I
After the death of Lorenzo de' Medici, Michelangelo returned to his
father's home, and began to work upon a statue of Hercules, which is
now lost. It used to stand in the Strozzi Palace until the siege of
Florence in 1530, when Giovanni Battista della Palla bought it from
the steward of Filippo Strozzi, and sent it into France as a present
to the king.
The Magnificent left seven children by his wife Clarice, of the
princely Roman house of the Orsini. The eldest, Piero, was married to
Alfonsina, of the same illustrious family. Giovanni, the second, had
already received a cardinal's hat from his kinsman, Innocent VIII.
Guiliano, the third, was destined to play a considerable part in
Florentine history under the title of Duke of Nemours. One daughter
was married to a Salviati, another to a Ridolfi, a third to the Pope's
son, Franceschetto Cybò. The fourth, Luisa, had been betrothed to her
distant cousin, Giovanni de' Medici; but the match was broken off, and
she remained unmarried.
Piero now occupied that position of eminence and semi-despotic
authority in Florence which his father and grandfather had held; but
he was made of different stuff, both mentally and physically. The
Orsini blood, which he inherited from his mother, mixed but ill in his
veins with that of Florentine citizens and bankers. Following the
proud and insolent traditions of his maternal ancestors, he began to
discard the mask of civil urbanity with which Cosimo and Lorenzo had
concealed their despotism. He treated the republic as though it were
his own property, and prepared for the coming disasters of his race by
the overbearing arrogance of his behaviour. Physically, he was
powerful, tall, and active; fond of field-sports, and one of the best
pallone-players of his time in Italy. Though he had been a pupil of
Poliziano, he displayed but little of his father's interest in
learning, art, and literature. Chance brought Michelangelo into
personal relations with this man. On the 20th of January 1494 there
was a heavy fall of snow in Florence, and Piero sent for the young
sculptor to model a colossal snow-man in the courtyard of his palace.
Critics have treated this as an insult to the great artist, and a sign
of Piero's want of taste; but nothing was more natural than that a
previous inmate of the Medicean household should use his talents for
the recreation of the family who lived there. Piero upon this occasion
begged Michelangelo to return and occupy the room he used to call his
own during Lorenzo's lifetime. "And so," writes Condivi, "he remained
for some months with the Medici, and was treated by Piero with great
kindness; for the latter used to extol two men of his household as
persons of rare ability, the one being Michelangelo, the other a
Spanish groom, who, in addition to his personal beauty, which was
something wonderful, had so good a wind and such agility that when
Piero was galloping on horseback he could not outstrip him by a
hand's-breadth."
II
At this period of his life Michelangelo devoted himself to anatomy. He
had a friend, the Prior of S. Spirito, for whom he carved a wooden
crucifix of nearly life-size. This liberal-minded churchman put a room
at his disposal, and allowed him to dissect dead bodies. Condivi tells
us that the practice of anatomy was a passion with his master. "His
prolonged habits of dissection injured his stomach to such an extent
that he lost the power of eating or drinking to any profit. It is
true, however, that he became so learned in this branch of knowledge
that he has often entertained the idea of composing a work for
sculptors and painters, which should treat exhaustively of all the
movements of the human body, the external aspect of the limbs, the
bones, and so forth, adding an ingenious discourse upon the truths
discovered by him through the investigations of many years. He would
have done this if he had not mistrusted his own power of treating such
a subject with the dignity and style of a practised rhetorician. I
know well that when he reads Albert Dürer's book, it seems to him of
no great value; his own conception being so far fuller and more
useful. Truth to tell, Dürer only treats of the measurements and
varied aspects of the human form, making his figures straight as
stakes; and, what is more important, he says nothing about the
attitudes and gestures of the body. Inasmuch as Michelangelo is now
advanced in years, and does not count on bringing his ideas to light
through composition, he has disclosed to me his theories in their
minutest details. He also began to discourse upon the same topic with
Messer Realdo Colombo, an anatomist and surgeon of the highest
eminence. For the furtherance of such studies this good friend of ours
sent him the corpse of a Moor, a young man of incomparable beauty, and
admirably adapted for our purpose. It was placed at S. Agata, where I
dwelt and still dwell, as being a quarter removed from public
observation.
"On this corpse Michelangelo demonstrated to me many rare and abstruse
things, which perhaps have never yet been fully understood, and all of
which I noted down, hoping one day, by the help of some learned man,
to give them to the public. Of Michelangelo's studies in anatomy we
have one grim but interesting record in a pen-drawing by his hand at
Oxford. A corpse is stretched upon a plank and trestles. Two men are
bending over it with knives in their hands; and, for light to guide
them in their labours, a candle is stuck into the belly of the
subject."
As it is not my intention to write the political history of
Michelangelo's period, I need not digress here upon the invasion of
Italy by Charles VIII., which caused the expulsion of the Medici from
Florence, and the establishment of a liberal government under the
leadership of Savonarola. Michelangelo appears to have anticipated the
catastrophe which was about to overwhelm his patron. He was by nature
timid, suspicious, and apt to foresee disaster. Possibly he may have
judged that the haughty citizens of Florence would not long put up
with Piero's aristocratical insolence. But Condivi tells a story on
the subject which is too curious to be omitted, and which he probably
set down from Michelangelo's own lips. "In the palace of Piero a man
called Cardiere was a frequent inmate. The Magnificent took much
pleasure in his society, because he improvised verses to the guitar
with marvellous dexterity, and the Medici also practised this art; so
that nearly every evening after supper there was music. This Cardiere,
being a friend of Michelangelo, confided to him a vision which pursued
him, to the following effect. Lorenzo de' Medici appeared to him
barely clad in one black tattered robe, and bade him relate to his son
Piero that he would soon be expelled and never more return to his
home. Now Piero was arrogant and overbearing to such an extent that
neither the good-nature of the Cardinal Giovanni, his brother, nor the
courtesy and urbanity of Giuliano, was so strong to maintain him in
Florence as his own faults to cause his expulsion. Michelangelo
encouraged the man to obey Lorenzo and report the matter to his son;
but Cardiere, fearing his new master's temper, kept it to himself. On
another morning, when Michelangelo was in the courtyard of the palace,
Cardiere came with terror and pain written on his countenance. Last
night Lorenzo had again appeared to him in the same garb of woe; and
while he was awake and gazing with his eyes, the spectre dealt him a
blow on the cheek, to punish him for omitting to report his vision to
Piero. Michelangelo immediately gave him such a thorough scolding that
Cardiere plucked up courage, and set forth on foot for Careggi, a
Medicean villa some three miles distant from the city. He had traveled
about halfway, when he met Piero, who was riding home; so he stopped
the cavalcade, and related all that he had seen and heard. Piero
laughed him to scorn, and, beckoning the running footmen, bade them
mock the poor fellow. His Chancellor, who was afterwards the Cardinal
of Bibbiena, cried out: 'You are a madman! Which do you think Lorenzo
loved best, his son or you? If his son, would he not rather have
appeared to him than to some one else?' Having thus jeered him, they
let him go; and he, when he returned home and complained to
Michelangelo, so convinced the latter of the truth of his vision that
Michelangelo after two days left Florence with a couple of comrades,
dreading that if what Cardiere had predicted should come true, he
would no longer be safe in Florence."
This ghost-story bears a remarkable resemblance to what Clarendon
relates concerning the apparition of Sir George Villiers. Wishing to
warn his son, the Duke of Buckingham, of his coming murder at the hand
of Lieutenant Felton, he did not appear to the Duke himself, but to an
old man-servant of the family; upon which behaviour of Sir George's
ghost the same criticism has been passed as on that of Lorenzo de'
Medici.
Michelangelo and his two friends travelled across the Apennines to
Bologna, and thence to Venice, where they stopped a few days. Want of
money, or perhaps of work there drove them back upon the road to
Florence. When they reached Bologna on the return journey, a curious
accident happened to the party. The master of the city, Giovanni
Bentivoglio, had recently decreed that every foreigner, on entering
the gates, should be marked with a seal of red wax upon his thumb. The
three Florentines omitted to obey this regulation, and were taken to
the office of the Customs, where they were fined fifty Bolognese
pounds. Michelangelo did not possess enough to pay this fine; but it
so happened that a Bolognese nobleman called Gianfrancesco Aldovrandi
was there, who, hearing that Buonarroti was a sculptor, caused the men
to be released. Upon his urgent invitation, Michelangelo went to this
gentleman's house, after taking leave of his two friends and giving
them all the money in his pocket. With Messer Aldovrandi he remained
more than a year, much honoured by his new patron, who took great
delight in his genius; "and every evening he made Michelangelo read
aloud to him out of Dante or Petrarch, and sometimes Boccaccio, until
he went to sleep." He also worked upon the tomb of San Domenico during
this first residence at Bologna. Originally designed and carried
forward by Niccolò Pisano, this elaborate specimen of mediaeval
sculpture remained in some points imperfect. There was a San Petronio
whose drapery, begun by Niccolò da Bari, was unfinished. To this
statue Michelangelo put the last touches; and he also carved a
kneeling angel with a candelabrum, the workmanship of which surpasses
in delicacy of execution all the other figures on the tomb.
III
Michelangelo left Bologna hastily. It is said that a sculptor who had
expected to be employed upon the _arca_ of S. Domenic threatened to do
him some mischief if he stayed and took the bread out of the mouths of
native craftsmen. He returned to Florence some time in 1495. The city
was now quiet again, under the rule of Savonarola. Its burghers, in
obedience to the friar's preaching, began to assume that air of
pietistic sobriety which contrasted strangely with the gay
licentiousness encouraged by their former master. Though the reigning
branch of the Medici remained in exile, their distant cousins, who
were descended from Lorenzo, the brother of Cosimo, Pater Patriae,
kept their place in the republic. They thought it prudent, however, at
this time, to exchange the hated name of de' Medici for Popolano. With
a member of this section of the Medicean family, Lorenzo di
Pierfrancesco, Michelangelo soon found himself on terms of intimacy.
It was for him that he made a statue of the young S. John, which was
perhaps rediscovered at Pisa in 1874. For a long time this S.
Giovannino was attributed to Donatello; and it certainly bears decided
marks of resemblance to that master's manner, in the choice of
attitude, the close adherence to the model, and the treatment of the
hands and feet. Still it has notable affinities to the style of
Michelangelo, especially in the youthful beauty of the features, the
disposition of the hair, and the sinuous lines which govern the whole
composition. It may also be remarked that those peculiarities in the
hands and feet which I have mentioned as reminding us of Donatello--a
remarkable length in both extremities, owing to the elongation of the
metacarpal and metatarsal bones and of the spaces dividing these from
the forearm and tibia--are precisely the points which Michelangelo
retained through life from his early study of Donatello's work. We
notice them particularly in the Dying Slave of the Louvre, which is
certainly one of his most characteristic works. Good judges are
therefore perhaps justified in identifying this S. Giovannino, which
is now in the Berlin Museum, with the statue made for Lorenzo di
Pierfrancesco de' Medici.
The next piece which occupied Michelangelo's chisel was a Sleeping
Cupid. His patron thought this so extremely beautiful that he remarked
to the sculptor: "If you were to treat it artificially, so as to make
it look as though it had been dug up, I would send it to Rome; it
would be accepted as an antique, and you would be able to sell it at a
far higher price." Michelangelo took the hint. His Cupid went to Rome,
and was sold for thirty ducats to a dealer called Messer Baldassare
del Milanese, who resold it to Raffaello Riario, the Cardinal di S.
Giorgio, for the advanced sum of 200 ducats. It appears from this
transaction that Michelangelo did not attempt to impose upon the first
purchaser, but that this man passed it off upon the Cardinal as an
antique. When the Cardinal began to suspect that the Cupid was the
work of a modern Florentine, he sent one of his gentlemen to Florence
to inquire into the circumstances. The rest of the story shall be told
in Condivi's words.
"This gentleman, pretending to be on the lookout for a sculptor
capable of executing certain works in Rome, after visiting several,
was addressed to Michelangelo. When he saw the young artist, he begged
him to show some proof of his ability; whereupon Michelangelo took a
pen (for at that time the crayon [_lapis_] had not come into use), and
drew a hand with such grace that the gentleman was stupefied.
Afterwards, he asked if he had ever worked in marble, and when
Michelangelo said yes, and mentioned among other things a Cupid of
such height and in such an attitude, the man knew that he had found
the right person. So he related how the matter had gone, and promised
Michelangelo, if he would come with him to Rome, to get the difference
of price made up, and to introduce him to his patron, feeling sure
that the latter would receive him very kindly. Michelangelo, then,
partly in anger at having been cheated, and partly moved by the
gentleman's account of Rome as the widest field for an artist to
display his talents, went with him, and lodged in his house, near the
palace of the Cardinal." S. Giorgio compelled Messer Baldassare to
refund the 200 ducats, and to take the Cupid back. But Michelangelo
got nothing beyond his original price; and both Condivi and Vasari
blame the Cardinal for having been a dull and unsympathetic patron to
the young artist of genius he had brought from Florence. Still the
whole transaction was of vast importance, because it launched him for
the first time upon Rome, where he was destined to spend the larger
part of his long life, and to serve a succession of Pontiffs in their
most ambitious undertakings.
Before passing to the events of his sojourn at Rome, I will wind up
the story of the Cupid. It passed first into the hands of Cesare
Borgia, who presented it to Guidobaldo di Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino.
On the 30th of June 1502, the Marchioness of Mantua wrote a letter to
the Cardinal of Este, saying that she should very much like to place
this piece, together with an antique statuette of Venus, both of which
had belonged to her brother-in-law, the Duke of Urbino, in her own
collection. Apparently they had just become the property of Cesare
Borgia, when he took and sacked the town of Urbino upon the 20th of
June in that year. Cesare Borgia seems to have complied immediately
with her wishes; for in a second letter, dated July 22, 1502, she
described the Cupid as "without a peer among the works of modern
times."
IV
Michelangelo arrived in Rome at the end of June 1496. This we know
from the first of his extant letters, which is dated July 2, and
addressed to Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de' Medici. The superscription,
however, bears the name of Sandro Botticelli, showing that some
caution had still to be observed in corresponding with the Medici,
even with those who latterly assumed the name of Popolani. The young
Buonarroti writes in excellent spirits: "I only write to inform you
that last Saturday we arrived safely, and went at once to visit the
Cardinal di San Giorgio; and I presented your letter to him. It
appeared to me that he was pleased to see me, and he expressed a wish
that I should go immediately to inspect his collection of statues. I
spent the whole day there, and for that reason was unable to deliver
all your letters. Afterwards, on Sunday, the Cardinal came into the
new house, and had me sent for. I went to him, and he asked what I
thought about the things which I had seen. I replied by stating my
opinion, and certainly I can say with sincerity that there are many
fine things in the collection. Then he asked me whether I had the
courage to make some beautiful work of art. I answered that I should
not be able to achieve anything so great, but that he should see what
I could do. We have bought a piece of marble for a life-size statue,
and on Monday I shall begin to work."
After describing his reception, Michelangelo proceeds to relate the
efforts he was making to regain his Sleeping Cupid from Messer
Baldassare: "Afterwards, I gave your letter to Baldassare, and asked
him for the child, saying I was ready to refund his money. He answered
very roughly, swearing he would rather break it in a hundred pieces;
he had bought the child, and it was his property; he possessed
writings which proved that he had satisfied the person who sent it to
him, and was under no apprehension that he should have to give it up.
Then he complained bitterly of you, saying that you had spoken ill of
him. Certain of our Florentines sought to accommodate matters, but
failed in their attempt. Now I look to coming to terms through the
Cardinal; for this is the advice of Baldassare Balducci. What ensues I
will report to you." It is clear that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco, being
convinced of the broker's sharp practice, was trying to recover the
Sleeping Cupid (the child) at the price originally paid for it, either
for himself or for Buonarroti. The Cardinal is mentioned as being the
most likely person to secure the desired result.
Whether Condivi is right in saying that S. Giorgio neglected to employ
Michelangelo may be doubted. We have seen from this letter to Lorenzo
that the Cardinal bought a piece of marble and ordered a life-size
statue. But nothing more is heard about the work. Professor Milanesi,
however, has pointed out that when the sculptor was thinking of
leaving Rome in 1497 he wrote to his father on the 1st of July as
follows: "Most revered and beloved father, do not be surprised that I
am unable to return, for I have not yet settled my affairs with the
Cardinal, and I do not wish to leave until I am properly paid for my
labour; and with these great patrons one must go about quietly, since
they cannot be compelled. I hope, however, at any rate during the
course of next week, to have completed the transaction."
Michelangelo remained at Rome for more than two years after the date
of the letter just quoted. We may conjecture, then, that he settled
his accounts with the Cardinal, whatever these were, and we know that
he obtained other orders. In a second letter to his father, August 19,
1497, he writes thus: "Piero de' Medici gave me a commission for a
statue, and I bought the marble. But I did not begin to work upon it,
because he failed to perform what he promised. Wherefore I am acting
on my own account, and am making a statue for my own pleasure. I
bought the marble for five ducats, and it turned out bad. So I threw
my money away. Now I have bought another at the same price, and the
work I am doing is for my amusement. You will therefore understand
that I too have large expenses and many troubles."
During the first year of his residence in Rome (between July 2, 1496,
and August 19, 1497) Michelangelo must have made some money, else he
could not have bought marble and have worked upon his own account.
Vasari asserts that he remained nearly twelve months in the household
of the Cardinal, and that he only executed a drawing of S. Francis
receiving the stigmata, which was coloured by a barber in S. Giorgio's
service, and placed in the Church of S. Pietro a Montorio. Benedetto
Varchi describes this picture as having been painted by Buonarroti's
own hand. We know nothing more for certain about it. How he earned his
money is therefore, unexplained, except upon the supposition that S.
Giorgio, unintelligent as he may have been in his patronage of art,
paid him for work performed. I may here add that the Piero de' Medici
who gave the commission mentioned in the last quotation was the exiled
head of the ruling family. Nothing had to be expected from such a man.
He came to Rome in order to be near the Cardinal Giovanni, and to
share this brother's better fortunes; but his days and nights were
spent in debauchery among the companions and accomplices of shameful
riot.
Michelangelo, in short, like most young artists, was struggling into
fame and recognition. Both came to him by the help of a Roman
gentleman and banker, Messer Jacopo Gallo. It so happened that an
intimate Florentine friend of Buonarroti, the Baldassare Balducci
mentioned at the end of his letter to Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco, was
employed in Gallo's house of business. It is probable, therefore, that
this man formed the link of connection between the sculptor and his
new patron. At all events, Messer Gallo purchased a Bacchus, which now
adorns the sculpture-gallery of the Bargello, and a Cupid, which may
possibly be the statue at South Kensington.
Condivi says that this gentleman, "a man of fine intelligence,
employed him to execute in his own house a marble Bacchus, ten palms
in height, the form and aspect of which correspond in all parts to the
meaning of ancient authors. The face of the youth is jocund, the eyes
wandering and wanton, as is the wont with those who are too much
addicted to a taste for wine. In his right hand he holds a cup,
lifting it to drink, and gazing at it like one who takes delight in
that liquor, of which he was the first discoverer. For this reason,
too, the sculptor has wreathed his head with vine-tendrils. On his
left arm hangs a tiger-skin, the beast dedicated to Bacchus, as being
very partial to the grape. Here the artist chose rather to introduce
the skin than the animal itself, in order to hint that sensual
indulgence in the pleasure of the grape-juice leads at last to loss of
life. With the hand of this arm he holds a bunch of grapes, which a
little satyr, crouched below him, is eating on the sly with glad and
eager gestures. The child may seem to be seven years, the Bacchus
eighteen of age." This description is comparatively correct, except
that Condivi is obviously mistaken when he supposes that
Michelangelo's young Bacchus faithfully embodies the Greek spirit. The
Greeks never forgot, in all their representations of Dionysos, that he
was a mystic and enthusiastic deity. Joyous, voluptuous, androgynous,
he yet remains the god who brought strange gifts and orgiastic rites
to men. His followers, Silenus, Bacchantes, Fauns, exhibit, in their
self-abandonment to sensual joy, the operation of his genius. The
deity descends to join their revels from his clear Olympian ether, but
he is not troubled by the fumes of intoxication. Michelangelo has
altered this conception. Bacchus, with him, is a terrestrial young
man, upon the verge of toppling over into drunkenness. The value of
the work is its realism. The attitude could not be sustained in actual
life for a moment without either the goblet spilling its liquor or the
body reeling side-ways. Not only are the eyes wavering and wanton, but
the muscles of the mouth have relaxed into a tipsy smile; and, instead
of the tiger-skin being suspended from the left arm, it has slipped
down, and is only kept from falling by the loose grasp of the
trembling hand. Nothing, again, could be less godlike than the face of
Bacchus. It is the face of a not remarkably good-looking model, and
the head is too small both for the body and the heavy crown of leaves.
As a study of incipient intoxication, when the whole person is
disturbed by drink, but human dignity has not yet yielded to a bestial
impulse, this statue proves the energy of Michelangelo's imagination.
The physical beauty of his adolescent model in the limbs and body
redeems the grossness of the motive by the inalienable charm of health
and carnal comeliness. Finally, the technical merits of the work
cannot too strongly be insisted on. The modelling of the thorax, the
exquisite roundness and fleshiness of the thighs and arms and belly,
the smooth skin-surface expressed throughout in marble, will excite
admiration in all who are capable of appreciating this aspect of the
statuary's art. Michelangelo produced nothing more finished in
execution, if we except the Pietà at S. Peter's. His Bacchus alone is
sufficient to explode a theory favoured by some critics, that, left to
work unhindered, he would still have preferred a certain vagueness, a
certain want of polish in his marbles.
Nevertheless, the Bacchus leaves a disagreeable impression on the
mind--as disagreeable in its own way as that produced by the Christ of
the Minerva. That must be because it is wrong in spiritual
conception--brutally materialistic, where it ought to have been noble
or graceful. In my opinion, the frank, joyous naturalism of
Sansovino's Bacchus (also in the Bargello) possesses more of true
Greek inspiration than Michelangelo's. If Michelangelo meant to carve
a Bacchus, he failed; if he meant to imitate a physically desirable
young man in a state of drunkenness, he succeeded.
What Shelley wrote upon this statue may here be introduced, since it
combines both points of view in a criticism of much spontaneous
vigour.
"The countenance of this figure is the most revolting mistake of the
spirit and meaning of Bacchus. It looks drunken, brutal, and
narrow-minded, and has an expression of dissoluteness the most
revolting. The lower part of the figure is stiff, and the manner in
which the shoulders are united to the breast, and the neck to the
head, abundantly inharmonious. It is altogether without unity, as was
the idea of the deity of Bacchus in the conception of a Catholic. On
the other hand, considered merely as a piece of workmanship, it has
great merits. The arms are executed in the most perfect and manly
beauty; the body is conceived with great energy, and the lines which
describe the sides and thighs, and the manner in which they mingle
into one another, are of the highest order of boldness and beauty. It
wants, as a work of art, unity and simplicity; as a representation of
the Greek deity of Bacchus, it wants everything."
Jacopo Gallo is said to have also purchased a Cupid from Michelangelo.
It has been suggested, with great plausibility, that this Cupid was
the piece which Michelangelo began when Piero de' Medici's commission
fell through, and that it therefore preceded the Bacchus in date of
execution. It has also been suggested that the so-called Cupid at
South Kensington is the work in question. We have no authentic
information to guide us in the matter. But the South Kensington Cupid
is certainly a production of the master's early manhood. It was
discovered some forty years ago, hidden away in the cellars of the
Gualfonda (Rucellai) Gardens at Florence, by Professor Miliarini and
the famous Florentine sculptor Santarelli. On a cursory inspection
they both declared it to be a genuine Michelangelo. The left arm was
broken, the right hand damaged, and the hair had never received the
sculptor's final touches. Santarelli restored the arm, and the Cupid
passed by purchase into the possession of the English nation. This
fine piece of sculpture is executed in Michelangelo's proudest, most
dramatic manner. The muscular young man of eighteen, a model of superb
adolescence, kneels upon his right knee, while the right hand is
lowered to lift an arrow from the ground. The left hand is raised
above the head, and holds the bow, while the left leg is so placed,
with the foot firmly pressed upon the ground, as to indicate that in a
moment the youth will rise, fit the shaft to the string, and send it
whistling at his adversary. This choice of a momentary attitude is
eminently characteristic of Michelangelo's style; and, if we are
really to believe that he intended to portray the god of love, it
offers another instance of his independence of classical tradition. No
Greek would have thus represented Eros. The lyric poets, indeed,
Ibycus and Anacreon, imaged him as a fierce invasive deity, descending
like the whirlwind on an oak, or striking at his victim with an axe.
But these romantic ideas did not find expression, so far as I am
aware, in antique plastic art. Michelangelo's Cupid is therefore as
original as his Bacchus. Much as critics have written, and with
justice, upon the classical tendencies of the Italian Renaissance,
they have failed to point out that the Paganism of the Cinque Cento
rarely involved a servile imitation of the antique or a sympathetic
intelligence of its spirit. Least of all do we find either of these
qualities in Michelangelo. He drew inspiration from his own soul, and
he went straight to Nature for the means of expressing the conception
he had formed. Unlike the Greeks, he invariably preferred the
particular to the universal, the critical moment of an action to
suggestions of the possibilities of action. He carved an individual
being, not an abstraction or a generalisation of personality. The
Cupid supplies us with a splendid illustration of this criticism.
Being a product of his early energy, before he had formed a certain
manneristic way of seeing Nature and of reproducing what he saw, it
not only casts light upon the spontaneous working of his genius, but
it also shows how the young artist had already come to regard the
inmost passion of the soul. When quite an old man, rhyming those rough
platonic sonnets, he always spoke of love as masterful and awful. For
his austere and melancholy nature, Eros was no tender or light-winged
youngling, but a masculine tyrant, the tamer of male spirits.
Therefore this Cupid, adorable in the power and beauty of his vigorous
manhood, may well remain for us the myth or symbol of love as
Michelangelo imagined that emotion. In composition, the figure is from
all points of view admirable, presenting a series of nobly varied
line-harmonies. All we have to regret is that time, exposure to
weather, and vulgar outrage should have spoiled the surface of the
marble.
VI
It is natural to turn from the Cupid to another work belonging to the
English nation, which has recently been ascribed to Michelangelo. I
mean the Madonna, with Christ, S. John, and four attendant male
figures, once in the possession of Mr. H. Labouchere, and now in the
National Gallery. We have no authentic tradition regarding this
tempera painting, which in my judgment is the most beautiful of the
easel pictures attributed to Michelangelo. Internal evidence from
style renders its genuineness in the highest degree probable. No one
else upon the close of the fifteenth century was capable of producing
a composition at once so complicated, so harmonious, and so clear as
the group formed by Madonna, Christ leaning on her knee to point a
finger at the book she holds, and the young S. John turned round to
combine these figures with the exquisitely blended youths behind him.
Unfortunately the two angels or genii upon the left hand are
unfinished; but had the picture been completed, we should probably
have been able to point out another magnificent episode in the
composition, determined by the transverse line carried from the hand
upon the last youth's shoulder, through the open book and the upraised
arm of Christ, down to the feet of S. John and the last genius on the
right side. Florentine painters had been wont to place attendant
angels at both sides of their enthroned Madonnas. Fine examples might
be chosen from the work of Filippino Lippi and Botticelli. But their
angels were winged and clothed like acolytes; the Madonna was seated
on a rich throne or under a canopy, with altar-candles, wreaths of
roses, flowering lilies. It is characteristic of Michelangelo to adopt
a conventional motive, and to treat it with brusque originality. In
this picture there are no accessories to the figures, and the
attendant angels are Tuscan lads half draped in succinct tunics. The
style is rather that of a flat relief in stone than of a painting; and
though we may feel something of Ghirlandajo's influence, the spirit of
Donatello and Luca della Robbia are more apparent. That it was the
work of an inexperienced painter is shown by the failure to indicate
pictorial planes. In spite of the marvellous and intricate beauty of
the line-composition, it lacks that effect of graduated distances
which might perhaps have been secured by execution in bronze or
marble. The types have not been chosen with regard to ideal loveliness
or dignity, but accurately studied from living models. This is very
obvious in the heads of Christ and S. John. The two adolescent genii
on the right hand possess a high degree of natural grace. Yet even
here what strikes one most is the charm of their attitude, the lovely
interlacing of their arms and breasts, the lithe alertness of the one
lad contrasted with the thoughtful leaning languor of his comrade.
Only perhaps in some drawings of combined male figures made by Ingres
for his picture of the Golden Age have lines of equal dignity and
simple beauty been developed. I do not think that this Madonna,
supposing it to be a genuine piece by Michelangelo, belongs to the
period of his first residence in Rome. In spite of its immense
intellectual power, it has an air of immaturity. Probably Heath Wilson
was right in assigning it to the time spent at Florence after Lorenzo
de' Medici's death, when the artist was about twenty years of age.
I may take this occasion for dealing summarily with the Entombment in
the National Gallery. The picture, which is half finished, has no
pedigree. It was bought out of the collection of Cardinal Fesch, and
pronounced to be a Michelangelo by the Munich painter Cornelius. Good
judges have adopted this attribution, and to differ from them requires
some hardihood. Still it is painful to believe that at any period of
his life Michelangelo could have produced a composition so discordant,
so unsatisfactory in some anatomical details, so feelingless and ugly.
It bears indubitable traces of his influence; that is apparent in the
figure of the dead Christ. But this colossal nude, with the massive
chest and attenuated legs, reminds us of his manner in old age;
whereas the rest of the picture shows no trace of that manner. I am
inclined to think that the Entombment was the production of a
second-rate craftsman, working upon some design made by Michelangelo
at the advanced period when the Passion of our Lord occupied his
thoughts in Rome. Even so, the spirit of the drawing must have been
imperfectly assimilated; and, what is more puzzling, the composition
does not recall the style of Michelangelo's old age. The colouring, so
far as we can understand it, rather suggests Pontormo.
VII
Michelangelo's good friend, Jacopo Gallo, was again helpful to him in
the last and greatest work which he produced during this Roman
residence. The Cardinal Jean de la Groslaye de Villiers François,
Abbot of S. Denys, and commonly called by Italians the Cardinal di San
Dionigi, wished to have a specimen of the young sculptor's handiwork.
Accordingly articles were drawn up to the following effect on August
26, 1498: "Let it be known and manifest to whoso shall read the
ensuing document, that the most Rev. Cardinal of S. Dionigi has thus
agreed with the master Michelangelo, sculptor of Florence, to wit,
that the said master shall make a Pietà of marble at his own cost;
that is to say, a Virgin Mary clothed, with the dead Christ in her
arms, of the size of a proper man, for the price of 450 golden ducats
of the Papal mint, within the term of one year from the day of the
commencement of the work." Next follow clauses regarding the payment
of the money, whereby the Cardinal agrees to disburse sums in advance.
The contract concludes with a guarantee and surety given by Jacopo
Gallo. "And I, Jacopo Gallo, pledge my word to his most Rev. Lordship
that the said Michelangelo will finish the said work within one year,
and that it shall be the finest work in marble which Rome to-day can
show, and that no master of our days shall be able to produce a
better. And, in like manner, on the other side, I pledge my word to
the said Michelangelo that the most Rev. Card. will disburse the
payments according to the articles above engrossed. To witness which,
I, Jacopo Gallo, have made this present writing with my own hand,
according to the date of year, month, and day as above."
The Pietà raised Michelangelo at once to the highest place among the
artists of his time, and it still remains unrivalled for the union of
sublime aesthetic beauty with profound religious feeling. The mother
of the dead Christ is seated on a stone at the foot of the cross,
supporting the body of her son upon her knees, gazing sadly at his
wounded side, and gently lifting her left hand, as though to say,
"Behold and see!" She has the small head and heroic torso used by
Michelangelo to suggest immense physical force. We feel that such a
woman has no difficulty in holding a man's corpse upon her ample lap
and in her powerful arms. Her face, which differs from the female type
he afterwards preferred, resembles that of a young woman. For this he
was rebuked by critics who thought that her age should correspond more
naturally to that of her adult son. Condivi reports that Michelangelo
explained his meaning in the following words: "Do you not know that
chaste women maintain their freshness far longer than the unchaste?
How much more would this be the case with a virgin, into whose breast
there never crept the least lascivious desire which could affect the
body? Nay, I will go further, and hazard the belief that this
unsullied bloom of youth, besides being maintained in her by natural
causes, may have been miraculously wrought to convince the world of
the virginity and perpetual purity of the Mother. This was not
necessary for the Son. On the contrary, in order to prove that the Son
of God took upon himself, as in very truth he did take, a human body,
and became subject to all that an ordinary man is subject to, with the
exception of sin; the human nature of Christ, instead of being
superseded by the divine, was left to the operation of natural laws,
so that his person revealed the exact age to which he had attained.
You need not, therefore, marvel if, having regard to these
considerations, I made the most Holy Virgin, Mother of God, much
younger relatively to her Son than women of her years usually appear,
and left the Son such as his time of life demanded." "This reasoning,"
adds Condivi, "was worthy of some learned theologian, and would have
been little short of marvellous in most men, but not in him, whom God
and Nature fashioned, not merely to be peerless in his handiwork, but
also capable of the divinest concepts, as innumerable discourses and
writings which we have of his make clearly manifest."
The Christ is also somewhat youthful, and modelled with the utmost
delicacy; suggesting no lack of strength, but subordinating the idea
of physical power to that of a refined and spiritual nature. Nothing
can be more lovely than the hands, the feet, the arms, relaxed in
slumber. Death becomes immortally beautiful in that recumbent figure,
from which the insults of the scourge, the cross, the brutal lance
have been erased. Michelangelo did not seek to excite pity or to stir
devotion by having recourse to those mediaeval ideas which were so
passionately expressed in S. Bernard's hymn to the Crucified. The
aesthetic tone of his dead Christ is rather that of some sweet solemn
strain of cathedral music, some motive from a mass of Palestrina or a
Passion of Sebastian Bach. Almost involuntarily there rises to the
memory that line composed by Bion for the genius of earthly loveliness
bewailed by everlasting beauty--
_E'en as a corpse he is fair, fair corpse as fallen aslumber._
It is said that certain Lombards passing by and admiring the Pietà
ascribed it to Christoforo Solari of Milan, surnamed Il Gobbo.
Michelangelo, having happened to overhear them, shut himself up in the
chapel, and engraved the belt upon the Madonna's breast with his own
name. This he never did with any other of his works.
This masterpiece of highest art combined with pure religious feeling
was placed in the old Basilica of S. Peter's, in a chapel dedicated to
Our Lady of the Fever, Madonna della Febbre. Here, on the night of
August 19, 1503, it witnessed one of those horrid spectacles which in
Italy at that period so often intervened to interrupt the rhythm of
romance and beauty and artistic melody. The dead body of Roderigo
Borgia, Alexander VI., lay in state from noon onwards in front of the
high altar; but since "it was the most repulsive, monstrous, and
deformed corpse which had ever yet been seen, without any form or
figure of humanity, shame compelled them to partly cover it." "Late in
the evening it was transferred to the chapel of Our Lady of the Fever,
and deposited in a corner by six hinds or porters and two carpenters,
who had made the coffin too narrow and too short. Joking and jeering,
they stripped the tiara and the robes of office from the body, wrapped
it up in an old carpet, and then with force of fists and feet rammed
it down into the box, without torches, without a ministering priest,
without a single person to attend and bear a consecrated candle." Of
such sort was the vigil kept by this solemn statue, so dignified in
grief and sweet in death, at the ignoble obsequies of him who,
occupying the loftiest throne of Christendom, incarnated the least
erected spirit of his age. The ivory-smooth white corpse of Christ in
marble, set over against that festering corpse of his Vicar on earth,
"black as a piece of cloth or the blackest mulberry," what a hideous
contrast!
VIII
It may not be inappropriate to discuss the question of the Bruges
Madonna here. This is a marble statue, well placed in a chapel of
Notre Dame, relieved against a black marble niche, with excellent
illumination from the side. The style is undoubtedly Michelangelesque,
the execution careful, the surface-finish exquisite, and the type of
the Madonna extremely similar to that of the Pietà at S. Peter's. She
is seated in an attitude of almost haughty dignity, with the left foot
raised upon a block of stone. The expression of her features is marked
by something of sternness, which seems inherent in the model. Between
her knees stands, half reclining, half as though wishing to step
downwards from the throne, her infant Son. One arm rests upon his
mother's knee; the right hand is thrown round to clasp her left. This
attitude gives grace of rhythm to the lines of his nude body. True to
the realism which controlled Michelangelo at the commencement of his
art career, the head of Christ, who is but a child, slightly overloads
his slender figure. Physically he resembles the Infant Christ of our
National Gallery picture, but has more of charm and sweetness. All
these indications point to a genuine product of Michelangelo's first
Roman manner; and the position of the statue in a chapel ornamented by
the Bruges family of Mouscron renders the attribution almost certain.
However, we have only two authentic records of the work among the
documents at our disposal. Condivi, describing the period of
Michelangelo's residence in Florence (1501-1504), says: "He also cast
in bronze a Madonna with the Infant Christ, which certain Flemish
merchants of the house of Mouscron, a most noble family in their own
land, bought for two hundred ducats, and sent to Flanders." A letter
addressed under date August 4, 1506, by Giovanni Balducci in Rome to
Michelangelo at Florence, proves that some statue which was destined
for Flanders remained among the sculptor's property at Florence.
Balducci uses the feminine gender in writing about this work, which
justifies us in thinking that it may have been a Madonna. He says that
he has found a trustworthy agent to convey it to Viareggio, and to
ship it thence to Bruges, where it will be delivered into the hands of
the heir of John and Alexander Mouscron and Co., "as being their
property." This statue, in all probability, is the "Madonna in marble"
about which Michelangelo wrote to his father from Rome on the 31st of
January 1507, and which he begged his father to keep hidden in their
dwelling. It is difficult to reconcile Condivi's statement with
Balducci's letter. The former says that the Madonna bought by the
Mouscron family was cast in bronze at Florence. The Madonna in the
Mouscron Chapel at Notre Dame is a marble. I think we may assume that
the Bruges Madonna is the piece which Michelangelo executed for the
Mouscron brothers, and that Condivi was wrong in believing it to have
been cast in bronze. That the statue was sent some time after the
order had been given, appears from the fact that Balducci consigned it
to the heir of John and Alexander, "as being their property;" but it
cannot be certain at what exact date it was begun and finished.
IX
While Michelangelo was acquiring immediate celebrity and immortal fame
by these three statues, so different in kind and hitherto unrivalled
in artistic excellence, his family lived somewhat wretchedly at
Florence. Lodovico had lost his small post at the Customs after the
expulsion of the Medici; and three sons, younger than the sculptor,
were now growing up. Buonarroto, born in 1477, had been put to the
cloth-trade, and was serving under the Strozzi in their warehouse at
the Porta Rossa. Giovan-Simone, two years younger (he was born in
1479), after leading a vagabond life for some while, joined Buonarroto
in a cloth-business provided for them by Michelangelo. He was a
worthless fellow, and gave his eldest brother much trouble.
Sigismondo, born in 1481, took to soldiering; but at the age of forty
he settled down upon the paternal farm at Settignano, and annoyed his
brother by sinking into the condition of a common peasant.
The constant affection felt for these not very worthy relatives by
Michelangelo is one of the finest traits in his character. They were
continually writing begging letters, grumbling and complaining. He
supplied them with funds, stinting himself in order to maintain them
decently and to satisfy their wishes. But the more he gave, the more
they demanded; and on one or two occasions, as we shall see in the
course of this biography, their rapacity and ingratitude roused his
bitterest indignation. Nevertheless, he did not swerve from the path
of filial and brotherly kindness which his generous nature and steady
will had traced. He remained the guardian of their interests, the
custodian of their honour, and the builder of their fortunes to the
end of his long life. The correspondence with his father and these
brothers and a nephew, Lionardo, was published in full for the first
time in 1875. It enables us to comprehend the true nature of the man
better than any biographical notice; and I mean to draw largely upon
this source, so as gradually, by successive stipplings, as it were, to
present a miniature portrait of one who was both admirable in private
life and incomparable as an artist.
This correspondence opens in the year 1497. From a letter addressed to
Lodovico under the date August 19, we learn that Buonarroto had just
arrived in Rome, and informed his brother of certain pecuniary
difficulties under which the family was labouring. Michelangelo gave
advice, and promised to send all the money he could bring together.
"Although, as I have told you, I am out of pocket myself, I will do my
best to get money, in order that you may not have to borrow from the
Monte, as Buonarroto says is possible. Do not wonder if I have
sometimes written irritable letters; for I often suffer great distress
of mind and temper, owing to matters which must happen to one who is
away from home.... In spite of all this, I will send you what you ask
for, even should I have to sell myself into slavery." Buonarroto must
have paid a second visit to Rome; for we possess a letter from
Lodovico to Michelangelo, under date December 19, 1500, which throws
important light upon the latter's habits and designs. The old man
begins by saying how happy he is to observe the love which
Michelangelo bears his brothers. Then he speaks about the
cloth-business which Michelangelo intends to purchase for them.
Afterwards, he proceeds as follows: "Buonarroto tells me that you live
at Rome with great economy, or rather penuriousness. Now economy is
good, but penuriousness is evil, seeing that it is a vice displeasing
to God and men, and moreover injurious both to soul and body. So long
as you are young, you will be able for a time to endure these
hardships; but when the vigour of youth fails, then diseases and
infirmities make their appearance; for these are caused by personal
discomforts, mean living, and penurious habits. As I said, economy is
good; but, above all things, shun stinginess. Live discreetly well,
and see you have what is needful. Whatever happens, do not expose
yourself to physical hardships; for in your profession, if you were
once to fall ill (which God forbid), you would be a ruined man. Above
all things, take care of your head, and keep it moderately warm, and
see that you never wash: have yourself rubbed down, but do not wash."
This sordid way of life became habitual with Michelangelo. When he was
dwelling at Bologna in 1506, he wrote home to his brother Buonarroto:
"With regard to Giovan-Simone's proposed visit, I do not advise him to
come yet awhile, for I am lodged here in one wretched room, and have
bought a single bed, in which we all four of us (_i.e_., himself and
his three workmen) sleep." And again: "I am impatient to get away from
this place, for my mode of life here is so wretched, that if you only
knew what it is, you would be miserable." The summer was intensely hot
at Bologna, and the plague broke out. In these circumstances it seems
miraculous that the four sculptors in one bed escaped contagion.
Michelangelo's parsimonious habits were not occasioned by poverty or
avarice. He accumulated large sums of money by his labour, spent it
freely on his family, and exercised bountiful charity for the welfare
of his soul. We ought rather to ascribe them to some constitutional
peculiarity, affecting his whole temperament, and tinging his
experience with despondency and gloom. An absolute insensibility to
merely decorative details, to the loveliness of jewels, stuffs, and
natural objects, to flowers and trees and pleasant landscapes, to
everything, in short, which delighted the Italians of that period, is
a main characteristic of his art. This abstraction and aridity, this
ascetic devotion of his genius to pure ideal form, this almost
mathematical conception of beauty, may be ascribed, I think, to the
same psychological qualities which determined the dreary conditions of
his home-life. He was no niggard either of money or of ideas; nay,
even profligate of both. But melancholy made him miserly in all that
concerned personal enjoyment; and he ought to have been born under
that leaden planet Saturn rather than Mercury and Venus in the house
of Jove. Condivi sums up his daily habits thus: "He has always been
extremely temperate in living, using food more because it was
necessary than for any pleasure he took in it; especially when he was
engaged upon some great work; for then he usually confined himself to
a piece of bread, which he ate in the middle of his labour. However,
for some time past, he has been living with more regard to health, his
advanced age putting this constraint upon his natural inclination.
Often have I heard him say: 'Ascanio, rich as I may have been, I have
always lived like a poor man.' And this abstemiousness in food he has
practised in sleep also; for sleep, according to his own account,
rarely suits his constitution, since he continually suffers from pains
in the head during slumber, and any excessive amount of sleep deranges
his stomach. While he was in full vigour, he generally went to bed
with his clothes on, even to the tall boots, which he has always worn,
because of a chronic tendency to cramp, as well as for other reasons.
At certain seasons he has kept these boots on for such a length of
time, that when he drew them off the skin came away together with the
leather, like that of a sloughing snake. He was never stingy of cash,
nor did he accumulate money, being content with just enough to keep
him decently; wherefore, though innumerable lords and rich folk have
made him splendid offers for some specimen of his craft, he rarely
complied, and then, for the most part, more out of kindness and
friendship than with any expectation of gain." In spite of all this,
or rather because of his temperance in food and sleep and sexual
pleasure, together with his manual industry, he preserved excellent
health into old age.
I have thought it worth while to introduce this general review of
Michelangelo's habits, without omitting some details which may seem
repulsive to the modern reader, at an early period of his biography,
because we ought to carry with us through the vicissitudes of his long
career and many labours an accurate conception of our hero's
personality. For this reason it may not be unprofitable to repeat what
Condivi says about his physical appearance in the last years of his
life. "Michelangelo is of a good complexion; more muscular and bony
than fat or fleshy in his person: healthy above all things, as well by
reason of his natural constitution as of the exercise he takes, and
habitual continence in food and sexual indulgence. Nevertheless, he
was a weakly child, and has suffered two illnesses in manhood. His
countenance always showed a good and wholesome colour. Of stature he
is as follows: height middling; broad in the shoulders; the rest of
the body somewhat slender in proportion. The shape of his face is
oval, the space above the ears being one sixth higher than a
semicircle. Consequently the temples project beyond the ears, and the
ears beyond the cheeks, and these beyond the rest; so that the skull,
in relation to the whole head, must be called large. The forehead,
seen in front, is square; the nose, a little flattened--not by nature,
but because, when he was a young boy, Torrigiano de' Torrigiani, a
brutal and insolent fellow, smashed in the cartilage with his fist.
Michelangelo was carried home half dead on this occasion; and
Torrigiano, having been exiled from Florence for his violence, came to
a bad end. The nose, however, being what it is, bears a proper
proportion to the forehead and the rest of the face. The lips are
thin, but the lower is slightly thicker than the upper; so that, seen
in profile, it projects a little. The chin is well in harmony with the
features I have described. The forehead, in a side-view, almost hangs
over the nose; and this looks hardly less than broken, were it not for
a trifling proturberance in the middle. The eyebrows are not thick
with hair; the eyes may even be called small, of a colour like horn,
but speckled and stained with spots of bluish yellow. The ears in good
proportion; hair of the head black, as also the beard, except that
both are now grizzled by old age; the beard double-forked, about five
inches long, and not very bushy, as may partly be observed in his
portrait."
We have no contemporary account of Michelangelo in early manhood; but
the tenor of his life was so even, and, unlike Cellini, he moved so
constantly upon the same lines and within the same sphere of patient
self-reserve, that it is not difficult to reconstruct the young and
vigorous sculptor out of this detailed description by his loving
friend and servant in old age. Few men, notably few artists, have
preserved that continuity of moral, intellectual, and physical
development in one unbroken course which is the specific
characterisation of Michelangelo. As years advanced, his pulses beat
less quickly and his body shrank. But the man did not alter. With the
same lapse of years, his style grew drier and more abstract, but it
did not alter in quality or depart from its ideal. He seems to me in
these respects to be like Milton: wholly unlike the plastic and
assimilative genius of a Raphael.