Part 10
“Those who have detailed to you the affair of Monaldeschi, my equerry, were very ill-informed. I think it strange that you should compromise so many people in order to inform yourself of a fact which does not concern you. I ought not to be astonished at your conduct, however absurd it may be; but I could have scarcely credited, that either you or your proud young master, would have dared to exhibit towards me any marks of resentment.
“Learn, all of you, valets and masters, great and little, that it was my pleasure to act as I have done: and that I neither am obliged, nor will render an account of my actions to anybody, be they who they may; above all, to a _braggadocio_ like you. You give yourself singular airs for a personage of your rank; but whatever reasons you may have had to write to me, I do not care enough about them to concern myself on the subject for a single instant. I desire you to know, and to repeat it to whomsoever it may concern, that Christina is totally indifferent to the opinion of your court, and still less to yours; that I have no occasion, in order to compass my own vengeance, to have recourse to your formidable power.
“My honour required what was done; my will is a law which it is your part to respect: to be silent is your duty; and there are many persons for whom I have no more regard than for yourself, who would do well to learn how to conduct themselves towards their equals, before they venture to make more disturbances than is requisite.
“Know further, Monsieur le Cardinal, that Christina is a Queen, wherever she may chance to reside; and in whatever place it is her pleasure to live, the persons who surround her, cheats, though they may be, are better than you and your confederates. The Prince de Condé was right, when he exclaimed, at the time when you kept him prisoner so inhumanly, at Vincennes, ‘This old fox will never cease to outrage all the good friends of the state, until, at last, the parliament shall turn off, or severely punish, this illustrious rascal of _Piscena_.’ Take my advice then, Jules; conduct yourself in a manner to merit my favour; it is a study to which you cannot too much apply. God preserve you from ever daring to utter the least word against me; for, were I at the other end of the world, I should be aware of your proceedings. I have friends and courtiers in my service, who are as adroit and as watchful as any you can boast of, although they may not be so well bribed.”
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[Sidenote: Sir Benjamin Rudyerd.]
Mr. Gifford, in his edition of Ben Jonson’s works, says “There is a beautiful and touching sublimity in the second of these Epigrams, which cannot be too highly prized.” And it may with justice be added, that it will remain a lasting memorial of the worth and excellence of Sir Benjamin Rudyerd.
_To Benjamin Rudyerd._
Epigram CXXI.
Rudyerd, as lesser dames to great ones use, My lighter, comes to kiss thy learned muse; Whose better studies while she emulates, She learns to know long difference of their states. Yet is the office not to be despised, If only love should make the actions prized; Nor he for friendship can the thought unfit, That strives his manners should precede his wit.
_To the same._
Ep. CXXII.
If I would wish for truth, and not for show, The aged Saturn’s age, and rites to know; If I would strive to bring back times, and try The world’s pure gold, and wise simplicity, If I would virtue set, as she was young, And hear her speak with one and her first tongue; If holiest friendship naked to the touch I would restore, and keep it ever such, I need no other arts but study thee, Who prov’st all these were, and again may be.
Not the less flattering to the talents and judgment of Sir Benjamin is the following--
Ep. CXXIII.
_To the same._
Writing thyself, or judging others’ writ, I know not which thou’st most, candour or wit; But both thou hast so, as he who affects the state Of the best writer and judge should emulate.
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[Sidenote: King of Prussia’s Guard.]
When Frederick the Great was forming his Regiment of Royal Guards, it is said, that the monarch was so anxious to obtain tall men, that his corporals often took them by force, wherever they could find them. On one occasion they carried the wish of their sovereign so far, that they took the “heyduc” of the French ambassador, the moment he had quitted his carriage to attend the levee. However, on a complaint from the ambassador, the servant was restored to his master.
It is also related of this ambassador, that on his first audience he came highly perfumed; the great Frederick, who was more accustomed to the smell of gunpowder than of musk, could not refrain from very visibly showing his dislike. The ambassador observed it, and felt much embarrassed. The day being stormy, “De quel côté, sa Majesté croit-elle,” said he, “que le vent vient?” The king abruptly replied, “De France, votre Excellence.”
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[Sidenote: Premature Judgment.]
Never judge harshly from appearances, or pertinaciously form a decided opinion, unless there is sufficient demonstration to prevent future regret.
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Benvenuto Cellini arrived in France in 1537, but, offended by the cold reception of Il Rosso,[13] he resolved, notwithstanding the _gracious welcome_ of Francis I. to return to Italy almost immediately, where he was imprisoned in the castle of St. Angelo. By the generous intervention of Francis, he was at length released, and returned to France, where he was most royally provided for; nevertheless, his pride, and jealousy of Primatice, kept him in constant agitation, and at length wearied out the king, whose inclination was always obliged to yield to his caprice; and at last he abandoned the greatest advantages which ever were offered to an artist, and quitted France for ever--a step he never ceased to regret. On one occasion, he went to St. Germains with a vase of silver-gilt, destined for the Duchesse d’Etampes, and was so irritated at the loss of time which he was obliged to submit to before he could be admitted to her presence, that he hurried away, and in the height of his indignation offered the vase to the Cardinal de Lorraine as a present.
Another instance of his furious temper is sufficiently remarkable. He tells, in his confessions, that one of his models, a beautiful French girl, named Catherine, who sat to him for thirty sous a day, having offended him, “Giving way entirely to my rage, I seized her by the hair, and dragged her about the room, _kicking and beating her till I was quite fatigued_. She swore she never would come near me again; but the next morning at day-break, she came, threw herself on my neck, covered me with kisses, and asked if _I was still angry with her_.”
[13] A Painter of fresques.
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Sadi, poëte Persan, dit, “que la sagesse est de jouir--la bonté de faire jouir.”
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_Mind and Body._
Says Mind to Body t’other day, As on my chin I plied my razor, “Pray tell me, does that glass pourtray Your real phiz, or cheat the gazer?
“That youthful face, which bloom’d so sleek, As Hebe’s, Ganymede’s, Apollo’s, Has lost its roses, and your cheek Is falling into fearful hollows.
“The crow’s fell foot has set its sign Beside that eye, which dimly twinkles; And look! what means that ugly line? Gadzooks, my friend, you’re getting wrinkles!
“That form which ladies once could praise Would now inspire them with a panic; Get Byron’s belt, or Worcester’s stays, Or else you’ll soon be aldermanic.
“At sight of that dismantled top, My very heart, I must confess, aches; Once famous as a Benter’s crop, You now are balder than Lord Essex.
“Since Waites’ decease, your teeth decline, Finding no beautifier near them; Time’s tooth has mumbled two of thine, Well may they call him _Edax rerum_.
“Behold, your cheeks are quite bereft Of their two laughter loving dimples; And pretty substitutes they’ve left, (Between ourselves) a brace of pimples!
“The fashions which you used to lead, So careless are you or so thrifty, You most neglect when most you need; A sad mistake, when nearly fifty.”
“Stop! stop!” says Body, “let us pause, Before you reckon more offences; Since you yourself may be the cause Of all these dismal consequences.
“The sword, you know, wears out the sheath; By steam are broken vessels scatter’d; And when volcanos rage beneath, The surface must be torn and scatter’d.
“Have not your passions, hopes, and fears, Their tegument of clay outwearing, Done infinitely more than years To cause the ravage you’re declaring?
“If you yourself no symptom show Of age--no wrinkles of the spirit; If still for friends your heart can glow, Your purse be shared with starving merit;
“If yet, to sordid sins unknown, No avarice in your heart has started; If you have not suspicious grown, Sour, garrulous, or narrow hearted;
“You still are young! and o’er my face, (Howe’er its features may be shaded) Shall throw the sunshine of your grace, And keep the moral part unfaded.
“Expression is the face’s soul, Of head and heart the emanation; Insensible to time’s control, Free from the Body’s devastation.
“If you’re still twenty, I’m no more: Counting by _years_, how folks have blunder’d; Voltaire was young at eighty-four, And Fontenelle, at near a hundred!”
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[Sidenote: Love.]
All that has been written in song, or told in story, of love and its effects, falls far short of its reality. Its evils and its blessings, its impotence and its power, its sin and its holiness, its weakness and its strength, will continue the theme of nature and of art, until the great pulse of the universe is stilled. Arising from the depths of misery, descending from heaven the most direct and evident manifestation of a divine and self-sacrificing spirit, it is at once the tyrant and the slave. Happier as the latter than as the former, for the perfection of love is obedience; the power of obeying what we love is, at all events, the perfection of a woman’s happiness.
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[Sidenote: Wedding Rings.]
The wedding ring was not at first of gold, but of iron adorned with an adamant; the metal hard and durable, signifying the durance and perpetuity of the contract. Howbeit, it skilleth not at this day what metal the ring be made of; the form of it being round and without end, doth import that love should circulate and flow continually. The finger on which the ring is to be worn, is the fourth finger of the left hand, next unto the little finger, because there was supposed a vein of blood to pass from thence unto the heart.
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_Impromptu in a Post-chaise, on seeing some Boys playing at See-saw._
Says Hope to Grief one low’ring day, “Cast off those looks of sorrow; Come, dry your tears, and let us play: All may be well to-morrow.”
“Alas!” cries Grief, “no leisure hour The Gods assign my fate; On love or friendship, fame or power, I’m ever doom’d to wait.”
“Never,” cries Hope, with winning smile, “Nourish my foe Despair; Yon hamlet see, let’s join awhile The boys at see-saw there.”
Now purple lights and balmy gales Play round the radiant maid; Her angel look at once prevails, Grief sigh’d--but still obey’d.
Hope featly pois’d the trembling beam, Grief made no further pother; The spectre sat at one extreme, The fairy at the other.
Then came Despair with low’ring frown, With scowling eye he gazed; For lo! the heavier _Grief_ weigh’d down, The higher _Hope_ was rais’d.
But Mercy, e’en by angels blest, Smil’d from her starry scope, To see that Grief, the more deprest, Looks up the more to Hope!
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[Sidenote: Unjust suspicion.]
It is painful to describe the combat of innocence and unjust suspicion; it is dreadful to represent the possibility of appearances bearing testimony against truth, and melancholy to reflect that innocence may be oppressed by the blind judgment of men, without deriving aid from the enlightened and all-seeing Judge of the universe.
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It is the heartless alone who believe that love can grow old. It is, and remains spring forever! As long as the human faculties retain their vigour--as long as the mind is undegraded by selfish interests, and remains faithful to truth, love, once born, lives in an honest heart, diffusing freshness and vigour, even in old age, over the intellect, the feelings, and the whole existence.
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[Sidenote: Capucine Friars.]
The Capucines touch no money but with a pair of pincers, which conveys it into their cowl or sack to carry it to market.
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_Arms of the House of Medici._
“The house of Medici,” says the author of the Discours merveilleux sur la Vie de Catherine de Medici, “was for a long period hidden amongst the lowest refuse of the people at Florence. It began to rise by means of a collier, who had a son an apothecary, _who took the name of his profession_; and as we in the present day see people taking for devices the emblems of their trade, as tailors their scissors, masons their hammer or trowel, so this doctor adopted _five pills_, as it is their habit to order an odd number to their patients.” This is a singular derivation of the armorial bearings of this celebrated house.
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[Sidenote: Scenes from the Life of Michael Angelo.]
In the year 1474, on Monday the 6th of March, at four o’clock in the morning, was born at the castle of Caprese, in the territory of Areggo, Michael Angelo, son of Ludovico de Lionardo de Buonarotti, Governor of Chiusi and of Caprese, and descended from one of the most ancient families of Tuscany.
Although at this period of Florentine history commerce and trade were considered as most honourable pursuits, and indeed to these were ascribed the great power and riches of the state, the father of the little Michael Angelo destined him for his own profession, and already foresaw him a future Governor, nay Ambassador; far from thinking that he was destined to become what he contemptuously termed a mason! But there is a destiny attached to the life of celebrated men; and fate selected for Michael, as his nurse, the wife of a stonemason, and whilst the child throve under her care, and grew strong and robust in the sun and air, his infant hands, hardened by exposure, grasped the chisel and the hammer, and his first cries mingled with the harsh grating of the saw.
It was in vain that the proud parent sought to dissuade the boy, and curb the only inclination he manifested: even at school he contrived to escape the vigilance of the master, and obtained the notice of the artist Ghirlandajo, who said of him, “He is a rising star, that will live to eclipse the brightest planet now shining.” He was even induced to seek Michael’s father, and beseeching him not to oppose the manifest vocation of his son, offered to take him as an apprentice to his art. At this proposal, the Podesta started from his chair in a paroxysm of rage; but after a while he calmly went to a desk, wrote an engagement on the behalf of his son for three years, and with an expression of countenance little less affecting than that with which Brutus signed the death warrant of his son, handed him over to Ghirlandajo. With one bound Michael cleared the staircase, throwing up his cap for joy. He burnt his grammar: true, he was not much more than a servant at Ghirlandajo’s; but what did that matter? he was free to pursue his own tastes, he was happier than a Medicis! He could now bedaub the walls as he chose, he could grind his colours, sketch, or if a morsel of plaster fell in his way, he could mould it to his will, without fearing to have his ears pulled.
Before he had attained the age of thirteen, he was already a great artist, and his success had naturally created jealousy and enmity. A blow from Torregiano, when they as boys worked together, broke the cartilage of the nose, and disfigured that feature for life.
On the other hand, Michael Angelo could not fail to find as many friends, and amongst the most celebrated of the age. Benvenuto Cellini, whose great genius and talents ranked with those of Buonarotti, was his most ardent admirer, and never designated him but as the “divine Buonarotti.”
During the _boy_ artist’s wanderings in the gardens of the Medici palace, he often met some of the stone cutters who had formerly rocked his cradle: they were ever delighted to see him, and frequently obtained him clandestinely a view of the treasures of the gallery, then in its infancy. Michael Angelo contemplated with veneration the mutilated specimens of art. The workmen one day offered him a bit of marble, requesting he would employ it as he liked, and come thither as often as he chose.
His only answer was to grasp a chisel, throw off his jacket, and begin to hammer out the outline of a Faun’s head. Often then was the workshop deserted, to the great displeasure of the master. One day, whilst putting the finishing strokes to his old Faun, a man about forty years of age, plain in person and shabbily attired, stopped, and silently watched him as he worked. Michael Angelo continued to work on, heeding him no more than the dust which fell from his chisel. When he had given the last touch, he drew back, as artists are wont, to look on the effect of the head. For this, probably the silent observer had waited, for he slowly approached, and, putting his hand on the young artist’s shoulder, “My friend,” he said smiling, “with your leave, I would make an observation.”
Michael Angelo turned quickly, and with an air somewhat impertinent and caustic, replied, “An observation!--you!”
“A criticism, if you prefer it.”
“Upon my Faun’s head?”
“Upon your Faun’s head.”
“And, who are you, Sir, who fancy you have a right to criticise my work?”
“It matters not to you who I am, provided my criticism is just.”
“And who will decide, Sir, which of us two is in the right?”
“I will leave the decision to yourself.”
“Well, Sir, speak,” said Michael Angelo, crossing his arms with an air of defiance.
“Was it not your object to make an _old_ Faun laughing immoderately?”
“Undoubtedly, it is easy to be discovered.”
“Well then,” said the critic, “where did you ever see old men with all their teeth perfect?”
The boy blushed to his eyes, and bit his lip. The observation was correct. He only waited till the individual had turned his back, when with one stroke of his chisel he knocked out two of the Faun’s teeth, and even decided on hollowing out the gum on returning next day. The gardens accordingly were no sooner opened than Michael Angelo entered; but the Faun had disappeared, and in its place stood the person he had seen the preceding day.
“What is become of my head?” asked the young sculptor angrily.
“It has been removed by my command,” replied the stranger, with his accustomed apathy.
“And who are you, Sir, who dare to give orders in the gardens of the great Medicis?”
“Follow me, and you shall learn!”
“I will follow, to force you to restore me my Faun.”
“Perhaps you will be better satisfied to leave it where it is.”
“We shall see.”
“We shall see,” echoed the stranger, and then took the path to the palace, with the same calm demeanour; but on his beginning to ascend the staircase, the boy, seemingly terrified as well as angry, caught his arm, saying, “Where are you going, Sir? You are approaching the apartments of the Prince, and although he may look over an intrusion in the royal gardens, we here run great risk.”
On, proceeded the stranger, the servants rising as he approached, the guards saluting.
Michael was lost in wonder. Even supposing him one of the household (he thought to himself), my Faun belongs to me, and he ought to restore it: my labour is my own, and I can pay him for the marble.
The galleries, the saloons were passed through without interruption. Good Heaven! thought the boy, it must be at least the secretary, whom I have thus cavalierly treated.
The stranger threw open the door of a room magnificently furnished, and enriched with all most valuable in art; and the trembling child considered himself as lost, when he remembered his treatment of one powerful enough to be able to approach Lorenzo de Medicis without being announced. Whilst he was stammering out an apology, he raised his eyes, and saw his old Faun placed on a superb bracket.
“You see, my friend,” said the stranger, with the same mild and kind manner, “that if I had your Faun removed from the garden, it was to place it in a more suitable situation.”
“But, my God!” cried the youthful artist, “what will the Prince say, when he discovers this poor attempt amongst so many precious works?”
The Prince held out his hand, “Take it, my friend.”
Any other than Michael Angelo would have thrown himself at his feet; but he burst into tears, and, bowing his head, convulsively pressed the hand offered him by Lorenzo the Magnificent. “Henceforward thou art here at home, my friend; thou wilt work here, dine at my table, and I shall treat you as one of my children. Go to my wardrobe, and desire that they give thee a rich cloak of velvet; velvet, exactly like those worn by Peter and John de Medicis, on days of ceremony.”
“My Lord,” replied the boy, deeply affected, “suffer me first to go to my father, that he may share my happiness. He turned me from his roof as a disobedient and worthless child, and I would return thither a submissive and devoted man. I know my father to be as just as he is inflexible, and he will admit that I have a right to be proud of my disobedience. From this day I may carry my head high; for Lorenzo de Medicis, the first man of the age, has consecrated me an artist.”
“Right, my child; and you may also tell your father, that my patronage will extend to all your family. This very day I will receive him at the palace, and bestow on him any appointment in Florence that may be suited to him.”
Old Buonarotti was quietly breakfasting in his room, which he had scarcely left since he had lost his son, when loud and repeated knocking at the door nearly drove it from its hinges. The Governor hastened to open it himself, but drew back at the sight of Michael Angelo, whom he did not immediately recognize.
Pale, breathless, his head bare, his dress in disorder, covered with dust and plaster, the boy made a spring from the door to throw himself into his father’s arms.
“Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion.
“Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.”
“You would then force me to curse you.”
“I come from the palace.”
“I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son--thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.”
“For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.”
“Back to your mason’s, that is your place.”
“My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “_my_ place is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
“My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror.
“But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace, that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.”