Part 18
The officials of Milan murdered GAF...the officials!: They had him hung, drawn, and quartered, in the Public Square.
GAF.
I fled to Mantua, as if I could forget in Mantua!
So much of life is fleeing.
So much is trying to forget.
Rain...
Those youthful faces...Vitelli, 24 years old...Ferrara, 33 years old...artists... good men...friends.
Perhaps there is something to be said about this remote château, this little manor house, these woodlands, paths, fields, this Loire; I should be able to put these things together and say something; when I am alone here, or alone with Francesco and Maturina, when I sit in my studio or in the library or walk in the fields or along the Loire, I hear something like wisdom: it seems to suggest greater dedication, calm, calmness, like a stag in a clearing, alert, watching.
August 15, 1518
Another summer at Cloux.
(I have not written my journal for months).
Birds—orioles and finches—are singing along the river. Willows and birds for miles. Old trees, some of them half-drowned by a heavy rain, seem determined to flourish. Where the Loire widens, meadows of water form islands.
Yesterday or the day before, Francesco and I spent most of a morning searching for a species of frog that interests me. We crossed and recrossed the river at shallow points.
Close to the château, by the tenth century bridge, I waded over slippery rock. There I fell. Old shanks!
I’ll just lie here...the pain won’t last...
“Maestro, your sketchbook is ruined...let me help you!”
I was overcome by my own weakness, by the ugliness of my bony legs. It’s true I’m an old man!
August 20, ’18
Sometimes France becomes alive—not in the geographic sense: it comes alive as a fresco of bogged willows, a row of pencil-pointed cypress, a field of yellow rye, a woodland village, a pagan altar, a tired bridge, a flock of charcoal ravens ...these are the enchantment, along with August cicadas and August storms.
Swans and cygnets are also there, and a knight in armor!
I stand at my studio window: there, below me, stretches the garden and the garden leads to the woodland and just inside the first fringe of trees is a stag.
From the château I watch the blue water of the Loire flowing by; the blue water changes to grey: the Seine.
I taste the antique taste of time and illusion: my telescope focuses on wayfarers: I see them in mirrors: years of princes, priests, soldiers, artists.
Maturina is Italy: toothless, sickly, yet eager to carry-on! Smiling, smelling of grease and herbs, she offers me her famous soup, her haricot beans, her red jam, her Vinci cheese.
Behind her, as she sets my table for supper, gawks a young Midi apprentice (a possum-faced individual). The Midian is talking about Brussels sprouts, how her mother used to prepare them. When she takes Maturina’s place and her teeth fall out, she will be ready to impart her culinary skills to someone else.
Cloux
September 14
Suddenly, Francis appeared in my studio.
He was dressed entirely in black, his suit sewn with pin stripes of diamonds and pearls. We embraced warmly. We had not seen each other for several weeks...
‘‘What has happened to you?” I asked, shocked by his appearance, for his hair had been scorched and trimmed; his forehead was livid; his cheek was scarred by burns; his chin had been gashed.
“It happened at Romorantin,” he said, laughing loudly at me. “Didn’t you hear about the accident?”
“I heard something about an accident but I didn’t know it was serious. I’ve been in Paris, with Francesco. What happened to you at the château?”
“Come, don’t take it so seriously, Mon Père. I’m all right. The scars will disappear. My hair will grow back. I came to talk with you, to get away from the roisterers at the château... I need a little peace and quiet.”
“But what happened to you at Romorantin?”
“Games...we were playing games in the field alongside the château. It was dark. I shoved a wicker basket over my head and one of my cronies set fire to it with his torch... I couldn’t yank off the basket.” Francis showed me his burned fingers. “This is what I get for playing the fool.
“Come...let’s go into the studio, where you keep your fossils from the Alps. I want you to explain again how you have estimated the age of the earth from your shells and ferns. I can’t seem to grasp that the earth is as old as you say it is.
“Look at this rock, Maestro, with the snail imbedded in it. Where did you find it? Did you find it in the Argentière Pass?”
“No, I found it when I climbed Monte Rosa, when I was making notes on the quality of light among the glaciers and snowfields. You see that snail came from the ocean...it’s an ocean snail...”
Today the new barber trimmed my hair and beard.
He is chief barber for the King, a Corsican, red-faced, rotund, about forty; he seems in the prime of life. As he trimmed my beard he ranted about autonomies, puny city against puny city.
“War is a sewer,” he kept repeating. “Man is crap...he is great. But he must stop fighting.” All very private, in his red-carpeted shop, mirrored, hung with dirks. One of many small rooms along a château corridor.
As I was about to leave, he said:
“I sing...you like music, I know... I sing for you... I am an exile too, but I sing.”
His tenor voice was at its prime. He poured out song after song, as others gathered in the corridor and room to hear him.
(Tomorrow, he will extract a molar for Francesco.)
As I write in my studio, rain splashes across leaded glass and sputters on my autumn fire. I dictate. Francesco nods at his desk; it is late, well after midnight.
Fame, in the figure of a bird, should be depicted as covered with little tongues instead of feathers.
Pleasure and pain are best shown as twins, back to back, since they are inseparable.
“No, no,” Francesco objects. “I think we should write down important things.”
I agree.
I pick up a paper and read about heat...fire...vapors...water sucked from the ocean.
Yes, I must discriminate. I have over a hundred treatises to work on...the days are passing quickly.
“Let’s stop for now... I know it’s late. Tomorrow I will arrange fifteen figures, fifteen nudes, in sequence. On the basis of those drawings I will make various comparisons, the horse with man, the legs of frogs with the legs of men.”
Cloux
October 6, 1518
This is my second autumn at the château—cold, cold! Windy. Bundled up, I walk. Maple, oak, chestnut, pine...lightning-scarred oak, crippled pine, friends... I walk alone or with Francesco or the King, paths for every direction. Alone, or with Francesco, I am aware of the past.
Tonight, at supper, by our studio fire, talking with Francesco, I talked about my maestro, Andrea.
“I was twenty, like you, Francesco. And I was always hungry—like you. Andrea was thirty-five then, maybe thirty-six...twenty...thirty-six. I was lucky to have him for maestro.”
His skill with jewelry was something to remember. I remember his setting a fire opal in a gold brooch... I’d been his apprentice for several months, maybe a year. Not a word was said while he worked, an entire afternoon. A smile, a nod...
The opal was rectangular and its blob of fire was at its base—resembling a setting sun—the gem surrounded by finely woven wires.
And there was a day when Andrea’s famous sphere was polished and ready. How it glistened! How proud he was, how proud all of us artists were! We crowded around; we left the workshop to sing a te deum and drink wine as it was hoisted aloft, to embellish the dome of the cathedral.
“Verrochio...Andrea Verrochio,” we yelped.
And the copper sphere is still there, above the red tiles, unharmed by lightning.
He was a flawless craftsman with the porphyry and marble walls of the Medici sarcophagus. And his beautiful putto, boy and dolphin, are loved by everyone.
F’s drawings of Andrea’s David, and his silverpoint study of Andrea’s great bronze horse are treasures of mine.
Well, his bottega was a place of magic...subtleties in metal and wood.
Again it’s late. Francesco is playing cards at the château—Parisian girls. The cat has disappeared. Lamps need fixing on my table. Will I every finish revising these treatises, re-arranging them?
Di me se mai fu fatta alcuna cosa.
Andrea dead at fifty-three!
Di me se mai...four words...scattered among my mathematical papers, among my drawings: Is anything ever done!
I was twenty...he was thirty-six...genial.
He believed art was the zenith. He asked: What do men respect most? Laws? Writings? They respect the bronze horse, the jeweled necklace...the alabaster vase...the cameo...the bas-relief...great murals...antiquities!
Old thoughts now, but new then, important then.
Andrea often praised such accomplishments. How often we talked in his small garden, trellised with wisteria and grape, his sister, Margharita, looking after us. He had a scar across his right cheek, a special smile because of it. What an aura there was at his home—like nowhere else. Simple, family accord, everyone doing his part.
I remember something Andrea said:
“When I shivered as a child, I knew an angel had passed by.”
Cloux
Manor House
Early morning. Good light. Francesco and I worked at our easels until lunch. Cold.
At lunch, F said:
“I lost again at cards last night... I can’t speak French well enough to win. It’s lucky for me that everyone’s leaving here this weekend...off for Paris.”
We talked about Paris and the King’s departure (how desolate he would leave the château!): we talked about the Alps. I mentioned my climbs and the fossils I found...the caves...with shells on the floor... I showed F my memory-sketch of huge male bison painted on the granite walls of a cave, painted there before any Florentine painted. I tried to find a primitive carving on a piece of bone but couldn’t locate it: I wanted him to realize how clever those ancient artists were.
F was interested in the avalanches, and asked me the best season for a climb. He will ask his father to accompany him on an Alpine trip...he’s eager to return to his beautiful Vaprio. I certainly understand. Last month the Melzis renewed their invitation but I lack the strength to make another move; perhaps, in a year or two, I might leave here without offending the King—perhaps I can obtain a commission in Milan; then I could use the Villa Vaprio for my base.
In the afternoon, because it was sunny and inviting, we had our horses saddled and rode through the bois...a fox plumed his tail in front of us... I tried to sketch on horseback but my sorrel was very restless. What fascinating shadows in the woodland—when the sun is low! How to blend them.
I am confused, cold.
I wrote in my journal a day or two ago, it seems; yet, tonight, I can’t recall the date; I seem to be in an unknown country, not France, not Switzerland. This place is not my place. I am somewhere by a warm fireplace fire. What confusion. The fire stares at me.
Through the open doorway I see my canvas of St. John...the painting assures me. Ah, the King has gone. F has gone. It is as if I had been asleep.
An assistant and I are making and repairing brushes; we are also grinding pigments (how hard it is to find someone who cares to do quality work); having discovered that my scale is inaccurate I am checking the grinding. It is no wonder my Saint John colors blend poorly. A faulty scale is a great hindrance.
I am troubled by the shading in John’s face: underneath his eyes—so important.
“Patience,” I say to myself.
I have heard that admonition through the years, hollow, utterly sadistic.
The pleasure in painting is perfection!
I have heard that.
Pleasure and perfection are illusions, friend!
An artist frames his illusions and gilds the frames and people gape at the illusions and then foster more illusions.
Years ago, as a youngster, I liked to sit in front of the marble façade of Santa Maria Novella.
In the wintertime it could be a balmy spot.
Girls...but I would sit there and imagine that the twin obelisks in front of the church were being lugged off on the backs of their immense bronze turtles, four turtles for each obelisk. (What mad sculptor designed turtles to hold up obelisks!) Ai, the marble columns tottered across the piazza; the monks and priests, with penises dangling, dashed out of church and monastery, shrieking to heaven for help.
Maybe it was helpful to think such ridiculous thoughts; maybe it erased problems; there were always problems...on Sunday no hawkers were permitted in the piazza...pigeons took over, kids, wings, laughter.
Francis, so young, so arrogant, showers me with praise at every opportunity. He introduces me to his friends: “My Leonard!” He introduces me as “Mon Père.” He calls me “Maestro...architect...engineer...he’s designing the main staircase at Chambord...this is Count de Senlis, a connoisseur of art.” The Count, an old man, is one of Francis’ “oldest friends.” Monsignor Marais admires my paintings. Lingers. Cardinal Chambiges compliments my work with sincerity, makes an offer on behalf of his church in Rheims. There are artisans from Suresnes. There is an Italian group, enroute to Paris. However, it is not so much the visitors, the guests, as the King himself—his fondness for me.
Surely Cloux is everything I need.
Old paths, old benches, newly pollarded trees, beds of flowers, autumn leaves, moonlight...at night I hear the owls talking.
Cloux
Studio
Winter evenings, cold evenings, before a roaring fire in my walk-in fireplace, my lamps lit, I sometimes read aloud two or three of my fables. Guests applaud. We enjoy hors d’oeuvres, sip claret. What lavish trays arrive from the King’s kitchens!
The King has a poet in residence who likes to recite female poetry—for the pomades and perfumes! He is a hunchback, with a sharp tongue and tragic grey eyes in his young blond face. Courtiers tell me he has completed an epic poem about my Battle of the Anghieri...
A couple of weeks ago, Galeazzo, a local hunter, dragged a bear cub into my studio. He was quite docile for a while and then became too frisky, and had to be led away. Galeazzo promises to bring him again, and I will sketch him.
Francesco found this fable of mine in an old notebook, one of those I used to keep in Italy:
A stone lay on a mound where an attractive woodland shaded it. Herbs and flowers of many colors grew around. As the stone looked about, at the stones in the road winding below, it wanted to drop down onto the road.
The stone said to itself: “What am I doing, sitting here, among these plants all day long? I want to be with the other stones, my sisters and brothers.”
So, during a heavy rain, it managed to roll down and stop among the rocks of the road. In a short while it began to feel the weight of the cart wheels, the crack of horse and mule hooves, the tramp of cattle, the kick of travelers’ shoes. A man knocked the stone to one side, another spilled trash on it. A cart wheel chipped it. The dung of a cow splattered it. The roadway became very hot.
The stone gazed back at the place it had left—its place of solitude.
This is what happens to those who think they can live tranquilly in cities.
Francesco feels this is my best fable, although he does not think much of any of them:
“Remember, Maestro, you are not Aesop.”
A nut, carried by a raven to the top of a tall campanile, fell into a chink. As it lay there, it asked the wall, by the grace of God and the fine bells in the tower, to help it survive since it had fallen into a chink without any soil. The wall was sympathetic and was glad to help the nut roll into a place where there was soil. After a time, the nut began to split and send out roots. Soon the roots worked their way between the stones of the tower. As it grew stronger it began to destroy the campanile.
The old tower bewailed its destruction, but it was too late!
Tonight, Francesco and I have been working for hours: he sits at his big desk with two water-lamps close to his bearded face, his silhouette on the wall. He is only twenty-two, but appears to be older in the lamplight.
He will be a great painter, when he is free of my influence. He should set up an atelier of his own in Florence or Milan. He comes alive in Milan. He endures this exile out of respect for me: for him I am both maestro and father (in his own father’s eyes the world of art is unimportant). In his patient, almost ecclesi- astical voice, Francesco repeated the outline we have prepared; here are items we have sorted out for further evaluation:
1 - The inequality in the concavity of a ship.
2 - Inequalities in the curves of the sides of ships.
3 - Investigations as to the best positions of the tiller.
4 - The meetings and unions of water coming from different directions.
5 - A study of shoals formed under river sluices.
6 - The configuration of the shores of rivers and their permanency.
These studies should be of value to mariners.
Francesco finds that much of the information I had recorded is spotty.
Tomorrow we will begin with item 1.
October 28, ’18
A lavish autumn!
Gold leaves float on the river, and, as I walk along, admiring them, a handsome riderless horse crosses, shakes his mane vigorously, plunges wherever the water is deep, then stands on the shore for a few moments, regarding me.
Again and again the fog becomes total master here: blanketed by this Loire curtain, we are obliterated almost nightly: a visitor would have a hard time locating the château. King Francis, and his retinue and parasites, have fled to Paris for the winter.
I have hours to contemplate his Italian plunder: in his salons, his superb collection of Mazzoni marbles—twenty- one major pieces.
I study and admire the King’s Bataille tapestries. My private gallery. My autumn sun, as well. Sometimes Francesco makes the gallery a gallery for two. With autumn rain or wind. He sketches a Mazzoni bust; I sketch a Mazzoni figure. I am learning to appreciate the man’s skill: it helps my exile.
Yesterday, as I left the château, the handsome horse re-appeared, trotting along a path that leads into the forest. Bobbing his head as if in recognition, he walked toward the manor house with me. He’s a grey, with mixed mane. It was growing dark and his color blurred into the dusk.
I came to Amboise three, or was it four years ago?
The easel of time totters against invisible walls.
I grow thinner.
Maturina urges me to eat more.
“Give up your vegetarian food. Let me fix you a strong beef soup...let me casserole a chicken!”
A letter from Salai.
He is completing his house on the vineyard property. As usual, his letter is brief—painfully brief. Where is the love we once shared? I know that friendships are like old clothes, they wear out. But we were more than friends.
If we live long enough we may achieve maturity: we will have the past to guide us: we will confront the future more wisely: I write this, wondering about myself: is this something, this saying, that applies to someone else? I know that blind courage sustains me. I know that somehow we must circumvent the Cesares and Savonarolas.
December 2nd
At Vinci, winter, spring, summer, we used to attend early Mass: Mother had her favorite seat, near the altar, close to her Jesus: I remember her somber clothes, her yellow hair in a spiral. Her face was the face of a madonna, and the way she looked at me lit up my face; so, we walked, hand in hand, or with her hand on my shoulder. Through the years I have seen us walking there, at Vinci, a hundred times: were we always alone together? It seems that way. Was the church beautiful? It seems so.
She disapproved of the sermons:
“Latin rote...I can teach you...listen to me.”
I listened.
“There are three things for you to remember. One is gentleness. The other: honesty. The third: beauty. Look...look at this sky, the clouds, the birds, our cypress trees, our church.”
I looked.
December 4th
Alone, walking in the fog along the Loire, in the early morning, I saw him. Magnifico. Crossing. Splashing. Approaching.
That night he appeared in a dream: the Christ of my mural was walking along beside him, His hand buried in Magnifico’s thick mane. Christ was saying something about feeding him: plenty of grain in your stall, we must see to that.
A week or so ago, Judas visited me. In the dream he seemed to be standing at the foot of my bed: he complained about the cold, the falling snow: his face had become scarred; he appeared much older. Feeble.
Alone...I have learned there is something sacred about being alone. I was...
For next Saturday and Sunday
Write to Machiavelli—invite him again
Draw steering armature for bicycle
Collect leaf specimens along Loire
Re-sketch stairway at Romorantin
Invite the King—arrange sketches for him—show him Francesco’s copy of
my Salvator
Cloux
Visiting here, the Parisian architect, Pierre Arconati, admires my canvas of Saint John and my Mona. What a genial man, a student of the masters, devoted to all of the arts, dapper, young, fluent in Italian, he brought a portfolio of exquisite architectural renderings of Parisian commissions.
I showed him my drawings for the Chambord and Romorantin châteaux. We went over them in detail and he was especially interested in my spiral staircase. He, too, is a vegetarian. We had lunch together and swapped dietary ideas. Of course he can find unique foods in Paris—things we can’t obtain at Amboise.
As I showed him around the château and manor house, he was enthusiastic about living in the country...when the gardeners’ pet fawn ate out of his hand, he turned to me:
“I find the city difficult... I hope Amboise is right for you,” he said. “How did you like Rome?”
Here is my list of drawings and sketches at Cloux, work I wish retained:
Façade of a residence.
Dome of a church, with cupolas.
Lock on a canal.
Motor, with falling weight and ratchet arrangement.
Proportions of man (Vitruvius).
Star of Bethlehem plant and spurge.
Machine for grinding telescopic mirrors.
Life preserver.
Parabolic compass.
Sforza horse (Cermonino).
20 silverpoint drawings of horses.
Sketch of sailboat. Weaving machine.
Pincers for hoisting heavy objects.
Sketch of windmill.
Planetary clock.
Parachute.
Birds in flight—30.
Man in flight.
Gliders.
Helicopter.
Insects.
Drawing of Ginevra Benci.
Crayon of Cecilia Gallerani.
Silverpoints of Boltraffio, Salai, Marco d’Oggiono, Francesco Melzi.
Head of Christ.
Disciples.
Series of Last Supper drawings.
Astronomy: distance of sun and earth.
Anatomy: 60 drawings—
Muscles of upper limbs,
muscles of legs,
muscles of back.
Bone structures,
veins.
Complete skeleton, skull, hands.
Studies of horses for Adoration of the Magi.
Preliminaries for Leda.
Studies for Anne.
Saint John.
Geologic studies.
Deluge drawings.
Châteaux drawings.
FIFTY YEARS OF WORK:
Hours of work
12,000 Sketches 20,000 400 Major Drawings 10,000 20 Easel Paintings 20,000 125 Treatises (still incomplete) 16,000 Murals (and their cartoons) 15,000 Bronzes 15,000 Dissections and Anatomy Studies 10,000 Engineering Projects (canals, locks, swamps) 20,000 Architecture, Music, Horology 10,000 Maps, Geometry 5,000 Geometry, Hydraulics 5,000
146,000
N.B. I have destroyed 188 drawings. I have retained several maps, and I may retain several drawings of people here at Amboise. Francesco is to destroy most of the military sketches and drawings because many are lifted from old books and manuscripts. It was my intention to compile an encyclopedia of machines of all kinds.
1519
Cloux
January 3, 1519
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