Sometimes in a crowd of people one sees a tall man, who stands head and
shoulders higher than any one else, and who can look far over the heads
of ordinary-sized mortals.
'What a giant!' we exclaim, as we gaze up and see him towering above us.
So among the crowd of painters travelling along the road to Fame we see
above the rest a giant, a greater and more powerful genius than any
that came before or after him. When we hear the name of Michelangelo we
picture to ourselves a great rugged, powerful giant, a veritable son of
thunder, who, like the Titans of old, bent every force of Nature to his
will.
This Michelangelo was born at Caprese among the mountains of Casentino.
His father, Lodovico Buonarroti, was podesta or mayor of Caprese, and
came of a very ancient and honourable family, which had often
distinguished itself in the service of Florence.
Now the day on which the baby was born happened to be not only a
Sunday, but also a morning when the stars were especially favourable.
So the wise men declared that some heavenly virtue was sure to belong
to a child born at that particular time, and without hesitation
Lodovico determined to call his little son Michael Angelo, after the
archangel Michael. Surely that was a name splendid enough to adorn any
great career.
It happened just then that Lodovico's year of office ended, and so he
returned with his wife and child to Florence. He had a property at
Settignano, a little village just outside the city, and there he
settled down.
Most of the people of the village were stone-cutters, and it was to the
wife of one of these labourers that little Michelangelo was sent to be
nursed. So in after years the great master often said that if his mind
was worth anything, he owed it to the clear pure mountain air in which
he was born, just as he owed his love of carving stone to the
unconscious influence of his nurse, the stone-cutter's wife.
As the boy grew up he clearly showed in what direction his interest
lay. At school he was something of a dunce at his lessons, but let him
but have a pencil and paper and his mind was wide awake at once. Every
spare moment he spent making sketches on the walls of his father's
house.
But Lodovico would not hear of the boy becoming an artist. There were
many children to provide for, and the family was not rich. It would be
much more fitting that Michelangelo should go into the silk and woollen
business and learn to make money.
But it was all in vain to try to make the boy see the wisdom of all
this. Scold as they might, he cared for nothing but his pencil, and
even after he was severely beaten he would creep back to his beloved
work. How he envied his friend Francesco who worked in the shop of
Master Ghirlandaio! It was a joy even to sit and listen to the tales of
the studio, and it was a happy day when Francesco brought some of the
master's drawings to show to his eager friend.
Little by little Lodovico began to see that there was nothing for it
but to give way to the boy's wishes, and so at last, when he was
fourteen years old, Michelangelo was sent to study as a pupil in the
studio of Master Ghirlandaio.
It was just at the time when Ghirlandaio was painting the frescoes of
the chapel in Santa Maria Novella, and Michelangelo learned many
lessons as he watched the master at work, or even helped with the less
important parts.
But it was like placing an eagle in a hawk's nest. The young eagle
quickly learned to soar far higher than the hawk could do, and ere long
began to 'sweep the skies alone.'
It was not pleasant for the great Florentine master, whose work all men
admired, to have his drawings corrected by a young lad, and perhaps
Michelangelo was not as humble as he should have been. In the strength
of his great knowledge he would sometimes say sharp and scornful
things, and perhaps he forgot the respect due from pupil to master.
Be that as it may, he left Ghirlandaio's studio when he was sixteen
years old, and never had another master. Thenceforward he worked out
his own ideas in his giant strength, and was the pupil of none.
The boy Francesco was still his friend, and together they went to study
in the gardens of San Marco, where Lorenzo the Magnificent had
collected many statues and works of art. Here was a new field for
Michelangelo. Without needing a lesson he began to copy the statues in
terra-cotta, and so clever was his work that Lorenzo was delighted with
it.
'See, now, what thou canst do with marble,' he said. 'Terra-cotta is
but poor stuff to work in.'
Michelangelo had never handled a chisel before, but he chipped and cut
away the marble so marvellously that life seemed to spring out of the
stone. There was a marble head of an old faun in the garden, and this
Michelangelo set himself to copy. Such a wonderful copy did he make
that Lorenzo was amazed. It was even better than the original, for the
boy had introduced ideas of his own and had made the laughing mouth a
little open to show the teeth and the tongue of the faun. Lorenzo
noticed this, and turned with a smile to the young artist.
'Thou shouldst have remembered that old folks never keep all their
teeth, but that some of them are always wanting,' he said.
Of course Lorenzo meant this as a joke, but Michelangelo immediately
took his hammer and struck out several of the teeth, and this too
pleased Lorenzo greatly.
There was nothing that the Magnificent ruler loved so much as genius,
so Michelangelo was received into the palace and made the companion of
Lorenzo's sons. Not only did good fortune thus smile upon the young
artist, but to his great astonishment Lodovico too found that benefits
were showered upon him, all for the sake of his famous young son.
These years of peace, and calm, steady work had the greatest effect on
Michelangelo's work, and he learned much from the clever, brilliant men
who thronged Lorenzo's court. Then, too, he first listened to that
ringing voice which strove to raise Florence to a sense of her sins,
when Savonarola preached his great sermons in the Duomo. That teaching
sank deep into the heart of Michelangelo, and years afterwards he left
on the walls of the Sistine Chapel a living echo of those thundering
words.
Like all the other artists, he would often go to study Masaccio's
frescoes in the little chapel of the Carmine. There was quite a band of
young artists working there, and very soon they began to look with
envious feelings at Michelangelo's drawings, and their jealousy grew as
his fame increased. At last, one day, a youth called Torriggiano could
bear it no longer, and began to make scornful remarks, and worked
himself up into such a rage that he aimed a blow at Michelangelo with
his fist, which not only broke his nose but crushed it in such a way
that he was marked for life. He had had a rough, rugged look before
this, but now the crooked nose gave him almost a savage expression
which he never lost.
Changes followed fast after this time of quiet. Lorenzo the Magnificent
died, and his son, the weak Piero de Medici, tried to take his place as
ruler of Florence. For a time Michelangelo continued to live at the
court of Piero, but it was not encouraging to work for a master whose
foolish taste demanded statues to be made out of snow, which, of
course, melted at the first breath of spring.
Michelangelo never forgot all that he owed to Lorenzo, and he loved the
Medici family, but his sense of justice made him unable to take their
part when trouble arose between them and the Florentine people. So when
the struggle began he left Florence and went first to Venice and then
to Bologna. From afar he heard how the weak Piero had been driven out
of the city, but more bitter still was his grief when the news came
that the solemn warning voice of the great preacher Savonarola was
silenced for ever.
Then a great longing to see his beloved city again filled his heart,
and he returned to Florence.
Botticelli was a sad, broken-down old man now, and Ghirlandaio was also
growing old, but Florence was still rich in great artists. Leonardo da
Vinci, Perugino, and Filippino Lippi were all there, and men talked of
the coming of an even greater genius, the young Raphael of Urbino.
There happened just then to be at the works of the Cathedral of St.
Mary of the Flowers a huge block of marble which no one knew how to
use. Leonardo da Vinci had been invited to carve a statue out of it,
but he had refused to try, saying he could do nothing with it. But when
the marble was offered to Michelangelo his eye kindled and he stood for
a long time silent before the great white block. Through the outer
walls of stone he seemed to see the figure imprisoned in the marble,
and his giant strength and giant mind longed to go to work to set that
figure free.
And when the last covering of marble was chipped and cut away there
stood out a magnificent figure of the young David. Perhaps he is too
strong and powerful for our idea of the gentle shepherd-lad, but he is
a wonderful figure, and Goliath might well have trembled to meet such a
young giant.
People flocked to see the great statue, and many were the discussions
as to where it should be placed. Artists were never tired of giving
their opinion, and even of criticising the work. 'It seems to me,' said
one, 'that the nose is surely much too large for the face. Could you
not alter that?'
Michelangelo said nothing, but he mounted the scaffolding and pretended
to chip away at the nose with his chisel. Meanwhile he let drop some
marble chips and dust upon the head of the critic beneath. Then he came
down.
'Is that better?' he asked gravely.
'Admirable!' answered the artist. 'You have given it life.'
Michelangelo smiled to himself. How wise people thought themselves when
they often knew nothing about what they were talking! But the critic
was satisfied, and did not notice the smile.
It would fill a book to tell of all the work which Michelangelo did;
but although he began so much, a great deal of it was left unfinished.
If he had lived in quieter times, his work would have been more
complete; but one after another his patrons died, or changed their
minds, and set him to work at something else before he had finished
what he was doing.
The great tomb which Pope Julius had ordered him to make was never
finished, although Michelangelo drew out all the designs for it, and
for forty years was constantly trying to complete it. The Pope began to
think it was an evil omen to build his own tomb, so he made up his mind
that Michelangelo should instead set to work to fresco the ceiling of
the Sistine Chapel. In vain did the great sculptor repeat that he knew
but little of the art of painting.
'Didst thou not learn to mix colours in the studio of Master
Ghirlandaio?' said Julius. 'Thou hast but to remember the lessons he
taught thee. And, besides, I have heard of a great drawing of a
battle-scene which thou didst make for the Florentines, and have seen
many drawings of thine, one especially: a terrible head of a furious
old man, shrieking in his rage, such as no other hand than thine could
have drawn. Is there aught that thou canst not do if thou hast but the
will?'
And the Pope was right; for as soon as Michelangelo really made up his
mind to do the work, all difficulties seemed to vanish.
It was no easy task he had undertaken. To stand upright and cover vast
walls with painting is difficult enough, but Michelangelo was obliged
to lie flat upon a scaffolding and paint the ceiling above him. Even to
look up at that ceiling for ten minutes makes the head and neck ache
with pain, and we wonder how such a piece of work could ever have been
done.
No help would the master accept, and he had no pupils. Alone he worked,
and he could not bear to have any one near him looking on. In silence
and solitude he lay there painting those marvellous frescoes of the
story of the Creation to the time of Noah. Only Pope Julius himself
dared to disturb the master, and he alone climbed the scaffolding and
watched the work.
'When wilt thou have finished?' was his constant cry. 'I long to show
thy work to the world.'
'Patience, patience,' said Michelangelo. 'Nothing is ready yet.'
'But when wilt thou make an end?' asked the impatient old man.
'When I can,' answered the painter.
Then the Pope lost his temper, for he was not accustomed to be answered
like this.
'Dost thou want to be thrown head first from the scaffold?' he asked
angrily. 'I tell thee that will happen if the work is not finished at
once.'
So, incomplete as they were, Michelangelo was obliged to uncover the
frescoes that all Rome might see them. It was many years before the
ceiling was finished or the final fresco of the Last Judgment painted
upon the end wall.
Michelangelo lived to be a very old man, and his life was lonely and
solitary to the end. The one woman he loved, Vittoria Colonna, had
died, and with her death all brightness for him had faded. Although he
worked so much in Rome, it was always Florence that he loved. There it
was that he began the statues for the Chapel of the Medici, and there,
too, he helped to build the defences of San Miniato when the Medici
family made war upon the City of Flowers.
So when the great man died in Rome it seemed but fit that his body
should be carried back to his beloved Florence. There it now rests in
the Church of Santa Croce, while his giant works, his great and
terrible thoughts breathed out into marble or flashed upon the walls of
the Sistine Chapel, live on for ever, filling the minds of men with a
great awe and wonder as they gaze upon them.