University of Virginia Library

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
Were we—wild, rambling, thoughtless, truants oft.
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.

RAIMONDI.
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,
Take, as 'twere native to the soul within,
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).

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?
Painting? efecks! give me a Pantry, Sir!—
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!—

RAIMONDI.
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 . . . .

FILIPPO.
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;
The other, crown'd by Fame, ascends a throne
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.