forms of nature; it made its appeal by the
harmonious balance of parts which gratified all the senses. By its
very duality it fulfilled the highest purpose. The painter was able to
visualize the beauty which enchanted him, to bring to reality the fancy
of his dreams, and give outward expression to the ideal within.

The genius of Leonardo as a painter came through unfolding the mystery
of life. Like Miranda, he had gazed with wonder at the beauty of the
world. "Look at the grace and sweetness {xix} of men and women in the
street," he wrote. The most ordinary functions of life and nature
amazed him most. He observed of the eye how in it form and colour, and
the entire universe it reflected, were reduced to a single point.
"Wonderful law of nature, which forced all effects to participate with
their cause in the mind of man. These are the true miracles!"
Elsewhere he wrote again: "Nature is full of infinite reasons which
have not yet passed into experience." He conceived it to be the
painter's duty not only to comment on natural phenomena as restrained
by law, but to merge his very mind into that of nature by interpreting
its relation with art. Resting securely on the reality of experienced
truth, he felt the deeper presence of the unreal on every side. In the
same way that he visualized the inner workings of the mind, his keen
imagination aided him to make outward trifles serve his desire to find
mysterious beauty everywhere. Oftentimes, in gazing on some ancient,
time-stained wall, he describes how he would trace thereon landscapes,
with mountains, rivers and valleys. The whole world was full of a
mystery to him, which his work reflected. The smile of consciousness,
pregnant of that which is beyond, illumines the expression of Mona
Lisa. So, too, in the strange glance of Ann, of John the Baptist, and
of the Virgin of the Rocks, one realizes that their thoughts dwell in
another world.

{xx}

Leonardo had found a refuge in art from the pettiness of material
environment. Like his own creations, he, too, had learned the secret
of the inner life. The painter, he wrote, could create a world of his
own, and take refuge in this new realm. But it must not be one of
shadows only. The very mystery he felt so keenly had yet to rest on a
real foundation; to treat it otherwise would be to plunge into mere
vapouring. Although attempting to bridge the gulf which separated the
real from the unreal, he refused to tr