It was an age of creative art, and most of the work being in the churches the common people had their part in it.  In fact, the common people were the artists.  And when Simone Buonarroti found his twelve-year-old boy haunting the churches to watch the workmen, and also discovered that he was consorting with the youths who studied drawing in the atelier of Ghirlandajo, he was displeased.

Painters, to this erstwhile nobleman, were simply men in blue blouses who worked for low wages on high scaffolds, and occasionally spattered color on the good clothes of ladies and gentlemen who were beneath.  He didn’t really hate painters, he simply waived them; and to his mind there was no difference between an artisan and an artist.

The mother, however, took a secret pride in her boy’s drawings, as mothers always do in a son’s accomplishments.  Doubtless she knew something of the art of decoration, too, for she had brothers who worked as day laborers on high scaffolds.  Yet she didn’t say much about it, for women then didn’t have so much to say about anything as now.

But I can imagine that this good woman, as she went daily to church to pray, the year before her first child was born, watched the work of the men on the scaffolds, and observed that day by day the pictures grew; and as she looked, the sun streamed through stained windows and revealed to her the miracles of form and color, and the impressions of “The Annunciation,” “Mary’s Visit to Elizabeth” and “The Babe in the Manger” filled her wondering soul with thoughts and feelings too great for speech.  To his mother was Michelangelo indebted for his leaning toward art.  His father opposed such a plebeian bent vigorously: 

“Bah! to love beautiful things is all right, but to wish to devote all of one’s time to making them, just for others—­ouch! it hurts me to think of it!”

The mother was lenient and said, “But if our child can not be anything more than a painter—­why, we must be content, and God willing, let us hope he will be a good one.”

Ghirlandajo’s was practically a school where, for a consideration, boys were taught the secrets of fresco.  The master always had contracts of his own on hand and by using ’prentice talent made both ends meet.  Young Michel made it his lounging-place and when he strayed from home his mother always knew where to find him.

The master looked upon him as a possible pupil, and instead of ordering him away, smiled indulgently and gave him tasks of mixing colors and making simple lines.  And the boy showed such zest and comprehension that in a short time he could draw freehand with a confidence that set the brightest scholar in the background.  Such a pupil, so alert, so willing, so anxious, is the joy of a teacher’s heart.  Ghirlandajo must have him—­he would inspire the whole school!

So the master went to the father, but the father demurred, and his scruples were only overcome when Ghirlandajo offered to reverse the rule, and pay the father the sum that parents usually paid the master.  A cash payment down caused pater to capitulate, and the boy went to work—­aged fourteen.