MICHELANGELO AND JULIUS II
(1505-1513)
In March, 1505, Michelangelo was called to Rome by Pope Julius II. Then
began the heroic period of his life and the "tragedy" of the monument of
Julius II which was not to end until forty years later. The pope and the
artist, both of them proud and violent, were well fitted to work
together--so long as their ideas did not conflict. Their brains seethed
with tremendous ideas. The first years of their friendship were a
feverish delirium of plans. Julius II was on fire with enthusiasm for
the plan for his tomb which Michelangelo submitted to him. It was to be
a mountain of architecture with more than forty statues, some of them of
colossal size, and with many bronze reliefs. "Michelangelo's design
pleased the pope so much," says Condivi, "that he sent him at once to
Carrara (April, 1505) with an order to cut as much marble as he
needed.... Michelangelo stayed more than eight months in the mountains
with two servants and a horse." He was the victim of superhuman
exaltation and in his enthusiasm dreamt of carving a whole mountain. In
December, 1505, he returned to Rome, where the blocks of marble which he
had chosen had already begun to arrive from Carrara. They were unloaded
at La Ripa and then transported to the Piazza di San Pietro behind S.
Caterina, where Michelangelo lived. "The mass of the stones was so great
that they aroused the wonder and joy of the pope." Michelangelo set to
work. "The pope in his impatience came constantly to see him and
conferred with him over the monument and other works, with as much
familiarity as if he had been his brother. In order that he might visit
him the more easily he had a drawbridge thrown across from the gallery
of the Vatican to Michelangelo's house which gave him a secret passage."
But this favour did not last. The character of Julius II was as
passionate and as changeable as that of Michelangelo. His mind, always
in a ferment, took up in rapid succession and ever with the same
eagerness the most varied projects. Another idea drove the plan for the
tomb from his mind. In order that he might gain immortal glory by one
gigantic work he decided to reconstruct St. Peter's. He was encouraged
in this by enemies of Michelangelo, who himself writes in 1542:[23]
"All the difficulties which arose between the pope and myself were the
work of Bramante and of Raphael. It was their jealousy that kept him
from having his tomb made while he was still alive. They tried to ruin
me. Raphael had good reason for doing this, since all that he knew of
art he learnt from me."
It is not easy to say how far Raphael was carried along by the party of
Bramante, who was his friend and fellow-countryman, but there is no
doubt that Bramante was chiefly responsible for the check to
Michelangelo's great undertaking and that he profited by his absence in
Carrara to destroy his influence over the pope.
"The marks of his favour which Julius II had showered on Michelangelo,"
says Condivi, "resulted, as often happens at courts, in exciting
jealousy against him, and, following the jealousy, endless persecution.
Bramante, the architect, who was dear to the pope, made him change his
plans. He reminded him of the popular superstition that it was of bad
augury to build your tomb while you were still alive, and other stories
of the same kind. Bramante was driven to do this, not only through
jealousy, but from fear that Michelangelo's knowledge would reveal his
own mistakes. For Bramante, as everyone knows, was much given to
pleasure and very dissipated. The salary he received from the pope,
though it was great, was not nearly enough for him, so that he tried to
make more out of his work by constructing walls of bad material and
neither solid nor strong enough for their height and thrust. Anyone can
prove this by the construction of St. Peter's, or the Belvedere gallery,
or the cloister of S. Pietro in Vinculi and other buildings which he
erected and which it has been necessary to support all over again and to
strengthen with buttresses,[24] either because they have fallen down or
because they very soon would have done so. Bramante realised that
Michelangelo would have discovered his mistakes, and so he always tried
to keep him away from Rome and to deprive him of the pope's favour and
of the influence which he had gained over the pope by his works. For it
is clear that if the tomb of Julius II had been actually undertaken
Michelangelo would have stood out supreme over all other artists,
however famous they might be, for he would then have had a vast field
in which to show what he could do."
Bramante succeeded. In January, 1506, Julius II ordered the
reconstruction of St. Peter's. The tomb was abandoned and Michelangelo
was not only humiliated and disappointed, but in debt, according to what
he says himself:
"When the pope changed his mind and the boats arrived with the marble
from Carrara I had to pay the charge of transport myself. And as at this
same time the stone-cutters who had come from Florence for the tomb also
arrived at Rome and I had had the house which Julius had given me behind
S. Caterina prepared for them, I found myself without money and greatly
embarrassed. I urged the pope as strongly as I could to continue the
construction of the tomb and then one morning when I wished to talk with
him about it he had me put out by a groom."
Then it was that the famous flight to Florence took place. Michelangelo,
outraged by this affront, took horse and fled from Rome and refused to
return in spite of the messengers which the pope sent after him. The
indignity of the affront was not, by his own account, the only reason
for his flight. In a letter to Giuliano da San Gallo he implies that his
life was in danger from Bramante's threats.
[Illustration: THE ALMIGHTY CREATING THE SUN AND THE MOON
Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (1508-1512).]
"That was not the only reason for my leaving. There was still another
which I would rather not speak about. It is enough to say that it made
me think that if I stayed in Rome that town would more likely be my tomb
than that of the pope. And that was the reason for my sudden departure."
Nothing justifies us in believing that Bramante had thought of having
recourse to a crime, but it was enough that Michelangelo believed him to
be capable of it and, in one of those accesses of sudden terror which
contrast so strangely with the stubborn boldness of his genius, he ran
away. Moreover, Bramante understood perfectly how to terrorise his
rivals and to make life near him impossible for them. Only a little
while after Michelangelo Giuliano da San Gallo, who was Bramante's last
rival at St. Peter's, also had to flee.
There was, however, still another reason for the sudden departure of
Michelangelo, and though he himself has taken good care to say nothing
about it, I am surprised that the historians have not brought it out
more clearly. Michelangelo fled on the seventeenth of April, 1506. On
the eighteenth of April there took place the solemn ceremony of the
laying of the first stone of St. Peter's. This is the true reason for
his sudden withdrawal; he did not want to be present at the triumph of
his enemy.
He had hardly left before Bramante so arranged matters that he could not
come back. He ruined his work and his fortunes.
"That affair," writes Michelangelo, "caused me a loss of more than a
thousand ducats. When I left Rome there arose a great riot because of
the shame put upon the pope, and almost all the blocks of marble which I
had on the square of St. Peter's were taken from me, especially the
smaller pieces, which made it necessary for me later on to begin the
whole work over again."
Nevertheless Julius II was furious at the revolt of his sculptor and
sent letter after letter to the Signory of Florence where Michelangelo
had betaken himself. The Signory, anxious not to compromise themselves,
tried to persuade Michelangelo to take once more the road to Rome, but
he would do nothing of the kind. He had tranquilly taken up his work on
the cartoon of The Battle, the Twelve Apostles for the cathedral and the
Madonna of Bruges, and he stubbornly persisted in his unwillingness to
return. He proposed his own terms and pretended to be working on the
tomb of Julius II at Florence. When, toward the end of August, 1506,
Julius II went to war with Perugia and Bologna and grew more importunate
in his demands Michelangelo had the idea of expatriating himself. He
thought of going to Turkey, where the Sultan, through the Franciscans,
invited him to come to Constantinople and build a bridge at Pera.[25]
In the end he had to give in, and in the latter part of November, 1506,
he went, much against his will, to Bologna, where Julius II had just
entered the town as a conqueror. There took place that famous interview
when the pope, angry and scolding, divided between the desire of
punishing the rebel and the fear of losing the artist whom he valued,
poured out his wrath on an unlucky bishop who was present, and forgave
Michelangelo.
Unfortunately, Michelangelo in order to make his peace with the pope,
had to submit to his caprices and to that all-powerful will which had
now turned in a new direction. It was no longer a question of the tomb,
but of a colossal bronze statue which Julius wished to have raised to
himself in Bologna.
In vain Michelangelo protested that he understood nothing about the
casting of bronze. He had two assistants, Lopo and Lodovico, come from
Florence, and a foundryman, Bernadino d'Antonio dal Ponte. But he could
never get along with any assistant. He fell out with Lodovico and Lopo,
who stole from him; then the foundryman turned out to be incapable and
in June, 1507, the casting failed.
"The figure came out only as far down as the waist. Everything had to be
done over again."
Fifteen months were spent in the midst of all kinds of troubles and
mortifications. Michelangelo was busy with his work until February,
1508. He nearly ruined his health over it, and he wrote to his brother
that he would never be in condition to make such an effort again during
his life. For so great a struggle, the result was miserable. The statue
of Julius II, raised on February 21, 1508, in front of the façade of S.
Petronio remained there only four years.[26] In December, 1511, it was
destroyed on the return of the Bentivogli, and Alphonso d'Este had his
bombardier Quirino cast a cannon from its fragments.
Michelangelo returned to Rome and Julius II laid upon him another task
not less unexpected and not less hazardous. He ordered the sculptor, who
never painted except with reluctance and who knew nothing of the
technique of fresco, to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He had
already talked with him about it before the rupture in 1506 and the
disinclination of Michelangelo for this work had something to do with
his flight to Florence. This may be inferred from the letter of a friend
of Michelangelo written in May, 1506, which shows that Bramante,
satisfied by the withdrawal of his rival, justified him for refusing the
burden of this heavy undertaking.
"Last Saturday evening," writes Pietro Rosselli, "when the pope was
supping, he called Bramante and said, 'San Gallo is going tomorrow to
Florence and he will bring back Michelangelo.' Bramante answered, 'Holy
Father, Michelangelo will do nothing of the kind. I have talked a great
deal with him and he has often said to me that he would not undertake
the chapel which you wished to entrust to him. He asks to be allowed
with your permission to devote himself entirely to sculpture, for he
wants to have nothing to do with painting.' He added, 'Holy Father, I do
not think he has the courage to undertake the work, for he has had
little experience in the painting of figures, and these must be painted
on the ceiling and foreshortened, which is very different from painting
on the ground.' The pope answered, 'If he does not come he will be
treating me badly, and for that reason I think he will return.' I threw
myself into the conversation and there in the pope's presence replied
properly to that fellow and spoke for you as you would surely have
spoken for me. Bramante remained silent, realising that he had made a
mistake in saying what he had. I went on in these words: 'Holy Father,
that man has never exchanged a word with Michelangelo, and if what he
says is true you can cut my head off. He has never talked with him, and
I am sure that Michelangelo will come back if Your Holiness wishes it.'"
When Michelangelo returned Bramante changed his tactics. As
Michelangelo's friends had imprudently asserted that he could accomplish
this task for which, as Bramante knew better than any one else, he was
entirely unprepared, Bramante pretended to believe this and forced his
rival into a position where he had to accept the commission. A failure
would have been particularly serious to Michelangelo just then since in
that same year, 1508, Raphael began his incomparable painting of the
Stanze and Michelangelo had either to surpass him or be entirely
eclipsed. This at least is what Condivi asserts.
[Illustration: THE CREATION OF MAN
Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (1508-1512).]
Bramante and his other rivals suggested to the pope to make Michelangelo
paint the ceiling of the chapel of Pope Sixtus IV by persuading him that
he would do marvels there. They did him this service maliciously to
distract the pope from any plan for sculpture and because they thought
that Michelangelo would either refuse the commission and quarrel with
the pope or that he would accept it and be less successful than Raphael,
for they considered that Michelangelo's talent was for sculpture, which
indeed was true. Michelangelo, who until then had not worked in colours
and who knew how difficult it is to paint a ceiling, tried in every way
to extricate himself. He proposed Raphael in his place and gave as an
excuse that this was not his art and that he could not succeed in it,
and went so far in his attempts at refusal that the pope began to grow
angry and showed such obstinate determination that Michelangelo decided
to undertake the work.
The tremendous task began on May 10, 1508. The first plan was simply to
represent the figures of the twelve apostles in the lunettes and to fill
the rest of the space with an ornamental decoration. Bramante raised a
scaffolding in the chapel and several painters who had had practical
experience in fresco painting were brought from Florence. We have
already said that Michelangelo could only work alone. He began by
declaring that Bramante's scaffolding was of no use and replaced it with
one of his own invention. As for the Florentine painters who Francesco
Granacci had recruited for him, Giuliano Bugiardini, Jacopo di Sandro,
the elder Indaco, and Agnolo di Donnino, he took a dislike like to them
and sent them away. He remained alone, shut up in the chapel with a few
workmen, like Giovanni Michi, and far from allowing the great difficulty
of the undertaking to dampen his courage he enlarged his plan and
decided to paint not only the ceiling, but the walls of the chapel down
to the old frescoes.
It is dangerous to attempt to describe the "Last Judgment"; it is indeed
impossible. Analyses and commentaries have been multiplied, but they
kill the spirit by taking it in detail. We must face the vision squarely
and lose ourselves in the abyss of that spirit. It is terrifying and, if
regarded calmly, incomprehensible--it must be hated or adored. It
stifles and excites; there is no nature, no landscape, no atmosphere, no
tenderness, almost nothing human; the symbolism of a primitive and the
science of a decadent; an architecture of naked convulsed bodies; a
barren, savage and devouring thought, like a south wind over a sandy
desert. There is no corner of shade, no spring to slake the thirst; it
is a whirling spout of fire, the vertigo of a delirious emotion, with no
goal except the God in which it loses itself. The whole calls on God,
fears Him and proclaims Him. A whirlwind blows across this throng of
giants--the same whirlwind which sweeps through space the God who has
created the sun and hurled it like a ball of fire into the ether. There
is no escape from the groaning of the tempest which surrounds and
deafens you. Either you must hate this brutal force or abandon yourself
to it without resistance like those souls of Dante whirled along by an
eternal cyclone. When we realise that that hell was for four years the
very soul of Michelangelo we understand why his life was burnt out by it
and why for a long time afterward he remained like a soil exhausted by
too much use and no longer productive. Above that ceiling and those
vaults built up of huge bodies, where tumultuous confusion and powerful
unity combine to evoke the monstrous dream of a Hindu and the imperious
logic and iron will of ancient Rome, there blooms a beauty that is
natural and pure. There has never been anything like it. It is at once
both bestial and divine, the exquisite perfume of Hellenic grace mingles
with the savage odour of primitive humanity. These giants with their
Olympian shoulders and huge thighs and loins wherein we feel, as the
sculptor Guillaume said, "the weight of heavy entrails" are as yet
hardly free from their double origin, their two progenitors, the beast
and the god. A series of drawings at Oxford University shows in what
springs of realism the genius of Michelangelo bathed itself and of what
common clay his heroes are moulded.
[Illustration: THE PROPHET EZEKIEL
Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.]
On the flat part of the vault, in the centre, are the nine scenes from
Genesis, Æschylean visions:[27] the divine solitude, the dreadful moment
of the creation, the athletic god carried by clouds of spirits, man just
rousing from the sleep of earth and regarding as an equal, face to face,
the God who awakes him--both in silent readiness for the struggle--the
calm and powerful woman in whom sleeps humanity--those human frames like
temples of flesh and blood, torsos like trunks of trees, arms like
columns and great thighs; those beings great with power and passion and
crime and the results and punishments of their crimes--the Temptation,
Cain and the Deluge.
At the angles of the cornice which frames these scenes are the twenty
savage Ignudi, living statues, either struggling in convulsions of fear
and fury or falling back, overwhelmed and exhausted--a symphony of mad
force which sweeps in every direction and beats against the walls.
As gigantic supporters of the ceilings are seated in the pendentives
twelve prophets and sibyls who suffer and dream; disdainful Lybica;
Persica, purblind and restless; Cumæa, with huge arms and pendent
breasts; the beautiful Erythræa, strong, calm and scornful; Delphica,
the virgin with the lovely body and fierce eyes; Daniel, his lips
compressed, his eyes fixed; Isaiah, bitter and contemptuous; Ezekiel, at
war with himself and with a Genius of sombre beauty who seems to be
pointing out to him the one who is to come; Jeremiah, plunged in the
depths of silence, and Jonah, panting and breathless, cast out from the
jaws of death--all those tragic torches of thought which burned in the
night of the pagan and Jewish world; all the human knowledge which
awaited the Saviour.
Above the twelve windows the Precursors and Ancestors of Christ also
wait and dream in the midst of the storm. The night is long and full of
evil visions. They try to sleep, they try to forget how long they must
wait; they are silent and they ponder, anxious and overwhelmed. A seated
woman alone dares to look squarely in the face of the menacing future.
In her fixed and dilated eyes I can see that secret feeling which weighs
on all these beings, a burden they dare not acknowledge--fear. At the
four angles of the ceiling are displayed the sinister acts which saved
the people of God--David slaying Goliath, Judith bearing the head of
Holofernes, the Hebrews writhing under the bites of the serpents of
Moses, and Haman crucified. Fierce barbaric stories of murderous
fanaticism--a roundhead in Cromwell's time would have chosen no other
subjects.
Fear, sadness, suspense. We who know how thirty years later Michelangelo
completed with the Last Judgment the cycle of his idea, we know what
they awaited--the Christ who comes to destroy.
Michelangelo had suffered terribly during this gigantic labour. His
letters show intense discouragement which even his wonderful visions
could not help. "This is not my profession," he complained. "I waste my
time without any results. God help me."[28]
These were years of desperate efforts in the midst of enemies who spied
upon him and hoped for his failure. He nearly gave up the work and fled
again. Just as he began to paint the Deluge the whole ceiling began to
grow mouldy so that the figures could hardly be distinguished.
Michelangelo seized that as an excuse for giving up, but San Gallo
discovered that the trouble came from the lime, which had too much water
in it, and the pope ordered the artist to go on with his work.
Julius II was irritated by Michelangelo's slowness and by the fact that
he persisted in hiding his work from him. There was constant friction
between them.
"One day," says Condivi, "the pope asked him when he would finish and
Michelangelo answered, according to his custom, 'When I can.' The pope,
who was irritable, struck him with his staff, saying, 'When I can, when
I can!' Michelangelo rushed home and began to make his preparations to
leave Rome. Luckily the pope sent hurriedly after him an amiable young
man named Accursio, who gave him five hundred ducats, soothed him as
well as he could and apologised for Julius II and Michelangelo accepted
the excuses. The next day, however, they began again and when the pope
threatened to have him thrown from his scaffolding Michelangelo had to
give way. He had the scaffolding removed and uncovered the ceiling
sooner than he had intended. 'That is why,' he said, 'that that work was
not carried on as far as I would have wished. The pope's impatience
prevented.'"
The first part of the paintings was finished on September 1st, 1510, and
the pope was able to see the four chief compositions of the ceiling
before his departure for Bologna. In January and February, 1511,
Michelangelo drew the cartoons for the "teste e faccie attorno di ditta
capella," the pictures for the corners and the lunettes, and the second
period of the work began. On August, 1511, Julius II celebrated mass in
the Sistine Chapel, "ut picturas novas ibidem noviter detectas videret";
and the entire work was finished in October, 1512. On October 31, 1512,
the Sistine Chapel was opened to the public.
Soon after, on February 21, 1513, Julius II died.