The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini

by Benvenuto Cellini

  Now, this Durante I mentioned gave one of the guards a diamond of some small value. It was said that a great enemy of mine, a certain goldsmith of Arezzo called Lione,208 was entrusted with the job of pounding it. However, since he was very poor and the diamond must have been worth a few dozen crowns, he gave the guard something which he pretended was the powdered diamond to be administered to me. That morning I ate the powder, mixed with all my food – it was a Friday. I had it in the salad, in the ragout, and in the soup.

  I ate with great gusto, since I had been fasting the evening before. The Friday was a feast day. As a matter of fact I did feel the food scrunching between my teeth, but no suspicion of such devilry entered my mind. After I had finished there was a little salad still left on the plate, and then I caught sight of some fine splinters that remained with it. Straight away I went over with them to the window, where the light was very strong, remembering while I was looking at them that the food had scrunched more than usual that morning. After a careful inspection I became convinced that as far as I could judge it was powdered diamond.

  I at once gave myself up for dead and with a heavy heart took devout refuge in prayer. Having made up my mind that I was doomed, for a whole hour I poured out prayers to God, thanking Him for such a pleasant death. Since my stars had willed that it should be so, I reckoned I had made a good bargain in quitting this life so easily. I was quite content to bless the world and the years I had spent in it. Now I was returning to a better kingdom, secure in my knowledge of the grace of God. With these thoughts passing through my head I was holding in my hand some very fine grains from what I was certain was a diamond. But, since it never dies away, I let myself be tempted to indulge in a little vain hope. As a result I took hold of some small knife and tipped a few of the grains on to one of the prison bars. Then I touched them lightly with the point of the knife, pressed down hard, and felt the stone crumble. Peering closer I saw that it had in fact done so. At once hope flooded back, and I said to myself:

  ‘This isn’t Durante’s durable stone, it’s a poor, cheap stone which won’t do me the slightest harm.’

  So, although I had reconciled myself to remaining quiet and dying in peace, I began to make fresh plans. But first I thanked God and that blessed state of poverty, which although very often causing death this time was the real cause of my remaining alive. Since my enemy, Durante – or whoever it was – had given Lione a diamond, worth more than a hundred crowns, and told him to pound it for me, his poverty had persuaded him to take it for himself, and instead he ground up a greenish beryl worth only a couple of carlins. He probably thought that, seeing it was a stone, it would have the same effect as the diamond.

  At that time the Bishop of Pavia – brother of the Count of San Secondo – called Monsignor de’ Rossi of Parma,209 was imprisoned in the castle because of some disturbances that had happened in Pavia. As the Bishop was a great friend of mine I thrust my head through the hole in my cell and called to him in a loud voice that in order to murder me those criminals had given me a powdered diamond. At the same time through one of his servants I sent him some of the powder that was left, but I didn’t tell him I had discovered that it wasn’t a diamond. Instead I told him that they had certainly poisoned me, after the death of that admirable castellan; and for the little time I had left alive I begged him to let me have one of his loaves every day, since I wasn’t anxious to eat anything that came from them. So he promised to send me some of his own food. That Messer Antonio, who had certainly known nothing of the plot, made a great stir about it and asked to see the powdered stone, which he too believed to be a diamond. Then, judging that the Pope must be behind it all, after he had thought the matter over he shrugged it off.

  I restricted what I ate to the food sent me by the Bishop and I carried on writing that poem of mine on the prison, setting down every day all the new things that happened to me, detail by detail. Antonio also used to send along some food which was brought me by Giovanni, that Prato chemist whom I mentioned before, who was then a soldier in the castle. This man was very hostile towards me, and it was he who had brought me the powdered diamond; so I told him that I refused to eat anything he brought me unless he tried it first. His answer to this was that only popes had their food tasted first. I said that in the same way as noblemen were obliged to taste the Pope’s food, so he, a soldier and a low-class Prato chemist, was obliged to taste the food of a Florentine of my quality. We ended up swapping insults.

  Messer Antonio, who was growing a little ashamed of himself, especially as he intended to make me pay the expenses that the dead castellan had let me off, got my food brought me by another of his servants, who was a friend of mine. This man was gracious enough to try the food for me without any objection. He also told me how every day the Pope was being pestered by that Monsignor di Morluc, who was continually asking for me on behalf of the French King, and he added that the Pope showed little inclination to give me up and that Cardinal Farnese210 – formerly my great patron and friend – had had to say that I shouldn’t count on getting out of prison for some time. I commented that I would find a way out in spite of them all.

  The admirable young man begged me to hold my peace and not let anyone hear me say such things, since it would do me no good. He added that, trusting in God as I did, I ought to wait for His mercy and remain patient. I told him that the powers of God had no need to fear the malignant workings of injustice.

  After a few days had passed the Cardinal of Ferrara arrived in Rome; and when he went to pay his respects to his Holiness, the Pope detained him so long that supper time came round. The Pope was a very knowledgeable man, and wanted to have a leisurely talk with the Cardinal about all those wretched French affairs. Now it happens that when men eat together they often say things which might otherwise remain unsaid. Well then, as the great French King was always very liberal in his dealings, and as the Cardinal, who thoroughly understood the King’s disposition, went out of his way to concede far more to the Pope than had been expected, the Pope ended up in a very good mood. He was all the more merry because it was his custom once a week to indulge in a violent debauch, after which he would vomit. When the Cardinal saw how cheerful the Pope was and how he was in a mood to grant favours, with great insistence he asked for me on behalf of the King, emphasizing how anxious the King was to have his request granted. Then with a great laugh the Pope, who felt that his time for vomiting was drawing near and had drunk so much wine that it was beginning to have its effect, cried:

  ‘This very instant, I want you to take him home with you.’

  Then he gave express orders for my release and rose from the table. The Cardinal sent for me at once before Signor Pier Luigi, who in no circumstances would have let me leave prison, could know of what was happening. The Pope’s messenger arrived along with two great noblemen from the Cardinal’s household: and after the fourth hour of the night had passed I was led from my cell and taken to the Cardinal, who greeted me very affectionately. There I found comfortable lodgings and stayed on to enjoy myself.211

  Messer Antonio, who had replaced his brother, the dead castellan, had me pay all the expenses and the other various fees demanded by the police and suchlike people, and he ignored the instructions that the dead castellan had left with regard to me. This matter cost me a good few dozen crowns, and besides this the Cardinal told me that if I valued my life I should have to go carefully, and that if he had not secured my release from prison the night he did I would never have been freed; he had already heard it said that the Pope very much regretted having let me go.

  I must retrace my steps a little, since all these events are mentioned in my poem. While I had been staying those few days in the Cardinal’s apartments, and then in the Pope’s private garden, among other dear friends of mine, one of Bindo Altoviti’s cashiers, called Bernardo Galluzzi, looked me up: I had entrusted property worth several hundred crowns to him, and he sought me out in the Pope’s private garden and wanted to return it all. At this I
protested that there was nowhere else it could go, either to a dearer friend or a safer place. He twisted and turned in his determination not to keep it, and I almost had to force him to do so. When I finally escaped from the castle I found that this poor young Bernardo Galluzzi was ruined: and so I lost my belongings.

  Again, while I was in prison I had a terrible dream, and it seemed that words of the utmost importance were being written on my forehead as if with a pen; the writer told me three times that I must keep quiet, and not speak of them to anyone. When I woke up I found there were marks on my forehead. In my poem about the prison I mention a number of things of this sort. Also I was foretold, without then knowing its significance, all that later happened to Pier Luigi, so clearly and exactly that I am convinced it was an angel from heaven who revealed it to me.

  There is one thing I must not leave out – perhaps the greatest that ever happened to any man – and I write this to testify to the divinity and mysteries of God, which He deigned to make me worthy of. From the time I had my vision till now, a light – a brilliant splendour – has rested above my head, and has been clearly seen by those very few men I have wanted to show it to. It can be seen above my shadow, in the morning, for two hours after the sun has risen; it can be seen much better when the grass is wet with that soft dew; and it can also be seen in the evening, at sunset. I became aware of it in France, in Paris, since in that region the air is so much freer from mists that it can often be seen, far more clearly than in Italy where mists are much more frequent. But this is not to say that I cannot see it on all occasions and can point it out to others, but not so well as in that part of the world.

  I will write out my poem that I composed in prison, and in praise of my prison. Then I shall carry on with my story of the ups and downs that I have experienced from time to time, and also the story of what is yet to come.

  I DEDICATE THIS CAPITOLO TO LUCA MARTINI, AND, AS WILL BE SEEN, I ADDRESS HIM IN IT212

  He who would know God’s power and mighty ways

  And how far man may reach to things divine,

  Some time in prison should drag out his days.

  Torn from his people, let him sadly pine,

  Stricken in body, with tormented mind,

  A thousand miles away his native shrine.

  If ever true success you’ve wished to find,

  Be wrongly kept in harsh imprisonment,

  Submit unaided to a world unkind;

  And when they rob you, let them be intent

  To strip you down, and then to take your life,

  While you lose hope in your bewilderment.

  Driven to frenzy, stir up bitter strife,

  Break from your prison, leap the Castle wall:

  Then let recapture add to your deep grief.

  But Luca, listen to the richest joke –

  Your leg is broken, treachery’s around,

  Your cell is sodden, you’re without a cloak,

  And left in silence, prostrate on the ground.

  Food comes, but with it comes sad news,

  The soldier quack of Prato brings it round.

  Mark well how fame her children will abuse:

  You’re left no resting-place except a stool,

  And yet new ventures you would not refuse.

  ‘Leave him in silence’ – that’s the servant’s rule,

  Who gives you nothing, not a single word;

  The door’s just opened to admit the fool.

  See how delightfully my mind is stirred!

  Warmth and paper, pen and ink away,

  No means to tell the many truths I’ve heard.

  My one regret’s how little I can say:

  Increase each detail just a thousandfold,

  My comment on each one will take a day.

  But now to my first purpose I must hold,

  And talk of prison, pouring out my praise:

  The story should be by an Angel told.

  No honest man will on a prison gaze,

  Unless bad government or base envy,

  Hatred or feud has tricked him in the maze.

  But here’s the truth, unravelled now by me:

  A man in prison prayers to God will send,

  Though suffering hellish pains eternally.

  It may be he’s an evil life to mend,

  Give him two years in harsh captivity,

  He’ll make a saint, to every man a friend.

  Both soul and body find true purity,

  And when of all his grossness he is purged,

  A man will glimpse heaven’s divinity.

  Now hear this marvel: once when I was urged

  By some stray impulse, how the need to write

  Drove me to satisfy emotion’s surge.

  Frowning, I pace the room, and then my sight

  Falls on a crack that runs across the door,

  And I secure a splinter with a bite.

  Taking some brick I find upon the floor

  I crumble it to powder; then for ink

  Upon the brick my own urine I pour.

  And then to forge the great poetic link

  Enters my body inspiration’s gleam

  Using the way that bread goes out, I think.

  But to return to my initial theme:

  Before he finds his good, a mortal man

  Must take from God more evil than he’d dream.

  There’s art, and science, within the prison’s plan –

  If you must needs to treatment have recourse,

  Then would it heat your veins until blood ran.

  Besides, all prisons have a natural force

  To make you eloquent, and fierce and bold,

  Debating well of good and ill the source.

  Lucky the man the gaolers long time hold

  Fast in his prison, and who then breaks free,

  He knows of war and peace, how pacts unfold,

  And all things undertakes successfully.

  For prison gives him such fine powers and strength,

  His wits won’t take him dancing on a spree.

  ‘The years you’ve lost!’ you may protest at length,

  ‘And what you write of prison is untrue,

  No gaol sustains a man’s soul or his heart.’

  But, as for me, I’ll praise it through and through,

  Though there is just one law that I would make,

  Gaoling a man, when prison is his due.

  All those who would the reins of office take

  Should learn the lessons that a prison gives,

  They’d then rule wisely for their subjects’ sake.

  They’d then act justly, and throughout their lives

  They’d never swerve from justness, nor permit

  The great confusion that with order strives.

  But I, when in my cell I used to sit,

  Saw many priests and friars and soldiers there,

  Though few for whom such punishment was fit.

  The pain you feel, the grief so hard to bear,

  When you are left and one of them is freed!

  There’s nothing left to nurse save deep despair.

  But I am turned to gold; I must pay heed

  To my high value. I must say no more,

  For better things than this of gold have need.

  Now one more thing into your ears I’ll pour,

  That I remember, Luca, left unsaid:

  God’s holy book was where I set my score.

  With agony that on my body fed

  I wrote in that book’s margins with my pen,

  With such a wretched paste that all the dead

  In hell can never suffer worse, for then

  Three times I dipped before an O was read.

  I shall be silent, not the first of men

  To suffer without cause. But here I’ll write

  Of what I suffered, of harsh torture’s den.

  A prison cell I praise with all my might,

  And those in ignorance I here advise –


  Without it they can never storm the height.

  If only, as I read of, someone wise

  Would say to me, as He said at the shore:

  ‘Now, Benvenuto, take your clothes and rise.’

  Salve Regina, Credo, prayers I’d pour

  To God, with Paternosters; I’d give alms

  To poor men, blind, and lame, for evermore.

  How many times have I not suffered qualms

  The lilies making me seem pale and dead;

  Of France and Florence I forget the charms.

  If in a hospital my way I tread

  And see an Angel greeting Mary there

  I do not linger; like a beast I’ve fled!

  No harm I speak of that sweet lady fair

  Nor of the holy flowers her hand enfolds

  That light to earth and heaven always bear.

  But everywhere I look my sight beholds

  Those lily flowers, whose petals like a hook

  I shake to see so many thousandfolds.

  The many slaves, no matter where you look,

  To that Farnese emblem born in thrall,

  Those lofty souls that God from heaven took!

  But I have seen that deadly emblem fall

  Swift from the sky, among a people vain;

  Then on the stone a new light brightening all.

  Before my cherished freedom I could gain

  The Castle bell must crack: this was made known

  By the Creator who makes all things plain.

  And then I saw a dark bier near the stone,

  With broken lilies, crosses and sad tears

  And on their beds afflicted men who moan.

  My eyes saw Death, the one who cruelly sears

  And tortures souls at random; then she said:

  ‘I’ll take whomever Benvenuto fears.’

  Then wrote that noble being on my head

  With Peter’s pen the words which once begun

  He three times ordered me to leave unsaid.

  I saw the powerful Ruler of the sun

  Clothed in its splendour, and the Court around,