CHAPTER XIV

I

There is great difficulty in dealing chronologically with the last

twenty years of Michelangelo's life. This is due in some measure to

the multiplicity of his engagements, but more to the tardy rate at

which his work, now almost wholly architectural, advanced. I therefore

judged it best to carry the history of his doings at S. Peter's down

to the latest date; and I shall take the same course now with regard

to the lesser schemes which occupied his mind between 1545 and 1564,

reserving for the last the treatment of his private life during this

period.

A society of gentlemen and artists, to which Buonarroti belonged,

conceived the plan of erecting buildings of suitable size and grandeur

on the Campidoglio. This hill had always been dear to the Romans, as

the central point of urban life since the foundation of their city,

through the days of the Republic and the Empire, down to the latest

Middle Ages. But it was distinguished only by its ancient name and

fame. No splendid edifices and majestic squares reminded the spectator

that here once stood the shrine of Jupiter Capitolinus, to which

conquering generals rode in triumph with the spoils and captives of

the habitable world behind their laurelled chariots. Paul III.

approved of the design, and Michelangelo, who had received the

citizenship of Rome on March 20, 1546, undertook to provide a scheme

for its accomplishment. We are justified in believing that the

disposition of the parts which now compose the Capitol is due to his

conception: the long steep flight of steps leading up from the Piazza

Araceli; the irregular open square, flanked on the left hand by the

Museum of Sculpture, on the right by the Palazzo dei Conservatori, and

closed at its farther end by the Palazzo del Senatore. He also placed

the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus on its noble

pedestal, and suggested the introduction of other antique specimens of

sculpture into various portions of the architectural plan. The

splendid double staircase leading to the entrance hall of the Palazzo

del Senatore, and part of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, were completed

during Michelangelo's lifetime. When Vasari wrote in 1568, the dead

sculptor's friend, Tommaso dei Cavalieri, was proceeding with the

work. There is every reason, therefore, to assume that the latter

building, at any rate, fairly corresponds to his intention. Vignola

and Giacomo della Porta, both of them excellent architects, carried

out the scheme, which must have been nearly finished in the

pontificate of Innocent X. (1644-1655).

Like the cupola of S. Peter's, the Campidoglio has always been

regarded as one of Michelangelo's most meritorious performances in

architecture. His severe critic, M. Charles Garnier, says of the

Capitol: "The general composition of the edifice is certainly worthy

of Buonarroti's powerful conception. The balustrade which crowns the

façade is indeed bad and vulgar; the great pilasters are very poor in

invention, and the windows of the first story are extremely mediocre

in style. Nevertheless, there is a great simplicity of lines in these

palaces; and the porticoes of the ground-floor might be selected for

the beauty of their leading motive. The opposition of the great

pilasters to the little columns is an idea at once felicitous and

original. The whole has a fine effect; and though I hold the

proportions of the ground-floor too low in relation to the first

story, I consider this façade of the Capitol not only one of

Michelangelo's best works, but also one of the best specimens of the

building of that period. Deduction must, of course, be made for

heaviness and improprieties of taste, which are not rare."

Next to these designs for the Capitol, the most important

architectural work of Michelangelo's old age was the plan he made of a

new church to be erected by the Florentines in Rome to the honour of

their patron, S. Giovanni. We find him writing to his nephew on the

15th of July 1559: "The Florentines are minded to erect a great

edifice--that is to say, their church; and all of them with one accord

put pressure on me to attend to this. I have answered that I am living

here by the Duke's permission for the fabric of S. Peter's, and that

unless he gives me leave, they can get nothing from me." The consul

and counsellors of the Florentine nation in Rome wrote upon this to

the Duke, who entered with enthusiasm into their scheme, not only

sending a favourable reply, but also communicating personally upon the

subject with Buonarroti. Three of Michelangelo's letters on the

subject to the Duke have been preserved. After giving a short history

of the project, and alluding to the fact that Leo X. began the church,

he says that the Florentines had appointed a building committee of

five men, at whose request he made several designs. One of these they

selected, and according to his own opinion it was the best. "This I

will have copied and drawn out more clearly than I have been able to

do it, on account of old age, and will send it to your Most

Illustrious Lordship." The drawings were executed and carried to

Florence by the hand of Tiberio Calcagni. Vasari, who has given a long

account of this design, says that Calcagni not only drew the plans,

but that he also completed a clay model of the whole church within the

space of two days, from which the Florentines caused a larger wooden

model to be constructed. Michelangelo must have been satisfied with

his conception, for he told the building-committee that "if they

carried it out, neither the Romans nor the Greeks ever erected so fine

an edifice in any of their temples. Words the like of which neither

before nor afterwards issued from his lips; for he was exceedingly

modest." Vasari, who had good opportunities for studying the model,

pronounced it to be "superior in beauty, richness and variety of

invention to any temple which was ever seen." The building was begun,

and 5000 crowns were spent upon it. Then money or will failed. The

model and drawings perished. Nothing remains for certain to show what

Michelangelo's intentions were. The present church of S. Giovanni dei

Fiorentini in Strada Giulia is the work of Giacomo della Porta, with a

façade by Alessandro Galilei.

Of Tiberio Calcagni, the young Florentine sculptor and architect, who

acted like a kind of secretary or clerk to Michelangelo, something may

here be said. The correspondence of this artist with Lionardo

Buonarroti shows him to have been what Vasari calls him, "of gentle

manners and discreet behaviour." He felt both veneration and

attachment for the aged master, and was one of the small group of

intimate friends who cheered his last years. We have seen that

Michelangelo consigned the shattered Pietà to his care; and Vasari

tells us that he also wished him to complete the bust of Brutus, which

had been begun, at Donato Giannotti's request, for the Cardinal

Ridolfi. This bust is said to have been modelled from an ancient

cornelian in the possession of a certain Giuliano Ceserino.

Michelangelo not only blocked the marble out, but brought it nearly to

completion, working the surface with very fine-toothed chisels. The

sweetness of Tiberio Calcagni's nature is proved by the fact that he

would not set his own hand to this masterpiece of sculpture. As in the

case of the Pietà, he left Buonarroti's work untouched, where mere

repairs were not required. Accordingly we still can trace the

fine-toothed marks of the chisel alluded to by Vasari, hatched and

cross-hatched with right and left handed strokes in the style peculiar

to Michelangelo. The Brutus remains one of the finest specimens of his

creative genius. It must have been conceived and executed in the

plenitude of his vigour, probably at the time when Florence fell

beneath the yoke of Alessandro de' Medici, or rather when his murderer

Lorenzino gained the name of Brutus from the exiles (1539). Though

Vasari may be right in saying that a Roman intaglio suggested the

stamp of face and feature, yet we must regard this Brutus as an ideal

portrait, intended to express the artist's conception of resolution

and uncompromising energy in a patriot eager to sacrifice personal

feelings and to dare the utmost for his country's welfare. Nothing can

exceed the spirit with which a violent temperament, habitually

repressed, but capable of leaping forth like sudden lightning, has

been rendered. We must be grateful to Calcagni for leaving it in its

suggestively unfinished state.

II

During these same years Michelangelo carried on a correspondence with

Ammanati and Vasari about the completion of the Laurentian Library.

His letters illustrate what I have more than once observed regarding

his unpractical method of commencing great works, without more than

the roughest sketches, intelligible to himself alone, and useless to

an ordinary craftsman. The Florentine artists employed upon the fabric

wanted very much to know how he meant to introduce the grand staircase

into the vestibule. Michelangelo had forgotten all about it. "With

regard to the staircase of the library, about which so much has been

said to me, you may believe that if I could remember how I had

arranged it, I should not need to be begged and prayed for

information. There comes into my mind, as in a dream, the image of a

certain staircase; but I do not think this can be the one I then

designed, for it seems so stupid. However, I will describe it." Later

on he sends a little clay model of a staircase, just enough to

indicate his general conception, but not to determine details. He

suggests that the work would look better if carried out in walnut. We

have every reason to suppose that the present stone flight of steps is

far from being representative of his idea.

He was now too old to do more than furnish drawings when asked to

design some monument. Accordingly, when Pius IV. resolved to erect a

tomb in Milan Cathedral to the memory of his brother, Giangiacomo de'

Medici, Marquis of Marignano, commonly called Il Medeghino, he

requested Michelangelo to supply the bronze-sculptor Leone Leoni of

Menaggio with a design. This must have been insufficient for the

sculptor's purpose--a mere hand-sketch not drawn to scale. The

monument, though imposing in general effect, is very defective in its

details and proportions. The architectural scheme has not been

comprehended by the sculptor, who enriched it with a great variety of

figures, excellently wrought in bronze, and faintly suggesting

Michelangelo's manner.

The grotesque _barocco_ style of the Porta Pia, strong in its total

outline, but whimsical and weak in decorative detail, may probably be

ascribed to the same cause. It was sketched out by Michelangelo during

the pontificate of Pius IV., and can hardly have been erected under

his personal supervision. Vasari says: "He made three sketches,

extravagant in style and most beautiful, of which the Pope selected

the least costly; this was executed much to his credit, as may now be

seen." To what extent he was responsible for the other

sixteenth-century gates of Rome, including the Porta del Popolo, which

is commonly ascribed to him, cannot be determined; though Vasari

asserts that Michelangelo supplied the Pope with "many other models"

for the restoration of the gates. Indeed it may be said of all his

later work that we are dealing with uncertain material, the original

idea emanating perhaps from Buonarroti's mind, but the execution

having devolved upon journeymen.

Pius IV. charged Michelangelo with another great undertaking, which

was the restoration of the Baths of Diocletian in the form of a

Christian church. Criticism is reduced to silence upon his work in

this place, because S. Maria degli Angeli underwent a complete

remodelling by the architect Vanvitelli in 1749. This man altered the

ground-plan from the Latin to the Greek type, and adopted the

decorative style in vogue at the beginning of the eighteenth century.

All that appears certain is that Michelangelo had very considerable

remains of the Roman building to make use of. We may also perhaps

credit tradition, when it tells us that the vast Carthusian cloister

belongs to him, and that the three great cypress-trees were planted by

his hand.

Henri the Second's death occurred in 1559; and his widow, Catherine

de' Medici, resolved to erect an equestrian statue to his memory. She

bethought her of the aged sculptor, who had been bred in the palace of

her great-grandfather, who had served two Pontiffs of her family, and

who had placed the mournful image of her father on the tomb at San

Lorenzo. Accordingly she wrote a letter on the 14th of November in

that year, informing Michelangelo of her intention, and begging him to

supply at least a design upon which the best masters in the realm of

France might work. The statue was destined for the courtyard of the

royal château at Blois, and was to be in bronze. Ruberto degli

Strozzi, the Queen's cousin, happened about this time to visit Rome.

Michelangelo having agreed to furnish a sketch, it was decided between

them that the execution should be assigned to Daniele da Volterra.

After nearly a year's interval, Catherine wrote again, informing

Michelangelo that she had deposited a sum of 6000 golden crowns at the

bank of Gianbattista Gondi for the work, adding: "Consequently, since

on my side nothing remains to be done, I entreat you by the affection

you have always shown to my family, to our Florence, and lastly to

art, that you will use all diligence and assiduity, so far as your

years permit, in pushing forward this noble work, and making it a

living likeness of my lord, as well as worthy of your own unrivalled

genius. It is true that this will add nothing to the fame you now

enjoy; yet it will at least augment your reputation for most

acceptable and affectionate devotion toward myself and my ancestors,

and prolong through centuries the memory of my lawful and sole love;

for the which I shall be eager and liberal to reward you." It is

probable that by this time (October 30, 1560) Michelangelo had

forwarded his sketch to France, for the Queen criticised some details

relating to the portrait of her husband. She may have remembered with

what idealistic freedom the statues of the Dukes of Nemours and Urbino

had been treated in the Medicean Sacristy. Anyhow, she sent a picture,

and made her agent, Baccio del Bene, write a postscript to her letter,

ordering Michelangelo to model the King's head without curls, and to

adopt the rich modern style for his armour and the trappings of his

charger. She particularly insisted upon the likeness being carefully

brought out.

Michelangelo died before the equestrian statue of Henri II. was

finished. Cellini, in his Memoirs, relates that Daniele da Volterra

worked slowly, and caused much annoyance to the Queen-mother of

France. In 1562 her agent, Baccio del Bene, came to Florence on

financial business with the Duke. He then proposed that Cellini should

return to Paris and undertake the ornamental details of the tomb. The

Duke would not consent, and Catherine de' Medici did not choose to

quarrel with her cousin about an artist. So this arrangement, which

might have secured the completion of the statue on a splendid scale,

fell through. When Daniele died in 1566, only the horse was cast; and

this part served finally for Biard's statue of Louis XIII.

III

The sculptor Leone Leoni, who was employed upon the statue of

Giangiacomo de' Medici in Milan, wrote frequently to Michelangelo,

showing by his letters that a warm friendship subsisted between them,

which was also shared by Tommaso Cavalieri. In the year 1560,

according to Vasari, Leoni modelled a profile portrait of the great

master, which he afterwards cast in medal form. This is almost the

most interesting, and it is probably the most genuine contemporary

record which we possess regarding Michelangelo's appearance in the

body. I may therefore take it as my basis for inquiring into the

relative value of the many portraits said to have been modelled,

painted, or sketched from the hero in his lifetime. So far as I am

hitherto aware, no claim has been put in for the authenticity of any

likeness, except Bonasoni's engraving, anterior to the date we have

arrived at. While making this statement, I pass over the prostrate old

man in the Victory, and the Nicodemus of the Florentine Pietà, both of

which, with more or less reason, have been accepted as efforts after

self-portraiture.

After making due allowance for Vasari's too notorious inaccuracies,

deliberate misstatements, and random jumpings at conclusions, we have

the right to accept him here as a first-rate authority. He was living

at this time in close intimacy with Buonarroti, enjoyed his

confidence, plumed himself upon their friendship, and had no reason to

distort truth, which must have been accessible to one in his position.

He says, then: "At this time the Cavaliere Leoni made a very lively

portrait of Michelangelo upon a medal, and to meet his wishes,

modelled on the reverse a blind man led by a dog, with this legend

round the rim: DOCEBO INIQUOS VIAS TUAS, ET IMPII AD TE CONVERTENTUR.

It pleased Michelangelo so much that he gave him a wax model of a

Hercules throttling Antaeus, by his own hand, together with some

drawings. Of Michelangelo there exist no other portraits, except two

in painting--one by Bugiardini, the other by Jacopo del Conte; and one

in bronze, in full relief, made by Daniele da Volterra: these, and

Leoni's medal, from which (in the plural) many copies have been made,

and a great number of them have been seen by me in several parts of

Italy and abroad."

Leoni's medal, on the obverse, shows the old artist's head in profile,

with strong lines of drapery rising to the neck and gathering around

the shoulders. It carries this legend: MICHELANGELUS BUONARROTUS, FLO.

R.A.E.T.S. ANN. 88, and is signed LEO. Leoni then assumed that

Michelangelo was eighty-eight years of age when he cast the die. But

if this was done in 1560, the age he had then attained was

eighty-five. We possess a letter from Leoni in Milan to Buonarroti in

Rome, dated March 14, 1561. In it he says: "I am sending to your

lordship, by the favour of Lord Carlo Visconti, a great man in this

city, and beloved by his Holiness, four medals of your portrait: two

in silver, and two in bronze. I should have done so earlier but for my

occupation with the monument (of Medeghino), and for the certainty I

feel that you will excuse my tardiness, if not a sin of ingratitude in

me. The one enclosed within the little box has been worked up to the

finest polish. I beg you to accept and keep this for the love of me.

With the other three you will do as you think best. I say this because

ambition has prompted me to send copies into Spain and Flanders, as I

have also done to Rome and other places. I call it ambition, forasmuch

as I have gained an overplus of benefits by acquiring the good-will of

your lordship, whom I esteem so highly. Have I not received in little

less than three months two letters written to me by you, divine man;

and couched not in terms fit for a servant of good heart and will, but

for one beloved as a son? I pray you to go on loving me, and when

occasion serves, to favour me; and to Signer Tomao dei Cavalieri say

that I shall never be unmindful of him."

It is clear, then, I think, that Leoni's model was made at Rome in

1560, cast at Milan, and sent early in the spring of 1561 to

Michelangelo. The wide distribution of the medals, two of which exist

still in silver, while several in bronze may be found in different

collections, is accounted for by what Leoni says about his having

given them away to various parts of Europe. We are bound to suppose

that AET. 88 in the legend on the obverse is due to a misconception

concerning Michelangelo's age. Old men are often ignorant or careless

about the exact tale of years they have performed.

There is reason to believe that Leoni's original model of the profile,

the likeness he shaped from life, and which he afterwards used for the

medallion, is extant and in excellent preservation. Mr. C. Drury E.

Fortnum (to whose monographs upon Michelangelo's portraits, kindly

communicated by himself, I am deeply indebted at this portion of my

work), tells us how he came into possession of an exquisite cameo, in

flesh-coloured wax upon a black oval ground. This fragile work of art

is framed in gilt metal and glazed, carrying upon its back an Italian

inscription, which may be translated: "Portrait of Michelangelo

Buonarroti, taken from the life, by Leone Aretino, his friend."

Comparing the relief in wax with the medal, we cannot doubt that both

represent the same man; and only cavillers will raise the question

whether both were fashioned by one hand. Such discrepancies as occur

between them are just what we should expect in the work of a craftsman

who sought first to obtain an accurate likeness of his subject, and

then treated the same subject on the lines of numismatic art. The wax

shows a lean and subtly moulded face--the face of a delicate old man,

wiry and worn with years of deep experience. The hair on head and

beard is singularly natural; one feels it to be characteristic of the

person. Transferring this portrait to bronze necessitated a general

broadening of the masses, with a coarsening of outline to obtain bold

relief. Something of the purest truth has been sacrificed to plastic

effect by thickening the shrunken throat; and this induced a

corresponding enlargement of the occiput for balance. Writing with

photographs of these two models before me, I feel convinced that in

the wax we have a portrait from the life of the aged Buonarroti as

Leoni knew him, and in the bronze a handling of that portrait as the

craftsman felt his art of metal-work required its execution. There was

a grand manner of medallion-portraiture in Italy, deriving from the

times of Pisanello; and Leoni's bronze is worthy of that excellent

tradition. He preserved the salient features of Buonarroti in old age.

But having to send down to posterity a monumental record of the man,

he added, insensibly or wilfully, both bulk and mass to the head he

had so keenly studied. What confirms me in the opinion that Mr.

Fornum's cameo is the most veracious portrait we possess of

Michelangelo in old age, is that its fragility of structure, the

tenuity of life vigorous but infinitely refined, reappears in the weak

drawing made by Francesco d'Olanda of Buonarroti in hat and mantle.

This is a comparatively poor and dreamy sketch. Yet it has an air of

veracity; and what the Flemish painter seized in the divine man he so

much admired, was a certain slender grace and dignity of

person--exactly the quality which Mr. Fortnum's cameo possesses.

Before leaving this interesting subject, I ought to add that the blind

man on the reverse of Leoni's medal is clearly a rough and ready

sketch of Michelangelo, not treated like a portrait, but with

indications sufficient to connect the figure with the highly wrought

profile on the obverse.

Returning now to the passage cited from Vasari, we find that he

reckons only two authentic portraits in painting of Michelangelo, one

by Bugiardini, the other by Jacopo del Conte. He has neglected to

mention two which are undoubtedly attempts to reproduce the features

of the master by scholars he had formed. Probably Vasari overlooked

them, because they did not exist as easel-pictures, but were

introduced into great compositions as subordinate adjuncts. One of

them is the head painted by Daniele da Volterra in his picture of the

Assumption at the church of the Trinità de' Monti in Rome. It belongs

to an apostle, draped in red, stretching arms aloft, close to a

column, on the right hand of the painting as we look at it. This must

be reckoned among the genuine likenesses of the great man by one who

lived with him and knew him intimately. The other is a portrait placed

by Marcello Venusti in the left-hand corner of his copy of the Last

Judgment, executed, under Michelangelo's direction, for the Cardinal

Farnese. It has value for the same reasons as those which make us

dwell upon Daniele da Volterra's picture. Moreover, it connects itself

with a series of easel-paintings. One of these, ascribed to Venusti,

is preserved in the Museo Buonarroti at Florence; another at the

Capitol in Rome. Several repetitions of this type exist: they look

like studies taken by the pupil from his master, and reproduced to

order when death closed the scene, making friends wish for mementoes

of the genius who had passed away. The critique of such works will

always remain obscure.

What has become of the portrait of Del Conte mentioned by Vasari

cannot now be ascertained. We have no external evidence to guide us.

On the other hand, certain peculiarities about the portrait in the

Uffizi, especially the exaggeration of one eye, lend some colouring to

the belief that we here possess the picture ascribed by Vasari to

Bugiardini.

Michelangelo's type of face was well accentuated, and all the more or

less contemporary portraits of him reproduce it. Time is wasted in the

effort to assign to little men their special part in the creation of a

prevalent tradition. It seems to me, therefore, the function of sane

criticism not to be particular about the easel-pictures ascribed to

Venusti, Del Conte, and Bugiardini.

The case is different with a superb engraving by Giulio Bonasoni, a

profile in a circle, dated 1546, and giving Buonarroti's age as

seventy-two. This shows the man in fuller vigour than the portraits we

have hitherto been dealing with. From other prints which bear the

signature of Bonasoni, we see that he was interested in faithfully

reproducing Michelangelo's work. What the relations between the two

men were remains uncertain, but Bonasoni may have had opportunities of

studying the master's person. At any rate, as a product of the burin,

this profile is comparable for fidelity and veracity with Leoni's

model, and is executed in the same medallion spirit.

So far, then, as I have yet pursued the analysis of Michelangelo's

portraits, I take Bonasoni's engraving to be decisive for

Michelangelo's appearance at the age of seventy; Leoni's model as of

equal or of greater value at the age of eighty; Venusti's and Da

Volterra's paintings as of some importance for this later period;

while I leave the attribution of minor easel-pictures to Del Conte or

to Bugiardini open.

It remains to speak of that "full relief in bronze made by Daniele da

Volterra," which Vasari mentions among the four genuine portraits of

Buonarroti. From the context we should gather that this head was

executed during the lifetime of Michelangelo, and the conclusion is

supported by the fact that only a few pages later on Vasari mentions

two other busts modelled after his death. Describing the catafalque

erected to his honour in S. Lorenzo, he says that the pyramid which

crowned the structure exhibited within two ovals (one turned toward

the chief door, and the other toward the high altar) "the head of

Michelangelo in relief, taken from nature, and very excellently

carried out by Santi Buglioni." The words _ritratta dal naturale_ do

not, I think, necessarily imply that it was modelled from the life.

Owing to the circumstances under which Michelangelo's obsequies were

prepared, there was not time to finish it in bronze of stone; it may

therefore have been one of those Florentine terra-cotta effigies which

artists elaborated from a cast taken after death. That there existed

such a cast is proved by what we know about the monument designed by

Vasari in S. Croce. "One of the statues was assigned to Battista

Lorenzi, an able sculptor, together with the head of Michelangelo." We

learn from another source that this bust in marble "was taken from the

mask cast after his death."

The custom of taking plaster casts from the faces of the illustrious

dead, in order to perpetuate their features, was so universal in

Italy, that it could hardly have been omitted in the case of

Michelangelo. The question now arises whether the bronze head ascribed

by Vasari to Daniele da Volterra was executed during Michelangelo's

lifetime or after his decease, and whether we possess it. There are

eight heads of this species known to students of Michelangelo, which

correspond so nicely in their measurements and general features as to

force the conclusion that they were all derived from an original

moulded by one masterly hand. Three of these heads are unmounted,

namely, those at Milan, Oxford, and M. Piot's house in Paris. One,

that of the Capitoline Museum, is fixed upon a bust of _bigio morato_

marble. The remaining four examples are executed throughout in bronze

as busts, agreeing in the main as to the head, but differing in minor

details of drapery. They exist respectively in the Museo Buonarroti,

the Accademia, and the Bargello at Florence, and in the private

collection of M. Cottier of Paris. It is clear, then, that we are

dealing with bronze heads cast from a common mould, worked up

afterwards according to the fancy of the artist. That this original

head was the portrait ascribed to Daniele da Volterra will be conceded

by all who care to trace the history of the bust; but whether he

modelled it after Michelangelo's death cannot be decided. Professional

critics are of the opinion that a mask was followed by the master; and

this may have been the case. Michelangelo died upon the 17th of

February 1564. His face was probably cast in the usual course of

things, and copies may have been distributed among his friends in Rome

and Florence. Lionardo Buonarroti showed at once a great anxiety to

obtain his uncle's bust from Daniele da Volterra. Possibly he ordered

it while resident in Rome, engaged in winding up Michelangelo's

affairs. At any rate, Daniele wrote on June 11 to this effect: "As

regards the portraits in metal, I have already completed a model in

wax, and the work is going on as fast as circumstances permit; you may

rely upon its being completed with due despatch and all the care I can

bestow upon it." Nearly four months had elapsed since Michelangelo's

decease, and this was quite enough time for the wax model to be made.

The work of casting was begun, but Daniele's health at this time

became so wretched that he found it impossible to work steadily at any

of his undertakings. He sank slowly, and expired in the early spring

of 1566.

What happened to the bronze heads in the interval between June 1564

and April 1566 may be partly understood from Diomede Leoni's

correspondence. This man, a native of San Quirico, was Daniele's

scholar, and an intimate friend of the Buonarroti family. On the 9th

of September 1564 he wrote to Lionardo: "Your two heads of that

sainted man are coming to a good result, and I am sure you will be

satisfied with them." It appears, then, that Lionardo had ordered two

copies from Daniele. On the 21st of April 1565 Diomede writes again:

"I delivered your messages to Messer Daniele, who replies that you are

always in his mind, as also the two heads of your lamented uncle. They

will soon be cast, as also will my copy, which I mean to keep by me

for my honour." The casting must have taken place in the summer of

1565, for Diomede writes upon the 6th of October: "I will remind him

(Daniele) of your two heads; and he will find mine well finished,

which will make him wish to have yours chased without further delay."

The three heads had then been cast; Diomede was polishing his up with

the file; Daniele had not yet begun to do this for Lionardo's. We hear

nothing more until the death of Daniele da Volterra. After this event

occurred, Lionardo Buonarroti received a letter from Jacopo del Duca,

a Sicilian bronze-caster of high merit, who had enjoyed Michelangelo's

confidence and friendship. He was at present employed upon the

metal-work for Buonarroti's monument in the Church of the SS. Apostoli

in Rome, and on the 18th of April he sent important information

respecting the two heads left by Daniele. "Messer Danielo had cast

them, but they are in such a state as to require working over afresh

with chisels and files. I am not sure, then, whether they will suit

your purpose; but that is your affair. I, for my part, should have

liked you to have the portrait from the hand of the lamented master

himself, and not from any other. Your lordship must decide: appeal to

some one who can inform you better than I do. I know that I am

speaking from the love I bear you; and perhaps, if Danielo had been

alive, he would have had them brought to proper finish. As for those

men of his, I do not know what they will do." On the same day, a

certain Michele Alberti wrote as follows: "Messer Jacopo, your gossip,

has told me that your lordship wished to know in what condition are

the heads of the late lamented Michelangelo. I inform you that they

are cast, and will be chased within the space of a month, or rather

more. So your lordship will be able to have them; and you may rest

assured that you will be well and quickly served." Alberti, we may

conjecture, was one of Daniele's men alluded to by Jacopo del Duca. It

is probable that just at this time they were making several _replicas_

from their deceased master's model, in order to dispose of them at an

advantage while Michelangelo's memory was still fresh. Lionardo grew

more and more impatient. He appealed again to Diomede Leoni, who

replied from San Quirico upon the 4th of June: "The two heads were in

existence when I left Rome, but not finished up. I imagine you have

given orders to have them delivered over to yourself. As for the work

of chasing them, if you can wait till my return, we might intrust them

to a man who succeeded very well with my own copy." Three years later,

on September 17, 1569, Diomede wrote once again about his copy of Da

Volterra's model: "I enjoy the continual contemplation of his effigy

in bronze, which is now perfectly finished and set up in my garden,

where you will see it, if good fortune favours me with a visit from

you."

The net result of this correspondence seems to be that certainly three

bronze heads, and probably more, remained unfinished in Daniele da

Volterra's workshop after his death, and that these were gradually

cleaned and polished by different craftsmen, according to the pleasure

of their purchasers. The strong resemblance of the eight bronze heads

at present known to us, in combination with their different states of

surface-finish, correspond entirely to this conclusion. Mr. Fortnum,

in his classification, describes four as being not chased, one as

"rudely and broadly chased," three as "more or less chased."

Of these variants upon the model common to them all, we can only trace

one with relative certainty. It is the bust at present in the Bargello

Palace, whither it came from the Grand Ducal villa of Poggio

Imperiale. By the marriage of the heiress of the ducal house of Della

Rovere with a Duke of Tuscany, this work of art passed, with other art

treasures, notably with a statuette of Michelangelo's Moses, into the

possession of the Medici. A letter written in 1570 to the Duke of

Urbino by Buonarroti's house-servant, Antonio del Franzese of Castel

Durante, throws light upon the matter. He begins by saying that he is

glad to hear the Duke will accept the little Moses, though the object

is too slight in value to deserve his notice. Then he adds: "The head

of which your Excellency spoke in the very kind letter addressed to me

at your command is the true likeness of Michelangelo Buonarroti, my

old master; and it is of bronze, designed by himself. I keep it here

in Rome, and now present it to your Excellency." Antonio then, in all

probability, obtained one of the Daniele da Volterra bronzes; for it

is wholly incredible that what he writes about its having been made by

Michelangelo should be the truth. Had Michelangelo really modelled his

own portrait and cast it in bronze, we must have heard of this from

other sources. Moreover, the Medicean bust of Michelangelo which is

now placed in the Bargello, and which we believe to have come from

Urbino, belongs indubitably to the series of portraits made from

Daniele da Volterra's model.

To sum up this question of Michelangelo's authentic portraits: I

repeat that Bonasoni's engraving represents him at the age of seventy;

Leoni's wax model and medallions at eighty; the eight bronze heads,

derived from Daniele's model, at the epoch of his death. In painting,

Marco Venusti and Daniele da Volterra helped to establish a

traditional type by two episodical likenesses, the one worked into

Venusti's copy of the Last Judgment (at Naples), the other into

Volterra's original picture of the Assumption (at Trinità de' Monti,

Rome). For the rest, the easel-pictures, which abound, can hardly now

be distributed, by any sane method of criticism, between Bugiardini,

Jacopo del Conte, and Venusti. They must be taken _en masse_, as

contributions to the study of his personality; and, as I have already

said, the oil-painting of the Uffizi may perhaps be ascribed with some

show of probability to Bugiardini.

IV

Michelangelo's correspondence with his nephew Lionardo gives us ample

details concerning his private life and interests in old age. It turns

mainly upon the following topics: investment of money in land near

Florence, the purchase of a mansion in the city, Lionardo's marriage,

his own illnesses, the Duke's invitation, and the project of making a

will, which was never carried out. Much as Michelangelo loved his

nephew, he took frequent occasions of snubbing him. For instance, news

reached Rome that the landed property of a certain Francesco Corboli

was going to be sold. Michelangelo sent to Lionardo requesting him to

make inquiries; and because the latter showed some alacrity in doing

so, his uncle wrote him the following querulous epistle: "You have

been very hasty in sending me information regarding the estates of the

Corboli. I did not think you were yet in Florence. Are you afraid lest

I should change my mind, as some one may perhaps have put it into your

head? I tell you that I want to go slowly in this affair, because the

money I must pay has been gained here with toil and trouble

unintelligible to one who was born clothed and shod as you were. About

your coming post-haste to Rome, I do not know that you came in such a

hurry when I was a pauper and lacked bread. Enough for you to throw

away the money that you did not earn. The fear of losing what you

might inherit on my death impelled you. You say it was your duty to

come, by reason of the love you bear me. The love of a woodworm! If

you really loved me, you would have written now: 'Michelangelo, spend

those 3000 ducats there upon yourself, for you have given us enough

already: your life is dearer to us than your money.' You have all of

you lived forty years upon me, and I have never had from you so much

as one good word. 'Tis true that last year I scolded and rebuked you

so that for very shame you sent me a load of trebbiano. I almost wish

you hadn't! I do not write this because I am unwilling to buy. Indeed

I have a mind to do so, in order to obtain an income for myself, now

that I cannot work more. But I want to buy at leisure, so as not to

purchase some annoyance. Therefore do not hurry."

Lionardo was careless about his handwriting, and this annoyed the old

man terribly.

"Do not write to me again. Each time I get one of your letters, a

fever takes me with the trouble I have in reading it. I do not know

where you learned to write. I think that if you were writing to the

greatest donkey in the world you would do it with more care. Therefore

do not add to the annoyances I have, for I have already quite enough

of them."

He returns to the subject over and over again, and once declares that

he has flung a letter of Lionardo's into the fire unread, and so is

incapable of answering it. This did not prevent a brisk interchange of

friendly communications between the uncle and nephew.

Lionardo was now living in the Buonarroti house in Via Ghibellina.

Michelangelo thought it advisable that he should remove into a more

commodious mansion, and one not subject to inundations of the

basement. He desired, however, not to go beyond the quarter of S.

Croce, where the family had been for centuries established. The matter

became urgent, for Lionardo wished to marry, and could not marry until

he was provided with a residence. Eventually, after rejecting many

plans and proffers of houses, they decided to enlarge and improve the

original Buonarroti mansion in Via Ghibellina. This house continued to

be their town-mansion until the year 1852, when it passed by

testamentary devise to the city of Florence. It is now the Museo

Buonarroti.

Lionardo was at this time thirty, and was the sole hope of the family,

since Michelangelo and his two surviving brothers had no expectation

of offspring. His uncle kept reminding the young man that, if he did

not marry and get children, the whole property of the Buonarroti would

go to the Hospital or to S. Martino. This made his marriage

imperative; and Michelangelo's letters between March 5, 1547, and May

16, 1553, when the desired event took place, are full of the subject.

He gives his nephew excellent advice as to the choice of a wife. She

ought to be ten years younger than himself, of noble birth, but not of

a very rich or powerful family; Lionardo must not expect her to be too

handsome, since he is no miracle of manly beauty; the great thing is

to obtain a good, useful, and obedient helpmate, who will not try to

get the upper hand in the house, and who will be grateful for an

honourable settlement in life. The following passages may be selected,

as specimens of Michelangelo's advice: "You ought not to look for a

dower, but only to consider whether the girl is well brought up,

healthy, of good character and noble blood. You are not yourself of

such parts and person as to be worthy of the first beauty of

Florence." "You have need of a wife who would stay with you, and whom

you could command, and who would not want to live in grand style or to

gad about every day to marriages and banquets. Where a court is, it is

easy to become a woman of loose life; especially for one who has no

relatives."

Numerous young ladies were introduced by friends or matrimonial

agents. Six years, however, elapsed before the suitable person

presented herself in the shape of Cassandra, daughter of Donato

Ridolfi. Meanwhile, in 1548, Michelangelo lost the elder of his

surviving brothers. Giovan Simone died upon the 9th of January; and

though he had given but little satisfaction in his lifetime, his death

was felt acutely by the venerable artist. "I received news in your

last of Giovan Simone's death. It has caused me the greatest sorrow;

for though I am old, I had yet hoped to see him before he died, and

before I died. God has willed it so. Patience! I should be glad to

hear circumstantially what kind of end he made, and whether he

confessed and communicated with all the sacraments of the Church. If

he did so, and I am informed of it, I shall suffer less." A few days

after the date of this letter, Michelangelo writes again, blaming

Lionardo pretty severely for negligence in giving particulars of his

uncle's death and affairs. Later on, it seems that he was satisfied

regarding Giovan Simone's manner of departure from this world. A

grudge remained against Lionardo because he had omitted to inform him

about the property. "I heard the details from other persons before you

sent them, which angered me exceedingly."

V

The year 1549 is marked by an exchange of civilities between

Michelangelo and Benedetto Varchi. The learned man of letters and

minute historiographer of Florence probably enjoyed our great

sculptor's society in former years: recently they had been brought

into closer relations at Rome. Varchi, who was interested in critical

and academical problems, started the question whether sculpture or

painting could justly claim a priority in the plastic arts. He

conceived the very modern idea of collecting opinions from practical

craftsmen, instituting, in fact, what would now be called a

"Symposium" upon the subject. A good number of the answers to his

query have been preserved, and among them is a letter from

Michelangelo. It contains the following passage, which proves in how

deep a sense Buonarroti was by temperament and predilection a

sculptor: "My opinion is that all painting is the better the nearer it

approaches to relief, and relief is the worse in proportion as it

inclines to painting. And so I have been wont to think that sculpture

is the lamp of painting, and that the difference between them might be

likened to the difference between the sun and moon. Now that I have

read your essay, in which you maintain that, philosophically speaking,

things which fulfil the same purpose are essentially the same, I have

altered my view. Therefore I say that, if greater judgment and

difficulty, impediment and labour, in the handling of material do not

constitute higher nobility, then painting and sculpture form one art.

This being granted, it follows that no painter should underrate

sculpture, and no sculptor should make light of painting. By sculpture

I understand an art which operates by taking away superfluous

material; by painting, one that attains its result by laying on. It is

enough that both emanate from the same human intelligence, and

consequently sculpture and painting ought to live in amity together,

without these lengthy disputations. More time is wasted in talking

about the problem than would go to the making of figures in both

species. The man who wrote that painting was superior to sculpture, if

he understood the other things he says no better, might be called a

writer below the level of my maid-servant. There are infinite points

not yet expressed which might be brought out regarding these arts;

but, as I have said, they want too much time; and of time I have but

little, being not only old, but almost numbered with the dead.

Therefore, I pray you to have me excused. I recommend myself to you,

and thank you to the best of my ability for the too great honour you

have done me, which is more than I deserve."

Varchi printed this letter in a volume which he published at Florence

in 1549, and reissued through another firm in 1590. It contained the

treatise alluded to above, and also a commentary upon one of

Michelangelo's sonnets, "Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto." The

book was duly sent to Michelangelo by the favour of a noble Florentine

gentleman, Luca Martini. He responded to the present in a letter which

deserves here to be recited. It is an eminent example of the urbanity

observed by him in the interchange of these and similar courtesies:--

"I have received your letter, together with a little book containing a

commentary on a sonnet of mine. The sonnet does indeed proceed from

me, but the commentary comes from heaven. In truth it is a marvellous

production; and I say this not on my own judgment only, but on that of

able men, especially of Messer Donato Giannotti, who is never tired of

reading it. He begs to be remembered to you. About the sonnet, I know

very well what that is worth. Yet be it what it may, I cannot refrain

from piquing myself a little on having been the cause of so beautiful

and learned a commentary. The author of it, by his words and praises,

shows clearly that he thinks me to be other than I am; so I beg you to

express me to him in terms corresponding to so much love, affection,

and courtesy. I entreat you to do this, because I feel myself

inadequate, and one who has gained golden opinions ought not to tempt

fortune; it is better to keep silence than to fall from that height. I

am old, and death has robbed me of the thoughts of my youth. He who

knows not what old age is, let him wait till it arrives: he cannot

know beforehand. Remember me, as I said, to Varchi, with deep

affection for his fine qualities, and as his servant wherever I may

be."

Three other letters belonging to the same year show how deeply

Michelangelo was touched and gratified by the distinguished honour

Varchi paid him. In an earlier chapter of this book I have already

pointed out how this correspondence bears upon the question of his

friendship with Tommaso dei Cavalieri, and also upon an untenable

hypothesis advanced by recent Florentine students of his biography.

The incident is notable in other ways because Buonarroti was now

adopted as a poet by the Florentine Academy. With a width of sympathy

rare in such bodies, they condoned the ruggedness of his style and the

uncouthness of his versification in their admiration for the high

quality of his meditative inspiration. To the triple crown of

sculptor, painter, architect, he now added the laurels of the bard;

and this public recognition of his genius as a writer gave him

well-merited pleasure in his declining years.

While gathering up these scattered fragments of Buonarroti's later

life, I may here introduce a letter addressed to Benvenuto Cellini,

which illustrates his glad acceptance of all good work in

fellow-craftsmen:--

"My Benvenuto,--I have known you all these years as the greatest

goldsmith of whom the world ever heard, and now I am to know you for a

sculptor of the same quality. Messer Bindo Altoviti took me to see his

portrait bust in bronze, and told me it was by your hand. I admired it

much, but was sorry to see that it has been placed in a bad light. If

it had a proper illumination, it would show itself to be the fine work

it is."

VI

Lionardo Buonarroti was at last married to Cassandra, the daughter of

Donato Ridolfi, upon the 16th of May 1553. One of the dearest wishes

which had occupied his uncle's mind so long, came thus to its

accomplishment. His letters are full of kindly thoughts for the young

couple, and of prudent advice to the husband, who had not arranged all

matters connected with the settlements to his own satisfaction.

Michelangelo congratulated Lionardo heartily upon his happiness, and

told him that he was minded to send the bride a handsome present, in

token of his esteem. "I have not been able to do so yet, because

Urbino was away. Now that he has returned, I shall give expression to

my sentiments. They tell me that a fine pearl necklace of some value

would be very proper. I have sent a goldsmith, Urbino's friend, in

search of such an ornament, and hope to find it; but say nothing to

her, and if you would like me to choose another article, please let me

know." This letter winds up with a strange admonition: "Look to

living, reflect and weigh things well; for the number of widows in the

world is always larger than that of the widowers." Ultimately he

decided upon two rings, one a diamond, the other a ruby. He tells

Lionardo to have the stones valued in case he has been cheated,

because he does not understand such things; and is glad to hear in due

course that the jewels are genuine. After the proper interval,

Cassandra expected her confinement, and Michelangelo corresponded with

his nephew as to the child's name in case it was a boy. "I shall be

very pleased if the name of Buonarroto does not die out of our family,

it having lasted three hundred years with us." The child was born upon

the 16th of May 1544, turned out a boy, and received the name of

Buonarroto. Though Lionardo had seven other children, including

Michelangelo the younger (born November 4, 1568), this Buonarroto

alone continued the male line of the family. The old man in Rome

remarked resignedly during his later years, when he heard the news of

a baby born and dead, that "I am not surprised; there was never in our

family more than one at a time to keep it going."

Buonarroto was christened with some pomp, and Vasari wrote to

Michelangelo describing the festivities. In the year 1554, Cosimo de'

Medici had thrown his net round Siena. The Marquis of Marignano

reduced the city first to extremities by famine, and finally to

enslavement by capitulation. These facts account for the tone of

Michelangelo's answer to Vasari's letter: "Yours has given me the

greatest pleasure, because it assures me that you remember the poor

old man; and more perhaps because you were present at the triumph you

narrate, of seeing another Buonarroto reborn. I thank you heartily for

the information. But I must say that I am displeased with so much pomp

and show. Man ought not to laugh when the whole world weeps. So I

think that Lionardo has not displayed great judgment, particularly in

celebrating a nativity with all that joy and gladness which ought to

be reserved for the decease of one who has lived well." There is what

may be called an Elizabethan note--something like the lyrical

interbreathings of our dramatists--in this blending of jubilation and

sorrow, discontent and satisfaction, birth and death thoughts.

We have seen that Vasari worked for a short time as pupil under

Michelangelo, and that during the pontificate of Paul III. they were

brought into frequent contact at Rome. With years their friendship

deepened into intimacy, and after the date 1550 their correspondence

forms one of our most important sources of information. Michelangelo's

letters begin upon the 1st of August in that year. Vasari was then

living and working for the Duke at Florence; but he had designed a

chapel for S. Pietro a Montorio in Rome, where Julius III. wished to

erect tombs to the memory of his ancestors; and the work had been

allotted to Bartolommeo Ammanati under Michelangelo's direction.

This business, otherwise of no importance in his biography,

necessitated the writing of despatches, one of which is interesting,

since it acknowledges the receipt of Vasari's celebrated book:--

"Referring to your three letters which I have received, my pen refuses

to reply to such high compliments. I should indeed be happy if I were

in some degree what you make me out to be, but I should not care for

this except that then you would have a servant worth something.

However, I am not surprised that you, who resuscitate the dead, should

prolong the life of the living, or that you should steal the half-dead

from death for an endless period."

It seems that on this occasion he also sent Vasari the sonnet composed

upon his Lives of the Painters. Though it cannot be called one of his

poetical masterpieces, the personal interest attaching to the verses

justifies their introduction here:--

_With pencil and with palette hitherto

You made your art high Nature's paragon;

Nay more, from Nature her own prize you won,

Making what she made fair more fair to view_.

_Now that your learned hand with labour new

Of pen and ink a worthier work hath done,

What erst you lacked, what still remained her own,

The power of giving life, is gained for you_.

_If men in any age with Nature vied

In beauteous workmanship, they had to yield

When to the fated end years brought their name_.

_You, re-illuming memories that died,

In spite of Time and Nature have revealed

For them and for yourself eternal fame_.

Vasari's official position at the ducal court of Florence brought him

into frequent and personal relations with Cosimo de' Medici. The Duke

had long been anxious to lure the most gifted of his subjects back to

Florence; but Michelangelo, though he remained a loyal servant to the

Medicean family, could not approve of Cosimo's despotic rule.

Moreover, he was now engaged by every tie of honour, interest, and

artistic ambition to superintend the fabric of S. Peter's. He showed

great tact, through delicate negotiations carried on for many years,

in avoiding the Duke's overtures without sacrificing his friendship.

Wishing to found his family in Florence and to fund the earnings of

his life there, he naturally assumed a courteous attitude. A letter

written by the Bishop Tornabuoni to Giovanni Francesco Lottini in Rome

shows that these overtures began as early as 1546. The prelate says

the Duke is so anxious to regain "Michelangelo, the divine sculptor,"

that he promises "to make him a member of the forty-eight senators,

and to give him any office he may ask for." The affair was dropped for

some years, but in 1552 Cosimo renewed his attempts, and now began to

employ Vasari and Cellini as ambassadors. Soon after finishing his

Perseus, Benvenuto begged for leave to go to Rome; and before

starting, he showed the Duke Michelangelo's friendly letter on the

bust of Bindo Altoviti. "He read it with much kindly interest, and

said to me: 'Benvenuto, if you write to him, and can persuade him to

return to Florence, I will make him a member of the Forty-eight.'

Accordingly I wrote a letter full of warmth, and offered in the Duke's

name a hundred times more than my commission carried; but not wanting

to make any mistake, I showed this to the Duke before I sealed it,

saying to his most illustrious Excellency: 'Prince, perhaps I have

made him too many promises.' He replied: 'Michel Agnolo deserves more

than you have promised, and I will bestow on him still greater

favours.' To this letter he sent no answer, and I could see that the

Duke was much offended with him."

While in Rome, Cellini went to visit Michelangelo, and renewed his

offers in the Duke's name. What passed in that interview is so

graphically told, introducing the rustic personality of Urbino on the

stage, and giving a hint of Michelangelo's reasons for not returning

in person to Florence, that the whole passage may be transcribed as

opening a little window on the details of our hero's domestic life:--

"Then I went to visit Michel Agnolo Buonarroti, and repeated what I

had written from Florence to him in the Duke's name. He replied that

he was engaged upon the fabric of S. Peter's, and that this would

prevent him from leaving Rome. I rejoined that, as he had decided on

the model of that building, he could leave its execution to his man

Urbino, who would carry out his orders to the letter. I added much

about future favours, in the form of a message from the Duke. Upon

this he looked me hard in the face, and said with a sarcastic smile:

'And you! to what extent are you satisfied with him?' Although I

replied that I was extremely contented and was very well treated by

his Excellency, he showed that he was acquainted with the greater part

of my annoyances, and gave as his final answer that it would be

difficult for him to leave Rome. To this I added that he could not do

better than to return to his own land, which was governed by a prince

renowned for justice, and the greatest lover of the arts and sciences

who ever saw the light of this world. As I have remarked above, he had

with him a servant of his who came from Urbino, and had lived many

years in his employment, rather as valet and housekeeper than anything

else; this indeed was obvious, because he had acquired no skill in the

arts. Consequently, while I was pressing Michel Agnolo with arguments

he could not answer, he turned round sharply to Urbino, as though to

ask him his opinion. The fellow began to bawl out in his rustic way:

'I will never leave my master Michel Agnolo's side till I shall have

flayed him or he shall have flayed me.' These stupid words forced me

to laugh, and without saying farewell, I lowered my shoulders and

retired."

This was in 1552. The Duke was loth to take a refusal, and for the

next eight years he continued to ply Michelangelo with invitations,

writing letters by his own hand, employing his agents in Rome and

Florence, and working through Vasari. The letters to Vasari during

this period are full of the subject. Michelangelo remains firm in his

intention to remain at Rome and not abandon S. Peter's. As years went

on, infirmities increased, and the solicitations of the Duke became

more and more irksome to the old man. His discomfort at last elicited

what may be called a real cry of pain in a letter to his nephew:--

"As regards my condition, I am ill with all the troubles which are

wont to afflict old men. The stone prevents me passing water. My loins

and back are so stiff that I often cannot climb upstairs. What makes

matters worse is that my mind is much worried with anxieties. If I

leave the conveniences I have here for my health, I can hardly live

three days. Yet I do not want to lose the favour of the Duke, nor

should I like to fail in my work at S. Peter's, nor in my duty to

myself. I pray God to help and counsel me; and if I were taken ill by

some dangerous fever, I would send for you at once."

Meanwhile, in spite of his resistance to the Duke's wishes,

Michelangelo did not lose the favour of the Medicean family. The

delicacy of behaviour by means of which he contrived to preserve and

strengthen it, is indeed one of the strongest evidences of his

sincerity, sagacity, and prudence. The Cardinal Giovanni, son of

Cosimo, travelled to Rome in March 1560, in order to be invested with

the purple by the Pope's hands. On this occasion Vasari, who rode in

the young prince's train, wrote despatches to Florence which contain

some interesting passages about Buonarroti. In one of them (March 29)

he says: "My friend Michelangelo is so old that I do not hope to

obtain much from him." Beside the reiterated overtures regarding a

return to Florence, the Church of the Florentines was now in progress,

and Cosimo also required Buonarroti's advice upon the decoration of

the Great Hall in the Palazzo della Signoria. In a second letter

(April 8) Vasari tells the Duke: "I reached Rome, and immediately

after the most reverend and illustrious Medici had made his entrance

and received the hat from our lord's hands, a ceremony which I wished

to see with a view to the frescoes in the Palace, I went to visit my

friend, the mighty Michelangelo. He had not expected me, and the

tenderness of his reception was such as old men show when lost sons

unexpectedly return to them. He fell upon my neck with a thousand

kisses, weeping for joy. He was so glad to see me, and I him, that I

have had no greater pleasure since I entered the service of your

Excellency, albeit I enjoy so many through your kindness. We talked

about the greatness and the wonders which our God in heaven has

wrought for you, and he lamented that he could not serve you with his

body, as he is ready to do with his talents at the least sign of your

will. He also expressed his sorrow at being unable to wait upon the

Cardinal, because he now can move about but little, and is grown so

old that he gets small rest, and is so low in health I fear he will

not last long, unless the goodness of God preserves him for the

building of S. Peter's." After some further particulars, Vasari adds

that he hopes "to spend Monday and Tuesday discussing the model of the

Great Hall with Michelangelo, as well as the composition of the

several frescoes. I have all that is necessary with me, and will do my

utmost, while remaining in his company, to extract useful information

and suggestions." We know from Vasari's Life of Michelangelo that the

plans for decorating the Palace were settled to his own and the Duke's

satisfaction during these colloquies at Rome.

Later on in the year, Cosimo came in person to Rome, attended by the

Duchess Eleonora. Michelangelo immediately waited on their Highnesses,

and was received with special marks of courtesy by the Duke, who bade

him to be seated at his side, and discoursed at length about his own

designs for Florence and certain discoveries he had made in the method

of working porphyry. These interviews, says Vasari, were repeated

several times during Cosimo's sojourn in Rome; and when the

Crown-Prince of Florence, Don Francesco, arrived, this young nobleman

showed his high respect for the great man by conversing with him cap

in hand.

The project of bringing Buonarroti back to Florence was finally

abandoned; but he had the satisfaction of feeling that, after the

lapse of more than seventy years, his long connection with the House

of Medici remained as firm and cordial as it had ever been. It was

also consolatory to know that the relations established between

himself and the reigning dynasty in Florence would prove of service to

Lionardo, upon whom he now had concentrated the whole of his strong

family affection.

In estimating Michelangelo as man, independent of his eminence as

artist, the most singular point which strikes us is this persistent

preoccupation with the ancient house he desired so earnestly to

rehabilitate. He treated Lionardo with the greatest brutality. Nothing

that this nephew did, or did not do, was right. Yet Lionardo was the

sole hope of the Buonarroti-Simoni stock. When he married and got

children, the old man purred with satisfaction over him, but only as a

breeder of the race; and he did all in his power to establish Lionardo

in a secure position.

VII

Returning to the history of Michelangelo's domestic life, we have to

relate two sad events which happened to him at the end of 1555. On the

28th of September he wrote to Lionardo: "The bad news about Gismondo

afflicts me deeply. I am not without my own troubles of health, and

have many annoyances besides. In addition to all this, Urbino has been

ill in bed with me three months, and is so still, which causes me much

trouble and anxiety." Gismondo, who had been declining all the summer,

died upon the 13th of November. His brother in Rome was too much taken

up with the mortal sickness of his old friend and servant Urbino to

express great sorrow. "Your letter informs me of my brother Gismondo's

death, which is the cause to me of serious grief. We must have

patience; and inasmuch as he died sound of mind and with all the

sacraments of the Church, let God be praised. I am in great affliction

here. Urbino is still in bed, and very seriously ill. I do not know

what will come of it. I feel this trouble as though he were my own

son, because he has lived in my service twenty-five years, and has

been very faithful. Being old, I have no time to form another servant

to my purpose; and so I am sad exceedingly. If then, you know of some

devout person, I beg you to have prayers offered up to God for his

recovery."

The next letter gives a short account of his death:--

"I inform you that yesterday, the 3rd of December, at four o'clock,

Francesco called Urbino passed from this life, to my very great

sorrow. He has left me sorely stricken and afflicted; nay, it would

have been sweeter to have died with him, such is the love I bore him.

Less than this love he did not deserve; for he had grown to be a

worthy man, full of faith and loyalty. So, then, I feel as though his

death had left me without life, and I cannot find heart's ease. I

should be glad to see you, therefore; only I cannot think how you can

leave Florence because of your wife."

To Vasari he wrote still more passionately upon this occasion:--

"I cannot write well; yet, in answer to your letter, I will say a few

words. You know that Urbino is dead. I owe the greatest thanks to God,

at the same time that my own loss is heavy and my sorrow infinite. The

grace He gave me is that, while Urbino kept me alive in life, his

death taught me to die without displeasure, rather with a deep and

real desire. I had him with me twenty-six years, and found him above

measure faithful and sincere. Now that I had made him rich, and

thought to keep him as the staff and rest of my old age, he has

vanished from my sight; nor have I hope left but that of seeing him

again in Paradise. God has given us good foundation for this hope in

the exceedingly happy ending of his life. Even more than dying, it

grieved him to leave me alive in this treacherous world, with so many

troubles; and yet the better part of me is gone with him, nor is there

left to me aught but infinite distress. I recommend myself to you, and

beg you, if it be not irksome, to make my excuses to Messer Benvenuto

(Cellini) for omitting to answer his letter. The trouble of soul I

suffer in thought about these things prevents me from writing.

Remember me to him, and take my best respects to yourself."

How tenderly Michelangelo's thought dwelt upon Urbino appears from

this sonnet, addressed in 1556 to Monsignor Lodovico Beccadelli:--

_God's grace, the cross, our troubles multiplied,

Will make us meet in heaven, full well I know:

Yet ere we yield, our breath on earth below,

Why need a little solace be denied?

Though seas and mountains and rough ways divide

Our feet asunder, neither frost nor snow

Can make the soul her ancient love; or ego;

Nor chains nor bonds the wings of thought have tied.

Borne by these wings, with thee I dwell for aye,

And weep, and of my dead Urbino talk,

Who, were he living, now perchance would be--

For so 'twas planned--thy guest as well as I.

Warned by his death, another way I walk

To meet him where he waits to live with me._

By his will, dated November 24, 1555, Urbino, whose real name was

Francesco degli Amadori of Castel Durante, appointed his old friend

and master one of his executors and the chief guardian of his widow

and children. A certain Roso de Rosis and Pietro Filippo Vandini, both

of Castel Durante, are named in the trust; and they managed the

estate. Yet Michelangelo was evidently the principal authority. A

voluminous correspondence preserved in the Buonarroti Archives proves

this; for it consists of numerous letters addressed by Urbino's

executors and family from Castel Durante and elsewhere to the old

sculptor in Rome. Urbino had married a woman of fine character and

high intelligence, named Cornelia Colonnelli. Two of her letters are

printed by Gotti, and deserve to be studied for the power of their

style and the elevation of their sentiments. He has not made use,

however, of the other documents, all of which have some interest as

giving a pretty complete view of a private family and its vexations,

while they illustrate the conscientious fidelity with which

Michelangelo discharged his duties as trustee. Urbino had a brother,

also resident at Castel Durante, Raffaello's celebrated pupil in

fresco-painting, Il Fattorino. This man and Vandini, together with

Cornelia and her parents and her second husband, Giulio Brunelli, all

wrote letters to Rome about the welfare of the children and the

financial affairs of the estate. The coexecutor Roso de Rosis did not

write; it appears from one of Cornelia's despatches that he took no

active interest in the trust, while Brunelli even complains that he

withheld moneys which were legally due to the heirs. One of

Michelangelo's first duties was to take care that Cornelia got a

proper man for her second husband. Her parents were eager to see her

married, being themselves old, and not liking to leave a comparatively

young widow alone in the world with so many children to look after.

Their choice fell first upon a very undesirable person called

Santagnolo, a young man of dissolute habits, ruined constitution, bad

character, and no estate. She refused, with spirit, to sign the

marriage contract; and a few months later wrote again to inform her

guardian that a suitable match had been found in the person of Giulio

Brunelli of Gubbio, a young doctor of laws, then resident at Castel

Durante in the quality of podestà. Michelangelo's suspicions must have

been aroused by the unworthy conduct of her parents in the matter of

Santagnolo; for we infer that he at first refused to sanction this

second match. Cornelia and the parents wrote once more, assuring him

that Brunelli was an excellent man, and entreating him not to open his

ears to malignant gossip. On the 15th of June Brunelli himself appears

upon the scene, announcing his marriage with Cornelia, introducing

himself in terms of becoming modesty to Michelangelo, and assuring him

that Urbino's children have found a second father. He writes again

upon the 29th of July, this time to announce the fact that Il

Fattorino has spread about false rumours to the effect that Cornelia

and himself intend to leave Castel Durante and desert the children.

Their guardian must not credit such idle gossip, for they are both

sincerely attached to the children, and intend to do the best they can

for them. Family dissensions began to trouble their peace. In the

course of the next few months Brunelli discovers that he cannot act

with the Fattorino or with Vandini; Cornelia's dowry is not paid; Roso

refuses to refund money due to the heirs; Michelangelo alone can

decide what ought to be done for the estate and his wards. The

Fattorino writes that Vandini has renounced the trust, and that all

Brunelli's and his own entreaties cannot make him resume it. For

himself, he is resolved not to bear the burden alone. He has his own

shop to look after, and will not let himself be bothered. Unluckily,

none of Michelangelo's answers have been preserved. We possess only

one of his letters to Cornelia, which shows that she wished to place

her son and his godson, Michelangelo, under his care at Rome. He

replied that he did not feel himself in a position to accept the

responsibility. "It would not do to send Michelangelo, seeing that I

have nobody to manage the house and no female servants; the boy is

still of tender age, and things might happen which would cause me the

utmost annoyance. Moreover, the Duke of Florence has during the last

month been making me the greatest offers, and putting strong pressure

upon me to return home. I have begged for time to arrange my affairs

here and leave S. Peter's in good order. So I expect to remain in Rome

all the summer; and when I have settled my business, and yours with

the Monte della Fede, I shall probably remove to Florence this winter

and take up my abode there for good. I am old now, and have not the

time to return to Rome. I will travel by way of Urbino; and if you

like to give me Michelangelo, I will bring him to Florence, with more

love than the sons of my nephew Lionardo, and will teach him all the

things which I know that his father desired that he should learn."

VIII

The year 1556 was marked by an excursion which took Michelangelo into

the mountain district of Spoleto. Paul IV.'s anti-Spanish policy had

forced the Viceroy of Naples to make a formidable military

demonstration. Accordingly the Duke of Alva, at the head of a powerful

force, left Naples on the 1st of September and invaded the Campagna.

The Romans dreaded a second siege and sack; not without reason,

although the real intention of the expedition was to cow the fiery

Pope into submission. It is impossible, when we remember

Michelangelo's liability to panics, not to connect his autumn journey

with a wish to escape from trouble in Rome. On the 31st of October he

wrote to Lionardo that he had undertaken a pilgrimage to Loreto, but

feeling tired, had stopped to rest at Spoleto. While he was there, a

messenger arrived post-haste from Rome, commanding his immediate

return. He is now once more at home there, and as well as the

troublous circumstances of the times permit.

Later on he told Vasari: "I have recently enjoyed a great pleasure,

though purchased at the cost of great discomfort and expense, among

the mountains of Spoleto, on a visit to those hermits. Consequently, I

have come back less than half myself to Rome; for of a truth there is

no peace to be found except among the woods." This is the only passage

in the whole of Michelangelo's correspondence which betrays the least

feeling for wild nature. We cannot pretend, even here, to detect an

interest in landscape or a true appreciation of country life. Compared

with Rome and the Duke of Alva, those hermitages of the hills among

their chestnut groves seemed to him haunts of ancient peace. That is

all; but when dealing with a man so sternly insensible to the charm of

the external world, we have to be contented with a little.

In connection with this brief sojourn at Spoleto I will introduce two

letters written to Michelangelo by the Archbishop of Ragusa from his

See. The first is dated March 28, 1557. and was sent to Spoleto,

probably under the impression that Buonarroti had not yet returned to

Rome. After lamenting the unsettled state of public affairs, the

Archbishop adds: "Keep well in your bodily health; as for that of your

soul, I am sure you cannot be ill, knowing what prudence and piety

keep you in perpetual companionship." The second followed at the

interval of a year, April 6, 1558. and gave a pathetic picture of the

meek old prelate's discomfort in his Dalmatian bishopric. He calls

Ragusa "this exceedingly ill-cultivated vineyard of mine. Oftentimes

does the carnal man in me revolt and yearn for Italy, for relatives

and friends; but the spirit keeps desire in check, and compels it to

be satisfied with that which is the pleasure of our Lord." Though the

biographical importance of these extracts is but slight, I am glad,

while recording the outlines of Buonarroti's character, to cast a

side-light on his amiable qualities, and to show how highly valued he

was by persons of the purest life.

IX

There was nothing peculiarly severe about the infirmities of

Michelangelo's old age. We first hear of the dysuria from which he

suffered, in 1548. He writes to Lionardo thanking him for pears: "I

duly received the little barrel of pears you sent me. There were

eighty-six. Thirty-three of them I sent to the Pope, who praised them

as fine, and who enjoyed them. I have lately been in great difficulty

from dysuria. However, I am better now. And thus I write to you,

chiefly lest some chatterbox should scribble a thousand lies to make

you jump." In the spring of 1549 he says that the doctors believe he

is suffering from calculus: "The pain is great, and prevents me from

sleeping. They propose that I should try the mineral waters of

Viterbo; but I cannot go before the beginning of May. For the rest, as

concerns my bodily condition, I am much the same as I was at thirty.

This mischief has crept upon me through the great hardships of my life

and heedlessness." A few days later he writes that a certain water he

is taking, whether mineral or medicine, has been making a beneficial

change. The following letters are very cheerful, and at length he is

able to write: "With regard to my disease, I am greatly improved in

health, and have hope, much to the surprise of many; for people

thought me a lost man, and so I believed. I have had a good doctor,

but I put more faith in prayers than I do in medicines." His physician

was a very famous man, Realdo Colombo. In the summer of the same year

he tells Lionardo that he has been drinking for the last two months

water from a fountain forty miles distant from Rome. "I have to lay in

a stock of it, and to drink nothing else, and also to use it in

cooking, and to observe rules of living to which I am not used."

Although the immediate danger from the calculus passed away,

Michelangelo grew feebler yearly. We have already seen how he wrote to

Lionardo while Cosimo de' Medici was urging him to come to Florence in

1557. Passages in his correspondence with Lionardo like the following

are frequent: "Writing is the greatest annoyance to my hand, my sight,

my brains. So works old age!" "I go on enduring old age as well as I

am able, with all the evils and discomforts it brings in its train;

and I recommend myself to Him who can assist me." It was natural,

after he had passed the ordinary term of life and was attacked with a

disease so serious as the stone, that his thoughts should take a

serious tone. Thus he writes to Lionardo: "This illness has made me

think of setting the affairs of my soul and body more in order than I

should have done. Accordingly, I have drawn up a rough sketch of a

will, which I will send you by the next courier if I am able, and you

can tell me what you think." The will provided that Gismondo and

Lionardo Buonarroti should be his joint-heirs, without the power of

dividing the property. This practically left Lionardo his sole heir

after Gismondo's life-tenancy of a moiety. It does not, however, seem

to have been executed, for Michelangelo died intestate. Probably, he

judged it simplest to allow Lionardo to become his heir-general by the

mere course of events. At the same time, he now displayed more than

his usual munificence in charity. Lionardo was frequently instructed

to seek out a poor and gentle family, who were living in decent

distress, _poveri vergognosi_, as the Italians called such persons.

Money was to be bestowed upon them with the utmost secrecy; and the

way which Michelangelo proposed, was to dower a daughter or to pay for

her entrance into a convent. It has been suggested that this method of

seeking to benefit the deserving poor denoted a morbid tendency in

Michelangelo's nature; but any one who is acquainted with Italian

customs in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance must be aware that

nothing was commoner than to dower poor girls or to establish them in

nunneries by way of charity. Urbino, for example, by his will bound

his executors to provide for the marriage of two honest girls with a

dowry of twenty florins apiece within the space of four years from his

death.

The religious sonnets, which are certainly among the finest of

Michelangelo's compositions, belong to this period. Writing to Vasari

on the 10th of September 1554, he begins: "You will probably say that

I am old and mad to think of writing sonnets; yet since many persons

pretend that I am in my second childhood, I have thought it well to

act accordingly." Then follows this magnificent piece of verse, in

which the sincerest feelings of the pious heart are expressed with a

sublime dignity:--

_Now hath my life across a stormy sea,

Like a frail bark, reached that wide fort where all

Are bidden, ere the final reckoning fall

Of good and evil for eternity.

Now know I well how that fond phantasy

Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall

Of earthly art is vain; how criminal

Is that which all men seek unwillingly.

Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed,

What are they when the double death is nigh?

The one I know for sure, the other dread.

Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest

My soul, that turns to His great love on high,

Whose arms to clasp us on the cross were spread._

A second sonnet, enclosed in a letter to Vasari, runs as follows:--

_The fables of the world have filched away

The time I had for thinking upon God;

His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod,

Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway._

_What makes another wise, leads me astray,

Slow to discern the bad path I have trod:

Hope fades, but still desire ascends that God

May free me from self-love, my sure decay.

Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth!

Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise

Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage.

Teach me to hate the world so little worth,

And, all the lovely things I clasp and prize,

That endless life, ere death, may be my wage._

While still in his seventieth year, Michelangelo had educated himself

to meditate upon the thought of death as a prophylactic against vain

distractions and the passion of love. "I may remind you that a man who

would fain return unto and enjoy his own self ought not to indulge so

much in merrymakings and festivities, but to think on death. This

thought is the only one which makes us know our proper selves, which

holds us together in the bond of our own nature, which prevents us

from being stolen away by kinsmen, friends, great men of genius,

ambition, avarice, and those other sins and vices which filch the man

from himself, keep him distraught and dispersed, without ever

permitting him to return unto himself and reunite his scattered parts.

Marvellous is the operation of this thought of death, which, albeit

death, by his nature, destroys all things, preserves and supports

those who think on death, and defends them from all human passions."

He supports this position by reciting a madrigal he had composed, to

show how the thought of death is the greatest foe to love:--

_Not death indeed, but the dread thought of death

Saveth and severeth

Me from the heartless fair who doth me slay:

And should, perchance, some day_

_The fire consuming blaze o'er measure bright,

I find for my sad plight

No help but from death's form fixed in my heart;

Since, where death reigneth, love must dwell apart._

In some way or another, then, Michelangelo used the thought of death

as the mystagogue of his spirit into the temple of eternal

things--[Greek: ta aidia], _die bleibenden Verhältnisse_--and as the

means of maintaining self-control and self-coherence amid the

ever-shifting illusions of human life. This explains why in his

love-sonnets he rarely speaks of carnal beauty except as the

manifestation of the divine idea, which will be clearer to the soul

after death than in the body.

When his life was drawing toward its close, Michelangelo's friends

were not unnaturally anxious about his condition. Though he had a

fairly good servant in Antonio del Franzese, and was surrounded by

well-wishers like Tommaso Cavalieri, Daniele da Volterra, and Tiberio

Calcagni, yet he led a very solitary life, and they felt he ought to

be protected. Vasari tells us that he communicated privately with

Averardo Serristori, the Duke's ambassador in Rome, recommending that

some proper housekeeper should be appointed, and that due control

should be instituted over the persons who frequented his house. It was

very desirable, in case of a sudden accident, that his drawings and

works of art should not be dispersed, but that what belonged to S.

Peter's, to the Laurentian Library, and to the Sacristy should be duly

assigned. Lionardo Buonarroti must have received similar advice from

Rome, for a furious letter is extant, in which Michelangelo, impatient

to the last of interference, literally rages at him:--

"I gather from your letter that you lend credence to certain envious

and scoundrelly persons, who, since they cannot manage me or rob me,

write you a lot of lies. They are a set of sharpers, and you are so

silly as to believe what they say about my affairs, as though I were a

baby. Get rid of them, the scandalous, envious, ill-lived rascals. As

for my suffering the mismanagement you write about, I tell you that I

could not be better off, or more faithfully served and attended to in

all things. As for my being robbed, to which I think you allude, I

assure you that I have people in my house whom I can trust and repose

on. Therefore, look to your own life, and do not think about my

affairs, because I know how to take care of myself if it is needful,

and am not a baby. Keep well."

This is the last letter to Lionardo. It is singular that

Michelangelo's correspondence with his father, with Luigi del Riccio,

with Tommaso dei Cavalieri, and with his nephew, all of whom he

sincerely loved, should close upon a note of petulance and wrath. The

fact is no doubt accidental. But it is strange.

X

We have frequently had occasion to notice the extreme pain caused to

Michelangelo's friends by his unreasonable irritability and readiness

to credit injurious reports about them. These defects of temper

justified to some extent his reputation for savagery, and they must be

reckoned among the most salient features of his personality. I shall

therefore add three other instances of the same kind which fell under

my observation while studying the inedited documents of the Buonarroti

Archives. Giovanni Francesco Fattucci was, as we well know, his most

intimate friend and trusted counsellor during long and difficult

years, when the negotiations with the heirs of Pope Julius were being

carried on; yet there exists one letter of unaffected sorrow from this

excellent man, under date October 14, 1545, which shows that for some

unaccountable reason Michelangelo had suddenly chosen to mistrust him.

Fattucci begins by declaring that he is wholly guiltless of things

which his friend too credulously believed upon the strength of gossip.

He expresses the deepest grief at this unjust and suspicious

treatment. The letter shows him to have been more hurt than resentful.

Another document signed by Francesco Sangallo (the son of his old

friend Giuliano), bearing no date, but obviously written when they

were both in Florence, and therefore before the year 1535, carries the

same burden of complaint. The details are sufficiently picturesque to

warrant the translation of a passage. After expressing astonishment at

Michelangelo's habit of avoiding his society, he proceeds: "And now,

this morning, not thinking that I should annoy you, I came up and

spoke to you, and you received me with a very surly countenance. That

evening, too, when I met you on the threshold with Granacci, and you

left me by the shop of Pietro Osaio, and the other forenoon at S.

Spirito, and to-day, it struck me as extremely strange, especially in

the presence of Piloto and so many others. I cannot help thinking that

you must have some grudge against me; but I marvel that you do not

open out your mind to me, because it may be something which is wholly

false." The letter winds up with an earnest protest that he has always

been a true and faithful friend. He begs to be allowed to come and

clear the matter up in conversation, adding that he would rather lose

the good-will of the whole world than Michelangelo's.

The third letter is somewhat different in tone, and not so personally

interesting. Still it illustrates the nervousness and apprehension

under which Michelangelo's acquaintances continually lived. The

painter commonly known as Rosso Fiorentino was on a visit to Rome,

where he studied the Sistine frescoes. They do not appear to have

altogether pleased him, and he uttered his opinion somewhat too freely

in public. Now he pens a long elaborate epistle, full of adulation, to

purge himself of having depreciated Michelangelo's works. People said

that "when I reached Rome, and entered the chapel painted by your

hand, I exclaimed that I was not going to adopt that manner." One of

Buonarroti's pupils had been particularly offended. Rosso protests

that he rather likes the man for his loyalty; but he wishes to remove

any impression which Michelangelo may have received of his own

irreverence or want of admiration. The one thing he is most solicitous

about is not to lose the great man's good-will.

It must be added, at the close of this investigation, that however hot

and hasty Michelangelo may have been, and however readily he lent his

ear to rumours, he contrived to renew the broken threads of friendship

with the persons he had hurt by his irritability.