CELLINI

It is a duty incumbent upon upright and credible men of all ranks,

who have performed anything noble or praiseworthy, to truthfully

record, in their own writing, the principal events of their lives.

--_Benvenuto Cellini_

[Illustration: Cellini]

"The man who is thoroughly interested in himself is interesting to

other people," Wendell Phillips once said.

Good healthy egotism in literature is the red corpuscle that makes

the thing live. Cupid naked and unashamed is always beautiful; we

turn away only when some very proper person perceives he is naked

and attempts to better the situation by supplying him a coat of mud.

The Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff, wherein are many morbid musings and

information as to the development of her mind and anatomy, is

intensely interesting; Amiel's Journal holds us with a tireless

grasp; the Confessions of Saint Augustine can never die; Jean

Jacques Rousseau's book was the favorite of such a trinity of

opposites as Emerson, George Eliot and Walt Whitman; Pepys' Diary is

so dull it is entertaining; and the Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini

have made a mediocre man immortal.

Cellini had an intense personality; he was skilful as a workman; he

told the truth as he saw it, and if he ever prevaricated it was

simply by failing to mention certain things that he considered were

no credit to anybody. But his friendships were shallow; those he

respected most, say Michelangelo and Raphael, treated him as Prince

Henry finally did Falstaff, never allowing him to come within half a

mile of their person on penalty. He was intimate with so many women

that he apologized for not remembering them; he had no interest in

his children, and most of his plans and purposes were of a pattypan

order. Yet he wrote two valuable treatises: one on the art of the

goldsmith and the other on the casting of bronze; there is also an

essay on architecture that contains some good ideas; and courtier

that he was, of course wrote some poetry, which is not so bad as it

might be. But the book upon which his reputation rests is the

"Memoirs," and a great book it is. All these things seem to show

that a man can be a great author and yet have a small soul. Haven't

we overrated this precious gift of authorship just a trifle?

Taine said that educated Englishmen all write alike--they are all

equally stupid. And John Addington Symonds, an educated Englishman,

and the best translator of Cellini, wrote, "Happily Cellini was

unspoiled by literary training." Goethe translated Cellini's book

into German and paid the doughty Italian the compliment of saying

that he did the task out of pure enjoyment, and incidentally to

improve his literary style.

Cellini is not exactly like us, and when we read his book we all

give thanks that we are not like him, but every trait that he had

large, we have in little. Cellini was sincere; he never doubted his

own infallibility, but he points out untiringly the fallibilities in

various popes and everybody else. When Cellini goes out and kills a

man before breakfast, he absolves himself by showing that the man

richly deserved his fate. The braggart and bully are really cowards

at the last. A man who is wholly brave would not think to brag of

it. He would be as brave in his calm moments as in moments of

frenzy--take old John Brown, for instance. But when Cellini had a

job on hand he first worked himself into a torrent of righteous

wrath. He poses as the injured one, the victim of double, deep-dyed

conspiracies, and so he goes through life afraid of every one, and

is one of whom all men are afraid.

Every artist has occasional attacks of Artistic Jealousy, and happy

is the man who contents himself with the varioloid variety. Cellini

had three kinds: acute, virulent and chronic.

Berloiz has worked the man up into a strong and sinewy drama,

several others have done the same, but it will require the combined

skill of Rostand, Mansfield and Samuel Eberly Gross to ever do the

character justice.

John Morley says, "There is nothing worse than mettle in a blind

horse." So one might say there is nothing worse than sincerity in a

superstitious person. Benvenuto Cellini is the true type of a

literary and artistic Bad Man. Had he lived in Colorado in Eighteen

Hundred Seventy, the Vigilance Committee would have used him to

start a graveyard.

But he is so open, so simple, so candid, that we laugh at his

lapses, admire his high resolves, sigh at his follies, sympathize

with his spasms of repentance, and smile a misty smile at one who is

humorous without meaning to be, who was deeply religious but never

pious, who was highly conscientious, undoubtedly artistic, and who

blundered through life, always in a turmoil, hopelessly entangled in

the web of Fate, committing every crime, justifying himself in

everything, and finally passing out peacefully, sincerely believing

that he had lived a Christian life.

Benvenuto Cellini was born in Florence, in the year Fifteen Hundred,

the day after the feast-day of All Souls, at four-thirty precisely

in the afternoon.

The name Benvenuto means welcome: the world welcomed Benvenuto from

the first. When five years of age he seized upon a live scorpion

that he found in the yard and carried it into the house. His father

seeing the deadly creature in his hand sought to get him to throw it

away, but he only clung the tighter to the plaything. The parent

then grabbed a pair of shears and cut off the tail, mouth and claws

of the scorpion, much to the wrath of the child.

Shortly after this he was seated by his father's side looking into a

brazier of coals. All at once they saw a salamander in the fire,

wiggling about in playful mood, literally making its bed in hell.

Many men go through life without seeing a single salamander; neither

Darwin, Spencer, Huxley nor Wallace ever saw one; they are so rare

that occasionally there be men who deny their existence, for we are

very apt to deny the existence of anything we have not seen. In

truth, Benvenuto never saw but this one salamander, but this one was

enough: coupled with the incident of the scorpion it was an augury

that the boy would have a great career, be in many a hot position,

and march through life triumphant and unscathed--God takes care of

His own.

The father of Benvenuto was a designer, a goldsmith and an engineer,

and he might have succeeded in a masterly way in these sublime arts

had he not early in life acquired the habit of the flute. He played

the flute all day long, and often played the flute in the morning

and the fife at night. As it was the flute that had won him his

gracious wife, he thanked God for the gift and continued to play as

long as he had breath.

Now, it was his ambition that his son should play the flute, too, as

all fond fathers regard themselves as a worthy pattern on which

their children should model their manners and morals. But Benvenuto

despised the damnable invention of a flute--it was only blowing

one's breath through a horn and making a noise--yet to please his

father he mastered the instrument, and actuated by filial piety he

occasionally played in a way that caused his father and mother to

weep with joy. But the boy's bent was for drawing and modeling in

wax. All of his spare time was spent in this work, and so great was

his skill that when he was sixteen he was known throughout all

Florence. About this time his brother, two years younger than

himself, had the misfortune one day to be set upon by a gang of

miscreants, and was nigh being killed when Benvenuto ran to his

rescue and seizing his sword laid around him lustily. The miscreants

were just making off when a party of gendarmes appeared and arrested

all concerned. The rogues were duly tried and sentenced to

banishment from the city.

Benvenuto and his brother were also banished.

Shortly after this Benvenuto found himself at Pisa on the road to

Rome. He was footsore, penniless, and as he stood gazing into the

window of a goldsmith the proprietor came out and asked him his

business. He replied, "Sir, I am a designer and goldsmith of no mean

ability."

Straightway the man, seeing the lad was likely and honest, set him

to work. The motto of the boy at this time was supplied by his

father. It ran thus: In whatsoever house you be, steal not and live

honestlee.

Seeing this motto, the proprietor straightway trusted him with all

the precious jewels in the store. He remained a year at Pisa, and

was very happy and contented in his work, for never once did he have

to play the flute, nor did he hear one played. Nearly every week

came loving letters from his father begging him to come home, and

admonishing him not to omit practise on the flute.

At the end of a year he got a touch of fever and concluded to go

home, as Florence was much more healthful than Pisa.

Arriving home his father embraced him with tears of unfeigned joy.

His changed and manly appearance pleased his family greatly. And

straightway when their tears were dried and welcomes said, his

father placed a flute in his hands and begged him to play in order

that he might see if his playing had kept pace with his growth and

skill in other ways.

The young man set the instrument to his lips and played an original

selection in a way that made his father shout with joy, "Genius is

indispensable, but practise alone makes perfect!"

Michelangelo was born twenty-five years before Cellini; their homes

were not far apart. In the Gardens of Lorenzo the Magnificent,

Michelangelo had received that strong impetus toward the beautiful

that was to last him throughout his long and arduous life.

When Cellini was eighteen the Master was at Rome, doing the work of

the Pope, the pride of all artistic Florence, and toward the Eternal

City Cellini looked longingly. He haunted the galleries and gardens

where broken fragments of antique and modern marbles were to be

seen, and stood long before the "Pieta" of Michelangelo in the

Church of Santa Croce, wondering if he could ever do as well.

About this time he tells us that he copied that famous cartoon of

Michelangelo's, "Soldiers Bathing in the Arno," made in competition

with Leonardo for the decoration of the Palazzo Vecchio, which he

declares marks the highest pitch of power attained by the Master.

While at this work there appeared in Florence one Pietro Torrigiano,

who had been an exile in England for over twenty years. The visitor

held Cellini's drawing in his hand, studied it carefully and

remarked: "I know this man Michelangelo Buonarrotti--we used to draw

and work together under the tutorship of Masaccio. One day

Buonarrotti annoyed me and I dealt him such a blow on the nose that

I felt the flesh, cartilage and bone go down under my knuckles like

a biscuit. It was a mark he will carry to his grave."

These words were truth, save that Michelangelo was struck with a

mallet and not the man's hand. And it was for the blow that

Torrigiano had to flee, and seemingly, with the years, he had gotten

it into his head that he left Florence of his own accord, and his

crime was a thing of which to boast. Voltaire once said that beyond

doubt the soldier who thrust the spear into the side of the Savior

went away and boasted of the deed. Torrigiano's name is forever

linked with that of Michelangelo. Thus much for the pride of little

men who make a virtue of a vice.

But the boast of Torrigiano caused Cellini to grow faint and sick,

then to burn with hate. He snatched the drawing from the other's

hand, and might have deprived Torrigiano of all the nose he

possessed, had not better counsel prevailed. Ever after Cellini

avoided the man--for the man's own good.

That art was a passion to this stripling is plain. It was his meat

and drink--with fighting for dessert. One of his near companions was

Francisco, grandson of Fra Lippo Lippi, and another chum was Tasso,

at this time a youth of nineteen--his own age. Tasso became a great

artist. Vasari tells of him at length, and sketches his career while

in the employ of Cosimo de Medici.

One day Benvenuto and Tasso were walking after their work was done,

and discussing as usual the wonderful genius of Michelangelo. They

agreed that some day they must go to him at Rome. They were near the

gate of the city that led out on the direct road to the Eternal

City. They passed out of the gate still talking earnestly.

"Why, we are on the way now," said Tasso.

"And to turn back is an ill omen--we will go on!" answered

Benvenuto.

So they kept on, each one saying, "And what will our folks say

tonight?"

By night they had traveled twenty miles. They stopped at an inn, and

in the morning Tasso was so lame he declared he could not proceed.

Benvenuto insisted, and even threatened.

They trudged forward, and in a week the spire of Saint Peter's (the

wondrous dome was yet to be) lifted itself out of the fog, and they

stood speechless and uncovered, each devoutly crossing himself.

Benvenuto had a trade, and as skilled men are always needed he got

work at once. Tasso filled in the time carving wood. They did not

see Michelangelo--that worthy was too busy to receive callers, or

indulge the society of adventurous youths. Cellini does not say much

about this, but skips two years in a page, takes part in a riot and

flees back to Florence. He enters into earnest details of how 'leven

rogues in buckram suits reviled him as he passed a certain shop. One

of them upset a handcart of brick upon him. He dealt the miscreant a

blow on the ear. The police here appeared and as usual arrested the

innocent Happy Hooligan of the affair. Being taken before the

Magistrates he was accused of striking a free citizen. Cellini

insisted he had only boxed the man's ears, but many witnesses in

chorus averred that he had struck the citizen in the face with his

clenched fist. "I only boxed his ears," exclaimed Cellini above the

din. The Magistrates all burst out laughing, and adjourned for

dinner, warning Cellini to remain where he was until they came back

--hoping he would run away.

He sat there thinking over his sad lot, when a sudden impulse

seizing him he darted out of the palace, and ran swiftly for the

house of his enemies. He drew his knife, and rushing in among them

where they were at dinner, upset the table and yelled, "Send for a

confessor, for none of you will ever need a doctor when I get

through with you!"

Several women fainted, the men sprang through windows, and the chief

rogue got a slash that went straight for his heart. He fell down,

and Cellini thinking the man was dead started for the street. At the

door he was greeted by all those who had jumped through the windows,

reinforced by others. They were armed with shovels, tongs, skillets,

clubs, sticks and knives. He laid about him right and left, but the

missiles descended in such showers that he lost his knife and cap,

first sending to the earth a full dozen of the rogues.

Running to the house of a priest Cellini begged to confess the

murder, and told of how he had acted only in self-defense. Being

shrived, for a consideration, he awaited the coming of the

constabulary. But they did not come, for the man who thought he had

been stabbed got only a slash through his jacket, and no one was

seriously hurt, except one of the men who jumped through a window

and sprained his ankle. But so unjust were the Magistrates that

Cellini had to flee from the city or he would have been sentenced to

the army and sent God knows where, to fight the Moors.

Max Nordau has a certain amount of basis for his proposition that

genius and madness are near allied, but it will hardly do, however,

to assume that they are the same thing. Cellini at times showed a

fine flaring up of talent that might be called genius--he could do

exquisite work--yet there were other times when he certainly was

"queer." These queer periods might account for his occasional fusing

of memory and imagination, and the lapses of recollection entirely

concerning things he did not wish to remember. The Memoirs were

begun when he was fifty-eight and finished when he was sixty-three:

thus many years had elapsed between the doing and the recording. The

Constable Bourbon was killed at the siege of Rome: Cellini was

present at the siege and killed several men: therefore what more

probable than that Cellini killed the Constable? Cellini calmly

records that it was he who did the deed. He also tells that he

killed William, Prince of Orange; in fact, he killed at least one

man a day for many weeks. At this distance of time we should be

quite willing to take his word for it, just as we would, most

certainly, if he had told us these things face to face.

In one incidental paragraph he records that he christened a son, and

adds: "So far as I can remember this was my first child." He drops

the record there, never once alluding to the child's mother, nor

what became of the child, which if it lived was a man grown at the

time Cellini was writing.

His intense hatred toward all who were in direct competition with

him, his references to them as cheese-mites, beasts, buzzards and

brigands, his fears of poison, and suspicions that they had "curdled

his bronze"; his visitations by spirits and angels, mark him as a

man who trod the borderland of sanity. If he did not like a woman or

she did not like him--the same thing--she was a troll, wench,

scullion, punk, trollop or hussy. He had such a beautiful vocabulary

of names for folks he did not admire, that the translator is

constantly put to straits to produce a product that will not be

excluded from the mails.

If you want to know how things were done when knighthood was in

flower, you can find out here. Or should you be possessed of

literary longing and have a desire to produce some such cheerful

message for humanity as "A Gentleman of France," "Monsieur

Beaucaire," or "Under the Red Robe," you can sink your shaft in

Cellini's book and mine enough incidents in an hour to make a

volume, with a by-product of slag for several Penny Shockers.

Yet Cellini has corroborated history on many points, and backed up

the gossipy Vasari in a valuable way. It is very doubtful whether

either of these gentlemen had ever the felicity of reading the

other's book, unless there be books in Elysium--as Charles Lamb

thought there were--but sure it is that they render sidelights on

the times that are much to our profit. Vasari and Cellini had been

close friends in youth, working and studying together. Vasari was a

poor artist and a commonplace architect, but he seemed to have

social qualities that bridged the gulf where his talent broke off

short. In the Palazzo Vecchio are several large specimens of his

work that must have been once esteemed for their own sake. Now their

chief value lies in the fact that they are a Hop-Smith production,

having been painted by a pleasing writer and a charming gentleman,

and so we point them out with forefinger and bated breath.

Cellini's hate of Vasari proves, also, that the Gossipy One stood

well with the reigning powers, otherwise Benvenuto would not have

thought to condemn his work and allude to the man as a dough-face,

trickster, lickspittle, slanderer, vulture, vagrom, villain,

vilifier and gnat's hind-foot. Cellini threatened to kill the man

several times: he denounced him in public and used to call after him

on the street, referring to him cheerfully as a deep-dyed rogue. Had

either of these men killed the other, it would have been a loss to

letters; but certain it is that Vasari was much more of a gentleman

than Cellini. That Vasari was judicial in his estimates of men is

shown by his references to Cellini, whom he speaks of as "A skilled

artist, of active, alert and industrious habits, who produced many

valuable works of art, but who unfortunately was possessed of a most

unpleasant temper."

Men are so fallible in their estimates of contemporaries that one

man's statement that another is a rogue does not in the slightest

change our views of that man. What we are, that we see: the epithets

a man applies to another usually fit himself better, and this is the

thought in mind when we read what Cellini says of Vasari and

Bandinelli. These men were commonplace artists, but pretty good men;

Cellini was a better artist than either, but not a desirable tenant

for the upper flat in your house if you chanced to reside below.

Cellini was landed behind grated bars many times, but usually

managed to speedily escape. However, in his thirty-eighth year, he

found himself in a dungeon of Sant' Angelo, that grim fortress that

he had fought so vigorously to defend.

More than one homicide the Recording Angel had marked up against

him, but men took small note of these things, and even Pope Paul had

personally blessed him and granted him absolution for all the

murders he had committed or might commit--this in consideration of

his distinguished services in defense of the Vatican.

The charge against him now was the very humdrum one of stealing

treasure that he was supposed to guard. That he was innocent there

is no doubt: whatever the man was, he was no thief. The charge

against him was a trumped-up one to get him out of the way. He was

painfully in evidence--he talked like a windmill, and in his

swaggering he had become inconvenient, if not dangerous, to some who

were close to political greatness. No one caring for the job of

killing him, they locked him up, for the good of himself and

society. It probably was the intention to keep him under key for

only a few weeks, until his choler would subside; but he was so

saucy, and sent out such a stream of threats to all concerned, that

things reached a point where it was unsafe to liberate him.

So he was kept in the Castle for over two years, during which time

he once escaped, broke his leg in the effort, was recaptured and

brought back.

A prison is not wholly bad--men in prison often have time to study

and think, where before such things were impossible. At least they

are free from intrusion. Cellini became deeply religious--he read

his Bible and the lives of the saints. Ministering angels came to

him, and spirits appeared and whispered words of comfort. The man

became softened and subdued. He wrote poetry, and recorded his

thoughts on many things. In the meantime, his accuser having died,

he was given his liberty. He was a better and a wiser man when he

came out than when he went in, although one fails to find that he

was exactly grateful to his captors.

In prison he planned various statues of a religious order. It was in

prison, too, that he thought out the Perseus and Medusa. In prison,

works like the Pieta were his ambition, but when freedom came the

Perseus was uppermost in his mind. Every great work of art is an

evolution--the man sees it first as a mere germ--it grows, enlarges,

evolves. The Perseus of Cellini was a thought that took years to

germinate. The bloody nature of the man and his love of form united,

and the world has this wonderful work of art that stands today

exactly where its creator placed it, in the Loggia de' Lanzia--that

beautiful out-of-door hall on the Piazza Signora at Florence. The

naked man, wearing his proud helmet, one foot on the writhing body

of the wretched woman, sword in right hand and in the left the

dripping head, is a terrible picture. Yet so exquisite is the

workmanship that our horror soon evaporates into admiration, and we

gaze in wonder. Probably the history of no great work of art has

ever been more painstakingly presented than the story of the making

of this statue by Cellini. Again and again he was on the point of

smashing the clay to chaos, but each time his hand was stayed.

Months passed, years went by, and innumerable difficulties were in

the way of its completion. Finally he figured out a method to cast

it in bronze. And of its final casting no better taste of the man's

quality can be given than to let him tell the story himself. Says

Cellini:

I felt convinced that when my Perseus was accomplished, all my

trials would be turned to high felicity and glorious well-being.

Accordingly I strengthened my heart, and with all the forces of my

body and my purse, employing what little money still remained to me,

I set to work. First I provided myself with several loads of pine-

wood from the forests of Serristori. While these were on their way,

I clothed my Perseus with the clay which I had prepared many months

beforehand, in order that it might be duly seasoned. After making

its clay tunic (for that is the term used in this art) and properly

arming and fencing it with iron girders, I began to draw the wax out

by means of slow fire. This melted and issued through numerous air-

vents I had made; for the more there are of these, the better will

the mold fill. When I had finished drawing off the wax, I

constructed a funnel-shaped furnace all round the model of my

Perseus. It was built of bricks, so interlaced, the one above the

other, that numerous apertures were left for the fire to exhale at.

Then I began to lay on wood by degrees, and kept it burning two

whole days and nights.

At length, when all the wax was gone and the mold was well baked, I

set to work at digging the pit in which to sink it. This I performed

with scrupulous regard to all the rules of art. When I had finished

that part of my work, I raised the mold by windlasses and stout

ropes to a perpendicular position, and suspending it with greatest

care one cubit above the level of the furnace, so that it hung

exactly above the middle of the pit, I next lowered it gently down

into the very bottom of the furnace, and had it firmly placed with

every possible precaution for its safety. When this delicate

operation was accomplished, I began to bank it up with the earth I

had excavated; and ever as the earth grew higher, I introduced its

proper air-vents, which were little tubes of earthenware, such as

folks use for drains and such-like purposes. At length, I felt sure

that it was admirably fixed, and that the filling-in of the pit and

the placing of the air-vents had been properly performed. I also

could see that my work-people understood my method, which differed

very considerably from that of all other masters in the trade.

Feeling confident, then, that I could rely upon them, I next turned

to my furnace, which I had filled with numerous pigs of copper and

other bronze stuff. The pieces were piled according to the laws of

art, that is to say, so resting one upon another that the flames

could play freely through them, in order that the metal might heat

and liquefy the sooner. At last I called out heartily to set the

furnace going. The logs of pine were heaped in, and, what with the

unctuous resin of the wood and the good draft I had given, my

furnace worked so well that I was obliged to rush from side to side

to keep it from going too fast. The labor was more than I could

stand; yet I forced myself to strain every nerve and muscle. To

increase my anxieties, the workshop took fire, and we were afraid

lest the roof should fall upon our heads; while from the garden such

a storm of wind and rain kept blowing in, that it perceptibly cooled

the furnace.

Battling thus with all these untoward circumstances for several

hours, and exerting myself beyond even the measure of my powerful

constitution, I could at last bear up no longer, and a sudden fever,

of the utmost possible intensity, attacked me. I felt absolutely

obliged to go and fling myself upon my bed. Sorely against my will

having to drag myself away from the spot, I turned to my assistants,

about ten or more in all, what with master-founders, hand-workers,

country fellows, and my own special journeymen, among whom was

Bernardino Mannellini, my apprentice through several years. To him

in particular I spoke: "Look, my dear Bernardino, that you observe

the rules which I have taught you; do your best with all dispatch,

for the metal will soon be fused. You can not go wrong; these honest

men will get the channels ready; you will easily be able to drive

back the two plugs with this pair of iron crooks; and I am sure that

mold will fill miraculously. I feel more ill that I ever did in all

my life, and verily believe that it will kill me before a few hours

are over." Thus with despair at heart, I left them, and betook

myself to bed.

No sooner had I got to bed, than I ordered my serving-maids to carry

food and wine for all the men into the workshop; at the same time I

cried, "I shall not be alive tomorrow!" They tried to encourage me,

arguing that my illness would pass over, since it came from

excessive fatigue. In this way I spent two hours battling with the

fever, which steadily increased, and calling out continually, "I

feel that I am dying."

My housekeeper, who was named Mona Fiore da Castel del Rio, a very

notable manager and no less warmhearted, kept chiding me for my

discouragement; but, on the other hand, she paid me every kind

attention which was possible. However, the sight of my physical pain

and moral dejection so affected her, that, in spite of that brave

heart of hers, she could not refrain from shedding tears; and yet,

so far as she was able, she took good care I should not see them.

While I was thus terribly afflicted, I beheld the figure of a man

enter my chamber, twisted in his body into the form of a capital S.

He raised a lamentable, doleful voice, like one who announces his

last hour to men condemned to die upon the scaffold, and spoke these

words: "O Benvenuto! your statue is spoiled, and there is no hope

whatever of saving it!" No sooner had I heard the shriek of that

wretch than I gave a howl which might have been heard in hell.

Jumping from my bed, I seized my clothes and began to dress. The

maids, and my lad, and every one who came around to help me, got

kicks or blows of the fist, while I kept crying out in lamentation:

"Ah! traitors! enviers! This is an act of treason, done by malice

prepense! But I swear by God that I will sift it to the bottom, and

before I die will leave such witness to the world of what I can do

as shall make a score of mortals marvel."

When I got my clothes on, I strode with soul bent on mischief toward

the workshop; there I beheld the men, whom I had left erewhile in

such high spirits, standing stupefied and downcast. I began at once

and spoke: "Up with you! Attend to me! Since you have not been able

or willing to obey the directions I gave you, obey me now that I am

with you to conduct my work in person. Let no one contradict me, for

in cases like this we need the aid of hand and hearing, not of

advice."

When I had uttered these words, a certain Maestro Alessandro broke

silence and said, "Look you, Benvenuto, you are going to attempt an

enterprise which the laws of art do not sanction, and which can not

succeed." I turned upon him with such fury that he and all the rest

of them exclaimed with one voice: "Oh then! Give orders! We will

obey your least commands, so long as life is left to us." I believe

they spoke thus feelingly because they thought I must fall shortly

dead upon the ground. I went immediately to inspect the furnace, and

found that the metal was all curdled; an accident which we expressed

by being "caked." I told two of the hands to cross the road, and

fetch from the house of the butcher Capretta a load of young oak-

wood, which had lain dry for above a year. So soon as the first

armfuls arrived, I began to fill the grate beneath the furnace. Now

oak-wood of that kind heats more powerfully than any other sort of

tree; and for this reason, where a slow fire is wanted, as in the

case of gun-foundry, alder or pine is preferred. Accordingly, when

the logs took fire, oh! how the cake began to stir beneath that

awful heat, to glow and sparkle in a blaze! At the same time I kept

stirring up the channels, and sent men upon the roof to stop the

conflagration, which had gathered force from the increased

combustion in the furnace; also I caused boards, carpets, and other

hangings to be set up against the garden, in order to protect us

from the violence of the rain.

When I had thus provided against these several disasters, I roared

out first to one man and then to another: "Bring this thing here!

Take that thing there!" At this crisis, when the whole gang saw the

cake was on the point of melting, they did my bidding, each fellow

working with the strength of three. I then ordered half a pig of

pewter to be brought, which weighed about sixty pounds, and flung it

into the middle of the cake inside the furnace. By this means, and

by piling on wood and stirring now with pokers and now with iron

rods, the curdling mass rapidly began to liquefy. Then, knowing I

had brought the dead to life again, against the firm opinion of

those ignoramuses, I felt such vigor fill my veins that all those

pains of fever, all those fears of death, were quite forgotten.

All of a sudden an explosion took place, attended by a tremendous

flash of flame, as though a thunderbolt had formed and been

discharged amongst us. Unwonted and appalling terror astonished

every one, and me more even than the rest. When the din was over and

the dazzling light extinguished, we began to look each other in the

face. Then I discovered that the cap of the furnace had blown up,

and the bronze was bubbling over from its source beneath. So I had

the mouths of my mold immediately opened, and at the same time drove

in the two plugs which kept back the molten metal.

But I noticed that it did not flow as rapidly as usual, the reason

being probably that the fierce heat of the fire we kindled had

consumed its base alloy. Accordingly I sent for all my pewter

platters, porringers and dishes, to the number of some two hundred

pieces, and had a portion of them cast, one by one, into the

channels, the rest into the furnace. This expedient succeeded, and

every one could now perceive that my bronze was in most perfect

liquefaction, and my mold was filling; whereupon they all with

heartiness and happy cheer assisted and obeyed my bidding, while I,

now here, now there, gave orders, helped with my own hands, and

cried aloud: "O God! Thou that by Thy immeasurable power didst rise

from the dead, and in Thy glory didst ascend to heaven!" ... even

thus in a moment my mold was filled; and seeing my work finished, I

fell upon my knees, and with all my heart gave thanks to God. After

all was over, I turned to a plate of salad on a bench there, and ate

with hearty appetite, and drank together with the whole crew.

Afterwards I retired to bed, healthy and happy, for it was now two

hours before morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had never

felt the touch of illness. My good housekeeper, without my giving

any orders, had prepared a fat capon for my repast. So that, when I

rose, about the hour for breaking fast, she presented herself with a

smiling countenance, and said: "Oh! is that the man who felt that he

was dying? Upon my word, I think the blows and kicks you dealt us

last night, when you were so enraged, and had that demon in your

body as it seemed, must have frightened away your mortal fever!"

All my poor household, relieved in like measure from anxiety and

overwhelming labor, went at once to buy earthen vessels in order to

replace the pewter I had cast away. Then we dined together joyfully;

nay, I can not remember a day in my whole life when I dined with

greater gladness or a better appetite.

Though forms may change, nothing dies. Everything is in circulation.

Men, as well as planets, have their orbits. Some have a wider swing

than others, but just wait and they will come back. Not only do

chickens come home to roost, but so does everything else. The place

of Cellini's birth was also the place of his death. The limit of his

stay in one place, at one time, it seems, was about two years. The

man was a sort of human anachronism--he had in his heart all the

beauty and passion of the Renaissance, and carried, too, the

savagery and density of the Dark Ages. That his skill as a designer

and artificer in the fine metals saved him from death again and

again, there is no doubt. Princes, cardinals, popes, dukes and

priests protected him simply because he could serve them. He

designed altars, caskets, bracelets, vases, girdles, clasps, medals,

rings, coins, buttons, seals--a tiara for the Pope, a diadem for an

Emperor. With minute and exquisite things he was at his best. The

final proof that he was human and his name frailty lies in the fact

that he was a busybody.

As he worked he always knew what others about him were doing. If

they were poor workmen, he encouraged them in a friendly way; if

they were beyond him and out of his class, like Michelangelo, he was

subservient; but if they were on his plane he hated them with a

hatred that was passing speech.

There was usually art and a woman hopelessly mixed in his melees. In

his migrations he swung between Florence, Pisa, Mantua and Rome, and

clear to France when necessary. When he arrived in a town he would

soon become a favorite with other skilled workers. Naturally he

would be introduced to their lady friends. These ladies were usually

"complaisant," to use his own phrase. Soon he would be on very good

terms with one or more of them; then would come jealousies; he would

tire of the lady, or she of him more probably; then, if she took up

with a goldsmith, Benvenuto would hate the pair with a beautiful

hatred. He would be sure that they were plotting to undo him: he

would listen to their remarks, lie in wait for them, watch their

actions, quietly question their friends. Then suddenly some dark

night he would spring upon them from behind a corner and cry, "You

are all dead folk!" And sometimes they were.

Then Cellini would fly without leaving orders where to forward his

mail. Getting into another principality, he was comparatively safe--

the place he left was glad to get rid of him, and the new princeling

who had taken him up was pleased to secure his skill. Under the new

environment, with all troubles behind, he would begin a clean

balance-sheet, full of zest and animation.

The human heart does not change. Every employing printer,

lithographer and newspaper-publisher knows this erratic, brilliant,

artistic and troublesome man. He does good service for just so long,

then the environment begins to pall upon him: he grows restless,

suspicious, uncertain. He is looking for a chance to bolt. Strong

drink comes in to hasten the ruction. There is a strike, a fight, an

explosion, and our artistic tramp finds himself on the sidewalk.

He goes away damning everybody. In two years, or less, he comes

back, penitent. Old scores are forgotten, several of the enemy are

dead, others have passed on into circulation, and the artistic

roustabout is given a desk or a case.

Cellini's book is immensely interesting for various reasons, not the

least of which is that he pictures, indirectly, that restlessness

and nostalgia which only the grave can cure. And at the last our

condemnation is swallowed up in pity, and we can only think kindly

of one who was his own worst enemy, who succeeded in a few things,

and like the rest of us, failed in many.