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...
