Later, in 1533, Michael Angelo became enamoured of Febo di Poggio, and in 1544 it was the turn of Cecchino dei Bracci.[1] His friendship for Cavalieri was not, therefore, exclusive and unique. But it was durable, and it reached a height which, to a certain extent, was justified not only by the friend’s beauty but by his moral nobility.
- ↑ Henry Thode, who, in his work on "Michael Angelo und das Ende der Renaissance," cannot resist the desire of depicting his hero in the brightest colours, even sometimes at the expense of truth, places his friendship for Gherardo Perini and Febo di Poggio in such an order as to rise by degrees to his friendship for Tommaso dei Cavalieri, because he cannot admit that Michael Angelo could have descended from the most perfect love to the affection of a Febo. But, in reality, Michael Angelo had already been in relation with Cavalieri for more than a year when he became enamoured of Febo and wrote him the humble letters (of December 1533 according to Thode, or of September 1534 according to Frey) and the absurd and raving poems in which he plays upon the words Febo and Poggio (Frey, ciii., civ.)—letters and poems to which the young scamp replied by demands for money. (See Frey’s edition of the "Poems of Michael Angelo," p. 526.) As to Cecchino dei Bracci, the friend of his friend Luigi del Riccio, Michael Angelo did not know him until ten years after Cavalieri. Cecchino was the son of a banished Florentine, and died prematurely at Rome in 1544. In memory of him Michael Angelo wrote forty-eight funereal epigrams, full of idolatrous idealism, if one can use the phrase, and some of which are sublimely beautiful. These are perhaps the gloomiest poems which Michael Angelo ever wrote. (See Appendix, xii.)
come figliuolo," "Yours like a son." A beautiful poem by Michael Angelo on the sorrow of absence and forgetfulness seems to be addressed to him: "Quite near here my love has ravished my heart and life. Here, his beautiful eyes promised me their aid, and then withdrew it. Here he bound me; here he unbound me. Here I have wept, and, with infinite sorrow, I have seen, from this stone, depart the one who has taken me from myself, and who desires me no longer." (See Appendix, xi. "Poems," xxxv.)
