Then straight away the Bishop of Vasona hurried up and began pleading on behalf of Bastiano.
‘Holy Father,’ he said, ‘Benvenuto is young, and he looks much better with a sword by his side than in the friar’s robe that he would have to wear if he were given the post in the Piombo. Be content to give the position to this talented man Bastiano; and on some other occasion you’ll be able to find something worth while for Benvenuto, which, perhaps, will be more suitable for him.’
Finally, the Pope turned to Messer Bartolomeo Valori 101 and said:
‘When you run into Benvenuto, tell him from me that he himself has given the post to the painter Bastiano. But he can bank on having the first better position that falls vacant. Meanwhile he must work well and finish what he’s doing for me.’
The following evening, two hours after nightfall, I ran into Bartolomeo Valori at the corner of the Mint. There were two torch-bearers in front of him, and he was in the devil of a rush as he had been sent for by the Pope. When I greeted him he stopped and called me over, and then told me very warmly what the Pope had ordered him to. I replied that I would finish the work more carefully and eagerly than any I had ever done before, but all this would be without the slightest hope of ever getting anything from the Pope. Bartolomeo reproached me for saying this and added that I ought not to answer the offers of a pope in such a way. I said that knowing full well that I would never get anything, I would be mad if I relied on what he said or replied in any other way than I had. Then I left him and got on with my business.
Bartolomeo must have told the Pope about the angry little speech I had made – perhaps he even added a little of his own – because the Pope let more than two months go by without sending for me, and all that time I had not the slightest intention of going along myself. But he was pining to have a look at the work I was doing for him, and so he told Messer Roberto Pucci 102 to see how I was getting on. This excellent fellow used to visit me every day, and we were always very friendly towards each other.
The time was drawing near when the Pope intended to leave for Bologna,103 and so at long last, realizing that I would not come to him of my own accord, he gave me to understand through Roberto that I was to bring the work along as he wanted to see what progress I had made.
So I took it along; he saw that the best part of the work was finished, and I begged him to let me have five hundred crowns, partly as payment and partly because I was in urgent need of gold to complete the chalice. All he said was: ‘Get on with it – finish the job.’
So I left him, saying as I went that I would certainly finish it if he gave me some money.
When the Pope started off for Bologna he left Cardinal Salviati as his legate in Rome, with orders that he was to hurry me up in my work. What he said was:
‘Benvenuto is a man who values his genius very little, and us even less: so make sure you keep him up to the mark, so that it’s ready for me when I return.’
At the end of a week that bestial Cardinal sent for me, with instructions that I was to bring the chalice. So I went without it. As soon as he saw me, he said:
‘Where’s that hash of yours? Is it finished?’
I answered: ‘Most reverend monsignor, the hash isn’t finished, and it won’t be finished till I have some vegetables to put in it.’
When he heard what I said, this Cardinal, who as a matter of fact looked more like an ass than a human being, became more like a brute than ever, and without mincing words broke in:
‘I shall send you to the galleys – then perhaps you’ll be good enough to finish the work.’
Then I descended to his animal level and replied:
‘Monsignor, when I’m criminal enough to deserve the galleys, then you can send me there. But what I’ve done so far doesn’t give me any cause for alarm. And let me add this – because of you, I have no intention of finishing it. Don’t send for me again, because you won’t see me – unless you send for me by force.’
Afterwards this fine Cardinal kept trying to coax me into carrying on with the work and bringing it to show him. As a result I sent back word that if he wanted me to finish the hash he had better send some vegetables. That was the only reply he ever got, and in the end he gave up the task as hopeless.
When the Pope came back from Bologna he sent for me straight away, as the Cardinal had already written to him damning me as much as he could. He was in the worst of tempers, and I was told to bring my work along with me. And I did so.
As it happened while the Pope was in Bologna my eyes had become so painfully inflamed that I almost died of the agony. This was the main reason for my not finishing the work. In fact I went through so much that I felt sure I would be left permanently blind. I had even worked out how much I would need to live on if this happened. So while I was on my way to the Pope I tried to think out in what way I would have to excuse myself for not having got on with the work. I decided that while the Pope was eyeing what I had done, and summing it up, I would have the chance to tell him about my misfortunes. But that proved out of the question because as soon as I found myself in front of him he said rudely:
‘Give the work here! Is it finished?’
I uncovered what I had done, and then, losing his temper, he cried:
‘In God’s truth, I tell you, you make it your business not to care a jot for anyone. If it wasn’t for my position I’d have you and your work thrown out of the window.’
When I saw what a brutal mood he was in my one thought was to get away from him. So while he continued storming at me, I put the work under my cloak and muttered to myself:
‘Nothing in the world could force a blind man to work on this sort of thing.’
At this he raised his voice even higher, and cried out: ‘Come here. What are you saying?’
I was in two minds as to whether I should make a mad dash down the stairs or not, then I made a decision, threw myself on my knees, and bawled out – since he hadn’t stopped bawling himself:
‘And if an illness has made me blind, am I still bound to work?’
He replied: ‘You were able to see your way here. I don’t believe a word you say.’
But I noticed that he had lowered his voice a little, and so I came back with:
‘If your Holiness consults his doctor about it he’ll find out the truth.’
To this he said: ‘When it’s more convenient we’ll find out whether things are as you say they are.’
I saw that he was ready to give me a hearing, and so I began:
‘I’m certain that the only reason for my terrible affliction was Cardinal Salviati. He sent for me the instant your Holiness had left, and when I arrived he called my work a hash and said that he would make me finish it on a galley. His vicious attitude put me in such a passion that I immediately felt my face becoming inflamed, and my eyes smarted so painfully that I couldn’t find my way home. Two days later I developed cataracts in both my eyes, which prevented my seeing anything at all. So since your Holiness left I haven’t been able to do a spot of work.’
Then I rose to my feet, and cleared off. I was told later that the Pope said:
‘One can pass on responsibility, but not the discretion that goes with it. I didn’t tell the Cardinal to go at it tooth and nail. If he really does have something wrong with his eyes – and I shall find out from my physician – one must have pity on him.’
There was a great gentleman present, who was very friendly with the Pope and very distinguished. He asked the Pope who I was, saying:
‘Holy Father, the reason for my asking this is because I’ve just seen you pass in a flash from the greatest anger to the greatest compassion. So tell me who he is, since if he deserves help I shall let him into a secret that will cure him of his illness.’
The Pope replied: ‘He’s the greatest man his profession has ever known. One day, when we’re together, I’ll show you some of his magnificent work. You can have a look at the man himself at the same time. I’ll be very pleased if you can see
a way to doing him some good.’
Three days after this the Pope sent for me when he had finished dinner, and I arrived to find this gentleman with him. As soon as I came in his Holiness sent for the clasp I had made for his cope, and meanwhile I brought out the chalice. The Pope’s friend said that he had never seen such a marvellous piece of work. Then, when the morse appeared, he was even more astonished. He looked me straight in the eyes and said:
‘He’s very young to know so much, and he’s still ready to learn more.’
He asked me what I was called, and when I told him, Benvenuto, he answered:
‘And now you’ll find that I’m benvenuto too. Take some irises, together with their stalks and petals and roots, then distil them over slow fire, and use the liquid to bathe your eyes several times a day. This will certainly cure you – but purge yourself before you begin the treatment.’
The Pope talked to me quite affectionately; and I went away feeling fairly content.
It was true that I had caught the disease, but I think it must have been from that pretty young servant girl I was keeping at the time I was robbed. The French pox kept its distance for more than four whole months, and then it suddenly broke out all over. It did not show itself in the usual way, but I was covered with a number of small blisters, red ones, about the size of farthings. The doctors refused to christen it the pox, though I told them why I thought it was that. Anyhow I carried on with their treatment, without the least result. In the end, against the advice of the best doctors in Rome, I decided to take lignum vitae. I did so with the greatest imaginable care and abstinence, and within a few days began to feel very much better; to such an extent, in fact, that at the end of fifty days I was completely healed and as sound as a roach.
Then, to make up for the great strain I had been subjected to, as winter was coming on I decided to get some recreation by going out shooting. This led to my being out in all weathers, and plunging through marshlands. The consequence was that in a few days I fell a hundred times more ill than before. I put myself in the hands of the doctors again, but the more they treated me the worse I grew.
When I was attacked by a bout of fever I decided to take lignum vitae again. The doctors were dead against it, saying that if I did so while I was feverish I would die within the week. I made up my mind to ignore them, and then, after I had kept to the same rules as before, and had been drinking this blessed lignum vitae for four days, the fever left me completely. I began to feel a vast improvement. In fact, all the time I was taking lignum vitae, I pushed on with my models for the chalice; and during those weeks of abstinence I made the most exquisite things and the most unusual designs that I have ever made in my life.
At the end of fifty days I was perfectly cured. Then, with the utmost diligence, I set out to build up my health. After that long fast I found myself so free from infirmity that it was just like being born all over again. For all the pleasure I took in building up the healthy state I had been longing for, I refused to neglect my work. I gave as much of my time as I thought I ought both to the chalice and to my work for the Mint.
It happened that Cardinal Salviati, who as I’ve shown regarded me with such tremendous hatred, was made legate of Parma. Now, the next thing that happened was that a certain Milanese goldsmith, called Tobbia, was arrested in Parma on a charge of forgery. After he had been sentenced to be hanged and burned, the Cardinal was asked to grant a reprieve on the grounds that he was a very fine craftsman. The Cardinal had the course of justice held up while he wrote to the Pope saying that the most expert goldsmith in the whole world had fallen into his hands, that he had been condemned to be hanged and burned for coining false money, but that he was a simple, honest man, who pleaded that he had sought the advice of his confessor and said that he had been given permission to do what he had done.
On top of this, the Cardinal added:
‘If you make this great man come to Rome, your Holiness will succeed in lowering your Benvenuto’s tremendous conceit, and I’m positive that Tobbia’s work will please you much more than Benvenuto’s.’
As a result of this the Pope made him come to Rome at once. As soon as he arrived we were both sent for and both ordered to set to work on a design for mounting a unicorn’s horn. This was the most beautiful object of its kind ever seen, it had cost seventeen thousand ducats, and the Pope intended to make a present of it to the King of France.104 But before doing so he wanted to have it richly ornamented in gold. So we were both ordered to make our designs.
When we had finished them we carried our work along to the Pope. Tobbia’s design was in the form of a candlestick, and instead of a candle that wonderful horn was to be stuck in it; at the base of the candlestick he had made four little unicorns’ heads, so crudely unimaginative that when I saw his work I could not help grinning to myself on the side.
The Pope noticed this and called out straight away: ‘Let’s see what you’ve done.’
My design showed merely a unicorn’s head, to match the horn. I had made an extraordinarily beautiful job of it, because I had taken the design partly from the head of a horse and partly from that of a stag, and I had embellished it with a magnificent mane and a number of other charming adornments. As a result, as soon as it was seen everyone declared that mine was superior.
However there were a few very influential Milanese present at the contest, and they seized the chance to say:
‘Holy Father, your Holiness is sending this magnificent gift to France – now remember, the French are very uncouth people and they won’t recognize the excellence of what Benvenuto has done. Now, a ciborium with the same design as Tobbia has shown us will please them very much; and that sort of thing takes far less time to make. Then Benvenuto can concentrate on finishing your chalice, and you’ll have two things finished in the same amount of time – besides giving that poor fellow you made come here something to do.’
The Pope, who was anxious to have the chalice, was only too pleased to act on their advice. So the next day he commissioned Tobbia to mount the unicorn’s horn, and sent word through the Master of the Wardrobe that I was to finish the chalice. My reply to this was that all I wanted myself was to finish such a beautiful piece of work, and that if it were made of anything else but gold I could finish it quite easily without any help, but that as it was in gold his Holiness must supply me with some if he wanted the chalice finished.
The low-class courtier I gave this message to said:
‘God help me! don’t ask the Pope for gold; you’ll put him in such a temper that he’ll ruin you.’
I replied: ‘Then will your Highness teach me how to make bread without flour? Because, sir, this work of mine will never be finished without gold.’
It began to dawn on this official that I had been making fun of him; and he said that he would carry my words back to the Pope. And he did so. The Pope fell into a furious rage and said that he would just wait and see whether I was fool enough not to finish it. So more than two months passed; and though I had told him that I would not do a stroke of work on the chalice, in fact I worked on it all the time, very lovingly.
When the Pope saw that I was not going to bring it along he began to harbour tremendous resentment against me, and he threatened to have me punished whatever happened. His Milanese jeweller heard him make this threat. This fellow, who was called Pompeo, was very closely related to Pope Clement’s most favoured servant, a certain Messer Traiano. The two of them got together and said to the Pope:
‘If your Holiness took the Mint away from him perhaps you’d give him the incentive to finish the chalice.’
The Pope replied: ‘That would have two bad results – first, I’d be badly served at the Mint, which is so important to me, and second, I’d certainly never get the chalice.’
But in the end, the two Milanese, seeing that I was in the Pope’s bad books, succeeded to the extent that he took the Mint away from me and gave my post to a young man from Perugia who was known as Fagiuolo.105 Pompeo came along
to tell me, on behalf of the Pope, that the Mint had been taken away from me, and that if I did not finish the chalice there would be other things taken away as well.
I replied to this: ‘Tell his Holiness that he has robbed himself, not me. And the same applies to those other things. And when he wants to restore it to me, I shan’t dream of accepting.’
It seemed an eternity to this miserable wretch before he could tell the Pope all I had said, as well as what he added on his own account. Then, a week later, the Pope sent word through the same fellow, saying that he no longer wanted me to finish the chalice but that he wanted it taken to him exactly in the state I had brought it to so far.
I told this fellow Pompeo that the Pope could not take the chalice from me as he had done my position in the Mint.
‘This is how things stand,’ I said. ‘I have five hundred crowns that belong to his Holiness, and I’ll return them to him straight away. The work itself is mine to do as I please with.’
Pompeo dashed off to report this, as well as the bitter words I had felt justified in throwing in for him.
Then, about three days later, on a Thursday, two of his Holiness’s favourite chamberlains came to see me. One of them, called Messer Pier Giovanni,106 who is still alive today and has been made a bishop, was then the Pope’s Master of the Wardrobe; the other was of even higher birth than him, but I’ve forgotten his name.
When they arrived, they said: ‘We’ve been sent by the Pope, Benvenuto. Since you’ve decided not to take the easy way out, he says you must either hand us over his chalice or we must take you to prison.’
I looked at them very cheerfully and replied: ‘My lords, if I gave his Holiness the chalice I’d be giving what belongs to me and not to him. And I don’t intend to let him have it, because having taken so much trouble to bring it near completion I don’t intend it to fall into the hands of some ignorant beast who would find it only too easy to ruin it.’
The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini Page 15
