He never doubted the profoundest truth, the
metaphysical importance of his love; but in the case of Michelangelo,
the love of an old man was the last event in a life consumed by
restlessness. The adoration of this mysogynist was almost an act of
despair; not a sweet delivery from doubt, but a source of fresh shocks.
It problematised his whole previous existence and nullified the work of
his life. For before this new experience--perfection, met in the
flesh--art broke down. The greatest of sculptors never made an attempt
to imprison the beauty which had appeared to his soul in marble or in
canvas, deeply convinced that such an achievement was beyond the power
of earthly endeavour.
Before Vittoria Michelangelo became deeply conscious of his inmost self;
she gave direction to his longing and was its symbol; she was the
perfection for which he had always striven--and he despaired of his art.
Thy beauty it befell in yonder spheres:
A symbol of salvation, bright'ning heaven
Th' Eternal Artist sent it down to earth;
If it diminish, years succeeding years,
My love will lend it but a greater worth.
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