On the 17th of February, 1563, died Michael Angelo Buonarroti, as an
artist and a man one of the most eminent ornaments of the times wherein
he lived. A bare record of his decease is not sufficient. Thousands of
readers have heard his name; some know his works; few know his
character.
Michael Angelo was born in Tuscany, on the 6th of March, 1474.
Fascinated by art at an early age, he executed a facsimile of a picture
in his thirteenth year, which he presented to the owner instead of the
original, who did not discover the deception till a confidant of
Michael’s began to laugh. He afterwards studied under Ghirlandaïo, and
at fifteen drew an outline round a drawing by his master which showed
its defects and his own superiority. Studying in a garden supplied by
the celebrated Lorenzo de Medici with antique statues and other forms,
he saw a student modelling figures in clay, and emulous of excelling in
the same branch, begged a piece of marble, and the use of implements,
from one of the workmen employed in making ornaments for Lorenzo’s
library. With these he imitated an old head, or mask, of a laughing
faun, supplying the deficiencies effected by time, by his own invention,
and making other additions. Lorenzo saw it, and good humouredly
remarked, “You have restored to the old faun all his teeth, but don’t
you know that a man of such an age has generally lost some?” As soon as
Lorenzo departed, Michael broke a tooth from the upper jaw, and drilled
a hole in the gum to denote that it had decayed. Lorenzo at his next
visit was delighted by this docility, and to encourage Michael assigned
him an apartment in his palace for a workroom, seated him at his table,
and introduced him to the men of rank and talent who daily resorted to
Lorenzo, as the munificent patron of learning and the arts. He justified
this distinction by labouring with intense ardour. At seventeen years of
age he sculptured in brass the battle of Hercules with the Centaurs; a
work of which he said at seventy, “When I see it now, I repent that I
did not entirely devote myself to sculpture.” His reputation increased
with his application, for application brought him nearer to excellence.
By the merit of a sleeping cupid from his chisel, which was stained and
buried by a dealer to be dug up as an antique, and purchased by cardinal
Giorgio under the persuasion that it was one, he was invited to Rome.
On the elevation of Julius II. to the pontificate he desired a mausoleum
for his remains, and commissioned Michael Angelo to execute it. The
design was magnificent and gratified Julius. He inquired the cost of
completing it, “A hundred thousand crowns,” answered Michael; the pope
replied, “It may be twice that sum,” and gave orders accordingly. The
pontiff further determined on rebuilding the cathedral of St. Peter on a
plan of corresponding grandeur wherein the mausoleum should be erected.
It was for the prosecution of this vast structure for Romish worship,
that Leo X. sold the indulgencies against which Luther inveighed, and by
establishing the right of private judgment shook the papacy to its
foundations. While Michael was engaged on the mausoleum, Julius caused a
covered bridge to be erected by which he might pass from the Vatican to
Michael’s study unobserved. Envy was excited in the papal dependents by
this distinction, and insinuated so much to Michael’s disadvantage that
his unrestrained visits to the Vatican were suddenly interrupted. “I
have an order not to let you enter,” said the groom of the chamber: a
prelate inquired if he knew to whom he spoke; “Well enough,” answered
the officer, “and it is my duty to obey my orders.” “Tell the pope,”
said Michael indignantly, “if he wants me, he shall have to seek me in
another place.” He returned home, ordered his servants to sell his
furniture immediately, and follow him to Florence, and the same evening
left Rome.
The pope sent couriers to force his return, but before he was overtaken
he had reached a territory wherein the papal mandate was without
authority. “Immediately return to Rome on pain of our disgrace,” was the
pope’s letter. Michael’s answer was, that having been expelled his
holiness’s antichamber without having merited disgrace, he had left Rome
to preserve his character, and that he would not return; for if he had
been deemed worthless one day, he could be little valued the next,
unless by a caprice that would neither be creditable to the pope nor to
himself. Having despatched the pope’s couriers with this letter, he
proceeded to Florence. To the government of this city Julius wrote: “We
know the humour of men of his stamp; if he will return, we promise he
shall be neither meddled with nor offended, and he shall be reinstated
in the apostolic grace.” Michael was unmoved. A second and a third
arrived, each more impressive, and Michael remained unchanged; but the
Gonfaloniere of Florence, to whom these epistles were addressed, became
alarmed and expostulated: “You have done by the pope what the king of
France would not have presumed to do; he must be no longer trifled with;
we cannot make war against his holiness to risk the safety of the state;
and therefore you must obey his will.” Thus remonstrated with, Michael
entertained a proposal for entering into the service of the sultan
Bajazet II., and building a bridge from Constantinople to Pera. The
sultan had even sent him letters of credit on Florence and all the
cities on his way; and appointed escorts of Janizaries to await his
arrival on the Turkish frontiers, and conduct him, by whatever road he
pleased, to the Mahometan capital. To divert Michael Angelo from this
course, the Gonfaloniere urged that it was better to die under the
pope’s displeasure than to live in the Turkish service; and that if he
were apprehensive for his security at Rome, the government of Florence
would send him thither as its ambassador, in which character his person
would be inviolable. Michael, urged by these and other reasons,
relented, and met the pope at Bologna, a city which had been betrayed to
the papal arms, and taken possession of by Julius in great pomp just
before Michael’s arrival. The cardinal Soderini, brother to the
Gonfaloniere, was to have introduced Michael to the pope, but
indisposition constrained him to depute that office to a prelate of his
household. The pope askanced his eye at Michael with displeasure, and
after a short pause saluted him, “Instead of your coming to us, you seem
to have expected that we should attend upon you.” Michael answered, that
his error proceeded from too hastily feeling a disgrace he was
unconscious of having merited, and hoped his holiness would pardon what
had passed. The officious prelate who had introduced him, not thinking
this apology sufficient, observed to the pope, that great allowance was
to to be made for such men, who were ignorant of every thing but their
art. “Thou,” answered the pontiff, “hast vilified him; I have not: thou
art no man of genius but an ignorant fellow; get out of my sight.” The
prelate was pushed from the room. The pope gave Michael his benediction,
restored him to full favour, and desired him not to quit Bologna till he
had given him a commission for some work. In a few days, Michael
received an order from Julius for a colossal statue of himself in
bronze. While it was modelling, the pope’s visits to Michael were as
frequent as formerly. This statue was grand, austere, and majestic: the
pope familiarly asked if the extended arm was bestowing a blessing or a
curse upon the people. Michael answered that the action only implied
hostility to disobedience, and inquired whether he would not have a book
put into the other hand. “No,” said the pope, “a sword would be more
adapted to my character, I am no book-man.” Julius quitted Bologna, and
left Michael Angelo there to complete the statue; he effected it in
sixteen months, and having placed it in the façade of the church of St.
Petronio, returned to Rome. This product of Michael’s genius was of
short existence. The prosperity of Venice under united councils, and a
prudent administration of its affairs, excited the hatred of the
European powers. An infamous league was entered into at Cambray for the
ruin of the Venetian government, and the partition of its territory;
Julius became a party to this alliance, with the hope of adding Romagna
to the dominions of the church, and retaining possession of Bologna.
Effecting his object, he withdrew from the league; and by a change of
policy, and a miscalculation of his strength, quarrelled with Louis XII.
who had assisted him in subjecting Bologna. That monarch retook the
city, restored the Bentivoglio family, which had been displaced by the
papal arms, and the populace throwing down Michael’s statue of the pope,
dragged it through the streets, and broke it to pieces. With the
mutilated fragments the duke of Ferrara cast a cannon, which he named
Julio, but preserved the head entire, as an invaluable specimen of art,
although it bore the countenance of his implacable enemy.
Michael Angelo resumed Julius’s mausoleum, but the pontiff had changed
his mind, and sorely against Michael’s inclination, engaged him to
decorate the ceilings and walls of the Sixtine chapel, with paintings
in fresco, to the memory of Sixtus VI., the pope’s uncle. For the
purpose of commencing these paintings, ropes were let through the
ceiling to suspend the scaffolding. Michael asked Bramante the
architect, who had arranged this machinery, how the ceiling was to be
completed if the ropes were suffered to remain? The answer did not
obviate the objection. Michael represented to the pope that the defect
would have been avoided if Bramante had better understood the
application of mechanical principles, and obtained the pope’s permission
to take down the inefficient contrivance and erect another. This he
effected; and his machinery was so ample and complete, that Bramante
himself adopted it in the building of St. Peter’s. Michael gave this
invention to the poor man who was his carpenter in constructing it, and
who realized a fortune from the commissions he received for others on
the same plan. To indulge his curiosity, and watch the progress of the
work, the pope ascended the ladder to the top of Michael’s platform
almost daily. He was of an impetuous temper, and impatient to see the
general effect from below before the ceiling was half completed:
Michael, yielding to his impatience, struck the scaffold; and so eager
were men of taste to obtain a view, that before the dust from displacing
the machinery had settled, they rushed into the chapel to gratify their
curiosity. Julius was satisfied: but Michael’s rivals, and Bramante
among the rest, secretly solicited the pope to intrust the completion of
the cartoons to Raphael. Michael had intimation of these wiles, and in
the presence of Bramante himself, claimed and obtained of the pope the
entire execution of his own designs. He persevered with incessant
assiduity. In twenty months from the commencement of “this stupendous
monument of human genius” it was completed, and on All Saints’ day,
1512, the pontiff himself opened the chapel in person with a splendid
high mass, to crowds of devotees and artists. Whatever Julius conceived
he hastened with the ardour of youth; he was old, and knowing that he
had no time to spare, he had so harassed the progress of these cartoons
by his eagerness, that the scaffolding was struck before they were
thoroughly completed; yet, as there was not any thing of importance to
be added, Michael determined not to undergo the labour of reerecting the
machinery. The pope loved splendour, and wished them ornamented with
gold. Michael answered, “In those days gold was not worn, and the
characters I have painted were neither rich, nor desirous of riches;
they were holy men with whom gold was an object of contempt.”
Julius soon afterwards died; and the execution of his mausoleum was
frustrated by Leo X., to whose patronage Michael was little indebted. He
finished his celebrated cartoon of the Last Judgment, for the east end
of the Sistine chapel, in 1541. On Christmas-day in that year the chapel
was opened, and residents in the most distant parts of Italy thronged to
see it. In the following year, he painted the Conversion of St. Paul,
and the Crucifixion of St. Peter, on the walls of the chapel Paolina. In
1546, when he was 72 years old, the reigning pope nominated him
architect of St. Peter’s. Michael would only accept the appointment on
the condition that he received no salary; that he should have
uncontrolled power over the subordinate officers; and be allowed to
alter the original design conformably to his own judgment. It was
necessary to adapt and contract that design to the impoverished state of
the papal exchequer. Though numerous impediments were purposely opposed
to his progress with this splendid edifice, he advanced it rapidly; and
before he was 74, he had completed the Farnese palace, built a palace on
the hill of the Capitol for the senator of Rome, erected two galleries
for sculpture and painting on the same site, and threw up a flight of
steps to the church of the convent of Araceli--an edifice remarkable for
its occupying the highest part of the hill whereon the temple of Jupiter
Capitolinus formerly stood, and, more especially, for Gibbon having
mused there, while listening to the vespers of the bare-footed friars,
and conceived the first thought of writing his “History of the Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire.”
In 1550, Julius III. succeeded to the pontificate, and Michael to new
vexations. His rivals endeavoured to displace him for unfitness in the
conduct of St. Peter’s. A committee of architects was appointed to
investigate the charge, in the presence of the pope. The committee
alleged that the church wanted light; and they furnished the cardinals
Salviati and Marcello Cervino with plans, to show that Michael had
walled up a recess for three chapels, and made only three insufficient
windows. “Over those windows are to be placed three others,” answered
Michael. “You never said that before,” answered one of the cardinals. To
this Michael indignantly replied, “I am not, neither will I ever be,
obliged to tell your eminence, or any one else, what I ought or am
disposed to do; it is your office to see that money be provided, to keep
off the thieves, and to leave the building of St. Peter’s to me.” The
pope decided in Michael’s favour. From that time Julius prosecuted no
work in painting or sculpture without Michael’s advice; and his
estimation of him was so high, that he told him at a public audience,
that if he died before himself, he should be embalmed, and kept in his
own palace, that his body might be as permanent as his works. Soon after
the death of Julius III. in 1555, Paul IV., the new pontiff, expressed
his displeasure of the academical figures in the Last Judgment, and
intimated an intention to “reform” the picture. Michael sent this
message to him: “What the pope wishes, is very little, and may be easily
effected; for if his holiness will only ‘reform’ the opinions of
mankind, the picture will be reformed of itself.” This holy father
plunged Italy in blood by his vindictive passions; and while war ravaged
its plains, Michael, at the age of 82, retreated for a while to a
monastery. On coming from his seclusion, he wrote to Vasari, “I have had
a great deal of pleasure in visiting the monks in the mountains of
Spoleto: indeed, though I am now returned to Rome, I have left the
better half of myself with them; for in these troublesome times, to say
the truth, there is no happiness but in such retirement.” The death of
this pope filled Rome with “tumultuous joy,” and the papal chair was
ascended by Pius IV., in whose pontificate, wearied and reduced by the
incessant attacks and artifices of his enemies, Michael, at the age of
87, resigned his office of architect to St. Peter’s; but the pope,
informed of the frauds which had occasioned it, reinstated him, and to
induce him to retain the appointment, ensured strict adherence to his
designs until the building should be completed.
At the age of eighty-nine a slow fever indicated Michael Angelo’s
approaching decease. His nephew, Leonardo Buonarrotti, was sent for; but
not arriving, and the fever increasing, he ordered the persons who were
in the house into his chamber, and in the presence of them and his
physicians uttered this verbal will:--“My soul I resign to God, my body
to the earth, and my worldly possessions to my nearest of kin:” then
admonishing his attendants, he said, “In your passage through this life,
remember the sufferings of Jesus Christ.”
Thus died one of the greatest artists, and one of the noblest men of
modern times. The ceremony of his funeral was conducted at Rome with
great pomp, but his remains were removed within a month to Florence, and
finally deposited in the church of Santa Croce at Florence. In 1720, the
vault was opened; the body retained its original form, habited in the
costume of the ancient citizens of Florence, in a gown of green velvet,
and slippers of the same.
According to his English biographer, Mr. Duppa, Michael Angelo was of
the middle stature, bony in make, rather spare, and broad shouldered;
his complexion good, his forehead square and “somewhat” projecting; his
eyes hazel and rather small; his brows with little hair; his nose flat
from a blow given him in his youth by Torrigiano; his lips thin; his
cranium large in proportion to his face. Within these pages a detail of
his works will not be sought. The few particulars mentioned are from Mr.
Duppa’s quarto life, where many of them are enumerated, and outline
sketches of some of them are engraved.
The portrait of Michael Angelo selected by Mr. Duppa, to precede his
life, is engraved by Bartolozzi, from a profile in Gori’s edition of
“Condivi’s Memoir.” He says its original was a drawing supposed to have
been made by Julio Bonasoni, from which Mr. Duppa presumes that artist
to have etched a print bearing his name, and dated in the year 1546.
There is an engraved portrait dated 1545, without any artist’s name
attached. Mr. Duppa says, “of these _two_ prints Bonasoni’s is much the
best; and although the second has a prior date, it appears to have been
engraved from the same original.” That “original,” whatever it was, is
no longer in existence. Certainly Bonasoni’s print is better as a
_print_, for it has the grace of that master’s point, yet as a
_likeness_ the print of 1545 seems to the editor of the _Every-day Book_
to have a stronger claim to regard; not because it is of prior date, but
because it has more decisive marks of character. He conjectures, that
the anonymous print of 1545 may have been executed from a bust or
statue of Michael. There is a laboured precision in the contour, and a
close mannered marking of the features, that denote the “original” to
have been marble. The conjecture is strengthened by the fact, that the
eye in the anonymous print is without an iris; a deficiency which exists
in no engraved portraits unless they are executed from a marble
“original.” While _correctness_ seems to have been the aim of the
engraver in this anonymous print, elegance appears to have been the
object of the painter Bonasoni in his etching. Bonasoni’s portrait is
comparatively common; the anonymous one is rare; a copy of it from the
print in the editor’s possession, is executed on wood, by Mr. T.
Williams, and placed under the reader’s eye.
[Illustration: MICHAEL·ANGELVS·BVONAROTVS]
Michael Angelo was remarkable for nothing but his genius. He slept
little, and was abstemious; he was accustomed to say, “However rich I
may have been, I have always lived as a poor man.” He obtained the
reputation of being proud and odd; for he found little pleasure in the
society of men from whom he could not learn, or whom he could not teach.
He was pleased by originality of character in whatever rank he met with
it; and cultivated in mature life the society of persons respected for
their talents and learning. When young he endeavoured to acquaint
himself with every branch of knowledge that could contribute to his
improvement. In common with all who have obtained a deserved eminence,
he was never satisfied with his performances; if he perceived an
imperfection that might have been avoided, he either threw aside the
work in disgust, or commenced it anew.
He continued to study to the end of his life. In his old age the
cardinal Farnese found him walking in solitude amidst the ruins of the
Coliseum and expressed his surprise. Michael answered, “I go yet to
school that I may continue to learn.” He lived much alone. His great
excess seems to have been indulgence in reflection, and the labours of
his profession. The power of generalizing facts, and realizing what he
conceived, he drew from this habit: without it some men have become
popular for a time, but no man ever became great.
* * * * *
Grandeur was Michael Angelo’s prevailing sentiment. In his architecture
of St. Peter’s, he seems to have been limited by the impossibility of
arriving to excellence without adopting the ancient styles, and the
necessity of attempting something great without them; and to speak with
the severity of uncompromising truth he failed. Of what else he did in
that science, and he did much, for which he obtained deserved renown,
there is neither room nor occasion to speak. In painting and sculpture,
if he did not always succeed in embodying his feelings, yet he succeeded
more frequently than any other artist since the revival of arts; and, as
his power was greater than theirs, so he accomplished greater works. His
aim was elevated as that of the giants who warred against the fabled
gods; in one respect he was unlike them--he conquered. Majestic and wild
as nature in her undescribable sublimity, he achieved with
corresponding greatness and beauty. His forms and their intellectual
expression are of the highest order. He never did any thing little. All
was in harmony with a mind which he created of himself by adding fact to
fact, by severe reading, by close observation, by study, by seclusion.
He was the quarrier, and architect, and builder-up of his own greatness.
* * * * *
Sir Joshua Reynolds speaks with becoming deference of Michael Angelo’s
powers.--“It will not be thought presumptuous in me to appear in the
train, I cannot say of his imitators, but of his admirers. I have taken
another course, one more suited to my abilities, and to the taste of the
times in which I live. Yet however unequal I feel myself to that
attempt, were I now to begin the world again, I would tread in the steps
of that great master: to kiss the hem of his garment, to catch the
slightest of his perfections, would be glory and distinction enough for
an ambitious man. He was the bright luminary from whom painting has
borrowed a new lustre, under whose hands it assumed a new appearance,
and became another and superior art, and from whom all his
contemporaries and successors have derived whatever they have possessed
of the dignified and majestic.”
* * * * *
There are excellent casts from three of Michael Angelo’s statues
exhibited by Mr. West at Mr. Bullock’s museum, in Piccadilly; they are,
Christ, from the church of Sta. Maria at Florence, Lorenzo de Medici
from his monument, and the celebrated Moses, from the church of St.
Pietro, in Vincoli, at Rome. The editor of the _Every-day Book_ has
conversed with persons who think themselves pupils and students in
sculpture and painting without having seen these!
* * * * *
Michael Angelo had studied anatomy profoundly. Condivi, who was his
pupil and one of his biographers, says that his knowledge of human
anatomy and of other animals was so correct, that those who had studied
it as a profession all their lives, scarcely understood it so well. When
he began to dissect he conceived disgust from the offensiveness of the
operation and desisted; but reflecting that it was disgraceful to
abandon what others could achieve, he resumed and pursued it to the
fullest extent. Perceiving the utility of Albert Durer’s “Treatise on
the Proportions of the Human Body,” he deemed it capable of improvement.
Its rules were in his opinion insufficient and too mechanical, and he
contemplated a treatise to exhibit the muscles in their various action.
A friend, whom he consulted on the subject, sent him the body of a fine
young Moor, which he dissected and made remarks on, but they were never
published. The result of his anatomical knowledge may be seen in the
powerful muscular developement of his figures: he left no part
undefined.
* * * * *
Several remarks occur in the course of Michael Angelo’s letters
concerning his art. Speaking of the rivalry between sculpture and
painting, he says, “The sculptor arrives at his end by taking away what
is superfluous; the painter produces his, by adding the materials which
embody the representation to the mind: however, after all, they are both
produced by the same intelligence, and the superiority is not worth
disputing about, since more time may be lost in the discussion, than
would produce the works themselves.” At one time, however, Michael
Angelo regarded painting with less favour than he expresses in this
letter. It is addressed to Varchi, who wrote a dissertation on the
subject, and sent it to him with an inquiry, which had divided the
amateurs of Florence, as to whether painting or sculpture required the
most talent. Varchi’s treatise has the merit of having convinced Michael
Angelo that he was in error, and with the truth and candour inseparable
from such a character he confessed his mistake. “Of the relative
importance of painting and sculpture,” says Michael Angelo, “I think
painting excellent in proportion as it approaches relievo, and relievo
bad in proportion as it partakes of the character of a picture, and
therefore I was used to be of opinion, that painting might be considered
as borrowing light from sculpture, and the difference between them as
the sun and moon. Now, however, since I have read your dissertation,
which treats the subject philosophically, and shows, that those things
which have the same end, are one, and the same, I have changed my
opinion, and say, that, if greater judgment, labour, difficulty, and
impediment, confer no dignity on the work on which it is bestowed,
painting and sculpture may be considered without giving the preeminence
to either: and since it has been so considered, no painter ought to
undervalue sculpture, and in like manner, no sculptor ought to make
light of painting.”
Great as Michael Angelo was in art, his intellectual character was
greater. “No one,” says Mr. Duppa, “ever felt the dignity of human
nature with its noblest attributes more forcibly than Michael Angelo,
and his disgust at any violation of principle was acute in proportion to
his sensibility and love of truth.” He despised and shrunk from the
shadow of a meanness: hating the heartlessness of unmeaning profession,
he regarded the dazzling simulation which constitutes the polish of
society as a soul-cloud. With these commanding views of self dignity he
poured out his feelings to his friend Luigi del Ricco, in