MICHELANGELO

How can that be, lady, which all men learn

By long experience? Shapes that seem alive,

Wrought in hard mountain marble, will survive

Their maker, whom the years to dust return!

Thus to effect, cause yields. Art hath her turn,

And triumphs over Nature. I, who strive with sculpture,

Know this well: her wonders live

In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern.

So I can give long life to both of us

In either way, by color or by stone,

Making the semblance of thy face and mine.

Centuries hence when both are buried,

Thus thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown,

And men shall say, "For her 'twas wise to pine."

--_Sonnets of Michelangelo_

[Illustration: MICHELANGELO]

"Call me by my pet name," wrote Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in one of

those incomparable sonnets of which the Portuguese never heard. And the

task yet remains for some psychologist to tell us why, when we wish to

bestow the highest honor, coupled with familiar affection, we call the

individual by a given name.

Young men and maidens will understand my allusion; and I hope this book

will not suffer the dire fate of falling into the hands of any one who

has forgotten the days of his youth.

In addressing the one we truly revere, we drop all prefix and titles.

Soldiers marching under the banner of a beloved leader ever have for him

a name of their own. What honor and trust were once compressed into the

diminutive, "Little Corporal" or Kipling's "Bobs"; or, to come down to

something even more familiar to us, say, "Old Abe" and "Little Phil"!

The earth is a vast graveyard where untold millions of men lie buried,

but out of the myriads who pass into forgetfulness every decade, the race

holds a few names embalmed in undying amber.

Lovers of art, the round world over, carry in their minds one character,

so harmoniously developed on every side of his nature that we say twenty

centuries have never produced his equal. We call him "Leonardo"--the one

ideal man. Leonardo da Vinci was painter, poet, sculptor, architect,

mathematician, politician, musician, man of science, and courtier. His

disposition was so joyous, his manner so captivating, his form and

countenance so beautiful, that wherever he went all things were his. And

he was so well ballasted with brains, and so acute in judgment, that

flattery spoiled him not. His untiring industry and transcendent talent

brought him large sums of money, and he spent them like a king. So potent

was his personality that wherever he made his home there naturally grew

up around him a Court of Learning, and his pupils and followers were

counted by the score. To the last of his long life he carried with him

the bright, expectant animation of youth; and to all who knew him he was

"Leonardo--the only Leonardo."

But great as was Leonardo, we call the time in which he lived, the age of

Michelangelo.

When Leonardo was forty, and at the very height of his power, Michel

Agnola Buonarroti, aged twenty, liberated from the block a marble Cupid

that was so exquisite in its proportions that it passed for an antique,

and men who looked upon it exclaimed, "Phidias!"

Michel Agnola became Michelangelo, that is to say, "Michel the Angel," in

a day. The name thrown at him by an unknown admirer stuck, and in his

later years when all the world called him "Angelo" he cast off the name

his parents had given him and accepted the affectionate pet name that

clung like the love of woman.

Michelangelo was born in a shabby little village but a few miles from

Florence. In another village near by was born Leonardo. "Great men never

come singly," says Emerson. And yet Angelo and Leonardo exercised no

influence upon each other that we can trace. The younger man never came

under the spell of the older one, but moved straight on to his destiny,

showing not the slightest arc in his orbit in deference to the great

luminary of his time.

The handsome Leonardo was social: he loved women, and music, and

festivals, and gorgeous attire, and magnificent equipage. His life was

full of color and sweeping, joyous, rainbow tints.

Michelangelo was homely in feature, and the aspect of his countenance was

mutilated by a crashing blow from a rival student's mallet that flattened

his nose to his face. Torrigiano lives in history for this act alone,

thus proving that there are more ways than one to gain immortality.

Angelo was proud, self-centered, independent, and he sometimes lashed the

critics into a buzzing, bluebottle fury by his sarcastic speech. "He

affronted polite society, conformed to no one's dictates, lived like an

ascetic and worked like a packmule," says a contemporary.

Vasari, who among his many other accomplishments seems to have been the

Boswell of his time, compares Leonardo and Michelangelo. He says, "Angelo

can do everything that Leonardo can, although he does it differently."

Further, he adds, "Angelo is painter, sculptor, engineer, architect and

poet." "But," adds this versatile Italian Samuel Pepys, somewhat

sorrowfully, "he is not a gentleman."

It is to be regretted that Signor Vasari did not follow up his remarks

with his definition of the term "gentleman."

Leonardo was more of a painter than a sculptor. His pictures are full of

rollicking mirth, and the smile on the faces of his women is handed down

by imitation even to this day. The joyous freedom of animal life beckons

from every Leonardo canvas; and the backgrounds fade off into fleecy

clouds and shadowy, dreamy, opiate odor of violets.

Michelangelo, however, is true to his own life as Leonardo was to

his--for at the last the artist only reproduces himself. He never painted

a laugh, for life to him was serious and full of sober purpose. We can

not call his work somber--it does not depress--for it carries with it a

poise and a strength that is sufficient unto itself. It is all heroic,

and there is in it a subtle quality that exorcises fear and bids care

begone.

No man ever portrayed the human figure with the same fidelity that Angelo

has. The naked Adam, when the finger of the Almighty touched him into

life, gives one a thrill of health to look upon, even after these four

hundred years have struggled to obliterate the lines.

His figures of women shocked the artistic sense of his time, for instead

of the Greek idealization of beauty he carved the swelling muscles and

revealed the articulations of form as no artist before him had ever

dared. His women are never young, foolish, timid girls--they are Amazons;

and his men are the kind that lead nations out of captivity. The soft,

the pretty, the yielding, were far from him. There is never a suggestion

of taint or double meaning; all is frank, open, generous, honest and

fearless. His figures are nude, but never naked.

He began his artistic work when fourteen years old, and he lived to be

eighty-nine; and his years did not outlast his zeal and zest. He was

above the medium size, an athlete in his lean and sinewy strength, and

the whipcord quality of his body mirrored the silken strength of his

will.

In his old age the King arose when Michelangelo entered the

Council-Chamber, and would not sit until he was seated at the right hand

of the throne; the Pope would not allow him to kneel before him; when he

walked through the streets of Rome the people removed their hats as he

passed; and today we who gaze upon his work in the Eternal City stand

uncovered.

* * * * *

Michelangelo was the firstborn in a large family. Simone Buonarroti, his

father, belonged to an ebbtide branch of the nobility that had lost

everything but the memory of great ancestors turned to dust. This father

had ambitions for his boy; ambitions in the line of the army or a snug

office under the wing of the State, where he might, by following closely

the beck and nod of the prince in power, become a magistrate or a keeper

of customs.

But no boy ever disappointed a proud father more.

When great men in gilt and gold braid, with scarlet sashes across their

breasts, and dangling swords that clicked and clanged on the stone

pavement, strode by, rusty, dusty little Michel refused to take off his

cap and wish them "Long life and God's favor," as his father ordered.

Instead, he hid behind his mother's gown and made faces. His father used

to say he was about as homely as he could be without making faces, and if

he didn't watch out he would get his face crooked some day and couldn't

get it back.

Simone Buonarroti had qualities very Micawber-like mixed in his clay, and

the way he cringed and crawled may have had something to do with setting

the son on the other tack.

The mother was only nineteen when Michel was born, and although the

moralists talk much about woman's vanity and extravagance, the theory

gets no backing from this quarter. She was a plain woman in appearance,

quiet and self-contained, with no nerves to speak of, a sturdy, physical

endowment, and commonsense enough for two. When scarcely out of dresses

the boy began to draw pictures. He drew with charcoal on the walls, or

with a stick in the sand, and shaped curious things out of mud in the

gutters.

It was an age of creative art, and most of the work being in the churches

the common people had their part in it. In fact, the common people were

the artists. And when Simone Buonarroti found his twelve-year-old boy

haunting the churches to watch the workmen, and also discovered that he

was consorting with the youths who studied drawing in the atelier of

Ghirlandajo, he was displeased.

Painters, to this erstwhile nobleman, were simply men in blue blouses who

worked for low wages on high scaffolds, and occasionally spattered color

on the good clothes of ladies and gentlemen who were beneath. He didn't

really hate painters, he simply waived them; and to his mind there was no

difference between an artisan and an artist.

The mother, however, took a secret pride in her boy's drawings, as

mothers always do in a son's accomplishments. Doubtless she knew

something of the art of decoration, too, for she had brothers who worked

as day laborers on high scaffolds. Yet she didn't say much about it, for

women then didn't have so much to say about anything as now.

But I can imagine that this good woman, as she went daily to church to

pray, the year before her first child was born, watched the work of the

men on the scaffolds, and observed that day by day the pictures grew; and

as she looked, the sun streamed through stained windows and revealed to

her the miracles of form and color, and the impressions of "The

Annunciation," "Mary's Visit to Elizabeth" and "The Babe in the Manger"

filled her wondering soul with thoughts and feelings too great for

speech. To his mother was Michelangelo indebted for his leaning toward

art. His father opposed such a plebeian bent vigorously:

"Bah! to love beautiful things is all right, but to wish to devote all of

one's time to making them, just for others--ouch! it hurts me to think of

it!"

The mother was lenient and said, "But if our child can not be anything

more than a painter--why, we must be content, and God willing, let us

hope he will be a good one."

Ghirlandajo's was practically a school where, for a consideration, boys

were taught the secrets of fresco. The master always had contracts of his

own on hand and by using 'prentice talent made both ends meet. Young

Michel made it his lounging-place and when he strayed from home his

mother always knew where to find him.

The master looked upon him as a possible pupil, and instead of ordering

him away, smiled indulgently and gave him tasks of mixing colors and

making simple lines. And the boy showed such zest and comprehension that

in a short time he could draw freehand with a confidence that set the

brightest scholar in the background. Such a pupil, so alert, so willing,

so anxious, is the joy of a teacher's heart. Ghirlandajo must have

him--he would inspire the whole school!

So the master went to the father, but the father demurred, and his

scruples were only overcome when Ghirlandajo offered to reverse the rule,

and pay the father the sum that parents usually paid the master. A cash

payment down caused pater to capitulate, and the boy went to work--aged

fourteen.

The terms of his apprenticeship called for three years, but after he had

been at work a year, the ability of the youth made such an impression on

the master that he took him to Lorenzo, Lorenzo the Magnificent, who then

ruled over Florence.

Lorenzo had him draw a few sketches, and he was admitted to the Academy.

This "Academy" was situated in the palace of Lorenzo, and in the gardens

was a rich collection of antique marbles: busts, columns, and valuable

fragments that had come down from the days when Pericles did for Athens

what Lorenzo was then doing for Florence. The march of commerce has

overrun the garden, but in the Uffizi Gallery are to be seen today most

of the curios that Lorenzo collected.

By introducing the lad to Lorenzo, Ghirlandajo lost his best helper, but

so unselfish was this excellent master that he seemed quite willing to

forego his own profit that the boy might have the best possible

advantages. And I never think of Ghirlandajo without mentally lifting my

hat.

At the Academy, Michelangelo ceased to paint and draw, and devoted all

his energies to modeling in clay. So intent was his application that in a

few weeks he had mastered technicalities that took others years to

comprehend.

One day the father came and found the boy in a blouse at work with mallet

and chisel on a block of marble. "And is it a stone-mason you want to

make of my heir and firstborn?" asked the fond father.

It was explained that there were stone-masons and stone-masons. A

stone-mason of transcendent skill is a sculptor, just as a painter who

can produce a beautiful picture is an artist.

Simone Buonarroti acknowledged he had never looked at it just in that

way, but still he would not allow his son to remain at the trade

unless--unless he himself had an office under the government.

Lorenzo gave him the desired office, and took the young stone-mason as

one of the Medici family, and there the boy lived in the Palace, and

Lorenzo acted toward him as though he were his son.

The favor with which he was treated excited the envy of some of the

other pupils, and thus it was that in sudden wrath Torrigiano struck him

that murderous blow with the mallet. Torrigiano paid for his fierce

temper, not only by expulsion from the Academy, but by banishment from

Florence.

Michelangelo was the brightest of the hundred young men who worked and

studied at the Medici palace.

But when this head scholar was eighteen Lorenzo died. The son of Lorenzo

continued his father's work in a feeble way, for Piero de Medici was a

good example of the fact that great men seldom reproduce themselves after

the flesh. Piero had about as much comprehension of the beautiful as the

elder Buonarroti. He thought that all these young men who were being

educated at the Academy would eventually be valuable adjuncts to the

State, and as such it was a good scheme to give each a trade--besides, it

kept them off the street; and then the work was amusing, a diversion to

the nobility when time hung heavy.

Once there came a heavy snowstorm, and snow being an unusual thing in

Florence, Piero called a lot of his friends together in the gardens, and

summoning Michelangelo, ordered him to make a snow image for the

amusement of the guests, just as Piero at other times had a dog jump

through a hoop.

"What shall it be?" asked Michelangelo.

"Oh, anything you please," replied Piero; "only don't keep us waiting

here in the cold all day!"

Young Angelo cast one proud look of contempt toward the group and set to

work making a statue. In ten minutes he had formed a satyr that bore such

a close resemblance to Piero that the guests roared with laughter. "That

will do," called Piero; "like Deity, you make things in your own image."

Some of the company tossed silver coin at the young man, but he let the

money lie where it fell.

Michel at this time was applying himself to the study of anatomy, and

giving his attention to literature under the tutorship of the famous poet

and scholar, Poliziano, who resided at the court.

So filled was the young man's mind with his work that he was blind to the

discontent arising in the State. To the young, governments and

institutions are imperishable. Piero by his selfish whims had been

digging the grave of the Medici. From sovereignty they were flung into

exile. The palace was sacked, the beautiful gardens destroyed, and

Michelangelo, being regarded as one of the family, was obliged to flee

for his life. He arrived in Bologna penniless and friendless, and applied

to a sculptor for work. "What can you do?" the old sculptor asked. For

answer, Michelangelo silently took a crayon and sketched a human hand on

the wall. Marvelous were the lines! The master put his arms around the

boy and kissed his cheek.

This new-found friend took him into his house, and placed him at his own

table. Michelangelo was led into the library and workrooms, and told

that all was his to use as he liked.

The two years he remained at Bologna were a great benefit to the young

man. The close contact with cultured minds, and the encouragement he

received, spurred his spirit to increased endeavor. It was here that he

began that exquisite statue of a Cupid that passed for an antique, and

found its way into the cabinet of the Duchess of Mantua.

Before long the discovery was made that the work was done by a young man

only a little past twenty, and Cardinal San Giorgio sent a message

inviting him to Rome.

* * * * *

Rome had long been the Mecca of the boy's ambitions, and he joyously

accepted the invitation. At Rome he was lodged in the Vatican, and

surrounded by that world of the beautiful, he went seriously about his

life's work. The Church must have the credit for being the mother of

modern art. Not only did she furnish the incentive, but she supplied the

means. She gave security from the eternal grind of material wants and

offered men undying fame as reward for noble effort.

The letter of religion was nothing to Michelangelo, but the eternal

spirit of truth that broods over and beyond all forms and ceremonies

touched his soul. His heart was filled with the poetry of pagan times.

The gods of ancient Greece on high Olympus for him still sang and

feasted, still lived and loved.

But to the art of the Church he devoted his time and talents. He

considered himself a priest and servant to the cause of Christ.

Established at Rome in the palace of the Pope, Michelangelo felt secure.

He knew his power. He knew he could do work that would for generations

move men to tears, and in his prophetic soul was a feeling that his name

would be inseparably linked with Rome. His wanderings and buffetings were

things of the past--he was necessary to the Church, and his position was

now secure and safe. The favor of princes lasts but for a day, but the

Church is eternal. The Church should be his bride; to her and to her

alone would he give his passionate soul. Thus mused Michelangelo, aged

twenty-two. His first work at Rome was a statue of Bacchus, done it seems

for an exercise to give Cardinal Giorgio a taste of his quality, just as

he had drawn the human hand on the wall for his Bologna protector; for

this fine and lofty pride in his power was a thing that clung to

Michelangelo from rosy youth to hoary age.

The "Bacchus," which is now in the National Museum at Florence, added to

his reputation; and the little world of art, whose orbit was the Vatican,

anxiously awaited a more serious attempt, just as we crane our necks when

the great violinist about to play awakens expectation by a few

preliminary flourishes.

His first great work at Rome was the "Pieta." We see it today in Saint

Peter's at the first chapel to the right as we enter, in a long row of

commonplace marbles, in all its splendid beauty and strength. It

represents the Mother of Christ, supporting in her arms the dead body

just after it was lowered from the cross. In most of Michelangelo's work

there is a heroic quality in the figures and a muscular strength that in

a degree detracts from the spirit of sympathy that might otherwise come

over us. It is admiration that seizes us, not sympathy. But this early

work is the flower of Michelangelo's genius, round and full and complete.

The later work may be different, but it is not better.

When this group was unveiled in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-eight it was the

sensation of the year. Old and young, rich and poor, learned and

unlearned, flocked to see it, and the impression it made was most

profound. If the Catholic Church has figured on the influence of statuary

and painting on the superstitious, as has been tauntingly said, she has

reckoned well. The story of steadfast love and loyalty is masterly told

in that first great work of Michelangelo. The artist himself often

mingled with the crowds that surrounded his speaking marble, and the

people who knelt before it assured him by their reverence that his hand

had wrought well. And once he heard two able doctors disputing as to who

the artist was. They were lavish in their praise, and one insisted that

the work was done by the great sculptor at Bologna, and he named the

master who had befriended Michelangelo. The artist stood by and heard the

argument put forth that no mere youth could conceive such a work, much

less execute it.

That night he stole into the church and by the wan light of a lantern

carved his name deep on the girdle of the Virgin, and there do we read it

today. The pride of the artist, however, afterward took another turn, for

he never thereafter placed his name on a piece. "My work is unlike any

other--no lover of the beautiful can mistake it," he proudly said.

He worked away with untiring industry and the Church paid him well. But

many of his pieces have been carried from Rome, and as they were not

signed and scores of imitations sprang up, it can not always be

determined now what is his work and what not. He toiled alone, and

allowed no 'prentice hand to use the chisel, and unlike the sculptors of

our day, did not work from a clay model, but fell upon the block direct.

"I caught sight of Michelangelo at work, but could not approach for the

shower of chips," writes a visitor at Rome in the year Fifteen Hundred

One.

* * * * *

Perfect peace is what Michelangelo expected to find in the palace of the

Pope. Later he came to know that life is unrest, and its passage at best

a zigzag course, that only straightens to a direct line when viewed

across the years. If a man does better work than his fellows he must pay

the penalty. Personality is an offense.

In Rome there was a small army of painters and sculptors, each eager and

anxious for the sole favor of the powers. They quibbled, quarreled,

bribed, cajoled, and even fair women used their influence with cardinals

and bishops in favor of this artist or that.

Michelangelo was never a favorite in society; simpering beauty peeked at

him from behind feather fans and made jokes concerning his appearance.

Yet Walter Pater thought he found evidence that at this time Michelangelo

was beloved by a woman, and that the artist reproduced her face and form,

and indirectly pictured her in poems. In feature she was as plain as he;

but her mind matched his, and was of a cast too high and excellent to

allow him to swerve from his high ideals. Yet the love ended unhappily,

and in some mysterious way gave a tinge of melancholy and a secret spring

of sorrow to the whole long life of the artist.

Jealous competitors made their influence felt. Michelangelo found his

work relegated to corners and his supplies cut short.

At this time an invitation came from Florence for him to come and make

use of a gigantic block of marble that had lain there at the city gate,

blackening in the dirt, for a century.

The Florence that had banished him, now begged him to come back.

"Those who once leave Florence always sigh to return," says Dante. He

returned, and at once began work on the "David." The result was the

heroic statue that stood for three hundred years at the entrance to the

Palazzo Vecchio, only a hundred feet from where Savonarola was hanged and

burned. The "David" is now in the Belle d' Arte, and if the custodian

will allow you to climb up on a ladder you will see that the top of the

head shows the rough unfinished slab, just as it was taken from the

quarry. Any one but a master would have finished the work.

This magnificent statue took nearly two years to complete. As a study of

growing youth, boldly recognizing all that is awkward and immature, it

has never ceased to cause wordy warfare to reign in the camp of the

critics. "The feet, hands and head are all too large," the Athenians say.

But linger around the "old swimmin'-hole" any summer day, and you will

see tough, bony, muscular boys that might have served as a model for the

"David."

The heads of statues made by the Greeks are small in proportion to the

body. The "Gladiator" wears a Number Six hat, and the "Discobolus" one

size smaller; yet the figures represent men weighing one hundred eighty

pounds each. The Greeks aimed to satisfy the eye, and as the man is

usually seen clothed, they reduced the size of the head when they showed

the nude figure.

But Michelangelo was true to Nature, and the severest criticism ever

brought against him is that he is absolutely loyal to truth. He was the

first man ever to paint or model the slim, slender form of a child that

has left its round baby shape behind and is shooting up like a

lily-stalk. A nude, hardy boy six years old reveals ankle-bones, kneecap,

sharp hips, ribs, collar-bone and shoulder-blade with startling fidelity.

And why, being Nature's work, it is any less lovely than a condition of

soft, cushioned adipose, we must let the critics tell, but Michelangelo

thought it wasn't.

From Fourteen Hundred Ninety-six, when Michelangelo first arrived in

Rome, to Fifteen Hundred Four, he worked at nothing but sculpture. But

now a change came over his restless spirit, for an invitation had come

from the Gonfaloniere of Florence to decorate one of the rooms of the

Town Hall, in competition with Leonardo da Vinci--the only Leonardo.

He painted that strong composition showing Florentine soldiers bathing in

the Arno. The scene depicts the surprise of the warriors as a trumpet

sounds, calling them to battle with the enemy that is near at hand. The

subject was chosen because it gave opportunity for exploiting the

artist's marvelous knowledge of anatomy. Thirty figures are shown in

various attitudes. Nearly all are nude, and as they scramble up the bank,

buckling on their armor as they rush forward, eager for the fight, we see

the wild, splendid swell of muscle and warm, tense, pulsing flesh. As an

example of Michelangelo's consummate knowledge of form it was believed to

be his finest work.

But it did not last long; the jealous Bandinelli made a strong bid for

fame by destroying it. And thus do Bandinelli and Torrigiano go

clattering down the corridors of time hand in hand. Yet we know what the

picture was, for various men who saw it recorded their impressions; but

although many of the younger artists of Italy flocked to Florence to see

it, and many copied it, only one copy has come down to us--the one in the

collection of the Earl of Leicester, at Holkham.

So even beautiful Florence could not treat her gifted son with

impartiality, and when a call came from Pope Julius the Second, who had

been elected in Fifteen Hundred Three, to return to Rome, the summons was

promptly obeyed.

* * * * *

Julius was one of the most active and vigorous rulers the earth has

known. He had positive ideas on many subjects and like Napoleon "could do

the thinking for a world."

The first work he laid out for Michelangelo was a tomb, three stories

high, with walls eighteen feet thick at the base, surrounded with

numerous bas-reliefs and thirty heroic statues. It was to be a monument

on the order of those worked out by the great Rameses, only incorporating

the talent of Greece with that of ancient and modern Rome.

Michelangelo spent nearly a year at the Carrara quarries, getting out

materials and making plans for forwarding the scheme. But gradually it

came over him that the question of economy, which was deeply rooted in

the mind of Julius, forbade the completion of such a gigantic and costly

work. Had Julius given Michelangelo "carte-blanche" orders on the

treasury, and not meddled with the plans, this surpassing piece of

architecture might have found form. But the fiery Julius, aged

seventy-four, was influenced by the architect Bramante to demand from

Michelangelo a bill of expense and definite explanation as to details.

Very shortly after, Michelangelo quit work and sent a note to the Pope to

the effect that the tomb was in the mountain of Carrara, with many

beautiful statues, and if he wanted them he had better look for some one

to get them out. As for himself, his address was Florence.

The Pope sent couriers after him, one after another until five had been

dispatched, but neither pleading, bribes nor threats could induce him to

return.

As the scientist constructs the extinct animal from a thigh-bone, so we

can guess the grandeur of what the tomb might have been from the single

sample that has come down to us. The one piece of work that was completed

for this tomb is the statue of "Moses." If the reputation of Michelangelo

rested upon nothing else than this statue, it would be sufficient for

undying fame. The "Moses" probably is better known than any other piece

of Michelangelo's work. Copies of it exist in all important galleries;

there are casts of it in fifty different museums in America, and pictures

of it are numberless. There it stands in the otherwise obscure church of

Saint Pietro in Vincolo today, one hand grasping the flowing beard, and

the other sustaining the tables of the law--majesty, strength, wisdom

beaming in every line. As Mr. Symonds has said, "It reveals the power of

Pope Julius and Michelangelo fused into a Jove."

And so the messengers and messages were in vain, and even when the Pope

sent an order to the Gonfaloniere Soderini, the actual ruler of Florence,

to return the artist on pain of displeasure, the matter still

rested--Michelangelo said he was neither culprit nor slave, and would

live where he wished.

At length the matter got so serious that it threatened the political

peace of Florence, and in the goodly company of cardinals, bishops and

chief citizens, Michelangelo was induced to go to Bologna and make peace

with the Pope.

His first task now was a bronze statue of Julius, made, it is stated, as

a partial reproduction of the "Moses." Descriptions of it declare it was

even finer than the "Moses," but alas! it only endured four years, for a

mob evolved it into a cannon to shoot stones, and at the same time ousted

Julius from Bologna.

Michelangelo very naturally seconded the anathematization of the

Bolognese by Julius, not so much for the insult to the Pope as for the

wretched lack of taste they had shown in destroying a work of art. Had

they left the beautiful statue there on its pedestal, Bologna would now

on that account alone be a place of pilgrimage. The cannon they made is

lost and forgotten--buried deep in the sand by its own weight--for Mein

Herr Krupp can make cannon; but, woe betide us! who can make a statue

such as Michelangelo made?

Michelangelo now followed the Pope to Rome and began a work that none

other dare attempt, but which today excites the jealous admiration of

every artist soul who views it--the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Ghirlandajo, Perugino, Botticelli and Luca Signorelli had worked on the

walls with good effect, but to lie on one's back and paint overhead so as

to bring out a masterly effect when viewed from seventy feet below was

something they dare not attempt. Michelangelo put up his scaffolds, drew

designs, and employed the best fresco artists in Italy to fill in the

color. But as they used their brushes he saw that the designs became

enfeebled under their attempts--they did not grasp the conception--and in

wrath he discharged them all. He then obliterated all they had done, and

shutting out the ceiling from every one but himself, worked alone. Often

for days he would not leave the building, for fear some one would meddle

with the work. He drew up food by a string and slept on the scaffold

without changing his clothes.

After a year of intense application, no one but the artist had viewed the

work. The Pope now demanded that he should be allowed to see it. A part

of the scaffolding was struck, and the delight of the old Pope was

unbounded. This was in Fifteen Hundred Nine, but the completed work was

not shown to the public until All Souls' Day, Fifteen Hundred Twelve.

The guides at the Vatican tell us this ceiling was painted in twenty-two

months, but the letters of Michelangelo, recently published, show that he

worked on it over four years.

It contains over three hundred figures, all larger than life, and some

are fifteen feet long. A complete description of the work Michelangelo

did in this private chapel of the Pope would require a book, and in fact

several books have been written with this ceiling as a subject. The

technical obstacles to overcome in painting scenes and figures on an

overhead surface can only be appreciated by those who have tried it. We

can better appreciate the difficulties when we think that, in order even

to view the decorations with satisfaction, large mirrors must be used, or

one must lie prone on his back. In the ability to foreshorten and give

harmonious perspective--supplying the effect of motion, distance, upright

movement, coming toward you or moving away--all was worked out in this

historic chapel in a way that has excited the wondering admiration of

artists for three hundred years.

When the scaffolding was at last removed, the artist thought for a time

he had done his last work. The unnatural positions he had been obliged to

take had so strained the muscles of his neck that on the street he had

often to look straight up at the sky to rest himself, and things on a

straight line in front he could not distinguish. Eyes, muscles, hands,

refused to act normally.

"My life is there on the ceiling of the Chapel of Sixtus," he said.

He was then thirty-nine years old.

Fifty eventful years of life and work were yet before him.

* * * * *

When Pope Julius died, in Fifteen Hundred Thirteen, Leo the Tenth, a son

of Lorenzo the Magnificent, was called to take his place. We might

suppose that Leo would have remembered with pride the fact that it was

his father who gave Michelangelo his first start in life, and have

treated the great artist in the way Lorenzo would, were he then alive.

But the retiring, abstemious habits of Michelangelo did not appeal to

Leo. The handsome and gracious Raphael was his favorite, and at the

expense of Michelangelo, Raphael was petted, feted and advanced. Hence

arose that envious rivalry between these two great men, which reveals

each in a light far from pleasant--just as if Rome were not big enough

for both. The pontificate of Leo the Tenth lasted just ten years. On

account of the lack of encouragement Michelangelo received, it seems the

most fruitless season of his whole life.

Clement the Seventh, another member of the Medici family, succeeded Leo.

Clement was too sensible of Michelangelo's merit to allow him to rust out

his powers in petty tasks. He conceived the idea of erecting a chapel to

be attached to the church of San Lorenzo, at Florence, to be the final

resting-place of the great members of the Medici family. Michelangelo

planned and built the chapel and for it wrought six great pieces of art.

These are the statues of Lorenzo de Medici, father of Catherine de Medici

(who was such a large, black blot on the page of history); a statue of

Giuliano de Medici (whose name lives now principally because Michelangelo

made this statue); and the four colossal reclining figures known as

"Night," "Morning," "Dawn" and "Twilight." This chapel is now open to the

public, and no visitor at Florence should miss seeing it.

The statue of Lorenzo must ever rank as one of the world's masterpieces.

The Italians call it "Il Pensiero." The sullen strength of the attitude

gives one a vague ominous impulse to get away. Some one has said that it

fulfils Milton's conception of Satan brooding over his plans for the ruin

of mankind.

In Fifteen Hundred Twenty-seven, while Michelangelo was working on the

chapel, Florence was attacked and sacked by the Constable de Bourbon. The

Medici family was again expelled, and from the leisurely decoration of a

church in honor of the gentle Christ, the artist was called upon to build

barricades to protect his native city. His ingenuity as an engineer was

as consummate as his exquisite idea of harmony, and for nine months the

city was defended.

Through treachery the enemy was then allowed to enter and Michelangelo

fled. Riots and wars seem as natural as thunderstorms to the Latin

people; but after a year the clouds rolled by, Michelangelo was pardoned,

and went back to his work of beautifying the chapel of San Lorenzo.

In Fifteen Hundred Thirty-four, Pope Clement was succeeded by Paul the

Third. Paul was seventy years old, but the vigor of his mind was very

much like that of the great Julius. His first desire was to complete the

decoration of the Sistine Chapel, so that the entire interior should

match the magnificence of the ceiling, and to the task he summoned

Michelangelo.

The great artist hesitated. The ceiling was his supreme work as a

painter, and he knew down deep in his heart that he could not hope to

surpass it, and the risk of not equaling it was too great for him to run.

The matter was too delicately personal to explain--only an artist could

understand.

Michelangelo made excuses to the Pope and declared he had forgotten how

to use a brush, that his eyesight was bad, and that the only thing he

could do was to carve.

But Paul was not to be turned aside, and reluctantly Michelangelo went

back to the Sistine, that he had left over twenty years before.

Then it was that he painted "The Last Judgment" on the wall of the upper

end of the chapel. Hamerton calls this the grandest picture ever

executed, at the same time acknowledging its faults in taste. But it must

be explained that the design was the conception of Julius, endorsed by

Pope Paul, and it surely mirrors the spiritual qualities (or lack of

them) in these men better than any biography possibly could.

The merciful Redeemer is shown as a muscular athlete, full of anger and

the spirit of revenge--proud, haughty, fierce. The condemned are ranged

before him--a confused mass of naked figures, suspended in all attitudes

of agony and terrible foreboding. The "saved" are ranged on one side, and

do not seem to be of much better intellectual and spiritual quality than

the damned; very naturally they are quite pleased to think that it is the

others who are damned, and not they. The entire conception reveals that

masterly ability to portray the human figure in every attitude of fear or

passion. A hundred years after the picture was painted, some dignitary

took it into his head that portions of the work were too "daring"; and a

painter was set at work robing the figures. His fussy attempts are quite

apparent.

Michelangelo's next work was to decorate the Paolina Chapel. As in his

last work on the Sistine, he was constantly interrupted and advised and

criticized. As he worked, cardinals, bishops and young artists watched

and suggested, but still the "Conversion of Saint Paul" and the

"Crucifixion of Saint Peter," in the Paolina, must ever rank as masterly

art.

The frescoes in the Paolina Chapel occupied seven years and ended the

great artist's career as a painter. He was seventy-three years old.

Pope Paul then made him Chief Architect of Saint Peter's. Michelangelo

knew the difficulties to be encountered--the bickerings, jealousies and

criticisms that were inseparable from the work--and was only moved to

accept the place on Pope Paul's declaration that no one else could do as

well, and that it was the will of God. Michelangelo looked upon the

performance as a duty and accepted the task, refusing to take any

recompense for his services. He continued to discharge the duties of the

office under the direction of Popes Paul, Pius the Fourth and Pius the

Fifth. In all he worked under the pontificates of seven different popes.

The dome of Saint Peter's, soaring to the skies, is his finest monument.

The self-sustaining, airy quality in this stupendous structure hushes the

beholder into silence; and yet that same quality of poise, strength and

sufficiency marks all of the work of this colossus, whether it be

painting, architecture or sculpture. America has paid tribute to

Michelangelo's genius by reproducing the dome of Saint Peter's over the

Capitol at Washington.

Michelangelo died at Rome, aged eighty-nine, working and planning to the

last. His sturdy frame showed health in every part, and he ceased to

breathe just as a clock runs down. His remains were secretly taken to

Florence and buried in the church of Santa Croce. A fine bust marks the

spot, but the visitor can not help feeling a regret that the dust of this

marvelous man does not rest beneath the zenith of the dome of Saint

Peter's at Rome.

* * * * *

Sitting calmly in this quiet corner, and with closed eyes, viewing

Michelangelo's life as a whole, the impression is one of heroic strength,

battling with fierce passions, and becoming victor over them by working

them up into art. The mold of the man was masculine, and the subdued

sorrow that flavors his whole career never degenerates into sickly

sentimentality or repining.

The sonnets of Michelangelo, recently given to the world, were written

when he was nearly seventy years old. Several of the sonnets are directly

addressed to Vittoria Colonna, and no doubt she inspired the whole

volume. A writer of the time has mentioned his accidentally finding

Michelangelo and Vittoria Colonna seated side by side in the dim twilight

of a deserted church, "talking soft and low." Deserted churches have ever

been favorite trysting-places for lovers; and one is glad for this little

glimpse of quiet and peace in the tossing, troubled life-journey of this

tireless man. In fact, the few years of warm friendship with Vittoria

Colonna is a charmed and temperate space, without which the struggle and

unrest would be so ceaseless as to be appalling. Sweet, gentle and

helpful was their mutual friendship. At this period of Michelangelo's

life we know that the vehemence of his emotions subsided, and tranquility

and peace were his for the rest of his life, such as he had never known

before.

The woman who stepped out of high society and won the love of this stern

yet gentle old man must have been of a mental and spiritual quality to

command our highest praise. The world loves Vittoria Colonna because she

loved Michelangelo, and led him away from strife and rivalry and toil.