A Task for Leonardo - ebook

A Task for Leonardo

_The incomparable Leonardo da Vinci had great plans for the magic Sphinx Emerald–but though the King of France was his friend, he had also made a bitter enemy._

IN the days when King François was young and handsome and magnificent, glorious with victories, ablaze with majesty and splendor–let us say, in the year 1517–he was a great patron of the arts, and brought the Renaissance back to France with him from Italy. Among others, he brought the famed old artist Leonardo, and gave him the manor of Cloux, a fine little property in a suburb of Amboise in Touraine, and with it seven hundred crowns a year, a princely pension. Here Leonardo da Vinci settled down happily.

The artist was not a painter alone. Having the title of Royal Architect, he planned cities, palaces and even a canal system for King François. Being an accomplished engineer, he could turn his hand nobly to any form of work or art. In doing so, he could even hide, at first, the sad fact that this hand was failing him; but after a year or so, it became evident that a form of paralysis was creeping over those fingers which had created so much loveliness, winning him renown and the whole world’s respect. Finally the right hand entirely lost its use, though he could still work and sketch perfectly with the other.

The King one day came to the little square house at Cloux, embraced Leonardo warmly, and with satisfaction looked over the plans for the canal system. Then, in his restless way, he turned to something else.

“There is a little thing you can do for me, Leonardo,” he said. “I love you. Men have ever loved you, for you are like a god in all you do. You create beauty. You have the ability to look at a stone, and envision in it the statue. Well, here is a stone on which to try your fancies. Intrinsically, it is worth little, yet it has vast value. It is a stone of strange history, ’tis said. Take it, study it, and some day tell me what to do with it.”

So saying, he gave the old man, whose long white hair and beard were like glistening snow, an ancient, thin-worn ring holding a great lump of green.

Leonardo looked at it, and drew down his white eyebrows.

“Is it an emerald, Sire?”

The King laughed. “Aye, by report. In the days when King Harry of England exchanged gifts with me, instead of threatening war, I had it from him. Keep it for a while, ponder how strange a thing it is, my friend, and later advise me concerning it.”

THE swaggering king went his splendid way, while the old artist stayed close; and a morning came when Francesco Melzi, the devoted Milanese pupil who served him so nobly, heard a ringing cry of ecstasy from the garden, and looked to see the old artist seated there, gazing at something under a glass, an enlarging lens.

“There is a man here to speak with you, master,” Melzi called. “One Messer Baldino of Florence, a cutter of gems.”

“Then let him in,” replied Leonardo.

Past seventy now, clear as a bell in mind, he tucked away his useless right hand and eyed the visitor from beneath the heavy white brows, so carefully tended. He was ever careful of his appearance; indeed, he was a great gentleman in every way, fastidious and never neglectful of the least detail.

This Baldino was a cocky, assured fellow with quick eye and nimble tongue, who bowed low and gave the great artist humble greeting; one felt the humility assumed. In his calm, serene way Leonardo listened. He was a good listener. Never excited, never emotional–even when Buonarotti had insulted him to his face, he only reddened and remained silent–he was serenity itself. He could feel, with those extra senses of his that felt so much, the meanness of this man Baldino; yet the words rang fair enough.

This gem-cutter had made a reputation and money and had come to join the artistic ateliers of the King of France. He was in love with a girl here in Amboise; in fact, was affianced to her, and begged that the master would sketch her–a mere sketch from the angelic genius of Leonardo! A little thing–a vastly great one. Baldino spoke well, and Leonardo, a trifle ashamed of what his intuition told him, did not refuse curtly or at all. The man did not insult him with offers of pay, but begged the favor as being himself a Florentine, from Leonardo’s own fair city.

It might be, answered the old artist; he would have to see the girl. She might interest him as a model–why not? As they talked, Baldino caught sight of the ring and its great lumpy emerald. A stone of poor color, not of good deep hue, and above nine carats in weight–unevenly cut, a huge lopsided cabochon. He spoke eagerly of the stone, and Leonardo nodded at him.

“It is not mine. Look, if it pleases you.”

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