We sketched and painted.
I remember a puppy lying in my lap as I dozed in one of the gardens, the one with the apple trees. Good food, good wine, summer, that was Villa Vaprio. I learned about summer there-what summer really means.
Cloux
The King wants me to move to a spacious studio in the chateau. I prefer a smaller room. Small rooms sometimes discipline the mind. I have explained that my studio, in the manor house, has everything essential to my work: cupboards, cabinets, tables, shelves.
"Do you need pigment...oils...turpentine...brushes?" He is impatient... you must want something!
We have space for our paintings. We have the right amount of light. We have quiet. And on our mantelpiece we have a place for my Greek and Roman antiquities-things I collected in Campania (along with malaria): iridescent vases, bronze and alabaster lamps, household figurines, a few coins. I have one with a porpoise leaping. The Greeks were master minters-designers. Francesco says he knows a place in Paris that sells Greek antiquities. If I can ever get there I want to purchase an ivory Venus for my desk. We have not surpassed those ancient artisans.
Such things make a bright enclosure.
I am fortunate...I have had many friends.
I had many friends in Florence, Milan, Rome, Genoa, and Venice. I shall name a few: Marco d'Oggiono, Vitelli, Tomaso Masini, Amalia, Father Pacioli, Ferrera, Machiavelli, Francesco, Mona, Cristofer, Andrea...and now King Francis.
I see them in my sketches as I leaf through them now and then: Benci, in pen and ink, beside a juniper tree; Andrea, at work on a bronze figurine; here is a pastel of Ambrogia, puttering over his careful palette; here is red-headed Filippo Lippi finishing the background for a madonna; here is Cecelia, sipping wine, asking for sweets...Madonna Lisa and her graceful beauty, her soft voice, patience...
She and I had many hours for the gamboa...we ate together...played cards, talked about my Anghiari...when she posed I had singers for her... I loaned her little sums; she lent me money; she sent me baskets of fruit; I gave her sketches and drawings.
If all these friends could be with me, at Cloux, to walk with me, visit the chateau and its gardens, prowl the mirror hallways, enjoy my studio, my latest paintings...talk...talk...
As an apprentice I longed to fix in my mind every detail: I must look and look, a second and a third time and a fourth. I must fill a notebook. Quickly. I must follow that bearded Corsican and draw his face.
All of us apprentices respected Andrea del Verrochio, as artisan, as teacher. We were at home in his workshop.
We were proud of his accomplishments, proud of our own accomplishments; at the same time we were eager, pushy, ready to challenge other artists. Ready to consider a commission, evaluate it, carry it through to perfection.
And what were my best years, the best of my mature years, I ask myself? Those dedicated to my mural, my outcry against war, years that included many paintings?
Or was it the time dedicated to the creation of the Sforza horse-IL COLOSSO? If I could have had the metal and cast the statue it would have been that success above others. And the years that went into The Last Supper: Three years. There were also the years of dissection and anatomical studies. Best years? There were the easel paintings. I suppose there have never been any best years. There were discoveries and discovery made another discovery possible...and so the years went along.
Last night, Francesco burst into my bedroom.
"I can't find them," he exclaimed.
"What?"
"I have looked everywhere...your letters are missing."
"What letters, Francesco?"
"I have your list...letters from King Francis...from Duke Lorenzo...from Christopher Columbus...Machiavelli...Father Pacioli...Beatrice d'Este...Cesare Borgia...Salai..."
"Did you open the trunk in the storeroom? They may be in there. Look carefully. I want to destroy some of them...let's go over everything together."
"We had them in Milan..."
"Look again... I'm sure you'll find them."
(Yesterday, in the chateau's hall of mirrors I saw Caterina: she was talking with a young man, a man her age: she had on a summer gown, with one breast almost bare: she smiled at her companion who was dressed in grey.)
Cloux
June 1, 1517
After I completed my silverpoint of Francis, he ordered his tailor to cut an elegant velvet smock for me. In carnelian. Two pockets. Belt of silver lozenges hooked together on braided silver wires.
Francesco is framing the portrait and it will hang in the chateau library, along with a Rafael, a de Predis, a Bosch, a Durer. Francis has his eyes on Francesco's new canvas, his Columbine, but I tell the King it is not finished.
"Not finished? Of course it is finished, Mon Pere." But Francesco listens to me.
I continue with my drawings of the deluge: I go on with the terror, the falling of buildings, the erosion of life, the force of wind, the weight of torrents... I go on with this feeling... I must express it.
The gloomy air must be beaten by the wind and perpetual hail...there must be ancient trees, uprooted trees, torn to pieces by the fury...the fragments of mountains must spill into valleys...immensity must burst the barrier of rivers.
It is my last judgment...certainly there is nothing that does not have an ending ...twisted forms...fear...puny man...
I hear the resounding air, the lamentations.
Mountains are to be torn open for their minerals...all animals will languish...all will be pursued or destroyed...trees will be laid level...due to man's malice there will be great losses...how much better for man to go back to hell.
Cloux
It is late.
A fire burned all evening in my studio, and King Francis has sat by the fire with me, talking. He was depressed because bankers have been demanding exorbitant sums: he plans to sell royal titles to recoup funds.
"All this will take months...there are many hazards..."
Abruptly:
"Do you see something in my face, something ominous?"