The agony and the ecstas.., p.90
The Agony and the Ecstasy, page 90
“Because they are pure sculpture,” he said.
“And what of St. Peter’s dome? Will that be only a top to keep out the rain?”
“Vittoria, it is good to see you smile, and to hear you tease me.”
“You must not think me unhappy. Michelangelo. I await with trembling joy my reunion with God.”
“Cara, I should be angry with you. Why are you so eager to die, when there are those of us who love you dearly? Is it not selfish of you?”
She took his hand between hers. In the early flood of his love this would have been a portentous moment; now he could only feel how sharp her bones were beneath the skin. Her eyes burned as she whispered:
“Forgive me for failing you. I can forgive myself only because I know you have no real need of me. A new Descent from the Cross in marble, a regal staircase for the Campidoglio, a dome for St. Peter’s: these are your loves. You created majestically before you met me, and you will create majestically after I am gone.”
Before there was time for another Sunday meeting he was summoned to the Cesarini palace, home of a Colonna cousin who had married a Cesarini. He crossed beyond the Torre Argentina, was met at a gate and led into a garden.
“The marchesa?” he asked of the doctor who came out to greet him.
“She will not see the sunrise.”
He paced the garden while the heavens moved in their cycle. At the seventeenth hour he was admitted to the palace. Vittoria lay on her pillow, her faded copper hair enclosed in a silk hood, dressed in a shirt of finest linen, with a lace collar fastened at the throat. She looked as young and beautiful as the first time he had met her. Her expression was one of sublimity, as though she had already gone beyond all earthly troubles.
Speaking in a low voice, Donna Filippa, Abbess of Sant’Anna de’ Funari, ordered in the coffin. It was coated with tar. Michelangelo cried:
“What is the meaning of this tar-covered coffin? The marchesa has not died of an infectious disease.”
“We fear reprisals, signore,” the abbess murmured. “We must get the marchesa back to the convent and buried before her enemies can claim the body.”
Michelangelo longed to lean over and kiss Vittoria on the brow. He was restrained by the knowledge that she had never offered him anything but her hand.
He returned home, aching in every joint of his body and cranny of his skull. He sat down at his workbench to write:
If being near the fire I burned with it,
Now that its flame is quenched and doth not show,
What wonder if I waste within and glow,
Dwindling away to cinders bit by bit?
Vittoria in her will had directed the abbess to select her grave. Cardinal Caraffa forbade burial. For almost three weeks the coffin was left unattended in a corner of the convent chapel. Michelangelo was at last informed that she had been buried in the chapel wall, but when he went to the church he could find no sign of the immurement. The abbess looked about cautiously, then answered to his question:
“The marchesa was removed to Naples. She will lie next to her husband, in San Domenico Maggiore.”
Michelangelo trudged wearily homeward, chewing on the bitter herb of irony: the marchese, who had fled his wife during his married life, would now have her by his side for all eternity. And he, Michelangelo, who had found in Vittoria the crowning love of his life, had never been permitted to fulfill it.
4.
He did not lack for projects. In the eyes of the world he was truly the “Master.” He was assigned yet another task by Pope Paul, who asked him to undertake the design and building of the defense works which would give him greater security within the Leonine City, and to engineer the erection of the obelisk of Caligula in the Piazza San Pietro. Duke Cosimo urged him to return to Florence to create sculptures for the city. The King of France deposited money in a Roman bank in his name against the day when he would carve or paint for him. The Sultan of Turkey offered to send an escort party to bring him to Constantinople to work there. Wherever an art commission was to be granted, in Portugal a Madonna della Misericordia for the king, in Milan a tomb for one of the distant Medici, in Florence for the ducal palace, Michelangelo was consulted about the theme, design, the proper artists for the job.
He spent the better part of the daily hours in the Pauline, painting the amazed and terror-stricken faces of the women who were watching Peter on the cross, then the portrait of the elderly bearded soldier, grief-stricken over his part in the execution. Tiring of paintbrushes, he returned home to pick up hammer and chisel, glorying in the sheer freedom of being able to carve to satisfy his inner needs. Only marble carving gave him a sense of his own three-dimensional fullness. He had been unhappy about the Leah and Rachel, ashamed of presenting second-rate work to the world; he had been afraid that he had grown too old for the vigorous art of marble sculpture. But now his chisel sang through the shining stone in a continuous “Go!”, creating the collapsed Christ and behind him Nicodemus with his own white beard, deep-sunk eyes, flattened nose, a cowl over his head, the mouth sensitive, poetic.
He allowed no one in the Pauline chapel while he painted, but his studio was thronged with artists from all over Europe whom he employed, encouraged, taught and found commissions for.
Then, after weeks and months of lavishly outpoured energy, he would suddenly fall ill, with what he could not tell: a pulling in his thighs, a piercing pain in the groin, a weakness in the chest that kept him from breathing, a kidney ailment. At such times he would feel his brain shrink, he would grow cranky, fractious with his closest friends and relatives, accuse his nephew Lionardo of making a trip to Rome during his illness to make sure he would inherit all the properties, and his manager of selling copies of an engraving to make money for himself. Realdo Colombo, Italy’s greatest anatomist, who was writing the first book on the subject, spent his spare hours in the Macello dei Corvi, flushing Michelangelo with spring water from Fiuggi. He would recover, his brain seem to expand, and he would cry to Tommaso:
“Why do I behave so cantankerously? Because my seventies are fleeing so fast?”
“Granacci said you were already crusty at twelve, when he first met you.”
“So he did. Bless his memory.”
Granacci, his oldest friend, had died; so had Balducci, Leo Baglioni and Sebastiano del Piombo. With each passing month he seemed closer to the vortex of the birth and death cycle. A letter from Lionardo brought him the news that his brother Giovansimone had died and been buried in Santa Croce. He reproached his nephew for not sending the details of Giovansimone’s illness. He also broached the subject of his nephew’s marriage, suggesting that since Lionardo was approaching thirty it was time he sought a wife, and had sons to carry on the Buonarroti name:
I believe in Florence there are many noble but poor families with whom it would be a charity to form a union, and it would be well there should be no dowry for there would then be no pride. You need a wife to associate with, and whom you can rule, and who will not care about pomps and run about every day to parties and marriages. It is easy for a woman to go wrong who does these things.
Nor is it to be said by anyone that you wish to ennoble yourself by marriage, for it is well known we are as ancient and noble citizens of Florence as any other house.
Tommaso de’ Cavalieri was married. Tommaso had waited until he was thirty-eight, then proposed to the young daughter of a noble Roman family. They were married in a sumptuous wedding, attended by the Pope and his court, the entire roster of Roman nobility, the Florentine colony, the artists of Rome. Within the year Signora Cavalieri presented her husband with his first son.
The birth was quickly followed by a death: that of Pope Paul, grieving over the incorrigibility of his grandson, Ottavio, and the murder of his son, Pier Luigi, whom he had foisted on the Duchy of Parma and Piacenza. In contrast to Clement’s funeral, the people of the city showed genuine grief over the loss of Paul.
When the College of Cardinals met there was expectant joy in the hearts of the Florentine colony, for they believed it was the turn of Cardinal Niccolò Ridolfi, Contessina’s son, to become Pope. He had no enemies in Italy except the small group sharing power with Duke Cosimo of Florence. However, Niccolò had a powerful enemy outside of Italy: Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor. During the conclave in the Sistine Chapel, with the election all but settled in favor of Niccolò, he became suddenly and violently ill. By morning he was dead. Dr. Realdo Colombo performed an autopsy. At its completion he came to the house on the Macello dei Corvi. Michelangelo looked up with dazed eyes.
“Murder?”
“Beyond any doubt.”
“You found proof?”
“If I myself had administered the poison I could not be more sure of the cause of Niccolò’s death. Lottini, Duke Cosimo’s agent, could have had the opportunity.”
Michelangelo lowered his head, stricken.
“Once again it is the end of our hopes for Florence.”
As always, when he was made desolate by the events of the outside world, he turned to marble. Now in the Descent, which he was carving in the hopes that his friends would place it on his own tomb after his death, he encountered a strange problem: Christ’s left leg was hampering the design. After careful consideration he cut the leg off in its entirety. Christ’s hand, extending downward and clasped in the Madonna’s, adroitly hid the fact that there was only one leg left.
The College of Cardinals elected sixty-two-year-old Giovan Maria de’ Ciocchi del Monte, who became Pope Julius III. Michelangelo had known him at court for countless years; he had helped to rewrite the contract for Julius’ tomb several times. Three times during the siege of 1527 Cardinal Ciocchi del Monte had been seized by the Emperor’s army and taken to the gallows in front of Leo Baglioni’s house in the Campo dei Fiori; three times he had been reprieved at the last moment. His main interest in life was pleasure.
“He should have taken the name Leo XI,” Michelangelo confided to Tommaso. “He will probably paraphrase Leo’s statement by saying, “Since God saved me three times from the gallows just to make me Pope, let me enjoy it.’ ”
“He will be good for artists,” Tommaso replied. “He likes their company best. He plans to enlarge his small villa near the Porta del Popolo into a sumptuous palace.”
Very quickly Michelangelo was summoned to dinner at the Villa di Papa Giulio, already filling up with ancient statues, columns, paintings; and with artists in all media, most of whom already had commissions, including Michelangelo’s friends Giorgio Vasari, the new architect for the villa, and Cecchino Rossi, who, with Vasari, had saved the David’s arm; Guglielmo della Porta, successor to Sebastiano, Annibale Caracci. As yet the new Pope had not discussed the continuation of St. Peter’s. Michelangelo waited anx iously.
Julius III had a long nose that drooped downward, about the only feature to emerge from a matted gray beard. He was a prodigious eater, stuffing large quantities of food into an opening in the beard which seemed to entrap it. Suddenly the Pope called for silence. The diners became still.
“Michelangelo,” he cried in his rough, hearty voice, “I have not asked you to work for me out of respect for your age.”
“It is a mere twelve years’ difference, Holiness,” replied Michelangelo with mock humility. “Since we all know how hard you are going to strive to make your pontificate outstanding, I do not think I dare claim exemption on that score.”
Julius enjoyed the sarcasm.
“You are so valuable to us, dear Master, that I would gladly give years off my life if they could be added to yours.”
Michelangelo watched the Pope dispatch a plate of richly stuffed goose, thought, “We Tuscans are lean eaters, that is why we live so long.”
Aloud, he said, “I appreciate your offer, but in all fair- ness to the Christian world I cannot let you make the sacrifice.”
“Then, my son, if I survive you, as is probable in the natural course of life, I shall have your body embalmed, and keep it near me, so that it shall be as lasting as your work.”
Michelangelo’s appetite vanished. He wondered if there were some way to be excused. But Julius was not through with him.
“There are a few things I would like you to design for me: a new staircase and fountain for the Belvedere, a façade for a palace at San Rocco, monuments for my uncle and grandfather… .”
But no word of St. Peter’s.
The Pope gathered his company in the vineyard for music and plays. Michelangelo slipped away. All he wanted from Julius was to be confirmed as architect of St. Peter’s.
The Pope procrastinated. Michelangelo kept his designs and plans secret, providing the contractors only with those specifications for the next segment of the job. He had always had this need for privacy with work in progress. Now he had a valid reason for working in secrecy; but it got him into trouble.
A group of the ousted contractors, led by the persuasive Baccio Bigio, interested Cardinal Cervini, in charge of the bookkeeping for the fabric, in their claims. A written document was presented to the Pope. Michelangelo was summoned to the Villa di Papa Giulio.
“You are not afraid to face your critics?” asked Julius.
“No, Holiness, but I want the meeting to take place in- side the fabric itself.”
It was a large crowd that assembled in what was to become the new chapel of the Kings of France. Baccio Bigio opened the attack by exclaiming:
“Buonarroti has pulled down a more beautiful church than he is capable of building.”
“Let us proceed to your criticism of the present structure,” replied the Pope amiably.
An official cried, “Holy Father, immense sums are being spent without our being told why. Nor has anything been communicated to us of the manner in which the building is to be carried on.”
“That is the responsibility of the architect,” replied Michelangelo.
“But, Holiness, Buonarroti treats us as if the matter did not concern us at all. We are completely useless!”
The Pope repressed a half-formed quip. Cardinal Cervini threw his arms upward to indicate the arches that were being built.
“Holiness, as you can see, Buonarroti is building three chapels at each end of these transverse arches. It is our opinion that this arrangement, particularly in the southern apse, will permit too little light to reach the interior …”
The Pope’s eyes peered over the edge of the matted beard.
“I’m inclined to agree with the criticism, Michelangelo.”
Michelangelo turned to Cervini, replied quietly, “Monsignor, above those windows in the travertine vaulting there are to be three other windows.”
“You never gave a hint of that.”
“Nor was I bound to do so.”
“We have a right to know what you are doing.” Cardinal Cervini was now furious. “You are not infallible.”
“I will never bind myself to give Your Lordship, or anyone else, information of my intentions. Your office is to furnish money and take care that it is not stolen. The building plan concerns me alone.”
A bruised silence adumbrated through the vast construction, its walls, piers, arches reaching to the open sky. Michelangelo turned back to the Pope.
“Holy Father, you can see with your own eyes how much excellent building I am getting for the money. If all this work does not tend to the saving of my soul, since I have refused to accept any pay, I shall have expended considerable time and trouble in vain.”
The Pope placed his hand on Michelangelo’s shoulder.
“Neither your eternal nor your temporal welfare shall suffer. You are the supreme architect of St. Peter’s.” Turning to the ring of accusers, he said sternly, “And so shall he remain, as long as I am Pope!”
It was a victory for Michelangelo. In the process he had incurred a new enemy, Cardinal Marcello Cervini.
5.
To placate Baccio Bigio, Pope Paul took away from Michelangelo the reconstruction job he had started on the Ponte Santa Maria. Bigio removed the ancient travertine supports to lighten the bridge, finished it with cement and pebbles. Michelangelo, riding over the bridge on horseback with Vasari, said:
“Giorgio, this bridge is shaking under us. Let us spur our horses or it may fall while we are on it.”
Vasari spread the quip around Rome. Bigio was livid with rage.
“What does Buonarroti know about bridges?”
At the beginning of 1551 Julius III finally issued his breve making Michelangelo official architect of St. Peter’s; but in a few months he had to shut down all work on the fabric. Julius was pouring such a vast fortune into the Villa di Papa Giulio and entertaining himself on such a lavish scale that he used up the income stipulated for St. Peter’s.
It was now Michelangelo’s turn to be livid. He demanded of Tommaso, as they hunched over their drawing boards:
“How can I go to Julius and cry, ‘Holiness, your insatiable appetite for pleasure is bankrupting us. Restrain yourself so that we can complete St. Peter’s’?”
“He would have you thrown into a dungeon of Sant’Angelo.”
“Then I will keep silent, painful as it may be.”
He was still agitated when he began to carve on the Descent later in the day. He struck emery in Christ’s forearm. The sparks flew under his chisel. Angrily he struck the forearm a series of harsh blows … only to have it shatter and fall to the floor. He put down his hammer and chisel and left the house.
