than in anger, "you would do better, believe me, to work more
assiduously and heartily through the week, and enjoy yourself on Sunday
like a good comrade, than to idle as you do on ordinary days, and
hypocritically set yourself apart from the others by feigning so much
ardor in your work on fete-days; but you are your own master, act as
seems good to you. And thou sayest, Ascanio, my child?" he continued in
a tone in which infinite gentleness and affection were mingled.
"I say that I have found a magnificent workshop for you."
"Where?"
"Do you know the Hôtel de Nesle?"
"Perfectly; that is, by having passed before it, for I have never been
within the door."
"But is its exterior attractive in your eyes?"
"Pardieu! it is indeed. But--"
"But what?"
"But does no one occupy it, pray?"
"Marry, yes, Monsieur the Provost of Paris, Messire Robert
d'Estourville, who has taken possession of it without right. Moreover,
to satisfy your scruples on that head, we might with great propriety
leave him the Petit-Nesle, where some one of his family now dwells, I
think, and be content ourselves with the Grand-Nesle, and its
courtyards, lawns, and bowling-greens and tennis-court."
"There is a tennis-court?"
"Finer than that of Santa-Croce at Florence."
"Per Bacco! and it is my favorite game; thou didst know that, Ascanio."
"Yes; and then, master, over and above all that, a superb location; air
everywhere; and such air! perfect country air, and not such as we get
here in this infernal corner, where we are moulding, forgotten by the
sun. The Pré-aux-Clercs on one side, the Seine on the other, and the
king, your great king, only two steps away, in his Louvre."
"But whose is this devil of a hotel?"
"Whose, say you? Pardieu! the king's."
"The king's! Say me that once more, my child,--the Hôtel de Nesle is
the king's!"
"His own; now it remains to ascertain if he will give you so magnificent
a dwelling-place."
"Who, the king? How do men call the king, Ascanio!
"Why, François I. if I am not mistaken."
"Which means that the Hôtel de Nesle will be my property within the
week."
"But it may be that the Provost of Paris will take offence."
"What care I for that?"
"But suppose he will not let go what he has in his hand?"
"Suppose he will not!--What do men call me, Ascanio?"
"They call you Benvenuto Cellini, master."
"Which means that if the worthy provost will not do things with good
grace, why, we will use force to compel him to do them. And now let us
to bed. To-morrow we'll speak further on the matter, and then the sun
will shine, and we shall see more clearly."
At the master's suggestion all retired except Pagolo, who remained for
some time at work in his corner; but as soon as he believed that all
were safely in bed, the apprentice rose, looked about, drew near the
table, and poured for himself a large cup of wine, which he swallowed at
a draught. Then he too went off to bed.
II
A GOLDSMITH OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY
Since we have drawn the portrait and mentioned the name of Benvenuto
Cellini, we crave the reader's permission, that he may the more
understandingly approach the artistic subject of which we propose to
treat, to indulge in a short digression upon this extraordinary man, who
at this time had been living in France for two months, and who is
destined to become one of the principal characters of this history.
But first of all let us say a word as to the goldsmiths of the sixteenth
century.
There is at Florence a bridge called the Ponte-Vecchio, which is covered
with houses to this day; these houses were in the old days goldsmiths'
shops.
But the word is not to be understood as we understand it to-day. The
goldsmith of our day follows a trade; formerly, the goldsmith was an
artist.
So it was that there was nothing in the world so wondrously beautiful as
these shops, or rather as the articles with which they were stocked.
There were round cups of onyx, around which dragons' tails were twined,
while heads and bodies of those fabulous creatures confronted one
another with gold-bespangled sky-blue wings outspread, and with jaws
wide open like chimeras, shot threatening glances from their ruby eyes.
There were ewers of agate, with a festoon of ivy clinging round the
base, and climbing up in guise of handle well above the orifice,
concealing amid its emerald foliage some marvellous bird from the
tropics, in brilliant plumage of enamel, seemingly alive and ready to
burst forth in song. There were urns of lapis-lazuli, over the edge of
which leaned, as if to drink, lizards chiselled with such art that one
could almost see the changing reflection of their golden cuirasses, and
might have thought that they would fly at the least sound, and seek
shelter in some crevice in the wall. Then there were chalices and
monstrances, and bronze and gold and silver medallions, all studded with
precious stones, as if in those days rubies, topazes, carbuncles, and
diamonds could be found by searching in the sand on river banks, or in
the dust of the highroad; and there were nymphs, naiads, gods,
goddesses, a whole resplendent Olympus, mingled with crucifixes,
crosses, and Calvarys; Mater Dolorosas, Venuses, Christs, Apollos,
Jupiters launching thunderbolts, and Jehovahs creating the world; and
all this not only cleverly executed, but poetically conceived; not only
admirable, viewed as ornaments for a woman's boudoir, but magnificent
masterpieces fit to immortalize the reign of a king or the genius of a
nation.
To be sure, the goldsmiths of that epoch bore the names of Donatello,
Ghiberti, Guirlandajo, and Benvenuto Cellini.
Now, Benvenuto Cellini has himself described in his memoirs, which are
more interesting than the most interesting novel, the adventurous life
of the artists of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when Titian was
painting in coat of mail, when Michel-Angelo was sculpturing with his
sword at his side, when Masaccio and Domenichino died of poison, and
Cosmo I. secluded himself in his laboratory to discover the mode of
tempering steel so that it would cut porphyry.
To show the character of the man, we will take a single episode in his
life,--that which was the occasion of his coming to France.
Benvenuto was at Rome, whither Pope Clement VII. had summoned him, and
was at work with characteristic ardor upon the beautiful chalice which
his Holiness had ordered; but as he desired to display his talent at its
best upon the precious work, he made but slow progress. How, Benvenuto,
as may well be imagined, had many rivals, who envied him the many
valuable orders he received from the Pope, as well as the marvellous
skill with which he executed them. The result was that one of his
confrères, named Pompeo, who had nothing to do but slander his betters,
took advantage of the delay to do him all possible injury in the Pope's
sight, and kept at work persistently, day in and day out, without truce
or relaxation, sometimes in undertones, sometimes aloud, assuring him
that he would never finish it, and that he was so overwhelmed with
orders that he executed those of other people to the neglect of his
Holiness's.
He said and did so much, did good Pompeo, that when Benvenuto Cellini
saw him enter his workshop one day with smiling faee, he divined at once
that he was the bearer of bad news for him.
"Well, my dear confrère," Pompeo began, "I have come to relieve you
from a heavy burden. His Holiness realizes that your neglect in
completing his chalice is not due to lack of zeal, but to lack of time;
he therefore considers it no more than just to relieve you from some one
of your important duties, and of his own motion he dismisses you from
the post of Engraver to the Mint. It will be nine paltry ducats a month
less in your pocket, but an hour more each day at your disposal."
Benvenuto was conscious of an intense longing to throw the jeering
varlet out of window, but he restrained his feelings, and Pompeo, seeing
that not a muscle of his face moved, thought that he had missed his aim.
"Furthermore," he continued, "why, I know not, but in spite of all that
I could say in your behalf, his Holiness demands his chalice at once, in
whatever condition it may be. Verily, I am afraid, dear Benvenuto, I say
it in all friendliness, that 't is his purpose to have some other finish
it."
"Oh, no, not that!" cried the goldsmith, starting up like one bitten by
a serpent. "My chalice is my own, even as the office at the Mint is the
Pope's. His Holiness hath no right to do more than bid me return the
five hundred crowns paid to me in advance, and I will dispose of my work
as may seem good to me."
"Beware, my master," said Pompeo; "imprisonment may be the sequel of
your refusal."
"Signore Pompeo, you're an ass!" retorted Benvenuto.
Pompeo left the shop in a rage.
On the following day two of the Holy Father's chamberlains called upon
Benvenuto Cellini.
"The Pope has sent us," said one of them, "either to receive the chalice
at your hands, or to take you to prison."
"Monsignori," rejoined Benvenuto, "an artist like myself deserved no
less than to be given in charge to functionaries like yourselves. Here I
am; take me to prison. But I give you fair warning that all this will
not put the Pope's chalice forward one stroke of the graver."
Benvenuto went with them to the governor of the prison, who, having
doubtless received his instructions in advance, invited him to dine with
him. Throughout the repast the governor used every conceivable argument
to induce Benvenuto to satisfy the Pope by carrying the chalice to him,
assuring him that, if he would make that concession, Clement VII.,
violent and obstinate as he was, would forget his displeasure. But the
artist replied that he had already shown the Holy Father his chalice six
times since he began it, and that was all that could justly be
required of him; moreover, he said he knew his Holiness, and that he was
not to be trusted; that he might very well, when he had the chalice in
his hands, take it from him altogether, and give it to some idiot to
finish, who would spoil it. He reiterated his readiness to return the
five hundred crowns paid in advance.
Having said so much, Benvenuto met all subsequent arguments of the
governor by exalting his cook to the skies, and praising his wines.
After dinner, all his compatriots, all his dearest friends, all his
apprentices, led by Ascanio, called upon him to implore him not to rush
headlong to destruction by resisting the commands of Clement VII.; but
Benvenuto told them that he had long desired to establish the great
truth that a goldsmith can be more obstinate than a Pope; and as the
most favorable opportunity he could ask for was now at hand, he
certainly would not let it pass, for fear that it might not return.
His compatriots withdrew, shrugging their shoulders, his friends vowing
that he was mad, and Ascanio weeping bitterly.
Fortunately Pompeo did not forget Cellini, and meanwhile he was saying
slyly to the Pope,--
"Most Holy Father, give your servant a free hand; I will send word to
this obstinate fellow that, since he is so determined, he may send me
the five hundred crowns; as he is a notorious spendthrift he will not
have that sum at his disposal, and will be compelled to give up the
chalice to me."
Clement considered this an excellent device, and bade Pompeo do as he
suggested. And so, that same evening, as Cellini was about to be taken
to the cell assigned him, a chamberlain made his appearance, and
informed the goldsmith that his Holiness accepted his ultimatum, and
demanded the delivery of the chalice or the five hundred crowns without
delay.
Benvenuto replied that they had but to take him to his workshop, and he
would give them the five hundred crowns.
He was escorted thither by four Swiss, accompanied by the chamberlain.
He entered his bedroom, drew a key from his pocket, opened a small iron
closet built into the wall, plunged his hand into a large bag, took out
five hundred crowns, and, having given them to the chamberlain, showed
him and the four Swiss the door. It should be said, in justice to
Benvenuto Cellini, that they received four crowns for their trouble, and
in justice to the Swiss, that they kissed his hands as they took their
leave.
The chamberlain returned forthwith to the Holy Father, and delivered the
five hundred crowns, whereupon his Holiness, in his desperation, flew
into a violent rage, and began to abuse Pompeo.
"Go thyself to my great engraver at his workshop, animal," he said,
"employ all the soothing arguments of which thy ignorant folly is
capable, and say to him that if he will consent to finish my chalice, I
will give him whatever facilities he may require."
"But, your Holiness," said Pompeo, "will it not be time to-morrow
morning?"
"I fear lest it be already too late this evening, imbecile, and I do not
choose that Benvenuto shall sleep upon his wrath; therefore do my
bidding on the instant, and let me not fail to have a favorable reply
to-morrow morning at my levée."
Pompeo thereupon left the Vatican with drooping feathers, and repaired
to Benvenuto's workshop; it was closed.
He peered through the key-hole and through the cracks in the door, and
scrutinized all the windows, one after another, to see if there was not
one which showed a light; but all were dark. He ventured to knock a
second time somewhat louder than at first, and then a third time, still
louder.
Thereupon a window on the first floor opened, and Benvenuto appeared in
his shirt, arquebus in hand.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"I," the messenger replied.
"Who art thou?" rejoined the goldsmith, although he recognized his man
at once.
"Pompeo."
"Thou liest," said Benvenuto; "I know Pompeo well, and he is far too
great a coward to venture out into the streets of Rome at this hour."
"But, my dear Cellini, I swear--"
"Hold thy peace! thou art a villain, and hast taken the poor devil's
name to induce me to open my door, and then to rob me."
"Master Benvenuto, may I die--"
"Say but another word," cried Benvenuto, pointing the arquebus toward
his interlocutor, "and that wish of thine will be gratified."
Pompeo fled at full speed, crying "Murder!" and disappeared around the
corner of the nearest street.
Benvenuto thereupon closed his window, hung his arquebus on its nail,
and went to bed once more, laughing in his beard at poor Pompeo's
fright.
The next morning, as he went down to his shop, which had been opened an
hour earlier by his apprentices, he spied Pompeo on the opposite side of
the street, where he had been doing sentry duty since daybreak, waiting
to see him descend.
As soon as he saw Cellini, Pompeo waved his hand to him in the most
affectionately friendly way imaginable.
"Aha!" said Cellini, "is it you, my dear Pompeo? By my faith! I was
within an ace last night of making a churl pay dearly for his insolence
in assuming your name."
"Indeed!" said Pompeo, forcing himself to smile, and drawing gradually
nearer to the shop; "how did it happen, pray?"
Benvenuto thereupon described the incident to his Holiness's messenger;
but as his friend Benvenuto had described him in their nocturnal
interview as a coward, Pompeo did not dare confess his identity with the
visitor. When his tale was finished, Cellini asked Pompeo to what happy
circumstance he was indebted for the honor of so early a visit from him.
Pompeo thereupon acquitted himself, but in somewhat different terms, be
it understood, of the errand upon which Clement VII. had sent him to his
goldsmith. Benvenuto's features expanded as he proceeded. Clement VII.
yielded; _ergo_ the goldsmith had been more obstinate than the Pope.
"Say to his Holiness," said Benvenuto, when the message was duly
delivered, "that I shall be very happy to obey him, and to do anything
in my power to regain his favor, which I have lost, not by any fault of
my own, but through the evil machinations of envious rivals. As for
yourself, Signore Pompeo, as the Pope does not lack retainers, I counsel
you, in your own interest, to look to it that another than you is sent
to me hereafter; for your health's sake, Signore Pompeo, interfere no
more in my affairs; in pity for yourself, never happen in my path, and
for the welfare of my soul, Pompeo, pray God that I be not your Cæsar."
Pompeo waited to hear no more, but returned to Clement VII. with
Cellini's reply, of which, however, he suppressed the peroration.
Some time thereafter, in order to put the seal to his reconciliation
with Benvenuto, Clement VII. ordered his medallion struck by him.
Benvenuto struck it in bronze, in silver, and in gold, and then carried
it to him. The Pope was so enraptured with it that he cried out in his
admiration, that so beautiful a medallion had never been produced by the
ancients.
"Ah, well, your Holiness," said Benvenuto, "had not I displayed some
firmness, we should have been at enmity to-day; for I would never have
forgiven you, and you would have lost a devoted servant. Look you, Holy
Bather," he continued, by way of good counsel, "your Holiness would not
do ill to remember now and then the opinion of many discreet folk, that
one should bleed seven times before cutting once, and you would do well
also to allow yourself to be something less easily made the dupe of
lying tongues and envious detractors; so much for your guidance in
future, and we will say no more about it, Most Holy Father."
Thus did Benvenuto pardon Clement VII., which he certainly would not
have done had he loved him less; but, as his compatriot, he was deeply
attached to him. Great, therefore, was his sorrow when the Pope suddenly
died, a few months subsequent to the episode we have described. The man
of iron burst into tears at the news, and for a week he wept like a
child. The Pontiff's demise was doubly calamitous to poor Cellini. On
the very day of his burial he met Pompeo, whom he had not seen since the
day when he bade him spare him the too frequent infliction of his
presence.
It should be said that since Cellini's dire threats, the unhappy Pompeo
had not dared to go out unless accompanied by a dozen men well armed, to
whom he gave the same pay that the Pope gave his Swiss Guards; so that
every walk that he took in the city cost him two or three crowns. And
even when surrounded by his twelve sbirri, he trembled at the thought of
meeting Benvenuto Cellini, for he knew that if the meeting should result
in an affray, and any mishap should befall the goldsmith, the Pope, who
was really very fond of him, would make him, Pompeo, pay dearly for it.
But, as we have said, Clement VII. was dead, and his death restored some
little courage to Pompeo.
Benvenuto had been to St. Peter's to kiss the feet of the deceased
Pontiff, and was returning through the street Dei Banchi, accompanied by
Pagolo and Ascanio, when he found himself face to face with Pompeo and
his twelve men. At the sight of his enemy, Pompeo became very pale; but
as he looked around and saw how amply provided he was with defenders,
while Benvenuto had only two boys with him, he took heart of grace,
halted, and nodded his head mockingly, while he toyed with the hilt of
his dagger with his right hand.
At sight of this group of men by whom his master was threatened, Ascanio
put his hand to his sword, while Pagolo pretended to be looking in
another direction; but Benvenuto did not choose to expose his beloved
pupil to so unequal a conflict. He laid his hand upon Ascanio's, pushing
the half-drawn blade back into the scabbard, and walked on as if he had
seen nothing, or as if he had taken no offence at what he saw. Ascanio
could hardly recognize his master in such guise, but as his master
withdrew, he withdrew with him.
Pompeo triumphantly made a deep salutation to Benvenuto, and pursued his
way, still surrounded by his sbirri, who imitated his bravado.
Benvenuto bit his lips till the blood came, while externally his
features wore a smile. His behavior was inexplicable to any one who knew
the irascible nature of the illustrious goldsmith.
But they had not proceeded a hundred yards when he stopped before the
workshop of one of his confrères, and went in, alleging as a pretext
his desire to see an antique vase which had recently been found in the
Etruscan tombs of Corneto. He bade his pupils go on to the shop, and
promised to join them there in a few moments.
As the reader will understand, this was only a pretext to get Ascanio
out of the way, for as soon as he thought that the young man and his
companion, concerning whom he was less anxious because he was sure that
such courage as he possessed would not carry him too far, had turned the
corner of the street, he replaced the vase upon the shelf from which he
took it, and darted out of the shop.
With three strides Benvenuto was in the street where he had met Pompeo;
but Pompeo was no longer there. Luckily, or rather unluckily, this man,
encompassed by his twelve sbirri, was a noticeable object, and so when
Benvenuto inquired as to the direction he had taken, the first person to
whom he applied was able to give him the information, and like a
bloodhound that has recovered a lost scent Benvenuto started in pursuit.
Pompeo had stopped at a druggist's door, at the corner of the Chiavica,
and was vaunting to the worthy compounder of drugs the prowess he had
shown in his meeting with Benvenuto Cellini, when his eye suddenly fell
upon the latter turning the corner of the street, with fire in his eye,
and the perspiration streaming down his forehead.
Benvenuto shouted exultantly as he caught sight of him, and Pompeo
stopped short in the middle of his sentence. It was evident that
something terrible was about to happen. The bravos formed a group around
Pompeo and drew their swords.
It was an insane performance for one man to attack thirteen, but
Benvenuto was, as we have said, one of those leonine creatures who do
not count their enemies. Against the thirteen swords which threatened
him, he drew a small keen-edged dagger which he always wore in his
girdle, and rushed into the centre of the group, sweeping aside two or
three swords with one arm, overturning two or three men with the other,
until he made his way to where Pompeo stood, and seized him by the
collar. But the group at once closed upon him.
Thereupon naught could be seen save a confused struggling mass, whence
issued loud shouts, and above which swords were waving. For a moment the
living mass rolled on the ground, in shapeless, inextricable confusion,
then a man sprang to his feet with a shout of triumph, and with a mighty
effort, forced his way out of the group as he made his way in, bleeding
himself, but triumphantly waving his blood-stained dagger. It was
Benvenuto Cellini.
Another man remained upon the pavement, writhing in the agony of death.
He had received two blows from the dagger, one below the ear, the other
at the base of the neck behind the collar bone. In a few seconds he
breathed his last,--it was Pompeo.
Any other than Benvenuto, after such a deed, would have taken himself
off at full speed, but he passed his dagger to his left hand, drew his
sword, and resolutely awaited the sbirri.
But the sbirri had no further business with Benvenuto; he who paid them
was dead, and consequently could pay them no more. They ran off like a
flock of frightened rabbits, leaving Pompeo's body where it lay.
At that juncture Ascanio appeared, and rushed into his master's arms; he
was not deceived by the ruse of the Etruscan vase, but although he had
made all possible speed he arrived a few seconds too late.
III
DÆDALUS
Benvenuto returned to his abode with Ascanio, somewhat ill at ease, not
because of the three wounds he had received, which were all too slight
to occasion him any anxiety, but because of the possible results of the
affray. Six months before, he had killed Guasconti, his brother's
murderer, but had come off scot free by virtue of the protection of Pope
Clement VII.; moreover, that act was committed by way of reprisal, but
now Benvenuto's protector had gone the way of all flesh, and the
prospect was much more ominous.