 | Art and Fashion |  |
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LEONARDO DA VINCI.
Scene
—Gallery of Paintings in the Palace of Fontainebleau; a flight of steps descending to the garden.Enter Raimondi, Filippo, and Ginevra.
RAIMONDI.
Seven hundred crowns a year! Well, Fortune's son
Improves upon his early heritage.
FILIPPO.
A welcome boon—worthy the generous hand
And kingly heart of Francis. A wise gift!
RAIMONDI.
So after time may say: but hold you not
More than a common interest in this act,
Knowing Da Vinci long?
FILIPPO.
From childhood, Sir.
I am ten years his senior. Neighbours' sons
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Val d'Arno, and the mountain tracts beyond,
Beheld us link'd together dawn and eve.
Bright days were those, Raimondi; bright but brief—
Scenes that have passed to sounds—mere things of air—
Voices that have no echo, save a sigh:
Little remains to bid us now rejoice.
Pleasure finds many doors, and knocks full loud;
She hath her youthful comrades as of yore:
Age from the casement views her tripping by,
Calling no more as erst she used to call;
Singing no more as she was wont to sing!
RAIMONDI.
Well, Leonardo is advancing, too.
FILIPPO.
Genius counts days by deeds! Him I remember—
A handsome, gifted, earnest, active youth:
There was persuasion in his honest look;
None saw him but to love him.
GINEVRA.
Love him—a madcap! Sooth, I lov'd him not—
A giddy, hare-brained, noisy, reckless lad,
Ever in mischief! Never imp alive
Contrived to plague me as that rogue Da Vinci.
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I knew him when such school-day sports had ceased,
When thought made thin his cheek, when full of hope,
Full of the painter's ardour—young and warm,
Trembling with aspirations yet untold,
He loved to stand and gaze, full hour by hour,
Upon a Giotto or a Masaccio:—
Hearing no tongue save that which stirr'd the soul
With restless promptings unto noble deeds;
Seeing a vision canvas never showed
Lying beyond, apart, and far above
The painted scene on which he seemed to gaze—
A world wherein dwelt name, position, fame!—
Oh, hope of Genius, how divine the air
Which wraps thy presence—how intense the joy
That agitates the step that seeks renown!
FILIPPO.
Gladsome it is to mark a gifted mind
Step from a lot, by circumstance confined,
Narrowed by poverty, and in pure force
Of self-reliant, honourable will
Make circumstance give way,—and the steep path
Which leads to station, dignity, and power,
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A spirit born to climb and to ascend! [A pause.
Oh! golden city of the land of Hope,
What hast thou not in store for those who strive
And toil, and mount, and wrestle for the wreathes
Whose leaves are—
RAIMONDI.
What?
FILIPPO.
Worthless, me thought to say;
But I am old, and aged eyes wax dim.
RAIMONDI.
And yet I've seen them gladden when thou spak'st
Of the first painting Leonardo wrought—
His famed Medusa . . . .
FILIPPO
(with excitement).
Think, my Raimondi—in a low-built room—
On scrap of common wood—with clay and paint,
Of which as yet he'd scarcely learnt the use,—
Without a friend to cheer, to aid him on,
Or whisper courage,—silent and alone,
Unfriended, unassisted,—he sent forth
A work whose novelty, whose force and depth,
Astonished Florence!
On scrap of common wood—with clay and paint,
Of which as yet he'd scarcely learnt the use,—
Without a friend to cheer, to aid him on,
Or whisper courage,—silent and alone,
Unfriended, unassisted,—he sent forth
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Astonished Florence!
Then his modest worth;
His noble person,—handsome countenance—
His noble person,—handsome countenance—
GINEVRA.
A little louder speak,—I'm somewhat deaf.
FILIPPO.
A handsome lad—
GINEVRA.
Ay, ay, a franksome lad—a ne'er-do-well;
I often said he'd never come to good.
Always devising—ever constructing,
Making, unmaking;—doing, undoing;—
Mills, bridges, boats, and other carpentry—
Leaving a litter, which he called “Invention.”
Out on Invention!—'tis untidy work—
Keeps a house dirty, slovenly and rough . . . .
RAIMONDI
(interrupting her).
You'd need to speak more fittingly of one
So high in worth, in honour, as our Painter!
GINEVRA.
Painter, forsooth!—and where's the good of it?
What's the end of it? Who profits by it?
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Sketching, say you—Kitchen, say I; Kitchen!—
The Light of Genius—can you see by it?
The Fire of Genius—can you cook with it?
What hath his genius done?
RAIMONDI.
Created works that will outlast thy grave;
A plate from one such work were worth a sum.
GINEVRA.
Plates, marry, plates! give me good dinner plates!
Burnished like silver, glittering in a row,
Making a dark place light;—Painting! mere stuff!
The painting on a clock but spoils the dial;
'Twould better go without it;—Painting! Plates!
Leonardo's a fool.
[Exit, grumbling.
FILIPPO.
That woman would speak evil of a saint,
As obstinate as . . . .
RAIMONDI.
What?
FILIPPO.
An old woman!—
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Mere prejudice, my Filippo, mere cant;—
True obstinacy is young as oft as old;
As often seen in ringlets as in wigs;
As firmly sits upon a snowy brow
As though it found ten wrinkles for a seat;
Speaks with smooth lip as boldly as with rough;
Ascribes a hundred motives for an act,
Not one of which is temper, passion, spleen.
No 'faith, 'tis “proper pride,”—'tis a “self-respect,”—
A rightful spirit suffering things unjust;
A brave resolve not to be “trampled on!”
Your true-born stubbornness is something great;
A mixture of the martyr and the saint!—
FILIPPO.
The world hath sat in judgment and declared . .
RAIMONDI.
Tut, tut!
The world must then reverse its law.
The old? no, no!—the stubborn are the young!
Twenty things granted cannot make them grateful;
One thing denied sufficeth to provoke them;
The young . . It galls me to the quick . . . .
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Ha! ha!
A Preacher of “submission” losing patience!
But of Ginevra, who has just retired,
Nothing seems right to her distorted view;
Why sent Da Vinci for her?
RAIMONDI.
Doubtless to render service; place her well;
Where her old age might meet with fitting care.
E'en I have much to thank his friendship for.
No favour promptly offer'd to his youth
Escapes his heart—eludes his memory;
The hand that did him kindness when a boy—
That hand, if needing help, he thrice repays.
FILIPPO.
God bless him for it!
See, Da Vinci comes.
RAIMONDI.
And with the King.
FILIPPO.
'Twere better to retire.
RAIMONDI.
Two Kings:—
One has his throne within this realm of France;
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Acknowledged by all peoples, and all realms.
FILIPPO.
Still so enamour'd: one may bend the knee
To kingly worth—a thousand unto Kings
Without the worth! Still nearer they approach.
We may offend.
[They descend the steps leading to the garden.
Scene II.
—Enter Francis the First and Leonardo.LEONARDO.
Your Majesty outvalues much my skill.
FRANCIS THE FIRST.
Nay, good Da Vinci—not a jot too much;
Kings find few pleasures half so pure or high
As those true Art invites them to partake;
'Tis pleasant to seek refuge from the cares,
Inquietudes, and vanities of state,
Within a world where talking is unknown:—
A world whose star hath set—whose day hath gone;
Whose rank and power, whose pomp and arrogance
Are painted visions hanging 'gainst a wall!—
'Tis something to behold a human face
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Here, conquests, glories, spoils, ambitions, all
Shrink into silence;—beauty lifts her gaze,
In immortality of loveliness,
Yet craves nor title, pension, nor reward:
Sworn foes frown face to face, yet draw no sword;
The envious cease their scandals; and the false
Have done with stratagems and low finesse.
Oh, World of Art, thou dost rebuke the life
We prize so much, yet pass so peevishly!
Say, my Da Vinci, what drew first thy thought
Unto this sphere of thy divinity?
Art, we remember, was thy second choice.
LEONARDO.
In youth my great ambition was the Muse;—
To leave a poem that might shrine my name
For centuries; to represent the mind,
The spirit, manners, progress of the Age;
To pioneer the path to higher aims
And holier aspirations,—to advance
The Arts and Science of my country,—these—
These were the thoughts that, like unbearing trees,
Show'd many leaves, but never came to fruit;—
A few light sonnets, a few passing songs,
And the strings jarr'd, and all again was mute.
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Some sonnets we have seen, yet scarce regret
The Poet lost for the true Painter found.
LEONARDO.
Ah, my liege—
Some hundreds enter the wide boat of Fame,
But in few years Time throws full many out;—
Pass half a century, and half remain;—
A hundred years, and you may count their heads
By twos and threes—the multitudes are gone:
And still the Immortal City shines afar;
Still longer centuries must intervene
Ere on that coast to Genius consecrate
The Pilgrim's name may live for evermore,
Writ high above the casualties of time!—
Such height, I fear, my name may never reach.
FRANCIS.
Great men know not their greatness—'tis the air,
The daily element, which they respire;
Greatness is habitude, and strikes them not!
LEONARDO.
My next ambition was to cope with Time;—
Anticipate the future, and invent
Machines that should achieve what human hands,
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To bring the poor cheap bread, and better garb,
Healthier homes, and life at lesser cost;
And partly 'twas accomplish'd;—my next step,—
FRANCIS.
And best—
LEONARDO.
Would I could think so; but, my liege,
What yet is done seems small to the “to be”—
That grows, enlarges—but 'tis ever so:
The prize of time is in the years to come,
The time we have we prize not!—
FRANCIS.
Say not so!
One work is done which every heart must prize!
Art is the bridge that leads from years of time
To the eternal years whose sun is Fame!
To speak not of the female heads thy skill
Hath dower'd with beauty and perpetual grace,
Whose tender playfulness, expression, power;
Whose purity, refinement, breathe a life—
A stamp of truth, unequall'd erst in Art,—
Omitting these, one great achievement stands
To guard thy name from man's forgetfulness—
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Whence rose the seed of this? A sudden thought,
Or long premeditation?
LEONARDO.
Good, my liege,
The painting honour'd with such special praise
Was my sole thought for years:—full oft the hope
Of its accomplishment died in my breast,
Again to be renew'd—with higher zeal
And bolder impulse; then again delay'd.
The day my hand, irresolute and slow,
Dared the commencement of so grand a theme,
A solemn sense of some companionship
Compell'd my pencil silently to paint;—
Fused feeling into colours;—soon this pass'd,
And my whole being own'd some presence gone.
Still day by day, week, month, and year, I strove;
Onward, though slow, till each Disciple's head
Before my mind, as in a mirror, came,
And lived upon the canvas as they rose;
When each received my last, half-lingering touch,
I turned to that, which made reflection ache,
To that—the one untouched—all else complete:—
The head of our Redeemer—the Divine,
Incarnate Saviour,—Ransom infinite!
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With what expression might I mould that face—
That head, which God himself had glorified—
That hand which angels worshipp'd in their spheres:
That hand!—Oh, miracle of gracious love,—
Which gave itself to wounds, our souls to heal,
And lift them pure before the face of God?
I paused and wept:—what could I else but weep?
What other offering had my soul to yield
For such self-sacrifice—such love supreme?
[A pause.
FRANCIS.
Emotion is the spring of excellence;
He must feel deeply who'd make others feel.
LEONARDO.
Oh! my mind long'd—yet fear'd the wondrous theme—
To mark each scene and circumstance that left
A glory round Jerusalem—that endow'd
The everlasting tongue of love with truth,
That lifted man to an inheritance
Surpassing earthly kingdoms—made the grave
A gateway unto light!—a path o'er which
Shone the unsetting day of righteousness!
To portray Him who trod the wilderness
And held communion with eternity:—
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Who on his breast received the slumb'ring brow
Of his disciple John;—whose tenderness
Broke forth in syllables that live insphered;—
Who to the universal Mother called,
With voice that thrills each matron-heart e'en now,
“Suffer little children to come unto Me!”
Oh, lips Divine—oh, words omnipotent,
Solace unmatch'd, and comfort unconceived—
How could man's pencil seek to realise
An image that could live—resembling Thee?
But I forget the presence of my King,—
FRANCIS.
Thy King would have thee still forget;
Proceed.
LEONARDO.
Then pass'd a vision, or perchance a dream,
I know not what, but vision it appear'd!
In which I seem'd spectator, and not actor:—
Coming and going without thought of mine—
A vision that surprised me unto tears!—
As music to the ear—so to my soul
Rang the innumerable harmonies
Of heaven, of angels, and the hosts of God!
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We have felt painting thus ourself, Da Vinci,
As voiceless sermons—silent psalms to God—
Mute and yet eloquent:—they bade us feel
What words were powerless to communicate.
Enter Officer.
FRANCIS.
What interruption now? Who waits without?
OFFICER.
My liege, the deputies of Burgundy
Entreat an audience . . . .
FRANCIS
(aside).
What broil's abroad?
What fresh chagrin, vexation, discontent,
Trouble our deputies? Well, 'tis some gain
To snatch an interval, though brief as this,
From frets of rule and jealousies of state.
The State is King, and sovereigns are its slaves. (To Da Vinci.)
You to your canvas—we to council go.
Happier your realm than any realm we know.
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