"Is it true that 15,000 men died?"
"Yes...yes...15,000...12,000...who can count the dead?
Some wounded crawl away to die...peasants began pilfering, killing...maiming...our wounded filled the Maggiore Hospital...you must have heard...the halls and loggias were filled...
"Milan was poorly defended," I said.
"The walled area of the city? Few tried to stop our entry. News of defeat had spread throughout Milan...little resistance...futile..."
I returned to my studio thoroughly disheartened: it is this repetition: city against city: pope against duke: the stupidity seems endless: what shields protect us against the fools of the world!
Yesterday, I enjoyed the King's dinner-another hundred or more guests: Cardinal Mercier, De Brosse, Ambassador to Holland, military, priests, courtiers, beautiful women. I sat opposite Francis and enjoyed his scarlet- gold suit, sewn with diamond chips. I believe he was wearing five or six rings; one of them is rather like the stone I gave Mona long ago. Francis personifies youth, hedonism, and royalty. Watching him, listening to him, I forget the tedious round of courses.
Princesse de Lamballe, sitting beside me, a lovely woman in her forties, dressed in blue and nakedness, praised the banquet:
"Francis has such wonderful chefs...the food is fresher here than in Paris...I'm so glad to get away."
"Tomorrow," the King said, leaning toward me, "all of us are leaving Amboise...we're going to Chambord." He waved his hand, and smiled. "All of us!"
All of us meant about a thousand people, as the King headed for Chambord. I watched his retinue (I declined the invitation): I estimate that there were four hundred horsemen, two hundred mules, mounted archers, stablemen, the Chamberlain, musicians, clergy, wizards, cooks, doctors...the archers wore black and red, the musicians wore yellow and green; the King wore a hat with a yellow plume and a yellow cloak flecked with white fleur-de-lys.
The musicians played oboes, trumpets, tambourines, and drums. Such discord. Away they went, pennants, banners, oriflammes.
Suddenly, it was quiet at Amboise.
In my studio I sat at my desk and looked down on the peacocks and some pheasants: Francesco came: we began to work: I dictated pages from my treatise regarding horses.
FRANCESCO MELZI is a proper, thoughtful villa-man, handsome, slight, middle-tall, grey-eyed, blond. He is my patient friend, my gracious friend (gracious to everyone): he has his father's agreeable manners. He is horseman and archer. Flutist. A painter for fifteen years, he handles chiaroscuro like a master: he is best as portraitist. No woman-chaser, he is dedicated to Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French...and all of the arts. When he trims my hair and beard he likes to flatter me.
I am searching for a glass that reflects a Florentine face-not a wrinkled, bearded patriarch.
GIOVANNI BOLTRAFFIO-Tony-has always had wealth behind him (like Francesco); here, at Amboise, he wears satins and silks, claims that the King's tailor is "the best in the world." Tony is so enormous, so muscular, his satins often split. Blue-eyed, genial, bowing, a little too obsequious, he sometimes dabs perfume on his paint-messed hands. He has big hands, big feet, big skull-topped by curly brown hair. With him decorum comes first. He is always aware of his sedate heritage. He sings beautifully, and is an accomplished lutenist. At home he is devoted to his cathedral choir. In Amboise, he is considered a notable fencer. He'd rather fence than paint. He'd rather eat than paint. He will have nothing to do with dissection. Right now, he is involved with a red-headed hussy who champions sex.
ANDREA DEL VERROCHIO-tall, with not an ounce of extra meat on him...it seems to me he is still a young man, that we are at work together in his studio. But no, no, the Arno roared throughout that night, as we mourned his death.
Many of us. Corpses lodged against supports of the Puente Vecchio. Plagues. Madness. Work. We cherished him, his frailty. Guild-member at twenty. Such kindness, such classic renderings in stone and bronze. We revered his Saint John, his serenity in stone.
We exhibited his sculpture in every corner of his workshop and yard. People. His Dolphin Boy. His Christ.
Ghosts from his metal and chisel.
We learned how to use the abacus together; we learned about mixing oils; he taught me silverpoint and charcoal; we worked with pastels, with gold leaf.
Ai, Andrea-what a scalding rain on the night you died.
We sat about, we drank wine; then, next week, we returned to our casting, our horses, busts, angels.
Most of the years in his studio were tranquil. There were wonderful days, when, like John in the Desert, we detected our own worth-in the mastery of his work. His home was mine. His garden was mine. His florins.
I see him painting a madonna's drapery...weeks of work, painting delicate, gilded folds...he gave me books...
He said: genius is dedication.
He also said: art and friendship.
1517
Cloux
January 6, 1517
A
fter walking along the Loire, the water grey, swallows passing underneath the grey arches of the chateau bridge, I sat where I could study the supports, estimating their bulk and weight. No notebook. Too many unfinished sketches and treatises. An ancient bridge and my face- ravaged by time.
At the little chapel of Saint Hubert, which I admire so much, so complete in itself, pigeons were flying about.
Wings again. What are the correct angles for flying?
Which wing structure can lift the most weight? How to estimate the camber?
Rain splattered me as I walked about. A drum roll reminded me of the thunder at Vinci. I climbed the Tour Hurtault and was a boy again, as I watched the rain, as I had watched it at my mother's house. Then I used to try to estimate the number of drops, measure them, weigh them.
What a superb chateau-this Amboise! I admire its bulk, its age. It is no wonder that kings have lived here!
Amplitude. Privacy. Gardens. The gardens tempt me to walk on and on. Yesterday, I sketched the Tour des Minimes- emphasizing its massive base line, the skillful masonry; as I sketched a playful squirrel climbed a birch, flipped from branch to branch, nibbled. I must remember to sketch the bronze doors of the chapel. The sculptor stresses texture in his composition. Somehow Florentine!