Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
Padre Bandelli Proses to the Duke Ludovico Sforza about Leonardo da Vinci
By William Wetmore Story (1819–1895)T
And let some light down this dark corridor,—
Ser Leonardo keeps the only key
To the main entrance here so jealously,
That we must creep in at this secret door
If we his great Cenacolo would see.
The heads, too, are expressive, every one;
But, with his idling and fastidiousness,
I fear his picture never will be done.
’T is twenty months since first upon the wall
This Leonardo smoothed his plaster,—then
He spent two months ere he began to scrawl
His figures, which were scarcely outlined, when
Some new fit seized him, and he spoilt them all.
As he began the first month that he came,
So he went on, month after month the same.
At times, when he had worked from morn to night
For weeks and weeks on some apostle’s head,
In one hour, as it were from sudden spite,
He ’d wipe it out. When I remonstrated,
Saying, “Ser Leonardo, you erase
More than you leave,—that ’s not the way to paint;
Before you finish we shall all be dead”;
Smiling he turns (he has a pleasant face,
Though he would try the patience of a saint
With all his wilful ways), and calmly said,
“I wiped it out because it was not right;
I wish it had been, for your sake, no less
Than for this pious convent’s; and indeed,
The simple truth, good Padre, to confess,
I ’ve not the least objection to succeed:
But I must please myself as well as you,
Since I must answer for the work I do.”
He ’d never finish. Twenty times at least
I thought it done, but still he wrought and wrought,
Defaced, remade, until at last he ceased
To work at all,—went off and locked the door,—
Was gone three days,—then came and sat before
The picture full an hour,—then calmly rose
And scratched out in a trice the mouth and nose.
This is sheer folly, as it seems to me,
Or worse than folly. Does your Highness pay
A certain sum to him for every day?
If so, the reason ’s very clear to see.
No? Then his brain is touched, assuredly.
All but our Lord’s head, and the Judas there.
A month ago he finished the St. John,
And has not touched it since, that I ’m aware;
And now he neither seems to think nor care
About the rest, but wanders up and down
The cloistered gallery in his long dark gown,
Picking the black stones out to step upon;
Or through the garden paces listlessly
With eyes fixed on the ground, hour after hour,
While now and then he stoops and picks a flower,
And smells it, as it were, abstractedly.
What he is doing is a plague to me!
Sometimes he stands before yon orange-pot,
His hands behind him just as if he saw
Some curious thing upon its leaves, and then,
With a quick glance, as if a sudden thought
Had struck his mind, there, standing on the spot,
He takes a little tablet out to draw,
Then, muttering to himself, walks on agen.
He is the very oddest man of men!
But, as I was observing, there have passed
Some twenty long and weary months since he
First turned us out of our refectory,
And who knows how much longer this may last?
Yet if our painter worked there steadily,
I could say nothing; but the work stands still,
While he goes idling round the cloisters’ shade.
Pleasant enough for him,—but is he paid
For idle dreaming thoughts, or work and skill?
Your Highness will, I hope, allowance make
That I have spoken for your Highness’ sake,
And not that us it inconveniences,
Although it is a scandal to us all
To see this picture half done on the wall.
A word from your most gracious lips, I feel,
Would greatly quicken Ser Leonardo’s zeal,
And we should soon see o’er our daily board,
The Judas finished, and our blessed Lord.