Leonardo da Vinci, Pathfinder of Science

13 The Last Years

Leonardo looked around from where he was leaning on the parapet of the Chateau d’Amboise to watch a group of young lords and ladies playing croquet on the emerald-green lawn. The click of the mallets and balls was mingled with the shouts and laughter of the young people. It was late afternoon in May and although the sun was warm the breeze from the west was chilly. Leonardo looked down again from the sheer height of the castle wall across the wide sweep of the Loire river and the valley extending as far as the eye could see. Swallows were swooping low over the banks below and the wind carried their shrilling cries up to him. The forested islands and sandbars interrupted the steady flow of the river and Leonardo could see the reflections sway in the current. He had been studying the river but he realized that his aging eyes were not up to the task of concentrating for long. The wind made them water, so he turned away and started back to his home.

There was much that was familiar in the castle at Amboise. The thick, high walls and round towers and especially the graceful, lacy spires of the king’s residence brought back much that he had known in his native land. The gardens had been planted by Italians—there were orange trees and even a mulberry tree from his beloved plains of Lombardy. The king’s residence and chapel had been constructed and the decorations carved in stone by Italian artisans. Leonardo could stop and talk in his native tongue with many of the men employed by the king. Since the time of Charles VIII, the French had brought in the latest Renaissance styles from Italy. Leonardo’s steps took him back from the castle grounds and down a path with a hand-railing. The steep roofs of the town of Amboise with their chimneys could be seen below him. The path led to a small manor house, like a miniature castle with sharp spires and lacy, carved-stone gables that was set in green lawns and gravel paths.

The Manoir de Cloux, as Leonardo’s house was called, had been a hunting lodge for Francis I, but when Leonardo had arrived he gave the house to Leonardo for his home. Francis, in his admiration for this great man, also gave him seven hundred crowns a year, together with a pension of four hundred for Francesco de’ Melzi.

Leonardo at Chateau d’Amboise on the Loire.

The long journey from Rome had left Leonardo tired and weak and he had fallen ill again shortly after his arrival. This time the attack was more serious and had left him with his right hand permanently crippled. He looked at it now as he opened the door to his room. “Another warning,” he thought, “and there’s still so much to do.”

The young, robust King Francis was everywhere at once. He gloried in knightly tournaments, hunts, and sports of all kinds. Always restless, he might appear at any place unannounced. Frequently there would be a clamor at the gates of Leonardo’s home and the king would ride in with one or two of his nobles. With a great jingling of spurs he would bound up the stairs of the manor house calling for Leonardo. He delighted in long talks with the old man, and would listen respectfully as Leonardo, his deep-set eyes brooding over his notes, would demonstrate some scientific point on a blank sheet of paper.

At this time, Leonardo was engaged on three projects which demanded his immediate attention. One was the entertainment for a banquet that Francis was giving for his sister, Marguerite de Valois, and her husband. Another was a new design for the king’s castle at Amboise, and the third was a design for making a navigable waterway from Amboise to Romorantin. Although these three projects were the main ones that occupied Leonardo’s time, there was always the supervising of his pupils’ painting on the walls in the little chapel of the manor house, his own work on a painting of St. John the Baptist, and the continual ordering and revising of his notes.

The banquet took place in October of 1517, and the mechanical lion Leonardo had made was an immediate success. It “walked” by means of a spring motor, into the hall, opening and closing its fierce mouth while swaying its head from side to side. With a wand that he had been given, Francis I stepped down from his seat and tapped the lion three times. The toy fell apart and from it a cascade of white lilies poured out at the king’s feet.

Also at this time there was a distinguished guest at the castle of Amboise. He was a fellow-countryman of Leonardo and his name was Cardinal Luigi d’Aragona. With him was his secretary Antonio de’ Beatis. As Leonardo was now a famous member of King Francis’ court, the cardinal paid him a visit accompanied by Antonio. The extraordinary anatomy drawings and all his notes were shown to the cardinal; he and his secretary were deeply impressed. They were also surprised to learn that Leonardo had never been accorded the same recognition by his own countrymen. Antonio de’ Beatis wrote home that “This gentleman has written a treatise on anatomy, showing by illustrations the members, muscles, nerves, veins, joints, intestines and whatever else is to discuss in the bodies of men and women, in a way that has never yet been done by anyone else. All this we have seen with our own eyes; and he said that he had dissected more than thirty bodies, both of men and women of all ages. He has also written of the nature of water, and of divers machines, and of other matters which he has set down in an endless number of volumes, all in the vulgar tongue [meaning Italian not Latin], which, if they be published, will be profitable and delightful.”

By now Leonardo had accumulated thousands of pages of notes, and they lay stacked in all manner of chests and boxes. Often now, as Leonardo surveyed the work of his lifetime, he realized that he would never see the day of their publication. Time was slipping through his fingers. Already summer had come and gone and now the sharp winds of fall were lifting the leaves from the ground in dancing whirls. Fortunately these were years of peace and for the first time in a long while the people were free of wars. The scheme to canalize the waterway to Romorantin had grown to a vast idea for making a thoroughfare of water from the Loire river all the way down France to Lyons and then into Italy! Leonardo, old and ailing as he was, had surveyed parts of the rivers Loire and Cher, braving the rough roads and crude accommodations.

In addition, Leonardo had designed a castle for Francis I’s widowed mother in Romorantin. This castle was never built, but many of the ideas that Leonardo had incorporated in its design were used in the gigantic and magnificent castle of Chambord. Also, at Francis’ request, he had reviewed the work being done at the castle in Blois and there is reason to think that the beautiful outside stairwell that spirals from left to right might have been designed by Leonardo.

In February of 1517, a son had been born to Queen Claude and Francis I. The king decided to postpone the baptism of the dauphin (the title given to the eldest son of a French King) until May of the following year. At that time there would be a double celebration at Amboise, for a nephew of Pope Leo X, the young Lorenzo de’ Medici, was being married to Madelaine d’Auvergne. As usual, Leonardo was given the assignment of preparing the festivities. Although he was fond of preparing these entertainments, Leonardo now felt the pressure of time; for indeed, the interruptions of this eager young king were sometimes a hardship. He felt that his years were drawing to an end. His notes were unfinished and his dreams of extending man’s knowledge of his world and of himself were hindered not only by such petty chores but also by the limits of his own physical endurance.

As Leonardo was sketching one day from the window of his room where he could see the castle walls and the chapel of Saint-Hubert, he set aside the drawing for a moment to write a memorandum to himself. “Write of the quality of time as distinct from its mathematical divisions.” Was this extraordinary man sensing the road down which Einstein—in his studies of relativity—was to travel hundreds of years later?

Spring arrived again and with it came the first wild flowers and roses, the songs of the birds in the woods and the blossoming of the chestnut trees. The time for the double celebration came, too, and Leonardo was seen busily preparing the decorations and mechanical delights for the large crowds already assembling. In addition to the tournaments-at-arms that so delighted the king, there was to be a mock battle with a besieged city, and for this Leonardo had had constructed imposing castle walls of wood with a backdrop of a city’s spires and towers. The party lasted for weeks, and the climax was performed on the lawns of Leonardo’s house where a great ballroom had been set up. Here he repeated an earlier success, the one that had so enchanted Ludovico’s guests so many years ago in the Sforza castle at Milan. There was again a dome over the ballroom across which the stars moved mechanically and artificial figures representing various gods and goddesses spoke and sang by means of a hidden choir, while the sun and moon shone in their own lights.

This display ended the festivities. It was already late June and Leonardo was anxious to return to his plans for the water route to Italy. There was the area near Sologne which, when flooded, would make the surrounding countryside a marshland. This would have to be drained by the same method as he had planned for the Piombino and the Pontine marshes. Francis I was interested, too, in the improvements Leonardo had suggested for his own castle, and he would have to talk with the castle superintendent about them. As always, there seemed to be so many things to do, to plan, to work on. Then Leonardo wrote in his notes: “On the 24th of June, the day of St. John, 1518, at Amboise, in the palace of Cloux....” and underneath, “I will continue—”

“I will continue—” It was almost a note of defiance against the obstacles of advancing age and sickness and the interruptions of the practical world.

The sound of jingling spurs and bridle chains and the snorting of many horses announced another surprise visit from the young king. Leonardo could hear him below shouting something to Battista, the servant who had come to Amboise with Leonardo. Now, as usual, Francis was running up the stairs with all the energy of youth shouting for “le maÎtre” (the master). Resignedly and with patient humor, Leonardo stepped out to greet the king. The gold chains around Francis’ thick neck and over his broad chest glinted in the semi-light of the hall, and he was holding his plumed hat at his side and mopping his forehead with a dainty embroidered handkerchief.

“Master Leonardo! We are going on a tour of the river and I want you to look at the place that I told you about. Where I want to put that bridge. You remember?”

“Sire, give me but a moment to gather some material together.”

A chest was made ready and soon Leonardo was at the door, calling to Francesco and Battista to help him into the saddle of his horse, while the king’s servants hoisted the chest onto one of the carts already piled high with tents and provisions.

When Francis was restless—which was often—a “tour” could mean many hours or many days of travel. Wagons were always kept ready with all the equipment for a long journey and Leonardo, himself, had learned to accept these sudden whims and kept chests of his own ready for any such trip. Now, as always, the king kept his horse reined back out of regard for this tall, stooped man with the long beard and simple clothes.

Yet when Leonardo returned from this “tour” he realized that he could no longer make such trips. The hardships of sleeping in tents, riding over the hot roads, and the necessary work involved in surveying the possible sites for a bridge had left him almost exhausted. He had made one suggestion, however, and that was to build houses that could be carried and then assembled with a few wooden locking devices, then just as quickly taken down and moved to the next place. They could also be left standing where the country people could use them while the court was away. Indeed, such structures would seem to be the ancestors of our own prefabricated houses.

The winter of 1519 was a bitter one. When the cold fog spread over the valley shrouding the bare trees it chilled the big, white-washed rooms of Cloux. The wind blew down from the north sending blasts down the chimneys and scattering ashes and sparks. Leonardo, huddled against the huge fireplace with its roof projecting into the room, pulled his black cloak lined in soft leather around him and reminded himself to include it in his will for Mathurine, the faithful domestic who cooked for him and took care of his house.

The aged Leonardo, who had observed and analyzed so much of man and nature, knew now that his own days were numbered. When the first, pale sunlight of March shone through the small leaded-glass windows of his house, he applied to the king for permission to make out his own will. French law demanded that the property of any foreigner dying in France went to the Crown. The permission was granted, and on April 23, 1519, Guillaume Boureau, the Royal Notary of Amboise was summoned with witnesses.

To his half-brothers in Florence Leonardo left his property at Fiesole and four hundred ducats. To his faithful friend and companion, Francesco de’ Melzi, nobleman of Milan, Leonardo willed his notes, drawings, and paintings. Battista was given the income that Louis XII had granted Leonardo from the tolls of the canal at San Cristoforo near Milan. Mathurine was granted the “good black cloth, trimmed with leather” and two ducats. Moreover, Leonardo outlined in detail the plans for his own funeral, right down to the use of ten pounds of candles.

Too weak now to stand any more, Leonardo was confined to his big four-poster bed with the canopy. From it he could see the tracery of the Chapel of Saint-Hubert against the pale, foreign sky through the little window in the corner. The vicar of the church of Saint-Denis was called, with two priests and two Franciscan friars, and Leonardo received the last sacraments at his bedside.

An entry in his notes reads, “While I thought I was learning to live, I have been learning how to die.” But death was not easy for him. With tears rolling down his sunken cheeks for “his wasted life,” he died on May 2, 1519—fighting even this final interruption to all his work.

King Francis I, who was at St. Germain-en-Laye with his court, wept when the news was brought to him. Francesco de’ Melzi was so overcome with grief that he waited until June before writing to the half-brothers of Leonardo of the Master’s death. He wrote, in part, “He was to me the best of fathers, and it is impossible for me to express the grief that his death has caused me. Until the day when my body is laid under the ground, I shall experience perpetual sorrow, and not without reason, for he daily showed me the most devoted and warmest affection.”

And in a closing paragraph Francesco added these words: “His loss is a grief to everyone, for it is not in the power of nature to reproduce another such man.”

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