Michael Angelo.Scenes from the Life of Michael Angelo.Inthe year 1474, on Monday the 6th of March, at four o’clock in the morning, was born at the castle of Caprese, in the territory of Areggo, Michael Angelo, son of Ludovico de Lionardo de Buonarotti, Governor of Chiusi and of Caprese, and descended from one of the most ancient families of Tuscany.Although at this period of Florentine history commerce and trade were considered as most honourable pursuits, and indeed to these were ascribed the great power and riches of the state, the father of the little Michael Angelo destinedhim for his own profession, and already foresaw him a future Governor, nay Ambassador; far from thinking that he was destined to become what he contemptuously termed a mason! But there is a destiny attached to the life of celebrated men; and fate selected for Michael, as his nurse, the wife of a stonemason, and whilst the child throve under her care, and grew strong and robust in the sun and air, his infant hands, hardened by exposure, grasped the chisel and the hammer, and his first cries mingled with the harsh grating of the saw.It was in vain that the proud parent sought to dissuade the boy, and curb the only inclination he manifested: even at school he contrived to escape the vigilance of the master, and obtained the notice of the artist Ghirlandajo, who said of him, “He is a rising star, that will live to eclipse the brightest planet now shining.” He was even induced to seek Michael’s father, and beseeching him not to oppose the manifest vocation of his son, offered to take him as an apprentice to his art. At this proposal, the Podesta started from his chair in a paroxysm of rage; but after a while he calmly went to a desk, wrote an engagement on the behalf of his son for three years, and with an expression of countenance little less affecting than that with which Brutus signed the death warrant of hisson, handed him over to Ghirlandajo. With one bound Michael cleared the staircase, throwing up his cap for joy. He burnt his grammar: true, he was not much more than a servant at Ghirlandajo’s; but what did that matter? he was free to pursue his own tastes, he was happier than a Medicis! He could now bedaub the walls as he chose, he could grind his colours, sketch, or if a morsel of plaster fell in his way, he could mould it to his will, without fearing to have his ears pulled.Before he had attained the age of thirteen, he was already a great artist, and his success had naturally created jealousy and enmity. A blow from Torregiano, when they as boys worked together, broke the cartilage of the nose, and disfigured that feature for life.On the other hand, Michael Angelo could not fail to find as many friends, and amongst the most celebrated of the age. Benvenuto Cellini, whose great genius and talents ranked with those of Buonarotti, was his most ardent admirer, and never designated him but as the “divine Buonarotti.”During theboyartist’s wanderings in the gardens of the Medici palace, he often met some of the stone cutters who had formerly rocked his cradle: they were ever delighted to see him, and frequently obtained him clandestinelya view of the treasures of the gallery, then in its infancy. Michael Angelo contemplated with veneration the mutilated specimens of art. The workmen one day offered him a bit of marble, requesting he would employ it as he liked, and come thither as often as he chose.His only answer was to grasp a chisel, throw off his jacket, and begin to hammer out the outline of a Faun’s head. Often then was the workshop deserted, to the great displeasure of the master. One day, whilst putting the finishing strokes to his old Faun, a man about forty years of age, plain in person and shabbily attired, stopped, and silently watched him as he worked. Michael Angelo continued to work on, heeding him no more than the dust which fell from his chisel. When he had given the last touch, he drew back, as artists are wont, to look on the effect of the head. For this, probably the silent observer had waited, for he slowly approached, and, putting his hand on the young artist’s shoulder, “My friend,” he said smiling, “with your leave, I would make an observation.”Michael Angelo turned quickly, and with an air somewhat impertinent and caustic, replied, “An observation!—you!”“A criticism, if you prefer it.”“Upon my Faun’s head?”“Upon your Faun’s head.”“And, who are you, Sir, who fancy you have a right to criticise my work?”“It matters not to you who I am, provided my criticism is just.”“And who will decide, Sir, which of us two is in the right?”“I will leave the decision to yourself.”“Well, Sir, speak,” said Michael Angelo, crossing his arms with an air of defiance.“Was it not your object to make anoldFaun laughing immoderately?”“Undoubtedly, it is easy to be discovered.”“Well then,” said the critic, “where did you ever see old men with all their teeth perfect?”The boy blushed to his eyes, and bit his lip. The observation was correct. He only waited till the individual had turned his back, when with one stroke of his chisel he knocked out two of the Faun’s teeth, and even decided on hollowing out the gum on returning next day. The gardens accordingly were no sooner opened than Michael Angelo entered; but the Faun had disappeared, and in its place stood the person he had seen the preceding day.“What is become of my head?” asked the young sculptor angrily.“It has been removed by my command,”replied the stranger, with his accustomed apathy.“And who are you, Sir, who dare to give orders in the gardens of the great Medicis?”“Follow me, and you shall learn!”“I will follow, to force you to restore me my Faun.”“Perhaps you will be better satisfied to leave it where it is.”“We shall see.”“We shall see,” echoed the stranger, and then took the path to the palace, with the same calm demeanour; but on his beginning to ascend the staircase, the boy, seemingly terrified as well as angry, caught his arm, saying, “Where are you going, Sir? You are approaching the apartments of the Prince, and although he may look over an intrusion in the royal gardens, we here run great risk.”On, proceeded the stranger, the servants rising as he approached, the guards saluting.Michael was lost in wonder. Even supposing him one of the household (he thought to himself), my Faun belongs to me, and he ought to restore it: my labour is my own, and I can pay him for the marble.The galleries, the saloons were passed through without interruption. Good Heaven! thought the boy, it must be at least the secretary, whomI have thus cavalierly treated.The stranger threw open the door of a room magnificently furnished, and enriched with all most valuable in art; and the trembling child considered himself as lost, when he remembered his treatment of one powerful enough to be able to approach Lorenzo de Medicis without being announced. Whilst he was stammering out an apology, he raised his eyes, and saw his old Faun placed on a superb bracket.“You see, my friend,” said the stranger, with the same mild and kind manner, “that if I had your Faun removed from the garden, it was to place it in a more suitable situation.”“But, my God!” cried the youthful artist, “what will the Prince say, when he discovers this poor attempt amongst so many precious works?”The Prince held out his hand, “Take it, my friend.”Any other than Michael Angelo would have thrown himself at his feet; but he burst into tears, and, bowing his head, convulsively pressed the hand offered him by Lorenzo the Magnificent. “Henceforward thou art here at home, my friend; thou wilt work here, dine at my table, and I shall treat you as one of my children. Go to my wardrobe, and desire that they give thee a rich cloak of velvet; velvet, exactlylike those worn by Peter and John de Medicis, on days of ceremony.”“My Lord,” replied the boy, deeply affected, “suffer me first to go to my father, that he may share my happiness. He turned me from his roof as a disobedient and worthless child, and I would return thither a submissive and devoted man. I know my father to be as just as he is inflexible, and he will admit that I have a right to be proud of my disobedience. From this day I may carry my head high; for Lorenzo de Medicis, the first man of the age, has consecrated me an artist.”“Right, my child; and you may also tell your father, that my patronage will extend to all your family. This very day I will receive him at the palace, and bestow on him any appointment in Florence that may be suited to him.”Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize.Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himselfinto his father’s arms.“Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion.“Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.”“You would then force me to curse you.”“I come from the palace.”“I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son—thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.”“For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.”“Back to your mason’s, that is your place.”“My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “myplace is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”“My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror.“But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace,that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.”The old Buonarotti was perfectly upset; he held his head between his hands, and asked of himself which had lost his reason, his son or himself. Michael Angelo not allowing him farther time for reflection, dragged him by force to the palace of the great Medicis. The Governor believed himself to be in a dream. No guard forbade their approach, and the courtiers drew respectfully back to give them passage.At the door of the Prince’s closet, a page raised the hanging curtain, and the old Buonarotti stood with his son in the presence of the Medicis.“Sir,” said the Prince, coming forward and courteously addressing him, “I have been the cause of disturbing you, in order to ask your leave that I may retain about me a son of whom you may be justly proud, and who bids fair to become the first artist of his time. My house shall be his home, and his salary you will yourself name.“In return, I make you only one request; your son has probably already told you what. It is that you ask of me any appointment most suitable to your taste and habits. It is granted beforehand.”“My son,” replied the agitated father, endeavouringto master his emotion, “will, I think, be paid beyond his deserts, if he receives five ducats monthly.”“And for yourself, Sir?”“For myself, Prince, I ask a trifling situation now vacant in the customs: it can only be given to a citizen of the State; I ask it, because it is a post I feel I can fill with honour.”“You will never be rich, my dear Buonarotti,” laughingly replied the Medicis, “for, offered any situation you please, you content yourself with a little place in the customs.”“Enough too—for the father of amason!”And thus was Michael Angelo de Buonarotti introduced to the patronage of the illustrious Medicis.
Michael Angelo.Scenes from the Life of Michael Angelo.Inthe year 1474, on Monday the 6th of March, at four o’clock in the morning, was born at the castle of Caprese, in the territory of Areggo, Michael Angelo, son of Ludovico de Lionardo de Buonarotti, Governor of Chiusi and of Caprese, and descended from one of the most ancient families of Tuscany.Although at this period of Florentine history commerce and trade were considered as most honourable pursuits, and indeed to these were ascribed the great power and riches of the state, the father of the little Michael Angelo destinedhim for his own profession, and already foresaw him a future Governor, nay Ambassador; far from thinking that he was destined to become what he contemptuously termed a mason! But there is a destiny attached to the life of celebrated men; and fate selected for Michael, as his nurse, the wife of a stonemason, and whilst the child throve under her care, and grew strong and robust in the sun and air, his infant hands, hardened by exposure, grasped the chisel and the hammer, and his first cries mingled with the harsh grating of the saw.It was in vain that the proud parent sought to dissuade the boy, and curb the only inclination he manifested: even at school he contrived to escape the vigilance of the master, and obtained the notice of the artist Ghirlandajo, who said of him, “He is a rising star, that will live to eclipse the brightest planet now shining.” He was even induced to seek Michael’s father, and beseeching him not to oppose the manifest vocation of his son, offered to take him as an apprentice to his art. At this proposal, the Podesta started from his chair in a paroxysm of rage; but after a while he calmly went to a desk, wrote an engagement on the behalf of his son for three years, and with an expression of countenance little less affecting than that with which Brutus signed the death warrant of hisson, handed him over to Ghirlandajo. With one bound Michael cleared the staircase, throwing up his cap for joy. He burnt his grammar: true, he was not much more than a servant at Ghirlandajo’s; but what did that matter? he was free to pursue his own tastes, he was happier than a Medicis! He could now bedaub the walls as he chose, he could grind his colours, sketch, or if a morsel of plaster fell in his way, he could mould it to his will, without fearing to have his ears pulled.Before he had attained the age of thirteen, he was already a great artist, and his success had naturally created jealousy and enmity. A blow from Torregiano, when they as boys worked together, broke the cartilage of the nose, and disfigured that feature for life.On the other hand, Michael Angelo could not fail to find as many friends, and amongst the most celebrated of the age. Benvenuto Cellini, whose great genius and talents ranked with those of Buonarotti, was his most ardent admirer, and never designated him but as the “divine Buonarotti.”During theboyartist’s wanderings in the gardens of the Medici palace, he often met some of the stone cutters who had formerly rocked his cradle: they were ever delighted to see him, and frequently obtained him clandestinelya view of the treasures of the gallery, then in its infancy. Michael Angelo contemplated with veneration the mutilated specimens of art. The workmen one day offered him a bit of marble, requesting he would employ it as he liked, and come thither as often as he chose.His only answer was to grasp a chisel, throw off his jacket, and begin to hammer out the outline of a Faun’s head. Often then was the workshop deserted, to the great displeasure of the master. One day, whilst putting the finishing strokes to his old Faun, a man about forty years of age, plain in person and shabbily attired, stopped, and silently watched him as he worked. Michael Angelo continued to work on, heeding him no more than the dust which fell from his chisel. When he had given the last touch, he drew back, as artists are wont, to look on the effect of the head. For this, probably the silent observer had waited, for he slowly approached, and, putting his hand on the young artist’s shoulder, “My friend,” he said smiling, “with your leave, I would make an observation.”Michael Angelo turned quickly, and with an air somewhat impertinent and caustic, replied, “An observation!—you!”“A criticism, if you prefer it.”“Upon my Faun’s head?”“Upon your Faun’s head.”“And, who are you, Sir, who fancy you have a right to criticise my work?”“It matters not to you who I am, provided my criticism is just.”“And who will decide, Sir, which of us two is in the right?”“I will leave the decision to yourself.”“Well, Sir, speak,” said Michael Angelo, crossing his arms with an air of defiance.“Was it not your object to make anoldFaun laughing immoderately?”“Undoubtedly, it is easy to be discovered.”“Well then,” said the critic, “where did you ever see old men with all their teeth perfect?”The boy blushed to his eyes, and bit his lip. The observation was correct. He only waited till the individual had turned his back, when with one stroke of his chisel he knocked out two of the Faun’s teeth, and even decided on hollowing out the gum on returning next day. The gardens accordingly were no sooner opened than Michael Angelo entered; but the Faun had disappeared, and in its place stood the person he had seen the preceding day.“What is become of my head?” asked the young sculptor angrily.“It has been removed by my command,”replied the stranger, with his accustomed apathy.“And who are you, Sir, who dare to give orders in the gardens of the great Medicis?”“Follow me, and you shall learn!”“I will follow, to force you to restore me my Faun.”“Perhaps you will be better satisfied to leave it where it is.”“We shall see.”“We shall see,” echoed the stranger, and then took the path to the palace, with the same calm demeanour; but on his beginning to ascend the staircase, the boy, seemingly terrified as well as angry, caught his arm, saying, “Where are you going, Sir? You are approaching the apartments of the Prince, and although he may look over an intrusion in the royal gardens, we here run great risk.”On, proceeded the stranger, the servants rising as he approached, the guards saluting.Michael was lost in wonder. Even supposing him one of the household (he thought to himself), my Faun belongs to me, and he ought to restore it: my labour is my own, and I can pay him for the marble.The galleries, the saloons were passed through without interruption. Good Heaven! thought the boy, it must be at least the secretary, whomI have thus cavalierly treated.The stranger threw open the door of a room magnificently furnished, and enriched with all most valuable in art; and the trembling child considered himself as lost, when he remembered his treatment of one powerful enough to be able to approach Lorenzo de Medicis without being announced. Whilst he was stammering out an apology, he raised his eyes, and saw his old Faun placed on a superb bracket.“You see, my friend,” said the stranger, with the same mild and kind manner, “that if I had your Faun removed from the garden, it was to place it in a more suitable situation.”“But, my God!” cried the youthful artist, “what will the Prince say, when he discovers this poor attempt amongst so many precious works?”The Prince held out his hand, “Take it, my friend.”Any other than Michael Angelo would have thrown himself at his feet; but he burst into tears, and, bowing his head, convulsively pressed the hand offered him by Lorenzo the Magnificent. “Henceforward thou art here at home, my friend; thou wilt work here, dine at my table, and I shall treat you as one of my children. Go to my wardrobe, and desire that they give thee a rich cloak of velvet; velvet, exactlylike those worn by Peter and John de Medicis, on days of ceremony.”“My Lord,” replied the boy, deeply affected, “suffer me first to go to my father, that he may share my happiness. He turned me from his roof as a disobedient and worthless child, and I would return thither a submissive and devoted man. I know my father to be as just as he is inflexible, and he will admit that I have a right to be proud of my disobedience. From this day I may carry my head high; for Lorenzo de Medicis, the first man of the age, has consecrated me an artist.”“Right, my child; and you may also tell your father, that my patronage will extend to all your family. This very day I will receive him at the palace, and bestow on him any appointment in Florence that may be suited to him.”Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize.Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himselfinto his father’s arms.“Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion.“Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.”“You would then force me to curse you.”“I come from the palace.”“I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son—thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.”“For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.”“Back to your mason’s, that is your place.”“My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “myplace is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”“My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror.“But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace,that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.”The old Buonarotti was perfectly upset; he held his head between his hands, and asked of himself which had lost his reason, his son or himself. Michael Angelo not allowing him farther time for reflection, dragged him by force to the palace of the great Medicis. The Governor believed himself to be in a dream. No guard forbade their approach, and the courtiers drew respectfully back to give them passage.At the door of the Prince’s closet, a page raised the hanging curtain, and the old Buonarotti stood with his son in the presence of the Medicis.“Sir,” said the Prince, coming forward and courteously addressing him, “I have been the cause of disturbing you, in order to ask your leave that I may retain about me a son of whom you may be justly proud, and who bids fair to become the first artist of his time. My house shall be his home, and his salary you will yourself name.“In return, I make you only one request; your son has probably already told you what. It is that you ask of me any appointment most suitable to your taste and habits. It is granted beforehand.”“My son,” replied the agitated father, endeavouringto master his emotion, “will, I think, be paid beyond his deserts, if he receives five ducats monthly.”“And for yourself, Sir?”“For myself, Prince, I ask a trifling situation now vacant in the customs: it can only be given to a citizen of the State; I ask it, because it is a post I feel I can fill with honour.”“You will never be rich, my dear Buonarotti,” laughingly replied the Medicis, “for, offered any situation you please, you content yourself with a little place in the customs.”“Enough too—for the father of amason!”And thus was Michael Angelo de Buonarotti introduced to the patronage of the illustrious Medicis.
Scenes from the Life of Michael Angelo.
Inthe year 1474, on Monday the 6th of March, at four o’clock in the morning, was born at the castle of Caprese, in the territory of Areggo, Michael Angelo, son of Ludovico de Lionardo de Buonarotti, Governor of Chiusi and of Caprese, and descended from one of the most ancient families of Tuscany.
Although at this period of Florentine history commerce and trade were considered as most honourable pursuits, and indeed to these were ascribed the great power and riches of the state, the father of the little Michael Angelo destinedhim for his own profession, and already foresaw him a future Governor, nay Ambassador; far from thinking that he was destined to become what he contemptuously termed a mason! But there is a destiny attached to the life of celebrated men; and fate selected for Michael, as his nurse, the wife of a stonemason, and whilst the child throve under her care, and grew strong and robust in the sun and air, his infant hands, hardened by exposure, grasped the chisel and the hammer, and his first cries mingled with the harsh grating of the saw.
It was in vain that the proud parent sought to dissuade the boy, and curb the only inclination he manifested: even at school he contrived to escape the vigilance of the master, and obtained the notice of the artist Ghirlandajo, who said of him, “He is a rising star, that will live to eclipse the brightest planet now shining.” He was even induced to seek Michael’s father, and beseeching him not to oppose the manifest vocation of his son, offered to take him as an apprentice to his art. At this proposal, the Podesta started from his chair in a paroxysm of rage; but after a while he calmly went to a desk, wrote an engagement on the behalf of his son for three years, and with an expression of countenance little less affecting than that with which Brutus signed the death warrant of hisson, handed him over to Ghirlandajo. With one bound Michael cleared the staircase, throwing up his cap for joy. He burnt his grammar: true, he was not much more than a servant at Ghirlandajo’s; but what did that matter? he was free to pursue his own tastes, he was happier than a Medicis! He could now bedaub the walls as he chose, he could grind his colours, sketch, or if a morsel of plaster fell in his way, he could mould it to his will, without fearing to have his ears pulled.
Before he had attained the age of thirteen, he was already a great artist, and his success had naturally created jealousy and enmity. A blow from Torregiano, when they as boys worked together, broke the cartilage of the nose, and disfigured that feature for life.
On the other hand, Michael Angelo could not fail to find as many friends, and amongst the most celebrated of the age. Benvenuto Cellini, whose great genius and talents ranked with those of Buonarotti, was his most ardent admirer, and never designated him but as the “divine Buonarotti.”
During theboyartist’s wanderings in the gardens of the Medici palace, he often met some of the stone cutters who had formerly rocked his cradle: they were ever delighted to see him, and frequently obtained him clandestinelya view of the treasures of the gallery, then in its infancy. Michael Angelo contemplated with veneration the mutilated specimens of art. The workmen one day offered him a bit of marble, requesting he would employ it as he liked, and come thither as often as he chose.
His only answer was to grasp a chisel, throw off his jacket, and begin to hammer out the outline of a Faun’s head. Often then was the workshop deserted, to the great displeasure of the master. One day, whilst putting the finishing strokes to his old Faun, a man about forty years of age, plain in person and shabbily attired, stopped, and silently watched him as he worked. Michael Angelo continued to work on, heeding him no more than the dust which fell from his chisel. When he had given the last touch, he drew back, as artists are wont, to look on the effect of the head. For this, probably the silent observer had waited, for he slowly approached, and, putting his hand on the young artist’s shoulder, “My friend,” he said smiling, “with your leave, I would make an observation.”
Michael Angelo turned quickly, and with an air somewhat impertinent and caustic, replied, “An observation!—you!”
“A criticism, if you prefer it.”
“Upon my Faun’s head?”
“Upon your Faun’s head.”
“And, who are you, Sir, who fancy you have a right to criticise my work?”
“It matters not to you who I am, provided my criticism is just.”
“And who will decide, Sir, which of us two is in the right?”
“I will leave the decision to yourself.”
“Well, Sir, speak,” said Michael Angelo, crossing his arms with an air of defiance.
“Was it not your object to make anoldFaun laughing immoderately?”
“Undoubtedly, it is easy to be discovered.”
“Well then,” said the critic, “where did you ever see old men with all their teeth perfect?”
The boy blushed to his eyes, and bit his lip. The observation was correct. He only waited till the individual had turned his back, when with one stroke of his chisel he knocked out two of the Faun’s teeth, and even decided on hollowing out the gum on returning next day. The gardens accordingly were no sooner opened than Michael Angelo entered; but the Faun had disappeared, and in its place stood the person he had seen the preceding day.
“What is become of my head?” asked the young sculptor angrily.
“It has been removed by my command,”replied the stranger, with his accustomed apathy.
“And who are you, Sir, who dare to give orders in the gardens of the great Medicis?”
“Follow me, and you shall learn!”
“I will follow, to force you to restore me my Faun.”
“Perhaps you will be better satisfied to leave it where it is.”
“We shall see.”
“We shall see,” echoed the stranger, and then took the path to the palace, with the same calm demeanour; but on his beginning to ascend the staircase, the boy, seemingly terrified as well as angry, caught his arm, saying, “Where are you going, Sir? You are approaching the apartments of the Prince, and although he may look over an intrusion in the royal gardens, we here run great risk.”
On, proceeded the stranger, the servants rising as he approached, the guards saluting.
Michael was lost in wonder. Even supposing him one of the household (he thought to himself), my Faun belongs to me, and he ought to restore it: my labour is my own, and I can pay him for the marble.
The galleries, the saloons were passed through without interruption. Good Heaven! thought the boy, it must be at least the secretary, whomI have thus cavalierly treated.
The stranger threw open the door of a room magnificently furnished, and enriched with all most valuable in art; and the trembling child considered himself as lost, when he remembered his treatment of one powerful enough to be able to approach Lorenzo de Medicis without being announced. Whilst he was stammering out an apology, he raised his eyes, and saw his old Faun placed on a superb bracket.
“You see, my friend,” said the stranger, with the same mild and kind manner, “that if I had your Faun removed from the garden, it was to place it in a more suitable situation.”
“But, my God!” cried the youthful artist, “what will the Prince say, when he discovers this poor attempt amongst so many precious works?”
The Prince held out his hand, “Take it, my friend.”
Any other than Michael Angelo would have thrown himself at his feet; but he burst into tears, and, bowing his head, convulsively pressed the hand offered him by Lorenzo the Magnificent. “Henceforward thou art here at home, my friend; thou wilt work here, dine at my table, and I shall treat you as one of my children. Go to my wardrobe, and desire that they give thee a rich cloak of velvet; velvet, exactlylike those worn by Peter and John de Medicis, on days of ceremony.”
“My Lord,” replied the boy, deeply affected, “suffer me first to go to my father, that he may share my happiness. He turned me from his roof as a disobedient and worthless child, and I would return thither a submissive and devoted man. I know my father to be as just as he is inflexible, and he will admit that I have a right to be proud of my disobedience. From this day I may carry my head high; for Lorenzo de Medicis, the first man of the age, has consecrated me an artist.”
“Right, my child; and you may also tell your father, that my patronage will extend to all your family. This very day I will receive him at the palace, and bestow on him any appointment in Florence that may be suited to him.”
Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize.
Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himselfinto his father’s arms.
“Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion.
“Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.”
“You would then force me to curse you.”
“I come from the palace.”
“I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son—thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.”
“For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.”
“Back to your mason’s, that is your place.”
“My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “myplace is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
“My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror.
“But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace,that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.”
The old Buonarotti was perfectly upset; he held his head between his hands, and asked of himself which had lost his reason, his son or himself. Michael Angelo not allowing him farther time for reflection, dragged him by force to the palace of the great Medicis. The Governor believed himself to be in a dream. No guard forbade their approach, and the courtiers drew respectfully back to give them passage.
At the door of the Prince’s closet, a page raised the hanging curtain, and the old Buonarotti stood with his son in the presence of the Medicis.
“Sir,” said the Prince, coming forward and courteously addressing him, “I have been the cause of disturbing you, in order to ask your leave that I may retain about me a son of whom you may be justly proud, and who bids fair to become the first artist of his time. My house shall be his home, and his salary you will yourself name.
“In return, I make you only one request; your son has probably already told you what. It is that you ask of me any appointment most suitable to your taste and habits. It is granted beforehand.”
“My son,” replied the agitated father, endeavouringto master his emotion, “will, I think, be paid beyond his deserts, if he receives five ducats monthly.”
“And for yourself, Sir?”
“For myself, Prince, I ask a trifling situation now vacant in the customs: it can only be given to a citizen of the State; I ask it, because it is a post I feel I can fill with honour.”
“You will never be rich, my dear Buonarotti,” laughingly replied the Medicis, “for, offered any situation you please, you content yourself with a little place in the customs.”
“Enough too—for the father of amason!”
And thus was Michael Angelo de Buonarotti introduced to the patronage of the illustrious Medicis.