“Begone!” cried the Governor, trembling with passion.
“Father, father, hear me, I implore, before you thus drive me from you. Listen to me but for one moment.”
“You would then force me to curse you.”
“I come from the palace.”
“I neither wish to know whence you come, or what you do. I had once a son called Michael Angelo. He was to have been (at least, I hoped so) the glory, the support of my family, the joy, the comfort of my old age, but I have lost this ungrateful and disobedient son—thank God, he is no longer here, I sold him to the sculptor Ghirlandajo for eighteen florins.”
“For my mother’s sake, hear me! behold me at your feet.”
“Back to your mason’s, that is your place.”
“My place!” said Michael Angelo, rising proudly from his knees, “my place is in the apartment of princes; my place is amongst the first artists of Florence; my place is at the table of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
“My God, my God, he is mad!” exclaimed the poor father, passing from rage to terror.
“But follow me, father, follow me, and you will see that the great Lorenzo has taken me by the hand, that he has placed me in his palace, that he expects you, that he offers you an employment, according to your choice.”