Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini | Page 4

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The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini
Translated By John Addington Symonds
With Introduction and Notes Volume 31
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Introductory Sonnet
THIS tale of my sore-troubled life I write, To thank the God of nature,
who conveyed My soul to me, and with such care hath stayed That
divers noble deeds I’ve brought to light. ‘Twas He subdued my cruel
fortune’s spite: Life glory virtue measureless hath made Such grace
worth beauty be through me displayed That few can rival, none surpass
me quite. Only it grieves me when I understand What precious time in
vanity I’ve spent- The wind it beareth man’s frail thoughts away. Yet,

since remorse avails not, I’m content, As erst I came, WELCOME to
go one day, Here in the Flower of this fair Tuscan land.
Introductory Note
AMONG the vast number of men who have thought fit to write down
the history of their own lives, three or four have achieved masterpieces
which stand out preeminently: Saint Augustine in his “Confessions,”
Samuel Pepys in his “Diary,” Rousseau in his “Confessions.” It is
among these extraordinary documents, and unsurpassed by any of them,
that the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini takes its place.
The “Life” of himself which Cellini wrote was due to other motives
than those which produced its chief competitors for first place in its
class. St. Augustine’s aim was religious and didactic, Pepys noted
down in his diary the daily events of his life for his sole satisfaction and
with no intention that any one should read the cipher in which they
were recorded. But Cellini wrote that the world might know, after he
was dead, what a fellow he had been; what great things he had
attempted, and against what odds he had carried them through. “All
men,” he held, “whatever be their condition, who have done anything
of merit, or which verily has a semblance of merit, if so be they are
men of truth and good repute, should write the tale of their life with
their own hand.” That he had done many things of merit, he had no
manner of doubt. His repute was great in his day, and perhaps good in
the sense in which he meant goodness; as to whether he was a man of
truth, there is still dispute among scholars. Of some misrepresentations,
some suppressions of damaging facts, there seems to be evidence only
too good-a man with Cellini’s passion for proving himself in the right
could hardly have avoided being guilty of such-; but of the general
trustworthiness of his record, of the kind of man he was and the kind of
life he led, there is no reasonable doubt.
The period covered by the autobiography is from Cellini’s birth in 1500
to 1562; the scene is mainly in Italy and France. Of the great events of
the time, the time of the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation, of
the strife of Pope and Emperor and King, we get only glimpses. The
leaders in these events appear in the foreground of the picture only

when they come into personal relations with the hero; and then not
mainly as statesmen or warriors, but as connoisseurs and patrons of art.
Such an event as the Sack of Rome is described because Benvenuto
himself fought in it.
Much more complete is the view he gives of the artistic life of the time.
It was the age of Michelangelo, and in the throng of great artists which
then filled the Italian cities, Cellini was no inconsiderable figure.
Michelangelo himself he knew and adored. Nowhere can we gain a
better idea than in this book of the passionate enthusiasm for the
creation of beauty which has bestowed upon the Italy of the
Renaissance its greatest glory.
Very vivid, too, is the impression we receive of the social life of the
sixteenth century; of its violence and licentiousness, of its zeal for fine
craftsmanship, of its abounding vitality, its versatility and its idealism.
For Cellini himself is an epitome of that century. This man who tells
here the story of his life was a murderer and a braggart, insolent,
sensual, inordinately proud and passionate; but he was also a worker in
gold and silver, rejoicing in delicate chasing and subtle modelling of
precious surfaces; a sculptor and a musician; and, as all who read his
book must testify, a great master of narrative. Keen as was Benvenuto’s
interest in himself, and much as he loved to dwell on the splendor of
his exploits and achievements, he had little idea that centuries after his
death he would live again, less by his “Perseus” and his goldsmith’s
work than by the book which he dictated casually to a lad of fourteen,
while he went about his work.
The autobiography was composed between 1558 and 1566,