People, pedestrians, or in carriages, were coming from all directions, singing, laughing, imitating the music of grasshoppers. The sellers shouted the names of their wares, embellished by delectable adjectives, at the top of their voices.

“Buy a grasshopper here! He sings like a bird.”

“Grasshoppers in golden cages.”

“Rare songbirds.”

“Get your spice bread.”

“Confetti! Confetti! Confetti for your sweetheart.”

Children pulling their elders toward the cages; girls in mock refusal to accept the arms of youths; men and women laughing uproariously, blowing horns, shouting the names of friends.

Long before noon, each person was carrying a cage with a grass-hopper, coaxing it to sing. But always the animal remained motionless and still.

“Kotikokura, shall I buy you a ‘grillo’?”

He nodded.

I bought him a cage. He hung it around his neck. We seated ourselves at a table and ordered sweet wine. Kotikokura emptied cup after cup. His eyes glistened and darted to and fro like mechanical things.

A tall man of regal bearing with long blond hair and a flowing beard, dressed in a cloak of red velvet, stood near our table, watching the crowd.

‘Thus Apollonius must have looked in his youth,’ I thought. ‘This is no ordinary son of Adam.’

I rose. “There is a vacant chair at our table. May I ask you to join us, signor?”

He looked at me. His eyes were blue with a glint of gold.

“Thank you.”

He seated himself. Kotikokura filled a cup of wine and offered it to him.

“We are strangers in the city. Could you tell us in what saint’s honor this holiday is given?”

He smiled, “The Florentines are not religious enough to honor a saint. They would rather honor a pagan god—or a grasshopper.”

“Perhaps one ought not to ask the reason for any merrymaking. It is a reason in itself. But it is a human weakness to ask always why.”

“This is ‘la Festa del Grillo’—the Feast of the Grasshopper, for the grasshopper is considered the emblem of summer.”

“It seems to me that the rose or some bird would be a more appropriate symbol.”

“I disagree with you there. The grasshopper is the most fortunate and the most rational of animals. The gods were merry when they created him…!”

Kotikokura refilled our cups.

“Is not man’s life illogical?” the stranger continued. “He spends his youth and early manhood in learning an art or a trade. And when he has at last acquired knowledge and wisdom and perhaps wealth, he is old and undesirable. The young wenches that laugh so gaily and throw confetti into our cups, pass him by or mock him.

“How different is the life of the grasshopper! He begins by being old, so to say, for his early life is devoted to the accumulation of food for his descendants, eating and digesting.

“But what a magnificent dénouement! His last few weeks—corresponding to years in human calculation—are a carnival of love! No food, no cares! Nothing but song, merrymaking and mating! That is why the Florentines, true descendants of the Athenians, make this apparently humble creature the symbol of the richness of summer.”

“Are you a student of nature or a philosopher?” I asked.

“I dabble in many things. My chief interests are scientific. The problem of sewerage engages my attention primarily, but I am also intensely devoted to the study of military machinery.”

“Military machinery?” I must have looked startled.

“Is that so surprising?” the stranger asked, while a gentle smile crept from the corners of his mouth to his eyes.

“Rather. You have the bearings of an artist. I would take you for one of the masters who have made this city a shrine of beauty.”

“I toy with art as well as with science. Man is a fighting animal primarily and man interests me supremely. But his instruments of destruction are always antiquated. I should like to fashion weapons that raise fire and strike the enemy a hundred miles away. I like to build bridges, channels and impenetrable defenses…”

He stroked his beard leisurely.

‘Is it possible?’ I thought. ‘Can Apollonius change thus?’

“Can you conceive of anything more fascinating than a steel bridge that can span a sea, and yet may be folded and carried upon the back of a donkey; or a projectile the shape of an apple which, cast by a small mechanical device, strikes a distant palace and crashes it like a child’s toy?”

“You are an artist, even though you employ metals and motors in place of words. You have a painter’s eye and a poet’s illusion…”

“The illusion of one generation,” the stranger replied affably, “is the commonplace of the next.”

Kotikokura tried to persuade his grasshopper to sing. He stood up and danced. “Sing, sing!” he shouted.

Several people stopped and kept tune to his dancing by clapping and stamping their feet.

“It is useless, my friend,” the stranger said a little sadly. “He never sings when imprisoned.”

Kotikokura reseated himself. The stranger continued to speak for some time on military problems and engineering. “Some day,” he said, “I shall construct a machine that can lift me up to the skies like an eagle…”

He rose. Pressing matters, he explained, compelled his attention. Perhaps his disposition was too restless to permit him to linger. Had he stayed a while longer, I might have confided to him matters that would have changed his life and the history of the human race. However the fateful moment flew away like a careless bird.

“I thank you very much for your hospitality, gentlemen. I would gladly remain longer with you, but I am leaving tomorrow for a long trip, and I must prepare many things.”

“A long trip?” I asked.

“Yes, to Constantinople, perhaps to Asia.”

“You will not regret it.”

“Have you been there?”

“On several occasions.”

“I always refrain from asking questions about places I expect to visit. I prefer to be unbiased and uninformed.”

“An artist– —”

He smiled. “You insist upon considering me an artist, signore.”

“An artist or a philosopher… But will you refresh yourself with another cup before we part?”

Kotikokura filled the cups.

He drained the cup without resuming his seat.

“If I had the time, I should like to make a statue of your friend,” he whispered. “He is the very incarnation of Pan…”

He smiled politely and made a gesture of farewell. I should not have permitted him to go out of my life like a cloud that leaves no trace.

“I hope we shall meet again,” I mumbled politely, instead of startling him into staying. “I am Count de Cartaphile.”

“A descendant of the Crusader?”

“Yes. How well informed you are!”

“I am interested in all things human.”

“And all things mechanical.”

“Yes.”

“And also, I take it, in all things divine?”

“No. The earth is sufficient for me…”

“May I know to whom I have the honor of speaking?”

“I am Leonardo da Vinci.”

Kotikokura was laughing. He had drunk a little beyond measure, and his eyelids looked heavy.

“Human pleasures are pathetic, Kotikokura. Look at those poor people trying to be happy.”

Kotikokura opened his eyes wide and nodded.

“They throw confetti at one another; they sing; they blow horns; they dance; they laugh—but beyond it all, do you not feel a great emptiness, and a great fear, Kotikokura? Do you not hear invisible wings like the winds that whistle through cemeteries…?”

Kotikokura nodded, his eyes closed.

“Can you not see Death, the Giant, riding his Phantom Horse, grinning to himself as he surveys his harvest?”

Kotikokura placed his head upon the table.

“No, no…you must not fall asleep. Come!”

He blinked several times, rose and steadied himself on my arm.

Two youths, dressed in green cloaks, were walking in front of us, arm in arm. Their caps, surmounted by red plumes, were slightly tilted. Their black curls, barely covering half of their napes, were ruffled by a light wind that had just risen. Kotikokura, a little unsteady, was hanging on my arm.