The old Buonarotti was perfectly upset; he held his head between his hands, and asked of himself which had lost his reason, his son or himself. Michael Angelo not allowing him farther time for reflection, dragged him by force to the palace of the great Medicis. The Governor believed himself to be in a dream. No guard forbade their approach, and the courtiers drew respectfully back to give them passage.
At the door of the Prince’s closet, a page raised the hanging curtain, and the old Buonarotti stood with his son in the presence of the Medicis.
“Sir,” said the Prince, coming forward and courteously addressing him, “I have been the cause of disturbing you, in order to ask your leave that I may retain about me a son of whom you may be justly proud, and who bids fair to become the first artist of his time. My house shall be his home, and his salary you will yourself name.
“In return, I make you only one request; your son has probably already told you what. It is that you ask of me any appointment most suitable to your taste and habits. It is granted beforehand.”
“My son,” replied the agitated father, endeavouring to master his emotion, “will, I think, be paid beyond his deserts, if he receives five ducats monthly.”
“And for yourself, Sir?”
“For myself, Prince, I ask a trifling situation now vacant in the customs: it can only be given to a citizen of the State; I ask it, because it is a post I feel I can fill with honour.”
“You will never be rich, my dear Buonarotti,” laughingly replied the Medicis, “for, offered any situation you please, you content yourself with a little place in the customs.”
“Enough too—for the father of a mason!”
And thus was Michael Angelo de Buonarotti introduced to the patronage of the illustrious Medicis.