“I am here in Florence; and when you left, you told me that if I wanted anything, I might ask it of that friend of yours; and now that M. Vincenzo is away, I am in want of money, both to clothe myself, and also to go to the Monte, to see those people fighting, for M. Vincenzo is there.  Accordingly, I went to visit that friend at the bank, and he told me that he had no commission whatsoever from you; but that a messenger was starting to-night for Rome, and that an answer could come back within five days.  So then, if you give him orders, he will not fail, I beseech you, then, to provide and assist me with any sum you think fit, and do not fail to answer.

“I will not write more, except that with all my heart and power I recommend myself to you, praying God to keep you from harm.—­Yours in the place of a son,

“Febo Di Poggio. 
“Florence, January 4, 154.”

X

In all the compositions I have quoted as illustrative of Michelangelo’s relations with young men, there is a singular humility which gives umbrage to his editors.  The one epistle to Gherardo Perini, cited above, contains the following phrases:  “I do not feel myself of force enough to correspond to your kind letter;” “Your most faithful and poor friend.”

Yet there was nothing extraordinary in Cavalieri, Cecchino, Febo, or Perini, except their singularity of youth and grace, good parts and beauty.  The vulgar are offended when an illustrious man pays homage to these qualities, forgetful of Shakespeare’s self-abasement before Mr. W.H. and of Languet’s prostration at the feet of Sidney.  In the case of Michelangelo, we may find a solution of this problem, I think, in one of his sonnets.  He says, writing a poem belonging very probably to the series which inspires Michelangelo the younger with alarm:—­

  As one who will re-seek her home of light,
    Thy form immortal to this prison-house
    Descended, like an angel-piteous,
    To heal all hearts and make the whole world bright,
  ’Tis this that thralls my soul in love’s delight,
    Not thy clear face of beauty glorious;
    For he who harbours virtue still will choose
    To love what neither years nor death can blight. 
  So fares it ever with things high and rare
    Wrought in the sweat of nature; heaven above
    Showers on their birth the blessings of her prime: 
  Nor hath God deigned to show Himself elsewhere
    More clearly than in human forms sublime,
    Which, since they image Him, alone I love.

It was not, then, to this or that young man, to this or that woman, that Michelangelo paid homage, but to the eternal beauty revealed in the mortal image of divinity before his eyes.  The attitude of the mind, the quality of passion, implied in these poems, and conveyed more clumsily through the prose of the letters, may be difficult to comprehend.  But until we have arrived at seizing them we shall fail to understand the psychology of natures like Michelangelo.  No language of admiration is too strong, no self-humiliation too complete, for a soul which has recognised deity made manifest in one of its main attributes, beauty.  In the sight of a philosopher, a poet, and an artist, what are kings, popes, people of importance, compared with a really perfect piece of God’s handiwork?