# Michael Angelo (Longfellow)/Part III/Macello de' Corvi

MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI.
MICHAEL ANGELO. So, Benvenuto, you return once more To the Eternal City. 'T is the centre To which all gravitates. One finds no rest Elsewhere than here. There may be other cities That please us for a while, but Rome alone Completely satisfies. It becomes to all A second native land by predilection, And not by accident of birth alone.
BENVENUTO. I am but just arrived, and am now lodging With Bindo Altoviti. I have been To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father, And now am come in haste to kiss the hands Of my miraculous Master.
MICHAEL ANGELO. And to find him Grown very old.
BENVENUTO. You know that precious stones Never grow old.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Half sunk beneath the horizon, And yet not gone. Twelve years are a long while. Tell me of France.
BENVENUTO. It were too long a tale To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say The King received me well, and loved me well; Gave me the annual pension that before me Our Leonardo had, nor more nor less, And for my residence the Tour de Nesle, Upon the river-side.
MICHAEL ANGELO. A princely lodging.
BENVENUTO. What in return I did now matters not, For there are other things, of greater moment, I wish to speak of. First of all, the letter You wrote me, not long since, about my bust Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You said, "My Benvenuto, I for many years Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, And now I know you as no less a sculptor." Ah, generous Master! How shall I e'er thank you For such kind language?
MICHAEL ANGELO. By believing it. I saw the bust at Messer Bindo's house, And thought it worthy of the ancient masters, And said so. That is all.
BENVENUTO. It is too much; And I should stand abashed here in your presence, Had I done nothing worthier of your praise Than Bindo's bust.
MICHAEL ANGELO. What have you done that's better?
BENVENUTO. When I left Rome for Paris, you remember I promised you that if I went a goldsmith I would return a sculptor. I have kept The promise I then made.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Dear Benvenuto, I recognized the latent genius in you, But feared your vices.
BENVENUTO. I have turned them all To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature, That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me Where meekness could not, and where patience could not, As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft In his left hand the head of the Medusa, And in his right the sword that severed it; His right foot planted on the lifeless corse; His face superb and pitiful, with eyes Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I see it as it should be.
BENVENUTO. As it will be When it is placed upon the Ducal Square, Half-way between your David and the Judith Of Donatello.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Rival of them both!
BENVENUTO. But ah, what infinite trouble have I had With Bandinello, and that stupid beast, The major-domo of Duke Cosimo, Francesco Ricci, and their wretched agent Gorini, who came crawling round about me Like a black spider, with his whining voice That sounded like the buzz of a mosquito! Oh, I have wept in utter desperation, And wished a thousand times I had not left My Tour do Nesle, nor e'er returned to Florence, Or thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods They told the Grand Duke, to impede my work, And make me desperate!
MICHAEL ANGELO. The nimble lie Is like the second-hand upon a clock; We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, And wins at last, for the clock will not strike Till it has reached the goal.
BENVENUTO. My obstinacy Stood me in stead, and helped me to o'ercome The hindrances that envy and ill-will Put in my way.
MICHAEL ANGELO. When anything is done People see not the patient doing of it, Nor think how great would be the loss to man If it had not been done. As in a building Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation All would be wanting, so in human life Each action rests on the foregone event, That made it possible, but is forgotten And buried in the earth.
BENVENUTO. Even Bandinello, Who never yet spake well of anything, Speaks well of this; and yet he told the Duke That, though I cast small figures well enough, I never could cast this.
MICHAEL ANGELO. But you have done it, And proved Ser Bandinello a false prophet. That is the wisest way.
BENVENUTO. And ah, that casting What a wild scene it was, as late at night, A night of wind and rain, we heaped the furnace With pine of Serristori, till the flames Caught in the rafters over us, and threatened To send the burning roof upon our heads; And from the garden side the wind and rain Poured in upon us, and half quenched our fires. I was beside myself with desperation. A shudder came upon me, then a fever; I thought that I was dying, and was forced To leave the work-shop, and to throw myself Upon my bed, as one who has no hope. And as I lay there, a deformed old man Appeared before me, and with dismal voice, Like one who doth exhort a criminal Led forth to death, exclaimed, "Poor Benvenuto, Thy work is spoiled! There is no remedy!" Then, with a cry so loud it might have reached The heaven of fire, I bounded to my feet, And rushed back to my workmen. They all stood Bewildered and desponding; and I looked Into the furnace, and beheld the mass Half molten only, and in my despair I fed the fire with oak, whose terrible heat Soon made the sluggish metal shine and sparkle. Then followed a bright flash, and an explosion, As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us. The covering of the furnace had been rent Asunder, and the bronze was flowing over; So that I straightway opened all the sluices To fill the mould. The metal ran like lava, Sluggish and heavy; and I sent my workmen To ransack the whole house, and bring together My pewter plates and pans, two hundred of them, And cast them one by one into the furnace To liquefy the mass, and in a moment The mould was filled! I fell upon my knees And thanked the Lord; and then we ate and drank And went to bed, all hearty and contented. It was two hours before the break of day. My fever was quite gone.
MICHAEL ANGELO. A strange adventure, That could have happened to no man alive But you, my Benvenuto.
BENVENUTO. As my workmen said To major-domo Ricci afterward, When he inquired of them: "'T was not a man, But an express great devil."
MICHAEL ANGELO. And the statue?
BENVENUTO. Perfect in every part, save the right foot Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke. There was just bronze enough to fill the mould; Not a drop over, not a drop too little. I looked upon it as a miracle Wrought by the hand of God.
MICHAEL ANGELO. And now I see How you have turned your vices into virtues.
BENVENUTO. But wherefore do I prate of this? I came To speak of other things. Duke Cosimo Through me invites you to return to Florence, And offers you great honors, even to make you One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators.
MICHAEL ANGELO. His Senators! That is enough. Since Florence Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme; All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me! I hoped to see my country rise to heights Of happiness and freedom yet unreached By other nations, but the climbing wave Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again Back to the common level, with a hoarse Death rattle in its throat. I am too old To hope for better days. I will stay here And die in Rome. The very weeds, that grow Among the broken fragments of her ruins, Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers Of other cities; and the desolate ring Of the Campagna round about her walls Fairer than all the villas that encircle The towns of Tuscany.
BENVENUTO. But your old friends!
MICHAEL ANGELO. All dead by violence. Baccio Valori Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned; Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. Is Florence then a place for honest men To flourish in? What is there to prevent My sharing the same fate?
BENVENUTO. Why this: if all Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Is Aretino dead?
BENVENUTO. He lives in Venice, And not in Florence.
MICHAEL ANGELO. 'T is the same to me This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers Call the Divine, as if to make the word Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me A letter written for the public eye, And with such subtle and infernal malice, I wonder at his wickedness. 'T is he Is the express great devil, and not you. Some years ago he told me how to paint The scenes of the Last Judgment.
BENVENUTO. I remember.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom With which I represent it.
BENVENUTO. Hypocrite!
MICHAEL ANGELO. He says I show mankind that I am wanting In piety and religion, in proportion As I profess perfection in my art. Profess perfection? Why, 't is only men Like Bugiardini who are satisfied With what they do. I never am content, But always see the labors of my hand Fall short of my conception.
BENVENUTO. I perceive The malice of this creature. He would taint you With heresy, and in a time like this! 'T is infamous!
MICHAEL ANGELO. I represent the angels Without their heavenly glory, and the saints Without a trace of earthly modesty.
BENVENUTO. Incredible audacity!
MICHAEL ANGELO. The heathen Veiled their Diana with some drapery, And when they represented Venus naked They made her by her modest attitude, Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian, Do so subordinate belief to art That I have made the very violation Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins A spectacle at which all men would gaze With half-averted eyes even in a brothel.
BENVENUTO. He is at home there, and he ought to know What men avert their eyes from in such places; From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine.
MICHAEL ANGELO. But divine Providence will never leave The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished; And the more marvellous it is, the more 'T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame! And finally, if in this composition I had pursued the instructions that he gave me Concerning heaven and hell and paradise, In that same letter, known to all the world, Nature would not be forced, as she is now, To feel ashamed that she invested me With such great talent; that I stand myself A very idol in the world of art. He taunts me also with the Mausoleum Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason That men persuaded the inane old man It was of evil augury to build His tomb while he was living; and he speaks Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me, And calls it robbery;--that is what he says. What prompted such a letter?
BENVENUTO. Vanity. He is a clever writer, and he likes To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face Of every honest man, as swordsmen do Their rapiers on occasion, but to show How skilfully they do it. Had you followed The advice he gave, or even thanked him for it, You would have seen another style of fence. 'T is but his wounded vanity, and the wish To see his name in print. So give it not A moment's thought; it soon will be forgotten.
MICHAEL ANGELO. I will not think of it, but let it pass For a rude speech thrown at me in the street, As boys threw stones at Dante.
BENVENUTO. And what answer Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo? He does not ask your labor or your service; Only your presence in the city of Florence, With such advice upon his work in hand As he may ask, and you may choose to give.
MICHAEL ANGELO. You have my answer. Nothing he can offer Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here, And only here, the building of St. Peter's. What other things I hitherto have done Have fallen from me, are no longer mine; I have passed on beyond them, and have left them As milestones on the way. What lies before me, That is still mine, and while it is unfinished No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me, By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor, Till I behold the finished dome uprise Complete, as now I see it in my thought.
BENVENUTO. And will you paint no more?
MICHAEL ANGELO. No more.
BENVENUTO. 'T is well. Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings. Even the plants, The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured, And colored later. Painting is a lie, A shadow merely.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Truly, as you say, Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live. The most majestic Of the three sister arts is that which builds; The eldest of them all, to whom the others Are but the hand-maids and the servitors, Being but imitation, not creation. Henceforth I dedicate myself to her.
BENVENUTO. And no more from the marble hew those forms That fill us all with wonder?
MICHAEL ANGELO. Many statues Will there be room for in my work. Their station Already is assigned them in my mind. But things move slowly. There are hindrances, Want of material, want of means, delays And interruptions, endless interference Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes And jealousies of artists, that annoy me. But twill persevere until the work Is wholly finished, or till I sink down Surprised by death, that unexpected guest, Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps in, Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop To all our occupations and designs. And then perhaps I may go back to Florence; This is my answer to Duke Cosimo.