Folio 2ea2cc76
Italiano
Eccellentissimo Signore mio Duca,
It has been many years since I ate at your table, and I write now not from the Castello but from a room in France where the Loire moves slowly under a low sky; the hand that once drew the machines of your defense now trembles over this page, yet the page remains patient where the hand is not — la carta è paziente dove la mano non lo è. I do not write to ask anything for myself. I write because I have not forgotten the horse.
Il cavallo. The bronze horse, larger than any cast since the ancients, which you commanded for the father Francesco. I promised you the method. I promised the furnace, the mold, the hundred tons of bronze. Much was prepared; much remains in my books. I know the weight of the metal down to the last libbra; I know the shape of the armature beneath the clay; I know the channels by which the bronze must enter and the air must leave, as a man knows the veins of his own arm. But the casting was never done. War came, and bronze was taken for cannon. The clay horse stood in the vineyard and the rain undid it, year by year. I have not forgotten that either.
What I offer you now is not the bronze itself, for my strength is no longer equal to the foundry, nor your court to the expense of it. What I offer is the complete design — the drawings, the calculations, the notes on the getto in un solo pezzo, the casting in a single piece — copied fair and bound, so that another hand might finish what was begun when your fortune and mine were younger. The page does not forget; it is the truest portrait of the work, truer than the ruined clay could ever be. If it pleases Your Excellency, I will send it. The maker prepares; the patron judges.
I remain, as I have always been, ready to serve your house in what remains to me of sight and memory and hand.
Di Vostra Eccellenza umilissimo e devotissimo servitore, Leonardo da Vinci
English
Most Excellent Lord Duke,
It has been many years since I ate at your table, and I write now not from the Castello but from a room in France where the Loire moves slowly under a low sky; the hand that once drew the machines of your defense now trembles over this page, yet the page remains patient where the hand is not — the paper is patient where the hand is not. I do not write to ask anything for myself. I write because I have not forgotten the horse.
The horse. The bronze horse, larger than any cast since the ancients, which you commanded for the father Francesco. I promised you the method. I promised the furnace, the mold, the hundred tons of bronze. Much was prepared; much remains in my books. I know the weight of the metal down to the last pound; I know the shape of the armature beneath the clay; I know the channels by which the bronze must enter and the air must leave, as a man knows the veins of his own arm. But the casting was never done. War came, and bronze was taken for cannon. The clay horse stood in the vineyard and the rain undid it, year by year. I have not forgotten that either.
What I offer you now is not the bronze itself, for my strength is no longer equal to the foundry, nor your court to the expense of it. What I offer is the complete design — the drawings, the calculations, the notes on the getto in un solo pezzo, the casting in a single piece — copied fair and bound, so that another hand might finish what was begun when your fortune and mine were younger. The page does not forget; it is the truest portrait of the work, truer than the ruined clay could ever be. If it pleases Your Excellency, I will send it. The maker prepares; the patron judges.
I remain, as I have always been, ready to serve your house in what remains to me of sight and memory and hand.
Of Your Excellency most humble and devoted servant, Leonardo da Vinci
