WHILE these words were being spoken, the gentleman of Santa Fiore with
whom I had that quarrel was present, and confirmed to the Pope what had
been spoken by his son. The Pope swelled with rage, but said nothing. I
shall now proceed to give my own version of the affair, truly and
honestly.
This gentleman came to me one day, and showed me a little gold ring
which had been discoloured by quicksilver, saying at the same time:
“Polish up this ring for me, and be quick about it.” I was engaged at
the moment upon jewel-work of gold and gems of great importance:
besides, I did not care to be ordered about so haughtily by a man I had
never seen or spoken to; so I replied that I did not happen to have by
me the proper tool for cleaning up his ring, [1] and that he had better
go to another goldsmith. Without further provocation he retorted that I
was a donkey; whereupon I said that he was not speaking the truth; that
I was a better man than he in every respect, but that if he kept on
irritating me I would give him harder kicks than any donkey could. He
related the matter to the Cardinal, and painted me as black as the devil
in hell. Two days afterwards I shot a wild pigeon in a cleft high up
behind the palace. The bird was brooding in that cleft, and I had often
seen a goldsmith named Giovan Francesco della Tacca, from Milan, fire at
it; but he never hit it. On the day when I shot it, the pigeon scarcely
showed its head, being suspicious because it had been so often fired at.
Now this Giovan Francesco and I were rivals in shooting wildfowl; and
some gentlemen of my acquaintance, who happened to be at my shop, called
my attention, saying: “Up there is Giovan Francesco della Tacca’s
pigeon, at which he has so often fired; look now, the poor creature is
so frightened that it hardly ventures to put its head out.” I raised my
eyes, and said: “That morsel of its head is quite enough for me to shoot
it by, if it only stays till I can point my gun.” The gentlemen
protested that even the man who invented firearms could not hit it. I
replied: “I bet a bottle of that excellent Greek wine Palombo the host
keeps, that if it keeps quiet long enough for me to point my good
Broccardo (so I used to call my gun), I will hit it in that portion of
its head which it is showing.” So I aimed my gun, elevating my arms, and
using no other rest, and did what I had promised, without thinking of
the Cardinal or any other person; on the contrary, I held the Cardinal
for my very good patron. Let the world, then, take notice, when Fortune
has the will to ruin a man, how many divers ways she takes! The Pope,
swelling with rage and grumbling, remained revolving what his son had
told him.
Note 1. Cellini calls it 'isvivatoio.' It is properly 'avvivatoio,' a
sort of brass rod with a wooden handle.