Meanwhile, under Michelozzo’s careful eye, the molten bronze had been stirred and heated to exactly the right temperature and consistency. It was a beautiful and terrifying broth and I stared into the crucible, marveling that this liquid was the most important step on the way to the completed statue. Pagno and I waited for Michelozzo’s signal to pour. The mold was firmly in position in the casting pit, the temperature and viscosity of the bronze exactly right, and at last Michelozzo gave the signal, pointing first at the crucible and then at us.
We took a deep breath and began our work. Carefully, steadily, we tipped the crucible until the molten bronze bubbled at the lip and then flowed—slowly, slowly—into the funnel at the base of the hat. We poured steadily with no jiggling or jerking of the rods that might cause an uneven flow.
It was good to feel the strength in my arms become the controlling force that made the bronze flow perfectly. Pagno and I worked well together since this was no time to compete and because, for all I did not trust him, I acknowledged that he was strong and had some gifts as a pourer of bronze. The effort was tremendous and the sweat coursing down our arms made it difficult to sustain the evenness of the pour, but it was yet early in the day and we were glad to perform so well. We finished pouring the hat, slowing the flow of bronze as it gathered in the funnel, the sign that the empty mold was now full. We tipped the crucible back into position above the furnace and rested. Pagno smiled at me, satisfied, and unable to help myself, I smiled back at him.
Michelozzo checked the fire to make certain the right temperature was being maintained. He said nothing but he looked satisfied at our work. Donatello, more anxious than I had ever seen him, hovered above the mold while it was lifted from its place beneath the crucible and placed further down the casting pit where it would settle and cool for the next two days.
The hat appeared to be a success, though of course we would not know for certain until the mold was broken open and the backing scraped away from the new bronze. But for now, in anticipation of success, there was a moment of pleasure and satisfaction for all of us as Donatello examined what we had done and, from the look of it, found our work satisfactory.
He gave orders then to proceed with David’s head. The mold was placed upside down in the pit and, at the signal from Michelozzo, Pagno and I repeated what we had done with the hat, pouring slowly so as to control the flow of the bronze while being careful not to jerk the crucible from its fixed position on the furnace. It was exhausting work and required more strength and attention than you might think. Once again we worked together as one to create an even and smooth pour. And once again the funnel indicated the empty mold was now filled and we tipped the crucible back into position on the furnace and stepped back from our completed work. Donatello seemed pleased. Pagno and I exchanged a glance—he smiled yet again—and for the first time since I had met him I felt some affection for him.
We could now move on to casting the upper body and the sword. I call it the upper body but in truth it was the largest piece to be cast and it extended from the base of the neck down to the joining of the leg and the boot, including the belly and buttocks and the private parts that had so deeply disappointed Agnolo. “My
cazzo
is twice the size of that,” he said, “even at its smallest it is bigger than that.” Donatello was hard pressed to convince him that decency must be observed, that it was merely a symbolic
cazzo
, that nobody would think less of him because the penis on the statue was not of the immensity of his penis in real life. “We must not offend,” Donatello concluded, “with too much reality,” and that at least for a time had seemed to satisfy Agnolo’s vanity. The casting of so large a section worried me. To sustain a constant pour at a very low volume would tax all my strength but I was determined not to fail my lord Donatello nor let Pagno see me as the lesser man. We leaned back from the poisonous smell of the bronze and waited for Michelozzo’s signal. He gave it and we bent to the controlling rods and tipped the crucible at exactly the right angle and held it there truly. The pour took a long time. The sweat poured into our eyes and down our arms, but we held the rods firmly and the pour was a success. Gratefully—the strain was over at last—we tipped the crucible back into place.
And then we poured the sword.
The first day of casting, then, was a great success and we were all pleased at Donatello’s approval. He thanked me especially for my nice care in pouring. Michelozzo had said almost nothing. He had more experience in casting bronze than any of us and in truth he was more skilled than Donatello, but it was his nature to defer to others and to Donatello in particular. So it was enough for me that he looked on and nodded his approval.
Agnolo was full of joy. He had been allowed to watch and he was careful not to get in the way of our pouring though he was everywhere at once, excited and impatient to see himself reborn in bronze. Now that the first pour was done, he could not wait for the moment when the molds would be cracked open and his new self would emerge.
* * *
T
HE POURED BRONZE
rested in the sand pit for the next two days while we made preparations to fire and pour the molds for the rest of the statue. And then at first light on the third day the rested molds were cracked open and the bronze was removed, first the hat and then, with some anxiety, the head. They were rough and for the moment ugly, with the air vents and gates in need of removal, but we had all seen what Donatello could do with chasing and finishing and we had no doubt that here was the head of the David he had carved in wax. We gathered about while the trunk of the statue was cracked open, the body from shoulders to boots. There was difficulty breaking through the shell and we drew back nervously while Donatello worked to free the bronze. It opened at last with a sighing sound and the harsh clank of a chisel on fired clay. Something had gone wrong. The shoulders and the chest were perfect, but Donatello stared in disbelief as he examined the left leg where the bronze had failed to take, leaving a hole the size of a penny in the front of the thigh. Perhaps there had been a bubble in the mix, perhaps the layer of wax at this point had been too thin. Whatever the reason, the result was disaster, I thought. There was a long silence and then Donatello let out a soft moan and sat back on his heels
He lowered his head and for a moment I thought he was crying. I could readily understand why. The lost wax method of casting was ever a gamble, since once the wax had been melted away the original statue was gone forever and only the bronze remained . . . and if the bronze was imperfect there was nothing to be done except start again to build up the statue from the beginning. I tried to think of something to say, but of course no words were possible at such a moment. Agnolo had at first rushed forward to see the ruined thigh, but even he had the good sense to pull back and say nothing. It was Michelozzo who took on himself the burden of consoling Donatello.
“It can be patched,” he said softly. “In the end it will be well.”
Donatello remained bent over the wounded thigh and nodded in agreement. It could be patched but it would not now be the flawless statue Donatello had conceived. Michelozzo helped him to his feet. We all made ourselves busy with something else, anything else.
David’s thigh was not ruined, but it was badly damaged. But ruin was in all our minds as we continued our work. We finished finally, gratefully, and then we scraped out the inner shell—the clay, cloth, hair and horse dung—that had supported the original wax David. The bronze was ready now for assembly and for chasing. For all the rest of this day we worked in silence.
* * *
I
T WAS THE
second day of pouring and we were well advanced in our task. Pagno and I had poured molten bronze from the crucible into the several separate pieces of the statue—steadily, without feint—and we had stood up well to the test of strength that required. We were exhausted and the sweat poured liberally down our chests and arms, but we had only two more pieces to pour—Goliath’s head and the laurel wreath on which it rests—and we were confident we would finish before nightfall.
The day grew frigid as the hours went by but the increasing cold offered us little relief. The crucible seemed to grow heavier with each minute and Pagno and I, on either side of the furnace, could feel ourselves weakening as we prepared for the last of the pourings.
“Are you ready?”’ I had to shout to make Pagno hear above the roaring of the furnace and the shouting among the apprentices.
“Always,” he said and managed to smile even as he rubbed ash from his eyes.
Goliath’s head was to have been cast next. Agnolo was eager to be of help and, with one of the apprentices, he mistook the order of pouring and instead positioned the laurel wreath next in line beneath the crucible.
“The head,” I shouted down to him. “The head is next.”
Donatello was occupied in conversation with Michelozzo and did not hear me. In truth I did not know if it mattered. I looked into the crucible and I could feel the heat singeing my eyebrows. There seemed to be plenty of bronze left and what did it matter if we did the head last? I shrugged and said nothing more.
Michelozzo gave us the signal to pour. We tensed and I could feel the terrible strain on my arms as we tipped the cauldron and the molten bronze poured slowly into the mold. The pour was agonizingly slow but—God’s mercy—it went smoothly. We began to tip the crucible back into rest position and as we did so I was seized by a cramp in my right arm. I lost purchase on the control rod I held clenched in my fist. The crucible began to shake and the molten bronze sloshed about freely. And then I lost control of the crucible altogether. But, a stroke of good luck! The crucible fell back into position above the furnace rather than forward into the casting pit. No one except Pagno had seen this happen. And Agnolo, of course, who was everywhere and into everything.
“Are you all right?” Pagno asked.
I pretended not to hear.
“Can you go on?” he said, shouting now. “Michelozzo could take your place.”
“I can help,” Agnolo shouted. He was standing next to the pouring platform and trying to get a foot up on it.
I pushed him away.
“I’m fine,” I said to Pagno. “My hand slipped from all the sweat.” I wiped my hands on the towel around my neck. “I’m fine.”
By now the assistants had moved the mold for the laurel wreath from the casting pit to the sand pit and replaced it with the mold for Goliath’s head. They steadied the head beneath the crucible and checked to see that it was braced firmly in place. Pagno and I waited for the signal to pour. I flexed the muscles in my right arm to shake out the cramp and I worked my fist open and closed. I could see Pagno watching me.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I’m ready.”
Michelozzo heard me and looked to see what I meant. He saw me flexing my fist and judged that I was ready and that Pagno was ready and he gave the signal to pour.
We tipped the crucible slowly, steadily, and the molten bronze began to flow into the funnel opening. This would go well, I could see. I glanced over at Pagno who was all concentration. Goliath’s head was the last piece to be poured and then we would be done and never mind the heat. An ash stung my eye but I blinked it away. The bronze was flowing into the mold, evenly, beautifully, when suddenly—again—my right arm tensed and my hand shuddered on the control rod. My arms shook. Sweat poured down my face and I tried to shake it away when suddenly Agnolo leaped onto the platform.
“Let me help,” he shouted. “I can help.”
He grabbed my wrist, and pressed hard on the rod I held. The crucible tipped violently and at once the molten bronze shot from the crucible and overflowed the funnel and poured down into the pit. Michelozzo shouted a warning and at the same moment there was a scream of pain from one of the apprentices as the molten liquid splashed on his naked arm. Donatello leaped to my aid and pulled Agnolo from the platform and then turned to the stricken apprentice who continued to scream in pain and terror. Michelozzo hugged the apprentice to him, murmuring, “Yes, yes, it hurts, I know, I know,” and he rocked the boy back and forth in his arms.
Donatello turned back to Agnolo and, in the silence that followed the uproar, he fixed him with that terrible look and shouted, “You whore! You stupid, stupid whore.”
Agnolo recoiled and seemed to shrink into himself.
Donatello moved toward him, his hand raised in anger.
“No!” someone shouted. It was Pagno.
Donatello stopped and said softly, “Get out. Just get out.”
Agnolo fled.
Donatello turned once more to the apprentice who lay crying softly now in Michelozzo’s arms. “
Piccolo mio
,” he said. “We’ll take care of you.” He stroked the boy’s hair and laid his hand on his cheek.
Pagno was dispatched to find a doctor.
So ended the second casting of the David. The apprentice would recover, with only a nasty scar on his arm to recall the day. Donatello would recover as well, at least for a while.
But for Agnolo this day had seen the great betrayal from which he would not recover. Donatello had called him a whore, before everyone. So much for his professions of love.
* * *
B
Y A STROKE
of luck Goliath’s head was cast to near perfection. The molten bronze had overflowed the mold, but somehow that had not proved the disaster it might have been. The plumes in Goliath’s helmet would serve to mask the imperfections caused by the sudden gush of bronze and Donatello’s expertise in chasing and finishing would take care of the rest.
The casting in truth had not been a total success. There was a small hole beneath David’s chin and, though most of us failed at first to notice, there was a piece of finger missing below the second knuckle of the hand that held the sword. But the main problem was the hole in the left thigh. It would require a patch and no matter how perfectly the patch was applied there would always be evidence of an imperfection. “Good,” Michelozzo said. “Otherwise they would think you were God.”