ible to
judge to-day exactly of the original appearance and especially of the
colour, the harmony of which has been outrageously destroyed.[76]
Michelangelo, unmoved, watched the mutilation of his work. He was asked
his opinion, and he answered without anger and with calm contempt: "Say
to his Holiness that this is a little thing which can easily be put in
order. Let him attend to putting the world in order; to reform a
painting is not much trouble."

In spite of everything the Last Judgment was the school of the world.
Men came from all over Italy and from abroad to be present at its
unveiling on December 25, 1541. Hosts of Italian, French, Flemish and
German artists followed each other without respite through the Sistine
Chapel, copying zealously the entire fresco, and the glory of
Michelangelo, far from being diminished as Aretino predicted, became
colossal on account of it.

"That sublime painting," writes Vasari, "should serve as a model in our
art. Divine Providence made this present to the world to show how much
intelligence she could bestow on certain men whom she sends to the
earth. The most learned draughtsman will tremble when he sees those bold
outlines and those marvellous foreshortenings. In the presence of that
celestial work our senses are paralysed and we ask ourselves what will
exist of the works which were made before this and the works that will
be made after it. One can call oneself happy when one has seen this
prodigy of art and of genius. O fortunate Paul III! Heaven has allowed
you to be the patron of that glory. Your name will live forever beside
that of Buonarroti whose fame fills the universe."

The fresco of the Sistine was hardly finished when the insatiable Paul
III insisted that Michelangelo, in spite of his extreme old age, should
paint the frescoes of the Pauline Chapel. With a great effort he
completed the conversion of St. Paul and the Crucifixion of St. Peter
which, begun in 1542, injured after 1545 by a fire, interrupted by two
severe illnesses in 1544 and 1546, were finally completed in 1549-1550.
"He complained," says Vasari, "that he had suffered greatly in executing
these works. Painting, and especially fresco, is not fitted for an old
man." He was, as a matter of fact, seventy-five years old. Both frescoes
to-day have almost disappeared. In spite of the exaggeration of the
attitudes and the abuse of virtuosity, Michelangelo had preserved in them
his rough vigour, and we can s