WHEN the Duke was informed that the whole of my work for the Perseus
could be exhibited as finished, he came one day to look at it. His
manner showed clearly that it gave him great satisfaction; but
afterwards he turned to some gentlemen attending him and said: “Although
this statue seems in our eyes a very fine piece, still it has yet to win
the favour of the people. Therefore, my Benvenuto, before you put the
very last touches on, I should like you, for my sake, to remove a part
of the scaffolding on the side of the piazza, some day toward noon, in
order that we may learn what folk think of it. There is no doubt that
when it is thrown open to space and light, it will look very differently
from what it does in this enclosure.” I replied with all humility to his
Excellency: “You must know, my lord, that it will make more than twice
as good a show. Oh, how is it that your most illustrious Excellency has
forgotten seeing it in the garden of my house? There, in that large
extent of space, it showed so bravely that Bandinello, coming through
the garden of the Innocents to look at it, was compelled, in spite of
his evil and malignant nature, to praise it, he who never praised aught
or any one in all his life! I perceive that your Excellency lends too
ready an ear to that fellow.” When I had done speaking, he smiled
ironically and a little angrily; yet he replied with great kindness: “Do
what I ask, my Benvenuto, just to please me.”
When the Duke had left, I gave orders to have the screen removed. Yet
some trifles of gold, varnish, and various other little finishings were
still wanting; wherefore I began to murmur and complain indignantly,
cursing the unhappy day which brought me to Florence. Too well I knew
already the great and irreparable sacrifice I made when I left France;
nor could I discover any reasonable ground for hope that I might prosper
in the future with my prince and patron. From the commencement to the
middle and the ending, everything that I had done had been performed to
my great disadvantage. Therefore, it was with deep ill-humour that I
disclosed my statue on the following day.
Now it pleased God that, on the instant of its exposure to view, a shout
of boundless enthusiasm went up in commendation of my work, which
consoled me not a little. The folk kept on attaching sonnets to the
posts of the door, which was protected with a curtain while I gave the
last touches to the statue. I believe that on the same day when I opened
it a few hours to the public, more than twenty were nailed up, all of
them overflowing with the highest panegyrics. Afterwards, when I once
more shut it off from view, every day brought sonnets, with Latin and
Greek verses; for the University of Pisa was then in vacation, and all
the doctors and scholars kept vying with each other who could praise it
best. But what gratified me most, and inspired me with most hope of the
Duke’s support, was that the artists, sculptors and painters alike,
entered into the same generous competition. I set the highest value on
the eulogies of that excellent painter Jacopo Pontormo, and still more
on those of his able pupil Bronzino, who was not satisfied with merely
publishing his verses, but sent them by his lad Sandrino’s hand to my
own house. [1] They spoke so generously of my performance, in that fine
style of his which is most exquisite, that this alone repaid me somewhat
for the pain of my long troubles. So then I closed the screen, and once
more set myself to finishing my statue.
Note 1. Jacopo Carrucci da Pantormo was now an old man. He died in 1558,
aged sixty-five years. Angelo Allori, called Il Bronzino, one of the
last fairly good Florentine painters, won considerable distinction as a
writer of burlesque poems. He died in 1571, aged sixty-nine years. We
possess his sonnets of the perseus.