Leonardo and His Angels in Florence and Milan
By Rina de' FirenzeAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Rina de' Firenze
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4389-7164-3Contents
Florence-The Lonesome Days.....................1The Breaking Of The Light......................49New Horizons...................................89Unsettled Times................................139The Way North..................................167Milan-The Ducal Court..........................203The Third Angel................................239The Milanese...................................271The Plague.....................................305Attainment.....................................345Epilogue.......................................404
Chapter One
It was early dawn when I reached the outskirts of Florence. I had been riding all night from the little village of Anchiano, near Vinci, where I had been to bury my mother. I could not stay in her house because soon after the funeral it had burned to the ground. In Florence I could have returned to my small room above the
bottega (combined shop, work space, and living space) of the famous sculptor Andrea del Verrocchio, to whom I had been apprenticed for several years. But I had hurriedly left his bottega without asking permission, and I did not yet feel ready to explain the reason to Maestro Andrea and the other apprentices.
The day before my abrupt departure, my mother had made the long journey to Florence to bring me a magnificent lily plant that she had grown in her garden. She returned home that evening. The next day I drew the lily and then, as she had requested, I took it to the Duomo. As I was placing it before the altar, I heard her voice call me, as if from far away, to come to her. That miraculous summons gave me the chance to see my mother alive for the last time.
Now, with an aching heart, I decided to put off facing my maestro by looking for lodging in a inn on the outskirts of the city. Sensing my grief, my silver horse, Freccia d'Argento, stopped abruptly under the rusty lantern of a small inn, bringing my sad thoughts to a halt as well. The light inside the lantern seemed to burn brighter, casting a mysterious glow on the dark wall of the inn.
As I stood there I was suddenly flooded by memories of those last moments at my mother's bedside. I was bending over her, feeling the back of her head, trying desperately to determine what was wrong with her, hoping there was something I could do to save her. I put my ear to her chest while squeezing her fingertips at the same time. Then I noticed that she was trying to say something:
"Don't worry, my dear," she whispered. "Maybe my time has come. The voice ... the prophet was right, after all, when he told me my mission was over, for-you belong to the world now ... just as your art ... belongs to the world. You don't need me anymore ..."
"That is not true, Mother!" I cried. "Please, don't say that. You mustn't leave me. I still need you. You are the source ... the source of all my inspirations!" "No, my son. Yours is a gift from God-you'll never lose it. But I promise you I will always be thinking of you," she comforted me, trying to touch my cheek in the dark.
"Your portrait, Mother! I still need you to pose for it. I have put aside the perfect board for it."
"Oh, my son, you don't need me for it. You told me it was in your mind, remember? Look! The angel agrees with me. He's trying to say that he likes the lily he is offering to the Virgin Mary! She likes it, too ... the lily in your painting!"
"Yes, they are saying that you are like the lily, pure and inspiring. Yes, you are, without even knowing it. Yes, Mother, without even ..."
The flame in the lantern on the wall grew dim. The horse jumped back as the door of the inn opened. A sleepy, old innkeeper appeared briefly on the doorstep. When I requested a bed, he motioned me to take the horse to the stable in back. I tied Freccia to the iron ring on the stable wall and stepped into the inn. The innkeeper grabbed an oil lamp in his shaky hand and silently guided me up a wooden staircase. We entered a dark room. After having lit a candle on a small table by the door, he walked out without uttering a word. I shut the door behind him, but the air in the room was unbearably stuffy. Dashing to the window, I pushed open the shutters to disclose the shadows of trees, standing in the inn yard still wrapped in the darkness of the night. Depressed, I quickly closed the shutters and lay down on the old, unsteady bed, hoping that exhaustion would send me into a heavy sleep. Instead, I began to imagine the numerous strangers who had slept on that bed before me.
Disgusted by that thought, I jumped to my feet and began to pace the floor. At the same time I was annoyed with myself for being so fastidious when, really, nothing mattered anymore.
Gradually I calmed down and began blaming myself again for refusing to face the sad reality of my life without the loving support of my mother. Then a powerful fit of anger swept over me, making me punch the wall like a madman. "Why, why couldn't I have saved her? Why have I been so helpless in finding a way to heal her cough and save her life?" I cried.
My angry voice echoed strangely in the stillness of the room. My grief uncontrolled, I shouted, "One day, yes, one day, when I can afford to leave my tedious painting aside, I promise that I'll dedicate my entire time to the study of the mysterious functioning of the human body! I owe you that, Mother! Yes, I do!" My hoarse voice rasped in my throat and sounded so ugly in the small airless room that I tore open the door and ran down the creaking stairs.
In the taproom I stopped at the sight of a couple sitting opposite each other at a long table, dosing with their heads propped on their hands. I felt tempted to draw those faces, but I was repelled by the nauseating smell of wine exuding from their open mouths. As I backed away, I asked myself if their boozy sleep had ever brought them any pleasant dreams. After putting some coins in the hand of the sleepy innkeeper, I went outside. The bright light of daybreak slapped my face, making me realize that this was certainly the most lonesome day of my life. I picked up some hay from a pile against the stable wall and gave it to my horse. Then I mounted and rode through Porta San Frediano, crossed Ponte delle Grazie, and entered into the heart of the city on the nearly empty cobblestone streets. My horse's hoofs resounding irritated my ears, yet the noise didn't seem to bother any of the other early risers, who steadily plodded on their way.
Soon I realized that I had unwittingly entered a narrow, somber street near the Piazza della Signoria. I pulled Freccia to a halt and looked up at a stone house standing taller than the others. This was the house in which I had planned to take rooms before winter. I had asked the owners, a well to-do, middle-aged couple named the Fronzetti, who spent most of the year in their country house outside Florence, if I could rent the rooms on the top floor. At first, they had seemed reluctant to let a young artist stay in their house, but after I had told them my plan was to bring my mother there to spend the winter months with me, away from the cold hills, they had agreed to let me see the space. Their middle-aged servant, Veracunda had led me to the top floor, but I had asked her if before seeing the rooms I could look at the little attic under the roof, which I had spotted one day from the top of the old bell tower of the nearby Church of Badia. She agreed. When I entered the attic I was surprised to find that it was endowed with a window high up under the eaves that was the largest I had ever seen in my life. Then and there, I had decided that under that window I would finish painting the panel of the Annunciation that I had started in Verrocchio's bottega.
Chapter Two
Now, looking up at the grand building, so close to the center of Florence that was to allow the realization of my dreams, I saw that it would have been much too dark for my mother's liking. Its rusticated stone faade, its iron-barred windows, and the heavy lock on the massive door, compared to her cheerful, little white house in the sunny hills of Anchiano, surrounded by trees and garden, would have made her feel as if she were in a prison. So I nudged my horse, urging him to move on. Instead, he stamped on the cobbles, refusing to move.
Suddenly, Veracunda's round face peered from the small opening in the front door, staring indignantly at the noisy horse. But as she looked up and recognized me, her eyes shone with delight, "Ah, Ser Leonardo! What a lovely surprise!" she greeted me. "Have you come to stay? Oh, I'm so glad!" Giving me an inquisitive sidelong glance, she suddenly raised her arms, letting her broom fall to the ground, and cried, "Ser Leonardo, you look so pale! Have you been ill?" I shook my head.
"Did you ride all night?"
"Yes, I did." I answered noncommittally.
"You must be worn out. Why don't you come in? I'll warm some soup for you. Then you can go and rest in the nice bed I have made ready for you. Here all is quiet. The Fronzetti and their servants are still in the country," she added in a warm, Sienese accent.
"No, thank you, Veracunda, I was only passing by. I haven't decided to rent the rooms yet, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to rent them," I said, turning to leave. "It doesn't make any difference, Ser Leonardo. You look sick, tired out. You need badly to rest." I hesitated, but her welcome was too sincere to ignore.
"Thank you, Veracunda," I said, giving in as she courteously opened wide the heavy door. So, still mounted on Freccia d'Argento, I entered the courtyard. She swiftly locked the door behind her.
She showed me where to stable my horse through an arched passage under the second floor, which led to the back of the building. When I returned to the front courtyard, she was waiting for me on the doorstep of the house. I insisted, though, that until I could make a definite agreement with the owners, I would occupy only the attic space. So that same morning, with the help of a baffled man servant, I brought a bed, a worktable, and a chair from an empty room up to that longed-for attic, with the great window that was to become the first, private living place of my life.
I was also pleased to discover a small lower window giving access to a ladder to the courtyard so I could come and go without entering the house.
Up there, in the attic, still without sending word to Maestro Andrea and my working companions, I remained secluded for many days, isolating myself completely from the rest of the world. Yet, as time went by, my retreat seemed to serve me only as a place of physical rest. It didn't restore my spirits at all. The immense void created inside by my mother's death seemed to grow deeper every day. Nothing happened to spur me back into normal life. Most of the variety of Sienese dishes that the attentive Veracunda so generously prepared for me remained untouched because my inactivity meant I had no appetite.
I was helpless to shake off the torpor that had taken possession of me. At the same time, the pain of loss intensified. Every time I asked my insistent question about proof of life after death, instead of an answer, there was only blankness plunging me deeper into despair.
The wonderful visions I had experienced before leaving Anchiano that last time seemed to have receded deep into my mind, far out of reach. One morning, though, just before waking, I dreamed of the long-stemmed lily I had painted on the lid of my mother's coffin. That immediately brought back to my memory the drawing I had done of the lily plant my mother had brought to the bottega for me on her last trip to Florence. But I couldn't recall where I had placed the drawing before I left to take the plant to the Duomo. Jumping out of bed, I cried in anger, "How could I forget such an important thing?" Then a horrifying thought seized me. "Lorenzo di Credi," I shouted. A younger apprentice, he had been working next to me at the bottega. He could have seen it and decided to surprise me by retouching the lily held by the archangel Gabriel on the panel of my Annunciation, as he had done sometimes as a joke, against my will.
"No, absolutely not," I cried. "Nobody must touch it, nobody!" Then stamping on the floor like one demented, I shouted, "Enough! That's enough of this seclusion!" I went to the earthenware basin on a small table, both provided by Veracunda, to wash. A soft knock on the door caught my attention. I noticed that it was being gently pushed open by a red-faced Veracunda. "Ser Leonardo, has something happened?" she asked in a trembling voice. "No, nothing has happened, Veracunda," I answered dryly. "The fact is that I've just gotten bored with staying shut in here. That's all." "Well," she said, her corpulent figure advancing into the room, "Well, if you allow me, Ser Leonardo, I was starting to get worried about you, staying in here for so many days. Besides, your horse needs exercise." "You are right. I will take him to my friend's stable. They will exercise him. My Freccia d'Argento was reared there."
Chapter Three
On that same morning, after taking care of Freccia, I headed for the bottega. It occupied a large walled aria near the Arno, called Via dell'Acqua. It consisted of an open yard with a covered display room and workrooms off it and living quarters behind and upstairs.
As I stood at the entrance, of the main workroom, I was met by Lorenzino's questioning glances. (We called him Lorenzino because he was the youngest of us painters.)
I greeted Maestro Andrea, who looked up from his worktable. He slowly rose to his feet, moved toward the center of the room, and trying hard to control his voice, demanded, "And where have you been, young man?" Although I knew that I owed him an explanation, I was still unwilling to talk about the cause of my sudden disappearance. He studied me from head to foot and said more softly, "Here, everybody was concerned about you."
I moved inside the workroom as the group of young apprentices who had seen me enter crowded around. With an admonishing finger, the maestro dispersed them. Taking advantage of the moment, I walked toward my Annunciation panel. Seeing that it hadn't been touched by anybody, I sighed with relief. Then I looked around for my lily drawing, but it was nowhere to be seen.
The silence was soon broken by a voice calling Maestro Andrea from the yard. He rushed nervously outside. Maestro Andrea was a rather short, stout man with a puffy face, bright eyes, and a crop of black hair continually ruffled by his nervous hands. He was born Andrea di Michele de Cione but was called Andrea del Verrocchio because he had been for many years a pupil of the famous Florentine goldsmith, Giuliano Verrocchio, from whom he had inherited the Verrocchio bottega. Maestro Andrea was the best goldsmith in Florence, also a painter, a woodworker, and a student of mathematics and geometry, with a knowledge of the new science of perspective, but his great passion was for sculpture.
As we waited for him to return, Lorenzo approached me, his eyes still fixed on me, and whispered, "Leonardo, what happened to you? You look so ... so upset. You can talk to me, can't you? I thought you had left for Mantua without telling us," he added, hoping for a reaction.
"Why to Mantua?" I asked, absently glancing around.
"I thought you had accepted Marchese Federico Gonzaga's offer."
"What offer?" I asked. "Ah yes, I had completely forgotten about it."
Touching his shoulder, I asked, "Lorenzino, have you by any chance, seen the drawing of the lily I was working on?"
"Yes, I found it pinned to the wall next to the panel," he answered casually. Noticing my apprehension, he added, "Don't worry; I put it away on your table with other notes."
"Thank you, Lorenzo. Unfortunately, I had to go home in a hurry."
He nodded without asking any more questions. He knew that if I didn't say anything more right away, there was no use insisting.
"Leonardo, do you know," he confessed, "without you here, I feel lost!" I gave him a sideways look. "Because without you around the workshop, Maestro Andrea doesn't trust me with any important job."
"Don't talk nonsense, Lorenzino! You always imagine the worst."
Maestro Andrea, furious, burst back into the workroom and planted himself directly in front of me. "It's about the panel, your panel of the Annunciation, the panel ordered for the base of the altarpiece for Pistoia Cathedral. They just sent word informing us that they need it for Christmas, and in the size they originally requested." Seeing that I didn't respond, he said, pointing at me, "And look at you. After disappearing for days, you come back resembling a ghost, and in a foul mood as if we were to blame for your mysterious absence."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Leonardo and His Angels in Florence and Milanby Rina de' Firenze Copyright © 2009 by Rina de' Firenze. Excerpted by permission.
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