AMONG the vast number of men who have thought fit to write down the
history of their own lives, three or four have achieved masterpieces
which stand out preeminently: Saint Augustine in his “Confessions,”
Samuel Pepys in his “Diary,” Rousseau in his “Confessions.” It is among
these extraordinary documents, and unsurpassed by any of them, that the
autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini takes its place.
The “Life” of himself which Cellini wrote was due to other motives than
those which produced its chief competitors for first place in its class.
St. Augustine’s aim was religious and didactic, Pepys noted down in his
diary the daily events of his life for his sole satisfaction and with no
intention that any one should read the cipher in which they were
recorded. But Cellini wrote that the world might know, after he was
dead, what a fellow he had been; what great things he had attempted, and
against what odds he had carried them through. “All men,” he held,
“whatever be their condition, who have done anything of merit, or which
verily has a semblance of merit, if so be they are men of truth and good
repute, should write the tale of their life with their own hand.” That
he had done many things of merit, he had no manner of doubt. His repute
was great in his day, and perhaps good in the sense in which he meant
goodness; as to whether he was a man of truth, there is still dispute
among scholars. Of some misrepresentations, some suppressions of
damaging facts, there seems to be evidence only too good-a man with
Cellini’s passion for proving himself in the right could hardly have
avoided being guilty of such-; but of the general trustworthiness of his
record, of the kind of man he was and the kind of life he led, there is
no reasonable doubt.
The period covered by the autobiography is from Cellini’s birth in 1500
to 1562; the scene is mainly in Italy and France. Of the great events of
the time, the time of the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation, of
the strife of Pope and Emperor and King, we get only glimpses. The
leaders in these events appear in the foreground of the picture only
when they come into personal relations with the hero; and then not
mainly as statesmen or warriors, but as connoisseurs and patrons of art.
Such an event as the Sack of Rome is described because Benvenuto himself
fought in it.
Much more complete is the view he gives of the artistic life of the
time. It was the age of Michelangelo, and in the throng of great artists
which then filled the Italian cities, Cellini was no inconsiderable
figure. Michelangelo himself he knew and adored. Nowhere can we gain a
better idea than in this book of the passionate enthusiasm for the
creation of beauty which has bestowed upon the Italy of the Renaissance
its greatest glory.
Very vivid, too, is the impression we receive of the social life of the
sixteenth century; of its violence and licentiousness, of its zeal for
fine craftsmanship, of its abounding vitality, its versatility and its
idealism. For Cellini himself is an epitome of that century. This man
who tells here the story of his life was a murderer and a braggart,
insolent, sensual, inordinately proud and passionate; but he was also a
worker in gold and silver, rejoicing in delicate chasing and subtle
modelling of precious surfaces; a sculptor and a musician; and, as all
who read his book must testify, a great master of narrative. Keen as was
Benvenuto’s interest in himself, and much as he loved to dwell on the
splendor of his exploits and achievements, he had little idea that
centuries after his death he would live again, less by his “Perseus” and
his goldsmith’s work than by the book which he dictated casually to a
lad of fourteen, while he went about his work.
The autobiography was composed between 1558 and 1566, but it brings the
record down only to 1562. The remainder of Cellini’s life seems to have
been somewhat more peaceful. In 1565 he married Piera de Salvadore
Parigi, a servant who had nursed him when he was sick; and in the care
of his children, as earlier of his sister and nieces, he showed more
tenderness than might have been expected from a man of his boisterous
nature. He died at Florence, May 13, 1571, and was buried in The Church
of the Annunziata in that city.
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