does not fail you, and live well with Christ, and poorly, as I do here; for I live in a sordid way, regarding neither life nor honours—­that is, the world—­and suffer the greatest hardships and innumerable anxieties and dreads.  It is now about fifteen years since I had a single hour of well-being, and all that I have done has been to help you, and you have never recognised this nor believed it.  God pardon us all!  I am ready to go on doing the same so long as I live, if only I am able.”

We have reason to believe that the petition to Giuliano proved effectual, for in his next letter he congratulates his father upon their being restored to favour.  In the same communication he mentions a young Spanish painter whom he knew in Rome, and whom he believes to be ill at Florence.  This was probably the Alonso Berughetta who made a copy of the Cartoon for the Battle of Pisa.  In July 1508 Michelangelo wrote twice about a Spaniard who wanted leave to study the Cartoon; first begging Buonarroto to procure the keys for him, and afterwards saying that he is glad to hear that the permission was refused.  It does not appear certain whether this was the same Alonso; but it is interesting to find that Michelangelo disliked his Cartoon being copied.  We also learn from these letters that the Battle of Pisa then remained in the Sala del Papa.

IX

I will conclude this chapter by translating a sonnet addressed to Giovanni da Pistoja, in which Michelangelo humorously describes the discomforts he endured while engaged upon the Sistine.  Condivi tells us that from painting so long in a strained attitude, gazing up at the vault, he lost for some time the power of reading except when he lifted the paper above his head and raised his eyes.  Vasari corroborates the narrative from his own experience in the vast halls of the Medicean palace.

I’ve grown a goitre by dwelling in this den—­ As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy, Or in what other land they hap to be—­ Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:  My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in, Fixed on my spine:  my breast-bone visibly Grows like a harp:  a rich embroidery Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.  My loins into my paunch like levers grind:  My buttock like a crupper bears my weight; My feet unguided wander to and fro; In front my skin grows loose and long; behind, By bending it becomes more taut and strait; Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:  Whence false and quaint, I know, Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye; For ill can aim the gun that bends awry.  Come then, Giovanni, try To succour my dead pictures and my fame, Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.

CHAPTER VI

I