Read Online The Medici Boy by John L'Heureux - Free Book Online
Authors: John L'Heureux
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was not a question and Lo Scheggia did not answer. The boy’s leg continued to tremble and my own legs trembled in sympathy with him. How was it possible to be stared at like this and not crumple to the floor?
Finally Donato shook his head, no. Quietly, still deep in thought, he approached the posing platform and placed his hand gently on the boy’s head. He touched his right cheekbone and then his left. Once again he shook his head. “You can take a rest now, Scheggia mio ,” he said, and his voice was very soft.
He came over to us and put his hand on Michelozzo’s shoulder. “It is impossible, Lozzo,” he said. “It is not possible.”
Michelozzo said nothing but it was clear that Donato expected a response.
I was watching them closely.
“Tomorrow,” Michelozzo said, “all things will be possible.”
They exchanged a look. Michelozzo’s look was merely sympathetic, understanding, but Donato’s was a look of love and need. For an instant I felt a twinge of jealousy, but I did not know of what or of whom.
Michelozzo raised his hand, farewell, and left us for Ghiberti.
Donato stared after him and then, with a pained look, sat down at a work table littered with drawings for the statue. There were piles of them, sketches of Lo Scheggia in a Bishop’s mitre and cope, some with him holding the crosier and some of the crosier alone, but most of them were sketches of the boy’s head, a handsome young man who looked determined in some images and desperate in others. Donato shuffled the drawings for a moment and then pushed them into a pile to the side. He had decided to get on with this matter of duty.
“Now,” Donato said, and looked across at me. His intense stare that could melt wax had disappeared completely. “ Dimmi . Tell me everything.”
I fell absolutely mute.
He asked where I was from, who my father was, why I had agreed to be a Brother of Saint Francis and why I had left the Order and I answered him in single syllables, as if I were not only frightened but slow of mind as well. He was interested that I had been a Franciscan Brother.
“Louis of Tolosa was a Franciscan,” he said. “And a saint, of course. And a fool.”
I was not sure what to make of this.
“He gave up a kingdom to become a beggar,” he said, as if in explanation. He shrugged and for a long while he sat there silent. “Do you read Greek?” he asked. “I read only Latin and very little of that. Enough to know the old stories. Abraham and Isaac, David, Susannah and the Elders.”
An orange cat that I had not seen before suddenly leaped onto his lap and then onto the table where it curled up on his drawings. “Do you like cats?” he asked. “Lots and lots of cats?” He tickled the orange cat beneath the chin. “They keep down the vermin.”
He lapsed into silence again and then, a second time, he asked my name.
“Luca,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Luca is a good name for a painter. Saint Luke, as you know, painted the Virgin Mother. We revere him for that, though he was probably just a sincere painter and not a very good one. We do little painting in our bottega —wedding cassoni , mostly—but there are always things that need doing, Lozzo will tell you, and there is always someone to show you where you’ve gone wrong.”
He smiled and again he seemed to drift off in thought.
“Nencio”—he meant Ghiberti—“says you are gifted, though he does not say at what.” He shot me a sharp look and then turned away.
“A gift, plus hard work, and you’ll fit in well here.”
He shifted the drawings on his desk, gazing for a long moment at one of the full-length sketches and then at one of the head alone. He picked up a stylus, twisted it between his fingers, and handed it to me. “You must have this,” he said, and I could see that with its ivory handle and fine point it was of some considerable value. “You must draw constantly,” he said. “Do you draw all the time?”
“No, my lord,” I
Finally Donato shook his head, no. Quietly, still deep in thought, he approached the posing platform and placed his hand gently on the boy’s head. He touched his right cheekbone and then his left. Once again he shook his head. “You can take a rest now, Scheggia mio ,” he said, and his voice was very soft.
He came over to us and put his hand on Michelozzo’s shoulder. “It is impossible, Lozzo,” he said. “It is not possible.”
Michelozzo said nothing but it was clear that Donato expected a response.
I was watching them closely.
“Tomorrow,” Michelozzo said, “all things will be possible.”
They exchanged a look. Michelozzo’s look was merely sympathetic, understanding, but Donato’s was a look of love and need. For an instant I felt a twinge of jealousy, but I did not know of what or of whom.
Michelozzo raised his hand, farewell, and left us for Ghiberti.
Donato stared after him and then, with a pained look, sat down at a work table littered with drawings for the statue. There were piles of them, sketches of Lo Scheggia in a Bishop’s mitre and cope, some with him holding the crosier and some of the crosier alone, but most of them were sketches of the boy’s head, a handsome young man who looked determined in some images and desperate in others. Donato shuffled the drawings for a moment and then pushed them into a pile to the side. He had decided to get on with this matter of duty.
“Now,” Donato said, and looked across at me. His intense stare that could melt wax had disappeared completely. “ Dimmi . Tell me everything.”
I fell absolutely mute.
He asked where I was from, who my father was, why I had agreed to be a Brother of Saint Francis and why I had left the Order and I answered him in single syllables, as if I were not only frightened but slow of mind as well. He was interested that I had been a Franciscan Brother.
“Louis of Tolosa was a Franciscan,” he said. “And a saint, of course. And a fool.”
I was not sure what to make of this.
“He gave up a kingdom to become a beggar,” he said, as if in explanation. He shrugged and for a long while he sat there silent. “Do you read Greek?” he asked. “I read only Latin and very little of that. Enough to know the old stories. Abraham and Isaac, David, Susannah and the Elders.”
An orange cat that I had not seen before suddenly leaped onto his lap and then onto the table where it curled up on his drawings. “Do you like cats?” he asked. “Lots and lots of cats?” He tickled the orange cat beneath the chin. “They keep down the vermin.”
He lapsed into silence again and then, a second time, he asked my name.
“Luca,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Luca is a good name for a painter. Saint Luke, as you know, painted the Virgin Mother. We revere him for that, though he was probably just a sincere painter and not a very good one. We do little painting in our bottega —wedding cassoni , mostly—but there are always things that need doing, Lozzo will tell you, and there is always someone to show you where you’ve gone wrong.”
He smiled and again he seemed to drift off in thought.
“Nencio”—he meant Ghiberti—“says you are gifted, though he does not say at what.” He shot me a sharp look and then turned away.
“A gift, plus hard work, and you’ll fit in well here.”
He shifted the drawings on his desk, gazing for a long moment at one of the full-length sketches and then at one of the head alone. He picked up a stylus, twisted it between his fingers, and handed it to me. “You must have this,” he said, and I could see that with its ivory handle and fine point it was of some considerable value. “You must draw constantly,” he said. “Do you draw all the time?”
“No, my lord,” I
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