WHEN I reached Rome, and had enjoyed the company of my friends awhile, I
began the Duke’s medal. In a few days I finished the head in steel, and
it was the finest work of the kind which I had ever produced. At least
once every day there came to visit me a sort of blockhead named Messer
Francesco Soderini. [1] When he saw what I was doing, he used frequently
to exclaim: “Barbarous wretch! you want them to immortalise that
ferocious tyrant! You have never made anything so exquisite, which
proves you our inveterate foe and their devoted friend; and yet the Pope
and he have had it twice in mind to hang you without any fault of yours.
That was the Father and the Son; now beware of the Holy Ghost.” It was
firmly believed that Duke Alessandro was the son of Pope Clement. Messer
Francesco used also to say and swear by all his saints that, if he
could, he would have robbed me of the dies for that medal. I responded
that he had done well to tell me so, and that I would take such care of
them that he should never see them more.
I now sent to Florence to request Lorenzino that he would send me the
reverse of the medal. Niccolò da Monte Aguto, to whom I had written,
wrote back, saying that he had spoken to that mad melancholy philosopher
Lorenzino for it; he had replied that he was thinking night and day of
nothing else, and that he would finish it as soon as he was able.
Nevertheless, I was not to set my hopes upon his reverse, but I had
better invent one out of my own head, and when I had finished it, I
might bring it without hesitation to the Duke, for this would be to my
advantage.
I composed the design of a reverse which seemed to me appropriate, and
pressed the work forward to my best ability. Not being, however, yet
recovered from that terrible illness, I gave myself frequent relaxation
by going out on fowling expeditions with my friend Felice. This man had
no skill in my art; but since we were perpetually day and night
together, everybody thought he was a first-rate craftsman. This being
so, as he was a fellow of much humour, we used often to laugh together
about the great credit he had gained. His name was Felice Guadagni
(Gain), which made him say in jest: “I should be called Felice
Gain-little if you had not enabled me to acquire such credit that I can
call myself Gain-much.” I replied that there are two ways of gaining:
the first is that by which one gains for one’s self, the second that by
which one gains for others; so I praised him much more for the second
than the first, since he had gained for me my life.
We often held such conversations; but I remember one in particular on
the day of Epiphany, when we were together near La Magliana. It was
close upon nightfall, and during the day I had shot a good number of
ducks and geese; then, as I had almost made my mind up to shoot no more
that time, we were returning briskly toward Rome. Calling to my dog by
his name, Barucco, and not seeing him in front of me, I turned round and
noticed that the well-trained animal was pointing at some geese which
had settled in a ditch. I therefore dismounted at once, got my
fowling-piece ready, and at a very long range brought two of them down
with a single ball. I never used to shoot with more than one ball, and
was usually able to hit my mark at two hundred cubits, which cannot be
done by other ways of loading. Of the two geese, one was almost dead,
and the other, though badly wounded, was flying lamely. My dog retrieved
the one and brought it to me; but noticing that the other was diving
down into the ditch, I sprang forward to catch it. Trusting to my boots,
which came high up the leg, I put one foot forward; it sank in the oozy
ground; and so, although I got the goose, the boot of my right leg was
full of water. I lifted my foot and let the water run out; then, when I
had mounted, we made haste for Rome. The cold, however, was very great,
and I felt my leg freeze, so that I said to Felice: “We must do
something to help this leg, for I don’t know how to bear it longer.” The
good Felice, without a word, leapt from his horse, and gathering some
thistles and bits of stick, began to build a fire. I meanwhile was
waiting, and put my hands among the breast-feathers of the geese, and
felt them very warm. So I told him not to make the fire, but filled my
boot with the feathers of the goose, and was immediately so much
comforted that I regained vitality.
Note 1. He had been banished in 1530 as a foe to the Medicean house.