"Just after sunset, about eight o'clock, as this musqueteer stood at his
door with his sword in his hand, when he had done supper, I with great
address came close up to him with a long dagger, and gave him a violent
back-handed stroke, which I aimed at his neck. He instantly turned
round, and the blow, falling directly upon his left shoulder, broke the
whole bone of it; upon which he dropped his sword, quite overcome by the
pain, and took to his heels. I pursued, and in four steps came up with
him, when, raising the dagger over his head, which he lowered down, I
hit him exactly upon the nape of the neck. The weapon penetrated so
deep that, though I made a great effort to recover it again, I found it
impossible."
So much for murder. Now for manslaughter, or rather Cellini's notion of
manslaughter.
"Pompeo entered an apothecary's shop at the corner of the Chiavica,
about some business, and stayed there for some time. I was told he had
boasted of having bullied me, but it turned out a fatal adventure to
him. Just as I arrived at that quarter he was coming out of the shop,
and his bravoes, having made an opening, formed a circle round him. I
thereupon clapped my hand to a sharp dagger, and having forced my way
through the file of ruffians, laid hold of him by the throat, so quickly
and with such presence of mind that there was not one of his friends
could defend him. I pulled him towards me to give him a blow in front,
but he turned his face about through excess of terror, so that I wounded
him exactly under the ear; and upon repeating my blow, he fell down
dead. It had never been my intention to kill him, but blows are not
always under command."
We must all feel that it would never have done to have begun with these
passages; but long before the 191st page has been reached, Cellini has
retreated into his own atmosphere, and the scales of justice have been
hopelessly tampered with.
That such a man as this encountered suffering in the course of his life
should be matter for satisfaction to every well-regulated mind; but
somehow or other, you find yourself pitying the fellow as he narrates
the hardships he endured in the Castle of St. Angelo. He is so
symmetrical a rascal! Just hear him! listen to what he says well on in
the second volume, after the little incidents already quoted:--
"Having at length recovered my strength and vigor, after I had composed
myself and resumed my cheerfulness of mind, I continued to read my
Bible, and so accustomed my eyes to that darkness, that though I was at
first able to read only an hour and a half, I could at length read three
hours. I then reflected on the wonderful power of the Almighty upon the
hearts of simple men, who had carried their enthusiasm so far as to
believe firmly that God would indulge them in all they wished for; and I
promised myself the assistance of the Most High, as well through His
mercy as on account of my innocence. Thus turning constantly to the
Supreme Being, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in silent meditation on
the divine goodness, I was totally engrossed by these heavenly
reflections, and came to take such delight in pious meditations that I
no longer thought of past misfortunes. On the contrary, I was all day
long singing psalms and many other compositions of mine, in which I
celebrated and praised the Deity."
Thus torn from their context, these passages may seem to supply the best
possible falsification of the previous statement that Cellini told the
truth about himself. Judged by these passages alone, he may appear a
hypocrite of an unusually odious description. But it is only necessary
to read his book to dispel that notion. He tells lies about other
people; he repeats long conversations, sounding his own praises, during
which, as his own narrative shows, he was not present; he exaggerates
his own exploits, his sufferings--even, it may be, his crimes: but when
we lay down his book, we feel we are saying good-by to a man whom
we know.
He has introduced himself to us, and though doubtless we prefer saints
to sinners, we may be forgiven for liking the company of a live rogue
better than that of the lay-figures and empty clock-cases labeled with
distinguished names, who are to be found doing duty for men in the works
of our standard historians. What would we not give to know Julius Cæsar
one-half as well as we know this outrageous rascal? The saints of the
earth, too, how shadowy they are! Which of them do we really know?
Excepting one or two ancient and modern Quietists, there is hardly one
amongst the whole number who being dead yet speaketh. Their memoirs far
too often only reveal to us a hazy something, certainly not recognizable
as a man. This is generally the fault of their editors, who, though men
themselves, confine their editorial duties to going up and down the
diaries and papers of the departed saint, and obliterating all human
touches. This they do for the "better prevention of scandals"; and one
cannot deny that they attain their end, though they pay dearly for it.
I shall never forget the start I gave when, on reading some old book
about India, I came across an after-dinner jest of Henry Martyn's. The
thought of Henry Martyn laughing over the walnuts and the wine was
almost, as Robert Browning's unknown painter says, "too wildly dear;"
and to this day I cannot help thinking that there must be a mistake
somewhere.
To return to Cellini, and to conclude. On laying down his Memoirs, let
us be careful to recall our banished moral sense, and make peace with
her, by passing a final judgment on this desperate sinner; which perhaps
after all, we cannot do better than by employing language of his own
concerning a monk, a fellow-prisoner of his, who never, so far as
appears, murdered anybody, but of whom Cellini none the less felt
himself entitled to say:--
"I admired his shining qualities, but his odious vices I freely censured
and held in abhorrence."