1543–4 Cellini continues work on the doorway at Fontainebleau, on the salt-cellar and on the statue of Jove and completes the doorway. He shows the King the statue of Jove.
1544 Cellini assembles the Fontainebleau doorway and is consulted by the King on the fortifications of Paris. Disgruntled by lack of supplies, Cellini for a second time begs for permission to return to Italy.
1545 Cellini leaves Paris and arrives at Piacenza, where he meets Duke Pier Luigi Farnese. He visits Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici at Poggio a Caiano and discusses the making of a Perseus. Tasso the joiner makes up the framework for the model of Perseus. After his allowance is fixed at two hundred scudi, Cellini starts work on the Perseus.
1545–6 Cellini makes a Perseus in plaster and a Medusa in clay. In the Duke’s wardrobe he works with the goldsmith brothers, Giovan Paolo and Domenico Poggini, and executes a larger than life bust of Duke Cosimo in clay.
Cellini is accused of unnatural vice and quits Florence for Venice, where he is received by Titian and Sansovino, and where he meets Lorenzino de’ Medici (the assassin of Duke Alessandro) and the Prior, Leone Strozzi, who exhort him to return to France. He returns to Florence.
1546–7 Cellini casts the bust of Duke Cosimo in bronze. He prepares the sketch-model for a pendant in which to set a diamond. He offers to make the Duke’s coinage. He executes some small silver vases for the Duchess. Cellini goes to Fiesole to see a natural son of his who is accidentally smothered.
Bandinelli offers Cellini a block of marble. Cellini offers to restore a mutilated fragment of an antique statue as a Ganymede for Duke Cosimo. He makes a group of Apollo and Hyacinth and then sculptures a Narcissus. There are floods in Florence.
1548–9 Cellini disputes with Duke Cosimo over the casting of the Perseus in bronze and over the head of Medusa.
The casting is unveiled.
Pope Paul III dies and is succeeded by Cardinal de’ Monti (Pope Julius III).
1552 Michelangelo praises Cellini’s portrait-bust of Bindo Altoviti. In April Cellini goes to stay with Altoviti in Rome. He visits Pope Julius and he tries to persuade Michelangelo to return to Florence.
1552–4 In the programme to fortify Florence – because of the war with Siena – Porta al Prato and the postern leading to the Arno are entrusted to Cellini. He fortifies the bastion and completes the Perseus.
A figure of a Chimera is discovered near Arezzo. Cellini transports the statuettes for the base of the Perseus to the palace. The Perseus is finally uncovered still incomplete. In April 1554 the completed Perseus is exhibited.
1554–6 Pope Julius dies and is succeeded by Cardinal Cervini (Pope Marcellus) and then (May 1555) by Cardinal Caraffa (Pope Paul IV).
At Bagno Cellini is received by the family of his workman Cesare. He returns to Florence to warn the Duke of the threat of a sudden invasion by Piero Strozzi.
After a dispute over payments for the Perseus the Duke orders Cellini to make some bronze bas-reliefs for the choir of the Duomo in Florence. He proposes to the directors of the Opera del Duomo that he should make a bronze door like those of the Baptistery. The Duke approves of his making models for two pulpits for the choir. These are never commissioned.
1559 Cellini inspects the marble for the Neptune and shows the Duke two small models for the statue. He exhibits the model of Neptune. Baccio Bandinelli dies. Cellini destines his Crucifix for the Church of SS Annunziata. He continues to make models for the Neptune.
In the summer he visits Trespiano and Vicchio, where he is poisoned. Ammannati tells Cellini that he has acquired the marble for the Neptune.
1559–62 Pope Paul dies and is succeeded by Cardinal Medici (Pope Pius IV). One of Ammannati’s sons removes part of the curtain that veils the model of Cellini’s Neptune. Cellini visits Duke Cosimo at Livorno and returns to Florence satisfied. He shows the Duke and Duchess the completed Crucifix and models for the Neptune and the proposed fountain. The Duchess promises him a piece of marble.
Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici dies and Cellini goes to Pisa.
THE LIFE OF BENVENUTO THE SON OF GIOVANNI CELLINI WRITTEN BY HIMSELF IN FLORENCE
I first began writing this Life of mine in my own hand, as can be seen from some of the odd pages attached here, but it took up too much of my time and seemed utterly pointless. So when I came across a son of Michele Goro, of Pieve a Groppine, a young boy of about fourteen who was in a poor state of health, I set him to the task. And while I worked I dictated my Life to him, with the result that as I quite enjoyed doing this I worked much more keenly and produced a good deal more. So I left the burden of writing to him and I hope to carry on with the story as far as my memory allows.
No matter what sort he is, everyone who has to his credit what are or really seem great achievements,1 if he cares for truth and goodness, ought to write the story of his own life in his own hand; but no one should venture on such a splendid undertaking before he is over forty. Now that I am leaving the age of fifty-eight behind me and find myself in my native place, Florence, my thoughts naturally turn to such a task. Like all other men I have often had to struggle hard with fortune; but now I am less troubled by adversity than at any time before in my life and, in fact, I believe that my mind is more at rest and that I am enjoying better health than ever. I remember some of the delightful and some of the indescribably terrible things that have happened to me, and when I think back to them I am startled to realize that I really am fifty-eight years old and, with God’s help, am prosperously growing older.
It is true enough that men who have worked hard and shown a touch of genius have already proved their worth to the world. They have shown that they are capable men, and they are famous, and perhaps that should be sufficient. Still, I must do as I find others do, and so I intend to tell the story of my life with a certain amount of pride. There are many kinds of conceit, but the chief one is concern to let people know what a very ancient and gifted family one descends from.
My name is Benvenuto Cellini. My father’s name was Giovanni, my grandfather was Andrea, and his father was Cristofano Cellini; my mother’s name was Elisabetta and she was the daughter of Stefano Granacci. And both my parents were Florentines.
Now we find that our ancient Florentine chroniclers, men who are completely trustworthy, record that, just as Giovanni Villani writes,2 Florence was clearly founded in imitation of the beautiful city of Rome: and it still shows some traces of the Colosseum and the Baths. These are near Santa Croce: the Capitol used to stand on what is now the Old Market; and the Rotunda, which was built as a temple to Mars and is still intact, is now our church of St John. The buildings I have mentioned are far smaller than the corresponding ones at Rome, but the origin of our city is quite plain and can be denied by no one.
They say that Julius Caesar himself was responsible for founding Florence, and that after Fiesole had been attacked and captured he determined in company with several other Roman nobles to build a city in which each one of them would undertake the construction of one of these notable edifices.
One of Caesar’s first-ranking and bravest officers was called Fiorino and came from Cellini, a village about two miles away from Monte Fiasconi. This Fiorino decided to have his quarters under the hill of Fiesole, where Florence is today, because it would be convenient for the troops to be stationed near the river Arno. All the soldiers and other people connected with this captain acquired the habit of saying when they went to pay him a visit: ‘Let’s go along to Fiorenze.’
They said this because Fiorino, as I mentioned before, was the captain’s name, and also because the natural fertility of the soil encouraged an abundant growth of flowers in the place where he had his camp. So Caesar decided to call the new city Florence (Fiorenze), as it was a very beautiful name and very apposite, and it seemed, with its suggestion of flowers, to make a good omen; and besides that he wanted to show what a high regard he had for his courageous captain, especially as he himself had raised Fiorino from a very humble rank and was responsible
for his greatness.
Those learned, ingenious etymologists who say that the name of Florence is derived from fluente and means merely that it was situated near the flowing Arno are claiming the impossible. We have only to look at Rome, which is on the flowing Tiber, or Ferrara on the flowing Po, or Lyons on the flowing Saône, or Paris on the flowing Seine, and we find that all these names are nevertheless different and originated in quite a different way.
There you have my reasons: and so I believe that our family is descended from a very great man. As well as this, there are Cellinis at Ravenna, which boasts some very aristocratic families and is an even older Italian city; and there are Cellinis living at Pisa. I myself have discovered members of the Cellini family all over Christendom; and there are some excellent fighting-men in Tuscany who bear the name Cellini. For as a matter of fact not so many years ago a beardless young man called Luca Cellini had a fight here with a very bold and experienced soldier called Francesco da Vicorati. This Francesco was used to single combat, but all the same Luca, by himself, with his sword in his hand, overcame and killed him with such courage and skill that everyone was astonished, especially as it had been expected that the result would be the other way round. So I take great pride in tracing my origin back through men of mettle.
Now as for the few honours that I myself have won for my family – living the sort of life that we know is lived today, and by means of my art, although it does not amount to much – I shall talk about them in the appropriate place. I take far more pride in my humble birth and in my having laid down an honourable foundation for my family, than if I had been born into an ancient, noble family and had stained or sullied it by an evil nature. I shall begin, then, describing the way in which – as pleased God – I came into the world.
My ancestors used to live in the Val d’Ambra where they had withdrawn because of the political strife that was raging. They had a great many possessions and lived like little lords; and they were all fond of soldiering and all very brave. About that time a younger son of the family, called Cristofano, began a tremendous feud with some of their neighbours and friends. The heads of both families joined in, and the fire that Cristofano had started burned so furiously that it looked as though it would utterly destroy both families. Faced with this prospect, the oldest members came to an agreement as a result of which my ancestors sent Cristofano away and the other family banished the young man who had started the quarrel with him.
He was sent off to Siena, while Cristofano was sent to Florence, where the family bought him a little house in the Via Chiara near the convent of Santa Orsola, as well as some very good property at the Ponte a Rifredi. Cristofano found himself a wife in Florence and brought up a family of sons and daughters. The daughters were all well provided for and then, after the death of their father, the sons shared out what remained of his property.
The house in the Via Chiara, together with a few other things, fell to one of the sons called Andrea, who got married in turn and had four boys. The name of the first was Girolamo, the second was Bartolomeo, the third – who became my father – was Giovanni, and the fourth was called Francesco. Andrea Cellini was an authority on contemporary architecture, and in fact he made architecture his profession. My father, Giovanni, gave more time to it than did any of his brothers, and because – as is said, among other things, by Vitruvius3 – anyone who wants to make a success at architecture must also acquire some knowledge of music and good draughtsmanship, Giovanni taught himself how to draw well and then began to study the theory of music. At the same time he learnt to play the viol and the flute with great skill. He was such a studious man that he hardly ever left the house.
Living as their next-door neighbour was a man called Stefano Granacci, the father of several very beautiful daughters. It was God’s will that Giovanni’s eye fell on one of these girls, whose name was Elisabetta, and she attracted him so much that he asked if he could marry her. With both fathers living so near together and knowing each other so well, it was easy to arrange a match; in fact each of them reckoned it would be a good thing from his own point of view.
First the two good old fellows agreed that the marriage should take place, and then began discussing the dowry. At this stage there was a little good-humoured argument. Andrea began by saying to Stefano:
‘This son of mine, he’s not only the finest boy in Florence, he’s the finest in all Italy. If I’d wanted to have him married off before now I could have got the largest dowry ever given to people of our class.’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ replied Stefano, ‘but what with my having five daughters and just as many sons I’ve worked it out that this is as much as I can afford.’
All this time, without their seeing him, Giovanni had been standing there listening to them; and then he broke in unexpectedly and said:
‘It’s Elisabetta I love and want to marry, father, not their money. Bad luck to anyone who wants to get rich on his wife’s dowry! As you’ve been boasting that I’m such a clever fellow, don’t you think that I’ll be able to support my wife and look after all her needs, even if I get a dowry smaller than you want? Let me assure you that the girl belongs to me, and as for the dowry I want you to keep it yourself.’
Andrea Cellini was rather quick-tempered, and this made him pretty furious; but all the same the wedding took place a few days later and Giovanni never asked for any dowry other than what he received.
For eighteen years they were very happy together, enjoying their youth and their holy love, but all the time longing to have children. At the end of this eighteen years Elisabetta had a miscarriage because of the doctors’ bungling, and she lost twin boys. Then she became pregnant again and gave birth to a daughter whom they called Cosa, after my father’s mother. Two years later she was pregnant a third time; and as those strange longings which are so powerful in pregnant women were exactly the same as the ones she had shown in her former pregnancy they were certain that she was going to have another girl, and so they decided they would call it Reparata, after my mother’s mother.
The child was born during the night after All Saints’ Day, at exactly half past four, in the year 1500. The midwife knew that they were expecting a girl and as soon as she had washed the baby she wrapped it up in some fine white linen and then came up very, very softly to my father and said: ‘I’ve brought you a wonderful present – and one you didn’t expect.’
My father was a true philosopher; he had been pacing the room and when the midwife came to him he said: ‘Whatever God gives is dear to me.’ Then, drawing back the swaddling clothes, he saw with his own eyes the son that no one had expected. He clasped his old hands together, and with them lifted his eyes up to heaven, and said: ‘Lord, I thank You with all my heart. This is a great gift, and he is very welcome.’
Everyone there began talking happily and asking him what he was going to call the boy. But Giovanni kept on repeating: ‘He is Welcome (Benvenuto).’ So that was the name they decided on. I was baptized with it, and by the grace of God I carry it to this day.
When I was already about three years old my grandfather Andrea was still alive and over a hundred. One day they were changing a cistern pipe when a large scorpion which they had not noticed crawled out of it, slipped to the ground, and scuttled away under a bench. I caught sight of it, ran over, and picked the thing up. It was so big that when I had it in my little hand its tail hung out at one end and both its claws at the other. They say that laughing happily I ran up to my grandfather and said: ‘Look, grandpapa, look at my lovely little crab.’ He recognized what it was and almost dropped dead from shock and anxiety. Then he tried to coax me into giving it to him, but the more he did so the more I screamed tearfully, refusing to give it to anyone.
My father was also in the house and, hearing the noise, he ran in to see what it was all about. He was so terror-stricken that his mind refused to work and he could not think up any way of stopping the poisonous creature from killing me. Then his eyes fell on a pair of sc
issors and he managed to wheedle me into letting him snip off the scorpion’s tail and claws. When the danger was past he regarded it as a good omen.
Another time, when I was about five, my father was sitting alone in one of our small rooms, singing and playing his viol. Some washing had just been done there and a good log fire was still burning. It was very cold, and he had drawn near the fire. Then, as he was looking at the flames, his eye fell on a little animal, like a lizard, that was running around merrily in the very hottest part of the fire. Suddenly realizing what it was, he called my sister and myself and showed it to us. And then he gave me such a violent box on the ears that I screamed and burst into tears. At this he calmed me as kindly as he could and said: ‘My dear little boy, I didn’t hit you because you had done wrong. I only did it so that you will never forget that the lizard you saw in the fire is a salamander, and as far as we know for certain no one has ever seen one before.’
Then he kissed me and gave me a little money.
When my father began teaching me to play the flute and to sing, although I was at the tender age when children love blowing whistles and playing with toys of that kind, I hated every moment of it and would only sing or play the flute to obey him. At that time he was busy constructing wonderful organs with wooden pipes, and harpsichords – the most beautifully-made that one could find at that period – as well as viols and lutes and harps, all of them superb works of craftsmanship. Besides this he was an engineer and he worked wonders in designing all kinds of apparatus, for lowering bridges, for example, or for operating mills. He was also the first to do good work in ivory.
But he fell in love with music, which became a second wife to him, and, perhaps because of that little flute which he played far too much, the fifers of the Signory asked him to join them. For a time he played with them merely to amuse himself, and then they pestered him into becoming a member of their band. Later on, when Lorenzo de’ Medici and his son Piero, who were very fond of him, saw that he was spending all his time on the fife and so neglecting his real talents and his fine profession, they had him removed from it. My father took this very badly, convinced that they had wronged him deeply.
The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini Page 3
