The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini

by Benvenuto Cellini

  With typical Spanish swagger he was wearing his sword across his front. The result was that the shot struck the sword and cut him in two. The Pope who was taken by surprise was astonished and delighted, but he found it impossible to understand how a gun could be fired accurately at such range, or how on earth the man could have been cut in two. So he sent for me and asked me to explain.

  I told him how painstaking I had been in aiming the gun, and as for why he was cut in two, I said that neither he nor I could ever understand. And then falling on my knees, I begged him to absolve me of that homicide, and of the others I had committed while serving the Church in the castle. At this the Pope raised his hand, carefully made a great sign of the cross above my head, and said that he gave me his blessing and that he forgave me all the homicides I had ever committed and all those I ever would commit in the service of the Apostolic Church.

  After I left him I climbed back to the tower and spent all my time firing away at the enemy, hardly ever wasting a shot. My drawing, my wonderful studies, and my lovely music were all forgotten in the music of the guns, and if I told in detail the great things I did in that cruel inferno I would astonish the world. But, in order not to take too long, I shall pass them over. I shall only describe some of the more outstanding events which I cannot leave out.

  Well then, all my thoughts, night and day, were concentrated on what I for my part could do to defend the Church. And knowing that when the enemy changed guard he used to pass through the great gate of Santo Spirito, which was just about within range, I began to direct my fire in that direction. But as I had to fire obliquely I could not inflict all the harm I wanted to, though all the same every day I used to kill a fair number. Then the enemy, seeing his passage hindered, one night piled up more than thirty barrels on top of a roof and managed to block my line of vision. At this I started thinking more carefully about what I should do, trained all five of my guns straight at the barrels, and then waited till two hours before sunset, when the guard was immediately changed.

  Imagining that they were quite safe the enemy troops came along far more casually and more crowded together than usual. So when I fired the guns I not only blasted to the ground the barrels that were obstructing me, but also killed more than thirty men at one go. I did the same amount of damage twice again, and threw the enemy troops into tremendous confusion. As a result of this, and also because they were laden with spoils from the great sack and wanted to enjoy what had cost them so much, they were constantly on the point of mutiny and desertion. However, they were restrained by their intrepid captain, Gian di Urbino,65 and to their great inconvenience they were forced to take another route when changing guard. The march was a matter of three miles, as against less than half a mile before.

  After this exploit all the noblemen in the castle treated me with extraordinary favour. It led to such important results that I wanted to tell and have done with it. These matters have nothing to do with my profession, which is my real reason for writing. If I wanted to adorn the story of my life with events of such a kind it would take me too long to write. But there is just one other thing that I must tell.

  I shall skip a good deal and come to the time when Pope Clement, in his anxiety to save the tiaras and the mass of wonderful jewels belonging to the Apostolic Camera, sent for me, and then shut himself up with me in a single room. Cavalierino was also with us. He had been one of Filippo Strozzi’s grooms; 66 he was a Frenchman, of very low birth, but he had proved himself a very faithful servant, and Pope Clement had poured money into his pocket and trusted him as much as he did himself.

  So there was the Pope, Cavalierino, and myself, all shut up in that room. They placed in front of me the tiaras and the great mass of jewels from the Apostolic Camera, and I was ordered to remove them from their gold settings. I did as I was told; and then after I had wrapped them up in pieces of paper we sewed them into the linings of the Pope’s and Cavalierino’s clothes. When this was done they gave me all the gold – which came to about two hundred pounds – and told me to melt it down, as secretly as I could. I went up to the Angel, where I could be safe from interruption as I had my own room there and could lock the door. Inside my room I built a little brick furnace, placed at the bottom a rather large cinder-tray, shaped like a dish, and began throwing the gold on top of the coals. Little by little it fell down into the dish.

  All the time the furnace was burning I kept a look-out to see what damage I could inflict on our enemies. As the enemy trenches were underneath us, less than a stone’s-throw distance, I decided to fire at them some rubble I found piled here and there that had once been used as ammunition. I got hold of a swivel-gun and a falconet, both of which were rather damaged at the muzzle, rammed in the projectiles, and then fired away. My shots volleyed down like mad, dealing the enemy some nasty blows that he had hardly expected. I was busy at this all the time I was melting down the gold, and a little before vespers I noticed someone riding along the edge of the trench on a mule. The mule was trotting along at a very smart pace, and the rider was talking to the men in the trenches. I was well prepared before he came opposite my line of fire, took accurate aim, and hit him with one of the projectiles I was using, right in the face. The rest of the shot struck his mule, and the animal fell down dead. I heard a tremendous uproar coming from the trenches, fired the other gun, and dealt out death and destruction.

  The man I hit was the Prince of Orange. He was carried through the trenches to a nearby inn, where, in a very short while, all the leaders of the army flocked together. When the Pope heard what I had done he sent for me straight away and asked how it had happened. I told him everything, adding that it must have been a man of very great importance since as far as I could judge all the army chiefs had straight away gathered together at the inn he was carried to.

  Pope Clement, who was a very quick-thinking man, sent for Antonio Santa Croce – the gentleman, as I mentioned before, who was immediately in charge of the artillery – and told him to order all us gunners to train our cannon, of which there was an infinite number, on the inn, and fire away together with an arquebus shot as signal. In that way all the leaders of the army would be killed, and the troops, who were already disaffected, would take to flight. Perhaps, added the Pope, God had heard the prayers they were continually making to Him, and this was the way they were to be freed from those impious ruffians.

  We prepared the artillery under Santa Croce’s directions, and were waiting for the signal. Meanwhile Cardinal Orsino 67 heard what was going on and began making protests to the Pope. He said that it would be madness to carry on with it because they were just on the point of making peace, and if their chief officers were killed the leaderless troops would take the castle by storm and bring utter ruin. Such a thing was not to be allowed. The poor Pope, seeing himself harassed from within and without, completely despaired and said that he left the decision with them. So the order was countermanded.

  Realizing that we were going to be told not to fire I could not hold myself back, and I discharged one of my small cannon, striking a column in the courtyard of the house round which a crowd had gathered. This shot caused so much destruction that the enemy was on the point of abandoning the place. Cardinal Orsino wanted to have me hanged or shot down on the spot, but the Pope hotly defended me. Though I know the angry words that passed between them I shall not report them, as I am not meant to be writing history. I shall concern myself only with my own affairs.

  When I had melted down the gold I brought it to the Pope, who thanked me very much for what I had done and told Cavalierino to give me twenty-five crowns, apologizing for not having more to reward me with. A few days later peace was declared.

  I went off towards Perugia with a company of three hundred men to rejoin Orazio Baglioni; and when we arrived there Orazio wanted to put me in command. I was against this, and I told him that first I wanted to go and see my father and at the same time have the ban that was still on me in Florence lifted. Then that nobleman told me that
he had received a commission from Florence. He was in touch with the Florentine envoy, Pier Maria di Lotto, and strongly recommended me to him, as being one of his men.

  So with several other companions I made my way to Florence, where at that time the plague was raging very fiercely. When I arrived I found my good old father, who was convinced that I had either been killed in the sack of Rome or would return to him in a state of destitution. But, on the contrary, there I was, alive, with plenty of money, with a servant and a first-rate horse. There was so much rejoicing when I met the old man that while he was hugging and kissing me I felt sure he would die of joy. I told him all the devilry that had accompanied the sack of Rome, and then handed him over a large sum of money that I had earned by my soldiering. We embraced each other time and time again, and then he went straight off to the magistrates to have the ban lifted.

  As luck would have it, one of the men who had banished me was serving as one of the Eight again. It was the same fellow who had told my father so rashly that he would have me marched out to execution. So, backed up by the favour shown me by Orazio Baglioni, my father had his revenge with some pretty telling words.

  This was how matters stood when I told him that Signor Orazio Baglioni had chosen me as his captain and that I ought to begin thinking about raising my troops. This news upset my poor father terribly; he started begging me for the love of God not to think of such an enterprise, even though he well realized that I had it in me to do that and greater things. He added that his other son, my brother, was doing brave deeds as a soldier and that I should devote myself to my wonderful art on which I had already spent so many years and so much hard study. I gave him my word that I would obey him, but like the shrewd man he was he realized that if Orazio Baglioni appeared on the scene, because of my promise to him, and for various other reasons, I would certainly go off on a fighting expedition. He managed to think up a good excuse for persuading me to leave Florence, and he said:

  ‘My dear boy, this plague is raging so very fiercely that every day I’m convinced you’re going to catch it. Now I remember that when I was a young man I went off to Mantua, had a great fuss made of me, and stayed there a good few years. For my sake, and today rather than tomorrow, clear out of Florence and go to Mantua – I beg and order you to do it.’

  I have always loved seeing the world, and so as I had never been to Mantua I was only too glad to go. I left with my father most of the money I had brought home, promised that I would always help him out wherever I found myself, and left my elder sister to look after him. Her name was Cosa, and as she had never had any desire to marry she had been accepted as a nun in Santa Orsola; but she postponed going there in order to help and take care of my poor old father, and keep an eye on my younger sister who was married to a sculptor called Bartolomeo.

  So, with my father’s blessing, I mounted my lovely horse and rode off to Mantua. If I tried to describe that short journey in detail I would have far too much to write. As it was, with the world overshadowed by plague and war, it was only with great difficulty that I reached my goal. But when I did arrive I set out to find work at once.

  I was taken on by a Milanese craftsman called Niccolò, who was the Duke of Mantua’s goldsmith. About two days after I had started work I went to call on Giulio Romano, a very fine painter, whom I have already mentioned, and a close friend of mine. He gave me a great welcome but he was very offended at my not having ridden straight to his house. He was living like a lord, and he was engaged on some work for the Duke at a place outside the gates of Mantua called Tè. It was a marvellous enterprise on a large scale, as I expect can still be seen. Giulio lost no time in recommending me to the Duke in very warm terms, and as a result I was commissioned to model a reliquary for the blood of Christ,68 which the Mantuans say was brought to their city by Longinus.69 When he was giving me the commission the Duke turned to Giulio and told him to sketch a design for me.

  At this Giulio said: ‘My lord, Benvenuto is a man who has no need of other people’s designs, as your Excellency will be able to judge for yourself when you see the model.’

  I began work on the model, designing the reliquary so that the phial would fit into it very nicely. Then I made a little wax model for the lid. This was a figure of Christ, sitting down with His left hand raised on high to hold the great Cross against which He was leaning; and with His right hand He made a gesture as if to open the wound in His side with His finger.

  When I had finished the model the Duke was so delighted with it that he gave me to understand that he would keep me in his service on terms that would enable me to lead a very comfortable life. Meanwhile I had paid my respects to his brother, the Cardinal,70 who begged the Duke to let me make his Eminence’s pontifical seal; and I did in fact begin it. But when I was working on the seal I was attacked by the quartan fever, kept falling into delirium, and while I was in that state began cursing Mantua, and the man who ruled it, and anyone who stayed in the place of his own free will.

  All that I said was carried to the Duke by his Milanese goldsmith, who realized only too well that the Duke wanted me in his service. When the Duke heard these ravings of mine he flew into a rage; and as I was in a rage with Mantua our anger was fairly well matched. Anyhow, I finished the seal – it took me about four months – together with some other small work that the Cardinal had commissioned on behalf of the Duke, and his Eminence paid me generously and begged me to return to the wonderful city of Rome, where we had first known each other.

  I left Mantua with my pockets full, and came to Governolo, the place where that courageous nobleman Giovanni was killed. Here I had another mild bout of fever, but there was no need to interrupt the journey: I quickly shook it off and that proved the last attack.

  I arrived at Florence, expecting to find my good old father. When I knocked at the door, a scraggy hunchbacked old woman looked out of the window and began screaming insults at me, telling me to go away and saying that the sight of me made her sick.

  ‘Good God,’ I shouted back, ‘you twisted old cripple, is there no one else in the house besides you?’

  ‘No, damn you, there isn’t.’

  ‘All right then,’ I said, ‘I only hope we won’t have to put up with you much longer.’

  Hearing all the uproar a neighbour came out, and she told me that my father and everyone in the house had died of the plague. As I had partly guessed this already I was less upset than I would have been. Then she added that only my younger sister, Liperata, was left alive, and that she had been taken in by a holy woman called Andrea de’ Bellacci.

  I left her and set off for the inn, and on the way I ran into a very close friend of mine called Giovanni Rigogli. So I dismounted at his house and we went along to the public square, where I heard that my brother also was still alive. I moved off to find him at the house of a friend of his called Bertino Aldobrandi. As we had each been told that the other was dead, when we met we hugged each other with unbounded affection. Then, roaring with laughter all the time, he took me by the hand and said:

  ‘Come along, Benvenuto, I want to take you somewhere you’d never guess. I’ve married off our sister Liperata again, and she’s positive that you’re dead.’

  On the way we told each other all the wonderful experiences we had been through. Then, when we arrived at the house where she was, Liperata was so flabbergasted by such an unexpected visit that she fell fainting into my arms. If my brother had not been there, her fainting like that, without saying a word, would have made her husband suspect that I was anything but her brother; and in fact to begin with he did so. But Cecchino explained everything, attended to Liperata and soon brought her round. Shedding a few tears for her father, and her sister, and her husband, and her little son, she began to prepare some supper. We spent the rest of the evening very pleasantly; we never mentioned the dead again, but talked about weddings and in that way enjoyed a very happy little party.

  Though I felt like returning to Rome, the prayers of my brother and siste
r succeeded in keeping me in Florence. Even Piero di Giovanni Landi, who, as I have told, gave me so much help when I was in difficulties before, even he told me that I ought to stay in Florence for a while. As the Medici had been driven out 71 (that is, the lords Ippolito and Alessandro, one of whom later became a cardinal, and the other Duke of Florence), Piero said that I should hold on for a time and see what happened. So I began to work in the New Market, carrying on a thriving business in jewel setting, and making a good profit.

  About that time a Sienese called Girolamo Marretti arrived in Florence. He was a man of very lively intelligence, and he had been in Turkey for some time. One day he came along to my shop and commissioned me to make a gold medal to wear in his hat; 72 and he wanted as its design a figure of Hercules wrenching open the lion’s mouth. While I was working on it I was very often visited by Michelangelo Buonarroti. I took great pains on this medal; I broke new ground in my design for the figure, and in the way I expressed the fierceness of the animal; and the divine Michelangelo was quite unfamiliar with my method of working. As a result of this he praised my work so highly that I began to burn with ambition to do really well. However, I had nothing else to do except get on with setting jewels; although this brought in most profit it failed to satisfy me, and I wanted to try my hand at something more exalted than jewel-setting. Then a certain Federigo Ginori appeared on the scene. He was a young man of very fine spirit who had lived for some years in Naples, where, because of his noble, handsome looks, a princess had taken him for her lover. He happened to want a medal made, showing Atlas holding the world on his shoulders, so he begged the great Michelangelo to sketch a rough design for him.

  Michelangelo said to him: ‘Go along and get hold of the young goldsmith called Benvenuto. He will serve you very well and he’ll certainly have no need of a design from me. But in case you imagine I’m trying to shirk this little task, I’ll gladly sketch a design for you. Meanwhile, have a talk with Benvenuto and have him make a little model as well. Then you can have the better one of the two carried out.’