In a surprisingly short time, Lisa had finished broadening the doublet for me, and it fitted my torso like wax. Guaracco was moved to another of his suave compliments on the appearance I made.
AS evening was drawing near, the three of us took a meal. It was served in the hedged yard where Guaracco's dupes had prayed to infernal powers for rain. Whether by prayer or by coincidence, the rain did arrive not long after we had finished the bread, chicken and salad that Lisa set before us. As the first drops fell, we went indoors and took wine and fresh peaches and honey by way of dessert, in a great front room that was luxuriously furnished with gilded couches, tables and tapestries.
After the supper, Guaracco conducted me to his workshop, a great flag-floored cellar. Here was a bench, with lamps, retorts and labeled flasks for experimentation in chemistry, and in this branch of science I was to find my host—or captor—amazingly learned.
The greater part of the space, however, was filled with tools and odds and ends of machinery, both of wood and metal.
At Guaracco's command, I busied myself among these. But my strange memory-fault — I was beginning to think of it as partial amnesia—came to muddle me again. I could make only the most slovenly demonstrations, and when I sought to explain, I found myself failing wretchedly.
"You cannot be blamed for these vaguenesses," Guaracco said, almost comfortingly. "A drop backward through time, four hundred years and more, must of necessity shock one's sensibility. The most delicate tissues are, naturally, in the brain."
"I hope to recover my faculties later," I apologized. "Just now, I progress in generalities only."
"Even so, you are better grounded in these things than any man of this present age," he encouraged me. "Your talk of that astounding power, electricity, amazes me. Perhaps things can be harnessed with it. Steam, too. I think I can see in my mind's eye how it can be put to work, like wind in a sail or water flowing over a mill-wheel." His eyes brightened suddenly. "Wait, Ser Leo, I have an inspiration."
"Inspiration?" I echoed. I watched while he opened a small casket on the bench and fetched out a little purselike bag of dark velvet. From this he tumbled a great rosy pearl the size of a hazelnut and glowing as with its own light. Upon his palm he caught it, and thrust it under my nose.
"Look !" he commanded, and I looked.
To be sure, it must be a valuable jewel, to be as full of rose-and-silver radiance as a sunset sky. It captivated my soul with the sudden impact of its beauty.
"Look," repeated Guaracco, and I gazed, as though my eyes were bound in their focus. The pearl grew bigger, brighter.
"Look," he said, yet again, as from a distance and, though I suspected at last his motive, I could not take my eyes away.
The light faded, consciousness dropped slackly from me like a garment. I knew a black silence, as of deep sleep, then a return to blurred awareness. I shook myself and yawned.
A chuckle sounded near by, and I opened my drowsy eyes to find Guaracco's foxy face close to mine.
"YOU are awake now?" he asked, with a false gentleness.
"How long did I sleep?" I asked, but he did not reply.
He polished the pearl upon his sleeve, and slid it carefully into its velvet bag.
"I think that some, if not all, of the forgotten things are buried in your mind," he observed. "With you I tried a certain way that fools call black magic."
Hypnotism, that was it. Guaracco had hypnotized me. Had he, in reality, found in my sub-conscious mind those technical matters that I seemed to have almost forgotten?
"Every minute of your company," he was continuing, "convinces me that I did well to spare your life and enlist you in my service. Now, draw for me again."
I obeyed, and he watched. Once again he praised me, and swore that I should be placed as a student with Andrea Verrocchio. It had grown late by now, and he escorted me to my bed chamber, bidding me goodnight in most cordial terms.
But, when the door closed behind him, I heard the key turn in the heavy bronze lock.
CHAPTER IV
Apprenticeship
ON the following day fell the torrents of rain that had been prayed for in such occult fashion, and the trip to Florence was postponed.
To my chagrin, my memories of various details that had been so clear during my Twentieth Century existence were even cloudier, so much more so that I spent the morning making notes of what little I remembered.
These notes Guaracco appropriated, with as cordial a speech of thanks as though I had done them expressly for him. I might have pretested, but near at hand loitered the uglier of his two dwarfs, and there might have been even a greater danger at the window behind me, or hidden among the tapestry folds at my elbow.
So I gave over writing, and went to talk to Lisa, the sober but lovely young girl to whom he had introduced me the night before. I found her still shyly friendly, possessed of unfailing good manners and charm. She had needlework to do, and I sat talking and listening, fascinated by the play of her deft white fingers. While we were together I, at least, felt less the sense of being a prisoner and an underling.
But the rain had ceased by sunset, and early the next morning Guaracco knocked at my door to call out that we would go to Florence immediately after breakfast. We ate quickly, and went out into the fine early sunlight.
Servants—Guaracco had several in a nearby cottage, peculiar fellows but deeply devoted to him — brought around horses, a fine white stallion for Guaracco and an ordinary bay for me.
I mounted, being glad that I had not forgotten how to ride, and we cantered off along a clay-hardened highway, with a groom on a patient mule behind us.
We had not far to ride to Florence. I found the valley of the Arno much the same as I had known it in my former existence, green and bounded by hills, sprinkled with villas, clusters of peasant huts, and suburbs, with the town in the middle.
Florence itself was smaller, newer, more beautiful. The town lay secure with high, battlemented walls of stone, with the river running through. I saw the swell of the Duomo, second cathedral of all Christendom, great and round and pale, like the moon descended to Earth; and around it, the towers of many white houses and palaces, and cool green of garden trees.
The gate we entered was perhaps twenty-five feet wide by fifteen high, and the tall lintel of gray-brown stone bore a bas-relief of St. Mark's lion, complete with wings and book; also several female figures which appeared to have tails.
Within the walls, the town I had known as grubbily ancient in the Twentieth Century, all shone new and fresh. By the clean whiteness of the houses and by their style of architecture, I judged that all, or nearly all, of the older Florence had been razed to allow this new Renaissance capital of the Medici its full glory.
The streets were for the most part smoothly paved, or at least had good gutters and cobbles. Some of them, the side ways, were too narrow, even for one-way traffic, and darkly close with the upper stories of the houses projecting. In many places these upper stories jutted out so far as to make a covered way for pedestrians at either side. Here and there stood the enclosed mansions and gardens of nobles or wealthy merchants, and at many crossings were wide squares, with, occasionally, the statue of a saint or a hero.
Many folk were afoot or on horseback, though there were few wains, and these of the most primitive. Most of the transport was done by donkey pannier, or in baskets on the brawny shoulders of porters. The people seemed prosperous, and in most cases happy. Later I was to be reminded that the Florentines then enjoyed a unique freedom, and were wont to boast about it to less favored Milanese or Venetians.
AT last, at Guaracco's signal, we reined our animals before a tall, barnlike structure of drab stone, fronting away from the brink of the green Arno. It was several stories high,
pierced with many barred windows and furnished with a double door of iron grillwork.
"This is Verrocchio's bottega," said my guide, and we dismounted, leaving our bridle-ends in the hands of the silent groom.<
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I moved toward the door, but Guaracco's big hand touched my elbow. I turned inquiringly.
"Before you enter here, I have a thought to burn into you," he said in a cold, hushed voice.
With his deep, penetrating eyes, his red beard and suddenly sinister face, he might have sat for a traditional portrait of Judas. I knew, more fiercely than ever, a dislike and distrust of him.
"You wish to exact a vow of fealty from me?" I suggested. "Vows begin, Ser Guaracco, only when hope is dead."
He shook his head, and under his beard his mouth wriggled, like a snake in singed grass.
"No," he replied. "I exact no vow. I say simply that if you betray me in word or deed, if you seek ever to hurt or to hinder me—if, in short, you do not adhere to the service I have set you I will see that you die by the foulest death ever invented."
"I am not afraid of you," I said to him, striving in my heart to make this the truth.
"Nor do I seek your fear," was his quick rejoinder. "Only your understanding. Shall we go in?"
The great front room of the academy was as large as a riding hall, with lofty, musty beams on the ceiling, and whitewashed walls; not as much light as one might wish to paint by, but with the windows all set toward clear, open ground. The corners of the room were cluttered with art materials, plaster molds, half-finished paintings on planks, broken chairs, pots of paint, sheafs of brushes, and rolled parchments and canvases.
Three or four young men in shabby smocks stopped their various tasks to gaze curiously at me—students, I supposed them to be. And from behind a counterlike bench at the door, a man greeted Guaracco.
"Good-morrow, Ser Andrea," said my patron. "I said once that I would watch out for a likely pupil for you. Here is one—my own cousin, Leo."
The master of the bottega came from behind his bench. He was a spidery little fellow of forty or thereabouts, clad in a long gown of dark wool like a priest's, with ill-fitting, worn slippers on his flat feet. His face was beardless, white and puffy, and he wore spectacles low upon his snub nose. His hair, already gray, had begun to grow thin on top. His finest features were his big, wise eyes and his slender, delicate hands.*
Guaracco praised me highly and finally produced my drawings. Andrea Verrocchio carried them into the light and looked at them narrowly, with pursed lips. Finally he turned his spectacles upon me.
"You draw well, boy," he commented. "Drawing is the father of all the arts. Would you learn to paint?"
I told him, quite truthfully, that it was my ambition.
"If you study with me," he admonished, "you must work entirely as I devise."
"To devise is the work of the master," I said, respectfully. "To execute is the work of the apprentice."
"Well worded." He nodded, and smiled a trifle. "Come here—look at this picture."
HE beckoned us across the room. Against the rear wall hung a sizeable sheet of wood, held in place on a sort of scaffold with cords and pins. Upon this had been painted, but not finished, an oil of the baptism of Jesus. Some of the figures were executed with spirit and intelligence, but over one of them, a kneeling angel, I could not but shake my head.
"You see the fault," murmured Andrea Verrocchio beside me. "The draperies, Ser Leo, are not properly done."
* This is the accepted description of Andrea Verrocchio, who was not only a painter and sculptor high in favor at court, but the teacher of some of the most distinguished artists and craftsmen of his time.
"They are not, sir," I agreed, after a careful examination.
He smiled slowly. The students, too, had gathered with us. I had a sense of their critical suspicion. Perhaps they had worked at the thing, and failed.
"Peradventure, boy, you can better it," suggested Verrocchio, in a tone that was full of superior doubt.
"May I use these paints?" I inquired, stooping to some pots and brushes at the foot of the framework.
As I did so, I caught a glimpse of Guaracco's face, set in an easy smile. For all his strange, menacing nature he at least trusted my skill.
"Drapery is a science worth close study," I lectured the group, as I mixed some colors upon a rectangular palette board. "The part of the fold which is furthest from the ends where it is confined"—I pointed with my brush to the fringe of the angel's robe —"will return most closely to its original extended condition."
One of the students snickered at my words.
"Show us what you mean by these words," Verrocchio said.
"With your leave, I shall try to," I accepted his challenge, and began to dash on my paint. Here was another old skill that I had not lost. "Everything naturally desires to remain in its own state," I elaborated. "Drapery desires to lie flat. If it is caught into folds or pleats, thus,"—and I executed a crumpled crease upon the knee of the angel—"it is forced to quit this condition of flatness and obeys the law of this force in that part where it is most constrained."
I progressed to the hem.
"The part furthest away from such constraint," I went on, "you will find, returns most nearly to its original state—that is to say, lying extended and full."
"You say truth, Ser Leo, and you paint truth, too," Verrocchio commended warmly, and turned quickly to Guaracco. "Your kinsman stays here as my pupil and helper. Go forward with that drapery, young sir. When you are finished, the picture can have no further improvement." *
I worked away, caring little for the jealous staring of my fellow students.
Meanwhile, Guaracco's groom brought in a bundle of clothing for me, and Guaracco himself gave me a bag of clinking coins.
"I have paid the charge for your education, Cousin," he said to me. "Stay here, live and work here, and do me credit. Do not forget what I require from you, according to your recent conversations. I shall keep an eye and ear upon you. I may even take a house to be near you. Again I say, do not forget."
And with this equivocal farewell he strolled out, the very picture of a kindly and helpful kinsman.
So I became a pupil of Andrea Verrocchio, the finest teacher of arts in Florence. I made the acquaintance of my fellow students and found them not at all bad fellows, some indeed quite adept at their work. I had a cell-like room with pallet bed and table and chest of art materials. I listened dutifully to the precepts of our instructor, and under his tutelage did many kinds of work.
VERROCCHIO'S aptitude and taste was for sculpture, and though I thought this less intellectual than painting, for it cannot represent the transparent or yielding things, I did not rebel.
My first piece of finished work, a gold ornament for the King of Portugal, was called splendid by Verrocchio. He let me help him with the great bronze busts he was fashioning for the palace of the Medici, and let me do alone a series of ornamental shields of painted wood for a wealthy merchant.
* A painting that fits this description, and that might be the same, exists today in Florence. It is certain that the draperies of the kneeling angel are done more skilfully than those of the other figures.
In the evenings, and sometimes in the daytime when work was slack, I was permitted to go with my fellow students through the streets. I could never weary myself with the sights and sounds and smells of Florence.
I loved the pageantry of the main thoroughfares—laden beasts, processions of armed men going from one sentry post to another, occasional rich coaches of the great or wealthy, cavaliers on prancing horses, veiled ladies in mule-litters; rougher but still picturesque guildsmen, artisans, beggars, burghers; an occasional captain of mercenaries, a condottiero, slashed and swaggering, his long swordsheath hoisting up the hem of his mantel; criers loudly acclaiming their wares of fruit, fish, wine or what-not.
On the poorer, narrower streets there were hucksters and small tradesmen with baskets and trays ; bevies of bright-eyed girls, on the lookout for romantic adventure. There were palaces to see in the wider spaces and the great sculptured bridges across the Arno. Too, there were pleasant, cheap taverns, where young men might get good wine and
plenty for copper coins.
So it went for the month of May. Twice during that time, Guaracco called to talk to me, in honeyed protestations of concern over the welfare of his supposed cousin. But between the pleasant lines of his conversation my inner ear could distinguish the warning and insistence of his power over me.
Once he remarked that Lisa—"You remember our little Lisa!"—had sent me her warm regards. I found myself heartily grateful for that brief message from one who had treated me fairly and kindly.
The first of June dawned bright and sultry hot. I was up betimes, putting the last touches to an improvement on the scaffolding which served Verrocchio as an easel for extra large pictures. I fitted its cords to pulleys and winches so that the artist, instead of moving from one place to another, could hold a certain position with advantageous lights and viewpoints, while he lowered the picture itself, or lifted it or moved it from side to side at his will.
In the midst of my work, a boy came in from the street. He approached and said, very softly, that he had a message.
"A message?" I demanded, turning. "For whom?"
The little fellow bowed. "For you, Ser Leo. I am ordered to conduct you to a place in the next street."
"How do you know my name?" I asked, and looked sharply at him.
Then I saw that it was no boy, but the dwarf who had once opened Guaracco's door to me, and whom I had then mistaken for a handsome child.
"Come," he persisted, "you are awaited."
Turning from my work, I asked Verrocchio if I might be excused for a few moments. He glanced up from the bench where he and two other students were studying the plans of a chapel, and nodded his permission.
"Is it Guaracco who waits to see me?" I asked the dwarf as we emerged from the bottega into the sticky sunlight, but he smiled mysteriously and shook his little head.
HE walked along the street, my guide, trotting in front, and turned a corner.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1940 Page 3