DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61902#0417
THE MAKERS OF FLORENCE.
397
of his mind, in which the characteristic peculiarities of the
others find no place. He is not one who appeals to the
intellect and the judgment as they do. He does but take
our heart, smiling, leaving us scarcely aware whether it is
the mightiness of his genius, or the sweetness of human
sympathy which subdues us to him. But the others are npt
unconscious. From the first to the last Michael Angelo is
aware of himself. He knows his power and that he is not
as other men ; with no generous confidence of sympathy
but with a certain conscious despotism, he rules, nay,
domineers, over us, pleased if we tremble somewhat as
well as applaud, and feel his superior greatness to the
bottom of our hearts. He stands like his own David,
looking down upon the smaller figures around him, with
no kind delusion in his mind as to the difference between
them. And as he has thus held his place, supreme in
Florence from his youth, almost from his childhood, not
without a certain brag of his strength, half humorous, half
angry, so he does still; reigning imperiously, not careless
of his sway nor indifferent to the homage which he will
force out of us rather than go without it. In the picture
galleries and on the hillside, confronting us in the public
piazza at the very doors of the old palace, and in the
deepest gloom of the dark cathedral behind the altar,
surprising us even in the dimness with his princely
presence, he is everywhere, throwing vivid words at us
when there is nothing else to be done, and even by means
of the great works of others leaving a certain trace of
proud magnificence to show where he has passed by. More
people, we believe, think, when they look at the great gates
of San Giovanni, of him who said they were fit to be the
gates of heaven than of him who made them ; and when
we pass by Donatello’s San Giorgio, the critic who for all
comment gave that noble figure the word command and
bade him “ March !” is almost more present with us than
397
of his mind, in which the characteristic peculiarities of the
others find no place. He is not one who appeals to the
intellect and the judgment as they do. He does but take
our heart, smiling, leaving us scarcely aware whether it is
the mightiness of his genius, or the sweetness of human
sympathy which subdues us to him. But the others are npt
unconscious. From the first to the last Michael Angelo is
aware of himself. He knows his power and that he is not
as other men ; with no generous confidence of sympathy
but with a certain conscious despotism, he rules, nay,
domineers, over us, pleased if we tremble somewhat as
well as applaud, and feel his superior greatness to the
bottom of our hearts. He stands like his own David,
looking down upon the smaller figures around him, with
no kind delusion in his mind as to the difference between
them. And as he has thus held his place, supreme in
Florence from his youth, almost from his childhood, not
without a certain brag of his strength, half humorous, half
angry, so he does still; reigning imperiously, not careless
of his sway nor indifferent to the homage which he will
force out of us rather than go without it. In the picture
galleries and on the hillside, confronting us in the public
piazza at the very doors of the old palace, and in the
deepest gloom of the dark cathedral behind the altar,
surprising us even in the dimness with his princely
presence, he is everywhere, throwing vivid words at us
when there is nothing else to be done, and even by means
of the great works of others leaving a certain trace of
proud magnificence to show where he has passed by. More
people, we believe, think, when they look at the great gates
of San Giovanni, of him who said they were fit to be the
gates of heaven than of him who made them ; and when
we pass by Donatello’s San Giorgio, the critic who for all
comment gave that noble figure the word command and
bade him “ March !” is almost more present with us than