60.] [Footnote i201: Add. in Vasari, 61.] [Footnote i202: Ibid.] [Footnote i203: Ibid.] [Footnote i204: Ibid.] [Footnote i205: Supp. in Vasari, 67.] [Footnote i206: Ibid. 68.] [Footnote i207: Supp. in Vasari, 75.] [Footnote i208: Ibid.] [Footnote i209: Supp. in Vasari, 80.] [Footnote i210: Supp. in Vasari, 81.] [Footnote 1: This passage has been by some persons much misunderstood, and supposed to require, that the student should be a deep proficient in perspective, before he commences the study of painting; but it is a knowledge of the leading principles only of perspective that the author here means, and without such a knowledge, which is easily to be acquired, the student will inevitably fall into errors, as gross as those humorously pointed out by Hogarth, in his Frontispiece to Kirby's Perspective.] [Footnote 2: See Chap. 351.] [Footnote 3: Not to be found in this work.] [Footnote 4: From this, and many other similar passages, it is evident, that the author intended at some future time to arrange his manuscript collections, and to publish them as separate treatises. That he did not do so is well known; but it is also a fact, that, in selecting from the whole mass of his collections the chapters of which the present work consists, great care appears in general to have been taken to extract also those to which there was any reference from any of the chapters intended for this work, or which from their subject were necessarily connected with them. Accordingly, the reader will find, in the notes to this translation, that all such chapters in any other part of the present work are uniformly pointed out, as have any relation to the respective passages in the text. This, which has never before been done, though indispensably necessary, will be found of singular use, and it was thought proper here, once for all, to notice it. In the present instance the chapters, referring to the subject in the text, are Chap. xvi. xvii. xviii. xix. xx. xxvi.; and though these do not afford complete information, yet it is to be remembered, that drawing from relievos is subject to the very same rules as drawing from Nature; and that, therefore, what is elsewhere said on that subject is also equally applicable to this.] [Footnote 5: The meaning of this is, that the last touches of light, such as the shining parts (which are always narrow), must be given sparingly. In short, that the drawing must be kept in broad masses as much as possible.] [Footnote 6: This is not an absolute rule, but it is a very good one for drawing of portraits.] [Footnote 7: See Chap. ci.] [Footnote 8: See the preceding chapter.] [Footnote 9: See the two preceding chapters.] [Footnote 10: Man being the highest of the animal creation, ought to be the chief object of study.] [Footnote 11: An intended Treatise, as it seems, on Anatomy, which however never was published; but there are several chapters in the present work on the subject of Anatomy, most of which will be found under the present head of Anatomy; and of such as could not be placed there, because they also related to some other branch, the following is a list by which they may be found: Chapters vi. vii. x. xi. xxxiv. xxxv. xxxvi. xxxvii. xxxviii. xxxix. xl. xli. xlii. xliii. xliv. xlv. xlvi. xlviii. xlix. l. li. lii. cxxix.] [Footnote 12: See chap. lxxxvii.] [Footnote 13: It does not appear that this intention was ever carried into execution; but there are many chapters in this work on the subject of motion, where all that is necessary for a painter in this branch will be found.] [Footnote 14: Anatomists have divided this muscle into four or five sections; but painters, following the ancient sculptors, shew only the three principal ones; and, in fact, we find that a greater number of them (as may often be observed in nature) gives a disagreeable meagreness to the subject. Beautiful nature does not shew more than three, though there may be more hid under the skin.] [Footnote 15: A treatise on weights, like many others, intended by this author, but never published.] [Footnote 16: See the next chapter.] [Footnote 17: It is believed that this treatise, like many others promised by the author, was never written; and to save the necessity of frequently repeating this fact, the reader is here informed, once for all, that in the life of the author prefixed to this edition, will be found an account of the works promised or projected by him, and how far his intentions have been carried into effect.] [Footnote 18: See chap. lxiv.] [Footnote 19: See in this work from chap. lx. to lxxxi.] [Footnote 20: See chapters lxi. lxiv.] [Footnote 21: See chapters civ. cliv.] [Footnote 22: The author here means to compare the different quickness of the motion of the head and the heel, when employed in the same action of jumping; and he states the proportion of the former to be three times that of the latter. The reason he gives for this is in substance, that as the head has but one motion to make, while in fact the lower part of the figure has three successive operations to perform at the places he mentions, three times the velocity, or, in other words, three times the degree of effort, is necessary in the head, the prime mover, to give the power of influencing the other parts; and the rule deducible from this axiom is, that where two different parts of the body concur in the same action, and one of them has to perform one motion only, while the other is to have several, the proportion of velocity or effort in the former must be regulated by the number of operations necessary in the latter.] [Footnote 23: It is explained in this work, or at least there is something respecting it in the preceding chapter, and in chap. cli.] [Footnote 24: The eyeball moving up and down to look at the hand, describes a part of a circle, from every point of which it sees it in an infinite variety of aspects. The hand also is moveable _ad infinitum_ (for it can go round the whole circle--see chap. lxxxvii.), and consequently shew itself in an infinite variety of aspects, which it is impossible for any memory to retain.] [Footnote 25: See chap. xx. clv.] [Footnote 26: About thirteen yards of our measure, the Florentine braccia, or cubit, by which the author measures, being 1 foot 10 inches 7-8ths English measure.] [Footnote 27: See chap. cxxi. and cccv.] [Footnote 28: It is supposed that the figures are to appear of the natural size, and not bigger. In that case, the measure of the first, to be of the exact dimension, should have its feet resting upon the bottom line; but as you remove it from that, it should diminish. No allusion is here intended to the distance at which a picture is to be placed from the eye.] [Footnote 29: The author does not mean here to say, that one historical picture cannot be hung over another. It certainly may, because, in viewing each, the spectator is at liberty (especially if they are subjects independent of each other) to shift his place so as to stand at the true point of sight for viewing every one of them; but in covering a wall with a succession of subjects from the same history, the author considers the whole as, in fact, but one picture, divided into compartments, and to be seen at one view, and which cannot therefore admit more than one point of sight. In the former case, the pictures are in fact so many distinct subjects unconnected with each other.] [Footnote 30: See chap. cccxlviii. This chapter is obscure, and may probably be made clear by merely stating it in other words. Leonardo objects to the use of both eyes, because, in viewing in that manner the objects here mentioned, two balls, one behind the other, the second is seen, which would not be the case, if the angle of the visual rays were not too big for the first object. Whoever is at all acquainted with optics, need not be told, that the visual rays commence in a single point in the centre, or nearly the centre of each eye, and continue diverging. But, in using both eyes, the visual rays proceed not from one and the same centre, but from a different centre in each eye, and intersecting each other, as they do a little before passing the first object, they become together broader than the extent of the first object, and consequently give a view of part of the second. On the contrary, in using but one eye, the visual rays proceed but from one centre; and as, therefore, there cannot be any intersection, the visual rays, when they reach the first object, are not broader than the first object, and the second is completely hidden. Properly speaking, therefore, in using both eyes we introduce more than one point of sight, which renders the perspective false in the painting; but in using one eye only, there can be, as there ought, but one point of sight. There is, however, this difference between viewing real objects and those represented in painting, that in looking at the former, whether we use one or both eyes, the objects, by being actually detached from the back ground, admit the visual rays to strike on them, so as to form a correct perspective, from whatever point they are viewed, and the eye accordingly forms a perspective of its own; but in viewing the latter, there is no possibility of varying the perspective; and, unless the picture is seen precisely under the same angle as it was painted under, the perspective in all other views must be false. This is observable in the perspective views painted for scenes at the playhouse. If the beholder is seated in the central line of the house, whether in the boxes or pit, the perspective is correct; but, in proportion as he is placed at a greater or less distance to the right or left of that line, the perspective appears to him more or less faulty. And hence arises the necessity of using but one eye in viewing a painting, in order thereby to reduce it to one point of sight.] [Footnote 31: Chap. xcvi. and civ.] [Footnote 32: See the Life of the Author prefixed, and chap. xx. and ci. of the present work.] [Footnote 33: The author here speaks of unpolished Nature; and indeed it is from such subjects only, that the genuine and characteristic operations of Nature are to be learnt. It is the effect of education to correct the natural peculiarities and defects, and, by so doing, to assimilate one person to the rest of the world.] [Footnote 34: See chap. cxxiii.] [Footnote 35: See chap. cclxiv.] [Footnote 36: See chapter cclxvii.] [Footnote 37: Sir Joshua Reynolds frequently inculcated these precepts in his lectures, and indeed they cannot be too often enforced.] [Footnote 38: Probably this would have formed a part of his intended Treatise on Light and Shadow, but no such proposition occurs in the present work.] [Footnote 39: See chapters cc. and ccix.] [Footnote 40: See chap. ccix.] [Footnote 41: This cannot be taken as an absolute rule; it must be left in a great measure to the judgment of the painter. For much graceful softness and grandeur is acquired, sometimes, by blending the lights of the figures with the light part of the ground; and so of the shadows; as Leonardo himself has observed in chapters cxciv. cxcv. and Sir Joshua Reynolds has often put in practice with success.] [Footnote 42: See chap. cclxv.] [Footnote 43: See chap. cxcvi.] [Footnote 44: He means here to say, that in proportion as the body interposed between the eye and the object is more or less transparent, the greater or less quantity of the colour of the body interposed will be communicated to the object.] [Footnote 45: See the note to chap. cc.] [Footnote 46: See the preceding chapter, and chap. cc.] [Footnote 47: The appearance of motion is lessened according to the distance, in the same proportion as objects diminish in size.] [Footnote 48: See chap. ccxvii. and ccxix.] [Footnote 49: See chap. ccxv. and ccxix.] [Footnote 50: This was intended to constitute a part of some book of Perspective, which we have not; but the rule here referred to will be found in chap. cccx. of the present work.] [Footnote 51: See chap. ccxv. and ccxvii.] [Footnote 52: No such work was ever published, nor, for any thing that appears, ever written.] [Footnote 53: The French translation of 1716 has a note on this chapter, saying, that the invention of enamel painting found out since the time of Leonardo da Vinci, would better answer to the title of this chapter, and also be a better method of painting. I must beg leave, however, to dissent from this opinion, as the two kinds of painting are so different, that they cannot be compared. Leonardo treats of oil painting, but the other is vitrification. Leonardo is known to have spent a great deal of time in experiments, of which this is a specimen, and it may appear ridiculous to the practitioners of more modern date, as he does not enter more fully into a minute description of the materials, or the mode of employing them. The principle laid down in the text appears to me to be simply this: to make the oil entirely evaporate from the colours by the action of fire, and afterwards to prevent the action of the air by the means of a glass, which in itself is an excellent principle, but not applicable, any more than enamel painting to large works.] [Footnote 54: It is evident that distemper or size painting is here meant.] [Footnote 55: Indian ink.] [Footnote 56: This rule is not without exception: see chap. ccxxxiv.] [Footnote 57: See chap. ccxxxviii.] [Footnote 58: See chap. ccxxxvii.] [Footnote 59: See chapters ccxlvii. cclxxiv. in the present work. Probably they were intended to form a part of a distinct treatise, and to have been ranged as propositions in that, but at present they are not so placed.] [Footnote 60: See chap. ccxlviii.] [Footnote 61: See chap. cclxxiv.] [Footnote 62: Although the author seems to have designed that this, and many other propositions to which he refers, should have formed a part of some regular work, and he has accordingly referred to them whenever he has mentioned them, by their intended numerical situation in that work, whatever it might be, it does not appear that he ever carried this design into execution. There are, however, several chapters in the present work, viz. ccxciii. cclxxxix. cclxxxv. ccxcv. in which the principle in the text is recognised, and which probably would have been transferred into the projected treatise, if he had ever drawn it up.] [Footnote 63: The note on the preceding chapter is in a great measure applicable to this, and the proposition mentioned in the text is also to be found in chapter ccxlvii. of the present work.] [Footnote 64: See the note on the chapter next but one preceding. The proposition in the text occurs in chap. ccxlvii. of the present work.] [Footnote 65: Not in this work.] [Footnote 66: I do not know a better comment on this passage than Felibien's Examination of Le Brun's Picture of the Tent of Darius. From this (which has been reprinted with an English translation, by Colonel Parsons in 1700, in folio) it will clearly appear, what the chain of connexion is between every colour there used, and its nearest neighbour, and consequently a rule may be formed from it with more certainty and precision than where the student is left to develope it for himself, from the mere inspection of different examples of colouring.] [Footnote 67: See chap. ccxxiii. ccxxxvii. cclxxiv. cclxxxii. of the present work. We have before remarked, that the propositions so frequently referred to by the author, were never reduced into form, though apparently he intended a regular work in which they were to be included.] [Footnote 68: No where in this work.] [Footnote 69: This is evident in many of Vandyke's portraits, particularly of ladies, many of whom are dressed in black velvet; and this remark will in some measure account for the delicate fairness which he frequently gives to the female complexion.] [Footnote 70: These propositions, any more than the others mentioned in different parts of this work, were never digested into a regular treatise, as was evidently intended by the author, and consequently are not to be found, except perhaps in some of the volumes of the author's manuscript collections.] [Footnote 71: See chap. ccxciii. cccvii. cccviii.] [Footnote 72: See chap. cclxxxvii.] [Footnote 73: This book on perspective was never drawn up.] [Footnote 74: See chap. ccxcii.] [Footnote 75: See chap. ccxii. ccxlviii. cclv.] [Footnote 76: There is no work of this author to which this can at present refer, but the principle is laid down in chapters cclxxxiv. cccvi. of the present treatise.] [Footnote 77: See chapters cccvii. cccxxii.] [Footnote 78: See chap. cxvi. cxxi. cccv.] [Footnote 79: See chap. cccxiii. and cccxxiii.] [Footnote 80: To our obtaining a correct idea of the magnitude and distance of any object seen from afar, it is necessary that we consider how much of distinctness an object loses at a distance (from the mere interposition of the air), as well as what it loses in size; and these two considerations must unite before we can decidedly pronounce as to its distance or magnitude. This calculation, as to distinctness, must be made upon the idea that the air is clear, as, if by any accident it is otherwise, we shall (knowing the proportion in which clear air dims a prospect) be led to conclude this farther off than it is, and, to justify that conclusion, shall suppose its real magnitude correspondent with the distance, at which from its degree of distinctness it appears to be. In the circumstance remarked in the text there is, however, a great deception; the fact is, that the colour and the minute parts of the object are lost in the fog, while the size of it is not diminished in proportion; and the eye being accustomed to see objects diminished in size at a great distance, supposes this to be farther off than it is, and consequently imagines it larger.] [Footnote 81: This proposition, though undoubtedly intended to form a part of some future work, which never was drawn up, makes no part of the present.] [Footnote 82: See chap. cccvii.] [Footnote 83: Vide chap. ccxcii. ccciii.] [Footnote 84: See chapter ccxcviii.] [Footnote 85: This was probably to have been a part of some other work, but it does not occur in this.] [Footnote 86: Cento braccia, or cubits. The Florence braccio is one foot ten inches seven eighths, English measure.] [Footnote 87: Probably the Author here means yellow lilies, or fleurs de lis.] [Footnote 88: That point is always found in the horizon, and is called the point of sight, or the vanishing point.] [Footnote 89: See chap. cccxx.] [Footnote 90: See chap. cccxvii.] [Footnote 91: This position has been already laid down in chapter cxxiv. (and will also be found in chapter cccxlviii.); and the reader is referred to the note on that passage, which will also explain that in the text, for further illustration. It may, however, be proper to remark, that though the author has here supposed both objects conveyed to the eye by an angle of the same extent, they cannot, in fact, be so seen, unless one eye be shut; and the reason is this: if viewed with both eyes, there will be two points of sight, one in the centre of each eye; and the rays from each of these to the objects must of course be different, and will consequently form different angles.] [Footnote 92: The braccio is one foot ten inches and seven eighths English measure.] [Footnote 93: i.e. To be abridged according to the rules of perspective.] [Footnote 94: See chap. cxxii.] [Footnote 95: The whole of this chapter, like the next but one preceding, depends on the circumstance of there being in fact two points of sight, one in the centre of each eye, when an object is viewed with both eyes. In natural objects the effect which this circumstance produces is, that the rays from each point of sight, diverging as they extend towards the object, take in not only that, but some part also of the distance behind it, till at length, at a certain distance behind it, they cross each other; whereas, in a painted representation, there being no real distance behind the object, but the whole being a flat surface, it is impossible that the rays from the points of sight should pass beyond that flat surface; and as the object itself is on that flat surface, which is the real extremity of the view, the eyes cannot acquire a sight of any thing beyond.] [Footnote 96: A well-known painter at Florence, contemporary with Leonardo da Vinci, who painted several altar-pieces and other public works.] [Footnote 97: See chap. cxxiv. and cccxlviii.] [Footnote 98: See chap. x.] [Footnote 99: See chap. cci.] [Footnote 100: Leonardo da Vinci was remarkably fond of this kind of invention, and is accused of having lost a great deal of time that way.] [Footnote 101: The method here recommended, was the general and common practice at that time, and continued so with little, if any variation, till lately. But about thirty years ago, the late Mr. Bacon invented an entirely new method, which, as better answering the purpose, he constantly used, and from him others have also adopted it into practice.] [Footnote 102: This may be a good method of dividing the figure for the purpose of reducing from large to small, or _vice versâ_; but it not being the method generally used by the painters for measuring their figures, as being too minute, this chapter was not introduced amongst those of general proportions.] 
6306	----	LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF THE GREAT, VOLUME 6 Little Journeys to the Homes of Eminent Artists ELBERT HUBBARD MEMORIAL EDITION CONTENTS RAPHAEL LEONARDO BOTTICELLI THORWALDSEN GAINSBOROUGH VELASQUEZ COROT CORREGGIO BELLINI CELLINI ABBEY WHISTLER RAPHAEL And with all this vast creative activity, he recognized only one self-imposed limitation--beauty. Hence, though his span of life was short, his work is imperishable. He steadily progressed: but he was ever true, beautiful and pure, and freer than any other master from superficiality and mannerism. He produced a vast number of pictures, elevating to men of every race and of every age, and before whose immortal beauty artists of every school unite in common homage. --_Wilhelm Lubke_ [Illustration: Raphael] The term "Preraphaelite" traces a royal lineage to William Morris. Just what the word really meant, William Morris was not sure, yet he once expressed the hope that he would some day know, as a thousand industrious writers were laboring to make the matter plain. Seven men helped William Morris to launch the phrase, by forming themselves into an organization which they were pleased to call the "Preraphaelite Brotherhood." The word "brotherhood" has a lure and a promise for every lonely and tired son of earth. And Burne-Jones pleaded for the prefix because it was like holy writ: it gave everybody an opportunity to read anything into it that he desired. Of this I am very sure, in the Preraphaelite Brotherhood there was no lack of appreciation for Raphael. In fact, there is proof positive that Burne-Jones and Madox Brown studied him with profit, and loved him so wisely and well that they laid impression-paper on his poses. This would have been good and sufficient reason for hating the man; and possibly this accounts for their luminous flashes of silence concerning him. The Preraphaelite Brotherhood, like all other liberal organizations, was quite inclined to be illiberal. And the prejudice of this clanship, avowedly founded without prejudice, lay in the assumption that life and art suffered a degeneration from the rise of Raphael. In art, as in literature, there is overmuch tilting with names--so the Preraphaelites enlisted under the banner of Botticelli. Raphael marks an epoch. He did what no man before him had ever done, and by the sublimity of his genius placed the world forever under obligations to him. In fact, the art of the Preraphaelites was built on Raphael, with an attempt to revive the atmosphere and environment that belonged to another. Raphael mirrored the soul of things--he used the human form and the whole natural world as symbols of spirit. And this is exactly what Burne-Jones did, and the rest of the Brotherhood tried to do. The thought of Raphael and of Burne- Jones often seems identical; in temperament, disposition and aspiration they were one. That poetic and fervid statement of Mrs. Jameson, that Burne-Jones is the avatar of Raphael, contains the germ of truth. The dream-women of Burne-Jones have the same haunting and subtle spiritual wistfulness that is to be seen in the Madonnas of Raphael. Each of these men loved a woman--and each pictured her again and again. Whether this woman had an existence outside the figment of the brain matters not: both painted her as they saw her-- tender, gentle and trustful. When jealous and o'erzealous competitors made the charge against Raphael that he was lax in his religious duties, Pope Leo the Tenth waived the matter by saying, "Well, well, well!--he is an artistic Christian!" As much as to say, he works his religion up into art, and therefore we grant him absolution for failure to attend mass: he paints and you pray--it is really all the same thing. Good work and religion are one. The busy and captious critics went away, but came back next day with the startling information that Raphael's pictures were more Pagan than Christian. Pope Leo heard the charge, and then with Lincoln- like wit said that Raphael was doing this on his order, as the desire of the Mother Church was to annex the Pagan art-world, in order to Christianize it. The charges of Paganism and Infidelity are classic accusations. The gentle Burne-Jones was stoutly denounced by his enemies as a Pagan Greek. I think he rather gloried in the contumely, but fifty years earlier he might have been visited by a "lettre de cachet," instead of a knighthood; for we can not forget how, in Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, Parliament refused to pay for the Elgin Marbles because, as Lord Falmouth put it, "These relics will tend to prostitute England to the depth of unbelief that engulfed Pagan Greece." The attitude of Parliament on the question of Paganism finds voice occasionally even yet by Protestant England making darkness dense with the asseveration that Catholics idolatrously worship the pictures and statues in their churches. The Romans tumbled the Athenian marbles from their pedestals, on the assumption that the statues represented gods that were idolatrously worshiped by the Greeks. And they continued their work of destruction until a certain Roman general (who surely was from County Cork) stopped the vandalism by issuing an order, coupled with the dire threat that any soldier who stole or destroyed a statue should replace it with another equally good. Lord Elgin bankrupted himself in order to supply the British Museum its crowning glory, and for this he achieved the honor of getting himself poetically damned by Lord Byron. Monarchies, like republics, are ungrateful. Lord Elgin defended himself vigorously against the charge of Paganism, just as Raphael had done three hundred years before. But Burne-Jones was silent in the presence of his accusers, for the world of buyers besieged his doors with bank-notes in hand, demanding pictures. And now today we find Alma-Tadema openly and avowedly Pagan, and with a grace and loveliness that compel the glad acclaim of every lover of beautiful things. We are making head. We have ceased to believe that Paganism is "bad." All the men and women who have ever lived and loved and hoped and died, were God's children, and we are no more. With the nations dead and turned to dust, we reach out through the darkness of forgotten days and touch friendly hands. Some of these people that existed two, three or four thousand years ago did things so marvelously grand and great that in presence of the broken fragments of their work we stand silent, o'erawed and abashed. We realize, too, that long before the nations lived that have left a meager and scattered history hewn in stone, lived still other men, possibly greater far than we; and no sign or signal comes to us from those whose history, like ours, is writ in water. Yet we are one with them all. The same Power that brought them upon this stage of Time brought us. As we were called into existence without our consent, so are we being sent out of it, day by day, against our will. The destiny of all who live or have lived, is one; and no taunt of "paganism," "heathenism" or "infidelity" escapes our lips. With love and sympathy, we salute the eternity that lies behind, realizing that we ourselves are the oldest people that have tasted existence--the newest nation lingers away behind Assyria and Egypt, back of the Mayas, lost in continents sunken in shoreless seas that hold their secrets inviolate. Yes, we are brothers to all that have trod the earth; brothers and heirs to dust and shade-- mayhap to immortality! In the story of "John Ball," William Morris pictured what to him was the Ideal Life. And Morris was certainly right in this: The Ideal Life is only the normal or natural life as we shall some day know it. The scene of Morris' story was essentially a Preraphaelite one. It was the great virtue (or limitation) of William Morris that the Dark Ages were to him a time of special light and illumination. Life then was simple. Men worked for the love of it, and if they wanted things they made them. "Every trade exclusively followed means a deformity," says Ruskin. Division of labor had not yet come, and men were skilled in many ways. There was neither poverty nor riches, and the idea of brotherhood was firmly fixed in the minds of men. The feverish desire for place, pelf and power was not upon them. The rise of the barons and an entailed aristocracy were yet to come. Governments grant men immunity from danger on payment of a tax. Thus men cease protecting themselves, and so in the course of time lose the ability to protect themselves, because the faculty of courage has atrophied through disuse. Brooding apprehension and crouching fear are the properties of civilized men--men who are protected by the State. The joy of reveling in life is not possible in cities. Bolts and bars, locks and keys, soldiers and police, and a hundred other symbols of distrust, suspicion and hate, are on every hand, reminding us that man is the enemy of man, and must be protected from his brothers. Protection and slavery are near of kin. Before Raphael, art was not a profession--the man did things to the glory of God. When he painted a picture of the Holy Family, his wife served as his model, and he grouped his children in their proper order, and made the picture to hang on a certain spot on the walls of his village church. No payment was expected nor fee demanded--it was a love-offering. It was not until ecclesiastics grew ambitious and asked for more pictures that bargains were struck. Did ever a painter of that far-off day marry a maid, and in time were they blessed with a babe, then straightway the painter worked his joy up into art by painting the Mother and Child, and presenting the picture as a thank-offering to God. The immaculate conception of love and the miracle of birth are recurring themes in the symphony of life. Love, religion and art have ever walked and ever will walk hand in hand. Art is the expression of man's joy in his work; and art is the beautiful way of doing things. Pope Julius was right-- work is religion when you put your soul into your task. Giotto painted the "Mother and Child," and the mother was his wife, and the child theirs. Another child came to them, and Giotto painted another picture, calling the older boy Saint John, and the wee baby Jesus. The years went by and we find still another picture of the Holy Family by this same artist, in which five children are shown, while back in the shadow is the artist himself, posed as Joseph. And with a beautiful contempt for anachronism, the elder children are called Isaiah, Ezekiel and Elijah. This fusing of work, love and religion gives us a glimpse into the only paradise mortals know. It is the Ideal--and the Natural. The swift-passing years have lightly touched the little city of Urbino, in Umbria. The place is sleepy and quiet, and you seek the shade of friendly awnings to shield you from the fierce glare of the sun. Standing there you hear the bells chime the hours, as they have done for four hundred years; and you watch the flocks of wheeling pigeons, the same pigeons that Vasari saw when he came here in Fifteen Hundred Forty-one, for the birds never grow old. Vasari tells of the pigeons, the old cathedral--old even then--the flower- girls and fruit-sellers, the passing black-robed priests, the occasional soldier, and the cobbler who sits on the curbstone and offers to mend your shoes while you wait. The world is debtor to Vasari. He was not much of a painter and he failed at architecture, but he made up for lack of skill by telling all about what others were doing; and if his facts ever faltered, his imagination bridged the break. He is as interesting as Plutarch, as gossipy as Pepys, and as luring as Boswell. A slim slip of a girl, selling thyme and mignonette out of a reed basket, offered to show Vasari the birthplace of Raphael; and a brown-cheeked, barefoot boy, selling roses on which the dew yet lingered, volunteered a like service for me, three hundred years later. The house is one of a long row of low stone structures, with the red-tile roof everywhere to be seen. Above the door is a bronze tablet which informs the traveler that Raphael Sanzio was born here, April Sixth, Fourteen Hundred Eighty-three. Herman Grimm takes three chapters to prove that Raphael was not born in this house, and that nothing is so unreliable as a bronze tablet, except figures. Grimm is a painstaking biographer, but he fails to distinguish between fact and truth. Of this we are sure, Giovanni di Sanzio, the father of Raphael, lived in this house. There are church records to show that here other children of Giovanni were born, and this very naturally led to the assumption that Raphael was born here, also. Just one thing of touching interest is to be seen in this house, and that is a picture of a Mother and Child painted on the wall. For many years this picture was said to be the work of Raphael; but there is now very good reason to believe it was the work of Raphael's father, and that the figures represent the baby Raphael and his mother. The picture is faded and dim, like the history of this sainted woman who gave to earth one of the gentlest, greatest and best men that ever lived. Mystery enshrouds the early days of Raphael. There is no record of his birth. His father we know was a man of decided power, and might yet rank as a great artist, had he not been so unfortunate as to have had a son that outclassed him. But now Giovanni Sanzio's only claim to fame rests on his being the father of his son. Of the boy's mother we have only obstructed glances and glimpses through half-flung lattices in the gloaming. Raphael was her only child. She was scarce twenty when she bore him. In a sonnet written to her, on the back of a painting, Raphael's father speaks of her wondrous eyes, slender neck, and the form too frail for earth's rough buffets. Mention is also made of "this child born in purest love, and sent by God to comfort and caress." The mother grew aweary and passed away when her boy was scarce eight years old, but his memories of her were deeply etched. She told him of Cimabue, Giotto, Ghirlandajo, Leonardo and Perugino, and especially of the last two, who were living and working only a few miles away. It was this spiritual and loving mother who infused into his soul the desire to do and to become. That hunger for harmony which marked his life was the heritage of mother to child. When an artist paints a portrait, he paints two--himself and the sitter. Raphael gave himself; and as his father more than once said the boy was the image of his mother, we have her picture, too. Father and son painted the same woman. Their hearts went out to her with a sort of idolatrous love. The sonnets indited to her by her husband were written after her death, and after his second marriage. Do then men love dead women better than they do the living? Perhaps. And then a certain writer has said: "To have known a great and exalted love, and have had it flee from your grasp--flee as a shadow before it is sullied by selfishness or misunderstanding--is the highest good. The memory of such a love can not die from out the heart. It affords a ballast 'gainst all the sordid impulses of life, and though it gives an unutterable sadness, it imparts an unspeakable peace." Raphael's father followed the boy's mother when the lad was eleven years old. We know the tender, poetic love this father had for the child, and we realize somewhat of the mystical mingling in the man's heart of the love for the woman dead and her child alive. Reverencing the mother's wish that the boy should be an artist, Giovanni Sanzio, proud of his delicate and spiritual beauty, took the lad to visit all the other artists in the vicinity. They also visited the ducal palace, built by Federigo the Second, and lingered there for hours, viewing the paintings, statuary, carvings, tapestries and panelings. The palace still stands, and is yet one of the most noble in Italy, vying in picturesqueness with those marble piles that line the Grand Canal at Venice. We know that Giovanni Sanzio contributed by his advice and skill to the wealth of beauty in the palace, and we know that he was always a welcome visitor there. From his boyhood Raphael was familiar with these artistic splendors, and how much this early environment contributed to his correct taste and habit of subdued elegance, no man can say. When Giovanni Sanzio realized that death was at his door, he gave Raphael into the keeping of the priest Bartolomeo and the boy's stepmother. The typical stepmother lives, moves and has her being in neurotic novels written by very young ladies. Instances can be cited of great men who were loved and nurtured and ministered to by their stepmothers. I think well of womankind. The woman who abuses a waif that Fate has sent into her care would mistreat her own children, and is a living libel on her sex. Let Lincoln and Raphael stand as types of men who were loved with infinite tenderness by stepmothers. And then we must not forget Leonardo da Vinci, who never knew a mother, and had no business to have a father, but who held averages good with four successive stepmothers, all of whom loved him with a tender, jealous and proud devotion. Bartolomeo, following the wish of the father, continued to give the boy lessons in drawing and sketching. This Bartolomeo must not be confused with the Bartolomeo, friend of Savonarola, who was largely to influence Raphael later on. It was Bartolomeo, the priest, that took Raphael to Perugino, who lived in Perugia. Perugino, although he was a comparatively young man, was bigger than the town in which he lived. His own name got blown away by a high wind, and he was plain Perugino--as if there was only one man in Perugia, and he were that one. "Here is a boy I have brought you as a pupil," said the priest to Perugino. And Perugino glancing up from his easel answered, "I thought it was a girl!" The priest continued, "Here is a boy I have brought you for a pupil, and your chief claim to fame may yet be that he worked here with you in your studio." Perugino parried the thrust with a smile. He looked at the boy and was impressed with his beauty. Perugino afterwards acknowledged that the only reason he took him was because he thought he would work in well as a model. Perugino was the greatest master of technique of his time. He had life, and life in abundance. He reveled in his work, and his enthusiasm ran over, inundating all those who were near. Courage is a matter of the red corpuscle. It is oxygen that makes every attack; without oxygen in his blood to back him, a man attacks nothing--not even a pie, much less a blank canvas. Perugino was a success; he had orders ahead; he matched his talent against titles; power flowed his way. Raphael's serious, sober manner and spiritual beauty appealed to him. They became as father and son. The methodical business plan, which is a prime aid to inspiration; the habit of laying out work and completing it; the high estimate of self; the supreme animation and belief in the divinity within--all these Raphael caught from Perugino. Both men were egotists, as are all men who do things. They had heard the voice--they had had a "call." The talent is the call, and if a man fails to do his work in a masterly way, make sure he has mistaken a lazy wish for a divine passion. There is a difference between loving the muse and lusting after her. Perugino had been called, and before Raphael had worked with him a year, he was sure he had been called, too. The days in Perugia for Raphael were full of quiet joy and growing power. He was in the actual living world of men, and things, and useful work. Afternoons, when the sun's shadows began to lengthen towards the east, Perugino would often call to his helpers, especially Raphael, and Pinturicchio, another fine spirit, and off they would go for a tramp, each with a stout staff and the inevitable portfolio. Out along the narrow streets of the town, across the Roman arched bridge, by the market-place to the terraced hillside that overlooked the Umbrian plain, they went; Perugino stout, strong, smooth-faced, with dark, swarthy features; Pinturicchio with downy beard, merry eyes and tall, able form; and lingering behind, came Raphael. His small black cap fitted closely on his long bronze-gold hair; his slight, slender and graceful figure barely suggested its silken strength held in fine reserve--and all the time the great brown eyes, which looked as if they had seen celestial things, scanned the sky, saw the tall cedars of Lebanon, the flocks on the slopes across the valley, the scattered stone cottages, the fleecy clouds that faintly flecked the deep blue of the sky, the distant spire of a church. All these treasures of the Umbrian landscape were his. Well might he have anticipated, four hundred years before he was born, that greatest of American writers, and said, "I own the landscape!" In frescos signed by Perugino in the year Fourteen Hundred Ninety- two--a date we can not forget--we see a certain style. In the same design duplicated in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-eight, we behold a new and subtle touch--it is the stroke and line of Raphael. The "Resurrection" by Perugino, in the Vatican, and the "Diotalevi Madonna" signed by the same artist, in the Berlin Museum, show the touch of Raphael, unmistakably. The youth was barely seventeen, but he was putting himself into Perugino's work--and Perugino was glad. Raphael's first independent work was probably done when he was nineteen, and was for the Citta di Castello. These frescos are signed, "Raphael Urbinas, 1502." Other lesser pictures and panels thus signed are found dated Fifteen Hundred Four. They are all the designs of Perugino, but worked out with the painstaking care always shown by very young artists; yet there is a subtle, spiritual style that marks, unmistakably, Raphael's Perugino period. The "Sposalizio," done in Fifteen Hundred Four, now in the Brera at Milan, is the first really important work of Raphael. Next to this is the "Connestabile Madonna," which was painted at Perugia and remained there until Eighteen Hundred Seventy-one, when it was sold by a degenerate descendant of the original owner to the Emperor of Russia for sixty-five thousand dollars. Since then a law has been passed forbidding any one on serious penalty to remove a "Raphael" from Italy. But for this law, that threat of a Chicago syndicate to buy the Pitti Gallery and move its contents to the "lake front" might have been carried out. The Second Period of Raphael's life opens with his visit to Florence in Fifteen Hundred Four. He was now twenty-one years of age, handsome, proud, reserved. Stories of his power had preceded him, and the fact that for six years he had worked with Perugino and been his confidant and friend made his welcome sure. Leonardo and Michelangelo were at the height of their fame, and no doubt they stimulated the ambition of Raphael more than he ever admitted. He considered Leonardo the more finished artist of the two. Michelangelo's heroic strength and sweep of power failed to win him. The frescos of Masaccio in the Church of Santa Carmine in Florence he considered better than any performance of Michelangelo: and as a Roland to this Oliver, we have a legend to the effect that Raphael once called upon Michelangelo and the master sent down word from the scaffold, where he was at work, that he was too busy to see visitors, and anyway, he had all the apprentices that he could look after! How much this little incident biased Raphael's opinion concerning Michelangelo's art we can not say: possibly Raphael could not have told, either. But such things count, I am told, for even Doctor Johnson thought better of Reynolds' work after they had dined together. It seems that Fra Bartolomeo was one of the first and best friends Raphael had at Florence. The monk's gentle spirit and his modest views of men and things won the young Umbrian; and between these two there sprang up a friendship so firm and true that death alone could sever it. The deep religious devotion of Bartolomeo set the key for the first work done by Raphael at Florence. Most of the time the young man and the monk lived and worked in the same studio. It was a wonderfully prolific period for Raphael; from Fifteen Hundred Four to Fifteen Hundred Eight he pushed forward with a zest and an earnestness he never again quite equaled. Most of his beautiful Madonnas belong to this period, and in them all are a dignity, grace and grandeur that lift them out of ecclesiastic art, and place them in the category of living portraits. Before this, Raphael belonged to the Umbrian School, but now his work must be classed, if classed at all, as Florentine. The handling is freer, the nude more in evidence, and the anatomy shows that the artist is working from life. Bartolomeo used to speak of Raphael affectionately as "my son," and called the attention of Bramante, the architect, to his work. The beauty of his Madonnas was being discussed in every studio, and when the "Ansidei" was exhibited in the Church of Santa Croce, such a crowd flocked to see the picture that services had to be dismissed. The rush continued until a thrifty priest bethought him to stand at the main entrance with a contribution-box and a stout stick, and allow no one to enter who did not contribute good silver for "the worthy poor." Bartolomeo acknowledged that his "pupil" was beyond him. He was invited to add a finishing touch to the Masaccio frescos; Leonardo, the courtly, had smiled a gracious recognition, and Michelangelo had sneezed at mention of his name. Bramante, back at Rome, told Pope Julius the Second, "There is a young Umbrian at Florence we must send for." Great things were happening at Rome about this time: all roads led thitherward. Pope Julius had just laid the cornerstone of Saint Peter's, and full of ambition was carrying out the dictum of Pope Nicholas the Fifth, that "the Church should array herself in all the beauteous spoils of the world, in order to win the minds of men." The Renaissance was fairly begun, fostered and sustained by the Church alone. The Quattrocento--that time of homely peace and the simple quiet of John Ball and his fellows--lay behind. Raphael had begun his Roman Period, which was to round out his working life of barely eighteen years, ere the rest of the Pantheon was to be his. Before this his time had been his own, but now the Church was his mistress. But it was a great honor that had come to him, greater far than had ever before been bestowed on any living artist. Barely twenty-five years of age, the Pope treated him as an equal, and worked him like a packhorse. "He has the face of an angel," cried Julius, "and the soul of a god!"--when some one suggested his youth. Pope Leo the Tenth, of the Medici family, succeeded Julius. He sent Michelangelo to Florence to employ his talents upon the Medicean church of San Lorenzo. He dismissed Perugino, Pinturicchio and Piero Delia Francesca, although Raphael in tears pleaded for them all. Their frescos were destroyed, and Raphael was told to go ahead and make the Vatican what it should be. His first large work was to decorate the Hall of the Signatures (Stanza della Segnatura), where we today see the "Dispute." Near at hand is the famous "School of Athens." In this picture his own famous portrait is to be seen with that of Perugino. The first place is given to Perugino, and the faces affectionately side by side are posed in a way that has given a cue to ten thousand photographers. The attitude is especially valuable, as a bit of history showing Raphael's sterling attachment to his old teacher. The Vatican is filled with the work of Raphael, and aside from the galleries to which the general public is admitted, studies and frescos are to be seen in many rooms that are closed unless, say, Archbishop Ireland be with you, when all doors fly open at your touch. The seven Raphael tapestries are shown at the Vatican an hour each day; the rest of the time the room is closed to protect them from the light. However, the original cartoons at South Kensington reveal the sweep and scope of Raphael's genius better than the tapestries themselves. Work, unceasing work, filled his days. The ingenuity and industry of the man were marvelous. Upwards of eighty portraits were painted during the Roman Period, besides designs innumerable for engravings, and even for silver and iron ornaments required by the Church. Pupils helped him much, of course, and among these must be mentioned Giulio Romano and Gianfrancesco Penni. These young men lived with Raphael in his splendid house that stood halfway between Saint Peter's and the Castle Angelo. Fire swept the space a hundred years later, and the magnificence it once knew has never been replaced. Today, hovels built from stone quarried from the ruins mark the spot. But as one follows this white, dusty road, it is well to remember that the feet of Raphael, passing and repassing, have, more than any other one street of Rome, made it sacred soil. We have seen that Bramante brought Raphael to Rome, and Pope Leo the Tenth remembered this when the first architect of Saint Peter's passed away. Raphael was appointed his successor. The honor was merited, but the place should have gone to one not already overworked. In Fifteen Hundred Fifteen Raphael was made Director of Excavations, another office for which his esthetic and delicate nature was not fitted. In sympathy, of course, his heart went out to the antique workers of the ancient world, on whose ruins the Eternal City is built; but the drudgery of overseeing and superintendence belonged to another type of man. The stress of the times had told on Raphael; he was thirty-five, rich beyond all Umbrian dreams of avarice, on an equality with the greatest and noblest men of his time, honored above all other living artists. But life began to pall; he had won all--and thereby had learned the worthlessness of what the world has to offer. Dreams of rest, of love and a quiet country home, came to him. He was betrothed to Maria di Bibbiena, a niece of Cardinal Bibbiena. The day of the wedding had been set, and the Pope was to perform the ceremony. But the Pope regarded Raphael as a servant of the Church: he had work for him to do, and moreover he had fixed ideas concerning the glamour of sentimentalism, so he requested that the wedding be postponed for a space. A request from the Pope was an order, and so the country house was packed away with other dreams that were to come true all in God's good time. But the realization of love's dream did not come true, for Raphael had a rival. Death claimed his bride. She was buried in the Pantheon, where within a year Raphael's wornout body was placed beside hers; and there the dust of both mingle. The history of this love-tragedy has never been written; it lies buried there with the lovers. But a contemporary said that the fear of an enforced separation broke the young woman's heart; and this we know, that after her death, Raphael's hand forgot its cunning, and his frame was ripe for the fever that was so soon to burn out the strands of his life. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Perugino and Fra Bartolomeo had all made names for themselves before Raphael appeared upon the scene. Yet they one and all profited by his example, and were the richer in that he had lived. Michelangelo was born nine years before Raphael and survived him forty-three years. Titian was six years old when Raphael was born, and he continued to live and work for fifty-six years after Raphael had passed away. It was a cause of grief to Michelangelo, even to the day of his death, that he and Raphael had not been close, personal and loving friends, as indeed they should have been. The art-world was big enough for both. Yet Rome was divided into two hostile camps: those who favored Raphael; and those who had but one prophet, Michelangelo. Busybodies rushed back and forth, carrying foolish and inconsequential messages; and these strong yet gentle men, both hungering for sympathy and love, were thrust apart. When Raphael realized the end was nigh, he sent for Perugino, and directed that he should complete certain work. His career had begun by working with Perugino, and now this friend of a lifetime must finish the broken task and make good the whole. He bade his beloved pupils, one by one, farewell; signed his will, which gave most of his valuable property to his fellow-workers; and commended his soul to the God who gave it. He died on his birthday, Good Friday, April Sixth, Fifteen Hundred Twenty, aged thirty-seven years. Michelangelo wore mourning upon his sleeve for a year after Raphael's death. And once Michelangelo said, "Raphael was a child, a beautiful child, and if he had only lived a little longer, he and I would have grasped hands as men and worked together as brothers." LEONARDO The world, perhaps, contains no other example of a genius so universal as Leonardo's, so creative, so incapable of self- contentment, so athirst for the infinite, so naturally refined, so far in advance of his own and subsequent ages. His pictures express incredible sensibility and mental power; they overflow with unexpressed ideas and emotions. Alongside of his portraits Michelangelo's personages are simply heroic athletes; Raphael's virgins are only placid children whose souls are still asleep. His beings feel and think through every line and trait of their physiognomy. Time is necessary to enter into communion with them; not that their sentiment is too slightly marked, for, on the contrary, it emerges from the whole investiture; but it is too subtle, too complicated, too far above and beyond the ordinary, too dreamlike and inexplicable. --_Taine in "A Journey Through Italy"_ [Illustration: Leonardo] There is a little book by George B. Rose, entitled, "Renaissance Masters," which is quite worth your while to read. I carried a copy, for company, in the side-pocket of my coat for a week, and just peeped into it at odd times. I remember that I thought so little of the volume that I read it with a lead-pencil and marked it all up and down and over, and filled the fly-leaves with random thoughts, and disfigured the margins with a few foolish sketches. Then one fine day White Pigeon came out to the Roycroft Shop from Buffalo, as she was passing through. She came on the two-o'clock train and went away on the four-o'clock, and her visit was like a window flung open to the azure. White Pigeon remained at East Aurora only two hours--"not long enough" she said, "to knock the gold and emerald off the butterfly's beautiful wings." White Pigeon saw the little book I have mentioned, on my table in the tower-room. She picked it up and turned the leaves aimlessly; then she opened her Boston bag and slipped the book inside, saying as she did so: "You do not mind?" And I said, "Certainly not!" Then she added, "I like to follow in the pathway you have blazed." That closed the matter so far as the little book was concerned. Save, perhaps, that after I had walked to the station with White Pigeon and she had boarded the car, she stepped out upon the rear platform, and as I stood there at the station watching the train disappear around the curve, White Pigeon reached into the Boston bag, took out the little book and held it up. That was the last time I saw White Pigeon. She was looking well and strong, and her step, I noticed, was firm and sure, and she carried the crown of her head high and her chin in. It made me carry my chin in, too, just by force of example, I suppose--so easily are we influenced. When you walk with some folks you slouch along, but others there be who make you feel an upward lift and skyey gravitation--it is very curious! Yet I do really believe White Pigeon is forty, or awfully close to it. There are silver streaks among her brown braids, and surely the peachblow has long gone from her cheek. Then she was awfully tanned --and that little mole on her forehead, and its mate on her chin, stand out more than ever, like the freckles on the face of Alcibiades Roycroft when he has taken on his August russet. I think White Pigeon must be near forty! That is the second book she has stolen from me; the other was Max Muller's "Memories"--it was at the Louvre in Paris, August the Fourteenth, Eighteen Hundred Ninety- five, as we sat on a bench, silent before the "Mona Lisa" of Leonardo. This book, "Renaissance Masters," I didn't care much for, anyway. I got no information from it, yet it gave me a sort o' glow--that is all--like that lecture which I heard in my boyhood by Wendell Phillips. There is only one thing in the book I remember, but that stands out as clearly as the little mole on White Pigeon's forehead. The author said that Leonardo da Vinci invented more useful appliances than any other man who ever lived, except our own Edison. I know Edison: he is a most lovable man (because he is himself), very deaf--and glad of it, he says, because it saves him from hearing a lot of things he doesn't wish to hear. "It is like this," he once said to me: "deafness gives you a needed isolation; reduces your sensitiveness so things do not disturb or distract; allows you to concentrate and focus on a thought until you run it down--see?" Edison is a great Philistine--reads everything I write--has a complete file of the little brownie magazine; and some of the "Little Journeys" I saw he had interlined and marked. I think Edison is one of the greatest men I ever met--he appreciates Good Things. I told Edison how this writer, Rose, had compared him with Leonardo. He smiled and said, "Who is Rose?" Then after a little pause he continued, "The Great Man is one who has been a long time dead--the woods are full of wizards, but not many of them know that"; and the Wizard laughed softly at his own joke. What kind of a man was Leonardo? Why, he was the same kind of a man as Edison--only Leonardo was thin and tall, while Edison is stout. But you and I would be at home with either. Both are classics and therefore essentially modern. Leonardo studied Nature at first hand --he took nothing for granted--Nature was his one book. Stuffy, fussy, indoor professors--men of awful dignity--frighten folks, cause children to scream, and ladies to gaze in awe; but Leonardo was simple and unpretentious. He was at home in any society, high or low, rich or poor, learned or unlearned--and was quite content to be himself. It's a fine thing to be yourself! Thackeray once said, "If I had met Shakespeare on the stairs, I know I should have fainted dead away!" I do not believe Shakespeare's presence ever made anybody faint. He was so big that he could well afford to put folks at their ease. If Leonardo should come to East Aurora, Bertie, Oliver, Lyle and I would tramp with him across the fields, and he would carry that leather bag strung across his shoulder, just as he ever did when in the country. He was a geologist and a botanist, and was always collecting things (and forgetting where they were). We would tramp with him, I say, and if the season were right we would go through orchards, sit under the trees and eat apples. And Leonardo would talk, as he liked to do, and tell why the side of fruit that was towards the sun took on a beautiful color first; and when an apple fell from the tree he would, so to speak, anticipate Sir Isaac Newton and explain why it fell down and not up. That leather bag of his, I fear, would get rather heavy before we got back, and probably Oliver and Lyle would dispute the honor of carrying it for him. Leonardo was once engaged by Cesare Borgia to fortify the kingdom of Romagna. It was a brand-new kingdom, presented to the young man by Pope Alexander the Sixth. It was really the Pope who ordered Leonardo to survey the tract and make plans for the fortifications and canals and all that--so Leonardo didn't like to refuse. Cesare Borgia had the felicity of being the son of the Pope, but the Pope used to refer to him as his nephew--it was a habit that Popes once had. Pope Alexander also had a daughter--by name, Lucrezia Borgia-- sister to Cesare and very much like him, for they took their diversion in the same way. Leonardo started in to do the work and make plans for fortifications that should be impregnable. He looked the ground over thoroughly, traveling on horseback, and his two servants followed him up in a cart drawn by a bull, which Leonardo calmly explains was a "side- wheeler." Leonardo carried a big sketchbook, and as he made plans for redoubts, he made notes to the effect that crows fly in flocks without a leader, and wild ducks have a system and fly V shape, with a leader that changes off from time to time with the privates. Also, a waterfall runs the musical gamut, and the water might be separated so as to play a tune. Also, the leaves turn to gold through oxidation, and robins pair for life. Leonardo also wrote at this time on the movements of the clouds, the broken strata of rocks, the fertilization of flowers, the habits of bees, and a hundred other themes which fill the library of notebooks that he left. Meanwhile, Cesare Borgia was getting a trifle impatient about the building of his forts. Two years had passed when Cesare and his father met with an accident not uncommon in those times. The precious pair had indulged in their Borgian specialty for the benefit of a certain cardinal, whom they did not warmly admire, though the plot seems to have been chiefly the work of Cesare. By mistake they drank the poisoned wine prepared for the cardinal, and the Pope was cut off amidst a life of usefulness, his son surviving for a worse fate. Pope Julius the Second coming upon the scene, speedily dispossessed the Borgias, and the idea of the new kingdom was abandoned. Leonardo evidently did not go into mourning for the Pope. He had a bullock-cart loaded with specimens, sketches and notebooks, and he set to work to sort them out. He was very happy in this employment-- being essentially a man of peace--and while he made forts and planned siege-guns he was a deal more interested in certain swallows that made nests and glued the work into a most curious and beautiful structure, and when the birds were old enough to fly, tore up the nest, pushing the wee birds out to "swim in the air" or perish. I made some notes about Leonardo's bird observations in the back of that "Renaissance" book that White Pigeon appropriated. I can not recall just what they were--I think I'll hunt White Pigeon up the next time I am in Paris, and get the book back. When that painstaking biographer, Arsene Houssaye, was endeavoring to fix the date of Leonardo da Vinci's birth, he interviewed a certain bishop, who waived the matter thus: "Surely what difference does it make, since he had no business to be born at all?"--a very Milesian-like reply. Houssaye is too sensible a man to waste words with the spiritually obese, and so merely answered in the language of Terence, "I am a man and nothing that is human is alien to me!" The gentle Erasmus when a boy was once taunted by a schoolfellow with having "no name." And Erasmus replied, "Then, I'll make one for myself." And he did. No record of Leonardo's birth exists, but the year is fixed upon in a very curious way. Caterina, his mother, was married one year after his birth. The date of this marriage is proven, and the fact that the son of Piero da Vinci was then a year old is also shown. As the marriage occurred in Fourteen Hundred Fifty-three, we simply go back one year and say that Leonardo da Vinci was born in Fourteen Hundred Fifty-two. Most accounts say that Caterina was a servant in the Da Vinci family, but a later and seemingly more authentic writer informs us that she was a governess and a teacher of needlework. That her kinsmen hastened her marriage with the peasant, Vacca Accattabriga, seems quite certain: they sought to establish her in a respectable position. And so she acquiesced, and avoided society's displeasure, very much as Lord Bacon escaped disgrace by leaving "Hamlet" upon Shakespeare's doorstep. This child of Caterina's found a warm welcome in the noble family of his father. From his babyhood he seems to have had the power of winning hearts--he came fresh from God and brought love with him. We even hear a little rustle of dissent from grandmother and aunts when his father, Piero da Vinci, married, and started housekeeping as did Benjamin Franklin "with a wife and a bouncing boy." The charm of the child is again revealed in the fact that his stepmother treated him as her own babe, and lavished her love upon him even from her very wedding morn. Perhaps the compliment should go to her, as well as to the child, for the woman whose heart goes out to another woman's babe is surely good quality. And this was the only taste of motherhood that this brave woman knew, for she passed out in a few months. Fate decreed that Leonardo should have successively four stepmothers, and should live with all of them in happiness and harmony, for he always made his father's house his own. Leonardo was the idol of his father and all these stepmothers. He had ten half-brothers, who alternately boasted of his kinship and flouted him. Yet nothing could seriously disturb the serenity of his mind. When his father died, without a will, the brothers sought to dispossess Leonardo of his rights, and we hear of a lawsuit, which was finally compromised. Yet note the magnanimity of Leonardo--in his will he leaves bequests to these brothers who had sought to undo him! Of the life of the mother after her marriage we know nothing. There is a vague reference in Vasari's book to her "large family and growing cares," but whether she knew of her son's career, we can not say. Leonardo never mentions her, yet one writer has attempted to show that the rare beauty of that mysterious face shown in so many of Leonardo's pictures was modeled from the face of his mother. No love-story comes to us in Leonardo's own life--he never married. Ventura suggests that "on account of his birth, he was indifferent to the divine institution of marriage." But this is pure conjecture. We know that his great contemporaries, Michelangelo, Raphael, Titian and Giorgione, never married; and we know further that there was a sentiment in the air at that time, that an artist belonged to the Church, and his life, like that of the priest, was sacred to her service. Like Sir William Davenant, Leonardo was always proud of the mystery that surrounded his birth--it differentiated him from the mass, and placed him as one set apart. Well might he have used the language put into the mouth of Edmund in "King Lear." In one of Leonardo's manuscripts is found an interjected prayer of thankfulness for "the divinity of my birth, and the angels that have guarded my life and guided my feet" This idea of "divinity" is strong in the mind of every great man. He recognizes his sonship, and claims his divine parentage. The man of masterly mind is perforce an Egotist. When he speaks he says, "Thus saith the Lord." If he did not believe in himself, how could he make others believe in him? Small men are apologetic and give excuses for being on earth, and reasons for staying here so long, and run and peek about to find themselves dishonorable graves. Not so the Great Souls--the fact that they are here is proof that God sent them. Their actions are regal, their language oracular, their manner affirmative. Leonardo's mental attitude was sublimely gracious--he had no grievance or quarrel with his Maker--he accepted life, and ever found it good. "We are all sons of God and it doth not yet appear what we shall be." Philip Gilbert Hamerton, who wrote "The Intellectual Life," names Leonardo da Vinci as having lived the richest, fullest and best- rounded life of which we know. Yet while Leonardo lived, there also lived Shakespeare, Loyola, Cervantes, Columbus, Martin Luther, Savonarola, Erasmus, Michelangelo, Titian and Raphael. Titans all-- giants in intellect and performance, doing and daring, and working such wonders as men never worked before: writing plays, without thought of posterity, that are today the mine from which men work their poetry; producing comedies that are classic; sailing trackless seas and discovering continents; tacking proclamations of defiance on church-doors; hunted and exiled for the right of honest speech; welcoming fierce flames of fagots; falling upon blocks of marble and liberating angels; painting pictures that have inspired millions! But not one touched life at so many points, or reveled so in existence, or was so captain of his soul as was Leonardo da Vinci. Vasari calls him the "divinely endowed," "showered with the richest gifts as by celestial munificence" and speaks of his countenance thus: "The radiance of his face was so splendidly beautiful that it brought cheerfulness to the hearts of the most melancholy, and his presence was such that his lightest word would move the most obstinate to say 'Yes' or 'No.'" Bandello, the story-teller who was made a Bishop on account of his peculiar talent, had the effrontery to put one of his worst stories, that about the adventures of Fra Lippo Lippi, into the mouth of Leonardo. This rough-cast tale, somewhat softened down and hand- polished, served for one of Browning's best-known poems. Had Bandello allowed Botticelli to tell the tale, it would have been much more in keeping. Leonardo's days were too full of work to permit of his indulging in the society of roysterers--his life was singularly dignified and upright. When about twenty years old Leonardo was a fellow-student with Perugino in the bottega of good old Andrea del Verrocchio. It seems the master painted a group and gave Leonardo the task of drawing in one figure. Leonardo painted in an angel--an angel whose grace and subtle beauty stand out, even today, like a ray of light. The story runs that good old Verrocchio wept on first seeing it--wept unselfish tears of joy, touched with a very human pathos--his pupil had far surpassed him, and never again did Verrocchio attempt to paint. In physical strength Leonardo surpassed all his comrades. "He could twist horseshoes between his fingers, bend bars of iron across his knees, disarm every adversary, and in wrestling, running, vaulting and swimming he had no equals. He was especially fond of horses, and in the joust often rode animals that had never before been ridden, winning prizes from the most daring." Brawn is usually purchased at the expense of brain, but not so in this case. Leonardo was the courtier and diplomat, and all the finer graces were in his keeping, even from boyhood. And a recent biographer has made the discovery that he was called from Florence to the Court of Milan "because he was such an adept harpist, playing and singing his own compositions." Yet we have the letter written by Leonardo to the Duke of Milan, wherein he commends himself, and in humility tells of a few things he can do. This most precious document is now in the Ambrosian Library at Milan. After naming nine items in the way of constructing bridges, tunnels, canals, fortifications, the making of cannon, use of combustibles and explosives--known to him alone--he gets down to things of peace and says: "I believe I am equaled by no one in architecture in constructing public and private buildings, and in conducting water from one place to another. I can execute sculpture, whether in marble, bronze or terra cotta, and in drawing and painting I believe I can do as much as any other man, be he who he may. Further, I could engage to execute the bronze statue in memory of your honored father. And again, if any of the above-mentioned things should appear impossible or overstated, I am ready to make such performance in any place or at any time to prove to you my power. In humility I thus commend myself to your illustrious house, and am your servant, Leonardo da Vinci." And the strange part of all this is that Leonardo could do all he claimed--or he might, if there were a hundred hours in a day and man did not grow old. The things he predicted and planned have mostly been done. He knew the earth was round, and understood the orbits of the planets-- Columbus knew no more. His scheme of building a canal from Pisa to Florence and diverting the waters of the Arno, was carried out exactly as he had planned, two hundred years after his death. He knew the expansive quality of steam, the right systems of dredging, the action of the tides, the proper use of levers, screws and cranes, and how immense weights could be raised and lowered. He placed a new foundation under a church that was sinking in the sand and elevated the whole stone structure several feet. But when Vasari seriously says he had a plan for moving mountains (aside from faith), I think we had better step aside and talk of other things. And all this time that he was working at physics and mathematics, he was painting and modeling in clay, just for recreation. Then behold the Duke of Milan, the ascetic and profligate, libertine and dreamer, hearing of him and sending straightway for Leonardo because he is "the most accomplished harpist in Italy"! So Leonardo came and led the dance and the tourney, improvised songs and planned the fetes and festivals where strange animals turned into birds and gigantic flowers opened, disclosing beautiful girls. Yet Leonardo found time to plan the equestrian statue of Francisco Sporza, the Duke's father, and finding the subject so interesting he took up the systematic study of the horse, and dived to the depths of horse anatomy in a way that no living man had done before. He dissected the horse, articulated the skeletons of different breeds for comparison, and then wrote a book upon the subject which is a textbook yet; and meanwhile he let the statue wait. He discovered that in the horse there are rudimentary muscles, and unused organs-- the "water-stomach" for instance--thus showing that the horse evolved from a lower form of life--anticipating Darwin by three hundred years. The Duke was interested in statues and pictures--what he called "results"--he didn't care for speculations or theories, and only a live horse that could run fast interested him. So to keep the peace, the gracious Leonardo painted portraits of the Duke's mistress, posing her as the Blessed Virgin, thus winning the royal favor and getting carte-blanche orders on the Keeper of the Exchequer. As a result of this Milan period we have the superb portrait, now in the Louvre, of Lucrezia Crivelli, who was supposed to be the favorite of the Duke. But the Duke was a married man, and the good wife must be placated. She had turned to religion when her lover's love grew cold, just as women always do; and for her Leonardo painted the "Last Supper" in the dining-room of the monastery which was under her especial protection, and where she often dined. The devout lady found much satisfaction in directing the work, which was to be rather general and simply decorative. But the heart of Leonardo warmed to the task and as he worked he planned the most famous painting in the world. All this time Leonardo had many pupils in painting and sculpture. Soon he founded the Milan Academy of Art. At odd times he made designs for the Duke's workers in silver and gold, drew patterns for the nuns to embroider from, and gave them and the assembled ladies, invited on the order of the Duke's wife, lessons in literature and the gentle art of writing poetry. The Prior of the monastery watched the work of the "Last Supper" with impatient eyes. He had given up the room to the lumbering scaffolds, hoping to have all cleaned up and tidy in a month, come Michaelmas. But the month had passed and only blotches of color and black, curious outlines marred the walls. Once the Prior threatened to remove the lumber by force and wipe the walls clean, but Leonardo looked at him and he retreated. Now he complained to the Duke about the slowness of the task. Leonardo worked alone, allowing no pupil or helper to touch the picture. Five good, lively men could do the job in a week--"I could do it myself, if allowed," the good Prior said. Often Leonardo would stand with folded arms and survey the work for an hour at a time and not lift a brush; the Prior had seen it all through the keyhole! The Duke listened patiently and then summoned Leonardo. The painter's gracious speech soon convinced the Duke that men of genius do not work like hired laborers. This painting was to be a masterpiece, fit monument to a wise and virtuous ruler. So consummate a performance must not be hastened; besides there was no one to pose for either the head of Christ or of Judas. The Christ must be ideal and the face could only be conjured forth from the painter's own soul, in moments of inspiration. As for Judas, "Why, if nothing better can be found--and I doubt it much--I believe I will take as model for Judas our friend the Prior!" And Leonardo turned to the Prior, who fled and never again showed his face in the room until the picture was finished. The Prior's complaint, that Leonardo had too many irons in the fire, was the universal cry the groundlings raised against him. "He begins things, but never completes them," they said. The man of genius conceives things; the man of talent carries them forward to completion. This the critics did not know. It is too much to expect the equal balance of genius and talent in one individual. Leonardo had great talent, but his genius outstripped it, for he planned what twenty lifetimes could not complete. He was indeed the endless experimenter--his was in very truth the Experimental Life. His incentive was self-development--to conceive was enough--common men could complete. To try many things means Power: to finish a few is Immortality. God's masterpiece is the human face. A woman's smile may have in it more sublimity than a sunset; more pathos than a battle-scarred landscape; more warmth than the sun's bright ray; more love than words can say. The human face is the masterpiece of God. The eyes reveal the soul, the mouth the flesh, the chin stands for purpose, the nose means will. But over and behind all is that fleeting Something we call "expression." This Something is not set or fixed, it is fluid as the ether, changeful as the clouds that move in mysterious majesty across the surface of a summer sky, subtle as the sob of rustling leaves--too faint at times for human ears--elusive as the ripples that play hide-and-seek over the bosom of a placid lake. And yet men have caught expression and held it captive. On the walls of the Louvre hangs the "Mona Lisa" of Leonardo da Vinci. This picture has been for four hundred years an exasperation and an inspiration to every portrait-painter who has put brush to palette. Well does Walter Pater call it, "The Despair of Painters." The artist was over fifty years of age when he began the work, and he was four years in completing the task. Completing, did I say? Leonardo's dying regret was that he had not completed this picture. And yet we might say of it, as Ruskin said of Turner's work, "By no conceivable stretch of imagination can we say where this picture could be bettered or improved upon." Leonardo did not paint this portrait for the woman who sat for it, nor for the woman's husband, who we know was not interested in the matter. The painter made the picture for himself, but succumbing to temptation, sold it to the King of France for a sum equal to something over eighty thousand dollars--an enormous amount at that time to be paid for a single canvas. The picture was not for sale, which accounts for the tremendous price that it brought. Unlike so many other works attributed to Leonardo, no doubt exists as to the authenticity of "La Gioconda." The correspondence relative to its sale yet exists, and even the voucher proving its payment may still be seen. Fate and fortune have guarded the "Mona Lisa"; and neither thief nor vandal, nor impious infidel nor unappreciative stupidity, nor time itself has done it harm. France bought the picture; France has always owned and housed it; it still belongs to France. We call the "Mona Lisa" a portrait, and we have been told how La Gioconda sat for the picture, and how the artist invented ways of amusing her, by stories, recitations, the luring strain of hidden lutes, and strange flowers and rare pictures brought in as surprises to animate and cheer. That Leonardo loved this woman we are sure, and that their friendship was close and intimate the world has guessed; but the picture is not her portrait--it is himself whom the artist reveals. Away back in his youth, when Leonardo was a student with Verrocchio, he gave us glimpses of this same face. He showed this woman's mysterious smile in the Madonna, in Saint Anne, Mary Magdalen, and the outlines of the features are suggested in the Christ and the Saint John of the "Last Supper." But not until La Gioconda had posed for him did the consummate beauty and mysterious intellect of this ideal countenance find expression. There is in the face all you can read into it, and nothing more. It gives you what you bring, and nothing else. It is as silent as the lips of Memnon, as voiceless as the Sphinx. It suggests to you every joy that you have ever felt, every sorrow you have ever known, every triumph you have ever experienced. This woman is beautiful, just as all life is beautiful when we are in health. She has no quarrel with the world--she loves and she is loved again. No vain longing fills her heart, no feverish unrest disturbs her dreams, for her no crouching fear haunts the passing hours--that ineffable smile which plays around her mouth says plainly that life is good. And yet the circles about the eyes and the drooping lids hint of world-weariness, and speak the message of Koheleth and say, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." La Gioconda is infinitely wise, for she has lived. That supreme poise is only possible to one who knows. All the experiences and emotions of manifold existence have etched and molded that form and face until the body has become the perfect instrument of the soul. Like every piece of intense personality, this picture has power both to repel and to attract. To this woman nothing is either necessarily good or bad. She has known strange woodland loves in far-off eons when the world was young. She is familiar with the nights and days of Cleopatra, for they were hers--the lavish luxury, the animalism of a soul on fire, the smoke of curious incense that brought poppy- like repose, the satiety that sickens--all these were her portion; the sting of the asp yet lingers in her memory, and the faint scar from its fangs is upon her white breast, known and wondered at by Leonardo who loved her. Back of her stretches her life, a mysterious, purple shadow. Do you not see the palaces turned to dust, the broken columns, the sunken treasures, the creeping mosses and the rank ooze of fretted waters that have undermined cities and turned kingdoms into desert seas? The galleys of Pagan Greece have swung wide for her on the unforgetting tide, for her soul dwelt in the body of Helen of Troy, and Pallas Athene has followed her ways and whispered to her the secrets even of the gods. Aye! not only was she Helen, but she was Leda, the mother of Helen. Then she was Saint Anne, mother of Mary; and next she was Mary, visited by an Angel in a dream, and followed by the Wise Men who had seen the Star in the East. The centuries, that are but thoughts, found her a Vestal Virgin in Pagan Rome when brutes were kings, and lust stalked rampant through the streets. She was the bride of Christ, and her fair, frail body was flung to the wild beasts, and torn limb from limb while the multitude feasted on the sight. True to the central impulse of her soul the Dark Ages rightly called her Cecilia, and then Saint Cecilia, mother of sacred music, and later she ministered to men as Melania, the Nun of Tagaste; next as that daughter of William the Conqueror, the Sister of Charity who went throughout Italy, Spain and France and taught the women of the nunneries how to sew, to weave, to embroider, to illuminate books, and make beauty, truth and harmony manifest to human eyes. And so this Lady of the Beautiful Hands stood to Leonardo as the embodiment of a perpetual life; moving in a constantly ascending scale, gathering wisdom, graciousness, love, even as he himself in this life met every experience halfway and counted it joy, knowing that experience is the germ of power. Life writes its history upon the face, so that all those who have had a like experience read and understand. The human face is the masterpiece of God. BOTTICELLI In Leonardo's "Treatise on Painting," only one contemporary is named--Sandro Botticelli.... The Pagan and Christian world mingle in the work of Botticelli; but the man himself belonged to an age that is past and gone--an age that flourished long before men recorded history. His best efforts seem to spring out of a heart that forgot all precedent, and arose, Venus-like, perfect and complete, from the unfathomable Sea of Existence. --_Walter Pater_ [Illustration: Botticelli] One Professor Max Lautner has recently placed a small petard under the European world of Art, and given it a hoist to starboard, by asserting that Rembrandt did not paint Rembrandt's best pictures. The Professor makes his point luminous by a cryptogram he has invented and for which he has filed a caveat. It is a very useful cryptogram; no well-regulated family should be without it--for by it you can prove any proposition you may make, even to establishing that Hopkinson Smith is America's only stylist. My opinion is that this cryptogram is an infringement on that of our lamented countryman, Ignatius Donnelly. But letting that pass, the statement that Rembrandt could not have painted the pictures that are ascribed to him, "because the man was low, vulgar and untaught," commands respect on account of the extreme crudity of the thought involved. Lautner is so dull that he is entertaining. "I have the capacity in me for every crime," wrote that gentlest of gentle men, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Of course he hadn't, and in making this assertion Emerson pulled toward him a little more credit than was his due. That is, he overstated a great classic truth. "If Rembrandt painted the 'Christ at Emmaus' and the 'Sortie of the Civic Guard,' then Rembrandt had two souls," exclaims Professor Lautner. And the simple answer of Emerson would have been, "He had." That is just the difference between Rembrandt and Professor Lautner. Lautner has one flat, dead-level, unprofitable soul that neither soars high nor dives deep; and his mind reasons unobjectionable things out syllogistically, in a manner perfectly inconsequential. He is icily regular, splendidly null. Every man measures others by himself--he has only one standard. When a man ridicules certain traits in other men, he ridicules himself. How would he know that other men were contemptible, did he not look into his own heart and there see the hateful things? Thackeray wrote his book on Snobs, because he was a Snob--which is not to say that he was a Snob all the time. When you recognize a thing, good or bad, in the outside world, it is because it was yours already. "I carry the world in my heart," said the Prophet of old. All the universe you have is the universe you have within. Old Walt Whitman, when he saw the wounded soldier, exclaimed, "I am that man!" And two thousand years before this, Terence said, "I am a man, and nothing that is human is alien to me." I know just why Professor Lautner believes that Rembrandt never could have painted a picture with a deep, tender, subtle and spiritual significance. Professor Lautner averages fairly well, he labors hard to be consistent, but his thought gamut runs just from Bottom the weaver to Dogberry the judge. He is a cauliflower--that is to say, a cabbage with a college education. Yes, I understand him, because for most of the time I myself am supremely dull, childishly dogmatic, beautifully self-complacent. I am Lautner. Lautner says that Rembrandt was "untaught," and Donnelly said the same of Shakespeare, and each critic gives this as a reason why the man could not have done a sublime performance. Yet since "Hamlet" was never equaled, who could have taught its author how? And since Rembrandt at his best was never surpassed, who could have instructed him? Rembrandt sold his wife's wedding-garments, and spent the money for strong drink. The woman was dead. And then there came to him days of anguish, and nights of grim, grinding pain. He paced the echoing halls, as did Robert Browning after the death of Elizabeth Barrett when he cried aloud, "I want her! I want her!". The cold gray light of morning came creeping into the sky. Rembrandt was fevered, restless, sleepless. He sat by the window and watched the day unfold. And as he sat there looking out to the east, the light of love gradually drove the darkness from his heart. He grew strangely calm--he listened, he thought he heard the rustle of a woman's garments; he caught the smell of her hair--he imagined Saskia was at his elbow. He took up the palette and brushes that for weeks had lain idle, and he outlined the "Christ at Emmaus"--the gentle, loving, sympathetic Christ--the worn, emaciated, thorn-crowned, bleeding Christ, whom the Pharisees misunderstood, and the soldiers spat upon. Don't you know how Rembrandt painted the "Christ at Emmaus"? I do. I am that man. Shortly after Sandro Botticelli had painted that distinctly pagan picture, "The Birth of Venus," he equalized matters, eased conscience and silenced the critics, by producing a beautiful Madonna, surrounded by a circle of singing angels. Yet George Eliot writes that there were wiseacres who shook their heads and said: "This Madonna is the work of some good monk--only a man who is deeply religious could put that look of exquisite tenderness and sympathy in a woman's face. Some one is trying to save Sandro's reputation, and win him back from his wayward ways." In the lives of Botticelli and Rembrandt there is a close similarity. In temperament as well as in experience they seem to parallel each other. In boyhood Botticelli and Rembrandt were dull, perverse, wilful. Both were given up by teachers and parents as hopelessly handicapped by stupidity. Botticelli's father, seeing that the boy made no progress at school, apprenticed him to a metalworker. The lad showed the esteem in which he held his parent by dropping the family name of Filipepi and assuming the name of Botticelli, the name of his employer. Rembrandt's father thought his boy might make a fair miller, but beyond this his ambition never soared. Botticelli and Rembrandt were splendid animals. The many pictures of Rembrandt, painted by himself, show great physical vigor and vital power. The picture of Botticelli, by himself, in the "Adoration of the Magi," reveals a powerful physique and a striking personality. The man is as fine as an Aztec, as strong and self-reliant as a cliff- dweller. Character and habit are revealed in the jaw--the teeth of the Aztecs were made to grind corn in the kernel, and as long as they continued grinding dried corn in the kernel, they had good teeth. Dentists were not required until men began to feed on mush. Botticelli had broad, strong, square jaws, wide nostrils, full lips, large eyes set wide apart, forehead rather low and sloping, and a columnar neck that rose right out of his spine. A man with such a neck can "stand punishment"--and give it. Such a neck is only seen once in a thousand times. Men with such necks have been mothered by women who bore burdens balanced on their heads, boycotted the corsetier, and eschewed all deadly French heels. Do you know the face of Oliver Goldsmith, the droop of the head, the receding chin and the bulging forehead? Well, Botticelli's face was the antithesis of this. Most of the truly great artists have been men of this Stone Age-- quality men who dared. Michelangelo was the pure type: Titian who lived a century (lacking one year) was another. Leonardo was the same fine savage (who in some miraculous way also possessed the grace of a courtier). Franz Hals, Van Dyck, Rembrandt and Botticelli were all men of fierce appetites and heroic physiques. They had animality plus that would have carried them across the century-mark, had they not drawn checks on futurity, in a belief that their bank- balance was unlimited. Botticelli and Rembrandt kept step in their history, both receiving instant recognition in early life and becoming rich. Then fashion and society turned against them--the tide of popularity began to ebb. One reinforced his genius with strong drink, and the other became intoxicated with religious enthusiasm. Finally, both begged alms in the public streets; and the bones of each filled a pauper's grave. Ruskin unearthed Botticelli (Just as he discovered Turner), and gave him to the Preraphaelites, who fell down and worshiped him. Whether we would have had Burne-Jones without Botticelli is a grave question, and anyway it would have been another Burne-Jones. There would have been no processions of tall, lissome, melancholy beauties wending their way to nowhere, were it not for the "Spring." Ruskin held up the picture, and the Preraphaelites got them to their easels. At once all original "Botticellis" were gotten out, "restored" and reframed. The prices doubled, trebled, quadrupled, as the brokers scoured Europe. By the year Eighteen Hundred Eighty-six every "Botticelli" had found a home in some public institution or gallery, and no lure of gold could bring one forth. At Yale University there is a modest collection of good pictures. Among them is a "Botticelli": not a great picture like the "Crowned Madonna" of the Uffizi, or "The Nativity" of the National Gallery, but still a picture painted by Sandro Botticelli, beyond a doubt. Recently, J. Pierpont Morgan, alumnus of Harvard, conceived the idea that the "Botticelli" at Yale would look quite as well and be safer if it were hung on the walls of the new granite fireproof Art- Gallery at Cambridge. Accordingly, he dispatched an agent to New Haven to buy the "Botticelli." The agent offered fifty thousand dollars, seventy-five, one hundred--no. Then he proposed to build Yale a new art-gallery and stock it with Pan-American pictures, all complete, in exchange for that little, insignificant and faded "Botticelli.". But no trade was consummated, and on the walls of Yale the picture still hangs. Each night a cot is carried in and placed beneath the picture. And there a watchman sleeps and dreams of that portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire by Gainsborough, stolen from its frame, lost for a quarter of a century, and then rescued by one Colonel Patrick Sheedy (philanthropist and friend of art), for a consideration, and sold to J. Pierpont Morgan, alumnus of Harvard (and a very alert, alive and active man). A short time ago, there shot across the artistic firmament a comet of daring and dazzling brightness. Every comet is hurling onward to its death: destruction is its only end: and upon each line and tracery of the work of Aubrey Beardsley is the taint of decay. To deny the genius of the man were vain--he had elements in his character that made him akin to Keats, Shelley, Burns, Byron, Chopin and Stephen Crane. With these his name will in brotherhood be forever linked. He was one made to suffer, sin and die--a few short summers, and autumn came with yellow leaves and he was gone. And the principal legacy he left us is the thought of wonder as to what he might have been had he only lived! Aubrey Beardsley's art was the art of the ugly. His countenances are so repulsive that they attract. The psychology of the looks, and leers, and grins, and hot, hectic desires on the faces of his women is a puzzle that we can not lay aside--we want to solve the riddle of this paradox of existence--the woman whose soul is mire and whose heart is hell. Many men have tried to fathom it at close range, but we devise a safer plan and follow the trail in books, art and imagination. Art shows you the thing you might have done or been. Burke says the ugly attracts us, because we congratulate ourselves that we are not it. The Madonna pictures, multiplied without end, stand for peace, faith, hope, trustfulness and love. All that is fairest, holiest, purest, noblest, best, men have tried to portray in the face of the Madonna. All the good that is in the hearts of all the good women they know, all the good that is in their own hearts, they have made to shine forth from the "Mother of God." Woman has been the symbol of righteousness and faith. On the other hand, it was a woman--Louise de la Ramee--who said, "Woman is the instrument of lust." Saint Chrysostom wrote, "She is the snare the Devil uses to lure men to their doom." I am not quite ready to accept the dictum of that old, old story that it was the woman who collaborated with the serpent and first introduced sin and sorrow into the world. Or, should I believe this, I wish to give woman due credit for giving to man the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge--the best gift that ever came his way. But the first thought holds true in a poetic way: it has always been, is yet, and always will be true, that the very depths of degradation are sounded only by woman. As poets, painters and sculptors have ever chosen a woman to stand for what is best in humanity, so she has posed as their model when they wanted to reveal the worst. This desire to depict villainy on a human face seems to have found its highest modern exponent in Aubrey Beardsley. With him man is an animal, and woman a beast. Aye, she is worse than a beast--she is a vampire. Kipling's summing up of woman as "a rag and a bone and a hank of hair" gives no clue to the possibilities in way of subtle, reckless reaches of deviltry compared with a single, simple, outline drawing by Beardsley. Beardsley's heroines are the kind of women who can kill a man with a million pin-pricks, so diabolically, subtly and slyly administered that no one but the victim would be aware of the martyrdom--and he could not explain it. As you enter the main gallery of statuary at the Luxembourg, you will see, on a slightly raised platform, at the opposite end of the room, the nude figure of a man. The mold is heroic, and the strong pose at once attracts your attention. As you approach closer you will see, standing behind the man, the figure of a woman. Her form is elevated so she is leaning over him and her face is turned so her lips are about to be pressed upon his. You approach still closer, and a feeling of horror flashes through you--you see that the beautiful arms of the woman end in hairy claws. The claws embrace the man in deadly grasp, and are digging deep into his vitals. On his face is a look of fearful pain, and every splendid muscle is tense with awful agony. Now, if you do as I did, you will suddenly turn and go out into the fresh air--the fearful realism of the marble will for the moment unnerve you. This is the piece of statuary that gave Philip Burne-Jones the cue for his painting, "The Vampire," which picture suggested the poem, by the same name, to Rudyard Kipling. Aubrey Beardsley gloated on the Vampire--she was the sole goddess of his idolatry. No wonder it was that the story of Salome attracted him! Salome was a woman so wantonly depraved that Beardsley, with a touch of pious hypocrisy, said he dared not use her for dramatic purposes, save for the fact that she was a Bible character. You remember the story: John the Baptist, the strong, fine youth, came up out of the wilderness crying in the streets of Jerusalem, "Repent ye! Repent ye!" Salome heard the call and looked upon the semi-naked young fanatic from her window, with half-closed, catlike eyes. She smiled, did this idle creature of luxury, as she lay there amid the cushions on her couch, arid gazed through the casement upon the preacher in the street. Suddenly a thought came to her! She arose on her elbow--she called her slaves. They clothed her in a gaudy gown, dressed her hair, and led her forth. Salome followed the wild, weird, religious enthusiast. She pushed through the crowd and placed herself near the man, so the smell of her body would reach his nostrils, and his eyes would range the swelling lines of her body. Their eyes met. She half-smiled and gave him that look which had snared the soul of many another. But he only gazed at her with passionless, judging intensity, and repeated his cry, "Repent ye, Repent ye, for the day is at hand!" Her reply, uttered soft and low, was this: "I would kiss thy lips!" He turned away and she reached to seize his garment, repeating, "I would kiss thy lips--I would kiss thy lips!" He turned aside and forgot her, as he continued his warning cry, and went his way. The next day she waylaid the youth again; as he came near she suddenly and softly stepped forth and said in that same low voice, "I would kiss thy lips!" He repulsed her with scorn. She threw her arms about him and sought to draw his head down near hers. He pushed her from him with sinewy hands, sprang as from a pestilence, and was lost in the pressing throng. That night she danced before Herod Antipas, and when the promise was recalled that she should have anything she wished, she named the head of the only man who had ever turned away from her--"The head of John the Baptist on a charger!" In an hour the wish is gratified. Two eunuchs stand before Salome with a silver tray bearing its fearsome burden. The woman smiles--a smile of triumph--as she steps forth with tinkling feet. A look of pride comes over the painted face. Her jeweled fingers reach into the blood-matted hair. She lifts the head aloft, and the bracelets on her brown, bare arms fall to her shoulders, making strange music. Her face presses the face of the dead. In exultation she exclaims, "I have kissed thy lips!" The most famous picture by Botticelli is the "Spring," now in the Academy at Florence. The picture has given rise to endless inquiry, and the explanation was made in the artist's day, and is still made, that it was painted to illustrate a certain passage in Lucretius. This innocent little subterfuge of giving a classic turn to things in art and literature has allowed many a man to shield his reputation and gloss his good name. When Art relied upon the protecting wing of the Church, the poet-painters called their risky little things, "Susannah and the Elders," "The Wife of Uriah," or "Pharaoh's Daughter." Lucas van Leyden once pictured a Dutch wench with such startling and realistic fidelity that he scandalized a whole community, until he labeled the picture, "Potiphar's Wife." When the taste for the classics began to be cultivated, we had "Leda and the Swan," "Psyche," "Phryne Before the Judges," "Aphrodite Rising From the Sea," and, later, England experienced quite an artistic eruption of Lady Godivas. Literature is filled with many such naive little disguises as "Sonnets From the Portuguese," and Robert Browning himself caught the idea and put many a maxim into the mouth of another, for which he preferred not to stand sponsor. Botticelli painted the "Spring" for Lorenzo the Magnificent, to be placed in the Medici villa at Castello. The picture, it will be remembered, represents seven female figures, a flying cupid, and a youth. The youth is a young man of splendid proportions; he stands in calm indifference with his back to the sparsely clad beauties, and reaches into the branches of a tree for the plenteous fruit. This youth is a composite portrait of Botticelli and his benefactor, Lorenzo. The women were painted from life, and represent various favorites and beauties of the court. The drawing is faulty, the center of gravity being lost in several of the figures, and the anatomy is of a quality that must have given a severe shock to the artist's friend, Leonardo. Yet the grace, the movement and the joyous quality of Spring are in it all. It is a most fascinating picture, and we can well imagine the flutter it produced when first exhibited four hundred years ago. Two figures in the picture challenge attention. One of these represents approaching maternity--a most daring thing to attempt. This feature seems to belong to the School of Hogarth alone--a school which, let us pray, is hopelessly dead. Cimabue and several of his pupils painted realistic pictures representing Mary visiting Elizabeth, but the intense religious zeal back of them was a salt that saved from offending. Occasionally, the staid and sober Dutch successfully attempted the same theme, and their stolidity stood for them as religious zeal had done for the early Italians--we pardon them simply because they knew no better than to choose a subject that is beyond the realm of art. The restorers and engravers have softened down Botticelli's intent, which was originally well defined, but we can easily see that the effect was delicate and spiritual. The woman's downcast gaze is full of tenderness and truth. That figure when it was painted was history, and must have had a very tender interest for two persons at least. Had the painter dared to suggest motherhood in that other figure--the one with the flowered raiment--he would have offended against decency, and the art-sense of the world would have stricken his name from the roster of fame forever, and made him anathema. More has been written and said, and more copies made of that woman in the flowered dress in the "Spring" than of any other portrait I can remember, save possibly the "Mona Lisa." The face is not without a certain attractiveness; the high cheek- bones, the narrow forehead, and the lines above her brow show that this is no ideal sketch--it is the portrait of a woman who once lived. But the peculiar mark of depravity is the eye: this woman looks at you with a cold, calm, calculating, brazen leer. Hidden in the folds of her dress or in the coil of her hair is a stiletto--she can find it in an instant--and as she looks at you out of those impudent eyes, she is mentally searching out your most vulnerable spot. In this woman's face there is an entire absence of wonder, curiosity, modesty or passion. All that we call the eternally feminine is obliterated. "Mona Lisa" is infinitely wise, while this woman is only cunning. All the lure she possesses is the lure of warm, pulsing youth--grown old she will be a repulsive hag. Speculation has made her one of the Borgias, for in the days of Botticelli a Borgia was Pope, and Cesare Borgia and his court were well known to Botticelli--from such a group he could have picked his model, if anywhere. Ruskin has linked this unknown wicked beauty with Machiavelli. But Machiavelli had a head that outmatched hers, and he would certainly have left her to the fool moths that fluttered around her candle. Machiavelli used women, and this woman has only one ambition, and that is to use men. She represents concrete selfishness--the mother-instinct swallowed up in pride, and conscience smothered by hate. Certainly sex is not dead in her, but it is perverted below the brute. Her passion would be so intense and fierce that even as she caressed her lover, with arm about his neck, she would feel softly for his jugular, mindful the while of the stiletto hidden in her hair. And this is the picture that fired the brain of Aubrey Beardsley, and caused him to fix his ambition on becoming the Apostle of the Ugly. To liken Beardsley to Botticelli, however, seems indeed a sin. The master was an artist, but Beardsley only gave chalk talks. His work is often crude, rude and raw. He is only a promise, turned to dust. Yet let the simple fact stand for what it is worth, that Beardsley had but one god, and that was Botticelli. Most of the things Beardsley did were ugly; many of the things Botticelli did were supremely beautiful. Yet in all of Botticelli's work there is a tinge of melancholy--a shade of disappointment. The "Spring" is a sad picture. On the faces of all his tall, fine, graceful girls there is a hectic flush. Their cheeks are hollow, and you feel that their beauty is already beginning to fade. Like fruit too much loved by the sun, they are ready to fall. Botticelli had the true love nature. By instinct he was a lover, proof of which lies in the fact that he was deeply religious. The woman he loved he has pictured over and over again. The touch of sorrow is ever in her wan face, but she possessed a silken strength, a heroic nature, a love that knew no turning. She had faith in Botticelli, and surely he had faith in her. For forty years she was in his heart; at times he tried to dislodge her and replace her image with another; but he never succeeded, and the last Madonna he drew is the same wistful, loving, patient face--sad yet proud, strong yet infinitely tender. In that piece of lapidary work, "How Sandro Botticelli Saw Simonetta in the Spring," is a bit of heart psychology which, I believe, has never been surpassed in English. Simonetta, of the noble house of Vespucci, was betrothed to Giuliano, brother of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Simonetta was tall, stately--beautiful as Venus, wise as Minerva and proud as Juno. She knew her worth, realized her beauty, and feeling her power made others feel it, too. On a visit to the villa of the Medici at Fiesole she first saw Sandro Botticelli at an evening assembly in the gardens. She had heard of the man and knew his genius. When they suddenly met face to face under the boughs, she noted how her beauty startled him. His gaze ranged the exquisite lines of her tall form, then sought the burnished gold of her hair. Their eyes met. First of all this man was an artist: the art-instinct in him was supreme: after that he was a lover. Simonetta saw he had looked upon her merely as a "subject." She was both pleased and angry. She, too, loved art, but she loved love more. She was a woman. They separated, and Simonetta inwardly compared the sallow, slavish scion of a proud name, to whom she was betrothed, with this God's Nobleman whom she had just met. Giuliano's words were full of soft flattery; this man uttered an oath of surprise under his breath, on first seeing her, and treated her almost with rudeness. She fought the battle out there, alone, leaning against a tree, listening to the monotonous voice of a poet who was reading from Plato. She felt the disinterested greatness of Sandro, she knew the grandeur of his intellect--she was filled with a desire to be of service to him. Certainly she did not love him--a social abyss separated them--but could not her beauty and power in some way be allied with his, so that the world should be made better? "Shame is of the brute dullard who thinks shame," came the resonant voice of the reader. The words rang in her ears. Sandro was greater than the mere flesh--she would be, too. She would pose for him, and thus give her beautiful body to the world--beauty is eternal! Her action would bless and benefit the centuries yet to come. She was the most beautiful of women--he the greatest of artists. It was an opportunity sent from the gods! Instantly she half-ran, seeking the painter. She found him standing apart, alone. She spoke eagerly and hotly, fearing her courage would falter before she could make known her wish: "Ecco, Messer Sandro," she whispered, casting a furtive look about--"who is there in Florence like me?" "There is no one," calmly answered Sandro. "I will be your Lady Venus," she went on breathlessly, stepping closer--"You shall paint me rising from the sea!" Very early the next morning, before the household was astir, Sandro entered the apartments of the lady Simonetta. She was awaiting him, leaning with feigned carelessness against the balustrade, arrayed from head to toe in a rose-colored mantle. One bare foot peeped forth from under the folds of the robe. Neither spoke a word. Sandro arranged his easel, spread his crayons on the table, and looked about the room making calculations as to light. He motioned her to a certain spot. She took the position, and as he picked up a crayon and examined it carelessly she raised her arms and the robe fell at her feet. Sandro faced her, and saw the tall, delicate form, palpitating before him. The rays of the morning sun swept in between the lattices and kissed her shoulder, face and hair. For an instant the artist was in abeyance. Then from under his breath he exclaimed: "Holy Virgin! what a line! Stay as you are, I implore you--swerve not a hair's breadth, and soon you shall be mine forever!" The pencil broke under his impetuous stroke. He seized another and worked at headlong speed. The woman watched him with eyes dilated. She was agitated, and the pink of her fair skin came and went. Her face grew pale, and she swayed like a reed. All the time she watched the artist, fearfully. She was at his mercy! Ah God! he was only an artist with the biggest mouth in all Florence! She noted how he tossed the hair from his eyes every moment. She saw the heavy jaw, the great, broad-spreading feet, the powerful chest. His smothered exclamations as he worked filled her with scorn. What had she done? Who was she, anyway, that she should thus bare her beauty before such a creature? He had not even spoken to her! Was she only a thing? She grew deadly pale and reeled as she stood there. Two big tears chased each other down her cheeks. The painter looking up saw other tears glistening on her lashes. He noted her distress. He dropped his crayon and made a motion as if to advance to her relief. A few moments before and he might have folded her mantle about her and assisted her to a seat--then they would have talked, reassured each other, and been mutually understood. To be understood--to be appreciated--that is it! It was too late, now--she hated him. As he advanced she recovered herself. She pointed her finger to the door, and bade him begone. Hastily he huddled his belongings into a parcel, and without looking up, passed out of the door. She heard his steps echoing down the stairway, and soon from out the lattice she saw him walk across the court and disappear. He did not look up! She threw herself upon her couch, buried her face in the pillows and burst into tears. In one short week word came to Sandro that Simonetta was dead--a mysterious quick fever of some kind--she had refused all food--the doctors could not understand it--the fever had just burned her life out! Let Maurice Hewlett tell the rest: "They carried dead Simonetta through the streets of Florence, with her pale face uncovered and a crown of myrtle in her hair. People thronging there held their breath, or wept to see such still loveliness; and her poor parted lips wore a patient little smile, and her eyelids were pale violet and lay heavy on her cheek. White, like a bride, with a nosegay of orange-blossoms, and syringa at her throat, she lay there on her bed, with lightly folded hands and the strange aloofness and preoccupation all the dead have. Only her hair burned about her like molten copper. "The great procession swept forward; black brothers of Misericordia, shrouded and awful, bore the bed or stalked before it with torches that guttered and flared sootily in the dancing light of day. "Santa Croce, the great church, stretched forward beyond her into the distances of gray mist and cold spaces of light. Its bare vastness was damp like a vault. And she lay in the midst listless, heavy-lidded, apart, with the half-smile, as it seemed, of some secret mirth. Round her the great candles smoked and flickered, and mass was sung at the High Altar for her soul's repose. Sandro stood alone, facing the shining altar, but looking fixedly at Simonetta on her couch. He was white and dry--parched lips and eyes that ached and smarted. Was this the end? Was it possible, my God! that the transparent, unearthly thing lying there so prone and pale was dead? Had such loveliness aught to do with life or death? Ah! sweet lady, dear heart, how tired she was, how deadly tired! From where he stood he could see with intolerable anguish the somber rings around her eyes and the violet shadows on the lids, her folded hands and the straight, meek line to the feet. And her poor wan face with its wistful, pitiful little smile was turned half-aside on the delicate throat, as if in a last appeal: Leave me now, O Florentines, to my rest. Poor child! Poor child! Sandro was on his knees with his face pressed against the pulpit and tears running through his fingers as he prayed. "As he had seen her, so he painted. As at the beginning of life in a cold world, passively meeting the long trouble of it, he painted her a rapt Presence floating evenly to our earth. A gray, translucent sea laps silently upon a little creek, and in the hush of a still dawn the myrtles and sedges on the water's brim are quiet. It is a dream in halftones that he gives us, gray and green and steely blue; and just that, and some homely magic of his own, hint the commerce of another world with man's discarded domain. Men and women are asleep, and as in an early walk you may startle the hares at their play, or see the creatures of the darkness--owls and night-hawks and heavy moths--flit with fantastic purpose over the familiar scene, so here it comes upon you suddenly that you have surprised Nature's self at her mysteries; you are let into the secret; you have caught the spirit of the April woodland as she glides over the pasture to the copse. And that, indeed, was Sandro's fortune. He caught her in just such a propitious hour. He saw the sweet wild thing, pure and undefiled by touch of earth; caught her in that pregnant pause of time ere she had lighted. Another moment and a buxom nymph of the grove would fold her in a rosy mantle, colored as the earliest wood- anemones are. She would vanish, we know, into the daffodils or a bank of violets. And you might tell her presence there, or in the rustle of the myrtles, or coo of doves mating in the pines; you might feel her genius in the scent of the earth or the kiss of the west wind; but you could only see her in mid-April, and you should look for her over the sea. She always comes with the first warmth of the year. But daily, before he painted, Sandro knelt in a dark chapel in Santa Croce, while a priest said mass for the repose of Simonetta's soul." George Eliot gives many a side-glimpse of the art life of Florence in the days of the luxury-loving Medici. She saturated herself in Italian literature and history; and the days of Fra Angelico, Fra Lippo Lippi and Fra Girolamo Savonarola are bodied forth from lines deeply etched upon her heart. When you go to Florence carry "Romola" in your side-pocket, just as you take the "Marble Faun" to Rome. "Romola" will certainly make history live again and pass before your gaze. The story is unmistakably high art, for from the opening lines of the proem you hear the slow, measured wing of death; and after you have read the volume, forever, for you, will the smoke of martyr-fires hover about the Piazza Signoria, and from the gates of San Marco you will see emerge that little man in black robe and cowl--that homely, repulsive man with the curved nose, the protruding lower lip, the dark, leathery skin--that man who lured and fascinated by his poise and power, whose words were whips of scorpions that stung his enemies until they had to silence him with a rope; and as a warning to those whom he had hypnotized, they burned his swart, shrunken body in the public square, just as he had burned their books and pictures. Sandro Botticelli, the painter, who made sensuality beautiful, ugliness seductive, and the sin-stained soul attractive, renounced all and followed the Monk of San Marco--sensuality and asceticism at the last are one. When the procession headed for the Piazza Signoria, where the fagots were piled high, Sandro stood afar off and his heart was wrung in anguish, as he saw the glare of the flames gild the eastern sky. And this anguish was not for the friends who had perished--no, no, it was for himself; the thought that he was unworthy of martyrdom filled his mind--he had fallen at the critical moment. Basely and cravenly he had saved himself. By saving all he lost all. To lose one's self-respect is the only calamity. Sandro Botticelli had failed to win the approval of his Other Self--and this is defeat, and there is none other. He might have sent his soul to God on the wings of victory, in glorious company, but now it was too late--too late! From this time forth he ceased to live--he merely existed. Into his soul there occasionally shot gleams of sunshine, but his nerveless hands refused to do the bidding of his brain. He stood on crutches, hat in hand, at church-doors, and asked for alms. Sometimes he would make bold to tell people of wonderful pictures within, over the altar or upon the walls; and he would say that they were his, and then his hearers would laugh aloud, and ask him to repeat his words, that others, too, might laugh. Thus dwindled the passing days; and for him who had painted the "Spring" there came the chilling neglect of Winter, until Death in mercy laid an icy hand upon him, and he was still. THORSWALDSEN See the hovering ships on the wharves! The Dannebrog waves, the workmen sit in circle under the shade at their frugal breakfasts; but foremost stands the principal figure in this picture; it is a boy who cuts with a bold hand the lifelike features in the wooden image for the beakhead of the vessel. It is the ship's guardian spirit, and, as the first image from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it shall wander out into the wide world. The swelling sea shall baptize it with its waters, and hang its wreaths of wet plants around it; nor night, nor storm, nor icebergs, nor sunken rocks shall lure it to its death, for the Good Angel that guards the boy shall, too, guard the ship upon which with mallet and chisel he has set his mark. --_Hans Christian Andersen_ [Illustration: Thorwaldsen] The real businesslike biographer begins by telling when his subject "first saw the light"--by which he means when the man was born. In this instance we will go a bit further back and make note of the interesting fact that Thorwaldsen was descended from an ancestor who had the rare fortune to be born in Rhode Island, in the year Ten Hundred Seven. Wiggling, jiggling, piggling individuals with quibbling proclivities, and an incapacity for distinguishing between fact and truth, may maintain that there was no Rhode Island in the year Ten Hundred Seven. Emerson has written, "Nothing is of less importance on account of its being small." And so I maintain that, in the year Ten Hundred Seven, Rhode Island was just where it is now, and the Cosmos quite as important. Let Pawtucket protest and Providence bite the thumb--no retraction will be made! About the year Eighteen Hundred Fifteen the Secretary of the Rhode Island Historical Society wrote Thorwaldsen, informing him that he had been elected an honorary member of the Society, on account of his being the only known living descendant of the first European born in America. Thorwaldsen replied, expressing his great delight in the honor conferred, and touched feelingly on the fact that while he had been elected to membership in various societies in consideration of what he had done, this was the first honor that had come his way on account of his ancestry. To a friend he said, "How would we ever know who we are, or where we come from, were it not for the genealogical savants!" In a book called "American Antiquities," now in the Library at Harvard College, and I suppose accessible in various other libraries, there is a genealogical table tracing the ancestry of Thorwaldsen. It seems that, in the year Ten Hundred Six, one Thorfinne, an Icelandic whaler, commanded a ship which traversed the broad Atlantic, and skirted the coast of New England. Thorfinne wintered his craft in one of the little bays of Rhode Island, and spent the Winter at Mount Hope, where the marks of his habitat endure even unto this day. The statement to the effect that when the Indians saw the ships of Columbus, they cried out, "Alas, we are discovered!" goes back to a much earlier period, like many another of Mark Twain's gladsome scintillations. So little did Thorfinne and his hardy comrades think of crossing the Atlantic in search of adventure, that they used to take their families along, as though it were a picnic. And so Fate ordered that Gudrid, the good wife of Thorfinne, should give birth to a son, there at Mount Hope, Rhode Island, in the year Ten Hundred Seven. And they called the baby boy Snome. And to Snome, the American, the pedigree of Thorwaldsen traces. In a lecture on the Icelandic Sagas, I once heard William Morris say that all really respectable Icelanders traced their genealogy to a king, and many of them to a god. Thorwaldsen did both--first to Harold Hildestand, King of Denmark, and then, with the help of several kind old gran'mamas, to the god Thor. His love for mythology was an atavism. In childhood the good old aunties used to tell him how the god Thor once trod the earth and shattered the mountains with his hammer. From Thor and the World his first ancestor was born, so the family name was Thor-vald. The appendix "sen," or son, means that the man was the son of Thor-vald; and in some way the name got ossified, like the name Robinson, Parkinson, Peterson or Albertson, and then it was Thorwaldsen. Men who are strong in their own natures are very apt to smile at the good folk who chase the genealogical aniseed trail--it is a harmless diversion with no game at the end of the route. And on the other hand, all men, like Thorwaldsen, who teach cosmic consciousness, recognize their Divine Sonship. Such men feel that their footsteps are mortised and tenoned in granite; and the Power that holds the worlds in space and guides the wheeling planets, also prompts their thoughts and directs their devious way. They know that they are a necessary part of the Whole. Small men are provincial, mediocre men are cosmopolitan, but the great souls are Universal. Two islands, one city and the open sea claim the honor of being the birthplace of Bertel Thorwaldsen. The date of his birth ranges, according to the authorities, from Seventeen Hundred Seventy to Seventeen Hundred Seventy-three--take your choice. His father was an Icelander who had worked his passage down to Copenhagen and had found his stint as a wood-carver in a shipyard where it was his duty to carve out wonderful figureheads, after designs made by others. Gottschalk Thorwaldsen never thought to improve on a model, or change it in any way, or to model a figurehead himself. The cold of the North had chilled any ambition that was in his veins. Goodsooth! Such work as designing figureheads was only for those who had been to college, and who could read and write! So he worked away, day after day, and with the help of the goodwife's foresight and economy, managed to keep out of debt, pay his tithes at church and lead a decent life. Little Bertel used to remember when, like the Peggottys, they lived in an abandoned canal-boat that had been tossed up on the beach. Bertel carried chips and shavings from the shipyard for fuel, and piled them against the "house." One night the tide came up in a very unexpected manner and carried the chips away, for the sea is so very hungry that it is always sending the tide in to shore after things. It was quite a loss for the poor wood-carver and his wife to have all their winter fuel carried away; so they cuffed little Bertel soundly (for his own good) for not piling the chips up on the deck of the boat, instead of leaving them on the shifting sand. This was the first great cross that came to Bertel. He had a few others afterwards, but he never forgot the night of anguish and the feeling of guilt that followed the losing of the shavings and chips. Some weeks after, another high tide came sweeping in, and lapped and sniffed and sighed around the canal-boat as if it were trying to tug it loose and carry the old craft and all the family out to sea. Little Bertel hoped the tide would fetch it, for it would be kind o' nice to get clear out away from everybody and everything--where there were no chips to pick up. His mother could supply a quilt for a mainsail and he would use his shirt for a jib, and they would steer straight for America--or somewhere. But lest the dream should come true, Gottschalk and his wife talked the matter over and concluded to abandon the boat, before it got sunk into the sand quite out of sight. So the family moved into a little house on an alley, half a mile away from the shipyard--it was an awful long way to carry chips. The second calamity that came into the life of little Bertel was when he was eight years old. He and several companions were playing about the King's Market, where there was an equestrian statue of Charles the Twelfth. The boys climbed up on to the pedestal, cut various capers there, and finally they challenged Bertel to mount the horse behind the noble rider. By dint of much boosting from several boys older than himself, he was at last perched on the horse. Then his companions made hot haste to run away and leave him in his perilous position. Just then, as unkind Fate would have it, a pair of gendarmes came along on the lookout for anything that might savor of sedition, contumacy or contravention. They found it in little Bertel clutching tearfully to the royal person of Charles the Twelfth, twelve feet above the ground. Quickly they rushed the lad off to the police- station, between them, each with a firm grip upon his collar. Victor Hugo once said, "The minions of the law go stolidly after vice, and not finding it, they stolidly take virtue instead." Besides an awful warning "never to do this thing again," from a judge in a ferocious wig, the boy got a flogging at home (for his own good), although his father first explained that it was a very painful duty to himself to be obliged to punish his son. The son volunteered to excuse his father, and this brought the youngster ten extra lashes for being so smart. Long years after, at Rome, Thorwaldsen told the story to Hans Christian Andersen about being caught astride the great bronze horse at Copenhagen, and of the awful reprimand of the judge bewigged. "And honestly now: I'll never tell," said Andersen with a sly twinkle in his blue eyes--"did you ever repeat the offense?" "Since you promise not to divulge it, I'll confess that forty-three years after my crime of mounting that horse, I had occasion to cross King's Market Square at midnight. I had been out to a little social gathering, and was on my way home alone. I saw the great horse and rider gleaming in the pale moonlight. I recalled vividly how I had occupied that elevated perch and been hauled down by the scandalized and indignant officers. I remembered the warning of the judge as to what would happen if I ever did it again. Hastily I removed my coat and hat and clambered up on the pedestal. I seized a leg of the royal person, and swung up behind. For five minutes I sat there mentally defying the State, and saying unspeakable things about all gendarmes and Copenhagen gendarmes in particular." I have a profound respect for boys. Grimy, ragged, tousled boys in the street often attract me strangely. A boy is a man in the cocoon --you do not know what it is going to become--his life is big with possibilities. He may make or unmake kings, change boundary-lines between States, write books that will mold characters, or invent machines that will revolutionize the commerce of the world. Every man was a boy--I trust I shall not be contradicted--it is really so. Wouldn't you like to turn Time backward, and see Abraham Lincoln at twelve, when he had never worn a pair of boots?--the lank, lean, yellow, hungry boy--hungry for love, for learning, tramping off through the woods for twenty miles to borrow a book, and spelling it out crouching before the glare of the burning logs. Then there was that Corsican boy, one of a goodly brood, who weighed only fifty pounds when ten years old; who was thin and pale and perverse, and had tantrums, and had to be sent supperless to bed, or locked in a dark closet because he wouldn't "mind"! Who would have thought that he would have mastered every phase of warfare at twenty-six, and when told that the Exchequer of France was in dire confusion, would say: "The finances? I will arrange them!" Distinctly and vividly I remember a squat, freckled boy who was born in the "Patch" and used to pick up coal along the railroad-tracks in Buffalo. A few months ago I had a motion to make before the Court of Appeals. That boy from the "Patch" was the judge who wrote the opinion, granting my petition. Yesterday I rode horseback past a field where a boy was plowing. The lad's hair stuck out through the top of his hat; one suspender held his trousers in place; his form was bony and awkward; his bare legs and arms were brown and sunburned and briar-scratched. He swung his horses around just as I passed by, and from under the flapping brim of his hat he cast a quick glance out of dark, half-bashful eyes, and modestly returned my salute. When his back was turned I took off my hat and sent a God-bless-you down the furrow after him. Who knows?--I may go to that boy to borrow money or to hear him preach, or to beg him to defend me in a lawsuit; or he may stand with pulse unhastened, bare of arm, in white apron, ready to do his duty, while the cone is placed over my face, and Night and Death come creeping into my veins. Be patient with the boys--you are dealing with soul-stuff--Destiny awaits just around the corner. Be patient with the boys! Bertel Thorwaldsen was fourteen years old. He was pale and slender, and had a sharp chin and a straight nose and hair the color of sunburned tow. His eyes were large, set wide apart and bright blue; and he looked out upon the world silently, with a sort o' wistful melancholy. He helped his father carve out the wonderful figureheads that were to pilot the ships across strange seas and bring good luck to the owners. "A boy like that should be sent to the Academy and taught designing," said one of the shipowners one day as he watched the lad at his work. Gottschalk shook his head dubiously. "How could a poor man, with a family to support, and provisions so high, spare his boy from work! Aye, wasn't he teaching the lad a trade himself, as it was?" But the shipowner fumbled his fob, and insisted, and to test the boy he had him work with his designers. And he compromised with the father by having Bertel sent to the Academy half a day at a time. At the school one of the instructors remembered Bertel, on account of his long yellow hair that hung down in his eyes when he leaned over the desk; also his dulness in every line except drawing and clay-modeling. The newspapers one day announced that a certain young Master Thorwaldsen had been awarded a prize for clay-modeling. "Is that your brother?" asked the teacher next day. "It is myself, Herr Chaplain," replied the boy, blushing to the roots of his yellow hair. The Chaplain coughed to conceal his surprise. He had always thought this boy incapable of anything. "Herr Thorwaldsen," he said, severely, "you will please pass to the first grade!" And to be addressed as "Herr" meant that you really were somebody. "He called me 'Herr'!" said Bertel to his mother that night--"He called me 'Herr'!" About this time we find the painter Abildgaard taking a special interest in young Bertel, giving him lessons in drawing and painting, and encouraging him in his modeling. In fact, Thorwaldsen has himself explained that all of his "original" designs about this time were supplied by Abildgaard. The interest of Abildgaard in the boy was slightly resented by the young man's parents, who were afraid that their son was getting above his station. Abildgaard has left a record to the effect that at this time Thorwaldsen was very self-contained, reticent, and seemingly without ambition. He used to postpone every task, and would often shirk his duties until sharp reminders came. Yet when he did begin, he would fall on the task like one possessed, and finish it in an hour. This proved to Abildgaard that the stuff was there, and down in his heart he believed that this sleepy lad would some day awake from slumber. Anyway, Abildgaard used to say, long years after, "What did I tell you?" Gottschalk was paid by the piece for his carving; he was getting better pay now, because he did better work, his employer thought. Bertel was helping him. The family was getting quite prosperous. When Bertel had secured, between sleepy spells, about all the prizes for clay-modeling and sketching that artistic Copenhagen had to offer, he started for Rome, armed with a three-year traveling scholarship. This prize proved to be a pivotal point. The young man had done good work, and seemingly without effort; but he was sadly lacking in general education--and worse, he apparently had no desire to learn. He was twenty-six years of age when he sailed for Rome on the good ship "Thetis." The scholarship he had won four years before, but through disinclination to press his claims, and the procrastination of officialism, the matter was pigeonholed. It might have gone by default had not Abildgaard said "Go!" and loudly. Thorwaldsen was a sort of charity passenger on the ship--taken on request of the owner--and it was assumed that he would make himself useful. But the captain of the craft left him a recommendation to the effect that "The young fellow Thorwaldsen is the laziest man I ever saw." The ship was on a trading tour, and lingered along various coasts and put into many harbors; so nine months went by before Bertel Thorwaldsen found himself in the Eternal City. "I was born March Eighth, Seventeen Hundred Ninety-seven," Thorwaldsen used to say. That was the day he reached Rome. Antonio Canova, the sculptor, was then at the height of his popularity. Thorwaldsen's first success was the model for a statue of Jason, which was highly praised by Canova, and Bertel received the commission to execute it in marble from Thomas Hope, a wealthy English art patron. From this time forth, Thorwaldsen's success was assured. His scholarship provided only for three years' residence; but twenty-three years were to elapse before he should again see his childhood's home--as for his parents, he had looked into their eyes for the last time. The soul grows by leaps and bounds, by throes and throbs. A flash! and a glory stands revealed for which you have been groping blindly through the years. Well did Thorwaldsen call the day of his arrival in Rome the day of his birth! For the first time the world seemed to unfold before him. On the voyage thither, the captain of the "Thetis" had offered to prepare him for his stay in Rome by teaching him the Italian language; but the young sculptor was indifferent. During the months he was on shipboard, he might have mastered the language; this came back to him as he stood in the presence of Saint Peter's, and realized that he was treading the streets once trod by Michelangelo. He spoke only "Sailor's Latin," a composite of Danish, Swedish, Norwegian and Icelandic. The waste of time of which he had been guilty, and the extent of all that lay beyond, pressed home upon him. Of course we know that the fallow years are as good as the years of plenty; the silent Winter prepares the soil for Spring; and we know, too, that the sense of unworthiness and the discontent that Thorwaldsen felt during his first few weeks at Rome were big with promise. The antique world was a new world to him; he knew nothing of mythology, nothing of history, little of books. He began to thirst for knowledge, and this being true, he drank it in. Little men spell things out with sweat and lamp-smoke, but others there be who absorb in the mass, read by the page, and grow great by simply letting down their buckets. This fair-haired descendant of a Viking bold had the usual preliminary struggle, for the Established Order is always resentful toward pressing youth. He worked incessantly: sketched, read, studied, modeled, and to help out his finances copied pictures for prosperous dealers who made it their business thus to employ 'prentice talent. But a few years and we see Thorwaldsen occupying the studio of Flaxman, and more than filling that strong man's place. For specimens of Flaxman's work examine your "Wedgwood"; and then to see Thorwaldsen's product, multiply Flaxman by one hundred. One worked in the delicate and exquisite; the other had a taste for the heroic: both found inspiration in the Greek. It will not do to claim for Thorwaldsen that he was a great and original genius. He lacked that hirsute, independent quality of Michelangelo, and surely he lacked the Attic invention. He was receptive as a woman, and he builded on what had been done. He moved in the line of least resistance--made friends of Protestant and Catholic alike; won the warm recognition of the Pope, who averred, "Thorwaldsen is a good Catholic, only he does not know it." He kept clear of all factions, and with a modicum more of will, might have been a very prince of diplomats. But as it was, he evolved into a prince of artists. Soon after his advent in Rome, Thorwaldsen met, at the country-house of his friend, critic and benefactor Zoega, a young woman who was destined to have a profound influence upon his life. Anna Maria Magnani was lady's maid and governess in the Zoega household. She was a beautiful animal: dark, luminous, flashing eyes, hair black as the raven's wing, and a form that palpitated with passion--a true daughter of the warm, sun-kissed South. The young sculptor of the yellow locks danced with the signorina at the rustic fetes upon the lawn. She spoke no Danish, and his Italian was exceedingly limited, but hand pressed hand and they contrived to make themselves understood. She volunteered to give him lessons in Italian; this went well, and then she posed for him as a model. What should have been at best or worst a mere incident in the artist's life ripened into something more. Intellectually and spiritually they lived in different worlds, and in sober moments both realized it. An arrangement was entered into of the same quality and kind as Goethe and Christine Vulpius assumed. Only this woman had moments of rebellion when she thirsted for social honors. As his wife, Thorwaldsen knew that she would be a veritable dead- weight, and he sought to loosen her grasp upon him. An offer of marriage came to her from a man of means and social station. Thorwaldsen favored the mating, and did what he could to hasten the nuptials. But when the other man had actually married the girl and carried her away, he had a sick spell to pay for it--he wasn't quite so calloused in heart as he had believed. Like many other men, Thorwaldsen found that such a tie is not easily broken. Anna Maria thought she loved the man she had married, and at least she believed she could learn to do so. Alas! after six months of married life she packed up and came back to Rome, declaring that, though her husband was kind and always treated her well, she would rather be the slave and servant of Thorwaldsen than the wife of any man on earth. The sculptor hadn't the heart to turn her away. More properly, her will was stronger than his conscience. Perhaps he was glad, too, that she had come back! The injured husband followed, and Anna Maria warned the man to be gone, and emphasized the suggestion with the gleam of a pearl-handled stiletto; and by the same token kept all gushing females away from the Thorwaldsen preserve. Thorwaldsen never married, and there is no doubt that his engagement to Miss Mackenzie, a most excellent English lady, was vetoed by Anna Maria and her pearl-handled stiletto. One child was born to Anna Maria and Thorwaldsen--a girl, who was legally acknowledged by Thorwaldsen as his daughter. When prosperity came his way some years later, he deposited in the Bank of Copenhagen a sum equal to twenty thousand dollars, with orders that the interest should be paid to her as long as she lived. Unlike Byron's daughter Allegra, born the same year only a few miles away, who died young and for whose grave at Harrow the poet had carved the touching line, "I shall go to her, but she will not return to me," the daughter of Thorwaldsen grew up, was happily married and bore a son who achieved considerable distinction as an artist. Thus the sculptor's good fortune attended him, even in circumstances that work havoc in most men's lives--he disarmed the Furies with a smile! Many visitors daily thronged the studio of Thorwaldsen. He had one general reception-room containing casts of his work, and many curious things in the line of art. His servant greeted the callers and made them at home, expressing much regret at the absence of his master, who was "out of the city," etc. Meanwhile, Thorwaldsen was hard at it in a back room, to which only the elect were admitted. The King of Bavaria, a genuine artist himself in spirit, who spent much time in Rome, conceived a great admiration for Thorwaldsen. He walked into the atelier where the sculptor was at work one day and hung around his neck by a gold chain the "Cross of the Commander," a decoration never before given to any but great military commanders. King Louis had a very unkinglike way of doing things, and used to go by the studio and whistle for Thorwaldsen and call to him to come out and walk, or drive, ride or dine. "I wish that King would go off and reign--I have work to do," cried the sculptor rather impatiently. Envious critics used to maintain that there were ten men in Rome who could model as well as Thorwaldsen, "but they haven't yellow hair that falls to their shoulders, and heaven-blue eyes with which to snare the ladies." The fact must be admitted that the vogue of Thorwaldsen owed much to the remarkable social qualities of the man. His handsome face and fine form were supplemented by a manner most gentle and winning; and whether his half-diffident ways and habit of reticence were natural or the triumph of art was a vexing problem that never found solution. He was the social rage in every salon. And his ability to do the right thing at the right time, seemingly without premeditation, made him a general favorite. For instance, if he attended a fete given by the King of Bavaria, he wore just one decoration--the decoration of Bavaria. If he attended a ball given by the French Ambassador, in the lapel of his modest black velvet coat he wore the red ribbon that tokens the Legion of Honor. When he visited the Villa of the Grand Duchess Helena of Russia, he wore no jewel save the diamond- studded star presented to him by the Czar. At the reception given by the "English Colony" to Sir Walter Scott, the great sculptor wore a modest thistle-blossom in his lapel, which caused Lord Elgin to offer odds that if O'Connell should appear in Rome, Thorwaldsen would wear a sprig of shamrock in his hat and say nothing. The thistle caught Sir Walter, and the next day when he came to call on the sculptor he saw a tam-o-shanter hanging on the top of an easel and a bit of plaid scarf thrown carelessly across the corner of the picture below. The poet and the sculptor embraced, patting each other on the back, called each other "Brother" and smiled good-will. But as Thorwaldsen could not speak English and Sir Walter spoke nothing else, they merely beamed and ran the scale of adjectives, thus: Sublimissio! Hero! Precious! Plaisir! La Grande! Delighted! Splendide! Honorable! Then they embraced again and backed away, waving each other good-by. Thorwaldsen had more medals, degrees and knighthoods than Sir Walter ever saw, but he would allow no prefix to his name. Denmark, Russia, Germany, Italy, France and the Pope had outdone themselves in doing him honor. All these "trifles" in the way of decorations he kept in a specially prepared case, which was opened occasionally for the benefit of lady visitors. "The girls like such things," said Thorwaldsen, and smiled in apology. Shelley found his way to Thorwaldsen's studio, and made mention that the Master was a bit of a poseur. Byron came, and as we know, sat for that statue which is now at Cambridge. The artist sought to beguile the melancholy sitter with pleasant conversation, but the author of "Don Juan" would have none of it, and when the work was completed and unveiled before him, he exclaimed in disappointment, "I look far more unhappy than that!" Thorwaldsen was a musician of no mean quality, and there was always a piano in his studio, to which he often turned for rest. When Felix Mendelssohn was in Rome he made the sculptor's workshop his headquarters, and sometimes the two would play "four hands," or else Thorwaldsen would accompany the "Song Without Words" upon his violin. Gradually the number of the "elect" seemed to grow. It was regarded as a great sight to see the Master at his work. And by degrees Thorwaldsen reached a point where he could keep right along at his task and receive his friends at the same time. The man at his work! There is nothing finer. I have seen men homely, uncouth and awkward when "dressed up," who were superb when at their work. Once I saw Augustus Saint Gaudens in blouse and overalls, well plastered with mud, standing on a ladder hard at it on an equestrian statue, lost to everything but the task in hand--intoxicated with a thought, working like mad to materialize an idea. The sight gave me a thrill!--one of those very few unforgetable thrills that Time fixes ever the more firmly in one's memory. To gain admittance to the workroom of Thorwaldsen was a thing to boast of: proud ladies schemed and some sought to bribe the trusty valet; but to these the door was politely barred. Yet the servant, servantlike, was awed by titles and nobility. "The Duchess of Parma!" whispered the valet one day in agitation-- "the Duchess of Parma--she has followed me in and is now standing behind you!" Thorwaldsen could not just place the lady: he turned, bowed, and gazed upon a stout personage who was slightly overdressed. The lady quite abruptly stated that she had called to make arrangements to have a statue, or a bust at least, made of herself. That Thorwaldsen would be proud to model her features seemed quite fixed in her mind. The artist cast her a swift glance and noted that Nature had put small trace of the classic in the lady's modeling. He mentally declined the commission, and muttered something about being "so delighted and honored, but unluckily I am so very busy," etc. "My husband desires it," continued the lady, "and so does my son, the King of Rome--a title, I hope, that is not strange to you!" It swept over Thorwaldsen, like a winter's wave, that this big, brusk, bizarre woman before him was Maria Louisa, the second wife of Napoleon. He knew her history: wedded at nineteen to Napoleon--the mother of L'Aiglon at twenty--married again in unbecoming haste to Count Niepperg Nobody, with whom she had been on very intimate terms, as soon as word arrived of Napoleon's death at Saint Helena, and now raising a goodly brood of Nobodies! The artist grew faint before this daughter of kings who had made a mesalliance with Genius--he excused himself and left the room. Thorwaldsen was a hero-worshiper by nature, and Napoleon's memory loomed large to him on the horizon of the ideal. Needless to say, he never modeled the features of Maria Louisa Hapsburg, but her visit fired him with a desire to make a bust of Napoleon, and the desire materialized is ours in heroic mold. Some time after this, Thorwaldsen designed a monument to the Duke of Leuchtenberg, Eugene de Beauharnais, son of the Empress Josephine. The days went in their fashion, and the Count Niepperg passed away, as even Counts do, for Death recognizes no title; and Maria Louisa was again experiencing the pangs of widowhood. She sent word for Thorwaldsen to come and design the late lamented a proper tomb, something not unlike that which he had done for the son of Josephine--money was no object in the Hapsburg family! Very few commissions were declined by Thorwaldsen. He was a good businessman and often had a dozen men quietly working out his orders, but he wrote to Maria Louisa begging to be excused--and as a relief to his feelings, straightway modeled another bust of Napoleon. This bust was sold to Alexander Murray, Byron's publisher, and is now to be seen in Edinburgh. Strange, is it not, that the home of "The Scotch Greys," tumbled by Fate and Napoleon into an open grave, should do the Little Man honor! And Thorwaldsen, the man of peace, was bound to the man of war by the silken thread of sentiment. Thorwaldsen was the true successor of Canova--his career was inaugurated when Canova gave him his blessing. The triumphs of the lover of Pauline Bonaparte were transferred to him. He accepted the situation with all of its precedents. Thorwaldsen spent forty-two years of his life at Rome, but Denmark never lost her hold upon him during this time. The King showered him with honors and gave him every privilege at his command. The Danish Ambassador always had special instructions "not to neglect the interests and welfare of our brother, Chevalier Thorwaldsen, Artist and Sculptor to the King." For years, in the Academy at Copenhagen, rooms were set apart for him, and he was solicited to return and occupy them, and by his gracious presence honor the institution that had sent him forth. Only once, however, did he return, and then his stay was brief. But from time to time he presented specimens of his work to his native city, and various casts and copies of his pieces found their way to the "Thorwaldsen Room" at the Academy; so there gradually grew up there a "Thorwaldsen Museum." Now the shadows were lengthening toward the east. The Master had turned his seventieth milestone, and he began to look backward to his boyhood's home as a place of rest, as old men do. A Commissioner was sent by the King of Denmark with orders to use his best offices to the end that Thorwaldsen should return; and plans were made to evolve the Thorwaldsen Room into a complete museum. The result of these negotiations brought about the Thorwaldsen Museum--that plainly simple, but solidly built structure at Copenhagen, erected by the city, from plans made by the Master. Here are shown over two hundred large statues and bas-reliefs, copies and originals of the best things done in that long and busy life. Thorwaldsen left his medals, decorations, pictures, books and thousands of drawings and sketches to this Museum--the sole property of the municipality. The building is arranged in the form of a square, with a court, and here the dust of the Master rests. No artist has ever had a more fitting tomb, designed by himself, surrounded by the creations of his hand and brain. These chant his elegy and there he sleeps. Good looks, courtesy and social accomplishments are factors in our artistic career that should not be lightly waived. Thorwaldsen won every recognition that is possible for men to win from other men-- fame, honor, wealth. In way of success he tasted all the world can offer. He built on Winckelmann, Mengs and Canova, inspired by a classic environment, and examples of work done by men turned to dust centuries before. In many instances Thorwaldsen followed the letter and failed to catch the spirit of Greece; this is not to his discredit--who has completely succeeded in revitalizing the breath of ancient art? Thorwaldsen won everything but immortality. It sounds harsh, but let us admit it; he was at best a great imitator, however noble the objects of his imitation. A recent writer has tried to put him in the class with "John Rogers, the Pride of America," but this is manifestly unfair. As an artist he ranks rather with Powers, Story and Palmer. Never for a moment can he be compared with Saint Gaudens, or our own French; Bartlett and Ward surpass him in general skill and fertility of resources. All is comparative--Thorwaldsen's fame floats upon the wave, far astern. We are making head. We have that superb "Night," so full of tenderness and spirit, done in tears (as all the best things are). The "Night" is not to be spoken of without its beautiful companion-piece, the "Morning." Each was done at a sitting, in a passion of creative energy. Yet when the roll of all Thorwaldsen's pieces is called, we see that his fame centers and is chiefly embodied in "The Lion of Lucerne." I suppose it need not longer be concealed that in Switzerland you can purchase copies and models of Thorwaldsen's "Lion of Lucerne." Some are in marble, some in granite, some in bronze, a great many are in wood--carved while you wait--and at my hotel in Lucerne we used to have the noble beast on the table every morning at breakfast, done in butter. The reproductions are of all sizes, from heroic mold to watch-charms and bangles. Sculptors have carved this lion, painters have painted it, artists have sketched it, but did you ever see a reproduction of "The Lion of Lucerne"? No, dearie, you never did, and never will. No copy has a trace of that indefinable look of mingled pain and patience, which even the broken spear in his side can not disturb-- that soulful, human quality which the original has. No; every copy is a caricature. It is a risky thing to try to put love in a lion's face! An intelligent young woman called my attention to the fact that the psychological conditions under which we view "The Lion" are the most subtle and complete that man can devise; and these are the things that add the last touch to art and cause us to stand speechless, and which make the unbidden tears start. The little lake at the foot of the cliff prevents a too near approach; the overhanging vines and melancholy boughs form a dim, subduing shade; the falling water seems like the playing of an organ in a vast cathedral; and last, the position of the lion itself, against the solid cliff, partakes of the miraculous. It is not set up there for people to look at: it is a part of the mountain, and the great seams of the strata running through the figure lend the spirit of miracle to it all. It seems as though God Himself had done the work, and the surprise and joy of discovery are ours as we stand uncovered before it. One must concede the masterly framing and hanging of the picture, but beyond all this is the technical skill, giving the look of woe that does not tell of weakness, as woe usually does, but strength and loyalty and death without flinching in a righteous cause: symbolic of the Swiss Guard that died at their post, not one of the three hundred wavering, there at the King's palace at Paris--all dead and turned to dust a century past, and this lion, mortally wounded, mutely pleading for our tears! We pay the tribute. And the reason we are moved is because we partake of the emotions of the artist when he did the work; and the reason we are not moved by any models or copies or imitations is because there is small feeling in the heart of an imitator. Great art is born of feeling! In order to do, you must feel. If Thorwaldsen had done nothing else, "The Lion" would be monument enough. We remember William Cullen Bryant, like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for one poem; Poe for three. Thoreau wrote only one essay the world will cherish; and "keeping Ruskin's 'Sesame and Lilies' and 'The Golden River,' we can let the rest go," says Augustine Birrell. Thorwaldsen paid the penalty of success. He should have tasted exile, poverty and heartbreak--not to have known these was his misfortune. And perhaps his best work lay in keeping alive the classic tradition; in educating whole nations to a taste for sculpture; in turning the attention of society from strife to art, from war to harmony. His were the serene successes of beauty, the triumphs of peace. GAINSBOROUGH If ever this nation should produce a genius sufficient to acquire to us the honorable distinction of an English School, the name of Gainsborough will be transmitted to posterity, in this history of art, among the very first of that rising name. --_Sir Joshua Reynolds_ [Illustration: Gainsborough] Most biographies are written with intent either to make the man a demigod or else to damn him as a rogue who has hoodwinked the world. Of the first-mentioned class, Weems' "Life of Washington" must ever stand as the true type. The author is so fearful that he will not think well of his subject that he conceals every attribute of our common humanity, and gives us a being almost devoid of eyes, ears, organs, dimensions, passions. Next to Weems, in point of literary atrocity, comes John S. C. Abbott, whose life of Napoleon is a splendid concealment of the man. Of those who have written biographies for the sake of belittling their subject, John Gait's "Life of Byron" occupies a conspicuous position. But for books written for the double purpose of downing the subject and elevating the author, Philip Thicknesse's "Life of Gainsborough" must stand first. The book is so bad that it is interesting, and so stupid that it will never die. Thicknesse had a quarrel with Gainsborough, and three-fourths of the volume is given up to a minute recital of "says he" and "says I." It is really only an extended pamphlet written by an arch-bore with intent to get even with his man. The writer regards his petty affairs as of prime importance to the world, and he shows with great care, and not a single flash of wit, how all of Thomas Gainsborough's success in life was brought about by Thicknesse. And then, behold! after Thicknesse had made the man by hand, all he received for pay was ingratitude and insolence! Thicknesse was always good, kind, unselfish and disinterested; while Gainsborough was ungrateful, procrastinating, absurd and malicious-- this according to Thicknesse, who was on the spot and knew. Well, I guess so! Brock-Arnold describes Thicknesse as "a fussy, ostentatious, irrepressible busybody, without the faintest conception of delicacy or modesty, who seems to think he has a heaven-born right to patronize Gainsborough, and to take charge of his affairs." The aristocratic and pompous Thicknesse presented the painter to his friends, and also gave much advice about how he should conduct himself. He also loaned him a fiddle and presented him a viola da gamba, and often invited him to dinner. For these favors Gainsborough promised to paint a portrait of Thicknesse, but never got beyond washing in the background. During ten years he made thirty-seven excuses for not doing the work, and as for Mrs. Gainsborough, she once had the temerity to hand the redoubtable Thicknesse his cocked hat and cane and show him the door. From this, Thicknesse is emboldened to make certain remarks about Mrs. Gainsborough's pedigree, and to suggest that if Thomas Gainsborough had married a different woman he might have been a different painter. Thicknesse, throughout the book, thrusts himself into the breach and poses as the Injured One. On reading "the work" it is hard to believe it was written in sober, serious earnest--it contains such an intolerable deal of Thicknesse and so little of Gainsborough. The Mother Gamp flavor is upon every page. Andrew Lang might have written it to show the literary style of a disgruntled dead author. And the curious part is that, up to Eighteen Hundred Twenty-nine, Thicknesse held the stage, and many people took his portrait of Gainsborough as authentic. In that year Allan Cunningham put the great painter in his proper light, and thanks to the minute researches of Fulcher and others, we know the man as though he had lived yesterday. The father of Gainsborough was a tradesman of acute instincts. He resided at Sudbury, in Suffolk, seventy miles from London. It was a time when every thrifty merchant lived over his place of business, so as to be on hand when buyers came; to ward off robbers; and to sweep the sidewalk, making all tidy before breakfast. Gainsborough pere was fairly prosperous, but not prosperous enough to support any of his nine children in idleness. They all worked, took a Saturday night "tub," and went to the Independent Church in decent attire on Sunday. Thomas Gainsborough was the youngest of the brood, the pet of his parents, and the pride of his big sisters, who had nursed him and brought him up in the way he should go. In babyhood he wasn't so very strong; but love and freedom gradually did their perfect work, and he evolved into a tall, handsome youth of gracious manner and pleasing countenance. All the family were sure that Tom was going to be "somebody." The eldest boy, John, known to the town as "Scheming Jack," had invented a cuckoo-clock, and this led to a self-rocking cradle that wound up with a strong spring; next he made a flying-machine; and so clever was he that he painted signs that swung on hinges, and in several instances essayed to put a picture of the prosperous owner on the sign. The second son, Humphrey, was a brilliant fellow, too. He made the model of a steam-engine and showed it to a man by the name of Watt, who was greatly interested in it; and when Watt afterward took out a patent on it, Humphrey's heart was nearly broken, and it might have been quite, but he said he had in hand half a dozen things worth more than the steam-engine. As tangible proof of his power, he won a prize of fifty pounds from the London Society for the Encouragement of Art, for a mill that was to be turned by the tides of the sea. The steam-engine would require fuel, but this tide-engine would be turned by Nature at her own expense. In the British Museum is a sundial made by Humphrey Gainsborough, and it must stand to his credit that he made the original fireproof safe. From a fireproof safe to liberal theology is but a step, and Humphrey Gainsborough became a Dissenting Clergyman, passing rich on forty pounds a year. The hopes of the family finally centered on Thomas. He had assisted his brother John at the sign-painting, and had done several creditable little things in drawing 'scutcheons on coach-doors for the gentry. Besides all this, once, while sketching in his father's orchard, a face cautiously appeared above the stone wall and for a single moment studied the situation. The boy caught the features on his palette, and transferred them to his picture. The likeness was so perfect that it led to the execution of the thief who had been robbing the orchard, and also the execution of that famous picture, finished many years after, known as "Tom Peartree." The orchard episode pleased the Gainsboroughs greatly. A family council was held, and it was voted that Thomas must be sent to London to study art. The girls gave up a dress apiece, the mother retrimmed her summer bonnet for the Winter, the boys contributed, and there came a day when Tom was duly ticketed and placed on top of the great coach bound for London. Good-bys were waved until only a cloud of dust was seen in the distance. Gainsborough went to "Saint Martin's Drawing Academy" at London, and the boys educated him. The art at the "Academy" seems to have been very much akin to the art of the Writing Academies of America, where learned bucolic professors used to teach us the mysteries of the Spencerian System for a modest stipend. The humiliation of never knowing "how to hold your pen" did much to send many budding geniuses off on a tangent after grasshopper chirography, but those who endured unto the end acquired the "wrist movement." They all wrote alike. That is to say, they all wrote like the professor, who wrote just like all Spencerian professors. So write the girls in Melvil Dewey's Academy for Librarians, at Albany--God bless them all!--they all write like Dewey. Thomas Gainsborough at London seems to have haunted the theaters and coffeehouses, and whenever there were pictures displayed, there was Thomas to be found. To help out the expense-account, he worked at engraving and made designs for a silversmith. The strong, receptive nature of the boy showed itself, for he succeeded in getting a goodly hold on the art of engraving, in a very short time. He absorbed in the mass. But he tired of the town--he wanted freedom, fresh air, the woods and fields. Hogarth and Wilson were there in London, but the Academy students never heard of them. And if Gainsborough ever listened to Richardson's famous prophecy which inspired Hogarth and Reynolds, to the effect that England would soon produce a great school of art, we do not know it. The young man grew homesick; he was doing nothing in London--no career was open to him--he returned to Sudbury after an absence of nearly two years. He thought it was defeat, but his family welcomed him as a conquering hero. He was eighteen and looked twenty--tall, strong, fair-haired, gentle in manner, gracious in speech. Two of his sisters had married clergymen, and were happily situated in neighboring towns; his brother Humphrey was "occupying the pulpit," and causing certain local High Churchmen to have dreams of things tumbling about their ears. The sisters and mother wanted Tom to be a preacher, too--he was so straight and handsome and fine, and his eyes were so tender and blue! But he preferred to paint. He painted in the woods and fields, by streams and old mills, and got on good terms with all the flocks of sheep and cattle in the neighborhood. The art of landscape-painting developed from an accident. The early Italian painters used landscape only as a background for figures. All they pictured were men, women and children, and to bring these out rightly they introduced scenery. Imagine a theater with scenes set and no person on the stage, and you get the idea of landscape up to the time of Gainsborough. Landscape! it was nothing--a blank. Wilson first painted landscapes as backgrounds for other men to draw portraits upon. A marine scene was made merely that a Commodore might stand in cocked hat, a spyglass under his arm, in the foreground, while the sun peeps over the horizon begging permission to come up. Gradually these incomplete pictures were seen hanging in shop-windows, but for them there was no market. They were merely curios. Gainsborough drew pictures of the landscape because he loved it. He seems to be the first English artist who loved the country for its own sake. Old bridges, winding roadways, gnarled oaks, cattle grazing, and all the manifold beauties of quiet country life fascinated him. He educated the collector, and educated the people into a closer observation and study of Nature. Gainsborough stood at the crossways of progress and pointed the way. With Hogarth's idea that a picture should teach a lesson and have a moral, he had no sympathy. And with Reynolds, who thought there was nothing worth picturing but the human face, he took issue. Beauty to him was its own excuse for being. However, in all of Gainsborough's landscapes you find the human interest somewhere--man has not been entirely left out. But from being the one important thing, he sinks simply into a part of the view that lies before you. Turner's maxim, "You can not leave man out," he annexed from Gainsborough. And Corot's landscapes, where the dim, shadowy lovers sit on the bankside under the great oaks--the most lovely pictures ever painted by the hand of man--reveal the extreme evolution from a time when the lovers occupied the center of the stage, and the landscape was only an accessory. And it is further interesting to note that the originator of English landscape-painting was also a great portrait-painter, and yet he dared paint portraits with absolutely no scenery back of them--a thing which up to that time was done only by a man who hadn't the ability to paint landscape. Thus do we prove Rabelais' proposition, "The man who has a well-filled strongbox can surely afford to go ragged." Thomas Gainsborough, aged nineteen, was one day intently sketching in a wood near Sudbury, when the branches suddenly parted and out into a little open space stepped Margaret Burr. This young woman had taken up her abode in Sudbury during the time the young man was in London, and he had never met her, although he had probably heard her praises sounded. Everybody around there had heard of her. She was the handsomest woman in all Suffolk--and knew it. She lived with her "uncle," and the gossips, who looked after these little things, divided as to whether she was the daughter of one of the exiled Stuarts, or the natural child of the Duke of Bedford. Anyway, she was a true princess, in face, form and bearing, and had an income of her own of two hundred pounds a year. Her pride was a thing so potent that the rustic swains were chilled at the sight of her, and the numerous suitors sighed and shot their lovesick glances from a safe distance. Let that pass: the branches parted and Margaret stepped out into the open. She thought she was alone, when all at once her eyes looked full into the eyes of the young artist--not a hundred feet away. She was startled; she blushed, stammered and tried to apologize for the intrusion. Her splendid self-possession had failed her for once--she was going to flee by the way she had come. "Hold that position, please--stand just as you are!" called the artist in a tone of authority. Even the proudest of women are willing to accept orders when the time is ripe; and I am fully convinced that to be domineered over by the right man is a thing all good women warmly desire. Margaret Burr, the proud beauty, stood stock-still, and Thomas Gainsborough admitted her into his landscape and his heart. This is not a love-story, or we might begin here and extend our booklet into a volume. Suffice it to say that within a few short months after their first meeting the young woman, being of royal blood, exercised her divine right and "proposed." She proposed just as Queen Victoria did later. And then they were married--both under twenty--and lived happily ever after. It is a great mistake to assume that pride and a high degree of commonsense can not go together. Margaret knew how to manage. After a short stay in Sudbury the couple rented a cottage at Ipswich for six pounds a year--a dovecot with three rooms. The proud beauty would not let the place be profaned by a servant: she did all the work herself; and if she wanted help, she called on her husband. Base is the man who will not fetch and carry for the woman he loves. They were accounted the handsomest and most distinguished couple in all Sudbury; and when they attended church, there was so much craning of necks and so many muffled exclamations of admiration, that the clergyman made it a point not to begin the service until they were safely seated. They were very happy: they loved each other, and so loved life and everything and everybody, and God's great green out-o'-doors was their playhouse. Margaret's income was quite sufficient for their needs, and mad ambition passed them by. Gainsborough drew pictures and painted and sketched, and then gave his pictures away. Music was his passion, and whenever at the concerts held round about there the player did exceptionally well, Gainsborough would proffer a picture in exchange for the instrument used. In this way the odd corners of their house got filled with violins, lutes, hautboys, kettledrums and curious stringed things that have died the death and are now extinct. At this time, if any one had asked Gainsborough his profession, he would have said, "I am a musician." Fifteen years had slipped into the eternity that lies behind--"years not lost, for we can turn the hourglass and live them all over in sweet memory," once said Gainsborough to his wife. The constant sketching had developed much skill in the artist's hand. Thicknesse had come puffing alongside, and insisted out of pure friendliness on taking the artist and wife in tow. They laughed at him behind his back, and carried on conversation over his head, and dropped jokes at his feet by looks and pantomime, and communicated in cipher--for true lovers always evolve a code. Thicknesse was sincere and serious, and surely was not wholly bad-- even Mephisto is not bad all of the time. Mrs. Gainsborough once said she would prefer Mephisto to Thicknesse, because Mephisto had a sense of humor. Very often they naturally referred to Thicknesse as "Thickhead"--the joke was too obvious to let pass entirely, until each "took the pledge," witnessed by Gainsborough's favorite terrier, "Fox." Thicknesse had a Summer House at Bath, and thither he insisted his friends should go. He would vouch for them and introduce them into the best society. He would even introduce them to Beau Nash, "the King of Bath," and arrange to have Gainsborough do himself the honor of painting the "King's" picture. Two daughters nearing womanhood reminded Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough that an increase in income would be well; and Thicknesse promised many commissions from his friends, the gentry. The cheapest house they could find in Bath was fifty pounds a year. "Do you want to go to jail?" asked Mrs. Gainsborough of her husband when he proposed signing the lease. The worldly Thicknesse proposed that they should take this house at fifty pounds a year, or else take another at one hundred fifty at his expense. They decided to risk it at the rate of fifty pounds a year for a few months, and were duly settled. Thicknesse was very proud of his art connections. He had but one theme--Gainsborough! People of note began to find their way to the studio of the painter-man in the Circus. Gainsborough was gracious, handsome and healthy--fresh from the country. He met all nobility on a frank equality--God had made him a gentleman. His beautiful wife, now in her early thirties, was much sought in local society circles. Everybody of note who came to Bath visited Gainsborough's studio. Garrick sat to him and played such pranks with his countenance that each time the artist looked up from his easel he saw a new man. "You have everybody's face but your own," said Gainsborough to Garrick, and dismissing the man he completed the picture from memory. This portrait and also pictures of General Honeywood, the Comedian Quin, Lady Grosvenor, the Duke of Argyle, besides several landscapes, were sent up to the Academy Exhibition at London. George the Third saw them and sent word down that he wished Gainsborough lived in London, so he could sit to him. The carrier, Wiltshire, who packed the pictures and took them up to London, had a passion for art that filled his heart, and he refused to accept gold, that base and common drudge 'twixt man and man, for his services in an art way. And so Gainsborough presented him with a picture. In fact, during the term of years that Gainsborough lived at Bath, he gave Wiltshire, the modest driver of an express-cart, a dozen or more pictures and sketches. He gave him the finest picture he ever painted: that portrait of the old Parish Clerk. Gainsborough was not so good a judge of his own work as Wiltshire was. Wiltshire kept all the "Gainsboroughs" he could get, reveled in them during his long life, basked and bathed his soul in their beauty, and dying, bequeathed them to his children. Had Wiltshire been moved by nothing but keen, cold, worldly wisdom-- which he wasn't--he could not have done better. Even friendship, love and beauty have their Rialto--the appraiser footed up the Wiltshire estate at more than fifty thousand pounds. Gainsborough found himself with more work than he could very well care for, so he raised his prices for a "half-length" from five pounds to forty; and for a "full-length" from ten pounds to one hundred, in order to limit the number of his patrons. It doubled them. His promised picture of Thicknesse was relegated behind the door, and a check was sent the great man for five hundred pounds for his borrowed viola da gamba and other favors. But Thicknesse was not to be bought off. He took charge of the studio, looked after the visitors, explaining this and that, telling how he had discovered the artist and rescued him from obscurity, giving scraps of his history, and presenting little impromptu lectures on art as he had found it. The fussy Thicknesse used to be funny to Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough, but now he had developed into a nuisance. To escape him, they resolved to turn the pretty compliment of King George into a genuine request. They packed up and moved to London. The fifty pounds a year at Bath had seemed a great responsibility, but when Gainsborough took Schomberg House in Pall Mall at three hundred pounds, he boasts of his bargain. About this time "Scheming Jack" turns up asking for a small loan to perfect a promising scheme. The gracious brother replies that although his own expenses are more than a thousand pounds a year, he is glad to accommodate him, and hopes the scheme will prosper--which of course he knew it would not, for success is a matter of red corpuscle. Almost immediately on reaching London the Royal Academy recognized Gainsborough's presence by electing him a member of its Council. However, he never attended a single meeting. He did not need the Academy. Royalty stood in line at his studio-doors, and he took his pick of sitters. He painted five different portraits of the King, various pictures of his children, did the rascally heir-apparent ideally, and made a picture of Queen Charlotte that Goldsmith said "looked like a sensible woman." He painted portraits of his lovely wife, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Burke, Walpole, the dictator of Strawberry Hill, and immortalized the hats worn by the smashing, dashing Duchess of Devonshire. One of these pictures of Her Grace comes very close to us Americans, as it was cut from the frame one dark, foggy night in London, sealed up in the false bottom of a trunk and brought to New York. Here it lay for more than twenty years, when Colonel Patricius Sheedy, connoisseur and critic, arranged for its delivery to the heirs of the original owners on payment of some such trifle as twenty-five thousand dollars. This superb picture, with its romantic past, was not destined to traverse the Atlantic again; for thanks to the generosity of J. Pierpont Morgan, it has now found a permanent home at Harvard College. It is only a little way back from civilization to savagery. We live in a wonderful time: the last twenty-five years have seen changes that mark epochs in the onward and upward march. To mention but two, we might name the almost complete evolution of our definition as to what constitutes "Christianity"; and in material things, the use of electricity, which has worked such a revolution as even Jules Verne never conjured forth. Americans are somewhat given to calling our country "The Land of the Free"--as if there were no other. But the individual in England today has greater freedom of speech and action than the individual has in America. In every large city of America there is an extent of petty officialism and dictation that the English people would not for a day endure. Our policemen, following their Donnybrook proclivities, are all armed with clubs, and allowing prenatal influences to lead, they unlimber the motto, "Wherever you see a head, hit it," on slight excuse. In Central Park, New York, for instance, the citizen who "talks back" would speedily be clubbed into silence--but try that thing in Hyde Park, London, if you please, and see what would follow! But, thank heaven, we are working out our salvation all the time--things are getting better, and it is the "dissatisfied" who are making them go. Were we satisfied, there would be no progress. During the sixty-one years of Gainsborough's life, wondrous changes were made in the world of thought and feeling. And the good natured but sturdy quality of such as he was the one strong factor that worked for freedom. Gainsborough was never a tuft-hunter: he toadied to no man, and his swinging independence refused to see any special difference between himself and the sleek, titled nobility. He asked no favors of the Academy, no quarter from his rivals, no grants from royalty. This dissenting attitude probably cost him the mate of the knighthood which went to Sir Joshua, but behold the paradox! he was usually closer to the throne than those who lay in wait for honors. Gainsborough sought for nothing--he did his work, preserved the right mental attitude, and all good things came to him. It is a curious thing to note that while England was undergoing a renaissance of art, and realizing a burst of freedom, Italy, that land so long prolific in greatness, produced not a single artist who rose above the dull and commonplace. Has Nature only just so much genius at her disposal? The reign of the Georges worked a blessed, bloodless revolution for the people of England. They reigned better than they knew. Gainsborough saw the power of the monarch transferred to the people, and the King become the wooden figurehead of the ship, instead of its Captain. So, thanks to the weakness of George the Third and the short-sighted policy of Lord North, America achieved her independence about the same time that England did hers. Theological freedom and political freedom go hand in hand, for our conception of Deity is always a pale reflection of our chief ruler. Did not Thackeray say that the people of England regarded Jehovah as an infinite George the Fourth? Gainsborough saw Whitefield and Wesley entreating that we should go to God direct; Howard was letting the sunshine into dark cells; Clarkson, Sharp and Wilberforce had begun their crusade against slavery, and their arms and arguments were to be transferred a hundred years later to William Lloyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips and Henry Ward Beecher, who bought "Beecher Bibles" for Old John Brown, Osawatomie Brown, whose body, no longer needed, was hanged on a sour-apple tree while his soul goes marching on. In the realm of letters, Gainsborough saw changes occur no less important than in the political field. Samuel Johnson bowled into view, scolding and challenging the Ensconced Smug; Goldsmith scaled the Richardson ghetto and wrote his touching and deathless verse; Fielding's saffron comedies were produced at Drury Lane; Cowper, nearly the same age as the artist, did his work and lapsed into imbecility, surviving him sixteen years; Richardson became the happy father of the English Novel; Sterne took his Sentimental Journey; Chatterton, the meteor, flashed across the literary sky; Gray mused in the churchyard and laid his head upon the lap of earth; Burns was promoted from the Excise to be the idol of all Scotland. The year that Gainsborough died, Napoleon, a slim slip of a youth seventeen years old, was serving as a sub-lieutenant of artillery; while Wellington had just received his first commission and was marching zigzag, by the right oblique, to meet him eighteen miles from Brussels on the night of a ball sung into immortality by Byron; Watt had invented the steam-engine, thanks to Humphrey Gainsborough; Arkwright had made his first spinning-frame; Humphrey Davy was working at problems (with partial success) to be solved later by Edison of Menlo Park; Lord Hastings was tried, and it was while listening to the speech of Sheridan--the one speech of his life, the best words of which, according to his butler, were, "My Lords, I am done"--that Gainsborough caught his death o' cold. Gainsborough never went abroad to study; he painted things at home, and painted as he saw them. He never imagined he was a great artist, so took no thought as to the future of his work. He set so little store on his pictures that he did not think even to sign them. The masterpiece that satisfied him was never done. His was a happy life of work and love, with no cloud to obscure the sun, save possibly now and then a bumptious reproof from Sir Thicknesse or the occasional high-handed haughtiness of a Hanging Committee. Thus passed his life in work, music, laughter and love; but to music he ever turned for rest. He made more money than all of his seven brothers and sisters combined, five times over, and divided with them without stint. He educated several of his nieces and nephews, and one nephew, Gainsborough Dupont, he adopted and helped make an acceptable artist. Of that peculiarly-to-be-dreaded malady, artistic jealousy, Gainsborough had not a trace. His failure to court Sir Joshua's smile led foolish folks to say he was jealous--not so! he was simply able to get along without Sir Joshua, and he did. Yet he admired Reynolds' works and admired the man, but was too wise to force any close personal relationship. He divided with West, the American, the favor of the Court, and with Romney and Reynolds the favor of the town. He got his share, and more, of all those things which the world counts worth while. The gratitude of his heart was expressed by his life--generous, kind, joyous--never cast down except when he thought he had spoken harshly or acted unwisely-loyal to his friends, forgetting his enemies. He did a deathless work, for it is a work upon which other men have built. He prepared the way for those who were to come after. It is a great privilege to live, to work, to feel, to endure, to know: to realize that one is the instrument of Deity--being used by the Maker to work out His inscrutable purposes; to see vast changes occur in the social fabric and to know that men stop, pause and consider: to comprehend that this world is a different place because you have lived. Yes, it is a great privilege to live! Gainsborough lived--he reveled in life, and filled his days to their brim, ever and always grateful to the Unknown that had guided his hand and led him forth upon his way. It is a great privilege to live! VELASQUEZ Among the notable prophets of the new and true--Rubens, Rembrandt, Claude Lorraine--Velasquez was the newest and certainly the truest from our point of view. He showed us the mystery of light as God made it. --_Stevenson_ [Illustration: Velasquez] There be, among writing men, those who please the populace, and also that Elect Few who inspire writers. When Horace Greeley gave his daily message to the world, every editor of any power in America paid good money for the privilege of being a subscriber to the "Tribune." The "Tribune" had no exchange-list--if you wanted the "Tribune" you had to buy it, and the writers bought it because it wound up their clocks--set them agoing--and they either carefully abstained from mentioning Greeley or else went in right valiantly and exposed his vagaries. Greeley may have been often right, and we now know he was often wrong, but he infused the breath of life into his words--his sentences were a challenge--he made men think. And the reason he made men think was because he himself was a thinker. Among modern literary men, the two English writers who have most inspired writers are Carlyle and Emerson. They were writers' writers. In the course of their work, they touched upon every phase of man's experience and endeavor. You can not open their books anywhere and read a page without casting about for your pencil and pad. Strong men infuse into their work a deal of their own spirit, and their words are charged with a suggestion and meaning beyond the mere sound. There is a reverberation that thrills one. All art that lives is thus vitalized with a spiritual essence: an essence that ever escapes the analyst, but which is felt and known by all who have hearts that throb and souls that feel. Strong men make room for strong men. Emerson and Carlyle inspired other men, and they inspired each other--but whether there be warrant for that overworked reference to their "friendship" is a question. Some other word surely ought to apply here, for their relationship was largely a matter of the head, with a weather-eye on Barabbas, and three thousand miles of very salt brine between them. Carlyle never came to America: Emerson made three trips to England; and often a year or more passed without a single letter on either side. Tammas Carlyle, son of a stone-mason, with his crusty ways and clay pipe, with personality plus, at close range would have been a combination not entirely congenial to the culminating flower of seven generations of New England clergymen--probably not more so than was the shirt-sleeved and cravatless Walt, when they met that memorable day by appointment at the Astor House. Our first and last demand of Art is that it shall give us the artist's best. Art is the mintage of the soul. All the whim, foible, and rank personality are blown away on the winds of time--the good remains. Of artists who have inspired artists, and who being dead yet live, Velasquez stands first. "Velasquez was a painters' painter--the rest of us are only painters." And when the man who painted "Symphonies in White" further explained that a picture is finished when all traces of the means used to bring about the end have disappeared--for work alone will efface the footsteps of work--he had Velasquez in mind. The subject of this sketch was born in the year Fifteen Hundred Ninety-nine, and died in Sixteen Hundred Sixty. And while he lived there also lived these: Shakespeare, Murillo, Cervantes, Rembrandt and Rubens. As an artist and a man Velasquez was the equal, in his way, of any of the men just named. Ruskin has said, "Everything that Velasquez does may be regarded as absolutely right." And Sir Joshua Reynolds placed himself on record by saying, "The portrait of Pope Innocent the Tenth by Velasquez, in the Doria Gallery, is the finest portrait in all Rome." Yet until the year Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, a date Americans can easily remember, the work of Velasquez was scarcely known outside of Spain. In that year Raphael Mengs wrote: "How this painter, greater than Raphael or Titian, truer far than Rubens or Van Dyck, should have been lost to view is more than I can comprehend. I can not find words to describe the splendor of his art!" But enthusiasts who ebulliate at low temperature are plentiful. The world wagged on in its sleepy way, and it was not until Eighteen Hundred Twenty-eight that an Englishman, Sir David Wilkie, following up the clue of Mengs, began quietly to buy up all the stray pictures by Velasquez he could find in Spain. He sent them to England, and the world one day awoke to the fact that Velasquez was one of the greatest artists of all time. Curtis compiled a list of two hundred seventy-four pictures by Velasquez, which he pronounces authentic. Of these, one hundred twenty-one were owned in England, thirteen in France, twelve in Austria and eight in Italy. At least fifteen of the English 'oldings have since been transferred to America; so, outside of England and Spain, America possesses more of the works of this master than any other country. But of this be sure: no "Velasquez" will ever leave Spain unless spirited out of the country between two days--and if one is carried away, it will not be in the false bottom of a trunk. Within a year one "Velasquez" was so found secreted at Cadiz, and the owner escaped prison only by presenting the picture, with his compliments, to the Prado Museum at Madrid. The release of the prisoner, and the acceptance of the picture, were both a bit irregular as a matter of jurisprudence; but I am told that lawyers can usually arrange these little matters--Dame Justice being blind in one eye. There seems to have been some little discussion in the De Silva family of Seville as to whether Diego should be a lawyer, and follow in his father's footsteps, or become an artist and possibly a vagrom. The father had hoped the boy would be his helper and successor, and here the youngster was wasting his time drawing pictures of water-jugs, baskets of flowers, old women and foolish folk about the market! Should it be the law-school or the studio of Herrera the painter? To almost every fond father the idea of discipline is to have the child act just as he does. But in this case the mother had her way, or, more properly, she let the boy have his--as mothers do--and the sequel shows that a woman's heart is sometimes nearer right than a man's head. The fact that "Velasquez" was the maiden name of his mother, and was adopted by the young man, is a straw that tells which way the vane of his affections turned. Diego was sixteen and troublesome. He wasn't "bad"--only he had a rollicksome, flamboyant energy that inundated everything, and made his absence often a blessing devoutly to be wished. Herrera had fixed thoughts about art and deportment. Diego failed to grasp the beauty and force of these ideas, and in the course of a year he seems to have learned just one thing of Herrera--to use brushes with very long handles and long bristles. This peculiarity he clung to through life, and the way he floated the color upon the canvas with those long, ungainly brushes, no one understood; he really didn't know himself, and the world has long since given up the riddle. But the scheme was Herrera's, improved upon by Velasquez; yet not all men who paint with a brush that has a handle eight feet long can paint like Velasquez. In Herrera's studio there were often heated arguments as to merits and demerits, flat contradictions as to facts, and wordy warfare that occasionally resulted in broken furniture. On such occasions, Herrera never hesitated to take a hand and soundly cuff a pupil's ears, if the master thought the pupil needed it. Velasquez has left on record the statement that Herrera was the most dogmatic, pedantic, overbearing and quarrelsome man he ever knew. Just what Herrera thought of the young man Velasquez, we unfortunately do not know. But the belief is that Velasquez left Herrera's studio on request of Herrera. He next entered the studio of the rich and fashionable painter, Pacheco. This man, like Macaulay, had so much learning that it ran over and he stood in the slop. He wrote a book on painting, and might also have carried on a Correspondence School wherein the art of portraiture would be taught in ten easy lessons. In Madrid and Seville are various specimens of work done by both Herrera and Pacheco. Herrera had a certain style, and the early work of Velasquez showed Herrera's earmarks plainly; but we look in vain for a trace of influence that can be attributed to Pacheco. Velasquez at eighteen could outstrip his master, and both knew it. So Pacheco showed his good sense by letting the young man go his own pace. He admired the dashing, handsome youth, and although Velasquez broke every rule laid down in Pacheco's mighty tome, "Art As I Have Found It," yet the master uttered no word of protest. The boy was bigger than the book. More than this, Pacheco invited the young man to come and make his home with him, so as the better to avail himself of the master's instruction. Now, Pacheco (like Brabantio in the play) had a beautiful daughter--Juana by name. She was about the age of Velasquez, gentle, refined and amiable. Love is largely a matter of propinquity: and the world now regards Pacheco as a master matchmaker as well as a master painter. Diego and Juana were married, aged nineteen, and Pacheco breathed easier. He had attached to himself the most daring and brilliant young man he had ever known, and he had saved himself the annoyance of having his studio thronged with a gang of suitors such as crowded the courts of Ulysses. Pacheco was pleased. And why should Pacheco not have been pleased? He had linked his name for all time with the History of Art. Had he not been the teacher and father-in-law of Velasquez, his name would have been writ in water, for in his own art there was not enough Attic salt to save it; and his learning was a thing of dusty, musty books. Pacheco's virtue consisted in recognizing the genius of Velasquez, and hanging on to him closely, rubbing off all the glory that he could make stick to himself. To the day of his death Pacheco laid the flattering unction to his soul that he had made Velasquez; but leaving this out of the discussion, no one doubts that Velasquez plucked from oblivion the name and fame of Pacheco. "Those splendid blonde women of Rubens are the solaces of the eternal fighting-man," writes Vance Thompson. The wife of Velasquez was of the Rubens type: she looked upon her husband as the ideal. She believed in him, ministered to him, and had no other gods before him. She had but one ambition, and that was to serve her lord and master. Her faith in the man--in his power, in his integrity and in his art --corroborated his faith in himself. We want One to believe in us, and this being so, all else matters little. Velasquez seems a type of the "eternal fighting-man"--not the quarrelsome, quibbling man, who draws on slight excuse, but the man with a message, who goes straight to his destination with a will that breaks through every barrier, and pushes aside every obstacle. With the savage type there is no progression: the noble red man is content to be a noble red man all his days, and the result is that in standing still he is retreating off the face of the earth. Not so your "eternal fighting-man"--he is scourged by a restlessness that allows him no rest nor respite save in his work. Beware when a thinker and worker is let loose on the planet! In the days of Velasquez, Spain had but two patrons for art: Royalty and the Church. Although nominally a Catholic, Velasquez had little sympathy with the superstitions of the multitude. His religion was essentially a Natural Religion: to love his friends, to bathe in the sunshine of life, to preserve a right mental attitude--the receptive attitude, the attitude of gratitude--and to do his work: these things were for him the sum of life. His passion was art--to portray his feelings on canvas and make manifest to others the things he himself saw. The Church, he thought, did not afford sufficient outlet for his power. Cherubs that could live only in the tropics, and wings without muscles to manipulate them, did not mean much to him. The men and women on earth appealed to him more than the angels in Heaven, and he could not imagine a better paradise than this. So he painted what he saw: old men, market-women, beggars, handsome boys and toddling babies. These things did not appeal to prelates--they wanted pictures of things a long way off. So from the Church Velasquez turned his gaze toward the Court of Madrid. Velasquez had been in the studio of Pacheco at Seville for five years. During that time he filled the days with work--joyous, eager work. He produced a good many valuable pictures and a great many sketches, which were mostly given away. Yet today, Seville, with her splendid art-gallery and her hundreds of palaces, contains not a single specimen of the work of her greatest son. It was a rather daring thing for a young man of twenty-four to knock boldly at the gates of Royalty. But the application was made in Velasquez's own way. All of his studies, which the critics tauntingly called "tavern pieces," were a preparation for the life and work before him. He had mastered the subtlety of the human face, and had seen how the spirit shines through and reveals the soul. To know how to write correctly is nothing--you must know something worth recording. To paint is nothing--you must know what you are portraying. Velasquez had become acquainted with humanity, and gotten on intimate terms with life. He had haunted the waysides and markets to good purpose; he had laid the foundation of those qualities which characterize his best work: mastery of expression, penetration into character, the ability to look upon a face and read the thoughts that lurk behind, the crouching passions, and all the aspirations too great for speech. To picture great men you must be a great man. Velasquez was twenty-four--dark, daring, silent, with a face and form that proclaimed him a strong and valiant soul. Strong men can well afford to be gentle--those who know can well cultivate silence. The young man did not storm the doors of the Alcazar. No; at Madrid he went quietly to work copying Titians in the gallery, and incidentally painting portraits--Royalty must come to him. He had faith in his power: he could wait. His wife knew the Court would call him--he knew it, too--the Court of Spain needed Velasquez. It is a fine thing to make yourself needed. Nearly a year had passed, and Velasquez gave it out quietly that he was about to return to his home in Seville. Artistic Madrid rubbed its eyes. The Minister of State, the great Olivarez, came to him with a commission from the King and a goodly payment in advance, begging that, as soon as he had made a short visit to Seville, he should return to Madrid. Apartments had already been set aside for him in the Alcazar Palace. Would he not kindly comply? Such a request from the King was really equal to an order. Velasquez surely had no intention of declining the compliment, since he had angled for it most ingeniously; but he took a little time to consider it. Of course he talked it over with his wife and her father, and we can imagine they had a quiet little supper by themselves in honor of the event. And so in the month of May, Sixteen Hundred Twenty-three, Diego de Silva Velasquez duly became a member of the Royal Household, and very soon was the companion, friend, adviser and attendant of the King--that post which he was to hold for thirty-six years, ere Death should call him hence. "The farmer thinks that place and power are fine things, but let him know that the President has paid dear for his White House," said the sage of Concord. The most miserable man I ever knew was one who married a rich woman, managed her broad acres, looked after her bonds and made report of her stocks. If the stocks failed to pay dividends, or the acres were fallow, my friend had to explain why to the tearful wife and sundry sarcastic next of kin. The man was a Jeffersonian Democrat and preached the Life of Simplicity, because we always preach about things that are not ours. He rode behind horses that had docked tails, and apologized for being on earth, to an awful butler in solemn black. The man had married for a home--he got it. When he wanted funds for himself, he was given dole, or else was put to the necessity of juggling the Expense-Account. If he wished to invite friends to his home, he had to prove them standard-bred, morally sound in wind and limb, and free from fault or blemish. The good man might have lived a thoroughly happy life, with everything supplied that he needed, but he acquired the Sanitarium Habit, for which there is no cure but poverty. And this man could not be poor even if he wanted to, for there were no grounds for divorce. His wife loved him dearly, and her income of five thousand dollars a month came along with startling regularity, willy-nilly. Finally, at Hot Springs, Death gave him treatment and he was freed from pain. From this o'ertrue incident it must not be imagined that wealth and position are bad things. Health is potential power. Wealth is an engine that can be used for good if you are an engineer; but to be tied to the flywheel of an engine is rather unfortunate. Had my friend been big enough to rise supreme over horses with docked tails, to subjugate a butler, to defy the next of kin and manage the wife (without letting her know it), all would have been well. But it is a Herculean task to cope with the handicap of wealth. Mediocre men can endure failure; for, as Robert Louis the beloved has pointed out, failure is natural, but worldly success is an abnormal condition. In order to stand success you must be of very stern fiber, with all the gods on your side. The Alcazar Palace looked strong, solid and self-sufficient on the outside. But inside, like every Court, it was a den of quibble, quarrel, envy, and the hatred which, tinctured with fear, knocks an anvil-chorus from day-dawn to dark. A thousand people made up the household of Philip the Fourth. Any one of these could be dismissed in an hour--the power of Olivarez, the Minister, was absolute. Very naturally there were plottings and counterplottings. A Court is a prison to most of its inmates; no freedom is there-- thought is strangled and inspiration still-born. Yet life is always breaking through. When locked in a cell in a Paris prison, Horace Greeley wrote, "Thank God, at last I am free from intrusion." "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage," laughed Lovelace. Have not some of the great books of the world been written in prison? Things work by antithesis; and if your discipline is too severe, you get no discipline at all. Puritanical pretense, hypocrisy and a life of repression, with "thou shalt not" set on a hair-trigger, have made more than one man bold, genuine and honest. Draw the bow far enough this way, and your arrow will go a long way that. Forbid a man to think for himself or to act for himself, and you may add the joy of piracy and the zest of smuggling to his life. In the Spanish Court, Velasquez found life a lie, public manners an exaggeration, etiquette a pretense, and all the emotions put up in sealed cans. Fashionable Society is usually nothing but Canned Life. Look out for explosions! Velasquez held the balance true by an artistic courage and an audacity of private thought that might not have been his in a freer atmosphere. He did not wear his art upon his sleeve: he outwardly conformed, but inwardly his soul towered over every petty annoyance, and all the vain power of the fearing and quibbling little princes touched him not. Spain, under the rule of Philip the Second, grew great. Her ships sailed every sea--the world contributed to her wealth. Art comes after a surplus has accumulated and the mere necessaries of life have been provided. Philip built great palaces, founded schools, gave encouragement to the handicrafts, and sent his embassies scouring the world for the treasures of Art. The King was a practical man, blunt, farseeing, direct. He knew the cost of things, studied out the best ways, ascertained right methods. He had the red corpuscle, the deep convolution, and so was King. His ministers did his bidding. The grim sarcasm of entailed power is a thing so obvious that one marvels it has escaped the recognition of mankind until yesterday. But stay! Men have always seen its monstrous absurdity--hence the rack. The Spanish Inquisition, in which Church and State combined against God, seems an awful extreme to show the depths of iniquity to which Pride married to Hypocrisy can sink. Yet martyrdom has its compensation. The spirit flies home upon the wings of victory, and in the very moment of so-called defeat, the man has the blessed consolation that he is still master of his fate--captain of his soul. The lesson of the Inquisition was worth the price--the martyrs bought freedom for us. The fanged dogs of war, once turned loose upon the man who dared to think, have left as sole successor only a fat and harmless poodle, known as Social Ostracism. This poodle is old, toothless and given over to introspection; it has to be fed on pap; its only exercise is to exploit the horse-blocks, doze in milady's lap, and dream of a long-lost canine paradise. The dog- catcher awaits around the corner. Philip the Third was an etiolated and perfumed dandy. In him culture had begun to turn yellow. Men who pride themselves upon their culture haven't any of which to speak. All the beauties of art, this man thought, were exclusively for him and his precious company of lisping exquisites and giggling, mincing queans. The thought that those who create beauty are also they who possess it, never dawned upon this crack-pated son of tired sheets. He lived to enjoy--and so he never enjoyed anything. Surfeit and satiety overtook him in the royal hog-wallow; digestion and zest took flight. Philip the Third speedily became a wooden Indian on wheels, moved by his Minister of State, the Duke of Lerma. Huge animals sustain huge parasites, and so the Court of Philip the Third, with its fools, dwarfs, idiots and all of its dancing, jiggling, juggling, wasteful folly, did not succeed in wrecking the land. When Philip the Third traveled, he sent hundreds of men ahead to beat the swamps, day and night, in the vicinity of his royal presence, so as to silence the frogs. He thought their croaking was a personal matter meant for him. I think he was right. How the Lords of Death must chuckle in defiant glee when they send malaria and night into the palaces of the great through cracks and crevices! Philip's bloated, unkingly body became full of disease and pain; lingering unrest racked him; the unseen demons he could not exorcise, danced on his bed, wrenched his members and played mad havoc with each quivering nerve. And so he died. Then comes Philip the Fourth, immortal through his forty portraits painted by Velasquez. Philip was only fourteen when his father died. He was a rareripe, and showed strength and decision far beyond his years. His grandfather, Philip the Second, was his ideal, and he let it be known right speedily that his reign was to be one of moderation and simplicity, modeled along the lines of Philip the Great. The Duke of Lerma, Minister of State, who had so long been the actual ruler of Spain, was deposed, and into his place slipped the suave and handsome Olivarez, Gentleman-in-Waiting to the young King. Olivarez was from Seville, and had known the family of Velasquez. It was through his influence that Diego so soon got the nod of Royalty. The King was eighteen, Velasquez was twenty-four, and Olivarez not much older--all boys together. And the fact that Velasquez secured the appointment of Court Painter with such ease was probably owing to his dashing horsemanship, as much as to his being a skilful painter. At Harvard once I saw a determined effort made to place a famous "right tackle" in the chair of Assistant Professor of Rhetoric. The plan was only given over with great reluctance, when it was discovered that the "right tackle" was beautifully ignorant of the subject he would have to tackle. Even then it was argued he could "cram"--keeping one lesson in advance of his class. But Olivarez knew Velasquez could paint, and the artist's handsome face, stalwart frame and fearless riding did the rest. The young King was considered the best horseman in Madrid: Velasquez and Olivarez took pains never to outdo him in the joust. The biography of Olivarez as a study of life is a better subject far than either the life of Velasquez or the King. Their lives were too successful to be interesting. Olivarez is a fine example of a man growing great through exercise. Read history and behold how commonplace men have often had greatness thrust upon them and met the issue. I have seen an absurd Class B lawyer elevated into a judgeship, and rise to the level of events, keeping silence, looking wise, hugging his dignity hard, until there came a time when the dignity really was a fair fit. Trotters often need toe-weights to give them ballast and balance--so do men need responsibility. We have had at least three commonplace men for President of the United States, who live in history as adequately great--and they were. Various and sundry good folk will here arise and say the germ of greatness was in these men all the time, awaiting the opportunity to unfold. And the answer is correct, right and proper; but a codicil should then be added to the effect that the germ of greatness is in every man, but we fall victims of arrested development, and success or society, like a worm i' the bud, feeds on our damask cheek. Philip was nipped in the bud by falling into the protecting shadow of Olivarez. The Prime Minister provided boar-hunts and tourneys and masquerades and fetes. Philip's life of simplicity faded off into dressing in black--all else went on as before. Philip glided into the line of least resistance and signed every paper that he was told to sign by his gracious, winning, inflexible Minister--the true type of the iron hand in the velvet glove. From his twentieth year, after that first little flurry of pretended power, the novelty of ruling wore away; and for more than forty years he never either vetoed an act or initiated one. His ministers arranged his recreations, his gallantries, his hours of sleep. He was ruled and never knew it, and here the Richelieu-like Olivarez showed his power. It was anything to keep the King from thinking, and Spain, the Mother of Magnificence, went drifting to her death. There were already three Court Painters when Velasquez received his appointment. They were Italians appointed by Philip the Third. Their heads were full of tradition and precedent, and they painted like their masters, who had been pupils of men who had worked with Titian--beautiful attenuations three times reduced. We only know their names now because they raised a pretty chorus of protest when Velasquez appeared at the palace. They worked all the wires they knew to bring about his downfall, and then dwindled away into chronic Artistic Jealousy, which finally struck in; and they were buried. That the plots, challenges and constant knockings of these underling court painters ever affected Velasquez, we can not see. He swung right along at prodigious strides, living his own life--a life outside and beyond all the pretense and vanity of place and power. The King came by a secret passage daily to the studio to watch Velasquez work. There was always a chair for him, and the King even had an easel and sets of brushes and palette with which he played at painting. Pacheco, who had come up to Madrid and buzzed around encroaching on the Samuel Pepys copyright, has said that the King was a skilled painter. But this statement was for publication during the King's lifetime. When Velasquez could not keep the King quiet in any other way, it seems he made him sit for his picture. The studio was never without an unfinished portrait of the King. From eighteen to fifty-four he sat to Velasquez--and it is always that same tall, spindle-legged, impassive form and the dull, unspeaking face. There is no thought there, no aspiration, no hope too great for earth, no unrequited love, no dream unrealized. The King was incapable of love as he was of hate. And Velasquez did not use his art to flatter: he had the artistic conscience. Truth was his guiding star. And the greatness of Velasquez is shown in that all subjects were equally alike to him. He did not select the classic or peculiar. Little painters are always choosing their subjects and explaining that this or that may be pretty or interesting, but they will tell you it is "unpaintable" --which means that they can not paint it. "I can write well on any topic--all are alike to me!" said Dean Swift to Stella. "Then write me an essay on a broomstick," answered Stella. And Swift wrote the essay--full of abstruse reasons, playful wit and charming insight. The long, oval, dull face of Philip lured Velasquez. He analyzed every possible shade of emotion of which this man was capable, and stripped his soul bare. The sallow skin, thin curling locks, nerveless hands, and unmeaning eyes are upon the walls of every gallery of Christendom--matchless specimens of the power to sink self, and reveal the subject. That is why Whistler is right when he says that Velasquez is the painters' painter. "The Blacksmith" by Whistler shows you the blacksmith, not Whistler; Rembrandt's pictures of his mother show the woman; Franz Hals gives you the Burgomaster, not himself. Shakespeare of all writers is the most impersonal--he does not give himself away. When Rubens painted a portrait of Philip the Fourth he put a dash of daring, exuberant health in the face that was never there. The health and joy of life was in Rubens, and he could not keep it off his palette. There is a sameness in every Rubens, because the imagination of the man ran over, and falsified his colors; he always gives you a deal of Rubens. But stay! that expression, "sinking self," is only a figure of speech. At the last, the true artist never sinks self: he is always supreme, and towers above every subject, every object, that he portrays. The riotous health and good-cheer of Rubens marked the man's limitations. He was not great enough to comprehend the small, the delicate, the insignificant and the absurd. Only a very great man can paint dwarfs, idiots, topers and kings. And so the many- sidedness of the great man continually deceives the world into thinking that he is the thing with which he associates; or, on the other hand, we say he "sinks self" for the time, whereas the truth is that in his own nature he comprehends the Whole. Shakespeare being the Universal Man, we lose him in the labyrinth of his winding and wondrous imagination. The greater comprehends the less. The beginner paints what he sees; or, more properly, he paints what he thinks he sees. If he grows he will next paint what he imagines, as Rubens did. Then there is another stage which completes the spiral and comes back to the place of beginning, and the painter will again paint what he sees. This Velasquez did, and this is what sets him apart. The difference between the last stage and the first is that the artist has learned to see. To write is nothing--to know what to write is much. To paint is nothing--to see and know the object you are attempting to portray is everything. "Shall I paint the thing just as I see it?" asked the ingenue of the great artist. "Why, yes," was the answer, "provided you do not see the thing as you paint it." The King and the Painter grew old together. They met on a common ground of horses, dogs and art; and while the King used these things to kill time and cause him to forget self, the Painter found horses and dogs good for rest and recreation. But art was for Velasquez a religion, a sacred passion. Nominally the Court Painter ranked with the Court Barber, and his allowance was the same. But Velasquez ruled the King, and the King knew it not. Like all wasteful, dissolute men, Philip the Fourth had spasms of repentance when he sought by absurd economy to atone for folly. We are all familiar with individuals who will blow to the four winds good money, and much of it, on needless meat and drink for those who are neither hungry nor athirst, and take folks for a carriage-ride who should be abed, and then the next day buy a sandwich for dinner and walk a mile to save a five-cent carfare. Some of us have done these things; and so occasionally Philip would dole out money to buy canvas and complain of the size of it, and ask in injured tone how many pictures Velasquez had painted from that last bolt of cloth! But Velasquez was a diplomat and humored his liege; yet when the artist died, the administrator of his estate had to sue the State for a settlement, and it was ten years before the final amount due the artist was paid. After twenty years of devotion, Olivarez-- outmatched by Richelieu in the game of statecraft--fell into disrepute and was dismissed from office. Monarchies, like republics, are ungrateful. Velasquez sided with his old friend Olivarez in the quarrel, and thus risked incurring the sore displeasure of the King. The King could replace his Minister of State, but there was no one to take the place of the artist; so Philip bottled his wrath, gave Velasquez the right of his private opinion, and refused to accept his resignation. There seems little doubt that it was a calamity for Velasquez that Philip did not send him flying into disgrace with Olivarez. Had Velasquez been lifted out on the toe of the King's displeasure, Italy would have claimed him, and the Vatican would have opened wide its doors. There, relieved of financial badgering, in the company of his equals, encouraged and uplifted, he might have performed such miracles in form and color that even the wonderful ceiling of the Sistine Chapel would have faded into the mediocre. And again he might not--what more idle and fascinating than such speculation? That the King endured the calm rebuke of Velasquez, when Olivarez was deposed, and still retained the Painter in favor, was probably because Rubens had assured the King that Velasquez as an artist was the master of any man in all Europe. Velasquez made two trips to Italy, being sent on royal embassies to purchase statuary for the Prado Gallery, and incidentally to copy pictures. So there is many a Veronese, Tintoretto and Titian now in the Prado that was copied by Velasquez. Think of the value of a Titian copied by Velasquez! And so faithfully was the copying done, even to inserting the signature, initials and date, that much doubt exists as to what pictures are genuine and what copies. When Rubens appeared at the Court of Madrid, sent by the Duke of Mantua, with presents of Old Masters (done by himself), I can not but imagine the quiet confession, with smiles and popping of corks, that occurred when the wise and princely Rubens and the equally wise and princely Velasquez got together in some private corner. The advent of Rubens at Madrid sent a thrill through the entire Court, and a lesser man than Velasquez would have quaked with apprehension when he found the King sitting to Rubens for a portrait in his own studio. Not so Velasquez--he had done the King on canvas a score of times; no one else had ever been allowed to paint the King's portrait--and he was curious to see how the picture would come out. Rubens, twenty-two years the senior of Velasquez, shrank a bit, it seems, from the contest, and connoisseurs have said that there is a little lack of the exuberant, joyous Rubensesque quality in the various pictures done by the gracious Fleming in Spain. The taunt that many of the pictures attributed to Rubens were done by his pupils loses its point when we behold the prodigious amount of work that the master accomplished at Madrid in nine months--a dozen portraits, several groups, a score of pictures copied. And besides this, there was time for horseback rides when the King, Rubens and Velasquez galloped away together, when they climbed mountains, and when there were fetes and receptions to attend. Rubens was then over fifty, but the fire of his youth and that joyous animation of the morning, the years had not subdued. Velasquez had many pupils, but in Murillo his skill as a teacher is best revealed. Several of his pupils painted exactly like him, save that they neglected to breathe into the nostrils of their work the breath of life. But Velasquez seems to have encouraged Murillo to follow the bent of his moody and melancholy genius--so Murillo was himself, not a diluted Velasquez. The strong, administrative ability of Velasquez was prized by the King as much as his ability as a painter, and he was, therefore, advanced to the position of Master of Ceremonies. In this work, with its constant demand of close attention to petty details, his latter days were consumed. He died, aged sixty-one, a victim to tasks that were not worth the doing, but which the foolish King considered as important as painting deathless pictures. So closely was the life of his wife blended with his own that in eight days after his passing she followed him across the Border, although the physicians declared that she had no disease. Husband and wife were buried in one grave in a church that a hundred years later was burned and never rebuilt. No stone marks their resting- place; and none is needed, for Velasquez lives in his work. The truth, splendor and beauty that he produced are on a hundred walls-- the inspiration of men who do and dare--the priceless heritage of us who live today and of those who shall come after. COROT The sun sinks more and more behind the horizon. Bam! he throws his last ray, a streak of gold and purple which fringes the flying clouds. There, now it has entirely disappeared. Bien! bien! twilight commences. Heavens, how charming it is! There is now in the sky only the soft vaporous color of pale citron--the last reflection of the sun which plunges into the dark blue of the night, going from green tones to a pale turquoise of an unheard-of fineness and a fluid delicacy quite indescribable.... The fields lose their color, the trees form but gray or brown masses.... the dark waters reflect the bland tones of the sky. We are losing sight of things--but one still feels that everything is there--everything is vague, confused, and Nature grows drowsy. The fresh evening air sighs among the leaves-- the birds, these voices of the flowers, are saying their evening prayer. --_Corot's Letter to Graham_ [Illustration: Corot] Most young artists begin by working for microscopic effects, trying to portray every detail, to see every leaf, stem and branch and reveal them in the picture. The ability to draw carefully and finish painstakingly is very necessary, but the great artist must forget how to draw before he paints a great picture; just as every strong writer must put the grammar upon the shelf before he writes well. I once heard William Dean Howells say that any good, bright High-School girl of sixteen could pass a far better examination in rhetoric than he could--and the admission did Mr. Howells no discredit. "Would you advise me to take a course in elocution?" once asked a young man with oratorical ambitions of Henry Ward Beecher. "Yes, by all means. Study elocution very carefully, but you will have to forget it all before you ever become an orator," was the answer. Corot began as a child by drawing very rude, crude, uncertain pictures, just such pictures as any schoolboy can draw. Next he began to "complete" his sketches, and work with infinite pains. If he sketched a house he showed whether the roof was shingled or made of straw or tile; his trees revealed the texture of the bark and showed the shape of the leaf, and every flower contained its pistil and stamens, and told the man knew his botany. Two of his pictures done in Rome in his twenty-ninth year, "The Colosseum" and "The Forum," now in the Louvre, are good pictures--complete in detail, painstaking, accurate, hard and tight in technique. They are bomb- proof--beyond criticism--absolutely safe. Have a care, Corot! Keep where you are and you will become an irreproachable painter. That is to say, you will paint just like a hundred other French painters. There will be a market for your wares, the critics will approve, and at the Salon your work will never be either enskyed nor consigned to the catacombs. Society will court you, fair ladies will smile and encourage. You will be a success; your name will be safely pigeonholed among the unobjectionable ones, and before your wind- combed shock of hair has turned to silver, you will be supplanted by a new crop of fashion's favorites. It is a fact worth noting that the two greatest landscape-painters of all time were city-born and city-bred. Turner was born in London, the son of a barber, and Fate held him so in leash that he never got beyond the sound of Bow Bells until he was a man grown. Corot was born in Paris, and his first outdoor sketch, made at twenty-two, was done amidst the din and jostle of the quays of the Seine. Five strong men made up the Barbizon School, and of these, three were reared in Paris--Paris the frivolous, Paris the pleasure- loving. Corot, Rousseau and Daubigny were children of the Metropolis. I state these facts in the interests of truth, and also to ease conscience, for I am aware that I have glorified the country boy in pages gone before, as if God were kind to him alone. Turner made over a million dollars by the work of his hands (reinforced by head and heart); and left a discard of nineteen thousand sketches to the British Nation. Was ever such an example of concentration, energy and industry known in the history of art? Corot, six feet one, weight two hundred, ruddy, simple, guileless, singing softly to himself as he walked, in peasant blouse, and sabot-shod, used to come up to Paris, his birthplace, two or three times a year, and the gamins would follow him on the streets, making remarks irrelevant and comments uncomplimentary, just as they might follow old Joshua Whitcomb on Broadway in New York. British grandees often dress like farmers, for pride may manifest itself in simplicity, but the disinterested pose of Camille Corot, if pose it was, fitted him as the feathers fit a wild duck. If pose is natural it surely is not pose: and Corot, the simplest man in the world, was regarded by the many as a man of mannerisms. His work was so quiet and modest that the art world refused to regard it seriously. Corot was as unpretentious as Walt Whitman and just as free from vanity. During the War of the Rebellion, Whitman bankrupted himself in purse and body by caring for the stricken soldiers. At the siege of Paris, Corot could have kept outside the barriers, but safety for himself he would not accept. He remained in the city, refused every comfort that he could not divide with others, spent all the money he had in caring for the wounded, nursed the sick by night and day, listened to the confessions of the dying, and closed the eyes of the dead. To everybody, especially the simple folk, the plain, the unpretentious, the unknown, he was "Papa Corot," and everywhere did the stalwart old man of seventy-five carry hope, good-cheer and a courage that never faltered. Corot, like Whitman, had the happiness to have no history. Corot used paint just as if no one had ever painted before, and Whitman wrote as if he were the first man who had ever expressed himself in verse--precedent stood for naught. Each had all the time there was; they were never in a hurry; they loafed and invited their souls; they loved all women so well that they never could make choice of one; both were ridiculed and hooted and misunderstood; recognition came to neither until they were about to depart; and yet in spite of the continual rejection of their work, and the stupidity that would not see, and the ribaldry of those who could not comprehend, they continued serenely on their way, unruffled, kind-- making no apologies nor explanations--unresentful, with malice toward none, and charity for all. The world is still divided as to whether Walt Whitman was simply a coarse and careless writer, without either skill, style or insight; or one with such a subtle, spiritual vision, such a penetration into the heart of things, that few comparatively can follow him. During forty years of Corot's career the critics said, when they deigned to mention Corot at all, "There are two worlds, God's World and Corot's World." He was regarded as a harmless lunatic, who saw things differently from others, and so they indulged him, and at the Salon hung his pictures in the "Catacombs" with many a sly joke at his expense. The expression, "Corot Nature," is with us yet. But now the idea has gradually gained ground that Camille Corot looked for beauty and found it--that he painted what he saw, and that he saw things that the average man, through incapacity, never sees at all. Science has taught us that there are sounds so subtle that our coarse senses can not recognize them, and there are thousands of tints, combinations and variations in color that the unaided or uneducated eye can not detect. If Corot saw more than we, why denounce Corot? And so Corot has gradually and very slowly come into recognition as one who had power plus--it was we who were weak, we who were faulty, not he. The stones that were cast at him have been gathered up and cemented into a monument to his memory. The father of Camille Corot was a peasant who drifted over to Paris to make his fortune. He was active, acute, intelligent and economical--and when a Frenchman is economical his economy is of a kind that makes the Connecticut brand look like extravagance. This young man became a clerk in a drygoods-store that had a millinery attachment, as most French drygoods-stores have. He was precise, accurate, had a fair education, and always wore a white cravat. In the millinery department of this store was employed, among many others, a Swiss girl who had come up to Paris on her own account to get a knowledge of millinery and dressmaking. When this was gained she intended to go back to Switzerland, the land of liberty and Swiss cheese, and there live out her life in her native village making finery for the villagers for a consideration. She did not go back to Switzerland, because she very shortly married the precise young drygoods-clerk who wore the white cravat. The Swiss are the most competent people on this globe of ours, which is round like an orange and slightly flattened at the poles. There is less illiteracy, less pauperism, less drunkenness, more general intelligence, more freedom in Switzerland than in any other country on earth. This has been so for two hundred years: and the reason, some say, is that she has no standing army and no navy. She is surrounded by big nations that are so jealous of her that they will not allow each other to molest her. She is not big enough to fight them. Being too little to declare war, she makes a virtue of necessity and so just minds her own business. That is the only way an individual can succeed--mind your own business--and it is also the best policy with a nation. The way the Swiss think things out with their heads and materialize them with their hands is very wonderful. In all the Swiss schools the pupils draw, sew, carve wood and make things. Pestalozzi was Swiss, and Froebel was more Swiss than German. Manual Training and the Kindergarten are Swiss ideas. All of our progress in the line of pedagogy that the years have brought has consisted in carrying Kindergarten Ideas into the Little Red Schoolhouse, and elsewhere. The world is debtor to the Swiss--the carmine of their ideas has tinted the whole thought-fabric of civilization. The Swiss know how. Skilled workmen from Switzerland are in demand everywhere. That Swiss girl in the Paris shop was a skilled needlewoman, and the good taste and talent she showed in her work was a joy to her employers. There are hints that they tried to discourage her marriage with the clerk in the white cravat. What a loss to the art world if they had succeeded! But love is stronger than business ambition, and so the milliner married the young clerk, and they had a very modest little nest to which they flew when the day's work was done. In a year a domestic emergency made it advisable for the young woman to stay at home, but she kept right along with her sewing. Some of the customers hunted her up and wanted her to do work for them. When the stress of the little exigency was safely passed, the young mother found she could make more by working at home for special customers. A girl was hired to help her, then two--three. The rooms downstairs were secured, and a show-window put in. This was at the corner of the Rue du Bac and the Pont Royal, within sight of the Louvre. It is an easy place to find, and you had better take a look at the site the next time you are in Paris--it is sacred soil. Corot has told us much about his mother--a Frenchman is apt to regard his father simply as a necessary though often inconvenient appendage, possibly absorbing the idea from the maternal side of the house--but his mother is his solace, comforter and friend. The mother of Corot was intelligent, industrious, tactful; sturdy in body and strong in mind. In due course of time she built up a paying business, bought the house in which they lived, and laid by a goodly dot for her son and two daughters. And all the time Corot pere wore the white cravat, a precise smile for customers and an austere look for his family. He held his old position as floorwalker and gave respectability to his good-wife's Millinery and Dressmaking Establishment. The father's ambition for Camille was that he should become a model floorwalker, treading in the father's footsteps; and so, while yet a child, the boy was put to work in a drygoods-store, with the idea of discipline strong in mind. And for this discipline, in after-years Corot was grateful. It gave him the habit of putting things away, keeping accurate accounts, systematizing his work; and throughout his forty years or more of artistic life, it was his proud boast that he reached his studio every morning at three minutes before eight. Young Corot's mother had quite a little skill as a draftsman. In her business she drew designs for patterns, and if the prospective customer lacked imagination, she could draw a sketch of the garment as it would look when completed. Savage tribes make pictures long before they acquire an alphabet; so do all children make pictures before they learn to read. The evolution of the child mirrors the evolution of the race. Camille made pictures just as all boys do, and his mother encouraged him in this, and supplied him copies. When he was set to work in the drygoods-store he made sketches under the counter and often ornamented bundles with needless hieroglyphics. But these things did not necessarily mean that he was to be a great artist--thousands of drygoods-clerks have sketched and been drygoods- clerks to the end of their days. But good drygoods-clerks should not sketch too much or too well, else they will not rise in their career and some day have charge of a Department. Camille Corot did not get along at haberdashery--his heart was not in it. He was not quite so bad as a certain budding, artistic genius I once knew, who clerked in a grocery-store, and when a woman came in and ordered a dozen eggs and a half-bushel of potatoes, the genius counted out a dozen potatoes, and sent the customer a half- bushel of eggs. Then there was that absent-minded young drug-clerk who, when a stranger entered and inquired for the proprietor, answered, "He's out just at present, but we have something that is just as good." Corot hadn't the ability to make folks think they needed something they did not want--they only got what they wanted, after much careful diplomacy and insistence. These things were a great cross to Corot pere, and the dulness of the boy made the good father grow old before his time--so the father alleged. Were the woes of parents written in books, the world would not be big enough to contain the books. Camille Corot was a failure--he was big, fat, lazy, and tantalizingly good-natured. He haunted the Louvre, and stood open- mouthed before the pictures of Claude Lorraine until the attendants requested him to move on. His mother knew something of art, and they used to discuss all the new pictures together. The father protested: he declared that the mother was encouraging the boy in his vacillation and dreaminess. Camille lost his position. His father got him another place, and after a month they laid him off for two weeks, and then sent him a note not to come back. He hung around home, played the violin, and sang for his mother's sewing-girls while they worked. The girls all loved him--if the mother went out and left him in charge of the shop, he gave all hands a play-spell until it was time for Madame to return. His good nature was invincible. He laughed at the bonnets in the windows, slyly sketched the customers who came to try on the frivolities, and even made irrelevant remarks to his mother about the petite fortune she was deriving from catering to dead-serious nabobs who discussed flounces, bows, stays, and beribboned gewgaws as though they were Eternal Verities. "Mamma is a sculptor who improves upon Nature," one day Camille said to the girls." If a woman hasn't a good form Madame Corot can supply her such amorous proportions that lovers will straightway fall at her feet." But such jocular remarks were never made to the father-- in his presence Camille was subdued and suspiciously respectful. The father had "disciplined" him--but had done nothing else. Camille had a companion in Achille Michallon, son of the sculptor, Claude Michallon. Young Michallon modeled in clay and painted fairly well, and it was he who, no doubt, fired the mind of young Corot to follow an artistic career, to which Corot the elder was very much opposed. So matters drifted and Camille Corot, aged twenty-six, was a flat failure, just as he had been for ten years. He hadn't self-reliance enough to push out for himself, nor enough will to swing his parents into his way of thinking. He was as submissive as a child; and would not and could not do anything until he had gotten permission--thus much for discipline. Finally, in desperation, his father said: "Camille, you are of an age when you should be at the head of a business; but since you refuse to avail yourself of your opportunities and become a merchant, why, then, I'll settle upon you the sum of three hundred dollars a year for life and you can follow your own inclinations. But depend upon it, you shall have no more than I have named. I am done--now go and do what you want." The words are authentic, being taken down from Corot's own lips; and they sound singularly like that remark made to Alfred Tennyson by his grandfather, "Here is a guinea for your poem, and depend upon it, this is the first and last money you will ever receive for poetry." Camille was so delighted to hear his father's decision that he burst into tears and embraced the austere and stern-faced parent in the white cravat. Straightway he would begin his artistic career, and having so announced his intention to the sewing-girls in an impromptu operatic aria, he took easel and paints and went down on the towpath to paint his first outdoor picture. Soon the girls came trooping after, in order to see Monsieur Camille at his work. One girl, Mademoiselle Rose, stayed longer than the rest. Corot told of the incident in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight--a lapse of thirty years--and added: "I have not married--Mademoiselle Rose has not married--she is alive yet, and only last week was here to see me. Ah! what changes have taken place--I have that first picture I painted yet--it is the same picture and still shows the hour and the season, but Mademoiselle Rose and I, where are we?" Turner and Corot trace back to the same artistic ancestor. It was Claude who first fired the heart of the barber's boy, and it was Claude who diluted the zeal of Camille Corot for ribbons and haberdashery. Turner stipulated in his will that a certain picture of his should hang on the walls of the National Gallery by the side of a "Claude Lorraine"; and today in the Louvre you can see, side by side, a "Corot" and a "Claude." These men are strangely akin; yet, so far as I know, Corot never heard of Turner. However, he was powerfully influenced by Constable, the English painter, who was of the same age as Turner, and for a time, his one bitter rival. Claude had been dead a hundred years before Constable, Turner or Corot was born. But time is an illusion; all souls are of one age, and in spirit these men were contemporaries and brothers. Claude, Corot and Turner never married--they were wedded to art. Constable ripened fast; he got his reward of golden guineas, and society caught him in its silken mesh. Success came faster than he was able to endure it, and he fell a victim to fatty degeneration of the cerebrum, and died of an acute attack of self-complacency. It was about the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty-two that Constable gave an exhibition of his work in Paris--a somewhat daring thing for an Englishman to do. Paris had then, and has yet, about the same estimate of English art that the English have now of ours--although it is quite in order to explain in parentheses that three Americans, Whistler, Sargent and Abbey, have recently called a halt on English ribaldry as applied to American artists. But John Constable's exhibit in Paris met with favor--the work was singularly like the work of Claude Lorraine, the critics said. And it was, for Constable had copied Claude conscientiously. Corot saw the Englishman's pictures, realized that they were just such pictures as he would like to paint, and so fell down and worshiped them. For a year he dropped Claude and painted just like Constable. There was a time when Turner and Constable painted just alike, for they had the same master; but there came a day when Turner shoved out from shore, and no man since has been able to follow him. And no one can copy Corot. The work that he did after he attained freedom and swung away from Claude and Constable has an illusive, intangible, subtle and spiritual quality that no imitator can ever catch on his canvas. Corot could not even copy his own pictures--his work is born of the spirit. His effects are something beyond skill of hand, something beyond mere knowledge of technique. You can copy a Claude and you can copy a Constable, for the pictures have well- defined outline and the forms are tangible. Claude was the first painter who showed the shimmering sunlight on the leaves, the upturned foliage of the silver poplar, the yellow willows bending beneath the breeze, the sweep of the clouds across the sky, the play of the waves across the seashore, the glistening dewdrops on the grass, the soft stealing mists of twilight. Constable did all this, too, and he did it as well as Claude, but no better. He never got beyond the stage of microscopic portrayal; if he painted a dewdrop he painted it, and his blades of grass, swaying lily-stems, and spider-webs are the genuine articles. Corot painted in this minute way for many years, but gradually he evolved a daring quality and gave us the effect of dewdrops, the spider-threads, the foliage, the tall lilies, without painting them at all--he gives you the feeling, that is all, stirs the imagination until the beholder, if his heart be in tune, sees things that only the spiritual eye beholds. The pale, silvery tones of Corot, the shadowy boundaries that separate the visible from the invisible, can never be imitated without the Master's penetration into the heart of Nature. He knew things he could never explain, and he held secrets he could not impart. Before his pictures we can only stand silent--he disarms criticism and strikes the quibbler dumb. Before a Corot you had better give way, and let its beauty caress your soul. His colors are thin and very simple--there is no challenge in his work, as there is in the work of Turner. Greens and grays predominate, and the plain drab tones are blithe, airy, gracious, graceful and piquant as a beautiful young Quaker woman clothed in the garb of simplicity and humility--but a woman still. Corot coquettes with color--with pale lilac, silver gray, and diaphanous green. He poetizes everything he touches--quiet ponds, clumps of bushes, whitewashed cottages, simple swards, yellow cows, blowsy peasants, woodland openings, stretching meadows and winding streams--they are all full of divine suggestion and joyous expectancy. Something is just going to happen--somebody is coming, some one we love--you can almost detect a faint perfume, long remembered, never to be forgotten. A Corot is a tryst with all that you most admire and love best--it speaks of youth, joyous, hopeful, expectant youth. The flavor is Grecian, and if the Greeks had left us any paintings they would all have been just like Corot's. The bubbling, boyish good-cheer that Corot possessed is well shown in a letter he once wrote to Stevens Graham. This letter was written, without doubt, in that fine intoxication which comes after work well done; and no greater joy ever comes to a mortal in life than this. George Moore tells somewhere of catching Corot in one of these moods of rapture: the Master was standing alone on a log in the woods, like a dancing faun, leading an imaginary orchestra with silent but tremendous gusto. At other times, when Corot captured certain effects in a picture, he would rush across the fields to where there was a peasant plowing, and seizing the astonished man, would lead him over and stand him before the canvas crying: "Look at that! Ah, now, look at that! What did I tell you! You thought I never could catch it--Oho, aha, ohe, tralala, la, la, la, loo!" This willingness to let the unrestrained spirit romp was strong in Corot--and it is to be recommended. How much finer it is to go out into the woods and lift up your voice in song, and be a child, than to fight inclination and waste good God-given energy endeavoring to be proper--whatever that may be! Corot never wrote anything finer than that letter to his friend Graham, and, like all really good things, it was written with no weather-eye on futurity. The thought that it might be published never came to him, for if it had, he would probably have produced something not worth publishing. It was scribbled off with a pencil, hot from the heart, out of doors, immediately after having done a particularly choice bit of work. Every one who writes of Corot quotes this letter, and there are various translations of it. It can not be translated literally, because the language in which it was written is effervescent, flashing, in motion like a cascade. It defies all grammar, forgets rhetoric, and simply makes you feel. I have just as good a right to translate this letter as anybody, and while I will add nothing that the spirit of the text does not justify, I will omit a few things, and follow my own taste in the matter of paragraphing. So here is the letter: A landscapist's day is divine. You are jealous of the moments, and so are up at three o'clock--long before the sun sets you the example. You go out into the silence and sit under a tree, and watch and watch and wait and wait. It is very dark--the nightingales have gone to bed, all the mysterious noises of night's forenoon have ceased--the crickets are asleep, the tree-toad has found a nest--even the stars have slunk away. You wait. There is scarcely anything to be seen at first--only dark, spectral shapes that stand out against the blue-black of the sky. Nature is behind a veil, upon which some masses of form are vaguely sketched. The damp, sweet smell of the incense of Spring is in the air--you breathe deeply--a sense of religious emotion sweeps over you--you close your eyes an instant in a prayer of thankfulness that you are alive. You do not keep your eyes closed long, though--something is about to happen--you grow expectant, you wait, you listen, you hold your breath--everything trembles with a delight that is half-pain, under the invigorating caress of the coming day. You breathe fast, and then you hold your breath and listen. You wait. You peer. You listen. Bing! A ray of pale yellow light shoots from horizon to zenith. The dawn does not come all at once: it steals upon you by leaps and subtle strides like deploying pickets. Bing! Another ray, and the first one is suffusing itself across an arc of the purple sky. Bing, Bing! The east is all aglow. The little flowers at your feet are waking in joyful mood. The chirrup of birds is heard. How they do sing! When did they begin? You forgot them in watching the rays of light. The flowers are each one drinking its drop of quivering dew. The leaves feel the cool breath of the morning, and are moving to and fro in the invigorating air. The flowers are saying their morning prayers, accompanied by the matin-song of the birds. Amoretti, with gauzy wings, are perching on the tall blades of grass that spring from the meadows, and the tall stems of the poppies and field-lilies are swaying, swaying, swaying a minuet motion fanned by the kiss of the gentle breeze. Oh, how beautiful it all is! How good God is to send it! How beautiful! how beautiful! But merciful easel! I am forgetting to paint--this exhibition is for me, and I'm failing to improve it. My palette--the brushes--there! there! We can see nothing--but you feel the landscape is there--quick now, a cottage away over yonder is pushing out of the white mist. To thine easel--go! Oh! it's all there behind the translucent gauze--I know it--I know it--I know it! Now the white mist lifts like a curtain--it rises and rises and rises. Bam! the sun is risen. I see the river, like a stretch of silver ribbon; it weaves in and out and stretches away, away, away. The masses of the trees, of the meads, the meadows--the poplars, the leaning willows, are all revealed by the mist that is reeling and rolling up the hillside. I paint and I paint and I paint, and I sing and I sing and I paint! We can see now all we guessed before. Bam, Bam! The sun is just above the horizon--a great golden ball held in place by spider-threads. I can see the lace made by the spiders--it sparkles with the drops of dew. I paint and I paint and I sing and I paint. Oh, would I were Joshua--I would command the sun to stand still. And if it should, I would be sorry, for nothing ever did stand still, except a bad picture. A good picture is full of motion. Clouds that stand still are not clouds--motion, activity, life, yes, life is what we want--life! Bam! A peasant comes out of the cottage and is coming to the meadow. Ding, ding, ding! There comes a flock of sheep led by a bellwether. Wait there a minute, please, sheepy-sheepy, and a great man will paint you. All right then, don't wait. I didn't want to paint you anyway Bam! All things break into glistening--ten thousand diamonds strew the grasses, the lilies and the tall stalks of swaying poppies. Diamonds on the cobwebs--diamonds everywhere. Glistening, dancing, glittering light--floods of light--pale, wistful, loving light: caressing, blushing, touching, beseeching, grateful light. Oh, adorable light! The light of morning that comes to show you things-- and I paint and I paint and I paint. Oh, the beautiful red cow that plunges into the wet grass up to her dewlaps! I will paint her. There she is--there! Here is Simon, my peasant friend, looking over my shoulder. "Oho, Simon, what do you think of that?" "Very fine," says Simon, "very fine!" "You see what it is meant for, Simon?" "Me? Yes, I should say I do--it is a big red rock." "No, no, Simon, that is a cow." "Well, how should I know unless you tell me," answers Simon. I paint and I paint and I paint. Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear above the treetops. It is growing hot. The flowers droop. The birds are silent. We can see too much now--there is nothing in it. Art is a matter of soul. Things you see and know all about are not worth painting--only the intangible is splendid. Let's go home. We will dine, and sleep, and dream. That's it--I'll dream of the morning that would not tarry--I'll dream my picture out, and then I'll get up and smoke, and complete it, possibly--who knows! Let's go home. * * * * * Bam! Bam! It is evening now--the sun is setting. I didn't know the close of the day could be so beautiful--I thought the morning was the time. But it is not just right--the sun is setting in an explosion of yellow, of orange, of rouge-feu, of cherry, of purple. Ah! it is pretentious, vulgar. Nature wants me to admire her--I will not. I'll wait--the sylphs of the evening will soon come and sprinkle the thirsty flowers with their vapors of dew. I like sylphs--I'll wait. Boom! The sun sinks out of sight, and leaves behind a tinge of purple, of modest gray touched with topaz--ah! that is better. I paint and I paint and I paint. Oh, Good Lord, how beautiful it is--how beautiful! The sun has disappeared and left behind a soft, luminous, gauzy tint of lemon-- lemons half-ripe. The light melts and blends into the blue of the night. How beautiful! I must catch that--even now it fades--but I have it: tones of deepening green, pallid turquoise, infinitely fine, delicate, fluid and ethereal. Night draws on. The dark waters reflect the mysteries of the sky-- the landscape fades, vanishes, disappears--we can not see it now, we only feel it is there. But that is enough for one day--Nature is going to sleep, and so will we, soon. Let us just sit silent a space and enjoy the stillness. The rising breezes are sighing through the foliage, and the birds, choristers of the flowers, are singing their vesper-songs--calling, some of them, plaintively for their lost mates. Bing! A star pricks its portrait in the pond. All around now is darkness and gloom--the crickets have taken up the song where the birds left off. The little lake is sparkling, a regular ant-heap of twinkling stars. Reflected things are best--the waters are only to reflect the sky-- Nature's looking-glass. The sun has gone to rest; the day is done. But the Sun of Art has arisen, and my picture is complete. Let us go home. The Barbizon School--which, by the way, was never a school, and if it exists now is not at Barbizon--was made up of five men: Corot, Millet, Rousseau, Diaz and Daubigny. Corot saw it first--this straggling little village of Barbizon, nestling there at the foot of the Forest of Fontainebleau, thirty- five miles southeast of Paris. This was about the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty. There was no market then for Corot's wares, and the artist would have doubted the sanity of any one who might have wanted to buy. His income was one dollar a day--and this was enough. If he wanted to go anywhere, he walked; and so he walked into Barbizon one day, his pack on his back, and found there a little inn, so quaint and simple that he stayed two days. The landlord quite liked the big, jolly stranger. Hanging upon his painting outfit was a mandolin, a harmonica, a guitar and two or three other small musical instruments of nondescript pedigree. The painter made music for the village, and on invitation painted a sketch on the tavern-wall to pay for his board. And this sketch is there even to this day, and is as plain to be seen as the splash of ink on the wall at Eisenach where Martin Luther threw the ink-bottle at the devil. When Corot went back to Paris he showed sketches of Barbizon and told of the little snuggery, where life was so simple and cheap. Soon Rousseau and Diaz went down to Barbizon for a week's stay-- later came Daubigny. In the course of a few years Barbizon grew to be a kind of excursion point for artistic and ragged Bohemians, most of whom have done their work, and their little life is now rounded with a sleep. Rousseau, Diaz and Daubigny, all younger men than Corot, made comfortable fortunes long before Corot got the speaker's eye; and when at last recognition came to him, not the least of their claim to greatness was that they had worked with him. It was not until Eighteen Hundred Forty-nine that Jean Francois Millet with his goodly brood was let down from the stage at Barbizon, to work there for twenty-six years, and give himself and the place immortality. For when we talk of the Barbizon School, we have the low tones of "The Fagot-Gatherer" in mind--the browns, the russets and the deep, dark yellows fading off into the gloom of dying day. And only a few miles away, clinging to the hillside, is By, where lived Rosa Bonheur--too busy to care for Barbizon, or if she thought of the "Barbizon School" it was with a fine contempt, which the "School" returned with usurious interest. At the Barbizon Inn the Bohemians used to sing songs about the Bonheur breeches, and "the Lady who keeps a Zoo." The offense of Rosa Bonheur was that she minded her own business, and sold the "Horse Fair" for more money than the entire Barbizon School had ever earned in its lifetime. Only two names loom large out of Barbizon. Daubigny, Diaz and Rousseau are great painters, and they each have disciples and imitators who paint as well as they; but Corot and Millet stand out separate and alone, incomprehensible and unrivaled. And yet were ever two artists more unlike! Just compare "The Dancing Sylphs" and "The Gleaners." The theme of all Millet's work is, "Man goeth forth to his labors unto the evening." Toil, hardship, heroic endurance, plodding monotony, burdens grievous to be borne--these things cover the canvases of Millet. All of his deep sincerity, his abiding melancholy, his rugged nobility are there; for every man who works in freedom simply reproduces himself. That is what true work is--self-expression, self-revelation. The style of Millet is so strongly marked, so deeply etched, that no man dare imitate it. It is covered by a perpetual copyright, signed and sealed with the life's blood of the artist. Then comes Corot the joyous, Corot the careless, Corot who had no troubles, no sorrows, no grievances, and not an enemy that he recognized as such. He even loved Rosa Bonheur, or would, he once said, "If she would only chain up her dog, and wear woman's clothes!" Corot, singing at his work, unless he was smoking, and if he was smoking, removing his pipe only to lift up his voice in song: Corot, painting and singing--"Ah ha--tra la la. Now I 'll paint a little boy--oho, oho, tra lala la loo--lal loo-- oho--what a nice little boy--and here comes a cow; hold that, bossy --in you go for art's dear sake--tra la la la, la loo!" Look at a Corot closely and listen, and you can always hear the echo of the pipes o' Pan. Lovers sit on the grassy banks, children roll among the leaves, sylphs dance in every open, and out from between the branches lightly steps Orpheus, harp in hand, to greet the morn. Never is there a shadow of care in a Corot--all is mellow with love, ripe with the rich gift of life, full of prayer and praise just for the rapture of drinking in the day--grateful for calm, sweet rest and eventide. Corot, eighteen years the senior of Millet, was the first to welcome the whipped-out artist to Barbizon. With him Corot divided his scanty store; he sang and played his guitar at the Millet hearthstone when he had nothing but himself to give; and when, in Eighteen Hundred Seventy-five, Millet felt the chill night of death settling down upon him, and the fear that want would come to his loved ones haunted his dreams, Corot assured him by settling upon the family the sum of one thousand francs a year, until the youngest child should become of age, and during Madame Millet's life. So died Jean Francois Millet. In Eighteen Hundred Eighty-nine "The Angelus" was bought by an American Syndicate for five hundred eighty thousand francs. In Eighteen Hundred Ninety it was bought back by agents of the French Government for seven hundred fifty thousand francs, and now has found a final resting-place in the Louvre. Within a few months after the death of Millet, Corot, too, passed away. Corot is a remarkable example of a soul ripening slowly. His skill was not at its highest until he was seventy-one years of age. He then had eight years of life and work left, and he continued even to the end. In his art there was no decline. It can not be said that he received due recognition until he was approaching his seventy-fifth year, for it was then, for the first time, that the world of buyers besieged his door. The few who had bought before were usually friends who had purchased with the amiable idea of helping a worthy man. During the last few years of Corot's life, his income was over fifty thousand francs a year--"more than I received for pictures during my whole career," he once said. And then he shed tears at parting with the treasures that had been for so long his close companions. "You see, I am a collector," he used to say, "but being poor, I have to paint all my pictures myself--they are not for sale." And probably he would have kept his collection unbroken were it not that he wanted the money so much to give away. Of the painters classed in the Barbizon School, it is probable that Corot will live longest, and will continue to occupy the highest position. His art is more individual than Rousseau's, more poetic than that of Daubigny, and in every sense more beautiful than that of Millet. When Camille Corot passed out, on the Twenty-second of February, Eighteen Hundred Seventy-five, he was the best-loved man in Paris. Five thousand art-students wore crape on their arms for a year in memory of "Papa Corot," a man who did his work joyously, lived long, and to the end carried in his heart the perfume of the morning, and the beneficent beauty of the sunrise. CORREGGIO What genius disclosed all these wonders to thee? All the fair images in the world seem to have sprung forward to meet thee, and to throw themselves lovingly into thy arms. How joyous was the gathering when smiling angels held thy palette, and sublime spirits stood before thy inward vision in all their splendor as models! Let no one think he has seen Italy, let no one think he has learnt the lofty secrets of art, until he has seen thee and thy Cathedral at Parma, O Correggio! --_Ludwig Tieck_ [Illustration: Correggio] There is no moment that comes to mortals so charged with peace and precious joy as the moment of reconciliation. If the angels ever attend us, they are surely present then. The ineffable joy of forgiving and being forgiven forms an ecstacy that well might arouse the envy of the gods. How well the theologians have understood this! Very often, no doubt, their psychology has been more experimental than scientific--but it is effective. They plunge the candidate into a gloom of horror, guilt and despair; and then when he is thoroughly prostrated--submerged--they lift him out and up into the light, and the thought of reconciliation possesses him. He has made peace with his Maker! That is to say, he has made peace with himself--peace with his fellowmen. He is intent on reparation; he wishes to forgive every one. He sings, he dances, he leaps into the air, clasps his hands in joy, embraces those nearest him, and calls aloud, "Glory to God! Glory to God!" It is the moment of reconciliation. Yet there is a finer temperament than that of the "new convert," and his moment of joy is one of silence--sacred silence. In the Parma Gallery is the painting entitled, "The Day," the masterpiece of Correggio. The picture shows the Madonna, Saint Jerome, Saint John and the Christ-child. A second woman is shown in the picture. This woman is usually referred to as Magdalene, and to me she is the most important figure in it. She may lack a little of the ethereal beauty of the Madonna, but the humanness of the pose, the tenderness and subtle joy of it, shows you that she is a woman indeed, a woman the artist loved--he wanted to paint her picture, and Saint Jerome, the Madonna and the Christ-child are only excuses. John Ruskin, good and great, but with prejudices that matched his genius, declared this picture "immoral in its suggestiveness." It is so splendidly, superbly human that he could not appreciate it. Yet this figure of which he complains is draped from neck to ankle--the bare feet are shown--but the attitude is sweetly, tenderly modest. The woman, half-reclining, leans her face over and allows her cheek, very gently, to press against that of the Christ-child. Absolute relaxation is shown, perfect trust--no tension, no anxiety, no passion--only a stillness and rest, a gratitude and subdued peace that are beyond speech. The woman is so happy that she can not speak, so full of joy that she dare not express it, and a barely perceptible tear-stain upon her cheek suggests that this peace has not always been. She has found her Savior--she is His and He is hers. It is the moment of reconciliation. The Renaissance came as a great burst of divine light, after a thousand years of lurid night. The iron heel of Imperial Rome had ground individuality into the mire. Unceasing war, endless bloodshed, slavery without limit, and rampant bestiality had stalked back and forth across Europe. Insanity, uncertainty, drudgery and crouching want were the portion of the many. In such a soil neither art, literature nor religion can prosper. But now the Church had turned her face against disorder, and was offering her rewards for excellence and beauty. Gradually there came a feeling of safety--something approaching security. Throughout Italy, beautiful, stately churches were being built; in all the little principalities, palaces were erected; architecture became a science. The churches and palaces were decorated with pictures, statues filled the niches, memorials to great ones gone were erected in the public squares. It was a time of reconciliation--peace was more popular than war--and where men did go to war, they always apologized for it by explaining that they fought simply to obtain peace. Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo and Botticelli were doing their splendid work--work palpitating with the joy of life, and yet upon it was the tinge of sorrow, the scars of battles fought, the tear- stains that told of troubles gone. Yet the general atmosphere was one of blitheness, joyous life and gratitude for existence. Men seemed to have gotten rid of a great burden; they stood erect, they breathed deeply, and looking around them, were surprised to perceive that life was really beautiful, and God was good. In such an attitude of mind they reached out friendly hands toward each other. Poets sang; musicians played; painters painted, and sculptors carved. Universities sprang into being--schools were everywhere. The gloom was dispelled even from the monasteries. The monks ate three meals a day--sometimes four or five. They went a- visiting. Wine flowed, and music was heard where music was never heard before. Instead of the solemn processional, there were Barnabee steps seen on stone floors--steps that looked like ecclesiastical fandango. The rope girdles were let out a trifle, flagellations ceased, vigils relaxed, and in many instances the coarse horsehair garments were replaced with soft, flowing robes, tied with red, blue or yellow sashes of silk and satin. The earth was beautiful, men were kind, women were gracious, God was good, and His children should be happy--these were the things preached from many pulpits. Paganism had got grafted on to Christianity, and the only branches that were bearing fruit were the pagan branches. The old spirit of Greece had come back, romping, laughing in the glorious Italian sunshine. Everything had an Attic flavor. The sky was never so blue, the yellow moonlight never before cast such soft, mysterious shadows, the air was full of perfume, and you had but to stop and listen any time and anywhere to hear the pipes o' Pan. When Time turned the corner into the Sixteenth Century, the tide of the Renaissance was at its full. The mortification of the monasteries, as we have seen, had given place to a spirit of feasting--good things were for use. The thought was contagious, and although the Paulian idea of women keeping silence in all due subjection has ever been a favorite one with masculine man, yet the fact is that in the matter of manners and morals men and women are never far apart--there is a constant transference of thought, feeling and action. I do not know why this is. I merely know that it is so. Some have counted sex a mistake on the part of God; but the safer view is for us to conclude that whatever is, is good; some things are better than others, but all are good. That is what they thought during the Renaissance. So convent life lost its austerity, and as the Council of Trent had not yet issued its stern orders commanding asceticism, prayers were occasionally offered accompanied by syncopated music. The blooming daughters of great houses were consigned to convents on slight excuse. "To a nunnery go, and quickly, too," was an order often given and followed with alacrity. Married women, worn with many cares, often went into "retreat"; girls tired of society's whirl; those wrung with hopeless passion; unmanageable wives; all who had fed on the husks of satiety; those who had incurred the displeasure of parents or kinsmen, or were deserted, forlorn and undone, all these found rest in the convents--provided they had the money to pay. Those without money or influential friends simply labored as servants and scullions. Rich women contracted the "Convent Habit"; this was about the same thing as our present dalliance known as the "Sanitarium Bacillus"--which only those with a goodly bank-balance can afford to indulge. The poor, then as now, had a sufficient panacea for trouble: they kept their nerves beneath their clothes by work; they had to grin and bear it--at least they had to bear it. In almost every town that lined the great Emilian Highway, that splendid road laid out by the Consul Marcus Emilius, 83 B. C., from Rimini and Piacenza, there were convents of high and low degree-- some fashionable, some plain, and some veritable palaces, rich in art and full of all that makes for luxury. These convents were at once a prison, a hospital, a sanitarium, a workshop, a school and a religious retreat. The day was divided up into periods for devotion, work and recreation, and the discipline was on a sliding scale matching the mood of the Abbess in charge, all modified by the prevailing spirit of the inmates. But the thought that life was good was rife, and this thought got over every convent-wall, stole through the garden-walks, crept softly in at every grated window, and filled each suppliant's cell with its sweet, amorous presence. Yes, life is good, God is good! He wants His children to be happy! The white clouds chase each other across the blue dome of heaven, the birds in the azaleas and in the orange-trees twitter, build nests and play hide-and-seek the livelong day. The balmy air is flavored with health, healing and good-cheer. Life in a convent had many advantages and benefits. Women were taught to sew and work miracles with the needle; they made lace, illumined missals, wove tapestries, tended the flowers, read from books, listened to lectures, and spent certain hours in silence and meditation. To a great degree the convents were founded on science and a just knowledge of human needs. There were "orders" and degrees that fitted every temperament and condition. But the humble garb of a nun never yet changed the woman's heart that beats beneath--she is a woman still. Every night could be heard the tinkle of guitars beneath bedroom- windows, notes were passed up on forked sticks, and missives freshly kissed by warm lips were dropped down through lattices; secret messengers came with letters, and now and again rope ladders were in demand; while not far away, there were always priests who did a thriving business in the specialty of Gretna Green. Every sanitarium, every great hotel, every public institution--every family, I was going to say--has two lives: the placid moving life that the public knows, and the throbbing, pulsing life of plot and counterplot--the life that goes on beneath the surface. It is the same with the human body--how bright and calm the eye, how smooth and soft the skin, how warm and beautiful this rose-mesh of flesh! But beneath there is a seething struggle between the forces of life and the disintegration--and eventually nothing succeeds but failure. Every convent was a hotbed of gossip, jealousy, hate and seething strife; and now and again there came a miniature explosion that the outside world heard and translated with emendations to suit. Rivalry was rife, competition lined the corridors, and discontent sat glum or rustled uneasily in each stone cell. Some of the inmates brought pictures, busts and ornaments to embellish their rooms. Friends from the outside world sent presents; the cavalier who played the guitar beneath the window varied his entertainment by gifts; flowers filled the beautiful vases, and these blossoms were replaced ere they withered, so as to show that true love never dies. Monks from neighboring monasteries preached sermons or gave lectures; skilled musicians came, and sang or played the organ; noblemen visited the place to examine the works of art, or to see fair maids on business, or consult the Abbess on matters spiritual. Often these visitors were pressed to remain, and then receptions were held and modest fetes given and banquets tendered. At intervals there were fairs, when the products made by the marriage of the hand and brain of the fair workers were exhibited and sold. So life, though in a convent, was life, and even death and disintegration are forms of life--and all life is good. The Donna Giovanni Piacenza was appointed Abbess of San Paola Convent, Parma, in Fifteen Hundred Seven. The Abbess was the daughter of the nobleman Marco. Donna Giovanni was a woman of marked mental ability; she had a genius for management; a wise sense of diplomacy; and withal was an artist by nature and instinct. The Convent of San Paola was one of the richest and most popular in the Emilia. The man to whose influence the Abbess owed most in securing her the appointment was the Cavaliere Scipione, a lawyer and man of affairs, married to the sister of the Abbess. As a token of esteem and by way of sisterly reciprocity, the Abbess soon after her appointment called the Cavaliere Scipione to the position of Legal Adviser and Custodian of the Convent Funds. Before this the business of the institution had been looked after by the Garimberti family; and the Garimberti now refusing to relinquish their office, Scipione took affairs into his own hands and ran the chief offender through with his sword. Scipione found refuge in the Convent, and the officers of the law hammered on the gates for admission, and hammered in vain. Parma was split into two factions--those who favored the Abbess Giovanni and those who opposed her. Once at midnight the gates were broken down and the place searched, for hiding cavaliers, by the Governor of the city and his cohorts, to the great consternation of the nuns. But time is the great healer, and hate left alone is shortlived, and dies a natural death. The Abbess was wise in her management, and with the advice and assistance of Scipione, the place prospered. Visitors came, delegations passed that way, great prelates gave their blessing, and the citizens of Parma became proud of the Convent of San Paola. Some of the nuns were rich in their own right, and some of these had their rooms frescoed by local artists to suit their fancies. Strictly religious pictures were not much in vogue with the inmates --they got their religion at the chapel. Mythology and the things that symbolized life and love were the fashion. On one door was a flaming heart pierced by an arrow, and beneath in Italian was the motto, "Love while you may." Other mottoes about the place were, "Eat, drink and be merry"; "Laugh and be glad." These mottoes revealed the prevailing spirit. Some of the staid citizens of Parma sent petitions to Pope Julius demanding that the decree of strict cloistration be enforced against the nuns. But Julius sort of reveled in life himself, and the art spirit shown by the Abbess was quite to his liking. Later, Leo the Tenth was importuned to curb the festive spirit of the place, but he shelved the matter by sending along a fatherly letter of advice and counsel. About this time we find the Abbess and her Legal Adviser planning a scheme of decoration that should win the admiration or envy--or both--of every art-lover in the Emilia. The young man, Antonio Allegri, from Correggio should do the work. They had met him at the house of Veronica Gambara, and they knew that any one Veronica recommended must be worthy of confidence. Veronica said the youth had sublime talent--it must be so. His name, Allegri, meant joy, and his work was charged with all his name implied. He was sent for, and he came--walking the forty miles from Correggio to Parma with his painter's kit on his back. He was short of stature, smooth-faced and looked like a good-natured country bumpkin in his peasant garb, all decorated with dust. He was modest, half-shy, and the nuns who peered at him from behind the arras as he walked down the hallway of the Convent caused his countenance to run the chromatic scale. He was sorry he came, and if he could have gotten away without disgrace he surely would have started straight back for Correggio. He had never been so far away from home before, and although he did not know it he was never to get farther away in his life. Venice and Titian were to the east a hundred miles; Milan and Leonardo were to the north about the same distance; Florence and Michelangelo were south ninety miles; Rome and Raphael were one hundred sixty miles beyond; and he was never to see any of these. But the boy shed no tears over that; it is quite possible that he never heard of any of these names just mentioned, save that of Leonardo. None loomed large as they do now--there were painters everywhere, just as Boston Common is full of poets. Veronica Gambara had told him of Leonardo-- we know that--and described in glowing words and with an enthusiasm that was contagious how the chief marks of Leonardo's wonderful style lay in the way he painted hands, hair and eyes. The Leonardo hands were delicate, long of finger, expressive and full of life; the hair was wavy, fluffy, sun-glossed, and it seemed as if you could stroke it, and it would give off magnetic sparks; but Leonardo's best feature was the eye--the large, full-orbed eye that looked down so that you really never saw the eye, only the lid, and the long lashes upon which a tear might glisten. Antonio listened to Veronica with open mouth, drinking it all in, and then he sighed and said, "I am a painter, too." He set to work, fired with the thought of doing what Leonardo had done--hands, hair and eyes--beautiful hands, beautiful hair, beautiful eyes! Then these things he worked upon, only he never placed the glistening tear upon the long lash, because there were no tears upon his own lashes. He had never known sorrow, trouble, disappointment or defeat. The specialty of Allegri was "putti"--tumbling, tumultuous, tricksy putti. These cherubs symboled the joy of life, and when Allegri wished to sign his name, he drew a cherub. He had come up out of a family that had little and expected nothing. Then he needed so little--his wants were few. If he went away from home on little journeys, he stopped with peasants along the way and made merry with the children and outlined a chubby cherub on the cottage-wall, to the delight of everybody; and in the morning was sent on his way with blessings, Godspeeds, and urgent invitations to come again. Smiles and good-cheer, a little music and the ability to do things, when accompanied by a becoming modesty, are current coin the round world over. Tired earth is quite willing to pay for being amused. The Abbess Giovanni showed Antonio about the Convent, and he saw what had already been done. He was appreciative, but talked little. The Abbess liked the youth. He suggested possibilities--he might really become the great painter that the enthusiastic Veronica prophesied he would some day be. The Abbess gave up one of her own rooms for his accommodation, brought him water for a bath, and at supper sat him at the table at her own right hand. "And about the frescos?" asked the Abbess. "Yes, the frescos--your room shall be done first. I will begin the work in the morning," replied Antonio. The confidence of the youth made the Abbess smile. Many of our finest flowers are merely transplanted weeds. Transplantation often works wonders in men. When Fate lifted Antonio Allegri out of the little village of Correggio and set him down in the city of Parma, a great change came over him. The wealth, beauty and freer atmosphere of the place caused the tendrils of his imagination to reach out into a richer soil, and the result was such blossoms of beauty, so gorgeous in form and color, that men have not yet ceased to marvel. The Convent of San Paola is a sacred shrine for art-lovers--they come from the round world over, just to see the ceiling in that one room--the room of the Abbess Giovanni, where Antonio Allegri, the young man from Correggio, first placed his scaffolds in Parma. The village of Correggio is quite off the beaten track of travel. You will have to look five times on the map before you can find it. It is now only a village, and in the year Fourteen Hundred Ninety- four, when Antonio Allegri was born and Cristoforo Colombo, the Genoese, was discovering continents, it was little better than a hamlet. It had a church, a convent, a palace where dwelt the Corregghesi--the Lords of Correggio--and stretching around the square, where stood the church, were long, low, stone cottages, whitewashed, with trellises of climbing flowers. Back of these cottages were little gardens where the peas, lentils, leeks and parsley laughed a harvest. There were flowers, flowers everywhere-- none was too poor to have flowers. Flowers are a strictly sex product and symbol the joy of life; and where there are no flowers, there is little love. Lovers give flowers--and they are enough--and if you do not love flowers, they will refuse to blossom for you. "If I had but two loaves of bread, I'd sell one of them and buy white hyacinths to feed my soul"--that was said by a man who loved this world, no less than the next. Do not defame this world--she is the mother that feeds you, and she supplies you not only bread, but white hyacinths to feed your soul. On market-day in every Italian town four hundred years ago, just as now, the country women brought big baskets of vegetables and also baskets of flowers. And you will see in those markets, if you observe, that the people who buy vegetables usually buy sprays of mignonette, bunches of violets, roses upon which the dew yet sparkles, or white hyacinths. Loaves alone are not quite enough--we want also the bread of life, and the bread of life is love, and didn't I say that flowers symbol love? And I have noted this, in those old markets: often the pile of flowers that repose by the basket of fruit or vegetables is to give away to the customers as tokens of good-will. I remember visiting the market at Parma one day and buying some cherries, and the old woman who took my money picked up a little spray of hyacinth and pinned it to my coat, quite as a matter of course. The next day I went back and bought figs, and got a big moss-rose as a premium. The peculiar brand of Italian that I spoke was unintelligible to the old woman, and I am very sure that I could not understand her, yet the white hyacinths and the moss-rose made all plain. That was five years ago, but if I should go back to Parma tomorrow, I would go straight to the Market-Place, and I know that my old friend would reach out a brown calloused hand to give me welcome, and the choicest rose in her basket would be mine--the heart understands. That spirit of mutual giving was the true spirit of the Renaissance, and in the forepart of the Sixteenth Century it was at its fullest flower. Men gave the beauty that was in them, and Vasari tells of how at Correggio the peasants, who had nothing else to give, each Sunday brought flowers and piled them high at the feet of the Virgin. There were painters and sculptors at the village of Correggio then; great men in their day, no doubt, but lost now to us in the maze of years. And there was, too, a little court of beauty and learning, presided over by Veronica Gambara. Veronica was a lover of art and literature, and a poet of no mean quality. Antonio Allegri, the son of the village baker, was a welcome visitor at her house. The boy used to help the decorators at the church, and had picked up a little knowledge of art. That is all you want--an entrance into the Kingdom of Art, and all these things shall be added unto you. Veronica appreciated the boy because he appreciated art, and great lady that she was, she appreciated him because he appreciated her. Nothing so warms the cockles of a teacher's heart as appreciation in a pupil. The intellect of the village swung around Veronica Gambara. Visitors of note used to come from Bologna and Ferrara just to hear Veronica read her poems, and to talk over together the things they all loved. At these conferences Antonio was often present. He was eighteen, perhaps, when his sketches were first shown at Veronica's little court of art and letters. He had taken lessons from the local painters, and visiting artists gave him the benefit of advice and criticism. Then Veronica had many engravings and various copies of good pictures. The boy was immersed in beauty, and all he did he did for Veronica Gambara. She was no longer young--she surely was old enough to have been the boy's mother, and this was well. Such a love as this is spiritualized under the right conditions, and works itself up into art, where otherwise it might go dancing down the wanton winds and spend itself in folly. Antonio painted for Veronica. All good things are done for some one else, and then after a while a standard of excellence is formed, and the artist works to please himself. But paradoxically, he still works for others--the singer sings for those who hear, the writer writes for those who understand, and the painter paints for those who would paint just such pictures as he, if they could. Antonio painted just such pictures as Veronica liked--she fixed the standard and he worked up to it. And who then could possibly have foretold that the work of the baker's boy would rescue the place from oblivion, so that anywhere where the word is mentioned, "Correggio" should mean the boy Antonio Allegri, and not the village nor the wide domain of the Corregghesi! The distinguishing feature of Correggio's work is his "putti." He delighted in these well-fed, unspanked and needlessly healthy cherubs. These rollicksome, frolicsome, dimpled boy babies--and that they are boys is a fact which I trust will not be denied--he has them everywhere! Paul Veronese brings in his omnipresent dog--in every "Veronese," there he is, waiting quietly for his master. Even at the "Assumption" he sits in one corner, about to bark at the angels. The dog obtrudes until you reach a point where you do not recognize a "Veronese" without the dog--then you are grateful for the dog, and surely would scorn a "Veronese" minus the canine attachment. We demand at least one dog, as our legal and inborn right, with every "Veronese." So, too, we claim the cherubs of Correggio as our own. They are so oblivious of clothes, so beautifully indifferent to the proprieties, so delightfully self-sufficient! They have no parents; they are mostly of one size, and are all of one gender. They hide behind the folds of every apostle's cloak, peer into the Magdalen's jar of precious ointment, cling to the leg of Saint Joseph, make faces at Saint Bernard, attend in a body at the "Annunciation"--as if it were any of their business--hover everywhere at the "Betrothal," and look on wonderingly from the rafters, or make fun of the Wise Men in the Stable. They invade the inner Courts of Heaven, and are so in the way that Saint Peter falls over them, much to their amusement. They seat themselves astride of clouds, some fall off, to the great delight of their mates, and still others give their friends a boost over shadows that are in the way. I said they had no parents--they surely have a father, and he is Correggio; but they are all in sore need of a mother's care. I believe it was Schiller who once intimated that it took two to love anything into being. But Correggio seems to have performed the task of conjuring forth these putti all alone; yet it is quite possible that Veronica Gambara helped him. That he loved them is very sure--only love could have made them manifest. This man was a lover of children, otherwise he could not have loved putti, for he sympathized with all their baby pranks, and sorrows as well. One cherub bumps his head against a cloud and straightway lifts a howl that must have echoed all through Paradise. His mouth is open to its utmost limit; tears start from between his closed eyes, which he gouges with chubby fists, and his whole face is distorted in intense pigmy wrath. One might really feel awfully sorry for him were it not for the fact that he sticks out one foot trying to kick a playfellow who evidently hadn't a thing to do with the accident. He's a bad, naughty cherub--that is what he is, and he deserves to have his obtrusive anatomy stung, just a little, with the back of a hairbrush, for his own good. This same cherub appears in other places, once blowing a horn in another's ear; and again he is tickling a sleeping brother's foot with a straw. These putti play all the tricks that real babies do, and besides have a goodly list of "stunts" of their own. One thing is sure, to Correggio heaven would not be heaven without putti; and the chief difference that I see between putti and sure-enough babies is, that putti require no care and babies do. Then putti are practical and useful--they hold up scrolls, tie back draperies, carry pictures, point out great folks, feed birds, and in one instance Correggio has ten of them leading a dog out to execution. They carry the train of the Virgin, assist the Apostles, act as ushers, occasionally pass the poorbox, make wreaths and crowns--but, I am sorry to say, sometimes get into unseemly scuffles for first place. They have no wings, yet they soar and fly like English sparrows. They are not troubled with nerv. pros. or introspection. What they feed upon is uncertain, but sure it is that they are well nourished. A putti needs nothing, not even approbation. In the dome of the Cathedral at Parma, there is a regular flight of them to help on the Ascension. They mix in everywhere, riding on clouds, clinging to robes, perching on the shoulders of Apostles-- everywhere thick in the flight and helping on that glorious anabasis. Away, away they go--movement--movement everywhere--right up into the blue dome of Heaven! As you look up at that most magnificent picture, a tinge of sorrow comes over you--the putti are all going away, and what if they should never come back! A little girl I know once went with her Mamma to visit the Cathedral at Parma. Mother and daughter stood in silent awe for a space, looking up at that cloud of vanishing forms. At last the little girl turned to her mother and said, "Mamma, did you ever see so many bare legs in all the born days of your life?" Some years ago in a lecture John La Farge said that the world had produced only seven painters that deserved to rank in the first class, and one of these is Correggio. The speaker did not name the other six; and although requested to do so, smilingly declined, saying that he preferred to allow each auditor to complete the list for himself. One person present made out this list of seven Immortals, and passed the list to Edmund Russell, seated near, for comments. This is the list: Michelangelo, Leonardo, Titian, Rembrandt, Correggio, Velasquez, Corot. Mr. Russell approved the selection, but added a note claiming the privilege to change and substitute names from time to time as his mood might prompt. This seems to me like a very sensible verdict. "Who is your favorite author?" is a question that is often asked. Just as if any one author ever got first place in the mind of a strong man and stuck there! Authors jostle each other for first place in our hearts. We may have Emerson periods and Browning periods, when they alone minister to us; and so also pictures, like music, make their appeals to mood. This peaceful, beautiful May day, as I write this at my cabin in the woods, Correggio seems to me truly one of the world's marvelous men. He is near, very dear, and yet before him I would stand silent and uncovered. He did his work and held his peace. He was simple, modest, unobtrusive and unpretentious. He was so big that he never knew the greatness of his work, any more than the author of Hamlet knew the immensity of his. Correggio was never more than a day's journey from home--he toiled in obscurity and did work so grand that it made its final appeal only to the future. He never painted his own portrait, and no one else seemed to consider him worth while; his income was barely sufficient for his wants. He was so big that following fast upon his life came a lamentable decline in art: his personality being so great that his son and a goodly flock of disciples tried to paint just like him. All originality faded out of the fabric of their lives, and they were only cheap, tawdry and dispirited imitators. That is one of the penalties which Nature exacts when she vouchsafes a great man to earth--all others are condemned to insipidity. They are whipped, dispirited and undone, and spontaneity dies a-borning. No man should try to do another man's work. Note the anatomical inanities of Bernini in his attempts to out-Angelo Michelangelo. In this "rushing-in" business, keep out, or you may count as one more fool. Correggio struck thirteen because he was himself, and was to a great degree even ignorant and indifferent to what the world was doing. He was filled with the joy of life; and with no furtive eye on the future, and no distracting fears concerning the present, he did his work and did it the best he could. He worked to please himself, cultivated the artistic conscience--scorning to create a single figure that did not spring into life because it must. All of his pictures are born of this spirit. Good old Guido of Parma, afar from home, once asked, with tear- filled eyes, of a recent visitor there--"And tell me, you saw the Cathedral and the Convent of San Paola--and are not the cherubs of Master Correggio grown to be men yet?" It is only life and love that give love and life. Correggio gave us both out of the fulness of a full heart. And growing weary when scarce forty years of age, he passed out into the Silence, but his work is ours. BELLINI And if in our day Raphael must give way to Botticelli, with how much greater reason should Titian in the heights of his art, with all his earthly splendor and voluptuous glow, give place to the lovely imagination of dear old Gian Bellini, the father of Venetian Art? --_Mrs. Oliphant, in "The Makers of Venice"_ [Illustration: Bellini] It is a great thing to teach. I am never more complimented than when some one addresses me as "teacher." To give yourself in a way that will inspire others to think, to do, to become--what nobler ambition! To be a good teacher demands a high degree of altruism, for one must be willing to sink self, to die--as it were--that others may live. There is something in it very much akin to motherhood--a brooding quality. Every true mother realizes at times that her children are only loaned to her--sent from God--and the attributes of her body and mind are being used by some Power for a Purpose. The thought tends to refine the heart of its dross, obliterate pride and make her feel the sacredness of her office. All good men everywhere recognize the holiness of motherhood--this miracle by which the race survives. There is a touch of pathos in the thought that while lovers live to make themselves necessary to each other, the mother is working to make herself unnecessary to her children. The true mother is training her children to do without her. And the entire object of teaching is to enable the scholar to do without his teacher. Graduation should take place at the vanishing-point of the teacher. Yes, the efficient teacher has in him much of this mother-quality. Thoreau, you remember, said that genius is essentially feminine; if he had teachers in mind his remark was certainly true. The men of much motive power are not the best teachers--the arbitrary and imperative type that would bend all minds to match its own may build bridges, tunnel mountains, discover continents and capture cities, but it can not teach. In the presence of such a towering personality freedom dies, spontaneity droops, and thought slinks away into a corner. The brooding quality, the patience that endures, and the yearning of motherhood, are all absent. The man is a commander, not a teacher; and there yet remains a grave doubt whether the warrior and ruler have not used their influence more to make this world a place of the skull than the abode of happiness and prosperity. The orders to kill all the firstborn, and those over ten years of age, were not given by teachers. The teacher is one who makes two ideas grow where there was only one before. Just here, before we pass on to other themes, seems a good place to say that we live in a very stupid old world, round like an orange and slightly flattened at the poles. The proof of this seemingly pessimistic remark, made by a hopeful and cheerful man, lies in the fact that we place small premium in either honor or money on the business of teaching. As, in the olden times, barbers and scullions ranked with musicians, and the Master of the Hounds wore a bigger medal than the Poet Laureate, so do we pay our teachers the same as coachmen and coal-heavers, giving them a plentiful lack of everything but overwork. I will never be quite willing to admit that this country is enlightened until we cease the inane and parsimonious policy of trying to drive all the really strong men and women out of the teaching profession by putting them on the payroll at one-half the rate, or less, than what the same brains and energy can command elsewhere. In this year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred Two, in a time of peace, we have appropriated four hundred million dollars for war and war-appliances, and this sum is just double the cost of the entire public-school system in America. It is not the necessity of economy that dictates our actions in this matter of education--we simply are not enlightened. But this thing can not always last--I look for the time when we shall set apart the best and noblest men and women of earth for teachers, and their compensation will be so adequate that they will be free to give themselves for the benefit of the race, without apprehension of a yawning almshouse. A liberal policy will be for our own good, just as a matter of cold expediency; it will be Enlightened Self-interest. With the rise of the Bellinis, Venetian art ceased to be provincial, blossoming out into national. Jacopo Bellini was a teacher--mild, gentle, sympathetic, animated. His work reveals personality, but is somewhat stiff and statuesque: sharp in outline like an antique stained-glass window. This is because his art was descended from the glassworkers; and he himself continued to make designs for the glassworkers of Murano all his life. Considering the time in which he lived he was a great painter, for he improved upon what had gone before and prepared the way for those greater than he who were yet to come. He called himself an experimenter, and around him clustered a goodly group of young men who were treated by him more as comrades than as students. They were all boys together--learners, with the added dignity which an older head of the right sort can lend. "Old Jacopo" they used to call him, and there was a touch of affection in the term to which several of them have testified. All of the pupils loved the old man, who wasn't so very old in years, and certainly was not in heart. Among his pupils were his two sons, Gentile and Gian, and they called him Old Jacopo, too. I rather like this--it proves for one thing that the boys were not afraid of their father. They surely did not run and hide when they heard him coming, neither did they find it necessary to tell lies in order to defend themselves. A severe parent is sure to have untruthful children, and perhaps the best recipe for having noble children is to be a noble parent. It is well to be a companion to your children, and just where the idea came in which developed into the English boarding-school delusion, that children should be sent away among hirelings-- separated from their parents--in order to be educated, I do not know. It surely was not complimentary to the parents. Old Jacopo didn't try very hard to discipline his boys--he loved them, which is better if you are forced to make choice. They worked together and grew together. Before Gian and Gentile were eighteen they could paint as well as their father. When they were twenty they excelled him, and no one was more elated over it than Old Jacopo. They were doing things he could never do: overcoming obstacles he could not overcome--he clapped his hands in gladness, did this old teacher, and shed tears of joy--his pupils were surpassing him! Gian and Gentile would not admit this, but still they kept right on, each vieing with the other. Vasari says that Gian was the better artist, but Aldus refers to Gentile as "the undisputed master of painting in all Venetia." Ruskin compromises by explaining that Gentile had the broader and deeper nature, but that Gian was more feminine, more poetic, nearer lyric, possessing a delicacy and insight that his brother never acquired. These qualities better fitted him for a teacher; and when Old Jacopo passed away, Gian drifted into his place, for every man is gravitating straight to where he belongs. The little workshop of one room now was enlarged: the bottega became an atelier. There were groups of workrooms and studios, and a small gallery that became the meeting-place for various literary and artistic visitors at Venice. Ludovico Ariosto, greatest of Italian poets, came here and wrote a sonnet to "Gian Bellini, sublime artist, performer of great things, but best of all the loving Teacher of Men." Gian Bellini had two pupils whose name and fame are deathless: Giorgione and Titian. There is a fine flavor of romance surrounds Giorgione, the gentle, the refined, the beloved. His was a spirit like unto that of Chopin or Shelley, and his death-dirge should have been written by the one and set to music by the other--brothers doloroso, sent into this rough world unprepared for its buffets, passing away in manhood's morning. Yet all heard the song of the skylark. Giorgione died broken-hearted, through his ladylove's inconstancy. He was exactly the same age as Titian, and while he lived surpassed that giant far, as the giant himself admitted. He died aged thirty-three, the age at which a full dozen of the greatest men of the world have died, and the age at which several other very great men have been born again--which possibly is the same thing. Titian lived to be a hundred, lacking six months, and when past seventy used to give alms to a beggar-woman at a church- door--the woman who had broken the heart of Giorgione. He also painted her portrait--this in sad and subdued remembrance of the days agone. The Venetian School of Art has been divided by Ruskin into three parts: the first begins with Jacopo Bellini, and this part might be referred to as the budding period. The second is the flowering period, and the palm is carried by Gian Bellini. The period of ripe fruit--o'erripe fruit, touched by the tint of death--is represented by four men: Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto and Paul Veronese. Beyond these four, Venetian Art has never gone, and although four hundred years have elapsed since they laughed and sang, enjoyed and worked, all we can do is wonder and admire. We can imitate, but we can not improve. Gian Bellini lived to be ninety-two, working to the last, always a learner, always a teacher. His best work was done after his eightieth year. The cast-off shell of this great spirit was placed in the tomb with that of his brother Gentile, who had passed out but a few years before. Death did not divide them. Giovanni Bellini was his name. Yet when people who loved beautiful pictures spoke of "Gian," every one knew who was meant, but to those who worked at art he was "The Master." He was two inches under six feet in height, strong and muscular. In spite of his seventy summers his carriage was erect and there was a jaunty suppleness about his gait that made him seem much younger. In fact, no one would have believed that he had lived over his threescore and ten, were it not for the iron-gray hair that fluffed out all around under the close- fitting black cap, and the bronzed complexion--sun-kissed by wind and weather--which formed a trinity of opposites that made people turn and stare. Queer stories used to be told about him. He was a skilful gondolier, and it was the daily row back and forth from the Lido that gave him that face of bronze. Folks said he ate no meat and drank no wine, and that his food was simply ripe figs in the season, with coarse rye bread and nuts. Then there was that funny old hunchback, a hundred years old at least, and stone-deaf, who took care of the gondola, spending the whole day, waiting for his master, washing the trim, graceful, blue-black boat, arranging the awning with the white cords and tassels, and polishing the little brass lions at the sides. People tried to question the old hunchback, but he gave no secrets away. The master always stood up behind and rowed, while down on the cushions rode the hunchback, the guest of honor. There stood the master erect, plying the oar, his long black robe tucked up under the dark blue sash that exactly matched the color of the gondola. The man's motto might have been, "Ich Dien," or that passage of Scripture, "He that is greatest among you shall be your servant." Suspended around his neck by a slender chain was a bronze medal, presented by vote of the Signoria when the great picture of "The Transfiguration" was unveiled. If this medal had been a crucifix, and you had met the wearer in San Marco, one glance at the finely chiseled features, the black cap and the flowing robe and you would have said at once the man was a priest, Vicar-General of some important diocese. But seeing him standing erect on the stern of a gondola, the wind caressing the dark gray hair, you would have been perplexed until your gondolier explained in serious undertone that you had just passed "The greatest Painter in all Venice, Gian, the Master." Then if you showed curiosity and wanted to know further, your gondolier would have told you more about this strange man. The canals of Venice are the highways, and the gondoliers are like 'bus-drivers in Piccadilly--they know everybody and are in close touch with all the secrets of State. When you get to the Giudecca and tie up for lunch, over a bottle of Chianti, your gondolier will tell you this: The hunchback there in the gondola, rowed by the Master, is the Devil, who has taken that form just to be with and guard the greatest artist the world has ever seen. Yes, Signor, that clean-faced man with his frank, wide-open, brown eyes is in league with the Evil One. He is the man who took young Tiziano from Cadore into his shop, right out of a glass-factory, and made him a great artist, getting him commissions and introducing him everywhere! And how about the divine Giorgione who called him father? Oho! And who is Giorgione? The son of some unknown peasant woman. And if Bellini wanted to adopt him, treat him as his son indeed, kissing him on the cheek when he came back just from a day's visit to Mestre, whose business was it? Oho! Besides that, his name isn't Giorgione--it is Giorgio Barbarelli. And didn't this Giorgio Barbarelli, and Tiziano from Cadore, and Espero Carbonne, and that Gustavo from Nuremberg, and the others paint most of Gian's pictures? Surely they did. The old man simply washes in the backgrounds and the boys do the work. About all old Gian does is to sign the picture, sell it and pocket the proceeds. Carpaccio helps him, too--Carpaccio, who painted the loveliest little angel sitting crosslegged playing the biggest mandolin you ever saw in your life. That is genius, you know--the ability to get some one else to do the work, and then capture the ducats and the honors for yourself. Of course Gian knows how to lure the boys on--something has to be done in order to hold them. Gian buys a picture from them now and then; his studio is full of their work--better than he can do. Oh, he knows a good thing when he sees it. These pictures will be valuable some day, and he gets them at his own price. It was Antonello of Messina who introduced oil-painting into Venice. Before that they mixed their paints with water, milk or wine. But when Antonello came along with his dark, lustrous pictures, he set all artistic Venice astir. Gian Bellini discovered the secret, they say, by feigning to be a gentleman and going to the newcomer and sitting for his picture. He it was who discovered that Antonello mixed his colors with oil. Oho! Of course not all of the pictures in his studio are painted by the boys--some are painted by that old Dutchman what's-his-name--oh, yes, Durer, Alberto Durer of Nuremberg. Two Nuremberg painters were in that very gondola last week just where you sit--they are here in Venice now, taking lessons from Gian, they said. Gian was up there at Nuremberg and lived a month with Durer--they worked together, drank beer together, I suppose, and caroused. Gian is very strict about what he does in Venice, but you can never tell what a man will do when he is away from home. The Germans are a roystering lot--but they do say they can paint. Me? I have never been there--and do not want to go, either--there are no canals there. To be sure, they print books in Nuremberg. It was up there somewhere that they invented type, a lazy scheme to do away with writing. They are a thrifty lot--those Germans--they give me my fare and a penny more, just a single penny, and no matter how much I have talked and pointed out the wonderful sights, and imparted useful information, known to me alone--only one penny extra--think of it! Yes, printing was first done at Mayence by a German, Gutenberg, about sixty years ago. One of Gutenberg's workmen went up to Nuremberg and taught others how to design and cast type. This man Alberto Durer helped them, designing the initials and making title- pages by cutting the design on a wooden block, then covering this block with ink, laying a sheet of paper upon it, and placing it in a press; then when the paper is lifted off it looks exactly like the original drawing. In fact, most people couldn't tell the difference, and here you can print thousands of them from the one block! Gian Bellini makes drawings for title-pages and initials for Aldus and Nicholas Jenson. Venice is the greatest printing-place in the world, and yet the business began here only thirty years ago. The first book printed here was in Fourteen Hundred Sixty-nine, by John of Speyer. There are nearly two hundred licensed printing-presses here, and it takes usually four men to a press--two to set the type and get things ready, and two to run the press. This does not count, of course, the men who write the books, and those who make the type and cut the blocks from which they print the pictures for illustrations. At first, you know, the books they printed in Venice had no title-pages, initials or illustrations. My father was a printer and he remembers when the first large initials were printed --before that, the spaces were left blank and the books were sent out to the monasteries to be completed by hand. Gian and Gentile had a good deal to do about cutting the first blocks for initials--they got the idea, I think, from Nuremberg. And now there are Dutchmen down here from Amsterdam learning how to print books and paint pictures. Several of them are in Gian's studio, I hear--every once in a while I get them for a trip to the Lido or to Murano. Gentile Bellini is his brother and looks very much like him. The Grand Turk at Constantinople came here once and saw Gian Bellini at work in the Great Hall. He had never seen a good picture before and was amazed. He wanted the Senate to sell Gian to him, thinking he was a slave. They humored the Pagan by hiring Gentile Bellini to go instead, loaning him out for two years, so to speak. Gentile went, and the Sultan, who never allowed any one to stand before him, all having to grovel in the dirt, treated Gentile as an equal. Gentile even taught the old rogue to draw a little, and they say the painter had a key to every room in the palace, and was treated like a prince. Well, they got along all right, until one day Gentile drew the picture of the head of John the Baptist on a charger. "A man's head doesn't look like that when it is cut off," said the Turk contemptuously. Gentile had forgotten that the Turk was on familiar ground. "Perhaps the Light of the Sun knows more about painting than I do!" said Gentile, as he kept right on at his work. "I may not know much about painting, but I'm no fool in some other things I might name," was the reply. The Sultan clapped his hands three times: two slaves appeared from opposite doors. One was a little ahead of the other, and as this one approached, the Sultan with a single swing of the snickersnee snipped off his head. This teaches us that obedience to our superiors is its own reward. But the lesson was wholly lost on Gentile Bellini, for he did not remain even to examine the severed head for art's sake. The thought that it might be his turn next was supreme, and he leaped through a window, taking the sash with him. Making his way to the docks he found a sailing-vessel loading with fruit, bound for Venice. A small purse of gold made the matter easy--the captain of the boat secreted him, and in four days he was safely back in Saint Mark's giving thanks to God for his deliverance. No, I didn't say Gian was a rogue--I only told you what others say. I am only a poor gondolier--why should I trouble myself about what great folks do? I simply tell you what I hear--it may be so, and it may not; God knows! There is that Pascale Salvini. He has a rival studio, and when that Genoese, Cristoforo Colombo, was here and made his stopping-place at Bellini's studio, Pascale told every one that Colombo was a lunatic and Bellini another, for encouraging him to show his foolish maps and charts. Now, they do say that Colombo has discovered a new world, and Italians are feeling troubled in conscience because they did not fit him out with ships instead of forcing him to go to Spain. No, I didn't say Bellini was a hypocrite--Pascale's pupils say so, and once they followed him over to Murano--three barca-loads and my gondola besides. You see it was like this: Twice a week, just after sundown, we used to see Gian Bellini untie his boat from the landing there behind the Doge's palace, turn the prow, and beat out for Murano, with no companion but that deaf old caretaker. Twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays--always at just the same hour, regardless of weather--we would see the old hunchback light the lamps, and in a few moments the Master would appear, tuck up his black robe, step into the boat, take the oar, and away they would go. It was always to Murano, and always to the same landing--one of our gondoliers had followed several times, just out of curiosity. Finally it came to the ears of Pascale that Gian took this regular trip to Murano. "It is a rendezvous," said Pascale; "worse than that, an orgy among those lacemakers and the rogues of the glassworks. Oh, to think that Gian should stoop to such things at his age--his pretended asceticism is but a mask--and at his age!" The Pascale students took it up, and once came in collision with that Tiziano of Cadore, who they say broke a boat-hook over the head of one of them who had spoken ill of the Master. But this did not silence the talk, and one dark night, when the air was full of flying mist, one of Pascale's students came to me and told me that he wanted me to take a party over to Murano. The weather was so bad that I refused to go--the wind blew in gusts, sheet-lightning filled the eastern sky, and all honest men, but poor belated gondoliers, had hied them home. I refused to go. Had I not seen Gian the painter go not half an hour before? Well, if he could go, others could, too. I refused to go--except for double fare. He accepted and placed the double fare in silver in my palm. Then he gave a whistle and from behind the corners came trooping enough swashbuckler students to swamp my gondola. I let in just enough to fill the seats and pushed off, leaving several standing on the stone steps cursing me and everything and everybody. As my good boat slid away into the fog and headed on our course, I glanced back and saw the three barca-loads following in my wake. There was much muffled talk, and orders from some one in charge to keep silence. But there was passing of strong drink, and then talk, and from it I gathered that these were all students from Pascale's, out on one of those student carousals, intent on heaven knows what! It was none of my business. We shipped considerable water, and several of the students were down on their knees praying and bailing, bailing and praying. At last we reached the Murano landing. All got out, the barcas tied up, and I tied up, too, determined to see what was doing. The strong drink was passed, and a low heavy-set fellow who seemed to be captain charged all not to speak, but to follow him and do as he did. We took a side-street where there was little travel and followed through the dark and dripping way, fully a half-mile, down there in that end of the island called the sailors' bagnio, where they say no man's life is safe if he has a silver coin or two. There was much music in the wine-shops and shouts of mirth and dancing feet on stone floors, but the rain had driven every one from the streets. We came to a long, low stone building that used to be a theater, but was now a dance-hall upstairs and a warehouse below. There were lights upstairs and sounds of music. The stairway was dark, but we felt our way up, and on tiptoe advanced to the big double door, from under which the light streamed. We had received our orders, and when we got to the landing we stood there just an instant. "Now we have him--Gian the hypocrite!" whispered the stout man in a hoarse breath. We burst in the doors with a whoop and a bang. The change from the dark to the light sort of blinded us at first. We all supposed that there was a dance in progress of course, and the screams from women were just what we expected, but when we saw several overturned easels and an old man, half-nude, and too scared to move, seated on a model throne, we did not advance into the hall as we intended. That one yell we gave was all the noise we made. We stood there in a bunch, just inside the door, sort of dazed and uncertain. We did not know whether to retreat or to charge on through the hall as we had intended. We just stood there like a lot of driveling fools. "Keep right at your work, my good people! Keep right at your work!" called a pleasant voice. "I see we have some visitors." And Gian Bellini came forward. His robe was still tucked up under the blue sash, but he had laid aside his black cap, and his tumbled gray hair looked like the aureole of a saint. "Keep right at your work," he said again, and then came forward and bade us welcome and begged us to have seats. I dared not run away, so I sat down on one of the long seats that were ranged around the wall. My companions did the same. There must have been fifty easels, all ranged in a semicircle around the old man who posed as a model. Several of the easels had been upset, and there was much confusion when we entered. "Just help us to arrange things--that is right, thank you," said Gian to the stout man who was captain of our party. To my astonishment the stout man was doing just as he was bid, and was pacifying the women students and straightening up their easels and stools. I was interested in watching Gian walking around, helping this one with a stroke of his crayon, saying a word to that, smiling and nodding to another. I just sat there and stared. These students were not regular art-students, I could see that plainly. Some were children, ragged and barelegged; others were old men who worked in the glass-factories, and surely with hands too old and stiff to ever paint well. Still others were young girls and women of the town. I rubbed my eyes and tried to make it out! The music we heard I could still hear--it came from the wine-shop across the way. I looked around--and what do you believe? My companions had all gone. They had sneaked out one by one and left me alone. I watched my chance, and when the Master's back was turned I tiptoed out, too. When I got down on the street I found I had left my cap, but I dare not go back after it. I made my way down to the landing, half running, and when I got there not a boat was to be seen--the three barcas and my gondola were gone. I thought I could see them, out through the mist, a quarter of a mile away. I called aloud, but no answer came back but the hissing wind. I was in despair--they were stealing my boat, and if they did not steal it, it would surely be wrecked--my all, my precious boat! I cried and wrung my hands. I prayed! And the howling winds only ran shrieking and laughing around the corners of the buildings. I saw a glimmering light down the beach at a little landing. I ran to it, hoping some gondolier might be found who would row me over to the city. There was one boat at the landing and in it a hunchback, sound asleep, covered with a canvas. It was Gian Bellini's boat. I shook the hunchback into wakefulness and begged him to row me across to the city. I yelled into his deaf ears, but he pretended not to understand me. Then I showed him the silver coin, the double fare, and tried to place it in his hand. But no, he only shook his head. I ran up the beach, still looking for a boat. An hour had passed. I got back to the landing just as Gian came down to his boat. I approached him and explained that I was a poor worker in the glass- factory, who had to work all day and half the night, and as I lived over in the city and my wife was dying, I must get home. Would he allow me to ride with His Highness? "Certainly--with pleasure, with pleasure!" he answered, and then pulling something from under his sash he said, "Is this your cap, signor?" I took my cap, but my tongue was paralyzed for the moment so I could not thank him. We stepped into the boat, and as my offer to row was declined, I just threw myself down by the hunchback, and the prow swung around and headed toward the city. The wind had died down, the rain had ceased, and from between the blue-black clouds the moon shone out. Gian rowed with a strong, fine stroke, singing a "Te Deum Laudamus" softly to himself the while. I lay there and wept, thinking of my boat, my all, my precious boat! We reached the landing--and there was my boat, safely tied up, not a cushion or a cord missing. Gian Bellini? He may be a rogue as Pascale says--God knows! How can I tell--I am only a poor gondolier. CELLINI It is a duty incumbent upon upright and credible men of all ranks, who have performed anything noble or praiseworthy, to truthfully record, in their own writing, the principal events of their lives. --_Benvenuto Cellini_ [Illustration: Cellini] "The man who is thoroughly interested in himself is interesting to other people," Wendell Phillips once said. Good healthy egotism in literature is the red corpuscle that makes the thing live. Cupid naked and unashamed is always beautiful; we turn away only when some very proper person perceives he is naked and attempts to better the situation by supplying him a coat of mud. The Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff, wherein are many morbid musings and information as to the development of her mind and anatomy, is intensely interesting; Amiel's Journal holds us with a tireless grasp; the Confessions of Saint Augustine can never die; Jean Jacques Rousseau's book was the favorite of such a trinity of opposites as Emerson, George Eliot and Walt Whitman; Pepys' Diary is so dull it is entertaining; and the Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini have made a mediocre man immortal. Cellini had an intense personality; he was skilful as a workman; he told the truth as he saw it, and if he ever prevaricated it was simply by failing to mention certain things that he considered were no credit to anybody. But his friendships were shallow; those he respected most, say Michelangelo and Raphael, treated him as Prince Henry finally did Falstaff, never allowing him to come within half a mile of their person on penalty. He was intimate with so many women that he apologized for not remembering them; he had no interest in his children, and most of his plans and purposes were of a pattypan order. Yet he wrote two valuable treatises: one on the art of the goldsmith and the other on the casting of bronze; there is also an essay on architecture that contains some good ideas; and courtier that he was, of course wrote some poetry, which is not so bad as it might be. But the book upon which his reputation rests is the "Memoirs," and a great book it is. All these things seem to show that a man can be a great author and yet have a small soul. Haven't we overrated this precious gift of authorship just a trifle? Taine said that educated Englishmen all write alike--they are all equally stupid. And John Addington Symonds, an educated Englishman, and the best translator of Cellini, wrote, "Happily Cellini was unspoiled by literary training." Goethe translated Cellini's book into German and paid the doughty Italian the compliment of saying that he did the task out of pure enjoyment, and incidentally to improve his literary style. Cellini is not exactly like us, and when we read his book we all give thanks that we are not like him, but every trait that he had large, we have in little. Cellini was sincere; he never doubted his own infallibility, but he points out untiringly the fallibilities in various popes and everybody else. When Cellini goes out and kills a man before breakfast, he absolves himself by showing that the man richly deserved his fate. The braggart and bully are really cowards at the last. A man who is wholly brave would not think to brag of it. He would be as brave in his calm moments as in moments of frenzy--take old John Brown, for instance. But when Cellini had a job on hand he first worked himself into a torrent of righteous wrath. He poses as the injured one, the victim of double, deep-dyed conspiracies, and so he goes through life afraid of every one, and is one of whom all men are afraid. Every artist has occasional attacks of Artistic Jealousy, and happy is the man who contents himself with the varioloid variety. Cellini had three kinds: acute, virulent and chronic. Berloiz has worked the man up into a strong and sinewy drama, several others have done the same, but it will require the combined skill of Rostand, Mansfield and Samuel Eberly Gross to ever do the character justice. John Morley says, "There is nothing worse than mettle in a blind horse." So one might say there is nothing worse than sincerity in a superstitious person. Benvenuto Cellini is the true type of a literary and artistic Bad Man. Had he lived in Colorado in Eighteen Hundred Seventy, the Vigilance Committee would have used him to start a graveyard. But he is so open, so simple, so candid, that we laugh at his lapses, admire his high resolves, sigh at his follies, sympathize with his spasms of repentance, and smile a misty smile at one who is humorous without meaning to be, who was deeply religious but never pious, who was highly conscientious, undoubtedly artistic, and who blundered through life, always in a turmoil, hopelessly entangled in the web of Fate, committing every crime, justifying himself in everything, and finally passing out peacefully, sincerely believing that he had lived a Christian life. Benvenuto Cellini was born in Florence, in the year Fifteen Hundred, the day after the feast-day of All Souls, at four-thirty precisely in the afternoon. The name Benvenuto means welcome: the world welcomed Benvenuto from the first. When five years of age he seized upon a live scorpion that he found in the yard and carried it into the house. His father seeing the deadly creature in his hand sought to get him to throw it away, but he only clung the tighter to the plaything. The parent then grabbed a pair of shears and cut off the tail, mouth and claws of the scorpion, much to the wrath of the child. Shortly after this he was seated by his father's side looking into a brazier of coals. All at once they saw a salamander in the fire, wiggling about in playful mood, literally making its bed in hell. Many men go through life without seeing a single salamander; neither Darwin, Spencer, Huxley nor Wallace ever saw one; they are so rare that occasionally there be men who deny their existence, for we are very apt to deny the existence of anything we have not seen. In truth, Benvenuto never saw but this one salamander, but this one was enough: coupled with the incident of the scorpion it was an augury that the boy would have a great career, be in many a hot position, and march through life triumphant and unscathed--God takes care of His own. The father of Benvenuto was a designer, a goldsmith and an engineer, and he might have succeeded in a masterly way in these sublime arts had he not early in life acquired the habit of the flute. He played the flute all day long, and often played the flute in the morning and the fife at night. As it was the flute that had won him his gracious wife, he thanked God for the gift and continued to play as long as he had breath. Now, it was his ambition that his son should play the flute, too, as all fond fathers regard themselves as a worthy pattern on which their children should model their manners and morals. But Benvenuto despised the damnable invention of a flute--it was only blowing one's breath through a horn and making a noise--yet to please his father he mastered the instrument, and actuated by filial piety he occasionally played in a way that caused his father and mother to weep with joy. But the boy's bent was for drawing and modeling in wax. All of his spare time was spent in this work, and so great was his skill that when he was sixteen he was known throughout all Florence. About this time his brother, two years younger than himself, had the misfortune one day to be set upon by a gang of miscreants, and was nigh being killed when Benvenuto ran to his rescue and seizing his sword laid around him lustily. The miscreants were just making off when a party of gendarmes appeared and arrested all concerned. The rogues were duly tried and sentenced to banishment from the city. Benvenuto and his brother were also banished. Shortly after this Benvenuto found himself at Pisa on the road to Rome. He was footsore, penniless, and as he stood gazing into the window of a goldsmith the proprietor came out and asked him his business. He replied, "Sir, I am a designer and goldsmith of no mean ability." Straightway the man, seeing the lad was likely and honest, set him to work. The motto of the boy at this time was supplied by his father. It ran thus: In whatsoever house you be, steal not and live honestlee. Seeing this motto, the proprietor straightway trusted him with all the precious jewels in the store. He remained a year at Pisa, and was very happy and contented in his work, for never once did he have to play the flute, nor did he hear one played. Nearly every week came loving letters from his father begging him to come home, and admonishing him not to omit practise on the flute. At the end of a year he got a touch of fever and concluded to go home, as Florence was much more healthful than Pisa. Arriving home his father embraced him with tears of unfeigned joy. His changed and manly appearance pleased his family greatly. And straightway when their tears were dried and welcomes said, his father placed a flute in his hands and begged him to play in order that he might see if his playing had kept pace with his growth and skill in other ways. The young man set the instrument to his lips and played an original selection in a way that made his father shout with joy, "Genius is indispensable, but practise alone makes perfect!" Michelangelo was born twenty-five years before Cellini; their homes were not far apart. In the Gardens of Lorenzo the Magnificent, Michelangelo had received that strong impetus toward the beautiful that was to last him throughout his long and arduous life. When Cellini was eighteen the Master was at Rome, doing the work of the Pope, the pride of all artistic Florence, and toward the Eternal City Cellini looked longingly. He haunted the galleries and gardens where broken fragments of antique and modern marbles were to be seen, and stood long before the "Pieta" of Michelangelo in the Church of Santa Croce, wondering if he could ever do as well. About this time he tells us that he copied that famous cartoon of Michelangelo's, "Soldiers Bathing in the Arno," made in competition with Leonardo for the decoration of the Palazzo Vecchio, which he declares marks the highest pitch of power attained by the Master. While at this work there appeared in Florence one Pietro Torrigiano, who had been an exile in England for over twenty years. The visitor held Cellini's drawing in his hand, studied it carefully and remarked: "I know this man Michelangelo Buonarrotti--we used to draw and work together under the tutorship of Masaccio. One day Buonarrotti annoyed me and I dealt him such a blow on the nose that I felt the flesh, cartilage and bone go down under my knuckles like a biscuit. It was a mark he will carry to his grave." These words were truth, save that Michelangelo was struck with a mallet and not the man's hand. And it was for the blow that Torrigiano had to flee, and seemingly, with the years, he had gotten it into his head that he left Florence of his own accord, and his crime was a thing of which to boast. Voltaire once said that beyond doubt the soldier who thrust the spear into the side of the Savior went away and boasted of the deed. Torrigiano's name is forever linked with that of Michelangelo. Thus much for the pride of little men who make a virtue of a vice. But the boast of Torrigiano caused Cellini to grow faint and sick, then to burn with hate. He snatched the drawing from the other's hand, and might have deprived Torrigiano of all the nose he possessed, had not better counsel prevailed. Ever after Cellini avoided the man--for the man's own good. That art was a passion to this stripling is plain. It was his meat and drink--with fighting for dessert. One of his near companions was Francisco, grandson of Fra Lippo Lippi, and another chum was Tasso, at this time a youth of nineteen--his own age. Tasso became a great artist. Vasari tells of him at length, and sketches his career while in the employ of Cosimo de Medici. One day Benvenuto and Tasso were walking after their work was done, and discussing as usual the wonderful genius of Michelangelo. They agreed that some day they must go to him at Rome. They were near the gate of the city that led out on the direct road to the Eternal City. They passed out of the gate still talking earnestly. "Why, we are on the way now," said Tasso. "And to turn back is an ill omen--we will go on!" answered Benvenuto. So they kept on, each one saying, "And what will our folks say tonight?" By night they had traveled twenty miles. They stopped at an inn, and in the morning Tasso was so lame he declared he could not proceed. Benvenuto insisted, and even threatened. They trudged forward, and in a week the spire of Saint Peter's (the wondrous dome was yet to be) lifted itself out of the fog, and they stood speechless and uncovered, each devoutly crossing himself. Benvenuto had a trade, and as skilled men are always needed he got work at once. Tasso filled in the time carving wood. They did not see Michelangelo--that worthy was too busy to receive callers, or indulge the society of adventurous youths. Cellini does not say much about this, but skips two years in a page, takes part in a riot and flees back to Florence. He enters into earnest details of how 'leven rogues in buckram suits reviled him as he passed a certain shop. One of them upset a handcart of brick upon him. He dealt the miscreant a blow on the ear. The police here appeared and as usual arrested the innocent Happy Hooligan of the affair. Being taken before the Magistrates he was accused of striking a free citizen. Cellini insisted he had only boxed the man's ears, but many witnesses in chorus averred that he had struck the citizen in the face with his clenched fist. "I only boxed his ears," exclaimed Cellini above the din. The Magistrates all burst out laughing, and adjourned for dinner, warning Cellini to remain where he was until they came back --hoping he would run away. He sat there thinking over his sad lot, when a sudden impulse seizing him he darted out of the palace, and ran swiftly for the house of his enemies. He drew his knife, and rushing in among them where they were at dinner, upset the table and yelled, "Send for a confessor, for none of you will ever need a doctor when I get through with you!" Several women fainted, the men sprang through windows, and the chief rogue got a slash that went straight for his heart. He fell down, and Cellini thinking the man was dead started for the street. At the door he was greeted by all those who had jumped through the windows, reinforced by others. They were armed with shovels, tongs, skillets, clubs, sticks and knives. He laid about him right and left, but the missiles descended in such showers that he lost his knife and cap, first sending to the earth a full dozen of the rogues. Running to the house of a priest Cellini begged to confess the murder, and told of how he had acted only in self-defense. Being shrived, for a consideration, he awaited the coming of the constabulary. But they did not come, for the man who thought he had been stabbed got only a slash through his jacket, and no one was seriously hurt, except one of the men who jumped through a window and sprained his ankle. But so unjust were the Magistrates that Cellini had to flee from the city or he would have been sentenced to the army and sent God knows where, to fight the Moors. Max Nordau has a certain amount of basis for his proposition that genius and madness are near allied, but it will hardly do, however, to assume that they are the same thing. Cellini at times showed a fine flaring up of talent that might be called genius--he could do exquisite work--yet there were other times when he certainly was "queer." These queer periods might account for his occasional fusing of memory and imagination, and the lapses of recollection entirely concerning things he did not wish to remember. The Memoirs were begun when he was fifty-eight and finished when he was sixty-three: thus many years had elapsed between the doing and the recording. The Constable Bourbon was killed at the siege of Rome: Cellini was present at the siege and killed several men: therefore what more probable than that Cellini killed the Constable? Cellini calmly records that it was he who did the deed. He also tells that he killed William, Prince of Orange; in fact, he killed at least one man a day for many weeks. At this distance of time we should be quite willing to take his word for it, just as we would, most certainly, if he had told us these things face to face. In one incidental paragraph he records that he christened a son, and adds: "So far as I can remember this was my first child." He drops the record there, never once alluding to the child's mother, nor what became of the child, which if it lived was a man grown at the time Cellini was writing. His intense hatred toward all who were in direct competition with him, his references to them as cheese-mites, beasts, buzzards and brigands, his fears of poison, and suspicions that they had "curdled his bronze"; his visitations by spirits and angels, mark him as a man who trod the borderland of sanity. If he did not like a woman or she did not like him--the same thing--she was a troll, wench, scullion, punk, trollop or hussy. He had such a beautiful vocabulary of names for folks he did not admire, that the translator is constantly put to straits to produce a product that will not be excluded from the mails. If you want to know how things were done when knighthood was in flower, you can find out here. Or should you be possessed of literary longing and have a desire to produce some such cheerful message for humanity as "A Gentleman of France," "Monsieur Beaucaire," or "Under the Red Robe," you can sink your shaft in Cellini's book and mine enough incidents in an hour to make a volume, with a by-product of slag for several Penny Shockers. Yet Cellini has corroborated history on many points, and backed up the gossipy Vasari in a valuable way. It is very doubtful whether either of these gentlemen had ever the felicity of reading the other's book, unless there be books in Elysium--as Charles Lamb thought there were--but sure it is that they render sidelights on the times that are much to our profit. Vasari and Cellini had been close friends in youth, working and studying together. Vasari was a poor artist and a commonplace architect, but he seemed to have social qualities that bridged the gulf where his talent broke off short. In the Palazzo Vecchio are several large specimens of his work that must have been once esteemed for their own sake. Now their chief value lies in the fact that they are a Hop-Smith production, having been painted by a pleasing writer and a charming gentleman, and so we point them out with forefinger and bated breath. Cellini's hate of Vasari proves, also, that the Gossipy One stood well with the reigning powers, otherwise Benvenuto would not have thought to condemn his work and allude to the man as a dough-face, trickster, lickspittle, slanderer, vulture, vagrom, villain, vilifier and gnat's hind-foot. Cellini threatened to kill the man several times: he denounced him in public and used to call after him on the street, referring to him cheerfully as a deep-dyed rogue. Had either of these men killed the other, it would have been a loss to letters; but certain it is that Vasari was much more of a gentleman than Cellini. That Vasari was judicial in his estimates of men is shown by his references to Cellini, whom he speaks of as "A skilled artist, of active, alert and industrious habits, who produced many valuable works of art, but who unfortunately was possessed of a most unpleasant temper." Men are so fallible in their estimates of contemporaries that one man's statement that another is a rogue does not in the slightest change our views of that man. What we are, that we see: the epithets a man applies to another usually fit himself better, and this is the thought in mind when we read what Cellini says of Vasari and Bandinelli. These men were commonplace artists, but pretty good men; Cellini was a better artist than either, but not a desirable tenant for the upper flat in your house if you chanced to reside below. Cellini was landed behind grated bars many times, but usually managed to speedily escape. However, in his thirty-eighth year, he found himself in a dungeon of Sant' Angelo, that grim fortress that he had fought so vigorously to defend. More than one homicide the Recording Angel had marked up against him, but men took small note of these things, and even Pope Paul had personally blessed him and granted him absolution for all the murders he had committed or might commit--this in consideration of his distinguished services in defense of the Vatican. The charge against him now was the very humdrum one of stealing treasure that he was supposed to guard. That he was innocent there is no doubt: whatever the man was, he was no thief. The charge against him was a trumped-up one to get him out of the way. He was painfully in evidence--he talked like a windmill, and in his swaggering he had become inconvenient, if not dangerous, to some who were close to political greatness. No one caring for the job of killing him, they locked him up, for the good of himself and society. It probably was the intention to keep him under key for only a few weeks, until his choler would subside; but he was so saucy, and sent out such a stream of threats to all concerned, that things reached a point where it was unsafe to liberate him. So he was kept in the Castle for over two years, during which time he once escaped, broke his leg in the effort, was recaptured and brought back. A prison is not wholly bad--men in prison often have time to study and think, where before such things were impossible. At least they are free from intrusion. Cellini became deeply religious--he read his Bible and the lives of the saints. Ministering angels came to him, and spirits appeared and whispered words of comfort. The man became softened and subdued. He wrote poetry, and recorded his thoughts on many things. In the meantime, his accuser having died, he was given his liberty. He was a better and a wiser man when he came out than when he went in, although one fails to find that he was exactly grateful to his captors. In prison he planned various statues of a religious order. It was in prison, too, that he thought out the Perseus and Medusa. In prison, works like the Pieta were his ambition, but when freedom came the Perseus was uppermost in his mind. Every great work of art is an evolution--the man sees it first as a mere germ--it grows, enlarges, evolves. The Perseus of Cellini was a thought that took years to germinate. The bloody nature of the man and his love of form united, and the world has this wonderful work of art that stands today exactly where its creator placed it, in the Loggia de' Lanzia--that beautiful out-of-door hall on the Piazza Signora at Florence. The naked man, wearing his proud helmet, one foot on the writhing body of the wretched woman, sword in right hand and in the left the dripping head, is a terrible picture. Yet so exquisite is the workmanship that our horror soon evaporates into admiration, and we gaze in wonder. Probably the history of no great work of art has ever been more painstakingly presented than the story of the making of this statue by Cellini. Again and again he was on the point of smashing the clay to chaos, but each time his hand was stayed. Months passed, years went by, and innumerable difficulties were in the way of its completion. Finally he figured out a method to cast it in bronze. And of its final casting no better taste of the man's quality can be given than to let him tell the story himself. Says Cellini: I felt convinced that when my Perseus was accomplished, all my trials would be turned to high felicity and glorious well-being. Accordingly I strengthened my heart, and with all the forces of my body and my purse, employing what little money still remained to me, I set to work. First I provided myself with several loads of pine- wood from the forests of Serristori. While these were on their way, I clothed my Perseus with the clay which I had prepared many months beforehand, in order that it might be duly seasoned. After making its clay tunic (for that is the term used in this art) and properly arming and fencing it with iron girders, I began to draw the wax out by means of slow fire. This melted and issued through numerous air- vents I had made; for the more there are of these, the better will the mold fill. When I had finished drawing off the wax, I constructed a funnel-shaped furnace all round the model of my Perseus. It was built of bricks, so interlaced, the one above the other, that numerous apertures were left for the fire to exhale at. Then I began to lay on wood by degrees, and kept it burning two whole days and nights. At length, when all the wax was gone and the mold was well baked, I set to work at digging the pit in which to sink it. This I performed with scrupulous regard to all the rules of art. When I had finished that part of my work, I raised the mold by windlasses and stout ropes to a perpendicular position, and suspending it with greatest care one cubit above the level of the furnace, so that it hung exactly above the middle of the pit, I next lowered it gently down into the very bottom of the furnace, and had it firmly placed with every possible precaution for its safety. When this delicate operation was accomplished, I began to bank it up with the earth I had excavated; and ever as the earth grew higher, I introduced its proper air-vents, which were little tubes of earthenware, such as folks use for drains and such-like purposes. At length, I felt sure that it was admirably fixed, and that the filling-in of the pit and the placing of the air-vents had been properly performed. I also could see that my work-people understood my method, which differed very considerably from that of all other masters in the trade. Feeling confident, then, that I could rely upon them, I next turned to my furnace, which I had filled with numerous pigs of copper and other bronze stuff. The pieces were piled according to the laws of art, that is to say, so resting one upon another that the flames could play freely through them, in order that the metal might heat and liquefy the sooner. At last I called out heartily to set the furnace going. The logs of pine were heaped in, and, what with the unctuous resin of the wood and the good draft I had given, my furnace worked so well that I was obliged to rush from side to side to keep it from going too fast. The labor was more than I could stand; yet I forced myself to strain every nerve and muscle. To increase my anxieties, the workshop took fire, and we were afraid lest the roof should fall upon our heads; while from the garden such a storm of wind and rain kept blowing in, that it perceptibly cooled the furnace. Battling thus with all these untoward circumstances for several hours, and exerting myself beyond even the measure of my powerful constitution, I could at last bear up no longer, and a sudden fever, of the utmost possible intensity, attacked me. I felt absolutely obliged to go and fling myself upon my bed. Sorely against my will having to drag myself away from the spot, I turned to my assistants, about ten or more in all, what with master-founders, hand-workers, country fellows, and my own special journeymen, among whom was Bernardino Mannellini, my apprentice through several years. To him in particular I spoke: "Look, my dear Bernardino, that you observe the rules which I have taught you; do your best with all dispatch, for the metal will soon be fused. You can not go wrong; these honest men will get the channels ready; you will easily be able to drive back the two plugs with this pair of iron crooks; and I am sure that mold will fill miraculously. I feel more ill that I ever did in all my life, and verily believe that it will kill me before a few hours are over." Thus with despair at heart, I left them, and betook myself to bed. No sooner had I got to bed, than I ordered my serving-maids to carry food and wine for all the men into the workshop; at the same time I cried, "I shall not be alive tomorrow!" They tried to encourage me, arguing that my illness would pass over, since it came from excessive fatigue. In this way I spent two hours battling with the fever, which steadily increased, and calling out continually, "I feel that I am dying." My housekeeper, who was named Mona Fiore da Castel del Rio, a very notable manager and no less warmhearted, kept chiding me for my discouragement; but, on the other hand, she paid me every kind attention which was possible. However, the sight of my physical pain and moral dejection so affected her, that, in spite of that brave heart of hers, she could not refrain from shedding tears; and yet, so far as she was able, she took good care I should not see them. While I was thus terribly afflicted, I beheld the figure of a man enter my chamber, twisted in his body into the form of a capital S. He raised a lamentable, doleful voice, like one who announces his last hour to men condemned to die upon the scaffold, and spoke these words: "O Benvenuto! your statue is spoiled, and there is no hope whatever of saving it!" No sooner had I heard the shriek of that wretch than I gave a howl which might have been heard in hell. Jumping from my bed, I seized my clothes and began to dress. The maids, and my lad, and every one who came around to help me, got kicks or blows of the fist, while I kept crying out in lamentation: "Ah! traitors! enviers! This is an act of treason, done by malice prepense! But I swear by God that I will sift it to the bottom, and before I die will leave such witness to the world of what I can do as shall make a score of mortals marvel." When I got my clothes on, I strode with soul bent on mischief toward the workshop; there I beheld the men, whom I had left erewhile in such high spirits, standing stupefied and downcast. I began at once and spoke: "Up with you! Attend to me! Since you have not been able or willing to obey the directions I gave you, obey me now that I am with you to conduct my work in person. Let no one contradict me, for in cases like this we need the aid of hand and hearing, not of advice." When I had uttered these words, a certain Maestro Alessandro broke silence and said, "Look you, Benvenuto, you are going to attempt an enterprise which the laws of art do not sanction, and which can not succeed." I turned upon him with such fury that he and all the rest of them exclaimed with one voice: "Oh then! Give orders! We will obey your least commands, so long as life is left to us." I believe they spoke thus feelingly because they thought I must fall shortly dead upon the ground. I went immediately to inspect the furnace, and found that the metal was all curdled; an accident which we expressed by being "caked." I told two of the hands to cross the road, and fetch from the house of the butcher Capretta a load of young oak- wood, which had lain dry for above a year. So soon as the first armfuls arrived, I began to fill the grate beneath the furnace. Now oak-wood of that kind heats more powerfully than any other sort of tree; and for this reason, where a slow fire is wanted, as in the case of gun-foundry, alder or pine is preferred. Accordingly, when the logs took fire, oh! how the cake began to stir beneath that awful heat, to glow and sparkle in a blaze! At the same time I kept stirring up the channels, and sent men upon the roof to stop the conflagration, which had gathered force from the increased combustion in the furnace; also I caused boards, carpets, and other hangings to be set up against the garden, in order to protect us from the violence of the rain. When I had thus provided against these several disasters, I roared out first to one man and then to another: "Bring this thing here! Take that thing there!" At this crisis, when the whole gang saw the cake was on the point of melting, they did my bidding, each fellow working with the strength of three. I then ordered half a pig of pewter to be brought, which weighed about sixty pounds, and flung it into the middle of the cake inside the furnace. By this means, and by piling on wood and stirring now with pokers and now with iron rods, the curdling mass rapidly began to liquefy. Then, knowing I had brought the dead to life again, against the firm opinion of those ignoramuses, I felt such vigor fill my veins that all those pains of fever, all those fears of death, were quite forgotten. All of a sudden an explosion took place, attended by a tremendous flash of flame, as though a thunderbolt had formed and been discharged amongst us. Unwonted and appalling terror astonished every one, and me more even than the rest. When the din was over and the dazzling light extinguished, we began to look each other in the face. Then I discovered that the cap of the furnace had blown up, and the bronze was bubbling over from its source beneath. So I had the mouths of my mold immediately opened, and at the same time drove in the two plugs which kept back the molten metal. But I noticed that it did not flow as rapidly as usual, the reason being probably that the fierce heat of the fire we kindled had consumed its base alloy. Accordingly I sent for all my pewter platters, porringers and dishes, to the number of some two hundred pieces, and had a portion of them cast, one by one, into the channels, the rest into the furnace. This expedient succeeded, and every one could now perceive that my bronze was in most perfect liquefaction, and my mold was filling; whereupon they all with heartiness and happy cheer assisted and obeyed my bidding, while I, now here, now there, gave orders, helped with my own hands, and cried aloud: "O God! Thou that by Thy immeasurable power didst rise from the dead, and in Thy glory didst ascend to heaven!" ... even thus in a moment my mold was filled; and seeing my work finished, I fell upon my knees, and with all my heart gave thanks to God. After all was over, I turned to a plate of salad on a bench there, and ate with hearty appetite, and drank together with the whole crew. Afterwards I retired to bed, healthy and happy, for it was now two hours before morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had never felt the touch of illness. My good housekeeper, without my giving any orders, had prepared a fat capon for my repast. So that, when I rose, about the hour for breaking fast, she presented herself with a smiling countenance, and said: "Oh! is that the man who felt that he was dying? Upon my word, I think the blows and kicks you dealt us last night, when you were so enraged, and had that demon in your body as it seemed, must have frightened away your mortal fever!" All my poor household, relieved in like measure from anxiety and overwhelming labor, went at once to buy earthen vessels in order to replace the pewter I had cast away. Then we dined together joyfully; nay, I can not remember a day in my whole life when I dined with greater gladness or a better appetite. Though forms may change, nothing dies. Everything is in circulation. Men, as well as planets, have their orbits. Some have a wider swing than others, but just wait and they will come back. Not only do chickens come home to roost, but so does everything else. The place of Cellini's birth was also the place of his death. The limit of his stay in one place, at one time, it seems, was about two years. The man was a sort of human anachronism--he had in his heart all the beauty and passion of the Renaissance, and carried, too, the savagery and density of the Dark Ages. That his skill as a designer and artificer in the fine metals saved him from death again and again, there is no doubt. Princes, cardinals, popes, dukes and priests protected him simply because he could serve them. He designed altars, caskets, bracelets, vases, girdles, clasps, medals, rings, coins, buttons, seals--a tiara for the Pope, a diadem for an Emperor. With minute and exquisite things he was at his best. The final proof that he was human and his name frailty lies in the fact that he was a busybody. As he worked he always knew what others about him were doing. If they were poor workmen, he encouraged them in a friendly way; if they were beyond him and out of his class, like Michelangelo, he was subservient; but if they were on his plane he hated them with a hatred that was passing speech. There was usually art and a woman hopelessly mixed in his melees. In his migrations he swung between Florence, Pisa, Mantua and Rome, and clear to France when necessary. When he arrived in a town he would soon become a favorite with other skilled workers. Naturally he would be introduced to their lady friends. These ladies were usually "complaisant," to use his own phrase. Soon he would be on very good terms with one or more of them; then would come jealousies; he would tire of the lady, or she of him more probably; then, if she took up with a goldsmith, Benvenuto would hate the pair with a beautiful hatred. He would be sure that they were plotting to undo him: he would listen to their remarks, lie in wait for them, watch their actions, quietly question their friends. Then suddenly some dark night he would spring upon them from behind a corner and cry, "You are all dead folk!" And sometimes they were. Then Cellini would fly without leaving orders where to forward his mail. Getting into another principality, he was comparatively safe-- the place he left was glad to get rid of him, and the new princeling who had taken him up was pleased to secure his skill. Under the new environment, with all troubles behind, he would begin a clean balance-sheet, full of zest and animation. The human heart does not change. Every employing printer, lithographer and newspaper-publisher knows this erratic, brilliant, artistic and troublesome man. He does good service for just so long, then the environment begins to pall upon him: he grows restless, suspicious, uncertain. He is looking for a chance to bolt. Strong drink comes in to hasten the ruction. There is a strike, a fight, an explosion, and our artistic tramp finds himself on the sidewalk. He goes away damning everybody. In two years, or less, he comes back, penitent. Old scores are forgotten, several of the enemy are dead, others have passed on into circulation, and the artistic roustabout is given a desk or a case. Cellini's book is immensely interesting for various reasons, not the least of which is that he pictures, indirectly, that restlessness and nostalgia which only the grave can cure. And at the last our condemnation is swallowed up in pity, and we can only think kindly of one who was his own worst enemy, who succeeded in a few things, and like the rest of us, failed in many. ABBEY As an illustrator, Abbey combined daintiness with a fair measure of dramatic feeling for the pose. A modicum of old Benjamin West's tendency to the grandiose would have done Abbey no harm; but if his imagination balked at the higher flights often attained by Gustave Dore, and sometimes by Elihu Vedder, yet there is a charm in his sobriety, there is something which compels our respect in the workmanlike method, in the evidences of thoroughness which appeared in all he wrought. Some of his Shakespeare figures linger in the memory like that of Iago as played by Edwin Booth, or that of Rosalind as played by Modjeska. --_Charles de Kay_ [Illustration: Abbey] Edwin A. Abbey was born in Philadelphia (not of his own choosing) in the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty-two. His parents were blessed in that they had neither poverty nor riches. Their ambition for Edwin was that he should enter one of the so-called Learned Professions; but this was not to the boy's taste. I fear me he was a heretic through prenatal influences, for they do say that he was a child of his mother. This mother's mind was tinted with her Quaker associations until she doubted the five points of Calvinism and had small faith in the Thirty-nine Articles. She was able to think for herself and act for herself; and as she perceived that the preachers were making a guess, so she discovered that doctors with bushy eyebrows, who wore dogskin gloves in Summer and who coughed when you asked them a question--gaining time to formulate a reply--didn't know much more about measles, mumps, chicken-pox and whooping-cough than she did herself. Philadelphia has always had a plethora of Medical Journals and dogmatic doctors. Living in Philadelphia and having had a little experience with doctors, Mrs. Abbey let them severely alone and prescribed the pediluvium, hop-tea, sulphur and molasses and a roll-up in warm blankets for everything--and with great success. Beyond this she filled the day with work and kept everybody else at work. The moral of Old Deacon Buffum, "Blessed is the man who has found some one to do his work," had no place in her creed. To her, every one had his work that no other could do, and every day had its work which could not be done any other day, and success and health and happiness lay in doing well whatever you attempted. Having eliminated two of the Learned Professions from her ambitions for her boy, the Law was left as the only choice. To be a Philadelphia lawyer is a proud and vaulting ambition. Philadelphia lawyers are exceedingly astute, and are able to confuse the simplest propositions, thus hopelessly befogging judge and jury. On the banks of the Schuylkill all jurors are provided with dice so as to decide the cases with perfect justice--small dice for little cases and large dice for big ones. Philadelphia lawyers carry green bags full of briefs, remarkable for everything but brevity; also statutes, recognizances, tenures, double-vouchers, fines, recoveries, indentures, not to mention quiddities, quillets, quirks and quips. Philadelphia lawyers have high foreheads and many clients. Lawyers are educated men, looked up to and respected by all--this was the Abbey idea. Of course, it will be observed that it was an idea that could be held by people only who had viewed lawyers from a safe distance. Fortunately for the Abbeys, they had really no more use for the lawyers than they had for the two other Learned Professions. Their idea of a lawyer was gained from seeing one pass their house every morning at nine forty-five, for ten years. He wore a high hat, and carried a gold-headed cane in one hand and a green bag in the other. He lived on Walnut Street, below Ninth in a three-story house with white marble steps and white shutters, tied with black strips of bombazine in token of the death of a brother who passed out in infancy. Edwin should be a lawyer, and be an honor to the family name. But alas! Edwin was small and had a low forehead and squint eyes. He didn't care for books--all he would do was draw pictures. Now, all children make pictures--before they can read, they draw. And before they can draw they get the family shears and cut the pictures out of "Harper's Weekly." This boy cut pictures out of "Harper's Weekly" when he wore dresses, and when George William Curtis first filled the Easy Chair. Edwin cut out the pictures, not because they were especially bad, but because he, like all other children, was an artist in the germ; and the artist instinct is to detach the thing, lift it out, set it apart, and then give it away. All children draw pictures, I said, and this is true, but most children can be cured of the habit by patience and an occasional box on the ear, judiciously administered. All children are sculptors, too; that is to say, they want to make things out of mud or dough or wax or putty; but no mother who sets her heart on clean guimpes and pinafores can afford for a moment to indulge in such inclinations. To give children dough, putty and the shears would keep your house in a pretty litter--lawksadaisy! Mrs. Abbey hid the shears, put the "Harper's" on a high shelf and took the boy's pencils away, and threw the putty out into Fourth Street, below Vine. Then the boy had tantrums, and as a compromise got all his playthings back. Yes, this squat, beetle-browed, and bow-legged boy had his way. Beetle-browed, bow-legged folks usually do. Caesar and Cromwell had bow-legs, so had Napoleon, and so have Pierpont Morgan and James J. Hill. Charles the First was knock-kneed. Knock-knees are a deformity; bow-legs an accident. Bulldogs have bow-legs; hounds are knock-kneed. Bow-legs mean will plus--a determination to do--the child insists on walking before the cartilage has turned to bone. Spirit is stronger than matter--hence the Greek curve. Little Edwin Abbey ran the Abbey household and drew because he wanted to--on sidewalks, white steps, kitchen-wall, or the fly- leaves in books. Rumor has it that Edwin Abbey did not get along very well at school --instead of getting his lessons he drew pictures, and thirty years ago such conduct was proof of total depravity. Like the amateur blacksmith who started to make a horseshoe and finally contented himself with a fizzle, the Abbeys gave up theology and law, and decided that if Edwin became a good printer it would be enough. And then, how often printers became writers--then editors and finally proprietors! Edwin might yet own the "Ledger" and have a collection of four hundred seventy-two clocks. Through a mutual friend, Mr. Childs was interviewed and Edwin was set to work in the Typesetting Department of the "Ledger." Evenings and an hour three times a week he sketched in the free class at the Academy of Art. How long he remained in the newspaper work, I do not know, but there came a day when Mr. Childs and his minions, having no use for Edwin, gave him a letter of recommendation to the Art Department of "Harper's Weekly." That George W. Childs had a really firm friendship for young Abbey, there is no doubt. He followed his career with fatherly interest, and was the first man, so far as I know, who had the prophetic vision to see that he would become a great artist. George W. Childs was a many-sided man. He had a clear head for business, was a judge of human nature, a patron of the arts, a collector of rare and curious things, and wrote with clearness, force and elegance. Men of such strong personality have decided likings, and they also have decided aversions. The pet aversion of Childs was tobacco. All through the "Ledger" office were startling signs, "No smoking!" It was never, "Please do not smoke," or "Smoking interferes with Insurance!" Not these--the order was imperative. And the mutability of human affairs, as well as life's little ironies, is now shown in the fact that the name and fame of George W. Childs is deathless through a wonderful five-cent cigar. Whether the use of tobacco had anything to do with young Abbey's breaking with his "Ledger" friends, is a question. Tradition has it that Childs extracted from the youth a promise, on his going away, that he would never use the weed. The Union Square records fail us at times, but it is believed that Abbey kept his promise for fully three weeks. "Edwin Abbey learned to swim by jumping into deep water," says Henry James. A young man in the Art Department of an absurdly punctual periodical, before the Era of the Halftone, just had to draw, and that was all there was about it. Things were happening uptown, downtown, over in Boston, and out as far as Buffalo--and the young men in the Art Department were sent to make pictures. The experience of a reporter develops facility--you have to do the assignment. To write well and rapidly on any subject, the position of reporter on an old-time daily approached the ideal. Even the drone became animated, when the copy must be in inside of two hours. The way to learn to write is to write. But young men will not write of their own free will; the literary first-mate in way of a Managing Editor with a loaded club of expletives is necessary. Or, stay! there is another way to stimulate the ganglionic cells and become dexterous in the cosmic potentiality--the Daily Theme sent to a woman who thinks and feels. That is the way that Goethe acquired his style. There were love-letters that crossed each other daily, and after years of this practise--the sparks a-flying--Goethe found himself the greatest stylist of his day. Love taught him. To write for a daily paper is a great drill, only you must not keep at it too long or you will find yourself bound to the wheel, a part of the roaring machinery. Combine the daily paper with the daily love-letter and you have the ideal condition for forming a literary style; and should you drop out one, why, cleave to the second, would be the advice of a theorist. To draw pictures is simply one way of telling a story. Abbey told the story, and there was soon evidence in better work that he was telling it for Some One. Get a complete file of "Harper's Weekly," say from Eighteen Hundred Seventy-two to Eighteen Hundred Ninety, and you can trace the Evolution of the Art of Edwin Abbey. If any of the Abbey pictures have been removed, the books are chiefly valuable as junk; but if the set can be advertised, as I saw one yesterday, "with all of Abbey's drawings, warranted intact," the set of books commands a price. People are now wisely collecting "Harper's" simply because Abbey was once a part of the Art Department. And the value of the books will increase with the years, for they trace the gradual but sure evolution of a great and lofty soul. Edwin Abbey was nineteen years old when he accepted a position--more properly, secured a job--in the Art Department of Harper's. The records of the office show his salary was seven dollars a week--but it did not stay at that figure always. The young man did not get along well at school, and he was not a success as a printer; but he could focus his force at the end of a pencil, and he did. Transplantation often turns a weed into a flower. It seems a hard saying and a grievous one, but the salvation of many a soul turns on getting away from one's own family. They are wise parents that do not prove a handicap to their children. The good old-fashioned idea was that parents were wholly responsible for their children's coming into the world, and that, therefore, they owned them body and soul until they reached their majority--and even then the restraint was little removed. "Well, and what are you going to make of William?" and "To whom are you going to marry Fanny?" were once common questions. And all the while the fact remains that the child is not God's gift to parents. Children are only God-given tenants. Use them well if you would have them remain with you as the joy of love and life and light. Give the child love and then more love and then love and freedom to live his God-given life. Then all the precepts you would give him for his own good, he will absorb from you and you need not say a word. Trying to teach a child by telling him is worthless and puts you in a bad light. A child has not lost his heavenly vision and sees you as you are, not minding what you say. At Harper's Abbey came into competition with strong men. In the office was a young fellow by the name of Reinhart and another by the name of Alexander--they used to call him Alexander the Great, and he has nearly proved his title. A little later came Howard Pyle, Joseph Fennel and Alfred Parsons. Young Abbey did his work with much good-cheer, and sought to place himself with the best. For a time he drew just like Alexander, then like Reinhart; next, Parsons was his mentor. Finally he drifted out on a sea of his own, and this seems to have been in the year of the Centennial Exhibition. Harper's sent the young man over to Philadelphia, or perhaps he went of his own accord; anyway, he haunted the art-rooms at the Exhibition, and got a lesson there that spurred his genius as it had never been spurred before. He was then twenty-four years old. His salary had been increased to ten dollars a week, fifteen, twenty-five: if he wanted money for "expenses" he applied to the cashier. There is more good honest velvet in an Expense-Account than in the Stock Exchange, which true saying has nothing to do with Abbey. At the "Centennial" Abbey discovered the Arthurian Legend--fell over it, just as William Morris fell over the Icelandic Sagas when past fifty. Abbey had been called the "Stage-Coachman" at Harper's, because he had developed a faculty for picturing old taverns at that exciting moment when horses were being changed and the driver, in a bell-crowned white hat and wonderful waistcoat, tosses his lines to a fellow in tight hair-cut and still tighter breeches, and a woman in big hoops gets out of the stage with many bandboxes and a birdcage. The way Abbey breathed into the scene the breath of life was wonderful--just a touch of comedy, without caricature! "If it is in Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, give it to Abbey," said the Managing Editor, with a growl--for Managing Editors, being beasts, always growl. Abbey and Parsons had walked to Philadelphia and back, taking two weeks for the trip, sketching on the way stagecoaches, taverns, tall houses and old wooden bridges, all pinned together--just these and nothing else, save Independence Hall. Later, they went to Boston and did Faneuil Hall, inside and out, King's Chapel and the State House, and a house or two out Quincyway, including the Adams cottage, where lived two Presidents, and where now resides one William Spear, the only honorary male member of the Daughters of the Revolution. Mr. Spear dominates the artistic bailiwick and performs antique antics for Art's sake: it was Mr. Spear who posed as Tony Lumpkin for Mr. Abbey. Abbey had done Washington Irving's Knickerbocker tales and the various "Washington's Headquarters." He worked exclusively in black and white--crayon, pencil or pen and ink. His hand had taken on a style--powdered wigs, spit-curls, hoops, flaring sunbonnets, cocked hats and the tallyho! These were his properties. He worked from model plus imagination. He had exhausted the antique in America--he thirsted to refresh his imagination in England. The Centennial Exhibition had done its deadly work--Abbey and Parsons were dissatisfied--they wanted to see more. Back of the stagecoach times lay the days of the castle. Back of the musket was the blunderbuss, and back of these were the portcullis, the moat, the spear and coats of mail. A deluxe edition of "Herrick" was proposed by the Publishing Department: some say the Art Department made the suggestion. Anyway, there was a consultation in the manager's office, and young Abbey was to go to England to look up the scene and with his pencil bring the past up to the present. Abbey was going to England, that is just all there was about it, and Harper and Brothers did not propose to lose their hold upon him. Salary was waived, but expenses were advanced, and the understanding was that Abbey was Harper's man. This was in Eighteen Hundred Seventy-eight, with Abbey's twenty-sixth birthday yet to come. Abbey had gone around and bidden everybody good-by, including his old-time chum, Alfred Parsons. Parsons was going to the dock to see him off. "I wish you were going, too," said Edwin, huskily. "I believe I will," said Alfred, swallowing hard. And he did. The Managing Editor growled furiously, but to no avail, for the Cunarder that bore the boys was then well out toward the Banks. It was an American that discovered Stratford; and it is the Peter's pence of American tourists that now largely support the town. At Stratford, Washington Irving jostles the Master for the first place, and when we drink at the George W. Childs fountain we piously pour a libation to all three. Like all bookish and artistic Americans, when Abbey and Parsons thought of England they thought of Shakespeare's England--the England that Washington Irving had made plain. Washington Irving seemed very close to our young men--London held them only a few days and then they started for Stratford. They went afoot, as became men who carried crayons that scorned the steam- horse. They took the road for Oxford and stopped at the tavern where the gossips aver that the author of "Love's Labor's Lost" made love to the landlord's wife--a thing I never would believe, e'en though I knew 't were true. From Oxford the young men made their way to storied Warwick, where the portcullis is raised--or lowered, I do not remember which--every evening at sundown to tap of drum. It is the same old Warwick Castle that Shakespeare knew; the same cedars of Lebanon that he saw; the same screaming peacocks; the same circling rooks and daws, and down across the lazy Avon over the meadows the same skylark vibrates the happy air. Young Abbey saw these things, just as Washington Irving saw them, and he saw them just as the boy William Shakespeare saw them. Nine miles from Warwick lies Stratford. But at Stratford the tourist is loosed; the picnicker is abroad; the voice of the pedant is heard in the land, and the Baconian is upon us. Abbey and Parsons stopped at the Red Horse Inn and slept in the room that Washington Irving occupied, and they do say now that Irving occupied every room in the house. Stratford was not to the liking of our friends. They wanted to be in the Shakespeare country for six months, that was what the Managing Editor said--six months, mind you. But they did not want to study the tourist. They wanted to be just a little off the beaten track of travel, away from the screech of the locomotive, where they could listen and hear the echoes of a tallyho horn, the crack of the driver's whip, and the clatter of the coming stagecoach. The village of Broadway is twelve miles from Stratford, and five miles from the nearest railway-station. The worst thing about the place for a New-Yorker is the incongruity of the name. In Broadway not a new house has been built for a century, and several of the buildings date back four hundred years. Abbey and Parsons found a house they were told was built in Fifteen Hundred Sixty-three. The place was furnished complete, done by those who had been dust a hundred years. The rafters overhead were studded with handmade nails, where used to hang the flitches of bacon and bunches of dried herbs; the cooking would have to be performed in the fireplace or in the Dutch oven; funny little cupboards were in the corners; and out behind the cottage stretched a God's half-acre of the prettiest flower-garden ever seen, save the one at Bordentown where lived Abbey's ladylove. The rent was ten pounds a year. They jumped at it--and would have taken it just the same had it been twice as much. An old woman who lived across the street was hired as housekeeper, and straightway our artists threw down their kits and said, like Lincoln, "We have moved." The beauty and serene peace of middle England is passing words. No wonder the young artists could not paint for several weeks--they just drank it in. Finally they settled down to work--Seventeenth-Century models were all around, and a look up the single street would do for a picture. Parsons painted what he saw; Abbey painted what he saw plus what he imagined. Six months went by, and the growls of the Managing Editor back in New York were quieted with a few sketches. Parsons had tried water- color with good results; and Abbey followed with an Arthurian sketch--a local swain as model. Several pictures had been sent down to London--which is up--and London approved. Abbey was elected a member of "The Aquarellists," just as a little later the Royal Academy was to open its doors, unsolicited, for him. Two years had gone, and new arrangements must be made with Harper's. Abbey returned to America with a trunkful of sketches--enough good stuff to illustrate several "Herricks." He remained in New York eight months, long enough to see the book safely launched, and to close up his business affairs in Philadelphia. And the Shakespeare country has been his home ever since. An artist's work is his life--where he can work best is his home. Patriotism isn't quite so bad as old Ursa Major said, but the word is not to be found in the bright lexicon of Art. The artist knows no country. His home is the world, and those who love the beautiful are his brethren. Abbey has remained in England, not that he loves America less, nor England more, but because the Shakespeare country has a flavor of antiquity about it that fits his artistic mood--it is a good place to work. An artist's work is his life. At "Morgan Hall," Fairford, only a few miles from where Abbey first made his home in England, he now lives and works. Near by lives Mary Anderson, excellent and gentle woman, wife and mother, who used to storm the one-night stands most successfully. The place is old, vine-clad, built in sections running over a space of three hundred years. So lost is it amid the great spreading beeches that you have to look twice before you see the house from the road. Happily married to a most worthy woman whose only thought is to minister to her household, the days pass. That Mrs. Abbey never doubts her liege is not only the greatest artist, but the greatest man in all England, is a most pleasing fact. She believes in him, and she gives him peace. The Kansas Contingent may question whether a woman's career is complete who thus lives within her home, and for her household, but to me the old-fashioned virtues seem very hard to improve upon. Industry, truth, trust and abiding loyalty--what a bulwark of defense for a man who has a message for the world! There is a goodly brood of little Abbeys--I dare not say how many. I believe it was nine a year ago, with an addition since. They run wild and free along the hedgerows and under the beeches, and if it rains there are the stables, kennels and the finest attic that ever was. Back of the house and attached to it Mr. Abbey has built a studio forty feet wide by seventy-five long, and twenty feet high. It is more than a studio--it is a royal workshop such as Michelangelo might have used for equestrian statues, or cartoons to decorate a palace for the Pope. Dozens of pictures, large and small, are upon the easels. Arms, armor, furniture, are all about, while on the shelves are vases and old china enough to fill the heart of a collector to surfeit. In chests and wardrobes are velvets, brocades and antique stuffs and costumes, all labeled, numbered and catalogued, so as to be had when wanted. This studio was built especially to accommodate the paintings for the Boston Public Library. The commission was given in Eighteen Hundred Ninety, and the last of the decorations has just been put in place, in this year of grace, Nineteen Hundred One. Abbey's paintings in the Boston Public Library cover in all something over a thousand square feet of space, and form quite the noblest specimen of mural decoration in America. Orders were given to John S. Sargent and Puvis de Chavannes at the same time that contracts were closed with Abbey. Chavannes was the first man to get his staging up and the first to get it down. He died two years ago, so it is hardly meet to draw a moral about the excellence of doing things with neatness and dispatch. Sargent's "Prophets" cover scarcely one-tenth of the space assigned him, and the rest is bare white walls, patiently awaiting his brush. Recently he was asked when he would complete the task, and he replied, "Never, unless I learn to paint better than I do now--Abbey has discouraged me!" I need not attempt to describe Abbey's work in the Boston Library--a full account of it can be found in the first magazine you pick up. But it is a significant fact that Abbey himself is not wholly pleased with it. "Give me a little time," he says, "and I'll do something worth while." These words were spoken half in jest, but there is no doubt that the artist, now in the fulness of his powers, in perfect health, in love with life, sees before him work to do of such vast worth that all that lies behind seems but a preparation for that which is yet to come. The question is sometimes asked, "What becomes of all the Valedictorians and Class-Day Poets?" I can give information as to two parties for whom inquiry is made: the Valedictorian of my Class is now a worthy Floorwalker in Siegel, Cooper and Company's; and I was the Class-Day Poet. Both of us had our eyes on the Goal. We stood on the threshold and looked out upon the World preparatory to going forth, seizing it by the tail and snapping its head off for our own delectation. We had our eyes fixed on the Goal--it might better have been the Gaol. It was a very absurd thing for us to fix our eyes on the Goal. It strained our vision and took our attention from our work. To think of the Goal is to travel the distance over and over in your mind and dwell on how awfully far off it is. We have so little mind --doing business on such a small capital of intellect--that to wear it threadbare looking for a far-off thing is to get hopelessly stranded in Siegel, Cooper and Company's. Siegel, Cooper and Company's is all right, too, but the point is this--it wasn't the Goal! A goodly dash of indifference is a requisite in the formula for doing a great work. Nobody knows what the Goal is--we are sailing under sealed orders. Do your work today, doing it the best you can, and live one day at a time. The man that does this is conserving his God-given energy, and not spinning it out into tenuous spider-threads that Fate will probably brush away. To do your work well today is the surest preparation for something better tomorrow--the past is gone, the future we can not reach, the present only is ours. Each day's work is a preparation for the next. Live in the present--the Day is here, the time is Now. Edwin A. Abbey seems to be the perfect type of man, who by doing all his work well, with no vaulting ambitions, has placed himself right in the line of evolution. He is evolving into something better, stronger and nobler all the time. That is the only thing worth praying for--to be in the line of evolution. WHISTLER Art happens--no hovel is safe from it, no Prince may depend upon it, the vastest intelligence can not bring it about, and puny efforts to make it universal end in quaint comedy, and coarse farce. --_The "Ten-o'Clock" Lecture_ [Illustration: Whistler] The Eternal Paradox of Things is revealed in the fact that the men who have toiled most for peace, beauty and harmony have usually lived out their days in discord, and in several instances died a malefactor's death. Just how much discord is required in God's formula for a successful life, no one knows, but it must have a use, for it is always there. Seen from a distance, out of the range of the wordy shrapnel, the literary scrimmage is amusing. "Gulliver's Travels" made many a heart ache, but it only gladdens ours. Pope's "Dunciad" sent shivers of fear down the spine of all artistic England, but we read it for the rhyme, and insomnia. Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" gave back to the critics what they had given out--to their great surprise and indignation, and our amusement. Keats died from the stab of a pen, they say, and whether 't was true or not we know that now a suit of Cheviot is sufficient shield. "We love him for the enemies he has made"--to have friends is a great gain, but to achieve an enemy is distinction. Ruskin's "Modern Painters" is a reply to the contumely that sought to smother Turner under an avalanche of abuse; but since the enemy inspired it, and it made the name and fame of both Ruskin and Turner, why should they not hunt out the rogues in Elysium and purchase ambrosia? Whistler's "The Gentle Art of Making Enemies" is a bit of sharpshooter sniping at the man who was brave enough to come to the rescue of Turner, and who afterward proved his humanity by adopting the tactics of the enemy, working the literary stinkpot to repel impressionistic boarders. No friend could have done for Whistler what Ruskin did. Before Ruskin threw an ink-bottle at him, as Martin Luther did at the Devil, he was one of several; after the bout he was as one set apart. When we think of Whistler, if we listen closely we can hear the echo of shrill calls of recrimination, muffled reveilles of alarm-- pamphlet answering unto pamphlet across seas of misunderstanding-- vituperations manifold, and recurring themes of rabid ribaldry--all forming a lurid Symphony in Red. John Davidson has dedicated a book to his enemy, thus: "Unwilling Friend, let not thy spite abate: help me with scorn, and strengthen me with hate." The general tendency to berate the man of superior talent would seem to indicate, as before suggested, that disparagement has some sort of compensation in it. Possibly it is the governor that keeps things from going too fast--the opposition of forces that holds the balance true. But almost everything can be overdone; and the fact remains that without encouragement and faith from without, the stoutest heart will in time grow faint and doubt itself. It hears the yelping of the pack, and there creeps in the question, "What if they are right?" Then come the longing and the necessity for the word of praise, the clasp of a kindly hand, and the look that reassures. Occasionally the undiscerning make remarks, slightly tinged with muriatic acid, concerning the ancient and honorable cult known as the Mutual Admiration Society. My firm belief is, that no man ever did or can do a great work alone--he must be backed up by the Mutual Admiration Society. It may be a very small Society--in truth, I have known Chapters where there were only two members, but there was such trust, such faith, such a mutual uplift, that an atmosphere was formed wherein great work was done. In Galilee even the Son of God could do no great work, on account of the unbelief of the people. "Fellowship is heaven and lack of fellowship is hell," said William Morris. And he had known both. Some One must believe in you. And through touching finger-tips with this Some One, we may get in the circuit, and thus reach out to all. Self-Reliance is very excellent, but as for independence, there is no such thing. We are a part of the great Universal Life; and as one must win approval from himself, so he must receive corroboration from others: having this approval from the Elect Few, the opinions of the many matter little. How little we know of the aspirations that wither unexpressed, and of the hopes that perish for want of the right word spoken at the right time! Out in the orchard, as I write, I see thousands and thousands of beautiful blossoms that will never become fruit for lack of vitalization--they die because they are alone. Thoughts materialize into deeds only when Some One vitalizes by approval. Every good thing is loved into life. Great men have ever come in groups, and the Mutual Admiration Society always figures largely. To enumerate instances would be to inflict good folks with triteness and truism. I do not wish to rob my reader of his rights--think it out for yourself, beginning with Concord and Cambridge, working backward adown the centuries. There are two Whistlers. One tender as a woman, sensitive as a child--thirsting for love, friendship and appreciation--a dreamer of dreams, seeing visions and mounting to the heavens on the wings of his soaring fancy. This is the real Whistler. And there has always been a small Mutual Admiration Society that has appreciated, applauded and loved this Whistler; to them he has always been "Jimmy." The other Whistler is the jaunty little man in the funny, straight- brimmed high hat--cousin to the hat John D. Long wore for twenty years. This man in the long black coat, carrying a bamboo wand, who adjusts his monocle and throws off an epigram, who confounds the critics, befogs the lawyers, affronts millionaires from Colorado, and plays pitch and toss with words, is the Whistler known to newspaperdom. And Grub Street calls him "Jimmy," too, but the voice of Grub Street is guttural and in it is no tender cadence--it is tone that tells, not the mere word: I have been addressed with an endearing phrase when the words stabbed. Grub Street sees only the one man and goes straightway after him with a snickersnee. To use the language of Judge Gaynor, "This artistic Jacques of the second part protects the great and tender soul of the party of the first part." That is it--his name is Jacques: Whistler is a fool. The fools were the wisest men at court. Shakespeare, who dearly loved a fool, belonging to the breed himself, placed his wisest sayings into the mouths of men who wore the motley. When he adorned a man with cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds for both that man's humanity and intelligence. Neither Shakespeare nor any other writer of good books ever dared depart so violently from truth as to picture a fool whose heart was filled with pretense and perfidy. The fool is not malicious. Stupid people may think he is, because his language is charged with the lightning's flash; but these be the people who do not know the difference between an incubator and an eggplant. Touchstone, with unfailing loyalty, follows his master with quip and quirk into exile. When all, even his daughters, had forsaken King Lear, the fool bares himself to the storm and covers the shaking old man with his own cloak; and when in our day we meet the avatars of Trinculo, Costard, Mercutio and Jacques, we find they are men of tender susceptibilities, generous hearts and lavish souls. Whistler shakes his cap, flourishes his bauble, tosses that fine head, and with tongue in cheek, asks questions and propounds conundrums that pedantry can never answer. Hence the ink-bottle, with its mark on the walls at Eisenach, and at Coniston. Every man of worth is two men--sometimes many. In fact, Doctor George Vincent, the psychologist, says, "We never treat two persons in exactly the same manner." If this is so, and I suspect it is, the person we are with dictates our mental process and thus controls our manners--he calls out the man he wishes to see. Certain sides of our nature are revealed only to certain persons. And I can understand, too, how there can be a Holy of Holies, closed and barred forever against all except the One. And in the absence of this One, I can also understand how the person can go through life, and father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends and companions never guess the latent excellence that lies concealed. We defend and protect this Holy of Holies from the vulgar gaze. There are two ways to guard and keep alive the sacred fires; one is to flee to convent, monastery or mountain and there live alone with God; the other is to mix and mingle with men and wear a coat of mail in way of manner. Women whose hearts are well-nigh bursting with grief will often be the gayest of the gay; men whose souls are corroding with care-- weighted down with sorrow too great for speech--are often those who set the table in a roar. The assumed manner, continued, evolves into a pose. Pose means position, and the pose is usually a position of defense. All great people are poseurs. Men pose so as to keep the mob back while they can do their work. Without the pose, the garden of a poet's fancy would look like McKinley's front yard at Canton in the fall of Ninety-six. That is to say, without the pose the poet would have no garden, no fancy, no nothing--and there would be no poet. Yet I am quite willing to admit that a man might assume a pose and yet have nothing to protect; but I stoutly maintain that pose in such a one is transparent to every one as the poles that support a scarecrow, simply because the pose never becomes habitual. With the great man pose becomes a habit--and then it is not a pose. When a man lies and admits he lies, he tells the truth. Whistler has been called the greatest poseur of his day; and yet he is the most sincere and truthful of men--the very antithesis of hypocrisy and sham. No man ever hated pretense more. Whistler is an artist, and the soul of the man is revealed in his work--not in his hat, nor yet his bamboo cane, nor his long black coat, much less the language which he uses, Talleyrand-like, to conceal his thought. Art has been his wife, his children and his religion. Art has said to him, "Thou shalt have no other gods before me," and he has obeyed the mandate. That picture of his mother in the Luxembourg is the most serious thing in the whole collection--so gentle, so modest, so appealing, so charged with tenderness. It is classed by the most competent critics of today along with the greatest works of the old masters. We find upon the official roster of the fine arts of France this tribute opposite the name of Whistler, "Portrait of the mother of the author, a masterpiece destined for the eternal admiration of future generations, combining in its tone-power and magnificence the qualities of a Rembrandt, a Titian, a Velasquez." The picture does not challenge you--you have to hunt it out, and you have to bring something to it, else 't will not reveal itself. There is no decrepitude in the woman's face and form, but someway you read into the picture the story of a great and tender love and a long life of useful effort. And now as the evening shadows gather, about to fade off into gloom, the old mother sits there alone, poised, serene: husband gone, children gone--her work is done. Twilight comes. She thinks of the past in gratitude, and gazes wistfully out into the future, unafraid. It is the tribute that every well-born son would like to pay to the mother who loved him into being, whose body nourished him, whose loving arms sustained him, whose unfaltering faith and appreciation encouraged him to do and to become. She was his wisest critic, his best friend--his mother! The father of Whistler the artist, Major George Washington Whistler, was a graduate of West Point, and a member of the United States Corps of Engineers. He was an active, practical and useful man--a skilful draftsman and mathematician, and a man of affairs who could undertake a difficult task and carry it through to completion. Such men are always needed, in the army and out of it. Responsibility gravitates to the man who can shoulder it. Such men as Major Whistler are not tied to a post--they go where they are needed. When George Washington Whistler was a cadet at West Point, there came to visit the place Doctor Swift and his beautiful young daughter, Mary. She took the Military School by storm; at least, she held captive the hearts of all the young men there--so they said. And in very truth the heart of one young man was prisoner, for Major Whistler married Miss Swift soon after. To them were born Deborah, the Major's only daughter, who married Doctor Seymour Hayden of London, a famous surgeon and still more famous etcher; George, who became an engineer and railway manager; and two years later, Joseph. And when Joe was two years old, this beautiful wife, aged twenty- three, passed away, and young Major Whistler and his three babies were left alone. At West Point Whistler had a friend named McNeill, son of Doctor C. D. McNeill, of Wilmington, North Carolina--a classmate--with whom he had been closely associated since graduation. McNeill had a sister, Anna Matilda, a great soul, serious and strong. At length Whistler took his motherless brood--including himself--to her and she accepted them all. I bow my head to the stepmother who loves into manhood and womanhood children whom another has loved into life. She must have a great heart already expanded by love to do this. Naturally the mother-love grows with the child--that is what children are for, to enlarge the souls of the parents. But at the beginning of womanhood, Anna Matilda McNeill was great enough to enfold in her heart and arms the children of the man she loved and make them hers. In the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty-four, Major Whistler and his wife were living in Lowell, Massachusetts, where the Major was superintending the construction of the first of those wonderful waterways that tirelessly turn ten thousand spindles. And Fate would have it so, that here at Lowell, in a little house on Worthing Street, was born the first of the five sons of Major Whistler and his wife, Anna Matilda. And they called the name of the child James Abbott McNeill Whistler--an awful big name for a very small baby. About the time this peevish little pigmy was put into short dresses, his father resigned his position in the United States Army to accept a like position with the Czar of Russia. The first railroad constructed in Russia, from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, was built under the superintendence of Major Whistler, who also designed various bridges, viaducts, tunnels and other engineering feats for Adam Zad, who walks like a man, and who paid him princely sums for his services. Americans not only fill the teeth of royalty, but we furnish the Old World machinery, ideas and men. For every twenty-five thousand men they supply us, we send them back one, and the one we send them is worth more than the twenty-five thousand they send us. Schenectady is today furnishing the engines and supplying engineers to teach engineers for the transcontinental Siberian railway. When you take "The Flying Scotchman" from London to Edinburgh you ride in a Pullman car, with all the appurtenances, even to a Gould coupler, a Westinghouse air-brake, and a dusky George from North Carolina, who will hit you three times with the butt of a brush-broom and expect a bob as recompense. You feel quite at home. Then when you see that the Metropolitan Railway of London is managed by a man from Chicago, and that all trains of "the underground" are being equipped with the Edison incandescent light; and you note further that a New York man has morganized the transatlantic steamship-lines, you agree with William T. Stead that, "America may be raw and crude, but she is producing a race of men--men of power, who can think and act." Coupled with the Englishman's remarkable book, "The Americanization of the World," there is an art criticism by Bernard Shaw, who comes from a race that will not pay rent, strangely enough living in London, content, with no political aspirations, who says, "The three greatest painters of the time are of American parentage--Abbey, Sargent and Whistler; and of these, Whistler has had greater influence on the artists of today than any other man of his time." But let us swing back and take a look at the Whistlers in Russia. Little Jimmy never had a childhood: the nearest he came to it was when his parents camped one Summer with the "construction gang." That Summer with the workers and toilers, among the horses, living out of doors--eating at the campfire and sleeping under the sky--was the boy's one glimpse of paradise. "My ambition then was to be the foreman of a construction gang--and it is yet," said the artist in describing that brief, happy time to a friend. The child of well-to-do parents, but homeless, living in hotels and boarding-houses, is awfully handicapped. Children are only little animals, and travel is their bane and scourge. They belong on the ground, among the leaves and flowers and tall grass--in the trees or digging in sand piles. Hotel hallways, table-d'hote dinners and the clash of travel, are all terrible perversions of Nature's intent. Yet the boy survived--eager, nervous, energetic. He acquired the Russian language, of course, and then he learned to speak French, as all good Russians must. "He speaks French like a Russ," is the highest compliment a Parisian can pay you. The boy's mother was his tutor, companion, playmate. They read together, drew pictures together, and played the piano, four hands. Honors came to the hard-working engineer--decorations, ribbons, medals, money--and more work. The poor man was worked to death. The Czar paid every honor to the living and dead that royalty can give. When the family left Saint Petersburg with the body of their loved one, His Imperial Majesty ordered his private carriage to be placed at their disposal. And honors awaited the dead here. A monument in the cemetery at Stonington, Connecticut, erected by the Society of American Engineers, marks the spot where he sleeps. The stricken mother was back in America, and James was duly entered at West Point. The mother's ideal was her husband--in his life she had lived and moved--and that James should do what he had done, become the manly man that he had become, was her highest wish. The boy was already an acceptable draftsman, and under the tutelage of Professor Robert Weir he made progress. West Point does not teach such a soft and feminine thing as picture-painting--it draws plans of redoubts and fortifications, makes maps, and figures on the desirability of tunnels, pontoons and hidden mines. Robert Weir taught all these things, and on Saturdays painted pictures for his own amusement. In the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington is a taste of his quality--the large panel entitled, "The Departure of the Pilgrims." Tradition has it that young Whistler assisted his teacher on this work. Weir succeeded in getting his pupil heartily sick of the idea of grim-visaged war as a business. He hated the thought of doing things on order, especially killing men when told. "The soldier's profession is only one remove from the business of Jack Ketch, who hangs men and then salves his conscience with the plea that some one told him to do it," said Whistler. If he remained at West Point he would become an army officer and Uncle Sam or the Czar would own him and order him to do things. Weir declared he was absurd, but the Post Surgeon said he was nervous and needed a change. In truth, West Point disliked Jimmy as much as he disliked West Point, and he was recommended for discharge. Mother and son sailed away for London, intending to come back in time for the next term. The young man took one souvenir from West Point that was to stand by him. In a sham battle, during a charge, his horse went down, and the cavalcade behind went right over horse and rider. When picked up and carried out of the scrimmage, Cadet Whistler was unconscious, and the doctors said his skull was fractured. However, his whipcord vitality showed itself in a quick recovery; but a white lock of hair soon appeared to mark the injured spot, to be a badge of distinction and a delight to the caricaturist forever. In London the mother and son found lodgings out towards Chelsea. No doubt the literary traditions attracted them. Only a few squares away lived Rossetti, with a wonderful collection of blue china, giving lessons in painting. There were weekly receptions at his house, where came Burne-Jones, William Morris, Madox Brown and many other excellent people. Down a narrow street near by, lived a grumpy Scotchman, by the name of Carlyle, whose portrait Whistler was later to paint, and although Carlyle had no use for Rossetti, yet Mrs. Whistler and her boy liked them both. It came time to return to America if the young man was to graduate at West Point. But they decided to go over to Paris so James could study art for a few months. They never came back to America. Whistler, the coxcomb, had Ruskin haled before the tribunal and demanded a thousand pounds as salve for his injured feelings because the author of "Stones of Venice" was colorblind, lacking in imagination, and possessed of a small magazine wherein he briskly told of men, women and things he did not especially admire. The case was tried, and the jury decided for Whistler, giving him one farthing damages. But this was success--it threw the costs on Ruskin, and called the attention of the world to the absurdity of condemning things that are, at the last, a mere matter of individual taste. Whistler was once asked by a fellow artist to criticize a wondrous chromatic combination that the man had thrown off in an idle hour. Jimmy adjusted his monocle and gazed long. "And what do you think of it?" asked the painter standing by. "Oh, just a little more green, a little more green [pause and slight cough] but that is your affair." Whistler painted the "Nocturne," and that was his affair. If Ruskin did not think it beautiful, that was his affair; but when Ruskin went one step further and accused the painter of trying to hoodwink the world for a matter of guineas, attacking the man's motives, he exceeded the legitimate limits of criticism, and his public rebuke was deserved. In matter of strictest justice, however, it may be as well to say that Whistler was quite as blind to the beauty of Ruskin's efforts for the betterment of humanity as Ruskin was to the excellence of Whistler's pictures. And if Ruskin had been in the humor for litigation he might have sued Whistler and got a shilling damages because Whistler once averred: "The Society of Saint George is a scheme for badgering the unfortunate, and should be put down by the police. God knows the poor suffer enough without being patronized!" Mr. Whistler was once summoned as a witness in a certain suit where the purchaser of a picture had refused to pay for it. The cross- examination ran something like this: "You are a painter of pictures?" "Yes." "And know the value of pictures?" "Oh, no!" "At least you have your own ideas about values?" "Certainly!" "And you recommended the defendant to buy this picture for two hundred pounds?" "I did." "Mr. Whistler, it is reported that you received a goodly sum for this recommendation--is there anything in that?" "Oh, nothing, I assure you [yawning]--nothing but the indelicacy of the suggestion." The critics found much joy, several years ago, in tracing out the fact that Whistler spent a year at Madrid copying Velasquez. That he, like Sargent, has been benefited and inspired by the sublime art of the Spaniard there is no doubt, but there is nothing in the charge that he is an imitator of Velasquez, save the indelicacy of the suggestion. It was a comparison of Velasquez and Whistler, and a warm assurance that his name would live with that of the great Spaniard, that led Whistler to launch that little question, now a classic, "Why drag in Velasquez?" The great lesson that Whistler has taught the world is to observe; and this he got from the Japanese. Lafcadio Hearn has said that the average citizen of Japan detects tints and shades that are absolutely unseen by Western eyes. Livingston found tribes in Africa that had never seen pictures of any kind, and he had great difficulty in making them perceive that the figure of a man, drawn on a piece of paper a foot square, really was designed for a man. "Man big--paper little--no good!" was the criticism of a chief. The chief wanted to hear the voice of the man before he would believe it was meant for a man. This savage chief was a great person, no doubt, in his own bailiwick, but he lacked imagination to bridge the gap between a real man and the repeated strokes of a pencil on a bit of paper. The Japanese--any Japanese--would have been delighted by Whistler's "Nocturne." Ruskin wasn't. He had never seen the night, and therefore he declared that Whistler had "flung a pot of paint in the face of the public." That men should dogmatize concerning things where the senses alone supply the evidence, is only another proof of man's limitations. We live in a peewee world which our senses create and declare that outside of what we see, smell, taste and hear there is nothing. It is twenty-five thousand miles around the earth--stellar space is not computable; and man can walk in a day about thirty miles. Above the ground he can jump about four feet. In a city his unaided ear can hear his friend call about two hundred feet. As for smell, he really has almost lost the sense; and taste, through the use of stimulants and condiments, has likewise nearly gone. Man can see and recognize another man a quarter of a mile away, but at the same distance is practically color-blind. Yet we were all quite willing to set ourselves up as standards until science came with spectroscope, telephone, microscope and Roentgen ray to force upon us the fact that we are tiny, undeveloped and insignificant creatures, with sense quite unreliable and totally unfit for final decisions. Whistler sees more than other men. He has taught us to observe, and he has taught the art world to select. Oratory does not consist in telling it all--you select the truth you wish to drive home; in literature, in order to make your point, you must leave things out; and in painting you must omit. Selection is the vital thing. The Japanese see one single lily-stalk swaying in the breeze and the hazy, luminous gray of the atmosphere in which it is bathed--just these two things. They give us these, and we are amazed and delighted. Whistler has given us the night--not the black, inky, meaningless void which has always stood for evil; not the darkness, the mere absence of light, the prophet had in mind when he said, "And there shall be no night there"--not that. The prophet thought the night was objectionable, but we know that the continual glare of the sun would quickly destroy all animal or vegetable life. In fact, without the night there would be no animal or vegetable life, and no prophet would have existed to suggest the abolition of night as a betterment. In the night there are flowers that shed their finest perfume, lifting up their hearts in gladness, and all nature is renewed for the work of the coming day. We need the night for rest, for dreams, for forgetfulness. Whistler saw the night--this great, transparent, dark-blue fold that tucks us in for one-half our time. The jaded, the weary and the heavy-laden at last find peace--the day is done, the grateful night is here. Turner said you could not paint a picture and leave man out. Whistler very seldom leaves man out, although I believe there is one "Nocturne" wherein only the stars and the faint rim of the silver moon keep guard. But usually we see the dim suggestion of the bridge's arch, the ghostly steeples, lights lost in the enfolding fog, vague purple barges on the river, and ships rocking solemnly in the offing--all strangely mellow with peace, and subtle thoughts of stillness, rest, dreams and sleep. The critics have all shied their missiles at Whistler, and he has gathered up the most curious and placed them on exhibition in a catalog entitled, "Etching and Dry Points." This document gives a list of fifty-one of his best-known productions, and beneath each item is a testimonial or two from certain worthies who thought the thing rubbish and said so. If you want to see a copy of the catalog you can examine it in the "treasure-room" of most any of the big public libraries; or should you wish to own one, a chance collector in need of funds might be willing to disengage himself from a copy for some such trifle as twenty-five dollars or so. Whistler's book, "The Gentle Art," contains just one good thing, although the touch of genius is revealed in the title, which is as follows: "The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, as pleasingly exemplified in many instances wherein the serious ones of this earth, carefully exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to unseemliness and indiscretion, while overcome by an undue sense of right." The dedication runs thus: "To the rare Few who early in life have rid themselves of the Friendship of the Many, these pathetic papers are inscribed." The one excellent thing in the book is the "Ten o'Clock" lecture. It is a classic, revealing such a distinct literary style that one is quite sure its author could have evolved symphonies in words, as well as color, had he chosen. However, this lecture is a sequence, leaping hot from the heart, and would not have been written had the author not been "carefully exasperated and prettily spurred on, while overcome by an undue sense of right." Let us all give thanks to the enemy who exasperated him. There is a great temptation to produce the lecture entire, but this would be to invite a lawsuit, so we will have to be content with a few scrapings from the palette: Listen! There never was an artistic period. There never was an Art-Loving Nation. In the beginning, men went forth each day--some to do battle, some to the chase; others, again, to dig and to delve in the field--all that they might gain and live, or lose and die. Until there was found among them one, differing from the rest, whose pursuits attracted him not, and so he stayed by the tents with the women, and traced strange devices with a burnt stick upon a gourd. This man, who took no joy in the way of his brethren--who cared not for conquest, and fretted in the field--this designer of quaint patterns--this deviser of the beautiful--who perceived in Nature about him curious curvings, as faces are seen in the fire--this dreamer apart was the first artist. And when, from the field and afar, there came back the people, they took the gourd--and drank from out of it. And presently there came to this man another--and, in time, others-- of like nature, chosen by the gods--and so they worked together; and soon they fashioned, from the moistened earth, forms resembling the gourd. And with the power of creation, the heirloom of the artist, presently they went beyond the slovenly suggestion of Nature, and the first vase was born, in beautiful proportion. * * * * * And the Amateur was unknown--and the Dilettante undreamed of. And history wrote on, and conquest accompanied civilization, and Art spread, or rather its products were carried by the victors among the vanquished from one country to another. And the customs of cultivation covered the face of the earth, so that all peoples continued to use what the artist alone produced. And centuries passed in this using, and the world was flooded with all that was beautiful, until there arose a new class, who discovered the cheap, and foresaw a fortune in the facture of the sham. Then sprang into existence the tawdry, the common, the gewgaw. The taste of the tradesman supplanted the science of the artist, and what was born of the million went back to them, and charmed them, for it was after their own heart; and the great and the small, the statesman and the slave, took to themselves the abomination that was tendered, and preferred it--and have lived with it ever since. And the artist's occupation was gone, and the manufacturer and the huckster took his place. And now the heroes filled from the jugs and drank from the bowls-- with understanding--noting the glare of their new bravery, and taking pride in its worth. And the people--this time--had much to say in the matter--and all were satisfied. And Birmingham and Manchester arose in their might, and Art was relegated to the curiosity-shop. * * * * * Nature contains the elements, in color and form, of all pictures, as the keyboard contains the notes of all music. * * * * * The artist is born to pick, and choose, and group with science these elements, that the result may be beautiful--as the musician gathers his notes, and forms his chords, until he bring forth from chaos glorious harmony. To say to the painter, that Nature is to be taken as she is, is to say to the player, that he may sit on the piano. That Nature is always right, is an assertion, artistically, as untrue, as it is one whose truth is universally taken for granted. Nature is very rarely right, to such an extent even, that it might almost be said that Nature is usually wrong: that is to say, the condition of things that shall bring about the perfection of harmony worthy a picture is rare, and not common at all. * * * * * The sun blares, the wind blows from the east, the sky is bereft of cloud, and without, all is of iron. The windows of the Crystal Palace are seen from all points of London. The holiday-maker rejoices in the glorious day, and the painter turns aside to shut his eyes. How little this is understood, and how dutifully the casual in Nature is accepted as sublime, may be gathered from the unlimited admiration daily produced by a very foolish sunset. The dignity of the snow-capped mountain is lost in distinctness, but the joy of the tourist is to recognize the traveler on the top. The desire to see, for the sake of seeing, is, with the mass alone, the one to be gratified, hence the delight in detail. But when the evening mist clothes the riverside with poetry, as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose themselves in the dim sky, and the tall chimneys become campanili, and the warehouses are palaces in the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens, and fairyland is before us--then the wayfarer hastens home; the workingman and the cultured one, the wise man and the one of pleasure, cease to understand, as they have ceased to see, and Nature, who for once has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to the artist alone--her son and her master--her son in that he loves her, her master in that he knows her. To him her secrets are unfolded, to him her lessons have become gradually clear. He looks at the flower, not with the enlarging lens, that he may gather facts for the botanist, but with the light of the one who sees in her choice selection of brilliant tones and delicate tints, suggestions of infinite harmonies. He does not confine himself to purposeless copying, without thought, each blade of grass, as commended by the inconsequent, but in the long curve of the narrow leaf, corrected by the straight, tall stem, he learns how grace is wedded to dignity, how strength enhances sweetness, that elegance shall be the result. In the citron wing of the pale butterfly, with its dainty spots of orange, he sees before him the stately halls of fair gold, with their slender saffron pillars, and is taught how the delicate drawing high upon the walls shall be traced in tender tones of orpiment, and repeated by the base in notes of graver hue. In all that is dainty and lovable he finds hints for his own combinations, and thus is Nature ever his resource and always at his service, and to him is naught refused. Through his brain, as through the last alembic, is distilled the refined essence of that thought which began with the Gods, and which they left him to carry out. Set apart by them to complete their works, he produces that wondrous thing called the masterpiece, which surpasses in perfection all that they have contrived in what is called Nature; and the Gods stand by and marvel, and perceive how far away more beautiful is the Venus of Melos than was their own Eve. * * * * * And now from their midst the Dilettante stalks abroad. The Amateur is loosed. The voice of the Aesthete is heard in the land, and catastrophe is upon us. * * * * * Where the Artist is, there Art appears, and remains with him--loving and fruitful--turning never aside in moments of hope deferred--of insult--and of ribald misunderstanding; and when he dies she sadly takes her flight: though loitering yet in the land, from fond association, but refusing to be consoled. With the man, then, and not with the multitude, are her intimacies; and in the book of her life the names inscribed are few--scant, indeed, the list of those who have helped to write her story of love and beauty. From the sunny morning, when, with her glorious Greek relenting, she yielded up the secret of repeated line, as with his hand in hers together they marked in marble, the measured rhyme of lovely limb and draperies flowing in unison, to the day when she dipped the Spaniard's brush in light and air, and made his people live within their frames, that all nobility, and sweetness, and tenderness, and magnificence should be theirs by right, ages had gone by, and few had been her choice. * * * * * Therefore have we cause to be merry!--and to cast away all care-- resolved that all is well--as it ever was--and that it is not meet that we should be cried at, and urged to take measures. Enough have we endured of dulness! Surely are we weary of weeping, and our tears have been cozened from us falsely, for they have called us woe! when there was no grief--and where all is fair! We have then but to wait--until, with the mark of the Gods upon him --there come among us again the chosen--who shall continue what has gone before. Satisfied that, even were he never to appear, the story of the beautiful is already complete--hewn in the marbles of the Parthenon, and broidered, with the birds, upon the fan of Hokusai, at the foot of Fujiyama. 
4998	----	This eBook was produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Distributed Proofreaders team. The Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci Volume 1 Translated by Jean Paul Richter 1888 PREFACE. A singular fatality has ruled the destiny of nearly all the most famous of Leonardo da Vinci's works. Two of the three most important were never completed, obstacles having arisen during his life-time, which obliged him to leave them unfinished; namely the Sforza Monument and the Wall-painting of the Battle of Anghiari, while the third--the picture of the Last Supper at Milan--has suffered irremediable injury from decay and the repeated restorations to which it was recklessly subjected during the XVIIth and XVIIIth centuries. Nevertheless, no other picture of the Renaissance has become so wellknown and popular through copies of every description. Vasari says, and rightly, in his Life of Leonardo, "that he laboured much more by his word than in fact or by deed", and the biographer evidently had in his mind the numerous works in Manuscript which have been preserved to this day. To us, now, it seems almost inexplicable that these valuable and interesting original texts should have remained so long unpublished, and indeed forgotten. It is certain that during the XVIth and XVIIth centuries their exceptional value was highly appreciated. This is proved not merely by the prices which they commanded, but also by the exceptional interest which has been attached to the change of ownership of merely a few pages of Manuscript. That, notwithstanding this eagerness to possess the Manuscripts, their contents remained a mystery, can only be accounted for by the many and great difficulties attending the task of deciphering them. The handwriting is so peculiar that it requires considerable practice to read even a few detached phrases, much more to solve with any certainty the numerous difficulties of alternative readings, and to master the sense as a connected whole. Vasari observes with reference to Leonardos writing: "he wrote backwards, in rude characters, and with the left hand, so that any one who is not practised in reading them, cannot understand them". The aid of a mirror in reading reversed handwriting appears to me available only for a first experimental reading. Speaking from my own experience, the persistent use of it is too fatiguing and inconvenient to be practically advisable, considering the enormous mass of Manuscripts to be deciphered. And as, after all, Leonardo's handwriting runs backwards just as all Oriental character runs backwards--that is to say from right to left--the difficulty of reading direct from the writing is not insuperable. This obvious peculiarity in the writing is not, however, by any means the only obstacle in the way of mastering the text. Leonardo made use of an orthography peculiar to himself; he had a fashion of amalgamating several short words into one long one, or, again, he would quite arbitrarily divide a long word into two separate halves; added to this there is no punctuation whatever to regulate the division and construction of the sentences, nor are there any accents--and the reader may imagine that such difficulties were almost sufficient to make the task seem a desperate one to a beginner. It is therefore not surprising that the good intentions of some of Leonardo s most reverent admirers should have failed. Leonardos literary labours in various departments both of Art and of Science were those essentially of an enquirer, hence the analytical method is that which he employs in arguing out his investigations and dissertations. The vast structure of his scientific theories is consequently built up of numerous separate researches, and it is much to be lamented that he should never have collated and arranged them. His love for detailed research--as it seems to me--was the reason that in almost all the Manuscripts, the different paragraphs appear to us to be in utter confusion; on one and the same page, observations on the most dissimilar subjects follow each other without any connection. A page, for instance, will begin with some principles of astronomy, or the motion of the earth; then come the laws of sound, and finally some precepts as to colour. Another page will begin with his investigations on the structure of the intestines, and end with philosophical remarks as to the relations of poetry to painting; and so forth. Leonardo himself lamented this confusion, and for that reason I do not think that the publication of the texts in the order in which they occur in the originals would at all fulfil his intentions. No reader could find his way through such a labyrinth; Leonardo himself could not have done it. Added to this, more than half of the five thousand manuscript pages which now remain to us, are written on loose leaves, and at present arranged in a manner which has no justification beyond the fancy of the collector who first brought them together to make volumes of more or less extent. Nay, even in the volumes, the pages of which were numbered by Leonardo himself, their order, so far as the connection of the texts was concerned, was obviously a matter of indifference to him. The only point he seems to have kept in view, when first writing down his notes, was that each observation should be complete to the end on the page on which it was begun. The exceptions to this rule are extremely few, and it is certainly noteworthy that we find in such cases, in bound volumes with his numbered pages, the written observations: "turn over", "This is the continuation of the previous page", and the like. Is not this sufficient to prove that it was only in quite exceptional cases that the writer intended the consecutive pages to remain connected, when he should, at last, carry out the often planned arrangement of his writings? What this final arrangement was to be, Leonardo has in most cases indicated with considerable completeness. In other cases this authoritative clue is wanting, but the difficulties arising from this are not insuperable; for, as the subject of the separate paragraphs is always distinct and well defined in itself, it is quite possible to construct a well-planned whole, out of the scattered materials of his scientific system, and I may venture to state that I have devoted especial care and thought to the due execution of this responsible task. The beginning of Leonardo's literary labours dates from about his thirty-seventh year, and he seems to have carried them on without any serious interruption till his death. Thus the Manuscripts that remain represent a period of about thirty years. Within this space of time his handwriting altered so little that it is impossible to judge from it of the date of any particular text. The exact dates, indeed, can only be assigned to certain note-books in which the year is incidentally indicated, and in which the order of the leaves has not been altered since Leonardo used them. The assistance these afford for a chronological arrangement of the Manuscripts is generally self evident. By this clue I have assigned to the original Manuscripts now scattered through England, Italy and France, the order of their production, as in many matters of detail it is highly important to be able to verify the time and place at which certain observations were made and registered. For this purpose the Bibliography of the Manuscripts given at the end of Vol. II, may be regarded as an Index, not far short of complete, of all Leonardo s literary works now extant. The consecutive numbers (from 1 to 1566) at the head of each passage in this work, indicate their logical sequence with reference to the subjects; while the letters and figures to the left of each paragraph refer to the original Manuscript and number of the page, on which that particular passage is to be found. Thus the reader, by referring to the List of Manuscripts at the beginning of Volume I, and to the Bibliography at the end of Volume II, can, in every instance, easily ascertain, not merely the period to which the passage belongs, but also exactly where it stood in the original document. Thus, too, by following the sequence of the numbers in the Bibliographical index, the reader may reconstruct the original order of the Manuscripts and recompose the various texts to be found on the original sheets--so much of it, that is to say, as by its subject-matter came within the scope of this work. It may, however, be here observed that Leonardo s Manuscripts contain, besides the passages here printed, a great number of notes and dissertations on Mechanics, Physics, and some other subjects, many of which could only be satisfactorily dealt with by specialists. I have given as complete a review of these writings as seemed necessary in the Bibliographical notes. In 1651, Raphael Trichet Dufresne, of Paris, published a selection from Leonardo's writings on painting, and this treatise became so popular that it has since been reprinted about two-and-twenty times, and in six different languages. But none of these editions were derived from the original texts, which were supposed to have been lost, but from early copies, in which Leonardo's text had been more or less mutilated, and which were all fragmentary. The oldest and on the whole the best copy of Leonardo's essays and precepts on Painting is in the Vatican Library; this has been twice printed, first by Manzi, in 1817, and secondly by Ludwig, in 1882. Still, this ancient copy, and the published editions of it, contain much for which it would be rash to hold Leonardo responsible, and some portions--such as the very important rules for the proportions of the human figure--are wholly wanting; on the other hand they contain passages which, if they are genuine, cannot now be verified from any original Manuscript extant. These copies, at any rate neither give us the original order of the texts, as written by Leonardo, nor do they afford any substitute, by connecting them on a rational scheme; indeed, in their chaotic confusion they are anything rather than satisfactory reading. The fault, no doubt, rests with the compiler of the Vatican copy, which would seem to be the source whence all the published and extensively known texts were derived; for, instead of arranging the passages himself, he was satisfied with recording a suggestion for a final arrangement of them into eight distinct parts, without attempting to carry out his scheme. Under the mistaken idea that this plan of distribution might be that, not of the compiler, but of Leonardo himself, the various editors, down to the present day, have very injudiciously continued to adopt this order--or rather disorder. I, like other enquirers, had given up the original Manuscript of the Trattato della Pittura for lost, till, in the beginning of 1880, I was enabled, by the liberality of Lord Ashburnham, to inspect his Manuscripts, and was so happy as to discover among them the original text of the best-known portion of the Trattato in his magnificent library at Ashburnham Place. Though this discovery was of a fragment only--but a considerable fragment--inciting me to further search, it gave the key to the mystery which had so long enveloped the first origin of all the known copies of the Trattato. The extensive researches I was subsequently enabled to prosecute, and the results of which are combined in this work, were only rendered possible by the unrestricted permission granted me to investigate all the Manuscripts by Leonardo dispersed throughout Europe, and to reproduce the highly important original sketches they contain, by the process of "photogravure". Her Majesty the Queen graciously accorded me special permission to copy for publication the Manuscripts at the Royal Library at Windsor. The Commission Centrale Administrative de l'Institut de France, Paris, gave me, in the most liberal manner, in answer to an application from Sir Frederic Leighton, P. R. A., Corresponding member of the Institut, free permission to work for several months in their private collection at deciphering the Manuscripts preserved there. The same favour which Lord Ashburnham had already granted me was extended to me by the Earl of Leicester, the Marchese Trivulsi, and the Curators of the Ambrosian Library at Milan, by the Conte Manzoni at Rome and by other private owners of Manuscripts of Leonardo's; as also by the Directors of the Louvre at Paris; the Accademia at Venice; the Uffizi at Florence; the Royal Library at Turin; and the British Museum, and the South Kensington Museum. I am also greatly indebted to the Librarians of these various collections for much assistance in my labours; and more particularly to Monsieur Louis Lalanne, of the Institut de France, the Abbate Ceriani, of the Ambrosian Library, Mr. Maude Thompson, Keeper of Manuscripts at the British Museum, Mr. Holmes, the Queens Librarian at Windsor, the Revd Vere Bayne, Librarian of Christ Church College at Oxford, and the Revd A. Napier, Librarian to the Earl of Leicester at Holkham Hall. In correcting the Italian text for the press, I have had the advantage of valuable advice from the Commendatore Giov. Morelli, Senatore del Regno, and from Signor Gustavo Frizzoni, of Milan. The translation, under many difficulties, of the Italian text into English, is mainly due to Mrs. R. C. Bell; while the rendering of several of the most puzzling and important passages, particularly in the second half of Vol. I, I owe to the indefatigable interest taken in this work by Mr. E. J. Poynter R. A. Finally I must express my thanks to Mr. Alfred Marks, of Long Ditton, who has most kindly assisted me throughout in the revision of the proof sheets. The notes and dissertations on the texts on Architecture in Vol. II I owe to my friend Baron Henri de Geymuller, of Paris. I may further mention with regard to the illustrations, that the negatives for the production of the "photo-gravures" by Monsieur Dujardin of Paris were all taken direct from the originals. It is scarcely necessary to add that most of the drawings here reproduced in facsimile have never been published before. As I am now, on the termination of a work of several years' duration, in a position to review the general tenour of Leonardos writings, I may perhaps be permitted to add a word as to my own estimate of the value of their contents. I have already shown that it is due to nothing but a fortuitous succession of unfortunate circumstances, that we should not, long since, have known Leonardo, not merely as a Painter, but as an Author, a Philosopher, and a Naturalist. There can be no doubt that in more than one department his principles and discoveries were infinitely more in accord with the teachings of modern science, than with the views of his contemporaries. For this reason his extraordinary gifts and merits are far more likely to be appreciated in our own time than they could have been during the preceding centuries. He has been unjustly accused of having squandered his powers, by beginning a variety of studies and then, having hardly begun, throwing them aside. The truth is that the labours of three centuries have hardly sufficed for the elucidation of some of the problems which occupied his mighty mind. Alexander von Humboldt has borne witness that "he was the first to start on the road towards the point where all the impressions of our senses converge in the idea of the Unity of Nature" Nay, yet more may be said. The very words which are inscribed on the monument of Alexander von Humboldt himself, at Berlin, are perhaps the most appropriate in which we can sum up our estimate of Leonardo's genius: "Majestati naturae par ingenium." LONDON, April 1883. F. P. R. CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. PROLEGOMENA AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE BOOK ON PAINTING Clavis Sigillorum and Index of Manuscripts.--The author's intention to publish his MSS. (1).--The preparation of the MSS. for publication (2).--Admonition to readers (3).--The disorder in the MSS. (4).--Suggestions for the arrangement of MSS. treating of particular subjects (5--8).--General introductions to the book on painting (9--13).--The plan of the book on painting (14--17).--The use of the book on painting (18).--Necessity of theoretical knowledge (19, 20).--The function of the eye (21--23).--Variability of the eye (24).--Focus of sight (25).--Differences of perception by one eye and by both eyes (26--29).--The comparative size of the image depends on the amount of light (30--39). II. LINEAR PERSPECTIVE General remarks on perspective (40--41).--The elements of perspective:--of the point (42--46).--Of the line (47--48).--The nature of the outline (49).--Definition of perspective (50).--The perception of the object depends on the direction of the eye (51).--Experimental proof of the existence of the pyramid of sight (52--55).--The relations of the distance point to the vanishing point (55--56).--How to measure the pyramid of vision (57).--The production of the pyramid of vision (58--64).--Proof by experiment (65--66).--General conclusions (67).--That the contrary is impossible (68).--A parallel case (69).--The function of the eye, as explained by the camera obscura (70--71).--The practice of perspective (72--73).--Refraction of the rays falling upon the eye (74--75).--The inversion of the images (76).--The intersection of the rays (77--82).--Demonstration of perspective by means of a vertical glass plane (83--85.)--The angle of sight varies with the distance (86--88).--Opposite pyramids in juxtaposition (89).--On simple and complex perspective (90).--The proper distance of objects from the eye (91--92).--The relative size of objects with regard to their distance from the eye (93--98).--The apparent size of objects denned by calculation (99--106).--On natural perspective (107--109). III. SIX BOOKS ON LIGHT AND SHADE GENERAL INTRODUCTION.--Prolegomena (110).--Scheme of the books on light and shade (111).--Different principles and plans of treatment (112--116).--Different sorts of light (117--118).--Definition of the nature of shadows (119--122).--Of the various kinds of shadows (123--125).--Of the various kinds of light (126--127).--General remarks (128--129).--FIRST BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE.--On the nature of light (130--131).--The difference between light and lustre (132--135).--The relations of luminous to illuminated bodies (136). --Experiments on the relation of light and shadow within a room (137--140).--Light and shadow with regard to the position of the eye (141--145).--The law of the incidence of light (146--147).--SECOND BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE.--Gradations of strength in the shadows (148--149).--On the intensity of shadows as dependent on the distance from the light (150--152).--On the proportion of light and shadow (153--157).--THIRD BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE.--Definition of derived shadow (158--159).--Different sorts of derived shadows (160--162).--On the relation of derived and primary shadow (163--165).--On the shape of derived shadows (166--174).--On the relative intensity of derived shadows (175--179).--Shadow as produced by two lights of different size (180--181).--The effect of light at different distances (182).--Further complications in the derived shadows (183--187).--FOURTH BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE.--On the shape of cast shadows (188--191).--On the outlines of cast shadows (192--195).--On the relative size of cast shadows (196. 197).--Effects on cast shadows by the tone of the back ground (198).--A disputed proposition (199).--On the relative depth of cast shadows (200--202).--FIFTH BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE.--Principles of reflection (203. 204).--On reverberation (205).--Reflection on water (206. 207).--Experiments with the mirror (208--210).--Appendix:--On shadows in movement (211--212).--SIXTH BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE.--The effect of rays passing through holes (213. 214).--On gradation of shadows (215. 216).--On relative proportion of light and shadows (216--221). IV. PERSPECTIVE OF DISAPPEARANCE Definition (222. 223).--An illustration by experiment (224).--A guiding rule (225).---An experiment (226).--On indistinctness at short distances (227--231).--On indistinctness at great distances (232--234).--The importance of light and shade in the Prospettiva de' perdimenti (235--239).--The effect of light or dark backgrounds on the apparent size of objects (240--250).--Propositions on Prospettiva de' perdimenti from MS. C. (250--262). V. THEORY OF COLOURS The reciprocal effects of colours on objects placed opposite each other (263--271).--Combination of different colours in cast shadows (272).--The effect of colours in the camera obscura (273. 274).--On the colours of derived shadows (275. 276).--On the nature of colours (277. 278).--On gradations in the depth of colours (279. 280).--On the reflection of colours (281--283).--On the use of dark and light colours in painting (284--286).--On the colours of the rainbow (287--288). VI. PERSPECTIVE OF COLOUR AND AERIAL PERSPECTIVE General rules (289--291).--An exceptional case (292).--An experiment (293).--The practice of the Prospettiva de' colori (294).--The rules of aerial perspective (295--297).--On the relative density of the atmosphere (298--299).--On the colour of the atmosphere (300--307). VII. ON THE PROPORTIONS AND ON THE MOVEMENTS OF THE HUMAN FIGURE Preliminary observations (308. 309).--Proportions of the head and face (310--318).--Proportions of the head seen in front (319--321).--Proportions of the foot (322--323).--Relative proportions of the hand and foot (324).--Relative proportions of the foot and of the face (325--327).--Proportions of the leg (328--331).--On the central point of the whole body (332).--The relative proportions of the torso and of the whole figure (333).--The relative proportions of the head and of the torso (334).--The relative proportions of the torso and of the leg (335. 336).--The relative proportions of the torso and of the foot (337).--The proportions of the whole figure (338--341).--The torso from the front and back (342).--Vitruvius' scheme of proportions (343).--The arm and head (344).--Proportions of the arm (345--349).--The movement of the arm (350--354).--The movement of the torso (355--361).--The proportions vary at different ages (362--367).--The movement of the human figure (368--375).--Of walking up and down (375--379).--On the human body in action (380--388).--On hair falling down in curls (389).--On draperies (390--392). VIII. BOTANY FOR PAINTERS, AND ELEMENTS OF LANDSCAPE PAINTING Classification of trees (393).--The relative thickness of the branches to the trunk (394--396).--The law of proportion in the growth of the branches (397--402).--The direction of growth (403--407).--The forms of trees (408--411).--The insertion of the leaves (412--419).--Light on branches and leaves (420--422).--The proportions of light and shade in a leaf (423--426).--Of the transparency of leaves (427--429).--The gradations of shade and colour in leaves (430--434).--A classification of trees according to their colours (435).--The proportions of light and shade in trees (436--440).--The distribution of light and shade with reference to the position of the spectator (441--443).--The effects of morning light (444--448).--The effects of midday light (449).--The appearance of trees in the distance (450--451).--The cast shadow of trees (452. 453).--Light and shade on groups of trees (454--457).--On the treatment of light for landscapes (458--464).--On the treatment of light for views of towns (465--469).--The effect of wind on trees (470--473).--Light and shade on clouds (474--477).--On images reflected in water (478).--Of rainbows and rain (479. 480).--Of flower seeds (481). IX. THE PRACTICE OF PAINTING I. MORAL PRECEPTS FOR THE STUDENT OF PAINTING.--How to ascertain the dispositions for an artistic career (482).--The course of instruction for an artist (483--485).--The study of the antique (486. 487).--The necessity of anatomical knowledge (488. 489).--How to acquire practice (490).--Industry and thoroughness the first conditions (491--493.)--The artist's private life and choice of company (493. 494).--The distribution of time for studying (495-- 497).--On the productive power of minor artists (498--501).--A caution against one-sided study (502).--How to acquire universality (503--506).--Useful games and exercises (507. 508).--II. THE ARTIST'S STUDIO.--INSTRUMENTS AND HELPS FOR THE APPLICATION OF PERSPECTIVE.--ON JUDGING OF A PICTURE.--On the size of the studio (509).--On the construction of windows (510--512).--On the best light for painting (513--520).--On various helps in preparing a picture (521--530).--On the management of works (531. 532).--On the limitations of painting (533--535).--On the choice of a position (536. 537).--The apparent size of figures in a picture (538. 539).--The right position of the artist, when painting and of the spectator (540--547).--III. THE PRACTICAL METHODS OF LIGHT AND SHADE AND AERIAL PERSPECTIVE.--Gradations of light and shade (548).--On the choice of light for a picture (549--554).--The distribution of light and shade (555--559).--The juxtaposition of light and shade (560. 561).--On the lighting of the background (562--565).--On the lighting of white objects (566).--The methods of aerial perspective (567--570).--IV. OF PORTRAIT AND FIGURE PAINTING.--Of sketching figures and portraits (571. 572).--The position of the head (573).--Of the light on the face (574--576).--General suggestions for historical pictures (577--581).--How to represent the differences of age and sex (582. 583).--Of representing the emotions (584).--Of representing imaginary animals (585).--The selection of forms (586--591).--How to pose figures (592).--Of appropriate gestures (593--600).--V. SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPOSITIONS.--Of painting battle-pieces (601--603).--Of depicting night-scenes (604).--Of depicting a tempest (605. 606).--Of representing the deluge (607--609).--Of depicting natural phenomena (610. 611).--VI. THE ARTIST'S MATERIALS.--Of chalk and paper (612--617).--On the preparation and use of colours (618--627).--Of preparing the panel (628).--The preparation of oils (629--634).--On varnishes (635-- 637).--On chemical _materials (638--650).--VII. PHILOSOPHY AND HISTORY OF THE ART OF PAINTING.--The relation of art and nature (651. 652).--Painting is superior to poetry (653. 654).--Painting is superior to sculpture (655. 656).--Aphorisms (657--659).--On the history of painting (660. 661).--The painter's scope (662). X. STUDIES AND SKETCHES FOR PICTURES AND DECORATIONS On pictures of the Madonna (663).--Bernardo di Bandino's portrait (664).--Notes on the Last Supper (665--668).--On the battle of Anghiari (669).--Allegorical representations referring to the duke of Milan (670--673).--Allegorical representations (674--678).--Arrangement of a picture (679).--List of drawings (680).--Mottoes and Emblems (681--702). The author's intention to publish his MSS. 1. How by a certain machine many may stay some time under water. And how and wherefore I do not describe my method of remaining under water and how long I can remain without eating. And I do not publish nor divulge these, by reason of the evil nature of men, who would use them for assassinations at the bottom of the sea by destroying ships, and sinking them, together with the men in them. Nevertheless I will impart others, which are not dangerous because the mouth of the tube through which you breathe is above the water, supported on air sacks or cork. [Footnote: The leaf on which this passage is written, is headed with the words _Casi_ 39, and most of these cases begin with the word '_Come_', like the two here given, which are the 26th and 27th. 7. _Sughero_. In the Codex Antlanticus 377a; 1170a there is a sketch, drawn with the pen, representing a man with a tube in his mouth, and at the farther end of the tube a disk. By the tube the word '_Channa_' is written, and by the disk the word '_sughero_'.] The preparation of the MSS. for publication. 2. When you put together the science of the motions of water, remember to include under each proposition its application and use, in order that this science may not be useless.-- [Footnote: A comparatively small portion of Leonardo's notes on water-power was published at Bologna in 1828, under the title: "_Del moto e misura dell'Acqua, di L. da Vinci_".] Admonition to readers. 3. Let no man who is not a Mathematician read the elements of my work. The disorder in the MSS. 4. Begun at Florence, in the house of Piero di Braccio Martelli, on the 22nd day of March 1508. And this is to be a collection without order, taken from many papers which I have copied here, hoping to arrange them later each in its place, according to the subjects of which they may treat. But I believe that before I am at the end of this [task] I shall have to repeat the same things several times; for which, O reader! do not blame me, for the subjects are many and memory cannot retain them [all] and say: 'I will not write this because I wrote it before.' And if I wished to avoid falling into this fault, it would be necessary in every case when I wanted to copy [a passage] that, not to repeat myself, I should read over all that had gone before; and all the more since the intervals are long between one time of writing and the next. [Footnote: 1. In the history of Florence in the early part of the XVIth century _Piero di Braccio Martelli_ is frequently mentioned as _Commissario della Signoria_. He was famous for his learning and at his death left four books on Mathematics ready for the press; comp. LITTA, _Famiglie celebri Italiane_, _Famiglia Martelli di Firenze_.--In the Official Catalogue of MSS. in the Brit. Mus., New Series Vol. I., where this passage is printed, _Barto_ has been wrongly given for Braccio. 2. _addi 22 di marzo 1508_. The Christian era was computed in Florence at that time from the Incarnation (Lady day, March 25th). Hence this should be 1509 by our reckoning. 3. _racolto tratto di molte carte le quali io ho qui copiate_. We must suppose that Leonardo means that he has copied out his own MSS. and not those of others. The first thirteen leaves of the MS. in the Brit. Mus. are a fair copy of some notes on physics.] Suggestions for the arrangement of MSS treating of particular subjects.(5-8). 5. Of digging a canal. Put this in the Book of useful inventions and in proving them bring forward the propositions already proved. And this is the proper order; since if you wished to show the usefulness of any plan you would be obliged again to devise new machines to prove its utility and thus would confuse the order of the forty Books and also the order of the diagrams; that is to say you would have to mix up practice with theory, which would produce a confused and incoherent work. 6. I am not to blame for putting forward, in the course of my work on science, any general rule derived from a previous conclusion. 7. The Book of the science of Mechanics must precede the Book of useful inventions.--Have your books on anatomy bound! [Footnote: 4. The numerous notes on anatomy written on loose leaves and now in the Royal collection at Windsor can best be classified in four Books, corresponding to the different character and size of the paper. When Leonardo speaks of '_li tua libri di notomia_', he probably means the MSS. which still exist; if this hypothesis is correct the present condition of these leaves might seem to prove that he only carried out his purpose with one of the Books on anatomy. A borrowed book on Anatomy is mentioned in F.O.] 8. The order of your book must proceed on this plan: first simple beams, then (those) supported from below, then suspended in part, then wholly [suspended]. Then beams as supporting other weights [Footnote: 4. Leonardo's notes on Mechanics are extraordinarily numerous; but, for the reasons assigned in my introduction, they have not been included in the present work.]. General introductions to the book on Painting (9-13). 9. INTRODUCTION. Seeing that I can find no subject specially useful or pleasing--since the men who have come before me have taken for their own every useful or necessary theme--I must do like one who, being poor, comes last to the fair, and can find no other way of providing himself than by taking all the things already seen by other buyers, and not taken but refused by reason of their lesser value. I, then, will load my humble pack with this despised and rejected merchandise, the refuse of so many buyers; and will go about to distribute it, not indeed in great cities, but in the poorer towns, taking such a price as the wares I offer may be worth. [Footnote: It need hardly be pointed out that there is in this 'Proemio' a covert irony. In the second and third prefaces, Leonardo characterises his rivals and opponents more closely. His protest is directed against Neo-latinism as professed by most of the humanists of his time; its futility is now no longer questioned.] 10. INTRODUCTION. I know that many will call this useless work [Footnote: 3. questa essere opera inutile. By opera we must here understand libro di pittura and particularly the treatise on Perspective.]; and they will be those of whom Demetrius [Footnote: 4. Demetrio. "With regard to the passage attributed to Demetrius", Dr. H. M�LLER STR�BING writes, "I know not what to make of it. It is certainly not Demetrius Phalereus that is meant and it can hardly be Demetrius Poliorcetes. Who then can it be--for the name is a very common one? It may be a clerical error for Demades and the maxim is quite in the spirit of his writings I have not however been able to find any corresponding passage either in the 'Fragments' (C. MULLER, _Orat. Att._, II. 441) nor in the Supplements collected by DIETZ (_Rhein. Mus._, vol. 29, p. 108)." The same passage occurs as a simple Memorandum in the MS. Tr. 57, apparently as a note for this '_Proemio_' thus affording some data as to the time where these introductions were written.] declared that he took no more account of the wind that came out their mouth in words, than of that they expelled from their lower parts: men who desire nothing but material riches and are absolutely devoid of that of wisdom, which is the food and the only true riches of the mind. For so much more worthy as the soul is than the body, so much more noble are the possessions of the soul than those of the body. And often, when I see one of these men take this work in his hand, I wonder that he does not put it to his nose, like a monkey, or ask me if it is something good to eat. [Footnote: In the original, the Proemio dì prospettiva cioè dell'uffitio dell'occhio (see No. 21) stands between this and the preceding one, No. 9.] INTRODUCTION. I am fully concious that, not being a literary man, certain presumptuous persons will think that they may reasonably blame me; alleging that I am not a man of letters. Foolish folks! do they not know that I might retort as Marius did to the Roman Patricians [Footnote 21: _Come Mario disse ai patriti Romani_. "I am unable to find the words here attributed by Leonardo to Marius, either in Plutarch's Life of Marius or in the Apophthegmata (_Moralia_, p.202). Nor do they occur in the writings of Valerius Maximus (who frequently mentions Marius) nor in Velleius Paterculus (II, 11 to 43), Dio Cassius, Aulus Gellius, or Macrobius. Professor E. MENDELSON of Dorpat, the editor of Herodian, assures me that no such passage is the found in that author" (communication from Dr. MULLER STRUBING). Leonardo evidently meant to allude to some well known incident in Roman history and the mention of Marius is the result probably of some confusion. We may perhaps read, for Marius, Menenius Agrippa, though in that case it is true we must alter Patriti to Plebei. The change is a serious one. but it would render the passage perfectly clear.] by saying: That they, who deck themselves out in the labours of others will not allow me my own. They will say that I, having no literary skill, cannot properly express that which I desire to treat of [Footnote 26: _le mie cose .... che d'altra parola_. This can hardly be reconciled with Mons. RAVAISSON'S estimate of L. da Vinci's learning. "_Leonard de Vinci etait un admirateur et un disciple des anciens, aussi bien dans l'art que dans la science et il tenait a passer pour tel meme aux yeux de la posterite._" _Gaz. des Beaux arts. Oct. 1877.]; but they do not know that my subjects are to be dealt with by experience rather than by words [Footnote 28: See Footnote 26]; and [experience] has been the mistress of those who wrote well. And so, as mistress, I will cite her in all cases. 11. Though I may not, like them, be able to quote other authors, I shall rely on that which is much greater and more worthy:--on experience, the mistress of their Masters. They go about puffed up and pompous, dressed and decorated with [the fruits], not of their own labours, but of those of others. And they will not allow me my own. They will scorn me as an inventor; but how much more might they--who are not inventors but vaunters and declaimers of the works of others--be blamed. INTRODUCTION. And those men who are inventors and interpreters between Nature and Man, as compared with boasters and declaimers of the works of others, must be regarded and not otherwise esteemed than as the object in front of a mirror, when compared with its image seen in the mirror. For the first is something in itself, and the other nothingness.--Folks little indebted to Nature, since it is only by chance that they wear the human form and without it I might class them with the herds of beasts. 12. Many will think they may reasonably blame me by alleging that my proofs are opposed to the authority of certain men held in the highest reverence by their inexperienced judgments; not considering that my works are the issue of pure and simple experience, who is the one true mistress. These rules are sufficient to enable you to know the true from the false--and this aids men to look only for things that are possible and with due moderation--and not to wrap yourself in ignorance, a thing which can have no good result, so that in despair you would give yourself up to melancholy. 13. Among all the studies of natural causes and reasons Light chiefly delights the beholder; and among the great features of Mathematics the certainty of its demonstrations is what preeminently (tends to) elevate the mind of the investigator. Perspective, therefore, must be preferred to all the discourses and systems of human learning. In this branch [of science] the beam of light is explained on those methods of demonstration which form the glory not so much of Mathematics as of Physics and are graced with the flowers of both [Footnote: 5. Such of Leonardo's notes on Optics or on Perspective as bear exclusively on Mathematics or Physics could not be included in the arrangement of the _libro di pittura_ which is here presented to the reader. They are however but few.]. But its axioms being laid down at great length, I shall abridge them to a conclusive brevity, arranging them on the method both of their natural order and of mathematical demonstration; sometimes by deduction of the effects from the causes, and sometimes arguing the causes from the effects; adding also to my own conclusions some which, though not included in them, may nevertheless be inferred from them. Thus, if the Lord--who is the light of all things--vouchsafe to enlighten me, I will treat of Light; wherefore I will divide the present work into 3 Parts [Footnote: 10. In the middle ages--for instance, by ROGER BACON, by VITELLONE, with whose works Leonardo was certainly familiar, and by all the writers of the Renaissance Perspective and Optics were not regarded as distinct sciences. Perspective, indeed, is in its widest application the science of seeing. Although to Leonardo the two sciences were clearly separate, it is not so as to their names; thus we find axioms in Optics under the heading Perspective. According to this arrangement of the materials for the theoretical portion of the _libro di pittura_ propositions in Perspective and in Optics stand side by side or occur alternately. Although this particular chapter deals only with Optics, it is not improbable that the words _partirò la presente opera in 3 parti_ may refer to the same division into three sections which is spoken of in chapters 14 to 17.]. The plan of the book on Painting (14--17). 14. ON THE THREE BRANCHES OF PERSPECTIVE. There are three branches of perspective; the first deals with the reasons of the (apparent) diminution of objects as they recede from the eye, and is known as Diminishing Perspective.--The second contains the way in which colours vary as they recede from the eye. The third and last is concerned with the explanation of how the objects [in a picture] ought to be less finished in proportion as they are remote (and the names are as follows): Linear Perspective. The Perspective of Colour. The Perspective of Disappearance. [Footnote: 13. From the character of the handwriting I infer that this passage was written before the year 1490.]. 15. ON PAINTING AND PERSPECTIVE. The divisions of Perspective are 3, as used in drawing; of these, the first includes the diminution in size of opaque objects; the second treats of the diminution and loss of outline in such opaque objects; the third, of the diminution and loss of colour at long distances. [Footnote: The division is here the same as in the previous chapter No. 14, and this is worthy of note when we connect it with the fact that a space of about 20 years must have intervened between the writing of the two passages.] 16. THE DISCOURSE ON PAINTING. Perspective, as bearing on drawing, is divided into three principal sections; of which the first treats of the diminution in the size of bodies at different distances. The second part is that which treats of the diminution in colour in these objects. The third [deals with] the diminished distinctness of the forms and outlines displayed by the objects at various distances. 17. ON THE SECTIONS OF [THE BOOK ON] PAINTING. The first thing in painting is that the objects it represents should appear in relief, and that the grounds surrounding them at different distances shall appear within the vertical plane of the foreground of the picture by means of the 3 branches of Perspective, which are: the diminution in the distinctness of the forms of the objects, the diminution in their magnitude; and the diminution in their colour. And of these 3 classes of Perspective the first results from [the structure of] the eye, while the other two are caused by the atmosphere which intervenes between the eye and the objects seen by it. The second essential in painting is appropriate action and a due variety in the figures, so that the men may not all look like brothers, &c. [Footnote: This and the two foregoing chapters must have been written in 1513 to 1516. They undoubtedly indicate the scheme which Leonardo wished to carry out in arranging his researches on Perspective as applied to Painting. This is important because it is an evidence against the supposition of H. LUDWIG and others, that Leonardo had collected his principles of Perspective in one book so early as before 1500; a Book which, according to the hypothesis, must have been lost at a very early period, or destroyed possibly, by the French (!) in 1500 (see H. LUDWIG. L. da Vinci: _Das Buch van der Malerei_. Vienna 1882 III, 7 and 8).] The use of the book on Painting. 18. These rules are of use only in correcting the figures; since every man makes some mistakes in his first compositions and he who knows them not, cannot amend them. But you, knowing your errors, will correct your works and where you find mistakes amend them, and remember never to fall into them again. But if you try to apply these rules in composition you will never make an end, and will produce confusion in your works. These rules will enable you to have a free and sound judgment; since good judgment is born of clear understanding, and a clear understanding comes of reasons derived from sound rules, and sound rules are the issue of sound experience--the common mother of all the sciences and arts. Hence, bearing in mind the precepts of my rules, you will be able, merely by your amended judgment, to criticise and recognise every thing that is out of proportion in a work, whether in the perspective or in the figures or any thing else. Necessity of theoretical knowledge (19. 20). 19. OF THE MISTAKES MADE BY THOSE WHO PRACTISE WITHOUT KNOWLEDGE. Those who are in love with practice without knowledge are like the sailor who gets into a ship without rudder or compass and who never can be certain whether he is going. Practice must always be founded on sound theory, and to this Perspective is the guide and the gateway; and without this nothing can be done well in the matter of drawing. 20. The painter who draws merely by practice and by eye, without any reason, is like a mirror which copies every thing placed in front of it without being conscious of their existence. The function of the eye (21-23). 21. INTRODUCTION TO PERSPECTIVE:--THAT IS OF THE FUNCTION OF THE EYE. Behold here O reader! a thing concerning which we cannot trust our forefathers, the ancients, who tried to define what the Soul and Life are--which are beyond proof, whereas those things, which can at any time be clearly known and proved by experience, remained for many ages unknown or falsely understood. The eye, whose function we so certainly know by experience, has, down to my own time, been defined by an infinite number of authors as one thing; but I find, by experience, that it is quite another. [Footnote 13: Compare the note to No. 70.] [Footnote: In section 13 we already find it indicated that the study of Perspective and of Optics is to be based on that of the functions of the eye. Leonardo also refers to the science of the eye, in his astronomical researches, for instance in MS. F 25b '_Ordine del provare la terra essere una stella: Imprima difinisce l'occhio'_, &c. Compare also MS. E 15b and F 60b. The principles of astronomical perspective.] 22. Here [in the eye] forms, here colours, here the character of every part of the universe are concentrated to a point; and that point is so marvellous a thing ... Oh! marvellous, O stupendous Necessity--by thy laws thou dost compel every effect to be the direct result of its cause, by the shortest path. These [indeed] are miracles;... In so small a space it can be reproduced and rearranged in its whole expanse. Describe in your anatomy what proportion there is between the diameters of all the images in the eye and the distance from them of the crystalline lens. 23. OF THE 10 ATTRIBUTES OF THE EYE, ALL CONCERNED IN PAINTING. Painting is concerned with all the 10 attributes of sight; which are:--Darkness, Light, Solidity and Colour, Form and Position, Distance and Propinquity, Motion and Rest. This little work of mine will be a tissue [of the studies] of these attributes, reminding the painter of the rules and methods by which he should use his art to imitate all the works of Nature which adorn the world. 24. ON PAINTING. Variability of the eye. 1st. The pupil of the eye contracts, in proportion to the increase of light which is reflected in it. 2nd. The pupil of the eye expands in proportion to the diminution in the day light, or any other light, that is reflected in it. 3rd. [Footnote: 8. The subject of this third proposition we find fully discussed in MS. G. 44a.]. The eye perceives and recognises the objects of its vision with greater intensity in proportion as the pupil is more widely dilated; and this can be proved by the case of nocturnal animals, such as cats, and certain birds--as the owl and others--in which the pupil varies in a high degree from large to small, &c., when in the dark or in the light. 4th. The eye [out of doors] in an illuminated atmosphere sees darkness behind the windows of houses which [nevertheless] are light. 5th. All colours when placed in the shade appear of an equal degree of darkness, among themselves. 6th. But all colours when placed in a full light, never vary from their true and essential hue. 25. OF THE EYE. Focus of sight. If the eye is required to look at an object placed too near to it, it cannot judge of it well--as happens to a man who tries to see the tip of his nose. Hence, as a general rule, Nature teaches us that an object can never be seen perfectly unless the space between it and the eye is equal, at least, to the length of the face. Differences of perception by one eye and by both eyes (26-29). 26. OF THE EYE. When both eyes direct the pyramid of sight to an object, that object becomes clearly seen and comprehended by the eyes. 27. Objects seen by one and the same eye appear sometimes large, and sometimes small. 28. The motion of a spectator who sees an object at rest often makes it seem as though the object at rest had acquired the motion of the moving body, while the moving person appears to be at rest. ON PAINTING. Objects in relief, when seen from a short distance with one eye, look like a perfect picture. If you look with the eye _a_, _b_ at the spot _c_, this point _c_ will appear to be at _d_, _f_, and if you look at it with the eye _g_, _h_ will appear to be at _m_. A picture can never contain in itself both aspects. 29. Let the object in relief _t_ be seen by both eyes; if you will look at the object with the right eye _m_, keeping the left eye _n_ shut, the object will appear, or fill up the space, at _a_; and if you shut the right eye and open the left, the object (will occupy the) space _b_; and if you open both eyes, the object will no longer appear at _a_ or _b_, but at _e_, _r_, _f_. Why will not a picture seen by both eyes produce the effect of relief, as [real] relief does when seen by both eyes; and why should a picture seen with one eye give the same effect of relief as real relief would under the same conditions of light and shade? [Footnote: In the sketch, _m_ is the left eye and _n_ the right, while the text reverses this lettering. We must therefore suppose that the face in which the eyes _m_ and _n_ are placed is opposite to the spectator.] 30. The comparative size of the image depends on the amount of light (30-39). The eye will hold and retain in itself the image of a luminous body better than that of a shaded object. The reason is that the eye is in itself perfectly dark and since two things that are alike cannot be distinguished, therefore the night, and other dark objects cannot be seen or recognised by the eye. Light is totally contrary and gives more distinctness, and counteracts and differs from the usual darkness of the eye, hence it leaves the impression of its image. 31. Every object we see will appear larger at midnight than at midday, and larger in the morning than at midday. This happens because the pupil of the eye is much smaller at midday than at any other time. 32. The pupil which is largest will see objects the largest. This is evident when we look at luminous bodies, and particularly at those in the sky. When the eye comes out of darkness and suddenly looks up at these bodies, they at first appear larger and then diminish; and if you were to look at those bodies through a small opening, you would see them smaller still, because a smaller part of the pupil would exercise its function. [Footnote: 9. _buso_ in the Lomb. dialect is the same as _buco_.] 33. When the eye, coming out of darkness suddenly sees a luminous body, it will appear much larger at first sight than after long looking at it. The illuminated object will look larger and more brilliant, when seen with two eyes than with only one. A luminous object will appear smaller in size, when the eye sees it through a smaller opening. A luminous body of an oval form will appear rounder in proportion as it is farther from the eye. 34. Why when the eye has just seen the light, does the half light look dark to it, and in the same way if it turns from the darkness the half light look very bright? 35. ON PAINTING. If the eye, when [out of doors] in the luminous atmosphere, sees a place in shadow, this will look very much darker than it really is. This happens only because the eye when out in the air contracts the pupil in proportion as the atmosphere reflected in it is more luminous. And the more the pupil contracts, the less luminous do the objects appear that it sees. But as soon as the eye enters into a shady place the darkness of the shadow suddenly seems to diminish. This occurs because the greater the darkness into which the pupil goes the more its size increases, and this increase makes the darkness seem less. [Footnote 14: _La luce entrerà_. _Luce_ occurs here in the sense of pupil of the eye as in no 51: C. A. 84b; 245a; I--5; and in many other places.] 36. ON PERSPECTIVE. The eye which turns from a white object in the light of the sun and goes into a less fully lighted place will see everything as dark. And this happens either because the pupils of the eyes which have rested on this brilliantly lighted white object have contracted so much that, given at first a certain extent of surface, they will have lost more than 3/4 of their size; and, lacking in size, they are also deficient in [seeing] power. Though you might say to me: A little bird (then) coming down would see comparatively little, and from the smallness of his pupils the white might seem black! To this I should reply that here we must have regard to the proportion of the mass of that portion of the brain which is given up to the sense of sight and to nothing else. Or--to return--this pupil in Man dilates and contracts according to the brightness or darkness of (surrounding) objects; and since it takes some time to dilate and contract, it cannot see immediately on going out of the light and into the shade, nor, in the same way, out of the shade into the light, and this very thing has already deceived me in painting an eye, and from that I learnt it. 37. Experiment [showing] the dilatation and contraction of the pupil, from the motion of the sun and other luminaries. In proportion as the sky is darker the stars appear of larger size, and if you were to light up the medium these stars would look smaller; and this difference arises solely from the pupil which dilates and contracts with the amount of light in the medium which is interposed between the eye and the luminous body. Let the experiment be made, by placing a candle above your head at the same time that you look at a star; then gradually lower the candle till it is on a level with the ray that comes from the star to the eye, and then you will see the star diminish so much that you will almost lose sight of it. [Footnote: No reference is made in the text to the letters on the accompanying diagram.] 38. The pupil of the eye, in the open air, changes in size with every degree of motion from the sun; and at every degree of its changes one and the same object seen by it will appear of a different size; although most frequently the relative scale of surrounding objects does not allow us to detect these variations in any single object we may look at. 39. The eye--which sees all objects reversed--retains the images for some time. This conclusion is proved by the results; because, the eye having gazed at light retains some impression of it. After looking (at it) there remain in the eye images of intense brightness, that make any less brilliant spot seem dark until the eye has lost the last trace of the impression of the stronger light. _II. Linear Perspective. We see clearly from the concluding sentence of section 49, where the author directly addresses the painter, that he must certainly have intended to include the elements of mathematics in his Book on the art of Painting. They are therefore here placed at the beginning. In section 50 the theory of the "Pyramid of Sight" is distinctly and expressly put forward as the fundamental principle of linear perspective, and sections 52 to 57 treat of it fully. This theory of sight can scarcely be traced to any author of antiquity. Such passages as occur in Euclid for instance, may, it is true, have proved suggestive to the painters of the Renaissance, but it would be rash to say any thing decisive on this point. Leon Battista Alberti treats of the "Pyramid of Sight" at some length in his first Book of Painting; but his explanation differs widely from Leonardo's in the details. Leonardo, like Alberti, may have borrowed the broad lines of his theory from some views commonly accepted among painters at the time; but he certainly worked out its application in a perfectly original manner. The axioms as to the perception of the pyramid of rays are followed by explanations of its origin, and proofs of its universal application (58--69). The author recurs to the subject with endless variations; it is evidently of fundamental importance in his artistic theory and practice. It is unnecessary to discuss how far this theory has any scientific value at the present day; so much as this, at any rate, seems certain: that from the artist's point of view it may still claim to be of immense practical utility. According to Leonardo, on one hand, the laws of perspective are an inalienable condition of the existence of objects in space; on the other hand, by a natural law, the eye, whatever it sees and wherever it turns, is subjected to the perception of the pyramid of rays in the form of a minute target. Thus it sees objects in perspective independently of the will of the spectator, since the eye receives the images by means of the pyramid of rays "just as a magnet attracts iron". In connection with this we have the function of the eye explained by the Camera obscura, and this is all the more interesting and important because no writer previous to Leonardo had treated of this subject_ (70--73). _Subsequent passages, of no less special interest, betray his knowledge of refraction and of the inversion of the image in the camera and in the eye_ (74--82). _From the principle of the transmission of the image to the eye and to the camera obscura he deduces the means of producing an artificial construction of the pyramid of rays or--which is the same thing--of the image. The fundamental axioms as to the angle of sight and the vanishing point are thus presented in a manner which is as complete as it is simple and intelligible_ (86--89). _Leonardo distinguishes between simple and complex perspective_ (90, 91). _The last sections treat of the apparent size of objects at various distances and of the way to estimate it_ (92--109). General remarks on perspective (40-41). 40. ON PAINTING. Perspective is the best guide to the art of Painting. [Footnote: 40. Compare 53, 2.] 41. The art of perspective is of such a nature as to make what is flat appear in relief and what is in relief flat. The elements of perspective--Of the Point (42-46). 42. All the problems of perspective are made clear by the five terms of mathematicians, which are:--the point, the line, the angle, the superficies and the solid. The point is unique of its kind. And the point has neither height, breadth, length, nor depth, whence it is to be regarded as indivisible and as having no dimensions in space. The line is of three kinds, straight, curved and sinuous and it has neither breadth, height, nor depth. Hence it is indivisible, excepting in its length, and its ends are two points. The angle is the junction of two lines in a point. 43. A point is not part of a line. 44. OF THE NATURAL POINT. The smallest natural point is larger than all mathematical points, and this is proved because the natural point has continuity, and any thing that is continuous is infinitely divisible; but the mathematical point is indivisible because it has no size. [Footnote: This definition was inserted by Leonardo on a MS. copy on parchment of the well-known _"Trattato d'Architettura civile e militare"_ &c. by FRANCESCO DI GIORGIO; opposite a passage where the author says: _'In prima he da sapere che punto è quella parie della quale he nulla--Linia he luncheza senza àpieza; &c.] 45. 1, The superficies is a limitation of the body. 2, and the limitation of a body is no part of that body. 4, and the limitation of one body is that which begins another. 3, that which is not part of any body is nothing. Nothing is that which fills no space. If one single point placed in a circle may be the starting point of an infinite number of lines, and the termination of an infinite number of lines, there must be an infinite number of points separable from this point, and these when reunited become one again; whence it follows that the part may be equal to the whole. 46. The point, being indivisible, occupies no space. That which occupies no space is nothing. The limiting surface of one thing is the beginning of another. 2. That which is no part of any body is called nothing. 1. That which has no limitations, has no form. The limitations of two conterminous bodies are interchangeably the surface of each. All the surfaces of a body are not parts of that body. Of the line (47-48). 47. DEFINITION OF THE NATURE OF THE LINE. The line has in itself neither matter nor substance and may rather be called an imaginary idea than a real object; and this being its nature it occupies no space. Therefore an infinite number of lines may be conceived of as intersecting each other at a point, which has no dimensions and is only of the thickness (if thickness it may be called) of one single line. HOW WE MAY CONCLUDE THAT A SUPERFICIES TERMINATES IN A POINT? An angular surface is reduced to a point where it terminates in an angle. Or, if the sides of that angle are produced in a straight line, then--beyond that angle--another surface is generated, smaller, or equal to, or larger than the first. 48. OF DRAWING OUTLINE. Consider with the greatest care the form of the outlines of every object, and the character of their undulations. And these undulations must be separately studied, as to whether the curves are composed of arched convexities or angular concavities. 49. The nature of the outline. The boundaries of bodies are the least of all things. The proposition is proved to be true, because the boundary of a thing is a surface, which is not part of the body contained within that surface; nor is it part of the air surrounding that body, but is the medium interposted between the air and the body, as is proved in its place. But the lateral boundaries of these bodies is the line forming the boundary of the surface, which line is of invisible thickness. Wherefore O painter! do not surround your bodies with lines, and above all when representing objects smaller than nature; for not only will their external outlines become indistinct, but their parts will be invisible from distance. 50. Definition of Perspective. [Drawing is based upon perspective, which is nothing else than a thorough knowledge of the function of the eye. And this function simply consists in receiving in a pyramid the forms and colours of all the objects placed before it. I say in a pyramid, because there is no object so small that it will not be larger than the spot where these pyramids are received into the eye. Therefore, if you extend the lines from the edges of each body as they converge you will bring them to a single point, and necessarily the said lines must form a pyramid.] [Perspective is nothing more than a rational demonstration applied to the consideration of how objects in front of the eye transmit their image to it, by means of a pyramid of lines. The _Pyramid_ is the name I apply to the lines which, starting from the surface and edges of each object, converge from a distance and meet in a single point.] [Perspective is a rational demonstration, by which we may practically and clearly understand how objects transmit their own image, by lines forming a Pyramid (centred) in the eye.] Perspective is a rational demonstration by which experience confirms that every object sends its image to the eye by a pyramid of lines; and bodies of equal size will result in a pyramid of larger or smaller size, according to the difference in their distance, one from the other. By a pyramid of lines I mean those which start from the surface and edges of bodies, and, converging from a distance meet in a single point. A point is said to be that which [having no dimensions] cannot be divided, and this point placed in the eye receives all the points of the cone. [Footnote: 50. 1-5. Compare with this the Proem. No. 21. The paragraphs placed in brackets: lines 1-9, 10-14, and 17--20, are evidently mere sketches and, as such, were cancelled by the writer; but they serve as a commentary on the final paragraph, lines 22-29.] 51. IN WHAT WAY THE EYE SEES OBJECTS PLACED IN FRONT OF IT. The perception of the object depends on the direction of the eye. Supposing that the ball figured above is the ball of the eye and let the small portion of the ball which is cut off by the line _s t_ be the pupil and all the objects mirrored on the centre of the face of the eye, by means of the pupil, pass on at once and enter the pupil, passing through the crystalline humour, which does not interfere in the pupil with the things seen by means of the light. And the pupil having received the objects, by means of the light, immediately refers them and transmits them to the intellect by the line _a b_. And you must know that the pupil transmits nothing perfectly to the intellect or common sense excepting when the objects presented to it by means of light, reach it by the line _a b;_ as, for instance, by the line _b c_. For although the lines _m n_ and _f g_ may be seen by the pupil they are not perfectly taken in, because they do not coincide with the line _a b_. And the proof is this: If the eye, shown above, wants to count the letters placed in front, the eye will be obliged to turn from letter to letter, because it cannot discern them unless they lie in the line _a b;_ as, for instance, in the line _a c_. All visible objects reach the eye by the lines of a pyramid, and the point of the pyramid is the apex and centre of it, in the centre of the pupil, as figured above. [Footnote: 51. In this problem the eye is conceived of as fixed and immovable; this is plain from line 11.] Experimental proof of the existence of the pyramid of sight (52-55). 52. Perspective is a rational demonstration, confirmed by experience, that all objects transmit their image to the eye by a pyramid of lines. By a pyramid of lines I understand those lines which start from the edges of the surface of bodies, and converging from a distance, meet in a single point; and this point, in the present instance, I will show to be situated in the eye which is the universal judge of all objects. By a point I mean that which cannot be divided into parts; therefore this point, which is situated in the eye, being indivisible, no body is seen by the eye, that is not larger than this point. This being the case it is inevitable that the lines which come from the object to the point must form a pyramid. And if any man seeks to prove that the sense of sight does not reside in this point, but rather in the black spot which is visible in the middle of the pupil, I might reply to him that a small object could never diminish at any distance, as it might be a grain of millet or of oats or of some similar thing, and that object, if it were larger than the said [black] spot would never be seen as a whole; as may be seen in the diagram below. Let _a_. be the seat of sight, _b e_ the lines which reach the eye. Let _e d_ be the grains of millet within these lines. You plainly see that these will never diminish by distance, and that the body _m n_ could not be entirely covered by it. Therefore you must confess that the eye contains within itself one single indivisible point _a_, to which all the points converge of the pyramid of lines starting from an object, as is shown below. Let _a_. _b_. be the eye; in the centre of it is the point above mentioned. If the line _e f_ is to enter as an image into so small an opening in the eye, you must confess that the smaller object cannot enter into what is smaller than itself unless it is diminished, and by diminishing it must take the form of a pyramid. 53. PERSPECTIVE. Perspective comes in where judgment fails [as to the distance] in objects which diminish. The eye can never be a true judge for determining with exactitude how near one object is to another which is equal to it [in size], if the top of that other is on the level of the eye which sees them on that side, excepting by means of the vertical plane which is the standard and guide of perspective. Let _n_ be the eye, _e f_ the vertical plane above mentioned. Let _a b c d_ be the three divisions, one below the other; if the lines _a n_ and _c n_ are of a given length and the eye _n_ is in the centre, then _a b_ will look as large as _b c. c d_ is lower and farther off from _n_, therefore it will look smaller. And the same effect will appear in the three divisions of a face when the eye of the painter who is drawing it is on a level with the eye of the person he is painting. 54. TO PROVE HOW OBJECTS REACH THE EYE. If you look at the sun or some other luminous body and then shut your eyes you will see it again inside your eye for a long time. This is evidence that images enter into the eye. The relations of the distance points to the vanishing point (55-56). 55. ELEMENTS OF PERSPECTIVE. All objects transmit their image to the eye in pyramids, and the nearer to the eye these pyramids are intersected the smaller will the image appear of the objects which cause them. Therefore, you may intersect the pyramid with a vertical plane [Footnote 4: _Pariete_. Compare the definitions in 85, 2-5, 6-27. These lines refer exclusively to the third diagram. For the better understanding of this it should be observed that _c s_ must be regarded as representing the section or profile of a square plane, placed horizontally (comp. lines 11, 14, 17) for which the word _pianura_ is subsequently employed (20, 22). Lines 6-13 contain certain preliminary observations to guide the reader in understanding the diagram; the last three seem to have been added as a supplement. Leonardo's mistake in writing _t denota_ (line 6) for _f denota_ has been rectified.] which reaches the base of the pyramid as is shown in the plane _a n_. The eye _f_ and the eye _t_ are one and the same thing; but the eye _f_ marks the distance, that is to say how far you are standing from the object; and the eye _t_ shows you the direction of it; that is whether you are opposite, or on one side, or at an angle to the object you are looking at. And remember that the eye _f_ and the eye _t_ must always be kept on the same level. For example if you raise or lower the eye from the distance point _f_ you must do the same with the direction point _t_. And if the point _f_ shows how far the eye is distant from the square plane but does not show on which side it is placed--and, if in the same way, the point _t_ show _s_ the direction and not the distance, in order to ascertain both you must use both points and they will be one and the same thing. If the eye _f_ could see a perfect square of which all the sides were equal to the distance between _s_ and _c_, and if at the nearest end of the side towards the eye a pole were placed, or some other straight object, set up by a perpendicular line as shown at _r s_--then, I say, that if you were to look at the side of the square that is nearest to you it will appear at the bottom of the vertical plane _r s_, and then look at the farther side and it would appear to you at the height of the point _n_ on the vertical plane. Thus, by this example, you can understand that if the eye is above a number of objects all placed on the same level, one beyond another, the more remote they are the higher they will seem, up to the level of the eye, but no higher; because objects placed upon the level on which your feet stand, so long as it is flat--even if it be extended into infinity--would never be seen above the eye; since the eye has in itself the point towards which all the cones tend and converge which convey the images of the objects to the eye. And this point always coincides with the point of diminution which is the extreme of all we can see. And from the base line of the first pyramid as far as the diminishing point [Footnote: The two diagrams above the chapter are explained by the first five lines. They have, however, more letters than are referred to in the text, a circumstance we frequently find occasion to remark.] 56. there are only bases without pyramids which constantly diminish up to this point. And from the first base where the vertical plane is placed towards the point in the eye there will be only pyramids without bases; as shown in the example given above. Now, let _a b_ be the said vertical plane and _r_ the point of the pyramid terminating in the eye, and _n_ the point of diminution which is always in a straight line opposite the eye and always moves as the eye moves--just as when a rod is moved its shadow moves, and moves with it, precisely as the shadow moves with a body. And each point is the apex of a pyramid, all having a common base with the intervening vertical plane. But although their bases are equal their angles are not equal, because the diminishing point is the termination of a smaller angle than that of the eye. If you ask me: "By what practical experience can you show me these points?" I reply--so far as concerns the diminishing point which moves with you --when you walk by a ploughed field look at the straight furrows which come down with their ends to the path where you are walking, and you will see that each pair of furrows will look as though they tried to get nearer and meet at the [farther] end. [Footnote: For the easier understanding of the diagram and of its connection with the preceding I may here remark that the square plane shown above in profile by the line _c s_ is here indicated by _e d o p_. According to lines 1, 3 _a b_ must be imagined as a plane of glass placed perpendicularly at _o p_.] 57. How to measure the pyramid of vision. As regards the point in the eye; it is made more intelligible by this: If you look into the eye of another person you will see your own image. Now imagine 2 lines starting from your ears and going to the ears of that image which you see in the other man's eye; you will understand that these lines converge in such a way that they would meet in a point a little way beyond your own image mirrored in the eye. And if you want to measure the diminution of the pyramid in the air which occupies the space between the object seen and the eye, you must do it according to the diagram figured below. Let _m n_ be a tower, and _e f_ a, rod, which you must move backwards and forwards till its ends correspond with those of the tower [Footnote 9: _I sua stremi .. della storre_ (its ends ... of the tower) this is the case at _e f_.]; then bring it nearer to the eye, at _c d_ and you will see that the image of the tower seems smaller, as at _r o_. Then [again] bring it closer to the eye and you will see the rod project far beyond the image of the tower from _a_ to _b_ and from _t_ to _b_, and so you will discern that, a little farther within, the lines must converge in a point. The Production of pyramid of Vision (58-60). 58. PERSPECTIVE. The instant the atmosphere is illuminated it will be filled with an infinite number of images which are produced by the various bodies and colours assembled in it. And the eye is the target, a loadstone, of these images. 59. The whole surface of opaque bodies displays its whole image in all the illuminated atmosphere which surrounds them on all sides. 60. That the atmosphere attracts to itself, like a loadstone, all the images of the objects that exist in it, and not their forms merely but their nature may be clearly seen by the sun, which is a hot and luminous body. All the atmosphere, which is the all-pervading matter, absorbs light and heat, and reflects in itself the image of the source of that heat and splendour and, in each minutest portion, does the same. The Northpole does the same as the loadstone shows; and the moon and the other planets, without suffering any diminution, do the same. Among terrestrial things musk does the same and other perfumes. 61. All bodies together, and each by itself, give off to the surrounding air an infinite number of images which are all-pervading and each complete, each conveying the nature, colour and form of the body which produces it. It can clearly be shown that all bodies are, by their images, all-pervading in the surrounding atmosphere, and each complete in itself as to substance form and colour; this is seen by the images of the various bodies which are reproduced in one single perforation through which they transmit the objects by lines which intersect and cause reversed pyramids, from the objects, so that they are upside down on the dark plane where they are first reflected. The reason of this is-- [Footnote: The diagram intended to illustrate the statement (Pl. II No. i) occurs in the original between lines 3 and 4. The three circles must be understood to represent three luminous bodies which transmit their images through perforations in a wall into a dark chamber, according to a law which is more fully explained in 75?81. So far as concerns the present passage the diagram is only intended to explain that the images of the three bodies may be made to coalesce at any given spot. In the circles are written, giallo--yellow, biàcho--white, rosso--red. The text breaks off at line 8. The paragraph No.40 follows here in the original MS.] 62. Every point is the termination of an infinite number of lines, which diverge to form a base, and immediately, from the base the same lines converge to a pyramid [imaging] both the colour and form. No sooner is a form created or compounded than suddenly infinite lines and angles are produced from it; and these lines, distributing themselves and intersecting each other in the air, give rise to an infinite number of angles opposite to each other. Given a base, each opposite angle, will form a triangle having a form and proportion equal to the larger angle; and if the base goes twice into each of the 2 lines of the pyramid the smaller triangle will do the same. 63. Every body in light and shade fills the surrounding air with infinite images of itself; and these, by infinite pyramids diffused in the air, represent this body throughout space and on every side. Each pyramid that is composed of a long assemblage of rays includes within itself an infinite number of pyramids and each has the same power as all, and all as each. A circle of equidistant pyramids of vision will give to their object angles of equal size; and an eye at each point will see the object of the same size. The body of the atmosphere is full of infinite pyramids composed of radiating straight lines, which are produced from the surface of the bodies in light and shade, existing in the air; and the farther they are from the object which produces them the more acute they become and although in their distribution they intersect and cross they never mingle together, but pass through all the surrounding air, independently converging, spreading, and diffused. And they are all of equal power [and value]; all equal to each, and each equal to all. By these the images of objects are transmitted through all space and in every direction, and each pyramid, in itself, includes, in each minutest part, the whole form of the body causing it. 64. The body of the atmosphere is full of infinite radiating pyramids produced by the objects existing in it. These intersect and cross each other with independent convergence without interfering with each other and pass through all the surrounding atmosphere; and are of equal force and value--all being equal to each, each to all. And by means of these, images of the body are transmitted everywhere and on all sides, and each receives in itself every minutest portion of the object that produces it. Proof by experiment (65-66). 65. PERSPECTIVE. The air is filled with endless images of the objects distributed in it; and all are represented in all, and all in one, and all in each, whence it happens that if two mirrors are placed in such a manner as to face each other exactly, the first will be reflected in the second and the second in the first. The first being reflected in the second takes to it the image of itself with all the images represented in it, among which is the image of the second mirror, and so, image within image, they go on to infinity in such a manner as that each mirror has within it a mirror, each smaller than the last and one inside the other. Thus, by this example, it is clearly proved that every object sends its image to every spot whence the object itself can be seen; and the converse: That the same object may receive in itself all the images of the objects that are in front of it. Hence the eye transmits through the atmosphere its own image to all the objects that are in front of it and receives them into itself, that is to say on its surface, whence they are taken in by the common sense, which considers them and if they are pleasing commits them to the memory. Whence I am of opinion: That the invisible images in the eyes are produced towards the object, as the image of the object to the eye. That the images of the objects must be disseminated through the air. An instance may be seen in several mirrors placed in a circle, which will reflect each other endlessly. When one has reached the other it is returned to the object that produced it, and thence--being diminished--it is returned again to the object and then comes back once more, and this happens endlessly. If you put a light between two flat mirrors with a distance of 1 braccio between them you will see in each of them an infinite number of lights, one smaller than another, to the last. If at night you put a light between the walls of a room, all the parts of that wall will be tinted with the image of that light. And they will receive the light and the light will fall on them, mutually, that is to say, when there is no obstacle to interrupt the transmission of the images. This same example is seen in a greater degree in the distribution of the solar rays which all together, and each by itself, convey to the object the image of the body which causes it. That each body by itself alone fills with its images the atmosphere around it, and that the same air is able, at the same time, to receive the images of the endless other objects which are in it, this is clearly proved by these examples. And every object is everywhere visible in the whole of the atmosphere, and the whole in every smallest part of it; and all the objects in the whole, and all in each smallest part; each in all and all in every part. 66. The images of objects are all diffused through the atmosphere which receives them; and all on every side in it. To prove this, let _a c e_ be objects of which the images are admitted to a dark chamber by the small holes _n p_ and thrown upon the plane _f i_ opposite to these holes. As many images will be produced in the chamber on the plane as the number of the said holes. 67. General conclusions. All objects project their whole image and likeness, diffused and mingled in the whole of the atmosphere, opposite to themselves. The image of every point of the bodily surface, exists in every part of the atmosphere. All the images of the objects are in every part of the atmosphere. The whole, and each part of the image of the atmosphere is [reflected] in each point of the surface of the bodies presented to it. Therefore both the part and the whole of the images of the objects exist, both in the whole and in the parts of the surface of these visible bodies. Whence we may evidently say that the image of each object exists, as a whole and in every part, in each part and in the whole interchangeably in every existing body. As is seen in two mirrors placed opposite to each other. 68. That the contrary is impossible. It is impossible that the eye should project from itself, by visual rays, the visual virtue, since, as soon as it opens, that front portion [of the eye] which would give rise to this emanation would have to go forth to the object and this it could not do without time. And this being so, it could not travel so high as the sun in a month's time when the eye wanted to see it. And if it could reach the sun it would necessarily follow that it should perpetually remain in a continuous line from the eye to the sun and should always diverge in such a way as to form between the sun and the eye the base and the apex of a pyramid. This being the case, if the eye consisted of a million worlds, it would not prevent its being consumed in the projection of its virtue; and if this virtue would have to travel through the air as perfumes do, the winds would bent it and carry it into another place. But we do [in fact] see the mass of the sun with the same rapidity as [an object] at the distance of a braccio, and the power of sight is not disturbed by the blowing of the winds nor by any other accident. [Footnote: The view here refuted by Leonardo was maintained among others by Bramantino, Leonardo's Milanese contemporary. LOMAZZO writes as follows in his Trattato dell' Arte della pittura &c. (Milano 1584. Libr. V cp. XXI): Sovviemmi di aver già letto in certi scritti alcune cose di Bramantino milanese, celebratissimo pittore, attenente alla prospettiva, le quali ho voluto riferire, e quasi intessere in questo luogo, affinchè sappiamo qual fosse l'opinione di cosi chiaro e famoso pittore intorno alla prospettiva . . Scrive Bramantino che la prospettiva è una cosa che contrafà il naturale, e che ciò si fa in tre modi Circa il primo modo che si fa con ragione, per essere la cosa in poche parole conclusa da Bramantino in maniera che giudico non potersi dir meglio, contenendovi si tutta Parte del principio al fine, io riferirò per appunto le proprie parole sue (cp. XXII, Prima prospettiva di Bramantino). La prima prospettiva fa le cose di punto, e l'altra non mai, e la terza più appresso. Adunque la prima si dimanda prospettiva, cioè ragione, la quale fa l'effetto dell' occhio, facendo crescere e calare secondo gli effetti degli occhi. Questo crescere e calare non procede della cosa propria, che in se per esser lontana, ovvero vicina, per quello effetto non può crescere e sminuire, ma procede dagli effetti degli occhi, i quali sono piccioli, e perciò volendo vedere tanto gran cosa_, bisogna che mandino fuora la virtù visiva, _la quale si dilata in tanta larghezza, che piglia tutto quello che vuoi vedere, ed_ arrivando a quella cosa la vede dove è: _e da lei agli occhi per quello circuito fino all' occhio, e tutto quello termine è pieno di quella cosa_. It is worthy of note that Leonardo had made his memorandum refuting this view, at Milan in 1492] 69. A parallel case. Just as a stone flung into the water becomes the centre and cause of many circles, and as sound diffuses itself in circles in the air: so any object, placed in the luminous atmosphere, diffuses itself in circles, and fills the surrounding air with infinite images of itself. And is repeated, the whole every-where, and the whole in every smallest part. This can be proved by experiment, since if you shut a window that faces west and make a hole [Footnote: 6. Here the text breaks off.] . . [Footnote: Compare LIBRI, _Histoire des sciences mathématiques en Italie_. Tome III, p. 43.] The function of the eye as explained by the camera obscura (70. 71). 70. If the object in front of the eye sends its image to the eye, the eye, on the other hand, sends its image to the object, and no portion whatever of the object is lost in the images it throws off, for any reason either in the eye or the object. Therefore we may rather believe it to be the nature and potency of our luminous atmosphere which absorbs the images of the objects existing in it, than the nature of the objects, to send their images through the air. If the object opposite to the eye were to send its image to the eye, the eye would have to do the same to the object, whence it might seem that these images were an emanation. But, if so, it would be necessary [to admit] that every object became rapidly smaller; because each object appears by its images in the surrounding atmosphere. That is: the whole object in the whole atmosphere, and in each part; and all the objects in the whole atmosphere and all of them in each part; speaking of that atmosphere which is able to contain in itself the straight and radiating lines of the images projected by the objects. From this it seems necessary to admit that it is in the nature of the atmosphere, which subsists between the objects, and which attracts the images of things to itself like a loadstone, being placed between them. PROVE HOW ALL OBJECTS, PLACED IN ONE POSITION, ARE ALL EVERYWHERE AND ALL IN EACH PART. I say that if the front of a building--or any open piazza or field--which is illuminated by the sun has a dwelling opposite to it, and if, in the front which does not face the sun, you make a small round hole, all the illuminated objects will project their images through that hole and be visible inside the dwelling on the opposite wall which may be made white; and there, in fact, they will be upside down, and if you make similar openings in several places in the same wall you will have the same result from each. Hence the images of the illuminated objects are all everywhere on this wall and all in each minutest part of it. The reason, as we clearly know, is that this hole must admit some light to the said dwelling, and the light admitted by it is derived from one or many luminous bodies. If these bodies are of various colours and shapes the rays forming the images are of various colours and shapes, and so will the representations be on the wall. [Footnote: 70. 15--23. This section has already been published in the "_Saggio delle Opere di Leonardo da Vinci_" Milan 1872, pp. 13, 14. G. Govi observes upon it, that Leonardo is not to be regarded as the inventor of the Camera obscura, but that he was the first to explain by it the structure of the eye. An account of the Camera obscura first occurs in CESARE CESARINI's Italian version of Vitruvius, pub. 1523, four years after Leonardo's death. Cesarini expressly names Benedettino Don Papnutio as the inventor of the Camera obscura. In his explanation of the function of the eye by a comparison with the Camera obscura Leonardo was the precursor of G. CARDANO, Professor of Medicine at Bologna (died 1576) and it appears highly probable that this is, in fact, the very discovery which Leonardo ascribes to himself in section 21 without giving any further details.] 71. HOW THE IMAGES OF OBJECTS RECEIVED BY THE EYE INTERSECT WITHIN THE CRYSTALLINE HUMOUR OF THE EYE. An experiment, showing how objects transmit their images or pictures, intersecting within the eye in the crystalline humour, is seen when by some small round hole penetrate the images of illuminated objects into a very dark chamber. Then, receive these images on a white paper placed within this dark room and rather near to the hole and you will see all the objects on the paper in their proper forms and colours, but much smaller; and they will be upside down by reason of that very intersection. These images being transmitted from a place illuminated by the sun will seem actually painted on this paper which must be extremely thin and looked at from behind. And let the little perforation be made in a very thin plate of iron. Let _a b e d e_ be the object illuminated by the sun and _o r_ the front of the dark chamber in which is the said hole at _n m_. Let _s t_ be the sheet of paper intercepting the rays of the images of these objects upside down, because the rays being straight, _a_ on the right hand becomes _k_ on the left, and _e_ on the left becomes _f_ on the right; and the same takes place inside the pupil. [Footnote: This chapter is already known through a translation into French by VENTURI. Compare his '_Essai sur les ouvrages physico-mathématiques de L. da Vinci avec des fragments tirés de ses Manuscrits, apportés de l'Italie. Lu a la premiere classe de l'Institut national des Sciences et Arts.' Paris, An V_ (1797).] The practice of perspective (72. 73). 72. In the practice of perspective the same rules apply to light and to the eye. 73. The object which is opposite to the pupil of the eye is seen by that pupil and that which is opposite to the eye is seen by the pupil. Refraction of the rays falling upon the eye (74. 75) 74. The lines sent forth by the image of an object to the eye do not reach the point within the eye in straight lines. 75. If the judgment of the eye is situated within it, the straight lines of the images are refracted on its surface because they pass through the rarer to the denser medium. If, when you are under water, you look at objects in the air you will see them out of their true place; and the same with objects under water seen from the air. The intersection of the rays (76-82). 76. The inversion of the images. All the images of objects which pass through a window [glass pane] from the free outer air to the air confined within walls, are seen on the opposite side; and an object which moves in the outer air from east to west will seem in its shadow, on the wall which is lighted by this confined air, to have an opposite motion. 77. THE PRINCIPLE ON WHICH THE IMAGES OF BODIES PASS IN BETWEEN THE MARGINS OF THE OPENINGS BY WHICH THEY ENTER. What difference is there in the way in which images pass through narrow openings and through large openings, or in those which pass by the sides of shaded bodies? By moving the edges of the opening through which the images are admitted, the images of immovable objects are made to move. And this happens, as is shown in the 9th which demonstrates: [Footnote 11: _per la 9a che dicie_. When Leonardo refers thus to a number it serves to indicate marginal diagrams; this can in some instances be distinctly proved. The ninth sketch on the page W. L. 145 b corresponds to the middle sketch of the three reproduced.] the images of any object are all everywhere, and all in each part of the surrounding air. It follows that if one of the edges of the hole by which the images are admitted to a dark chamber is moved it cuts off those rays of the image that were in contact with it and gets nearer to other rays which previously were remote from it &c. OF THE MOVEMENT OF THE EDGE AT THE RIGHT OR LEFT, OR THE UPPER, OR LOWER EDGE. If you move the right side of the opening the image on the left will move [being that] of the object which entered on the right side of the opening; and the same result will happen with all the other sides of the opening. This can be proved by the 2nd of this which shows: all the rays which convey the images of objects through the air are straight lines. Hence, if the images of very large bodies have to pass through very small holes, and beyond these holes recover their large size, the lines must necessarily intersect. [Footnote: 77. 2. In the first of the three diagrams Leonardo had drawn only one of the two margins, et _m_.] 78. Necessity has provided that all the images of objects in front of the eye shall intersect in two places. One of these intersections is in the pupil, the other in the crystalline lens; and if this were not the case the eye could not see so great a number of objects as it does. This can be proved, since all the lines which intersect do so in a point. Because nothing is seen of objects excepting their surface; and their edges are lines, in contradistinction to the definition of a surface. And each minute part of a line is equal to a point; for _smallest_ is said of that than which nothing can be smaller, and this definition is equivalent to the definition of the point. Hence it is possible for the whole circumference of a circle to transmit its image to the point of intersection, as is shown in the 4th of this which shows: all the smallest parts of the images cross each other without interfering with each other. These demonstrations are to illustrate the eye. No image, even of the smallest object, enters the eye without being turned upside down; but as it penetrates into the crystalline lens it is once more reversed and thus the image is restored to the same position within the eye as that of the object outside the eye. 79. OF THE CENTRAL LINE OF THE EYE. Only one line of the image, of all those that reach the visual virtue, has no intersection; and this has no sensible dimensions because it is a mathematical line which originates from a mathematical point, which has no dimensions. According to my adversary, necessity requires that the central line of every image that enters by small and narrow openings into a dark chamber shall be turned upside down, together with the images of the bodies that surround it. 80. AS TO WHETHER THE CENTRAL LINE OF THE IMAGE CAN BE INTERSECTED, OR NOT, WITHIN THE OPENING. It is impossible that the line should intersect itself; that is, that its right should cross over to its left side, and so, its left side become its right side. Because such an intersection demands two lines, one from each side; for there can be no motion from right to left or from left to right in itself without such extension and thickness as admit of such motion. And if there is extension it is no longer a line but a surface, and we are investigating the properties of a line, and not of a surface. And as the line, having no centre of thickness cannot be divided, we must conclude that the line can have no sides to intersect each other. This is proved by the movement of the line _a f_ to _a b_ and of the line _e b_ to _e f_, which are the sides of the surface _a f e b_. But if you move the line _a b_ and the line _e f_, with the frontends _a e_, to the spot _c_, you will have moved the opposite ends _f b_ towards each other at the point _d_. And from the two lines you will have drawn the straight line _c d_ which cuts the middle of the intersection of these two lines at the point _n_ without any intersection. For, you imagine these two lines as having breadth, it is evident that by this motion the first will entirely cover the other--being equal with it--without any intersection, in the position _c d_. And this is sufficient to prove our proposition. 81. HOW THE INNUMERABLE RAYS FROM INNUMERABLE IMAGES CAN CONVERGE TO A POINT. Just as all lines can meet at a point without interfering with each other--being without breadth or thickness--in the same way all the images of surfaces can meet there; and as each given point faces the object opposite to it and each object faces an opposite point, the converging rays of the image can pass through the point and diverge again beyond it to reproduce and re-magnify the real size of that image. But their impressions will appear reversed--as is shown in the first, above; where it is said that every image intersects as it enters the narrow openings made in a very thin substance. Read the marginal text on the other side. In proportion as the opening is smaller than the shaded body, so much less will the images transmitted through this opening intersect each other. The sides of images which pass through openings into a dark room intersect at a point which is nearer to the opening in proportion as the opening is narrower. To prove this let _a b_ be an object in light and shade which sends not its shadow but the image of its darkened form through the opening _d e_ which is as wide as this shaded body; and its sides _a b_, being straight lines (as has been proved) must intersect between the shaded object and the opening; but nearer to the opening in proportion as it is smaller than the object in shade. As is shown, on your right hand and your left hand, in the two diagrams _a_ _b_ _c_ _n_ _m_ _o_ where, the right opening _d_ _e_, being equal in width to the shaded object _a_ _b_, the intersection of the sides of the said shaded object occurs half way between the opening and the shaded object at the point _c_. But this cannot happen in the left hand figure, the opening _o_ being much smaller than the shaded object _n_ _m_. It is impossible that the images of objects should be seen between the objects and the openings through which the images of these bodies are admitted; and this is plain, because where the atmosphere is illuminated these images are not formed visibly. When the images are made double by mutually crossing each other they are invariably doubly as dark in tone. To prove this let _d_ _e_ _h_ be such a doubling which although it is only seen within the space between the bodies in _b_ and _i_ this will not hinder its being seen from _f_ _g_ or from _f_ _m_; being composed of the images _a_ _b_ _i_ _k_ which run together in _d_ _e_ _h_. [Footnote: 81. On the original diagram at the beginning of this chapter Leonardo has written "_azurro_" (blue) where in the facsimile I have marked _A_, and "_giallo_" (yellow) where _B_ stands.] [Footnote: 15--23. These lines stand between the diagrams I and III.] [Footnote: 24--53. These lines stand between the diagrams I and II.] [Footnote: 54--97 are written along the left side of diagram I.] 82. An experiment showing that though the pupil may not be moved from its position the objects seen by it may appear to move from their places. If you look at an object at some distance from you and which is below the eye, and fix both your eyes upon it and with one hand firmly hold the upper lid open while with the other you push up the under lid--still keeping your eyes fixed on the object gazed at--you will see that object double; one [image] remaining steady, and the other moving in a contrary direction to the pressure of your finger on the lower eyelid. How false the opinion is of those who say that this happens because the pupil of the eye is displaced from its position. How the above mentioned facts prove that the pupil acts upside down in seeing. [Footnote: 82. 14--17. The subject indicated by these two headings is fully discussed in the two chapters that follow them in the original; but it did not seem to me appropriate to include them here.] Demostration of perspective by means of a vertical glass plane (83-85). 83. OF THE PLANE OF GLASS. Perspective is nothing else than seeing place [or objects] behind a plane of glass, quite transparent, on the surface of which the objects behind that glass are to be drawn. These can be traced in pyramids to the point in the eye, and these pyramids are intersected on the glass plane. 84. Pictorial perspective can never make an object at the same distance, look of the same size as it appears to the eye. You see that the apex of the pyramid _f c d_ is as far from the object _c_ _d_ as the same point _f_ is from the object _a_ _b_; and yet _c_ _d_, which is the base made by the painter's point, is smaller than _a_ _b_ which is the base of the lines from the objects converging in the eye and refracted at _s_ _t_, the surface of the eye. This may be proved by experiment, by the lines of vision and then by the lines of the painter's plumbline by cutting the real lines of vision on one and the same plane and measuring on it one and the same object. 85. PERSPECTIVE. The vertical plane is a perpendicular line, imagined as in front of the central point where the apex of the pyramids converge. And this plane bears the same relation to this point as a plane of glass would, through which you might see the various objects and draw them on it. And the objects thus drawn would be smaller than the originals, in proportion as the distance between the glass and the eye was smaller than that between the glass and the objects. PERSPECTIVE. The different converging pyramids produced by the objects, will show, on the plane, the various sizes and remoteness of the objects causing them. PERSPECTIVE. All those horizontal planes of which the extremes are met by perpendicular lines forming right angles, if they are of equal width the more they rise to the level of eye the less this is seen, and the more the eye is above them the more will their real width be seen. PERSPECTIVE. The farther a spherical body is from the eye the more you will see of it. The angle of sight varies with the distance (86-88) 86. A simple and natural method; showing how objects appear to the eye without any other medium. The object that is nearest to the eye always seems larger than another of the same size at greater distance. The eye _m_, seeing the spaces _o v x_, hardly detects the difference between them, and the. reason of this is that it is close to them [Footnote 6: It is quite inconceivable to me why M. RAVAISSON, in a note to his French translation of this simple passage should have remarked: _Il est clair que c'est par erreur que Leonard a ècrit_ per esser visino _au lieu de_ per non esser visino. (See his printed ed. of MS. A. p. 38.)]; but if these spaces are marked on the vertical plane _n o_ the space _o v_ will be seen at _o r_, and in the same way the space _v x_ will appear at _r q_. And if you carry this out in any place where you can walk round, it will look out of proportion by reason of the great difference in the spaces _o r_ and _r q_. And this proceeds from the eye being so much below [near] the plane that the plane is foreshortened. Hence, if you wanted to carry it out, you would have [to arrange] to see the perspective through a single hole which must be at the point _m_, or else you must go to a distance of at least 3 times the height of the object you see. The plane _o p_ being always equally remote from the eye will reproduce the objects in a satisfactory way, so that they may be seen from place to place. 87. How every large mass sends forth its images, which may diminish through infinity. The images of any large mass being infinitely divisible may be infinitely diminished. 88. Objects of equal size, situated in various places, will be seen by different pyramids which will each be smaller in proportion as the object is farther off. 89. Perspective, in dealing with distances, makes use of two opposite pyramids, one of which has its apex in the eye and the base as distant as the horizon. The other has the base towards the eye and the apex on the horizon. Now, the first includes the [visible] universe, embracing all the mass of the objects that lie in front of the eye; as it might be a vast landscape seen through a very small opening; for the more remote the objects are from the eye, the greater number can be seen through the opening, and thus the pyramid is constructed with the base on the horizon and the apex in the eye, as has been said. The second pyramid is extended to a spot which is smaller in proportion as it is farther from the eye; and this second perspective [= pyramid] results from the first. 90. SIMPLE PERSPECTIVE. Simple perspective is that which is constructed by art on a vertical plane which is equally distant from the eye in every part. Complex perspective is that which is constructed on a ground-plan in which none of the parts are equally distant from the eye. 91. PERSPECTIVE. No surface can be seen exactly as it is, if the eye that sees it is not equally remote from all its edges. 92. WHY WHEN AN OBJECT IS PLACED CLOSE TO THE EYE ITS EDGES ARE INDISTINCT. When an object opposite the eye is brought too close to it, its edges must become too confused to be distinguished; as it happens with objects close to a light, which cast a large and indistinct shadow, so is it with an eye which estimates objects opposite to it; in all cases of linear perspective, the eye acts in the same way as the light. And the reason is that the eye has one leading line (of vision) which dilates with distance and embraces with true discernment large objects at a distance as well as small ones that are close. But since the eye sends out a multitude of lines which surround this chief central one and since these which are farthest from the centre in this cone of lines are less able to discern with accuracy, it follows that an object brought close to the eye is not at a due distance, but is too near for the central line to be able to discern the outlines of the object. So the edges fall within the lines of weaker discerning power, and these are to the function of the eye like dogs in the chase which can put up the game but cannot take it. Thus these cannot take in the objects, but induce the central line of sight to turn upon them, when they have put them up. Hence the objects which are seen with these lines of sight have confused outlines. The relative size of objects with regard to their distance from the eye (93-98). 93. PERSPECTIVE. Small objects close at hand and large ones at a distance, being seen within equal angles, will appear of the same size. 94. PERSPECTIVE. There is no object so large but that at a great distance from the eye it does not appear smaller than a smaller object near. 95. Among objects of equal size that which is most remote from the eye will look the smallest. [Footnote: This axiom, sufficiently clear in itself, is in the original illustrated by a very large diagram, constructed like that here reproduced under No. 108. The same idea is repeated in C. A. I a; I a, stated as follows: _Infra le cose d'equal grandeza quella si dimostra di minor figura che sara più distante dall' ochio_.--] 96. Why an object is less distinct when brought near to the eye, and why with spectacles, or without the naked eye sees badly either close or far off [as the case may be]. 97. PERSPECTIVE. Among objects of equal size, that which is most remote from the eye will look the smallest. 98. PERSPECTIVE. No second object can be so much lower than the first as that the eye will not see it higher than the first, if the eye is above the second. PERSPECTIVE. And this second object will never be so much higher than the first as that the eye, being below them, will not see the second as lower than the first. PERSPECTIVE. If the eye sees a second square through the centre of a smaller one, that is nearer, the second, larger square will appear to be surrounded by the smaller one. PERSPECTIVE--PROPOSITION. Objects that are farther off can never be so large but that those in front, though smaller, will conceal or surround them. DEFINITION. This proposition can be proved by experiment. For if you look through a small hole there is nothing so large that it cannot be seen through it and the object so seen appears surrounded and enclosed by the outline of the sides of the hole. And if you stop it up, this small stopping will conceal the view of the largest object. The apparent size of objects defined by calculation (99-105) 99. OF LINEAR PERSPECTIVE. Linear Perspective deals with the action of the lines of sight, in proving by measurement how much smaller is a second object than the first, and how much the third is smaller than the second; and so on by degrees to the end of things visible. I find by experience that if a second object is as far beyond the first as the first is from the eye, although they are of the same size, the second will seem half the size of the first and if the third object is of the same size as the 2nd, and the 3rd is as far beyond the second as the 2nd from the first, it will appear of half the size of the second; and so on by degrees, at equal distances, the next farthest will be half the size of the former object. So long as the space does not exceed the length of 20 braccia. But, beyond 20 braccia figures of equal size will lose 2/4 and at 40 braccia they will lose 9/10, and 19/20 at 60 braccia, and so on diminishing by degrees. This is if the picture plane is distant from you twice your own height. If it is only as far off as your own height, there will be a great difference between the first braccia and the second. [Footnote: This chapter is included in DUFRESNE'S and MANZI'S editions of the Treatise on Painting. H. LUDWIG, in his commentary, calls this chapter "_eines der wichtigsten im ganzen Tractat_", but at the same time he asserts that its substance has been so completely disfigured in the best MS. copies that we ought not to regard Leonardo as responsible for it. However, in the case of this chapter, the old MS. copies agree with the original as it is reproduced above. From the chapters given later in this edition, which were written at a subsequent date, it would appear that Leonardo corrected himself on these points.] 100. OF THE DIMINUTION OF OBJECTS AT VARIOUS DISTANCES. A second object as far distant from the first as the first is from the eye will appear half the size of the first, though they be of the same size really. OF THE DEGREES OF DIMINUTION. If you place the vertical plane at one braccio from the eye, the first object, being at a distance of 4 braccia from your eye will diminish to 3/4 of its height at that plane; and if it is 8 braccia from the eye, to 7/8; and if it is 16 braccia off, it will diminish to 15/16 of its height and so on by degrees, as the space doubles the diminution will double. 101. Begin from the line _m f_ with the eye below; then go up and do the same with the line _n f_, then with the eye above and close to the 2 gauges on the ground look at _m n_; then as _c m_ is to _m n_ so will _n m_ be to _n s_. If _a n_ goes 3 times into _f b, m p_ will do the same into _p g_. Then go backwards so far as that _c d_ goes twice into _a n_ and _p g_ will be equal to _g h_. And _m p_ will go into _h p_ as often as _d c_ into _o p_. [Footnote: The first three lines are unfortunately very obscure.] 102. I GIVE THE DEGREES OF THE OBJECTS SEEN BY THE EYE AS THE MUSICIAN DOES THE NOTES HEARD BY THE EAR. Although the objects seen by the eye do, in fact, touch each other as they recede, I will nevertheless found my rule on spaces of 20 braccia each; as a musician does with notes, which, though they can be carried on one into the next, he divides into degrees from note to note calling them 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th; and has affixed a name to each degree in raising or lowering the voice. 103. PERSPECTIVE. Let _f_ be the level and distance of the eye; and _a_ the vertical plane, as high as a man; let _e_ be a man, then I say that on the plane this will be the distance from the plane to the 2nd man. 104. The differences in the diminution of objects of equal size in consequence of their various remoteness from the eye will bear among themselves the same proportions as those of the spaces between the eye and the different objects. Find out how much a man diminishes at a certain distance and what its length is; and then at twice that distance and at 3 times, and so make your general rule. 105. The eye cannot judge where an object high up ought to descend. 106. PERSPECTIVE. If two similar and equal objects are placed one beyond the other at a given distance the difference in their size will appear greater in proportion as they are nearer to the eye that sees them. And conversely there will seem to be less difference in their size in proportion as they are remote from the eve. This is proved by the proportions of their distances among themselves; for, if the first of these two objects were as far from the eye, as the 2nd from the first this would be called the second proportion: since, if the first is at 1 braccia from the eye and the 2nd at two braccia, two being twice as much as one, the first object will look twice as large as the second. But if you place the first at a hundred braccia from you and the second at a hundred and one, you will find that the first is only so much larger than the second as 100 is less than 101; and the converse is equally true. And again, the same thing is proved by the 4th of this book which shows that among objects that are equal, there is the same proportion in the diminution of the size as in the increase in the distance from the eye of the spectator. On natural perspective (107--109). 107. OF EQUAL OBJECTS THE MOST REMOTE LOOK THE SMALLEST. The practice of perspective may be divided into ... parts [Footnote 4: _in_ ... _parte_. The space for the number is left blank in the original.], of which the first treats of objects seen by the eye at any distance; and it shows all these objects just as the eye sees them diminished, without obliging a man to stand in one place rather than another so long as the plane does not produce a second foreshortening. But the second practice is a combination of perspective derived partly from art and partly from nature and the work done by its rules is in every portion of it, influenced by natural perspective and artificial perspective. By natural perspective I mean that the plane on which this perspective is represented is a flat surface, and this plane, although it is parallel both in length and height, is forced to diminish in its remoter parts more than in its nearer ones. And this is proved by the first of what has been said above, and its diminution is natural. But artificial perspective, that is that which is devised by art, does the contrary; for objects equal in size increase on the plane where it is foreshortened in proportion as the eye is more natural and nearer to the plane, and as the part of the plane on which it is figured is farther from the eye. And let this plane be _d e_ on which are seen 3 equal circles which are beyond this plane _d e_, that is the circles _a b c_. Now you see that the eye _h_ sees on the vertical plane the sections of the images, largest of those that are farthest and smallest of the nearest. 108. Here follows what is wanting in the margin at the foot on the other side of this page. Natural perspective acts in a contrary way; for, at greater distances the object seen appears smaller, and at a smaller distance the object appears larger. But this said invention requires the spectator to stand with his eye at a small hole and then, at that small hole, it will be very plain. But since many (men's) eyes endeavour at the same time to see one and the same picture produced by this artifice only one can see clearly the effect of this perspective and all the others will see confusion. It is well therefore to avoid such complex perspective and hold to simple perspective which does not regard planes as foreshortened, but as much as possible in their proper form. This simple perspective, in which the plane intersects the pyramids by which the images are conveyed to the eye at an equal distance from the eye is our constant experience, from the curved form of the pupil of the eye on which the pyramids are intersected at an equal distance from the visual virtue. [Footnote 24: _la prima di sopra_ i. e. the first of the three diagrams which, in the original MS., are placed in the margin at the beginning of this chapter.] 109. OF A MIXTURE OF NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL PERSPECTIVE. This diagram distinguishes natural from artificial perspective. But before proceeding any farther I will define what is natural and what is artificial perspective. Natural perspective says that the more remote of a series of objects of equal size will look the smaller, and conversely, the nearer will look the larger and the apparent size will diminish in proportion to the distance. But in artificial perspective when objects of unequal size are placed at various distances, the smallest is nearer to the eye than the largest and the greatest distance looks as though it were the least of all; and the cause of this is the plane on which the objects are represented; and which is at unequal distances from the eye throughout its length. And this diminution of the plane is natural, but the perspective shown upon it is artificial since it nowhere agrees with the true diminution of the said plane. Whence it follows, that when the eye is somewhat removed from the [station point of the] perspective that it has been gazing at, all the objects represented look monstrous, and this does not occur in natural perspective, which has been defined above. Let us say then, that the square _a b c d_ figured above is foreshortened being seen by the eye situated in the centre of the side which is in front. But a mixture of artificial and natural perspective will be seen in this tetragon called _el main_ [Footnote 20: _el main_ is quite legibly written in the original; the meaning and derivation of the word are equally doubtful.], that is to say _e f g h_ which must appear to the eye of the spectator to be equal to _a b c d_ so long as the eye remains in its first position between _c_ and _d_. And this will be seen to have a good effect, because the natural perspective of the plane will conceal the defects which would [otherwise] seem monstrous. _III._ _Six books on Light and Shade._ _Linear Perspective cannot be immediately followed by either the_ "prospettiva de' perdimenti" _or the_ "prospettiva de' colori" _or the aerial perspective; since these branches of the subject presuppose a knowledge of the principles of Light and Shade. No apology, therefore, is here needed for placing these immediately after Linear Perspective._ _We have various plans suggested by Leonardo for the arrangement of the mass of materials treating of this subject. Among these I have given the preference to a scheme propounded in No._ III, _because, in all probability, we have here a final and definite purpose expressed. Several authors have expressed it as their opinion that the Paris Manuscript_ C _is a complete and finished treatise on Light and Shade. Certainly, the Principles of Light and Shade form by far the larger portion of this MS. which consists of two separate parts; still, the materials are far from being finally arranged. It is also evident that he here investigates the subject from the point of view of the Physicist rather than from that of the Painter._ _The plan of a scheme of arrangement suggested in No._ III _and adopted by me has been strictly adhered to for the first four Books. For the three last, however, few materials have come down to us; and it must be admitted that these three Books would find a far more appropriate place in a work on Physics than in a treatise on Painting. For this reason I have collected in Book V all the chapters on Reflections, and in Book VI I have put together and arranged all the sections of MS._ C _that belong to the book on Painting, so far as they relate to Light and Shade, while the sections of the same MS. which treat of the_ "Prospettiva de' perdimenti" _have, of course, been excluded from the series on Light and Shade._ [Footnote III: This text has already been published with some slight variations in Dozio's pamphlet _Degli scritti e disegni di Leonardo da Vinci_, Milan 1871, pp. 30--31. Dozio did not transcribe it from the original MS. which seems to have remained unknown to him, but from an old copy (MS. H. 227 in the Ambrosian Library).] GENERAL INTRODUCTION. Prolegomena. 110. You must first explain the theory and then the practice. First you must describe the shadows and lights on opaque objects, and then on transparent bodies. Scheme of the books on Light and shade. 111. INTRODUCTION. [Having already treated of the nature of shadows and the way in which they are cast [Footnote 2: _Avendo io tractato._--We may suppose that he here refers to some particular MS., possibly Paris C.], I will now consider the places on which they fall; and their curvature, obliquity, flatness or, in short, any character I may be able to detect in them.] Shadow is the obstruction of light. Shadows appear to me to be of supreme importance in perspective, because, without them opaque and solid bodies will be ill defined; that which is contained within their outlines and their boundaries themselves will be ill-understood unless they are shown against a background of a different tone from themselves. And therefore in my first proposition concerning shadow I state that every opaque body is surrounded and its whole surface enveloped in shadow and light. And on this proposition I build up the first Book. Besides this, shadows have in themselves various degrees of darkness, because they are caused by the absence of a variable amount of the luminous rays; and these I call Primary shadows because they are the first, and inseparable from the object to which they belong. And on this I will found my second Book. From these primary shadows there result certain shaded rays which are diffused through the atmosphere and these vary in character according to that of the primary shadows whence they are derived. I shall therefore call these shadows Derived shadows because they are produced by other shadows; and the third Book will treat of these. Again these derived shadows, where they are intercepted by various objects, produce effects as various as the places where they are cast and of this I will treat in the fourth Book. And since all round the derived shadows, where the derived shadows are intercepted, there is always a space where the light falls and by reflected dispersion is thrown back towards its cause, it meets the original shadow and mingles with it and modifies it somewhat in its nature; and on this I will compose my fifth Book. Besides this, in the sixth Book I will investigate the many and various diversities of reflections resulting from these rays which will modify the original [shadow] by [imparting] some of the various colours from the different objects whence these reflected rays are derived. Again, the seventh Book will treat of the various distances that may exist between the spot where the reflected rays fall and that where they originate, and the various shades of colour which they will acquire in falling on opaque bodies. Different principles and plans of treatment (112--116). 112. First I will treat of light falling through windows which I will call Restricted [Light] and then I will treat of light in the open country, to which I will give the name of diffused Light. Then I will treat of the light of luminous bodies. 113. OF PAINTING. The conditions of shadow and light [as seen] by the eye are 3. Of these the first is when the eye and the light are on the same side of the object seen; the 2nd is when the eye is in front of the object and the light is behind it. The 3rd is when the eye is in front of the object and the light is on one side, in such a way as that a line drawn from the object to the eye and one from the object to the light should form a right angle where they meet. 114. OF PAINTING. This is another section: that is, of the nature of a reflection (from) an object placed between the eye and the light under various aspects. 115. OF PAINTING. As regards all visible objects 3 things must be considered. These are the position of the eye which sees: that of the object seen [with regard] to the light, and the position of the light which illuminates the object, _b_ is the eye, _a_ the object seen, _c_ the light, _a_ is the eye, _b_ the illuminating body, _c_ is the illuminated object. 116. Let _a_ be the light, _b_ the eye, _c_ the object seen by the eye and in the light. These show, first, the eye between the light and the body; the 2nd, the light between the eye and the body; the 3rd the body between the eye and the light, _a_ is the eye, _b_ the illuminated object, _c_ the light. 117. OF PAINTING. OF THE THREE KINDS OF LIGHT THAT ILLUMINATE OPAQUE BODIES. The first kind of Light which may illuminate opaque bodies is called Direct light--as that of the sun or any other light from a window or flame. The second is Diffused [universal] light, such as we see in cloudy weather or in mist and the like. The 3rd is Subdued light, that is when the sun is entirely below the horizon, either in the evening or morning. 118. OF LIGHT. The lights which may illuminate opaque bodies are of 4 kinds. These are: diffused light as that of the atmosphere, within our horizon. And Direct, as that of the sun, or of a window or door or other opening. The third is Reflected light; and there is a 4th which is that which passes through [semi] transparent bodies, as linen or paper or the like, but not transparent like glass, or crystal, or other diaphanous bodies, which produce the same effect as though nothing intervened between the shaded object and the light that falls upon it; and this we will discuss fully in our discourse. Definition of the nature of shadows (119--122). 119. WHAT LIGHT AND SHADOW ARE. Shadow is the absence of light, merely the obstruction of the luminous rays by an opaque body. Shadow is of the nature of darkness. Light [on an object] is of the nature of a luminous body; one conceals and the other reveals. They are always associated and inseparable from all objects. But shadow is a more powerful agent than light, for it can impede and entirely deprive bodies of their light, while light can never entirely expel shadow from a body, that is from an opaque body. 120. Shadow is the diminution of light by the intervention of an opaque body. Shadow is the counterpart of the luminous rays which are cut off by an opaque body. This is proved because the shadow cast is the same in shape and size as the luminous rays were which are transformed into a shadow. 121. Shadow is the diminution alike of light and of darkness, and stands between darkness and light. A shadow may be infinitely dark, and also of infinite degrees of absence of darkness. The beginnings and ends of shadow lie between the light and darkness and may be infinitely diminished and infinitely increased. Shadow is the means by which bodies display their form. The forms of bodies could not be understood in detail but for shadow. 122. OF THE NATURE OF SHADOW. Shadow partakes of the nature of universal matter. All such matters are more powerful in their beginning and grow weaker towards the end, I say at the beginning, whatever their form or condition may be and whether visible or invisible. And it is not from small beginnings that they grow to a great size in time; as it might be a great oak which has a feeble beginning from a small acorn. Yet I may say that the oak is most powerful at its beginning, that is where it springs from the earth, which is where it is largest (To return:) Darkness, then, is the strongest degree of shadow and light is its least. Therefore, O Painter, make your shadow darkest close to the object that casts it, and make the end of it fading into light, seeming to have no end. Of the various kinds of shadows. (123-125). 123. Darkness is absence of light. Shadow is diminution of light. Primitive shadow is that which is inseparable from a body not in the light. Derived shadow is that which is disengaged from a body in shadow and pervades the air. A cast transparent shadow is that which is surrounded by an illuminated surface. A simple shadow is one which receives no light from the luminous body which causes it. A simple shadow begins within the line which starts from the edge of the luminous body _a b_. 124. A simple shadow is one where no light at all interferes with it. A compound shadow is one which is somewhat illuminated by one or more lights. 125. WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SHADOW THAT IS INSEPARABLE FROM A BODY AND A CAST SHADOW? An inseparable shadow is that which is never absent from the illuminated body. As, for instance a ball, which so long as it is in the light always has one side in shadow which never leaves it for any movement or change of position in the ball. A separate shadow may be and may not be produced by the body itself. Suppose the ball to be one braccia distant from a wall with a light on the opposite side of it; this light will throw upon the wall exactly as broad a shadow as is to be seen on the side of the ball that is turned towards the wall. That portion of the cast shadow will not be visible when the light is below the ball and the shadow is thrown up towards the sky and finding no obstruction on its way is lost. 126. HOW THERE ARE 2 KINDS OF LIGHT, ONE SEPARABLE FROM, AND THE OTHER INSEPARABLE FROM BODIES. Of the various kinds of light (126, 127). Separate light is that which falls upon the body. Inseparable light is the side of the body that is illuminated by that light. One is called primary, the other derived. And, in the same way there are two kinds of shadow:--One primary and the other derived. The primary is that which is inseparable from the body, the derived is that which proceeds from the body conveying to the surface of the wall the form of the body causing it. 127. How there are 2 different kinds of light; one being called diffused, the other restricted. The diffused is that which freely illuminates objects. The restricted is that which being admitted through an opening or window illuminates them on that side only. [Footnote: At the spot marked _A_ in the first diagram Leonardo wrote _lume costretto_ (restricted light). At the spot _B_ on the second diagram he wrote _lume libero_ (diffused light).] General remarks (128. 129). 128. Light is the chaser away of darkness. Shade is the obstruction of light. Primary light is that which falls on objects and causes light and shade. And derived lights are those portions of a body which are illuminated by the primary light. A primary shadow is that side of a body on which the light cannot fall. The general distribution of shadow and light is that sum total of the rays thrown off by a shaded or illuminated body passing through the air without any interference and the spot which intercepts and cuts off the distribution of the dark and light rays. And the eye can best distinguish the forms of objects when it is placed between the shaded and the illuminated parts. 129. MEMORANDUM OF THINGS I REQUIRE TO HAVE GRANTED [AS AXIOMS] IN MY EXPLANATION OF PERSPECTIVE. I ask to have this much granted me--to assert that every ray passing through air of equal density throughout, travels in a straight line from its cause to the object or place it falls upon. FIRST BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE. On the nature of light (130. 131). 130. The reason by which we know that a light radiates from a single centre is this: We plainly see that a large light is often much broader than some small object which nevertheless--and although the rays [of the large light] are much more than twice the extent [of the small body]--always has its shadow cast on the nearest surface very visibly. Let _c f_ be a broad light and _n_ be the object in front of it, casting a shadow on the plane, and let _a b_ be the plane. It is clear that it is not the broad light that will cast the shadow _n_ on the plane, but that the light has within it a centre is shown by this experiment. The shadow falls on the plane as is shown at _m o t r_. [Footnote 13: In the original MS. no explanatory text is placed after this title-line; but a space is left for it and the text beginning at line 15 comes next.] Why, to two [eyes] or in front of two eyes do 3 objects appear as two? Why, when you estimate the direction of an object with two sights the nearer appears confused. I say that the eye projects an infinite number of lines which mingle or join those reaching it which come to it from the object looked at. And it is only the central and sensible line that can discern and discriminate colours and objects; all the others are false and illusory. And if you place 2 objects at half an arm's length apart if the nearer of the two is close to the eye its form will remain far more confused than that of the second; the reason is that the first is overcome by a greater number of false lines than the second and so is rendered vague. Light acts in the same manner, for in the effects of its lines (=rays), and particularly in perspective, it much resembles the eye; and its central rays are what cast the true shadow. When the object in front of it is too quickly overcome with dim rays it will cast a broad and disproportionate shadow, ill defined; but when the object which is to cast the shadow and cuts off the rays near to the place where the shadow falls, then the shadow is distinct; and the more so in proportion as the light is far off, because at a long distance the central ray is less overcome by false rays; because the lines from the eye and the solar and other luminous rays passing through the atmosphere are obliged to travel in straight lines. Unless they are deflected by a denser or rarer air, when they will be bent at some point, but so long as the air is free from grossness or moisture they will preserve their direct course, always carrying the image of the object that intercepts them back to their point of origin. And if this is the eye, the intercepting object will be seen by its colour, as well as by form and size. But if the intercepting plane has in it some small perforation opening into a darker chamber--not darker in colour, but by absence of light--you will see the rays enter through this hole and transmitting to the plane beyond all the details of the object they proceed from both as to colour and form; only every thing will be upside down. But the size [of the image] where the lines are reconstructed will be in proportion to the relative distance of the aperture from the plane on which the lines fall [on one hand] and from their origin [on the other]. There they intersect and form 2 pyramids with their point meeting [a common apex] and their bases opposite. Let _a b_ be the point of origin of the lines, _d e_ the first plane, and _c_ the aperture with the intersection of the lines; _f g_ is the inner plane. You will find that _a_ falls upon the inner plane below at _g_, and _b_ which is below will go up to the spot _f_; it will be quite evident to experimenters that every luminous body has in itself a core or centre, from which and to which all the lines radiate which are sent forth by the surface of the luminous body and reflected back to it; or which, having been thrown out and not intercepted, are dispersed in the air. 131. THE RAYS WHETHER SHADED OR LUMINOUS HAVE GREATER STRENGTH AND EFFECT AT THEIR POINTS THAN AT THEIR SIDES. Although the points of luminous pyramids may extend into shaded places and those of pyramids of shadow into illuminated places, and though among the luminous pyramids one may start from a broader base than another; nevertheless, if by reason of their various length these luminous pyramids acquire angles of equal size their light will be equal; and the case will be the same with the pyramids of shadow; as may be seen in the intersected pyramids _a b c_ and _d e f_, which though their bases differ in size are equal as to breadth and light. [Footnote: 51--55: This supplementary paragraph is indicated as being a continuation of line 45, by two small crosses.] The difference between light and lustre (132--135). 132. Of the difference between light and lustre; and that lustre is not included among colours, but is saturation of whiteness, and derived from the surface of wet bodies; light partakes of the colour of the object which reflects it (to the eye) as gold or silver or the like. 133. OF THE HIGHEST LIGHTS WHICH TURN AND MOVE AS THE EYE MOVES WHICH SEES THE OBJECT. Suppose the body to be the round object figured here and let the light be at the point _a_, and let the illuminated side of the object be _b c_ and the eye at the point _d_: I say that, as lustre is every where and complete in each part, if you stand at the point _d_ the lustre will appear at _c_, and in proportion as the eye moves from _d_ to _a_, the lustre will move from _c_ to _n_. 134. OF PAINTING. Heigh light or lustre on any object is not situated [necessarily] in the middle of an illuminated object, but moves as and where the eye moves in looking at it. 135. OF LIGHT AND LUSTRE. What is the difference between light and the lustre which is seen on the polished surface of opaque bodies? The lights which are produced from the polished surface of opaque bodies will be stationary on stationary objects even if the eye on which they strike moves. But reflected lights will, on those same objects, appear in as many different places on the surface as different positions are taken by the eye. WHAT BODIES HAVE LIGHT UPON THEM WITHOUT LUSTRE? Opaque bodies which have a hard and rough surface never display any lustre in any portion of the side on which the light falls. WHAT BODIES WILL DISPLAY LUSTRE BUT NOT LOOK ILLUMINATED? Those bodies which are opaque and hard with a hard surface reflect light [lustre] from every spot on the illuminated side which is in a position to receive light at the same angle of incidence as they occupy with regard to the eye; but, as the surface mirrors all the surrounding objects, the illuminated [body] is not recognisable in these portions of the illuminated body. 136. The relations of luminous to illuminated bodies. The middle of the light and shade on an object in light and shade is opposite to the middle of the primary light. All light and shadow expresses itself in pyramidal lines. The middle of the shadow on any object must necessarily be opposite the middle of its light, with a direct line passing through the centre of the body. The middle of the light will be at _a_, that of the shadow at _b_. [Again, in bodies shown in light and shade the middle of each must coincide with the centre of the body, and a straight line will pass through both and through that centre.] [Footnote: In the original MS., at the spot marked _a_ of the first diagram Leonardo wrote _primitiuo_, and at the spot marked _c_--_primitiva_ (primary); at the spot marked _b_ he wrote _dirivatiuo_ and at _d deriuatiua_ (derived).] Experiments on the relation of light and shadow within a room (137--140). 137. SHOWS HOW LIGHT FROM ANY SIDE CONVERGES TO ONE POINT. Although the balls _a b c_ are lighted from one window, nevertheless, if you follow the lines of their shadows you will see they intersect at a point forming the angle _n_. [Footnote: The diagram belonging to this passage is slightly sketched on Pl. XXXII; a square with three balls below it. The first three lines of the text belonging to it are written above the sketch and the six others below it.] 138. Every shadow cast by a body has a central line directed to a single point produced by the intersection of luminous lines in the middle of the opening and thickness of the window. The proposition stated above, is plainly seen by experiment. Thus if you draw a place with a window looking northwards, and let this be _s f_, you will see a line starting from the horizon to the east, which, touching the 2 angles of the window _o f_, reaches _d_; and from the horizon on the west another line, touching the other 2 angles _r s_, and ending at _c_; and their intersection falls exactly in the middle of the opening and thickness of the window. Again, you can still better confirm this proof by placing two sticks, as shown at _g h_; and you will see the line drawn from the centre of the shadow directed to the centre _m_ and prolonged to the horizon _n f_. [Footnote: _B_ here stands for _cerchio del' orizonte tramontano_ on the original diagram (the circle of the horizon towards the North); _A_ for _levante_ (East) and _C_ for _ponete_ (West).] 139. Every shadow with all its variations, which becomes larger as its distance from the object is greater, has its external lines intersecting in the middle, between the light and the object. This proposition is very evident and is confirmed by experience. For, if _a b_ is a window without any object interposed, the luminous atmosphere to the right hand at _a_ is seen to the left at _d_. And the atmosphere at the left illuminates on the right at _c_, and the lines intersect at the point _m_. [Footnote: _A_ here stands for _levante_ (East), _B_ for _ponente_ (West).] 140. Every body in light and shade is situated between 2 pyramids one dark and the other luminous, one is visible the other is not. But this only happens when the light enters by a window. Supposing _a b_ to be the window and _r_ the body in light and shade, the light to the right hand _z_ will pass the object to the left and go on to _p_; the light to the left at _k_ will pass to the right of the object at _i_ and go on to _m_ and the two lines will intersect at _c_ and form a pyramid. Then again _a_ _b_ falls on the shaded body at _i_ _g_ and forms a pyramid _f_ _i_ _g_. _f_ will be dark because the light _a_ _b_ can never fall there; _i_ _g_ _c_ will be illuminated because the light falls upon it. Light and shadow with regard to the position of the eye (141--145). 141. Every shaded body that is larger than the pupil and that interposes between the luminous body and the eye will be seen dark. When the eye is placed between the luminous body and the objects illuminated by it, these objects will be seen without any shadow. [Footnote: The diagram which in the original stands above line 1 is given on Plate II, No 2. Then, after a blank space of about eight lines, the diagram Plate II No 3 is placed in the original. There is no explanation of it beyond the one line written under it.] 142. Why the 2 lights one on each side of a body having two pyramidal sides of an obtuse apex leave it devoid of shadow. [Footnote: The sketch illustrating this is on Plate XLI No 1.] 143. A body in shadow situated between the light and the eye can never display its illuminated portion unless the eye can see the whole of the primary light. [Footnote: _A_ stands for _corpo_ (body), _B_ for _lume_ (light).] 144. The eye which looks (at a spot) half way between the shadow and the light which surrounds the body in shadow will see that the deepest shadows on that body will meet the eye at equal angles, that is at the same angle as that of sight. [Footnote: In both these diagrams _A_ stands for _lume_ (light) _B_ for _ombra_ (shadow).] 145. OF THE DIFFERENT LIGHT AND SHADE IN VARIOUS ASPECTS AND OF OBJECTS PLACED IN THEM. If the sun is in the East and you look towards the West you will see every thing in full light and totally without shadow because you see them from the same side as the sun: and if you look towards the South or North you will see all objects in light and shade, because you see both the side towards the sun and the side away from it; and if you look towards the coming of the sun all objects will show you their shaded side, because on that side the sun cannot fall upon them. The law of the incidence of light. 146. The edges of a window which are illuminated by 2 lights of equal degrees of brightness will not reflect light of equal brightness into the chamber within. If _b_ is a candle and _a c_ our hemisphere both will illuminate the edges of the window _m_ _n_, but light _b_ will only illuminate _f g_ and the hemisphere _a_ will light all of _d e_. 147. OF PAINTING. That part of a body which receives the luminous rays at equal angles will be in a higher light than any other part of it. And the part which the luminous rays strike between less equal angles will be less strongly illuminated. SECOND BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE. Gradations of strength in the shadows (148. 149). 148. THAT PORTION OF A BODY IN LIGHT AND SHADE WILL BE LEAST LUMINOUS WHICH IS SEEN UNDER THE LEAST AMOUNT OF LIGHT. That part of the object which is marked _m_ is in the highest light because it faces the window _a d_ by the line _a f_; _n_ is in the second grade because the light _b d_ strikes it by the line _b e_; _o_ is in the third grade, as the light falls on it from _c d_ by the line _c h_; _p_ is the lowest light but one as _c d_ falls on it by the line _d v_; _q_ is the deepest shadow for no light falls on it from any part of the window. In proportion as _c d_ goes into _a d_ so will _n r s_ be darker than _m_, and all the rest is space without shadow. [Footnote: The diagram belonging to this chapter is No. 1 on Plate III. The letters _a b e d_ and _r_ are not reproduced in facsimile of the original, but have been replaced by ordinary type in the margin. 5-12. The original text of these lines is reproduced within the diagram.--Compare No 275.] 149. The light which falls on a shaded body at the acutest angle receives the highest light, and the darkest portion is that which receives it at an obtuse angle and both the light and the shadow form pyramids. The angle _c_ receives the highest grade of light because it is directly in front of the window _a b_ and the whole horizon of the sky _m x_. The angle _a_ differs but little from _c_ because the angles which divide it are not so unequal as those below, and only that portion of the horizon is intercepted which lies between _y_ and _x_. Although it gains as much on the other side its line is nevertheless not very strong because one angle is smaller than its fellow. The angles _e i_ will have less light because they do not see much of the light _m s_ and the light _v x_ and their angles are very unequal. Yhe angle _k_ and the angle _f_ are each placed between very unequal angles and therefore have but little light, because at _k_ it has only the light _p t_, and at _f_ only _t q_; _o g_ is the lowest grade of light because this part has no light at all from the sky; and thence come the lines which will reconstruct a pyramid that is the counterpart of the pyramid _c_; and this pyramid _l_ is in the first grade of shadow; for this too is placed between equal angles directly opposite to each other on either side of a straight line which passes through the centre of the body and goes to the centre of the light. The several luminous images cast within the frame of the window at the points _a_ and _b_ make a light which surrounds the derived shadow cast by the solid body at the points 4 and 6. The shaded images increase from _o g_ and end at 7 and 8. [Footnote: The diagram belonging to this chapter is No. 2 on Plate III. In the original it is placed between lines 3 and 4, and in the reproduction these are shown in part. The semi circle above is marked _orizonte_ (horizon). The number 6 at the left hand side, outside the facsimile, is in the place of a figure which has become indistinct in the original.] On the intensity of shadows as dependent on the distance from the light (150-152). 150. The smaller the light that falls upon an object the more shadow it will display. And the light will illuminate a smaller portion of the object in proportion as it is nearer to it; and conversely, a larger extent of it in proportion as it is farther off. A light which is smaller than the object on which it falls will light up a smaller extent of it in proportion as it is nearer to it, and the converse, as it is farther from it. But when the light is larger than the object illuminated it will light a larger extent of the object in proportion as it is nearer and the converse when they are farther apart. 151. That portion of an illuminated object which is nearest to the source of light will be the most strongly illuminated. 152. That portion of the primary shadow will be least dark which is farthest from the edges. The derived shadow will be darker than the primary shadow where it is contiguous with it. On the proportion of light and shade (153-157). 153. That portion of an opaque body will be more in shade or more in light, which is nearer to the dark body, by which it is shaded, or to the light that illuminates it. Objects seen in light and shade show in greater relief than those which are wholly in light or in shadow. 154. OF PERSPECTIVE. The shaded and illuminated sides of opaque objects will display the same proportion of light and darkness as their objects [Footnote 6: The meaning of _obbietti_ (objects) is explained in no 153, lines 1-4.--Between the title-line and the next there is, in the original, a small diagram representing a circle described round a square.]. 155. OF PAINTING. The outlines and form of any part of a body in light and shade are indistinct in the shadows and in the high lights; but in the portions between the light and the shadows they are highly conspicuous. 156. OF PAINTING. Among objects in various degrees of shade, when the light proceeds from a single source, there will be the same proportion in their shadows as in the natural diminution of the light and the same must be understood of the degrees of light. 157. A single and distinct luminous body causes stronger relief in the object than a diffused light; as may be seen by comparing one side of a landscape illuminated by the sun, and one overshadowed by clouds, and so illuminated only by the diffused light of the atmosphere. THIRD BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE. Definition of derived shadow (158. 159). 158. Derived shadow cannot exist without primary shadow. This is proved by the first of this which says: Darkness is the total absence of light, and shadow is an alleviation of darkness and of light, and it is more or less dark or light in proportion as the darkness is modified by the light. 159. Shadow is diminution of light. Darkness is absence of light. Shadow is divided into two kinds, of which the first is called primary shadow, the second is derived shadow. The primary shadow is always the basis of the derived shadow. The edges of the derived shadow are straight lines. [Footnote: The theory of the _ombra_ dirivativa_--a technical expression for which there is no precise English equivalent is elaborately treated by Leonardo. But both text and diagrams (as Pl. IV, 1-3 and Pl. V) must at once convince the student that the distinction he makes between _ombra primitiva_ and _ombra dirivativa_ is not merely justifiable but scientific. _Ombra dirivativa_ is by no means a mere abstract idea. This is easily proved by repeating the experiment made by Leonardo, and by filling with smoke the room in which the existence of the _ombra dirivativa_ is investigated, when the shadow becomes visible. Nor is it difficult to perceive how much of Leonardo's teaching depended on this theory. The recognised, but extremely complicated science of cast shadows--_percussione dell' ombre dirivative_ as Leonardo calls them--is thus rendered more intelligible if not actually simpler, and we must assume this theory as our chief guide through the investigations which follow.] The darkness of the derived shadow diminishes in proportion as it is remote from the primary shadow. Different sorts of derived shadows (160-162). 160. SHADOW AND LIGHT. The forms of shadows are three: inasmuch as if the solid body which casts the shadow is equal (in size) to the light, the shadow resembles a column without any termination (in length). If the body is larger than the light the shadow resembles a truncated and inverted pyramid, and its length has also no defined termination. But if the body is smaller than the light, the shadow will resemble a pyramid and come to an end, as is seen in eclipses of the moon. 161. OF SIMPLE DERIVED SHADOWS. The simple derived shadow is of two kinds: one kind which has its length defined, and two kinds which are undefined; and the defined shadow is pyramidal. Of the two undefined, one is a column and the other spreads out; and all three have rectilinear outlines. But the converging, that is the pyramidal, shadow proceeds from a body that is smaller than the light, and the columnar from a body equal in size to the light, and the spreading shadow from a body larger than the light; &c. OF COMPOUND DERIVED SHADOWS. Compound derived shadows are of two kinds; that is columnar and spreading. 162. OF SHADOW. Derived shadows are of three kinds of which one is spreading, the second columnar, the third converging to the point where the two sides meet and intersect, and beyond this intersection the sides are infinitely prolonged or straight lines. And if you say, this shadow must terminate at the angle where the sides meet and extend no farther, I deny this, because above in the first on shadow I have proved: that a thing is completely terminated when no portion of it goes beyond its terminating lines. Now here, in this shadow, we see the converse of this, in as much as where this derived shadow originates we obviously have the figures of two pyramids of shadow which meet at their angles. Hence, if, as [my] opponent says, the first pyramid of shadow terminates the derivative shadow at the angle whence it starts, then the second pyramid of shadow--so says the adversary--must be caused by the angle and not from the body in shadow; and this is disproved with the help of the 2nd of this which says: Shadow is a condition produced by a body casting a shadow, and interposed between this shadow and the luminous body. By this it is made clear that the shadow is not produced by the angle of the derived shadow but only by the body casting the shadow; &c. If a spherical solid body is illuminated by a light of elongated form the shadow produced by the longest portion of this light will have less defined outlines than that which is produced by the breadth of the same light. And this is proved by what was said before, which is: That a shadow will have less defined outlines in proportion as the light which causes it is larger, and conversely, the outlines are clearer in proportion as it is smaller. [Footnote: The two diagrams to this chapter are on Plate IV, No. 1.] On the relation of derived and primary shadow (163-165). 163. The derived shadow can never resemble the body from which it proceeds unless the light is of the same form and size as the body causing the shadow. The derived shadow cannot be of the same form as the primary shadow unless it is intercepted by a plane parallel to it. 164. HOW A CAST SHADOW CAN NEVER BE OF THE SAME SIZE AS THE BODY THAT CASTS IT. If the rays of light proceed, as experience shows, from a single point and are diffused in a sphere round this point, radiating and dispersed through the air, the farther they spread the wider they must spread; and an object placed between the light and a wall is always imaged larger in its shadow, because the rays that strike it [Footnote: 7. The following lines are wanting to complete the logical connection.] would, by the time they have reached the wall, have become larger. 165. Any shadow cast by a body in light and shade is of the same nature and character as that which is inseparable from the body. The centre of the length of a shadow always corresponds to that of the luminous body [Footnote 6: This second statement of the same idea as in the former sentence, but in different words, does not, in the original, come next to the foregoing; sections 172 and 127 are placed between them.]. It is inevitable that every shadow must have its centre in a line with the centre of the light. On the shape of derived shadows (166-174). 166. OF THE PYRAMIDAL SHADOW. The pyramidal shadow produced by a columnar body will be narrower than the body itself in proportion as the simple derived shadow is intersected farther from the body which casts it. [Footnote 166: Compare the first diagram to No. 161. If we here conceive of the outlines of the pyramid of shadow on the ground as prolonged beyond its apex this gives rise to a second pyramid; this is what is spoken of at the beginning of No. 166.] 167. The cast shadow will be longest when the light is lowest. The cast shadow will be shortest when the light is highest. 168. Both the primary and derived shadow will be larger when caused by the light of a candle than by diffused light. The difference between the larger and smaller shadows will be in inverse proportion to the larger and smaller lights causing them. [Footnote: In the diagrams _A_ stands for _celo_ (sky), _B_ for _cadela_ (candle).] 169. ALL BODIES, IN PROPORTION AS THEY ARE NEARER TO, OR FARTHER FROM THE SOURCE OF LIGHT, WILL PRODUCE LONGER OR SHORTER DERIVED SHADOWS. Among bodies of equal size, that one which is illuminated by the largest light will have the shortest shadow. Experiment confirms this proposition. Thus the body _m_ _n_ is surrounded by a larger amount of light than the body _p q_, as is shown above. Let us say that _v c a b d x_ is the sky, the source of light, and that _s t_ is a window by which the luminous rays enter, and so _m n_ and _p q_ are bodies in light and shade as exposed to this light; _m n_ will have a small derived shadow, because its original shadow will be small; and the derivative light will be large, again, because the original light _c d_ will be large and _p q_ will have more derived shadow because its original shadow will be larger, and its derived light will be smaller than that of the body _m n_ because that portion of the hemisphere _a b_ which illuminates it is smaller than the hemisphere _c d_ which illuminates the body _m n_. [Footnote: The diagram, given on Pl. IV, No. 2, stands in the original between lines 2 and 7, while the text of lines 3 to 6 is written on its left side. In the reproduction of this diagram the letter _v_ at the outer right-hand end has been omitted.] 170. The shadow _m_ bears the same proportion to the shadow _n_ as the line _b c_ to the line _f c_. 171. OF PAINTING. Of different shadows of equal strength that which is nearest the eye will seem the least strong. Why is the shadow _e a b_ in the first grade of strength, _b c_ in the second; _c d_ in the third? The reason is that as from _e a b_ the sky is nowhere visible, it gets no light whatever from the sky, and so has no direct [primary] light. _b c_ faces the portion of the sky _f g_ and is illuminated by it. _c d_ faces the sky at _h k_. _c d_, being exposed to a larger extent of sky than _b c_, it is reasonable that it should be more lighted. And thus, up to a certain distance, the wall _a d_ will grow lighter for the reasons here given, until the darkness of the room overpowers the light from the window. 172. When the light of the atmosphere is restricted [by an opening] and illuminates bodies which cast shadows, these bodies being equally distant from the centre of the window, that which is most obliquely placed will cast the largest shadow beyond it. 173. These bodies standing apart in a room lighted by a single window will have derivative shadows more or less short according as they are more or less opposite to the window. Among the shadows cast by bodies of equal mass but at unequal distances from the opening by which they are illuminated, that shadow will be the longest of the body which is least in the light. And in proportion as one body is better illuminated than another its shadow will be shorter than another. The proportion _n m_ and _e v k_ bear to _r t_ and _v x_ corresponds with that of the shadow _x_ to 4 and _y_. The reason why those bodies which are placed most in front of the middle of the window throw shorter shadows than those obliquely situated is:--That the window appears in its proper form and to the obliquely placed ones it appears foreshortened; to those in the middle, the window shows its full size, to the oblique ones it appears smaller; the one in the middle faces the whole hemisphere that is _e f_ and those on the side have only a strip; that is _q r_ faces _a b_; and _m n_ faces _c d_; the body in the middle having a larger quantity of light than those at the sides is lighted from a point much below its centre, and thus the shadow is shorter. And the pyramid _g_ 4 goes into _l y_ exactly as often as _a b_ goes into _e f_. The axis of every derivative shadow passes through 6 1/2 [Footnote 31: _passa per_ 6 1/2 (passes through 6 1/2). The meaning of these words is probably this: Each of the three axes of the derived shadow intersects the centre (_mezzo_) of the primary shadow (_ombra originale_) and, by prolongation upwards crosses six lines. This is self evident only in the middle diagram; but it is equally true of the side figures if we conceive of the lines 4 _f_, _x n v m_, _y l k v_, and 4 _e_, as prolonged beyond the semicircle of the horizon.] and is in a straight line with the centre of the primary shadow, with the centre of the body casting it and of the derivative light and with the centre of the window and, finally, with the centre of that portion of the source of light which is the celestial hemisphere, _y h_ is the centre of the derived shade, _l h_ of the primary shadow, _l_ of the body throwing it, _l k_ of the derived light, _v_ is the centre of the window, _e_ is the final centre of the original light afforded by that portion of the hemisphere of the sky which illuminates the solid body. [Footnote: Compare the diagram on Pl. IV, No. 3. In the original this drawing is placed between lines 3 and 22; the rest, from line 4 to line 21, is written on the left hand margin.] 174. THE FARTHER THE DERIVED SHADOW IS PROLONGED THE LIGHTER IT BECOMES. You will find that the proportion of the diameter of the derived shadow to that of the primary shadow will be the same as that between the darkness of the primary shadow and that of the derived shadow. [Footnote 6: Compare No. 177.] Let _a b_ be the diameter of the primary shadow and _c d_ that of the derived shadow, I say that _a b_ going, as you see, three times into _d c_, the shadow _d c_ will be three times as light as the shadow _a b_. [Footnote 8: Compare No. 177.] If the size of the illuminating body is larger than that of the illuminated body an intersection of shadow will occur, beyond which the shadows will run off in two opposite directions as if they were caused by two separate lights. On the relative intensity of derived shadows (175-179). 175. ON PAINTING. The derived shadow is stronger in proportion as it is nearer to its place of origin. 176. HOW SHADOWS FADE AWAY AT LONG DISTANCES. Shadows fade and are lost at long distances because the larger quantity of illuminated air which lies between the eye and the object seen tints the shadow with its own colour. 177. _a b_ will be darker than _c d_ in proportion as _c d_ is broader than _a b_. [Footnote: In the original MS. the word _lume_ (light) is written at the apex of the pyramid.] 178. It can be proved why the shadow _o p c h_ is darker in proportion as it is nearer to the line _p h_ and is lighter in proportion as it is nearer to the line _o c_. Let the light _a b_, be a window, and let the dark wall in which this window is, be _b s_, that is, one of the sides of the wall. Then we may say that the line _p h_ is darker than any other part of the space _o p c h_, because this line faces the whole surface in shadow of [Footnote: In the original the diagram is placed between lines 27 and 28.] the wall _b s_. The line _o c_ is lighter than the other part of this space _o p c h_, because this line faces the luminous space _a b_. Where the shadow is larger, or smaller, or equal the body which casts it. [First of the character of divided lights. [Footnote 14: _lumi divisi_. The text here breaks off abruptly.] OF THE COMPOUND SHADOW _F, R, C, H_ CAUSED BY A SINGLE LIGHT. The shadow _f r c h_ is under such conditions as that where it is farthest from its inner side it loses depth in proportion. To prove this: Let _d a_, be the light and _f n_ the solid body, and let _a e_ be one of the side walls of the window that is _d a_. Then I say--according to the 2nd [proposition]: that the surface of any body is affected by the tone of the objects surrounding it,--that the side _r c_, which faces the dark wall _a e_ must participate of its darkness and, in the same way that the outer surface which faces the light _d a_ participates of the light; thus we get the outlines of the extremes on each side of the centre included between them.] This is divided into four parts. The first the extremes, which include the compound shadow, secondly the compound shadow between these extremes. 179. THE ACTION OF THE LIGHT AS FROM ITS CENTRE. If it were the whole of the light that caused the shadows beyond the bodies placed in front of it, it would follow that any body much smaller than the light would cast a pyramidal shadow; but experience not showing this, it must be the centre of the light that produces this effect. [Footnote: The diagram belonging to this passage is between lines 4 and 5 in the original. Comp. the reproduction Pl. IV, No. 4. The text and drawing of this chapter have already been published with tolerable accuracy. See M. JORDAN: "_Das Malerbuch des Leonardo da Vinci_". Leipzig 1873, P. 90.] PROOF. Let _a b_ be the width of the light from a window, which falls on a stick set up at one foot from _a c_ [Footnote 6: _bastone_ (stick). The diagram has a sphere in place of a stick.]. And let _a d_ be the space where all the light from the window is visible. At _c e_ that part of the window which is between _l b_ cannot be seen. In the same way _a m_ cannot be seen from _d f_ and therefore in these two portions the light begins to fail. Shadow as produced by two lights of different size (180. 181). 180. A body in light and shade placed between two equal lights side by side will cast shadows in proportion to the [amount of] light. And the shadows will be one darker than the other in proportion as one light is nearer to the said body than the other on the opposite side. A body placed at an equal distance between two lights will cast two shadows, one deeper than the other in proportion, as the light which causes it is brighter than the other. [Footnote: In the MS. the larger diagram is placed above the first line; the smaller one between l. 4 & 5.] 181. A light which is smaller than the body it illuminates produces shadows of which the outlines end within [the surface of] the body, and not much compound shadow; and falls on less than half of it. A light which is larger than the body it illuminates, falls on more than half of it, and produces much compound shadow. The effect of light at different distances. 182. OF THE SHADOW CAST BY A BODY PLACED BETWEEN 2 EQUAL LIGHTS. A body placed between 2 equal lights will cast 2 shadows of itself in the direction of the lines of the 2 lights; and if you move this body placing it nearer to one of the lights the shadow cast towards the nearer light will be less deep than that which falls towards the more distant one. Further complications in the derived shadows (183-187). 183. The greatest depth of shadow is in the simple derived shadow because it is not lighted by either of the two lights _a b, c d_. The next less deep shadow is the derived shadow _e f n_; and in this the shadow is less by half, because it is illuminated by a single light, that is _c d_. This is uniform in natural tone because it is lighted throughout by one only of the two luminous bodies [10]. But it varies with the conditions of shadow, inasmuch as the farther it is away from the light the less it is illuminated by it [13]. The third degree of depth is the middle shadow [Footnote 15: We gather from what follows that _q g r_ here means _ombra media_ (the middle shadow).]. But this is not uniform in natural tone; because the nearer it gets to the simple derived shadow the deeper it is [Footnote 18: Compare lines 10-13], and it is the uniformly gradual diminution by increase of distance which is what modifies it [Footnote 20: See Footnote 18]: that is to say the depth of a shadow increases in proportion to the distance from the two lights. The fourth is the shadow _k r s_ and this is all the darker in natural tone in proportion as it is nearer to _k s_, because it gets less of the light _a o_, but by the accident [of distance] it is rendered less deep, because it is nearer to the light _c d_, and thus is always exposed to both lights. The fifth is less deep in shadow than either of the others because it is always entirely exposed to one of the lights and to the whole or part of the other; and it is less deep in proportion as it is nearer to the two lights, and in proportion as it is turned towards the outer side _x t_; because it is more exposed to the second light _a b_. [Footnote: The diagram to this section is given on Pl. V. To the left is the facsimile of the beginning of the text belonging to it.] 184. OF SIMPLE SHADOWS. Why, at the intersections _a_, _b_ of the two compound shadows _e f_ and _m e_, is a simple shadow pfoduced as at _e h_ and _m g_, while no such simple shadow is produced at the other two intersections _c d_ made by the very same compound shadows? ANSWER. Compound shadow are a mixture of light and shade and simple shadows are simply darkness. Hence, of the two lights _n_ and _o_, one falls on the compound shadow from one side, and the other on the compound shadow from the other side, but where they intersect no light falls, as at _a b_; therefore it is a simple shadow. Where there is a compound shadow one light or the other falls; and here a difficulty arises for my adversary since he says that, where the compound shadows intersect, both the lights which produce the shadows must of necessity fall and therefore these shadows ought to be neutralised; inasmuch as the two lights do not fall there, we say that the shadow is a simple one and where only one of the two lights falls, we say the shadow is compound, and where both the lights fall the shadow is neutralised; for where both lights fall, no shadow of any kind is produced, but only a light background limiting the shadow. Here I shall say that what my adversary said was true: but he only mentions such truths as are in his favour; and if we go on to the rest he must conclude that my proposition is true. And that is: That if both lights fell on the point of intersection, the shadows would be neutralised. This I confess to be true if [neither of] the two shadows fell in the same spot; because, where a shadow and a light fall, a compound shadow is produced, and wherever two shadows or two equal lights fall, the shadow cannot vary in any part of it, the shadows and the lights both being equal. And this is proved in the eighth [proposition] on proportion where it is said that if a given quantity has a single unit of force and resistance, a double quantity will have double force and double resistance. DEFINITION. The intersection _n_ is produced by the shadows caused by the light _b_, because this light _b_ produces the shadow _x b_, and the shadow _s b_, but the intersection _m_ is produced by the light _a_ which causes the shadow _s a_, and the shadow _x a_. But if you uncover both the lights _a b_, then you get the two shadows _n m_ both at once, and besides these, two other, simple shadows are produced at _r o_ where neither of the two lights falls at all. The grades of depth in compound shadows are fewer in proportion as the lights falling on, and crossing them are less numerous. 186. Why the intersections at _n_ being composed of two compound derived shadows, forms a compound shadow and not a simple one, as happens with other intersections of compound shadows. This occurs, according to the 2nd [diagram] of this [prop.] which says:--The intersection of derived shadows when produced by the intersection of columnar shadows caused by a single light does not produce a simple shadow. And this is the corollary of the 1st [prop.] which says:--The intersection of simple derived shadows never results in a deeper shadow, because the deepest shadows all added together cannot be darker than one by itself. Since, if many deepest shadows increased in depth by their duplication, they could not be called the _deepest_ shadows, but only part-shadows. But if such intersections are illuminated by a second light placed between the eye and the intersecting bodies, then those shadows would become compound shadows and be uniformly dark just as much at the intersection as throughout the rest. In the 1st and 2nd above, the intersections _i k_ will not be doubled in depth as it is doubled in quantity. But in this 3rd, at the intersections _g n_ they will be double in depth and in quantity. 187. HOW AND WHEN THE SURROUNDINGS IN SHADOW MINGLE THEIR DERIVED SHADOW WITH THE LIGHT DERIVED FROM THE LUMINOUS BODY. The derived shadow of the dark walls on each side of the bright light of the window are what mingle their various degrees of shade with the light derived from the window; and these various depths of shade modify every portion of the light, except where it is strongest, at _c_. To prove this let _d a_ be the primary shadow which is turned towards the point _e_, and darkens it by its derived shadow; as may be seen by the triangle _a e d_, in which the angle _e_ faces the darkened base _d a e_; the point _v_ faces the dark shadow _a s_ which is part of _a d_, and as the whole is greater than a part, _e_ which faces the whole base [of the triangle], will be in deeper shadow than _v_ which only faces part of it. In consequence of the conclusion [shown] in the above diagram, _t_ will be less darkened than _v_, because the base of the _t_ is part of the base of the _v_; and in the same way it follows that _p_ is less in shadow than _t_, because the base of the _p_ is part of the base of the _t_. And _c_ is the terminal point of the derived shadow and the chief beginning of the highest light. [Footnote: The diagram on Pl. IV, No. 5 belongs to this passage; but it must be noted that the text explains only the figure on the right-hand side.] FOURTH BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE. On the shape of the cast shadows (188-191). 188. The form of the shadow cast by any body of uniform density can never be the same as that of the body producing it. [Footnote: Comp. the drawing on PI. XXVIII, No. 5.] 189. No cast shadow can produce the true image of the body which casts it on a vertical plane unless the centre of the light is equally distant from all the edges of that body. 190. If a window _a b_ admits the sunlight into a room, the sunlight will magnify the size of the window and diminish the shadow of a man in such a way as that when the man makes that dim shadow of himself, approach to that which defines the real size of the window, he will see the shadows where they come into contact, dim and confused from the strength of the light, shutting off and not allowing the solar rays to pass; the effect of the shadow of the man cast by this contact will be exactly that figured above. [Footnote: It is scarcely possible to render the meaning of this sentence with strict accuracy; mainly because the grammatical construction is defective in the most important part--line 4. In the very slight original sketch the shadow touches the upper arch of the window and the correction, here given is perhaps not justified.] 191. A shadow is never seen as of uniform depth on the surface which intercepts it unless every portion of that surface is equidistant from the luminous body. This is proved by the 7th which says:--The shadow will appear lighter or stronger as it is surrounded by a darker or a lighter background. And by the 8th of this:--The background will be in parts darker or lighter, in proportion as it is farther from or nearer to the luminous body. And:--Of various spots equally distant from the luminous body those will always be in the highest light on which the rays fall at the smallest angles: The outline of the shadow as it falls on inequalities in the surface will be seen with all the contours similar to those of the body that casts it, if the eye is placed just where the centre of the light was. The shadow will look darkest where it is farthest from the body that casts it. The shadow _c d_, cast by the body in shadow _a b_ which is equally distant in all parts, is not of equal depth because it is seen on a back ground of varying brightness. [Footnote: Compare the three diagrams on Pl. VI, no 1 which, in the original accompany this section.] On the outlines of cast shadows (192-195). 192. The edges of a derived shadow will be most distinct where it is cast nearest to the primary shadow. 193. As the derived shadow gets more distant from the primary shadow, the more the cast shadow differs from the primary shadow. 194. OF SHADOWS WHICH NEVER COME TO AN END. The greater the difference between a light and the body lighted by it, the light being the larger, the more vague will be the outlines of the shadow of that object. The derived shadow will be most confused towards the edges of its interception by a plane, where it is remotest from the body casting it. 195. What is the cause which makes the outlines of the shadow vague and confused? Whether it is possible to give clear and definite outlines to the edges of shadows. On the relative size of shadows (196. 197). 196. THE BODY WHICH IS NEAREST TO THE LIGHT CASTS THE LARGEST SHADOW, AND WHY? If an object placed in front of a single light is very close to it you will see that it casts a very large shadow on the opposite wall, and the farther you remove the object from the light the smaller will the image of the shadow become. WHY A SHADOW LARGER THAN THE BODY THAT PRODUCES IT BECOMES OUT OF PROPORTION. The disproportion of a shadow which is larger than the body producing it, results from the light being smaller than the body, so that it cannot be at an equal distance from the edges of the body [Footnote 11: H. LUDWIG in his edition of the old copies, in the Vatican library--in which this chapter is included under Nos. 612, 613 and 614 alters this passage as follows: _quella parte ch'e piu propinqua piu cresce che le distanti_, although the Vatican copy agrees with the original MS. in having _distante_ in the former and _propinque_ in the latter place. This supposed amendment seems to me to invert the facts. Supposing for instance, that on Pl. XXXI No. 3. _f_ is the spot where the light is that illuminates the figure there represented, and that the line behind the figure represents a wall on which the shadow of the figure is thrown. It is evident, that in that case the nearest portion, in this case the under part of the thigh, is very little magnified in the shadow, and the remoter parts, for instance the head, are more magnified.]; and the portions which are most remote are made larger than the nearer portions for this reason [Footnote 12: See Footnote 11]. WHY A SHADOW WHICH IS LARGER THAN THE BODY CAUSING IT HAS ILL-DEFINED OUTLINES. The atmosphere which surrounds a light is almost like light itself for brightness and colour; but the farther off it is the more it loses this resemblance. An object which casts a large shadow and is near to the light, is illuminated both by that light by the luminous atmosphere; hence this diffused light gives the shadow ill-defined edges. 197. A luminous body which is long and narrow in shape gives more confused outlines to the derived shadow than a spherical light, and this contradicts the proposition next following: A shadow will have its outlines more clearly defined in proportion as it is nearer to the primary shadow or, I should say, the body casting the shadow; [Footnote 14: The lettering refers to the lower diagram, Pl. XLI, No. 5.] the cause of this is the elongated form of the luminous body _a c_, &c. [Footnote 16: See Footnote 14]. Effects on cast shadows by the tone of the back ground. 198. OF MODIFIED SHADOWS. Modified shadows are those which are cast on light walls or other illuminated objects. A shadow looks darkest against a light background. The outlines of a derived shadow will be clearer as they are nearer to the primary shadow. A derived shadow will be most defined in shape where it is intercepted, where the plane intercepts it at the most equal angle. Those parts of a shadow will appear darkest which have darker objects opposite to them. And they will appear less dark when they face lighter objects. And the larger the light object opposite, the more the shadow will be lightened. And the larger the surface of the dark object the more it will darken the derived shadow where it is intercepted. A disputed proposition. 199. OF THE OPINION OF SOME THAT A TRIANGLE CASTS NO SHADOW ON A PLANE SURFACE. Certain mathematicians have maintained that a triangle, of which the base is turned to the light, casts no shadow on a plane; and this they prove by saying [5] that no spherical body smaller than the light can reach the middle with the shadow. The lines of radiant light are straight lines [6]; therefore, suppose the light to be _g h_ and the triangle _l m n_, and let the plane be _i k_; they say the light _g_ falls on the side of the triangle _l n_, and the portion of the plane _i q_. Thus again _h_ like _g_ falls on the side _l m_, and then on _m n_ and the plane _p k_; and if the whole plane thus faces the lights _g h_, it is evident that the triangle has no shadow; and that which has no shadow can cast none. This, in this case appears credible. But if the triangle _n p g_ were not illuminated by the two lights _g_ and _h_, but by _i p_ and _g_ and _k_ neither side is lighted by more than one single light: that is _i p_ is invisible to _h g_ and _k_ will never be lighted by _g_; hence _p q_ will be twice as light as the two visible portions that are in shadow. [Footnote: 5--6. This passage is so obscure that it would be rash to offer an explanation. Several words seem to have been omitted.] On the relative depth of cast shadows (200-202). 200. A spot is most in the shade when a large number of darkened rays fall upon it. The spot which receives the rays at the widest angle and by darkened rays will be most in the dark; a will be twice as dark as b, because it originates from twice as large a base at an equal distance. A spot is most illuminated when a large number of luminous rays fall upon it. d is the beginning of the shadow _d f_, and tinges _c_ but _a_ little; _d e_ is half of the shadow _d f_ and gives a deeper tone where it is cast at _b_ than at _f_. And the whole shaded space _e_ gives its tone to the spot _a_. [Footnote: The diagram here referred to is on Pl. XLI, No. 2.] 201. _A n_ will be darker than _c r_ in proportion to the number of times that _a b_ goes into _c d_. 202. The shadow cast by an object on a plane will be smaller in proportion as that object is lighted by feebler rays. Let _d e_ be the object and _d c_ the plane surface; the number of times that _d e_ will go into _f g_ gives the proportion of light at _f h_ to _d c_. The ray of light will be weaker in proportion to its distance from the hole through which it falls. FIFTH BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE. Principles of reflection (203. 204). 203. OF THE WAY IN WHICH THE SHADOWS CAST BY OBJECTS OUGHT TO BE DEFINED. If the object is the mountain here figured, and the light is at the point _a_, I say that from _b d_ and also from _c f_ there will be no light but from reflected rays. And this results from the fact that rays of light can only act in straight lines; and the same is the case with the secondary or reflected rays. 204. The edges of the derived shadow are defined by the hues of the illuminated objects surrounding the luminous body which produces the shadow. On reverberation. 205. OF REVERBERATION. Reverberation is caused by bodies of a bright nature with a flat and semi opaque surface which, when the light strikes upon them, throw it back again, like the rebound of a ball, to the former object. WHERE THERE CAN BE NO REFLECTED LIGHTS. All dense bodies have their surfaces occupied by various degrees of light and shade. The lights are of two kinds, one called original, the other borrowed. Original light is that which is inherent in the flame of fire or the light of the sun or of the atmosphere. Borrowed light will be reflected light; but to return to the promised definition: I say that this luminous reverberation is not produced by those portions of a body which are turned towards darkened objects, such as shaded spots, fields with grass of various height, woods whether green or bare; in which, though that side of each branch which is turned towards the original light has a share of that light, nevertheless the shadows cast by each branch separately are so numerous, as well as those cast by one branch on the others, that finally so much shadow is the result that the light counts for nothing. Hence objects of this kind cannot throw any reflected light on opposite objects. Reflection on water (206. 207). 206. PERSPECTIVE. The shadow or object mirrored in water in motion, that is to say in small wavelets, will always be larger than the external object producing it. 207. It is impossible that an object mirrored on water should correspond in form to the object mirrored, since the centre of the eye is above the surface of the water. This is made plain in the figure here given, which demonstrates that the eye sees the surface _a b_, and cannot see it at _l f_, and at _r t_; it sees the surface of the image at _r t_, and does not see it in the real object _c d_. Hence it is impossible to see it, as has been said above unless the eye itself is situated on the surface of the water as is shown below [13]. [Footnote: _A_ stands for _ochio_ [eye], _B_ for _aria_ [air], _C_ for _acqua_ [water], _D_ for _cateto_ [cathetus].--In the original MS. the second diagram is placed below line 13.] Experiments with the mirror (208-210). 208. THE MIRROR. If the illuminated object is of the same size as the luminous body and as that in which the light is reflected, the amount of the reflected light will bear the same proportion to the intermediate light as this second light will bear to the first, if both bodies are smooth and white. 209. Describe how it is that no object has its limitation in the mirror but in the eye which sees it in the mirror. For if you look at your face in the mirror, the part resembles the whole in as much as the part is everywhere in the mirror, and the whole is in every part of the same mirror; and the same is true of the whole image of any object placed opposite to this mirror, &c. 210. No man can see the image of another man in a mirror in its proper place with regard to the objects; because every object falls on [the surface of] the mirror at equal angles. And if the one man, who sees the other in the mirror, is not in a direct line with the image he will not see it in the place where it really falls; and if he gets into the line, he covers the other man and puts himself in the place occupied by his image. Let _n o_ be the mirror, _b_ the eye of your friend and _d_ your own eye. Your friend's eye will appear to you at _a_, and to him it will seem that yours is at _c_, and the intersection of the visual rays will occur at _m_, so that either of you touching _m_ will touch the eye of the other man which shall be open. And if you touch the eye of the other man in the mirror it will seem to him that you are touching your own. Appendix:--On shadows in movement (211. 212). 211. OF THE SHADOW AND ITS MOTION. When two bodies casting shadows, and one in front of the other, are between a window and the wall with some space between them, the shadow of the body which is nearest to the plane of the wall will move if the body nearest to the window is put in transverse motion across the window. To prove this let _a_ and _b_ be two bodies placed between the window _n m_ and the plane surface _o p_ with sufficient space between them as shown by the space _a b_. I say that if the body _a_ is moved towards _s_ the shadow of the body _b_ which is at _c_ will move towards _d_. 212. OF THE MOTION OF SHADOWS. The motion of a shadow is always more rapid than that of the body which produces it if the light is stationary. To prove this let _a_ be the luminous body, and _b_ the body casting the shadow, and _d_ the shadow. Then I say that in the time while the solid body moves from _b_ to _c_, the shadow _d_ will move to _e_; and this proportion in the rapidity of the movements made in the same space of time, is equal to that in the length of the space moved over. Thus, given the proportion of the space moved over by the body _b_ to _c_, to that moved over by the shadow _d_ to _e_, the proportion in the rapidity of their movements will be the same. But if the luminous body is also in movement with a velocity equal to that of the solid body, then the shadow and the body that casts it will move with equal speed. And if the luminous body moves more rapidly than the solid body, the motion of the shadow will be slower than that of the body casting it. But if the luminous body moves more slowly than the solid body, then the shadow will move more rapidly than that body. SIXTH BOOK ON LIGHT AND SHADE. The effect of rays passing through holes (213. 214). 213. PERSPECTIVE. If you transmit the rays of the sun through a hole in the shape of a star you will see a beautiful effect of perspective in the spot where the sun's rays fall. [Footnote: In this and the following chapters of MS. C the order of the original paging has been adhered to, and is shown in parenthesis. Leonardo himself has but rarely worked out the subject of these propositions. The space left for the purpose has occasionally been made use of for quite different matter. Even the numerous diagrams, most of them very delicately sketched, lettered and numbered, which occur on these pages, are hardly ever explained, with the exception of those few which are here given.] 214. No small hole can so modify the convergence of rays of light as to prevent, at a long distance, the transmission of the true form of the luminous body causing them. It is impossible that rays of light passing through a parallel [slit], should not display the form of the body causing them, since all the effects produced by a luminous body are [in fact] the reflection of that body: The moon, shaped like a boat, if transmitted through a hole is figured in the surface [it falls on] as a boatshaped object. [Footnote 8: In the MS. a blank space is left after this question.] Why the eye sees bodies at a distance, larger than they measure on the vertical plane?. [Footnote: This chapter, taken from another MS. may, as an exception, be placed here, as it refers to the same subject as the preceding section.] On gradation of shadows (215. 216). 215. Although the breadth and length of lights and shadow will be narrower and shorter in foreshortening, the quality and quantity of the light and shade is not increased nor diminished. [3]The function of shade and light when diminished by foreshortening, will be to give shadow and to illuminate an object opposite, according to the quality and quantity in which they fall on the body. [5]In proportion as a derived shadow is nearer to its penultimate extremities the deeper it will appear, _g z_ beyond the intersection faces only the part of the shadow [marked] _y z_; this by intersection takes the shadow from _m n_ but by direct line it takes the shadow _a m_ hence it is twice as deep as _g z_. _Y x_, by intersection takes the shadow _n o_, but by direct line the shadow _n m a_, therefore _x y_ is three times as dark as _z g_; _x f_, by intersection faces _o b_ and by direct line _o n m a_, therefore we must say that the shadow between _f x_ will be four times as dark as the shadow _z g_, because it faces four times as much shadow. Let _a b_ be the side where the primary shadow is, and _b c_ the primary light, _d_ will be the spot where it is intercepted,_f g_ the derived shadow and _f e_ the derived light. And this must be at the beginning of the explanation. [Footnote: In the original MS. the text of No. 252 precedes the one given here. In the text of No. 215 there is a blank space of about four lines between the lines 2 and 3. The diagram given on Pl. VI, No. 2 is placed between lines 4 and 5. Between lines 5 and 6 there is another space of about three lines and one line left blank between lines 8 and 9. The reader will find the meaning of the whole passage much clearer if he first reads the final lines 11--13. Compare also line 4 of No. 270.] On relative proportion of light and shadows (216--221). 216. That part of the surface of a body on which the images [reflection] from other bodies placed opposite fall at the largest angle will assume their hue most strongly. In the diagram below, 8 is a larger angle than 4, since its base _a n_ is larger than _e n_ the base of 4. This diagram below should end at _a n_ 4 8. [4]That portion of the illuminated surface on which a shadow is cast will be brightest which lies contiguous to the cast shadow. Just as an object which is lighted up by a greater quantity of luminous rays becomes brighter, so one on which a greater quantity of shadow falls, will be darker. Let 4 be the side of an illuminated surface 4 8, surrounding the cast shadow _g e_ 4. And this spot 4 will be lighter than 8, because less shadow falls on it than on 8. Since 4 faces only the shadow _i n_; and 8 faces and receives the shadow _a e_ as well as _i n_ which makes it twice as dark. And the same thing happens when you put the atmosphere and the sun in the place of shade and light. [12] The distribution of shadow, originating in, and limited by, plane surfaces placed near to each other, equal in tone and directly opposite, will be darker at the ends than at the beginning, which will be determined by the incidence of the luminous rays. You will find the same proportion in the depth of the derived shadows _a n_ as in the nearness of the luminous bodies _m b_, which cause them; and if the luminous bodies were of equal size you would still farther find the same proportion in the light cast by the luminous circles and their shadows as in the distance of the said luminous bodies. [Footnote: The diagram originally placed between lines 3 and 4 is on Pl. VI, No. 3. In the diagram given above line 14 of the original, and here printed in the text, the words _corpo luminoso_ [luminous body] are written in the circle _m_, _luminoso_ in the circle _b_ and _ombroso_ [body in shadow] in the circle _o_.] 217. THAT PART OF THE REFLECTION WILL BE BRIGHTEST WHERE THE REFLECTED RAYS ARE SHORTEST. [2] The darkness occasioned by the casting of combined shadows will be in conformity with its cause, which will originate and terminate between two plane surfaces near together, alike in tone and directly opposite each other. [4] In proportion as the source of light is larger, the luminous and shadow rays will be more mixed together. This result is produced because wherever there is a larger quantity of luminous rays, there is most light, but where there are fewer there is least light, consequently the shadow rays come in and mingle with them. [Footnote: Diagrams are inserted before lines 2 and 4.] 218. In all the proportions I lay down it must be understood that the medium between the bodies is always the same. [2] The smaller the luminous body the more distinct will the transmission of the shadows be. [3] When of two opposite shadows, produced by the same body, one is twice as dark as the other though similar in form, one of the two lights causing them must have twice the diameter that the other has and be at twice the distance from the opaque body. If the object is lowly moved across the luminous body, and the shadow is intercepted at some distance from the object, there will be the same relative proportion between the motion of the derived shadow and the motion of the primary shadow, as between the distance from the object to the light, and that from the object to the spot where the shadow is intercepted; so that though the object is moved slowly the shadow moves fast. [Footnote: There are diagrams inserted before lines 2 and 3 but they are not reproduced here. The diagram above line 6 is written upon as follows: at _A lume_ (light), at _B obbietto_ (body), at _C ombra d'obbietto_ (shadow of the object).] 219. A luminous body will appear less brilliant when surrounded by a bright background. [2] I have found that the stars which are nearest to the horizon look larger than the others because light falls upon them from a larger proportion of the solar body than when they are above us; and having more light from the sun they give more light, and the bodies which are most luminous appear the largest. As may be seen by the sun through a mist, and overhead; it appears larger where there is no mist and diminished through mist. No portion of the luminous body is ever visible from any spot within the pyramid of pure derived shadow. [Footnote: Between lines 1 and 2 there is in the original a large diagram which does not refer to this text. ] 220. A body on which the solar rays fall between the thin branches of trees far apart will cast but a single shadow. [2] If an opaque body and a luminous one are (both) spherical the base of the pyramid of rays will bear the same proportion to the luminous body as the base of the pyramid of shade to the opaque body. [4] When the transmitted shadow is intercepted by a plane surface placed opposite to it and farther away from the luminous body than from the object [which casts it] it will appear proportionately darker and the edges more distinct. [Footnote: The diagram which, in the original, is placed above line 2, is similar to the one, here given on page 73 (section 120).--The diagram here given in the margin stands, in the original, between lines 3 and 4.] 221. A body illuminated by the solar rays passing between the thick branches of trees will produce as many shadows as there are branches between the sun and itself. Where the shadow-rays from an opaque pyramidal body are intercepted they will cast a shadow of bifurcate outline and various depth at the points. A light which is broader than the apex but narrower than the base of an opaque pyramidal body placed in front of it, will cause that pyramid to cast a shadow of bifurcate form and various degrees of depth. If an opaque body, smaller than the light, casts two shadows and if it is the same size or larger, casts but one, it follows that a pyramidal body, of which part is smaller, part equal to, and part larger than, the luminous body, will cast a bifurcate shadow. [Footnote: Between lines 2 and 3 there are in the original two large diagrams.] _IV._ _Perspective of Disappearance._ _The theory of the_ "Prospettiva de' perdimenti" _would, in many important details, be quite unintelligible if it had not been led up by the principles of light and shade on which it is based. The word_ "Prospettiva" _in the language of the time included the principles of optics; what Leonardo understood by_ "Perdimenti" _will be clearly seen in the early chapters, Nos._ 222--224. _It is in the very nature of the case that the farther explanations given in the subsequent chapters must be limited to general rules. The sections given as_ 227--231 _"On indistinctness at short distances" have, it is true, only an indirect bearing on the subject; but on the other hand, the following chapters,_ 232--234, _"On indistinctness at great distances," go fully into the matter, and in chapters_ 235--239, _which treat "Of the importance of light and shade in the Perspective of Disappearance", the practical issues are distinctly insisted on in their relation to the theory. This is naturally followed by the statements as to "the effect of light or dark backgrounds on the apparent size of bodies"_ (_Nos._ 240--250). _At the end I have placed, in the order of the original, those sections from the MS._ C _which treat of the "Perspective of Disappearance" and serve to some extent to complete the treatment of the subject_ (251--262). Definition (222. 223). 222. OF THE DIMINISHED DISTINCTNESS OF THE OUTLINES OF OPAQUE BODIES. If the real outlines of opaque bodies are indistinguishable at even a very short distance, they will be more so at long distances; and, since it is by its outlines that we are able to know the real form of any opaque body, when by its remoteness we fail to discern it as a whole, much more must we fail to discern its parts and outlines. 223. OF THE DIMINUTION IN PERSPECTIVE OF OPAQUE OBJECTS. Among opaque objects of equal size the apparent diminution of size will be in proportion to their distance from the eye of the spectator; but it is an inverse proportion, since, where the distance is greater, the opaque body will appear smaller, and the less the distance the larger will the object appear. And this is the fundamental principle of linear perspective and it follows:--[11]every object as it becomes more remote loses first those parts which are smallest. Thus of a horse, we should lose the legs before the head, because the legs are thinner than the head; and the neck before the body for the same reason. Hence it follows that the last part of the horse which would be discernible by the eye would be the mass of the body in an oval form, or rather in a cylindrical form and this would lose its apparent thickness before its length--according to the 2nd rule given above, &c. [Footnote 23: Compare line 11.]. If the eye remains stationary the perspective terminates in the distance in a point. But if the eye moves in a straight [horizontal] line the perspective terminates in a line and the reason is that this line is generated by the motion of the point and our sight; therefore it follows that as we move our sight [eye], the point moves, and as we move the point, the line is generated, &c. An illustration by experiment. 224. Every visible body, in so far as it affects the eye, includes three attributes; that is to say: mass, form and colour; and the mass is recognisable at a greater distance from the place of its actual existence than either colour or form. Again, colour is discernible at a greater distance than form, but this law does not apply to luminous bodies. The above proposition is plainly shown and proved by experiment; because: if you see a man close to you, you discern the exact appearance of the mass and of the form and also of the colouring; if he goes to some distance you will not recognise who he is, because the character of the details will disappear, if he goes still farther you will not be able to distinguish his colouring, but he will appear as a dark object, and still farther he will appear as a very small dark rounded object. It appears rounded because distance so greatly diminishes the various details that nothing remains visible but the larger mass. And the reason is this: We know very well that all the images of objects reach the senses by a small aperture in the eye; hence, if the whole horizon _a d_ is admitted through such an aperture, the object _b c_ being but a very small fraction of this horizon what space can it fill in that minute image of so vast a hemisphere? And because luminous bodies have more power in darkness than any others, it is evident that, as the chamber of the eye is very dark, as is the nature of all colored cavities, the images of distant objects are confused and lost in the great light of the sky; and if they are visible at all, appear dark and black, as every small body must when seen in the diffused light of the atmosphere. [Footnote: The diagram belonging to this passage is placed between lines 5 and 6; it is No. 4 on Pl. VI. ] A guiding rule. 225. OF THE ATMOSPHERE THAT INTERPOSES BETWEEN THE EYE AND VISIBLE OBJECTS. An object will appear more or less distinct at the same distance, in proportion as the atmosphere existing between the eye and that object is more or less clear. Hence, as I know that the greater or less quantity of the air that lies between the eye and the object makes the outlines of that object more or less indistinct, you must diminish the definiteness of outline of those objects in proportion to their increasing distance from the eye of the spectator. An experiment. 226. When I was once in a place on the sea, at an equal distance from the shore and the mountains, the distance from the shore looked much greater than that from the mountains. On indistinctness at short distances (227-231). 227. If you place an opaque object in front of your eye at a distance of four fingers' breadth, if it is smaller than the space between the two eyes it will not interfere with your seeing any thing that may be beyond it. No object situated beyond another object seen by the eye can be concealed by this [nearer] object if it is smaller than the space from eye to eye. 228. The eye cannot take in a luminous angle which is too close to it. 229. That part of a surface will be better lighted on which the light falls at the greater angle. And that part, on which the shadow falls at the greatest angle, will receive from those rays least of the benefit of the light. 230. OF THE EYE. The edges of an object placed in front of the pupil of the eye will be less distinct in proportion as they are closer to the eye. This is shown by the edge of the object _n_ placed in front of the pupil _d_; in looking at this edge the pupil also sees all the space _a c_ which is beyond the edge; and the images the eye receives from that space are mingled with the images of the edge, so that one image confuses the other, and this confusion hinders the pupil from distinguishing the edge. 231. The outlines of objects will be least clear when they are nearest to the eye, and therefore remoter outlines will be clearer. Among objects which are smaller than the pupil of the eye those will be less distinct which are nearer to the eye. On indistinctness at great distances (232-234). 232. Objects near to the eye will appear larger than those at a distance. Objects seen with two eyes will appear rounder than if they are seen with only one. Objects seen between light and shadow will show the most relief. 233. OF PAINTING. Our true perception of an object diminishes in proportion as its size is diminished by distance. 234. PERSPECTIVE. Why objects seen at a distance appear large to the eye and in the image on the vertical plane they appear small. PERSPECTIVE. I ask how far away the eye can discern a non-luminous body, as, for instance, a mountain. It will be very plainly visible if the sun is behind it; and could be seen at a greater or less distance according to the sun's place in the sky. [Footnote: The clue to the solution of this problem (lines 1-3) is given in lines 4-6, No. 232. Objects seen with both eyes appear solid since they are seen from two distinct points of sight separated by the distance between the eyes, but this solidity cannot be represented in a flat drawing. Compare No. 535.] The importance of light and shade in the perspective of disappearance (235-239). 235. An opaque body seen in a line in which the light falls will reveal no prominences to the eye. For instance, let _a_ be the solid body and _c_ the light; _c m_ and _c n_ will be the lines of incidence of the light, that is to say the lines which transmit the light to the object _a_. The eye being at the point _b_, I say that since the light _c_ falls on the whole part _m n_ the portions in relief on that side will all be illuminated. Hence the eye placed at _c_ cannot see any light and shade and, not seeing it, every portion will appear of the same tone, therefore the relief in the prominent or rounded parts will not be visible. 236. OF PAINTING. When you represent in your work shadows which you can only discern with difficulty, and of which you cannot distinguish the edges so that you apprehend them confusedly, you must not make them sharp or definite lest your work should have a wooden effect. 237. OF PAINTING. You will observe in drawing that among the shadows some are of undistinguishable gradation and form, as is shown in the 3rd [proposition] which says: Rounded surfaces display as many degrees of light and shade as there are varieties of brightness and darkness reflected from the surrounding objects. 238. OF LIGHT AND SHADE. You who draw from nature, look (carefully) at the extent, the degree, and the form of the lights and shadows on each muscle; and in their position lengthwise observe towards which muscle the axis of the central line is directed. 239. An object which is [so brilliantly illuminated as to be] almost as bright as light will be visible at a greater distance, and of larger apparent size than is natural to objects so remote. The effect of light or dark backgrounds on the apparent size of objects (240-250). 240. A shadow will appear dark in proportion to the brilliancy of the light surrounding it and conversely it will be less conspicuous where it is seen against a darker background. 241. OF ORDINARY PERSPECTIVE. An object of equal breadth and colour throughout, seen against a background of various colours will appear unequal in breadth. And if an object of equal breadth throughout, but of various colours, is seen against a background of uniform colour, that object will appear of various breadth. And the more the colours of the background or of the object seen against the ground vary, the greater will the apparent variations in the breadth be though the objects seen against the ground be of equal breadth [throughout]. 242. A dark object seen against a bright background will appear smaller than it is. A light object will look larger when it is seen against a background darker than itself. 243. OF LIGHT. A luminous body when obscured by a dense atmosphere will appear smaller; as may be seen by the moon or sun veiled by mists. OF LIGHT. Of several luminous bodies of equal size and brilliancy and at an equal distance, that will look the largest which is surrounded by the darkest background. OF LIGHT. I find that any luminous body when seen through a dense and thick mist diminishes in proportion to its distance from the eye. Thus it is with the sun by day, as well as the moon and the other eternal lights by night. And when the air is clear, these luminaries appear larger in proportion as they are farther from the eye. 244. That portion of a body of uniform breadth which is against a lighter background will look narrower [than the rest]. [4] _e_ is a given object, itself dark and of uniform breadth; _a b_ and _c d_ are two backgrounds one darker than the other; _b c_ is a bright background, as it might be a spot lighted by the sun through an aperture in a dark room. Then I say that the object _e g_ will appear larger at _e f_ than at _g h_; because _e f_ has a darker background than _g h_; and again at _f g_ it will look narrower from being seen by the eye _o_, on the light background _b c_. [Footnote 12: The diagram to which the text, lines 1-11, refers, is placed in the original between lines 3 and 4, and is given on Pl. XLI, No. 3. Lines 12 to 14 are explained by the lower of the two diagrams on Pl. XLI, No. 4. In the original these are placed after line 14.] That part of a luminous body, of equal breadth and brilliancy throughout, will look largest which is seen against the darkest background; and the luminous body will seem on fire. 245. WHY BODIES IN LIGHT AND SHADE HAVE THEIR OUTLINES ALTERED BY THE COLOUR AND BRIGHTNESS OF THE OBJECTS SERVING AS A BACKGROUND TO THEM. If you look at a body of which the illuminated portion lies and ends against a dark background, that part of the light which will look brightest will be that which lies against the dark [background] at _d_. But if this brighter part lies against a light background, the edge of the object, which is itself light, will be less distinct than before, and the highest light will appear to be between the limit of the background _m f_ and the shadow. The same thing is seen with regard to the dark [side], inasmuch as that edge of the shaded portion of the object which lies against a light background, as at _l_, it looks much darker than the rest. But if this shadow lies against a dark background, the edge of the shaded part will appear lighter than before, and the deepest shade will appear between the edge and the light at the point _o_. [Footnote: In the original diagram _o_ is inside the shaded surface at the level of _d_.] 246. An opaque body will appear smaller when it is surrounded by a highly luminous background, and a light body will appear larger when it is seen against a darker background. This may be seen in the height of buildings at night, when lightning flashes behind them; it suddenly seems, when it lightens, as though the height of the building were diminished. For the same reason such buildings look larger in a mist, or by night than when the atmosphere is clear and light. 247. ON LIGHT BETWEEN SHADOWS When you are drawing any object, remember, in comparing the grades of light in the illuminated portions, that the eye is often deceived by seeing things lighter than they are. And the reason lies in our comparing those parts with the contiguous parts. Since if two [separate] parts are in different grades of light and if the less bright is conterminous with a dark portion and the brighter is conterminous with a light background--as the sky or something equally bright--, then that which is less light, or I should say less radiant, will look the brighter and the brighter will seem the darker. 248. Of objects equally dark in themselves and situated at a considerable and equal distance, that will look the darkest which is farthest above the earth. 249. TO PROVE HOW IT IS THAT LUMINOUS BODIES APPEAR LARGER, AT A DISTANCE, THAN THEY ARE. If you place two lighted candles side by side half a braccio apart, and go from them to a distance 200 braccia you will see that by the increased size of each they will appear as a single luminous body with the light of the two flames, one braccio wide. TO PROVE HOW YOU MAY SEE THE REAL SIZE OF LUMINOUS BODIES. If you wish to see the real size of these luminous bodies, take a very thin board and make in it a hole no bigger than the tag of a lace and place it as close to your eye as possible, so that when you look through this hole, at the said light, you can see a large space of air round it. Then by rapidly moving this board backwards and forwards before your eye you will see the light increase [and diminish]. Propositions on perspective of disappearance from MS. C. (250-262). 250. Of several bodies of equal size and equally distant from the eye, those will look the smallest which are against the lightest background. Every visible object must be surrounded by light and shade. A perfectly spherical body surrounded by light and shade will appear to have one side larger than the other in proportion as one is more highly lighted than the other. 251. PERSPECTIVE. No visible object can be well understood and comprehended by the human eye excepting from the difference of the background against which the edges of the object terminate and by which they are bounded, and no object will appear [to stand out] separate from that background so far as the outlines of its borders are concerned. The moon, though it is at a great distance from the sun, when, in an eclipse, it comes between our eyes and the sun, appears to the eyes of men to be close to the sun and affixed to it, because the sun is then the background to the moon. 252. A luminous body will appear more brilliant in proportion as it is surrounded by deeper shadow. [Footnote: The diagram which, in the original, is placed after this text, has no connection with it.] 253. The straight edges of a body will appear broken when they are conterminous with a dark space streaked with rays of light. [Footnote: Here again the diagrams in the original have no connection with the text.] 254. Of several bodies, all equally large and equally distant, that which is most brightly illuminated will appear to the eye nearest and largest. [Footnote: Here again the diagrams in the original have no connection with the text.] 255. If several luminous bodies are seen from a great distance although they are really separate they will appear united as one body. 256. If several objects in shadow, standing very close together, are seen against a bright background they will appear separated by wide intervals. 257. Of several bodies of equal size and tone, that which is farthest will appear the lightest and smallest. 258. Of several objects equal in size, brightness of background and length that which has the flattest surface will look the largest. A bar of iron equally thick throughout and of which half is red hot, affords an example, for the red hot part looks thicker than the rest. 259. Of several bodies of equal size and length, and alike in form and in depth of shade, that will appear smallest which is surrounded by the most luminous background. 260. DIFFERENT PORTIONS OF A WALL SURFACE WILL BE DARKER OR BRIGHTER IN PROPORTION AS THE LIGHT OR SHADOW FALLS ON THEM AT A LARGER ANGLE. The foregoing proposition can be clearly proved in this way. Let us say that _m q_ is the luminous body, then _f g_ will be the opaque body; and let _a e_ be the above-mentioned plane on which the said angles fall, showing [plainly] the nature and character of their bases. Then: _a_ will be more luminous than _b_; the base of the angle _a_ is larger than that of _b_ and it therefore makes a greater angle which will be _a m q_; and the pyramid _b p m_ will be narrower and _m o c_ will be still finer, and so on by degrees, in proportion as they are nearer to _e_, the pyramids will become narrower and darker. That portion of the wall will be the darkest where the breadth of the pyramid of shadow is greater than the breadth of the pyramid of light. At the point _a_ the pyramid of light is equal in strength to the pyramid of shadow, because the base _f g_ is equal to the base _r f_. At the point _d_ the pyramid of light is narrower than the pyramid of shadow by so much as the base _s f_ is less than the base _f g_. Divide the foregoing proposition into two diagrams, one with the pyramids of light and shadow, the other with the pyramids of light [only]. 261. Among shadows of equal depth those which are nearest to the eye will look least deep. 262. The more brilliant the light given by a luminous body, the deeper will the shadows be cast by the objects it illuminates. _V._ _Theory of colours._ _Leonardo's theory of colours is even more intimately connected with his principles of light and shade than his Perspective of Disappearance and is in fact merely an appendix or supplement to those principles, as we gather from the titles to sections_ 264, 267_, and _276_, while others again_ (_Nos._ 281, 282_) are headed_ Prospettiva. _A very few of these chapters are to be found in the oldest copies and editions of the Treatise on Painting, and although the material they afford is but meager and the connection between them but slight, we must still attribute to them a special theoretical value as well as practical utility--all the more so because our knowledge of the theory and use of colours at the time of the Renaissance is still extremely limited._ The reciprocal effects of colours on objects placed opposite each other (263-272). 263. OF PAINTING. The hue of an illuminated object is affected by that of the luminous body. 264. OF SHADOW. The surface of any opaque body is affected by the colour of surrounding objects. 265. A shadow is always affected by the colour of the surface on which it is cast. 266. An image produced in a mirror is affected by the colour of the mirror. 267. OF LIGHT AND SHADE. Every portion of the surface of a body is varied [in hue] by the [reflected] colour of the object that may be opposite to it. EXAMPLE. If you place a spherical body between various objects that is to say with [direct] sunlight on one side of it, and on the other a wall illuminated by the sun, which wall may be green or of any other colour, while the surface on which it is placed may be red, and the two lateral sides are in shadow, you will see that the natural colour of that body will assume something of the hue reflected from those objects. The strongest will be [given by] the luminous body; the second by the illuminated wall, the third by the shadows. There will still be a portion which will take a tint from the colour of the edges. 268. The surface of every opaque body is affected by the colour of the objects surrounding it. But this effect will be strong or weak in proportion as those objects are more or less remote and more or less strongly [coloured]. 269. OF PAINTING. The surface of every opaque body assumes the hues reflected from surrounding objects. The surface of an opaque body assumes the hues of surrounding objects more strongly in proportion as the rays that form the images of those objects strike the surface at more equal angles. And the surface of an opaque body assumes a stronger hue from the surrounding objects in proportion as that surface is whiter and the colour of the object brighter or more highly illuminated. 270. OF THE RAYS WHICH CONVEY THROUGH THE AIR THE IMAGES OF OBJECTS. All the minutest parts of the image intersect each other without interfering with each other. To prove this let _r_ be one of the sides of the hole, opposite to which let _s_ be the eye which sees the lower end _o_ of the line _n o_. The other extremity cannot transmit its image to the eye _s_ as it has to strike the end _r_ and it is the same with regard to _m_ at the middle of the line. The case is the same with the upper extremity _n_ and the eye _u_. And if the end _n_ is red the eye _u_ on that side of the holes will not see the green colour of _o_, but only the red of _n_ according to the 7th of this where it is said: Every form projects images from itself by the shortest line, which necessarily is a straight line, &c. [Footnote: 13. This probably refers to the diagram given under No. 66.] 271. OF PAINTING. The surface of a body assumes in some degree the hue of those around it. The colours of illuminated objects are reflected from the surfaces of one to the other in various spots, according to the various positions of those objects. Let _o_ be a blue object in full light, facing all by itself the space _b c_ on the white sphere _a b e d e f_, and it will give it a blue tinge, _m_ is a yellow body reflected onto the space _a b_ at the same time as _o_ the blue body, and they give it a green colour (by the 2nd [proposition] of this which shows that blue and yellow make a beautiful green &c.) And the rest will be set forth in the Book on Painting. In that Book it will be shown, that, by transmitting the images of objects and the colours of bodies illuminated by sunlight through a small round perforation and into a dark chamber onto a plane surface, which itself is quite white, &c. But every thing will be upside down. Combination of different colours in cast shadows. 272. That which casts the shadow does not face it, because the shadows are produced by the light which causes and surrounds the shadows. The shadow caused by the light _e_, which is yellow, has a blue tinge, because the shadow of the body _a_ is cast upon the pavement at _b_, where the blue light falls; and the shadow produced by the light _d_, which is blue, will be yellow at _c_, because the yellow light falls there and the surrounding background to these shadows _b c_ will, besides its natural colour, assume a hue compounded of yellow and blue, because it is lighted by the yellow light and by the blue light both at once. Shadows of various colours, as affected by the lights falling on them. That light which causes the shadow does not face it. [Footnote: In the original diagram we find in the circle _e_ "_giallo_" (yellow) and the cirle _d_ "_azurro"_ (blue) and also under the circle of shadow to the left "_giallo_" is written and under that to the right "_azurro_". In the second diagram where four circles are placed in a row we find written, beginning at the left hand, "_giallo_" (yellow), "_azurro_" (blue), "_verde_" (green), "_rosso_" (red).] The effect of colours in the camera obscura (273-274). 273. The edges of a colour(ed object) transmitted through a small hole are more conspicuous than the central portions. The edges of the images, of whatever colour, which are transmitted through a small aperture into a dark chamber will always be stronger than the middle portions. 274. OF THE INTERSECTIONS OF THE IMAGES IN THE PUPIL OF THE EYE. The intersections of the images as they enter the pupil do not mingle in confusion in the space where that intersection unites them; as is evident, since, if the rays of the sun pass through two panes of glass in close contact, of which one is blue and the other yellow, the rays, in penetrating them, do not become blue or yellow but a beautiful green. And the same thing would happen in the eye, if the images which were yellow or green should mingle where they [meet and] intersect as they enter the pupil. As this does not happen such a mingling does not exist. OF THE NATURE OF THE RAYS COMPOSED OF THE IMAGES OF OBJECTS, AND OF THEIR INTERSECTIONS. The directness of the rays which transmit the forms and colours of the bodies whence they proceed does not tinge the air nor can they affect each other by contact where they intersect. They affect only the spot where they vanish and cease to exist, because that spot faces and is faced by the original source of these rays, and no other object, which surrounds that original source can be seen by the eye where these rays are cut off and destroyed, leaving there the spoil they have conveyed to it. And this is proved by the 4th [proposition], on the colour of bodies, which says: The surface of every opaque body is affected by the colour of surrounding objects; hence we may conclude that the spot which, by means of the rays which convey the image, faces--and is faced by the cause of the image, assumes the colour of that object. On the colours of derived shadows (275. 276). 275. ANY SHADOW CAST BY AN OPAQUE BODY SMALLER THAN THE LIGHT CAUSING THE SHADOW WILL THROW A DERIVED SHADOW WHICH IS TINGED BY THE COLOUR OF THE LIGHT. Let _n_ be the source of the shadow _e f_; it will assume its hue. Let _o_ be the source of _h e_ which will in the same way be tinged by its hue and so also the colour of _v h_ will be affected by _p_ which causes it; and the shadow of the triangle _z k y_ will be affected by the colour of _q_, because it is produced by it. [7] In proportion as _c d_ goes into _a d_, will _n r s_ be darker than _m_; and the rest of the space will be shadowless [11]. _f g_ is the highest light, because here the whole light of the window _a d_ falls; and thus on the opaque body _m e_ is in equally high light; _z k y_ is a triangle which includes the deepest shadow, because the light _a d_ cannot reach any part of it. _x h_ is the 2nd grade of shadow, because it receives only 1/3 of the light from the window, that is _c d_. The third grade of shadow is _h e_, where two thirds of the light from the window is visible. The last grade of shadow is _b d e f_, because the highest grade of light from the window falls at _f_. [Footnote: The diagram Pl. III, No. 1 belongs to this chapter as well as the text given in No. 148. Lines 7-11 (compare lines 8-12 of No. 148) which are written within the diagram, evidently apply to both sections and have therefore been inserted in both.] 276. OF THE COLOURS OF SIMPLE DERIVED SHADOWS. The colour of derived shadows is always affected by that of the body towards which they are cast. To prove this: let an opaque body be placed between the plane _s c t d_ and the blue light _d e_ and the red light _a b_, then I say that _d e_, the blue light, will fall on the whole surface _s c t d_ excepting at _o p_ which is covered by the shadow of the body _q r_, as is shown by the straight lines _d q o e r p_. And the same occurs with the light _a b_ which falls on the whole surface _s c t d_ excepting at the spot obscured by the shadow _q r_; as is shown by the lines _d q o_, and _e r p_. Hence we may conclude that the shadow _n m_ is exposed to the blue light _d e_; but, as the red light _a b_ cannot fall there, _n m_ will appear as a blue shadow on a red background tinted with blue, because on the surface _s c t d_ both lights can fall. But in the shadows only one single light falls; for this reason these shadows are of medium depth, since, if no light whatever mingled with the shadow, it would be of the first degree of darkness &c. But in the shadow at _o p_ the blue light does not fall, because the body _q r_ interposes and intercepts it there. Only the red light _a b_ falls there and tinges the shadow of a red hue and so a ruddy shadow appears on the background of mingled red and blue. The shadow of _q r_ at _o p_ is red, being caused by the blue light _d e_; and the shadow of _q r_ at _o' p'_ is blue being caused by the red light _a b_. Hence we say that the blue light in this instance causes a red derived shadow from the opaque body _q' r'_, while the red light causes the same body to cast a blue derived shadow; but the primary shadow [on the dark side of the body itself] is not of either of those hues, but a mixture of red and blue. The derived shadows will be equal in depth if they are produced by lights of equal strength and at an equal distance; this is proved. [Footnote 53: The text is unfinished in the original.] [Footnote: In the original diagram Leonardo has written within the circle _q r corpo obroso_ (body in shadow); at the spot marked _A, luminoso azzurro_ (blue luminous body); at _B, luminoso rosso_ (red luminous body). At _E_ we read _ombra azzurra_ (blue tinted shadow) and at _D ombra rossa_ (red tinted shadow).] On the nature of colours (277. 278). 277. No white or black is transparent. 278. OF PAINTING. [Footnote 2: See Footnote 3] Since white is not a colour but the neutral recipient of every colour [Footnote 3: _il bianco non e colore ma e inpotentia ricettiva d'ogni colore_ (white is not a colour, but the neutral recipient of every colour). LEON BATT. ALBERTI "_Della pittura_" libro I, asserts on the contrary: "_Il bianco e'l nero non sono veri colori, ma sono alteratione delli altri colori_" (ed. JANITSCHEK, p. 67; Vienna 1877).], when it is seen in the open air and high up, all its shadows are bluish; and this is caused, according to the 4th [prop.], which says: the surface of every opaque body assumes the hue of the surrounding objects. Now this white [body] being deprived of the light of the sun by the interposition of some body between the sun and itself, all that portion of it which is exposed to the sun and atmosphere assumes the colour of the sun and atmosphere; the side on which the sun does not fall remains in shadow and assumes the hue of the atmosphere. And if this white object did not reflect the green of the fields all the way to the horizon nor get the brightness of the horizon itself, it would certainly appear simply of the same hue as the atmosphere. On gradations in the depth of colours (279. 280). 279. Since black, when painted next to white, looks no blacker than when next to black; and white when next to black looks no whiter than white, as is seen by the images transmitted through a small hole or by the edges of any opaque screen ... 280. OF COLOURS. Of several colours, all equally white, that will look whitest which is against the darkest background. And black will look intensest against the whitest background. And red will look most vivid against the yellowest background; and the same is the case with all colours when surrounded by their strongest contrasts. On the reflection of colours (281-283). 281. PERSPECTIVE. Every object devoid of colour in itself is more or less tinged by the colour [of the object] placed opposite. This may be seen by experience, inasmuch as any object which mirrors another assumes the colour of the object mirrored in it. And if the surface thus partially coloured is white the portion which has a red reflection will appear red, or any other colour, whether bright or dark. PERSPECTIVE. Every opaque and colourless body assumes the hue of the colour reflected on it; as happens with a white wall. 282. PERSPECTIVE. That side of an object in light and shade which is towards the light transmits the images of its details more distinctly and immediately to the eye than the side which is in shadow. PERSPECTIVE. The solar rays reflected on a square mirror will be thrown back to distant objects in a circular form. PERSPECTIVE. Any white and opaque surface will be partially coloured by reflections from surrounding objects. [Footnote 281. 282: The title line of these chapters is in the original simply _"pro"_, which may be an abbreviation for either _Propositione_ or _Prospettiva_--taking Prospettiva of course in its widest sense, as we often find it used in Leonardo's writings. The title _"pro"_ has here been understood to mean _Prospettiva_, in accordance with the suggestion afforded by page 10b of this same MS., where the first section is headed _Prospettiva_ in full (see No. 94), while the four following sections are headed merely _"pro"_ (see No. 85).] 283. WHAT PORTION OF A COLOURED SURFACE OUGHT IN REASON TO BE THE MOST INTENSE. If _a_ is the light, and _b_ illuminated by it in a direct line, _c_, on which the light cannot fall, is lighted only by reflection from _b_ which, let us say, is red. Hence the light reflected from it, will be affected by the hue of the surface causing it and will tinge the surface _c_ with red. And if _c_ is also red you will see it much more intense than _b_; and if it were yellow you would see there a colour between yellow and red. On the use of dark and light colours in painting (284--286). 284. WHY BEAUTIFUL COLOURS MUST BE IN THE [HIGHEST] LIGHT. Since we see that the quality of colour is known [only] by means of light, it is to be supposed that where there is most light the true character of a colour in light will be best seen; and where there is most shadow the colour will be affected by the tone of that. Hence, O Painter! remember to show the true quality of colours in bright lights. 285. An object represented in white and black will display stronger relief than in any other way; hence I would remind you O Painter! to dress your figures in the lightest colours you can, since, if you put them in dark colours, they will be in too slight relief and inconspicuous from a distance. And the reason is that the shadows of all objects are dark. And if you make a dress dark there is little variety in the lights and shadows, while in light colours there are many grades. 286. OF PAINTING. Colours seen in shadow will display more or less of their natural brilliancy in proportion as they are in fainter or deeper shadow. But if these same colours are situated in a well-lighted place, they will appear brighter in proportion as the light is more brilliant. THE ADVERSARY. The variety of colours in shadow must be as great as that of the colours in the objects in that shadow. THE ANSWER. Colours seen in shadow will display less variety in proportion as the shadows in which they lie are deeper. And evidence of this is to be had by looking from an open space into the doorways of dark and shadowy churches, where the pictures which are painted in various colours all look of uniform darkness. Hence at a considerable distance all the shadows of different colours will appear of the same darkness. It is the light side of an object in light and shade which shows the true colour. On the colours of the rainbow (287. 288). 287. Treat of the rainbow in the last book on Painting, but first write the book on colours produced by the mixture of other colours, so as to be able to prove by those painters' colours how the colours of the rainbow are produced. 288. WHETHER THE COLOURS OF THE RAINBOW ARE PRODUCED BY THE SUN. The colours of the rainbow are not produced by the sun, for they occur in many ways without the sunshine; as may be seen by holding a glass of water up to the eye; when, in the glass--where there are those minute bubbles always seen in coarse glass--each bubble, even though the sun does not fall on it, will produce on one side all the colours of the rainbow; as you may see by placing the glass between the day light and your eye in such a way as that it is close to the eye, while on one side the glass admits the [diffused] light of the atmosphere, and on the other side the shadow of the wall on one side of the window; either left or right, it matters not which. Then, by turning the glass round you will see these colours all round the bubbles in the glass &c. And the rest shall be said in its place. THAT THE EYE HAS NO PART IN PRODUCING THE COLOURS OF THE RAINBOW. In the experiment just described, the eye would seem to have some share in the colours of the rainbow, since these bubbles in the glass do not display the colours except through the medium of the eye. But, if you place the glass full of water on the window sill, in such a position as that the outer side is exposed to the sun's rays, you will see the same colours produced in the spot of light thrown through the glass and upon the floor, in a dark place, below the window; and as the eye is not here concerned in it, we may evidently, and with certainty pronounce that the eye has no share in producing them. OF THE COLOURS IN THE FEATHERS OF CERTAIN BIRDS. There are many birds in various regions of the world on whose feathers we see the most splendid colours produced as they move, as we see in our own country in the feathers of peacocks or on the necks of ducks or pigeons, &c. Again, on the surface of antique glass found underground and on the roots of turnips kept for some time at the bottom of wells or other stagnant waters [we see] that each root displays colours similar to those of the real rainbow. They may also be seen when oil has been placed on the top of water and in the solar rays reflected from the surface of a diamond or beryl; again, through the angular facet of a beryl every dark object against a background of the atmosphere or any thing else equally pale-coloured is surrounded by these rainbow colours between the atmosphere and the dark body; and in many other circumstances which I will not mention, as these suffice for my purpose. _VI._ _'Prospettiva de' colri' (Perspective of Colour)_ _and_ _'Prospettiva aerea' (Aerial Perspective)._ _Leonardo distinctly separates these branches of his subject, as may be seen in the beginning of No._ 295. _Attempts have been made to cast doubts on the results which Leonardo arrived at by experiment on the perspective of colour, but not with justice, as may be seen from the original text of section_ 294. _The question as to the composition of the atmosphere, which is inseparable from a discussion on Aerial Perspective, forms a separate theory which is treated at considerable length. Indeed the author enters into it so fully that we cannot escape the conviction that he must have dwelt with particular pleasure on this part of his subject, and that he attached great importance to giving it a character of general applicability._ General rules (289--291). 289. The variety of colour in objects cannot be discerned at a great distance, excepting in those parts which are directly lighted up by the solar rays. 290. As to the colours of objects: at long distances no difference is perceptible in the parts in shadow. 291. OF THE VISIBILITY OF COLOURS. Which colour strikes most? An object at a distance is most conspicuous, when it is lightest, and the darkest is least visible. An exceptional case. 292. Of the edges [outlines] of shadows. Some have misty and ill defined edges, others distinct ones. No opaque body can be devoid of light and shade, except it is in a mist, on ground covered with snow, or when snow is falling on the open country which has no light on it and is surrounded with darkness. And this occurs [only] in spherical bodies, because in other bodies which have limbs and parts, those sides of limbs which face each other reflect on each other the accidental [hue and tone] of their surface. An experiment. 293. ALL COLOURS ARE AT A DISTANCE UNDISTINGUISHABLE AND UNDISCERNIBLE. All colours at a distance are undistinguishable in shadow, because an object which is not in the highest light is incapable of transmitting its image to the eye through an atmosphere more luminous than itself; since the lesser brightness must be absorbed by the greater. For instance: We, in a house, can see that all the colours on the surface of the walls are clearly and instantly visible when the windows of the house are open; but if we were to go out of the house and look in at the windows from a little distance to see the paintings on those walls, instead of the paintings we should see an uniform deep and colourless shadow. The practice of the prospettiva de colori. 294. HOW A PAINTER SHOULD CARRY OUT THE PERSPECTIVE OF COLOUR IN PRACTICE. In order to put into practice this perspective of the variation and loss or diminution of the essential character of colours, observe at every hundred braccia some objects standing in the landscape, such as trees, houses, men and particular places. Then in front of the first tree have a very steady plate of glass and keep your eye very steady, and then, on this plate of glass, draw a tree, tracing it over the form of that tree. Then move it on one side so far as that the real tree is close by the side of the tree you have drawn; then colour your drawing in such a way as that in colour and form the two may be alike, and that both, if you close one eye, seem to be painted on the glass and at the same distance. Then, by the same method, represent a second tree, and a third, with a distance of a hundred braccia between each. And these will serve as a standard and guide whenever you work on your own pictures, wherever they may apply, and will enable you to give due distance in those works. [14] But I have found that as a rule the second is 4/5 of the first when it is 20 braccia beyond it. [Footnote: This chapter is one of those copied in the Manuscript of the Vatican library Urbinas 1270, and the original text is rendered here with no other alterations, but in the orthography. H. LUDWIG, in his edition of this copy translates lines 14 and 15 thus: "_Ich finde aber als Regel, dass der zweite um vier Funftel des ersten abnimmt, wenn er namlich zwanzig Ellen vom ersten entfernt ist (?)"_. He adds in his commentary: "_Das Ende der Nummer ist wohl jedenfalls verstummelt_". However the translation given above shows that it admits of a different rendering.] The rules of aerial perspective (295--297). 295. OF AERIAL PERSPECTIVE. There is another kind of perspective which I call Aerial Perspective, because by the atmosphere we are able to distinguish the variations in distance of different buildings, which appear placed on a single line; as, for instance, when we see several buildings beyond a wall, all of which, as they appear above the top of the wall, look of the same size, while you wish to represent them in a picture as more remote one than another and to give the effect of a somewhat dense atmosphere. You know that in an atmosphere of equal density the remotest objects seen through it, as mountains, in consequence of the great quantity of atmosphere between your eye and them--appear blue and almost of the same hue as the atmosphere itself [Footnote 10: _quado il sole e per leuante_ (when the sun is in the East). Apparently the author refers here to morning light in general. H. LUDWIG however translates this passage from the Vatican copy "_wenn namlich die Sonne (dahinter) im Osten steht_".] when the sun is in the East [Footnote 11: See Footnote 10]. Hence you must make the nearest building above the wall of its real colour, but the more distant ones make less defined and bluer. Those you wish should look farthest away you must make proportionately bluer; thus, if one is to be five times as distant, make it five times bluer. And by this rule the buildings which above a [given] line appear of the same size, will plainly be distinguished as to which are the more remote and which larger than the others. 296. The medium lying between the eye and the object seen, tinges that object with its colour, as the blueness of the atmosphere makes the distant mountains appear blue and red glass makes objects seen beyond it, look red. The light shed round them by the stars is obscured by the darkness of the night which lies between the eye and the radiant light of the stars. 297. Take care that the perspective of colour does not disagree with the size of your objects, hat is to say: that the colours diminish from their natural [vividness] in proportion as the objects at various distances dimmish from their natural size. On the relative density of the atmosphere (298--290). 298. WHY THE ATMOSPHERE MUST BE REPRESENTED AS PALER TOWARDS THE LOWER PORTION. Because the atmosphere is dense near the earth, and the higher it is the rarer it becomes. When the sun is in the East if you look towards the West and a little way to the South and North, you will see that this dense atmosphere receives more light from the sun than the rarer; because the rays meet with greater resistance. And if the sky, as you see it, ends on a low plain, that lowest portion of the sky will be seen through a denser and whiter atmosphere, which will weaken its true colour as seen through that medium, and there the sky will look whiter than it is above you, where the line of sight travels through a smaller space of air charged with heavy vapour. And if you turn to the East, the atmosphere will appear darker as you look lower down because the luminous rays pass less freely through the lower atmosphere. 299. OF THE MODE OF TREATING REMOTE OBJECTS IN PAINTING. It is easy to perceive that the atmosphere which lies closest to the level ground is denser than the rest, and that where it is higher up, it is rarer and more transparent. The lower portions of large and lofty objects which are at a distance are not much seen, because you see them along a line which passes through a denser and thicker section of the atmosphere. The summits of such heights are seen along a line which, though it starts from your eye in a dense atmosphere, still, as it ends at the top of those lofty objects, ceases in a much rarer atmosphere than exists at their base; for this reason the farther this line extends from your eye, from point to point the atmosphere becomes more and more rare. Hence, O Painter! when you represent mountains, see that from hill to hill the bases are paler than the summits, and in proportion as they recede beyond each other make the bases paler than the summits; while, the higher they are the more you must show of their true form and colour. On the colour of the atmosphere (300-307). 300. OF THE COLOUR OF THE ATMOSPHERE. I say that the blueness we see in the atmosphere is not intrinsic colour, but is caused by warm vapour evaporated in minute and insensible atoms on which the solar rays fall, rendering them luminous against the infinite darkness of the fiery sphere which lies beyond and includes it. And this may be seen, as I saw it by any one going up [Footnote 5: With regard to the place spoken of as _M'oboso_ (compare No. 301 line 20) its identity will be discussed under Leonardo's Topographical notes in Vol. II.] Monboso, a peak of the Alps which divide France from Italy. The base of this mountain gives birth to the four rivers which flow in four different directions through the whole of Europe. And no mountain has its base at so great a height as this, which lifts itself almost above the clouds; and snow seldom falls there, but only hail in the summer, when the clouds are highest. And this hail lies [unmelted] there, so that if it were not for the absorption of the rising and falling clouds, which does not happen twice in an age, an enormous mass of ice would be piled up there by the hail, and in the middle of July I found it very considerable. There I saw above me the dark sky, and the sun as it fell on the mountain was far brighter here than in the plains below, because a smaller extent of atmosphere lay between the summit of the mountain and the sun. Again as an illustration of the colour of the atmosphere I will mention the smoke of old and dry wood, which, as it comes out of a chimney, appears to turn very blue, when seen between the eye and the dark distance. But as it rises, and comes between the eye and the bright atmosphere, it at once shows of an ashy grey colour; and this happens because it no longer has darkness beyond it, but this bright and luminous space. If the smoke is from young, green wood, it will not appear blue, because, not being transparent and being full of superabundant moisture, it has the effect of condensed clouds which take distinct lights and shadows like a solid body. The same occurs with the atmosphere, which, when overcharged with moisture appears white, and the small amount of heated moisture makes it dark, of a dark blue colour; and this will suffice us so far as concerns the colour of the atmosphere; though it might be added that, if this transparent blue were the natural colour of the atmosphere, it would follow that wherever a larger mass air intervened between the eye and the element of fire, the azure colour would be more intense; as we see in blue glass and in sapphires, which are darker in proportion as they are larger. But the atmosphere in such circumstances behaves in an opposite manner, inasmuch as where a greater quantity of it lies between the eye and the sphere of fire, it is seen much whiter. This occurs towards the horizon. And the less the extent of atmosphere between the eye and the sphere of fire, the deeper is the blue colour, as may be seen even on low plains. Hence it follows, as I say, that the atmosphere assumes this azure hue by reason of the particles of moisture which catch the rays of the sun. Again, we may note the difference in particles of dust, or particles of smoke, in the sun beams admitted through holes into a dark chamber, when the former will look ash grey and the thin smoke will appear of a most beautiful blue; and it may be seen again in in the dark shadows of distant mountains when the air between the eye and those shadows will look very blue, though the brightest parts of those mountains will not differ much from their true colour. But if any one wishes for a final proof let him paint a board with various colours, among them an intense black; and over all let him lay a very thin and transparent [coating of] white. He will then see that this transparent white will nowhere show a more beautiful blue than over the black--but it must be very thin and finely ground. [Footnote 7: _reta_ here has the sense of _malanno_.] 301. Experience shows us that the air must have darkness beyond it and yet it appears blue. If you produce a small quantity of smoke from dry wood and the rays of the sun fall on this smoke, and if you then place behind the smoke a piece of black velvet on which the sun does not shine, you will see that all the smoke which is between the eye and the black stuff will appear of a beautiful blue colour. And if instead of the velvet you place a white cloth smoke, that is too thick smoke, hinders, and too thin smoke does not produce, the perfection of this blue colour. Hence a moderate amount of smoke produces the finest blue. Water violently ejected in a fine spray and in a dark chamber where the sun beams are admitted produces these blue rays and the more vividly if it is distilled water, and thin smoke looks blue. This I mention in order to show that the blueness of the atmosphere is caused by the darkness beyond it, and these instances are given for those who cannot confirm my experience on Monboso. 302. When the smoke from dry wood is seen between the eye of the spectator and some dark space [or object], it will look blue. Thus the sky looks blue by reason of the darkness beyond it. And if you look towards the horizon of the sky, you will see the atmosphere is not blue, and this is caused by its density. And thus at each degree, as you raise your eyes above the horizon up to the sky over your head, you will see the atmosphere look darker [blue] and this is because a smaller density of air lies between your eye and the [outer] darkness. And if you go to the top of a high mountain the sky will look proportionately darker above you as the atmosphere becomes rarer between you and the [outer] darkness; and this will be more visible at each degree of increasing height till at last we should find darkness. That smoke will look bluest which rises from the driest wood and which is nearest to the fire and is seen against the darkest background, and with the sunlight upon it. 303. A dark object will appear bluest in proportion as it has a greater mass of luminous atmosphere between it and the eye. As may be seen in the colour of the sky. 304. The atmosphere is blue by reason of the darkness above it because black and white make blue. 305. In the morning the mist is denser above than below, because the sun draws it upwards; hence tall buildings, even if the summit is at the same distance as the base have the summit invisible. Therefore, also, the sky looks darkest [in colour] overhead, and towards the horizon it is not blue but rather between smoke and dust colour. The atmosphere, when full of mist, is quite devoid of blueness, and only appears of the colour of clouds, which shine white when the weather is fine. And the more you turn to the west the darker it will be, and the brighter as you look to the east. And the verdure of the fields is bluish in a thin mist, but grows grey in a dense one. The buildings in the west will only show their illuminated side, where the sun shines, and the mist hides the rest. When the sun rises and chases away the haze, the hills on the side where it lifts begin to grow clearer, and look blue, and seem to smoke with the vanishing mists; and the buildings reveal their lights and shadows; through the thinner vapour they show only their lights and through the thicker air nothing at all. This is when the movement of the mist makes it part horizontally, and then the edges of the mist will be indistinct against the blue of the sky, and towards the earth it will look almost like dust blown up. In proportion as the atmosphere is dense the buildings of a city and the trees in a landscape will look fewer, because only the tallest and largest will be seen. Darkness affects every thing with its hue, and the more an object differs from darkness, the more we see its real and natural colour. The mountains will look few, because only those will be seen which are farthest apart; since, at such a distance, the density increases to such a degree that it causes a brightness by which the darkness of the hills becomes divided and vanishes indeed towards the top. There is less [mist] between lower and nearer hills and yet little is to be distinguished, and least towards the bottom. 306. The surface of an object partakes of the colour of the light which illuminates it; and of the colour of the atmosphere which lies between the eye and that object, that is of the colour of the transparent medium lying between the object and the eye; and among colours of a similar character the second will be of the same tone as the first, and this is caused by the increased thickness of the colour of the medium lying between the object and the eye. 307. OF PAINTING. Of various colours which are none of them blue that which at a great distance will look bluest is the nearest to black; and so, conversely, the colour which is least like black will at a great distance best preserve its own colour. Hence the green of fields will assume a bluer hue than yellow or white will, and conversely yellow or white will change less than green, and red still less. _VII._ _On the Proportions and on the Movements of the Human Figure._ _Leonardo's researches on the proportions and movements of the human figure must have been for the most part completed and written before the year_ 1498; _for LUCA PACIOLO writes, in the dedication to Ludovico il Moro, of his book_ Divina Proportione, _which was published in that year:_ "Leonardo da venci ... hauedo gia co tutta diligetia al degno libro de pictura e movimenti humani posto fine". _The selection of Leonardo's axioms contained in the Vatican copy attributes these words to the author:_ "e il resto si dira nella universale misura del huomo". (_MANZI, p. 147; LUDWIG, No. 264_). _LOMAZZO, again, in his_ Idea del Tempio della Pittura Milano 1590, cap. IV, _says:_ "Lionardo Vinci ... dimostro anco in figura tutte le proporzioni dei membri del corpo umano". _The Vatican copy includes but very few sections of the_ "Universale misura del huomo" _and until now nothing has been made known of the original MSS. on the subject which have supplied the very extensive materials for this portion of the work. The collection at Windsor, belonging to her Majesty the Queen, includes by far the most important part of Leonardo's investigations on this subject, constituting about half of the whole of the materials here published; and the large number of original drawings adds greatly to the interest which the subject itself must command. Luca Paciolo would seem to have had these MSS. (which I have distinguished by the initials W. P.) in his mind when he wrote the passage quoted above. Still, certain notes of a later date--such as Nos. 360, 362 and 363, from MS. E, written in 1513--14, sufficiently prove that Leonardo did not consider his earlier studies on the Proportions and Movements of the Human Figure final and complete, as we might suppose from Luca Paciolo's statement. Or else he took the subject up again at a subsequent period, since his former researches had been carried on at Milan between 1490 and 1500. Indeed it is highly probable that the anatomical studies which he was pursuing zvith so much zeal between 1510--16 should have led him to reconsider the subject of Proportion. Preliminary observations (308. 309). 308. Every man, at three years old is half the full height he will grow to at last. 309. If a man 2 braccia high is too small, one of four is too tall, the medium being what is admirable. Between 2 and 4 comes 3; therefore take a man of 3 braccia in height and measure him by the rule I will give you. If you tell me that I may be mistaken, and judge a man to be well proportioned who does not conform to this division, I answer that you must look at many men of 3 braccia, and out of the larger number who are alike in their limbs choose one of those who are most graceful and take your measurements. The length of the hand is 1/3 of a braccio [8 inches] and this is found 9 times in man. And the face [Footnote 7: The account here given of the _braccio_ is of importance in understanding some of the succeeding chapters. _Testa_ must here be understood to mean the face. The statements in this section are illustrated in part on Pl. XI.] is the same, and from the pit of the throat to the shoulder, and from the shoulder to the nipple, and from one nipple to the other, and from each nipple to the pit of the throat. Proportions of the head and face (310-318). 310. The space between the parting of the lips [the mouth] and the base of the nose is one-seventh of the face. The space from the mouth to the bottom of the chin _c d_ is the fourth part of the face and equal to the width of the mouth. The space from the chin to the base of the nose _e f_ is the third part of the face and equal to the length of the nose and to the forehead. The distance from the middle of the nose to the bottom of the chin _g h_, is half the length of the face. The distance from the top of the nose, where the eyebrows begin, to the bottom of the chin, _i k_, is two thirds of the face. The space from the parting of the lips to the top of the chin _l m_, that is where the chin ends and passes into the lower lip of the mouth, is the third of the distance from the parting of the lips to the bottom of the chin and is the twelfth part of the face. From the top to the bottom of the chin _m n_ is the sixth part of the face and is the fifty fourth part of a man's height. From the farthest projection of the chin to the throat _o p_ is equal to the space between the mouth and the bottom of the chin, and a fourth of the face. The distance from the top of the throat to the pit of the throat below _q r_ is half the length of the face and the eighteenth part of a man's height. From the chin to the back of the neck _s t_, is the same distance as between the mouth and the roots of the hair, that is three quarters of the head. From the chin to the jaw bone _v x_ is half the head and equal to the thickness of the neck in profile. The thickness of the head from the brow to the nape is once and 3/4 that of the neck. [Footnote: The drawings to this text, lines 1-10 are on Pl. VII, No. I. The two upper sketches of heads, Pl. VII, No. 2, belong to lines 11-14, and in the original are placed immediately below the sketches reproduced on Pl. VII, No. 1.] 311. The distance from the attachment of one ear to the other is equal to that from the meeting of the eyebrows to the chin, and in a fine face the width of the mouth is equal to the length from the parting of the lips to the bottom of the chin. 312. The cut or depression below the lower lip of the mouth is half way between the bottom of the nose and the bottom of the chin. The face forms a square in itself; that is its width is from the outer corner of one eye to the other, and its height is from the very top of the nose to the bottom of the lower lip of the mouth; then what remains above and below this square amounts to the height of such another square, _a_ _b_ is equal to the space between _c_ _d_; _d_ _n_ in the same way to _n_ _c_, and likewise _s_ _r_, _q_ _p_, _h_ _k_ are equal to each other. It is as far between _m_ and _s_ as from the bottom of the nose to the chin. The ear is exactly as long as the nose. It is as far from _x_ to _j_ as from the nose to the chin. The parting of the mouth seen in profile slopes to the angle of the jaw. The ear should be as high as from the bottom of the nose to the top of the eye-lid. The space between the eyes is equal to the width of an eye. The ear is over the middle of the neck, when seen in profile. The distance from 4 to 5 is equal to that from s_ to _r_. [Footnote: See Pl. VIII, No. I, where the text of lines 3-13 is also given in facsimile.] 313. (_a_ _b_) is equal to (_c_ _d_). [Footnote: See Pl. VII, No. 3. Reference may also be made here to two pen and ink drawings of heads in profile with figured measurements, of which there is no description in the MS. These are given on Pl. XVII, No. 2.--A head, to the left, with part of the torso [W. P. 5a], No. 1 on the same plate is from MS. A 2b and in the original occurs on a page with wholly irrelevant text on matters of natural history. M. RAVAISSON in his edition of the Paris MS. A has reproduced this head and discussed it fully [note on page 12]; he has however somewhat altered the original measurements. The complicated calculations which M. RAVAISSON has given appear to me in no way justified. The sketch, as we see it, can hardly have been intended for any thing more than an experimental attempt to ascertain relative proportions. We do not find that Leonardo made use of circular lines in any other study of the proportions of the human head. At the same time we see that the proportions of this sketch are not in accordance with the rules which he usually observed (see for instance No. 310).] The head _a_ _f_ 1/6 larger than _n_ _f_. 315. From the eyebrow to the junction of the lip with the chin, and the angle of the jaw and the upper angle where the ear joins the temple will be a perfect square. And each side by itself is half the head. The hollow of the cheek bone occurs half way between the tip of the nose and the top of the jaw bone, which is the lower angle of the setting on of the ear, in the frame here represented. From the angle of the eye-socket to the ear is as far as the length of the ear, or the third of the face. [Footnote: See Pl. IX. The text, in the original is written behind the head. The handwriting would seem to indicate a date earlier than 1480. On the same leaf there is a drawing in red chalk of two horsemen of which only a portion of the upper figure is here visible. The whole leaf measures 22 1/2 centimetres wide by 29 long, and is numbered 127 in the top right-hand corner.] 316. From _a_ to _b_--that is to say from the roots of the hair in front to the top of the head--ought to be equal to _c_ _d_;--that is from the bottom of the nose to the meeting of the lips in the middle of the mouth. From the inner corner of the eye _m_ to the top of the head _a_ is as far as from _m_ down to the chin _s_. _s_ _c_ _f_ _b_ are all at equal distances from each other. [Footnote: The drawing in silver-point on bluish tinted paper--Pl. X--which belongs to this chapter has been partly drawn over in ink by Leonardo himself.] 317. From the top of the head to the bottom of the chin is 1/9, and from the roots of the hair to the chin is 1/9 of the distance from the roots of the hair to the ground. The greatest width of the face is equal to the space between the mouth and the roots of the hair and is 1/12 of the whole height. From the top of the ear to the top of the head is equal to the distance from the bottom of the chin to the lachrymatory duct of the eye; and also equal to the distance from the angle of the chin to that of the jaw; that is the 1/16 of the whole. The small cartilage which projects over the opening of the ear towards the nose is half-way between the nape and the eyebrow; the thickness of the neck in profile is equal to the space between the chin and the eyes, and to the space between the chin and the jaw, and it is 1/18 of the height of the man. 318. _a b_, _c d_, _e f_, _g h_, _i k_ are equal to each other in size excepting that _d f_ is accidental. [Footnote: See Pl. XI.] Proportions of the head seen in front (319-321). 319. _a n o f_ are equal to the mouth. _a c_ and _a f_ are equal to the space between one eye and the other. _n m o f q r_ are equal to half the width of the eye lids, that is from the inner [lachrymatory] corner of the eye to its outer corner; and in like manner the division between the chin and the mouth; and in the same way the narrowest part of the nose between the eyes. And these spaces, each in itself, is the 19th part of the head, _n o_ is equal to the length of the eye or of the space between the eyes. _m c_ is 1/3 of _n m_ measuring from the outer corner of the eyelids to the letter _c_. _b s_ will be equal to the width of the nostril. [Footnote: See Pl. XII.] 320. The distance between the centres of the pupils of the eyes is 1/3 of the face. The space between the outer corners of the eyes, that is where the eye ends in the eye socket which contains it, thus the outer corners, is half the face. The greatest width of the face at the line of the eyes is equal to the distance from the roots of the hair in front to the parting of the lips. [Footnote: There are, with this section, two sketches of eyes, not reproduced here.] 321. The nose will make a double square; that is the width of the nose at the nostrils goes twice into the length from the tip of the nose to the eyebrows. And, in the same way, in profile the distance from the extreme side of the nostril where it joins the cheek to the tip of the nose is equal to the width of the nose in front from one nostril to the other. If you divide the whole length of the nose--that is from the tip to the insertion of the eyebrows, into 4 equal parts, you will find that one of these parts extends from the tip of the nostrils to the base of the nose, and the upper division lies between the inner corner of the eye and the insertion of the eyebrows; and the two middle parts [together] are equal to the length of the eye from the inner to the outer corner. [Footnote: The two bottom sketches on Pl. VII, No. 4 face the six lines of this section,--With regard to the proportions of the head in profile see No. 312.] 322. The great toe is the sixth part of the foot, taking the measure in profile, on the inside of the foot, from where this toe springs from the ball of the sole of the foot to its tip _a b_; and it is equal to the distance from the mouth to the bottom of the chin. If you draw the foot in profile from the outside, make the little toe begin at three quarters of the length of the foot, and you will find the same distance from the insertion of this toe as to the farthest prominence of the great toe. 323. For each man respectively the distance between _a b_ is equal to _c d_. 324. Relative proportion of the hand and foot. The foot is as much longer than the hand as the thickness of the arm at the wrist where it is thinnest seen facing. Again, you will find that the foot is as much longer than the hand as the space between the inner angle of the little toe to the last projection of the big toe, if you measure along the length of the foot. The palm of the hand without the fingers goes twice into the length of the foot without the toes. If you hold your hand with the fingers straight out and close together you will find it to be of the same width as the widest part of the foot, that is where it is joined onto the toes. And if you measure from the prominence of the inner ancle to the end of the great toe you will find this measure to be as long as the whole hand. From the top angle of the foot to the insertion of the toes is equal to the hand from wrist joint to the tip of the thumb. The smallest width of the hand is equal to the smallest width of the foot between its joint into the leg and the insertion of the toes. The width of the heel at the lower part is equal to that of the arm where it joins the hand; and also to the leg where it is thinnest when viewed in front. The length of the longest toe, from its first division from the great toe to its tip is the fourth of the foot from the centre of the ancle bone to the tip, and it is equal to the width of the mouth. The distance between the mouth and the chin is equal to that of the knuckles and of the three middle fingers and to the length of their first joints if the hand is spread, and equal to the distance from the joint of the thumb to the outset of the nails, that is the fourth part of the hand and of the face. The space between the extreme poles inside and outside the foot called the ancle or ancle bone _a b_ is equal to the space between the mouth and the inner corner of the eye. 325. The foot, from where it is attached to the leg, to the tip of the great toe is as long as the space between the upper part of the chin and the roots of the hair _a b_; and equal to five sixths of the face. 326. _a d_ is a head's length, _c b_ is a head's length. The four smaller toes are all equally thick from the nail at the top to the bottom, and are 1/13 of the foot. [Footnote: See Pl. XIV, No. 1, a drawing of a foot with the text in three lines below it.] 327. The whole length of the foot will lie between the elbow and the wrist and between the elbow and the inner angle of the arm towards the breast when the arm is folded. The foot is as long as the whole head of a man, that is from under the chin to the topmost part of the head[Footnote 2: _nel modo che qui i figurato_. See Pl. VII, No. 4, the upper figure. The text breaks off at the end of line 2 and the text given under No. 321 follows below. It may be here remarked that the second sketch on W. P. 311 has in the original no explanatory text.] in the way here figured. Proportions of the leg (328-331). 328. The greatest thickness of the calf of the leg is at a third of its height _a b_, and is a twentieth part thicker than the greatest thickness of the foot. _a c_ is half of the head, and equal to _d b_ and to the insertion of the five toes _e f_. _d k_ diminishes one sixth in the leg _g h_. _g h_ is 1/3 of the head; _m n_ increases one sixth from _a e_ and is 7/12 of the head, _o p_ is 1/10 less than _d k_ and is 6/17 of the head. _a_ is at half the distance between _b q_, and is 1/4 of the man. _r_ is half way between _s_ and _b_[Footnote 11: _b_ is here and later on measured on the right side of the foot as seen by the spectator.]. The concavity of the knee outside _r_ is higher than that inside _a_. The half of the whole height of the leg from the foot _r_, is half way between the prominence _s_ and the ground _b_. _v_ is half way between _t_ and _b_. The thickness of the thigh seen in front is equal to the greatest width of the face, that is 2/3 of the length from the chin to the top of the head; _z r_ is 5/6 of 7 to _v_; _m n_ is equal to 7 _v_ and is 1/4 of _r b_, _x y_ goes 3 times into _r b_, and into _r s_. [Footnote 22-35: The sketch illustrating these lines is on Pl. XIII, No. 2.] [Footnote 22: a b _entra in_ c f 6 _e_ 6 _in_ c n. Accurate measurement however obliges us to read 7 for 6.] _a b_ goes six times into _c f_ and six times into _c n_ and is equal to _g h_; _i k l m_ goes 4 times into _d f_, and 4 times into _d n_ and is 3/7 of the foot; _p q r s_ goes 3 times into _d f, and 3 times into _b n_; [Footnote: 25. _y_ is not to be found on the diagram and _x_ occurs twice; this makes the passage very obscure.] _x y_ is 1/8 of _x f_ and is equal to _n q_. 3 7 is 1/9 of _n f_; 4 5 is 1/10 of _n f_ [Footnote: 22-27. Compare with this lines 18-24 of No. 331, and the sketch of a leg in profile Pl. XV.]. I want to know how much a man increases in height by standing on tip-toe and how much _p g_ diminishes by stooping; and how much it increases at _n q_ likewise in bending the foot. [Footnote 34: _e f_ 4 _dal cazo_. By reading _i_ for _e_ the sense of this passage is made clear.] _e f_ is four times in the distance between the genitals and the sole of the foot; [Footnote 35: 2 is not to be found in the sketch which renders the passage obscure. The two last lines are plainly legible in the facsimile.] 3 7 is six times from 3 to 2 and is equal to _g h_ and _i k_. [Footnote: The drawing of a leg seen in front Pl. XIII, No. 1 belongs to the text from lines 3-21. The measurements in this section should be compared with the text No. 331, lines 1-13, and the sketch of a leg seen in front on Pl. XV.] 329. The length of the foot from the end of the toes to the heel goes twice into that from the heel to the knee, that is where the leg bone [fibula] joins the thigh bone [femur]. 330. _a n b_ are equal; _c n d_ are equal; _n c_ makes two feet; _n d_ makes 2 feet. [Footnote: See the lower sketch, Pl. XIV, No. 1.] 331. _m n o_ are equal. The narrowest width of the leg seen in front goes 8 times from the sole of the foot to the joint of the knee, and is the same width as the arm, seen in front at the wrist, and as the longest measure of the ear, and as the three chief divisions into which we divide the face; and this measurement goes 4 times from the wrist joint of the hand to the point of the elbow. [14] The foot is as long as the space from the knee between _a_ and _b_; and the patella of the knee is as long as the leg between _r_ and _s_. [18] The least thickness of the leg in profile goes 6 times from the sole of the foot to the knee joint and is the same width as the space between the outer corner of the eye and the opening of the ear, and as the thickest part of the arm seen in profile and between the inner corner of the eye and the insertion of the hair. _a b c_ [_d_] are all relatively of equal length, _c d_ goes twice from the sole of the foot to the centre of the knee and the same from the knee to the hip. [28]_a b c_ are equal; _a_ to _b_ is 2 feet--that is to say measuring from the heel to the tip of the great toe. [Footnote: See Pl. XV. The text of lines 2-17 is to the left of the front view of the leg, to which it refers. Lines 18-27 are in the middle column and refer to the leg seen in profile and turned to the left, on the right hand side of the writing. Lines 20-30 are above, to the left and apply to the sketch below them. Some farther remarks on the proportion of the leg will be found in No. 336, lines 6, 7.] On the central point of the whole body. 332. In kneeling down a man will lose the fourth part of his height. When a man kneels down with his hands folded on his breast the navel will mark half his height and likewise the points of the elbows. Half the height of a man who sits--that is from the seat to the top of the head--will be where the arms fold below the breast, and below the shoulders. The seated portion--that is from the seat to the top of the head--will be more than half the man's [whole height] by the length of the scrotum. [Footnote: See Pl. VIII, No. 2.] The relative proportions of the torso and of the whole figure. 333. The cubit is one fourth of the height of a man and is equal to the greatest width of the shoulders. From the joint of one shoulder to the other is two faces and is equal to the distance from the top of the breast to the navel. [Footnote 9: _dalla detta somita_. It would seem more accurate to read here _dal detto ombilico_.] From this point to the genitals is a face's length. [Footnote: Compare with this the sketches on the other page of the same leaf. Pl. VIII, No. 2.] The relative proportions of the head and of the torso. 334. From the roots of the hair to the top of the breast _a b_ is the sixth part of the height of a man and this measure is equal. From the outside part of one shoulder to the other is the same distance as from the top of the breast to the navel and this measure goes four times from the sole of the foot to the lower end of the nose. The [thickness of] the arm where it springs from the shoulder in front goes 6 times into the space between the two outside edges of the shoulders and 3 times into the face, and four times into the length of the foot and three into the hand, inside or outside. [Footnote: The three sketches Pl. XIV, No. 2 belong to this text.] The relative proportions of the torso and of the leg (335. 336). 335. _a b c_ are equal to each other and to the space from the armpit of the shoulder to the genitals and to the distance from the tip of the fingers of the hand to the joint of the arm, and to the half of the breast; and you must know that _c b_ is the third part of the height of a man from the shoulders to the ground; _d e f_ are equal to each other and equal to the greatest width of the shoulders. [Footnote: See Pl. XVI, No. 1.] 336. --Top of the chin--hip--the insertion of the middle finger. The end of the calf of the leg on the inside of the thigh.--The end of the swelling of the shin bone of the leg. [6] The smallest thickness of the leg goes 3 times into the thigh seen in front. [Footnote: See Pl. XVII, No. 2, middle sketch.] The relative proportions of the torso and of the foot. 337. The torso _a b_ in its thinnest part measures a foot; and from _a_ to _b_ is 2 feet, which makes two squares to the seat--its thinnest part goes 3 times into the length, thus making 3 squares. [Footnote: See Pl, VII, No. 2, the lower sketch.] The proportions of the whole figure (338-341). 338. A man when he lies down is reduced to 1/9 of his height. 339. The opening of the ear, the joint of the shoulder, that of the hip and the ancle are in perpendicular lines; _a n_ is equal to _m o_. [Footnote: See Pl. XVI, No. 2, the upper sketch.] 340. From the chin to the roots of the hair is 1/10 of the whole figure. From the joint of the palm of the hand to the tip of the longest finger is 1/10. From the chin to the top of the head 1/8; and from the pit of the stomach to the top of the breast is 1/6, and from the pit below the breast bone to the top of the head 1/4. From the chin to the nostrils 1/3 Part of the face, the same from the nostrils to the brow and from the brow to the roots of the hair, and the foot is 1/6, the elbow 1/4, the width of the shoulders 1/4. 341. The width of the shoulders is 1/4 of the whole. From the joint of the shoulder to the hand is 1/3, from the parting of the lips to below the shoulder-blade is one foot. The greatest thickness of a man from the breast to the spine is one 8th of his height and is equal to the space between the bottom of the chin and the top of the head. The greatest width is at the shoulders and goes 4. The torso from the front and back. 342. The width of a man under the arms is the same as at the hips. A man's width across the hips is equal to the distance from the top of the hip to the bottom of the buttock, when a man stands equally balanced on both feet; and there is the same distance from the top of the hip to the armpit. The waist, or narrower part above the hips will be half way between the arm pits and the bottom of the buttock. [Footnote: The lower sketch Pl. XVI, No. 2, is drawn by the side of line 1.] Vitruvius' scheme of proportions. 343. Vitruvius, the architect, says in his work on architecture that the measurements of the human body are distributed by Nature as follows: that is that 4 fingers make 1 palm, and 4 palms make 1 foot, 6 palms make 1 cubit; 4 cubits make a man's height. And 4 cubits make one pace and 24 palms make a man; and these measures he used in his buildings. If you open your legs so much as to decrease your height 1/14 and spread and raise your arms till your middle fingers touch the level of the top of your head you must know that the centre of the outspread limbs will be in the navel and the space between the legs will be an equilateral triangle. The length of a man's outspread arms is equal to his height. From the roots of the hair to the bottom of the chin is the tenth of a man's height; from the bottom of the chin to the top of his head is one eighth of his height; from the top of the breast to the top of his head will be one sixth of a man. From the top of the breast to the roots of the hair will be the seventh part of the whole man. From the nipples to the top of the head will be the fourth part of a man. The greatest width of the shoulders contains in itself the fourth part of the man. From the elbow to the tip of the hand will be the fifth part of a man; and from the elbow to the angle of the armpit will be the eighth part of the man. The whole hand will be the tenth part of the man; the beginning of the genitals marks the middle of the man. The foot is the seventh part of the man. From the sole of the foot to below the knee will be the fourth part of the man. From below the knee to the beginning of the genitals will be the fourth part of the man. The distance from the bottom of the chin to the nose and from the roots of the hair to the eyebrows is, in each case the same, and like the ear, a third of the face. [Footnote: See Pl. XVIII. The original leaf is 21 centimetres wide and 33 1/2 long. At the ends of the scale below the figure are written the words _diti_ (fingers) and _palmi_ (palms). The passage quoted from Vitruvius is Book III, Cap. 1, and Leonardo's drawing is given in the editions of Vitruvius by FRA GIOCONDO (Venezia 1511, fol., Firenze 1513, 8vo.) and by CESARIANO (Como 1521).] The arm and head. 344. From _b_ to _a_ is one head, as well as from _c_ to _a_ and this happens when the elbow forms a right angle. [Footnote: See Pl. XLI, No. 1.] Proportions of the arm (345-349). 345. From the tip of the longest finger of the hand to the shoulder joint is four hands or, if you will, four faces. _a b c_ are equal and each interval is 2 heads. [Footnote: Lines 1-3 are given on Pl. XV below the front view of the leg; lines 4 and 5 are below again, on the left side. The lettering refers to the bent arm near the text.] 346. The hand from the longest finger to the wrist joint goes 4 times from the tip of the longest finger to the shoulder joint. 347. _a b c_ are equal to each other and to the foot and to the space between the nipple and the navel _d e_ will be the third part of the whole man. _f g_ is the fourth part of a man and is equal to _g h_ and measures a cubit. [Footnote: See Pl. XIX, No. 1. 1. _mamolino_ (=_bambino_, little child) may mean here the navel.] 348. _a b_ goes 4 times into _a c_ and 9 into _a m_. The greatest thickness of the arm between the elbow and the hand goes 6 times into _a m_ and is equal to _r f_. The greatest thickness of the arm between the shoulder and the elbow goes 4 times into _c m_, and is equal to _h n g_. The smallest thickness of the arm above the elbow _x y_ is not the base of a square, but is equal to half the space _h_ 3 which is found between the inner joint of the arm and the wrist joint. [11]The width of the wrist goes 12 times into the whole arm; that is from the tip of the fingers to the shoulder joint; that is 3 times into the hand and 9 into the arm. The arm when bent is 4 heads. The arm from the shoulder to the elbow in bending increases in length, that is in the length from the shoulder to the elbow, and this increase is equal to the thickness of the arm at the wrist when seen in profile. And the space between the bottom of the chin and the parting of the lips, is equal to the thickness of the 2 middle fingers, and to the width of the mouth and to the space between the roots of the hair on the forehead and the top of the head [Footnote: _Queste cose_. This passage seems to have been written on purpose to rectify the foregoing lines. The error is explained by the accompanying sketch of the bones of the arm.]. All these distances are equal to each other, but they are not equal to the above-mentioned increase in the arm. The arm between the elbow and wrist never increases by being bent or extended. The arm, from the shoulder to the inner joint when extended. When the arm is extended, _p n_ is equal to _n a_. And when it is bent _n a_ diminishes 1/6 of its length and _p n_ does the same. The outer elbow joint increases 1/7 when bent; and thus by being bent it increases to the length of 2 heads. And on the inner side, by bending, it is found that whereas the arm from where it joins the side to the wrist, was 2 heads and a half, in bending it loses the half head and measures only two: one from the [shoulder] joint to the end [by the elbow], and the other to the hand. The arm when folded will measure 2 faces up to the shoulder from the elbow and 2 from the elbow to the insertion of the four fingers on the palm of the hand. The length from the base of the fingers to the elbow never alters in any position of the arm. If the arm is extended it decreases by 1/3 of the length between _b_ and _h_; and if--being extended--it is bent, it will increase the half of _o e_. [Footnote 59-61: The figure sketched in the margin is however drawn to different proportions.] The length from the shoulder to the elbow is the same as from the base of the thumb, inside, to the elbow _a b c_. [Footnote 62-64: The arm sketch on the margin of the MS. is identically the same as that given below on Pl. XX which may therefore be referred to in this place. In line 62 we read therefore _z c_ for _m n_.] The smallest thickness of the arm in profile _z c_ goes 6 times between the knuckles of the hand and the dimple of the elbow when extended and 14 times in the whole arm and 42 in the whole man [64]. The greatest thickness of the arm in profile is equal to the greatest thickness of the arm in front; but the first is placed at a third of the arm from the shoulder joint to the elbow and the other at a third from the elbow towards the hand. [Footnote: Compare Pl. XVII. Lines 1-10 and 11-15 are written in two columns below the extended arm, and at the tips of the fingers we find the words: _fine d'unghie_ (ends of the nails). Part of the text--lines 22 to 25--is visible by the side of the sketches on Pl. XXXV, No. 1.] 349. From the top of the shoulder to the point of the elbow is as far as from that point to the joints of the four fingers with the palm of the hand, and each is 2 faces. [5]_a e_ is equal to the palm of the hand, _r f_ and _o g_ are equal to half a head and each goes 4 times into _a b_ and _b c_. From _c_ to _m_ is 1/2 a head; _m n_ is 1/3 of a head and goes 6 times into _c b_ and into _b a_; _a b_ loses 1/7 of its length when the arm is extended; _c b_ never alters; _o_ will always be the middle point between _a_ and _s_. _y l_ is the fleshy part of the arm and measures one head; and when the arm is bent this shrinks 2/5 of its length; _o a_ in bending loses 1/6 and so does _o r_. _a b_ is 1/7 of _r c_. _f s_ will be 1/8 of _r c_, and each of those 2 measurements is the largest of the arm; _k h_ is the thinnest part between the shoulder and the elbow and it is 1/8 of the whole arm _r c_; _o p_ is 1/5 of _r l_; _c z_ goes 13 times into _r c_. [Footnote: See Pl. XX where the text is also seen from lines 5-23.] The movement of the arm (350-354). 350. In the innermost bend of the joints of every limb the reliefs are converted into a hollow, and likewise every hollow of the innermost bends becomes a convexity when the limb is straightened to the utmost. And in this very great mistakes are often made by those who have insufficient knowledge and trust to their own invention and do not have recourse to the imitation of nature; and these variations occur more in the middle of the sides than in front, and more at the back than at the sides. 351. When the arm is bent at an angle at the elbow, it will produce some angle; the more acute the angle is, the more will the muscles within the bend be shortened; while the muscles outside will become of greater length than before. As is shown in the example; _d c e_ will shrink considerably; and _b n_ will be much extended. [Footnote: See Pl. XIX, No. 2.] 352. OF PAINTING. The arm, as it turns, thrusts back its shoulder towards the middle of the back. 353. The principal movements of the hand are 10; that is forwards, backwards, to right and to left, in a circular motion, up or down, to close and to open, and to spread the fingers or to press them together. 354. OF THE MOTIONS OF THE FINGERS. The movements of the fingers principally consist in extending and bending them. This extension and bending vary in manner; that is, sometimes they bend altogether at the first joint; sometimes they bend, or extend, half way, at the 2nd joint; and sometimes they bend in their whole length and in all the three joints at once. If the 2 first joints are hindered from bending, then the 3rd joint can be bent with greater ease than before; it can never bend of itself, if the other joints are free, unless all three joints are bent. Besides all these movements there are 4 other principal motions of which 2 are up and down, the two others from side to side; and each of these is effected by a single tendon. From these there follow an infinite number of other movements always effected by two tendons; one tendon ceasing to act, the other takes up the movement. The tendons are made thick inside the fingers and thin outside; and the tendons inside are attached to every joint but outside they are not. [Footnote 26: This head line has, in the original, no text to follow.] Of the strength [and effect] of the 3 tendons inside the fingers at the 3 joints. The movement of the torso (355-361). 355. Observe the altered position of the shoulder in all the movements of the arm, going up and down, inwards and outwards, to the back and to the front, and also in circular movements and any others. And do the same with reference to the neck, hands and feet and the breast above the lips &c. 356. Three are the principal muscles of the shoulder, that is _b c d_, and two are the lateral muscles which move it forward and backward, that is _a o_; _a_ moves it forward, and _o_ pulls it back; and bed raises it; _a b c_ moves it upwards and forwards, and _c d o_ upwards and backwards. Its own weight almost suffices to move it downwards. The muscle _d_ acts with the muscle _c_ when the arm moves forward; and in moving backward the muscle _b_ acts with the muscle _c_. [Footnote: See Pl. XXI. In the original the lettering has been written in ink upon the red chalk drawing and the outlines of the figures have in most places been inked over.] 357. OF THE LOINS, WHEN BENT. The loins or backbone being bent. The breasts are are always lower than the shoulderblades of the back. If the breast bone is arched the breasts are higher than the shoulderblades. If the loins are upright the breast will always be found at the same level as the shoulderblades. [Footnote: See Pl. XXII, No. 1.] 358. _a b_ the tendon and ankle in raising the heel approach each other by a finger's breadth; in lowering it they separate by a finger's breadth. [Footnote: See Pl. XXII, No. 2. Compare this facsimile and text with Pl. III, No. 2, and p. 152 of MANZI'S edition. Also with No. 274 of LUDWIG'S edition of the Vatican Copy.] 359. Just so much as the part _d a_ of the nude figure decreases in this position so much does the opposite part increase; that is: in proportion as the length of the part _d a_ diminishes the normal size so does the opposite upper part increase beyond its [normal] size. The navel does not change its position to the male organ; and this shrinking arises because when a figure stands on one foot, that foot becomes the centre [of gravity] of the superimposed weight. This being so, the middle between the shoulders is thrust above it out of it perpendicular line, and this line, which forms the central line of the external parts of the body, becomes bent at its upper extremity [so as to be] above the foot which supports the body; and the transverse lines are forced into such angles that their ends are lower on the side which is supported. As is shown at _a b c_. [Footnote: See Pl. XXII, No. 3.] 360. OF PAINTING. Note in the motions and attitudes of figures how the limbs vary, and their feeling, for the shoulderblades in the motions of the arms and shoulders vary the [line of the] back bone very much. And you will find all the causes of this in my book of Anatomy. 361. OF [CHANGE OF] ATTITUDE. The pit of the throat is over the feet, and by throwing one arm forward the pit of the throat is thrown off that foot. And if the leg is thrown forward the pit of the throat is thrown forward; and. so it varies in every attitude. 362. OF PAINTING. Indicate which are the muscles, and which the tendons, which become prominent or retreat in the different movements of each limb; or which do neither [but are passive]. And remember that these indications of action are of the first importance and necessity in any painter or sculptor who professes to be a master &c. And indicate the same in a child, and from birth to decrepitude at every stage of its life; as infancy, childhood, boyhood, youth &c. And in each express the alterations in the limbs and joints, which swell and which grow thinner. 363. O Anatomical Painter! beware lest the too strong indication of the bones, sinews and muscles, be the cause of your becoming wooden in your painting by your wish to make your nude figures display all their feeling. Therefore, in endeavouring to remedy this, look in what manner the muscles clothe or cover their bones in old or lean persons; and besides this, observe the rule as to how these same muscles fill up the spaces of the surface that extend between them, which are the muscles which never lose their prominence in any amount of fatness; and which too are the muscles of which the attachments are lost to sight in the very least plumpness. And in many cases several muscles look like one single muscle in the increase of fat; and in many cases, in growing lean or old, one single muscle divides into several muscles. And in this treatise, each in its place, all their peculiarities will be explained--and particularly as to the spaces between the joints of each limb &c. Again, do not fail [to observe] the variations in the forms of the above mentioned muscles, round and about the joints of the limbs of any animal, as caused by the diversity of the motions of each limb; for on some side of those joints the prominence of these muscles is wholly lost in the increase or diminution of the flesh of which these muscles are composed, &c. [Footnote: DE ROSSI remarks on this chapter, in the Roman edition of the Trattato, p. 504: "_Non in questo luogo solo, ma in altri ancora osserverà il lettore, che Lionardo va fungendo quelli che fanno abuso della loro dottrina anatomica, e sicuramente con ciò ha in mira il suo rivale Bonarroti, che di anatomia facea tanta pompa_." Note, that Leonardo wrote this passage in Rome, probably under the immediate impression of MICHAELANGELO'S paintings in the Sistine Chapel and of RAPHAEL'S Isaiah in Sant' Agostino.] 364. OF THE DIFFERENT MEASUREMENTS OF BOYS AND MEN. There is a great difference in the length between the joints in men and boys for, in man, from the top of the shoulder [by the neck] to the elbow, and from the elbow to the tip of the thumb and from one shoulder to the other, is in each instance two heads, while in a boy it is but one because Nature constructs in us the mass which is the home of the intellect, before forming that which contains the vital elements. 365. OF PAINTING. Which are the muscles which subdivide in old age or in youth, when becoming lean? Which are the parts of the limbs of the human frame where no amount of fat makes the flesh thicker, nor any degree of leanness ever diminishes it? The thing sought for in this question will be found in all the external joints of the bones, as the shoulder, elbow, wrists, finger-joints, hips, knees, ankle-bone and toes and the like; all of which shall be told in its place. The greatest thickness acquired by any limb is at the part of the muscles which is farthest from its attachments. Flesh never increases on those portions of the limb where the bones are near to the surface. At _b r d a c e f_ the increase or diminution of the flesh never makes any considerable difference. Nature has placed in front of man all those parts which feel most pain under a blow; and these are the shin of the leg, the forehead, and the nose. And this was done for the preservation of man, since, if such pain were not felt in these parts, the number of blows to which they would be exposed must be the cause of their destruction. Describe why the bones of the arm and leg are double near the hand and foot [respectively]. And where the flesh is thicker or thinner in the bending of the limbs. 366. OF PAINTING. Every part of the whole must be in proportion to the whole. Thus, if a man is of a stout short figure he will be the same in all his parts: that is with short and thick arms, wide thick hands, with short fingers with their joints of the same character, and so on with the rest. I would have the same thing understood as applying to all animals and plants; in diminishing, [the various parts] do so in due proportion to the size, as also in enlarging. 367. OF THE AGREEMENT OF THE PROPORTION OF THE LIMBS. And again, remember to be very careful in giving your figures limbs, that they must appear to agree with the size of the body and likewise to the age. Thus a youth has limbs that are not very muscular not strongly veined, and the surface is delicate and round, and tender in colour. In man the limbs are sinewy and muscular, while in old men the surface is wrinkled, rugged and knotty, and the sinews very prominent. HOW YOUNG BOYS HAVE THEIR JOINTS JUST THE REVERSE OF THOSE OF MEN, AS TO SIZE. Little children have all the joints slender and the portions between them are thick; and this happens because nothing but the skin covers the joints without any other flesh and has the character of sinew, connecting the bones like a ligature. And the fat fleshiness is laid on between one joint and the next, and between the skin and the bones. But, since the bones are thicker at the joints than between them, as a mass grows up the flesh ceases to have that superfluity which it had, between the skin and the bones; whence the skin clings more closely to the bone and the limbs grow more slender. But since there is nothing over the joints but the cartilaginous and sinewy skin this cannot dry up, and, not drying up, cannot shrink. Thus, and for this reason, children are slender at the joints and fat between the joints; as may be seen in the joints of the fingers, arms, and shoulders, which are slender and dimpled, while in man on the contrary all the joints of the fingers, arms, and legs are thick; and wherever children have hollows men have prominences. The movement of the human figure (368-375). 368. Of the manner of representing the 18 actions of man. Repose, movement, running, standing, supported, sitting, leaning, kneeling, lying down, suspended. Carrying or being carried, thrusting, pulling, striking, being struck, pressing down and lifting up. [As to how a figure should stand with a weight in its hand [Footnote 8: The original text ends here.] Remember]. 369. A sitting man cannot raise himself if that part of his body which is front of his axis [centre of gravity] does not weigh more than that which is behind that axis [or centre] without using his arms. A man who is mounting any slope finds that he must involuntarily throw the most weight forward, on the higher foot, rather than behind--that is in front of the axis and not behind it. Hence a man will always, involuntarily, throw the greater weight towards the point whither he desires to move than in any other direction. The faster a man runs, the more he leans forward towards the point he runs to and throws more weight in front of his axis than behind. A man who runs down hill throws the axis onto his heels, and one who runs up hill throws it into the points of his feet; and a man running on level ground throws it first on his heels and then on the points of his feet. This man cannot carry his own weight unless, by drawing his body back he balances the weight in front, in such a way as that the foot on which he stands is the centre of gravity. [Footnote: See Pl. XXII, No. 4.] 370. How a man proceeds to raise himself to his feet, when he is sitting on level ground. 371. A man when walking has his head in advance of his feet. A man when walking across a long level plain first leans [rather] backwards and then as much forwards. [Footnote 3-6: He strides forward with the air of a man going down hill; when weary, on the contrary he walks like a man going up hill.] 372. A man when running throws less weight on his legs than when standing still. And in the same way a horse which is running feels less the weight of the man he carries. Hence many persons think it wonderful that, in running, the horse can rest on one single foot. From this it may be stated that when a weight is in progressive motion the more rapid it is the less is the perpendicular weight towards the centre. 373. If a man, in taking a jump from firm ground, can leap 3 braccia, and when he was taking his leap it were to recede 1/3 of a braccio, that would be taken off his former leap; and so if it were thrust forward 1/3 of a braccio, by how much would his leap be increased? 374. OF DRAWING. When a man who is running wants to neutralise the impetus that carries him on he prepares a contrary impetus which is generated by his hanging backwards. This can be proved, since, if the impetus carries a moving body with a momentum equal to 4 and the moving body wants to turn and fall back with a momentum of 4, then one momentum neutralises the other contrary one, and the impetus is neutralised. Of walking up and down (375-379) 375. When a man wants to stop running and check the impetus he is forced to hang back and take short quick steps. [Footnote: Lines 5-31 refer to the two upper figures, and the lower figure to the right is explained by the last part of the chapter.] The centre of gravity of a man who lifts one of his feet from the ground always rests on the centre of the sole of the foot [he stands on]. A man, in going up stairs involuntarily throws so much weight forward and on the side of the upper foot as to be a counterpoise to the lower leg, so that the labour of this lower leg is limited to moving itself. The first thing a man does in mounting steps is to relieve the leg he is about to lift of the weight of the body which was resting on that leg; and besides this, he gives to the opposite leg all the rest of the bulk of the whole man, including [the weight of] the other leg; he then raises the other leg and sets the foot upon the step to which he wishes to raise himself. Having done this he restores to the upper foot all the weight of the body and of the leg itself, and places his hand on his thigh and throws his head forward and repeats the movement towards the point of the upper foot, quickly lifting the heel of the lower one; and with this impetus he lifts himself up and at the same time extends the arm which rested on his knee; and this extension of the arm carries up the body and the head, and so straightens the spine which was curved. [32] The higher the step is which a man has to mount, the farther forward will he place his head in advance of his upper foot, so as to weigh more on _a_ than on _b_; this man will not be on the step _m_. As is shown by the line _g f_. [Footnote: See Pl. XXIII, No. 1. The lower sketch to the left belongs to the four first lines.] 376. I ask the weight [pressure] of this man at every degree of motion on these steps, what weight he gives to _b_ and to _c_. [Footnote 8: These lines are, in the original, written in ink] Observe the perpendicular line below the centre of gravity of the man. [Footnote: See Pl. XXIII, No. 2.] 377. In going up stairs if you place your hands on your knees all the labour taken by the arms is removed from the sinews at the back of the knees. [Footnote: See Pl. XXIII, No. 3.] 378. The sinew which guides the leg, and which is connected with the patella of the knee, feels it a greater labour to carry the man upwards, in proportion as the leg is more bent; and the muscle which acts upon the angle made by the thigh where it joins the body has less difficulty and has a less weight to lift, because it has not the [additional] weight of the thigh itself. And besides this it has stronger muscles, being those which form the buttock. 379. A man coming down hill takes little steps, because the weight rests upon the hinder foot, while a man mounting takes wide steps, because his weight rests on the foremost foot. [Footnote: See Pl. XXIII, No. 4.] On the human body in action (380-388). 380. OF THE HUMAN BODY IN ACTION. When you want to represent a man as moving some weight consider what the movements are that are to be represented by different lines; that is to say either from below upwards, with a simple movement, as a man does who stoops forward to take up a weight which he will lift as he straightens himself. Or as a man does who wants to squash something backwards, or to force it forwards or to pull it downwards with ropes passed through pullies [Footnote 10: Compare the sketch on page 198 and on 201 (S. K. M. II.1 86b).]. And here remember that the weight of a man pulls in proportion as his centre of gravity is distant from his fulcrum, and to this is added the force given by his legs and bent back as he raises himself. 381. Again, a man has even a greater store of strength in his legs than he needs for his own weight; and to see if this is true, make a man stand on the shore-sand and then put another man on his back, and you will see how much he will sink in. Then take the man from off his back and make him jump straight up as high as he can, and you will find that the print of his feet will be made deeper by the jump than from having the man on his back. Hence, here, by 2 methods it is proved that a man has double the strength he requires to support his own body. 382. OF PAINTING. If you have to draw a man who is in motion, or lifting or pulling, or carrying a weight equal to his own, in what way must you set on his legs below his body? [Footnote: In the MS. this question remains unanswered.] 383. OF THE STRENGTH OF MAN. A man pulling a [dead] weight balanced against himself cannot pull more than his own weight. And if he has to raise it he will [be able to] raise as much more than his weight as his strength may be more than that of other men. [Footnote 7: The stroke at the end of this line finishes in the original in a sort of loop or flourish, and a similar flourish occurs at the end of the previous passage written on the same page. M. RAVAISSON regards these as numbers (compare the photograph of page 30b in his edition of MS. A). He remarks: "_Ce chiffre_ 8 _et, a la fin de l'alinea precedent, le chiffre_ 7 _sont, dans le manuscrit, des renvois_."] The greatest force a man can apply, with equal velocity and impetus, will be when he sets his feet on one end of the balance [or lever] and then presses his shoulders against some stable body. This will raise a weight at the other end of the balance [lever], equal to his own weight and [added to that] as much weight as he can carry on his shoulders. 384. No animal can simply move [by its dead weight] a greater weight than the sum of its own weight outside the centre of his fulcrum. 385. A man who wants to send an arrow very far from the bow must be standing entirely on one foot and raising the other so far from the foot he stands on as to afford the requisite counterpoise to his body which is thrown on the front foot. And he must not hold his arm fully extended, and in order that he may be more able to bear the strain he must hold a piece of wood which there is in all crossbows, extending from the hand to the breast, and when he wishes to shoot he suddenly leaps forward at the same instant and extends his arm with the bow and releases the string. And if he dexterously does every thing at once it will go a very long way. 386. When two men are at the opposite ends of a plank that is balanced, and if they are of equal weight, and if one of them wants to make a leap into the air, then his leap will be made down from his end of the plank and the man will never go up again but must remain in his place till the man at the other end dashes up the board. [Footnote: See Pl. XXIV, No. 3.] 387. Of delivering a blow to the right or left. [Footnote: Four sketches on Pl. XXIV, No. 1 belong to this passage. The rest of the sketches and notes on that page are of a miscellaneous nature.] 388. Why an impetus is not spent at once [but diminishes] gradually in some one direction? [Footnote 1: The paper has been damaged at the end of line 1.] The impetus acquired in the line _a b c d_ is spent in the line _d e_ but not so completely but that some of its force remains in it and to this force is added the momentum in the line _d e_ with the force of the motive power, and it must follow than the impetus multiplied by the blow is greater that the simple impetus produced by the momentum _d e_. [Footnote 8: The sketch No. 2 on Pl. XXIV stands, in the original, between lines 7 and 8. Compare also the sketches on Pl. LIV.] A man who has to deal a great blow with his weapon prepares himself with all his force on the opposite side to that where the spot is which he is to hit; and this is because a body as it gains in velocity gains in force against the object which impedes its motion. On hair falling down in curls. 389. Observe the motion of the surface of the water which resembles that of hair, and has two motions, of which one goes on with the flow of the surface, the other forms the lines of the eddies; thus the water forms eddying whirlpools one part of which are due to the impetus of the principal current and the other to the incidental motion and return flow. [Footnote: See Pl. XXV. Where also the text of this passage is given in facsimile.] On draperies (390--392). 390. OF THE NATURE OF THE FOLDS IN DRAPERY. That part of a fold which is farthest from the ends where it is confined will fall most nearly in its natural form. Every thing by nature tends to remain at rest. Drapery, being of equal density and thickness on its wrong side and on its right, has a tendency to lie flat; therefore when you give it a fold or plait forcing it out of its flatness note well the result of the constraint in the part where it is most confined; and the part which is farthest from this constraint you will see relapses most into the natural state; that is to say lies free and flowing. EXAMPLE. [Footnote 13: _a c sia_. In the original text _b_ is written instead of _c_--an evident slip of the pen.] Let _a b c_ be the fold of the drapery spoken of above, _a c_ will be the places where this folded drapery is held fast. I maintain that the part of the drapery which is farthest from the plaited ends will revert most to its natural form. Therefore, _b_ being farthest from _a_ and _c_ in the fold _a b c_ it will be wider there than anywhere else. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVIII, No. 6, and compare the drawing from Windsor Pl. XXX for farther illustration of what is here stated.] 391. OF SMALL FOLDS IN DRAPERIES. How figures dressed in a cloak should not show the shape so much as that the cloak looks as if it were next the flesh; since you surely cannot wish the cloak to be next the flesh, for you must suppose that between the flesh and the cloak there are other garments which prevent the forms of the limbs appearing distinctly through the cloak. And those limbs which you allow to be seen you must make thicker so that the other garments may appear to be under the cloak. But only give something of the true thickness of the limbs to a nymph [Footnote 9: _Una nifa_. Compare the beautiful drawing of a Nymph, in black chalk from the Windsor collection, Pl. XXVI.] or an angel, which are represented in thin draperies, pressed and clinging to the limbs of the figures by the action of the wind. 392. You ought not to give to drapery a great confusion of many folds, but rather only introduce them where they are held by the hands or the arms; the rest you may let fall simply where it is its nature to flow; and do not let the nude forms be broken by too many details and interrupted folds. How draperies should be drawn from nature: that is to say if youwant to represent woollen cloth draw the folds from that; and if it is to be silk, or fine cloth or coarse, or of linen or of crape, vary the folds in each and do not represent dresses, as many do, from models covered with paper or thin leather which will deceive you greatly. [Footnote: The little pen and ink drawing from Windsor (W. 102), given on Pl. XXVIII, No. 7, clearly illustrates the statement made at the beginning of this passage; the writing of the cipher 19 on the same page is in Leonardo's hand; the cipher 21 is certainly not.] _VIII._ _Botany for Painters and Elements of Landscape Painting._ _The chapters composing this portion of the work consist of observations on Form, Light and Shade in Plants, and particularly in Trees summed up in certain general rules by which the author intends to guide the artist in the pictorial representation of landscape._ _With these the first principles of a_ Theory of Landscape painting _are laid down--a theory as profoundly thought out in its main lines as it is lucidly worked out in its details. In reading these chapters the conviction is irresistible that such a_ Botany for painters _is or ought to be of similar importance in the practice of painting as the principles of the Proportions and Movements of the human figure_ i. e. Anatomy for painters. _There can be no doubt that Leonardo, in laying down these rules, did not intend to write on Botany in the proper scientific sense--his own researches on that subject have no place here; it need only be observed that they are easily distinguished by their character and contents from those which are here collected and arranged under the title 'Botany for painters'. In some cases where this division might appear doubtful,--as for instance in No._ 402--_the Painter is directly addressed and enjoined to take the rule to heart as of special importance in his art._ _The original materials are principally derived from MS._ G, _in which we often find this subject treated on several pages in succession without any of that intermixture of other matters, which is so frequent in Leonardo's writings. This MS., too, is one of the latest; when it was written, the great painter was already more than sixty years of age, so we can scarcely doubt that he regarded all he wrote as his final views on the subject. And the same remark applies to the chapters from MSS._ E _and_ M _which were also written between_ 1513--15. _For the sake of clearness, however, it has been desirable to sacrifice--with few exceptions--the original order of the passages as written, though it was with much reluctance and only after long hesitation that I resigned myself to this necessity. Nor do I mean to impugn the logical connection of the author's ideas in his MS.; but it will be easily understood that the sequence of disconnected notes, as they occurred to Leonardo and were written down from time to time, might be hardly satisfactory as a systematic arrangement of his principles. The reader will find in the Appendix an exact account of the order of the chapters in the original MS. and from the data there given can restore them at will. As the materials are here arranged, the structure of the tree as regards the growth of the branches comes first_ (394-411) _and then the insertion of the leaves on the stems_ (412-419). _Then follow the laws of Light and Shade as applied, first, to the leaves (420-434), and, secondly, to the whole tree and to groups of trees_ (435-457). _After the remarks on the Light and Shade in landscapes generally_ (458-464), _we find special observations on that of views of towns and buildings_ (465-469). _To the theory of Landscape Painting belong also the passages on the effect of Wind on Trees_ (470-473) _and on the Light and Shade of Clouds_ (474-477), _since we find in these certain comparisons with the effect of Light and Shade on Trees_ (e. g.: _in No._ 476, 4. 5; _and No._ 477, 9. 12). _The chapters given in the Appendix Nos._ 478 _and_ 481 _have hardly any connection with the subjects previously treated._ Classification of trees. 393. TREES. Small, lofty, straggling, thick, that is as to foliage, dark, light, russet, branched at the top; some directed towards the eye, some downwards; with white stems; this transparent in the air, that not; some standing close together, some scattered. The relative thickness of the branches to the trunk (393--396). 394. All the branches of a tree at every stage of its height when put together are equal in thickness to the trunk [below them]. All the branches of a water [course] at every stage of its course, if they are of equal rapidity, are equal to the body of the main stream. 395. Every year when the boughs of a plant [or tree] have made an end of maturing their growth, they will have made, when put together, a thickness equal to that of the main stem; and at every stage of its ramification you will find the thickness of the said main stem; as: _i k_, _g h_, _e f_, _c d_, _a b_, will always be equal to each other; unless the tree is pollard--if so the rule does not hold good. All the branches have a direction which tends to the centre of the tree _m_. [Footnote: The two sketches of leafless trees one above another on the left hand side of Pl. XXVII, No. 1, belong to this passage.] 396. If the plant n grows to the thickness shown at m, its branches will correspond [in thickness] to the junction a b in consequence of the growth inside as well as outside. The branches of trees or plants have a twist wherever a minor branch is given off; and this giving off the branch forms a fork; this said fork occurs between two angles of which the largest will be that which is on the side of the larger branch, and in proportion, unless accident has spoilt it. [Footnote: The sketches illustrating this are on the right hand side of PI. XXVII, No. I, and the text is also given there in facsimile.] 397. There is no boss on branches which has not been produced by some branch which has failed. The lower shoots on the branches of trees grow more than the upper ones and this occurs only because the sap that nourishes them, being heavy, tends downwards more than upwards; and again, because those [branches] which grow downwards turn away from the shade which exists towards the centre of the plant. The older the branches are, the greater is the difference between their upper and their lower shoots and in those dating from the same year or epoch. [Footnote: The sketch accompanying this in the MS. is so effaced that an exact reproduction was impossible.] 398. OF THE SCARS ON TREES. The scars on trees grow to a greater thickness than is required by the sap of the limb which nourishes them. 399. The plant which gives out the smallest ramifications will preserve the straightest line in the course of its growth. [Footnote: This passage is illustrated by two partly effaced sketches. One of these closely resembles the lower one given under No. 408, the other also represents short closely set boughs on an upright trunk.] 400. OF THE RAMIFICATION. The beginning of the ramification [the shoot] always has the central line [axis] of its thickness directed to the central line [axis] of the plant itself. 401. In starting from the main stem the branches always form a base with a prominence as is shown at _a b c d_. 402. WHY, VERY FREQUENTLY, TIMBER HAS VEINS THAT ARE NOT STRAIGHT. When the branches which grow the second year above the branch of the preceding year, are not of equal thickness above the antecedent branches, but are on one side, then the vigour of the lower branch is diverted to nourish the one above it, although it may be somewhat on one side. But if the ramifications are equal in their growth, the veins of the main stem will be straight [parallel] and equidistant at every degree of the height of the plant. Wherefore, O Painter! you, who do not know these laws! in order to escape the blame of those who understand them, it will be well that you should represent every thing from nature, and not despise such study as those do who work [only] for money. The direction of growth (403-407). 403. OF THE RAMIFICATIONS OF PLANTS. The plants which spread very much have the angles of the spaces which divide their branches more obtuse in proportion as their point of origin is lower down; that is nearer to the thickest and oldest portion of the tree. Therefore in the youngest portions of the tree the angles of ramification are more acute. [Footnote: Compare the sketches on the lower portion of Pl. XXVII, No. 2.] 404. The tips of the boughs of plants [and trees], unless they are borne down by the weight of their fruits, turn towards the sky as much as possible. The upper side of their leaves is turned towards the sky that it may receive the nourishment of the dew which falls at night. The sun gives spirit and life to plants and the earth nourishes them with moisture. [9] With regard to this I made the experiment of leaving only one small root on a gourd and this I kept nourished with water, and the gourd brought to perfection all the fruits it could produce, which were about 60 gourds of the long kind, andi set my mind diligently [to consider] this vitality and perceived that the dews of night were what supplied it abundantly with moisture through the insertion of its large leaves and gave nourishment to the plant and its offspring--or the seeds which its offspring had to produce--[21]. The rule of the leaves produced on the last shoot of the year will be that they will grow in a contrary direction on the twin branches; that is, that the insertion of the leaves turns round each branch in such a way, as that the sixth leaf above is produced over the sixth leaf below, and the way they turn is that if one turns towards its companion to the right, the other turns to the left, the leaf serving as the nourishing breast for the shoot or fruit which grows the following year. [Footnote: A French translation of lines 9-12 was given by M. RAVAISSON in the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_, Oct. 1877; his paper also contains some valuable information as to botanical science in the ancient classical writers and at the time of the Renaissance.] 405. The lowest branches of those trees which have large leaves and heavy fruits, such as nut-trees, fig-trees and the like, always droop towards the ground. The branches always originate above [in the axis of] the leaves. 406. The upper shoots of the lateral branches of plants lie closer to the parent branch than the lower ones. 407. The lowest branches, after they have formed the angle of their separation from the parent stem, always bend downwards so as not to crowd against the other branches which follow them on the same stem and to be better able to take the air which nourishes them. As is shown by the angle _b a c_; the branch _a c_ after it has made the corner of the angle _a c_ bends downwards to _c d_ and the lesser shoot _c_ dries up, being too thin. The main branch always goes below, as is shown by the branch _f n m_, which does not go to _f n o_. The forms of trees (408--411). 408. The elm always gives a greater length to the last branches of the year's growth than to the lower ones; and Nature does this because the highest branches are those which have to add to the size of the tree; and those at the bottom must get dry because they grow in the shade and their growth would be an impediment to the entrance of the solar rays and the air among the main branches of the tree. The main branches of the lower part bend down more than those above, so as to be more oblique than those upper ones, and also because they are larger and older. 409. In general almost all the upright portions of trees curve somewhat turning the convexity towards the South; and their branches are longer and thicker and more abundant towards the South than towards the North. And this occurs because the sun draws the sap towards that surface of the tree which is nearest to it. And this may be observed if the sun is not screened off by other plants. 410. The cherry-tree is of the character of the fir tree as regards its ramification placed in stages round its main stem; and its branches spring, 4 or five or 6 [together] opposite each other; and the tips of the topmost shoots form a pyramid from the middle upwards; and the walnut and oak form a hemisphere from the middle upwards. 411. The bough of the walnut which is only hit and beaten when it has brought to perfection... [Footnote: The end of the text and the sketch in red chalk belonging to it, are entirely effaced.] The insertion of the leaves (412--419). 412. OF THE INSERTION OF THE BRANCHES ON PLANTS. Such as the growth of the ramification of plants is on their principal branches, so is that of the leaves on the shoots of the same plant. These leaves have [Footnote 6: _Quattro modi_ (four modes). Only three are described in the text, the fourth is only suggested by a sketch. This passage occurs in MANZI'S edition of the Trattato, p. 399, but without the sketches and the text is mutilated in an important part. The whole passage has been commented on, from MANZI'S version, in Part I of the _Nuovo Giornale Botanico Italiano_, by Prof. G. UZIELLI (Florence 1869, Vol. I). He remarks as to the 'four modes': "_Leonardo, come si vede nelle linie sententi da solo tre esempli. Questa ed altre inessattezze fanno desiderare, sia esaminato di nuovo il manoscritto Vaticano_". This has since been done by D. KNAPP of Tubingen, and his accurate copy has been published by H. LUDWIG, the painter. The passage in question occurs in his edition as No. 833; and there also the drawings are wanting. The space for them has been left vacant, but in the Vatican copy '_niente_' has been written on the margin; and in it, as well as in LUDWIG'S and MANZI'S edition, the text is mutilated.] four modes of growing one above another. The first, which is the most general, is that the sixth always originates over the sixth below [Footnote 8: _la sesta di sotto. "Disposizione 2/5 o 1/5. Leonardo osservo probabilmente soltanto la prima"_ (UZIELLl).]; the second is that two third ones above are over the two third ones below [Footnote 10: _terze di sotto: "Intende qui senza dubbio parlare di foglie decussate, in cui il terzo verticello e nel piano del primo"_ (UZIELLI).]; and the third way is that the third above is over the third below [Footnote 11: 3a _di sotto: "Disposizione 1/2"_ (UZIELLI).]. [Footnote: See the four sketches on the upper portion of the page reproduced as fig. 2 on P1. XXVII.] 413. A DESCRIPTION OF THE ELM. The ramification of the elm has the largest branch at the top. The first and the last but one are smaller, when the main trunk is straight. The space between the insertion of one leaf to the rest is half the extreme length of the leaf or somewhat less, for the leaves are at an interval which is about the 3rd of the width of the leaf. The elm has more leaves near the top of the boughs than at the base; and the broad [surface] of the leaves varies little as to [angle and] aspect. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVII, No. 3. Above the sketch and close under the number of the page is the word '_olmo_' (elm).] 414. In the walnut tree the leaves which are distributed on the shoots of this year are further apart from each other and more numerous in proportion as the branch from which this shoot springs is a young one. And they are inserted more closely and less in number when the shoot that bears them springs from an old branch. Its fruits are borne at the ends of the shoots. And its largest boughs are the lowest on the boughs they spring from. And this arises from the weight of its sap which is more apt to descend than to rise, and consequently the branches which spring from them and rise towards the sky are small and slender [20]; and when the shoot turns towards the sky its leaves spread out from it [at an angle] with an equal distribution of their tips; and if the shoot turns to the horizon the leaves lie flat; and this arises from the fact that leaves without exception, turn their underside to the earth [29]. The shoots are smaller in proportion as they spring nearer to the base of the bough they spring from. [Footnote: See the two sketches on Pl XXVII, No. 4. The second refers to the passage lines 20-30.] 415. OF THE INSERTION OF THE LEAVES ON THE BRANCHES. The thickness of a branch never diminishes within the space between one leaf and the next excepting by so much as the thickness of the bud which is above the leaf and this thickness is taken off from the branch above [the node] as far as the next leaf. Nature has so placed the leaves of the latest shoots of many plants that the sixth leaf is always above the first, and so on in succession, if the rule is not [accidentally] interfered with; and this occurs for two useful ends in the plant: First that as the shoot and the fruit of the following year spring from the bud or eye which lies above and in close contact with the insertion of the leaf [in the axil], the water which falls upon the shoot can run down to nourish the bud, by the drop being caught in the hollow [axil] at the insertion of the leaf. And the second advantage is, that as these shoots develop in the following year one will not cover the next below, since the 5 come forth on five different sides; and the sixth which is above the first is at some distance. 416. OF THE RAMIFICATIONS OF TREES AND THEIR FOLIAGE. The ramifications of any tree, such as the elm, are wide and slender after the manner of a hand with spread fingers, foreshortened. And these are seen in the distribution [thus]: the lower portions are seen from above; and those that are above are seen from below; and those in the middle, some from below and some from above. The upper part is the extreme [top] of this ramification and the middle portion is more foreshortened than any other of those which are turned with their tips towards you. And of those parts of the middle of the height of the tree, the longest will be towards the top of the tree and will produce a ramification like the foliage of the common willow, which grows on the banks of rivers. Other ramifications are spherical, as those of such trees as put forth their shoots and leaves in the order of the sixth being placed above the first. Others are thin and light like the willow and others. 417. You will see in the lower branches of the elder, which puts forth leaves two and two placed crosswise [at right angles] one above another, that if the stem rises straight up towards the sky this order never fails; and its largest leaves are on the thickest part of the stem and the smallest on the slenderest part, that is towards the top. But, to return to the lower branches, I say that the leaves on these are placed on them crosswise like [those on] the upper branches; and as, by the law of all leaves, they are compelled to turn their upper surface towards the sky to catch the dew at night, it is necessary that those so placed should twist round and no longer form a cross. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVII, No. 5.] 418. A leaf always turns its upper side towards the sky so that it may the better receive, on all its surface, the dew which drops gently from the atmosphere. And these leaves are so distributed on the plant as that one shall cover the other as little as possible, but shall lie alternately one above another as may be seen in the ivy which covers the walls. And this alternation serves two ends; that is, to leave intervals by which the air and sun may penetrate between them. The 2nd reason is that the drops which fall from the first leaf may fall onto the fourth or--in other trees--onto the sixth. 419. Every shoot and every fruit is produced above the insertion [in the axil] of its leaf which serves it as a mother, giving it water from the rain and moisture from the dew which falls at night from above, and often it protects them against the too great heat of the rays of the sun. LIGHT ON BRANCHES AND LEAVES (420--422). 420. That part of the body will be most illuminated which is hit by the luminous ray coming between right angles. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVIII, No. 1.] 421. Young plants have more transparent leaves and a more lustrous bark than old ones; and particularly the walnut is lighter coloured in May than in September. 422. OF THE ACCIDENTS OF COLOURING IN TREES. The accidents of colour in the foliage of trees are 4. That is: shadow, light, lustre [reflected light] and transparency. OF THE VISIBILITY OF THESE ACCIDENTS. These accidents of colour in the foliage of trees become confused at a great distance and that which has most breadth [whether light or shade, &c.] will be most conspicuous. The proportions of light and shade in a leaf (423-426). 423. OF THE SHADOWS OF A LEAF. Sometimes a leaf has three accidents [of light] that is: shade, lustre [reflected light] and transparency [transmitted light]. Thus, if the light were at _n_ as regards the leaf _s_, and the eye at _m_, it would see _a_ in full light, _b_ in shadow and _c_ transparent. 424. A leaf with a concave surface seen from the under side and up-side-down will sometimes show itself as half in shade, and half transparent. Thus, if _o p_ is the leaf and the light _m_ and the eye _n_, this will see _o_ in shadow because the light does not fall upon it between equal angles, neither on the upper nor the under side, and _p_ is lighted on the upper side and the light is transmitted to its under side. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVIII, No. 2, the upper sketch on the page. In the original they are drawn in red chalk.] 425. Although those leaves which have a polished surface are to a great extent of the same colour on the right side and on the reverse, it may happen that the side which is turned towards the atmosphere will have something of the colour of the atmosphere; and it will seem to have more of this colour of the atmosphere in proportion as the eye is nearer to it and sees it more foreshortened. And, without exception the shadows show as darker on the upper side than on the lower, from the contrast offered by the high lights which limit the shadows. The under side of the leaf, although its colour may be in itself the same as that of the upper side, shows a still finer colour--a colour that is green verging on yellow--and this happens when the leaf is placed between 426. the eye and the light which falls upon it from the opposite side. And its shadows are in the same positions as those were of the opposite side. Therefore, O Painter! when you do trees close at hand, remember that if the eye is almost under the tree you will see its leaves [some] on the upper and [some] on the under side, and the upper side will be bluer in proportion as they are seen more foreshortened, and the same leaf sometimes shows part of the right side and part of the under side, whence you must make it of two colours. Of the transparency of leaves (427-429). 427. The shadows in transparent leaves seen from the under side are the same shadows as there are on the right side of this leaf, they will show through to the underside together with lights, but the lustre [reflected light] can never show through. 428. When one green has another [green] behind it, the lustre on the leaves and their transparent [lights] show more strongly than in those which are [seen] against the brightness of the atmosphere. And if the sun illuminates the leaves without their coming between it and the eye and without the eye facing the sun, then the reflected lights and the transparent lights are very strong. It is very effective to show some branches which are low down and dark and so set off the illuminated greens which are at some distance from the dark greens seen below. That part is darkest which is nearest to the eye or which is farthest from the luminous atmosphere. 429. Never paint leaves transparent to the sun, because they are confused; and this is because on the transparency of one leaf will be seen the shadow of another leaf which is above it. This shadow has a distinct outline and a certain depth of shade and sometimes is [as much as] half or a third of the leaf which is shaded; and consequently such an arrangement is very confused and the imitation of it should be avoided. The light shines least through a leaf when it falls upon it at an acute angle. The gradations of shade and colour in leaves (430-434). 430. The shadows of plants are never black, for where the atmosphere penetrates there can never be utter darkness. 431. If the light comes from _m_ and the eye is at _n_ the eye will see the colour of the leaves _a b_ all affected by the colour of _m_ --that is of the atmosphere; and _b c_ will be seen from the under side as transparent, with a beautiful green colour verging on yellow. If _m_ is the luminous body lighting up the leaf _s_ all the eyes that see the under side of this leaf will see it of a beautiful light green, being transparent. In very many cases the positions of the leaves will be without shadow [or in full light], and their under side will be transparent and the right side lustrous [reflecting light]. 432. The willow and other similar trees, which have their boughs lopped every 3 or 4 years, put forth very straight branches, and their shadow is about the middle where these boughs spring; and towards the extreme ends they cast but little shade from having small leaves and few and slender branches. Hence the boughs which rise towards the sky will have but little shade and little relief; and the branches which are at an angle from the horizon, downwards, spring from the dark part of the shadow and grow thinner by degrees up to their ends, and these will be in strong relief, being in gradations of light against a background of shadow. That tree will have the least shadow which has the fewest branches and few leaves. 433. OF DARK LEAVES IN FRONT OF TRANSPARENT ONES. When the leaves are interposed between the light and the eye, then that which is nearest to the eye will be the darkest, and the most distant will be the lightest, not being seen against the atmosphere; and this is seen in the leaves which are away from the centre of the tree, that is towards the light. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVIII, No. 2, the lower sketch.] 434. OF THE LIGHTS ON DARK LEAVES. The lights on such leaves which are darkest, will be most near to the colour of the atmosphere that is reflected in them. And the cause of this is that the light on the illuminated portion mingles with the dark hue to compose a blue colour; and this light is produced by the blueness of the atmosphere which is reflected in the smooth surface of these leaves and adds to the blue hue which this light usually produces when it falls on dark objects. OF THE LIGHTS ON LEAVES OF A YELLOWISH GREEN. But leaves of a green verging on yellow when they reflect the atmosphere do not produce a reflection verging on blue, inasmuch as every thing which appears in a mirror takes some colour from that mirror, hence the blue of the atmosphere being reflected in the yellow of the leaf appears green, because blue and yellow mixed together make a very fine green colour, therefore the lustre of light leaves verging on yellow will be greenish yellow. A classification of trees according to their colours. 435. The trees in a landscape are of various kinds of green, inasmuch as some verge towards blackness, as firs, pines, cypresses, laurels, box and the like. Some tend to yellow such as walnuts, and pears, vines and verdure. Some are both yellowish and dark as chesnuts, holm-oak. Some turn red in autumn as the service-tree, pomegranate, vine, and cherry; and some are whitish as the willow, olive, reeds and the like. Trees are of various forms ... The proportions of light and shade in trees (436-440). 436. OF A GENERALLY DISTRIBUTED LIGHT AS LIGHTING UP TREES. That part of the trees will be seen to lie in the least dark shadow which is farthest from the earth. To prove it let _a p_ be the tree, _n b c_ the illuminated hemisphere [the sky], the under portion of the tree faces the earth _p c_, that is on the side _o_, and it faces a small part of the hemisphere at _c d_. But the highest part of the convexity a faces the greatest part of the hemisphere, that is _b c_. For this reason--and because it does not face the darkness of the earth--it is in fuller light. But if the tree has dense foliage, as the laurel, arbutus, box or holm oak, it will be different; because, although _a_ does not face the earth, it faces the dark [green] of the leaves cut up by many shadows, and this darkness is reflected onto the under sides of the leaves immediately above. Thus these trees have their darkest shadows nearest to the middle of the tree. 437. OF THE SHADOWS OF VERDURE. The shadows of verdure are always somewhat blue, and so is every shadow of every object; and they assume this hue more in proportion as they are remote from the eye, and less in proportion as they are nearer. The leaves which reflect the blue of the atmosphere always present themselves to the eye edgewise. OF THE ILLUMINATED PART OF VERDURE AND OF MOUNTAINS. The illuminated portion, at a great distance, will appear most nearly of its natural colour where the strongest light falls upon it. 438. OF TREES THAT ARE LIGHTED BY THE SUN AND BY THE ATMOSPHERE. In trees that are illuminated [both] by the sun and the atmosphere and that have leaves of a dark colour, one side will be illuminated by the atmosphere [only] and in consequence of this light will tend to blueness, while on the other side they will be illuminated by the atmosphere and the sun; and the side which the eye sees illuminated by the sun will reflect light. 439. OF DEPICTING A FOREST SCENE. The trees and plants which are most thickly branched with slender branches ought to have less dark shadow than those trees and plants which, having broader leaves, will cast more shadow. 440. ON PAINTING. In the position of the eye which sees that portion of a tree illuminated which turns towards the light, one tree will never be seen to be illuminated equally with the other. To prove this, let the eye be _c_ which sees the two trees _b d_ which are illuminated by the sun _a_; I say that this eye _c_ will not see the light in the same proportion to the shade, in one tree as in the other. Because, the tree which is nearest to the sun will display so much the stronger shadow than the more distant one, in proportion as one tree is nearer to the rays of the sun that converge to the eye than the other; &c. You see that the eye _c_ sees nothing of the tree _d_ but shadow, while the same eye _c_ sees thè tree _b_ half in light and half in shade. When a tree is seen from below, the eye sees the top of it as placed within the circle made by its boughs[23]. Remember, O Painter! that the variety of depth of shade in any one particular species of tree is in proportion to the rarity or density of their branches. [Footnote: The two lower sketches on the left of Pl XXVIII, No. 3, refer to lines 21-23. The upper sketch has apparently been effaced by Leonardo himself.] The distribution of light and shade with reference to the position of the spectator (441-443). 441. The shadows of trees placed in a landscape do not display themselves in the same position in the trees on the right hand and those on the left; still more so if the sun is to the right or left. As is proved by the 4th which says: Opaque bodies placed between the light and the eye display themselves entirely in shadow; and by the 5th: The eye when placed between the opaque body and the light sees the opaque body entirely illuminated. And by the 6th: When the eye and the opaque body are placed between darkness and light, it will be seen half in shadow and half in light. [Footnote: See the figure on the right hand side of Pl. XXVIII, No. 3. The first five lines of the text are written below the diagram and above it are the last eight lines of the text, given as No. 461.] 442. OF THE HERBS OF THE FIELD. Of the plants which take a shadow from the plants which spring among them, those which are on this side [in front] of the shadow have the stems lighted up on a background of shadow, and the plants on which the shadows fall have their stems dark on a light background; that is on the background beyond the shadow. OF TREES WHICH ARE BETWEEN THE EYE AND THE LIGHT. Of the trees which are between the eye and the light the part in front will be light; but this light will be broken by the ramifications of transparent leaves--being seen from the under side--and lustrous leaves--being seen from the upper side; and the background below and behind will be dark green, being in shadow from the front portion of the said tree. This occurs in trees placed above the eye. 443. FROM WHENCE TO DEPICT A LANDSCAPE Landscapes should be represented so that the trees may be half in light and half in shadow; but it is better to do them when the sun is covered with clouds, for then the trees are lighted by the general light of the sky, and the general darkness of the earth. And then they are darkest in certain parts in proportion as those parts are nearest to the middle of the tree and to the earth. The effects of morning light (444-448). 444. OF TREES TO THE SOUTH. When the sun is in the east the trees to the South and to the North have almost as much light as shadow. But a greater share of light in proportion as they lie to the West and a greater share of shadow in proportion as they lie to the East. OF MEADOWS. If the sun is in the East the verdure of the meadows and of other small plants is of a most beautiful green from being transparent to the sun; this does not occur in the meadows to the West, and in those to the South and North the grass is of a moderately brilliant green. 445. OF THE 4 POINTS OF THE COMPASS [IN LANDSCAPES]. When the sun is in the East all the portions of plants lighted by it are of a most lively verdure, and this happens because the leaves lighted by the sun within the half of the horizon that is the Eastern half, are transparent; and within the Western semicircle the verdure is of a dull hue and the moist air is turbid and of the colour of grey ashes, not being transparent like that in the East, which is quite clear and all the more so in proportion as it is moister. The shadows of the trees to the East cover a large portion of them and are darker in proportion as the foliage of the trees is thicker. 446. OF TREES IN THE EAST. When the sun is in the East the trees seen towards the East will have the light which surrounds them all round their shadows, excepting on the side towards the earth; unless the tree has been pruned [below] in the past year. And the trees to the South and North will be half in shade and half in light, and more or less in shade or in light in proportion as they are more or less to the East or to the West. The [position of] the eye above or below varies the shadows and lights in trees, inasmuch as the eye placed above sees the tree with the little shadow, and the eye placed below with a great deal of shadow. The colour of the green in plants varies as much as their species. 447. OF THE SHADOWS IN TREES. The sun being in the East [to the right], the trees to the West [or left] of the eye will show in small relief and almost imperceptible gradations, because the atmosphere which lies between the eye and those trees is very dense [Footnote 7: _per la 7a di questo_. This possibly referred to something written on the seventh page of this note book marked _G_. Unfortunately it has been cut out and lost.], see the 7th of this--and they have no shade; for though a shadow exists in every detail of the ramification, it results that the images of the shade and light that reach the eye are confused and mingled together and cannot be perceived on account of their minuteness. And the principal lights are in the middle of the trees, and the shadows to wards the edges; and their separation is shown by the shadows of the intervals between the trees; but when the forests are thick with trees the thin edges are but little seen. 448. OF TREES TO THE EAST. When the sun is in the East the trees are darker towards the middle while their edges are light. The effects of midday light. 449. OBJECTS IN HIGH LIGHT SHOW BUT LITTLE, BUT BETWEEN LIGHT AND SHADOW THEY STAND OUT WELL. To represent a landscape choose that the sun shall be at noon and look towards the West or East and then draw. And if you turn towards the North, every object placed on that side will have no shadow, particularly those which are nearest to the [direction of the] shadow of your head. And if you turn towards the South every object on that side will be wholly in shadow. All the trees which are towards the sun and have the atmosphere for their background are dark, and the other trees which lie against that darkness will be black [very dark] in the middle and lighter towards the edges. The appearance of trees in the distance (450. 451). 450. OF THE SPACES [SHOWING THE SKY] IN TREES THEMSELVES. The spaces between the parts in the mass of trees, and the spaces between the trees in the air, are, at great distances, invisible to the eye; for, where it is an effort [even] to see the whole it is most difficult to discern the parts.--But a confused mixture is the result, partaking chiefly of the [hue] which predominates. The spaces between the leaves consist of particles of illuminated air which are very much smaller than the tree and are lost sight of sooner than the tree; but it does not therefore follow that they are not there. Hence, necessarily, a compounded [effect] is produced of the sky and of the shadows of the tree in shade, which both together strike the eye which sees them. OF TREES WHICH CONCEAL THESE SPACES IN ONE ANOTHER. That part of a tree will show the fewest spaces, behind which a large number of trees are standing between the tree and the air [sky]; thus in the tree _a_ the spaces are not concealed nor in _b_, as there is no tree behind. But in _c_ only half shows the spaces filled up by the tree _d_, and part of the tree _d_ is filled up by the tree _e_ and a little farther on all the spaces in the mass of the trees are lost, and only that at the side remains. 451. OF TREES. What outlines are seen in trees at a distance against the sky which serves as their background? The outlines of the ramification of trees, where they lie against the illuminated sky, display a form which more nearly approaches the spherical on proportion as they are remote, and the nearer they are the less they appear in this spherical form; as in the first tree _a_ which, being near to the eye, displays the true form of its ramification; but this shows less in _b_ and is altogether lost in _c_, where not merely the branches of the tree cannot be seen but the whole tree is distinguished with difficulty. Every object in shadow, of whatever form it may be, at a great distance appears to be spherical. And this occurs because, if it is a square body, at a very short distance it loses its angles, and a little farther off it loses still more of its smaller sides which remain. And thus before the whole is lost [to sight] the parts are lost, being smaller than the whole; as a man, who in such a distant position loses his legs, arms and head before [the mass of] his body, then the outlines of length are lost before those of breadth, and where they have become equal it would be a square if the angles remained; but as they are lost it is round. [Footnote: The sketch No. 4, Pl. XXVIII, belongs to this passage.] The cast shadow of trees (452. 453). 452. The image of the shadow of any object of uniform breadth can never be [exactly] the same as that of the body which casts it. [Footnote: See Pl. XXVIII, No. 5.] Light and shade on groups of trees (453-457). 453. All trees seen against the sun are dark towards the middle and this shadow will be of the shape of the tree when apart from others. The shadows cast by trees on which the sun shines are as dark as those of the middle of the tree. The shadow cast by a tree is never less than the mass of the tree but becomes taller in proportion as the spot on which it falls, slopes towards the centre of the world. The shadow will be densest in the middle of the tree when the tree has the fewest branches. [Footnote: The three diagrams which accompany this text are placed, in the original, before lines 7-11. At the spots marked _B_ Leonardo wrote _Albero_ (tree). At _A_ is the word _Sole_ (sun), at _C Monte_ (mountain) at _D piano_ (plain) and at _E cima_ (summit).] Every branch participates of the central shadow of every other branch and consequently [of that] of the whole tree. The form of any shadow from a branch or tree is circumscribed by the light which falls from the side whence the light comes; and this illumination gives the shape of the shadow, and this may be of the distance of a mile from the side where the sun is. If it happens that a cloud should anywhere overshadow some part of a hill the [shadow of the] trees there will change less than in the plains; for these trees on the hills have their branches thicker, because they grow less high each year than in the plains. Therefore as these branches are dark by nature and being so full of shade, the shadow of the clouds cannot darken them any more; but the open spaces between the trees, which have no strong shadow change very much in tone and particularly those which vary from green; that is ploughed lands or fallen mountains or barren lands or rocks. Where the trees are against the atmosphere they appear all the same colour--if indeed they are not very close together or very thickly covered with leaves like the fir and similar trees. When you see the trees from the side from which the sun lights them, you will see them almost all of the same tone, and the shadows in them will be hidden by the leaves in the light, which come between your eye and those shadows. TREES AT A SHORT DISTANCE. [Footnote 29: The heading _alberi vicini_ (trees at a short distance) is in the original manuscript written in the margin.] When the trees are situated between the sun and the eye, beyond the shadow which spreads from their centre, the green of their leaves will be seen transparent; but this transparency will be broken in many places by the leaves and boughs in shadow which will come between you and them, or, in their upper portions, they will be accompanied by many lights reflected from the leaves. 454. The trees of the landscape stand out but little from each other; because their illuminated portions come against the illuminated portions of those beyond and differ little from them in light and shade. 455. Of trees seen from below and against the light, one beyond the other and near together. The topmost part of the first will be in great part transparent and light, and will stand out against the dark portion of the second tree. And thus it will be with all in succession that are placed under the same conditions. Let _s_ be the light, and _r_ the eye, _c d n_ the first tree, _a b c_ the second. Then I say that _r_, the eye, will see the portion _c f_ in great part transparent and lighted by the light _s_ which falls upon it from the opposite side, and it will see it, on a dark ground _b c_ because that is the dark part and shadow of the tree _a b c_. But if the eye is placed at _t_ it will see _o p_ dark on the light background _n g_. Of the transparent and shadowy parts of trees, that which is nearest to you is the darkest. 456. That part of a tree which has shadow for background, is all of one tone, and wherever the trees or branches are thickest they will be darkest, because there are no little intervals of air. But where the boughs lie against a background of other boughs, the brighter parts are seen lightest and the leaves lustrous from the sunlight falling on them. 457. In the composition of leafy trees be careful not to repeat too often the same colour of one tree against the same colour of another [behind it]; but vary it with a lighter, or a darker, or a stronger green. On the treatment of light for landscapes (458-464). 458. The landscape has a finer azure [tone] when, in fine weather the sun is at noon than at any other time of the day, because the air is purified of moisture; and looking at it under that aspect you will see the trees of a beautiful green at the outside and the shadows dark towards the middle; and in the remoter distance the atmosphere which comes between you and them looks more beautiful when there is something dark beyond. And still the azure is most beautiful. The objects seen from the side on which the sun shines will not show you their shadows. But, if you are lower than the sun, you can see what is not seen by the sun and that will be all in shade. The leaves of the trees, which come between you and the sun are of two principal colours which are a splendid lustre of green, and the reflection of the atmosphere which lights up the objects which cannot be seen by the sun, and the shaded portions which only face the earth, and the darkest which are surrounded by something that is not dark. The trees in the landscape which are between you and the sun are far more beautiful than those you see when you are between the sun and them; and this is so because those which face the sun show their leaves as transparent towards the ends of their branches, and those that are not transparent--that is at the ends--reflect the light; and the shadows are dark because they are not concealed by any thing. The trees, when you place yourself between them and the sun, will only display to you their light and natural colour, which, in itself, is not very strong, and besides this some reflected lights which, being against a background which does not differ very much from themselves in tone, are not conspicuous; and if you are lower down than they are situated, they may also show those portions on which the light of the sun does not fall and these will be dark. In the Wind. But, if you are on the side whence the wind blows, you will see the trees look very much lighter than on the other sides, and this happens because the wind turns up the under side of the leaves, which, in all trees, is much whiter than the upper sides; and, more especially, will they be very light indeed if the wind blows from the quarter where the sun is, and if you have your back turned to it. [Footnote: At _S_, in the original is the word _Sole_ (sun) and at _N parte di nuvolo_ (the side of the clouds).] 459. When the sun is covered by clouds, objects are less conspicuous, because there is little difference between the light and shade of the trees and of the buildings being illuminated by the brightness of the atmosphere which surrounds the objects in such a way that the shadows are few, and these few fade away so that their outline is lost in haze. 460. OF TREES AND LIGHTS ON THEM. The best method of practice in representing country scenes, or I should say landscapes with their trees, is to choose them so that the sun is covered with clouds so that the landscape receives an universal light and not the direct light of the sun, which makes the shadows sharp and too strongly different from the lights. 461. OF PAINTING. In landscapes which represent [a scene in] winter. The mountains should not be shown blue, as we see in the mountains in the summer. And this is proved [Footnote 5. 6.: _Per la_ 4_a di questo_. It is impossible to ascertain what this quotation refers to. _Questo_ certainly does not mean the MS. in hand, nor any other now known to us. The same remark applies to the phrase in line 15: _per la_ 2_a di questo_.] in the 4th of this which says: Among mountains seen from a great distance those will look of the bluest colour which are in themselves the darkest; hence, when the trees are stripped of their leaves, they will show a bluer tinge which will be in itself darker; therefore, when the trees have lost their leaves they will look of a gray colour, while, with their leaves, they are green, and in proportion as the green is darker than the grey hue the green will be of a bluer tinge than the gray. Also by the 2nd of this: The shadows of trees covered with leaves are darker than the shadows of those trees which have lost their leaves in proportion as the trees covered with leaves are denser than those without leaves--and thus my meaning is proved. The definition of the blue colour of the atmosphere explains why the landscape is bluer in the summer than in the winter. 462. OF PAINTING IN A LANDSCAPE. If the slope of a hill comes between the eye and the horizon, sloping towards the eye, while the eye is opposite the middle of the height of this slope, then that hill will increase in darkness throughout its length. This is proved by the 7th of this which says that a tree looks darkest when it is seen from below; the proposition is verified, since this hill will, on its upper half show all its trees as much from the side which is lighted by the light of the sky, as from that which is in shade from the darkness of the earth; whence it must result that these trees are of a medium darkness. And from this [middle] spot towards the base of the hill, these trees will be lighter by degrees by the converse of the 7th and by the said 7th: For trees so placed, the nearer they are to the summit of the hill the darker they necessarily become. But this darkness is not in proportion to the distance, by the 8th of this which says: That object shows darkest which is [seen] in the clearest atmosphere; and by the 10th: That shows darkest which stands out against a lighter background. [Footnote: The quotation in this passage again cannot be verified.] 463. OF LANDSCAPES. The colours of the shadows in mountains at a great distance take a most lovely blue, much purer than their illuminated portions. And from this it follows that when the rock of a mountain is reddish the illuminated portions are violet (?) and the more they are lighted the more they display their proper colour. 464. A place is most luminous when it is most remote from mountains. On the treatment of light for views of towns (465-469). 465. OF LIGHT AND SHADOW IN A TOWN. When the sun is in the East and the eye is above the centre of a town, the eye will see the Southern part of the town with its roofs half in shade and half in light, and the same towards the North; the Eastern side will be all in shadow and the Western will be all in light. 466. Of the houses of a town, in which the divisions between the houses may be distinguished by the light which fall on the mist at the bottom. If the eye is above the houses the light seen in the space that is between one house and the next sinks by degrees into thicker mist; and yet, being less transparent, it appears whiter; and if the houses are some higher than the others, since the true [colour] is always more discernible through the thinner atmosphere, the houses will look darker in proportion as they are higher up. Let _n o p q_ represent the various density of the atmosphere thick with moisture, _a_ being the eye, the house _b c_ will look lightest at the bottom, because it is in a thicker atmosphere; the lines _c d f_ will appear equally light, for although _f_ is more distant than _c_, it is raised into a thinner atmosphere, if the houses _b e_ are of the same height, because they cross a brightness which is varied by mist, but this is only because the line of the eye which starts from above ends by piercing a lower and denser atmosphere at _d_ than at _b_. Thus the line a _f_ is lower at _f_ than at _c_; and the house _f_ will be seen darker at _e_ from the line _e k_ as far as _m_, than the tops of the houses standing in front of it. 467. OF TOWNS OR OTHER BUILDINGS SEEN IN THE EVENING OR THE MORNING THROUGH THE MIST. Of buildings seen at a great distance in the evening or the morning, as in mist or dense atmosphere, only those portions are seen in brightness which are lighted up by the sun which is near the horizon; and those portions which are not lighted up by the sun remain almost of the same colour and medium tone as the mist. WHY OBJECTS WHICH ARE HIGH UP AND AT A DISTANCE ARE DARKER THAN THE LOWER ONES, EVEN IF THE MIST IS UNIFORMLY DENSE. Of objects standing in a mist or other dense atmosphere, whether from vapour or smoke or distance, those will be most visible which are the highest. And among objects of equal height that will be the darkest [strongest] which has for background the deepest mist. Thus the eye _h_ looking at _a b c_, towers of equal height, one with another, sees _c_ the top of the first tower at _r_, at two degrees of depth in the mist; and sees the height of the middle tower _b_ through one single degree of mist. Therefore the top of the tower _c_ appears stronger than the top of the tower _b_, &c. 468. OF THE SMOKE OF A TOWN. Smoke is seen better and more distinctly on the Eastern side than on the Western when the sun is in the East; and this arises from two causes; the first is that the sun, with its rays, shines through the particles of the smoke and lights them up and makes them visible. The second is that the roofs of the houses seen in the East at this time are in shadow, because their obliquity does not allow of their being illuminated by the sun. And the same thing occurs with dust; and both one and the other look the lighter in proportion as they are denser, and they are densest towards the middle. 469. OF SMOKE AND DUST. If the sun is in the East the smoke of cities will not be visible in the West, because on that side it is not seen penetrated by the solar rays, nor on a dark background; since the roofs of the houses turn the same side to the eye as they turn towards the sun, and on this light background the smoke is not very visible. But dust, under the same aspect, will look darker than smoke being of denser material than smoke which is moist. The effect of wind on trees (470-473). 470. OF REPRESENTING WIND. In representing wind, besides the bending of the boughs and the reversing of their leaves towards the quarter whence the wind comes, you should also represent them amid clouds of fine dust mingled with the troubled air. 471. Describe landscapes with the wind, and the water, and the setting and rising of the sun. THE WIND. All the leaves which hung towards the earth by the bending of the shoots with their branches, are turned up side down by the gusts of wind, and here their perspective is reversed; for, if the tree is between you and the quarter of the wind, the leaves which are towards you remain in their natural aspect, while those on the opposite side which ought to have their points in a contrary direction have, by being turned over, their points turned towards you. 472. Trees struck by the force of the wind bend to the side towards which the wind is blowing; and the wind being past they bend in the contrary direction, that is in reverse motion. 473. That portion of a tree which is farthest from the force which strikes it is the most injured by the blow because it bears most strain; thus nature has foreseen this case by thickening them in that part where they can be most hurt; and most in such trees as grow to great heights, as pines and the like. [Footnote: Compare the sketch drawn with a pen and washed with Indian ink on Pl. XL, No. 1. In the Vatican copy we find, under a section entitled '_del fumo_', the following remark: _Era sotto di questo capitulo un rompimento di montagna, per dentro delle quali roture scherzaua fiame di fuoco, disegnate di penna et ombrate d'acquarella, da uedere cosa mirabile et uiua (Ed. MANZI, p. 235. Ed. LUDWIG, Vol. I, 460). This appears to refer to the left hand portion of the drawing here given from the Windsor collection, and from this it must be inferred, that the leaf as it now exists in the library of the Queen of England, was already separated from the original MS. at the time when the Vatican copy was made.] Light and shade on clouds (474-477). 474. Describe how the clouds are formed and how they dissolve, and what cause raises vapour. 475. The shadows in clouds are lighter in proportion as they are nearer to the horizon. [Footnote: The drawing belonging to this was in black chalk and is totally effaced.] 476. When clouds come between the sun and the eye all the upper edges of their round forms are light, and towards the middle they are dark, and this happens because towards the top these edges have the sun above them while you are below them; and the same thing happens with the position of the branches of trees; and again the clouds, like the trees, being somewhat transparent, are lighted up in part, and at the edges they show thinner. But, when the eye is between the cloud and the sun, the cloud has the contrary effect to the former, for the edges of its mass are dark and it is light towards the middle; and this happens because you see the same side as faces the sun, and because the edges have some transparency and reveal to the eye that portion which is hidden beyond them, and which, as it does not catch the sunlight like that portion turned towards it, is necessarily somewhat darker. Again, it may be that you see the details of these rounded masses from the lower side, while the sun shines on the upper side and as they are not so situated as to reflect the light of the sun, as in the first instance they remain dark. The black clouds which are often seen higher up than those which are illuminated by the sun are shaded by other clouds, lying between them and the sun. Again, the rounded forms of the clouds that face the sun, show their edges dark because they lie against the light background; and to see that this is true, you may look at the top of any cloud that is wholly light because it lies against the blue of the atmosphere, which is darker than the cloud. [Footnote: A drawing in red chalk from the Windsor collection (see Pl. XXIX), representing a landscape with storm-clouds, may serve to illustrate this section as well as the following one.] 477. OF CLOUDS, SMOKE AND DUST AND THE FLAMES OF A FURNACE OR OF A BURNING KILN. The clouds do not show their rounded forms excepting on the sides which face the sun; on the others the roundness is imperceptible because they are in the shade. [Footnote: The text of this chapter is given in facsimile on Pls. XXXVI and XXXVII. The two halves of the leaf form but one in the original. On the margin close to lines 4 and 5 is the note: _rossore d'aria inverso l'orizonte_--(of the redness of the atmosphere near the horizon). The sketches on the lower portion of the page will be spoken of in No. 668.] If the sun is in the East and the clouds in the West, the eye placed between the sun and the clouds sees the edges of the rounded forms composing these clouds as dark, and the portions which are surrounded by this dark [edge] are light. And this occurs because the edges of the rounded forms of these clouds are turned towards the upper or lateral sky, which is reflected in them. Both the cloud and the tree display no roundness at all on their shaded side. On images reflected in water. 478. Painters often deceive themselves, by representing water in which they make the water reflect the objects seen by the man. But the water reflects the object from one side and the man sees it from the other; and it often happens that the painter sees an object from below, and thus one and the same object is seen from hind part before and upside down, because the water shows the image of the object in one way, and the eye sees it in another. Of rainbows and rain (479. 480). 479. The colours in the middle of the rainbow mingle together. The bow in itself is not in the rain nor in the eye that sees it; though it is generated by the rain, the sun, and the eye. The rainbow is always seen by the eye that is between the rain and the body of the sun; hence if the sun is in the East and the rain is in the West it will appear on the rain in the West. 480. When the air is condensed into rain it would produce a vacuum if the rest of the air did not prevent this by filling its place, as it does with a violent rush; and this is the wind which rises in the summer time, accompanied by heavy rain. Of flower seeds. 481. All the flowers which turn towards the sun perfect their seeds; but not the others; that is to say those which get only the reflection of the sun. IX. _The Practice of Painting._ _It is hardly necessary to offer any excuses for the division carried out in the arrangement of the text into practical suggestions and theoretical enquiries. It was evidently intended by Leonardo himself as we conclude from incidental remarks in the MSS. (for instance No_ 110_). The fact that this arrangement was never carried out either in the old MS. copies or in any edition since, is easily accounted for by the general disorder which results from the provisional distribution of the various chapters in the old copies. We have every reason to believe that the earliest copyists, in distributing the materials collected by them, did not in the least consider the order in which the original MS.lay before them._ _It is evident that almost all the chapters which refer to the calling and life of the painter--and which are here brought together in the first section (Nos._ 482-508_)--may be referred to two distinct periods in Leonardo's life; most of them can be dated as belonging to the year_ 1492 _or to_ 1515. _At about this later time Leonardo may have formed the project of completing his Libro della Pittura, after an interval of some years, as it would seem, during which his interest in the subject had fallen somewhat into the background._ _In the second section, which treats first of the artist's studio, the construction of a suitable window forms the object of careful investigations; the special importance attached to this by Leonardo is sufficiently obvious. His theory of the incidence of light which was fully discussed in a former part of this work, was to him by no means of mere abstract value, but, being deduced, as he says, from experience (or experiment) was required to prove its utility in practice. Connected with this we find suggestions for the choice of a light with practical hints as to sketching a picture and some other precepts of a practical character which must come under consideration in the course of completing the painting. In all this I have followed the same principle of arrangement in the text as was carried out in the Theory of Painting, thus the suggestions for the Perspective of a picture, (Nos._ 536-569_), are followed by the theory of light and shade for the practical method of optics (Nos._ 548--566_) and this by the practical precepts or the treatment of aerial perspective (_567--570_)._ _In the passage on Portrait and Figure Painting the principles of painting as applied to a bust and head are separated and placed first, since the advice to figure painters must have some connection with the principles of the treatment of composition by which they are followed._ _But this arrangement of the text made it seem advisable not to pick out the practical precepts as to the representation of trees and landscape from the close connection in which they were originally placed--unlike the rest of the practical precepts--with the theory of this branch of the subject. They must therefore be sought under the section entitled Botany for Painters._ _As a supplement to the_ Libro di Pittura _I have here added those texts which treat of the Painter's materials,--as chalk, drawing paper, colours and their preparation, of the management of oils and varnishes; in the appendix are some notes on chemical substances. Possibly some of these, if not all, may have stood in connection with the preparation of colours. It is in the very nature of things that Leonardo's incidental indications as to colours and the like should be now-a-days extremely obscure and could only be explained by professional experts--by them even in but few instances. It might therefore have seemed advisable to reproduce exactly the original text without offering any translation. The rendering here given is merely an attempt to suggest what Leonardo's meaning may have been._ _LOMAZZO tells us in his_ Trattato dell'arte della Pittura, Scultura ed Architettura (Milano 1584, libro II, Cap. XIV): "Va discorrendo ed argomentando Leonardo Vinci in un suo libro letto da me (?) questi anni passati, ch'egli scrisse di mano stanca ai prieghi di LUDOVICO SFORZA duca di Milano, in determinazione di questa questione, se e piu nobile la pittura o la scultura; dicendo che quanto piu un'arte porta seco fatica di corpo, e sudore, tanto piu e vile, e men pregiata". _But the existence of any book specially written for Lodovico il Moro on the superiority of Painting over sculpture is perhaps mythical. The various passages in praise of Painting as compared not merely with Sculpture but with Poetry, are scattered among MSS. of very different dates._ _Besides, the way, in which the subject is discussed appears not to support the supposition, that these texts were prepared at a special request of the Duke._ I. MORAL PRECEPTS FOR THE STUDENT OF PAINTING. How to ascertain the dispositions for an artistic career. 482. A WARNING CONCERNING YOUTHS WISHING TO BE PAINTERS. Many are they who have a taste and love for drawing, but no talent; and this will be discernible in boys who are not diligent and never finish their drawings with shading. The course of instruction for an artist (483-485). 483. The youth should first learn perspective, then the proportions of objects. Then he may copy from some good master, to accustom himself to fine forms. Then from nature, to confirm by practice the rules he has learnt. Then see for a time the works of various masters. Then get the habit of putting his art into practice and work. [Footnote: The Vatican copy and numerous abridgements all place this chapter at the beginning of the _Trattato_, and in consequence DUFRESNE and all subsequent editors have done the same. In the Vatican copy however all the general considerations on the relation of painting to the other arts are placed first, as introductory.] 484. OF THE ORDER OF LEARNING TO DRAW. First draw from drawings by good masters done from works of art and from nature, and not from memory; then from plastic work, with the guidance of the drawing done from it; and then from good natural models and this you must put into practice. 485. PRECEPTS FOR DRAWING. The artist ought first to exercise his hand by copying drawings from the hand of a good master. And having acquired that practice, under the criticism of his master, he should next practise drawing objects in relief of a good style, following the rules which will presently be given. The study of the antique (486. 487). 486. OF DRAWING. Which is best, to draw from nature or from the antique? and which is more difficult to do outlines or light and shade? 487. It is better to imitate [copy] the antique than modern work. [Footnote 486, 487: These are the only two passages in which Leonardo alludes to the importance of antique art in the training of an artist. The question asked in No. 486 remains unanswered by him and it seems to me very doubtful whether the opinion stated in No. 487 is to be regarded as a reply to it. This opinion stands in the MS. in a connection--as will be explained later on--which seems to require us to limit its application to a single special case. At any rate we may suspect that when Leonardo put the question, he felt some hesitation as to the answer. Among his very numerous drawings I have not been able to find a single study from the antique, though a drawing in black chalk, at Windsor, of a man on horseback (PI. LXXIII) may perhaps be a reminiscence of the statue of Marcus Aurelius at Rome. It seems to me that the drapery in a pen and ink drawing of a bust, also at Windsor, has been borrowed from an antique model (Pl. XXX). G. G. Rossi has, I believe, correctly interpreted Leonardo's feeling towards the antique in the following note on this passage in manzi's edition, p. 501: "Sappiamo dalla storia, che i valorosi artisti Toscani dell'età dell'oro dell'arte studiarono sugli antichi marmi raccolti dal Magnifico LORENZO DE' MEDICI. Pare che il Vinci a tali monumenti non si accostasse. Quest' uomo sempre riconosce per maestra la natura, e questo principio lo stringeva alla sola imitazione dì essa"--Compare No. 10, 26--28 footnote.] The necessity of anatomical knowledge (488. 489). 488. OF PAINTING. It is indispensable to a Painter who would be thoroughly familiar with the limbs in all the positions and actions of which they are capable, in the nude, to know the anatomy of the sinews, bones, muscles and tendons so that, in their various movements and exertions, he may know which nerve or muscle is the cause of each movement and show those only as prominent and thickened, and not the others all over [the limb], as many do who, to seem great draughtsmen, draw their nude figures looking like wood, devoid of grace; so that you would think you were looking at a sack of walnuts rather than the human form, or a bundle of radishes rather than the muscles of figures. 489. HOW IT IS NECESSARY TO A PAINTER THAT HE SHOULD KNOW THE INTRINSIC FORMS [STRUCTURE] OF MAN. The painter who is familiar with the nature of the sinews, muscles, and tendons, will know very well, in giving movement to a limb, how many and which sinews cause it; and which muscle, by swelling, causes the contraction of that sinew; and which sinews, expanded into the thinnest cartilage, surround and support the said muscle. Thus he will variously and constantly demonstrate the different muscles by means of the various attitudes of his figures, and will not do, as many who, in a variety of movements, still display the very same things [modelling] in the arms, back, breast and legs. And these things are not to be regarded as minor faults. How to acquire practice. 490. OF STUDY AND THE ORDER OF STUDY. I say that first you ought to learn the limbs and their mechanism, and having this knowledge, their actions should come next, according to the circumstances in which they occur in man. And thirdly to compose subjects, the studies for which should be taken from natural actions and made from time to time, as circumstances allow; and pay attention to them in the streets and _piazze_ and fields, and note them down with a brief indication of the forms; [Footnote 5: Lines 5-7 explained by the lower portion of the sketch No. 1 on Pl. XXXI.] thus for a head make an o, and for an arm a straight or a bent line, and the same for the legs and the body, [Footnote 7: Lines 5-7 explained by the lower portion of the sketch No. 1 on Pl. XXXI.] and when you return home work out these notes in a complete form. The Adversary says that to acquire practice and do a great deal of work it is better that the first period of study should be employed in drawing various compositions done on paper or on walls by divers masters, and that in this way practice is rapidly gained, and good methods; to which I reply that the method will be good, if it is based on works of good composition and by skilled masters. But since such masters are so rare that there are but few of them to be found, it is a surer way to go to natural objects, than to those which are imitated from nature with great deterioration, and so form bad methods; for he who can go to the fountain does not go to the water-jar. [Footnote: This passage has been published by Dr. M. JORDAN, _Das Malerbuck des L. da Vinci_, p. 89; his reading however varies slightly from mine.] Industry and thoroughness the first conditions (491-493.) 491. WHAT RULES SHOULD BE GIVEN TO BOYS LEARNING TO PAINT. We know for certain that sight is one of the most rapid actions we can perform. In an instant we see an infinite number of forms, still we only take in thoroughly one object at a time. Supposing that you, Reader, were to glance rapidly at the whole of this written page, you would instantly perceive that it was covered with various letters; but you could not, in the time, recognise what the letters were, nor what they were meant to tell. Hence you would need to see them word by word, line by line to be able to understand the letters. Again, if you wish to go to the top of a building you must go up step by step; otherwise it will be impossible that you should reach the top. Thus I say to you, whom nature prompts to pursue this art, if you wish to have a sound knowledge of the forms of objects begin with the details of them, and do not go on to the second [step] till you have the first well fixed in memory and in practice. And if you do otherwise you will throw away your time, or certainly greatly prolong your studies. And remember to acquire diligence rather than rapidity. 492. HOW THAT DILIGENCE [ACCURACY] SHOULD FIRST BE LEARNT RATHER THAN RAPID EXECUTION. If you, who draw, desire to study well and to good purpose, always go slowly to work in your drawing; and discriminate in. the lights, which have the highest degree of brightness, and to what extent and likewise in the shadows, which are those that are darker than the others and in what way they intermingle; then their masses and the relative proportions of one to the other. And note in their outlines, which way they tend; and which part of the lines is curved to one side or the other, and where they are more or less conspicuous and consequently broad or fine; and finally, that your light and shade blend without strokes and borders [but] looking like smoke. And when you have thus schooled your hand and your judgment by such diligence, you will acquire rapidity before you are aware. The artist's private life and choice of company (493-494). 493. OF THE LIFE OF THE PAINTER IN THE COUNTRY. A painter needs such mathematics as belong to painting. And the absence of all companions who are alienated from his studies; his brain must be easily impressed by the variety of objects, which successively come before him, and also free from other cares [Footnote 6: Leonardo here seems to be speaking of his own method of work as displayed in his MSS. and this passage explains, at least in part, the peculiarities in their arrangement.]. And if, when considering and defining one subject, a second subject intervenes--as happens when an object occupies the mind, then he must decide which of these cases is the more difficult to work out, and follow that up until it becomes quite clear, and then work out the explanation of the other [Footnote 11: Leonardo here seems to be speaking of his own method of work as displayed in his MSS. and this passage explains, at least in part, the peculiarities in their arrangement.]. And above all he must keep his mind as clear as the surface of a mirror, which assumes colours as various as those of the different objects. And his companions should be like him as to their studies, and if such cannot be found he should keep his speculations to himself alone, so that at last he will find no more useful company [than his own]. [Footnote: In the title line Leonardo had originally written _del pictore filosofo_ (the philosophical painter), but he himself struck out_filosofo_. Compare in No. 363 _pictora notomista_ (anatomical painter). The original text is partly reproduced on Pl. CI.] 494. OF THE LIFE OF THE PAINTER IN HIS STUDIO. To the end that well-being of the body may not injure that of the mind, the painter or draughtsman must remain solitary, and particularly when intent on those studies and reflections which will constantly rise up before his eye, giving materials to be well stored in the memory. While you are alone you are entirely your own [master] and if you have one companion you are but half your own, and the less so in proportion to the indiscretion of his behaviour. And if you have many companions you will fall deeper into the same trouble. If you should say: "I will go my own way and withdraw apart, the better to study the forms of natural objects", I tell you, you will not be able to help often listening to their chatter. And so, since one cannot serve two masters, you will badly fill the part of a companion, and carry out your studies of art even worse. And if you say: "I will withdraw so far that their words cannot reach me and they cannot disturb me", I can tell you that you will be thought mad. But, you see, you will at any rate be alone. And if you must have companions ship find it in your studio. This may assist you to have the advantages which arise from various speculations. All other company may be highly mischievous. The distribution of time for studying (495-497). 495. OF WHETHER IT IS BETTER TO DRAW WITH COMPANIONS OR NOT. I say and insist that drawing in company is much better than alone, for many reasons. The first is that you would be ashamed to be seen behindhand among the students, and such shame will lead you to careful study. Secondly, a wholesome emulation will stimulate you to be among those who are more praised than yourself, and this praise of others will spur you on. Another is that you can learn from the drawings of others who do better than yourself; and if you are better than they, you can profit by your contempt for their defects, while the praise of others will incite you to farther merits. [Footnote: The contradiction by this passage of the foregoing chapter is only apparent. It is quite clear, from the nature of the reasoning which is here used to prove that it is more improving to work with others than to work alone, that the studies of pupils only are under consideration here.] 496. OF STUDYING, IN THE DARK, WHEN YOU WAKE, OR IN BED BEFORE YOU GO TO SLEEP. I myself have proved it to be of no small use, when in bed in the dark, to recall in fancy the external details of forms previously studied, or other noteworthy things conceived by subtle speculation; and this is certainly an admirable exercise, and useful for impressing things on the memory. 497. OF THE TIME FOR STUDYING SELECTION OF SUBJECTS. Winter evenings ought to be employed by young students in looking over the things prepared during the summer; that is, all the drawings from the nude done in the summer should be brought together and a choice made of the best [studies of] limbs and bodies among them, to apply in practice and commit to memory. OF POSITIONS. After this in the following summer you should select some one who is well grown and who has not been brought up in doublets, and so may not be of stiff carriage, and make him go through a number of agile and graceful actions; and if his muscles do not show plainly within the outlines of his limbs that does not matter at all. It is enough that you can see good attitudes and you can correct [the drawing of] the limbs by those you studied in the winter. [Footnote: An injunction to study in the evening occurs also in No. 524.] On the productive power of minor artists (498-501). 498. He is a poor disciple who does not excel his master. 499. Nor is the painter praiseworthy who does but one thing well, as the nude figure, heads, draperies, animals, landscapes or other such details, irrespective of other work; for there can be no mind so inept, that after devoting itself to one single thing and doing it constantly, it should fail to do it well. [Footnote: In MANZI'S edition (p. 502) the painter G. G. Bossi indignantly remarks on this passage. "_Parla il Vince in questo luogo come se tutti gli artisti avessero quella sublimita d'ingegno capace di abbracciare tutte le cose, di cui era egli dotato"_ And he then mentions the case of CLAUDE LORRAIN. But he overlooks the fact that in Leonardo's time landscape painting made no pretensions to independence but was reckoned among the details (_particulari_, lines 3, 4).] 500. THAT A PAINTER IS NOT ADMIRABLE UNLESS HE IS UNIVERSAL. Some may distinctly assert that those persons are under a delusion who call that painter a good master who can do nothing well but a head or a figure. Certainly this is no great achievement; after studying one single thing for a life-time who would not have attained some perfection in it? But, since we know that painting embraces and includes in itself every object produced by nature or resulting from the fortuitous actions of men, in short, all that the eye can see, he seems to me but a poor master who can only do a figure well. For do you not perceive how many and various actions are performed by men only; how many different animals there are, as well as trees, plants, flowers, with many mountainous regions and plains, springs and rivers, cities with public and private buildings, machines, too, fit for the purposes of men, divers costumes, decorations and arts? And all these things ought to be regarded as of equal importance and value, by the man who can be termed a good painter. 501. OF THE MISERABLE PRETENCES MADE BY THOSE WHO FALSELY AND UNWORTHILY ACQUIRE THE NAME OF PAINTERS. Now there is a certain race of painters who, having studied but little, must need take as their standard of beauty mere gold and azure, and these, with supreme conceit, declare that they will not give good work for miserable payment, and that they could do as well as any other if they were well paid. But, ye foolish folks! cannot such artists keep some good work, and then say: this is a costly work and this more moderate and this is average work and show that they can work at all prices? A caution against one-sided study. 502. HOW, IN IMPORTANT WORKS, A MAN SHOULD NOT TRUST ENTIRELY TO HIS MEMORY WITHOUT CONDESCENDING TO DRAW FROM NATURE. Any master who should venture to boast that he could remember all the forms and effects of nature would certainly appear to me to be graced with extreme ignorance, inasmuch as these effects are infinite and our memory is not extensive enough to retain them. Hence, O! painter, beware lest the lust of gain should supplant in you the dignity of art; for the acquisition of glory is a much greater thing than the glory of riches. Hence, for these and other reasons which might be given, first strive in drawing to represent your intention to the eye by expressive forms, and the idea originally formed in your imagination; then go on taking out or putting in, until you have satisfied yourself. Then have living men, draped or nude, as you may have purposed in your work, and take care that in dimensions and size, as determined by perspective, nothing is left in the work which is not in harmony with reason and the effects in nature. And this will be the way to win honour in your art. How to acquire universality (503-506). 503. OF VARIETY IN THE FIGURES. The painter should aim at universality, because there is a great want of self-respect in doing one thing well and another badly, as many do who study only the [rules of] measure and proportion in the nude figure and do not seek after variety; for a man may be well proportioned, or he may be fat and short, or tall and thin, or medium. And a painter who takes no account of these varieties always makes his figures on one pattern so that they might all be taken for brothers; and this is a defect that demands stern reprehension. 504. HOW SOMETHING MAY BE LEARNT EVERYWHERE. Nature has beneficently provided that throughout the world you may find something to imitate. 505. OF THE MEANS OF ACQUIRING UNIVERSALITY. It is an easy matter to men to acquire universality, for all terrestrial animals resemble each other as to their limbs, that is in their muscles, sinews and bones; and they do not vary excepting in length or in thickness, as will be shown under Anatomy. But then there are aquatic animals which are of great variety; I will not try to convince the painter that there is any rule for them for they are of infinite variety, and so is the insect tribe. 506. PAINTING. The mind of the painter must resemble a mirror, which always takes the colour of the object it reflects and is completely occupied by the images of as many objects as are in front of it. Therefore you must know, Oh Painter! that you cannot be a good one if you are not the universal master of representing by your art every kind of form produced by nature. And this you will not know how to do if you do not see them, and retain them in your mind. Hence as you go through the fields, turn your attention to various objects, and, in turn look now at this thing and now at that, collecting a store of divers facts selected and chosen from those of less value. But do not do like some painters who, when they are wearied with exercising their fancy dismiss their work from their thoughts and take exercise in walking for relaxation, but still keep fatigue in their mind which, though they see various objects [around them], does not apprehend them; but, even when they meet friends or relations and are saluted by them, although they see and hear them, take no more cognisance of them than if they had met so much empty air. Useful games and exercises (507. 508). 507. OF GAMES TO BE PLAYED BY THOSE WHO DRAW. When, Oh draughtsmen, you desire to find relaxation in games you should always practise such things as may be of use in your profession, by giving your eye good practice in judging accurately of the breadth and length of objects. Thus, to accustom your mind to such things, let one of you draw a straight line at random on a wall, and each of you, taking a blade of grass or of straw in his hand, try to cut it to the length that the line drawn appears to him to be, standing at a distance of 10 braccia; then each one may go up to the line to measure the length he has judged it to be. And he who has come nearest with his measure to the length of the pattern is the best man, and the winner, and shall receive the prize you have settled beforehand. Again you should take forshortened measures: that is take a spear, or any other cane or reed, and fix on a point at a certain distance; and let each one estimate how many times he judges that its length will go into that distance. Again, who will draw best a line one braccio long, which shall be tested by a thread. And such games give occasion to good practice for the eye, which is of the first importance in painting. 508. A WAY OF DEVELOPING AND AROUSING THE MIND TO VARIOUS INVENTIONS. I cannot forbear to mention among these precepts a new device for study which, although it may seem but trivial and almost ludicrous, is nevertheless extremely useful in arousing the mind to various inventions. And this is, when you look at a wall spotted with stains, or with a mixture of stones, if you have to devise some scene, you may discover a resemblance to various landscapes, beautified with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, plains, wide valleys and hills in varied arrangement; or again you may see battles and figures in action; or strange faces and costumes, and an endless variety of objects, which you could reduce to complete and well drawn forms. And these appear on such walls confusedly, like the sound of bells in whose jangle you may find any name or word you choose to imagine. II. THE ARTIST'S STUDIO.--INSTRUMENTS AND HELPS FOR THE APPLICATION OF PERSPECTIVE.--ON JUDGING OF A PICTURE. On the size of the studio. 509. Small rooms or dwellings discipline the mind, large ones weaken it. On the construction of windows (510-512). 510. The larger the wall the less the light will be. 511. The different kinds of light afforded in cellars by various forms of windows. The least useful and the coldest is the window at _a_. The most useful, the lightest and warmest and most open to the sky is the window at _b_. The window at _c_ is of medium utility. [Footnote: From a reference to the notes on the right light for painting it becomes evident that the observations made on cellar-windows have a direct bearing on the construction of the studio-window. In the diagram _b_ as well as in that under No. 510 the window-opening is reduced to a minimum, but only, it would seem, in order to emphasize the advantage of walls constructed on the plan there shown.] 512. OF THE PAINTER'S WINDOW AND ITS ADVANTAGE. The painter who works from nature should have a window, which he can raise and lower. The reason is that sometimes you will want to finish a thing you are drawing, close to the light. Let _a b c d_ be the chest on which the work may be raised or lowered, so that the work moves up and down and not the painter. And every evening you can let down the work and shut it up above so that in the evening it may be in the fashion of a chest which, when shut up, may serve the purpose of a bench. [Footnote: See Pl. XXXI, No. 2. In this plate the lines have unfortunately lost their sharpness, for the accidental loss of the negative has necessitated a reproduction from a positive. But having formerly published this sketch by another process, in VON LUTZOW'S _Zeitschrift fur bildende Kunst_ (Vol. XVII, pg. 13) I have reproduced it here in the text. The sharpness of the outline in the original sketch is here preserved but it gives it from the reversed side.] On the best light for painting (513-520). 513. Which light is best for drawing from nature; whether high or low, or large or small, or strong and broad, or strong and small, or broad and weak or small and weak? [Footnote: The question here put is unanswered in the original MS.] 514. OF THE QUALITY OF THE LIGHT. A broad light high up and not too strong will render the details of objects very agreeable. 515. THAT THE LIGHT FOR DRAWING FROM NATURE SHOULD BE HIGH UP. The light for drawing from nature should come from the North in order that it may not vary. And if you have it from the South, keep the window screened with cloth, so that with the sun shining the whole day the light may not vary. The height of the light should be so arranged as that every object shall cast a shadow on the ground of the same length as itself. 516. THE KIND OF LIGHT REQUISITE FOR PAINTING LIGHT AND SHADE. An object will display the greatest difference of light and shade when it is seen in the strongest light, as by sunlight, or, at night, by the light of a fire. But this should not be much used in painting because the works remain crude and ungraceful. An object seen in a moderate light displays little difference in the light and shade; and this is the case towards evening or when the day is cloudy, and works then painted are tender and every kind of face becomes graceful. Thus, in every thing extremes are to be avoided: Too much light gives crudeness; too little prevents our seeing. The medium is best. OF SMALL LIGHTS. Again, lights cast from a small window give strong differences of light and shade, all the more if the room lighted by it be large, and this is not good for painting. 517. PAINTING. The luminous air which enters by passing through orifices in walls into dark rooms will render the place less dark in proportion as the opening cuts into the walls which surround and cover in the pavement. 518. OF THE QUALITY OF LIGHT. In proportion to the number of times that _a b_ goes into _c d_ will it be more luminous than _c d_. And similarly, in proportion as the point _e_ goes into _c d_ will it be more luminous than _c d;_ and this light is useful for carvers of delicate work. [Footnote 5: For the same reason a window thus constructed would be convenient for an illuminator or a miniature painter.] [Footnote: M. RAVAISSON in his edition of the Paris MS. A remarks on this passage: _"La figure porte les lettres_ f _et_ g, _auxquelles rien ne renvoie dans l'explication; par consequent, cette explication est incomplete. La figure semblerait, d'ailleurs, se rapporter a l'effet de la reflexion par un miroir concave."_ So far as I can see the text is not imperfect, nor is the sense obscure. It is hardly necessary to observe that _c d_ here indicate the wall of the room opposite to the window _e_ and the semicircle described by _f g_ stands for the arch of the sky; this occurs in various diagrams, for example under 511. A similar semicircle, Pl III, No. 2 (and compare No. 149) is expressly called '_orizonte_' in writing.] 519. That the light should fall upon a picture from one window only. This may be seen in the case of objects in this form. If you want to represent a round ball at a certain height you must make it oval in this shape, and stand so far off as that by foreshortening it appears round. 520. OF SELECTING THE LIGHT WHICH GIVES MOST GRACE TO FACES. If you should have a court yard that you can at pleasure cover with a linen awning that light will be good. Or when you want to take a portrait do it in dull weather, or as evening falls, making the sitter stand with his back to one of the walls of the court yard. Note in the streets, as evening falls, the faces of the men and women, and when the weather is dull, what softness and delicacy you may perceive in them. Hence, Oh Painter! have a court arranged with the walls tinted black and a narrow roof projecting within the walls. It should be 10 braccia wide and 20 braccia long and 10 braccia high and covered with a linen awning; or else paint a work towards evening or when it is cloudy or misty, and this is a perfect light. On various helps in preparing a picture (521-530). 521. To draw a nude figure from nature, or any thing else, hold in your hand a plumb-line to enable you to judge of the relative position of objects. 522. OF DRAWING AN OBJECT. When you draw take care to set up a principal line which you must observe all throughout the object you are drawing; every thing should bear relation to the direction of this principal line. 523. OF A MODE OF DRAWING A PLACE ACCURATELY. Have a piece of glass as large as a half sheet of royal folio paper and set thus firmly in front of your eyes that is, between your eye and the thing you want to draw; then place yourself at a distance of 2/3 of a braccia from the glass fixing your head with a machine in such a way that you cannot move it at all. Then shut or entirely cover one eye and with a brush or red chalk draw upon the glass that which you see beyond it; then trace it on paper from the glass, afterwards transfer it onto good paper, and paint it if you like, carefully attending to the arial perspective. HOW TO LEARN TO PLACE YOUR FIGURES CORRECTLY. If you want to acquire a practice of good and correct attitudes for your figures, make a square frame or net, and square it out with thread; place this between your eye and the nude model you are drawing, and draw these same squares on the paper on which you mean to draw the figure, but very delicately. Then place a pellet of wax on a spot of the net which will serve as a fixed point, which, whenever you look at your model, must cover the pit of the throat; or, if his back is turned, it may cover one of the vertebrae of the neck. Thus these threads will guide you as to each part of the body which, in any given attitude will be found below the pit of the throat, or the angles of the shoulders, or the nipples, or hips and other parts of the body; and the transverse lines of the net will show you how much the figure is higher over the leg on which it is posed than over the other, and the same with the hips, and the knees and the feet. But always fix the net perpendicularly so that all the divisions that you see the model divided into by the net work correspond with your drawing of the model on the net work you have sketched. The squares you draw may be as much smaller than those of the net as you wish that your figure should be smaller than nature. Afterwards remember when drawing figures, to use the rule of the corresponding proportions of the limbs as you have learnt it from the frame and net. This should be 3 braccia and a half high and 3 braccia wide; 7 braccia distant from you and 1 braccio from the model. [Footnote: Leonardo is commonly credited with the invention of the arrangement of a plate of glass commonly known as the "vertical plane." Professor E. VON BRUCKE in his _"Bruchstucke aus der Theorie der bildenden Kunste,"_ Leipzig 1877, pg. 3, writes on this contrivance. _"Unsere Glastafel ist die sogenannte Glastafel des Leonardo da Vinci, die in Gestalt einer Glastafel vorgestellte Bildflache."_] 524. A METHOD OF DRAWING AN OBJECT IN RELIEF AT NIGHT. Place a sheet of not too transparent paper between the relievo and the light and you can draw thus very well. [Footnote: Bodies thus illuminated will show on the surface of the paper how the copyist has to distribute light and shade.] 525. If you want to represent a figure on a wall, the wall being foreshortened, while the figure is to appear in its proper form, and as standing free from the wall, you must proceed thus: have a thin plate of iron and make a small hole in the centre; this hole must be round. Set a light close to it in such a position as that it shines through the central hole, then place any object or figure you please so close to the wall that it touches it and draw the outline of the shadow on the wall; then fill in the shade and add the lights; place the person who is to see it so that he looks through that same hole where at first the light was; and you will never be able to persuade yourself that the image is not detached from the wall. [Footnote: _uno piccolo spiracelo nel mezzo_. M. RAVAISSON, in his edition of MS. A (Paris), p. 52, reads _nel muro_--evidently a mistake for _nel mezzo_ which is quite plainly written; and he translates it _"fait lui une petite ouverture dans le mur,"_ adding in a note: _"les mots 'dans le mur' paraissent etre de trop. Leonardo a du les ecrire par distraction"_ But _'nel mezzo'_ is clearly legible even on the photograph facsimile given by Ravaisson himself, and the objection he raises disappears at once. It is not always wise or safe to try to prove our author's absence of mind or inadvertence by apparent difficulties in the sense or connection of the text.] 526. TO DRAW A FIGURE ON A WALL 12 BRACCIA HIGH WHICH SHALL LOOK 24 BRACCIA HIGH. If you wish to draw a figure or any other object to look 24 braccia high you must do it in this way. First, on the surface _m r_ draw half the man you wish to represent; then the other half; then put on the vault _m n_ [the rest of] the figure spoken of above; first set out the vertical plane on the floor of a room of the same shape as the wall with the coved part on which you are to paint your figure. Then, behind it, draw a figure set out in profile of whatever size you please, and draw lines from it to the point _f_ and, as these lines cut _m n_ on the vertical plane, so will the figure come on the wall, of which the vertical plane gives a likeness, and you will have all the [relative] heights and prominences of the figure. And the breadth or thickness which are on the upright wall _m n_ are to be drawn in their proper form, since, as the wall recedes the figure will be foreshortened by itself; but [that part of] the figure which goes into the cove you must foreshorten, as if it were standing upright; this diminution you must set out on a flat floor and there must stand the figure which is to be transferred from the vertical plane _r n_[Footnote 17: _che leverai dalla pariete r n_. The letters refer to the larger sketch, No. 3 on Pl. XXXI.] in its real size and reduce it once more on a vertical plane; and this will be a good method [Footnote 18: Leonardo here says nothing as to how the image foreshortened by perspective and thus produced on the vertical plane is to be transferred to the wall; but from what is said in Nos. 525 and 523 we may conclude that he was familiar with the process of casting the enlarged shadow of a squaring net on the surface of a wall to guide him in drawing the figure. _Pariete di rilieuo; "sur une parai en relief"_ (RAVAISSON). _"Auf einer Schnittlinie zum Aufrichten"_ (LUDWIG). The explanation of this puzzling expression must be sought in No. 545, lines 15-17.]. [Footnote: See Pl. XXXI. 3. The second sketch, which in the plate is incomplete, is here reproduced and completed from the original to illustrate the text. In the original the larger diagram is placed between lines 5 and 6. 1. 2. C. A. 157a; 463a has the similar heading: '_del cressciere della figura_', and the text begins: "_Se voli fare 1a figura grande_ b c" but here it breaks off. The translation here given renders the meaning of the passage as I think it must be understood. The MS. is perfectly legible and the construction of the sentence is simple and clear; difficulties can only arise from the very fullness of the meaning, particularly towards the end of the passage.] 527. If you would to draw a cube in an angle of a wall, first draw the object in its own proper shape and raise it onto a vertical plane until it resembles the angle in which the said object is to be represented. 528. Why are paintings seen more correctly in a mirror than out of it? 529. HOW THE MIRROR IS THE MASTER [AND GUIDE] OF PAINTERS. When you want to see if your picture corresponds throughout with the objects you have drawn from nature, take a mirror and look in that at the reflection of the real things, and compare the reflected image with your picture, and consider whether the subject of the two images duly corresponds in both, particularly studying the mirror. You should take the mirror for your guide--that is to say a flat mirror--because on its surface the objects appear in many respects as in a painting. Thus you see, in a painting done on a flat surface, objects which appear in relief, and in the mirror--also a flat surface--they look the same. The picture has one plane surface and the same with the mirror. The picture is intangible, in so far as that which appears round and prominent cannot be grasped in the hands; and it is the same with the mirror. And since you can see that the mirror, by means of outlines, shadows and lights, makes objects appear in relief, you, who have in your colours far stronger lights and shades than those in the mirror, can certainly, if you compose your picture well, make that also look like a natural scene reflected in a large mirror. [Footnote: I understand the concluding lines of this passage as follows: If you draw the upper half a figure on a large sheet of paper laid out on the floor of a room (_sala be piana_) to the same scale (_con le sue vere grosseze_) as the lower half, already drawn upon the wall (lines 10, 11)you must then reduce them on a '_pariete di rilievo_,' a curved vertical plane which serves as a model to reproduce the form of the vault.] 530. OF JUDGING YOUR OWN PICTURES. We know very well that errors are better recognised in the works of others than in our own; and that often, while reproving little faults in others, you may ignore great ones in yourself. To avoid such ignorance, in the first place make yourself a master of perspective, then acquire perfect knowledge of the proportions of men and other animals, and also, study good architecture, that is so far as concerns the forms of buildings and other objects which are on the face of the earth; these forms are infinite, and the better you know them the more admirable will your work be. And in cases where you lack experience do not shrink from drawing them from nature. But, to carry out my promise above [in the title]--I say that when you paint you should have a flat mirror and often look at your work as reflected in it, when you will see it reversed, and it will appear to you like some other painter's work, so you will be better able to judge of its faults than in any other way. Again, it is well that you should often leave off work and take a little relaxation, because, when you come back to it you are a better judge; for sitting too close at work may greatly deceive you. Again, it is good to retire to a distance because the work looks smaller and your eye takes in more of it at a glance and sees more easily the discords or disproportion in the limbs and colours of the objects. On the management of works (531. 532). 531. OF A METHOD OF LEARNING WELL BY HEART. When you want to know a thing you have studied in your memory proceed in this way: When you have drawn the same thing so many times that you think you know it by heart, test it by drawing it without the model; but have the model traced on flat thin glass and lay this on the drawing you have made without the model, and note carefully where the tracing does not coincide with your drawing, and where you find you have gone wrong; and bear in mind not to repeat the same mistakes. Then return to the model, and draw the part in which you were wrong again and again till you have it well in your mind. If you have no flat glass for tracing on, take some very thin kidts-kin parchment, well oiled and dried. And when you have used it for one drawing you can wash it clean with a sponge and make a second. 532. THAT A PAINTER OUGHT TO BE CURIOUS TO HEAR THE OPINIONS OF EVERY ONE ON HIS WORK. Certainly while a man is painting he ought not to shrink from hearing every opinion. For we know very well that a man, though he may not be a painter, is familiar with the forms of other men and very capable of judging whether they are hump backed, or have one shoulder higher or lower than the other, or too big a mouth or nose, and other defects; and, as we know that men are competent to judge of the works of nature, how much more ought we to admit that they can judge of our errors; since you know how much a man may be deceived in his own work. And if you are not conscious of this in yourself study it in others and profit by their faults. Therefore be curious to hear with patience the opinions of others, consider and weigh well whether those who find fault have ground or not for blame, and, if so amend; but, if not make as though you had not heard, or if he should be a man you esteem show him by argument the cause of his mistake. On the limitations of painting (533-535) 533. HOW IN SMALL OBJECTS ERRORS ARE LESS EVIDENT THAN IN LARGE ONES. In objects of minute size the extent of error is not so perceptible as in large ones; and the reason is that if this small object is a representation of a man or of some other animal, from the immense diminution the details cannot be worked out by the artist with the finish that is requisite. Hence it is not actually complete; and, not being complete, its faults cannot be determined. For instance: Look at a man at a distance of 300 braccia and judge attentively whether he be handsome or ugly, or very remarkable or of ordinary appearance. You will find that with the utmost effort you cannot persuade yourself to decide. And the reason is that at such a distance the man is so much diminished that the character of the details cannot be determined. And if you wish to see how much this man is diminished [by distance] hold one of your fingers at a span's distance from your eye, and raise or lower it till the top joint touches the feet of the figure you are looking at, and you will see an incredible reduction. For this reason we often doubt as to the person of a friend at a distance. 534. WHY A PAINTING CAN NEVER APPEAR DETACHED AS NATURAL OBJECTS DO. Painters often fall into despair of imitating nature when they see their pictures fail in that relief and vividness which objects have that are seen in a mirror; while they allege that they have colours which for brightness or depth far exceed the strength of light and shade in the reflections in the mirror, thus displaying their own ignorance rather than the real cause, because they do not know it. It is impossible that painted objects should appear in such relief as to resemble those reflected in the mirror, although both are seen on a flat surface, unless they are seen with only one eye; and the reason is that two eyes see one object behind another as _a_ and _b_ see _m_ and _n_. _m_ cannot exactly occupy [the space of] _n_ because the base of the visual lines is so broad that the second body is seen beyond the first. But if you close one eye, as at _s_ the body _f_ will conceal _r_, because the line of sight proceeds from a single point and makes its base in the first body, whence the second, of the same size, can never be seen. [Footnote: This passage contains the solution of the problem proposed in No. 29, lines 10-14. Leonardo was evidently familiar with the law of optics on which the construction of the stereoscope depends. Compare E. VON BRUCKE, _Bruchstucke aus der Theorie der bildenden Kunste_, pg. 69: "_Schon Leonardo da Vinci wusste, dass ein noch so gut gemaltes Bild nie den vollen Eindruck der Korperlichkeit geben kann, wie ihn die Natur selbst giebt. Er erklart dies auch in Kap. LIII und Kap. CCCXLI_ (ed. DU FRESNE) _des_ 'Trattato' _in sachgemasser Weise aus dem Sehen mit beiden Augen_." Chap. 53 of DU FRESNE'S edition corresponds to No. 534 of this work.] 535. WHY OF TWO OBJECTS OF EQUAL SIZE A PAINTED ONE WILL LOOK LARGER THAN A SOLID ONE. The reason of this is not so easy to demonstrate as many others. Still I will endeavour to accomplish it, if not wholly, at any rate in part. The perspective of diminution demonstrates by reason, that objects diminish in proportion as they are farther from the eye, and this reasoning is confirmed by experience. Hence, the lines of sight that extend between the object and the eye, when they are directed to the surface of a painting are all intersected at uniform limits, while those lines which are directed towards a piece of sculpture are intersected at various limits and are of various lengths. The lines which are longest extend to a more remote limb than the others and therefore that limb looks smaller. As there are numerous lines each longer than the others--since there are numerous parts, each more remote than the others and these, being farther off, necessarily appear smaller, and by appearing smaller it follows that their diminution makes the whole mass of the object look smaller. But this does not occur in painting; since the lines of sight all end at the same distance there can be no diminution, hence the parts not being diminished the whole object is undiminished, and for this reason painting does not diminish, as a piece of sculpture does. On the choice of a position (536-537) 536. HOW HIGH THE POINT OF SIGHT SHOULD BE PLACED. The point of sight must be at the level of the eye of an ordinary man, and the farthest limit of the plain where it touches the sky must be placed at the level of that line where the earth and sky meet; excepting mountains, which are independent of it. 537. OF THE WAY TO DRAW FIGURES FOR HISTORICAL PICTURES. The painter must always study on the wall on which he is to picture a story the height of the position where he wishes to arrange his figures; and when drawing his studies for them from nature he must place himself with his eye as much below the object he is drawing as, in the picture, it will have to be above the eye of the spectator. Otherwise the work will look wrong. The apparent size of figures in a picture (538-539) 538. OF PLACING A FIGURE IN THE FOREGROUND OF A HISTORICAL PICTURE. You must make the foremost figure in the picture less than the size of nature in proportion to the number of braccia at which you place it from the front line, and make the others in proportion by the above rule. 539. PERSPECTIVE. You are asked, O Painter, why the figures you draw on a small scale according to the laws of perspective do not appear--notwithstanding the demonstration of distance--as large as real ones--their height being the same as in those painted on the wall. And why [painted] objects seen at a small distance appear larger than the real ones? The right position of the artist, when painting, and of the spectator (540-547) 540. OF PAINTING. When you draw from nature stand at a distance of 3 times the height of the object you wish to draw. 541. OF DRAWING FROM RELIEF. In drawing from the round the draughtsman should so place himself that the eye of the figure he is drawing is on a level with his own. This should be done with any head he may have to represent from nature because, without exception, the figures or persons you meet in the streets have their eyes on the same level as your own; and if you place them higher or lower you will see that your drawing will not be true. 542. WHY GROUPS OF FIGURES ONE ABOVE ANOTHER ARE TO BE AVOIDED. The universal practice which painters adopt on the walls of chapels is greatly and reasonably to be condemned. Inasmuch as they represent one historical subject on one level with a landscape and buildings, and then go up a step and paint another, varying the point [of sight], and then a third and a fourth, in such a way as that on one wall there are 4 points of sight, which is supreme folly in such painters. We know that the point of sight is opposite the eye of the spectator of the scene; and if you would [have me] tell you how to represent the life of a saint divided into several pictures on one and the same wall, I answer that you must set out the foreground with its point of sight on a level with the eye of the spectator of the scene, and upon this plane represent the more important part of the story large and then, diminishing by degrees the figures, and the buildings on various hills and open spaces, you can represent all the events of the history. And on the remainder of the wall up to the top put trees, large as compared with the figures, or angels if they are appropriate to the story, or birds or clouds or similar objects; otherwise do not trouble yourself with it for your whole work will be wrong. 543. A PICTURE OF OBJECTS IN PERSPECTIVE WILL LOOK MORE LIFELIKE WHEN SEEN FROM THE POINT FROM WHICH THE OBJECTS WERE DRAWN. If you want to represent an object near to you which is to have the effect of nature, it is impossible that your perspective should not look wrong, with every false relation and disagreement of proportion that can be imagined in a wretched work, unless the spectator, when he looks at it, has his eye at the very distance and height and direction where the eye or the point of sight was placed in doing this perspective. Hence it would be necessary to make a window, or rather a hole, of the size of your face through which you can look at the work; and if you do this, beyond all doubt your work, if it is correct as to light and shade, will have the effect of nature; nay you will hardly persuade yourself that those objects are painted; otherwise do not trouble yourself about it, unless indeed you make your view at least 20 times as far off as the greatest width or height of the objects represented, and this will satisfy any spectator placed anywhere opposite to the picture. If you want the proof briefly shown, take a piece of wood in the form of a little column, eight times as high as it is thick, like a column without any plinth or capital; then mark off on a flat wall 40 equal spaces, equal to its width so that between them they make 40 columns resembling your little column; you then must fix, opposite the centre space, and at 4 braccia from the wall, a thin strip of iron with a small round hole in the middle about as large as a big pearl. Close to this hole place a light touching it. Then place your column against each mark on the wall and draw the outline of its shadow; afterwards shade it and look through the hole in the iron plate. [Footnote: In the original there is a wide space between lines 3 and 4 in which we find two sketches not belonging to the text. It is unnecessary to give prominence to the points in which my reading differs from that of M. RAVAISSON or to justify myself, since they are all of secondary importance and can also be immediately verified from the photograph facsimile in his edition.] 544. A diminished object should be seen from the same distance, height and direction as the point of sight of your eye, or else your knowledge will produce no good effect. And if you will not, or cannot, act on this principle--because as the plane on which you paint is to be seen by several persons you would need several points of sight which would make it look discordant and wrong--place yourself at a distance of at least 10 times the size of the objects. The lesser fault you can fall into then, will be that of representing all the objects in the foreground of their proper size, and on whichever side you are standing the objects thus seen will diminish themselves while the spaces between them will have no definite ratio. For, if you place yourself in the middle of a straight row [of objects], and look at several columns arranged in a line you will see, beyond a few columns separated by intervals, that the columns touch; and beyond where they touch they cover each other, till the last column projects but very little beyond the last but one. Thus the spaces between the columns are by degrees entirely lost. So, if your method of perspective is good, it will produce the same effect; this effect results from standing near the line in which the columns are placed. This method is not satisfactory unless the objects seen are viewed from a small hole, in the middle of which is your point of sight; but if you proceed thus your work will be perfect and will deceive the beholder, who will see the columns as they are here figured. Here the eye is in the middle, at the point _a_ and near to the columns. [Footnote: The diagram which stands above this chapter in the original with the note belonging to it: "a b _e la ripruova_" (_a b_ is the proof) has obviously no connection with the text. The second sketch alone is reproduced and stands in the original between lines 22 and 23.] 545. If you cannot arrange that those who look at your work should stand at one particular point, when constructing your work, stand back until your eye is at least 20 times as far off as the greatest height and width of your work. This will make so little difference when the eye of the spectator moves, that it will be hardly appreciable, and it will look very good. If the point of sight is at _t_ you would make the figures on the circle _d b e_ all of one size, as each of them bears the same relation to the point _t_. But consider the diagram given below and you will see that this is wrong, and why I shall make _b_ smaller than _d e_ [Footnote 8: The second diagram of this chapter stands in the original between lines 8 and 9.]. It is easy to understand that if 2 objects equal to each other are placed side by side the one at 3 braccia distance looks smaller than that placed at 2 braccia. This however is rather theoretical than for practice, because you stand close by [Footnote 11: Instead of '_se preso_' (=_sie presso_) M. RAVAISSON reads '_sempre se_' which gives rise to the unmeaning rendering: '_parceque toujours_ ...']. All the objects in the foreground, whether large or small, are to be drawn of their proper size, and if you see them from a distance they will appear just as they ought, and if you see them close they will diminish of themselves. [Footnote 15: Compare No. 526 line 18.] Take care that the vertical plan on which you work out the perspective of the objects seen is of the same form as the wall on which the work is to be executed. 546. OF PAINTING. The size of the figures represented ought to show you the distance they are seen from. If you see a figure as large as nature you know it appears to be close to the eye. 547. WHERE A SPECTATOR SHOULD STAND TO LOOK AT A PICTURE. Supposing _a b_ to be the picture and _d_ to be the light, I say that if you place yourself between _c_ and _e_ you will not understand the picture well and particularly if it is done in oils, or still more if it is varnished, because it will be lustrous and somewhat of the nature of a mirror. And for this reason the nearer you go towards the point _c_, the less you will see, because the rays of light falling from the window on the picture are reflected to that point. But if you place yourself between _e_ and _d_ you will get a good view of it, and the more so as you approach the point _d_, because that spot is least exposed to these reflected rays of light. III. THE PRACTICAL METHODS OF LIGHT AND SHADE AND AERIAL PERSPECTIVE. Gradations of light and shade. 548. OF PAINTING: OF THE DARKNESS OF THE SHADOWS, OR I MAY SAY, THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE LIGHTS. Although practical painters attribute to all shaded objects--trees, fields, hair, beards and skin--four degrees of darkness in each colour they use: that is to say first a dark foundation, secondly a spot of colour somewhat resembling the form of the details, thirdly a somewhat brighter and more defined portion, fourthly the lights which are more conspicuous than other parts of the figure; still to me it appears that these gradations are infinite upon a continuous surface which is in itself infinitely divisible, and I prove it thus:--[Footnote 7: See Pl. XXXI, No. 1; the two upper sketches.] Let _a g_ be a continuous surface and let _d_ be the light which illuminates it; I say--by the 4th [proposition] which says that that side of an illuminated body is most highly lighted which is nearest to the source of light--that therefore _g_ must be darker than _c_ in proportion as the line _d g_ is longer than the line _d c_, and consequently that these gradations of light--or rather of shadow, are not 4 only, but may be conceived of as infinite, because _c d_ is a continuous surface and every continuous surface is infinitely divisible; hence the varieties in the length of lines extending between the light and the illuminated object are infinite, and the proportion of the light will be the same as that of the length of the lines between them; extending from the centre of the luminous body to the surface of the illuminated object. On the choice of light for a picture (549-554). 549. HOW THE PAINTER MUST PLACE HIMSELF WITH REFERENCE TO THE LIGHT, TO GIVE THE EFFECT OF RELIEF. Let _a b_ be the window, _m_ the point of light. I say that on whichever side the painter places himself he will be well placed if only his eye is between the shaded and the illuminated portions of the object he is drawing; and this place you will find by putting yourself between the point _m_ and the division between the shadow and the light on the object to be drawn. 550. THAT SHADOWS CAST BY A PARTICULAR LIGHT SHOULD BE AVOIDED, BECAUSE THEY ARE EQUALLY STRONG AT THE ENDS AND AT THE BEGINNING. The shadows cast by the sun or any other particular light have not a pleasing effect on the body to which they belong, because the parts remain confuse, being divided by distinct outlines of light and shade. And the shadows are of equal strength at the end and at the beginning. 551. HOW LIGHT SHOULD BE THROWN UPON FIGURES. The light must be arranged in accordance with the natural conditions under which you wish to represent your figures: that is, if you represent them in the sunshine make the shadows dark with large spaces of light, and mark their shadows and those of all the surrounding objects strongly on the ground. And if you represent them as in dull weather give little difference of light and shade, without any shadows at their feet. If you represent them as within doors, make a strong difference between the lights and shadows, with shadows on the ground. If the window is screened and the walls white, there will be little difference of light. If it is lighted by firelight make the high lights ruddy and strong, and the shadows dark, and those cast on the walls and on the floor will be clearly defined and the farther they are from the body the broader and longer will they be. If the light is partly from the fire and partly from the outer day, that of day will be the stronger and that of the fire almost as red as fire itself. Above all see that the figures you paint are broadly lighted and from above, that is to say all living persons that you paint; for you will see that all the people you meet out in the street are lighted from above, and you must know that if you saw your most intimate friend with a light [on his face] from below you would find it difficult to recognise him. 552. OF HELPING THE APPARENT RELIEF OF A PICTURE BY GIVING IT ARTIFICIAL LIGHT AND SHADE. To increase relief of a picture you may place, between your figure and the solid object on which its shadow falls, a line of bright light, dividing the figure from the object in shadow. And on the same object you shall represent two light parts which will surround the shadow cast upon the wall by the figure placed opposite [6]; and do this frequently with the limbs which you wish should stand out somewhat from the body they belong to; particularly when the arms cross the front of the breast show, between the shadow cast by the arms on the breast and the shadow on the arms themselves, a little light seeming to fall through a space between the breast and the arms; and the more you wish the arm to look detached from the breast the broader you must make the light; always contrive also to arrange the figures against the background in such a way as that the parts in shadow are against a light background and the illuminated portions against a dark background. [Footnote 6: Compare the two diagrams under No. 565.] 553. OF SITUATION. Remember [to note] the situation of your figures; for the light and shade will be one thing if the object is in a dark place with a particular light, and another thing if it is in a light place with direct sunlight; one thing in a dark place with a diffused evening light or a cloudy sky, and another in the diffused light of the atmosphere lighted by the sun. 554. OF THE JUDGMENT TO BE MADE OF A PAINTER'S WORK. First you must consider whether the figures have the relief required by their situation and the light which illuminates them; for the shadows should not be the same at the extreme ends of the composition as in the middle, because it is one thing when figures are surrounded by shadows and another when they have shadows only on one side. Those which are in the middle of the picture are surrounded by shadows, because they are shaded by the figures which stand between them and the light. And those are lighted on one side only which stand between the principal group and the light, because where they do not look towards the light they face the group and the darkness of the group is thrown on them: and where they do not face the group they face the brilliant light and it is their own darkness shadowing them, which appears there. In the second place observe the distribution or arrangement of figures, and whether they are distributed appropriately to the circumstances of the story. Thirdly, whether the figures are actively intent on their particular business. 555. OF THE TREATMENT OF THE LIGHTS. First give a general shadow to the whole of that extended part which is away from the light. Then put in the half shadows and the strong shadows, comparing them with each other and, in the same way give the extended light in half tint, afterwards adding the half lights and the high lights, likewise comparing them together. The distribution of light and shade (556-559) 556. OF SHADOWS ON BODIES. When you represent the dark shadows in bodies in light and shade, always show the cause of the shadow, and the same with reflections; because the dark shadows are produced by dark objects and the reflections by objects only moderately lighted, that is with diminished light. And there is the same proportion between the highly lighted part of a body and the part lighted by a reflection as between the origin of the lights on the body and the origin of the reflections. 557. OF LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. I must remind you to take care that every portion of a body, and every smallest detail which is ever so little in relief, must be given its proper importance as to light and shade. 558. OF THE WAY TO MAKE THE SHADOW ON FIGURES CORRESPOND TO THE LIGHT AND TO [THE COLOUR] OF THE BODY. When you draw a figure and you wish to see whether the shadow is the proper complement to the light, and neither redder nor yellower than is the nature of the colour you wish to represent in shade, proceed thus. Cast a shadow with your finger on the illuminated portion, and if the accidental shadow that you have made is like the natural shadow cast by your finger on your work, well and good; and by putting your finger nearer or farther off, you can make darker or lighter shadows, which you must compare with your own. 559. OF SURROUNDING BODIES BY VARIOUS FORMS OF SHADOW. Take care that the shadows cast upon the surface of the bodies by different objects must undulate according to the various curves of the limbs which cast the shadows, and of the objects on which they are cast. The juxtaposition of light and shade (560, 561). 560. ON PAINTING. The comparison of the various qualities of shadows and lights not infrequently seems ambiguous and confused to the painter who desires to imitate and copy the objects he sees. The reason is this: If you see a white drapery side by side with a black one, that part of the white drapery which lies against the black one will certainly look much whiter than the part which lies against something whiter than itself. [Footnote: It is evident from this that so early as in 1492 Leonardo's writing in perspective was so far advanced that he could quote his own statements.--As bearing on this subject compare what is said in No. 280.] And the reason of this is shown in my [book on] perspective. 561. OF SHADOWS. Where a shadow ends in the light, note carefully where it is paler or deeper and where it is more or less indistinct towards the light; and, above all, in [painting] youthful figures I remind you not to make the shadow end like a stone, because flesh has a certain transparency, as may be seen by looking at a hand held between the eye and the sun, which shines through it ruddy and bright. Place the most highly coloured part between the light and shadow. And to see what shadow tint is needed on the flesh, cast a shadow on it with your finger, and according as you wish to see it lighter or darker hold your finger nearer to or farther from your picture, and copy that [shadow]. On the lighting of the background (562-565). 562. OF THE BACKGROUNDS FOR PAINTED FIGURES. The ground which surrounds the forms of any object you paint should be darker than the high lights of those figures, and lighter than their shadowed part: &c. 563. OF THE BACKGROUND THAT THE PAINTER SHOULD ADOPT IN HIS WORKS. Since experience shows us that all bodies are surrounded by light and shade it is necessary that you, O Painter, should so arrange that the side which is in light shall terminate against a dark body and likewise that the shadow side shall terminate against a light body. And by [following] this rule you will add greatly to the relief of your figures. 564. A most important part of painting consists in the backgrounds of the objects represented; against these backgrounds the outlines of those natural objects which are convex are always visible, and also the forms of these bodies against the background, even though the colours of the bodies should be the same as that of the background. This is caused by the convex edges of the objects not being illuminated in the same way as, by the same light, the background is illuminated, since these edges will often be lighter or darker than the background. But if the edge is of the same colour as the background, beyond a doubt it will in that part of the picture interfere with your perception of the outline, and such a choice in a picture ought to be rejected by the judgment of good painters, inasmuch as the purpose of the painter is to make his figures appear detached from the background; while in the case here described the contrary occurs, not only in the picture, but in the objects themselves. 565. That you ought, when representing objects above the eye and on one side--if you wish them to look detached from the wall--to show, between the shadow on the object and the shadow it casts a middle light, so that the body will appear to stand away from the wall. On the lighting of white objects. 566. HOW WHITE BODIES SHOULD BE REPRESENTED. If you are representing a white body let it be surrounded by ample space, because as white has no colour of its own, it is tinged and altered in some degree by the colour of the objects surrounding it. If you see a woman dressed in white in the midst of a landscape, that side which is towards the sun is bright in colour, so much so that in some portions it will dazzle the eyes like the sun itself; and the side which is towards the atmosphere,--luminous through being interwoven with the sun's rays and penetrated by them--since the atmosphere itself is blue, that side of the woman's figure will appear steeped in blue. If the surface of the ground about her be meadows and if she be standing between a field lighted up by the sun and the sun itself, you will see every portion of those folds which are towards the meadow tinged by the reflected rays with the colour of that meadow. Thus the white is transmuted into the colours of the luminous and of the non-luminous objects near it. The methods of aerial (567--570). 567. WHY FACES [SEEN] AT A DISTANCE LOOK DARK. We see quite plainly that all the images of visible objects that lie before us, whether large or small, reach our sense by the minute aperture of the eye; and if, through so small a passage the image can pass of the vast extent of sky and earth, the face of a man--being by comparison with such large images almost nothing by reason of the distance which diminishes it,--fills up so little of the eye that it is indistinguishable. Having, also, to be transmitted from the surface to the sense through a dark medium, that is to say the crystalline lens which looks dark, this image, not being strong in colour becomes affected by this darkness on its passage, and on reaching the sense it appears dark; no other reason can in any way be assigned. If the point in the eye is black, it is because it is full of a transparent humour as clear as air and acts like a perforation in a board; on looking into it it appears dark and the objects seen through the bright air and a dark one become confused in this darkness. WHY A MAN SEEN AT A CERTAIN DISTANCE IS NOT RECOGNISABLE. The perspective of diminution shows us that the farther away an object is the smaller it looks. If you look at a man at a distance from you of an arrow's flight, and hold the eye of a small needle close to your own eye, you can see through it several men whose images are transmitted to the eye and will all be comprised within the size of the needle's eye; hence, if the man who is at the distance of an arrow's flight can send his whole image to your eye, occupying only a small space in the needle's eye how can you [expect] in so small a figure to distinguish or see the nose or mouth or any detail of his person? and, not seeing these you cannot recognise the man, since these features, which he does not show, are what give men different aspects. 568. THE REASON WHY SMALL FIGURES SHOULD NOT BE MADE FINISHED. I say that the reason that objects appear diminished in size is because they are remote from the eye; this being the case it is evident that there must be a great extent of atmosphere between the eye and the objects, and this air interferes with the distinctness of the forms of the object. Hence the minute details of these objects will be indistinguishable and unrecognisable. Therefore, O Painter, make your smaller figures merely indicated and not highly finished, otherwise you will produce effects the opposite to nature, your supreme guide. The object is small by reason of the great distance between it and the eye, this great distance is filled with air, that mass of air forms a dense body which intervenes and prevents the eye seeing the minute details of objects. 569. Whenever a figure is placed at a considerable distance you lose first the distinctness of the smallest parts; while the larger parts are left to the last, losing all distinctness of detail and outline; and what remains is an oval or spherical figure with confused edges. 570. OF PAINTING. The density of a body of smoke looks white below the horizon while above the horizon it is dark, even if the smoke is in itself of a uniform colour, this uniformity will vary according to the variety in the ground on which it is seen. IV. OF PORTRAIT AND FIGURE PAINTING. Of sketching figures and portraits (571-572). 571. OF THE WAY TO LEARN TO COMPOSE FIGURES [IN GROUPS] IN HISTORICAL PICTURES. When you have well learnt perspective and have by heart the parts and forms of objects, you must go about, and constantly, as you go, observe, note and consider the circumstances and behaviour of men in talking, quarrelling or laughing or fighting together: the action of the men themselves and the actions of the bystanders, who separate them or who look on. And take a note of them with slight strokes thus, in a little book which you should always carry with you. And it should be of tinted paper, that it may not be rubbed out, but change the old [when full] for a new one; since these things should not be rubbed out but preserved with great care; for the forms, and positions of objects are so infinite that the memory is incapable of retaining them, wherefore keep these [sketches] as your guides and masters. [Footnote: Among Leonardo's numerous note books of pocket size not one has coloured paper, so no sketches answering to this description can be pointed out. The fact that most of the notes are written in ink, militates against the supposition that they were made in the open air.] 572. OF A METHOD OF KEEPING IN MIND THE FORM OF A FACE. If you want to acquire facility for bearing in mind the expression of a face, first make yourself familiar with a variety of [forms of] several heads, eyes, noses, mouths, chins and cheeks and necks and shoulders: And to put a case: Noses are of 10 types: straight, bulbous, hollow, prominent above or below the middle, aquiline, regular, flat, round or pointed. These hold good as to profile. In full face they are of 11 types; these are equal thick in the middle, thin in the middle, with the tip thick and the root narrow, or narrow at the tip and wide at the root; with the nostrils wide or narrow, high or low, and the openings wide or hidden by the point; and you will find an equal variety in the other details; which things you must draw from nature and fix them in your mind. Or else, when you have to draw a face by heart, carry with you a little book in which you have noted such features; and when you have cast a glance at the face of the person you wish to draw, you can look, in private, which nose or mouth is most like, or there make a little mark to recognise it again at home. Of grotesque faces I need say nothing, because they are kept in mind without difficulty. The position of the head. 573. HOW YOU SHOULD SET TO WORK TO DRAW A HEAD OF WHICH ALL THE PARTS SHALL AGREE WITH THE POSITION GIVEN TO IT. To draw a head in which the features shall agree with the turn and bend of the head, pursue this method. You know that the eyes, eyebrows, nostrils, corners of the mouth, and sides of the chin, the jaws, cheeks, ears and all the parts of a face are squarely and straightly set upon the face. [Footnote: Compare the drawings and the text belonging to them on Pl. IX. (No. 315), Pl. X (No. 316), Pl. XL (No. 318) and Pl. XII. (No. 319).] Therefore when you have sketched the face draw lines passing from one corner of the eye to the other; and so for the placing of each feature; and after having drawn the ends of the lines beyond the two sides of the face, look if the spaces inside the same parallel lines on the right and on the left are equal [12]. But be sure to remember to make these lines tend to the point of sight. [Footnote: See Pl. XXXI, No. 4, the slight sketch on the left hand side. The text of this passage is written by the side of it. In this sketch the lines seem intentionally incorrect and converging to the right (compare I. 12) instead of parallel. Compare too with this text the drawing in red chalk from Windsor Castle which is reproduced on Pl. XL, No. 2.] Of the light on the face (574-576). 574. HOW TO KNOW WHICH SIDE OF AN OBJECT IS TO BE MORE OR LESS LUMINOUS THAN THE OTHER. Let _f_ be the light, the head will be the object illuminated by it and that side of the head on which the rays fall most directly will be the most highly lighted, and those parts on which the rays fall most aslant will be less lighted. The light falls as a blow might, since a blow which falls perpendicularly falls with the greatest force, and when it falls obliquely it is less forcible than the former in proportion to the width of the angle. _Exempli gratia_ if you throw a ball at a wall of which the extremities are equally far from you the blow will fall straight, and if you throw the ball at the wall when standing at one end of it the ball will hit it obliquely and the blow will not tell. [Footnote: See Pl. XXXI. No. 4; the sketch on the right hand side.] 575. THE PROOF AND REASON WHY AMONG THE ILLUMINATED PARTS CERTAIN PORTIONS ARE IN HIGHER LIGHT THAN OTHERS. Since it is proved that every definite light is, or seems to be, derived from one single point the side illuminated by it will have its highest light on the portion where the line of radiance falls perpendicularly; as is shown above in the lines _a g_, and also in _a h_ and in _l a_; and that portion of the illuminated side will be least luminous, where the line of incidence strikes it between two more dissimilar angles, as is seen at _b c d_. And by this means you may also know which parts are deprived of light as is seen at _m k_. Where the angles made by the lines of incidence are most equal there will be the highest light, and where they are most unequal it will be darkest. I will make further mention of the reason of reflections. [Footnote: See Pl. XXXII. The text, here given complete, is on the right hand side. The small circles above the beginning of lines 5 and 11 as well as the circle above the text on Pl. XXXI, are in a paler ink and evidently added by a later hand in order to distinguish the text as belonging to the _Libro di Pittura_ (see Prolegomena. No. 12, p. 3). The text on the left hand side of this page is given as Nos. 577 and 137.] 576. Where the shadow should be on the face. General suggestions for historical pictures (577-581). 577. When you compose a historical picture take two points, one the point of sight, and the other the source of light; and make this as distant as possible. 578. Historical pictures ought not to be crowded and confused with too many figures. 579. PRECEPTS IN PAINTING. Let you sketches of historical pictures be swift and the working out of the limbs not be carried too far, but limited to the position of the limbs, which you can afterwards finish as you please and at your leisure. [Footnote: See Pl. XXXVIII, No. 2. The pen and ink drawing given there as No. 3 may also be compared with this passage. It is in the Windsor collection where it is numbered 101.] 580. The sorest misfortune is when your views are in advance of your work. 581. Of composing historical pictures. Of not considering the limbs in the figures in historical pictures; as many do who, in the wish to represent the whole of a figure, spoil their compositions. And when you place one figure behind another take care to draw the whole of it so that the limbs which come in front of the nearer figures may stand out in their natural size and place. How to represent the differences of age and sex (582-583). 582. How the ages of man should be depicted: that is, Infancy, Childhood, Youth, Manhood, Old age, Decrepitude. [Footnote: No answer is here given to this question, in the original MS.] 583. Old men ought to be represented with slow and heavy movements, their legs bent at the knees, when they stand still, and their feet placed parallel and apart; bending low with the head leaning forward, and their arms but little extended. Women must be represented in modest attitudes, their legs close together, their arms closely folded, their heads inclined and somewhat on one side. Old women should be represented with eager, swift and furious gestures, like infernal furies; but the action should be more violent in their arms and head than in their legs. Little children, with lively and contorted movements when sitting, and, when standing still, in shy and timid attitudes. [Footnote: _bracci raccolte_. Compare Pl. XXXIII. This drawing, in silver point on yellowish tinted paper, the lights heightened with white, represents two female hands laid together in a lap. Above is a third finished study of a right hand, apparently holding a veil from the head across the bosom. This drawing evidently dates from before 1500 and was very probably done at Florence, perhaps as a preparatory study for some picture. The type of hand with its slender thin forms is more like the style of the _Vierge aux Rochers_ in the Louvre than any later works--as the Mona Lisa for instance.] Of representing the emotions. 584. THAT A FIGURE IS NOT ADMIRABLE UNLESS IT EXPRESSES BY ITS ACTION THE PASSION OF ITS SENTIMENT. That figure is most admirable which by its actions best expresses the passion that animates it. HOW AN ANGRY MAN IS TO BE FIGURED. You must make an angry person holding someone by the hair, wrenching his head against the ground, and with one knee on his ribs; his right arm and fist raised on high. His hair must be thrown up, his brow downcast and knit, his teeth clenched and the two corners of his mouth grimly set; his neck swelled and bent forward as he leans over his foe, and full of furrows. HOW TO REPRESENT A MAN IN DESPAIR. You must show a man in despair with a knife, having already torn open his garments, and with one hand tearing open the wound. And make him standing on his feet and his legs somewhat bent and his whole person leaning towards the earth; his hair flying in disorder. Of representing imaginary animals. 585. HOW YOU SHOULD MAKE AN IMAGINARY ANIMAL LOOK NATURAL. You know that you cannot invent animals without limbs, each of which, in itself, must resemble those of some other animal. Hence if you wish to make an animal, imagined by you, appear natural--let us say a Dragon, take for its head that of a mastiff or hound, with the eyes of a cat, the ears of a porcupine, the nose of a greyhound, the brow of a lion, the temples of an old cock, the neck of a water tortoise. [Footnote: The sketch here inserted of two men on horseback fighting a dragon is the facsimile of a pen and ink drawing belonging to BARON EDMOND DE ROTHSCHILD of Paris.] The selection of forms. 586. OF THE DELUSIONS WHICH ARISE IN JUDGING OF THE LIMBS. A painter who has clumsy hands will paint similar hands in his works, and the same will occur with any limb, unless long study has taught him to avoid it. Therefore, O Painter, look carefully what part is most ill-favoured in your own person and take particular pains to correct it in your studies. For if you are coarse, your figures will seem the same and devoid of charm; and it is the same with any part that may be good or poor in yourself; it will be shown in some degree in your figures. 587. OF THE SELECTION OF BEAUTIFUL FACES. It seems to me to be no small charm in a painter when he gives his figures a pleasing air, and this grace, if he have it not by nature, he may acquire by incidental study in this way: Look about you and take the best parts of many beautiful faces, of which the beauty is confirmed rather by public fame than by your own judgment; for you might be mistaken and choose faces which have some resemblance to your own. For it would seem that such resemblances often please us; and if you should be ugly, you would select faces that were not beautiful and you would then make ugly faces, as many painters do. For often a master's work resembles himself. So select beauties as I tell you, and fix them in your mind. 588. Of the limbs, which ought to be carefully selected, and of all the other parts with regard to painting. 589. When selecting figures you should choose slender ones rather than lean and wooden ones. 590. OF THE MUSCLES OF ANIMALS. The hollow spaces interposed between the muscles must not be of such a character as that the skin should seem to cover two sticks laid side by side like _c_, nor should they seem like two sticks somewhat remote from such contact so that the skin hangs in an empty loose curve as at _f_; but it should be like _i_, laid over the spongy fat that lies in the angles as the angle _n m o_; which angle is formed by the contact of the ends of the muscles and as the skin cannot fold down into such an angle, nature has filled up such angles with a small quantity of spongy and, as I may say, vesicular fat, with minute bladders [in it] full of air, which is condensed or rarefied in them according to the increase or the diminution of the substance of the muscles; in which latter case the concavity _i_ always has a larger curve than the muscle. 591. OF UNDULATING MOVEMENTS AND EQUIPOISE IN FIGURES AND OTHER ANIMALS. When representing a human figure or some graceful animal, be careful to avoid a wooden stiffness; that is to say make them move with equipoise and balance so as not to look like a piece of wood; but those you want to represent as strong you must not make so, excepting in the turn of the head. How to pose figures. 592. OF GRACE IN THE LIMBS. The limbs should be adapted to the body with grace and with reference to the effect that you wish the figure to produce. And if you wish to produce a figure that shall of itself look light and graceful you must make the limbs elegant and extended, and without too much display of the muscles; and those few that are needed for your purpose you must indicate softly, that is, not very prominent and without strong shadows; the limbs, and particularly the arms easy; that is, none of the limbs should be in a straight line with the adjoining parts. And if the hips, which are the pole of a man, are by reason of his position, placed so, that the right is higher than the left, make the point of the higher shoulder in a perpendicular line above the highest prominence of the hip, and let this right shoulder be lower than the left. Let the pit of the throat always be over the centre of the joint of the foot on which the man is leaning. The leg which is free should have the knee lower than the other, and near the other leg. The positions of the head and arms are endless and I shall therefore not enlarge on any rules for them. Still, let them be easy and pleasing, with various turns and twists, and the joints gracefully bent, that they may not look like pieces of wood. Of appropriate gestures (593-600). 593. A picture or representation of human figures, ought to be done in such a way as that the spectator may easily recognise, by means of their attitudes, the purpose in their minds. Thus, if you have to represent a man of noble character in the act of speaking, let his gestures be such as naturally accompany good words; and, in the same way, if you wish to depict a man of a brutal nature, give him fierce movements; as with his arms flung out towards the listener, and his head and breast thrust forward beyond his feet, as if following the speaker's hands. Thus it is with a deaf and dumb person who, when he sees two men in conversation--although he is deprived of hearing--can nevertheless understand, from the attitudes and gestures of the speakers, the nature of their discussion. I once saw in Florence a man who had become deaf who, when you spoke very loud did not understand you, but if you spoke gently and without making any sound, understood merely from the movement of the lips. Now perhaps you will say that the lips of a man who speaks loudly do not move like those of one speaking softly, and that if they were to move them alike they would be alike understood. As to this argument, I leave the decision to experiment; make a man speak to you gently and note [the motion of] his lips. [Footnote: The first ten lines of this text have already been published, but with a slightly different reading by Dr. M. JORDAN: _Das Malerbuch Leonardo da Vinci's_ p. 86.] 594. OF REPRESENTING A MAN SPEAKING TO A MULTITUDE. When you wish to represent a man speaking to a number of people, consider the matter of which he has to treat and adapt his action to the subject. Thus, if he speaks persuasively, let his action be appropriate to it. If the matter in hand be to set forth an argument, let the speaker, with the fingers of the right hand hold one finger of the left hand, having the two smaller ones closed; and his face alert, and turned towards the people with mouth a little open, to look as though he spoke; and if he is sitting let him appear as though about to rise, with his head forward. If you represent him standing make him leaning slightly forward with body and head towards the people. These you must represent as silent and attentive, all looking at the orator's face with gestures of admiration; and make some old men in astonishment at the things they hear, with the corners of their mouths pulled down and drawn in, their cheeks full of furrows, and their eyebrows raised, and wrinkling the forehead where they meet. Again, some sitting with their fingers clasped holding their weary knees. Again, some bent old man, with one knee crossed over the other; on which let him hold his hand with his other elbow resting in it and the hand supporting his bearded chin. [Footnote: The sketches introduced here are a facsimile of a pen and ink drawing in the Louvre which Herr CARL BRUN considers as studies for the Last Supper in the church of _Santa Maria delle Grazie_ (see Leonardo da Vinci, LXI, pp. 21, 27 and 28 in DOHME'S _Kunst und Kunstler_, Leipzig, Seemann). I shall not here enter into any discussion of this suggestion; but as a justification for introducing the drawing in this place, I may point out that some of the figures illustrate this passage as perfectly as though they had been drawn for that express purpose. I have discussed the probability of a connection between this sketch and the picture of the Last Supper on p. 335. The original drawing is 27 3/4 centimetres wide by 21 high.--The drawing in silver point on reddish paper given on Pl. LII. No. 1--the original at Windsor Castle--may also serve to illustrate the subject of appropriate gestures, treated in Nos. 593 and 594.] 595. OF THE DISPOSITION OF LIMBS. As regards the disposition of limbs in movement you will have to consider that when you wish to represent a man who, by some chance, has to turn backwards or to one side, you must not make him move his feet and all his limbs towards the side to which he turns his head. Rather must you make the action proceed by degrees and through the different joints; that is, those of the foot, the knee and the hip and the neck. And if you set him on the right leg, you must make the left knee bend inwards, and let his foot be slightly raised on the outside, and the left shoulder be somewhat lower than the right, while the nape of the neck is in a line directly over the outer ancle of the left foot. And the left shoulder will be in a perpendicular line above the toes of the right foot. And always set your figures so that the side to which the head turns is not the side to which the breast faces, since nature for our convenience has made us with a neck which bends with ease in many directions, the eye wishing to turn to various points, the different joints. And if at any time you make a man sitting with his arms at work on something which is sideways to him, make the upper part of his body turn upon the hips. [Footnote: Compare Pl. VII, No. 5. The original drawing at Windsor Castle is numbered 104.] 596. When you draw the nude always sketch the whole figure and then finish those limbs which seem to you the best, but make them act with the other limbs; otherwise you will get a habit of never putting the limbs well together on the body. Never make the head turn the same way as the torso, nor the arm and leg move together on the same side. And if the face is turned to the right shoulder, make all the parts lower on the left side than on the right; and when you turn the body with the breast outwards, if the head turns to the left side make the parts on the right side higher than those on the left. [Footnote: In the original MS. a much defaced sketch is to be seen by the side of the second part of this chapter; its faded condition has rendered reproduction impossible. In M. RAVAISSON'S facsimile the outlines of the head have probably been touched up. This passage however is fitly illustrated by the drawings on Pl. XXI.] 597. OF PAINTING. Of the nature of movements in man. Do not repeat the same gestures in the limbs of men unless you are compelled by the necessity of their action, as is shown in _a b_. [Footnote: See Pl. V, where part of the text is also reproduced. The effaced figure to the extreme left has evidently been cancelled by Leonardo himself as unsatisfactory.] 598. The motions of men must be such as suggest their dignity or their baseness. 599. OF PAINTING. Make your work carry out your purpose and meaning. That is when you draw a figure consider well who it is and what you wish it to be doing. OF PAINTING. With regard to any action which you give in a picture to an old man or to a young one, you must make it more energetic in the young man in proportion as he is stronger than the old one; and in the same way with a young man and an infant. 600. OF SETTING ON THE LIMBS. The limbs which are used for labour must be muscular and those which are not much used you must make without muscles and softly rounded. OF THE ACTION OF THE FIGURES. Represent your figures in such action as may be fitted to express what purpose is in the mind of each; otherwise your art will not be admirable. V. SUGGESTIONS FOR COMPOSITIONS. Of painting battle pieces (601-603). 601. OF THE WAY OF REPRESENTING A BATTLE. First you must represent the smoke of artillery mingling in the air with the dust and tossed up by the movement of horses and the combatants. And this mixture you must express thus: The dust, being a thing of earth, has weight; and although from its fineness it is easily tossed up and mingles with the air, it nevertheless readily falls again. It is the finest part that rises highest; hence that part will be least seen and will look almost of the same colour as the air. The higher the smoke mixed with the dust-laden air rises towards a certain level, the more it will look like a dark cloud; and it will be seen that at the top, where the smoke is more separate from the dust, the smoke will assume a bluish tinge and the dust will tend to its colour. This mixture of air, smoke and dust will look much lighter on the side whence the light comes than on the opposite side. The more the combatants are in this turmoil the less will they be seen, and the less contrast will there be in their lights and shadows. Their faces and figures and their appearance, and the musketeers as well as those near them you must make of a glowing red. And this glow will diminish in proportion as it is remote from its cause. The figures which are between you and the light, if they be at a distance, will appear dark on a light background, and the lower part of their legs near the ground will be least visible, because there the dust is coarsest and densest [19]. And if you introduce horses galloping outside the crowd, make the little clouds of dust distant from each other in proportion to the strides made by the horses; and the clouds which are furthest removed from the horses, should be least visible; make them high and spreading and thin, and the nearer ones will be more conspicuous and smaller and denser [23]. The air must be full of arrows in every direction, some shooting upwards, some falling, some flying level. The balls from the guns must have a train of smoke following their flight. The figures in the foreground you must make with dust on the hair and eyebrows and on other flat places likely to retain it. The conquerors you will make rushing onwards with their hair and other light things flying on the wind, with their brows bent down, [Footnote: 19--23. Compare 608. 57--75.] 602. and with the opposite limbs thrust forward; that is where a man puts forward the right foot the left arm must be advanced. And if you make any one fallen, you must show the place where he has slipped and been dragged along the dust into blood stained mire; and in the half-liquid earth arround show the print of the tramping of men and horses who have passed that way. Make also a horse dragging the dead body of his master, and leaving behind him, in the dust and mud, the track where the body was dragged along. You must make the conquered and beaten pale, their brows raised and knit, and the skin above their brows furrowed with pain, the sides of the nose with wrinkles going in an arch from the nostrils to the eyes, and make the nostrils drawn up--which is the cause of the lines of which I speak--, and the lips arched upwards and discovering the upper teeth; and the teeth apart as with crying out and lamentation. And make some one shielding his terrified eyes with one hand, the palm towards the enemy, while the other rests on the ground to support his half raised body. Others represent shouting with their mouths open, and running away. You must scatter arms of all sorts among the feet of the combatants, as broken shields, lances, broken swords and other such objects. And you must make the dead partly or entirely covered with dust, which is changed into crimson mire where it has mingled with the flowing blood whose colour shows it issuing in a sinuous stream from the corpse. Others must be represented in the agonies of death grinding their teeth, rolling their eyes, with their fists clenched against their bodies and their legs contorted. Some might be shown disarmed and beaten down by the enemy, turning upon the foe, with teeth and nails, to take an inhuman and bitter revenge. You might see some riderless horse rushing among the enemy, with his mane flying in the wind, and doing no little mischief with his heels. Some maimed warrior may be seen fallen to the earth, covering himself with his shield, while the enemy, bending over him, tries to deal him a deathstroke. There again might be seen a number of men fallen in a heap over a dead horse. You would see some of the victors leaving the fight and issuing from the crowd, rubbing their eyes and cheeks with both hands to clean them of the dirt made by their watering eyes smarting from the dust and smoke. The reserves may be seen standing, hopeful but cautious; with watchful eyes, shading them with their hands and gazing through the dense and murky confusion, attentive to the commands of their captain. The captain himself, his staff raised, hurries towards these auxiliaries, pointing to the spot where they are most needed. And there may be a river into which horses are galloping, churning up the water all round them into turbulent waves of foam and water, tossed into the air and among the legs and bodies of the horses. And there must not be a level spot that is not trampled with gore. 603. OF LIGHTING THE LOWER PARTS OF BODIES CLOSE TOGETHER, AS OF MEN IN BATTLE. As to men and horses represented in battle, their different parts will be dark in proportion as they are nearer to the ground on which they stand. And this is proved by the sides of wells which grow darker in proportion to their depth, the reason of which is that the deepest part of the well sees and receives a smaller amount of the luminous atmosphere than any other part. And the pavement, if it be of the same colour as the legs of these said men and horses, will always be more lighted and at a more direct angle than the said legs &c. 604. OF THE WAY TO REPRESENT A NIGHT [SCENE]. That which is entirely bereft of light is all darkness; given a night under these conditions and that you want to represent a night scene,--arrange that there shall be a great fire, then the objects which are nearest to this fire will be most tinged with its colour; for those objects which are nearest to a coloured light participate most in its nature; as therefore you give the fire a red colour, you must make all the objects illuminated by it ruddy; while those which are farther from the fire are more tinted by the black hue of night. The figures which are seen against the fire look dark in the glare of the firelight because that side of the objects which you see is tinged by the darkness of the night and not by the fire; and those who stand at the side are half dark and half red; while those who are visible beyond the edges of the flame will be fully lighted by the ruddy glow against a black background. As to their gestures, make those which are near it screen themselves with their hands and cloaks as a defence against the intense heat, and with their faces turned away as if about to retire. Of those farther off represent several as raising their hands to screen their eyes, hurt by the intolerable glare. Of depicting a tempest (605. 606). 605. Describe a wind on land and at sea. Describe a storm of rain. 606. HOW TO REPRESENT A TEMPEST. If you wish to represent a tempest consider and arrange well its effects as seen, when the wind, blowing over the face of the sea and earth, removes and carries with it such things as are not fixed to the general mass. And to represent the storm accurately you must first show the clouds scattered and torn, and flying with the wind, accompanied by clouds of sand blown up from the sea shore, and boughs and leaves swept along by the strength and fury of the blast and scattered with other light objects through the air. Trees and plants must be bent to the ground, almost as if they would follow the course of the gale, with their branches twisted out of their natural growth and their leaves tossed and turned about [Footnote 11: See Pl. XL, No. 2.]. Of the men who are there some must have fallen to the ground and be entangled in their garments, and hardly to be recognized for the dust, while those who remain standing may be behind some tree, with their arms round it that the wind may not tear them away; others with their hands over their eyes for the dust, bending to the ground with their clothes and hair streaming in the wind. [Footnote 15: See Pl. XXXIV, the right hand lower sketch.] Let the sea be rough and tempestuous and full of foam whirled among the lofty waves, while the wind flings the lighter spray through the stormy air, till it resembles a dense and swathing mist. Of the ships that are therein some should be shown with rent sails and the tatters fluttering through the air, with ropes broken and masts split and fallen. And the ship itself lying in the trough of the sea and wrecked by the fury of the waves with the men shrieking and clinging to the fragments of the vessel. Make the clouds driven by the impetuosity of the wind and flung against the lofty mountain tops, and wreathed and torn like waves beating upon rocks; the air itself terrible from the deep darkness caused by the dust and fog and heavy clouds. Of representing the deluge (607-609). 607. TO REPRESENT THE DELUGE. The air was darkened by the heavy rain whose oblique descent driven aslant by the rush of the winds, flew in drifts through the air not otherwise than as we see dust, varied only by the straight lines of the heavy drops of falling water. But it was tinged with the colour of the fire kindled by the thunder-bolts by which the clouds were rent and shattered; and whose flashes revealed the broad waters of the inundated valleys, above which was seen the verdure of the bending tree tops. Neptune will be seen in the midst of the water with his trident, and [15] let AEolus with his winds be shown entangling the trees floating uprooted, and whirling in the huge waves. The horizon and the whole hemisphere were obscure, but lurid from the flashes of the incessant lightning. Men and birds might be seen crowded on the tall trees which remained uncovered by the swelling waters, originators of the mountains which surround the great abysses [Footnote 23: Compare Vol. II. No. 979.]. 608. OF THE DELUGE AND HOW TO REPRESENT IT IN A PICTURE. Let the dark and gloomy air be seen buffeted by the rush of contrary winds and dense from the continued rain mingled with hail and bearing hither and thither an infinite number of branches torn from the trees and mixed with numberless leaves. All round may be seen venerable trees, uprooted and stripped by the fury of the winds; and fragments of mountains, already scoured bare by the torrents, falling into those torrents and choking their valleys till the swollen rivers overflow and submerge the wide lowlands and their inhabitants. Again, you might have seen on many of the hill-tops terrified animals of different kinds, collected together and subdued to tameness, in company with men and women who had fled there with their children. The waters which covered the fields, with their waves were in great part strewn with tables, bedsteads, boats and various other contrivances made from necessity and the fear of death, on which were men and women with their children amid sounds of lamentation and weeping, terrified by the fury of the winds which with their tempestuous violence rolled the waters under and over and about the bodies of the drowned. Nor was there any object lighter than the water which was not covered with a variety of animals which, having come to a truce, stood together in a frightened crowd--among them wolves, foxes, snakes and others--fleing from death. And all the waters dashing on their shores seemed to be battling them with the blows of drowned bodies, blows which killed those in whom any life remained [19]. You might have seen assemblages of men who, with weapons in their hands, defended the small spots that remained to them against lions, wolves and beasts of prey who sought safety there. Ah! what dreadful noises were heard in the air rent by the fury of the thunder and the lightnings it flashed forth, which darted from the clouds dealing ruin and striking all that opposed its course. Ah! how many you might have seen closing their ears with their hands to shut out the tremendous sounds made in the darkened air by the raging of the winds mingling with the rain, the thunders of heaven and the fury of the thunder-bolts. Others were not content with shutting their eyes, but laid their hands one over the other to cover them the closer that they might not see the cruel slaughter of the human race by the wrath of God. Ah! how many laments! and how many in their terror flung themselves from the rocks! Huge branches of great oaks loaded with men were seen borne through the air by the impetuous fury of the winds. How many were the boats upset, some entire, and some broken in pieces, on the top of people labouring to escape with gestures and actions of grief foretelling a fearful death. Others, with desperate act, took their own lives, hopeless of being able to endure such suffering; and of these, some flung themselves from lofty rocks, others strangled themselves with their own hands, other seized their own children and violently slew them at a blow; some wounded and killed themselves with their own weapons; others, falling on their knees recommended themselves to God. Ah! how many mothers wept over their drowned sons, holding them upon their knees, with arms raised spread out towards heaven and with words and various threatening gestures, upbraiding the wrath of the gods. Others with clasped hands and fingers clenched gnawed them and devoured them till they bled, crouching with their breast down on their knees in their intense and unbearable anguish. Herds of animals were to be seen, such as horses, oxen, goats and swine already environed by the waters and left isolated on the high peaks of the mountains, huddled together, those in the middle climbing to the top and treading on the others, and fighting fiercely themselves; and many would die for lack of food. Already had the birds begun to settle on men and on other animals, finding no land uncovered which was not occupied by living beings, and already had famine, the minister of death, taken the lives of the greater number of the animals, when the dead bodies, now fermented, where leaving the depth of the waters and were rising to the top. Among the buffeting waves, where they were beating one against the other, and, like as balls full of air, rebounded from the point of concussion, these found a resting place on the bodies of the dead. And above these judgements, the air was seen covered with dark clouds, riven by the forked flashes of the raging bolts of heaven, lighting up on all sides the depth of the gloom. The motion of the air is seen by the motion of the dust thrown up by the horse's running and this motion is as swift in again filling up the vacuum left in the air which enclosed the horse, as he is rapid in passing away from the air. Perhaps it will seem to you that you may reproach me with having represented the currents made through the air by the motion of the wind notwithstanding that the wind itself is not visible in the air. To this I must answer that it is not the motion of the wind but only the motion of the things carried along by it which is seen in the air. THE DIVISIONS. [Footnote 76: These observations, added at the bottom of the page containing the full description of the doluge seem to indicate that it was Leonardo's intention to elaborate the subject still farther in a separate treatise.] Darkness, wind, tempest at sea, floods of water, forests on fire, rain, bolts from heaven, earthquakes and ruins of mountains, overthrow of cities [Footnote 81: _Spianamenti di citta_ (overthrow of cities). A considerable number of drawings in black chalk, at Windsor, illustrate this catastrophe. Most of them are much rubbed; one of the least injured is reproduced at Pl. XXXIX. Compare also the pen and ink sketch Pl. XXXVI.]. Whirlwinds which carry water [spouts] branches of trees, and men through the air. Boughs stripped off by the winds, mingling by the meeting of the winds, with people upon them. Broken trees loaded with people. Ships broken to pieces, beaten on rocks. Flocks of sheep. Hail stones, thunderbolts, whirlwinds. People on trees which are unable to to support them; trees and rocks, towers and hills covered with people, boats, tables, troughs, and other means of floating. Hills covered with men, women and animals; and lightning from the clouds illuminating every thing. [Footnote: This chapter, which, with the next one, is written on a loose sheet, seems to be the passage to which one of the compilers of the Vatican copy alluded when he wrote on the margin of fol. 36: "_Qua mi ricordo della mirabile discritione del Diluuio dello autore._" It is scarcely necessary to point out that these chapters are among those which have never before been published. The description in No. 607 may be regarded as a preliminary sketch for this one. As the MS. G. (in which it is to be found) must be attributed to the period of about 1515 we may deduce from it the approximate date of the drawings on Pl. XXXIV, XXXV, Nos. 2 and 3, XXXVI and XXXVII, since they obviously belong to this text. The drawings No. 2 on Pl. XXXV are, in the original, side by side with the text of No. 608; lines 57 to 76 are shown in the facsimile. In the drawing in Indian ink given on Pl. XXXIV we see Wind-gods in the sky, corresponding to the allusion to Aeolus in No. 607 1. 15.-Plates XXXVI and XXXVII form one sheet in the original. The texts reproduced on these Plates have however no connection with the sketches, excepting the sketches of clouds on the right hand side. These texts are given as No. 477. The group of small figures on Pl. XXXVII, to the left, seems to be intended for a '_congregatione d'uomini._' See No. 608, 1. 19.] 609. DESCRIPTION OF THE DELUGE. Let there be first represented the summit of a rugged mountain with valleys surrounding its base, and on its sides let the surface of the soil be seen to slide, together with the small roots of the bushes, denuding great portions of the surrounding rocks. And descending ruinous from these precipices in its boisterous course, let it dash along and lay bare the twisted and gnarled roots of large trees overthrowing their roots upwards; and let the mountains, as they are scoured bare, discover the profound fissures made in them by ancient earthquakes. The base of the mountains may be in great part clothed and covered with ruins of shrubs, hurled down from the sides of their lofty peaks, which will be mixed with mud, roots, boughs of trees, with all sorts of leaves thrust in with the mud and earth and stones. And into the depth of some valley may have fallen the fragments of a mountain forming a shore to the swollen waters of its river; which, having already burst its banks, will rush on in monstrous waves; and the greatest will strike upon and destroy the walls of the cities and farmhouses in the valley [14]. Then the ruins of the high buildings in these cities will throw up a great dust, rising up in shape like smoke or wreathed clouds against the falling rain; But the swollen waters will sweep round the pool which contains them striking in eddying whirlpools against the different obstacles, and leaping into the air in muddy foam; then, falling back, the beaten water will again be dashed into the air. And the whirling waves which fly from the place of concussion, and whose impetus moves them across other eddies going in a contrary direction, after their recoil will be tossed up into the air but without dashing off from the surface. Where the water issues from the pool the spent waves will be seen spreading out towards the outlet; and there falling or pouring through the air and gaining weight and impetus they will strike on the water below piercing it and rushing furiously to reach its depth; from which being thrown back it returns to the surface of the lake, carrying up the air that was submerged with it; and this remains at the outlet in foam mingled with logs of wood and other matters lighter than water. Round these again are formed the beginnings of waves which increase the more in circumference as they acquire more movement; and this movement rises less high in proportion as they acquire a broader base and thus they are less conspicuous as they die away. But if these waves rebound from various objects they then return in direct opposition to the others following them, observing the same law of increase in their curve as they have already acquired in the movement they started with. The rain, as it falls from the clouds is of the same colour as those clouds, that is in its shaded side; unless indeed the sun's rays should break through them; in that case the rain will appear less dark than the clouds. And if the heavy masses of ruin of large mountains or of other grand buildings fall into the vast pools of water, a great quantity will be flung into the air and its movement will be in a contrary direction to that of the object which struck the water; that is to say: The angle of reflection will be equal to the angle of incidence. Of the objects carried down by the current, those which are heaviest or rather largest in mass will keep farthest from the two opposite shores. The water in the eddies revolves more swiftly in proportion as it is nearer to their centre. The crests of the waves of the sea tumble to their bases falling with friction on the bubbles of their sides; and this friction grinds the falling water into minute particles and this being converted into a dense mist, mingles with the gale in the manner of curling smoke and wreathing clouds, and at last it, rises into the air and is converted into clouds. But the rain which falls through the atmosphere being driven and tossed by the winds becomes rarer or denser according to the rarity or density of the winds that buffet it, and thus there is generated in the atmosphere a moisture formed of the transparent particles of the rain which is near to the eye of the spectator. The waves of the sea which break on the slope of the mountains which bound it, will foam from the velocity with which they fall against these hills; in rushing back they will meet the next wave as it comes and and after a loud noise return in a great flood to the sea whence they came. Let great numbers of inhabitants--men and animals of all kinds--be seen driven [54] by the rising of the deluge to the peaks of the mountains in the midst of the waters aforesaid. The wave of the sea at Piombino is all foaming water. [Footnote 55. 56: These two lines are written below the bottom sketch on Pl. XXXV, 3. The MS. Leic. being written about the year 1510 or later, it does not seem to me to follow that the sketches must have been made at Piombino, where Leonardo was in the year 1502 and possibly returned there subsequently (see Vol. II. Topographical notes).] Of the water which leaps up from the spot where great masses fall on its surface. Of the winds of Piombino at Piombino. Eddies of wind and rain with boughs and shrubs mixed in the air. Emptying the boats of the rain water. [Footnote: The sketches on Pl. XXXV 3 stand by the side of lines 14 to 54.] Of depicting natural phenomena (610. 611). 610. The tremendous fury of the wind driven by the falling in of the hills on the caves within--by the falling of the hills which served as roofs to these caverns. A stone flung through the air leaves on the eye which sees it the impression of its motion, and the same effect is produced by the drops of water which fall from the clouds when it [16] rains. [17] A mountain falling on a town, will fling up dust in the form of clouds; but the colour of this dust will differ from that of the clouds. Where the rain is thickest let the colour of the dust be less conspicuous and where the dust is thickest let the rain be less conspicuous. And where the rain is mingled with the wind and with the dust the clouds created by the rain must be more transparent than those of dust [alone]. And when flames of fire are mingled with clouds of smoke and water very opaque and dark clouds will be formed [Footnote 26-28: Compare Pl. XL, 1--the drawing in Indian ink on the left hand side, which seems to be a reminiscence of his observations of an eruption (see his remarks on Mount Etna in Vol II).]. And the rest of this subject will be treated in detail in the book on painting. [Footnote: See the sketches and text on Pl. XXXVIII, No. 1. Lines 1-16 are there given on the left hand side, 17-30 on the right. The four lines at the bottom on the right are given as No. 472. Above these texts, which are written backwards, there are in the original sixteen lines in a larger writing from left to right, but only half of this is here visible. They treat of the physical laws of motion of air and water. It does not seem to me that there is any reason for concluding that this writing from left to right is spurious. Compare with it the facsimile of the rough copy of Leonardo's letter to Ludovico il Moro in Vol. II.] 611. People were to be seen eagerly embarking victuals on various kinds of hastily made barks. But little of the waves were visible in those places where the dark clouds and rain were reflected. But where the flashes caused by the bolts of heaven were reflected, there were seen as many bright spots, caused by the image of the flashes, as there were waves to reflect them to the eye of the spectator. The number of the images produced by the flash of lightning on the waves of the water were multiplied in proportion to the distance of the spectator's eye. So also the number of the images was diminished in proportion as they were nearer the eye which saw them [Footnote 22. 23: _Com'e provato_. See Vol. II, Nos. 874-878 and 892-901], as it has been proved in the definition of the luminosity of the moon, and of our marine horizon when the sun's rays are reflected in it and the eye which receives the reflection is remote from the sea. VI. THE ARTIST'S MATERIALS. Of chalk and paper (612--617). 612. To make points [crayons] for colouring dry. Temper with a little wax and do not dry it; which wax you must dissolve with water: so that when the white lead is thus tempered, the water being distilled, may go off in vapour and the wax may remain; you will thus make good crayons; but you must know that the colours must be ground with a hot stone. 613. Chalk dissolves in wine and in vinegar or in aqua fortis and can be recombined with gum. 614. PAPER FOR DRAWING UPON IN BLACK BY THE AID OF YOUR SPITTLE. Take powdered gall nuts and vitriol, powder them and spread them on paper like a varnish, then write on it with a pen wetted with spittle and it will turn as black as ink. 615. If you want to make foreshortened letters stretch the paper in a drawing frame and then draw your letters and cut them out, and make the sunbeams pass through the holes on to another stretched paper, and then fill up the angles that are wanting. 616. This paper should be painted over with candle soot tempered with thin glue, then smear the leaf thinly with white lead in oil as is done to the letters in printing, and then print in the ordinary way. Thus the leaf will appear shaded in the hollows and lighted on the parts in relief; which however comes out here just the contrary. [Footnote: This text, which accompanies a facsimile impression of a leaf of sage, has already been published in the _Saggio delle Opere di L. da Vinci_, Milano 1872, p. 11. G. GOVI observes on this passage: "_Forse aveva egli pensato ancora a farsi un erbario, od almeno a riprodurre facilmente su carta le forme e i particolari delle foglie di diverse piante; poiche (modificando un metodo che probabilmente gli eia stato insegnato da altri, e che piu tardi si legge ripetuto in molti ricettarii e libri di segreti), accanto a una foglia di Salvia impressa in nero su carta bianca, lascio scritto: Questa carta ... Erano i primi tentativi di quella riproduzione immediata delle parti vegetali, che poi sotto il nome d'Impressione Naturale, fu condotta a tanta perfezione in questi ultimi tempi dal signor de Hauer e da altri_."] 617. Very excellent will be a stiff white paper, made of the usual mixture and filtered milk of an herb called calves foot; and when this paper is prepared and damped and folded and wrapped up it may be mixed with the mixture and thus left to dry; but if you break it before it is moistened it becomes somewhat like the thin paste called _lasagne_ and you may then damp it and wrap it up and put it in the mixture and leave it to dry; or again this paper may be covered with stiff transparent white and _sardonio_ and then damped so that it may not form angles and then covered up with strong transparent size and as soon as it is firm cut it two fingers, and leave it to dry; again you may make stiff cardboard of _sardonio_ and dry it and then place it between two sheets of papyrus and break it inside with a wooden mallet with a handle and then open it with care holding the lower sheet of paper flat and firm so that the broken pieces be not separated; then have a sheet of paper covered with hot glue and apply it on the top of all these pieces and let them stick fast; then turn it upside down and apply transparent size several times in the spaces between the pieces, each time pouring in first some black and then some stiff white and each time leaving it to dry; then smooth it and polish it. On the preparation and use of colours (618-627). 618. To make a fine green take green and mix it with bitumen and you will make the shadows darker. Then, for lighter [shades] green with yellow ochre, and for still lighter green with yellow, and for the high lights pure yellow; then mix green and turmeric together and glaze every thing with it. To make a fine red take cinnabar or red chalk or burnt ochre for the dark shadows and for the lighter ones red chalk and vermilion and for the lights pure vermilion and then glaze with fine lake. To make good oil for painting. One part of oil, one of the first refining and one of the second. 619. Use black in the shadow, and in the lights white, yellow, green, vermilion and lake. Medium shadows; take the shadow as above and mix it with the flesh tints just alluded to, adding to it a little yellow and a little green and occasionally some lake; for the shadows take green and lake for the middle shades. [Footnote 618 and 619: If we may judge from the flourishes with which the writing is ornamented these passages must have been written in Leonardo's youth.] 620. You can make a fine ochre by the same method as you use to make white. 621. A FINE YELLOW. Dissolve realgar with one part of orpiment, with aqua fortis. WHITE. Put the white into an earthen pot, and lay it no thicker than a string, and let it stand in the sun undisturbed for 2 days; and in the morning when the sun has dried off the night dews. 622. To make reddish black for flesh tints take red rock crystals from Rocca Nova or garnets and mix them a little; again armenian bole is good in part. 623. The shadow will be burnt ,terra-verte'. 624. THE PROPORTIONS OF COLOURS. If one ounce of black mixed with one ounce of white gives a certain shade of darkness, what shade of darkness will be produced by 2 ounces of black to 1 ounce of white? 625. Remix black, greenish yellow and at the end blue. 626. Verdigris with aloes, or gall or turmeric makes a fine green and so it does with saffron or burnt orpiment; but I doubt whether in a short time they will not turn black. Ultramarine blue and glass yellow mixed together make a beautiful green for fresco, that is wall-painting. Lac and verdigris make a good shadow for blue in oil painting. 627. Grind verdigris many times coloured with lemon juice and keep it away from yellow (?). Of preparing the panel. 628. TO PREPARE A PANEL FOR PAINTING ON. The panel should be cypress or pear or service-tree or walnut. You must coat it over with mastic and turpentine twice distilled and white or, if you like, lime, and put it in a frame so that it may expand and shrink according to its moisture and dryness. Then give it [a coat] of aqua vitae in which you have dissolved arsenic or [corrosive] sublimate, 2 or 3 times. Then apply boiled linseed oil in such a way as that it may penetrate every part, and before it is cold rub it well with a cloth to dry it. Over this apply liquid varnish and white with a stick, then wash it with urine when it is dry, and dry it again. Then pounce and outline your drawing finely and over it lay a priming of 30 parts of verdigris with one of verdigris with two of yellow. [Footnote: M. RAVAISSON'S reading varies from mine in the following passages: 1._opero allor [?] bo [alloro?]_ = "_ou bien de [laurier]_." 6. _fregalo bene con un panno_. He reads _pane_ for _panno_ and renders it. "_Frotte le bien avec un pain de facon [jusqu'a ce] qu'il_" etc. 7. _colla stecca po laua_. He reads "_polacca_" = "_avec le couteau de bois [?] polonais [?]_."] The preparation of oils (629--634). 629. OIL. Make some oil of mustard seed; and if you wish to make it with greater ease mix the ground seeds with linseed oil and put it all under the press. 630. TO REMOVE THE SMELL OF OIL. Take the rank oil and put ten pints into a jar and make a mark on the jar at the height of the oil; then add to it a pint of vinegar and make it boil till the oil has sunk to the level of the mark and thus you will be certain that the oil is returned to its original quantity and the vinegar will have gone off in vapour, carrying with it the evil smell; and I believe you may do the same with nut oil or any other oil that smells badly. 631. Since walnuts are enveloped in a thin rind, which partakes of the nature of ..., if you do not remove it when you make the oil from them, this skin tinges the oil, and when you work with it this skin separates from the oil and rises to the surface of the painting, and this is what makes it change. 632. TO RESTORE OIL COLOURS THAT HAVE BECOME DRY. If you want to restore oil colours that have become dry keep them soaking in soft soap for a night and, with your finger, mix them up with the soft soap; then pour them into a cup and wash them with water, and in this way you can restore colours that have got dry. But take care that each colour has its own vessel to itself adding the colour by degrees as you restore it and mind that they are thoroughly softened, and when you wish to use them for tempera wash them five and six times with spring water, and leave them to settle; if the soft soap should be thick with any of the colours pass it through a filter. [Footnote: The same remark applies to these sections as to No. 618 and 619.] 633. OIL. Mustard seed pounded with linseed oil. 634. ... outside the bowl 2 fingers lower than the level of the oil, and pass it into the neck of a bottle and let it stand and thus all the oil will separate from this milky liquid; it will enter the bottle and be as clear as crystal; and grind your colours with this, and every coarse or viscid part will remain in the liquid. You must know that all the oils that have been created in seads or fruits are quite clear by nature, and the yellow colour you see in them only comes of your not knowing how to draw it out. Fire or heat by its nature has the power to make them acquire colour. See for example the exudation or gums of trees which partake of the nature of rosin; in a short time they harden because there is more heat in them than in oil; and after some time they acquire a certain yellow hue tending to black. But oil, not having so much heat does not do so; although it hardens to some extent into sediment it becomes finer. The change in oil which occurs in painting proceeds from a certain fungus of the nature of a husk which exists in the skin which covers the nut, and this being crushed along with the nuts and being of a nature much resembling oil mixes with it; it is of so subtle a nature that it combines with all colours and then comes to the surface, and this it is which makes them change. And if you want the oil to be good and not to thicken, put into it a little camphor melted over a slow fire and mix it well with the oil and it will never harden. [Footnote: The same remark applies to these sections as to No. 618 and 619.] On varnishes [or powders] (635-637). 635. VARNISH [OR POWDER]. Take cypress [oil] and distil it and have a large pitcher, and put in the extract with so much water as may make it appear like amber, and cover it tightly so that none may evaporate. And when it is dissolved you may add in your pitcher as much of the said solution, as shall make it liquid to your taste. And you must know that amber is the gum of the cypress-tree. VARNISH [OR POWDER]. And since varnish [powder] is the resin of juniper, if you distil juniper you can dissolve the said varnish [powder] in the essence, as explained above. 636. VARNISH [OR POWDER]. Notch a juniper tree and give it water at the roots, mix the liquor which exudes with nut-oil and you will have a perfect varnish [powder], made like amber varnish [powder], fine and of the best quality make it in May or April. 637. VARNISH [OR POWDER]. Mercury with Jupiter and Venus,--a paste made of these must be corrected by the mould (?) continuously, until Mercury separates itself entirely from Jupiter and Venus. [Footnote: Here, and in No. 641 _Mercurio_ seems to mean quicksilver, _Giove_ stands for iron, _Venere_ for copper and _Saturno_ for lead.] On chemical materials (638-650). 638. Note how aqua vitae absorbs into itself all the colours and smells of flowers. If you want to make blue put iris flowers into it and for red solanum berries (?) 639. Salt may be made from human excrement burnt and calcined and made into lees, and dried by a slow fire, and all dung in like manner yields salt, and these salts when distilled are very pungent. 640. Sea water filtered through mud or clay, leaves all its saltness in it. Woollen stuffs placed on board ship absorb fresh water. If sea water is distilled under a retort it becomes of the first excellence and any one who has a little stove in his kitchen can, with the same wood as he cooks with, distil a great quantity of water if the retort is a large one. 641. MOULD(?). The mould (?) may be of Venus, or of Jupiter and Saturn and placed frequently in the fire. And it should be worked with fine emery and the mould (?) should be of Venus and Jupiter impasted over (?) Venus. But first you will test Venus and Mercury mixed with Jove, and take means to cause Mercury to disperse; and then fold them well together so that Venus or Jupiter be connected as thinly as possible. [Footnote: See the note to 637.] 642. Nitre, vitriol, cinnabar, alum, salt ammoniac, sublimated mercury, rock salt, alcali salt, common salt, rock alum, alum schist (?), arsenic, sublimate, realgar, tartar, orpiment, verdegris. 643. Pitch four ounces virgin wax, four ounces incense, two ounces oil of roses one ounce. 644. Four ounces virgin wax, four ounces Greek pitch, two ounces incense, one ounce oil of roses, first melt the wax and oil then the Greek pitch then the other things in powder. 645. Very thin glass may be cut with scissors and when placed over inlaid work of bone, gilt, or stained of other colours you can saw it through together with the bone and then put it together and it will retain a lustre that will not be scratched nor worn away by rubbing with the hand. 646. TO DILUTE WHITE WINE AND MAKE IT PURPLE. Powder gall nuts and let this stand 8 days in the white wine; and in the same way dissolve vitriol in water, and let the water stand and settle very clear, and the wine likewise, each by itself, and strain them well; and when you dilute the white wine with the water the wine will become red. 647. Put marcasite into aqua fortis and if it turns green, know that it has copper in it. Take it out with saltpetre and soft soap. 648. A white horse may have the spots removed with the Spanish haematite or with aqua fortis or with ... Removes the black hair on a white horse with the singeing iron. Force him to the ground. 649. FIRE. If you want to make a fire which will set a hall in a blaze without injury do this: first perfume the hall with a dense smoke of incense or some other odoriferous substance: It is a good trick to play. Or boil ten pounds of brandy to evaporate, but see that the hall is completely closed and throw up some powdered varnish among the fumes and this powder will be supported by the smoke; then go into the room suddenly with a lighted torch and at once it will be in a blaze. 650. FIRE. Take away that yellow surface which covers oranges and distill them in an alembic, until the distillation may be said to be perfect. FIRE. Close a room tightly and have a brasier of brass or iron with fire in it and sprinkle on it two pints of aqua vitae, a little at a time, so that it may be converted into smoke. Then make some one come in with a light and suddenly you will see the room in a blaze like a flash of lightning, and it will do no harm to any one. VII. PHILOSOPHY AND HISTORY OF THE ART OF PAINTING. The relation of art and nature (651. 652). 651. What is fair in men, passes away, but not so in art. 652. HE WHO DESPISES PAINTING LOVES NEITHER PHILOSOPHY NOR NATURE. If you condemn painting, which is the only imitator of all visible works of nature, you will certainly despise a subtle invention which brings philosophy and subtle speculation to the consideration of the nature of all forms--seas and plains, trees, animals, plants and flowers--which are surrounded by shade and light. And this is true knowledge and the legitimate issue of nature; for painting is born of nature--or, to speak more correctly, we will say it is the grandchild of nature; for all visible things are produced by nature, and these her children have given birth to painting. Hence we may justly call it the grandchild of nature and related to God. Painting is superior to poetry (653. 654). 653. THAT PAINTING SURPASSES ALL HUMAN WORKS BY THE SUBTLE CONSIDERATIONS BELONGING TO IT. The eye, which is called the window of the soul, is the principal means by which the central sense can most completely and abundantly appreciate the infinite works of nature; and the ear is the second, which acquires dignity by hearing of the things the eye has seen. If you, historians, or poets, or mathematicians had not seen things with your eyes you could not report of them in writing. And if you, 0 poet, tell a story with your pen, the painter with his brush can tell it more easily, with simpler completeness and less tedious to be understood. And if you call painting dumb poetry, the painter may call poetry blind painting. Now which is the worse defect? to be blind or dumb? Though the poet is as free as the painter in the invention of his fictions they are not so satisfactory to men as paintings; for, though poetry is able to describe forms, actions and places in words, the painter deals with the actual similitude of the forms, in order to represent them. Now tell me which is the nearer to the actual man: the name of man or the image of the man. The name of man differs in different countries, but his form is never changed but by death. 654. And if the poet gratifies the sense by means of the ear, the painter does so by the eye--the worthier sense; but I will say no more of this but that, if a good painter represents the fury of a battle, and if a poet describes one, and they are both together put before the public, you will see where most of the spectators will stop, to which they will pay most attention, on which they will bestow most praise, and which will satisfy them best. Undoubtedly painting being by a long way the more intelligible and beautiful, will please most. Write up the name of God [Christ] in some spot and setup His image opposite and you will see which will be most reverenced. Painting comprehends in itself all the forms of nature, while you have nothing but words, which are not universal as form is, and if you have the effects of the representation, we have the representation of the effects. Take a poet who describes the beauty of a lady to her lover and a painter who represents her and you will see to which nature guides the enamoured critic. Certainly the proof should be allowed to rest on the verdict of experience. You have ranked painting among the mechanical arts but, in truth, if painters were as apt at praising their own works in writing as you are, it would not lie under the stigma of so base a name. If you call it mechanical because it is, in the first place, manual, and that it is the hand which produces what is to be found in the imagination, you too writers, who set down manually with the pen what is devised in your mind. And if you say it is mechanical because it is done for money, who falls into this error--if error it can be called--more than you? If you lecture in the schools do you not go to whoever pays you most? Do you do any work without pay? Still, I do not say this as blaming such views, for every form of labour looks for its reward. And if a poet should say: "I will invent a fiction with a great purpose," the painter can do the same, as Apelles painted Calumny. If you were to say that poetry is more eternal, I say the works of a coppersmith are more eternal still, for time preserves them longer than your works or ours; nevertheless they have not much imagination [29]. And a picture, if painted on copper with enamel colours may be yet more permanent. We, by our arts may be called the grandsons of God. If poetry deals with moral philosophy, painting deals with natural philosophy. Poetry describes the action of the mind, painting considers what the mind may effect by the motions [of the body]. If poetry can terrify people by hideous fictions, painting can do as much by depicting the same things in action. Supposing that a poet applies himself to represent beauty, ferocity, or a base, a foul or a monstrous thing, as against a painter, he may in his ways bring forth a variety of forms; but will the painter not satisfy more? are there not pictures to be seen, so like the actual things, that they deceive men and animals? Painting is superior to sculpture (655. 656). 655. THAT SCULPTURE IS LESS INTELLECTUAL THAN PAINTING, AND LACKS MANY CHARACTERISTICS OF NATURE. I myself, having exercised myself no less in sculpture than in painting and doing both one and the other in the same degree, it seems to me that I can, without invidiousness, pronounce an opinion as to which of the two is of the greatest merit and difficulty and perfection. In the first place sculpture requires a certain light, that is from above, a picture carries everywhere with it its own light and shade. Thus sculpture owes its importance to light and shade, and the sculptor is aided in this by the nature, of the relief which is inherent in it, while the painter whose art expresses the accidental aspects of nature, places his effects in the spots where nature must necessarily produce them. The sculptor cannot diversify his work by the various natural colours of objects; painting is not defective in any particular. The sculptor when he uses perspective cannot make it in any way appear true; that of the painter can appear like a hundred miles beyond the picture itself. Their works have no aerial perspective whatever, they cannot represent transparent bodies, they cannot represent luminous bodies, nor reflected lights, nor lustrous bodies--as mirrors and the like polished surfaces, nor mists, nor dark skies, nor an infinite number of things which need not be told for fear of tedium. As regards the power of resisting time, though they have this resistance [Footnote 19: From what is here said as to painting on copper it is very evident that Leonardo was not acquainted with the method of painting in oil on thin copper plates, introduced by the Flemish painters of the XVIIth century. J. LERMOLIEFF has already pointed out that in the various collections containing pictures by the great masters of the Italian Renaissance, those painted on copper (for instance the famous reading Magdalen in the Dresden Gallery) are the works of a much later date (see _Zeitschrift fur bildende Kunst_. Vol. X pg. 333, and: _Werke italienischer Master in den Galerien von Munchen, Dresden und Berlin_. Leipzig 1880, pg. 158 and 159.)--Compare No. 654, 29.], a picture painted on thick copper covered with white enamel on which it is painted with enamel colours and then put into the fire again and baked, far exceeds sculpture in permanence. It may be said that if a mistake is made it is not easy to remedy it; it is but a poor argument to try to prove that a work be the nobler because oversights are irremediable; I should rather say that it will be more difficult to improve the mind of the master who makes such mistakes than to repair the work he has spoilt. 656. We know very well that a really experienced and good painter will not make such mistakes; on the contrary, with sound rules he will remove so little at a time that he will bring his work to a good issue. Again the sculptor if working in clay or wax, can add or reduce, and when his model is finished it can easily be cast in bronze, and this is the last operation and is the most permanent form of sculpture. Inasmuch as that which is merely of marble is liable to ruin, but not bronze. Hence a painting done on copper which as I said of painting may be added to or altered, resembles sculpture in bronze, which, having first been made in wax could then be altered or added to; and if sculpture in bronze is durable, this work in copper and enamel is absolutely imperishable. Bronze is but dark and rough after all, but this latter is covered with various and lovely colours in infinite variety, as has been said above; or if you will have me only speak of painting on panel, I am content to pronounce between it and sculpture; saying that painting is the more beautiful and the more imaginative and the more copious, while sculpture is the more durable but it has nothing else. Sculpture shows with little labour what in painting appears a miraculous thing to do; to make what is impalpable appear palpable, flat objects appear in relief, distant objects seem close. In fact painting is adorned with infinite possibilities which sculpture cannot command. Aphorisms (657-659). 657. OF PAINTING. Men and words are ready made, and you, O Painter, if you do not know how to make your figures move, are like an orator who knows not how to use his words. 658. As soon as the poet ceases to represent in words what exists in nature, he in fact ceases to resemble the painter; for if the poet, leaving such representation, proceeds to describe the flowery and flattering speech of the figure, which he wishes to make the speaker, he then is an orator and no longer a poet nor a painter. And if he speaks of the heavens he becomes an astrologer, and philosopher; and a theologian, if he discourses of nature or God. But, if he restricts himself to the description of objects, he would enter the lists against the painter, if with words he could satisfy the eye as the painter does. 659. Though you may be able to tell or write the exact description of forms, the painter can so depict them that they will appear alive, with the shadow and light which show the expression of a face; which you cannot accomplish with the pen though it can be achieved by the brush. On the history of painting (660. 661). 660. THAT PAINTING DECLINES AND DETERIORATES FROM AGE TO AGE, WHEN PAINTERS HAVE NO OTHER STANDARD THAN PAINTING ALREADY DONE. Hence the painter will produce pictures of small merit if he takes for his standard the pictures of others. But if he will study from natural objects he will bear good fruit; as was seen in the painters after the Romans who always imitated each other and so their art constantly declined from age to age. After these came Giotto the Florentine who--not content with imitating the works of Cimabue his master--being born in the mountains and in a solitude inhabited only by goats and such beasts, and being guided by nature to his art, began by drawing on the rocks the movements of the goats of which he was keeper. And thus he began to draw all the animals which were to be found in the country, and in such wise that after much study he excelled not only all the masters of his time but all those of many bygone ages. Afterwards this art declined again, because everyone imitated the pictures that were already done; thus it went on from century to century until Tomaso, of Florence, nicknamed Masaccio, showed by his perfect works how those who take for their standard any one but nature--the mistress of all masters--weary themselves in vain. And, I would say about these mathematical studies that those who only study the authorities and not the works of nature are descendants but not sons of nature the mistress of all good authors. Oh! how great is the folly of those who blame those who learn from nature [Footnote 22: _lasciando stare li autori_. In this observation we may detect an indirect evidence that Leonardo regarded his knowledge of natural history as derived from his own investigations, as well as his theories of perspective and optics. Compare what he says in praise of experience (Vol II; _XIX_).], setting aside those authorities who themselves were the disciples of nature. 661. That the first drawing was a simple line drawn round the shadow of a man cast by the sun on a wall. The painter's scope. 662. The painter strives and competes with nature. _X. Studies and Sketches for Pictures and Decorations. An artist's manuscript notes can hardly be expected to contain any thing more than incidental references to those masterpieces of his work of which the fame, sounded in the writings of his contemporaries, has left a glorious echo to posterity. We need not therefore be surprised to find that the texts here reproduced do not afford us such comprehensive information as we could wish. On the other hand, the sketches and studies prepared by Leonardo for the two grandest compositions he ever executed: The Fresco of the Last Supper in the Refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie at Milan, and the Cartoon of the Battle of Anghiari, for the Palazzo della Signoria at Florence--have been preserved; and, though far from complete, are so much more numerous than the manuscript notes, that we are justified in asserting that in value and interest they amply compensate for the meagerness of the written suggestions. The notes for the composition of the Last Supper, which are given under nos._ 665 _and_ 666 _occur in a MS. at South Kensington, II2, written in the years_ 1494-1495. _This MS. sketch was noted down not more than three or four years before the painting was executed, which justifies the inference that at the time when it was written the painter had not made up his mind definitely even as to the general scheme of the work; and from this we may also conclude that the drawings of apostles' heads at Windsor, in red chalk, must be ascribed to a later date. They are studies for the head of St. Matthew, the fourth figure on Christ's left hand--see Pl. XL VII, the sketch (in black chalk) for the head of St. Philip, the third figure on the left hand--see Pl. XL VIII, for St. Peter's right arm--see Pl. XLIX, and for the expressive head of Judas which has unfortunately somewhat suffered by subsequent restoration of outlines,--see Pl. L. According to a tradition, as unfounded as it is improbable, Leonardo made use of the head of Padre Bandelli, the prior of the convent, as the prototype of his Judas; this however has already been contradicted by Amoretti "Memorie storiche" cap. XIV. The study of the head of a criminal on Pl. LI has, it seems to me, a better claim to be regarded as one of the preparatory sketches for the head of Judas. The Windsor collection contains two old copies of the head of St. Simon, the figure to the extreme left of Christ, both of about equal merit (they are marked as Nos._ 21 _and_ 36_)--the second was reproduced on Pl. VIII of the Grosvenor Gallery Publication in_ 1878. _There is also at Windsor a drawing in black chalk of folded hands (marked with the old No._ 212; _No. LXI of the Grosvenor Gallery Publication) which I believe to be a copy of the hands of St. John, by some unknown pupil. A reproduction of the excellent drawings of heads of Apostles in the possession of H. R. H. the Grand Duchess of Weimar would have been out of my province in this work, and, with regard to them, I must confine myself to pointing out that the difference in style does not allow of our placing the Weimar drawings in the same category as those here reproduced. The mode of grouping in the Weimar drawings is of itself sufficient to indicate that they were not executed before the picture was painted, but, on the contrary, afterwards, and it is, on the face of it, incredible that so great a master should thus have copied from his own work. The drawing of Christ's head, in the Brera palace at Milan was perhaps originally the work of Leonardo's hand; it has unfortunately been entirely retouched and re-drawn, so that no decisive opinion can be formed as to its genuineness. The red chalk drawing reproduced on Pl. XLVI is in the Accademia at Venice; it was probably made before the text, Nos._ 664 _and_ 665, _was written. The two pen and ink sketches on Pl. XLV seem to belong to an even earlier date; the more finished drawing of the two, on the right hand, represents Christ with only St. John and Judas and a third disciple whose action is precisely that described in No._ 666, _Pl._ 4. _It is hardly necessary to observe that the other sketches on this page and the lines of text below the circle (containing the solution of a geometrical problem) have no reference to the picture of the Last Supper. With this figure of Christ may be compared a similar pen and ink drawing reproduced on page_ 297 _below on the left hand; the original is in the Louvre. On this page again the rest of the sketches have no direct bearing on the composition of the Last Supper, not even, as it seems to me, the group of four men at the bottom to the right hand--who are listening to a fifth, in their midst addressing them. Moreover the writing on this page (an explanation of a disk shaped instrument) is certainly not in the same style as we find constantly used by Leonardo after the year_ 1489. _It may be incidentally remarked that no sketches are known for the portrait of "Mona Lisa", nor do the MS. notes ever allude to it, though according to Vasari the master had it in hand for fully four years. Leonardo's cartoon for the picture of the battle of Anghiari has shared the fate of the rival work, Michaelangelo's "Bathers summoned to Battle". Both have been lost in some wholly inexplicable manner. I cannot here enter into the remarkable history of this work; I can only give an account of what has been preserved to us of Leonardo's scheme and preparations for executing it. The extent of the material in studies and drawings was till now quite unknown. Their publication here may give some adequate idea of the grandeur of this famous work. The text given as No._ 669 _contains a description of the particulars of the battle, but for the reasons given in the note to this text, I must abandon the idea of taking this passage as the basis of my attempt to reconstruct the picture as the artist conceived and executed it. I may here remind the reader that Leonardo prepared the cartoon in the Sala del Papa of Santa Maria Novella at Florence and worked there from the end of October 1503 till February 1504, and then was busied with the painting in the Sala del Consiglio in the Palazzo della Signoria, till the work was interrupted at the end of May 1506. (See Milanesi's note to Vasari pp. 43--45 Vol. IV ed. 1880.) Vasari, as is well known, describes only one scene or episode of the cartoon--the Battle for the Standard in the foreground of the composition, as it would seem; and this only was ever finished as a mural decoration in the Sala del Consiglio. This portion of the composition is familiar to all from the disfigured copy engraved by Edelinck. Mariette had already very acutely observed that Edelinck must surely have worked from a Flemish copy of the picture. There is in the Louvre a drawing by Rubens (No. 565) which also represents four horsemen fighting round a standard and which agrees with Edelinck's engraving, but the engraving reverses the drawing. An earlier Flemish drawing, such as may have served as the model for both Rubens and Edelinck, is in the Uffizi collection (see Philpots's Photograph, No. 732). It seems to be a work of the second half of the XVIth century, a time when both the picture and the cartoon had already been destroyed. It is apparently the production of a not very skilled hand. Raphael Trichet du Fresne, 1651, mentions that a small picture by Leonardo himself of the Battle of the Standard was then extant in the Tuileries; by this he probably means the painting on panel which is now in the possession of Madame Timbal in Paris, and which has lately been engraved by Haussoullier as a work by Leonardo. The picture, which is very carefully painted, seems to me however to be the work of some unknown Florentine painter, and probably executed within the first ten years of the XVIth century. At the same time, it would seem to be a copy not from Leonardo's cartoon, but from his picture in the Palazzo della Signoria; at any rate this little picture, and the small Flemish drawing in Florence are the oldest finished copies of this episode in the great composition of the Battle of Anghiari. In his Life of Raphael, Vasari tells us that Raphael copied certain works of Leonardo's during his stay in Florence. Raphael's first visit to Florence lasted from the middle of October 1504 till July 1505, and he revisited it in the summer of 1506. The hasty sketch, now in the possession of the University of Oxford and reproduced on page 337 also represents the Battle of the Standard and seems to have been made during his first stay, and therefore not from the fresco but from the cartoon; for, on the same sheet we also find, besides an old man's head drawn in Leonardo's style, some studies for the figure of St. John the Martyr which Raphael used in 1505 in his great fresco in the Church of San Severo at Perugia. Of Leonardo's studies for the Battle of Anghiari I must in the first place point to five, on three of which--Pl. LII 2, Pl. LIII, Pl. LVI--we find studies for the episode of the Standard. The standard bearer, who, in the above named copies is seen stooping, holding on to the staff across his shoulder, is immediately recognisable as the left-hand figure in Raphael's sketch, and we find it in a similar attitude in Leonardo's pen and ink drawing in the British Museum--Pl. LII, 2--the lower figure to the right. It is not difficult to identify the same figure in two more complicated groups in the pen and ink drawings, now in the Accademia at Venice--Pl. LIII, and Pl. LIV--where we also find some studies of foot soldiers fighting. On the sheet in the British Museum--Pl. LII, 2--we find, among others, one group of three horses galloping forwards: one horseman is thrown and protects himself with his buckler against the lance thrusts of two others on horseback, who try to pierce him as they ride past. The same action is repeated, with some variation, in two sketches in pen and ink on a third sheet, in the Accademia at Venice, Pl. LV; a coincidence which suggests the probability of such an incident having actually been represented on the cartoon. We are not, it is true, in a position to declare with any certainty which of these three dissimilar sketches may have been the nearest to the group finally adopted in executing the cartoon. With regard, however, to one of the groups of horsemen it is possible to determine with perfect certainty not only which arrangement was preferred, but the position it occupied in the composition. The group of horsemen on Pl. LVII is a drawing in black chalk at Windsor, which is there attributed to Leonardo, but which appears to me to be the work of Cesare da Sesto, and the Commendatore Giov. Morelli supports me in this view. It can hardly be doubted that da Sesto, as a pupil of Leonardo's, made this drawing from his master's cartoon, if we compare it with the copy made by Raphael--here reproduced, for just above the fighting horseman in Raphael's copy it is possible to detect a horse which is seen from behind, going at a slower pace, with his tail flying out to the right and the same horse may be seen in the very same attitude carrying a dimly sketched rider, in the foreground of Cesare da Sesto's drawing._ _If a very much rubbed drawing in black chalk at Windsor--Pl. LVI--is, as it appears to be, the reversed impression of an original drawing, it is not difficult to supplement from it the portions drawn by Cesare da Sesto. Nay, it may prove possible to reconstruct the whole of the lost cartoon from the mass of materials we now have at hand which we may regard as the nucleus of the composition. A large pen and ink drawing by Raphael in the Dresden collection, representing three horsemen fighting, and another, by Cesare da Sesto, in the Uffizi, of light horsemen fighting are a further contribution which will help us to reconstruct it._ _The sketch reproduced on Pl. LV gives a suggestive example of the way in which foot-soldiers may have been introduced into the cartoon as fighting among the groups of horsemen; and I may here take the opportunity of mentioning that, for reasons which it would be out of place to enlarge upon here, I believe the two genuine drawings by Raphael's hand in his "Venetian sketch-book" as it is called--one of a standard bearer marching towards the left, and one of two foot-soldiers armed with spears and fighting with a horseman--to be undoubtedly copies from the cartoon of the Battle of Anghiari._ _Leonardo's two drawings, preserved in the museum at Buda-Pesth and reproduced on pages 338 and 339 are preliminary studies for the heads of fighting warriors. The two heads drawn in black chalk (pg. 338) and the one seen in profile, turned to the left, drawn in red chalk (pg. 339), correspond exactly with those of two horsemen in the scene of the fight round the standard as we see them in Madame Timbal's picture and in the other finished copies. An old copy of the last named drawing by a pupil of Leonardo is in MS. C. A. 187b; 561b (See Saggio, Tav. XXII). Leonardo used to make such finished studies of heads as those, drawn on detached sheets, before beginning his pictures from his drawings--compare the preparatory studies for the fresco of the Last Supper, given on Pl. XLVII and Pl. L. Other drawings of heads, all characterised by the expression of vehement excitement that is appropriate to men fighting, are to be seen at Windsor (No. 44) and at the Accademia at Venice (IV, 13); at the back of one of the drawings at Buda-Pesth there is the bust of a warrior carrying a spear on his left shoulder, holding up the left arm (See Csatakepek a XVI--lk Szazadbol osszeallitotta Pvlszky Karoly). These drawings may have been made for other portions of the cartoon, of which no copies exist, and thus we are unable to identify these preparatory drawings. Finally I may add that a sketch of fighting horse and foot soldiers, formerly in the possession of M. Thiers and published by Charles Blanc in his "Vies des Peintres" can hardly be accepted as genuine. It is not to be found, as I am informed, among the late President's property, and no one appears to know where it now is._ _An attempted reconstruction of the Cartoon, which is not only unsuccessful but perfectly unfounded, is to be seen in the lithograph by Bergeret, published in Charles Blanc's "Vies des peintres" and reprinted in "The great Artists. L. da Vinci", p. 80. This misleading pasticcio may now be rejected without hesitation._ _There are yet a few original drawings by Leonardo which might be mentioned here as possibly belonging to the cartoon of the Battle; such as the pen and ink sketches on Pl. XXI and on Pl. XXXVIII, No. 3, but we should risk too wide a departure from the domain of ascertained fact._ _With regard to the colours and other materials used by Leonardo the reader may be referred to the quotations from the accounts for the picture in question given by Milanesi in his edition of Vasari (Vol. IV, p. 44, note) where we find entries of a similar character to those in Leonardo's note books for the year 1505; S. K. M. 12 (see No. 636)._ _That Leonardo was employed in designing decorations and other preparations for high festivals, particularly for the court of Milan, we learn not only from the writings of his contemporaries but from his own incidental allusions; for instance in MS. C. l5b (1), l. 9. In the arrangement of the texts referring to this I have placed those first, in which historical personages are named--Nos. 670-674. Among the descriptions of Allegorical subjects two texts lately found at Oxford have been included, Nos. 676 and 677. They are particularly interesting because they are accompanied by large sketches which render the meaning of the texts perfectly clear. It is very intelligible that in other cases, where there are no illustrative sketches, the notes must necessarily remain obscure or admit of various interpretations. The literature of the time affords ample evidence of the use of such allegorical representations, particularly during the Carnival and in Leonardo's notes we find the Carnival expressly mentioned--Nos. 685 and 704. Vasari in his Life of Pontormo, particularly describes that artist's various undertakings for Carnival festivities. These very graphic descriptions appear to me to throw great light in more ways than one on the meaning of Leonardo's various notes as to allegorical representations and also on mottoes and emblems--Nos. 681-702. In passing judgment on the allegorical sketches and emblems it must not be overlooked that even as pictures they were always accompanied by explanations in words. Several finished drawings of allegorical compositions or figures have been preserved, but as they have no corresponding explanation in the MSS. they had no claim to be reproduced here. The female figure on Pl. XXVI may perhaps be regarded as a study for such an allegorical painting, of which the purport would have been explained by an inscription._ On Madonna pictures. 663. [In the autumn of] 1478 I began the two Madonna [pictures]. [Footnote: Photographs of this page have been published by BRAUN, No. 439, and PHILPOT, No. 718. 1. _Incominciai_. We have no other information as to the two pictures of the Madonna here spoken of. As Leonardo here tells us that he had begun two Madonnas at the same time, the word '_incominciai_' may be understood to mean that he had begun at the same time preparatory studies for two pictures to be painted later. If this is so, the non-existence of the pictures may be explained by supposing that they were only planned and never executed. I may here mention a few studies for pictures of the Madonna which probably belong to this early time; particularly a drawing in silver-point on bluish tinted paper at Windsor--see Pl. XL, No. 3--, a drawing of which the details have almost disappeared in the original but have been rendered quite distinct in the reproduction; secondly a slight pen and ink sketch in, the Codex VALLARDI, in the Louvre, fol. 64, No. 2316; again a silver point drawing of a Virgin and child drawn over again with the pen in the His de la Salle collection also in the Louvre, No. 101. (See Vicomte BOTH DE TAUZIA, _Notice des dessins de la collection His de la Salle, exposes au Louvre_. Paris 1881, pp. 80, 81.) This drawing is, it is true, traditionally ascribed to Raphael, but the author of the catalogue very justly points out its great resemblance with the sketches for Madonnas in the British Museum which are indisputably Leonardo's. Some of these have been published by Mr. HENRY WALLIS in the Art Journal, New Ser. No. 14, Feb. 1882. If the non-existence of the two pictures here alluded to justifies my hypothesis that only studies for such pictures are meant by the text, it may also be supposed that the drawings were made for some comrade in VERROCCHIO'S atelier. (See VASARI, Sansoni's ed. Florence 1880. Vol. IV, p. 564): "_E perche a Lerenzo piaceva fuor di modo la maniera di Lionardo, la seppe cosi bene imitare, che niuno fu che nella pulitezza e nel finir l'opere con diligenza l'imitasse più di lui_." Leonardo's notes give me no opportunity of discussing the pictures executed by him in Florence, before he moved to Milan. So the studies for the unfinished picture of the Adoration of the Magi--in the Uffizi, Florence--cannot be described here, nor would any discussion about the picture in the Louvre "_La Vierge aux Rochers_" be appropriate in the absence of all allusion to it in the MSS. Therefore, when I presently add a few remarks on this painting in explanation of the Master's drawings for it, it will be not merely with a view to facilitate critical researches about the picture now in the National Gallery, London, which by some critics has been pronounced to be a replica of the Louvre picture, but also because I take this opportunity of publishing several finished studies of the Master's which, even if they were not made in Florence but later in Milan, must have been prior to the painting of the Last Supper. The original picture in Paris is at present so disfigured by dust and varnish that the current reproductions in photography actually give evidence more of the injuries to which the picture has been exposed than of the original work itself. The wood-cut given on p. 344, is only intended to give a general notion of the composition. It must be understood that the outline and expression of the heads, which in the picture is obscured but not destroyed, is here altogether missed. The facsimiles which follow are from drawings which appear to me to be studies for "_La Vierge aux Rochers_." 1. A drawing in silver point on brown toned paper of a woman's head looking to the left. In the Royal Library at Turin, apparently a study from nature for the Angel's head (Pl. XLII). 2. A study of drapery for the left leg of the same figure, done with the brush, Indian ink on greenish paper, the lights heightened with white. The original is at Windsor, No. 223. The reproduction Pl. XLIII is defective in the shadow on the upper part of the thigh, which is not so deep as in the original; it should also be observed that the folds of the drapery near the hips are somewhat altered in the finished work in the Louvre, while the London copy shows a greater resemblance to this study in that particular. 3. A study in red chalk for the bust of the Infant Christ--No. 3 in the Windsor collection (Pl. XLIV). The well-known silver-point drawing on pale green paper, in the Louvre, of a boy's head (No. 363 in REISET, _Notice des dessins, Ecoles d'Italie_) seems to me to be a slightly altered copy, either from the original picture or from this red chalk study. 4. A silver-point study on greenish paper, for the head of John the Baptist, reproduced on p. 342. This was formerly in the Codex Vallardi and is now exhibited among the drawings in the Louvre. The lights are, in the original, heightened with white; the outlines, particularly round the head and ear, are visibly restored. There is a study of an outstretched hand--No. 288 in the Windsor collection--which was published in the Grosvenor Gallery Publication, 1878, simply under the title of: "No. 72 Study of a hand, pointing" which, on the other hand, I regard as a copy by a pupil. The action occurs in the kneeling angel of the Paris picture and not in the London copy. These four genuine studies form, I believe, a valuable substitute in the absence of any MS. notes referring to the celebrated Paris picture.] Bernardo di Bandino's Portrait. 664. A tan-coloured small cap, A doublet of black serge, A black jerkin lined A blue coat lined, with fur of foxes' breasts, and the collar of the jerkin covered with black and white stippled velvet Bernardo di Bandino Baroncelli; black hose. [Footnote: These eleven lines of text are by the side of the pen and ink drawing of a man hanged--Pl. LXII, No. 1. This drawing was exhibited in 1879 at the _Ecole des Beaux-Arts_ in Paris and the compilers of the catalogue amused themselves by giving the victim's name as follows: "_Un pendu, vetu d'une longue robe, les mains liées sur le dos ... Bernardo di Bendino Barontigni, marchand de pantalons_" (see _Catalogue descriptif des Dessins de Mailres anciens exposes a l'Ecole des Beaux Arts_, Paris 1879; No. 83, pp. 9-10). Now, the criminal represented here, is none other than Bernardino di Bandino Baroncelli the murderer of Giuliano de'Medici, whose name as a coadjutor in the conspiracy of the Pazzi has gained a melancholy notoriety by the tragedy of the 26th April 1478. Bernardo was descended from an ancient family and the son of the man who, under King Ferrante, was President of the High Court of Justice in Naples. His ruined fortunes, it would seem, induced him to join the Pazzi; he and Francesco Pazzi were entrusted with the task of murdering Giuliano de'Medici on the fixed day. Their victim not appearing in the cathedral at the hour when they expected him, the two conspirators ran to the palace of the Medici and induced him to accompany them. Giuliano then took his place in the chancel of the Cathedral, and as the officiating priest raised the Host--the sign agreed upon--Bernardo stabbed the unsuspecting Giuliano in the breast with a short sword; Giuliano stepped backwards and fell dead. The attempt on Lorenzo's life however, by the other conspirators at the same moment, failed of success. Bernardo no sooner saw that Lorenzo tried to make his escape towards the sacristy, than he rushed upon him, and struck down Francesco Nori who endeavoured to protect Lorenzo. How Lorenzo then took refuge behind the brazen doors of the sacristy, and how, as soon as Giuliano's death was made known, the further plans of the conspirators were defeated, while a terrible vengeance overtook all the perpetrators and accomplices, this is no place to tell. Bernardo Bandini alone seemed to be favoured by fortune; he hid first in the tower of the Cathedral, and then escaped undiscovered from Florence. Poliziano, who was with Lorenzo in the Cathedral, says in his 'Conjurationis Pactianae Commentarium': "_Bandinus fugitans in Tiphernatem incidit, a quo in aciem receptus Senas pervenit_." And Gino Capponi in summing up the reports of the numerous contemporary narrators of the event, says: "_Bernardo Bandini ricoverato in Costantinopoli, fu per ordine del Sultano preso e consegnato a un Antonio di Bernardino dei Medici, che Lorenzo aveva mandato apposta in Turchia: così era grande la potenza di quest' uomo e grande la voglia di farne mostra e che non restasse in vita chi aveagli ucciso il fratello, fu egli applicato appena giunto_" (_Storia della Republica di Firenze II_, 377, 378). Details about the dates may be found in the _Chronichetta di Belfredello Strinati Alfieri_: "_Bernardo di Bandino Bandini sopradetto ne venne preso da Gostantinopoti a dì 14. Dicembre 1479 e disaminato, che fu al Bargello, fu impiccato alle finestre di detto Bargello allato alla Doana a dì 29. Dicembre MCCCCLXXIX che pochi dì stette_." It may however be mentioned with reference to the mode of writing the name of the assassin that, though most of his contemporaries wrote Bernardo Bandini, in the _Breve Chronicon Caroli Petri de Joanninis_ he is called Bernardo di Bandini Baroncelli; and, in the _Sententiae Domini Matthaei de Toscana_, Bernardus Joannis Bandini de Baroncellis, as is written on Leonardo's drawing of him when hanged. Now VASARI, in the life of _Andrea del Castagno_ (Vol. II, 680; ed. Milanesi 1878), tells us that in 1478 this painter was commissioned by order of the Signoria to represent the members of the Pazzi conspiracy as traitors, on the facade of the Palazzo del Podestà--the Bargello. This statement is obviously founded on a mistake, for Andrea del Castagno was already dead in 1457. He had however been commissioned to paint Rinaldo degli Albizzi, when declared a rebel and exiled in 1434, and his adherents, as hanging head downwards; and in consequence he had acquired the nickname of Andrea degl' Impiccati. On the 21st July 1478 the Council of Eight came to the following resolution: "_item servatis etc. deliberaverunt et santiaverunt Sandro Botticelli pro ejus labore in pingendo proditores flor. quadraginta largos_" (see G. MILANESI, _Arch. star. VI_ (1862) p. 5 note.) As has been told, Giuliano de' Medici was murdered on the 26th April 1478, and we see by this that only three months later Botticelli was paid for his painting of the "_proditores_". We can however hardly suppose that all the members of the conspiracy were depicted by him in fresco on the facade of the palace, since no fewer than eighty had been condemned to death. We have no means of knowing whether, besides Botticelli, any other painters, perhaps Leonardo, was commissioned, when the criminals had been hanged in person out of the windows of the Palazzo del Podestà to represent them there afterwards in effigy in memory of their disgrace. Nor do we know whether the assassin who had escaped may at first not have been provisionally represented as hanged in effigy. Now, when we try to connect the historical facts with this drawing by Leonardo reproduced on Pl. LXII, No. I, and the full description of the conspirator's dress and its colour on the same sheet, there seems to be no reasonable doubt that Bernardo Bandini is here represented as he was actually hanged on December 29th, 1479, after his capture at Constantinople. The dress is certainly not that in which he committed the murder. A long furred coat might very well be worn at Constantinople or at Florence in December, but hardly in April. The doubt remains whether Leonardo described Bernardo's dress so fully because it struck him as remarkable, or whether we may not rather suppose that this sketch was actually made from nature with the intention of using it as a study for a wall painting to be executed. It cannot be denied that the drawing has all the appearance of having been made for this purpose. Be this as it may, the sketch under discussion proves, at any rate, that Leonardo was in Florence in December 1479, and the note that accompanies it is valuable as adding one more characteristic specimen to the very small number of his MSS. that can be proved to have been written between 1470 and 1480.] Notes on the Last Supper (665-668). 665. One who was drinking and has left the glass in its position and turned his head towards the speaker. Another, twisting the fingers of his hands together turns with stern brows to his companion [6]. Another with his hands spread open shows the palms, and shrugs his shoulders up his ears making a mouth of astonishment [8]. [9] Another speaks into his neighbour's ear and he, as he listens to him, turns towards him to lend an ear [10], while he holds a knife in one hand, and in the other the loaf half cut through by the knife. [13] Another who has turned, holding a knife in his hand, upsets with his hand a glass on the table [14]. [Footnote 665, 666: In the original MS. there is no sketch to accompany these passages, and if we compare them with those drawings made by Leonardo in preparation for the composition of the picture--Pl. XLV, XLVI--, (compare also Pl. LII, 1 and the drawings on p. 297) it is impossible to recognise in them a faithful interpretation of the whole of this text; but, if we compare these passages with the finished picture (see p. 334) we shall see that in many places they coincide. For instance, compare No. 665, 1. 6--8, with the fourth figure on the right hand of Christ. The various actions described in lines 9--10, 13--14 are to be seen in the group of Peter, John and Judas; in the finished picture however it is not a glass but a salt cellar that Judas is upsetting.] 666. Another lays his hand on the table and is looking. Another blows his mouthful. [3] Another leans forward to see the speaker shading his eyes with his hand. [5] Another draws back behind the one who leans forward, and sees the speaker between the wall and the man who is leaning [Footnote: 6. _chinato_. I have to express my regret for having misread this word, written _cinato_ in the original, and having altered it to _"ciclo"_ when I first published this text, in 'The Academy' for Nov. 8, 1879 immediately after I had discovered it, and subsequently in the small biography of Leonardo da Vinci (Great Artists) p. 29.]. [Footnote: In No. 666. Line I must refer to the furthest figure on the left; 3, 5 and 6 describe actions which are given to the group of disciples on the left hand of Christ.] 667. CHRIST. Count Giovanni, the one with the Cardinal of Mortaro. [Footnote: As this note is in the same small Manuscript as the passage here immediately preceding it, I may be justified in assuming that Leonardo meant to use the features of the person here named as a suitable model for the figure of Christ. The celebrated drawing of the head of Christ, now hanging in the Brera Gallery at Milan, has obviously been so much restored that it is now impossible to say, whether it was ever genuine. We have only to compare it with the undoubtedly genuine drawings of heads of the disciples in PI. XLVII, XLVIII and L, to admit that not a single line of the Milan drawing in its present state can be by the same hand.] 668. Philip, Simon, Matthew, Thomas, James the Greater, Peter, Philip, Andrew, Bartholomew. [Footnote: See PI. XLVI. The names of the disciples are given in the order in which they are written in the original, from right to left, above each head. The original drawing is here slightly reduced in scale; it measures 39 centimetres in length by 26 in breadth.] 669. On the battle of Anghiari. Florentine Neri di Gino Capponi Bernardetto de' Medici Micheletto, Niccolo da Pisa Conte Francesco Pietro Gian Paolo Guelfo Orsino, Messer Rinaldo degli Albizzi Begin with the address of Niccolo Piccinino to the soldiers and the banished Florentines among whom are Messer Rinaldo degli Albizzi and other Florentines. Then let it be shown how he first mounted on horseback in armour; and the whole army came after him--40 squadrons of cavalry, and 2000 foot soldiers went with him. Very early in the morning the Patriarch went up a hill to reconnoitre the country, that is the hills, fields and the valley watered by a river; and from thence he beheld Niccolo Picinino coming from Borgo San Sepolcro with his people, and with a great dust; and perceiving them he returned to the camp of his own people and addressed them. Having spoken he prayed to God with clasped hands, when there appeared a cloud in which Saint Peter appeared and spoke to the Patriarch.--500 cavalry were sent forward by the Patriarch to hinder or check the rush of the enemy. In the foremost troop Francesco the son of Niccolo Piccinino [24] was the first to attack the bridge which was held by the Patriarch and the Florentines. Beyond the bridge to his left he sent forward some infantry to engage ours, who drove them back, among whom was their captain Micheletto [29] whose lot it was to be that day at the head of the army. Here, at this bridge there is a severe struggle; our men conquer and the enemy is repulsed. Here Guido and Astorre, his brother, the Lord of Faenza with a great number of men, re-formed and renewed the fight, and rushed upon the Florentines with such force that they recovered the bridge and pushed forward as far as the tents. But Simonetto advanced with 600 horse, and fell upon the enemy and drove them back once more from the place, and recaptured the bridge; and behind him came more men with 2000 horse soldiers. And thus for a long time they fought with varying fortune. But then the Patriarch, in order to divert the enemy, sent forward Niccolo da Pisa [44] and Napoleone Orsino, a beardless lad, followed by a great multitude of men, and then was done another great feat of arms. At the same time Niccolo Piccinino urged forward the remnant of his men, who once more made ours give way; and if it had not been that the Patriarch set himself at their head and, by his words and deeds controlled the captains, our soldiers would have taken to flight. The Patriarch had some artillery placed on the hill and with these he dispersed the enemy's infantry; and the disorder was so complete that Niccolo began to call back his son and all his men, and they took to flight towards Borgo. And then began a great slaughter of men; none escaped but the foremost of those who had fled or who hid themselves. The battle continued until sunset, when the Patriarch gave his mind to recalling his men and burying the dead, and afterwards a trophy was erected. [Footnote: 669. This passage does not seem to me to be in Leonardo's hand, though it has hitherto been generally accepted as genuine. Not only is the writing unlike his, but the spelling also is quite different. I would suggest that this passage is a description of the events of the battle drawn up for the Painter by order of the Signoria, perhaps by some historian commissioned by them, to serve as a scheme or programme of the work. The whole tenor of the style seems to me to argue in favour of this theory; and besides, it would be in no way surprising that such a document should have been preserved among Leonardo's autographs.] Allegorical representations referring to the duke of Milan (670-673). 670. Ermine with blood Galeazzo, between calm weather and a representation of a tempest. [Footnote: 670. Only the beginning of this text is legible; the writing is much effaced and the sense is consequently obscure. It seems to refer like the following passage to an allegorical picture.] 671. Il Moro with spectacles, and Envy depicted with False Report and Justice black for il Moro. Labour as having a branch of vine [_or_ a screw] in her hand. 672. Il Moro as representing Good Fortune, with hair, and robes, and his hands in front, and Messer Gualtieri taking him by the robes with a respectful air from below, having come in from the front [5]. Again, Poverty in a hideous form running behind a youth. Il Moro covers him with the skirt of his robe, and with his gilt sceptre he threatens the monster. A plant with its roots in the air to represent one who is at his last;--a robe and Favour. Of tricks [_or_ of magpies] and of burlesque poems [_or_ of starlings]. Those who trust themselves to live near him, and who will be a large crowd, these shall all die cruel deaths; and fathers and mothers together with their families will be devoured and killed by cruel creatures. [Footnote: 1--10 have already been published by _Amoretti_ in _Memorie Storiche_ cap. XII. He adds this note with regard to Gualtieri: "_A questo M. Gualtieri come ad uomo generoso e benefico scrive il Bellincioni un Sonetto (pag, 174) per chiedergli un piacere; e 'l Tantio rendendo ragione a Lodovico il Moro, perche pubblicasse le Rime del Bellincioni; ciò hammi imposto, gli dice: l'humano fidele, prudente e sollicito executore delli tuoi comandamenti Gualtero, che fa in tutte le cose ove tu possi far utile, ogni studio vi metti._" A somewhat mysterious and evidently allegorical composition--a pen and ink drawing--at Windsor, see PL LVIII, contains a group of figures in which perhaps the idea is worked out which is spoken of in the text, lines 1-5.] 673. He was blacker than a hornet, his eyes were as red as a burning fire and he rode on a tall horse six spans across and more than 20 long with six giants tied up to his saddle-bow and one in his hand which he gnawed with his teeth. And behind him came boars with tusks sticking out of their mouths, perhaps ten spans. Allegorical representations (674--678). 674. Above the helmet place a half globe, which is to signify our hemisphere, in the form of a world; on which let there be a peacock, richly decorated, and with his tail spread over the group; and every ornament belonging to the horse should be of peacock's feathers on a gold ground, to signify the beauty which comes of the grace bestowed on him who is a good servant. On the shield a large mirror to signify that he who truly desires favour must be mirrored in his virtues. On the opposite side will be represented Fortitude, in like manner in her place with her pillar in her hand, robed in white, to signify ... And all crowned; and Prudence with 3 eyes. The housing of the horse should be of plain cloth of gold closely sprinkled with peacock's eyes, and this holds good for all the housings of the horse, and the man's dress. And the man's crest and his neck-chain are of peacock's feathers on golden ground. On the left side will be a wheel, the centre of which should be attached to the centre of the horse's hinder thigh piece, and in the centre Prudence is seen robed in red, Charity sitting in a fiery chariot and with a branch of laurel in her hand, to signify the hope which comes of good service. [21] Messer Antonio Grimani of Venice companion of Antonio Maria [23]. [Footnote: _Messer Antonio Gri_. His name thus abbreviated is, there can be no doubt, Grimani. Antonio Grimani was the famous Doge who in 1499 commanded the Venetian fleet in battle against the Turks. But after the abortive conclusion of the expedition--Ludovico being the ally of the Turks who took possession of Friuli--, Grimani was driven into exile; he went to live at Rome with his son Cardinal Domenico Grimani. On being recalled to Venice he filled the office of Doge from 1521 to 1523. _Antonio Maria_ probably means Antonio Maria Grimani, the Patriarch of Aquileia.] 675. Fame should be depicted as covered all over with tongues instead of feathers, and in the figure of a bird. 676. Pleasure and Pain represent as twins, since there never is one without the other; and as if they were united back to back, since they are contrary to each other. [6] Clay, gold. [Footnote: 7. _oro. fango_: gold, clay. These words stand below the allegorical figure.] If you take Pleasure know that he has behind him one who will deal you Tribulation and Repentance. [9] This represents Pleasure together with Pain, and show them as twins because one is never apart from the other. They are back to back because they are opposed to each other; and they exist as contraries in the same body, because they have the same basis, inasmuch as the origin of pleasure is labour and pain, and the various forms of evil pleasure are the origin of pain. Therefore it is here represented with a reed in his right hand which is useless and without strength, and the wounds it inflicts are poisoned. In Tuscany they are put to support beds, to signify that it is here that vain dreams come, and here a great part of life is consumed. It is here that much precious time is wasted, that is, in the morning, when the mind is composed and rested, and the body is made fit to begin new labours; there again many vain pleasures are enjoyed; both by the mind in imagining impossible things, and by the body in taking those pleasures that are often the cause of the failing of life. And for these reasons the reed is held as their support. [Footnote: 676. The pen and ink drawing on PI. LIX belongs to this passage.] [Footnote: 8. _tribolatione_. In the drawing caltrops may be seen lying in the old man's right hand, others are falling and others again are shewn on the ground. Similar caltrops are drawn in MS. Tri. p. 98 and underneath them, as well as on page 96 the words _triboli di ferro_ are written. From the accompanying text it appears that they were intended to be scattered on the ground at the bottom of ditches to hinder the advance of the enemy. Count Giulio Porro who published a short account of the Trivulzio MS. in the "_Archivio Storico Lombardo_", Anno VIII part IV (Dec. 31, 1881) has this note on the passages treating of "_triboli_": "_E qui aggiungerò che anni sono quando venne fabbricata la nuova cavallerizza presso il castello di Milano, ne furono trovati due che io ho veduto ed erano precisamente quali si trovano descritti e disegnati da Leonardo in questo codice_". There can therefore be no doubt that this means of defence was in general use, whether it were originally Leonardo's invention or not. The play on the word "_tribolatione_", as it occurs in the drawing at Oxford, must then have been quite intelligible.] [Footnote: 9--22. These lines, in the original, are written on the left side of the page and refer to the figure shown on PI. LXI. Next to it is placed the group of three figures given in PI. LX No. I. Lines 21 and 22, which are written under it, are the only explanation given.] Evil-thinking is either Envy or Ingratitude. 677. Envy must be represented with a contemptuous motion of the hand towards heaven, because if she could she would use her strength against God; make her with her face covered by a mask of fair seeming; show her as wounded in the eye by a palm branch and by an olive-branch, and wounded in the ear by laurel and myrtle, to signify that victory and truth are odious to her. Many thunderbolts should proceed from her to signify her evil speaking. Let her be lean and haggard because she is in perpetual torment. Make her heart gnawed by a swelling serpent, and make her with a quiver with tongues serving as arrows, because she often offends with it. Give her a leopard's skin, because this creature kills the lion out of envy and by deceit. Give her too a vase in her hand full of flowers and scorpions and toads and other venomous creatures; make her ride upon death, because Envy, never dying, never tires of ruling. Make her bridle, and load her with divers kinds of arms because all her weapons are deadly. Toleration. Intolerable. No sooner is Virtue born than Envy comes into the world to attack it; and sooner will there be a body without a shadow than Virtue without Envy. [Footnote: The larger of the two drawings on PI. LXI is explained by the first 21 lines of this passage. L. 22 and 23, which are written above the space between the two drawings, do not seem to have any reference to either. L. 24-27 are below the allegorical twin figure which they serve to explain.] 678. When Pluto's Paradise is opened, then there may be devils placed in twelve pots like openings into hell. Here will be Death, the Furies, ashes, many naked children weeping; living fires made of various colours.... 679. John the Baptist Saint Augustin Saint Peter Paul Elisabeth Saint Clara. Bernardino Our Lady Louis Bonaventura Anthony of Padua. Saint Francis. Francis, Anthony, a lily and book; Bernardino with the [monogram of] Jesus, Louis with 3 fleur de lys on his breast and the crown at his feet, Bonaventura with Seraphim, Saint Clara with the tabernacle, Elisabeth with a Queen's crown. [Footnote: 679. The text of the first six lines is written within a square space of the same size as the copy here given. The names are written in the margin following the order in which they are here printed. In lines 7--12 the names of those saints are repeated of whom it seemed necessary to point out the emblems.] List of drawings. 680. A head, full face, of a young man with fine flowing hair, Many flowers drawn from nature, A head, full face, with curly hair, Certain figures of Saint Jerome, [6] The measurements of a figure, Drawings of furnaces. A head of the Duke, [9] many designs for knots, 4 studies for the panel of Saint Angelo A small composition of Girolamo da Fegline, A head of Christ done with the pen, [13] 8 Saint Sebastians, Several compositions of Angels, A chalcedony, A head in profile with fine hair, Some pitchers seen in(?) perspective, Some machines for ships, Some machines for waterworks, A head, a portrait of Atalanta raising her face; The head of Geronimo da Fegline, The head of Gian Francisco Borso, Several throats of old women, Several heads of old men, Several nude figures, complete, Several arms, eyes, feet, and positions, A Madonna, finished, Another, nearly in profile, Head of Our Lady ascending into Heaven, A head of an old man with long chin, A head of a gypsy girl, A head with a hat on, A representation of the Passion, a cast, A head of a girl with her hair gathered in a knot, A head, with the brown hair dressed. [Footnote: 680. This has already been published by AMORETTI _Memorie storiche_ cap. XVI. His reading varies somewhat from that here given, _e. g._ l. 5 and 6. _Certi Sangirolami in su d'una figura_; and instead of I. 13. _Un San Bastiano_.] [Footnote: 680. 9. _Molti disegni di gruppi_. VASARI in his life of Leonardo (IV, 21, ed. MILANESI 1880) says: "_Oltreché perse tempo fino a disegnare_ gruppi _di corde fatti con ordine, e che da un capo seguissi tutto il resto fino all' altro, tanto che s'empiessi un tondo; che se ne vede in istampa uno difficilissimo e molto bello, e nel mezzo vi sono queste parole: Leonardus Vinci Accademia_". _Gruppi_ must here be understood as a technical expression for those twisted ornaments which are well known through wood cuts. AMORETTI mentions six different ones in the Ambrosian Library. I am indebted to M. DELABORDE for kindly informing me that the original blocks of these are preserved in his department in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. On the cover of these volumes is a copy from one of them. The size of the original is 23 1/2 centimetres by 26 1/4. The centre portion of another is given on p. 361. G. Govi remarks on these ornaments (_Saggio_ p. 22): "_Codesti gruppi eran probabilmente destinati a servir di modello a ferri da rilegatori per adornar le cartelle degli scolari (?). Fregi somigliantissimi a questi troviamo infatti impressi in oro sui cartoni di vari volumi contemporanei, e li vediam pur figurare nelle lettere iniziali di alcune edizioni del tempo._" Dürer who copied them, omitting the inscription, added to the second impressions his own monogram. In his diary he designates them simply as "_Die sechs Knoten_" (see THAUSING, Life of A. Dürer I, 362, 363). In Leonardo's MSS. we find here and there little sketches or suggestions for similar ornaments. Compare too G. MONGERI, _L'Arte in Milano_, p. 315 where an ornament of the same character is given from the old decorations of the vaulted ceiling of the Sacristy of S. Maria delle Grazie.] [Footnote: 680, 17. The meaning in which the word _coppi_, literally pitchers, is here used I am unable to determine; but a change to _copie_ seems to me too doubtful to be risked.] 681. Stubborn rigour. Doomed rigour. [Footnote: See PI. LXII, No. 2, the two upper pen and ink drawings. The originals, in the Windsor collection are slightly washed with colour. The background is blue sky; the plough and the instrument with the compass are reddish brown, the sun is tinted yellow]. 682. Obstacles cannot crush me Every obstacle yields to stern resolve He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind. [Footnote: This text is written to elucidate two sketches which were obviously the first sketches for the drawings reproduced on PL LXII, No. 2.] 683. Ivy is [a type] of longevity. [Footnote: In the original there is, near this text, a sketch of a coat wreathed above the waist with ivy.] 684. Truth the sun. falsehood a mask. innocence, malignity. Fire destroys falsehood, that is sophistry, and restores truth, driving out darkness. Fire may be represented as the destroy of all sophistry, and as the image and demonstration of truth; because it is light and drives out darkness which conceals all essences [or subtle things]. [Footnote: See PI. LXIII. L. 1-8 are in the middle of the page; 1. 9-14 to the right below; 1. 15-22 below in the middle column. The rest of the text is below the sketches on the left. There are some other passages on this page relating to geometry.] TRUTH. Fire destroys all sophistry, that is deceit; and maintains truth alone, that is gold. Truth at last cannot be hidden. Dissimulation is of no avail. Dissimulation is to no purpose before so great a judge. Falsehood puts on a mask. Nothing is hidden under the sun. Fire is to represent truth because it destroys all sophistry and lies; and the mask is for lying and falsehood which conceal truth. 685. Movement will cease before we are weary of being useful. Movement will fail sooner than usefulness. Death sooner than I am never weary of weariness. being useful, In serving others I is a motto for carnval. cannot do enough. Without fatigue. No labour is sufficient to tire me. Hands into which ducats and precious stones fall like snow; they never become tired by serving, but this service is only for its utility and not for our I am never weary own benefit. of being useful. Naturally nature has so disposed me. 686. This shall be placed in the hand of Ingratitude. Wood nourishes the fire that consumes it. 687. TO REPRESENT INGRATITUDE. When the sun appears which dispels darkness in general, you put out the light which dispelled it for you in particular for your need and convenience. 688. On this side Adam and Eve on the other; O misery of mankind, of how many things do you make yourself the slave for money! [Footnote: See PI. LXIV. The figures of Adam and Eve in the clouds here alluded to would seem to symbolise their superiority to all earthly needs.] 689. Thus are base unions sundered. [Footnote: A much blurred sketch is on the page by this text. It seems to represent an unravelled plait or tissue.] 690. Constancy does not begin, but is that which perseveres. [Footnote: A drawing in red chalk, also rubbed, which stands in the original in the middle of this text, seems to me to be intended for a sword hilt, held in a fist.] 691. Love, Fear, and Esteem,-- Write these on three stones. Of servants. 692. Prudence Strength. 693. Fame alone raises herself to Heaven, because virtuous things are in favour with God. Disgrace should be represented upside down, because all her deeds are contrary to God and tend to hell. 694. Short liberty. 695. Nothing is so much to be feared as Evil Report. This Evil Report is born of life. 696. Not to disobey. 697. A felled tree which is shooting again. I am still hopeful. A falcon, Time. [Footnote: I. _Albero tagliato_. This emblem was displayed during the Carnival at Florence in 1513. See VASARI VI, 251, ed. MILANESI 1881. But the coincidence is probably accidental.] 698. Truth here makes Falsehood torment lying tongues. 699. Such as harm is when it hurts me not, is good which avails me not. [Footnote: See PI. LX, No. 2. Compare this sketch with that on PI. LXII, No. 2. Below the two lines of the text there are two more lines: _li gùchi (giunchi) che ritégò le paglucole (pagliucole) chelli (che li) anniegano_.] 700. He who offends others, does not secure himself. [Footnote: See PI. LX, No. 3.] 701. Ingratitude. [Footnote: See PI. LX, No. 4. Below the bottom sketches are the unintelligible words "_sta stilli_." For "_Ingratitudo_" compare also Nos. 686 and 687.] 702. One's thoughts turn towards Hope. [Footnote: 702. By the side of this passage is a sketch of a cage with a bird sitting in it.] Ornaments and Decorations for feasts (703-705). 703. A bird, for a comedy. [Footnote: The biographies say so much, and the author's notes say so little of the invention attributed to Leonardo of making artificial birds fly through the air, that the text here given is of exceptional interest from being accompanied by a sketch. It is a very slight drawing of a bird with outspread wings, which appears to be sliding down a stretched string. Leonardo's flying machines and his studies of the flight of birds will be referred to later.] 704. A DRESS FOR THE CARNIVAL. To make a beautiful dress cut it in thin cloth and give it an odoriferous varnish, made of oil of turpentine and of varnish in grain, with a pierced stencil, which must be wetted, that it may not stick to the cloth; and this stencil may be made in a pattern of knots which afterwards may be filled up with black and the ground with white millet.[Footnote 7: The grains of black and white millet would stick to the varnish and look like embroidery.] [Footnote: Ser Giuliano, da Vinci the painter's brother, had been commissioned, with some others, to order and to execute the garments of the Allegorical figures for the Carnival at Florence in 1515--16; VASARI however is incorrect in saying of the Florentine Carnival of 1513: "_equelli che feciono ed ordinarono gli abiti delle figure furono Ser Piero da Vinci, padre di Lonardo, e Bernardino di Giordano, bellissimi ingegni_" (See MILANESI'S ed. Voi. VI, pg. 251.)] 705. Snow taken from the high peaks of mountains might be carried to hot places and let to fall at festivals in open places at summer time. 
4999	----	VINCI, VOLUME 2 *** This eBook was produced by Charles Aldarondo and the Distributed Proofreaders team. The Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci Volume 2 Translated by Jean Paul Richter 1888 XI. The notes on Sculpture. Compared with the mass of manuscript treating of Painting, a very small number of passages bearing on the practice and methods of Sculpture are to be found scattered through the note books; these are here given at the beginning of this section (Nos. 706-709). There is less cause for surprise at finding that the equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza is only incidentally spoken of; for, although Leonardo must have worked at it for a long succession of years, it is not in the nature of the case that it could have given rise to much writing. We may therefore regard it as particularly fortunate that no fewer than thirteen notes in the master's handwriting can be brought together, which seem to throw light on the mysterious history of this famous work. Until now writers on Leonardo were acquainted only with the passages numbered 712, 719, 720, 722 and 723. In arranging these notes on sculpture I have given the precedence to those which treat of the casting of the monument, not merely because they are the fullest, but more especially with a view to reconstructing the monument, an achievement which really almost lies within our reach by combining and comparing the whole of the materials now brought to light, alike in notes and in sketches. A good deal of the first two passages, Nos. 710 and 711, which refer to this subject seems obscure and incomprehensible; still, they supplement each other and one contributes in no small degree to the comprehension of the other. A very interesting and instructive commentary on these passages may be found in the fourth chapter of Vasari's Introduzione della Scultura under the title "Come si fanno i modelli per fare di bronzo le figure grandi e picciole, e come le forme per buttarle; come si armino di ferri, e come si gettino di metallo," &c. Among the drawings of models of the moulds for casting we find only one which seems to represent the horse in the act of galloping--No. 713. All the other designs show the horse as pacing quietly and as these studies of the horse are accompanied by copious notes as to the method of casting, the question as to the position of the horse in the model finally selected, seems to be decided by preponderating evidence. "Il cavallo dello Sforza"--C. Boito remarks very appositely in the Saggio on page 26, "doveva sembrare fratello al cavallo del Colleoni. E si direbbe che questo fosse figlio del cavallo del Gattamelata, il quale pare figlio di uno dei quattro cavalli che stavano forse sull' Arco di Nerone in Roma" (now at Venice). The publication of the Saggio also contains the reproduction of a drawing in red chalk, representing a horse walking to the left and supported by a scaffolding, given here on Pl. LXXVI, No. 1. It must remain uncertain whether this represents the model as it stood during the preparations for casting it, or whether--as seems to me highly improbable--this sketch shows the model as it was exhibited in 1493 on the Piazza del Castello in Milan under a triumphal arch, on the occasion of the marriage of the Emperor Maximilian to Bianca Maria Sforza. The only important point here is to prove that strong evidence seems to show that, of the numerous studies for the equestrian statue, only those which represent the horse pacing agree with the schemes of the final plans. The second group of preparatory sketches, representing the horse as galloping, must therefore be considered separately, a distinction which, in recapitulating the history of the origin of the monument seems justified by the note given under No. 720. Galeazza Maria Sforza was assassinated in 1476 before his scheme for erecting a monument to his father Francesco Sforza could be carried into effect. In the following year Ludovico il Moro the young aspirant to the throne was exiled to Pisa, and only returned to Milan in 1479 when he was Lord (Governatore) of the State of Milan, in 1480 after the minister Cecco Simonetta had been murdered. It may have been soon after this that Ludovico il Moro announced a competition for an equestrian statue, and it is tolerably certain that Antonio del Pollajuolo took part in it, from this passage in Vasari's Life of this artist: "E si trovo, dopo la morte sua, il disegno e modello che a Lodovico Sforza egli aveva fatto per la statua a cavallo di Francesco Sforza, duca di Milano; il quale disegno e nel nostro Libro, in due modi: in uno egli ha sotto Verona; nell'altro, egli tutto armato, e sopra un basamento pieno di battaglie, fa saltare il cavallo addosso a un armato; ma la cagione perche non mettesse questi disegni in opera, non ho gia potuto sapere." One of Pollajuolo's drawings, as here described, has lately been discovered by Senatore Giovanni Morelli in the Munich Pinacothek. Here the profile of the horseman is a portrait of Francesco Duke of Milan, and under the horse, who is galloping to the left, we see a warrior thrown and lying on the ground; precisely the same idea as we find in some of Leonardo's designs for the monument, as on Pl. LXVI, LXVII, LXVIII, LXIX and LXXII No. 1; and, as it is impossible to explain this remarkable coincidence by supposing that either artist borrowed it from the other, we can only conclude that in the terms of the competition the subject proposed was the Duke on a horse in full gallop, with a fallen foe under its hoofs. Leonardo may have been in the competition there and then, but the means for executing the monument do not seem to have been at once forthcoming. It was not perhaps until some years later that Leonardo in a letter to the Duke (No. 719) reminded him of the project for the monument. Then, after he had obeyed a summons to Milan, the plan seems to have been so far modified, perhaps in consequence of a remonstrance on the part of the artist, that a pacing horse was substituted for one galloping, and it may have been at the same time that the colossal dimensions of the statue were first decided on. The designs given on Pl. LXX, LXXI, LXXII, 2 and 3, LXXIII and LXXIV and on pp. 4 and 24, as well as three sketches on Pl. LXIX may be studied with reference to the project in its new form, though it is hardly possible to believe that in either of these we see the design as it was actually carried out. It is probable that in Milan Leonardo worked less on drawings, than in making small models of wax and clay as preparatory to his larger model. Among the drawings enumerated above, one in black chalk, Pl. LXXIII--the upper sketch on the right hand side, reminds us strongly of the antique statue of Marcus Aurelius. If, as it would seem, Leonardo had not until then visited Rome, he might easily have known this statue from drawings by his former master and friend Verrocchio, for Verrocchio had been in Rome for a long time between 1470 and 1480. In 1473 Pope Sixtus IV had this antique equestrian statue restored and placed on a new pedestal in front of the church of San Giovanni in Luterano. Leonardo, although he was painting independently as early as in 1472 is still spoken of as working in Verrocchio's studio in 1477. Two years later the Venetian senate decided on erecting an equestrian statue to Colleoni; and as Verrocchio, to whom the work was entrusted, did not at once move from Florence to Venice--where he died in 1488 before the casting was completed--but on the contrary remained in Florence for some years, perhaps even till 1485, Leonardo probably had the opportunity of seeing all his designs for the equestrian statue at Venice and the red chalk drawing on Pl. LXXIV may be a reminiscence of it. The pen and ink drawing on Pl. LXXII, No. 3, reminds us of Donatello's statue of Gattamelata at Padua. However it does not appear that Leonardo was ever at Padua before 1499, but we may conclude that he took a special interest in this early bronze statue and the reports he could procure of it, form an incidental remark which is to be found in C. A. 145a; 432a, and which will be given in Vol. II under Ricordi or Memoranda. Among the studies--in the widest sense of the word--made in preparation statue we may include the Anatomy of the Horse which Lomazzo and Vas mention; the most important parts of this work still exist in the Queen's Li Windsor. It was beyond a doubt compiled by Leonardo when at Milan; only interesting records to be found among these designs are reproduced in Nos. 716a but it must be pointed out that out of 40 sheets of studies of the movements of the belonging to that treatise, a horse in full gallop occurs but once. If we may trust the account given by Paulus Jovius--about l527-- Leonardo's horse was represented as "vehementer incitatus et anhelatus". Jovius had probably seen the model exhibited at Milan; but, need we, in fact, infer from this description that the horse was galloping? Compare Vasari's description of the Gattamelata monument at Padua: "Egli [Donatello] vi ando ben volentieri, e fece il cavallo di bronzo, che e in sulla piazza di Sant Antonio, nel quale si dimostra lo sbuffamento ed il fremito del cavallo, ed il grande animo e la fierezza vivacissimamente espressa dall'arte nella figura che lo cavalca". These descriptions, it seems to me, would only serve to mark the difference between the work of the middle ages and that of the renaissance. We learn from a statement of Sabba da Castiglione that, when Milan was taken by the French in 1499, the model sustained some injury; and this informant, who, however is not invariably trustworthy, adds that Leonardo had devoted fully sixteen years to this work (la forma del cavallo, intorno a cui Leonardo avea sedici anni continui consumati). This often-quoted passage has given ground for an assumption, which has no other evidence to support it, that Leonardo had lived in Milan ever since 1483. But I believe it is nearer the truth to suppose that this author's statement alludes to the fact that about sixteen years must have past since the competition in which Leonardo had taken part. I must in these remarks confine myself strictly to the task in hand and give no more of the history of the Sforza monument than is needed to explain the texts and drawings I have been able to reproduce. In the first place, with regard to the drawings, I may observe that they are all, with the following two exceptions, in the Queen's Library at Windsor Castle; the red chalk drawing on Pl. LXXVI No. 1 is in the MS. C. A. (see No. 7l2) and the fragmentary pen and ink drawing on page 4 is in the Ambrosian Library. The drawings from Windsor on Pl. LXVI have undergone a trifling reduction from the size of the originals. There can no longer be the slightest doubt that the well-known engraving of several horsemen (Passavant, Le Peintre-Graveur, Vol. V, p. 181, No. 3) is only a copy after original drawings by Leonardo, executed by some unknown engraver; we have only to compare the engraving with the facsimiles of drawings on Pl. LXV, No. 2, Pl. LXVII, LXVIII and LXIX which, it is quite evident, have served as models for the engraver. On Pl. LXV No. 1, in the larger sketch to the right hand, only the base is distinctly visible, the figure of the horseman is effaced. Leonardo evidently found it unsatisfactory and therefore rubbed it out. The base of the monument--the pedestal for the equestrian statue--is repeatedly sketched on a magnificent plan. In the sketch just mentioned it has the character of a shrine or aedicula to contain a sarcophagus. Captives in chains are here represented on the entablature with their backs turned to that portion of the monument which more strictly constitutes the pedestal of the horse. The lower portion of the aedicula is surrounded by columns. In the pen and ink drawing Pl. LXVI--the lower drawing on the right hand side--the sarcophagus is shown between the columns, and above the entablature is a plinth on which the horse stands. But this arrangement perhaps seemed to Leonardo to lack solidity, and in the little sketch on the left hand, below, the sarcophagus is shown as lying under an arched canopy. In this the trophies and the captive warriors are detached from the angles. In the first of these two sketches the place for the trophies is merely indicated by a few strokes; in the third sketch on the left the base is altogether broader, buttresses and pinnacles having been added so as to form three niches. The black chalk drawing on Pl. LXVIII shows a base in which the angles are formed by niches with pilasters. In the little sketch to the extreme left on Pl. LXV, No. 1, the equestrian statue serves to crown a circular temple somewhat resembling Bramante's tempietto of San Pietro in Montario at Rome, while the sketch above to the right displays an arrangement faintly reminding us of the tomb of the Scaligers in Verona. The base is thus constructed of two platforms or slabs, the upper one considerably smaller than the lower one which is supported on flying buttresses with pinnacles. On looking over the numerous studies in which the horse is not galloping but merely walking forward, we find only one drawing for the pedestal, and this, to accord with the altered character of the statue, is quieter and simpler in style (Pl. LXXIV). It rises almost vertically from the ground and is exactly as long as the pacing horse. The whole base is here arranged either as an independent baldaquin or else as a projecting canopy over a recess in which the figure of the deceased Duke is seen lying on his sarcophagus; in the latter case it was probably intended as a tomb inside a church. Here, too, it was intended to fill the angles with trophies or captive warriors. Probably only No. 724 in the text refers to the work for the base of the monument. If we compare the last mentioned sketch with the description of a plan for an equestrian monument to Gian Giacomo Trivulzio (No. 725) it seems by no means impossible that this drawing is a preparatory study for the very monument concerning which the manuscript gives us detailed information. We have no historical record regarding this sketch nor do the archives in the Trivulzio Palace give us any information. The simple monument to the great general in San Nazaro Maggiore in Milan consists merely of a sarcophagus placed in recess high on the wall of an octagonal chapel. The figure of the warrior is lying on the sarcophagus, on which his name is inscribed; a piece of sculpture which is certainly not Leonardo's work. Gian Giacomo Trivulzio died at Chartres in 1518, only five months before Leonardo, and it seems to me highly improbable that this should have been the date of this sketch; under these circumstances it would have been done under the auspices of Francis I, but the Italian general was certainly not in favour with the French monarch at the time. Gian Giacomo Trivulzio was a sworn foe to Ludovico il Moro, whom he strove for years to overthrow. On the 6th September 1499 he marched victorious into Milan at the head of a French army. In a short time, however, he was forced to quit Milan again when Ludovico il Moro bore down upon the city with a force of Swiss troops. On the 15th of April following, after defeating Lodovico at Novara, Trivulzio once more entered Milan as a Conqueror, but his hopes of becoming _Governatore_ of the place were soon wrecked by intrigue. This victory and triumph, historians tell us, were signalised by acts of vengeance against the dethroned Sforza, and it might have been particularly flattering to him that the casting and construction of the Sforza monument were suspended for the time. It must have been at this moment--as it seems to me--that he commissioned the artist to prepare designs for his own monument, which he probably intended should find a place in the Cathedral or in some other church. He, the husband of Margherita di Nicolino Colleoni, would have thought that he had a claim to the same distinction and public homage as his less illustrious connection had received at the hands of the Venetian republic. It was at this very time that Trivulzio had a medal struck with a bust portrait of himself and the following remarkable inscription on the reverse:_ DEO FAVENTE--1499--DICTVS--10--IA--EXPVLIT--LVDOVICV--SF-- (Sfortiam) DVC-- (ducem) MLI (Mediolani)--NOIE (nomine)--REGIS--FRANCORVM--EODEM--ANN --(anno) RED'T (redit)--LVS (Ludovicus)--SVPERATVS ET CAPTVS--EST--AB--EO. _In the Library of the Palazzo Trivulzio there is a MS. of Callimachus Siculus written at the end of the XVth or beginning of the XVIth century. At the beginning of this MS. there is an exquisite illuminated miniature of an equestrian statue with the name of the general on the base; it is however very doubtful whether this has any connection with Leonardo's design. Nos. 731-740, which treat of casting bronze, have probably a very indirect bearing on the arrangements made for casting the equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza. Some portions evidently relate to the casting of cannon. Still, in our researches about Leonardo's work on the monument, we may refer to them as giving us some clue to the process of bronze casting at that period. Some practical hints (706-709). 7O6. OF A STATUE. If you wish to make a figure in marble, first make one of clay, and when you have finished it, let it dry and place it in a case which should be large enough, after the figure is taken out of it, to receive also the marble, from which you intend to reveal the figure in imitation of the one in clay. After you have put the clay figure into this said case, have little rods which will exactly slip in to the holes in it, and thrust them so far in at each hole that each white rod may touch the figure in different parts of it. And colour the portion of the rod that remains outside black, and mark each rod and each hole with a countersign so that each may fit into its place. Then take the clay figure out of this case and put in your piece of marble, taking off so much of the marble that all your rods may be hidden in the holes as far as their marks; and to be the better able to do this, make the case so that it can be lifted up; but the bottom of it will always remain under the marble and in this way it can be lifted with tools with great ease. 707. Some have erred in teaching sculptors to measure the limbs of their figures with threads as if they thought that these limbs were equally round in every part where these threads were wound about them. 708. MEASUREMENT AND DIVISION OF A STATUE. Divide the head into 12 degrees, and each degree divide into 12 points, and each point into 12 minutes, and the minutes into minims and the minims into semi minims. Degree--point--minute--minim. 709. Sculptured figures which appear in motion, will, in their standing position, actually look as if they were falling forward. [Footnote: _figure di rilievo_. Leonardo applies this term exclusively to wholly detached figures, especially to those standing free. This note apparently refers to some particular case, though we have no knowledge of what that may have been. If we suppose it to refer to the first model of the equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza (see the introduction to the notes on Sculpture) this observation may be regarded as one of his arguments for abandoning the first scheme of the Sforza Monument, in which the horse was to be galloping (see page 2). It is also in favour of this theory that the note is written in a manuscript volume already completed in 1492. Leonardo's opinions as to the shortcomings of plastic works when compared with paintings are given under No. 655 and 656.] Notes on the casting of the Sforza monument (710-715). 710. Three braces which bind the mould. [If you want to make simple casts quickly, make them in a box of river sand wetted with vinegar.] [When you shall have made the mould upon the horse you must make the thickness of the metal in clay.] Observe in alloying how many hours are wanted for each hundredweight. [In casting each one keep the furnace and its fire well stopped up.] [Let the inside of all the moulds be wetted with linseed oil or oil of turpentine, and then take a handful of powdered borax and Greek pitch with aqua vitae, and pitch the mould over outside so that being under ground the damp may not [damage it?] [To manage the large mould make a model of the small mould, make a small room in proportion.] [Make the vents in the mould while it is on the horse.] Hold the hoofs in the tongs, and cast them with fish glue. Weigh the parts of the mould and the quantity of metal it will take to fill them, and give so much to the furnace that it may afford to each part its amount of metal; and this you may know by weighing the clay of each part of the mould to which the quantity in the furnace must correspond. And this is done in order that the furnace for the legs when filled may not have to furnish metal from the legs to help out the head, which would be impossible. [Cast at the same casting as the horse the little door] [Footnote: The importance of the notes included under this number is not diminished by the fact that they have been lightly crossed out with red chalk. Possibly they were the first scheme for some fuller observations which no longer exist; or perhaps they were crossed out when Leonardo found himself obliged to give up the idea of casting the equestrian statue. In the original the first two sketches are above l. 1, and the third below l. 9.] 711. THE MOULD FOR THE HORSE. Make the horse on legs of iron, strong and well set on a good foundation; then grease it and cover it with a coating, leaving each coat to dry thoroughly layer by layer; and this will thicken it by the breadth of three fingers. Now fix and bind it with iron as may be necessary. Moreover take off the mould and then make the thickness. Then fill the mould by degrees and make it good throughout; encircle and bind it with its irons and bake it inside where it has to touch the bronze. OF MAKING THE MOULD IN PIECES. Draw upon the horse, when finished, all the pieces of the mould with which you wish to cover the horse, and in laying on the clay cut it in every piece, so that when the mould is finished you can take it off, and then recompose it in its former position with its joins, by the countersigns. The square blocks _a b_ will be between the cover and the core, that is in the hollow where the melted bronze is to be; and these square blocks of bronze will support the intervals between the mould and the cover at an equal distance, and for this reason these squares are of great importance. The clay should be mixed with sand. Take wax, to return [what is not used] and to pay for what is used. Dry it in layers. Make the outside mould of plaster, to save time in drying and the expense in wood; and with this plaster enclose the irons [props] both outside and inside to a thickness of two fingers; make terra cotta. And this mould can be made in one day; half a boat load of plaster will serve you. Good. Dam it up again with glue and clay, or white of egg, and bricks and rubbish. [Footnote: See Pl. LXXV. The figure "40," close to the sketch in the middle of the page between lines 16 and 17 has been added by a collector's hand. In the original, below line 21, a square piece of the page has been cut out about 9 centimetres by 7 and a blank piece has been gummed into the place. Lines 22-24 are written on the margin. l. 27 and 28 are close to the second marginal sketch. l. 42 is a note written above the third marginal sketch and on the back of this sheet is the text given as No. 642. Compare also No. 802.] 712. All the heads of the large nails. [Footnote: See Pl. LXXVI, No. i. This drawing has already been published in the "_Saggio delle Opere di L. da Vinci_." Milano 1872, Pl. XXIV, No. i. But, for various reasons I cannot regard the editor's suggestions as satisfactory. He says: "_Veggonsi le armature di legname colle quali forse venne sostenuto il modello, quando per le nozze di Bianca Maria Sforza con Massimiliano imperatore, esso fu collocato sotto un arco trionfale davanti al Castello_." 713. These bindings go inside. 714. Salt may be made from human excrements, burnt and calcined, made into lees and dried slowly at a fire, and all the excrements produce salt in a similar way and these salts when distilled, are very strong. [Footnote: VASARI repeatedly states, in the fourth chapter of his _Introduzione della Scultura_, that in preparing to cast bronze statues horse-dung was frequently used by sculptors. If, notwithstanding this, it remains doubtful whether I am justified in having introduced here this text of but little interest, no such doubt can be attached to the sketch which accompanies it.] 715. METHOD OF FOUNDING AGAIN. This may be done when the furnace is made [Footnote: this note is written below the sketches.] strong and bruised. Models for the horse of the Sforza monument (716-718). 7l6. Messer Galeazzo's big genet 717. Messer Galeazzo's Sicilian horse. [Footnote: These notes are by the side of a drawing of a horse with figured measurements.] 718. Measurement of the Sicilian horse the leg from behind, seen in front, lifted and extended. [Footnote: There is no sketch belonging to this passage. Galeazze here probably means Galeazze di San Severino, the famous captain who married Bianca the daughter of Ludovico il Moro.] Occasional references to the Sforza monument (719-724). 719. Again, the bronze horse may be taken in hand, which is to be to the immortal glory and eternal honour of the happy memory of the prince your father, and of the illustrious house of Sforza. [Footnote: The letter from which this passage is here extracted will be found complete in section XXI. (see the explanation of it, on page 2).] 720. On the 23rd of April 1490 I began this book, and recommenced the horse. 721. There is to be seen, in the mountains of Parma and Piacenza, a multitude of shells and corals full of holes, still sticking to the rocks, and when I was at work on the great horse for Milan, a large sackful of them, which were found thereabout, was brought to me into my workshop, by certain peasants. 722. Believe me, Leonardo the Florentine, who has to do the equestrian bronze statue of the Duke Francesco that he does not need to care about it, because he has work for all his life time, and, being so great a work, I doubt whether he can ever finish it. [Footnote: This passage is quoted from a letter to a committee at Piacenza for whom Leonardo seems to have undertaken to execute some work. The letter is given entire in section XXL; in it Leonardo remonstrates as to some unreasonable demands.] 723. Of the horse I will say nothing because I know the times. [Footnote: This passage occurs in a rough copy of a letter to Ludovico il Moro, without date (see below among the letters).] 724. During ten years the works on the marbles have been going on I will not wait for my payment beyond the time, when my works are finished. [Footnote: This possibly refers to the works for the pedestal of the equestrian statue concerning which we have no farther information in the MSS. See p. 6.] The project of the Trivulzio monument. 725. THE MONUMENT TO MESSER GIOVANNI JACOMO DA TREVULZO. [2] Cost of the making and materials for the horse [5]. [Footnote: In the original, lines 2-5, 12-14, 33-35, are written on the margin. This passage has been recently published by G. Govi in Vol. V, Ser. 3a, of _Transunti, Reale Accademia dei Linea, sed. del 5 Giugno, 1881,_ with the following introductory note: _"Desidero intanto che siano stampati questi pochi frammenti perche so che sono stati trascritti ultimamente, e verranno messi in luce tra poco fuori d'Italia. Li ripubblichi pure chi vuole, ma si sappia almeno che anche tra noi si conoscevano, e s'eran raccolti da anni per comporne, quando che fosse, una edizione ordinata degli scritti di Leonardo."_ The learned editor has left out line 22 and has written 3 _pie_ for 8 _piedi_ in line 25. There are other deviations of less importance from the original.] A courser, as large as life, with the rider requires for the cost of the metal, duc. 500. And for cost of the iron work which is inside the model, and charcoal, and wood, and the pit to cast it in, and for binding the mould, and including the furnace where it is to be cast ... duc. 200. To make the model in clay and then in wax......... duc. 432. To the labourers for polishing it when it is cast. ....... duc. 450. in all. . duc. 1582. [12] Cost of the marble of the monument [14]. Cost of the marble according to the drawing. The piece of marble under the horse which is 4 braccia long, 2 braccia and 2 inches wide and 9 inches thick 58 hundredweight, at 4 Lire and 10 Soldi per hundredweight.. duc. 58. And for 13 braccia and 6 inches of cornice, 7 in. wide and 4 in. thick, 24 hundredweight....... duc. 24. And for the frieze and architrave, which is 4 br. and 6 in. long, 2 br. wide and 6 in. thick, 29 hundredweight., duc. 20. And for the capitals made of metal, which are 8, 5 inches in. square and 2 in. thick, at the price of 15 ducats each, will come to...... duc. 122. And for 8 columns of 2 br. 7 in., 4 1/2 in. thick, 20 hundredweight duc. 20. And for 8 bases which are 5 1/2 in. square and 2 in. high 5 hund'.. duc. 5. And for the slab of the tombstone 4 br. io in. long, 2 br. 4 1/2 in. wide 36 hundredweight....... duc. 36. And for 8 pedestal feet each 8 br. long and 6 1/2 in. wide and 6 1/2 in. thick, 20 hundredweight come to... duc. 20. And for the cornice below which is 4 br. and 10 in. long, and 2 br. and 5 in. wide, and 4 in. thick, 32 hund'.. duc. 32. And for the stone of which the figure of the deceased is to be made which is 3 br. and 8 in. long, and 1 br. and 6 in. wide, and 9 in. thick, 30 hund'.. duc. 30. And for the stone on which the figure lies which is 3 br. and 4 in. long and 1 br. and 2 in., wide and 4 1/2 in. thick duc. 16. And for the squares of marble placed between the pedestals which are 8 and are 9 br. long and 9 in. wide, and 3 in. thick, 8 hundredweight . . . duc. 8. in all. . duc. 389. [33]Cost of the work in marble[35]. Round the base on which the horse stands there are 8 figures at 25 ducats each ............ duc. 200. And on the same base there are 8 festoons with some other ornaments, and of these there are 4 at the price of 15 ducats each, and 4 at the price of 8 ducats each ....... duc. 92. And for squaring the stones duc. 6. Again, for the large cornice which goes below the base on which the horse stands, which is 13 br. and 6 in., at 2 due. per br. ...... duc. 27. And for 12 br. of frieze at 5 due. per br. ........... duc. 60. And for 12 br. of architrave at 1 1/2 duc. per br. ....... duc. 18. And for 3 rosettes which will be the soffit of the monument, at 20 ducats each .......... duc. 60. And for 8 fluted columns at 8 ducats each ......... duc. 64. And for 8 bases at 1 ducat each, duc. 8. And for 8 pedestals, of which 4 are at 10 duc. each, which go above the angles; and 4 at 6 duc. each .. duc. 64. And for squaring and carving the moulding of the pedestals at 2 duc. each, and there are 8 .... duc. 16. And for 6 square blocks with figures and trophies, at 25 duc. each .. duc. 150. And for carving the moulding of the stone under the figure of the deceased .......... duc. 40. For the statue of the deceased, to do it well .......... duc. 100. For 6 harpies with candelabra, at 25 ducats each ......... duc. 150. For squaring the stone on which the statue lies, and carving the moulding ............ duc. 20. in all .. duc. 1075. The sum total of every thing added together amount to ...... duc. 3046. 726. MINT AT ROME. It can also be made without a spring. But the screw above must always be joined to the part of the movable sheath: [Margin note: The mint of Rome.] [Footnote: See Pl. LXXVI. This passage is taken from a note book which can be proved to have been used in Rome.] All coins which do not have the rim complete, are not to be accepted as good; and to secure the perfection of their rim it is requisite that, in the first place, all the coins should be a perfect circle; and to do this a coin must before all be made perfect in weight, and size, and thickness. Therefore have several plates of metal made of the same size and thickness, all drawn through the same gauge so as to come out in strips. And out of [24] these strips you will stamp the coins, quite round, as sieves are made for sorting chestnuts [27]; and these coins can then be stamped in the way indicated above; &c. [31] The hollow of the die must be uniformly wider than the lower, but imperceptibly [35]. This cuts the coins perfectly round and of the exact thickness, and weight; and saves the man who cuts and weighs, and the man who makes the coins round. Hence it passes only through the hands of the gauger and of the stamper, and the coins are very superior. [Footnote: See Pl. LXXVI No. 2. The text of lines 31-35 stands parallel 1. 24-27. Farther evidence of Leonardo's occupations and engagements at Rome under Pope Leo X. may be gathered from some rough copies of letters which will be found in this volume. Hitherto nothing has been known of his work in Rome beyond some doubtful, and perhaps mythical, statements in Vasari.] 727. POWDER FOR MEDALS. The incombustible growth of soot on wicks reduced to powder, burnt tin and all the metals, alum, isinglass, smoke from a brass forge, each ingredient to be moistened, with aqua vitae or malmsey or strong malt vinegar, white wine or distilled extract of turpentine, or oil; but there should be little moisture, and cast in moulds. [Margin note: On the coining of medals (727. 728).] [Footnote: The meaning of _scagliuolo_ in this passage is doubtful.] 728. OF TAKING CASTS OF MEDALS. A paste of emery mixed with aqua vitae, or iron filings with vinegar, or ashes of walnut leaves, or ashes of straw very finely powdered. [Footnote: The meaning of _scagliuolo_ in this passage is doubtful.] The diameter is given in the lead enclosed; it is beaten with a hammer and several times extended; the lead is folded and kept wrapped up in parchment so that the powder may not be spilt; then melt the lead, and the powder will be on the top of the melted lead, which must then be rubbed between two plates of steel till it is thoroughly pulverised; then wash it with aqua fortis, and the blackness of the iron will be dissolved leaving the powder clean. Emery in large grains may be broken by putting it on a cloth many times doubled, and hit it sideways with the hammer, when it will break up; then mix it little by little and it can be founded with ease; but if you hold it on the anvil you will never break it, when it is large. Any one who grinds smalt should do it on plates of tempered steel with a cone shaped grinder; then put it in aqua fortis, which melts away the steel that may have been worked up and mixed with the smalt, and which makes it black; it then remains purified and clean; and if you grind it on porphyry the porphyry will work up and mix with the smalt and spoil it, and aqua fortis will never remove it because it cannot dissolve the porphyry. If you want a fine blue colour dissolve the smalt made with tartar, and then remove the salt. Vitrified brass makes a fine red. 729. STUCCO. Place stucco over the prominence of the..... which may be composed of Venus and Mercury, and lay it well over that prominence of the thickness of the side of a knife, made with the ruler and cover this with the bell of a still, and you will have again the moisture with which you applied the paste. The rest you may dry [Margin note: On stucco (729. 730).] [Footnote: In this passage a few words have been written in a sort of cipher--that is to say backwards; as in l. 3 _erenev_ for _Venere_, l. 4 _oirucrem_ for Mercurio, l. 12 _il orreve co ecarob_ for _il everro (?) co borace_. The meaning of the word before _"di giesso"_ in l. 1 is unknown; and the sense, in which _sagoma_ is used here and in other passages is obscure.-- _Venere_ and _Mercurio_ may mean 'marble' and 'lime', of which stucco is composed. 12. The meaning of _orreve_ is unknown.] well; afterwards fire it, and beat it or burnish it with a good burnisher, and make it thick towards the side. STUCCO. Powder ... with borax and water to a paste, and make stucco of it, and then heat it so that it may dry, and then varnish it, with fire, so that it shines well. 730. STUCCO FOR MOULDING. Take of butter 6 parts, of wax 2 parts, and as much fine flour as when put with these 2 things melted, will make them as firm as wax or modelling clay. GLUE. Take mastic, distilled turpentine and white lead. On bronze casting generally (731-740). 731. TO CAST. Tartar burnt and powdered with plaster and cast cause the plaster to hold together when it is mixed up again; and then it will dissolve in water. 732. TO CAST BRONZE IN PLASTER. Take to every 2 cups of plaster 1 of ox-horns burnt, mix them together and make your cast with it. 733. When you want to take a cast in wax, burn the scum with a candle, and the cast will come out without bubbles. 734. 2 ounces of plaster to a pound of metal;-- walnut, which makes it like the curve. [Footnote: The second part of this is quite obscure.] 735. [Dried earth 16 pounds, 100 pounds of metal wet clay 20,--of wet 100,-half,- which increases 4 Ibs. of water,--1 of wax, 1 Ib. of metal, a little less,-the scrapings of linen with earth, measure for measure.] [Footnote: The translation is given literally, but the meaning is quite obscure.] 736. Such as the mould is, so will the cast be. 737. HOW CASTS OUGHT TO BE POLISHED. Make a bunch of iron wire as thick as thread, and scrub them with [this and] water; hold a bowl underneath that it may not make a mud below. HOW TO REMOVE THE ROUGH EDGES FROM BRONZE. Make an iron rod, after the manner of a large chisel, and with this rub over those seams on the bronze which remain on the casts of the guns, and which are caused by the joins in the mould; but make the tool heavy enough, and let the strokes be long and broad. TO FACILITATE MELTING. First alloy part of the metal in the crucible, then put it in the furnace, and this being in a molten state will assist in beginning to melt the copper. TO PREVENT THE COPPER COOLING IN THE FURNACE. When the copper cools in the furnace, be ready, as soon as you perceive it, to cut it with a long stick while it is still in a paste; or if it is quite cold cut it as lead is cut with broad and large chisels. IF YOU HAVE TO MAKE A LARGE CAST. If you have to make a cast of a hundred thousand pounds do it with two furnaces and with 2000 pounds in each, or as much as 3000 pounds at most. 738. HOW TO PROCEED TO BREAK A LARGE MASS OF BRONZE. If you want to break up a large mass of bronze, first suspend it, and then make round it a wall on the four sides, like a trough of bricks, and make a great fire therein. When it is quite red hot give it a blow with a heavy weight raised above it, and with great force. 739. TO COMBINE LEAD WITH OTHER METAL. If you wish for economy in combining lead with the metal in order to lessen the amount of tin which is necessary in the metal, first alloy the lead with the tin and then add the molten copper. How TO MELT [METAL] IN A FURNACE. The furnace should be between four well founded pillars. OF THE THICKNESS OF THE COATING. The coating should not be more than two fingers thick, it should be laid on in four thicknesses over fine clay and then well fixed, and it should be fired only on the inside and then carefully covered with ashes and cow's dung. OF THE THICKNESS OF THE GUN. The gun being made to carry 600 Ibs. of ball and more, by this rule you will take the measure of the diameter of the ball and divide it into 6 parts and one of these parts will be its thickness at the muzzle; but at the breech it must always be half. And if the ball is to be 700 lbs., 1/7th of the diameter of the ball must be its thickness in front; and if the ball is to be 800, the eighth of its diameter in front; and if 900, 1/8th and 1/2 [3/16], and if 1000, 1/9th. OF THE LENGTH OF THE BODY OF THE GUN. If you want it to throw a ball of stone, make the length of the gun to be 6, or as much as 7 diameters of the ball; and if the ball is to be of iron make it as much as 12 balls, and if the ball is to be of lead, make it as much as 18 balls. I mean when the gun is to have the mouth fitted to receive 600 lbs. of stone ball, and more. OF THE THICKNESS OF SMALL GUNS. The thickness at the muzzle of small guns should be from a half to one third of the diameter of the ball, and the length from 30 to 36 balls. 740. OF LUTING THE FURNACE WITHIN. The furnace must be luted before you put the metal in it, with earth from Valenza, and over that with ashes. [Footnote 1. 2.: _Terra di Valenza_.--Valenza is north of Alessandria on the Po.] OF RESTORING THE METAL WHEN IT IS BECOMING COOL. When you see that the bronze is congealing take some willow-wood cut in small chips and make up the fire with it. THE CAUSE OF ITS CURDLING. I say that the cause of this congealing often proceeds from too much fire, or from ill-dried wood. TO KNOW THE CONDITION OF THE FIRE. You may know when the fire is good and fit for your purpose by a clear flame, and if you see the tips of the flames dull and ending in much smoke do not trust it, and particularly when the flux metal is almost fluid. OF ALLOYING THE METAL. Metal for guns must invariably be made with 6 or even 8 per cent, that is 6 of tin to one hundred of copper, for the less you put in, the stronger will the gun be. WHEN THE TIN SHOULD BE ADDED TO THE COPPER. The tin should be put in with the copper when the copper is reduced to a fluid. HOW TO HASTEN THE MELTING. You can hasten the melting when 2/3ds of the copper is fluid; you can then, with a stick of chestnut-wood, repeatedly stir what of copper remains entire amidst what is melted. _Introductory Observations on the Architectural Designs (XII), and Writings on Architecture (XIII)._ _Until now very little has been known regarding Leonardo's labours in the domain of Architecture. No building is known to have been planned and executed by him, though by some contemporary writers incidental allusion is made to his occupying himself with architecture, and his famous letter to Lodovico il Moro,--which has long been a well-known document,--in which he offers his service as an architect to that prince, tends to confirm the belief that he was something more than an amateur of the art. This hypothesis has lately been confirmed by the publication of certain documents, preserved at Milan, showing that Leonardo was not only employed in preparing plans but that he took an active part, with much credit, as member of a commission on public buildings; his name remains linked with the history of the building of the Cathedral at Pavia and that of the Cathedral at Milan._ _Leonardo's writings on Architecture are dispersed among a large number of MSS., and it would be scarcely possible to master their contents without the opportunity of arranging, sorting and comparing the whole mass of materials, so as to have some comprehensive idea of the whole. The sketches, when isolated and considered by themselves, might appear to be of but little value; it is not till we understand their general purport, from comparing them with each other, that we can form any just estimate of their true worth._ _Leonardo seems to have had a project for writing a complete and separate treatise on Architecture, such as his predecessors and contemporaries had composed--Leon Battista Alberti, Filarete, Francesco di Giorgio and perhaps also Bramante. But, on the other hand, it cannot be denied that possibly no such scheme was connected with the isolated notes and researches, treating on special questions, which are given in this work; that he was merely working at problems in which, for some reason or other he took a special interest._ _A great number of important buildings were constructed in Lombardy during the period between 1472 and 1499, and among them there are several by unknown architects, of so high an artistic merit, that it is certainly not improbable that either Bramante or Leonardo da Vinci may have been, directly or indirectly, concerned in their erection._ _Having been engaged, for now nearly twenty years, in a thorough study of Bramante's life and labours, I have taken a particular interest in detecting the distinguishing marks of his style as compared with Leonardo's. In 1869 I made researches about the architectural drawings of the latter in the Codex Atlanticus at Milan, for the purpose of finding out, if possible the original plans and sketches of the churches of Santa Maria delle Grazie at Milan, and of the Cathedral at Pavia, which buildings have been supposed to be the work both of Bramante and of Leonardo. Since 1876 I have repeatedly examined Leonardo's architectural studies in the collection of his manuscripts in the Institut de France, and some of these I have already given to the public in my work on_ "Les Projets Primitifs pour la Basilique de St. Pierre de Rome", _P1. 43. In 1879 I had the opportunity of examining the manuscript in the Palazzo Trivulzio at Milan, and in 1880 Dr Richter showed me in London the manuscripts in the possession of Lord Ashburnham, and those in the British Museum. I have thus had opportunities of seeing most of Leonardo's architectural drawings in the original, but of the manuscripts tliemselves I have deciphered only the notes which accompany the sketches. It is to Dr Richter's exertions that we owe the collected texts on Architecture which are now published, and while he has undertaken to be responsible for the correct reading of the original texts, he has also made it his task to extract the whole of the materials from the various MSS. It has been my task to arrange and elucidate the texts under the heads which have been adopted in this work. MS. B. at Paris and the Codex Atlanticus at Milan are the chief sources of our knowledge of Leonardo as an architect, and I have recently subjected these to a thorough re-investigation expressly with a view to this work._ _A complete reproduction of all Leonardo's architectural sketches has not, indeed, been possible, but as far as the necessarily restricted limits of the work have allowed, the utmost completeness has been aimed at, and no efforts have been spared to include every thing that can contribute to a knowledge of Leonardo's style. It would have been very interesting, if it had been possible, to give some general account at least of Leonardo's work and studies in engineering, fortification, canal-making and the like, and it is only on mature reflection that we have reluctantly abandoned this idea. Leonardo's occupations in these departments have by no means so close a relation to literary work, in the strict sense of the word as we are fairly justified in attributing to his numerous notes on Architecture._ _Leonardo's architectural studies fall naturally under two heads:_ _I. Those drawings and sketches, often accompanied by short remarks and explanations, which may be regarded as designs for buildings or monuments intended to be built. With these there are occasionally explanatory texts._ _II. Theoretical investigations and treatises. A special interest attaches to these because they discuss a variety of questions which are of practical importance to this day. Leonardo's theory as to the origin and progress of cracks in buildings is perhaps to be considered as unique in its way in the literature of Architecture._ _HENRY DE GEYMULLER_ _XII._ _Architectural Designs._ _I. Plans for towns._ _A. Sketches for laying out a new town with a double system of high- level and low-level road-ways._ _Pl. LXXVII, No. 1 (MS. B, 15b). A general view of a town, with the roads outside it sloping up to the high-level ways within._ _Pl. LXXVII, No. 3 (MS. B, 16b. see No. 741; and MS. B. 15b, see No. 742) gives a partial view of the town, with its streets and houses, with explanatory references._ _Pl. LXXVII, No. 2 (MS. B, 15b; see No. 743). View of a double staircaise with two opposite flights of steps._ _Pl. LXXVIII, Nos. 2 and 3 (MS. B, 37a). Sketches illustrating the connection of the two levels of roads by means of steps. The lower galleries are lighted by openings in the upper roadway._ _B. Notes on removing houses (MS. Br. M., 270b, see No. 744)._ 741. The roads _m_ are 6 braccia higher than the roads _p s_, and each road must be 20 braccia wide and have 1/2 braccio slope from the sides towards the middle; and in the middle let there be at every braccio an opening, one braccio long and one finger wide, where the rain water may run off into hollows made on the same level as _p s_. And on each side at the extremity of the width of the said road let there be an arcade, 6 braccia broad, on columns; and understand that he who would go through the whole place by the high level streets can use them for this purpose, and he who would go by the low level can do the same. By the high streets no vehicles and similar objects should circulate, but they are exclusively for the use of gentlemen. The carts and burdens for the use and convenience of the inhabitants have to go by the low ones. One house must turn its back to the other, leaving the lower streets between them. Provisions, such as wood, wine and such things are carried in by the doors _n_, and privies, stables and other fetid matter must be emptied away underground. From one arch to the next 742. must be 300 braccia, each street receiving its light through the openings of the upper streets, and at each arch must be a winding stair on a circular plan because the corners of square ones are always fouled; they must be wide, and at the first vault there must be a door entering into public privies and the said stairs lead from the upper to the lower streets and the high level streets begin outside the city gates and slope up till at these gates they have attained the height of 6 braccia. Let such a city be built near the sea or a large river in order that the dirt of the city may be carried off by the water. 743. The construction of the stairs: The stairs _c d_ go down to _f g_, and in the same way _f g_ goes down to _h k_. 744. ON MOVING HOUSES. Let the houses be moved and arranged in order; and this will be done with facility because such houses are at first made in pieces on the open places, and can then be fitted together with their timbers in the site where they are to be permanent. [9] Let the men of the country [or the village] partly inhabit the new houses when the court is absent [12]. [Footnote: On the same page we find notes referring to Romolontino and Villafranca with a sketch-map of the course of the "Sodro" and the "(Lo)cra" (both are given in the text farther on). There can hardly be a doubt that the last sentence of the passage given above, refers to the court of Francis I. King of France.--L.9-13 are written inside the larger sketch, which, in the original, is on the right hand side of the page by the side of lines 1-8. The three smaller sketches are below. J. P. R.] _II. Plans for canals and streets in a town. Pl. LXXIX, 1. and 2, (MS. B, 37b, see No. 745, and MS. B. 36a, see No. 746). A Plan for streets and canals inside a town, by which the cellars of the houses are made accessible in boats. The third text given under No. 747 refers to works executed by Leonardo in France._ 745. The front _a m_ will give light to the rooms; _a e_ will be 6 braccia--_a b_ 8 braccia --_b e_ 30 braccia, in order that the rooms under the porticoes may be lighted; _c d f_ is the place where the boats come to the houses to be unloaded. In order to render this arrangement practicable, and in order that the inundation of the rivers may not penetrate into the cellars, it is necessary to chose an appropriate situation, such as a spot near a river which can be diverted into canals in which the level of the water will not vary either by inundations or drought. The construction is shown below; and make choice of a fine river, which the rains do not render muddy, such as the Ticino, the Adda and many others. [Footnote 12: _Tesino, Adda e molti altri, i.e._ rivers coming from the mountains and flowing through lakes.] The construction to oblige the waters to keep constantly at the same level will be a sort of dock, as shown below, situated at the entrance of the town; or better still, some way within, in order that the enemy may not destroy it [14]. [Footnote: L. 1-4 are on the left hand side and within the sketch given on Pl. LXXIX, No. I. Then follows after line 14, the drawing of a sluicegate--_conca_--of which the use is explained in the text below it. On the page 38a, which comes next in the original MS. is the sketch of an oval plan of a town over which is written "_modo di canali per la citta_" and through the longer axis of it "_canale magior_" is written with "_Tesino_" on the prolongation of the canal. J. P. R.] 746. Let the width of the streets be equal to the average height of the houses. 747. The main underground channel does not receive turbid water, but that water runs in the ditches outside the town with four mills at the entrance and four at the outlet; and this may be done by damming the water above Romorantin. [11]There should be fountains made in each piazza[13]. [Footnote: In the original this text comes immediately after the passage given as No. 744. The remainder of the writing on the same page refers to the construction of canals and is given later, in the "Topographical Notes". Lines 1-11 are written to the right of the plan lines 11-13 underneath it. J. P. R.] [Footnote 10: _Romolontino_ is Romorantin, South of Orleans in France.] _III. Castles and Villas. A. Castles. Pl. LXXX, No. 1 (P. V. fol. 39b; No. d'ordre 2282). The fortified place here represented is said by Vallardi to be the_ "castello" _at Milan, but without any satisfactory reason. The high tower behind the_ "rivellino" _ravelin--seems to be intended as a watch-tower. Pl. LXXX, No. 2 (MS. B, 23b). A similarly constructed tower probably intended for the same use. Pl. LXXX, No. 3 (MS. B). Sketches for corner towers with steps for a citadel. Pl. LXXX, No. 4 (W. XVI). A cupola crowning a corner tower; an interesting example of decorative fortification. In this reproduction of the original pen and ink drawing it appears reversed. B. Projects for Palaces. Pl. LXXXI, No. 2 (MS. C. A, 75b; 221a, see No. 748). Project for a royal residence at Amboise in France. Pl. LXXXII, No. 1 (C. A 308a; 939a). A plan for a somewhat extensive residence, and various details; but there is no text to elucidate it; in courts are written the three names: Sam cosi giova _(St. Mark)_ _(Cosmo)_ _(John)_, arch mo nino C. Plans for small castles or Villas. The three following sketches greatly resemble each other. Pl. LXXXII, No. 2 (MS. K3 36b; see No. 749)._ _Pl. LXXXII, No. 3 (MS. B 60a; See No. 750). Pl. LXXXIII (W. XVII). The text on this sheet refers to Cyprus (see Topographical Notes No. 1103), but seems to have no direct connection with the sketches inserted between. Pl. LXXXVIII, Nos. 6 and 7 (MS. B, 12a; see No. 751). A section of a circular pavilion with the plan of a similar building by the side of it. These two drawings have a special historical interest because the text written below mentions the Duke and Duchess of Milan. The sketch of a villa on a terrace at the end of a garden occurs in C. A. 150; and in C. A. 77b; 225b is another sketch of a villa somewhat resembling the_ Belvedere _of Pope Innocent VIII, at Rome. In C. A. 62b; 193b there is a Loggia. Pl. LXXXII, No. 4 (C. A. 387a; 1198a) is a tower-shaped_ Loggia _above a fountain. The machinery is very ingeniously screened from view._ 748. The Palace of the prince must have a piazza in front of it. Houses intended for dancing or any kind of jumping or any other movements with a multitude of people, must be on the ground- floor; for I have already witnessed the destruction of some, causing death to many persons, and above all let every wall, be it ever so thin, rest on the ground or on arches with a good foundation. Let the mezzanines of the dwellings be divided by walls made of very thin bricks, and without wood on account of fire. Let all the privies have ventilation [by shafts] in the thickness of the walls, so as to exhale by the roofs. The mezzanines should be vaulted, and the vaults will be stronger in proportion as they are of small size. The ties of oak must be enclosed in the walls in order to be protected from fire. [Footnote: The remarks accompanying the plan reproduced on Pl. LXXXI, No. 2 are as follows: Above, to the left: "_in_ a _angholo stia la guardia de la sstalla_" (in the angle _a_ may be the keeper of the stable). Below are the words "_strada dabosa_" (road to Amboise), parallel with this "_fossa br 40_" (the moat 40 braccia) fixing the width of the moat. In the large court surrounded by a portico "_in terre No.--Largha br.80 e lugha br 120_." To the right of the castle is a large basin for aquatic sports with the words "_Giostre colle nave cioe li giostra li stieno sopra le na_" (Jousting in boats that is the men are to be in boats). J. P. R.] The privies must be numerous and going one into the other in order that the stench may not penetrate into the dwellings., and all their doors must shut off themselves with counterpoises. The main division of the facade of this palace is into two portions; that is to say the width of the court-yard must be half the whole facade; the 2nd ... 749. 30 braccia wide on each side; the lower entrance leads into a hall 10 braccia wide and 30 braccia long with 4 recesses each with a chimney. [Footnote: On each side of the castle, Pl. LXXXII. No. 2 there are drawings of details, to the left "_Camino_" a chimney, to the right the central lantern, sketched in red "_8 lati_" _i.e._ an octagon.] 750. The firststorey [or terrace] must be entirely solid. 751. The pavilion in the garden of the Duchess of Milan. The plan of the pavilion which is in the middle of the labyrinth of the Duke of Milan. [Footnote: This passage was first published by AMORETTI in _Memorie Storiche_ Cap. X: Una sua opera da riportarsi a quest' anno fu il bagno fatto per la duchessa Beatrice nel parco o giardino del Castello. Lionardo non solo ne disegno il piccolo edifizio a foggia di padiglione, nel cod. segnato Q. 3, dandone anche separatamente la pianta; ma sotto vi scrisse: Padiglione del giardino della duchessa; e sotto la pianta: Fondamento del padiglione ch'e nel mezzo del labirinto del duca di Milano; nessuna data e presso il padiglione, disegnato nella pagina 12, ma poco sopra fra molti circoli intrecciati vedesi = 10 Luglio 1492 = e nella pagina 2 presso ad alcuni disegni di legumi qualcheduno ha letto Settembre 1482 in vece di 1492, come dovea scriverevi, e probabilmente scrisse Lionardo. The original text however hardly bears the interpretation put upon it by AMORETTI. He is mistaken as to the mark on the MS. as well as in his statements as to the date, for the MS. in question has no date; the date he gives occurs, on the contrary, in another note-book. Finally, it appears to me quite an open question whether Leonardo was the architect who carried out the construction of the dome-like Pavilion here shown in section, or of the ground plan of the Pavilion drawn by the side of it. Must we, in fact, suppose that "_il duca di Milano_" here mentioned was, as has been generally assumed, Ludovico il Moro? He did not hold this title from the Emperor before 1494; till that date he was only called _Governatore_ and Leonardo in speaking of him, mentions him generally as "_il Moro_" even after 1494. On January 18, 1491, he married Beatrice d'Este the daughter of Ercole I, Duke of Ferrara. She died on the 2nd January 1497, and for the reasons I have given it seems improbable that it should be this princess who is here spoken of as the "_Duchessa di Milano_". From the style of the handwriting it appears to me to be beyond all doubt that the MS. B, from which this passage is taken, is older than the dated MSS. of 1492 and 1493. In that case the Duke of Milan here mentioned would be Gian Galeazzo (1469-1494) and the Duchess would be his wife Isabella of Aragon, to whom he was married on the second February 1489. J. P. R.] 752. The earth that is dug out from the cellars must be raised on one side so high as to make a terrace garden as high as the level of the hall; but between the earth of the terrace and the wall of the house, leave an interval in order that the damp may not spoil the principal walls. _IV. Ecclesiastical Architecture. A. General Observations._ 753. A building should always be detached on all sides so that its form may be seen. [Footnote: The original text is reproduced on Pl. XCII, No. 1 to the left hand at the bottom.] 754. Here there cannot and ought not to be any _campanile_; on the contrary it must stand apart like that of the Cathedral and of San Giovanni at Florence, and of the Cathedral at Pisa, where the campanile is quite detached as well as the dome. Thus each can display its own perfection. If however you wish to join it to the church, make the lantern serve for the campanile as in the church at Chiaravalle. [Footnote: This text is written by the side of the plan given on Pl. XCI. No. 2.] [Footnote 12: The Abbey of Chiaravalle, a few miles from Milan, has a central tower on the intersection of the cross in the style of that of the Certosa of Pavia, but the style is mediaeval (A. D. 1330). Leonardo seems here to mean, that in a building, in which the circular form is strongly conspicuous, the campanile must either be separated, or rise from the centre of the building and therefore take the form of a lantern.] 755. It never looks well to see the roofs of a church; they should rather be flat and the water should run off by gutters made in the frieze. [Footnote: This text is to the left of the domed church reproduced on Pl. LXXXVII, No. 2.] _B. The theory of Dome Architecture. This subject has been more extensively treated by Leonardo in drawings than in writing. Still we may fairly assume that it was his purpose, ultimately to embody the results of his investigation in a_ "Trattato delle Cupole." _The amount of materials is remarkably extensive. MS. B is particularly rich in plans and elevations of churches with one or more domes--from the simplest form to the most complicated that can be imagined. Considering the evident connexion between a great number of these sketches, as well as the impossibility of seeing in them designs or preparatory sketches for any building intended to be erected, the conclusion is obvious that they were not designed for any particular monument, but were theoretical and ideal researches, made in order to obtain a clear understanding of the laws which must govern the construction of a great central dome, with smaller ones grouped round it; and with or without the addition of spires, so that each of these parts by itself and in its juxtaposition to the other parts should produce the grandest possible effect. In these sketches Leonardo seems to have exhausted every imaginable combination. [Footnote 1: In MS. B, 32b (see Pl. C III, No. 2) we find eight geometrical patterns, each drawn in a square; and in MS. C.A., fol. 87 to 98 form a whole series of patterns done with the same intention.] The results of some of these problems are perhaps not quite satisfactory; still they cannot be considered to give evidence of a want of taste or of any other defect in Leonardo s architectural capacity. They were no doubt intended exclusively for his own instruction, and, before all, as it seems, to illustrate the features or consequences resulting from a given principle._ _I have already, in another place,_ [Footnote 1: Les Projets Primitifs pour la Basilique de St. Pierre de Rome, par Bramante, Raphael etc.,Vol. I, p. 2.] _pointed out the law of construction for buildings crowned by a large dome: namely, that such a dome, to produce the greatest effect possible, should rise either from the centre of a Greek cross, or from the centre of a structure of which the plan has some symmetrical affinity to a circle, this circle being at the same time the centre of the whole plan of the building. Leonardo's sketches show that he was fully aware, as was to be expected, of this truth. Few of them exhibit the form of a Latin cross, and when this is met with, it generally gives evidence of the determination to assign as prominent a part as possible to the dome in the general effect of the building. While it is evident, on the one hand, that the greater number of these domes had no particular purpose, not being designed for execution, on the other hand several reasons may be found for Leonardo's perseverance in his studies of the subject. Besides the theoretical interest of the question for Leonardo and his_ Trattato _and besides the taste for domes prevailing at that time, it seems likely that the intended erection of some building of the first importance like the Duomos of Pavia and Como, the church of Sta. Maria delle Grazie at Milan, and the construction of a Dome or central Tower_ (Tiburio) _on the cathedral of Milan, may have stimulated Leonardo to undertake a general and thorough investigation of the subject; whilst Leonardo's intercourse with Bramante for ten years or more, can hardly have remained without influence in this matter. In fact now that some of this great Architect's studies for S. Peter's at Rome have at last become known, he must be considered henceforth as the greatest master of Dome-Architecture that ever existed. His influence, direct or indirect even on a genius like Leonardo seems the more likely, since Leonardo's sketches reveal a style most similar to that of Bramante, whose name indeed, occurs twice in Leonardo's manuscript notes. It must not be forgotten that Leonardo was a Florentine; the characteristic form of the two principal domes of Florence, Sta. Maria del Fiore and the Battisterio, constantly appear as leading features in his sketches. The church of San Lorenzo at Milan, was at that time still intact. The dome is to this day one of the most wonderful cupolas ever constructed, and with its two smaller domes might well attract the attention and study of a never resting genius such as Leonardo. A whole class of these sketches betray in fact the direct influence of the church of S. Lorenzo, and this also seems to have suggested the plan of Bramante's dome of St. Peter's at Rome. In the following pages the various sketches for the construction of domes have been classified and discussed from a general point of view. On two sheets: Pl. LXXXIV (C.A. 354b; 118a) and Pl. LXXXV, Nos. 1-11 (Ash. II, 6b) we see various dissimilar types, grouped together; thus these two sheets may be regarded as a sort of nomenclature of the different types, on which we shall now have to treat._ _1. Churches formed on the plan of a Greek cross. Group I. Domes rising from a circular base. The simplest type of central building is a circular edifice. Pl. LXXXIV, No. 9. Plan of a circular building surrounded by a colonnade. Pl. LXXXIV, No. 8. Elevation of the former, with a conical roof. Pl. XC. No. 5. A dodecagon, as most nearly approaching the circle. Pl. LXXXVI, No. 1, 2, 3. Four round chapels are added at the extremities of the two principal axes;--compare this plan with fig. 1 on p. 44 and fig. 3 on p. 47 (W. P. 5b) where the outer wall is octagonal. Group II. Domes rising from a square base. The plan is a square surrounded by a colonnade, and the dome seems to be octagonal. Pl. LXXXIV. The square plan below the circular building No. 8, and its elevation to the left, above the plan: here the ground-plan is square, the upper storey octagonal. A further development of this type is shown in two sketches C. A. 3a (not reproduced here), and in Pl. LXXXVI, No. 5 (which possibly belongs to No. 7 on Pl. LXXXIV). Pl, LXXXV, No. 4, and p. 45, Fig. 3, a Greek cross, repeated p. 45, Fig. 3, is another development of the square central plan. The remainder of these studies show two different systems; in the first the dome rises from a square plan,--in the second from an octagonal base._ _Group III. Domes rising from a square base and four pillars. [Footnote 1: The ancient chapel San Satiro, via del Falcone, Milan, is a specimen of this type.]_ a) First type. _A Dome resting on four pillars in the centre of a square edifice, with an apse in the middle, of each of the four sides. We have eleven variations of this type. aa) Pl. LXXXVIII, No. 3. bb) Pl. LXXX, No. 5. cc) Pl. LXXXV, Nos. 2, 3, 5. dd) Pl. LXXXIV, No. 1 and 4 beneath. ee) Pl. LXXXV, Nos. 1, 7, 10, 11._ b) Second type. _This consists in adding aisles to the whole plan of the first type; columns are placed between the apses and the aisles; the plan thus obtained is very nearly identical with that of S. Lorenzo at Milan. Fig. 1 on p. 56. (MS. B, 75a) shows the result of this treatment adapted to a peculiar purpose about which we shall have to say a few words later on. Pl. XCV, No. 1, shows the same plan but with the addition of a short nave. This plan seems to have been suggested by the general arrangement of S. Sepolcro at Milan. MS. B. 57b (see the sketch reproduced on p.51). By adding towers in the four outer angles to the last named plan, we obtain a plan which bears the general features of Bramante's plans for S. Peter's at Rome. [Footnote 2: See_ Les projets primitifs _etc., Pl. 9-12.] (See p. 51 Fig. 1.) Group IV. Domes rising from an octagonal base. This system, developed according to two different schemes, has given rise to two classes with many varieties. In a) On each side of the octagon chapels of equal form are added. In b) The chapels are dissimilar; those which terminate the principal axes being different in form from those which are added on the diagonal sides of the octagon. a. First Class. The Chapel_ "degli Angeli," _at Florence, built only to a height of about 20 feet by Brunellesco, may be considered as the prototype of this group; and, indeed it probably suggested it. The fact that we see in MS. B. 11b (Pl. XCIV, No. 3) by the side of Brunellesco's plan for the Basilica of Sto. Spirito at Florence, a plan almost identical with that of the_ Capella degli Angeli, _confirms this supposition. Only two small differences, or we may say improvements, have been introduced by Leonardo. Firstly the back of the chapels contains a third niche, and each angle of the Octagon a folded pilaster like those in Bramante's_ Sagrestia di S. M. presso San Satiro _at Milan, instead of an interval between the two pilasters as seen in the Battistero at Florence and in the Sacristy of Sto. Spirito in the same town and also in the above named chapel by Brunellesco. The first set of sketches which come under consideration have at first sight the appearance of mere geometrical studies. They seem to have been suggested by the plan given on page 44 Fig. 2 (MS. B, 55a) in the centre of which is written_ "Santa Maria in perticha da Pavia", _at the place marked A on the reproduction. a) (MS. B, 34b, page 44 Fig. 3). In the middle of each side a column is added, and in the axes of the intercolumnar spaces a second row of columns forms an aisle round the octagon. These are placed at the intersection of a system of semicircles, of which the sixteen columns on the sides of the octagon are the centres. b) The preceding diagram is completed and becomes more monumental in style in the sketch next to it (MS. B, 35a, see p. 45 Fig. 1). An outer aisle is added by circles, having for radius the distance between the columns in the middle sides of the octagon. c) (MS. B. 96b, see p. 45 Fig. 2). Octagon with an aisle round it; the angles of both are formed by columns. The outer sides are formed by 8 niches forming chapels. The exterior is likewise octagonal, with the angles corresponding to the centre of each of the interior chapels. Pl. XCII, No. 2 (MS. B. 96b). Detail and modification of the preceding plan--half columns against piers--an arrangement by which the chapels of the aisle have the same width of opening as the inner arches between the half columns. Underneath this sketch the following note occurs:_ questo vole - avere 12 facce - co 12 tabernaculi - come - _a_ - _b_. _(This will have twelve sides with twelve tabernacles as_ a b._) In the remaining sketches of this class the octagon is not formed by columns at the angles. The simplest type shows a niche in the middle of each side and is repeated on several sheets, viz: MS. B 3; MS. C.A. 354b (see Pl. LXXXIV, No. 11) and MS. Ash II 6b; (see Pl. LXXXV, No. 9 and the elevations No. 8; Pl. XCII, No. 3; MS. B. 4b [not reproduced here] and Pl. LXXXIV, No. 2)._ _Pl. XCII, 3 (MS. B, 56b) corresponds to a plan like the one in MS. B 35a, in which the niches would be visible outside or, as in the following sketch, with the addition of a niche in the middle of each chapel. Pl. XC, No. 6. The niches themselves are surrounded by smaller niches (see also No. 1 on the same plate). Octagon expanded on each side. A. by a square chapel: MS. B. 34b (not reproduced here). B. by a square with 3 niches: MS. B. 11b (see Pl. XCIV, No. 3). C. by octagonal chapels: a) MS. B, 21a; Pl. LXXXVIII, No. 4. b) No. 2 on the same plate. Underneath there is the remark:_ "quest'e come le 8 cappele ano a essere facte" _(this is how the eight chapels are to be executed). c) Pl. LXXXVIII, No. 5. Elevation to the plans on the same sheet, it is accompanied by the note:_ "ciasscuno de' 9 tiburi no'uole - passare l'alteza - di - 2 - quadri" _(neither of the 9 domes must exceed the height of two squares). d) Pl. LXXXVIII, No. 1. Inside of the same octagon. MS. B, 30a, and 34b; these are three repetitions of parts of the same plan with very slight variations. D. by a circular chapel: MS. B, 18a (see Fig. 1 on page 47) gives the plan of this arrangement in which the exterior is square on the ground floor with only four of the chapels projecting, as is explained in the next sketch. Pl. LXXXIX, MS. B, 17b. Elevation to the preceding plan sketched on the opposite side of the sheet, and also marked A. It is accompanied by the following remark, indicating the theoretical character of these studies:_ questo - edifitio - anchora - starebbe - bene affarlo dalla linja - _a_ - _b_ - _c_ - _d_ - insu. _("This edifice would also produce a good effect if only the part above the lines_ a b, c d, _were executed"). Pl. LXXXIV, No. 11. The exterior has the form of an octagon, but the chapels project partly beyond it. On the left side of the sketch they appear larger than on the right side. Pl. XC, No. 1, (MS. B, 25b); Repetition of Pl. LXXXIV, No. 11. Pl. XC, No. 2. Elevation to the plan No. 1, and also to No. 6 of the same sheet._ _E. By chapels formed by four niches: Pl. LXXXIV, No. 7 (the circular plan on the left below) shows this arrangement in which the central dome has become circular inside and might therefore be classed after this group. [Footnote 1: This plan and some others of this class remind us of the plan of the Mausoleum of Augustus as it is represented for instance by Durand. See_ Cab. des Estampes, Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris, Topographie de Rome, V, 6, 82._] The sketch on the right hand side gives most likely the elevation for the last named plan. F. By chapels of still richer combinations, which necessitate an octagon of larger dimensions: Pl. XCI, No. 2 (MS. Ash. 11. 8b) [Footnote 2: The note accompanying this plan is given under No. 754.]; on this plan the chapels themselves appear to be central buildings formed like the first type of the third group. Pl. LXXXVIII, No. 3. Pl. XCI, No. 2 above; the exterior of the preceding figure, particularly interesting on account of the alternation of apses and niches, the latter containing statues of a gigantic size, in proportion to the dimension of the niches. b. Second Class. Composite plans of this class are generally obtained by combining two types of the first class--the one worked out on the principal axes, the other on the diagonal ones. MS. B. 22 shows an elementary combination, without any additions on the diagonal axes, but with the dimensions of the squares on the two principal axes exceeding those of the sides of the octagon. In the drawing W. P. 5b (see page 44 Fig. 1) the exterior only of the edifice is octagonal, the interior being formed by a circular colonnade; round chapels are placed against the four sides of the principal axes. The elevation, drawn on the same sheet (see page 47 Fig. 3), shows the whole arrangement which is closely related with the one on Pl. LXXXVI No. 1, 2. MS. B. 21a shows: a) four sides with rectangular chapels crowned by pediments Pl. LXXXVII No. 3 (plan and elevation); b) four sides with square chapels crowned by octagonal domes. Pl. LXXXVII No. 4; the plan underneath. MS. B. 18a shows a variation obtained by replacing the round chapels in the principal axes of the sketch MS. B. l8a by square ones, with an apse. Leonardo repeated both ideas for better comparison side by side, see page 47. Fig. 2. Pl. LXXXIX (MS. B. 17b). Elevation for the preceding figure. The comparison of the drawing marked M with the plan on page 47 Fig. 2, bearing the same mark, and of the elevation on Pl. LXXXIX below (marked A) with the corresponding plan on page 47 is highly instructive, as illustrating the spirit in which Leonardo pursued these studies. Pl. LXXXIV No. 12 shows the design Pl. LXXXVII No. 3 combined with apses, with the addition of round chapels on the diagonal sides. Pl. LXXXIV No. 13 is a variation of the preceding sketch. Pl. XC No. 3. MS. B. 25b. The round chapels of the preceding sketch are replaced by octagonal chapels, above which rise campaniles. Pl. XC No. 4 is the elevation for the preceding plan. Pl. XCII No. 1. (MS. B. 39b.); the plan below. On the principal as well as on the diagonal axes are diagonal chapels, but the latter are separated from the dome by semicircular recesses. The communication between these eight chapels forms a square aisle round the central dome. Above this figure is the elevation, showing four campaniles on the angles. [Footnote 1: The note accompanying this drawing is reproduced under No. 753.] Pl. LXXXIV No. 3. On the principal axes are square chapels with three niches; on the diagonals octagonal chapels with niches. Cod. Atl. 340b gives a somewhat similar arrangement. MS. B. 30. The principal development is thrown on the diagonal axes by square chapels with three niches; on the principal axes are inner recesses communicating with outer ones. The plan Pl. XCIII No. 2 (MS. B. 22) differs from this only in so far as the outer semicircles have become circular chapels, projecting from the external square as apses; one of them serves as the entrance by a semicircular portico. The elevation is drawn on the left side of the plan. MS. B. 19. A further development of MS. B. 18, by employing for the four principal chapels the type Pl. LXXXVIII No. 3, as we have already seen in Pl. XCI No. 2; the exterior presents two varieties. a) The outer contour follows the inner. [Footnote 2: These chapels are here sketched in two different sizes; it is the smaller type which is thus formed.] b) It is semicircular. Pl. LXXXVII No. 2 (MS. B. 18b) Elevation to the first variation MS. B. 19. If we were not certain that this sketch was by Leonardo, we might feel tempted to take it as a study by Bramante for St. Peter's at Rome. [Footnote 3: See_ Les projets primitifs Pl. 43._]_ _MS. P. V. 39b. In the principal axes the chapels of MS. B. 19, and semicircular niches on the diagonals. The exterior of the whole edifice is also an octagon, concealing the form of the interior chapels, but with its angles on their axes. Group V. Suggested by San Lorenzo at Milan. In MS. C. A. 266 IIb, 8l2b there is a plan almost identical with that of San Lorenzo. The diagonal sides of the irregular octagon are not indicated. If it could be proved that the arches which, in the actual church, exist on these sides in the first story, were added in 1574 by Martimo Bassi, then this plan and the following section would be still nearer the original state of San Lorenzo than at present. A reproduction of this slightly sketched plan has not been possible. It may however be understood from Pl. LXXXVIII No. 3, by suppressing the four pillars corresponding to the apses. Pl. LXXXVII No. 1 shows the section in elevation corresponding with the above-named plan. The recessed chapels are decorated with large shells in the halfdomes like the arrangement in San Lorenzo, but with proportions like those of Bramante's Sacristy of Santa Maria presso S. Satiro. MS. C. A. 266; a sheet containing three views of exteriors of Domes. On the same sheet there is a plan similar to the one above-named but with uninterrupted aisles and with the addition of round chapels in the axes (compare Pl. XCVII No. 3 and page 44 Fig. 1), perhaps a reminiscence of the two chapels annexed to San Lorenzo.--Leonardo has here sketched the way of transforming this plan into a Latin cross by means of a nave with side aisles. Pl. XCI No. 1. Plan showing a type deprived of aisles and comprised in a square building which is surrounded by a portico. It is accompanied by the following text:_ 756. This edifice is inhabited [accessible] below and above, like San Sepolcro, and it is the same above as below, except that the upper story has the dome _c d_; and the [Footnote: The church of San Sepolcro at Milan, founded in 1030 and repeatedly rebuilt after the middle of the XVIth century, still stands over the crypt of the original structure.] lower has the dome _a b_, and when you enter into the crypt, you descend 10 steps, and when you mount into the upper you ascend 20 steps, which, with 1/3 braccio for each, make 10 braccia, and this is the height between one floor of the church and the other. _Above the plan on the same sheet is a view of the exterior. By the aid of these two figures and the description, sections of the edifice may easily be reconstructed. But the section drawn on the left side of the building seems not to be in keeping with the same plan, notwithstanding the explanatory note written underneath it: "dentro il difitio di sopra" (interior of the edifice above)[Footnote 1: _The small inner dome corresponds to_ a b _on the plan--it rises from the lower church into the upper-- above, and larger, rises the dome_ c d. _The aisles above and below thus correspond_ (e di sopra come di sotto, salvoche etc.). _The only difference is, that in the section Leonardo has not taken the trouble to make the form octagonal, but has merely sketched circular lines in perspective._ J. P. R._]. _Before leaving this group, it is well to remark that the germ of it seems already indicated by the diagonal lines in the plans Pl. LXXXV No. 11 and No. 7. We shall find another application of the same type to the Latin cross in Pl. XCVII No. 3. _2. Churches formed on the plan of a Latin cross. We find among Leonardo's studies several sketches for churches on the plan of the Latin cross; we shall begin by describing them, and shall add a few observations. A. Studies after existing Monuments. Pl. XCIV No. 2. (MS. B. 11b.) Plan of Santo Spirito at Florence, a basilica built after the designs of Brunellesco.--Leonardo has added the indication of a portico in front, either his own invention or the reproduction of a now lost design. Pl. XCV No. 2. Plan accompanied by the words: "A_ e santo sepolcro di milano di sopra"(A _is the upper church of S. Sepolcro at Milan); although since Leonardo's time considerably spoilt, it is still the same in plan. The second plan with its note: "B_ e la sua parte socto tera" (B _is its subterranean part [the crypt]) still corresponds with the present state of this part of the church as I have ascertained by visiting the crypt with this plan. Excepting the addition of a few insignificant walls, the state of this interesting part of the church still conforms to Leonardo's sketch; but in the Vestibolo the two columns near the entrance of the winding stairs are absent. B. Designs or Studies. PL. XCV No. 1. Plan of a church evidently suggested by that of San Sepolcro at Milan. The central part has been added to on the principle of the second type of Group III. Leonardo has placed the_ "coro" _(choir) in the centre._ _Pl. XCVI No. 2. In the plan the dome, as regards its interior, belongs to the First Class of Group IV, and may be grouped with the one in MS. B. 35a. The nave seems to be a development of the type represented in Pl. XCV No. 2, B. by adding towers and two lateral porticos[Footnote 1: Already published in Les projets primitifs Pl. XLIII.]. On the left is a view of the exterior of the preceding plan. It is accompanied by the following note:_ 757. This building is inhabited below and above; the way up is by the campaniles, and in going up one has to use the platform, where the drums of the four domes are, and this platform has a parapet in front, and none of these domes communicate with the church, but they are quite separate. _Pl. XCVI No. 1 (MS. C. A. 16b; 65a). Perspective view of a church seen from behind; this recalls the Duomo at Florence, but with two campaniles[Footnote 2: Already published in the Saggio Pl. IX.]. Pl. XCVII No. 3 (MS. B. 52a). The central part is a development of S. Lorenzo at Milan, such as was executed at the Duomo of Pavia. There is sufficient analogy between the building actually executed and this sketch to suggest a direct connection between them. Leonardo accompanied Francesco di Giorgio[Footnote 3: See MALASPINA, il Duomo di Pavia. Documents.] when the latter was consulted on June 21st, 1490 as to this church; the fact that the only word accompanying the plan is:_ "sagrestia", _seems to confirm our supposition, for the sacristies were added only in 1492, i. e. four years after the beginning of the Cathedral, which at that time was most likely still sufficiently unfinished to be capable of receiving the form of the present sketch. Pl. XCVII No. 2 shows the exterior of this design. Below is the note:_ edifitio al proposito del fodameto figurato di socto _(edifice proper for the ground plan figured below). Here we may also mention the plan of a Latin cross drawn in MS. C. A. fol. 266 (see p. 50). Pl. XCIV No. 1 (MS. L. 15b). External side view of Brunellesco's Florentine basilica San Lorenzo, seen from the North. Pl. XCIV No. 4 (V. A. V, 1). Principal front of a nave, most likely of a church on the plan of a Latin cross. We notice here not only the principal features which were employed afterwards in Alberti's front of S. Maria Novella, but even details of a more advanced style, such as we are accustomed to meet with only after the year 1520. In the background of Leonardo's unfinished picture of St. Jerome (Vatican Gallery) a somewhat similar church front is indicated (see the accompanying sketch). [Illustration with caption: The view of the front of a temple, apparently a dome in the centre of four corinthian porticos bearing pediments (published by Amoretti Tav. II. B as being by Leonardo), is taken from a drawing, now at the Ambrosian Gallery. We cannot consider this to be by the hand of the master.]_ _C. Studies for a form of a Church most proper for preaching. The problem as to what form of church might answer the requirements of acoustics seems to have engaged Leonardo's very particular attention. The designation of_ "teatro" _given to some of these sketches, clearly shows which plan seemed to him most favourable for hearing the preacher's voice. Pl. XCVII, No. 1 (MS. B, 52). Rectangular edifice divided into three naves with an apse on either side, terminated by a semicircular theatre with rising seats, as in antique buildings. The pulpit is in the centre. Leonardo has written on the left side of the sketch_: "teatro da predicare" _(Theatre for preaching). MS. B, 55a (see page 56, Fig. 1). A domed church after the type of Pl. XCV, No. 1, shows four theatres occupying the apses and facing the square_ "coro" _(choir), which is in the centre between the four pillars of the dome.[Footnote 1: The note_ teatro de predicar, _on the right side is, I believe, in the handwriting of Pompeo Leoni. J. P. R.] The rising arrangement of the seats is shown in the sketch above. At the place marked_ B _Leonardo wrote_ teatri per uldire messa _(rows of seats to hear mass), at_ T teatri,_ and at_ C coro _(choir). In MS. C.A. 260, are slight sketches of two plans for rectangular choirs and two elevations of the altar and pulpit which seem to be in connection with these plans. In MS. Ash II, 8a (see p. 56 and 57. Fig. 2 and 3)._ "Locho dove si predica" _(Place for preaching). A most singular plan for a building. The interior is a portion of a sphere, the centre of which is the summit of a column destined to serve as the preacher's pulpit. The inside is somewhat like a modern theatre, whilst the exterior and the galleries and stairs recall the ancient amphitheatres. [Illustration with caption: Page 57, Fig. 4. A plan accompanying the two preceding drawings. If this gives the complete form Leonardo intended for the edifice, it would have comprised only about two thirds of the circle. Leonardo wrote in the centre_ "fondamento", _a word he often employed for plans, and on the left side of the view of the exterior:_ locho dove si predicha _(a place for preaching in)._] _D. Design for a Mausoleum. Pl. XCVIII (P. V., 182._ No. d'ordre 2386). In the midst of a hilly landscape rises an artificial mountain in the form of a gigantic cone, crowned by an imposing temple. At two thirds of the height a terrace is cut out with six doorways forming entrances to galleries, each leading to three sepulchral halls, so constructed as to contain about five hundred funeral urns, disposed in the customary antique style. From two opposite sides steps ascend to the terrace in a single flight and beyond it to the temple above. A large circular opening, like that in the Pantheon, is in the dome above what may be the altar, or perhaps the central monument on the level of the terrace below. The section of a gallery given in the sketch to the right below shows the roof to be constructed on the principle of superimposed horizontal layers, projecting one beyond the other, and each furnished with a sort of heel, which appears to be undercut, so as to give the appearance of a beam from within. Granite alone would be adequate to the dimensions here given to the key stone, as the thickness of the layers can hardly be considered to be less than a foot. In taking this as the basis of our calculation for the dimensions of the whole construction, the width of the chamber would be about 25 feet but, judging from the number of urns it contains--and there is no reason to suppose that these urns were larger than usual--it would seem to be no more than about 8 or 10 feet. The construction of the vaults resembles those in the galleries of some etruscan tumuli, for instance the Regulini Galeassi tomb at Cervetri (lately discovered) and also that of the chamber and passages of the pyramid of Cheops and of the treasury of Atreus at Mycenae. The upper cone displays not only analogies with the monuments mentioned in the note, but also with Etruscan tumuli, such as the Cocumella tomb at Vulci, and the Regulini Galeassi tomb_[Footnote 1: _See_ FERSGUSON, _Handbook of Architecture, I,_ 291.]. _The whole scheme is one of the most magnificent in the history of Architecture. It would be difficult to decide as to whether any monument he had seen suggested this idea to Leonardo, but it is worth while to enquire, if any monument, or group of monuments of an earlier date may be supposed to have done so._[Footnote 2: _There are, in Algiers, two Monuments, commonly called_ "Le Madracen" _and_ "Le tombeau de la Chretienne," _which somewhat resemble Leonardo's design. They are known to have served as the Mausolea of the Kings of Mauritania. Pomponius Mela, the geographer of the time of the Emperor Claudius, describes them as having been_ "Monumentum commune regiae gentis." _See_ Le Madracen, Rapport fait par M. le Grand Rabbin AB. CAHEN, Constantine 1873--Memoire sur les fouilles executees au Madras'en .. par le Colonel BRUNON, Constantine l873.--Deux Mausolees Africains, le Madracen et le tombeau de la Chretienne par M. J. DE LAURIERE, Tours l874.--Le tombeau de la Chretienne, Mausolee des rois Mauritaniens par M. BERBRUGGER, Alger 1867.--_I am indebted to M. LE BLANC, of the Institut, and M. LUD, LALANNE, Bibliothecaire of the Institut for having first pointed out to me the resemblance between these monuments; while M. ANT. HERON DE VlLLEFOSSE of the Louvre was kind enough to place the abovementioned rare works at my disposal. Leonardo's observations on the coast of Africa are given later in this work. The Herodium near Bethlehem in Palestine_ (Jebel el Fureidis, _the Frank Mountain) was, according to the latest researches, constructed on a very similar plan. See_ Der Frankenberg, von Baurath C. SCHICK in Jerusalem, Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palastina-Vereins, _Leipzag_ 1880, _Vol. III, pages_ 88-99 _and Plates IV and V._ J. P. R.] _E. Studies for the Central Tower, or Tiburio of Milan Cathedral. Towards the end of the fifteenth century the Fabbricceria del Duomo had to settle on the choice of a model for the crowning and central part of this vast building. We learn from a notice published by G. L. Calvi [Footnote: G. L. CALVI, Notizie sulla vita e sulle opere dei principali architetti scultori e pittori che fiorirono in Milano, Part III, 20. See also: H. DE GEYMULLER, Les projets primitifs etc. I, 37 and 116-119.--The Fabbricceria of the Duomo has lately begun the publication of the archives, which may possibly tell us more about the part taken by Leonardo, than has hitherto been known.] that among the artists who presented models in the year 1488 were: Bramante, Pietro da Gorgonzola, Luca Paperio (Fancelli), and Leonardo da Vinci.-- Several sketches by Leonardo refer to this important project: Pl. XCIX, No. 2 (MS. S. K. III, No. 36a) a small plan of the whole edifice.--The projecting chapels in the middle of the transept are wanting here. The nave appears to be shortened and seems to be approached by an inner "vestibolo".-- Pl. C, No. 2 (Tr. 21). Plan of the octagon tower, giving the disposition of the buttresses; starting from the eight pillars adjoining the four principal piers and intended to support the eight angles of the Tiburio. These buttresses correspond exactly with those described by Bramante as existing in the model presented by Omodeo. [Footnote: Bramante's opinion was first published by G. MONGERl, Arch. stor. Lomb. V, fasc. 3 and afterwards by me in the publication mentioned in the preceding note.] Pl. C, 3 (MS. Tr. 16). Two plans showing different arrangements of the buttresses, which seem to be formed partly by the intersection of a system of pointed arches such as that seen in ** Pl. C, No. 5 (MS. B, 27a) destined to give a broader base to the drum. The text underneath is given under No. 788. MS. B, 3--three slight sketches of plans in connexion with the preceding ones._ _Pl. XCIX, No.1 (MS. Tr. 15) contains several small sketches of sections and exterior views of the Dome; some of them show buttress-walls shaped as inverted arches. Respecting these Leonardo notes:_ 758. L'arco rivescio e migliore per fare spalla che l'ordinario, perche il rovescio trova sotto se muro resistete alla sua debolezza, e l'ordinario no trova nel suo debole se non aria The inverted arch is better for giving a shoulder than the ordinary one, because the former finds below it a wall resisting its weakness, whilst the latter finds in its weak part nothing but air. [Footnote: _Three slight sketches of sections on the same leaf--above those reproduced here--are more closely connected with the large drawing in the centre of Pl. C, No. 4 (M.S, Tr. 41) which shows a section of a very elevated dome, with double vaults, connected by ribs and buttresses ingeniously disposed, so as to bring the weight of the lantern to bear on the base of the dome. A sketch underneath it shows a round pillar on which is indicated which part of its summit is to bear the weight: "il pilastro sara charicho in . a . b." (The column will bear the weight at a b.) Another note is above on the right side:_ Larcho regiera tanto sotto asse chome di sopra se _(The arch supports as much below it [i. e. a hanging weight] as above it). Pl. C, No. 1 (C. A. 303a). Larger sketch of half section of the Dome, with a very complicated system of arches, and a double vault. Each stone is shaped so as to be knit or dovetailed to its neighbours. Thus the inside of the Dome cannot be seen from below. MS. C. A. 303b. A repetition of the preceding sketch with very slight modifications._] [Figs. 1. and Fig. 2. two sketeches of the dome] MS. Tr. 9 (see Fig. 1 and 2). Section of the Dome with reverted buttresses between the windows, above which iron anchors or chains seem to be intended. Below is the sketch of the outside._ _PI. XCIX, No. 3 (C. A., 262a) four sketches of the exterior of the Dome. C. A. 12. Section, showing the points of rupture of a gothic vault, in evident connection with the sketches described above. It deserves to be noticed how easily and apparently without effort, Leonardo manages to combine gothic details and structure with the more modern shape of the Dome. The following notes are on the same leaf,_ oni cosa poderosa, _and_ oni cosa poderosa desidera de(scendere); _farther below, several multiplications most likely intended to calculate the weight of some parts of the Dome, thus 16 x 47 = 720; 720 x 800 = 176000, next to which is written:_ peso del pilastro di 9 teste _(weight of the pillar 9 diameters high). Below:_ 176000 x 8 = 1408000; _and below:_ Semjlio e se ce 80 (?) il peso del tiburio _(six millions six hundred (?) 80 the weight of the Dome). Bossi hazarded the theory that Leonardo might have been the architect who built the church of Sta. Maria delle Grazie, but there is no evidence to support this, either in documents or in the materials supplied by Leonardos manuscripts and drawings. The sketch given at the side shows the arrangement of the second and third socle on the apses of the choir of that church; and it is remarkable that those sketches, in MS. S. K. M. II2, 2a and Ib, occur with the passage given in Volume I as No. 665 and 666 referring to the composition of the Last Supper in the Refectory of that church._] _F. The Project for lifting up the Battistero of Florence and setting it on a basement._ _Among the very few details Vasari gives as to the architectural studies of Leonardo, we read: "And among these models and designs there was one by way of which he showed several times to many ingenious citizens who then governed Florence, his readiness to lift up without ruining it, the church of San Giovanni in Florence (the Battistero, opposite the Duomo) in order to place under it the missing basement with steps; he supported his assertions with reasons so persuasive, that while he spoke the undertaking seemed feasable, although every one of his hearers, when he had departed, could see by himself the impossibility of so vast an undertaking."_ [Footnote: _This latter statement of Vasari's must be considered to be exaggerated. I may refer here to some data given by_ LIBRI, Histoire des sciences mathematiques en Italie (II, 216, 217): "On a cru dans ces derniers temps faire un miracle en mecanique en effectuant ce transport, et cependant des l'annee 1455, Gaspard Nadi et Aristote de Fioravantio avaient transporte, a une distance considerable, la tour de la Magione de Bologne, avec ses fondements, qui avait presque quatre-vingts pieds de haut. Le continuateur de la chronique de Pugliola dit que le trajet fut de 35 pieds et que durant le transport auquel le chroniqueur affirme avoir assiste, il arriva un accident grave qui fit pencher de trois pieds la tour pendant qu'elle etait suspendue, mais que cet accident fut promptement repare (Muratori, Scriptores rer. ital. Tom. XVIII, col. 717, 718). Alidosi a rapporte une note ou Nadi rend compte de ce transport avec une rare simplicite. D'apres cette note, on voit que les operations de ce genre n'etaient pas nouvelles. Celle-ci ne couta que 150 livres (monnaie d'alors) y compris le cadeau que le Legat fit aux deux mecaniciens. Dans la meme annee, Aristote redressa le clocher de Cento, qui penchait de plus de cinq pieds (Alidosi, instruttione p. 188-- Muratori, Scriptores rer. ital., tom. XXIII, col. 888.--Bossii, chronica Mediol., 1492, in-fol. ad ann. 1455). On ne concoit pas comment les historiens des beaux-arts ont pu negliger de tels hommes." J. P. R.] _In the MS. C. A. fol. 293, there are two sketches which possibly might have a bearing on this bold enterprise. We find there a plan of a circular or polygonal edifice surrounded by semicircular arches in an oblique position. These may be taken for the foundation of the steps and of the new platform. In the perspective elevation the same edifice, forming a polygon, is shown as lifted up and resting on a circle of inverted arches which rest on an other circle of arches in the ordinary position, but so placed that the inverted arches above rest on the spandrels of the lower range._ _What seems to confirm the supposition that the lifting up of a building is here in question, is the indication of engines for winding up, such as jacks, and a rack and wheel. As the lifting apparatus represented on this sheet does not seem particularly applicable to an undertaking of such magnitude, we may consider it to be a first sketch or scheme for the engines to be used._ _G. Description of an unknown Temple._ 759. Twelve flights of steps led up to the great temple, which was eight hundred braccia in circumference and built on an octagonal plan. At the eight corners were eight large plinths, one braccia and a half high, and three wide, and six long at the bottom, with an angle in the middle; on these were eight great pillars, standing on the plinths as a foundation, and twenty four braccia high. And on the top of these were eight capitals three braccia long and six wide, above which were the architrave frieze and cornice, four braccia and a half high, and this was carried on in a straight line from one pillar to the next and so, continuing for eight hundred braccia, surrounded the whole temple, from pillar to pillar. To support this entablature there were ten large columns of the same height as the pillars, three braccia thick above their bases which were one braccia and a half high. The ascent to this temple was by twelve flights of steps, and the temple was on the twelfth, of an octagonal form, and at each angle rose a large pillar; and between the pillars were placed ten columns of the same height as the pillars, rising at once from the pavement to a height of twenty eight braccia and a half; and at this height the architrave, frieze and cornice were placed which surrounded the temple having a length of eight hundred braccia. At the same height, and within the temple at the same level, and all round the centre of the temple at a distance of 24 braccia farther in, are pillars corresponding to the eight pillars in the angles, and columns corresponding to those placed in the outer spaces. These rise to the same height as the former ones, and over these the continuous architrave returns towards the outer row of pillars and columns. [Footnote: Either this description is incomplete, or, as seems to me highly probable, it refers to some ruin. The enormous dimensions forbid our supposing this to be any temple in Italy or Greece. Syria was the native land of colossal octagonal buildings, in the early centuries A. D. The Temple of Baalbek, and others are even larger than that here described. J. P. R.] _V. Palace architecture. But a small number of Leonardo's drawings refer to the architecture of palaces, and our knowledge is small as to what style Leonardo might have adopted for such buildings. Pl. CII No. 1 (W. XVIII). A small portion of a facade of a palace in two stories, somewhat resembling Alberti's Palazzo Rucellai.--Compare with this Bramante's painted front of the Casa Silvestri, and a painting by Montorfano in San Pietro in Gessate at Milan, third chapel on the left hand side and also with Bramante's palaces at Rome. The pilasters with arabesques, the rustica between them, and the figures over the window may be painted or in sgraffito. The original is drawn in red chalk. Pl. LXXXI No. 1 (MS. Tr. 42). Sketch of a palace with battlements and decorations, most likely graffiti; the details remind us of those in the Castello at Vigevano._ [Footnote 1: _Count GIULIO PORRO, in his valuable contribution to the_ Archivio Storico Lombardo, Anno VIII, Fasc. IV (31 Dec. 1881): Leonardo da Vinci, Libro di Annotazioni e Memorie, _refers to this in the following note:_ "Alla pag. 41 vi e uno schizzo di volta ed accanto scrisse: 'il pilastro sara charicho in su 6' e potrebbe darsi che si riferisse alla cupola della chiesa delle Grazie tanto piu che a pag. 42 vi e un disegno che rassomiglia assai al basamento che oggi si vede nella parte esterna del coro di quella chiesa." _This may however be doubted. The drawing, here referred to, on page 41 of the same manuscript, is reproduced on Pl. C No. 4 and described on page 61 as being a study for the cupola of the Duomo of Milan._ J. P. R.] _MS. Mz. 0", contains a design for a palace or house with a loggia in the middle of the first story, over which rises an attic with a Pediment reproduced on page 67. The details drawn close by on the left seem to indicate an arrangement of coupled columns against the wall of a first story. Pl. LXXXV No. 14 (MS. S. K. M. Ill 79a) contains a very slight sketch in red chalk, which most probably is intended to represent the facade of a palace. Inside is the short note 7 he 7 (7 and 7)._ _MS. J2 8a (see pages 68 Fig. 1 and 2) contains a view of an unknown palace. Its plan is indicated at the side._ _In MS. Br. M. 126a(see Fig. 3 on page 68) there is a sketch of a house, on which Leonardo notes; casa con tre terrazi (house with three terraces)._ _Pl. CX, No. 4 (MS. L. 36b) represents the front of a fortified building drawn at Cesena in 1502 (see No. 1040)._ _Here we may also mention the singular building in the allegorical composition represented on Pl. LVIII in Vol. I. In front of it appears the head of a sphinx or of a dragon which seems to be carrying the palace away._ _The following texts refer to the construction of palaces and other buildings destined for private use:_ 760. In the courtyard the walls must be half the height of its width, that is if the court be 40 braccia, the house must be 20 high as regards the walls of the said courtyard; and this courtyard must be half as wide as the whole front. [Footnote: See Pl. CI, no. 1, and compare the dimensions here given, with No. 748 lines 26-29; and the drawing belonging to it Pl. LXXXI, no. 2.] On the dispositions of a stable. 761. FOR MAKING A CLEAN STABLE. The manner in which one must arrange a stable. You must first divide its width in 3 parts, its depth matters not; and let these 3 divisions be equal and 6 braccia broad for each part and 10 high, and the middle part shall be for the use of the stablemasters; the 2 side ones for the horses, each of which must be 6 braccia in width and 6 in length, and be half a braccio higher at the head than behind. Let the manger be at 2 braccia from the ground, to the bottom of the rack, 3 braccia, and the top of it 4 braccia. Now, in order to attain to what I promise, that is to make this place, contrary to the general custom, clean and neat: as to the upper part of the stable, i. e. where the hay is, that part must have at its outer end a window 6 braccia high and 6 broad, through which by simple means the hay is brought up to the loft, as is shown by the machine _E_; and let this be erected in a place 6 braccia wide, and as long as the stable, as seen at _k p_. The other two parts, which are on either side of this, are again divided; those nearest to the hay-loft are 4 braccia, _p s_, and only for the use and circulation of the servants belonging to the stable; the other two which reach to the outer walls are 2 braccia, as seen at _s k_, and these are made for the purpose of giving hay to the mangers, by means of funnels, narrow at the top and wide over the manger, in order that the hay should not choke them. They must be well plastered and clean and are represented at 4 _f s_. As to the giving the horses water, the troughs must be of stone and above them [cisterns of] water. The mangers may be opened as boxes are uncovered by raising the lids. [Footnote: See Pl. LXXVIII, No.1.] Decorations for feasts. 762. THE WAY TO CONSTRUCT A FRAME-WORK FOR DECORATING BUILDINGS. The way in which the poles ought to be placed for tying bunches of juniper on to them. These poles must lie close to the framework of the vaulting and tie the bunches on with osier withes, so as to clip them even afterwards with shears. Let the distance from one circle to another be half a braccia; and the juniper [sprigs] must lie top downwards, beginning from below. Round this column tie four poles to which willows about as thick as a finger must be nailed and then begin from the bottom and work upwards with bunches of juniper sprigs, the tops downwards, that is upside down. [Footnote: See Pl. CII, No. 3. The words here given as the title line, lines 1--4, are the last in the original MS.--Lines 5--16 are written under fig. 4.] 763. The water should be allowed to fall from the whole circle _a b_. [Footnote: Other drawings of fountains are given on Pl. CI (W. XX); the original is a pen and ink drawing on blue paper; on Pl. CIII (MS. B.) and Pl. LXXXII.] _VI. Studies of architectural details._ _Several of Leonardo's drawings of architectural details prove that, like other great masters of that period, he had devoted his attention to the study of the proportion of such details. As every organic being in nature has its law of construction and growth, these masters endeavoured, each in his way, to discover and prove a law of proportion in architecture. The following notes in Leonardo's manuscripts refer to this subject._ _MS. S. K. M. Ill, 47b (see Fig. 1). A diagram, indicating the rules as given by Vitruvius and by Leon Battista Alberti for the proportions of the Attic base of a column._ _MS. S. K. M. Ill 55a (see Fig. 2). Diagram showing the same rules._ 764. B toro superiore . . . . . toro superiore 2B nestroli . . . . . . astragali quadre 3B orbiculo . . . . . . . . troclea 4B nestroli . . . . . . astragali quadre 5B toro iferiore . . . . . . toro iferiore 6B latastro . . . . . . . . plintho [Footnote: No explanation can be offered of the meaning of the letter B, which precedes each name. It may be meant for _basa_ (base). Perhaps it refers to some author on architecture or an architect (Bramante?) who employed the designations, thus marked for the mouldings. 3. _troclea._ Philander: _Trochlea sive trochalia aut rechanum._ 6. _Laterculus_ or _latastrum_ is the Latin name for _Plinthus_ (pi lambda Xiv) but Vitruvius adopted this Greek name and "latastro" seems to have been little in use. It is to be found besides the text given above, as far as I am aware, only two drawings of the Uffizi Collection, where in one instance, it indicates the _abacus_ of a Doric capital.] 765. STEPS OF URRBINO. The plinth must be as broad as the thickness of the wall against which the plinth is built. [Footnote: See Pl. CX No. 3. The hasty sketch on the right hand side illustrates the unsatisfactory effect produced when the plinth is narrower than the wall.] 766. The ancient architects ...... beginning with the Egyptians (?) who, as Diodorus Siculus writes, were the first to build and construct large cities and castles, public and private buildings of fine form, large and well proportioned ..... The column, which has its thickness at the third part .... The one which would be thinnest in the middle, would break ...; the one which is of equal thickness and of equal strength, is better for the edifice. The second best as to the usefulness will be the one whose greatest thickness is where it joins with the base. [Footnote: See Pl. CIII, No. 3, where the sketches belonging to lines 10--16 are reproduced, but reversed. The sketch of columns, here reproduced by a wood cut, stands in the original close to lines 5--8.] The capital must be formed in this way. Divide its thickness at the top into 8; at the foot make it 5/7, and let it be 5/7 high and you will have a square; afterwards divide the height into 8 parts as you did for the column, and then take 1/8 for the echinus and another eighth for the thickness of the abacus on the top of the capital. The horns of the abacus of the capital have to project beyond the greatest width of the bell 2/7, i. e. sevenths of the top of the bell, so 1/7 falls to the projection of each horn. The truncated part of the horns must be as broad as it is high. I leave the rest, that is the ornaments, to the taste of the sculptors. But to return to the columns and in order to prove the reason of their strength or weakness according to their shape, I say that when the lines starting from the summit of the column and ending at its base and their direction and length ..., their distance apart or width may be equal; I say that this column ... 767. The cylinder of a body columnar in shape and its two opposite ends are two circles enclosed between parallel lines, and through the centre of the cylinder is a straight line, ending at the centre of these circles, and called by the ancients the axis. [Footnote: Leonardo wrote these lines on the margin of a page of the Trattato di Francesco di Giorgio, where there are several drawings of columns, as well as a head drawn in profile inside an outline sketch of a capital.] 768. _a b_ is 1/3 of _n m_; _m o_ is 1/6 of _r o_. The ovolo projects 1/6 of _r o_; _s_ 7 1/5 of _r o_, _a b_ is divided into 9 1/2; the abacus is 3/9 the ovolo 4/9, the bead-moulding and the fillet 2/9 and 1/2. [Footnote: See Pl. LXXXV, No. 16. In the original the drawing and writing are both in red chalk.] _Pl. LXXXV No. 6 (MS. Ash. II 6b) contains a small sketch of a capital with the following note, written in three lines:_ I chorni del capitelo deono essere la quarta parte d'uno quadro _(The horns of a capital must measure the fourth part of a square)._ _MS. S. K. M. III 72b contains two sketches of ornamentations of windows._ _In MS. C. A. 308a; 938a (see Pl. LXXXII No. 1) there are several sketches of columns. One of the two columns on the right is similar to those employed by Bramante at the Canonica di S. Ambrogio. The same columns appear in the sketch underneath the plan of a castle. There they appear coupled, and in two stories one above the other. The archivolls which seem to spring out of the columns, are shaped like twisted cords, meant perhaps to be twisted branches. The walls between the columns seem to be formed out of blocks of wood, the pedestals are ornamented with a reticulated pattern. From all this we may suppose that Leonardo here had in mind either some festive decoration, or perhaps a pavilion for some hunting place or park. The sketch of columns marked "35" gives an example of columns shaped like candelabra, a form often employed at that time, particularly in Milan, and the surrounding districts for instance in the Cortile di Casa Castiglione now Silvestre, in the cathedral of Como, at Porta della Rana &c._ 769. CONCERNING ARCHITRAVES OF ONE OR SEVERAL PIECES. An architrave of several pieces is stronger than that of one single piece, if those pieces are placed with their length in the direction of the centre of the world. This is proved because stones have their grain or fibre generated in the contrary direction i. e. in the direction of the opposite horizons of the hemisphere, and this is contrary to fibres of the plants which have ... [Footnote: The text is incomplete in the original.] _The Proportions of the stories of a building are indicated by a sketch in MS. S. K. M. II2 11b (see Pl. LXXXV No. 15). The measures are written on the left side, as follows: br 1 1/2--6 3/4--br 1/12--2 br--9 e 1/2--1 1/2--br 5--o 9--o 3 [br=braccia; o=oncie]. Pl. LXXXV No. 13 (MS. B. 62a) and Pl. XCIII No. 1. (MS. B. 15a) give a few examples of arches supported on piers._ _XIII. Theoretical writings on Architecture. Leonardo's original writings on the theory of Architecture have come down to us only in a fragmentary state; still, there seems to be no doubt that he himself did not complete them. It would seem that Leonardo entertained the idea of writing a large and connected book on Architecture; and it is quite evident that the materials we possess, which can be proved to have been written at different periods, were noted down with a more or less definite aim and purpose. They might all be collected under the one title: "Studies on the Strength of Materials". Among them the investigations on the subject of fissures in walls are particularly thorough, and very fully reported; these passages are also especially interesting, because Leonardo was certainly the first writer on architecture who ever treated the subject at all. Here, as in all other cases Leonardo carefully avoids all abstract argument. His data are not derived from the principles of algebra, but from the laws of mechanics, and his method throughout is strictly experimental. Though the conclusions drawn from his investigations may not have that precision which we are accustomed to find in Leonardo's scientific labours, their interest is not lessened. They prove at any rate his deep sagacity and wonderfully clear mind. No one perhaps, who has studied these questions since Leonardo, has combined with a scientific mind anything like the artistic delicacy of perception which gives interest and lucidity to his observations. I do not assert that the arrangement here adopted for the passages in question is that originally intended by Leonardo; but their distribution into five groups was suggested by the titles, or headings, which Leonardo himself prefixed to most of these notes. Some of the longer sections perhaps should not, to be in strict agreement with this division, have been reproduced in their entirety in the place where they occur. But the comparatively small amount of the materials we possess will render them, even so, sufficiently intelligible to the reader; it did not therefore seem necessary or desirable to subdivide the passages merely for the sake of strict classification._ _The small number of chapters given under the fifth class, treating on the centre of gravity in roof-beams, bears no proportion to the number of drawings and studies which refer to the same subject. Only a small selection of these are reproduced in this work since the majority have no explanatory text._ I. ON FISSURES IN WALLS. 770. First write the treatise on the causes of the giving way of walls and then, separately, treat of the remedies. Parallel fissures constantly occur in buildings which are erected on a hill side, when the hill is composed of stratified rocks with an oblique stratification, because water and other moisture often penetrates these oblique seams carrying in greasy and slippery soil; and as the strata are not continuous down to the bottom of the valley, the rocks slide in the direction of the slope, and the motion does not cease till they have reached the bottom of the valley, carrying with them, as though in a boat, that portion of the building which is separated by them from the rest. The remedy for this is always to build thick piers under the wall which is slipping, with arches from one to another, and with a good scarp and let the piers have a firm foundation in the strata so that they may not break away from them. In order to find the solid part of these strata, it is necessary to make a shaft at the foot of the wall of great depth through the strata; and in this shaft, on the side from which the hill slopes, smooth and flatten a space one palm wide from the top to the bottom; and after some time this smooth portion made on the side of the shaft, will show plainly which part of the hill is moving. [Footnote: See Pl. CIV.] 771. The cracks in walls will never be parallel unless the part of the wall that separates from the remainder does not slip down. WHAT IS THE LAW BY WHICH BUILDINGS HAVE STABILITY. The stability of buildings is the result of the contrary law to the two former cases. That is to say that the walls must be all built up equally, and by degrees, to equal heights all round the building, and the whole thickness at once, whatever kind of walls they may be. And although a thin wall dries more quickly than a thick one it will not necessarily give way under the added weight day by day and thus, [16] although a thin wall dries more quickly than a thick one, it will not give way under the weight which the latter may acquire from day to day. Because if double the amount of it dries in one day, one of double the thickness will dry in two days or thereabouts; thus the small addition of weight will be balanced by the smaller difference of time [18]. The adversary says that _a_ which projects, slips down. And here the adversary says that _r_ slips and not _c_. HOW TO PROGNOSTICATE THE CAUSES OF CRACKS IN ANY SORT OF WALL. The part of the wall which does not slip is that in which the obliquity projects and overhangs the portion which has parted from it and slipped down. ON THE SITUATION OF FOUNDATIONS AND IN WHAT PLACES THEY ARE A CAUSE OF RUIN. When the crevice in the wall is wider at the top than at the bottom, it is a manifest sign, that the cause of the fissure in the wall is remote from the perpendicular line through the crevice. [Footnote: Lines 1-5 refer to Pl. CV, No. 2. Line 9 _alle due anteciedete_, see on the same page. Lines 16-18. The translation of this is doubtful, and the meaning in any case very obscure. Lines 19-23 are on the right hand margin close to the two sketches on Pl. CII, No. 3.] 772. OF CRACKS IN WALLS, WHICH ARE WIDE AT THE BOTTOM AND NARROW AT THE TOP AND OF THEIR CAUSES. That wall which does not dry uniformly in an equal time, always cracks. A wall though of equal thickness will not dry with equal quickness if it is not everywhere in contact with the same medium. Thus, if one side of a wall were in contact with a damp slope and the other were in contact with the air, then this latter side would remain of the same size as before; that side which dries in the air will shrink or diminish and the side which is kept damp will not dry. And the dry portion will break away readily from the damp portion because the damp part not shrinking in the same proportion does not cohere and follow the movement of the part which dries continuously. OF ARCHED CRACKS, WIDE AT THE TOP, AND NARROW BELOW. Arched cracks, wide at the top and narrow below are found in walled-up doors, which shrink more in their height than in their breadth, and in proportion as their height is greater than their width, and as the joints of the mortar are more numerous in the height than in the width. The crack diminishes less in _r o_ than in _m n_, in proportion as there is less material between _r_ and _o_ than between _n_ and _m_. Any crack made in a concave wall is wide below and narrow at the top; and this originates, as is here shown at _b c d_, in the side figure. 1. That which gets wet increases in proportion to the moisture it imbibes. 2. And a wet object shrinks, while drying, in proportion to the amount of moisture which evaporates from it. [Footnote: The text of this passage is reproduced in facsimile on Pl. CVI to the left. L. 36-40 are written inside the sketch No. 2. L. 41-46 are partly written over the sketch No. 3 to which they refer.] 773. OF THE CAUSES OF FISSURES IN [THE WALLS OF] PUBLIC AND PRIVATE BUILDINGS. The walls give way in cracks, some of which are more or less vertical and others are oblique. The cracks which are in a vertical direction are caused by the joining of new walls, with old walls, whether straight or with indentations fitting on to those of the old wall; for, as these indentations cannot bear the too great weight of the wall added on to them, it is inevitable that they should break, and give way to the settling of the new wall, which will shrink one braccia in every ten, more or less, according to the greater or smaller quantity of mortar used between the stones of the masonry, and whether this mortar is more or less liquid. And observe, that the walls should always be built first and then faced with the stones intended to face them. For, if you do not proceed thus, since the wall settles more than the stone facing, the projections left on the sides of the wall must inevitably give way; because the stones used for facing the wall being larger than those over which they are laid, they will necessarily have less mortar laid between the joints, and consequently they settle less; and this cannot happen if the facing is added after the wall is dry. _a b_ the new wall, _c_ the old wall, which has already settled; and the part _a b_ settles afterwards, although _a_, being founded on _c_, the old wall, cannot possibly break, having a stable foundation on the old wall. But only the remainder _b_ of the new wall will break away, because it is built from top to bottom of the building; and the remainder of the new wall will overhang the gap above the wall that has sunk. 774. A new tower founded partly on old masonry. 775. OF STONES WHICH DISJOIN THEMSELVES FROM THEIR MORTAR. Stones laid in regular courses from bottom to top and built up with an equal quantity of mortar settle equally throughout, when the moisture that made the mortar soft evaporates. By what is said above it is proved that the small extent of the new wall between _A_ and _n_ will settle but little, in proportion to the extent of the same wall between _c_ and _d_. The proportion will in fact be that of the thinness of the mortar in relation to the number of courses or to the quantity of mortar laid between the stones above the different levels of the old wall. [Footnote: See Pl. CV, No. 1. The top of the tower is wanting in this reproduction, and with it the letter _n_ which, in the original, stands above the letter _A_ over the top of the tower, while _c_ stands perpendicularly over _d_.] 776. This wall will break under the arch _e f_, because the seven whole square bricks are not sufficient to sustain the spring of the arch placed on them. And these seven bricks will give way in their middle exactly as appears in _a b_. The reason is, that the brick _a_ has above it only the weight _a k_, whilst the last brick under the arch has above it the weight _c d x a_. _c d_ seems to press on the arch towards the abutment at the point _p_ but the weight _p o_ opposes resistence to it, whence the whole pressure is transmitted to the root of the arch. Therefore the foot of the arch acts like 7 6, which is more than double of _x z_. II. ON FISSURES IN NICHES. 777. ON FISSURES IN NICHES. An arch constructed on a semicircle and bearing weights on the two opposite thirds of its curve will give way at five points of the curve. To prove this let the weights be at _n m_ which will break the arch _a_, _b_, _f_. I say that, by the foregoing, as the extremities _c_ and _a_ are equally pressed upon by the thrust _n_, it follows, by the 5th, that the arch will give way at the point which is furthest from the two forces acting on them and that is the middle _e_. The same is to be understood of the opposite curve, _d g b_; hence the weights _n m_ must sink, but they cannot sink by the 7th, without coming closer together, and they cannot come together unless the extremities of the arch between them come closer, and if these draw together the crown of the arch must break; and thus the arch will give way in two places as was at first said &c. I ask, given a weight at _a_ what counteracts it in the direction _n_ _f_ and by what weight must the weight at _f_ be counteracted. 778. ON THE SHRINKING OF DAMP BODIES OF DIFFERENT THICKNESS AND WIDTH. The window _a_ is the cause of the crack at _b_; and this crack is increased by the pressure of _n_ and _m_ which sink or penetrate into the soil in which foundations are built more than the lighter portion at _b_. Besides, the old foundation under _b_ has already settled, and this the piers _n_ and _m_ have not yet done. Hence the part _b_ does not settle down perpendicularly; on the contrary, it is thrown outwards obliquely, and it cannot on the contrary be thrown inwards, because a portion like this, separated from the main wall, is larger outside than inside and the main wall, where it is broken, is of the same shape and is also larger outside than inside; therefore, if this separate portion were to fall inwards the larger would have to pass through the smaller--which is impossible. Hence it is evident that the portion of the semicircular wall when disunited from the main wall will be thrust outwards, and not inwards as the adversary says. When a dome or a half-dome is crushed from above by an excess of weight the vault will give way, forming a crack which diminishes towards the top and is wide below, narrow on the inner side and wide outside; as is the case with the outer husk of a pomegranate, divided into many parts lengthwise; for the more it is pressed in the direction of its length, that part of the joints will open most, which is most distant from the cause of the pressure; and for that reason the arches of the vaults of any apse should never be more loaded than the arches of the principal building. Because that which weighs most, presses most on the parts below, and they sink into the foundations; but this cannot happen to lighter structures like the said apses. [Footnote: The figure on Pl. CV, No. 4 belongs to the first paragraph of this passage, lines 1-14; fig. 5 is sketched by the side of lines l5--and following. The sketch below of a pomegranate refers to line 22. The drawing fig. 6 is, in the original, over line 37 and fig. 7 over line 54.] Which of these two cubes will shrink the more uniformly: the cube _A_ resting on the pavement, or the cube _b_ suspended in the air, when both cubes are equal in weight and bulk, and of clay mixed with equal quantities of water? The cube placed on the pavement diminishes more in height than in breadth, which the cube above, hanging in the air, cannot do. Thus it is proved. The cube shown above is better shown here below. The final result of the two cylinders of damp clay that is _a_ and _b_ will be the pyramidal figures below _c_ and _d_. This is proved thus: The cylinder _a_ resting on block of stone being made of clay mixed with a great deal of water will sink by its weight, which presses on its base, and in proportion as it settles and spreads all the parts will be somewhat nearer to the base because that is charged with the whole weight. III. ON THE NATURE OF THE ARCH. 779. WHAT IS AN ARCH? The arch is nothing else than a force originated by two weaknesses, for the arch in buildings is composed of two segments of a circle, each of which being very weak in itself tends to fall; but as each opposes this tendency in the other, the two weaknesses combine to form one strength. OF THE KIND OF PRESSURE IN ARCHES. As the arch is a composite force it remains in equilibrium because the thrust is equal from both sides; and if one of the segments weighs more than the other the stability is lost, because the greater pressure will outweigh the lesser. OF DISTRIBUTING THE PRESSURE ABOVE AN ARCH. Next to giving the segments of the circle equal weight it is necessary to load them equally, or you will fall into the same defect as before. WHERE AN ARCH BREAKS. An arch breaks at the part which lies below half way from the centre. SECOND RUPTURE OF THE ARCH. If the excess of weight be placed in the middle of the arch at the point _a_, that weight tends to fall towards _b_, and the arch breaks at 2/3 of its height at _c e_; and _g e_ is as many times stronger than _e a_, as _m o_ goes into _m n_. ON ANOTHER CAUSE OF RUIN. The arch will likewise give way under a transversal thrust, for when the charge is not thrown directly on the foot of the arch, the arch lasts but a short time. 780. ON THE STRENGTH OF THE ARCH. The way to give stability to the arch is to fill the spandrils with good masonry up to the level of its summit. ON THE LOADING OF ROUND ARCHES. ON THE PROPER MANNER OF LOADING THE POINTED ARCH. ON THE EVIL EFFECTS OF LOADING THE POINTED ARCH DIRECTLY ABOVE ITS CROWN. ON THE DAMAGE DONE TO THE POINTED ARCH BY THROWING THE PRESSURE ON THE FLANKS. An arch of small curve is safe in itself, but if it be heavily charged, it is necessary to strengthen the flanks well. An arch of a very large curve is weak in itself, and stronger if it be charged, and will do little harm to its abutments, and its places of giving way are _o p_. [Footnote: Inside the large figure on the righi is the note: _Da pesare la forza dell' archo_.] 781. ON THE REMEDY FOR EARTHQUAKES. The arch which throws its pressure perpendicularly on the abutments will fulfil its function whatever be its direction, upside down, sideways or upright. The arch will not break if the chord of the outer arch does not touch the inner arch. This is manifest by experience, because whenever the chord _a o n_ of the outer arch _n r a_ approaches the inner arch _x b y_ the arch will be weak, and it will be weaker in proportion as the inner arch passes beyond that chord. When an arch is loaded only on one side the thrust will press on the top of the other side and be transmitted to the spring of the arch on that side; and it will break at a point half way between its two extremes, where it is farthest from the chord. 782. A continuous body which has been forcibly bent into an arch, thrusts in the direction of the straight line, which it tends to recover. 783. In an arch judiciously weighted the thrust is oblique, so that the triangle _c n b_ has no weight upon it. 784. I here ask what weight will be needed to counterpoise and resist the tendency of each of these arches to give way? [Footnote: The two lower sketches are taken from the MS. S. K. M. III, 10a; they have there no explanatory text.] 785. ON THE STRENGTH OF THE ARCH IN ARCHITECTURE. The stability of the arch built by an architect resides in the tie and in the flanks. ON THE POSITION OF THE TIE IN THE ABOVE NAMED ARCH. The position of the tie is of the same importance at the beginning of the arch and at the top of the perpendicular pier on which it rests. This is proved by the 2nd "of supports" which says: that part of a support has least resistance which is farthest from its solid attachment; hence, as the top of the pier is farthest from the middle of its true foundation and the same being the case at the opposite extremities of the arch which are the points farthest from the middle, which is really its [upper] attachment, we have concluded that the tie _a b_ requires to be in such a position as that its opposite ends are between the four above-mentioned extremes. The adversary says that this arch must be more than half a circle, and that then it will not need a tie, because then the ends will not thrust outwards but inwards, as is seen in the excess at _a c_, _b d_. To this it must be answered that this would be a very poor device, for three reasons. The first refers to the strength of the arch, since it is proved that the circular parallel being composed of two semicircles will only break where these semicircles cross each other, as is seen in the figure _n m;_ besides this it follows that there is a wider space between the extremes of the semicircle than between the plane of the walls; the third reason is that the weight placed to counterbalance the strength of the arch diminishes in proportion as the piers of the arch are wider than the space between the piers. Fourthly in proportion as the parts at _c a b d_ turn outwards, the piers are weaker to support the arch above them. The 5th is that all the material and weight of the arch which are in excess of the semicircle are useless and indeed mischievous; and here it is to be noted that the weight placed above the arch will be more likely to break the arch at _a b_, where the curve of the excess begins that is added to the semicircle, than if the pier were straight up to its junction with the semicircle [spring of the arch]. AN ARCH LOADED OVER THE CROWN WILL GIVE WAY AT THE LEFT HAND AND RIGHT HAND QUARTERS. This is proved by the 7th of this which says: The opposite ends of the support are equally pressed upon by the weight suspended to them; hence the weight shown at _f_ is felt at _b c_, that is half at each extremity; and by the third which says: in a support of equal strength [throughout] that portion will give way soonest which is farthest from its attachment; whence it follows that _d_ being equally distant from _f, e_ ..... If the centering of the arch does not settle as the arch settles, the mortar, as it dries, will shrink and detach itself from the bricks between which it was laid to keep them together; and as it thus leaves them disjoined the vault will remain loosely built, and the rains will soon destroy it. 786. ON THE STRENGTH AND NATURE OF ARCHES, AND WHERE THEY ARE STRONG OR WEAK; AND THE SAME AS TO COLUMNS. That part of the arch which is nearer to the horizontal offers least resistance to the weight placed on it. When the triangle _a z n_, by settling, drives backwards the 2/3 of each 1/2 circle that is _a s_ and in the same way _z m_, the reason is that _a_ is perpendicularly over _b_ and so likewise _z_ is above _f_. Either half of an arch, if overweighted, will break at 2/3 of its height, the point which corresponds to the perpendicular line above the middle of its bases, as is seen at _a b_; and this happens because the weight tends to fall past the point _r_.--And if, against its nature it should tend to fall towards the point _s_ the arch _n s_ would break precisely in its middle. If the arch _n s_ were of a single piece of timber, if the weight placed at _n_ should tend to fall in the line _n m_, the arch would break in the middle of the arch _e m_, otherwise it will break at one third from the top at the point a because from _a_ to _n_ the arch is nearer to the horizontal than from _a_ to _o_ and from _o_ to _s_, in proportion as _p t_ is greater than _t n_, _a o_ will be stronger than _a n_ and likewise in proportion as _s o_ is stronger than _o a_, _r p_ will be greater than _p t_. The arch which is doubled to four times of its thickness will bear four times the weight that the single arch could carry, and more in proportion as the diameter of its thickness goes a smaller number of times into its length. That is to say that if the thickness of the single arch goes ten times into its length, the thickness of the doubled arch will go five times into its length. Hence as the thickness of the double arch goes only half as many times into its length as that of the single arch does, it is reasonable that it should carry half as much more weight as it would have to carry if it were in direct proportion to the single arch. Hence as this double arch has 4 times the thickness of the single arch, it would seem that it ought to bear 4 times the weight; but by the above rule it is shown that it will bear exactly 8 times as much. THAT PIER, WHICH is CHARGED MOST UNEQUALLY, WILL SOONEST GIVE WAY. The column _c b_, being charged with an equal weight, [on each side] will be most durable, and the other two outward columns require on the part outside of their centre as much pressure as there is inside of their centre, that is, from the centre of the column, towards the middle of the arch. Arches which depend on chains for their support will not be very durable. THAT ARCH WILL BE OF LONGER DURATION WHICH HAS A GOOD ABUTMENT OPPOSED TO ITS THRUST. The arch itself tends to fall. If the arch be 30 braccia and the interval between the walls which carry it be 20, we know that 30 cannot pass through the 20 unless 20 becomes likewise 30. Hence the arch being crushed by the excess of weight, and the walls offering insufficient resistance, part, and afford room between them, for the fall of the arch. But if you do not wish to strengthen the arch with an iron tie you must give it such abutments as can resist the thrust; and you can do this thus: fill up the spandrels _m n_ with stones, and direct the lines of the joints between them to the centre of the circle of the arch, and the reason why this makes the arch durable is this. We know very well that if the arch is loaded with an excess of weight above its quarter as _a b_, the wall _f g_ will be thrust outwards because the arch would yield in that direction; if the other quarter _b c_ were loaded, the wall _f g_ would be thrust inwards, if it were not for the line of stones _x y_ which resists this. 787. PLAN. Here it is shown how the arches made in the side of the octagon thrust the piers of the angles outwards, as is shown by the line _h c_ and by the line _t d_ which thrust out the pier _m_; that is they tend to force it away from the centre of such an octagon. 788. An Experiment to show that a weight placed on an arch does not discharge itself entirely on its columns; on the contrary the greater the weight placed on the arches, the less the arch transmits the weight to the columns. The experiment is the following. Let a man be placed on a steel yard in the middle of the shaft of a well, then let him spread out his hands and feet between the walls of the well, and you will see him weigh much less on the steel yard; give him a weight on the shoulders, you will see by experiment, that the greater the weight you give him the greater effort he will make in spreading his arms and legs, and in pressing against the wall and the less weight will be thrown on the steel yard. IV. ON FOUNDATIONS, THE NATURE OF THE GROUND AND SUPPORTS. 789. The first and most important thing is stability. As to the foundations of the component parts of temples and other public buildings, the depths of the foundations must bear the same proportions to each other as the weight of material which is to be placed upon them. Every part of the depth of earth in a given space is composed of layers, and each layer is composed of heavier or lighter materials, the lowest being the heaviest. And this can be proved, because these layers have been formed by the sediment from water carried down to the sea, by the current of rivers which flow into it. The heaviest part of this sediment was that which was first thrown down, and so on by degrees; and this is the action of water when it becomes stagnant, having first brought down the mud whence it first flowed. And such layers of soil are seen in the banks of rivers, where their constant flow has cut through them and divided one slope from the other to a great depth; where in gravelly strata the waters have run off, the materials have, in consequence, dried and been converted into hard stone, and this happened most in what was the finest mud; whence we conclude that every portion of the surface of the earth was once at the centre of the earth, and _vice_versa_ &c. 790. The heaviest part of the foundations of buildings settles most, and leaves the lighter part above it separated from it. And the soil which is most pressed, if it be porous yields most. You should always make the foundations project equally beyond the weight of the walls and piers, as shown at _m a b_. If you do as many do, that is to say if you make a foundation of equal width from the bottom up to the surface of the ground, and charge it above with unequal weights, as shown at _b e_ and at _e o_, at the part of the foundation at _b e_, the pier of the angle will weigh most and thrust its foundation downwards, which the wall at _e o_ will not do; since it does not cover the whole of its foundation, and therefore thrusts less heavily and settles less. Hence, the pier _b e_ in settling cracks and parts from the wall _e o_. This may be seen in most buildings which are cracked round the piers. 791. The window _a_ is well placed under the window _c_, and the window _b_ is badly placed under the pier _d_, because this latter is without support and foundation; mind therefore never to make a break under the piers between the windows. 792. OF THE SUPPORTS. A pillar of which the thickness is increased will gain more than its due strength, in direct proportion to what its loses in relative height. EXAMPLE. If a pillar should be nine times as high as it is broad--that is to say, if it is one braccio thick, according to rule it should be nine braccia high--then, if you place 100 such pillars together in a mass this will be ten braccia broad and 9 high; and if the first pillar could carry 10000 pounds the second being only about as high as it is wide, and thus lacking 8 parts of its proper length, it, that is to say, each pillar thus united, will bear eight times more than when disconnected; that is to say, that if at first it would carry ten thousand pounds, it would now carry 90 thousand. V. ON THE RESISTANCE OF BEAMS. 793. That angle will offer the greatest resistance which is most acute, and the most obtuse will be the weakest. [Footnote: The three smaller sketches accompany the text in the original, but the larger one is not directly connected with it. It is to be found on fol. 89a of the same Manuscript and there we read in a note, written underneath, _coverchio della perdicha del castello_ (roof of the flagstaff of the castle),--Compare also Pl. XCIII, No. 1.] 794. If the beams and the weight _o_ are 100 pounds, how much weight will be wanted at _ae_ to resist such a weight, that it may not fall down? 795. ON THE LENGTH OF BEAMS. That beam which is more than 20 times as long as its greatest thickness will be of brief duration and will break in half; and remember, that the part built into the wall should be steeped in hot pitch and filleted with oak boards likewise so steeped. Each beam must pass through its walls and be secured beyond the walls with sufficient chaining, because in consequence of earthquakes the beams are often seen to come out of the walls and bring down the walls and floors; whilst if they are chained they will hold the walls strongly together and the walls will hold the floors. Again I remind you never to put plaster over timber. Since by expansion and shrinking of the timber produced by damp and dryness such floors often crack, and once cracked their divisions gradually produce dust and an ugly effect. Again remember not to lay a floor on beams supported on arches; for, in time the floor which is made on beams settles somewhat in the middle while that part of the floor which rests on the arches remains in its place; hence, floors laid over two kinds of supports look, in time, as if they were made in hills [Footnote: 19 M. RAVAISSON, in his edition of MS. A gives a very different rendering of this passage translating it thus: _Les planchers qui sont soutenus par deux differentes natures de supports paraissent avec le temps faits en voute a cholli_.] Remarks on the style of Leonardo's architecture. A few remarks may here be added on the style of Leonardo's architectural studies. However incomplete, however small in scale, they allow us to establish a certain number of facts and probabilities, well worthy of consideration. When Leonardo began his studies the great name of Brunellesco was still the inspiration of all Florence, and we cannot doubt that Leonardo was open to it, since we find among his sketches the plan of the church of Santo Spirito[Footnote 1: See Pl. XCIV, No. 2. Then only in course of erection after the designs of Brunellesco, though he was already dead; finished in 1481.] and a lateral view of San Lorenzo (Pl. XCIV No. 1), a plan almost identical with the chapel Degli Angeli, only begun by him (Pl. XCIV, No. 3) while among Leonardo's designs for domes several clearly betray the influence of Brunellesco's Cupola and the lantern of Santa Maria del Fiore[Footnote 2: A small sketch of the tower of the Palazzo della Signoria (MS. C.A. 309) proves that he also studied mediaeval monuments.] The beginning of the second period of modern Italian architecture falls during the first twenty years of Leonardo's life. However the new impetus given by Leon Battista Alberti either was not generally understood by his contemporaries, or those who appreciated it, had no opportunity of showing that they did so. It was only when taken up by Bramante and developed by him to the highest rank of modern architecture that this new influence was generally felt. Now the peculiar feature of Leonardo's sketches is that, like the works of Bramante, they appear to be the development and continuation of Alberti's. _But a question here occurs which is difficult to answer. Did Leonardo, till he quitted Florence, follow the direction given by the dominant school of Brunellesco, which would then have given rise to his "First manner", or had he, even before he left Florence, felt Alberti's influence--either through his works (Palazzo Ruccellai, and the front of Santa Maria Novella) or through personal intercourse? Or was it not till he went to Milan that Alberti's work began to impress him through Bramante, who probably had known Alberti at Mantua about 1470 and who not only carried out Alberti's views and ideas, but, by his designs for St. Peter's at Rome, proved himself the greatest of modern architects. When Leonardo went to Milan Bramante had already been living there for many years. One of his earliest works in Milan was the church of Santa Maria presso San Satiro, Via del Falcone[Footnote 1: Evidence of this I intend to give later on in a Life of Bramante, which I have in preparation.]. Now we find among Leonardos studies of Cupolas on Plates LXXXIV and LXXXV and in Pl. LXXX several sketches which seem to me to have been suggested by Bramante's dome of this church. The MSS. B and Ash. II contain the plans of S. Sepolcro, the pavilion in the garden of the duke of Milan, and two churches, evidently inspired by the church of San Lorenzo at Milan. MS. B. contains besides two notes relating to Pavia, one of them a design for the sacristy of the Cathedral at Pavia, which cannot be supposed to be dated later than 1492, and it has probably some relation to Leonardo's call to Pavia June 21, 1490[Footnote 2: The sketch of the plan of Brunellesco's church of Santo Spirito at Florence, which occurs in the same Manuscript, may have been done from memory.]. These and other considerations justify us in concluding, that Leonardo made his studies of cupolas at Milan, probably between the years 1487 and 1492 in anticipation of the erection of one of the grandest churches of Italy, the Cathedral of Pavia. This may explain the decidedly Lombardo-Bramantesque tendency in the style of these studies, among which only a few remind us of the forms of the cupolas of S. Maria del Fiore and of the Baptistery of Florence. Thus, although when compared with Bramante's work, several of these sketches plainly reveal that master's influence, we find, among the sketches of domes, some, which show already Bramante's classic style, of which the Tempietto of San Pietro in Montorio, his first building executed at Rome, is the foremost example[Footnote 3: It may be mentioned here, that in 1494 Bramante made a similar design for the lantern of the Cupola of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie.]. On Plate LXXXIV is a sketch of the plan of a similar circular building; and the Mausoleum on Pl. XCVIII, no less than one of the pedestals for the statue of Francesco Sforza (Pl. LXV), is of the same type. The drawings Pl. LXXXIV No. 2, Pl. LXXXVI No. 1 and 2 and the ground flour ("flour" sic but should be "floor" ?) of the building in the drawing Pl. XCI No. 2, with the interesting decoration by gigantic statues in large niches, are also, I believe, more in the style Bramante adopted at Rome, than in the Lombard style. Are we to conclude from this that Leonardo on his part influenced Bramante in the sense of simplifying his style and rendering it more congenial to antique art? The answer to this important question seems at first difficult to give, for we are here in presence of Bramante, the greatest of modern architects, and with Leonardo, the man comparable with no other. We have no knowledge of any buildings erected by Leonardo, and unless we admit personal intercourse--which seems probable, but of which there is no proof--, it would be difficult to understand how Leonardo could have affected Bramante's style. The converse is more easily to be admitted, since Bramante, as we have proved elsewhere, drew and built simultaneously in different manners, and though in Lombardy there is no building by him in his classic style, the use of brick for building, in that part of Italy, may easily account for it._ _Bramante's name is incidentally mentioned in Leonardo's manuscripts in two passages (Nos. 1414 and 1448). On each occasion it is only a slight passing allusion, and the nature of the context gives us no due information as to any close connection between the two artists._ _It might be supposed, on the ground of Leonardo's relations with the East given in sections XVII and XXI of this volume, that some evidence of oriental influence might be detected in his architectural drawings. I do not however think that any such traces can be pointed out with certainty unless perhaps the drawing for a Mausoleum, Pl. XC VIII._ _Among several studies for the construction of cupolas above a Greek cross there are some in which the forms are decidedly monotonous. These, it is clear, were not designed as models of taste; they must be regarded as the results of certain investigations into the laws of proportion, harmony and contrast._ _The designs for churches, on the plan of a Latin cross are evidently intended to depart as little as possible from the form of a Greek cross; and they also show a preference for a nave surrounded with outer porticos._ _The architectural forms preferred by Leonardo are pilasters coupled (Pl. LXXXII No. 1; or grouped (Pl. LXXX No. 5 and XCIV No. 4), often combined with niches. We often meet with orders superposed, one in each story, or two small orders on one story, in combination with one great order (Pl. XCVI No. 2)._ The drum (tamburo) of these cupolas is generally octagonal, as in the cathedral of Florence, and with similar round windows in its sides. In Pl. LXXXVII No. 2 it is circular like the model actually carried out by Michael Angelo at St. Peter's. The cupola itself is either hidden under a pyramidal roof, as in the Baptistery of Florence, San Lorenzo of Milan and most of the Lombard churches (Pl. XCI No. 1 and Pl. XCII No. 1); but it more generally suggests the curve of Sta Maria del Fiore (Pl. LXXXVIII No. 5; Pl. XC No. 2; Pl. LXXXIX, M; Pl XC No. 4, Pl. XCVI No. 2). In other cases (Pl. LXXX No. 4; Pl. LXXXIX; Pl. XC No. 2) it shows the sides of the octagon crowned by semicircular pediments, as in Brunellesco's lantern of the Cathedral and in the model for the Cathedral of Pavia. Finally, in some sketches the cupola is either semicircular, or as in Pl. LXXXVII No. 2, shows the beautiful line, adopted sixty years later by Michael Angelo for the existing dome of St. Peter's. It is worth noticing that for all these domes Leonardo is not satisfied to decorate the exterior merely with ascending ribs or mouldings, but employs also a system of horizontal parallels to complete the architectural system. Not the least interesting are the designs for the tiburio (cupola) of the Milan Cathedral. They show some of the forms, just mentioned, adapted to the peculiar gothic style of that monument. The few examples of interiors of churches recall the style employed in Lombardy by Bramante, for instance in S. Maria di Canepanuova at Pavia, or by Dolcebuono in the Monastero Maggiore at Milan (see Pl. CI No. 1 [C. A. 181b; 546b]; Pl. LXXXIV No. 10). The few indications concerning palaces seem to prove that Leonardo followed Alberti's example of decorating the walls with pilasters and a flat rustica, either in stone or by graffitti (Pl. CII No. 1 and Pl. LXXXV No. 14). By pointing out the analogies between Leonardo's architecture and that of other masters we in no way pretend to depreciate his individual and original inventive power. These are at all events beyond dispute. The project for the Mausoleum (Pl. XCVIII) would alone suffice to rank him among the greatest architects who ever lived. The peculiar shape of the tower (Pl. LXXX), of the churches for preaching (Pl. XCVII No. 1 and pages 56 and 57, Fig. 1-4), his curious plan for a city with high and low level streets (Pl. LXXVII and LXXVIII No. 2 and No. 3), his Loggia with fountains (Pl. LXXXII No. 4) reveal an originality, a power and facility of invention for almost any given problem, which are quite wonderful. _In addition to all these qualities he propably stood alone in his day in one department of architectural study,--his investigations, namely, as to the resistance of vaults, foundations, walls and arches._ _As an application of these studies the plan of a semicircular vault (Pl. CIII No. 2) may be mentioned here, disposed so as to produce no thrust on the columns on which it rests:_ volta i botte e non ispignie ifori le colone. _Above the geometrical patterns on the same sheet, close to a circle inscribed in a square is the note:_ la ragio d'una volta cioe il terzo del diamitro della sua ... del tedesco in domo. _There are few data by which to judge of Leonardo's style in the treatment of detail. On Pl. LXXXV No. 10 and Pl. CIII No. 3, we find some details of pillars; on Pl. CI No. 3 slender pillars designed for a fountain and on Pl. CIII No. 1 MS. B, is a pen and ink drawing of a vase which also seems intended for a fountain. Three handles seem to have been intended to connect the upper parts with the base. There can be no doubt that Leonardo, like Bramante, but unlike Michael Angelo, brought infinite delicacy of motive and execution to bear on the details of his work._ _XIV._ _Anatomy, Zoology and Physiology._ _Leonardo's eminent place in the history of medicine, as a pioneer in the sciences of Anatomy and Physiology, will never be appreciated till it is possible to publish the mass of manuscripts in which he largely treated of these two branches of learning. In the present work I must necessarily limit myself to giving the reader a general view of these labours, by publishing his introductory notes to the various books on anatomical subjects. I have added some extracts, and such observations as are scattered incidentally through these treatises, as serving to throw a light on Leonardo's scientific attitude, besides having an interest for a wider circle than that of specialists only._ _VASARI expressly mentions Leonardo's anatomical studies, having had occasion to examine the manuscript books which refer to them. According to him Leonardo studied Anatomy in the companionship of Marc Antonio della Torre_ "aiutato e scambievolmente aiutando."_--This learned Anatomist taught the science in the universities first of Padua and then of Pavia, and at Pavia he and Leonardo may have worked and studied together. We have no clue to any exact dates, but in the year 1506 Marc Antonio della Torre seems to have not yet left Padua. He was scarcely thirty years old when he died in 1512, and his writings on anatomy have not only never been published, but no manuscript copy of them is known to exist._ _This is not the place to enlarge on the connection between Leonardo and Marc Antonio della Torre. I may however observe that I have not been able to discover in Leonardo's manuscripts on anatomy any mention of his younger contemporary. The few quotations which occur from writers on medicine--either of antiquity or of the middle ages are printed in Section XXII. Here and there in the manuscripts mention is made of an anonymous "adversary"_ (avversario) _whose views are opposed and refuted by Leonardo, but there is no ground for supposing that Marc Antonio della Torre should have been this "adversary"._ _Only a very small selection from the mass of anatomical drawings left by Leonardo have been published here in facsimile, but to form any adequate idea of their scientific merit they should be compared with the coarse and inadequate figures given in the published books of the early part of the XVI. century. William Hunter, the great surgeon--a competent judge--who had an opportunity in the time of George III. of seeing the originals in the King's Library, has thus recorded his opinion: "I expected to see little more than such designs in Anatomy as might be useful to a painter in his own profession. But I saw, and indeed with astonishment, that Leonardo had been a general and deep student. When I consider what pains he has taken upon every part of the body, the superiority of his universal genius, his particular excellence in mechanics and hydraulics, and the attention with which such a man would examine and see objects which he has to draw, I am fully persuaded that Leonardo was the best Anatomist, at that time, in the world ... Leonardo was certainly the first man, we know of, who introduced the practice of making anatomical drawings" (Two introductory letters. London 1784, pages 37 and 39). The illustrious German Naturalist Johan Friedrich Blumenback esteemed them no less highly; he was one of the privileged few who, after Hunter, had the chance of seeing these Manuscripts. He writes: _Der Scharfblick dieses grossen Forschers und Darstellers der Natur hat schon auf Dinge geachtet, die noch Jahrhunderte nachher unbemerkt geblieben sind_" (see _Blumenbach's medicinische Bibliothek_, Vol. 3, St. 4, 1795. page 728). These opinions were founded on the drawings alone. Up to the present day hardly anything has been made known of the text, and, for the reasons I have given, it is my intention to reproduce here no more than a selection of extracts which I have made from the originals at Windsor Castle and elsewhere. In the Bibliography of the Manuscripts, at the end of this volume a short review is given of the valuable contents of these Anatomical note books which are at present almost all in the possession of her Majesty the Queen of England. It is, I believe, possible to assign the date with approximate accuracy to almost all the fragments, and I am thus led to conclude that the greater part of Leonardo's anatomical investigations were carried out after the death of della Torre. Merely in reading the introductory notes to his various books on Anatomy which are here printed it is impossible to resist the impression that the Master's anatomical studies bear to a very great extent the stamp of originality and independent thought. I. ANATOMY. 796. A general introduction I wish to work miracles;--it may be that I shall possess less than other men of more peaceful lives, or than those who want to grow rich in a day. I may live for a long time in great poverty, as always happens, and to all eternity will happen, to alchemists, the would-be creators of gold and silver, and to engineers who would have dead water stir itself into life and perpetual motion, and to those supreme fools, the necromancer and the enchanter. [Footnote 23: The following seems to be directed against students of painting and young artists rather than against medical men and anatomists.] And you, who say that it would be better to watch an anatomist at work than to see these drawings, you would be right, if it were possible to observe all the things which are demonstrated in such drawings in a single figure, in which you, with all your cleverness, will not see nor obtain knowledge of more than some few veins, to obtain a true and perfect knowledge of which I have dissected more than ten human bodies, destroying all the other members, and removing the very minutest particles of the flesh by which these veins are surrounded, without causing them to bleed, excepting the insensible bleeding of the capillary veins; and as one single body would not last so long, since it was necessary to proceed with several bodies by degrees, until I came to an end and had a complete knowledge; this I repeated twice, to learn the differences [59]. [Footnote: Lines 1-59 and 60-89 are written in two parallel columns. When we here find Leonardo putting himself in the same category as the Alchemists and Necromancers, whom he elsewhere mocks at so bitterly, it is evidently meant ironically. In the same way Leonardo, in the introduction to the Books on Perspective sets himself with transparent satire on a level with other writers on the subject.] And if you should have a love for such things you might be prevented by loathing, and if that did not prevent you, you might be deterred by the fear of living in the night hours in the company of those corpses, quartered and flayed and horrible to see. And if this did not prevent you, perhaps you might not be able to draw so well as is necessary for such a demonstration; or, if you had the skill in drawing, it might not be combined with knowledge of perspective; and if it were so, you might not understand the methods of geometrical demonstration and the method of the calculation of forces and of the strength of the muscles; patience also may be wanting, so that you lack perseverance. As to whether all these things were found in me or not [Footnote 84: Leonardo frequently, and perhaps habitually, wrote in note books of a very small size and only moderately thick; in most of those which have been preserved undivided, each contains less than fifty leaves. Thus a considerable number of such volumes must have gone to make up a volume of the bulk of the '_Codex Atlanticus_' which now contains nearly 1200 detached leaves. In the passage under consideration, which was evidently written at a late period of his life, Leonardo speaks of his Manuscript note-books as numbering 12O; but we should hardly be justified in concluding from this passage that the greater part of his Manuscripts were now missing (see _Prolegomena_, Vol. I, pp. 5-7).], the hundred and twenty books composed by me will give verdict Yes or No. In these I have been hindered neither by avarice nor negligence, but simply by want of time. Farewell [89]. Plans and suggestions for the arrangement of materials (797-802). 797. OF THE ORDER OF THE BOOK. This work must begin with the conception of man, and describe the nature of the womb and how the foetus lives in it, up to what stage it resides there, and in what way it quickens into life and feeds. Also its growth and what interval there is between one stage of growth and another. What it is that forces it out from the body of the mother, and for what reasons it sometimes comes out of the mother's womb before the due time. Then I will describe which are the members, which, after the boy is born, grow more than the others, and determine the proportions of a boy of one year. Then describe the fully grown man and woman, with their proportions, and the nature of their complexions, colour, and physiognomy. Then how they are composed of veins, tendons, muscles and bones. This I shall do at the end of the book. Then, in four drawings, represent four universal conditions of men. That is, Mirth, with various acts of laughter, and describe the cause of laughter. Weeping in various aspects with its causes. Contention, with various acts of killing; flight, fear, ferocity, boldness, murder and every thing pertaining to such cases. Then represent Labour, with pulling, thrusting, carrying, stopping, supporting and such like things. Further I would describe attitudes and movements. Then perspective, concerning the functions and effects of the eye; and of hearing--here I will speak of music--, and treat of the other senses. And then describe the nature of the senses. This mechanism of man we will demonstrate in ... figures; of which the three first will show the ramification of the bones; that is: first one to show their height and position and shape: the second will be seen in profile and will show the depth of the whole and of the parts, and their position. The third figure will be a demonstration of the bones of the backparts. Then I will make three other figures from the same point of view, with the bones sawn across, in which will be shown their thickness and hollowness. Three other figures of the bones complete, and of the nerves which rise from the nape of the neck, and in what limbs they ramify. And three others of the bones and veins, and where they ramify. Then three figures with the muscles and three with the skin, and their proper proportions; and three of woman, to illustrate the womb and the menstrual veins which go to the breasts. [Footnote: The meaning of the word _nervo_ varies in different passages, being sometimes used for _muscolo_ (muscle).] 798. THE ORDER OF THE BOOK. This depicting of mine of the human body will be as clear to you as if you had the natural man before you; and the reason is that if you wish thoroughly to know the parts of man, anatomically, you--or your eye--require to see it from different aspects, considering it from below and from above and from its sides, turning it about and seeking the origin of each member; and in this way the natural anatomy is sufficient for your comprehension. But you must understand that this amount of knowledge will not continue to satisfy you; seeing the very great confusion that must result from the combination of tissues, with veins, arteries, nerves, sinews, muscles, bones, and blood which, of itself, tinges every part the same colour. And the veins, which discharge this blood, are not discerned by reason of their smallness. Moreover integrity of the tissues, in the process of the investigating the parts within them, is inevitably destroyed, and their transparent substance being tinged with blood does not allow you to recognise the parts covered by them, from the similarity of their blood-stained hue; and you cannot know everything of the one without confusing and destroying the other. Hence, some further anatomy drawings become necessary. Of which you want three to give full knowledge of the veins and arteries, everything else being destroyed with the greatest care. And three others to display the tissues; and three for the sinews and muscles and ligaments; and three for the bones and cartilages; and three for the anatomy of the bones, which have to be sawn to show which are hollow and which are not, which have marrow and which are spongy, and which are thick from the outside inwards, and which are thin. And some are extremely thin in some parts and thick in others, and in some parts hollow or filled up with bone, or full of marrow, or spongy. And all these conditions are sometimes found in one and the same bone, and in some bones none of them. And three you must have for the woman, in which there is much that is mysterious by reason of the womb and the foetus. Therefore by my drawings every part will be known to you, and all by means of demonstrations from three different points of view of each part; for when you have seen a limb from the front, with any muscles, sinews, or veins which take their rise from the opposite side, the same limb will be shown to you in a side view or from behind, exactly as if you had that same limb in your hand and were turning it from side to side until you had acquired a full comprehension of all you wished to know. In the same way there will be put before you three or four demonstrations of each limb, from various points of view, so that you will be left with a true and complete knowledge of all you wish to learn of the human figure[Footnote 35: Compare Pl. CVII. The original drawing at Windsor is 28 1/2 X 19 1/2 centimetres. The upper figures are slightly washed with Indian ink. On the back of this drawing is the text No. 1140.]. Thus, in twelve entire figures, you will have set before you the cosmography of this lesser world on the same plan as, before me, was adopted by Ptolemy in his cosmography; and so I will afterwards divide them into limbs as he divided the whole world into provinces; then I will speak of the function of each part in every direction, putting before your eyes a description of the whole form and substance of man, as regards his movements from place to place, by means of his different parts. And thus, if it please our great Author, I may demonstrate the nature of men, and their customs in the way I describe his figure. And remember that the anatomy of the nerves will not give the position of their ramifications, nor show you which muscles they branch into, by means of bodies dissected in running water or in lime water; though indeed their origin and starting point may be seen without such water as well as with it. But their ramifications, when under running water, cling and unite--just like flat or hemp carded for spinning--all into a skein, in a way which makes it impossible to trace in which muscles or by what ramification the nerves are distributed among those muscles. 799. THE ARRANGEMENT OF ANATOMY First draw the bones, let us say, of the arm, and put in the motor muscle from the shoulder to the elbow with all its lines. Then proceed in the same way from the elbow to the wrist. Then from the wrist to the hand and from the hand to the fingers. And in the arm you will put the motors of the fingers which open, and these you will show separately in their demonstration. In the second demonstration you will clothe these muscles with the secondary motors of the fingers and so proceed by degrees to avoid confusion. But first lay on the bones those muscles which lie close to the said bones, without confusion of other muscles; and with these you may put the nerves and veins which supply their nourishment, after having first drawn the tree of veins and nerves over the simple bones. 800. Begin the anatomy at the head and finish at the sole of the foot. 801. 3 men complete, 3 with bones and nerves, 3 with the bones only. Here we have 12 demonstrations of entire figures. 802. When you have finished building up the man, you will make the statue with all its superficial measurements. [Footnote: _Cresciere l'omo_. The meaning of this expression appears to be different here and in the passage C.A. 157a, 468a (see No. 526, Note 1. 2). Here it can hardly mean anything else than modelling, since the sculptor forms the figure by degrees, by adding wet clay and the figure consequently increases or grows. _Tu farai la statua_ would then mean, you must work out the figure in marble. If this interpretation is the correct one, this passage would have no right to find a place in the series on anatomical studies. I may say that it was originally inserted in this connection under the impression that _di cresciere_ should be read _descrivere_.] Plans for the representation of muscles by drawings (803-809). 803. You must show all the motions of the bones with their joints to follow the demonstration of the first three figures of the bones, and this should be done in the first book. 804. Remember that to be certain of the point of origin of any muscle, you must pull the sinew from which the muscle springs in such a way as to see that muscle move, and where it is attached to the ligaments of the bones. NOTE. You will never get any thing but confusion in demonstrating the muscles and their positions, origin, and termination, unless you first make a demonstration of thin muscles after the manner of linen threads; and thus you can represent them, one over another as nature has placed them; and thus, too, you can name them according to the limb they serve; for instance the motor of the point of the great toe, of its middle bone, of its first bone, &c. And when you have the knowledge you will draw, by the side of this, the true form and size and position of each muscle. But remember to give the threads which explain the situation of the muscles in the position which corresponds to the central line of each muscle; and so these threads will demonstrate the form of the leg and their distance in a plain and clear manner. I have removed the skin from a man who was so shrunk by illness that the muscles were worn down and remained in a state like thin membrane, in such a way that the sinews instead of merging in muscles ended in wide membrane; and where the bones were covered by the skin they had very little over their natural size. [Footnote: The photograph No. 41 of Grosvenor Gallery Publications: a drawing of the muscles of the foot, includes a complete facsimile of the text of this passage.] 805. Which nerve causes the motion of the eye so that the motion of one eye moves the other? Of frowning the brows, of raising the brows, of lowering the brows,--of closing the eyes, of opening the eyes,--of raising the nostrils, of opening the lips, with the teeth shut, of pouting with the lips, of smiling, of astonishment.-- Describe the beginning of man when it is caused in the womb and why an eight months child does not live. What sneezing is. What yawning is. Falling sickness, spasms, paralysis, shivering with cold, sweating, fatigue, hunger, sleepiness, thirst, lust. Of the nerve which is the cause of movement from the shoulder to the elbow, of the movement from the elbow to the hand, from the joint of the hand to the springing of the fingers. From the springing of the fingers to the middle joints, and from the middle joints to the last. Of the nerve which causes the movement of the thigh, and from the knee to the foot, and from the joint of the foot to the toes, and then to the middle of the toes and of the rotary motion of the leg. 806. ANATOMY. Which nerves or sinews of the hand are those which close and part the fingers and toes latteraly? 807. Remove by degrees all the parts of the front of a man in making your dissection, till you come to the bones. Description of the parts of the bust and of their motions. 808. Give the anatomy of the leg up to the hip, in all views and in every action and in every state; veins, arteries, nerves, sinews and muscles, skin and bones; then the bones in sections to show the thickness of the bones. [Footnote: A straightened leg in profile is sketched by the side of this text.] On corpulency and leanness (809-811). 809. Make the rule and give the measurement of each muscle, and give the reasons of all their functions, and in which way they work and what makes them work &c. [4] First draw the spine of the back; then clothe it by degrees, one after the other, with each of its muscles and put in the nerves and arteries and veins to each muscle by itself; and besides these note the vertebrae to which they are attached; which of the intestines come in contact with them; and which bones and other organs &c. The most prominent parts of lean people are most prominent in the muscular, and equally so in fat persons. But concerning the difference in the forms of the muscles in fat persons as compared with muscular persons, it shall be described below. [Footnote: The two drawings given on Pl. CVIII no. 1 come between lines 3 and 4. A good and very early copy of this drawing without the written text exists in the collection of drawings belonging to Christ's College Oxford, where it is attributed to Leonardo.] 810. Describe which muscles disappear in growing fat, and which become visible in growing lean. And observe that that part which on the surface of a fat person is most concave, when he grows lean becomes more prominent. Where the muscles separate one from another you must give profiles and where they coalesce ... 811. OF THE HUMAN FIGURE. Which is the part in man, which, as he grows fatter, never gains flesh? Or what part which as a man grows lean never falls away with a too perceptible diminution? And among the parts which grow fat which is that which grows fattest? Among those which grow lean which is that which grows leanest? In very strong men which are the muscles which are thickest and most prominent? In your anatomy you must represent all the stages of the limbs from man's creation to his death, and then till the death of the bone; and which part of him is first decayed and which is preserved the longest. And in the same way of extreme leanness and extreme fatness. The divisions of the head (812. 813). 812. ANATOMY. There are eleven elementary tissues:-- Cartilage, bones, nerves, veins, arteries, fascia, ligament and sinews, skin, muscle and fat. OF THE HEAD. The divisions of the head are 10, viz. 5 external and 5 internal, the external are the hair, skin, muscle, fascia and the skull; the internal are the dura mater, the pia mater, [which enclose] the brain. The pia mater and the dura mater come again underneath and enclose the brain; then the rete mirabile, and the occipital bone, which supports the brain from which the nerves spring. 813. _a_. hair _n_. skin _c_. muscle _m_. fascia _o_. skull _i.e._ bone _b_. dura mater _d_. pia mater _f_. brain _r_. pia mater, below _t_. dura mater _l_. rete mirablile _s_. the occipitul bone. [Footnote: See Pl. CVIII, No. 3.] Physiological problems (814. 815). 814. Of the cause of breathing, of the cause of the motion of the heart, of the cause of vomiting, of the cause of the descent of food from the stomach, of the cause of emptying the intestines. Of the cause of the movement of the superfluous matter through the intestines. Of the cause of swallowing, of the cause of coughing, of the cause of yawning, of the cause of sneezing, of the cause of limbs getting asleep. Of the cause of losing sensibility in any limb. Of the cause of tickling. Of the cause of lust and other appetites of the body, of the cause of urine and also of all the natural excretions of the body. [Footnote: By the side of this text stands the pen and ink drawing reproduced on Pl. CVIII, No. 4; a skull with indications of the veins in the fleshy covering.] 815. The tears come from the heart and not from the brain. Define all the parts, of which the body is composed, beginning with the skin with its outer cuticle which is often chapped by the influence of the sun. II. ZOOLOGY AND COMPARATIVE ANATOMY. The divisions of the animal kingdom (816. 817). 816. _Man_. The description of man, which includes that of such creatures as are of almost the same species, as Apes, Monkeys and the like, which are many, _The Lion_ and its kindred, as Panthers. [Footnote 3: _Leonza_--wild cat? "_Secondo alcuni, lo stesso che Leonessa; e secondo altri con piu certezza, lo stesso che Pantera_" FANFANI, _Vocabolario_ page 858.] Wildcats (?) Tigers, Leopards, Wolfs, Lynxes, Spanish cats, common cats and the like. _The Horse_ and its kindred, as Mule, Ass and the like, with incisor teeth above and below. _The Bull_ and its allies with horns and without upper incisors as the Buffalo, Stag Fallow Deer, Wild Goat, Swine, Goat, wild Goats Muskdeers, Chamois, Giraffe. 817. Describe the various forms of the intestines of the human species, of apes and such like. Then, in what way the leonine species differ, and then the bovine, and finally birds; and arrange this description after the manner of a disquisition. Miscellaneous notes on the study of Zoology (818-821). 818. Procure the placenta of a calf when it is born and observe the form of the cotyledons, if their cotyledons are male or female. 819. Describe the tongue of the woodpecker and the jaw of the crocodile. 820. Of the flight of the 4th kind of butterflies that consume winged ants. Of the three principal positions of the wings of birds in downward flight. [Footnote: A passing allusion is all I can here permit myself to Leonardo's elaborate researches into the flight of birds. Compare the observations on this subject in the Introduction to section XVIII and in the Bibliography of Manuscripts at the end of the work.] 821. Of the way in which the tail of a fish acts in propelling the fish; as in the eel, snake and leech. [Footnote: A sketch of a fish, swimming upwards is in the original, inserted above this text.--Compare No. 1114.] Comparative study of the structure of bones and of the action of muscles (822-826). 822. OF THE PALM OF THE HAND. Then I will discourse of the hands of each animal to show in what they vary; as in the bear, which has the ligatures of the sinews of the toes joined above the instep. 823. A second demonstration inserted between anatomy and [the treatise on] the living being. You will represent here for a comparison, the legs of a frog, which have a great resemblance to the legs of man, both in the bones and in the muscles. Then, in continuation, the hind legs of the hare, which are very muscular, with strong active muscles, because they are not encumbered with fat. [Footnote: This text is written by the side of a drawing in black chalk of a nude male figure, but there is no connection between the sketch and the text.] 824. Here I make a note to demonstrate the difference there is between man and the horse and in the same way with other animals. And first I will begin with the bones, and then will go on to all the muscles which spring from the bones without tendons and end in them in the same way, and then go on to those which start with a single tendon at one end. [Footnote: See Pl. CVIII, No. 2.] 825. Note on the bendings of joints and in what way the flesh grows upon them in their flexions or extensions; and of this most important study write a separate treatise: in the description of the movements of animals with four feet; among which is man, who likewise in his infancy crawls on all fours. 826. OF THE WAY OF WALKING IN MAN. The walking of man is always after the universal manner of walking in animals with 4 legs, inasmuch as just as they move their feet crosswise after the manner of a horse in trotting, so man moves his 4 limbs crosswise; that is, if he puts forward his right foot in walking he puts forward, with it, his left arm and vice versa, invariably. III. PHYSIOLOGY. Comparative study of the organs of sense in men and animals. 827. I have found that in the composition of the human body as compared with the bodies of animals the organs of sense are duller and coarser. Thus it is composed of less ingenious instruments, and of spaces less capacious for receiving the faculties of sense. I have seen in the Lion tribe that the sense of smell is connected with part of the substance of the brain which comes down the nostrils, which form a spacious receptacle for the sense of smell, which enters by a great number of cartilaginous vesicles with several passages leading up to where the brain, as before said, comes down. The eyes in the Lion tribe have a large part of the head for their sockets and the optic nerves communicate at once with the brain; but the contrary is to be seen in man, for the sockets of the eyes are but a small part of the head, and the optic nerves are very fine and long and weak, and by the weakness of their action we see by day but badly at night, while these animals can see as well at night as by day. The proof that they can see is that they prowl for prey at night and sleep by day, as nocturnal birds do also. Advantages in the structure of the eye in certain animals (828-831). 828. Every object we see will appear larger at midnight than at midday, and larger in the morning than at midday. This happens because the pupil of the eye is much smaller at midday than at any other time. In proportion as the eye or the pupil of the owl is larger in proportion to the animal than that of man, so much the more light can it see at night than man can; hence at midday it can see nothing if its pupil does not diminish; and, in the same way, at night things look larger to it than by day. 829. OF THE EYES IN ANIMALS. The eyes of all animals have their pupils adapted to dilate and diminish of their own accord in proportion to the greater or less light of the sun or other luminary. But in birds the variation is much greater; and particularly in nocturnal birds, such as horned owls, and in the eyes of one species of owl; in these the pupil dilates in such away as to occupy nearly the whole eye, or diminishes to the size of a grain of millet, and always preserves the circular form. But in the Lion tribe, as panthers, pards, ounces, tigers, lynxes, Spanish cats and other similar animals the pupil diminishes from the perfect circle to the figure of a pointed oval such as is shown in the margin. But man having a weaker sight than any other animal is less hurt by a very strong light and his pupil increases but little in dark places; but in the eyes of these nocturnal animals, the horned owl--a bird which is the largest of all nocturnal birds--the power of vision increases so much that in the faintest nocturnal light (which we call darkness) it sees with much more distinctness than we do in the splendour of noon day, at which time these birds remain hidden in dark holes; or if indeed they are compelled to come out into the open air lighted up by the sun, they contract their pupils so much that their power of sight diminishes together with the quantity of light admitted. Study the anatomy of various eyes and see which are the muscles which open and close the said pupils of the eyes of animals. [Footnote: Compare No. 24, lines 8 and fol.] 830. _a b n_ is the membrane which closes the eye from below, upwards, with an opaque film, _c n b_ encloses the eye in front and behind with a transparent membrane. It closes from below, upwards, because it [the eye] comes downwards. When the eye of a bird closes with its two lids, the first to close is the nictitating membrane which closes from the lacrymal duct over to the outer corner of the eye; and the outer lid closes from below upwards, and these two intersecting motions begin first from the lacrymatory duct, because we have already seen that in front and below birds are protected and use only the upper portion of the eye from fear of birds of prey which come down from above and behind; and they uncover first the membrane from the outer corner, because if the enemy comes from behind, they have the power of escaping to the front; and again the muscle called the nictitating membrane is transparent, because, if the eye had not such a screen, they could not keep it open against the wind which strikes against the eye in the rush of their rapid flight. And the pupil of the eye dilates and contracts as it sees a less or greater light, that is to say intense brilliancy. 831. If at night your eye is placed between the light and the eye of a cat, it will see the eye look like fire. Remarks on the organs of speech (832. 833). 832. _a e i o u ba be bi bo bu ca ce ci co cu da de di do du fa fe fi fo fu ga ge gi go gu la le li lo lu ma me mi mo mu na ne ni no nu pa pe pi po pu qa qe qi qo qu ra re ri ro ru sa se si so su ta te ti to tu_ The tongue is found to have 24 muscles which correspond to the six muscles which compose the portion of the tongue which moves in the mouth. And when _a o u_ are spoken with a clear and rapid pronunciation, it is necessary, in order to pronounce continuously, without any pause between, that the opening of the lips should close by degrees; that is, they are wide apart in saying _a_, closer in saying _o_, and much closer still to pronounce _u_. It may be shown how all the vowels are pronounced with the farthest portion of the false palate which is above the epiglottis. 833. If you draw in breath by the nose and send it out by the mouth you will hear the sound made by the division that is the membrane in [Footnote 5: The text here breaks off.]... On the conditions of sight (834. 835). 834. OF THE NATURE OF SIGHT. I say that sight is exercised by all animals, by the medium of light; and if any one adduces, as against this, the sight of nocturnal animals, I must say that this in the same way is subject to the very same natural laws. For it will easily be understood that the senses which receive the images of things do not project from themselves any visual virtue [Footnote 4: Compare No. 68.]. On the contrary the atmospheric medium which exists between the object and the sense incorporates in itself the figure of things, and by its contact with the sense transmits the object to it. If the object--whether by sound or by odour--presents its spiritual force to the ear or the nose, then light is not required and does not act. The forms of objects do not send their images into the air if they are not illuminated [8]; and the eye being thus constituted cannot receive that from the air, which the air does not possess, although it touches its surface. If you choose to say that there are many animals that prey at night, I answer that when the little light which suffices the nature of their eyes is wanting, they direct themselves by their strong sense of hearing and of smell, which are not impeded by the darkness, and in which they are very far superior to man. If you make a cat leap, by daylight, among a quantity of jars and crocks you will see them remain unbroken, but if you do the same at night, many will be broken. Night birds do not fly about unless the moon shines full or in part; rather do they feed between sun-down and the total darkness of the night. [Footnote 8: See No. 58-67.] No body can be apprehended without light and shade, and light and shade are caused by light. 835. WHY MEN ADVANCED IN AGE SEE BETTER AT A DISTANCE. Sight is better from a distance than near in those men who are advancing in age, because the same object transmits a smaller impression of itself to the eye when it is distant than when it is near. The seat of the common sense. 836. The Common Sense, is that which judges of things offered to it by the other senses. The ancient speculators have concluded that that part of man which constitutes his judgment is caused by a central organ to which the other five senses refer everything by means of impressibility; and to this centre they have given the name Common Sense. And they say that this Sense is situated in the centre of the head between Sensation and Memory. And this name of Common Sense is given to it solely because it is the common judge of all the other five senses _i.e._ Seeing, Hearing, Touch, Taste and Smell. This Common Sense is acted upon by means of Sensation which is placed as a medium between it and the senses. Sensation is acted upon by means of the images of things presented to it by the external instruments, that is to say the senses which are the medium between external things and Sensation. In the same way the senses are acted upon by objects. Surrounding things transmit their images to the senses and the senses transfer them to the Sensation. Sensation sends them to the Common Sense, and by it they are stamped upon the memory and are there more or less retained according to the importance or force of the impression. That sense is most rapid in its function which is nearest to the sensitive medium and the eye, being the highest is the chief of the others. Of this then only we will speak, and the others we will leave in order not to make our matter too long. Experience tells us that the eye apprehends ten different natures of things, that is: Light and Darkness, one being the cause of the perception of the nine others, and the other its absence:-- Colour and substance, form and place, distance and nearness, motion and stillness [Footnote 15: Compare No. 23.]. On the origin of the soul. 837. Though human ingenuity may make various inventions which, by the help of various machines answering the same end, it will never devise any inventions more beautiful, nor more simple, nor more to the purpose than Nature does; because in her inventions nothing is wanting, and nothing is superfluous, and she needs no counterpoise when she makes limbs proper for motion in the bodies of animals. But she puts into them the soul of the body, which forms them that is the soul of the mother which first constructs in the womb the form of the man and in due time awakens the soul that is to inhabit it. And this at first lies dormant and under the tutelage of the soul of the mother, who nourishes and vivifies it by the umbilical vein, with all its spiritual parts, and this happens because this umbilicus is joined to the placenta and the cotyledons, by which the child is attached to the mother. And these are the reason why a wish, a strong craving or a fright or any other mental suffering in the mother, has more influence on the child than on the mother; for there are many cases when the child loses its life from them, &c. This discourse is not in its place here, but will be wanted for the one on the composition of animated bodies--and the rest of the definition of the soul I leave to the imaginations of friars, those fathers of the people who know all secrets by inspiration. [Footnote 57: _lettere incoronate_. By this term Leonardo probably understands not the Bible only, but the works of the early Fathers, and all the books recognised as sacred by the Roman Church.] I leave alone the sacred books; for they are supreme truth. On the relations of the soul to the organs of sense. 838. HOW THE FIVE SENSES ARE THE MINISTERS OF THE SOUL. The soul seems to reside in the judgment, and the judgment would seem to be seated in that part where all the senses meet; and this is called the Common Sense and is not all-pervading throughout the body, as many have thought. Rather is it entirely in one part. Because, if it were all-pervading and the same in every part, there would have been no need to make the instruments of the senses meet in one centre and in one single spot; on the contrary it would have sufficed that the eye should fulfil the function of its sensation on its surface only, and not transmit the image of the things seen, to the sense, by means of the optic nerves, so that the soul--for the reason given above-- may perceive it in the surface of the eye. In the same way as to the sense of hearing, it would have sufficed if the voice had merely sounded in the porous cavity of the indurated portion of the temporal bone which lies within the ear, without making any farther transit from this bone to the common sense, where the voice confers with and discourses to the common judgment. The sense of smell, again, is compelled by necessity to refer itself to that same judgment. Feeling passes through the perforated cords and is conveyed to this common sense. These cords diverge with infinite ramifications into the skin which encloses the members of the body and the viscera. The perforated cords convey volition and sensation to the subordinate limbs. These cords and the nerves direct the motions of the muscles and sinews, between which they are placed; these obey, and this obedience takes effect by reducing their thickness; for in swelling, their length is reduced, and the nerves shrink which are interwoven among the particles of the limbs; being extended to the tips of the fingers, they transmit to the sense the object which they touch. The nerves with their muscles obey the tendons as soldiers obey the officers, and the tendons obey the Common [central] Sense as the officers obey the general. [27] Thus the joint of the bones obeys the nerve, and the nerve the muscle, and the muscle the tendon and the tendon the Common Sense. And the Common Sense is the seat of the soul [28], and memory is its ammunition, and the impressibility is its referendary since the sense waits on the soul and not the soul on the sense. And where the sense that ministers to the soul is not at the service of the soul, all the functions of that sense are also wanting in that man's life, as is seen in those born mute and blind. [Footnote: The peculiar use of the words _nervo_, _muscolo_, _corda_, _senso comune_, which are here literally rendered by nerve, muscle cord or tendon and Common Sense may be understood from lines 27 and 28.] On involuntary muscular action. 839. HOW THE NERVES SOMETIMES ACT OF THEMSELVES WITHOUT ANY COMMANDS FROM THE OTHER FUNCTIONS OF THE SOUL. This is most plainly seen; for you will see palsied and shivering persons move, and their trembling limbs, as their head and hands, quake without leave from their soul and their soul with all its power cannot prevent their members from trembling. The same thing happens in falling sickness, or in parts that have been cut off, as in the tails of lizards. The idea or imagination is the helm and guiding-rein of the senses, because the thing conceived of moves the sense. Pre-imagining, is imagining the things that are to be. Post-imagining, is imagining the things that are past. Miscellaneous physiological observations (840-842). 840. There are four Powers: memory and intellect, desire and covetousness. The two first are mental and the others sensual. The three senses: sight, hearing and smell cannot well be prevented; touch and taste not at all. Smell is connected with taste in dogs and other gluttonous animals. 841. I reveal to men the origin of the first, or perhaps second cause of their existence. 842. Lust is the cause of generation. Appetite is the support of life. Fear or timidity is the prolongation of life and preservation of its instruments. The laws of nutrition and the support of life (843-848). 843. HOW THE BODY OF ANIMALS IS CONSTANTLY DYING AND BEING RENEWED. The body of any thing whatever that takes nourishment constantly dies and is constantly renewed; because nourishment can only enter into places where the former nourishment has expired, and if it has expired it no longer has life. And if you do not supply nourishment equal to the nourishment which is gone, life will fail in vigour, and if you take away this nourishment, the life is entirely destroyed. But if you restore as much is destroyed day by day, then as much of the life is renewed as is consumed, just as the flame of the candle is fed by the nourishment afforded by the liquid of this candle, which flame continually with a rapid supply restores to it from below as much as is consumed in dying above: and from a brilliant light is converted in dying into murky smoke; and this death is continuous, as the smoke is continuous; and the continuance of the smoke is equal to the continuance of the nourishment, and in the same instant all the flame is dead and all regenerated, simultaneously with the movement of its own nourishment. 844. King of the animals--as thou hast described him--I should rather say king of the beasts, thou being the greatest--because thou hast spared slaying them, in order that they may give thee their children for the benefit of the gullet, of which thou hast attempted to make a sepulchre for all animals; and I would say still more, if it were allowed me to speak the entire truth [5]. But we do not go outside human matters in telling of one supreme wickedness, which does not happen among the animals of the earth, inasmuch as among them are found none who eat their own kind, unless through want of sense (few indeed among them, and those being mothers, as with men, albeit they be not many in number); and this happens only among the rapacious animals, as with the leonine species, and leopards, panthers lynxes, cats and the like, who sometimes eat their children; but thou, besides thy children devourest father, mother, brothers and friends; nor is this enough for thee, but thou goest to the chase on the islands of others, taking other men and these half-naked, the ... and the ... thou fattenest, and chasest them down thy own throat[18]; now does not nature produce enough simples, for thee to satisfy thyself? and if thou art not content with simples, canst thou not by the mixture of them make infinite compounds, as Platina wrote[Footnote 21: _Come scrisse il Platina_ (Bartolomeo Sacchi, a famous humanist). The Italian edition of his treatise _De arte coquinaria_, was published under the title _De la honestra voluptate, e valetudine, Venezia_ 1487.], and other authors on feeding? [Footnote: We are led to believe that Leonardo himself was a vegetarian from the following interesting passage in the first of Andrea Corsali's letters to Giuliano de'Medici: _Alcuni gentili chiamati Guzzarati non si cibano di cosa, alcuna che tenga sangue, ne fra essi loro consentono che si noccia ad alcuna cosa animata, come il nostro Leonardo da Vinci_. 5-18. Amerigo Vespucci, with whom Leonardo was personally acquainted, writes in his second letter to Pietro Soderini, about the inhabitants of the Canary Islands after having stayed there in 1503: "_Hanno una scelerata liberta di viuere; ... si cibano di carne humana, di maniera che il padre magia il figliuolo, et all'incontro il figliuolo il padre secondo che a caso e per sorte auiene. Io viddi un certo huomo sceleratissimo che si vantaua, et si teneua a non piccola gloria di hauer mangiato piu di trecento huomini. Viddi anche vna certa citta, nella quale io dimorai forse ventisette giorni, doue le carni humane, hauendole salate, eran appicate alli traui, si come noi alli traui di cucina_ _appicchiamo le carni di cinghali secche al sole o al fumo, et massimamente salsiccie, et altre simil cose: anzi si marauigliauano gradem ete che noi non magiaissimo della carne de nemici, le quali dicono muouere appetito, et essere di marauiglioso sapore, et le lodano come cibi soaui et delicati (Lettere due di Amerigo Vespucci Fiorentino drizzate al magnifico Pietro Soderini, Gonfaloniere della eccelsa Republica di Firenze_; various editions).] 845. Our life is made by the death of others. In dead matter insensible life remains, which, reunited to the stomachs of living beings, resumes life, both sensual and intellectual. 846. Here nature appears with many animals to have been rather a cruel stepmother than a mother, and with others not a stepmother, but a most tender mother. 847. Man and animals are really the passage and the conduit of food, the sepulchre of animals and resting place of the dead, one causing the death of the other, making themselves the covering for the corruption of other dead [bodies]. On the circulation of the blood (848-850). 848. Death in old men, when not from fever, is caused by the veins which go from the spleen to the valve of the liver, and which thicken so much in the walls that they become closed up and leave no passage for the blood that nourishes it. [6]The incessant current of the blood through the veins makes these veins thicken and become callous, so that at last they close up and prevent the passage of the blood. 849. The waters return with constant motion from the lowest depths of the sea to the utmost height of the mountains, not obeying the nature of heavier bodies; and in this they resemble the blood of animated beings which always moves from the sea of the heart and flows towards the top of the head; and here it may burst a vein, as may be seen when a vein bursts in the nose; all the blood rises from below to the level of the burst vein. When the water rushes out from the burst vein in the earth, it obeys the law of other bodies that are heavier than the air since it always seeks low places. [Footnote: From this passage it is quite plain that Leonardo had not merely a general suspicion of the circulation of the blood but a very clear conception of it. Leonardo's studies on the muscles of the heart are to be found in the MS. W. An. III. but no information about them has hitherto been made public. The limits of my plan in this work exclude all purely anatomical writings, therefore only a very brief excerpt from this note book can be given here. WILLIAM HARVEY (born 1578 and Professor of Anatomy at Cambridge from 1615) is always considered to have been the discoverer of the circulation of the blood. He studied medicine at Padua in 1598, and in 1628 brought out his memorable and important work: _De motu cordis et sanguinis_.] 850. That the blood which returns when the heart opens again is not the same as that which closes the valves of the heart. Some notes on medicine (851-855). 851. Make them give you the definition and remedies for the case ... and you will see that men are selected to be doctors for diseases they do not know. 852. A remedy for scratches taught me by the Herald to the King of France. 4 ounces of virgin wax, 4 ounces of colophony, 2 ounces of incense. Keep each thing separate; and melt the wax, and then put in the incense and then the colophony, make a mixture of it and put it on the sore place. 853. Medicine is the restoration of discordant elements; sickness is the discord of the elements infused into the living body. 854. Those who are annoyed by sickness at sea should drink extract of wormwood. 855. To keep in health, this rule is wise: Eat only when you want and relish food. Chew thoroughly that it may do you good. Have it well cooked, unspiced and undisguised. He who takes medicine is ill advised. [Footnote: This appears to be a sketch for a poem.] 856. I teach you to preserve your health; and in this you will succed better in proportion as you shun physicians, because their medicines are the work of alchemists. [Footnote: This passage is written on the back of the drawing Pl. CVIII. Compare also No. 1184.] _XV_. _Astronomy_. _Ever since the publication by Venturi in_ 1797 _and Libri in_ 1840 _of some few passages of Leonardo's astronomical notes, scientific astronomers have frequently expressed the opinion, that they must have been based on very important discoveries, and that the great painter also deserved a conspicuous place in the history of this science. In the passages here printed, a connected view is given of his astronomical studies as they lie scattered through the manuscripts, which have come down to us. Unlike his other purely scientific labours, Leonardo devotes here a good deal of attention to the opinions of the ancients, though he does not follow the practice universal in his day of relying on them as authorities; he only quotes them, as we shall see, in order to refute their arguments. His researches throughout have the stamp of independent thought. There is nothing in these writings to lead us to suppose that they were merely an epitome of the general learning common to the astronomers of the period. As early as in the XIVth century there were chairs of astronomy in the universities of Padua and Bologna, but so late as during the entire XVIth century Astronomy and Astrology were still closely allied._ _It is impossible now to decide whether Leonardo, when living in Florence, became acquainted in his youth with the doctrines of Paolo Toscanelli the great astronomer and mathematician (died_ 1482_), of whose influence and teaching but little is now known, beyond the fact that he advised and encouraged Columbus to carry out his project of sailing round the world. His name is nowhere mentioned by Leonardo, and from the dates of the manuscripts from which the texts on astronomy are taken, it seems highly probable that Leonardo devoted his attention to astronomical studies less in his youth than in his later years. It was evidently his purpose to treat of Astronomy in a connected form and in a separate work (see the beginning of Nos._ 866 _and_ 892_; compare also No._ 1167_). It is quite in accordance with his general scientific thoroughness that he should propose to write a special treatise on Optics as an introduction to Astronomy (see Nos._ 867 _and_ 877_). Some of the chapters belonging to this Section bear the title "Prospettiva" _(see Nos._ 869 _and_ 870_), this being the term universally applied at the time to Optics as well as Perspective (see Vol. I, p._ 10, _note to No._ 13, _l._ 10_)_. _At the beginning of the XVIth century the Ptolemaic theory of the universe was still universally accepted as the true one, and Leonardo conceives of the earth as fixed, with the moon and sun revolving round it, as they are represented in the diagram to No._ 897. _He does not go into any theory of the motions of the planets; with regard to these and the fixed stars he only investigates the phenomena of their luminosity. The spherical form of the earth he takes for granted as an axiom from the first, and he anticipates Newton by pointing out the universality of Gravitation not merely in the earth, but even in the moon. Although his acute research into the nature of the moon's light and the spots on the moon did not bring to light many results of lasting importance beyond making it evident that they were a refutation of the errors of his contemporaries, they contain various explanations of facts which modern science need not modify in any essential point, and discoveries which history has hitherto assigned to a very much later date_. _The ingenious theory by which he tries to explain the nature of what is known as earth shine, the reflection of the sun's rays by the earth towards the moon, saying that it is a peculiar refraction, originating in the innumerable curved surfaces of the waves of the sea may be regarded as absurd; but it must not be forgotten that he had no means of detecting the fundamental error on which he based it, namely: the assumption that the moon was at a relatively short distance from the earth. So long as the motion of the earth round the sun remained unknown, it was of course impossible to form any estimate of the moon's distance from the earth by a calculation of its parallax_. _Before the discovery of the telescope accurate astronomical observations were only possible to a very limited extent. It would appear however from certain passages in the notes here printed for the first time, that Leonardo was in a position to study the spots in the moon more closely than he could have done with the unaided eye. So far as can be gathered from the mysterious language in which the description of his instrument is wrapped, he made use of magnifying glasses; these do not however seem to have been constructed like a telescope--telescopes were first made about_ 1600. _As LIBRI pointed out_ (Histoire des Sciences mathematiques III, 101) _Fracastoro of Verona_ (1473-1553) _succeeded in magnifying the moon's face by an arrangement of lenses (compare No._ 910, _note), and this gives probability to Leonardo's invention at a not much earlier date._ I. THE EARTH AS A PLANET. The earth's place in the universe (857. 858). 857. The equator, the line of the horizon, the ecliptic, the meridian: These lines are those which in all their parts are equidistant from the centre of the globe. 858. The earth is not in the centre of the Sun's orbit nor at the centre of the universe, but in the centre of its companion elements, and united with them. And any one standing on the moon, when it and the sun are both beneath us, would see this our earth and the element of water upon it just as we see the moon, and the earth would light it as it lights us. The fundamental laws of the solar system (859-864). 859. Force arises from dearth or abundance; it is the child of physical motion, and the grand-child of spiritual motion, and the mother and origin of gravity. Gravity is limited to the elements of water and earth; but this force is unlimited, and by it infinite worlds might be moved if instruments could be made by which the force could be generated. Force, with physical motion, and gravity, with resistance are the four external powers on which all actions of mortals depend. Force has its origin in spiritual motion; and this motion, flowing through the limbs of sentient animals, enlarges their muscles. Being enlarged by this current the muscles are shrunk in length and contract the tendons which are connected with them, and this is the cause of the force of the limbs in man. The quality and quantity of the force of a man are able to give birth to other forces, which will be proportionally greater as the motions produced by them last longer. [Footnote: Only part of this passage belongs, strictly speaking, to this section. The principle laid down in the second paragraph is more directly connected with the notes given in the preceding section on Physiology.] 860. Why does not the weight _o_ remain in its place? It does not remain because it has no resistance. Where will it move to? It will move towards the centre [of gravity]. And why by no other line? Because a weight which has no support falls by the shortest road to the lowest point which is the centre of the world. And why does the weight know how to find it by so short a line? Because it is not independant and does not move about in various directions. [Footnote: This text and the sketch belonging to it, are reproduced on Pl. CXXI.] 861. Let the earth turn on which side it may the surface of the waters will never move from its spherical form, but will always remain equidistant from the centre of the globe. Granting that the earth might be removed from the centre of the globe, what would happen to the water? It would remain in a sphere round that centre equally thick, but the sphere would have a smaller diameter than when it enclosed the earth. [Footnote: Compare No. 896, lines 48-64; and No. 936.] 862. Supposing the earth at our antipodes which supports the ocean were to rise and stand uncovered, far out of the sea, but remaining almost level, by what means afterwards, in the course of time, would mountains and vallies be formed? And the rocks with their various strata? 863. Each man is always in the middle of the surface of the earth and under the zenith of his own hemisphere, and over the centre of the earth. 864. Mem.: That I must first show the distance of the sun from the earth; and, by means of a ray passing through a small hole into a dark chamber, detect its real size; and besides this, by means of the aqueous sphere calculate the size of the globe ... Here it will be shown, that when the sun is in the meridian of our hemisphere [Footnote 10: _Antipodi orientali cogli occidentali_. The word _Antipodes_ does not here bear its literal sense, but--as we may infer from the simultaneous reference to inhabitants of the North and South-- is used as meaning men living at a distance of 90 degrees from the zenith of the rational horizon of each observer.], the antipodes to the East and to the West, alike, and at the same time, see the sun mirrored in their waters; and the same is equally true of the arctic and antarctic poles, if indeed they are inhabited. How to prove that the earth is a planet (865-867). 865. That the earth is a star. 866. In your discourse you must prove that the earth is a star much like the moon, and the glory of our universe; and then you must treat of the size of various stars, according to the authors. 867. THE METHOD OF PROVING THAT THE EARTH IS A STAR. First describe the eye; then show how the twinkling of a star is really in the eye and why one star should twinkle more than another, and how the rays from the stars originate in the eye; and add, that if the twinkling of the stars were really in the stars --as it seems to be--that this twinkling appears to be an extension as great as the diameter of the body of the star; therefore, the star being larger than the earth, this motion effected in an instant would be a rapid doubling of the size of the star. Then prove that the surface of the air where it lies contiguous to fire, and the surface of the fire where it ends are those into which the solar rays penetrate, and transmit the images of the heavenly bodies, large when they rise, and small, when they are on the meridian. Let _a_ be the earth and _n d m_ the surface of the air in contact with the sphere of fire; _h f g_ is the orbit of the moon or, if you please, of the sun; then I say that when the sun appears on the horizon _g_, its rays are seen passing through the surface of the air at a slanting angle, that is _o m_; this is not the case at _d k_. And so it passes through a greater mass of air; all of _e m_ is a denser atmosphere. 868. Beyond the sun and us there is darkness and so the air appears blue. [Footnote: Compare Vol. I, No. 301.] 869. PERSPECTIVE. It is possible to find means by which the eye shall not see remote objects as much diminished as in natural perspective, which diminishes them by reason of the convexity of the eye which necessarily intersects, at its surface, the pyramid of every image conveyed to the eye at a right angle on its spherical surface. But by the method I here teach in the margin [9] these pyramids are intersected at right angles close to the surface of the pupil. The convex pupil of the eye can take in the whole of our hemisphere, while this will show only a single star; but where many small stars transmit their images to the surface of the pupil those stars are extremely small; here only one star is seen but it will be large. And so the moon will be seen larger and its spots of a more defined form [Footnote 20 and fol.: Telescopes were not in use till a century later. Compare No. 910 and page 136.]. You must place close to the eye a glass filled with the water of which mention is made in number 4 of Book 113 "On natural substances" [Footnote 23: _libro_ 113. This is perhaps the number of a book in some library catalogue. But it may refer, on the other hand, to one of the 120 Books mentioned in No. 796. l. 84.]; for this water makes objects which are enclosed in balls of crystalline glass appear free from the glass. OF THE EYE. Among the smaller objects presented to the pupil of the eye, that which is closest to it, will be least appreciable to the eye. And at the same time, the experiments here made with the power of sight, show that it is not reduced to speck if the &c. [32][Footnote 32: Compare with this the passage in Vol. I, No. 52, written about twenty years earlier.]. Read in the margin. [34]Those objects are seen largest which come to the eye at the largest angles. But the images of the objects conveyed to the pupil of the eye are distributed to the pupil exactly as they are distributed in the air: and the proof of this is in what follows; that when we look at the starry sky, without gazing more fixedly at one star than another, the sky appears all strewn with stars; and their proportions to the eye are the same as in the sky and likewise the spaces between them [61]. [Footnote: 9. 32. _in margine:_ lines 34-61 are, in the original, written on the margin and above them is the diagram to which Leonardo seems to refer here.] 870. PERSPECTIVE. Among objects moved from the eye at equal distance, that undergoes least diminution which at first was most remote. When various objects are removed at equal distances farther from their original position, that which was at first the farthest from the eye will diminish least. And the proportion of the diminution will be in proportion to the relative distance of the objects from the eye before they were removed. That is to say in the object _t_ and the object _e_ the proportion of their distances from the eye _a_ is quintuple. I remove each from its place and set it farther from the eye by one of the 5 parts into which the proposition is divided. Hence it happens that the nearest to the eye has doubled the distance and according to the last proposition but one of this, is diminished by the half of its whole size; and the body _e_, by the same motion, is diminished 1/5 of its whole size. Therefore, by that same last proposition but one, that which is said in this last proposition is true; and this I say of the motions of the celestial bodies which are more distant by 3500 miles when setting than when overhead, and yet do not increase or diminish in any sensible degree. 871. _a b_ is the aperture through which the sun passes, and if you could measure the size of the solar rays at _n m_, you could accurately trace the real lines of the convergence of the solar rays, the mirror being at _a b_, and then show the reflected rays at equal angles to _n m_; but, as you want to have them at _n m_, take them at the. inner side of the aperture at cd, where they maybe measured at the spot where the solar rays fall. Then place your mirror at the distance _a b_, making the rays _d b_, _c a_ fall and then be reflected at equal angles towards _c d_; and this is the best method, but you must use this mirror always in the same month, and the same day, and hour and instant, and this will be better than at no fixed time because when the sun is at a certain distance it produces a certain pyramid of rays. 872. _a_, the side of the body in light and shade _b_, faces the whole portion of the hemisphere bed _e f_, and does not face any part of the darkness of the earth. And the same occurs at the point _o_; therefore the space a _o_ is throughout of one and the same brightness, and s faces only four degrees of the hemisphere _d e f g h_, and also the whole of the earth _s h_, which will render it darker; and how much must be demonstrated by calculation. [Footnote: This passage, which has perhaps a doubtful right to its place in this connection, stands in the Manuscript between those given in Vol. I as No. 117 and No. 427.] 873. THE REASON OF THE INCREASED SIZE OF THE SUN IN THE WEST. Some mathematicians explain that the sun looks larger as it sets, because the eye always sees it through a denser atmosphere, alleging that objects seen through mist or through water appear larger. To these I reply: No; because objects seen through a mist are similar in colour to those at a distance; but not being similarly diminished they appear larger. Again, nothing increases in size in smooth water; and the proof of this may be seen by throwing a light on a board placed half under water. But the reason why the sun looks larger is that every luminous body appears larger in proportion as it is more remote. [Footnote: Lines 5 and 6 are thus rendered by M. RAVAISSON in his edition of MS. A. "_De meme, aucune chose ne croit dans l'eau plane, et tu en feras l'experience_ en calquant un ais sous l'eau."--Compare the diagrams in Vol. I, p. 114.] On the luminosity of the Earth in the universal space (874-878). 874. In my book I propose to show, how the ocean and the other seas must, by means of the sun, make our world shine with the appearance of a moon, and to the remoter worlds it looks like a star; and this I shall prove. Show, first that every light at a distance from the eye throws out rays which appear to increase the size of the luminous body; and from this it follows that 2 ...[Footnote 10: Here the text breaks off; lines 11 and fol. are written in the margin.]. [11]The moon is cold and moist. Water is cold and moist. Thus our seas must appear to the moon as the moon does to us. 875. The waves in water magnify the image of an object reflected in it. Let _a_ be the sun, and _n m_ the ruffled water, _b_ the image of the sun when the water is smooth. Let _f_ be the eye which sees the image in all the waves included within the base of the triangle _c e f_. Now the sun reflected in the unruffled surface occupied the space _c d_, while in the ruffled surface it covers all the watery space _c e_ (as is proved in the 4th of my "Perspective") [Footnote 9: _Nel quarto della mia prospettiva_. If this reference is to the diagrams accompanying the text--as is usual with Leonardo--and not to some particular work, the largest of the diagrams here given must be meant. It is the lowest and actually the fifth, but he would have called it the fourth, for the text here given is preceded on the same page of the manuscript by a passage on whirlpools, with the diagram belonging to it also reproduced here. The words _della mia prospettiva_ may therefore indicate that the diagram to the preceding chapter treating on a heterogeneal subject is to be excluded. It is a further difficulty that this diagram belongs properly to lines 9-10 and not to the preceding sentence. The reflection of the sun in water is also discussed in the Theoretical part of the Book on Painting; see Vol. I, No. 206, 207.] and it will cover more of the water in proportion as the reflected image is remote from the eye [10]. [Footnote: In the original sketch, inside the circle in the first diagram, is written _Sole_ (sun), and to the right of it _luna_ (moon). Thus either of these heavenly bodies may be supposed to fill that space. Within the lower circle is written _simulacro_ (image). In the two next diagrams at the spot here marked _L_ the word _Luna_ is written, and in the last _sole_ is written in the top circle at _a_.] The image of the sun will be more brightly shown in small waves than in large ones--and this is because the reflections or images of the sun are more numerous in the small waves than in large ones, and the more numerous reflections of its radiance give a larger light than the fewer. Waves which intersect like the scales of a fir cone reflect the image of the sun with the greatest splendour; and this is the case because the images are as many as the ridges of the waves on which the sun shines, and the shadows between these waves are small and not very dark; and the radiance of so many reflections together becomes united in the image which is transmitted to the eye, so that these shadows are imperceptible. That reflection of the sun will cover most space on the surface of the water which is most remote from the eye which sees it. Let _a_ be the sun, _p q_ the reflection of the sun; _a b_ is the surface of the water, in which the sun is mirrored, and _r_ the eye which sees this reflection on the surface of the water occupying the space _o m_. _c_ is the eye at a greater distance from the surface of the water and also from the reflection; hence this reflection covers a larger space of water, by the distance between _n_ and _o_. 876. It is impossible that the side of a spherical mirror, illuminated by the sun, should reflect its radiance unless this mirror were undulating or filled with bubbles. You see here the sun which lights up the moon, a spherical mirror, and all of its surface, which faces the sun is rendered radiant. Whence it may be concluded that what shines in the moon is water like that of our seas, and in waves as that is; and that portion which does not shine consists of islands and terra firma. This diagram, of several spherical bodies interposed between the eye and the sun, is given to show that, just as the reflection of the sun is seen in each of these bodies, in the same way that image may be seen in each curve of the waves of the sea; and as in these many spheres many reflections of the sun are seen, so in many waves there are many images, each of which at a great distance is much magnified to the eye. And, as this happens with each wave, the spaces interposed between the waves are concealed; and, for this reason, it looks as though the many suns mirrored in the many waves were but one continuous sun; and the shadows,, mixed up with the luminous images, render this radiance less brilliant than that of the sun mirrored in these waves. [Footnote: In the original, at letter _A_ in the diagram "_Sole_" (the sun) is written, and at _o_ "_occhio_" (the eye).] 877. This will have before it the treatise on light and shade. The edges in the moon will be most strongly lighted and reflect most light, because, there, nothing will be visible but the tops of the waves of the water [Footnote 5: I have thought it unnecessary to reproduce the detailed explanation of the theory of reflection on waves contained in the passage which follows this.]. 878. The sun will appear larger in moving water or on waves than in still water; an example is the light reflected on the strings of a monochord. II. THE SUN. The question of the true and of the apparent size of the sun (879-884). 879. IN PRAISE OF THE SUN. If you look at the stars, cutting off the rays (as may be done by looking through a very small hole made with the extreme point of a very fine needle, placed so as almost to touch the eye), you will see those stars so minute that it would seem as though nothing could be smaller; it is in fact their great distance which is the reason of their diminution, for many of them are very many times larger than the star which is the earth with water. Now reflect what this our star must look like at such a distance, and then consider how many stars might be added--both in longitude and latitude--between those stars which are scattered over the darkened sky. But I cannot forbear to condemn many of the ancients, who said that the sun was no larger than it appears; among these was Epicurus, and I believe that he founded his reason on the effects of a light placed in our atmosphere equidistant from the centre of the earth. Any one looking at it never sees it diminished in size at whatever distance; and the rea- [Footnote 879-882: What Leonardo says of Epicurus-- who according to LEWIS, _The Astronomy of the ancients_, and MADLER, _Geschichte der Himmelskunde_, did not devote much attention to the study of celestial phenomena--, he probably derived from Book X of Diogenes Laertius, whose _Vitae Philosophorum_ was not printed in Greek till 1533, but the Latin translation appeared in 1475.] 880. sons of its size and power I shall reserve for Book 4. But I wonder greatly that Socrates [Footnote 2: _Socrates;_ I have little light to throw on this reference. Plato's Socrates himself declares on more than one occasion that in his youth he had turned his mind to the study of celestial phenomena (METEWPA) but not in his later years (see G. C. LEWIS, _The Astronomy of the ancients_, page 109; MADLER, _Geschichte der Himmelskunde_, page 41). Here and there in Plato's writings we find incidental notes on the sun and other heavenly bodies. Leonardo may very well have known of these, since the Latin version by Ficinus was printed as early as 1491; indeed an undated edition exists which may very likely have appeared between 1480--90. There is but one passage in Plato, Epinomis (p. 983) where he speaks of the physical properties of the sun and says that it is larger than the earth. Aristotle who goes very fully into the subject says the same. A complete edition of Aristotele's works was first printed in Venice 1495-98, but a Latin version of the Books _De Coelo et Mundo_ and _De Physica_ had been printed in Venice as early as in 1483 (H. MULLER-STRUBING).] should have depreciated that solar body, saying that it was of the nature of incandescent stone, and the one who opposed him as to that error was not far wrong. But I only wish I had words to serve me to blame those who are fain to extol the worship of men more than that of the sun; for in the whole universe there is nowhere to be seen a body of greater magnitude and power than the sun. Its light gives light to all the celestial bodies which are distributed throughout the universe; and from it descends all vital force, for the heat that is in living beings comes from the soul [vital spark]; and there is no other centre of heat and light in the universe as will be shown in Book 4; and certainly those who have chosen to worship men as gods--as Jove, Saturn, Mars and the like--have fallen into the gravest error, seeing that even if a man were as large as our earth, he would look no bigger than a little star which appears but as a speck in the universe; and seeing again that these men are mortal, and putrid and corrupt in their sepulchres. Marcellus [Footnote 23: I have no means of identifying _Marcello_ who is named in the margin. It may be Nonius Marcellus, an obscure Roman Grammarian of uncertain date (between the IInd and Vth centuries A. C.) the author of the treatise _De compendiosa doctrina per litteras ad filium_ in which he treats _de rebus omnibus et quibusdam aliis_. This was much read in the middle ages. The _editto princeps_ is dated 1470 (H. MULLER-STRUBING).] and many others praise the sun. 881. Epicurus perhaps saw the shadows cast by columns on the walls in front of them equal in diameter to the columns from which the shadows were cast; and the breadth of the shadows being parallel from beginning to end, he thought he might infer that the sun also was directly opposite to this parallel and that consequently its breadth was not greater than that of the column; not perceiving that the diminution in the shadow was insensibly slight by reason of the remoteness of the sun. If the sun were smaller than the earth, the stars on a great portion of our hemisphere would have no light, which is evidence against Epicurus who says the sun is only as large as it appears. [Footnote: In the original the writing is across the diagram.] 882. Epicurus says the sun is the size it looks. Hence as it looks about a foot across we must consider that to be its size; it would follow that when the moon eclipses the sun, the sun ought not to appear the larger, as it does. Then, the moon being smaller than the sun, the moon must be less than a foot, and consequently when our world eclipses the moon, it must be less than a foot by a finger's breadth; inasmuch as if the sun is a foot across, and our earth casts a conical shadow on the moon, it is inevitable that the luminous cause of the cone of shadow must be larger than the opaque body which casts the cone of shadow. 883. To measure how many times the diameter of the sun will go into its course in 24 hours. Make a circle and place it to face the south, after the manner of a sundial, and place a rod in the middle in such a way as that its length points to the centre of this circle, and mark the shadow cast in the sunshine by this rod on the circumference of the circle, and this shadow will be--let us say-- as broad as from _a_ to _n_. Now measure how many times this shadow will go into this circumference of a circle, and that will give you the number of times that the solar body will go into its orbit in 24 hours. Thus you may see whether Epicurus was [right in] saying that the sun was only as large as it looked; for, as the apparent diameter of the sun is about a foot, and as that sun would go a thousand times into the length of its course in 24 hours, it would have gone a thousand feet, that is 300 braccia, which is the sixth of a mile. Whence it would follow that the course of the sun during the day would be the sixth part of a mile and that this venerable snail, the sun will have travelled 25 braccia an hour. 884. Posidonius composed books on the size of the sun. [Footnote: Poseidonius of Apamea, commonly called the Rhodian, because he taught in Rhodes, was a Stoic philosopher, a contemporary and friend of Cicero's, and the author of numerous works on natural science, among them. Strabo quotes no doubt from one of his works, when he says that Poseidonius explained how it was that the sun looked larger when it was rising or setting than during the rest of its course (III, p. 135). Kleomedes, a later Greek Naturalist also mentions this observation of Poseidonius' without naming the title of his work; however, as Kleomedes' Cyclia Theorica was not printed till 1535, Leonardo must have derived his quotation from Strabo. He probably wrote this note in 1508, and as the original Greek was first printed in Venice in 1516, we must suppose him to quote here from the translation by Guarinus Veronensis, which was printed as early as 1471, also at Venice (H. MULLER-STRUBING).] Of the nature of Sunlight. 885. OF THE PROOF THAT THE SUN IS HOT BY NATURE AND NOT BY VIRTUE. Of the nature of Sunlight. That the heat of the sun resides in its nature and not in its virtue [or mode of action] is abundantly proved by the radiance of the solar body on which the human eye cannot dwell and besides this no less manifestly by the rays reflected from a concave mirror, which--when they strike the eye with such splendour that the eye cannot bear them--have a brilliancy equal to the sun in its own place. And that this is true I prove by the fact that if the mirror has its concavity formed exactly as is requisite for the collecting and reflecting of these rays, no created being could endure the heat that strikes from the reflected rays of such a mirror. And if you argue that the mirror itself is cold and yet send forth hot rays, I should reply that those rays come really from the sun and that it is the ray of the concave mirror after having passed through the window. Considerations as to the size of the sun (886-891). 886. The sun does not move. [Footnote: This sentence occurs incidentally among mathematical notes, and is written in unusually large letters.] 887. PROOF THAT THE NEARER YOU ARE TO THE SOURCE OF THE SOLAR RAYS, THE LARGER WILL THE REFLECTION OF THE SUN FROM THE SEA APPEAR TO YOU. [Footnote: Lines 4 and fol. Compare Vol. I, Nos. 130, 131.] If it is from the centre that the sun employs its radiance to intensify the power of its whole mass, it is evident that the farther its rays extend, the more widely they will be divided; and this being so, you, whose eye is near the water that mirrors the sun, see but a small portion of the rays of the sun strike the surface of the water, and reflecting the form of the sun. But if you were near to the sun--as would be the case when the sun is on the meridian and the sea to the westward--you would see the sun, mirrored in the sea, of a very great size; because, as you are nearer to the sun, your eye taking in the rays nearer to the point of radiation takes more of them in, and a great splendour is the result. And in this way it can be proved that the moon must have seas which reflect the sun, and that the parts which do not shine are land. 888. Take the measure of the sun at the solstice in mid-June. 889. WHY THE SUN APPEARS LARGER WHEN SETTING THAN AT NOON, WHEN IT IS NEAR TO US. Every object seen through a curved medium seems to be of larger size than it is. [Footnote: At A is written _sole_ (the sun), at B _terra_ (the earth).] 890. Because the eye is small it can only see the image of the sun as of a small size. If the eye were as large as the sun it would see the image of the sun in water of the same size as the real body of the sun, so long as the water is smooth. 891. A METHOD OF SEEING THE SUN ECLIPSED WITHOUT PAIN TO THE EYE. Take a piece of paper and pierce holes in it with a needle, and look at the sun through these holes. III. THE MOON. On the luminousity of the moon (892-901). 892. OF THE MOON. As I propose to treat of the nature of the moon, it is necessary that first I should describe the perspective of mirrors, whether plane, concave or convex; and first what is meant by a luminous ray, and how it is refracted by various kinds of media; then, when a reflected ray is most powerful, whether when the angle of incidence is acute, right, or obtuse, or from a convex, a plane, or a concave surface; or from an opaque or a transparent body. Besides this, how it is that the solar rays which fall on the waves of the sea, are seen by the eye of the same width at the angle nearest to the eye, as at the highest line of the waves on the horizon; but notwithstanding this the solar rays reflected from the waves of the sea assume the pyramidal form and consequently, at each degree of distance increase proportionally in size, although to our sight, they appear as parallel. 1st. Nothing that has very little weight is opaque. 2dly. Nothing that is excessively weighty can remain beneath that which is heavier. 3dly. As to whether the moon is situated in the centre of its elements or not. And, if it has no proper place of its own, like the earth, in the midst of its elements, why does it not fall to the centre of our elements? [Footnote 26: The problem here propounded by Leonardo was not satisfactorily answered till Newton in 1682 formulated the law of universal attraction and gravitation. Compare No. 902, lines 5-15.] And, if the moon is not in the centre of its own elements and yet does not fall, it must then be lighter than any other element. And, if the moon is lighter than the other elements why is it opaque and not transparent? When objects of various sizes, being placed at various distances, look of equal size, there must be the same relative proportion in the distances as in the magnitudes of the objects. [Footnote: In the diagram Leonardo wrote _sole_ at the place marked _A_.] 893. OF THE MOON AND WHETHER IT IS POLISHED AND SPHERICAL. The image of the sun in the moon is powerfully luminous, and is only on a small portion of its surface. And the proof may be seen by taking a ball of burnished gold and placing it in the dark with a light at some distance from it; and then, although it will illuminate about half of the ball, the eye will perceive its reflection only in a small part of its surface, and all the rest of the surface reflects the darkness which surrounds it; so that it is only in that spot that the image of the light is seen, and all the rest remains invisible, the eye being at a distance from the ball. The same thing would happen on the surface of the moon if it were polished, lustrous and opaque, like all bodies with a reflecting surface. Show how, if you were standing on the moon or on a star, our earth would seem to reflect the sun as the moon does. And show that the image of the sun in the sea cannot appear one and undivided, as it appears in a perfectly plane mirror. 894. How shadows are lost at great distances, as is shown by the shadow side of the moon which is never seen. [Footnote: Compare also Vol. I, Nos. 175-179.] 895. Either the moon has intrinsic luminosity or not. If it has, why does it not shine without the aid of the sun? But if it has not any light in itself it must of necessity be a spherical mirror; and if it is a mirror, is it not proved in Perspective that the image of a luminous object will never be equal to the extent of surface of the reflecting body that it illuminates? And if it be thus [Footnote 13: At A, in the diagram, Leonardo wrote "_sole_" (the sun), and at B "_luna o noi terra_" (the moon or our earth). Compare also the text of No. 876.], as is here shown at _r s_ in the figure, whence comes so great an extent of radiance as that of the full moon as we see it, at the fifteenth day of the moon? 896. OF THE MOON. The moon has no light in itself; but so much of it as faces the sun is illuminated, and of that illumined portion we see so much as faces the earth. And the moon's night receives just as much light as is lent it by our waters as they reflect the image of the sun, which is mirrored in all those waters which are on the side towards the sun. The outside or surface of the waters forming the seas of the moon and of the seas of our globe is always ruffled little or much, or more or less--and this roughness causes an extension of the numberless images of the sun which are repeated in the ridges and hollows, the sides and fronts of the innumerable waves; that is to say in as many different spots on each wave as our eyes find different positions to view them from. This could not happen, if the aqueous sphere which covers a great part of the moon were uniformly spherical, for then the images of the sun would be one to each spectator, and its reflections would be separate and independent and its radiance would always appear circular; as is plainly to be seen in the gilt balls placed on the tops of high buildings. But if those gilt balls were rugged or composed of several little balls, like mulberries, which are a black fruit composed of minute round globules, then each portion of these little balls, when seen in the sun, would display to the eye the lustre resulting from the reflection of the sun, and thus, in one and the same body many tiny suns would be seen; and these often combine at a long distance and appear as one. The lustre of the new moon is brighter and stronger, than when the moon is full; and the reason of this is that the angle of incidence is more obtuse in the new than in the full moon, in which the angles [of incidence and reflection] are highly acute. The waves of the moon therefore mirror the sun in the hollows of the waves as well as on the ridges, and the sides remain in shadow. But at the sides of the moon the hollows of the waves do not catch the sunlight, but only their crests; and thus the images are fewer and more mixed up with the shadows in the hollows; and this intermingling of the shaded and illuminated spots comes to the eye with a mitigated splendour, so that the edges will be darker, because the curves of the sides of the waves are insufficient to reflect to the eye the rays that fall upon them. Now the new moon naturally reflects the solar rays more directly towards the eye from the crests of the waves than from any other part, as is shown by the form of the moon, whose rays a strike the waves _b_ and are reflected in the line _b d_, the eye being situated at _d_. This cannot happen at the full moon, when the solar rays, being in the west, fall on the extreme waters of the moon to the East from _n_ to _m_, and are not reflected to the eye in the West, but are thrown back eastwards, with but slight deflection from the straight course of the solar ray; and thus the angle of incidence is very wide indeed. The moon is an opaque and solid body and if, on the contrary, it were transparent, it would not receive the light of the sun. The yellow or yolk of an egg remains in the middle of the albumen, without moving on either side; now it is either lighter or heavier than this albumen, or equal to it; if it is lighter, it ought to rise above all the albumen and stop in contact with the shell of the egg; and if it is heavier, it ought to sink, and if it is equal, it might just as well be at one of the ends, as in the middle or below [54]. [Footnote 48-64: Compare No. 861.] The innumerable images of the solar rays reflected from the innumerable waves of the sea, as they fall upon those waves, are what cause us to see the very broad and continuous radiance on the surface of the sea. 897. That the sun could not be mirrored in the body of the moon, which is a convex mirror, in such a way as that so much of its surface as is illuminated by the sun, should reflect the sun unless the moon had a surface adapted to reflect it--in waves and ridges, like the surface of the sea when its surface is moved by the wind. [Footnote: In the original diagrams _sole_ is written at the place marked _A; luna_ at _C,_ and _terra_ at the two spots marked _B_.] The waves in water multiply the image of the object reflected in it. These waves reflect light, each by its own line, as the surface of the fir cone does [Footnote 14: See the diagram p. 145.] These are 2 figures one different from the other; one with undulating water and the other with smooth water. It is impossible that at any distance the image of the sun cast on the surface of a spherical body should occupy the half of the sphere. Here you must prove that the earth produces all the same effects with regard to the moon, as the moon with regard to the earth. The moon, with its reflected light, does not shine like the sun, because the light of the moon is not a continuous reflection of that of the sun on its whole surface, but only on the crests and hollows of the waves of its waters; and thus the sun being confusedly reflected, from the admixture of the shadows that lie between the lustrous waves, its light is not pure and clear as the sun is. [Footnote 38: This refers to the small diagram placed between _B_ and _B_.--]. The earth between the moon on the fifteenth day and the sun. [Footnote 39: See the diagram below the one referred to in the preceding note.] Here the sun is in the East and the moon on the fifteenth day in the West. [Footnote 40.41: Refers to the diagram below the others.] The moon on the fifteenth [day] between the earth and the sun. [41]Here it is the moon which has the sun to the West and the earth to the East. 898. WHAT SORT OF THING THE MOON IS. The moon is not of itself luminous, but is highly fitted to assimilate the character of light after the manner of a mirror, or of water, or of any other reflecting body; and it grows larger in the East and in the West, like the sun and the other planets. And the reason is that every luminous body looks larger in proportion as it is remote. It is easy to understand that every planet and star is farther from us when in the West than when it is overhead, by about 3500 miles, as is proved on the margin [Footnote 7: refers to the first diagram.--A = _sole_ (the sun), B = _terra_ (the earth), C = _luna_ (the moon).], and if you see the sun or moon mirrored in the water near to you, it looks to you of the same size in the water as in the sky. But if you recede to the distance of a mile, it will look 100 times larger; and if you see the sun reflected in the sea at sunset, its image would look to you more than 10 miles long; because that reflected image extends over more than 10 miles of sea. And if you could stand where the moon is, the sun would look to you, as if it were reflected from all the sea that it illuminates by day; and the land amid the water would appear just like the dark spots that are on the moon, which, when looked at from our earth, appears to men the same as our earth would appear to any men who might dwell in the moon. [Footnote: This text has already been published by LIBRI: _Histoire des Sciences,_ III, pp. 224, 225.] OF THE NATURE OF THE MOON. When the moon is entirely lighted up to our sight, we see its full daylight; and at that time, owing to the reflection of the solar rays which fall on it and are thrown off towards us, its ocean casts off less moisture towards us; and the less light it gives the more injurious it is. 899. OF THE MOON. I say that as the moon has no light in itself and yet is luminous, it is inevitable but that its light is caused by some other body. 900. OF THE MOON. All my opponent's arguments to say that there is no water in the moon. [Footnote: The objections are very minutely noted down in the manuscript, but they hardly seem to have a place here.] 901. Answer to Maestro Andrea da Imola, who said that the solar rays reflected from a convex mirror are mingled and lost at a short distance; whereby it is altogether denied that the luminous side of the moon is of the nature of a mirror, and that consequently the light is not produced by the innumerable multitude of the waves of that sea, which I declared to be the portion of the moon which is illuminated by the solar rays. Let _o p_ be the body of the sun, _c n s_ the moon, and _b_ the eye which, above the base _c n_ of the cathetus _c n m_, sees the body of the sun reflected at equal angles _c n_; and the same again on moving the eye from _b_ to _a_. [Footnote: The large diagram on the margin of page 161 belongs to this chapter.] Explanation of the lumen cinereum in the moon. 902. OF THE MOON. No solid body is less heavy than the atmosphere. [Footnote: 1. On the margin are the words _tola romantina, tola--ferro stagnato_ (tinned iron); _romantina_ is some special kind of sheet-iron no longer known by that name.] Having proved that the part of the moon that shines consists of water, which mirrors the body of the sun and reflects the radiance it receives from it; and that, if these waters were devoid of waves, it would appear small, but of a radiance almost like the sun; --[5] It must now be shown whether the moon is a heavy or a light body: for, if it were a heavy body--admitting that at every grade of distance from the earth greater levity must prevail, so that water is lighter than the earth, and air than water, and fire than air and so on successively--it would seem that if the moon had density as it really has, it would have weight, and having weight, that it could not be sustained in the space where it is, and consequently that it would fall towards the centre of the universe and become united to the earth; or if not the moon itself, at least its waters would fall away and be lost from it, and descend towards the centre, leaving the moon without any and so devoid of lustre. But as this does not happen, as might in reason be expected, it is a manifest sign that the moon is surrounded by its own elements: that is to say water, air and fire; and thus is, of itself and by itself, suspended in that part of space, as our earth with its element is in this part of space; and that heavy bodies act in the midst of its elements just as other heavy bodies do in ours [Footnote 15: This passage would certainly seem to establish Leonardo's claim to be regarded as the original discoverer of the cause of the ashy colour of the new moon (_lumen cinereum_). His observations however, having hitherto remained unknown to astronomers, Moestlin and Kepler have been credited with the discoveries which they made independently a century later. Some disconnected notes treat of the same subject in MS. C. A. 239b; 718b and 719b; "_Perche la luna cinta della parte alluminata dal sole in ponente, tra maggior splendore in mezzo a tal cerchio, che quando essa eclissava il sole. Questo accade perche nell' eclissare il sole ella ombrava il nostro oceano, il qual caso non accade essendo in ponente, quando il sole alluma esso oceano_." The editors of the "_Saggio_" who first published this passage (page 12) add another short one about the seasons in the moon which I confess not to have seen in the original manuscript: "_La luna ha ogni mese un verno e una state, e ha maggiori freddi e maggiori caldi, e i suoi equinozii son piu freddi de' nostri._"] When the eye is in the East and sees the moon in the West near to the setting sun, it sees it with its shaded portion surrounded by luminous portions; and the lateral and upper portion of this light is derived from the sun, and the lower portion from the ocean in the West, which receives the solar rays and reflects them on the lower waters of the moon, and indeed affords the part of the moon that is in shadow as much radiance as the moon gives the earth at midnight. Therefore it is not totally dark, and hence some have believed that the moon must in parts have a light of its own besides that which is given it by the sun; and this light is due, as has been said, to the above- mentioned cause,--that our seas are illuminated by the sun. Again, it might be said that the circle of radiance shown by the moon when it and the sun are both in the West is wholly borrowed from the sun, when it, and the sun, and the eye are situated as is shown above. [Footnote 23. 24: The larger of the two diagrams reproduced above stands between these two lines, and the smaller one is sketched in the margin. At the spot marked _A_ Leonardo wrote _corpo solare_ (solar body) in the larger diagram and _Sole_ (sun) in the smaller one. At _C luna_ (moon) is written and at _B terra_ (the earth).] Some might say that the air surrounding the moon as an element, catches the light of the sun as our atmosphere does, and that it is this which completes the luminous circle on the body of the moon. Some have thought that the moon has a light of its own, but this opinion is false, because they have founded it on that dim light seen between the hornes of the new moon, which looks dark where it is close to the bright part, while against the darkness of the background it looks so light that many have taken it to be a ring of new radiance completing the circle where the tips of the horns illuminated by the sun cease to shine [Footnote 34: See Pl. CVIII, No. 5.]. And this difference of background arises from the fact that the portion of that background which is conterminous with the bright part of the moon, by comparison with that brightness looks darker than it is; while at the upper part, where a portion of the luminous circle is to be seen of uniform width, the result is that the moon, being brighter there than the medium or background on which it is seen by comparison with that darkness it looks more luminous at that edge than it is. And that brightness at such a time itself is derived from our ocean and other inland-seas. These are, at that time, illuminated by the sun which is already setting in such a way as that the sea then fulfils the same function to the dark side of the moon as the moon at its fifteenth day does to us when the sun is set. And the small amount of light which the dark side of the moon receives bears the same proportion to the light of that side which is illuminated, as that... [Footnote 42: Here the text breaks off; lines 43-52 are written on the margin.]. If you want to see how much brighter the shaded portion of the moon is than the background on which it is seen, conceal the luminous portion of the moon with your hand or with some other more distant object. On the spots in the moon (903-907). 903. THE SPOTS ON THE MOON. Some have said that vapours rise from the moon, after the manner of clouds and are interposed between the moon and our eyes. But, if this were the case, these spots would never be permanent, either as to position or form; and, seeing the moon from various aspects, even if these spots did not move they would change in form, as objects do which are seen from different sides. 904. OF THE SPOTS ON THE MOON. Others say that the moon is composed of more or less transparent parts; as though one part were something like alabaster and others like crystal or glass. It would follow from this that the sun casting its rays on the less transparent portions, the light would remain on the surface, and so the denser part would be illuminated, and the transparent portions would display the shadow of their darker depths; and this is their account of the structure and nature of the moon. And this opinion has found favour with many philosophers, and particularly with Aristotle, and yet it is a false view--for, in the various phases and frequent changes of the moon and sun to our eyes, we should see these spots vary, at one time looking dark and at another light: they would be dark when the sun is in the West and the moon in the middle of the sky; for then the transparent hollows would be in shadow as far as the tops of the edges of those transparent hollows, because the sun could not then fling his rays into the mouth of the hollows, which however, at full moon, would be seen in bright light, at which time the moon is in the East and faces the sun in the West; then the sun would illuminate even the lowest depths of these transparent places and thus, as there would be no shadows cast, the moon at these times would not show us the spots in question; and so it would be, now more and now less, according to the changes in the position of the sun to the moon, and of the moon to our eyes, as I have said above. 905. OF THE SPOTS ON THE MOON. It has been asserted, that the spots on the moon result from the moon being of varying thinness or density; but if this were so, when there is an eclipse of the moon the solar rays would pierce through the portions which were thin as is alleged [Footnote 3-5: _Eclissi_. This word, as it seems to me, here means eclipses of the sun; and the sense of the passage, as I understand it, is that by the foregoing hypothesis the moon, when it comes between the sun and the earth must appear as if pierced,--we may say like a sieve.]. But as we do not see this effect the opinion must be false. Others say that the surface of the moon is smooth and polished and that, like a mirror, it reflects in itself the image of our earth. This view is also false, inasmuch as the land, where it is not covered with water, presents various aspects and forms. Hence when the moon is in the East it would reflect different spots from those it would show when it is above us or in the West; now the spots on the moon, as they are seen at full moon, never vary in the course of its motion over our hemisphere. A second reason is that an object reflected in a convex body takes up but a small portion of that body, as is proved in perspective [Footnote 18: _come e provato_. This alludes to the accompanying diagram.]. The third reason is that when the moon is full, it only faces half the hemisphere of the illuminated earth, on which only the ocean and other waters reflect bright light, while the land makes spots on that brightness; thus half of our earth would be seen girt round with the brightness of the sea lighted up by the sun, and in the moon this reflection would be the smallest part of that moon. Fourthly, a radiant body cannot be reflected from another equally radiant; therefore the sea, since it borrows its brightness from the sun,--as the moon does--, could not cause the earth to be reflected in it, nor indeed could the body of the sun be seen reflected in it, nor indeed any star opposite to it. 906. If you keep the details of the spots of the moon under observation you will often find great variation in them, and this I myself have proved by drawing them. And this is caused by the clouds that rise from the waters in the moon, which come between the sun and those waters, and by their shadow deprive these waters of the sun's rays. Thus those waters remain dark, not being able to reflect the solar body. 907. How the spots on the moon must have varied from what they formerly were, by reason of the course of its waters. On the moon's halo. 908. OF HALOS ROUND THE MOON. I have found, that the circles which at night seem to surround the moon, of various sizes, and degrees of density are caused by various gradations in the densities of the vapours which exist at different altitudes between the moon and our eyes. And of these halos the largest and least red is caused by the lowest of these vapours; the second, smaller one, is higher up, and looks redder because it is seen through two vapours. And so on, as they are higher they will appear smaller and redder, because, between the eye and them, there is thicker vapour. Whence it is proved that where they are seen to be reddest, the vapours are most dense. On instruments for observing the moon (909. 910). 909. If you want to prove why the moon appears larger than it is, when it reaches the horizon; take a lens which is highly convex on one surface and concave on the opposite, and place the concave side next the eye, and look at the object beyond the convex surface; by this means you will have produced an exact imitation of the atmosphere included beneath the sphere of fire and outside that of water; for this atmosphere is concave on the side next the earth, and convex towards the fire. 910. Construct glasses to see the moon magnified. [Footnote: See the Introduction, p. 136, Fracastoro says in his work Homocentres: "_Per dua specilla ocularla si quis perspiciat, alteri altero superposito, majora multo et propinquiora videbit omnia.--Quin imo quaedam specilla ocularia fiunt tantae densitatis, ut si per ea quis aut lunam, aut aliud siderum spectet, adeo propinqua illa iudicet, ut ne turres ipsas excedant_" (sect. II c. 8 and sect. III, c. 23).] I. THE STARS. On the light of the stars (911-913). 911. The stars are visible by night and not by day, because we are eneath the dense atmosphere, which is full of innumerable articles of moisture, each of which independently, when the ays of the sun fall upon it, reflects a radiance, and so these umberless bright particles conceal the stars; and if it were not or this atmosphere the sky would always display the stars against ts darkness. [Footnote: See No. 296, which also refers to starlight.] 912. Whether the stars have their light from the sun or in themselves. Some say that they shine of themselves, alledging that if Venus nd Mercury had not a light of their own, when they come between ur eye and the sun they would darken so much of the sun as they ould cover from our eye. But this is false, for it is proved that dark object against a luminous body is enveloped and entirely oncealed by the lateral rays of the rest of that luminous body nd so remains invisible. As may be seen when the sun is seen hrough the boughs of trees bare of their leaves, at some distance he branches do not conceal any portion of the sun from our eye. he same thing happens with the above mentioned planets which, hough they have no light of their own, do not--as has been said-- onceal any part of the sun from our eye [18]. SECOND ARGUMENT. Some say that the stars appear most brilliant at night in proportion as they are higher up; and that if they had no light of their own, the shadow of the earth which comes between them and the sun, would darken them, since they would not face nor be faced by the solar body. But those persons have not considered that the conical shadow of the earth cannot reach many of the stars; and even as to those it does reach, the cone is so much diminished that it covers very little of the star's mass, and all the rest is illuminated by the sun. Footnote: From this and other remarks (see No. 902) it is clear hat Leonardo was familiar with the phenomena of Irradiation.] 13. Why the planets appear larger in the East than they do overhead, whereas the contrary should be the case, as they are 3500 miles nearer to us when in mid sky than when on the horizon. All the degrees of the elements, through which the images of the celestial bodies pass to reach the eye, are equal curves and the angles by which the central line of those images passes through them, are unequal angles [Footnote 13: _inequali_, here and elsewhere does not mean unequal in the sense of not being equal to each other, but angles which are not right angles.]; and the distance is greater, as is shown by the excess of _a b_ beyond _a d_; and the enlargement of these celestial bodies on the horizon is shown by the 9th of the 7th. Observations on the stars. 914. To see the real nature of the planets open the covering and note at the base [Footnote 4: _basa_. This probably alludes to some instrument, perhaps the Camera obscura.] one single planet, and the reflected movement of this base will show the nature of the said planet; but arrange that the base may face only one at the time. On history of astronomy. 915. Cicero says in [his book] De Divinatione that Astrology has been practised five hundred seventy thousand years before the Trojan war. 57000. [Footnote: The statement that CICERO, _De Divin._ ascribes the discovery of astrology to a period 57000 years before the Trojan war I believe to be quite erroneous. According to ERNESTI, _Clavis Ciceroniana,_ CH. G. SCHULZ (_Lexic. Cicer._) and the edition of _De Divin._ by GIESE the word Astrologia occurs only twice in CICERO: _De Divin. II_, 42. _Ad Chaldaeorum monstra veniamus, de quibus Eudoxus, Platonis auditor, in astrologia judicio doctissimorum hominum facile princeps, sic opinatur (id quod scriptum reliquit): Chaldaeis in praedictione et in notatione cujusque vitae ex natali die minime esse credendum._" He then quotes the condemnatory verdict of other philosophers as to the teaching of the Chaldaeans but says nothing as to the antiquity and origin of astronomy. CICERO further notes _De oratore_ I, 16 that Aratus was "_ignarus astrologiae_" but that is all. So far as I know the word occurs nowhere else in CICERO; and the word _Astronomia_ he does not seem to have used at all. (H. MULLER-STRUBING.)] Of time and its divisions (916-918). 916. Although time is included in the class of Continuous Quantities, being indivisible and immaterial, it does not come entirely under the head of Geometry, which represents its divisions by means of figures and bodies of infinite variety, such as are seen to be continuous in their visible and material properties. But only with its first principles does it agree, that is with the Point and the Line; the point may be compared to an instant of time, and the line may be likened to the length of a certain quantity of time, and just as a line begins and terminates in a point, so such a space of time. begins and terminates in an instant. And whereas a line is infinitely divisible, the divisibility of a space of time is of the same nature; and as the divisions of the line may bear a certain proportion to each other, so may the divisions of time. [Footnote: This passage is repeated word for word on page 190b of the same manuscript and this is accounted for by the text in Vol. I, No. 4. Compare also No. 1216.] 917. Describe the nature of Time as distinguished from the Geometrical definitions. 918. Divide an hour into 3000 parts, and this you can do with a clock by making the pendulum lighter or heavier. _XVI. Physical Geography. Leonardo's researches as to the structure of the earth and sea were made at a time, when the extended voyages of the Spaniards and Portuguese had also excited a special interest in geographical questions in Italy, and particularly in Tuscany. Still, it need scarcely surprise us to find that in deeper questions, as to the structure of the globe, the primitive state of the earth's surface, and the like, he was far in advance of his time. The number of passages which treat of such matters is relatively considerable; like almost all Leonardo's scientific notes they deal partly with theoretical and partly with practical questions. Some of his theoretical views of the motion of water were collected in a copied manuscript volume by an early transcriber, but without any acknowledgment of the source whence they were derived. This copy is now in the Library of the Barberini palace at Rome and was published under the title: "De moto e misura dell'acqua," by FRANCESCO CARDINALI, Bologna_ 1828. _In this work the texts are arranged under the following titles:_ Libr. I. Della spera dell'acqua; Libr. II. Del moto dell'acqua; Libr. III. Dell'onda dell'acqua; Libr. IV. Dei retrosi d'acqua; Libr. V. Dell'acqua cadente; Libr. VI. Delle rotture fatte dall'acqua; Libr. VII Delle cose portate dall'acqua; Libr. VIII. Dell'oncia dell'acqua e delle canne; Libr. IX. De molini e d'altri ordigni d'acqua. _The large number of isolated observations scattered through the manuscripts, accounts for our so frequently finding notes of new schemes for the arrangement of those relating to water and its motions, particularly in the Codex Atlanticus: I have printed several of these plans as an introduction to the Physical Geography, and I have actually arranged the texts in accordance with the clue afforded by one of them which is undoubtedly one of the latest notes referring to the subject (No._ 920_). The text given as No._ 930 _which is also taken from a late note-book of Leonardo's, served as a basis for the arrangement of the first of the seven books--or sections--, bearing the title: Of the Nature of Water_ (Dell'acque in se). _As I have not made it any part of this undertaking to print the passages which refer to purely physical principles, it has also been necessary to exclude those practical researches which, in accordance with indications given in_ 920, _ought to come in as Books_ 13, 14 _and_ 15. _I can only incidentally mention here that Leonardo--as it seems to me, especially in his youth--devoted a great deal of attention to the construction of mills. This is proved by a number of drawings of very careful and minute execution, which are to be found in the Codex Atlanticus. Nor was it possible to include his considerations on the regulation of rivers, the making of canals and so forth (No._ 920, _Books_ 10, 11 _and_ 12_); but those passages in which the structure of a canal is directly connected with notices of particular places will be found duly inserted under section XVII (Topographical notes). In Vol. I, No._ 5 _the text refers to canal-making in general._ _On one point only can the collection of passages included under the general heading of Physical Geography claim to be complete. When comparing and sorting the materials for this work I took particular care not to exclude or omit any text in which a geographical name was mentioned even incidentally, since in all such researches the chief interest, as it appeared to me, attached to the question whether these acute observations on the various local characteristics of mountains, rivers or seas, had been made by Leonardo himself, and on the spot. It is self-evident that the few general and somewhat superficial observations on the Rhine and the Danube, on England and Flanders, must have been obtained from maps or from some informants, and in the case of Flanders Leonardo himself acknowledges this (see No._ 1008_). But that most of the other and more exact observations were made, on the spot, by Leonardo himself, may be safely assumed from their method and the style in which he writes of them; and we should bear it in mind that in all investigations, of whatever kind, experience is always spoken of as the only basis on which he relies. Incidentally, as in No._ 984, _he thinks it necessary to allude to the total absence of all recorded observations._ I. INTRODUCTION. Schemes for the arrangement of the materials (919-928). 919. These books contain in the beginning: Of the nature of water itself in its motions; the others treat of the effects of its currents, which change the world in its centre and its shape. 920. DIVISIONS OF THE BOOK. Book 1 of water in itself. Book 2 of the sea. Book 3 of subterranean rivers. Book 4 of rivers. Book 5 of the nature of the abyss. Book 6 of the obstacles. Book 7 of gravels. Book 8 of the surface of water. Book 9 of the things placed therein. Book 10 of the repairing of rivers. Book 11 of conduits. Book 12 of canals. Book 13 of machines turned by water. Book 14 of raising water. Book 15 of matters worn away by water. 921. First you shall make a book treating of places occupied by fresh waters, and the second by salt waters, and the third, how by the disappearance of these, our parts of the world were made lighter and in consequence more remote from the centre of the world. 922. First write of all water, in each of its motions; then describe all its bottoms and their various materials, always referring to the propositions concerning the said waters; and let the order be good, for otherwise the work will be confused. Describe all the forms taken by water from its greatest to its smallest wave, and their causes. 923. Book 9, of accidental risings of water. 924. THE ORDER OF THE BOOK. Place at the beginning what a river can effect. 925. A book of driving back armies by the force of a flood made by releasing waters. A book showing how the waters safely bring down timber cut in the mountains. A book of boats driven against the impetus of rivers. A book of raising large bridges higher. Simply by the swelling of the waters. A book of guarding against the impetus of rivers so that towns may not be damaged by them. 926. A book of the ordering of rivers so as to preserve their banks. A book of the mountains, which would stand forth and become land, if our hemisphere were to be uncovered by the water. A book of the earth carried down by the waters to fill up the great abyss of the seas. A book of the ways in which a tempest may of itself clear out filled up sea-ports. A book of the shores of rivers and of their permanency. A book of how to deal with rivers, so that they may keep their bottom scoured by their own flow near the cities they pass. A book of how to make or to repair the foundations for bridges over the rivers. A book of the repairs which ought to be made in walls and banks of rivers where the water strikes them. A book of the formation of hills of sand or gravel at great depths in water. 927. Water gives the first impetus to its motion. A book of the levelling of waters by various means, A book of diverting rivers from places where they do mischief. A book of guiding rivers which occupy too much ground. A book of parting rivers into several branches and making them fordable. A book of the waters which with various currents pass through seas. A book of deepening the beds of rivers by means of currents of water. A book of controlling rivers so that the little beginnings of mischief, caused by them, may not increase. A book of the various movements of waters passing through channels of different forms. A book of preventing small rivers from diverting the larger one into which their waters run. A book of the lowest level which can be found in the current of the surface of rivers. A book of the origin of rivers which flow from the high tops of mountains. A book of the various motions of waters in their rivers. 928. [1] Of inequality in the concavity of a ship. [Footnote 1: The first line of this passage was added subsequently, evidently as a correction of the following line.] [1] A book of the inequality in the curve of the sides of ships. [1] A book of the inequality in the position of the tiller. [1] A book of the inequality in the keel of ships. [2] A book of various forms of apertures by which water flows out. [3] A book of water contained in vessels with air, and of its movements. [4] A book of the motion of water through a syphon. [Footnote 7: _cicognole_, see No. 966, 11, 17.] [5] A book of the meetings and union of waters coming from different directions. [6] A book of the various forms of the banks through which rivers pass. [7] A book of the various forms of shoals formed under the sluices of rivers. [8] A book of the windings and meanderings of the currents of rivers. [9] A book of the various places whence the waters of rivers are derived. [10] A book of the configuration of the shores of rivers and of their permanency. [11] A book of the perpendicular fall of water on various objects. [12] Abook of the course of water when it is impeded in various places. [12] A book of the various forms of the obstacles which impede the course of waters. [13] A book of the concavity and globosity formed round various objects at the bottom. [14] Abook of conducting navigable canals above or beneath the rivers which intersect them. [15] A book of the soils which absorb water in canals and of repairing them. [16] Abook of creating currents for rivers, which quit their beds, [and] for rivers choked with soil. General introduction. 929. THE BEGINNING OF THE TREATISE ON WATER. By the ancients man has been called the world in miniature; and certainly this name is well bestowed, because, inasmuch as man is composed of earth, water, air and fire, his body resembles that of the earth; and as man has in him bones the supports and framework of his flesh, the world has its rocks the supports of the earth; as man has in him a pool of blood in which the lungs rise and fall in breathing, so the body of the earth has its ocean tide which likewise rises and falls every six hours, as if the world breathed; as in that pool of blood veins have their origin, which ramify all over the human body, so likewise the ocean sea fills the body of the earth with infinite springs of water. The body of the earth lacks sinews and this is, because the sinews are made expressely for movements and, the world being perpetually stable, no movement takes place, and no movement taking place, muscles are not necessary. --But in all other points they are much alike. I. OF THE NATURE OF WATER. The arrangement of Book I. 930. THE ORDER OF THE FIRST BOOK ON WATER. Define first what is meant by height and depth; also how the elements are situated one inside another. Then, what is meant by solid weight and by liquid weight; but first what weight and lightness are in themselves. Then describe why water moves, and why its motion ceases; then why it becomes slower or more rapid; besides this, how it always falls, being in contact with the air but lower than the air. And how water rises in the air by means of the heat of the sun, and then falls again in rain; again, why water springs forth from the tops of mountains; and if the water of any spring higher than the ocean can pour forth water higher than the surface of that ocean. And how all the water that returns to the ocean is higher than the sphere of waters. And how the waters of the equatorial seas are higher than the waters of the North, and higher beneath the body of the sun than in any part of the equatorial circle; for experiment shows that under the heat of a burning brand the water near the brand boils, and the water surrounding this ebullition always sinks with a circular eddy. And how the waters of the North are lower than the other seas, and more so as they become colder, until they are converted into ice. Definitions (931. 932). 931. OF WHAT IS WATER. Among the four elements water is the second both in weight and in instability. 932. THE BEGINNING OF THE BOOK ON WATER. Sea is the name given to that water which is wide and deep, in which the waters have not much motion. [Footnote: Only the beginning of this passage is here given, the remainder consists of definitions which have no direct bearing on the subject.] Of the surface of the water in relation to the globe (933-936). 933. The centres of the sphere of water are two, one universal and common to all water, the other particular. The universal one is that which is common to all waters not in motion, which exist in great quantities. As canals, ditches, ponds, fountains, wells, dead rivers, lakes, stagnant pools and seas, which, although they are at various levels, have each in itself the limits of their superficies equally distant from the centre of the earth, such as lakes placed at the tops of high mountains; as the lake near Pietra Pana and the lake of the Sybil near Norcia; and all the lakes that give rise to great rivers, as the Ticino from Lago Maggiore, the Adda from the lake of Como, the Mincio from the lake of Garda, the Rhine from the lakes of Constance and of Chur, and from the lake of Lucerne, like the Tigris which passes through Asia Minor carrying with it the waters of three lakes, one above the other at different heights of which the highest is Munace, the middle one Pallas, and the lowest Triton; the Nile again flows from three very high lakes in Ethiopia. [Footnote 5: _Pietra Pana_, a mountain near Florence. If for Norcia, we may read Norchia, the remains of the Etruscan city near Viterbo, there can be no doubt that by '_Lago della Sibilla_'--a name not known elsewhere, so far as I can learn--Leonardo meant _Lago di Vico_ (Lacus Ciminus, Aen. 7).] 934. OF THE CENTRE OF THE OCEAN. The centre of the sphere of waters is the true centre of the globe of our world, which is composed of water and earth, having the shape of a sphere. But, if you want to find the centre of the element of the earth, this is placed at a point equidistant from the surface of the ocean, and not equidistant from the surface of the earth; for it is evident that this globe of earth has nowhere any perfect rotundity, excepting in places where the sea is, or marshes or other still waters. And every part of the earth that rises above the water is farther from the centre. 935. OF THE SEA WHICH CHANGES THE WEIGHT OF THE EARTH. The shells, oysters, and other similar animals, which originate in sea-mud, bear witness to the changes of the earth round the centre of our elements. This is proved thus: Great rivers always run turbid, being coloured by the earth, which is stirred by the friction of their waters at the bottom and on their shores; and this wearing disturbs the face of the strata made by the layers of shells, which lie on the surface of the marine mud, and which were produced there when the salt waters covered them; and these strata were covered over again from time to time, with mud of various thickness, or carried down to the sea by the rivers and floods of more or less extent; and thus these layers of mud became raised to such a height, that they came up from the bottom to the air. At the present time these bottoms are so high that they form hills or high mountains, and the rivers, which wear away the sides of these mountains, uncover the strata of these shells, and thus the softened side of the earth continually rises and the antipodes sink closer to the centre of the earth, and the ancient bottoms of the seas have become mountain ridges. 936. Let the earth make whatever changes it may in its weight, the surface of the sphere of waters can never vary in its equal distance from the centre of the world. Of the proportion of the mass of water to that of the earth (937. 938). 937. WHETHER THE EARTH IS LESS THAN THE WATER. Some assert that it is true that the earth, which is not covered by water is much less than that covered by water. But considering the size of 7000 miles in diameter which is that of this earth, we may conclude the water to be of small depth. 938. OF THE EARTH. The great elevations of the peaks of the mountains above the sphere of the water may have resulted from this that: a very large portion of the earth which was filled with water that is to say the vast cavern inside the earth may have fallen in a vast part of its vault towards the centre of the earth, being pierced by means of the course of the springs which continually wear away the place where they pass. Sinking in of countries like the Dead Sea in Syria, that is Sodom and Gomorrah. It is of necessity that there should be more water than land, and the visible portion of the sea does not show this; so that there must be a great deal of water inside the earth, besides that which rises into the lower air and which flows through rivers and springs. [Footnote: The small sketch below on the left, is placed in the original close to the text referring to the Dead Sea.] The theory of Plato. 939. THE FIGURES OF THE ELEMENTS. Of the figures of the elements; and first as against those who deny the opinions of Plato, and who say that if the elements include one another in the forms attributed to them by Plato they would cause a vacuum one within the other. I say it is not true, and I here prove it, but first I desire to propound some conclusions. It is not necessary that the elements which include each other should be of corresponding magnitude in all the parts, of that which includes and of that which is included. We see that the sphere of the waters varies conspicuously in mass from the surface to the bottom, and that, far from investing the earth when that was in the form of a cube that is of 8 angles as Plato will have it, that it invests the earth which has innumerable angles of rock covered by the water and various prominences and concavities, and yet no vacuum is generated between the earth and water; again, the air invests the sphere of waters together with the mountains and valleys, which rise above that sphere, and no vacuum remains between the earth and the air, so that any one who says a vacuum is generated, speaks foolishly. But to Plato I would reply that the surface of the figures which according to him the elements would have, could not exist. That the flow of rivers proves the slope of the land. 940. PROVES HOW THE EARTH IS NOT GLOBULAR AND NOT BEING GLOBULAR CANNOT HAVE A COMMON CENTRE. We see the Nile come from Southern regions and traverse various provinces, running towards the North for a distance of 3000 miles and flow into the Mediterranean by the shores of Egypt; and if we will give to this a fall of ten braccia a mile, as is usually allowed to the course of rivers in general, we shall find that the Nile must have its mouth ten miles lower than its source. Again, we see the Rhine, the Rhone and the Danube starting from the German parts, almost the centre of Europe, and having a course one to the East, the other to the North, and the last to Southern seas. And if you consider all this you will see that the plains of Europe in their aggregate are much higher than the high peaks of the maritime mountains; think then how much their tops must be above the sea shores. Theory of the elevation of water within the mountains. 941. OF THE HEAT THAT IS IN THE WORLD. Where there is life there is heat, and where vital heat is, there is movement of vapour. This is proved, inasmuch as we see that the element of fire by its heat always draws to itself damp vapours and thick mists as opaque clouds, which it raises from seas as well as lakes and rivers and damp valleys; and these being drawn by degrees as far as the cold region, the first portion stops, because heat and moisture cannot exist with cold and dryness; and where the first portion stops the rest settle, and thus one portion after another being added, thick and dark clouds are formed. They are often wafted about and borne by the winds from one region to another, where by their density they become so heavy that they fall in thick rain; and if the heat of the sun is added to the power of the element of fire, the clouds are drawn up higher still and find a greater degree of cold, in which they form ice and fall in storms of hail. Now the same heat which holds up so great a weight of water as is seen to rain from the clouds, draws them from below upwards, from the foot of the mountains, and leads and holds them within the summits of the mountains, and these, finding some fissure, issue continuously and cause rivers. The relative height of the surface of the sea to that of the land (942-945). 942. OF THE SEA, WHICH TO MANY FOOLS APPEARS TO BE HIGHER THAN THE EARTH WHICH FORMS ITS SHORE. _b d_ is a plain through which a river flows to the sea; this plain ends at the sea, and since in fact the dry land that is uncovered is not perfectly level--for, if it were, the river would have no motion--as the river does move, this place is a slope rather than a plain; hence this plain _d b_ so ends where the sphere of water begins that if it were extended in a continuous line to _b a_ it would go down beneath the sea, whence it follows that the sea _a c b_ looks higher than the dry land. Obviously no portions of dry land left uncovered by water can ever be lower than the surface of the watery sphere. 943. OF CERTAIN PERSONS WHO SAY THE WATERS WERE HIGHER THAN THE DRY LAND. Certainly I wonder not a little at the common opinion which is contrary to truth, but held by the universal consent of the judgment of men. And this is that all are agreed that the surface of the sea is higher than the highest peaks of the mountains; and they allege many vain and childish reasons, against which I will allege only one simple and short reason; We see plainly that if we could remove the shores of the sea, it would invest the whole earth and make it a perfect sphere. Now, consider how much earth would be carried away to enable the waves of the sea to cover the world; therefore that which would be carried away must be higher than the sea-shore. 944. THE OPINION OF SOME PERSONS WHO SAY THAT THE WATER OF SOME SEAS IS HIGHER THAN THE HIGHEST SUMMITS OF MOUNTAINS; AND NEVERTHELESS THE WATER WAS FORCED UP TO THESE SUMMITS. Water would not move from place to place if it were not that it seeks the lowest level and by a natural consequence it never can return to a height like that of the place where it first on issuing from the mountain came to light. And that portion of the sea which, in your vain imagining, you say was so high that it flowed over the summits of the high mountains, for so many centuries would be swallowed up and poured out again through the issue from these mountains. You can well imagine that all the time that Tigris and Euphrates 945. have flowed from the summits of the mountains of Armenia, it must be believed that all the water of the ocean has passed very many times through these mouths. And do you not believe that the Nile must have sent more water into the sea than at present exists of all the element of water? Undoubtedly, yes. And if all this water had fallen away from this body of the earth, this terrestrial machine would long since have been without water. Whence we may conclude that the water goes from the rivers to the sea, and from the sea to the rivers, thus constantly circulating and returning, and that all the sea and the rivers have passed through the mouth of the Nile an infinite number of times [Footnote: _Moti Armeni, Ermini_ in the original, in M. RAVAISSON'S transcript _"monti ernini [le loro ruine?]"_. He renders this _"Le Tigre et l'Euphrate se sont deverses par les sommets des montagnes [avec leurs eaux destructives?] on pent cro're" &c. Leonardo always writes _Ermini, Erminia_, for _Armeni, Armenia_ (Arabic: _Irminiah_). M. RAVAISSON also deviates from the original in his translation of the following passage: "_Or tu ne crois pas que le Nil ait mis plus d'eau dans la mer qu'il n'y en a a present dans tout l'element de l'eau. Il est certain que si cette eau etait tombee_" &c.] II. ON THE OCEAN. Refutation of Pliny's theory as to the saltness of the sea (946. 947). 946. WHY WATER IS SALT. Pliny says in his second book, chapter 103, that the water of the sea is salt because the heat of the sun dries up the moisture and drinks it up; and this gives to the wide stretching sea the savour of salt. But this cannot be admitted, because if the saltness of the sea were caused by the heat of the sun, there can be no doubt that lakes, pools and marshes would be so much the more salt, as their waters have less motion and are of less depth; but experience shows us, on the contrary, that these lakes have their waters quite free from salt. Again it is stated by Pliny in the same chapter that this saltness might originate, because all the sweet and subtle portions which the heat attracts easily being taken away, the more bitter and coarser part will remain, and thus the water on the surface is fresher than at the bottom [Footnote 22: Compare No. 948.]; but this is contradicted by the same reason given above, which is, that the same thing would happen in marshes and other waters, which are dried up by the heat. Again, it has been said that the saltness of the sea is the sweat of the earth; to this it may be answered that all the springs of water which penetrate through the earth, would then be salt. But the conclusion is, that the saltness of the sea must proceed from the many springs of water which, as they penetrate into the earth, find mines of salt and these they dissolve in part, and carry with them to the ocean and the other seas, whence the clouds, the begetters of rivers, never carry it up. And the sea would be salter in our times than ever it was at any time; and if the adversary were to say that in infinite time the sea would dry up or congeal into salt, to this I answer that this salt is restored to the earth by the setting free of that part of the earth which rises out of the sea with the salt it has acquired, and the rivers return it to the earth under the sea. [Footnote: See PLINY, Hist. Nat. II, CIII [C]. _Itaque Solis ardore siccatur liquor: et hoc esse masculum sidus accepimus, torrens cuncta sorbensque._ (cp. CIV.) _Sic mari late patenti saporem incoqui salis, aut quia exhausto inde dulci tenuique, quod facillime trahat vis ignea, omne asperius crassiusque linquatur: ideo summa aequorum aqua dulciorem profundam; hanc esse veriorem causam, quam quod mare terrae sudor sit aeternus: aut quia plurimum ex arido misceatur illi vapore: aut quia terrae natura sicut medicatas aquas inficiat_ ... (cp. CV): _altissimum mare XV. stadiorum Fabianus tradit. Alii n Ponto coadverso Coraxorum gentis (vocant B Ponti) trecentis fere a continenti stadiis immensam altitudinem maris tradunt, vadis nunquam repertis._ (cp. CVI [CIII]) _Mirabilius id faciunt aquae dulces, juxta mare, ut fistulis emicantes. Nam nec aquarum natura a miraculis cessat. Dulces mari invehuntur, leviores haud dubie. Ideo et marinae, quarum natura gravior, magis invecta sustinent. Quaedam vero et dulces inter se supermeant alias._] 947. For the third and last reason we will say that salt is in all created things; and this we learn from water passed over the ashes and cinders of burnt things; and the urine of every animal, and the superfluities issuing from their bodies, and the earth into which all things are converted by corruption. But,--to put it better,--given that the world is everlasting, it must be admitted that its population will also be eternal; hence the human species has eternally been and would be consumers of salt; and if all the mass of the earth were to be turned into salt, it would not suffice for all human food [Footnote 27: That is, on the supposition that salt, once consumed, disappears for ever.]; whence we are forced to admit, either that the species of salt must be everlasting like the world, or that it dies and is born again like the men who devour it. But as experience teaches us that it does not die, as is evident by fire, which does not consume it, and by water which becomes salt in proportion to the quantity dissolved in it,--and when it is evaporated the salt always remains in the original quantity--it must pass through the bodies of men either in the urine or the sweat or other excretions where it is found again; and as much salt is thus got rid of as is carried every year into towns; therefore salt is dug in places where there is urine.-- Sea hogs and sea winds are salt. We will say that the rains which penetrate the earth are what is under the foundations of cities with their inhabitants, and are what restore through the internal passages of the earth the saltness taken from the sea; and that the change in the place of the sea, which has been over all the mountains, caused it to be left there in the mines found in those mountains, &c. The characteristics of sea water (948. 949). 948. The waters of the salt sea are fresh at the greatest depths. 949. THAT THE OCEAN DOES NOT PENETRATE UNDER THE EARTH. The ocean does not penetrate under the earth, and this we learn from the many and various springs of fresh water which, in many parts of the ocean make their way up from the bottom to the surface. The same thing is farther proved by wells dug beyond the distance of a mile from the said ocean, which fill with fresh water; and this happens because the fresh water is lighter than salt water and consequently more penetrating. Which weighs most, water when frozen or when not frozen? FRESH WATER PENETRATES MORE AGAINST SALT WATER THAN SALT WATER AGAINST FRESH WATER. That fresh water penetrates more against salt water, than salt water against fresh is proved by a thin cloth dry and old, hanging with the two opposite ends equally low in the two different waters, the surfaces of which are at an equal level; and it will then be seen how much higher the fresh water will rise in this piece of linen than the salt; by so much is the fresh lighter than the salt. On the formation of Gulfs (950. 951). 950. All inland seas and the gulfs of those seas, are made by rivers which flow into the sea. 951. HERE THE REASON IS GIVEN OF THE EFFECTS PRODUCED BY THE WATERS IN THE ABOVE MENTIONED PLACE. All the lakes and all the gulfs of the sea and all inland seas are due to rivers which distribute their waters into them, and from impediments in their downfall into the Mediterranean --which divides Africa from Europe and Europe from Asia by means of the Nile and the Don which pour their waters into it. It is asked what impediment is great enough to stop the course of the waters which do not reach the ocean. On the encroachments of the sea on the land and vice versa (952-954). 952. OF WAVES. A wave of the sea always breaks in front of its base, and that portion of the crest will then be lowest which before was highest. [Footnote: The page of FRANCESCO DI GIORGIO'S _Trattato_, on which Leonardo has written this remark, contains some notes on the construction of dams, harbours &c.] 953. That the shores of the sea constantly acquire more soil towards the middle of the sea; that the rocks and promontories of the sea are constantly being ruined and worn away; that the Mediterranean seas will in time discover their bottom to the air, and all that will be left will be the channel of the greatest river that enters it; and this will run to the ocean and pour its waters into that with those of all the rivers that are its tributaries. 954. How the river Po, in a short time might dry up the Adriatic sea in the same way as it has dried up a large part of Lombardy. The ebb and flow of the tide (955-960). 955. Where there is a larger quantity of water, there is a greater flow and ebb, but the contrary in narrow waters. Look whether the sea is at its greatest flow when the moon is half way over our hemisphere [on the meridian]. 956. Whether the flow and ebb are caused by the moon or the sun, or are the breathing of this terrestrial machine. That the flow and ebb are different in different countries and seas. [Footnote: 1. Allusion may here be made to the mythological explanation of the ebb and flow given in the Edda. Utgardloki says to Thor (Gylfaginning 48): "When thou wert drinking out of the horn, and it seemed to thee that it was slow in emptying a wonder befell, which I should not have believed possible: the other end of the horn lay in the sea, which thou sawest not; but when thou shalt go to the sea, thou shalt see how much thou hast drunk out of it. And that men now call the ebb tide." Several passages in various manuscripts treat of the ebb and flow. In collecting them I have been guided by the rule only to transcribe those which named some particular spot.] 957. Book 9 of the meeting of rivers and their flow and ebb. The cause is the same in the sea, where it is caused by the straits of Gibraltar. And again it is caused by whirlpools. 958. OF THE FLOW AND EBB. All seas have their flow and ebb in the same period, but they seem to vary because the days do not begin at the same time throughout the universe; in such wise as that when it is midday in our hemisphere, it is midnight in the opposite hemisphere; and at the Eastern boundary of the two hemispheres the night begins which follows on the day, and at the Western boundary of these hemispheres begins the day, which follows the night from the opposite side. Hence it is to be inferred that the above mentioned swelling and diminution in the height of the seas, although they take place in one and the same space of time, are seen to vary from the above mentioned causes. The waters are then withdrawn into the fissures which start from the depths of the sea and which ramify inside the body of the earth, corresponding to the sources of rivers, which are constantly taking from the bottom of the sea the water which has flowed into it. A sea of water is incessantly being drawn off from the surface of the sea. And if you should think that the moon, rising at the Eastern end of the Mediterranean sea must there begin to attract to herself the waters of the sea, it would follow that we must at once see the effect of it at the Eastern end of that sea. Again, as the Mediterranean sea is about the eighth part of the circumference of the aqueous sphere, being 3000 miles long, while the flow and ebb only occur 4 times in 24 hours, these results would not agree with the time of 24 hours, unless this Mediterranean sea were six thousand miles in length; because if such a superabundance of water had to pass through the straits of Gibraltar in running behind the moon, the rush of the water through that strait would be so great, and would rise to such a height, that beyond the straits it would for many miles rush so violently into the ocean as to cause floods and tremendous seething, so that it would be impossible to pass through. This agitated ocean would afterwards return the waters it had received with equal fury to the place they had come from, so that no one ever could pass through those straits. Now experience shows that at every hour they are passed in safety, but when the wind sets in the same direction as the current, the strong ebb increases [Footnote 23: In attempting to get out of the Mediterranean, vessels are sometimes detained for a considerable time; not merely by the causes mentioned by Leonardo but by the constant current flowing eastwards through the middle of the straits of Gibraltar.]. The sea does not raise the water that has issued from the straits, but it checks them and this retards the tide; then it makes up with furious haste for the time it has lost until the end of the ebb movement. 959. That the flow and ebb are not general; for on the shore at Genoa there is none, at Venice two braccia, between England and Flanders 18 braccia. That in the straits of Sicily the current is very strong because all the waters from the rivers that flow into the Adriatic pass there. [Footnote: A few more recent data may be given here to facilitate comparison. In the Adriatic the tide rises 2 and 1/2 feet, at Terracina 1 1/4. In the English channel between Calais and Kent it rises from 18 to 20 feet. In the straits of Messina it rises no more than 2 1/2 feet, and that only in stormy weather, but the current is all the stronger. When Leonardo accounts for this by the southward flow of all the Italian rivers along the coasts, the explanation is at least based on a correct observation; namely that a steady current flows southwards along the coast of Calabria and another northwards, along the shores of Sicily; he seems to infer, from the direction of the fust, that the tide in the Adriatic is caused by it.] 960. In the West, near to Flanders, the sea rises and decreases every 6 hours about 20 braccia, and 22 when the moon is in its favour; but 20 braccia is the general rule, and this rule, as it is evident, cannot have the moon for its cause. This variation in the increase and decrease of the sea every 6 hours may arise from the damming up of the waters, which are poured into the Mediterranean by the quantity of rivers from Africa, Asia and Europe, which flow into that sea, and the waters which are given to it by those rivers; it pours them to the ocean through the straits of Gibraltar, between Abila and Calpe [Footnote 5: _Abila_, Lat. _Abyla_, Gr. , now Sierra _Ximiera_ near Ceuta; _Calpe_, Lat. _Calpe_. Gr., now Gibraltar. Leonardo here uses the ancient names of the rocks, which were known as the Pillars of Hercules.]. That ocean extends to the island of England and others farther North, and it becomes dammed up and kept high in various gulfs. These, being seas of which the surface is remote from the centre of the earth, have acquired a weight, which as it is greater than the force of the incoming waters which cause it, gives this water an impetus in the contrary direction to that in which it came and it is borne back to meet the waters coming out of the straits; and this it does most against the straits of Gibraltar; these, so long as this goes on, remain dammed up and all the water which is poured out meanwhile by the aforementioned rivers, is pent up [in the Mediterranean]; and this might be assigned as the cause of its flow and ebb, as is shown in the 21st of the 4th of my theory. III. SUBTERRANEAN WATER COURSES. Theory of the circulation of the waters (961. 962). 961. Very large rivers flow under ground. 962. This is meant to represent the earth cut through in the middle, showing the depths of the sea and of the earth; the waters start from the bottom of the seas, and ramifying through the earth they rise to the summits of the mountains, flowing back by the rivers and returning to the sea. Observations in support of the hypothesis (963-969). 963. The waters circulate with constant motion from the utmost depths of the sea to the highest summits of the mountains, not obeying the nature of heavy matter; and in this case it acts as does the blood of animals which is always moving from the sea of the heart and flows to the top of their heads; and here it is that veins burst--as one may see when a vein bursts in the nose, that all the blood from below rises to the level of the burst vein. When the water rushes out of a burst vein in the earth it obeys the nature of other things heavier than the air, whence it always seeks the lowest places. [7] These waters traverse the body of the earth with infinite ramifications. [Footnote: The greater part of this passage has been given as No. 849 in the section on Anatomy.] 964. The same cause which stirs the humours in every species of animal body and by which every injury is repaired, also moves the waters from the utmost depth of the sea to the greatest heights. 965. It is the property of water that it constitutes the vital human of this arid earth; and the cause which moves it through its ramified veins, against the natural course of heavy matters, is the same property which moves the humours in every species of animal body. But that which crowns our wonder in contemplating it is, that it rises from the utmost depths of the sea to the highest tops of the mountains, and flowing from the opened veins returns to the low seas; then once more, and with extreme swiftness, it mounts again and returns by the same descent, thus rising from the inside to the outside, and going round from the lowest to the highest, from whence it rushes down in a natural course. Thus by these two movements combined in a constant circulation, it travels through the veins of the earth. 966. WHETHER WATER RISES FROM THE SEA TO THE TOPS OF MOUNTAINS. The water of the ocean cannot make its way from the bases to the tops of the mountains which bound it, but only so much rises as the dryness of the mountain attracts. And if, on the contrary, the rain, which penetrates from the summit of the mountain to the base, which is the boundary of the sea, descends and softens the slope opposite to the said mountain and constantly draws the water, like a syphon [Footnote 11: Cicognola, Syphon. See Vol. I, Pl. XXIV, No. 1.] which pours through its longest side, it must be this which draws up the water of the sea; thus if _s n_ were the surface of the sea, and the rain descends from the top of the mountain _a_ to _n_ on one side, and on the other sides it descends from _a_ to _m_, without a doubt this would occur after the manner of distilling through felt, or as happens through the tubes called syphons [Footnote 17: Cicognola, Syphon. See Vol. I, Pl. XXIV, No. 1.]. And at all times the water which has softened the mountain, by the great rain which runs down the two opposite sides, would constantly attract the rain _a n_, on its longest side together with the water from the sea, if that side of the mountain _a m_ were longer than the other _a n_; but this cannot be, because no part of the earth which is not submerged by the ocean can be lower than that ocean. 967. OF SPRINGS OF WATER ON THE TOPS OF MOUNTAINS. It is quite evident that the whole surface of the ocean--when there is no storm--is at an equal distance from the centre of the earth, and that the tops of the mountains are farther from this centre in proportion as they rise above the surface of that sea; therefore if the body of the earth were not like that of man, it would be impossible that the waters of the sea--being so much lower than the mountains--could by their nature rise up to the summits of these mountains. Hence it is to be believed that the same cause which keeps the blood at the top of the head in man keeps the water at the summits of the mountains. [Footnote: This conception of the rising of the blood, which has given rise to the comparison, was recognised as erroneous by Leonardo himself at a later period. It must be remembered that the MS. A, from which these passages are taken, was written about twenty years earlier than the MS. Leic. (Nos. 963 and 849) and twenty-five years before the MS. W. An. IV. There is, in the original a sketch with No. 968 which is not reproduced. It represents a hill of the same shape as that shown at No. 982. There are veins, or branched streams, on the side of the hill, like those on the skull Pl. CVIII, No. 4] 968. IN CONFIRMATION OF WHY THE WATER GOES TO THE TOPS OF MOUNTAINS. I say that just as the natural heat of the blood in the veins keeps it in the head of man,--for when the man is dead the cold blood sinks to the lower parts--and when the sun is hot on the head of a man the blood increases and rises so much, with other humours, that by pressure in the veins pains in the head are often caused; in the same way veins ramify through the body of the earth, and by the natural heat which is distributed throughout the containing body, the water is raised through the veins to the tops of mountains. And this water, which passes through a closed conduit inside the body of the mountain like a dead thing, cannot come forth from its low place unless it is warmed by the vital heat of the spring time. Again, the heat of the element of fire and, by day, the heat of the sun, have power to draw forth the moisture of the low parts of the mountains and to draw them up, in the same way as it draws the clouds and collects their moisture from the bed of the sea. 969. That many springs of salt water are found at great distances from the sea; this might happen because such springs pass through some mine of salt, like that in Hungary where salt is hewn out of vast caverns, just as stone is hewn. [Footnote: The great mine of Wieliczka in Galicia, out of which a million cwt. of rock-salt are annually dug out, extends for 3000 metres from West to East, and 1150 metres from North to South.] IV. OF RIVERS. On the way in which the sources of rivers are fed. 970. OF THE ORIGIN OF RIVERS. The body of the earth, like the bodies of animals, is intersected with ramifications of waters which are all in connection and are constituted to give nutriment and life to the earth and to its creatures. These come from the depth of the sea and, after many revolutions, have to return to it by the rivers created by the bursting of these springs; and if you chose to say that the rains of the winter or the melting of the snows in summer were the cause of the birth of rivers, I could mention the rivers which originate in the torrid countries of Africa, where it never rains--and still less snows--because the intense heat always melts into air all the clouds which are borne thither by the winds. And if you chose to say that such rivers, as increase in July and August, come from the snows which melt in May and June from the sun's approach to the snows on the mountains of Scythia [Footnote 9: Scythia means here, as in Ancient Geography, the whole of the Northern part of Asia as far as India.], and that such meltings come down into certain valleys and form lakes, into which they enter by springs and subterranean caves to issue forth again at the sources of the Nile, this is false; because Scythia is lower than the sources of the Nile, and, besides, Scythia is only 400 miles from the Black sea and the sources of the Nile are 3000 miles distant from the sea of Egypt into which its waters flow. The tide in estuaries. 971. Book 9, of the meeting of rivers and of their ebb and flow. The cause is the same in the sea, where it is caused by the straits of Gibraltar; and again it is caused by whirlpools. [3] If two rivers meet together to form a straight line, and then below two right angles take their course together, the flow and ebb will happen now in one river and now in the other above their confluence, and principally if the outlet for their united volume is no swifter than when they were separate. Here occur 4 instances. [Footnote: The first two lines of this passage have already been given as No. 957. In the margin, near line 3 of this passage, the text given as No. 919 is written.] On the alterations, caused in the courses of rivers by their confluence (972-974). 972. When a smaller river pours its waters into a larger one, and that larger one flows from the opposite direction, the course of the smaller river will bend up against the approach of the larger river; and this happens because, when the larger river fills up all its bed with water, it makes an eddy in front of the mouth of the other river, and so carries the water poured in by the smaller river with its own. When the smaller river pours its waters into the larger one, which runs across the current at the mouth of the smaller river, its waters will bend with the downward movement of the larger river. [Footnote: In the original sketches the word _Arno_ is written at the spot here marked _A_, at _R. Rifredi_, and at _M. Mugnone_.] 973. When the fulness of rivers is diminished, then the acute angles formed at the junction of their branches become shorter at the sides and wider at the point; like the current _a n_ and the current _d n_, which unite in _n_ when the river is at its greatest fulness. I say, that when it is in this condition if, before the fullest time, _d n_ was lower than _a n_, at the time of fulness _d n_ will be full of sand and mud. When the water _d n_ falls, it will carry away the mud and remain with a lower bottom, and the channel _a n_ finding itself the higher, will fling its waters into the lower, _d n_, and will wash away all the point of the sand-spit _b n c_, and thus the angle _a c d_ will remain larger than the angle _a n d_ and the sides shorter, as I said before. [Footnote: Above the first sketch we find, in the original, this note: "_Sopra il pote rubaconte alla torricella_"; and by the second, which represents a pier of a bridge, "_Sotto l'ospedal del ceppo._"] 974. WATER. OF THE MOVEMENT OF A SUDDEN RUSH MADE BY A RIVER IN ITS BED PREVIOUSLY DRY. In proportion as the current of the water given forth by the draining of the lake is slow or rapid in the dry river bed, so will this river be wider or narrower, or shallower or deeper in one place than another, according to this proposition: the flow and ebb of the sea which enters the Mediterranean from the ocean, and of the rivers which meet and struggle with it, will raise their waters more or less in proportion as the sea is wider or narrower. [Footnote: In the margin is a sketch of a river which winds so as to form islands.] Whirlpools. 975. Whirlpools, that is to say caverns; that is to say places left by precipitated waters. On the alterations in the channels of rivers. 976. OF THE VIBRATION OF THE EARTH. The subterranean channels of waters, like those which exist between the air and the earth, are those which unceasingly wear away and deepen the beds of their currents. The origin of the sand in rivers (977. 978). 977. A river that flows from mountains deposits a great quantity of large stones in its bed, which still have some of their angles and sides, and in the course of its flow it carries down smaller stones with the angles more worn; that is to say the large stones become smaller. And farther on it deposits coarse gravel and then smaller, and as it proceeds this becomes coarse sand and then finer, and going on thus the water, turbid with sand and gravel, joins the sea; and the sand settles on the sea-shores, being cast up by the salt waves; and there results the sand of so fine a nature as to seem almost like water, and it will not stop on the shores of the sea but returns by reason of its lightness, because it was originally formed of rotten leaves and other very light things. Still, being almost--as was said--of the nature of water itself, it afterwards, when the weather is calm, settles and becomes solid at the bottom of the sea, where by its fineness it becomes compact and by its smoothness resists the waves which glide over it; and in this shells are found; and this is white earth, fit for pottery. 978. All the torrents of water flowing from the mountains to the sea carry with them the stones from the hills to the sea, and by the influx of the sea-water towards the mountains; these stones were thrown back towards the mountains, and as the waters rose and retired, the stones were tossed about by it and in rolling, their angles hit together; then as the parts, which least resisted the blows, were worn off, the stones ceased to be angular and became round in form, as may be seen on the banks of the Elsa. And those remained larger which were less removed from their native spot; and they became smaller, the farther they were carried from that place, so that in the process they were converted into small pebbles and then into sand and at last into mud. After the sea had receded from the mountains the brine left by the sea with other humours of the earth made a concretion of these pebbles and this sand, so that the pebbles were converted into rock and the sand into tufa. And of this we see an example in the Adda where it issues from the mountains of Como and in the Ticino, the Adige and the Oglio coming from the German Alps, and in the Arno at Monte Albano [Footnote 13: At the foot of _Monte Albano_ lies Vinci, the birth place of Leonardo. Opposite, on the other bank of the Arno, is _Monte Lupo_.], near Monte Lupo and Capraia where the rocks, which are very large, are all of conglomerated pebbles of various kinds and colours. V. ON MOUNTAINS. The formation of mountains (979-983). 979. Mountains are made by the currents of rivers. Mountains are destroyed by the currents of rivers. [Footnote: Compare 789.] 980. That the Northern bases of some Alps are not yet petrified. And this is plainly to be seen where the rivers, which cut through them, flow towards the North; where they cut through the strata in the living stone in the higher parts of the mountains; and, where they join the plains, these strata are all of potter's clay; as is to be seen in the valley of Lamona where the river Lamona, as it issues from the Appenines, does these things on its banks. That the rivers have all cut and divided the mountains of the great Alps one from the other. This is visible in the order of the stratified rocks, because from the summits of the banks, down to the river the correspondence of the strata in the rocks is visible on either side of the river. That the stratified stones of the mountains are all layers of clay, deposited one above the other by the various floods of the rivers. That the different size of the strata is caused by the difference in the floods--that is to say greater or lesser floods. 981. The summits of mountains for a long time rise constantly. The opposite sides of the mountains always approach each other below; the depths of the valleys which are above the sphere of the waters are in the course of time constantly getting nearer to the centre of the world. In an equal period, the valleys sink much more than the mountains rise. The bases of the mountains always come closer together. In proportion as the valleys become deeper, the more quickly are their sides worn away. 982. In every concavity at the summit of the mountains we shall always find the divisions of the strata in the rocks. 983. OF THE SEA WHICH ENCIRCLES THE EARTH. I find that of old, the state of the earth was that its plains were all covered up and hidden by salt water. [Footnote: This passage has already been published by Dr. M. JORDAN: _Das Malerbuch des L. da Vinci, Leipzig_ 1873, p. 86. However, his reading of the text differs from mine.] The authorities for the study of the structure of the earth. 984. Since things are much more ancient than letters, it is no marvel if, in our day, no records exist of these seas having covered so many countries; and if, moreover, some records had existed, war and conflagrations, the deluge of waters, the changes of languages and of laws have consumed every thing ancient. But sufficient for us is the testimony of things created in the salt waters, and found again in high mountains far from the seas. VI. GEOLOGICAL PROBLEMS. 985. In this work you have first to prove that the shells at a thousand braccia of elevation were not carried there by the deluge, because they are seen to be all at one level, and many mountains are seen to be above that level; and to inquire whether the deluge was caused by rain or by the swelling of the sea; and then you must show how, neither by rain nor by swelling of the rivers, nor by the overflow of this sea, could the shells--being heavy objects--be floated up the mountains by the sea, nor have carried there by the rivers against the course of their waters. Doubts about the deluge. 986. A DOUBTFUL POINT. Here a doubt arises, and that is: whether the deluge, which happened at the time of Noah, was universal or not. And it would seem not, for the reasons now to be given: We have it in the Bible that this deluge lasted 40 days and 40 nights of incessant and universal rain, and that this rain rose to ten cubits above the highest mountains in the world. And if it had been that the rain was universal, it would have covered our globe which is spherical in form. And this spherical surface is equally distant in every part, from the centre of its sphere; hence the sphere of the waters being under the same conditions, it is impossible that the water upon it should move, because water, in itself, does not move unless it falls; therefore how could the waters of such a deluge depart, if it is proved that it has no motion? and if it departed how could it move unless it went upwards? Here, then, natural reasons are wanting; hence to remove this doubt it is necessary to call in a miracle to aid us, or else to say that all this water was evaporated by the heat of the sun. [Footnote: The passages, here given from the MS. Leic., have hitherto remained unknown. Some preliminary notes on the subject are to be found in MS. F 8oa and 8ob; but as compared with the fuller treatment here given, they are, it seems to me, of secondary interest. They contain nothing that is not repeated here more clearly and fully. LIBRI, _Histoire des Sciences mathematiques III_, pages 218--221, has printed the text of F 80a and 80b, therefore it seemed desirable to give my reasons for not inserting it in this work.] That marine shells could not go up the mountains. 987. OF THE DELUGE AND OF MARINE SHELLS. If you were to say that the shells which are to be seen within the confines of Italy now, in our days, far from the sea and at such heights, had been brought there by the deluge which left them there, I should answer that if you believe that this deluge rose 7 cubits above the highest mountains-- as he who measured it has written--these shells, which always live near the sea-shore, should have been left on the mountains; and not such a little way from the foot of the mountains; nor all at one level, nor in layers upon layers. And if you were to say that these shells are desirous of remaining near to the margin of the sea, and that, as it rose in height, the shells quitted their first home, and followed the increase of the waters up to their highest level; to this I answer, that the cockle is an animal of not more rapid movement than the snail is out of water, or even somewhat slower; because it does not swim, on the contrary it makes a furrow in the sand by means of its sides, and in this furrow it will travel each day from 3 to 4 braccia; therefore this creature, with so slow a motion, could not have travelled from the Adriatic sea as far as Monferrato in Lombardy [Footnote: _Monferrato di Lombardia_. The range of hills of Monferrato is in Piedmont, and Casale di Monferrato belonged, in Leonardo's time, to the Marchese di Mantova.], which is 250 miles distance, in 40 days; which he has said who took account of the time. And if you say that the waves carried them there, by their gravity they could not move, excepting at the bottom. And if you will not grant me this, confess at least that they would have to stay at the summits of the highest mountains, in the lakes which are enclosed among the mountains, like the lakes of Lario, or of Como and il Maggiore [Footnote: _Lago di Lario._ Lacus Larius was the name given by the Romans to the lake of Como. It is evident that it is here a slip of the pen since the the words in the MS. are: _"Come Lago di Lario o'l Magare e di Como,"_ In the MS. after line 16 we come upon a digression treating of the weight of water; this has here been omitted. It is 11 lines long.] and of Fiesole, and of Perugia, and others. And if you should say that the shells were carried by the waves, being empty and dead, I say that where the dead went they were not far removed from the living; for in these mountains living ones are found, which are recognisable by the shells being in pairs; and they are in a layer where there are no dead ones; and a little higher up they are found, where they were thrown by the waves, all the dead ones with their shells separated, near to where the rivers fell into the sea, to a great depth; like the Arno which fell from the Gonfolina near to Monte Lupo [Footnote: _Monte Lupo_, compare 970, 13; it is between Empoli and Florence.], where it left a deposit of gravel which may still be seen, and which has agglomerated; and of stones of various districts, natures, and colours and hardness, making one single conglomerate. And a little beyond the sandstone conglomerate a tufa has been formed, where it turned towards Castel Florentino; farther on, the mud was deposited in which the shells lived, and which rose in layers according to the levels at which the turbid Arno flowed into that sea. And from time to time the bottom of the sea was raised, depositing these shells in layers, as may be seen in the cutting at Colle Gonzoli, laid open by the Arno which is wearing away the base of it; in which cutting the said layers of shells are very plainly to be seen in clay of a bluish colour, and various marine objects are found there. And if the earth of our hemisphere is indeed raised by so much higher than it used to be, it must have become by so much lighter by the waters which it lost through the rift between Gibraltar and Ceuta; and all the more the higher it rose, because the weight of the waters which were thus lost would be added to the earth in the other hemisphere. And if the shells had been carried by the muddy deluge they would have been mixed up, and separated from each other amidst the mud, and not in regular steps and layers-- as we see them now in our time. The marine shells were not produced away from the sea. 988. As to those who say that shells existed for a long time and were born at a distance from the sea, from the nature of the place and of the cycles, which can influence a place to produce such creatures--to them it may be answered: such an influence could not place the animals all on one line, except those of the same sort and age; and not the old with the young, nor some with an operculum and others without their operculum, nor some broken and others whole, nor some filled with sea-sand and large and small fragments of other shells inside the whole shells which remained open; nor the claws of crabs without the rest of their bodies; nor the shells of other species stuck on to them like animals which have moved about on them; since the traces of their track still remain, on the outside, after the manner of worms in the wood which they ate into. Nor would there be found among them the bones and teeth of fish which some call arrows and others serpents' tongues, nor would so many [Footnote: I. Scilla argued against this hypothesis, which was still accepted in his days; see: _La vana Speculazione, Napoli_ 1670.] portions of various animals be found all together if they had not been thrown on the sea shore. And the deluge cannot have carried them there, because things that are heavier than water do not float on the water. But these things could not be at so great a height if they had not been carried there by the water, such a thing being impossible from their weight. In places where the valleys have not been filled with salt sea water shells are never to be seen; as is plainly visible in the great valley of the Arno above Gonfolina; a rock formerly united to Monte Albano, in the form of a very high bank which kept the river pent up, in such a way that before it could flow into the sea, which was afterwards at its foot, it formed two great lakes; of which the first was where we now see the city of Florence together with Prato and Pistoia, and Monte Albano. It followed the rest of its bank as far as where Serravalle now stands. >From the Val d'Arno upwards, as far as Arezzo, another lake was formed, which discharged its waters into the former lake. It was closed at about the spot where now we see Girone, and occupied the whole of that valley above for a distance of 40 miles in length. This valley received on its bottom all the soil brought down by the turbid waters. And this is still to be seen at the foot of Prato Magno; it there lies very high where the rivers have not worn it away. Across this land are to be seen the deep cuts of the rivers that have passed there, falling from the great mountain of Prato Magno; in these cuts there are no vestiges of any shells or of marine soil. This lake was joined with that of Perugia [Footnote: See PI. CXIII.] A great quantity of shells are to be seen where the rivers flow into the sea, because on such shores the waters are not so salt owing to the admixture of the fresh water, which is poured into it. Evidence of this is to be seen where, of old, the Appenines poured their rivers into the Adriatic sea; for there in most places great quantities of shells are to be found, among the mountains, together with bluish marine clay; and all the rocks which are torn off in such places are full of shells. The same may be observed to have been done by the Arno when it fell from the rock of Gonfolina into the sea, which was not so very far below; for at that time it was higher than the top of San Miniato al Tedesco, since at the highest summit of this the shores may be seen full of shells and oysters within its flanks. The shells did not extend towards Val di Nievole, because the fresh waters of the Arno did not extend so far. That the shells were not carried away from the sea by the deluge, because the waters which came from the earth although they drew the sea towards the earth, were those which struck its depths; because the water which goes down from the earth, has a stronger current than that of the sea, and in consequence is more powerful, and it enters beneath the sea water and stirs the depths and carries with it all sorts of movable objects which are to be found in the earth, such as the above-mentioned shells and other similar things. And in proportion as the water which comes from the land is muddier than sea water it is stronger and heavier than this; therefore I see no way of getting the said shells so far in land, unless they had been born there. If you were to tell me that the river Loire [Footnote: Leonardo has written Era instead of Loera or Loira--perhaps under the mistaken idea that _Lo_ was an article.],which traverses France covers when the sea rises more than eighty miles of country, because it is a district of vast plains, and the sea rises about 20 braccia, and shells are found in this plain at the distance of 80 miles from the sea; here I answer that the flow and ebb in our Mediterranean Sea does not vary so much; for at Genoa it does not rise at all, and at Venice but little, and very little in Africa; and where it varies little it covers but little of the country. The course of the water of a river always rises higher in a place where the current is impeded; it behaves as it does where it is reduced in width to pass under the arches of a bridge. Further researches (989-991). 989. A CONFUTATION OF THOSE WHO SAY THAT SHELLS MAY HAVE BEEN CARRIED TO A DISTANCE OF MANY DAYS' JOURNEY FROM THE SEA BY THE DELUGE, WHICH WAS SO HIGH AS TO BE ABOVE THOSE HEIGHTS. I say that the deluge could not carry objects, native to the sea, up to the mountains, unless the sea had already increased so as to create inundations as high up as those places; and this increase could not have occurred because it would cause a vacuum; and if you were to say that the air would rush in there, we have already concluded that what is heavy cannot remain above what is light, whence of necessity we must conclude that this deluge was caused by rain water, so that all these waters ran to the sea, and the sea did not run up the mountains; and as they ran to the sea, they thrust the shells from the shore of the sea and did not draw them to wards themselves. And if you were then to say that the sea, raised by the rain water, had carried these shells to such a height, we have already said that things heavier than water cannot rise upon it, but remain at the bottom of it, and do not move unless by the impact of the waves. And if you were to say that the waves had carried them to such high spots, we have proved that the waves in a great depth move in a contrary direction at the bottom to the motion at the top, and this is shown by the turbidity of the sea from the earth washed down near its shores. Anything which is lighter than the water moves with the waves, and is left on the highest level of the highest margin of the waves. Anything which is heavier than the water moves, suspended in it, between the surface and the bottom; and from these two conclusions, which will be amply proved in their place, we infer that the waves of the surface cannot convey shells, since they are heavier than water. If the deluge had to carry shells three hundred and four hundred miles from the sea, it would have carried them mixed with various other natural objects heaped together; and we see at such distances oysters all together, and sea-snails, and cuttlefish, and all the other shells which congregate together, all to be found together and dead; and the solitary shells are found wide apart from each other, as we may see them on sea-shores every day. And if we find oysters of very large shells joined together and among them very many which still have the covering attached, indicating that they were left here by the sea, and still living when the strait of Gibraltar was cut through; there are to be seen, in the mountains of Parma and Piacenza, a multitude of shells and corals, full of holes, and still sticking to the rocks there. When I was making the great horse for Milan, a large sack full was brought to me in my workshop by certain peasants; these were found in that place and among them were many preserved in their first freshness. Under ground, and under the foundations of buildings, timbers are found of wrought beams and already black. Such were found in my time in those diggings at Castel Fiorentino. And these had been in that deep place before the sand carried by the Arno into the sea, then covering the plain, had heen raised to such a height; and before the plains of Casentino had been so much lowered, by the earth being constantly carried down from them. [Footnote: These lines are written in the margin.] And if you were to say that these shells were created, and were continually being created in such places by the nature of the spot, and of the heavens which might have some influence there, such an opinion cannot exist in a brain of much reason; because here are the years of their growth, numbered on their shells, and there are large and small ones to be seen which could not have grown without food, and could not have fed without motion--and here they could not move [Footnote: These lines are written in the margin.] 990. That in the drifts, among one and another, there are still to be found the traces of the worms which crawled upon them when they were not yet dry. And all marine clays still contain shells, and the shells are petrified together with the clay. From their firmness and unity some persons will have it that these animals were carried up to places remote from the sea by the deluge. Another sect of ignorant persons declare that Nature or Heaven created them in these places by celestial influences, as if in these places we did not also find the bones of fishes which have taken a long time to grow; and as if, we could not count, in the shells of cockles and snails, the years and months of their life, as we do in the horns of bulls and oxen, and in the branches of plants that have never been cut in any part. Besides, having proved by these signs the length of their lives, it is evident, and it must be admitted, that these animals could not live without moving to fetch their food; and we find in them no instrument for penetrating the earth or the rock where we find them enclosed. But how could we find in a large snail shell the fragments and portions of many other sorts of shells, of various sorts, if they had not been thrown there, when dead, by the waves of the sea like the other light objects which it throws on the earth? Why do we find so many fragments and whole shells between layer and layer of stone, if this had not formerly been covered on the shore by a layer of earth thrown up by the sea, and which was afterwards petrified? And if the deluge before mentioned had carried them to these parts of the sea, you might find these shells at the boundary of one drift but not at the boundary between many drifts. We must also account for the winters of the years during which the sea multiplied the drifts of sand and mud brought down by the neighbouring rivers, by washing down the shores; and if you chose to say that there were several deluges to produce these rifts and the shells among them, you would also have to affirm that such a deluge took place every year. Again, among the fragments of these shells, it must be presumed that in those places there were sea coasts, where all the shells were thrown up, broken, and divided, and never in pairs, since they are found alive in the sea, with two valves, each serving as a lid to the other; and in the drifts of rivers and on the shores of the sea they are found in fragments. And within the limits of the separate strata of rocks they are found, few in number and in pairs like those which were left by the sea, buried alive in the mud, which subsequently dried up and, in time, was petrified. 991. And if you choose to say that it was the deluge which carried these shells away from the sea for hundreds of miles, this cannot have happened, since that deluge was caused by rain; because rain naturally forces the rivers to rush towards the sea with all the things they carry with them, and not to bear the dead things of the sea shores to the mountains. And if you choose to say that the deluge afterwards rose with its waters above the mountains, the movement of the sea must have been so sluggish in its rise against the currents of the rivers, that it could not have carried, floating upon it, things heavier than itself; and even if it had supported them, in its receding it would have left them strewn about, in various spots. But how are we to account for the corals which are found every day towards Monte Ferrato in Lombardy, with the holes of the worms in them, sticking to rocks left uncovered by the currents of rivers? These rocks are all covered with stocks and families of oysters, which as we know, never move, but always remain with one of their halves stuck to a rock, and the other they open to feed themselves on the animalcules that swim in the water, which, hoping to find good feeding ground, become the food of these shells. We do not find that the sand mixed with seaweed has been petrified, because the weed which was mingled with it has shrunk away, and this the Po shows us every day in the debris of its banks. Other problems (992-994). 992. Why do we find the bones of great fishes and oysters and corals and various other shells and sea-snails on the high summits of mountains by the sea, just as we find them in low seas? 993. You now have to prove that the shells cannot have originated if not in salt water, almost all being of that sort; and that the shells in Lombardy are at four levels, and thus it is everywhere, having been made at various times. And they all occur in valleys that open towards the seas. 994. >From the two lines of shells we are forced to say that the earth indignantly submerged under the sea and so the first layer was made; and then the deluge made the second. [Footnote: This note is in the early writing of about 1470--1480. On the same sheet are the passages No. 1217 and 1219. Compare also No. 1339. All the foregoing chapters are from Manuscripts of about 1510. This explains the want of connection and the contradiction between this and the foregoing texts.] VII. ON THE ATMOSPHERE. Constituents of the atmosphere. 995. That the brightness of the air is occasioned by the water which has dissolved itself in it into imperceptible molecules. These, being lighted by the sun from the opposite side, reflect the brightness which is visible in the air; and the azure which is seen in it is caused by the darkness that is hidden beyond the air. [Footnote: Compare Vol. I, No. 300.] On the motion of air (996--999). 996. That the return eddies of wind at the mouth of certain valleys strike upon the waters and scoop them out in a great hollow, whirl the water into the air in the form of a column, and of the colour of a cloud. And I saw this thing happen on a sand bank in the Arno, where the sand was hollowed out to a greater depth than the stature of a man; and with it the gravel was whirled round and flung about for a great space; it appeared in the air in the form of a great bell-tower; and the top spread like the branches of a pine tree, and then it bent at the contact of the direct wind, which passed over from the mountains. 997. The element of fire acts upon a wave of air in the same way as the air does on water, or as water does on a mass of sand --that is earth; and their motions are in the same proportions as those of the motors acting upon them. 998. OF MOTION. I ask whether the true motion of the clouds can be known by the motion of their shadows; and in like manner of the motion of the sun. 999. To know better the direction of the winds. [Footnote: In connection with this text I may here mention a hygrometer, drawn and probably invented by Leonardo. A facsimile of this is given in Vol. I, p. 297 with the note: _'Modi di pesare l'arie eddi sapere quando s'a arrompere il tepo'_ (Mode of weighing the air and of knowing when the weather will change); by the sponge _"Spugnea"_ is written.] The globe an organism. 1000. Nothing originates in a spot where there is no sentient, vegetable and rational life; feathers grow upon birds and are changed every year; hairs grow upon animals and are changed every year, excepting some parts, like the hairs of the beard in lions, cats and their like. The grass grows in the fields, and the leaves on the trees, and every year they are, in great part, renewed. So that we might say that the earth has a spirit of growth; that its flesh is the soil, its bones the arrangement and connection of the rocks of which the mountains are composed, its cartilage the tufa, and its blood the springs of water. The pool of blood which lies round the heart is the ocean, and its breathing, and the increase and decrease of the blood in the pulses, is represented in the earth by the flow and ebb of the sea; and the heat of the spirit of the world is the fire which pervades the earth, and the seat of the vegetative soul is in the fires, which in many parts of the earth find vent in baths and mines of sulphur, and in volcanoes, as at Mount Aetna in Sicily, and in many other places. [Footnote: Compare No. 929.] _XVII._ _Topographical Notes._ _A large part of the texts published in this section might perhaps have found their proper place in connection with the foregoing chapters on Physical Geography. But these observations on Physical Geography, of whatever kind they may be, as soon as they are localised acquire a special interest and importance and particularly as bearing on the question whether Leonardo himself made the observations recorded at the places mentioned or merely noted the statements from hearsay. In a few instances he himself tells us that he writes at second hand. In some cases again, although the style and expressions used make it seem highly probable that he has derived his information from others-- though, as it seems to me, these cases are not very numerous--we find, on the other hand, among these topographical notes a great number of observations, about which it is extremely difficult to form a decided opinion. Of what the Master's life and travels may have been throughout his sixty-seven years of life we know comparatively little; for a long course of time, and particularly from about 1482 to 1486, we do not even know with certainty that he was living in Italy. Thus, from a biographical point of view a very great interest attaches to some of the topographical notes, and for this reason it seemed that it would add to their value to arrange them in a group by themselves. Leonardo's intimate knowledge with places, some of which were certainly remote from his native home, are of importance as contributing to decide the still open question as to the extent of Leonardo's travels. We shall find in these notes a confirmation of the view, that the MSS. in which the Topographical Notes occur are in only a very few instances such diaries as may have been in use during a journey. These notes are mostly found in the MSS. books of his later and quieter years, and it is certainly remarkable that Leonardo is very reticent as to the authorities from whom he quotes his facts and observations: For instance, as to the Straits of Gibraltar, the Nile, the Taurus Mountains and the Tigris and Euphrates. Is it likely that he, who declared that in all scientific research, his own experience should be the foundation of his statements (see XIX Philosophy No. 987--991,) should here have made an exception to this rule without mentioning it?_ _As for instance in the discussion as to the equilibrium of the mass of water in the Mediterranean Sea--a subject which, it may be observed, had at that time attracted the interest and study of hardly any other observer. The acute remarks, in Nos. 985--993, on the presence of shells at the tops of mountains, suffice to prove--as it seems to me--that it was not in his nature to allow himself to be betrayed into wide generalisations, extending beyond the limits of his own investigations, even by such brilliant results of personal study._ _Most of these Topographical Notes, though suggesting very careful and thorough research, do not however, as has been said, afford necessarily indisputable evidence that that research was Leonardo's own. But it must be granted that in more than one instance probability is in favour of this idea._ _Among the passages which treat somewhat fully of the topography of Eastern places by far the most interesting is a description of the Taurus Mountains; but as this text is written in the style of a formal report and, in the original, is associated with certain letters which give us the history of its origin, I have thought it best not to sever it from that connection. It will be found under No. XXI (Letters)._ _That Florence, and its neighbourhood, where Leonardo spent his early years, should be nowhere mentioned except in connection with the projects for canals, which occupied his attention for some short time during the first ten years of the XVIth century, need not surprise us. The various passages relating to the construction of canals in Tuscany, which are put together at the beginning, are immediately followed by those which deal with schemes for canals in Lombardy; and after these come notes on the city and vicinity of Milan as well as on the lakes of North Italy._ _The notes on some towns of Central Italy which Leonardo visited in 1502, when in the service of Cesare Borgia, are reproduced here in the same order as in the note book used during these travels (MS. L., Institut de France). These notes have but little interest in themselves excepting as suggesting his itinerary. The maps of the districts drawn by Leonardo at the time are more valuable (see No. 1054 note). The names on these maps are not written from right to left, but in the usual manner, and we are permitted to infer that they were made in obedience to some command, possibly for the use of Cesare Borgia himself; the fact that they remained nevertheless in Leonardo's hands is not surprising when we remember the sudden political changes and warlike events of the period. There can be no doubt that these maps, which are here published for the first time, are original in the strictest sense of the word, that is to say drawn from observations of the places themselves; this is proved by the fact--among others--that we find among his manuscripts not only the finished maps themselves but the rough sketches and studies for them. And it would perhaps be difficult to point out among the abundant contributions to geographical knowledge published during the XVIth century, any maps at all approaching these in accuracy and finish._ _The interesting map of the world, so far as it was then known, which is among the Leonardo MSS. at Windsor (published in the_ 'Archaeologia' _Vol. XI) cannot be attributed to the Master, as the Marchese Girolamo d'Adda has sufficiently proved; it has not therefore been reproduced here._ _Such of Leonardo's observations on places in Italy as were made before or after his official travels as military engineer to Cesare Borgia, have been arranged in alphabetical order, under Nos. 1034-1054. The most interesting are those which relate to the Alps and the Appenines, Nos. 1057-1068._ _Most of the passages in which France is mentioned have hitherto remained unknown, as well as those which treat of the countries bordering on the Mediterranean, which come at the end of this section. Though these may be regarded as of a more questionable importance in their bearing on the biography of the Master than those which mention places in France, it must be allowed that they are interesting as showing the prominent place which the countries of the East held in his geographical studies. He never once alludes to the discovery of America._ I. ITALY. Canals in connection with the Arno (1001-1008). 1001. CANAL OF FLORENCE. Sluices should be made in the valley of la Chiana at Arezzo, so that when, in the summer, the Arno lacks water, the canal may not remain dry: and let this canal be 20 braccia wide at the bottom, and at the top 30, and 2 braccia deep, or 4, so that two of these braccia may flow to the mills and the meadows, which will benefit the country; and Prato, Pistoia and Pisa, as well as Florence, will gain two hundred thousand ducats a year, and will lend a hand and money to this useful work; and the Lucchese the same, for the lake of Sesto will be navigable; I shall direct it to Prato and Pistoia, and cut through Serravalle and make an issue into the lake; for there will be no need of locks or supports, which are not lasting and so will always be giving trouble in working at them and keeping them up. And know that in digging this canal where it is 4 braccia deep, it will cost 4 dinari the square braccio; for twice the depth 6 dinari, if you are making 4 braccia [Footnote: This passage is illustrated by a slightly sketched map, on which these places are indicated from West to East: Pisa, Luccha, Lago, Seravalle, Pistoja, Prato, Firenze.] and there are but 2 banks; that is to say one from the bottom of the trench to the surface of the edges of it, and the other from these edges to the top of the ridge of earth which will be raised on the margin of the bank. And if this bank were of double the depth only the first bank will be increased, that is 4 braccia increased by half the first cost; that is to say that if at first 4 dinari were paid for 2 banks, for 3 it would come to 6, at 2 dinari the bank, if the trench measured 16 braccia at the bottom; again, if the trench were 16 braccia wide and 4 deep, coming to 4 lire for the work, 4 Milan dinari the square braccio; a trench which was 32 braccia at the bottom would come to 8 dinari the square braccio. 1002. >From the wall of the Arno at [the gate of] la Giustizia to the bank of the Arno at Sardigna where the walls are, to the mills, is 7400 braccia, that is 2 miles and 1400 braccia and beyond the Arno is 5500 braccia. [Footnote: 2. _Giustizia_. By this the Porta della Giustizia seems to be meant; from the XVth to the XVIth centuries it was also commonly known as Porta Guelfa, Porta San Francesco del Renaio, Porta Nuova, and Porta Reale. It was close to the Arno opposite to the Porta San Niccolo, which still exists.] 1003. By guiding the Arno above and below a treasure will be found in each acre of ground by whomsoever will. 1004. The wall of the old houses runs towards the gate of San Nicolo. [Footnote: By the side of this text there is an indistinct sketch, resembling that given under No.973. On the bank is written the word _Casace_. There then follows in the original a passage of 12 lines in which the consequences of the windings of the river are discussed. A larger but equally hasty diagram on the same page represents the shores of the Arno inside Florence as in two parallel lines. Four horizontal lines indicate the bridges. By the side these measures are stated in figures: I. (at the Ponte alla Carraja): _230--largho br. 12 e 2 di spoda e 14 di pile e a 4 pilastri;_ 2. (at the Ponte S. Trinita); _l88--largho br. 15 e 2 di spode he 28 di pilastri for delle spode e pilastri so 2;_ 3. (at the Ponte vecchio); _pote lung br. 152 e largo;_ 4. (at the Ponte alle Grazie): _290 ellargo 12 e 2 di spode e 6 di pili._ There is, in MS. W. L. 2l2b, a sketched plan of Florence, with the following names of gates: _Nicholo--Saminiato--Giorgo--Ghanolini--Porta San Fredian --Prato--Faenza--Ghallo--Pinti--Giustitia_.] 1005. The ruined wall is 640 braccia; 130 is the wall remaining with the mill; 300 braccia were broken in 4 years by Bisarno. 1006. They do not know why the Arno will never remain in a channel. It is because the rivers which flow into it deposit earth where they enter, and wear it away on the opposite side, bending the river in that direction. The Arno flows for 6 miles between la Caprona and Leghorn; and for 12 through the marshes, which extend 32 miles, and 16 from La Caprona up the river, which makes 48; by the Arno from Florence beyond 16 miles; to Vico 16 miles, and the canal is 5; from Florence to Fucechio it is 40 miles by the river Arno. 56 miles by the Arno from Florence to Vico; by the Pistoia canal it is 44 miles. Thus it is 12 miles shorter by the canal than by the Arno. [Footnote: This passage is written by the side of a map washed in Indian ink, of the course of the Arno; it is evidently a sketch for a completer map. These investigations may possibly be connected with the following documents. _Francesco Guiducci alla Balia di Firenze. Dal Campo contro Pisa_ 24 _Luglio_ 1503 (_Archivio di Stato, Firenze, Lettere alla Balia_; published by J. GAYE, _Carteggio inedito d'Artisti, Firenze_ 1840, _Tom. II_, p. 62): _Ex Castris, Franciscus Ghuiduccius,_ 24. _Jul._ 1503. _Appresso fu qui hieri con una di V. Signoria Alexandro degli Albizi insieme con Leonardo da Vinci et certi altri, et veduto el disegno insieme con el ghovernatore, doppo molte discussioni et dubii conclusesi che l'opera fussi molto al proposito, o si veramente Arno volgersi qui, o restarvi con un canale, che almeno vieterebbe che le colline da nemici non potrebbono essere offese; come tucto referiranno loro a bocha V. S._ And, _Archivio di Stato, Firenze, Libro d'Entrata e Uscita di cassa de' Magnifici Signori di luglio e agosto_ 1503 _a_ 51 _T.: Andata di Leonardo al Campo sotto Pisa. Spese extraordinarie dieno dare a di XXVI di luglio L. LVI sol. XII per loro a Giovanni Piffero; e sono per tanti, asegnia avere spexi in vetture di sei chavalli a spese di vitto per andare chon Lionardo da Vinci a livellare Arno in quello di Pisa per levallo del lilo suo._ (Published by MILANESI, _Archivio Storico Italiano, Serie III, Tom. XVI._} VASARI asserts: _(Leonardo) fu il primo ancora, che giovanetto discorresse sopra il fiume d'Arno per metterlo in canale da Pisa a Fiorenza_ (ed. SANSONI, IV, 20). The passage above is in some degree illustrated by the map on Pl. CXII, where the course of the Arno westward from Empoli is shown.] 1007. The eddy made by the Mensola, when the Arno is low and the Mensola full. [Footnote: _Mensola_ is a mountain stream which falls into the Arno about a mile and a half above Florence. A=Arno, I=Isola, M=Mvgone, P=Pesa, N=Mesola.] 1008. That the river which is to be turned from one place to another must be coaxed and not treated roughly or with violence; and to do this a sort of floodgate should be made in the river, and then lower down one in front of it and in like manner a third, fourth and fifth, so that the river may discharge itself into the channel given to it, or that by this means it may be diverted from the place it has damaged, as was done in Flanders--as I was told by Niccolo di Forsore. How to protect and repair the banks washed by the water, as below the island of Cocomeri. Ponte Rubaconte (Fig. 1); below [the palaces] Bisticci and Canigiani (Fig. 2). Above the flood gate of la Giustizia (Fig. 3); _a b_ is a sand bank opposite the end of the island of the Cocomeri in the middle of the Arno (Fig. 4). [Footnote: The course of the river Arno is also discussed in Nos. 987 and 988.] Canals in the Milanese (1009-1013). 1009. The canal of San Cristofano at Milan made May 3rd 1509. [Footnote: This observation is written above a washed pen and ink drawing which has been published as Tav. VI in the _,,Saggio."_ The editors of that work explain the drawing as _"uno Studio di bocche per estrazione d'acqua."_] 1010. OF THE CANAL OF MARTESANA. By making the canal of Martesana the water of the Adda is greatly diminished by its distribution over many districts for the irrigation of the fields. A remedy for this would be to make several little channels, since the water drunk up by the earth is of no more use to any one, nor mischief neither, because it is taken from no one; and by making these channels the water which before was lost returns again and is once more serviceable and useful to men. [Footnote: _"el navilio di Martagano"_ is also mentioned in a note written in red chalk, MS. H2 17a Leonardo has, as it seems, little to do with Lodovico il Moro's scheme to render this canal navigable. The canal had been made in 1460 by Bertonino da Novara. Il Moro issued his degree in 1493, but Leonardo's notes about this canal were, with the exception of one (No. 1343), written about sixteen years later.] 1011. No canal which is fed by a river can be permanent if the river whence it originates is not wholly closed up, like the canal of Martesana which is fed by the Ticino. 1012. >From the beginning of the canal to the mill. >From the beginning of the canal of Brivio to the mill of Travaglia is 2794 trabochi, that is 11176 braccia, which is more than 3 miles and two thirds; and here the canal is 57 braccia higher than the surface of the water of the Adda, giving a fall of two inches in every hundred trabochi; and at that spot we propose to take the opening of our canal. [Footnote: The following are written on the sketches: At the place marked _N: navilio da dacquiue_ (canal of running water); at _M: molin del Travaglia_ (Mill of Travaglia); at _R: rochetta ssanta maria_ (small rock of Santa Maria); at _A: Adda;_ at _L: Lagho di Lecho ringorgato alli 3 corni in Adda,--Concha perpetua_ (lake of Lecco overflowing at Tre Corni, in Adda,-- a permanent sluice). Near the second sketch, referring to the sluice near _Q: qui la chatena ttalie d'u peso_ (here the chain is in one piece). At _M_ in the lower sketch: _mol del travaglia, nel cavare la concha il tereno ara chotrapero co cassa d'acqua._ (Mill of Travaglia, in digging out the sluice the soil will have as a counterpoise a vessel of water).] 1013. If it be not reported there that this is to be a public canal, it will be necessary to pay for the land; [Footnote 3: _il re_. Louis XII or Francis I of France. It is hardly possible to doubt that the canals here spoken of were intended to be in the Milanese. Compare with this passage the rough copy of a letter by Leonardo, to the _"Presidente dell' Ufficio regolatore dell' acqua"_ on No. 1350. See also the note to No. 745, 1. 12.] and the king will pay it by remitting the taxes for a year. Estimates and preparatory studies for canals (1014. 1015). 1014. CANAL. The canal which may be 16 braccia wide at the bottom and 20 at the top, we may say is on the average 18 braccia wide, and if it is 4 braccia deep, at 4 dinari the square braccia; it will only cost 900 ducats, to excavate by the mile, if the square braccio is calculated in ordinary braccia; but if the braccia are those used in measuring land, of which every 4 are equal to 4 1/2 and if by the mile we understand three thousand ordinary braccia; turned into land braccia, these 3000 braccia will lack 1/4; there remain 2250 braccia, which at 4 dinari the braccio will amount to 675 ducats a mile. At 3 dinari the square braccio, the mile will amount to 506 1/4 ducats so that the excavation of 30 miles of the canal will amount to 15187 1/2 ducats. 1015. To make the great canal, first make the smaller one and conduct into it the waters which by a wheel will help to fill the great one. Notes on buildings in Milan (1016-1019) 1016. Indicate the centre of Milan. Moforte--porta resa--porta nova--strada nova--navilio--porta cumana--barco--porta giovia--porta vercellina--porta sco Anbrogio--porta Tesinese--torre dell' Imperatore-- porta Lodovica--acqua. [Footnote: See Pl. CIX. The original sketch is here reduced to about half its size. The gates of the town are here named, beginning at the right hand and following the curved line. In the bird's eye view of Milan below, the cathedral is plainly recognisable in the middle; to the right is the tower of San Gottardo. The square, above the number 9147, is the Lazzaretto, which was begun in 1488. On the left the group of buildings of the _'Castello'_ will be noticed. On the sketched Plan of Florence (see No. 1004 note) Leonardo has written on the margin the following names of gates of Milan: Vercellina --Ticinese--Ludovica--Romana--Orientale-- Nova--Beatrice--Cumana--Compare too No. 1448, 11. 5, 12.] 1017. The moat of Milan. Canal 2 braccia wide. The castle with the moats full. The filling of the moats of the Castle of Milan. 1018. THE BATH. To heat the water for the stove of the Duchess take four parts of cold water to three parts of hot water. [Footnote: _Duchessa di Milano_, Beatrice d'Este, wife of Ludovico il Moro to whom she was married, in 1491. She died in June 1497.] 1019. In the Cathedral at the pulley of the nail of the cross. Item. To place the mass _v r_ in the... [Footnote: On this passage AMORETTI remarks _(Memorie Storiche_ chap. IX): _Nell'anno stesso lo veggiamo formare un congegno di carucole e di corde, con cui trasportare in piu venerabile e piu sicuro luogo, cioe nell'ultima arcata della nave di mezzo della metropolitana, la sacra reliquia del Santo Chiodo, che ivi ancor si venera. Al fol. 15 del codice segnato Q. R. in 16, egli ci ha lasciata di tal congegno una doppia figura, cioe una di quattro carucole, e una di tre colle rispettive corde, soggiugnandovi: in Domo alla carucola del Chiodo della Croce._ AMORETTI'S views as to the mark on the MS, and the date when it was written are, it may be observed, wholly unfounded. The MS. L, in which it occurs, is of the year 1502, and it is very unlikely that Leonardo was in Milan at that time; this however would not prevent the remark, which is somewhat obscure, from applying to the Cathedral at Milan.] 1020. OF THE FORCE OF THE VACUUM FORMED IN A MOMENT. I saw, at Milan, a thunderbolt fall on the tower della Credenza on its Northern side, and it descended with a slow motion down that side, and then at once parted from that tower and carried with it and tore away from that wall a space of 3 braccia wide and two deep; and this wall was 4 braccia thick and was built of thin and small old bricks; and this was dragged out by the vacuum which the flame of the thunderbolt had caused, &c. [Footnote: With reference to buildings at Milan see also Nos. 751 and 756, and Pl. XCV, No. 2 (explained on p. 52), Pl. C (explained on pages 60-62). See also pages 25, 39 and 40.] Remarks on natural phenomena in and near Milan (1021. 1022). 1021. I have already been to see a great variety (of atmospheric effects). And lately over Milan towards Lago Maggiore I saw a cloud in the form of an immense mountain full of rifts of glowing light, because the rays of the sun, which was already close to the horizon and red, tinged the cloud with its own hue. And this cloud attracted to it all the little clouds that were near while the large one did not move from its place; thus it retained on its summit the reflection of the sunlight till an hour and a half after sunset, so immensely large was it; and about two hours after sunset such a violent wind arose, that it was really tremendous and unheard of. [Footnote: _di arie_ is wanting in the original but may safely be inserted in the context, as the formation of clouds is under discussion before this text.] 1022. On the 10th day of December at 9 o'clock a. m. fire was set to the place. On the l8th day of December 1511 at 9 o'clock a. m. this second fire was kindled by the Swiss at Milan at the place called DCXC. [Footnote: With these two texts, (l. 1--2 and l. 3--5 are in the original side by side) there are sketches of smoke wreaths in red chalk.] Note on Pavia. 1023. The chimneys of the castle of Pavia have 6 rows of openings and from each to the other is one braccio. [Footnote: Other notes relating to Pavia occur on p. 43 and p. 53 (Pl. XCVIII, No. 3). Compare No. 1448, 26.] Notes on the Sforzesca near Vigevano (1024-1028). 1024. On the 2nd day of February 1494. At Sforzesca I drew twenty five steps, 2/3 braccia to each, and 8 braccia wide. [Footnote: See Pl. CX, No. 2. The rest of the notes on this page refer to the motion of water. On the lower sketch we read: 4 _br._ (four braccia) and _giara_ (for _ghiaja_, sand, gravel).] 1025. The vineyards of Vigevano on the 20th day of March 1494. [Footnote: On one side there is an effaced sketch in red chalk.] 1026. To lock up a butteris at Vigevano. 1027. Again if the lowest part of the bank which lies across the current of the waters is made in deep and wide steps, after the manner of stairs, the waters which, in their course usually fall perpendicularly from the top of such a place to the bottom, and wear away the foundations of this bank can no longer descend with a blow of too great a force; and I find the example of this in the stairs down which the water falls in the fields at Sforzesca at Vigevano over which the running water falls for a height of 50 braccia. 1028. Stair of Vigevano below La Sforzesca, 130 steps, 1/4 braccio high and 1/2 braccio wide, down which the water falls, so as not to wear away anything at the end of its fall; by these steps so much soil has come down that it has dried up a pool; that is to say it has filled it up and a pool of great depth has been turned into meadows. Notes on the North Italian lake. (1029-1033) 1029. In many places there are streams of water which swell for six hours and ebb for six hours; and I, for my part, have seen one above the lake of Como called Fonte Pliniana, which increases and ebbs, as I have said, in such a way as to turn the stones of two mills; and when it fails it falls so low that it is like looking at water in a deep pit. [Footnote: The fountain is known by this name to this day: it is near Torno, on the Eastern shore of Como. The waters still rise and fall with the flow and ebb of the tide as Pliny described it (Epist. IV, 30; Hist. Nat. II, 206).] 1030. LAKE OF COMO. VALLEY OF CHIAVENNA. Above the lake of Como towards Germany is the valley of Chiavenna where the river Mera flows into this lake. Here are barren and very high mountains, with huge rocks. Among these mountains are to be found the water-birds called gulls. Here grow fir trees, larches and pines. Deer, wildgoats, chamois, and terrible bears. It is impossible to climb them without using hands and feet. The peasants go there at the time of the snows with great snares to make the bears fall down these rocks. These mountains which very closely approach each other are parted by the river. They are to the right and left for the distance of 20 miles throughout of the same nature. >From mile to mile there are good inns. Above on the said river there are waterfalls of 400 braccia in height, which are fine to see; and there is good living at 4 soldi the reckoning. This river brings down a great deal of timber. VAL SASINA. Val Sasina runs down towards Italy; this is almost the same form and character. There grow here many _mappello_ and there are great ruins and falls of water [Footnote 14: The meaning of _mappello_ is unknown.]. VALLEY OF INTROZZO. This valley produces a great quantity of firs, pines and larches; and from here Ambrogio Fereri has his timber brought down; at the head of the Valtellina are the mountains of Bormio, terrible and always covered with snow; marmots (?) are found there. BELLAGGIO. Opposite the castle Bellaggio there is the river Latte, which falls from a height of more than 100 braccia from the source whence it springs, perpendicularly, into the lake with an inconceivable roar and noise. This spring flows only in August and September. VALTELLINA. Valtellina, as it is called, is a valley enclosed in high and terrible mountains; it produces much strong wine, and there is so much cattle that the natives conclude that more milk than wine grows there. This is the valley through which the Adda passes, which first runs more than 40 miles through Germany; this river breeds the fish _temolo_ which live on silver, of which much is to be found in its sands. In this country every one can sell bread and wine, and the wine is worth at most one soldo the bottle and a pound of veal one soldo, and salt ten dinari and butter the same and their pound is 30 ounces, and eggs are one soldo the lot. 1031. At BORMIO. At Bormio are the baths;--About eight miles above Como is the Pliniana, which increases and ebbs every six hours, and its swell supplies water for two mills; and its ebbing makes the spring dry up; two miles higher up there is Nesso, a place where a river falls with great violence into a vast rift in the mountain. These excursions are to be made in the month of May. And the largest bare rocks that are to be found in this part of the country are the mountains of Mandello near to those of Lecco, and of Gravidona towards Bellinzona, 30 miles from Lecco, and those of the valley of Chiavenna; but the greatest of all is that of Mandello, which has at its base an opening towards the lake, which goes down 200 steps, and there at all times is ice and wind. IN VAL SASINA. In Val Sasina, between Vimognio and Introbbio, to the right hand, going in by the road to Lecco, is the river Troggia which falls from a very high rock, and as it falls it goes underground and the river ends there. 3 miles farther we find the buildings of the mines of copper and silver near a place called Pra' Santo Pietro, and mines of iron and curious things. La Grigna is the highest mountain there is in this part, and it is quite bare. [Footnote: 1030 and 1031. From the character of the handwriting we may conclude that these observations were made in Leonardo's youth; and I should infer from their contents, that they were notes made in anticipation of a visit to the places here described, and derived from some person (unknown to us) who had given him an account of them.] 1032. The lake of Pusiano flows into the lake of Segrino [Footnote 3: The statement about the lake Segrino is incorrect; it is situated in the Valle Assina, above the lake of Pusiano.] and of Annone and of Sala. The lake of Annone is 22 braccia higher at the surface of its water than the surface of the water of the lake of Lecco, and the lake of Pusiano is 20 braccia higher than the lake of Annone, which added to the afore said 22 braccia make 42 braccia and this is the greatest height of the surface of the lake of Pusiano above the surface of the lake of Lecco. [Footnote: This text has in the original a slight sketch to illustrate it.] 1033. At Santa Maria in the Valley of Ravagnate [Footnote 2: _Ravagnate_ (Leonardo writes _Ravagna_) in the Brianza is between Oggiono and Brivio, South of the lake of Como. M. Ravaisson avails himself of this note to prove his hypothesis that Leonardo paid two visits to France. See Gazette des Beaux Arts, 1881 pag. 528: _Au recto du meme feuillet, on lit encore une note relative a une vallee "nemonti brigatia"; il me semble qu'il s'agit bien des monts de Briancon, le Brigantio des anciens. Briancon est sur la route de Lyon en Italie. Ce fut par le mont Viso que passerent, en aout 1515, les troupes francaises qui allaient remporter la victoire de Marignan. Leonard de Vinci, ingenieur de Francois Ier, comme il l'avait ete de Louis XII, aurait-il ete pour quelque chose dans le plan du celebre passage des Alpes, qui eut lieu en aout 1515, et a la suite duquel on le vit accompagner partout le chevaleresque vainqueur? Auraitil ete appele par le jeune roi, de Rome ou l'artiste etait alors, des son avenement au trone?_] in the mountains of Brianza are the rods of chestnuts of 9 braccia and one out of an average of 100 will be 14 braccia. At Varallo di Ponbia near to Sesto on the Ticino the quinces are white, large and hard. [Footnote 5: Varallo di Ponbia, about ten miles South of Arona is distinct from Varallo the chief town in the Val di Sesia.] Notes on places in Central Italy, visited in 1502 (1034-1054). 1034. Pigeon-house at Urbino, the 30th day of July 1502. [Footnote: An indistinct sketch is introduced with this text, in the original, in which the word _Scolatoro_ (conduit) is written.] 1035. Made by the sea at Piombino. [Footnote: Below the sketch there are eleven lines of text referring to the motion of waves.] 1036. Acquapendente is near Orvieto. [Footnote: _Acquapendente_ is about 10 miles West of Orvieto, and is to the right in the map on Pl. CXIII, near the lake of Bolsena.] 1037. The rock of Cesena. [Footnote: See Pl. XCIV No. 1, the lower sketch. The explanation of the upper sketch is given on p. 29.] 1038. Siena, _a b_ 4 braccia, _a c_ 10 braccia. Steps at [the castle of] Urbino. [Footnote: See Pl. CX No. 3; compare also No. 765.] 1039. The bell of Siena, that is the manner of its movement, and the place of the attachment of the clapper. [Footnote: The text is accompanied by an indistinct sketch.] 1040. On St. Mary's day in the middle of August, at Cesena, 1502. [Footnote: See Pl. CX, No. 4.] 1041. Stairs of the [palace of the] Count of Urbino,--rough. [Footnote: The text is accompanied by a slight sketch.] 1042. At the fair of San Lorenzo at Cesena. 1502. 1043. Windows at Cesena. [Footnote: There are four more lines of text which refer to a slightly sketched diagram.] 1044. At Porto Cesenatico, on the 6th of September 1502 at 9 o'clock a. m. The way in which bastions ought to project beyond the walls of the towers to defend the outer talus; so that they may not be taken by artillery. [Footnote: An indistinct sketch, accompanies this passage.] 1045. The rock of the harbour of Cesena is four points towards the South West from Cesena. 1046. In Romagna, the realm of all stupidity, vehicles with four wheels are used, of which O the two in front are small and two high ones are behind; an arrangement which is very unfavourable to the motion, because on the fore wheels more weight is laid than on those behind, as I showed in the first of the 5th on "Elements". 1047. Thus grapes are carried at Cesena. The number of the diggers of the ditches is [arranged] pyramidically. [Footnote: A sketch, representing a hook to which two bunches of grapes are hanging, refers to these first two lines. Cesena is mentioned again Fol. 82a: _Carro da Cesena_ (a cart from Cesena).] 1048. There might be a harmony of the different falls of water as you saw them at the fountain of Rimini on the 8th day of August, 1502. 1049. The fortress at Urbino. [Footnote: 1049. In the original the text is written inside the sketch in the place here marked _n_.] 1050. Imola, as regards Bologna, is five points from the West, towards the North West, at a distance of 20 miles. Castel San Piero is seen from Imola at four points from the West towards the North West, at a distance of 7 miles. Faenza stands with regard to Imola between East and South East at a distance of ten miles. Forli stands with regard to Faenza between South East and East at a distance of 20 miles from Imola and ten from Faenza. Forlimpopoli lies in the same direction at 25 miles from Imola. Bertinoro, as regards Imola, is five points from the East to wards the South East, at 27 miles. 1051. Imola as regards Bologna is five points from the West towards the North West at a distance of 20 miles. Castel San Pietro lies exactly North West of Imola, at a distance of 7 miles. Faenza, as regards Imola lies exactly half way between the East and South East at a distance of 10 miles; and Forli lies in the same direction from Imola at a distance of 20 miles; and Forlimpopolo lies in the same direction from Forli at a distance of 25 miles. Bertinoro is seen from Imola two points from the East towards the South East at a distance of 27 miles. [Footnote: Leonardo inserted this passage on the margin of the circular plan, in water colour, of Imola--see Pl. CXI No. 1.--In the original the fields surrounding the town are light green; the moat, which surrounds the fortifications and the windings of the river Santerno, are light blue. The parts, which have come out blackish close to the river are yellow ochre in the original. The dark groups of houses inside the town are red. At the four points of the compass drawn in the middle of the town Leonardo has written (from right to left): _Mezzodi_ (South) at the top; to the left _Scirocho_ (South east), _levante_ (East), _Greco_ (North East), _Septantrione_ (North), _Maesstro_ (North West), _ponente_ (West) _Libecco_ (South West). The arch in which the plan is drawn is, in the original, 42 centimetres across. At the beginning of October 1502 Cesare Borgia was shut up in Imola by a sudden revolt of the Condottieri, and it was some weeks before he could release himself from this state of siege (see Gregorovius, _Geschichte der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter_, Vol. VII, Book XIII, 5, 5). Besides this incident Imola plays no important part in the history of the time. I therefore think myself fully justified in connecting this map, which is at Windsor, with the siege of 1502 and with Leonardo's engagements in the service of Cesare Borgia, because a comparison of these texts, Nos. 1050 and 1051, raise, I believe, the hypothesis to a certainty.] 1052. >From Bonconventi to Casa Nova are 10 miles, from Casa Nova to Chiusi 9 miles, from Chiusi to Perugia, from, Perugia to Santa Maria degli Angeli, and then to Fuligno. [Footnote: Most of the places here described lie within the district shown in the maps on Pl. CXIII.] 1053. On the first of August 1502, the library at Pesaro. 1054. OF PAINTING. On the tops and sides of hills foreshorten the shape of the ground and its divisions, but give its proper shape to what is turned towards you. [Footnote: This passage evidently refers to the making of maps, such as Pl. CXII, CXIII, and CXIV. There is no mention of such works, it is true, excepting in this one passage of MS. L. But this can scarcely be taken as evidence against my view that Leonardo busied himself very extensively at that time in the construction of maps; and all the less since the foregoing chapters clearly prove that at a time so full of events Leonardo would only now and then commit his observations to paper, in the MS. L. By the side of this text we find, in the original, a very indistinct sketch, perhaps a plan of a position. Instead of this drawing I have here inserted a much clearer sketch of a position from the same MS., L. 82b and 83a. They are the only drawings of landscape, it may be noted, which occur at all in that MS.] Alessandria in Piedmont (1055. 1056). 1055. At Candia in Lombardy, near Alessandria della Paglia, in making a well for Messer Gualtieri [Footnote 2: Messer Gualtieri, the same probably as is mentioned in Nos. 672 and 1344.] of Candia, the skeleton of a very large boat was found about 10 braccia underground; and as the timber was black and fine, it seemed good to the said Messer Gualtieri to have the mouth of the well lengthened in such a way as that the ends of the boat should be uncovered. 1056. At Alessandria della Paglia in Lombardy there are no stones for making lime of, but such as are mixed up with an infinite variety of things native to the sea, which is now more than 200 miles away. The Alps (1057-1062). 1057. At Monbracco, above Saluzzo,--a mile above the Certosa, at the foot of Monte Viso, there is a quarry of flakey stone, which is as white as Carrara marble, without a spot, and as hard as porphyry or even harder; of which my worthy gossip, Master Benedetto the sculptor, has promised to give me a small slab, for the colours, the second day of January 1511. [Footnote: Saluzzo at the foot of the Alps South of Turin.] [Footnote 9. 10.: _Maestro Benedetto scultore_; probably some native of Northern Italy acquainted with the place here described. Hardly the Florentine sculptor Benedetto da Majano. Amoretti had published this passage, and M. Ravaisson who gave a French translation of it in the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_ (1881, pag. 528), remarks as follows: _Le maitre sculpteur que Leonard appelle son "compare" ne serait-il pas Benedetto da Majano, un de ceux qui jugerent avec lui de la place a donner au David de Michel-Ange, et de qui le Louvre a acquis recemment un buste d'apres Philippe Strozzi?_ To this it may be objected that Benedetto da Majano had already lain in his grave fourteen years, in the year 1511, when he is supposed to have given the promise to Leonardo. The colours may have been given to the sculptor Benedetto and the stone may have been in payment for them. >From the description of the stone here given we may conclude that it is repeated from hearsay of the sculptor's account of it. I do not understand how, from this observation, it is possible to conclude that Leonardo was on the spot.] 1058. That there are springs which suddenly break forth in earthquakes or other convulsions and suddenly fail; and this happened in a mountain in Savoy where certain forests sank in and left a very deep gap, and about four miles from here the earth opened itself like a gulf in the mountain, and threw out a sudden and immense flood of water which scoured the whole of a little valley of the tilled soil, vineyards and houses, and did the greatest mischief, wherever it overflowed. 1059. The river Arve, a quarter of a mile from Geneva in Savoy, where the fair is held on midsummerday in the village of Saint Gervais. [Footnote: An indistinct sketch is to be seen by the text.] 1060. And this may be seen, as I saw it, by any one going up Monbroso [Footnote: I have vainly enquired of every available authority for a solution of the mystery as to what mountain is intended by the name Monboso (Comp. Vol. I Nos. 300 and 301). It seems most obvious to refer it to Monte Rosa. ROSA derived from the Keltic ROS which survives in Breton and in Gaelic, meaning, in its first sense, a mountain spur, but which also--like HORN--means a very high peak; thus Monte Rosa would mean literally the High Peak.], a peak of the Alps which divide France from Italy. The base of this mountain gives birth to the 4 rivers which flow in four different directions through the whole of Europe. And no mountain has its base at so great a height as this, which lifts itself above almost all the clouds; and snow seldom falls there, but only hail in the summer, when the clouds are highest. And this hail lies [unmelted] there, so that if it were not for the absorption of the rising and falling clouds, which does not happen more than twice in an age, an enormous mass of ice would be piled up there by the layers of hail, and in the middle of July I found it very considerable; and I saw the sky above me quite dark, and the sun as it fell on the mountain was far brighter here than in the plains below, because a smaller extent of atmosphere lay between the summit of the mountain and the sun. [Footnote 6: _in una eta._ This is perhaps a slip of the pen on Leonardo's part and should be read _estate_ (summer).] Leic. 9b] 1061. In the mountains of Verona the red marble is found all mixed with cockle shells turned into stone; some of them have been filled at the mouth with the cement which is the substance of the stone; and in some parts they have remained separate from the mass of the rock which enclosed them, because the outer covering of the shell had interposed and had not allowed them to unite with it; while in other places this cement had petrified those which were old and almost stripped the outer skin. 1062. Bridge of Goertz-Wilbach (?). [Footnote: There is a slight sketch with this text, Leonardo seems to have intended to suggest, with a few pen-strokes, the course of the Isonzo and of the Wipbach in the vicinity of Gorizia (Goerz). He himself says in another place that he had been in Friuli (see No. 1077 1. 19).] The Appenins (1063-1068). 1063. That part of the earth which was lightest remained farthest from the centre of the world; and that part of the earth became the lightest over which the greatest quantity of water flowed. And therefore that part became lightest where the greatest number of rivers flow; like the Alps which divide Germany and France from Italy; whence issue the Rhone flowing Southwards, and the Rhine to the North. The Danube or Tanoia towards the North East, and the Po to the East, with innumerable rivers which join them, and which always run turbid with the soil carried by them to the sea. The shores of the sea are constantly moving towards the middle of the sea and displace it from its original position. The lowest portion of the Mediterranean will be reserved for the bed and current of the Nile, the largest river that flows into that sea. And with it are grouped all its tributaries, which at first fell into the sea; as may be seen with the Po and its tributaries, which first fell into that sea, which between the Appenines and the German Alps was united to the Adriatic sea. That the Gallic Alps are the highest part of Europe. 1064. And of these I found some in the rocks of the high Appenines and mostly at the rock of La Vernia. [Footnote 6: _Sasso della Vernia._ The frowning rock between the sources of the Arno and the Tiber, as Dante describes this mountain, which is 1269 metres in height. This note is written by the side of that given as No. 1020; but their connection does not make it clear what Leonardo's purpose was in writing it.] 1065. At Parma, at 'La Campana' on the twenty-fifth of October 1514. [Footnote 2: _Capano_, an Inn.] A note on the petrifactions, or fossils near Parma will be found under No. 989.] 1066. A method for drying the marsh of Piombino. [Footnote: There is a slight sketch with this text in the original.--Piombino is also mentioned in Nos. 609, l. 55-58 (compare Pl. XXXV, 3, below). Also in No. 1035.] 1067. The shepherds in the Romagna at the foot of the Apennines make peculiar large cavities in the mountains in the form of a horn, and on one side they fasten a horn. This little horn becomes one and the same with the said cavity and thus they produce by blowing into it a very loud noise. [Footnote: As to the Romagna see also No. 1046.] 1068. A spring may be seen to rise in Sicily which at certain times of the year throws out chesnut leaves in quantities; but in Sicily chesnuts do not grow, hence it is evident that that spring must issue from some abyss in Italy and then flow beneath the sea to break forth in Sicily. [Footnote: The chesnut tree is very common in Sicily. In writing _cicilia_ Leonardo meant perhaps Cilicia.] II. FRANCE. 1069. GERMANY. FRANCE. a. Austria, a. Picardy. b. Saxony. b. Normandy. c. Nuremberg. c. Dauphine. d. Flanders. SPAIN. a. Biscay. b. Castille. c. Galicia. d. Portugal. e. Taragona. f. Granada. [Footnote: Two slightly sketched maps, one of Europe the other of Spain, are at the side of these notes.] 1070. Perpignan. Roanne. Lyons. Paris. Ghent. Bruges. Holland. [Footnote: _Roana_ does not seem to mean here Rouen in Normandy, but is probably Roanne (Rodumna) on the upper Loire, Lyonnais (Dep. du Loire). This town is now unimportant, but in Leonardo's time was still a place of some consequence.] 1071. At Bordeaux in Gascony the sea rises about 40 braccia before its ebb, and the river there is filled with salt water for more than a hundred and fifty miles; and the vessels which are repaired there rest high and dry on a high hill above the sea at low tide. [Footnote 2: This is obviously an exaggeration founded on inaccurate information. Half of 150 miles would be nearer the mark.] 1072. The Rhone issues from the lake of Geneva and flows first to the West and then to the South, with a course of 400 miles and pours its waters into the Mediterranean. 1073. _c d_ is the garden at Blois; _a b_ is the conduit of Blois, made in France by Fra Giocondo, _b c_ is what is wanting in the height of that conduit, _c d_ is the height of the garden at Blois, _e f_ is the siphon of the conduit, _b c_, _e f_, _f g_ is where the siphon discharges into the river. [Footnote: The tenor of this note (see lines 2 and 3) seems to me to indicate that this passage was not written in France, but was written from oral information. We have no evidence as to when this note may have been written beyond the circumstance that Fra Giocondo the Veronese Architect left France not before the year 1505. The greater part of the magnificent Chateau of Blois has now disappeared. Whether this note was made for a special purpose is uncertain. The original form and extent of the Chateau is shown in Androvet, _Les plus excellents Bastiments de France, Paris MDCVII,_ and it may be observed that there is in the middle of the garden a Pavilion somewhat similar to that shown on Pl. LXXXVIII No. 7. See S. DE LA SAUSSAYE, _Histoire du Chateau de Blois 4eme edition Blois et Paris_ p. 175: _En mariant sa fille ainee a Francois, comte d'Angouleme, Louis XII lui avait constitue en dot les comtes de Blois, d'Asti, de Coucy, de Montfort, d'Etampes et de Vertus. Une ordonnance de Francois I. lui laissa en_ 1516 _l'administration du comte de Blois. Le roi fit commencer, dans la meme annee, les travaux de celle belle partie du chateau, connue sous le nom d'aile de Francois I, et dont nous avons donne la description au commencement de ce livre. Nous trouvons en effet, dans les archives du Baron de Foursanvault, une piece qui en fixe parfaitement la date. On y lit: "Je, Baymon Philippeaux, commis par le Roy a tenir le compte et fair le payement des bastiments, ediffices et reparacions que le dit seigneur fait faire en son chastu de Blois, confesse avoir eu et receu ... la somme de trois mille livres tournois ... le cinquieme jour de juillet, l'an mil cinq cent et seize._ P. 24: _Les jardins avaient ete decores avec beaucoup de luxe par les differents possesseurs du chateau. Il ne reste de tous les batiments qu'ils y eleverent que ceux des officiers charges de l'ad_ministration et de la culture des jardins, et un pavilion carre en pierre et en brique flanque de terrasses a chacun de ses angles. Quoique defigure par des mesures elevees sur les terrasses, cet edifice est tris-digne d'interet par l'originalite du plan, la decoration architecturale et le souvenir d'Anne de Bretagne qui le fit construire._ Felibien describes the garden as follows: _Le jardin haut etait fort bien dresse par grands compartimens de toutes sortes de figures, avec des allees de meuriers blancs et des palissades de coudriers. Deux grands berceaux de charpenterie separoient toute la longueur et la largeur du jardin, et dans les quatres angles des allees, ou ces berceaux se croissent, il y auoit 4 cabinets, de mesme charpenterie ... Il y a pas longtemps qu'il y auoit dans ce mesme jardin, a l'endroit ou se croissent les allees du milieu, un edifice de figure octogone, de plus de 7 thoises de diametre et de plus de neuf thoises de haut; avec 4 enfoncements en forme de niches dans les 4 angles des allies. Ce bastiment.... esloit de charpente mais d'un extraordinairement bien travaille. On y voyait particulierement la cordiliere qui regnati tout autour en forme de cordon. Car la Reyne affectait de la mettre nonseulement a ses armes et a ses chiffres mais de la faire representer en divers manieres dans tous les ouvrages qu'on lui faisait pour elle ... le bastiment estati couvert en forme de dome qui dans son milieu avait encore un plus petit dome, ou lanterne vitree au-dessus de laquelle estait une figure doree representant Saint Michel. Les deux domes estoient proprement couvert d'ardoise et de plomb dore par dehors; par dedans ils esloient lambrissez d'une menuiserie tres delicate. Au milieu de ce Salon il y avait un grand bassin octogone de marbre blanc, dont toutes les faces estoient enrichies de differentes sculptures, avec les armes et les chiffres du Roy Louis XII et de la Reine Anne, Dans ce bassin il y en avait un autre pose sur un piedestal lequel auoit sept piedz de diametre. Il estait de figure ronde a godrons, avec des masques et d'autres ornements tres scauamment taillez. Du milieu de ce deuxiesme bassin s'y levoit un autre petit piedestal qui portait un troisiesme bassin de trois pieds de diametre, aussy parfaitement bien taille; c'estoit de ce dernier bassin que jallissoit l'eau qui se rependoit en suitte dans les deux autres bassins. Les beaux ouvrages faits d'un marbre esgalement blanc et poli, furent brisez par la pesanteur de tout l'edifice, que les injures de l'air renverserent de fond en comble.] 1074. The river Loire at Amboise. The river is higher within the bank _b d_ than outside that bank. The island where there is a part of Amboise. This is the river that passes through Amboise; it passes at _a b c d_, and when it has passed the bridge it turns back, against the original current, by the channel _d e_, _b f_ in contact with the bank which lies between the two contrary currents of the said river, _a b_, _c d_, and _d e_, _b f_. It then turns down again by the channel _f l_, _g h_, _n m_, and reunites with the river from which it was at first separated, which passes by _k n_, which makes _k m_, _r t_. But when the river is very full it flows all in one channel passing over the bank _b d_. [Footnote: See Pl. CXV. Lines 1-7 are above, lines 8-10 in the middle of the large island and the word _Isola_ is written above _d_ in the smaller island; _a_ is written on the margin on the bank of the river above 1. I; in the reproduction it is not visible. As may be seen from the last sentence, the observation was made after long study of the river's course, when Leonardo had resided for some time at, or near, Amboise.] 1075. The water may be dammed up above the level of Romorantin to such a height, that in its fall it may be used for numerous mills. 1075. The river at Villefranche may be conducted to Romorantin which may be done by the inhabitants; and the timber of which their houses are built may be carried in boats to Romorantin [Footnote: Compare No. 744.]. The river may be dammed up at such a height that the waters may be brought back to Romorantin with a convenient fall. 1076. As to whether it is better that the water should all be raised in a single turn or in two? The answer is that in one single turn the wheel could not support all the water that it can raise in two turns, because at the half turn of the wheel it would be raising 100 pounds and no more; and if it had to raise the whole, 200 pounds in one turn, it could not raise them unless the wheel were of double the diameter and if the diameter were doubled, the time of its revolution would be doubled; therefore it is better and a greater advantage in expense to make such a wheel of half the size (?) the land which it would water and would render the country fertile to supply food to the inhabitants, and would make navigable canals for mercantile purposes. The way in which the river in its flow should scour its own channel. By the ninth of the third; the more rapid it is, the more it wears away its channel; and, by the converse proposition, the slower the water the more it deposits that which renders it turbid. And let the sluice be movable like the one I arranged in Friuli [Footnote 19: This passage reveals to us the fact that Leonardo had visited the country of Friuli and that he had stayed there for some time. Nothing whatever was known of this previously.], where when one sluice was opened the water which passed through it dug out the bottom. Therefore when the rivers are flooded, the sluices of the mills ought to be opened in order that the whole course of the river may pass through falls to each mill; there should be many in order to give a greater impetus, and so all the river will be scoured. And below the site of each of the two mills there may be one of the said sluice falls; one of them may be placed below each mill. 1078. A trabocco is four braccia, and one mile is three thousand of the said braccia. Each braccio is divided into 12 inches; and the water in the canals has a fall in every hundred trabocchi of two of these inches; therefore 14 inches of fall are necessary in two thousand eight hundred braccia of flow in these canals; it follows that 15 inches of fall give the required momentum to the currents of the waters in the said canals, that is one braccio and a half in the mile. And from this it may be concluded that the water taken from the river of Ville-franche and lent to the river of Romorantin will..... Where one river by reason of its low level cannot flow into the other, it will be necessary to dam it up, so that it may acquire a fall into the other, which was previously the higher. The eve of Saint Antony I returned from Romorantin to Amboise, and the King went away two days before from Romorantin. >From Romorantin as far as the bridge at Saudre it is called the Saudre, and from that bridge as far as Tours it is called the Cher. I would test the level of that channel which is to lead from the Loire to Romorantin, with a channel one braccio wide and one braccio deep. [Footnote: Lines 6-18 are partly reproduced in the facsimile on p. 254, and the whole of lines 19-25. The following names are written along the rivers on the larger sketch, _era f_ (the Loire) _scier f_ (the Cher) three times. _Pote Sodro_ (bridge of the Soudre). _Villa francha_ (Villefranche) _banco_ (sandbank) _Sodro_ (Soudre). The circle below shows the position of Romorantin. The words '_orologio del sole_' written below do not belong to the map of the rivers. The following names are written by the side of the smaller sketch-map:--_tors_ (Tours), _Abosa_ (Amboise) _bres_--for Bles (Blois) _mo rica_ (Montrichard). _Lione_ (Lyons). This map was also published in the 'Saggio' (Milano, 1872) Pl. XXII, and the editors remark: _Forse la linia retta che va da Amboise a Romorantin segna l'andamento proposto d'un Canale, che poi rembra prolungarsi in giu fin dove sta scritto Lione._ M. Ravaisson has enlarged on this idea in the Gazette des Beaux Arts (1881 p. 530): _Les traces de Leonard permettent d'entrevoir que le canal commencant soit aupres de Tours, soit aupres de Blois et passant par Romorantin, avec port d'embarquement a Villefranche, devait, au dela de Bourges, traverser l'Allier au-dessous des affluents de la Dore et de la Sioule, aller par Moulins jusqu' a Digoin; enfin, sur l'autre rive de la Loire, depasser les monts du Charolais et rejoindre la Saone aupres de Macon._ It seems to me rash, however, to found so elaborate an hypothesis on these sketches of rivers. The slight stroke going to _Lione_ is perhaps only an indication of the direction.--With regard to the Loire compare also No. 988. l. 38.] 1079. THE ROAD TO ORLEANS At 1/4 from the South to the South East. At 1/3 from the South to the South East. At 1/4 from the South to the South East. At 1/5 from the South to the South East. Between the South West and South, to the East bearing to the South; from the South towards the East 1/8; thence to the West, between the South and South West; at the South. [Footnote: The meaning is obscure; a more important passage referring to France is to be found under No. 744] On the Germans (1080. 1081). 1080. The way in which the Germans closing up together cross and interweave their broad leather shields against the enemy, stooping down and putting one of the ends on the ground while they hold the rest in their hand. [Footnote: Above the text is a sketch of a few lines crossing each other and the words _de ponderibus_. The meaning of the passage is obscure.] 1081. The Germans are wont to annoy a garrison with the smoke of feathers, sulphur and realgar, and they make this smoke last 7 or 8 hours. Likewise the husks of wheat make a great and lasting smoke; and also dry dung; but this must be mixed with olive husks, that is olives pressed for oil and from which the oil has been extracted. [Footnote: There is with this passage a sketch of a round tower shrouded in smoke.] The Danube. 1082. That the valleys were formerly in great part covered by lakes the soil of which always forms the banks of rivers,--and by seas, which afterwards, by the persistent wearing of the rivers, cut through the mountains and the wandering courses of the rivers carried away the other plains enclosed by the mountains; and the cutting away of the mountains is evident from the strata in the rocks, which correspond in their sections as made by the courses of the rivers [Footnote 4: _Emus_, the Balkan; _Dardania_, now Servia.], The Haemus mountains which go along Thrace and Dardania and join the Sardonius mountains which, going on to the westward change their name from Sardus to Rebi, as they come near Dalmatia; then turning to the West cross Illyria, now called Sclavonia, changing the name of Rebi to Albanus, and going on still to the West, they change to Mount Ocra in the North; and to the South above Istria they are named Caruancas; and to the West above Italy they join the Adula, where the Danube rises [8], which stretches to the East and has a course of 1500 miles; its shortest line is about l000 miles, and the same or about the same is that branch of the Adula mountains changed as to their name, as before mentioned. To the North are the Carpathians, closing in the breadth of the valley of the Danube, which, as I have said extends eastward, a length of about 1000 miles, and is sometimes 200 and in some places 300 miles wide; and in the midst flows the Danube, the principal river of Europe as to size. The said Danube runs through the middle of Austria and Albania and northwards through Bavaria, Poland, Hungary, Wallachia and Bosnia and then the Danube or Donau flows into the Black Sea, which formerly extended almost to Austria and occupied the plains through which the Danube now courses; and the evidence of this is in the oysters and cockle shells and scollops and bones of great fishes which are still to be found in many places on the sides of those mountains; and this sea was formed by the filling up of the spurs of the Adula mountains which then extended to the East joining the spurs of the Taurus which extend to the West. And near Bithynia the waters of this Black Sea poured into the Propontis [Marmora] falling into the Aegean Sea, that is the Mediterranean, where, after a long course, the spurs of the Adula mountains became separated from those of the Taurus. The Black Sea sank lower and laid bare the valley of the Danube with the above named countries, and the whole of Asia Minor beyond the Taurus range to the North, and the plains from mount Caucasus to the Black Sea to the West, and the plains of the Don this side--that is to say, at the foot of the Ural mountains. And thus the Black Sea must have sunk about 1000 braccia to uncover such vast plains. [Footnote 8: _Danubio_, in the original _Reno_; evidently a mistake as we may infer from _come dissi_ l. 10 &c.] III. THE COUNTRIES OF THE WESTERN END OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. The straits of Gibraltar (1083-1085). 1083. WHY THE SEA MAKES A STRONGER CURRENT IN THE STRAITS OF SPAIN THAN ELSEWHERE. A river of equal depth runs with greater speed in a narrow space than in a wide one, in proportion to the difference between the wider and the narrower one. This proposition is clearly proved by reason confirmed by experiment. Supposing that through a channel one mile wide there flows one mile in length of water; where the river is five miles wide each of the 5 square miles will require 1/5 of itself to be equal to the square mile of water required in the sea, and where the river is 3 miles wide each of these square miles will require the third of its volume to make up the amount of the square mile of the narrow part; as is demonstrated in _f g h_ at the mile marked _n_. [Footnote: In the place marked A in the diagram _Mare Mediterano_ (Mediterranean Sea) is written in the original. And at B, _stretto di Spugna_ (straits of Spain, _i.e._ Gibraltar). Compare No. 960.] 1084. WHY THE CURRENT OF GIBRALTAR IS ALWAYS GREATER TO THE WEST THAN TO THE EAST. The reason is that if you put together the mouths of the rivers which discharge into the Mediterranean sea, you would find the sum of water to be larger than that which this sea pours through the straits into the ocean. You see Africa discharging its rivers that run northwards into this sea, and among them the Nile which runs through 3000 miles of Africa; there is also the Bagrada river and the Schelif and others. [Footnote 5: _Bagrada_ (Leonardo writes Bragada) in Tunis, now Medscherda; _Mavretano_, now Schelif.] Likewise Europe pours into it the Don and the Danube, the Po, the Rhone, the Arno, and the Tiber, so that evidently these rivers, with an infinite number of others of less fame, make its great breadth and depth and current; and the sea is not wider than 18 miles at the most westerly point of land where it divides Europe from Africa. 1085. The gulf of the Mediterranean, as an inland sea, received the principal waters of Africa, Asia and Europe that flowed towards it; and its waters came up to the foot of the mountains that surrounded it and made its shores. And the summits of the Apennines stood up out of this sea like islands, surrounded by salt water. Africa again, behind its Atlas mountains did not expose uncovered to the sky the surface of its vast plains about 3000 miles in length, and Memphis [Footnote 6: _Mefi._ Leonardo can only mean here the citadel of Cairo on the Mokattam hills.] was on the shores of this sea, and above the plains of Italy, where now birds fly in flocks, fish were wont to wander in large shoals. 1086. Tunis. The greatest ebb made anywhere by the Mediterranean is above Tunis, being about two and a half braccia and at Venice it falls two braccia. In all the rest of the Mediterranean sea the fall is little or none. 1087. Libya. Describe the mountains of shifting deserts; that is to say the formation of waves of sand borne by the wind, and of its mountains and hills, such as occur in Libya. Examples may be seen on the wide sands of the Po and the Ticino, and other large rivers. 1088. Majorca. Circumfulgore is a naval machine. It was an invention of the men of Majorca. [Footnote: The machine is fully described in the MS. and shown in a sketch.] 1089. The Tyrrhene Sea. Some at the Tyrrhene sea employ this method; that is to say they fastened an anchor to one end of the yard, and to the other a cord, of which the lower end was fastened to an anchor; and in battle they flung this anchor on to the oars of the opponent's boat and by the use of a capstan drew it to the side; and threw soft soap and tow, daubed with pitch and set ablaze, on to that side where the anchor hung; so that in order to escape that fire, the defenders of that ship had to fly to the opposite side; and in doing this they aided to the attack, because the galley was more easily drawn to the side by reason of the counterpoise. [Footnote: This text is illustrated in the original by a pen and ink sketch.] IV. THE LEVANT. The Levantine Sea. 1090. On the shores of the Mediterranean 300 rivers flow, and 40, 200 ports. And this sea is 3000 miles long. Many times has the increase of its waters, heaped up by their backward flow and the blowing of the West winds, caused the overflow of the Nile and of the rivers which flow out through the Black Sea, and have so much raised the seas that they have spread with vast floods over many countries. And these floods take place at the time when the sun melts the snows on the high mountains of Ethiopia that rise up into the cold regions of the air; and in the same way the approach of the sun acts on the mountains of Sarmatia in Asia and on those in Europe; so that the gathering together of these three things are, and always have been, the cause of tremendous floods: that is, the return flow of the sea with the West wind and the melting of the snows. So every river will overflow in Syria, in Samaria, in Judea between Sinai and the Lebanon, and in the rest of Syria between the Lebanon and the Taurus mountains, and in Cilicia, in the Armenian mountains, and in Pamphilia and in Lycia within the hills, and in Egypt as far as the Atlas mountains. The gulf of Persia which was formerly a vast lake of the Tigris and discharged into the Indian Sea, has now worn away the mountains which formed its banks and laid them even with the level of the Indian ocean. And if the Mediterranean had continued its flow through the gulf of Arabia, it would have done the same, that is to say, would have reduced the level of the Mediterranean to that of the Indian Sea. The Red Sea. (1091. 1092). 1091. For a long time the water of the Mediterranean flowed out through the Red Sea, which is 100 miles wide and 1500 long, and full of reefs; and it has worn away the sides of Mount Sinai, a fact which testifies, not to an inundation from the Indian sea beating on these coasts, but to a deluge of water which carried with it all the rivers which abound round the Mediterranean, and besides this there is the reflux of the sea; and then, a cutting being made to the West 3000 miles away from this place, Gibraltar was separated from Ceuta, which had been joined to it. And this passage was cut very low down, in the plains between Gibraltar and the ocean at the foot of the mountain, in the low part, aided by the hollowing out of some valleys made by certain rivers, which might have flowed here. Hercules [Footnote 9: Leonardo seems here to mention Hercules half jestingly and only in order to suggest to the reader an allusion to the legend of the pillars of Hercules.] came to open the sea to the westward and then the sea waters began to pour into the Western Ocean; and in consequence of this great fall, the Red Sea remained the higher; whence the water, abandoning its course here, ever after poured away through the Straits of Spain. 1092. The surface of the Red Sea is on a level with the ocean. A mountain may have fallen and closed the mouth of the Red Sea and prevented the outlet of the Mediterranean, and the Mediterranean Sea thus overfilled had for outlet the passage below the mountains of Gades; for, in our own times a similar thing has been seen [Footnote 6: Compare also No. 1336, ll. 30, 35 and 36.-- Paolo Giovio, the celebrated historian (born at Como in 1483) reports that in 1513 at the foot of the Alps, above Bellinzona, on the road to Switzerland, a mountain fell with a very great noise, in consequence of an earthquake, and that the mass of rocks, which fell on the left (Western) side blocked the river Breno (T. I p. 218 and 345 of D. Sauvage's French edition, quoted in ALEXIS PERCY, _Memoire des tremblements de terre de la peninsule italique; Academie Royale de Belgique._ T. XXII).--]; a mountain fell seven miles across a valley and closed it up and made a lake. And thus most lakes have been made by mountains, as the lake of Garda, the lakes of Como and Lugano, and the Lago Maggiore. The Mediterranean fell but little on the confines of Syria, in consequence of the Gaditanean passage, but a great deal in this passage, because before this cutting was made the Mediterranean sea flowed to the South East, and then the fall had to be made by its run through the Straits of Gades. At _a_ the water of the Mediterranean fell into the ocean. All the plains which lie between the sea and mountains were formerly covered with salt water. Every valley has been made by its own river; and the proportion between valleys is the same as that between river and river. The greatest river in our world is the Mediterranean river, which moves from the sources of the Nile to the Western ocean. And its greatest height is in Outer Mauritania and it has a course of ten thousand miles before it reunites with its ocean, the father of the waters. That is 3000 miles for the Mediterranean, 3000 for the Nile, as far as discovered and 3000 for the Nile which flows to the East, &c. [Footnote: See Pl. CXI 2, a sketch of the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, where lines 11 to 16 may be seen. The large figures 158 are not in Leonardo's writing. The character of the writing leads us to conclude that this text was written later than the foregoing. A slight sketch of the Mediterranean is also to be found in MS. I', 47a.] The Nile (1093-1098). 1093. Therefore we must conclude those mountains to be of the greatest height, above which the clouds falling in snow give rise to the Nile. 1094. The Egyptians, the Ethiopians, and the Arabs, in crossing the Nile with camels, are accustomed to attach two bags on the sides of the camel's bodies that is skins in the form shown underneath. In these four meshes of the net the camels for baggage place their feet. [Footnote: Unfortunately both the sketches which accompany this passage are too much effaced to be reproduced. The upper represents the two sacks joined by ropes, as here described, the other shows four camels with riders swimming through a river.] 1095. The Tigris passes through Asia Minor and brings with it the water of three lakes, one after the other of various elevations; the first being Munace and the middle Pallas and the lowest Triton. And the Nile again springs from three very high lakes in Ethiopia, and runs northwards towards the sea of Egypt with a course of 4000 miles, and by the shortest and straightest line it is 3000 miles. It is said that it issues from the Mountains of the Moon, and has various unknown sources. The said lakes are about 4000 braccia above the surface of the sphere of water, that is 1 mile and 1/3, giving to the Nile a fall of 1 braccia in every mile. [Footnote 5: _Incogniti principio._ The affluents of the lakes are probably here intended. Compare, as to the Nile, Nos. 970, 1063 and 1084.] 1096. Very many times the Nile and other very large rivers have poured out their whole element of water and restored it to the sea. 1097. Why does the inundation of the Nile occur in the summer, coming from torrid countries? 1098. It is not denied that the Nile is constantly muddy in entering the Egyptian sea and that its turbidity is caused by soil that this river is continually bringing from the places it passes; which soil never returns in the sea which receives it, unless it throws it on its shores. You see the sandy desert beyond Mount Atlas where formerly it was covered with salt water. Customs of Asiatic Nations (1099. 1100). 1099. The Assyrians and the people of Euboea accustom their horses to carry sacks which they can at pleasure fill with air, and which in case of need they carry instead of the girth of the saddle above and at the side, and they are well covered with plates of cuir bouilli, in order that they may not be perforated by flights of arrows. Thus they have not on their minds their security in flight, when the victory is uncertain; a horse thus equipped enables four or five men to cross over at need. 1100. SMALL BOATS. The small boats used by the Assyrians were made of thin laths of willow plaited over rods also of willow, and bent into the form of a boat. They were daubed with fine mud soaked with oil or with turpentine, and reduced to a kind of mud which resisted the water and because pine would split; and always remained fresh; and they covered this sort of boats with the skins of oxen in safely crossing the river Sicuris of Spain, as is reported by Lucant; [Footnote 7: See Lucan's Pharsalia IV, 130: _Utque habuit ripas Sicoris camposque reliquit, Primum cana salix madefacto vimine parvam Texitur in puppim, calsoque inducto juvenco Vectoris patiens tumidum supernatat amnem. Sic Venetus stagnante Pado, fusoque Britannus Navigat oceano, sic cum tenet omnia Nilus, Conseritur bibula Memphitis cymbo papyro. His ratibus transjecta manus festinat utrimque Succisam cavare nemus ] The Spaniards, the Scythians and the Arabs, when they want to make a bridge in haste, fix hurdlework made of willows on bags of ox-hide, and so cross in safety. Rhodes (1101. 1102). 1101. In [fourteen hundred and] eighty nine there was an earthquake in the sea of Atalia near Rhodes, which opened the sea--that is its bottom--and into this opening such a torrent of water poured that for more than three hours the bottom of the sea was uncovered by reason of the water which was lost in it, and then it closed to the former level. [Footnote: _Nello ottanto_ 9. It is scarcely likely that Leonardo should here mean 89 AD. Dr. H. MULLER- STRUBING writes to me as follows on this subject: "With reference to Rhodes Ross says (_Reise auf den Griechischen Inseln, III_ 70 _ff_. 1840), that ancient history affords instances of severe earthquakes at Rhodes, among others one in the second year of the 138th Olympiad=270 B. C.; a remarkably violent one under Antoninus Pius (A. D. 138-161) and again under Constantine and later. But Leonardo expressly speaks of an earthquake "_nel mar di Atalia presso a Rodi_", which is singular. The town of Attalia, founded by Attalus, which is what he no doubt means, was in Pamphylia and more than 150 English miles East of Rhodes in a straight line. Leake and most other geographers identify it with the present town of Adalia. Attalia is rarely mentioned by the ancients, indeed only by Strabo and Pliny and no earthquake is spoken of. I think therefore you are justified in assuming that Leonardo means 1489". In the elaborate catalogue of earthquakes in the East by Sciale Dshelal eddin Sayouthy (an unpublished Arabic MS. in the possession of Prof. SCHEFER, (Membre de l'Institut, Paris) mention is made of a terrible earthquake in the year 867 of the Mohamedan Era corresponding to the year 1489, and it is there stated that a hundred persons were killed by it in the fortress of Kerak. There are three places of this name. Kerak on the sea of Tiberias, Kerak near Tahle on the Libanon, which I visited in the summer of l876--but neither of these is the place alluded to. Possibly it may be the strongly fortified town of Kerak=Kir Moab, to the West of the Dead Sea. There is no notice about this in ALEXIS PERCY, _Memoire sur les tremblements de terres ressentis dans la peninsule turco- hellenique et en Syrie (Memoires couronnes et memoires des savants etrangers, Academie Royale de Belgique, Tome XXIII)._] 1102. Rhodes has in it 5000 houses. Cyprus (1103. 1104). 1103. SITE FOR [A TEMPLE OF] VENUS. You must make steps on four sides, by which to mount to a meadow formed by nature at the top of a rock which may be hollowed out and supported in front by pilasters and open underneath in a large portico, [Footnote: See Pl. LXXXIII. Compare also p. 33 of this Vol. The standing male figure at the side is evidently suggested by Michael Angelo's David. On the same place a slight sketch of horses seems to have been drawn first; there is no reason for assuming that the text and this sketch, which have no connection with each other, are of the same date. _Sito di Venere._ By this heading Leonardo appears to mean Cyprus, which was always considered by the ancients to be the home and birth place of Aphrodite (Kirpic in Homer).] in which the water may fall into various vases of granite, porphyryand serpentine, within semi-circular recesses; and the water may overflow from these. And round this portico towards the North there should be a lake with a little island in the midst of which should be a thick and shady wood; the waters at the top of the pilasters should pour into vases at their base, from whence they should flow in little channels. Starting from the shore of Cilicia towards the South you discover the beauties of the island of Cyprus. The Caspian Sea (1105. 1106). 1104. >From the shore of the Southern coast of Cilicia may be seen to the South the beautiful island of Cyprus, which was the realm of the goddess Venus, and many navigators being attracted by her beauty, had their ships and rigging broken amidst the reefs, surrounded by the whirling waters. Here the beauty of delightful hills tempts wandering mariners to refresh themselves amidst their flowery verdure, where the winds are tempered and fill the island and the surrounding seas with fragrant odours. Ah! how many a ship has here been sunk. Ah! how many a vessel broken on these rocks. Here might be seen barks without number, some wrecked and half covered by the sand; others showing the poop and another the prow, here a keel and there the ribs; and it seems like a day of judgment when there should be a resurrection of dead ships, so great is the number of them covering all the Northern shore; and while the North gale makes various and fearful noises there. 1105. Write to Bartolomeo the Turk as to the flow and ebb of the Black sea, and whether he is aware if there be such a flow and ebb in the Hyrcanean or Caspian sea. [Footnote: The handwriting of this note points to a late date.] 1106. WHY WATER IS FOUND AT THE TOP OF MOUNTAINS. >From the straits of Gibraltar to the Don is 3500 miles, that is one mile and 1/6, giving a fall of one braccio in a mile to any water that moves gently. The Caspian sea is a great deal higher; and none of the mountains of Europe rise a mile above the surface of our seas; therefore it might be said that the water which is on the summits of our mountains might come from the height of those seas, and of the rivers which flow into them, and which are still higher. The sea of Azov. 1107. Hence it follows that the sea of Azov is the highest part of the Mediterranean sea, being at a distance of 3500 miles from the Straits of Gibraltar, as is shown by the map for navigation; and it has 3500 braccia of descent, that is, one mile and 1/6; therefore it is higher than any mountains which exist in the West. [Footnote: The passage before this, in the original, treats of the exit of the waters from Lakes in general.] The Dardanelles. 1108. In the Bosphorus the Black Sea flows always into the Egean sea, and the Egean sea never flows into it. And this is because the Caspian, which is 400 miles to the East, with the rivers which pour into it, always flows through subterranean caves into this sea of Pontus; and the Don does the same as well as the Danube, so that the waters of Pontus are always higher than those of the Egean; for the higher always fall towards the lower, and never the lower towards the higher. Constantinople. 1109. The bridge of Pera at Constantinople, 40 braccia wide, 70 braccia high above the water, 600 braccia long; that is 400 over the sea and 200 on the land, thus making its own abutments. [Footnote: See Pl. CX No. 1. In 1453 by order of Sultan Mohamed II. the Golden Horn was crossed by a pontoon bridge laid on barrels (see Joh. Dukas' History of the Byzantine Empire XXXVIII p. 279). --The biographers of Michelangelo, Vasari as well as Condivi, relate that at the time when Michelangelo suddenly left Rome, in 1506, he entertained some intention of going to Constantinople, there to serve the Sultan, who sought to engage him, by means of certain Franciscan Monks, for the purpose of constructing a bridge to connect Constantinople with Pera. See VASARI, _Vite_ (ed. Sansoni VII, 168): _Michelangelo, veduto questa furia del papa, dubitando di lui, ebbe, secondo che si dice, voglia di andarsene in Gostantinopoli a servire il Turco, per mezzo di certi frati di San Francesco, che desiderava averlo per fare un ponte che passassi da Gostantinopoli a Pera._ And CONDIVI, _Vita di M. Buonaroti chap._ 30_; Michelangelo allora vedendosi condotto a questo, temendo dell'ira del papa, penso d'andarsene in Levante; massimamente essendo stato dal Turco ricercato con grandissime promesse per mezzo di certi frati di San Francesco, per volersene servire in fare un ponte da Costantinopoli a Pera ed in altri affari._ Leonardo's plan for this bridge was made in 1502. We may therefore conclude that at about that time the Sultan Bajazet II. had either announced a competition in this matter, or that through his agents Leonardo had first been called upon to carry out the scheme.] The Euphrates. 1110. If the river will turn to the rift farther on it will never return to its bed, as the Euphrates does, and this may do at Bologna the one who is disappointed for his rivers. Centrae Asia. 1111. Mounts Caucasus, Comedorum, and Paropemisidae are joined together between Bactria and India, and give birth to the river Oxus which takes its rise in these mountains and flows 500 miles towards the North and as many towards the West, and discharges its waters into the Caspian sea; and is accompanied by the Oxus, Dargados, Arthamis, Xariaspes, Dargamaim, Ocus and Margus, all very large rivers. From the opposite side towards the South rises the great river Indus which sends its waters for 600 miles Southwards and receives as tributaries in this course the rivers Xaradrus, Hyphasis, Vadris, Vandabal Bislaspus to the East, Suastes and Coe to the West, uniting with these rivers, and with their waters it flows 800 miles to the West; then, turning back by the Arbiti mountains makes an elbow and turns Southwards, where after a course of about 100 miles it finds the Indian Sea, in which it pours itself by seven branches. On the side of the same mountains rises the great Ganges, which river flows Southwards for 500 miles and to the Southwest a thousand ... and Sarabas, Diarnuna, Soas and Scilo, Condranunda are its tributaries. It flows into the Indian sea by many mouths. On the natives of hot countries. 1112. Men born in hot countries love the night because it refreshes them and have a horror of light because it burns them; and therefore they are of the colour of night, that is black. And in cold countries it is just the contrary. [Footnote: The sketch here inserted is in MS. H3 55b.] _XVIII._ _Naval Warfare.--Mechanical Appliances.--Music._ _Such theoretical questions, as have been laid before the reader in Sections XVI and XVII, though they were the chief subjects of Leonardo's studies of the sea, did not exclusively claim his attention. A few passages have been collected at the beginning of this section, which prove that he had turned his mind to the practical problems of navigation, and more especially of naval warfare. What we know for certain of his life gives us no data, it is true, as to when or where these matters came under his consideration; but the fact remains certain both from these notes in his manuscripts, and from the well known letter to Ludovico il Moro (No._ 1340_), in which he expressly states that he is as capable as any man, in this very department._ _The numerous notes as to the laws and rationale of the flight of birds, are scattered through several note-books. An account of these is given in the Bibliography of the manuscripts at the end of this work. It seems probable that the idea which led him to these investigations was his desire to construct a flying or aerial machine for man. At the same time it must be admitted that the notes on the two subjects are quite unconnected in the manuscripts, and that those on the flight of birds are by far the most numerous and extensive. The two most important passages that treat of the construction of a flying machine are those already published as Tav. XVI, No._ 1 _and Tav. XVIII in the_ "Saggio delle opere di Leonardo da Vinci" _(Milan_ 1872_). The passages--Nos._ 1120-1125--_here printed for the first time and hitherto unknown--refer to the same subject and, with the exception of one already published in the Saggio-- No._ 1126--_they are, so far as I know, the only notes, among the numerous observations on the flight of birds, in which the phenomena are incidentally and expressly connected with the idea of a flying machine._ _The notes on machines of war, the construction of fortifications, and similar matters which fall within the department of the Engineer, have not been included in this work, for the reasons given on page_ 26 _of this Vol. An exception has been made in favour of the passages Nos._ 1127 _and_ 1128, _because they have a more general interest, as bearing on the important question: whence the Master derived his knowledge of these matters. Though it would be rash to assert that Leonardo was the first to introduce the science of mining into Italy, it may be confidently said that he is one of the earliest writers who can be proved to have known and understood it; while, on the other hand, it is almost beyond doubt that in the East at that time, the whole science of besieging towns and mining in particular, was far more advanced than in Europe. This gives a peculiar value to the expressions used in No._ 1127. _I have been unable to find in the manuscripts any passage whatever which throws any light on Leonardo's great reputation as a musician. Nothing therein illustrates VASARPS well-known statement:_ Avvenne che morto Giovan Galeazze duca di Milano, e creato Lodovico Sforza nel grado medesimo anno 1494, fu condotto a Milano con gran riputazione Lionardo al duca, il quale molto si dilettava del suono della lira, perche sonasse; e Lionardo porto quello strumento ch'egli aveva di sua mano fabbricato d'argento gran parte, in forma d'un teschio di cavallo, cosa bizzarra e nuova, acciocche l'armonia fosse con maggior tuba e piu sonora di voce; laonde supero tutti i musici che quivi erano concorsi a sonare. _The only notes on musical matters are those given as Nos._ 1129 _and_ 1130, _which explain certain arrangements in instruments._ The ship's logs of Vitruvius, of Alberti and of Leonardo 1113. ON MOVEMENTS;--TO KNOW HOW MUCH A SHIP ADVANCES IN AN HOUR. The ancients used various devices to ascertain the distance gone by a ship each hour, among which Vitruvius [Footnote 6: See VITRUVIUS, _De Architectura lib. X._ C. 14 (p. 264 in the edition of Rose and Muller- Strubing). The German edition published at Bale in 1543 has, on fol. 596, an illustration of the contrivance, as described by Vitruvius.] gives one in his work on Architecture which is just as fallacious as all the others; and this is a mill wheel which touches the waves of the sea at one end and in each complete revolution describes a straight line which represents the circumference of the wheel extended to a straightness. But this invention is of no worth excepting on the smooth and motionless surface of lakes. But if the water moves together with the ship at an equal rate, then the wheel remains motionless; and if the motion of the water is more or less rapid than that of the ship, then neither has the wheel the same motion as the ship so that this invention is of but little use. There is another method tried by experiment with a known distance between one island and another; and this is done by a board or under the pressure of wind which strikes on it with more or less swiftness. This is in Battista Alberti [Footnote 25: LEON BATTISTA ALBERTI, _De Architectura lib. V._, c. 12 treats '_de le navi e parti loro_', but there is no reference to the machine, mentioned by Leonardo. Alberti says here: _Noi abbiamo trattato lungamente in altro luogo de' modi de le navi, ma in questo luogo ne abbiamo detto quel tanto che si bisogna_. To this the following note is added in the most recent Italian edition: _Questo libro e tuttora inedito e porta il titolo, secondo Gesnero di_ '_Liber navis_'.]. Battista Alberti's method which is made by experiment on a known distance between one island and another. But such an invention does not succeed excepting on a ship like the one on which the experiment was made, and it must be of the same burden and have the same sails, and the sails in the same places, and the size of the waves must be the same. But my method will serve for any ship, whether with oars or sails; and whether it be small or large, broad or long, or high or low, it always serves [Footnote 52: Leonardo does not reveal the method invented by him.]. Methods of staying and moving in water 1114. How an army ought to cross rivers by swimming with air-bags ... How fishes swim [Footnote 2: Compare No. 821.]; of the way in which they jump out of the water, as may be seen with dolphins; and it seems a wonderful thing to make a leap from a thing which does not resist but slips away. Of the swimming of animals of a long form, such as eels and the like. Of the mode of swimming against currents and in the rapid falls of rivers. Of the mode of swimming of fishes of a round form. How it is that animals which have not long hind quartres cannot swim. How it is that all other animals which have feet with toes, know by nature how to swim, excepting man. In what way man ought to learn to swim. Of the way in which man may rest on the water. How man may protect himself against whirlpools or eddies in the water, which drag him down. How a man dragged to the bottom must seek the reflux which will throw him up from the depths. How he ought to move his arms. How to swim on his back. How he can and how he cannot stay under water unless he can hold his breath [13]. How by means of a certain machine many people may stay some time under water. How and why I do not describe my method of remaining under water, or how long I can stay without eating; and I do not publish nor divulge these by reason of the evil nature of men who would use them as means of destruction at the bottom of the sea, by sending ships to the bottom, and sinking them together with the men in them. And although I will impart others, there is no danger in them; because the mouth of the tube, by which you breathe, is above the water supported on bags or corks [19]. [Footnote: L. 13-19 will also be found in Vol. I No. 1.] On naval warfare (1115. 1116). 1115. Supposing in a battle between ships and galleys that the ships are victorious by reason of the high of heir tops, you must haul the yard up almost to the top of the mast, and at the extremity of the yard, that is the end which is turned towards the enemy, have a small cage fastened, wrapped up below and all round in a great mattress full of cotton so that it may not be injured by the bombs; then, with the capstan, haul down the opposite end of this yard and the top on the opposite side will go up so high, that it will be far above the round-top of the ship, and you will easily drive out the men that are in it. But it is necessary that the men who are in the galley should go to the opposite side of it so as to afford a counterpoise to the weight of the men placed inside the cage on the yard. 1116. If you want to build an armada for the sea employ these ships to ram in the enemy's ships. That is, make ships 100 feet long and 8 feet wide, but arranged so that the left hand rowers may have their oars to the right side of the ship, and the right hand ones to the left side, as is shown at M, so that the leverage of the oars may be longer. And the said ship may be one foot and a half thick, that is made with cross beams within and without, with planks in contrary directions. And this ship must have attached to it, a foot below the water, an iron-shod spike of about the weight and size of an anvil; and this, by force of oars may, after it has given the first blow, be drawn back, and driven forward again with fury give a second blow, and then a third, and so many as to destroy the other ship. The use of swimming belts. 1117. A METHOD OF ESCAPING IN A TEMPEST AND SHIPWRECK AT SEA. Have a coat made of leather, which must be double across the breast, that is having a hem on each side of about a finger breadth. Thus it will be double from the waist to the knee; and the leather must be quite air-tight. When you want to leap into the sea, blow out the skirt of your coat through the double hems of the breast; and jump into the sea, and allow yourself to be carried by the waves; when you see no shore near, give your attention to the sea you are in, and always keep in your mouth the air-tube which leads down into the coat; and if now and again you require to take a breath of fresh air, and the foam prevents you, you may draw a breath of the air within the coat. [Footnote: AMORETTI, _Memorie Storiche_, Tav. II. B. Fig. 5, gives the same figure, somewhat altered. 6. _La canna dell' aria_. Compare Vol. I. No. I. Note] On the gravity of water. 1118. If the weight of the sea bears on its bottom, a man, lying on that bottom and having l000 braccia of water on his back, would have enough to crush him. Diving apparatus and Skating (1119-1121). 1119. Of walking under water. Method of walking on water. [Footnote: The two sketches belonging to this passage are given by AMORETTI, _Memorie Storiche_. Tav. II, Fig. 3 and 4.] 1120. Just as on a frozen river a man may run without moving his feet, so a car might be made that would slide by itself. [Footnote: The drawings of carts by the side of this text have no direct connection with the problem as stated in words.--Compare No. 1448, l. 17.] 1121. A definition as to why a man who slides on ice does not fall. [Footnote: An indistinct sketch accompanies the passage, in the original.] On Flying machines (1122-1126). 1122. Man when flying must stand free from the waist upwards so as to be able to balance himself as he does in a boat so that the centre of gravity in himself and in the machine may counterbalance each other, and be shifted as necessity demands for the changes of its centre of resistance. 1123. Remember that your flying machine must imitate no other than the bat, because the web is what by its union gives the armour, or strength to the wings. If you imitate the wings of feathered birds, you will find a much stronger structure, because they are pervious; that is, their feathers are separate and the air passes through them. But the bat is aided by the web that connects the whole and is not pervious. 1124. TO ESCAPE THE PERIL OF DESTRUCTION. Destruction to such a machine may occur in two ways; of which the first is the breaking of the machine. The second would be when the machine should turn on its edge or nearly on its edge, because it ought always to descend in a highly oblique direction, and almost exactly balanced on its centre. As regards the first--the breaking of the machine--, that may be prevented by making it as strong as possible; and in whichever direction it may tend to turn over, one centre must be very far from the other; that is, in a machine 30 braccia long the centres must be 4 braccia one from the other. [Footnote: Compare No. 1428.] 1125. Bags by which a man falling from a height of 6 braccia may avoid hurting himself, by a fall whether into water or on the ground; and these bags, strung together like a rosary, are to be fixed on one's back. 1126. An object offers as much resistance to the air as the air does to the object. You may see that the beating of its wings against the air supports a heavy eagle in the highest and rarest atmosphere, close to the sphere of elemental fire. Again you may see the air in motion over the sea, fill the swelling sails and drive heavily laden ships. From these instances, and the reasons given, a man with wings large enough and duly connected might learn to overcome the resistance of the air, and by conquering it, succeed in subjugating it and rising above it. [Footnote: A parachute is here sketched, with an explanatory remark. It is reproduced on Tav. XVI in the Saggio, and in: _Leonardo da Vinci als Ingenieur etc., Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Technik und der induktiven Wissenschaften, von Dr. Hermann Grothe, Berlin_ 1874, p. 50.] Of mining. 1127. If you want to know where a mine runs, place a drum over all the places where you suspect that it is being made, and upon this drum put a couple of dice, and when you are over the spot where they are mining, the dice will jump a little on the drum at every blow which is given underground in the mining. There are persons who, having the convenience of a river or a lake in their lands, have made, close to the place where they suspect that a mine is being made, a great reservoir of water, and have countermined the enemy, and having found them, have turned the water upon them and destroyed a great number in the mine. Of Greek fire. 1128. GREEK FIRE. Take charcoal of willow, and saltpetre, and sulphuric acid, and sulphur, and pitch, with frankincense and camphor, and Ethiopian wool, and boil them all together. This fire is so ready to burn that it clings to the timbers even under water. And add to this composition liquid varnish, and bituminous oil, and turpentine and strong vinegar, and mix all together and dry it in the sun, or in an oven when the bread is taken out; and then stick it round hempen or other tow, moulding it into a round form, and studding it all over with very sharp nails. You must leave in this ball an opening to serve as a fusee, and cover it with rosin and sulphur. Again, this fire, stuck at the top of a long plank which has one braccio length of the end pointed with iron that it may not be burnt by the said fire, is good for avoiding and keeping off the ships, so as not to be overwhelmed by their onset. Again throw vessels of glass full of pitch on to the enemy's ships when the men in them are intent on the battle; and then by throwing similar burning balls upon them you have it in your power to burn all their ships. [Footnote: Venturi has given another short text about the Greek fire in a French translation (Essai Section XIV). He adds that the original text is to be found in MS. B. 30 (?). Libri speaks of it in a note as follows (_Histoire des sciences mathematiques en Italie Vol. II_ p. 129): _La composition du feu gregeois est une des chases qui ont ete les plus cherchees et qui sont encore les plus douteuses. On dit qu'il fut invente au septieme siecle de l'ere chretienne par l'architecte Callinique (Constantini Porphyrogenetae opera, Lugd. Batav._ 1617,-- _in-_8vo; p. 172, _de admin, imper. exp._ 48_), et il se trouve souvent mentionne par les Historiens Byzantins. Tantot on le langait avec des machines, comme on lancerait une banche, tantot on le soufflait avec de longs tubes, comme on soufflerait un gaz ou un liquide enflamme (Annae Comnenae Alexias_, p. 335, _lib. XI.--Aeliani et Leonis, imperatoris tactica, Lugd.-Bat._ 1613, _in_-4. part. 2 a, p. 322, _Leonis tact. cap._ l9.--_Joinville, histoire du Saint Louis collect. Petitot tom. II,_ p. 235). _Les ecrivains contemporains disent que l'eau ne pouvait pas eteindre ce feu, mais qu'avec du vinaigre et du sable on y parvenait. Suivant quelques historiens le feu gregeois etait compose de soufre et de resine. Marcus Graecus (Liber ignium, Paris,_ 1804, _in_-40_) donne plusieurs manieres de le faire qui ne sont pas tres intelligibles, mais parmi lesquelles on trouve la composition de la poudre a canon. Leonard de Vinci (MSS. de Leonard de Vinci, vol. B. f. 30,) dit qu'on le faisait avec du charbon de saule, du salpetre, de l'eau de vie, de la resine, du soufre, de la poix et du camphre. Mais il est probable que nous ne savons pas qu'elle etait sa composition, surtout a cause du secret qu'en faisaient les Grecs. En effet, l'empereur Constantin Porphyrogenete recommende a son fils de ne jamais en donner aux Barbares, et de leur repondre, s'ils en demandaient, qu'il avait ete apporti du ciel par un ange et que le secret en avait ete confie aux Chretiens (Constantini Porphyrogennetae opera,_ p. 26-27, _de admin. imper., cap. _12_)._] Of Music (1129. 1130). 1129. A drum with cogs working by wheels with springs [2]. [Footnote: This chapter consists of explanations of the sketches shown on Pl. CXXI. Lines 1 and 2 of the text are to be seen at the top at the left hand side of the first sketch of a drum. Lines 3-5 refer to the sketch immediately below this. Line 6 is written as the side of the seventh sketch, and lines 7 and 8 at the side of the eighth. Lines 9-16 are at the bottom in the middle. The remainder of the text is at the side of the drawing at the bottom.] A square drum of which the parchment may be drawn tight or slackened by the lever _a b_ [5]. A drum for harmony [6]. [7] A clapper for harmony; that is, three clappers together. [9] Just as one and the same drum makes a deep or acute sound according as the parchments are more or less tightened, so these parchments variously tightened on one and the same drum will make various sounds [16]. Keys narrow and close together; (bicchi) far apart; these will be right for the trumpet shown above. _a_ must enter in the place of the ordinary keys which have the ... in the openings of a flute. 1130. Tymbals to be played like the monochord, or the soft flute. [6] Here there is to be a cylinder of cane after the manner of clappers with a musical round called a Canon, which is sung in four parts; each singer singing the whole round. Therefore I here make a wheel with 4 teeth so that each tooth takes by itself the part of a singer. [Footnote: In the original there are some more sketches, to which the text, from line 6, refers. They are studies for a contrivance exactly like the cylinder in our musical boxes.] 1131. Of decorations. White and sky-blue cloths, woven in checks to make a decoration. Cloths with the threads drawn at _a b c d e f g h i k_, to go round the decoration. _XIX._ _Philosophical Maxims. Morals. Polemics and Speculations_. _Vasari indulges in severe strictures on Leonardo's religious views. He speaks, among other things, of his_ "capricci nel filosofar delle cose naturali" _and says on this point:_ "Per il che fece nell'animo un concetto si eretico che e' non si accostava a qualsi voglia religione, stimando per avventura assai piu lo esser filosofo che cristiano" _(see the first edition of_ 'Le Vite'_). But this accusation on the part of a writer in the days of the Inquisition is not a very serious one--and the less so, since, throughout the manuscripts, we find nothing to support it._ _Under the heading of "Philosophical Maxims" I have collected all the passages which can give us a clear comprehension of Leonardo's ideas of the world at large. It is scarcely necessary to observe that there is absolutely nothing in them to lead to the inference that he was an atheist. His views of nature and its laws are no doubt very unlike those of his contemporaries, and have a much closer affinity to those which find general acceptance at the present day. On the other hand, it is obvious from Leonardo's will (see No._ 1566_) that, in the year before his death, he had professed to adhere to the fundamental doctrines of the Roman Catholic faith, and this evidently from his own personal desire and impulse._ _The incredible and demonstrably fictitious legend of Leonardo's death in the arms of Francis the First, is given, with others, by Vasari and further embellished by this odious comment:_ "Mostrava tuttavia quanto avea offeso Dio e gli uomini del mondo, non avendo operato nell'arte come si conveniva." _This last accusation, it may be remarked, is above all evidence of the superficial character of the information which Vasari was in a position to give about Leonardo. It seems to imply that Leonardo was disdainful of diligent labour. With regard to the second, referring to Leonardo's morality and dealings with his fellow men, Vasari himself nullifies it by asserting the very contrary in several passages. A further refutation may be found in the following sentence from the letter in which Melsi, the young Milanese nobleman, announces the Master's death to Leonardo's brothers:_ Credo siate certificati della morte di Maestro Lionardo fratello vostro, e mio quanto optimo padre, per la cui morte sarebbe impossibile che io potesse esprimere il dolore che io ho preso; e in mentre che queste mia membra si sosterranno insieme, io possedero una perpetua infelicita, e meritamente perche sviscerato et ardentissimo amore mi portava giornalmente. E dolto ad ognuno la perdita di tal uomo, quale non e piu in podesta della natura, ecc. _It is true that, in April_ 1476, _we find the names of Leonardo and Verrocchio entered in the_ "Libro degli Uffiziali di notte e de' Monasteri" _as breaking the laws; but we immediately after find the note_ "Absoluti cum condizione ut retamburentur" (Tamburini _was the name given to the warrant cases of the night police). The acquittal therefore did not exclude the possibility of a repetition of the charge. It was in fact repeated, two months later, and on this occasion the Master and his pupil were again fully acquitted. Verrocchio was at this time forty and Leonardo four-and-twenty. The documents referring to this affair are in the State Archives of Florence; they have been withheld from publication, but it seemed to me desirable to give the reader this brief account of the leading facts of the story, as the vague hints of it, which have recently been made public, may have given to the incident an aspect which it had not in reality, and which it does not deserve._ _The passages here classed under the head "Morals" reveal Leonardo to us as a man whose life and conduct were unfailingly governed by lofty principles and aims. He could scarcely have recorded his stern reprobation and unmeasured contempt for men who do nothing useful and strive only for riches, if his own life and ambitions had been such as they have so often been misrepresented._ _At a period like that, when superstition still exercised unlimited dominion over the minds not merely of the illiterate crowd, but of the cultivated and learned classes, it was very natural that Leonardo's views as to Alchemy, Ghosts, Magicians, and the like should be met with stern reprobation whenever and wherever he may have expressed them; this accounts for the argumentative tone of all his utterances on such subjects which I have collected in Subdivision III of this section. To these I have added some passages which throw light on Leonardo's personal views on the Universe. They are, without exception, characterised by a broad spirit of naturalism of which the principles are more strictly applied in his essays on Astronomy, and still more on Physical Geography._ _To avoid repetition, only such notes on Philosophy, Morals and Polemics, have been included in this section as occur as independent texts in the original MSS. Several moral reflections have already been given in Vol. I, in section "Allegorical representations, Mottoes and Emblems". Others will be found in the following section. Nos._ 9 _to_ 12, _Vol. I, are also passages of an argumentative character. It did not seem requisite to repeat here these and similar passages, since their direct connection with the context is far closer in places where they have appeared already, than it would be here._ I. PHILOSOPHICAL MAXIMS. Prayers to God (1132. 1133). 1132. I obey Thee Lord, first for the love I ought, in all reason to bear Thee; secondly for that Thou canst shorten or prolong the lives of men. 1133. A PRAYER. Thou, O God, dost sell us all good things at the price of labour. The powers of Nature (1134-1139). 1134. O admirable impartiality of Thine, Thou first Mover; Thou hast not permitted that any force should fail of the order or quality of its necessary results. 1135. Necessity is the mistress and guide of nature. Necessity is the theme and the inventress, the eternal curb and law of nature. 1136. In many cases one and the same thing is attracted by two strong forces, namely Necessity and Potency. Water falls in rain; the earth absorbs it from the necessity for moisture; and the sun evaporates it, not from necessity, but by its power. 1137. Weight, force and casual impulse, together with resistance, are the four external powers in which all the visible actions of mortals have their being and their end. 1138. Our body is dependant on heaven and heaven on the Spirit. 1139. The motive power is the cause of all life. Psychology (1140-1147). 1140. And you, O Man, who will discern in this work of mine the wonderful works of Nature, if you think it would be a criminal thing to destroy it, reflect how much more criminal it is to take the life of a man; and if this, his external form, appears to thee marvellously constructed, remember that it is nothing as compared with the soul that dwells in that structure; for that indeed, be it what it may, is a thing divine. Leave it then to dwell in His work at His good will and pleasure, and let not your rage or malice destroy a life--for indeed, he who does not value it, does not himself deserve it [Footnote 19: In MS. II 15a is the note: _chi no stima la vita, non la merita._]. [Footnote: This text is on the back of the drawings reproduced on Pl. CVII. Compare No. 798, 35 note on p. 111: Compare also No. 837 and 838.] 1141. The soul can never be corrupted with the corruption of the body,, but is in the body as it were the air which causes the sound of the organ, where when a pipe bursts, the wind would cease to have any good effect. [Footnote: Compare No. 845.] 1142. The part always has a tendency to reunite with its whole in order to escape from its imperfection. The spirit desires to remain with its body, because, without the organic instruments of that body, it can neither act, nor feel anything. 1143. If any one wishes to see how the soul dwells in its body, let him observe how this body uses its daily habitation; that is to say, if this is devoid of order and confused, the body will be kept in disorder and confusion by its soul. 1144. Why does the eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than with the imagination being awake? 1145. The senses are of the earth; Reason, stands apart in contemplation. [Footnote: Compare No. 842.] 1146. Every action needs to be prompted by a motive. To know and to will are two operations of the human mind. Discerning, judging, deliberating are acts of the human mind. 1147. All our knowledge has its origin in our preceptions. Science, its principles and rules (1148--1161) 1148. Science is the observation of things possible, whether present or past; prescience is the knowledge of things which may come to pass, though but slowly. 1149. Experience, the interpreter between formative nature and the human race, teaches how that nature acts among mortals; and being constrained by necessity cannot act otherwise than as reason, which is its helm, requires her to act. 1150. Wisdom is the daughter of experience. 1151. Nature is full of infinite causes that have never occured in experience. 1152. Truth was the only daughter of Time. 1153. Experience never errs; it is only your judgments that err by promising themselves effects such as are not caused by your experiments. Experience does not err; only your judgments err by expecting from her what is not in her power. Men wrongly complain of Experience; with great abuse they accuse her of leading them astray but they set Experience aside, turning from it with complaints as to our ignorance causing us to be carried away by vain and foolish desires to promise ourselves, in her name, things that are not in her power; saying that she is fallacious. Men are unjust in complaining of innocent Experience, constantly accusing her of error and of false evidence. 1154. Instrumental or mechanical science is of all the noblest and the most useful, seeing that by means of this all animated bodies that have movement perform all their actions; and these movements are based on the centre of gravity which is placed in the middle dividing unequal weights, and it has dearth and wealth of muscles and also lever and counterlever. 1155. OF MECHANICS. Mechanics are the Paradise of mathematical science, because here we come to the fruits of mathematics. [Footnote: Compare No. 660, 11. 19--22 (Vol. I., p. 332). 1156. Every instrument requires to be made by experience. 1157. The man who blames the supreme certainty of mathematics feeds on confusion, and can never silence the contradictions of sophistical sciences which lead to an eternal quackery. 1158. There is no certainty in sciences where one of the mathematical sciences cannot be applied, or which are not in relation with these mathematics. 1159. Any one who in discussion relies upon authority uses, not his understanding, but rather his memory. Good culture is born of a good disposition; and since the cause is more to be praised than the effect, I will rather praise a good disposition without culture, than good culture without the disposition. 1160. Science is the captain, and practice the soldiers. 1161. OF THE ERRORS OF THOSE WHO DEPEND ON PRACTICE WITHOUT SCIENCE. Those who fall in love with practice without science are like a sailor who enters a ship without a helm or a compass, and who never can be certain whither he is going. II. MORALS. What is life? (1162. 1163). 1162. Now you see that the hope and the desire of returning home and to one's former state is like the moth to the light, and that the man who with constant longing awaits with joy each new spring time, each new summer, each new month and new year--deeming that the things he longs for are ever too late in coming--does not perceive that he is longing for his own destruction. But this desire is the very quintessence, the spirit of the elements, which finding itself imprisoned with the soul is ever longing to return from the human body to its giver. And you must know that this same longing is that quintessence, inseparable from nature, and that man is the image of the world. 1163. O Time! consumer of all things; O envious age! thou dost destroy all things and devour all things with the relentless teeth of years, little by little in a slow death. Helen, when she looked in her mirror, seeing the withered wrinkles made in her face by old age, wept and wondered why she had twice been carried away. O Time! consumer of all things, and O envious age! by which all things are all devoured. Death. 1164. Every evil leaves behind a grief in our memory, except the supreme evil, that is death, which destroys this memory together with life. How to spend life (1165-1170). 1165. 0 sleepers! what a thing is slumber! Sleep resembles death. Ah, why then dost thou not work in such wise as that after death thou mayst retain a resemblance to perfect life, when, during life, thou art in sleep so like to the hapless dead? [Footnote: Compare No. 676, Vol. I. p. 353.] 1166. One pushes down the other. By these square-blocks are meant the life and the studies of men. 1167. The knowledge of past times and of the places on the earth is both an ornament and nutriment to the human mind. 1168. To lie is so vile, that even if it were in speaking well of godly things it would take off something from God's grace; and Truth is so excellent, that if it praises but small things they become noble. Beyond a doubt truth bears the same relation to falsehood as light to darkness; and this truth is in itself so excellent that, even when it dwells on humble and lowly matters, it is still infinitely above uncertainty and lies, disguised in high and lofty discourses; because in our minds, even if lying should be their fifth element, this does not prevent that the truth of things is the chief nutriment of superior intellects, though not of wandering wits. But you who live in dreams are better pleased by the sophistical reasons and frauds of wits in great and uncertain things, than by those reasons which are certain and natural and not so far above us. 1169. Avoid studies of which the result dies with the worker. 1170. Men are in error when they lament the flight of time, accusing it of being too swift, and not perceiving that it is sufficient as it passes; but good memory, with which nature has endowed us, causes things long past to seem present. 1171. Learning acquired in youth arrests the evil of old age; and if you understand that old age has wisdom for its food, you will so conduct yourself in youth that your old age will not lack for nourishment. 1172. The acquisition of any knowledge is always of use to the intellect, because it may thus drive out useless things and retain the good. For nothing can be loved or hated unless it is first known. 1173. As a day well spent procures a happy sleep, so a life well employed procures a happy death. 1174. The water you touch in a river is the last of that which has passed, and the first of that which is coming. Thus it is with time present. Life if well spent, is long. 1175. Just as food eaten without caring for it is turned into loathsome nourishment, so study without a taste for it spoils memory, by retaining nothing which it has taken in. 1176. Just as eating against one's will is injurious to health, so study without a liking for it spoils the memory, and it retains nothing it takes in. 1177. On Mount Etna the words freeze in your mouth and you may make ice of them.[Footnote 2: There is no clue to explain this strange sentence.] Just as iron rusts unless it is used, and water putrifies or, in cold, turns to ice, so our intellect spoils unless it is kept in use. You do ill if you praise, and still worse if you reprove in a matter you do not understand. When Fortune comes, seize her in front with a sure hand, because behind she is bald. 1178. It seems to me that men of coarse and clumsy habits and of small knowledge do not deserve such fine instruments nor so great a variety of natural mechanism as men of speculation and of great knowledge; but merely a sack in which their food may be stowed and whence it may issue, since they cannot be judged to be any thing else than vehicles for food; for it seems to me they have nothing about them of the human species but the voice and the figure, and for all the rest are much below beasts. 1179. Some there are who are nothing else than a passage for food and augmentors of excrement and fillers of privies, because through them no other things in the world, nor any good effects are produced, since nothing but full privies results from them. On foolishness and ignorance (1180--1182). 1180. The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions. 1181. Folly is the shield of shame, as unreadiness is that of poverty glorified. 1182. Blind ignorance misleads us thus and delights with the results of lascivious joys. Because it does not know the true light. Because it does not know what is the true light. Vain splendour takes from us the power of being .... behold! for its vain splendour we go into the fire, thus blind ignorance does mislead us. That is, blind ignorance so misleads us that ... O! wretched mortals, open your eyes. On riches (1183--1187). 1183. That is not riches, which may be lost; virtue is our true good and the true reward of its possessor. That cannot be lost; that never deserts us, but when life leaves us. As to property and external riches, hold them with trembling; they often leave their possessor in contempt, and mocked at for having lost them. 1184. Every man wishes to make money to give it to the doctors, destroyers of life; they then ought to be rich. [Footnote 2: Compare No. 856.] Man has much power of discourse which for the most part is vain and false; animals have but little, but it is useful and true, and a small truth is better than a great lie. 1185. He who possesses most must be most afraid of loss. 1186. He who wishes to be rich in a day will be hanged in a year. 1187. That man is of supreme folly who always wants for fear of wanting; and his life flies away while he is still hoping to enjoy the good things which he has with extreme labour acquired. Rules of Life (1188-1202). 1188. If you governed your body by the rules of virtue you would not walk on all fours in this world. You grow in reputation like bread in the hands of a child. [Footnote: The first sentence is obscure. Compare Nos. 825, 826.] 1189. Savage he is who saves himself. 1190. We ought not to desire the impossible. [Footnote: The writing of this note, which is exceedingly minute, is reproduced in facsimile on Pl. XLI No. 5 above the first diagram. 1191. Ask counsel of him who rules himself well. Justice requires power, insight, and will; and it resembles the queen-bee. He who does not punish evil commands it to be done. He who takes the snake by the tail will presently be bitten by it. The grave will fall in upon him who digs it. 1192. The man who does not restrain wantonness, allies himself with beasts. You can have no dominion greater or less than that over yourself. He who thinks little, errs much. It is easier to contend with evil at the first than at the last. No counsel is more loyal than that given on ships which are in peril: He may expect loss who acts on the advice of an inexperienced youth. 1193. Where there is most feeling, there is the greatest martyrdom;--a great martyr. 1194. The memory of benefits is a frail defence against ingratitude. Reprove your friend in secret and praise him openly. Be not false about the past. 1195. A SIMILE FOR PATIENCE. Patience serves us against insults precisely as clothes do against the cold. For if you multiply your garments as the cold increases, that cold cannot hurt you; in the same way increase your patience under great offences, and they cannot hurt your feelings. 1196. To speak well of a base man is much the same as speaking ill of a good man. 1197. Envy wounds with false accusations, that is with detraction, a thing which scares virtue. 1198. We are deceived by promises and time disappoints us ... [Footnote 2: The rest of this passage may be rendered in various ways, but none of them give a satisfactory meaning.] 1199. Fear arises sooner than any thing else. 1200. Just as courage imperils life, fear protects it. Threats alone are the weapons of the threatened man. Wherever good fortune enters, envy lays siege to the place and attacks it; and when it departs, sorrow and repentance remain behind. He who walks straight rarely falls. It is bad if you praise, and worse if you reprove a thing, I mean, if you do not understand the matter well. It is ill to praise, and worse to reprimand in matters that you do not understand. 1201. Words which do not satisfy the ear of the hearer weary him or vex him, and the symptoms of this you will often see in such hearers in their frequent yawns; you therefore, who speak before men whose good will you desire, when you see such an excess of fatigue, abridge your speech, or change your discourse; and if you do otherwise, then instead of the favour you desire, you will get dislike and hostility. And if you would see in what a man takes pleasure, without hearing him speak, change the subject of your discourse in talking to him, and when you presently see him intent, without yawning or wrinkling his brow or other actions of various kinds, you may be certain that the matter of which you are speaking is such as is agreeable to him &c. 1202. The lover is moved by the beloved object as the senses are by sensible objects; and they unite and become one and the same thing. The work is the first thing born of this union; if the thing loved is base the lover becomes base. When the thing taken into union is perfectly adapted to that which receives it, the result is delight and pleasure and satisfaction. When that which loves is united to the thing beloved it can rest there; when the burden is laid down it finds rest there. Politics (1203. 1204). 1203. There will be eternal fame also for the inhabitants of that town, constructed and enlarged by him. All communities obey and are led by their magnates, and these magnates ally themselves with the lords and subjugate them in two ways: either by consanguinity, or by fortune; by consanguinity, when their children are, as it were, hostages, and a security and pledge of their suspected fidelity; by property, when you make each of these build a house or two inside your city which may yield some revenue and he shall have...; 10 towns, five thousand houses with thirty thousand inhabitants, and you will disperse this great congregation of people which stand like goats one behind the other, filling every place with fetid smells and sowing seeds of pestilence and death; And the city will gain beauty worthy of its name and to you it will be useful by its revenues, and the eternal fame of its aggrandizement. [Footnote: These notes were possibly written in preparation for a letter. The meaning is obscure.] 1204. To preserve Nature's chiefest boon, that is freedom, I can find means of offence and defence, when it is assailed by ambitious tyrants, and first I will speak of the situation of the walls, and also I shall show how communities can maintain their good and just Lords. [Footnote: Compare No. 1266.] III. POLEMICS.--SPECULATION. Against Speculators (1205. 1206). 1205. Oh! speculators on things, boast not of knowing the things that nature ordinarily brings about; but rejoice if you know the end of those things which you yourself devise. 1206. Oh! speculators on perpetual motion how many vain projects of the like character you have created! Go and be the companions of the searchers for gold. [Footnote: Another short passage in MS. I, referring also to speculators, is given by LIBRI (_Hist, des Sciences math._ III, 228): _Sicche voi speculatori non vi fidate delli autori che anno sol col immaginatione voluto farsi interpreti tra la natura e l'omo, ma sol di quelli che non coi cienni della natura, ma cogli effetti delle sue esperienze anno esercitati i loro ingegni._] Against alchemists (1207. 1208). 1207. The false interpreters of nature declare that quicksilver is the common seed of every metal, not remembering that nature varies the seed according to the variety of the things she desires to produce in the world. 1208. And many have made a trade of delusions and false miracles, deceiving the stupid multitude. Against friars. 1209. Pharisees--that is to say, friars. [Footnote: Compare No. 837, 11. 54-57, No. 1296 (p. 363 and 364), and No. 1305 (p. 370).] Against writers of epitomes. 1210. Abbreviators do harm to knowledge and to love, seeing that the love of any thing is the offspring of this knowledge, the love being the more fervent in proportion as the knowledge is more certain. And this certainty is born of a complete knowledge of all the parts, which, when combined, compose the totality of the thing which ought to be loved. Of what use then is he who abridges the details of those matters of which he professes to give thorough information, while he leaves behind the chief part of the things of which the whole is composed? It is true that impatience, the mother of stupidity, praises brevity, as if such persons had not life long enough to serve them to acquire a complete knowledge of one single subject, such as the human body; and then they want to comprehend the mind of God in which the universe is included, weighing it minutely and mincing it into infinite parts, as if they had to dissect it! Oh! human stupidity, do you not perceive that, though you have been with yourself all your life, you are not yet aware of the thing you possess most of, that is of your folly? and then, with the crowd of sophists, you deceive yourselves and others, despising the mathematical sciences, in which truth dwells and the knowledge of the things included in them. And then you occupy yourself with miracles, and write that you possess information of those things of which the human mind is incapable and which cannot be proved by any instance from nature. And you fancy you have wrought miracles when you spoil a work of some speculative mind, and do not perceive that you are falling into the same error as that of a man who strips a tree of the ornament of its branches covered with leaves mingled with the scented blossoms or fruit....... [Footnote 48: _Givstino_, Marcus Junianus Justinus, a Roman historian of the second century, who compiled an epitome from the general history written by Trogus Pompeius, who lived in the time of Augustus. The work of the latter writer no longer exist.] as Justinus did, in abridging the histories written by Trogus Pompeius, who had written in an ornate style all the worthy deeds of his forefathers, full of the most admirable and ornamental passages; and so composed a bald work worthy only of those impatient spirits, who fancy they are losing as much time as that which they employ usefully in studying the works of nature and the deeds of men. But these may remain in company of beasts; among their associates should be dogs and other animals full of rapine and they may hunt with them after...., and then follow helpless beasts, which in time of great snows come near to your houses asking alms as from their master.... On spirits (1211--1213). 1211. O mathematicians shed light on this error. The spirit has no voice, because where there is a voice there is a body, and where there is a body space is occupied, and this prevents the eye from seeing what is placed behind that space; hence the surrounding air is filled by the body, that is by its image. 1212. There can be no voice where there is no motion or percussion of the air; there can be no percussion of the air where there is no instrument, there can be no instrument without a body; and this being so, a spirit can have neither voice, nor form, nor strength. And if it were to assume a body it could not penetrate nor enter where the passages are closed. And if any one should say that by air, compressed and compacted together, a spirit may take bodies of various forms and by this means speak and move with strength--to him I reply that when there are neither nerves nor bones there can be no force exercised in any kind of movement made by such imaginary spirits. Beware of the teaching of these speculators, because their reasoning is not confirmed by experience. 1213. Of all human opinions that is to be reputed the most foolish which deals with the belief in Necromancy, the sister of Alchemy, which gives birth to simple and natural things. But it is all the more worthy of reprehension than alchemy, because it brings forth nothing but what is like itself, that is, lies; this does not happen in Alchemy which deals with simple products of nature and whose function cannot be exercised by nature itself, because it has no organic instruments with which it can work, as men do by means of their hands, who have produced, for instance, glass &c. but this Necromancy the flag and flying banner, blown by the winds, is the guide of the stupid crowd which is constantly witness to the dazzling and endless effects of this art; and there are books full, declaring that enchantments and spirits can work and speak without tongues and without organic instruments-- without which it is impossible to speak-- and can carry heaviest weights and raise storms and rain; and that men can be turned into cats and wolves and other beasts, although indeed it is those who affirm these things who first became beasts. And surely if this Necromancy did exist, as is believed by small wits, there is nothing on the earth that would be of so much importance alike for the detriment and service of men, if it were true that there were in such an art a power to disturb the calm serenity of the air, converting it into darkness and making coruscations or winds, with terrific thunder and lightnings rushing through the darkness, and with violent storms overthrowing high buildings and rooting up forests; and thus to oppose armies, crushing and annihilating them; and, besides these frightful storms may deprive the peasants of the reward of their labours.--Now what kind of warfare is there to hurt the enemy so much as to deprive him of the harvest? What naval warfare could be compared with this? I say, the man who has power to command the winds and to make ruinous gales by which any fleet may be submerged, --surely a man who could command such violent forces would be lord of the nations, and no human ingenuity could resist his crushing force. The hidden treasures and gems reposing in the body of the earth would all be made manifest to him. No lock nor fortress, though impregnable, would be able to save any one against the will of the necromancer. He would have himself carried through the air from East to West and through all the opposite sides of the universe. But why should I enlarge further upon this? What is there that could not be done by such a craftsman? Almost nothing, except to escape death. Hereby I have explained in part the mischief and the usefulness, contained in this art, if it is real; and if it is real why has it not remained among men who desire it so much, having nothing to do with any deity? For I know that there are numberless people who would, to satisfy a whim, destroy God and all the universe; and if this necromancy, being, as it were, so necessary to men, has not been left among them, it can never have existed, nor will it ever exist according to the definition of the spirit, which is invisible in substance; for within the elements there are no incorporate things, because where there is no body, there is a vacuum; and no vacuum can exist in the elements because it would be immediately filled up. Turn over. 1214. OF SPIRITS. We have said, on the other side of this page, that the definition of a spirit is a power conjoined to a body; because it cannot move of its own accord, nor can it have any kind of motion in space; and if you were to say that it moves itself, this cannot be within the elements. For, if the spirit is an incorporeal quantity, this quantity is called a vacuum, and a vacuum does not exist in nature; and granting that one were formed, it would be immediately filled up by the rushing in of the element in which the vacuum had been generated. Therefore, from the definition of weight, which is this--Gravity is an accidental power, created by one element being drawn to or suspended in another--it follows that an element, not weighing anything compared with itself, has weight in the element above it and lighter than it; as we see that the parts of water have no gravity or levity compared with other water, but if you draw it up into the air, then it would acquire weight, and if you were to draw the air beneath the water then the water which remains above this air would acquire weight, which weight could not sustain itself by itself, whence collapse is inevitable. And this happens in water; wherever the vacuum may be in this water it will fall in; and this would happen with a spirit amid the elements, where it would continuously generate a vacuum in whatever element it might find itself, whence it would be inevitable that it should be constantly flying towards the sky until it had quitted these elements. AS TO WHETHER A SPIRIT HAS A BODY AMID THE ELEMENTS. We have proved that a spirit cannot exist of itself amid the elements without a body, nor can it move of itself by voluntary motion unless it be to rise upwards. But now we will say how such a spirit taking an aerial body would be inevitably melt into air; because if it remained united, it would be separated and fall to form a vacuum, as is said above; therefore it is inevitable, if it is to be able to remain suspended in the air, that it should absorb a certain quantity of air; and if it were mingled with the air, two difficulties arise; that is to say: It must rarefy that portion of the air with which it mingles; and for this cause the rarefied air must fly up of itself and will not remain among the air that is heavier than itself; and besides this the subtle spiritual essence disunites itself, and its nature is modified, by which that nature loses some of its first virtue. Added to these there is a third difficulty, and this is that such a body formed of air assumed by the spirits is exposed to the penetrating winds, which are incessantly sundering and dispersing the united portions of the air, revolving and whirling amidst the rest of the atmosphere; therefore the spirit which is infused in this 1215. air would be dismembered or rent and broken up with the rending of the air into which it was incorporated. AS TO WHETHER THE SPIRIT, HAVING TAKEN THIS BODY OF AIR, CAN MOVE OF ITSELF OR NOT. It is impossible that the spirit infused into a certain quantity of air, should move this air; and this is proved by the above passage where it is said: the spirit rarefies that portion of the air in which it incorporates itself; therefore this air will rise high above the other air and there will be a motion of the air caused by its lightness and not by a voluntary movement of the spirit, and if this air is encountered by the wind, according to the 3rd of this, the air will be moved by the wind and not by the spirit incorporated in it. AS TO WHETHER THE SPIRIT CAN SPEAK OR NOT. In order to prove whether the spirit can speak or not, it is necessary in the first place to define what a voice is and how it is generated; and we will say that the voice is, as it were, the movement of air in friction against a dense body, or a dense body in friction against the air,--which is the same thing. And this friction of the dense and the rare condenses the rare and causes resistance; again, the rare, when in swift motion, and the rare in slow motion condense each other when they come in contact and make a noise and very great uproar; and the sound or murmur made by the rare moving through the rare with only moderate swiftness, like a great flame generating noises in the air; and the tremendous uproar made by the rare mingling with the rare, and when that air which is both swift and rare rushes into that which is itself rare and in motion, it is like the flame of fire which issues from a big gun and striking against the air; and again when a flame issues from the cloud, there is a concussion in the air as the bolt is generated. Therefore we may say that the spirit cannot produce a voice without movement of the air, and air in it there is none, nor can it emit what it has not; and if desires to move that air in which it is incorporated, it is necessary that the spirit should multiply itself, and that cannot multiply which has no quantity. And in the 4th place it is said that no rare body can move, if it has not a stable spot, whence it may take its motion; much more is it so when an element has to move within its own element, which does not move of itself, excepting by uniform evaporation at the centre of the thing evaporated; as occurs in a sponge squeezed in the hand held under water; the water escapes in every direction with equal movement through the openings between the fingers of the hand in which it is squeezed. As to whether the spirit has an articulate voice, and whether the spirit can be heard, and what hearing is, and seeing; the wave of the voice passes through the air as the images of objects pass to the eye. Nonentity. 1216. Every quantity is intellectually conceivable as infinitely divisible. [Amid the vastness of the things among which we live, the existence of nothingness holds the first place; its function extends over all things that have no existence, and its essence, as regards time, lies precisely between the past and the future, and has nothing in the present. This nothingness has the part equal to the whole, and the whole to the part, the divisible to the indivisible; and the product of the sum is the same whether we divide or multiply, and in addition as in subtraction; as is proved by arithmeticians by their tenth figure which represents zero; and its power has not extension among the things of Nature.] [What is called Nothingness is to be found only in time and in speech. In time it stands between the past and future and has no existence in the present; and thus in speech it is one of the things of which we say: They are not, or they are impossible.] With regard to time, nothingness lies between the past and the future, and has nothing to do with the present, and as to its nature it is to be classed among things impossible: hence, from what has been said, it has no existence; because where there is nothing there would necessarily be a vacuum. [Footnote: Compare No. 916.] Reflections on Nature (1217-1219). 1217. EXAMPLE OF THE LIGHTNING IN CLOUDS. [O mighty and once living instrument of formative nature. Incapable of availing thyself of thy vast strength thou hast to abandon a life of stillness and to obey the law which God and time gave to procreative nature.] Ah! how many a time the shoals of terrified dolphins and the huge tunny-fish were seen to flee before thy cruel fury, to escape; whilst thy fulminations raised in the sea a sudden tempest with buffeting and submersion of ships in the great waves; and filling the uncovered shores with the terrified and desperate fishes which fled from thee, and left by the sea, remained in spots where they became the abundant prey of the people in the neighbourhood. O time, swift robber of all created things, how many kings, how many nations hast thou undone, and how many changes of states and of various events have happened since the wondrous forms of this fish perished here in this cavernous and winding recess. Now destroyed by time thou liest patiently in this confined space with bones stripped and bare; serving as a support and prop for the superimposed mountain. [Footnote: The character of the handwriting points to an early period of Leonardo's life. It has become very indistinct, and is at present exceedingly difficult to decipher. Some passages remain doubtful.] [Footnote: Compare No. 1339, written on the same sheet.] 1218. The watery element was left enclosed between the raised banks of the rivers, and the sea was seen between the uplifted earth and the surrounding air which has to envelope and enclose the complicated machine of the earth, and whose mass, standing between the water and the element of fire, remained much restricted and deprived of its indispensable moisture; the rivers will be deprived of their waters, the fruitful earth will put forth no more her light verdure; the fields will no more be decked with waving corn; all the animals, finding no fresh grass for pasture, will die and food will then be lacking to the lions and wolves and other beasts of prey, and to men who after many efforts will be compelled to abandon their life, and the human race will die out. In this way the fertile and fruitful earth will remain deserted, arid and sterile from the water being shut up in its interior, and from the activity of nature it will continue a little time to increase until the cold and subtle air being gone, it will be forced to end with the element of fire; and then its surface will be left burnt up to cinder and this will be the end of all terrestrial nature. [Footnote: Compare No. 1339, written on the same sheet.] 1219. Why did nature not ordain that one animal should not live by the death of another? Nature, being inconstant and taking pleasure in creating and making constantly new lives and forms, because she knows that her terrestrial materials become thereby augmented, is more ready and more swift in her creating, than time in his destruction; and so she has ordained that many animals shall be food for others. Nay, this not satisfying her desire, to the same end she frequently sends forth certain poisonous and pestilential vapours upon the vast increase and congregation of animals; and most of all upon men, who increase vastly because other animals do not feed upon them; and, the causes being removed, the effects would not follow. This earth therefore seeks to lose its life, desiring only continual reproduction; and as, by the argument you bring forward and demonstrate, like effects always follow like causes, animals are the image of the world. _XX._ _Humorous Writings._ _Just as Michaelangelo's occasional poems reflect his private life as well as the general disposition of his mind, we may find in the writings collected in this section, the transcript of Leonardo's fanciful nature, and we should probably not be far wrong in assuming, that he himself had recited these fables in the company of his friends or at the court festivals of princes and patrons._ Era tanto piacevole nella conversazione-- _so relates Vasari_--che tirava a se gli animi delle genti. _And Paulus Jovius says in his short biography of the artist:_ Fuit ingenio valde comi, nitido, liberali, vultu autem longe venustissimo, et cum elegantiae omnis deliciarumque maxime theatralium mirificus inventor ac arbiter esset, ad lyramque scito caneret, cunctis per omnem aetatem principibus mire placuit. _There can be no doubt that the fables are the original offspring of Leonardo's brain, and not borrowed from any foreign source; indeed the schemes and plans for the composition of fables collected in division V seem to afford an external proof of this, if the fables themselves did not render it self-evident. Several of them-- for instance No._ l279--_are so strikingly characteristic of Leonardo's views of natural science that we cannot do them justice till we are acquainted with his theories on such subjects; and this is equally true of the 'Prophecies'_. _I have prefixed to these quaint writings the 'Studies on the life and habits of animals' which are singular from their peculiar aphoristic style, and I have transcribed them in exactly the order in which they are written in MS. H. This is one of the very rare instances in which one subject is treated in a consecutive series of notes, all in one MS., and Leonardo has also departed from his ordinary habits, by occasionally not completing the text on the page it is begun. These brief notes of a somewhat mysterious bearing have been placed here, simply because they may possibly have been intended to serve as hints for fables or allegories. They can scarcely be regarded as preparatory for a natural history, rather they would seem to be extracts. On the one hand the names of some of the animals seem to prove that Leonardo could not here be recording observations of his own; on the other hand the notes on their habits and life appear to me to dwell precisely on what must have interested him most--so far as it is possible to form any complete estimate of his nature and tastes._ _In No._ 1293 _lines_ 1-10, _we have a sketch of a scheme for grouping the Prophecies. I have not however availed myself of it as a clue to their arrangement here because, in the first place, the texts are not so numerous as to render the suggested classification useful to the reader, and, also, because in reading the long series, as they occur in the original, we may follow the author's mind; and here and there it is not difficult to see how one theme suggested another. I have however regarded Leonardo's scheme for the classification of the Prophecies as available for that of the Fables and Jests, and have adhered to it as far as possible._ _Among the humourous writings I might perhaps have included the_ 'Rebusses', _of which there are several in the collection of Leonardo's drawings at Windsor; it seems to me not likely that many or all of them could be solved at the present day and the MSS. throw no light on them. Nor should I be justified if I intended to include in the literary works the well-known caricatures of human faces attributed to Leonardo-- of which, however, it may be incidentally observed, the greater number are in my opinion undoubtedly spurious. Two only have necessarily been given owing to their presence in text, which it was desired to reproduce: Vol. I page_ 326, _and Pl. CXXII. It can scarcely be doubted that some satirical intention is conveyed by the drawing on Pl. LXIV (text No. _688_). My reason for not presenting Leonardo to the reader as a poet is the fact that the maxims and morals in verse which have been ascribed to him, are not to be found in the manuscripts, and Prof. Uzielli has already proved that they cannot be by him. Hence it would seem that only a few short verses can be attributed to him with any certainty._ I. STUDIES ON THE LIFE AND HABITS OF ANIMALS. 1220. THE LOVE OF VIRTUE. The gold-finch is a bird of which it is related that, when it is carried into the presence of a sick person, if the sick man is going to die, the bird turns away its head and never looks at him; but if the sick man is to be saved the bird never loses sight of him but is the cause of curing him of all his sickness. Like unto this is the love of virtue. It never looks at any vile or base thing, but rather clings always to pure and virtuous things and takes up its abode in a noble heart; as the birds do in green woods on flowery branches. And this Love shows itself more in adversity than in prosperity; as light does, which shines most where the place is darkest. 1221. ENVY. We read of the kite that, when it sees its young ones growing too big in the nest, out of envy it pecks their sides, and keeps them without food. CHEERFULNESS. Cheerfulness is proper to the cock, which rejoices over every little thing, and crows with varied and lively movements. SADNESS. Sadness resembles the raven, which, when it sees its young ones born white, departs in great grief, and abandons them with doleful lamentations, and does not feed them until it sees in them some few black feathers. 1222. PEACE. We read of the beaver that when it is pursued, knowing that it is for the virtue [contained] in its medicinal testicles and not being able to escape, it stops; and to be at peace with its pursuers, it bites off its testicles with its sharp teeth, and leaves them to its enemies. RAGE. It is said of the bear that when it goes to the haunts of bees to take their honey, the bees having begun to sting him he leaves the honey and rushes to revenge himself. And as he seeks to be revenged on all those that sting him, he is revenged on none; in such wise that his rage is turned to madness, and he flings himself on the ground, vainly exasperating, by his hands and feet, the foes against which he is defending himself. 1223. GRATITUDE. The virtue of gratitude is said to be more [developed] in the birds called hoopoes which, knowing the benefits of life and food, they have received from their father and their mother, when they see them grow old, make a nest for them and brood over them and feed them, and with their beaks pull out their old and shabby feathers; and then, with a certain herb restore their sight so that they return to a prosperous state. AVARICE. The toad feeds on earth and always remains lean; because it never eats enough:-- it is so afraid lest it should want for earth. 1224. INGRATITUDE. Pigeons are a symbol of ingratitude; for when they are old enough no longer to need to be fed, they begin to fight with their father, and this struggle does not end until the young one drives the father out and takes the hen and makes her his own. CRUELTY. The basilisk is so utterly cruel that when it cannot kill animals by its baleful gaze, it turns upon herbs and plants, and fixing its gaze on them withers them up. 1225. GENEROSITY. It is said of the eagle that it is never so hungry but that it will leave a part of its prey for the birds that are round it, which, being unable to provide their own food, are necessarily dependent on the eagle, since it is thus that they obtain food. DISCIPLINE. When the wolf goes cunningly round some stable of cattle, and by accident puts his foot in a trap, so that he makes a noise, he bites his foot off to punish himself for his folly. 1226. FLATTERERS OR SYRENS. The syren sings so sweetly that she lulls the mariners to sleep; then she climbs upon the ships and kills the sleeping mariners. PRUDENCE. The ant, by her natural foresight provides in the summer for the winter, killing the seeds she harvests that they may not germinate, and on them, in due time she feeds. FOLLY. The wild bull having a horror of a red colour, the hunters dress up the trunk of a tree with red and the bull runs at this with great frenzy, thus fixing his horns, and forthwith the hunters kill him there. 1227. JUSTICE. We may liken the virtue of Justice to the king of the bees which orders and arranges every thing with judgment. For some bees are ordered to go to the flowers, others are ordered to labour, others to fight with the wasps, others to clear away all dirt, others to accompagny and escort the king; and when he is old and has no wings they carry him. And if one of them fails in his duty, he is punished without reprieve. TRUTH. Although partridges steal each other's eggs, nevertheless the young born of these eggs always return to their true mother. 1228. FIDELITY, OR LOYALTY. The cranes are so faithful and loyal to their king, that at night, when he is sleeping, some of them go round the field to keep watch at a distance; others remain near, each holding a stone in his foot, so that if sleep should overcome them, this stone would fall and make so much noise that they would wake up again. And there are others which sleep together round the king; and this they do every night, changing in turn so that their king may never find them wanting. FALSEHOOD. The fox when it sees a flock of herons or magpies or birds of that kind, suddenly flings himself on the ground with his mouth open to look as he were dead; and these birds want to peck at his tongue, and he bites off their heads. 1229. LIES. The mole has very small eyes and it always lives under ground; and it lives as long as it is in the dark but when it comes into the light it dies immediately, because it becomes known;--and so it is with lies. VALOUR. The lion is never afraid, but rather fights with a bold spirit and savage onslaught against a multitude of hunters, always seeking to injure the first that injures him. FEAR OR COWARDICE. The hare is always frightened; and the leaves that fall from the trees in autumn always keep him in terror and generally put him to flight. 1230. MAGNANIMITY. The falcon never preys but on large birds; and it will let itself die rather than feed on little ones, or eat stinking meat. VAIN GLORY. As regards this vice, we read that the peacock is more guilty of it than any other animal. For it is always contemplating the beauty of its tail, which it spreads in the form of a wheel, and by its cries attracts to itself the gaze of the creatures that surround it. And this is the last vice to be conquered. 1231. CONSTANCY. Constancy may be symbolised by the phoenix which, knowing that by nature it must be resuscitated, has the constancy to endure the burning flames which consume it, and then it rises anew. INCONSTANCY. The swallow may serve for Inconstancy, for it is always in movement, since it cannot endure the smallest discomfort. CONTINENCE. The camel is the most lustful animal there is, and will follow the female for a thousand miles. But if you keep it constantly with its mother or sister it will leave them alone, so temperate is its nature. 1232. INCONTINENCE. The unicorn, through its intemperance and not knowing how to control itself, for the love it bears to fair maidens forgets its ferocity and wildness; and laying aside all fear it will go up to a seated damsel and go to sleep in her lap, and thus the hunters take it. HUMILITY. We see the most striking example of humility in the lamb which will submit to any animal; and when they are given for food to imprisoned lions they are as gentle to them as to their own mother, so that very often it has been seen that the lions forbear to kill them. 1233. PRIDE. The falcon, by reason of its haughtiness and pride, is fain to lord it and rule over all the other birds of prey, and longs to be sole and supreme; and very often the falcon has been seen to assault the eagle, the Queen of birds. ABSTINENCE. The wild ass, when it goes to the well to drink, and finds the water troubled, is never so thirsty but that it will abstain from drinking, and wait till the water is clear again. GLUTTONY. The vulture is so addicted to gluttony that it will go a thousand miles to eat a carrion [carcase]; therefore is it that it follows armies. 1234. CHASTITY. The turtle-dove is never false to its mate; and if one dies the other preserves perpetual chastity, and never again sits on a green bough, nor ever again drinks of clear water. UNCHASTITY. The bat, owing to unbridled lust, observes no universal rule in pairing, but males with males and females with females pair promiscuously, as it may happen. MODERATION. The ermine out of moderation never eats but once in the day; it will rather let itself be taken by the hunters than take refuge in a dirty lair, in order not to stain its purity. 1235. THE EAGLE. The eagle when it is old flies so high that it scorches its feathers, and Nature allowing that it should renew its youth, it falls into shallow water [Footnote 5: The meaning is obscure.]. And if its young ones cannot bear to gaze on the sun [Footnote 6: The meaning is obscure.]--; it does not feed them with any bird, that does not wish to die. Animals which much fear it do not approach its nest, although it does not hurt them. It always leaves part of its prey uneaten. LUMERPA,--FAME. This is found in Asia Major, and shines so brightly that it absorbs its own shadow, and when it dies it does not lose this light, and its feathers never fall out, but a feather pulled out shines no longer. 1236. THE PELICAN. This bird has a great love for its young; and when it finds them in its nest dead from a serpent's bite, it pierces itself to the heart, and with its blood it bathes them till they return to life. THE SALAMANDER. This has no digestive organs, and gets no food but from the fire, in which it constantly renews its scaly skin. The salamander, which renews its scaly skin in the fire,--for virtue. THE CAMELEON. This lives on air, and there it is the prey of all the birds; so in order to be safer it flies above the clouds and finds an air so rarefied that it cannot support the bird that follows it. At that height nothing can go unless it has a gift from Heaven, and that is where the chameleon flies. 1237. THE ALEPO, A FISH. The fish _alepo_ does not live out of water. THE OSTRICH. This bird converts iron into nourishment, and hatches its eggs by its gaze;--Armies under commanders. THE SWAN. The swan is white without any spot, and it sings sweetly as it dies, its life ending with that song. THE STORK. This bird, by drinking saltwater purges itself of distempers. If the male finds his mate unfaithful, he abandons her; and when it grows old its young ones brood over it, and feed it till it dies. 1238. THE GRASSHOPPER. This silences the cuckoo with its song. It dies in oil and revives in vinegar. It sings in the greatest heats THE BAT. The more light there is the blinder this creature becomes; as those who gaze most at the sun become most dazzled.--For Vice, that cannot remain where Virtue appears. THE PARTRIDGE. This bird changes from the female into the male and forgets its former sex; and out of envy it steals the eggs from others and hatches them, but the young ones follow the true mother. THE SWALLOW. This bird gives sight to its blind young ones by means of celandine. 1239. THE OYSTER.--FOR TREACHERY. This creature, when the moon is full opens itself wide, and when the crab looks in he throws in a piece of rock or seaweed and the oyster cannot close again, whereby it serves for food to that crab. This is what happens to him who opens his mouth to tell his secret. He becomes the prey of the treacherous hearer. THE BASILISK.--CRUELTY. All snakes flie from this creature; but the weasel attacks it by means of rue and kills it. THE ASP. This carries instantaneous death in its fangs; and, that it may not hear the charmer it stops its ears with its tail. 1240. THE DRAGON. This creature entangles itself in the legs of the elephant which falls upon it, and so both die, and in its death it is avenged. THE VIPER. She, in pairing opens her mouth and at last clenches her teeth and kills her husband. Then the young ones, growing within her body rend her open and kill their mother. THE SCORPION. Saliva, spit out when fasting will kill a scorpion. This may be likened to abstinence from greediness, which removes and heals the ills which result from that gluttony, and opens the path of virtue. 1241. THE CROCODILE. HYPOCRISY. This animal catches a man and straightway kills him; after he is dead, it weeps for him with a lamentable voice and many tears. Then, having done lamenting, it cruelly devours him. It is thus with the hypocrite, who, for the smallest matter, has his face bathed with tears, but shows the heart of a tiger and rejoices in his heart at the woes of others, while wearing a pitiful face. THE TOAD. The toad flies from the light of the sun, and if it is held there by force it puffs itself out so much as to hide its head below and shield itself from the rays. Thus does the foe of clear and radiant virtue, who can only be constrainedly brought to face it with puffed up courage. 1242. THE CATERPILLAR.--FOR VIRTUE IN GENERAL. The caterpillar, which by means of assiduous care is able to weave round itself a new dwelling place with marvellous artifice and fine workmanship, comes out of it afterwards with painted and lovely wings, with which it rises towards Heaven. THE SPIDER. The spider brings forth out of herself the delicate and ingenious web, which makes her a return by the prey it takes. [Footnote: Two notes are underneath this text. The first: _'nessuna chosa e da ttemere piu che lla sozza fama'_ is a repetition of the first line of the text given in Vol. I No. 695. The second: _faticha fugga cholla fama in braccio quasi ochultata c_ is written in red chalk and is evidently an incomplete sentence.] 1243. THE LION. This animal, with his thundering roar, rouses his young the third day after they are born, teaching them the use of all their dormant senses and all the wild things which are in the wood flee away. This may be compared to the children of Virtue who are roused by the sound of praise and grow up in honourable studies, by which they are more and more elevated; while all that is base flies at the sound, shunning those who are virtuous. Again, the lion covers over its foot tracks, so that the way it has gone may not be known to its enemies. Thus it beseems a captain to conceal the secrets of his mind so that the enemy may not know his purpose. 1244. THE TARANTULA. The bite of the tarantula fixes a man's mind on one idea; that is on the thing he was thinking of when he was bitten. THE SCREECH-OWL AND THE OWL. These punish those who are scoffing at them by pecking out their eyes; for nature has so ordered it, that they may thus be fed. 1245. THE ELEPHANT. The huge elephant has by nature what is rarely found in man; that is Honesty, Prudence, Justice, and the Observance of Religion; inasmuch as when the moon is new, these beasts go down to the rivers, and there, solemnly cleansing themselves, they bathe, and so, having saluted the planet, return to the woods. And when they are ill, being laid down, they fling up plants towards Heaven as though they would offer sacrifice. --They bury their tusks when they fall out from old age.--Of these two tusks they use one to dig up roots for food; but they save the point of the other for fighting with; when they are taken by hunters and when worn out by fatigue, they dig up these buried tusks and ransom themselves. 1246. They are merciful, and know the dangers, and if one finds a man alone and lost, he kindly puts him back in the road he has missed, if he finds the footprints of the man before the man himself. It dreads betrayal, so it stops and blows, pointing it out to the other elephants who form in a troop and go warily. These beasts always go in troops, and the oldest goes in front and the second in age remains the last, and thus they enclose the troop. Out of shame they pair only at night and secretly, nor do they then rejoin the herd but first bathe in the river. The females do not fight as with other animals; and it is so merciful that it is most unwilling by nature ever to hurt those weaker than itself. And if it meets in the middle of its way a flock of sheep 1247. it puts them aside with its trunk, so as not to trample them under foot; and it never hurts any thing unless when provoked. When one has fallen into a pit the others fill up the pit with branches, earth and stones, thus raising the bottom that he may easily get out. They greatly dread the noise of swine and fly in confusion, doing no less harm then, with their feet, to their own kind than to the enemy. They delight in rivers and are always wandering about near them, though on account of their great weight they cannot swim. They devour stones, and the trunks of trees are their favourite food. They have a horror of rats. Flies delight in their smell and settle on their back, and the beast scrapes its skin making its folds even and kills them. 1248. When they cross rivers they send their young ones up against the stream of the water; thus, being set towards the fall, they break the united current of the water so that the current does not carry them away. The dragon flings itself under the elephant's body, and with its tail it ties its legs; with its wings and with its arms it also clings round its ribs and cuts its throat with its teeth, and the elephant falls upon it and the dragon is burst. Thus, in its death it is revenged on its foe. THE DRAGON. These go in companies together, and they twine themselves after the manner of roots, and with their heads raised they cross lakes, and swim to where they find better pasture; and if they did not thus combine 1249. they would be drowned, therefore they combine. THE SERPENT. The serpent is a very large animal. When it sees a bird in the air it draws in its breath so strongly that it draws the birds into its mouth too. Marcus Regulus, the consul of the Roman army was attacked, with his army, by such an animal and almost defeated. And this animal, being killed by a catapult, measured 123 feet, that is 64 1/2 braccia and its head was high above all the trees in a wood. THE BOA(?) This is a very large snake which entangles itself round the legs of the cow so that it cannot move and then sucks it, in such wise that it almost dries it up. In the time of Claudius the Emperor, there was killed, on the Vatican Hill, 1250. one which had inside it a boy, entire, that it had swallowed. THE MACLI.--CAUGHT WHEN ASLEEP. This beast is born in Scandinavia. It has the shape of a great horse, excepting that the great length of its neck and of its ears make a difference. It feeds on grass, going backwards, for it has so long an upper lip that if it went forwards it would cover up the grass. Its legs are all in one piece; for this reason when it wants to sleep it leans against a tree, and the hunters, spying out the place where it is wont to sleep, saw the tree almost through, and then, when it leans against it to sleep, in its sleep it falls, and thus the hunters take it. And every other mode of taking it is in vain, because it is incredibly swift in running. 1251. THE BISON WHICH DOES INJURY IN ITS FLIGHT. This beast is a native of Paeonia and has a neck with a mane like a horse. In all its other parts it is like a bull, excepting that its horns are in a way bent inwards so that it cannot butt; hence it has no safety but in flight, in which it flings out its excrement to a distance of 400 braccia in its course, and this burns like fire wherever it touches. LIONS, PARDS, PANTHERS, TIGERS. These keep their claws in the sheath, and never put them out unless they are on the back of their prey or their enemy. THE LIONESS. When the lioness defends her young from the hand of the hunter, in order not to be frightened by the spears she keeps her eyes on the ground, to the end that she may not by her flight leave her young ones prisoners. 1252. THE LION. This animal, which is so terrible, fears nothing more than the noise of empty carts, and likewise the crowing of cocks. And it is much terrified at the sight of one, and looks at its comb with a frightened aspect, and is strangely alarmed when its face is covered. THE PANTHER IN AFRICA. This has the form of the lioness but it is taller on its legs and slimmer and long bodied; and it is all white and marked with black spots after the manner of rosettes; and all animals delight to look upon these rosettes, and they would always be standing round it if it were not for the terror of its face; 1253. therefore knowing this, it hides its face, and the surrounding animals grow bold and come close, the better to enjoy the sight of so much beauty; when suddenly it seizes the nearest and at once devours it. CAMELS. The Bactrian have two humps; the Arabian one only. They are swift in battle and most useful to carry burdens. This animal is extremely observant of rule and measure, for it will not move if it has a greater weight than it is used to, and if it is taken too far it does the same, and suddenly stops and so the merchants are obliged to lodge there. 1254. THE TIGER. This beast is a native of Hyrcania, and it is something like the panther from the various spots on its skin. It is an animal of terrible swiftness; the hunter when he finds its young ones carries them off hastily, placing mirrors in the place whence he takes them, and at once escapes on a swift horse. The panther returning finds the mirrors fixed on the ground and looking into them believes it sees its young; then scratching with its paws it discovers the cheat. Forthwith, by means of the scent of its young, it follows the hunter, and when this hunter sees the tigress he drops one of the young ones and she takes it, and having carried it to the den she immediately returns to the hunter and does 1255. the same till he gets into his boat. CATOBLEPAS. It is found in Ethiopia near to the source Nigricapo. It is not a very large animal, is sluggish in all its parts, and its head is so large that it carries it with difficulty, in such wise that it always droops towards the ground; otherwise it would be a great pest to man, for any one on whom it fixes its eyes dies immediately. [Footnote: Leonardo undoubtedly derived these remarks as to the Catoblepas from Pliny, Hist. Nat. VIII. 21 (al. 32): _Apud Hesperios Aethiopas fons est Nigris_ (different readings), _ut plerique existimavere, Nili caput.-----Juxta hunc fera appellatur catoblepas, modica alioquin, ceterisque membris iners, caput tantum praegrave aegre ferens; alias internecio humani generis, omnibus qui oculos ejus videre, confestim morientibus._ Aelian, _Hist. An._ gives a far more minute description of the creature, but he says that it poisons beasts not by its gaze, but by its venomous breath. Athenaeus 221 B, mentions both. If Leonardo had known of these two passages, he would scarcely have omitted the poisonous breath. (H. MULLER-STRUBING.)] THE BASILISK. This is found in the province of Cyrenaica and is not more than 12 fingers long. It has on its head a white spot after the fashion of a diadem. It scares all serpents with its whistling. It resembles a snake, but does not move by wriggling but from the centre forwards to the right. It is said that one 1256. of these, being killed with a spear by one who was on horse-back, and its venom flowing on the spear, not only the man but the horse also died. It spoils the wheat and not only that which it touches, but where it breathes the grass dries and the stones are split. THE WEASEL. This beast finding the lair of the basilisk kills it with the smell of its urine, and this smell, indeed, often kills the weasel itself. THE CERASTES. This has four movable little horns; so, when it wants to feed, it hides under leaves all of its body except these little horns which, as they move, seem to the birds to be some small worms at play. Then they immediately swoop down to pick them and the Cerastes suddenly twines round them and encircles and devours them. 1257. THE AMPHISBOENA. This has two heads, one in its proper place the other at the tail; as if one place were not enough from which to fling its venom. THE IACULUS. This lies on trees, and flings itself down like a dart, and pierces through the wild beast and kills them. THE ASP. The bite of this animal cannot be cured unless by immediately cutting out the bitten part. This pestilential animal has such a love for its mate that they always go in company. And if, by mishap, one of them is killed the other, with incredible swiftness, follows him who has killed it; and it is so determined and eager for vengeance that it overcomes every difficulty, and passing by every troop it seeks to hurt none but its enemy. And it will travel any distance, and it is impossible to avoid it unless by crossing water and by very swift flight. It has its eyes turned inwards, and large ears and it hears better than it sees. 1258. THE ICHNEUMON. This animal is the mortal enemy of the asp. It is a native of Egypt and when it sees an asp near its place, it runs at once to the bed or mud of the Nile and with this makes itself muddy all over, then it dries itself in the sun, smears itself again with mud, and thus, drying one after the other, it makes itself three or four coatings like a coat of mail. Then it attacks the asp, and fights well with him, so that, taking its time it catches him in the throat and destroys him. THE CROCODILE. This is found in the Nile, it has four feet and lives on land and in water. No other terrestrial creature but this is found to have no tongue, and it only bites by moving its upper jaw. It grows to a length of forty feet and has claws and is armed with a hide that will take any blow. By day it is on land and at night in the water. It feeds on fishes, and going to sleep on the bank of the Nile with its mouth open, a bird called 1259. trochilus, a very small bird, runs at once to its mouth and hops among its teeth and goes pecking out the remains of the food, and so inciting it with voluptuous delight tempts it to open the whole of its mouth, and so it sleeps. This being observed by the ichneumon it flings itself into its mouth and perforates its stomach and bowels, and finally kills it. THE DOLPHIN. Nature has given such knowledge to animals, that besides the consciousness of their own advantages they know the disadvantages of their foes. Thus the dolphin understands what strength lies in a cut from the fins placed on his chine, and how tender is the belly of the crocodile; hence in fighting with him it thrusts at him from beneath and rips up his belly and so kills him. The crocodile is a terror to those that flee, and a base coward to those that pursue him. 1260. THE HIPPOPOTAMUS. This beast when it feels itself over-full goes about seeking thorns, or where there may be the remains of canes that have been split, and it rubs against them till a vein is opened; then when the blood has flowed as much as he needs, he plasters himself with mud and heals the wound. In form he is something like a horse with long haunches, a twisted tail and the teeth of a wild boar, his neck has a mane; the skin cannot be pierced, unless when he is bathing; he feeds on plants in the fields and goes into them backwards so that it may seem, as though he had come out. THE IBIS. This bird resembles a crane, and when it feels itself ill it fills its craw with water, and with its beak makes an injection of it. THE STAG. These creatures when they feel themselves bitten by the spider called father-long-legs, eat crabs and free themselves of the venom. 1261. THE LIZARD. This, when fighting with serpents eats the sow-thistle and is free. THE SWALLOW. This [bird] gives sight to its blind young ones, with the juice of the celandine. THE WEASEL. This, when chasing rats first eats of rue. THE WILD BOAR. This beast cures its sickness by eating of ivy. THE SNAKE. This creature when it wants to renew itself casts its old skin, beginning with the head, and changing in one day and one night. THE PANTHER. This beast after its bowels have fallen out will still fight with the dogs and hunters. 1262. THE CHAMELEON. This creature always takes the colour of the thing on which it is resting, whence it is often devoured together with the leaves on which the elephant feeds. THE RAVEN. When it has killed the Chameleon it takes laurel as a purge. 1263. Moderation checks all the vices. The ermine will die rather than besmirch itself. OF FORESIGHT. The cock does not crow till it has thrice flapped its wings; the parrot in moving among boughs never puts its feet excepting where it has first put its beak. Vows are not made till Hope is dead. Motion tends towards the centre of gravity. 1264. MAGNANIMITY. The falcon never seizes any but large birds and will sooner die than eat [tainted] meat of bad savour. II. FABLES. Fables on animals (1265-1270). 1265. A FABLE. An oyster being turned out together with other fish in the house of a fisherman near the sea, he entreated a rat to take him to the sea. The rat purposing to eat him bid him open; but as he bit him the oyster squeezed his head and closed; and the cat came and killed him. 1266. A FABLE. The thrushes rejoiced greatly at seeing a man take the owl and deprive her of liberty, tying her feet with strong bonds. But this owl was afterwards by means of bird-lime the cause of the thrushes losing not only their liberty, but their life. This is said for those countries which rejoice in seeing their governors lose their liberty, when by that means they themselves lose all succour, and remain in bondage in the power of their enemies, losing their liberty and often their life. 1267. A FABLE. A dog, lying asleep on the fur of a sheep, one of his fleas, perceiving the odour of the greasy wool, judged that this must be a land of better living, and also more secure from the teeth and nails of the dog than where he fed on the dog; and without farther reflection he left the dog and went into the thick wool. There he began with great labour to try to pass among the roots of the hairs; but after much sweating had to give up the task as vain, because these hairs were so close that they almost touched each other, and there was no space where fleas could taste the skin. Hence, after much labour and fatigue, he began to wish to return to his dog, who however had already departed; so he was constrained after long repentance and bitter tears, to die of hunger. 1268. A FABLE. The vain and wandering butterfly, not content with being able to fly at its ease through the air, overcome by the tempting flame of the candle, decided to fly into it; but its sportive impulse was the cause of a sudden fall, for its delicate wings were burnt in the flame. And the hapless butterfly having dropped, all scorched, at the foot of the candlestick, after much lamentation and repentance, dried the tears from its swimming eyes, and raising its face exclaimed: O false light! how many must thou have miserably deceived in the past, like me; or if I must indeed see light so near, ought I not to have known the sun from the false glare of dirty tallow? A FABLE. The monkey, finding a nest of small birds, went up to it greatly delighted. But they, being already fledged, he could only succeed in taking the smallest; greatly delighted he took it in his hand and went to his abode; and having begun to look at the little bird he took to kissing it, and from excess of love he kissed it so much and turned it about and squeezed it till he killed it. This is said for those who by not punishing their children let them come to mischief. 1269. A FABLE. A rat was besieged in his little dwelling by a weasel, which with unwearied vigilance awaited his surrender, while watching his imminent peril through a little hole. Meanwhile the cat came by and suddenly seized the weasel and forthwith devoured it. Then the rat offered up a sacrifice to Jove of some of his store of nuts, humbly thanking His providence, and came out of his hole to enjoy his lately lost liberty. But he was instantly deprived of it, together with his life, by the cruel claws and teeth of the lurking cat. 1270. A FABLE. The ant found a grain of millet. The seed feeling itself taken prisoner cried out to her: "If you will do me the kindness to allow me accomplish my function of reproduction, I will give you a hundred such as I am." And so it was. A Spider found a bunch of grapes which for its sweetness was much resorted to by bees and divers kinds of flies. It seemed to her that she had found a most convenient spot to spread her snare, and having settled herself on it with her delicate web, and entered into her new habitation, there, every day placing herself in the openings made by the spaces between the grapes, she fell like a thief on the wretched creatures which were not aware of her. But, after a few days had passed, the vintager came, and cut away the bunch of grapes and put it with others, with which it was trodden; and thus the grapes were a snare and pitfall both for the treacherous spider and the betrayed flies. An ass having gone to sleep on the ice over a deep lake, his heat dissolved the ice and the ass awoke under water to his great grief, and was forthwith drowned. A falcon, unable to endure with patience the disappearance of a duck, which, flying before him had plunged under water, wished to follow it under water, and having soaked his feathers had to remain in the water while the duck rising to the air mocked at the falcon as he drowned. The spider wishing to take flies in her treacherous net, was cruelly killed in it by the hornet. An eagle wanting to mock at the owl was caught by the wings in bird-lime and was taken and killed by a man. Fables on lifeless objects (1271--1274). 1271. The water finding that its element was the lordly ocean, was seized with a desire to rise above the air, and being encouraged by the element of fire and rising as a very subtle vapour, it seemed as though it were really as thin as air. But having risen very high, it reached the air that was still more rare and cold, where the fire forsook it, and the minute particles, being brought together, united and became heavy; whence its haughtiness deserting it, it betook itself to flight and it fell from the sky, and was drunk up by the dry earth, where, being imprisoned for a long time, it did penance for its sin. 1272. A FABLE. The razor having one day come forth from the handle which serves as its sheath and having placed himself in the sun, saw the sun reflected in his body, which filled him with great pride. And turning it over in his thoughts he began to say to himself: "And shall I return again to that shop from which I have just come? Certainly not; such splendid beauty shall not, please God, be turned to such base uses. What folly it would be that could lead me to shave the lathered beards of rustic peasants and perform such menial service! Is this body destined for such work? Certainly not. I will hide myself in some retired spot and there pass my life in tranquil repose." And having thus remained hidden for some months, one day he came out into the air, and issuing from his sheath, saw himself turned to the similitude of a rusty saw while his surface no longer reflected the resplendent sun. With useless repentance he vainly deplored the irreparable mischief saying to himself: "Oh! how far better was it to employ at the barbers my lost edge of such exquisite keenness! Where is that lustrous surface? It has been consumed by this vexatious and unsightly rust." The same thing happens to those minds which instead of exercise give themselves up to sloth. They are like the razor here spoken of, and lose the keenness of their edge, while the rust of ignorance spoils their form. A FABLE. A stone of some size recently uncovered by the water lay on a certain spot somewhat raised, and just where a delightful grove ended by a stony road; here it was surrounded by plants decorated by various flowers of divers colours. And as it saw the great quantity of stones collected together in the roadway below, it began to wish it could let itself fall down there, saying to itself: "What have I to do here with these plants? I want to live in the company of those, my sisters." And letting itself fall, its rapid course ended among these longed for companions. When it had been there sometime it began to find itself constantly toiling under the wheels of the carts the iron-shoed feet of horses and of travellers. This one rolled it over, that one trod upon it; sometimes it lifted itself a little and then it was covered with mud or the dung of some animal, and it was in vain that it looked at the spot whence it had come as a place of solitude and tranquil place. Thus it happens to those who choose to leave a life of solitary comtemplation, and come to live in cities among people full of infinite evil. 1273. Some flames had already lasted in the furnace of a glass-blower, when they saw a candle approaching in a beautiful and glittering candlestick. With ardent longing they strove to reach it; and one of them, quitting its natural course, writhed up to an unburnt brand on which it fed and passed at the opposite end out by a narrow chink to the candle which was near. It flung itself upon it, and with fierce jealousy and greediness it devoured it, having reduced it almost to death, and, wishing to procure the prolongation of its life, it tried to return to the furnace whence it had come. But in vain, for it was compelled to die, the wood perishing together with the candle, being at last converted, with lamentation and repentance, into foul smoke, while leaving all its sisters in brilliant and enduring life and beauty. 1274. A small patch of snow finding itself clinging to the top of a rock which was lying on the topmost height of a very high mountain and being left to its own imaginings, it began to reflect in this way, saying to itself: "Now, shall not I be thought vain and proud for having placed myself--such a small patch of snow--in so lofty a spot, and for allowing that so large a quantity of snow as I have seen here around me, should take a place lower than mine? Certainly my small dimensions by no means merit this elevation. How easily may I, in proof of my insignificance, experience the same fate as that which the sun brought about yesterday to my companions, who were all, in a few hours, destroyed by the sun. And this happened from their having placed themselves higher than became them. I will flee from the wrath of the sun, and humble myself and find a place befitting my small importance." Thus, flinging itself down, it began to descend, hurrying from its high home on to the other snow; but the more it sought a low place the more its bulk increased, so that when at last its course was ended on a hill, it found itself no less in size than the hill which supported it; and it was the last of the snow which was destroyed that summer by the sun. This is said for those who, humbling themselves, become exalted. Fables on plants (1275-1279). 1275. The cedar, being desirous of producing a fine and noble fruit at its summit, set to work to form it with all the strength of its sap. But this fruit, when grown, was the cause of the tall and upright tree-top being bent over. The peach, being envious of the vast quantity of fruit which she saw borne on the nut-tree, her neighbour, determined to do the same, and loaded herself with her own in such a way that the weight of the fruit pulled her up by the roots and broke her down to the ground. The nut-tree stood always by a road side displaying the wealth of its fruit to the passers by, and every one cast stones at it. The fig-tree, having no fruit, no one looked at it; then, wishing to produce fruits that it might be praised by men, it was bent and broken down by them. The fig-tree, standing by the side of the elm and seeing that its boughs were bare of fruit, yet that it had the audacity to keep the Sun from its own unripe figs with its branches, said to it: "Oh elm! art thou not ashamed to stand in front of me. But wait till my offspring are fully grown and you will see where you are!" But when her offspring were mature, a troop of soldiers coming by fell upon the fig-tree and her figs were all torn off her, and her boughs cut away and broken. Then, when she was thus maimed in all her limbs, the elm asked her, saying: "O fig-tree! which was best, to be without offspring, or to be brought by them into so miserable a plight!" 1276. The plant complains of the old and dry stick which stands by its side and of the dry stakes that surround it. One keeps it upright, the other keeps it from low company. 1277. A FABLE. A nut, having been carried by a crow to the top of a tall campanile and released by falling into a chink from the mortal grip of its beak, it prayed the wall by the grace bestowed on it by God in allowing it to be so high and thick, and to own such fine bells and of so noble a tone, that it would succour it, and that, as it had not been able to fall under the verdurous boughs of its venerable father and lie in the fat earth covered up by his fallen leaves it would not abandon it; because, finding itself in the beak of the cruel crow, it had there made a vow that if it escaped from her it would end its life in a little hole. At these words the wall, moved to compassion, was content to shelter it in the spot where it had fallen; and after a short time the nut began to split open and put forth roots between the rifts of the stones and push them apart, and to throw out shoots from its hollow shell; and, to be brief, these rose above the building and the twisted roots, growing thicker, began to thrust the walls apart, and tear out the ancient stones from their old places. Then the wall too late and in vain bewailed the cause of its destruction and in a short time, it wrought the ruin of a great part of it. 1278. A FABLE. The privet feeling its tender boughs loaded with young fruit, pricked by the sharp claws and beak of the insolent blackbird, complained to the blackbird with pitious remonstrance entreating her that since she stole its delicious fruits she should not deprive it of the leaves with which it preserved them from the burning rays of the sun, and that she should not divest it of its tender bark by scratching it with her sharp claws. To which the blackbird replied with angry upbraiding: "O, be silent, uncultured shrub! Do you not know that Nature made you produce these fruits for my nourishment; do you not see that you are in the world [only] to serve me as food; do you not know, base creature, that next winter you will be food and prey for the Fire?" To which words the tree listened patiently, and not without tears. After a short time the blackbird was taken in a net and boughs were cut to make a cage, in which to imprison her. Branches were cut, among others from the pliant privet, to serve for the small rods of the cage; and seeing herself to be the cause of the Blackbird's loss of liberty it rejoiced and spoke as follows: "O Blackbird, I am here, and not yet burnt by fire as you said. I shall see you in prison before you see me burnt." A FABLE. The laurel and the myrtle seeing the pear tree cut down cried out with a loud voice: "O pear-tree! whither are you going? Where is the pride you had when you were covered with ripe fruits? Now you will no longer shade us with your mass of leaves." Then the pear-tree replied: "I am going with the husbandman who has cut me down and who will take me to the workshop of a good sculptor who by his art will make me take the form of Jove the god; and I shall be dedicated in a temple and adored by men in the place of Jove, while you are bound always to remain maimed and stripped of your boughs, which will be placed round me to do me honour. A FABLE. The chesnut, seeing a man upon the fig-tree, bending its boughs down and pulling off the ripe fruits, which he put into his open mouth destroying and crushing them with his hard teeth, it tossed its long boughs and with a noisy rustle exclaimed: "O fig! how much less are you protected by nature than I. See how in me my sweet offspring are set in close array; first clothed in soft wrappers over which is the hard but softly lined husk; and not content with taking this care of me, and having given them so strong a shelter, on this she has placed sharp and close-set spines so that the hand of man cannot hurt me." Then the fig-tree and her offspring began to laugh and having laughed she said: "I know man to be of such ingenuity that with rods and stones and stakes flung up among your branches he will bereave you of your fruits; and when they are fallen, he will trample them with his feet or with stones, so that your offspring will come out of their armour, crushed and maimed; while I am touched carefully by their hands, and not like you with sticks and stones." 1279. The hapless willow, finding that she could not enjoy the pleasure of seeing her slender branches grow or attain to the height she wished, or point to the sky, by reason of the vine and whatever other trees that grew near, but was always maimed and lopped and spoiled, brought all her spirits together and gave and devoted itself entirely to imagination, standing plunged in long meditation and seeking, in all the world of plants, with which of them she might ally herself and which could not need the help of her withes. Having stood for some time in this prolific imagination, with a sudden flash the gourd presented itself to her thoughts and tossing all her branches with extreme delight, it seemed to her that she had found the companion suited to her purpose, because the gourd is more apt to bind others than to need binding; having come to this conclusion she awaited eagerly some friendly bird who should be the mediator of her wishes. Presently seeing near her the magpie she said to him: "O gentle bird! by the memory of the refuge which you found this morning among my branches, when the hungry cruel, and rapacious falcon wanted to devour you, and by that repose which you have always found in me when your wings craved rest, and by the pleasure you have enjoyed among my boughs, when playing with your companions or making love--I entreat you find the gourd and obtain from her some of her seeds, and tell her that those that are born of them I will treat exactly as though they were my own flesh and blood; and in this way use all the words you can think of, which are of the same persuasive purport; though, indeed, since you are a master of language, I need not teach you. And if you will do me this service I shall be happy to have your nest in the fork of my boughs, and all your family without payment of any rent." Then the magpie, having made and confirmed certain new stipulations with the willow,--and principally that she should never admit upon her any snake or polecat, cocked his tail, and put down his head, and flung himself from the bough, throwing his weight upon his wings; and these, beating the fleeting air, now here, now there, bearing about inquisitively, while his tail served as a rudder to steer him, he came to a gourd; then with a handsome bow and a few polite words, he obtained the required seeds, and carried them to the willow, who received him with a cheerful face. And when he had scraped away with his foot a small quantity of the earth near the willow, describing a circle, with his beak he planted the grains, which in a short time began to grow, and by their growth and the branches to take up all the boughs of the willow, while their broad leaves deprived it of the beauty of the sun and sky. And not content with so much evil, the gourds next began, by their rude hold, to drag the ends of the tender shoots down towards the earth, with strange twisting and distortion. Then, being much annoyed, it shook itself in vain to throw off the gourd. After raving for some days in such plans vainly, because the firm union forbade it, seeing the wind come by it commended itself to him. The wind flew hard and opened the old and hollow stem of the willow in two down to the roots, so that it fell into two parts. In vain did it bewail itself recognising that it was born to no good end. III. JESTS AND TALES. 1280. A JEST. A priest, making the rounds of his parish on Easter Eve, and sprinkling holy water in the houses as is customary, came to a painter's room, where he sprinkled the water on some of his pictures. The painter turned round, somewhat angered, and asked him why this sprinkling had been bestowed on his pictures; then said the priest, that it was the custom and his duty to do so, and that he was doing good; and that he who did good might look for good in return, and, indeed, for better, since God had promised that every good deed that was done on earth should be rewarded a hundred-fold from above. Then the painter, waiting till he went out, went to an upper window and flung a large pail of water on the priest's back, saying: "Here is the reward a hundred-fold from above, which you said would come from the good you had done me with your holy water, by which you have damaged my pictures." 1281. When wine is drunk by a drunkard, that wine is revenged on the drinker. 1282. Wine, the divine juice of the grape, finding itself in a golden and richly wrought cup, on the table of Mahomet, was puffed up with pride at so much honour; when suddenly it was struck by a contrary reflection, saying to itself: "What am I about, that I should rejoice, and not perceive that I am now near to my death and shall leave my golden abode in this cup to enter into the foul and fetid caverns of the human body, and to be transmuted from a fragrant and delicious liquor into a foul and base one. Nay, and as though so much evil as this were not enough, I must for a long time lie in hideous receptacles, together with other fetid and corrupt matter, cast out from human intestines." And it cried to Heaven, imploring vengeance for so much insult, and that an end might henceforth be put to such contempt; and that, since that country produced the finest and best grapes in the whole world, at least they should not be turned into wine. Then Jove made that wine drunk by Mahomet to rise in spirit to his brain; and that in so deleterious a manner that it made him mad, and gave birth to so many follies that when he had recovered himself, he made a law that no Asiatic should drink wine, and henceforth the vine and its fruit were left free. As soon as wine has entered the stomach it begins to ferment and swell; then the spirit of that man begins to abandon his body, rising as it were skywards, and the brain finds itself parting from the body. Then it begins to degrade him, and make him rave like a madman, and then he does irreparable evil, killing his friends. 1283. An artizan often going to visit a great gentleman without any definite purpose, the gentleman asked him what he did this for. The other said that he came there to have a pleasure which his lordship could not have; since to him it was a satisfaction to see men greater than himself, as is the way with the populace; while the gentleman could only see men of less consequence than himself; and so lords and great men were deprived of that pleasure. 1284. Franciscan begging Friars are wont, at certain times, to keep fasts, when they do not eat meat in their convents. But on journeys, as they live on charity, they have license to eat whatever is set before them. Now a couple of these friars on their travels, stopped at an inn, in company with a certain merchant, and sat down with him at the same table, where, from the poverty of the inn, nothing was served to them but a small roast chicken. The merchant, seeing this to be but little even for himself, turned to the friars and said: "If my memory serves me, you do not eat any kind of flesh in your convents at this season." At these words the friars were compelled by their rule to admit, without cavil, that this was the truth; so the merchant had his wish, and eat the chicken and the friars did the best they could. After dinner the messmates departed, all three together, and after travelling some distance they came to a river of some width and depth. All three being on foot--the friars by reason of their poverty, and the other from avarice--it was necessary by the custom of company that one of the friars, being barefoot, should carry the merchant on his shoulders: so having given his wooden shoes into his keeping, he took up his man. But it so happened that when the friar had got to the middle of the river, he again remembered a rule of his order, and stopping short, he looked up, like Saint Christopher, to the burden on his back and said: "Tell me, have you any money about you?"--"You know I have", answered the other, "How do you suppose that a Merchant like me should go about otherwise?" "Alack!" cried the friar, "our rules forbid as to carry any money on our persons," and forthwith he dropped him into the water, which the merchant perceived was a facetious way of being revenged on the indignity he had done them; so, with a smiling face, and blushing somewhat with shame, he peaceably endured the revenge. 1285. A JEST. A man wishing to prove, by the authority of Pythagoras, that he had formerly been in the world, while another would not let him finish his argument, the first speaker said to the second: "It is by this token that I was formerly here, I remember that you were a miller." The other one, feeling himself stung by these words, agreed that it was true, and that by the same token he remembered that the speaker had been the ass that carried the flour. A JEST. It was asked of a painter why, since he made such beautiful figures, which were but dead things, his children were so ugly; to which the painter replied that he made his pictures by day, and his children by night. 1286. A man saw a large sword which another one wore at his side. Said he "Poor fellow, for a long time I have seen you tied to that weapon; why do you not release yourself as your hands are untied, and set yourself free?" To which the other replied: "This is none of yours, on the contrary it is an old story." The former speaker, feeling stung, replied: "I know that you are acquainted with so few things in this world, that I thought anything I could tell you would be new to you." 1287. A man gave up his intimacy with one of his friends because he often spoke ill of his other friends. The neglected friend one day lamenting to this former friend, after much complaining, entreated him to say what might be the cause that had made him forget so much friendship. To which he answered: "I will no longer be intimate with you because I love you, and I do not choose that you, by speaking ill of me, your friend, to others, should produce in others, as in me, a bad impression of yourself, by speaking evil to them of me, your friend. Therefore, being no longer intimate together, it will seem as though we had become enemies; and in speaking evil of me, as is your wont, you will not be blamed so much as if we continued intimate. 1288. A man was arguing and boasting that he knew many and various tricks. Another among the bystanders said: "I know how to play a trick which will make whomsoever I like pull off his breeches." The first man-- the boaster--said: "You won't make me pull off mine, and I bet you a pair of hose on it." He who proposed the game, having accepted the offer, produced breeches and drew them across the face of him who bet the pair of hose and won the bet [4]. A man said to an acquaintance: "Your eyes are changed to a strange colour." The other replied: "It often happens, but you have not noticed it." "When does it happen?" said the former. "Every time that my eyes see your ugly face, from the shock of so unpleasing a sight they suddenly turn pale and change to a strange colour." A man said to another: "Your eyes are changed to a strange colour." The other replied: "It is because my eyes behold your strange ugly face." A man said that in his country were the strangest things in the world. Another answered: "You, who were born there, confirm this as true, by the strangeness of your ugly face." [Footnote: The joke turns, it appears, on two meanings of trarre and is not easily translated.] 1289. An old man was publicly casting contempt on a young one, and boldly showing that he did not fear him; on which the young man replied that his advanced age served him better as a shield than either his tongue or his strength. 1290. A JEST. A sick man finding himself in _articulo mortis_ heard a knock at the door, and asking one of his servants who was knocking, the servant went out, and answered that it was a woman calling herself Madonna Bona. Then the sick man lifting his arms to Heaven thanked God with a loud voice, and told the servants that they were to let her come in at once, so that he might see one good woman before he died, since in all his life he had never yet seen one. 1291. A JEST. A man was desired to rise from bed, because the sun was already risen. To which he replied: "If I had as far to go, and as much to do as he has, I should be risen by now; but having but a little way to go, I shall not rise yet." 1292. A man, seeing a woman ready to hold up the target for a jousting match, exclaimed, looking at the shield, and considering his spear: "Alack! this is too small a workman for so great a business." IV. PROPHECIES. 1293. THE DIVISION OF THE PROPHECIES. First, of things relating to animals; secondly, of irrational creatures; thirdly of plants; fourthly, of ceremonies; fifthly, of manners; sixthly, of cases or edicts or quarrels; seventhly, of cases that are impossible in nature [paradoxes], as, for instance, of those things which, the more is taken from them, the more they grow. And reserve the great matters till the end, and the small matters give at the beginning. And first show the evils and then the punishment of philosophical things. (Of Ants.) These creatures will form many communities, which will hide themselves and their young ones and victuals in dark caverns, and they will feed themselves and their families in dark places for many months without any light, artificial or natural. [Footnote: Lines 1--5l are in the original written in one column, beginning with the text of line 11. At the end of the column is the programme for the arrangement of the prophecies, placed here at the head: Lines 56--79 form a second column, lines 80--97 a third one (see the reproduction of the text on the facsimile PI. CXVIII). Another suggestion for the arrangement of the prophecies is to be found among the notes 55--57 on page 357.] (Of Bees.) And many others will be deprived of their store and their food, and will be cruelly submerged and drowned by folks devoid of reason. Oh Justice of God! Why dost thou not wake and behold thy creatures thus ill used? (Of Sheep, Cows, Goats and the like.) Endless multitudes of these will have their little children taken from them ripped open and flayed and most barbarously quartered. (Of Nuts, and Olives, and Acorns, and Chesnuts, and such like.) Many offspring shall be snatched by cruel thrashing from the very arms of their mothers, and flung on the ground, and crushed. (Of Children bound in Bundles.) O cities of the Sea! In you I see your citizens--both females and males--tightly bound, arms and legs, with strong withes by folks who will not understand your language. And you will only be able to assuage your sorrows and lost liberty by means of tearful complaints and sighing and lamentation among yourselves; for those who will bind you will not understand you, nor will you understand them. (Of Cats that eat Rats.) In you, O cities of Africa your children will be seen quartered in their own houses by most cruel and rapacious beasts of your own country. (Of Asses that are beaten.) [Footnote 48: Compare No. 845.] O Nature! Wherefore art thou so partial; being to some of thy children a tender and benign mother, and to others a most cruel and pitiless stepmother? I see children of thine given up to slavery to others, without any sort of advantage, and instead of remuneration for the good they do, they are paid with the severest suffering, and spend their whole life in benefitting those who ill treat them. (Of Men who sleep on boards of Trees.) Men shall sleep, and eat, and dwell among trees, in the forests and open country. (Of Dreaming.) Men will seem to see new destructions in the sky. The flames that fall from it will seem to rise in it and to fly from it with terror. They will hear every kind of animals speak in human language. They will instantaneously run in person in various parts of the world, without motion. They will see the greatest splendour in the midst of darkness. O! marvel of the human race! What madness has led you thus! You will speak with animals of every species and they with you in human speech. You will see yourself fall from great heights without any harm and torrents will accompany you, and will mingle with their rapid course. (Of Christians.) Many who hold the faith of the Son only build temples in the name of the Mother. (Of Food which has been alive.) [84] A great portion of bodies that have been alive will pass into the bodies of other animals; which is as much as to say, that the deserted tenements will pass piecemeal into the inhabited ones, furnishing them with good things, and carrying with them their evils. That is to say the life of man is formed from things eaten, and these carry with them that part of man which dies . . . 1294. (Of Funeral Rites, and Processions, and Lights, and Bells, and Followers.) The greatest honours will be paid to men, and much pomp, without their knowledge. [Footnote: A facsimile of this text is on PI. CXVI below on the right, but the writing is larger than the other notes on the same sheet and of a somewhat different style. The ink is also of a different hue, as may be seen on the original sheet at Milan.] 1295. (Of the Avaricious.) There will be many who will eagerly and with great care and solicitude follow up a thing, which, if they only knew its malignity, would always terrify them. (Of those men, who, the older they grow, the more avaricious they become, whereas, having but little time to stay, they should become more liberal.) We see those who are regarded as being most experienced and judicious, when they least need a thing, seek and cherish it with most avidity. (Of the Ditch.) Many will be busied in taking away from a thing, which will grow in proportion as it is diminished. (Of a Weight placed on a Feather-pillow.) And it will be seen in many bodies that by raising the head they swell visibly; and by laying the raised head down again, their size will immediately be diminished. (Of catching Lice.) And many will be hunters of animals, which, the fewer there are the more will be taken; and conversely, the more there are, the fewer will be taken. (Of Drawing Water in two Buckets with a single Rope.) And many will be busily occupied, though the more of the thing they draw up, the more will escape at the other end. (Of the Tongues of Pigs and Calves in Sausage-skins.) Oh! how foul a thing, that we should see the tongue of one animal in the guts of another. (Of Sieves made of the Hair of Animals.) We shall see the food of animals pass through their skin everyway excepting through their mouths, and penetrate from the outside downwards to the ground. (Of Lanterns.) [Footnote 35: Lanterns were in Italy formerly made of horn.] The cruel horns of powerful bulls will screen the lights of night against the wild fury of the winds. (Of Feather-beds.) Flying creatures will give their very feathers to support men. (Of Animals which walk on Trees--wearing wooden Shoes.) The mire will be so great that men will walk on the trees of their country. (Of the Soles of Shoes, which are made from the Ox.) And in many parts of the country men will be seen walking on the skins of large beasts. (Of Sailing in Ships.) There will be great winds by reason of which things of the East will become things of the West; and those of the South, being involved in the course of the winds, will follow them to distant lands. (Of Worshipping the Pictures of Saints.) Men will speak to men who hear not; having their eyes open, they will not see; they will speak to these, and they will not be answered. They will implore favours of those who have ears and hear not; they will make light for the blind. (Of Sawyers.) There will be many men who will move one against another, holding in their hands a cutting tool. But these will not do each other any injury beyond tiring each other; for, when one pushes forward the other will draw back. But woe to him who comes between them! For he will end by being cut in pieces. (Of Silk-spinning.) Dismal cries will be heard loud, shrieking with anguish, and the hoarse and smothered tones of those who will be despoiled, and at last left naked and motionless; and this by reason of the mover, which makes every thing turn round. (Of putting Bread into the Mouth of the Oven and taking it out again.) In every city, land, castle and house, men shall be seen, who for want of food will take it out of the mouths of others, who will not be able to resist in any way. (Of tilled Land.) The Earth will be seen turned up side down and facing the opposite hemispheres, uncovering the lurking holes of the fiercest animals. (Of Sowing Seed.) Then many of the men who will remain alive, will throw the victuals they have preserved out of their houses, a free prey to the birds and beasts of the earth, without taking any care of them at all. (Of the Rains, which, by making the Rivers muddy, wash away the Land.) [Footnote 81: Compare No. 945.] Something will fall from the sky which will transport a large part of Africa which lies under that sky towards Europe, and that of Europe towards Africa, and that of the Scythian countries will meet with tremendous revolutions [Footnote 84: Compare No. 945.]. (Of Wood that burns.) The trees and shrubs in the great forests will be converted into cinder. (Of Kilns for Bricks and Lime.) Finally the earth will turn red from a conflagration of many days and the stones will be turned to cinders. (Of boiled Fish.) The natives of the waters will die in the boiling flood. (Of the Olives which fall from the Olive trees, shedding oil which makes light.) And things will fall with great force from above, which will give us nourishment and light. (Of Owls and screech owls and what will happen to certain birds.) Many will perish of dashing their heads in pieces, and the eyes of many will jump out of their heads by reason of fearful creatures come out of the darkness. (Of flax which works the cure of men.) That which was at first bound, cast out and rent by many and various beaters will be respected and honoured, and its precepts will be listened to with reverence and love. (Of Books which teach Precepts.) Bodies without souls will, by their contents give us precepts by which to die well. (Of Flagellants.) Men will hide themselves under the bark of trees, and, screaming, they will make themselves martyrs, by striking their own limbs. (Of the Handles of Knives made of the Horns of Sheep.) We shall see the horns of certain beasts fitted to iron tools, which will take the lives of many of their kind. (Of Night when no Colour can be discerned.) There will come a time when no difference can be discerned between colours, on the contrary, everything will be black alike. (Of Swords and Spears which by themselves never hurt any one.) One who by himself is mild enough and void of all offence will become terrible and fierce by being in bad company, and will most cruelly take the life of many men, and would kill many more if they were not hindered by bodies having no soul, that have come out of caverns--that is, breastplates of iron. (Of Snares and Traps.) Many dead things will move furiously, and will take and bind the living, and will ensnare them for the enemies who seek their death and destruction. (Of Metals.) That shall be brought forth out of dark and obscure caves, which will put the whole human race in great anxiety, peril and death. To many that seek them, after many sorrows they will give delight, and to those who are not in their company, death with want and misfortune. This will lead to the commission of endless crimes; this will increase and persuade bad men to assassinations, robberies and treachery, and by reason of it each will be suspicious of his partner. This will deprive free cities of their happy condition; this will take away the lives of many; this will make men torment each other with many artifices deceptions and treasons. O monstrous creature! How much better would it be for men that every thing should return to Hell! For this the vast forests will be devastated of their trees; for this endless animals will lose their lives. (Of Fire.) One shall be born from small beginnings which will rapidly become vast. This will respect no created thing, rather will it, by its power, transform almost every thing from its own nature into another. (Of Ships which sink.) Huge bodies will be seen, devoid of life, carrying, in fierce haste, a multitude of men to the destruction of their lives. (Of Oxen, which are eaten.) The masters of estates will eat their own labourers. (Of beating Beds to renew them.) Men will be seen so deeply ungrateful that they will turn upon that which has harboured them, for nothing at all; they will so load it with blows that a great part of its inside will come out of its place, and will be turned over and over in its body. (Of Things which are eaten and which first are killed.) Those who nourish them will be killed by them and afflicted by merciless deaths. (Of the Reflection of Walls of Cities in the Water of their Ditches.) The high walls of great cities will be seen up side down in their ditches. (Of Water, which flows turbid and mixed with Soil and Dust; and of Mist, which is mixed with the Air; and of Fire which is mixed with its own, and each with each.) All the elements will be seen mixed together in a great whirling mass, now borne towards the centre of the world, now towards the sky; and now furiously rushing from the South towards the frozen North, and sometimes from the East towards the West, and then again from this hemisphere to the other. (The World may be divided into two Hemispheres at any Point.) All men will suddenly be transferred into opposite hemispheres. (The division of the East from the West may be made at any point.) All living creatures will be moved from the East to the West; and in the same way from North to South, and vice versa. (Of the Motion of Water which carries wood, which is dead.) Bodies devoid of life will move by themselves and carry with them endless generations of the dead, taking the wealth from the bystanders. (Of Eggs which being eaten cannot form Chickens.) Oh! how many will they be that never come to the birth! (Of Fishes which are eaten unborn.) Endless generations will be lost by the death of the pregnant. (Of the Lamentation on Good Friday.) Throughout Europe there will be a lamentation of great nations over the death of one man who died in the East. (Of Dreaming.) Men will walk and not stir, they will talk to those who are not present, and hear those who do not speak. (Of a Man's Shadow which moves with him.) Shapes and figures of men and animals will be seen following these animals and men wherever they flee. And exactly as the one moves the other moves; but what seems so wonderful is the variety of height they assume. (Of our Shadow cast by the Sun, and our Reflection in the Water at one and the same time.) Many a time will one man be seen as three and all three move together, and often the most real one quits him. (Of wooden Chests which contain great Treasures.) Within walnuts and trees and other plants vast treasures will be found, which lie hidden there and well guarded. (Of putting out the Light when going to Bed.) Many persons puffing out a breath with too much haste, will thereby lose their sight, and soon after all consciousness. (Of the Bells of Mules, which are close to their Ears.) In many parts of Europe instruments of various sizes will be heard making divers harmonies, with great labour to those who hear them most closely. (Of Asses.) The severest labour will be repaid with hunger and thirst, and discomfort, and blows, and goadings, and curses, and great abuse. (Of Soldiers on horseback.) Many men will be seen carried by large animals, swift of pace, to the loss of their lives and immediate death. In the air and on earth animals will be seen of divers colours furiously carrying men to the destruction of their lives. (Of the Stars of Spurs.) By the aid of the stars men will be seen who will be as swift as any swift animal. (Of a Stick, which is dead.) The motions of a dead thing will make many living ones flee with pain and lamentation and cries. (Of Tinder.) With a stone and with iron things will be made visible which before were not seen. 1296. (Of going in Ships.) We shall see the trees of the great forests of Taurus and of Sinai and of the Appenines and others, rush by means of the air, from East to West and from North to South; and carry, by means of the air, great multitudes of men. Oh! how many vows! Oh! how many deaths! Oh! how many partings of friends and relations! Oh! how many will those be who will never again see their own country nor their native land, and who will die unburied, with their bones strewn in various parts of the world! (Of moving on All Saints' Day.) Many will forsake their own dwellings and carry with them all their belongings and will go to live in other parts. (Of All Souls' Day.) How many will they be who will bewail their deceased forefathers, carrying lights to them. (Of Friars, who spending nothing but words, receive great gifts and bestow Paradise.) Invisible money will procure the triumph of many who will spend it. (Of Bows made of the Horns of Oxen.) Many will there be who will die a painful death by means of the horns of cattle. (Of writing Letters from one Country to another.) Men will speak with each other from the most remote countries, and reply. (Of Hemispheres, which are infinite; and which are divided by an infinite number of Lines, so that every Man always has one of these Lines between his Feet.) Men standing in opposite hemispheres will converse and deride each other and embrace each other, and understand each other's language. (Of Priests who say Mass.) There will be many men who, when they go to their labour will put on the richest clothes, and these will be made after the fashion of aprons [petticoats]. (Of Friars who are Confessors.) And unhappy women will, of their own free will, reveal to men all their sins and shameful and most secret deeds. (Of Churches and the Habitations of Friars.) Many will there be who will give up work and labour and poverty of life and goods, and will go to live among wealth in splendid buildings, declaring that this is the way to make themselves acceptable to God. (Of Selling Paradise.) An infinite number of men will sell publicly and unhindered things of the very highest price, without leave from the Master of it; while it never was theirs nor in their power; and human justice will not prevent it. (Of the Dead which are carried to be buried.) The simple folks will carry vast quantities of lights to light up the road for those who have entirely lost the power of sight. (Of Dowries for Maidens.) And whereas, at first, maidens could not be protected against the violence of Men, neither by the watchfulness of parents nor by strong walls, the time will come when the fathers and parents of those girls will pay a large price to a man who wants to marry them, even if they are rich, noble and most handsome. Certainly this seems as though nature wished to eradicate the human race as being useless to the world, and as spoiling all created things. (Of the Cruelty of Man.) Animals will be seen on the earth who will always be fighting against each other with the greatest loss and frequent deaths on each side. And there will be no end to their malignity; by their strong limbs we shall see a great portion of the trees of the vast forests laid low throughout the universe; and, when they are filled with food the satisfaction of their desires will be to deal death and grief and labour and wars and fury to every living thing; and from their immoderate pride they will desire to rise towards heaven, but the too great weight of their limbs will keep them down. Nothing will remain on earth, or under the earth or in the waters which will not be persecuted, disturbed and spoiled, and those of one country removed into another. And their bodies will become the sepulture and means of transit of all they have killed. O Earth! why dost thou not open and engulf them in the fissures of thy vast abyss and caverns, and no longer display in the sight of heaven such a cruel and horrible monster. 1297. PROPHECIES. There will be many which will increase in their destruction. (The Ball of Snow rolling over Snow.) There will be many who, forgetting their existence and their name, will lie as dead on the spoils of other dead creatures. (Sleeping on the Feathers of Birds.) The East will be seen to rush to the West and the South to the North in confusion round and about the universe, with great noise and trembling or fury. (In the East wind which rushes to the West.) The solar rays will kindle fire on the earth, by which a thing that is under the sky will be set on fire, and, being reflected by some obstacle, it will bend downwards. (The Concave Mirror kindles a Fire, with which we heat the oven, and this has its foundation beneath its roof.) A great part of the sea will fly towards heaven and for a long time will not return. (That is, in Clouds.) There remains the motion which divides the mover from the thing moved. Those who give light for divine service will be destroyed.(The Bees which make the Wax for Candles) Dead things will come from underground and by their fierce movements will send numberless human beings out of the world. (Iron, which comes from under ground is dead but the Weapons are made of it which kill so many Men.) The greatest mountains, even those which are remote from the sea shore, will drive the sea from its place. (This is by Rivers which carry the Earth they wash away from the Mountains and bear it to the Sea-shore; and where the Earth comes the sea must retire.) The water dropped from the clouds still in motion on the flanks of mountains will lie still for a long period of time without any motion whatever; and this will happen in many and divers lands. (Snow, which falls in flakes and is Water.) The great rocks of the mountains will throw out fire; so that they will burn the timber of many vast forests, and many beasts both wild and tame. (The Flint in the Tinder-box which makes a Fire that consumes all the loads of Wood of which the Forests are despoiled and with this the flesh of Beasts is cooked.) Oh! how many great buildings will be ruined by reason of Fire. (The Fire of great Guns.) Oxen will be to a great extent the cause of the destruction of cities, and in the same way horses and buffaloes. (By drawing Guns.) 1298. The Lion tribe will be seen tearing open the earth with their clawed paws and in the caves thus made, burying themselves together with the other animals that are beneath them. Animals will come forth from the earth in gloomy vesture, which will attack the human species with astonishing assaults, and which by their ferocious bites will make confusion of blood among those they devour. Again the air will be filled with a mischievous winged race which will assail men and beasts and feed upon them with much noise-- filling themselves with scarlet blood. 1299. Blood will be seen issuing from the torn flesh of men, and trickling down the surface. Men will have such cruel maladies that they will tear their flesh with their own nails. (The Itch.) Plants will be seen left without leaves, and the rivers standing still in their channels. The waters of the sea will rise above the high peaks of the mountains towards heaven and fall again on to the dwellings of men. (That is, in Clouds.) The largest trees of the forest will be seen carried by the fury of the winds from East to West. (That is across the Sea.) Men will cast away their own victuals. (That is, in Sowing.) 1300. Human beings will be seen who will not understand each other's speech; that is, a German with a Turk. Fathers will be seen giving their daughters into the power of man and giving up all their former care in guarding them. (When Girls are married.) Men will come out their graves turned into flying creatures; and they will attack other men, taking their food from their very hand or table. (As Flies.) Many will there be who, flaying their mother, will tear the skin from her back. (Husbandmen tilling the Earth.) Happy will they be who lend ear to the words of the Dead. (Who read good works and obey them.) 1031. Feathers will raise men, as they do birds, towards heaven (that is, by the letters which are written with quills.) The works of men's hands will occasion their death. (Swords and Spears.) Men out of fear will cling to the thing they most fear. (That is they will be miserable lest they should fall into misery.) Things that are separate shall be united and acquire such virtue that they will restore to man his lost memory; that is papyrus [sheets] which are made of separate strips and have preserved the memory of the things and acts of men. The bones of the Dead will be seen to govern the fortunes of him who moves them. (By Dice.) Cattle with their horns protect the Flame from its death. (In a Lantern [Footnote 13: See note page 357.].) The Forests will bring forth young which will be the cause of their death. (The handle of the hatchet.) 1302. Men will deal bitter blows to that which is the cause of their life. (In thrashing Grain.) The skins of animals will rouse men from their silence with great outcries and curses. (Balls for playing Games.) Very often a thing that is itself broken is the occasion of much union. (That is the Comb made of split Cane which unites the threads of Silk.) The wind passing through the skins of animals will make men dance. (That is the Bag-pipe, which makes people dance.) 1303. (Of Walnut trees, that are beaten.) Those which have done best will be most beaten, and their offspring taken and flayed or peeled, and their bones broken or crushed. (Of Sculpture.) Alas! what do I see? The Saviour cru- cified anew. (Of the Mouth of Man, which is a Sepulchre.) Great noise will issue from the sepulchres of those who died evil and violent deaths. (Of the Skins of Animals which have the sense of feeling what is in the things written.) The more you converse with skins covered with sentiments, the more wisdom will you acquire. (Of Priests who bear the Host in their body.) Then almost all the tabernacles in which dwells the Corpus Domini, will be plainly seen walking about of themselves on the various roads of the world. 1304. And those who feed on grass will turn night into day (Tallow.) And many creatures of land and water will go up among the stars (that is Planets.) The dead will be seen carrying the living (in Carts and Ships in various places.) Food shall be taken out of the mouth of many ( the oven's mouth.) And those which will have their food in their mouth will be deprived of it by the hands of others (the oven.) 1305. (Of Crucifixes which are sold.) I see Christ sold and crucified afresh, and his Saints suffering Martyrdom. (Of Physicians, who live by sickness.) Men will come into so wretched a plight that they will be glad that others will derive profit from their sufferings or from the loss of their real wealth, that is health. (Of the Religion of Friars, who live by the Saints who have been dead a great while.) Those who are dead will, after a thou- sand years be those who will give a livelihood to many who are living. (Of Stones converted into Lime, with which prison walls are made.) Many things that have been before that time destroyed by fire will deprive many men of liberty. 1306. (Of Children who are suckled.) Many Franciscans, Dominicans and Benedictines will eat that which at other times was eaten by others, who for some months to come will not be able to speak. (Of Cockles and Sea Snails which are thrown up by the sea and which rot inside their shells.) How many will there be who, after they are dead, will putrefy inside their own houses, filling all the surrounding air with a fetid smell. 1307. (Of Mules which have on them rich burdens of silver and gold.) Much treasure and great riches will be laid upon four-footed beasts, which will convey them to divers places. 1308. (Of the Shadow cast by a man at night with a light.) Huge figures will appear in human shape, and the nearer you get to them, the more will their immense size diminish. [Footnote page 1307: It seems to me probable that this note, which occurs in the note book used in 1502, when Leonardo, in the service of Cesare Borgia, visited Urbino, was suggested by the famous pillage of the riches of the palace of Guidobaldo, whose treasures Cesare Borgia at once had carried to Cesena (see GREGOROVIUS, _Geschichte der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter_. XIII, 5, 4). ] 1309. (Of Snakes, carried by Storks.) Serpents of great length will be seen at a great height in the air, fighting with birds. (Of great guns, which come out of a pit and a mould.) Creatures will come from underground which with their terrific noise will stun all who are near; and with their breath will kill men and destroy cities and castles. 1310. (Of Grain and other Seeds.) Men will fling out of their houses those victuals which were intended to sustain their life. (Of Trees, which nourish grafted shoots.) Fathers and mothers will be seen to take much more delight in their step-children then in their own children. (Of the Censer.) Some will go about in white garments with arrogant gestures threatening others with metal and fire which will do no harm at all to them. 1311. (Of drying Fodder.) Innumerable lives will be destroyed and innumerable vacant spaces will be made on the earth. (Of the Life of Men, who every year change their bodily substance.) Men, when dead, will pass through their own bowels. 1312. (Shoemakers.) Men will take pleasure in seeing their own work destroyed and injured. 1313. (Of Kids.) The time of Herod will come again, for the little innocent children will be taken from their nurses, and will die of terrible wounds inflicted by cruel men. V. DRAUGHTS AND SCHEMES FOR THE HUMOROUS WRITINGS. Schemes for fables, etc. (1314-1323). 1314. A FABLE. The crab standing under the rock to catch the fish which crept under it, it came to pass that the rock fell with a ruinous downfall of stones, and by their fall the crab was crushed. THE SAME. The spider, being among the grapes, caught the flies which were feeding on those grapes. Then came the vintage, and the spider was cut down with the grapes. The vine that has grown old on an old tree falls with the ruin of that tree, and through that bad companionship must perish with it. The torrent carried so much earth and stones into its bed, that it was then constrained to change its course. The net that was wont to take the fish was seized and carried away by the rush of fish. The ball of snow when, as it rolls, it descends from the snowy mountains, increases in size as it falls. The willow, which by its long shoots hopes as it grows, to outstrip every other plant, from having associated itself with the vine which is pruned every year was always crippled. 1315. Fable of the tongue bitten by the teeth. The cedar puffed up with pride of its beauty, separated itself from the trees around it and in so doing it turned away towards the wind, which not being broken in its fury, flung it uprooted on the earth. The traveller's joy, not content in its hedge, began to fling its branches out over the high road, and cling to the opposite hedge, and for this it was broken away by the passers by. 1316. The goldfinch gives victuals to its caged young. Death rather than loss of liberty. [Footnote: Above this text is another note, also referring to liberty; see No. 694.] 1317. (Of Bags.) Goats will convey the wine to the city. 1318. All those things which in winter are hidden under the snow, will be uncovered and laid bare in summer. (for Falsehood, which cannot remain hidden). 1319. A FABLE. The lily set itself down by the shores of the Ticino, and the current carried away bank and the lily with it. 1320. A JEST. Why Hungarian ducats have a double cross on them. 1321. A SIMILE. A vase of unbaked clay, when broken, may be remoulded, but not a baked one. 1322. Seeing the paper all stained with the deep blackness of ink, it he deeply regrets it; and this proves to the paper that the words, composed upon it were the cause of its being preserved. 1323. The pen must necessarily have the penknife for a companion, and it is a useful companionship, for one is not good for much without the other. Schemes for prophecies (1324-1329). 1324. The knife, which is an artificial weapon, deprives man of his nails, his natural weapons. The mirror conducts itself haughtily holding mirrored in itself the Queen. When she departs the mirror remains there ... 1325. Flax is dedicated to death, and to the corruption of mortals. To death, by being used for snares and nets for birds, animals and fish; to corruption, by the flaxen sheets in which the dead are wrapped when they are buried, and who become corrupt in these winding sheets.-- And again, this flax does not separate its fibre till it has begun to steep and putrefy, and this is the flower with which garlands and decorations for funerals should be made. 1326. (Of Peasants who work in shirts) Shadows will come from the East which will blacken with great colour darkness the sky that covers Italy. (Of the Barbers.) All men will take refuge in Africa. 1327. The cloth which is held in the hand in the current of a running stream, in the waters of which the cloth leaves all its foulness and dirt, is meant to signify this &c. By the thorn with inoculated good fruit is signified those natures which of themselves were not disposed towards virtue, but by the aid of their preceptors they have the repudation of it. 1328. A COMMON THING. A wretched person will be flattered, and these flatterers are always the deceivers, robbers and murderers of the wretched person. The image of the sun where it falls appears as a thing which covers the person who attempts to cover it. (Money and Gold.) Out of cavernous pits a thing shall come forth which will make all the nations of the world toil and sweat with the greatest torments, anxiety and labour, that they may gain its aid. (Of the Dread of Poverty.) The malicious and terrible [monster] will cause so much terror of itself in men that they will rush together, with a rapid motion, like madmen, thinking they are escaping her boundless force. (Of Advice.) The man who may be most necessary to him who needs him, will be repaid with ingratitude, that is greatly contemned. 1329. (Of Bees.) They live together in communities, they are destroyed that we may take the honey from them. Many and very great nations will be destroyed in their own dwellings. 1330. WHY DOGS TAKE PLEASURE IN SMELLING AT EACH OTHER. This animal has a horror of the poor, because they eat poor food, and it loves the rich, because they have good living and especially meat. And the excrement of animals always retains some virtue of its origin as is shown by the faeces ... Now dogs have so keen a smell, that they can discern by their nose the virtue remaining in these faeces, and if they find them in the streets, smell them and if they smell in them the virtue of meat or of other things, they take them, and if not, they leave them: And to return to the question, I say that if by means of this smell they know that dog to be well fed, they respect him, because they judge that he has a powerful and rich master; and if they discover no such smell with the virtue of meet, they judge that dog to be of small account and to have a poor and humble master, and therefore they bite that dog as they would his master. 1331. The circular plans of carrying earth are very useful, inasmuch as men never stop in their work; and it is done in many ways. By one of these ways men carry the earth on their shoulders, by another in chests and others on wheelbarrows. The man who carries it on his shoulders first fills the tub on the ground, and he loses time in hoisting it on to his shoulders. He with the chests loses no time. [Footnote: The subject of this text has apparently no connection with the other texts of this section.] Irony (1332). 1332. If Petrarch was so fond of bay, it was because it is of a good taste in sausages and with tunny; I cannot put any value on their foolery. [Footnote: Conte Porro has published these lines in the _Archivio Stor. Lombarda_ VIII, IV; he reads the concluding line thus: _I no posso di loro gia (sic) co' far tesauro._--This is known to be by a contemporary poet, as Senatore Morelli informs me.] Tricks (1333-1335). 1333. We are two brothers, each of us has a brother. Here the way of saying it makes it appear that the two brothers have become four. 1334. TRICKS OF DIVIDING. Take in each hand an equal number; put 4 from the right hand into the left; cast away the remainder; cast away an equal number from the left hand; add 5, and now you will find 13 in this [left] hand; that is-I made you put 4 from the right hand into the left, and cast away the remainder; now your right hand has 4 more; then I make you throw away as many from the right as you threw away from the left; so, throwing from each hand a quantity of which the remainder may be equal, you now have 4 and 4, which make 8, and that the trick may not be detec- ted I made you put 5 more, which made 13. TRICKS OF DIVIDING. Take any number less than 12 that you please; then take of mine enough to make up the number 12, and that which remains to me is the number which you at first had; because when I said, take any number less than 12 as you please, I took 12 into my hand, and of that 12 you took such a number as made up your number of 12; and what you added to your number, you took from mine; that is, if you had 8 to go as far as to 12, you took of my 12, 4; hence this 4 transferred from me to you reduced my 12 to a remainder of 8, and your 8 became 12; so that my 8 is equal to your 8, before it was made 12. [Footnote 1334: G. Govi _says in the_ 'Saggio' p. 22: _Si dilett Leonarda, di giuochi di prestigi e molti (?) ne descrisse, che si leggono poi riportati dal Paciolo nel suo libro:_ de Viribus Quantitatis, _e che, se non tutti, sono certo in gran parte invenzioni del Vinci._] 1335. If you want to teach someone a subject you do not know yourself, let him measure the length of an object unknown to you, and he will learn the measure you did not know before;--Master Giovanni da Lodi. _XXI._ _Letters. Personal Records. Dated Notes._ _When we consider how superficial and imperfect are the accounts of Leonardo's life written some time after his death by Vasari and others, any notes or letters which can throw more light on his personal circumstances cannot fail to be in the highest degree interesting. The texts here given as Nos._ 1351--1353, _set his residence in Rome in quite a new aspect; nay, the picture which irresistibly dwells in our minds after reading these details of his life in the Vatican, forms a striking contrast to the contemporary life of Raphael at Rome._ _I have placed foremost of these documents the very remarkable letters to the Defterdar of Syria. In these Leonardo speaks of himself as having staid among the mountains of Armenia, and as the biographies of the master tell nothing of any such distant journeys, it would seem most obvious to treat this passage as fiction, and so spare ourselves the onus of proof and discussion. But on close examination no one can doubt that these documents, with the accompanying sketches, are the work of Leonardo's own hand. Not merely is the character of the handwriting his, but the spelling and the language are his also. In one respect only does the writing betray any marked deviation from the rest of the notes, especially those treating on scientific questions; namely, in these observations he seems to have taken particular pains to give the most distinct and best form of expression to all he had to say; we find erasures and emendations in almost every line. He proceeded, as we shall see, in the same way in the sketches for letters to Giuliano de' Medici, and what can be more natural, I may ask, than to find the draft of a letter thus altered and improved when it is to contain an account of a definite subject, and when personal interests are in the scale? The finished copies as sent off are not known to exist; if we had these instead of the rough drafts, we might unhesitatingly have declared that some unknown Italian engineer must have been, at that time, engaged in Armenia in the service of the Egyptian Sultan, and that Leonardo had copied his documents. Under this hypothesis however we should have to state that this unknown writer must have been so far one in mind with Leonardo as to use the same style of language and even the same lines of thought. This explanation might--as I say--have been possible, if only we had the finished letters. But why should these rough drafts of letters be regarded as anything else than what they actually and obviously are? If Leonardo had been a man of our own time, we might perhaps have attempted to account for the facts by saying that Leonardo, without having been in the East himself, might have undertaken to write a Romance of which the scene was laid in Armenia, and at the desire of his publisher had made sketches of landscape to illustrate the text. I feel bound to mention this singular hypothesis as it has actually been put forward (see No. 1336 note 5); and it would certainly seem as though there were no other possible way of evading the conclusion to which these letters point, and their bearing on the life of the master,--absurd as the alternative is. But, if, on a question of such importance, we are justified in suggesting theories that have no foundation in probability, I could suggest another which, as compared with that of a Fiction by Leonardo, would be neither more nor less plausible; it is, moreover the only other hypothesis, perhaps, which can be devised to account for these passages, if it were possible to prove that the interpretation that the documents themselves suggest, must be rejected a priori; viz may not Leonardo have written them with the intention of mystifying those who, after his death, should try to decipher these manuscripts with a view to publishing them? But if, in fact, no objection that will stand the test of criticism can be brought against the simple and direct interpretation of the words as they stand, we are bound to regard Leonardo's travels in the East as an established fact. There is, I believe nothing in what we know of his biography to negative such a fact, especially as the details of his life for some few years are wholly unknown; nor need we be at a loss for evidence which may serve to explain--at any rate to some extent--the strangeness of his undertaking such a journey. We have no information as to Leonardo's history between 1482 and 1486; it cannot be proved that he was either in Milan or in Florence. On the other hand the tenor of this letter does not require us to assume a longer absence than a year or two. For, even if his appointment_ (offitio) _as Engineer in Syria had been a permanent one, it might have become untenable--by the death perhaps of the Defterdar, his patron, or by his removal from office--, and Leonardo on his return home may have kept silence on the subject of an episode which probably had ended in failure and disappointment. From the text of No. 1379 we can hardly doubt that Leonardo intended to make an excursion secretly from Rome to Naples, although so far as has hitherto been known, his biographers never allude to it. In another place (No. 1077) he says that he had worked as an Engineer in Friuli. Are we to doubt this statement too, merely because no biographer has hitherto given us any information on the matter? In the geographical notes Leonardo frequently speaks of the East, and though such passages afford no direct proof of his having been there, they show beyond a doubt that, next to the Nile, the Euphrates, the Tigris and the Taurus mountains had a special interest in his eyes. As a still further proof of the futility of the argument that there is nothing in his drawings to show that he had travelled in the East, we find on Pl. CXX a study of oriental heads of Armenian type,--though of course this may have been made in Italy. If the style of these letters were less sober, and the expressions less strictly to the point throughout, it miglit be possible to regard them as a romantic fiction instead of a narrative of fact. Nay, we have only to compare them with such obviously fanciful passages as No. 1354, Nos. 670-673, and the Fables and Prophecies. It is unnecessary to discuss the subject any further here; such explanations as the letter needs are given in the foot notes. The drafts of letters to Lodovico il Moro are very remarkable. Leonardo and this prince were certainly far less closely connected, than has hitherto been supposed. It is impossible that Leonardo can have remained so long in the service of this prince, because the salary was good, as is commonly stated. On the contrary, it would seem, that what kept him there, in spite of his sore need of the money owed him by the prince, was the hope of some day being able to carry out the project of casting the_ 'gran cavallo'. Drafts of Letters and Reports referring to Armenia (1336. 1337). 1336. To THE DEVATDAR OF SYRIA, LIEUTENANT OF THE SACRED SULTAN OF BABYLON. [3] The recent disaster in our Northern parts which I am certain will terrify not you alone but the whole world, which [Footnote: Lines 1-52 are reproduced in facsimile on Pl. CXVI. 1. _Diodario._ This word is not to be found in any Italian dictionary, and for a long time I vainly sought an explanation of it. The youthful reminiscences of my wife afforded the desired clue. The chief town of each Turkish Villayet, or province --such as Broussa, for instance, in Asia Minor, is the residence of a Defterdar, who presides over the financial affairs of the province. _Defterdar hane_ was, in former times, the name given to the Ministry of Finance at Constantinople; the Minister of Finance to the Porte is now known as the _Mallie-Nazri_ and the _Defterdars_ are his subordinates. A _Defterdar_, at the present day is merely the head of the finance department in each Provincial district. With regard to my suggestion that Leonardo's _Diodario_ might be identical with the Defterdar of former times, the late M. C. DEFREMERIE, Arabic Professor, and Membre de l'Institut de France wrote to me as follows: _Votre conjecture est parfaitement fondee; diodario est Vequivalent de devadar ou plus exactement devatdar, titre d'une importante dignite en Egypt'e, sous les Mamlouks._ The word however is not of Turkish, but of Perso-Arabie derivation. [Defter written in arab?] literally _Defter_ (Arabic) meaning _folio_; for _dar_ (Persian) Bookkeeper or holder is the English equivalent; and the idea is that of a deputy in command. During the Mamelook supremacy over Syria, which corresponded in date with Leonardo's time, the office of Defterdar was the third in importance in the State. _Soltano di Babilonia_. The name of Babylon was commonly applied to Cairo in the middle ages. For instance BREIDENBACH, _Itinerarium Hierosolyma_ p. 218 says: "At last we reached Babylon. But this is not that Babylon which stood on the further shore of the river Chober, but that which is called the Egyptian Babylon. It is close by Cairo and the twain are but one and not two towns; one half is called Cairo and the other Babylon, whence they are called together Cairo-Babylon; originally the town is said to have been named Memphis and then Babylon, but now it is called Cairo." Compare No. 1085, 6. Egypt was governed from 1382 till 1517 by the Borgite or Tcherkessian dynasty of the Mamelook Sultans. One of the most famous of these, Sultan Kait Bey, ruled from 1468-1496 during whose reign the Gama (or Mosque) of Kait Bey and tomb of Kait Bey near the Okella Kait Bey were erected in Cairo, which preserve his name to this day. Under the rule of this great and wise prince many foreigners, particularly Italians, found occupation in Egypt, as may be seen in the 'Viaggio di Josaphat Barbaro', among other travellers. "Next to Leonardo (so I learn from Prof. Jac. Burckhardt of Bale) Kait Bey's most helpful engineer was a German who in about 1487, superintended the construction of the Mole at Alexandria. Felix Fabri knew him and mentions him in his _Historia Suevorum_, written in 1488." 3. _Il nuovo accidente accaduto_, or as Leonardo first wrote and then erased, _e accaduto un nuovo accidente_. From the sequel this must refer to an earthquake, and indeed these were frequent at that period, particularly in Asia Minor, where they caused immense mischief. See No. 1101 note.] shall be related to you in due order, showing first the effect and then the cause. [Footnote 4: The text here breaks off. The following lines are a fresh beginning of a letter, evidently addressed to the same person, but, as it would seem, written at a later date than the previous text. The numerous corrections and amendments amply prove that it is not a copy from any account of a journey by some unknown person; but, on the contrary, that Leonardo was particularly anxious to choose such words and phrases as might best express his own ideas.] Finding myself in this part of Armenia [Footnote 5: _Parti d'Erminia_. See No. 945, note. The extent of Armenia in Leonardo's time is only approximately known. In the XVth century the Persians governed the Eastern, and the Arabs the Southern portions. Arabic authors--as, for instance Abulfeda--include Cilicia and a part of Cappadocia in Armenia, and Greater Armenia was the tract of that country known later as Turcomania, while Armenia Minor was the territory between Cappadocia and the Euphrates. It was not till 1522, or even 1574 that the whole country came under the dominion of the Ottoman Turks, in the reign of Selim I. The Mamelook Sultans of Egypt seem to have taken a particular interest in this, the most Northern province of their empire, which was even then in danger of being conquered by the Turks. In the autumn of 1477 Sultan Kait Bey made a journey of inspection, visiting Antioch and the valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates with a numerous and brilliant escort. This tour is briefly alluded to by _Moodshireddin_ p. 561; and by WEIL, _Geschichte der Abbasiden_ V, p. 358. An anonymous member of the suite wrote a diary of the expedition in Arabic, which has been published by R. V. LONZONE (_'Viaggio in Palestina e Soria di Kaid Ba XVIII sultano della II dinastia mamelucca, fatto nel 1477. Testo arabo. Torino 1878'_, without notes or commentary). Compare the critique on this edition, by J. GILDEMEISTER in _Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palaestina Vereins_ (Vol. Ill p. 246--249). Lanzone's edition seems to be no more than an abridged copy of the original. I owe to Professor Sche'fer, Membre de l'Institut, the information that he is in possession of a manuscript in which the text is fuller, and more correctly given. The Mamelook dynasty was, as is well known, of Circassian origin, and a large proportion of the Egyptian Army was recruited in Circassia even so late as in the XVth century. That was a period of political storms in Syria and Asia Minor and it is easy to suppose that the Sultan's minister, to whom Leonardo addresses his report as his superior, had a special interest in the welfare of those frontier provinces. Only to mention a few historical events of Sultan Kait Bey's reign, we find that in 1488 he assisted the Circassians to resist the encroachments of Alaeddoulet, an Asiatic prince who had allied himself with the Osmanli to threaten the province; the consequence was a war in Cilicia by sea and land, which broke out in the following year between the contending powers. Only a few years earlier the same province had been the scene of the so-called Caramenian war in which the united Venetian, Neapolitan and Sclavonic fleets had been engaged. (See CORIALANO CIPPICO, _Della guerra dei Veneziani nell' Asia dal_ 1469--1474. Venezia 1796, p. 54) and we learn incidentally that a certain Leonardo Boldo, Governor of Scutari under Sultan Mahmoud,--as his name would indicate, one of the numerous renegades of Italian birth--played an important part in the negotiations for peace. _Tu mi mandasti_. The address _tu_ to a personage so high in office is singular and suggests personal intimacy; Leonardo seems to have been a favourite with the Diodario. Compare lines 54 and 55. I have endeavoured to show, and I believe that I am also in a position to prove with regard to these texts, that they are draughts of letters actually written by Leonardo; at the same time I must not omit to mention that shortly after I had discovered these texts in the Codex Atlanticus and published a paper on the subject in the _Zeitschrift fur bildende Kunst (Vol. XVI)_, Prof. Govi put forward this hypothesis to account for their origin: _"Quanto alle notizie sul monte Tauro, sull'Armenia e sull' Asia minore che si contengono negli altri frammenti, esse vennero prese da qualche geografro o viaggiatore contemporaneo. Dall'indice imperfetto che accompagna quei frammenti, si potrebbe dedurre che Leonardo volesse farne un libro, che poi non venne compiuto. A ogni modo, non e possibile di trovare in questi brani nessun indizio di un viaggio di Leonardo in oriente, ne della sua conversione alla religione di Maometto, come qualcuno pretenderebbe. Leonardo amava con passione gli studi geografici, e nel suoi scritti s'incontran spesso itinerart, indicazioni, o descrizioni di luoghi, schizzi di carte e abbozzi topografici di varie regioni, non e quindi strano che egli, abile narratore com'era, si fosse proposto di scrivere una specie di Romanzo in forma epistolare svolgendone Pintreccio nell'Asia Minore, intorno alla quale i libri d'allora, e forse qualche viaggiatore amico suo, gli avevano somministrato alcuni elementi piu o meno_ fantastici. (See Transunti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei Voi. V Ser. 3). It is hardly necessary to point out that Prof. Govi omits to name the sources from which Leonardo could be supposed to have drawn his information, and I may leave it to the reader to pronounce judgment on the anomaly which is involved in the hypothesis that we have here a fragment of a Romance, cast in the form of a correspondence. At the same time, I cannot but admit that the solution of the difficulties proposed by Prof. Govi is, under the circumstances, certainly the easiest way of dealing with the question. But we should then be equally justified in supposing some more of Leonardo's letters to be fragments of such romances; particularly those of which the addresses can no longer be named. Still, as regards these drafts of letters to the Diodario, if we accept the Romance theory, as pro- posed by Prof. Govi, we are also compelled to assume that Leonardo purposed from the first to illustrate his tale; for it needs only a glance at the sketches on PI. CXVI to CXIX to perceive that they are connected with the texts; and of course the rest of Leonardo's numerous notes on matters pertaining to the East, the greater part of which are here published for the first time, may also be somehow connected with this strange romance. 7. _Citta de Calindra (Chalindra)_. The position of this city is so exactly determined, between the valley of the Euphrates and the Taurus range that it ought to be possible to identify it. But it can hardly be the same as the sea port of Cilicia with a somewhat similar name Celenderis, Kelandria, Celendria, Kilindria, now the Turkish Gulnar. In two Catalonian Portulans in the Bibliotheque Natio- nale in Paris-one dating from the XV'h century, by Wilhelm von Soler, the other by Olivez de Majorca, in l584-I find this place called Calandra. But Leonardo's Calindra must certainly have lain more to the North West, probably somewhere in Kurdistan. The fact that the geographical position is so care- fully determined by Leonardo seems to prove that it was a place of no great importance and little known. It is singular that the words first written in 1. 8 were divisa dal lago (Lake Van?), altered afterwards to dall'Eitfrates. Nostri confini, and in 1. 6 proposito nostro. These refer to the frontier and to the affairs of the Mamelook Sultan, Lines 65 and 66 throw some light on the purpose of Leonardo's mission. 8. _I_ corni del gra mote Tauro. Compare the sketches PI. CXVI-CXVIII. So long as it is im- possible to identify the situation of Calindra it is most difficult to decide with any certainty which peak of the Taurus is here meant; and I greatly regret that I had no foreknowledge of this puzzling topographical question when, in 1876, I was pursuing archaeological enquiries in the Provinces of Aleppo and Cilicia, and had to travel for some time in view of the imposing snow-peaks of Bulghar Dagh and Ala Tepessi. 9-10. The opinion here expressed as to the height of the mountain would be unmeaning, unless it had been written before Leonardo moved to Milan, where Monte Rosa is so conspicuous an object in the landscape. 4 _ore inanzi_ seems to mean, four hours before the sun's rays penetrate to the bottom of the valleys.] to carry into effect with due love and care the task for which you sent me [Footnote: ][6]; and to make a beginning in a place which seemed to me to be most to our purpose, I entered into the city of Calindrafy[7], near to our frontiers. This city is situated at the base of that part of the Taurus mountains which is divided from the Euphrates and looks towards the peaks of the great Mount Taurus [8] to the West [9]. These peaks are of such a height that they seem to touch the sky, and in all the world there is no part of the earth, higher than its summit[10], and the rays of the sun always fall upon it on its East side, four hours before day-time, and being of the whitest stone [Footnote 11:_Pietra bianchissima_. The Taurus Mountains consist in great part of limestone.] it shines resplendently and fulfils the function to these Armenians which a bright moon-light would in the midst of the darkness; and by its great height it outreaches the utmost level of the clouds by a space of four miles in a straight line. This peak is seen in many places towards the West, illuminated by the sun after its setting the third part of the night. This it is, which with you [Footnote 14: _Appresso di voi_. Leonardo had at first written _noi_ as though his meaning had,been: This peak appeared to us to be a comet when you and I observed it in North Syria (at Aleppo? at Aintas?). The description of the curious reflection in the evening, resembling the "Alpine-glow" is certainly not an invented fiction, for in the next lines an explanation of the phenomenon is offered, or at least attempted.] we formerly in calm weather had supposed to be a comet, and appears to us in the darkness of night, to change its form, being sometimes divided in two or three parts, and sometimes long and sometimes short. And this is caused by the clouds on the horizon of the sky which interpose between part of this mountain and the sun, and by cutting off some of the solar rays the light on the mountain is intercepted by various intervals of clouds, and therefore varies in the form of its brightness. THE DIVISIONS OF THE BOOK [Footnote 19: The next 33 lines are evidently the contents of a connected Report or Book, but not of one which he had at hand; more probably, indeed, of one he purposed writing.]. The praise and confession of the faith [Footnote 20: _Persuasione di fede_, of the Christian or the Mohammedan faith? We must suppose the latter, at the beginning of a document addressed to so high a Mohammedan official. _Predica_ probably stands as an abbreviation for _predicazione_ (lat. _praedicatio_) in the sense of praise or glorification; very probably it may mean some such initial doxology as we find in Mohammedan works. (Comp. 1. 40.)]. The sudden inundation, to its end. [23] The destruction of the city. [24]The death of the people and their despair. The preacher's search, his release and benevolence [Footnote 28: The phraseology of this is too general for any conjecture as to its meaning to be worth hazarding.] Description of the cause of this fall of the mountain [Footnote 30: _Ruina del monte_. Of course by an earthquake. In a catalogue of earthquakes, entitled _kechf aussalssaleb an auasf ezzel-zeleh_, and written by Djelal eddin]. The mischief it did. [32] Fall of snow. The finding of the prophet [33]. His prophesy. [35] The inundation of the lower portion of Eastern Armenia, the draining of which was effected by the cutting through the Taurus Mountains. How the new prophet showed [Footnote 40:_Nova profeta, 1. 33, profeta_. Mohammed. Leonardo here refers to the Koran: In the name of the most merciful God.--When the earth shall be shaken by an earthquake; and the earth shall cast forth her burdens; and a man shall say, what aileth her? On that day the earth shall declare her tidings, for that thy Lord will inspire her. On that day men shall go forward in distinct classes, that they may behold their works. And whoever shall have wrought good of the weight of an ant, shall behold the same. And whoever shall have wrought evil of the weight of an ant, shall behold the same. (The Koran, translated by G. Sale, Chapter XCIX, p. 452).] that this destruction would happen as he had foretold. Description of the Taurus Mountains [43] and the river Euphrates. Why the mountain shines at the top, from half to a third of the night, and looks like a comet to the inhabitants of the West after the sunset, and before day to those of the East. Why this comet appears of variable forms, so that it is now round and now long, and now again divided into two or three parts, and now in one piece, and when it is to be seen again. OF THE SHAPE OF THE TAURUS MOUNTAINS [Footnote 53-94: The facsimile of this passage is given on Pl. CXVII.]. I am not to be accused, Oh Devatdar, of idleness, as your chidings seem to hint; but your excessive love for me, which gave rise to the benefits you have conferred on me [Footnote 55] is that which has also compelled me to the utmost painstaking in seeking out and diligently investigating the cause of so great and stupendous an effect. And this could not be done without time; now, in order to satisfy you fully as to the cause of so great an effect, it is requisite that I should explain to you the form of the place, and then I will proceed to the effect, by which I believe you will be amply satisfied. [Footnote 36: _Tagliata di Monte Tauro_. The Euphrates flows through the Taurus range near the influx of the Kura Shai; it rushes through a rift in the wildest cliffs from 2000 to 3000 feet high and runs on for 90 miles in 300 falls or rapids till it reaches Telek, near which at a spot called Gleikash, or the Hart's leap, it measures only 35 paces across. Compare the map on Pl. CXIX and the explanation for it on p. 391.] [Footnote 54: The foregoing sketch of a letter, lines 5. 18, appears to have remained a fragment when Leonardo received pressing orders which caused him to write immediately and fully on the subject mentioned in line 43.] [Footnote 59: This passage was evidently intended as an improvement on that immediately preceding it. The purport of both is essentially the same, but the first is pitched in a key of ill-disguised annoyance which is absent from the second. I do not see how these two versions can be reconciled with the romance-theory held by Prof. Govi.] Do not be aggrieved, O Devatdar, by my delay in responding to your pressing request, for those things which you require of me are of such a nature that they cannot be well expressed without some lapse of time; particularly because, in order to explain the cause of so great an effect, it is necessary to describe with accuracy the nature of the place; and by this means I can afterwards easily satisfy your above-mentioned request. [Footnote 62: This passage was evidently intended as an improvement on that immediately preceding it. The purport of both is essentially the same, but the first is pitched in a key of ill-disguised annoyance which is absent from the second. I do not see how these two versions can be reconciled with the romance-theory held by Prof. Govi.] I will pass over any description of the form of Asia Minor, or as to what seas or lands form the limits of its outline and extent, because I know that by your own diligence and carefulness in your studies you have not remained in ignorance of these matters [65]; and I will go on to describe the true form of the Taurus Mountain which is the cause of this stupendous and harmful marvel, and which will serve to advance us in our purpose [66]. This Taurus is that mountain which, with many others is said to be the ridge of Mount Caucasus; but wishing to be very clear about it, I desired to speak to some of the inhabitants of the shores of the Caspian sea, who give evidence that this must be the true Caucasus, and that though their mountains bear the same name, yet these are higher; and to confirm this in the Scythian tongue Caucasus means a very high [Footnote 68: Caucasus; Herodot Kaoxaais; Armen. Kaukaz.] peak, and in fact we have no information of there being, in the East or in the West, any mountain so high. And the proof of this is that the inhabitants of the countries to the West see the rays of the sun illuminating a great part of its summit for as much as a quarter of the longest night. And in the same way, in those countries which lie to the East. OF THE STRUCTURE AND SIZE OF MOUNT TAURUS. [Footnote 73: The statements are of course founded on those of the 'inhabitants' spoken of in 1. 67.] The shadow of this ridge of the Taurus is of such a height that when, in the middle of June, the Sun is at its meridian, its shadow extends as far as the borders of Sarmatia, twelve days off; and in the middle of December it extends as far as the Hyperborean mountains, which are at a month's journey to the North [75]. And the side which faces the wind is always free from clouds and mists, because the wind which is parted in beating on the rock, closes again on the further side of that rock, and in its motion carries with it the clouds from all quarters and leaves them where it strikes. And it is always full of thunderbolts from the great quantity of clouds which accumulate there, whence the rock is all riven and full of huge debris [Footnote 77: Sudden storms are equally common on the heights of Ararat. It is hardly necessary to observe that Ararat cannot be meant here. Its summit is formed like the crater of Vesuvius. The peaks sketched on Pl. CXVI-CXVIII are probably views of the same mountain, taken from different sides. Near the solitary peak, Pl. CXVIII these three names are written _goba, arnigasar, caruda_, names most likely of different peaks. Pl. CXVI and CXVII are in the original on a single sheet folded down the middle, 30 centimetres high and 43 1/2 wide. On the reverse of one half of the sheet are notes on _peso_ and _bilancia_ (weight and balance), on the other are the 'prophecies' printed under Nos. 1293 and 1294. It is evident from the arrangement that these were written subsequently, on the space which had been left blank. These pages are facsimiled on Pl. CXVIII. In Pl. CXVI-CXVIII the size is smaller than in the original; the map of Armenia, Pl. CXVIII, is on Pl. CXIX slightly enlarged. On this map we find the following names, beginning from the right hand at the top: _pariardes mo_ (for Paryadres Mons, Arm. Parchar, now Barchal or Kolai Dagh; Trebizond is on its slope). _Aquilone_ --North, _Antitaurus Antitaurus psis mo_ (probably meant for Thospitis = Lake Van, Arm. Dgov Vanai, Tospoi, and the Mountain range to the South); _Gordis mo_ (Mountains of Gordyaea), the birth place of the Tigris; _Oriente_ --East; _Tigris_, and then, to the left, _Eufrates_. Then, above to the left _Argeo mo_ (now Erdshigas, an extinct volcano, 12000 feet high); _Celeno mo_ (no doubt Sultan Dagh in Pisidia). Celeno is the Greek town of KeAouvat-- see Arian I, 29, I--now the ruins of Dineir); _oriente_ --East; _africo libezco_ (for libeccio--South West). In the middle of the Euphrates river on this small map we see a shaded portion surrounded by mountains, perhaps to indicate the inundation mentioned in l. 35. The affluent to the Euphrates shown as coming with many windings from the high land of 'Argeo' on the West, is the Tochma Su, which joins the main river at Malatie. I have not been able to discover any map of Armenia of the XVth or XVIth century in which the course of the Euphrates is laid down with any thing like the correctness displayed in this sketch. The best I have seen is the Catalonian Portulan of Olivez de Majorca, executed in 1584, and it is far behind Leonardo's.]. This mountain, at its base, is inhabited by a very rich population and is full of most beautiful springs and rivers, and is fertile and abounding in all good produce, particularly in those parts which face to the South. But after mounting about three miles we begin to find forests of great fir trees, and beech and other similar trees; after this, for a space of three more miles, there are meadows and vast pastures; and all the rest, as far as the beginning of the Taurus, is eternal snows which never disappear at any time, and extend to a height of about fourteen miles in all. From this beginning of the Taurus up to the height of a mile the clouds never pass away; thus we have fifteen miles, that is, a height of about five miles in a straight line; and the summit of the peaks of the Taurus are as much, or about that. There, half way up, we begin to find a scorching air and never feel a breath of wind; but nothing can live long there; there nothing is brought forth save a few birds of prey which breed in the high fissures of Taurus and descend below the clouds to seek their prey. Above the wooded hills all is bare rock, that is, from the clouds upwards; and the rock is the purest white. And it is impossible to walk to the high summit on account of the rough and perilous ascent. 1337. [Footnote: 1337. On comparing this commencement of a letter l. 1-2 with that in l. 3 and 4 of No. 1336 it is quite evident that both refer to the same event. (Compare also No. 1337 l. 10-l2 and 17 with No. 1336 l. 23, 24 and 32.) But the text No. 1336, including the fragment l. 3-4, was obviously written later than the draft here reproduced. The _Diodario_ is not directly addressed--the person addressed indeed is not known--and it seems to me highly probable that it was written to some other patron and friend whose name and position are not mentioned.] Having often made you, by my letters, acquainted with the things which have happened, I think I ought not to be silent as to the events of the last few days, which--[2]... Having several times-- Having many times rejoiced with you by letters over your prosperous fortunes, I know now that, as a friend you will be sad with me over the miserable state in which I find myself; and this is, that during the last few days I have been in so much trouble, fear, peril and loss, besides the miseries of the people here, that we have been envious of the dead; and certainly I do not believe that since the elements by their separation reduced the vast chaos to order, they have ever combined their force and fury to do so much mischief to man. As far as regards us here, what we have seen and gone through is such that I could not imagine that things could ever rise to such an amount of mischief, as we experienced in the space of ten hours. In the first place we were assailed and attacked by the violence and fury of the winds [10]; to this was added the falling of great mountains of snow which filled up all this valley, thus destroying a great part of our city [Footnote 11: _Della nostra citta_ (Leonardo first wrote _di questa citta_). From this we may infer that he had at some time lived in the place in question wherever it might be.]. And not content with this the tempest sent a sudden flood of water to submerge all the low part of this city [12]; added to which there came a sudden rain, or rather a ruinous torrent and flood of water, sand, mud, and stones, entangled with roots, and stems and fragments of various trees; and every kind of thing flying through the air fell upon us; finally a great fire broke out, not brought by the wind, but carried as it would seem, by ten thousand devils, which completely burnt up all this neighbourhood and it has not yet ceased. And those few who remain unhurt are in such dejection and such terror that they hardly have courage to speak to each other, as if they were stunned. Having abandoned all our business, we stay here together in the ruins of some churches, men and women mingled together, small and great [Footnote 17: _Certe ruine di chiese_. Either of Armenian churches or of Mosques, which it was not unusual to speak of as churches. _Maschi e femmini insieme unite_, implies an infringement of the usually strict rule of the separation of the sexes.], just like herds of goats. The neighbours out of pity succoured us with victuals, and they had previously been our enemies. And if [Footnote 18: _I vicini, nostri nimici_. The town must then have stood quite close to the frontier of the country. Compare 1336. L. 7. _vicini ai nostri confini_. Dr. M. JORDAN has already published lines 4-13 (see _Das Malerbuch, Leipzig_, 1873, p. 90:--his reading differs from mine) under the title of "Description of a landscape near Lake Como". We do in fact find, among other loose sheets in the Codex Atlanticus, certain texts referring to valleys of the Alps (see Nos. 1030, 1031 and note p. 237) and in the arrangement of the loose sheets, of which the Codex Atlanticus has been formed, these happen to be placed close to this text. The compiler stuck both on the same folio sheet; and if this is not the reason for Dr. JORDAN'S choosing such a title (Description &c.) I cannot imagine what it can have been. It is, at any rate, a merely hypothetical statement. The designation of the population of the country round a city as "the enemy" (_nemici_) is hardly appropriate to Italy in the time of Leonardo.] it had not been for certain people who succoured us with victuals, all would have died of hunger. Now you see the state we are in. And all these evils are as nothing compared with those which are promised to us shortly. I know that as a friend you will grieve for my misfortunes, as I, in former letters have shown my joy at your prosperity ... Notes about events observed abroad (1338-1339). 1338. BOOK 43. OF THE MOVEMENT OF AIR ENCLOSED IN WATER. I have seen motions of the air so furious that they have carried, mixed up in their course, the largest trees of the forest and whole roofs of great palaces, and I have seen the same fury bore a hole with a whirling movement digging out a gravel pit, and carrying gravel, sand and water more than half a mile through the air. [Footnote: The first sixteen lines of this passage which treat of the subject as indicated on the title line have no place in this connexion and have been omitted.] [Footnote 2: _Ho veduto movimenti_ &c. Nothing of the kind happened in Italy during Leonardo's lifetime, and it is therefore extremely probable that this refers to the natural phenomena which are so fully described in the foregoing passage. (Compare too, No. 1021.) There can be no doubt that the descriptions of the Deluge in the Libro di Pittura (Vol. I, No. 607-611), and that of the fall of a mountain No. 610, l. 17-30 were written from the vivid impressions derived from personal experience. Compare also Pl. XXXIV-XL.] 1339. [Footnote: It may be inferred from the character of the writing, which is in the style of the note in facsimile Vol. I, p. 297, that this passage was written between 1470 and 1480. As the figure 6 at the end of the text indicates, it was continued on another page, but I have searched in vain for it. The reverse of this leaf is coloured red for drawing in silver point, but has not been used for that purpose but for writing on, and at about the same date. The passages are given as Nos. 1217, 1218, 1219, 1162 and No. 994 (see note page 218). The text given above is obviously not a fragment of a letter, but a record of some personal experience. No. 1379 also seems to refer to Leonardo's journeys in Southern Italy.] Like a whirling wind which rushes down a sandy and hollow valley, and which, in its hasty course, drives to its centre every thing that opposes its furious course ... No otherwise does the Northern blast whirl round in its tempestuous progress ... Nor does the tempestuous sea bellow so loud, when the Northern blast dashes it, with its foaming waves between Scylla and Charybdis; nor Stromboli, nor Mount Etna, when their sulphurous flames, having been forcibly confined, rend, and burst open the mountain, fulminating stones and earth through the air together with the flames they vomit. Nor when the inflamed caverns of Mount Etna [Footnote 13: Mongibello is a name commonly given in Sicily to Mount Etna (from Djebel, Arab.=mountain). Fr. FERRARA, _Descrizione dell' Etna con la storia delle eruzioni_ (Palermo, 1818, p. 88) tells us, on the authority of the _Cronaca del Monastero Benedettino di Licordia_ of an eruption of the Volcano with a great flow of lava on Sept. 21, 1447. The next records of the mountain are from the years 1533 and 1536. A. Percy neither does mention any eruptions of Etna during the years to which this note must probably refer _Memoire des tremblements de terre de la peninsule italique, Vol. XXII des Memoires couronnees et Memoires des savants etrangers. Academie Royal de Belgique_). A literal interpretation of the passage would not, however, indicate an allusion to any great eruption; particularly in the connection with Stromboli, where the periodical outbreaks in very short intervals are very striking to any observer, especially at night time, when passing the island on the way from Naples to Messina.], rejecting the ill-restained element vomit it forth, back to its own region, driving furiously before it every obstacle that comes in the way of its impetuous rage ... Unable to resist my eager desire and wanting to see the great ... of the various and strange shapes made by formative nature, and having wandered some distance among gloomy rocks, I came to the entrance of a great cavern, in front of which I stood some time, astonished and unaware of such a thing. Bending my back into an arch I rested my left hand on my knee and held my right hand over my down-cast and contracted eye brows: often bending first one way and then the other, to see whether I could discover anything inside, and this being forbidden by the deep darkness within, and after having remained there some time, two contrary emotions arose in me, fear and desire--fear of the threatening dark cavern, desire to see whether there were any marvellous thing within it ... Drafts of Letters to Lodovico il Moro (1340-1345). 1340. [Footnote: The numerous corrections, the alterations in the figures (l. 18) and the absence of any signature prove that this is merely the rough draft of a letter to Lodovico il Moro. It is one of the very few manuscripts which are written from left to right--see the facsimile of the beginning as here reproduced. This is probably the final sketch of a document the clean of which copy was written in the usual manner. Leonardo no doubt very rarely wrote so, and this is probably the reason of the conspicuous dissimilarity in the handwriting, when he did. (Compare Pl. XXXVIII.) It is noteworthy too that here the orthography and abbreviations are also exceptional. But such superficial peculiarities are not enough to stamp the document as altogether spurious. It is neither a forgery nor the production of any artist but Leonardo himself. As to this point the contents leave us no doubt as to its authenticity, particularly l. 32 (see No. 719, where this passage is repeated). But whether the fragment, as we here see it, was written from Leonardo's dictation--a theory favoured by the orthography, the erasures and corrections--or whether it may be a copy made for or by Melzi or Mazenta is comparatively unimportant. There are in the Codex Atlanticus a few other documents not written by Leonardo himself, but the notes in his own hand found on the reverse pages of these leaves amply prove that they were certainly in Leonardo's possession. This mark of ownership is wanting to the text in question, but the compilers of the Codex Atlanticus, at any rate, accepted it as a genuine document. With regard to the probable date of this projected letter see Vol. II, p. 3.] Most illustrious Lord, Having now sufficiently considered the specimens of all those who proclaim themselves skilled contrivers of instruments of war, and that the invention and operation of the said instruments are nothing different to those in common use: I shall endeavour, without prejudice to any one else, to explain myself to your Excellency showing your Lordship my secrets, and then offering them to your best pleasure and approbation to work with effect at opportune moments as well as all those things which, in part, shall be briefly noted below. 1) I have a sort of extremely light and strong bridges, adapted to be most easily carried, and with them you may pursue, and at any time flee from the enemy; and others, secure and indestructible by fire and battle, easy and convenient to lift and place. Also methods of burning and destroying those of the enemy. 2) I know how, when a place is besieged, to take the water out of the trenches, and make endless variety of bridges, and covered ways and ladders, and other machines pertaining to such expeditions. 3) Item. If, by reason of the height of the banks, or the strength of the place and its position, it is impossible, when besieging a place, to avail oneself of the plan of bombardment, I have methods for destroying every rock or other fortress, even if it were founded on a rock, &c. 4) Again I have kinds of mortars; most convenient and easy to carry; and with these can fling small stones almost resembling a storm; and with the smoke of these causing great terror to the enemy, to his great detriment and confusion. 9) [8] And when the fight should be at sea I have kinds of many machines most efficient for offence and defence; and vessels which will resist the attack of the largest guns and powder and fumes. 5) Item. I have means by secret and tortuous mines and ways, made without noise to reach a designated [spot], even if it were needed to pass under a trench or a river. 6) Item. I will make covered chariots, safe and unattackable which, entering among the enemy with their artillery, there is no body of men so great but they would break them. And behind these, infantry could follow quite unhurt and without any hindrance. 7) Item. In case of need I will make big guns, mortars and light ordnance of fine and useful forms, out of the common type. 8) Where the operation of bombardment should fail, I would contrive catapults, mangonels, _trabocchi_ and other machines of marvellous efficacy and not in common use. And in short, according to the variety of cases, I can contrive various and endless means of offence and defence. 10) In time of peace I believe I can give perfect satisfaction and to the equal of any other in architecture and the composition of buildings public and private; and in guiding water from one place to another. Item: I can carry out sculpture in marble, bronze or clay, and also in painting whatever may be done, and as well as any other, be he whom he may. [32] Again, the bronze horse may be taken in hand, which is to be to the immortal glory and eternal honour of the prince your father of happy memory, and of the illustrious house of Sforza. And if any one of the above-named things seem to any one to be impossible or not feasible, I am most ready to make the experiment in your park, or in whatever place may please your Excellency--to whom I commend myself with the utmost humility &c. 1341. To my illustrious Lord, Lodovico, Duke of Bari, Leonardo da Vinci of Florence-- Leonardo. [Footnote: Evidently a note of the superscription of a letter to the Duke, and written, like the foregoing from left to right. The manuscript containing it is of the year 1493. Lodovico was not proclaimed and styled Duke of Milan till September 1494. The Dukedom of Bari belonged to the Sforza family till 1499.] 1342. You would like to see a model which will prove useful to you and to me, also it will be of use to those who will be the cause of our usefulness. [Footnote: 1342. 1343. These two notes occur in the same not very voluminous MS. as the former one and it is possible that they are fragments of the same letter. By the _Modello_, the equestrian statue is probably meant, particularly as the model of this statue was publicly exhibited in this very year, 1493, on tne occasion of the marriage of the Emperor Maximilian with Bianca Maria Sforza.] 1343. There are here, my Lord, many gentlemen who will undertake this expense among them, if they are allowed to enjoy the use of admission to the waters, the mills, and the passage of vessels and when it is sold to them the price will be repaid to them by the canal of Martesana. 1344. I am greatly vexed to be in necessity, but I still more regret that this should be the cause of the hindrance of my wish which is always disposed to obey your Excellency. Perhaps your Excellency did not give further orders to Messer Gualtieri, believing that I had money enough. I am greatly annoyed that you should have found me in necessity, and that my having to earn my living should have hindered me ... [12] It vexes me greatly that having to earn my living has forced me to interrupt the work and to attend to small matters, instead of following up the work which your Lordship entrusted to me. But I hope in a short time to have earned so much that I may carry it out quietly to the satisfaction of your Excellency, to whom I commend myself; and if your Lordship thought that I had money, your Lordship was deceived. I had to feed 6 men for 56 months, and have had 50 ducats. 1345. And if any other comission is given me by any ... of the reward of my service. Because I am not [able] to be ... things assigned because meanwhile they have ... to them ... ... which they well may settle rather than I ... not my art which I wish to change and ... given some clothing if I dare a sum ... My Lord, I knowing your Excellency's mind to be occupied ... to remind your Lordship of my small matters and the arts put to silence that my silence might be the cause of making your Lordship scorn ... my life in your service. I hold myself ever in readiness to obey ... [Footnote 11: See No. 723, where this passage is repeated.] Of the horse I will say nothing because I know the times [are bad] to your Lordship how I had still to receive two years' salary of the ... with the two skilled workmen who are constantly in my pay and at my cost that at last I found myself advanced the said sum about 15 lire ... works of fame by which I could show to those who shall see it that I have been everywhere, but I do not know where I could bestow my work [more] ... [Footnote 17: See No. 1344 l. 12.] I, having been working to gain my living ... I not having been informed what it is, I find myself ... [Footnote 19: In April, 1498, Leonardo was engaged in painting the Saletta Nigra of the Castello at Milan. (See G. MONGERI, _l'Arte in Milano_, 1872, p. 417.)] remember the commission to paint the rooms ... I conveyed to your Lordship only requesting you ... [Footnote: The paper on which this is written is torn down the middle; about half of each line remains.] Draft of letter to be sent to Piacenza (1346. 1347). [Footnote: 1346. 1347. Piacenza belonged to Milan. The Lord spoken of in this letter, is no doubt Lodovico il Moro. One may infer from the concluding sentence (No. 1346, l. 33. 34 and No. 1347), that Leonardo, who no doubt compiled this letter, did not forward it to Piacenza himself, but gave it to some influential patron, under whose name and signature a copy of it was sent to the Commission.] 1346. Magnificent Commissioners of Buildings I, understanding that your Magnificencies have made up your minds to make certain great works in bronze, will remind you of certain things: first that you should not be so hasty or so quick to give the commission, lest by this haste it should become impossible to select a good model and a good master; and some man of small merit may be chosen, who by his insufficiency may cause you to be abused by your descendants, judging that this age was but ill supplied with men of good counsel and with good masters; seeing that other cities, and chiefly the city of the Florentines, has been as it were in these very days, endowed with beautiful and grand works in bronze; among which are the doors of their Baptistery. And this town of Florence, like Piacenza, is a place of intercourse, through which many foreigners pass; who, seeing that the works are fine and of good quality, carry away a good impression, and will say that that city is well filled with worthy inhabitants, seeing the works which bear witness to their opinion; and on the other hand, I say seeing so much metal expended and so badly wrought, it were less shame to the city if the doors had been of plain wood; because, the material, costing so little, would not seem to merit any great outlay of skill... Now the principal parts which are sought for in cities are their cathedrals, and of these the first things which strike the eye are the doors, by which one passes into these churches. Beware, gentlemen of the Commission, lest too great speed in your determination, and so much haste to expedite the entrusting of so great a work as that which I hear you have ordered, be the cause that that which was intended for the honour of God and of men should be turned to great dishonour of your judgments, and of your city, which, being a place of mark, is the resort and gathering-place of innumerable foreigners. And this dishonour would result if by your lack of diligence you were to put your trust in some vaunter, who by his tricks or by favour shown to him here should obtain such work from you, by which lasting and very great shame would result to him and to you. Thus I cannot help being angry when I consider what men those are who have conferred with you as wishing to undertake this great work without thinking of their sufficiency for it, not to say more. This one is a potter, that one a maker of cuirasses, this one is a bell-founder, another a bell ringer, and one is even a bombardier; and among them one in his Lordship's service, who boasted that he was the gossip of Messer Ambrosio Ferrere [Footnote 26: Messer Ambrogio Ferrere was Farmer of the Customs under the Duke. Piacenza at that time belonged to Milan.], who has some power and who has made him some promises; and if this were not enough he would mount on horseback, and go to his Lord and obtain such letters that you could never refuse [to give] him the work. But consider where masters of real talent and fit for such work are brought when they have to compete with such men as these. Open your eyes and look carefully lest your money should be spent in buying your own disgrace. I can declare to you that from that place you will procure none but average works of inferior and coarse masters. There is no capable man,--[33] and you may believe me,--except Leonardo the Florentine, who is making the equestrian statue in bronze of the Duke Francesco and who has no need to bring himself into notice, because he has work for all his life time; and I doubt, whether being so great a work, he will ever finish it [34]. The miserable painstakers ... with what hope may they expect a reward of their merit? 1347. There is one whom his Lordship invited from Florence to do this work and who is a worthy master, but with so very much business he will never finish it; and you may imagine that a difference there is to be seen between a beautiful object and an ugly one. Quote Pliny. Letter to the Cardinal Ippolito d' Este. 1348. [Footnote: This letter addressed to the Cardinal Ippolito d'Este is here given from Marchese G. CAMPORI'S publication: _Nuovi documenti per la Vita di Leonardo da Vinci. Atti e Memorie delle R. R. Deputazioni di Storia patria per la provincie modenesi e parmenesi, Vol. III._ It is the only text throughout this work which I have not myself examined and copied from the original. The learned discoverer of this letter--the only letter from Leonardo hitherto known as having been sent--adds these interesting remarks: _Codesto Cardinale nato ad Ercole I. nel 1470, arcivescovo di Strigonia a sette anni, poi d'Agra, aveva conseguito nel 1497 la pingue ed ambita cattedra di Milano, la dove avra conosciuto il Vinci, sebbene il poco amore ch'ei professava alle arti lasci credere che le proteste di servitu di Leonardo piu che a gratitudine per favori ricevuti e per opere a lui allogate, accennino a speranza per un favore che si aspetta. Notabile e ancora in questo prezioso documento la ripetuta signatura del grande artista 'che si scrive Vincio e Vincius, non da Vinci come si tiene comunemente, sebbene l'una e l'altra possano valere a significare cosi il casato come il paese; restando a sapere se il nome del paese di Vinci fosse assunto a cognome della famiglia di Leonardo nel qual supposto piu propriamento avrebbe a chiamarsi Leonardo Vinci, o Vincio (latinamente Vincius) com'egli stesso amo segnarsi in questa lettera, e come scrissero parecchi contenporanei di lui, il Casio, il Cesariano, Geoffrey Tory, il Gaurico, il Bandello, Raffaelle Maffei, il Paciolo. Per ultimo non lascero d'avvertire come la lettera del Vinci e assai ben conservata, di nitida e larga scrittura in forma pienemente corrispondente a quella dei suoi manoscritti, vergata all'uso comune da sinistra a destra, anziche contrariamente come fu suo costume; ma indubbiamente autentica e fornita della menzione e del suggello che fresca ancora conserva l'impronta di una testa di profilo da un picciolo antico cammeo._ (Compare No. 1368, note.)] Most Illustrious and most Reverend Lord. The Lord Ippolito, Cardinal of Este at Ferrare. Most Illustrious and most Reverend Lord. I arrived from Milan but a few days since and finding that my elder brother refuses to carry into effect a will, made three years ago when my father died--as also, and no less, because I would not fail in a matter I esteem most important--I cannot forbear to crave of your most Reverend Highness a letter of recommendation and favour to Ser Raphaello Hieronymo, at present one of the illustrious members of the Signoria before whom my cause is being argued; and more particularly it has been laid by his Excellency the Gonfaloniere into the hands of the said Ser Raphaello, that his Worship may have to decide and end it before the festival of All Saints. And therefore, my Lord, I entreat you, as urgently as I know how and am able, that your Highness will write a letter to the said Ser Raphaello in that admirable and pressing manner which your Highness can use, recommending to him Leonardo Vincio, your most humble servant as I am, and shall always be; requesting him and pressing him not only to do me justice but to do so with despatch; and I have not the least doubt, from many things that I hear, that Ser Raphaello, being most affectionately devoted to your Highness, the matter will issue _ad votum_. And this I shall attribute to your most Reverend Highness' letter, to whom I once more humbly commend myself. _Et bene valeat_. Florence XVIIIa 7bris 1507. E. V. R. D. your humble servant Leonardus Vincius, pictor. Draft of Letter to the Governor of Milan. 1349. I am afraid lest the small return I have made for the great benefits, I have received from your Excellency, have not made you somewhat angry with me, and that this is why to so many letters which I have written to your Lordship I have never had an answer. I now send Salai to explain to your Lordship that I am almost at an end of the litigation I had with my brother; that I hope to find myself with you this Easter, and to carry with me two pictures of two Madonnas of different sizes. These were done for our most Christian King, or for whomsoever your Lordship may please. I should be very glad to know on my return thence where I may have to reside, for I would not give any more trouble to your Lordship. Also, as I have worked for the most Christian King, whether my salary is to continue or not. I wrote to the President as to that water which the king granted me, and which I was not put in possession of because at that time there was a dearth in the canal by reason of the great droughts and because [Footnote:Compare Nos. 1009 and 1010. Leonardo has noted the payment of the pension from the king in 1505.] its outlets were not regulated; but he certainly promised me that when this was done I should be put in possession. Thus I pray your Lordship that you will take so much trouble, now that these outlets are regulated, as to remind the President of my matter; that is, to give me possession of this water, because on my return I hope to make there instruments and other things which will greatly please our most Christian King. Nothing else occurs to me. I am always yours to command. [Footnote:1349. Charles d'Amboise, Marechal de Chaumont, was Governor of Milan under Louis XII. Leonardo was in personal communication with him so early as in 1503. He was absent from Milan in the autumn of 1506 and from October l5l0--when he besieged Pope Julius II. in Bologna--till his death, which took place at Correggio, February 11, 1511. Francesco Vinci, Leonardo's uncle, died--as Amoretti tells us--in the winter of l5l0-11 (or according to Uzielli in 1506?), and Leonardo remained in Florence for business connected with his estate. The letter written with reference to this affair, No. 1348, is undoubtedly earlier than the letters Nos. 1349 and 1350. Amoretti tells us, _Memorie Storiche_, ch. II, that the following note existed on the same leaf in MS. C. A. I have not however succeeded in finding it. The passage runs thus: _Jo sono quasi al fine del mio letizio che io o con mie fratetgli ... Ancora ricordo a V. Excia la facenda che o cum Ser Juliana mio Fratello capo delli altri fratelli ricordandoli come se offerse di conciar le cose nostre fra noi fratelli del comune della eredita de mio Zio, e quelli costringa alla expeditione, quale conteneva la lettera che lui me mando._] Drafts of Letters to the Superintendent of Canals and to Fr. Melzi. 1350. Magnificent President, I am sending thither Salai, my pupil, who is the bearer of this, and from him you will hear by word of mouth the cause of my... Magnificent President, I... Magnificent President:--Having ofttimes remembered the proposals made many times to me by your Excellency, I take the liberty of writing to remind your Lordship of the promise made to me at my last departure, that is the possession of the twelve inches of water granted to me by the most Christian King. Your Lordship knows that I did not enter into possession, because at that time when it was given to me there was a dearth of water in the canal, as well by reason of the great drought as also because the outlets were not regulated; but your Excellency promised me that as soon as this was done, I should have my rights. Afterwards hearing that the canal was complete I wrote several times to your Lordship and to Messer Girolamo da Cusano,who has in his keeping the deed of this gift; and so also I wrote to Corigero and never had a reply. I now send thither Salai, my pupil, the bearer of this, to whom your Lordship may tell by word of mouth all that happened in the matter about which I petition your Excellency. I expect to go thither this Easter since I am nearly at the end of my lawsuit, and I will take with me two pictures of our Lady which I have begun, and at the present time have brought them on to a very good end; nothing else occurs to me. My Lord the love which your Excellency has always shown me and the benefits that I have constantly received from you I have hitherto... I am fearful lest the small return I have made for the great benefits I have received from your Excellency may not have made you somewhat annoyed with me. And this is why, to many letters which I have written to your Excellency I have never had an answer. I now send to you Salai to explain to your Excellency that I am almost at the end of my litigation with my brothers, and that I hope to be with you this Easter and carry with me two pictures on which are two Madonnas of different sizes which I began for the most Christian King, or for whomsoever you please. I should be very glad to know where, on my return from this place, I shall have to reside, because I do not wish to give more trouble to your Lordship; and then, having worked for the most Christian King, whether my salary is to be continued or not. I write to the President as to the water that the king granted me of which I had not been put in possession by reason of the dearth in the canal, caused by the great drought and because its outlets were not regulated; but he promised me certainly that as soon as the regulation was made, I should be put in possession of it; I therefore pray you that, if you should meet the said President, you would be good enough, now that the outlets are regulated, to remind the said President to cause me to be put in possession of that water, since I understand it is in great measure in his power. Nothing else occurs to me; always yours to command. Good day to you Messer Francesco. Why, in God's name, of all the letters I have written to you, have you never answered one. Now wait till I come, by God, and I shall make you write so much that perhaps you will become sick of it. Dear Messer Francesco. I am sending thither Salai to learn from His Magnificence the President to what end the regulation of the water has come since, at my departure this regulation of the outlets of the canal had been ordered, because His Magnificence the President promised me that as soon as this was done I should be satisfied. It is now some time since I heard that the canal was in order, as also its outlets, and I immediately wrote to the President and to you, and then I repeated it, and never had an answer. So you will have the goodness to answer me as to that which happened, and as I am not to hurry the matter, would you take the trouble, for the love of me, to urge the President a little, and also Messer Girolamo Cusano, to whom you will commend me and offer my duty to his Magnificence. [Footnote: 1350. 28-36. Draft of a letter to Francesco Melzi, born l493--a youth therefore of about 17 in 1510. Leonardo addresses his young friend as "Messer", as being the son of a noble house. Melzi practised art under Leonardo as a dilettante and not as a pupil, like Cesare da Sesto and others (See LERMOLIEFF, _Die Galerien_ &c., p. 476).] Drafts of a letter to Giuliano de' Medici (1351-1352). 135l. [Most illustrious Lord. I greatly rejoice most Illustrious Lord at your...] I was so greatly rejoiced, most illustrious Lord, by the desired restoration of your health, that it almost had the effect that [my own health recovered]--[I have got through my illness]--my own illness left me-- --of your Excellency's almost restored health. But I am extremely vexed that I have not been able completely to satisfy the wishes of your Excellency, by reason of the wickedness of that deceiver, for whom I left nothing undone which could be done for him by me and by which I might be of use to him; and in the first place his allowances were paid to him before the time, which I believe he would willingly deny, if I had not the writing signed by myself and the interpreter. And I, seeing that he did not work for me unless he had no work to do for others, which he was very careful in solliciting, invited him to dine with me, and to work afterwards near me, because, besides the saving of expense, he [Footnote 1351. 1353: It is clear from the contents of this notes that they refer to Leonardo's residence in Rome in 1513-1515. Nor can there be any doubt that they were addressed to Leonardo's patron at the time: Giuliano de' Medici, third son of Lorenzo the Magnificent and brother of Pope Leo X (born 1478). In 1512 he became the head of the Florentine Republic. The Pope invited him to Rome, where he settled; in 1513 he was named patrician with much splendid ceremonial. The medal struck in honour of the event bears the words MAG. IVLIAN. MEDICES. Leonardo too uses the style "Magnifico", in his letter. Compare also No. 1377. GlNO CAPPONI (_Storia della Repubblica di Firenze_, Vol. III, p. 139) thus describes the character of Giuliano de' Medici, who died in 1516: _Era il migliore della famiglia, di vita placida, grande spenditore, tenendo intorno a se uomini ingegnosi, ed ogni nuova cosa voleva provare._ See too GREGOROVIUS, _Geschichte der Stadi Rom_, VIII (book XIV. III, 2): _Die Luftschlosser furstlicher Grosse, wozu ihn der Papst hatte erheben wollen zerfielen. Julian war der edelste aller damaligen Medici, ein Mensch von innerlicher Richtung, unbefriedigt durch das Leben, mitten im Sonnenglanz der Herrlichkeit Leo's X. eine dunkle Gestalt die wie ein Schatten voruberzog._ Giuliano lived in the Vatican, and it may be safely inferred from No. 1352 l. 2, and No. 1353 l. 4, that Leonardo did the same. From the following unpublished notice in the Vatican archives, which M. Eug. Muntz, librarian of the Ecole des Beaux arts, Paris, has done me the favour to communicate to me, we get a more accurate view of Leonardo's relation to the often named GIORGIO TEDESCO: _Nota delle provisione_ (sic) _a da pagare per me in nome del nostro ill. S. Bernardo Bini e chompa di Roma, e prima della illma sua chonsorte ogni mese d. 800. A Ldo da Vinci per sua provisione d. XXXIII, e piu d. VII al detto per la provisione di Giorgio tedescho, che sono in tutto d. 40. From this we learn, that seven ducats formed the German's monthly wages, but according to No. 1353 l. 7 he pretended that eight ducats had been agreed upon.] would acquire the Italian language. He always promised, but would never do so. And this I did also, because that Giovanni, the German who makes the mirrors, was there always in the workshop, and wanted to see and to know all that was being done there and made it known outside ... strongly criticising it; and because he dined with those of the Pope's guard, and then they went out with guns killing birds among the ruins; and this went on from after dinner till the evening; and when I sent Lorenzo to urge him to work he said that he would not have so many masters over him, and that his work was for your Excellency's Wardrobe; and thus two months passed and so it went on; and one day finding Gian Niccolo of the Wardrobe and asking whether the German had finished the work for your Magnificence, he told me this was not true, but only that he had given him two guns to clean. Afterwards, when I had urged him farther, be left the workshop and began to work in his room, and lost much time in making another pair of pincers and files and other tools with screws; and there he worked at mills for twisting silk which he hid when any one of my people went in, and with a thousand oaths and mutterings, so that none of them would go there any more. I was so greatly rejoiced, most Illustrious Lord, by the desired restoration of your health, that my own illness almost left me. But I am greatly vexed at not having been able to completely satisfy your Excellency's wishes by reason of the wickedness of that German deceiver, for whom I left nothing undone by which I could have hope to please him; and secondly I invited him to lodge and board with me, by which means I should constantly see the work he was doing and with greater ease correct his errors while, besides this, he would learn the Italian tongue, by means of which be could with more ease talk without an interpreter; his moneys were always given him in advance of the time when due. Afterwards he wanted to have the models finished in wood, just as they were to be in iron, and wished to carry them away to his own country. But this I refused him, telling him that I would give him, in drawing, the breadth, length, height and form of what he had to do; and so we remained in ill-will. The next thing was that he made himself another workshop and pincers and tools in his room where he slept, and there he worked for others; afterwards he went to dine with the Swiss of the guard, where there are idle fellows, in which he beat them all; and most times they went two or three together with guns, to shoot birds among the ruins, and this went on till evening. At last I found how this master Giovanni the mirror-maker was he who had done it all, for two reasons; the first because he had said that my coming here had deprived him of the countenance and favour of your Lordship which always... The other is that he said that his iron-workers' rooms suited him for working at his mirrors, and of this he gave proof; for besides making him my enemy, he made him sell all he had and leave his workshop to him, where he works with a number of workmen making numerous mirrors to send to the fairs. 1352. I was so greatly rejoiced, most Illustrious Lord, by the wished for recovery of your health, that my own ills have almost left me; and I say God be praised for it. But it vexes me greatly that I have not been able completely to satisfy your Excellency's wishes by reason of the wickedness of that German deceiver, for whom I left nothing undone by which I could hope to please him; and secondly I invited him to lodge and board with me, by which means I should see constantly the work he was doing, for which purpose I would have a table fixed at the foot of one of these windows, where he could work with the file and finish the things made below; and so I should constantly see the work he might do, and it could be corrected with greater ease. Draft of letter written at Rome. 1353. This other hindered me in anatomy, blaming it before the Pope; and likewise at the hospital; and he has filled [4] this whole Belvedere with workshops for mirrors; and he did the same thing in Maestro Giorgio's room. He said that he had been promised [7] eight ducats every month, beginning with the first day, when he set out, or at latest when he spoke with you; and that you agreed. Seeing that he seldom stayed in the workshop, and that he ate a great deal, I sent him word that, if he liked I could deal with him separately for each thing that he might make, and would give him what we might agree to be a fair valuation. He took counsel with his neighbour and gave up his room, selling every thing, and went to find... Miscellaneous Records (1354. 1355). 1354. [Footnote: A puzzling passage, meant, as it would seem, for a jest. Compare the description of Giants in Dante, _Inf_. XXI and XXII. Perhaps Leonardo had the Giant Antaeus in his mind. Of him the myth relates that he was a son of Ge, that he fed on lions; that he hunted in Libya and killed the inhabitants. He enjoyed the peculiarity of renewing his strength whenever he fell and came in contact with his mother earth; but that Hercules lifted him up and so conquered and strangled him. Lucan gives a full account of the struggle. Pharsalia IV, 617. The reading of this passage, which is very indistinctly written, is in many places doubtful.] Dear Benedetto de' Pertarti. When the proud giant fell because of the bloody and miry state of the ground it was as though a mountain had fallen so that the country shook as with an earthquake, and terror fell on Pluto in hell. From the violence of the shock he lay as stunned on the level ground. Suddenly the people, seeing him as one killed by a thunderbolt, turned back; like ants running wildly over the body of the fallen oak, so these rushing over his ample limbs.......... them with frequent wounds; by which, the giant being roused and feeling himself almost covered by the multitude, he suddenly perceives the smarting of the stabs, and sent forth a roar which sounded like a terrific clap of thunder; and placing his hands on the ground he raised his terrible face: and having lifted one hand to his head he found it full of men and rabble sticking to it like the minute creatures which not unfrequently are found there; wherefore with a shake of his head he sends the men flying through the air just as hail does when driven by the fury of the winds. Many of these men were found to be dead; stamping with his feet. And clinging to his hair, and striving to hide in it, they behaved like sailors in a storm, who run up the ropes to lessen the force of the wind [by taking in sail]. News of things from the East. Be it known to you that in the month of June there appeared a Giant, who came from the Lybian desert... mad with rage like ants.... struck down by the rude. This great Giant was born in Mount Atlas and was a hero ... and had to fight against the Egyptians and Arabs, Medes and Persians. He lived in the sea on whales, grampuses and ships. Mars fearing for his life took refuge under the... of Jove. And at the great fall it seemed as though the whole province quaked. 1355. This spirit returns to the brain whence it had departed, with a loud voice and with these words, it moved... And if any man though he may have wisdom or goodness ......... [Footnote: This passage, very difficult to decipher, is on the reverse of a drawing at Windsor, Pl. CXXII, which possibly has some connection with it. The drawing is slightly reduced in this reproduction; the original being 25 cm. high by 19 cm. wide.] O blessed and happy spirit whence comest thou? Well have I known this man, much against my will. This one is a receptacle of villainy; he is a perfect heap of the utmost ingratitude combined with every vice. But of what use is it to fatigue myself with vain words? Nothing is to be found in them but every form of sin ... And if there should be found among them any that possesses any good, they will not be treated differently to myself by other men; and in fine, I come to the conclusion that it is bad if they are hostile, and worse if they are friendly. Miscellaneous drafts of letters and personal records (1356--1368). 1356. All the ills that are or ever were, if they could be set to work by him, would not satisfy the desires of his iniquitous soul; and I could not in any length of time describe his nature to you, but I conclude... 1357. I know one who, having promised me much, less than my due, being disappointed of his presumptuous desires, has tried to deprive me of all my friends; and as he has found them wise and not pliable to his will, he has menaced me that, having found means of denouncing me, he would deprive me of my benefactors. Hence I have informed your Lordship of this, to the end [that this man who wishes to sow the usual scandals, may find no soil fit for sowing the thoughts and deeds of his evil nature] so that he, trying to make your Lordship, the instrument of his iniquitous and maliceous nature may be disappointed of his desire. 1358. [Footnote: Below this text we read gusstino--Giustino and in another passage on the same page Justin is quoted (No. 1210, 1. 48). The two have however no real connection.] And in this case I know that I shall make few enemies seeing that no one will believe what I can say of him; for they are but few whom his vices have disgusted, and he only dislikes those men whose natures are contrary to those vices. And many hate their fathers, and break off friendship with those who reprove their vices; and he will not permit any examples against them, nor any advice. If you meet with any one who is virtuous do not drive him from you; do him honour, so that he may not have to flee from you and be reduced to hiding in hermitages, or caves or other solitary places to escape from your treachery; if there is such an one among you do him honour, for these are our Saints upon earth; these are they who deserve statues from us, and images; but remember that their images are not to be eaten by you, as is still done in some parts of India [Footnote 15: In explanation of this passage I have received the following communication from Dr. G. W. LEITNER of Lahore: "So far as Indian customs are known to us, this practice spoken of by Leonardo as 'still existing in some parts of India' is perfectly unknown; and it is equally opposed to the spirit of Hinduism, Mohammedanism and Sikhism. In central Thibet the ashes of the dead, when burnt, are mixed with dough, and small figures--usually of Buddha--are stamped out of them and some are laid in the grave while others are distributed among the relations. The custom spoken of by Leonardo may have prevailed there but I never heard of it." Possibly Leonardo refers here to customs of nations of America.] where, when the images have according to them, performed some miracle, the priests cut them in pieces, being of wood, and give them to all the people of the country, not without payment; and each one grates his portion very fine, and puts it upon the first food he eats; and thus believes that by faith he has eaten his saint who then preserves him from all perils. What do you think here, Man, of your own species? Are you so wise as you believe yourselves to be? Are these things to be done by men? 1359. As I told you in past days, you know that I am without any.... Francesco d'Antonio. Bernardo di Maestro Jacopo. 1360. Tell me how the things happened. 1361. j lorezo\\\ 2 inbiadali\\\ 3 inferri de\\\ 4in lorezo\\\ 5[inno abuil]\\ 6 in acocatu\\\ 7 per la sella\\\ 8colte di lor\\\ 9v cavallott\\\ I0el uiagg\\\ IIal\\\ I2a lurez\\\ 13in biada\\\ 14inferri\\\ 15abuss\\\ 16in viagg\\\ 17alorz\\\ [Footnote: This seems to be the beginning of a letter, but only the first words of the lines have been preserved, the leaf being torn down the middle. No translation is possible.] 1362. And so may it please our great Author that I may demonstrate the nature of man and his customs, in the way I describe his figure. [Footnote: A preparatory note for the passage given as No. 798, 11. 41--42.] 1363. This writing distinctly about the kite seems to be my destiny, because among the first recollections of my infancy, it seemed to me that, as I was in my cradle, a kite came to me and opened my mouth with its tail, and struck me several times with its tail inside my lips. [Footnote: This note probably refers to the text No. 1221.] 1364. [When I did well, as a boy you used to put me in prison. Now if I do it being grown up, you will do worse to me.] 1365. Tell me if anything was ever done. 1366. Tell me if ever I did a thing which me .... 1367. Do not reveal, if liberty is precious to you; my face is the prison of love. [Footnote: This note seems to be a quotation.] 1368. Maestro Leonardo of Florence. [Footnote: So Leonardo writes his name on a sheet with sundry short notes, evidently to try a pen. Compare the signature with those in Nos. 1341, 1348 and 1374 (see also No. 1346, l. 33). The form "Lionardo" does not occur in the autographs. The Portrait of the Master in the Royal Library at Turin, which is reproduced--slightly diminished--on Pl. I, has in the original two lines of writing underneath; one in red chalk of two or three words is partly effaced: _lionardo it... lm_ (or _lai_?); the second written in pencil is as follows: _fatto da lui stesso assai vecchio_. In both of these the writing is very like the Master's, but is certainly only an imitation.] Notes bearing Dates (1369--1378). 1369. The day of Santa Maria _della Neve_ [of the Snows] August the 2nd 1473. [Footnote: W. An. I. 1368. 1369. This date is on a drawing of a rocky landscape. See _Chronique des Arts_ 1881 no. 23: _Leonard de Vinci a-t-il ete au Righi le 5 aout 1473_? letter by H. de Geymuller. The next following date in the MSS. is 1478 (see No. 663). 1370. On the 2nd of April 1489, book entitled 'Of the human figure'. [Footnote: While the letters in the MS. notes of 1473 and 1478 are very ornate, this note and the texts on anatomy on the same sheet (for instance No. 805) are in the same simple hand as we see on Pl. CXVI and CXIX. No 1370 is the only dated note of the years between 1480 and 1489, and the characters are in all essential points identical with those that we see in the latest manuscripts written in France (compare the facsimiles on Pl. CXV and p. 254), so that it is hardly possible to determine exactly the date of a manuscript from the style of the handwriting, if it does not betray the peculiarities of style as displayed in the few notes dated previous to l480.--Compare the facsimile of the manuscripts 1479 on Pl.LXII, No. 2; No. 664, note, Vol. I p. 346. This shows already a marked simplicity as compared with the calligraphy of I478. The text No. 720 belongs to the year 1490; No. 1510 to the year 1492; No. 1459, No. 1384 and No. 1460 to the year 1493; No. 1463, No. 1517, No. 1024, 1025 and 1461 to the year 1494; Nos. 1523 and 1524 to the year 1497. 1371. On the 1st of August 1499, I wrote here of motion and of weight. [Footnote:1371. _Scrissi qui_. Leonardo does not say where; still we may assume that it was not in Milan. Amoretti writes, _Memorie Storiche_, chap. XIX: _Sembra pertanto che non nel 1499 ma nel 1500, dopo il ritorno e la prigionia del duca, sia da qui partito Lionardo per andare a Firenze; ed e quindi probabile, che i mesi di governo nuovo e incerto abbia passati coll' amico suo Francesco Melzi a Vaprio, ove meglio che altrove studiar potea la natura, e soprattutta le acque, e l'Adda specialmente, che gia era stato l'ogetto delle sue idrostatiche ricerche_. At that time Melzi was only six years of age. The next date is 1502; to this year belong No. 1034, 1040, 1042, 1048 and 1053. The note No. 1525 belongs to the year 1503.] 1372. On the 9th of July 1504, Wednesday, at seven o'clock, died Ser Piero da Vinci, notary at the Palazzo del Podesta, my father, --at seven o'clock, being eighty years old, leaving behind ten sons and two daughters. [Footnote: This statement of Ser Piero's age contradicts that of the _Riassunto della portata di Antonio da Vinci_ (Leonardo's grandfather), who speaks of Ser Piero as being thirty years old in 1457; and that of the _Riassunto della portata di Ser Piero e Francesco_, sons of Antonia da Vinci, where Ser Piero is mentioned as being forty in 1469. These documents were published by G. UZIELLI, _Ricerche intorno a L. da Vinci, Firenze_, 1872, pp. 144 and 146. Leonardo was, as is well known, a natural son. His mother 'La Catarina' was married in 1457 to Acchattabriga di Piero del Vaccha da Vinci. She died in 1519. Leonardo never mentions her in the Manuscripts. In the year of Leonardo's birth Ser Piero married Albiera di Giovanni Amadoci, and after her death at the age of thirty eight he again married, Francesca, daughter of Ser Giovanni Lanfredi, then only fifteen. Their children were Leonardo's halfbrothers, Antonio (b. 1476), Ser Giuliano (b. 1479), Lorenzo (b. 1484), a girl, Violante (b. 1485), and another boy Domenico (b. 1486); Domenico's descendants still exist as a family. Ser Piero married for the third time Lucrezia di Guglielmo Cortigiani by whom he had six children: Margherita (b. 1491), Benedetto (b. 1492), Pandolfo (b. 1494), Guglielmo (b. 1496), Bartolommeo (b. 1497), and Giovanni) date of birth unknown). Pierino da Vinci the sculptor (about 1520-1554) was the son of Bartolommeo, the fifth of these children. The dates of their deaths are not known, but we may infer from the above passage that they were all still living in 1505.] 1373. On Wednesday at seven o'clock died Ser Piero da Vinci on the 9th of July 1504. [Footnote: This and the previous text it may be remarked are the only mention made by Leonardo of his father; Nos. 1526, 1527 and No. 1463 are of the year 1504.] 1374. Begun by me, Leonardo da Vinci, on the l2th of July 1505. [Footnote: Thus he writes on the first page of the MS. The title is on the foregoing coversheet as follows: _Libro titolato disstrafformatione coe_ (cioe) _d'un corpo nvn_ (in un) _altro sanza diminuitione e acresscemento di materia._] 1375. Begun at Milan on the l2th of September 1508. [Footnote: No. 1528 and No. 1529 belong to the same year. The text Vol. I, No. 4 belongs to the following year 1509 (1508 old style); so also does No. 1009.-- Nos. 1022, 1057 and 1464 belong to 1511.] 1376. On the 9th of January 1513. [Footnote: No. 1465 belongs to the same year. No. 1065 has the next date 1514.] 1377. The Magnifico Giuliano de' Medici left Rome on the 9th of January 1515, just at daybreak, to take a wife in Savoy; and on the same day fell the death of the king of France. [Footnote: Giuliano de Medici, brother to Pope Leo X.; see note to Nos. 1351-1353. In February, 1515, he was married to Filiberta, daughter of Filippo, Duke of Savoy, and aunt to Francis I, Louis XII's successor on the throne of France. Louis XII died on Jan. 1st, and not on Jan. 9th as is here stated.-- This addition is written in paler ink and evidently at a later date.] 1378. On the 24th of June, St John's day, 1518 at Amboise, in the palace of... [Footnote: _Castello del clli_. The meaning of this word is obscure; it is perhaps not written at full length.] _XXII._ _Miscellaneous Notes._ _The incidental memoranda scattered here and there throughout the MSS. can have been for the most part intelligible to the writer only; in many cases their meaning and connection are all the more obscure because we are in ignorance about the persons with whom Leonardo used to converse nor can we say what part he may have played in the various events of his time. Vasari and other early biographers give us a very superficial and far from accurate picture of Leonardo's private life. Though his own memoranda, referring for the most part to incidents of no permanent interest, do not go far towards supplying this deficiency, they are nevertheless of some importance and interest as helping us to solve the numerous mysteries in which the history of Leonardo's long life remains involved. We may at any rate assume, from Leonardo's having committed to paper notes on more or less trivial matters on his pupils, on his house-keeping, on various known and unknown personages, and a hundred other trifies--that at the time they must have been in some way important to him._ _I have endeavoured to make these 'Miscellaneous Notes' as complete as possible, for in many cases an incidental memorandum will help to explain the meaning of some other note of a similar kind. The first portion of these notes (Nos. l379--l457), as well as those referring to his pupils and to other artists and artificers who lived in his house (1458--1468,) are arranged in chronological order. A considerable proportion of these notes belong to the period between 1490 and 1500, when Leonardo was living at Milan under the patronage of Lodovico il Moro, a time concerning which we have otherwise only very scanty information. If Leonardo did really--as has always been supposed,--spend also the greater part of the preceding decade in Milan, it seems hardly likely that we should not find a single note indicative of the fact, or referring to any event of that period, on the numerous loose leaves in his writing that exist. Leonardo's life in Milan between 1489 and 1500 must have been comparatively uneventful. The MSS. and memoranda of those years seem to prove that it was a tranquil period of intellectual and artistic labour rather than of bustling court life. Whatever may have been the fate of the MSS. and note books of the foregoing years--whether they were destroyed by Leonardo himself or have been lost--it is certainly strange that nothing whatever exists to inform us as to his life and doings in Milan earlier than the consecutive series of manuscripts which begin in the year 1489._ _There is nothing surprising in the fact that the notes regarding his pupils are few and meagre. Excepting for the record of money transactions only very exceptional circumstances would have prompted him to make any written observations on the persons with whom he was in daily intercourse, among whom, of course, were his pupils. Of them all none is so frequently mentioned as Salai, but the character of the notes does not--as it seems to me--justify us in supposing that he was any thing more than a sort of factotum of Leonardo's (see 1519, note)._ _Leonardo's quotations from books and his lists of titles supply nothing more than a hint as to his occasional literary studies or recreations. It was evidently no part of his ambition to be deeply read (see Nrs. 10, 11, 1159) and he more than once expressly states (in various passages which will be found in the foregoing sections) that he did not recognise the authority of the Ancients, on scientific questions, which in his day was held paramount. Archimedes is the sole exception, and Leonardo frankly owns his admiration for the illustrious Greek to whose genius his own was so much akin (see No. 1476). All his notes on various authors, excepting those which have already been inserted in the previous section, have been arranged alphabetically for the sake of convenience (1469--1508)._ _The passages next in order contain accounts and inventories principally of household property. The publication of these--often very trivial entries--is only justifiable as proving that the wealth, the splendid mode of life and lavish expenditure which have been attributed to Leonardo are altogether mythical; unless we put forward the very improbable hypothesis that these notes as to money in hand, outlay and receipts, refer throughout to an exceptional state of his affairs, viz. when he was short of money._ _The memoranda collected at the end (No. 1505--1565) are, in the original, in the usual writing, from left to right. Besides, the style of the handwriting is at variance with what we should expect it to be, if really Leonardo himself had written these notes. Most of them are to be found in juxtaposition with undoubtedly authentic writing of his. But this may be easily explained, if we take into account the fact, that Leonardo frequently wrote on loose sheets. He may therefore have occasionally used paper on which others had made short memoranda, for the most part as it would seem, for his use. At the end of all I have given Leonardo's will from the copy of it preserved in the Melzi Library. It has already been printed by Amoretti and by Uzielli. It is not known what has become of the original document._ Memoranda before 1500 (1379-l413). 1379. Find Longhi and tell him that you wait for him at Rome and will go with him to Naples; make you pay the donation [Footnote 2: _Libro di Vitolone_ see No. 1506 note.] and take the book by Vitolone, and the measurements of the public buildings. [3] Have two covered boxes made to be carried on mules, but bed-covers will be best; this makes three, of which you will leave one at Vinci. [4] Obtain the.............. from Giovanni Lombardo the linen draper of Verona. Buy handkerchiefs and towels,.... and shoes, 4 pairs of hose, a jerkin of... and skins, to make new ones; the lake of Alessandro. [Footnote: 7 and fol. It would seem from the text that Leonardo intended to have instructions in painting on paper. It is hardly necessary to point out that the Art of illuminating was quite separate from that of painting.] Sell what you cannot take with you. Get from Jean de Paris the method of painting in tempera and the way of making white [Footnote: The mysterious looking words, quite distinctly written, in line 1: _ingol, amor a, ilopan a_ and on line 2: _enoiganod al_ are obviously in cipher and the solution is a simple one; by reading them backwards we find for _ingol_: logni-probably _longi_, evidently the name of a person; for _amor a_: _a Roma_, for _ilopan a_: _a Napoli_. Leonardo has done the same in two passages treating on some secrets of his art Nos. 641 and 729, the only other places in which we find this cipher employed; we may therefore conclude that it was for the sake of secrecy that he used it. There can be no doubt, from the tenor of this passage, that Leonardo projected a secret excursion to Naples. Nothing has hitherto been known of this journey, but the significance of the passage will be easily understood by a reference to the following notes, from which we may infer that Leonardo really had at the time plans for travelling further than Naples. From lines 3, 4 and 7 it is evident that he purposed, after selling every thing that was not easily portable, to leave a chest in the care of his relations at Vinci. His luggage was to be packed into two trunks especially adapted for transport by mules. The exact meaning of many sentences in the following notes must necessarily remain obscure. These brief remarks on small and irrelevant affairs and so forth are however of no historical value. The notes referring to the preparations for his journey are more intelligible.] salt, and how to make tinted paper; sheets of paper folded up; and his box of colours; learn to work flesh colours in tempera, learn to dissolve gum lac, linseed ... white, of the garlic of Piacenza; take 'de Ponderibus'; take the works of Leonardo of Cremona. Remove the small furnace ... seed of lilies and of... Sell the boards of the support. Make him who stole it, give you the ... learn levelling and how much soil a man can dig out in a day. 1380. This was done by Leone in the piazza of the castle with a chain and an arrow. [Footnote: This note must have been made in Milan; as we know from the date of the MS.] 1381. NAMES OF ENGINEERS. Callias of Rhodes, Epimachus the Athenian, Diogenes, a philosopher, of Rhodes, Calcedonius of Thrace, Febar of Tyre, Callimachus the architect, a master of fires. [Footnote: Callias, Architect of Aradus, mentioned by Vitruvius (X, 16, 5).--Epimachus, of Athens, invented a battering-enginee for Demetrius Poliorketes (Vitruvius X, 16, 4).--Callimachus, the inventor of the Corinthian capital (Vitr. IV, I, 9), and of the method of boring marble (Paus. I, 26, 7), was also famous for his casts in bronze (Plin. XXXIV, 8, 19). He invented a lamp for the temple of Athene Polias, on the Acropolis of Athens (Paus. I, 26, 7)--The other names, here mentioned, cannot be identified.] 1382. Ask maestro Lodovico for 'the conduits of water'. [Footnote: Condotti d'acqua. Possibly a book, a MS. or a map.] 1383. ... at Pistoja, Fioravante di Domenico at Florence is my most beloved friend, as though he were my [brother]. [Footnote: On the same sheet is the text No. 663.] 1384. On the 16th day of July. Caterina came on 16th day of July, 1493. Messer Mariolo's Morel the Florentin, has a big horse with a fine neck and a beautiful head. The white stallion belonging to the falconer has fine hind quarters; it is behind the Comasina Gate. The big horse of Cermonino, of Signor Giulio. [Footnote: Compare Nos. 1522 and 1517. Caterina seems to have been his housekeeper.] 1385. OF THE INSTRUMENT. Any one who spends one ducat may take the instrument; and he will not pay more than half a ducat as a premium to the inventor of the instrument and one grosso to the workman every year. I do not want sub-officials. [Footnote: Refers perhaps to the regulation of the water in the canals.] 1386. Maestro Giuliano da Marliano has a fine herbal. He lives opposite to Strami the Carpenters. [Footnote: Compare No. 616, note. 4. legnamiere (milanese dialect) = legnajuolo.] 1387. Christofano da Castiglione who lives at the Pieta has a fine head. 1388. Work of ... of the stable of Galeazzo; by the road of Brera [Footnote 4: Brera, see No. 1448, II, 13]; benefice of Stanghe [Footnote 5:Stanghe, see No. 1509.]; benefice of Porta Nuova; benefice of Monza; Indaco's mistake; give first the benefices; then the works; then ingratitude, indignity and lamentations. 1389. Chiliarch--captain of 1000. Prefects--captains. A legion, six thousand and sixty three men. 1390. A nun lives at La Colomba at Cremona; she works good straw plait, and a friar of Saint Francis. [Footnote: _La Colomba_ is to this day the name of a small house at Cremona, decorated with frescoes.] 1391. Needle,--Niccolao,--thread,--Ferrando, -lacopo Andrea,--canvas,--stone,--colours, --brushes,--pallet,--sponge,--the panel of the Duke. 1392. Messer Gian Domenico Mezzabarba and Messer Giovanni Franceso Mezzabarba. By the side of Messer Piero d'Anghiera. 1393. Conte Francesco Torello. 1394. Giuliano Trombetta,--Antonio di Ferrara, --Oil of .... [Footnote: Near this text is the sketch of a head drawn in red chalk.] 1395. Paul was snatched up to heaven. [Footnote: See the facsimile of this note on Pl. XXIII No. 2.] 1396. Giuliano da Maria, physician, has a steward without hands. 1397. Have some ears of corn of large size sent from Florence. 1398. See the bedstead at Santa Maria. Secret. 1399. Arrigo is to have 11 gold Ducats. Arrigo is to have 4 gold ducats in the middle of August. 1400. Give your master the instance of a captain who does not himself win the victory, but the soldiers do by his counsels; and so he still deserves the reward. 1401. Messer Pier Antonio. 1402. Oil,--yellow,--Ambrosio,--the mouth, --the farmhouse. 1403. My dear Alessandro from Parma, by the hand of ... 1404. Giovannina, has a fantastic face,--is at Santa Caterina, at the Hospital. [Footnote: Compare the text on the same page: No. 667.] 1405. 24 tavole make 1 perch. 4 trabochi make 1 tavola. 4 braccia and a half make a trabocco. A perch contains 1936 square braccia, or 1944. 1406. The road of Messer Mariolo is 13 1/4 braccia wide; the House of Evangelista is 75. It enters 7 1/2 braccia in the house of Mariolo. [Footnote: On this page and that which faces it, MS.I2 7la, are two diagrams with numerous reference numbers, evidently relating to the measurements of a street.] 1407. I ask at what part of its curved motion the moving cause will leave the thing moved and moveable. Speak to Pietro Monti of these methods of throwing spears. 1408. Antonio de' Risi is at the council of Justice. 1409. Paolo said that no machine that moves another .... [Footnote: The passage, of which the beginning is here given, deals with questions in mechanics. The instances in which Leonardo quotes the opinions of his contemporaries on scientific matters are so rare as to be worth noticing. Compare No. 901. ] 1410. Caravaggio. [Footnote: _Caravaggio_, a village not far from the Adda between Milan and Brescia, where Polidoro and Michelangelo da Caravaggio were born. This note is given in facsimile on Pl. XIII, No. I (above, to the left). On Pl. XIII, No. 2 above to the right we read _cerovazo_.] 1411. Pulleys,--nails,--rope,--mercury,--cloth, Monday. 1412. MEMORANDUM. Maghino, Speculus of Master Giovanni the Frenchman; Galenus on utility. 1413. Near to Cordusio is Pier Antonio da Tossano and his brother Serafino. [Footnote: This note is written between lines 23 and 24 of the text No. 710. Corduso, Cordusio (_curia ducis_) = Cordus in the Milanese dialect, is the name of a Piazza between the Via del Broletto and the Piazza de' Mercanti at Milan.. In the time of il Moro it was the centre of the town. The persons here named were members of the noble Milanese family de'Fossani; Ambrogio da Possano, the contemporary painter, had no connection with them.] 1414. Memoranda after 1500 (1414--1434) 1414. Paul of Vannochio at Siena ... The upper chamber for the apostles. [4] Buildings by Bramante. The governor of the castle made a prisoner. [6] Visconti carried away and his son killed. [Footnote 6: Visconti. _Chi fosse quel Visconte non sapremmo indovinare fra tanti di questo nome. Arluno narra che allora atterrate furono le case de' Viconti, de' Castiglioni, de' Sanseverini, e de' Botta e non è improbabile che ne fossero insultati e morti i padroni. Molti Visconti annovera lo stesso Cronista che per essersi rallegrati del ritorno del duca in Milano furono da' Francesi arrestati, e strascinati in Francia come prigionieri di stato; e fra questi Messer Francesco Visconti, e suo figliuolo Battista_. (AMORETTI, Mem. Stor. XIX.).] Giovanni della Rosa deprived of his money. Borgonzio began ....; and moreover his fortunes fled. [Footnote 8: Borgonzio o Brugonzio Botta fu regolatore delle ducali entrate sotto il Moro, alla cui fuga la casa sua fu pur messa a sacco da' partitanti francesi. (AMORETTI, l. c.)] The Duke has lost the state, property and liberty and none of his entreprises was carried out by him. [Footnote: l. 4--10 This passage evidently refers to events in Milan at the time of the overthrow of Ludovico il Moro. Amoretti published it in the '_Memorie Storiche_' and added copious notes.] 1415. Ambrosio Petri, St. Mark, 4 boards for the window, 2 ..., 3 the saints of chapels, 5 the Genoese at home. 1416. Piece of tapestry,--pair of compasses,-- Tommaso's book,--the book of Giovanni Benci,--the box in the custom-house,--to cut the cloth,--the sword-belt,--to sole the boots, --a light hat,--the cane from the ruined houses,--the debt for the table linen, --swimming-belt,--a book of white paper for drawing,--charcoal.--How much is a florin ...., a leather bodice. 1417. Borges shall get for you the Archimedes from the bishop of Padua, and Vitellozzo the one from Borgo a San Sepolcro [Footnote 3: Borgo a San Sepolcro, where Luca Paciolo, Leonardo's friend, was born.] [Footnote: Borges. A Spanish name.] 1418. Marzocco's tablet. 1419. Marcello lives in the house of Giacomo da Mengardino. 1420. Where is Valentino?--boots,--boxes in the custom-house,...,--[Footnote 5: Carmine. A church and monastery at Florence.] the monk at the Carmine,--squares,--[Footnotes 7 and 8: Martelli, Borgherini; names of Florentine families. See No. 4.] Piero Martelli,--[8] Salvi Borgherini,--send back the bags,--a support for the spectacles,--[Footnote 11: San Gallo; possibly Giuliano da San Gallo, the Florentine architect.] the nude study of San Gallo,--the cloak. Porphyry,--groups,--square,--[Footnote 16: Pandolfini, see No. 1544 note.] Pandolfino. [Footnote: Valentino. Cesare Borgia is probably meant. After being made Archbishop of Valence by Alexander VI he was commonly called Valentinus or Valentino. With reference to Leonardo's engagements by him see pp. 224 and 243, note.] 1421. Concave mirrors; philosophy of Aristotle;[Footnote 2: _Avicenna_ (Leonardo here writes it Avinega) the Arab philosopher, 980-1037, for centuries the unimpeachable authority on all medical questions. Leonardo possibly points here to a printed edition: _Avicennae canonum libri V, latine_ 1476 _Patavis._ Other editions are, Padua 1479, and Venice 1490.] the books of Avicenna Italian and Latin vocabulary; Messer Ottaviano Palavicino or his Vitruvius [Footnote 3: _Vitruvius._ See Vol. I, No. 343 note.]. bohemian knives; Vitruvius[Footnote 6: _Vitruvius._ See Vol. I, No. 343 note.]; go every Saturday to the hot bath where you will see naked men; 'Meteora' [Footnote 7: _Meteora._ See No. 1448, 25.], Archimedes, on the centre of gravity; [Footnote 9: The works of Archimedes were not printed during Leonardo's life-time.] anatomy [Footnote 10: Compare No. 1494.] Alessandro Benedetto; The Dante of Niccolo della Croce; Inflate the lungs of a pig and observe whether they increase in width and in length, or in width diminishing in length. [Footnote 14: _Johannes Marliani sua etate philosophorum et medicorum principis et ducalis phisic. primi de proportione motuum velocitate questio subtilissima incipit ex ejusdem Marliani originali feliciter extracta, M(ilano)_ 1482. Another work by him has the title: _Marlianus mediolanensis. Questio de caliditate corporum humanorum tempore hiemis ed estatis et de antiparistasi ad celebrem philosophorum et medicorum universitatem ticinensem._ 1474.] Marliano, on Calculation, to Bertuccio. Albertus, on heaven and earth [Footnote 15: See No. 1469, 1. 7.], [from the monk Bernardino]. Horace has written on the movements of the heavens. [Footnote: _Filosofia d'Aristotele_ see No. 1481 note.] 1422. Of the three regular bodies as opposed to some commentators who disparage the Ancients, who were the originators of grammar and the sciences and ... 1423. The room in the tower of Vaneri. [Footnote: This note is written inside the sketch of a plan of a house. On the same page is the date 1513 (see No. 1376).] 1424. The figures you will have to reserve for the last book on shadows that they may appear in the study of Gerardo the illuminator at San Marco at Florence. [Go to see Melzo, and the Ambassador, and Maestro Bernardo]. [Footnote: L. 1-3 are in the original written between lines 3 and 4 of No. 292. But the sense is not clear in this connection. It is scarcely possible to devine the meaning of the following sentence. 2. 3. _Gherardo_ Miniatore, a famous illuminator, 1445-1497, to whom Vasari dedicated a section of his Lives (Vol. II pp. 237-243, ed. Sansoni 1879). 5. _Bernardo_, possibly the painter Bernardo Zenale.] 1425. Hermes the philosopher. 1426. Suisset, viz. calculator,--Tisber, --Angelo Fossobron,--Alberto. 1427. The structure of the drawbridge shown me by Donnino, and why _c_ and _d_ thrust downwards. [Footnote: The sketch on the same page as this text represents two poles one across the other. At the ends of the longest are the letter _c_ and _d_. The sense of the passage is not rendered any clearer.] 1428. The great bird will take its first flight;-- on the back of his great swan,--filling the universe with wonders; filling all writings with his fame and bringing eternal glory to his birthplace. [Footnote: This seems to be a speculation about the flying machine (compare p. 271).] 1429. This stratagem was used by the Gauls against the Romans, and so great a mortality ensued that all Rome was dressed in mourning. [Footnote: Leonardo perhaps alludes to the Gauls under Brennus, who laid his sword in the scale when the tribute was weighed.] 1430. Alberto da Imola;--Algebra, that is, the demonstration of the equality of one thing to another. 1431. Johannes Rubicissa e Robbia. 1432. Ask the wife of Biagio Crivelli how the capon nurtures and hatches the eggs of the hen,--he being drunk. 1433. The book on Water to Messer Marco Antonio. [Footnote: Possibly Marc-Antonio della Torre, see p. 97.] 1434. Have Avicenna's work on useful inventions translated; spectacles with the case, steel and fork and...., charcoal, boards, and paper, and chalk and white, and wax;.... .... for glass, a saw for bones with fine teeth, a chisel, inkstand ........ three herbs, and Agnolo Benedetto. Get a skull, nut,--mustard. Boots,--gloves, socks, combs, papers, towels, shirts,.... shoe-tapes,--..... shoes, penknife, pens. A skin for the chest. [Footnote: 4. Lapis. Compare Condivi, _Vita di Michelagnolo Buonarotti_, Chap. XVIII.: _Ma egli_ (Michelangelo) _non avendo che mostrare, prese una penna (percioche in quel tempo il lapis non era in uso) e con tal leggiadria gli dipinse una mano ecc._ The incident is of the year l496.--Lapis means pencil, and chalk (_matita_). Between lines 7 and 8 are the texts given as Nos. 819 and No. 7.] Undated memoranda (1435-1457). 1435. The book of Piero Crescenze,--studies from the nude by Giovanni Ambrosio,--compasses, --the book of Giovanni Giacomo. 1436. MEMORARDUM. To make some provisions for my garden, --Giordano, _De Ponderibus_[Footnote 3: _Giordano_. Jordanus Nemorarius, a mathematician of the beginning of the XIIIth century. No particulars of his life are known. The title of his principal work is: _Arithmetica decem libris demonstrata_, first published at Paris 1496. In 1523 appeared at Nuremberg: _Liber Jordani Nemorarii de ponderibus, propositiones XIII et earundem demonstrationes, multarumque rerum rationes sane pulcherrimas complectens, nunc in lucem editus._],--the peacemaker, the flow and ebb of the sea,--have two baggage trunks made, look to Beltraffio's [Footnote 6: _Beltraffio_, see No. 465, note 2. There are sketches by the side of lines 8 and 10.] lathe and have taken the stone,--out leave the books belonging to Messer Andrea the German,-- make scales of a long reed and weigh the substance when hot and again when cold. The mirror of Master Luigi; _A b_ the flow and ebb of the water is shown at the mill of Vaprio,--a cap. 1437. Giovanni Fabre,--Lazaro del Volpe,-- the common,--Ser Piero. [Footnote: These names are inserted on a plan of plots of land adjoining the Arno.] 1438. [Lactantius], [the book of Benozzo], groups,--to bind the book,--a lantern,--Ser Pecantino,--Pandolfino.--[Rosso]--a square, --small knives,--carriages,--curry combs-- cup. 1439. Quadrant of Carlo Marmocchi,--Messer Francesco Araldo,--Ser Benedetto d'Accie perello,--Benedetto on arithmetic,--Maestro Paulo, physician,--Domenico di Michelino,-- ...... of the Alberti,--Messer Giovanni Argimboldi. 1440. Colours, formula,--Archimedes,--Marcantonio. Tinned iron,--pierced iron. 1441. See the shop that was formerly Bartolommeo's, the stationer. [Footnote: 6. _Marc Antonio_, see No. 1433.] 1442. The first book is by Michele di Francesco Nabini; it treats on science. 1443. Messer Francesco, physician of Lucca, with the Cardinal Farnese. [Footnote: _Alessandro Farnese_, afterwards Pope Paul III was created in 1493 Cardinal di San Cosimo e San Damiano, by Alexander VI.] 1444. Pandolfino's book [Footnote 1: _Pandolfino, Agnolo_, of Florence. It is to this day doubtful whether he or L. B. Alberti was the author of the famous work '_Del Governo della Famiglia_'. It is the more probable that Leonardo should have meant this work by the words _il libro_, because no other book is known to have been written by Pandolfino. This being the case this allusion of Leonardo's is an important evidence in favour of Pandolfino's authorship (compare No. 1454, line 3).],--knives,--a pen for ruling,--to have the vest dyed,--The library at St.-Mark's,--The library at Santo Spirito,--Lactantius of the Daldi [Footnote 7: The works of Lactantius were published very often in Italy during Leonardo's lifetime. The first edition published in 1465 "_in monastero sublacensi_" was also the first book printed in Italy.],--Antonio Covoni,--A book by Maestro Paolo Infermieri, --Boots, shoes and hose,--(Shell)lac, --An apprentice to do the models for me. Grammar, by Lorenzo de Medici,--Giovanni del Sodo,--Sansovino, [Footnote 15: _Sansovino_, Andrea--the _sculptor_; 1460-1529.]--a ruler,--a very sharp knife,--Spectacles,--fractions...., --repair.........,--Tomaso's book,-- Michelagnolo's little chain; Learn the multiplication of roots from Maestro Luca;--my map of the world which Giovanni Benci has [Footnote 25: Leonardo here probably alludes to the map, not executed by him (See p. 224), which is with the collection of his MSS. at Windsor, and was published in the _Archaeologia_ Vol. XI (see p. 224).];-Socks,--clothes from the customhouse-officier,--Red Cordova leather,--The map of the world, of Giovanni Benci,--a print, the districts about Milan--Market book. Get the Friar di Brera to show you [the book] '_de Ponderibus_' [Footnote 11: _Brera_, now _Palazzo delle Scienze ed Arti. Until 1571 it was the monastery of the order of the Umiliati and afterwards of the Jesuits. _De ponderibus_, compare No. 1436, 3.],-- Of the measurement of San Lorenzo,-- I lent certain groups to Fra Filippo de Brera, [Footnote 13: _Brera_, now _Palazzo delle Scienze ed Arti. Until 1571 it was the monastery of the order of the Umiliati and afterwards of the Jesuits. _De ponderibus_, compare No. 1436, 3.]-- Memorandum: to ask Maestro Giovannino as to the mode in which the tower of Ferrara is walled without loopholes,-- Ask Maestro Antonio how mortars are placed on bastions by day or by night,-- Ask Benedetto Portinari how the people go on the ice in Flanders,-- On proportions by Alchino, with notes by Marliano, from Messer Fazio,-- The measurement of the sun, promised me by Maestro Giovanni, the Frenchman,-- The cross bow of Maestro Gianetto,-- The book by Giovanni Taverna that Messer Fazio,-- You will draw Milan [21],-- The measurement of the canal, locks and supports, and large boats; and the expense,-- Plan of Milan [Footnote 23: _Fondamento_ is commonly used by Leonardo to mean ground-plan. See for instance p. 53.],-- Groups by Bramante [Footnote 24: _Gruppi_. See Vol. I p. 355, No. 600, note 9.],-- The book on celestial phenomena by Aristoteles, in Italian [Footnote 25: _Meteora_. By this Leonardo means no doubt the four books. He must refer here to a MS. translation, as no Italian translation is known to have been published (see No. 1477 note).],-- Try to get Vitolone, which is in the library at Pavia [Footnote 26: _Vitolone_ see No. 1506, note. _Libreria di Pavia_. One of the most famous of Italian libraries. After the victory of Novara in April 1500, Louis XII had it conveyed to France, '_come trofeo di vittoria_'!] and which treats of Mathematics,--He had a master [learned] in waterworks and get him to explain the repairs and the costs, and a lock and a canal and a mill in the Lombard fashion. A grandson of Gian Angelo's, the painter has a book on water which was his fathers. Paolino Scarpellino, called Assiolo has great knowledge of water works. [Footnote 12: _Sco Lorenzo_. A church at Milan, see pp. 39, 40 and 50.] [Footnote 13. 24: _Gruppi_. See Vol. I p. 355, No. 600, note 9.] [Footnote 16: The _Portinari_ were one of the great merchant- families of Florence.] 1449. Francesco d'Antonio at Florence. 1450. Giuliano Condi[1],--Tomaso Ridolfi,-- Tomaso Paganelli,--Nicolo del Nero,--Simone Zasti,--Nasi,--the heir of Lionardo Manelli, --Guglielmo di Ser Martino,--Bartolomeo del Tovaglia,--Andrea Arrigucci,-- Nicolo Capponi,--Giovanni Portinari. [Footnote: I. _Guiliano Gondi_. Ser Piero da Vinci, Leonardo's father, lived till 1480, in a house belonging to Giuliano Gondi. In 1498 this was pulled down to make room for the fine Palazzo built on the Piazza San Firenze by Giuliano di San Gallo, which still exists. In the _Riassunto del Catasto di Ser Piero da Vinci_, 1480, Leonardo is not mentioned; it is evident therefore that he was living elsewhere. It may be noticed incidentally that in the _Catasto di Giuliano Gondi_ of the same year the following mention is made of his four eldest sons: _Lionardo mio figliuolo d'eta d'anni 29, non fa nulla, Giovambatista d'eta d'anni 28 in Ghostantinopoli, Billichozo d'eta d'anni 24 a Napoli, Simone d'eta d'anni 23 in Ungheria._ He himself was a merchant of gold filigree (_facciamo lavorare una bottegha d'arte di seta ... facciamo un pocho di trafico a Napoli_}. As he was 59 years old in 1480, he certainly would not have been alive at the time of Leonardo's death. But Leonardo must have been on intimate terms with the family till the end of his life, for in a letter dated June 1. 1519, in which Fr. Melzi, writing from Amboise, announces Leonardo's death to Giuliano da Vinci at Florence (see p. 284), he says at the end "_Datemene risposta per i Gondi_" (see UZIELLI, _Ricerche_, passim). Most of the other names on the list are those of well-known Florentine families.] 1451. Pandolfino. 1452. Vespuccio will give me a book of Geometry. [Footnote: See No. 844, note, p. 130.] 1453. Marcantonio Colonna at Santi Apostoli. [Footnote: In July 1506 Pope Julius II gave Donna Lucrezia della Rovere, the daughter of his sister Lucchina, in marriage to the youthful Marcantonio Colonna, who, like his brothers Prospero and Fabrizio, became one of the most famous Captains of his family. He gave to him Frascati and made him a present of the palazzo he had built, when Cardinal, near the church of Santi Apostoli which is now known as the Palazzo Colonna (see GREGOROVIUS, _Gesch. der Stadt Rom._ Vol. VIII, book XIV I, 3. And COPPI, _Mem. Colonnesi_ p. 251).] 1454. A box, a cage,-- A square, to make the bird [Footnote 2: Vasari states that Leonardo invented mechanical birds which moved through the air. Compare No. 703.],-- Pandolfino's book, mortar [?],-- Small knives, Venieri for the [Footnote: Much of No. 1444 is repeated in this memorandum.] Pen for ruling, stone,--star,-- To have the vest dyed, Alfieri's tazza,-- The Libraries, the book on celestial phenomena,-- Lactantius of the go to the house of Daldi,-- the Pazzi, Book from Maestro small box,-- Paolo Infermieri,-- Boots, shoes and small gimlet,-- hose, Lac, .......,-- An apprentice for .....,-- models, Grammar of Lo- the amount of the renzo de' Medici, ... Giovanni del Sodo ..... for...,--the broken Sansovino, the.... Piero di Cosino the wings,-- [Footnote 16: _Pier di Cosimo_ the well known Florentine painter 1462-1521. See VASARI, _Vite_ (Vol. IV, p. 134 ed. Sansoni 1880) about Leonardo's influence on Piero di Cosimo's style of painting.] Filippo and Lorenzo [Footnote 17: _Filippo e Lorenzo_; probably the painters Filippino Lippi and Lorenzo di Credi. L. di Credi's pictures and Vasari's history of that painter bear ample evidence to his intimate relations with Leonardo.],--A ruler-,-- Spectacles,--to do the..... again,--Tomaso's book,--Michelagnolo's chain,--The multiplication of roots,--Of the bow and strinch,--The map of the world from Benci,-- Socks,--The clothes from the custom-house officier,--Cordova leather,--Market books, --waters of Cronaca,--waters of Tanaglino..., --the caps,--Rosso's mirror; to see him make it,--1/3 of which I have 5/6,--on the celestial phenomena, by Aristotle [Footnote 36: _Meteora_. See No. 1448, 25.],--boxes of Lorenzo di Pier Francesco [Footnote 37: _Lorenzo di Pier Francesco_ and his brother _Giovanni_ were a lateral branch of the _Medici_ family and changed their name for that of Popolani.],--Maestro Piero of the Borgo,--To have my book bound,--Show the book to Serigatto,-- and get the rule of the clock [Footnote 41: Possibly this refers to the clock on the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio at Florence. In February 1512 it had been repaired, and so arranged as to indicate the hours after the French manner (twelve hours a. m. and as many p. m.).],-- ring,--nutmeg,--gum,--the square,--Giovan' Batista at the piazza, de' Mozzi,--Giovanni Benci has my book and jaspers,--brass for the spectacles. 1455. Search in Florence for...... 1456. Bernardo da Ponte ... Val di Lugano ... many veins for anatomical demonstration. [Footnote: This fragmentary note is written on the margin of a drawing of two legs.] 1457. Paolo of Tavechia, to see the marks in the German stones. [Footnote: This note occurs on a pen and ink drawing made by Leonardo as a sketch for the celebrated large cartoon in the possession of the Royal Academy of Arts, in London. This cartoon is commonly supposed to be identical with that described and lauded by Vasari, which was exhibited in Florence at the time and which now seems to be lost. Mr. Alfred Marks, of Long Ditton, in his valuable paper (read before the Royal Soc. of Literature, June 28, 1882) "On the St. Anne of Leonardo da Vinci", has adduced proof that the cartoon now in the Royal Academy was executed earlier at Milan. The note here given, which is written on the sheet containing the study for the said cartoon, has evidently no reference to the drawing on which it is written but is obviously of the same date. Though I have not any opening here for discussing this question of the cartoon, it seemed to me important to point out that the character of the writing in this note does not confirm the opinion hitherto held that the Royal Academy cartoon was the one described by Vasari, but, on the contrary, supports the hypothesis put forward by Mr. Marks.] Notes on pupils (1458-1468.) 1458. Giacomo came to live with me on St.-Mary Magdalen's[Footnote: _Il di della Maddalena._ July 22.] day, 1490, aged 10 years. The second day I had two shirts cut out for him, a pair of hose, and a jerkin, and when I put aside some money to pay for these things he stole 4 _lire_ the money out of the purse; and I could never make him confess, though I was quite certain of the fact.--Thief, liar, obstinate, glutton. The day after, I went to sup with Giacomo Andrea, and the said Giacomo supped for two and did mischief for four; for he brake 3 cruets, spilled the wine, and after this came to sup where I .... Item: on the 7th day of September he stole a silver point of the value of 22 soldi from Marco[Footnote 6: _Marco_, probably Leonardo's pupil Marco d'Oggionno; 1470 is supposed to be the date of his birth and 1540 of his death. _Che stava con meco._ We may infer from this that he left the master shortly after this, his term of study having perhaps expired.] who was living with me, 4 _lire_ this being of silver; and he took it from his studio, and when the said Marco had searched for it a long while he found it hidden in the said Giacomo's box 4 _lire_. Item: on the 26th January following, I, being in the house of Messer Galeazzo da San Severino [Footnote 9: Galeazzo. See No. 718 note.], was arranging the festival for his jousting, and certain footmen having undressed to try on some costumes of wild men for the said festival, Giacomo went to the purse of one of them which lay on the bed with other clothes, 2 lire 4 S, and took out such money as was in it. Item: when I was in the same house, Maestro Agostino da Pavia gave to me a Turkish hide to have (2 lire.) a pair of short boots made of it; this Giacomo stole it of me within a month and sold it to a cobbler for 20 soldi, with which money, by his own confession, he bought anise comfits. Item: again, on the 2nd April, Giovan Antonio [Footnote 16: Giovan Antonio, probably Beltraffio, 1467 to 1516.] having left a silver point on a drawing of his, Giacomo stole it, and this was of the value of 24 soldi (1 lira 4 S.) The first year- A cloak, 2 lire, 6 shirts, 4 lire, 3 jerkins, 6 lire, 4 pairs of hose, 7 lire 8 soldi, 1 lined doublet, 5 lire, 24 pairs of shoes, 6 lire 5 soldi, A cap, 1 lira, laces, 1 lira. [Footnote: Leonardo here gives a detailed account not only of the loss he and others incurred through Giacomo but of the wild tricks of the youth, and we may therefore assume that the note was not made merely as a record for his own use, but as a report to be forwarded to the lad's father or other responsible guardian.] 1459. On the last day but one of September; Thursday the 27th day of September Maestro Tommaso came back and worked for himself until the last day but one of February. On the 18th day of March, 1493, Giulio, a German, came to live with me,--Lucia, Piero, Leonardo. On the 6th day of October. 1460. 1493. On the 1st day of November we settled accounts. Giulio had to pay 4 months; and Maestro Tommaso 9 months; Maestro Tommaso afterwards made 6 candlesticks, 10 days' work; Giulio some fire-tongs 15 days work. Then he worked for himself till the 27th May, and worked for me at a lever till the 18th July; then for himself till the 7th of August, and for one day, on the fifteenth, for a lady. Then again for me at 2 locks until the 20th of August. 1461. On the 23rd day of August, 12 lire from Pulisona. On the 14th of March 1494, Galeazzo came to live with me, agreeing to pay 5 lire a month for his cost paying on the l4th day of each month. His father gave me 2 Rhenish florins. On the l4th of July, I had from Galeazzo 2 Rhenish florins. 1462. On the 15th day of September Giulio began the lock of my studio 1494. 1463. Saturday morning the 3rd of August 1504 Jacopo the German came to live with me in the house, and agreed with me that I should charge him a carlino a day. 1464. 1511. On the 26th of September Antonio broke his leg; he must rest 40 days. [Footnote: This note refers possibly to Beltraffio.] 1465. I left Milan for Rome on the 24th day of September, 1513, with Giovanni [Footnote 2: _Giovan;_ it is not likely that Leonardo should have called Giovan' Antonio Beltraffio at one time Giovanni, as in this note and another time Antonio, as in No. 1464 while in No. 1458 l. 16 we find _Giovan'Antonio_, and in No. 1436, l.6 _Beltraffio_. Possibly the Giovanni here spoken of is Leonardo's less known pupil Giovan Pietrino (see No. 1467, 5).], Francesco di Melzi [Footnote 2,3: _Francesco de' Melzi_ is often mentioned, see Nos. 1350.], Salai [Footnote 3: _Salai_. See No. 1519 note.], Lorenzo and il Fanfoia. [Footnote 4: _Lorenzo_. See No. 1351, l. 10 (p. 408). Amoretti gives the following note in _Mem. Stor. XXIII:_ 1505. _Martedi--sera a di 14 d'aprile. Venne Lorenzo a stare con mecho: disse essere d'eta d'anni 17 .. a di 15 del detto aprile ebbi scudi 25 d'oro dal chamerlingo di Santa Maria nuova._ This, he asserts is derived from a MS. marked S, in quarto. This MS. seems to have vanished and left no trace behind; Amoretti himself had not seen it, but copied from a selection of extracts made by Oltrocchi before the Leonardo MSS. were conveyed to Paris on the responsibility of the first French Republic. Lorenzo, by this, must have been born in 1487. The sculptor Lorenzetto was born in 1490. Amoretti has been led by the above passage to make the following absurd observations: _Cotesto Lorenzo, che poi gli fu sempre compagno, almeno sin che stette in Italia, sarebb' egli Lorenzo Lotto bergamasco? Sappiamo essere stato questo valente dipintore uno de'bravi scolari del Vinci_ (?). _Il Fafoia_, perhaps a nickname. Cesare da Sesto, Leonardo's pupil, seems to have been in Rome in these years, as we learn from a drawing by him in the Louvre. 1466. On the 3rd day of January. Benedetto came on the 17th of October; he stayed with me two months and 13 days of last year, in which time he earned 38 lire, 18 soldi and 8 dinari; he had of this 26 lire and 8 soldi, and there remains to be paid for the past year 12 lire 10 soldi. Giodatti (?) came on the 8th day of September, at 4 soldi a month, and stayed with me 3 months and 24 days, and earned 59 lire 14 soldi and 8 dinari; he has had 43 lire, 4 soldi, there remains to pay 16 lire, 10 soldi and 8 dinari. Benedetto, 24 grossoni. [Footnote: This seems to be an account for two assistants. The name of the second is scarcely legible. The year is not given. The note is nevertheless of chronological value. The first line tells us the date when the note was registered, January 3d, and the observations that follow refer to events of the previous month 'of last year' _(dell'anno passato)_. Leonardo cannot therefore have written thus in Florence where the year was, at that period, calculated as beginning in the month of March (see Vol. I, No. 4, note 2). He must then have been in Milan. What is more important is that we thus learn how to date the beginning of the year in all the notes written at Milan. This clears up Uzielli's doubts: _A Milano facevasi cominciar l'anno ab incarnatione, cioe il 25 Marzo e a nativitate, cioe il 25 Decembre. Ci sembra probabile che Leonardo dovesse prescegliere lo stile che era in uso a Firenze._ (_Ricerche_, p. 84, note.)] 1467. Gian Maria 4, Benedetto 4, Gian Pietro [5] 3, Salai 3, Bartolomeo 3, Gherardo 4. 1468. Salai, 20 lire, Bonifacio, 2 lire, Bartolomeo, 4 lire, Arrigo [Harry], 15 lire. Quotations and notes on books and authors (1469-1508). 1469. Book on Arithmetic [Footnote 1: _"La nobel opera de arithmethica ne la qual se tracta tute cosse amercantia pertinente facta & compilata per Piero borgi da Veniesia", in-40. In fine: "Nela inclita cita di Venetia a corni. 2 augusto. 1484. fu imposto fine ala presente opera." Segn. a--p. quaderni. V'ha pero un' altra opera simile di Filippo Calandro, 1491. E da consultarsi su quest' ultimo, Federici: Memorie Trevigiane, Fiore di virtu: pag. 73. "Libricciuolo composto di bello stile verso il 1320 e piu volte impresso nel secolo XV (ristampato poi anche piu tardi). Gli accademici della Crusca lo ammettono nella serie dei testi di lingua. Vedasi Gamba, Razzolini, Panzer, Brunet, Lechi, ecc._ (G. D'A.)], 'Flowers of Virtue', Pliny [Footnote 2: _"Historia naturale di C. Plinio Secondo, tradocta di lingua latina in fiorentina per Christophoro Laudino & Opus Nicolai Jansonis gallici imp. anno salutis M.CCCC.LXXVI. Venetiis" in-fol.--Diogene Laertio. Incomincia: "El libro de la vita de philosophi etc.: Impressum Venetiis" per Bernardinum Celerium de Luere, 1480", in-40_ (G. D'A.).], 'Lives of the Philosophers', The Bible [Footnote 3: _"La Bibia volgare historiata (per Nicolo di Mallermi) Venecia ... M.CCCC.LXXI in kalende di Augusto (per Vindelino de Spira)" 2 vol. in-fol. a 2 col. di 50 lin,; od altra ediz. della stessa versione del Mallermi, Venetia 1471, e sempre: "Venecia per Gabriel de Piero 1477," in-fol.; 2 vol.; Ottavio Scotto da Modoetia 1481," "Venetia 1487 per Joan Rosso Vercellese," "1490 Giovanni Ragazo di Monteferato a instantia di Luchanthonio di Giunta, ecc."--Lapidario Teofrasto? Mandebille: "Le grand lapidaire," versione italiana ms.?... Giorgio Agricola non puo essere, perche nato nel 1494, forse Alberto Magno: de mineralibus. Potrebbe essere una traduzione del poema latino (Liber lapidum seu de gemmis) di Marbordio Veterio di Rennes (morto nel 1123 da lui stesso tradotto in francese dal greco di Evao re d'Arabia celebre medico che l'aveva composto per l'imperatore Tiberio. Marbodio scrisse il suo prima per Filippo Augusto re di Francia. Vi sono anche traduzioni in prosa. "Il lapidario o la forza e la virtu delle pietre preziose, delle Erbe e degli Animali."_ (G. D'A.)], 'Lapidary', 'On warfare' [Footnote 4: _Il Vegezio? ... Il Frontino? ... Il Cornazzano?... Noi crediamo piuttosto il Valturio. Questo libro doveva essere uno de'favoriti di Leonardo poiche libro di scienza e d'arte nel tempo stesso._], 'Epistles of Filelfo', [Footnote: The late Marchese Girolamo d'Adda published a highly valuable and interesting disquisition on this passage under the title: _Leonardo da Vinci e la sua Libreria, note di un bibliofilo (Milano 1873. Ed. di soli 75 esemplari_; privately printed). In the autumn of 1880 the Marchese d'Adda showed me a considerable mass of additional notes prepared for a second edition. This, as he then intended, was to come out after the publication of this work of mine. After the much regretted death of the elder Marchese, his son, the Marchese Gioachino d'Adda was so liberal as to place these MS. materials at my disposal for the present work, through the kind intervention of Signor Gustavo Frizzoni. The following passages, with the initials G. d'A. are prints from the valuable notes in that publication, the MS. additions I have marked. I did not however think myself justified in reproducing here the acute and interesting observations on the contents of most of the rare books here enumerated.] [Footnote: 1467. 5. See No. 1465, 2.] The first decade, [5] 'On the preservation of health', The third decade, [6] Ciecho d'Ascoli, The fourth decade, [7] Albertus Magnus, Guido, [8] New treatise on rhetorics, Piero Crescentio, [9] Cibaldone, 'Quadriregio', [10] Aesop, Donato, [Footnote 11: "_Donatus latine & italice: Impressum Venetiis impensis Johannis Baptistae de Sessa anno_ 1499, _in_-4°".-- "_El Psalterio de David in lingua volgare (da Malermi Venetia nel M.CCCC.LXXVI,_" in-fol. s. n._ (G. D'A.)] Psalms, Justinus, [Footnote 12: Compare No. 1210, 48.--_La versione di Girolamo Squarzafico:_ "_Il libro di Justino posto diligentemente in materna lingua. Venetia ale spesse (sic) di Johane de Colonia & Johane Gheretze_ ... l477," _in-fol._--"_Marsilii Ficini, Theologia platonica, sive de animarum immortalitate, Florentine, per Ant. Misconimum_ 1482," _in-fol., ovvero qualche versione italiana di questo stesso libro, ms._ (G. D'A.)] 'On the immortality of the soul, Guido [Footnote 13: _Forse_ "_la Historia Trojana Guidonis_" _od il _"_manipulus_" _di_ "_Guido da Monterocherii_"_ ma piu probabilmente _"_Guido d'Arezzo_"_ il di cui libro: _"_Micrologus, seu disciplina artis musicae_"_ poteva da Leonardo aversi ms.; di questi ne esistono in molto biblioteche, e fu poi impresso nel 1784 dal Gerbert._ _Molte sono le edizione dei sonetti di Burchiello Fiorentino, impresse nel secolo XV. La prima e piu rara e recercata:_ "_Incominciano li sonetti, ecc. (per Christoforo Arnaldo)_"_, in_-4° _senza numeri, richiami o segnature, del_ 1475, _e fors' anche del_ 1472, _secondo Morelli e Dibdin, ecc._ (G. D'A.)] Burchiello, 'Doctrinale' [Footnote 14: _Versione italiana det "Doctrinal de Sapience" di Guy de Roy, e foris'anche l'originale in lingua francese.--_ _Di Pulci Luigi, benche nell' edizione:_ "_Florentiae_ 1479" _in_-4° si dica: _"_Il Driadeo composto in rima octava per Lucio Pulcro_"_ Altre ediz, del secolo XV, _"_Florentie Miscomini_ 1481, _in_-40, _Firenze, apud S. Jacob, de Ripoli,_ 1483,_" _in_-4° _e "Antoni de Francesco,_ 1487," _in_-4° _e Francesco di Jacopo_ 1489,_in_-4° _ed altre ancora di Venezia e senza alcuna nota ecc._ (G. D'A.)] Driadeo, Morgante [Footnote 15: _Una delle edizioni del Morgante impresse nel secolo XV, ecc.--_ _Quale delle opere di Francesco Petrarca, sarebbe malagevole l'indovinare, ma probabilmente il Canzoniere._ (G. D'A.)] Petrarch. John de Mandeville [Footnote 16: _Sono i viaggi del cavaliere_ "_Mandeville_" _gentiluomo inglese. Scrisse il suo libro in lingua francese. Fu stampato replicatamente nel secolo XV in francese, in inglese ed in italiano ed in tedesco; del secolo XV ne annoverano forse piu di 27 edizioni, di cui ne conosciamo_ 8 _in francese, quattro in latino, sei in tedesco e molte altre in volgare._ (G. D'A.)] 'On honest recreation' [Footnote 17: _Il Platina (Bartolomeo Sacchi) la versione italiana_ "_de la honesta voluptate, & valetudine (& de li obsonnii) Venetia (senza nome di tipografo)_ 1487," _piccolo in_-4° _gotico._ (G. D'A.)--Compare No. 844, 21.] Manganello, [Footnote 18: _Il Manganello: Satira eccessivamente vivace contro le donne ad imitazione della Sesta di Giovenale. Manganello non e soltanto il titolo del libricino, sua ben anche il nome dell'autore ch'era un_ "_milanese_". _Di questo libercolo rarissimo, che sembra impresso a Venezia dallo Zoppino (Nicolo d'Aristotile detto il), senza data, ma dei primissimi anni del secolo XVI, e forse piu antico, come vedremo in appresso, non se ne conoscono fra biblioteche pubbliche e private che due soli esemplari in Europa._ (G. D'A.)] The Chronicle of Isidoro, [Footnote 19: "_Cronica desidero_", _sembra si deggia leggere piuttosto_ "_cronico disidoro_"_; ed in questo caso s'intenderebbe la_ "_cronica d'Isidoro_" _tanto in voga a quel tempo_ "_Comenza la Cronica di Sancto Isidoro menore con alchune additione cavate del testo & istorie de la Bibia & del libro di Paulo Oroso .... Impresso in Ascoli in casa del reverendo misser Pascale ..... per mano di Guglielmo de Linis de Alamania M.CCCC.LXXVII_" _in_-4° _di_ 157 _ff. E il primo libro impresso ad Ascoli e l'edizione principe di questa cronica in oggi assai rara. Non lo e meno l'edizione di Cividal del Friuli_, 1480, _e quella ben anche di Aquila_, 1482, _sempre in-_4°. _Vedasi Panzer, Hain, Brunet e P. Dechamps._ (G. D'A.)] The Epistles of Ovid, [Footnote 20: "_Le pistole di Ovidio tradotte in prosa. Napoli Sixt. Riessinger_", _in_-4°, _oppure:_ "_Epistole volgarizzate_ 1489," _in_-4° _a due col._ "_impresse ne la cita (sic) di Bressa per pre: Baptista de Farfengo,_" _(in ottave) o:_ "_El libro dele Epistole di Ovidio in rima volgare per messere Dominico de Monticelli toschano. Brescia Farfengo_," _in_-4° _got. (in rima volgare)_, 1491, _ed anche la versione di Luca Pulci. Firenze, Mischomini_, 1481, _in_-4°. (G. D'A.) ] Epistles of Filelfo, [Footnote 21: See l. 4.] Sphere, [Footnote 22: "_Jo: de Sacrobusto_," _o_ "_Goro Dati_," _o_ "_Tolosano da Colle_" _di cui molteplici edizioni del secolo XV._ (G. D'A.)] The Jests of Poggio, [Footnote 23: _Tre edizioni delle facezie del Poggio abbiamo in lingua italiana della fine del secolo XV, tutte senza data. "Facetie de Poggio fiorentino traducte de latino in vulgare ornatissimo," in-40, segn. a--e in caratteri romani; l'altra: "Facetie traducte de latino in vulgare," in-40, caratteri gotici, ecc._ (G. D'A.)] Chiromancy, [Footnote 24: "_Die Kunst Cyromantia etc, in tedesco. 26 ff. di testo e figure il tutte eseguito su tavole di legno verso la fine del secolo XV da Giorgio Schapff". Dibdin, Heinecken, Sotheby e Chatto ne diedero una lunga descrizione; i primi tre accompagnati da fac-simili. La data 1448 che si legge alla fine del titolo si riferisce al periodo della composizione del testo, non a quello della stampa del volume benche tabellario. Altri molti libri di Chiromanzia si conoscono di quel tempo e sarebbe opera vana il citarli tutti._ (G. D'A.)] Formulary of letters, [Footnote 25: _Miniatore Bartolomeo. "Formulario de epistole vulgare missive e responsive, & altri fiori de ornali parlamenti al principe Hercule d'Esti ecc. composto ecc. Bologna per Ugo di Rugerii," in-40, del secolo XV. Altra edizione di "Venetia Bernardino di Novara, 1487" e "Milano per Joanne Angelo Scinzenzeler 1500," in-40._ (G. D'A.) Five books out of this list are noted by Leonardo in another MS. (Tr. 3): _donato, -- lapidario, -- plinio, -- abacho, -- morgante._] 1470. Nonius Marcellus, Festus Pompeius, Marcus Varro. [Footnote: Nonius Marcellus and Sextus Pompeius Festus were Roman grammarians of about the fourth century A. D. Early publications of the works of Marcellus are: _De proprietate sermonis, Romae_ (about 1470), and 1471 (place of publication unknown). _Compendiosa doctrina, ad filium, de proprietate sermonum._ Venice, 1476. BRUNET, _Manuel du libraire_ (IV, p. 97) notes: _Le texte de cet ancien grammairien a ete reimprime plusieurs fois a la fin du XVe siecle, avec ceux de Pomponius Festus et de Terentius Varro. La plus ancienne edition qui reunisse ces trois auteurs est celle de Parme, 1480 ... Celles de Venise, 1483, 1490, 1498, et de Milan, 1500, toutes in-fol., ont peu de valeur._] 1471. Map of Elephanta in India which Antonello Merciaio has from maestro Maffeo;--there for seven years the earth rises and for seven years it sinks;--Enquire at the stationers about Vitruvius. 1472. See 'On Ships' Messer Battista, and Frontinus 'On Acqueducts' [Footnote 2: 2. _Vitruvius de Arch., et Frontinus de Aquedoctibus._ Florence, 1513.--This is the earliest edition of Frontinus.--The note referring to this author thus suggests a solution of the problem of the date of the Leicester Manuscript.]. [Footnote: Compare No. 1113, 25.] 1473. Anaxagoras: Every thing proceeds from every thing, and every thing becomes every thing, and every thing can be turned into every thing else, because that which exists in the elements is composed of those elements. 1474. The Archimedes belonging to the Bishop of Padua. [Footnote: See No. 1421, 1. 3, 6 and Vol. I, No. 343.] 1475. Archimedes gave the quadrature of a polygonal figure, but not of the circle. Hence Archimedes never squared any figure with curved sides. He squared the circle minus the smallest portion that the intellect can conceive, that is the smallest point visible. [Footnote: Compare No. 1504.] 1476. If any man could have discovered the utmost powers of the cannon, in all its various forms and have given such a secret to the Romans, with what rapidity would they have conquered every country and have vanquished every army, and what reward could have been great enough for such a service! Archimedes indeed, although he had greatly damaged the Romans in the siege of Syracuse, nevertheless did not fail of being offered great rewards from these very Romans; and when Syracuse was taken, diligent search was made for Archimedes; and he being found dead greater lamentation was made for him by the Senate and people of Rome than if they had lost all their army; and they did not fail to honour him with burial and with a statue. At their head was Marcus Marcellus. And after the second destruction of Syracuse, the sepulchre of Archimedes was found again by Cato[25], in the ruins of a temple. So Cato had the temple restored and the sepulchre he so highly honoured.... Whence it is written that Cato said that he was not so proud of any thing he had done as of having paid such honour to Archimedes. [Footnote: Where Leonardo found the statement that Cato had found and restored the tomb of Archimedes, I do not know. It is a merit that Cicero claims as his own (Tusc. V, 23) and certainly with a full right to it. None of Archimedes' biographers --not even the diligent Mazzucchelli, mentions any version in which Cato is named. It is evidently a slip of the memory on Leonardo's part. Besides, according to the passage in Cicero, the grave was not found _'nelle ruine d'un tempio'_--which is highly improbable as relating to a Greek--but in an open spot (H. MULLER-STRUBING).--See too, as to Archimedes, No. 1417. Leonardo says somewhere in MS. C.A.: _Architronito e una macchina di fino rame, invenzlon d' Archimede_ (see _'Saggio'_, p. 20).] 1477. Aristotle, Book 3 of the Physics, and Albertus Magnus, and Thomas Aquinas and the others on the rebound of bodies, in the 7th on Physics, on heaven and earth. 1478. Aristotle says that if a force can move a body a given distance in a given time, the same force will move half the same body twice as far in the same time. 1479. Aristotle in Book 3 of the Ethics: Man merits praise or blame solely in such matters as lie within his option to do or not to do. 1480. Aristotle says that every body tends to maintain its nature. 1481. On the increase of the Nile, a small book by Aristotle. [Footnote: _De inundatione Nili_, is quoted here and by others as a work of Aristotle. The Greek original is lost, but a Latin version of the beginning exists (Arist. Opp. IV p. 213 ed. Did. Par.). In his quotations from Aristotle Leonardo possibly refers to one of the following editions: _Aristotelis libri IV de coelo et mundo; de anima libri III; libri VIII physi- corum; libri de generatione et corruptione; de sensu et sensato... omnia latine, interprete Averroe, Venetiis 1483_ (first Latin edition). There is also a separate edition of _Liber de coelo et mundo_, dated 1473.] 1482. Avicenna will have it that soul gives birth to soul as body to body, and each member to itself. [Footnote: Avicenna, see too No. 1421, 1. 2.] 1483. Avicenna on liquids. 1484. Roger Bacon, done in print. [Footnote: The earliest printed edition known to Brunet of the works of Roger Bacon, is a French translation, which appeared about fourty years after Leonardo's death.] 1485. Cleomedes the philosopher. [Footnote: Cleomede. A Greek mathematician of the IVth century B. C. We have a Cyclic theory of Meteorica by him. His works were not published before Leonardo's death.] 1486. CORNELIUS CELSUS. The highest good is wisdom, the chief evil is suffering in the body. Because, as we are composed of two things, that is soul and body, of which the first is the better, the body is the inferior; wisdom belongs to the better part, and the chief evil belongs to the worse part and is the worst of all. As the best thing of all in the soul is wisdom, so the worst in the body is suffering. Therefore just as bodily pain is the chief evil, wisdom is the chief good of the soul, that is with the wise man; and nothing else can be compared with it. [Footnote: _Aulus Cornelius Celsus_, a Roman physician, known as the Roman Hippocrates, probably contemporary with Augustus. Only his eight Books 'De Medicina', are preserved. The earliest editions are: _Cornelius Celsus, de medicina libr. VIII._, Milan 1481 Venice 1493 and 1497.] 1487. Demetrius was wont to say that there was no difference between the speech and words of the foolish and ignorant, and the noises and rumblings of the wind in an inflated stomach. Nor did he say so without reason, for he saw no difference between the parts whence the noise issued; whether their lower parts or their mouth, since one and the other were of equal use and importance. [Footnote: Compare Vol. I, No. 10.] 1488. Maestro Stefano Caponi, a physician, lives at the piscina, and has Euclid _De Ponderibus_. 1489. 5th Book of Euclid. First definition: a part is a quantity of less magnitude than the greater magnitude when the less is contained a certain number of times in the greater. A part properly speaking is that which may be multiplied, that is when, being multiplied by a certain number, it forms exactly the whole. A common aggregate part ... Second definition. A greater magnitude is said to be a multiple of a less, when the greater is measured by the less. By the first we define the lesser [magnitude] and by the second the greater is defined. A part is spoken 1490. of in relation to the whole; and all their relations lie between these two extremes, and are called multiples. 1491. Hippocrates says that the origin of men's sperm derives from the brain, and from the lungs and testicles of our parents, where the final decocture is made, and all the other limbs transmit their substance to this sperm by means of expiration, because there are no channels through which they might come to the sperm. [Footnote: The works of Hippocrates were printed first after Leonardo's death.] 1492. Lucretius in his third [book] 'De Rerum Natura'. The hands, nails and teeth were (165) the weapons of ancient man. They also use for a standard a bunch of grass tied to a pole (167). [Footnote: _Lucretius, de rerum natura libri VI_ were printed first about 1473, at Verona in 1486, at Brescia in 1495, at Venice in 1500 and in 1515, and at Florence in 1515. The numbers 165 and 167 noted by Leonardo at the end of the two passages seem to indicate pages, but if so, none of the editions just mentioned can here be meant, nor do these numbers refer to the verses in the poems of Lucretius.] 1493. Ammianus Marcellinus asserts that seven hundred thousand volumes of books were burnt in the siege of Alexandria in the time of Julius Cesar. [Footnote: _Ammiani Marcellini historiarum libri qui extant XIII_, published at Rome in 1474.] 1494. Mondino says that the muscles which raise the toes are in the outward side of the thigh, and he adds that there are no muscles in the back [upper side] of the feet, because nature desired to make them light, so as to move with ease; and if they had been fleshy they would be heavier; and here experience shows ... [Footnote: _"Mundini anatomia. Mundinus, Anothomia (sic). Mundini praestantissimorum doctorum almi studii ticiensis (sic) cura diligentissime emendata. Impressa Papiae per magistrum Antonium de Carfano 1478," in-fol.; ristampata: "Bononiae Johan. de Noerdlingen, 1482," in-fol.; "Padova per Mattheum Cerdonis de Vuindischgretz, 1484," in-40; "Lipsia, 1493," in-40; "Venezia, 1494," in-40 e ivi "1498," con fig. Queste figure per altro non sono, come si e preteso, le prime che fossero introdotte in un trattato di Notamia. Nel 'fasciculus Medicinae' di Giovanni Ketham, che riproduce l''Anatomia' del Mundinus, impresso pure a Venezia da J. e G. de Gregoriis, 1491, in-fol., contengonsi intagli in legno (si vogliono disegnati non gia incisi da Andrea Mantegna) di grande dimensione, e che furono piu volte riprodotti negli anni successivi. Quest' edizione del "fasciculus" del 1491, sta fra nostri libri e potrebbe benissimo essere il volume d'Anatomia notato da Leonardo._ (G. D'A.)] 1495. Of the error of those who practice without knowledge;--[3] See first the 'Ars poetica' of Horace [5]. [Footnote: A 3-5 are written on the margin at the side of the title line of the text given, entire as No. 19] 1496. The heirs of Maestro Giovanni Ghiringallo have the works of Pelacano. 1497. The catapult, as we are told by Nonius and Pliny, is a machine devised by those &c. [Footnote: _Plinius_, see No. 946.] 1498. I have found in a history of the Spaniards that in their wars with the English Archimedes of Syracuse who at that time was living at the court of Ecliderides, King of the Cirodastri. And in maritime warfare he ordered that the ships should have tall masts, and that on their tops there should be a spar fixed [Footnote 6: Compare No. 1115.] of 40 feet long and one third of a foot thick. At one end of this was a small grappling iron and at the other a counterpoise; and there was also attached 12 feet of chain; and, at the end of this chain, as much rope as would reach from the chain to the base of the top, where it was fixed with a small rope; from this base it ran down to the bottom of the mast where a very strong spar was attached and to this was fastened the end of the rope. But to go on to the use of his machine; I say that below this grappling iron was a fire [Footnote 14: Compare No. 1128.] which, with tremendous noise, threw down its rays and a shower of burning pitch; which, pouring down on the [enemy's] top, compelled the men who were in it to abandon the top to which the grappling-iron had clung. This was hooked on to the edges of the top and then suddenly the cord attached at the base of the top to support the cord which went from the grappling iron, was cut, giving way and drawing in the enemy's ship; and if the anchor--was cast ... [Footnote: Archimedes never visited Spain, and the names here mentioned cannot be explained. Leonardo seems to quote here from a book, perhaps by some questionable mediaeval writer. Prof. C. Justi writes to me from Madrid, that Spanish savants have no knowledge of the sources from which this story may have been derived.] 1499. Theophrastus on the ebb and flow of the tide, and of eddies, and on water. [Footnote: The Greek philosophers had no opportunity to study the phenomenon of the ebb and flow of the tide and none of them wrote about it. The movement of the waters in the Euripus however was to a few of them a puzzling problem.] 1500. Tryphon of Alexandria, who spent his life at Apollonia, a city of Albania (163). [Footnote: Tryphon of Alexandria, a Greek Grammarian of the time of Augustus. His treatise TtaOY Aeijecu appeared first at Milan in 1476, in Constantin Laskaris's Greek Grammar.] 1501. Messer Vincenzio Aliprando, who lives near the Inn of the Bear, has Giacomo Andrea's Vitruvius. 1502. Vitruvius says that small models are of no avail for ascertaining the effects of large ones; and I here propose to prove that this conclusion is a false one. And chiefly by bringing forward the very same argument which led him to this conclusion; that is, by an experiment with an auger. For he proves that if a man, by a certain exertion of strength, makes a hole of a given diameter, and afterwards another hole of double the diameter, this cannot be made with only double the exertion of the man's strength, but needs much more. To this it may very well be answered that an auger 1503. of double the diameter cannot be moved by double the exertion, be- cause the superficies of a body of the same form but twice as large has four times the extent of the superficies of the smaller, as is shown in the two figures a and n. 1504. OF SQUARING THE CIRCLE, AND WHO IT WAS THAT FIRST DISCOVERED IT BY ACCIDENT. Vitruvius, measuring miles by means of the repeated revolutions of the wheels which move vehicles, extended over many Stadia the lines of the circumferences of the circles of these wheels. He became aware of them by the animals that moved the vehicles. But he did not discern that this was a means of finding a square equal to a circle. This was first done by Archimedes of Syracuse, who by multiplying the second diameter of a circle by half its circumference produced a rectangular quadrilateral equal figure to the circle [Footnote 10: Compare No. 1475.]. [Footnote: _Vitruvius_, see also Nos. 1113 and 343.] 1505. Virgil says that a blank shield is devoid of merit because among the people of Athens the true recognition confirmed by testimonies ... [Footnote: The end of the text cannot be deciphered.] 1506. In Vitolone there are 805 conclusions [problems] in perspective. [Footnote: _(Witelo, Vitellion, Vitellon) Vitellione. E da vedersi su questo ottico prospettico del secolo XIII Luca Pacioli, Paolo Lomazzo, Leonardo da Vinci, ecc. e fra i moderni il Graesse, il Libri, il Brunet, e le Memorie pubblicate dal principe Boncompagni, e 'Sur l' orthographe du nom et sur la patrie de Witelo (Vitellion) note de Maximilien Curtze, professeur a Thorn', ove sono descritti i molti codici esistenti nelle biblioteche d' Europa. Bernardino Baldi nelle sue 'Vite de'matematici', manoscritto presso il principe Boncompagni, ha una biografia del Vitellione. Questo scritto del Baldi reca la data 25 agosto 1588. Discorsero poi di lui Federigo Risnerio e Giovanni di Monteregio nella prefazione dell' Alfagrano, Giovanni Boteone, Girolamo Cardano, 'De subtilitate', che nota gli errori di Vitellione. Visse, secondo il Baldi, intorno all' anno 1269, ma secondo il Reinoldo fioriva nel 1299, avendo dedicata la sua opera ad un frate Guglielmo di Monteca, che visse di que' tempi. Intorno ad un manoscritto dell' ottica di Vitellione, citato da Luca Pacioli v'ha un secondo esemplare del Kurlz, con aggiunte del principe Boncompagni, e le illustrazioni del cav. Enrico Narducci. Nel 'Catalogo di manoscritti' posseduti da D. Baldassare de' principi Boncompagni, compilato da esso Narducci, Roma, 1862, sotto al n. 358, troviamo citato: Vitellio, 'Perspectiva', manoscritto del secolo XIV. La 'Prospettiva di Vitelleone' (sic) Thuringo-poloni e citata due volte da Paolo Lomazzo nel Trattato dell' arte della pittura. Vitellio o Vitello o Witelo. Il suo libro fu impresso in foglio a Norimberga nel 1535; la secondo edizione e del 1551, sempre di Norimberga, ed una terza di Basilea, 1572._ (See _Indagini Storiche ... sulla Libreria-Visconteo-Sforzesca del Castello di Pavia ... per cura di_ G. D'A., _Milano 1879. P. I. Appendice p. 113. 114)._] 1507. Vitolone, at Saint Mark's. [Footnote: _Altro codice di cotesta 'Prospettiva' del Vitolone troviamo notato nel 'Canone bibliographico di Nicolo V', conservato alla, Magliabecchiana, in copia dell' originale verosimilmente inviato dal Parentucelli a Cosimo de' Medici (Magliab. cod. segn. 1 VII, 30 carte da 193 a 198). Proviene dal Convento di San Marco e lo aveva trascritto frate Leonardo Scruberti fiorentino, dell' ordine dei predicatori che fu anche bibliotecario della Medicea pubblica in San Marco_ (See _Indagini Storiche ... per cura di_ G. D'A. _Parte I, p. 97)._] 1508. How this proposition of Xenophon is false. If you take away unequal quantities from unequal quantities, but in the same proportion, &c. [Footnote: Xenophon's works were published several times during Leonardo's lifetime.] Inventories and accounts (1509--1545). 1509. On the 28th day of April I received from the Marchesino 103 lire and 12 dinari. [Footnote: Instead of the indication of the year there is a blank space after _d'aprile_.--Marchesino Stange was one of Lodovico il Moro's officials.--Compare No. 1388.] 1510. On the 10th day of July 1492 in 135 Rhenish florins 1. 445 in dinari of 6 soldi 1. 112 S 16 in dinari of 5 1/2 soldi 1. 29 S 13 9 in gold and 3 scudi 1. 53 ----------------------------- 1. 811 in all 1511. On the first day of February, lire 1200. 1512. The hall towards the court is 126 paces long and 27 braccia wide. 1513. The narrow cornice above the hall lire 30. The cornice beneath that, being one for each picture, lire 7, and for the cost of blue, gold, white, plaster, indigo and glue 3 lire; time 3 days. The pictures below these mouldings with their pilasters, 12 lire each. I calculate the cost for smalt, blue and gold and other colours at 1 1/2 lire. The days I calculate at 3, for the invention of the composition, pilasters and other things. 1514. Item for each vault 7 lire outlay for blue and gold 3 1/2 time, 4 days for the windows 1 1/2 The cornice below the windows 16 soldi per braccio item for 24 pictures of Roman history 14 lire each The philosophers 10 lire the pilasters, one ounce of blue 10 soldi for gold 15 soldi Total 2 and 1/2 lire. 1515. The cornice above lire 30 The cornice below lire 7 The compositions, one with another lire 13 1516. Salai, 6 lire ... 4 soldi ... 10 soldi for a chain;-- On the l4th of March I had 13 lire S. 4; 16 lire remain. 1517. How many braccia high is the level of the walls?-- 123 braccia How large is the hall? How large is the garland? 30 ducats. On the 29th day of January, 1494 cloth for hose lire 4 S 3 lining S 16 making S 8 to Salai S 3 a jasper ring S 13 a sparkling stone S 11 to Caterina S 10 to Caterina S 10 1518. The wheel lire 7 the tire lire 10 the shield lire 4 the cushion lire 8 the ends of the axle-tree lire 2 bed and frame lire 30 conduit lire 10 S.K.M.II.2 4a] 1519. Parsley 10 parts mint 1 part thyme 1 part Vinegar ... and a little salt two pieces of canvas for Salai. [Footnote: This note, of about the year 1494, is the earliest mention of Salai, and the last is of the year 1513 (see No. 1465, 3). From the various notes in the MSS. he seems to have been Leonardo's assistant and keeper only, and scarcely himself a painter. At any rate no signed or otherwise authenticated picture by him is known to exist. Vasari speaks somewhat doubtfully on this point.] 1520. On Tuesday I bought wine for morning [drinking]; on Friday the 4th day of September the same. [Footnote: This note enables us to fix the date of the Manuscript, in which it is to be found. In 1495 the 4th of September fell on a Friday; the contents of the Manuscript do not permit us to assign it to a much earlier or later date (Compare No. 1522, and Note).] 1521. The cistern ... at the Hospital, --2 ducats, --beans, --white maize, --red maize, --millet, --buckwheat, --kidney beans, --beans, --peas. 1522. EXPENSES OF THE INTERMENT OF CATERINA. For the 3 lbs of tapers 27 S For the bier 8 S A pall over the bier 12 S For bearing and placing the cross 4 S For bearing the body 8 S For 4 priests and 4 clerks 20 S Bell, book and sponge 2 S For the gravediggers 16 S To the senior 8 S For a license from the authorities 1 S 106 S The doctor 2 S Sugar and candles 12 S 120 S [Footnote: See Nos. 1384 and 1517.] 1523. Salai's cloak, the 4th of April 1497. 4 braccia of silver cloth l. 15 S 4 green velvet to trim it l. 9 S -- binding l.-- S 9 loops l.-- S 12 the making l. 1 S 5 binding for the front l.-- S 5 stitching _________ here are 13 grossoni of his l. 26 S 5 Salai stole the soldi. 1524. On Monday I bought 4 braccia of cloth lire 13 S 14 1/2 on the 17th of, October 1497. 1525. Memorandum. That on the 8th day of April 1503, I, Leonardo da Vinci, lent to Vante, miniature painter 4 gold ducats, in gold. Salai carried them to him and gave them into his own hand, and he said he would repay within the space of 40 days. Memorandum. That on the same day I paid to Salai 3 gold ducats which he said he wanted for a pair of rose-coloured hose with their trimming; and there remain 9 ducats due to him--excepting that he owes me 20 ducats, that is 17 I lent him at Milan, and 3 at Venice. Memorandum. That I gave Salai 21 braccia of cloth to make a shirt, at 10 soldi the braccio, which I gave him on the 20th day of April 1503. [Footnote: With regard to Vante or Attavante, the miniature painter (not Nanni as I formerly deciphered this name, which is difficult to read; see _Zeitschrift fur Bild. Kunst_, 1879, p. 155), and Vasari, Lives of Frate Giovanni da Fiesole, of Bartolommeo della Gatta, and of Gherardo, _miniatore._ He, like Leonardo, was one of the committee of artists who, in 1503, considered the erection and placing of Michel Angelo's David. The date of his death is not known; he was of the same age as Leonardo. Further details will be found in '_Notizie di Attavante miniatore, e di alcuni suoi lavori_' (Milanese's ed. of Vasari, III, 231-235).] 1526. On the morning of San Peter's day, June 29th, 1504, I took io ducats, of which I gave one to Tommaso my servant to spend. On Monday morning 1 florin to Salai to spend on the house. On Thursday I took 1 florin for my own spending. Wednesday evening 1 florin to Tommaso, before supper. Saturday morning 1 florin to Tommaso. Monday morning 1 florin less 10 soldi. Thursday to Salai 1 florin less 10 soldi. For a jerkin, 1 florin. For a jerkin And a cap 2 florins. To the hosier, 1 florin. To Salai, 1 florin. Friday morning, the 19th of July, 1 florin, less 6 soldi. I have 7 fl. left, and 22 in the box. Tuesday, the 23th day of July, 1 florin to Tommaso. Monday morning, to Tommaso 1 florin. [Wednesday morning 1 fl. to Tommaso.] Thursday morning the 1st day of August 1 fl. to Tommaso. Sunday, the 4th of August, 1 florin. Friday, the 9th day of August 1504, I took 10 ducats out of the box. 1527. 1504. On the 9th day of August, 1504, I took 10 florins in gold[2] ... [3] on Friday the 9th day of August fifteen grossoni that is fl. 5 S 5 ... given to me 1 florin in gold on the 12th day of August [4] ... on the 14th of August, 32 grossoni to Tommaso. On the 18th of the same 5 grossoni to Salai. On the 8th of September 6 grossoni to the workman to spend; that is on the day of our Lady's birth. On the 16th day of September I gave 4 grossoni to Tommaso: on a Sunday. [Footnote: In the original, the passage given as No. 1463 is written between lines 2 and 3 of this text, and it is possible that the entries in lines 3 and 4 refer to the payments of Jacopo Tedesco, who is there mentioned. The first words of these lines are very illegible.] [Footnote 7: _Al fattore._ Il Fattore, was, as is well known, the nick-name of Giovanni Franceso Penni, born in Florence in 1486, and subsequently a pupil of Raphael's. According to Vasari he was known by it even as a boy. Whether he is spoken of in this passage, or whether the word Fattore should be translated literally, I will not undertake to decide. The latter seems to me more probably right.] 1528. On the day of October, 1508, I had 30 scudi; 13 I lent to Salai to make up his sister's dowry, and 17 I have left. 1529. Memorandum of the money I have had from the King as my salary from July 1508 till April next 1509. First 100 scudi, then 70, then 50, then 20 and then 200 florins at 48 soldi the florin. [Footnote: Compare No. 1350 and 1561.] 1530. Saturday the 2nd day of March I had from Santa Maria Novella 5 gold ducats, leaving 450. Of these I gave 2 the same day to Salai, who had lent them to me. [Footnote: See '_Conto corrente di Leonardo da Vinci con lo Spedale di S. Maria Nuova_' [1500 a 1507, 1513-1520] published by G. UZIELLI, _Ricerche intorno a Leonardo da Vinci, Firenze,_ 1872, pp. 164, 165, 218 and 219. The date here given by Leonardo does not occur in either of the accounts.] 1531. Thursday, the eighth day of June, I took 17 grossoni, 18 soldi; on the same Thursday in the morning I gave to Salai 22 soldi for the expenses. 1532. To Salai 4 grossoni, and for one braccio of velvet, 5 lire, and 1/2; viz. 10 soldi for loops of silver; Salai 14 soldi for binding, the making of the cloak 25 soldi. [Footnote: Compare No. 1523.] 1533. I gave to Salai 93 lire 6 soldi, of which I have had 67 lire and there remain 26 lire 6 soldi. 1534. To Salai S 42 2 dozen of laces S 8 for papers S 3 d 8 a pair of shoes S 14 for velvet S 14 a sword and knife S 21 to the barber S 11 to Paolo for a ... S 20 For having his fortune told S 6 1535. On Friday morning, one florin to Salai to spend; 3 soldi received bread S.. d wine S.. d grapes S.. d mushrooms S.. d fruit S.. d [Footnote 6: Compare Nos. 1545, l. 4 and 5, with similar entries for horse's fodder.] bran S.. d at the barber's S.. d for shoes S.. d 1536. On Thursday morning one florin. 1537. On Saint Ambrose's day from the morning to Thursday 36 soldi. 1538. The moneys I have had from Ser Matteo; first 20 grassoni, then on 13 occasions 3 f. and then 61 grassoni, then 3, and then 33; 46 soldi 12 grossoni. 1539. For paper S 18 for canvas S 30 for paper S 10 d 19 Total S 73 1540. 20 pounds of German blue, at one ducat the pound lire 80 S d 60 pounds of white, S.. the pound lire 15 S d 1 1/2 pound at 4 S the pound lire 6 S d 2 pounds of cinnabar at S 18 the pound lire 1 S 16 d 6 pounds of green at S 12 the pound lire 3 S 12 d 4 pounds of yellow at S 12 the pound lire 2 S 8 d 1 pound of minium at S 8 the pound lire 0 S 8 d 4 pounds of ... at S 2 the pound lire 0 S 8 d 6 pounds of ochre at S 1 the pound lire 0 S 6 d black ... at S 2 the pound for 20 lire 2 S 0 d wax to make the stars 29 pounds at S--the pound lire 0 S 0 d 40 pounds of oil for painting at 5 soldi the pound lire 10 S 0 d Altogether lire 120 d 18 without the gold. 18 tin for putting on the gold 120 18 58 1541. Two large hatchets and one very small one, 8 brass spoons, 4 tablecloths, 2 towels, 15 small napkins, 2 coarse napkins, 2 coarse cloths, 2 wrappers, 3 pairs of sheets, 2 pairs new and 1 old. 1542. Bed 7 0 S ring 7 0 crockery 2 5 gardener 1 2 ..... 2 8 porters 2 1 glasses 1 fuel 3 6 a lock 1 Section title: Miscellaneous Notes. 1543. New tin-ware 3 pairs of sheets 6 small bowls, each of 4 breadths, 6 bowls, 2 small sheets, 2 large dishes, 2 tablecloths and 1/2, 2 dishes medium size, 16 coarse cloths, 2 small ones 8 shirts, Old tin-ware 9 napkins, 3 small bowls, 2 hand-towels. 4 bowls, 3 square stones, 2 small bowls, 1 large bowl, 1 platter, 4 candlesticks, 1 small candlestick. 1544. Hose S 40 straw S 60 wheat S 42 wine S 54 bread S 18 meat S 54 eggs S 5 salad S 3 the Barber S 2 d 6 horses S 1 1545. Sunday meat S 10 d wine S 12 d bran S 5 d 4 herbs S 10 d buttermilk S 4 d 4 melon S 3 d bread S 3 d 1 ____________________ Monday S 9 8 ____________________ ..... S 6 d wine S 12 d bran S 9 d 4 buttermilk S 4 d 4 herbs S 8 d ____________________ Tuesday S d _____________________ meat S 0 d 8 wine S 12 d bread S 3 d meal S 5 d 4 herbs S 8 d _____________________ Wednesday _____________________ wine S 5 d melon S 2 d meal S 5 d 4 vegetables S 8 Notes by unknown persons among the MSS. (1546-1565). 1546. Miseracione divina sacro sancte Romane ecclesie tituli n cardinalis 2wulgariter nuncupatus venerabili religioso fratri Johanni Mair d'Nustorf 3ordinis praedicatorum provintie teutonie (?) conventus Wiennensis capellano 4 nostro commensali salutem in dno sempiternam Religione zelus rite ac in [ferite?] 5honestas aliarumque laudabilium probitatis et virtutum merita quibus apud nos fide 6digno commendationis testimonio Magistri videlicet ordinis felicis recordacionis Leonardi de 7Mansuetis de Perusio sigillo suo ... us dans tibi ad ... opera virtutum comen(salem)? 8 locum et tempus success(ores) cujus similiter officium ministratus qui praedecessoris sui donum (?) 9confirmavit et de novo dedit aliorumque plurima [laudatis] qui opera tua laudant 10nos inducunt ut tibi (?) reddamus ad gratiam liberalem hinc est quod nos cupientes. [Footnote: The meaning of this document, which is very difficult to decipher, and is written in unintelligible Latin, is, that Leonardo di Mansuetis recommends the Rev. Mair of Nusdorf, chaplain at Vienna, to some third person; and says also that something, which had to be proved, has been proved. The rest of the passages on the same leaf are undoubtedly in Leonardo's hand. (Nos. 483, 661, 519, 578, 392, 582, 887 and 894.)] 1547. Johannes Antonius di Johannes Ambrosius de Bolate. He who lets time pass and does not grow in virtue, the more I think of it the more I grieve. No man has it in him to be virtuous who will give up honour for gain. Good fortune is valueless to him who knows not toil. The man becomes happy who follows Christ. There is no perfect gift without great suffering. Our glories and our triumphs pass away. Foul lust, and dreams, and luxury, and sloth have banished every virtue from the world; so that our Nature, wandering and perplexed, has almost lost the old and better track. Henceforth it were well to rouse thyself from sleep. The master said that lying in down will not bring thee to Fame; nor staying beneath the quilts. He who, without Fame, burns his life to waste, leaves no more vestige of himself on earth than wind-blown smoke, or the foam upon the sea. [Footnote: From the last sentence we may infer that this text is by the hand of a pupil of Leonardo's.-- On the same sheet are the notes Nos.1175 and 715 in Leonardo's own handwriting.] 1548. On the morning of Santo Zanobio the 29th of May 1504, I had from Lionardo Vinci 15 gold ducats and began to spend them. to Mona Margarita S 62 d 4 to remake the ring S 19 d 8 clothes S 13 good beef S 4 eggs S 6 debt at the bank S 7 velvet S 12 wine S 6 d 4 meat S 4 mulberries S 2 d 4 mushrooms S 3 d 4 salad S 1 fruit S 1 d 4 candles S 3 ... S 1 flour S 2 Sunday 198 8 bread S 6 wine S 9 d 4 meat S 7 soup S 2 fruit S 3 d 4 candles S 3 d Monday 31 bread S 6 d 4 meat S 10 d 8 wine S 9 d 4 fruit S 4 soup S 1 d 8 32 1549. Tuesday bread S 6 meat S 11 wine S 7 fruit S 9 soup S 2 salad S 1 [Footnote 1548 and 1549: On the same sheet is the text No. 1015 in Leonardo's own handwriting.] 1550. To Monna Margarita S 5 to Tomaso S 14 to Monna Margarita d 5 S 2 on the day of San Zanobi left ... after payment d 13 S 2 d 4 of Monna Margarita altogether d 14 S 5 d 4 1551. On Monday, the l3th of February, I lent lire S 7 to Lionardo to spend, Friday d 7. [Footnote: This note is followed by an account very like the one given as No. 1549.] 1552. Stephano Chigi, Canonico ..., servant of the honorable Count Grimani at S. Apostoli. [Footnote: Compare No. 674, 21-23.] 1553. Having become anxious ... Bernardo di Simone, Silvestro di Stefano, Bernardo di Jacopo, Francesco di Matteo Bonciani, Antonio di Giovanni Ruberti, Antonio da Pistoia.... Antonio; He who has time and waits for time, will lose his friends and his money. 1554. Reverend Maestro, Domino Giovanni, I spoke to Maestro Zacaria as a brother about this business, and I made him satisfied with the arrangement that I had wished; that is, as regards the commission that I had from the parties and I say that between us there is no need to pay money down, as regard the pictures of the ... 1555. Of things seen through a mist that which is nearest its farthest limit will be least visible, and all the more so as they are more remote. 1556. Theodoricus Rex Semper Augustus. 1557. Either you say Hesperia alone, and it will mean Italy, or you add ultima, and it will mean Spain. Umbria, part of Tuscany. [Footnote: The notes in Greek, Nos. 1557, 1558 and 1562 stand in close connection with each other, but the meaning of some words is very doubtful, and a translation is thus rendered impossible.] 1558. [Footnote: Greek Characters] 1559. Canonica of ... on the 5th of July 1507; my dearly beloved mother, sisters and cousin I herewith inform you that thanks to God I am ... about the sword which I ... bring it to Maso at the piazza ... and I will settle the business of Piero so that ... [Footnote: AMORETTI, _Mem. Stor. XXIV_, quotes the first three lines of this letter as by Leonardo. The character of the writing however does not favour this hypothesis, and still less the contents. I should regard it rather a rough draft of a letter by young Melzi. I have not succeeded in deciphering completely the 13 lines of this text. Amoretti reads at the beginning _Canonica di Vaprio_, but _Vaprio_ seems to me a very doubtful reading.] 1560. Ut bene respondet Naturae ars docta! dedisset Vincius, ut tribuit cetera - sic animam - Noluit ut similis magis haec foret: altera sic est: Possidet illius Maurus amans animam. [Footnote: These three epigrams on the portrait of Lucrezia Crivelli, a picture by Leonardo which must have been lost at a very early date, seem to have been dedicated to Leonardo by the poet. Leonardo used the reverse of the sheet for notes on geometry.] Hujus quam cernis nomen Lucretia, Divi Omnia cui larga contribuere manu. Rara huic forma data est; pinxit Leonardos, amavit Maurus, pictorum primus hic, ille ducum. Naturam, ac superas hac laesit imagine Divas Pictor: tantum hominis posse manum haec doluit, Illae longa dari tam magnae tempera formae, Quae spatio fuerat deperitura brevi. 1561. Egidius Romanus on the formation of the human body in the mother's womb [Footnote 1: _Liber magistri Egidii de pulsibus matrice conipositus (cum commentario Gentilis de Fulgineo)_ published in 1484 at Padova, in 1494 and in 1514 at Venice, and in 1505 at Lyons.]. [Footnote 2:2. This text appears to be in a handwriting different from that in the note, l. 1. Here the reading is not so simple as AMORETTI gave it, _Mem. Star. XXV: A Monsieur Lyonard Peintre du Roy pour Amboyse_. He says too that this address is of the year 1509, and Mr. Ravaisson remarks: "_De cette suscription il semble qu'on peut inferer que Leonard etait alors en France, a la cour de Louis XII ... Pour conclure je crois qu'il n'est pas prouve que Leonard de Vinci n'ait pas fait un voyage de quelques mois en France sous Louis XII, entre le printemps de 1509 et l'automne de_ 1510."--I must confess that I myself have not succeeded in deciphering completely this French writing of which two words remain to me doubtful. But so much seems to be quite evident that this is not an address of a letter at all, but a certificate or note. _Amboise_[l. 6] I believe to be the signature of Charles d'Amboise the Governor of Milan. If this explanation is the right one, it can be easily explained by the contents of Nos. 1350 and 1529. The note, line 1, was perhaps added later by another hand; and Leonardo himself wrote afterwards on the same sheet some geometrical explanations. I must also point out that the statement that this sheet belongs to the year 1509 has absolutely no foundation in fact. There is no clue whatever for giving a precise date to this note.] To Monsieur le Vinci,--the horses of the king's equerry.... Continue the payment to Ms. Lyonard, Painter to the King. [6] Amboise. 1562. [Footnote: Greek Characters] 1563. Memorandum to Maestro Lionardo to have ... the state of Florence. 1564. To remind your Excellency that Ridolfo Manini brought to Florence a quantity of crystal besides other stones such as are ... 1565. XVI C. 6 de Ciuitate Dei, se Antipodes. [Footnote: A facsimile of this note, which refers to a well known book by St. Augustin, is given on page 254.] 1566. Leonardo's Will. Be it known to all persons, present and to come that at the court of our Lord the King at Amboise before ourselves in person, Messer Leonardo da Vinci painter to the King, at present staying at the place known as Cloux near Amboise, duly considering the certainty of death and the uncertainty of its time, has acknowledged and declared in the said court and before us that he has made, according to the tenor of these presents, his testament and the declaration of his last will, as follows. And first he commends his soul to our Lord, Almighty God, and to the Glorious Virgin Mary, and to our lord Saint Michael, to all the blessed Angels and Saints male and female in Paradise. Item. The said Testator desires to be buried within the church of Saint Florentin at Amboise, and that his body shall be borne thither by the chaplains of the church. Item. That his body may be followed from the said place to the said church of Saint Florentin by the _collegium_ of the said church, that is to say by the rector and the prior, or by their vicars and chaplains of the church of Saint Denis of Amboise, also the lesser friars of the place, and before his body shall be carried to the said church this Testator desires, that in the said church of Saint Florentin three grand masses shall be celebrated by the deacon and sub-deacon and that on the day when these three high masses are celebrated, thirty low masses shall also be performed at Saint Gregoire. Item. That in the said church of Saint Denis similar services shall be performed, as above. Item. That the same shall be done in the church of the said friars and lesser brethren. Item. The aforesaid Testator gives and bequeaths to Messer Francesco da Melzo, nobleman, of Milan, in remuneration for services and favours done to him in the past, each [Footnote: See page 420.] and all of the books the Testator is at present possessed of, and the instruments and portraits appertaining to his art and calling as a painter. Item. The same Testator gives and bequeaths henceforth for ever to Battista de Vilanis his servant one half, that is the moity, of his garden which is outside the walls of Milan, and the other half of the same garden to Salai his servant; in which garden aforesaid Salai has built and constructed a house which shall be and remain henceforth in all perpetuity the property of the said Salai, his heirs and successors; and this is in remuneration for the good and kind services which the said de Vilanis and Salai, his servants have done him in past times until now. Item. The said Testator gives to Maturina his waiting woman a cloak of good black cloth lined with fur, a ... of cloth and two ducats paid once only; and this likewise is in remuneration for good service rendered to him in past times by the said Maturina. Item. He desires that at his funeral sixty tapers shall be carried which shall be borne by sixty poor men, to whom shall be given money for carrying them; at the discretion of the said Melzo, and these tapers shall be distributed among the four above mentioned churches. Item. The said Testator gives to each of the said churches ten lbs. of wax in thick tapers, which shall be placed in the said churches to be used on the day when those said services are celebrated. Item. That alms shall be given to the poor of the Hotel-Dieu, to the poor of Saint Lazare d'Amboise and, to that end, there shall be given and paid to the treasurers of that same fraternity the sum and amount of seventy soldi of Tours. Item. The said Testator gives and bequeaths to the said Messer Francesco Melzo, being present and agreeing, the remainder of his pension and the sums of money which are owing to him from the past time till the day of his death by the receiver or treasurer-general M. Johan Sapin, and each and every sum of money that he has already received from the aforesaid Sapin of his said pension, and in case he should die before the said Melzo and not otherwise; which moneys are at present in the possession of the said Testator in the said place called Cloux, as he says. And he likewise gives and bequeaths to the said Melzo all and each of his clothes which he at present possesses at the said place of Cloux, and all in remuneration for the good and kind services done by him in past times till now, as well as in payment for the trouble and annoyance he may incur with regard to the execution of this present testament, which however, shall all be at the expense of the said Testator. And he orders and desires that the sum of four hundred scudi del Sole, which he has deposited in the hands of the treasurer of Santa Maria Nuova in the city of Florence, may be given to his brothers now living in Florence with all the interest and usufruct that may have accrued up to the present time, and be due from the aforesaid treasurer to the aforesaid Testator on account of the said four hundred crowns, since they were given and consigned by the Testator to the said treasurers. Item. He desires and orders that the said Messer Francesco de Melzo shall be and remain the sole and only executor of the said will of the said Testator; and that the said testament shall be executed in its full and complete meaning and according to that which is here narrated and said, to have, hold, keep and observe, the said Messer Leonardo da Vinci, constituted Testator, has obliged and obliges by these presents the said his heirs and successors with all his goods moveable and immoveable present and to come, and has renounced and expressly renounces by these presents all and each of the things which to that are contrary. Given at the said place of Cloux in the presence of Magister Spirito Fieri vicar, of the church of Saint Denis at Amboise, of M. Guglielmo Croysant priest and chaplain, of Magister Cipriane Fulchin, Brother Francesco de Corion, and of Francesco da Milano, a brother of the Convent of the Minorites at Amboise, witnesses summoned and required to that end by the indictment of the said court in the presence of the aforesaid M. Francesco de Melze who accepting and agreeing to the same has promised by his faith and his oath which he has administered to us personally and has sworn to us never to do nor say nor act in any way to the contrary. And it is sealed by his request with the royal seal apposed to legal contracts at Amboise, and in token of good faith. Given on the XXIIIrd day of April MDXVIII, before Easter. And on the XXIIIrd day of this month of April MDXVIII, in the presence of M. Guglielmo Borian, Royal notary in the court of the bailiwick of Amboise, the aforesaid M. Leonardo de Vinci gave and bequeathed, by his last will and testament, as aforesaid, to the said M. Baptista de Vilanis, being present and agreeing, the right of water which the King Louis XII, of pious memory lately deceased gave to this same de Vinci, the stream of the canal of Santo Cristoforo in the duchy of Milan, to belong to the said Vilanis for ever in such wise and manner that the said gentleman made him this gift in the presence of M. Francesco da Melzo, gentleman, of Milan and in mine. And on the aforesaid day in the said month of April in the said year MDXVIII the same M. Leonardo de Vinci by his last will and testament gave to the aforesaid M. Baptista de Vilanis, being present and agreeing, each and all of the articles of furniture and utensils of his house at present at the said place of Cloux, in the event of the said de Vilanis surviving the aforesaid M. Leonardo de Vinci, in the presence of the said M. Francesco Melzo and of me Notary &c. Borean. 
47902	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 47902-h.htm or 47902-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47902/47902-h/47902-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47902/47902-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/forerunnerdavinci00mererich Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). A carat character is used to denote superscription. A single character following the carat is superscripted (example: 12^o). Small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text. THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI The Forerunner * * * * * By DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI THE DEATH OF THE GODS. Authorized English Version by HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o $1.50 THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI: THE FORERUNNER. (The Resurrection of the Gods.) Authorized English Version edited by HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o $1.50 THE ANTI-CHRIST. (Peter the Great and Alexis.) Translated by HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o (_In Press._) TOLSTOI AS MAN AND ARTIST, With an Essay on Dostoievski. Authorized English Version. G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London * * * * * [Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI AFTER THE PORTRAIT IN THE UFFIZI GALLERY, FLORENCE] Christ and Anti-Christ THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI The Forerunner by DIMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI Author of "The Death of the Gods." Exclusively Authorised Translation from the Russian of "The Resurrection of the Gods." By Herbert Trench G.P. Putnam's Sons New York and London 1904 This Romance is the Second of the historical Trilogy, of which the first volume, dealing with the times of the Emperor Julian, was the _Death of the Gods_. The present story of the Italian Renaissance has been published in Russia as _The Resurrection of the Gods_; in France under the title, _The Romance of Leonardo da Vinci_. This translation is direct from the Russian, and is the only one in the English language which is or will be authorised by the Author. Published, July, 1902 Reprinted, October, 1902; February, 1903; July, 1904 ST. PETERSBOURG, 3, ix, 1901. À Monsieur Herbert Trench j'accorde l'autorisation _exclusive_ de traduire du Russe en Anglais mon livre _La Résurrection des Dieux_. DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI. CONTENTS PAGE BOOK I THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL--1494 3 BOOK II ECCE DEUS--ECCE HOMO--1494 36 BOOK III THE POISONED FRUITS--1494 57 BOOK IV THE WITCHES' SABBATH--1494 82 BOOK V THY WILL BE DONE--1494 104 BOOK VI THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO--1494-1495 129 BOOK VII THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES--1496 151 BOOK VIII THE AGE OF GOLD--1496-1497 172 BOOK IX THE SIMILITUDES--1498-1499 210 BOOK X CALM WATERS--1499-1500 260 BOOK XI THERE SHALL BE WINGS--1500 300 BOOK XII 'AUT CÆSAR AUT NIHIL'--1500-1503 320 BOOK XIII THE PURPLE BEAST--1503 361 BOOK XIV MONNA LISA GIOCONDA--1503-1506 385 BOOK XV THE HOLY INQUISITION--1506-1513 411 BOOK XVI LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, AND RAPHAEL--1513-1515 425 BOOK XVII DEATH--THE WINGED PRECURSOR--1516-1519 437 EPILOGUE 459 LEONARDO DA VINCI 'Sentio rediit ab inferis Julianus.' (I feel that Julian has risen again.)--PETRARCH. 'We see the encounter of vast contraries: Man-god against God-man--Apollo Belvedere against Christ.'--DOSTOIEVSKY. BOOK I THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL--1494 'At Siena was discovered another statue of Venus, to the huge joy of the inhabitants. A great concourse, with much feasting and honour, set it up over the fountain called "Il Fonte Gaja," as an adornment.... 'But great tribulation having come upon the land by reason of the Florentines, there arose one of the council, a citizen, and spake in this wise: "Fellow-citizens, since the finding of this figure we have had much evil hap, and if we consider how strictly idolatry is prohibited by our faith, what shall we think but that God hath sent us this adversity by reason of sin? I advise that we remove this image from the public square of the city, deface it, break it in pieces, and send it to be buried in the territory of the Florentines." 'All agreeing with this opinion, they confirmed it by a decree; and the thing was put into execution, and the statue was buried within our confines.' (_Notes of the Florentine sculptor, Lorenzo Ghiberti, XVth. century._) I In Florence the guild of dyers had their shops hard by the Canonica of Orsanmichele. The houses were disfigured by every sort of shed, outhouse, and projection on crooked wooden supports; tiled roofs leaned so close to each other as almost to shut out the sky, and the street was dark even in the glare of noon. In the doorways below, samples of foreign woollen-stuffs were suspended, sent to Florence to be dyed with litmus-lichen, with madder, or with woad steeped in a corrosive of Tuscan alum. The street was paved roughly, and in the kennel flowed many-coloured streams, oozings from the dye vats. Shields over the portals of the principal shops, or _Fondachi_ were blazoned with the arms of the Calimala (so the guild of dyers was named), 'on a field gules, an eagle or, upon a ball of wool argent.' Within one of these _Fondachi_, among huge account-books and piles of commercial documents, sat Messer Cipriano Buonaccorsi, a worthy Florentine merchant, and Master of the Noble Guild of the Calimala. It was a cold March evening, and damp exhaled from the choked and cumbered cellars; the old man was a-cold, and he drew his worn squirrel-mantle tightly round him. A goose-quill was stuck behind his ear, and with omniscient, though weak and myopic eyes, that seemed at once careless and attentive, he conned the parchment leaves of his ponderous ledger; debit to the left, credit to the right; divided by rectangular lines, and annotated in a round, even hand, unadorned by stops, or capitals, or Arabic numerals, which were considered frivolous innovations, impertinent in business-books. On the first page was inscribed in imposing characters: 'In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ and the most blessed Virgin Mary, this book is begun in the year of the Lord MCCCCLXXXXIV.' Having corrected an error in the number of bales received in pledge, and satisfied himself as to the latest entries of podded pepper, Mecca ginger, and bundles of cinnamon, Messer Cipriano leaned wearily against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and meditated upon an epistle he must indite for his emissary at the Wool Fair in Montpellier of France. Just then some one entered, and the old man raising his glance saw his _contadino_, Grillo, who rented from him certain vineyards and fields belonging to his mountain-villa of San Gervaso in the valley of the Mugnone. Grillo did obsequious reverence, tendering a basket of brown eggs, carefully packed, while at his belt clucked two fat chickens, their feet tied and their heads hanging. 'Ah, Grillo!' exclaimed Buonaccorsi, with his customary urbanity, 'has the Lord been gracious to you? Meseems, we have the spring season at last.' 'Messer Cipriano, to us old men even the spring brings no delight. Our old bones ache worse than before and cry louder for the grave. I have brought your worship eggs and young cockerels for Easter.' And he screwed up his greenish eyes, revealing innumerable small creases all round them, the effect of rude acquaintance with wind and sun. Buonaccorsi, having thanked him for the gift, turned to business. 'Well, have you the men ready at the farm? Can we get all done before day-break?' Grillo sighed prodigiously, and meditated, leaning heavily on his staff. 'All is ready, and there are men enough. But I ask you, Messer Cipriano, were it not better we waited a little?' 'Nay, old man, you have said yourself that we must not wait, lest the matter become known.' 'True. Yet the thing is terrible. It is sin. And the days now are holy-days, days of fasting; and our work is of another sort.' 'Well, I will take the sin on my own soul. Fear naught; I will not betray you. Only tell me--shall we find what we seek?' 'Why should we not? We have signs to guide us. Did not our fathers know of the hill behind the mill at the Humid Hollow? And at night there's the Jack o' Lantern over San Giovanni. That means lots of this rubbish all round. I have heard tell that not long ago, when they were digging in the vineyard at Marignola, they drew a whole devil from out the clay.' 'A devil? What manner of devil?' 'A bronze one with horns. He had hairy legs--goat's legs--with hoofs. And a face which laughs. And he dances on one leg and snaps his fingers. 'Twas very old; all green and crumbled.' 'What did they do with it?' 'They made it into a bell for the new chapel of San Michele.' Messer Cipriano was beside himself. 'Grillo, you should have told me of this before!' 'Your worship had gone to Siena.' 'You should have sent after me. I would have despatched some one--I would have come myself--I would have grudged no expense--I would have cast ten bells for them in its place. The idiots! To make a Dancing Faun--perhaps a real Scopas--into a bell!' 'Ay, they showed their folly. But, Messer Cipriano, be not wroth. They are punished: for since they hung that new bell the worms have eaten the apples, and the olives have failed. And the tone of the bell is bad.' 'How so?' 'That's not for me to say. It hasn't the proper note. It brings no joy to the Christian heart. Somehow it sounds unmeaning. 'Tis what one might expect: one can't get a Christian bell out of a dumb devil. Be it not spoke to anger your worship, but, Messer Cipriano, the good Father is right; of all this filth they dig up, no good is going to come. We must go to work with prudence and defend ourselves with the cross and with prayers; for the Devil is subtle and powerful and the son of a dog, and he creeps in at one ear and out at the other. We were led into temptation even by that stone arm which Zaccheo found at the Hill of the Mill. 'Twas the Evil One tempted us, and we came to harm by it. Lord defend us! 'Tis dreadful even to remember!' 'How got you it, Grillo?' 'The thing happened last autumn on the Eve of Martinmas. We were sitting us down to sup, and the good woman had put the porridge on the table, when my nephew Zaccheo came bursting in from his digging in the field on the Hill of the Mill. "Master! O master!" he cried, and his face was all drawn and changed, and his teeth chattered. "The Lord be with you, my son!" says I, and he went on: "O Lord, master! there's a corpse creeping out from under the pots! Go yourself, master, and see." So we crossed ourselves and we went. By this time 'twas dark, and the moon was getting up behind the trees. There was the old olive-stump, and beside it where the earth was dug was some shining thing. I stooped, and saw 'twas an arm, very white, and with round dainty fingers, like those of the city ladies. "Good Lord," thinks I, "what sort of devilment is this?" I let down the lantern into the hole, and that arm moved and signalled to me with its finger! That was more than I could bear, and I cried out, and my knees bent under me. But Monna Bonda, my grandame, whom they call a wise woman, and who has all her life in her though she be so old, chided me, saying, "Fool, what is it you fear? Do not your eyes tell you yon thing is neither of the living nor of the dead, but is a stone?" And she snatched at it and pulled it forth out of the earth. "Nay, grandame," I bade her, "let it be; touch it not; rather let me bury it lest mischief befall us." "Not so," quoth she; "but take we it to the church, and let the Father exorcise it." But she deceived me, for she brought it not to the priest, but hid it in the chimney-corner, where in her cot she keeps gear of all sorts--rags, unguents, and herbals, and spells. And when I made insistence, she insisted too and kept it. And from that day 'tis very certain the old beldame hath done cures of great marvel. Is it a toothache? she doth but touch the cheek with the idol and the swelling is gone. She salves fevers, colics, falling sickness. If a cow is in labour and cannot bring forth, Monna Bonda touches her with that same stone hand, and the cow lows, and there's the calf, kicking in the straw. The noise of these wonders has gone abroad, and the old woman has swelled her money-chest. But no good has come of it, for Don Faustino has not allowed me one day's peace. He speaks against me in his preaching, in church before them all. He calls me the son of perdition and the child of the Devil, and he declares he will tell of it to the bishop, and will deny me the Communion. The boys run after me in the street, and point and say, "There goes Grillo, the sorcerer, and his grandame is a witch, and they have sold themselves to the Evil One." Even in the night I get no rest. Meseems that stone hand rises up and lies softly on my neck, and then of a sudden takes me by the throat and would strangle me, till I essay to cry out, and cannot. "Bad jesting, this," I think to myself. So at last one morning, ere it was light, the old woman having gone forth to pick her herbs, I got up and broke open her cot, and found the thing, and brought it to you. Lotto, the rag-picker, would have given me ten _soldi_ for it, and of you I only had eight; but I am ready to sacrifice not only two _soldi_, but even my life for your worship. May the Lord give you His holy benediction, and to Madonna Angelica, and to your sons and your grandsons!' 'It seems, then, by what you tell me, Grillo,' said Messer Cipriano thoughtfully, 'that we shall have findings on that Hill of the Mill?' 'We are like enough to find,' said the old man with a profound sigh; 'only we may not tell Don Faustino. If he hear of it he will dress my head without a comb; and he can do your worship a mischief, too, for he can raise the people and not let you finish your work. Well, well--we must pray the Lord to show us mercy! But in the meanwhile, my honoured benefactor, do not abandon me, but say a word for me to the judge.' 'What? anent the strip of land the miller would take from you?' 'That is it, master. The miller is a cunning rascal, and he knows how to catch the devil by the tail. I, you see, gave a heifer to the judge; but the miller gave him a lined cow. I fear me the judge will decide for the miller, because the suit is not yet concluded, and already the cow has a fine bull-calf. I pr'ythee, speak for me--father that you are to me. This which we do on the Hill of the Mill, I do only for your kindness. There is no other I would have let bring such a sin upon my conscience.' 'Be at ease, Grillo. I will speak for you; the judge is my friend. Now take your steps to the kitchen, and eat and drink. To-night we will go together to San Gervaso.' The old man, with many reverences, went out, and Messer Cipriano betook himself to his little chamber near the storehouse. It was a museum of marbles and bronzes, hung on walls, arranged on benches. Medals and old coins were assorted on cloth-covered benches; and fragments of statues, not yet pieced together, were waiting in huge cases. Through his trade-agents in many countries he procured antiquities from all classic grounds; from Athens, Smyrna, Halicarnassus, Cyprus, Leucosia, Rhodes, from the remoter Egypt, from the heart of the Levant. The Master of the Guild of the Calimala glanced over his treasures, and then sank into profound consideration of customs-dues on the import of fleeces; and finally composed the letter to his factor at the Wool Fair in Montpellier. II Meantime, in the hinder-part of the warehouse, heaped with bales, and lighted only by the glimmer of a lamp before the image of the Madonna, three lads, Dolfo, Antonio, and Giovanni were gossiping together. Dolfo, Messer Buonaccorsi's clerk, a red-haired, snub-nosed, good-natured youth, was entering the number of ells of cloth which Antonio da Vinci, old for his years, with glassy eyes and thin, rough, black locks, was rapidly measuring with the Florentine measure, called a _canna_: Giovanni Boltraffio, a student of painting from Milan, a big boy of nineteen, but shy and awkward, with innocent, sad, grey eyes, and an irresolute expression, was sitting cross-legged on a made-up bale, and listening with all his ears. 'This is what we have come to,' cried Antonio excitedly; 'digging heathen gods out of the ground!' Then he added, dictating to Dolfo, 'of brown Scotch faced-cloth, 32 _braccia_,[1] 6 fingers, 8 nails.' Then, having folded the measured piece, he threw it into its place, and raising his finger with the gesture of a menacing prophet, in imitation of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, he cried, '_Gladius Dei super terram cito et velociter!_ In the island of Patmos San Giovanni had a vision: he saw the angel lay hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil, and bind him a thousand years, and cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more till the thousand years should be fulfilled. To-day Satan has been released from his prison; to-day the thousand years are at an end; the false gods, forerunners and followers of Antichrist, are creeping forth from under the seal of the angel back into the world for the temptation of men! Woe to those who live on the earth or on the sea!--Of thin, yellow, Brabant cloth, 17 _braccia_, 4 fingers, 9 nails!' [1] _Braccio_, a measure considerably less than a metre, still in use in Florence. 'How think you, then, Antonio?' asked Giovanni, with alarmed and eager interest; 'all these signs bear witness----' 'Ay, ay! You see, the hour has come. Not alone are they digging up the old gods, but they are creating new ones in their likeness. Painters and sculptors alike weary themselves in the service of Moloch--that is, the Devil. They turn the House of God into the temple of Satan; in the sacred pictures, under the guise of martyrs and saints, they paint the gods of uncleanness, and to these the people pray; in place of John the Baptist they give us Bacchus; for the holy Mother of God we get the shameless Venus. The pictures should be burned with fire, and their ashes strewn upon the wind!' Suppressed fire flashed from the dull, dark eyes of the zealous clerk; and Giovanni, not daring a retort, held his peace. His delicate, childlike eyebrows contracted under the stress of thought. At last, however, he said: 'Antonio, they tell me Messer Leonardo, your kinsman, takes scholars into his painting-room. I have long wished----' Antonio frowned and interrupted him. 'If you would lose your soul, Giovanni, then go to Messer Leonardo!' 'What? Why?' 'Though he be my near kinsman, and though he have lived twenty years longer than I, nevertheless in the Scripture it is written: "From an heretic, after the first and second admonition, turn thou away." Leonardo is a heretic and an infidel. His mind is darkened by Satanic pride; he seeks to penetrate into the mysteries of nature by steeping himself in mathematics and black magic.' Then, raising his eyes to heaven, he repeated from Savonarola's latest discourse: '"The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. We know them, these learned men; they all go to the house of the devil."' 'And have you heard, Antonio,' persisted Giovanni, still shyly, 'that Messer Leonardo is here in Florence? He has even now arrived from Milan.' 'For what purpose?' 'The duke has sent him to buy, if possible, pictures from the galleries of the late Lorenzo the Magnificent.' 'Well, if he be here, then here he is. 'Tis of no moment to me,' said Antonio, turning away; and he proceeded to measure a length of green cloth with his _canna_. From the church, bells rang out the call to vespers, and Dolfo stretched himself and clapped-to the ledger with an air of relief; for this day work was over, and the shops and the warehouses were shutting. Giovanni stepped into the street. A narrow strip of grey sky, faintly tinged with the roseate of evening, showed between the humid roofs: a fine rain fell through the windless air. Suddenly from a window in a neighbouring alley was wafted a song:-- 'O vaghe montanine pastorelle Donde venite si leggiadre e belle?' (O shepherd-girls so fair, Say from what mountain air Light-footed have ye strayed?) The voice was resonant and young: from the measured beat of the treadle Giovanni guessed at a loom, and at a girl singing as she threw the shuttle. He listened with vague enjoyment, and remembered that the spring had come, and felt his heart swelling with strange emotions of tenderness and melancholy. 'Nanna! Nanna! Where hast thou got to, thou little devil? What hath happened to thine ears? Haste thee! The vermicelli grows cold.' After which there was a swift clapping of wooden pattens across the floor, and then silence. Giovanni stood long, his eyes on the window, the gay song echoing in his ears like the far-off beatings of some shepherd's pipe-- 'O vaghe montanine pastorelle----' Then sighing softly to himself he entered the house of the Master of the Calimala, and mounting the winding stair, with its worm-eaten banisters, he presented himself in the great room, which served as a library, and in which, bending over a desk, was Giorgio Merula, the historiographer of the Court of the Duke of Milan. III Merula had come to Florence on a mission from his lord, to purchase rare books from the library of the great Lorenzo. He was lodged in the house of Buonaccorsi, as great an enthusiast as himself for the learning and the arts of the ancients. Journeying to Florence he had fallen into an acquaintance with Giovanni Boltraffio at a road-side inn, and under the pretext that he required an amanuensis, he had brought him in his company to Messer Cipriano's house. When Boltraffio entered, Merula was in the act of examining with reverent attention a much-worn volume, which had the appearance of a Missal or a Psaltery. He gingerly passed a damp sponge over the parchment--parchment of the most delicate kind, made from the skin of a still-born lamb; here and there he rubbed it with pumice-stone, smoothed it with the blade of a knife and with a polisher; then holding it up to the light, studied it afresh. 'Dainty darlings!' he murmured, sucking in his lips with delight; 'come forth to the light of heaven! Ah, how many and how beautiful ye are!' He raised his bald head from his work and showed a bloated, red-nosed countenance, mobile brows, and eyes small and colourless, but brimming with vivacity; poured wine into a cup beside him on the window-sill, drank it, coughed, and was returning to his work when he caught sight of Giovanni. 'Ha, little monk!' he called out merrily. 'You have been lacking to me: "Where can my little monk be gone?" quoth I. "Fallen in love, of a surety, with one of the fair maids of Florence." Fair enough, I warrant you, and falling in love is no sin. Nor have I been wasting my time neither. You never have seen such a pretty piece in your life. Will you have me show her to you? Not I; for you'll be whispering the thing to the four winds! And to think I bought her for a song from a Hebrew rag-vendor! Well, well, I suppose I must show you; you only!' And beckoning mysteriously he whispered, 'Come here with you--closer--here!' And he pointed to a page closely covered with the angular characters of ecclesiastical writing: praises of the Virgin, psalms, prayers, interspersed with huge musical notation. Then he opened the book at another page, and raised it to the light on a level with Giovanni's eyes; the boy noticed that where Merula had scraped away the ecclesiastical writing there emerged other characters--barely distinguishable--not letters, but the ghosts of letters, pallid, attenuated, faint, still lingering impressed upon the parchment. 'See you? See you?' cried Merula, triumphantly; 'is it not a darling? Did I not tell you, little brother, 'twas a pretty piece!' 'But what is it?' asked Giovanni, astounded. 'That's what I can't yet tell you. Fragments of an antique anthology; new riches it may be of the Hellenic muse. And, perchance, but for me they would never have come out into God's light--would have been entombed to the end of time under antiphons and psalms of penitence!' And Merula explained to his pupil how some Middle Age, monkish copyist, wishing to use the precious parchment, had expunged, as he thought, the old Pagan writing, and scrawled his pieties over it. As the old man spoke, the sun filled the room with its slowly dying, evening red; in this last radiance the shade of the antique letters, the ghost of the ancient writing, showed itself with redoubled clearness. 'You see! you see!' cried Merula in an ecstasy, 'The dead are rising from their age-long sepulchres! It is a hymn to the Olympian gods! Already you can decipher the first lines!' And translating from the Greek, he read:-- 'Glory to the gentle, the richly-crowned Dionysus, Glory to thee, far-darting Phoebus, silver-bowed, terrible, God of the flowing curls, slayer of the sons of Niobe----' And here is a hymn to that Venus, of whom you, little monk, have such a mighty dread:-- 'Glory to thee, golden-limbed mother, Aphrodite, Delight of the gods and of mortals.' But here the verses broke off, hidden under the pious over-writing. Giovanni lowered the book, and at once the traces of the old Greek letters grew faint and confused, sinking into the yellow smoothness of the parchment. Nothing was visible but the clear, black, greasy characters of the monkish scribe, the penitential psalm, and the huge square notes for the chant:-- 'Give ear to my prayer, O God, and hide not thyself from my supplication. My heart is sore pained within me, and the terrors of death are fallen upon me.' The roseate reflection faded away, and darkness filled the room. Merula poured wine from the earthen pitcher, drank, and offered it to his companion. 'To my health, boy. _Vinum super omnia bonum diligamus!_ You refuse? Well, well! as you will. I will drink for you. But what is ill with you, little monk? You are as green as if you were drowning. Has that bigot of an Antonio been scaring you with his prophesyings? Spit on them, Giovanni, spit on them! A pox upon all these croakings of ill-voiced ravens! Confess now, you have been with Antonio?' 'Ay.' 'And of what did he speak?' 'Of Antichrist, and of Messer Leonardo da Vinci.' 'So I thought! You have no speech but of Leonardo! Has he bewitched you, simpleton? Hear me now, lad; remove that folly out of your head, and content you as my secretary. I will show you the world; teach you grammar, law; make you an orator and a court poet. There's the road to riches and fame. Painting! what rubbish is that? Seneca called it a trade--no business for a free man. Turn your eyes upon the artists; are they not all ignorant, rude persons----' 'Nay, I have been told Messer Leonardo is a great scholar.' 'You tell me news. Where is his Latin, pr'ythee? He confounds Cicero and Quintilian, and has not even a smack of Greek about him. A scholar you call him, do you?' 'But,' urged Boltraffio, 'he has made wondrous machines; and his studies of the phenomena of nature----' 'Machines! pf--f! Studies of nature! How far is that going to take you? In my _Elegantiæ Linguæ Latinæ_ I have culled more than two thousand turns of speech; on my soul, new, and elegance itself. Would you know how much it cost me? But to apply wheels to machinery, and to watch the manner of the flying of birds and the sprouting of the grass in the fields--call you that learning? 'Tis the idleness, the vain toying of babes.' The old man paused: his face had grown stern. Then taking his young friend by the arm, he continued with gravity:-- 'Hearken, Giovanni; and what I say to you burn it deep into your mind. Our teachers are the Greeks and the Romans; they have done all that the mind of man can do upon this earth. For us there is nothing left but to follow in their footsteps: is it not written, "The disciple is not greater than his lord?"' He lifted his wine, and looking straight into Giovanni's eyes with malicious mirth, all his lines and wrinkles dissolving in one broad smile, he added:-- 'O youth! youth! I look upon you, little monk, and I envy you. You are a bud blowing in the spring, that is what you are. And you, simpleton, contemn women, and scorn wine, and would make of yourself a hermit and a recluse. For all that, you have a little devil there in your heart; oh, I read you well enough, my friend, through and through to your very soul! Some day that little devil will peep out; it is vain for you to deny it. However glum you may be, there are those who will be merry in your company. See, Giovanni, _carino_ you're this parchment--penitential psalms outside, and under them a hymn to Aphrodite!' 'Messer Giorgio,' said Giovanni, 'it grows dark; were it not well I brought the lights?' 'Why this haste, lad? It pleases me to converse in the twilight, and to recall my lost youth.' His tongue had grown stammering and his phrases less perspicuous. 'I know,' he muttered, 'that you are gazing at me, and thinking, "He is drunk, the old rascal, and talking his folly." Yet I have that here within me,' and he tapped his bald forehead complacently and nodded. 'I speak not for boasting,' he went on, 'but inquire of the scholars whether any have ever surpassed Merula in the elegance of his Latin. Who was it who discovered Martial? Who read the famed inscription on the gate of Tibur? That meant climbing till your head reeled, stones breaking from under your feet, as you clung to a bunch of twigs and thought to fall headlong. Whole days under the blazing sun, just to read and to copy those few ancient letters! And the peasant maids as they passed would cry to each other, "See yon fat quail up there seeking a nesting place!" And I would answer them with some gallantry, and when they had passed by would set me to my work again. Once, concealed under the ivy and the thorns, where the stones had fallen in ruin, I found these two sole words, "_Gloria Romanorum!_"' And as if listening to the echo of majestic utterance too long silenced, Merula repeated in low, awestruck tones, '"_Gloria Romanorum!_"'--Glory of the Romans!' But then, with an uncertain wave of the hand, he added, 'By my troth! 'tis something to remember, even though the past returns no more.' And raising his glass, he sang hoarsely the students' drinking-song:-- 'Not a single jot miss I, Not a single drop, Sir! All my life to the cask I go, And by the cask I'll stop, Sir. Wine I love and singing to 't, And the Latin Graces; If I drink my throat'll do 't Better than Horatius. Vintage spins our brains about _Dum vinum potamus_; Lads, to Bacchus let us shout, _Te Deum laudamus!_' He fell a-coughing and was unable to finish. By this time it was dark, and Giovanni could barely see his master's face. Outside it was still raining, and the swollen and frequent drops plashed noisily in the streaming courtyard below. 'Hear me, little monk,' stuttered Merula; 'what was it I was saying? My wife is a handsome woman--no--that wasn't it. Have patience. Yes, I have it now. You know the line: "_Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento_." Ah! they were the giants, the lords of the universe!' Here his voice shook, and Giovanni saw tears in his eyes. 'I repeat, giants. While to-day--it is a scandal to speak it! but let us take this duke of ours, Ludovico Il Moro, Duke of Milan. True it is I am paid by him, am writing his history, am a sort of Titus Livius, and am comparing the cowardly hare, the man of straw, to Pompey and to Cæsar; but in my soul, Giovanni, in my soul'--He stopped, and glanced at the door with the suspiciousness of a practised courtier; then bending closer to his companion, he whispered, 'In the soul of old Merula the love of liberty is not dead, and will never die. Repeat it not, but I tell you our times are evil, evil as never before. And the men! it sickens me to see them; rotten! mere clods of earth! And they curl up their noses, and think themselves as the ancients. I would fain know what they are so proud of. Hearken; an acquaintance of mine writes to me from Greece, that not many weeks ago in the island of Chios, the convent washer-women as they were beating the linen at dawn, found on the seashore--a god! a real ancient god; a Triton with his fishy-tail, and fins, and scales. The silly fools were affrighted and fled, thinking it the Devil. But when they saw him weak and old, and it would seem sick, lying on his belly on the sand, and warming his green scales in the sun, his hair grey, and his eyes dim as those of a sucking babe, then they took courage, the cowardly wretches! and came around him showering him with Christian prayers, and beat him to death like a dog; he, the ancient deity, last of the mighty gods of the ocean; it might be a scion of Poseidon himself!' And the old man shook his head sorrowfully, and maudlin tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of the sea-monster done to death by Christian laundresses. A servant entered bearing a candle, and closed the shutters; with the darkness the pagan phantoms shrank away and vanished. The pair were called to supper, but Merula was so heavy with wine that they had to carry him to bed. It was long before Boltraffio slept, and as he listened to the peaceful snores of Messer Giorgio, he thought, as usual, of Leonardo da Vinci. IV Giovanni had been sent to Florence by his uncle, Oswald Ingrim, the painter on glass (_magister a vitreis_), a German from Grätz, and pupil of Johann Kirchheim, the famous Strasburg master. He was to buy certain transparent and brilliant pigments which could be obtained only in the Tuscan city, and were required by Ingrim for his work in Milan Cathedral. The boy was the natural son of Reinold the lapidary, Oswald's brother, and had got the name of Boltraffio from his Lombard mother, whom Oswald asserted to be a shameless woman and the cause of his brother's ruin. Brought up by his crabbed uncle, Giovanni was a lonely and frightened child, reared on tales of unclean powers, demons, hags, sorcerers, and were-wolves. His special horror was a certain demon which, according to the North Italian tradition, appeared under the form of a woman, and was called the 'White She-devil,' or the 'Mother of the Snowy Eyebrow.' Yet even in his earliest infancy, when his uncle would silence his sobs with threats of the _Diavolessa bianca_, the child felt a curiosity mingling with his terror, a shrinking wish that some day he might meet the white one face to face, and behold her countenance with his own eyes. When the boy was grown, Ingrim handed him over as pupil to Fra Benedetto the sacred painter. This was a kind and simple-minded old man, who taught that the first step in beginning a picture was to invoke God Omnipotent and the beloved Virgin, St. Luke the first Christian painter, and all the saints in Paradise; the second to put on the cloak of charity, fear, patience, and obedience; the last, to temper his colours with yelk of egg, and the juice from young fig-branches mixed with wine, and to prepare his panels of old beechwood by rubbing them with the ashes of bones--if possible the wing bones of capons. His precepts were endless and minute: Giovanni soon learned the contemptuous phrase with which he dismissed the colour known as Dragon's Blood. 'Let it lie; 'twill bring you no credit,' and Giovanni surmised that the same words had been said by Fra Benedetto's teacher, and by the teacher of his teacher before him. Constant was the smile of quiet pride with which Benedetto initiated his pupil into the secrets of his art. For instance, in the painting of youthful faces the eggs of urban hens were essential: the rural hen laying an egg with a ruddy yelk only suited for the delineation of countenances wrinkled and swarthy. Notwithstanding these subtleties, Fra Benedetto was a painter simple and innocent as a child: he prepared himself for work by fast and vigil; each time he depicted the Crucifixion his face was bathed in tears. Giovanni loved his master, and had considered him the first of painters; this opinion had however been shaken of late. Fra Benedetto, expounding his one anatomical rule, viz., that the length of a man's body must be reckoned at eight faces and two-thirds, was used to add in the same perfunctory tone in which he spoke of Dragon's Blood: 'As for the bodies of women, we will not allude to them, for they have no proportions.' This dogma was as much an article of faith with him as these others: that all fish are dark-coloured above and bright below; or that men's ribs are fewer than women's by reason of God's method in the creation of Eve. For an allegorical representation of the elements, he drew a mole to signify earth; a fish, water; a salamander, fire; a chameleon, air; but, supposing the word 'chameleon' an augmentative of 'camel,' the simple monk showed the fluid element as a colossal camel, its jaws gaping alarmingly in its efforts to breathe. Nor were his remaining notions more accurate. Doubts therefore crept into Giovanni's mind, and a mutinous spirit, which Fra Benedetto called 'the devil of worldly knowledge.' When, shortly before his journey to Florence, the lad chanced to see certain drawings of Leonardo da Vinci's, his doubts grew with such rapidity that he was no longer able to stifle them. To-night, here in the Tuscan city, as he lay beside the peacefully-snoring Messer Giorgio, he turned all this over in his mind for the thousandth time; but the more he thought the more puzzled he became. Then he resolved to invoke celestial aid, and full of hope, raising his eyes to the impenetrable darkness of night, he prayed thus:-- 'Lord, help me and forsake me not. If Messer Leonardo be truly a godless man, in whose skill lieth temptation and sin, rid me of the thought of him; purge my mind of the memory of his drawings, and deliver me from evil. But if, while pleasing Thee and glorifying Thy name in the noble art of painting, it be yet possible to know all which is hidden from Fra Benedetto, and which I am so fain to learn (such as anatomy, perspective, and the laws of light and shade), then, O God, make strong my will, and lighten my eyes, that I may doubt no more; and permit that Messer Leonardo may receive me into his studio, and that Fra Benedetto may grant me his pardon, and may know that I am in nowise guilty in Thy sight.' After this fervent prayer, Giovanni felt a balsam descend upon his heart: little by little confusion came upon his thoughts; he fancied himself back with his uncle, the glass-worker, and listening to the hissing of the glass as the white-hot steel was plunged into it. He saw the twisting of the leaden ribbons, which form the frames for the several pieces of coloured glass: he heard the voice of Oswald commanding more notches at the edge of the lead for the fixing of the glass; then all vanished: he rolled to his other side and slept. And a vision came to him, which in after years he often recalled to mind. For he saw himself standing in the gloom of a vast cathedral, and before a many-coloured, Gothic window. On it was depicted the vintage of that mystic vine whereof the Saviour had said, 'My Father is the husbandman.' The naked body of the Crucified lay in the winepress, blood flowing from His wounds. Popes, cardinals, emperors were receiving it into vats and casks. The Apostles were throwing in grapes; St. Peter was treading them. In the background, prophets and patriarchs were trenching the vineyard and pruning the vines. A waggon was passing, drawn by the lion, the bull, and the eagle, driven by St. Matthew. Such painted allegories Giovanni had seen in his uncle's workshop; nowhere such colours, dark, yet with the gleam of jewels. Chiefly he marvelled at the crimson of the Saviour's blood. From the depths of the cathedral came the faint echoing of his favourite chant:-- 'O fior di castitate, Odorifero giglio Con gran suavitate Sei di color vermiglio.' But the song died away, the window glowed no longer, and the harsh voice of Antonio da Vinci shouted in his ear:-- 'Flee! Flee for your life! _She_ cometh!' Nor did he need to inquire who, for he knew the _Diavolessa bianca_ was behind him. A waft of icy air; and then a heavy hand, not human, had taken hold at his throat, and was choking him. He seemed to be dying, cried out, and awoke--to see Messer Giorgio standing by his side and dragging away the coverlet. 'Eh! pull yourself from your bed or they will depart without us. Arise! the hour is already past,' cried the antiquarian. 'What! Whither?' stammered Giovanni, half-asleep. 'Whither? Can you forget? To the villa of San Gervaso, to dig at the Hill of the Mill.' 'I go not thither.' 'You go not? What have I waked you for? Why have I bidden them saddle the black mule that the two of us may travel at ease? A truce to this stubbornness. Get up! Get up! Nay, then, a word in your ear, Giovannino: Messer Leonardo will be there.' Giovanni leaped to his feet, and without another word threw on his clothes. Presently they were in the courtyard, where all was ready for the start. Grillo was running hither and thither advising and directing. At last they set out. Other friends of Cipriano's, and among them Leonardo da Vinci, were to meet them later, by another path to San Gervaso. V The rain was over, and the north wind had banished the clouds. Stars scintillated in the moonless heaven, like little wind-blown lamps. Resin-torches flared and fluttered, scattering sparks. The horsemen took their way by the Via Ricasoli, past San Marco and the serrated gate of San Gallo. Here the sentinels argued and swore, but were too sleepy to perceive what was on foot; and presently egress was secured by a good bribe. Outside the gate, the road followed the deep and narrow valley of the Mugnone. After passing several meagre villages, where the streets were even narrower than those in Florence, and the rough stone houses were as tall as fortresses, the party emerged into an olive-grove owned by the _contadini_ of San Gervaso. Dismounting at the junction of two roads, they walked to the Hill of the Mill, hard by Messer Cipriano's vineyard. Here men awaited them with spades and mattocks; and here, behind the hill, beyond the marsh known as the Humid Hollow, the villa walls showed shadowy white through the darkness of the trees. Tall cypresses stood up black from the summit of the hill, and down below on the Mugnone was the name-giving watermill. Grillo signified where, to his thinking, they ought to dig; Merula suggested another place; and Strocco, the gardener, swore they must go lower down, much nearer to the Humid Hollow, because the devils always hide themselves nearest to the slough. Cipriano, however, bade dig where Grillo advised; the spades grated, and soon there was an odour of new-dug earth. Giovanni shuddered, for a bat had brushed his face with its weird pinions; but Merula clapped him on the shoulder, crying, 'Fear nothing, little monk! we shall find no devil here. This Grillo is an ass. Thank heaven, it's not the sort of excavation I'm used to. At Rome, in the 45th Olympiad' (Merula scorned the Christian calendar), 'in the days of Pope Innocent VIII., diggers from Lombardy, who were working on the Appian Way close to the tomb of Cæcilia Metella, found an ancient sarcophagus with the inscription, "Julia, daughter of Claudius," and in it a body clothed in wax--a fair maid of fifteen, with the semblance of one asleep. You would have sworn she breathed: the flush of life was on her cheek. Multitudes flocked to the tomb and refused to leave it; for such was Julia's beauty, as to be incredible to those who had not beheld it. But it ill-suited the Pope that his children should adore a dead heathen, and he caused the body to be interred secretly under the Pincian Hill. Do you take me, lad? That was something like excavating!' And Merula contemptuously kicked the clods which the diggers were throwing up at his feet. Suddenly all the onlookers started, for a jarring sound had come from one of the spades. 'Bones!' said the gardener; 'the ancient burying-place was here.' At this moment the long-drawn howl of a dog was heard from San Gervaso, and Giovanni thought, 'We are profaning a grave. May it prove nothing worse!' 'Bones of a horse!' cried Strocco contemptuously, and dragged out a mouldered, long-shaped skull. 'Grillo,' said Messer Cipriano anxiously, 'were it not better we tried elsewhere?' 'Did I not say so?' cried Merula; and taking two of the workmen with him he began new operations at the base of the hill. Strocco also had detached a party to dig in the Humid Hollow. Presently excited shouts were heard from Messer Giorgio. 'Hither all ye simpletons! Did not I know where ye should dig?' All ran to his side; but again the treasure proved naught; the great man's marble fragment was only an ordinary stone. They had all deserted Grillo, who, openly humiliated, was digging alone by the light of a broken lantern. The wind had fallen and the air grew warmer: out of the Humid Hollow exhaled a mist. The breath of primroses and violets mingled with the dankness of stagnant water. Dawn was in the sky, and the cocks crowed for the second time, signal of the departing of night. Suddenly from the depths of the pit in which Grillo was concealed there arose a despairing yell. 'Help! Help! I am falling! The ground has given way!' His lantern was extinguished, and at first nothing could be seen. He was heard struggling and panting, groaning and moaning. Lights were fetched, and disclosed the roof of a subterranean vault broken through by Grillo's weight. Two lads crept into the hole. 'Eh, Grillo! Where are you? Give us your hand! or are you buried alive, poor fool?' But Grillo seemed to have lost his voice. Heedless of a sprained arm, he dragged himself along, kicking and struggling most strangely. At last he burst into an ecstasy:-- 'An idol! An idol! Hasten, Messer Cipriano! 'tis a magnificent idol!' 'Idiot,' said Strocco, 'you have got the head of another horse.' 'I tell you, No! There is but a hand missing. The rest is perfect--feet, head, shoulders!' shouted Grillo beside himself. Then the labourers descended into the pit, carefully turning over the brickwork ruins. Giovanni, stretched on the ground, looked down into the vault, from which came the chill of a grave, and the mouldy breath of long-covered damp. Messer Cipriano bade the men stand aside, and Giovanni could see in the profundity between the walls of ancient red brick, a white and naked body which lay like a corpse upon a bier, yet in the flaring of the torchlight seemed rosy and warm with life. 'Venus!' cried Messer Giorgio: 'As I live, the Venus of Praxiteles! I cry you honour, friend Cipriano! Not the dukedoms of Milan or Genoa could bring you greater felicity!' As for Grillo, they dug him out; and though his face was clotted with blood, and his arm had swelled into uselessness, in his old eyes shone the pride of a conqueror. 'Grillo! friend! beloved! benefactor! And I scorned you for a fool: and you--you are the cleverest of men!' cried Messer Giorgio, and falling into his arms he kissed him with deep emotion. 'Once,' he continued garrulously, 'Filippo Brunelleschi found a Hermes in just such a vault under his own house. Doubtless the pagans, knowing the value of these statues, hid them from the fury of the Christians, who were exterminating the old worship.' Grillo listened, smiling beatifically, inattentive to the pipe of the shepherd and the bleating of sheep. He saw not that the sky shone now with a white and watery brilliance, nor knew that from Florence the belfries were exchanging their morning salutation. 'Gently! gently! To the right there! So! Keep it out from the wall!' cried Messer Cipriano. 'Five silver pieces to each, if you can get it out without breakage.' By this time the stars had all disappeared with the exception of the orb of Venus, which still sparkled like a diamond in the glow of day. And slowly, slowly, with her ineffable smile, the goddess herself arose--as once she had risen from the foam of the sea, so now she ascended from her millennial tomb in the darkness of the earth:-- 'Glory to thee, golden-limbed Aphrodite, Delight of the gods and of mortals ...' declaimed Merula. But Giovanni saw her face blanched in the illumination of the white sunlight; and himself paling with terror, the boy murmured, '_La Diavolessa bianca!_' He rose up and would have fled; but wonder overcame his fear. Not though he had known himself guilty of the mortal sin which is punished with eternal fire, could he have torn his gaze from that chaste and naked body, from that countenance flaming with the effulgence of beauty. Never in the days when Aphrodite was queen of the world had any worshipped her with devouter trembling. VI Suddenly from the little church of San Gervaso the bells rang out, and the whole company turned and involuntarily paused in their work, for in the morning stillness the sound seemed irate and menacing. 'Lord have mercy on our souls!' murmured Grillo, putting his hand to his head with a despairing gesture. 'Here is Don Faustino, and a multitude with him! They have seen us! Look how they beat their hands and beckon. See, they rush upon us! I am a lost man!' At this moment arrived those friends of Messer Cipriano's, who had intended to have been present for the excavation, but who had lost their way. Boltraffio threw a glance at them, and, absorbed though he still was in the new-found goddess, his attention was caught on the instant by one of the newcomers. This personage was already inspecting the Venus, with a cold, imperturbable composure, so different from Giovanni's personal agitation, that the lad could not but be struck with astonishment. He continued to gaze at the statue, but his consciousness now was entirely for the man by his side. 'Hearken!' said Messer Cipriano after a few moments' thought, 'the villa is not two paces distant, and the doors are strong enough for a siege.' 'Yea, verily,' cried Grillo; 'courage, brothers, we shall save her!' He felt jealous for the image which had cost him so much, and directing the operations himself, he contrived to get it safely transported across the Humid Hollow. Then the statue was borne into the house; but scarcely had it crossed the threshold, when on the hill-top appeared the threatening figure, inflamed countenance and brandished arms of Don Faustino. The lower part of the villa was at present uninhabited, and its great hall was used as a storehouse for agricultural implements and great jars of olive-oil: in one corner was a mountain of golden straw. Upon this straw, a humble, rustic bed, Aphrodite was delicately laid to rest. But this was no sooner accomplished and the doors barred than the latter were assailed by blows, by shouts, and by curses loud and deep. 'Open! Open!' cried the cracked voice of Don Faustino; 'in the name of the true and living God, I bid you open!' Messer Cipriano mounted the stone inner staircase and surveyed the crowd from a grated window above the hall. Seeing that the assailants were few, he entered into parley, his face wearing his customary smile. But the priest put his fingers in his ears, and vociferously demanded the idol--so he named it--which had been dug out of the ground. The Master of the Calimala now had recourse to a _ruse de guerre_. 'Beware,' he said calmly; 'I have summoned the captain of the town guard, and in two hours the horsemen will be on you. I allow none to enter my house by force.' 'Break down the door,' cried the priest. 'God is with us. Fear nothing! Assault!' And snatching an axe from a gentle-faced old peasant beside him, he battered upon the great door with all his strength. 'Don Faustino! Don Faustino!' cried the old man, feebly restraining the furious ecclesiastic, 'we are poor folk, and we do not dig up money in our fields. This will be our ruin; they will have us to prison!' The mention of the redoubtable town guard had struck terror into the rabble; and many were already deserting. 'If it had been on the church-ground, 'twere another matter,' muttered some of them. 'The confines established by law----' 'The law? A spider's web, set to catch flies, not hornets. The law does not exist for great folk.' 'True for you. And every man is master on his own land.' All this time Giovanni was gazing at the rescued Venus. The sunshine pouring through a side window seemed waking the tender body to warmth and softness after its long imprisonment in the gloom and the chill of the vault; the golden straw surrounding it shone like an aureole. Giovanni once more noted the stranger. He was on his knees beside the statue, measuring it with his compasses, his square, and a half-circle made of copper; on his face was the same imperturbable calm; in his cold, blue eyes the same piercing curiosity. 'What is he doing? Who is he?' Giovanni asked himself, almost awestruck, as he watched the quick, bold fingers exploring the limbs of the goddess, the secrets of her beauty, all the subtleties of the marble, too delicate for the apprehension of the eye. At the gate of the villa the priest was still heard yelling at the melting crowd. 'Stay, rascals! Sellers of Christ! fearful of the town guard, but careless of Antichrist! _Ipse vero Antichristus opes malorum effodiet et exponet_, as said the great preacher St. Anselm of Canterbury. _Effodiet_, hear you? Antichrist shall dig up the old idols from the earth and again bring them forth to the world.' But none heeded him. 'He is a pestilent fellow, this Don Faustino of ours!' said the prudent miller shaking his head; 'his life hangs by a thread, yet see how he storms. For my part, I rejoice they have found the treasure.' 'They say the image is of silver.' 'Silver? Nay, I saw it myself, and 'tis of marble; naked and shameless.' 'Lord forgive us! Are we to soil our hands for such rubbish as that?' 'Whither art going, Zacchello?' 'To the field; to my work.' 'God go with you! And I'll to the vineyard.' At this all the fury of the priest was let loose on his parishioners. 'Infidel dogs, abortions of Cain! would you abandon your pastor? Know ye not, spawn of Satan, that did I not pray for you day and night, and beat my breast with weeping and fasting, your whole sinful village would long ere this have been sunk into the earth? But it is ended! I leave you, shaking off the dust from my feet. Cursed be the land! Cursed the corn and the water and the flocks; and your sons and your sons' sons. I am your father, your shepherd no more. I renounce you! Anathema!' VII In the restored calm of the villa, where the goddess lay on her golden bed, Giorgio Merula went up to the stranger who was still measuring. 'You are studying the proportions of divinity?' said the scholar patronisingly: 'You would reduce beauty to mathematics?' The other raised his eyes for an instant; then silently, as if he had not heard the question, continued his work. The compasses contracted and expanded, describing geometrical figures; quietly and firmly the stranger put the angle measure to the fair lips of Aphrodite--lips whose smile had struck terror into Giovanni's heart--reckoned the result, and set it in a note-book. 'Pardon my curiosity,' insisted Merula, 'how many divisions are there?' 'This is a rough measurement,' said the unknown, unwillingly; 'generally I divide the human face into degrees, minutes, seconds and thirds, each division being the twelfth part of the preceding one.' 'Say you so?' cried Merula, 'meseems the last subdivision must be less than the finest hair.' 'A third,' explained the other still grudgingly, 'is 1/48823 of the whole face.' Merula lifted his eyebrows with an incredulous smile. 'Well, we live and learn. I never thought it were possible to reach such accuracy.' 'The more accurate the better,' returned his companion. 'Truly it may be so; yet, you know, in Art, in Beauty, all these mathematical calculations--What artist in the glow of enthusiasm, of fiery inspiration, breathed upon by God----' 'Yes, yes,' assented the unknown, evidently wearied; 'none the less I am anxious to know----' And stooping he measured the distance from the roots of the hair to the chin. 'To know?' thought Giovanni. 'Can one _know_ these matters? Folly! Does he not _feel_? understand?' Merula, anxious to probe the other to the quick, talked on of the ancients, and how they should be imitated. The stranger waited till he had concluded, then said, smiling into his long golden beard:-- 'He who can drink from the fountain will not drink from the cup.' 'By your leave!' shouted the scholar, 'if you call the ancients a cup, whom do you call the fountain?' 'Nature,' said the unknown quietly. And Merula presumptuously and provokingly continuing to prate, he disputed no further, but assented with evasive politeness. Only in his cold eyes weariness and reserve became more manifest. At last Messer Giorgio, having come to the end of his argument, was reduced to silence. Then the other pointed out certain depressions in the marble, which in no light could be detected by the sight, yet were plain to the touch as the hand moved over the smooth surface. '_Moltissime dolcezze_,' he called them; and then his eye travelled over the figure, as if in one look he would possess himself of its sum. 'And I who thought he did not feel!' said Giovanni to himself. 'Yet if he feels, how can he measure and split it up into numbers? Who is he, Messer Giorgio?' he whispered; 'tell me the name of this man?' 'Ha, little monk! is it you?' said Merula turning round; 'I had forgot you. Nay, but it is your idol: can it be that you knew him not? It is Messer Leonardo da Vinci.' And the historian presented Giovanni to the Master. VIII Through the perfect stillness of early morning in the early spring, when the grass shone emerald between the black olive-roots and the blue iris-flowers were motionless on their slender stems, Giovanni and Leonardo, he on horseback, the lad on foot, returned together to Florence. 'Is this really he?' thought Giovanni, watching him and finding his minutest gesture interesting. He was over forty. When silent and pensive his small, keen, pale-blue eyes, under overhanging golden eyebrows, seemed cold and piercing; yet when he talked they took an expression of great good nature. The long, fair beard and curling and luxuriant hair gave him an air of majesty. He was tall and powerful in build, yet his face had a subtle charm which was almost feminine, and his thin high voice, though pleasant, was not manly. His hand, reining a restive steed, was very strong, yet it also was delicate, with long, slender fingers like a woman's. They were nearing the town walls; and the misty morning sun shone upon the dome of the cathedral, and the quaint tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. 'This is my opportunity,' thought Boltraffio. 'I must tell him I would fain enter his studio as a pupil.' Just then Leonardo checked his horse and fixed his eyes on a young falcon circling slowly and easily in the air above its quarry--some duck or heron in the reeds of the Mugnone's bank. Presently, with a short cry, it dropped headlong, like a stone, swooping down from the height and disappearing behind the trees. Leonardo had followed it with his gaze, not losing a single turn, a movement, a flap of the strong wings; then he took his note-book from his girdle and jotted down the result of his observation. Boltraffio noticed that he held the pencil in his left hand; and remembered strange tales he had heard of his writing in a mysterious reversed hand only to be read in a mirror, from right to left, as men write in the East. Some said he wrote thus to make an enigma of his wicked heretical opinions about nature and about God. 'Now or never!' Giovanni was saying to himself; but all at once Antonio's harsh words flashed across his mind: '"Go to him if you would lose your soul: he is a sinner and an atheist."' Smiling, Leonardo drew his attention to an almond-tree, on the crest of a bare, wind-swept hill, very small, very feeble, very solitary, yet already hopeful and joyous, and decking itself with pale blossoms, which gleamed and glistened against the azure of the sunlit sky. Boltraffio could not admire it, for his heart was heavy and perplexed. Then Leonardo, as if guessing at his disquietude, spoke gentle words which the young man remembered long afterwards. 'If you wish to be an artist, put away all grief and care from your mind, save that for art itself. Let your soul be as a mirror reflecting all objects, all colours, all movements, but itself remaining ever clear and unmoved.' They passed in through the gates of Florence. IX Boltraffio went to the cathedral, where that morning Fra Girolamo Savonarola was to preach. As he entered, the last notes of the organ were dying away under the resounding arches of Santa Maria del Fiore. The throng had filled the church with suffocating heat and with the low rustlings of unceasing small movements. Men, women, and children were separated from each other by drawn curtains. Under the arches, slender and narrow like arrow-heads, deep gloom and mystery reigned as in a sleeping forest. The rays of sunlight, refracted by brilliantly coloured glass, fell in rainbow hues upon the congregation and upon the grey marble of the pillars. The semi-darkness surrounding the altar was broken by the glare of candles. Mass was over and the crowd was awaiting the preacher. All looks were fixed on the wooden pulpit. Giovanni found a place in the crowd and listened to the whisperings of his neighbours. 'Will he come soon?' was asked impatiently by a carpenter of low stature, with a pale perspiring face and lank hair bound by a fillet. 'God knows!' responded a tinker, big and red-faced, but asthmatic. 'He has with him at San Marco a certain little brother named Marufi, with a hunchback and a stammering tongue, and 'tis he chooses the hour for his coming. We waited four hours once, and had thought there would be no preaching, yet in the end he came.' '_Santo Dio Benedetto!_ And I have waited since midnight! I am blind for sleep and for want of a crumb in my mouth. I could sit down upon knives!' 'Did I not tell thee, Damiano, 'twas matter of patience? Even now we are so far from the pulpit we shall hear naught.' 'Eh! We shall hear well enough. When he falls to at his shouting and his thundering, not the deaf only but the very dead must needs hear.' 'They say now, that he prophesies.' 'Not yet! Not till he has built Noah's Ark.' 'He has built it; to the last plank. Yea, and made a parabolic description thereof. Its length, Faith; its breadth; Charity; its altitude, Hope. Haste, he says, haste to the Ark of Salvation, while the doors stand wide. The day cometh when the doors will be put to, and then many shall weep that they have not repented and have not come in time to enter within. To-day he preaches of the Flood, the seventeenth verse of the sixth chapter of the book of Genesis.' 'They say he has had another vision, War, Pestilence!' 'The horsedealer in Vallombrosa said that a night or two agone great hosts fought in the sky over the city, and one could hear the clash of swords and the dinting of armour.' 'And it is a certainty, good folk, that on the _Nunziata_ in the Chiesa dei Servi has been seen a bloody sweat.' 'Go to! And tears run nightly from the Madonna on the Rubaconte bridge. Lucia, my aunt, saw it herself!' 'And it means no good, rest assured. The Lord have mercy on us, miserable sinners!' Meanwhile, among the women, there was a disturbance. An old woman fainted, and when lifted up, still did not recover her senses. The whole multitude indeed was worn by the interminable waiting; the pale carpenter seemed unable to sustain himself longer. But suddenly a wave stirred the sea of heads, and a whisper ran through the church. 'He is coming!' 'Nay, 'tis not he, 'tis Fra Domenico da Pescia.' 'I tell you, yea, 'tis he! He has come.' Giovanni saw a man in the black and white Dominican habit girdled with a rope, who slowly ascended the pulpit-stair and removed his cowl. His face was emaciated and yellow as wax, his lips thick, his nose aquiline, his forehead low. His left hand fell weakly on the desk, his right he raised clutching the crucifix; and silently with burning eyes he looked upon the trembling and expectant crowd. Profound silence reigned, in which each man could hear the beating of his own heart. The eyes of the monk glowed increasingly, till they were like fiery coals; but he still kept silence, and the strain of waiting became unendurable. It seemed that in another moment the crowd would burst into screams. Yet the calm became deeper, more awful; till suddenly, rending the silence, came the terrible, lacerating, superhuman cry of the friar:-- '_Ecce ego adduco aquas super terram_, Behold I bring a Flood upon the earth!' A shudder passed through the crowd, raising the hair from the head. Giovanni paled; he fancied the earth quaking, the cathedral arches about to fall. Beside him the stalwart tinker was shaking like a leaf, his teeth chattering. The head of the feeble carpenter had sunk backward on his shoulders as if he had received a blow, his face was shrivelled, his eyelids closed. What followed was not a sermon but a delirium, which took hold of these thousands of people and shook them as a storm shakes the withered leaves. Giovanni listened, scarcely understanding. Detached phrases reached his ear:-- 'See ye, see how the heavens have already darkened; the sun is purple, like clotted blood. Flee! Hide yourselves! There cometh even now a rain of brimstone and fire; a hail of fiery stones and thunderbolts. _Fuge O Sion quae habitas apud filiam Babylonis!_ O Italy, chastisement cometh upon chastisement. After pestilence, war; and hunger after war! Judgment is here, judgment is there! Everywhere there is judgment. Among you the living suffice not to carry the dead. The dead in your houses shall be so many that the grave-diggers shall call to you to throw them out, and shall heap them on carts, yea, to the very necks of the horses, and shall throw them one upon the other and burn them. And then again they shall go through the streets and cry, "Who has any dead? Who has any dead?" And you will answer them: "I throw to you my son, I throw to you my brother, I throw to you my husband!" And then they shall go further, and always they shall cry: "Bring forth your dead! bring forth your dead!" O Florence! O Rome! O Italy! Past is the time of songs and of feasting; ye are sickened unto death. Lord, Thou art witness, that with my words I would have averted this ruin! But I can no more. I have no words more. I can but weep, and run over with my tears. Mercy! Mercy! O merciful Lord! Alas! my poor people! Alas! my Florence!' He opened his arms, and the last words had sunk to a scarcely audible whisper. They passed over the crowd and died away, like the rustle of wind in the leaves--a sigh of infinite pity. Pressing his white lips on the crucifix, he knelt and burst into sobs. The sermon was ended. The slow, heavy organ-notes rolled out, persuasive and immense, increasingly solemn and terrible, like the sound of the mighty ocean. A woman's voice cried _'Misericordia!_' And thousands of voices answered, calling one to another; and like corn stalks bowing before the wind, the people fell upon their knees, line upon line, wave upon wave, crowding upon, striking against each other, like a flock of sheep panic-struck at the advance of a storm; and the long, agonising wail of penitents upon whom pressed the terror of immediate ruin, rose to Heaven, mingling with the pealing of music, shaking the ground, the marble pillars, and the vaults of the cathedral. '_Misericordia! Misericordia!_' Giovanni also sank to his knees, sobbing. The tall tinker rolled against him, breathing hard; the pale carpenter caught his breath and cried like a child, moaning-- '_Misericordia!_' And Boltraffio remembered his pride, and his love of life, his desire to escape from Fra Benedetto, and to give himself up to the dangerous arts of Messer Leonardo, the enemy of God; he recalled the past fearful night on the Hill of the Mill, the recovered Venus, his sinful enthusiasm for the heathen beauty of the 'White She-devil'; stretching forth his hands to heaven, he mingled his voice with that of the despairing crowd, and cried-- 'Lord! Lord! have compassion on me! I have sinned before thee. Pardon, and have mercy.' At that moment, raising his face, wet with tears, he saw at his side the tall, upright form of Leonardo da Vinci. The artist, leaning carelessly against a column, held in his right hand his unfailing sketch-book; with his left he was drawing; now and then he glanced at the pulpit as if hoping to see once more the head of the preacher. A stranger, and surrounded by the terrified crowd, Leonardo maintained a superb composure. In his cool, blue eyes, on his thin lips, tightly compressed like those of a man of minute observation, there was the same aloofness and curiosity with which he had mathematically measured the body of the Aphrodite. At sight of him the tears dried in Giovanni's eyes, and the prayer was silenced upon his lips. Leaving the church he followed the artist and asked permission to see his sketch. Leonardo demurred, but presently handed the boy his sketch-book. And Giovanni saw a frightful caricature; not Savonarola, but an old and hideous devil in the dress of a monk, like the preacher indeed, but as if disfigured by self-inflicted and torturing penance, his pride and his desires still unsubdued. The lower jaw protruded, wrinkles intersected the cheek, the neck was twisted and black as a mummy's, the bushy, beetling brows, the rabid glance scarce preserved a semblance of humanity. All that was dark, terrible, and superstitious, all which gave Savonarola into the power of the deformed, tongue-tied visionary Marufi, was expressed by Leonardo in this sketch; brought out with neither anger nor pity, but with an imperturbable and impartial clear-sightedness. And Giovanni remembered his words: '_L'ingegno dell' pittore vuol essere a similitudine dello specchio_. The genius of the painter should be as a mirror, reflecting all objects, and colours, and movements, itself ever transparent and serene.' The pupil of Benedetto raised his eyes to the artist's face, and felt that though threatened by eternal damnation, though he were to find in Messer Leonardo a veritable servant of Antichrist, yet to leave him had become impossible; an irresistible force was drawing him to this man; woe unto him if he failed to penetrate into the very depths of this being and of his art. X Two days later, Messer Cipriano having been detained by affairs in Florence, and unable to arrange for the transport of the Venus, Grillo burst in upon him with most unwelcome tidings. Don Faustino, it seemed, had left San Gervaso and betaken himself to San Maurizio, the neighbouring village. Here, having terrified the people with talk of the chastisement of Heaven, he had collected a party by night, besieged the villa, broken in the doors, thrashed Strocco the gardener, who had been left in charge of the statue, and bound him hand and foot. Then the priest had recited over the goddess an ancient prayer called '_Oratio super effigies vasaque in loco antiqua reperta_,' in which the servant of the Church asks God to purify all statuary, vessels, and other objects dug out of the ground, and to convert them to the profit of Christian souls, to the glory of the Trinity, '_ut, omni immunditia depulsa, sint fidelibus tuis utenda per Christum dominum nostrum_.' Then they broke up the statue of the goddess, cast the fragments into a furnace, made of them a cement, and with it daubed the new-raised wall of the village cemetery. As he told this tale the old man wept for grief. But the event helped Giovanni Boltraffio to a decision. That very day he presented himself before Messer Leonardo and begged to be received as a pupil. Leonardo accepted him. A little later, tidings were brought to Florence that Charles VIII., Most Christian King of France, had taken the field with a countless host for the conquering of the Two Sicilies, and probably also of Rome and Florence. Panic spread among the citizens. They perceived that the prophecy of Savonarola was being fulfilled. Punishment was at their door! The sword of the Lord was drawn upon Italy! BOOK II ECCE DEUS--ECCE HOMO--1494 'Behold the man!'--ST. JOHN xix. 5. 'Behold the God!' (Inscription on the monument of Francesco Sforza.) I 'If the eagle can sustain himself in the rarest atmosphere, if great ships by sails can float across the waves, why cannot likewise Man, by means of powerful wings, make himself lord of the winds, and rise, the conqueror of space?' Leonardo found these words in one of his old note-books, written five years earlier with the buoyancy of hope. Opposite was the sketch of a machine; a beam, to which by means of iron rods, were attached wings to be moved by cords and pulleys. Now the apparatus seemed to him clumsy and absurd. His new machine was like an enormous bat. The body of the wings was formed by five wooden fingers, like a skeleton hand, with many joints and pliant articulations. Tendons and muscles connecting these fingers were formed by strips of tanned leather and laces of raw silk. The wing rose by means of a crank and a moveable piston, and was covered by impermeable taffeta. It resembled the webbed foot of a goose. There were four wings moving in turn like the legs of a horse. Their length was forty _braccia_, their spread, eight. They bent backward for propulsion, and dropped to make the machine rise. A man was to sit in it astride, and with his feet in stirrups was to move the wings by a machinery of cords, blocks, and levers. A great rudder, feathered like the tail of a bird, was to be turned by his head. But a bird, before the first flap of his wings carries him from the earth, must first raise himself by his feet. The short-legged swift, for instance, if placed upon the ground struggles but cannot fly. Therefore in the machine two cane stilts were indispensable, although their inelegance greatly disturbed the inventor. Perfection could not exist without beauty. He plunged into calculations, hoping to lay his finger on a blunder. Failing, he impatiently drew a pencil across a whole page of figures and wrote on the margin-- 'Incorrect'; and presently, '_Satanasso!_' He was enraged. Then he recommenced; but his calculations became more and more confused, and the scarce perceptible error grew increasingly distinct, as he worked on and on by the light of a flickering candle which offended his eyes. Then his cat, suddenly waking, leaped on the work-table, stretched himself, humped his back, and began to play with a moth-eaten scarecrow of a stuffed bird dangling from a wooden perch--a contrivance for studying the centre of gravity in the act of flight. The inventor pushed the cat angrily away, nearly knocking him down and causing a plaintive mewing. 'Bless your heart! you may go where you like so long as you don't interfere with me,' said Leonardo apologetically, rubbing the smooth, black fur which emitted electric sparks. The cat purred, sat down majestically, doubling his velvet paws under him, and fixing on his master steady green eyes full of self-satisfaction and mystery. Once more figures, fractions, brackets, equations, cubic and square roots appeared upon the paper. It was the second night he had passed without sleep; for a whole month since his return from Florence he had scarcely set foot outside the house, but had worked unceasingly at the flying-machine. The branches of a white acacia intruded through an open window, and sometimes cast on the table their tender, odorous blossoms. The moonlight, softened by a mist of clouds, tinted like mother-o'-pearl, flooded the chamber, and mingled with the murky illumination from the tallow candle. The room was choked with machinery and instruments, astronomical, physical, chemical, mechanical, and anatomical. Wheels, levers, springs, screws, chimneys, pistons, arcs, suction-tubes, brass, steel, iron, and glass, like the limbs of half-seen monsters or colossal insects, peered out of the darkness. There was a diving-bell, beside it the dulled crystal of an optical apparatus resembling a great eye; then the skeleton of a horse, a stuffed crocodile, a human abortion preserved in spirit, a pair of boat-shaped shoes for walking on the water, and lastly, the clay head of a child or of an angel, strayed hither from the sculptor's studio, and smiling slyly and mournfully at its surroundings. In the background was a crucible and blacksmith's bellows, and coals lay red upon the ashes of a furnace. Gigantic wings, one still bare, the other already invested with its membrane, were spread out over all the room, dominating the whole from floor to ceiling. And sprawling on the ground, with nodding head, lay a man, Zoroastro, Leonardo's assistant, who had fallen asleep at his post, oil flowing from the blackened brass ladle which he held in his hand. One of the wings touched the chest of the sleeper, and was softly vibrating as he breathed; it seemed alive, and its sharp upper end rustled against the rafters of the ceiling. In the uncertain light the machine, with this man between its extended and moving wings, was like some stupendous vampire ready to rise and fly. II Gardens surrounded Leonardo's house outside Milan--between the fortress and the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie--and thence came a fine perfume of fruits and herbs, thyme, and bergamot, and fennel. The moon had set. Swallows under the windows were twittering and preparing to fly, ducks splashed and quacked in the neighbouring pond. The candle was dying in its socket; voices of the pupils were heard from the studio hard by. The students were two, Giovanni Boltraffio and Andrea Salaino. Giovanni was copying an anatomical figure, and sitting before a contrivance for the study of perspective--a wooden frame with a string network which corresponded with lines traced on the drawing-paper: Salaino was fitting a slab of alabaster to a wooden panel. He was a pretty lad with innocent eyes and fair curls, petted by the Master, who drew his angels from him. 'How think you, Andrea?' asked Boltraffio, 'will Messer Leonardo soon finish this machine?' 'God knows!' answered Salaino whistling, and settling the embroidered flaps of his new slippers. 'Last year he sat two months at it and nothing resulted but laughter. That crooked bear Zoroastro set himself to fly at all hazards. The master forbade him, but he did it. The fool hung himself all round with a necklace of bullock's bladders, lest he should break anything if he fell; then he mounted the roof, flapped his wings; and true it is he rose, but God wot 'twas the wind carried him, and presently he turned topsy-turvy and fell plump on to a dunghill; by the Lord's mercy 'twas soft and he broke no bones, but the bladders burst with a roar like a cannon, the daws in the belfry fled away for very terror, and there lay the new Icarus kicking the air, on his head in the manure.' Just then the third pupil entered, Cesare da Sesto, a man no longer young; sickly, and splenetic, with malicious but intelligent eyes. He had a sandwich in one hand, wine in the other. 'Peuh! the sour stuff!' he said frowning and spitting, 'and the ham, by my troth, is boot-leather--yet one pays two thousand ducats annually for these delicacies!' 'Try the other cask from under the pantry stair.' 'I have tried it. Of the two 'tis the worse;' then pointing to Salaino's new plum-coloured and gaily-feathered cap, he added, 'Oho! oho! some of us, it seems, get new things. But 'tis the second month since they got any new ham in the kitchen. Of a certainty things are well managed here! We lead dog's lives. Marco vows on the bones of his mother that the master has not one _soldo_ left in the bag. He has squandered everything on these cursed wings of his, and begins his sparing by starving us. But I'll teach you where else his money goes. In gifts for his darlings, in medals and velvet caps. Have you no shame, Andrea, to receive alms? Is Messer Leonardo your father or your brother? or are you still a baby?' 'Cesare,' interrupted Giovanni, to give a new turn to the discourse, 'you made promise to expound me the axioms of perspective. We waste time expecting the master, who is overstudious of his machine----' 'Ay, ay, my friend. We shall all be confounded some day by that machine, devil take it! And if it is not this machine 'tis another. I remember how in the very middle of the _Cenacolo_, the Master, forsooth, must needs break off to invent a new mincing-machine for sausages; and the head of St. James could not get stuck on his shoulders, because Leonardo was dissatisfied with the blades of the cutter. And the best of his Madonnas had to wait in the corner, while he devised a spit for the roasting of sucking-pigs. And what think you of that his other grand discovery, the lye of fowl's-dung for the washing of linen? There is no folly for which Messer Leonardo will not sacrifice his time if he can but get away from his paint-brush;' and Cesare's face puckered itself, and his lips curled in a malicious laugh. 'Why, I pr'ythee, why does God give genius to such men?' he added in a low, trembling voice. III Leonardo was still at work, bending over his writing-table. A swallow flew in at the window and wheeled about the room, brushing against the ceiling and the walls, till caught by the great bat, its little, living wings fast held by the network of artificial tendons. Cautiously Leonardo rose and delicately freed the prisoner, took it in his hand, kissed the silky black head, and let it fly away. The swallow soared, and was lost in the blue air, screaming its cries of joy. 'How simple, how easy its flight,' he thought, as he followed it with disappointed, envious eyes. He threw a contemptuous glance at his machine, the dark skeleton of that tremendous bat. The man who was lying on the floor suddenly awoke. He was a Florentine, a skilful mechanic and smith, by name Zoroastro, or more shortly, Astro da Paretola. A clumsy giant, with the simple face of a child, always covered with soot and grime, he looked a Cyclops, for he had but one eye, the other having been long ago destroyed by a spark from some blazing metal. Rubbing his single orb and scratching his shaggy head he cried, 'The devil take me for a blockhead! Master, why did you not hinder me from slumbering? I who was so zealously affected, who only thought how to hurry the evening that the morning and the flying might come!' 'You were wise to sleep,' said Leonardo, 'for the wings have failed.' 'What! these also? Nay, master, but I will not make your machine again. Think of the money, the labour we have thrown to the wind! What better can you want? Not to fly, on wings like those, would be impossible! An elephant could rise on them. Pr'ythee, master, let me try! I will prove them over water, and then if I fall I'll come off with no worse than a bathing. I can swim as a fish; I wasn't born to be drowned.' And he clasped his hands supplicatingly. Leonardo, however, shook his head. 'Patience, friend, have yet patience. It will come in its own time, and then--' '_Then?_' cried the smith, almost in tears. 'Why not _now_? Of a surety, master, as true as God is in heaven, I shall fly.' 'No, Astro, fly thou wilt not. By a mathematical law----' 'I could have sworn you would say that! To the devil with your mathematical laws, for they upset everything. And to think of the years we have laboured! I am sick to remember it! Every gnat, mosquito, fly, I pray you license--every _muck_-fly, every _dunghill_-fly--has its wings; and men crawl like worms. 'Tis rank injustice! And why should we doubt? There they are, your wings, ready, and beautiful; ready to be blessed of God, and spread, and to be off! And then we shall see what we shall see!' He paused, seemed to recall something, and continued more calmly:-- 'I would tell you a thing, master. This very night I dreamed, nay, but I dreamed----' 'I conceive you! You flew.' 'Ay. But how? Hear me. I stood in a chamber, where I know not, and amid a throng. They looked at me and pointed, and then they laughed. And I said to myself, "cursed spite 'twill be if I fly not." So I got up and I shook my arms and I rose; I warrant you 'twas hard, as though I would raise a mountain on my back! But 'twas soon lighter, and I rose till my head was in the roof. And they cried aloud, Behold him! he flieth! Ay, and I passed through the window like yon bird, and I circled higher and yet higher, till I touched the sky. And the wind whistled in my ears, and I laughed for very joy. "Why," I questioned of myself, "did I never fly till now? 'Tis mighty easy; and there is no call for any machinery at all."' IV Shouts, oaths, and the quick thump of footsteps interrupted them. The door was flung wide, and a fiery-haired, freckle-faced man, dragging a child of ten by the ear, burst into the chamber. It was Leonardo's pupil, Marco d'Oggione. 'May the Lord send you an ill Easter!' he shouted; 'Rascal, I will set my heels upon your throat!' 'What coil is this, Marco?' asked Leonardo. 'I pray you listen, Master. This same young rogue has filched my silver buckles; ten florins each did they cost me! One he has gambled away at his dice; the other I have found in his stocking. I did but pull him by the hair, and now, son of the devil that he is, he hath bitten my finger to the bone.' And he would again have attacked the little lad by his curls had not Leonardo rescued him. Then Marco, who kept the keys of the house, took them from his pouch and flung them on the ground. 'Take them up, sir! I will be warden no longer. I live no longer in the house with rascals and with thieves!' 'Peace, Marco, peace; and leave this babe to me.' The other three now came from the studio, and presently Maturina, the fat cook, squeezed herself into the group, carrying her market basket. Seeing the little sinner, she flung up her hands and gabbled with the monotony of dry peas pouring through a broken bag. Cesare talked also volubly, demanding why this 'pagan of a Jacopo' was allowed to stay, for the playing of every malicious and spiteful trick capable of invention; had he not maimed the watch-dog, stoned the nests of the swallows, torn wings from butterflies? Jacopo had taken refuge with the Master, his pale pretty face quite impassive, his eyes, sinister in their brilliance, turned to Leonardo with mute supplication. Leonardo would have appeased the tumult, but on his face sat a strange air of perplexity and weakness, not lost upon the contemptuous Cesare. Presently the noise subsided of itself; and then Leonardo, with his customary calm, called Giovanni and invited him to an inspection of the _Cenacolo_, the Last Supper; his greatest work. Giovanni flushed with pleasure, and they went together. V However they paused by the courtyard fountain that Leonardo, after his sleepless night, might refresh himself by bathing his face. The day was cloudy, but windless, and over all things streamed an argent light which seemed to come from under water; days like these pleased the artist best for painting. They were still at the well when the boy Jacopo crept up, bearing in his hands a little case made of bark. 'Messer Leonardo,' he murmured, 'I have brought it--for you,' and cautiously raising the lid he showed a huge imprisoned spider. 'I have watched it this three days,' he said enthusiastically; ''tis poisonous! And 'tis a terror to see how he devoureth flies!' His face was radiant now, and catching a fly he gave it to the captive. The spider seized the victim with its hairy legs, and there was a fight and great buzzing. 'He sucks it! He sucks it!' cried the child in an ecstasy; and Leonardo bent over the struggling creatures to watch. It seemed to Giovanni that on the two so different faces was the same expression: a hideous pleasure in the horrible. When the fly had been murdered and devoured the boy closed the little box, and said, 'I will put it on your table, Messer Leonardo; you will like to see how he fights with other spiders.' Then he raised supplicating eyes, and went on with quivering lips, 'Messere, be not wroth with me. I will go from you. I see that I am a trouble to you; you are good, but those others are evil; as truly am I also--I who understand not pretending, as do they! So be it; I will go very far away, and will live alone. 'Twill be better so. Only do thou pardon me, Master, I pray, I supplicate. Pardon thou me.' And great tears shone on the child's long lashes as he went on. 'Pardon me, Master Leonardo, and I will leave you the spider for a remembrance of me. Spiders live many years; and I will ask Astro to feed it.' 'Whither would you go, poor child? Nay, Marco shall forgive thee; I am not wroth with thee, and truly I will accept thy spider. In the future, little one, seek to live harmlessly.' Jacopo turned his eyes to his Master, and in them was no gratitude, only unbounded astonishment; and Leonardo smiled at him, as if in his great wisdom he understood the child, and knew him one of those innocent in their wrong doing, because by nature formed for evil. 'It grows late, Giovanni; let us go on,' said Leonardo; and together they trod the silent street which presently led them between the walls of gardens, vineyards, and orchards, to the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. VI Boltraffio had for some time been distressed by the fact that he could no longer pay his master the monthly fee of six florins which had been arranged. His uncle had quarrelled with him, and now refused him further assistance, and Fra Benedetto, who had lent him the means for two months, could do no more. So this morning Giovanni determined to explain matters to his master. He turned deprecatingly to him, and reddening to the roots of his hair, stammered:-- 'Messere, we are at the 14th of the month, and it was agreed I should pay you on the 10th. It irks me to confess it, but I have no more than these three florins. Would you consent to wait? Soon I have hope to get money. Merula has promised me copying.' Leonardo looked at him astonished. 'What speech is this, Giovanni? Are you not ashamed?' By his disciple's blush, by his confusion, by his patched shoes and threadbare clothes he guessed that Giovanni was very poor. So he frowned, and talked of something else; but presently took occasion to hand the boy a gold piece, saying carelessly, 'Lad, go buy me twenty sheets of the blue paper for my drawings, and a parcel of red chalk, and another of badger brushes. Take the money.' 'A ducat? to pay a matter of ten _soldi_? I will bring you the surplus.' 'By no means. I care not for such trifles. Some day, perchance, you will be able to pay it back. And talk no more to me of money: do you hear?' He went on at once to remark on the misty outlines of the larch trees along both banks of the straight canal called the Naviglio Grande, which carried the eye into the distance by their long rows. 'Have you observed, Giovanni, that in a light mist the trees show blue, in a thick mist, grey?' And he talked further of the shadows thrown by the clouds upon the hills, one tone in summer when their trees are in leaf, another in winter when their trees are bare. Then he said abruptly. 'You have thought me a skinflint because on our first coming to terms you saw me note every detail of the bargain in a book. I caught that trick from my good father, Piero, the notary, who knows his way in affairs passing well. But the habit is an idle one for me. I am extreme to mark trifles such as the price of the feather in Salaino's cap; yet thousands of ducats go from me, and I know not whither. For the future, boy, regard not this trick. If thou hast need of money, take it; and be sure I give it to thee as a father gives to a son.' And Leonardo looked at him with a smile so tender, that the pupil's heart was lightened and overflowed with joy. Then again the master talked of trees, and pointing to a misshapen white mulberry, bade his disciple observe that not only every tree but also every leaf has its own figure different from its fellows, even as every son of man has his own face. It seemed to Giovanni that he spoke of trees with no less insight than he had shown in speaking of his needy disciple; as though loving observation of all things living had sharpened his eye to the penetration of a seer and a clairvoyant. They were now in sight of Santa Maria delle Grazie, the church belonging to the Dominican convent; a brick edifice with a broad dome like a tent--the early work of Bramante. It rose from the plain behind a grove of dark mulberry trees, and seemed rosy and gay against its background of white and rainy clouds. The pair passed at once into the convent refectory. VII It was a long bare hall, whitewashed, and with a roof of wooden rafters. There was a smell of damp, of incense, and of fast-day fare. The Father Superior had his dining-board in the recess by the entrance; on either side were the long narrow tables for the monks. So still was it that the buzz of the flies was audible in the windows, glazed with small, yellow, and dusty panes, and hollowed like the cells of a honeycomb. Now and then voices came from the kitchen with a clatter of iron saucepans. Opposite the prior's table, at the end of the hall, there rose a scaffolding of wood covered with coarse grey linen; Giovanni divined that behind it was the _magnum opus_, upon which the Master had already laboured for twelve years; the _Cenacolo_, the Last Supper. Leonardo having ascended the scaffold and opened a wooden case which contained his sketches, cartoons, paints, etc., took a small, well-worn, much-annotated Latin book, and handing it to Giovanni, bade him read the thirteenth chapter of St. John. Then he removed the covering from the fresco. Giovanni's first impression was that he saw not a painting but a prolongation of the room itself against an actual background of air. Another chamber seemed to have opened out behind the withdrawn curtain; the beams of the ceiling passed on into it, contracting in the distance, and the light of day was blended in the quiet evening light above the hills of Zion, which glowed through the triple window. This second supper-room was little less austere and bare than the convent refectory. Though more solemn, the sacred table, with its cups, plates, knives, and flagons, was like the board at which the monks nightly supped; the cloth with its narrow stripes, its knotted corners, its unsmoothed folds, seemed still damp, as if but just taken from the convent linen room. Giovanni opened the Gospel and read:-- 'Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour was come that he should depart out of this world unto the Father, ... and supper being ended, the devil having put into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, to betray him.... 'Jesus was troubled in spirit, and testified and said, Verily verily, I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me. Then the disciples looked one on another, doubting of whom he spake. Now there was leaning on Jesus' bosom one of his disciples whom Jesus loved.' Giovanni again raised his eyes to the fresco. The faces of the apostles were so animated that he seemed to hear their speech, to look into the depths of their souls, confounded as they were by the most mysterious, the most terrible of all catastrophes that have ever taken place--the birth of that sin by which God was to die. Specially was he impressed by Judas, by St. Peter, and St. John. The head of Judas was not yet painted, and the body, bent backward, but dimly outlined. Clutching desperately at the bag with convulsive fingers, he had overturned the salt-cellar, and the salt was spilled. Peter, impetuous in his wrath, was starting up from behind, a knife still in his right hand, his left on the shoulder of John, as if asking the beloved disciple 'of whom doth He speak?' With his silver hair, with his splendid resentment, his whole frame showed that fiery zeal, that thirst for great deeds, with which, upon understanding the ineluctable sufferings of his Master he was to cry 'Lord, why cannot I follow thee now? I will lay down my life for thy sake!' John, on the contrary, with his long silken tresses, his eyelids lowered as if in the peace of sleep, his folded hands, the long oval of his face--seemed the ideal of calm and heavenly serenity. Alone among the disciples he knew no suffering, no fear, no wrath. Giovanni saw, and he said to himself, 'Here is the true Leonardo! And I had doubted and wellnigh believed the calumnies. The man impious who created that? Nay, who among men is closer to Christ than he?' The painter, meantime, having completed the face of John with delicate touches of the brush, began the charcoal outline of the head of Jesus. Vainly, however; he had meditated upon that head for ten years, yet still he could not accomplish even the first sketch. Always when confronted by that emptiness where the divine countenance should appear, the artist trembled with mortal anguish and the sense of his own impotence. Throwing the charcoal aside, passing a cloth over the few lines he had lightly traced, he fell into one of those reveries which sometimes lasted for entire hours. Giovanni ventured to approach him, and saw his face as it were aged, severe, wearing the imprint of unremitting tension, of silent despair. Yet, his eyes falling on those of his pupil, Leonardo said kindly-- 'Well, then, _amico mio_, what say you of it?' 'What words have I, Master? It is beautiful, with a beauty beyond aught in this world. None other has so understood that scene! But nay, I will not speak--I cannot.' His voice shook with tears; but presently he added in a low voice, 'One thing I would ask. Among such faces, what can be the face of Judas?' The master, without answering, handed him a paper sketch. It showed a face terrible but not repulsive, not wicked even, but big with infinite grief, with the profound bitterness of great knowledge. Giovanni compared it with that of St. John. 'Yes,' he exclaimed awestruck; 'it is he! He of whom it is said, Satan entered into him; who perhaps knew more than any of them, but who would not accept the cry, that 'all may be one!' because he desired to be _an one_ by himself.' He was interrupted by Cesare da Sesto, who burst into the refectory, followed by a man in the court livery. 'At last! at last!' he cried; 'Master, we have sought you in every place! The duchess requires you--on a grave matter.' 'Your Worship will have the kindness to come with me to the palace,' said the servant. 'What is the cause?' 'A disaster, Messer Leonardo. The water pipes do not work; and this morning when Her Excellence was pleased to get into her bath, and her woman had gone to the adjoining chamber for linen, the tap broke, so that Her Excellence was nearly scalded. She is pleased to be very wroth; and Messer Ambrogio Ferrari, the steward, complains greatly, and saith he hath more than once warned your Worship about these pipes.' 'What puerility is this?' replied Leonardo; 'can you not see I am at work? Go to Zoroastro. In half an hour he will repair everything.' 'Messere, I was told not to return without your Worship.' Leonardo, however, went back to his picture. But when his eye fell on the blank space destined for the Saviour's head, his brows knit with discouragement, and, realising fresh failure, he descended from the easel. 'Well, we will go. You, Giovanni, come for me to the outer courtyard of the castle, Cesare will show you the way; I will expect you by the _Cavallo_.' By this name he spoke of his great equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza. And to Giovanni's amazement, without another glance at the _Cenacolo_, the Master followed the scullion to mend the pipes of the ducal bath. 'So you can't take your eyes off the thing?' said Cesare mockingly to Boltraffio; 'certes, 'tis a wonderful work; at least until one sees through it.' 'What is your meaning?' 'Ask me not. I won't spoil your faith. Mayhap in the end you will discover for yourself. Meanwhile, admire.' 'Cesare, tell me your thought.' 'Good, then. Only be not wroth at the truth. I know all you will find to say and I will not dispute with you. In good sooth, it is wonderful. No master hath so much anatomy, such perspective, such science of chiaroscuro. I challenge it not. All is direct from nature, the face wrinkles, the folds in the cloth, everything. But the living spirit, where is that? the God is absent; and will absent Himself for ever. At bottom, in the soul, all is ice and death! Look, Giovanni! use your eyes! See the geometrical regularity; four triangles, two contemplative, two active; and their centre is Christ. Look narrowly. On the right you have perfect goodness in John, perfect badness in Judas, the dividing of good and evil (that is, justice) in Peter. Beside them the active triad, Andrew, James, and Bartholomew. Now turn to the left; another contemplative triangle; the love of Philip, the faith of James, the wisdom of Thomas; then again, activity in another triad. Not inspiration, Giovanni, but geometry; mathematics in the seat of beauty. All calculated, reasoned _ad nauseam_, tested to repulsion, weighed in the balance, measured by the compasses. Under the holy things--contempt.' 'Cesare, Cesare!' cried Giovanni with gentle reproof. 'How little you know the Master! Why do you hate him?' 'And you think perchance you know him, and therefore you love him?' returned Cesare quickly, turning to his companion with a bitter smile. In his eyes blazed such unextinguishable malice that Giovanni instinctively averted his own. 'You are unjust, Cesare,' he resumed after a pause; 'the picture is incomplete; the Christ is not yet there.' 'And will He be there? Do you expect it? Well, we shall see. Only mark you my words. I say Messer Leonardo will never finish the _Cenacolo_; never paint the Judas, nor the Christ! For, see you, my friend, one may do much by mathematics and by experiments in science; but not everything. More is needed. There is a limit which he, with all his learning, can never pass.' They left the monastery and moved towards the Castello di Porta Giovia. Boltraffio was long silent, then he said:-- 'In one point, Cesare, you certainly are in error. The Judas exists already; I have seen it.' 'When? Where?' 'Just now--in the convent. He showed me the drawing.' 'You?' Cesare stared, then said slowly, and as if by an effort. 'How was it? Good?' Giovanni nodded; and Cesare after this kept silence. VIII Arrived at the castle gates, they crossed the drawbridge to the Torre del Filarete, which looked to the south, and was deeply moated. Here even at noon it was dark; and the air was laden with an undefinable odour of barracks--the smell of stables, straw, and sour bread. Under the resounding arches came echoes of the laughter and curses of the hired foreign soldiery. Cesare had the pass; but Giovanni was regarded with mistrust, and his name entered in the guard-book. Crossing a second drawbridge, where they submitted to a second examination, they reached the deserted inner court of the castle called the Piazza d'Arme. Straight before them was the stern Torre di Bona; to the right, the entrance to the Corte Ducale; to the left, the Rocchetta, a veritable eagle's nest, the part of the castle most difficult of access. In the centre of the square, surrounded by ill-made wooden fences, which were already moss-grown and weather-stained, rose an unfinished colossal equestrian statue in greenish clay; _Il Cavallo_, the bold achievement of Leonardo da Vinci, no less than twenty _braccia_ in altitude. The tremendous horse, dark against the watery sky, was rearing; a fallen warrior was beneath his hoofs; on his back, Francesco Sforza, the great _condottiere_, half-soldier, half brigand, wholly adventurer, who had served with his sword and his blood for money. The son of a peasant, strong as a lion, astute as a fox, he attained by sagacity, by crime, and by great exploits, the summit of power, and died on the throne of the Dukes of Milan. Pale sunshine fell full on the colossal figure, and in the grossness of the double chin, in the rapacity of the fierce and vigilant eye, Giovanni saw the calm of the gorged wild beast. Leonardo himself had inscribed the clay with this distich:-- 'Expectant animi molemque futuram Suscipiunt; fluat aes; vox erit; Ecce Deus.' The last two words were astounding to Giovanni. 'Behold the god.' 'A god?' he repeated, looking at the colossal clay, at the victim trampled by the violent conqueror. He remembered the quiet convent refectory of 'Our Lady of Grace,' the hills of Zion, the celestial beauty of St. John, the stillness of the Last Supper: and that God, of whom it was said, 'Behold the Man!' At this moment Leonardo himself appeared. 'Let us hurry,' he said; 'it seems that the kitchen chimneys are smoking; and if we do not flee they will be calling me back to mend them.' Giovanni could not answer him; he stood downcast and pallid. 'Master,' he said presently, 'I crave your pardon; but I have thought long, and still I comprehend not how you were able to create the _Cavallo_ and the _Cenacolo_ at one and the same time.' Leonardo looked at his disciple in quiet surprise. 'Why not?' 'Oh, Messer Leonardo! do you not feel yourself that they are impossible together?' 'No, Giovanni. To my thinking, one helps out the other. My best ideas for the _Cenacolo_ come to me when I am working at the Colossus; and in that convent refectory yonder, I love to think upon this monument of Duke Francesco. The works are twins. I began them together, and together I shall finish them.' 'Together! Christ, and this man? It is impossible!' And ignorant how to express his thought, yet feeling his heart on fire, he repeated passionately, 'It is impossible!' 'And why?' asked the master with his quiet smile. Giovanni would have tried to reply; but meeting those calm uncomprehending eyes, the words died upon his lips, for Leonardo would not have understood them. So he held his peace and thought within himself. 'Strange! An hour ago, looking at his picture, I fancied that I knew him. And now I find I do not know him at all. Of which of those twain does he say in his heart: 'Behold the god?'' IX That night when all others slept, Giovanni, tormented by insomnia, rose and went into the court, where was a stone bench under a tent of vine branches. The court was square, and in its centre was a well; behind the bench was the wall of the house, opposite the stable; to the left a stone wall with a wicket-gate which opened on the street of the Porta Vercellina; to the right the wall of a little garden and a door always locked and leading to a separate building. Here Astro alone was allowed ingress, and here Leonardo was wont to work in complete seclusion. The night was still and warm, with a thick mist, penetrated by dim moonlight. A low knock sounded on the gate which opened on the road; the shutter of one of the lower windows was opened, and a man peered out, asking:-- 'Monna Cassandra?' ''Tis I. Open!' Astro came from the house and let her in; a girl clad in white, which the moonlight and the mist changed to a strange green. They parleyed together at the gate; then passed Giovanni without seeing him, where he sat in the deep shadow of the vine branches. The girl seated herself on the low wall of the well. Her face was an odd one, immobile and placid, like the faces of old statues. She had a low forehead, straight black eyebrows, too small a chin, and eyes of transparent amber. But what chiefly struck Giovanni was her hair, so light, so soft, so crisp, as if possessed of life. Like the Medusa's aureole of serpents, its blackness framed her face, making its paleness paler, its lips more scarlet, its amber eyes more translucent. 'Then you too, Astro, have heard speak of Frate Angelo?' said the girl. 'Yes, Monna Cassandra. They say the Pope hath sent him to extirpate heresy and black magic. And I tell you, merely to hear what is told of the Fathers Inquisitors raises the hair of your skin! God keep us from their claws! Monna Cassandra, be discreet; and, above all, warn your aunt.' 'A pretty aunt she is to me!' 'It matters not. Warn that Monna Sidonia with whom you live.' 'Then, blacksmith, you suppose us witches?' 'I suppose nothing. Messer Leonardo hath taught me there is no witchcraft; nor can be none, by the law of nature. Messer Leonardo knows everything and believes in nothing.' 'Believes in nothing? Not in the devil? Not in God?' 'Jest not! Messer Leonardo is a saint.' 'And your flying-machine?' she said contemptuously; 'is it ready?' The smith waved his hand despairingly. 'Ready? We are going to make it all over again!' 'Astro! Astro! You credit this nonsense? These machines are dust cast into the eyes. I wager Messer Leonardo has flown many a time ere now.' 'Flown? How?' 'He flies--as I fly.' He surveyed her thoughtfully. 'You fly in dreams, Monna Cassandra.' 'You think that is it? Nay, others have seen me fly. Perhaps you know not the tale?' The smith scratched his head hesitatingly. 'But I forget,' she said mockingly; 'you are all learned folk here, who believe not in miracles, but in mechanics.' 'S'death! Those same mechanics are a weight on my neck. Did you but know----' He spread out his hands appealingly, and continued: 'Monna Cassandra; you know my faithfulness. Nor is there temptation to chatter, lest Frate Angelo play eavesdropper. Tell me, then, in all secrecy, tell me of your charity with all the particulars----' 'Tell you what?' 'How you fly.' 'Not that, my friend; no. If you know too much you will age too soon.' She paused; then said softly, after a long look straight into his eyes. 'What avails it to talk? You must act.' 'What is required?' asked Astro in trembling tones, and turning pale. 'You must know a certain word, and you must anoint your skin with a certain unguent.' 'Have you this unguent?' 'Yes.' 'And you know the word?' She nodded. 'And then one can fly?' 'Try. You will find my method simpler than your mechanics.' The single eye of the smith blazed with the madness of desire. 'Monna Cassandra, give me your unguent.' She suppressed a laugh. 'You are a simpleton, Astro. Five minutes ago you called magic foolery; now, it seems, you believe in it.' Astro hung his head, convicted, but unrepentant. 'I wish to fly. I care little if I attain by mechanics or by miracles. What I can endure no longer is waiting.' The girl laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I see, I see. Truly, I pity you. It is clear your brain will crack if you don't get to your flying. Good, then; I will give you the drug and I will teach you the word. But you likewise, Astro, you must do what I ask of you.' 'I will, Monna Cassandra. I will do anything. Speak.' The girl pointed to the wet roof beyond the garden wall. 'Let me enter there.' But Astro frowned and shook his head. 'Nay. I will do whatever you ask, saving only that.' 'And why not that?' 'I have promised my master to let none in.' 'But you go thither?' 'Yea.' 'What is there within?' 'No mystery, Monna Cassandra; nothing of moment. Machines, appliances, books, manuscripts. Certain strange plants, beasts, creeping things. Travellers bring them from distant lands. And there is one tree which has been poisoned.' 'What? poisoned?' 'Ay. He has it for experiments; that he may know the effect poison has upon plants.' 'Good Astro, tell me all you know of that tree.' 'There is naught to tell. Early in the spring season he bored him a hole in its trunk, to the very core; and with a long thin needle he squirted in some venom.' 'What strange experiments! And of what sort is the tree?' 'A peach-tree.' 'What followed? Was the fruit also poisoned?' 'It will be so when ripe.' 'Can you see in the peaches that they are poisoned?' 'No; and that is why he permits no entry, lest some one might eat the fruit and die.' 'Have you the key?' 'Ay.' 'Good Astro, give it to me!' 'Monna Cassandra! Have I not sworn to him?' 'Give me the key; and I will compass it that to-night you shall fly--this very night. See, this is the drug.' She drew from her bosom a phial which contained a dark liquid; and putting her face close to his, she whispered wheedlingly, 'What is it you fear, simpleton? You say there are no mysteries. Well, then, let us go and make sure. The key, Astro, the key!' 'No,' he replied, 'I will not let you enter; and I care nothing for your secret. Leave me.' 'Coward!' cried the girl, fine scorn on her face; 'it is possible for you to know the secret, and you dare not hear it! Now I see plainly he is a sorcerer, and he tricks you as he would trick an infant!' But neither could scorn move him; he turned away his head, listening sullenly. Then Cassandra drew nearer again. 'Well, Astro, so be it. I will not enter. Only do you set the door ajar and let me peep----' 'You will not go in?' 'No; only open and let me just look.' At this he drew forth the key and unlocked the door. Giovanni, rising softly and drawing nearer, saw a common peach-tree at the far end of the little walled garden; under the dim green moonlight the tree seemed weird and ill-omened. Standing in the doorway, the girl looked about her with the wide eyes of eager curiosity. Then she took a step forward. The smith held her back; but she freed herself and slipped through his hands like a snake. He again pushed her out, almost overthrowing her. But she recovered her balance easily, and looked him full in the eyes. Her face pale, livid, and contracted with rage, was terrifying; at that moment she truly seemed a witch. The smith clapped to the door, and without further speech retreated to the house, she following him with her golden eyes. Presently she strode hastily past Giovanni, and through the wicket into the road of the Porta Vercellina. Once more silence reigned, and the mist thickened; all things vanished in it. Giovanni, left alone, closed his eyes painfully. Before him rose as in a vision the awful tree, the heavy drops on its damp leaves, its poisoned fruits, pallidly illuminated. And he thought of the words:-- 'Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil thou shalt not eat. For in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.' BOOK III THE POISONED FRUITS--1494 'And the Serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die. For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.--GEN. iii. 4 and 5. 'Faciendo un bucho con un succhiello dentro un albusciello, a chacciandovi arsenicho e risalgallo e sollimato stemperati con acqua arzente, a forza di fare e sua frutti velenosi.'--LEONARDO DA VINCI. (Having pierced the heart of a young tree, inject arsenic, a reagent and corrosive sublimate, diluted with alcohol, so as to envenom even the fruit.) I Beatrice, the duchess, used every Friday to bathe her hair, and then tincture it with gold, after which she dried it in the sunshine. For her convenience she had caused balustraded '_altane_,' or platforms, to be erected on the roof of the splendid ducal villa of the Sforzesca, which stood on the right bank of the Ticino, near the fortress of Vigevano, among the fat pastures and the ever green water-side meadows of the province of Lomellina. Here, then, she sat, patiently supporting the blazing heat at an hour when even husbandmen and their oxen were wont to creep into the shadow. She wore a _schiavinetta_--a loose white silk wrapper without sleeves. On her head was a kind of straw sunshade, or hat, from the opening in the top of which flowed out the broad masses of her gilded and rippling hair. An olive-skinned Circassian slave was moistening the hair with a sponge, fixed on the point of a spindle; and a Tartar, slit-eyed and crooked, was combing it with an ivory comb. The dye was made in May of the roots of walnut trees, saffron, ox-gall, swallows' lime, ambergris, bears' claws, and the fat of lizards. Close beside the duchess, and watched by herself, an infusion of musk roses and precious spices was simmering in a long-necked retort, upon a tripod over an invisible flame. Both the waiting-maids were bathed in perspiration; even the duchess's lapdog was ill at ease on this burning _altana_, and, panting and lolling out his tongue, gazed reproachfully at his mistress, nor responded as usual to the provocation of the monkey. The latter was luxuriating in the heat, however, like the negro page, who held the gemmed and jewelled mother-o'-pearl mirror. Though the Lady Beatrice constantly endeavoured to compose countenance and deportment to the severity becoming her rank, it was hard to believe that she was nineteen, had been married three years, and had borne two children. In the girlish roundness of her dark cheek, in the childish dimple, the slender throat, the chin too plump; in the full lips tightly compressed as if always tempted to pout; in the slight shoulders and flat bosom; in the abrupt boyish movements, she appeared still a schoolgirl, spoiled, wilful, restless and even selfish. Yet prudence and intelligence shone from the steady, dark eyes; and the Venetian ambassador, Marino Sanuto, most astute of statesmen, had written in his private letters to his government that this girl was hard as flint, and gave him far more trouble than did her husband, Il Moro; who indeed showed his wisdom by obeying her about everything. The dog barked angrily, and up the winding stair which led to the _altana_ came laboriously an old woman habited like a widow. In one hand she held a crutch, in the other a rosary; the wrinkles in her face might have given her a reverend aspect, had not the withered mouth smiled hypocritically, and the eyes sparkled with audacious cunning. 'Ugh, ugh! How detestable is old age! I could hardly drag myself hither. May the Lord preserve youth and health to your Excellency,' said the old woman, kissing the hem of the _schiavinetta_. 'Well, Monna Sidonia, is it ready?' The crone drew from her pouch a carefully wrapped, closely-stoppered phial, containing a turbid, whitish liquid,--the milk of a red goat and of an ass, distilled with wild anise, asparagus, and white lilies. 'In good sooth, her Excellency should keep it two little days more in good horse litter. Yet it can be used at once if needful; only first strain it through a filter. Wet with it crumbs of stale bread, and then be pleased to rub your noble countenance for such a period as would take the reciting of three _credos_. In five weeks' time all swarthiness will be removed, and pimples beside.' 'Hearken, old woman,' said Beatrice; 'in this lotion there are again, mayhap, some of the abominable things used in black magic,--snakes' fat, perchance, or plovers' blood; or powdered lizards, fried in a frying-pan; such as there were in that unguent you gave me for withering the hair in my cheek-moles. If it be so, tell me at once.' 'Your Excellency should not lend her ear to the calumnies of the malignant. I work honestly, as my conscience dictates; but no one can do without dirt sometimes. The magnificent Madonna Angelica, for example, all last year washed her head with dogs' urine, so as to preserve her hair, which was falling out; and thanked God and me it cured her.' Then, bending down to the duchess's ear, she told the latest gossip:--how the young wife of the Master of the Guild of the Salters, the lovely Madonna Filiberta was deceiving her husband with a Spanish cavalier, and diverting herself hugely. 'And doubtless,' said Beatrice, jestingly threatening with her finger, ''twas you who brought the poor thing to it, you old bawd!' 'Does your Excellency call her _poor_? Nay, she sings me her thanks every hour. Now she knows the difference between the kiss of a spouse and the kiss of a lover.' 'But the sin? Doth not her conscience bite her?' 'Her conscience? Madam, I hold the sin of love the work of nature. And a few drops of holy water can wash the sin away. Madonna Filiberta is but giving her spouse a Roland for his Oliver.' 'Is your meaning that likewise the husband----' 'Say it for certain, I do not--but sure it is that all married men harp on one string. There is none of them but would sooner have a single hand than a single wife.' The duchess laughed. 'Ah, Monna Sidonia, Monna Sidonia, there's no tripping you! But where do you learn all these things?' 'Believe the word of an old woman; what I tell you is gospel truth. And in matters of conscience I know the difference between a beam and a mote. All fruit gets ripe in its season. If she have not her fill of love when she be young, a woman will fall into such longing when she is old, that she will go straight into the claws of the devil.' 'You preach like a doctor of theology.' 'Nay, I am unlearned; but I speak from my heart, and I tell your Excellency that youth comes but once in life; for what the devil--Lord forgive me!--is the use of us women when we are old? Perhaps to throw charcoal on the brazier, and to count the pots and the pans in the kitchen. Not for nothing says the proverb. "La giovane mangia, la vecchia s'ingozza."[2] [2] _Ingozzare_, to swallow; also, to bear an affront meekly. Beauty without love is like matins without a paternoster.' 'What! say that over again!' laughed the duchess. The old woman, thinking she had now trifled enough, again bent to the lady's ear and whispered. Beatrice ceased to laugh, her face darkened. She dismissed her attendants, excepting the little blackamoor who had no Italian. Around them was only the still and glowing air, which seemed to have paled under the fury of the heat. 'Folly!' answered the duchess; 'such chattering is of no moment.' 'Signora, I saw with my eyes, I heard with my ears. Others will tell you the like.' 'Were there many persons?' 'Ten thousand. The piazza before the Castle of Pavia was thronged.' 'What heard you?' 'When Madonna Isabella came forth bearing the little Francesco there was a beating of hands, a waving of caps, and a many who shed tears. "_Viva_ Isabella of Aragon," they cried, "_Viva_ Gian Galeazzo and his heir, our true and legitimate lord! Death to the usurpers of his throne!"' Beatrice frowned. 'Those were the very words?' 'Ay; but there was worse.' 'Speak--fear nothing.' 'They cried--my tongue, _Signora mia_, refuses--but they cried "Death to the Robbers!"' Beatrice shivered; mastering herself, however, she asked calmly, 'Was there more?' 'Of a truth, I know not how to tell it to your Excellency.' 'Haste thee, I would know all.' 'Believe me, madam, they said that the most noble duke, Ludovico il Moro, the guardian and the benefactor of Gian Galeazzo, holds his nephew in the fortress of Pavia, and surrounds him with assassins and spies. Then they demanded that the duke himself should come out to them, but Madonna Isabella answered that he lay sick.' And again Monna Sidonia whispered in the duchess's ear. 'But you are distraught, you old hag,' cried the lady. 'Beware, lest I have you thrown from this roof, so that not even a crow can get your bones together.' The threat did not frighten Monna Sidonia. Beatrice also soon calmed. 'I don't believe a word of it,' she said, observing the crone furtively. 'As you please, Excellency,' answered the other, shrugging lean shoulders, 'but nothing can prevent my words from being true. See you,' she continued insinuatingly, 'you make a small figure of wax, and you put a swallow's heart in at the right side, at the left its liver, then you pierce it with a needle, uttering charms the while; and he will die of a slow death, nor is there doctor who can save him.' 'Silence!' commanded the duchess. The hag again devoutly kissed the hem of the _schiavinetta_. 'Your Grace is my sun. I love you overmuch, 'tis my worst fault.' She paused, then added, 'It can be done also without witchcraft.' The duchess was silent, but she looked at the woman curiously. 'As I came by the palace garden,' resumed Monna Sidonia, dryly, 'I saw the gardener collecting fair ripe peaches in a basket, a present doubtless for Messer Gian Galeazzo.' Another pause, and she continued, 'And likewise in the garden of Messer Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine, there are fair ripe peaches, but empoisoned.' 'Empoisoned?' 'Ay, Monna Cassandra, my niece, saw----' And again she whispered. The duchess made no answer. By this time her hair was dry, and she rose, threw off the _schiavinetta_, and descended to the apartment known as the wardrobe. Here were three huge presses; the first, large as that in some great sacristy, contained the eighty-four dresses which she had found time to acquire in the three years of her married life; some so stiff with gold and jewels that they could stand on the floor by themselves, others diaphanous, imponderous as the web of a spider. In the second press were riding-dresses, and all furniture for hawking. In the third, essences, waters, washes, unguents, powders for the teeth of white coral and seed-pearls, innumerable vases, retorts, rectified alembics, crucibles, in short, a complete laboratory of female alchemy; precious cedar-wood chests, also, covered with paintings and embroidery. From one of these the waiting-woman drew forth a chemise of the purest whiteness. The room filled with a scent of lavender, oriental iris, and dried Damascus roses. While she dressed, Beatrice conversed about the trimming of a new gown just received by courier from her sister, Isabella d'Este, the Marchioness of Mantua. The sisters vied with each other in elegance, and Beatrice paid a court spy to keep her informed of all the novelties in the Mantuan wardrobe. The duchess attired herself in her favourite robe, which, striped with gold satin and green velvet, made her seem taller than she was. The open-work sleeves were tied with bands of grey silk, slashed in the French mode, and showing the white puffings of the undergarment. Her hair was plaited and confined in a gold net and fine gold cord, which was clasped by a scorpion of rubies. II She was in the habit of spending so long a time at the morning toilette that the duke said he could as quickly have fitted a merchant ship for the Indies. On this occasion, however, hearing a distant sound of horns and the baying of hounds, she remembered that she had ordered a hunt, and consequently hurried. When dressed she paid a passing visit to the chamber of her dwarfs, which, in imitation of the royal play-room of Isabella d'Este, she nicknamed 'the Apartment of the Giants.' Here everything was arranged for a population of pygmies: chairs, beds, furniture, ladders, even a chapel with a toy altar at which daily service was read by a learned dwarf named Janachi in archiepiscopal robes and mitre. Among the 'giants' was always much noise: laughter and weeping, the cries of various and eerie voices from hunchbacks, apes, parrots, idiots, Tartars, buffoons, and other absurd creatures, with whom the youthful duchess sometimes passed whole days playing. To-day she looked in merely to inquire after the health of a little negro named Nannino, lately sent from Venice. His skin had been so black, that in the words of his former mistress, 'Nothing more exquisite could be desired,' but now that he had fallen ill it had become apparent that his hue was not entirely natural, for a coating, black and shining like lacquer, was peeling off and causing great chagrin to Beatrice. However, she loved him in spite of his growing fairness, and hearing with distress that he was likely to die, she gave orders to have him christened as quickly as possible. Descending the staircase, she met Morgantina, her favourite female fool, who was young, pretty, and so whimsical that she 'could rouse even the dead to laughter.' She stole and hid booty like a magpie, but if spoken to kindly would confess her crimes, and was simple and innocent as a child. Sometimes, however, she fell into fits of melancholy, wailing for her lost son (who had never existed). This morning she was sitting on the stair hugging her knees and sobbing distractedly. Beatrice patted her on the head. 'Cease, little one, cease,' she said, 'be good.' The fool, raising her childish blue eyes streaming with tears, made reply, 'Oh! oh! oh! they have taken my baby away! And, O Lord, why? What harm had he done?' Without another word the duchess went down into the courtyard where the huntsmen were awaiting her. III Surrounded by outriders, falconers, beaters, equerries, pages, and court-ladies, Beatrice sat her slender dark bay Arab--a superb creature from Gonzaga's stables--like an expert horseman. 'A true queen of Amazons,' thought her husband proudly, as he came out of the pleached alley before the palace to watch his consort's start. Behind the duchess rode a falconer in a sumptuous livery, embroidered with gold. A snow-white Cyprus falcon, a gift from the Sultan, its golden hood glittering with emeralds, and little bells attached to its claws, sat on his left hand. Beatrice was in lively humour; she looked at her husband with a smile, but when he said-- 'Be wary! the horse is mettlesome,' she signed to her companions and darted off at a gallop, first along the road, then over the open fields, across ditches, hillocks, and trenches. Her retinue fell behind; but Beatrice was attended by a huge wolf-hound, and by her side, on a black Castilian mare, the gayest and boldest of her maidens, rode Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli. The duke was by no means indifferent to this lady, and as he watched her and Beatrice side by side in this mad gallop, it would have perplexed him to say which of the two he admired the more. However, he certainly experienced an invincible anxiety for his young wife, and when she leaped a deep chasm, he closed his eyes and caught his breath. Often he had reproved her for these follies, but had not the heart to forbid them; deficient himself in physical courage, he was proud of the daring of his lady. The party descended into the ravine and disappeared among the osier thickets of the low banks of the Ticino, the breeding place of ducks, woodcock, and herons. Then the duke returned to his _studiolo_, where Messer Bartolomeo Calco, his chief secretary, who had charge of the embassies from the foreign courts, was awaiting commands. IV Sitting in his high-backed armchair, Ludovico Sforza softly stroked his smooth-shaved chin with a white and well-kept hand. His handsome face wore that expression of perfect candour which is acquired by past masters in political trickery; his high-bridged aquiline nose, and subtly writhen lips recalled his father Francesco, the great _Condottiere_; though if Francesco were, as the poets said, at once lion and fox, Ludovico was merely fox. He was attired in pale blue silk, puffed and embroidered; his smooth hair covered ears and brow like a wig, and a gold chain dangled on his breast; in word and gesture he was uniformly courteous and urbane. 'Have you certain intelligence, Messer Bartolomeo, of the departure of the French army from Lyons?' 'None, your Excellency. Every evening they say "to-morrow," every morning they say "to-night." The king wastes himself in unwarlike amusements.' 'Who is his first favourite?' 'Many names are mentioned, the taste of his Majesty is variable.' 'Write to Count Belgioioso that I send him thirty--no--forty or fifty thousand ducats to spend in new donatives, let him spare nothing. We must draw this king out of Lyons by golden chains. And, Bartolomeo--but repeat this not--it were well to send his Majesty the portraits of some of our fairest ladies. By the way, is the letter ready?' 'It is, Signore.' 'Show it to me.' Il Moro rubbed his white hands for pleasure. Every time he contemplated his huge web of policy, he felt an agreeable stirring at heart; he loved the dangerous game. Nor did he blame himself for having summoned the foreigners, the northern barbarians, into Italy; his enemies had forced him to this extreme measure, chiefly the consort of Gian Galeazzo, Isabella of Aragon, who openly accused him of having usurped the throne of his nephew. Yet it had not been till her father, Alfonso of Naples, had intervened, threatening war and dethronement, that Ludovico had appealed to Charles VIII. King of France. 'Inscrutable are thy ways, O Lord!' thought the duke piously, while his secretary searched for the letter in a pile of papers; 'the salvation of my kingdom, of Italy, perhaps of all Europe, is in the hands of this abortion of nature, this libertine, this witless boy, whom they name the Most Christian King of France; before whom we, the heirs of the glory of the Sforzas, must crouch, and creep, and play the pander. But such are politics; he who hunts with wolves must howl with them.' He read over the letter, which seemed to him sufficiently well expressed. 'May the Lord bless thy crusading army, O most Christian,' so it ran; 'the gates of Ausonia stand open to thee. Hesitate not to enter in triumph, a new Hannibal! The peoples of Italy yearn to bow beneath thy gentle yoke, O anointed of the Most High....' So far the duke had read when a humpbacked, bald, old man looked in at the door. Ludovico smiled, but motioned to him to wait. The head vanished, and the door closed again softly; but the secretary saw he had lost his master's attention. Messer Bartolomeo therefore concluded the letter and went out. The duke cautiously stepped to the door on the tips of his toes, and called softly-- 'Bernardo! Hist! Bernardo!' 'Here, my lord.' And the court poet, Bernardo Bellincioni, advanced with an air of mystery and servility, and he would have fallen on his knees to kiss the duke's hand: the latter, however, restrained him. 'Well? Well?' 'All is right, my lord.' 'Is she brought to bed?' 'Last night saw her released from her burden.' 'Felicitously? Or shall I send my physician?' 'Nay, the mother is doing perfectly.' 'Glory be to God! And the child?' 'Perfect.' 'Male or female?' 'A man-child. And with a voice--! Fair hair as his mother's; but the eyes black, burning and quick like those of your Grace. The princely blood shows itself. A little Hercules! Madonna Cecilia is beside herself with joy; and bade me inquire the name that will please your Excellency.' 'I have considered that. We will call him Caesar. What think you of that?' ''Tis a fine name; well mouthing, and ancient. Cesare Sforza! A name meant for a hero.' 'Well now--about the husband?' 'The illustrious Count Bergamini is good and courteous as ever.' 'Admirable man!' cried the duke. 'Your Excellency will permit me to pronounce him a man of rare virtue. Such men are to seek nowadays. If the gout permit, he would desire to sup with your Worship, to testify to his respect.' The Countess Cecilia of whom they spoke had long been Ludovico's mistress. But Beatrice, his bride, daughter of Ercole d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, having discovered the amour, became furiously jealous; and by threats of return to her paternal home, she induced her lord not only to swear better observance of his conjugal fidelity, but also to bestow Cecilia in wedlock. The husband selected by Ludovico was the ancient and complaisant Count Bergamini. Bellincioni, taking a small paper from his pocket, presented it to the duke. It was a sonnet in honour of the newly born:-- 'Thou weepest, Phoebus! Why this silver rain? Because this day upon the amazèd skies, Lo! I have seen a second sun arise, Before whose splendours all my glories wane.' 'This is a tale for laughter!' 'Nay, for pain, Truth suffers no derision from the wise.' 'Then tell me more, and still my loud surprise, That queries whence this newer king shall reign.' 'The offspring of a Moor, he makes his nest In sweet Cecilia's arms--I saw his light Shine through the brooding feathers of her love; Now, must I hide me in the cloudy west, Eclipsed by one more radiant and more bright, Who shall greater God than Phoebus prove.' The duke bestowed a silver piece upon the poet. 'Bernardo, let it not slip your memory that Saturday is the birthday of the duchess.' Bellincioni hastily fumbled in the folds of his courtly but threadbare raiment, and from some recess therein drew forth a whole sheaf of tumbled papers; and among grandiloquent odes on the death of Madonna Angelina's falcon, and the disorder of Signor Paravicino's dappled Hungarian mare, found the verses required. 'Here be three for my lord to choose from,' he said. 'I vow by the sacred footprints of Pegasus, you will be content.' In those times sovereigns used their court poets as musical instruments, to serenade not their mistresses only, but also their wives; fashion demanded that between husband and wife at least platonic love should be assumed. The duke ran through the verses curiously; though he could not himself string two lines together. In the first sonnet he found two lines to his taste, where the husband turns to his wife with these words:-- 'Where thy light spittle falls, flowers gem the earth As dews of spring bring violets to birth.' In the second the poet, comparing Madonna Beatrice with the goddess Diana, asserted that boars and stags felt happiness in falling by the hand of so fair a huntress. The third poem pleased Il Moro better than all the rest. It was put into the mouth of Dante, who prays that God may permit him to return to earth, since there he would once more find his Beatrice in the person of the Duchess of Milan. 'O great Jove!' cried Alighieri, 'since thou hast again given her to the earth that she may gladden it with the light of love, permit me also to be with her, and to see him whose felicity she is, and whose life she maketh most proud and glad.' Il Moro graciously slapped the poet on his back, and promised him some scarlet Florentine cloth at ten _soldi_ the _braccio_ for his winter cloak. Bernardo, by no means satisfied, made many bowings and bendings, and obtained at last the promise of some fox skin linings. He explained that his furs had become by long wear as hairless and transparent as vermicelli drying in the sun. 'Last winter,' he continued, 'I was so cold that I was ready to burn not only my own staircase but the wooden shoes of St. Francis.' The duke laughed, and promised him firewood, and Bellincioni instantly improvised a laudatory quatrain. 'When to thy servants thou dost promise bread Like God thou giv'st them heavenly manna, For which great Phoebus and the choir of nine Chant, noble Moor, to thee Hosanna.' 'You seem in the vein to-day, Bernardo. Hearken, I require yet another poem.' 'Erotic?' 'Ay; and impassioned.' 'For the duchess?' 'By no means. But, beware you speak not of this!' 'My lord is pleased to insult me. Have I ever----' 'Not yet.' 'I am dumb as any fish,' and he blinked his eyes obsequiously and mysteriously. 'Impassioned? That I understand. But of what kind? Grateful? Imploring?' 'The last.' The poet drew his brows together with an air of grave solicitude. 'Wedded?' 'A maid.' 'Good. But I shall need the name.' 'What on earth matters the name?' 'Can't do imploring without the name.' 'Madonna Lucrezia.--You have nothing ready?' 'Truly, my lord, I have; but something fresh would please better. Permit me the seclusion of the next apartment; 'twill be the affair of a moment. Already I feel the rhymes crawling in my head.' Just then a page announced 'Messer Leonardo da Vinci,' and Bellincioni disappeared through one door as Leonardo entered at the other. V After the opening salutations the duke and the artist fell to discussing the new canal which was to connect the Sesia and the Ticino, and by a branching network of trenches was to irrigate the meadows and pastures of the Lomellina. Leonardo was superintendent of the excavations for the canal, though he had not the title of Ducal Architect; neither was he called the Court Painter, but only the _Sonatore di lire_, a title which gave him precedence of the court poets like Bellincioni, and had been accorded to him because on arrival in Milan he had presented Sforza with a silver lyre, made by his own hand in the shape of a horse's head. Having explained his design for the canal, Leonardo requested of the duke that he might be put in possession of the further moneys necessary for the prosecution of the work. 'How much?' asked Ludovico. 'Five hundred and six ducats for every league: in all, fifteen thousand one hundred and eighty-seven.' Ludovico frowned, remembering the fifty thousand he had just devoted to the corruption of French nobles. 'Too much, too much, Messer Leonardo. You would ruin me. It is impossible, unexampled. Why these boundless designs? I might consult Bramante, you know, who is also an expert in construction. He works more cheaply.' Leonardo shrugged his shoulders. 'As you please, my lord. Entrust it to Bramante.' 'Nay, be not offended. I have no thought of slighting you.' And they fell to bargaining. '_Va bene, va bene!_' said the duke at last, deferring the conclusion of the agreement; and he took up Leonardo's sketch-book and turned over the unfinished drawings, chiefly architectural and mechanical: the artist, somewhat impatient, had to furnish explanations and commentaries. On one sheet there was a huge mausoleum, an artificial mountain crowned with a colonnaded temple, its dome pierced like that of the Pantheon; on the next, the exact calculations and the ground-plan for the edifice, with details for the disposition of stairs, cells, corridors; the whole being destined for the reception of five hundred sepulchral urns. 'What is this?' asked the duke; 'when and for whom have you designed it?' 'For no one. 'Tis a fantasy.' 'Strange fantasy!' commented Ludovico shaking his head; ''tis a cemetery for the gods or the Titans, like a building in a city of dreams.' The next sketch showed the plan for a town with the streets in tiers, one above the other, the upper for the rich, the lower for the poor, for animals, and for refuse; a town to be built in conformity with natural laws; for men without a conscience to be offended by glaring inequality. 'Not so bad!' observed the duke. 'You think it would be practicable?' 'Certainly,' said Leonardo brightening, 'I have long wished your Excellency could be induced to try it, say in one of the suburbs. Five thousand houses would suffice for thirty thousand people; they would be decently divided, whereas now they herd together in dirt and distemper, disseminating the seeds of disease. My plan, Signore, if literally carried out, would provide the finest city in the world.' The duke's laughter checked the enthusiast. 'You are finely crazed, Messer Leonardo. If I gave you the reins you would turn the State topsy-turvy. You do not see that the most submissive of slaves would resent your two-storeyed streets, would spit upon your boasted cleanliness--your pipes and conduits--your finest city in the world, _perdio_; and would flee back to their lousy old towns again, where, as you say, they have a good modicum of filth and distemper, but no insults to their self-respect. Well, and this?' he added, pointing to another drawing. This proved to be a design for a 'house of accommodation,' with secret rooms, doors, and passages, so disposed that the visitors should not meet each other. 'Ah! this is admirable!' cried the duke. 'I am weary of the robbings and the murderings in these places. Here there would be order and security. I will build at once on your plan.' He smiled and added, 'Bravo! Bravo! I see nothing is beneath your ingenuity. _A proposito!_ I remember once reading of the "Ear of Dionysius," a construction at Syracuse, which permitted the tyrant in his palace to hear the speech of his prisoners in the quarry. Think you it were possible to construct an Ear in my palace?' As he spoke the duke had stammered and blushed a little, but he recovered himself immediately: before such a man as this artist no shame was required. And Leonardo, without trenching on morals, eagerly discussed the acoustics of the notion. Then Bellincioni reappeared, announcing that his sonnet was ready and passing beautiful; at which Leonardo took flight, having accepted the duke's invitation to supper. Ludovico requested the poet to read his work. The salamander, so the sonnet ran, lives in the fire, but a lady, of virgin ice, has her dwelling in the lover's fiery heart. The concluding quatrain seemed to the duke surprisingly tender:-- 'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years, But singing brings my torture no relief; Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief, And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."' VI While waiting till his consort should have returned from the chase, the duke took a walk through his domain. He inspected the stables, built like a Greek temple, with columns, porticos, and doubly-lighted windows; the splendid dairy, where he tasted junkets and new-made cheese; then, passing numberless hay-barns and sheds, came to the farm and the cattle-yards. Here every detail rejoiced his heart; the sound of the milk falling from the udders of his favourite Languedoc cow; the newly-littered sow's motherly gruntings; the smell of honey from the swarming hives. A smile of satisfaction illumined his dark face; truly his home was like a filled goblet! He returned to the house and waited under the gallery. It was towards evening, but not yet the hour of sunset; from the water-meadows of the Ticino came the pungent freshness of the grass. The duke cast his eyes slowly over his estate; pastures, meadows, fields watered by a network of ditches, planted with long rows of apple, and pear, and mulberry trees, trellised with the hanging garlands of the vines. From Mortara to Abbiategrasso and further to the very horizon, where in the creeping twilight the snows of Monte Rosa gleamed with unearthly radiance, the boundless plain of Lombardy flowered like the Paradise of God. 'I thank thee, Lord,' said the devout duke raising his eyes heavenward. 'I thank Thee for all. What more is there that I could desire of Thee? Once a barren and leafless wilderness stretched on every side, but I and Leonardo have made these canals, watered this land, and now every blade of grass, every ear of corn blesses me as I bless thee, O Lord!' Then was heard the tongue of the hounds, and the cry of the huntsmen, and above the vines was seen a red lure, a formless object with partridge wings, for bringing back the falcons. Ludovico and his _major domo_ went the round of the tables to be sure that all was ready for the evening feast. Presently the duchess made her entry, and then the guests trooped in, among them Leonardo. A grace was recited, and they sat down to table. The first course consisted of artichokes sent by express from Genoa, fat eels and carp from the Mantua ponds, gift from Isabella d'Este, and a jelly of the breasts of good capons. The company ate with their fingers and with knives, forks being reserved for state occasions. Certain tiny golden ones with crystal prongs were, however, accorded to the ladies at the fruit course. The munificent host assiduously pressed his guests to eat; and as none ever blushed to be hungry, the food and the liquors circulated freely and long. Lucrezia had her seat beside the duchess, and the admiring eyes of the duke rested on them both. It pleased him that his wife should honour the maiden of his fancy, passing dainties from her own plate to the girl's, and caressing her hand with that expansive and playful tenderness which young women sometimes exhibit towards one another. The conversation centred in the hunt, and Beatrice told how the sudden burst of a stag from the thicket had almost thrown her from her horse. Much laughter followed when the fool Gioda, the boaster, told of the boar he had slain, singly, and with superhuman boldness and dexterity. The animal was a tame pig, cast in his path designedly, and the carcase was brought in and exhibited. The fool displayed excesses of rage at these aspersions; but his fury and simplicity were equally assumed. He knew a bad jest from a good one. By degrees the laughter grew louder, and abundant potations reddened all faces; the ladies surreptitiously loosened their stay-laces. The cellarers brought round light Cyprus wine, both red and white, mulled at the fire, and spiced with pistachios, cinnamon, and cloves. When the duke called for wine, his command was passed out from one to the other of the stewards in a solemn chant, as of a church function; a goblet was brought from the buffet, and the chief Seneschal dipped a talisman--an unicorn on a gold chain--into the liquor. If it were poisoned the horn of this animal was to turn black and to shed drops of gore. Similar talismans, of toad's-stone and serpent's-tongue, were put in the salt-cellars. Count Bergamini, Cecilia's husband, had been given the seat of honour, and was especially gay to-night, in spite of age and gout. Pointing to the unicorn, he cried:-- 'I fancy not the King of France has such a horn as your most illustrious Excellency!' 'Hee! hee! hee!' crowed Janachi the hunchback, shaking his rattle and clanging the bells of his motley cap, surmounted by ass's ears. 'Believe him, nuncle, believe him!' And the duke good-humouredly threatened the jester with his finger. Now silver trumpets blared to announce the entry of the roasts--boar's head and peacocks. Last came a pasty in the figure of a castle; from its walls sounded a trumpet, and when the crust was cut a dwarf in parrot's plumage sprang out and hopped round the table, till captured and imprisoned in a gilded cage. Thence he screamed out a paternoster. 'Messer,' said the duchess to her lord, 'to what joyful event must we attribute the unexpected good fare of this feast?' Il Moro made no answer, but exchanged sly glances with Count Bergamini. Cecilia's husband understood that the celebration was for the new-born Cesare. They sat over the boar's head for more than an hour, making no economy of time, and remembering the proverb, 'At table none groweth old.' At the close of the repast, Fra Talpone caused general hilarity. He was a monk of great corpulence, quarrelled for by princes, being renowned for voracity. He had greatly diverted His Holiness the Pope by devouring the third part of a bishop's cassock, cut in pieces, and steeped in vinegar. Now at a signal from the duke a huge platter of '_buzecchio_'--tripe stewed with quinces--was placed before the friar. He sighed, crossed himself, rolled up his sleeves, and consumed it with relish and incredible rapidity. 'If thou had'st dined with Christ when He divided The loaves and fishes miracle provided, No morsel had remained a dog to fill, Whilst thou unsatisfied had'st hungered still,' sang Bellincioni on the spur of the moment. Roars of laughter broke from the company. Only the face of the lonely and taciturn Leonardo retained its expression of resigned _ennui_. When the concluding dish of gilded oranges had been served on silver plates, and handed with Malvoisie, then Antonio Camella da Pistoja, a court poet, recited an ode in which the duke was addressed by the Arts and Sciences and Elements in these terms:-- 'We were slaves; thou camest, and we are free. _Evviva il Moro_.' VII After supper the guests adjourned to the garden called 'The Paradise'; laid out in geometrical figures with shorn edgings of box, alleys of laurel and myrtle, shaded walks, labyrinths, loggias, and woven arbours. Rugs and silken pillows were thrown on a lawn freshened by a glittering fountain. The ladies and their cavaliers grouped themselves with relaxing ceremony before the little court theatre, and an act of the '_Miles Gloriosus_' of Plautus was performed. It was tedious, but the audience, out of reverence for the ancients, feigned attention. After the comedy the young people played ball, tennis, and blind-man's-buff, running about, laughing and catching each other like children among the luxuriant and fragrant roses and orange-trees, while the elders were at dice, draughts, and chess. Others of the company gathered in a close circle on the steps of the fountain, and told _novelli_ after the fashion of the youths and ladies of the _Decameron_. Then they danced to the tune of the favourite air of 'Lorenzo dei Medici':-- 'Quant e bella giovinezza Ma si fugge tuttavia Chi vuol esser lieto, sia Di doman non c'è certezza.' (Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness; He knows not if to-morrow curse or bless.) After the dance Madonna Diana, a gentle girl with a pale and lovely face, sang to the low notes of the lute a plaint on unrequited love. As by enchantment the noise and the laughter ceased, and all listened with thoughtful and reminiscent attention. It was long before any one spoke, and after the ending of the song the hush was broken only by the quiet rustling of the fountain. But presently the voices and the mirth and the music awoke again, and were to be heard till late at night, when the laurels were lighted by fireflies, and in the darkened heaven reigned the new-born moon. And over all the Paradiso floated a soft air, rich with perfume of orange-blossom; and still trembled the notes of the Medicean canzone:-- 'Chi vuol esser lieto, sia Di doman non c'è certezza. VIII The duke saw a glimmer of light in one of the four palace towers. It was the lamp of Messer Ambrogio da Rosate, prime astrologer, and a member of the Secret Council, who was observing the conjunction of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn in the sign of Aquarius, a matter of profound significance for the house of Sforza. As if pricked in his memory, the duke hastily saluted Madonna Lucrezia, with whom he had been engaged in tender discourse, and entered the palace. He looked at the clock, and having awaited the precise minute and second enjoined by the astrologer, swallowed a rhubarb pill, and consulted a calendar in which he read the following note:-- '_August 5th._--Eight minutes past ten of the evening, pray heartily on your knees, after folding your hands and raising your eyes to Heaven.' Fearing to be late, and so miss the prescription's efficacy, he hurried to the chapel, unlighted save by a single lamp before a picture. The duke loved the picture; it was by Leonardo, and represented Cecilia, Countess of Bergamini, arrayed like the Madonna, blessing a hundred-petalled rose. He counted eight minutes by the hour-glass, sank on his knees, folded his hands, and recited the _Confiteor_. He prayed long and fervently, his eyes on the picture. 'Mother of God,' he murmured, 'protect, save, and have mercy on me, on my son Massimiliano, and Cesare, the newly-born. I commend unto thee Beatrice, my consort, and Madonna Cecilia. And likewise Gian Galeazzo, my nephew, for thou see'st my heart, and knowest that I wish no evil to my nephew, though it may be that his death would set free not only my state, but all Italy.' Here he remembered the proof of his right to his throne which he had obtained from the jurisconsult, and which stated that his elder brother (father of Gian Galeazzo) having been born unto Francesco Sforza, the condottiere, before he became Francesco Sforza and Duke of Milan, whereas Ludovico was born unto the said Francesco _after_ he had become duke--the younger not the elder was obviously the heir to the ducal dignities of the common father. At this moment, however, the decision seemed to Ludovico rather ingenious than convincing. He hesitated to put it before the Mother of God, contenting himself thus:-- 'If in anything I have sinned or shall sin before thee, O Queen of Heaven, thou knowest that I do so not for myself but for the good of my people and of Italy. Mediate for me with God, and I will glorify thee by the building in splendour of the cathedral in this town of Milan, and of the Certosa at Pavia, and of other glorious monuments.' After his prayer, candle in hand, he went toward his bedchamber, passing through the dark rooms of the sleeping palace. In one of them, however, he encountered Madonna Lucrezia. 'Truly, the god of Love favours me!' he thought. 'Signore!' exclaimed the girl; her voice broke, she would have thrown herself on her knees before him, as she added, 'have pity on me, my lord!' And she told him that her brother Matteo Crivelli, chief of the chamberlains, a man of abandoned life but whom she devotedly loved, had lost at play great sums of the public money. 'Fear not, madonna! I will save your brother.' He was silent for a moment, and added with a deep sigh:-- 'And you too, O madonna, will you not be to me less cruel?' She looked questioningly at him with serene and innocent eyes. 'I do not understand you, signore. What is your meaning?' Her modesty rendered her yet fairer. 'It means, my sweet,' he said, throwing his arm almost roughly round her, 'it means--but, Lucrezia, have you not seen that I love you?' 'Loose me! Let me go! What do you, signore! Madonna Beatrice----' 'Shall not know!' said the duke. 'No, my lord, no. She is so good, so generous to me. Leave me, for pity's sake--' 'I will save your brother--do all your desire--be your slave. Only have pity on me.' And half-sincere in his passion and his tears, he murmured in trembling tones those lines of the poet's:-- 'I sing, poor swan, of my consumèd years, But singing brings my torture no relief; Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief, And mocking cries, "Extinguish it with tears."' 'Let me go! Let me go!' said the girl desperately. But he bent over her, feeling the freshness of her breath, the perfume of violet and musk, and forcibly kissed her on the lips. For one moment Lucrezia languished in his embrace, then, with a despairing cry, broke from him and fled. IX Having reached the nuptial apartment, he found the lamp extinguished, and Beatrice already reposing in the huge, mausoleum-like couch on a dais in the middle of the floor under a blue silk baldachin. It was adorned with silver curtains, and a coverlet, costly as the vestment of a priest, of cloth of gold and pearls. 'Bice,' he whispered caressingly; 'Bice, dost thou sleep?' and he would have saluted her, but she repulsed him. 'Bice--why is this?' 'Leave me in peace; I am fain of sleep.' 'But why, dear one, why? If thou knew'st how I adore thee!' 'Yes, yes, I know you adore us all together. Your consort, and Cecilia, and _perdio_! the Muscovy slave-woman, the red-haired fool whom you kissed in the obscurer angle of my wardrobe room!' ''Twas a jest.' 'A jest I care not for.' 'Alas, Bice, these many days thou hast been harsh to me! Well, I confess it--I am guilty; 'twas a scurvy jest--a caprice.' 'Your caprices, my lord, are many.' She turned towards him angrily. 'How is it you have no shame? Why, why these lies? Do I not know you?--read you to the soul? I would not have you think this jealousy; but I will not, hear you, my lord?--I _will not_ be one among your lemans.' 'I swear to thee, Bice, I have loved none save thee. By my soul's eternal weal, I swear it.' She was silent, surprised less by his words than by the tone in which they were uttered. He was not wholly lying. The more he deceived her the more he felt he loved her, as if passion were inflamed by fear, qualms of conscience, pity, and remorse. 'Pardon, Bice, pardon,' he implored; 'consider my love for thee----' She submitted herself; and as he embraced her, invisible in the darkness, he remembered serene and innocent eyes, and a perfume of freshness, of violet and musk; the two loves confused themselves in an exquisite sensation. 'Truly to-day thou art something like a lover!' she said with inward pride. 'Of a truth, dear one; it is still as it was in our first days----' 'Foolishness!' cried Beatrice laughing; 'Fie on this trifling. Rather should'st thou be thinking of deeper matters. It seems as though _his_ health were mending.' 'Nay, 'tis but few days since Luigi Marliani assured me there was no hope for him,' replied the duke; ''tis true we have now a little amendment, but it will not be for long; he is doomed beyond remission.' 'Who can tell?' urged Beatrice; 'he is over-tended. Of a truth, Ludovico, I marvel at your patience. You bear insults like a sheep. You say "The power is in our hands," but were it not better to renounce power at once than to tremble for it night and day like thieves; to lick the dust before that haughty bastard who is the King of France; to be slaves at the mercy of the impudent Alfonso; to weary ourselves in propitiating that perfidious sorceress of Aragon! They say she is pregnant again: a new serpent will come forth from that cursed nest. And to fare thus for our whole lives! Consider, Ludovico, for our whole lives! And you call that having the power in our own hands!' 'But the physicians constantly aver,' repeated the duke, 'that this malady is incurable; sooner or later----' 'Ay, 'tis later then. For ten years he hath been dying.' There was a silence. Suddenly she threw her beautiful arm round his neck, and drawing herself to him, she whispered in his ear--words which made him shudder. 'Bice! may Christ and His most holy Mother pardon thee! Never--dost heed me?--never again speak to me of that.' 'You are afraid, perhaps? Would you wish _me_ to try?' He did not answer, but asked presently:-- 'Of what thinkest thou?' 'My lord,' she answered, 'I am thinking about peaches.' 'Ay; I have bidden the gardener send thee of the ripest.' 'I care not for them. My thought was of the peaches of Messer Leonardo. Hast thou heard aught of those?' 'What should I have heard?' 'That they be poisoned.' 'How poisoned?' ''Tis true. He hath poisoned them himself, by magic, for his experiments. Monna Sidonia told me; wonderfully beautiful peaches!' And again they were silent, embracing thus in the stillness and the dark; their thoughts united, each listening to the quickened beat of the other's heart--no further speech needed. At last Il Moro, with almost paternal tenderness, kissed his young wife on the brow, and made the sign of the cross. 'Sleep, dear one,' he said, 'sleep in peace.' That night the duchess saw in her dreams fair peaches on a platter of gold. She proved one and found it succulent and toothsome; but of a sudden a voice cried unto her:-- 'Poison! poison!' and again, 'Poison!' The duke likewise dreamed his dream. And in it he fancied himself walking on the shining lawn beside the fountain. And before him at a little distance he saw three women, white-clad and embracing like fair sisters. And nearing himself, he perceived the one to be Beatrice, and the second Lucrezia, and the third Cecilia. He thanked his God that at last they were friends; but in his heart he blamed them that they had not been friends from the first. X The clock in the castle tower struck the hour of midnight, and everywhere was the silence of sleep, saving only on the _altana_, where the duchess was wont to gild her hair; for thither Morgantina, the dwarf, had fled, having escaped from the closet in which she had been confined: there, alone in the darkness, she bewailed the loss of her baby. 'They have slain me my son! And wherefore, O Lord, wherefore? He had done no wrong to any one; he alone comforted me!' The night was serene; the air so pure, so transparent, that against the horizon the icy summits of the Alps were visible, like everlasting crystals. The stillness was long perturbed by the mournful cries of the madwoman, like the keening of some bird of evil omen. Suddenly she gave a sigh, raised her eyes to heaven, and was silent. The stillness of death followed; and the fool smiled at the stars which, far above in the measureless blue of a summer night, were shining upon her--innocently and mysteriously shining. BOOK IV THE WITCHES' SABBATH--1494 'Heaven above--heaven below, Stars above--stars below, All which is over man--under him shows; Glory to him who the riddle readeth!' TABULA SMARAGDINA. I In an obscure outskirt of Milan, near the Porta Vercellina, the Customs House, and the canal called the Acqua Cantarana, stood an old house, very solitary, and remarkable for the smoke which day and night ascended in large spirals from an immense, winding, and blackened chimney. Here dwelt Monna Sidonia, the wise woman. The upper floor she hired to Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, an alchemist; and in the lower she lived herself with Cassandra, his niece, the young daughter of Luigi Sacrobosco, a celebrated traveller, who had traversed Greece, the islands of the Archipelago, Syria, Asia Minor, and Egypt, in the quest for specimens of ancient art. He possessed himself of all that came to hand: a Greek marble, or a trifle of amber, a sham inscription from the tomb of Homer, a new tragedy by Euripides, or a peroration by Demosthenes. Some thought him a great man, but others dubbed him an impostor; and not a few believed him crazy. His imagination was so enthralled by pagan recollections that though to the last a good Catholic, he prayed to the Olympian Hermes, and regarded Wednesday (_Mercoledi_) his day, as one singularly propitious for mercantile ventures. No toil, no privations, daunted him in his enterprises. On one occasion, having already put out ten leagues to sea, he returned to copy an inscription of which accident had informed him. Having lost his collection in a shipwreck, his hair turned white with grief. If asked why he so plagued himself and spent his days in such sore labour, he always replied:-- 'I desire to raise the dead.' In the little town of Mistra, near the ruins of Lacedæmon, he met a maiden of extraordinary beauty, resembling the statues of Artemis. She was the daughter of a poor and drunken village deacon; Luigi married her and took her to Italy with a new copy of the Iliad, the fragments of a Hecate, and the shreds of an earthenware amphora. To the pair was born a daughter, whom they called Cassandra, Luigi being at that time impassioned for Æschylean tragedy. The wife died, and the father was off on his wanderings, so the child was left to the care of Demetrius Chalcondylas, a learned Greek from Constantinople who had been brought to Milan by the Sforzas. This old man of seventy, a double-faced, cunning, and secretive person, pretended a vast zeal for the Catholic Church; in his heart, however, like Cardinal Bessarione, and most of the immigrant Greeks, he was a disciple of the last of the masters of the ancient wisdom, Gemistus Pletho, the Replete with Learning, the neoplatonist who had died forty years before at Mistra, where Luigi had become enamoured of his Artemis. This man had been affirmed by his disciples to be a re-incarnation of the illustrious Plato himself; the theologians, on the contrary, maintained that he had revived the anti-Christian heresies of Julian the Apostate, and that he was to be fought not by argument and controversy, but by the Inquisition and the stake. Chiefly they accused him on account of certain words uttered to his disciples three years before his death. He had said: 'But a few years after I shall have died, one sole Truth shall reign over all peoples and nations, and men shall unite in the single faith' (_unam eandemque religionem universum orbem esse suscepturam_). Being questioned whether he meant the faith of Christ or of Mahomet, he answered: 'Neither the one nor yet the other, but a faith which in naught shall differ from the ancient paganism' (_neutram, inquit, sed a gentilitate non differentem_). Cassandra was bred by Chalcondylas in strict though feigned Christian piety. Overhearing, however, much neoplatonic talk, and not understanding its philosophical subtleties, the maid wove for herself a fantastic dream of the coming Resurrection of the Gods. On her breast she wore a talisman against fever, a present from her father; it was a gem representing Dionysus as a naked youth, with thyrsus and vine-branch, a rearing panther trying to lick the grapes in his hand. Sometimes, when quite alone, she would hold her amethyst up to the sun and gaze into its purple depths until her head swam, and she saw the god in a vision, living, and ever young and adorable. Messer Luigi ruined himself at last in his quest for treasures, and died miserably of a putrid fever in a shepherd's hut beside the ruins of a Phoenician temple, which he had himself discovered. Soon after, Galeotto, his brother, who also had wandered for many years in pursuit, not of antiquities but of the philosopher's stone, came to Milan, established himself in the little house by the Vercellina gate, and took his niece to live with him. She still, however, frequented the house of Chalcondylas, and thither came Giovanni Boltraffio to execute some copying for Messer Giorgio Merula. Encountering Cassandra again, Giovanni remembered the talk he had overheard between her and Zoroastro about the poisoned tree, and he shuddered. Many told him the maiden was a sorceress, but her charm was not to be resisted, and almost every evening when his work was done he sought her in the lonely cottage by the Vercellina gate. They sat on a hillock together above the dark and silently swift waters of the canal, not far from the sluice gates near the convent of St. Radegonda. A scarce visible path, tangled with elder-bushes, wormwood, and nettles, led to the little hillock; no one ever passed that way, and there the two met and loitered and talked long together. II It was a sultry evening; at rare intervals a gust came flying, raising the white dust and rustling in the leaves. It passed by, leaving the stillness stiller than before. Nothing was heard but the dull, seemingly subterranean growl of distant thunder, and against this low, threatening, and solemn roar, the broken shrillness of a lute and the drunken song of the customs-collector celebrating the Sunday feast in the neighbouring tavern. At times a flash broke across the clouds, and then for a moment the little house with the brick chimney, and the black smoke of the alchemist's furnace, the long lean sacristan fishing from the bank, the straight canal with the rows of larches and willows, the flat-bottomed barges from the Lago Maggiore bringing white marble for the cathedral, and drawn by sorry horses, their loose towing-ropes and the long whips of the drivers dipping in the water--all stood out sharp and clear against the prevailing blackness. All was again wrapped in gloom, save for the alchemist's fire always vividly glowing. It was reflected in the Cantarana, whence came noisome odours of stagnant backwaters, rotting fern-leaves, tar, and decaying wood. Giovanni and Cassandra were in their accustomed haunt. ''Tis tedious!' cried the girl, stretching herself wearily and snapping her delicate white fingers behind her head; 'every day the same dull round. To-day as yesterday, and to-morrow as to-day. That same foolish sacristan catching nothing; the same filthy smoke from Messer Galeotto's workshop, where he, too, eternally seeks what he will never find; the same boats towed by the same hateful horses; the same cracked lute! Ah, if it would but change! If the French would come and rid us of Milan! if the sacristan would catch a fish, or my uncle find some gold. _Dio Mio!_ what weariness!' 'I know!' cried Giovanni. 'I also at times find life so wearisome that I am fain to die. But Fra Benedetto taught me a prayer very prevalent against the demon of discontent. Shall I recite it for you?' 'Nay, Giovanni. It is long since I have been able to pray to your God.' 'My God? What god is there but my God? the only God?' A quick flash, like the lightning of the storm, illumined her face; never had it seemed to him so mystic, so unearthly, so fair. She was silent for a time, passing her hand over the dark aureole of her hair. 'Hearken, friend. It was long ago--yonder--in my native land. I was scarce more than a babe. My father had taken me with him on a journey. We visited the ruins of an ancient temple. They stood high on a promontory; the sea was around us and the screaming gulls; the waves were breaking endlessly on black rocks, sharp as needles, and covered with salt foam, which rose and fell, running off the sharp points of the rocks in a seething stream. He found a half-faded inscription on the fragment of a marble slab. I sat long alone on the temple steps, listening to the sea and breathing in its freshness, mixed with the scent of the sea-herbs. Then I went into the abandoned shrine. The columns were yellow, but scarce crumbled by time, and between them the azure sky seemed dark. There were poppies growing in the crevices between the stones--pink poppies--the poppies of Greece! It was quite still, but for that muffled roar of the waves which filled the temple as if with the voices of prayer. And I fell on my knees and prayed to the god who had once been enshrined there--unknown and now rejected by men. I kissed his marble steps, and I wept and loved him because no one on earth loved him any more, nor prayed to him--because he was dead. Never since have I prayed so fervently! And that temple--it was the temple of DIONYSUS!' 'By the love of God, Cassandra, what are you saying? This Dionysus, whom you call God, exists not, nor did exist.' 'Did he not?' cried the girl, scornfully; 'then why teach the holy fathers, whom you reverence, that the gods, banished in the days of the conquering Jesus, were changed into most potent demons? How could Giorgio da Novara, the great astronomer, learn by exact observation that the conjunction of Jupiter with Saturn produced the teaching of Moses; with Mars, that of the Chaldeans; with Venus, that of Mahomet; with Mercury, that of Christ; and that conjunction with the moon--future for him--would bring the teaching of Antichrist and the Resurrection of the Gods?' The storm was drawing nearer, the thunder roared louder, the flashes grew ever brighter, heavy clouds were spreading overhead, yet still the broken lute sobbed forth its insistent melody on the threatening air. 'O madonna!' cried Boltraffio clasping his hands, 'do you not see that 'tis the devil who is tempting you that he may lure you to the abyss! Eternal curses upon him!' The girl turned, laid both hands on his shoulders, and said:-- 'And does he not tempt you also? Why did you leave your sainted teacher, Benedetto? Why did you enter into the school of the impious Leonardo? What brings you hither unto me? Do you not know I am a witch? Are you not affrighted lest you lose your soul talking here with me?' 'The strength of the Lord defend us!' he stammered, shuddering. She silently drew near him, fixing him with her wondrous eyes. At that moment the lightning rent the cloud and flashed on her pale face. Was she the goddess who had risen before Giovanni's awestruck gaze from her tomb on the Hill of the Mill? ''Tis she!' he thought in terror. 'She has found me again, the White She-devil!' He would have risen, but his forces seemed to have left him. He felt the girl's hot breath on his cheek, and listened as she whispered:-- 'Will you that I reveal everything to you? Will you fly with me thither where He is? Ah, it is good there! _There_ is no weariness; nothing maketh ashamed. There all things are permitted as in Paradise!' A cold sweat broke out on Giovanni's brow, but curiosity impelled him, and in a low voice he asked:-- 'Where?' '_Al Sabbato!_' she answered with passionate languor, her lips almost touching his cheek. A peal of thunder, now quite overhead, shook earth and sky, rolling through the air in majestic reverberation, like the laugh of unseen giants. Then slowly it died away into the great silence. And then rang out the melancholy peaceful sound of the convent bell, the evening Angelus. Giovanni made the sign of the cross. 'It is late,' said the girl rising; 'I must return homeward. Do you see those torches, there on the road? 'Tis the duke coming to visit Messer Galeotto, who is to show him an interesting experiment with lead. He thinks it can be turned into gold.' True it was, the tramping of hoofs was heard coming from the Porta Vercellina. Cassandra lingered for a moment, then darted through the tangled elder-bushes and disappeared. III Messer Galeotto had consumed his whole life in the search for the philosopher's stone. Having finished his medical course at Bologna University, he had entered as _famulus_ the service of Count Bernardo Trevisani, renowned as an adept in the occult sciences. Afterwards, for fifteen years, he had sought the transforming mercury in all possible substances; in volatile salts, bismuth, arsenic, human blood, gall, and hair, in animals and plants. In this fashion the six thousand ducats of his patrimony had been dissipated in the smoke which ascended from his chimney. He must needs live on the wealth of others. Money-lenders cast him into prison; he escaped; and for eight years experimented with eggs, destroying some twenty thousand. Next he studied copperas with Maestro Enrico, the papal pronotary, fell ill from the poisonous fumes, lay in bed for fourteen months, and, deserted by every one, came near dying. Having endured all humiliations and persecutions, starvation, beggary, contempt, and even judicial torture, he wandered as an itinerant artificer through France, Spain, the countries of the Empire, Holland, Greece, Persia, Palestine, Northern Africa. At last, old and worn out, but not yet disillusioned, he returned to Lombardy, where Il Moro promised him the office of court alchemist. At Milan, in the lonely cottage by the Porta Vercellina, he had set up his laboratory. It was a large chamber, in the middle of which was a clumsy stove of fire-proof earth divided into compartments, and fitted with valves, crucibles and bellows. In one corner of the room was a pile of refuse. The working-table was heaped with every sort of complicated apparatus, cubes, rectifiers, receivers, retorts, funnels, mortars, test-tubes, bottles, baths. A pungent smell was given off by poisonous alkalis and acids. Here the seven gods of Olympus, the seven heavenly planets, a whole occult and mystic universe had its counterpart in metal: the sun in gold, the moon in silver, Venus in brass, Mars, iron, Saturn, lead, Jupiter, tin, and Mercury in quicksilver. Here were substances with barbaric names which struck terror into the profane. Here were wolf's milk, the iron of Achilles, anacardines, asterites (clear-shining stones, having in the midst an image of a full moon), androgyna, and rhaponticum, aristolochia or hart-wort (for giving ease in childbirth); and a priceless drop of the blood of a lion which had cost years to obtain, a gem, red as a ruby, which cures all diseases and blesses with eternal youth. At his table sat the alchemist, meagre, small, wrinkled as an old mushroom, but still alert and tireless. His head supported on his two hands, Messer Galeotto was gazing intently at a retort, in which with low noise and bubbling was burning oil of Venus, a clear green fluid. The candle that burned by the philosopher's side sent an emerald light through the retort on an ancient parchment folio, a work by the Arab chemist Djabira Abdallah. Hearing voices and footsteps on the stair, Galeotto rose, threw a glance round the laboratory to make sure all was ready, signed to his silent _famulus_ to throw fuel on the furnace, and sallied forth to meet his guests. IV They were a merry company of knights and dames, just risen from supper and Malvoisie. Leonardo was there, and Marliani, the court physician, a man profoundly versed in alchemy. The ladies entered, and the quiet cell of the student was filled with perfumes, with the rustle of silk, with light chatter and laughter like the hum of birds. One damsel overturned a retort with her hanging sleeve, another meddling with a piece of iron slag cut her dainty glove, another spilt the mercury on the table and screamed with delight on seeing the living silver drops. 'And shall we really see Messer Satan in the fire at the moment of the lead's conversion?' asked Madonna Filiberta of her Spanish lover; 'is it not a sin to assist at such experiments?' The alchemist whispered in Leonardo's ear:-- 'Believe me, Messere, I hold myself much honoured by your visit.' And he warmly clasped his hand, adding before Leonardo could respond:-- 'Oh, I know, I know! 'Tis a secret from the crowd; but we understand each other, do we not?' Then with a smile of great affability he said aloud:-- 'With licence from my most illustrious protector, the renowned duke, and of all these loveliest ladies, I will adventure, now to exhibit the divine metamorphosis. Will you all condescend to lend me your honourable attention?' First he showed his crucible, a melting-pot with thick sides of fire-proof clay; he begged each one to examine it, and tap it, and convince himself there was no concealed deception, while he animadverted on the frauds of pretended philosophers who were wont to have vessels with false bottoms in which gold had been placed, not made. He also craved inspection of the pewter, the fuel, the bellows, and all else, to prove his good faith. Then the lead was chopped into small pieces and consigned to the crucible, which was then put on the hottest place of the furnace. The silent, cross-eyed _famulus_--so pale, corpse-like and surly, that one of the ladies near fainted, believing him the expected Messer Satan--began to work a huge pair of bellows, and the fire quickly leaped into flame. Galeotto meanwhile entertained his visitors with conversation, and awakened general mirth by calling his science of alchemy _casta meretrix_, who had many lovers but deluded them all, offered easy conquest to everybody, but had so far yielded to the embraces of none. Luigi Marliani, the court physician, a fat, taciturn, gloomy man with a dignified and intelligent face, lost patience with this chatter, and wiping his brow, cried out:-- 'Messer Galeotto, methinks 'tis time for business. Your metal is already bubbling.' Galeotto opened a little blue paper packet which contained a bright yellow powder, viscous and sparkling, like highly polished glass. It had a strong smell of burnt sea-salt. This was the momentous tincture, the long-sought, priceless jewel of alchemy, the wonder-working _lapis philosophorum_. With the point of a knife he detached a speck of the powder no larger than a turnip-seed, wrapped it in a ball of bees-wax, and tossed it into the boiling pewter. 'And what do you consider the strength of that solution?' asked Marliani. 'One to two thousand eight hundred and twenty of the metal to be converted,' replied Galeotto. 'Naturally my solution is not yet perfected, but shortly, I hope, the figures will be one to a million. Then it will suffice to take of it the weight of a grain of millet, to dissolve it in a barrel of water containing the parings of a hazelnut; and finally, to sprinkle your vines therewith; in result you will have your vintage in May. _Mare tingerem si Mercurius esset._ I would turn the sea into gold had I competency in quicksilver.' Marliani turned away with a shrug. This bombast infuriated him, and he hinted the impossibility of such transformations by arguments supported by Aristotle. 'Have patience, _domine magister_,' said Galeotto with a smile; 'in a little space I will propound to you such a syllogism as not all your logic can confute.' Therewith he threw a handful of white powder in the fire. Clouds of thick smoke filled the laboratory. Hissing and crackling, up leapt a many-coloured flame, changing like a rainbow from blue to green, from red to yellow. The spectators were alarmed, and Filiberta afterward swore that at the instant the flame was purple, she saw in it the face of the Devil. The alchemist with a long hooked iron raised the lid of the crucible. The metal, white-hot, bubbled and hissed and gurgled. Then the lid was replaced; the bellows soughed and whistled, and when ten minutes later a thin iron rod was dipped into the molten liquid, all saw hanging on its end a yellow drop. 'Ready!' cried the alchemist. The pot was now removed from the furnace and allowed to cool. Then before the astounded spectators, there fell from it, sparkling and resounding on the earthen floor, a bar of gold. The alchemist pointed dramatically, and exclaimed:-- '_Solve mihi hunc syllogismum!_' 'Unheard of! Incredible! Against all the laws of nature and of logic!' murmured Marliani in stupefaction. The face of Galeotto was white, his eyes glowed with the fire of inspiration, and looking up to heaven, he cried:-- '_Laudetur Deus in æternum!_ Praise God in eternity who deigns to give part of his infinite power unto us, the most abject of his creatures.' The gold was tested with sulphuric acid. It proved to be purer than the finest of Hungary or Arabia. The company pressed about the venerable philosopher, congratulating him, and wringing his hands. Il Moro took him aside. 'You serve me in fidelity and truth, Messer Galeotto?' 'I would I had more lives than one, that I might dedicate them all to your Excellency,' replied the alchemist. 'Then, Galeotto, beware lest any of the other princes----' '_Illustrissimo_, if there be one of them who shall get even a scent of it, have me hanged for a hound.' And after a pause he added, bowing very low, 'I would pray of your Excellency----' 'What? Again?' 'God is my witness, 'tis for the last time.' 'How much?' 'Five thousand ducats.' The duke reflected, reduced the sum by a thousand, and promised. It was now late; Madonna Beatrice might be anxious; the company hastened to take their leave, each one receiving from the alchemist a fragment of the new-made gold. Only Leonardo remained behind. V When they were alone Galeotto said to him, 'Well, Master, what think you of my experiment?' 'The gold was in the rods,' replied Leonardo dryly. 'What rods? What do you mean, Sir?' 'The rods with which you stirred the molten metal. I saw all.' 'Did you not yourself examine all my utensils?' 'These rods were not those we examined.' 'Not those! Master, permit me----' 'Have I not told you I saw everything?' repeated Leonardo with a smile. 'Be not obstinate, Galeotto. The gold was concealed in hollow rods tipped with wood. When the wooden ends were consumed in the molten mass, the gold fell into it.' The old man's legs shook; over his face spread a look at once abject and pathetic. Leonardo touched him on the shoulder. 'Fear not, Messer Galeotto, none shall know. I am no tale-bearer.' The impostor seized his hand feverishly and cried:-- 'You will not betray me?' 'No. I wish you no ill. But, Messer Galeotto, why these frauds?' 'Oh, Messer Leonardo,' cried the other, and immediately the boundless despair in his eyes was transfigured by a flash of hope, 'I swear to you by God, that if I seem to have practised deception, 'tis but for the welfare of the duchy, for the triumph of science, and because my deception shall endure but a brief space. For, Messer Leonardo, truth it is that I have verily found the philosopher's stone. I do not assert that I have it yet in my possession, but I know that it already exists. That is to say, it as good as exists; for I have found the way, and you know that the way is everything. Three or four more experiments, and lo! it is accomplished. What was I to do, Messere? Is not the discovery of so grand a truth justification for so small a deception?' 'Nay, Messer Galeotto,' replied Leonardo gravely, 'to what purpose would you play with me at blind-man's-buff? You know right well, even as I know, that the transmutation of metals is a baseless dream: that there is no philosopher's stone, nor can be one. Alchemy, necromancy, black magic, all these sciences not founded on mathematics and exact experiment are delusion or deception--flags of charlatans, swelled but by the bellying of the wind, after which runs the gaping herd, applauding it knows not what.' His eyes round and bright with astonishment, the alchemist hung on the lips of the master, and when Leonardo stopped he did not reply. Presently, however, he nodded his head intelligently and winked. 'Ah! ah! Messer Leonardo, but this will not serve. Am I not of the initiated? And do we not all know that thou thyself art the prince of alchemists, the possessor of the most recondite mysteries of nature, the new Hermes Trismegistus, the new Prometheus.' 'I?' 'Thou thyself, Master.' 'Call you this jesting, Messer Galeotto?' 'Contrariwise. 'Tis you, Messer Leonardo, who would jest. How astute and impenetrable you are! In my time I have seen many who were jealous of their secrets of science, never an one like you.' Leonardo looked at him searchingly; he strove in vain to be angry. He smiled involuntarily. 'Do you seriously believe in these arts?' he asked. 'Do I believe in them? Messere, if God Himself came to me hither at this moment and said to me: "Galeotto, there is no philosopher's stone," I should answer him: "Lord, even as it is true that thou hast created me, so is it true that there is that stone, and that I shall find it."' After this Leonardo disputed no more, but listened with interest to the speculations of the alchemist. Presently the talk swerved to the possible assistance of the Devil in the occult sciences; the old man, however, would none of this. He declared the Devil to be the weakest, the most miserable, the most impotent of all the creations of God; he himself had faith only in the human mind, and believed that to science all things were possible. Then suddenly, without any consciousness of an abrupt transition, and as if playing with some agreeable and diverting recollection, he asked whether Messer Leonardo had frequent apparitions of elemental spirits. And when his interlocutor confessed to never having seen any, Galeotto again refused to believe him; and with relish told how the salamander has a body a finger and a half in length, spotted, thin, and harsh, while the sylphide is blue as the sky, transparent, and ethereal. He spoke also of the nymphs and undines that live in the rivers and the sea; of the gnomes, pygmies, and underground dwarfs; of the durgans and dryads, dwellers in trees, and the rare spirits that inhabit precious stones. 'I cannot convey to you,' concluded Galeotto, 'how beneficent and exquisite are these genii!' 'Why, then,' asked Leonardo, 'do they appear only to the elect?' 'Would you have them appear to all? They dread vulgar persons, libertines, materialists, drunkards, and gluttons. They affect the innocent, the childlike, simple ones. They live only where there is no malice nor cunning. Timid and fearful as gazelles they take refuge from human eyes in their native elements.' And a smile of infinite tenderness illuminated the old man's face, as if at the memory of long-ago dreams. 'What a charming old fool!' thought Leonardo, no longer scornful, but ready to simulate participation in any scientific absurdity to please this man, whom now he treated with affectionate consideration, like a child. They parted as friends; and the moment he was alone the alchemist plunged into new experiments with the oil of Venus. VI All this time Monna Sidonia, the mistress of the house, and Cassandra sat before an immense open fireplace in the room below Messer Galeotto's laboratory. Their supper of coarse vegetables was stewing on the hearth, and the old woman with unvarying motion of her wrinkled finger spun the linen thread with her distaff. Cassandra watched her idly, and thought:-- 'Always the same thing. To-day as yesterday, to-morrow as to-day. The cricket chirps, the mouse squeaks, the spindle hums. There is a crackling in the dry sticks on the hearth, and I smell turnips and garlic.' Presently the old woman began prating in her usual way; saying that she was not rich, whatever the people might say about her money-pot buried in the vineyard. That was all an idle tale. The truth was, she was ruining herself for Galeotto and his niece. She had too much heart, that was it, or she would never keep them, the two of them hanging on to her neck like a pair of millstones. And of a truth Cassandra was no longer a child, and ought to be thinking of the future; her uncle would die some day or other, and leave her as poor as Job. She might at least get a husband. She might at least accept the hand of the rich horsedealer at Abbiategrasso, who had the folly to run after her. He was not young, but he was a staid, God-fearing man without any bees in his bonnet; had a good business and a mill, and an olive-press. What more did she want? Cassandra listened in silence; but tedium sat on her like a nightmare; seized her by the throat and suffocated her. She felt an irresistible longing to break out into rebellious weeping and rage. Monna Sidonia fished in the pot for a succulent turnip, mashed it up with grape-juice, and munched with apparent appetite; but the young girl, submissive though with growing desperation, stretched herself and interlaced her fingers behind her hair. After supper the old woman, like a wearied Fate, nodded over her distaff, and her talk died down into disconnected mumbling. Then Cassandra drew forth her talisman, and the firelight shining through its purple depths, she studied the figure of the naked god, and her heart filled with love for the beautiful Hellenic deities. She sighed heavily, concealed her amulet, and said diffidently:-- 'Monna Sidonia! to-night at Barco di Ferrara and at Benevento there is the gathering. Aunt! good kind aunt! we will not dance. We will go only to see. We will come back at once. I will do whatever you wish; I will even try to get a present out of the horsedealer--only be kind for once. Let us fly! let us fly together--now--at once!' And the girl's eyes sparkled hungrily. The beldame surveyed her curiously; then her blue and withered lips parted in a smile which displayed her one tusk-like yellow tooth, and her face lit up with a hideous joy. 'Ah, you wish it? Very much, do you? You have caught the taste? Was there ever such a girl? For my part, I am ready to fly every night. But see you here, Cassandra, you take the sin on your own soul. To-night I wasn't even thinking of it. I'll do it only for your sake, out of my too great goodness of heart.' Without haste the old woman went about the room, shut the shutters, stuffed rags into the chinks, locked all doors, poured water on the fire, lighted a black candle endued with magical properties, and from an iron locker took an earthen vessel containing a pungent ointment. She made show of being deliberate and sensible, but her hands shook as though she were drunk, her sunken eyes were at times turbid, at times they sparkled like coals. Cassandra had dragged the two great troughs used for the kneading of dough into the centre of the room. Now Monna Sidonia stripped herself, and sitting astride of a broomstick on one of the troughs, she smeared herself with the ointment which she had taken from the locker. A hideous odour filled the room; the medicament, infallible for making witches fly, was composed of poisonous lettuce, hemlock, nightshade, mandragora, poppy, henbane, serpent's blood, and the fat of unchristened children. Cassandra could not look at the hag's deformity. At the eleventh hour she recoiled. 'What are you about?' grumbled the crone; 'are you going to leave me to fly alone? Come--make haste. Take your clothes off.' 'All right. But, Monna Sidonia, put the light out. I can't do it in the light.' 'Bah! what modesty! Never mind, there'll be no modesty on the mountain.' She blew out the candle, making the sign of the cross with the left hand for the pleasing of the devil, her master. Then the girl rapidly undressed, knelt in the trough, and smeared herself. In the darkness the old woman was heard mumbling the senseless disconnected words of an incantation. 'Emen Hetan, Emen Hetan, Palu, Baalberi, Astaroth, help us. Agora, Agora, Patrisa, come and help us!' Cassandra eagerly snuffed the strong odour of the unguent. Her skin burned; her head swam; delicious thrills ran down her back. Red and green interlacing circles swam before her eyes, she heard the abandoned stridulous voice of Monna Sidonia as if from afar. 'Garr-r! Garr-r-r! Up! Up! Don't knock your head! We fly! We fly!' VII Forth from the chimney-top flew Cassandra astride on the soft hide of a black goat. Ravished, panting, with exaltation filling her soul, she screamed like a young swift, plunging for the first time through the blue air. 'Garr-r! Up! Up! We fly! We fly!' The deformed and withered body of Aunt Sidonia flew beside her on a broomstick; her thin hair streaming in the blast. 'To the north! To the north!' yelled the hag, managing her broomstick like a horse. Cassandra burst into peals of laughter, remembering poor Messer Leonardo and his cumbrous mechanism. Now she ascended, and the black clouds rolled together beneath her; now they burned blue in the flashes of jagged lightning. But above the clouds the sky was clear. A full moon shone, huge and round as a millstone, and so near she could touch it with her hand. Affrighted, she guided the goat downwards again, and he plunged with her headlong into the void. 'Devil of a wench, you'll break your neck,' screamed Sidonia. Now they were skimming so close to the ground that they brushed the rustling meadow-grasses; will-o'-the-wisps guided their course past old tree-trunks gleaming with rottenness; while the owl, the bittern, and the goatsucker mourned plaintively among the reeds. Presently they flew across the summits of the Alps, their icy spars glittering in the moonshine; and again they dropped to the surface of the sea. Cassandra, scooping water in her hand, tossed it in the air, and rejoiced in the sapphire splashes. Momently their pace increased, and they came up with and distanced fellow-travellers; a sorcerer with long grey hair, in a tub; an ecclesiastic on a muck-rake, red, gorbellied, jovial as Silenus himself; a golden-haired, blue-eyed lass on a broom, a young and red-haired vampire on a grunting porker, and a hundred others. 'Whence come you, little sister?' cried Sidonia, and twenty voices answered her. 'From Candia! From the Isles of Greece! From Valenza! From the Brocken! From Mirandola, Benevento, from the caves and the fjords!' 'Whither go ye?' 'To Biterne! To Biterne! For the marriage of the great goat, the Buck of Biterne. Fly! Fly! Haste to the supper.' And they passed over the dreary plain like a cloud of rooks on a whirlwind. The moon shone purple, and against it in the distance gleamed the cross upon a village church. The vampire hurled herself against it, tore away the cross and the great bell, casting them far off into the swamp, where they sank with a despairing clang. The vampire barked like a joyous dog, and the flaxen-headed lass on the cantering broomstick clapped her little hands with glee. VIII The moon was now hidden by the clouds. Torches flared with flames of green and blue, and upon the chalky plateau the black shadows of the dancing witches spread and wheeled and interlaced and disentwined. 'Garr-r! Garr-r! 'Tis the Sabbath! 'Tis the Sabbath! From right to left! From right to left!' They flew and they danced in their endless thousands like the withered and perishing autumn leaves. In their midst sat Hircus Nocturnus, the great he-goat, enthroned upon the mountain. 'Garr-r! Garr-r-r. Praise to the great Becco Notturno! The Buck of Biterne! The Buck of Biterne! Our wars are ended! Rejoice ye and rejoice!' There was a screeching of pipes made of dead men's bones; the drum, stretched with the skin of the hanged, was beaten with the tail of a wolf. A loathsome stew was boiling in a vast cauldron, not seasoned with salt, for salt is abhorrent to the lord of that place. Black were-cats were there dancing, lustful and emerald-eyed; slender maidens white as lilies; a shapeless capering incubus, grey as a spider; shuddering nuns; on a low bank, a white-bodied, plump, gigantic witch, with a stupid and good-natured face, was suckling two newly-hatched demons, already greedy and malicious. Three-year-old children, not yet admitted to the revelry, were feeding herds of toads, dressed as cardinals, with the sacred Host in their claws. Sidonia and Cassandra joined the dance which sucked them in and whirled them away like a howling storm. 'Garr-r-r! from right to left! From right to left!' Long wet whiskers like those of a walrus swept Cassandra's neck; a thin winding tail tickled her face, she was impudently pinched and bitten, hateful endearments were whispered in her ears. She made no resistance; the wilder the merrier; the more shameless the more intoxicating. Suddenly petrifaction fell on the assembly; all voices were hushed, all movement was arrested. From the black throne, surrounded by terror, where sat the great Unknown, came a dull hoarse roar, like the growl of an earthquake. 'Receive you my gifts! To the weak, my strength; my pride to the humble; to the poor-spirited, my wisdom; to the afflicted, my joy. Receive my gifts!' Then an old man of venerable aspect, his grey beard flowing--one of the fathers of the Holy Inquisition, at the same time patriarch of the sorcerers, and celebrant of the Black Mass, chanted in solemn tones:-- '_Sanctificetur nomen tuum per universum mundum et libera nos ab omni malo!_ Be in awe, ye faithful ones, and fall prostrate!' They knelt, falling on their knees with a crash, and as from one voice resounded the Sorcerer's Confession:-- '_Credo in Deum patrem Luciferum, qui creavit coelum et terram. Et in filium suum Beelzebub._' When the last sounds had died away, and there was renewed stillness, the same voice of the Unknown, deafening as an earthquake cried:-- 'Bring hither my bride--my stainless dove!' And the old man with the flowing beard inquired:-- 'What is the name of thy bride, thy stainless dove?' 'Madonna Cassandra! Madonna Cassandra!' roared the great voice. Hearing the pronouncement of her name, the girl's blood froze in her veins. Her hair stood erect. 'Madonna Cassandra! Cassandra!' rang the cry from the crowd. 'Where hideth she? Where is our sovereign? _Ave Arcisponsa Cassandra!_' She hid her face and would have fled; but bony fingers, claws, antennæ, and probosces, and the hairy legs of spiders seized her; and dragged her trembling before the throne. The rank odour of a goat, and a chill as of death smote her; she closed her eyes in dread. Then he upon the throne cried: 'Come!' Her head hanging, she saw at her feet a fiery cross gleaming through the darkness. She made a supreme effort, took a step forward, and raised her eyes. Then a miracle took place. The goat's skin fell from him as the scales from a sloughing snake; she was face to face with Dionysus the Olympian; thyrsis and vine-branch in his hands, a smile of eternal joy upon his lips, the panther at his feet pawing at the grapes. And the _Sabbato diabolico_ changed into the divine orgies of Bacchus; the witches became Mænads, the monstrous demons were kindly goat-footed Satyrs; the chalk rocks were colonnades of shining marble, lighted by the sun, and between them in the distance was the purple sea. The radiant gods of Hellas, surrounded by an aureole of fire, were gathering in the clouds, and the Satyrs and the Bacchantes, beating their timbrels, cutting their breasts with knives, squeezing the grape-juice into goblets of gold, and mingling it with their blood, danced and circled and sang:-- 'Glory to Dionysus! Glory to Dionysus! The gods have risen! Glory to the eternal gods!' And Bacchus, the ever young, opened his arms to Cassandra. His voice was like thunder, shaking earth and sky as he cried:-- 'Come hither my bride! my stainless dove!' And she sank into the god's embrace. IX From the distance sang the morning cry of the cock, and a sharp odour of fog and smoke greeted the nostrils. Slowly through the air came the sound of a bell, and at this sound the mountain was convulsed. Again the Mænads became the monstrous hags, the Satyrs or Fauns were demons, and the beautiful Dionysus resolved once more into the hideous and fetid Hircus Nocturnus. 'Homewards! Fly! Escape!' 'They have stolen my muck-rake!' the gorbellied ecclesiastic roared despairingly. 'Hog! return to me!' screamed the red-haired vampire, shivering and coughing in the mountain damp. The setting moon once more shone out from behind the clouds, and in the pallid crimson of her light, the frightened witches, swarm after swarm, like unclean flies, streamed away from the mountain. 'Garr-r! Garr-r! Up from the depths! Do not knock your heads. Save yourselves. Fly!' The Becco Notturno, bleating lamentably, sank through the earth, leaving the rotten and stifling odour of sulphur. And slow and solemn the church bells sounded more triumphantly through the purer air. X Cassandra returned to herself in the darkened chamber of the little house by the Porta Vercellina. She was nauseated as if after drunkenness. Her head was like lead; her body broken with weariness. The bell of St. Radegonda was tolling heavily and monotonously. Outside some one was knocking insistently; someone who had already knocked more than once. Cassandra listened, and recognised the voice of her suitor, the horsedealer from Abbiategrasso. 'For the Lord's love, open, Monna Sidonia! Monna Cassandra! Nay, then, are ye all gone deaf? I am wet through; would ye have me turn back through this fury of the elements?' The girl dragged herself to her feet, crept to the shutters, and pulled out the rags with which her aunt had wedged them close. The dull light of a wet day streamed into the room, and fell on the naked crone, still sleeping a deathly sleep on the floor beside the trough, still stained with the unguent, and snoring profoundly. Cassandra peeped out. The weather was detestable; the rain descending in torrents. Through the network of drops she could see the impatient lover, beside him his little ass, her head dolorously drooping as she leaned against the shafts of the cart, in which a calf, its feet tied together, mooed plaintively, stretching forth its muzzle. The horsedealer getting no answer knocked louder than ever, and Cassandra waited to see what would happen. At last one of the laboratory windows opened, and the old alchemist looked out, his face sullen, as it generally was in the early morning. 'What's all this noise?' he cried; 'have you gone out of your five wits, you old devil? Go to hell with you! Can't you see we're all asleep? Take yourself off!' 'Why insult me thus, Messer Galeotto? I have come on an affair of importance. I bring a present for your exquisite niece--a sucking calf----' 'Go to the devil, blockhead,' cried Galeotto, 'you and your calf!' And the shutter was slammed to. The horsedealer stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, recovering himself, he knocked again, violently, as if he would smash the door with his fists. The donkey's head drooped still lower, the rain pouring in streams off her long ears. 'God! how dull it all is!' murmured Cassandra, closing her eyes. And she thought of the frenzy of the Sabbath, the transformation of the Becco Notturno into Dionysus, the resurrection of the old gods, and she asked herself:-- 'Was it reality or dream? In good sooth, 'twas a dream, and this is the reality! After Sunday always there is--just Monday!' 'Open! open!' yelled the horsedealer, hoarse and desperate. And the raindrops plashed monotonously in the miry pools, the calf bleated piteously, and the bell of the neighbouring convent tolled on, with even and melancholy strokes. BOOK V THY WILL BE DONE--1494 '_O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore, tu non ai voluto mancare a nessuna potenzia l'ordine e qualità de suoi necessari effetti! O Stupenda Necessità._'--LEONARDO DA VINCI. (O admirable Justice of Thee, Thou Prime Mover! To no force hast Thou permitted lack of the order and quality of its necessary effects. O Thrice-Marvellous Necessity!) 'Thy Will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.'--PATERNOSTER. I Corbolo the shoemaker, a citizen of Milan, having returned home one night over merry, received from his wife, as he said, 'more blows than would have driven a tired ass from Milan to Rome.' The next morning, when his spouse had gone to her neighbour's to fetch the black pudding, Corbolo rooted some concealed coins out of his pouch, left the shop to his apprentice, and went off for a drink, to recover himself. His hands in the pockets of his threadbare breeches, he sauntered along the narrow street--so narrow that a horseman must needs prick the foot-passengers with his spurs--and sniffed the eternal smell of oil, rotten eggs, sour wine, and mouldy cellars. Whistling a tune, he looked up at the narrow strip of blue sky between the roofs, and at the many-coloured rags and torn garments stretched across the lane on lines that they might be dried in the sun, and solaced himself with his favourite proverb (of which, however, he never took the advice), '_Mala femina, buona femina, vuol bastone_.' To shorten his road he passed through the cathedral, which was still in process of construction. Here there was noise and bustle as in a market-place. From door to door, notwithstanding the fine of five _soldi_ imposed upon intruders, there passed persons carrying wine, baskets, cases, trunks, trays, planks, beams, bundles, some even leading asses and mules. The priests were praying and chanting; lamps burned on the altars, and murmurs came from the Confessional; yet the boys played at leap-frog, the dogs barked and fought, and sturdy beggars jostled each other in the quest for alms. Corbolo stood for a space in the crowd, listening with sly amusement to a dispute between two monks, a Franciscan, and a Domenican, on the comparative claims of St. Francis and St. Catharine to occupy the seat in heaven which had been left vacant by the fall of Lucifer. Corbolo's eyes blinked as he came out of the cathedral gloom into the strong sunlight of the Piazza dell' Arrengo. This was the liveliest part of Milan, crowded with the booths of small vendors, and so overfilled with packing-cases and rubbish, that foot passengers could hardly make their way. From time immemorial these booths had lumbered the square, and no laws nor penalties could expel them. 'Salad of Valtellina! lemons! oranges! artichokes! asparagus!' cried the vegetable-seller. The rag-wives babbled and cackled like brood-hens. A donkey, almost concealed under a mountain of grapes, oranges, cauliflowers, fennel, beetroot, tomatoes and onions, brayed in lacerating tones:-- 'Hee--ho--Hee--ho.' While his driver lustily thumped his shrunken sides, and yelled forth his guttural:-- 'Arri--Arri!' A long string of blind persons with sticks, and guides, chanted a doleful and tedious supplication. A street-dentist, his hat ornamented with a chaplet of teeth, was standing over a man whose head he held between his knees, and with the rapid movements of a juggler, was drawing his teeth with huge pincers. Children were spinning tops under the feet of the pedestrians, and teasing a Jew with offers of a pig's head; Farfanicchio, the leader of the scamps, had let a mouse loose among the market-women. It rushed up the ample petticoats of Barbacchia, the fruit-seller, who jumped up as if she had been scalded, cursing the ragamuffins, and shaking her garments regardless of propriety. A porter, carrying a pig's carcase, turned round suddenly to see the fun, and terrified the horse of Messer Gabbadeo, the surgeon; it reared and plunged, and overturned a whole pile of kitchenware in the booth beside it; saucepans, frying-pans, skimmers, graters, rolled over with a deafening crash; the horse bolted and carried away the terrified surgeon, his arms round its neck, his great bass voice alternately imploring God and the devil to rescue him. The dogs barked, curious faces were thrust from windows; laughter, cries, curses, whistling, shouting rose on all sides; and the donkeys brayed from every side of the square. Watching this diverting spectacle, the shoemaker said to himself philosophically:-- 'The world would be a good place enough, if it were not for the women, who devour their husbands as rust devours iron.' Then shading his eyes with his hand, he looked up at the vast unfinished pile surrounded with scaffolding. This was the great cathedral, the magnificent temple which Milan was erecting in honour of the Birth of the Virgin. All, small and great, had contributed to the shrine. The queen of Cyprus had sent a precious cloth embroidered with gold. Caterina, the old rag-woman, had laid on the altar of the Virgin her only cloak, worth twenty _soldi_. Corbolo, who from his childhood had watched the progress of the building, saw this morning a new pinnacle, and rejoiced. All around was heard the tapping of mallets and hammers. The immense blocks of sparkling marble brought from the quarries on the Lago Maggiore were landed on the wharf at Laghetto de Santo Stefano, not far from the Ospedale Maggiore, and were still arriving at the building; cranes creaked and rattled their chains, iron saws grated on the marble, the workmen swarmed around the scaffolding like flies. And daily the great temple was growing, with its countless spires, its belfries and turrets of pure white gleaming against the azure heavens; a perpetual hymn raised by the people of Milan to the glory of Maria Nascente. II Corbolo descended by steep stairs from the piazza to a cool arched cellar set with wine casks, of which the master was a German named Tibaldo. The shoemaker greeted the company, and sitting down by his friend Scarabullo the tinman, ordered a flask of wine and hot pastry flavoured with thyme; then he drank a long slow draught, filled his mouth, and said: 'Scarabullo, if you desire wisdom, take unto yourself no wife.' 'Why not?' demanded Scarabullo. 'Because, friend, to marry is to thrust your hand into a bag of serpents in order to draw out an eel. Better have the gout than a wedded wife, Scarabullo.' At the table beside them, surrounded by a hungry and credulous crowd, Mascarello, the jolly goldsmith, was singing the praises of a fabulous land, where the vines are hung with sausages, and a goose and a gosling together cost a single penny; where there are mountains of cheese ready grated, and _gnocchi_ and macaroni are cooked in the fat of capons and thrown to him who asketh; and _vernaccia_, the best white wine, into which enters not one drop of water, springs from the soil in a natural fountain. A little man named Gorgoglio, a glass-blower, at this moment came running into the tavern: by reason of the king's evil, his eyes were half-shut, like those of a new-born puppy. He was bibulous and a great lover of talk. 'Sirs, sirs!' he cried, raising his hat and wiping his streaming face, 'I have seen the Frenchmen!' 'Gorgoglio, you dream. 'Tis impossible they be here yet.' 'I' faith, they be here; they are at Pavia. Let me but breathe! 'Tis not weather for running, and I have run the whole course to be first with the news.' 'Take my bottle. Drink and recount: of what sort be these French?' 'A bad sort, friends; a very bad sort. Heaven defend us from them! trust not your fingers in their mouths, friends. Choleric, savage infidels, like ferocious brutes; in a word, barbarians. They carry arquebuses eight braccia long, partisans of brass, iron bombards which belch stones; their horses are sea-monsters, shaggy, with docked ears and tails.' 'Be they many?' 'Ay, a crowd; they beset the plain as locusts; you can see no end to them. The Lord hath sent them for the chastisement of our sins, this Black Death, these northern devils.' 'But why, Gorgoglio, speak thus ill of them?' asked Mascarello; 'they come as our friends--our allies.' 'Allies! Hold your peace. Look after your pockets, say I, for that kind of ally is worse than an enemy. He'll buy the horn and steal the bullock.' 'Rave not, Gorgoglio. Expound simply why you hold these French inimical.' 'Because they trample down our crops; because they fell our trees, carry off our beasts, ravish our women. Their king is a baboon; no soul behind his teeth; but he is a great lover of women. He carries a book, pictures of our handsomest women. And they say that, God helping them, they will not leave a maid between Milan and Naples.' 'The villains!' cried Scarabullo, thumping with his fist so that the glasses rang. 'And our Moro,' continued Gorgoglio, 'dances on his hind legs to the sound of the French pipe. And they don't count us to be men, neither. "You," they say, making their grimaces, "you are all thieves and assassins. You have poisoned your rightful duke, you have murdered an innocent boy. For this God punishes you and gives us your land." And we, friends, are receiving them into our arms and feeding them!' 'These be old wives' tales, Gorgoglio.' 'Blind me, cut out my tongue if I speak not the truth! Nor have I told all. Hearken, _signori miei_, to what they have the audacity to say. They say "We are destined to overcome all the peoples of Italy, to subdue all the seas and the nations of the sea, to destroy the grand Turk, and plant the true cross on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem; then we will come back to you, and we will execute on you the fury of God. And if you submit not yourselves, your name shall be wiped off from the face of the earth." That's what they say!' ''Tis ill news,' sighed Mascarello the goldsmith. 'Unheard-of news!' The rest were silent. Then Fra Timotea, the lean Domenican, who had been disputing in the cathedral with Fra Cipolla about the saints in glory, raised his hands to heaven and said solemnly:-- 'Such were the words of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, that great prophet of the Lord. "Behold," said he, "the man cometh who is destined to conquer Italy without drawing the sword from the scabbard. O Florence! O Rome! O Milan! Past is the hour of feasting and of song! Repent ye, repent! The blood of Gian Galeazzo, the blood of Abel which was spilt by Cain, crieth for vengeance before the throne of God."' III At this moment a brace of soldiers came in. 'The French! the French! See!' exclaimed Gorgoglio, nudging his companions. One of the newcomers was a Gascon; young, tall, and shapely, with a handsome impudent face adorned by red moustachios; a cavalry sergeant named Bonnivart. The other old, fat, bull-necked, red-faced, swollen-eyed, ear-ringed, was a gunner from Picardy named Groguillioche. Both were a little drunk. '_Sacrement de l'autel!_' said the sergeant slapping the others on the back. 'Shall we at last find a mug of good wine in this accursed town? The sour stuff of this Lombardy burns my throat like vinegar.' And stretching himself on a bench, and throwing a contemptuous glance at the company, he rapped with his knuckles, and shouted in bad Italian:-- 'White wine, dry, your oldest; and brain-sausage for the first course!' 'You are right, comrade,' said Groguillioche; 'when I think of our wine of Burgundy, of the precious _Beaune_ gold as my Lison's hair, my heart bursts with melancholy. Most true is it: "Like people, like wine." Let us drink, comrade, to the prosperity of our France.' 'Du grand Dieu soit mauldit à outrance Qui mal vouldroit au royaume de France!' 'What say they?' murmured Scarabullo into Gorgoglio's ear. 'Scurvy talk!' said the latter. 'They praise their own wine, and praise not ours.' 'Just look at those two French cocks,' grumbled the tinman; 'my hand itches to be at them.' Meanwhile Tibaldo, the German host, with fat belly on thin legs, and a formidable bunch of keys at his leathern girdle, drew from the cask half _brentas_ of wine, and served them to the foreigners in an earthenware jug, looking most suspiciously at his guests. Bonnivart drank his potion at one draught, and found it excellent: none the less, he spat, making a face of disgust. Just then Lotte, Tibaldo's daughter passed by; a slim, flaxen-haired little lass, with kind blue eyes like her father's. The Gascon nudged his comrade, twirled his moustaches seductively, drank, and trolled out a song, to which Groguillioche added a husky chorus:-- 'Charles fera si grandes batailles Qu'il conquerra les Itailles, En Jerusalem entrera Et mont Olivet montera.' Presently Lotte passed them again, modestly dropping her eyes, but the sergeant caught her by the waist and tried to pull her to his knee. She pushed him away, broke loose, and fled. He jumped up, caught her and kissed her cheek, his lips still wet with wine. The girl screamed, dropped the pitcher she was carrying, and struck the Frenchman so hard a blow that for a moment he was stunned, at which there was a general laugh. 'Well done, wench!' cried the goldsmith. 'By St. Gervaso, I ne'er saw a heartier smack, nor one more seasonably applied.' Groguillioche tried to restrain his companion. 'Let her alone. Don't make a fool of yourself,' he said. But the Gascon was flown with wine, and, laughing with a laugh that was but at one side of his mouth, he cried:-- 'That's your way, is it, my beauty? _Ventre bleu!_ next time it shall not be on your cheek, but fair on your lips.' Upsetting the table, he sprang after her, captured her, and would have executed his threat, had not the powerful hand of Scarabullo seized him by the throat. 'Ha! son of a dog! Hideous mug of a Frenchman! I'll teach you how to insult the girls of Milan!' and he shook his victim backwards and forwards, nearly choking him. '_Sacrebleu! Sacrebleu!_' roared Groguillioche infuriated; 'hands off, ruffian! _Vive la France! St. Denis et St. George!_' His sword was out, and prompt to be thrust into the tinman's back, but Mascarello, Gorgoglio, Maso, and the rest intervening, tied his hands. Now was utter confusion; tables overset, benches smashed, casks rolling, shards of smashed pitchers under the feet, everywhere pools of wine. Seeing blood, naked swords, and brandished knives, Tibaldo rushed into the street, and, in a voice fit to fill the square, yelled:-- 'Assassination! Homicide! The French are sacking the town!' At once the market bell rang forth and was answered by its brother of the Broletto. The dealers closed their shops. Fruit-sellers and rag-wives ran hither and thither packing their goods. 'San Gervaso and San Protaso! our protecting saints; lend us aid!' cried the fat vegetable-woman with the tremendous voice. 'What is on foot? What is happening? Is it a conflagration?' 'Down! Down with the Frenchmen!' Farfannichio, the naughty boy, danced with delight, whistling and yelling. 'Down with the Frenchmen! Down with the Frenchmen!' Guards and soldiers now appeared on the scene, mighty with arquebuses and pikes. They were just in time to rescue Groguillioche and Bonnivart from death at the hands of the mob. Laying hands right and left, they arrested amongst others Corbolo the shoemaker. His wife, who had run up on sound of the tumult, now wrung her hands piteously, and wailed:-- 'For pity's sake, let him go! Have mercy on my poor little husband! I will chastise him at home, and never allow him into a street squabble again. Believe me, Messeri, he is a perfect natural, and not worth the rope you would hang him with.' But Corbolo, hanging his head, fixing his eyes on the ground, and pretending not to hear these intercessions, hid behind the stout person of one of the guards, who seemed to him far less terrible than his spouse. IV Right above the scaffolding of the unfinished cathedral, up a narrow stair of rope to one of the slender pinnacles, not far from the principal tower, a certain young mason clomb, bearing a small statue of St. Catharine, to be fixed on the very top of the little spire. Around him rose a perfect forest of pinnacles, sharp-pointed like stalactites; spires, flying arches, stone lacework of unexampled flowers and foliage, prophets, martyrs, and angels, the grinning masks of devils, monstrous birds, sirens, harpies, dragons with scaly wings and gaping mouths, every sort of gargoyle at the terminals of the water-pipes. All was of marble very pure and white, upon which the shadows showed blue as smoke, the whole suggesting a winter wood clothed in sparkling frost. It was quiet, save that the swallows and swifts made joyous cries as they continually circled above and around the building. The hum of the crowd in the square reached the young mason like the low murmur of an ant-hill. At times he fancied organ-notes and prayerful sighs rose from the interior of the temple as from the depth of its stony heart; and then it seemed as if the whole vast edifice breathed and grew and heaved to the sky like the eternal praise of the birth of Mary; like the glad hymn of all ages and of all peoples to the Immaculate Virgin. Suddenly the hum from the square increased in volume, and an uproar became plain to the ear. The mason paused in his work and looked down. Then his head swam and his eyes grew dim. He felt the edifice rocking under him, and the slender pinnacle towards which he was climbing bent like a reed. 'It is all over!' he said. 'I am falling. Lord receive my spirit.' He clung desperately to the rope, closed his eyes, and murmured:-- '_Ave Maria, piena di grazia._' Then he felt more at ease. From above swept a breath of cool wind; he recovered himself, collected his strength and climbed higher, listening no longer to the humming of earth, but ascending towards the serene and quiet heaven, saying with great unction:-- '_Ave, dolce Maria, di grazia piena._' At this moment, traversing the broad marble roof, came the members of the building committee, Council of the Fabric, architects both native and foreign, summoned by the duke to consult about the Tiburio, the principal tower, which was to rise even higher than the cupola. Among them was Leonardo da Vinci; he had submitted his plan, but the council had rejected it as too daring, too extravagant, and not sufficiently in accord with the traditions of church architecture. The council quarrelled over the matter, and could not arrive at an agreement. Some said the building had been commenced by ignorant people, and that the inner columns were not stable enough to carry the Tiburio and all the lesser towers and pinnacles. According to others the cathedral was like to stand firm till Doomsday. Leonardo took no part in the dispute, but stood aside, silent and alone. One of the workmen approached and handed him a letter. 'Messere,' he said, 'it has been brought to Your Magnificence by a messenger from Pavia.' Leonardo read the letter:-- 'Leonardo, I need thee. Come to me at once. October 14. GIAN GALEAZZO, the Duke.' The Master excused himself to his fellow-councillors, descended to the square, mounted, and rode off to the Castle of Pavia, a few hours' distant from Milan. V In the great park the chestnuts, elms, and maples glowed golden and purple under an autumn sun. Slowly, like dead butterflies, the leaves dropped from the branches. There was no bubbling of water in the grass-grown fountains. Asters were withering in neglected flower-beds. Approaching the castle Leonardo saw a dwarf; it was Gian Galeazzo's old jester, the only servant who had remained faithful to the dying duke. Recognising the painter, he advanced running and leaping. 'How is His Highness?' asked Leonardo. The dwarf made no reply, only waved his hands with a gesture of despair; Leonardo directed his horse to the principal entrance, but the other stopped him. 'Nay, not by this road,' said he, 'it hath too many eyes. His Highness prays you to come secretly, for Madonna Isabella would forbid your entry did she know of it. Come by this path.' They entered by a corner tower, then mounted a stair and traversed apartments once magnificent but now gloomy and deserted. The gilded Cordovan leather had been torn from the walls; the throne and its silken canopy was hung with cobwebs; autumn winds had blown yellow leaves through the broken window panes. 'Thieves! ruffians!' muttered the dwarf, pointing out to his companion these marks of desolation. 'Believe me, Messere, eyes cannot bear to look on the things done here. I would have fled to the uttermost ends of the earth were it not that my lord hath no one to look to but me, his ancient deformity. This way, I pray you, this way.' Opening a door he introduced Leonardo into a close dark room, heavy with the odour of drugs. VI At that moment Gian Galeazzo was being bled: according to the rules of surgery the operation was performed by candle-light, and with closed shutters. The surgeon, or rather the barber, a timid old man, was opening the vein, and his assistant held the brass basin; the physician, a man of grave and impenetrable countenance, wearing spectacles and a hood of dark purple velvet and squirrel's fur, merely watched, for to handle surgical instruments was derogatory to the dignity of a Doctor of Medicine. 'Before night he shall be bled again,' said the great man when the arm had been bandaged and the duke was restored to his pillows. '_Domine magister_,' objected the barber respectfully, 'were it not wiser to wait? The patient is weakened, and an excessive drain of blood----' But he stopped short, for the doctor looked at him with freezing irony. ''Tis time you knew that of the twenty-four pounds of blood in the human body you may let twenty without damage. I have bled sucking babes and seen them recover.' Leonardo listened to this conversation, but reminded himself that to dispute with doctors was vain as to argue with alchemists. He held his peace till the empirics had departed and the dwarf had covered the patient and shaken his pillows. Above the bed hung a little green parrot in a cage; cards and dice strewed the table. On it was also a glass with gold-fish, at the duke's feet slept a little white dog,--all the faithful servant's last attempts at ministering to his master's amusement. 'Has the letter been sent?' asked the sick man, not opening his eyes. 'Excellency, Messer Leonardo has come. We waited, fearing to disturb your Grace's slumber.' A feeble smile illuminated the duke's countenance. He tried to raise himself. 'Master, at last! And I had been fearing you would not come!' Gian Galeazzo took the artist's hand in his, and a faint colour spread over his beautiful young face:--he was but four-and-twenty. The dwarf left the room to keep guard at the door. 'Friend,' began the duke, 'you have heard the slander?' 'Which slander, my lord?' asked the painter. 'If you know not which, 'tis that you have heard nothing, and it is not worth the trouble of telling you. Yet no, I will tell you, that we may have our mock at it together. They say----' He paused, looked the artist full in the eyes, and, smiling calmly, completed the phrase; 'they say 'tis you have murdered me.' Leonardo thought him delirious, but he repeated:-- 'Just that. They say 'tis you have murdered me. Three weeks ago Il Moro and his Beatrice sent me a basket of delectable peaches. But Madonna Isabella says that from the moment I tasted them I have pined away; that in your garden you have a peach-tree which bears poison.' 'In very truth,' assented Leonardo, 'I have such a tree.' '_Amico mio!_ can it be possible----' 'Nay; not if the fruit be really that from my garden. I can explain the reason of these rumours. To study the effect of poison upon trees, I inoculated my peach-tree with arsenic, and warned Zoroastro, my disciple, to beware of the fruit. Probably he was over hasty in relating the fact, for as matter of truth the experiment failed and the peaches have proved innocuous.' 'I knew it! I knew it!' cried the duke with relief. 'No one is guilty of my death. Yet here each one is suspecting the other, and hating and fearing him! If it were but possible to speak openly, as you and I speak to each other at this instant! My uncle is suspected of the deed; but I know him to be a kindly man, though timorous and weak. What interest could he have in my death when I myself am willing to give him my throne? I want nothing; I would gladly have left all these people and lived in retirement and liberty with a few chosen friends. I would have been a monk, or thy pupil, Leonardo. But no one will believe that I do not desire power. Why have they done this evil? _Dio mio!_ they have not poisoned me, but they have poisoned themselves, poor blind ones! with the harmless fruit of thy harmless tree. I have grieved over perverse fate which makes me to die young, but now I am calm, I am at ease, Master, as though on a scorching day I had thrown off dusty clothes and cast myself into pure water. I know not how to tell thee, dear friend, but of a surety thou dost comprehend, thou who art thyself----' Leonardo smiled serenely, and pressed the poor wasted hand, but did not answer. 'I knew that you would understand,' continued the invalid with animation. 'Do you remember how once you said to me that the study of those eternal laws which govern the vicissitudes of nature conducts men to humility and to great tranquillity of soul? Your phrase struck me even then; but now in sickness, in loneliness--ay, in delirium--how often do I remember thy words, and thyself, and thy countenance, and thy voice, O Master! Sometimes it seems to me that by different ways thou and I have reached the same end: thou by the way of life--I by death.' At this moment the door opened, and the dwarf burst into the room, and announced with agitation:-- 'Monna Druda!' Leonardo would have retired, but the duke detained him, and Gian Galeazzo's old nurse came in bearing a phial of scorpion ointment. It was a precious balsam, made by catching scorpions in the height of summer, when the sun is in Cancer, keeping them for fifty days exposed to the sun, then plunging them alive into hundred-year-old olive oil, mixed with groundsel, mithridates, and snake-root. Nightly the patient must be anointed at the temples, in the armpits, on the belly, round the heart; and then the wise woman swore he would take no ill from spells, from witchcraft, nor eke from poison. The old nurse, seeing Leonardo seated on the bed, stopped, turned ashy-white, and came nigh dropping her priceless balm. '_Santa Vergine benedetta!_ Defend us!' she murmured. And crossing herself, and mumbling exorcisms and prayers, she ran as fast as her old legs would carry her, to bring Madonna Isabella the terrible tidings. Monna Druda was entirely convinced that Ludovico the assassin, and Leonardo his accomplice, had brought Gian Galeazzo to his death, if not by poison, at any rate by witchcraft and the evil eye. The duchess Isabella, kneeling in her private chapel before the most sacred image, was praying fervently, when Monna Druda, greatly agitated, rushed in to tell her Leonardo was with the duke. The lady leaped to her feet, and cried, her face scarlet with indignation:-- 'It cannot be! Who has allowed him to pass?' 'Nay, Most Illustrious, who can tell how this accursed sorcerer should pass? Have I not been saying to your Excellency----' She was interrupted by a page, who knelt before the lady. 'Most Excellent Madonna, will your ladyship and your ladyship's most illustrious consort deign to receive His Majesty the Most Christian King of France?' VII Charles VIII. was lodged in the lower floor of the Castle of Pavia, luxuriously prepared for him by Ludovico Il Moro. Reposing after his dinner, he was listening to the reading of a book, absurdly translated out of the Latin into French, and called _Mirabilia urbis Romæ_. Charles had been a solitary, sickly child, frightened to death by his father. During many weary years, in the Castle of Amboise, he had beguiled his melancholy by the reading of chivalric romances, till his brain, never of the strongest, was completely turned. At twenty years of age he was on the throne; and, his mind full of Lancelot, Tristram, and the other heroes of the Round Table, believed himself destined to rival these legendary persons, and to put into the reality of life what belonged only to books and to dream. The court poets bathed him in an atmosphere of perpetual adulation, calling him the offspring of Mars, the heir of Julius Cæsar, when at the head of a great host he had crossed the Alps, and made his descent into Lombardy, lured by the extravagant hope of conquering Italy and the East, and destroying the heretical Mahometan religion. To-night, listening to the description of the wonders of Rome, the King smiled, thinking of the glory to accrue to him from the Eternal City. His thoughts were, however, somewhat confused. He had dined heavily, and was now troubled by stomach-ache and headache, and above all by the recollection of a certain Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli, whose beauty had haunted him for a day and a night. Charles VIII. was low in stature and sufficiently ugly. His chest was narrow, his shoulders crooked, his legs thin as a pair of tongs. His nose was too large, his mouth hung open, his projecting eyes were so short-sighted as to give him a perpetually strained expression; his light hair was scanty, and he had no moustache; his hands and face twitched convulsively, his speech was thick and abrupt, it was said he had six toes, and for this reason had set the court fashion of broad soft shoes of black velvet, rounded at the top to the form of a horse-shoe. This general ungainliness, together with his habitual melancholy and distraction, produced an impression not too ill warranted of natural imbecility. 'Thibaut! Thibaut!' he cried suddenly to his valet, interrupting the reading with his customary abruptness, and stammering with the effort to find his words. 'Thibaut! I--somehow think I am thirsty. Eh? Perhaps the heat----Bring me some wine--Thibaut----' The Cardinal Brissonet, entering, announced that the duke was expecting His Most Christian Majesty. 'Eh--eh? What? The duke? Good; we come immediately. Let me first drink----' And he stretched his hand for the cup brought by his servant. Brissonet, however, stopped him, and demanded of Thibaut:-- 'Is it of our own?' 'No, Monsignore; from the ducal cellar. Our own is consumed.' Brissonet upset the cup. 'Your Majesty will pardon me, but the wines of this place may be unwholesome. Thibaut, send a messenger at once to the camp, and let him fetch a barrel from the field cellar.' 'Why--eh? What is this?' asked the King disconcerted. The cardinal whispered that he feared poison; anything might be expected from men who had done to death their legitimate sovereign; true, nothing suspicious had yet occurred, but prudence never comes amiss. 'Eh? All child's folly!' grumbled Charles, twitching one shoulder: however, he submitted. The heralds took their places before the king; pages raised over his head the splendid baldachin of blue silk, embroidered with the silver lilies of France; the seneschal threw on his shoulders a scarlet mantle, ermine-bordered, and embroidered with golden bees, and the motto, '_Roi des abeilles n'a pas d'aiguillons_'; the procession traversed gloomy and deserted halls, and took its way to the apartments of the dying man. Passing the chapel, the king caught sight of the Duchess Isabella at her faldstool. He gallantly removed his cap, stopped, and calling her 'dear sister,' would have kissed her on the lips, according to the French ceremonial, but the duchess hurried to throw herself at his feet. 'Have compassion on us, most clement lord,' she began hurriedly, in set words. 'Defend the innocent, O magnanimous knight-errant, and God shall give thee thy reward! Il Moro has robbed us of everything; he has usurped our throne; has given poison to Gian Galeazzo, my husband, legitimate inheritor of the Lords of Milan! In our own house he has surrounded us with spies and assassins....' Charles scarcely understood or even listened. 'Eh? Eh? What?' he asked, stammering and twitching. 'No, no, sister. No occasion.... Rise, rise, I beseech you.' But the unhappy lady knelt on, embracing his knees, weeping, and covering his hands with kisses. 'Ah, Sire, if you also fail me, what remains to me but to take my life?' This completed the king's embarrassment; puckering his face like a child about to cry, he stuttered:-- 'There, there! Good God! 'tis impossible! Brissonet! Brissonet!--I can't. You tell her that----' Before this lady, who in her humility and her desperation appeared to him sublime as some heroine of antique tragedy, he felt no sentiment of compassion, but only an inane desire to make his escape. 'Most noble lady, calm yourself,' said the cardinal, coldly courteous. 'His Majesty will do all that is in his power for you and for your consort, Messer Jean Galeas.' (So he Gallicised the name.) The duchess looked at the cardinal; then looked at the king; and as if realising for the first time the sort of being to whom she was making supplication, became silent. Deformed, pitiful, ridiculous, he stood before her, his mouth gaping, a foolish smile over his whole countenance, his light eyes opened in a senseless stare. 'I, the grand-daughter of Ferdinand of Aragon, at the feet of this abortion!--this idiot!' She rose, and a flush mounted on her pale cheek. The king felt it incumbent on him to say something, to end somehow this embarrassing silence. He made a great effort, shrugged his shoulders, blinked, but could get no further than his usual-- 'Eh? eh? What?' Then he waved his hand in despair, and relapsed into dumbness. Isabella measured him with her eyes in undissembled scorn, and Charles was abashed and hung his head. 'Brissonet! Brissonet! Let us go! Eh? What?' The pages threw open the doors, and his progress continued till he had reached the room where Gian Galeazzo lay dying. Here the shutters had been thrown back, and the calm light of the autumn evening fell across the gilded tree-tops and streamed in through the windows. The king approached the sufferer, and inquired solicitously after his health, calling him '_cousin_,' '_mon cousin_.' Gian Galeazzo answered with such a gentle smile that the poor king was relieved, and gradually recovered from his confusion. 'May the Lord send victory to the hosts of your Highness,' said the duke. 'And when you shall be at Jerusalem, at the Holy Sepulchre of Christ, oh, then, pray for the health of my poor soul; for by that time, sire, I----' 'Oh, no! no, brother! Speak not thus,' protested Charles, 'you shall recover. We must march together against these unclean Turks. Eh? Believe my words. I give you my word--Eh? what?' Gian Galeazzo shook his head. 'Impossible,' he murmured, looking into the king's eyes with his penetrating glance. 'And, sire, when I shall be dead, I pray you, abandon not my little Francesco and my unhappy Isabella. They will have none other to look to.' 'Good God! Good God!' murmured Charles, overcome by unlooked-for emotion. His lips quivered, their corners drooped, and, as by a sudden light from within, his face shone with an immense kindliness. He bent over the sick man and folded him in his arms. 'Brother! my poor dear brother!' They smiled sadly, like a pair of poor sick children; and kissed each other. When he had left the room, the king turned to the cardinal. 'Brissonet--Brissonet! We must do something--eh? Defend--protect----This will not do! It cannot be permitted. I am a knight; I must succour the unfortunate. Do you understand?' 'Sire,' replied the cardinal, 'what is the use? His destiny is to die. We cannot profit him, but we can damn ourselves. Moreover, 'tis Il Moro who is your ally.' 'Il Moro is a murderer! that is it; a proper murderer,' exclaimed Charles, his eyes sparkling with indignation. 'Is it our business?' asked Brissonet, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile. 'Il Moro is neither better nor worse than others. 'Tis political necessity. We are but men, sire.' The cup-bearer now came with a goblet of French wine, which Charles drank thirstily. It refreshed him, and scattered his sad thoughts. With the cup-bearer had entered a messenger from Ludovico, bearing an invitation to supper for the king. Charles declined it: the envoy pressed his suit, but unavailingly. Then the messenger whispered to Thibaut, who in turn whispered to the king. 'Your Highness--Madonna Lucrezia----' 'Eh? what? What Lucrezia?' 'The lady with whom your Majesty danced last night.' 'Ah, yes; to be sure. I recall her. Madonna Lucrezia; a pretty little mouthful! Do you hint she would be at supper?' 'Certes, she will be there. And she supplicates your Highness----' 'She supplicates? Eh? What say you, Thibaut? I, forsooth----Well, well, to-morrow we take the field--'tis the last time. Messere, give your master my thanks, and tell him that I--forsooth----' The King took Thibaut aside. 'Hark you--this Madonna Lucrezia--who is she?' 'Sire, the leman of Il Moro.' 'Alas!' 'A single word from your Majesty and all can be accompolished this evening itself, if you will, sire.' 'No! no! How? I--his guest?' 'Il Moro will find his pleasure in it. Sire, you understand not this people here!' 'Well then, well! As you will. It is your affair.' 'Your Majesty may be at ease. A single word----' 'Speak no more, Thibaut. It mislikes me. Have I not said 'tis your work. I have nothing to say to it. Do what you choose!' Thibaut bowed and withdrew. Upon reaching the foot of the stair the king frowned and scratched his head, trying to recall his thoughts. 'Brissonet! Brissonet! What was I saying? Ah yes--to defend--offended innocence. I am sworn knight----' 'Your Majesty must quit these thoughts. They fit not with the present moment. Later, when we shall have returned victorious from Jerusalem----' 'Jerusalem!' echoed the king, and his eyes dilated, and on his lips came a pale, faint, dreamy smile. 'The hand of the Lord leads your Majesty to victory,' continued Brissonet; 'the finger of God points the way to the army of the cross.' Charles raised his eyes to heaven as if inspired, and repeated, 'Finger of God! Finger of God!' VIII The young duke died eight days later. Before his death he prayed for an interview with Leonardo, but Isabella refused to permit it, Monna Druda having told her that the bewitched have always an insuperable and fatal wish to see those who have enchanted them. The old woman indefatigably anointed the patient with scorpion ointment, the doctor ordered bloodletting, the barber opened veins. Nevertheless he quietly died. 'Thy will be done,' were his last words. Ludovico had his body taken from Pavia to Milan, and buried him under the shadow of the cathedral. Nobles and elders of the city assembled at the castle, and Ludovico, after assuring them of the profound grief he suffered at the untimely death of his nephew, made proposal that the child Francesco, Gian Galeazzo's son, should be declared duke. The assembly maintained it were madness to invest an infant with such power. Il Moro himself was implored, in the name of the people, to assume the sceptre. He feigned refusal, but reluctantly yielded to their prayers. Gold brocade was brought, and the duke put it on; he then rode to the basilica of Sant' Ambrogio surrounded by a crowd of courtiers--_Viva il Moro! Viva il duca!_--amid the sounding of trumpets, the firing of cannon, the clashing of bells, and--the silence of the people. A few days later the most sacred relic in Milan, one of the nails of the True Cross, was solemnly transported to the cathedral. By this function Il Moro hoped to please the populace and to consolidate his power. IX That night a crowd assembled before Tibaldo's wine-cellar in the Piazza dell' Arrengo. There were present the tinman Scarabullo, Mascarello the goldsmith, Maso the furrier, Corbolo the shoemaker, and Gorgoglio the glass-blower. Standing on a cask in the middle of the crowd was Fra Timoteo, the Domenican, delivering a sermon. 'Brothers! when Santa Elena had found the life-giving Tree of the Cross and the other instruments of the Lord's Passion, which had been buried by the heathen in the earth under the shrine of Venus, then the Emperor Constantine, taking one of these most holy and awful nails, bade the smiths work it into the bit of his war-horse, that thus the word of the prophet Zechariah might be fulfilled: "In that day shall there be upon the bells of the horses Holiness unto the Lord." And this ineffable relic gave him the victory over his enemies and over the adversaries of the Roman Empire.' ... Here Fra Timoteo made a pause, then raising his hands to heaven he cried in a lamentable voice:--'And now, brethren beloved, a great abomination is being committed. Il Moro, the evildoer, the homicide, the usurper, seduceth the people with impious festivals, and would use the most Holy Nail for the support of his trembling throne.' The crowd showed agitation, and low cries were heard. 'And know ye, my brethren, upon whom he hath devolved the construction of the machine for raising the Nail to its place in the cupola above the high altar?' 'To whom?' 'To Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine.' 'Who is this Leonardo?' asked several persons. 'Nay,' returned others, 'we know him; the poisoner of the young duke!' 'Leonardo the sorcerer! Leonardo the heretic! the infidel!' Corbolo timidly undertook the defence. 'Friends, I have heard say that Leonardo is a good man, who does ill to none, and is compassionate not only of men but of the meanest animals.' 'Speak not foolishly, Corbolo!' 'Hold your tongue. How can a sorcerer be good?' 'My sons! my sons!' declaimed Fra Timoteo, 'there shall be a day when men shall praise the great deceiver, him who walketh in darkness, saying of him, "He is kind, he is just, he is good"; for his face shall be like unto the face of the Christ, and he shall have a voice comforting and pleasant like the voice of a singing woman. And many shall be led astray by his wily kindness. And by the four winds of heaven he shall call together tribes and nations, as a partridge with a deceiving cry calls into her nest the brood of another. Be watchful, O brethren! Behold the angel of darkness, the prince of this world, who is called Antichrist, cometh in human shape. Be watchful, I say, because this Florentine, this Leonardo, is the precursor and the servant of Antichrist.' ''Tis true!' cried Gorgoglio (who, however, had never before even heard of Leonardo); 'they say he has sold his soul to the devil, and has signed the covenant with his blood.' 'Holy Mother of God, have mercy upon us!' babbled Barbaccia the fruit-woman. 'Stamma, the wench at the hangman's who does charing at the prison, told me that this Leonardo (Heaven defend me from speaking his name after dusk) wrests the bodies from the gallows--cuts them up--takes out their bowels----' 'You know not what you speak,' said Corbolo; ''tis a matter of science, and called Anatomy.' 'They say he has made a contrivance to fly in the air on bird's wings,' observed Mascarello the goldsmith. 'Veglias also, that old winged serpent, rebelled against God,' commented Fra Timoteo; 'Simon Magus also raised himself into the air for flight, but the holy Apostle Saint Paul threw him down.' 'He walketh on the water,' cried Scarabullo. 'He says, "God walked on the sea and so will I." Heard you ever so great blasphemy?' 'He goes into a bell, and descends to the bottom of the deep,' added Maso. 'Nay, brothers, credit not that!' cried Gorgoglio. 'What need hath he of a bell? He transforms himself into a fish and swims; he transforms himself into a bird and doth fly.' '_Ahi!_ beloved brothers!' cried Timoteo; 'and the nail, the Holy Nail is in the hands of this Leonardo!' 'It shall not be!' shouted Scarabullo, clenching his fists; death to us sooner than profanation of our holy things! We will tear the Nail from the hands of the infidel.' 'Vengeance for the Holy Nail! Vengeance for our poisoned lord! Burn him! Hang him!' 'Brothers, what do ye?' cried the shoemaker with imploring hands; 'the night patrol will pass in a moment, and the captain of justice----' 'To the devil with the captain of justice! Run if you're frightened, Corbolo; run under your wife's petticoat.' And armed with cudgels, staves, poles, and stones, the crowd surged through the streets, shouting and cursing. In front went the monk, bearing the crucifix and chanting the psalm, 'Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered! As wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God!' The torches smoked and flared. In their scarlet light the lonely moon grew pale, and the quiet stars trembled in the heavens. X Leonardo in his quiet workshop was occupied with the machine for the elevation of the Holy Nail. Zoroastro was making a casket, all glass and gold, in which the relic was to be displayed. Giovanni Boltraffio was sitting in a dark corner watching the Master. Gradually, however, Leonardo had forgotten his machine, his thoughts having wandered to theories as to the transmission of force by means of blocks and levers. He had made a complicated calculation in which the mathematical law (the inner principle of reason) had explained to him the mechanical law (the outer principle of nature); two great secrets were thus fused into one still greater secret. 'Man,' thought he, 'will never invent anything so perfect, as doth Nature, which of necessity so disposeth her laws that every effect is straitly bound up with its cause.' In face of the infinite abyss into which he was directing his penetrating gaze, his soul was filled with that sense of overwhelming wonder which has no likeness to the other sentiments of men. On the margin of the paper, covered with the calculations for the simple machinery required for the elevation of the Holy Nail, he wrote these words which echoed in his heart like a prayer:---- '_O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore! tu non hai voluto mancare a nessuna potenza l'ordine e qualità de suoi necessari effetti!_' (O admirable justice of Thee, Prime Mover! To no force hast Thou permitted lack of the order and quality of its necessary effects!) But the artist's meditations were interrupted by a furious knocking at the outer door, together with chanting of psalms, and the objurgations and yells of an inflamed rabble. Giovanni and Zoroastro were rushing to see what had happened, when Maturina the cook, with dishevelled hair, burst half dressed into the room, crying:-- 'Thieves! Robbers! Murderers! Holy Mother of God have mercy on us!' 'What is it?' asked Leonardo of Marco d'Oggionno, who had also entered, arquebus in hand, and was beginning to shut the shutters. 'I know not exactly. It would seem a crowd of housebreakers, egged on by monks.' 'What is their demand?' 'Only their father can understand these sons of the devil! They demand the Holy Nail.' 'I have it not. 'Tis in the sacristy in the care of Monsignor Arcimboldi.' ''Tis what I told them. But being mad as dogs in the time of the summer solstice, they hearkened not, but continued to vilify Your Worship as an infidel and a sorcerer, and the poisoner of Gian Galeazzo.' During this colloquy the noise in the street grew apace. 'Open, or we will fire this accursed nest. In one moment, Leonardo, you shall be flayed! Demon! Antichrist!' 'Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered!' chanted Fra Timoteo to the accompaniment of Farfanicchio's stridulous whistle. Suddenly Jacopo, the wicked little servant, ran in, sprang on the window ledge, opened the shutter, and was going to jump into the courtyard, but Leonardo held him back. 'Whither art going, child?' 'To call the guard. The captain of justice passes at this hour.' 'No, no. If they catch you they will kill you without a word spoken.' 'They shall not see me. I will get over the wall, through Aunt Trulla's garden, over the green ditch into the backyard. 'Tis as good as done! Likewise it were better they killed me than you, Master.' And glancing back with eyes full of love and daring, the lad leaped from the window, and was off like a flash. 'For once the little devil is some use,' said Maturina shaking her head. A stone came crashing through the window, and shrieking and wringing her hands, the fat woman fled, felt her way down the dark stairs to the cellar, and hid in a wine-cask. Marco hurried upstairs to bar the windows; Giovanni, pale, distressed, but indifferent to the peril, turned a woeful countenance to Leonardo, and fell at his feet. 'O Master, they say----I swear it is not true--nay, I believe it not--but for God's sake tell me yourself----!' and he stopped short, panting with agitation. Leonardo smiled sadly. 'You fear they speak truth that I am a murderer?' 'A word, master! a single word from your own lips!' 'But why, friend? If you can harbour a doubt, you would not believe me.' 'Oh, Messer Leonardo, I am in torture ... A word, a single word!' Leonardo did not answer immediately; then he said in a shaking voice:-- 'You also, Giovanni, with them! You, also, against me!' Outside the blows were such that the whole house shook. Scarabullo was forcing the door with an axe. Leonardo, hearing the imprecations and the insults of the infuriated crowd, felt his heart contracted with anguish and great solitude. His chin drooped, and his glance fell on the lines just written: '_O mirabile giustizia di te, Primo Motore!_' He smiled, and with great humility repeated the words of the dying Gian Galeazzo:-- 'All is well. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.' BOOK VI THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO--1494-1495 _L'amore di qualunque cosa è figliuolo d'essa cognitione. L'amore à tanto più fervente, quanto la cognitione è più certa._ LEONARDO DA VINCI. (Knowledge of a thing engenders love of it; the more exact the knowledge, the more fervent the love.) 'Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.'--ST. MATT. x. 16. GIOVANNI'S DIARY On the 25th of March 1494 I entered myself as a disciple in the studio of Messer Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine master. * * * * * This is the order of his teaching:--perspective; the dimensions and proportions of the human body; drawings from examples by the best masters; drawings from nature. * * * * * To-day Marco d'Oggionno, my fellow-disciple, has given me a book, taken down entirely from the words of our Master. The book begins thus:-- 'The purest joy is given to the body by the light of the sun; to the spirit, by the clear shining of mathematics. That is why the science of Perspective (in which the contemplation of the bright line--_la linia radiosa_--true solace of the eye, goes hand in hand with the clearness of mathematics--true solace of the mind) must be exalted above all other human research and science. May He who said, "I am the true Light," lend me His aid that I may know the science of Perspective--the science of His light. I divide this book into three parts: the first, the diminishing, by distance, of the _size of objects_; the second, the diminishing of the _distinctness of the colour_; the third, the diminishing of the _clearness of the outline_.' * * * * * The Master cares for me like a father. When he learned of my poverty, he refused to take the monthly payment agreed on. * * * * * The Master says:-- 'When you shall have grasped well your Perspective, and hold in your mind the proportions of the human body, then in your walks abroad notice assiduously the postures and movements of men, how they stand, walk, talk, and quarrel; how they laugh and fight; the manner of their faces when they are doing these things, and the manner of the faces of the bystanders who want to separate the fighters; and the faces of those who look on with apathy. Set all in pencil in a note-book of coloured paper, which you should always have about you. When the booklet is filled, take another; put the first one away and keep it. In no wise destroy nor rub out these sketches; for the movements of the body are so endless that no memory could hold them all. That is why you must look on these rough sketches as your best teachers.' I have made myself such a sketch-book. * * * * * To-day in the Vicolo dei Pattari, not far from the cathedral, I encountered my uncle, Oswald Ingrim. He told me he renounced me; and accused me of ruining my soul in the house of the heretic and the infidel. * * * * * Whenever I am heavy of heart, I have but to look on his face to grow light and gay. How wondrous are his eyes; clear, blue, pale, and cold--cold as ice. The voice, most pleasant and soft. The most cruel, the most obdurate, can by no means resist his persuasiveness. He sits at his work-table, immersed in thoughts, parting and smoothing his golden beard, long and soft as the silk of a maiden. When he talks with any one, then he partly closes one eye with a merry and kind expression; his glance from under the thick and overhanging eyebrows penetrates the very soul. * * * * * He dislikes lively colours, and new and discommoding fashions; nor does he affect perfumes. His linen is of Rhenish stuff, marvellous clean and fine. His black velvet _berretto_ carries no plumes nor ornaments. His suiting is of black; but he wears a mantle of dark red which reaches to the knee, and hangs in straight folds, as was the old mode in Florence. His movements are easy and quiet, but notable. He is like no one else. * * * * * Shoots excellently with the bow or arbalist, rides, swims, is a master of fence with the small sword. To-day I saw him hit the highest point of the cupola of a church with a small thrown coin. Messer Leonardo, by the skill and the strength of his hand, surpassed every competitor. He is left-handed; but with that same left hand, for all it looks delicate and soft as a woman's, he bends iron fetters and twists the tongue of a brazen bell. * * * * * While I was watching him, the child Jacopo ran in laughing and clapping his hands. 'Cripples, Messer Leonardo, monsters! Come your ways into the kitchen, I have brought you such beauties that you shall lick your fingers for joy!' 'Whence came they?' 'From the porch of Sant' Ambrogio. Beggars from Bergamo! I promised you'd give them supper if they'd let themselves be painted.' Leaving the picture of the Virgin unfinished, Leonardo betook him to the kitchen, I following. We found two brothers, very old and swollen with dropsy, great hanging _goîtres_ on their throats. With them was the wife of one of them, a withered little old body, whose name Ragnina (little spider) seemed very suitable. 'You see,' cried Jacopo triumphantly, 'I said you would be pleased! Don't I know exactly what you like?' Leonardo sat down by the hobgoblin cripples, ordered wine to be brought, served it to them himself, questioned them kindly, told them absurd stories to make them laugh. At first they were restive and suspicious, not understanding why they had been brought in. But when he related an anecdote about a dead Jew, whom his compatriots, to evade the law forbidding the burial of Hebrews within the confines of Bologna, had cut in pieces, pickled, spiced, and sent to Venice where he was eaten by a Florentine Christian, the Little Spider was like to burst with laughter. Soon all three were tipsy, and laughing and talking and making the most horrible faces. I was disgusted and looked away; but Leonardo watched them with deep and eager curiosity; and when their hideousness had reached its height, took out his sketch-book and drew with the same delighted attention that he had lavished on the smile of the Virgin. In the evening he showed me a whole collection of caricatures; grotesques not only of men but also of beasts--terrible shapes, like those which haunt sick men in their delirium, the human and the bestial compounded to make one shudder. The muzzle of a porcupine, its quills bristling, its under lip pendent, loose, and thin as a rag, displaying in a human grin two long white teeth like almonds; an old woman, her nose spread and hairy, and scarce bigger than a mole, her lips monstrously thick, like those squat and viscid fungi which grow out of withered trunks. * * * * * Cesare da Sesto tells me that sometimes the Master, having met some monstrosity in the street, will follow it for a whole day. Great deformity, he says, is as rare as great beauty; only mediocrity is negligible. * * * * * Marco d'Oggionno works like an ox, and carries out all the teacher's rules; the more he tries the less is his success. He is endowed with an invincible constancy. He thinks patience and labour shall possess all things; nor doth he despair of some day becoming a great painter. He takes also, more than any of us, rare delight in the master's inventions. One of these days he carried his note-book to the Piazza del Broletto, and according to the Master's system he made the required indexed notes of those faces which struck him chiefly in the crowd. But on reaching home he could in no wise translate his notes into a living face. Likewise did he fail in the use of Leonardo's spoon for measuring out colour. His shadows remain thick and unnatural, just as his faces are wooden and devoid of all charm. Marco accounts for this by some small failure in his obedience to the rules. Cesare da Sesto ridicules him. 'This most excellent Marco,' he says, 'is a martyr in the cause of science. His example shows that all these measures and rules be worth nothing. To know how infants are born does not suffice to beget one. Leonardo deceiveth himself and others; he teaches one thing and performs another. When he paints he follows no rule save that of inspiration; yet he is not content to be a great artist, but would be a man of science also. I fear lest, coursing two hares, he run down neither.' It may be that in this mockery of Cesare's there is a modicum of truth; but no love for the Master. Leonardo hearkens to him, praises his intelligence, and never is wroth with him. * * * * * I am watching how he works at his _Cenacolo_. Betimes, before sunrise, he goes to the convent refectory, and paints till the shadows close in on him, nor does the brush fall from his hands, nor does he remember food and drink. Sometimes he lets whole weeks go by in which he touches not his paints. Sometimes he will stand for two hours on the scaffold before the picture examining it and criticising what he has done. At other times I have known him rush forth in the mid-day heat through the blazing streets, being drawn by some viewless power to the monastery; he will mount his scaffold, do two touches or mayhap three, and rush away at once. * * * * * He is working at the countenance of the Apostle John. To-day he should have completed it. Instead he remained at home with the child Jacopo, watching the flight of hornets, wasps, and flies. So absorbed is he in studying the construction of their bodies that 'twould seem on it depended the destiny of the human race. Having perceived that the hind legs of flies serve them as a rudder, he experienced greater pleasure than if he had found the secret of perpetual felicity. He thinks the discovery useful, and like to serve his apparatus for flight. Poor Apostle John! * * * * * To-day there is a new distraction, and the flies are abandoned. The Master is working on a design, beautiful and wondrous delicate, which is to form the coat-of-arms of an academy not yet existing outside the brain of the duke. The device is a square containing a crown of cords, geometrically intertwined, in knots without beginning or end. I could not restrain myself, but reminded him of the unfinished apostle. He shrugged his shoulders, and without raising his eyes from the crown of cords, he said through his closed teeth:-- 'Patience! time enough! The head of John will not run away!' I begin to comprehend Cesare's malice! * * * * * The duke has entrusted to him the construction within the palace of hearing-tubes concealed in the thickness of the walls, after the fashion of the Ear of Dionysius. Leonardo began with ardour, but now has cooled and catches at every pretext for laying the work aside. The duke hurries him and is wroth; this morning he summoned him several times to the palace, but the Master is occupied with experiments on vegetables. He has cut away the roots from a pumpkin, leaving but one small shoot, which he assiduously drenches with water. To his great joy the plant has not withered. 'The mother,'says he, 'nourishes well her children.' Sixty little oblong pumpkins have formed. * * * * * Cesare says Leonardo is the greatest of the libertines. He has written a hundred and twenty volumes on matters of natural science, but all in fragments, in dispersed notes on flying leaves; and he keeps a MS. of over five thousand pages in such disorder that he himself cannot find anything in it. * * * * * Coming into my little room, he said: 'Giovanni, have you noticed that small rooms dispose the mind to profundity, large ones to breadth? And have you observed how the images of things, seen through the shadow of rain, are clearer than in the sunlight?' * * * * * Two days of work on the head of John the Apostle. But, alas! something has been lost through flies, pumpkins, cats, and the ear of Dionysius. He has again failed to complete the head, and now, disgusted with his paint-box, retired into geometry. He says that the odour of the paint nauseates him, and the sight of the brushes. Thus the days pass; at the caprice of chance, and submitting to the will of God, we, as it were, lie in port waiting for a wind. Fortunately he has forgotten the flying-machine or we should starve. What to others appears perfection is to him teeming with error. He aims at the highest, at the unattainable, at what is for ever beyond the reach of the hand of man. Therefore his productions rest incomplete. * * * * * Andrea Salaino has fallen sick. The Master nurses him, sits up at night, watches by his pillow; but no one dare speak to him of medicine. Marco d'Oggionno surreptitiously introduced a pill-box, but Leonardo found it, and cast it from the window. Andrea himself desired to be bled, and spoke of a most skilled phlebotomist of his acquaintance; but the Master grew properly indignant, speaking of all doctors with epithets most injurious. 'Heed rather to preserve than to cure your health; and beware of physicians.' He added with a smile, good-natured yet malicious, 'Every man scrapes up his money only to give it to them, the destroyers of lives.' * * * * * The Master has taken in hand a treatise on painting; the Lord knows when he will finish it. Latterly he has been much busied (I likewise, helping him) with aerial and line perspective, both in light and shade, and he has given me discourses and fugitive thoughts upon art. I will now write down such as I can remember of the noblest of sciences; and may those into whose hands these pages shall fall, remember in their prayers the soul of the great Florentine master, Leonardo da Vinci, and the soul of Giovanni Boltraffio, his humble disciple. * * * * * The Master says 'All which is beautiful, even humanly beautiful, dies, except in art. (_Cosa bella mortal passa e non d'arte._) 'He who despises painting despises the philosophical and refined contemplation of the world. Painting is the grandchild of Nature and the kinswoman of God.' * * * * * '_Il pittore deve essere universale._ O painter, be thy variety infinite as the phenomena of Nature! Carrying on what God has begun, seek to multiply, not the works of men's hands, but those of the eternal hands of God. Imitate no one; let thy every work be a new phenomenon of Nature.' * * * * * 'For him who is master of the fundamental natural laws; for him who _knows_, it is easy to be universal; because all bodies, whether of men or of beasts, are really formed on the same principles.' * * * * * 'Take heed lest in thee the greed for gold suffocate the love of art; and remember that the conquest of glory excels the glory of conquest. The memory of the rich perishes with them, the memory of the wise endures for ever; because science and wisdom are the legitimate children of their father, and money is but his bastard. Love glory, and be not fearful of poverty. Consider how many philosophers have laid down the wealth to which they were born, that they might enrich their souls with virtue, and have lived content in misery.' * * * * * 'Knowledge rejuvenates the soul, and lightens the burden of old age. Therefore gather wisdom, that thou mayest gather sweets for thine age.' * * * * * 'There is a generation of painters who, to hide their meagre knowledge, shelter themselves behind the beauty of gold and azure, and say they give not of their best because of the scanty payment they receive, and that they could surpass any man were they as well rewarded as he. O fools! what hinders them to make something beautiful, and to say, "This picture is such a price, and this other is less, and this, third least of all; showing that they have work for every price?"' * * * * * 'Not infrequently the lust for gold brings even the good masters down to the level of craftsmen. Thus my countryman and comrade, Perugino the Florentine, arrived at such rapidity of execution, that once he replied to his wife, who called him to dinner, "Serve the soup while I paint one more saint!"' * * * * * 'The artist who has no mistrust of himself will never attain to the supreme heights of art. Well for thee if thy work be higher, ill for thee if it equal, woe to thee if it fall below, thine own estimation! Pitiful is that artificer who, persuaded that he has produced a masterpiece, questions wonderingly how God can have helped him to such purpose.' * * * * * 'Listen with long suffering to the criticisms which men pass on your picture; and weigh their words to see if, perchance, they, faulting it, be in the right. If they be right, correct; if they be wrong, feign deafness; or if they be persons worthy of notice, show them their error. The judgment of an enemy is often nearer the truth than the judgment of a friend; hatred is often profounder than love. The intellect of him who hates, sees and penetrates better than the intellect of him who loves. A true friend is like thyself; but an enemy resembles thee not, and in this is his strength. Hatred throws light. Remember this, and despise not the criticisms of thine enemy.' * * * * * 'Bright colours captivate the vulgar, but the true artist seeks not to please the vulgar, but the elect. His pride and his aim is not in the dazzling by colour, but in the performance of a miracle, namely, that by the play of light and shadow, things which are flat should appear round. He who neglecting the shadows, sacrifices them to the splendour of tinting, is like the vain babbler who sacrifices significance for sounding and furious words.' * * * * * 'Above all, beware of coarse, sharp outlines. The shadows on a young and delicate body should be neither dead nor stony, but light, evasive, and transparent like air; for the human body is itself transparent, as you can convince yourself by looking through your fingers at the sun. Too brilliant a light gives not good shadows; wherefore be wary of it. Observe the tenderness and charm on the faces of men and women as they pass along the shadowed street between the dark walls of the houses under twilight on clouded days. This is the most perfect light; your shadow, gradually vanishing into the light, will fade like smoke--like a soft music. Remember that between the light and the dark there is something which participates in both; a bright shadow or a dark light. Seek for it, O painter! for therein lies the secret of captivation--of charm.' These words he spoke, and raising his hands as if wishing to imprint the lesson on our memories, he repeated, with indescribable emphasis, 'Reject coarse and heavy outlines; confound your shadows in the light, letting them vanish little by little, like smoke; like a tender music.' Cesare, who was listening attentively, raised his eyes and smiled, as if about to dispute; nevertheless he remained silent. * * * * * Later, speaking on another topic, Leonardo said:-- 'Falsehood is so shameful that even in praising God it dishonours Him. Truth is so excellent that in speaking of the vile it ennobles. Between truth and falsehood there is a difference no less than between light and darkness.' Here Cesare, suddenly struck by an idea, fixed scrutinising eyes on the Master. 'How?' he said. 'Yet, Master, have you not told us that between the darkness and the light there exists an intermediary, something which participates in both, and is, as it were, bright shadow and dark light. Then, between truth and lie--but no, 'tis absurd. Master, your metaphor lands me in great temptation! For the painter who, you say, seeks enslaving charm in the compounding of light and shadow, may rightly seek also the twilight between true and false.' At first Leonardo frowned, and seemed indignant that one of his pupils should exhibit such an obsession; then he replied smiling:-- 'Tempt me not! Get thee behind me, Satan!' I had expected a different answer; to my thinking, Cesare's words merited better than an idle jest. In me, at any rate they excited a tumult of strange and tormenting ideas. * * * * * To-night I beheld him, standing in the rain in a close and fetid alley, absorbed in the contemplation of certain spots of dampness on a stone. He stood there a long while, and the urchins in the street nudged each other and mocked him. I asked him what he beheld in the stone. 'Giovanni,' he said, 'see the splendid monstrous figure! Chimera, with her jaws wide; and beside her an angel with flying hair and airy flight, fleeing from the monster. The caprice of chance has produced a picture worthy of a great artist.' He traced with his finger the outline of the damp spot, and to my amazement I recognised that what he said was true. 'Many,' he said, 'think this habit of mine an absurdity; but experience has taught me how useful it is for the education of the fancy. I have taken from such things what I wanted, and brought them to completeness. Listen to far-off bells; you can find in their confused clang the very names and words you lack.' * * * * * For tears the eyebrows contract; for laughter they expand. The Master goes gladly with those condemned to death, watching in their faces the degrees of their agony and terror; and the very executioners wonder at him, when he makes a study of the last quivering of the muscles. 'Nay, Giovanni, you understand not the man he is!' cried Cesare. 'He will lift a worm from the path lest his foot crush it; but if his own mother were a-dying he would watch the contracting of her eyebrows, the wrinkling of her forehead, the drooping of the corners of the mouth.' * * * * * 'Note the expression and the gestures of deaf-mutes.' * * * * * 'When you watch persons, do it without letting them know; so shall their movements, their laughter, and their tears be more natural.' * * * * * 'An artist whose own hands are angular and bony, is apt to depict people with angular and bony hands; for every man likes the faces and the bodies which resemble his own. The ugly painter will choose ugly models, and _vice versâ_. Let not the men and the women whom you paint seem your blood-brothers either in beauty or in deformity. This is a fault which attaches to many Italian artists. In painting there is no error more treacherous. I consider the temptation arises from the fact that the soul makes the body which belongs to it. Of old it shaped and fashioned it in its own likeness; and now when again it is called upon to fashion a new body with brushes and paint, it yearns to reproduce the shape in which it has long had its habitation.' * * * * * The Master tells us, ''Tis not experience, the mother of all arts and sciences, which deceives men, but imagination, which promises them what experience cannot give. Experience is not to blame, but our own vain and senseless lusts. Experience would have us aim at the possible, and not strive ignorantly for what we can never obtain; lest we become the prey of despair.' When we were alone Cesare repeated these words, and cried as in disgust:-- 'Hypocrisy and lies!' 'How has he lied?' asked I. 'Not to aim at the impossible! not to follow the unattainable! Well, it may be some one will believe his words, but 'twill not be I nor you! I have penetrated to his inmost soul.' 'And what see you there, Cesare?' 'All his life through, he has done nothing but aim at the impossible, nothing but follow the unattainable! What else is he about in this machine to turn men into birds, in that other to set them in water like fish? And the chimerical monsters he finds in the spots on walls and in the outline of the clouds; and the mystic charm of divine faces seen in angelic visions--whence does he derive all this? From experience? from his diagram of noses, and his ladle for measuring out paint? Why does he deceive himself? Why lie? His mechanical studies are for the performance of a miracle; for raising himself into heaven by flight, for using natural forces to do that which is against Nature. He stretches out towards God or devil, he cares not which, provided 'tis something unexampled, beyond possibility. The less is his faith, the greater is his quenchless curiosity.' These words of Cesare's have filled my soul with anxiety. For several days I have thought them over: I would fain forget them, but I cannot. To-day, however, the Master, as if in answer to my doubts, has said to me:-- 'A little knowledge puffs up; great knowledge makes humble. Blasted ears raise proud heads; those full of grain bow down.' 'Then,' asked Cesare with his accustomed ironic smile, 'how happed it that Lucifer, prince of the cherubim, and renowned for wisdom, was moved by wisdom not to humility, but to pride that cast him into hell?' Leonardo did not answer at once; presently he told us this fable. 'Once a drop of water aspired to reach the sky. Winged by fire, it rose up in fine steam. But mounted on high it met air still finer and very cold, and the fire deserted it. Then it shivered and grew heavy, and, its presumption changing into terror, fell as rain. And cast down from heaven it fell upon the earth, and was drunk up by dryness; and for long time it was shut up in prison underground, and there did penance for its sin.' He added no more, but I thought I understood. * * * * * The longer I live with him the less I know him. To-day he has again been playing like a child. And such strange pranks! Before going to bed I was sitting in my chamber reading my favourite book, _The Little Flowers of Saint Francis_, when suddenly a cry rang through the house from our old woman, the kind and faithful Maturina-- 'Fire! Help! Help! Fire!' I rushed out. An appallingly thick white smoke filled the Master's studio. He was there himself, standing among clouds like some ancient magi, and illumined by unearthly blue flames. His face was merry, and he looked jovially at the pale and terrified Maturina, and at Marco, who had rushed in with two buckets of water, to empty over the drawings and manuscripts strewing the table. Leonardo, however, stopped him, saying it was all a jest. Smoke and flames came from a heated brazier containing a powder of frankincense and resin. I cannot say which took the greater pleasure in the joke, Leonardo or the little scamp, that jackanapes Jacopo. Only a good man could laugh as does Leonardo! I swear it is not true what Cesare says of him! The Master set down in his note-book the effect produced by terror upon Maturina's wrinkles. * * * * * He speaks scarce at all of women. Once, however, he said that men maltreat them even as they do their beasts. He ridicules the platonic love which is the fashion; and when a certain youth read to him a peevish sonnet in the manner of Petrarch, he replied in three lines, about Petrarch's loving Laura merely to season his own daily food. Cesare says that Leonardo has so wasted himself on mechanics and geometry that he has had no time for love of women. But he adds, depend upon it he is no Galahad; he must certainly have embraced a woman at least once, out of mere curiosity. * * * * * I should never have talked to Cesare about Leonardo. We seem to watch him like spies, and Cesare finds a malevolent pleasure in detecting new blots in his character. And what does Cesare want with me? Why does he poison my mind? We now frequently visit a scurvy little tavern by the Cantarana Canal, just beyond the Porta Vercellina. We talk for hours over a half-flagon of sour wine, amid the oaths of boatmen who finger filthy cards and lay plots together for extortion. To-day Cesare asked me if I knew that at Florence Leonardo had been accused of immorality. I could not believe my ears, and thought him raving or drunken. Then he told me the story in detail. When Leonardo was twenty-four years of age, and his master, the famous Florentine, Andrea Verrocchio, forty--an anonymous charge against them both was put into one of those round wooden boxes called _tamburi_, which hang on the pillars in the churches, most notably in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. In April 'the guardians of the night and of monasteries' inquired into the matter, and acquitted the accused on the condition, however, that the charge should be repeated. The fresh accusation was made in June, and they both were finally acquitted. Nothing more was heard of the accusation; but Leonardo soon left Verrocchio and Florence, and came hither to Milan. 'Oh, doubtless, 'tis an abominable calumny,' said Cesare with his meaning smile; 'though, friend Giovanni, you do not yet know what contradictions nestle in his heart. 'Tis a labyrinth so intricate that even the devil would lose himself therein. He certainly appears chaste, but----' I had started to my feet, probably pale enough, and cried:-- 'How dare you, Cesare?' 'What the devil is the matter with you? Calm yourself. I will say no more. I was a hundred miles from _that_ construction----' 'What are you insinuating? Speak out!' 'What folly is this? Why so hot? Is it worth the separating of two such friends as we? Rather let us drink. To your health, sir. _In vino veritas._' And we drank and resumed our talk. But no, no! this suffices! I will forget it; I will abstain from speaking of the Master with this man. Cesare is not his enemy alone, but also mine. He is a bad fellow. Now I feel nauseated. It is odious to see the hideous delight some men feel when they have thrown mud upon the great. * * * * * The Master says: 'Thy strength, O painter, is in solitude! When you are alone you belong wholly to yourself (_Se tu sarai solo tu sarai tutto tuo_), but if you have even one companion then you are only half your own; possibly less than half if your friend be indiscreet. If you have many friends, you fall deeper into the same slough. And if you say, "I will withdraw myself, and practise the contemplation of Nature," you will not succeed, for you will be lending one ear to the chatterings of your friends, and inasmuch as no man can serve two masters, you will perform ill the duties of a friend, and still worse the observances of art. And if you say, "I will withdraw beyond the reach of their voices," then you will be reckoned a madman, and you practically end by being alone. 'But if you must have company, let it be that of the painters and scholars in your studio; all other friendships will be to your detriment. Remember, O painter, that your strength is in solitude!' Leonardo consorts not with women, because his soul must be absolutely free. * * * * * Sometimes Andrea Salaino complains that our existence alternates between the monotony of hard work and the tedium of inaction; and he declares that the pupils of other Masters lead a gayer life. He is as fond of fine clothes as a maid, and would like the noise of feastings and merriment and the fire of amorous eyes. Leonardo to-day, having overheard the reproaches and laments of his favourite, stroked his long curls affectionately, and said smiling:-- 'Be of good cheer, lad. I'll take you to the next feast at the castle. Meantime, shall I tell you a fable?' Andrea clapped his hands like a child, and threw himself at the Master's feet, all attention. Leonardo began:-- 'Once upon a time a large stone, lately washed up by the stream, lay in a retired place high up above the road and surrounded by trees, moss, flowers, and grasses. Looking down on his road he saw a number of stones like himself, and he said, "What profit have I here among these short-lived plants? I will descend among my kinsmen and live with stones like myself." Thereupon he rolled himself down to the road, and took a place amongst his brothers. And the wheels of heavy wains ground him, and the hoof of the ass, and the nailed boot of the pedestrian. Then he lifted himself a little, and thought he should breathe more freely; but, lo! became bespattered with mud, and the droppings of animals; and his former fair retreat in the garden of flowers seemed to him a paradise. Thus it is, Andrea, with those who leave their meditation and plunge into city disquiet.' * * * * * The master permits harm to no living creatures, not even to plants. Zoroastro tells me that from an early age he has abjured meat, and says that the time shall come when all men such as he will be content with a vegetable diet, and will think on the murder of animals as now they think on the murder of men. * * * * * To-day we passed by a butcher's shop, and he pointed to the dead carcases of calves and oxen and pigs, and said with disgust:--'Truly man is the king of beasts, for his brutality exceeds theirs.' And then added sorrowfully: 'We live by the death of others. We are burial-places.' * * * * * God forgive me, I have again been with Cesare to that accursed tavern! We spoke of the Master's compassionateness for animals. 'You refer, Giovanni, to his eating no flesh?' 'It may be so. I know----' 'You know nothing! Messer Leonardo is not moved by goodness, but by the love of singularity.' 'What mean you by that?' He laughed somewhat forcedly. 'Peace. Let us not quarrel. Wait, and I will show you certain of his drawings--i' faith, very interesting drawings.' So upon our return we crept, thief-like, into the Master's studio. Cesare rummaged till he had found a certain concealed sketch-book which he showed to me. My conscience pricked me; nevertheless I looked with interest. They were drawings of colossal bombards, explosive balls, many-barrelled guns, and such like engines of war, executed with no less delicacy than he lavished on the divine countenances of his Madonnas. Especially do I remember one bomb, half a _braccio_ in diameter, called 'Fragilità,' the construction of which Cesare explained to me. It was cast of bronze, the hollow within being filled with layers of gypsum. Leonardo had written on the margin beside the sketch:-- 'Most beautiful bomb. Very useful. After leaving the gun it ignites while one might pronounce an _Ave Maria_.' '_Ave Maria!_' cried Cesare. 'How does this use of a Christian prayer please you, my friend? You see the breed of his inventions! And have you heard his definition of war?' 'No.' '"_Pazzia bestialissima_, the most brutal of madnesses." A pretty definition, methinks, for the inventor of these engines. Here is your holy man who eats no flesh, who lifts a worm from the path lest a boot should tread on it! Both one and the other simultaneously! to-day a devil, to-morrow a saint. A Janus, with one face toward Christ, the other towards Antichrist. Which is the true Leonardo, which the false! Who can say? And he does it all with a light heart, with a mystic seductive grace. _He is at play._' I listened in silence, a chill like the chill of death piercing my heart. 'Eh? What is the matter, friend Giovanni? Quite chapfallen? You take it overmuch to heart. Oh, you'll soon be used to it, just as I am. And now let us go back to the _Tartaruga d'oro_, and sing:-- "Dum vinum potamus Fratelli cantiamo A Bacco sià onore! Te deum laudamus."' I said no word, but fled from him. * * * * * To-day Marco d'Oggionno said to the Master:-- 'Messer Leonardo, they accuse us of too scanty church-going, and of work on holy days as on others.' 'Let bigots talk at leisure, and heed them not,' answered Leonardo. 'The study of Nature is well-pleasing to God, and is akin to prayer. Learning the laws of Nature, we magnify the first Inventor, the Designer of the world; and we learn to love Him, for great love of God results from great knowledge. Who knows little, loves little. If you love the Creator for the favour you expect of Him, and not for His most high goodness and strength, wherein do you excel the dog who licks his master's hand in the hope of dainties? But reflect how that worthy beast, the dog, would adore his master could he comprehend his reason and his soul! Remember, children, love is the daughter of knowledge; and the deeper the knowledge of God the greater the fervency of love. Wherefore in the Scripture it is written, "Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves."' 'But who,' retorted Cesare, 'can combine the sweetness of the dove with the cunning of the serpent? To my thinking we must choose between the two.' 'Not so,' cried Leonardo; 'there must be a fusion. I TELL YOU PERFECT KNOWLEDGE OF THE UNIVERSE AND PERFECT LOVE OF GOD ARE ONE THING AND THE SAME.' * * * * * How fain would I return to thy silent and holy cell, O Fra Benedetto! Tell thee all my grief, and fall upon thy breast, that thou mightest pity me and remove from my soul this burden, O beloved father! O gentle shepherd, who dost abide by the word of Christ--'Blessed are the poor in spirit!' * * * * * At times the Master's face is so peaceful and innocent, so full of dovelike harmlessness, that I am ready to pardon all, to believe all, to trust him with my very soul. Then of a sudden the subtle lines of his lips take on an expression so incomprehensible, something which so inspires me with fear, that I seem to be looking through the transparency of water into the profundity of the abyss. There is in his soul some impenetrable mystery; and I recall one of his sayings:-- 'Very deep rivers flow underground.' * * * * * The Duke Gian Galeazzo is dead; and they say that Leonardo has been the occasion of his death by means of poisoned fruit. God is my witness, that 'tis not of my own will I lend an ear unto this terrible accusation, and that I would fain reject it out of hand. Yet there stands ever before my eyes that vision of the tree, with its leaves distilling dew, and its fatal fruit maturing in the greenish mist, lit by the moon, pregnant with terror and death. Oh, that I had never seen it! '"Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil thou shalt not eat of it, for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."' * * * * * Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord! Lord hear my voice; let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications! Like the thief upon the Cross, I confess Thy name: Remember me, O Lord, when Thou comest into Thy kingdom. * * * * * Leonardo has begun to work on the countenance of the Christ. * * * * * The duke has commanded him to construct an engine for raising the Holy Nail. With mathematical accuracy he weighs in a scale the instrument of the Passion of the Saviour, as if it were a fragment of old iron; so many ounces, so many grains. To him it is only a figure among figures; a part among parts of a lifting machine; ropes, wheels, levers, and pulleys. * * * * * Says the apostle, 'Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that Antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists, whereby we know that it is the last time.' * * * * * To-night a crowd of people demanding the Holy Nail surrounded our house, crying, 'Sorcerer! infidel! poisoner! Antichrist!' Amused, Leonardo listened to the howl of the mob, and when Marco would have discharged his arquebus at them, it was the Master who restrained him. The Master did not change from his impenetrable serenity, and when I fell at his feet supplicating a word, a single word, to dispel my doubts--and I swear by God I should have believed him--he would not or could not speak. Little Jacopo, stealing out, evaded the crowd, and having met the guard of the captain of justice, led them to the house: and at the instant when the doors were giving way under the weight and the blows of the crowd, soldiers took them in the rear, and the rioters scattered. Jacopo is wounded, struck on the head by a stone, and like to die. * * * * * To-day I assisted in the cathedral at the Feast of the most Holy Nail. At the moment recommended by the astrologers it was raised on high. Leonardo's machine acted without a hitch: neither rope nor pulley was visible. Through clouds of incense the round casket with the crystal sides and the golden rays in which the nail was set, rose of itself like the rising sun. 'Twas a triumph of mechanics! The choir sang:-- 'Confixa clavis viscera Tendens manus vestigia Redemptionis gratia, Hic immolata est Hostia.' Then the casket was arrested and lodged in a dark niche above the high altar, surrounded by five ever-flaming lamps. The Archbishop intoned:-- '_O Crux benedicta quae sola fuisti digna portare Regem cælorum et Dominum, Alleluia!_' The whole assembled multitude fell on their knees repeating Alleluia! And the usurper of the throne of Milan, Ludovico the assassin, prostrated himself with the rest, and weeping, raised his hands to the Holy Nail. After which the populace was glutted with wine, with the flesh of beasts, with five thousand measures of pease, and six hundredweight of salt. Forgetting their murdered lord, they feasted and drank, and cried--'_Viva Il Moro! Viva il Chiodo!_' Bellincioni has composed some hexameters, in which we learn that by virtue of the ancient nail of iron the age of gold shall be renewed. After leaving the cathedral the duke came to Leonardo and embraced him; kissing his lips, calling him his Archimedes, and, thanking him for the beautiful machine, he promised to present him with a pure-blooded Barbary mare and two thousand imperial ducats. Then condescendingly tapping him on the shoulder, he said, 'Now you'll have time to finish the head of your Christ.' * * * * * 'A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.' I can no longer endure my torment; I perish; I become crazed! My reason loses itself in the duplicity of these thoughts. Fly, fly, ere it be too late! * * * * * I rose in the night-time, tied up my clothes and my books in a bundle, took a thick stick, felt my way through the darkness to the studio, where I left on the table the thirty florins which I owe for the last six months' teaching--I have sold my mother's emerald ring to do this--and without leave-takings, abandoned Leonardo's house for ever. * * * * * Fra Benedetto tells me that from the time I left him he has not ceased to pray for me; and he has had a revelation in his sleep that God has brought me back into the true path. He is faring to Florence to visit his sick brother, a Dominican in the monastery of San Marco, where Fra Girolamo Savonarola is prior. * * * * * Praise and thanksgiving unto Thee, O Lord! Thou hast brought me out of the shadow of death, from the mouth of the pit. I renounce to-day the wisdom of this world, upon which is the seal of the dragon with the seven heads, the beast which walketh in darkness, which is Antichrist. I renounce the fruit of the poisonous tree of knowledge, the pride of vain understanding, of that wisdom which is inimical to God, of whom the Devil is the father. I renounce every aspiration after the enchantments of the world. I renounce all that is not subordinated to Thy glory, Thy will, Thy wisdom, O Christ! Illumine my soul with Thy light, deliver me from fatal duplicity of thought; make sure my footsteps in Thy paths, and shelter me under the shadow of Thy wings. My soul, praise the Lord! I will praise the Lord so long as I have my being; I will yet sing praises unto my God. * * * * * Two days hence, Fra Benedetto and I go to Florence. I desire, with the blessing of this my second father, to enter as novice in the Convent of San Marco, under the guidance of the holy and elect Fra Girolamo Savonarola. * * * * * Here ends the diary of Giovanni Boltraffio. BOOK VII THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES--1496 '_Dov' è più sentimento, li è più, ne' martiri, gran martire._' LEONARDO DA VINCI. (He who feels most, is the greatest of the martyrs.) 'A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.' ST. JAMES i. 8. I More than a year had passed since Giovanni Boltraffio had been received as a novice in the Convent of San Marco. On a winter's day towards the close of the carnival of 1496, shortly after noon, Fra Girolamo was writing the account of a vision which had lately appeared to him. He had seen two crosses waving above the city of Rome, one black and enveloped in storm, inscribed--'The Cross of the fury of the Lord'; the other of gleaming azure, with the inscription--'The Cross of the Lord's mercy.' February sunshine flooded the narrow cell with its white and naked walls, great black crucifix, and the thick parchment books in antique leather. Now and then from the blue sky came the joyous twitter of the swallows. Fra Girolamo felt unwonted weariness, and now and then trembled. Laying down his pen, he dropped his head on his hands, closed his eyes, and meditated upon what he had that morning heard about Pope Alexander VI. from Fra Paolo, a monk who had been on a secret mission to Rome. Monstrous images like those described in the Apocalypse passed and whirled before the mind of the prior; he saw the blood-stained bull of the shield of the Borgias, reminding him of Apis, the heathen god; the golden calf borne before the pontiff instead of the humble Lamb of God; nightly orgies at the Vatican in the presence of the Holy Father, of his favourite daughter, and of the College of Cardinals; the beautiful Giulia Farnese, mistress of the sexagenarian pope, and the model for contemporary portraits of the saints; his two sons, Cesare the young Cardinal of Valenza, and Giovanni the Duke of Candia, who out of criminal love for Lucrezia their sister, hated each other to the point of fratricide. And haunted by what Fra Paolo had scarcely dared to whisper, the tale of the strange relations between the pope and this Lucrezia his daughter, Girolamo trembled. 'But no, 'tis calumny. It were too great an enormity! God sees that I cannot believe it,' he murmured. But in the depths of his soul he felt that nothing was impossible in that terrible nest of the Borgias, and drops of cold sweat stood out upon his forehead. He had fallen on his knees before the crucifix, when a low knocking was heard at the door of his cell. 'Who is it?' 'It is I, father.' He recognized the voice of his trusty friend, Fra Domenico Buonvicino. 'Ricciardo Becchi, secret legate from the pope, prays for an audience.' 'Good. Let him wait. Meanwhile send me Fra Silvestro.' Fra Silvestro Maruffi was epileptic and of weak intellect, but Fra Girolamo, considering him a chosen vessel of the grace of God, both loved and feared him. He interpreted Maruffi's visions according to the precise rules of St. Thomas Aquinas and the Schoolmen, finding by ingenuity, by the arguments of logic, by enthymemes, apophthegms, and syllogisms, prophetical meaning in the vain babble of an idiot. Maruffi showed no respect for his superior, insulted him publicly, and even struck him; offences which Fra Girolamo received with the utmost meekness. So that if the people of Florence were in the hands of Savonarola, Savonarola was in the hands of the half-witted Maruffi. Having entered, Fra Silvestro sat on the floor and scratched furiously at his red and naked feet, chanting a monotonous song. His face was freckled, with a sharp nose, and a hanging lower lip. His rheumy eyes of a dull green were melancholy. 'Brother,' said Savonarola, 'the pope has sent me a secret messenger. Tell me, shall I receive him? What should I say? Have you had any voice or vision?' Maruffi grimaced, barked and grunted. He had great gifts in the imitation of animals. 'Beloved Brother,' said Savonarola, 'be kind! Speak! My soul faints under the burden of mortal sadness. Pray God that He illuminate thee with His spirit of prophecy.' The other opened wide his mouth and rolled his tongue; his face was strangely contorted; and he burst out angrily: 'Why should you trouble me, you tedious talker, you sheep's-head, you brainless quail? May the rats devour your nose! You have made your bed--lie on it. I am neither prophet nor councillor.' He paused, looked at Savonarola from under his scowling eyebrows, and continued more quietly:-- 'Brother, I'm sorry for you! But as for my visions, how know you if they come from God or from the devil?' Silvestro closed his eyes. His countenance took an expression of repose. Savonarola held his breath in holy expectancy. Suddenly Maruffi opened his eyes, slowly turned his head like one listening, looked out of the window, and a smile of good nature, peace, almost of intelligence, brightened his face. 'The birds!' he said; 'do you hear the birds? To be sure, the grass is springing in the meadows, and the first little yellow flowers! 'Tis enough. It's time to think of God now. Come! let us flee this sinful world; let us flee together to the desert!' And rocking himself, he began to sing in a sweet, lazy voice. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, ran to Savonarola, seized his hand and cried, choking with excitement:-- 'I have seen--I have seen--May the rats devour your nose! You head of an ass--I have seen----' 'Speak, dear brother; speak quickly!' 'Flames! Flames!' cried Maruffi. 'Well? And besides?' 'Flames rising from a stake, and in the midst of the flames a man----' 'Who?' Nodding his head, and motioning with his hand, Silvestro did not reply at once; then fixing his penetrating eyes on the other, he laughed softly and foolishly, and murmured:-- 'Thou!' Fra Girolamo shuddered, paled, and drew back involuntarily. Maruffi turned away, and shambled out of the cell, singing:-- 'Hie we to the smiling woods, The shy retreat of spring, Where the streams unsealèd flow, And the yellow-hammers sing!' Recovering himself, Fra Girolamo gave orders to admit His Magnificence Ricciardo Becchi. II This man, Scriptor of the Papal Court of Chancery, entered Savonarola's cell, rustling a long silk garment shaped like the habit of a monk, but of the modish violet colour, and with hanging embroidered sleeves lined with fox-skin, his whole person emitting a perfume of musk. The studied grace of his movements, his pleasant and intelligent smile, his calm eyes, his dimpled and well-shaven cheek, showed him a master of dignified urbanity. He bent in a courtly reverence, kissed the hand of the Prior of San Marco, and asked his blessing; then entered upon a long speech in Latin beflowered with Ciceronianisms and resounding sententiousness. He began with what in the rules of oratory is called the appeal for goodwill, dilating upon the fame of the Florentine preacher; then he gradually approached the mission entrusted to him. The Holy Father, though righteously angered by Fra Girolamo's refusal to present himself in Rome, nevertheless burning with zeal for the Church's good, for the perfect union of the faithful in Christ, and for the peace of the whole world, declared his fatherly readiness, in the event of Fra Girolamo's repentance, to restore him to favour. Savonarola raised his eyes and said very quietly:-- 'Messere, what think you? do you believe that the Holy Father and our lord has faith in Christ?' Ricciardo allowed this unseemly question to pass without reply; he continued to dilate on his mission, giving the prior to understand that if he submitted himself, the red hat of a cardinal awaited him in Rome; then, bowing a second time, and touching Savonarola's hand with his lips, he added insinuatingly:-- 'One little word, Father Girolamo, one little word, and the red hat is yours.' Savonarola fixed his unflinching eyes on the speaker, and said slowly:-- 'And if I refuse to submit, Messere? If I refuse to hold my peace? If the infatuated monk prefer to continue his barkings as the faithful watch-dog of the house of God?' Raising his eyebrows in a faint grimace, Messer Ricciardo looked at the monk, then turned his eyes to his beautiful almond-shaped nails, and adjusted his priceless rings. Presently he drew slowly from his pocket, unfolded, and handed to the prior a bull of excommunication, to which nothing was lacking but the papal seal. In it Savonarola was called the son of perdition, 'the most contemptible of insects' _neauissimus omnipedum_. 'And you are waiting for an answer?' asked the monk quietly, when he had read the document. The Scriptor assented with a light nod of his head. Savonarola rose, and flung the bull at the feet of the emissary. 'There,' he said, 'there is my answer! Return to Rome and tell him who has sent you that I accept his challenge. Minister of Antichrist! We shall see whether he will excommunicate me, or whether it is I who shall drive him out of the pale of the Church!' The door of the cell was softly opened and showed the head of Fra Domenico who, hearing the sonorous voice, was anxious to know what could be taking place. The monks were massed round the entrance. Messer Ricciardo, who had cast several furtive glances at the door, now said politely:-- 'May I remind you, Fra Girolamo, that I am charged only with a private mission?' Savonarola moved to the door, and throwing it wide he cried:--'Hear all of ye; for not only to you but to the whole people of Florence I will proclaim the infamous traffic which has been proposed to me, choice between the cardinal's purple and the excommunication of the _Curia Romana_!' Under his low forehead his sunken eyes shone like coals; his ill-shaped lower jaw, trembling with wrath and almost satanic hatred and pride. 'Yea, the hour has come! I will thunder against you, all ye prelates and cardinals of Rome, even as once the holy fathers thundered against the pagans. I will force the key of this unclean house; the Church of God, which you have slain, shall hear my cry: "Lazarus, come forth!" and shall raise its head and issue from its tomb! What need I your mitres and your cardinal's hats? Give me the red hat of death; the blood-stained crown of martyrdom!' III Among the monks who crowded to hear these words of Savonarola was the novice, Giovanni Boltraffio. When the company had dispersed, he too descended by the main staircase of the convent, and sat in his accustomed spot under the portico, where at this hour reigned solitude and calm. The court was surrounded by the white monastery walls, and in it grew laurels, cypresses, and a thicket of damask roses. Report said that these roses were watered by angels. Fra Girolamo loved to preach amongst them. The novice opened the Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians, and read: 'Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of devils; ye cannot be partakers of the Lord's table and of the table of devils.' Then he rose and paced the cloister, recalling his thoughts and emotions during the year he had spent within the walls of San Marco. After the moral torture of the preceding months, he had at first experienced great peace in this retreat among the disciples of Savonarola. Sometimes Father Girolamo would lead them out beyond the confines of the city. Following a steep path, which seemed to lead to heaven, they climbed the heights of Fiesole, from whence the City of Flowers, surrounded by smiling hills, appeared like some silver vision. The prior would seat himself in a meadow, enamelled with iris, tulips, and violets; the monks reclined in a circle round him, and talked and danced and frolicked like so many children, or played on viols and citherns, like those which the _beato Angelico_ placed in the hands of his angels, circling as they sing in the choir of heaven. Fra Girolamo did not preach nor play the master, but talked affectionately and took his part in the games and laughter. And Giovanni, looking at the radiant smile on his countenance, there on the retired Fiesole hill, under the heaven of most pure azure, hearing the vibrating tones of the stringed instruments, and the voices blended in holy song, fancied himself an angel in the paradise of God. Sometimes at dawn Savonarola would walk to the edge of the slope, and look down on his Florence, bathed in the morning mist, even as a mother looks on her sleeping babe, and from below would rise the first clanging of the bells announcing the beginning of day, like the sleepy babble of a half-awakened child. And on summer nights, when the fireflies moved through the embalmed air like the torches of unseen angels, and the roses exhaled their mystic odour in the convent-yard, Fra Girolamo would tell of the stigmata of St. Francis, of the wounds, perfumed like roses, which her divine love had impressed on the tender body of St. Catharine. The brethren sang:-- 'Fac me plagis vulnerari, Fac me Cruce inebriari, Ob amorem Filii.' And Giovanni would tremble in the anguished expectation of miracle--the trembling hope that rays of fire, springing from the cup of the Holy Sacrament, would burn his body likewise with the sacred wounds of the Crucified. '_Gesù, Gesù mio, amore!_' he sighed, fainting in voluptuous ecstasy. Once the prior sent him on a mission to the Villa Carreggi, two miles from Florence, where Lorenzo dei Medici had long sojourned, and at last had died. In one of the deserted saloons, lit by a ghostly light coming through the chinks of the shutters, Giovanni saw a picture of Botticelli's, called 'The Birth of Venus.' White as a water-lily, bedewed with the briny freshness of the sea, standing on a pearly shell, the goddess floated over the waves, veiled in the abundant gold of her serpentine tresses, which she gathered in her hand. The fair naked body breathed the enticement of sin; yet was there a strange pathos in the pure childlike lips and the innocent eyes. Giovanni shuddered; for it seemed to him that the face of the goddess was not new to him; he looked long at it, and remembered that he had already seen that countenance, those ingenuous, dewy eyes, those innocent lips with their tender sadness in another picture by that same Botticelli--a picture of the Mother of God. Inexpressible consternation filled his soul; he averted his eyes and fled from the villa. Returning to Florence by a narrow lane, he saw at the angle of a cross-way an ancient Rood, and he sank on his knees and prayed for the driving from him of temptation. But at that moment came the trill of a mandoline from the roses behind the wall; a voice cried out, then murmured in a frightened whisper, 'No, no--leave me!' and another voice replied, 'Beloved! Love!--my love!' and then the mandoline fell, and a kiss was heard. Giovanni sprang to his feet, reiterating, '_Gesù! Gesù_!' but this time he dared not add '_amore_!' 'Here also is _she_!' he said; 'everywhere! in the face of the Madonna, in the words of the holy hymns, in the breath of the roses which crown the crucifix!' And hiding his face in his hands he fled, as if escaping from an unseen persecution. Back in the convent, he went to Savonarola and told him all, and the prior exhorted him to fight against the devil by fasting and by prayer; and when the novice sought to explain that this torment was not the temptation of fleshly lust, but the seduction breathing from all the beauty of pagan antiquity, Savonarola, uncomprehending, at first showed astonishment, then told him sternly that he lied in thinking there could be aught in the pagan gods but concupiscence and pride. All beauty was contained in the Christian virtues. And Giovanni, not having found the looked-for comfort, from that day forth was possessed by the demons of restlessness and revolt. Once Boltraffio heard Fra Girolamo, discoursing on painting, insist that every picture should have some moral utility for men, exciting them to the practice of those ascetic virtues which alone are healthful for the soul. And he added that the Florentines would do a work well-pleasing to God if they should destroy, at the hands of the executioner, all those images which entice to sin. Then he went on to speak of knowledge:--'That man is a fool,' he said 'who conceives that by logic and by philosophy the truths of faith can be confirmed. Does a strong light need the help of a weak one? or the divine wisdom that of the human? Which of the apostles and the martyrs studied philosophy and logic? An old woman who can neither read nor write, but who prays fervently before the image of a saint, is nearer to the knowledge of God than all the sages and philosophers of the world. Neither logic nor science will stead them in the day of judgment: Homer and Virgil, Plato and Aristotle, all go to their end in the house of the devil; because, like the sirens, bewitching the ear with magic songs, they draw souls to eternal ruin. Science gives men stones for bread, and, verily, if you look at those who follow the teaching of this world, you will find in them that even their hearts are become as stones.' 'Who knows little, loves little. Great love is the daughter of great knowledge!' had said Leonardo da Vinci. Only now did Giovanni realise the profundity of these words, as he listened to the anathema of the monk against knowledge and art, and remembered the wise reasonings of Leonardo, the calm of his countenance, his cold look, his wise and enchanting smile. Not that he had forgotten the poisoned tree, the Ear, the crane for the Holy Nail, but now he felt that he had not fathomed the depth of his master's soul, had not penetrated into the mysteries of his heart, nor untied the prime knot in which all the threads must meet. Such were the memories upon which Giovanni looked back at the end of his first convent year. Deep in thought he paced the darkening cloister, till the evening had fallen and the _Ave Maria_ rang through the dusk. The monks wended to the chapel, but Giovanni remained outside, reseating himself. Then with a bitter smile he raised his eyes to the silent heaven, where shone the evening star, the torch of Lucifer, the most beautiful of angels, the bringer of light, son of the morning. He returned to his cell and slept: towards the dawning he dreamed. And in his dream he was with Monna Cassandra, astride of a black goat, and fleeting through the morning air, 'To the Sabbath! to the Sabbath!' cried the witch, turning to him her clear amber eyes; and he knew in her the goddess of earthly love, she with the heavenly sadness in her eyes--the _diavolessa bianca_. The full moon shone on her body. Sweet odours almost overpowered him. His teeth chattered with desire and with fear. '_Amore! Amore!_' she cried and laughed, and the black goat-skin sank beneath them. Away! Away! they careered. IV Giovanni was awakened by the sun, by the sound of bells and of childish voices. He dressed hurriedly, and descended into the court where was a great crowd of people, and among them children all dressed in white, and carrying olive-branches and small red crosses. It was 'The Sacred Legion of the Child Inquisitors,' founded by Savonarola to watch over and reform the purity of morals in the town. Giovanni mixed in the crowd, and listened to their talk. Then a wave passed over the ranks of the sacred troop; innumerable small hands waved the olive-branches and the red crosses above their heads, acclaiming Savonarola, who was entering, and a chorus of silver voices intoned a psalm in his honour:-- '_Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis Israel._' The children made a circle round the Prior, covering him with a rain of violets and anemones, and they knelt before him, kissing his feet. Illumined by a ray of the sun, silently, with a tender smile, the worn-faced Savonarola blessed them. 'Long live Christ, King of Florence! Hallelujah to Christ, the King of Florence. Hail Mary, Blessed Virgin, and our Queen!' shouted the young voices. The captains gave the order to march, drums beat, flags fluttered, and the sacred troop moved off. For in the Piazza della Signoria was prepared the pyre for the burning of the vanities, and the children were once more to make the circuit of the city to collect 'vanities and things under anathema.' V When the court was clear, Giovanni saw Messer Cipriano Buonaccorsi, Master of the noble Guild of the Calimala, the lover of pagan antiquities, on whose property by the Hill of the Mill the marble figure of the goddess of Love had been found. They greeted each other warmly, and spoke for some time. From Messer Cipriano Giovanni learned that Leonardo had come from Milan, charged by the duke to purchase such works of art as could escape the Legion of Children. Giorgio Merula was with the painter. Presently Messer Cipriano asked Giovanni to conduct him to Savonarola. The master of the Calimala entered Fra Girolamo's cell, and Giovanni waiting outside heard their talk. Messer Cipriano offered twenty-two thousand gold florins if he might buy all the books, the pictures, the statues, and other treasures which were ordained for the burning. Savonarola refused. Messer Cipriano increased his offer by eight thousand florins. To this the Monk deigned no reply; only his stern and rigid face became yet sterner and more rigid. Buonaccorsi's toothless mouth quivered. He wrapped his fox-skin cloak round his shivering knees; he sighed heavily, and closing his myopic eyes, he said in his quiet voice: 'Well, Father Girolamo, I will ruin myself. I will give you all I possess: forty thousand florins.' Savonarola grimly raised his head. 'And what were your profit,' he asked, 'if you ruined yourself?' 'I was born in this city,' replied Messer Cipriano. 'I love my land; and for no condition in the world can I endure that we, like the barbarian hordes, should destroy the masterpieces of wisdom and of art.' 'Would that thou didst love thy heavenly country as thou lovest thine earthly one, my son!' exclaimed the Monk, turning on the old man a look full of admiration; 'but be consoled, only things meet for burning shall be burned. What induces to wickedness and vice cannot include anything of beauty, as, indeed, your same wise ancients have said.' 'Alas, father!' returned the merchant, eagerly, 'are you certain that babes can distinguish so precisely between the evil and the good?' 'Truth and innocency is in the mouth of babes. "Except ye become as children ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven." Is it not written: "I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the understanding of the prudent"? Messere, I pray day and night that God may enlighten my babes, so that by His Holy Spirit their minds may be opened to discover all the vanities of science and of art.' 'I beseech you to consider--perhaps even a part----' 'You are wasting your breath, messere. My decision is unalterable.' Again Messer Cipriano's old lips moved, but Savonarola heard only one word--'Madness!' 'Madness?' he echoed, his eyes flashing; 'and the golden calf of the Borgias offered to the pope in his sacrilegious festivals--is that not madness? And the elevation of the Holy Nail, to the glory of God, by a diabolical machine at the command of an impious assassin and usurper--is that not madness? You dance madly round the golden calf in honour of your God, which is Mammon; let us, then, who are poor in spirit, be mad in honour of our God, who is Christ Jesus the Crucified. You bemock the monks who on the piazza dance around the cross. Wait! There are other spectacles which wait for you. What will you wise men say when I lead not only the monks, but the whole people of Florence, adults as well as children, men and women, to dance around the Cross-Tree of Salvation, as of old David danced before the Ark of the Covenant to the glory of the Most High!' VI Leaving the prior's cell, Giovanni Boltraffio turned his steps towards the Piazza della Signoria. In Via Larga he met the sacred troop. The children had stopped a palanquin carried by black slaves, in which reclined a woman gorgeously attired. A lapdog slept on her knee, a parrot and a monkey were on perches by her side, the litter was followed by servants and by guards. She was a courtesan, Lena Griffi, not long come from Venice, one of those whom the most Serene Republic called '_meretrix honesta_,' or playfully 'Mammola' (little dear); and whose name in the placard, drawn up for the convenience of travellers, was set down in large characters and in a place of honour at the top of the list. Lolling on her cushions like Cleopatra, or a Queen of Sheba, Lena was reading a love-missive from a youthful bishop. Its postscript was a song ending thus:-- 'Listening to thy voice I rise From this globe towards the skies, Plato's Sphere of Ecstasies.' The courtesan was meditating on a return sonnet, for she was an accomplished versifier, and used to say that had it depended on herself, she would gladly have passed her whole existence in the _Accademia degli vomini virtuosi_--in the Academy of the Virtuous. The sacred troop of children encircled the litter. Dolfo, the leader of one of the bands, advanced raising his red cross, and cried: 'In the name of Jesus, the King of Florence, and of the Blessed Mary our Queen, we bid you strip off these sinful ornaments, these vanities and anathemata. And if you refuse, may you fall under the malediction of God!' The dog suddenly awakened began to bark, the monkey chattered, the parrot, flapping its wings, screamed out a verse it had learned from its mistress:-- 'Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona!' Lena was about to bid her attendants rid her of the crowd when her eyes fell on Dolfo, and she beckoned to him. The boy came, his eyes on the ground. 'Away with these ornaments!' shouted the children. 'Away with the vanities and the anathemata.' 'Ah, you handsome boy!' said the courtesan softly, disregarding the cries of the crowd. 'Mark you, my little Adonis, I would willingly give you all my poor toys, but the matter is they are not mine own!' Dolfo raised his eyes; and Lena, with a scarcely perceptible smile, nodded as if confirming his secret thoughts, then added caressingly, in her soft Venetian accent: 'In the Vicolo de' Bottai, near the Santa Trinità, ask for Lena, the lady from Venice. I'll be expecting you.' Dolfo looked round and saw that his followers had become involved with a party of Savonarola's enemies (called the _Arrabbiati_, the Enraged), and had forgotten the courtesan. It was his duty to bid them fall upon her, but suddenly he felt himself vanquished, and flushed and hung his head. Lena laughed, showing her white teeth; and behind the sumptuous Cleopatra and Queen of Sheba there shone out the Venetian 'Mammola,' the saucy street-girl, mischievous and naughty. The slaves lifted the litter and she pursued her way unmolested, spaniel on lap; the parrot settled down on his perch; only the monkey still grimaced, and tried to snatch the pencil with which the courtesan was beginning verses to the bishop:-- 'My love is purer than a seraph's sigh....' Dolfo, meantime, preceding his company, but without his former braggadocio, mounted the stair of the Palazzo dei Medici. VII In the dark, silent, and spacious halls of the Medicean palace, where all breathed the solemn grandeur of the past, the children became awestruck. But when the shutters had been flung open, the trumpets had blared, and the drums beat, then the youthful inquisitors scattered themselves through the rooms, shouting and laughing, and singing hymns, and executing the judgment of God on the sins of learning and art, gleefully prying into vanities by the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Giovanni watched them at work, and noted some who, with frowning foreheads, hands decently folded, and the gravity of judges, paced among the statues of the philosophers and heroes of pagan antiquity. 'Pythagoras, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus,' read one of the boys from the Latin inscriptions on the marble bases. 'Epictetus?' said Federici, with the tone of a profound connoisseur, 'that is the particular heretic who permitted all pleasures and denied the existence of God. He merits burning; 'tis pity he is marble.' 'Never mind,' cried the cross-eyed Pippo, 'we'll have him in to the feast.' 'Nay,' interposed Giovanni; 'you are confounding Epictetus with Epicurus.' He was too late; down came Pippo's hammer so clean on the philosopher's nose that the boys yelled in admiration. 'Epictetus or Epicurus, it's all one! If it isn't the broth, it's the sippets of bread! They shall all go to the house of the devil,' they cried, quoting Fra Girolamo. However, contention arose before a picture of Botticelli's. Dolfo declared it was the naked Bacchus pierced by the shafts of love, but Federici, whose eye for 'anathemata' rivalled Dolfo's, examined the picture attentively and pronounced it a portrait of Stephen the proto-martyr. The children stood round in perplexity, for the attire and the expression of the figure in nowise suggested a saint. 'Don't you believe him!' cried Dolfo; ''tis Bacchus, the abominable Bacchus!' 'You blasphemer!' shouted Federici, raising his crucifix for weapon, and the two boys fell upon each other with such goodwill that their followers could hardly separate them. The picture was left for future consideration. Standing in wondering groups, the children rummaged amongst the properties of old carnivals--amongst the horrid masks of satyrs, grapes for bacchantes, bows, amongst quivers, and wings of Eros, the wands of Hermes, the tridents of Poseidon. Finally, drawing them forth amid shouts of laughter, they lighted on the wooden, gilded, cobwebbed thunderbolt of Jupiter Tonans, and the moth-eaten body of the Olympian eagle, with moulted tail, and wires and nails protruding from his perforated crop. A rat jumped out from the dusty golden wig once worn by Aphrodite, girls screamed, jumped on the couches and gathered up their petticoats. The shadows of terrified bats beating against the ceiling seemed the wings of unclean spirits, and a chill of horror and repulsion settled on the children as they touched this heathen lumber, this sepulchral dust of deities. Dolfo running up announced that there was yet another room, its door guarded by a little, bald, furious, red-nosed, detestable man, who was hurling blasphemy and curses, and would permit no one to pass. The troop filed off to reconnoitre; and Giovanni, following them, found in the janitor his friend the bibliophile, Messer Giorgio Merula. Dolfo gave the signal for attack; Messer Giorgio stood before the door preparing to defend it with his body. The children fell upon him, rolled him over, beat him with their crosses, searched his pockets till they had found the key, and opened the door. It was a small room with a library of precious books. 'Here, here!' suggested Merula, cunningly, 'the books you seek are in this corner. You needn't waste your time over the top shelves. There's nothing there.' But the inquisitors heeded him not. All that came to hand they piled in a vast heap, especially the books in rich bindings. Then they opened the windows and flung the fat folios straight into the street, where carts were being loaded with 'vanities.' Tibullus, Horace, Ovid, Apuleius, Aristophanes, rare copies, unique editions flew through the air before Merula's very eyes. He rescued one small volume and hid it in his bosom. It was the history of Marcellinus, containing the life of Julian the Apostate. Seeing on the floor a delicately-illuminated manuscript of the tragedies of Sophocles, he snatched it up and made piteous supplication:-- 'Children, dear children! spare Sophocles. He is the most innocent of poets. Let him alone! Let him alone!' And he pressed the precious leaves convulsively to his breast, but finding them tear beneath his too loving hands he burst into sobs and groans, dropped his treasure, and cried in impotent fury:-- 'Know, ye sons of dogs, that one line of this inestimable Sophocles is worth all the prophecies put together of your madman, Fra Girolamo.' 'Old man, if you don't want to be taken by the heels and thrown after your pagan poets, you'll hold your tongue!' cried the children, dragging him from the library. Then leaving the palace, they passed by Santa Maria del Fiore, and marched to the Piazza della Signoria. VIII In front of the dark and slender tower of the Palazzo Vecchio the pyre stood ready. It was thirty cubits in height, one hundred and twenty in circumference; an octagonal pyramid with at least fifteen steps. On the lowest were the comic masks, dresses, wigs, and other carnival properties; on the next three, profane books from Anacreon and Ovid to the _Decameron_, and the _Morgante Maggiore_ of Messer Luigi Pulci. Above the books were the instruments of female beauty--washes, essences, mirrors, puffs, curling-tongs, hair-pins, nail-nippers. Still higher were lutes and mandolines, cards, chessmen, balls, dice--all the games by means of which men serve the devil. Then came drawings, voluptuous pictures, portraits of light women; lastly, on the summit of the pyramid, the gods, heroes and sages of pagan antiquity, made of wood and of coloured wax. Above the pile, towering higher than anything else, the figure of Satan was enthroned, the lord of all 'vanities and things accursed,' a monstrous puppet, filled with gunpowder and sulphur, with goat's legs and a hairy skin, like Pan, the ancient god of the woods. It was evening: the air was cold, but serene and clear, and one by one the stars were beginning their nightly shining. The crowd in the piazza surged and swayed, and pious murmurings filled the air. Hymns went up from Savonarola's followers--_Laudi spirituali_--which retaining the rhymes, the metre, and the air of carnival songs, had been radically changed in words and sense. Giovanni listened, and the incongruity between the lively music and the gloomy words resounded in his ears like some barbarous funeral chant. 'Hope with Faith and Love agrees, Take three ounces each of these; Two of tears, and mix them well On the fire of Fear. Let them boil for minutes three, Spice them with Humility, Adding Grief to make the spell Of this madness clear; Lo! my soul, I offer thee A most sov'ran remedy, Worthy cure for every ill, Called by man a madness still.' A man on crutches, paralysed but not old, his face quivering like the wing of a wounded bird, approached Fra Domenico Buonvicino and handed him a parcel. 'What is it,' asked the friar; 'more drawings?' 'A matter of anatomy. Yesterday I forgot to hand it over, but to-night a voice reproved me: "Sandro," it said, "you have still some 'vanities and anathemata' in the loft above your shop." So I got up and hunted for these drawings of nude bodies.' The monk took the parcel with a good-natured smile. 'We shall light a famous fire, Ser Filippepi!' he said. The paralytic looked at the pyramid and heaved a profound sigh. 'Lord! Lord! have mercy on us miserable sinners! And to think that but for Fra Girolamo we should be still in our sins! And even now, who knows if we shall save our souls?' He crossed himself and murmured prayers, fingering his rosary. 'Who is that?' Giovanni asked of Fra Domenico. 'Sandro Botticelli,' was the answer, 'son of Ser Mariano Filippepi, the tanner.' IX When at last the curtain of night had fallen upon Florence, a whisper ran through the crowd. 'They come! They come!' Slowly, silently, without torches, without hymns, the procession advanced. Before the white-robed troop of the child inquisitors was borne the waxen image of the child Jesus, pointing with one hand to his crown of thorns, with the other blessing the people. After the children came monks, the clergy of the whole town, the _gonfalonieri_, the magnificent gentlemen of the Council of Eighty; the cathedral canons, the doctors of theology, the magistrates, the cavaliers, the guards of the Bargello, the heralds and trumpeters. Upon reaching the piazza the procession stood still, and a deathly silence came over the multitude, such as precedes an execution. Then Savonarola mounted the _Ringhiera_, a stone platform before the Palazzo Vecchio, lifted the crucifix, and commanded in sonorous tones:-- 'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, kindle the flame!' Four monks approached the pyre with torches, and immediately fire broke out at the four opposing corners. The flames crackled, and a smoke at first grey, then blackening, rose in wreaths to heaven. Trumpets sounded, the monks chanted a canticle in honour of the Lord, and the children sang in chorus:-- 'Lumen ad revelationem gentium et gloriam plebis Israel.' The great bell of the Palazzo Vecchio rolled a solemn and majestic sound upon the air, and was answered from all the belfries of the town. The fire rose ever fiercer and more brilliant; and the delicate parchment leaves of the old books curled up and perished. From the lowest step a bunch of false hair rose flaming and floated away, amid the jeers and laughter of the crowd. Among the people were some who prayed, some who wept; others screamed and danced, and waved their arms and kerchiefs and caps; others prophesied. 'Sing, brothers, sing unto the Lord a new song!' shouted a limping shoemaker with wild eyes: 'All the world is crumbling! burning, burning to a horrible destruction, even as these vanities in the purifying fire--all--all--all!--Church, laws, governments, powers, arts, learning--one stone shall not be left upon another!--there shall be a new heaven and a new earth; and God shall wipe away all tears from our eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor weeping nor sickness! O Lord Jesus, come! come!' A young woman, with a thin and suffering face, pregnant, no doubt the wife of some poverty-stricken artisan, fell on her knees, spreading her hands towards the flame, as if in very truth she saw in it a vision of the Christ Himself; then starting up and calling like one possessed, she cried:-- 'My Jesus! my Jesus! Come, Lord Jesus! Come!' X Among the objects burning at the stake Giovanni could not take his eyes off a picture lighted up but not yet touched by the flame. It was by Leonardo: a shining white Leda, lying on the waves of a mountain-girdled lake, among the low-toned reflections of twilight. A great swan spread his wings over her, bending his long neck, and filling the sky and the earth with his triumphant hymn of love, while Leda watched her twin sons. Giovanni stared at the advance of the flame, his heart beating high in nervous horror. Just then the monks elevated a sombre cross in the centre of the square, and in honour of the Trinity made themselves into three circles, joining their hands; then testifying to the spiritual joy of the faithful, they danced, first slowly, then faster and faster, till at last they were as a mighty whirlwind, and they sang the while:-- '_Ognun gridi com' io grido! Sempre pazzo, pazzo, pazzo!_' 'Each and all with me cry out, Ever madly, madly shout! All that wise men follow after Jesu's fools delight in spurning, Riches, honour, feasting, laughter, Pomp and pleasure, golden earning-- Unto those things fondly turning That to wisdom hateful be: Grief, and pain, and penury. Christians still may boast of madness-- Never was there greater gladness, More delightsome solace never Than for love of Jesu ever Thus to rage in holy madness.'[3] [3] Hieronymo Benivieni. The heads of the spectators reeled, and their hands and feet were set in motion; suddenly children, men, feeble women joined in the frantic dance. One old and unwieldy monk, like an aged faun, tripped, fell, and was hurt so that the blood flowed; he was flung aside, barely escaping trampling, and the dance rolled on. The fire's crimson and flickering glow lighted convulsed faces: a vast shadow was thrown by the crucifix, the moveless centre of the whirling circles. 'If of wit my mind doth show, Jesu, in thy courtesie, Rid it thence and let me know Ever only phrenesie! For of all philosophie, Wisdom, prudence, and the rest, Loathing such hath me possessed That I would only ask for madness. Jesu mine, it doth appear Wisdom all and man's contriving In God's sight is folly mere; All things else but vainest striving, Saving Thee, Thou fount reviving, Whence flow out such waters rare, That who slakes his thirst once there For love of Thee is seized with madness.' At last the creeping flame had reached the Leda, with its scarlet tongue had licked the pure body, flushed as if living, and grown momentarily yet more mystic and exquisite. Giovanni gazed, shuddering and turning pale, and for him Leda smiled her last smile; then dissolving in the fire, like a cloud in the sunrise, she was lost for ever. And now the flame had attained the huge devil on the apex of the pyramid: its paunch, filled with powder, burst with a tremendous crash. A pillar of fire rose to the sky. The monster tottered on his blazing throne, bowed, fell, and was scattered in a powder of dying embers. Drums and trumpets sounded. All the bells pealed, the crowd raised a roar of triumph, as though Satan himself had perished in the flames of the holy pile, together with all the falsehood, pain and sins of the whole earth. Giovanni clapped his hands to his temples and would have fled. But a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned and looked: beside him stood Leonardo, with his quiet untroubled face. The Master took him by the hand and drew him forth from the crowd. XI They moved from the square, pervaded by clouds of stifling smoke, and, lit up by the glow of the dying bonfire, by an obscure lane they took their way to the banks of the Arno. Here all breathed quietness and calm: the stream glided by, gently murmuring: the stars scintillated, coldly brilliant, and the moon bathed the hills in a flood of silver glory. 'Giovanni,' said Leonardo, 'why did you forsake me?' The disciple raised his eyes and tried to speak; but his voice died in his throat, his lip trembled, and he burst into tears. 'Master--forgive me!' 'You have done me no wrong.' 'I knew not what I did,' murmured Boltraffio. 'How, O God! how could I have left you?' He would have told his sufferings, his madness, the anguish of his terrible doubts. But as when at Milan he had stood before the Colossus of Francesco Sforza, he felt that Leonardo would have no comprehension; and in hopeless entreaty he looked into his eyes--eyes clear, calm, and alien as the stars. As if divining the conflict in his soul, the Master did not question him; he smiled with infinite kindness, and laying his hand on the young head he said:-- 'God help you, my poor boy: you know I have ever loved you as my favourite son! Will you come back to me? I will receive you with joy.' Then, scarce audibly, as if speaking to himself, he added:-- 'The deeper the sensitiveness, the greater the grief. A martyr among the martyrs!' From afar came the clash of the bells, the scream of the chant, the cry of the frenzied mob. But Master and pupil were happy. BOOK VIII THE AGE OF GOLD--1496-1497 _'Tornerà l'età dell' oro Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"'_ BELLINCIONI. [The Age of Gold shall brighten as of yore, And all exulting sing, 'Long live the Moor!'] I Beatrice d'Este, Duchess of Milan, sat in her boudoir writing a letter to her sister Isabella, wife of the Marchese Francesco Gonzaga, lord of Mantua:-- 'Most excellent madonna and well-beloved Sister, I and _il Signor_ Ludovico, my spouse, desire your good health, and that of _il Signor_ Francesco, your illustrious consort. 'In obedience to your desire I send you the portrait of Massimiliano, my Son, only I pray you not to conceive of him as of the smallness here indicated. I would send you the precise measurements of how tall he is, but that I am afraid, for the nurse tells me such measurement would impede his growth. He grows _amazingly_. If I see him not for a couple of days, I find him so greatly enlarged that I jump for joy. 'Here at court we have a great grief: the little Fool Nannino hath died. You, my sister, knew him and loved him well; you will therefore comprehend that while I might have replaced any other loss, Nature herself could not fill the void left by Nannino, since in this Being, formed expressly for the delight of princes, she had united the perfection of imbecility with the most entrancing hideousness. Bellincioni has composed a most elegant Elegy, declaring that if Nannino is in Heaven then all paradise must laugh, if he is in hell even Cerberus grinneth. We have buried him, with many tears, in our family tomb in St. Maria delle Grazie, beside my favourite falcon, and the memorable bitch Puttina. Death shall not wholly separate me from so delightful a possession. I have wept for two entire nights, and Ludovico, my lord, in the hope to console me, has promised me for a Christmas gift a magnificent silver bedside Seat, ornamented with a relief of the fight between the Centaurs and the Lapithæ. Its interior will be of pure gold, very massive, and it hath a Baldachin of velvet, embroidered with our ducal arms. A similar seat has no other prince, neither the Pope, nor the Emperor, nor the grand Turk. It will excel in beauty that one famed by Martial in his epigram. My lord, Ludovico, had wished Leonardo da Vinci to contrive a musical-organ in its Interior, but he hath excused himself on some flimsy pretext, such as the finishing of his Colossus, or his _Cenacolo_. You prayed me, beloved Sister, to lend you this Painter for a time. With pleasure would I accede to your request, and verily not lend but give him to you for ever; but my lord, Ludovico, for what reason I cannot say, is exceeding well-disposed toward this man, and would not consent to his removal for all the gold in the world. Be not disappointed overmuch, for verily this Leonardo is occupied to such a degree with alchemy, mechanics, Magic, and other such like follies, that he scarce attends to his painting; secondly, he executes all commissions with a slowness that would lose an Angel his patience; thirdly, he is an infidel. 'Of late we have had a wolf-hunt. They do not permit me to mount on horseback, for I am now advanced in my fifth month; but I watched the hunt from the high platform of a conveyance made expressly for me, in form like a pulpit. I assure you that in this box I was rather tortured than diverted. When the Wolf made his escape into the forest I wept with rage. Had I been upon my horse I swear he should not thus have got away, though I had broken my collar-bone. 'My little sister, do you recall how we used to leap our horses? And how Penthesilea fell in the Ditch and almost destroyed herself? And the boar-hunt at Cusnago? And the tennis? and the angling? What fine times were those! 'Here we amuse ourselves as best we can. We play at cards, and we skate, which is a most pleasing diversion, introduced among us by a Flemish gentleman, for the winter is very severe, and not only the lakes but likewise the rivers are completely frozen. In the park Leonardo hath built out of snow a most elegant Leda embraced by the swan. Pity 'tis that in the spring it will melt! 'And you, delightful sister, how fare you? And has your breed of cats with long hair succeeded well? If you have a male Kitten with tawny hair and blue eyes, I pray you to send him with the young Negress you have promised me; I will give you in exchange my little bitch's next litter. 'Pray you, do not omit to send the model of the Wrapper of azure satin, with the cross-cut collar and the trimming of sables. I asked for it in my last letter. Pray you, despatch it at once; 'twere best to-morrow at day-break, and by a mounted messenger. And send me also a vessel of your boasted ointment for the king's evil, and some of that foreign wood for the finger-nails. 'Our astrologer predicts a very hot summer, and War. What saith your prophet? One's faith jumps always with the astrologer belonging to somebody else. 'I and Ludovico, my lord, commend ourselves to your gracious remembrance, beloved sister, and that of your illustrious consort, the Signor Marchese Francesco. BEATRICE SFORZA.' II Notwithstanding the frank tone of this letter, it was full of finished policy. Beatrice concealed from her sister her private anxieties and annoyances, for, as matter of fact, peace was very far from reigning between husband and wife. The lady hated Leonardo neither for heresy nor atheism, but because he had painted the portrait of Cecilia Bergamini, the Duchess's most detested rival. Of late, also, she had suspected an intrigue with one of her ladies, Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli. At this time Ludovico was at the zenith of his power. Son of Francesco Sforza--that daring mercenary from the Romagna, half soldier, half brigand--he dreamed of making himself lord of an united Italy. 'The Pope,' he boasted, 'shall be my chaplain, the Emperor my captain, Venice my treasury, and the King of France my courier.' He signed himself '_Ludovicus Maria Sfortia Anglus Dux Mediolani_,' deducing his descent from Anglus the Trojan, companion of Æneas. The Colossus, monument to his father Francesco, with the inscription _Ecce Deus_, was designed as a testimony to the divine origin of the Sforzas. For all his external prosperity, however, the Duke was tortured by anxiety and secret fear. He knew himself unloved by the people, and reckoned a usurper. Once in the Piazza dell' Arrengo the people, seeing the widow of Gian Galeazzo with her eldest son, had shouted, 'Long live Francesco, our rightful Duke!' The boy was eight years old, and famed for his intelligence and beauty. Marin Sanuto, the Venetian, wrote of him: 'The people desire him for their prince, even as they desire God.' Beatrice and her husband had recognised that the death of Gian Galeazzo had not been sufficient to make them lords of Milan, since in this child the shade of his father was rising from the tomb. There was talk in the city of mysterious portents. At night, above the castle towers, a strange glow had appeared as that of a conflagration. In the palace chambers agonising groans had been heard. It was remembered that when Gian Galeazzo had lain dead it had been impossible to shut his left eye, omen of the imminent death of one of his near kinsmen; the eyelids of the Madonna dell' Albore had quivered; outside the Porta Ticinese an old woman's cow had dropped a double-headed calf. The Duchess herself had seen an apparition in the Sala della Rocchetta, had fainted with terror, and refused to discuss it with any one, even her husband. She had altogether lost that vivacity and grace which had been so attractive to her spouse, and, filled with the gloomiest prognostications, was awaiting the approaching birth of her child. III On a melancholy December evening, while snowflakes were slowly falling on the streets of Milan, Il Moro sat in the little detached apartment of the palace in which he had installed his new love, Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli. The flames from the fire on the open hearth lighted up the polished doors with their inlaid views of the ancient buildings in Rome, the moulded and chequered lacework of the ceiling touched up with gold, the walls covered with Cordovan leather and gold hangings, the tall black chairs and settles, the round table, the novel by Boiardo lying open, the sheets of music, the mother-o'-pearl mandoline, and the crystal goblet of _Balnea aponitana_, a spa water, at that time greatly in fashion. On the wall hung the lady's portrait painted by Leonardo. Caradosso had carved the marble reliefs of the chimney-piece--curled serpents gnawing a vine, and naked children, half cherubs, half cupids, playing with the sacred instruments of the Lord's Passion; nails, sponge, lance, and crown of thorns. The fierce wind howled in the chimney, but within the dainty _studiolo_ all was comfort and luxury. Madonna Lucrezia, seated on a cushion at the Duke's feet, was sorrowful, for he had chided her, the ground of his complaint being that she did not visit Beatrice, his duchess. 'Your Excellency!' cried the girl, with drooping eyelids, 'I beseech you, constrain me not! I am incapable of lying.' 'Lying?' echoed Il Moro; 'but this is concealment, not lying! Did not the Thunderer himself hide his pranks from his jealous spouse? And Theseus? and Phædra? and Medea? All the gods and heroes of antiquity! We, poor mortals, cannot resist the might of the god of Love. But would it be well to have the evil flagrant? Then you lead your neighbour into temptation, which is contrary to all Christian charity. And charity, you know, covers a multitude of sins.' He laughed; but Lucrezia shook her head and looked at him with her large eyes, innocent and pensive as a child's. 'You know, my lord, I am happy in your love; but sometimes I fall into such a remorse, remembering that I am deceiving Madonna Beatrice, who loves me as a sister, that I know not how to endure it.' 'Enough, enough, my child!' cried the Duke, and drew her to his knee, throwing one arm round her waist, and with the other hand caressing her smooth raven tresses, which were confined by the _ferroniera_, a thread of gold fastened over the brow by a diamond, which glistened like a tear. Lowering her eyelashes she permitted his caresses coldly, and without returning them. 'Ah, if you knew how I loved thee, my gentle one! so sweet, so modest! Thee only!' he sighed, breathing again that odour of violet and musk. The door opened, and a frightened maid-servant rushed in. 'Madonna! madonna!' she cried; 'there! down by the great door! O Lord, have pity on us sinners!' 'Speak!' said the Duke, 'who is at the great door?' 'Beatrice, the Duchess.' Il Moro turned pale. 'The key! Quick, the key of the little door! I will go through the courtyard. Give me the key--at once.' 'But the cavaliers of Madonna Beatrice are surrounding the house!' cried the servant, wringing her hands. 'Then it's a trap,' said the Duke rubbing his brow. But how has she come by the knowledge? Who can have told her?' 'Surely Monna Sidonia, the accursed witch who creeps in to vex us with her unguents and her phials. I warned you, Madonna, to beware of her.' 'What's to be done? _Dio mio!_ What's to be done?' muttered the Duke, ever paler. From the street came a violent knocking on the great door and the servant rushed to the staircase. 'Hide me, Lucrezia. Hide me!' 'Most Excellent, if Madonna Beatrice suspects, she will search the house. Were it not better that you went straight up to her?' 'God forbid! You know not the manner of woman she is. Good Lord, to think what may come of this! Remember her state--the danger to the infant! Hide me; hide me at once--no matter where.' At this moment the Duke more nearly resembled a thief detected than a descendant of Anglus, the companion of Æneas. Lucrezia took him to her dressing-chamber and hid him in the wardrobe, a large press let into the wall, with white doors inlaid with gold; here he effaced himself in a corner among the dresses. 'What a position!' he said to himself. 'Exactly like the ridiculous heroes of Boccaccio or Sacchetti.' Il Moro was, however, in no mood to appreciate the ridiculous side of the adventure. He drew from his bosom a small case with relics of St. Christopher; another containing a morsel of Egyptian mummy, a talisman much in vogue. In the dark he could not distinguish which was which of these treasures, so he kissed them both, crossing himself and praying. Hearing the voices of his wife and his mistress entering the closet together, he turned cold with fear. But they were talking amicably as though nothing were amiss. Lucrezia was showing the Duchess her new house, at her own urgent request. Probably Beatrice had no clear proofs of her case, and therefore was dissembling her suspicion. It was a duel of feminine cunning. 'What! gowns here, too?' said the Duchess indifferently, as she approached the press in which her husband had settled himself down half dead with fear. 'Yes, old gowns. What I wear at home. Would your Excellence like to look?' said Lucrezia, also indifferently, and she partly opened the door. 'Hearken, my dear. Where do you keep that robe I was so fond of--don't you remember?--which you wore at the Pallavicini fête last summer? Little golden caterpillars sparking like fireflies on a purple ground.' 'I don't remember,' said Lucrezia. 'Oh, yes, though--it must be here,' and she moved away from her lover's hiding-place, leaving its door ajar, and drew the Duchess to the other wardrobe. 'And she declared she could not deceive!' thought the duke, pleased notwithstanding his terror. 'What presence of mind! Oh, women! 'tis from you princes should learn diplomacy.' Presently the ladies moved away into the adjoining apartment, and Il Moro breathed more freely, though he still convulsively clutched at the relics of St. Christopher and the morsel of mummy. 'Two hundred imperial ducats to the monastery of St. Maria delle Grazie for oil and candles, if it ends well!' he vowed. At last the maid came running, opened the press, and with an air both respectful and sly let the prisoner out, telling him the danger was passed, and the most excellent Madonna Beatrice had been pleased to retire, after taking a gracious leave of Madonna Lucrezia. Having crossed himself, he returned to the _studiolo_, drank a glass of the _Balnea aponitana_ water, looked at Lucrezia, who sat by the fireplace as before, her head drooping, and smiled. Then he stepped cautiously to her side, bent down and took her in his arms. The girl shuddered. 'Leave me! Leave me, I pray you. I beseech you to go away. How can you do this after what has happened?' But the Duke unheeding, covered her face and neck and hair with ardent kisses. He had found a new charm in her unsuspected talent for deception, and never had she seemed to him more lovely. The December storm still howled in the chimney; but the glow of the fire illuminated the chain of laughing naked children who, among the vine-branches of Bacchus brandished nail, hammer, spear, and crown of thorns. IV For three months, under the direction of Bramante, Caradosso, and Leonardo da Vinci, preparation had been making for the great ball, decreed by the Duke for New Year's Day. No less than two thousand persons had been invited. On the appointed day, at about five o'clock in the afternoon, the guests assembled at the palace. A snowstorm had damaged the roads; the castle towers and battlemented walls with the loop-holes for the mouths of cannon showed with ghastly whiteness against the heavy clouds. Fires had been kindled in the wide courtyard, and round these were assembled noisy groups of equerries, palanquin-bearers, grooms, couriers, outriders, and their like. Gilded chariots and coaches, very cumbrous, and drawn by cart-horses, were setting down fur-wrapped ladies and cavaliers at the entrance of the palace, or crossing the drawbridge which led to the inner court of the Rocchetta. The frosted windows glittered in the festal illuminations within. Entering the vestibule, the guests passed between two long rows of ducal guards, Turkish _mamelukes_, Greek _stradiotes_, Scotch bowmen, Swiss _lanzknechts_, all in armour, and bearing heavy halberts. In front of them stood the pages, pretty as maidens, in parti-coloured liveries, the right side pink velvet, the left blue satin, trimmed with swan's-down, and silver-embroidered with the arms of Sforza and Visconti. Their garments were so tight as to display every outline of their lithe and graceful bodies; and in their hands these charming candlebearers held torches of red and yellow wax, such as were used in the churches. As each guest entered the great hall, a herald, attended by two trumpeters, proclaimed his style and titles; then a vista opened before him of vast dazzlingly-lighted saloons: 'the hall of the white doves on a red field'; 'the hall of gold,' with the ducal hunting trophies; 'the hall of purple,' hung with gold-embroidered purple satin, adorned with buckets and firebrands (the insignia of the Dukes of Milan, who at pleasure could blow up the fire of war, or quench it with the waters of peace). Last was the small and exquisite 'black saloon,' designed by Bramante, and adorned on walls and ceiling with frescoes by Leonardo, still unfinished. The richly-dressed crowd buzzed like a swarm of bees. Their attire was iridescent, gorgeous, not seldom tasteless through over-richness, in fashions borrowed from many lands, so that a witty writer of the day said that he read the invasion of foreigners, and the enslavement of Italy, in the garb of his own countrymen. The robes of the ladies, hanging in heavy folds, and stiff with gold and jewels, suggested ecclesiastical vestments. Many were heirlooms handed down from long-forgotten grandmothers. There was ample display of fair shoulders and bosoms, and hair was confined in golden nets, and plaited in thick strands, artificially lengthened by ribbons and false hair. Fashion proscribed eyebrows; therefore ladies whom nature had disfigured by those superfluities carefully removed them, hair by hair, with steel tweezers called '_pelatoio_.' Rouge, and heavy perfumes such as musk, amber, viverra, and cypress powder, were regarded as mere necessary decencies. Here and there in the crowd might be seen girls and women inheritors of that peculiar charm only seen in Lombardy, that beauty, as it were, of vaporous shadows, melting like mist into the transparent pallor of the skin; of oval faces, and delicate chiselling of features such as Leonardo delighted to paint. Madonna Violante Borromeo was by universal consent acclaimed queen of the festival, with her black and brilliant eyes, her tresses dark as night, her triumphant beauty patent to all. Her dress was embroidered with moths burning their wings in flames--a warning to all heedless admirers. Yet it was not Madonna Violante who attracted the eyes of veritable connoisseurs in female loveliness so much as the graceful Diana Pallavicino. Her eyes were clear and cold as ice, her fair hair was almost colourless, her smile calm, her voice slow, melodious, and thrilling as the strings of a viol. She wore a simple dress of white damask with long floating lines, trimmed with ribbons of palest green: amid the noise and splendour of the feast she seemed a being apart, alien, solitary, like a water-lily slumbering on some silent moonlit pool. Suddenly the horns and trumpets sounded, and all the guests moved to the great Hall of the Tennis Court. Here waxlights burned in fiery clusters upon huge candelabra, and woke sparkles in the golden stars which strewed the azure ceiling-vault. The balcony, in which the choir was concealed, was hung with silken carpets, and with garlands of evergreens. Punctual to the moment prescribed by the astrologers (for the Duke never moved a step nor, as the wits had it, changed his shirt nor kissed his wife, without first consulting the stars), Il Moro and Beatrice made their entry, robed in ermine-lined brocaded mantles, followed by pages, chamberlains, and lords-in-waiting. On the breast of the Duke, set as a brooch, glowed a ruby of extraordinary brilliance and size, taken from the treasure of Gian Galeazzo. As for Beatrice, she had of late greatly declined in beauty; her unformed still girlish expression and manner had a strange pathos, contrasted with the state of her health and evident sufferings. The Duke gave the signal, the seneschal raised his staff, the music struck up, and the guests took their allotted seats at the splendid banquet. V And now a commotion arose. The ambassador of the Grand Duke of Muscovy, Danilo Mamiroff, refused to sit below the envoy of the Most Serene Republic of St. Mark. To all explanations, persuasions and entreaties the old man was obstinate, and only repeated:-- 'I will not sit down. I will not sit down. 'Tis an affront!' Nor recked he of curious looks and ironical smiles turned on him from every side. 'What's the matter? More trouble with the Muscovites? Good Lord, what barbarians they show themselves! They always expect the best places, and won't listen to reason. They are for ever in the way. Mere savages! And such a language! They might as well be Turks! A nation of wild beasts!' Messer Boccalino, the interpreter, a Mantuan of great resource, hurried to the ambassador:-- 'But Messer Daniele, Messer Daniele!' he cried in broken Russian, bowing low, and making gestures of perfect servility, 'Messer Daniele, you really must sit! 'Tis a mere Milanese custom. Sit down, I beseech you, or his Highness will be offended.' Nikita Karachiarov, Mamiroff's young secretary, had come likewise to the old man. 'Danilo Kusmitch, little father, do not, I pray you, be wroth. No one can keep his own rule in a strange monastery! What would you have? These foreigners are ignorant of our usages. Pray you beware lest they take you by the arms and exclude you from the banquet. Think what a figure we should cut!' 'Nikita, hold your tongue. 'Tis not for you to teach a man of my years. I know very well what I am about. I am not going to give in. I will never sit below that man from Venice. I represent my sovereign; and my sovereign is the Autocrat of all the Russias....' 'Messer Daniele! Messer Daniele!' stammered Boccalino. 'Leave me alone, you monkey-face. What are you squeaking about? Get away. I have said I will not sit down, and sit down I will not!' The old man's small eyes, gleaming like those of a bear under his frowning brows, flashed fires of pride, fury, and indomitable obstinacy. His emerald-studded staff trembled in the tight grasp of his nervous fingers. It was clear that he was not to be subdued by any human force. The Duke summoned the Venetian envoy, and with that happy courtesy which was his characteristic, he begged as a personal favour to himself that the Italian guest would consent to the change in his seat. He added that no one attached the slightest importance to the childish arrogance of these utter barbarians. Yet in point of fact Ludovico greatly prized the favour of the Grand Duke of Muscovy; he reckoned on his countenance to conclude an advantageous treaty with the Sultan. The Venetian looked at Mamiroff, contemptuously shrugged his shoulders, remarked that his Excellency spoke well, and quarrels over precedence were unworthy of educated persons; then calmly seated himself in the chair allotted. Danilo Kusmitch had not understood the conversation, nor would it have altered his sense of his own importance. Unconcerned at the fire of hostile eyes, complacently stroking his beard and adjusting the sash and the sable-trimmed satin pelisse upon his corpulent person, Danilo seated himself heavily and majestically upon the chair he had conquered; while Nikita and Boccalino retired to the lower table, and sat beside Leonardo da Vinci. The boastful Mantuan told tales, half fact, half fiction, of the wonders he had seen in Muscovy; but Leonardo, desiring more dependable information about the far-off land which, like all things vast and mysterious, excited his immediate interest, addressed himself to Karachiarov, asking questions about its boundless plains, its immense rivers and forests, the flood-tide in its Hyperborean ocean and its Hyrcanian sea, the sunlit northern nights; finally about certain of his friends who had gone thither--Pietro Solari, who was engaged in the building of the Granite Palace in Moscow, and Fioravanti of Bologna, who was putting up certain fine edifices in the square of the Kremlin. 'Messere,' said the lovely Madonna Ermellina to the interpreter at her side, 'I have heard that astonishing country of which you speak called "Rossia" because of its wondrous abounding in roses. Pray you, is this to be credited?' Boccalino laughed, and assured her that in 'Rossia' there was, on the contrary, sad lack of the queen of flowers, on account of the intolerable cold; and he told the following tale:-- 'Certain Florentine merchants once went to Poland, but were not allowed further into 'Rossia' because of the state of war between Poland and the Grand Duke of Muscovy. The Florentines, desirous of buying sables, invited Russian merchants to the bank of the Borysthenes, which flowed between the two countries; and bargaining began across the river, each party shouting their loudest. But so great was the cold that the words froze in the air and reached not the opposite bank. Certain ingenious peasants then made a huge fire on the midmost point of the ice-bound river; and presently, lo! the words which had remained a whole hour in mid-river air unable to move, began to thaw and to drip, gurgling and clattering like the droppings in the melting time of spring; and at last they were distinctly heard on the far shore by the Florentines, notwithstanding the fact that the Muscovites who had uttered them had long since left the opposite bank.' After listening to this anecdote, the ladies looked with great compassion at Nikita, the inhabitant of so unpleasing a country. Nikita, however, did not respond to their glances, for his attention had been arrested by a wondrous dish just served; a naked Andromeda, made of the breasts of capons, bound to a rock of cream-cheese, and about to be loosed by a winged Perseus of veal. The meat courses had all been served on plates of gold, but the fish was eaten off silver, as more appropriate to the watery element; silvered bread and silvered lemons were handed round, and then among oysters, lampreys, and trout appeared Amphitrite herself, made of the white flesh of eels, riding in a mother-o'-pearl chariot drawn by dolphins over an ocean of quivering blue jelly. After this came the sweets, marchpane, pistachios, cedar-cones, almonds, and burnt sugar, edifices designed by Bramante and Leonardo--Hercules in the garden of the Hesperides, Hippolytus and Phædra, Bacchus and Ariadne, Danae and Zeus--a whole Olympus of resuscitated gods. Nikita stared with childish enjoyment, but Danilo was so much shocked that he lost his appetite, and growled between his teeth-- 'Antichristian abominations! Horrible paganism! Horrible!' VI Dancing began; slow and stately measures known as 'Venus and Zephyr,' 'Cruel Destiny,' 'Cupid,' etc.; the dresses of the ladies, being long and heavy, did not admit of rapid motion. The music was tender and soft, full of passionate languor like the sonnets of Petrarch, and to it moved dames and cavaliers, meeting and parting with bows, sighs, and smiles, all the perfection of dignity and grace. Messer Galeazzo Sanseverino, the young commandant of Il Moro's guards, was the cynosure of the ladies' eyes; he was attired in white, with open-work sleeves upon a pink lining; his white shoes had diamond buckles, and his face was handsome, but fatigued, dissipated, and effeminate. An approving murmur ran through the crowd when in the dance, '_Sorte crudele_' he dropped (of course accidentally), first his shoe, and then his mantle, but continued gliding and circling with that air of saddened negligence which was considered the mark of breeding. Danilo Mamiroff watched him in astonishment, spat contemptuously, and exclaimed-- 'Good Lord, what a fool!' The Duchess was not dancing; her heart was heavy, and only long practice enabled her to play her part of amiable hostess, to receive the New-Year's congratulations, and to respond with suitable banalities to the fine speeches of the courtiers. At times she felt unable to carry the business through; she longed to escape into some corner where she could burst into sobs. Presently she entered a small and secluded apartment, where by a fire certain young ladies and courtiers were talking in a close ring. She asked them of what they spoke. 'Of platonic love, your Excellency,' replied one of the ladies. 'Messer Antoniotto Fregoso maintains that a lady does no violence to her modesty by kissing a man on the lips so it be by the way of ideal love.' 'And how does he prove that?' asked the Duchess absently. Messer Antoniotto answered eagerly himself. 'With your Grace's permission, I maintain that the lips are the gates of the soul, and when they meet in a platonic salutation the souls of the lovers rise as to their natural outlet. Plato condemns not a kiss; and Solomon, in the Song of Songs, typifying the mystical union of the soul with God, says, "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth."' An old baron, a country knight, with a blunt and honest face, objected from the point of view of a husband; but the pretty lady, Fiordiligi, shrugging her graceful bare shoulders, reproved his barbarism. '_Dio mio!_ we speak of love, not of marriage! Would you profane the sacred names "Lover" and "Beloved" with those ignoble, rude, shameless titles, "husband" and "wife"?' The baron would have answered her, but Messer Antoniotto interrupted with further descant; the Duchess, however, was tired, and moved away. In the next saloon, verses were being recited by a noted poet from Rome, Serafino d'Aquila, surnamed the Unique; a little man very carefully washed, shaved, curled, and scented, with pink cheeks and a languishing smile, irregular teeth, and wily eyes. Seeing Lucrezia in the circle of ladies surrounding this servant of the Muses, Beatrice paled, but instantly recovering herself, she advanced and kissed her with her usual graciousness. Before she could speak, however, an interruption occurred in the entry of a stout and gorgeous lady, who was suffering from bleeding of the nose. ''Tis an event upon which even Messer Unico himself could scarce make love-verses,' observed one of the courtiers contemptuously, for the sufferer was old and ugly. Messer Unico, feeling his reputation at stake, sprang to his feet, passed his hand through his hair, threw back his head, and raised his eyes to heaven. 'Hush! hush!' murmured the ladies. 'Messer Unico composes! If your Excellency would move a little further she would hear better!' Madonna Ermellina took a lute and ran her fingers over the strings; thus softly accompanied, the poet, in a voice guttural and majestic as that of a ventriloquist, declaimed his lines. They were to the effect that Love, moved by a lover to shoot at the heart of a fair one, had, owing to the bandage over his eyes, shot awry, and wounded not the heart but the nose of the unfortunate lady. The audience applauded. 'Most beautiful! Stupendous! Unsurpassable! What conceits! What facility! Not like our Bellincioni who melts away under the exertion of putting a sonnet together! Truly, when he raised his eyes I felt the very wind of his inspiration making me wellnigh afraid!' One lady offered him wine, another cooling tablets of mint; another placed him in an armchair and fanned him. He drooped and languished and blinked his eyes like a gorged cat in the afternoon sunshine. Then he produced another sonnet in praise of the Duchess, which told how the snow, put to shame by the whiteness of her skin, had in vengeance turned itself to ice, and caused her to slip and wellnigh to fall upon the courtyard pavement. Then he celebrated a lady who had lost a front tooth; 'twas the device of Love, who, dwelling in her mouth, required a loophole for the shooting of his arrows. 'But this man is a genius!' cried the ladies; 'his name will go down to posterity linked with that of Dante!' 'Nay, higher than Dante's. Where in the verses of Dante will you find these subtleties of our Unique one?' 'Ladies,' said the poet humbly, 'methinks you go too far. Dante has his special merits. Every one has his own qualities! As for me, I would give Dante's glory for your applause.' He began another sonnet; but the Duchess had lost patience, and went away. Returning to the main saloon, she commanded her page, Ricciardetto, a faithful lad, enamoured of her she sometimes fancied, to attend with a torch at the door of her bedchamber. Then she hurried through the long line of brilliant and crowded rooms, passed along a distant and deserted gallery, and ascended the winding stair. The immense vaulted apartment, now used as the ducal bedchamber, lay in the rectangular northern tower of the castle; she entered, took a candle, and went to a small oaken cupboard let into the thickness of the wall, in which the Duke kept important papers and his private letters. She had stolen the key from her husband, and now, nervous and agitated, fitted it to the lock. However, the attempt showed the lock to be broken, and she tore open the brass fastenings, only to find that the shelves had been emptied of their contents. Obviously Il Moro, noting the loss of his key, had transported his letters elsewhere. Beatrice stood motionless. Snowflakes were fleeting past the window like white phantoms. The wind whistled, and howled, and moaned, and the lady shuddered as she listened, for these voices of the storm and of the night recalled to her mind a something terrible which she was never able to forget for long. Her eye fell on the round lid of iron which covered the aperture to the Dionysius ear, the hearing-tube which Leonardo had run from the lower chambers of the palace to the Duke's bedchamber. She put her ear to it now and listened. Waves of sound reached her like the rolling of the sea heard in shells. She listened to the festal cries of the company, the laughter, the revels, the passionate sighing of the music, but with it mingled the whistle and roar of the storm. Suddenly it seemed to her that, close by her side, some one murmured 'Bellincioni! Bellincioni!' She gave a cry, the colour leaving her cheeks. 'Bellincioni! Of course! Why did I never think of him before? He is the one who will tell me everything. I must go to him this minute. Only so that no one shall notice me! Yet, truly, I care not if I am seen. I must _know_! I can endure this atmosphere of deceit no longer.' She remembered that Bellincioni, on the pretext of indisposition, had not come to the ball. At this hour he would be at home, and alone! So she called Ricciardetto, who was at the door. 'Tell two runners, with a litter, to await me below at the private gate. Despatch. Only see, if you desire my favour, that the matter is not known. Hear you? It must be known to none.' He kissed her hand and set off with the message. Beatrice threw on a sable pelisse and a mask of black velvet. A few minutes more and she was in the litter, being carried toward the Porta Ticinese, where the court poet had his lodging. VII Bernardo Bellincioni called his old ruinous house 'the lizard's hole.' He was the recipient of many munificent gifts, but his life was irregular; he drank, and gambled away whatever he had, so that 'misery,' as he was accustomed to say, 'followed him like a wife, unloved and faithful.' Lying on a broken couch, of which the fourth leg was replaced by a billet of wood, and the mattress thin as a girdle-cake, he was sipping his third glass of sour wine, and composing an epitaph for Madonna Cecilia's deceased lapdog. Listening to the north wind, and making gloomy prognostications as to the sort of night he was going to spend, he watched the dying-out of the remnant of fire, and vainly tried to warm his thin legs in the moth-eaten squirrel cloak, which he had thrown over them. He had not presented himself at the court ball (where his masque, _Paradiso_, was to be performed) for other reasons than illness; though indeed he had been ill for some while, and was so lean that, as he said, 'in his body it were possible to study the anatomy of the bones, muscles, and veins of the human subject.' Had he been dying he might still have dragged himself to the festival; more potent than illness was, however, jealousy; he preferred freezing in his kennel to witnessing the triumph of his rival, that interloping and pretentious humbug, Messer Unico, who had turned the heads of all the silly women. The mere thought of Messer Unico overflowed his heart with black bile; he clenched his fist, gnashed his teeth, and jumped frantically from his bed. But the room was so cold that he returned to its inadequate shelter, coughed, shivered, and rolled angrily from side to side. 'The villains!' he grumbled; 'have I not written four sonnets in the best rhyme praying for firewood, and not a stick has come. I shall certainly be reduced to burning my banisters: no one comes to visit me save Jews, and if they break their necks so much the better.' However, he spared the banisters. His eye fell on the makeshift leg of his bed, and he considered which were the more dangerous, a fireless room or an insecure sleeping-place. The storm swept through the room, blowing in at the chinks and shrieking in the chimney like a witch. With desperate decision Bernardo tore away the support of his couch, chopped it up and cast it on the hearth. The fire blazed up anew, and he sat before it on a stool, putting his blue fingers to the flame, and apostrophising the last warm friend of a lonely poet. 'A dog's life!' he muttered presently; 'and of a truth I merit these castigations less than others. Was it not of my forefather, the Florentine, who lived before the house of Sforza had been heard of, that the divine poet wrote:-- "Bellincion Berti vid' io andar cinto Di cuoio e d'osso"? Good Lord, when I came to Milan this herd of creeping animals did not know a sonnet from a _strambotto_. Who is it has taught them the elegancies of the new poetry? Was it not through my facile fingers that the waters of Hippocrene enriched the Lombard plain, and even threatened an inundation? And this is my reward! To lie like a dog in a kennel! To be neglected by all because, forsooth, I am poor! A poet situated as I am, is unknown as he whose face is hidden by a mask or deformed by the smallpox.' And he recited certain lines from his epistle to Ludovico, the Duke:-- 'I cry for aid to every one, But each in turn replies, "Begone!" Ah, wretched poet! for his pains, Thou generous lord, what meed remains? The very cap and bells to him denied, Among the beasts of burden harness thou his pride!' And he hung his bald head, smiling bitterly; on his stool by the fire, crouching, and very thin, with a long red nose, he looked like some melancholy roosting bird. Presently a knock was heard at the house-door below; then the sleepy grumbling of the surly old woman who was the poet's sole attendant; and then steps upon the brick floor. 'What, the fiend!' wondered Bellincioni; 'can it be that abominable Jew come again after his money? The infidel hound! Can he not leave me in peace even at night?' The staircase creaked, the door opened, and into the wretched room came a woman in a sable mantle and a black velvet mask. Astounded and staring, Bernardo sprang to his feet. The lady, without a word, was about to seat herself on a chair. 'For God's love, be careful, madam!' cried the poet, 'the back is broken!' Then in the ceremonious tone of a courtier he added: 'To what good genius am I indebted for the happiness of seeing an illustrious lady in my poor abode?' 'Surely,' he thought, ''tis a customer come to order a madrigal! Well, it brings money, and that brings firewood! Yet the hour is strange for a lonely lady! 'Tis clear my name is not unknown. And if this one, who knows how many more are my admirers?' With reviving spirits he threw the rest of the wood on the flame, which already had begun to languish. The fair unknown raised her mask. 'It is I, Bernardo.' In his astonishment he staggered against the doorpost. 'Jesus! Holy Virgin! Angels and martyrs!' he exclaimed. 'What? Your Excellency! Most shining lady----' 'Bernardo, you can do me a great service,' she looked round uneasily; 'but can any one hear us?' 'Be at ease, madam. No one except the rats and the mice.' 'Listen!' said Beatrice slowly, fixing her piercing eyes on his. 'I am aware that you have composed verses for Madonna Lucrezia; doubtless you have kept the letter of commission from the Duke.' He turned pale, and observed her silently, consternation in his eyes. 'Fear nothing,' she continued; 'no one shall know. I shall study how to reward you, Bernardo.' 'Your Excellency!' stammered the unlucky poet, whose tongue had lost its glibness, 'do not believe--nay, 'tis all calumny! No letters--before God, I swear there are no letters!' Her eyes flashed, and her brows contracted in an ominous frown. She rose and drew nearer, still fixing him with her gaze. 'Lie not. I know all. As you value your life, give me the Duke's letters. Give me them! Hear you? Bernardo, be careful, my servants are at the door. Think you I have come to jest with you?' He fell before her on his knees. 'But, most illustrious lady, I have no letters!' 'You say you have no letters?' 'None.' Fury overcame her. 'Wait then, accursed pander, till I tear the truth from your lips. Oh, I'll wring confession from you! I'll strangle you with my own hands, you rubbish, you rogue!' she cried: in good sooth driving her slender fingers into his throat with such force that the veins swelled on his forehead. Unresisting, rolling his eyes and hanging his hands helplessly, he more than ever resembled a sick bird. 'She is strangling me!' thought Bellincioni; 'well, it can't be helped. Not for so poor a reason will I betray my lord!' Dissipated rascal, and venal flatterer the poetaster had always been, but never traitor. In his veins flowed better blood than that of the Sforzas, and the moment had come for showing it. The Duchess, however, recovered herself. With a gesture of disgust she flung him from her, snatched up the little lamp with its broken sides and charred wick, and made for the adjoining cabinet, which she guessed to be the poet's working _studiolo_. Bernardo, placing himself against the door, barred the entrance. But the haughty glance of the Duchess awed him, and he withdrew. She swept past and entered the poor refuge of his threadbare muse. A smell of mould came from the books, great patches of damp showed on the plaster walls. The broken glass of the frosted windows was repaired with tow. On the sloping ink-splashed board were quills, gnawed and twisted in the agony of finding rhymes, and papers, doubtless rough copies of poems. Heedless of the author, Beatrice stood the lamp on a shelf and began to rummage among these sheets. She found sonnets addressed to chamberlains, treasurers, and dispensers, with burlesque complaints and prayers for firewood, clothes, wine, and bread. In one he asked of Messer Pallavicini a roast goose for the due celebration of All Saints' Day. In another, headed '_Del Moro a Cecilia_,' the poet recounted how Jupiter, returning from his mistress, had been forced to brave the storm lest _jealous Juno_ should guess his treachery, and tearing the diadem from her brow scatter its pearls like hailstones and raindrops from the sky. Presently the search brought the Duchess to a dainty case of black wood; she opened it, and saw a carefully tied-up packet of letters. Bernardo, watching her, wrung his hands in dismay. The Duchess looked at him, then at the letters; read the name of Lucrezia, recognised the handwriting of her husband, and knew she had found the thing she sought, his letters--the rough draft of the love-verses he had commanded for Lucrezia. She thrust the packet into the bosom of her dress, flung a bag of ducats at the poet, as one might fling a bone to a dog, and departed. He heard her descend the stair, heard the bang of the door, and stood motionless in the centre of the room as if thunderstruck, though the floor seemed shaking under him like the deck of a ship in storm. At last, exhausted, he flung himself on the three-legged couch, and sank into a deathlike slumber. VIII The Duchess returned to the castle, where the guests had noticed her absence with surprise, and the Duke himself become alarmed. He met her in the hall, and she accosted him, her face somewhat blanched, and explained that having felt fatigued after the banquet she had gone into an inner room to snatch some repose. 'Bice!' cried the Duke, taking her hand, which was trembling and cold, 'you are ill! Tell me, for pity's sake, what is the matter. Shall we put off the second part of this entertainment? Dear one, did I not arrange it solely to give pleasure to thee?' 'There is nothing the matter,' replied Beatrice. 'Why this anxiety, Vico? I have not felt so well this many a day. I wish to see the _Paradiso_. I intend to dance.' Il Moro was partly reassured. 'God be thanked, beloved,' he said, kissing her hand. The guests now streamed into the _Sala del giuoco alla palla_, which had been arranged for the representation of the _Paradiso_, by Leonardo da Vinci, the court mechanician. When every one was seated, and the lights had been extinguished, it was his voice which cried 'Ready!' Then a train of powder exploded, and crystalline globes, like planets, were seen disposed in a circle, filled with water, and illumined by a myriad of living fires sparkling with rainbow colours. 'See!' said the lively Madonna Ermellina, pointing out Leonardo to her neighbour; 'see that face! He is a wizard capable of carrying away the castle bodily, as one reads in the romances.' 'I mislike this playing with fire,' replied the other. 'Heaven grant we have not a real fire presently!' Presently, from a black chest concealed behind the fiery globes, a white-winged angel arose and recited the prologue. At the line-- 'The great King makes his spheres revolve'-- he pointed to the Duke, as if indicating that he governed his people with the same wisdom shown by the monarch of heaven in turning his celestial spheres. At the same moment the crystal globes began to turn to the accompaniment of a low strange music, representing the celestial harmony told of by Pythagoras. Again the planets stood still; upon each appeared its presiding deity, and each one recited a hymn in praise of Beatrice. Mercury said:-- 'Thou Nature's miracle! Diviner Sun! Lightning, by whom the clouds are overrun! Thou Lamp, by whom the stars are all outshone! The pride and glory of a future race! In that angelic figure, half concealed, The secret of the higher world lies sealed, And all of heaven's glory is revealed In that fair face.' And again Venus, kneeling before the Duchess, exclaimed:-- 'O Jove! whose justice never errs, And at whose voice all nature stirs And quickens to a goodly heritage, I bless thee for thy coming unto earth, Since thus fair Beatrice was given birth, Whose fruit is nurtured by the Hesperides, My beauty at her feet in ashes lies, Despoilèd Venus none shall recognise.' And Diana prayed that she might be given as a slave to Beatrice the beauteous, since never had a star like her shone in the heavenly firmament. Then came the epilogue, in which Jove presented to Beatrice the three Hellenic graces and the seven Christian virtues; and the whole Olympus and Paradise, under the shadow of the radiant angelic plumes, and of a cross gleaming with green lamps, symbols of hope, once more began to revolve, while gods and goddesses sang hymns in praise of Beatrice, accompanied by the music of the spheres and by the acclamations of the spectators. 'And why,' asked the Duchess of Messer Gaspare Visconti who sat at her side; 'why is there here no jealous Juno to tear the diadem from her brow, and to rain pearls upon the earth in the form of hailstones and raindrops?' On hearing these words Il Moro turned quickly and looked at her. She laughed a laugh so wild and forced that the Duke felt ice fall round his heart; but immediately Beatrice composed herself, and turned the conversation; Only she pressed the incriminating letters more closely to her bosom, intoxicated by the hope of revenge, strong, calm, almost gay, in her mood of triumph. The masque ended, the guests passed into another hall where a new spectacle awaited them. The triumphant chariots of Numa Pompilius, Cæsar, Augustus, and Trajan crossed the stage, drawn by negroes, leopards, griffons, centaurs, dragons, and adorned with allegorical pictures and inscriptions, which set forth that all these heroes were but precursors of Ludovico of Milan. Then a chariot came alone, drawn by unicorns, and bearing an immense globe representing the earth, upon which was stretched a warrior in a cuirass of rusty iron; a naked and gilded child, holding a branch of mulberry (_moro_) in his hand, issued from a cleft in the cuirass, to signify the death of the Age of Iron and the birth of the Age of Gold under the sage rule of Ludovico. To the delight of the spectators the Golden Age proved to be a living child; he was, however, in great discomfort from the plaster of gold which covered his little body, and tears shone in his frightened eyes. In a tremulous and miserable voice he whined a _canzonetta_, praising the Duke, with the monotonous and lugubrious refrain:-- 'Tornerà l'età dell' oro, Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"' (The age of gold shall brighten as of yore, And all exulting sing, 'Long live the Moor.') Around the chariot of the Golden Age the dancing was renewed, and though no one heeded him any longer, the unhappy golden child still sobbed out his piteous song:-- 'Tornerà l'età dell' oro, Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"' Beatrice was dancing with Gaspare Visconti. At times she laughed and sobbed hysterically, and her throat convulsively contracted. With unsupportable agony the blood throbbed at her temples, and a mist rolled before her eyes; yet her face was calm, and she even smiled. At the dance's conclusion she again slipped unnoticed from the revelling crowd, and sought seclusion in her private apartments. IX She went to the retired _Torre della Tesoreria_, where no one ever came save the Duke and herself. Taking the candle from Ricciardetto and bidding him await her at the entrance, she passed into a lofty hall, dark and cold as a cellar, sat down, drew forth the packet of letters and was about to read. But suddenly a strange and eerie gust of wind swept shrieking round the tower, howled in the chimney, invaded the room with an icy breath almost extinguishing the candle. There was a great hush; it seemed to her she could hear the distant music of the ball, the murmur of voices, the patter of dancing feet, the sound of iron fetters from the vaults below, where was the prison. And at the same moment she felt a presence in the room with her: there, in the dark angle of the wall, with eyes fixed upon hers. An anguish of terror seized her soul. She felt she must not move, must not look. But it was unendurable, and she did look. He stood there, as once she had seen him before, a long, long, black figure, blacker than the investing darkness, his head bent, and shrouded in the cowl of a monk. She tried to scream, to call Ricciardetto, but her voice failed. She rose to flee and her legs refused to support her; she fell on her knees groaning:-- 'Thou? Again? And wherefore?' He raised his head slowly and threw back the cowl, and showed the visage of Gian Galeazzo Sforza, _the murdered duke_. The face had nothing in it corpse-like, nothing appalling, and he spoke gently and distinctly: 'Poor thing! Poor woman! Pardon me!' He made a step towards her, and she felt a freezing and unearthly cold. She shrieked, and fell unconscious to the earth. Ricciardetto heard the cry and ran to her succour. When he saw his beloved mistress stretched senseless, he too shrieked, rushed away along the dark galleries, where at long intervals sentries stood holding dim lanterns, then into the crowded guest-chambers seeking the Duke, and crying wildly: 'Help! Help!' It was midnight, and the revelry was at its height. The modish dance called '_Fedeli Amanti_' had just begun. In it lady and cavalier must pass under an arch upon which stood the Genius of Love blowing a trumpet; at its foot were judges; and when true lovers approached, the Genius greeted them with tender strains, and the judges smiled and applauded and let them pass; but the untrue were hindered, and the trumpet stunned them with terrible noise, the judges pelted them with hail of _confetti_, and the luckless couple, loudly bemocked, were forced to turn and flee. The Duke, to sweetest strains like the cooing of doves, had just made his passage of the arch, when, the crowd parting in dismay to admit his approach, Ricciardetto hurled himself at his master, still shrieking his wild, 'Help! Help!' Ludovico laid a hand upon his shoulder. 'What is it? What has happened?' 'The Duchess! She is dying! Help!' 'The Duchess is ill? Where? Speak, in the name of God!' cried the Duke. 'In the _Torre della Tesoreria_.' The Duke rushed from the hall, his golden chain rattling, his hair flying. The Genius of the arch of true lovers went on blowing his trumpet, but now the dancers left him and he stopped. Some had followed the Duke--in a moment the whole brilliant throng had scattered like a flock of frightened sheep. The arch was overthrown and trampled, the trumpeter nearly fell, was hustled, and sprained his ankle. Some cried 'Fire!' 'I said it was madness to play with fire,' wailed the lady who had disapproved Leonardo's rotating planets; and others fainted. 'Calm yourselves, ladies. There is no fire!' said the seneschal. 'Then what is it?' 'The Duchess is indisposed.' 'Nay, she is dying! She has been poisoned!' 'Impossible! Her Grace was here but now. She was dancing!' 'But don't you see? Isabella of Arragon, to avenge her lord, has with slow poison----' '_Oh Dio! Dio!_' But in the next saloon the music continued, for there nothing was known of the disturbance. The dance 'Venus and Zephyr' was in progress, the smiling ladies leading their cavaliers by golden chains, and when these fell on their knees with lamentable sighs, placing their feet upon their necks. But a chamberlain now entered, waving his hand to the musicians. 'Silence! The Duchess is ill.' There was an instant hush, save for one viol played by a deaf and purblind old man, which long continued to pour forth its plaintive quiverings. The servants passed through the hall carrying a bed, long and narrow, with hard stuffing, and bars at sides and ends, kept from time immemorial in the wardrobes of the palace, and _de rigueur_ for the birth of the princes of Milan. Strange and ill-omened seemed this portentous couch in the midst of the festivity, the lights, the crowds of gorgeous ladies. They looked from one to the others mysteriously. ''Tis from a fall or, mayhap, a fright,' said one of mature age. 'She should have swallowed at once the white of an egg in which were lengths of scarlet silk, cut small.' From the upper room, meantime, (Ricciardetto being stationed in the adjoining closet) came such a terrible cry, that the page seized the arm of one of the women who were passing with warming-pans, baskets of linen, and so forth, and cried in an agony:-- 'For God's sake, tell me what is the matter?' She did not answer, and another, clearly the midwife, ordered him away. ''Tis no place for boys,' she said sternly. Yet the door was left ajar for a moment, and looking into the disordered room he saw the suffering face of her whom he loved with his hopeless boy's love, her lips parted in a continuous groan. He turned pale, and hid his face in his hands. Beside him chattered a group of gossips each with her infallible recipe; snake's skin, a bath in a heated cauldron, decoctions of cochineal and of stag's antlers, the tying of her husband's _berretto_ round the neck of the patient, and so forth. The Duke entered hurriedly and sank upon a chair, clutching his head with his hands and weeping distractedly. 'Lord God! What torture!' he murmured. 'I cannot support it! I cannot! Ah Bice! Bice! And 'tis all my doing! mine!' Still echoed in his ears the furious cry with which she had greeted his approach. 'Go away! Go away! Go to your Lucrezia!' One of the busybodies brought him a pewter plate piled with meat. 'Your Excellency will be pleased to eat it.' 'Good Lord, what are you giving me?' 'Wolf's flesh. 'Tis of great benefit to the wife in her labour, if the husband will eat the flesh of wolves.' The Duke, submissive and self-denying, did his best to swallow the repulsive black substance, which was so hard as to stick in his throat, and the old woman gabbled as she bent over him:-- 'Our Father which art in Heaven, Seven wolves and the mate of one, Blow the wind from us this even, Praise Thy name, the storm is done! Holy, Holy, Holy, in the name of the Trinity, one and eternal. Let the word stand for ever! Amen.' She was interrupted by Messer Luigi Marliani, the first of the court physicians, who came from the sick room, followed by his colleagues. 'Well? well?' asked Ludovico. There was a silence; then Messer Luigi spoke. 'Your Excellency, we have done all that is possible. Now we must put our hope in the clemency of the Lord.' 'No! No!' cried the Duke seizing his hand, 'there must be some means! It is unendurable! Try something!' The physicians exchanged glances like augurs, hoping thus to reassure him. Then Marliani, knitting his brows, said in Latin to the young doctor beside him:-- 'Three ounces of river snails, with nutmeg and red coral,' 'A bleeding, perhaps?' suggested another, an old man, with a gentle and diffident face. 'I had thought of it,' said Marliani; 'but Mars is in Cancer and in the fourth house of the sun. And, further, to-day's date is an uneven number.' The old man sighed, shook his head and forbore to urge his point. Various other loathsome medicaments were proposed, till the Duke could no longer contain himself. He turned furiously to the doctors. 'To the devil with all your science!' he exclaimed; 'she is dying, do you hear me? She is dying! and you have nothing better to propose than three ounces of snails and a plaster of cow's dung! Rascals, charlatans, fools! I will hang every one of you!' He paced the room a prey to mortal anguish, listening to the sufferer's unceasing groans. Suddenly his eye fell on Leonardo and he drew him aside. 'Listen,' he cried wildly, 'Leonardo, you are master of great secrets. No, no, deny it not, I _know_. Ah, my God! my God!--that cry! What was I saying? Yes, yes! Help me, Leonardo! Do something! I would give my soul to succour her--even for a short space--only to still that cry!' Leonardo would have replied; but the Duke, forgetting that he had appealed to him, hurried to meet the chaplain and two monks entering at that moment-- 'At last! God be praised. What have you brought? Ah! a particle of the remains of St. Ambrose, the belt of St. Margaret--is she not the patroness of women in childbed?--and a hair of the Blessed Virgin! Ah, how I thank you! And surely your prayers----' Following the monks he was entering the sick-chamber when the continual low groaning suddenly gave place to shrieks so appalling that, stopping his ears, he turned and fled, passing through the dark galleries like one possessed. He hurried to the chapel and cast himself on his knees before the most revered picture. 'Holy Mother of God,' he implored with clasped hands and streaming eyes, 'I have sinned--I have sinned horribly--I have slain an innocent youth--my lawful sovereign. O thou merciful Mediatress, have mercy upon me! Take my life--take my soul; but in pity, O Holy Mother, save Beatrice!' Shreds of thoughts and senseless fancies crowded in his brain and stole his attention from his prayers. He remembered a story of a drowning sailor who had thought to buy salvation by the promise of a candle as big as the mast of a ship; and when asked how the wax for this colossus was to be provided, had answered: 'Hold your tongue; our present task is to get saved, and afterwards we'll get the Virgin to be content with a smaller candle.' 'Oh God, where are my thoughts!' cried the Duke bethinking himself. 'I must be going mad! God help me!' And he fell a-praying with renewed fervour; but now visions of Leonardo's crystal globes tormented him, and the tiresome chant of the gilded boy-- 'Tornerà l'età dell' oro, Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"' Then all vanished, and he sank in a profound slumber. When he awoke he fancied but two or three minutes had elapsed. He left the chapel, and saw through the frosted window-pane the grey light of the winter's dawn. X Il Moro returned to the _Sala della Rocchetta_, where reigned a mournful silence. A woman passing with a basket of swaddling clothes, approached him and said. 'Her Excellency has been delivered.' 'Does she live?' he stammered, very pale. 'Yes, she lives; but the infant is still-born. She is very weak; and she desires to speak with your Highness.' He went to her room; and there on the pillows he saw a small shrunken face like a child's, pallid and calm, with great eyes surrounded by livid circles, and turbid as if a spider's web were drawn over them; familiar and yet strange. He bent over her silently. 'Send for Isabella! Quickly!' she gasped. He gave the order; and presently the tall, young, graceful woman with the proud sad look, the widow of Gian Galeazzo, entered the room and approached the dying Beatrice. All retired except Ludovico and the confessor. For a few minutes the two women whispered together. Then Isabella kissed the other's cold forehead, knelt by the bedside and prayed, covering her face with her hands. Beatrice signed to her husband. 'Vico, forgive me! Weep not. Remember my spirit will be always with you. I know it was I only--I only whom----' She could not complete the sentence, but he understood her meaning. 'It was I only whom you loved.' Slowly she turned her eyes to him, eyes already darkening, and murmured:-- 'One kiss--on my lips....' The monk was reciting the last prayers for the dying, and the attendants, who had re-entered, responded in chorus. The Duke felt the lips beneath his own turn cold and stiff; in that long kiss she had breathed her last faint sigh. 'She is dead,' said Marliani. All knelt, making the sign of the cross. Il Moro raised himself very slowly, his face rigid, expressive less of grief than of extreme tension of spirit; he breathed heavily and loud like one toiling up the steep hillside. Suddenly he stretched out his arms, gave one wild cry:-- 'Bice!' and fell senseless upon the corpse. Of the spectators Leonardo alone had remained calm; his clear searching eyes were fixed upon the Duke. The look of supreme suffering in a human face, or its expression in the gestures of the body, was to his eyes a rare and beautiful manifestation of nature, an exceptional experience. Not a wrinkle, not the quivering of a muscle escaped his passionless all-seeing eyes. Presently, over-mastered by the desire to draw, he slipped from the room to fetch his sketch-book. In the lower halls, whither the artist bent his steps, the candles were dying out in black smoke and gutterings of wax. The chariots of Numa and Augustus, and all the pompous allegorical paraphernalia employed to glorify Il Moro and his Beatrice, were unspeakably melancholy and wretched in the morning brilliance. In one room he saw the overthrown and trampled _Arco dell' Amore_. Standing by the moribund fire he was beginning his sketch, when in the chimney-corner he noticed the boy who had personified the Golden Age. He had fallen asleep, huddled up, his hands clutching his knees, his head dropped upon them. The faint heat from the dying embers had not sufficed to warm the poor little naked and gilded body. Leonardo touched him on the shoulder, but the child did not look up. He moaned piteously and the artist took him in his arms. Then he opened frightened eyes, blue as violets, and wailed. 'Let me go home! Let me go home!' 'What is your name?' asked Leonardo. 'Lippi. Let me go home! Let me go home! I am so cold. I feel so sick.' His eyelids fell heavily, and he babbled deliriously.-- 'Tornerà l'età dell' oro, Cantiam tutti: "Viva il Moro!"' Leonardo wrapped the boy in his own cloak, laid him in a chair and roused the servants in the ante-chamber who were sleeping off the effects of their cups. He learned from them about the child: that he was motherless, the son of a tinker in the _Broletto Novo_, who, for twenty scudi, had sold his child to the mumming, though warned that he might die of being gilded. Leonardo returned, wrapped the boy snugly in his furs, and was carrying him out of the palace to the nearest drug shop that the paint might be removed from his skin. Suddenly, however, he paused, for he remembered the drawing he had just commenced, and the interesting look of despair in Ludovico's face. 'Ah, well,' he thought, 'I shall scarce forget it. The chief thing is the wrinkle over the arched eyebrows, and the strange smile which one might think full of serenity, even of enthusiasm. The expression of immense grief is like enough to that of immoderate joy; and truly Plato has said that the two emotions, rising upon different bases, converge at their apex.' Then feeling the tremble of the frozen child, he added to himself ironically-- 'Poor little sick bird--our Age of Gold!' And he pressed him with such tenderness to his heart that the little lad fancied his mother had risen from her grave, and was comforting him. XI Beatrice Sforza d'Este died on Tuesday, the 2nd of January 1497, at six in the morning. The Duke remained by her corpse for twenty-four hours, refusing food and sleep. It was feared his reason would give way. On Thursday morning he called for writing materials and wrote to Isabella d'Este, sister of the dead Duchess, a long letter breathing bitterest grief. 'It had been easier for me to have died myself,' he wrote; 'I pray you send me no condolence nor messenger.' After writing he was induced to eat a little, not presenting himself at table but being served in solitude by Ricciardetto. He had proposed to leave the disposing of the funeral to Bartolomeo Calco, his secretary; arranging himself merely the order of the procession. But his interest became aroused, and presently he was planning details of the ceremonial with the same zeal he had shown in ordering the magnificent festival of the Golden Age. He fixed the precise weight of the funeral tapers; the number of _braccia_ of gold brocade and of black cramoisie for the altar cloths; the largess of small coin, pease, and tallow to be distributed among the poor in the name of the deceased. Choosing the cloth for the mourning of the court functionaries, he did not omit to feel its weight with his fingers, and to make sure of its quality by holding it to the light. For himself he ordered a special mourning garb (_abito solenne di lutto profondo_) having holes torn in it to simulate the rendings of despairing frenzy. A few days later Il Moro caused the tomb of the still-born child to be inscribed with a pompous epitaph composed by himself and translated into Latin by Merula. 'I, unhappy child, have perished before I have seen the light; more unhappy in that, dying, I have ravished life from my mother--from my father his consort. In this adverse fate but one consolation remains to me; that I was born of parents equal unto gods. In the year 1497, the third of the Nones of January.' Il Moro stood a long time contemplating this inscription, cut in gold letters upon a slab of black marble covering the infant's grave. It was in the Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where Beatrice also slept her last sleep. The Duke shared the naïve enthusiasm of the stone-mason, who having finished his work drew back and admired it from a distance, putting his head on one side, closing one eye, clucking his tongue, and murmuring in an ecstasy of satisfaction:-- 'This is no tomb, but a jewel.' One morning when the snow on the housetops shone white against the rich blue of the sky, and in the crystal air was that freshness like the fragrance of lilies which seems to be the perfume of snow, Leonardo da Vinci passed from the sunlit frost into a dark close chamber hung with black taffeta, where the shutters were rigorously closed, and funeral tapers were still alight--the chamber of Ludovico, who for many days had refused to leave it. The Duke spoke of the _Cenacolo_ which was to glorify the place where Beatrice was laid. Then he said:-- 'Leonardo, they tell me you have taken under your wing that urchin who played the Golden Age at our ill-omened feast. What of him?' 'He is dead, Most Illustrious. He died on the day of Her Grace's funeral.' 'Died!' echoed the Duke. 'Nay, but that is strange!' And he dropped his head on his hands, sighing heavily. Then he stretched his hand to Leonardo. 'Yes! yes!' he cried; ''twas destined to fall out thus. Truly our Golden Age is dead; dead together with my incomparable one, for it could not, it should not, survive her. Is it not a truth, _amico mio_, that here we have a strange coincidence--theme for a tremendous allegory?' XII The whole year was passed in the deepest mourning. The Duke did not lay aside his garment of woe, nor did he present himself at table, but ate off a tray held before him by courtiers. 'Since his lady's death,' wrote the Venetian ambassador, Marin Sanuto, 'Il Moro has become very devout, is present at all church ceremonies, fasts, and lives continently (so at least they say), and has in his plans the fear of God constantly before his eyes.' In the daytime the Duke was able to forget his bereavement in the affairs of state, though even here he felt the lack of Beatrice; during the night the intensity of his grief redoubled. Often in dreams he saw her as she had been when he had married her; sixteen, childish and wilful, slim, dark; almost like a boy; so untamed that sometimes she hid herself in cupboards to avoid assisting at state ceremonials, and for three months after their marriage defended herself with her teeth and her nails from her husband's caresses. One night, five days before the first anniversary of her death, he dreamed of her as she had been one day long ago when there had been a fishing party on the banks of the lake in her favourite country house of Cusnago. Fish had been plentiful, and the buckets were filled to the brim. Having turned up her sleeves, the young Duchess had amused herself throwing the creatures by handfuls back into the water, laughing and delighting in the joy of the released captives, in the flash of their scales as they plunged deep into the clear water. The perch, the roach, the bream wriggled in her bare hands, then catching the sun they glowed like brilliants; and the smooth olive cheek of the beautiful girl glowed too. Upon awaking, Ludovico found his pillow wet with tears. He rose and went to the Convent delle Grazie, and prayed long at his wife's tomb; then he dined with the prior and disputed with him upon the burning theological question of the hour, the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin. When it grew dark, Il Moro left the monastery, and went straight to the dwelling of Madonna Lucrezia. His grief for his wife, his fear of God, in no wise militated against love for his mistresses. On the contrary, he clung to them more closely than before; the more so that of late the Countess Cecilia and Madonna Lucrezia had become bosom friends. Cecilia, though a blue-stocking or _dotta eroina_, as it was then called, and famed as the 'new Sappho,' was at bottom a simple good-hearted creature, somewhat easily run away with by enthusiasms. Upon the death of the Duchess she found opportunity for one of those exploits of love of which she had read in romances; she would make common cause with Lucrezia, her young rival, that together they might comfort the duke! At first Lucrezia was jealous and hard to win, but the magnanimity of the _dotta eroina_ finally disarmed her, and she opened her heart to this anomaly in female friendship. In the summer Lucrezia bore a son; the Countess desired to be his godmother, and though herself the mother of children by the Duke, lavished on the infant extravagant tendernesses and called herself his grandam. Thus Il Moro's prophetic dream had been realised, and his mistresses were friends. To celebrate the auspicious arrangement, he caused Bellincioni to write a sonnet in which Lucrezia and Cecilia were figured as the Morning and the Evening glow; while he, disconsolate widower, stood between them. This evening, entering the familiar luxurious chamber of the Palazzo Crivelli, he found the ladies side by side before the fire. Of course, like the rest of the court, they were dressed in the deepest mourning. 'How is your Excellency in his health?' asked the Evening Glow. She was quite unlike her rival, but no less attractive, with her white skin, flame-coloured hair, and hazel eyes clear as the water in a mountain tarn. The Duke had complained of ill health lately, and though this evening he felt rather better than usual, languidly answered, from force of habit:-- 'Ah, madam, you can easily conceive to what condition I am reduced. My mind is occupied but with one subject, how soonest I may be laid to rest beside my dove.' 'Nay, nay, your Excellency must not speak so!' said Cecilia with deprecating hands. 'Think, if Madonna Beatrice could hear you! All sorrow comes from God, and must be accepted even with thankfulness.' 'You speak well,' replied Il Moro, 'I would not murmur. Nay, then, God forbid! Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' And he raised his eyes to heaven, pressing closely the hands of the two ladies. 'May the Lord reward you, my dear ones, that you have not abandoned the poor widowed one!' He wiped his eyes, and then drew two papers from the pocket of his mourning attire. One was a deed of gift by which he gave the rich lands of the Villa Sforzesca to the Monastery delle Grazie. 'But,' said the Countess, astonished, 'I had thought your Highness adored this villa.' 'My love for terrestrial things is dead. And, madam, what need has one man with lands so large?' Cecilia laid her rosy fingers on his lips with sympathetic reproach. Then she asked curiously:-- 'And this other paper, what is it?' At this his face cleared, and the old, gay, somewhat cunning smile appeared on his lips. He read the second document aloud, also a deed of gift, with recital of the lands, woods, hamlets, hunting rights, and other advantages which he, Ludovico, Duke of Milan, was conferring on Madonna Lucrezia Crivelli and his natural son Giampaolo. With the rest was included the villa of Cusnago, Beatrice's favourite country house, renowned for its fisheries. The last words of the document Ludovico read in trembling tones:-- 'In the wondrous and rare bonds of great love, this lady has showed unto us entire devotion and displayed such loftiness of sentiment that often in our intercourse with her we have experienced an entrancing and exceptional delight, added to great lightening of our cares.' Cecilia clapped her hands and fell on her friend's neck, her eyes wet with maternal tenderness. 'Did I not tell you, my sweet sister, that he had a heart of gold? Now my little grandson, Giampaolo, has the richest inheritance in Milan.' 'What date have we?' asked Il Moro. ''Tis the 28th of December,' replied Cecilia. 'The 28th!' he echoed pensively. It was the day, the hour, when a year ago Beatrice had surprised her husband with his mistress. The room was unchanged; the same winter wind howled in the chimney; the bright fire burned on the hearth, and above it danced the chain of naked cupids or cherubs. On the round table with the green covering stood the same crystal goblet of _Balnea aponitana_; the same mandoline, the same sheets of music littered the floor. The doors opened into the bedroom, and there was the wardrobe in which he had taken refuge. What would he not give, so he thought, if he might at this moment hear the rap of the knocker on the great door, if the frightened maid should run in with the cry, 'Madonna Beatrice!' Yes, he would gladly once again tremble in the wardrobe like a caught thief, hearing in the distance the indignant voice of the lady of his love. Alas! it could not be, that time had gone by for ever! His head sank and tears filled his eyes. 'Oh, _Santo Iddio_!' said Cecilia, turning to her friend, 'he weeps anew. Rouse yourself! Coax, comfort him! Console him! How can you be so cold?' And gently she pushed her rival into the Duke's arms. Lucrezia had long felt sickened by this unnatural friendship. She would have liked to get up and go away; nevertheless she took the Duke's hand. He smiled at her through his tears and laid it upon his heart. Cecilia took the mandoline, and, assuming the pose in which twelve years ago Leonardo had painted her, sang one of Petrarch's lyrics for Laura:-- 'Levommi il mio pensiero in parte ov' era Quella ch'io cerco e non ritrovo in terra.' The Duke, much moved, wiped his eyes, and stretching out his hands as to a dissolving vision, he repeated the last line:-- 'E compie' mia giornata innanzi sera.' 'Ah, yes, my dove, thou didst indeed finish thy day before the evening!... Ladies, sometimes it seems to me as if she smiled upon us three from heaven. Ah, Bice, Bice, _mia adorata!_' He drew Lucrezia to him, and presently Cecilia rose and left them together. The 'Evening Glow' was not jealous of the 'Dawn'; from long experience she knew that soon again her turn would come. Her mandoline sounded from the next room. And above the merry firelight, the naked cupids of Caradosso's moulding prolonged their eternal dance, laughing madly around the nails, the lance, the crown of thorns. BOOK IX THE SIMILITUDES--1498-1499 _'I sensi sono terrestri, la ragione sta fuor di quelli, quando contempla.'_ LEONARDO DA VINCI. (The Senses belong to earth: Reason, when she contemplates, stands outside them.) [Greek: 'Ouranhos anô ouranhos katô.'] (Heaven above--heaven below.) TABULA SMARAGDINA. I 'See here! On the map of the Indian Ocean, westward of the island of Taprobane, we find a note--"The Sirens: prodigies of the sea." Christopher Columbus told me that having come there and found no sirens, he was greatly astonished. But you smile. Why?' 'Oh, nothing! Go on, Guido; I am listening.' 'I know very well, Messer Leonardo, that you don't believe in sirens! Well, and what would you say of the skiapodes, who use their feet as parasols; or the pygmies, whose ears are so large that they make one a bolster, the other a blanket; or of the tree which bears eggs for its fruit, from which come yellow downy chickens, so fishy-flavoured they may be eaten on fast-days; or of that marine monster upon which certain mariners, believing it an island, disembarked and lighted a fire for the cooking of their supper? This last is a very true tale, related by an aged mariner from Lisbon, a man in no wise given to wine, and who swore and swore again by the blood and the body of Christ, that he spoke what was true.' This conversation took place six years after the discovery of the New World, on Palm Sunday, at Florence, in a room above the storehouse of Messer Pompeo Berardi, a shipbuilder, who had a branch establishment at Seville, and superintended there the building of ships for sailing to the New Continent. Messer Guido Berardi, Pompeo's nephew, was an impassioned seaman; he had prepared to take part in Vasco di Gama's expedition, when he was stricken by the terrible disease called French by the Italians, and Italian by the French; German by the Poles, Polish by the Muscovites, Christian by the Turks. In vain he had consulted all physicians, in vain he had made waxen offerings at every wonder-working shrine; paralysed, condemned to eternal immobility, he preserved an extraordinary activity of mind, and by listening to sailors' stories, and sitting up all night over books and maps, he sailed the oceans of imagination, and made discoveries by proxy. His room, which sextants, compasses, astrolabes, made like a ship's cabin, opened on to a balcony, a Florentine loggia. The clear sky of a spring evening was already darkening; the flame of the lamp flickered in the wind; from the storehouse below were wafted odours of spices--cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves. 'And so, Messer Leonardo,' he concluded, rubbing his unhappy legs under their coverlet, ''tis not meaningless the saying that faith removes mountains. Had Columbus doubted like you, he had accomplished naught. Confess, I pray you, is it not worth grey hair at thirty to have found the Earthly Paradise?' 'Paradise?' said Leonardo; 'nay, how is that?' 'What? Have you not heard? Know you not that by observations on the Pole Star, taken by Messer Cristoforo near the Azores, he has proved that the world has not the shape of an apple, as is commonly supposed. 'Tis a pear, with a protuberance like the nipple of a woman's breast. On this nipple, a mountain so high that its summit leans against the lunar sphere, lies the Earthly Paradise.' 'But, _caro_ Guido, science....' 'Science!' cried the other contemptuously. 'Know you, Messere, what Columbus says of science? I will quote you his words in his _Libro de las Profecias_. He says: "Not mathematics, nor the charts of geographers, nor the arguments of reason, helped me to my deed, but solely the prophecy of Isaiah touching a new heaven and a new earth."' Here Guido fell silent, for at this hour began the nightly racking of his joints. He was carried to his bed; and Leonardo, left alone, entertained himself verifying those observations upon the Pole Star which had led to so singular a delusion; and, in truth, he found errors so gross that he could not believe his eyes. 'What ignorance!' he said to himself more than once; 'it would seem he has discovered the New World by chance, groping at random. He himself sees no more than a blind man, nor doth he know what it is he has discovered; he thinks it is China or Solomon's Ophir; or, by my faith, the Earthly Paradise! Death will overtake him before he has learned the truth.' He read the first letter, dated April 29th 1493, in which Columbus informed Europe of his discovery: 'the letter of Christopher Columbus, to whom our age oweth much touching the newly-found islands beyond the Ganges.' Leonardo spent the whole night over the calculations and the maps. At times he went out upon the loggia and looked at the stars, thinking of this finder of the new heaven and the new earth--that strange dreamer with the mind, and the heart, of a child. Involuntarily he compared this man's destiny with his own. 'How little he knew; how much he did! And I, with all my knowledge, am helpless as the paralysed Berardi. I, too, have aimed at unknown worlds, but have made no step towards them. Faith, say they, faith! But is not perfect faith the same as perfect knowledge? Cannot these eyes of mine see farther than those eyes of Columbus, the blind prophet? Or is it the caprice of Fate that men must see to know; must be blind to act?' II Leonardo did not notice that the night was passing. The stars went out one by one; rosy light overspread the sky and shone upon the tiled roofs and the wooden cross-beams of the old brick houses; the street became gay with the hum of the people going forth to their daily toil. Presently a knock came to the door, and Giovanni Boltraffio entered, to remind his master that this was the day for the 'Trial by fire.' 'What trial?' asked Leonardo. 'Fra Domenico on behalf of Fra Girolamo, and Fra Giuliano Rondinelli on behalf of his enemies, will pass through the fire. That one who is unhurt will be proved by God to be in the right.' 'Very good; you can go, Giovanni, and I wish you good entertainment.' 'Will you not come also, Master?' 'No. I am busy.' Giovanni took a step towards the door; then, trying to appear indifferent, he said:-- 'I am sorry you are so occupied. As I came hither I met Messer Paolo Somenzi, who promised to bring us to a place where we could see excellently. The trial is not till mid-day. If you could finish your work by then, we might yet be in time.' Leonardo smiled. 'You want me so much to see the prodigy? Very well, then; we'll go together.' At the appointed time Messer Paolo Somenzi arrived. He was a spy in the pay of the Duke of Milan, and a bitter enemy of Savonarola's: a restless, fussy little man, with brains of quicksilver. 'How is this, Messer Leonardo?' he began in a harsh disagreeable voice, with much gesticulation. 'You thought of refusing your presence? Has this physical experiment no attraction for the devotee of natural science?' 'But will the magistrates really permit them to go into the fire?' asked Leonardo. '_Chi lo sa?_ But one thing is certain, that Fra Domenico will not shrink from the flames. Nor is he the only one! More than two thousand of the citizens, rich and poor, wise and simple, women and children, declared last night at the Convent of San Marco that they were ready to follow Fra Domenico to this singular test. I tell you there is such a frenzy abroad that the most sensible feel their heads go round. The very philosophers are taking fright, and asking themselves if there is not a chance of neither champion being burned. But for my part, I am wondering how the Piagnoni will look when, on the contrary, the two poor fools are slain before their eyes!' 'Does Savonarola really believe?' exclaimed Leonardo, as if thinking aloud. 'I suspect he has his doubts and would fain draw back. But 'tis too late. To his own hurt he has so debauched the imagination of this people that now they require a miracle at all costs. See you, Messere, 'tis a pure question of mathematics, and of a kind no less interesting than yours: if God really exist, why should he not do a miracle--why should he not cause two and two to make five? as, verily, the faithful daily request, that the impious like you and me, Messer Leonardo, may be put to eternal confusion.' 'Well, let us set forth,' said Leonardo, interrupting Messer Paolo with ill-concealed aversion. 'Soft, though,' said the other; 'one little whisper more. You and I, Messer Leonardo, are of one mind in this matter; and at the day's end we shall cry "Victory!" whether God exist or no. Two and two will always make four. _Viva la Scienza!_ and long live logic!' The streets were crowded, and on all faces was that air of curiosity and happy expectation which Leonardo had already remarked in Giovanni. The press was greatest in the Via de' Calzaioli before the Orsanmichele, where was a bronze statue by Andrea Verrocchio:--the apostle Thomas thrusting his fingers into the wounds of his Lord. Here the eight theses, the truth or falsity of which was to be demonstrated by the fire, were appended to the wall, 'writ large' in vermilion letters. Some of the crowd were spelling them out, others listening and making their comments. I. The Church of the Lord needs to be born again. II. God will chastise her. III. God will transform her. IV. After the chastisement, Florence also shall be renewed and shall rise above all peoples. V. The infidels shall be converted. VI. All this shall happen forthwith. VII. The excommunication of Savonarola by Pope Alexander VI. is invalid. VIII. He committeth no sin who holds this excommunication invalid. Jostled by the crowd, Leonardo and his companions stopped to listen to the remarks of the people. 'It is all gospel truth,' said an old artisan; 'nevertheless deadly sin may come of it.' 'What sin is stinking in your old nostrils, Filippo?' asked a lad, smiling contemptuously. 'There can be no sin in it,' said another. 'It's a trap of the Evil One,' said Filippo undaunted. 'We are demanding a miracle. But we may be unworthy of a miracle. Is it not written in Scripture, "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God?"' 'Hold your tongue, old man! Is not a mustard-seed of faith able to raise mountains? God cannot avoid a miracle once we have faith.' 'No! He can't! He can't!' cried many voices. 'But who is to go into the fire first? Fra Domenico or Fra Girolamo?' 'The two together.' 'No, Fra Girolamo will only pray. He is not going in.' 'You don't know what you are talking about. 'Twill be first Fra Domenico, then Fra Girolamo, and then all of us who wrote ourselves down last night at the convent.' Is it true that Fra Girolamo is going to raise a dead man?' 'Of course it is true! First the trial by fire, and then the resurrection of the dead. I, myself, have seen his letter to the pope. He challenges him to send a man who shall descend into a tomb with Fra Girolamo, and say to the dead, "Come forth!" He who shall resuscitate the corpse shall be the true prophet; and the other the deceiver.' 'Have faith, brothers, only have faith! Many miracles await you. Ye shall see the Son of Man in his flesh and bones coming on the clouds, and other wonders, of which ancient times had not even the conception!' At these words several cried 'Amen'; and all faces grew pale, and all eyes burned with the wild fires of fanaticism. The crowd moved on, carrying Messer Paolo and the others with it. Giovanni threw one more look at Verrocchio's bronze figure. In the good-humoured, half-contemptuous smile of the incredulous apostle, he seemed to see the smile of Leonardo. III As they approached the Piazza della Signoria, the press was so great that Paolo requested one of the mounted guards to escort them as far as the balcony, where places were reserved for the orators, and for the more important of the citizens. Never, thought Giovanni, had he seen so great a multitude. Not only was the square packed with spectators, but the loggias, the towers, windows, and roofs of the houses. Like limpets, they clung to the iron lamp-brackets, gratings, gutters, eaves, rain-pipes. They hustled each other and fought for room, and some fell and were trampled out of life. All the approaches to the piazza were rigorously barred with iron posts and chains; at three places only, men of full age and unarmed were permitted to pass singly. Messer Paolo explained to his companions the manner in which the pyre was constructed. There were two long narrow piles of wood smeared with tar and sprinkled with powder, which extended from the Ringhiera or rostrum, where stood the Marzocco (the ancient lion of Florence), as far as to the Tettoia del Pisani. Between the two piles was a narrow lane, paved with stones, sand, and clay, along which the two friars were to pass. At the appointed hour the Franciscans appeared from one side, the Dominicans from the other; the procession was closed by Fra Domenico, in a velvet habit of brilliant red, and Fra Girolamo dressed in white, and bearing the _Ostensorio_, which glittered in the sunlight. The Dominicans intoned a Psalm:-- 'Come and see the works of God, he is terrible in his doing toward the children of men!' And the crowd responded, 'Hosanna, Hosanna! Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the Lord!' The enemies of Savonarola occupied half the Loggia dei Lanzi, his followers the opposite half, a partition having been erected between them. All was now ready; nothing remained but to light the fire and call forth the champions. At last the judges of the trial came from the Palazzo Vecchio, and every one held his breath and watched what they would do; but after speaking a few words in a low voice with Fra Domenico they retired again, and suspense reigned as before. Fra Giuliano Rondinelli had gone out of sight. Then the tension of spirit became almost insupportable, and the crowd stood on tiptoe, and craned their necks, making the sign of the cross and telling their beads, and murmuring childish prayers: 'Lord, Lord! perform us a miracle!' The air was sultry; a thunderstorm was drawing nearer, and growls of thunder which had been heard at intervals all day, were becoming louder and more insistent. Certain members of the council, in long robes of red cloth, like the togas of ancient Rome, issued from the Palazzo Vecchio and took places on the Ringhiera; an old man with spectacles and a quill behind his ear, evidently the clerk, tried to recall them with shouts of:-- 'Messeri! Messeri! the sitting is not ended! the voting is in progress!' 'To the devil with the voting,' said one of the magistrates; 'I have had my fill of this stupid discussion. The noise has broken my ear-drum.' 'What is the use of deliberation?' said another. 'If they wish to burn themselves let them do it, and Good-night to them!' 'By my troth, it were homicide!' 'And an excellent homicide, too! Two fools less on earth.' 'But they must be burned according to the rule and canon of the Holy Church. It's a delicate theological question.' 'Well, then, propose the question to the pope.' 'What have we to do with the pope? We are concerned with the people. If by such means one could restore the people to sanity, there would be no great evil in sending all the priests and friars in the world, not only into the fire, but into the water and under the ground likewise.' 'Water will serve. Throw them both into a tub of water, and let him who comes forth dry be the victor. 'Twould be a thought less dangerous than these pranks.' 'Have you heard, most honourable signiors,' said Messer Paolo with deep reverences, 'that poor Fra Giuliano has fallen sick in his stomach? 'Tis a malady caused by fear, and he has been bled for it.' 'Sir,' exclaimed an old man of imposing aspect, his face showing at once distress and intelligence, 'you make a jest of everything. But I, when I hear such talk from the men highest in the state, I ask myself whether it were not better to die. Truly, if the founders of this city could rise from the dead and see the folly and the infamy of this day's proceedings, they would flee back into their graves for shame.' The judges, meanwhile, came and went incessantly from the Loggia to the Palazzo, from the Palazzo to the Loggia, and it seemed as if the deliberations were to have no end. The Franciscans first accused Savonarola of having enchanted Fra Domenico's habit; he therefore removed it, but it was alleged that sorcery might have influenced his under garments. He retired into the Palazzo Vecchio, stripped himself naked, and donned the vesture of another. Then the Franciscans demanded that he should hold aloof from Savonarola, lest his new garments should be enchanted; and that he should give up the cross which he held. To this Domenico consented, but protested that he would not enter the flames without the Holy Sacrament in his hands. The Franciscans at this swore that Savonarola's disciple wished sacrilegiously to burn the body and blood of Christ. In vain Domenico and Girolamo replied that the Holy Sacrament could not be reduced to ashes; the material part (_modus_) might indeed be burned, but not the eternal and incorruptible part (_substantia_). An interminable scholastic dispute now began between the two parties. The crowd in the piazza was beginning to murmur, and dense black clouds were spreading over the sky. Suddenly from behind the Palazzo Vecchio and the Via de' Leoni where the lions of Florence were kept in cages, a prolonged and hungry roar was heard. The mob imagined that the bronze Marzocco, indignant with his city, was roaring out his wrath. They responded with a sound no less furious, no less hungry. 'Have done! Have done! To the fire at once! Fra Girolamo! We _will_ have the miracle! We _will_ have the miracle!' At this cry Savonarola, who had been kneeling in prayer, rose, shook himself, approached the parapet of the Loggia, and with imposing gesture commanded silence. But the people refused to be silent. And then some one from under the Tettoia de' Pisani cried:-- 'He's afraid!' And this cry was taken up and passed along. A company of horsemen of the Arrabbiati tried to push their way to the Loggia to fall upon Savonarola and seize him, making their profit of the confusion. 'Kill him! Kill him! Down with the cursed schismatic!' was the shout Boltraffio closed his eyes that he might not see those furious faces which had now lost all look of humanity; nothing, he thought, could save Savonarola from being torn to pieces. At this moment the storm broke. Rain descended, the like of which had not been seen in Florence. It endured but a short time, and when it was over the trial by fire had become an impossibility. For between the twin piles of faggots the water ran with the fury of a channel hemmed in between dykes. Some laughed. 'Well done, friars! They undertook to tread the fire, but they've got to swim for it! That's their miracle, eh?' Cursed by the crowd, Savonarola on his return to his convent was escorted by soldiers, and Giovanni's heart bled as he watched the deposed prophet, kicked and buffeted, making his way with faltering step, his eyes on the ground, his white garb splashed with the mire of the streets. Leonardo saw his disciple's wan face, and, as before at the 'Burning of Vanities,' took his hand and led him away. IV Next day in the Casa Berardi, sitting in the chamber which was so like a ship's cabin, Leonardo tried to prove to Messer Guido that Columbus had erred in locating Paradise on a swelling upon a pear-shaped earth. At first Guido listened and argued, then mournful silence fell on him. He was vexed with his friend for telling him the truth. Presently he discovered pains in his legs, and had himself carried away. 'Why have I hurt him?' thought Leonardo; 'He wants a miracle too!' Turning over his note-book, his eyes fell on the words he had written that night when the Milanese mob had attacked his house for the seizure of the Holy Nail: 'O marvellous justice of Thee, Thou Prime Mover, who hast denied to no force the order and the qualities of its necessary effect!' 'There!' he exclaimed, 'there is the miracle!' And his thoughts turned to his _Cenacolo_ and to the face of Christ, still sought for, not yet found; and he felt that between this inviolable law of Necessity, and the perfect wisdom of Him who said, 'One of you shall betray me,' there existed a deep correlation. In the evening Giovanni came with the day's news. The Signoria had exiled Fra Girolamo and Fra Domenico from the city; and the 'Enraged,' brooking no delay, had besieged San Marco with a countless throng of armed persons, and had broken into the church where the brothers were at vespers. They defended themselves, fighting with burning tapers, candlesticks, and crucifixes; in the cloud of smoke they seemed ridiculous as angry doves. One climbed on the roof and hurled stones down from it. Another fired an arquebus from the altar, shouting at each discharge '_Viva Cristo!_' Presently the monastery was taken by storm. The brethren entreated Savonarola to flee, but he, together with Domenico, gave himself up, and they were haled to prison. The guards were unable or unwilling to defend them from the insults of the crowd, who struck Fra Girolamo from behind, crying:-- 'Prophesy unto us, thou man of God, who is he that smote thee?' Others crawled at his feet as though seeking something, and cried: 'The key? The key? Where is Fra Girolamo's key?' --in allusion to the key often spoken of in his sermons, with which he would unlock the secrets of the abominations of Rome. The very children who had belonged to the Sacred Troop of inquisitors now pelted him with apples and rotten eggs. Those who could not penetrate the crowd howled from a distance, reiterating their abuse till their throats were hoarse. 'Dastard! Coward! Judas! Sodomite! Sorcerer! Antichrist!' Giovanni followed him to the doors of the prison of the Palazzo Vecchio, whence he was not to issue till the day of his execution. On the following morning Leonardo and Boltraffio quitted Florence. At once, on arrival in Milan, the painter set himself to the task which had baffled him for eighteen years--the face of the Christ in the 'Last Supper!' V On the very day of that trial by fire, which in Florence had had such bad results--Charles VIII., King of France, died very suddenly. The news was of sinister import to Il Moro, for the Duke of Orleans, who was now to ascend the throne as Louis XII., was descended from Valentina Visconti, daughter of the first Duke of Milan. He claimed to be the only legitimate heir of the dominion of Lombardy, and now proposed to reconquer it, annihilating 'the robber nest of the Sforzas.' Shortly before the change of sovereigns in France, there had taken place at the Milanese court what was called a 'scientific duel,' and Il Moro had found so much entertainment that he proposed another for a day two months later. Now that war was impending some supposed he would postpone this duel, but Ludovico, who was an adept in the arts of dissimulation, had no such intention. He wished his enemies to think he cared little for their designs, but was absorbed in that revival of art and learning, 'the fruit of golden peace,' which flourished under his mild rule, and brought him the fame of being the most enlightened Italian potentate, the protector of the Muses, protected not merely by the arms but by the admiration of his people. Accordingly on the appointed day, in the Great Hall of the Rocchetta, which was called the _Sala per il giuoco della palla_, there assembled all the doctors, deans, and masters of the University of Pavia, wearing their scarlet four-cornered _berrette_, their ermine-bordered hoods, their violet gloves, and pouches of gold embroidery. Ladies were present dressed in sumptuous festal robes, amongst them Lucrezia and Cecilia, sitting together at the foot of Ludovico's throne. The proceedings were opened by a pompous oration from Giorgio Merula, in which the Duke was likened to Pericles, Epaminondas, Scipio, Cato, Augustus, Mæcenas, and other worthies, while Milan was celebrated as the new Athens, of surpassing glory. Then followed a theological dispute on the Immaculate Conception, then medical discussions on the following questions:-- 'Is a handsome woman more prolific than an ugly one?' 'Was the healing of Tobias natural?' 'Is woman an incomplete creation?' 'In what part of the body was formed the water which issued from the side of the crucified Christ?' 'Is woman more sensual than man?' Then came the turn of the philosophers, on the unity or the plurality of primal matter. 'Be good enough to expound me this apophthegm,' said a toothless old man with venomous smile, and eyes dull and troubled as those of a sucking babe; a great doctor of scholastics, who thoroughly understood the confounding of opponents by subtle distinctions (_quidditas et habitus_) which nobody could understand. Alone and thoughtful as was his custom, Leonardo was listening, and now and then his lips curled. VI Pointing to Leonardo, the Countess Cecilia whispered to the Duke, who called up the artist, and begged him to take part in the discussion. 'Be kind,' insisted the countess. 'Do it for my sake----' 'Lay aside your bashfulness,' said Ludovico, 'and tell us something entertaining. Speak to us of your observations upon nature. Do we not know that your brain is always stuffed with chimeras?' 'Your Excellency must excuse me. Madonna Cecilia, I would gladly please a lady, but, truly, I cannot----' Leonardo was not feigning. He was neither able nor willing to speak before a crowd. An insuperable barrier seemed to lie between his thought and his word, as if speech must either exaggerate or be inadequate to the sense, modify or vitiate it. In his note-books he continually cancelled, erased, corrected, and revised; in conversation he stammered, lost the thread, sought for words and could not find them. He called both orators and authors 'babblers,' but in secret he envied them. The frequent glibness of insignificant persons was a wonder and an annoyance to him. 'That God should give such men such skill!' he would say, with a kind of ingenuous admiration. However, the more firmly Leonardo declined the task offered him, so much the more did the ladies insist. 'We beseech you, Messere! We all pray you with one voice. Tell us, tell us something entertaining!' 'Tell us how men are to fly!' suggested Madonna Fiordiligi. 'Nay, but speak to us of sorcery!' cried Madonna Ermellina; 'something of black magic! 'Tis so interesting, this necromancy. Explain to us how they raise the dead men from their graves!' 'I assure you, Madonna, I have never raised any dead person from his grave.' 'Then take some other theme, so it be terrible, and have no savour of mathematics.' Leonardo was always hard put to it to refuse a beggar, and he could only repeat with embarrassment:-- 'Truly, Madonna, I am incapable----' But Ermellina interrupted him, clapping her hands. 'He consents! He consents! Silence for Messer Leonardo! Listen ye all!' 'Eh? Who? What?' asked the dean of the theological faculty, who was deaf, and somewhat fallen into dotage. ''Tis Leonardo!' shouted his neighbour into his ear. 'Leonardo Pisano, the mathematical professor?' 'No, Leonardo da Vinci himself.' 'Is he doctor or master?' 'No, nor even bachelor. Leonardo, the painter of the _Cenacolo_.' 'Is he going to speak of painting?' 'It seems he will speak of natural science.' 'Are the painters so learned? I have never heard of this Leonardo. What has he written?' 'Nothing that I know of.' 'Nay,' said another, ''tis certain that he writes, for they say he uses his left hand, and produces a caligraphy proper only to himself, which none can read.' 'Which none can read? With his left hand?' said the old dean. 'I take it, gentlemen, this speech will be some jest; an interlude to entertain the Duke and the ladies.' 'Very like 'twill be ridiculous. We shall see.' 'Just so, just so. 'Tis necessary to amuse the folk of the court. And painters are witty fellows enough. Buffalmacco, now--they said he was a perfect jester. Well, let us see what this Leonardo is good for.' And the old man polished his spectacles, the better to enjoy the comedy. Leonardo was still looking supplicatingly at the Duke, but though smiling, Ludovico was determined; and the Countess Cecilia menaced the hesitant with her finger. 'If I refuse I shall offend them,' thought the artist; 'and very soon I shall be requiring bronze for the Cavallo. Well, I will say the first thing that comes into my head, just to be quit of the business.' And with desperate resolution he mounted the tribune and threw a glance upon the learned assembly. Then, blushing and stammering like a boy who does not know his lesson, he began:-- 'I must warn you, gentlemen, I am not prepared.... 'Tis to please the Duke. I would say--I mean--in fine, I will speak to you about shells.' And he told of petrified marine animals, the imprints of coral, and water-plants found on hills and in valleys far removed from the sea, evidence of how the face of the earth has been changing from time immemorial. There, where now are hills and dry land, once was the ocean. Water, the mover of Nature, her 'charioteer,' creates and destroys the very mountains; the shores gradually remove into the centre of the sea, and the inland seas lay bare their beds, traversed by some river which ever hurries towards the sea, scoring for itself a deep channel. Thus the Po, which now rushes across the dried-up lake of Lombardy, will eventually score itself a deep channel across the dried-up Adriatic; and the Nile, when the Mediterranean has become a country of hills and plains like Egypt and Libya, will empty itself into the Atlantic Ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules. 'I am convinced,' said Leonardo in conclusion, 'that the study of petrified plants and animals, which we have hitherto neglected, will lay the foundation of a new science of our earth; of its past, and of its future.' Notwithstanding the awkwardness of his delivery, Leonardo's ideas were so clear and precise, his faith in knowledge was so sure, all he had said was so unlike the Pythagorean ravings of the previous disputant, and the dry bones of logic in the mouths of the learned doctors, that when he stopped speaking a stupor of amazement was seen on the faces of the audience. Were they to laugh or to applaud? Was this talk of a new science the vain chatter of a presumptuous fool? 'Truly, my Leonardo,' said the Duke condescendingly, as if speaking to a child, 'it would be famous fun if the Adriatic were to dry up and leave our enemies, the Venetians, stranded like crabs on a sandbank.' At this they all laughed, well pleased to be told the line they were to take, for courtiers are ever weathercocks turned by the wind. Messer Gabriele Pirovano, the Rector of the University of Pavia, an old gentleman with silver hair, fine manners, and a dignified but somewhat foolish face, thus delivered himself, reflecting in his smile the condescending kindness of the Duke:-- 'Messer Leonardo, the information you have given us is very interesting; but were it not perhaps simpler to explain the origin of these little shells, as a charming (we might even say poetic) but wholly accidental freak of nature, rather than as the foundation of an entire new science? Or, as others have done before us, we might account for their presence by the catastrophe of the universal Deluge.' 'Oh, the Deluge!' said Leonardo, who had conquered his shyness and now spoke with a freedom which to many appeared excessive and even irreverent; 'I know that explanation, but it won't do at all. Judge for yourself, Messer Gabriele. According to the man who measured it, the level of the waters of the flood exceeded by ten cubits the tops of the highest mountains. The shells would have settled on the summits, not on the sides or the feet of the mountains, nor within caverns; and, withal, they would have settled at haphazard according to the pleasure of the waters, and not everywhere at the same level, not in consecutive layers, as we find by observation. And further, here is a wondrous thing. We find collected together all those creatures which are used to live in societies, such as oysters, cuttlefish, molluscs; while those which are used to be solitary are scattered singly in their fossil state just as we find their descendants now on the seashore. I myself have often noted the position of these petrified shells in Tuscany and in Lombardy and in Piedmont. And if you tell me 'twas not the waves carried them, but that of themselves they gradually rose in crowds above the water as it grew higher, that, too, is easily refuted, for a shellfish is as slow a beast as a snail. It floats not, but crawls with its valves over sand and stones, and the furthest it can go in a day's hard journeying is some three or four arm-lengths. How then, Messer Gabriele, would you explain, that in the forty days of the flood's duration, your shellfish could creep the two hundred and fifty miles which divide the hills of Monferrato from the shores of the Adriatic? Only he who, despising experiment and observation, judges of Nature from books, can maintain such an argument; not he who has had the curiosity to see with his own eyes those things of which he speaks.' An uncomfortable silence followed; all felt that the Rector's reply had been a trifle weak. Then the court astrologer, Ambrogio da Rosate, a great favourite of the Duke's, advanced another explanation based on Pliny's natural history; which was that the petrified shapes which looked like marine animals had been formed in the interior of the earth by the magic working of the stars. At the word magic, a resigned smile played over Leonardo's lips. 'Then, Messer Ambrogio,' he replied, 'how would you explain the fact that the stars in the one place should make animals not only of many kinds but of various ages? (for the age of shells can be ascertained no less than the age of horns or of trees). What say you to finding some of these shells entire, some broken, some mixed with sand, mud, the claws of crabs, fish-bones, and rubble, such as you may see any day on the seashore; and the delicate imprint of leaves on the rocks of the highest mountains, and marine weeds clinging to the shells, petrified and blended into one lump with them? From the working of the stars, say you? If this is to be our reasoning, Messere, then in all Nature there will be no phenomenon for which you cannot account by the starry influences, and all science outside astrology is useless.' Here an old Doctor of scholastic interposed, saying that the dispute was irregular. 'For,' he exclaimed, 'either this question of fossils belongs to a vulgar, mechanical science, alien to metaphysic, and hence not to be discussed in an assembly met to contend solely about philosophical questions, or it verily pertains to the true, the sublime science of dialectic; in which case it must be discussed according to the laws of dialectic, which alone allows theory to ascend to the sphere of pure speculation.' 'I understand you, Messere,' said Leonardo patiently; 'I have thought of what you say. But the alternative is not as you state it.' 'Not as I state it?' cried the veteran smiling angrily, 'not as I state it? Then, sir, pray let us hear how _you_ propose to state it!' 'Nay, nay; I had no wish to offend. In fine, I spoke but of shells. I think--nay, Messere, but there is no vulgar science, nor is there sublime science. There is but one science; that which is based upon the experience of the senses.' 'The experience of the senses? Then where would you put the metaphysic of Aristotle, of Plato, of Plotinus, and of all the ancient philosophers who speculated upon God, upon the soul, and upon the essences? Would you say of all this----?' 'That it is not science,' replied Leonardo calmly. 'I recognise the greatness of the ancients, but not in that respect. In science they mistook the road. They wished to learn what was beyond the reach of knowledge, and what was within their reach they despised. They led men astray for many ages. Discussing matters which admit not of proof, it is impossible for men to agree; the less so if they would make up for the lack of proof by vehemence of clamour. He who truly _knows_ has no occasion to shout. The voice of truth is unique; and when it has spoken, all the noise of dispute must be hushed. If the cries continue, it means that the truth has not yet been found. Do we need mathematical dispute as to whether twice three be six or five? or whether the angles of a triangle be or be not equal to two right angles? In these instances doth not contradiction cease in the presence of truth? and is not truth to be enjoyed as it never can be enjoyed in sophistical and imaginary sciences?' Leonardo would have spoken further, but after a glance at the face of his opponent he became silent. 'Ah!' said the doctor of scholastic, ironically, 'I thought we should arrive at an agreement! You and I were certain to understand one another! But one thing I do not understand. Pardon the ignorance of an old man! If our knowledge of God and of a future life, not being confirmed by the testimony of our senses, but by the testimony of Holy Writ----' 'I spoke not of this,' interrupted Leonardo; 'I leave out of the dispute the books inspired by God, for they are of the substance of supreme truth.' He was not allowed to continue; uproar ensued. Some shouted, some laughed; some, springing from their chairs, turned wrathful faces on him, while others, shrugging their shoulders, left the assembly. 'Make an end! Make an end!' 'But, gentlemen, permit me to reply----' 'There is no occasion for reply.' 'When things are stated contrary to sense----' 'I desire to speak!' 'Plato and Aristotle!' ... 'Not worth a rotten egg!' 'But I ask, shall this be permitted? The truth of our Holy Mother Church----' 'Heresy! Heresy! Atheism!' Leonardo remained silent, his face calm and sad. He was alone among these men who believed themselves the servants of knowledge, and he saw the impassable gulf which separated him from them. He was displeased, not with his opponents, but with himself for having broken his accustomed silence, and become entangled in an argument; for having conceived (in defiance of experience) that it were possible to reveal the truth unto men, or that they were able to receive it. As for the Duke, though he had long lost the thread of the argument, he continued to follow the disputation with delight. 'Good! Really good!' he applauded, rubbing his hands. 'Madonna Cecilia, will they not, think you, presently come to blows? Look at that old fellow, shaking all over, brandishing his cap, clenching his fists! And the little black one behind him, foaming at the mouth! And all about a few fossil shells! Fine madmen, these scholars! kittle cattle! And our Leonardo, who pretended to be possessed by a dumb devil!' And they laughed, watching the scientific duel as if it were a cock-fight. 'I shall have to save my Leonardo,' said Il Moro at last, 'or these red-capped folk will claw him.' And he rose and passed through the crowd of infuriated philosophers, who suddenly were hushed into silence as they made way for him. Soothing oil had been poured upon stormy waves; one smile from the prince sufficed for the reconciliation of metaphysics and natural science. He closed the discussion by a courteous invitation to supper. 'I am glad,' he said with his usual gaiety, 'that the Adriatic is not yet dry; because I trust that its oysters, which I have had cooked for your entertainment, may give rise to less contention than the shells of Messer Leonardo.' VII During the supper Fra Luca Pacioli, who was sitting beside Leonardo da Vinci, whispered in his ear:-- 'Forgive me, friend, that I kept silence when they attacked you. They did not understand your meaning, but you might easily make an alliance with them, for the one opinion does not exclude the other. Avoid extremes.' 'I entirely agree with you, Fra Luca,' replied Leonardo. 'That's the way; love and concord. What is the object of dissension? Metaphysics are good, and mathematics are good! Room for both. Is it not so, dear friend?' 'Precisely so, Fra Luca.' 'I was sure you would agree. You give in to me, I give in to you; we are allied, you with us, we with you.' Leonardo looked at the astute countenance of the mathematical monk, who reconciled Pythagoras and Thomas Aquinas so easily; and he thought-- 'The calf sucks from two dams.' Then the alchemist, Galeotto Sacrobosco, raising his glass and bending towards Leonardo with the air of an accomplice, said-- 'To your good health, Master! How skilfully you played them on the line! What a subtle allegory!' 'Allegory?' repeated Leonardo, stupefied. 'To be sure, Messere. No call for mystery with me. We shall not betray one another. By dry land you meant sulphur; by the sun, salt; by the ocean which overflowed the mountains, quicksilver. Do I catch your meaning?' 'Precisely, Messer Galeotto.' 'You see even we are good for something! As for the shells, by them you intended the philosopher's stone, the alchemist's secret, composed of what? why of sulphur, salt, and quicksilver!' And he laughed his jolly childlike laugh, raising his forefinger and arching his brows, which were scorched by the fury of his immense furnaces. 'And all these great doctors with their red caps understand not a word of it! To your health, Messer Leonardo, and to the glory of alchemy, our common mother!' 'I honour the toast, Messer Galeotto. And as I see nothing can be concealed from you, I will vex you with no further mysteries.' After supper the party broke up: only a small and selected company were invited by the Duke into a cool snug room, where wine and fruits were served. 'Most charming! Insurpassable!' cried Madonna Ermellina. 'I should never have conceived it could be so diverting. Better than a _festa_! How they shouted at Leonardo! Pity he might not finish--he would have told us of his spells and necromancy.' 'Perchance 'tis calumny,' said an old courtier; 'but I am told the infection of heresy has so taken hold of Leonardo, that he scarce credits the existence of God. He holds it of greater moment to be a philosopher than a Christian.' ''Tis mere babble,' said the Duke. 'I know the man well, and I swear he has a heart of gold. He is violent in word, but in practice would not hurt a flea. He dangerous! Would that all dangerous ones were as he! The Father Inquisitors would have him, but let them roar! None shall hurt a hair of my Leonardo!' 'And our posterity will praise your Excellency for having protected a genius so extraordinary,' said Messer Baldassare Castiglione, a very elegant cavalier from the court of Urbino. ''Tis pity,' he added, 'that the man should neglect his art to give himself to dreams and chimeras.' 'True, Messer Baldassare; I have often reproached him. But painters, you know, are an unmanageable race.' 'Your Excellency speaks well,' said the Commissioner of the Salt Tax, who was burning to tell a tale of Leonardo; 'painters are impracticable folk. T'other day I came to his studio seeking an allegorical drawing for a marriage chest. "Is the master at home?" say I. "No," is the reply, "he hath gone forth, greatly busied, to measure the weight of the air." Truly, I thought the youth mocked me; but when I met Leonardo himself and taxed him with this folly, he confessed it, looking at me as if he thought I were a fool. Ladies, how like you the notion? and how many grains will you find in the spring zephyr?' 'I know worse of him than that,' said a young lord with a vulgar self-complacent face; 'he has invented a boat which travels up stream, yet without oars.' 'How doth it travel?' 'On wheels, by steam.' 'A boat with wheels? Nay, sir, this must be your invention of this moment!' 'I had it of Fra Luca Pacioli, who had seen the design. Leonardo conceives that in steam lies a force able to move large ships, let alone little boats.' 'You see! You see! Did I not tell you!' cried Madonna Ermellina, 'this is his necromancy, black magic pure and simple!' ''Tis not to be denied he is mad!' said the Duke with his urbane smile; 'for all that I wish him well. In his company I never weary!' VIII Leonardo went homewards by the quiet suburb of Porta Vercellina. It was a lovely evening. Goats were contentedly browsing along the edge of the road; and a rugged sunburnt little lad was driving a flock of geese. Storm-clouds, lined with gold, were rising in the north over the unseen Alps, and high up in the clear sky there burned a single star. The artist walked slowly; he was thinking of the scientific dispute which he had just left, and then his thoughts went back to the trial by fire at which he had been present in Florence. He could not but think the two duels resembled each other like twins. A little girl of six was eating rye-bread and onions on the outside staircase of a cottage. He called her, and after a moment's hesitation, reassured by his smile, she trotted to him, smiling herself. He gave her a sugared and gilded orange which he had brought from the supper. 'Gold ball!' said the child. 'No, not a ball. A sort of apple. Try it; 'tis sweet within.' She continued to stare ecstatically at the unfamiliar dainty. 'What is your name?' he asked. 'Maia.' 'I wonder, Maia, if you know how the cock, the goat, and the donkey went a-fishing together?' 'No.' 'Shall I tell you?' And he fondled her soft wild curls with his delicate, almost womanish, hand. 'Come here then! Let us sit down! Wait a minute, though, I think I have some nice cakes also, as you won't try my golden apple!' And he turned out his pockets. A young woman now appeared, looked at Maia and at the stranger, nodded approvingly, and seated herself with her distaff. Then came also the grandmother, a bent old woman with eyes like Maia's. She, too, looked at Leonardo; but suddenly, as if recognising him, she made a sign with her hands and whispered to her daughter, who sprang up saying:-- 'Maia! Maia! Come away at once!' The child hesitated. 'Come, run, naughty one; unless you wish----' The little girl was frightened and fled to the grandmother, who snatched the orange from her and flung it over the wall to the pigs. The child cried, but the old woman whispered something in her ear which at once checked her sobs, and she sat gazing at Leonardo with wide eyes full of terror. The painter turned away, well understanding. The old woman thought him a sorcerer capable of bewitching the child. A sad smile on his lips, still mechanically searching for the cakes no longer needed, pained at heart by the little one's needless fear, he felt himself more of an outcast than in face of the crowd which had sought to kill him, the learned men who fancied his truths the ravings of a madman. He felt himself as far removed from his fellows as was that solitary star shining in the still undarkened sky. He went home and shut himself into his study. With its dusty scientific instruments and its dull books, it seemed to him gloomy as a prison. However, he lighted a candle, seated himself, and became immersed in his latest research, in inquiry into the laws of the motion of bodies travelling on an inclined plane. Like music, mathematics had ever for him a soothing influence; and to-night, they brought him the hoped-for consolation. Having finished his calculations, he took his diary, and writing with his left hand, and from right to left, so that reading must be in a mirror, he recorded a few thoughts roused by the scientific disputation. 'The disciples of Aristotle, men of words and of books, because I am not a _letterato_ like themselves, think me incapable of speech on my own subjects. They perceive not that my matters are to be expounded rather by experience than by words; experience, which truly was mistress of all those who have written well; which I will take for my mistress, by which, in all cases, I will stand or fall.' The candle had burned low; and the cat, faithful comrade of his sleepless nights, sprang on the table, purring and rubbing herself against him. The solitary star, seen through the undusted windows, seemed still farther away, still less attainable. He remembered Maia's frightened eyes, but he had vanquished his melancholy. He was solitary, yes, but undaunted and serene. Nevertheless, unknown to himself, there was bitterness in the secret depth of his heart like a hot spring beneath the ice of a frozen river; there was almost remorse, as if, verily, he were guilty concerning Maia; as if there were something for which he was unable entirely to forgive himself. IX Next morning Leonardo, with Astro carrying sketch-books, paint-boxes and brushes, was on his way to the monastery for a day's work on the figure of the Saviour. He stopped in the courtyard to speak to Nastasio, who was busily grooming a grey mare. 'Bravo!' said the master, 'and how is Giannino to-day?' Giannino was his favourite horse. 'Giannino is all right,' answered the groom, 'but the piebald is lame.' 'The piebald?' said Leonardo, vexed; 'and since when?' 'Since four days agone,' replied Nastasio surlily; and without looking at his master, he continued curry-combing the mare's hindquarters with such energy that she changed her feet. Leonardo, however, wished to see the piebald, and the groom took him to the stable. When Giovanni Boltraffio, a few minutes later, came to the courtyard fountain for his morning wash, he heard the master talking in loud piercing tones almost feminine in their shrillness, which he used in rare passions of sudden, violent, but not dangerous anger. 'Tell me this instant, you fool, you drunken ape, tell me who bade you summon the horse-leech?' 'I pray you, Messere, could a sick horse be left without a leech?' 'A pretty leech! Think you, fool, that stinking plaster----' ''Tis not so much a plaster as a charm. You are not learned in these matters, and that is why you are so wroth.' 'The devil take you and your charms together! How could that ignoramus cure anything when he knows naught of the structure of the body, and has never heard the name of anatomy?' 'Anatomy, forsooth!' said Nastasio, raising lazy contemptuous eyes to his master. 'Ass!' shouted the latter; 'take yourself off out of my service!' The groom did not move an eyelash. 'I was on the stroke of leaving you on my own account. Your Excellency owes me three months' wages; and as regards the oats, 'tis no fault of mine. Marco gives me no money for oats.' 'What's the meaning of all this? Once I issue my orders----' Nastasio shrugged his shoulders and returned to his grooming of the grey mare, working violently as if venting his spleen on the dumb animal. Meantime Giovanni, amused by the altercation, was smiling as he scrubbed his face with a coarse towel. 'Shall we set out, Master?' asked Astro, wearied by the delay. 'Wait,' replied Leonardo; 'I must ask Marco about the oats. I would know how much truth is in the words of this scoundrel.' And he returned to the house, Giovanni following him. Marco was in the studio, working as usual by rule and with mathematical accuracy, perspiring and panting as if he were rolling a weight uphill. His closely compressed lips, the disorder of his red hair, his red fat ineffectual fingers, seemed to say, 'Patience and perseverance will conquer all things.' 'Marco! Is it true you give out no money for the horses' oats?' 'Of a surety it is true.' 'How is that, friend?' exclaimed the painter, his look having already become timorous before the stern face of him who was steward of the household. 'I bade you, Marco, take heed to remember the oats. Have you forgotten?' 'No, I have not forgotten; but there is no money.' 'I guessed as much. There is always this lack of money. None the less, Marco, I ask you, can horses live without oats?' Marco threw his brush away angrily. And Giovanni noticed how the master and the scholar seemed to have changed places. 'Hearken, Master!' said Marco. 'You bade me take charge of the housekeeping, and not trouble you. Why do you yourself re-open the matter?' 'Marco!' said Leonardo, with gentle reproach, ''twas but a week ago that I gave you thirty florins.' 'Thirty florins! Pr'ythee count it up. Of this thirty, four were a loan to Pacioli, two to that eternal sponge, Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco; five went to the body-snatchers for your anatomy studies; three for mending the glass and the stoves in the hot room for your reptiles and fishes; and six golden ducats went for that spotted devil----' 'Do you mean the camelopard?' 'Precisely; the camelopard. We have nothing to eat ourselves, but we feed that cursed beast. And whether we feed him or not, 'tis clear that he will die.' 'Never mind, Marco,' said Leonardo gently; 'if he die I will dissect him. The neck vertebræ of these animals are very curious.' 'The neck vertebræ! Oh, Master! Master! if you had not all these fancies for horses, and corpses, and giraffes, and fish, and every sort of beast, we might live as lords, asking alms of no one. Is not daily bread better than caprices?' 'Bread? Have I ever asked for anything better than bread? Oh, I know very well, Marco, you would like to see the death of all my creatures, though they cost me so much trouble and expense to obtain. They are indispensable to me--more so than you can imagine. You want to have everything your own way.' Helpless injury trembled in the voice of the Master; and Marco maintained a sulky silence. 'But what is to become of us?' continued Leonardo. 'Already a famine of oats? We were never in such straits before.' 'We have always been in straits,' said Marco, 'and we always shall be. What can you expect? For a year we have not had a _quattrino_ from the Duke. Messer Ambrogio Ferrari says daily, "to-morrow! to-morrow!" and to my thinking he but mocks us.' 'Mocks us! Well, I will show him how to mock at me! I will complain to the Duke! I will give that scurvy piece, Ambrogio, a lesson he shall not forget! the Lord send him an evil Easter!' Marco made a vague gesture, as if to say it was not Leonardo who would teach lessons to the Duke's treasurer. Then an expression of kindness and love came over his hard features, and he added soothingly:-- 'No, no, Master, let it be! God is merciful, and we shall get along in some fashion. If you really take it to heart, I will find the money even for your oats.' And Marco reflected that he could use some of his own money, a little hoard he had been making for his mother. 'The oats are not the major question,' said Leonardo, sinking wearily on a chair, and defending his eyes as if from a cruel wind. 'Hearken, friend, there is a thing I have not yet told you; next month I shall absolutely require eighty ducats, which I have had on loan. There is no need to stare at me with those eyes, Marco.' 'Of whom had you the loan?' 'Of the money-changer, Arnoldo--' 'Of Arnoldo! Oh, Master! what have you done? Don't you know he is worse than any infidel or any Jew? Why did you not tell me at once?' Leonardo hung his head. 'I wanted the money--be not so wroth, Marco!' he said; and added piteously, 'Bring the reckonings, perhaps we shall be able to devise something.' Marco was convinced they could devise nothing; however, finding absolute obedience the best way of influencing the Master, he fetched the account-books. Leonardo's brow contracted in a look of disgust, and he watched the opening of the too familiar green volume with the air of one looking into a gaping wound; then together they plunged into calculations, and it was wonder and pity to see the great mathematician making the blunders of a child in the additions and the subtractions. Now and then he suddenly remembered some mislaid account of a thousand ducats, sought it, fumbled in cases and boxes, and dusty piles of papers, but found in its place trifling and useless memoranda written in his own hand, such, for instance, as that one of Salaino's cloak:-- Silver brocade, Livre 15 soldi 4 Crimson velvet for trimming, " 9 " 0 Braid, " 0 " 9 Buttons, " 0 " 12 He tore them angrily, and blushing and swearing threw them under the table. Giovanni, seeing on the great man's face these marks of human weakness, murmured to himself:-- 'A new Hermes Trismegistus halved with a new Prometheus? Nay, neither god nor Titan, but a simple mortal like the rest of us! And to think that I feared him! the poor kind soul!' X Two days passed, and as Marco had foreseen, Leonardo forgot the money question completely. He demanded three florins for the purchase of a fossil with so confident an air that Marco lacked courage to refuse him, and handed out the money from his private hoard. The ducal treasurer, deaf to Leonardo's entreaties, had still not paid the year's salary, and was the less likely to do so that Ludovico himself required great sums to spend in preparation for war with France. Leonardo was obliged to borrow wherever he could, even from his own pupils. Nor was the money forthcoming for the completion of the Sforza monument. The plaster cast, the mould, the receiver for the molten metal, the furnace--all were ready; but when the artist presented his estimate for the bronze, Il Moro was alarmed, and even refused him an interview. At last, in the end of November, urged by want, he wrote a letter to the Duke; sentences fragmentary, disconnected, like the stammering of one overcome by confusion, who does not know how to beg. 'Signore, knowing that the mind of your Excellency is occupied with affairs of greater moment, yet fearing that silence may be a cause of anger to my most gracious patron, I take freedom to remind your Excellency of my humble necessities, and of the needs of my art, now condemned to inactivity.... Two years have passed since I have received my salary.... 'Some persons in your Grace's service can afford to wait, since they have other revenue, but I with my art, which, however, I would gladly abandon for one more lucrative.... 'My life is at your Excellency's service; and I shall always be prompt in obedience. 'I speak not of the monument, for I know that the times.... 'It irks me that owing to the necessity of earning my livelihood I must break off my work, and occupy myself with trivialities. 'I have had to provide for six persons during fifty-six months, with only fifty ducats.... 'I know not to what I must dedicate my activity.... 'Am I to study glory, or only my daily bread ...?' XI One November evening, after a day spent in soliciting the munificent Gaspare Visconti, and Arnoldo the usurer, and in coming to terms with the hangman--who demanded payment for two corpses (used by the artist for studies), threatening in default to denounce the purchaser to the Holy Inquisition--Leonardo came home greatly wearied and out of heart. Having dried his clothes by the kitchen fire, and received the key of his workshop from Astro, he was proceeding thither when he was surprised by the sound of voices behind the door. 'What?' he said, 'is it not locked? Can it be thieves?' Recognising the tones of his pupils, Giovanni and Cesare, he suspected them of prying into his private papers. About to throw open the door, he was arrested by a vivid imagination of their confusion, and the wide eyes of terror with which they would greet him. He felt ashamed for them, and went away, walking on tiptoe as if himself the culprit; presently he called from the studio:-- 'Astro! Astro! Bring me a light! Where have you all got to? Andrea! Marco! Giovanni! Cesare!' The voices in his room were silenced, some glass thing fell with a crash, there was a shutting of windows. Leonardo still hesitated, unable to resolve upon entry. In his heart was not so much anger as disgust. His suspicions were not amiss. Having entered by the courtyard window, Giovanni and Cesare had searched his drawers and opened his papers, drawings, and diaries. Boltraffio, very pale, held a mirror, and Cesare read the master's inverted writing:-- '_Laude del Sole. I cannot but blame Epicurus, who maintained that the sun's magnitude is no other than it seemeth. Socrates astounds me, who, depreciating so great a light, calls it but a molten stone. And would I had vocables strong enough to confound those who prefer the apotheosis of man to the apotheosis of the sun!_' 'Shall we pass on?' asked Cesare. 'Read to the end,' said Giovanni. '_Those who worship men for gods_,' continued the reader, '_are greatly in error; for man, though he were of the magnitude of the earth, would appear smaller than the smallest star, a scarce visible spot upon the universe; and seeing, further, that men in their sepulture are subject to putridity and decay_--' 'Strange,' observed Cesare, 'that he can reverence the sun, but appears not to recognise Him who, dying, was the vanquisher of death.' He turned the page. 'Let us try this.' '_In all parts of Europe, by great peoples, will be bewailed this day the death of a man who died in Asia_--' 'You don't understand, Giovanni. I will explain: he treats of Good Friday. Shall I go on?' '_O mathematicians, throw light upon this error! Spirit exists not without body, and where is no flesh, nor blood, nerves, tongue, bone, and muscle, can be neither voice nor movement._' 'I can't make it out; the next lines are erased. We will pass to the end.' '_Other definitions of spirit I leave to the Holy Fathers, who know the secrets of Nature by revelation from above._' 'H'm, I would not be Messer Leonardo if these lucubrations should fall into the hands of the Holy Fathers! Here we have another of his prophecies.' '_Enough shall there be, who, leaving the ascesis of labour and poverty, think to serve God by living luxuriously in buildings like palaces, and in amassing visible wealth at the expense of the wealth invisible._' 'I conclude he here treats of Indulgences. Quite in Savonarola's vein! A stone slung at the pope.' '_Those who have been dead a thousand years will be the food of the living._' 'That passes me! Nay, though, the thousand-year dead must be the saints in whose name the monks collect money. A pretty riddle!' '_They shall adore those who do not hear; they shall burn lamps before those who do not see._' 'Images of saints.' '_Women shall disclose to men their passions, their secret and shameful deeds._' 'The confessional! How does it like you, Giovanni? A strange man, is he not? But there is no real malice in these riddles. It is only jest--sporting with blasphemy.' '_Many who cozen the simple by dealing in pretended miracles, punish those who unmask their deceits._' 'The trial by fire, of which the reckless Savonarola was the victim.' He laid down the book and looked at his companion. 'Well, is it enough? or do you want further proof?' Boltraffio shook his head: 'No, Cesare, it is not enough. Could we but find a place where he speaks _plainly_!' 'Plainly? Ask not for that. Such is his disposition. He deals ever double, conceals himself, feigns like a woman. Riddles are his nature. Nor does he know himself. He is his own greatest enigma.' 'Cesare is right,' thought Giovanni. 'Better open blasphemy than these mockings--this smile as of the unbelieving Thomas, who thrust his fingers into the wounds of the Lord.' Then Cesare showed a drawing in red chalk, tossed carelessly among the machines and the tables of calculations--the Virgin with the Child in the desert; seated on a stone, she was drawing triangles and circles with her finger on the sand--the Mother of God teaching the Divine Son geometry, the principle of all knowledge. Giovanni gazed long at this strange drawing; then he held it to the mirror that they might decipher the inscription. Cesare had scarce read the first words, '_Necessity, the eternal teacher_,' when Leonardo's call was heard:-- 'Astro! Bring me a light! Andrea! Marco! Giovanni! Cesare!' Then Giovanni turned pale. The mirror fell from his hands, breaking into pieces. 'An evil omen,' said Cesare with a smile. Like thieves caught in the act they pushed the papers into their places, picked up the fragments of the mirror, opened the window, sprang to the ledge and, clinging to the water-pipe and the branches of the vine, dropped into the court. Cesare missed his hold, fell, and sprained his foot. XII That evening Leonardo did not find his accustomed solace in his mathematics. He walked the room, seated himself, began a drawing, flung it aside. His mind was vaguely uneasy; there was something he must decide, yet could not. His thought reverted continually to the same thing; how Boltraffio had fled to Savonarola, had returned, and for a time had settled down to work, recovering his calm in the pursuit of art; but ever since that disastrous trial by fire, and especially since the news of the prophet's approaching execution had reached Milan, he had again been racked by doubts and regret. Leonardo understood how he suffered; how again he felt the necessity to go away, yet could not make up his mind to leave; how terrible was the struggle in a nature too deep not to feel, too weak to overcome its own contradictions. Sometimes Leonardo fancied he must himself drive his disciple away in order to save him. A bitter smile came to his lips as he thought:-- 'It is true that I--I only--have ruined him! 'Tis a just accusation that I have the evil eye! How am I to help him?' He rose and mounted the steep dark stair, knocked at a door, and receiving no answer opened it and went in. In the narrow room the darkness was scarce broken by the little lamp burning before the figure of the Madonna; rain was splashing on the roof, and the autumn wind howled mournfully. A black crucifix was suspended against the white wall. Giovanni, still dressed, his face hidden in the pillow, lay in the unrestful position of a suffering child. 'Are you asleep?' asked the Master, bending over him. He started up, with a faint cry, gazing with the same terror-struck eyes and defensive hands that Leonardo had seen with the little Maia. 'Why, Giovanni! Giovanni! What is the matter? It is only I!' Boltraffio came to himself, passing his hand slowly over his eyes. 'Ah! it is you, Messer Leonardo! I fancied--I have had a terrible dream! But is it really _you_?' he repeated, his brows contracted as if he could hardly believe his eyes. The Master sat on the bedside and touched the lad's forehead. 'You have fever. Why did you not tell me?' Giovanni would have turned away, but looking afresh at Leonardo, and joining his hands supplicatingly, he said:-- 'Drive me out! Drive me from you, Master! I shall never myself have the courage to go. I am guilty towards you--a vile traitor.' For answer Leonardo embraced him, drawing him to his breast. 'What say you, my son? Do you think I have not seen your distress? If there is anything in which you think you have wronged me, I pardon it. Perhaps some day you will be asked to pardon me!' Astonished, Giovanni gazed at him with dreaming eyes, then suddenly hid his face in his breast, sobs shaking his frame as he murmured:-- 'If ever again I am obliged to leave you, oh, Master, do not think it is for lack of love! I myself know not what has happened to me. Sometimes I fear I am losing my reason. God has forsaken me! Oh, never, never suppose--for truly I love you more than all else in the world! I love you more than Fra Benedetto, who is as my father. Never will any one love you as do I!' Leonardo soothed him like a child. 'Enough! Enough! Think you I credit not your love, my poor lad? Has Cesare suggested--but why do you heed Cesare? He is clever, and he, too, loves me well, for all he thinks to hate me; but there are matters beyond him.' The disciple had become calm, and his tears were dry. Raising himself, and fixing scrutinising eyes on the Master, he shook his head. 'No; it was not Cesare. 'Twas I myself. And yet no; it was not I, but _he_.' 'Who is _he_?' Giovanni again trembled, and pressed closer to his friend. 'No, no! For God's sake let us not speak of _him_!' 'Listen, my son,' answered Leonardo, in that soothing yet severe and almost rough tone in which a doctor speaks to a sick child; 'I see you have a weight upon your heart. You must tell me all; all, do you hear? Thus only shall I be able to help you;' and after a pause he added: 'Tell me of whom you spoke just now.' Giovanni looked round as if in fear; then whispered in low, awestruck tones:-- 'Of your Semblance.' 'My Semblance? How mean you? Did you see it in a dream?' 'No; in reality.' For a moment Leonardo thought him delirious. 'Messer Leonardo, three nights ago you, yourself, came to me as you have come to-night?' 'No, I did not come. Why do you ask? Can you not remember yourself?' 'I do remember. Master, now I am certain it was _he_!' 'But what has given you this idea? What happened?' He felt that Giovanni wished to speak, and sought to force him to do so, in the hope it would afford him relief. 'This is what happened. Three nights ago he came to me as you have come to-day at this very hour, and he sat on the edge of the bed as you do now, and in every word, in every motion he was as you; and his face was like yours, only as if seen in a glass, nor was he, like you, left-handed, so I thought at once within myself, perchance it was not you; and he knew my thought, yet dissembled and made no sign, but pretended that we both knew naught. Only on leaving he turned himself round to me and said: "Hast thou never, Giovanni, seen that one in my likeness? If so be thou dost see him, be not at all afraid." And from his saying this I understood all.' 'And you still believe this, my poor boy?' 'How should I not believe it, when I saw him as now I see you? Ay, and he spoke with me!' 'Of what did he speak?' Giovanni covered his face with his hands, and did not answer at once. 'It was not good,' he said at last in deprecating tones; 'he said terrible things to me. He said that there was nothing in the world but Mechanics--things like that terrible spider with the bloody revolving arms, which he--no, not he--which _you_ have invented.' 'What spider? Ah yes, yes! I understand; you have seen my drawing of the scythed chariot?' 'And he said,' resumed Giovanni, 'that what men call God is the eternal force by which the hideous spider is moved, by means of which its blood-stained arms revolve; and that this God cares nothing for truth or untruth, for good or evil, for life or death. And that praying to him is bootless, for he is inexorable as mathematics; two and two will never, never make five.' 'I see. I see. You torture yourself uselessly. I know how it is.' 'No, Messer Leonardo, you do not yet know all. He said that Christ had died in vain, had not risen triumphant from the grave, had not vanquished death, but that His body lay mouldering in the tomb. And when he said this, I burst into weeping, and he had compassion on me, and tried to bring me comfort. And he said: "Weep not! There is no Christ, but there is Love, Great Love, the daughter of Great Knowledge. Who knoweth all, loveth all." Master, he used your very words! "Of old," he said, "they taught that love came of weakness, of wonder, of ignorance; but I tell you it comes of strength, of truth, of wisdom; for the serpent lied not when he said, Eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and ye shall be as gods." And then I knew him that he came of the devil! I cursed him, and he withdrew himself; but he said he would come again.' Leonardo listened with as much interest as if this were no longer the delirium of sickness. He felt the gaze of his disciple, now almost calm, but terribly accusatory, sink into the secret depths of his soul. 'And the most fearsome thing,' continued Giovanni, slowly withdrawing himself from the Master, and looking him full in the face with fixed and piercing eyes; 'the most fearsome was that, as he spake to me thus, he smiled. Yes, he could smile! He smiled, as you smile upon me now--_you_!' And his face became suddenly pale as wax, and with starting eyes and contorted features, he pushed Leonardo from him, and cried in a wild shout of terror:-- 'Thou! Thou again! Thou hast cozened me! In the name of God, begone. Get thee behind me, Accursed One!' At these words the Master rose, and with compelling eyes fixed on his disciple, he said:-- 'Giovanni, of a truth you will do well to leave me. You remember it is said in the Scripture, "He that feareth is not made perfect in love." If you loved me with perfect love you would have no fear; you would know that all this is delusion and madness; that I am not what men suppose; that I have no Semblance; and that, perchance, I believe more truly in Christ my Saviour than do those who call me Antichrist. Farewell, Giovanni.' His voice shook with inexpressible bitterness, which was, however, unresentful. He rose to go. 'Have I spoken truth?' he asked himself, and felt that if his pupil could only be saved by lies, he still was unable to lie. Boltraffio flung himself upon his knees at Leonardo's feet. 'Master! pardon me. Nay, I know it is madness! I will drive away these hideous thoughts! Only forgive me. Let me stay!' Leonardo looked at him, his eyes glistening with tenderness; then he bent over him and kissed his brow. 'Then forget not, Giovanni, that you have promised!' he exclaimed; and added calmly, 'Now let us go down; the cold is too nipping here. I cannot leave you in this room till you are completely cured. I have some urgent business on hand, in which you can help me.' XIII He took his disciple into his own sleeping-chamber, which adjoined the studio, blew up the fire, and when the crackling flame had diffused a pleasant light upon everything, bade Giovanni prepare him a panel for a picture. He hoped that work would calm the sick youth, nor was he mistaken; by degrees Giovanni became completely absorbed in his occupation. With concentrated and serious attention, as if the task were of the most curious and important in the world, he helped the Master to soak the wood in acquavita, bi-sulphate of arsenic and corrosive sublimate, to keep it from becoming worm-eaten; they filled in the dents and chinks with alabaster, cypress lac, and mastic, and smoothed the unevenness with a plane. As usual, under the hands of Leonardo, the work went on easily as child's play. He talked also, and gave instruction on the making of brushes, the coarser of pigs' bristles fixed in lead, and the finer of squirrels' hair set in goose-quill; of varnish also, and the driers to be used, of Venetian green and ferruginous ochre. A pleasant, pungent, business-like scent diffused itself through the room, and as Giovanni rubbed the panel lustily with linseed oil, the exertion made him hot. His fever had disappeared. Once, stopping to take breath, he looked at Leonardo, but the latter cried:-- 'Make haste! make haste! if you let it grow cold the oil won't sink in!' And Giovanni, bending his back, compressing his lips, and straining his legs, rubbed on with increased energy and good will. 'How do you feel now?' asked Leonardo. 'Well!' replied the other smiling. The rest of the pupils gathered also in the bright room. The comfort and warmth within was redoubled by the howl of the wind and the patter of the rain outside. Salaino came, shivering but light-hearted; Astro, the one-eyed Cyclops; Jacopo and Marco; but Cesare da Sesto, as usual, kept aloof from this friendly circle. Then the panel was laid aside to dry, and Leonardo discoursed on the purest oil for painting. An earthen dish was brought, in which was white walnut juice covered with amber-coloured grease. Long coils, like lamp-wicks, were laid in it and allowed to drip into a glass vessel. 'See, see!' cried Marco, 'what purity! Mine is always turbid, however often I strain it!' 'Do you skin your nuts?' said Leonardo; 'if you do not, your colours will turn black.' 'Then,' said Marco, 'the thin peel of a nut might ruin the best painting in the world! Hear you, lads? you who mock me because I carry out the Master's instructions with mathematical rigidity!' The pupils laughed and talked and jested while they watched the preparation of the oil. It was late, but no one cared for sleep, and without heeding the protests of Marco the steward, they continually threw new logs upon the fire. All were unaccountably merry. 'Let us tell stories,' said Andrea; and began with the tale of the priest who on Holy Saturday took upon himself to sprinkle a particular picture with holy water. 'Why so?' asked its painter. 'Because it is written that for a good work one shall receive a hundredfold,' replied the priest. And presently, as he left the house, the painter from an upper window poured a pail of water on his head and cried--'Here is the hundredfold for the good you have done me in spoiling my best picture.' Other tales followed, and none enjoyed them more than Leonardo, who indeed laughed like a child, nodding his head and wiping tears from his eyes, and cackling with a strange thin laugh, incongruous with his great height and powerful build. About midnight they agreed it were impossible to go to bed without eating, especially as they had supped sparingly, for Marco kept them on short commons. Astro brought all there was in the pantry, some stale ham, cheese, a few olives, and some bread. Wine there was none. 'Have you tilted the cask?' 'In all directions. There is not a drop.' 'Ah, Marco! Marco! what are we to do? How can we go without wine?' 'Can I buy wine without money?' said Marco. 'There is money, and there shall be wine!' cried Jacopo, tossing a gold piece. 'How got you it, imp of the devil? Marry, stealing again. I suppose! Come here and I'll box your ears for you,' said Leonardo, shaking his finger at him. 'I swear by God, Master, I did not steal it. Cut out my tongue and send me to the pit if I did not win it at dice.' 'Well, stolen or not, fetch us some wine.' Jacopo ran off to the Golden Eagle hard by, much frequented by the Swiss mercenaries, and kept open all night; presently he returned with pewter cans. The wine increased the mirth; the little Ganymede holding the vessel high so that beaded bubbles winked on the red liquid; and overflown with pride in entertaining the company at his own expense, he played pranks and jested and jumped; and mimicking the hoarse voice of a confirmed toper, he sang the song of the unfrocked monk:-- 'To the devil with cowl and with frock, oh! With hood and with scapularie! Pretty nun, the lord Abbot bemock, oh! And dance at the junket with me! Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!' and then the solemn chorus from the Bacchanalian Mass, written in Latin, and sung by the students on festive occasions:-- 'Who waters wine at this high feast supernal Shall drown in it for ages sempiternal, And after roast at fires of realms infernal!' They drank toasts to the Master's health, to the glory of his studio, to the hopes of future wealth; and Giovanni never supped so much to his liking as at this beggars' feast, on cheese hard as rock, stale bread, and Jacopo's stolen wine. Presently Leonardo said with a smile-- 'I have heard, friends, that St. Francis called melancholy the worst of sins, and preached that whoso wished to please God must be cheerful. Let us drink to the wisdom of Francis and to eternal cheerfulness in God.' These words were surprising to all the youths except Giovanni, who understood their intention. 'Eh, Master,' said Astro, shaking his head, 'it is very well to speak of cheerfulness, but how can we be cheerful while we crawl along the ground like grave-worms? Let the others toast what they please, but I will drink to wings and to the flying-machine. May the devil carry away the laws of gravity and of mechanics which interfere with us.' 'Without mechanics you won't fly far, my friend,' said the Master laughing. After this the party broke up, and Leonardo would not allow Giovanni to return to his cold attic; he aided him to improvise a bed in his own room as near as might be to the hearth, where a few cinders still glowed red. XIV Giovanni had learned from Cesare that the master had all but finished the face of the Christ in the 'Last Supper'; he had asked several times to be allowed to see it, but Leonardo had always postponed the matter. At last, one morning he took the lad to the Refectory, and there, in the place which had been vacant for sixteen years, between St. John and St. James, against the square of the open window, with the background of the quiet evening sky and the blue hills of Zion, Giovanni saw the Christ. A few days later Leonardo sent him for a rare mathematical book to the house of the alchemist, Sacrobosco. He was returning late in the evening. The air was frosty and still, after a day of high wind and thaw; the pools and the ruts of the road were coated with ice; the low clouds seemed to cling motionless to the purple tops of the larches, in which were a few ruined and deserted nests. Darkness came on apace; on the dim verge of the horizon stretched the long copper and golden streak where the sun had gone down. The water in the Cantarana Canal, still unfrozen, seemed heavy, black as iron, and unfathomably deep. Giovanni did not own it to himself, and indeed used every effort to suppress the thought, but he was comparing, not without dismay, Leonardo's two renderings of the Lord's face. If he shut his eyes, both rose before him like living things; the one face that of a brother, and full of human weakness, the face of Him who had agonised in bloody sweat, and prayed a childlike prayer for a miracle; the other, superhuman, calm, wise, alien, and terrible. And Giovanni thought that, perhaps, notwithstanding their inexplicable contradiction, the one was a likeness no less true than the other. He grew confused, as if delirium were returning, and sitting on a stone above the black canal waters, he bowed himself in exhaustion, and buried his head in his hands. 'What are you doing here, like a shade on the banks of Acheron?' cried a mocking voice; and he felt a hand on his shoulder, turned, and saw Cesare, like some ill-omened ghost, in the wintry twilight; a long, lean figure, with a long, lean, pale face, and muffled in a long grey cloak. Giovanni rose, and they moved on together, the dead leaves rustling under their feet. 'Does he know we ransacked his papers?' asked Cesare. 'Yes.' 'And is not angered. That I expected;' and Cesare laughed maliciously. 'Everlasting pardon, of course!' There was a silence; a crow flew across the canal, cawing hoarsely. 'Cesare,' said Boltraffio in a loud voice, 'have you seen the face of the Christ in the _Cenacolo_?' 'I have,' 'And--what think you of it?' 'What think _you_?' said Cesare, turning abruptly to his companion. 'I can hardly say; but it seems to me----' 'Speak frankly. It does not satisfy you?' 'That is not what I mean. But it seems to me, perhaps, that it is not Christ.' 'Not Christ? Who then else?' Giovanni did not reply; his eyes were on the ground, and without knowing it, his pace slackened. At last he said-- 'That other sketch in coloured chalk, the young Christ--have you seen that?' 'Yes. A Jewish boy with chestnut curls, full lips and a low brow; the son of old Barucco. You like it better?' 'No. But I was thinking how little alike they are, those two pictures!' 'Little alike? But it is the same face--fifteen years older, that is all! However, it may be you are right. They may be two Christs, but as like each other as a man and his own phantom.' 'As a man and his own phantom!' echoed Giovanni, shuddering and stopping. 'What say you, Cesare? A man and his own phantom?' 'Well, what is so alarming in those words? Don't you agree with me?' They walked on. 'Cesare!' cried Boltraffio suddenly and impulsively, 'do you not see what I mean? How could He, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient, whom Leonardo has painted in the _Cenacolo_, how could He have been tortured on the Mount of Olives, not a stone's throw away, till He sweated blood and prayed a human prayer for a miracle? "Let not that take place, to accomplish which I came into the world, that which I know cannot fail to be! Father, let this cup pass from me!" Cesare, everything is contained in that prayer! Without it there is no Christ, and I would not relinquish it for all the wisdom of Solomon! The Christ who prayed not that prayer was never a man; He did not suffer and die like us!' 'I see your meaning,' replied Cesare slowly; 'certainly the Christ of the _Cenacolo_ never prayed that prayer.' The darkness was falling around them, and Giovanni could not accurately see the face of his companion, which, however, seemed strangely illuminated. Suddenly Cesare stopped, raised his hand, and spoke in a low solemn voice. 'You wish to know whom he has painted, if 'tis not the weaker Christ who prayed for a hopeless miracle in the garden of Gethsemane? Well, I will tell you. Remember that beautiful invocation of Leonardo's when he spoke of the laws of the mechanical sciences, "O divine justice of Thee, Thou Prime Mover!" His Christ is the Prime Mover, who, principle and centre of every movement, is Himself moveless. His Christ is the eternal necessity, which is divine justice, which is the Father's will. "O righteous Father, the world hath not known Thee, but I have known Thee and I have declared unto these Thy name, that the love wherewith Thou hast loved Me may be in them, and I in them." Do you see? Love born of knowledge. '_Grande amore è figlio di grande sapienza._' Great love is the child of great knowledge. And Leonardo, who alone of men has understood this saying of the Lord's, has incarnated it in his Christ, who loves all because he knows all.' Cesare ceased, and for long they walked silently in the profound calm of the winter twilight. At last Boltraffio said:-- 'Do you remember, Cesare, how four years ago, you and I, walking along this path together, were discussing the Cenacolo? Then you mocked at the Master, and said he would never finish the face of the Christ, and I contradicted you. Now it is you who defend him against me. Of a surety I should never have believed that you--_you_! would one day speak of him as now you have spoken!' And Giovanni tried to see his companion's face, but the other turned away. 'Now, I see with joy, Cesare, that you also love him! Yes, you love him, you who wish to hate him; you love him perhaps better than do I!' 'Did you imagine anything else?' replied Cesare, slowly turning to his companion a pale moved face; 'and yet I would indeed be glad to hate him, but instead I must love him, for he has done, in the 'Last Supper,' what no one has ever done, what perhaps he himself does not understand so well as I--I, his most mortal enemy.' And Cesare laughed a forced laugh. 'How odd is the human heart!' he went on. 'I will confess the truth, Giovanni; perhaps I love him less to-day than I did at the time you have alluded to.' 'Why so, Cesare?' 'Perchance because I value my own individuality. To be lowest among the lowest--yes, better that than to be but a member of his body, a toe of his foot! Let Marco find contentment in ladles for the measuring out of paint, and rules for the proportions of noses. _I_ should like to ask with which of these Leonardo made that countenance of Christ! True, he does his best to teach us, poor chickens, to fly like eagles from the eagles' nest; for he is compassionate, and sorry for us, as he is sorry for the blind pups in the yard, or for a lame horse, or for the criminal whom he accompanies to execution that he may watch his dying convulsions. Like the sun, he shines upon everything. Only, see you, my friend, each man hath his own fancy; you may like to be the worm which, in St. Francis' fashion, Leonardo lifts from the highway and sets on a green twig; I'd sooner be crushed by him!' 'Then, Cesare, if you feel thus, why do you not leave him?' 'And you--why do _you_ not leave him? You have burnt your wings like a moth in a candle, and still you flutter round the flame. Perchance I also am fain to burn myself in that flame. Yet, maybe, one hope remains to me!' 'What hope?' 'A foolish hope. The dream of a madman! Yet I often dwell upon it. The hope that one day a man shall arise, unlike him, yet his equal; not Perugino, nor Borgognone, nor Botticelli, nor the great Mantegna--Leonardo surpasses all these; but another, one who is still unknown, reserved for a later day. I would fain see the glory of this new one immense! I would fain look in the face of Messer Leonardo and remind him that even a spared worm like me can prefer another to him, can be pleased in the humiliation of his pride; for, Giovanni, he is proud as Lucifer, in spite of his lamb-like meekness and his universal charity.' He broke off abruptly, and Giovanni felt his hand tremble. 'Hark you, Giovanni,' he said in a changed voice, 'who told you I loved him? You never guessed it?' 'He told me himself.' 'He? Then he believes----' His voice broke. Nothing remained to be said, and each was lost in his own thoughts, his own griefs. At the next cross-road they parted. Giovanni, with eyes on the ground, walked mechanically along the narrow path skirting the canal in whose dark waters no star was reflected. He repeated to himself, scarce consciously, 'As like as a man and his own phantom! His own phantom!' XV At the beginning of March 1499, and at the moment when he least expected it, Leonardo received his salary, which had been for two years unpaid. It was reported at this time that Il Moro, overwhelmed by the news of the alliance concluded against him by the Doge of Venice, the Pope, and the King of France, intended to flee to the German Emperor upon the first appearance in Lombardy of the French forces; and that it was in order to secure the fidelity of his subjects during his absence that he lightened the taxes, paid his creditors, and heaped largesses upon his friends. A little later Leonardo received a fresh mark of his patron's favour: the gift of sixteen perches of vineyard land, acquired from the monastery of San Vittore near the Porta Vercellina, 'which,' so ran the deed of gift, 'Ludovico Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan, confers on Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine, most famous of painters.' Leonardo went to express his thanks to the Duke, and was not granted an interview till very late in the evening, owing to the pressure of state affairs. Il Moro had passed the whole day in tedious conversation with secretaries and treasurers, in verifying accounts for munition of war, in loosing old knots and tying new ones in that web of deceit and treachery, which had pleased him well when he had been the spidery master of the threads, but which was another matter now he found himself in the position of a fly. His business despatched, the Duke went to the Gallery of Bramante, which looked down upon the castle moat. The stillness of the night was broken at times by the blare of a trumpet, by the challenge of sentinels, by the clank of the drawbridge chains. As soon as he had entered the gallery, his page, Ricciardetto, fixed torches in iron sconces against the wall, and handed his master a gold platter with small pieces of bread. These Ludovico threw to the swans which, attracted by the reflection from the windows, had come sailing over the black mirror of the water in the moat. Isabella d'Este, his lost Beatrice's sister, had sent him these swans from Mantua, where the flat shores of the Mincio, thick with reeds and willow-trees, were a renowned breeding-place for great flocks of these beautiful birds. Feeding them was his chief recreation after the business and anxieties of the day. They reminded him of his childhood, by the weed-grown pools of Vigevano; and here in the gloomy castle moat, among frowning embrasured walls, high towers, cannon balls, and bombards, the noiseless snow-white creatures, gliding like phantoms through the silver moonlit mist upon the scarce visible water in which stars were reflected, seemed to him full of mystery and charm. Leaning out of the window, and still absorbed in his amusement, the Duke did not hear the creak of a small door, nor notice the approach of a chamberlain, until, with a deep reverence, the man had handed him a paper. 'What is this?' asked the Duke. 'Messer Borgonzio Botta sends your Excellency the account for munition of war, powder and bullets; he is grieved that he must trouble your lordship, but at dawn the convoy starts for Mortara.' Il Moro snatched the paper angrily, crumpled it, and threw it aside. 'How many times have I said I transact no business after supper? Good God! soon I shall not be allowed even to sleep!' The chamberlain, still bowing, retreated backwards, announcing in a low voice which the Duke need not hear unless it so minded him: 'Messer Leonardo.' 'Leonardo! Why not have brought him in before? Conduct him hither at once.' And returning to the feeding of his swans, he added to himself, 'Leonardo will not worry me!' When the painter entered, Il Moro smiled at him much as he smiled at his pets; and when Leonardo would have knelt, restrained him, and kissed his forehead. 'Welcome! 'Tis long since I have seen you. How fare you, friend?' 'I have to thank your Excellency----' 'Enough! Enough! You are worthy of better gifts. Give me time, and I will recompense you properly.' Then they talked of the diving-bell, the shoes for walking the water, the wings. But when Leonardo would have diverted the conversation to business, to the fortifications, the Martesana Canal, the casting of the great _Cavallo_, Ludovico evaded the subject with an air of disgust. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he fell into a fit of abstraction, oblivious of his companion's presence, sitting quite silent, with eyes on the ground, and Leonardo, supposing himself dismissed, would have taken his leave. The Duke nodded absently, but when the painter had reached the door he recalled him, and laying both his hands on his shoulders, looked at him with a long sad gaze. 'Farewell, my Leonardo. Who knows if ever again we shall see each other, we two alone, face to face, as at this minute!' 'Is your Excellency going to abandon us?' Il Moro sighed heavily and paused before replying. 'We have been together for sixteen years,' he said at last, 'and in all that time I have never disapproved you, nor, I think, have you disapproved me. The vulgar may murmur; yet I think in after ages, when they speak of Leonardo, they will have a good word for Il Moro, his friend.' The painter, who did not like outbursts of tenderness, replied in the one courtly phrase which he reserved for moments of necessity:-- 'I would I had more than a single life to dedicate to the service of your Highness.' 'I believe it,' said Ludovico; 'some day, Leonardo, perhaps you will remember me, and will weep----' And himself scarcely restraining a sob, he embraced him, kissing his lips. 'Leave me now, and may God go with you!' he said; and after Leonardo had gone he remained long in the Bramante Gallery, where no sound broke the stillness save the slow droppings from the torches, watching his swans, and thinking strange thoughts. He fancied that across his dark, and even criminal, life Leonardo had passed like these white swans across the black waters of the castle moat, under those embrasured walls, towers, and magazines; Leonardo, useless as they, delightful, immaculate, and pure. XVI Late as was the hour, the artist, having left the Duke, went to the Convento of Saint Francis to inquire for his pupil, Giovanni Boltraffio, who was lying there grievously sick of a brain fever. Visiting his former teacher, Fra Benedetto, in December 1498, Giovanni had found Fra Paolo, a Dominican from Florence, with him, and this man had given them the account of Savonarola's death. The execution--thus Fra Paolo related--had been appointed for nine of a May morning, to take place in the Piazza della Signoria, exactly where had been the burning of vanities and the ordeal by fire. A pyre was raised at the end of a long platform; and above it a gibbet--a stout beam driven into the ground, with a crosspiece, from which dangled three halters and iron chains. No effort of the carpenters could prevent this erection from looking like a cross. The square, the loggias, the windows and roofs of the houses were thronged by as great a multitude as had assembled for the trial by fire. The condemned--Fra Girolamo Savonarola, Fra Domenico da Pescia, and Fra Silvestro Maruffi--issued from the Palazzo Vecchio, advanced along the platform and stood before the Bishop of Pagagliotti, the papal nuncio. The bishop rose, took Savonarola's hand, and in trembling tones, not daring to meet the unfaltering gaze of the monk, he pronounced the ritual of degradation. Almost hesitatingly he uttered the concluding words: '_Separo te ab Ecclesia militante atque triumphante_.' (I cut you off from the Church militant and triumphant.) To which Fra Girolamo replied:--'_Militante, non triumphante; hoc enim tuum non est._' (From the Church militant, yes; from the Church triumphant, no; that is not within your power!) The three brothers were unfrocked; then, covered merely with their under-tunics, they advanced further and stood before the tribune of the Apostolic Commissaries who pronounced them heretics and schismatics; and then again before the '_Otto Uomini della Repubblica Fiorentina_' (The Eight of the Florentine Republic), who solemnly, in the name of the people, pronounced the death sentence. During this last progress, Fra Silvestro stumbled and nearly fell, and Fra Domenico and Savonarola likewise were seen to totter. Later it was discovered that this was due to a jest of certain of the Sacred Troop of Youthful Inquisitors, who had crept under the planks and run nails through them, so as to wound the naked feet of the condemned. Fra Silvestro, the imbecile, was the first taken to the scaffold. With his customary apathetic expression, seemingly unconscious of what was befalling him, he ascended the steps; yet when the hangman put the noose upon his neck he cried, raising his eyes to heaven: 'Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.' And not waiting for the executioner's thrust, he leaped deliberately and fearlessly from the ladder. Then Fra Domenico, who had expected his turn with joyous impatience, immediately on receiving the signal, sprang to the scaffold smiling ecstatically as if summoned to Paradise. Fra Silvestro's body hung from one end of the crossbeam, Fra Domenico's from the other; the centre was for Savonarola. As he neared the place, he stood still, and looked down upon the crowd. Then there was a silence, profound as once in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, when his expectant followers awaited the commencement of his preaching. But now he said no word; and the halter was adjusted; then a voice called out (and no one knew if it were mockery or the wild cry of agonising faith): 'Perform a miracle, O prophet! Perform a miracle!' But the executioner had already swung off the martyr from the ladder. Then an old workman, whose face was resigned yet full of ascetic fervour, and who for several days had had the custody of the pyre, crossed himself hurriedly and threw the lighted torch upon the pile, ejaculating, as Savonarola had done when he had set fire to the 'vanities and anathemata'--'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!' The flames leaped into the air; but the wind blew strongly and drove them in the contrary direction from the scaffold. Wherefore the crowd, smitten with a sudden fear, fell into tumult, and swayed hither and thither, pressing upon and trampling one another, and bursting into the cry: 'They burn not! Lo! a miracle! a miracle!' But the wind fell and the flames rose straight and high, and licked round Fra Girolamo's corpse. And the cord wherewith his hands had been tied was sundered by the fire, and the hands fell loose and dropped and moved in the flame; and to many of the people it seemed that for the last time he blessed them. When the fire was spent, and of the three brothers there remained only charred bones and morsels of blackened flesh quivering on the iron chains, then the faithful pressed forward and would have collected relics of the martyrs. But the guards, driving them away, piled the ashes into a cart and took them to the Ponte Vecchio with intent to cast them into the river. And on the way thither the Piagnoni succeeded in snatching some few handfuls of the sacred ashes, and certain rags of flesh which they believed to have been the heart of their murdered prophet. Fra Paolo ended his recital; and he showed his hearers a little purse in which he had saved some of these sacred ashes. Fra Benedetto kissed it again and again, watering it with his tears; then the two monks went together to vespers. When they returned to the cell, they found Giovanni lying senseless on the ground before the crucifix, clutching the little casket of ashes in his frozen fingers. For three months the young man lay between life and death; and Fra Benedetto never left him day nor night. He was long delirious, and the good monk shuddered as he listened to his wanderings. He raved of Savonarola, of Leonardo, of that blessed Mother of God, who, drawing with her finger on the sand of the desert, taught the divine Child geometrical figures and the laws of eternal necessity. 'For what dost Thou pray?' the sick man would repeat with unutterable grief: 'Knowest Thou not that there is no relief--no miracle--? The cup cannot pass from Thee; even as a straight line cannot fail to be the shortest way between two points.' He was haunted by the vision of the two faces of the Lord, unlike, yet like as a man and his own phantom; the one overborne with human woe and weakness, who in His agony had prayed for a miracle; the other the face of the Omnipotent, of the Omniscient; of the Word made flesh, of the Prime Mover. They were turned towards each other like irreconcilable and eternal foes. And while Giovanni gazed at them, gradually the one Face, that of the Lamb of God, gentle, sorrowful, long-suffering, became obscured; and changed into the face of the demon which Leonardo had once drawn, caricaturing Savonarola. And this demon-face, denouncing the semblance of the Omnipotent, named him Antichrist. * * * * * Fra Benedetto's loving care saved the life of his adopted son. By the beginning of June Giovanni had so far recovered as to be able to walk; and then, notwithstanding all the warnings and the entreaties of the affectionate monk, he returned to Leonardo's studio. Towards the close of July the army of Louis XII. of France, commanded by Marshal d'Aubigny, Louis of Luxemburg, and Gian Giacomo Trivulzio, crossed the Alps and burst down upon the plains of Lombardy. BOOK X CALM WATERS--1499-1500 '_Le onde sonore e luminose sono governate dalle stesse leggi che governano le onde delle acque: l'angolo incidente deve eguagliare l'angolo riflettente._' LEONARDO DA VINCI. (The waves of light and sound are governed by the same mechanical law as that governing waves of water: the angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection.) '_Il duca ha perso lo Stato e la roba e la libertà; e nessuna sua opera si fini per lui._' LEONARDO DA VINCI. (The duke has lost state, wealth, and liberty; not one of his works will be finished by himself.) I The Duke's treasury, a subterranean chamber very long and narrow and piled with huge oak chests, was entered from the north-west tower of the Rocchetta by a small iron door set in the thickness of the wall and adorned with an unfinished painting by Leonardo. On the first night of September 1499, Messer Ambrogio Ferrari the court treasurer, and Messer Borgonzio Botta the comptroller of the ducal revenue, with their assistants, shovelled coins, pearls, and other treasures hastily from the oak chests, threw them into leathern bags, which they sealed with the ducal seal, and consigned to servants to be packed upon mules. Already two hundred and forty bags had been sealed and thirty mules had been loaded, yet the guttering candles still showed that the chests contained great heaps of silver. Il Moro, meanwhile, sat at a portable writing-desk heaped with registers and account-books, but gazed blankly at the flame of the candle, and paid no attention to the work of the treasurers. Since the terrible news had reached him of the defeat of Galeazzo Sanseverino, the commander of his forces, and of the inevitable nearing of the French, he seemed to have fallen into some strange torpor which resembled insensibility. Presently Ambrogio Ferrari inquired whether the Duke wished to take the gold and silver plate also; but Ludovico, after frowning and apparently making an effort to attend, turned away, waved his hand, and once more fixed his eyes upon the candle. The question was repeated, but this time he did not even feign attention; and presently the treasurers, unable to obtain an answer, went away. Il Moro remained alone. A few minutes later, the old chamberlain announced Messer Bernardino da Corte, the newly appointed commandant of the fortress. The Duke roused himself, passed his hand over his brow, and bade his approach. Ludovico, distrustful of the scions of great families, liked raising men from nothing, making the first last, and the last first. This Bernardino was the son of a footman, and had himself in his boyhood worn the court livery. The Duke had, however, exalted him to the highest offices of state, and now, as a proof of final confidence in his ability and good faith, had charged him with the defence of the castle of Milan, his last stronghold. The Duke received the new governor graciously, bade him sit, spread before him the plan of the castle, explained the signals concerted between the fortress and the town. For example, in the daytime a curved gardening knife (or at night a flaming torch) displayed from the main tower of the castle was to show the need for instant help; a white sheet, hung on the tower of Bona, signified treachery within the walls; a chair suspended by a rope meant lack of powder; a petticoat, lack of wine; a pair of breeches, scarcity of bread; an earthenware pot, the need of a doctor. Il Moro had himself invented this code, and was childishly pleased with it, as if in it lay somehow his chief hope of safety. 'Remember, Bernardino,' thus he concluded his exordium, 'everything has been foreseen. You have sufficiency of money, powder, provisions, fire-arms; the three thousand mercenaries are already paid; the fortress is in your hands, and should be able to stand a three years' siege. I, however, only ask you to hold it for three months; if at the end of that time I have not returned to your relief, you must do what you think best. Now you know all. Farewell, my son; may the Lord protect you!' And he favoured him with an embrace. The governor of the castle dismissed, Il Moro bade the page prepare his camp bed. He prayed, and laid himself down, but sleep proved impossible. He lighted a candle, took a packet of papers from his wallet, and found a poem by one Antonio Cammelli da Pistoia, Bellincioni's rival, who on the first appearance of the French had deserted his patron. The poem represented the war between Ludovico and Louis XII. as a conflict between a winged serpent and a cock:-- 'Italia's lord, we lay to heart thy fate, For good it is to learn by other men's undoing. O bitter word to speak, the loss of all things rueing-- When fickle fortune smiled, I was a potentate! The world to Ludovico seemed a fief but late; Itself and all its glory appeared but of his doing; Yet Heav'n, his stomach high and proud presumption viewing, His every hope and scheme did suddenly frustrate.' The Duke's soul was pervaded by melancholy, which was not, however, entirely disagreeable. It was partly the pride of a martyr. He remembered the servility of the sonnets the same poet had dedicated to him not long ago:-- 'Speak, potent lord, and say, The world to me is given!' It was midnight, and the flame of the dying candle flickered and grew dim, but still the Duke continued to pace the gloomy room, thinking of his griefs, of the injustice of blind fortune, of the ingratitude of men. 'What wrong have I done them? Why do they hate me? They call me a villain and an assassin; but what have I done more than Romulus who killed his brother, and Cæsar, and Alexander, and all the heroes of antiquity? Were _they_ villains and assassins? My desire was to give them a new age of gold, such as had not been seen since the days of Augustus and the Antonines. A little longer, and under my rule Italy would have been united; the laurels of Apollo would have bloomed, and the olives of Pallas; the reign of peace would have begun, and the worship of the muses. First among princes, I sought greatness not in deeds of war, but in the fruits of golden peace, in the protection of talent, Bramante, Pacioli, Caradosso, Leonardo, and how many others! In days to come, when the noise of arms shall be forgotten, their names will be remembered, together with the name of Sforza. To what a height should not I, the new Pericles, have raised my new Athens, but for this horde of northern barbarians who have cut short my work? Why, O my God _why_ is this permitted?' And, his head drooping on his breast, he thought again of the lines:-- 'O bitter word to speak, the loss of all things rueing-- When fickle fortune smiled, I was a potentate!' The candle flared for the last time, illuminating the vaulting of the roof, and the fresco of Mercury above the treasure-house door. Then it sank down and went out. The Duke shuddered, for he thought it a bad omen. Fearful of awakening Ricciardetto, he groped his way to the bed, lay down again, and this time fell asleep at once. He dreamed that he knelt to Madonna Beatrice, who having discovered his intrigue with Lucrezia was taxing him with it, and striking him full in the face. He was pained, yet rejoiced that she had returned to life. He submitted to her chastisement, caught her hands that he might kiss them, and wept for love. But suddenly there stood before him, not Beatrice, but the Mercury of Leonardo's fresco over the door. The god seized him by the hair, crying:-- 'O fool, and blind! In what dost thou yet hope? Will all your deceits save you from the just punishment of God? Murderer and villain!' When he awoke, the morning light was shining on the windows. The lords, the knights, the captains, the German mercenaries, who were to escort him to the court of Maximilian, in all, some three thousand horsemen, were awaiting his presence by the main road which led north--towards the Alps. Ludovico mounted, and rode to the Monastery delle Grazie, that he might pray for the last time beside the grave of his lost Beatrice. Later, when the sun was high in the heavens, the cortège began its march through Como, Bellaggio, Bormio, Bolzano, and Brisina, to the Tyrol, and the city of Innsbrück. II The journey took over a fortnight, for a rainy autumn had spoiled the roads. On the 18th of September, the Duke, being fatigued and indisposed, determined to pass the night in a mountain cave, which afforded shelter to a few herdsmen. It would not have been difficult to find a more commodious resting-place, but Il Moro deliberately chose this wild spot for his reception of the ambassador from Maximilian. The watch-fires illumined the stalactites and the natural vaulting of the cavern; pheasants were roasting for supper; and the Duke, seated on a camp-chair, his feet on a brazier, and his head muffled--for he was suffering from toothache--reflected, not without a certain satisfaction, on the greatness of his misfortunes. Lucrezia Crivelli, bright and gentle as ever, was preparing an anodyne of wine, pepper, cloves, and other potent spices for the illustrious sufferer. 'So, then, Messer Odoardo,' said Il Moro to the Emperor's envoy,' you can tell his Majesty where, and in what condition you found the legitimate ruler of Lombardy.' Ludovico was in one of the fits of loquacity which sometimes succeeded to long periods of silence and dejection. 'Foxes have holes,' he went on, 'and birds of the air have nests, but I have not where to lay my head. Corio,' he turned to the chronicler, 'in compiling your annals omit not description of this lodging, the refuge of the last heir of the great Sforzas, of the descendant of Anglus, the Trojan, the comrade of Æneas.' 'My lord,' said Odoardo, 'your misfortunes deserve the pen of a new Tacitus.' Lucrezia brought the anodyne, and the Duke paused to look at her admiringly. Her pale clear face was bright in the rosy glow of the firelight, her black hair coiled smoothly above her pure forehead, upon which glowed the single diamond of the _ferroniera_. She looked at her lover with her grave, innocent, and observant eyes; on her lips was a smile of almost maternal tenderness. 'Sweet heart!' thought Ludovico, 'here is one who will never betray me!' and receiving the medicament from her hand, he again turned to the chronicler and said, with swelling sententiousness: 'Corio, set down likewise this; "true friendship is proved in the furnace of affliction, as gold is proved in the fire."' 'Eh, old fellow, why so gloomy?' cried Janachi, seating himself at the Duke's feet, and slapping his knee, 'a truce to this black bile! There's remedy for every ill save death, and trust me, old man, it's better to be a living ass than a dead prince! Kiki riki! Look! look! what a throng of ass-saddles we have here!' 'Well, what of it?' asked the Duke, wearily. _'Moro mio, moro mio_, there's an old Story which says--' 'Well--go on; relate the story!' The fool jumped to his feet, ringing his bells and shaking his rattle. 'Once upon a time there was a king in Naples, and he bade Giotto the painter make him a wall-picture of his kingdom. And the saucy painter drew a stout Ass carrying on his back a Saddle with the royal arms, the sceptre, and the crown; and the Ass was sniffing at another Saddle, also emblazoned with arms, sceptre and crown. Wherefore, dear Sir, I say to thee, to-day the people of Milan are sniffing at the French Saddle. Let them alone! Soon enough will it gall their backs, and they'll wish to be quit of it!' '_Stulti aliquando sapientes_,' said the Duke, with a melancholy smile at this piece of imbecility. 'Corio, write in the chronicle----' But he did not finish the phrase, for the snorting of horses, the tramp of hoofs, and the buzz of voices were heard outside the cavern. Mariolo Pusterla the chamberlain, his face pale and agitated, entered hastily, and whispered with Calco the chief secretary. 'What has happened?' asked the Duke. No one was willing to reply, and all eyes fell. 'Your Excellency----' began the secretary, in trembling tones, and broke off. 'May the Lord support your Excellency!' said Luigi Marliani. 'Be prepared; bad news has arrived from Milan.' 'Speak, then; speak! For God's sake, speak!' cried Ludovico, turning pale. Then looking towards the entrance, he caught sight of a man splashed with mud, and travel-worn. The Duke brushed Marliani aside, hurried to the messenger, and snatching a letter from his hand, broke the seal, read with lightning glance, uttered a cry, and sank senseless to the ground. Marliani and Pusterla were barely in time to break his fall. On the 17th of September, the feast of San Satiro, the traitor Bernardino da Corte had opened the gates of the Castle of Milan to the French marshal, Gian Giacomo Trivulzio. Ludovico was practised in the simulation of diplomatic faintness. This time, however, the physicians had trouble in restoring him to consciousness. When at last he regained his senses, he sighed, made the sign of the cross, and murmured:-- 'Since Judas there never was a traitor like Bernardino da Corte.' And for the rest of the evening he did not utter a single word. A few days later the Duke arrived at Innsbrück, where he was graciously received by the Emperor and lodged in the imperial palace. One evening he was walking up and down his chamber, and dictating to Bartolomeo Calco credentials for the envoys whom he was secretly despatching to the Sultan. The face of the old secretary expressed nothing but attention, and his pen travelled rapidly over the paper, as the words fell from his master's lips. '"Firm and invariable in our good disposition towards your Highness"'--so ran the document--'"and trusting that in the task of recovering our lost dominions, we may look for aid to the magnanimity of the powerful ruler of the Ottoman Empire, we have resolved to send three different messengers by three different roads, so that at least one of them may arrive and present our letter. The Pope, who by nature is perfidious and wicked----"' Here the pen of the dispassionate secretary stopped; he looked up, wrinkling his brows. He could not believe his ears. 'The Pope?' 'Yes, the Pope. Go on,' The secretary looked at his work again, and the pen scratched faster than before. '"The Pope, being by nature wicked and perfidious, has instigated the French king to carry war into Lombardy."' Then came the list of French victories. '"Dismayed by these misfortunes,"' continued Il Moro frankly, '"we have judged it prudent to seek refuge at the court of the Emperor Maximilian, while awaiting the assistance of your Highness. All have betrayed us; but more than the rest, Bernardino"'--here his voice shook--'"Bernardino da Corte, a serpent warmed in our bosom, a slave whom we had heaped with favours and benefactions; a traitor like unto Judas"--Nay, 'tis vain to speak of Judas to an infidel; scratch out "Judas."' He prayed the Sultan to assail Venice by sea and by land, assuring him of easy victory and the complete destruction of that secular enemy of the Ottomans, the arrogant Republic of St. Mark. '"And we pray your Highness to remember,"' he concluded, '"that in this war, as in every other undertaking, all we have is at the disposal of your Highness, who in all Europe will find no more faithful ally than Ourselves."' He had approached the table and seemed desirous of adding yet another few words; but in a sudden access of discouragement he waved his hand, and threw himself on a seat. Calco carefully strewed the wet writing with sand; then he looked up and saw that the Duke had covered his face with his hands, and was weeping, his shoulders shaking with sobs. 'Lord, why hast thou permitted this? Where, where is Thine eternal justice?' he mourned. Then uncovering his distorted face, which at that moment seemed to belong to some feeble old woman, he said:-- 'Bartolomeo, you know that I repose confidence in you. Tell me, on your conscience, am I acting wisely?' 'Does your Excellency refer to the embassy to the Grand Turk?' Il Moro nodded. The old man wrinkled his forehead and puffed his lips meditatively. 'Certes, those who hunt with wolves must howl with them; yet if we look at the matter from another point of view--in fine, if I am permitted to counsel your Excellency, I would say, wait!' 'I have waited. Now I will demonstrate that the Duke of Milan is not to be tossed aside like a mere pawn. My friend, I have been ever on the side of right, and I have been most iniquitously abused. Who shall blame me if I appeal, not only to the Grand Turk, but to the very devil himself?' 'Yet an invasion by the infidel,' suggested the secretary, 'might perchance be cause of grave peril to the Christian Church.' 'God forbid, Bartolomeo! I have considered that. I would suffer a thousand deaths rather than bring damage to our holy Mother Church. But hark you! You do not fully understand my design.' At these words his lips took on their old rapacious smile. 'We will brew these villains such a broth,' he continued; 'we will entangle them in such nets, that none of them shall look again on God's world! But the Grand Turk!--why, the Grand Turk is no more than a tool in my hands! When the time is ripe we will cast him aside, and then we will root out all that vile sect of Mahometans, and free the sacred sepulchre of the Lord from the unclean domination of infidel dogs!' Calco discreetly lowered his eyes and made no answer. 'This is bad,' he said to himself; 'these are dreams; in all this there is no policy. He lets himself be carried too far, and he perceives not consequences.' But that night Ludovico, animated by hope in God and in the Grand Turk, prayed long before his favourite picture, by Leonardo, in which the Virgin was pourtrayed with the features and smile of Cecilia, Countess Bergamini. III Ten days before the surrender of the castle, the French marshal, Trivulzio, had made entry into Milan amid the pealing of bells and the acclamation of the populace. The king's entry was fixed for the 6th of October, and the citizens were preparing for his reception. The two great angels which, fifty years earlier in the days of the 'Repubblica Ambrosiana,' had represented the genii of popular liberty, were taken from the cathedral treasury for use in the royal procession. Long disuse had stiffened the springs by which their gilded wings were moved, and they were accordingly sent for repair to the court mechanician, Leonardo da Vinci. Early one autumnal morning, while it was still dark, Leonardo sat at his desk, busy with his calculations and his geometrical designs. Of late he had resumed his study of aerostatics, and was constructing another flying-machine. Its skeleton was spread across the room, not, like its predecessor, resembling a bat, but rather a gigantic swallow. One of the wings was completed; slender, sharply outlined, beautiful in form and texture, it rose from floor to ceiling, and under its shadow Astro was working at the two wooden angels of the former Milanese Republic. In this latest apparatus Leonardo had determined to follow, as closely as he might, the structure of those winged creatures which nature had provided as models for a flying-machine. He still hoped to solve the problem by close observance of mechanical laws; but though apparently he knew all that could be known, there was still something which eluded his comprehension, and which perhaps lay outside these laws with which he was so familiar. As in his earlier experiments, he found himself brought up against that subtle dividing line which separates the creations of nature from the work of human hands; the structure of the living body from the structure of the lifeless machine; and he began to think he was aiming at the impossible--the irrational. 'Thank God, that is finished!' exclaimed Astro, winding up the springs of the wooden angels. Their heavy wings moved, and in the resultant waft of air, the delicate wing of the great swallow stirred and rustled. The smith looked at it with inexpressible tenderness. 'The time I have squandered on these stupid monsters!' he exclaimed, pushing the angels away. 'From this out, Master, you may say what you please, but I will not go from this room till I have finished my swallow! Give me, pr'ythee, the design for the tail.' 'It is not ready, Astro. It demands further calculation.' 'But, Master, you promised it to me three days ago!' 'It cannot be helped. The tail of our bird is the rudder. The smallest mistake will ruin the whole.' 'You know best, I suppose! I will get on with the second wing.' 'We had better wait. It may be necessary to introduce some modification.' The smith very carefully lifted the cane skeleton, overlaid with a network of bullocks' tendons; he turned it round, and contemplated it under every aspect. Then, his voice thick and trembling with excitement, he cried:-- 'Master, be not wroth, but hear! If your calculations lead you to the conclusion that this machine also is useless, I swear to you that none the less _I_ intend to fly. Yes, I will fly in spite of all your damnable mechanics. I have no longer patience for waiting, because----' He stopped short. Leonardo gazed at the wide, irregular, obstinate face, impressed with a single, senseless, all-absorbing idea. 'Messere,' he added, more quietly, 'be so kind as to say plainly, are we going to fly, or are we not?' Leonardo had not the heart to tell him the naked truth. 'We cannot be quite certain till we have made the experiment,' he replied; 'but I think we shall fly.' 'That is enough; I ask no more,' said the mechanic, clapping his hands. 'If _you_ say we shall fly, then the thing is done.' He presently burst into a great laugh. 'What the devil amuses you?' asked Leonardo. 'Ah, forgive me, Master! I am always disturbing you. But when I fall a-thinking of the poor folk of Milan, and of the French soldiers, and Il Moro, and the king, I have to laugh because I feel so sorry for them. Poor little creeping worms, poor little jumping grasshoppers! Always on the same plot of earth to which they are chained by their feet, they fight and they bite each other, and they think they are doing some very great thing! How they will stare and gape when they see men alive and flying. I misdoubt that they will believe their eyes. "These be two gods," they will say. Astro, a god! I doubt the whole world will be changed. I doubt wars and laws will be done with, and masters and slaves. We cannot conceive how it will be! Soaring up to heaven like the choirs of angels, all the people will shout Hosanna! O Messer Leonardo, Messer Leonardo! is it true that verily thus it will be?' He spoke wildly, like one in delirium. 'Poor fool!' thought Leonardo; 'what blind faith! What is to be done? How can I tell him the truth? He will go crazed!' At this moment there was a great knock at the street door, then a noise of voices and steps, and then a rap at the door of the studio. 'What devil comes at this hour?' growled Astro. 'A pox on him! Who is there? You won't see the Master. He has gone away from Milan.' 'Tis I, Astro--Luca Pacioli, the mathematician! Open, open, for God's sake!' The smith opened and let the friar enter. His face was blanched with terror. Leonardo asked him hurriedly what had happened. 'To me, Messer Leonardo, nought--or leastways of that I will speak later. I come from the castle. Oh, Messer Leonardo! The Gascon bowmen--in fact the French--I saw it with my own eyes! _They are destroying your Cavallo._ Let us run! Let us run!' 'Soft!' said the painter, though he also had paled. 'What shall we do by running?' 'But you cannot sit here with folded hands while your masterpiece is perishing? I have a recommendation to Monsieur de la Trémouille. We must implore him----' 'We are too late.' 'No, no! there is still time! We can run by the garden, through the hedge. If we but make haste!' Dragged along by the monk, Leonardo set forth for the castle. On the way Fra Luca told him of his own misadventure. The _lanzknechts_ had plundered the cellar of the _Canonica_ of San Simpliciano, where he dwelt; and being drunken, had wrought havoc through the house; and in Fra Luca's cell, having chanced on certain geometrical models made in crystal, had taken them for instruments of magic, and smashed them to atoms. 'My poor innocent crystals, which had done them no manner of wrong,' mourned the friar! Reached the piazza before the castle, they saw a young French dandy attended by a numerous suite on the drawbridge. 'Maître Gilles!' cried Fra Luca overjoyed; and he explained to Leonardo that this was a considerable and authoritative personage; his title, 'Whistler to the woodhens,' his office, to teach the finches, magpies, parrots, and thrushes of the most Christian king their feats of singing, talking, dancing, and other performances. Rumour asserted that the 'woodhens' were not the only bipeds who danced to the piping of Maître Gilles; and altogether Fra Luca had long felt that he must be presented with his books (richly bound) _De Divina Proportione_ and _Summa Aritmetica_. 'Fra Luca,' said Leonardo, 'do not lose your opportunity--attend Maître Gilles. I can manage my own case.' 'No, no,' said the other, somewhat ashamed, 'I can wait; or I will just fly to him for an instant and learn whither he is going, and in a trice I will be back with you--go you on towards Monsieur de la Trémouille.' And gathering up the skirts of his brown habit, his bare feet shod with clattering wooden pattens, the nimble monk ran after the 'Whistler to the Woodhens'; while Leonardo crossed the drawbridge and entered the inner court of the castle. IV The morning mists were rising, and the watch-fires already dying down. The courtyard was crowded with cannon, ammunition, camp equipage, stable provender and refuse. All around were movable booths and cooking-spits, empty barrels serving as card-tables, hogsheads of wine, barrows of provisions; great noises of laughter, curses, quarrelings in many tongues, blasphemies, drunken shoutings and songs. At times an interval of sudden stillness when officers of rank passed. At times drums beat and brazen trumpets gave signal to the Rhenish and Suabian _lanzknechts_, or Alpine horns were blown from the walls by mercenaries from the Free Cantons of Uri and Unterwalden. Making his way through the crowd of men and things, Leonardo reached the centre of the square and found that the Colossus, the happy labour for years of his maturest art, was still intact. The great duke, conqueror of Lombardy, Francesco Attendolo Sforza, with his bald head, in form like that of some Roman emperor, and his expression of leonine cruelty and vulpine cunning, erect as ever, still sat his huge plunging charger and trampled on his foe. A great crowd of archers of various nationalities surrounded the statue, disputing each in his own language, and gesticulating. Leonardo gathered that a contest was imminent between a French and a German marksman, who, after drinking four tankards of wine were to shoot at a distance of fifty paces at the birthmark on the cheek of the great Sforza. The paces were measured; lots were drawn as to who should shoot first; the wine was poured out. The German drank the fill of a tankard without drawing breath, another, and another, and another. Then he took his aim, bent the bow, launched his arrow, and missed the mark. The arrow grazed the cheek, and took off the tip of the left ear, but did no further damage. It was now the turn of the Frenchman. He had brought his arbalist to his shoulder, when a commotion arose among the onlookers. The crowd divided, making space for the procession of a knight and his escort of resplendent followers. He rode past, not heeding the marksmen. 'Who is that?' inquired Leonardo. 'Monseigneur de la Trémouille.' 'Then I am in time,' thought the artist; 'I must pursue him and make supplication.' Nevertheless he actually stood motionless where he was; oppressed by an inability, a paralysis of the will, that would have hindered the stirring of a finger had his very life been in danger. Repugnance, shame, seized him at the thought of pushing his way through the crowd that he might, like Fra Luca Pacioli, run after and pull at the skirts of a person of quality. The Gascon shot his arrow; it whizzed through the air, hit the mark, and penetrated deeply into the mole on Francesco's cheek. '_Bigorre! Bigorre! Montjoie! Saint Denis!_' shouted the soldiers, throwing their caps into the air, '_Vive la France_!' The noisy crowd again encircled the Colossus, the jargon of many tongues broke forth anew; a fresh match was arranged, and again arrows whistled on the air and wounded the great Duke. Leonardo could not move. Inconceivable as it may seem, rooted to the spot as in some hideous dream, he watched the slow destruction of the work of the six best years of his life; of perhaps the greatest monument of the sculptor's art since the days of Phidias and Praxiteles. Under a hail of bullets, arrows, and even stones, the brittle clay was broken off in lumps or resolved into dust; the supports were laid bare. The Colossus had become an immense iron skeleton. The sun streamed out from behind a bank of clouds. Nothing remained but the headless body of a man, the trunk of a horse, the fragment of a sceptre, and the inscription on the pedestal. 'Behold a god!' Just then the commandant of the French troops, the old Marshal Gian Giacomo Trivulzio, rode up. He looked at the place of the Colossus, stopped in sheer astonishment, looked again, shading his eyes from the sun; then turned to his attendants and asked-- 'In the name of God, what has taken place?' '_Monseigneur_,' replied a lieutenant. 'Captain Cockburn gave permission to his cross-bowmen----' 'The Sforza monument! the work of Leonardo da Vinci--I made a target for the archers of Gascony!' cried the marshal, and he rushed at the men, who, intent on their work of destruction, had not observed his displeasure; seized a Frenchman by the collar and flung him to the ground, rating him soundly. In his fury the old general had become quite purple. '_Monseigneur_,' stammered the soldier, struggling to his knees, shaking with fright, '_Monseigneur_, we did not know! Captain Cockburn had said----' 'To hell with your Captain Cockburn! I'll hang every man jack of you!' He flourished his sword and would have wounded some one had not Leonardo caught his wrist with such force that the brazen sword-hilt was bent. Trivulzio stared at the stranger in dire amazement while struggling to free himself. 'Who is this man?' he exclaimed indignantly, and the artist himself replied:-- 'Leonardo da Vinci.' 'And how do you dare----' began the old marshal, still beside himself, but meeting the clear unfaltering gaze of the eyes fixed upon him, he broke off. 'Eh? you are Leonardo?' he said. 'I pray you loose my arm--you have crushed the hilt.' '_Monseigneur_,' said Leonardo, 'I beseech you.--Pardon these poor fools!' The marshal again stared in amazement; then smiled, and shook his head. 'A strange fellow! What? You entreat for them?' 'If your Excellence hangs every mother's son among them, what will it profit me? They knew not what they did.' The old man became thoughtful, then his face cleared, and his small intelligent eyes shone with good nature. 'Hark ye, Messer Leonardo! There is one thing passes me. How could you stand there stock-still, looking on? Why did you not complain to me? or to Monseigneur de la Trémouille? He must have passed by within an hour!' Leonardo looked down and reddened. 'I was not in time,' he stammered, 'I----I don't know Monsieur de la Trémouille.' ''Tis a misfortune,' said the old man; and surveying the ruin, he exclaimed with great vehemence, 'I would have given a hundred of my best troopers for your Colossus!' On his way home, Leonardo crossed the bridge just under Bramante's loggia, the scene of his last interview with the Duke. Pages and grooms were chasing the swans which were so dear to Il Moro; and the poor creatures unable to escape from the moat, fluttered and screamed in agonies. The water was flecked with down and snowy feathers; here and there on its blackness floated a white blood-stained body. One newly-wounded bird stretched its graceful neck in the convulsions of death, uttering piercing cries and flapping its weakening wings, as if in a last vain effort for flight. Leonardo averted his eyes and hurried away. V Louis XII. made his entry into the Lombard capital punctually on the 6th of October. Great crowds assembled to see the procession; and the newly-mended angels of the Milanese Commune waved their gilded wings to the admiration of all. Leonardo had not touched his flying-machine since the day of the destruction of the _Cavallo_; but Astro still laboured at it indefatigably, now and then looking reproachfully at the Master with his one eye, in which blazed fires of zeal and hope. One morning Pacioli came running with a message from the king, summoning Messer Leonardo to the castle. The artist was unwilling to leave Astro, for he had not confessed that the new apparatus was a failure, and he feared lest the enthusiast should endanger his neck in some rash experiment. However, he set forth, and presently arrived at the _Sala della Rocchetta_ where Louis XII. was receiving the magistrates and chief citizens of the city. Leonardo looked at his new sovereign with attention, but discovered nothing regal in his aspect. He was lean and feeble, with narrow shoulders, a hollow chest, and a face curiously wrinkled. Evidently used to suffering, it had conferred on him neither nobility nor grace; his virtues were at best of the _bourgeois_ type. A young man, twenty years of age, dressed simply in black, stood on the first step of the throne. He wore no ornaments except a few pearls in the looping of his hat, and the gold chain of the Order of St. Michael: his face was pale, his flaxen hair was worn long, and he had dark blue eyes, soft, but singularly penetrating and observant. 'Tell me, Fra Luca,' whispered Leonardo, 'who is that young noble?' 'Cæsar Borgia, the son of the pope, the Duke of Valentinois,' replied the monk. Leonardo was not ignorant of the crimes imputed to this young man. There was little doubt that he had murdered his brother in order that, exchanging the cardinal's purple for the title of _Gran Gonfaloniere_ of the Roman Church, he might himself have the chief place in the family honours. Further, the whisper ran, that the motive of the fratricide was not ambition only, but a monstrous rivalry between the brothers for the favour of their sister Lucrezia. 'That, at least, is impossible,' thought Leonardo, looking at the calm face and clear soft eyes. Cæsar probably felt Leonardo's scrutinising gaze, for he turned and asked his secretary some question, pointing at the artist as he spoke. The secretary, a man of venerable aspect, replied in a whisper, and Cæsar in his turn looked intently at Leonardo, while a subtle smile played upon his lips. 'Nay, it is not impossible,' thought the artist, answering his own hasty judgment; 'anything is possible to that face; perhaps even worse than we have heard.' The spokesman of the town syndics, having finished the reading of a long and tedious document, approached the throne and presented the parchment to the king. Louis accidentally dropped it, and before the citizen could pick it up, Cæsar had stooped dexterously and quickly, had lifted the roll, and placed it in the king's hand. 'He never loses an opportunity,' grumbled some one standing near Leonardo. 'You are right,' responded another; 'the pope's son understands the arts of service. You should see him of a morning at the king's dressing! He warms his shirt for him! I daresay he'd be ready even to wash out the stable.' Leonardo also had observed Cæsar's too obsequious action, which seemed to him terrible rather than servile, like the caress of a wild beast; but he was no longer permitted to play the part of a spectator, for Pacioli dragged him forward and presented him to the king with a short speech made up of superlatives--'_stupendissimo! prestantissimo! invincibilissimo!_' and the like. Louis spoke at once of the _Cenacolo_, praising the figures of the Apostles, and waxing enthusiastic over the perspective of the roof. Fra Luca was quite sure his Majesty had a post ready to offer to the great artist; but unluckily at this moment a page brought in letters from France, and the king's attention was engrossed by the news that his loved wife, Anne of Brittany, had been delivered of a princess. The courtiers crowded round with their congratulations, and Leonardo and Pacioli were pushed into the background. Pacioli would again have dragged his friend forward, but Leonardo objected, and presently left the palace. On the drawbridge he was overtaken by Messer Agapito, Borgia's secretary, who by command of his master offered him the post of '_Ingegner ducale_' (chief engineer), which he had already filled under Il Moro. Leonardo said he would reply after a few days' reflection, and went on towards his house. Presently he saw a crowd of people, and hurried his steps with a presentiment of disaster. The fear was well grounded; his pupils Giovanni, Marco, Salaino, and Cesare, unable to procure a litter, were carrying the unfortunate Astro on the broken wing of the new and ill-fated flying-machine, his garments blood-stained and torn, his face white as death. Leonardo guessed at once what had occurred. The smith, great in resolution and in faith, had adventured on the machine. He had fitted the apparatus to his shoulders, and leaped into the air. Then he had fallen, and would probably have been killed had not one of the wings caught in the boughs of a tree. Leonardo helped to carry the poor wretch home; with his own hands he laid him on a bed and bent over him to examine his hurts. Astro recovered from his swoon, and looking up with supplicating eyes, murmured-- 'O Master! Forgive!' VI Louis XII. celebrated the birth of his daughter with great feasts, and a solemn thanksgiving mass was performed in the cathedral. The city was quiet, and all seemed peaceful and prosperous. Having exacted an oath of fealty from his new subjects, he appointed Marshal Trivulzio his viceroy, and returned to France early in November. The calm was, however, deceitful; Trivulzio soon made himself detested by his cruelty and greed; the adherents of the banished Ludovico took heart, and inflamed the people by liberal distribution of seditious letters. Soon those who had sent Il Moro forth with objurgations and jeers, proclaimed him the best and wisest of sovereigns. Towards the end of January a crowd wrecked the offices of the tax-collector beside the Porta Ticinese; next day there was rioting near Pavia. The cause of the latter disturbance was an attempt made by a French soldier on the chastity of a peasant girl, who struck her assailant with a broom handle and was then threatened by him with an axe. She screamed; her father ran up with a cudgel and was killed by the soldier. Then the crowd fell upon the soldier and he was killed; after which the French drew on the populace and sacked the village. When the news of this outrage reached Milan it acted like a spark upon gunpowder. The people poured into the squares, the streets, the market-places, shouting 'Down with the king! Down with Trivulzio! Death to the foreigners! _Viva Il Moro!_' The French troops were too few to withstand attack from the three hundred thousand inhabitants of Milan. Trivulzio placed guns upon the tower which for the present was in use as the cathedral belfry, but before giving the order to fire on the crowd he tried one more effort at pacification. He was hustled, hunted into the Palazzo del Comune, and would have perished there but for the timely intervention of the Swiss mercenaries. Then ensued burning and pillaging; torture and murder of all foreigners and their sympathisers who fell into the hands of the citizens. On the 1st of February Trivulzio fled, leaving the fortress in charge of the Captains d'Espe and Codecara. That very night Il Moro returned from Germany, and was received with great joy by the town of Como; all Milan anxiously awaited him as its saviour. In these last days of the revolt, when the streets were being wrecked on all sides by the cannonade, Leonardo transferred his household to the ample cellars of his house, contriving living-rooms of tolerable comfort, and storing everything of value: pictures, drawings, manuscripts, scientific instruments. He had definitely resolved to enter Cæsar Borgia's service, and was to present himself in Romagna not later than the summer of 1500; meanwhile he proposed to visit his friend, Girolamo Melzi, at his villa of Vaprio in the vicinity of Milan, living there in retirement till the disturbances were at an end. On the morning of February the 2nd, the Feast of the Purification, Fra Luca brought him the tidings that the castle had been flooded. A Milanese, Luigi da Porto, who had been in Trivulzio's service, had deserted to the rebels, first opening all the sluices which fed the moats of the fortress. The water spread over the circumjacent lands, reaching to the walls of the Rocchetta; and, making its way into the magazine and provision stores, almost forced the French to surrender, which was precisely what Messer Luigi had hoped. The flood had also overflowed the canal, had inundated the low lying suburb of Porta Vercellina, where was situated the Monastery delle Grazie. Fra Luca expressed grave fears for Leonardo's _Cenacolo_ and offered to go with him and see how it fared. The painter, feigning indifference, replied that he was too busy, and that he believed the height of the fresco would preserve it from injury. No sooner, however, was he rid of Pacioli than he hastened to the convent refectory, on the brick floor of which pools were still left, and where there was a pervading odour of miasma and stagnant water. A monk told him that the flood had risen to the fourth of a cubit. The _Cenacolo_ had not been painted in water-colours, according to the usage for fresco; such process requiring a rapidity of execution alien to Leonardo's genius. 'A painter who has no doubts will have small success,' he used to say; and for his doubts, his vacillations, his experiments, corrections, and extreme slowness, only the medium of oil was suitable. It was in vain that experienced masters told him that oil paints were impossible for a damp wall standing on the verge of a marsh. His love of experiment, and of new paths and devices induced him to disregard all warnings; he mixed his paints in a special way, and prepared the wall by coating it first with clay, varnished and oiled, then with a mixture of mastic, pitch and plaster. Having dismissed the monk, Leonardo crossed the still soaking refectory floor, and stepped close to examine his picture. The transparent and delicate colours seemed uninjured, and not even blurred; however he took a magnifying-glass and explored the surface in every part. To his dismay, there in the left-hand corner, just where the tablecloth was represented hanging in ample folds by the feet of St Bartholomew, he discovered a small crack; beside it the colours were already fading, and on the surface was a white velvety patch, scarce observable, but the beginning of mould. Sudden paleness overspread Leonardo's features; he composed himself, however, and continued his examination with minuter care. Very soon he realised what had happened. The first coating of varnished clay had bulged in consequence of the damp and had come away from the wall, raising the upper coating of plaster which carried the paint; and in the plaster tiny almost invisible cracks had formed, through which a salt sweat exuded from the porous brickwork. The _Cenacolo_ was doomed. The colours might last forty or fifty years and Leonardo himself never see their decay, but it was impossible to doubt that this his greatest work must irretrievably perish. He stood looking at the face of his Christ; realising for the first time how dear to him was this, his supreme creation. The ruin of the _Cenacolo_, the destruction of the _Cavallo_, snapped the last threads which bound him to men, which united him to friends perhaps still unborn. His soul had long been solitary; now his solitude was deeper than before. The clay of the Colossus, resolved into dust, was the sport of the winds of heaven; mould was gathering on the very countenance of the Lord, dimming its outline, blurring and fading its colours. All that had been his very life was vanishing as a shadow. He came away, leaving the monastery without speaking to any one; made his way to his deserted house, and descended to the place of refuge underground. He passed through the room where lay the unfortunate Astro, and stopped for a moment to speak to Giovanni who was preparing a compress for the sick man's brow. 'Fever again?' asked the Master. 'Yes; he is delirious.' Leonardo watched the bandaging, and listened for a few minutes to the rapid disconnected babble which came from the lips of the poor broken enthusiast. 'Higher! Higher! Straight to the sun--so long as the wings don't catch fire! Ha! little one! who are you? What is your name? Mechanics? That is a scurvy name! I never heard of a devil named Mechanics! What are you jeering at? Is it a joke? That's enough now; you have had your joke, and I've done with you. Ah!--Lift me! Lift me! I can bear no more! Let me just get my breath. Oh--death and damnation!' His face was anguished; cries of terror burst from his lips; he fancied himself falling into the abyss. But this passed and the rapid babbling recommenced. 'No, no! mock not! The fault was mine own. He told me they were not ready. Ay, he said so. I have betrayed the Master! I have betrayed the Master! Hush! Hush! O yes, I know him! the smallest and the heaviest of all the devils--the little one named Mechanics.' Leonardo, leaning over the bed, could not avert his gaze. He was thinking-- 'Here is another man whom I have destroyed.' He laid his hand on Astro's burning forehead. It appeared to calm him, little by little he became quieter, and presently he sank into heavy sleep. Leonardo retired to his underground cell, and buried himself in his calculations. He was now studying the laws of the wind, and the aerial currents, and comparing them with the laws of the waves and currents of the sea--all still with reference to this question of flight. 'If you throw two stones of equal size into a pool, at a little distance from each other,'--he said slowly to himself--'two widening circles will be formed on the surface of the water. Then will come a moment in which the first circle will meet the second; will it enter and bisect it? or will the waves be refracted at their point of contact? I answer, taking my stand on experience: the two circles will intersect each other, remaining, however, distinct and keeping their respective centres at the points where the stones fell.' The simplicity with which nature had solved this mechanical problem filled him with enthusiasm: 'How subtle is this! How beautiful!' He made a calculation, and the result added to his conviction that the mathematical sciences, with their laws founded on the essential necessities of reason, justified the natural necessities of mechanics. Hour after hour flew by unnoticed, and evening came on. After supper, and relaxation in talk with his pupils, he again set to work. The acumen and lucidity of his thoughts convinced him that he was on the verge of some great discovery. 'Behold how the wind, blowing across the fields, drives waves over the rye, one succeeding the other, while the stalks, though they bend, remain fixed in the ground! In like manner do the waves run over the immovable water. The ripple caused by the throwing of a stone, or by the force of the wind, should rather be called a shiver than a movement of the water. And of this you may persuade yourself by throwing a straw into the widening rings of wavelets, and watching how it rises and falls, but does not leave its place.' This experiment with the straw reminded him of a similar test which he had applied when studying the waves of sound. He mused-- 'The striking of a bell will induce a slight quiver and a low resonance in a neighbouring bell; a note sounded on a lute will awake the same note in a lute by its side; and a straw laid upon the string which produces that note will show its vibration.' The soul of the student was greatly stirred; he divined some connection, a whole world of undiscovered knowledge, between the two oscillating straws; the one trembling on the surface of the waves, the other quivering on the vibrating string. And an idea, swift as lightning, flashed across his mind. 'The mechanical law is the same in the two cases! Like the waves on the water when a stone drops into it, so the waves of sound widen in the air, intersecting others, but not mingling with them, keeping their own centre in the place of their origin. What, then, of light? As an echo is the reproduction of a sound, the reflection in a mirror is an echo of light. There is but one mechanical law in all the phenomena of physical force; there is but one will; and this will is thy justice, O Prime Mover! the angle of incidence must be equal to the angle of reflection.' His face pale, his eyes burning with enthusiasm, Leonardo felt that once again, and this time more certainly than before, he was about to sound an abyss into which no man had looked before. He knew that this discovery, if confirmed by experiment, was the greatest mechanical discovery since the days of Archimedes. Two months ago, when he had heard that Vasco di Gama had doubled the Cape of Good Hope and discovered a new route to India, Leonardo had envied him, but now he had made a greater discovery than di Gama or Columbus; he had sighted more mysterious expanses, and no less than they had found a new heaven and a new earth. But through the wall there reached his ears the groans and the ravings of the sufferer. He listened, and remembered his mechanics, the senseless destruction of the Colossus, the inevitable ruin of the _Cenacolo_, Astro's foolish and horrible fall; and asked himself:-- 'Will this discovery be lost as completely, as ignominiously as all else which I have done? Will no man heed my voice? shall I ever be solitary as now? here alone in the darkness, underground, as if buried alive? I who have dreamed of wings!' After a short pause, he added: 'Be it so! Darkness, and silence, and oblivion, and none to know what I have done! _I_ know it!' And indomitable pride, a sense of inalienable victory and strength filled his soul, as if the wings to which he had aspired were already lifting him above the earth. The subterranean chamber suddenly became too strait for him; he felt stifled, and the longing was irresistible to behold the sky, and the open country. He left the house, and walked swiftly towards the cathedral. VIII The night was moonlit, serene, and warm; from the conflagration sullen flames still glowed, and smoky spirals still rose into the sky. The crowd increased as he drew nearer to the centre of the town. The blue rays of the moon, the scarlet glare of the torches, illuminated faces haggard with excitement, seamed with anxiety, and played on the white banner with the scarlet cross which had been used by the ancient Milanese Commune, on lantern-poles, arquebuses, pistols, clubs, halberts, scythes, pitchforks, stakes, all pressed into service against the foreigner. The people swarmed like ants, the tocsin pealed, the guns roared. From the fortress the French were firing down the street, and their boast was that they would not leave one stone upon another within the city walls. Louder than the bells, more piercing than the booming of the cannon, rose the incessant yell of the citizens: 'Death to the French! Death to the foreigners! Down with the king! _Viva Il Moro!_' To Leonardo it gave the impression of a wild and hideous dream. Near the eastern gate, a drummer from Picardy, a boy of sixteen, was being hanged, Mascarello the goldsmith playing the part of executioner. Flinging the rope round the lad's neck, and tapping him lightly on the head, he cried with ribald solemnity:-- 'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, we dub this servant of God, this Frenchman, Saltamacchia, Knight of the Hempen Necklace.' 'Amen!' responded the crowd. The little drummer, ill understanding his danger, half smiling, blinking his eyes like a child about to cry, shrank into himself, twisting his neck that he might ease the noose. Then suddenly, as if awaking from a lethargy, he turned his beautiful but white and trembling face to the crowd, and would have attempted entreaty. His voice was drowned by howls and derisive laughter, and he gave up the attempt, holding his peace with the forlorn air of a resigned and innocent victim, and kissing a little cross, the gift of his mother or sister, which he had worn on a blue ribbon round his neck. Then Mascarello swung him into the void, with the jeer: 'Courage, Knight of the Necklace! Show us how you dance the French _gaillard_!' And, mid the laughter of the crowd, the child's body shuddered horribly, and was convulsed in the spasms of death, as if indeed it were dancing. Leonardo walked on, and presently he saw a woman, dressed in rags, kneeling before a miserable half-ruined hovel, and stretching out thin bare arms to the passers-by. 'Help; Help! Help!' she cried incessantly. Corbolo the shoemaker, running up, asked what ailed her. 'My baby! My baby! He was sleeping, so pretty in his little bed! He has fallen through the floor! Perhaps he is still alive! Oh, save him! Try and save him! _Help!_' Just then a cannon-ball, rending the air with a shriek, struck the roof of the hovel. The beams cracked, dust rose in a column, the roof fell, the walls crumbled, and the woman was for ever silenced. Again Leonardo moved on, and presently he reached the Palazzo del Comune. Here, in front of the Loggia degli Osii, an university student was haranguing the crowd, descanting on the ancient glory of the Milanese, and exhorting the people to annihilate all tyrants, and establish the reign of equality. His hearers, however, seemed hard of persuasion. 'Citizens!' he cried, brandishing the knife which on ordinary occasions served him for mending pens, slicing sausages, and cutting his sweetheart's name on the bark of trees, but which now he had christened 'the Poniard of Nemesis,' 'Citizens! the hour has come in which we must die for Liberty! We will wash our hands in the blood of the tyrants; in their breasts we will plunge this Poniard of Nemesis. _Viva la Repubblica!_' 'Folly!' cried voices from the audience. 'We know the wine of your vintage! We know the liberty you would give us, you spy, traitor, dog of a Frenchman! To the devil with you and your republic! _Viva Il Moro!_ Death to all enemies of the duke!' The orator continued to prate, enforcing his doctrine by instances from Cicero and Tacitus, but the mob overthrew his bench, knocked him down and beat him, shouting:-- 'Here's for your Liberty! Here's for your Republic! Here's for inflaming fools against their legitimate ruler!' Leonardo stood for a minute in the Piazza dell' Arengo to admire the imposing pile of the cathedral--that marble forest of pinnacles and towers, fantastic in the double light, blue rays of the moon and crimson flare of torches. In front of the archbishop's palace the press was so great that there was scarce standing-room, and from the centre of the throng came groans and ferocious howls. 'What has happened?' asked the painter of an old workman, whose gentle dignified face was blanched with horror. 'Who can understand? They themselves know neither what they want nor what they do. They are accusing Messer Jacopo Crotta of selling poisoned flour, and of being a French spy! _O Dio! Dio!_ It is a lie! But they fall on the first man they meet, and listen to none! 'Tis horrible, 'tis most horrible! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!' Just then Gorgoglio the glass-blower detached himself from the dense pack of human bodies, holding aloft a bloody human head stuck on a pole; and Farfannicchio, the madcap of the streets, danced round it, screaming and yelling. 'Down with the traitors! down with the foreigners! Death to the devils of Frenchmen!' '_A furore populi, libera nos, Domine!_' murmured the old workman, crossing himself. From the castle came an incessant sound of trumpets, drums, explosions of cannon, crackling of guns, cries of soldiers. The monster bombard, called by the French _Margot la Folle_, and by the Germans _die tolle Grete_, was fired; the earth shook, it seemed that the whole town must crash into ruins. The bomb fell beyond the Borgonuovo, and set fire to a house; pillars of flame rose into the quiet moonlit sky, and the piazza was lit with a crimson glare. The people hurried hither and thither, jostling, pushing, trampling each other like black shadows, like living phantoms. Leonardo stood watching the wild scene, noting every detail, his mind preoccupied. The fiery glow, the voices of the crowd, the pealing of the bells, the boom of the guns, all brought back his discovery. Imagination pictured the waves of sound, the waves of light swelling tranquilly, circling outwards like the ripple on water where a stone has fallen, intersecting each other without mingling or confusion, each keeping its own centre in the point of its origin. Great gladness filled his soul as he thought that never at any time could men interrupt the harmonious play of these ordered waves, nor the mechanical law which rules them, the unchanging fiat of their creator, the rule of divine justice, making the angle of incidence equal to the angle of reflection. In his soul re-echoed-- 'O wondrous justice of thee, thou Prime Mover! No force hast thou permitted to lack the order and the quality of its necessary effect!' In the frenzied crowd, the soul of the artist preserved the eternal calm of contemplation; even as the blue rays of the moon shone with heavenly effulgence supreme over glare of torches and flames of conflagration and war. * * * * * On a certain morning in February 1500, Ludovico Sforza, Il Moro, re-entered Milan by the Porta Nuova. Leonardo had started the previous night for Vaprio, his friend Melzi's villa. IX Girolamo Melzi had once belonged to the court of the Sforzas, but on the death of his young wife in 1494 he had retired to his lonely villa at the foot of the Alps, a few hours' journey from Milan. Far from the noise of the world, he lived the life of a philosopher, gardening with his own hands, and devoting himself to music and to the study of the occult sciences. Some said he was an adept in black magic, accustomed to call up the shade of his lost wife from the lower world. The mathematician, Fra Luca Pacioli, and Sacrobosco, the alchemist, often visited him, and whole nights were spent in argument about Plato's ideas, and the laws of the Pythagorean numbers which governed the music of the spheres. But Melzi found his chief pleasure in the visits of Leonardo, which were not infrequent, as the works on the Martesana Canal often brought him to the vicinity. Vaprio was situated on the left bank of the Adda; and the canal, skirting the villa garden, ran for a certain distance parallel to the river, the course of which was just here obstructed by rapids. All day the roar of the cataract made itself heard, loud as the billows of the sea surf. Free, wild, storm-tossed, untamed by man, the Adda hurled its green waves between winding precipitous banks of yellow sandstone. By its side, the same cold, green, mountain water swam noiselessly by within the straight-drawn confines of the canal; smooth as a mirror, calm, slow, submissive and subdued. The contrast delighted Leonardo, and seemed to him of pregnant meaning. Which of the two streams was the more beautiful--the Martesana, his own creation, the work of human intelligence and will, or its elder sister, the foaming Adda, savage, threatening, superb in its untrammelled freedom? He understood each, sympathised with each, and loved them with equal love. From the upper terrace of the villa garden was a wide prospect of the immense Lombard plain, one vast and smiling garden. In the summer the fields were rank with verdure; hay scented the air; the wheat and the maize grew so tall as to overtop the vines; ears of corn kissed the pears and the apples, the cherries and the plums. The hills of Como rose dark towards the north; above them towered the first spurs of the Alps; higher still the snow-clad summits glowed in the sunset gold. Fra Luca and Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, whose cottage by the Porta Vercellina had been destroyed by the French, were both at the villa when Leonardo arrived; but he kept himself apart, preferring solitude. He conceived, however, a great fondness for the company of Francesco, his host's little son. Timid and shy as a girl, the boy at first stood in great awe of the painter; one day, however, he came into his room at a moment when Leonardo, studying the laws of colour, was experimenting with coloured glass. He pleased the child by letting him look through the different pieces, yellow, blue, purple, or green, which gave a fairy aspect to familiar objects, and made the world seem now smiling, now frowning, according to the colour of the glass. Another of Leonardo's inventions proved very attractive. This was the 'Camera obscura,' by means of which living pictures appeared on a sheet of white paper; and Francesco saw the turning of the mill-wheel, the swallows circling round the church, the woodcutter's grey donkey with his load of faggots stepping daintily along the miry road while the poplars bowed their heads under the breeze. Still more fascinating was the weather-gauge: a copper ring, a small stick like the beam of a balance, and two little balls, the one covered with wax, the other with wadding. When the air was saturated with moisture the wadding grew heavy, and the little ball, falling down, inclined the beam till it touched one or other of the divisions marked on the copper ring. The degree of damp could thus be accurately measured, and the weather predicted for two or three days. The little boy constructed a similar apparatus for himself and was jubilant when the prophecies were fulfilled which he had deduced from its variations. Francesco went to the village school where he was taught by the old prior of the neighbour convent. The dog-eared Latin grammar and arithmetic primer were odious to him, and he learned but slackly. Leonardo's lore was of a new sort, pleasant to the child as a fairy tale. The instruments for the study of optics, acoustics, hydraulics, were to him new and magical toys, nor was he ever tired of hearing the painter's talk. Fearing ridicule or suspicion, Leonardo spoke but cautiously with adults; to Francesco he talked with the utmost frankness and simplicity. He not only taught the child, but learned of him. Paraphrasing the text of Holy Writ, he told himself--'Except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of knowledge.' It was at this time that he was writing his _Book of the Stars_. On March evenings, when in the still chilly air there was a waft of spring, he would stand on the roof with Francesco, watching the tide of stars and sketching the spots on the face of the moon. Then rolling a piece of paper into an inverted cone, he bade the child look through the aperture at the end, and Francesco saw the stars robbed of their rays, and like bright, round, infinitely minute globules. 'Those globules,' said Leonardo, 'are of great size, many of them a hundred, nay, a thousand times larger than our earth, which, however, is not less beautiful nor more contemptible than they. The mechanical laws which obtain in our world, and which have been discovered by human sagacity, guide also those stars and suns.' 'What is there beyond the stars?' murmured the child. 'More stars, Francesco; worlds which we cannot see.' 'And beyond those?' 'Yet others.' 'But at the end, at the very end?' 'There is no end.' 'No end,' cried the boy, and Leonardo felt the trembling of the little hand within his own. The child's face had grown pale. 'Then where--where,' he said slowly, 'where is Paradise, Messer Leonardo, and the angels, and the saints, and the Madonna, and God the Father who sits upon the throne with God the Son and the Holy Spirit?' The teacher would have liked to answer that God was everywhere; in the grain of sand no less than in the celestial globe; in the hearts of men no less than in the outside universe. But fearing to disturb the simple faith of the little one he held his peace. With the first budding of the trees, the painter and the child spent whole days together in the garden or in the neighbouring woods watching the reviving of life in the vegetable world. Sometimes Leonardo would draw a flower or tree, trying to seize the living likeness as in the portrait of a man; that unique particular aspect of his model which would never be repeated. He taught Francesco how the rings seen in the wood of the trunk reveal the age of the tree; and how the thickness of each ring shows the amount of moisture in the year when it was formed; how the core of the trunk is always on the southern side, which has had the most of the sun's heat. He told how in the spring-time the sap, gathering between the inner green of the trunk and the outer bark, thickens and expands and bursts the bark; how, if a branch is cut, the vital power draws an abundance of nutritive juices to the wounded place, so that the bark thickens and the wound is healed; yet its mark remains because the abundance of the nutritive juices has been too great, and has overflowed and made lumps and knots. Always he spoke of nature dryly and with apparent frigidity, seeking only scientific accuracy. With passionless exactitude he defined the tender details of the action of the spring upon the life of plants, as he would have spoken of the performance of a machine. He showed from abstract mathematics the wonderful laws which shape the needles of pine-trees and the facets of crystals. Yet for all his coldness and impartiality, the child discerned his love for all living things, for the withered leaf no less than for the mighty boughs which spread suppliant arms to their great lord, the sun. At times, in the depth of the forest, he would pause and note smilingly how under last year's withered leaves still hanging on the branches, green shoots were sprouting to oust them from their place; how the bee, weak from her winter torpor, could scarce crawl into the snowdrop's cup. In the great stillness Francesco could hear the beating of his friend's iron heart; timidly he would raise his eyes to the Master. The sun shining athwart the branches lit up his long curling hair, flowing beard, and overhanging brows, and surrounded his head with a halo: he seemed like Pan himself who listens to the growing of the grass, the murmuring of spring below the earth, the mystical forces of awakening life. To Leonardo all things lived. The world was one great body, like the body of man, who himself is a little world. In the dewdrops he saw the similitude of the watery sphere which surrounds the earth. The cataracts of the Adda near Trezzo gave him occasion to study the cascades and whirlpools of rivers which he compared to the twisting of a woman's curls. Mysterious resemblances attracted him, concords in nature's harmony like voices answering each other from distant worlds. Inquiring into the origin of the rainbow, he noted that the same prismatic colour is seen in the plumage of birds, precious stones, in the scum on stagnant water, in old dulled glass. In the patterns on frosted window-panes, he found a resemblance to living leaves and flowers, as if nature in this world of frozen crystal had seen prophetic visions of the coming spring. At times he felt himself drawing near new realms of knowledge, perhaps to be entered only by men of ages to come. He used to say about the attractive powers of amber:-- 'I see not the mode by which the human mind shall apprehend the mystery. These powers of the magnet and the amber are among those occult forces which are as yet unrevealed.' And further-- 'The world is full of countless possibilities of which yet there has been no experience.' One day, a certain Messer Guidotto Prestinari, a poet from Bergamo, came to the villa. Offended with Leonardo, who did not sufficiently praise his verses, he began a discussion on the comparative excellence of poetry and painting. Leonardo spoke little, but the fury with which Messer Guidotto assailed his art at last amused him and he said, half jesting:-- 'Painting is higher than poetry, inasmuch as it reproduces the eternal works of God and not human inventions, to which the poets, at least of our day, are too apt to confine themselves. They depict not, but describe, borrowing all they have and trading with each other's wares. They but put together and combine the refuse of knowledge. They may be compared to the receivers of stolen goods....' Fra Luca, Messer Galeotto, and Melzi himself cried out; but Leonardo had now warmed to the subject and cried:-- 'The eye gives a more complete knowledge of nature than the ear! Things seen are less to be doubted than things heard. Painting, which is silent poetry, comes nearer to positive science than poetry, which is invisible painting. Words give but a series of isolated images following one another; but in a picture, all the forms, all the colours appear synchronously, and are blended into a whole, like the notes of a chord in music; and thus both to painting and to music a more complex harmony is possible than to poetry. And the richer the harmony, the richer is that delight which is the aim and the enchantment of art. Question, say, any lover, whether he would not rather have a portrait of his loved one than a description in words of her countenance, though it were composed by the greatest of poets?' This argument provoked a smile, and presently Leonardo continued:-- 'Hear a narrative from my own experience. A certain Florentine youth fell into such a longing for the face of a woman whom I had painted in one of my sacred pictures, that, having bought it, he cancelled all the signs of its religious character, so that he might kiss his adored one without fear or scruple. But soon the voice of conscience overcame the passion of love, nor could he recover his tranquillity of mind till he had removed the picture from his dwelling. Think ye, O poets, that with your words you could rouse a man to like vehemence of desire? Believe me, Messeri, I speak not of myself, for I know how greatly I fall short, but of that painter who attains to the perfection of his art. He is no longer a man; rapt in the contemplation of divine and eternal beauty, or turned to the study of monstrous forms, grotesque, pathetic, terrible, he can comprehend and give shape to all; he is a sovereign--a god.' Many such ideas Leonardo had inscribed in his note-books; and Fra Luca urged him to order his manuscripts and give them to the public. He even offered to find him an editor. Leonardo, however, refused, and remained firm in his resolution that he would publish nothing. Yet all his writings were couched in the form of address to a reader; and at the commencement of one of his diaries he apologised in these words for the disconnected style and frequent repetitions:-- 'Blame me not, O reader, for the subjects are numberless and my memory is weak, and I write at long intervals in different years.' XI In the last days of March disquieting tidings reached the Villa Melzi. The French army, led by Monsieur de la Trémouille, had crossed the Alps and was descending for the reconquest of Milan. Il Moro, suspicious of all, and oppressed by superstitious fears, dared not meet the enemy in the open field, and daily showed himself _più pauroso d'una donniccuola_, 'more panic-stricken than a silly girl.' But at the villa news of the great world seemed but a faint and far off hum. Careless of duke and king, Leonardo roamed the neighbouring hills and glens and woods, accompanied only by the little Francesco. Sometimes they ascended the river to its source among the pine-clad mountains; and there they hired workmen and made excavations, seeking fossil shells and plants. One evening, wearied by a long day's march, they rested under an old lime-tree, overhanging the steep bank of the Adda. The unbounded plain, with its long rows of wayside poplars, lay stretched at their feet. The white houses of Bergamo shone in the evening sunlight: the snowy mountain-tops seemed to float in the air. All the sky was clear, save that in the far distance, almost on the horizon, between Treviglio, Brignano, and Castel Rozzone, there suddenly appeared a light cloud of smoke. 'What is it?' asked Francesco. 'I know not. It may be a battle. I see what may be fire, and think I hear the sound of cannon. It may be a skirmish between our folk and the French.' Latterly, such chance encounters had not been infrequent. They watched the cloud silently for a few minutes, then turned their attention to the fruit of their day's digging. The master picked up a large bone, sharp as a needle, the fin of some primeval fish. 'How many kings, how many nations has not time destroyed since this creature fell on its sleep in that great cavern, where to-day we have found it? How many thousands of years has the world seen, what changes have taken place, while it was lying hid, concealed from all eyes, supporting heavy masses of earth with its bare skeleton?' He made a large gesture with his hand, as if to embrace the verdant plain stretched at their feet; then continued:-- 'All that you see, Francesco, was once the bed of an ocean which covered the chief parts of Europe, Africa, and Asia; the summits of the Apennines were islands in a great sea, and fishes swam in these fields of singing birds.' He interrupted himself, and they looked once more at the distant smoke-drift, and the flashes of fire from the cannon, so insignificant in the boundless expanse, which lay all peaceful and rose-tinted in the sunset glow. It was hard to believe that a fight was taking place, and that men were killing each other almost within range of their eyesight. More vivid to Francesco were the birds flying to roost, the fish of that forgotten sea. Neither spoke, but at that moment the painter and the child had the same thought:-- ''Tis a small matter whether the Lombards prevail or the Frenchmen; Ludovico the duke, or Louis the foreign king; our own people or the strangers. Country, glory, war, the strife of policy, the fall of thrones, the upheaval of nations, all that to man seems great or terrible--all are no more than yonder little cloud of smoke, melting into the peaceful twilight, dissolving in the immutable serenity of Nature.' XII It was at Vaprio that Leonardo finished a picture begun long ago at Florence. In a cavern, surrounded by great rocks, the Mother of God was folding one arm round the infant John the Baptist, with the other clasping her Son, as if she desired to unite the Human and the Divine in the indissoluble embrace of a single love. John, devoutly joining his little hands, bent his knee before Jesus, who blessed him with two fingers raised. The attitude of the infant Saviour, sitting naked on the naked earth, one plump dimpled leg tucked under the other, while he leaned on a plump hand, all its fingers outspread upon the sand--suggested the baby still unable to walk; yet already on his face, perfect wisdom was blent with the simplicity of infancy. A kneeling angel supporting the little Jesus, and pointing at the Precursor, turned to the spectator a face instinct with mournful foreboding, yet illumined by a strange and tender smile. Behind the rocks a pale sun shone through drizzling rain, and blue mountains rose into the sky, their sharp peaks weird and unearthly; the rocks, smoothed and polished as if by the action of salt water, suggested some dried-up ocean bed; and in the cavern was most profound shadow, almost concealing a bubbling spring, leaves of water-plants, pale dim cups of purple iris-flowers. One could fancy slow tricklings and droppings from the overhanging arch of black dolomite; and the creeping weeds and grasses were heavy with the continuous ooze of the ground and the damp saturation of the air. The face of the Madonna alone shone with the delicate brilliance of alabaster within which glows a light. Queen of Heaven, she was shown to men in the gloom of twilight, in a subterranean cavern, in the most secret of the recesses of nature, perhaps the last refuge of ancient Pan and the wood nymphs--she, the mystery of mysteries, the mother of the God-man, in the very bosom of mother earth. It was the creation at once of a great artist and of a great student; the play of light and of shadow, the laws of vegetable life, the anatomy of the human body, the science of drapery, the spirals of a woman's curls (which he had compared to the circling of a whirlpool), all that the natural philosopher had searched into with 'unrelenting severity,' had measured with mathematical accuracy, had dissected as one dissects a corpse--all this the artist had recombined into a new creation, living beauty, a silent melody; into a mystic hymn to the Holy Virgin, the Mother of God. With knowledge equalled by love he had depicted the veins in the iris petals, the dimples in the baby's elbow, the ancient cleft in the dolomite rock, the quiver of the water in the secret spring; the quiver of infinite grief in the angel's smile. He knew all and loved all. Great love is the daughter of great knowledge. XIII One day the alchemist, Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, undertook to experiment with the 'Rod of Mercury,' under which name were known all those staves of myrtle, almond, tamarind, or other 'astrological' woods, which were supposed to have a kinship with metals, and the property of discovering veins of gold, silver, and copper in the rocks. Accompanied by Messer Gerolamo, he went to the east side of the lake of Lecco, known to be rich in ores; and Leonardo joined the company, though he had no faith in the 'Rod of Mercury,' and mocked at it no less than at the other delusions of the alchemists. Near the village of Mandello, at the foot of Monte Campione, there was an abandoned iron mine. Some years before the ground had fallen in and buried a number of the miners; and it was reported that sulphurous exhalations rose from a rent in the lowest depths of the mine, into which, if a stone were thrown, it fell, and fell, and fell, but was never heard to strike the bottom, for the sufficient reason that the pit was bottomless. Leonardo's curiosity was excited by these tales, and he determined to explore the mine while his companions were busied with the magic rod. Not without difficulty, for the peasants believed the mine to be the dwelling-place of a devil, he obtained the services of an old man as guide. A subterranean passage, very steep and dark, and with broken and slippery stairs, led to the central shaft. The guide walked stolidly in front with a lantern, and Leonardo followed, carrying Francesco, who had insisted on accompanying his friend. They descended more than two hundred steps, and were still going down, the passage becoming ever narrower and more steep. A stifling smell of subterranean damp assailed the nostrils. Leonardo struck the wall with a spade, listened to the sound it made, and examined the piece of rock he had detached, the nature and layers of the soil, and the bright mica sparkling in the veins of granite. He felt the child clinging to him very tightly, and he asked with a smile whether his little comrade were afraid. 'With you, I am never afraid,' said Francesco; presently he added shyly, 'is it true what my _babbo_ says, that you are going to leave us?' 'Yes, Francesco.' 'Where are you going?' 'To Romagna; to the Duke Valentino.' 'Is it very far?' 'Several days' journey.' 'Several days!' sighed Francesco; 'then shall we never see you again?' 'Why not? The first minute I can, I will come and see you.' The boy became thoughtful. Squeezing Leonardo's neck tightly with his two arms, he cried:-- 'Take me with you! Oh, Messer Leonardo, take me with you.' 'Alack, my child! How is it possible? There is war there.' 'I don't care for the war. Have I not said that with you I am never afraid? Even if it be more fearsome than it is in this place where we are now, I shall not be afraid. I will be your servant, brush your clothes, carry hay to your horses; and I will seek shells for you, and make you drawings of leaves. Did you not say to me I drew them well? I will do everything like a man. I will obey you in whatever you command. Take me with you, Messer Leonardo!' 'And how about Messer Gerolamo? Would he consent?' 'He will consent if I cry for it. And if he doesn't consent, then I will run away. Say you will take me with you! Say it!' 'No, Francesco; it is idle talk. I know thou would'st not leave thy father. He grows old, and thou must have a fondness for him.' 'Of a surety I have a fondness for him. But for you, too, Messer Leonardo! You think me very little, but truly I comprehend everything. Aunt Bona says you are a sorcerer, and Don Lorenzo, my schoolmaster, says it likewise, and that you are wicked, and that with you I shall lose my soul. But when he speaks ill of you, I answer him in such wise that he comes near beating me.' Suddenly Francesco's eyes filled and the corners of his lips drooped. 'I understand,' he said; 'I understand why you don't want me. You don't love me. And I----.' He burst into tears. 'Hush! hush! Thou should'st cry shame to weep! Hearken to what I tell thee. In a few years, when thou art grown, then I will take thee for my disciple, and keep thee always at my side.' The child raised his eyes, tears still trembling on their long lashes. 'But do you mean it? or is it said to comfort me, and afterwards will you forget?' 'No, Francesco, I promise.' 'You promise? And how long must I wait?' 'Eight or nine years; till thou art at the least fifteen.' 'Eight years,' sighed the child, reckoning on his fingers 'and I shall be always with you?' 'Unless we die.' 'Eight years! Well, if you say it, it is certain.' Francesco smiled, and rubbed his cheek against Leonardo's with a pretty gesture peculiar to himself. 'Messer Leonardo, once I dreamed I was in the dark, going down a long, long stair like this one, only it had no beginning and no end. But I was not frightened, for some one was carrying me. I thought it was my mother, who died ere ever I saw her; but now I know it was you. I am as happy with you as if I was with her.' Leonardo looked at the child with inexpressible tenderness. The innocent eyes shone; he put out his bright lips as confidingly as to a mother, and when Leonardo kissed them he felt the child was giving him his soul. Thus, with the little heart beating against his own, he descended with firm steps into the subterranean night. XIV Upon their return to Vaprio they found alarm in the villa; the French were approaching. Louis, furious at the revolt of the Milanese, had given their city over to pillage. Many of the inhabitants fled to the mountains. Along the road was an endless procession of carts laden with household stuff, and of weeping women dragging children by the hand. At night, from the top windows of the villa, flames were still seen citywards. At Novara a battle was daily expected which should decide the fate of Lombardy. At last Fra Luca brought news of the sad event which had ended the war. The battle was ordered on the 10th of April, but when the duke was reviewing his forces, prior to its commencement, the Swiss mercenaries refused to advance, for they had been secretly bought by Trivulzio. In vain Il Moro conjured them with tears not to bring him to ruin, and promised them extravagant reward in recompense for fidelity. They remained obdurate. Then Ludovico, disguised as a monk, sought to flee; but a Swiss named Schattenhalb betrayed him to the French captains. He was seized and carried before the marshal, who rewarded the Swiss with thirty pieces of silver. The Sire de la Trémouille had charge of the prisoner to escort him to France. He, who, in the words of the court poet, 'first after God had guided the wheel of Fortune,' was placed in a barred cage and carried in a cart, like a trapped wild beast. The duke asked one favour of his captors, that he might carry a copy of the _Divina Commedia_ with him into his exile, '_per istudiari_.' Life at the Villa Melzi became daily more perilous. The French had sacked Lomellina. The Venetians had destroyed the Martesana. Robbers roamed in the neighbourhood of Vaprio; already Messer Gerolamo Melzi was preparing to carry Francesco and Aunt Bona into refuge at Chiavenna. Leonardo's last night came; he inscribed in his diary the thoughts of the day:-- 'A bird having little tail but broad wings, flaps them with great violence, and turns _so that the wind may blow under them_ and raise her _aloft_. This I observed watching a young hawk above the canonry of Vaprio, on the road to Bergamo, to-day, April 14th.' And in the margin he added incidentally: 'Il Moro has lost his state, his goods, and his liberty; not one of his undertakings will be achieved by himself.' The overthrow of the great house of Sforza, the ruin of the man he had served for sixteen years, were to him of far less interest than the flight of a bird of prey. BOOK XI THERE SHALL BE WINGS--1500 '_Piglierà il prima volo il grande ucello sopra del dosso del suo magno Cecero, empiendo l'universo del stupore, empiendo di sua fama tutte le scritture, e gloria eterna al nido dove nacque._'--LEONARDO DA VINCI. (The human bird shall take his first flight, filling the world with amazement, all writings with his fame, and bringing eternal glory to the nest whence he sprang.) I The little town of Vinci, Leonardo's native place, lay on the western slope of Monte Albano, in Tuscany, between Florence and Pisa, and not far from Empoli. There he had an uncle, Ser Francesco da Vinci, who had amassed wealth in the silk industry, and who, unlike the rest of the family, was friendly to his nephew. Before journeying to Romagna the painter proposed to visit Ser Francesco, and if possible to leave Astro in his charge, the unfortunate smith not yet having recovered from the effects of his fall. Leonardo hoped that the mountain air, with quiet and rest, might accomplish more for him than the drugs and experimental surgery of ignorant physicians. The artist, who had been in Florence for a few days, journeyed to Vinci alone, riding a mule. He left the town by the Porta a Prato, and took his way along the banks of the Arno; at Empoli he left the high road and followed a narrow and winding mountain path. The day had been clouded and cool; at evening the sun set in a bank of mist which foreboded a north wind. The prospect on either side continually widened; the hills became higher; and though their undulations were still gentle, they gave promise of higher mountains behind. The ground was carpeted with scanty herbage of a dull green; and the fields, with fallow stripes of brown earth, the stone walls, the grey olives were all dull and whitish in tone, suggestive of the calm, the simplicity, the poverty of the north. Here and there in the distance, beside some solitary chapel or farmhouse with yellow walls and barred windows, dark pointed cypresses, such as may be seen in the pictures by early Florentine masters, rose against quiet hills and an even background of clear, delicately gradated sky. The path became gradually steeper, the air fresher and more invigorating. Sant' Ausano, Calistri, Lucardi, and the Chapel of San Giovanni were already past. Now the day closed, and one by one the stars came out in the blue sky, from which the clouds had disappeared. The wind freshened; the _tramontana_, that piercing wind from the Alps, was beginning to blow. Every appearance of the lowlands had vanished; as the plain had passed into hills, so now the hills passed into mountains. Quite suddenly, at a turn of the road, Vinci came in sight, a little, crowded, stone-built town, clustering round the black tower of its ancient castle, clinging to the rock, crowning the peaked summit of a low but sharply precipitous hill. Lights were gleaming in the windows of the houses. At the cross-roads near the foot of the hill there was a little shrine known to Leonardo from his earliest childhood; a clay image of the Virgin glazed in blue and white, before which a lamp burned continually. As he passed he saw a woman kneeling, bowed together dejectedly, covering her face with her hands, a poor peasant woman, in a thin dark dress, torn and weather-stained. 'Caterina!' murmured Leonardo. It was his mother's name; she too had prayed here, a poor peasant. After crossing the swift mountain stream, the path turned to the right between garden walls overgrown with weeds. Here it was quite dark, and the traveller did not see the rose-branch which kissed his face as he passed, and scented the air with balm. He dismounted at an ancient wooden door let into the wall, and knocked with a stone on the iron cramp. It was the house which had belonged to Leonardo's grandfather, and from him had passed to Ser Francesco. The painter himself had spent his childhood within its walls. No one answered the knock, nor was there for a long time any sound but the rushing of the mill-stream, and presently the quavering bark of an old watch-dog. An old man came out, very much bowed and wrinkled, with silvery hair. He carried a lantern, and was very deaf and rather stupid, so that it took him time to understand who Leonardo was. However, when at last he recognised him whom he had carried in his arms forty years earlier, he burst into tears of joy, dropped his lantern, and, stooping over the painter's hand, mumbled it with his lips, sobbing out:-- '_O Signore! Signore! Leonardo mio!_'--while the dog wagged his tail to please the old gardener, pretending that he clearly comprehended what was taking place. Gian Battista, the old man, explained that Ser Francesco was away at Marcigliano, where a monk of his acquaintance had promised a drug to cure him of the stomach-ache; he would not be home for two days. Leonardo determined, however, to wait for him; more especially because next day Boltraffio was to bring up Zoroastro from Florence. The old man ushered the visitor into the house, and bade his grand-daughter, a pretty fair-haired girl of sixteen, to prepare supper. Leonardo declined anything but bread, home-grown wine, and iron-water from the spring on the property. Ser Francesco, though well-to-do, continued the hardy, simple style of living which had been a necessity to his forefathers, and his house was anything but luxurious. Leonardo entered the familiar apartment, at once kitchen and parlour, where the few clumsy chairs, settles, and chests had become smooth and polished with age; a dresser carried heavy pewter dinner-plates, and medicinal herbs were hanging from the beams of the raftered ceiling. The walls were whitewashed, and quite bare; there was a brick floor, and an immense fireplace begrimed with soot. All this was as Leonardo remembered it, but there was one innovation; thick dull green glass had been inserted in the window-panes, formerly covered only with oiled cloth, causing twilight in the room on the brightest day. Upstairs, in the sleeping rooms, the windows were protected by wooden shutters, which did not fit close enough to keep out the cold. The gardener made a fire of fragrant juniper and mountain heather, and lit a hanging earthenware lamp, in shape much like the lamps found in Etruscan tombs. In this remote corner of Tuscany the furniture, the customs, even the language had preserved traces of immemorial antiquity. While the young girl was preparing the supper of wine, bread, and a lettuce salad, Leonardo mounted to the upper rooms, where little had been changed since his last visit. He saw the same immense four-poster bed, in which his grandmother had sometimes permitted him to sleep, and which had now passed, with the other heirlooms, to his uncle Francesco. On the wall hung the well-remembered crucifix, the image of the Madonna, the shell for holy water, a bunch of dried grass, called _nebbia_, and a book of Latin prayers in cursive script, written on paper deeply yellowed by time. Returning to the parlour, he sat in the chimney-corner, drank from a wooden cup with a pleasant scent of olive-wood, and remaining in the room alone, after Gian and his grand-daughter had gone to bed, abandoned himself to happy recollections. II He thought of his father, Ser Piero da Vinci, the notary of the Florentine Commune, a man of seventy, white-haired, but still vigorous, whom he had seen a few days ago at Florence, in his house in the Via Ghibellina. No one had ever loved life better than Ser Piero, with a love simple and unabashed. He had cherished a great tenderness for his first-born, but his legitimate sons, Antonio and Giuliano, fearing lest their father should alienate part of his patrimony in favour of the bastard, had done all in their power to induce bad blood between them. Leonardo now felt himself a stranger in his father's house. His youngest half-brother, Antonio, was more especially prejudiced against him on account of his supposed atheism, for Antonio was one of the Piagnoni, a zealous and rigid follower of Savonarola, and also a conventional, virtuous, and money-loving trader of the guild of the woolstaplers. Antonio often addressed his half-brother on the subject of the Christian faith, the need for repentance, the heresies of the philosophical thinkers of the day, and he had given him a book compiled by himself, a _Manual of the Art of Saving the Soul_. Leonardo carried this book in his pocket, and now, seated in his uncle's chimney-corner, he drew it forth. It was a little volume, written in the small laborious hand which befitted a merchant's office. 'The book of confession compiled by me, Antonio di Ser Pietro da Vinci, a Florentine, sent to Nanna, my sister-in-law; most useful to all who desire to confess their sins.' For Leonardo, his brother's book breathed the air of conventional and bourgeois piety, which had weighed upon his childhood, and had been an inheritance in his family. A century before his birth the founders of the house of Vinci were just as prudent, just as avaricious, just as pious servants of the Florentine Commune as was now Ser Pietro, his father. Their name appeared first in a writing of 1339, where mention was made of one Michele da Vinci, a notary. Leonardo imagined him like Antonio, his well-remembered grandfather. Antonio instructed his sons to aspire to nothing over high, not to fame, nor to honours, nor to public office, civil or military, nor to exceptional wealth, nor to exceptional learning. '_Starsi mezzanamente è cosa più sicura_,' ''Tis safest to keep the mean,' was his constant saw; and Leonardo remembered the gravity and calm assurance with which he enunciated this infallible rule. After thirty years' absence, sitting under the roof of his grandfather's house, listening to the moaning wind and watching the logs burning in the fireplace, Leonardo thought how his own life had been one long breach of this 'ant and spider' policy; had been an exuberant blossoming which, according to his brother Antonio, temperance should have measured with compasses and shorn away with iron shears. III Next morning, before the old gardener was awake, Leonardo left the house, and having traversed the poor little town of Vinci ascended to Anchiano, the neighbouring hamlet. The path was steep, and as on the previous day, the sun colourless and wintry. At the verge of the horizon, the cold cloudless blue of the sky melted into a dull purple. The _tramontana_ blew steadily from the north, whistling monotonously in the ears. The vegetation was still colourless and poor; little meagre vineyards in semicircles, sparse dull grasses, mingled with fluttering poppies; on all sides dusty grey olives, with knotted, blackened, and twisted trunks of great antiquity. Entering Anchiano, Leonardo halted, for he did not recognise the place. Where had been the Castello degli Adimari with a wine-shop in its only unruined tower, there was now a vineyard and a new house, with smoothly whitewashed walls. A husbandman digging trenches among the vines, explained that mine host of the tavern having died, the land had been sold to a sheepbreeder from Orbignano, who had cleared away the ruins, and made a vineyard and an olive-grove on their site. Leonardo had good reason to ask after that little tavern, for it was there he had been born. Fifty years earlier, the village wine-shop had been lively enough. It stood a little back from the road, its signboard swinging merrily. The inhabitants of the surrounding hamlets on their way to the fairs of San Miniato or Fucecchio, chamois-hunters, mule-drivers, custom-house officers, and other persons who were not too exclusive in their taste for company--all met here. The maid of the tavern was a girl of sixteen, an orphan, a _contadina_ from Vinci; her name Caterina. One day, in the spring-time of 1451, Piero di Ser Antonio da Vinci, a young notary from Florence, was called to Anchiano to draw up an agreement for the lease of the sixth part of a certain oil-press. Business concluded, the peasants invited the notary to drink at the tavern in the old tower of the Adimari. Ser Piero, always affable, even among simple folk, accepted the invitation. The party was served by Caterina, and the young notary, as he afterwards confessed, became enamoured at first sight. Under pretext of quail-shooting, he delayed his return to Florence; he haunted the tavern, and laid siege to Caterina. Ser Piero was already celebrated as a conqueror of women; he was four-and-twenty, handsome, strong, something of a coxcomb. He possessed that self-confident eloquence which in a lover is irresistible. Caterina hesitated, prayed to the Virgin for assistance, finally succumbed. At the time when the quails took their flight from the Val di Nievole, she was with child. Ser Antonio da Vinci soon learned that his son had entangled himself with the maid-servant at a village hostelry. He despatched him to Florence and wedded him as quickly as possible to Madonna Albiera di Ser Giovanni Amadori, who was neither very young nor very fair, but had a substantial dowry. Caterina he mated also with a peasant named Accattabrighe di Piero del Vacca, who was said to have beaten his first wife to death in a drunken fit. The girl resigned herself without protest, but with inward grief which threw her into a fever when she was brought to bed. She was unable to suckle her child, and the little Leonardo was wet-nursed by a goat from Monte Albano. Piero, however, begged his father to take Caterina's child to be bred in his house. In those times no one was ashamed of bastards, and they were frequently educated on the same footing as their legitimate brethren, and even preferred to them. Leonardo accordingly entered the virtuous and pious family of da Vinci, and was entrusted to the care of his grandmother, Lena di Piero da Baccareto. As the vision of a dream, Leonardo remembered his mother; more especially her smile, so delicate, so fleeting, full of mystery, and gently malicious; singularly in contrast with the habitual expression of her beautiful but melancholy face, which to some seemed even harshly severe. Once he found that smile again, on the face of a small antique bronze statue of Cybele, the immemorially ancient goddess of the earth; the same subtle smile which he remembered as the characteristic of the young peasant woman of Vinci--his mother. He thought:-- 'Ah, how the mountain women, dressed in poor coarse raiment, excel in beauty those who are adorned!' It was said by persons who had known Caterina that her son resembled her; his long and slender hands, his golden hair, his smile, were inherited from her. From his father he had a powerful frame, health, zest of life; from his mother that almost feminine charm. Brought up in the paternal house, Leonardo had never been entirely separated from his mother. Her cottage was not far from Ser Antonio's villa; and at mid-day when Accattabrighe had gone forth with the oxen, the boy would make his way through the vineyard, climb the wall, and run to his mother. She was awaiting him on the threshold, distaff in hand; she stretched out her arms, and when he came she covered his eyes, his lips, his hair with her kisses. Or at night when Accattabrighe would be at the tavern, dicing and swilling, the child would escape from his bed, crawl through the window and down the fig-tree, and run to Caterina's home. Sweet to him was the cool of the dewy grass, the cry of the night-jar, the very nettles and stones which wounded his feet; the glow of the far-off stars, and the very anxiety lest his grandam should awake and miss him. Yet Monna Lena likewise loved and pampered her grandson, and he remembered her well, her one vesture of dark brown, her white kerchief, her dark, wrinkled, kind old face, her lullabies, and the appetising odour of the 'berlingozzi' which she baked after the ancient Tuscan recipe. With his grandfather, he had not agreed so well. At first Ser Antonio had taught him personally; but Leonardo was an unwilling pupil, and at seven he was sent to school at the Oratory of Santa Petronilla. But neither was the Latin grammar to his liking. He played truant, wandering to a wild ravine behind the town where he would lie on his back watching the flight of the cranes with torturing envy; or unfolding the cups of flowers, wondering at their coloured petals and pollen-covered stamens, moist with honey. Sometimes during his grandfather's absence the little Nardo would escape for whole days into the mountains, making his way by the tracks of goats and along the edges of precipices to the summit of Monte Albano. Thence he could see a boundless expanse of meadows, pastures, groves, and forests; the marshes of Fucecchio; and Prato, Pistoia, Florence, and the snowy peaks of the Alps; when the sky was clear, the misty blue of the Mediterranean Sea. At last he would return home, dusty, sunburnt, his hands scratched, his garments torn; but his grandam, seeing his happiness, had not the heart to punish him, or to betray him to Ser Antonio. The boy lived alone; his father and his uncle Francesco he saw but seldom, for they were away in Florence; with his schoolmates he did not associate. Their sports displeased him; on one occasion when they tore the wings from a butterfly and laughed at its writhings, he frowned, turned pale, and went away. Complaints of his surliness were in consequence made to Ser Antonio; great displeasure followed, threats of flogging, and an actual imprisonment for three days in a cupboard under the staircase. Later, recalling this link in a long chain of injustice, he wrote in his diary:-- 'If as a child you were put in prison for doing your duty, what will they do to you as a man?' IV Not far from Vinci a large villa was in course of construction by the Florentine architect, Biagio da Ravenna, a pupil of Alberti. Leonardo watched the raising of the walls, the levelling of the stonework, the elevation of huge blocks by machinery. One day Ser Biagio talked with the lad, and was astonished by the understanding which he showed. At first in jest, then seriously, he taught him the first principles of arithmetic, algebra, geometry, and mechanics. The teacher marvelled at the facility with which the boy caught each idea as it were on the wing, and made it his own; it seemed as though he were not learning but remembering. The grandfather looked askance at what he called 'caprices,' and he thought it a bad omen that the boy used preferably his left hand when he wrote; for sorcerers, necromancers, and those who make compacts with the devil are, of course, always born left-handed! His suspicion of the lad increased when a neighbour from Fortuniano assured him that the old woman of the village on Monte Albano who had provided the black goat for the suckling of the babe was an undoubted witch. 'Do what you will,' thought the old notary, 'but if you bring up a wolf he will always have his eye on the forest. Well, well! Submit to the will of Heaven! There's no family without _one_ abortion.' And he waited with desperate anxiety for the birth of a legitimate heir to Piero, his favourite son; since Nardo, the product of illicit love, was showing himself thus clearly 'ill-born' into this eminently respectable family. 'Twas a tale of Monte Albano, which indeed accounted for its name, that many plants and animals there mysteriously changed their natural colour into white; so that the traveller, roaming its woods and meadows, would chance upon white violets, white strawberries, white sparrows, white nestlings in a brood of blackbirds. In like manner the little Nardo was one of the wonders of the White Mountain; a changeling in the virtuous and commonplace family of the Florentine notary; a big white cuckoo in a nest of blackbirds. V When the boy had reached the age of thirteen, his father removed him from Vinci to his house. Florence; since then he had rarely visited his birthplace. But long after, in one of his note-books of the year 1494, when he was in the service of the Duke of Milan, he wrote, 'Caterina, came in July last year.' It might signify the beginning of some kitchen wench's service; in reality it referred to his mother. Her husband had died, and feeling that her own time might be short, she desired to see her son at least once again. She joined a party of pilgrims on their way to Milan for adoration of the Holy Nail; journeyed from Tuscany, and presented herself at Leonardo's house. He received her with pious affection; for her he was ever the little Nardo, who had come secretly by night with bare feet and nestled at her side. She would have returned to Anchiano, but her son would not permit it. He placed her in a quiet and commodiously-fitted cell of the Convent of Santa Chiara, near the Porta Vercellina. Later she fell ill, and at her own request was taken to the _Ospedale Maggiore_, built by Francesco Sforza and the finest hospital in Milan. Here he visited her for months every day, at the last scarcely leaving her for an hour. Yet he had told none of his friends nor even his pupils of her presence in Milan. But when for the last time he had pressed his lips on the cold hand of this peasant woman who had been his mother, it seemed to him that to her he owed everything. He honoured her with a sumptuous funeral. Six years later, after the fall of Ludovico Sforza, when he was leaving Milan, he found a small carefully wrapped bundle in one of his chests. It contained a couple of coarse canvas shirts and three pair of goats'-hair stockings, all made by Caterina's hand, and brought to him from Vinci. He had never worn them, but now coming upon the poor things among his scientific books and mechanical apparatus, and the garments of fine linen to which he had habituated himself, he felt inexpressibly touched. Nor in the years which followed, when he was a solitary and weary wanderer from country to country, from town to town, did he ever omit to take this poor little parcel with him, packed among the dearest of his treasures. VI Such were Leonardo's recollections as he climbed the slopes of Monte Albano, familiar to him in his childhood. He sat down under the shelter of a rock and surveyed the well-remembered landscape. Dwarfed and gnarled oak-trees surrounded him still hung with withered leaves, perfumed juniper, which the peasants called _scopa_ (besom), pale shy violets, and low bushes of dried mountain heather, exhaled that intangible freshness which is the odour of spring. Far away the valley of the Arno met the sky; but to the right rose bare lofty mountains with undulating shadows, twisted hollows like gigantic serpents, and wide ravines, delicate purple in colour. At his feet was Anchiano, white and shining in the sunlight; further away, Vinci clung to its little conical hill like a wasp's nest; the castle tower distinct and black as the two cypresses by the side of the Anchiano road. Nothing was changed since the day when he had first climbed these paths. Forty years before the _scopa_ had grown as luxuriantly, the violets and thyme had scented the air, the oaks had rustled their withered leaves; as now, Monte Albano had seemed colourless, bare, northern. Etruria of the ancients, now Tuscany, land of perpetual spring, land of unfailing renaissance--to Leonardo it wore that subtle and tender smile brightening a beauty otherwise too austere, which he had first seen on the countenance of Caterina his peasant mother. He rose and pursued his way, the path growing more rugged, the wind colder, sharper, more northerly. Memories of his youth crowded upon his soul. VII Ser Piero da Vinci had prospered. Skilful and good-hearted, his life ran upon greased wheels. Live and let live, was his maxim, and he stood well with all, more especially with the clerical party. Procurator of the monastery of the Santissima Annunziata, and of many other rich foundations, he acquired wealth in abundance, adding largely to his property, but never changing the modest fashion of life which he had learned from Ser Antonio. His wife died when he was eight-and-thirty, but he soon married a young and beautiful girl, Madonna Francesca di Ser Giovanni Lanfredini. She, like her predecessor, was childless; and Leonardo, the bastard, lived with his father, and had every prospect of becoming his heir. At that time Paola dal Pozzo Toscanelli, a famous astronomer and mathematician, lived at Florence. He had written a letter to Christopher Columbus, assuring him on the authority of his calculations that the route to India by the Antipodes was neither so long nor so arduous as had been supposed, encouraging him to make the adventure, and prophesying its success. Columbus therefore carried out what had been conceived in the lonely cell of the Florentine scholar, and was, as it were, the instrument played by the hand of a skilled musician. Toscanelli was said by his contemporaries to 'live like a saint'; reserved, frugal, chaste, he frequented neither the brilliant Medicean court, nor the vain assemblies of the Neo-Platonist imitators of antiquity. His face was curiously ugly, but redeemed by eyes of great brilliance. One evening a lad, scarcely more than a child, knocked at his door and was coldly received, being suspected of mere idle curiosity. But short conversation with the young Leonardo--for it was he--convinced the astronomer, as before it had convinced Biagio da Ravenna, of his wonderful aptitude for mathematics. Ser Paola became his teacher; on summer nights they went together to Poggio del Pino, one of those fragrant, pine-clad, heather-carpeted hills, girdling the City of Flowers; there Toscanelli had built his observatory. He taught the boy all he himself knew of the laws of the universe. It was from these lessons that Leonardo dated his faith in the experimental study of nature, as yet too much neglected by the philosophers. Ser Piero da Vinci, though he put no difficulties in the way of his son's studies, advised him to choose some more lucrative occupation; having noticed his bent towards modelling and drawing, he showed some of the boy's work to Andrea Verrocchio, the painter and goldsmith; and shortly afterwards Leonardo was formally entered as one of this artist's pupils. VIII Verrocchio, the son of a poor furnace-stoker, was seventeen years the senior of Leonardo. His face was placid, flat, and pale, with a double chin. Only in his tight shut lips and piercing eyes was there evidence of singular intelligence. Spectacles on nose, magnifier in hand, he sat in his dark _bottega_ near the Ponte Vecchio, looking more like a small shopkeeper than a great artist. A disciple of Paolo Uccello, he, like his master, affirmed that Perspective must be based on science. 'Geometry,' he said, 'being a part of mathematics, mother of all knowledge, is also the mother of drawing, which is the father of all the arts.' Complete knowledge and complete enjoyment of beauty were to him identical. Unlike Botticelli, and others of his kidney, Verrocchio was neither ravished by extraordinary beauty nor repelled by unusual deformity. In both he found occasion for study. He was also the first master who made anatomical models. If Botticelli had found the fascination of art in the miraculous, in the fabulous, in that mystic haze which confounds Olympus with Golgotha--for Verrocchio it lay in patient investigation and a firm grasp of the verities of nature. The miraculous was not true for him. Truth was the miracle. This was the man to whom Ser Piero brought his seventeen-year-old son; he became Leonardo's teacher; further, he became his disciple. The monks of Vallombrosa had commissioned Ser Andrea to paint them a Baptism of Christ, and the master set his pupil to execute the kneeling angel which formed part of the composition. The result showed Verrocchio that his scholar knew intuitively and clearly all that he himself had dimly guessed and sought for gropingly, slowly and laboriously, through a fog. Later it was said that Verrocchio gave up painting because jealous of the young man's superiority; in reality there was never anything but harmony between the two. Each supplied the deficiency of the other. The pupil had lightness and precision of touch; Verrocchio, perseverance and concentrated attention. They worked together without envy, without rivalry, scarce knowing how much they owed each other. At that time Verrocchio executed the bronze group for Orsanmichele, which was known as the 'Incredulity of St. Thomas.' It was altogether unlike the celestial dreams of the Beato Angelico or the delirious idealism of Sandro Botticelli. In St. Thomas's mysterious smile, as he put his fingers into the print of the nails, was exhibited for the first time the boldness of man before his God; Reason face to face with Miracle. IX Leonardo's first independent work was a cartoon for a curtain of Flanders tissue, a gift from the Florentines to the King of Portugal. The subject was the Fall of Man; and such was the accuracy with which the palm branches, the flowers, and the animals of Paradise were drawn, that Vasari the critic was stupefied at so great patience. Eve, stretching out her hand to the Tree of Knowledge, wore the same smile of bold curiosity which Verrocchio had given to St. Thomas. A little later Ser Piero employed his son to paint one of those round wooden shields called _rotelle_, which were used as ornaments for houses, and which generally carried some allegorical design. Leonardo painted an animal, terrible as the face of Medusa. He had collected lizards, snakes, crickets, spiders, centipedes, moths, scorpions, bats, every sort of noxious creature, and had studied their characteristics. By a process of selection and exaggeration of their individual truth, he had put together a monster, such as had never existed, yet which might have been possible, deducing what is not from what is with the precision of an Euclid or a Pythagoras. The beast was issuing from its den in the rock; grating its black and shining scales upon the gravel. Fetor exhaled from its gaping jaws, smoke from its nostrils; its eyes were flame. Horrible as was the monster, the wonder of it lay less in its deformity than in its charm, which was no less powerful than the charm of beauty. Day and night Leonardo had studied and painted in the stifling room empoisoned by the stench from the dead reptiles; at last the picture was finished, and he summoned his father to see it. He had placed it on a wooden stand surrounded by black cloth, the light being so disposed that only the monster was illuminated. Ser Piero came in, saw the beast, and involuntarily drew back. Recovering himself, he looked again, and his expression changed from great fear to great pleasure. 'The _rotella_ is ready,' said Leonardo; 'it produces the effect at which I have aimed. You may take it away.' Next he received an order for an 'Adoration of the Magi' from the monks of San Donato a Scopeto. In the sketch for this picture he exhibited a knowledge of anatomy and of the outward expression of the emotions, surpassing that of any previous painter. Against a background almost Hellenic in its beauty, he showed the Mother of God with the divine Infant, who, smiling shyly, seemed to marvel at the precious gifts brought by the strangers. They, wearied and bowed down by the load of ancient and earthly wisdom, bending their heads, shading their eyes, were absorbed in contemplation of that miracle of miracles, the Epiphany of God in man. In his picture of the Fall, Leonardo had realised the boldness of reason--the wisdom of the serpent; in this of the Adoration he had shown the innocence of the dove, the humility of faith. One picture the complement of the other; the two exhibited the full circle of his philosophy. But the second picture was never finished. In the quest for perfection he made difficulties for himself which his brush could not overcome. In the words of Petrarch, '_al dissetamento era d'ostacolo l'eccessiva brama_'--'excessive thirst hindered its own quenching.' Meanwhile, Ser Piero married his third wife, Margherita, who brought him two sons, Antonio and Giuliano. The step-mother hated Leonardo, and accused her husband of wasting the inheritance of his lawful children upon a bastard, foster-child of a witch's goat. The young painter had enemies also among his fellow-students; and it was one of them who brought against him and against Verrocchio the accusation of which Cesare da Sesto had told Giovanni Boltraffio. The calumny had acquired some verisimilitude from the exceptional friendship between master and scholar, and from the fact that Leonardo, though the handsomest man of young Florence--('in his exterior, says a contemporary, there was such radiance of beauty that at sight of him sad hearts were gladdened')--eschewed the society of women. The accusation came to nothing, but he left Verrocchio, and henceforth painted independently. Reports now got about touching his heresies and atheism, and it became increasingly difficult for him to remain in Florence. Ser Piero introduced him to Lorenzo de' Medici; uselessly, however, for _Il Magnifico_ disapproved spirits too daring and unconventional, and demanded a constant and servile adulation which Leonardo was ill fitted to supply. The tedium of inaction oppressed him. He entered into negotiations with the Egyptian ambassador for the purpose of obtaining the post of chief architect to the 'diodario' of Syria, though he knew that it would require his embracing the Mahometan faith. His one desire was to escape from Florence. Chance favoured him. He made a many-stringed silver lute in the form of a horse's head, which took Lorenzo de' Medici's fancy. Lorenzo sent it by the hand of the inventor to Milan, as a gift to Ludovico Sforza. Leonardo was received at the Lombard court not as a man of science, not as a painter, but as the _sonatore di lira_--the 'player of the lyre.' But before starting he had written a long letter to the duke, setting forth how useful he might be to him. 'Most Illustrious Lord,--Having studied and estimated the works of the present inventors of warlike engines, I have found that in them there is nothing novel to distinguish them. I therefore force myself to address your Excellency that I may disclose to him the secrets of my art. '1st. I have a method for bridges, very light and very strong; easy of transport and incombustible. '2nd. New means of destroying any fortress or castle (which hath not foundations hewn of solid rock) without the employment of bombards. '3rd. Of making mines and passages, immediately and noiselessly, under ditches and streams. '4th. I have designed irresistible protected chariots for the carrying of artillery against the enemy. '5th. I can construct bombards, cannon, mortars, 'passavolanti': all new and very beautiful. '6th. Likewise battering rams, machines for the casting of projectiles, and other astounding engines. '7th. For sea-combats I have contrivances both offensive and defensive; ships whose sides would repel stone and iron balls, and explosives, unknown to any soul. '8th. In days of peace, I should hope to satisfy your Excellency in architecture, in the erection of public and private buildings, in the construction of canals and aqueducts. I am acquainted with the arts of sculpture and painting, and can execute orders in marble, metal, clay, or in painting with oil, as well as any artist. And I can undertake that equestrian statue cast in bronze, which shall eternally glorify the blessed memory of your lordship's father and of the illustrious house of Sforza. 'And if any of the above seem extravagant or beyond the reach of possibility, I offer myself prepared to make experiment in your park; or in whatsoever place it may please your Excellency to appoint; to whose gracious attention I most humbly recommend myself. LEONARDO DA VINCI.' When he caught his first glimpse of the snow-clad Alps shining above the green plain of Lombardy, he felt himself entering upon a new life, in a strange land which was to become his true country. X Such was the half century of life upon which Leonardo looked back as he ascended Monte Albano. The path had become direct, vegetation was left below, the mountains were bare, solitary, and terrible, as belonging to another planet. He was blinded by fierce gusts of icy wind. Stones breaking away from his feet fell noisily into the ravine. He was still ascending, and at every step the prospect widened. He found exhilaration in the effort of climbing, gradually conquering the great mountains and compelling them to give up their treasures. Florence was out of sight, but the spacious district of Empoli was spread at his feet; first the mountains, cold dull purple with broad shadows; then the unnumbered billowy hills from Livorno to San Geminiano. Everywhere was air, emptiness, space. The narrow footpath seemed to vanish; he fancied himself flying over this boundless expanse on gigantic wings. The realisation that he had no such equipment produced in his mind the wondering alarm felt by a man who is suddenly deprived of his legs. He remembered how in boyhood he used to watch the flight of cranes; and how, hearing their cry, he had fancied it a summons to himself, and had wept for disappointment that he could not obey. He remembered releasing his grandfather's cage-birds, and joying in the wild swoops of their recovered liberty. He remembered listening to the tale of Icarus, who had thought to fly on waxen wings, but had fallen and perished; and how, when bidden by his teacher to name the greatest of ancient heroes, he had answered without a moment's hesitation 'Icarus, son of Dædalus.' He remembered, too, his pleasure in finding a clumsy representation of his hero among the bas-reliefs of Giotto's campanile in Florence. He retained one other memory of his childhood which, however absurd it might have seemed to another, had for him a prophetic meaning. He wrote of it:-- 'I remember that once in infancy, lying in my cradle, I fancied that a kite flew to me and opened my lips, and rubbed his feathers over them. It would seem to be my destiny all my life to talk about wings.' The question of human flight had indeed become the preoccupation of his whole life. Now, even as forty years before, standing again on the slope of the White Mountain it seemed to him an intolerable injury, even an impossibility, that men should remain wingless. 'He who knows all can do all,' thought Leonardo. 'I have only to _know_; and there shall be wings.' XI On one of the final zigzags of the path he felt himself touched from behind, and turning saw Giovanni Boltraffio who, hat in hand, eyes half shut, head bent, was battling with the wind, and had evidently been calling for some time unheard. When he saw the Master with long hair streaming on the blast, and look of indomitable will, his thoughtful eyes, deep lines on his forehead, and overhanging brows contracted in a frown, seemed to the disciple so strange and terrible as to be barely recognisable. Even the broad folds of his red cloak bellying in the wind were like the pinions of some strange bird. Giovanni shouted as loud as he could, but he was so much out of breath he could only articulate broken phrases. 'Just come--from Florence. Letter--important--told to give it into your hands at once!' Leonardo guessed at a communication from Cæsar Borgia, and quickly recognised the writing of Messer Agapito his secretary. 'Go down at once,' said Leonardo, seeing Giovanni blue with cold. 'I will follow you immediately.' And he watched Boltraffio as he fought his way through the storm, clinging to frail boughs of low-growing shrubs, crawling over rocks, bending double, absurdly small and weak in comparison with his surroundings and the fury of the elements. He appeared an epitome of all human weakness; and, watching him, Leonardo was reminded of the curse of some grave impotence which seemed to have lain upon his whole life, which had, he feared, condemned him to eternal sterility, besides depriving him of the sympathy of his fellows. 'My Wings!' he thought, 'Ah! will not they fail like everything else?' And he remembered the words spoken by Astro in his delirium, the answer of the Son of Man when the devil would have seduced him by the terror of the abyss, by the fascination of flight: 'Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God!' He raised his head, set his teeth, and again addressed himself to the ascent, conquering the mountain and the storm. The path had disappeared. He guided himself over the bare rocks where, perhaps, none had trodden before. Suddenly he found himself upon the edge of a precipice, till now unseen; misty dull purple filled with air and yawned beneath his feet as if the void and endless heaven were below no less than above. The wind had become a hurricane, and howled and roared like continuous thunder. Leonardo could have fancied that unseen evil birds--flock after flock--were sweeping past him on gigantic wings. No further advance was possible; never had the long familiar idea appealed to him with such force; never had he been so impressed by the logic, by the necessity, of the power of flight. '_There shall be wings!_' he cried, 'if the accomplishment be not for me, 'tis for some other. It shall be done. The spirit cannot lie; and Man, who shall know all and who shall have wings, shall indeed be as a god.' And he pictured to himself the King of the Air, Him who can pass all bounds and supersede all the laws which limit human intelligence, the Son of Man coming in his glory and power, the _Magno Cecero_, 'the Great Swan,' borne on wings immense, white, shining as light itself, in the blue of heaven. And his soul was filled with a joy akin to terror. XII As he descended from Monte Albano the sun was setting. The pointed cypresses were black against the golden sky; the receding mountains tender and translucent as amethyst. The wind had subsided. He was approaching Anchiano, and the hill town of Vinci was already in sight. He stopped, and murmured:-- 'From the mountain which takes its name from the conqueror (Vinci--Vincere) Man shall take his first flight!' And gazing at his birthplace, there at the foot of the White Mountain, he repeated: 'Eternal glory to the nest from whence he sprang!' The letter from Messer Agapito announced the approaching siege of Faenza, and demanded the immediate presence of the new engineer and architect in Cæsar Borgia's camp. Two days later Leonardo left Florence for Romagna. BOOK XII 'AUT CÆSAR AUT NIHIL.' CÆSAR BORGIA. 1500-1503 'A prince must be a beast as well as a man.' NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI.--_Il Principe._ I 'We, Cæsar Borgia of France, by the Grace of God, Duke of Romagna, Lord of Piombino, Gonfaloniere of the Holy Roman Church, and Captain-General; 'To all our lieutenants, castellans, captains, condottieri, officers, and subjects; 'We commend unto you the most famous and well-beloved Leonardo Vinci, our architect and chief war-engineer, and command that ye give him everywhere unhindered passage, permitting him to examine, measure, and judge of everything he may desire to see in our fortresses, and affording him all co-operation, and as many men as he may need to help him. And we bid our other contractors to enter into accord in all matters with the will of the above-mentioned Leonardo, to whom we entrust the oversight of all the fortresses and castles in our dominions. 'Given at Pavia on August 18th, in the year of our Lord, 1502, and the second of our reign in Romagna. 'CÆSAR, dux Romandiolæ.' So ran Leonardo's new credentials. These were the years in which Cæsar Borgia was gradually recovering for Alexander VI. the ancient States of the Church, said to have been conferred on the papacy by Constantine the Great. He had taken the town of Faenza from the eighteen-year-old Astorre Manfredi; and Forlì from Caterina Sforza. The lad and the woman had been confided to his protection. He threw them both into the Castle of St. Angelo. He concluded a fraudulent treaty with the Duke of Urbino, and in 1502 planned a campaign against Bologna. He was intent upon making himself sole and absolute ruler of Italy. In September his enemies, including the dukes of Perugia and Siena, as well as other important personages, assembled at Mugione, and concluded a secret alliance against him. Vitellozzo Vitelli swore the oath of Hannibal, that within a year he would slay, imprison, or exile the common foe. Report of this alliance having been bruited abroad, it was joined by some of the greater princes. Urbino rose in revolt; Cæsar's own troops mutinied; the King of France was slow in coming to his help; he seemed on the verge of ruin. Nevertheless he still had resources, and his enemies were dilatory. The opportunity was let slip, and presently these, his allied enemies, entered into negotiations with the usurper. He overreached them, contriving to set them at variance with each other; by profound dissimulation and courteous manners converted them to a more or less favourable attitude; and presently made an urgent appointment to meet his foes in parley at the newly-conquered town of Sinigaglia. Leonardo had quickly become a prominent personage at Cæsar's court. The duke employed him in adorning the various towns with palaces, libraries, schools, barracks, and canals. He constructed engines of war, made military maps, and was present at all Cæsar's bloodiest exploits. Leonardo did not wish to see too clearly, or to know too accurately, what was taking place around him. He eschewed politics. He confined himself almost entirely to observations on physical and social phenomena: the manner of planting orchards, the machinery for ringing the bells at Siena Cathedral, the low music of the falling water in the fountain of Rimini, the dove-cot in the Castle of Urbino. He noted how the shepherds at the foot of the Apennines placed their horns in the narrow openings of deep hollows, so that echo should increase the volume of their sound. For whole days he stood on the desolate shore of Piombino, watching the falling of the waves; and while all around him the laws of human justice were being broken, mused on the invariability of nature, and found deep-seated joy in the eternal justice of the Prime Mover. On a day in June the corpses of the young Astorre and his brother were found in the Tiber, stones tied round their necks. The crime was universally attributed to Cæsar. But that day Leonardo noted-- 'In Romagna four-wheeled carts are used, the front wheels small, the back large: the construction is faulty, for all the weight rests on the front.' II In the latter half of December 1503 the Duke of Valentinois, with his whole court, moved from Cesena to Fano, on the shores of the Adriatic, twenty miles from Sinigaglia, where the meeting was appointed with his former enemies, Oliverotto da Fermo, Vitellozzo Vitelli, and Gian Paolo Baglioni. A few days later Leonardo came from Pesaro to join his patron. On the way he was overtaken by a storm. The mountains were covered with impassable snow-drifts, the mules slipped on the ice; great waves were heard breaking on the seashore at the foot of the precipice. As darkness came on the travellers lost the path, and, dropping the reins, they trusted themselves to the instinct of their beasts. The mule Leonardo was riding suddenly stopped and grew restive, scenting the corpse of a man who had been hanged, which still dangled from the branch of a solitary tree. At last they saw a distant light, and the guide recognised the inn at Novilara, a mountain town half way between Pesaro and Fano. The travellers quickened their steps, and presently were knocking at the massive entrance door, studded with nails like the gate of a fortress. A sleepy ostler came first; then the landlord, who declined to receive the new arrivals. All his rooms, all his stables were overfilled; there was not a bed in which three or four were not sleeping--all persons of quality, soldiers and courtiers of the duke's suite. Leonardo told his name and exhibited his credentials, sealed with the duke's seal. The host poured forth a torrent of apology, and made offer of his own chamber, which at present contained only three French captains, all passably drunk and sound asleep. Leonardo entered the kitchen, which according to the wont of the Romagna inns served also as a parlour. It was very dirty, with patches of damp on the bare walls; guinea-fowl were sleeping on their perches, and baby porkers squeaking round the door; onions, gherkins, and sausages were suspended from the ceiling. A whole pig was roasting before the immense glowing fire. Guests crowded at long tables, drinking and quarrelling over cards. Leonardo sat down by the stove, and presently, at a square board close by, he saw Baldassarre Scipioni, an old man, formerly captain of the duke's Lancers; Alessandro Spanocchia, the treasurer; Pandolfo Collenuccio, legate from Ferrara, and a fourth gentleman, a stranger, who was gesticulating forcibly, and crying in a thin squeaky voice:-- 'I can prove this also, _Messeri_! I can prove this by instances from ancient and from modern history! Call to mind the states which have acquired military glory--Romans, Spartans, Athenians, Ætolians, and the trans-Alpine hordes. All the great commanders collected their armies from the citizens of their own country. Ninus from the Assyrians, Cyrus from the Persians, Alexander from the Macedonians. I grant you that Pyrrhus and Hannibal won victories by means of mercenaries, but these were generals of exceptional genius. Nor must ye forget my main proposition--the very corner-stone of military science--viz., that in infantry, and infantry alone, lies the strength of an army. Not in cavalry, not in fire-arms and powder, ridiculous toy inventions of modern times.' 'You go too far, Messer Niccolò,' replied the captain of lancers with a smile; 'fire-arms are becoming of some importance. Whatever you say about the Romans and the Spartans, I venture to think our troops are much better equipped. A squadron of our French soldiers, or a battery of thirty bombards, would have made short work of your ancient Romans.' 'Sophisms! Sophisms!' retorted Messer Niccolò with increasing excitement. 'I perceive in your words fearfully perilous error! Some day the Italians will be taught, by a rude lesson, the weakness of mercenary armies, and the pitiful powerlessness of cavalry and artillery. Remember how the handfuls of Lucullus routed 150,000 horsemen, among whom were cohorts of mounted men exactly similar to the squadrons of the present French cavalry!' Leonardo looked curiously at this man who spoke like an eye-witness of the victories of Lucullus. The stranger wore a long garment of dark red cloth, falling in straight folds; it resembled that worn by the statesmen of the Florentine Republic and the secretaries of the embassies. It was, however, old and stained. The sleeves were threadbare, and such linen as was to be seen was frayed and soiled. The man had great bony hands, copiously dyed with ink, and a wart on one finger. There was little dignity in his air; he was lean and narrow shouldered, about forty years of age, and with sharp irregular features. Sometimes when he was speaking he would look over the head of his interlocutor, as if peering into space like some long-sighted rapacious bird. In his restless movements, in the feverish flush of his swarthy cheeks, above all, in the intentness of his large grey eyes, there was evidence of smouldering fire within. The eyes themselves were malicious; yet at times, in their sardonic smile, in their cold displeasure, there was an expression of weakness almost pathetic. Messer Niccolò continued to pour forth his notions; and Leonardo marvelled at the strange mixture of truth and error in his talk, at his audacity, and his slavish appeal to the authority of the ancients. He approved him when he spoke of the scientific difficulty in using guns of large calibre, owing to the inaccuracy of their range; but the next minute he asserted that fortresses were useless, because the Spartans and the Romans built none. He appeared to regard the opinions of the Greeks and Romans much as Leonardo regarded mathematical axioms. The latter, however, did not hear the conclusion of the dispute, as the landlord called him to the bedchamber reserved for him upstairs. III It snowed all night, and in the morning the guide refused to continue the journey, the weather being in his opinion not fit even for a dog to go out in. Leonardo was forced to remain at the inn. He amused himself trying a self-turning roasting-spit which he had invented. 'With this mechanism,' he expounded to the astonished onlookers, 'the cook need have no fear of burning the meat, for the action of the fire remains even. With increase of heat it turns faster, that is all.' It would seem that the success of his flying-machine could hardly have afforded him greater pleasure than the perfection of this cooking engine. In the same room Messer Niccolò was explaining to certain young artillery sergeants an infallible system, based on abstract mathematics, for winning at dice--'circumventing,' as he called it, 'the caprices of the strumpet Fortune.' Every time he tried to give a practical illustration of its value, he lost, greatly to his own astonishment and to the amusement of his audience. The conclusion of the game was unexpected and not entirely to Messer Niccolò's glory. It revealed that his pouch was empty, and that he could not meet his losses. Late that evening there arrived another guest, with a great array of servants, pages, grooms, jesters, negroes, animals, boxes, and chests. It was the elegant Venetian courtesan, the _magnifica meretrice_, Lena Griffi, who had been so nearly despoiled by Savonarola's 'youthful inquisitors.' Two years ago, following the example of many of her sisterhood, the repentant Magdalen had cut her hair and shut herself up in a convent. This was, however, merely an artifice to raise her price in the city tariff of courtesans, drawn up for the use of strangers. From the monastic chrysalis she had emerged like a butterfly awakened to a new and more splendid life. Very soon the _mammola veneziana_ had risen to great celebrity, and had fashioned for herself, according to the usage of the principal courtesans, a fine genealogical-tree, by which it appeared that she was the daughter of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, brother of Ludovico, Duke of Milan. She became the mistress of an old and doting cardinal, whose infirmities were palliated by his wealth, and was now journeying to Fano, where her elderly lover was attached to Cæsar Borgia's camp. The host could not refuse admission to so exalted a personage. He accommodated her suite by turning out certain Ancona merchants from a fair-sized bedroom, housing them in the forge, and promising them a reduction in their bill. Similar treatment he proposed for Messer Niccolò and his room-mates, the French captains, in order to provide a chamber for the lady herself. Messer Niccolò, however, protested, and grew very angry, asking the landlord if he had lost his reason, if he knew with whom he was speaking? if it were not unheard-of insolence to insult respectable people for the pleasing of the first jade tumbled in out of the street? Here intervened the hostess, a masterful lady who, in the words of the proverb, had not 'pawned her tongue to a Jew'; she suggested that before making so much noise he had better pay the bill for himself, his servant, and his three horses; and also return the four ducats lent him last Friday by her husband. And she added, in a stage whisper, that she wished a bad Easter to all the adventurers and beggars who swarmed on the high roads, and, pretending to be great ones, lived at free quarters and mocked at honest people. No doubt there was some applicability in all this, for Messer Niccolò was reduced to silence, and seemed considering how he could retire with the best grace from his position. Meantime servants were already removing his goods, and Madonna Lena's monkey was grimacing at him, and jumping over the table among his papers and great leather books, the _Decades_ of Livy and Plutarch's _Lives_. Leonardo now approached and said, raising his berretto:-- 'Messere, if it would please you to share my room, I shall account it an honour, if your worship will permit me to render so slight a service.' Niccolò seemed astonished, and even confused; recovering himself, however, he accepted the offer with suitable thanks. Leonardo took him to his room, and assigned him the best place. The more he looked at this strange man the more attractive and interesting did he seem to him. He presently learned his name: He was Machiavelli, secretary to the Council of Ten in the Florentine Republic. Three months earlier the astute and vigilant Signoria had sent Machiavelli to make a treaty with Cæsar Borgia. The latter had proposed a defensive alliance against their common enemies, Bentivoglio, the Vitelli, and the Orsini; but the Florentines, fearing the duke too much to desire either his friendship or his enmity, had commanded their envoy to meet his propositions merely with diplomatic and ambiguous expressions of goodwill, and secretly to obtain free passage for their traders through the duke's territory along the shores of the Adriatic, a matter of no small importance to their commerce. Leonardo also disclosed his name and rank; and soon he and his new friend were conversing with that ease and mutual confidence occasionally natural to persons of opposite character, and habitually solitary and meditative. 'Messere,' burst out Niccolò, and his candour was not unattractive, 'I know you by repute as a great painter; but I warn you I have no knowledge of painting, nor am I even fond of it. Of course you may respond, as did Dante to the street mocker who offered him a fig, "I wouldn't change one of mine for twenty of yours!" but I confess I am more interested in having learnt from the duke that you are an expert in military science. How important that is! Civil greatness is founded upon war, and depends on the regular army. I am writing a book on monarchies and republics, wherein I shall discuss the natural laws which govern the life, growth, decline, and death of every state, just like a mathematician discussing the laws of number, or a natural philosopher physics. Hitherto, sir, all who have written about the state----' Here he stopped, and chid himself with a good-humoured smile. 'Forgive me, Messere, I am taking a mean advantage. It may be that policy interests you as little as painting interests me?' 'Not so,' said Leonardo. 'I tell you candidly I don't affect statecraft, because such talk is apt to be idle. But your opinions are so new and surprising, that, believe me, I am thrice happy to learn.' 'Beware, Messer Leonardo,' said the other; 'these matters are my hobby-horse. I will go without bread, if I may but talk upon politics with a man of understanding. The mischief is, to find the man of understanding! Our great ones think of naught but the price of wool and of silk, while I' (he smiled bitterly) 'am made of neither.' Leonardo reassured him, and added, in order to keep the conversation going:-- 'You have said, Messere, that politics should be an exact science founded upon mathematics, like mechanics, which finds its certainty in the observation and experience of nature. Did I understand you aright?' 'Perfectly!' cried Machiavelli, frowning, and looking into space beyond his companion's head, with that air of a far-sighted bird habitual to him. 'I desire to reveal a new thing to men about human affairs. The Laws of nature, which are outside man's will, outside good and evil, are the laws which guide the life of every society. All former writers on this subject have dealt with the good and the bad, the noble and the base. I do not concern myself with governments which ought to be, nor with what seems to be, but with that which really is. I inquire into the nature of the great bodies, known as republics and monarchies, and I commit myself neither to praise nor to blame, like a mathematician or an anatomist. I will tell men the truth, even if they burn me for it, as they burned Fra Girolamo. For the task is dangerous.' Leonardo smiled, observing Machiavelli's excitement, and thought: 'With what passion he praises dispassionateness!' 'Messer Niccolò,' he said aloud, 'if you succeed according to your intentions, you will have done more than Euclid or Archimedes.' Leonardo was struck by the unconventionality of what he had heard. He remembered how, thirteen years earlier, he had himself written on the margin of certain anatomical sketches:-- 'May the Most High assist me to study the nature of human beings, their temperaments and habits, even as here I have studied their internal organs!' IV Suddenly Machiavelli exclaimed, his eyes sparkling merrily: 'The more I listen to you, Messer Leonardo, the more I am astounded that we should have met. Some most rare combination of the stars! The minds of men are, I protest, of three qualities. First, those who see of themselves; secondly, those who see when they are shown; thirdly, those who see not of themselves, neither see when they are shown. Your worship, and I myself (for I would not be guilty of false modesty) belong to the first category. But you laugh? Ah! such a meeting will not easily come to me again on this side the grave, for on earth the elect are few. Permit me to read you a most beautiful piece of Livy.' He took a book from the table, adjusted the tallow candle, put on iron spectacles (broken and tied up with string), the large round glasses of which gave him a grave and devout expression, as if he were addressing himself to some act of worship. But no sooner had he found his passage, and opened his lips, than the door opened, and a little wrinkled old woman came in, curtseying and bowing. 'I crave your pardon, gentlemen, for this annoyance,' she mumbled, 'but my illustrious lady, Madonna Lena Griffi, has lost her favourite animal--a rabbit with a blue ribbon round its neck. We have searched two hours for it, but vainly.' 'There are no rabbits here,' said Messer Niccolò, angrily; 'go to the devil!' And he was about to eject her, but suddenly checked himself, and having looked at her narrowly, both with and without his spectacles, he cried:-- 'Monna Alvigia! Is it really you, you old witch? I thought the devil had long ago roasted your old carcase!' The woman blinked and cowered, answering his polite greeting with a sorry smile. 'Oh, Messer Niccolò! how many years, how many winters since we have seen each other! I had never expected God would give us this pleasure again!' Machiavelli invited the old woman to follow him to the kitchen for a crack; but Leonardo, providing himself with a book and seating himself in a corner, begged them to remain. Then Messer Niccolò sent for wine with a lordly air, as if he were the most honoured guest in the inn. 'Hark ye, friend,' he said to the servant who took his order, 'bid that skinflint, your master, beware how he serve us that acid stuff we had yesterday, for Monna Alvigia and I are like Arlotto the priest, who would not kneel if the wine were bad.' Monna Alvigia forgot her rabbit and Niccolò his Livy; over their pitcher of wine they gossiped like old friends. Alvigia told tales of her youth when she had been fair to see and much courted, and she had done what she wished and it had not mattered what she did. Had she not once in Padua lifted the mitre from the head of the bishop and placed it upon her own? But years passed by, and her beauty faded, and her lovers abandoned her, and she had to support herself by hiring rooms and by taking in washing. Then she fell ill, and she thought of sitting among the beggars at the church door, and even of ending herself by poison. But the Holy Virgin came to her aid and rescued her from death. With the aid of an old abbot, who was in love with the young wife of a blacksmith, she entered upon a trade far more profitable than that of a laundress. The story was interrupted by a summons from Madonna Lena, who required pomade for her monkey's wounded paw, and Boccaccio's _Decameron_, which she always kept under her pillow beside her prayer-book. The old woman gone, Messer Niccolò mended a pen, took paper, and began his report to the Magnificent Signori of Florence, on the dispositions and actions of the Duke of Valentinois, a piece of profound statesmanship, written in easy, almost jocular style. 'Messere' he exclaimed, raising his eyes to Leonardo, 'confess I surprised you by my sudden passage from discussion of the virtue of ancient Sparta to vain gossip about women with that old hag! Judge me not too harshly! We must imitate nature. Are we not men? Is it not legended that Aristotle, in the very presence of Alexander his pupil, permitted the leman whom he loved to ride on his back while he caracoled on all fours? Shall simple sinners be more discreet?' By this time the household slept. All was silent save for the chirp of the cricket, the muttering of Monna Alvigia, and the growling of the monkey as she anointed its paw. Leonardo had gone to bed, but lay watching his quaint companion, who still gnawed his pen and stooped over his writing. The candle flame threw on the wall a vast shadow of his head with its sharp-cut angles, its protruding lower lip, its thin neck and long beak-like nose. Having finished his report he sealed it up, and wrote the words usual on despatches: '_Cito, citissime, celerrime_.' Then he opened his Livy and pursued his occupation of many years, the compiling of notes for the _Decades_. The shadow on the wall danced and wavered and grimaced as the candle flickered and burned low; but the face of the Florentine secretary preserved its stern and dignified calm; the reflection of the greatness of ancient Rome. Only in the depth of his eyes, in the corners of his lips there showed sometimes a two-faced cunning, a mocking cynicism. V Next day the storm was over. The sun sparkled on the frozen windows; the snowy fields and hills, soft as down, shone dazzlingly white under the azure sky. His companion was no longer in the room when Leonardo awoke. He dressed and descended to the kitchen where, to the joy of the cook, a joint was roasting on the automatic spit. He ordered his mule and sat down to breakfast. Beside him was Messer Niccolò talking excitedly to a couple of newcomers. One of these was a faultlessly fashionable youth with an undistinguished face, a certain Messer Lucio, related to Francesco Vettori. This Vettori was a man of note in Florence, intimately connected with Piero Soderini the _Gonfaloniere_, and very favourably disposed to Machiavelli. He had sent Lucio with letters to Messer Niccolò from his friends. 'Be not disquieted about the money,' Lucio was saying; 'my uncle assures me that last Thursday the Signori promised----' 'But, my dear sir,' interrupted Machiavelli, 'can two servants and three horses be fed with promises? At Imola I received sixty ducats and paid debts of seventy. If it were not for the compassion of the benevolent, the secretary of the Florentine Republic would starve. It is vain for the Signori to talk of the honour of their town if they force the man whom they send to a strange court to beg for his sheer necessities.' Messer Niccolò knew these complaints were useless, but it solaced him to make them. The kitchen being nearly empty, he spoke without reserve. 'Here is our fellow-citizen, Messer Leonardo da Vinci--the _Gonfaloniere_ must know him,' resumed Machiavelli, indicating the painter, to whom Lucio bowed courteously. 'Messer Leonardo was witness only last night of the humiliations to which I am daily subjected. I demand--hear you?--I do not ask, but I demand leave to resign my office,' he concluded, his anger still waxing, and addressing the young Florentine as if he saw in him the whole Magnificent Signoria. 'I am a poor man, sir, and my affairs go from bad to worse, and my health likewise. If matters continue as they are I shall return home in my coffin. Moreover I have done all which is possible to do, with the poor powers accorded me. To drag out the negotiation, to go around and about, one step forward and two steps back, "I will" and "I won't"--that is not work for me! The duke is too clever for such childishness! Well, I have written to your uncle----' 'My uncle,' interrupted Lucio, 'will doubtless do all he can for you, Messer Niccolò; but the Magnificent Ten, to tell truth, consider your reports so essential to the weal of the republic that they will not permit you to retire. "Who is there," they say, "able to take his place? He is a man of gold; he is the ear and the eye of our commonwealth!" I swear to you, Messere, that your letters have so great a success in Florence that you could not desire a greater. All are bewitched by the incomparable felicity of your style. My uncle informed me that at a late meeting in the council chamber, upon the reading of one of your merry letters, the Signori burst themselves with laughter----' 'Oh, that's it, is it?' exclaimed Machiavelli, his face contorted with rage. 'Ah, now I understand! My letters are amusing to the Magnificent Signori; they burst themselves with laughter, and they admire my diction. Thank God, Niccolò Machiavelli is capable of something! Yet I live here like a dog, I freeze and go hungry, I shake with fever, and am insulted by landlords, all for the good of the republic. The devil take the republic, and the _Gonfaloniere_ too, snivelling old woman! May you all be buried unshriven and uncoffined!' And he burst into the vulgar vituperation of the market-place, helplessly furious at the thought of these chiefs of the people, so utterly despicable, and yet his masters. To divert his thoughts Lucio handed him a letter from his young wife, Marietta; a few lines written in a round childish hand on coarse grey paper. '_Carissimo Niccolò mio_,' so she wrote, 'I am told that in those parts, where you are now, fevers and other sicknesses abound. You may fancy my care for you. My thoughts give me no peace day nor night. The boy, thank God, is well. He grows apace, and is like you. His little face is white as the snowdrift, but his head, with its thick black curls, is like yours. He seems beautiful to me because he is like you. He is lively and merry as though he were a year old. Believe me, directly he was born he opened his eyes and he shouted with a voice which filled the house. I pray you, forget us not. I entreat, return to us at the earliest moment, for to wait longer passeth my endurance. And, meanwhile, may the Lord protect you, and the blessed Virgin! I send you two shirts and two handkerchiefs and a towel. Your, MARIETTA in Florence. Leonardo observed that Machiavelli reading this letter seemed another man. His face lit up with a tender smile not to be expected on his harsh features. The smile, however, quickly disappeared. He shrugged his shoulders, crumpled the letter and stuffed it into his pouch, then said savagely-- 'Who told her I was ill?' 'Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio, 'every day Monna Marietta has been to the members of the council asking for you, and inquiring where you are and how you fare.' 'I know! I know! 'Twas like to be so. Affairs of state should be reserved for celibates. One of the two--politics or a wife--not both.' Then he turned abruptly and said, 'And you yourself, good youth; you are perhaps thinking of wedding?' 'Not at present, Messer Niccolò,' replied Lucio. 'Never commit that folly; unless you have the shoulders of Atlas. Eh! Messer Leonardo?' The painter understood that Messer Niccolò loved Marietta passionately, but was ashamed to admit the fact. The inn was now emptying fast; Leonardo prepared for his start and invited Machiavelli to ride with him. But Messer Niccolò shook his head, saying he must wait for money from Florence before he could pay his bill. He spoke sadly, his assumed levity having suddenly collapsed. He looked ill and wretched. Inaction, long stay in one place was misery to him. Not without cause had the Council of Ten complained of his frequent, causeless, and unexpected removals, which were great embarrassment to their affairs. Leonardo took him aside and offered to lend the requisite money. Machiavelli declined. 'You hurt me, my friend,' said the painter; 'remember this rare conjunction of the stars! You would confer a benefit upon me.' There was so much kindness in Leonardo's voice that Messer Niccolò had not the courage to persist in his refusal. He took twenty ducats which he promised to return on receipt of his money from Florence; then immediately paid his score, with the lavishness of a great noble. VI They started. The morning was calm and exquisite; the air, still freezing in the shade, was in the sunshine almost spring-like in its warmth. The deep blue-shadowed snow crackled under the feet of the beasts. Between the white hills shone the pale green of the winter sea, and yellow lateen sails glanced here and there like poised butterflies. Niccolò talked, jested, and laughed. Every trifle excited him to some amusing or cynical reflection. Passing a fishing village the travellers saw a group of fat and jolly friars on the church steps selling rosaries to the women, whose husbands and brothers stood aloof staring stupidly. 'Fools!' shouted Messer Niccolò, 'know you not that fat easily goes aflame; and that holy fathers like pretty women not only to call them fathers but to make them so?' Leonardo asked him what he had thought of Savonarola. Niccolò replied that at one time he had been Fra Girolamo's zealous partisan, hoping to find him the saviour of his country; but too soon he had begun to see the weakness of the prophet. 'The whole splenetic gang became nauseous to me,' he mused. 'I detest even to think of it. The devil take them!' he added energetically. VII About noon they rode in at the gates of Fano. The houses were alive with Cæsar's courtiers, captains, and troopers. Two rooms in the best situation had been assigned to the ducal engineer; he offered one of them to his travelling companion, who in such a crowd might have had difficulty in procuring a lodging. Machiavelli presented himself at once at the palace, and when he returned he brought important news. Don Ramiro de Lorqua, who had been governing in the duke's name, had been executed. On Christmas day the people had found the headless corpse wallowing on the ground in a pool of blood, an axe beside it, the ghastly head stuck on a spear. 'The cause of the execution is unknown,' said Messer Niccolò, 'but 'tis the talk of the whole town. Let us go together and listen to the conjectures of the rabble. 'Tis an opportunity to study the natural laws of politics.' Before the old cathedral of San Fortunato a crowd was expecting the coming forth of the duke, who was about to review his troops. Leonardo and Machiavelli joined the throng in which but one subject was being discussed. 'I can make nothing of it,' said a young workman with a dull, good-natured face. 'I thought Don Ramiro had been loved and enriched above all the court.' 'The very reason of his chastisement,' replied a respectable shopkeeper, dressed in a squirrel pelisse; 'Don Ramiro has been deceiving our duke. He has oppressed, imprisoned, plundered the people. Before his lord he wore sheep's clothing; he fancied things hid were not things forbid. But his hour came; the sovereign's patience was exhausted, and for the good of the people he did not spare his friend; he cut off his head without trial, without hesitation, without delay, as a warning to others. Now they see how terrible is the duke's wrath, how impartial his justice. He puts down the mighty from their seats and exalteth them of low degree.' '_Reges eos in virga ferrea_,' declaimed a monk. 'Thou rulest them with a rod of iron.' 'Ay, ay! They need an iron rod, the sons of dogs, the oppressors of the people!' 'He knows when to pardon, and when to strike.' 'We want no better sovereign.' 'Truly,' said a peasant, 'the Lord has at last had pity on Romagna. Before, there was flaying both of the living and of the dead and the taxes were our starvation. The last pair of oxen in our stalls had to go! But since the Duke Valentino came we have been able to breathe. May the Lord keep him in health!' 'And the judges!' said the shopkeeper; 'their delay used to eat one's very heart! 'Tis different now.' 'He has protected the orphan and consoled the widow,' put in the monk. 'He is merciful. 'Tis not to be denied he is merciful to the people.' 'He gives offence to none.' 'O Santo Iddio!' murmured a feeble old woman, beside herself with admiration; 'may the Blessed Virgin preserve to us our father, our benefactor, our bright sun!' 'Do you hear them?' whispered Machiavelli. '_Vox populi vox dei._ I have always said one must be in the plains to see the mountains; one must be among the people to know the sovereign. I'd like to get them here, those folk who call the duke a tyrant! These things are hid from the wise and prudent, but revealed unto the simple.' Martial music was heard and the crowd was astir. 'He comes! Look!' They stood on tiptoe and craned their necks, curious heads were thrust from windows, women and girls, their eyes full of love, ran out on the balconies and _loggie_ to see their hero, _Cesare bello e biondo_--'Cæsar, the blond and beautiful.' It was rare good luck, for he hardly ever showed himself to the people. The musicians walked first, making a deafening clatter of kettledrums in time with the heavy tread of the soldiers. Next came the duke's Romagnole guard, all picked and handsome men, carrying halberts three cubits long. They wore cuirasses, and helmets of steel, and their garments were parti-coloured, the right side yellow, the left red. Niccolò could not admire enough this truly Roman array. After the guard came equerries and pages, in clothes of unsurpassed splendour; camisoles of gold brocade, mantles of pounce velvet with gold-embroidered slashings, their scabbards and belts of snakes' scales, with knobs representing the seven heads of the viper vomiting poison--the cognisance of the Borgias. Embroidered on their breasts was the word, 'Cæsar.' They were followed by the bodyguard, Albanian _stradiotes_, with curved yataghans. Then Bartolomeo Capranica, the _Maestro del Campo_, carried the naked sword of the Gonfaloniere of the Roman Church. After him came the ruler of Romagna himself, Cæsar Borgia, Duke of Valentinois. He was mounted on a black Barbary stallion, with a diamond sun on its headband: he wore a pale blue silk mantle with the white lilies of France embroidered in pearls, and a corselet wrought into the gaping mouth of a lion. His helmet was a dragon, with scales, wings, and fins of wrought brass, resounding at every movement. At this time Cæsar Borgia was six and twenty; his face had grown thin and worn since Leonardo had seen him at Louis XII.'s court at Milan. His features were sharper, and his eyes, with their glow like polished steel, were graver and more impenetrable. His hair and pointed beard had darkened; his long nose seemed more aquiline. Complete serenity still reigned upon his impassive face; only now there was a look of still more strenuous daring, of terrifying keenness, like the edge of a bared and sharpened sword. The duke was followed by his artillery, the best in Italy. Brass culverins, falconets, iron mortars firing stones--drawn by oxen, their heavy chariots rolling along with a dull roar and mixing with the voices of the trumpets and kettledrums. In the glow of the setting sun, cannon, cuirasses, helmets, spears, flashed lightning; Cæsar was riding in the imperial purple of a conqueror, straight towards the immense blood-red sun. The crowd gazed at the hero in silence, holding its breath, wishing, yet fearing, to greet him with applause, in an ecstasy of admiration akin to terror. Tears flowed down the cheeks of the old beggar woman, and she murmured:-- 'Holy saints! Holy mother! The Lord has permitted me to see his face! O, our beauteous sun!' The flashing sword entrusted to Cæsar by the pope was the fiery glaive of the archangel Michael himself. Leonardo smiled, seeing on Machiavelli's face the very same look of artless enthusiasm. VIII On reaching home Leonardo found a letter from Messer Agapito, bidding him wait on his Excellency the next day. A little later, Lucio, who was passing through Fano on his way to Ancona, came in for a visit, and Machiavelli spoke to him of the execution of Don Ramiro de Lorqua. 'To divine the real reasons for the actions of a ruler like Cæsar Borgia, is almost impossible,' he said, 'but as you ask me what I think of this deed, I will tell you. Till its conquest by the duke, Romagna was under the yoke of a number of petty tyrants, and full of disorder, plundering and violence. To end this state of turbulence Cæsar appointed his astute and faithful servant, Don Ramiro, as his lieutenant. This man accomplished his task; he inspired the people with a salutary terror, and established perfect tranquillity throughout the country, but he did it by a long series of cruel punishments. When the prince saw that his object was gained he determined to destroy the instrument of his severity. Don Ramiro has been seized, on the ground of extortion, and executed; his dead body lies exposed to public view. This terrible spectacle has at once gratified and awed the people. The duke's action has been wise, for he has reaped three clear advantages. First, he has slain the tyrants; secondly, by condemning Ramiro he has disassociated himself from his lieutenant's ferocity and so has gained a character for gentleness; thirdly, by sacrificing his favourite servant he has set an example of incorruptible equity.' Machiavelli spoke in a low dry voice, with expressionless countenance, as if stating his reasoning on some theorem. 'From your own words, Messer Niccolò,' cried Lucio, 'I perceive that this supposed equity is the excess of villainy!' Sparks of fire appeared in the secretary's eyes, but he looked away and spoke as coldly as before. 'It may be so,' he assented, 'but what of it?' 'What of it? Would you approve such scoundrelly statecraft?' 'Young man, you speak with the inexperience of youth. In politics, the difference between the way men should and the way they do act, is so great, that to forget it means to expose yourself to certain ruin. For all men are by nature evil and vicious; they are virtuous only for advantage or through fear. A prince who would avoid ruin, must at all hazards learn the art of appearing virtuous; and he must be or not be virtuous as the case may require. He must disregard all uneasiness of conscience as to those secret measures without which the preservation of power is impossible; for upon accurate knowledge of the nature of good and evil, it is clear that the power of a prince will often be undermined by his virtuous actions and augmented by his crimes.' Lucio again protested. 'Reasoning thus,' he cried, 'anything would be permissible, and there is no wickedness which you could not justify!' 'That is so,' replied Machiavelli with perfect serenity, and, as if insisting upon the significance of his words, he raised his hand and added solemnly: 'All is permissible to the man who knows how to rule.' Then he resumed in his former dry tone of ratiocination, 'Therefore, I conclude that the severity of the Duke of Valentinois, who has put an end to pillage and violence throughout Romagna, has been more rational and no less merciful than the leniency of our Florentines, who have permitted continued revolts and have fomented disorder in all the provinces under their sway. For it is better to strike down a few than bring a whole state to ruin as result of its licence.' 'But,' said Lucio, somewhat overwhelmed, 'have there been no rulers that were strangers to this cruelty? Think of Antoninus and Marcus Aurelius.' 'Do not forget, Messere, that I am discussing the government of conquered, not of hereditary principalities; and the acquisition, not the maintenance, of authority. The emperors you have named could afford clemency, because in the preceding years there had been sufficiency of bloody deeds. The founder of Rome slew his brother--a horrid crime--but this fratricide was necessary to the establishment of a sole authority, without which Rome would have perished from the weakness consequent on domestic strife. Who shall be able certainly to balance a single fratricide against all the virtue and wisdom of the Eternal City? Doubtless we ought to prefer the most humble fortune to greatness founded upon evil deeds; but he who has once abandoned the path of abstract righteousness, must, if he would not perish, walk resolutely in the path of evil and follow it to the end: for men revenge themselves only for small offences, great offences depriving them of the power of revenge. Therefore, a prince must inflict only serious injuries on his subjects, and must refrain from minor injustices. Yet the generality persist in choosing the middle course between wrong and right, which is the most perilous. They recoil from crimes which demand great courage, and commit only vulgar baseness which profits them not.' 'Your words make my hair stand on end, Messer Niccolò,' said Lucio, much shocked, but thinking a jest the most courteous form of reply: 'You may speak the truth, but I shall flatly refuse to believe these your real opinions.' 'Truths always seem improbable,' said Machiavelli dryly. Leonardo, who was listening, had already observed that Messer Niccolò, while pretending indifference, was casting sly glances at Lucio as if to gauge the effect his words were producing. It was evident that Machiavelli had little self-command, was not possessed of calm and conquering strength. Unwilling to think like other men, hating the commonplace, he had fallen into the opposite error, into exaggeration, into the affectation of views rare and startling, but incomplete and paradoxical. He played with such words as _virtue_ and _ferocity_, much as a juggler plays with naked swords. He had a whole armoury of these polished, shining, tempting and dangerous weapons, ready for the disabling of men like Messer Lucio; men of the herd, respectable, sensible, conventional. He punished them for their triumphant mediocrity, and for his own disregarded superiority; he cut and scratched them; but did not kill or even seriously wound them. Leonardo remembered the monster which he had once painted on the wooden 'rotello' for Ser Piero da Vinci; an animal put together from the different parts of a variety of repulsive reptiles. Had not Messer Niccolò put together as useless and impossible a monstrosity in his superhumanly astute and conscienceless prince? A being contrary to nature, fascinating as Medusa, invented for the terrifying of the vulgar? Yet under this wantonness of imagination, this artistic dispassionateness, Leonardo perceived great suffering in the soul of Messer Niccolò, as if a juggler, playing with swords, were himself cut to the quick. 'Is he not one of those unhappy sick men,' thought the painter, 'who seek relief from pain in envenoming their wounds?' He did not know the last secret of this dark spirit, so like, and yet so unlike, his own. Messer Lucio, like a man in a nightmare, was struggling with the Medusa head evoked by Messer Niccolò. 'Well, well!' he said, 'I will not dispute with you. Severity may have been necessary to princes in the past. We can pardon them a good deal for the sake of their heroic virtues and exploits. But, pardon me, what has this to do with the Duke of Romagna? _Quod licet Jovi non licet bovi._ What is permitted to Alexander the Great or to Julius Cæsar, may be unpardonable in Alexander the pope or in Cæsar Borgia, of whom we cannot yet say whether he be Cæsar or nothing. I at least think, and all will agree with me----' 'Oh, of course, all will agree with you,' interrupted Niccolò, out of patience, 'but that is no proof, Messer Lucio. The truth does not lie on the high road where all men pass. But to conclude the discussion, here is my last word. As I observe the acts of Cæsar, I find them perfect; and I would suggest him as a model to all who would obtain power by force of arms and by successful adventure. He combines cruelty so well with virtue, he knows so accurately when to caress and when to crush, the foundations of his power are so firmly though so quickly laid, that already he is an autocrat, the only one in Italy, perhaps the only one in Europe. It is hard to imagine what may not lie before him in the future.' Machiavelli's eyes burned, his voice shook, and red spots glowed on his sunken cheeks; he seemed like a seer. From the mask of a cynic looked out the face of the former disciple of Savonarola, the fanatic. But Lucio, weary of the discussion, had no sooner suggested sealing a truce with two or three bottles from the neighbouring cellar than the visionary disappeared. 'Nay,' cried Messer Niccolò eagerly, 'let us go to a different tavern. I have a good scent in such matters, I know where we shall find handsome women.' 'What, in this scurvy little town?' said Lucio. 'Listen, my lad,' said the dignified secretary of the Florentine Republic, 'never you despise these same small towns. In their vile alleys you can sometimes find what will make you lick your fingers for delight.' At these words Lucio slapped Messer Niccolò on the back, and called him a sly dog. 'We will take lanterns,' continued Niccolò, 'we will wear cloaks and vizards. On such expeditions mystery is half the pleasure. Messer Leonardo, you accompany us?' The artist excused himself. He did not enjoy the customary gross talk about women, and avoided it with instinctive repulsion. This man of fifty, the intrepid student of the secrets of nature who could accompany criminals to their execution that he might see the last look of terror in their eyes, was often put out of countenance by a jest, did not know which way to look, and blushed like a schoolboy. Niccolò, without more ado, carried off Messer Lucio. IX Early next day a chamberlain came to inquire whether the ducal engineer were satisfied with his quarters, and to bring him a present from Cæsar. According to the hospitable custom of the time it consisted of provisions, a sack of flour, a cask of wine, a sheep, a dozen fat capons; and also two large torches, three packets of wax candles, and two boxes of _confetti_. Impressed by these compliments, Machiavelli begged Leonardo to say a word for him to the duke, and obtain him the favour of an interview. At eleven in the evening, Cæsar's customary reception-hour, they went together to the palace. The duke's manner of life was strange enough. Summer and winter he went to bed at four or five in the morning, so that for him it was dawn at three in the afternoon, sunrise at four; at five he began to dress and to dine and to conduct his business affairs all simultaneously. He surrounded his doings with mystery, not only out of natural secretiveness, but by studied calculation; he seldom left his palace, and always masked. Only on great festivals did he show himself to the people, and to the troops only in moments of extreme danger. He liked to astonish; his appearances were always dramatic, like those of a demi-god. Scarce credible reports were current as to his profuseness. All the gold continually flowing into the treasury of St. Peter's did not suffice for the expenditure of the _Gonfaloniere_ of the Church. Envoys reported that he spent not less than eighteen hundred ducats daily; and that when he rode through the streets crowds followed him to pick up the easily dropped silver shoes, with which his horses were shod, solely as largesse to the people. Wonders were told also as to his physical strength. He could bend horse-shoes in his fingers (thin and delicate as a woman's), twist iron rods, break the cables of ships. At a bull-fight in Rome some years ago, when he had been Cardinal of Valenza, the youthful Cæsar had cut a bull in half with a single stroke of his sword. Inaccessible to his courtiers and to the ambassadors of great potentates, he was often to be seen on the hills round Cesena watching the boxing matches of the wild Romagna herdsmen, and sometimes taking part in the sport. At the same time he was the ideal of a cavalier and the paragon of fashion. On the day of his sister Lucrezia's marriage with Alfonso d'Este, he left the siege of a fortress and rode from the camp to the wedding, unrecognised, and clad in black velvet with a black mask. He passed through the crowd of guests, bowed, and when all drew back in surprise, danced to the strains of the music with such grace that at once the cry was raised, '_Cesare! Cesare! L'unico Cesare!_' Heeding neither guests nor bridegroom, he drew Lucrezia aside and whispered in her ear. Her eyes fell, she flushed, then grew white, to the enhancement of her dainty pearl-like beauty. It might be she was innocent; there was no question that she was frail; report added submissive, perhaps even criminally submissive, to the terrible will of this her brother. He, it seemed, cared for one point only, that there should be no proofs. Fame probably exaggerated his sins; but possibly the reality was more terrible than fame. At any rate he knew how to conceal his actions, and to wipe out every trace of them. X The old Gothic municipal palace of Fano served as the duke's residence. Leonardo and Machiavelli crossed the dreary hall where less important visitors were received, and entered an inner apartment, once a chapel. There was stained glass in the lancet windows; and the Apostles and Fathers of the Church were carved in oak on the high stalls of the choir. On the ceiling was a faded fresco of the Holy Dove hovering over clouds and angels. The courtiers were standing and talking in undertones, for the near presence of the sovereign was felt even through the walls. The ill-starred envoy from Rimini, a bald and feeble old man who had been waiting three months for his audience of the duke, clearly worn out by many sleepless nights, had fallen into a doze. Now and then the door opened, and the secretary Agapito, with an anxious air, spectacles on nose and pen behind his ear, looked in, and summoned to his Highness one or other of those waiting. Each time, the bald old man from Rimini shuddered, started up, saw it was not his turn, sighed heavily, and again sank into his doze. His slumbers were soothed by the sound of an apothecary's pestle beating in a mortar; for, a suitable room being lacking, this chapel was used not only as the ante-chamber to the presence but also as the surgery. Where the altar had stood was a table crowded with the bottles, gallipots, and retorts of a physician's laboratory, and behind it Gaspare Torella, the bishop of Santa Giusta, and the chief physician to the Duke of Valentinois, was preparing a fashionable medicine, a decoction of '_guaiaco_,' or, as it was commonly called, 'Holy tree,' brought from the new islands discovered by Columbus. The bishop-doctor, while he rubbed the yellow lumps in his shapely hands, was discoursing on the nature of this healing tree; and the oaken saints on the stalls seemed listening in amazement to the strange talk of these new shepherds of the Lord's flock. The chapel was lighted only by the physician's blinking lamp; the air was choked by the pungent smell of the medicine, mingled with faint perfume of the incense of earlier years; one might have fancied this an assembly of prelates engaged in the performance of some strange mystic rite. Meantime the Florentine secretary was taking now one, now another of the courtiers aside, and adroitly questioning them as to Cæsar's policy. Presently he approached Leonardo and whispered to him very mysteriously. 'I shall eat the artichoke; I shall eat the artichoke!' 'What artichoke?' asked the painter, bewildered. 'Precisely; what artichoke? It seems the duke propounded a riddle to Messer Pandolfo Collenuccio, the Ambassador from Ferrara. He said, "I shall eat the artichoke, leaf by leaf." It may signify the league of his enemies whom he means to separate, and so destroy one by one. I have puzzled my brains over it for an hour.' Speaking still lower, he continued, 'Here all is riddle and trap. They chatter about every kind of nonsense, but directly you speak of affairs they become dumb as monks at dinner. But they shall not deceive me; I know very well there is something in the air. I' faith, sir, I would sell my soul to know what.' And his eyes glowed like a desperate gamester's. Before Leonardo could reply, he was summoned by Messer Agapito. Through a long gloomy passage guarded by the Stradiotes, Leonardo arrived at the duke's bedchamber, a spacious room hung with tapestry and silk. On the ceiling were painted the amours of Pasiphae and the bull. The bull, the heraldic emblem of the Borgias, was repeated on all the ornaments of the room, together with the triple tiara and the keys of St. Peter. The room was warm and scented. A fire of juniper burned on the marble hearth, and the lamp oil was perfumed with violets. Cæsar, elegantly dressed, lay on a flat couch in the middle of the room; he cared for two postures only, reclining, or sitting on horseback. Apparently indifferent to everything, he leaned his elbow on a pillow, listened to a report from a secretary, and watched a game of chess which two of his attendants were playing on a jasper table by his side. He had the faculty of divided attention. With a slow, uniform, mechanical movement he passed backwards and forwards from one hand to the other a golden ball filled with scent, which he carried as religiously as his Damascene dagger. XI He received Leonardo with a peculiar and charming courtesy. Not permitting him to kneel, he held his hand and made him sit in an armchair by his side. The duke wished to consult him about plans tendered by Bramante for a new monastery at the town of Imola, which was to be called Valentino, and to have a superb chapel, a hospital, and a refuge for pilgrims. By such munificent works of charity he wished to erect a monument to his own Christian beneficence. After Bramante's designs, he exhibited letters just cut for Girolamo Soncino's new printing-press at Fano, being zealous in the encouragement of the arts and sciences in his dominions. Agapito then gave his master a collection of eulogistic odes by Franceso Uberti the court poet; these Cæsar received graciously, commanding a liberal reward for the author. Then, as he insisted upon seeing satires no less than eulogies, the secretary handed him a poem by Mancioni the Neapolitan, who had been seized and confined in the Castle of St. Angelo in Rome. This sonnet was full of savage abuse; in it Cæsar was called a mule, the mongrel offspring of a harlot and a pope, sitting on a throne, once Christ's now Satan's; a circumcised Turk, a disfrocked cardinal, incestuous, apostate, fratricidal. 'Why, O God, waitest Thou?' cried the poet; 'carest thou not that Holy Church has become a stall for mules, a den of orgies?' 'How does your Excellency wish the villain to be dealt with?' asked Agapito. 'Leave him till my return,' replied the duke quietly, 'I will deal with him myself. I shall know how to teach these scribblers manners!' he added, in a low voice. Cæsar's method of teaching manners was not unknown. For less serious affronts he had cut off hands, and seared tongues with red hot irons. His report finished, the secretary withdrew. Then audience was given to Valguglio, the astrologer, who had drawn a new horoscope. The duke listened attentively, for he was a believer in the influences of the stars. Valguglio explained that Cæsar's late illness was due to the entrance of Mars into the sign of the Scorpion; the complaint would pass when Venus had reached her rising in Taurus. Had the duke any matter of importance in hand, let him choose for its date the afternoon of the 31st of December, as the conjunction of stars that day was propitious; and bending toward the duke's ear and raising his finger impressively, the astrologer repeated thrice in a mysterious whisper-- '_Fatilo_, _Fatilo_, _Fatilo_'--'Do it. Do it. Do it!' Cæsar made no reply, but it seemed to Leonardo that a shadow passed over his face. Then he dismissed the seer and turned again to the _Ingegnere Ducale_. Leonardo unfolded military plans and maps. Not merely scientific, showing the nature of the soil, the direction of the watersheds, the mountains, the windings of the rivers--they were also artistic bird's-eye pictures of the localities, coloured after Nature, and with every detail executed in perfection. Squares, streets and towers of the towns could be recognised; the spectator felt as if flying over the earth, and seeing at his feet an infinite expanse. Cæsar examined with great attention the topography of the district bounded on the south by the lake of Bolsena, on the north by the Val d'Ema, on the east by Arezzo and Perugia, on the west by Siena and the littoral. This was the heart of Italy, Leonardo's home, the territory of Florence, long coveted by the duke. Immersed in thought, enjoying this fancied flight, Cæsar gazed long at Leonardo's drawing, and felt as if he and the great inventor were in such sort engaged in the same work. He raised his eyes to the artist and cordially pressed his hand. 'I thank you, my Leonardo. Continue to serve me thus and I shall know how to reward you. Are you comfortable among us?' he continued solicitously; 'are you satisfied with your salary? Have you any request to make? You know my pleasure in gratifying you.' Leonardo, profiting by the opportunity, asked an audience for Messer Niccolò. Cæsar shrugged his shoulders with a good-humoured smile. 'He is a strange man, your Messer Niccolò. He demands audience, and, when I receive him, talks about nothing at all. Why did they send me such a mysterious person?' Presently he asked Leonardo's opinion of the man. 'I find him, Excellence, one of the most astute and most clear-sighted persons I have met in my whole life.' 'He is certainly intelligent,' said the duke, 'and I doubt not he has understanding of affairs. And yet--he is unreliable. He knows no mean in anything. However--I wish him well, especially since he has your good word. He is guileless, though he thinks himself the most cunning of men, and would deceive me, whom he considers the enemy of your Republic. I pardon him, understanding that he loves his country better than his soul. Well, I will receive him; tell him so. By the way, have I not heard he is compiling a book on Statecraft and the Art of War?' Cæsar laughed his low pleasant laugh, as if reminded of something which had tickled him. 'Have you heard about the Macedonian phalanx? No? Then listen. Once, Messer Niccolò explained from this very book on war to my Master of the Camp, Bartolomeo Capranica, and other captains, the laws of ranging troops after the manner of the phalanx. He spoke with such eloquence that all desired to see the phalanx in actual fact. We went to a suitable field and Niccolò was to give orders. Well, he wrestled with two thousand soldiers for nearly three hours exposing them to the cold, the wind, the rain, but he could not form his own phalanx. At last Bartolomeo lost patience; he had never read a military book in his life, but he took the troop in hand, and in the twinkling of an eye he had drawn up the infantry in the desired order. There we see the difference between practice and theory. But take care how you allude to it! Messer Niccolò does not like to be reminded of anything Macedonian!' By this time it was three o'clock and the duke's supper was brought, a dish of fruit, trout, and some white wine; like a true Spaniard he ate and drank most sparingly. Leonardo was dismissed, but not before Cæsar had again thanked him for the maps. Three pages carrying torches were detailed to escort him to his lodging. The painter told Machiavelli about his interview with the duke. When he spoke of the maps of the Florentine territory Messer Niccolò grew thoughtful. 'What? You? A citizen of our republic, for our bitterest enemy? Do you know, sir, that for this you may be accused of treason?' 'Really?' said Leonardo, astonished: 'I don't wish to think so, Niccolò. I am no politician, but obey like a blind man.' Silently they looked into each other's eyes; and each recognised the profound difference between them. The one might be said to have no country: the other loved his country, in Cæsar's phrase, 'above his own soul.' XII That night Niccolò went away, leaving no word as to the Whither and the Why. He returned next day, weary and frozen, entered Leonardo's room, bolted the door, and announced that he wished to speak on a matter of profoundest secrecy. Then he began a narrative. Three years ago, one winter evening, in a deserted corner of Romagna between Cervia and Porto Cesenatico, a body of cavalry was escorting Madonna Dorotea, wife of Battista Caracciolo, captain of infantry in the service of the _Serenissima Signoria_ of Venice, and her cousin, Maria, a fifteen year old novice in an Urbino convent, from Urbino to Venice. Horsemen armed and masked fell on the party, seized the ladies, put them on horses, and carried them off. From that day they had not been heard of. The Council and Senate of Venice, considering themselves outraged in the person of their captain, appealed to Louis XII., to the King of Spain, and to the pope, openly accusing the Duke of Romagna of the abduction of Dorotea. However, they could not prove their case, and Cæsar replied mockingly that, having no lack of women, he had not occasion to steal them by highway robbery. Reports began to be current, moreover, that Dorotea had quickly consoled herself, and that, having forgotten her husband, she followed the duke in all his campaigns. Maria, however, had a brother, Messer Dionigi, a young captain in the service of Florence. When all the complaints of the Florentine Signoria, before whom he had laid the matter, proved as vain as the representations of the Venetians, Dionigi determined to act on his own authority. He presented himself before the duke under a feigned name, gained his confidence, obtained admission to the dungeon of the Castle of Cesena, found his sister, disguised her as a boy, and made his escape with her. But at the Perugian frontier the fugitives were overtaken, Dionigi was killed, and Maria haled back to her prison. Machiavelli, as Secretary of the Florentine Republic, was interested in the event. He had been in Dionigi's confidence, and had learned from him not only the plan of rescue, but the accounts which the brother had acquired of his sister's ill-fortune, and of her reputation as a miracle-working saint, bearing the 'stigmata' like St. Catharine of Siena. Cæsar, tired of Dorotea, had cast his eyes on Maria, and having never experienced difficulty with women, not even with the most discreet, counted on an easy conquest. He was mistaken. The girl met him with a resistance which he could not overcome. Report said that of late the duke had constantly visited her in her cell, staying for long periods alone with her. But what passed at these interviews no one knew. Machiavelli ended his recital with expression of a fixed determination to rescue Maria. 'If you, Messer Leonardo, will consent to help me, I will so arrange the matter that none shall know of your share in it. First I shall require of you information as to the internal construction and arrangement of the Castle of San Michele, where Maria is kept in durance. You, as the court engineer, will find it easy to obtain entrance and to discover all we need to know.' Leonardo for all reply gazed at his friend in amazement, and presently Messer Niccolò broke into a forced and somewhat angry laugh. 'I hope,' he said, 'you do not honour me by thinking me over sentimental, too chivalrously generous? Whether Cæsar seduce this minx or no is nothing to me. Would you know why I concern myself in the affair? First, to show the illustrious Signoria that I am good for something besides foolery; but secondly and chiefly, because I require amusement. If a man commit no follies he loses his wits through weariness. I am sick of chattering, playing dice, going to bawdy houses, and making vain reports to the Florentine Wool-staplers. So I have devised this adventure: action I assure you, not mere talk. The opportunity must not be wasted. My whole plan is ready and I have taken all necessary precautions.' He spoke hurriedly as if excusing himself. Leonardo, however, understood that he was ashamed of genuine kind-heartedness, and was trying to conceal it under a mask of cynicism. 'Messere,' said the artist, 'I pray you to rely on me in this matter as on yourself. But on one condition, that if we fail, I shall share your responsibility.' Niccolò, visibly touched, clasped his hand, and at once set forth his design. Leonardo made no criticism, though in his heart he doubted whether it would prove practical. The liberation of the captive was fixed for the 30th of December. Two days before the date agreed upon, one of Maria's gaolers, who was in Niccolò's pay, came running to inform him that Cæsar knew all. Machiavelli being absent, Leonardo went in search of him to give him this news. He found the Florentine Secretary in a tavern, where a troop of gamesters, chiefly Spanish soldiers, were fleecing inexpert players at dice or cards. Surrounded by a merry group of young libertines, Machiavelli was expounding that famous sonnet of Petrarch's on Laura, which ends:-- 'E lei vid' io ferita in mezzo 'l core' and discovering some obscene allusion in every line, while his hearers were convulsed with laughter. Suddenly an uproar arose in the next room; women screamed, tables were overthrown, swords clashed, coins and broken bottles were dashed against the walls and floor. One of the players had been detected cheating. Niccolò's audience ran to join the fray, and Leonardo whispered his news to his friend, and led him home. It was a still, star-lit night. New fallen snow creaked under their feet; the fragrance of the air was delicious after the stifling tavern. When Messer Niccolò heard that their plot for the rescue of the girl Maria had come to the knowledge of the duke, he replied coolly that for the moment there was no occasion for alarm. Then he continued with voluble apology. 'You were surprised to find me acting cheap jack to that Spanish rabble? What of it? 'Tis law of necessity. Necessity jumps, Necessity dances, Necessity trolls catches. They may be rascals, but they are more generous than the magnificent Signoria of Florence.' There was so much bitterness and self-accusation in his tone that Leonardo could not bear it. 'You are wrong, Messer Niccolò,' he said, 'to speak thus with me. I am your friend and shall not judge like the vulgar.' Machiavelli turned away--and answered in a low voice, 'I know it--judge me not harshly, Leonardo. Often I jest and laugh lest my heart's grief should set me weeping. Such is my lot! I was born under a luckless star. While my fellows, men of no intelligence, succeed in everything, live in honour and luxury, acquire power and wealth, I remain behind them all, out-jostled by fools. They think me a buffoon, perchance they be right. Yet I fear neither great labours nor certain perils; but what I cannot suffer is that my life should be consumed in the pitiful effort to make two ends meet, to tremble over every groat, to endure paltry affronts daily from my inferiors! 'Tis an accursed life! If God do not come to my aid, I shall end by abandoning my work, my Marietta, and my son. What am I but a burden to them and to all? Let them think what they will: let them imagine me dead. I will hide me in some distant hamlet, some corner of the earth where none shall know me; where I shall be clerk to the _podestà_, or teacher of the alphabet in a village school, that I may not die of starvation so long as I retain my senses. My friend, there is naught more terrible than to feel in yourself the power to do something, and to know that you will perish and die without ever having accomplished anything whatsoever.' XIII As the day for the adventure approached, Leonardo perceived that Machiavelli, notwithstanding his anticipations of success, was losing his coolness, and becoming inclined either to undue caution or to over precipitancy. The artist knew well this state of mind: the result, not of cowardice nor of pusillanimity, but of that treachery of the will, that fatal irresolution when the moment for striking has arrived, which is inherent in men made for contemplation rather than for action. On the eve of the eventful day Niccolò went to a little place near the Torre di San Michele, to make the final preparations. Leonardo was to join him early in the morning. Left alone, the latter momentarily expected disastrous news; he felt very little doubt that the affair would end in some stupid failure, on a par with the prank of a schoolboy. The dull winter morning was dawning, and he was about to make his start when Niccolò returned. Pale and woe-begone, he sank half-fainting on a chair. ''Tis at an end,' he said shortly. 'I expected as much!' cried Leonardo. 'I guessed we should fail.' 'We have not failed, but we are too late; the bird has flown.' 'How has she flown?' 'This morning, before the dawn, Maria was found on the prison floor with her throat cut.' 'And the murderer is----?' 'The murderer is unknown, but it is not the duke. Cæsar and his executioners are no bunglers, and this poor child has been hacked----They say she has died a maid. My notion is that she herself----' 'Impossible! She would not have done it. She was a saint----' 'Anything is possible. You don't know this crew yet. And that infamous assassin--I tell you that infamous assassin is capable of anything! He could force even a saint to lay hands on herself! Ah! I saw her twice in the beginning of her martyrdom, when she was not so closely watched. She was fragile, with an innocent face like a child's. Her hair was thin and of pale gold, like Lippo Lippi's Madonna in the Badia. There was no special beauty about her. Oh, Messer Leonardo, you cannot know what a sweet, helpless child she was!' He turned away, tears glistening on his eyelashes. But he continued in a sharp, forced voice:-- 'I have always said it! An honourable man in this court is like a fish in a frying-pan. I have had enough of it! I was not made to be a slave. The Signoria must transfer me. I won't stay here.' Leonardo was sincerely grieved for Maria, and he would have done his utmost on her behalf. Nevertheless it was a relief both to him and to Messer Niccolò that there was no longer any demand upon them for decisive action. XIV The larger part of Cæsar's army marched out of Fano at dawn on the 30th of December, and encamped outside Sinigaglia. Next day (the date recommended by the astrologer), the duke himself was to arrive. Sinigaglia had been besieged by the confederates of Mugione, who had come to terms with Cæsar, and were now acting for him. The town had surrendered, but the commandant of the castle swore he would open his gates only to Cæsar in person. Accordingly the duke had sent word that he was coming, and he had invited the repentant confederates to meet him on the banks of the Metauro, where his camp lay, that they might hold a council of war. These men, his former enemies, now his allies, had perhaps a presentiment of evil, and would have declined to meet him. However, he reassured them, 'bewitching them,' as Machiavelli afterwards wrote, 'like the basilisk which entices its victims by the sweetness of its singing.' Machiavelli left Fano with the duke. Leonardo followed alone some hours later. The road led southwards along the seashore. On the right, mountains descended sheer to the sea, scarcely allowing room for the narrow road at their base. It was a grey day, very still; the water was grey and unruffled as the sky. The drowsy air, the chirping of the birds, black spots and holes in the surface of the snow, all portended a thaw. At last the brick towers of Sinigaglia came in sight; the town lay like a trap between the mountains and the sea, not a mile from the Adriatic, not a cross-bow shot from the foot of the Apennines. Upon meeting the stream of the Misa, the road turned sharply to the left; here was a bridge slanting across the little river, and behind it the gates of the town frowned across a square with low buildings, chiefly storehouses belonging to Venetian merchants. At that time Sinigaglia was a large semi-Oriental bazaar, where Italian traders exchanged their wares with Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Persians, and Slavs from Montenegro and Albania. At this moment, however, even the busiest streets were empty. Leonardo met only soldiers. Here and there in the long arcades, which extended monotonously along each side of the street, in the shops, the warehouses, the _fondachi_, he saw traces of plunder--broken glass, forced locks, severed bolts and bars, doors thrown open, and wares and bales ruthlessly exposed. There was a smell of fire, and some half-consumed houses were still smoking; corpses hung from the iron lamp-stanchions at the corners of the palace. It was growing dark when, in the principal piazza near the palace, Leonardo saw Cæsar Borgia surrounded by his guards. He was punishing the soldiers who had pillaged the town. Messer Agapito was in the act of reading their sentences; then at a sign from the duke the condemned were conducted to the gallows. At this moment Leonardo was joined by Machiavelli. 'What do you think of it?' asked Messer Niccolò eagerly, 'if indeed you have heard----' 'I have heard nothing, and am glad to meet you. Pray tell me.' Machiavelli took him into the next street, then through several narrow lanes, choked with snow, to a deserted district by the shore. Here in a lonely tumble-down hovel, belonging to the widow of a shipbuilder, he had succeeded in finding the only vacant quarters in the town, two diminutive rooms for himself and his friend. He lit a candle, drew a bottle of wine from his pocket, broke its neck against the wall, and seated himself opposite Leonardo, gazing at him with glowing eyes. 'You have not heard?' he said gravely. 'A rare and memorable thing has been done. Cæsar has revenged himself on his enemies. The conspirators have been seized; Oliverotto, Orsini, and Vitelli are awaiting sentence of death.' He threw himself back in his chair, watching Leonardo, and enjoying his astonishment. Then making an effort to appear calm and dispassionate, he told the story of the trap of Sinigaglia. Arrived early at the camp on the Metauro, Cæsar sent forward two hundred horsemen, set the infantry in motion, and followed them himself with the rest of the cavalry. He knew that the allied generals would come to meet him, and that their forces had been distributed in the forts surrounding the town, so as to make room for the new troops. Outside the gates where the road curved, following the bank of the Misa, he drew up his cavalry in two lines, leaving space between them for the passage of the infantry, which, without a halt, crossed the bridge and entered the gates of the town. The allies, Orsini, Gravina, and Vitellozzo, rode out to meet the duke, escorted by a few horsemen. As if presaging disaster, Vitellozzo was so gloomy and abstracted that those about him who knew his customary phlegm were astounded; it was known that he had taken leave of his family as if going to his death. The generals dismounted from their mules and saluted the duke. He also left his horse, gave his hand to each, and then embraced and kissed them, calling them his 'beloved brothers,' with many demonstrations of courtesy. According to a preconcerted arrangement, Cæsar's captains surrounded the generals in such a way that each was the centre of a group of Borgia's adherents; meantime the duke, observing the absence of Oliverotto, signed to Don Michele Corella, his captain, who rode off, and having found Oliverotto with his troops, made a pretext for bringing him also to Cæsar's presence. Then, conversing amicably on military matters and future tactics, they went all together to the palace, which stood just in front of the fortress. At the entrance the generals would have taken their leave, but the duke, with the same urbanity as before, invited them into the palace. Scarcely had they set foot in the first chamber, when the doors were secured, armed men rushed on the four generals, seized, disarmed, and bound them. Such was their astonishment that they scarce offered any resistance. The duke intended to disembarrass himself of his victims that very night by strangling them in a secluded part of the palace. 'Truly, Messer Leonardo,' cried Machiavelli, 'I would you had seen how he embraced them and kissed them! One mistrustful glance, one suspicious gesture might have betrayed him; but there was such sincerity in his voice, on his countenance, that till the final moment I guessed naught, nor could have believed he was acting a part. Of all stratagems since politics began, this must be the finest!' Leonardo smiled. 'Doubtless,' he said, 'his Excellency has exhibited audacity and craft; but I comprehend not what in this betrayal so moves your admiration.' 'Betrayal? Nay, sir, when it is a question of saving your country, there can be no question of betrayal or of loyalty, of good or evil, of clemency or cruelty. All means are alike, provided the object is gained.' 'Is this a question of saving his country? Methinks the duke has studied but his own advantage.' 'Can it be that even you do not understand? Cæsar is the future autocrat of an united Italy. Never was a time more favourable for the advent of a hero. If Israel had to serve in bondage in order that Moses should arise; if the Persians had to lie under the yoke of the Medes that Cyrus might be exalted; if the Athenians had to waste themselves in internecine strife that Theseus might have eternal glory, then it is necessary also, in this our own day, that Italy be shamed, and enslaved, bound, and divided, without a head, without a leader, without a guide; devastated, trampled on, crushed by all the woes which a nation can endure, in order that a new hero shall rise to be the saviour of his land. Many times men have appeared whom she has fancied the destined one, and have died leaving the great deed undone. Half-dead, scarce breathing, she still awaits her deliverer, who shall heal her wounds, put an end to disorder in Lombardy, plunder in Tuscany, extortion and murder in Naples. Day and night Italy cries to her God, if, perchance, He will send her a saviour!' His voice rang like a chord too tightly stretched, and broke. He was white and shaking, and his eyes glowed. In his excitement was something convulsive, powerless, akin to epilepsy. Leonardo remembered how, speaking of Maria's suicide, he had called the Duke of Valentinois a monster of crime. He did not point out the inconsistency, knowing that Messer Niccolò, in his exaltation, would repudiate his softer mood. 'Who lives long, sees much, _Niccolò mio_. But permit me one question. Why is it _to-day_ that you have assured yourself of Cæsar's divine election? Has the _inganno di Sinigaglia_ proved his heroism?' 'Yes,' replied Machiavelli, recovering his impartial air; 'the violence of his action has shown that he has the rare combination of great qualities and their opposites. I do not blame. I do not praise. I simply examine. Here is my reasoning on the matter: there are two ways open to him who would arrive at a particular end. The first is law, the second violence. The first belongs to men--the second to beasts. He who wishes to rule must tread both ways, must know how to be either beast or man. Such is the inner meaning of the old legends of Achilles and other heroes nurtured by Chiron, the centaur, half-god, half-beast. The major part of men cannot support the weight of liberty, and fear it more than death. When they have committed a crime they are crushed under the burden of repentance. 'Tis only the hero, the man of destiny, who has the strength to support liberty, who breaks laws without fear, without remorse, who remains innocent even in evil, as do beasts and gods. To-day, for the first time, I have seen in Cæsar the infallible sign that he is elect of God!' 'Yes, yes, I understand,' said Leonardo moodily; 'but to my thinking that man is not free who, like Cæsar, dares all because he knows naught and loves naught. _I call him free who dares all because he knows all and loves all._ That is the liberty whereby men shall conquer both good and evil, the height and the abyss, the bounds of earth, its obstacles and burdens; shall become as gods, and fly.' 'Fly?' said Machiavelli bewildered. 'When they have perfect knowledge they will make themselves wings. 'Tis a subject upon which I have thought much. Perhaps nothing will come of it. I care not; if it be not I, 'twill be another. The day will come when there shall be wings.' 'Well, let us congratulate each other. Our talk has led us to a new creation. My prince is to be half-god, half-beast; and you have given him wings.' But the striking of a clock in the neighbouring tower drove Messer Niccolò forth; he had to hasten to the palace that he might learn of the impending execution of the generals. Isabella Gonzaga, Marchesa of Mantua, by way of congratulation, sent Cesare a carnival gift of a hundred pretty masks in coloured silk. XV Cæsar returned to Rome in the beginning of March 1503. The Pope proposed to reward the hero with the Golden Rose, the highest distinction which the Church could confer on her champions. The cardinals assented, and two days later the ceremony of investiture took place. The Roman Curia and the envoys of the great powers assembled in the Sala de' Pontefici, which looks out on the Cortile del Belvedere. Alexander VI., seventy years of age and corpulent, but still vigorous and majestic, ascended the dais, wearing the begemmed mantle and triple crown, the ostrich fans waving over his head. Trumpets blared, and at a signal from Johann Burckhardt, Master of Ceremonies, the armour-bearers, pages, couriers, and guards of the Duke of Romagna, entered the hall, accompanied by Bartolomeo Capranica, his Master of the Camp, bearing the naked sword of the _Gonfaloniere_ of the Roman Church. The sword was gilded and damascened with delicate designs. First, the Goddess of Fidelity seated on a throne, with the legend, 'Fidelity is stronger than Arms.' Secondly, Julius Cæsar in his triumphal car, with the legend, '_Aut Cæsar aut Nihil_.' Thirdly, the passage of the Rubicon with the legend, 'The die is cast.' Lastly, a sacrifice to the Bull of the House of Borgia--naked priestesses burning incense over a human victim, and on the altar the inscription '_Deo optimo maximo Hostia_,' and lower, '_In nomine Cæsaris omen_.' The human sacrifice to the beast acquired a more terrible meaning from the fact that these engravings and mottos had been ordered at the moment when Cæsar was contemplating the murder of his brother Giovanni, in order to take from him this sword of the standard-bearer of the Church. Following the insignia of his office came the hero himself, crowned with the lofty ducal _berretto_, embroidered in pearls with the Holy Dove. He approached the Pope, removed the _berretto_, knelt and kissed the ruby cross on the shoe of the Pontifex Maximus. Cardinal Monreale handed the Golden Rose to His Holiness. It was a marvel of the jeweller's art; from a phial concealed under the gold filigree petals exhaled the perfume of innumerable roses. The Pope stood, and in a voice quivering with emotion uttered the words:-- 'Receive, most beloved son, this rose, symbol of the joy of the two Jerusalems, earthly and heavenly, of the two churches, militant and triumphant; the incorruptible flower, the delight of the saints, the beauty of imperishable crowns. May thy virtue flower in Christ as this rose, which blossoms on the shore of many waters! Amen.' Cæsar received the mystic rose from the paternal hands. It was more than the old man could bear. To the disgust of Burckhardt, the stolid German master of the ceremonies, he broke through the prescribed ceremonial; bending over his son he stretched out his trembling hands, his face contracting and his shoulders shaking as he murmured:-- 'Cesare! Cesare! _figlio mio!_' The duke handed the rose to the Cardinal di San Clemente, and the Pope embraced him in a frenzy of joy, laughing and weeping. Again the trumpets blared, the great bell of St. Peter's pealed, and was answered by the bells of all the churches in the city, and by salvos of artillery from the Castle of St. Angelo. In the Cortile del Belvedere the Romagnole guard shouted:-- '_Viva Cesare!_ _Viva Cesare!_' And the duke came out on the balcony to greet his troops. Under the blue sky, in the brilliance of the morning sun, his vesture gold and purple, the Dove of the Holy Spirit on his head, the mystic rose in his hand, to the people he was not a man, but a god. XVI That night there was a splendid masked procession; the triumph of Julius Cæsar as it was shown on the sword of the Duke of Valentinois and Romagna. He himself took his seat in the chariot bearing the inscription 'Cæsar the divine'; his head was crowned with laurel, and he carried a palm-branch in his hand. The chariot was surrounded by his soldiers, dressed as Roman legionaries, with eagles and javelins. All was correctly ordered in accordance with descriptions on books and representations in monuments and medals. Before the chariot walked a man in the long white robe of an Egyptian hierophant, carrying a banner with the Borgia Bull, purple and gilded; the bloody Apis, protecting god of Alexander VI. Boys in cloth of silver sang to the clashing of timbrels:-- '_Vive diu Bos!_ _Vive diu Bos!_ _Borgia vive!_' Glory to the Bull! Glory to the Bull! Glory to Borgia!' And high above the crowd, lighted by the flare of torches, swung the image of the beast, fiery as the rising sun. In the crowd was Leonardo's pupil, Giovanni Boltraffio, who had newly arrived from Florence. Looking at the purple beast he remembered the words in the Apocalypse:-- 'And they worshipped the Beast, saying, Who is like unto the Beast? who is able to make war with him? 'And I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And upon her forehead was a name written--"MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH."' Like the Seer of Patmos, Giovanni 'wondered with a great wonder.' BOOK XIII 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. BOOK XIV MONNA LISA GIOCONDA--1503-1506 'The darkness of that subterranean place was too deep, and when I had passed some time therein, two feelings awoke within me and contended--fear and curiosity; fear of exploring that dark depth; curiosity as to its secret.' LEONARDO DA VINCI. I Leonardo used to say:-- 'For portraits, have a special studio; a court, oblong and rectangular, ten _braccia_ in width, twenty in length, the walls painted black, with a projecting roof and canvas curtains for the sun. Or, if you haven't the canvas curtains, paint only in the twilight, or when it is clouded and dull. That is the perfect light.' Just such a court for the painting of portraits he had made for himself in the house of the Florentine citizen who lodged him; a notable personage, commissary of the Signoria, a mathematician, a man of intellect and of amiability, his name Ser Piero di Braccio Martelli. His house was the second in the Via Martelli, on the left as one goes from San Giovanni to the Palazzo Medici. It was a warm misty afternoon, towards the close of spring, in the year 1505. The sun shone through clouds; there was a dull light, which seemed as if shining under water, throwing delicate liquid shadows--Leonardo's favourite condition of the atmosphere; which, he thought, gave special charm to the face of a woman. 'Will she come?' he asked himself, thinking of her whose portrait he had been painting for nearly three years, with a tenacity and a zeal unwonted. He arranged the studio for her reception. Boltraffio, watching him, marvelled at his unusual solicitude. He prepared palette, brushes, and skins of paint, each one coated with a transparent film of gum arabic. He removed the cover from the portrait, which was disposed on a movable three-legged stand called a _leggio_. He set the fountain playing in the middle of the court. It had been constructed for her delight--falling streams striking against glass spheres put them in motion and produced a strange low music. Her favourite flowers had been planted round the fountain--pale irises--the lilies of Florence. Then he crumbled bread in a basket for the tame doe which lived in the court, and which she used to feed with her own hands; lastly, he arranged her chair, of smooth dark oak with carved back and arms; before it placed a soft rug, upon which was already curled and purring a white cat of a rare breed, procured for her pleasure, a dainty foreign beast with varicoloured eyes, the right yellow as a topaz, the left sapphire blue. Meantime, Andrea Salaino had begun to tune the viol; another musician, one Atalante, whom Leonardo had known at the Milanese court, brought the silver lyre, shaped like a horse's head, which the artist had invented. The best musicians, singers, story-tellers, and poets, the most witty talkers, were invited by Leonardo to his studio to amuse _her_, and avert the tedium of her sittings. He studied the changeful beauty of _her_ expression as reflects of thought and feeling were awakened by talk, music, poetry, in turn. Now all was ready, but still she delayed her coming. 'Where is she?' he thought; 'the light and the shadow to-day are just her own. Shall I send to seek her? Nay, but she knows how ardently I await her! She will come.' And Giovanni noticed that his impatience grew. Suddenly a light waft of the breeze swayed the jet of the fountain, the delicate irises shook as the spray fell on them. The keen-eared doe was on the alert, with outstretched neck. Leonardo listened. And Giovanni, though he heard nothing, knew it was _she_. First, with a humble reverence, came Sister Camilla, a lay-companion who lived with her, and always attended her to the studio, sitting quietly apart studying a prayer-book, and effacing herself, so that in three years Leonardo had hardly heard her voice. The sister was followed by the woman all expected; a woman of thirty, in a plain dark dress, and a dark transparent veil which reached to the centre of her forehead--Monna Lisa Gioconda. She was a Neapolitan of noble birth; her father, Antonio Gherardini, had lost his wealth in the French invasion of 1495, and had married his daughter to the Florentine, Francesco del Giocondo, who had seen the death of two wives already. Messer Francesco was five years younger than Leonardo; was one of the twelve _Bonuomini_, and was likely later to be made Prior. He was a mediocre personage, of a type to be found in every country and in every age; neither good nor bad; busy in a commonplace way, absorbed in his affairs, content with daily routine. He regarded his young wife as nothing more than an ornament for his house. Her essential charm he understood less than the points of his Sicilian cattle, or the impost upon raw sheepskins. She was said to have married this man solely to please her father, and by her marriage to have driven an earlier lover to a voluntary death. It was also said that she still had a crowd of passionate adorers--persevering, but hopeless. The scandalmongers could find nothing worse than this to insinuate. Calm, gentle, retiring, pious, charitable to the poor, she was a faithful wife, a good housekeeper, a most tender mother to Dianora, her twelve-year-old step-daughter. Giovanni knew all this of Monna Lisa. Yet she never visited Leonardo's studio without seeming to the pupil a wholly different person from Messer Francesco's wife. She had been coming now for three years, and Giovanni's first impressions had been only confirmed by subsequent observations. He found something mysterious, illusory, phantasmal about her which filled him with awe. Leonardo's portrait seemed more real than she was herself. She and the painter--whom she never saw except when sitting to him, and then never alone--appeared to share some secret; not a love-secret, at least not in the ordinary sense of the term. Leonardo had once spoken of the tendency felt by every artist to reproduce his own likeness in his pictures of others, the reason of this tendency being that both his own material semblance and his work are the creation and manifestation of his soul. In this case Giovanni found that not merely the portrait, but the woman herself, was growing daily more like the painter. The likeness was less in the features than in the expression of eyes and in the smile. But he had already seen this smile on the lips of Verrocchio's Unbelieving Thomas; of Eve before the Tree of Science, Leonardo's first picture; in the Leda; in the Angel of the _Madonna delle Roccie_; and in a hundred other drawings, executed before ever he had met Monna Lisa: as though, throughout life, he had sought his own reflection, and had found it completely at last. When Giovanni looked at that smile, he felt perturbed, alarmed, as if in presence of the supernatural; reality seemed a dream, and the dream-world reality; Monna Lisa, not the wife of Giocondo, the very ordinary Florentine citizen, but a phantom evoked by the will of the master, a female semblance of Leonardo himself. Lisa took her seat, and the white cat jumped on her lap; she stroked it with delicate fingers, and faint cracklings and sparks came from the silky fur. Leonardo began his work; but presently he laid it aside and sat silent, looking into her face with an intentness that no faintest shadow of change in her expression could have escaped. 'Madonna,' he said at last, 'you are preoccupied--troubled about something to-day.' Giovanni had observed that to-day she did not resemble the portrait. 'I am a little troubled,' she replied; 'Dianora ails, and I have been up with her the whole night.' 'Then you are wearied, and the pose will try you. We will defer the sitting to another time.' 'Nay, we cannot lose this delightful day! See the misty sunlight and the delicate shadows! It is _my_ day!' There was a short silence. Then she went on: 'I knew you expected me. I was ready to come earlier; but I was kept. Madonna Sophonisba----' 'Who? Ah, I know. She with the voice of a fishwife and the scent of a perfumer's shop!' Monna Lisa smiled quietly. 'She had to tell me about the fête at the Palazzo Vecchio, given by Argentina, wife of the _Gonfaloniere_; of the supper, the dresses, the lovers----' 'Ay, 'tis not Dianora's indisposition has disturbed you, but this woman's senseless gossip. Strange case! Have you never noticed, madonna, how sometimes a single absurdity on an indifferent subject from an uninteresting person will throw a gloom over the mind, and afflict us more than our proper cares?' She bent her head silently; it was clear they understood each other too well for words to be always necessary. Leonardo again addressed himself to work. 'Tell me something!' she cried. 'What shall I tell you?' She smiled. 'Tell me about _The Realm of Venus_.' The artist had certain favourite stories for La Gioconda; tales of travel, of natural phenomena, of plans for pictures. He knew them by heart, and would recite always in the same simple half-childlike words, accompanied by soft music, in his feminine voice, the old fable, or cradle-tale. Andrea and Atalante took their instruments, and when they had executed the _motif_ which invariably preluded _The Realm of Venus_, he began:-- 'The seafarers who live on the coasts of Cilicia tell of him who is destined to drown, that for a moment, during the most tremendous storms, he is permitted to behold the island of Cyprus, realm of the Goddess of Love. Around boil whirlwinds and whirlpools, and the voices of the waters; and great in number are the navigators who, attracted by the splendour of that island, have lost ships upon its rocks. Many a gallant bark has there been dashed to pieces, many sunk for ever in the deep! Yonder on the coast lie piteous hulks, overgrown with seaweed, half buried by sand. Of one the prow juts exposed; of another the stern; of another the gaping beams of its side, like the blackened ribs of a corpse. So many are they, that there it looks like the Resurrection Day, when the Sea shall give up its dead! But over the isle itself is a curtain of eternal azure, and the sun shines on flowery hills. And the stillness of the air is such, that when the priest swings the censer on the temple steps, the flame ascends to heaven straight, unwavering as the white columns and the giant cypresses mirrored in an untroubled lake lying inland, far from the shore. Only the streams that flow from that lake, and cascades leaping from one porphyry basin to another, trouble the solitude with their pleasant sound. Those drowning far at sea hear for a moment that soft murmur, and see the still lake of sweet waters, and the wind carries to them the perfume of myrtle and rose. Ever the more terrible the outer tempest, the profounder that calm in the island realm of the Cyprian.' He ceased: the strains of lute and viol died away, and that silence followed which is sweeter than any music. As if lulled by the words just spoken, as if caught away from actual life by the long hush, a stranger to all things except the will of the artist, Monna Lisa, like calm and pure and fathomless water, looked into Leonardo's eyes with that mystic smile which was the very counterpart of his own. Giovanni Boltraffio, watching now one, now the other, thought of two mirrors, each reflecting, absorbing the other into infinity. II Next morning Leonardo was working in the Palazzo Vecchio at his 'Battle of Anghiari.' In 1503, when he had come from Rome, he had received an order from Piero Soderini, then the supreme authority in the republic, to paint some memorable battle on the wall of the new council-chamber. He chose the famous Florentine victory of 1440, over Niccolò Piccinino, the general of Filippo Visconti, Duke of Lombardy. A portion of the picture was already completed: four horsemen struggling for possession of a standard--little more than a rag fluttering on a staff, its pole snapped and about to be shivered into pieces. Five hands have seized the shaft, and are pulling furiously in contrary directions. Sabres cross in the air; mouths are opened in a horrific yell. The distorted human faces are not less hideous than the jowls of the monstrous creatures on their helmets. The horses have been infected with the fury of their riders, and are rearing and striking each other with their forelegs, their ears laid back, their eyeballs rolling and glaring, as they gnash their teeth and bite like tigers. Below, in a pool of blood, one man is killing another, clutching his hair and dashing his head against the ground, not noticing that in a moment they will both alike be trampled down by the advancing hoofs. This was war in all its horror, the supreme folly of humanity, the 'most bestial of madnesses,' according to Leonardo's own expression, 'which leaves no footprint unfilled with blood.' This morning the painter had scarcely taken his work in hand when he heard steps upon the brick floor; he recognised them, and frowned without looking up. It was Piero Soderini, the _Gonfaloniere_. Soderini required a precise account of every _soldo_ advanced by the treasury for the purchase of wood, lac, chalk, paints, linseed oil, and other trifles. Never, when in the service of 'tyrants,' as the _Gonfaloniere_ contemptuously called them, at the courts of Ludovico Sforza, or of Cæsar Borgia, had Leonardo been subjected to such petty interferences as here in the service of the free republic, in the region of civil equality. 'For what had you hoped?' asked the painter with a certain curiosity. 'We had hoped that your work would immortalise the warlike renown of the republic, and show the memorable exploits of our heroes; had hoped for something to elevate the soul, to give a noble example of patriotism. I grant you that war is as you have shown it; but, I ask you, Messer Leonardo, why not ennoble and adorn it, and modify its extremes? for the great thing is "moderation in all things!" I may be mistaken, but to my thinking the painter's true business is to benefit the people by instructing them.' He had now touched on his favourite theme, and with brightened eyes he talked on; his monotonous voice had the ceaseless trickle of water, wearing away a stone. The painter scarcely replied; though, curious to know what this worthy citizen really thought on the subject of art, he listened at intervals with some attention. He felt as if he had gone into a dark and narrow room, crowded with people, and with an absolutely stifling atmosphere. 'Art which has no profit for the people,' said Messer Piero, 'is merely an amusement for the rich, a distraction for the idle, a luxury for tyrants. You agree, my good sir?' 'Certainly,' assented Leonardo, and he continued, sarcastic purpose scarce visible in the twinkle of his eyes. 'Permit me, sir, to suggest a practical method of terminating our perennial debate. Let the citizens of the Florentine Republic assemble in this very chamber, and take a vote on the question whether or no my picture be moral--that is, popular. There would be great advantage in this course. The question would be settled with mathematical certainty by counting heads; for the voice of the people is, as you are aware, the voice of God.' Soderini weighed the suggestion. He was so impressed by the virtue of the black and white balls used for voting, that it never occurred to him a mock could be made at the mystery. Presently, however, he understood, and fixing his eyes on the painter, stared in blank astonishment, almost terror. Yet he quickly recovered himself. Artists are known to be persons unreliable and devoid of common sense, and it ill behoved him to take offence at this painter fellow's gibe. Messer Piero did not pursue the subject; in the tone of a superior addressing a dependent, he mentioned that Michelangelo Buonarroti had received an order to paint the second wall of the council chamber, and curtly took his leave. Leonardo followed him with his eyes. Sleek, grey, with crooked legs and a bent back, he seemed even more closely than usual to resemble a rat. III On leaving the Palazzo Vecchio Leonardo paused in the piazza before Michelangelo's 'David.' It stood as if on guard, a giant of white marble, relieved against the background of dark stone. Young, thin, naked, the veins swollen in his right hand which held the sling, his left arm was raised in front of his breast, the stone within the hand. His brows were knit, his gaze far away, like one taking aim. The curls upon his low forehead seemed already the garland of victory. Leonardo remembered the description in the Book of Kings; and seeing him stand there where Savonarola had been burned, he thought of the prophet Fra Girolamo had desired in vain, the hero for whom Machiavelli was still waiting. In this work of his rival's Leonardo recognised the expression of a soul great as his own, but eternally opposed to it; opposed as action is to contemplation, passion to apathy, storm to tranquillity. This alien force attracted him; he felt the inevitable fascination of something new, the desire to come close to it, to study, and understand it. Two years earlier, among the building stones of Santa Maria del Fiore, lay a huge block of white marble, spoilt by an unskilled sculptor. The best masters had refused it, thinking it no longer good for anything. It had been offered to Leonardo himself, and with his usual slowness he had meditated, measured, calculated, hesitated. Then came another, twenty-three years younger than he, who had undertaken the task without misgiving; with incredible rapidity, working by night as well as by day, he had made this giant in two years and one month. Leonardo had worked for six years at the clay of his Colossus; he dared not think how long he would have required for a marble statue like this David. The Florentines had proclaimed Michelangelo Leonardo's rival in the art of sculpture, and the young man had not hesitated to accept his challenge. Now it seemed he was about to place himself in competition with the older master as a painter also. He had yet hardly taken a brush in his hand, but with a daring which might seem presumption, he was about to paint the second war-picture in the council chamber. Leonardo had met his youthful rival with goodwill and every consideration; but Michelangelo hated him with all the fire of his impetuous nature. Leonardo's calm he fancied contempt: he listened to calumnies, he sought pretexts for quarrels, he seized every occasion to damage his rival. When the 'David' was finished the best painters and sculptors were invited by the Signoria to discuss where it should be placed. Leonardo agreed with Giuliano da San Gallo, the architect, that the most suitable position would be under the Loggia de' Priori, and not, as others suggested, in front of the Palazzo della Signoria. Michelangelo swore that Leonardo, prompted by envy, wished his rival's work hidden in a corner where no one could properly see it. Discussions on abstract questions were at this time much the vogue, and on one occasion a company, including the brothers Pollaiuoli, the aged Botticelli, Filippino Lippi, and Lorenzo di Credi, assembled in Leonardo's studio to debate whether sculpture or painting held the higher place among the arts. Leonardo quickly, with a whimsical expression, gave his opinion thus:-- 'The further art is removed from a handicraft the nearer it approaches perfection. The major distinction between the two arts lies in the fact that painting demands greater effort of mind, sculpture greater effort of body. The shape, contained like a kernel in the block of marble, is slowly set free by the sculptor's blows of chisel and mallet, needing the exertion of all his bodily powers. Great fatigue ensues, the labourer is drenched with sweat, which mingling with dust becomes a miry crust upon his garments; his face is smeared and covered with white like a baker's, his studio is filled with chips. Whereas the painter, perfectly calm, in elegant habiliments, seated at ease in his chair, plies a light brush and manipulates pleasant paints. His house is clean, and quiet, so that his toil can be sweetened by converse, or music, or reading, undisturbed by hammerings or scrapings.' These words came to the ears of Michelangelo, who imagined them aimed at himself. He took occasion to make venomous reply:-- 'Let this Messer da Vinci, a kitchen-wench's bastard, be ashamed of dirty work; I, the heir of an old and honourable house, despise neither sweat nor mire. The dispute is foolish, for all the arts are equal, proceeding from one source, aiming at one goal. He who maintains that painting is nobler than sculpture knows no more of either than my serving-maid.' He set to work with feverish energy on his picture for the council chamber, wishing to overtake his rival--a feat by no means difficult. His subject was an incident in the Pisan campaign: a sudden attack by the enemy while the soldiers were bathing. The men hurry to the bank, scramble out of the pleasant waves, draw on their sweated and dusty clothes, don their cuirasses and helmets, which are burning hot under the fiery sunshine. Michelangelo thus showed war as a contrast to Leonardo's representation: not as 'the most bestial of madnesses,' but as the performance of hard and manful duty to the denial of ease and pleasure; as the struggle of heroes for the greatness and glory of their country. The Florentines watched the growth of the two pictures and the rivalry between the artists with all the keenness of spectators at a raree show; and as strife unconnected with politics seemed to them tasteless as broth without salt, they affirmed that Michelangelo was for the republic against the Medici, Leonardo for the Medici against the republic. The artistic duel now became intelligible to everybody; the town was divided into two parties; and men, to whom art was a sealed book, declared themselves the adherents of one or other of the two artists whose works had become the ensigns of hostile camps. Stones were thrown secretly at the 'David'; the rich accused the poor of this outrage, the demagogues accused the substantial burghers; the artists, the pupils; and Buonarroti, in the presence of the _Gonfaloniere_, asserted that ruffians had been hired by Leonardo to damage his statue. One day Leonardo, working at his portrait in the presence of Boltraffio and Salaino, said to Monna Lisa:-- 'Could I but come to speech with Messer Michelangelo, face to face, as I speak with you, madonna, all would be explained, and no trace would remain of this stupid quarrel. He would learn that I am not his enemy, and that there is no man living could love him better than I.' Madonna Lisa shook her head. 'Nay, Messer Leonardo, he would not understand you.' 'Such a man could not fail to understand. The mischief is that he is diffident and has too little self-confidence. He fears and tortures himself and is jealous, because he does not yet know his own strength. It is folly in him. I would reassure him. What has he to fear in me? I have seen his sketch for the 'Soldiers bathing' and, believe me, madonna, I was astounded, and could scarce believe my own eyes. No one can conceive the value of this young man, nor what he will rise to. Even now he is not only my equal, but stronger than I. Deny it not, madonna, for I speak what I know to be true: he is my superior.' She smiled, reflecting his expression like an image in a mirror. One day in Santa Maria del Carmine, in the Cappella Brancacci, where were the famous frescoes of Tomaso Masaccio, the school of all the great masters, he saw a lad, scarcely more than a boy, studying and copying as he had done himself in his youth. He wore a paint-stained old black frock, clean but coarse and homespun linen. He was tall and willowy, with a slight neck, very white and long, delicate as a girl's. His face was oval, clear cut, and pale, with a somewhat sensuous beauty, and great dark eyes like those of the Umbrian peasant women from whom Perugino painted his Madonnas, eyes with no depth of thought, deep and void as the sky. Leonardo saw the youth a second time in the Sala del Papa at Santa Maria Novella, where his own cartoon for the 'Battle of Anghiari' was exhibited. This the lad was studying and copying with no less care than he had bestowed on Masaccio's frescoes. He evidently knew Leonardo by sight, but did not venture to speak to him. The Master addressed him; and then hurriedly, excitedly, and with many blushes, half-presumptuous yet childishly artless, the boy confessed that he looked on Leonardo as his master, as the greatest of all Italian masters, whose shoe's-latchet Michelangelo Buonarroti was not worthy to unloose. Leonardo examined his drawings, and after further converse, on other occasions, became convinced that here was a great master of the future. Sensitive and responsive as an echo to all voices, submissive to influence as a woman, he at present imitated both Perugino and Pinturicchio (with whom he had recently been working in the library at Siena), and also Leonardo; but under this immaturity the latter found a freshness of feeling in him superior to any he had met. And the lad seemed to have already fathomed by guesswork the deepest mysteries of art and life; had surmounted the greatest obstacles as if involuntarily, lightly, by chance, almost in play. Every gift seemed to have been bestowed on him freely; he knew no searchings of heart, no weary toil, no hesitation, no despairing efforts, no hopeless puzzles, such as had always been to Leonardo an incubus and a curse. And when the Master spoke to him of the need for patient study of nature, and of the laws of painting, the youth fixed on him soft wondering eyes, and, it was evident, listened merely out of reverence for the great man's opinion. One day he made an observation which surprised Leonardo by its depth:-- 'I have noticed,' he said, 'that while one is painting one should not think. Everything then turns out better.' It seemed as if this youth's whole being was a proof that the perfect harmony of reason and feeling, of love and science, which the Master sought so ardently, did not, nor could not exist. And in face of the modest and careless frankness which shone in those unanxious eyes, Leonardo felt greater doubt of the work of his own whole life, greater doubt of the future destiny of art, than had ever tormented him when confronted by the rivalry and scorn of Michelangelo. At one of their first meetings Leonardo had asked the lad his name, parentage and native place. 'I come from Urbino,' he replied; 'my father is Giovanni Sanzio the painter, and my name, Raphael.' IV The evening before Leonardo's departure from Florence to mend a dam which had burst on the river Arno, he was returning from a visit to Machiavelli, who had alarmed him by his admissions with regard to Soderini. He was crossing the bridge of the Santa Trinità, towards the Via Tornabuoni. The hour was late, and few people were about; after a hot day a shower had freshened the air. From the river came the sharp perfume which water acquires in the warmth of summer; the moon was rising behind the dark hill of San Miniato. On the bank near the Ponte Vecchio a cluster of very ancient houses, with uneven balconies and wooden supports, were reflected in the dull green water. Behind Monte Albano glittered a single star. The outline of Florence was cut against the clear sky like a golden capital letter in some ancient manuscript; an outline unique in the world, familiar to Leonardo as the outline of a human face. To the north rose the ancient belfry of Santa Croce, near it the straight slender stem of the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio; then Giotto's marble campanile, and the red cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore, like the gigantic expanding blossom of the purple lily, the flower of Florence on her standards and escutcheons. All Florence, bathed in moonlight seemed a huge silver flower. Leonardo noted that every city has its own especial perfume; that of Florence was a mingling of the scent of iris flowers, and the faint odour of dust and damp and old varnish which belongs to ancient pictures. His thoughts veered to her who was becoming their constant preoccupation--Monna Lisa Gioconda. He knew scarce more of her life than did Giovanni his pupil; it was less an annoyance than a perpetual astonishment to him to reflect that she had a husband--Messer Francesco, so tall and lean, with a wart on his cheek, thick eyebrows; a positive soul; whose talk was of Sicilian cattle and the tax upon sheepskins. There were moments in which Leonardo rejoiced in her ethereal charm, which seemed above common humanity, yet was more real to him than aught belonging to everyday life. There were other moments in which he acutely felt the beauty of the living woman. Lisa was not one of those celebrated by the poetasters as _dotte eroine_ (learned heroines). She never displayed her knowledge of books; only by chance he found out that she read both Latin and Greek. She spoke so simply that many imagined her stupid. But Leonardo found in her what is most rare, especially among women, instinctive wisdom. Sometimes by a chance sentence she would reveal herself so near, so akin to him in spirit, that he felt her his one and eternal friend, the sister of his soul. At these moments he would fain have overpassed the magic circle which divides contemplation from life; but such desires he quenched at once. Was this love which united them? Platonic ravings, languid sighs of ideal lovers, syrupy sonnets in the Petrarchan style, had never excited in him anything but amusement or boredom. Equally alien to his nature was the passion which most men call love. Just as he ate no meat, because it seemed to him repulsive, so he refrained from women, because all material possession--in marriage or outside it--seemed to him coarse. He avoided it as he avoided the shambles, neither blaming nor approving, acknowledging the law of natural struggle for hunger or for love, but refusing to take any part in it himself, and obeying a purer law of chastity and love. Yet even if he had loved her, what more perfect union with the beloved could he have wished than in this secret and mystic intercourse, in the creation of this immortal image, this new being, born of them both, as a child of its parents, in which he and she were one? Nevertheless he felt that even in this mystic union, stainless as it was, there was danger--it might be greater danger than in the bond of ordinary fleshly love. They walked on the verge of a precipice where none had walked before, resisting the vertigo and the fatal attraction of the abyss. Between them were simple words, vague and uncompleted phrases, through which their secret showed as the sun shines through the morning mist. At times he thought, What if the mist should scatter, and the blinding sun shine out which kills mystery, dissolves all phantoms? What if he or she should prove unequal to the strain, should overstep the magic circle, materialise imagination into fact, contemplation into life? Had he the right to test a human soul, the soul of his life-long friend, his spiritual sister, as he tested the laws of mechanics, the structure of plants, the action of poisons? Would she not revolt, cast him from her with contempt and hatred? Again at times he fancied he was subjecting her to a slow and a terrible death. Her submissiveness alarmed him; it seemed limitless, like his own eternal search for knowledge, the delicate yet penetrating scrutiny to which he subjected her. Sooner or later he would have to decide what she was to him, a woman or a spirit. He had been hoping that temporary absence would postpone this inevitable decision, and for this reason was glad to be leaving Florence. But now that the moment had come, that separation was imminent, he realised that he had been mistaken, and that instead of deferring, his departure must hasten the decision. Absorbed in these thoughts, he did not notice that he had wandered into a lonely blind alley, and on looking about him did not at once recognise where he was. Giotto's campanile appearing above the houses showed he was in the vicinity of the cathedral. One side of the narrow street was lost in blackest shadow, the other was white under the rays of the moon. A distant light glowed red. It came from one of the _loggie_ characteristic of Florence, with a balcony and semi-circular arches on slender pillars; a company in masks and cloaks were singing a serenade, to the gentle tinkling of a lute. It was the old love-song, composed by Lorenzo Il Magnifico, which had once sounded in the carnival procession; a melancholy yet joyous melody, pleasant to Leonardo's ears because he had know it in his youth. Quanto è bella giovinezza! Ma sen fugge tuttavia Chi vuol esser lieto sia Di doman non v'è certezza. (Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness: He knows not if to-morrow curse or bless.) The last line lingered sadly in his ears with mournful foreboding. Already on the threshold of old age, and approaching darkness and solitude, had not Fate sent him at last a living soul, a kindred soul? Must he repulse it? must he deny it? sacrifice life for contemplation, as he had so often done before? renounce the near for the faraway, the real for the ideal? Which was he to choose, the true and living and mortal Gioconda or the immortal, which had no material existence? They were equally dear to him, yet he must choose between them; choose at once, for her sake. But his will was weak. He could arrive at no decision, and wandered on aimlessly through the streets, debating, debating with himself. Presently he reached the house of Piero Martelli, where he lodged. The doors were shut, the lights extinguished. He raised the hammer hung on a chain, and knocked. The porter did not come. Repeated blows were only answered by echoes from the sounding arches of the stone staircase. Echoes died away and silence succeeded, seeming the more profound for the brightness of the moonlight. A clock boomed from a neighbouring tower. The heavy measured clanging told of the silent and dreadful flight of time, of the darkness and loneliness of age, of the past which could never return. And long did the last clang vibrate in the moonlit stillness, quivering on the air, now weakening, now strengthening again in ever widening waves of sound, as if repeating-- Di doman non v'è certezza. V The next day, at her habitual hour, Monna Lisa came to the studio for the first time unaccompanied. She knew it was their last interview. It was a brilliant morning, and Leonardo lowered the canvas curtain to produce that dim and tender light, transparent as submarine shadows, which gave her face its greatest charm. They were alone. He kept working on in silence, calm and absorbed, forgetting his thoughts of the previous night, forgetting the parting, the inevitable choice. Past and Future had alike vanished from his memory; time had come to a standstill; it seemed as if she had always sat, and would ever thus sit before him, with that calm strange smile. What he could not do in life he did by imagination; he blended the two images in one--mingled the reality and its reflection--the living woman and the immortal. He had now the sense of a great deliverance. He no longer either pitied her or feared her. He knew her submissiveness, that she would accept all, endure all; die, perhaps, but never revolt. And momently he looked at her with that curiosity which had taken him to the execution of the condemned, that he might watch the last shudders of fear on the dying faces. Suddenly he fancied that a strange shadow, as of an unbidden thought, which he had not evoked, which he wished away, appeared upon her countenance, like the cloud of human breath upon the surface of a mirror. To preserve her, to recall her anew to the Type, within the fatidic circle, to banish from her this human shadow, he related gravely, like a magician pronouncing an incantation, one of his mystic tales. 'Unable to resist the desire of beholding new forms, the secret creations of nature, I at length reached the cavern, and there at the entrance stood still in terror. I stooped, the left hand on the right knee, and shading my eyes with my hand to accustom myself to the darkness, I presently took heart and entered, and moved forward for several steps. Then, frowning, straining my sight to the utmost, I unwittingly changed my course and wandered hither and thither in the darkness, feeling my way and groping after the definite. But the obscurity was overpowering, and when I had passed some time in it, Fear and Curiosity contended most mightily within me: fear of searching that dark cavern, and curiosity after its secret.' He was silent. The unwonted shadow lay still upon her face. 'Which of the two feelings gained the day?' La Gioconda murmured. 'Curiosity.' 'And you learned the stupendous secret?' 'I learned ... what could be learned.' 'And will reveal it to men?' 'I would not, nor could not, reveal all. But I would inspire them also with curiosity strong enough to vanquish fear.' '_And if curiosity be not enough_, Messer Leonardo?' she said slowly, an unwonted fire in her eyes; 'if something further, a profounder feeling, were needed to lay bare the cavern's last and greatest treasure?' And she turned toward him a smile he had never seen before. 'What more is needed?' he asked. She was silent. Just then a slender blinding ray shone through a rent in the curtain; the dimness vanished; the mystery, the clear shadows, tender as distant music, fled. 'You leave to-morrow?' she said suddenly. 'No. To-night.' 'I, too, am soon departing.' The artist looked at her steadily, attempted speech, and said nothing. He devined her meaning; that she would not stay in Florence without him. 'Messer Francesco,' she continued, 'goes presently for three months to Calabria. I have asked him to take me with him.' He frowned. This sunshine was not to his mind; the fountain had been ghostly white; now it had taken the rainbow hues of life. Leonardo felt that he was returning to life, timid, weak, pitiable. 'No matter,' said Monna Lisa, 'draw closer the curtain. It is early yet. I am not tired.' 'I have painted enough,' he said, throwing down his brush. 'You will not finish my portrait?' 'Why not?' he cried hastily, as if alarmed. 'Will you not come to me when you return?' 'I will come. But shall I be the same? You have told me that faces, especially the faces of women, quickly change.' 'I long to finish it. But sometimes to me it seems impossible?' 'Impossible?' wondered La Gioconda. 'Ay, they tell me you finish nothing because you are always seeking the impossible.' In these words he fancied a tender reproach. 'The moment has come!' he thought. She rose and said with her usual calm:-- 'Farewell, Messer Leonardo. I wish you a good journey.' He also had risen, and looking at her he saw again helpless entreaty and reproach on her face. He knew that this moment was irrevocable for both--final and solemn as death. He felt he must break this pregnant silence, yet no words came to him. The more he forced his will to find a solution, the more he was conscious of his own powerlessness and the profundity of the abyss which must divide them. Monna Lisa still smiled her quiet smile; that calmness, that brightness, seemed to him now the smile of the dead. Intolerable pity filled his heart and weakened him still more. She stretched out her hand; he took it and kissed it for the first time since he had known her. As he did so she bent quickly, and he felt that La Gioconda touched his hair with her lips. 'May God have you in his keeping,' she said simply. When he recovered from his wonder--she was gone. Around him was the dead silence of a summer afternoon, more menacing than midnight. Again he heard the heavy measured clanging of the clock, telling of the irremediable flight of time, of the darkness and loneliness of age, of the past, which can return no more. And as the last vibrations died away the words of the plaintive love song echoed in his ears:-- 'Di doman non v'è certezza.' '_And count not on the day to come._' VI Learning that Messer Giocondo was not returning from Calabria till October, Leonardo deferred his return to Florence for ten days that he might not reach the city till Madonna Lisa was there. He counted the hours till that moment should arrive; superstitious dread oppressed his heart when he remembered that accident might easily prolong the separation. He strove not to think; he asked no one for news lest he should hear something disappointing. At last the day came, and he reached Florence early in the morning. Autumnal, damp and dull, the city yet seemed especially fair. It spoke to him of La Gioconda. It was one of _her_ days; misty, transparent, with subdued light, as of sunlight seen through water. He no longer asked himself how they would meet, what he should say, nor how he must act that they might part no more, that he might keep her for ever as his only friend, the sister of his soul. 'Things turn out best when one does not think too much. The great thing is, not to think,' he said to himself, quoting the lad Raphael. 'I will question her; and she will tell me all which that day we left unsaid; she will explain what more than curiosity is necessary if one is to discover the marvel of the cavern.' Gladness filled his soul as if he were a boy of sixteen with his life before him; yet deep down under this gladness there lingered a half unconscious presentiment of mishap. In the evening he visited Machiavelli, intending to go to Messer Giocondo's house next day. Impatience, however, overcame him, and he decided to call at once and ask for news from the porter of Madonna Lisa's safe arrival. He went down the Via Tornabuoni towards the Ponte Santa Trinità, the same route, though in the opposite direction, which he had followed the night before his departure. The weather had suddenly changed, as often happens in Florence on autumn evenings. The north wind, piercing as a knife, blew down the valley of the Mugnone, and the crest of the Mugello was whitened with snow. In the town it was raining; but just above the horizon there remained a narrow strip of clear sky, and from it the sun suddenly burst forth, flooding the wet streets and shining roofs and the faces of the passers-by with a harsh yellow light. The rain seemed like copper dust, and the glass of distant windows glowed like live coals. Near the bridge and opposite the church of Santa Trinità, in the angle formed by the river bank and the Via Tornabuoni, rose the imposing Palazzo degli Spini, built of large warm-grey stones, with barred lancet windows and castellated roof like a fortress. Down below was the customary row of stone benches, where the citizens congregated to tell the news, to sun or to shade themselves, to play at dice or draughts. There was a loggia at the other side of the palace, looking out upon the Arno. As he passed, Leonardo saw in this loggia a group of persons, strangers to him for the most part, disputing so vehemently that they did not notice the storm. 'Messer Leonardo! come hither and resolve our question!' they called to him. He stopped. The dispute was about certain lines in the thirty-fourth canto of Dante's _Inferno_, where Lucifer is described buried breast-high in the ice at the very bottom of the accursed Pit. The matter was expounded to Leonardo by one of the disputants, a rich old wool merchant. The artist, however, was but half attending, for his eyes were fixed on a man coming along the Lungarno Acciaioli. This person walked heavily, shambling like a bear: he was bent and bony, with a large head, black hair, and ill-shaped beard; his clothes were poor and carelessly thrown on. He had a broad-browed heavy face, with projecting ears and a broken nose. His small eyes dilated and glowed strangely under excitement, and much night-work had reddened his eyelids. Indeed he was said to work preferably in underground darkness, with a small round lamp attached to his forehead, like a new Cyclops. It was Michelangelo. 'Give us your opinion,' urged the disputants of Leonardo. 'I have heard,' replied the painter, 'that Messer Buonarroti is a student of the great Alighieri. Ask him; he will answer your question better than I.' For Leonardo had always hoped that his difference with Michelangelo would die a natural death; and he was anxious for an occasion which would bring them to speech together. The younger man, hearing his name pronounced, stopped and raised his eyes. He was reserved and shy, even to wildness, dreading the stare of strangers, and fancying that they scorned his ugliness, which he himself was never able to forget. Now he looked suspiciously at the company in the loggia; but when he saw Leonardo's smile, and his piercing glance bent down upon him, for the older man was much the taller of the two, shyness changed into rage. He grew pale and red by turns; words choked him; but at last he blurted out:-- 'Explain it yourself, most intelligent of sages, sold to the Lombards! Books are your proper pastime; you who spent sixteen years trying to hatch a clay horse, and when you tried to cast it in bronze threw up the task in despair.' He knew he was speaking outrageously; but such was his fury that no words seemed to him sufficiently insulting to hurl at his rival. Leonardo made no reply; he looked the other full in the face, and the bystanders also were silent, watching the two men. Before the violence of Buonarroti, Leonardo's calm almost feminine smile, tinged with sadness, suggested weakness. But he himself remembered Monna Lisa's words, that Michelangelo would never pardon him for his gift of that quietness which is mightier than storm. Michelangelo finding no more words waved his hand, turned quickly, and went on his way, with his shambling gait, his dull unconscious habit of growling, his bent head and bowed shoulders, upon which seemed to rest some superhuman burden. Soon he disappeared as if dissolved into the turbid copper-coloured rain and the wild and threatening sunlight. Leonardo walked on. On the bridge one of the company in the loggia of the Palazzo Spini overtook him--a little man with the aspect of a Jew, though a pure-blooded Florentine, known to Leonardo as a scandal-monger. The painter crossed the bridge, the other running by his side, talking of Michelangelo, and trying to force Leonardo into some adverse criticism of his rival, which no doubt he intended to repeat at the earliest opportunity. Leonardo, however, refused to be drawn into this trap, and remained silent. The intruder was not to be shaken off. 'Tell me, Messere,' he said, 'have you yet finished your portrait of La Gioconda?' 'I have not,' answered the painter. 'Why are you interested?' 'Nay, I was only considering the matter. For three years you have laboured at one picture, and you say it is still incomplete. But to us ignorant amateurs it seems already perfection, and we can conceive of nothing further to be done.' And he smiled obsequiously. Leonardo would have liked to take the little man by the collar and fling him into the river. 'And what will you do now?' continued the irrepressible one. 'But perhaps you have not heard, Messer Leonardo?' Through his aversion the artist felt a spasm of dread. The other had evidently something on his tongue; his eyes danced, his hands shook. He seemed like some noxious insect. 'Oh, _Santo Iddio benedetto_!' he exclaimed; 'forsooth you only returned to Florence this morning, so the news may not have reached you. Poor Messer Giocondo! to be thrice widowed! Conceive what bad luck! 'Tis now a month since Madonna Lisa, by the will of Heaven, expired!' Darkness fell upon Leonardo's eyes; for a moment it seemed to him he must swoon. But the keen inquisitive gaze of his tormentor helped him to a superhuman effort of self-control; he turned pale, but his face remained inscrutable. The other, disappointed, presently took his leave. Left alone, Leonardo gradually recovered his composure. His first thought was that the busybody had lied; inventing the evil tidings on purpose to see what effect they would produce on the artist whose name had long been whispered as a lover of La Gioconda's. It was incredible that she could really be dead. Before nightfall, however, he had learned all. Madonna Lisa, victim, said some, of a contagious malady of the throat, had died at the obscure town of Lagonero, on the return journey from Calabria to Florence. VII The attempt to divert the Arno from Pisa ended in disaster. Floods destroyed the works, and turned the blooming lowland into a pestilential swamp, where the workmen died of malaria. The labour, the money, the lives had been expended for naught: the Ferrarese engineers threw the blame upon Soderini, Machiavelli, and Leonardo. They were placed under a ban, and their acquaintances turned from them in the streets. Niccolò fell ill of vexation. Two years before this, Leonardo's father, Ser Piero da Vinci, notary of the palace of the Podestà, had died at the age of eighty. In the matter of inheritance Ser Piero had frequently expressed an intention of placing Leonardo on an equal footing with his legitimate sons. They refused to execute his will. Leonardo's affairs were at this time much involved, and he was induced to assent to the proposal of one of the Hebrew usurers, from whom he had borrowed on the security of his expectations, that he should sell him his claim on the paternal inheritance. A lawsuit followed which lasted for six years. Taking advantage of Leonardo's unpopularity, his brothers poured oil on the flames, accusing him of sorcery, atheism, high treason during his service with Cæsar Borgia, and violation of tombs by digging up corpses for dissection; they even insulted the memory of his dead mother, Caterina, and revived the twenty-year-old slander, accusing him of vice. In addition to all these trials was added the failure of the picture in the Council Chamber. Notwithstanding his experience with regard to the _Cenacolo_, he had used oil paints also for the 'Battle of Anghiari,' though with what he believed an improved method. When the work was half finished he attempted to hasten the fixing of the paint in the plaster by means of a great fire in a brazier before the picture. But the heat acted only on the lower part of the surface; the varnish and paint higher up would not dry. After many fruitless experiments he realised that the second attempt at wall-painting in oil was unsuccessful as the first, and that the 'Battle' would fade away as surely as the 'Last Supper.' Once more, in Michelangelo's words, he was obliged to throw up his task in despair. The picture troubled him more than the Pisan canal or the fraternal lawsuit. Soderini had harassed him with demands for mercantile exactness in the carrying out of the order for the fresco, pressed for completion within a given time, threatened him with penalties, finally accused him openly of having misappropriated public money. Yet when Leonardo, having borrowed from his friends, proposed to restore all he had received from the treasury, Messer Piero refused to accept his offer, and meanwhile was not ashamed to write to the Seigneur Charles d'Amboise, governor of Lombardy, who was negotiating for the transfer of the painter from Florence to Milan:-- 'The conduct of Leonardo da Vinci has not been honourable: for having received a large sum for the execution of a great work, he abandoned it when he had completed but a very little, and in this matter had acted as a traitor to the republic.' One winter night Leonardo sat alone in his working room. The wind howled in the chimney, the walls shook, the candle flickered, the stuffed bird, suspended from a wooden bar, swayed as if attempting to fly; above the bookshelf the familiar spider ran in alarm about his web. Drops of rain battered the window like the knocks of one wishing to enter. After a day spent in working for his livelihood, Leonardo felt exhausted, as by a night of fever. He tried to employ himself by scientific study, by drawing a caricature, by reading; but everything fell from his hands. He had no inclination to sleep, and the whole night was before him. He looked at the piles of books, at the crucibles, the retorts, the bottles containing monstrosities preserved in spirit; at the brass quadrants, the globes, the apparatus for the study of mechanics, astronomy, physics, hydraulics, optics, and anatomy. An unwonted repugnance to them all filled his soul. Was not he the fellow of yonder old spider in the dark corner above the mouldy books, the human bones, the limbs of lifeless machines? What was left to him, what lay between him and death, between him and utter oblivion except certain sheets of paper, which he was covering with writing that no one could read? And he remembered his happiness when as a child he had climbed the heights of Monte Albano, had seen the flocks of cranes, had smelt the freshness of spring, had gazed at the fair city of Florence, lying in the sunlight haze like an amethyst, so small that it could be framed between two branches of juniper. Yes, he had been happy; thinking of nothing, knowing nothing. Was the whole labour of his life a mockery? Was Love, after all, _not_ the daughter of Knowledge? He listened to the howling, the shrieking, the roaring of the storm, and he remembered Machiavelli's words: 'The most fearful thing in life is not poverty nor care, sickness nor sorrow, nor death itself. It is weariness of spirit.' And still the inhuman voice of the night wind spoke of things unavoidable yet unintelligible to the mind of man; of the loneliness, the blackness of utter darkness on the bosom of old Chaos, mother of all that is; of the boundless weariness of the spirit of the world. Leonardo rose, took a candle, went into the next room, uncovered a picture standing on an easel and veiled with a heavy drapery like a shroud. It was the portrait of Monna Lisa Gioconda. He had not looked at it since their parting. Now it seemed that he saw it for the first time; such vigour of life was in it that he trembled before his own creation. He remembered old-world traditions of magic portraits which, if pierced by a needle, caused the death of the living originals. In this case had he not done the contrary, taken life from the living woman to give it to the dead? It was all vivid and exact, to the last fold of her dress, to the little stars of the delicate embroidery garnishing the opening round her neck. It seemed as if the white bosom heaved, the blood beat warm in the arteries, the expression of the face changed. Yet was she spectral, far off, alien; more antique, in her deathless youth, than the cliffs in the picture background--strange, sky-blue rocks, like stalactites, that seemed visions of a world long extinct Ah! and the waves of her hair fell from under the dark transparent veil, by the same laws of divine mechanics as fell the waves of water in the cataract! It was only now, when he had lost her, that he knew the charm of Monna Lisa. Hers was the charm which he had sought in nature; the secret of the universe was the secret of this woman, whom he had loved. And it was no longer he who was putting her to the test, but she who was trying him. What meant the gaze of those eyes, reflecting his own soul? Was she repeating what she had said at their last meeting--telling him that more than curiosity is needed, if the most wondrous secret of the cavern is to be discovered? Or was this the alien smile of perfect knowledge with which the dead look at the living? For the first time he realised that she was truly dead. Could he or could he not have saved her? Never before had he looked into the face of Death so directly, so near. Terror turned his soul to ice. He drew back from the horror: for the first time in his life he did not wish to _know_. With a hasty and furtive movement he dropped the shroud again over the canvas, and turned away. * * * * * In the succeeding spring, by the good offices of Charles d'Amboise, Leonardo was freed from his engagements to the Florentine Republic, and able to return to Milan. Now, as twenty-five years before, he was glad to leave his home, and to see the snowy crests of the Alps rising above the great plain of Lombardy. Now, as then, he was an exile, cast out from his country and his home. BOOK XV THE HOLY INQUISITION--1506-1513 Know all; but be known of none. ASIL THE GNOSTIC. I In the year 1507 Leonardo definitely entered the service of Louis XII., established himself at Milan, and went no more to Florence, except for small matters of business. Four years passed uneventfully. Towards the close of 1511 Giovanni Boltraffio, who was now a master of repute, was working at a wall-painting in the new Church of San Maurizio. It belonged to the ancient foundation of the Monastero Maggiore, and was built on the ruins of the Roman circus. Beside it, enclosed by a high fence and abutting on the Via Della Vigna, was a neglected garden, and the once splendid but now deserted and ruined palace of the Counts of Carmagnola. The nuns of the Monastero Maggiore had let this house and garden to Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, the old alchemist, who had lately returned to Milan with Cassandra his niece. Their cottage by the Porta Vercellina having been destroyed at the time of the first French invasion, the pair had wandered for nine years in Greece, the islands of the Archipelago, Asia Minor, and Syria. Strange tales were told of them: Galeotto had found the philosopher's stone; he had appropriated vast sums lent him by the Devâtdâr of Syria for experiments, and had fled for his life. Monna Cassandra, by the help of the devil, had found treasure on the site of an ancient Phoenician temple; she had bewitched, drugged, and plundered a wealthy merchant at Constantinople; at any rate the pair had left Milan beggars, and had returned rich--that much was certain. Pupil of Demetrius Chalcondylas, and also of Sidonia the witch, Cassandra appeared now a devout daughter of the Church. She observed all fasts and ceremonies, she attended the holy offices, and by her charities had acquired the favour not only of the sisters of the Monastero Maggiore, but that of the archbishop himself. Evil tongues, however, declared that her religion was a pretence, that she was still a pagan, that she and her uncle had only escaped the Inquisition by flight from Rome, and that sooner or later she was certain to be burned at the stake. Messer Galeotto still reverenced Leonardo, and considered him his master in the occult wisdom of Hermes Trismegistus. The alchemist had collected many rare books in the course of his travels; for the most part those of Alexandrian scholars of Ptolemaic times. Leonardo borrowed these sometimes, and generally sent Giovanni to fetch them, since he was working close to the alchemist's house. As had happened before, Giovanni fell under the spell of Cassandra, and his visits became more frequent. At first she spoke to him guardedly, acting up to her part of repentant sinner, and expressing a desire to take the veil. Little by little she dismissed her fears, and became confidential. They recalled their meetings of ten years ago, when they had both been little more than children--the lonely terrace above the quiet Cantarana, the walls of the Convent of St. Radegonda; especially that sultry evening when she had spoken to him of the Resurrection of the Gods, and had invited him to the Witches' Sabbath. Now she lived as a recluse; was ill, or pretended to be so; and when she was not at church she hid herself in a remote secluded dark chamber, where the windows looked out on the neglected garden, densely shadowed by cypress trees. The room was furnished like a library or a museum. Here were the antiquities she had brought from the East; fragments of statues, dog-headed gods of black syenite from Egypt, mysterious stones upon which was incised the magic word _Abraxas_, signifying the three hundred and sixty-five celestial spheres of the Gnostics; precious Byzantine parchments, which time had rendered hard as ivory; fragments from Greek manuscripts, hopelessly lost; earthen shards, with cuneiform Assyrian inscriptions; books of the Persian magi, clasped with iron; Memphian papyri, transparent and thin as the petals of a flower. Cassandra told Giovanni of the wonders she had seen; of the desolate grandeur of marble temples standing on sea-worn cliffs, at their feet the blue Ionian waves, their columns bedewed with the brine, like the naked body of the foam-born goddess long ago. She told of her incredible exertions, dangers, accidents. He asked her what she had sought, why she had collected these things at the cost of so much toil, and she answered in the words of Luigi her father:-- 'To bring the dead to life.' And her eyes glowed with the fire that had belonged to Cassandra, the witch of days gone by. In appearance she was little changed; she had the same face, untouched by grief or joy--impassive as the faces of the ancient statues; the same broad low forehead, straight fine eyebrows, firm unsmiling lips, and amber eyes. Yet now her face, refined by illness, or perhaps by the over-insistence of a single thought, had taken an expression calmer and more austere than it had worn in her girlhood. Her dark hair, twined and wreathed like Medusa's snakes, still gave the impression of having a life of its own, still formed a frame for her pale face, and enhanced the brilliance of her eyes, the scarlet of her lips. The charm of the girl attracted Giovanni irresistibly as of old, and renewed in his soul the old feelings of curiosity, compassion, and fear. In her journey across the land of Hellas she had visited her mother's native place, the lonely little town of Mistra, near the ruins of Sparta, among the bare hills where, half a century before, had died Gemistus Pletho, last teacher of the Hellenic philosophy. Telling Giovanni of her visit to his grave, she repeated Pletho's prophecy that after a few years the world would return to a single faith, not differing from the ancient paganism. 'The prophecy is not fulfilled,' said Giovanni, 'though more than fifty years have passed. Have you still faith in him, Monna Cassandra?' 'There was not perfect truth in Pletho,' she replied calmly, 'for there was much he did not know.' 'What?' asked Giovanni; and under the intentness of her glance he felt his heart sink. She took a parchment from the shelf, and read to him certain lines from the _Prometheus_, in which the Titan, having enumerated his gifts to men, more especially that fire which he had stolen from heaven, and which would make them equal with the gods, goes on to prophesy the fall of Zeus. 'Giovanni, have you never heard of the man who, ten centuries ago, dreamed, like Pletho, of reviving the dead gods--the Emperor Flavius Claudius Julian?' 'Julian the Apostate?' 'Ay, so they called him.' 'He gave his life in vain for the Olympians.' She hesitated, then continued in a lower voice: 'If I were to tell you all, Giovanni! But for to-day I will say only this. Among the Olympians is a god nearer than all others to his brethren below; a god both bright and dark; fair as the dawn, yet pitiless as death; who came to earth and gave to mortals--as Prometheus had done--the forgetting of death and the boon of fire--new fire--in his own blood, in the intoxicating juice of the vine; and, my brother, who is there among men who will understand? who will go boldly forth and say to the world, "The love of him who is crowned with the vine is like the love of Him who is crowned with thorns (who said, 'I am the true vine'); of Him who, no less than Dionysus, makes the world drunk with his blood?" Have you understood, Giovanni, of whom I speak? If not, ask me nothing, for here is a secret which we may not, as yet, reveal.' Of late a great audacity of thought had come to Giovanni. He feared nothing, because he had nothing to lose. He had convinced himself that neither in the faith of Fra Benedetto, nor in the knowledge of Leonardo, would he find peace. Cassandra's prophecies gave him a glimpse of a new idea, so startling as to be terrible. Instead of turning away he approached it with the courage of despair. Day by day their souls came closer to each other. Once he asked her why she hid what she believed to be the truth, why she even dissembled? 'All things are not for all men,' she answered. 'Martyrdoms, wonders, and signs are necessary for the crowd. Only those whose faith is imperfect die for their faith, that they may convince others, and themselves. But perfect faith is the same thing as perfect knowledge. Did the truths of geometry discovered by Pythagoras require that he should die in proof of them? Perfect faith is silent; and its secret is above profession, for the master said, "Ye know all, but be ye known of none."' 'What master?' asked Giovanni, thinking of Leonardo. 'Basil, the Egyptian Gnostic,' she replied; and explained that the great teachers of the early Christian ages, to whom faith and knowledge had been one, had called themselves Gnostics, or Knowers; and she went on to repeat to him many of their sayings, often strange and monstrous, like the visions of the delirious. He was especially impressed by a legend as to the creation of the world and of man, put forth by the Alexandrine Ophites, or snake worshippers. '"Above all the heavens is boundless Darkness, immovable, fairer than any light; the Unknown Father, the Abyss, the Silence. His only-begotten daughter, the Wisdom of God, separating from the Father, knew life, and sorrow, and darkened her splendour. The son of her travail was Jaldavaoth, the creating God. Falling away from his mother he plunged yet more deeply into existence, and created the world of the body, a distorted image of the spiritual world. In it was Man, formed to reflect the greatness of his creator, and to bear witness to his power. The elemental spirits, the ministers of Jaldavaoth, brought the senseless mass of flesh to Jaldavaoth to be endowed with life; but the Wisdom of God inspired it also with a breath of the divine wisdom, received by her from the Unknown Father. And then this mean creature, formed of earth and dust, became greater than Jaldavaoth its creator, and grew into the shape and the likeness not of him but of the true God, the Unknown Father. Four-footed Man raised his face from the earth, and Jaldavaoth, at the sight of the being which had slipped from his power, was filled with anger and alarm. He formed another creature, the Angel of Darkness, the serpent-like Satan, the wisdom accursed. And by the help of the serpent Jaldavaoth formed the three kingdoms of Nature; and set Man therein, and gave him a law. "Do this; do not that: if thou breakest the law, thou shalt die." For he hoped by the yoke of the law, and by the fear of death to recover his power over man. But the Wisdom of God still protected Man, and sent him a comforter, the Spirit of Knowledge--snake-like also, but winged like the morning star, the Angel of the Dawn, him to whom allusion is made in the saying, "Be ye wise as the serpent." And the Spirit of Knowledge went down to men and said, "Taste and know, and your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods."' 'Hearken, Giovanni,' concluded Cassandra; 'the men of the crowd, the children of this world, are the slaves of Jaldavaoth and of the serpent Satan, living under the fear of death, bound by the yoke of the law. But the children of light, those who _know_, the chosen of Sophia, the Wisdom of God, transcend all laws, overstep all bounds, are free as gods, are furnished with wings, remain pure in the midst of evil, even as gold glitters in the mire. And the Spirit of Knowledge, the Angel of the Dawn, leads them through life and death, through evil and through good, through all the curses and the terrors of the world of Jaldavaoth, to the great mother, Sophia, the Wisdom of God; and she bringeth them to the bosom of the great Darkness, which reigns above the heavens, which is immovable and fairer than any light; to the bosom of the Father of all things.' And hearing this legend of the Ophites, Giovanni could not help inwardly comparing Jaldavaoth to the son of Kronos; the breath of Divine Wisdom to the fire of Prometheus; the Beneficent Serpent the Angel of the Dawn, Lucifer, Son of the Morning, to Prometheus the Titan. In all ages and nations, in the tragedies of Æschylus, in the legend of the Gnostics, in the history of Julian the Apostate, in the teaching of Pletho the philosopher, Giovanni found the echoes of the great discord, the same great struggle, which darkened his own spirit. Ten centuries ago men were suffering as he suffered now, were contending with the same double thoughts, were the victims of the same contradictions, the same temptations. The knowledge that this was so solaced him, yet it deepened his anguish. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed by all these thoughts as by drunkenness or delirium. And then it seemed to him that Cassandra only pretended to be strong and inspired and initiated into the mystery of truth, while in reality she was no less ignorant, no less astray than he was himself; and that the two of them were as helpless and lost as they had been twelve years before; and this new sabbath of half divine, half satanic lore was even more senseless than the Witches' Sabbath to which she had once invited him, and which she now despised as childishness. Giovanni became alarmed and wished to flee, but it was too late; curiosity drew him like a spell, and he felt he would not leave her till he knew all to the end; till he had found salvation and had perished with her. Now about this time there came to Milan a famous inquisitor and doctor of theology, Fra Giorgio de Casale. The Pope, Julius II., alarmed by the spread of sorcery in Lombardy, had sent him with bulls and powers of committal and of extraordinary punishments. Monna Cassandra stood in grave peril; and was warned both by the nuns of the Monastero Maggiore and by the archbishop. She and Messer Galeotto had already fled from Rome to escape this same Fra Giorgio; they knew that once fallen into his hands they would find no escape, and determined to take refuge in France, perhaps in England or even Scotland. Two days before their setting forth, Giovanni was with Cassandra in her lonely room of the Palazzo Carmagnole. The sunshine, veiled by the thick cypress branches, was scarce brighter than moonlight; the girl seemed even fairer and calmer than was her wont. Now that parting was at hand, Giovanni realised how dear she was to him. 'Shall I not see you yet once more?' he asked her. 'Will you not reveal to me that mystery of which you have spoken?' Cassandra looked fixedly at him; then drew from a casket a flat four-cornered stone of transparent green. It was the famous 'Tabula Smaragdina,' the emerald tablet said to have been found in a cave near Memphis in the hands of the mummy of a certain priest, who was an incarnation of Hermes Trismegistus, the Egyptian Horus, the god of boundaries, the guide of the dead to the underworld. It was engraved both in Coptic and in Greek with these verses. [Greek: Ourano anô ourano katô Astera anô astera katô Pan anô pan touto katô Tauta labe kai eutyche.] (Heaven above, heaven below; Stars above, stars below; All that is over, under shall show. Happy thou who the riddle readest.) 'Come to me this night,' she said gravely and softly, 'and I will tell you all that I know myself--do you hear?--all, to the very end. And now before we part, let us drink together the cup of friendship.' She fetched a small pottery vessel, sealed with wax as in the far East, poured out wine, thick as oil, golden-ruddy, and with a strange perfume, into an ancient goblet of chrysolite, with a relief of Dionysus and the Bacchantes. Going to the window she raised the cup as if about to pour a libation; the rosy wine, like warm blood, gave life to the figures of the naked Mænads on the transparent cup. 'There was a time, Giovanni,' she said, 'when I fancied that your Master Leonardo possessed the great secret, for his face is as that of an Olympian god, blended with a Titan. But now I see he aims, but he does not attain; seeks and finds not; knows, but understands not. _He is the precursor of him who shall come after him, who is greater than he._ Let us drink together, O my brother, this farewell goblet to the Unknown whom we both invoke; to the supreme Reconciler.' Devoutly, as if performing a religious rite, she drank half the cup and handed it to Giovanni. 'Fear not!' she said, 'this is no poisoned philtre; this wine is from grapes of Nazareth; 'tis the purest blood of _Dionysus, the Galilæan_!' When he had drunk, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and whispered rapidly and solemnly-- 'If you would know all, Come! Come, and I will tell you the secret, which never yet have I uttered to any one. I will reveal the extreme joy, the extreme sorrow which shall unite us for ever, as brother and sister, as bridegroom and bride.' In the sun's rays, veiled by the thick cypresses, and pale as moonlight, just as once before by the Cantarana water in the whiteness of the summer lightning, she put her face close to his, her face white as marble, framed by its Medusa locks, with its scarlet lips, its amber eyes. The chill of a familiar terror froze Giovanni's heart, and he said to himself:-- '_La Diavolessa bianca!_' That night at the appointed hour Giovanni stood at the door of the Palazzo Carmagnole. He knocked long, but none opened to him. At last he went to the Monastero Maggiore, and there he learned the terrible news. Fra Giorgio da Casale had appeared suddenly, and had given orders at once to apprehend Galeotto Sacrobosco and his niece Cassandra on a charge of black magic. Messer Galeotto had succeeded in escaping, but Cassandra was already in the clutch of the Holy Inquisition. II Next day Boltraffio did not leave his bed. He was indisposed, and his head ached; he was half unconscious, and cared for nothing. At nightfall there was an unwonted pealing of bells, and through his room spread a faint but repulsive odour. His headache increased, he felt sick, and he went out into the air. The day was warm and damp, a day of _scirocco_, frequent at Milan in the early autumn. There was no rain, but the roofs and the trees dripped, and the brick pavement was shining and slippery. Yet in the open air Giovanni found the noisome odour still stronger than in his room. The streets were thronged, the people all coming from the Piazza del Broletto; as Giovanni looked in their faces he fancied them in the same state of semi-unconsciousness as himself. Presently chance words from a passer-by explained to him the noisome odour which pursued him; it was the appalling stench of burned human bodies. They were burning witches, sorceresses. Perhaps--O God!--burning Cassandra! He began to run, not knowing whither, jostling people, staggering like a drunken man, trembling with ague, feeling the foul savour in the greasy and yellow mist, feeling it follow him, catch him by the throat, stifle his lungs, bind his temples with a dull and gnawing pain. He never remembered how he made his way to the Monastery of San Francisco and to Fra Benedetto's cell. It was empty, for Benedetto was at Bergamo. Giovanni shut the door, lit a candle, and sank exhausted on the pallet-bed. In this familiar and peaceful retreat all breathed of holiness and peace. The stench had dissipated, he smelt only incense, fast-day olives, old books, and the varnish for Benedetto's simple paintings. On the wall hung a crucifix and an ancient gift of Giovanni's, a withered garland of flowers gathered on the heights of Fiesole in those days when he sat at the feet of Savonarola. He raised his eyes to the Crucified. The Saviour still extended his nailed hand as if calling the world to his embrace: 'Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy-laden.' Was not that the one, the perfect truth? But the prayer died on his lips. Not though eternal damnation threatened him could he cease to know what he did know, could he drive out or reconcile the two truths which were contending in him. In his old calm despair he turned away from the Crucified, and at the same moment he fancied that the noisome mist, the terrible stench of the burning had reached him even here in this last refuge. And there rose before him a vision which he had seen often of late, so distinct he scarce knew if it were reality or dream; the vision of Cassandra in the glow of the scarlet flame, among the instruments of torture and stains of blood; she white, virginal, firm as the marble of a statue, preserved by the power of the Beneficent Serpent, the Reconciler, the Deliverer, insensible to the iron and the flame and the gaze of her tormentors. Coming to himself, he knew by the dying candle, by the strokes of the convent clock, that hours had passed in oblivion, and that it was now past midnight. It was very still, and the air was hot. Through the window were seen pale blue flashes of lightning, as on that memorable night long ago by the Cantarana. The dull roar of distant thunder seemed to come from below the earth. His head ached, his mouth was parched, thirst tortured him; he remembered having seen a pitcher of water in the corner. He rose, dragging himself along by the wall, found it, drank, and was returning to his couch when he became conscious that some one was with him in the cell. Seated on the couch was a figure in the long dark habit of a monk, a hood covering the face. He was astonished, for the door was locked, yet he felt relieved rather than alarmed. His head ceased to ache, his senses were quickened. He approached the seated figure. It rose, and the cowl fell back; Giovanni saw the face, marble white, passionless, the lips red as blood, the amber eyes, the halo of black hair like Medusa's snakes. Solemnly, slowly, as if for an incantation, Cassandra rose, her arms extended. The black robe fell back. He saw the glowing warmth and beauty of her neck. Was she alive? My God! was she alive? For the last time Giovanni murmured, 'The white sorceress!' It seemed as if the veil of life were rent before him. He was face to face with the mystery of the supreme union. She knelt before him.... She folded him in her arms.... Ah! the inexpressible sweetness! the inexpressible fear!... Delirium! delirium! III Zoroastro da Peretola had not died, neither had he recovered from his fall. He was a cripple, and able to mutter only fragmentary words intelligible to none but the Master. Sometimes he roamed about the house, clattering on his crutches; sometimes he listened to conversation as if trying to understand it; or he would sit in a corner winding strips of linen, or planing wooden staves, whittling sticks or carving tops, for his workman's hands had not lost their need of movement, nor entirely their skill. But often he would rock himself for hours together, a smile on his face, and his arms waving as if they were wings, while he crooned an unending ditty:-- 'Cucurlu! Curlu! Cranes and eagles Up they flew! Up they flew, Cranes and eagles,-- Cucurlu!' And then, looking at the Master, he would weep--a sight too painful for Leonardo to bear. He never deserted the broken creature, but cared for him, gave him money, and whenever possible kept him in his house. Years passed, and the cripple remained a living reproof, a mockery of his life-long effort, his fashioning of wings for men. Scarce less distressed was Leonardo by the attitude of Cesare da Sesto, that one of his pupils who was perhaps nearest to his heart. Like Astro and Giovanni he was mentally crippled, anxious to stand alone, but overwhelmed by the Master's influence, and reduced to nullity. Not content to be an imitator, not strong enough to be independent, he wore himself out with fruitless fretting and impotent rage, incompetent either to save himself or to perish. He was one of those upon whom Leonardo was accused of having cast the Evil Eye. Cesare was said to be in secret correspondence with Raphael, who was working at the frescoes of the Vatican Stanze, and Leonardo sometimes thought treachery was meditated. But worse than the treachery of enemies was the so-called fidelity of friends. Under the name of the _Accademia di Leonardo_, a school of young painters had grown up in Milan, a few of them his pupils, the greater number newcomers, who clung to him like parasites, and persuaded themselves and others that they were following in his steps. He stood aloof, and watched them. At times disgust overwhelmed him when he saw how all that he had reverenced as great and sacred had become the property of the common herd; how the Lord's face in the _Cenacolo_ was copied till it was mere ecclesiastical commonplace; how the smile of La Gioconda was imitated, exaggerated, vulgarised, till it became stupid, if not sensual. One winter's night Leonardo was sitting alone, listening to the shriek and roar of the storm; it was just such a night as that in which he had heard of Monna Lisa's death; he was thinking of her, and thinking of Death itself, of the last dread solitude in the bosom of ancient Chaos, of the infinite weariness of the world. There was a knock; he rose and opened the door. A young man entered, a lad of nineteen, with bright eyes, fresh cheeks reddened by the cold, melting snowflakes in his chestnut curls. 'Oh Messer Leonardo!' he exclaimed, 'do you not know me?' Leonardo looked and recognised his little friend, the child with whom he had roamed the woods of Vaprio, Francesco Melzi. He embraced him with fatherly tenderness. The youth related how, after the French invasion of 1500, his father had taken his family to Bologna, and there had fallen sick of a malady which had lasted for long years. Now he was dead, and the son had hastened to Leonardo, remembering his promise. 'But what promise?' asked the painter, bewildered. 'Ah! you have forgotten! And I, poor simpleton, have been counting on it! Nay, then! do you not remember? You were carrying me in the mine at the foot of Monte Campione, and you told me how you were to serve Cæsar Borgia in Romagna. And I wept, and prayed you to take me with you, and you promised that after ten years' time, when I should be grown----' 'Ay! I recall it!' said Leonardo warmly. 'You see? Ah, Messer Leonardo, I know you have no need of me. But I will be no burden to you, I will not disturb you. Pr'ythee drive me not hence! If you drive me hence, I will not go! I will never leave you again!' cried the lad. 'My dear, dear boy!' said the Master, and his voice shook. He embraced him again, and Francesco clung to his breast as he had done years ago when Leonardo had carried him into the subterranean darkness of the forgotten pit. IV Since Leonardo had left Florence in 1507, he had been enrolled as court painter in the service of the French King, Louis XII. He had no fixed salary, but relied on the royal bounty. The treasurers frequently forgot him altogether, nor was he able to call opportune attention to himself by his productions, for as years increased upon him he worked less and less. He was consequently, as of old, in continual straits and entanglements; he borrowed wherever he could, and contracted new debts before he had paid off the old. He wrote the same timid, clumsy petitions to the French Viceroy and Treasurer as formerly to the officials of Ludovico Il Moro. 'Not wishing to fatigue your Excellency's generosity, I permit myself to request that I may receive a regular salary. More than once have I addressed your lordship on this subject, but hitherto have been vouchsafed no reply.' In the ante-chambers of his patrons he quietly waited his turn among other suppliants, though with advancing years he increasingly knew-- 'How salt another's bread is, and the toil Of going up and down another's stairs.' The service of princes was as bitter to him as had been the service of the republic; everywhere and always he felt himself a stranger. Raphael had become rich and splendid as a Roman patrician; Michelangelo was hoarding money against the evil days; Leonardo was still a homeless wanderer, not knowing where he could lay his head when he came to die. Wars, victories, the defeat of his friends, changes in governments and laws, the enslaving of peoples, the chasing forth of tyrants--all that to the generality seems important, was to him as a whirl of dust to a wayfarer on a high road. With equal indifference he fortified the Castle of Milan for the French king against the Lombards, as once he had fortified it for the Duke of Lombardy against the French. Trivulzio, the ambitious general, was intriguing against Massimiliano, and Leonardo saw the fate of the father, Il Moro, threatening Il Moretto. Wearied by these monotonous and arbitrary political changes, sickened by the manufacture of triumphal arches and the mending of the wings of the trumpery angels, he determined to leave Milan and pass into the service of the Medici. In Rome, however--for Giovanni de Medici, having become pope, with the style of Leo X., had nominated his brother Giuliano as Gonfaloniere of the Holy Church. He had already gone to Rome, and it was arranged that Leonardo should join him in the autumn. He was to be both painter and 'alchemist' in Giuliano's service. * * * * * On the morrow of the day when the hundred and thirty-nine witches had been burned in the Piazza del Broletto, the monks of San Francesco had found Giovanni Boltraffio stretched senseless on the floor of Fra Benedetto's cell. Clearly he was suffering, as he had suffered fifteen years earlier, after having heard the tale of Savonarola's martyrdom. On this second occasion his recovery was rapid; nevertheless there were times when his unspeculative eye, his strangely impassive face inspired Leonardo with greater fear than during his long illness of years ago. However that might be, on the 23rd of September 1513 Leonardo rode out of Milan for Rome to join his new patron Giuliano, with Francesco Melzi, Salaino, Cesare, Astro, and Giovanni. BOOK XVI LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, AND RAPHAEL--1513-1515 _La pazienza fa contra alle ingiurie non altrimenti che si faccino i panni contra del freddo; imperò che, se ti multiplicherai di panni secondo la multiplicazione del freddo, esso freddo nocere non ti potrà; similmente alle grandi ingiurie cresci la pazienza, essa ingiurie offendere non ti potranno la tua mente._--LEONARDO DA VINCI. (Patience acts against insults as garments act against cold. With the doubling of your misfortunes, put on a double cloak of endurance.) I Pope Leo X., true to the traditions of the house of the Medici, posed as patron of art and learning. When he heard of his own election he said to his brother:-- 'Let us _enjoy_ the papal power, since God has conceded it to us!' And Fra Mariano, his favourite jester added:-- 'Seek your own pleasure, Holy Father! All else is folly.' The pope surrounded himself with poets, musicians, painters, and scholars. A golden age had dawned for imitative men of letters, who had one unassailable article of faith, the perfection of Cicero's prose and of Virgil's poetry. The shepherds of Christ's flock avoided the mention of His name, because it was a word unknown to Cicero's _Orations_. They called nuns, vestals; the Holy Ghost, the Inspiration of the Supreme Jove; and they requested the Pope to include Plato in the roll of saints. Bembo, a future cardinal, owned that he did not read the Epistles of Paul (he called them _Epistolaccie_) lest he should spoil his style. When Francis I. asked for the Laocoön, Leo X. replied that he would sooner give him the head of Peter the Apostle. The pope loved his scholars and artists, his poets and pedants; but above all he loved his jesters. He solemnly crowned Cuerno, the celebrated rhymster and drunkard, and was no less liberal to him than to Raphael. He spent huge sums on feasts, though he ate sparingly himself, being afflicted with a weak digestion, and an incurable purulent disease; and his soul was no less sick than his body, for he suffered from continual _ennui_. * * * * * When Leonardo first presented himself at the Vatican he was told that his only hope of obtaining audience of His Holiness was to declare himself a buffoon. He did not follow this good advice, and failed of admission time and again. Of late he had experienced strange forebodings which he tried to put from him as senseless and absurd. It was not anxiety as to his affairs which oppressed him; nor was it his failure to gain adequate recognition from Leo X. or Giuliano de' Medici. He had been too long used to annoyances of this kind. But his vague disquiet, his ominous apprehension, continually increased; till one radiant autumn evening, as he was returning from the Vatican, his heart sank, under the pressure of imminent catastrophe. He was living in the same house where he had lived during his former visit to Rome; one of the small detached buildings behind St. Peter's, which had belonged to the Papal Mint. It was old and gloomy, and having been unoccupied for several years was exceedingly damp. He entered a large vaulted apartment with cracks on walls and ceiling, and windows overshadowed by the wall of the adjoining house. In the corner sat Astro the imbecile, his feet drawn up under him, his hands busy whittling sticks, while he purred his monotonous lullaby-- Cucurlu, curlu! Eagles and cranes Up they flew! Leonardo's anxiety perceptibly increased. 'What's the matter, Astro?' he asked kindly, laying his hand on the cripple's head. 'Nothing,' said Astro, with a curious look of intelligence, 'nothing with me. It's Giovanni. But it's all the better for him. He has flown away.' 'Giovanni? Where is Giovanni?' cried Leonardo, suddenly realising that his forebodings had centred on this unhappy disciple. 'Astro! I implore you, my friend, try to remember! Where is Giovanni? I must see him at once. Where is he? What has happened?' 'Don't you understand?' muttered Astro, vainly seeking for the right words. 'He is up there--he has escaped--flown away. You don't understand? I will show you then. It is better for him to have flown away.' He rolled himself to his feet and shuffled along on his crutches, leading his master up the creaking stair to the attic, where the sun burned hot on the tiled roof, and the sunset rays shone upon the dormer-window. As they entered, startled pigeons fluttered their wings noisily and flew away. 'There he is,' said Astro, simply, and pointed to a dark corner. Leonardo saw the figure of Giovanni, apparently standing, very erect and quite motionless, his widely opened eyes staring fixedly straight before him. 'Giovanni!' cried Leonardo, with shaking voice, a cold sweat bursting out on his forehead. He drew nearer; saw that the face was strangely distorted; touched the nerveless hand, and felt it cold. The body oscillated heavily to and fro. Giovanni had hanged himself from an iron hook lately inserted for mechanical purposes into the cross beam; and by means of a strong silken cord, one of the attachments of the flying machine. Astro had fallen back into his torpor, and was looking serenely out of the window. The house stood high, and commanded a view of the tiled roofs, the domes and towers of Rome, of the Campagna spreading like a sea, traversed by long lines of ruined aqueducts, of the hills of Albano and Frascati, of the clear sky where the swallows swooped and circled. Astro watched them, and smiled, and waved his arms joyously as if imitating their flight. Cucurlu! Up they flew! Curlu! he crooned contentedly. Leonardo stood, still as a stone, between his two disciples, the imbecile and the suicide. * * * * * A few days later he found Giovanni's diary and read it attentively. 'The white witch!' always and everywhere! May she be accursed. The last mystery: two shall be in one. Christ and Antichrist are one. The heaven above--the heaven below! 'No! No! This shall not, must not be! Rather, death!' 'Into thy hands I commit my spirit, O God! Be thou my Judge!' There came an abrupt end to the entries. Leonardo understood that these words had been penned on the day of the writer's suicide. II After the death of Giovanni, Leonardo wearied of his life in Rome. Uncertainty, waiting, forced inaction enervated him. His usual occupations, his books, machines, experiments, paintings failed in interest. Leo X. had not yet found time to receive him, nor to give him the order for a painting. However, he set the artist to the mechanical task of perfecting the coining mill for the Papal Mint. Leonardo despised no work, however humble; he did what was required, and devised new machinery, by means of which the coins, uneven and jagged before, were cut perfectly true. The artist was at this time overwhelmed with debts, and the greater part of his salary went in the payment of the interest on his borrowings. But for the generosity of Francesco Melzi, who had inherited property from his father, he would have been in extreme want. In the summer of 1514 he was attacked by the malaria. It was his first serious illness. He refused doctors and medicines, but allowed Francesco to wait upon him. Every day he became more attached to this lad, and felt that God had sent him a guardian angel, a prop for his old age. Men seemed to be forgetting him, but from time to time he made attempts to remind them of his existence. From his sick-bed he wrote to Giuliano de' Medici with striving after the fashionable compliments which did not come easily to his lips or pen. III After much rain the end of November brought sunny days, never so beautiful as in Rome, where the decaying splendour of autumn harmonises well with the ruined glories of the Eternal City. One morning Leonardo went with Francesco to see the Sistine Chapel and the frescoes of Michelangelo; a visit long purposed, but deferred as if from a secret sense of fear. The chapel is a long, narrow, very lofty building, with plain walls and Gothic windows. Buonarroti had covered the ceiling and arches with biblical scenes. Leonardo looked, and staggered, as if faint; whatever his secret expectation, he had never thought to behold such potency of art. In face of the colossal figures, sublime as the visions of delirium--the God of Sabaoth dividing light from darkness in the bosom of Chaos, blessing the waters and plants, creating Adam from the earth, and Eve from Adam's rib--in face of the representations of the Fall, the Redemption and all the incidents of Scripture history; in face of the beautiful nude youths, spirits of the elements accompanying the tragedy of the Universe, the conflict of God and Man, with eternal dancing and song; prophets and sibyls, terrible giants that seemed weighed down with more than human wisdom and with more than human woe; the ancestors of the Messiah, a long file of obscure patriarchs passing on from one to the other the purposeless burden of life, awaiting in darkness the coming of the unknown Redeemer;--in face of these stupendous creations of his rival Leonardo did not measure, nor compare nor judge; he felt himself and his work annihilated. He enumerated his own productions; the _Cenacolo_, which was perishing, the Colossus, which had been destroyed, the 'Battle of Anghiari,' and an endless number of other unfinished paintings; a succession of vain endeavours, ridiculous failures, inglorious defeats. He had spent his life in beginning, intending, making ready; he had achieved nothing. Why deceive himself? It was too late now; he would never accomplish anything. His life had been expended in incredible labour; yet now at its close he felt like the slothful servant in the parable who had buried his talent in the earth. Yet he was conscious that he had aimed at something higher than this other man; to Michelangelo all was turmoil, chaos; Leonardo had seen, and had tried to show, the eternal harmony. He remembered Monna Lisa's parable of the mighty wind, and of the still small voice where the Lord was; he felt that she had discerned a truth, that sooner or later the human mind would return to the path he had shown, the path from discord to harmony, from division to unity, from storm to quietness. The consciousness of how entirely right he had been in theory made still more painful to him, the consciousness of impotence in action. They left the chapel in silence. Francesco ventured no questions; but he fancied that the Master had suddenly aged, had become feeble and broken. Years had apparently passed since they had entered the chapel. Crossing the Piazza of St. Peter's, they went by the Borgo Nuovo towards the bridge of St. Angelo. Leonardo was thinking of another rival whom he had perhaps no less reason to fear, Raphael Sanzio. He had seen the young painter's newly finished frescoes in the Stanze of the Vatican, and had felt unable to decide whether the greatness of the execution were not equalled by the poverty of the conception, the perfection of eye and hand by the servile flattery of the princes of this world. Julius II. had dreamed of expelling the French from Italy; therefore Raphael had shown him watching the expulsion of Heliogabalus from the profaned temple of the most high God. Leo X. posed as a great orator; therefore Raphael celebrated him in the person of Leo the Great, warning Attila to retreat from Rome. He had been taken prisoner by the French and had escaped; Raphael represented this by the miraculous deliverance of St. Peter. Thus he degraded his art into the nauseous incense of a courtier's flattery. This stranger from Urbino, this dreamy youth with the face of a sinless angel, had managed his mundane affairs to the best advantage. He painted the stables of Chigi the banker; made designs for the table-service of gold which, after the entertaining of the Holy Father, the banker threw into the Tiber, that it might never be used by any one less illustrious. The 'fortunate boy,' as Francia called the young painter, acquired fame and wealth as if by play. He disarmed his worst enemies by kindliness; he was what he appeared to be, the friend of all. In everything he succeeded. The gifts of Fortune dropped unsought into his hands. He replaced Bramante on the architectural conclave for the building of the new cathedral; Cardinal Bibbiena offered him his niece in marriage; it was said he had been promised a cardinal's hat. He built a dainty mansion in the Borgo, and furnished it with regal splendour. His ante-chamber was crowded with official personages, and with envoys from abroad, who either wanted their portraits painted, or desired to take home some specimen of the great man's art. He was overwhelmed with patrons and refused new ones. They insisted. Time was wanting to execute his innumerable orders, and many of his pictures were chiefly painted by his pupils. His studio became a factory where such skilful workmen as Giulio Romano turned canvas and paint into ready-money with amazing facility. He himself apparently desisted from the search after perfection, and was content with popularity. He served the people, and they accepted him enthusiastically as their chosen, their beloved, bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh, the incarnation of their own spirit. The worst of it was, that in his fall he was still great; a seduction not only to the vulgar herd, but also to the elect. He seemed unspoiled by the glittering baubles showered on him by Fortune. He remained innocent and pure. The _fortunato garzone_ had no consciousness of the danger for himself and for art. For in this superficial harmony, in this pseudo-reconciliation of discordant elements, there was greater danger for the future than in the chaos and contradictions and wars introduced by Michelangelo. Leonardo could see nothing beyond the work of these two painters; after them, all seemed abysmal and void. He felt how much both owed to himself. From him they had had their science of light and shade, their anatomy, their perspective, their knowledge of Nature and of man. Yes, they had grown out of him; and now the two of them, they had destroyed him! Leonardo walked silently beside his young companion, his eyes downcast, his head bent, his face intensely sorrowful and _old_: he seemed in a trance. As they approached the bridge, they had to draw aside to give room to a cavalcade--some great man, a cardinal, perhaps, or an ambassador, escorted by sixteen horsemen richly attired. The personage proved a young man, sumptuously clad, riding a grey Arab with gilded and jewelled trappings. His face seemed familiar; and suddenly Leonardo remembered the pale shy youth in the girlish frock, daubed with paint and worn into holes at the elbow, who eight years before had said, 'Michelangelo is not worthy to tie the latchet of your shoe!' Now this boy was the rival both of Leonardo and Michelangelo, and was called 'the God of Painting'! His face, though still boyish, innocent, and unseared by emotion, was somewhat less of a seraph's. He was a man of the great world now; riding from his villa in the Borgo to an interview with the pope, he was accompanied by a troop of pupils, admirers, and friends. Indeed he never went out with an escort of less than fifteen. His every ride seemed a triumphal procession. He recognised Leonardo; flushed slightly, and with quick, even exaggerated respect, doffed his cap and bowed. His younger pupils looked wonderingly at the old man to whom the 'Divine One' showed so much respect; the quiet shabby old man, hugging the wall to let the cavalcade dash by. Leonardo's attention was caught by the man riding at Raphael's side, apparently the most favoured of his pupils. It was Cesare da Sesto. Leonardo gazed in amazement, scarce able to believe his eyes. Now he understood Cesare's long absence, Francesco's clumsy explanation. The last of his disciples, he whom he had trusted to follow in his footsteps and carry on his method, had deserted and betrayed him. Cesare braved his gaze without flinching; nay, it was Leonardo whose eyes fell in confusion, as if guilty before the other of some unintended crime. The cavalcade passed on, and the old man, leaning upon Francesco, went his way. They crossed Hadrian's bridge, and went by the Via dei Coronari to the Piazza Navona, where was the bird fair. Leonardo bought magpies, finches, thrushes, pigeons, a falcon, and a young wild swan. He spent all the money he had with him, and borrowed also of Francesco. Slung from head to foot with cages, the quaint pair attracted general attention. The passers-by stared curiously, the little boys ran after them. They walked past the Pantheon and Trajan's Forum, crossed the Esquiline, and left the town by the Porta Maggiore, following the ancient Roman road called the Via Labicana. Presently they turned into a narrow footpath leading into the solitude of the wild country. Before them spread the boundless, the silent, the monotonous Campagna; through the arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, low hills were seen, uniform grey-green, like sea waves in the light of evening; here and there was a solitary tower, the deserted nest of robber knights; misty blue mountains surrounded the great plain, like the tiers of a colossal amphitheatre. Over the city brooded the great peace of autumn twilight. The last rays of the sun, streaming from between heavy clouds, lay across the landscape in broad zones of brilliance, and shone on a herd of white cattle, which scarce turned their heads at the sound of footsteps. The chirp of the grasshopper, the rustle of the breeze in the stalks of the withered summer flowers, the dull sound of the distant bells, but enforced the stillness; it seemed that here in this immense plain, so desolate so solemn, had already been fulfilled the prophecy of the angel who swore by him that liveth for ever and ever, there should be time no longer. They chose a convenient hillock, and relieved themselves of the cages; then Leonardo set the birds free. As they flew away, with the joyous flutter and rustle of their wings, he followed them with loving eyes. He smiled, he forgot his griefs, and was happy as in his childhood. Only the falcon and the swan were still in their cages; their emancipation was reserved for a later hour. Now he and Francesco ate a frugal supper of bread, chestnuts, dried cherries, cheese, a flask of the golden Orvieto wine. They were still silent. Francesco glanced at his master from time to time. Leonardo's hair was silvered and thin, his forehead lined, his deep-set eyes were still luminous and thoughtful, but weary. Age had set its effacing finger on the beauty of every feature. It was the face of an enfeebled, patient Titan. Francesco pitied him, as he pitied all persons who were lonely and sorrowful. The Master, whom of all men he admired and loved, whom he set above the Michelangelo and the Raphael of the people's applause, was but a lonely and poor and despised old man, sitting on the grass among empty bird-cages, cutting his cheese with an old broken clasp-knife, chewing his bread with an effort because his jaws were weakened by age, his appetite lost by recent illness. A lump rose in Francesco's throat, and he would gladly have knelt and assured his friend of his devotion, but he did not do so--he lacked the courage. At all times, even to those who loved him the best, Leonardo showed something alien and unapproachable. The modest supper ended, Leonardo rose, let loose the hawk, then opened the last and largest cage, that one containing the wild swan. The great white bird came out noisily, stood dazzled for a minute flapping its wings, then flew straight towards the sun. Leonardo watched it with eyes full of unspoken grief. It was grief for the idle dream of his whole life, for the human wings, for the 'Great Bird' of which he had written in his diary: 'Man shall fly like a mighty swan.' IV At last the Pope, yielding to the persuasions of his brother Giuliano, ordered a small picture from Leonardo. As usual he hesitated, put off beginning from day to day, spent his time in preliminary attempts, in perfecting his paints, in the invention of a new varnish. His Holiness exclaimed in mock despair-- 'Alack! this dull fellow will never perform anything; he studies the end before he has mastered the beginning.' The saying was repeated by the courtiers, and all over the town, and it sealed the fate of the painter. Leo, the supreme judge in matters of art, had pronounced sentence. Hence-forward Raphael, Buonarroti, Bembo the pedant, and Baraballo the buffoon, need fear no rivalry; the pope had jested, and the painter's reputation was crushed. The world forgot him, as it forgets the dead. When some one repeated Leo's witticism for his entertainment, he smiled indifferently, as if mockery were no worse than he had expected. That night however, he wrote in his diary:-- 'Patience is to the injured what clothes are to the frozen. With keener cold, augment your clothing and it shall not hurt you; with the increase of humiliation, double your cloak of patience.' * * * * * Louis XII., King of France, died in 1515. Having no son, his crown passed to his nearest relative, Francis of Valois, Duke of Angoulême, who assumed the title of Francis I. The young king at once took the field for the reconquest of Lombardy. He crossed the Alps, appeared suddenly in Italy, gained a victory at Marignano, deposed Il Moretto, and entered Milan in triumph. About the same time Giuliano de' Medici left Rome for Savoy, and Leonardo, out of favour with the Pope, determined to try his fortune with the new sovereign. In the autumn he went to Pavia to the court of Francis. Here the conquered were celebrating the conquest and the glory of the conqueror, and Leonardo was at once invited to arrange the festival, his reputation as mechanician in the time of Il Moro being remembered. He agreed; and amongst other things constructed a lion which ran automatically across the hall, stood rampant before the king, and opened his breast, from which fell a shower of the white _fleurs de lys_. This toy made Leonardo more famous than all his great works, inventions, and discoveries. Francis was anxious to see Italian scholars and artists at his court, but the pope refused to spare either Michelangelo or Raphael, so Leonardo was offered a salary of seven hundred crowns and the little château of Cloux, in Touraine, near the town of Amboise, between Tours and Blois. The artist accepted the offer; and in the sixty-fourth year of his life began once more his endless wandering; left his country without hope of return, and settled in the foreign land. He was accompanied by Francesco Melzi, Zoroastro, and his old servants, Battista de Villanis and the fat cook Maturina. V The road, especially in winter, was difficult; it led through the passes of Piedmont and Mont Cenis. Early, while it was still dark, they left Bardonecchia, so as to cross the Alps before nightfall. The mules clattered their hoofs and jangled their bells as they clambered along a narrow path skirting the ravine. Spring had descended upon the southern valleys, but up here winter reigned supreme. The morning was just breaking; against the faintly tinted sky the Alps shone as if lighted by internal fire. Leonardo, wishing to see more of the mountains, left his beast, and with Francesco followed a steeper path at a little distance from the mule track. Perfect stillness surrounded them, only interrupted by the distant long-drawn roar of an avalanche. They scrambled higher, Leonardo leaning on the young man's arm. Francesco remembered the descent of the iron-mine when the Master had carried him, now it was he who supported the Master. 'Oh, Messer Leonardo!' he cried suddenly, pointing to the ravine below, 'look at the valley of the Dora! We see it for the last time! We are almost at the summit, and we shall not see it again! Yon lies all Lombardy! Italy!' he cried, his eyes wet with conflicting emotions; and he repeated, 'Lombardy! Italy! For the last time!' The Master's face remained unmoved. He looked, then turned silently and pressed onward towards the snows. Forgetting his weariness, he now walked so quickly that Francesco, who had lingered bidding farewell, was left behind. 'Nay, Master, whither go you?' he cried. 'There is no path there; you can ascend no higher. I pray you take heed!' But Leonardo went on, higher and higher, his step firm and light, as if his feet were winged. Against the pale sky the icy masses towered one above the other; a stupendous wall raised by God between two worlds. They beckoned to Leonardo and drew him up and onwards. It seemed as if behind them rose the last secret,--which alone could satisfy his soul. Divided from him by impassable gulfs, they appeared near, almost within touch. They looked at him as the dead look at the living; they smiled at him with the smile of Monna Lisa. His pale face lighted with the same glow that was shining upon the mountains and the ice. To him the thoughts of death and of Monna Lisa were now but one. BOOK XVII DEATH--THE WINGED PRECURSOR--1516-1519 [Greek: Phereis pterugas hôs isôtheis angelois.] Inscription on the figure of St. John the Baptist. (Thou hast wings, like unto the angels.) Spunteranno le ali.--LEONARDO DA VINCI. (There shall be wings.) I In the heart of France, overhanging the Loire, stood the royal castle of Amboise. It was built of stone, mellow in colour as the bloom on a golden plum, which in the pale blues and greens of the fading sunset gleamed soft as a floating cloud. From the square tower the view extended over a forest of primeval oak, beyond the broad meadows flanking the river. In the early summer they were brilliant with poppies invading the azure lines of the flax. Damp mists hung over the valley, dark poplars and silvery willows stood in long rows. It resembled the plain of Lombardy: only the rivers were unlike each other:--the Adda, a torrent, passionate, storm-tossed, young; the Loire, quiet and slow, gliding gently over shallows, wearied and very old. At the foot of the castle clustered the peaked roofs of the town, slated, black, smooth and shining in the sun, and among them massive brick chimneys. The streets, narrow, winding, and sunless, belonged to the Middle Ages. Everywhere, under all cornices and along all water-pipes, at the angles of the windows, door-frames, lintels, were small stone figures--jolly friars with flagons, rosaries and wooden sandals, grave doctors of theology, thrifty citizens with fat purses hugged to their breasts. The same types were to be seen to-day walking the city streets; all here was _bourgeois_, prosperous, conventional, pious, and cold. When the king came to Amboise for the hunting, the little town changed its aspect. The streets grew noisy with the baying of dogs, the champing of horses, the blare of trumpets. Music resounded nightly from the palace, and its walls shone red with the flaring of torches. The king gone, silence descended again upon the streets, the palace was like an abode of the dead; no human step nor voice, save at mass-time on Sundays, and in the spring evenings when the children sang the old song of St. Denis under apple-trees which showered rosy petals on their heads. Night fell, the song was hushed, the children went away, and again there was silence; such silence as made audible the measured beat of the clock over the gate of the Horloge Tower, and the cry of the wild swans far away on the sand-banks of the Loire. Half a league from the castle, on the road to the Mill of St. Thomas, was a small château called Cloux, once the residence of the royal armourer. It was surrounded partly by a high wall, partly by a stream; in front of the house was a meadow, and a tangle of willows, alders, and hazel bushes descending to the river. The pink walls of the château were sharply defined against a background of chestnuts and elms; the windows and doors ornamented by a dog-tooth moulding in yellow Touraine stone. It was a small building with a high-pitched slatted roof; a tiny chapel on the right of the main entrance, and an octagonal tower, in which was a winding-stair, made it resemble a villa. Rebuilt forty years earlier, the outside was still new, cheerful, and inviting. This little château Francis I. assigned as lodging to Leonardo da Vinci. II The king received the artist with cordiality, and talked long with him of his works, past and future, respectfully saluting him as 'father' and 'teacher.' Leonardo proposed to remodel the castle of Amboise, also to construct an immense canal, which, converting the barren marshes into a luxuriant garden, should connect the Loire and the Saône at Macon, and thus open a new route from Northern Europe to the Mediterranean. In this wise he thought to benefit a foreign country by those gifts of knowledge which his fatherland had contemned. The king was pleased by the project, and at once Leonardo set out to explore the locality, studying the soil of the Sologne near Romorantin, the tributaries of the Loire and the Cher, the level of the waters, the topography of the whole district. One day he visited Loches, a small town to the south of Amboise, where was the castle in which Ludovico Il Moro, Duke of Lombardy, had been incarcerated for eight years. The old warden told Leonardo how Il Moro had once made his escape, by hiding in a cart loaded with straw; not knowing the roads, however, he had lost his way in the forest, and next day had been easily recaptured. His last years had been spent in pious meditation, in prayer, and in the study of Dante's _Commedia_, the only book he had been allowed to bring out of Italy. At fifty he was a feeble wrinkled old man; only at rare intervals did his eyes flash, when rumours reached him of grave political changes. He died in May 1508 after a short illness. The warden told further how Ludovico had, a few months before his death, devised a pastime for himself; had begged for brushes and paints and had decorated the walls and arches of his prison. Leonardo found traces of his work on the damp and mouldy plaster; involved patterns, stripes and bars; stars and crosses; red on a white, yellow on a blue ground; in the middle, the helmeted head of a warrior, probably himself, thus inscribed in broken French, '_Je porte en prison pour ma devise que je m'arme de pacience par force de peines que l'on me fait porter._' Another sentence ran all round the ceiling; it began with huge letters: '_Celui qui_,' then, space failing, continued in characters small and cramped, '_net pas contan_.' Reading these piteous inscriptions and looking at the clumsy drawings, Leonardo remembered how Il Moro had smiled admiringly on the swans in the moat of the fortress at Milan. 'Perhaps,' thought he, 'the love of beauty which is certainly in his soul will justify him before the tribunal of the Most High.' Meditating on the fall of the hapless duke, he remembered also what he had been told of the fate of another of his patrons, Cæsar Borgia. Julius II. had treacherously handed Cæsar over to his enemies, who had carried him to Spain and confined him in the tower of Medina del Campo. Daring and ingenious, he escaped by means of a rope let down from his prison window. The jailers had time to sever the rope; he fell and was seriously hurt, but none the less crawled to the horse provided by an accomplice, and rode away. He went to Pampeluna to the court of his brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, where he took service as a condottiere. Consternation spread through Italy; the pope trembled; and ten thousand ducats were set upon the head of the fugitive. On a wintry night of 1507 in an encounter with the French mercenaries under Beaumont, Cæsar was deserted by his followers, and driven into the dry bed of a river, where, like an animal at bay, he defended himself with desperate courage. At last he fell, pierced by twenty wounds. The mercenaries tore the splendid trappings from the dead warrior, and left him naked where he had fallen. Later, when the Navarrese came to seek him they knew him not; only Juanito, his little page, recognised his lord by reason of his great love for him; and flinging himself on the corpse he embraced it sobbing. Beautiful was the dead face, upturned to the heavens; and it seemed he had died even as he had lived, fearless, and without knowledge of remorse. Madonna Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara, wept ever for her brother; and when she died they found a hair shirt chafing her tender body. And Cæsar's youthful widow, Charlotte d'Albret, who in the few days she had been with him had come to love him as a very Griselda, having learned of his death, retired to perpetual seclusion in the castle of La Motte Feuillée, buried in the heart of a forest, where only winds rustled the dry leaves; nor used to leave her chamber, hung with perpetual mourning, save to distribute alms, imploring pensioners to pray for the soul of Cæsar. And likewise the duke's subjects in Romagna, husbandmen and half-savage shepherds from the valleys of the Apennine, kept most grateful memory of him. Long they refused to believe him dead, but waited for him as a god who should some day return and establish justice in the land, cast down the tyrants, and defend the poor. Beggars who wandered from village to village chanted 'the woeful lament for the Duca Valentino,' in which was the line-- 'Fe' cose estreme, ma senza misura.' Thus Leonardo mused on these two men, Ludovico and Cesare, whose lives had been signalled by great events, yet had passed away like shadows, leaving no trace. And he felt, after all, that his own life, spent in lofty contemplation, had been at least as fruitful. Thus thinking, he ceased to murmur at the untowardness of Fate. III Like the majority of Leonardo's projects, the making of the Sologne canal ended in nothing. Timorous counsellors persuaded Francis of the impracticability of the enterprise. His Majesty grew cold, was disenchanted, and soon forgot all about it; Leonardo found that the King of France was no more to be relied upon than Il Moro, Soderini, or Leo X. He resolved to abandon all hope of enriching mankind by the treasures of his knowledge, and to retire for the rest of his life into solitude. In the spring of 1517 he returned to Cloux, sick of fever contracted in the marshes of the Sologne. He recovered partially, and by the summer season had strength sufficient to leave his room, and leaning on Francesco's arm to walk daily as far as to the woods. Here he would sit in the shadow of the trees, his pupil at his feet. Sometimes Francesco read to him; sometimes he was content merely to enjoy the sights and sounds of peaceful nature, gazing at the sky, the leaves, the stones, the grasses, the golden moss on the huge tree-trunks, as if bidding them all a last farewell. A sorrowful presentiment, a great pity for the Master oppressed Francesco's heart. Silently he would touch Leonardo's hand with his lips; and then feel that trembling hand laid upon his head in a mournful caress, which deepened his sense of a coming doom. At this time the Master began a strange picture. Sheltered by overhanging rocks, in a cool shadow among flowering grasses, sat a god; he was long-haired and fair as a woman, but languid and pale; his head crowned with vine-leaves, a spotted skin round his loins, a thyrsus in his hand. He sat with legs crossed and seemed to be listening, a hinting smile on his lips, his finger pointed in the direction whence came the sound, perhaps the song of Mænads, perhaps the voice of great Pan, that thrilling sound from which all living things must flee. In Boltraffio's casket Leonardo had found an amethyst gem, doubtless a gift from Monna Cassandra, with an engraving of Dionysus. There were also stray leaves from Euripides' tragedy, the _Bacchæ_, translated from the Greek and copied out by Giovanni. Many times had Leonardo read these fragments; amongst them the address of Pentheus to the unknown god. 'Ha! of thy form thou art not ill-favoured, stranger, For woman's tempting! No wrestler thou, as show thy flowing locks Down thy cheek floating, fraught with all desire; And white from heedful tendance is thy skin, Smit by no sunshafts, but made wan by shade, While thou dost hunt desire with beauty's lure.' And the chorus of Bacchantes, answering the impious king, extol Dionysus as 'the most terrible, the most beneficent of gods, who giveth to mortals the drunkenness of ecstasy.' On the same page, side by side with the verses from Euripides, Giovanni had copied verses from the Bible. Leaving his Bacchus unfinished, Leonardo began another picture, still more strange, of St. John the Baptist. He worked at it more continuously and more rapidly than was his wont, as if feeling that his days were numbered, that his strength was every day declining, and that now or never he must give expression to that mystery which all his life he had hidden from men,--even from himself. Soon the picture was sufficiently advanced for the conception to be clear. The background was dark, recalling the gloom of that cavern he had once described to Monna Lisa as the occasion both of curiosity and of fear. Yet the dimness was not impenetrable, but blent with light, melting into it as smoke dissolves into sunlight, as distant music vibrates away into silence. And between the darkness and the perfect light appeared what at first seemed a phantom, but presently snowed more distinct than life itself; the face and figure of a naked youth, womanish, seductively beautiful, recalling the words of Pentheus. But instead of the leopard's skin he wore a garment of camel's hair; instead of the thrysus he carried a cross. Smiling, with bent head, as if listening, all expectation, all curiosity, yet half afraid, he pointed with one hand to the cross, with the other to himself, and on his lips the words seemed to tremble:-- 'There cometh one after me whose shoe's-latchet I am not worthy to unloose.' IV After a tedious morning spent in touching for the king's evil, Francis I. felt a desire for something beautiful to divert his mind from the spectacle of deformity and sickness. He resolved to visit Leonardo's studio. Accordingly, with a few attendants, he presented himself at Cloux. All day the painter had worked at his Baptist. His room was large and cold, with a brick floor and a high-raftered ceiling. The last slanting rays of the sun streamed in through the narrow window; and Leonardo was hastening to finish his day's task before the coming on of twilight. When he heard voices and footsteps under the window, he said to Melzi:-- 'I admit no one. Say I am ill.' Francesco went out obediently to stop the intruders; but seeing the king he bowed respectfully and threw open the doors. Leonardo had barely time to cover the portrait of La Gioconda; this he always did if he expected strangers. Francis entered; he was richly but gaudily dressed, with excess of jewellery and gold trimmings. He was twenty-four years of age, well built, tall and strong, majestic, and of agreeable manners. Yet there was something displeasing in his face, something at once sensual and sly, suggestive of a satyr. He refused to allow Leonardo to kneel, bowed respectfully himself, and even embraced the aged painter. 'It is long since we saw each other, Maître Léonard,' he said. 'How is your health? Do you paint much? Have you done many new pictures? What is that one?' and he pointed to the curtained Monna Lisa. 'An old portrait, sire, which your Majesty has already seen.' 'Let me see it again. The oftener one sees your pictures the more one admires them.' The painter hesitated, but to his annoyance a courtier removed the veil, and La Gioconda was revealed. The king, throwing himself on a chair, gazed long without a word. 'Marvellous!' he exclaimed at last. 'That is the fairest woman I ever saw! Who is she?' 'Madonna Lisa, wife of a Florentine citizen.' 'Did you paint it lately?' 'Ten years ago.' 'Is she still beautiful?' 'Sire, she is dead.' 'Maître Léonard da Vinci,' said Saint Gelais, the court poet, 'worked five years at yon portrait, and has left it unfinished--so at least he avers.' 'Unfinished?' cried the king. 'I pray you, what does it lack? She seems alive--on the point to speak. You are enviable, Maître Léonard! Five years with that woman! Had she not died, I trow, you would not have finished it yet.' He laughed, and the resemblance to a satyr increased. It never occurred to him that Monna Lisa might have been a faithful wife. 'I see, sir, you have a pretty taste in women,' resumed His Majesty gaily. 'What shoulders! what a bosom! And one may guess at further beauties!' Leonardo remained silent; he grew pale, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. 'To paint such a likeness,' continued the king, ''tis not enough to be an artist; you must fathom all the secrets of a woman's heart, that labyrinth, that tangle, impossible to the devil himself. Yon lady seems modest; she folds her hands like a nun; but wait a bit; guess what is in her heart. 'Souvent femme varie Bien fol qui s'y fie!' Leonard stepped aside, as if to move another picture to the light, and Saint Gelais whispered scandal to his master concerning Leonardo's supposed tastes in matters of the heart. Francis seemed surprised, but shrugged his shoulders indulgently, and turned to an unfinished cartoon on an easel near the portrait. 'What is this?' 'Bacchus, methinks,' said the poet, pointing to the thyrsus. 'And this?' 'It would seem, Bacchus again,' said Saint Gelais. 'The hair and the breast are like a girl,' said the king; 'it has the same smile as La Gioconda.' 'A hermaphrodite then,' returned the poet; and repeated Plato's fable of the original men-women, and the origin of the passion of Love. 'Maître Léonard would fain restore the primitive type,' he concluded mockingly. Francis turned to the painter. 'Resolve our doubts, Master,' he said; 'is it Bacchus or a hermaphrodite?' 'Sire,' said Leonardo, reddening, 'it is St. John the Baptist.' The king shook his head in bewilderment. This mixture of the sacred and the profane seemed blasphemous to him, yet rather attractive. Not that the blasphemy mattered; every one knows that painters have queer fancies! 'I will buy both pictures,' he said; 'the Bacchus--I mean the Baptist, and Lisa la Gioconda. What is the price?' 'Your Majesty,' began the painter, embarrassed, 'they are not yet finished.' 'Tut, man! St. John you can finish at once, and as for Lisa, I will not have her touched. I want her with me at once, hear you? Tell me the price, and fear not. I will not try to cheapen her.' What was Leonardo to say to this frivolous coarse man? How explain what the portrait was to its painter, and why no price could induce him to give it up? 'You will not speak? Then I will name a price myself. Three thousand crowns? How say you? 'Tis not enough? Three and a half?' 'Sire,' implored the artist, his voice shaking; 'I can assure you----' 'Well! well! Maître Léonard, four thousand?' A murmur of astonishment came from the courtiers. Not Lorenzo de' Medici himself had ever set such a price upon a picture. Leonardo raised his eyes in unutterable confusion. He was ready to fall on his knees, to beg as men beg for their lives, that he might not be robbed of La Gioconda. Francis took his embarrassment for gratitude, rose to leave, and as a farewell, again embraced the painter. 'Then that's settled. Four thousand crowns, and the money is ready for you when you choose. To-morrow I shall send for her. Make yourself easy. I will hang her with such honour as shall content you. I know her value! I will preserve her for posterity!' When the king had gone, Leonardo sank into a chair, looking at his picture, scarce believing what had happened. Absurd, childish devices suggested themselves to him: he would hide the portrait; he would refuse to give it up, though threatened with capital punishment. He would send Melzi to Italy with it--nay, he would flee himself. Night fell. Francesco looked several times into the room, but did not venture to speak. Leonardo still sat before Monna Lisa, his face pale and rigid as that of a corpse. At midnight he went into Francesco's room. 'Get up. We must go to the castle. I have to see the king.' 'Master, it is late. You are weary. You have not the strength. Let us wait for the morrow.' 'No, it must be now. Light me the lantern, and come with me. If you will not, I will go alone.' Francesco rose and dressed himself, and they went together to the castle. V The walk took a quarter of an hour; the path was steep and badly paved. Leonardo moved slowly, leaning on the young man's arm. It was a warm and starless night, black as the pit. The boughs of the trees swayed painfully under the gusts of wind. There were lights in the castle windows, and music made itself heard. The king was supping late with a small company, and amusing himself by making the young ladies of the court drink from a silver cup chased with obscene figures. Among these ladies was his sister Marguerite, called 'The Pearl of Pearls,' and celebrated for her beauty and erudition. 'The art of pleasing was more important to her than daily bread,' so said her admirers. At heart, however, she was indifferent to all except her brother, to whom she was devotedly attached. His weaknesses seemed to her charms, his vices strength, his faun's mask the countenance of Apollo. For him she declared herself ready not merely to scatter the ashes of her body to the wind, but to sell her immortal soul. Francis abused her affection, for he made use of her not only in difficulties and dangers, but also in his amorous adventures. Leonardo's coming was announced; and Francis, having sent for him to the supper-room, advanced with his sister to greet him. The cavaliers and court-ladies watched the artist's entry with glances half respectful, half contemptuous. The tall old man, with the long hair, the melancholy face, the nervous manner, seemed to have dropped from an alien sphere, and sent a chill through the company as if he had come out of a snowstorm. 'Ah! Maître Léonard!' cried the king with his customary cordiality, 'you are a rare guest. What shall we offer you? You eat no flesh, I know; but you will partake of sweetmeats and fruit?' 'I thank your Majesty. Sire, you will excuse me; I am fain to speak a few words with your Majesty.' Francis led him aside, and asked if Marguerite might be present. 'I venture to hope that her Highness will intercede for me,' said Leonardo with a bow. Then he spread out his hands to the sovereign. 'I come, sire, about my picture, which your Majesty has desired to buy--the portrait of Monna Lisa.' 'Had we not agreed upon the price?' asked the king. 'I come not about money,' said Leonardo. 'Then what is the matter?' The painter felt again that to speak of La Gioconda to this indifferent affable young monarch was impossible. Nevertheless he forced himself to say:-- 'Sire, be merciful to me. Do not take this portrait from me. It shall be yours; I ask no money for it. Only leave it with me till--my death.' He paused, looking entreatingly at Marguerite. The king shrugged his shoulders and frowned. 'Sire!' said the young lady, 'grant the prayer of Maître Léonard. He deserves it! Be compassionate!' 'What, Madame Marguerite, are you on his side? A plot, I declare, a plot! a plot!' Laying her hand on her brother's shoulder, she whispered:--'Do you not see? He still loves her!' 'But she is dead!' 'Do men never love the dead? You said yourself she lived in her portrait! Leave him his memorial of her. Do not afflict the old man!' Francis had a dim recollection of having somewhere heard of eternal unions of soul, of fidelity, of love that had no grossness in it. He felt inspired by magnanimity. 'You have a sweet intercessor, Maître Léonard. Be of good cheer. I will do as you ask; only remember the picture belongs to me, and you shall receive the money at once.' Something wistful and plaintive in Leonardo's eyes touched the king, and he tapped him good-naturedly. 'Fear not! I give you my word! None shall part you from your Lisa!' Marguerite smiled and her eyes shone. She gave her hand to the painter, who kissed it fervently and in silence. The band struck up and dancing began. No one thought any more of the uncourtly guest, who had come in like a shadow and vanished again into the starless night. VI As soon as the king went away the usual quiet settled upon Amboise. Leonardo worked on at his St. John, but as the picture advanced it became more difficult, and his progress was less rapid. Sometimes in the twilight he would lift the veil from the portrait of Monna Lisa, gaze long at it, and then at St. John, which stood beside it. Apparently he was comparing the two pictures. Francesco, watching breathlessly, fancied at those times that the expression of the two faces, the woman's and the youth's, mysteriously changed; they stood out from the canvas like apparitions, and under the fixed gaze of the painter lived with a supernatural life. St. John grew like Monna Lisa, and like Leonardo himself, even as a son resembles his parents. Meantime the Master's health was declining. Melzi begged him to rest and leave his work, but this he resolutely refused to do. One day, in the autumn of 1518, he was greatly indisposed. He desisted earlier than usual from his work, and asked Francesco to help him to his bedroom. The winding stair was steep, and often of late he had been unable to ascend it without assistance. So Francesco supported him, and he went up slowly, halting frequently to recover his breath. Suddenly he staggered and fell into the young man's arms. Francesco called the old servant Battista Villanis. Together they lifted the Master and carried him to his bedroom. He lay six weeks in bed, refusing all medical advice according to his wont. His right side was paralysed, his right arm useless. The winter found him better, but his recovery was slow. He was ambidextrous, but required both hands at once for his work. With the left he drew, with the right he painted; and he maintained that it was this division of labour which had given him superiority over other painters. He feared now that painting had become impossible to him. In the early days of December he rose from his bed, and before long came downstairs to his painting-room, but did not resume his work. One day at the hour of siesta, Francesco, not finding him in the upper rooms, cautiously opened the studio door and looked in. Of late Leonardo had been increasingly disinclined to society; he spent many hours alone, and would allow no one to enter unbidden. Francesco, peeping now through the half-opened door, saw him standing before the picture of St. John, and trying to paint with his disabled hand. His face was distorted by the anguish of effort, the corners of his mouth drooped, the brows were contracted, and the strands of grey hair, falling over his forehead, were bathed in sweat. His fingers would not obey him, and the brush shook in the hands of the great Master as in the hand of a clumsy beginner. With bated breath Francesco watched this last struggle between the living spirit and the dying body. VII That year the winter was very severe. Drifting ice broke the bridges of the Loire, people were frozen on the roads, wolves came into the suburbs of the town, and prowled even under the windows of the château. One morning Francesco found a half-frozen swallow on the verandah and carried it to Leonardo, who revived it with the warmth of his breath, and established it in a cage near the fire, meaning to restore it to liberty in the spring. The Master no longer attempted to paint, and had hidden the unfinished picture with his brushes and paints in the darkest corner of the studio. The days went by in idleness. Sometimes the notary visited them and talked of the harvests, the salt tax, and the comparative merits of Languedoc and Limousin sheep. Sometimes Francesco's confessor came, Fra Guglielmo, an Italian by birth, but long settled at Amboise, a simple pleasant old man, who could tell stories about the Florence of his youth which made Leonardo laugh. The early twilight came on, and the visitors took their departure. Then for hours at a time Leonardo would pace up and down the room, occasionally glancing at Astro. Now more than ever the cripple seemed to him a living reproach, the mockery of the one great aim of his life, the making of wings for men. Astro sat in a corner, his feet drawn up under him, winding long strips of linen on a stick, whittling sticks, carving tops, or with his eyes blinking he would rock himself slowly and, smiling, sing his unchanging song:-- 'Cucurlu! Curlu! Eagles and cranes, Up they flew!' At last it became quite dark, and silence descended upon the house. Out of doors the boughs of the old trees creaked and roared in the storm, and the roar was like the voice of malignant giants. The eerie howling of wolves was heard in the outskirts of the forest. Francesco piled logs on the fire, and Leonardo sat down beside it. The young man played on the lute and could sing very pleasantly. He tried to dispel the Master's melancholy by his music; once he sang him an old song composed by Lorenzo Il Magnifico for the 'Mask of Bacchus and Ariadne,' a favourite with Leonardo, who had known it in his youth:-- 'Quant' è bella giovinezza Ma sen fugge tuttavia? Chi vuol esser lieto, sia; Di doman non v'è certezza.' The Master listened, greatly moved; he remembered the summer night, the dark shadows, the brilliant moonlight in the lonely street, the sounds of the lute from the marble loggia, the same tender love-song. And he remembered, too, his thoughts of La Gioconda. Francesco, sitting at the old man's feet, looked up and saw that tears were falling from the fading eyes. Sometimes Leonardo would read over his old diaries, and occasionally he still wrote in them, but of the subject which now chiefly occupied his thoughts--Death. 'Thou see'st that thy hope and thy desire to return to thy native land, and to thy old life, is like the desire of the moth for the flame, and that Man (who, ceaseless in desire, joyous in impatience, ever awaits a new spring, and thinketh that his desire is slow in its fulfilment) does not know that he expecteth but his own destruction and his end. But this expectation is the quintessence of nature, the soul of the elements, and finding itself in the soul of man, it is the desire to return from the body unto Him who made it.' 'In nature nothing exists but Force and Movement; and force is the volition of happiness, the eternal striving of the universe after final equilibrium and the Prime Mover.' 'Every part desires to be united with its whole that it may escape imperfection.' 'As the day well spent gives pleasant dreams, life well lived shall give a happy death.' 'Every evil leaves bitterness in the memory, except the greatest evil, which is death, for it destroys the memory together with the life.' 'When I thought I was learning to live, I was but learning how to die.' 'The outward necessity of nature corresponds with the outward necessity of reason: everything is reasonable, all is good, because all is necessary.' Thus his reason justified death, the will of the Prime Mover; yet in the depth of his heart something rebelled. Once he dreamed that he awoke in a coffin buried alive under the earth, and with desperate resolution and panting for breath he strove to raise the lid of his prison. Next morning he told Francesco of his desire that he should lie unburied till the first signs of decomposition should show themselves. He still loved life with a blind unreasoning love, still clung to it and dreaded death as a black pit into which that day or the next he would fall with a cry of the utmost terror. All the consolations of reason, all he had said of divine necessity and the will of the Prime Mover, vanished like smoke before this shrinking of the flesh. He would have relinquished his immortality for one ray of earthly sunshine, one waft of the spring, for the perfume of expanding leaves, for a bunch of yellow flowers from the Monte Albano, where he had been a happy child. At night, when he could not sleep, Francesco would read to him from the Gospels. Never had they seemed to him so new, so rare in excellence, so little understood of men. Some sayings, as he thought out their meaning, deepened for him like wells. "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God." Was this indeed the answer to the question of his whole life, 'Shall not men have wings?' "And having ended all his temptation, the devil departed from him _for a season_." What did that mean? When did the devil return to him again? Words which might have seemed to him full of the greatest error, contrary to experience and natural law, still did not repel him. 'If ye have faith as a grain of mustard-seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place, and it shall remove.' He had always thought that the final knowledge and the final faith would lead by different paths to the same goal, the blending of outward and inward necessity, the will of man and the will of God. Yet was not the sting of the words in the fact that _to have faith_, even as a grain of mustard-seed, was more difficult than to see the mountain remove unto yonder place? But there was a saying of Christ's still more enigmatical: "I thank thee, Father, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes." How reconcile this with the injunction, "Be ye wise as serpents"? And, again, "Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not neither do they spin. Take no thought saying what shall we eat or what shall we drink, for after all these things do the Gentiles seek, and your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things." Leonardo recalled his discoveries and inventions, the machines for giving men power over nature, and asked himself:-- 'Is all this care for the body--what shall we eat and what shall we drink, and the like--is it mammon worship? Is there nothing in human toil, in knowledge, but the mere profit? Is knowledge like Martha, who is careful and troubled about many things, but not about the one thing needful? Is love like Mary, who has chosen the good part and sitteth at the Master's feet?' He knew by experience the temptations inseparable from knowledge. It seemed to the dying man that he was already face to face with the black, the dreadful pit, into which, if not to-day then to-morrow, he too must fall with a last despairing cry:-- 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?' VIII Sometimes of a morning, when he looked through the frosted windows at the deep snow, the grey sky, the frozen water, he thought the winter would never end. But in February there came a breath of warmth. Drops trickled noisily from the icicles at the sunny side of the houses, the sparrows twittered, and the trees were girt with dark circles where the snow had melted, the buds swelled, and patches of blue sky were seen among the clouds. Francesco placed his master's chair in a sunny window, and for hours the old man would sit quite still with bent head, his wasted hands resting upon his knees. The swallow which had been rescued from the first frost now flew and circled about the room, perched on Leonardo's shoulder, and allowed herself to be handled and kissed on the head. Suddenly she would start up and again fly round the ceiling with impatient cries as if scenting the spring. He followed every turn of her lithe body, every movement of her pinions. The old idea of wings for men stirred within him. One day he opened a large chest which contained his manuscript-books, stray drawings and sketches, chiefly mechanical, jottings from his two hundred 'Books of Nature.' All his life he had been meaning to bring order into this chaos, to sort the fragments and unite them in one whole, one great 'Book of the Universe.' He knew that among them were ideas and discoveries which could materially shorten the labours of those men who were to come after him. He knew also that he had delayed too long, that it was now too late, that all his sowing would fail of fruit, that all his scientific material would perish like the _Cenacolo_, the Colossus, the 'Battle of Anghiari.' And this, because in science as in art he had only desired with a wingless desire, had begun and not finished, had accomplished nothing. He foresaw that men would seek what he had found, would discover what he had already discovered, would walk in his paths, in his very steps; but would pass him by, would forget him as though he had never lived. In the chest he found a small manuscript-book, yellow with age, and entitled 'Birds.' Of late years he had scarcely occupied himself with the flying-machine, though he still often thought of it. To-day, watching the flight of his tame swallow, a new idea had come to him, a new design had perfected itself in his mind, and he determined to make a last attempt, indulging the last vain hope that by the finally successful making of wings for men the whole labour of his life would be justified. He entered on this new task with the same resolution, with the same feverish haste which he had expended on the St. John. Ceasing to brood over death, conquering his weakness, forgetting his food and his sleep, he sat for whole days and nights over his calculations and his drawings. Francesco watching him sometimes feared this was not work but the delirium of a sick mind. With increasing alarm he noticed how the Master's face became distorted under the desperate effort of will, under the violent desire for the impossible--which men may not seek with impunity. The week went by and Francesco never left him, not even to sleep. But a night came when deadly weariness overcame the youth; he threw himself on a chair by the fire and dozed. The morning came grey through the window, the swallow wakened and chirruped. Leonardo was still sitting at his work-table, a pen in his hand; he was greatly bent, his head almost touching the paper. Suddenly he trembled strangely, the pen dropped and his head fell. He made an effort to rise, tried to call Francesco, but could make no sound. Heavily and helplessly he rolled with his whole weight upon the table and overturned it. Melzi, awakened by the crash, sprang to his feet, to find the Master lying on the floor, his candle extinguished, his papers scattered, the terrified swallow flapping her wings against the rafters overhead. He realised that this was a second stroke. For some days Leonardo lay unconscious, making occasional mutterings, always of mathematics. When he came to himself he at once asked for his sketches of the flying-machine. 'Nay, Master. Ask of me anything else, but I cannot let you work till you have mended somewhat,' replied Francesco. 'Where have you put my sketches?' he demanded, angrily. 'I have locked them in the attic.' 'Give me the key.' 'Nay, Master, what can you do with the key?' 'Give it me this instant.' Francesco hesitated; the invalid's eyes flashed with wrath. Not to excite him, the young man gave the key. Leonardo hid it under his pillow and seemed satisfied. His recovery after this was more rapid than could have been hoped. In the beginning of April he was able again to play chess with Fra Guglielmo. One night Francesco, sleeping on his customary bench by the Master's side, started up in alarm, for he could not hear Leonardo's usually heavy breathing. The night-light had been extinguished; he relit it hastily, and found the invalid's bed empty; he waked Villanis and they visited all the rooms on that floor, but Leonardo was not there. Francesco was going downstairs, when he remembered the sketches hidden in the attic. He hastened thither and found the door unlocked. Leonardo, half-dressed, was seated on the floor before an old box, which he was using as a table. By the light of a tallow candle he was writing, while he muttered rapidly as if delirious. His glowing eyes, his matted hair, his brows violently contracted, his sunken helpless mouth, his whole appearance was so strange and alarming to Francesco that for a few minutes he dared not enter. Suddenly Leonardo snatched up a pencil and drew it across a page of figures so violently that it broke. Then he looked round, saw his pupil, rose and tottered towards him. 'I told you, Francesco,' he said quickly and bitterly, 'that I should soon make an end. Now I have finished. So have no fear, I shall not work any more. 'Tis enough. I have grown old and dull; more dull than Astro. I know nothing at all. What I have known I forget. Is it for me to think of wings? To the devil even with the wings!' And seizing his papers furiously he tore and trampled them. From that day his health grew worse. He returned to his bed, and Melzi foresaw that he would not again rise from it. Sometimes for whole days he lay in a trance. Francesco was devout, and whatever the Church taught he believed without question. Alone of Leonardo's pupils he had not fallen under the influence of those 'fatal spells'; that 'evil eye' attributed to the Master. Though Leonardo did not observe the Church ceremonials, his young companion divined by the instinct of love that he was not impious. The lad did not try to penetrate further into the great man's opinions. Now, however, the thought that he might die unabsolved from errors, perhaps from heresies, was torture to the pious youth. He was afraid to address the Master on the subject, but he would have given his life to save him. One evening Leonardo, seeing his anxious face, asked him what were his thoughts. Francesco answered with some embarrassment. 'Fra Guglielmo came this morning and wanted to see you. I told him it was impossible----' The Master looked at his young attendant and saw alarm, entreaty, hope on his face. 'Francesco, this was not what you were thinking. Why will you not tell me?' The pupil was silent, his eyes downcast. Leonardo understood; he turned away and frowned. He had always wished to die as he had lived, in complete liberty; in the truth, so far as he knew it. But he had compassion on Francesco. Could he, in these last hours of his life, embitter a simple heart, bring offences once more upon one of these 'little ones'? He looked again at his pupil; laid his wasted hand on the lad's hand and said with a quiet smile:-- 'My son, send to Fra Guglielmo and bid him come to-morrow. I wish to confess and to communicate. Send also for Maître Guillaume.' Francesco did not answer--he kissed Leonardo's hand in passionate gratitude. IX The next morning, Saturday in Passion Week, April 23rd, Maître Guillaume the notary came, and Leonardo imparted to him his last wishes. He bequeathed four hundred florins to his brothers in token of reconciliation; to Francesco Melzi he left his books, scientific apparatus, machines, manuscripts, and the remainder of the salary due to him from the royal treasury; to Battista Villanis, his household furniture, and the half of the vineyard outside the walls of Milan; the other half he left to his pupil Andrea Salaino. Maturina was to have a dress of good black cloth, a cloth cap trimmed with fur, and two ducats. Melzi was named executor, and the ordering of the funeral was entrusted to him. Francesco was solicitous that all should be arranged in a manner to contradict popular slanders, and make it clear that the Master had died a true son of the Catholic Church. Leonardo assented to all he proposed. Presently Fra Guglielmo came with the Holy Viaticum, and Leonardo made his confession and received the Sacrament 'according to the rites of the Church'; 'in all humility and submission to the will of God,' as the monk afterwards told Francesco; adding that whatever might be said against the Master he would be justified by the words of the Lord, 'Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.' All day he suffered from breathlessness, but he survived the night, and on the morning of Easter Sunday seemed a little easier. Francesco opened the window. Pigeons were flying in the blue air, and the rustle of their flight mingled with the chime of the Easter bells. The dying man no longer heard nor saw what was passing around him. He imagined great weights falling and rolling on him and crushing him. With an effort he freed himself and was flying upward on gigantic wings. Again the weights fell, again he conquered them, and so on, again and again. And each time the weight was heavier, the struggle to overcome it more desperate; till at last he gave up the attempt, crying aloud a despairing cry. He resigned himself to defeat. And then immediately he realised that the weights and the wings, the falling and the flight were all one; 'above' and 'below' were the same, and he was borne along on the waves of eternal motion gently as in a mother's arms. For some days longer his body lived, but he never recovered consciousness. On the morning of May 2nd Francesco and Fra Guglielmo noticed that his breathing had grown feebler. The monk read the prayers for the dying; a little later, and the young man had closed his eyes. The face of the dead man changed but little; it wore the expression, so frequent in his lifetime, of profound and quiet attention. The windows were widely opened, and Francesco and the two old servants were performing the last offices for the corpse. Suddenly the tame swallow, which of late had been forgotten, flew into the room, circled over the dead man, and settled at last upon his folded hands. He was buried at the monastery of St. Florentine, but the exact site of his grave is unknown. Writing to Florence to the Master's brothers Francesco thus expressed himself:-- 'I cannot tell the grief occasioned to me by the death of him who was more to me than a father. Long as I live I shall mourn him. He loved me with a great and tender love. The whole world will grieve for the loss of a man whose like Nature herself will not create again. 'May the Almighty God grant him everlasting peace!' EPILOGUE Now it so happened that just at the time when Leonardo da Vinci died, a certain young Russian courtier named Eutychius came a second time to Amboise in the train of Karachiarov, the Russian ambassador. On his journey this young courtier, who brought a gift of gold and of priceless Persian falcons for King Francis, visited Florence, and had seen the bas-relief on the Campanile, which represented Dædalus experimenting with waxen wings. It had given Leonardo in his boyhood the first idea of Wings for Man; and now it was of interest to the young Russian, who in his spare time, for pleasure, was painting an ecclesiastical icon of 'The Winged Precursor.' With vague and half-prophetic awe he contemplated the contrast between the material wings constructed by Dædalus, who was perhaps assisted by demons, and the spiritual wings--'upon which pure souls rise to God'--of the 'Incarnate Angel,' the Precursor, St. John the Baptist. While at Amboise, Eutychius one day obtained leave to visit the château of Cloux, where the deceased Master, Leonardo da Vinci, had lived. The party was received by Francesco Melzi, who showed them the studio and all it contained. They inspected the strange instruments, the apparatus for the study of the laws of sound, the great crystal eye for experiments on sight, the diving-bell, the anatomical drawings, the designs for engines of war. All this was interesting; but for Eutychius the supreme attraction was the broken frame of a wing resembling the pinion of a great swallow. He learned from Melzi of its history and its purpose; and strange thoughts rose in his breast as he remembered Dædalus on the marble tower of Santa Maria del Fiore. Presently he stood in bewilderment before the dead Leonardo's picture of St. John the Baptist. The appearance of the Forerunner was almost that of a woman; yet he carried the reed cross, and was clothed with camel's hair. He was not like the Winged Precursor familiar to the painter of icons; but his charm was irresistible. What was the significance of the subtle smile with which he pointed to the cross of Golgotha? Eutychius stood spell-bound, scarce listening to the animadversions of his fellows. 'What? this beardless, naked, effeminate youth, the Precursor? Not of Christ, then, but of Antichrist--accursed for ever!' Eutychius heard without heeding; and when he came away the mysterious figure of the wingless one, fair as a woman, with flowing locks like Dionysus, pointing to the cross--haunted him like a vision. The young Russian painter was lodged in an attic beside the dove-cot; and had arranged his working place in the recess of the dormer-window. He busied himself with the painting of the icon, already nearly completed, of St. John the Baptist. The saint stood on a sunburnt hill, round, like the edge of a globe. It was bordered by the purple sea, and canopied by the blue vault of heaven. The figure carried in its hand a head, which was the duplicate of his own, but seemed that of a corpse. Thus Eutychius had tried to show that the man who has slain in himself all that is human may attain to a more than human flight. His face was terrible and strange; his gaze like the gaze of an eagle, fixed upon the sun. His hair and beard floated on the blast, his raiment was like the plumage of a bird. His limbs were long and gave an impression of singular lightness. On his shoulder were set great swan-like wings, extended over the tawny earth and the purple sea. To-night Eutychius had little more to do than to touch the inner side of the plumes with gold. But his attention wandered, he thought of Dædalus and of Leonardo; he remembered the face of the wingless youth in the Master's last picture, and found it eclipsing that of the winged one which he had drawn himself. His hand grew heavy and uncertain; the brush fell; his strength failed. He left his room and wandered for hours along the banks of the silent river. The sun had set; the pale green sky, the evening stars were reflected in the water, but in the east clouds were rising, and summer lightning quivered in the air as if waving fiery wings. Returning, he lit the lamp before the icon of the Virgin, and threw himself on his bed. He could not sleep, but lay tossing and shivering feverishly for hour after hour, fancying weird rustlings and whispers in the stillness, and remembering all the eerie tales of the Russian folk-lore. Wearied and wakeful, Eutychius tried to read. He selected an old book at random, and the familiar Russian legend of the 'Crown of the Kingdom of Babylon,' and of the world-wide sovereignty destined by God for the land of Russia. Then Eutychius turned a page and read another legend, that of 'The White Hood.' In days of yore Constantine the emperor, having accepted the Christian faith and received absolution for his sins from Sylvester the pope, desired to give the pontiff a kingly crown. But an angel, appearing unto him, bade him give a crown not of earthly but of spiritual supremacy--a White Hood like unto a monkish cowl. Nevertheless the Roman Church laid claim to temporal no less than to spiritual power; wherefore the angel appeared to the pope and commanded him to send the Hood to Philotheus, the Patriarch of Constantinople; and when he would have retained it, there appeared unto the Patriarch another vision: Constantine the emperor and Sylvester the pope, bidding him send on the Hood yet further, into the country of Russia, to Novgorod the Great. 'For,' said Sylvester in this dream, 'the first Rome has fallen by her pride and self-will; and Constantinople, the second Rome, is like to perish by the fury of the infidel; but in the third Rome, which shall be in the land of Russia, the light of the Holy Ghost is already shining, and at the last all Christian nations shall be united in the Russian dominion under the shadow of the Orthodox faith.' Each time Eutychius read these tales, a vague and boundless hope filled his soul. His heart beat and his breath caught, as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice. For it seemed that the legend of the Babylonian kingdom was prophetic of earthly greatness; that of the White Hood, of heavenly glory for his native land. However poor, however wretched she might be now in comparison with other countries, still she was to be the third Rome, the new Zion; and the rays of the rising sun were destined to shine on the seventeen golden domes of the Russian church of St. Sophia, the Wisdom of God. And yet, he asked himself, how should it be that the White Hood, the third, the holiest Rome, should unite itself with the hateful crown of Nebuchadnezzar, who had been cursed of God, whose city was Babylon, and accursed in the Book of Revelation. The young painter's effort to solve the riddle brought fantastic vision to his hot brain. He fell asleep, and he too dreamed a dream: He saw a Woman in shining garments, with flaming countenance and fiery wings, standing among fleeting clouds, her feet on the crescent moon; over her was a seven-pillared tabernacle, with the inscription:-- 'Wisdom hath builded her an house.' Prophets and patriarchs surrounded her, saints and angels, thrones and dominions and powers, and all the company of Heaven. And among the prophets at Wisdom's very foot stood John the Precursor with his white plumes as on the icon, _but wearing the face of Leonardo da Vinci_, who had dreamed of wings for men. And behind the Woman, golden cupolas and pinnacles of churches innumerable glowed like fire in the azure sky; and beyond them stretched a gloriously boundless expanse, which Eutychius recognised as the land of Russia. Belfries shook with a triumphant peal; angels sang victorious Alleluia; the seven archangels smote their wings, and the seven thunders spoke. And above the fire-clothed Woman, Hagia Sophia, the Wisdom of God, the heavens opened, and bright as the sun--terrible--shone the White Hood, the heavenly head-dress, over the land of Russia. * * * * * Eutychius awoke. He opened the windows, and to him was wafted the fragrance of leaves and grasses washed by rain. The sun had not yet risen, but gold and purple decked the place of his coming--the skyey verge above the woods, and the river, and the fields. The town still slept in twilight; only the belfry of St. Hubert glistened with a pale green light. The hush was full of great expectation. Far away on the sand-banks of the Loire the white swans were calling. Suddenly, like a live coal, the sun shone out behind the forest. Something like music passed across the earth and the heaven. Pigeons shook their wings and rose in circles. Day, entering the window, fell full on the icon of the Forerunner; the wings, extended over lands and seas, flashed and sparkled in the morning radiance, as if informed with supernatural life. Eutychius, dipping his brush into crimson, wrote these words on the scroll upon the icon, under the Winged Precursor:-- "Behold I will send my messenger before my face, and he shall prepare my way before me." THE END 'THOU ART THYSELF THY GOD, THYSELF THY NEIGHBOUR: O BE AS WELL THINE OWN CREATOR TOO; BE THE ABYSS ABOVE, THE DEPTH BELOW; AT ONCE THINE OWN END, AND THINE OWN BEGINNING.' THE DEATH OF THE GODS By DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI Author of "The Romance of Leonardo da Vinci," etc. Authorized English version by HERBERT TRENCH. 12^o. $1.50. "A fine piece of work. Out of the perplexed chapters of Julian's career, Mérejkowski has constructed something which might be called a drama, full of episodes, lurid, intense, passionate ... with a power to enlist and hold the attention of the reader. The Russian writer is evidently a close and unwearied student."--_London Daily Telegraph._ "Should meet with a good hearing in England and America.... The subject--the career of Julian the Apostate--is certainly most fascinating."--_The Athenæum._ "Here, in the enthusiasm of reading, we are ready to admit another to the select circle of great historical novels, and they are few.... Julian, as the intellectual and active meeting point of the old world and the new, is the most remarkable figure of his epoch."--_Daily Chronicle._ "With the ardor as of Flaubert in 'Salammbo,' and with perhaps more skill than Sienkiewicz in 'Quo Vadis,' he has succeeded in recreating the wonderful rich scenes and characters of the period."--_The Observer._ G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London The Romance of | The Forerunner Leonardo da Vinci | | (The Resurrection of the Gods) By DMITRI MÉREJKOWSKI Author of "The Death of the Gods," "Tolstoi as Man and Artist," etc. 12^o. $1.50. "A novel of very remarkable interest and power. Most vivid and picturesque."--_Guardian._ "A finer study of the artistic temperament at its best could scarcely be found. And Leonardo is the centre of a crowd of striking figures. It is impossible to speak too highly of the dramatic power with which they are presented, both singly and in combination. A very powerful piece of work, standing higher above the level of contemporary fiction than it would be easy to say."--_Spectator._ "A remarkable work."--_Morning Post._ "Takes the reader by assault. One feels the impulsion of a vivid personality at the back of it all."--_Academy._ "It amazes, while it wholly charms, by the power of imagery, the glowing fancy, the earnestness and enthusiasm with which the writer conjures Italy of the Renaissance from the past into the living light."--_London World._ G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London GOOD FICTION Patricia of the Hills By CHARLES KENNETT BURROW. 12^o. (By mail, $1.10.) _Net_ $1.00 "Patriotism without unreasonableness; love of the open air and the free hills without exaggeration; romance without over-gush; humor and melancholy side by side without morbidness; an Irish dialect stopping short of excess; a story full of sincere feeling."--_The Nation._ "No more charming romance of the old sod has been published in a long time."--_N.Y. World._ "A very pretty Irish story."--_N.Y. Tribune._ Eve Triumphant By PIERRE DE COULEVAIN. Translated by ALYS HALLARD. 12^o. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_ $1.20 "Clever, stimulating, interesting, ... a brilliant mingling of salient truth, candid opinion, and witty comment."--_Chicago Record._ "An audacious and satirical tale which embodies a great deal of clever and keen observation."--_Detroit Free Press._ "An extremely clever work of fiction."--_Louisville Courier-Journal._ Monsieur Martin A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By WYMOND CAREY. 12^o. (By mail, $1.35.) _Net_ $1.20 "It was with genuine pleasure that we read 'M. Martin.' ... We cordially admire it and sincerely hope that all who read this page will also read the book."--From a Column Review in the _Syracuse Herald_. "Wymond Carey's name must be added to the list of authors whose first books have given them a notable place in the world of letters, for 'Monsieur Martin' is one of the best of recent historical romances."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ "Mr. Wymond Carey has given us much pleasure in reading his book, and we are glad to praise it."--_Baltimore Sun._ The House Opposite A Mystery. By ELIZABETH KENT. 12mo, cloth, _net_, $1.00; 16mo, paper, 50 cts. "Not an unnecessary word in the whole book, and the intricacies of the plot are worked out so skilfully that the reader will not guess the final denouement until he reaches the last chapter."--_Omaha World-Herald._ "A good story of its kind that can be recommended without reserve."--_N.Y. Sun._ The Sheep-Stealers A Romance of the West of England. By VIOLET JACOB. 12mo, _net_, $1.20. By mail, $1.35. "We have seldom read a book with a happier mixture of romance and realism--so fresh, so original, so wholesome. Her style is excellent,--lucid, natural, unaffected."--_London Spectator._ The Poet and Penelope By L. PARRY TRUSCOTT. 12mo (By mail, $1.10), _net_, $1.00. "The book is delightful from first to last. Mr. Truscott tells his story daintily and lightly; but he is not merely a writer of graceful comedy. He understands men and women. Each one of his characters is a personage in his or her way, and there is a subtlety in the drawing of the hero and the heroine that gives the story reality."--_London World._ * * * * * New York--G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS--London * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spellings, inconsistent uses of hyphens (e.g., "breeding place" and "breeding-place"), and inconsistent proper names (e.g. "Farfanicchio,", "Farfannicchio," and "Farfannichio") were not changed.