I, Mona Lisa, page 25
Our master went with the rest of us to one of the precincts to see Messr Leonardo da Vinci, an old man of more than seventy, the most outstanding painter of our age. He showed to His Excellency three pictures, one of a certain Florentine woman portrayed from life … most perfect, though as he suffers from paralysis in the right hand nothing good can further be expected. He has successfully trained a Milanese pupil who works well enough. And although Messr Leonardo cannot colour with his former softness, yet he can still make drawings and teach.
The Travel Journal of Antonio de Beatis, Canon of Molfetta, 1517
Amboise 1517
Autumn
I want to return to Leonardo for almost the last time. Even now, I can tell there aren’t many days left together. Time’s beat is starting to hurry, however much I will it slow. We’re nearly at the end. Not quite yet. But already I can feel death’s cold breath upon our necks. I want to stay here as long as I can, for while I’m here, he lives.
Late-summer sun ignites the tips of the chestnut leaves, burnishing them in the evening light. The cattle have nibbled away the lower branches evenly on all the trees leading down to the river, so that they sway and float like the twirling dresses of ladies dancing at a court extravaganza. The air is grey with puffs of gnats and the cattle huff and flick their tails. We sit on the long loggia surrounding Clos Lucé manor – a handsome building of red brick and light stone – looking out towards the green-mantled pool and the swirling insects. It stands on rising ground above the Loire, and only a short distance from the royal chateau at Amboise. We are all here, Leonardo’s family: Leda and I reclining on our easels; Cecco perched beside the master, in case he should be needed; and Salaì sipping wine, his feet propped up on a stool.
‘Here he comes,’ announces Leda.
Leonardo rises to look. ‘Ah yes, so he does,’ he says, pleased.
A black mare ridden by Francis in shining silver spurs, the Most Christian King, is galloping across the water meadow separating the royal chateau from our manor. Leonardo stands and watches his progress, leaning against the stone barricade of the loggia. He adores horses, and loves to watch them run. Picking up a piece of black chalk and some paper, he starts to outline the movement and flow of its forelegs, capturing the animal’s speed and rhythm. He’s lost in his task, and doesn’t notice when His Majesty draws up, dismounts and, handing off his horse, climbs the stairs to the loggia. A servant, frightened by the master’s lack of courtesy, reddens and, stuttering, prepares to announce the King but Francis waves away his concern, hushing him. Leonardo is his established favourite. He doesn’t wish him disturbed. During these evening visits, he leaves the court behind and comes with only the barest of retinues. They linger scowling at the bottom of the stairs, forbidden from intruding. He moves in closer and watches Leonardo draw.
‘While running, a man puts less weight on his legs than when standing still. And in the same way, a horse which is running feels less of the weight of the man it bears,’ murmurs Leonardo, his chalk hurrying across the page.
The great king smiles in happiness. This is why he has come. He watches for a few more minutes and then slumps on a low chair and stretches out his legs, squinting against the sharp glare of the sun. He notices the paper slip from the fingers of Leonardo’s right hand. It flutters along the terrace, catching wing, and Cecco snatches it and returns it. Salaì doesn’t move. He continues to sip his wine, staring ahead, insolent. The animosity between the two assistants is turning into a canker. The King tolerates Salaì for Leonardo’s sake, but I also wonder if they have some private agreement. Salaì disappeared on a trip back to Milan in the summer and reappeared with several paintings by Italian artists which he presented to the King. Francis adores all things Italian. Leonardo, Leda and me. I notice that he is staring at me now with frank, male admiration.
‘Reconsider selling her, Leonardo,’ he says. ‘Five hundred scudi for Mona Lisa and another three hundred for Leda.’
Leonardo glances at me with disquiet, and forces a smile. ‘No, my great and noble king. They are not for sale. They are my family.’
He pretends to drop his chalk and fumbles for it with his wrong hand, unable to grasp it between his fingers. Francis is not fooled but winces nonetheless. The King is still not even twenty-three. Leonardo has aged. His beard is as white as the dandelion-seed clocks billowing on the breeze, and although he is still tall, he’s stooped, wind-battered. He has an old-man’s thinness to him, in his face and in his hands – his artist’s instruments.
‘You do not need to work,’ declares Francis. ‘Just to talk with you is joy enough. I do not believe a man has ever been born who knows as much as you, Leonardo. Not only of painting but of sculpture—’
‘Don’t tell Michelangelo,’ I mutter.
‘—of architecture, and you are a very great philosopher,’ continues the King, for a moment the awed adolescent and not the monarch rampaging across Europe.
Leonardo smiles and bows his thanks for the compliment. ‘I can still draw with my left hand. And I must continue; iron rusts when it is not in use. Stagnant water loses its purity. Inactivity saps the vigour of the mind.’
We all glance about the loggia which is littered with evidence of the day’s work. He and Cecco have been trying to order his papers, Cecco taking notes and acting as his amanuensis, with me reminding Leonardo wherever I fear he has forgotten something important. It is a considerable task, one that ought to take years, but we know that he fears he doesn’t have that long – Leonardo is preparing his legacy.
Francis smiles. ‘Of course. You are free to do as you please.’
Salaì is conspicuously silent. He drains his wine, signalling for another bottle. His only concession to the presence of the King is to remove his feet from the stool. The King, whose temper is irascible and who can bear no slight, offers no rebuke. I wonder again as to the nature of their arrangement.
Later in the evening, Leda and I are removed to inside the manor to protect us from the damp and dew. We are placed in one of the halls, with a large inglenook fireplace and huge oak-beamed ceiling, and tiled floor. A tapestry of a forest scene covers one wall. Dried lavender set in vases fills the air with the sweet herbal scent of late summer. A pageant is being prepared for the entertainment of the King, and Leonardo has the plans. He’s designed mechanical falconets to fire carnival missiles of tissue paper and balloons from the battlements. A crowd gather on the lawns outside to watch the display. Music begins and bonfires burn.
‘Here he enjoys the parties,’ says Leda. ‘He hated them in Florence and in Rome.’
‘He always liked parties, just not when they were the only thing he was allowed to do,’ I say. ‘Here Francis adores him. Leonardo draws. He writes. He’s allowed to pursue whatever interest or fancy takes his desire. And he likes inventing things – even mechanical oddities for carnivals. Here his great genius is recognised and saluted.’
At that moment, from outside there is a raucous cheer and the sound of clapping as, with a series of bangs, the mechanical cannons start to fire.
‘Sad to be missing it?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Leda. ‘Once you’ve seen one falconet cannon fire paper and balloons, you’ve seen them all. Oh Mona, if we could dance, and join the revelry and feast, then I would go!’
I’m silent, considering her with concern. Now and again there are moments when Leda yearns to be real, when she is not satisfied with watching, listening. I wish there was a way of pleasing her. I want her to be happy. She exists because of me.
A few seconds later a footman runs in, red-faced and flustered, quickly followed by another. Hurriedly they start to change out of their livery and into festival costumes.
‘I told you we was supposed to do it before,’ complains the first.
‘I thought Piero was the lion.’
‘No. I told you it was us.’
Soon, suitably attired, the two men race out across the lawns, leaving their uniforms on the floor. Leda and I watch the crowd through the window, only half-interested. We have seen so many of Leonardo’s festivals and inventions that they have lost their awe. He pretends not to be hurt by our disinterest and places us close to the window in case we change our minds. The light is fading and the lines of bonfires glow red and amber. Someone else creeps into the chamber. Not another footman, but Salaì.
‘Why isn’t he watching the carnival?’ asks Leda.
‘He’s probably seen enough too,’ I say.
Then, to our disgust, after checking carefully that the room is empty, he starts to go through the discarded clothes of the footmen. There is nothing to be found in the belongings of the first and he grunts with disappointment. He glances over his shoulder, making sure no one has come in, and then continues his hunt.
‘What’s he looking for?’ wonders Leda.
Delighted, he pulls out a purse from the hose of the second footman.
‘Money. Always money,’ I say. ‘Salaì: vagabond and thief.’
I inform Leonardo the moment he comes inside from the pageant, pink-cheeked with triumph. He listens as I tell him of Salaì’s duplicity, joy ebbing from his face, and summons his favourite at once and presents him with the accusations. Salaì stares at him, furious and bewildered.
‘No one was there. I checked and then I checked again! Who was spying on me? I’ll fight him. God damn it, I will.’
Leonardo says nothing, his face sagging with disappointment, noting Salaì’s lack of denial. Salaì is red-faced with choler, whirling round as he scours the hall for hidden spies, as though they may yet be concealed amongst the heavy furniture and draperies. Leonardo is very still. He loves this man and has forgiven him many times for countless transgressions. But Salaì is no longer a boy. We are in the employ of a king, and Leonardo is the painter du Roi. He has no other friends left. He is content in France, revered and cosseted, and yet Salaì would risk it all for petty greed. Even now, as Salaì stands in the half-light full of rage and fury, he is a discarded angel; long, disordered golden curls tumble around his shoulders, his skin bronzed from the sun. He is muscled, and has lost the leanness of youth, but is not running to fat. His eyes are keen, watchful. He never relaxes for an instant. Even when he sleeps or sits, it is with the restlessness of a fox with one ear cocked.
‘I tell you, I searched the place. There was no one here but Leda and Mona Lisa!’ He hesitates and then scowls, spitting, ‘Ah, did the footman tell you? Loathsome whining wretch.’
Leonardo shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, his voice weary and betraying an uncharacteristic sharpness. ‘No, don’t be absurd; a servant would never dare to complain. Accuse you, the chief assistant of the King’s favourite, of petty theft?’
Salaì falls silent, and we can see him thinking, ready to protest again that the room was empty, and then he slowly turns to stare at me. Leonardo has told him a thousand times that I speak. He has listened to the master talk and argue with me, but he considered it as another facet of his genius, and my voice not real but a fantasia. Now, finally, he understands or thinks he does. He looks at me, full of loathing.
‘See the man is repaid,’ says Leonardo. ‘And, when His Gracious Majesty asks you to return to Milan on business, do not hurry back.’
Salaì does not answer. He only continues to stare at me, dry-mouthed with bile and hate, wordlessly considering his revenge.
October is mild. Leonardo has us carried out into the gardens surrounding Clos Lucé. He has us placed in the physic garden, a secluded part of the kitchen gardens to the west of the house, sheltered by low box hedge and lined with gravel walkways. He says the quality of the light is good for drawing, but he knows that Leda and I like to be outside among the last of the spidery asters and the salvia, purple as a bishop’s robe. A few late star of Bethlehem shine luminous amongst the soil like shooting stars fallen to earth. Leonardo spends the morning outlining them in fine brown chalk. They are a flower usually reserved for the Madonna, but he has given them to his Leda.
‘Do you like them?’ she asks me, her voice bright with pleasure.
‘Beyond anything,’ I say, pleased that she is satisfied again, distracted with her looks, and not hankering for the impossible. I am filled with love for Leda and Leonardo, and yet love isn’t always a universal balm. I am aware of the dissatisfaction and anguish of each. Leonardo’s frustration at his ageing body grows day by day, while Leda wonders at the fleshy miracle of mortality.
There are even a few roses still blooming in the garden, their petals not yet browned by frost, and each time the wind blows, the air’s breath is sweetly fragranced. Yet we feel the chill of the days to come whenever a cloud passes over the sun. Cecco is inside the studio ordering papers. He scurries outside only when he has a question for the master, or to remind him to eat. The soup is ready. The soup is now getting cold. Then to inform him that Cardinal Luigi and his retinue are here.
‘I am ready for them,’ declares Leonardo, magnanimous. ‘They may come out and meet me in the garden.’
Leda groans. ‘Why can’t we be left in peace? Why must they always come? You are a stop on the travellers’ trail as popular as Nantes or Marseilles.’
Leonardo chuckles. ‘I am indeed. That’s why I grow my beard so long. I must play the part.’
He rises from his seat and, gathering his cloak about him, peers out across the lawns, to where an armada of between thirty-five and forty clergymen in purple and crimson gowns are sailing towards him at full tilt, their robes swelling in the breeze. He smiles. ‘The canons tone with the salvia beautifully. The Cardinal in red clashes. But still, he looks very striking against the grass.’
The fleet of clergy reach us, and Cardinal Luigi of Aragon, son and illegitimate prince of Naples, bestows a chilly smile upon Leonardo. He is of middling height with chin-length black hair and pale skin. His dark eyes flick from side to side like the gecko watching us from the low wall.
‘We are most pleased to see you, Leonardo of Vinci. We are told that a journey to France is not complete without a journey to you.’
Leonardo bows and demurs. ‘Have you enjoyed your tour of the chateau and the manor, Your Eminence?’
The Cardinal nods. ‘We saw a chapel. Pretty enough, but everyone expects that I should want to see it,’ he adds, gesturing to his robes.
Leonardo laughs. ‘In the same way everyone shows me his child’s scribblings, certain I must be interested.’
The Cardinal raises thick black eyebrows. ‘We should swap. You can have the chapels.’
‘No, no, I think I shall keep the scribbles.’
The Cardinal snorts, amused. He is a man usually feared – it is rumoured that he had his sister murdered, the beautiful Duchess of Amalfi, along with her lover – but, as always, even the most querulous men are charmed by Leonardo. At least until their commissioned painting is late. Fortunately for us, the Cardinal is unlikely to commission a portrait.
Servants have silently appeared and set out dozens of chairs for the party. The Cardinal edges closer to Leonardo’s easel, staring at the drawings of plants, and at Leda.
‘She is perfect. Living in the sylvan shades of the garden. I’m not entirely sure I can tell where the garden stops and the picture begins.’
Leonardo murmurs his gratitude and adds, ‘It is the light. Landscapes exhibit the most beautiful blue during fine weather because the air is purged of vapours.’
He gestures towards the distant chestnut trees, swaying in the water meadow, and the thickets behind Leda in the painting. The Cardinal is enamoured of both. He simply wants to listen to Leonardo, who knows what is expected of him as the painter du Roi. He is painter and philosopher.
‘We should linger here a while, for the sun makes such a spectacle when it is in the west. It illuminates all the high buildings of the chateau and the loftiest trees and tinges them with pinkish colour. All the other things below remain in slight relief, because there is little difference between their shadows and their lights.’
The Cardinal grins, delighted; the severity of his expression softens. This is indeed better than either Nantes or Marseilles. The old man was worthy of the detour. The Cardinal sits, fanning out his robes behind him. The canons do the same. Cecco hovers, leather-bound portfolio case of Leonardo’s drawings in his hand, proffering them to the Cardinal.
‘Most of them from better days, although I can still sketch,’ says Leonardo. ‘I am fortunate that my weakness doesn’t affect my left hand. Still, painting is more difficult now, and slower.’
The Cardinal peers at Leda again, transfixed. The others step closer too, almost touching her with their noses. Here, in the sunlight, she looks exposed and vulnerable. I wish I could protect her from them all.
The Cardinal comes over to peer at me. ‘And this one? Who is she?’
‘This is Mona Lisa. A Florentine woman painted from life.’
‘Who commissioned her?’
‘Tell him I was painted for Giuliano de’ Medici,’ I say to Leonardo. ‘He’s dead and buried in the Medici tomb. He can’t contradict you.’
Leonardo hesitates for a moment. What I’m suggesting is a lie, but he knows the Cardinal will be more interested in me if he believes that I’ve been commissioned by one of the legendary Medici.
‘Giuliano owes us a debt. He owes another to Lisa,’ I insist. ‘Think of it as a little posthumous revenge.’
‘Who commissioned her?’ Cardinal Luigi asks again, louder, thinking Leonardo hard of hearing.
‘Giuliano de’ Medici,’ answers Leonardo. ‘Il Magnifico.’
The Cardinal looks at me with swelling admiration.
I laugh. Leonardo gazes at me in wonder. Together we’re inventing the legend of my creation. We’re making my myth. Our fame.
Amboise, 1518
Spring
There are scuffles and twitters emanating from the house martins nesting in the ivy against the eaves. We are observing the sun dip behind the royal chateau, as Cecco attempts to draw the outline of the turrets, the soft Touraine light seeping in at the windows. All is peaceful. Leonardo has decided to apply another translucent layer of vermilion glaze upon my cheek. He holds his finest brush, mixing it with an oil binder to make the pigment extraordinarily fine. It tickles my skin. Still he is not satisfied, and sets his brush aside, and uses his fingertips instead to soften the shadow. We are content. Leda hums. There is the rustle of Cecco’s chalk against the page, and the murmur as Leonardo offers him a word or two of correction, and then the door is thrown back and Salaì explodes into the room. Oh, how I wish he’d stayed in Milan! I did not miss him. Yet, to my dismay, Leonardo seems overjoyed to see him. His expression brightens like a lamp that has just been lit.
