the noble Sforza family.' Of his profession of painter he makes scarcely any mention. 'In regard to painting, I can do whatever may be required quite as well as anybody.' After which he adds: 'and if anything stated above appears impossible of execution, I undertake to make the attempt in your park, or in such other place as may please your excellency, at whose disposal I place myself.'

This letter was written about 1480 or 1482, and its author must then have been between twenty-eight and thirty years of age. If an artist of our day, even one who had attained the pinnacle of fame, were to write in such terms to the ruler of a State, he would be laughed at and ridiculed. But the Italian Renaissance drew its inspirations from the monuments and writings of antiquity, and, together with beautiful examples of sculpture, it had acquired the passably useful maxim that modesty is a defect' which must be shaken off. Leonardo conformed to the ancient doctrine. To-day we have amongst us artists-perhaps even men of letters-who would conform thereto with pleasure if our refined formulas of modesty had not replaced by an affected humility the frank expression of selfsufficiency considered correct in earlier times. Whatever may be thought of Leonardo's boasts, it is permissible to suppose that he would not have been so ready to promise wonders had he not felt able to accomplish at least some of them. When one peruses the voluminous writings left by him, one is less astonished at the confidence which he placed in his genius. One only regrets that his inventions should have absorbed time which might have been so advantageously devoted to art, his real vocation.

Leonardo's letter was apparently not displeasing to Ludovic the Moor, for the writer was at once summoned to the ducal Court to give a proof of his talents. He presented himself there in an original manner, as a poet and musician, carrying in his hand a lyre with the figure of a horse's head chiselled in silver by himself. This strange sight put Duke Sforza in a good humour, and conquered the sympathies of the ladies, towards whom Leonardo ever showed himself faithful and gallant. His wit, the vivacity of his conversation, the elegance of his manners, and the loyalty and tact displayed in his intercourse with the best society of Milan, gained for him during his stay in that city a great reputation as a man of the world, while hist works placed him in the front rank of famous Italian artists.

He produced some masterpieces, among them being the large fresco in the refectory of Santa Maria della Grazia, portraits, easelpieces, studies for the Martesana Canal, and the statue of Francis Sforza. His opinion was asked for in the conflict which arose between the German architects and their Italian colleagues touching the completion of Milan Cathedral. He was the arbiter of taste, and the organiser of festivities. Had the Olympian games been still in existence, he would have figured as an athlete; for with his hands he

could twist the clapper of a bell, and, like Hercules, would have strangled the Nemean lion. He laboured for nine years at the equestrian statue of Francis Sforza. He made two models thereof, but it is not known whether it was ever cast in bronze. Leonardo's friend, Luca Pacioli, the mathematician, declares that it was, and even gives its weight (200,000 lbs.) and height (12 Milanese fathoms, or nearly 23 ft.); but no other writer of the time mentions it, which is a matter of astonishment to recent historians of Leonardo. On the other hand, tradition has it that the second model, the one which was to have been perpetuated in bronze, was destroyed by the Gascon cross-bowmen when Louis the Twelfth captured Milan. This tradition must be erroneous, as a letter of Hercule d'Este states that it still existed there in 1501. It is, at all events, unlikely that a mass of bronze weighing 200,000 lbs. could have fallen to pieces without causing some stir in the world.

During his nine years' sojourn at Milan, Leonardo da Vinci executed many other works, of various kinds. He painted the Duke of Milan's legitimate family, as well as the pretty women of his lefthanded liaisons, and he painted them with his left hand, with which he also wrote. He founded there an Academy of Fine Arts, of which he seems to have been the sole professor. He wrote a treatise on 'Lights and Shades,' which latter-day artists might consult with profit. There is even ground to believe that it was at Milan that he painted the Madonna among the Rocks.' For two years he directed the work on the Cathedral. Finally, he took in hand the decoration of the refectory of Santa Maria della Grazia, of which he only executed,. however, the Last Supper.' The vestiges of this fresco are now scarcely visible.

This marvellous amount of labour, while leaving Leonardo's love of pleasure unweakened, failed to furnish him with the means to indulge it to the extent he wished, for the Duke was a poor payer and a slow one. Affairs at Milan became unsettled. Louis the Twelfth, arms in hand, claimed the succession of Valentine. So Leonardo, who was spending much and earning very little, returned to Florence, the wealthiest city of Italy after Venice. Here, orders flowed in rapidly. He acquired the habit of executing them when he felt inclined, or not executing them at all.

One day, Francesco Giocondo went to see Leonardo, and asked him to paint his wife's portrait. The artist stated his terms. 'We shall want a dozen violin players to keep the sitter in a bright humour. If you like, we will add some singers and a few buffoons, so as to vary the monotony of the instruments. As there is not room for so many people in my modest quarters, we will hold our sittings at the Giocondo palace, where the apartments are spacious and richly decorated.'

Signor Giocondo, who was generous, as every Florentine had to

be in those days, readily accepted these conditions, and, after a preliminary study of the model, Leonardo began his task.

What were the thoughts
What were the secret

It was, from the outset, a difficult one. concealed by the Signora's marble brow? intentions in those looks now cold and now enticing? What meant that smile upon a mouth voluptuous, yet drawn by an expression of irony and disdain? And those hands chastely crossed upon the ample breast, what would they do if left uncontrolled?

Like us, Leonardo felt that he was in the presence of a mystery, and, like us, he attempted to penetrate it. To guide him in doing so he had points of reference which we do not possess. Mona Lisa's husband was old, while he, Leonardo, was a young man, or at least a man not far advanced in years. He was scarcely more than fortythree, handsome, intellectual and eloquent, and enjoyed, furthermore, the prestige of genius. If he took it into his head to speak of love, which was not his habit, he might perhaps succeed in chasing away that ironical smile, and in allaying the enticement of that look.

But it did not happen thus, for the portrait had hardly been begun when the sittings were suspended. It might be supposed that Leonardo's restless genius, ever in search of a new inspiration, and eager for great enterprises, had fathomed the mystery before him and had found it an empty mockery—that, instead of the ardent spirit whose existence he had suspected, he had discovered merely a heart of ice. This supposition, however, is contradicted by the facts. The inventor of the architonitro-cannon retired for a time, but soor returned.

History does not say who made the first step towards resuming the painting of the portrait. I incline to the opinion that it was Mona Lisa. Leonardo was absorbed in his maritime canal from Florence to Pisa, He had an important work to execute at the old palace in conjunction with Michael Angelo. He was also putting the finishing touches to the portrait of the beautiful Ginevra Benci. His journeys in Umbria and Romagna interfered with his painting, and many works in progress were left unfinished. If he took four years, as is asserted by Vasari, to paint the portrait of the woman dear to his palette and to his heart, it must be admitted that the sittings were often suspended. Knowing the character of the man, we think it unlikely that he ever went to the Casa Giocondo to inquire about their resumption.

The fair Mona Lisa wanted to have her portrait painted by the hand of the great artist, but must have desired still more ardently to possess the artist himself. She seems to have taken the right road to go down to posterity. Dominate the painter, so penetrate his thoughts as to make them hers, engrave her image ineffaceably upon his memory-such, undoubtedly, was the object of this myste-

rious creature. Here are proofs of this. In spite of the fact that it was in hand for four years, the portrait is unfinished. It can be seen in the Louvre. Certain parts-accessories, it is true—are merely outlined. Yet the painter had abundant time to finish it, for he made several copies of it, which are done in such a manner that it is difficult to believe they were painted to the sound of music, and in Signor Giocondo's house.

From the time when he had the singularly typical visage of Mona Lisa for a subject, he never introduced any other face in his pictures for any feminine figure of importance. The 'St. Anne' in the Louvre is a 'Joconde' satisfied and without mystery. The 'St. John the Baptist,' also in the Louvre, is not a saint at all, either male or female, but a graceful image of Voluptuousness-a 'Joconde' sans arrièrepensée.

There are Jocondes' all over Europe, at London, Munich, Madrid, Rome, and Florence, and-if it has not passed the frontier recently -another can be seen at the Villa Sommariva, Como. Finally, there exist two other portraits (half-length) of the beautiful Florentine. One of these was contained in Cardinal Fesch's collection, while the other is in the Hermitage Museum at St. Petersburg. Both are nude figures, and it is scarcely probable that they were painted under the eyes of the husband: that they were executed with the lady's consent is a question open to examination.

Is it possible that so many replicas of a bespoken portrait can exist without the artist having received his model's permission to make them? Can we believe that the painter borrowed the nude parts from another subject, or drew them from his imagination? It is not likely. Artists of genius like Leonardo da Vinci do not indulge in such puerile fancies; they paint the living form from nature, and reserve their flights of genius for their compositions.

Some very convincing information on this point is given us by Charles Clément. There existed in the Palais Royal Gallery a picture by Leonardo da Vinci. What became of it? When, after the Revolution of 1848, a part of this collection was sold, a cedar panel, extracted from a lumber-room, was bought by one Moreau, a picturedealer. On this panel was a painting of inferior quality. Moreau, suspecting the secret, had the figure removed, when a precious treasure was brought to view. It was the portrait of a woman, evidently painted from nature. She was nude, and in a sitting position. This woman was none other than the Joconde'; 'the features were the same, the marvellous hands were the same, and there was the same smile on the lips and in the eyes.' It appears that this chef-d'œuvre was hidden by a commonplace image by order of Louis d'Orléans, the Regent's son, whose austere virtue was shocked by the scantiness of the beautiful Florentine's garb. Charles Clément, whose authority in the matter cannot be doubted, recognised at once the perfect resemblance,

the execution from nature, and the inimitable handiwork of Leonardo da Vinci.

In spite of the disdainful curl of her lip, we cannot believe that the worthy lady maintained towards the painter an attitude of reserve utterly at variance with her alluring glance. It is still less probable that the artist should have remained insensible to his model's charms. The many replicas which he made suffice to render us incredulous upon this point, and when, in several of these replicas, we discover signs of a possession longed-for or attained, it amounts to a certainty that love of art was not the sole origin of a desire manifestly expressed. Granting that Mona Lisa repulsed Leonardo's love, or was not even aware of it; that all these portraits were painted without her permission, and unknown to her; that, finally, she did not display her unveiled charms to guide the artist's brush, it is quite impossible to doubt the existence in him of a passion, the signs of which are so clearly shown. This view, while saving the lady's honour, strengthens the idea that the painter was much inclined to rob her of it.

The psychological effort which we are obliged to make in order to reach the latter conclusion shows plainly that we have small belief in it. It seems unlikely that those intermittent sittings, extending over a period of four years, could have continued so long without mutual consent. The thing is not, perhaps, foreign to the character and habits of Leonardo da Vinci, but it is utterly contrary to the sentiment of pride and the spirit of impatience which may be presumed to animate a woman, young, handsome and rich, and moving in the highest circles of an aristocracy intensely jealous of the respect due to it.

Again, let us suppose that this woman was excessively goodnatured, although the possession of that quality is completely belied by her ironical smile. This is a concession which we make to her virtue. It is, however, very hard to conceive the studio of a painter so well known in society as Leonardo must have been under the aspect of a cloister closed to the gaze of the inquisitive. Of these numerous portraits of one and the same subject some knowledge must have transpired in Florence: people must surely have known how he passed his leisure hours, and what seductive conceptions he was embodying upon his canvases. However carefully these portraits may have been kept out of sight, some intimate friends, and even some enemies, were no doubt able to see them, enjoy their beauties, and talk of them in society-the former to exalt the painter's merits, and the latter to do him an ill turn with his jealous rivals, and through them with Signor Giocondo himself. The husband must have learned (probably last of all) of what was going on, and if he knew it, how could his wife have remained in ignorance? The inference is logical: if she knew, she made no denial, and her failure,