he draws for us is probably very near the truth.  We see him haughty, familiar, capricious, vain, impulsive, clear-sighted, and easily flattered; intensely pleased to be in a position to command the services of artists and very unwilling to pay.  Cellini was a blend of lackey, child, and genius.  He left Francis I in order to serve Cosimo and never ceased to regret the change.  The Perseus was his greatest accomplishment for Cosimo, and the narrative of its casting is terrific and not a little like Dumas.  When it was uncovered in its present position all Florence flocked to the Loggia to praise it; the poets placed commendatory sonnets on the pillars, and the sculptor peacocked up and down in an ecstasy of triumph.  Then, however, his troubles once more began, for Cosimo had the craft to force Cellini to name the price, and we see Cellini in an agony between desire for enough and fear lest if he named enough he would offend his patron.

The whole book is a comedy of vanity and jealousy and Florentine vigour, with Courts as a background.  It is good to read it; it is good, having read it, to study once again the unfevered resolute features of Donatello’s S. George.  Cellini himself we may see among the statues under the Uffizi and again in the place of honour (as a goldsmith) in the centre of the Ponte Vecchio.  Looking at the Perseus and remembering Donatello, one realizes that what Cellini wanted was character.  He had temperament enough but no character.  Perseus is superb, commanding, distinguished, and one doesn’t care a fig for it.

On entering the Palazzo Vecchio we come instantly to one of the most charming things in Florence—­Verrocchio’s fountain—­which stands in the midst of the courtyard.  This adorable work—­a little bronze Cupid struggling with a spouting dolphin—­was made for Lorenzo de’ Medici’s country villa at Careggi and was brought here when the palazzo was refurnished for Francis I, Cosimo I’s son and successor, and his bride, Joanna of Austria, in 1565.  Nothing could better illustrate the accomplishment and imaginative adaptability of the great craftsmen of the day than the two works of Verrocchio that we have now seen:  the Christ and S. Thomas at Or San Michele, in Donatello and Michelozzo’s niche, and this exquisite fountain splashing water so musically.  Notice the rich decorations of the pillars of this courtyard and the rich colour and power of the pillars themselves.  The half-obliterated frescoes of Austrian towns on the walls were made to prevent Joanna from being homesick, but were more likely, one would guess, to stimulate that malady.  In the left corner is the entrance to the old armoury, now empty, with openings in the walls through which pieces might be discharged at various angles on any advancing host.  The groined ceiling could support a pyramid.