RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Blue Book, May 1947, with "A Task for Leonardo"
The incomparable Leonardo da Vinci had great plans for the magic Sphinx Emerald—but though the King of France was his friend, he had also made a bitter enemy.
IN the days when King François was young and handsome and magnificent, glorious with victories, ablaze with majesty and splendor—let us say, in the year 1517—he was a great patron of the arts, and brought the Renaissance back to France with him from Italy. Among others, he brought the famed old artist Leonardo, and gave him the manor of Cloux, a fine little property in a suburb of Amboise in Touraine, and with it seven hundred crowns a year, a princely pension. Here Leonardo da Vinci settled down happily.
The artist was not a painter alone. Having the title of Royal Architect, he planned cities, palaces and even a canal system for King François. Being an accomplished engineer, he could turn his hand nobly to any form of work or art. In doing so, he could even hide, at first, the sad fact that this hand was failing him; but after a year or so, it became evident that a form of paralysis was creeping over those fingers which had created so much loveliness, winning him renown and the whole world's respect. Finally the right hand entirely lost its use, though he could still work and sketch perfectly with the other.
The King one day came to the little square house at Cloux, embraced Leonardo warmly, and with satisfaction looked over the plans for the canal system. Then, in his restless way, he turned to something else.
"There is a little thing you can do for me, Leonardo," he said. "I love you. Men have ever loved you, for you are like a god in all you do. You create beauty. You have the ability to look at a stone, and envision in it the statue. Well, here is a stone on which to try your fancies. Intrinsically, it is worth little, yet it has vast value. It is a stone of strange history, 'tis said. Take it, study it, and some day tell me what to do with it."
So saying, he gave the old man, whose long white hair and beard were like glistening snow, an ancient, thin-worn ring holding a great lump of green.
Leonardo looked at it, and drew down his white eyebrows.
"Is it an emerald, Sire?"
The King laughed. "Aye, by report. In the days when King Harry of England exchanged gifts with me, instead of threatening war, I had it from him. Keep it for a while, ponder how strange a thing it is, my friend, and later advise me concerning it."
THE swaggering king went his splendid way, while the old
artist stayed close; and a morning came when Francesco Melzi, the
devoted Milanese pupil who served him so nobly, heard a ringing
cry of ecstasy from the garden, and looked to see the old artist
seated there, gazing at something under a glass, an enlarging
lens.
"There is a man here to speak with you, master," Melzi called. "One Messer Baldino of Florence, a cutter of gems."
"Then let him in," replied Leonardo.
Past seventy now, clear as a bell in mind, he tucked away his useless right hand and eyed the visitor from beneath the heavy white brows, so carefully tended. He was ever careful of his appearance; indeed, he was a great gentleman in every way, fastidious and never neglectful of the least detail.
This Baldino was a cocky, assured fellow with quick eye and nimble tongue, who bowed low and gave the great artist humble greeting; one felt the humility assumed. In his calm, serene way Leonardo listened. He was a good listener. Never excited, never emotional—even when Buonarotti had insulted him to his face, he only reddened and remained silent—he was serenity itself. He could feel, with those extra senses of his that felt so much, the meanness of this man Baldino; yet the words rang fair enough.
This gem-cutter had made a reputation and money and had come to join the artistic ateliers of the King of France. He was in love with a girl here in Amboise; in fact, was affianced to her, and begged that the master would sketch her—a mere sketch from the angelic genius of Leonardo! A little thing—a vastly great one. Baldino spoke well, and Leonardo, a trifle ashamed of what his intuition told him, did not refuse curtly or at all. The man did not insult him with offers of pay, but begged the favor as being himself a Florentine, from Leonardo's own fair city.
It might be, answered the old artist; he would have to see the girl. She might interest him as a model—why not? As they talked, Baldino caught sight of the ring and its great lumpy emerald. A stone of poor color, not of good deep hue, and above nine carats in weight—unevenly cut, a huge lopsided cabochon. He spoke eagerly of the stone, and Leonardo nodded at him.
"It is not mine. Look, if it pleases you."
Baldino took the ring, saw that the gold was thin-worn and done for; and then the jewel gripped him. He did not see what lay within it; yet it seized hold of him by the roots. He perceived how it might be re-shaped, after a fashion, and knew it must belong to the King, who was Leonardo's patron. He asked if he might sketch it.
Leonardo assented silently, watched his work, and saw what a facile, superficial botch of an artist he was, but made no comment. Presently the sketch was done, and Baldino handed back the ring, spoke of the latest news from Florence, made an appointment for his fair Flora, and so departed. Old Leonardo got out his glass, and once again began gazing into the emerald, feeling as though some evil thing had left him. Not that poor Baldino was akin to Satan, but he was a slipshod sort of artist; and in Leonardo's sight, this was the most evil of all things.
Then he forgot the fellow, because the glowing green gem took hold of him—not on the surface but inwardly, fixedly, most amazingly.
SOME days later the young woman Flora came to be sketched.
Francesco Melzi received her, talked with her. It was no secret
that old Leonardo was a princely person of most eccentric manner.
The girl was submissive, quiet, undemonstrative. To her, it was
entirely fitting that she should await the genius of the
artist—wait until he deigned to notice her and make the
sketch. She made no objection to coming at ten each morning and
waiting until noon. Melzi told her to come, sit, make herself
comfortable, do whatever she liked, until Leonardo became aware
of her and made the promised sketch.
This, of course, was not Leonardo's way or wish; it was the devoted apprentice painter speaking, perhaps in hope that the girl, who lived nearby, would weary of the affair. The Milanese considered it shameful that Leonardo, besought for work by kings and dukes, should sketch this unknown girl for some rascally fellow from Florence. So he said naught of it to the artist.
Until, one morning, he came round-eyed into the studio, where the old man worked with one hand at his unfinished and never-to- be-finished picture of Saint John.
"Master," he said in the soft Italian that Leonardo so loved, "there is a man come to see you, and his name is the Sieur Laforge—"
"Ha!" cried out Leonardo, putting aside his palette. "Laforge! Now the gods indeed do me honor! Bring him here, my son, and let not the King himself disturb us!"
In came the soldier, he of the merry features and large fine eyes, and knelt to kiss the hand of Leonardo; but the older man touched his fingers in the Italian fashion and embraced him. He had commanded the escort bringing Leonardo from Italy, and they had become friends, and more. They were of a kind, these two, soldier and artist; smiling, silent, aware of unseen forces, puzzled and wondering at the world around, yet touched often with quick laughter and divine thoughts.
Laforge was visiting the court at Amboise, in a brief lull before returning to the army in Italy. François, more sensual and profligate than ever, foresaw more shining victories ahead, Laforge said sadly. He himself foresaw ruin and disaster, and an end of grandeur for the King, with no way to avert it all.
"Why not?" Leonardo said calmly. "That is the human scene, my friend—progression and then retrogression. All life moves in waves. We think that our own will propels the impulses of destiny, and we are proud; but always, in the end, we are cheated."
"Pessimist!" said the soldier, smiling. "What we call ruin and disaster may be no such thing in reality! We simply cannot see the higher levels, my master."
"Or mayhap we see them and are thwarted in the execution," said the artist, with a glance at his useless right hand. Laforge understood and nodded. "But never mind all that, my friend. Did you come to look at pictures? I have three here—one of Saint Anne, one of John the Baptist, one of a Florentine lady. None finished yet to my taste. But I have something far greater to show you, a thing of exquisite wonder, unique in the world."
Laforge's eyes twinkled. "I've seen her already. We've been talking in the garden. She is indeed a lovely creature!"
"She?" Leonardo peered oddly at him. "A woman? I've none here!"
"Then you entertain angels unawares." Laforge told of meeting the girl Flora in the garden, where she waited to be sketched, and Leonardo nodded; some affair of Melzi's, then. Satisfied, he went to the big table, shoved aside his volumes of notes and sketches, put away his drawings, and set up the enlarging glass with the old worn ring beneath it.
"Here is a poorly colored emerald," said he, "a lumpish stone that needs proper correction. But look into its heart and see the mystery! Ah, were I thirty years younger, what things I might see there!"
LAFORGE was a simple and curiously medieval fellow. He sat
down to look at the emerald. A cry escaped him at sight of the
great flaws making up the figure of the Sphinx. He had never seen
or heard of the Sphinx until Leonardo now told him of it, but the
singularly powerful effect of this figure amid its green fields,
precipices and sunlit glories quite pierced to his soul. It
wakened strange fancies in his imagination, and even frightened
him.
"Wizardry! It is bewitched!" He crossed himself hurriedly.
"Don't be childish," said Leonardo, smilingly watching him and stroking his flowing white beard. "It is bewitched like my paintings, that is all—with beauty. Touched with unseen loveliness and the mystery of art. You feel it, but cannot see it. Look again."
Laforge obeyed, marveling, and remained for a long while looking, speaking of what he saw there, and of what he fancied. This had to do with the girl Flora, though he could not say just how; but it was all very sweet and gracious, wakening the mind to wondrous things. Leonardo smiled and nodded comprehension. He too knew the mysterious love that was not of the body, and could not be fixed down with words.
"In that very sort of thing I am slowly building here, in my own way," said he, at length. "With the reach of my art, and with this fragment of green stone, I shall achieve something great and glorious in its beauty and power. Don't ask me what; the vision comes only in its due time. It is forming, taking shape, and one of these days you shall see it."
The soldier rose, loath to depart.
"The angel in the garden is beauteous enough for me," he said, smiling. "May I come again, to see her?"
"Come when you like, as you will, and do what pleases you," said Leonardo. "Truly, all I have is yours, and it affords great pleasure to place it at your service. I know in my age that the truest and most lasting pleasure is that which we have given others; we keep only what we give away. A curious little fact, which is somehow bound up with the existence of the soul, I think."
Laforge was not given to pondering souls or metaphysics, though gentleness and beauty did attract him beyond measure. Leonardo revealed a few sketches to him, and he cried out in rapture. They showed merely the necks of children. Then came, in contrast, the wrinkled nape of an old crone, and he nodded, his eyes clouding.
"I see, Florentine," he said. "The most beautiful and the most ugly of all things! Well, we two are not unlike, although I think your eyes see deeper far than mine. If I may, I'll come again."
WITH Laforge gone, Leonardo gazed anew into the emerald, and
forgot to ask Melzi about the girl in the garden. He felt
uplifted by this visit from his friend, and worked all through
the afternoon, sketching this ghostly wonder—the Sphinx and
its green fields and the things he fancied therein. It worked up
into a magnificent sketch, enlarged so that one could see into it
as into the very emerald, sensing the singular effect the stone
had upon the imagination. A wonderful bit of work; it really
satisfied the artist as he studied it that evening by
candlelight.
Bedtime came. Then he remembered the girl, and spoke to Francesco Melzi, who reminded him of the gem-cutter Baldino and his promise to sketch the affianced bride. He nodded as it came back to mind.
"Very well, my son. Bring her to me whenever you like—tomorrow, perhaps. After all, I must discover what it was the gentle Laforge found in her."
IT was not the morrow, but a sunny morning some days hence
when Melzi brought her into the studio. The square little house
of white stone and brick near the rustling brook was nestled
under the wing of a hill that broke the north wind. Yet it was
chilly, and Leonardo was wrapped in a great furred mantle. He
peered at the girl as she stood with eyes downcast, then spoke
abruptly.
"Look up, look at me! I want to see you, not your outside—look up!"
She obeyed, looked at him, caught sight of the ring on the table before him, and her gaze widened upon it. That of Leonardo softened. Tenderness crept into his voice, and youth, and all the beauty of lost dead things, as he spoke, so that she gave him a startled glance.
"That's right; look on, think—why, child, they are pure thoughts! All purity and white wings and a swan in flight.... Nay, nay, look back at the green stone! What I say is nothing. I am going to sketch you now, this moment, just as you are, a child of light ... Oh, to be in Milan again, and twenty years younger! Those soul-windows of yours stir sleeping things far within me—how the light melts in your eyes! It is like the soft moist air of Milan, veritable sweetness made light—the gentle sfumato—I used to rub the paint with my thumb to get the effect—"
Now he was working away as he talked, uttering a flow of words that she did not in the least understand, while his left hand drew her features on the parchment with magic surety of touch.
She was beautiful, true; beautiful with a tender softness like that of a flower. One could not say how or why, or define the rapt ecstasy of her eyes—Leonardo named it purity; and so it was, something not of the flesh at all. He captured it, and got it into the sketch, vaguely aware that as he worked, someone else had entered the room—it was the gentle knight Sieur de Laforge, who stood silent and motionless, looking on.
"There, it is finished," said Leonardo. "I caught it—ha! I caught it, that look of ecstasy! Girl, tell your gem-cutter to come and get it, and defile it with his touch and take it away, this essence of sheer loveliness that will mean nothing to his dull gaze—nay, take it yourself, child, and give it the blessing of your eyes before his sight desecrates it."
Thus passing swiftly from beauty's world to bitter words and harsh, as was his wont, he gave her the sketch. As she departed, her eyes met those of Laforge, and a veil of delicate color crept up her cheeks. Laforge came to the table and looked at the first trial sketch the master had made, a brief unfinished head.
"I love this," he said softly, "as I think that I love her, too. May I have it? I am leaving in a few days for Italy."
"Ask the man she loves, not me," said Leonardo brutally.
Laforge stared, his honest features aflush with chagrin and surprise.
"But she loves no other!" he blurted out. "I've seen her often—we've talked much together."
With anyone else, Leonardo would have cackled laughter and let the game play itself out bitterly. But he loved this soldier, who was too simple to lie. He perceived instantly that Laforge and Flora understood one another, yet were helpless; they were not great nobles, but little common folk.
AS upon some vast canvas, the scene swept before him,
piteously clear. This honest soldier must go his ways, go back to
Italy, his love-fancy unattained. The pure and innocent girl must
go into the arms of Baldino, since this was her fate. The King,
the great Valois, was heading toward ruin and
disaster—there was no help for it, no avoidance whatever.
Leonardo's one good hand crashed down on the table.
"I, what can I do? Am I God?" he burst forth angrily. "You, in love! The soldier, become a soft garden dove!"
Laforge, staring, abruptly changed. Purpose leaped in his eyes; his features firmed and hardened.
"I don't understand, master. But this girl I must have," said he.
"Indeed!" Leonardo stared slightly. "What was it you said the other day—ruin and disaster may not be what they seem? Look, now. You're here on the château grounds. This girl is destined to wed another, whom she loves not. You must go to Italy. For God's sake, then take her! Wed her or not, as you like—but take her and go. Do it rapidly—you have no other chance. Yes or no?"
"Yes, by the saints!" exploded the soldier. "But how—how?"
"Leave tonight, an hour after sunset. She'll be here. Yes?"
Laforge, comprehending now, eagerly seized his hand.
"Then, master, you are indeed God!"
"No blasphemy," said Leonardo. "Aye, for once I'll play God's part, though I think the ending may not be what we'd have. Be here an hour after sunset, with horses. I have money in plenty. I'll see to the rest."
SO the soldier departed, and Leonardo sent Francesco Melzi to
find the girl Flora and bid her do her part. In the dusk of
evening she came, and Leonardo put money into her hands, and a
jewel about her neck, and saw her go riding away with the
soldier, and heard their softly spoken blessings pronounced upon
his white head....
They went out of his life, out of his thoughts; and as the days passed, he let himself sink into the spell of the Sphinx Emerald. He spent long hours gazing into that bit of green beryl, whose play of broken and refracted lights so fascinated him. He sketched it anew, sketched the odd fancies that came into his mind—how to make use of the jewel, how to cut it and shape it aright, and at the last, what to do with it when it was perfectly cut. This was his ultimate vision.
It came to him slowly, by little bursts of unfoldment, until under his left hand grew the likeness of his ideal. The ethereal spirit of him flowed into this work; it took him back to the youthful days when he labored in the atelier of Verocchio. For the King who owned this gem, he took no thought. It was not his way to pander to selfish principles or the delight of an owner, in his creative frenzy. He was lifted far above any such plane, just as he was uplifted beyond any petty idea of Deity.
That clear, spiritual, serene gaze of his saw far more than material ends. It was clear seeing, a pure comprehension, a perception beyond earthly words. Under his steady inspiration the sketches grew, until they became a monstrance wherein sat the emerald in central splendor, a monstrance for the exposition of the Lord's Body, a great jewel ablaze with rare colors and precious things, with the emerald supreme, the focal point of the whole.
There he left it, fervent and excited, yet calm in the knowledge that he had created a wondrous concept, the greatest of his entire career.
The canals had to be builded. He rode out to oversee the work; no worn-out old man of extinct fires, but a fiercely adventuring soul ready to conquer the bare gray soil with his engineering skill, able to link the Saône with the Loire, doing it. Also, he was planning a new capital city for François to build, and a new royal château—was he not the King's Architect?
He thought often of what that soldier had said—ruin and disaster and what men call death are not what they seem. Mortal things, yet with immortal overtones for perceiving eyes. He smiled disdainfully; such things did not exist, in reality. They were only steps to a greater beyond.
THAT monstrance laid away among his sketches was now a
finished thing; the Sphinx Emerald lying in his cabinet was also
a finished thing—in his own mind. He had decided to do the
re-cutting himself, for unless it were accomplished in a certain
way, the lumpy jewel might be ruined.
So, while laboring at weightier matters, he made his preparations for this, the great final adventure of his art. Now and then he took an hour off, to gaze into the green depths beneath his glass and dream of the glory that the monstrance would become, one of these days, when King François remembered about the emerald.
There was much for him to get. His facile brain saw no difficulty about re-cutting the gem in the usual way, with the wheel, and retaining the huge cabochon of the stone; but his intent was to go far beyond a mere polishing of the upper round. With his intense perception of light, he quickly saw what brilliancy would be given the emerald if it had a refraction of light from the underside; so the idea of facets came to him and he played with it. To his mind, everything was based upon mathematics, and therefore the best geometrical disposition of these facets to produce the ultimate effect was a matter for figuring.
As to the making of the monstrance itself, any goldsmith could do that. This re-cutting of the emerald was the great thing, the one essential of the whole scheme, and with Francesco Melzi's help he could do it. Little by little he procured everything he would need, even to some small and broken diamonds to crush into dust.
This detail was, of course, something new, for he invariably improved upon existing methods of work. Earlier gem-cutting had been done with a sapphire point, which was laborious hand work and uncertain. Such faceting as he proposed had sometimes been employed for rock crystal, but so much of the crystal was lost in the process that its use upon jewels was prohibited. Diamond dust and oil would do it perfectly.
At this point he remembered something; the owner of the emerald had not as yet given his permission for any such work upon it. And since much of the stone must be lost if Leonardo had his way, even if the remainder would be enormously improved, this permission was something to think hard about.
Coming home one day from a trip of inspection over the Romorintan canal work, Leonardo found his sketchbooks in some disarray and called Melzi on the carpet. The Milanese swore he had not touched them, except in dusting the table, and no one had been here—no one, that is, but Messer Baldino the gem- cutter.
He came asking for the maestro, said Melzi, to display some jewels just re-cut, and had waited an hour or so in the studio, looking at some of the sketches. It was no great matter, and Leonardo dismissed his first irritation. The King was soon arriving at Amboise and would be holding a conference with him—so he must remember to bring up the subject of the emerald. Leonardo brushed all thought of Baldino from his mind.
Later, however, it was not hard to see how all his troubles sprang from that one unhappy hour, when he had taken upon himself to play God.
At the moment he was occupied with experiments, cutting facets on bits of rock and quartz crystal to prove his theories; and finding them proved, he was jubilant and flushed with triumph. He knew precisely what to do with the emerald. It weighed nine carats and more; four must come off, to leave a superb cabochon with a faceted base, and the figure of the Sphinx intact.
He now made a larger and perfected sketch of the monstrance he had conceived, and brushed in color, touching in the emerald as it would be after the re-cutting. Then he cut out the little circle showing the emerald, and kept it to hand, waiting until the King should come.
AND in time the King came, after his hearty fashion. He loved
to talk with Leonardo and treated him as an equal, with the deep
glowing respect of a young amateur for an old maestro. His
respect was genuine; but after all, François was a queer mixture
of sensuous and sensual, and he was a king, proudly a king in
those young days.
Had the old artist been Harry of England, François could not have met him with greater ease and courtesy. The restless royal brain plunged into canal and city plans, made quick promises of impossible things, and touched upon the subtle, beautiful sketches with eager delight. Well did the King know that no other man alive could sketch so clearly and simply, or perform more exactly, than this old man with one dead hand.
The conversation, as always when Leonardo da Vinci guided it, glistered with bravely shining conceptions. The King loved nothing more, and flung himself into it with a will. His vast, inordinate vanity, greatest and pettiest of all his qualities, was flattered by such talk, and the artist failed to perceive this glaring fact. Leonardo, indeed, was for the moment quite carried away by huge visions and far projects, until, almost at the last, recollection of the Sphinx Emerald came to him.
Thereupon he got out his colored sketch of the monstrance and displayed it to the regal visitor, without its central point. François was instantly charmed: but when Leonardo inserted the missing circlet to show the emerald in place, a cry of rapture broke from the King. So exquisitely perfect was this one touch of color, so quick and bright was the balance it gave, that the entire concept took on new glory and came alive.
"Pardieu! This must be made at once!" he exclaimed, kindling to the vision of beauty. "Who can do it, Leonardo?"
The artist removed the emerald circlet, and pointed at the monstrance.
"That? Any fool of a goldsmith can do that, Sire. The great thing, as Your Majesty perceives, is the central emerald. No hand but mine own can touch this bit of daring work. Here is the old and worthless ring you lent me. I'll cut the stone in a new manner, with your permission, and if it loses half its size, the result will be inconceivably more brilliant."
Lose half its size? At these words, a slight frown touched the King's brow, then vanished. He propounded quick queries—what quantity of gold would be needed, what other stones and materials would be required, and so on. Leonardo answered with his usual careless grandeur, and set down notes of the various amounts for François to take with him. Then, a little late, it occurred to him to stir the royal vanity.
"This monstrance for Your Majesty's chapel will be the talk of Europe," he added. "No other king will have such a gem of artistic perfection."
"A chapel?" said François, who had just—and barely—defeated the Church in heavy fight. "A chapel? And why that?"
"For the very practical reason of safety, Sire," Leonardo urged. "Such a jewel needs protection. In the royal chapel, it will be safe from impious hands."
"Hm!" mused the King. "The rule is a poor one, beloved master. When my troops took Brescia, I recall, every chapel and church was looted most thoroughly, and the same fate may yet come to other places in Italy. Well, let it rest. I shall remember this glorious thing of your creation, and shall make plans for it. Our treasurer must be consulted, of course."
He went on to speak earnestly about it, being actually deeply touched by the superb grace and loveliness of the sketch, and went away filled with rare intentions and impulse.
HOWEVER, the seduction of Mme. de Chateaubriant was just then in
midway career, and this occupied him keenly. And here at home,
for some reason, money was getting surprisingly tight; while
abroad, and chiefly in Italy, things were not going well at all.
He might have to go there himself ere long to pull matters into
shape.
Then there was old Leonardo himself. Supreme artist though he was, could he possibly execute the delicate task of cutting down that big emerald? After all, the man had only one hand with which to work; he might accomplish marvels with it; yet the fact remained as a disturbing element at the back of one's mind.
Still, riding one day to the hunt, François stopped briefly at the little square manor and saw Leonardo, assuring him that the affair of the monstrance was in hand, and that the treasurer was making a report upon the monies involved.
So Leonardo went on with his experiments, the great conception remaining alive and promising to be his final and greatest work of art; and in those days Francesco Melzi learned more of gem- cutting than of palette colors. Even the great folios of sketches and notes were left idle, while Leonardo's hand busied itself with oil and diamond-dust, awaiting the word to go ahead.
One day, out walking with Melzi, he came face to face with Baldino. The latter bowed humbly, but not before Leonardo saw the flash of vivid hatred in his smooth face. This flash lit up the man like an inner light. Leonardo thought of the girl Flora and the soldier, and chuckled all the way home....
TIME passed. The little manor of Cloux gathered dust, and was
visited by gossip of things artistic—paintings, buildings,
canals. Now and then Leonardo, gazing into the enlarged emerald,
where sat the Sphinx in its green enchanted world, felt his
vision upbuilded and his serene perception of beauty comforted
and full fed. Until the day when Baldino came to demand the
emerald from him!
Here now was a different Baldino, sleeker, fatter, eloquent of good living and hearty fees, bowing low and humble, but with a touch of hatred in his eye, a new assurance and sharp brightness in his gaze. Leonardo received him and wondered at his hintings, finally asking outright what he wanted.
"The Sphinx Emerald, master," replied the man with surprising boldness. "I am to re-cut it and set it anew for the King. Here is the preliminary sketch I have made to show the work."
He unrolled a parchment and Leonardo looked at it with unseeing eyes. He caught the glint of hatred, and understood that too.
The emerald—his emerald! It was utterly incredible. He focused on the sketch and found it absurd folly. A glance showed how Baldino proposed to re-cut the stone, clumsily and heavily re-shaping it for use as a necklace pendant. Gone, all his noble shining vision—gone! But no, that was impossible. He shoved away the sketch, his old eyes piercing into the man with sudden anger.
"Go away, fool," he said. "I think you are a madman."
"But, most excellent, I have here an order from the King's treasurer."
Leonardo burst into hot words. "Eat it! Keep it! Sleep with it! What the King gave, only the King can take away. Francesco! My dagger—quickly! Come, throw out this whining rogue!"
Baldino took to his heels and came back no more.
King François had recently come to visit a few weeks at Amboise. Leonardo dictated a note which Melzi wrote out fairly and carried to the royal château. He brought back a reply on the spot and Leonardo, reading the honeyed words, took heart:
There must be some grievous error in regard to that emerald. I have not forgotten your monstrance, revered friend; fear not! I shall come in person to pay you my respects, very shortly, and shall then settle this vexed matter. Are the iris lilies coming out along your brook? I am eager to see them, and you.
LEONARDO folded his hands in his furred mantle. Evasions!
He knew what that meant from the gay François. Yet there was
still hope, there must be hope.
Yes, the iris flowers were coming in; spring was warming the trees; Lent was wearing Easterward, and a mortal hurt was piercing into his spirit. Gazing with dulled eyes across his own garden at the brook, he thought of how the red and white pomegranate blossoms must now be budding in Florence. Hope, like them, sprang ever anew. Surely the Valois could not deny the vision of splendor that was his monstrance! Impossible!
Still, the uneasiness hurt—and the thought of this cheap Baldino with his coarse botched artistry. It sprawled athwart his white pure vision like an evil thing. He had mocked at destiny; was destiny catching up with him now? Was this some repayment for his playing at the ways of God? He had given the girl Flora to Laforge, had sent them away in happiness—was he paying for that action now?
"Look you, my son," he said to Melzi, "and note well the lesson: For the green stone I dreamed a glory, a beauty, no one else could even imagine. And instead, the gem goes to a cheap fate. Well, you shall see! I can still smile. What was it he said? What we call ruin, disaster—why, it does not exist if we perceive it aright! Yes, I can smile, for the price is bitter; yet it is a small price after all."
"But master," pleaded the anxious Milanese, "the King is coming in a day or two—I myself heard him say so. He will do the right thing—"
The white-maned head lifted, the old eyes flashed once more.
"You say truth, my son; aye, always the right thing! Set out the leaf that bears the colored sketch of the monstrance, and put the central bit in place, and have the emerald ring ready against the King's coming. There is always hope, even when it is denied. And send to tell the notary that I wish to make my last testament on Easter Eve."
SO, in due time, came the King. He came in some haste, having
been called to celebrate the birth of his second son at Saint
Germain-en-Laye, and must depart on the morrow. He came, splendid
and laughing, with half a dozen of his lords around him; and in
his train followed the sleek gem-cutter Baldino, a pricking query
in his eye. Leonardo caught this look and smiled to himself in
comprehension.
Spring was burgeoning, but a fire burned in the studio of Leonardo, where the old man sat folded in his furred mantle until he rose to receive King François, who embraced him lovingly and stood awhile in gallant talk of Italy and Milan. Then the King's eye caught the sheen of the emerald on the table. He picked it up, smiling as at an old friend.
"So, Messer Leonardo, you would pare away half of my green jewel?" said he, with a hearty laugh. "A pity, so to waste this loveliness!"
Leonardo pushed forward the colored sketch.
"There, Sire; look at the monstrance. The iris bulbs must die, ere the green leaves and the flower come forth; and what men take to be waste, flowers into a mysterious beauty that speaks to the very soul."
"Ah, my master," said the King, "you are ever charming, ever a weird necromancer of words! But you propose a beauteous thing for the worship of God. Now, God already has far more beauty than I, and I need it more than He, pardieu! Our good craftsman Baldino has proposed a jewel to adorn our person, and therefore he shall have his own will with the emerald."
Leonardo said nothing. A cold hand was over his heart; when one beholds a vision perish, with other eyes blinded to it, only silence can make answer. Words are useless there, as so many a one has found, and thus Leonardo found now, in the bitterest of all moments.
The parchment with the colored sketch slid from his hand and soared into the fire, blazing up nobly upon the room. And when the King and his gay troop had ridden away, Leonardo leaned upon the arm of the Milanese and went to his bed, there to await the notary and make his will.
He did it slowly, carefully, said Francesco Melzi afterward; and oddly, he did it with a smile upon his lips, dying like the great gentleman he was. Perhaps his heart was broken, but his smile was that of victory.