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 .eonardo da Vin< 
 
 inu- " lerejkov !ci 
 
GIFT OF 
 Mrs. William Denman 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/forerunnerdavinciOOmererich 
 
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THE ROMANCE OF 
 LEONARDO DA VINCI 
 
 The Forerunner 
 

 By DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE GODS. Authorized English 
 Version by Herbert Trench. 12 . . $1.50 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI: 
 THE FORERUNNER. (The Resurrection of the 
 Gods.) Authorized English Version edited by 
 Herbert Trench. 12 . . . . $1.50 
 
 THE ANTI-CHRIST. (Peter the Great and Alexis.) 
 Translated by HERBERT Trench. 12 . {In Press.) 
 
 TOLSTOI AS MAN AND ARTIST, With an Essay 
 on Dostoievski. Authorized English Version. 
 
 Q. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 New York London 
 
LEONARDO DA VINCI 
 
 AFTER THE PORTRAIT IN THE UFFIZI GALLERY, FLORENCE 
 
Cbrist ano Hntf*Gbrtet 
 
 The Romance 
 
 of 
 
 Leonardo da Vinci 
 
 The Forerunner 
 
 By 
 
 Dimitri Merejkowski 
 
 Author of M 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 
 
PRESERVATION 
 COPY ADDED 
 
 .JMALTOBE 
 RETAINED 
 
 JAN 14 1994 
 
 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. 
 
 *{~ y flUa ■ U^^^ AJ^^^O^^ 
 
 * • • * • • 
 
 
 Published, July, 1902 
 Reprinted, October, 1902 ; February, 1903 ; July, 1904 
 

 *$t 
 
 
 vTet 
 
 
 eJuz* 
 
 St. Petersbourg, 3, ix, 1901. 
 
 X Monsieur Herbert Trench j'accorde l'autorisation 
 exclusive de traduire du Russe en Anglais mon livre La 
 RSsurrection des Dieux. 
 
 Dmitri Mkrejkowski. 
 
 M126623 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 PAGH 
 
 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 T04 
 
 BOOK VI 
 THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO — 1494-1495 . 1 29 
 
 BOOK VII 
 THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES — 1496 . . . • I 5 I 
 
 BOOK VIII 
 THE AGE OF GOLD — 1496-1497 . 172 
 
 BOOK IX 
 THE SIMILITUDES — 1498-1499 2IO 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK X 
 
 PACK 
 
 CALM WATERS — 1499-1500 . . 260 
 
 BOOK XI 
 THERE SHALL BE WINGS — 1500 .... 300 
 
 BOOK XII 
 *AUT CfiSAR AUT NIHIL' — 1500-1503 . . . 320 
 
 BOOK XIII 
 THE PURPLE BEAST — 1503 36 1 
 
 BOOK XIV 
 MONNA LISA GIOCONDA — 1503-1506 .... 385 
 
 BOOK XV 
 THE HOLY INQUISITION — 1506-1513 .... 411 
 
 BOOK XVI 
 LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, AND RAPHAEL — 1 5 13- 
 
 1515 425 
 
 BOOK XVII 
 DEATH — THE WINGED PRECURSOR — 1516-15IQ . . 437 
 
 EPILOGUE . . . . • . • . 459 
 
 1 
 
LEONARDO DA VINCI 
 
 1 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 1 494 
 
 ' 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 M II 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 con- 
 fines. ' (Notes of the Florentine sculptor, Lorenzo Ghiberti % XVth. century. ) 
 
 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 Fondacki, 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 
 
 I 
 
4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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.' |#<H 
 
 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, 00110!' 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 5 
 
 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 fror 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 
 
6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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?' 
 
 1 The thing happened last autumn on the Eve of Martin- 
 mas. 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 our- 
 selves 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 7 
 
 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. Tho 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 iox 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 pro- 
 found 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 
 
8 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, Grille 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 store- 
 house. 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 con- 
 sideration 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 Buonac- 
 corsi'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 Boltrafiio, 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 ; 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 9 
 
 1 digging heathen gods out of the ground ! ' Then he added, 
 dictating to Dolfo, 'of brown Scotch faced-cloth. 32 braca'a, 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 Giro- 
 lamo 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, 1 7 bracelet^ 4 fingers, 9 nails ! ' 
 
 '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 them- 
 selves 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?' 
 
 1 Braccio, a measure considerably less than a metre, still in use in Florence. 
 
io THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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: — 
 
 1 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 WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 11 
 
 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 — 
 
 1 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 j 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 
 
12 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 '11 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 distinguish- 
 able — 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 Phcebus, silver-bowed, terrible, 
 God of the flowing curls, slayer of the sons of Niobe ' 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 13 
 
 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 suppli- 
 cation. 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 dili- 
 gamus ! 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 ?' 
 
14 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 1 But/ urged Boltraffio, ' he has made wondrous machines ; 
 and his studies of the phenomena of nature ' 
 
 'Machines! pf — f! Studies of nature 1 How far is that 
 going to take you ? In my Elegantia Lingua Latince 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 : — 
 
 1 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 who will be merry in your company. See, Giovanni, 
 carinO) you 're this parchment — penitential psalms outside, 
 and under them a hymn to Aphrodite ! ' 
 
 1 Messer Giorgio,' said Giovanni, ' it grows dark ; were it 
 not well I brought the lights ? • 
 
 1 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 com- 
 placently and nodded. ' I speak not for boasting,' he went 
 on, * but inquire of the scholars whether any have ever sur- 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 15 
 
 passed 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 Rotnanorum J '" '* And as if listening to the echo 
 of majestic utterance too long silenced, Merula repeated in 
 low, awestruck tones, ' " Gloria Rotnanorum /" ' — 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 '11 stop, Sir. 
 Wine I love and singing to 't, 
 And the Latin Graces ; 
 If I drink my throat '11 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! 
 
16 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 but let us take this duke of ours, Ludovico II 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 Caesar; 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 Boltrafno 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 (magisUr a vitreis), a German 
 from Gratz, and pupil of Johann Kirchheim, the famous Stras- 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 17 
 
 burg 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 shame- 
 less 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, sor- 
 cerers, 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 Irianca, 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 pre- 
 cepts 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 
 B 
 
18 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 and vigil j 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 per- 
 functory 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 Bene- 
 detto 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 impene- 
 trable 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 tke 
 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 19 
 
 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 win- 
 dow. 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 : — 
 
 f 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 Diavo- 
 lessa 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. 
 
20 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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.' 
 
 1 1 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 advis- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 21 
 
 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 vin., diggers from Lombardy, who 
 were working on the Appian Way close to the tomb of 
 Csecilia 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. 
 
 1 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 profan- 
 ing 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 
 
22 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 the hill. Strocco also had detached a party to dig in the 
 Humid Hollow. 
 
 Presently excited shouts were heard from Messer Giorgio. 
 
 1 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 Gnllo, who, openly humiliated, was 
 diguing 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 strug- 
 gling most strangely. At last he burst into an ecstasy : — 
 
 'An idol! An idol! Hasten, Messer Cipriano ! 'tis a 
 magnificent idol ! ' 
 
 1 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 turn- 
 ing 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 23 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 excep- 
 tion 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 : — 
 
 1 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, l La Diavolessa bianca ! ' 
 
 He rose up and would have fled; but wonder overcame 
 his fear. Not though he had known himself guilty of the 
 
 
24 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 new-comers. 
 This personage was already inspecting the Venus, with a cold, 
 imperturbable composure, so different from Giovanni's per- 
 sonal 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 imple- 
 ments and great jars of olive-oil : in one corner was a moun- 
 tain of golden straw. Upon this straw, a humble, rustic bed, 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 25 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 
26 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 the same imperturbable calm ; in his cold, blue eyes the same 
 piercing curiosity. 
 
 'What is he doing? Who is he?' Giovanni asked him- 
 self, 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 apprehen- 
 sion of the eye. 
 
 At the gate of the villa the priest was still heard yelling at 
 the melting crowd. 
 
 1 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 '11 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 ! ' 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 27 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Pardon my curiosity,' insisted Merula, ' how many divisions 
 are there ? ' 
 
 'This is a rough measurement,' said the unknown, unwill- 
 ingly; '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 4^2^ °f 
 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 fee/? understand?' 
 
 Merula, anxious to probe the other to the quick, talked 
 on of the ancients, and how they should be imitated. The 
 
28 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 stranger waited till he had concluded, then said, smiling into 
 his long golden beard : — 
 
 4 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 dolcezzej 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 ; 
 
 I tell me the name of this man ? ' 
 
 ■ Ha, little monk ! is it you ? ' said Merula turning round ; 
 
 I 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 horse- 
 back, 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 29 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
3© THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 rain- 
 bow 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 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 31 
 
 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 : Famine War, 
 Pestilence ! ' 
 
 'The horse-dealer 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.' 
 
 1 Go to ! And tears run nightly from the Madonna on the 
 Rubaconte bridge. Lucia, my aunt, saw it herself! ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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. Pro- 
 found 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, 
 
32 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 rending the silence, came the terrible, lacerating, superhuman 
 cry of the friar : — 
 
 1 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: — 
 
 1 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 
 apudfiliam 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 
 

 THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 33 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 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 
 
34 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 pro- 
 truded, 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 delf 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 to ■ • • 
 
THE WHITE SHE-DEVIL— 1494 35 
 
 the goddess an ancient prayer called ' Oratio super effigies 
 vasaque in loco antiqua repertaj 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 depu/sa f 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 vni., 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 I The sword of the Lord was drawn upon Italy ! 
 
 I 
 
BOOK II 
 
 ECCE DEUS — ECCE HOMO — 1 494 
 
 ' Behold the man ! ' — St. John xix. 5. 
 
 • Behold the God ! ' 
 (Inscription on the monument of Francesco Sforza.) 
 
 ' 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 bracria, 
 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 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 37 
 
 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 dis- 
 turbed 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 — 
 
 1 Incorrect ' ; and presently, l Satanasso P 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. 
 
 1 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 out- 
 side 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, astro- 
 nomical, physical, chemical, mechanical, and anatomical. 
 
3$ THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, 
 
 tZoroastro, Leonardo's assistant, who had fallen asleep at his 
 Post, oil flowing from the blackened brass ladle which he 
 ield in his hand. One of the wings touched the chest of the 
 leeper, and was softly vibrating as he breathed ; it seemed 
 alive, and its sharp upper end rustled against the rafters of 
 fthe 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 Boltrarfio 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 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 39 
 
 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 ' 
 
4 o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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 Cenacoloy 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? 7 
 he added in a low, trembling voice. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 
 

 ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 41 
 
 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 '11 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. 
 
 I 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-fty, every dunghill-fty — 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 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 
 
42 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 inter- 
 rupted 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. 
 
 1 Take them up, sir ! I will be warden no longer. I live 
 no longer in the house with rascals and with thieves ! S 
 
 * 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 spite- 
 ful 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. 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 43 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Messer Leonardo,' he murmured, ' I have brought it — for 
 you,' and cautiously raising the lid he showed a huge im- 
 prisoned 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 under- 
 stand 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 
 
44 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 quar- 
 relled 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 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 45 
 
 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 dis- 
 ciple ; as though loving observation of all things living had 
 sharpened his eye to the penetration of a seer and a clair- 
 voyant. 
 
 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, 
 
46 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 magnu?n 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 back- 
 ground 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 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 47 
 
 devil having put into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon's 
 son, to betray him. . . . 
 
 4 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 desper- 
 ately 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 well-nigh 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 out- 
 line of the head of Jesus. Vainly, however; he had medi- 
 tated 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 
 
48 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 adjoin- 
 ing 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 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 49 
 
 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 Wor- 
 ship.' 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 What is your meaning ? ' 
 
 c Ask me not. I won't spoil your faith. Mayhap in the 
 end you will discover for yourself. Meanwhile, admire.' 
 
 1 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 geo- 
 metrical 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 contem- 
 plative 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 
 
 D 
 
50 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 to repulsion, weighed in the balance, measured by the com- 
 passes. 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 com- 
 panion with a bitter smile. In his eyes blazed such unex- 
 tinguishable 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 every- 
 thing. 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. Boltrafrlo 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. 
 
 1 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 ex- 
 amination, they reached the deserted inner court of the castle 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 51 
 
 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 RoGchetta, 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; II Caval/o, the bold achieve- 
 ment 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 cofidottiere^ 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 chim- 
 neys 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. 
 
52 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 1 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 work- 
 ing 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 ! ' 
 
 c And why V 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 ? ' 
 
 "Tisl. 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 
 
„ 
 
 ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 53 
 
 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 eye- 
 brows, 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
54 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 The smith scratched his head hesitatingly. 
 
 1 But I forget,' she said mockingly ; ' you are all learned 
 folk here, who believe not in miracles, but in mechanics.' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 And you know the word?' 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 1 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. 
 
ECCE DEUS— ECCE HOMO— 1494 55 
 
 ' 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? 5 
 
 * 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.' 
 
 1 Can you see in the peaches that they are poisoned ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 
$6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 it ! Now I see plainly he is a sorcerer, and lie 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. 
 
 1 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?' 
 
 1 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. 7 
 
BOOK III 
 
 THE POISONED FRUITS 1 494 
 
 1 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 chaccian- 
 dovi 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 ■ altanc? 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 husband- 
 men 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. 
 
 57 
 
58 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 lap-dog 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 be- 
 coming her rank, it was hard to believe that she was nine- 
 teen, 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 intelli- 
 gence shone from the steady, dark eyes j 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, II 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 hypo- 
 critically, and the eyes sparkled with audacious cunning. 
 
 1 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 schiavi?ietta. 
 
 1 Well, Monna Sidonia, is it ready ? ' 
 
 The crone drew from her pouch a carefully wrapped, 
 closely-stoppered phial, containing a turbid, whitish liquid, 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 59 
 
 — 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.' 
 
 c 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.' 
 
 1 Your Excellency should not lend her ear to the calumnies 
 of the malignant. I work honestly, as my conscience dic- 
 tates; 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. 
 
 1 And doubtless,' said Beatrice, jestingly threatening with 
 her finger, ' 'twas you who brought the poor thing to it, you 
 old bawd ! ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 
60 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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." 1 
 
 Beauty without love is like matins without a paternoster.' 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Signora, I saw with my eyes, I heard with my ears. Others 
 will tell you the like.' 
 
 * Were there many persons ? ' 
 
 1 Ten thousand. The piazza before the Castle of Pavia 
 was thronged.' 
 
 * What heard you ? ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Ingozzare, to swallow ; also, to bear an affront meekly. 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 61 
 
 c Speak — fear nothing.' 
 
 f 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Of a truth, I know not how to tell it to your Excellency.' 
 
 I 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 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. 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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, c And likewise in the garden of 
 Messer Leonardo da Vinci, the Florentine, there are fair ripe 
 peaches, but empoisoned/ 
 
 * Empoisoned?' 
 
62 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 1 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 them- 
 selves, 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 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 63 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Surrounded by outriders, falconers, beaters, equerries, 
 pages, and court-ladies, Beatrice sat her slender dark 
 
64 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 fo* 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 Condottkrc ; 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 65 
 
 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.' 
 
 II 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 vin. 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.' 
 
66 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 lie 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 atten- 
 tion. 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 1 Glory be to God ! And the child ? ' 
 
 I Perfect.' 
 
 'Male or female?' 
 
 1 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 I have considered that. We will call him Caesar. What 
 think you of that ? f. 
 
 *'Tis a fine name; well mouthing, and ancient. Cesare 
 Sforza ! A name meet for a hero.' 
 
 1 Well now — about the husband ? ' 
 
 'The illustrious Count Bergamini is good and courteous 
 as ever.* 
 
 ' Admirable man ! ' cried the duke. 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 67 
 
 '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, pre- 
 sented it to the duke. It was a sonnet in honour of the 
 newly born : — 
 
 1 Thou weepest, Phoebus ! Why this silver rain ? 
 
 Because this day upon the amazed 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 h ''slight 
 
 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 
 
68 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 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 happi- 
 ness in falling by the hand of so fair a huntress. The 
 third poem pleased II Moro better than all the rest. It was 
 put into the mouth of Dante, who prays that God may per- 
 mit 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.' 
 
 II Moro graciously slapped the poet on his back, and pro- 
 mised 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 69 
 
 ' For the duchess ? ' 
 
 'By no means. But, beware you speak not of this ! ' 
 
 1 My lord is pleased to insult me. Have I ever ' 
 
 ' Not yet.' 
 
 ' 1 am dumb as any fish,' and he blinked his eyes ob- 
 sequiously and mysteriously. ■ Impassioned ? That I under- 
 stand. 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. 
 
 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 excava- 
 tions 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. 
 
7 o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 Too much, too much, Messer Leonardo. You would 
 ruin me. It is impossible, unexampled. Why these bound- 
 less 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. 
 
 1 What is this ? ' asked the duke ; ' when and for whom have 
 you designed it ? ' 
 
 1 For no one. 'Tis a fantasy.' 
 
 * Strange fantasy ! ' commented Ludovico shaking his head ; 
 1 '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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 POISONED FRUITS— 1494 71 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 'lam 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 propositi! 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 : — 
 
 1 1 sing, poor swan, of my consumed years, 
 But singing brings my torture no relief ; 
 Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief, 
 And mocking cries, " Extinguish it with tears." 
 
72 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 bound- 
 less 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 wilder- 
 ness 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 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 73 
 
 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 dis- 
 played 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 pota- 
 tions reddened all faces ; the ladies surreptitiously locsened 
 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 : — 
 
 1 1 fancy not the King of France has such a horn as your 
 most illustrious Excellency ! ' 
 
 'Hee! hee! heel' 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 ! ' 
 
74 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 II 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 earnest, and we are free. Ewiva 
 il Moro 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 75 
 
 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 them- 
 selves with relaxing ceremony before the little court theatre, 
 and an act of the ' Miles G/oriosus' of Plautus was 
 performed. It was tedious, but the audience, out of rever- 
 ence 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 giovlnezza 
 Ma si fugge tuttavia 
 Chi vuol esser lieto, sia 
 Di doman non c'e 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 thought- 
 ful 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'e certezza. 
 
76 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 $th. — 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 77 
 
 rather ingenious than convincing. He hesitated to put it 
 before the Mother of God, contenting himself thus : — • 
 
 1 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 bed- 
 chamber, 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. 
 
 I Signore ! ' exclaimed the girl ; her voice broke, she would 
 have thrown herself on her knees before him, as she added, 
 1 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 devot- 
 edly 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 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 ? ' 
 
 I 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 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 consumed years, 
 But singing brings my torture no relief; 
 Love with his laughter blows the flame of grief, 
 And mocking cries, " Extinguish it with tears."' 
 
78 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 * 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. 
 
 1 Bice — why is this?' 
 
 * Leave me in peace ; I am fain of sleep.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 79 
 
 '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. 
 
 1 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 tri- 
 fling. 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 he 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.' 
 
80 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 4 Ay ; I have bidden the gardener send thee of the ripest.' 
 1 1 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 II 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. 
 
 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, 
 
THE POISONED FRUITS— 1494 81 
 
 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 inscrip- 
 tion 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 Wednes- 
 day (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 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 83 
 
 which accident had informed him. Having lost his col- 
 lection 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 Lacedaemon, 
 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 Cas- 
 sandra, Luigi being at that time impassioned for ^Eschylean 
 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, pre- 
 tended 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 : c 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 suscepturani). Being ques- 
 tioned 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 no?i differentem). 
 
 Cassandra was bred by Chalcondylas in strict though 
 feigned Christian piety. Overhearing, however, much 
 neoplatonic talk, and not understanding its philosophical 
 
84 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 85 
 
 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 back- 
 waters, 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 work- 
 shop, 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 ! ' 
 
 1 1 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 Gcd? 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 
 
86 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 rilled 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.' 
 
 1 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 Anti- 
 christ 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 87 
 
 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?' 
 
 1 Al Sabbato I ' 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. 
 
88 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 II 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 wolfs milk, the iron of Achilles, ana- 
 cardines, asterites (clear-shining stones, having in the midst 
 an image of a full moon), androgyna, and rhaponticum, 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 89 
 
 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 sup- 
 ported 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 med- 
 dling 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 experi- 
 ments?' 
 
 The alchemist whispered in Leonardo's ear : — 
 
 1 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 re- 
 nowned duke, and of all these loveliest ladies, I will adventure, 
 
9o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 now to exhibit the divine metamorphosis. Will you all con- 
 descend to lend me your honourable attention ? ' 
 
 First he showed his crucible, a melting-pot with thick sides 
 of fireproof clay ; he beirged 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 : — 
 
 1 Messer Galeotto, methinks 'tis time for business. Your 
 metal is already bubbling. ' 
 
 Galeotto opened a little blue paper packet which con- 
 tained 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 con- 
 taining the parings of a hazel-nut ; and finally, to sprinkle 
 your vines therewith ; in result you will have your vintage 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 91 
 
 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 infuri- 
 ated him, and he hinted the impossibility of such transforma- 
 tions by arguments supported by Aristotle. 
 
 1 Have patience, domine magister? said Galeotto with a 
 smile ; ' in a little space I will propound to you such a syllo- 
 gism 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 specta- 
 tors 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 
 a yellow drop. 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 * 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 : — 
 
 'Laudelur Dens in ceternum ! 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. II 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 ' 
 
 1 Illustrissimo, if there be one of them who shall get even 
 
92 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 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 WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 93 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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." ' 
 
 
94 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 divert- 
 ing 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 bene- 
 ficent 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. 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 95 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 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 grow- 
 ing 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. 
 
96 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 She sighed heavily, concealed her amulet, and said diffi- 
 dently : — 
 
 'Monna Sidonia ! to-night at Barco diFerraraand at Bene- 
 vento 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 sur- 
 veyed 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 '11 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.' 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 97 
 
 ' Bah ! what modesty ! Never mind, there '11 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. 
 
 1 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 
 G 
 
98 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, gor- 
 bellied, 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?' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 99 
 
 sat Hircus Nocturnus, the great he-goat, enthroned upon 
 the mountain. 
 
 1 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 j 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. 
 
 1 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 tha-Sorcerer's Confession: — 
 
ioo THE FORERUNNER 
 
 • Credo in JDeum patrem Luciferum^ qui creavit caelum et 
 terratn. Et infilium 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? ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Madonna Cassandra ! Cassandra ! ' rang the cry from the 
 crowd. ■ Where hideth she ? Where is our sovereign? Ave 
 Arcisponsa Cassandra I ' 
 
 She hid her face and would have fled ; but bony fingers, 
 claws, antennae, 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 Maenads, 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 : — 
 
 4 Glory to Dionysus ! Glory to Dionysus 1 The gods have 
 risen 1 Glory to the eternal gods ! ■ 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 10 1 
 
 And Bacchus, the ever young, opened hii arms to 
 Cassandra. His voice was like thunder, shaking earth and 
 sky as he cried : — 
 
 1 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 Maenads became 
 the monstrous hags, the Satyrs or Fauns were demons, and 
 the beautiful Dionysus resolved once more into the hideous 
 and fetid Hircus Nocturnus. 
 
 1 Homewards ! Fly ! Escape ! ' 
 
 c They have stolen my muck-rake ! ' the gorbellied ecclesi- 
 astic 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. 
 
 1 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 trium- 
 phantly through the purer air. 
 
 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 mono- 
 tonously. Outside some one was knocking insistently ; some- 
 one who had already knocked more than once. 
 
io2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 • • 
 
 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 net-work 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 droooed 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, 
 
THE WITCHES' SABBATH— 1494 103 
 
 and this is the reality ! After Sunday always there is — just 
 Monday!' 
 
 'Open! open!' yelled the horsedealer, hoarse and des- 
 perate. And the rain-drops 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 1 494 
 
 • mirabile giustizia di te, Prima Motore, tu non at voluto maneare a 
 nesmna potenzia Vordine e qualita de suoi necessari effetti! O Stupenda 
 Necessita.' — 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. 
 
 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 horse- 
 man 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 
 has tone? 
 
 To shorten his road he passed through the cathedral, 
 
 104 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 105 
 
 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 Confes- 
 sional ; 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 over-filled 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! aspa- 
 ragus ! ' 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 petti- 
 coats of Barbacchia, the fruit-seller, who jumped up as if 
 she had been scalded, cursing the ragamuffins, and shaking 
 her garments regardless of propriety. 
 
io6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 count- 
 less 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 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 107 
 
 German named Tibaldo. The shoemaker greeted the com- 
 pany, and sitting down by his friend Scarabullo the tin-man, 
 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. 
 
 1 Sirs, sirs ! ' he cried, raising his hat and wiping his stream- 
 ing face, ' I have seen the Frenchmen ! ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Take my bottle. Drink and recount : of what sort be 
 these French?' 
 
 1 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, parti- 
 sans of brass, iron bombards which belch stones ; their horses 
 are sea-monsters, shaggy, with docked ears and tails.' 
 
 ' Be they many?' 
 
 1 Ay, a crowd ; they beset the plain as locusts ; you can see 
 no end to them. The Lord hath sent them for the chastise- 
 ment of our sins, this Black Death, these northern devils.' 
 
108 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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 '11 buy the 
 horn and steal the bullock.' 
 
 1 Rave not, Gorgoglio. Expound simply why you hold these 
 French inimical.' 
 
 1 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 miet, 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 
 greatprophetofthe 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 ! 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 109 
 
 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 dc tautel /' 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 a 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 tin- 
 man; ' 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, aad served 
 them to the foreigners in an earthenware jug, looking most 
 suspiciously at his guests. Bonnivart drank his potion at one 
 
no THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 '11 
 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! 1 
 His sword was out, and prompt to be thrust into the tinman's 
 back, but Mascarello, Gorgoglio, Maso, and the rest inter- 
 vening, 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 : — 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 in 
 
 '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. 
 
 1 San Gervaso and San Protaso ! our protecting saints ; 
 lend us aid ! ' cried the fat vegetable-woman with the tremen- 
 dous voice. 
 
 'What is on foot? What is happening? Is it a con- 
 flagration ? ' 
 
 ' Down ! Down with the Frenchmen ! ' 
 
 Farfannichio, the naughty boy, danced with delight, whist- 
 ling and yelling. 
 
 'Down with the Frenchmen! Down with the French- 
 men ! ' 
 
 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, bear- 
 ing 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 lace- 
 work of unexampled flowers and foliage, prophets, martyrs, 
 
ii2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 con- 
 tinually circled above and around the building. The hum of 
 the crowd in the square reached the young mason like the 
 low murmur of an anthill. 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 : — 
 
 1 Ave Maria, piena di grazia. f 
 
 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 architec- 
 ture. The council quarrelled over the matter, and could not 
 arrive at an agreement. Some said the building had been 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 113 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Messere,' he said, ■ it has been brought to Your Magnifi- 
 cence by a messenger from Pavia.' 
 
 Leonardo read the letter : — 
 
 1 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. 
 
 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 prin- 
 cipal 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 d warf, pointing out to 
 
ii 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 : accord- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Doming 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.' 
 
 Leonirdo listened to this conversation, but reminded him- 
 self 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.' 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 115 
 
 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 II 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.' 
 
 ' Atnico miot 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 retire- 
 ment and liberty with a few chosen friends. I would have 
 been a monk, or thy pupil, Leonardo. But no one will 
 
n6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 believe that I do not desire power. Why have they done this 
 evil? Dio mio ! they have not poisoned me, but they i 
 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 com- 
 prehend, 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 : — 
 
 1 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 r;in as fast as her old let;s would carry her, to bring 
 Madonna Isabella the terrible tidings. 
 
THY WILL BE DONE--1494 117 
 
 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 vin. was lodged in the lower floor of the Castle 
 of Pavia, luxuriously prepared for him by Ludovico II 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 Romce. 
 
 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 Caesar, 
 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 
 
*i8 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 vm. 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 convul- 
 sively, 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 immedi- 
 ately. 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 discon- 
 certed. 
 
 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. 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 
 
 19 
 
 4 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 
 abeilks rCa pas cFaiguillons*; 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 magnani- 
 mous knight-errant, and God shall give thee thy reward ! II 
 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. 
 
 1 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.) 
 
iao THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 
 
 1 1, 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 con- 
 tinued 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. 7 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. 7 
 
 ' Good God ! Good God ! ' murmured Charles, overcome 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 121 
 
 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 per- 
 mitted. 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 II Moro who is your ally.' 
 
 'II 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. ' II 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 mes- 
 senger from Ludovico, bearing an invitation to supper for 
 the king. Charles declined it : the envoy pressed his suit, 
 bat unavailingly. Then the messenger whispered to Thibaut, 
 who in turn whispered to the king. 
 
 ■ Your Highness — Madonna Lucrezia ' 
 
 ' Eli ? 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 II Moro/ 
 
i22 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 'Alas!' 
 
 * A single word from your Majesty and all can be acconv 
 polished this evening itself, if you will, sire.' 
 
 'No! no! How? I — his guest?' 
 
 ' II Moro will find his pleasure in it. Sire, you understand 
 not this people here ! ' 
 
 1 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,' con- 
 tinued 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 blood- 
 letting, 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 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 123 
 
 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. II 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 II 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, Cor- 
 bolo the shoemaker, and Gorgoglio the glass-blower. Stand- 
 ing 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. II Moro, the evil- 
 doer, 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 knowjre, my brethren, upon whom he hath devolved 
 
124 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 fare 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. 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 125 
 
 '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 
 
 fi y-' 
 
 1 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 implor- 
 ing 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, snouting 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 pre- 
 sence of God ! ■ 
 
 The torches smoked and flared. In their scarlet light the 
 lonely moon grew pale, and the quiet stars trembled in the 
 heavens. 
 
 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. 
 
i 2 6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Gradually, however, Leonardo had forgotten his machine, 
 his thoughts having wandered to theories as to the transmis- 
 sion 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 over- 
 whelming wonder which has no likeness to the other senti- 
 ments of men. On the margin of the paper, covered with the 
 calculations for the simple machinery required for the eleva- 
 tion of the Holy Nail, he wrote these words which echoed in 
 his heart like a prayer : — 
 
 1 O mirabiU giustizia di te> Primo Motore ! iu non hat voluto 
 mancare a nessuna potenza Vordine e qualita de suoi necessari 
 effetti V ( 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 hap- 
 pened, when Maturina the cook, with dishevelled hair, burst 
 half dressed into the room, crying: — 
 
 1 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. 
 
 c I know not exactly. It would seem a crowd of house- 
 breakers, egged on by monks.' 
 
 'What is their demand?' 
 
 'Only their father can understand these sons of the devil 1 
 They demand the Holy Nail.' 
 
 'I have it not. Tis in the sacristy in the care of Mon- 
 signor Arcimboldi.' 
 
 "Tis what I told them. But being mad as dogs in the time 
 of the summer solstice, they hearkened not, but continued 
 
THY WILL BE DONE— 1494 127 
 
 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?' 
 
 f 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 shak- 
 ing 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 : — 
 
128 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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 soli- 
 tude. His chin drooped, and his glance fell on the lines 
 just written : ' O mirabiU giustizia di te, Primo Motoref 1 
 
 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 I494-I495 
 
 V amove di qualunque cosa £ Jlgliuolo (Tessa cogniiione. Vamore & 
 tanto piu fervente, quanto la cognitione t piu cert a. 
 
 Leonardo da Vinci. 
 
 (Knowledge of a thing engenders love of it ; the more exact the know- 
 ledge, 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 contem- 
 plation 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 
 I 
 
130 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 notebook 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 sketchbook. 
 
 # 
 
 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. 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 131 
 
 fashions ; nor does he affect perfumes. His linen is of 
 Rhenish stuff, marvellous clean and fine. His black velvet 
 berreito 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 
 goitres 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 
 
i 3 2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 hideous- 
 ness 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 carica- 
 tures ; 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, hav- 
 ing 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 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 133 
 
 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. TBetimes, 
 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 con- 
 struction 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, geometri- 
 cally intertwined, in knots without beginning or end. I could 
 
134 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 135 
 
 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. There- 
 fore 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 intro- 
 duced 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 Boltrafno, his 
 humble disciple. 
 
 The Master says 'All which is beautiful, even humanly 
 beautiful, dies, except in art. (Cosa bella mortal passa e non 
 (Tarte.) 
 
 1 He who despises painting despises the philosophical and 
 refined contemplation of the world. Painting is the grand- 
 child of Nature and the kinswoman of God.' 
 
 # 
 
 * 77 pittore deve tssere 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, 
 
136 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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.' 
 
 # 
 1 Knowledge rejuvenates the soul, and lightens the burden 
 of old age. Therefore gather wisdom, that thou mayest gather 
 sweets for thine age.' 
 
 # 
 1 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 thi$ 
 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 country- 
 man 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 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 137 
 
 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.' 
 
 # 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 # 
 
 1 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 your- 
 self 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.' 
 
138 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 inter- 
 mediary, 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 ideao. 
 
 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.' 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 139 
 
 He traced with his ringer 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 educa- 
 tion 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 eye-brows 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. 
 
 1 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 fore- 
 head, the drooping of the corners of the mouth.' 
 
 1 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 versa. 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.' 
 
Mo THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 unattain- 
 able ! Well, it may be some one will believe his words, but 
 'twill not be I nor you ! I have penetrated to his inmost 
 soul.' 
 
 1 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 knbwledge makes 
 humble. Blasted ears raise proud heads ; those full of grain 
 bow down.' 
 
 1 Then,' asked Cesare with his accustomed ironic smile, 
 'how happed it that Lucifer, prince of the cherubim, and 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 141 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 dry- 
 ness ; 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 mage, 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, saving 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 the/ 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 
 
i 4 2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 hnd 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 
 1 the guardians of the night and of monasteries ' inquired into 
 the matter, and acquitted the accused on the condition, how- 
 ever, that the charge should be repeated. The fresh accusa- 
 tion 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 
 labvrinth 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 : — 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 143 
 
 '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 com- 
 panion 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 : — 
 
i 4 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 * Be of good cheer, lad. I '11 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 compassion- 
 ateness 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. 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 145 
 
 * 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 con- 
 cealed 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 coun- 
 tenances of his Madonnas. Especially do I remember one 
 bomb, half a braccio in diameter, called ' Fragilita,' the con- 
 struction 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.' 
 
 1 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 Anti- 
 christ. 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 chap- 
 fallen? 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 sia onore ! 
 Te deum laudamus." ' 
 
 I said no word, but fled from him. 
 K 
 
146 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 ! Re- 
 member, 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."' 
 
 4 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 incompre- 
 hensible, 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 DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 147 
 
 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 suppli- 
 cations ! 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 sur- 
 rounded 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, 
 
148 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, 
 
 Hie 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 : — 
 
 1 O Crux benedicta quae sola fuisti digna portare Regem 
 ccelorum 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 IlMorol Viva il Chiodol ■ 
 
 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 
 
THE DIARY OF GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO 149 
 
 present him with a pure-blooded Barbary mare and two 
 thousand imperial ducats. Then condescendingly tapping 
 him on the shoulder, he said, ' Now you '11 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 Savona- 
 rola 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. 
 
ISO THE FORERUNNER 
 
 My soul, praise the Lord ! I will praise the Lord so long 
 as I have my being ; I will yet sing praises unto mv 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 — 1 496 
 
 ' Dov' I piii sentimento, li t />zu, 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. 
 
 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 
 
 151 
 
152 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Brother,' said Savonarola, 'the pope has sent me a secret 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 153 
 
 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. 7 
 
 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 ex- 
 pression 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 ' 
 
 4 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 : — 
 
154 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 'Thou!' 
 
 'Fra Girolamo shuddered, paled, and drew back involun- 
 tarily. Maruffi turned away, and shambled out of the cell, 
 singing :— 
 
 * Hie we to the smiling woods, 
 The shy retreat of spring, 
 Where the streams unsealed 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 
 Deflowered with Ciceronianisms and resounding sententious- 
 ness. He began with what in the rules of oratory is called 
 the appeal for good-will, dilating upon the fame of the 
 Florentine preacher; then he gradually approached the 
 mission entrusted to him. The Holy Father, though right- 
 eously 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 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 155 
 
 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 con- 
 tinue 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. Pre- 
 sently 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 ex- 
 communicate 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 Romano, !' 
 Under his low forehead his sunken eyes shone like coals; 
 
156 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 th p se words of 
 Savonarola was the novice, Giovanni Boltraffio. When the 
 company had dispersed, he too descended by the main stair- 
 case 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 Corinth- 
 ians, 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 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 157 
 
 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 amorera 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. ' Gesit y 
 Gesu mio, amoref 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 
 
158 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 man- 
 doline fell, and a kiss was heard. 
 
 Giovanni sprang to his feet, reiterating, ' Gesu I Gesii ! ' but 
 this time he dared not add ' amoreP 
 
 1 Here also is she I ' 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 Jieauty 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 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES -1496 159 
 
 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 f 
 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, 
 1 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 / Atnore ! ' she cried and 
 
i6o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 laughed, and the black goat-skin sank beneath them„ Away 1 
 Away I 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 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 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 161 
 
 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 master- 
 pieces 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 any- 
 thing 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.' 
 
 1 1 beseech you to consider — perhaps even a part — — ' 
 
 'You are wasting your breath, messere. My decision 
 unalterable.' 
 
162 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 palan- 
 quin 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 play- 
 fully { 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 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 163 
 
 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 uirtuosi — 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. 
 
 1 Away with these ornaments ! ' shouted the children. 
 * Away with the vanities and the anathemata.' 
 
 { Ah, you handsome boy!' said the courtesan softly, dis- 
 regarding 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 Trinita, ask for Lena, the 
 lady from Venice. I '11 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 
 
i6 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 them- 
 selves 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 '11 have him 
 in to the feast.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Epictetus or Epicurus, it 's all one ! If it isn't the broth, 
 it's the sippets of bread I 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 pro- 
 nounced it a portrait of Stephen the proto-martyr. 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 165 
 
 The children stood round in perplexity, for the attire and 
 ihe 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 
 or weapon, and the two boys fell upon each other with such 
 good-will 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 repul- 
 sion 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 recon- 
 noitre ; 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 
 
166 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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.' 
 
 *01d man, if you don't want to be taken by the heels and 
 thrown after your pagan poets, you '11 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 MorganU Maggiort 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 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 167 
 
 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 mur- 
 
 murings 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 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. 
 
 1 We shall light a famous fire, Ser Filippepi ! ' he said. 
 
 The paralytic looked at the pyramid and heaved a profound 
 sigh. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Who is that ? ' Giovanni asked of Fra Domenico. 
 
 * Sandro Botticelli,' was the answer, ' son of Ser Mariano 
 Filippepi, the tanner.' 
 
1 68 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 pro- 
 cession 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 execu- 
 tion. Then Savonarola mounted the Ringhiera, a stone plat- 
 form 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! — 
 
THE BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 169 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 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 them- 
 selves 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 coiri to grido I Sempre pazzo, pazzo, pazzo I ' 
 
 ' 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.' * 
 
 1 Hieronymo Benivieni. 
 
170 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 philosophic, 
 Wisdom, prudence, and the rest, 
 Loathing such haih 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 BONFIRE OF VANITIES— 1496 171 
 
 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 steam 
 glided by, gently murmuring : the stars scintillated, coldly 
 brilliant, and the moon bathed the hills in a flood of silver 
 glory. 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
 I You have done me no wrong.' 
 
 I I knew not what I did,' murmured Boltrafflo. 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 : — 
 
 1 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 — I496-I497 
 
 ■ Tornerh Veta del? oro 
 Cuntiam tutti: " Viva il Moro!'" 
 
 Bellincioni. 
 
 [The Age of Gold shall brighten as of yore, 
 And all exulting sing, ' Long live the Moor ! '] 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 com- 
 posed a most elegant Elegy, declaring that if Nannino is 
 in Heaven then all paradise must laugh, if he is in hell 
 
 172 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 173 
 
 even Cerberus grinneth. We have buried him, with many 
 tears, in our family tomb in St. Maria dtlle 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 Lapithae. 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 ! 
 
 1 Here we amuse ourselves as best we can. We play at 
 cards, and we skate, which is a most pleasing diversion, intro- 
 
174 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 duced 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 daybreak, 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.' 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 175 
 
 He signed himself * Ludovicus Maria Sfortia Anglus Dux 
 MediolaniJ deducing his descent from Anglus the Trojan, 
 companion of ^Eneas. 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 kins- 
 men ; 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 On a melancholy December evening, while snowflakes 
 were slowly falling on the streets of Milan, II 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 build- 
 
i 7 6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 ings in Rome, the moulded and chequered lacework of the 
 ceiling touched up with gold, the walls covered with Cor- 
 dovan 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 sorrow- 
 ful, 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, 
 ' 1 beseech you, constrain me not ! I am incapable of lying.' 
 
 'Lying?' echoed II Moro ; 'but this is concealment, not 
 lying ! Did not the Thunderer himself hide his pranks from 
 his jealous spouse? And Theseus? and Phaedra? 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 multi- 
 tude 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 some- 
 times 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 ferronicra, 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 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 177 
 
 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.' 
 
 II Moro turned pale. 
 
 1 The key ! Quick, the key of the little door ! I will go 
 through the court-yard. 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? 1 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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?' 
 
 I 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 
 ^Eneas. 
 
 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.' 
 
 II Moro was, however, in no mood to appreciate the ridi- 
 culous side of the adventure. He drew from his bosom a 
 small case with relics of St. Christopher; another containing 
 
 M 
 
378 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 fete last summer? Little golden caterpillars 
 sparking like fireflies on a purple ground.' 
 
 1 1 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 apart- 
 ment, and II 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 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 179 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 white- 
 ness 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 stra- 
 dioies, 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 
 
i8o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 heir- 
 looms 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, arti- 
 ficially lengthened by ribbons and false hair. Fashion 
 proscribed eyebrows ; therefore ladies whom nature had dis- 
 figured 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 
 Lombard y, 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. 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 181 
 
 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), II Moro and Beatrice made their entry, robed in 
 ermine-lined brocaded mantles, followed by pages, chamber- 
 lains, 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. 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 1 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. 
 
182 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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 squeak- 
 ing about? Getaway. 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 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 183 
 
 countenance to conclude an advantageous treaty with the 
 Sultan. The Venetian looked at MamirorT, contemptuously 
 shrugged his shoulders, remarked that his Excellency spoke 
 well, and quarrels over precedence were unworthy of edu- 
 cated persons ; then calmly seated himself in the chair 
 allotted. Danilo Kusmitch had not understood the con- 
 versation, nor would it have altered his sense of his own 
 importance. Unconcerned at the fire of hostile eyes, com- 
 placently 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 sun-lit 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 Fiora- 
 vanti 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 
 
i8 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Phaedra, 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 ! Hor- 
 rible ! ' 
 
 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 pas- 
 sionate 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. 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 185 
 
 Messer Galeazzo Sanseverino, the young commandant of 
 II 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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"?' 
 
186 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 gracious- 
 ness. 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. 
 
 1 'Tis an event upon which even Messer Unico himself could 
 scarce make love-verses,' observed one of the courtiers con- 
 temptously, for the sufferer was old and ugly. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 con- 
 ceits ! 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 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 187 
 
 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. 
 
 4 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 bed- 
 chamber, lay in the rectangular northern tower of the castle ; 
 she entered, took a candle, and went to a small oaken cup- 
 board 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 fasten- 
 ings, only to find that the shelves had been emptied of 
 their contents. Obviously II 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 
 
188 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 indis- 
 position, 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 prognosti- 
 cations 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 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 189 
 
 he had thrown over them. He had not presented himself at 
 the court ball (where his masque, Paradiso, was to be per- 
 formed) 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.' Hnd 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. 
 
 1 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 stramhotto. Who is it 
 has taught them the elegancies of the new poetry ? Was it not 
 through my facile fingers that the waters of Hippocrene 
 
i 9 o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 enriched the Lombard plain, and even threatened an inun- 
 dation ? And this is my reward I 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 I 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 stoo 
 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? 1 
 
 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. 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 191 
 
 * Jesus! Holy Virgin! Angels and martyrs!' he 
 exclaimed. ' What ? Your Excellency ! Most shining 
 
 lady- 
 
 1 Bernardo, you can do me a great service,' she looked 
 round uneasily; 'but can any one hear us? ' 
 
 c 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 '11 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 
 
i 9 2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 com- 
 manded 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. 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 193 
 
 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.' 
 
 II Moro was partly reassured. 
 
 'God be thanked, beloved,' he said, kissing her hand. 
 
 The guests now streamed into the Sala del giuoco alia 
 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 extin- 
 guished, 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 
 
 N 
 
194 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 I 
 The pride and glory of a future race 1 
 
 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, 
 Despoiled 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 II 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; 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 195 
 
 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, Caesar, 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 : — - 
 
 ' Tornera l'eta 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 : — 
 
 * Tornera l'eta dell' oro, 
 Cantiam tutti : M 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. 
 
 
196 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 IX 
 
 She went to the retired Torre delta 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 unendur- 
 able, 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 AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 197 
 
 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 delta 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. 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 'OhDio! Dior 
 
 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 
 
198 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 111.* 
 
 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 rigucur 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. 
 
 1 Tis from a fall or, mayhap, a fright,' said one of mature age. 
 1 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 : — 
 
 1 For God's sake, tell me what is the matter ? ■ 
 
 She did not answer, and another, clearly the midwife, 
 ordered him away. 
 
 1 '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. f I cannot 
 support it! I cannot! Ah Bice! Bice! And 'tis all my 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 199 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 pro- 
 posed, till the Duke could no longer contain himself. He 
 turned furiously to the doctors. 
 
 ' To the devil with all your science ! ' he exclaimed ; ' she 
 
2oo THE FORERUNNER 
 
 is dying, do you hear me? She is dying 1 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 remem- 
 bered 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 be- 
 thinking himself. ' I must be going mad ! God help me ! * 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 201 
 
 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 — 
 
 1 Tornera l'eta dell' oro, 
 Cantiam tutti, " Viva il Moro 
 
 1 »» 1 
 
 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. 
 
 II 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 It was I only whom you loved.' Slowly she turned her 
 eyes to him, eyes already darkening, and murmured : — 
 
 'One kiss — on my lips. . . .' 
 
202 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 The monk was reciting the last prayers for the dying, anj 
 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. II 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 : — 
 
 1 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 guttering? of 
 wax. The chariots of Numa and Augustus, and all the 
 pompous allegorical paraphernalia employed to glorify II 
 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. 
 
 1 Let me go home ! Let mc go home ! ' 
 
 'What is your name?' asked Leonardo. 
 
 ' Lippi. Let me go home ! Let me go home ! I am sc 
 cold. I feel so sick.' 
 
 His eyelids fell heavily, and he babbled deliriously.— 
 
 ' Tornera l'eta dell' oro, 
 Cantiam tutti : " Viva il Moro I " • 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 203 
 
 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 en- 
 thusiasm. 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 — 
 
 1 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 Tuesuay, 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 morn- 
 ing he called for writing materials and wrote to Isabella 
 d'Este, sister of the dead Duchess, a long letter breathing 
 bitterest grief. 
 
 1 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 
 
2o 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 II 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.' 
 
 II 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 naive 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 : — 
 
 4 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 : — 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 205 
 
 * He is dead, Most Illustrious. He died on the day of Her 
 Grace's funeral.' 
 
 'Died!' echoed the Duke. c Nay, but that is strange!' 
 And he dropped his head on his hands, sighing heavily. 
 Then he stretched his hand to Leonardo. 
 
 1 Yes ! yes ! ' he cried ; ■ 'twas destined to fall out thus. 
 Truly our Golden Age is dead ; dead together with my in- 
 comparable 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, ' II 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 con- 
 stantly before his eyes.' 
 
 In the daytime the Duke was able to forget his bereave- 
 ment in the affairs of state, though even here he felt the lack 
 of Beatrice ; during the night the intensity of his grief re- 
 doubled. 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 
 
206 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Concep- 
 tion of the Blessed Virgin. When it grew dark, II 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 com- 
 fort 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 II 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 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 207 
 
 this evening he felt rather better than usual, languidly 
 answered, from force of habit : — 
 
 1 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. c Think, if Madonna 
 Beatrice could hear you ! All sorrow comes from God, 
 and must be accepted even with thankfulness.' 
 
 ' You speak well,' replied II 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 trem- 
 bling 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/ 
 
io8 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 What date have we ? ' asked II 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 in- 
 dignant 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 IddioV 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.' 
 
THE AGE OF GOLD— 1496-1497 209 
 
 '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, tnia 
 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, laugh- 
 ing madly around the nails, the lance, the crown of thorns. 
 
BOOK IX 
 
 THE SIMILITUDES — I498-I499 
 
 •7 ' sensi sono terrestri, la ragione slafuor di quelli, quando eontempla? 
 
 Leonardo da Vinci. 
 
 (The Senses belong to earth t Reason, when she contemplates, stands 
 outside them.) 
 
 Oupavbt &vo) oiipavbt k&tw.' 
 
 (Heaven above — heaven below.) 
 
 Tabula Smaragdina. 
 
 1 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 
 sio 
 

 THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 211 
 
 of the New World, on Palm Sunday, at Florence, in a room 
 above the storehouse of Messer Pompeo Berardi, a ship- 
 builder, 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 store-house 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?' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 But, caro Guido, science . . .' 
 
 1 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 argu- 
 ments of reason, helped me to my deed, but solely the 
 
212 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 7 
 
 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES- 1498-1499 213 
 
 came to the door, and Giovanni Boltraffio entered, to remind 
 his master that this was the day for the ' Trial by fire.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 1 Will you not come also, Master?' 
 
 'No. I am busy.' 
 
 Giovanni took a step towards the door; then, trying to 
 appear indifferent, he said : — 
 
 4 1 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 ! ' 
 
ai4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 ' 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 mathe- 
 matics, 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 I 
 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 Alex- 
 ander vl is invalid. 
 VIII. He committeth no sin who holds this excommuni- 
 cation invalid. 
 
 Jostled by the crowd, Leonardo and his companions stopped 
 to listen to the remarks of the people. 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 215 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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 ? " ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 No, Fra Girolamo will only pray. He is not going in.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
2i6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 
 de' 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 V 
 
 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 217 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 
218 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 pro- 
 ceedings, 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 Sacra- 
 ment 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 219 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 nc 
 force the order and the qualities of its necessary effect l* 
 
220 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 221 
 
 task which had baffled him for eighteen years — the face of 
 the Christ in the ' Last Supper ! ' 
 
 On the very day of that trial by fire, which in Florence had 
 had such bad results — Charles vin., King of France, died 
 very suddenly. The news was of sinister import to II 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 II Moro had found so much entertain- 
 ment that he proposed another for a day two months later. 
 Now that war was impending some supposed he would post- 
 pone 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 pallet^ 
 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 proceed- 
 ings were opened by a pompous oration from Giorgio Merula, 
 in which the Duke was likened to Pericles, Epaminondas, 
 Scipio, Cato, Augustus, Maecenas, 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 :— 
 
222 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 •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 stam- 
 mered, 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 I ' he would 
 say, with a kind of ingenuous admiration. 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 223 
 
 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 
 Fiord iligi. 
 
 '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 
 
224 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 22$. 
 
 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 explana- 
 tion, 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 Pied- 
 mont. And if you tell me 'twas not the waves carried them, 
 P 
 
226 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 cf 
 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 227 
 
 must be discussed according to the laws of dialectic, which 
 alone allows theory to ascend to the sphere of pure specu- 
 lation.' 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 mathe- 
 matical 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 fnce 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 under- 
 
228 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 stand. Pardon the ignorance of an old man ! If our know- 
 ledge 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 1 
 
 ■ But, gentlemen, permit me to reply ' 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
 1 But I ask, shall this be permitted ? The truth of our 
 Holy Mother Church ' 
 
 1 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. 
 1 Madonna Cecilia, will they not, think you, presently come 
 to blows? Look at that old fellow, shaking all over, brandish- 
 ing 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. 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 229 
 
 ' I shall have to save my Leonardo,' said II 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 reconcilia- 
 tion of metaphysics and natural science. He closed the dis- 
 cussion by a courteous invitation to supper. 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 ' 1 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 ? ■ 
 
 1 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 mathe- 
 matical 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 accom- 
 plice, said — 
 
 1 To your good health, Master ! How skilfully you played 
 them on the line ! What a subtle allegory ! ' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
230 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 ' 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 child-like laugh, raising his fore- 
 finger 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 231 
 
 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; c 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
232 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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 I ' 
 
 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, 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 233 
 
 <tn 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 in- 
 capable 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 rub- 
 bing herself against him. The solitary star, seen through the 
 undusted windows, seemed still farther away, still less attain- 
 able. He remembered Maia's frightened eyes, but he had 
 vanquished his melancholy. He was solitary, yes, but un- 
 daunted 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? 7 
 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 with- 
 out looking at his master, he continued curry-combing the 
 mare's hindquarters with such energy that she changed her 
 feet. 
 
254 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Leonardo, however, wished to see the piebald, and the 
 groom took him to the stable. When Giovanni Boltraflfio, 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 con- 
 temptuous eyes to his master. 
 
 1 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 235 
 
 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 I 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 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 vertebrae of these animals are 
 very curious.' 
 
 ' The neck vertebrae ! 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 
 
236 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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.* 
 
 1 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 : — 
 
 I 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 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.' 
 

 THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 237 
 
 Marco was convinced they could devise nothing; however, 
 rinding 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 „ o 
 
 Braid, , o „ 9 
 
 Buttons, . . . . „ o „ 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 Pro- 
 metheus ? Nay, neither god nor Titan, but a simple mortal 
 like the rest of us 1 And to think that I feared him 1 the 
 poor kind soul ! ' 
 
 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 
 
238 'J } IE FORERUNNER 
 
 the artist presented his estimate for the bronze, II 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, c 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 
 

 THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 239 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 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 main- 
 tained 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 I ' 
 
 1 Shall we pass on ? ' asked Cesare. 
 
 'Read to the end,' said Giovanni. 
 
 I Those who worship men for gods' continued the reader, 
 1 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 ivho died in Asia — ' 
 
 'You don't understand, Giovanni. I will explain: he 
 treats of Good Friday. Shall I go on ? ' 
 
 1 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 I can't make it out ; the next lines are erased. We will 
 pass to the end.' 
 
240 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 * Other definitions of spirit T leave to the Holy Fathers, 
 who know the secrets of Nature by revelation from above.' 
 
 1 H'm, I would not be Messer Leonardo if these lucubra- 
 tions should fall into the hands of the Holy Fathers ! Here 
 we have another of his prophecies.' 
 
 4 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 wh* do not see. 1 
 
 1 Images of saints.' 
 
 ' Women shall disclose to men their passions, their secret and 
 shameful deeds. 1 
 
 ' 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 blas- 
 phemy 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 care- 
 lessly among the machines and the tables of calculations — the 
 Virgin with the Child in the desert ; seated on a stone, she 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 241 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 Astro ! Bring me a light ! Andrea ! Marco ! Giovanni ! 
 Cesare ! ' Then Giovanni turned pale. The mirror fell from 
 his hands, breaking into pieces. 
 
 I 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 j how again he felt the necessity to go away, 
 yet could not make up his mind to leave j 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 
 Q 
 
2 4 2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 mourn- 
 fully. 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 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 : — ■ 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 What say you, my son ? Do you think I have not seen 
 your distress? If there is anything in which you tUnk 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 : — 
 
 1 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 vou 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 1 
 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 243 
 
 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. 
 
 4 No ; it was not Cesare. 'Twas I myself. And yet no ; it 
 was not I, but he. 9 
 
 'Whois/fc?? 
 
 Giovanni again trembled, and pressed closer to his friend. 
 1 No, no ! For God's sake let us not speak of him ! ' 
 
 1 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 : — 
 
 1 Of your Semblance.' 
 
 'My Semblance? How mean you? Did you see it in a 
 dream ? ' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 I No, I did not come. Why do you ask ? Can you not 
 remember yourself? ' 
 
 I 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, 
 
244 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 Know- 
 ledge. 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 245 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 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 Anti- 
 christ. Farewell, Giovanni.' 
 
 His voice shook with inexpressible bitterness, which was, 
 however, un resentful. 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. Boltrafiio flung himself upon his knees at Leonardo's 
 feet. 
 
 1 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 tender- 
 ness ; then he bent over him and kissed his brow. 
 
 'Then forget not, Giovanni, that you have promised! 1 
 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.' 
 
246 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 becom- 
 ing worm-eaten; they filled in the dents and chinks with 
 alabaster, cypress lac, and mastic, and smoothed the uneven- 
 ness 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 dis- 
 coursed on the purest oil for painting. An earthen dish was 
 brought, in which was white walnut juice covered with amber- 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 247 
 
 coloured grease. Long coils, like lamp-wicks, were laid in it 
 and allowed to drip into a glass vessel. 
 
 4 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 mathe- 
 matical 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. c 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. 
 
 1 Have you tilted the cask ? ' 
 
 * In all directions. There is not a drop.' 
 
 1 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, 
 
248 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 I suppose ! Come here and I '11 box your ears for you,' said 
 Leonardo, shaking his finger at him. 
 
 I 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 fre- 
 quented by the Swiss mercenaries, and kept open all night; pre- 
 sently 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 occa- 
 sions : — 
 
 ' 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 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.' 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 249 
 
 '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 
 
250 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 on a stone above the black canal waters, ne 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 V 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 251 
 
 •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 Cetiacolo, 
 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 ! ' 
 
 1 1 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 e 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 
 
252 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 i 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. 
 1 1 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 1 Let Marco find 
 contentment in ladles for the measuring out of paint, and 
 rules for the proportions of noses, /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 high- 
 way 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 ! ' 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 253 
 
 '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 II 
 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 six- 
 teen 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, con- 
 
254 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 fers 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. II 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 Vi.Gjevano ; 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.' 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 255 
 
 II 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 : 
 
 I 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, II 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 Marte- 
 sana Canal, the casting of the great Cavallo, Ludovico evaded 
 the subject with an air of disgust. Suddenly, as if remember- 
 ing 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 ? ' 
 
 II 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 II Moro, his friend.' 
 
2 5 G THE FORERUNNER 
 
 The painter, who did not like outbursts of tenderness, 
 replied in the one courtly phrase which he reserved for 
 moments of necessity : — 
 
 1 1 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 cross- 
 piece, 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 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 257 
 
 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. 1 (I cut you off from 
 the Church militant and triumphant.) 
 
 To which Fra Girolamo replied : — ' Militante, non tri- 
 umphante ; 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 Fiorenti?ia' (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 cross- 
 beam, 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 commence- 
 ment of his preaching. But now he said no word ; and the 
 R 
 
258 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 halter was adjusted ; then a voice called out (and no one 
 knew if it were mockery or the wild cry of agonising faith) : 
 1 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 j 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 for- 
 ward 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. 
 
THE SIMILITUDES— 1498-1499 259 
 
 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 xn. of 
 France, commanded by Marshal d'Aubigny, Louis of Luxem- 
 burg, and Gian G ; acomo Trivnlzio, crossed the Alps and 
 burst down upon the plains of Lombardy. 
 
BOOK X 
 
 CALM WATERS — I499-150O 
 
 ' Le onde sotiore e luminose sono governate dalle stesseleggi che governano 
 k onde delle acque: Vangolo incidente deve eguagliare tangolo rtjflettente.* 
 
 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.) 
 
 ' // duca ha perso lo Stato e la roba e la liberta ; e nessuna sua opera si 
 finiper luV Leonardo da Vinci. 
 
 (The duke has lost state, wealth, and liberty ; not one of his works will 
 be finished by himself.) 
 
 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. II 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 
 200 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1 500 261 
 
 Sanseverino, the commander of his forces, and of the in- 
 evitable 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. II Moro 
 remained alone. 
 
 A few minutes later, the old chamberlain announced 
 Messer Bernardino da Corte, the newly appointed com- 
 mandant 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. 
 
 II Moro had himself invented this code, and was childishly 
 pleased with it, as if in it lay somehow his chief hope of 
 safety. 
 
 c Remember, Bernardino/ thus he concluded his exordium, 
 'everything has been foreseen. You have sufficiency of 
 money, powder, provisions, firearms ; 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 
 
262 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, II 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 1 ' 
 
 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 Caesar, 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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 263 
 
 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 : — 
 
 *0 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 cortege began its march through Como, Bellaggio, 
 Bormio, Bolzano, and Brisina, to the Tyrol, and the city of 
 Innsbruck. 
 
264 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 II 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 II 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 some- 
 times 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 ^Eneas.' 
 
 '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. 
 
 1 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 senten- 
 tiousness : ' Corio, set down likewise this ; " true friendship is 
 proved in the furnace of affliction, as gold is proved in the fire." ' 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 265 
 
 '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 1 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 '11 wish to be quit of it ! ' 
 
 1 Siulti aliquando sapientesj said the Duke, with a melan- 
 choly 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 oft. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
2C6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Innsbruck, 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?' 
 
 1 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 II Moro 
 frankly, '" we have judged it prudent to seek refuge at the court 
 of the Emperor Maximilian, while awaiting the assistance of 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1 500 267 
 
 your Highness. All have betrayed us ; but more than the 
 rest, Bernardino"' — here his voice shook — '"Bernardino 
 da Corte, a strpent 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 con- 
 cluded, '"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?' 
 
 II 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 ! ' 
 
 1 1 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, 
 
268 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 'might perchance be cause of grave' peril to the Christian 
 Church.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 prede- 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 - *5 9 
 
 cessor, 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 impos- 
 sible — 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 
270 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 swear to you that none the less / 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 experi- 
 ment,' he replied ; ' but I think we shall fly.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 II Moro, and the king, I have to 
 laugh because I feel so sorry for them. Poor little creep- 
 ing worms, poor little jumping grasshoppers ! Always on the 
 same plot of earth to which they are chained by their fe<. t, 
 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.' 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 271 
 
 c '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 Tremouille. 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 mis- 
 adventure. 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. 
 
 1 Maitre Gilles ! ' cried Fra Luca overjoyed ; and he ex- 
 plained to Leonardo that this was a considerable and authori- 
 tative 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 Maitre Gilles ; and altogether Fra Luca had long 
 felt that he must be presented with his books (richly bound) 
 De Divina Proportion* and Summa Aritmeiica. 
 
 'Fra Luca,' said Leonardo, 'do not lose your opportunity 
 — attend Maitre Gilles. I can manage my own case.' 
 
272 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 c 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 Tremouille.' 
 
 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 watchfires 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, quarrellings 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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 273 
 
 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 commo- 
 tion arose among the onlookers. The crowd divided, making 
 space for the procession of a knight and his escort of resplen- 
 dent followers. He rode past, not heeding the marksmen. 
 
 1 Who is that ? ' inquired Leonardo. 
 
 'Monseigneur de la Tremouille.' 
 
 '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! Bigorrel Montjoie ! Saint Denis/' shouted the 
 soldiers, throwing their caps into the air, ' Vive la France! 1 
 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 in- 
 scription 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, shad- 
 ing his eyes from the sun ; then turned to his attendants and 
 asked — 
 
 ' In the name of God, what has taken place ? ' 
 S 
 
274 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 * MonseigneurJ replied a lieutenant, * Captain Cockburn 
 gave permission to his cross-bowmen * 
 
 1 The Sforza monument 1 the work of Leonardo da Vinci — ! 
 made a target for the archers of Gascony ! ' cried the marshal, 
 and he rushed at the men, who, intent on their work of destruc- 
 tion, 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 Tremouille ? He must have passed by within an hour ! ' 
 
 Leonardo looked down and reddened. 'I was not in 
 
 time,' he stammered, 'I 1 don't know Monsieur de la 
 
 Tremouille.' 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 275 
 
 "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 II 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 con- 
 vulsions 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. 
 
 Louis xii. made his entry into the Lombard capital punctu- 
 ally 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 con- 
 fessed 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 delta 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 con- 
 ferred 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 bbck, 
 stood on the first step of the throne. He wore no ornaments 
 
276 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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?' 
 
 ' Caesar 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. 
 
 Caesar 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 Caesar 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, Caesar 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 stand- 
 ing near Leonardo. 
 
 'You are right,' responded another; 'the pope's son under- 
 stands 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 Caesar'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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 277 
 
 and presented him to the king with a short speech made 
 up of superlatives — ' stupendissimo 1 prestantissimo ! invinci- 
 bilissimo ! ' 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 nevs 
 that his loved wife, Anne of Brittany, had been delivered of a 
 princess. The courtiers crowded round with their congratu- 
 lations, and Leonardo and Pacioli were pushed into the back- 
 ground. 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 7 (chief engineer), which he had 
 already filled under II 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 bloodstained 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 
 
17* THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 II 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 noting 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 II 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 pillag- 
 ing; torture and murder of all foreigners and their sympa- 
 thisers who fell into the hands of the citizens. On the ist of 
 February Trivulzio fled, leaving the fortress in charge of the 
 Captains d'Espe and Codecara. That very night II 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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1 499- 1 500 279 
 
 living-rooms of tolerable comfort, and storing everything of 
 value : pictures, drawings, manuscripts, scientific instruments. 
 
 He had definitely resolved to enter Caesar 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 Purifi- 
 cation, 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, accord- 
 ing 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 experi- 
 ments, 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 
 
2 8o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 soaking refectory floor, and stepped close to examine his 
 picture. The transparent and delicate colours seemed un- 
 injured, 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. Bartholo- 
 mew, he discovered a small crack; beside it the colours were 
 already fading, and on the surface was a white velvety patch, 
 scarce observable, but th<j beginning of mould. Sudden pale- 
 ness 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 
 fijBt 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 counten- 
 ance 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. 
 
CALM WATERS— 1 499-1 500 281 
 
 4 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 abvss. 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 ! 
 
 yes, I know him ! the smallest and the heaviest of all the 
 devils — the little one nnmed 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 under- 
 ground 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 — 
 
 1 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 convic- 
 tion 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. 
 
a82 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Ly 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 repro- 
 duction 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 con' 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 283 
 
 firmed 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 j he had sighted more mysterious ex- 
 panses, 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 V After a short pause, he added : ' Be it so ! Dark- 
 ness, and silence, and oblivion, and none to know what I 
 have done ! / 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 con- 
 flagration 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, 
 
284 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 II 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.' 
 
 1 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 I' 
 
 Just then a cannon-ball, rending the air with a shriek, 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1 500 285 
 
 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 cf 
 the tyrants; in their breasts we will plunge this Poniard of 
 Nemesis. Viva la Repubblica I ' 
 
 ' 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 II Moro I 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 ot 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 I Dio ! It is a lie ! But they fall on 
 the first man they meet, and listen to none ! 'Tis horrible, 
 
286 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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, DomineV 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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 2S7 
 
 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, 
 II 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 Sfor- 
 zas, 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 mathema- 
 tician, 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 sub- 
 dued. 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 \ipper terrace of the villa garden was a wide 
 
288 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, ac- 
 cording to the colour of the gins. 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 riner, 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 hirrself 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, 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 289 
 
 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 hirn 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. 
 T 
 
2 9 o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 With the first budding ot the trees, the painter and the child 
 spent whole days together in the garden or in the neighbour- 
 ing 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 im- 
 partiality, 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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 291 
 
 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 Gui ' otto 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 them- 
 selves. 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 
 
292 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 tran- 
 quillity 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 5 refused, and remained firm in his resolu- 
 tion that he would publish nothing. Yet all his writings were 
 couched in the form of address to a reader ; and at the com- 
 mencement of one of his diaries he apologised in these words 
 for the disconnected style and frequent repetitions : — 
 
 1 Blame me not, O reader, for the subjects are numberless 
 and my memory is weak, and I write at long intervals iu 
 different years.' 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 293 
 
 XI 
 
 In the last days of March disquieting tidings reached the 
 Villa Melzi. The French army, led by Monsieur de la 
 Tremouille, had crossed the Alps and was descending for the 
 reconquest of Milan. II Moro, suspicious of all, and 
 oppressed by superstitious fears, dared not meet the enemy 
 in the open field, and daily showed himself//^ 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, accom- 
 panied 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 
 B rgamo 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. 
 
 I What is it ? ' asked Francesco. 
 
 I 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 thou- 
 sands of years has the world seen, what changes have taken 
 place, while it was lying hid, concealed from all eyes, support- 
 ing 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 : — 
 
294 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 1 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 for- 
 gotten 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 m~n 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 join- 
 ing 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 unible 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 fore- 
 boding, 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 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 295 
 
 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 conceal- 
 ing 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 sub- 
 terranean 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, under- 
 took 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 
 
= 96 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 dwell- 
 ing-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 accompany- 
 ing 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.' 
 
 1 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 :— 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 297 
 
 * 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.' 
 
 1 Of a surety I have a fondness for him. But for you, too, 
 Messer Leonardo ! You think me very little, but truly I com- 
 prehend 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.' 
 
 
298 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 * 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. 
 
 1 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 con 
 fidingly 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 ioth of April, 
 but when the duke was reviewing his forces, prior to its com- 
 mencement, the Swiss mercenaries refused to advance, for 
 they had been secretly bought by Trivulzio. In vain II 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. 
 
CALM WATERS— 1499-1500 299 
 
 The Sire de la Tremouille 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 : ■ II Moro has 
 lost his state, his goods, and his liberty; not one of his under- 
 takings 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 — 150O 
 
 'Pigliera it primo volo il grande ucello sopra del dosso del suo magn§ 
 Cecero, empiendo Funiverso del stupore, empiendo di sua fama tutte It 
 scritture, e gloria eterna al nido dove nacque.' — Leonardo da Vinci. 
 
 (The human bird shall take his first flight, filling the world with amaze- 
 ment, all writings with his fame, and bringing eternal glory to the nest 
 whence he sprang.) 
 
 The little town of Vinci, Leonardo's native place, lay on the 
 western slope of Monte Alba no, 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 accom- 
 plish 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 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 301 
 
 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 farm- 
 house 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, cling- 
 ing 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 grand- 
 father, 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. 
 
 
3 o2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 : — 
 
 l O Signore! Signore I Leonardo mioJ' — 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 hang- 
 ing 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. Up- 
 stairs, 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 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 303 
 
 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. 
 
3<m THE FORERUNNER 
 
 It was a little volume, written in the small laborious hand 
 which befitted a merchant's office. 
 
 1 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 con- 
 ventional 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. 
 
 1 Starsi mezzanamente I cosa piu sicuraj ' 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 mono- 
 tonously 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 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 305 
 
 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 white- 
 washed 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 145 1, 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 th^> 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 
 U 
 
306 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 character- 
 istic 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 midday 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 Caterina's home. Sweet to him was the cool of the 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 307 
 
 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 grand- 
 son, 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 grand- 
 father'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?' 
 
308 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 IV 
 
 Not far from Vinci a large villa was in course of construc- 
 tion 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 neigh- 
 bour 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. 
 
 When the boy had reached the age of thirteen, his father 
 removed him from Vinci to his house. Florence ; since then. 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 309 
 
 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 ne?tled 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 Maggwre, 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. 
 
3 io THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 beauti- 
 ful 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. 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 311 
 
 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 
 
312 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 mathe- 
 matics, 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 con- 
 founds 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 com- 
 missioned 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 concen- 
 trated 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. 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 313 
 
 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 
 
3H THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 j 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, W 
 dissetamento era d'ostacolo Peccessiva bratna* — '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 contem- 
 porary, 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 // Magnifico disapproved spirits too 
 daring and unconventional, and demanded a constant and 
 servile adulation which Leonardo was ill fitted to supply. 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 315 
 
 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. 
 
 4 1 st. 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 employ- 
 ment of bombards. 
 
 '3rd. Of making mines and passages, immediately and noise- 
 lessly, 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, 'passa- 
 volanti ' : 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 
 
3 i6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 experi- 
 ment 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 be- 
 come 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 dis- 
 appointment that he could not obey. He remembered releas- 
 ing 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 Daedalus.' He 
 remembered, too, his pleasure in finding a clumsy representa- 
 
THERE SHALL BE WIKGS— 1500 317 
 
 tion 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 : — 
 
 1 1 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 pre- 
 occupation 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 over-hanging 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 Caesar 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 
 Boltramo 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 
 
3iS THE FORKRUNNER 
 
 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 fascina- 
 tion of flight : * Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God ! ' 
 
 He raised his head, set his teeth, and again addressed him- 
 self 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. Sud- 
 denly 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 sweep- 
 ing 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 I' 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 cominc: 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 
 
THERE SHALL BE WINGS— 1500 319 
 
 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 con- 
 queror (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 Caesar Borgia's camp. 
 
 Two days later Leonardo left Florence for Romagna. 
 
BOOK XII 
 
 •Aut Cesar aut Nihil.' 
 
 Cesar Borgia. 
 
 1 500-1 503 
 
 'A prince must be a beast as well as a man.' 
 
 Niccol6 Machiavelli. — // Principe 
 
 1 We, Caesar 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 every- 
 thing 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. 
 
 c Given at Pavia on August 18th, in the year of our Lord, 
 1502, and the second of our reign in Romagna. 
 1 Caesar, dux Romandiolae/ 
 
 So ran Leonardo's new credentials. 
 
 These were the years in which Caesar 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 
 
AUT CiESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 321 
 
 eighteen-year-old Astorre Manfredi ; and Forll 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; Caesar'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 pro- 
 found 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 
 Caesar'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 Caesar'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 
 X 
 
322 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Caesar. 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 1502 the Duke of Valen- 
 tinois, 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 over- 
 filled ; 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 
 
'AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 323 
 
 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 gesticu- 
 lating 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, ^tolians, 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.' 
 
 c You go too far, Messer Niccolb,' 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 Niccolb with 
 increasing excitement. ' I perceive in your words fearfully 
 perilous error ! Some day the Italians will be taught, bv a 
 rude lesson, the weakness of mercenary armies, and the 
 pitiful powerlessness of cavalry and artillery. Remember how 
 
324 
 
 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Niccolb 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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. 
 
'AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 325 
 
 '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 Niccolb 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 Niccolb'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 elecant Venetian courtesan, 
 the magnified meretrice, Lena Griffi, who had been so 
 nearly despoiled by Savonarola's ' youthful inquisitors.' 
 Two years ago, following the example of many of her sister- 
 hood, 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 veneziatia 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 Caesar 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 pro- 
 posed for Messer Niccold and his room-mates, the French 
 
326 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 captains, in order to provide a chamber for the lady 
 herself. 
 
 Messer Niccolb, 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 him- 
 self, 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 Niccolb 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 : — 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 Niccolb 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 Csesar 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 
 
«AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 327 
 
 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 Niccolb, 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, a? 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 discuss- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 : — 
 
 4 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?' 
 
328 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 ' 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 Niccolo,' he said aloud, ' if you succeed according 
 to your intentions, you will have done more than Euclid or 
 Archimedes.' 
 
 Leonardo was struck by the unconventionally 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: 
 1 The more I listen to you, Messer Leonardo, the more I am 
 astounded that we should have met. Some most rare com- 
 bination 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 j 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, 
 
 
«AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 329 
 
 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 Grim, 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 Niccolo, 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 Niccolo ! 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 Niccolo 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 Niccolo 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 
 
33o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 black- 
 smith, 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 Niccolo 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, 'con- 
 fess 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 
 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 : • Ctto, citissime, celerrime. 1 Then he opened his 
 Livy and pursued his occupation of many years, the compil- 
 ing 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. 
 
•AUT CAESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 331 
 
 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 Niccolo talking excitedly to a couple of new- 
 comers. 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 Machia- 
 velli. He had sent Lucio with letters to Messer Niccolo 
 from his friends. 
 
 'Be not disquieted about the money,' Lucio was saying; 
 'my uncle assures me that last Thursday the Signori pro- 
 mised ' 
 
 '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 Niccolo 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. 
 
332 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 childish- 
 ness ! Well, I have written to your uncle ' 
 
 1 My uncle/ interrupted Lucio, ' will doubtless do all he 
 can for you, Messer Niccolb ; 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 ' 
 
 1 Oh, that 's it, is it ? ' exclaimed Machiavelli, his face con- 
 torted 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, 
 Niccolo 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 Gonfalo- 
 niere 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. 
 
 1 Carissimo Niccoto mioj 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 
 
C AUT CvESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 333 
 
 longer passeth my endurance. And, meanwhile, may the 
 Lord protect you, and the blessed Virgin ! I send vou 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 Niccolb,' 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 Niccolb,' replied Lucio. 
 
 'Never commit that folly; unless you have the shoulders of 
 Atlas. Eh! Messer Leonardo?' 
 
 The painter understood that Messer Niccolb 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 
 Niccolb 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 Niccolb had not the courage to persist in his refusal. 
 He took twenty ducats which he promised to return on receipt 
 of his monev from Florence; then immediately paid his score, 
 with the lavishness of a great noble. 
 
334 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 
 
 Niccolo 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 Niccolo, ' 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. 
 Niccolo 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. c I detest even to think of it The devil take them 1 ' 
 he added energetically. 
 
 VII 
 
 About noon they rode in at the gates of Fano. The houses 
 were alive with Caesar'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 
 
C AUT CMLSAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 335 
 
 Niccolb, ' but *tis the talk of the whole town. Let us go to- 
 gether 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. 
 
 ' 1 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 tos 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 
 
336 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 herself with admiration ; ' may the Blessed Virgin preserve to 
 us our father, our benefactor, our bright sun !' 
 
 ' Do you hear them ? ' whispered Machiavelli. * Voxpopuli 
 vox del. 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, 
 Ccsare bcllo e Hondo — 'Caesar, 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. Niccolo 
 could not admire enough this truly Roman array. After 
 the guard came equerries and pages, in clothes of unsur- 
 passed splendour; camisoles of gold brocade, mantles of 
 pounce velvet with gold-embroidered slashings, their scab- 
 bards 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, 
 ■ Caesar.' They were followed by the bodyguard, Albanian 
 stradiotes, with curved yataghans. Then BartolomeoCapranica, 
 the Maestro del Campo, carried the naked sword of the 
 Gonfaloniere of the Roman Church. After him came the 
 ruler of Romagna himself, Caesar 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 gn ping mouth of a lion. His helmet was 
 a dragon, with scales, wings, and fins of wrought brass, 
 resounding at every movement. 
 
 At this time Caesar Borgia was six and twenty; his face 
 had grown thin and worn since Leonardo had seen him at 
 
AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 337 
 
 Louis xn.'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 ; Caesar 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 : — 
 
 1 Holy saints ! Holy mother ! The Lord has permitted 
 me to see his face ! O, our beauteous sun ! ' 
 
 The flashing sword entrusted to Caesar 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 
 Caesar Borgia, is almost impossible,' he said, ' but as you ask 
 me what I think of this deed, I will tell you. Till its con- 
 quest 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 Caesar appointed his astute 
 and faithful servant, Don Ramiro, as his lieutenant. This 
 man accomplished his task; he inspired the people with a 
 Y 
 
338 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 salutary terror, and established perfect tranquillity through 
 out 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 disassoci- 
 ated 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 Niccolo,' 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 state- 
 craft?' 
 
 '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 dis- 
 regard all uneasiness of conscience as to those secret measures 
 without which the preservation of power in 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, 'any- 
 thing 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 
 
«AUT CAESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 339 
 
 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 govern- 
 ment 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 pre- 
 ceding 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 choos- 
 ing 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 Niccolb,' 
 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 Niccolb, while pretending indifference, was casting 
 
34o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 sly glances at Lucio as if to gauge the effect his words were 
 producing. It was evident that Machiavelli had little sdf- 
 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, con 
 ventional. 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 Niccolo put together as 
 useless and impossible a monstrosity in his superhuminly 
 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 Niccolo, as if a juggler, playing with 
 swords, were himself cut to the quick. 
 
 1 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 Niccolb. 
 
 '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 Caesar, may be unpardonable in Alexander the pope 
 or in Caesar Borgia, of whom we cannot yet say whether he 
 be Caesar or nothing. I at least think, and all will agree 
 with me ' 
 
 \ Oh, of course, all will agree with you,' interrupted Niccolb, 
 
•AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 341 
 
 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 Caesar, 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 sug- 
 gested sealing a truce with two or three bottles from the 
 neighbouring cellar than the visionary disappeared. 
 
 ' Nay,' cried Messer Niccolo 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 Niccolo on the back, 
 and called him a sly dog. 
 
 'We will take lanterns,' continued Niccolo, '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. 
 
 Niccolo, without more ado, carried off Messer Lucio. 
 
342 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Caesar. 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, Caesar'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 secretive- 
 ness, but by studied calculation j 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 profuse- 
 ness. 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 Caesar had cut a bull in half with a single stroke of 
 his sword. Inaccessible to his courtiers and to the ambassa- 
 dors 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 
 
•AUT CAESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 343 
 
 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 ! Eunico 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
344 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 t guaiaco i > 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 strnnge mystic rite. Meantime 
 the Florentine secretary was taking now one, now another of 
 the courtiers aside, and adroitly questioning them as to 
 Caesar's policy. Presently he approached Leonardo and 
 whispered to him very mysteriously. 
 
 1 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, 1 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 some- 
 thing 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, toget her with the triple tiara and the keys of St. Peter. 
 
'AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 345 
 
 The room was warm and scented. A fire of juniper burned 
 on the marble hearth, and the lamp oil was perfumed with 
 violets. Caesar, 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 Valen- 
 tino, 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 Caesar 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 Caesar 
 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, 
 fratiicidal. 
 
 * 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. 
 
346 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 '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. 
 
 Caesar'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 astro- 
 loger, who had drawn a new horoscope. The duke listened 
 attentively, for he was a believer in the influences of the 
 stars. Valguglio explained that Caesar'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 im- 
 pressively, the astrologer repeated thrice in a mysterious 
 whisper— 
 
 ■ Fatilo, Fatilo, Fatilo '— ' Do it. Do it. Do it ! ' 
 
 Caesar 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. Caesar 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, Caesar 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 th ink 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 
 
«AUT CAESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 347 
 
 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 Niccolo. Caesar shrugged his shoulders with a 
 good-humoured smile. 
 
 1 He is a strange man, your Messer Niccolo. 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 unreli- 
 able. 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? ' 
 
 Caesar laughed his low pleasant laugh, as if reminded of 
 something which had tickled him. 
 
 1 Have you heard about the Macedonian phalanx ? No ? 
 Then listen. Once, Messer Niccolo 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 Niccolo 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 Niccolo 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 
 
343 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 was dismissed, but not before Caesar 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 Niccolb 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, Niccolb. I am no politician, but obey like a blind 
 man.' 
 
 Silently they looked into each other's eyes ; and each recog- 
 nised the profound difference between them. The one might 
 be said to have no country : the other loved his country, in 
 Caesar's phrase, 'above his own soul.' 
 
 XII 
 
 That night Niccolb 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 xn., 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 Caesar 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 
 
«AUT C/ESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 349 
 
 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 l stigmata ' like St. Catharine of Siena. 
 
 Caesar, 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. 
 
 1 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 Niccolo broke into a forced and some- 
 what angry laugh. 
 
 *I hope,' he said, 'you do not honour me by thinking 
 me over sentimental, too chivalrously generous ? Whether 
 Caesar seduce this minx or no is nothing to me. Would you 
 
35 o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 amuse- 
 ment. 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, how- 
 ever, understood that he was ashamed of genuine kind- 
 heartedness, and was trying to conceal it under a mask of 
 cynicism. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 Niccolo, 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 Niccolo's pay, came running to inform 
 him that Caesar 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 '1 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. Niccolo'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 
 
•AUT CAESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 351 
 
 the stifling tavern. When Messer Niccolo 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. 
 
 1 You are wrong, Messer Niccolo,' 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, 
 1 1 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 podesta, 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 your- 
 self 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 per- 
 ceived that Machiavelli, notwithstanding his anticipations 
 of success, was losing his coolness, and becoming inclined 
 
35 3 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Niccolo went to a little place 
 near the Torre di San Michele, to made the final preparations. 
 Leonardo was to join him early in the morning. Left alone, 
 the latter momentarily expected disastrous news ; he felt 
 very little do'.bt 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 Niccolb 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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. Caesar 
 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 : — 
 

 «AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 353 
 
 ' 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 Niccolo that there was no 
 longer any demand upon them for decisive action. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The larger part of Caesar's army marched out of Fano at 
 dawn on the 30th of December, and encamped outside Sini- 
 gaglia. 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 
 Caesar, and were now acting for him. The town had sur- 
 rendered, but the commandant of the castle swore he would 
 open his gates only to Caesar 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, i 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 store- 
 2 
 
354 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 houses belonging to Venetian merchants. At that time Sini- 
 gaglia 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 y 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 Caesar 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 conduced 
 to the gallows. At this moment Leonardo was joined by 
 Machiavelli. 
 
 ' What do you think of it ? ' asked Messer Niccolb 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. Caesar 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, Caesar sent 
 

 •AUT CAESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 355 
 
 forward two hundred horsemen, set the infantry in motion, 
 and followed them himself with the rest of the cavalry. 
 Pie 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, Caesar'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 Caesar'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 astonish- 
 ment 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 coun- 
 tenance, that till the final moment I guessed naught, nor 
 
356 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 ? Caesar 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 inter- 
 necine 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 
 Niccolb, in his exaltation, would repudiate his softer mood. 
 
 ' Who lives long, sees much, Niccolb mio. But permit me 
 one question. Why is it to-day that you have assured your- 
 self of Caesar's divine election? Has the inganno di 
 Sinigaglia proved his heroism?' 
 
'AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL , — 1500-1503 357 
 
 '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 trtad 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 com- 
 mitted 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 Caesar the infallible sign that he is elect of God !' 
 
 1 Yes, yes, I understand/ said Leonardo moodily ; ' but to 
 my thinking that man is not free who, like Caesar, dares all 
 because he knows naught and loves naught. / 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 them- 
 selves 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 Niccolb 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 con- 
 gratulation, sent Cesare a carnival gift of a hundred pretty 
 masks in coloured silk. 
 
35S THE FORERUNNER 
 
 XV 
 
 Caesar 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, courien, 
 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 Ccesar in his triumphal car, with the legend, 
 1 Aut Ccesar aut Nihil. 1 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 Hosi 'ia 1 'and lower, ' In nomine Ccesaris 
 omen. 1 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 Caesar 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 : — 
 

 •AUT CESAR AUT NIHIL'— 1500-1503 359 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 Caesar 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 con- 
 tracting and his shoulders shaking as he murmured : — 
 
 * Cesare ! Cesare ! figlio mio I ' 
 
 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 salvoes 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 j the 
 triumph of Julius Caesar 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 'Caesar 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 
 
360 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Bull, purple and gilded; the bloody Apis, protecting god of 
 Alexander vi. Boys in cloth of silver sang to the clashing 
 of timbrels : — 
 
 1 Vive diu Bos / Vive diu Bos ! Borgia vive I * 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 XI II 
 
 THE PURPLE BEAST — 1503 
 • The beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit.' — Rev. xi. 7. 
 
 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 Anti- 
 christ. 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 
 
 361 
 
362 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 enter- 
 tained 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 ! M 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 363 
 
 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 your- 
 selves 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 Caesar'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 Anti- 
 christ had commenced, for of a truth the faith of the church 
 of God had never had such foes as Pope Alexander vi. and 
 Caesar his son. 
 
 A discussion now arose as to whether, in very truth, the 
 Pope were Antichrist. Otto Marburg said No; not he 
 but Caesar, 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, 
 1 The Son of Perdition, called Antichrist, is none other than 
 Satan himself.' 
 
 i 
 
3 r, 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Schweinitz shook his head ar.d quoted St. John Chryso- 
 stom, 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 Caesar.' 
 
 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, Irenoeus, 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 marvel- 
 lous 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 him- 
 self, 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, con- 
 temning 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, 
 11 Fall on us, and to the hills, cover us," and shall faint for fear 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST-1503 365 
 
 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 I 
 From the wiles of Cypris fair 
 And from Cupid's darts, oh ! 
 Cowls nor tonsures can avail 
 To defend our hearts, oh 1 
 For a solitary kiss 
 I 'd go to the block, Sir ; 
 Fill me full of wine, Monk, 
 Or I '11 thee unfrock, Sir 1 
 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 ! 
 
366 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Come then, wench, and kiss us. 
 Dum vinum potamus, 
 To Bacchus on Ilissus — 
 7> Dcum 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 A*exander 
 had invested Caesar 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 Christen- 
 dom, 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 ; 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 3G7 
 
 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.' 
 
 Csesare 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?' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
3 G3 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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— 1 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 1 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 naive in their expression. 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 3G9 
 
 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 Caesar 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-ch est. 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. 
 2 A 
 
37 o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 1 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 hazel- 
 nut, 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. 
 
 'AH 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, Caesar was waiting in the next saloon. 
 Alexander had summoned him on a matter of urgent 
 importance: the French king had expressed disapproval of 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 371 
 
 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 Caesar 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. Caesar 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 mw, 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 Caesar; 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 Caesar under the folds of the papal 
 mantle, and Caesar had poniarded him on the pontiffs 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 
 
37 a THE FORERUNNER 
 
 sign of great amity), and spoke impetuously of his devotion 
 to the Most Christian King, and of the extraordinary purity 
 of Caesar'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. 
 
 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 Caesar as if he had no 
 suspicion that the whole affair had been a comedy. The rest 
 agreed with him and lauded Caesar 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 net in terror about him lest he should commit 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 373 
 
 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 Caesar 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 Cassar, Lord knows, keeps counsel ; always hiding some- 
 thing. 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 Caesar 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 com- 
 pany 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 
 
374 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 sail- 
 ing 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 Caesar-Pope, centre of two kingdoms — the earthly 
 and the heavenly. 
 
 That same evening in his apartments in the Vatican, Caesar 
 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 
 1 meretricts honestce nuncupates* 
 
 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 every- 
 thing. 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 l 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 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 375 
 
 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. 
 
 1 The season is dangerous for us fat folk,' he murmured fore- 
 bodingly. 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 
 
376 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 vin., 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 paruulos ad me venire I 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 Caesar, 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. 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 377 
 
 On the 1 8th, 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 Caesar 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, Caesar 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 trans- 
 ported 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 1 — 
 c 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 
 viil, Rodrigo Borgia had sold himself to the Evil One for 
 the sake of twenty years of the papal power. 
 
378 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 loath- 
 some 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 re- 
 moved 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 wr.s 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 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 379 
 
 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, be-' 
 cause 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 Caesar 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 Caesar'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 : — 
 
 ' Caesar or nothing ! Both we find in thee, 
 Who Caesar wast, and soon shalt nothing be.' 
 
 Leonardo, conversing one day in the Vatican with Antonio 
 Giustiniani the Venetian, turned the conversation on 
 Machiavelli. 
 
 1 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 
 
380 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 methods of the fox; to arm the sheep with wolfs teeth! 
 God guard us from such politics ! ' 
 
 'Then you think Messer Niccolb 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/ 
 
 >: 
 
 In the autumn of 1503 Piero Soderini, Perpetual Gon- 
 faloniere 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 bleat- 
 ing 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 Niccolb?' 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- 
 
THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 381 
 
 like, his eyes more fevered. Leonardo asked him of his 
 whereabouts and his affairs; but when he spoke of Caesar, 
 Niccolo turned away, shrugging his shoulders and replying 
 with simulated indifference : — 
 
 c 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 Caesar, 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 Niccolo, 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 out- 
 side 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 
 
382 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Frangipa?ii i 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, banda- 
 ging 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 Caesar to Olympus. Machia- 
 velli read the inscription in sonorous tones: ' Senatus 
 Populusque Romanus divo Tito divi Vespasiani filio Vespasiano 
 Au gusto? 
 
 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. 
 Niccolb'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 
 
 THE PURPLE BEAST— 1503 3S3 
 
 * 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 Niccolo 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 pusillani- 
 mous, we have twisted about, and halted so long between 
 Christ and Belial, that now we neither know w T hat 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 
 Caesars, 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 Niccolo 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 : — 
 
384 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 I I perceive, Messer Leonardo, that they wno 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 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 !"' 
 
 1 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 con- 
 tended — fear and curiosity ; fear of exploring that dark depth ; curiosity 
 as to its secret.' Leonardo da Vinci. 
 
 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 p 
 tenacity and a zeal unwonted. 
 2 B 
 
3 S6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 vari- 
 coloured 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 387 
 
 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, an d 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 JBonuomini, 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 sheep- 
 skins. 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 observa- 
 tions. 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 ease Giovanni found that not merely 
 
3 SS THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 dclle 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 fete 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 389 
 
 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. 7 
 
 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 whirl- 
 winds 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 per- 
 
39o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 fume 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 Niccolo Piccinino, the general of Filippo 
 Visconti, Duke of Lombardy. 
 
 A portion of the picture was already completed : four horse- 
 men 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 391 
 
 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 Gcnfaloniere contemptuously called them, at 
 the courts of Ludovico Sforza, or of Caesar Borgia, had Leon- 
 ardo 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 war- 
 like 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 yon, Messer Leonardo, 
 why not ennoble and adorn it, and modify its extremes? for 
 the great thing is " moderation in all things ! " I may be mis- 
 taken, 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. 
 
 1 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 ycu 
 are aware, the voice of God.' 
 
39a THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Michel- 
 angelo 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 back- 
 ground 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 ex- 
 pression 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 393 
 
 meditated, measured, calculated, hesitated. Then came 
 another, twenty-three years younger than he, who had under- 
 taken 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 
 
394 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 395 
 
 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 : — 
 
 1 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. 
 
396 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 art- 
 less, 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 con- 
 verse, on other occasions, became convinced that here was a 
 great master of the future. 
 
 Sensitive and responsive as an echo to all voices, sub- 
 missive 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 Michel- 
 angelo. 
 
 At one of their first meetings Leonardo had asked the lad 
 his name, parentage and native place. 
 

 MONNA LISA GIOCONDA- -1503-1506 397 
 
 1 1 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 Trinita, 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 expand- 
 ing blossom of the purple lily, the flower of Florence on her 
 standards and escutcheons. All Florence, bathed in moon- 
 light 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 
 
398 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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? 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 399 
 
 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 II 
 Magnifico, which had once sounded in the carnival proces- 
 sion ; a melancholy yet joyous melody, pleasant to Leonardo's 
 ears because he had know it in his youth. 
 
 Quanto e bella giovinezza ! 
 Ma sen fug«e tmtavia 
 Chi vuol esser lieto sia 
 Di doman non v'e 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 fore- 
 boding. 
 
 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 
 
4 oo THE FORERUNNER 
 
 real for the ideal? Which was he to chose, 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'& certezza. 
 
 The next day, at her habituar 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, forget- 
 ting 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 401 
 
 longer either pitied her or feared her. He knew her sub- 
 missiveness, 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 con- 
 demned, that he might watch the last shudders of fear on the 
 dying faces. 
 
 Suddenly he fancied that a strange shadow, as of an un- 
 bidden 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 unwit- 
 tingly 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. 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 2C 
 
4 02 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 And she turned toward him a smile he had never seen 
 before. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 You leave to-morrow ? ' she said suddenly. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 I 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 rain- 
 bow 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 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 ? ' 
 
 1 1 will come. But shall I be the same ? You have told 
 me that faces, especially the faces of women, quickly change/ 
 
 c 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 403 
 
 Lisa still smiled her quiet smile ; that calmness, that bright- 
 ness, 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'e 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 separa- 
 tion. 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 unsnid; she will explain what more 
 
4 o 4 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 
 Trinita, 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 Trinita, 
 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 per- 
 sons, strangers to him for the most part, disputing so 
 vehemently that they did not notice the storm. 
 
 * Messer Leonardo ! come hither and resolve our ques- 
 tion ! ' 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 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 405 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Give us your opinion,' urged the disputants ot 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 wild- 
 ness, dreading the stare of strangers, and fancying that they 
 scorned his ugliness, which he himself was never able to for- 
 get. 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 : — 
 
 1 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 Michel- 
 angelo 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, 
 
4 o6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 in- 
 terested ? ■ 
 
 1 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 1 * 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, 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 407 
 
 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 he 
 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 low- 
 land 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. Niccolb fell ill of vexation. 
 
 Two years before this, Leonardo's father, Ser Piero da 
 Vinci, notary of the palace of the Podesta, had died at the 
 age of eighty. 
 
 In the matter of inheritance Ser Piero had irequently 
 expressed an intention of placing Leonardo on an equal foot- 
 ing 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 Caesar 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 
 
4 o8 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 honour- 
 able: 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, tb e bottles containing monstrosities preserved in spirit ; 
 at the brass quadrant.;, the globes, the apparatus for the study 
 
MONNA LISA GIOCONDA— 1503-1506 409 
 
 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 Gicconda. 
 
 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 waim in the arteries, the expression 
 of the face changed. Yet was she spectral, far oft, alien ; 
 more antique, in her deathless youth, than the cliffs in the 
 picture background — strange, sky-blue rocks, like stalactites, 
 
4 io THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 tc 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 15 11 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 Delia 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 Devatdar 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. 
 
4 i2 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 col- 
 lected 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, signi- 
 fying 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. 
 
THE HOLY INQUISITION— 1506-1513 413 
 
 Cassandra told Giovanni of the wonders she had seen j 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?' 
 
 4 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 thai 
 
4M THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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? 
 
 'AH things are not for all men,' she answered. 'Martyr- 
 doms, 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 
 
THE HOLY INQUISITION— 1506-1513 415 
 
 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 bv the Alexandrine 
 Ophites, or snake worshippers. 
 
 1 " 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 king- 
 doms 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 
 
4 i6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Knowledge went down to men and said, " Taste and know, 
 and your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods."' 
 
 1 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,thc 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 ^schylus, 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 w r as too late ; curiosity drew 
 him like a spell, and he felt he would not leave her till he knew 
 
THE HOLY INQUISITION— 1506-1513 417 
 
 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 11., 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 Egyptain 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. 
 
 Ovpavo avoj ovpavo kutcj 
 Aarepa av<a aarepa acotw 
 Uav avo) Trap tovto kcltoj 
 Tavra Xa/3e /cat evrvx^ 
 
 (Heaven above, heaven below ; 
 Stars above, stars bHow ; 
 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.' 
 2 D 
 
418 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 Maenads 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 Un- 
 known 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 Galilcean I * 
 
 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 I ' 
 
 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. 
 
THE HOLY INQUISITION-1506-1515 419 
 
 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 indis- 
 posed, 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 nil 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 
 
4 2o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 sor- 
 ceress ! ' It seemed as if the veil of life were rent before 
 
THE HOLY INQUISITION— 1506-1513 42* 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Zoroastro da Peretola had not died, neither had he re- 
 covered 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 in- 
 dependent, 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 
 
422 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 over- 
 whelmed 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. 
 
 1 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, remem- 
 bering 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 Csesar 
 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 I recall it ! ' said Leonardo warmly. 
 
THE HOLY INQUISITION— 1506-1513 423 
 
 '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 
 II 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 — 
 
 4 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 
 
424 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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, II 
 Moro, threatening II 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, hiving 
 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 impas- 
 sive 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 XV 
 
 LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, AND RAPHAEL 1513-1515 
 
 Lapazienza fa contra alle ingiurienon altrimenti che sifaccino i panni 
 contra del freddo ; imperb che , se ti multiplicherai di panni second la 
 multiplicazione del freddo y esso freddo nocere non ti potra ; 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 Laocoon, 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 
 
 425 
 
426 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 pedants; but above all he loved hts 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 annoy- 
 ances 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 I 
 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, sud- 
 denly realising that his forebodings had centred on this 
 
MICHELANGELO AND RAPHAEL 427 
 
 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 1 
 Curlu 1 
 
 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. 
 
428 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 *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 ! 
 
 1 Into thy hands I commit my spirit, O God ! Be thou my 
 Judge ! » 
 
 There came an abrupt end to the entries. Leonardo under- 
 stood 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, experi- 
 ments, 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 15 14 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 fashion- 
 able compliments which did not come easily to his lips 
 or pen. 
 
 After much rain the end of November brought sunny days, 
 never so beautiful as in Rome, where the decaying splendour 
 
MICHELANGELO AND RAPHAEL 429 
 
 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, creat- 
 ing 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 stupend- 
 ous creations of his rival Leonardo did not measure, nor com- 
 pare 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 
 1 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 
 
43© THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 n. 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 deliver- 
 ance 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 dis- 
 armed 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 
 
MICHELANGELO AND RAPHAEL 431 
 
 iurnished 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 over- 
 whelmed 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, bnt 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 contra- 
 dictions 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 ! ' 
 
432 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 Now this boy was the rival both of Leonardo and Michel- 
 angelo, 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 inter- 
 view 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 
 
MICHELANGELO AND RAPHAEL 433 
 
 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 larked 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 cr.sje, that one con- 
 2 E 
 
434 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 taining 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 15 15. Having no son, 
 his crown passed to his nearest relative, Francis of Valois, 
 Duke of Angouleme, 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 II 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 
 
MICHELANGELO AND RAPHAEL 435 
 
 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 II 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 cf 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 chateau 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. 
 
 The road, especially in winter, was difficult j 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 
 
436 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 shall not see it again ! Yon lies all Lombanly ! Italy ! ' he 
 cried, his eyes wet with conflicting emotions ; and he repeated, 
 1 Lombardy ! Italy 1 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. 
 
 4 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 ne:ir, 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 XVI! 
 
 DEATH — THE WINGED PRECURSOR — 1516-1519 
 
 $4pets Trripvyat ws Ivwdels d77^Xots. 
 
 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.) 
 
 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, pas- 
 sionate, 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. Every- 
 where, 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, 
 
 437 
 
4j8 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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^ prosper- 
 ous, conventional, pious, and cold. 
 
 When the king came to Amboise for the hunting, the 
 little town changed its aspect. Tne 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 place 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 chateau 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 chateau 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 chateau 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 Saone at Macon, and thus open a new route from 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 439 
 
 Northern Europe to the Mediterranean. In this wise he 
 thought to benefit a foreign country by those gifts of know- 
 ledge 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 II Moro, 
 Duke of Lombardy, had been incarcerated for eight years. 
 The old warden told Leonardo how II Moro had once made 
 his escape, by hiding in a cart loaded with straw; not know- 
 ing 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 ton 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 II 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 remem- 
 bered also what he had been told of the fate of another of 
 his patrons, Caesar Borgia. Julius 11. had treacherously 
 handed Caesar over to his enemies, who had carried him to 
 
44° THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 con- 
 dottiere. 
 
 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, Caesar 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 Caesar'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 Feuillee, buried in the 
 heart of a forest, where only winds rustled the dry leaves; 
 nor used to leave her chamber, hung with perpetual mourn- 
 ing, save to distribute alms, imploring pensioners to pray 
 for the soul of Caesar. 
 
 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.' 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 441 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 II 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 151 7 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 Maenads, perhaps the 
 
442 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 # 
 
 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 strny leaves from 
 Euripides' tragedy, the Bacchce, 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 j 
 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 feelimr 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 con- 
 ception 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 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 443 
 
 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 1. 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. 
 
 1 It is long since we saw each other, Maitre Leonard,' 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. 
 
444 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 The !:ing, 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.' 
 
 c Maitre Leonard 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, Maitre Leonard ! 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 con- 
 cerning 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 Gicconda.' 
 
DEATH-THE WINGED PRECURSOR 445 
 
 ' A hermaphrodite then/ returned the poet ; and repeated 
 Plato's fable of the original men-women, and the origin of the 
 passion of Love. * Maitre Leonard 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
 ■ 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 Well ! well ! Maitre Leonard, 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, 
 
446 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 
 
 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 Mar- 
 guerite, 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 coun- 
 tenance 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 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 447 
 
 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 ! Maine Leonard !' 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. 
 1 Then what is the matter ? ' 
 
 The painter felt again that to speak of La Gioconda to this 
 indifferent affable young monarch was impossible. Never- 
 theless 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 Maitre 
 Leonard. 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. 
 
443 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 'You have a sweet intercessor, Maitre Leonard. 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 1 I give you my word I 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 151 8, 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 sup- 
 ported 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. 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 449 
 
 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 dis- 
 inclined 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 chateau. 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 
 2 F 
 
45<> 
 
 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 stidc, 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 II Magnifico for the 
 'Mask of Bacchus and Ariadne,' a favourite with Leonardo, 
 who had known it in his youth : — 
 
 ' Quant' e bella giovinezza 
 Ma sen fugge tuttavia ? 
 Chi vuol esser lieto, sia ; 
 Di doman non v'e 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 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 451 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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. ' 
 
 c 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. 
 
453 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 453 
 
 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 : — 
 
 4 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 ceek 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 
 
454 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 over- 
 came 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 over- 
 head. He realised that this was a second stroke. 
 
 For some days Leonardo lay unconscious, making occa- 
 sional 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. 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 455 
 
 ' I have locked them in the attic.' 
 
 ' Give me the key.' 
 
 ' Nay, Master, what can you do with the key ? ' 
 
 1 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',- 
 
45 6 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 that 'evil eye ' attributed to the Master. Though Leonardo 
 did not observe the Church ceremonials, his young com- 
 panion 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 under- 
 stood ; 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 : — 
 
 1 My son, send to Fra Guglielmo and bid him come to- 
 morrow. I wish to confess and to communicate. Send also 
 for Maitre Guillaume.' 
 
 Francesco did not answer — he kissed Leonardo's hand in 
 passionate gratitude. 
 
 IX 
 
 The next morning, Saturday in Passion Week, April 23rd, 
 Maitre 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, manu- 
 scripts, 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 
 
DEATH— THE WINGED PRECURSOR 457 
 
 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 con- 
 tradict 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. 
 
453 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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: — 
 
 1 1 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 
 Natu.e herself will not create again. 
 
 ' May the Almighty God grant him everlasting peace 1 ' 
 
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 Daedalus 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 Daedalus, 
 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 chateau 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 
 Daedalus 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 
 
4 6o THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 dovecot; 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 sun-burnt 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 impres- 
 sion 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 Daedalus 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 
 rvere reflected in the water, but in the east clouds were 
 rising, and summer lightning quivered in the air as if waving 
 fiery wings. 
 
EPILOGUE 461 
 
 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 remember- 
 ing 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 
 
462 THE FORERUNNER 
 
 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 coun- 
 tenance and fiery wings, standing among fleeting clouds, 
 her feet on the crescent moon ; over her was a seven-pillared 
 tabernacle, with the inscription : — 
 
 4 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 Fore- 
 
EPILOGUE 463 
 
 runner ; the wings, extended over lands and seas, flashed and 
 sparkled in the morning radiance, as if informed with super- 
 natural life. 
 
 Eutychius, dipping his brush into crimson, wrote these 
 words on the scroll upon the icon, under the Winged Pre- 
 cursor : — 
 
 " 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 MEREJKOWSKI 
 
 Author of " The Romance of Leonardo da Vinci," etc. 
 
 Authorized English version by Herbert Trench. 
 i2°. $1.50. 
 
 " A fine piece of work. Out of the perplexed chapters of 
 Julian's career, Merejkowski has constructed something which 
 might be called a drama, full of episodes, lurid, intense, pas- 
 sionate . . . 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 Athenceum. 
 
 " 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 re- 
 markable 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 char- 
 acters of the period." — The Observer. 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 New York London 
 
The Romance of 
 Leonardo da Vinci 
 
 The 
 Forerunner 
 
 ( The Resurrection 
 of the Gods) 
 
 By 
 DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI 
 
 Author of "The Death of the Gods," "Tolstoi as Man and Artist," etc. 
 
 12°. $1.50. 
 
 ' ' A novel of very remarkable interest and power. Most 
 vivid and picturesque." — Guardian. 
 
 14 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, stand- 
 ing higher above the level of contemporary fiction than it 
 would be easy to say." — Spectator. 
 
 " A remarkable work." — Morning Post. 
 
 M 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°. (By mail, $1.10.) Net . . . . $1.00 
 
 44 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. 
 
 44 No more charming romance of the old sod has been published in a 
 long time."— N. Y. World. 
 
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 Eve Triumphant 
 
 By Pierre de Coulevain. Translated by Alys Hallard. 
 12°. (By mail, $1.35.) Net .... $1.20 
 
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 salient truth, candid opinion, and witty comment." — Chicago Record. 
 
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 and keen observation."— Detroit Free Press. 
 
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 Monsieur Martin 
 
 A Romance of the Great Swedish War. By Wymond Carey. 
 12°. (By mail, $1.35.) Net .... $1.20 
 
 44 It was with genuine pleasure that we read 4 M. Martin.' . . . 
 We cordially admire it and sincerely hope that all who read this page will 
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 first books have given them a notable place in the world of letters, for 
 1 Monsieur Martin ' is one of the best of recent historical romances." — 
 Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 44 Mr. Wymond Carey has given us much pleasure in reading his book, 
 and we are glad to praise it." — Baltimore Sun. 
 
 New York — G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS — London 
 
GOOD FICTION 
 
 The House Opposite 
 
 A Mystery. By Elizabeth Kent. iamo, cloth, net, 
 fi.oo; i6mo, paper, socts. 
 
 " Not an unnecessary word in the whole book, and the intri- 
 cacies 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- Her aid. 
 
 " A good story of its kind that can be recommended with- 
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 The Sheep-Stealers 
 
 A Romance of the West of England. By Violet Jacob. 
 i2mo, net, $1.20. By mail, $1,35. 
 41 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. i2mo (By mail, $1.10), net, $1.00. 
 11 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 
 
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