I HAD it brought at once in to my studio, and began to chisel it. While
I was rough-hewing the block, I made a model. But my eagerness to work
in marble was so strong, that I had not patience to finish the model as
correctly as this art demands. I soon noticed that the stone rang false
beneath my strokes, which made me often-times repent commencing on it.
Yet I got what I could out of the piece--that is, the Apollo and
Hyacinth, which may still be seen unfinished in my workshop. While I was
thus engaged, the Duke came to my house, and often said to me: “Leave
your bronze awhile, and let me watch you working on the marble.” Then I
took chisel and mallet, and went at it blithely. He asked about the
model I had made for my statue; to which I answered: “Duke, this marble
is all cracked, but I shall carve something from it in spite of that;
therefore I have not been able to settle the model, but shall go on
doing the best I can.”
His Excellency sent to Rome post-haste for a block of Greek marble, in
order that I might restore his antique Ganymede, which was the cause of
that dispute with Bandinello. When it arrived, I thought it a sin to cut
it up for the head and arms and other bits wanting in the Ganymede; so I
provided myself with another piece of stone, and reserved the Greek
marble for a Narcissus which I modelled on a small scale in wax. I found
that the block had two holes, penetrating to the depth of a quarter of a
cubit, and two good inches wide. This led me to choose the attitude
which may be noticed in my statue, avoiding the holes and keeping my
figure free from them. But rain had fallen scores of years upon the
stone, filtering so deeply from the holes into its substance that the
marble was decayed. Of this I had full proof at the time of a great
inundation of the Arno, when the river rose to the height of more than a
cubit and a half in my workshop. [1] Now the Narcissus stood upon a
square of wood, and the water overturned it, causing the statue to break
in two above the breasts. I had to join the pieces; and in order that
the line of breakage might not be observed, I wreathed that garland of
flowers round it which may still be seen upon the bosom. I went on
working at the surface, employing some hours before sunrise, or now and
then on feast-days, so as not to lose the time I needed for my Perseus.
It so happened on one of those mornings, while I was getting some little
chisels into trim to work on the Narcissus, that a very fine splinter of
steel flew into my right eye, and embedded itself so deeply in the pupil
that it could not be extracted. I thought for certain I must lose the
sight of that eye. After some days I sent for Maestro Raffaello dé
Pilli, the surgeon, who obtained a couple of live pigeons, and placing
me upon my back across a table, took the birds and opened a large vein
they have beneath the wing, so that the blood gushed out into my eye. I
felt immediately relieved, and in the space of two days the splinter
came away, and I remained with eyesight greatly improved. Against the
feast of S. Lucia, [2] which came round in three days, I made a golden
eye out of a French crown, and had it presented at her shrine by one of
my six nieces, daughters of my sister Liperata; the girl was ten years
of age, and in her company I returned thanks to God and S. Lucia. For
some while afterwards I did not work at the Narcissus, but pushed my
Perseus forward under all the difficulties I have described. It was my
purpose to finish it, and then to bid farewell to Florence.
Note 1. Cellini alludes to a celebrated inundation of the year 1547.
Note 2. S. Lucy, I need hardly remark, is the patroness of the eyes. In
Italian art she is generally represented holding her own eyes upon a
plate.