NOW let us return to Piero Torrigiani, who, with my drawing in his hand,
spoke as follows: “This Buonarroti and I used, when we were boys, to go
into the Church of the Carmine, to learn drawing from the chapel of
Masaccio. [1] It was Buonarroti’s habit to banter all who were drawing
there; and one day, among others, when he was annoying me, I got more
angry than usual, and clenching my fist, gave him such a blow on the
nose, that I felt bone and cartilage go down like biscuit beneath my
knuckles; and this mark of mine he will carry with him to the grave.”
[2] These words begat in me such hatred of the man, since I was always
gazing at the masterpieces of the divine Michel Agnolo, that although I
felt a wish to go with him to England, I now could never bear the sight
of him.
All the while I was at Florence, I studied the noble manner of Michel
Agnolo, and from this I have never deviated. About that time I
contracted a close and familiar friendship with an amiable lad of my own
age, who was also in the goldsmith’s trade. He was called Francesco, son
of Filippo, and grandson of Fra Lippo Lippi, that most excellent
painter. [3] Through intercourse together, such love grew up between us
that, day or night, we never stayed apart. The house where he lived was
still full of the fine studies which his father had made, bound up in
several books of drawings by his hand, and taken from the best
antiquities of Rome. The sight of these things filled me with passionate
enthusiasm; and for two years or thereabouts we lived in intimacy. At
that time I fashioned a silver bas-relief of the size of a little
child’s hand. It was intended for the clasp to a man’s belt; for they
were then worn as large as that. I carved on it a knot of leaves in the
antique style, with figures of children and other masks of great beauty.
This piece I made in the workshop of one Francesco Salimbene; and on its
being exhibited to the trade, the goldsmiths praised me as the best
young craftsman of their art.
There was one Giovan Battista, surnamed Il Tasso, a wood-carver,
precisely of my own age, who one day said to me that if I was willing to
go to Rome, he should be glad to join me. [4] Now we had this
conversation together immediately after dinner; and I being angry with
my father for the same old reason of the music, said to Tasso: “You are
a fellow of words, not deeds.” He answered: “I too have come to anger
with my mother; and if I had cash enough to take me to Rome, I would not
turn back to lock the door of that wretched little workshop I call
mine.” To these words I replied that if that was all that kept him in
Florence I had money enough in my pockets to bring us both to Rome.
Talking thus and walking onwards, we found ourselves at the gate San
Piero Gattolini without noticing that we had got there; whereupon I
said: “Friend Tasso, this is God’s doing that we have reached this gate
without either you or me noticing that we were there; and now that I am
here, it seems to me that I have finished half the journey.” And so,
being of one accord, we pursued our way together, saying, “Oh, what will
our old folks say this evening?” We then made an agreement not to think
more about them till we reached Rome. So we tied our aprons behind our
backs, and trudged almost in silence to Siena. When we arrived at Siena,
Tasso said (for he had hurt his feet) that he would not go farther, and
asked me to lend him money to get back. I made answer: “I should not
have enough left to go forward; you ought indeed to have thought of this
on leaving Florence; and if it is because of your feet that you shirk
the journey, we will find a return horse for Rome, which will deprive
you of the excuse.” Accordingly I hired a horse; and seeing that he did
not answer, I took my way toward the gate of Rome. When he knew that I
was firmly resolved to go, muttering between his teeth, and limping as
well as he could, he came on behind me very slowly and at a great
distance. On reaching the gate, I felt pity for my comrade, and waited
for him, and took him on the crupper, saying: “What would our friends
speak of us to-morrow, if, having left for Rome, we had not pluck to get
beyond Siena?” Then the good Tasso said I spoke the truth; and as he was
a pleasant fellow, he began to laugh and sing; and in this way, always
singing and laughing, we travelled the whole way to Rome. I had just
nineteen years then, and so had the century.
When we reached Rome, I put myself under a master who was known as Il
Firenzuola. His name was Giovanni, and he came from Firenzuola in
Lombardy, a most able craftsman in large vases and big plate of that
kind. I showed him part of the model for the clasp which I had made in
Florence at Salimbene’s. It pleased him exceedingly; and turning to one
of his journeymen, a Florentine called Giannotto Giannotti, who had been
several years with him, he spoke as follows: “This fellow is one of the
Florentines who know something, and you are one of those who know
nothing.” Then I recognised the man, and turned to speak with him; for
before he went to Rome, we often went to draw together, and had been
very intimate comrades. He was so put out by the words his master flung
at him, that he said he did not recognise me or know who I was;
whereupon I got angry, and cried out: “O Giannotto, you who were once my
friend-for have we not been together in such and such places, and drawn,
and ate, and drunk, and slept in company at your house in the country? I
don’t want you to bear witness on my behalf to this worthy man, your
master, because I hope my hands are such that without aid from you they
will declare what sort of a fellow I am.”
Note 1. The Chapel of the Carmine, painted in fresco by Masaccio and
some other artist, possibly Filippino Lippi, is still the most important
monument of Florentine art surviving from the period preceding Raphael.
Note 2. The profile portraits of Michel Angelo Buonarroti confirm this
story. They show the bridge of his nose bent in an angle, as though it
had been broken.
Note 3. Fra Filippo Lippi was a Carmelite monk, whose frescoes at Prato
and Spoleta and oil-paintings in Florence and elsewhere are among the
most genial works of the pre-Raphaelite Renaissance. Vasari narrates his
love-adventures with Lucrezia Buti, and Robert Browning has drawn a
clever portrait of him in his “Men and Women.” His son, Filippo or
Filippino, was also an able painter, some of whose best work survives in
the Strozzi Chapel of S. Maria Novella at Florence, and in the Church of
S. Maria Sopra Minerva at Rome.
Note 4. Tasso was an able artist, mentioned both by Vasari and Pietro
Aretino. He stood high in the favour of Duke Cosimo de’ Medici, who took
his opinion on the work of other craftsmen.