University of Virginia Library

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
That asks not office, favour, or control,—
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.

FRANCIS.
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,
By tens of thousands, could not execute;
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—
One noble labour—“The Lord's Supper!” whence,
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!
How dared I execute those lineaments?
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:—
He who loved Martha, Mary, Lazarus;—
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!

FRANCIS.
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.