YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

Figure i.
Michel Angelo: A Slave
Paris, Louvre.

THE LATE YEARS
OF MICHEL ANGELO

BY
AVlLHELM R. VaLENTINER

New York
PRIVATELY PRINTED
MCMXIV

Copyright. 1914
by
Frederic Fairchild Sherman

Tip, 68S Hi M i/g

TO
Maria Humann^Sarre

The following notes were written to be de*
livered as a ledture, a fadl that may in some de*
gree explain their form. The translation from
the original German was made by Mrs. James
Sharkey to whom I desire to express my in*
debtedness. Among the authors consulted
those of chief importance were Henry Thode
and Carl Justi. ^jj p -y
New York
February, 19 14.

APR 2 9 1918 1 4 <S 0

THE LATE YEARS
OF MICHEL ANGELO

IN THE whole history of art there
is no greater problem than the one
Michel Angelo presents; and yet
history has furnished us with
| more documents relating to him
than to any other ofthe great masters.- We can
trace the development o£ each of his not very
numerous works, and surely the mass of his
letters and poems and the detailed chronicles
of his contemporaries should throw some light
on his attitude towards Ufe. None the less, the
riddle of his personality remains unsolved, and
the contradictory conceptions that have been
formed of his charadter and his achievement
have no parallel in the history of art criticism.
His sculptures seem less the work of human
hands than do the masterpieces of other men.
Their bodies are as of iron, their spirit belongs
to another world than ours. Yet the skin is
smooth and supple, and they betray a deep and
sympathetic participation in the lot of man*
kind. In stature these figures attain the meas*
ure of godhood, but their souls are tortured like
those of the most miserable of mortals. We
9 APR 2 9 1918

can hardly realize that giants can writhe in
mental anguish, that athletes may be sensitive
to the fingertips. Of a surety a race of demi*
gods Hke these, whose striving souls are housed
in splendid bodies, has not yet been born in this
world. The spirit of their creator seems to consist of
similar contradictions. It was a colossal ener*
gy which with mighty mallet strokes released
these figures from the marble block, a most
delicate hand that smoothed their surface to
velvet curves and to perfection of detail. In
gieat things as in small, Michel Angelo's is a
spirit struggling passionately, never quite sue*
cessfully, for freedom from material fetters.
Certain critics have touched upon these con*
tradidtions. We recall Hermann Grimms beau*
tiful description ofthe "Slave" in the Louvre
(Fig. i). "In this figure, in the first bloom of
manhood, he sees the transfiguration ofthe last
and greatest of human struggles, the ultimate
moment between life and eternity, the shudder
at once of farewell and of fulfilment, the col*
lapse of powerful, youthful limbs discarded like
splendid armor by the soul in its upward flight."
Such massive trappings for so delicate a soul!
This contradiction in spirit is evident too in
Michel Angelo the man as revealed in his poems
and letters. To some of us he seems a spirit in*
stinct with a mystic platonism, to others the

io

image of a Christian soul. Now he is shown as
a man of cold spirituality, again as torn by pas*
sionate longings. Some call him a great soli*
tary, isolating himself from a world which he
holds in contempt; others declare his social re*
lations to have been representative ofthe high*
est type of Renaissance culture. He has been
accused of pettiness, intolerance, avarice, and
selfseeking and has been described as great
minded and generous — and for all these di*
verse characteristics convincing proofs may be
adduced. As all great masters seem to speak more di*
rectly as their years advance, a glimpse of some
of Michel Angelo's later works will perhaps
more plainly reveal his personal standpoint.
He executed several designs for the two great
friends of his later Hfe, Vittoria Colonna and
Tommaso Cavalieri, whose friendship may be
said to typify his dual temperament. These
sketches are illustrative of his relationship to
both the pagan and the Christian tendencies of
the Renaissance.
The "Fall of Phaeton," now in Windsor
Castle (Fig. 2), is a design of classic inspiration
executed for Cavalieri. It is a drama of the
clouds. On high, Jupiter, enthroned on his
eagle, launches the thunderbolt. In the center,
Phaeton is precipitated from the chariot ofthe
Sun while, below, the daughters ofthe river

11

god Eridanus are bewailing the fate ofthe rash
youth who dared to imitate the gods. As in a
wellsplanned tragedy, the motive cause— the
wrath of the gods — looms very small; the dra*
matic incident itself— the overturning ofthe
chariot — is stupendous, and its tragedy is mir*
rored in the beholders who stand nearest. The
design is altogether plastic in conception. In
spite ofthe triangular formation each figure is
independent and equally visible from all sides,
and the composition — unlike that of a painter —
is not planned in relation to a frame but is di*
vided into freely *poised plastic masses. It is
precisely when Michel Angelo expresses him*
self through another medium than sculpture
that we recognize most unerringly where his
real domain Hes. His pictures are plastic art in
paint; his architecture is frozen sculpture. This
has become a truism.
It is a favorite aphorism that the great Re*
naissance artists were equally at home in all
forms of artistic expression — at once painters,
sculptors, and architects. Most assuredly their
general standard of culture was high, and their
interest extended to problems outside of their
own particular province. But human nature,
which achieves greatness only through concen*
tration and Hmitation, was the same then as
now. Leonardo was before all a painter though
he executed sculptures which were pictorial in

12

Figure 2.
Michel Angelo : The Fall of Phaeton
Drawing in Windsor Castle.

conception and of which, by the way, we
know very little. Raphael, too, was a paint*
er, if he occasionally and with a less striking
originaHty appears as an architect. Brunelles*
chi was an architect, and when he failed in the
competition with Ghiberti for the bronze sculp*
tures for the Baptistry, the Florentine judges
were scarcely to be criticised for their decision.
Though Michel Angelo exercised mastery over
the various artistic mediums, even a glance at
his work demonstrates the superficiaHty ofthe
idea that the great Renaissance artists were
equally at home in aU forms of art.
There are those who even assert that as he
ranks as sculptor so also he ranks as poet. He
himself regarded his poems as the pastimes of
an idle hour, and great artists are not prone to
deceive themselves in regard to their achieve*
ments. In fact, these sonnets are rich in self*
revelation for those interested in Michel An*
gelo the man. Regarded as poems they are
efforts o£ no great originaHty influenced by
Dante, Cavalcanti, Petrarch, and others — tor*
mented verses whose overweening pessimism
is not unconnected with the fact that poetry to
Michel Angelo was rather an artificial impulse
than a compelHng need ofthe soul. Were these
verses from another and obscurer pen, they
might have received a less eager meed of apprec*
iation from later generations.
J3

How comes it, though, that Michel Angelo,
preeminently a sculptor, should have executed
paintings and finished drawings like the "Phae*
ton" — drawings which rank in themselves as
complete compositions and were in his own
Hfetime as celebrated as his sculptures? There
is no doubt that originally he was but Httle in*
terested in flat compositions. We know with
what distaste he received the Pope's commis*
sion to decorate the ceiling ofthe Sistine Chapel.
Yet in the end he was not working in a medium
unsuited to his powers. Twenty years later he
undertook without demur the execution ofthe
"Last Judgment" for the same chapel, and the
drawings for CavaHeri he did of his own free
will. ^/hile decorating the Sistine Chapel he had
made the discovery that in flat composition he
could reproduce sculptural motives which were
almost impossible of execution in marble, and
which his daring spirit longed to embody.
These were more particularly problems o£
dramatic action, of flight, and of the grouping
of masses, the problems which occupied the
artist in his later paintings and drawings. We
remember his incomparable rendering of the
ascent and descent, the soaring and retreating
through the air, ofthe ' 'Last Judgment." It is as
though this artist, ever fascinated by the im*
possible, who once dreamed of hewing colossal 14

figures from the rocks of Carrara harbor, had
stretched out his hand to grasp the privileges of
the gods, as though he longed, freed from the
earthly laws of gravitation, to reproduce in
sculpture the nebulous apparitions ofthe heav*
ens . It was this longing for superhuman power
which, Hke his poetic musings on the world to
come, gave wing to his phantasy in later years.
For, so far as works in marble were concerned,
Michel Angelo shared the conviction, common
to all great sculptors of preceding ages, ofthe
necessity of a restraint and a repose commensu*
rate with the unyielding quaHty ofthe medium
in -which they worked. None of his statues,
from the "David" to the tombs of the Medici
and the monument to Pope JuHus II, repro*
duces any transient movement, least of all that
of flight. The crystalHzation in stone of some
nebulous vision, so typical of the modern school
of sculpture, was undreamed of by him.
Wlien, however, it comes to the spiritual
significance of the "Phaeton" drawing, that
deeply convincing portrayal of sorrowing wo*
men shows that the deHneation of human suf*
fering was to be the artist's real sphere. His
concern is not with victory but rather with
defeat, not with the joys of the gods but with
the tragedies that beset mankind, and joy*
ous pagan themes, wherever they occur in his
works, are twisted to suit this dominant strain.
*5

WTiere the theme was rehgious this transposi*
tion was unnecessary, and perhaps for this
reason the Passion of our Lord ranks foremost
among the subjects of his later years. Then, too,
Vittoria Colonna, advocate of an enHghtened
Christianity, seems to have encouraged this ten*
dency in him.
There exists at Viterbo a work unsurpassed
in the annals of ItaHan art — a Pieta executed
by Sebastiano del Piombo from the cartoon de*
signed by Michel Angelo, Sebastiano having
merely added the indicated landscape (Fig. 4).
^What a transformation is here from that Pieta
in St. Peter's, a creation ofthe artist's youth
(Fig. 3)! In this marble sculpture the reHef*
Hke conception of the Quattrocento is still su*
preme, and perspective is obtained chiefly by
a disposal ofthe draperies, which in their frag*
iHty naturally fail of the sculptural effect pos*
sible to figures. The superiority of the later
work, the painting at Viterbo, is evident in its
more plastic construction, in the cohesion of
detail and the free emergence of the forms of
the bodies. The splendidly massed groups re*
solve the whole depth ofthe space into three
gradations — the dead body, the Virgin's knees,
and the upper part of her figure. In sheer mov*
ing power, that earHer sculpture in St. Peter's
which, placed as it is in the ultimate shrine of all
pilgrimages, for centuries has stirred the emo* 16

Figure 3.
Michel Angelo: Pieta
Saint Peter's, Rome.

tions of mankind, was probably never again
equalled. It is a youthful artist who has created
a youthful and beautiful Madonna; and we
sympathize more with child*like beings, for
whom for the first time the world is falling in
ruins, than with the older ones to whom at the
end of a long Hfe sorrow is nothing new. The
¦gesture of Mary's hand, expressing at once re*
belHon, doubt, and resignation, is, in its touch*
ing eloquence, unique in the history of Pietas.
It is true that the Virgin wears the semblance
and the garments of a queen, but she is still
human enough to strive with Fate. The crea*
tor of this work is still the Michel Angelo of
the Renaissance, beHeving in the beauty ofthe
world, although shades of melancholy already
play around his brow.
In the later work the conception is stern
and inexorable. The monumental figure ofthe
Mother of God seems stony with grief. She has
aged Hke the artist. Her divinity has vanished.
She reaHzes that her fate is sealed. There is
no more timid withdrawal into herself, no an*
guished, loving glance towards the body of
her Son; her gaze, instinct with faith, is all
for heaven. This repose, emphasized by the
straight Hnes ofthe figure in the foreground
and by the rigid features and clenched hands of
the Virgin, lends something grewsome to the
group. Its artist no longer finds joy in decora*
*7

tion and in lovely detail; everything is reduced
to the barest essentials. He is one who, if we
construe the work with the aid of his own testi*
mony, hopes through faith alone; he is the ar*
tist representative of a mighty Church who is
wrestling with his individual rehgious problem
and in whom faith, alas, is powerless to cast out
bitterness. Only the naked body in the fore*
ground still seems to retain something of mortal
beauty — but it is a Hfeless body.
Michel Angelo had changed with the years.
Wlien he carved that earHer marble Pieta, Sa*
vanarola had for the first time essayed to fling
his torch into the joyous temple of Renaissance
art, and Hght*hearted Florence had once more
put reHgious passions to rout. A Httle later,
after Michel Angelo had painted the ceiling of
the Sistine Chapel and during the most glori*
ous flowering of the fine arts in Rome, there
came to that huge Babylon two northern wan*
derers who were Httle interested in artistic con*
cerns. The one, Martin Luther, a German monk,
crept with thousands of other unfortunates up
the steps of St. Peter's, seeking in vain in Rome
the absolution of his sins. The second pilgrim
was Erasmus of Rotterdam, who remarked that
the sermons preached before the Pope treated
of Iphigenia and Mucius Scaevola rather than
ofthe Passion of Christ. Again twenty years
have elapsed and we are in the year 1540. The 18

German monk has kindled in the north a revo*
lution against Rome whose flames redden the
horizon, and the Dutch scholar has sharpened
his pen for a crusade against folly. Another
Pope, dismissing the pagan ideas of the war*
like JuHus II, is striving to reestabHsh the power
of a more spiritual Church.
Michel Angelo could not remain indifferent
to the new ideas which surrounded him on all
sides at the papal court, more especially as his
own nature was susceptible to visions of the
dread consequences of sin. It was his misfor*
tune to survive by more than thirty years the
period of artistic freedom and to Hve on among
the ruins of that golden age. Leonardo, Ra*
phael, and Andrea del Sarto, the representa*
tives of the joyous Florentine Renaissance,
were long ago at rest. He alone was destined
to survive in an epoch more absorbed in the
Church than in art. He had become, as many
of his letters and poems testify, an orthodox
adherent of the Church, more orthodox than
seems quite natural to a free*souled artist. And
still he was haunted by recollections of his
youthful days among the antique gods of the
Medici gardens, by whisperings ofthe free air
he had breathed in other years at the court of
the great Lorenzo in Florence. WTiat, in their
heart of hearts, would Fra Filippo and Andrea
del Sarto have thought of the theory now
x9

enunciated by Michel Angelo, that to paint
holy pictures one must Hve a holy Hfe? They
did not suffer from his duaHty of spirit. Like
him they were enamoured of bodily beauty,
but they were not dowered with his deeply
contemplative spirit which felt the need of har*
mony with the reHgious convictions of its time.
It was his tragic fate to be, as a child of his
period, a devout Christian, while his artistic
instincts blindly strove towards pagan things.
Nevertheless, he was not one of those who
sought refuge from his problems in the cloister,
whose reHgion was an excuse, cloaking weak*
ness and inertia. Once, indeed, he was tempted
to forsake the great city with its incessant call
to labor. He started on a pilgrimage to Loreto
and wrote on the "way, "Truly there is no
peace anywhere save in the forests". Wlien
he reached Spoleto, however, the Pope recalled
him and he willingly responded to the sum*
mons. He could neither quench his passion for
work nor quell the inner tumult of his nature —
that "terribiHta" of which the Pope once spoke,
well knowing the very unecclesiastical, Hon*
Hke tendencies of his protege.
This all*compelHng energy is still manifest
in his later work. Contrasted with the
gloomy twiHght spirit ofthe Viterbo Pieta, the
freshness of the morning seems to reign in the
bold and splendid drawings for the "Resurrec*

20

Figure 4.
Michel Angelo and Sebastiano
del Piombo: Pieta
Museo Comunale, Viterbo.

tion of Christ" (Fig. 5). The lid ofthe Sepulchre
rises, and Hke an arrow the mighty figure,
with hands upstretched to freedom, emerges
triumphant into the light of day. It is the tri*
umph of a superhuman soul and body. This is
no still departure but a kingly apparition thun*
derously bursting its bonds while the onlook*
ers shrink back in trembling awe.
We know how Michel Angelo's predeces*
sors depicted this same scene. Christ is seen
rising clumsily, bolt upright, from the sar*
cophagus, one foot still in the grave, standing
rather than ascending. Compared with Michel
Angelo's conception, where the figure itself
seems instinct with flight, these earlier works
suggest an ascension without apparent motion.
The effect of Christ's ascending movement, in
Michel Angelo's rendering, is further accen*
tuated by the converse movement of one ofthe
shrinking watchmen. The whole composition
unfolds itself to the Hght Hke the cup of a flower.
The dominance ofthe central figure is not alone
a matter of size and force. The simple, clear
Hnes of the body contrast pleasingly -with the
unquiet -waves of reeling figures, Hke the up*
springing of a youthful stem among twisted
stumps. Even without the support of subordinate
figures the production of a Hke orchestral effect
lay well within the powers of the master, as

21

the study for the single figure of Christ beto*
kens (Fig. 6). The tension ofthe limbs seems
like a mighty outstretching after the sleep of
death. The muscles steel themselves before our
eyes. We see the blood mounting in -waves
throughout the body. The mighty figure, glory*
ing in its new Hfe, vivifies the whole space.
StiU Michel Angelo must have realized that
this conception lacked the tenderness of the
Bible story, that the God of the Bible is not
in storm or tempest but in the "still small
voice". Another composition depicts Christ,
enshrouded in the melancholy folds of his burial
Hnen, borne on high by Hght billows of trem*
bling air (Fig. 7).)
One is perhaps tempted to assume the exist*
ence of a more subtile and comphcated spiritu*
aHty in the late works of the great masters. In
reaHty the exact opposite is the case, and these
works, which seem rather to belong to a more
primitive era of culture than to the highest
sphere of art, are characterized by a singular
simphcity and directness of expression. Sub*
tilety is not the ultimate ideal ofthe great mas*
ters though it may be a mid*station of their
development. Lyrically gifted men of lesser
genius, whose work appeals to a small circle
ofthe ultra*cultured, may confine themselves
to the delineation of subtileties, of those inter*
mediate states of the soul which are in reaHty

22

impermanent and, in the long run, wearisome.
The aUegiance ofthe reaUy great artist returns
ultimately to the portrayal of those simple and
powerful emotions whose appeal is universal.
Let us take an example from the realm of paint*
ing. Rembrandt twice depicted David playing
the harp before Saul. In the early work Saul's
expression betrays a comphcated admixture of
feeHngs — anger, fear, a growing emotion. In
the late picture the old man has simply burst
into tears and is drying his eyes with a fold of
the curtain — a conception that is found ridicu*
lous by those inclined to "preciosity".
This tendency explains the light esteem in
-which many of the later works of the great
masters are held. It is the result of their sim*
pHcity and obviousness, ofthe purposeful avoid*
ance of aU glamour that might detract from
reaHty. The three last Pietas carved by Michel An*
gelo are aU unfinished and deal with the same
problem. In them the relations between
Mother and Son seem closer than in the earner
works — warmer, more intimate. Mary presses
the unconscious head to herself and a current of
sympathy seems to pass between the dead and
the living. In the first of these groups, the one
at Palestrina, the head of Christ rests on the
Virgin's shoulder; in the second, the one in the
Rondanini Palace, she bends over from behind
23

the body, and the hands ofthe dead Christ,
thrust backward, seem to cling to her. Ghostly
figures these, in which sentiment alone seems
to survive. The Virgin's sorrowful air of deso*
lation is expressed by the very outHnes of her
head. In the last of these groups, the one in the
cathedral at Florence (Fig. 8), Christ's head
sinks towards that ofthe Virgin, and the terri*
ble burden ofthe mighty body, more poignant
in its coUapse than that of an ascetic would be,
obviously overwhelms her. The stern realism
ofthe broken, twisted limbs, the loving minis*
trations of the friends surrounding the body,
their desolation which robs them of strength to
bear it away, aU are instinct with a deeper hu*
manity than the artist has ever attained before.
This group, designed by Michel Angelo for
his own tomb, was brought nearer to comple*
tion than the others. His failure to finish it en*
tirely was probably due to the impossibiHty of
adding the missing left foot of the Christ. It
would have been necessary to apply it, and even
then there is scarcely space for it beside the
Virgin's knee . One feels astonished that such an
omission could have occurred in the master's
composition. His pupils carried to completion
groups which were technicaUy much more
difficult, though it is true they wasted no time
pondering the spiritual significance of their
efforts. Wlien a great genius faUs into error it
24

Figure 5.
Michel Angelo : The Resurrection
of Christ
Drawing in Windsor Castle.

Figure 7.
Michel Angelo : The Resurrection
of Christ
Drawing in the British Museum, London.

is as a rule a royal error — a fact rich in consola*
tion for those who, lacking individual creative
power, Hve by criticism ofthe great.
This simpHfied emotional quaHty, distin*
guishing the later works ofthe great masters,
generaUy goes hand in hand with a mastery of
more compHcated formal problems. This mas*
tery in Michel Angelo's case was typified by his
desire to carve groups embodying several figures
from a single massive block. The wish to
obtain symphonic effects in sculpture was not
new. There existed already facades and tombs
adorned with numerous separate, loosely*
related figures, while the combination of several
figures in bas*reHef was an old sfory . It was,
however, an unheard*of innovation in free
sculpture, -which, through Michel Angelo's
genius, had superseded the bas*reHef of the
fifteenth century.
Condivi teUs us that Michel Angelo -when
weU advanced in years stiU spoke with interest
of his earHest -work, the "BattleoftheCentaurs,"
now in Casa Buonarroti, and regretted that he
had not experimented further in this direction.
It was in fact, only in this youthful work that he
essayed to reproduce a mass of intertwining
figures in almost free sculpture. Between this
effort and his last work in sculpture, the Pieta
in Florence, he did not again grapple with that
problem. This desire to achieve the impossible
25

visits almost aU richly gifted artists in early
youth and in age, or, to put it more simply,
their virtuosity is then more compelling than
at other periods. In youth it is the artist's desire
to show his prowess, in age it is the easy mas*
tery of his medium, that tempts to daring flights.
Besides this grouping of masses, however,
another problem arose for Michael Angelo's
solution, suggested obviously by his experi*
ments in pictorial composition. In his drawings
and paintings he had frequently introduced fig*
ures in flight and now, with a daring unheard of
at that period, he was to essay the representa*
tion in sculpture of a suspended figure. This
was no question of a mechanicaUy affixed fig*
ure, such as the Christ nailed to the cross, or
the angels in the Quattrocento sculptures, but
of a free, floating body whose position is deter*
mined by the surrounding figures and by them
is brought into relation with the earth. In the
three groups last discussed by us the Christ Hes
suspended in the arms of his friends, pictoriaUy
and in reaHty freed from earth.
Though the prophetic importance of these
achievements in their bearing on the future of
sculpture must receive fuU recognition, there
is ground for thankfulness that the master did
not pursue the path opened up by his first and
highest sculptures — a path leading to Bernini
and Rodin — but, instead, during his whole life* 26

time foUowed the traditional conception, ex*
pressing his mighty message through the
medium of a' single self*concentrated and
motionless figure.
It would be entirely false to deduce from the
non*completion of these last three groups that
a waning of the artist's powers had set in be*
cause perhaps his guarding grasp on the chisel
was less sure. Modern psychologists hold,
and doubtless rightly, that even with failing
bodily powers the mental attributes of a great
genius retain their freshness to the end. We
can ask no stronger proof of Michel Angelo's
unweakened faculties than the designing ofthe
dome of St. Peter's, -which he accomphshed
in his eightieth year.
In his last years Michel Angelo, dispatching
some architectural design, complained that his
Hnes had trembled and that he had been obliged
to have the drawing copied by one of his pupils,
which, considering the extremely minute spec*
ifications that accompanied aU his plans, was
no great matter. Compared to the lot of a
painter, even to that ofthe sculptor he himself
was, Michel Angelo may be thought fortu*
nate in that his last complete creations were
works of architecture where his great concep*
tions could shine forth in the perfection of fuU
accompHshment. We can hardly consider it a mere coinci*
27

dence that he should in his age have evinced
such a passionate interest in architecture. In
these last utterances we seem to divine his long*
ings for some transcendent expression of his
ideas. He has become indifferent to the world
of reaHty and seeks prototypes of his own crea*
tion. There is to be found in the last achieve*
ments, alike ofthe great northern and southern
masters, something of unreaHty, of a phantastic
inspiration induced perhaps by a nearer reaH*
zation ofthe world to come. One calls to mind
Rubens' splendid visionary landscapes or those
strange scenes depicted by Rembrandt in his old
age — pictures of blind men with groping hands
emerging from unreal places, veiled in masses
of color, and impressing even the unimagina*
tive beholder as symbols of moods of the soul.
In the dome of St. Peter's we have the high*
est expression of Michel Angelo's plastic ideas,
although sculpture must here perforce accom*
modate itself to the rules of architectural sci*
ence. Michel Angelo took as a starting point
BruneUeschi's famous dome in Florence and
sent for the plans of this splendid Early Renais*
sance monument while he was -working on his
own design. ^Vhat he derived from these sug*
gestions may be gathered by a comparison of
the two domes (Fig. 9).
In them we see embodied the ideals of two
different periods. The octagonal Florentine 28

Figure 6.
Michel Angelo : Study for
The Resurrection of Christ
^^indsor Castle.

dome, scarcely separated by mouldings from
the drum, rises steep and slender with the slim,
angular outHnes ofthe Early Renaissance, out*
Hnes that we see repeated in the sculptures and
paintings of the period, in RosseUino's works,
and in BotticelH's compositions. There is also
something of the Gothic in the soaring ribs
which form an almost open framework, the
spaces between them seeming by comparison
empty and unimportant surfaces.
In contrast to this earHer building, the dome
of St. Peter's impresses us with its massive so*
Hdity . It is largely covered by the more numer*
ous and heavy ribs. Typical of the High Re*
naissance are its fuU exuberant curves, clearly
defined at the base and the summit by strong
mouldings and by the immediate springing of
the colonnade ofthe cupola, -which is not united
with the dome by consoles as it is in Brunei*
leschi's work. This is the crown of a develop*
ment in which rich and splendid architectural
forms were evolved from slender and deHcate
beginnings — the fulfilment of ideals -whose
promise is embodied in the earHer work.
No less distinct, however, is the spiritual
chasm dividing the creators of these two monu*
ments. The Florentine dome, the work of an
architect, is, like aU true architecture, imper*
sonal, having grown in an unerring way Hke a
veritable work of nature. It is a pleasing play of
29

forms and Hnes, harmoniously interflowing,
sweUing and subsiding waveHke, a worthy
crown for joyous, art*loving Florence. The
Roman dome is the creation of a passionate
personaHty, the symbol of an inner conflict
gloriously expressed in stone. Its mighty sweU
seems an impulse from the inside, but it is fet*
tered to earth by powerful bonds. The balloon
strains upward but the cords that encircle it are
tied to the ground by the strong knots of the
mouldings, and it is gathered together at the top
by a cluster of columns. These opposing forces
clash again in the separate parts of the struc*
ture. The double columns ofthe dome press
outward, the windows between would seem
to thrust them back. The Httle windows in the
dome accentuate the value of the waU*spaces
between the ribs and add their quota to the
vibrant Hfe ofthe building, breaking forth be*
tween the interlacing lines as if in an effort to
grant air to the straining structure. Yet, strange
to say, if we leave the immediate neighborhood
ofthe building, and contemplate this dome from
a distance, the inward combat ofthe component
parts and their massive, forceful Hnes resolve
themselves into harmonies. Stately yet Hght,
it rises above the waUs of Rome, ever striving
upwards in soaring Hnes comparable to those
of Michel Angelo's drawings where Christ is
rising from the tomb and ascending to heaven. 30

rr would seem that, of aU artists, Michel An*
gelo in so crowning his Hfe*work must have
found happiness. Apparently he had aU that
the heart of man could desire — an assured Hveli*
hood and unmeasured renown. The honor
shown him by the world during the last twenty
years of his Hfe is weU known. Did he become
wearied of a commission and fail to finish it, the
fact was overlooked by the Pope and his other
patrons. The princes of Italy, the Duke of Urbi*
no, and the Grand Duke of Tuscany held them*
selves fortunate to obtain a smaU sketch from
him. The King of France and the Sultan of Con*
stantinople offered him enormous sums in their
endeavors to attach him to their respective
courts. Despite aU this, to read his biography
and especiaUy his letters is to realize that he was
one ofthe least enviable of men. He -was unfit*
ted by nature to maintain natural and harmon*
ious relations -with his feUow men, to bring sym*
pathy to their concerns, or even to mingle with
them -without personal discomfort* His ner*
vous, restless nature found peace neither in
work nor in recreation*. He never married, and
his house in Rome must have been but bleak and
comfortless. We learn from his journal of inces*
sant bickerings -with servants, none of whom,
with the exception of his faithful servitor Urbi*
no, could please him. He let the Httle garden
surrounding his house grow wild. His long sol*
31

itude had rendered him unsociable and intensi*
fied his habit of brooding, particularly on the
approach of death. When fifty years old, al*
most forty years before he died, he already
complained ofthe burdens of age, although his
constitution was -wonderful and he was almost
never iU. During the last twenty years of his
life his mind was so obsessed with the question
ofthe world to come that, as he himself once ob*
served, "there Hved in him no thought but in
•which death had a part". On the stairway of
his dwelling there was painted as a memento
mori a skeleton bearing a coffin on its back.
He suffered his whole Hfe long from dreams
and visions, and from imaginings of possible iU
treatment at the hands of his patrons which
occasionaUy wrought upon his nerves to such a
point that he fled the city. In an endeavor to
subdue these violent fancies he Hved with the
utmost simpHcity, Hke a poor artisan in fact,
ate sparingly, drank not at aU, and sought to
Hmit his hours of sleep. Too protracted slumbers
induced headache, and he frequently stayed
up aU night -working at his sculptures by artifi*
cial Hght. The short chronicle ofhis last ulness
teUs us that peace eluded him to the very endi
Wnile his friends beHeved the ninety*year*old
patient in bed, one of them met him wandering
around the streets in the rain. '^What do you
want?" said the sculptor when chided for his 32

Figure 8.
Michel Angelo: Pieta
Cathedral in Florence

indiscretion. ' 'I am iU and can nowhere find re*
pose." V/hen he was again at home and sleep
threatened to overpower him in the daytime,
he struggled against it and begged to be taken
out. Weakness overcame him, however, and,
bed being unendurable, he died in his armchair
—a stubborn fighter to the end.
This temperamental unrest is the probable
explanation of his social shortcomings and of
the shyness of which his biographers speak.
The master himself^ once attempting to ex*
plain the reserve which he maintained towards
friends as weU as strangers, repHed that he ' 'did
not wish to be diverted by idle chatter from
the thoughts that constantly occupied him and
thereby drawn down to the triviaHties of daily
Hfe; he had no time for such things." He took
everything too seriously and had none ofthe
adaptabiHty that oils the wheels of human inter*
course. From this arose the numerous Httle
slights of which he was found guilty — the non*
recognition of people on the street, the unan*
swered letters, the failure to uncover his head in
the presence ofthe Pope, his abrupt departure
from social gatherings did he fail to feel himself
at ease — actions which earned for him the name
of a proud recluse. ' 'It is absurd that vain busy*
bodies should demand profuse civilities from a
busy artist", said he of his detracters and, again,
"The true worth ofthe unworldly recluse must
33

ever remain hidden from you. Do you bestow-
on him high praise, it is through a desire to do
honor to yourselves and because it pleases you
to talk with one who converses with Pope and
Emperor." To the suggestion that he was for*
tunate in obtaining the Pope's forgiveness of his
frequent sins against etiquette his reply was, ' 'It
is precisely such sins that a Prince must over*
look. " He had a high conception ofthe attitude
ofthe true aristocrat.
It may seem strange that Michel Angelo
should have had an outspoken weakness for
rank. It is a tendency obviously rooted in his
artistic temperament, and shared with many an*
other great artist — with Van Dyck and Rubens,
with Rembrandt and Velasquez, for example.
The outward harmonies of the great world
charmed his artist's eye, seeming perhaps to fill
that void of which he was so conscious in his
own every*day life. Added to this was nis in*
nate consciousness of superiority, the necessity
of everywhere taking first rank, of ruling even
in that most fleeting of aU life's fleeting shows—
the social world. Had society's conventions
come more easily to him they would have
seemed of less moment, for his true friends, cap*
able of understanding his inner conflicts, were
not among the frivolous representatives ofthe
upper classes but in the ranks of artists and
scholars . This with one notable exception who 34

doubtless inspired him with his ideal of true no*
biHty. I refer to Vittoria Colonna.
Vittoria Colonna had reached the age of
forty*six when she met the sixty*three*year*
old Michel Angelo. Wnile her superiority of
mind drew about her the most inteUigent ad*
herents of the CathoHc Church, then engaged
in its struggle against the Reformation, her per*
sonal existence seemed submerged in grief for
her dead husband, the Marchese di Pescara.
This celebrated general, who feU at the battle
of Pavia, seems scarcely to have merited such
devotion. Vittoria was obliged to suffer the
return by one of his mistresses of some pearls
taken from his wife by Pescara and by him
dropped upon the other's breast during some
fete. The Marchesa's recoUections of her idol
seem in the course of time to have been purged
of aU aUoy, and the hundred sonnets that she
-wrote on the death of Pescara did but augment
the celebrity that her personaUty had already
gained for her. Charming blossoms of Renais*
sance culture though these poems be, they do
not compel our interest as they did that of her
contemporaries. Vittoria Colonna belonged among those
noble*minded and rarely gifted women who are
produced by the artistically cultured society of
aU periods, women who are the patrons and the
inspiration of its creative spirits. Their names
35

alone are known to history, for their perform*
ance was played out on the stage ofthe moment.
The -written -words of such personaHties as
Beatrice d'Este, IsabeUa Gonzaga, and Vittoria
Colonna would not alone suffice to render them
immortal, but their spirit Hves on in the works
of a Mantegna, a Bellini, and a Michel Angelo
whose inspiration they were . Vittoiia's visible
•work -was at an end when the charm of her
personaUty, the penetrating sympathy of her
conversation -were no more — a shortHved work,
of less importance to history but more enviable
in reaHty than aU the achievements ofthe master
she inspired. The fruits of his spirit were for
future generations, hers for the world around
her. In Vittoria Michel Angelo found high rank
and the truest culture combined. Their in*
terest in the reHgious and poetic tendencies of
the period was sympathetic, and her insight
into the spirit which animated his masterpieces
was deep. Above aU, however, she had that
faciHty of expression and mobihty of mind for
which he strove in vain in his complex poems
and letters. It was her gift, when with Michel
Angelo in the company of this or the other
friend, to direct the conversation with charm
and tact, contriving always that the great artist
should occupy the center ofthe stage. ^Vith
her clever woman's understanding she helped 3<>

Figure 9.
Dome of the Cathedral in Florence

Dome of Saint Peter's in Rome

him over those Httle errors which would have
passed almost unnoticed by another and yet
perhaps touched him more nearly than greater
ones. In gratitude for this indulgence towards
trivial -weaknesses he opened his heart to her
with the naivete of a child, with a trust that
seems Httle less than wonderful, if we consider
the pessimistic and sensitive nature ofthe man.
It -was typical of the inherent greatness of his
character that his admiration for this noble
spirit knew no bounds.
More than in her poems, more than in her
letters, the key to Vittoria Colonna's personal*
ity and to her deep understanding of human
nature Hes revealed in her words addressed to
Michel Angelo, "Those who knowyour works
know but your lesser part." No one else has
rendered such glowing homage to that difficult
and thorny character. It was her immortal
achievement to draw the true personaUty of
this lonely and reserved man from the depths
that concealed it to the Hght of day. Wnat an
influence this freeing of his real nature exerted
on Michel Angelo's work we may deduce from
the passionate outbreak of sorrow that her
death occasioned.
There is no reason to doubt the truth of
Vittoria Colonna's assertion and of that of his
best friends that Michel Angelo's nature was
planned on as noble a scale as -were his works.
37

How indeed could it be otherwise? The theory
that an artist's true personaUty may weU be dia*
metricaUy opposed to the aspect that is revealed
to the world by his achievement, has always
been the merest superficiaHty. As an artist,
Michel Angelo chose that medium which
seemed to him most natural and expressive —
plastic art. The expression of his personaUty
in -words or in some form of social activity
was not so natural to him, else he would have
been a poet or an actor on the stage ofthe theatre
or of the world. The misapprehensions to
which he laid himself open had their root in
the Hmitations of his nature in relation to the
nonessentials of Hfe, Hmitations commensurate
with his surpassing gifts in other directions.
Those who to*day can see beyond his halting
utterances wiU, like Vittoria Colonna, discover
there the same spirit that shines forth in his
works — a delicate soul encased in rugged

armor!

38

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