Lisa was not one of those celebrated by the poetasters as -dotted heroine- (learned heroines). She never displayed her knowledge of books; Only by chance he found out that she read both Latin and Greek. She spoke so simply that many imagined her stupid. But Leonardo found in her whats most rare, especially among women, instinctive wisdom. Sometimes by a chance sentence she would reveal herself so near, so akin to him in spirit, that he felt her his one and eternal friend, the sister of his soul. At these moments he would fain have overpassed the magic circle which divides contemplation from life; but such desires he quenched at one. Was this love which united them? Platonic ravings, languid sighs of ideal lovers, syrupy sonnets in the Petrarchan style, had never excited in hin anything but amusement or boredom. Equally aline to his nature was the passion which most men call love. Just as he ate no meat, because it seemed to him repulsive, so he refrained from women, because all material possession -in marriage or outside of it-seemed to him coarse. He avoided it like he avoided the shambles, neither blaming not approving, acknowledging the law of natural struggle for hunger or for love, but refusing to take any part in it himself, and obeying a purer law of chastity and love.
Yet even if he had loved her, what more perfect union with the beloved could he have wished that in this secret and mystic intercourse, in the creation of this immortal image, this new being, born of them both, as a child of its parents, in which he and she were one? Nevertheless, he felt that even in this mystic union, stainless as is was, there was danger - it might be greater danger than in the bond of ordinary freshly love. They walked on the verge of a precipice where none had walked before, resisting the vertigo and the fatal attraction of the abyss. Between them were simple words, vague and uncompleted phrases, through which their secret showed as the sun shines through the morning mist. At times he thought, What if the mist should scatter, and the blinding sun shine out which kills mystery, dissolves all phantoms? What if she of he should prove unequal to the strain, should overstep the magic circle, materialise imagination into fact, contemplation into life? Had he the right to test a human should, the life of his life-long friend, his spiritual sister, as he tested the laws of mechanics, the structure of plants, the action of poisons? Would she not revolt, cast him aways from her with contempt and hatred?
Again, at times he fancied he was subjecting him to a slow and terrible death. Her submissiveness alarmed him; it seemed limitless, like his own eternal search for knowledge, the delicate yet penetrating scrutiny to which he subjected her. Sooner or later he would have to decide what she was to him, a woman or a spirit. He had been hoping that temporary absence would postpone this inevitable decision, and for this reason was grand to be leaving Florence.
But now that the moment had come, the separation was imminent, he realised that he had been mistaken, and that instead of deferring, his departure must hasten the decision.
Absorbed in these throughs, he did not notice that he had wandered into a lonely blind alley, and on looking about him did not recognise where he was. Giotto’s campanile appearing above the houses showed he was in the vicinity of the cathedral. One side of the narrow street was lost in the blackest shadow, the other was white under the rays of the moon. A distant light glowed red. It came from one of the -loggie- characteristics of Florence, with a balcony and semi-circular arches on slender pillars; a company in masks and cloaks were singing a serenade, to the gentle tingling of a lute.
It was the old love-song, composed by Lorenzo Il Magnifico, which had once sounded int he carnival procession; a melancholy yet joyous melody, pleasant in Leonardo’s ears because he had know it in his youth.
Quanto e bella giovinezza!
Ma sen fugge tuttavia
Chi vuol esser lieto sia
Di doman non v’e certezza
The last line lingered sadly in his ears with mournful foreboding. Already in the threshold of old age, and approaching darkness and solitude, had not Fate sent him at last a living soul, a kindred soul? Must he repulse it? must he deny it? sacrifice life for contemplation, as he had so often done before? renounce the near for the faraway, the real for the ideal? Which was he to choose, the true and living mortal Gioconda or the immortal, which had no material existence? They were equally dear to him , yet he must choose between them; choose at once, for her sake. But his will was weak. He could arrive at no decision, and wandered on aimlessly through the streets, debating, debating with himself.
Presently he reached the house of Piero Martello, where he lodged. The doors were shut, te lights extinguished. He raised the hammer hung on a chain, and knocked. The porter did not come. Repeated blows were only answered by echoes from the sounding arched of the stone staircases.Echoes dies aways and silences succeeded, seeming the more profound for the brightness of the moonlight.
A clock boomed from a neighbouring tower. The heavy measured clanging told of the silent and dreadful flight of time, of the darkness and loneliness of age, of the past which could never return. And long did the clang vibrate int he moonlight stillness, quivering on the air, now weakening, now strengthening again in the ever widening waves of sound, as if repeating —
Di doman non v’e certezza.
No comments:
Post a Comment