‘There is Dawn and Dusk , of course, of whom all the world has heard, but who is the third? Don’t imagine that it depicts young Lorenzo himself, whom I used to know, and who was, frankly, something of a fool. No, it is an image of the Thinker, of the Contemplative Life; it is Contemplation itself that the artist meant to portray. That night in Florence, I believe, you saw an image of yourself and your own destiny. How many years have you spent in study of the ancient writers, the prophets, the philosophers? And what is the point of a contemplative life? Was it for your private pleasure? Of course not. Does a man sail around the world and come back and keep secret what he has seen? All your study, all your learning – all your travels, as it were, into the past – wasted , unless you put it to use in the hour of need. This the great paradox: it is not only your prince and your nation you serve by telling the truth, but you yourself. And remember Isaiah, who saw his people loaded with chains and injustice. The time has come for you, too, to be unsparing, and lift up your voice like a trumpet!’
I could see at once that this speech served its purpose. Pole’s demeanour changed. He looked pale and resolute. And then Bembo, having got his way, changed as well and he began to talk in a more gentle way as we set off walking along the bank, where the sound of the running water seemed more pleasing as the dusk fell. The wind had dropped, as well, and the light of sunset began to colour the sky.
‘It is a very beautiful conception, of course, the whole thing,’ he said, ‘that splendid figure, with Dawn and Dusk as his attendants. After all, those are the natural companions of thought. Look about us now, for instance. Here we are: the sun is about to set, those birds flying above the river are on their way home to their nests. Yet if you tell yourself a lie, and say that it is dawn, and the sun has just risen – see how everything changes! The birds seem to be setting off on great adventures, and those peasants crossing the field over there take on quite a new air, and even the river seems to roll towards the sea more gaily. So you see the power of a thought – even a wrong thought – over the mind! And more than any other creatures, men are misled by illusions. That is the real task of wisdom: to tell the difference between things that appear roughly the same. And all of this, he – I mean, Michelangelo – constructed for the tomb of poor young Lorenzo, who was a budding tyrant and committed folly upon folly, and then died an absurd death . . .’
At this thought, Bembo looked quite cheerful.
‘I must tell you,’ he said, tucking Pole’s arm under his own and turning back to the house, ‘what Michelangelo said when someone plucked up courage and told him that the statue of Lorenzo looked nothing like the real Lorenzo. “Him?” he said. “In five hundred years no one will give a damn what he looked like.” ’
Chapter 6
When summer was over, Pole came back to the city and our household resumed its former rhythm. By that time we had moved to the big house on the Grand Canal belonging to M. Donato. Even with the constant threat of the Turks, every day was carnival day in Venice, the canal was crowded with boats day and night from St Thomas’s ferry as far as Charity. And we were at the centre of it all, in the middle of the web. Ambassadors and other grandees came in and out the door every day. Pole held banquets twice a month. The French ambassador came to stay, and then the English agent, Edmond Harvel – Siggy, we called him – moved in as well, his own house being small, cold and foul and filling with water at the least provocation. We knew everything that was going on in the world. And the news that year was tremendous, every day brought prodigies. The Turk was defeated in the east: crossing the Euphrates he lost 150,000 men and all his treasure and baggage. The King of Persia had a second great
I could see at once that this speech served its purpose. Pole’s demeanour changed. He looked pale and resolute. And then Bembo, having got his way, changed as well and he began to talk in a more gentle way as we set off walking along the bank, where the sound of the running water seemed more pleasing as the dusk fell. The wind had dropped, as well, and the light of sunset began to colour the sky.
‘It is a very beautiful conception, of course, the whole thing,’ he said, ‘that splendid figure, with Dawn and Dusk as his attendants. After all, those are the natural companions of thought. Look about us now, for instance. Here we are: the sun is about to set, those birds flying above the river are on their way home to their nests. Yet if you tell yourself a lie, and say that it is dawn, and the sun has just risen – see how everything changes! The birds seem to be setting off on great adventures, and those peasants crossing the field over there take on quite a new air, and even the river seems to roll towards the sea more gaily. So you see the power of a thought – even a wrong thought – over the mind! And more than any other creatures, men are misled by illusions. That is the real task of wisdom: to tell the difference between things that appear roughly the same. And all of this, he – I mean, Michelangelo – constructed for the tomb of poor young Lorenzo, who was a budding tyrant and committed folly upon folly, and then died an absurd death . . .’
At this thought, Bembo looked quite cheerful.
‘I must tell you,’ he said, tucking Pole’s arm under his own and turning back to the house, ‘what Michelangelo said when someone plucked up courage and told him that the statue of Lorenzo looked nothing like the real Lorenzo. “Him?” he said. “In five hundred years no one will give a damn what he looked like.” ’
Chapter 6
When summer was over, Pole came back to the city and our household resumed its former rhythm. By that time we had moved to the big house on the Grand Canal belonging to M. Donato. Even with the constant threat of the Turks, every day was carnival day in Venice, the canal was crowded with boats day and night from St Thomas’s ferry as far as Charity. And we were at the centre of it all, in the middle of the web. Ambassadors and other grandees came in and out the door every day. Pole held banquets twice a month. The French ambassador came to stay, and then the English agent, Edmond Harvel – Siggy, we called him – moved in as well, his own house being small, cold and foul and filling with water at the least provocation. We knew everything that was going on in the world. And the news that year was tremendous, every day brought prodigies. The Turk was defeated in the east: crossing the Euphrates he lost 150,000 men and all his treasure and baggage. The King of Persia had a second great
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