The real name of the friend who wrote these pages was not Raphael. We
often called him so in sport, because in his boyhood he much resembled
a youthful portrait of Raphael, which may be seen in the Barberini
gallery at Rome, at the Pitti palace in Florence, and at the Museum of
the Louvre. We had given him the name, too, because the distinctive
feature of this youth's character was his lively sense of the beautiful
in Nature and Art,--a sense so keen, that his mind was, so to speak,
merely the shadowing forth of the ideal or material beauty scattered
through-out the works of God and man. This feeling was the result of
his exquisite and almost morbid sensibility,--morbid, at least, until
time had somewhat blunted it. We would sometimes, in allusion to those
who, from their ardent longings to revisit their country, are called
home-sick, say that he was heaven-sick, and he would smile, and say
that we were right.
This love of the beautiful made him unhappy; in another situation it
might have rendered him illustrious. Had he held a pencil he would have
painted the Virgin of Foligno; as a sculptor, he would have chiselled
the Psyche of Canova; had he known the language in which sounds are
written, he would have noted the aerial lament of the sea breeze
sighing among the fibres of Italian pines, or the breathing of a
sleeping girl who dreams of one she will not name; had he been a poet,
he would have written the stanzas of Tasso's "Erminia," the moonlight
talk of Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," or Byron's portrait of
Haidee.
He loved the good as well as the beautiful, but he loved not virtue for
its holiness, he loved it for its beauty. He would have been aspiring
in imagination, although he was not ambitious by character. Had he
lived in those ancient republics where men attained their full
development through liberty, as the free, unfettered body develops
itself in pure air and open sunshine, he would have aspired to every
summit like Cæsar, he would have spoken as Demosthenes, and would have
died as Cato. But his inglorious and obscure destiny confined him,
against his will, in speculative inaction,--he had wings to spread, and
no surrounding air to bear them up. He died young, straining his gaze
into the future, and ardently surveying the space over which he was
never to travel.
Every one knows the youthful portrait of Raphael to which I have
alluded. It represents a youth of sixteen, whose face is somewhat paled
by the rays of a Roman sun, but on whose cheek still blooms the soft
down of childhood. A glancing ray of light seems to play on the velvet
of the cheek. He leans his elbow on a table; the arm is bent upwards to
support the head, which rests on the palm of the hand, and the
admirably modelled fingers are lightly imprinted on the cheek and chin;
the delicate mouth is thoughtful and melancholy; the nose is slender at
its rise, and slightly tinged with blue, as though the azure veins
shone through the fair transparency of the skin; the eyes are of that
dark heavenly hue which the Apennines wear at the approach of dawn, and
they gaze earnestly forward, but are slightly raised to heaven, as
though they ever looked higher than Nature,--a liquid lustre
illuminates their inmost depths, like rays dissolved in dew or tears.
On the scarcely arched brow, beneath the delicate skin, we trace the
muscles, those responsive chords of the instrument of thought; the
temples seem to throb with reflection; the ear appears to listen; the
dark hair, unskilfully cut by a sister or some young companion of the
studio, casts a shadow upon the hand and cheek; and a small cap of
black velvet, placed on the crown of the head, shades the brow. One
cannot pass before this portrait without musing sadly, one knows not
why. It represents the revery of youthful genius pausing on the
threshold of its destiny. What will be the fate of that soul standing
at the portal of life?
Now, in idea, add six years to the age of that dreaming boy; suppose
the features bolder, the complexion more bronzed; place a few furrows
on the brow, slightly dim the look, sadden the lips, give height to the
figure, and throw out the muscles in bolder relief; let the Italian
costume of the days of Leo X. be exchanged for the sombre and plain
uniform of a youth bred in the simplicity of rural life, who seeks no
elegance in dress,--and, if the pensive and languid attitude be
retained, you will have the striking likeness of our "Raphael" at the
age of twenty-two.
He was of a poor, though ancient family, from the mountainous province
of Forez, and his father, whose sole dignity was that of honor (worth
all others), had, like the nobles of Spain, exchanged the sword for the
plough. His mother, still young and handsome, seemed his sister, so
much did they resemble each other. She had been bred amid the luxurious
elegancies of a capital; and as the balmy essence of the rose perfumes
the crystal vase of the seraglio in which it has once been contained,
so she, too, had preserved that fragrant atmosphere of manners and
language which never evaporates entirely.
In her secluded mountains, with the loved husband of her choice, and
with her children, in whom she had complacently centred all the pride
of her maternal heart, she had regretted nothing. She closed the fair
book of youth at these three words,--"God, husband, children." Raphael
especially was her best beloved. She would have purchased for him a
kingly destiny, but, alas, she had only her heart with which to raise
him up, for their slender fortune, and their dreams of prosperity,
would ever and anon crumble to their very foundation beneath the hand
of fate.
Two holy men, driven by persecution to the mountains, had, soon after
the Reign of Terror, taken refuge in her house. They had been
persecuted as members of a mystical religious sect which dimly
predicted a renovation of the age. They loved Raphael, who was then a
mere child, and, obscurely prophesying his fate, pointed out his star
in the heavens, and told his mother to watch over that son with all her
heart. She reproached herself for being too credulous, for she was very
pious; but still she believed them. In such matters, a mother is so
easy of belief! Her credulity supported her under many trials, but
spurred her to efforts beyond her means to educate Raphael, and
ultimately deceived her.
I had known Raphael since he was twelve years old, and next to his
mother he loved me best on earth. We had met since the conclusion of
our studies, first in Paris, then at Rome, whither he had been taken by
one of his father's relatives, for the purpose of copying manuscripts
in the Vatican Library. There he had acquired the impassioned language
and the genius of Italy. He spoke Italian better than his mother
tongue. At evening he would sit beneath the pines of the Villa
Pamphili, and gazing on the setting sun and on the white fragments
scattered on the plain, like the bleached bones of departed Rome, would
pour forth extemporaneous stanzas that made us weep; but he never
wrote. "Raphael," would I sometimes say, "why do you not write?"
"Ah!" would he answer, "does the wind write what it sighs in this
harmonious canopy of leaves? Does the sea write the wail of its shores?
Nought that has been written is truly, really beautiful, and the heart
of man never discloses its best and most divine portion. It is
impossible! The instrument is of flesh, and the note is of fire!
Between what is felt and what is expressed," would he add, mournfully,
"there is the same distance as between the soul and the twenty-six
letters of an alphabet! Immensity of distance! Think you a flute of
reeds can give an idea of the harmony of the spheres?"
I left him to return to Paris. He was at that time striving, through
his mother's interest, to obtain some situation in which he might by
active employment remove from his soul its heavy weight, and lighten
the oppressive burden of his fate. Men of his own age sought him, and
women looked graciously on him as he passed them by. But he never went
into society, and of all women he loved his mother only.
We suddenly lost sight of him for three years; though we afterwards
learned that he had been seen in Switzerland, Germany, and Savoy; and
that in winter he passed many hours of his nights on a bridge, or on
one of the quays of Paris. He had all the appearance of extreme
destitution. It was only many years afterwards that we learned more. We
constantly thought of him, though absent, for he was one of those who
could defy the forgetfulness of friends.
Chance reunited us once more after an interval of twelve years. It so
happened that I had inherited a small estate in his province, and when
I went there to dispose of it, I inquired after Raphael. I was told
that he had lost father, mother, and wife in the space of a few years;
that after these pangs of the heart, he had had to bear the blows of
fortune, and that of all the domain of his fathers, nothing now
remained to him but the old dismantled tower on the edge of the ravine,
the garden, orchard, and meadow, with a few acres of unproductive land.
These he ploughed himself, with two miserable cows; and was only
distinguished from his peasant neighbors by the book which he carried
to the field, and which he would sometimes hold in one hand, while the
other directed the plough. For many weeks, however, he had not been
seen to leave his wretched abode. It was supposed that he had started
on one of those long journeys which with him lasted years. "It would be
a pity," it was said, "for every one in the neighborhood loves him;
though poor, he does as much good as any rich man. Many a warm piece of
cloth has been made from the wool of his sheep; at night he teaches the
little children of the surrounding hamlets how to read and write, or
draw. He warms them at his hearth, and shares his bread with them,
though God knows he has not much to spare when crops are short, as this
year."
It was thus all spoke of Raphael. I wished to visit at least the abode
of my friend, and was directed to the foot of the hillock, on the
summit of which stood the blackened tower, with its surrounding sheds
and stables, amid a group of hazel-trees. A trunk of a tree, which had
been thrown across, enabled me to pass over the almost dried-up torrent
of the ravine, and I climbed the steep path, the loose stones giving
way under my feet. Two cows and three sheep were grazing on the barren
sides of the hillock, and were tended by an old half-blind servant, who
was telling his beads seated on an ancient escutcheon of stone, which
had fallen from the arch of the doorway.
He told me that Raphael was not gone, but had been ill for the last two
months; that it was plain he would never leave the tower but for the
churchyard; and the old man pointed with his meagre hand to the burying
ground on the opposite hill. I asked if I could see Raphael. "Oh, yes,"
said the old man; "go up the steps, and draw the string of the latch of
the great hall-door on the left. You will find him stretched on his
bed, as gentle as an angel, and," added he drawing the back of his hand
across his eyes, "as simple as a child!" I mounted the steep and
worn-out steps which wound round the outside of the tower, and ended at
a small platform covered by a tiled roof, the broken tiles of which
strewed the stone steps. I lifted the latch of the door on my left, and
entered. Never shall I forget the sight. The chamber was vast,
occupying all the space between the four walls of the tower; it was
lighted from two windows, with stone cross-bars, and the dusty and
broken lozenge-shaped panes of glass were set in lead. The huge beams
of the ceiling were blackened by smoke, the floor was paved with
bricks, and in a high chimney with roughly fluted wooden jambs, an iron
pot filled with potatoes was suspended over a fire, where a long branch
was burning, or rather smoking. The only articles of furniture were two
high-backed arm-chairs, covered with a plain-colored stuff, of which it
was impossible to guess the original color; a large table, half covered
with an unbleached linen table-cloth in which a loaf was wrapped, the
other half being strewed pell-mell with papers and books; and, lastly,
a rickety, worm-eaten four-post bedstead, with its blue serge curtains
looped back to admit the rays of the sun, and the air from the open
window.
A man who was still young, but attenuated by consumption and want, was
seated on the edge of the bed, occupied in throwing crumbs to a whole
host of swallows which were wheeling their flight around him.
The birds flew away at the noise of my approach, and perched on the
cornice of the hall, or on the tester of the bed. I recognized Raphael,
pale and thin as he was. His countenance, though no longer youthful,
had not lost its peculiar character; but a change had come over its
loveliness, and its beauty was now of the grave. Rembrandt would have
wished for no better model for his "Christ in the Garden of Olives."
His dark hair clustered thickly on his shoulders, and was thrown back
in disorder, as by the weary hand of the laborer when the sweat and
toil of the day is over. The long untrimmed beard grew with a natural
symmetry that disclosed the graceful curve of the lip, and the contour
of the cheek; there was still the noble outline of the nose, the fair
and delicate complexion, the pensive and now sunken eye. His shirt,
thrown open on the chest, displayed his muscular though attenuated
frame, which might yet have appeared majestic, had his weakness allowed
him to sit erect.
He knew me at a glance, made one step forward with extended arms, and
fell back upon the bed. We first wept, and then talked together. He
related the past; how, when he had thought to cull the flowers or
fruits of life, his hopes had ever been marred by fortune or by
death,--the loss of his father, mother, wife, and child; his reverses
of fortune, and the compulsory sale of his ancestral domain; he told
how he retired to his ruined home, with no other companionship than
that of his mother's old herdsman, who served him without pay, for the
love he bore to his house; and lastly, spoke of the consuming languor
which would sweep him away with the autumnal leaves, and lay him in the
churchyard beside those he had loved so well. His intense imaginative
faculty might be seen strong even in death, and in idea he loved to
endow with a fanciful sympathy the turf and flowers which would blossom
on his grave.
"Do you know what grieves me most?" said he, pointing to the fringe of
little birds which were perched round the top of his bed. "It is to
think that next spring these poor little ones, my latest friends, will
seek for me in vain in the tower. They will no longer find the broken
pane through which to fly in; and on the floor, the little flocks of
wool from my mattress with which to build their nests. But the old
nurse, to whom I bequeath my little all, will take care of them as long
as she lives," he resumed, as if to comfort himself with the idea; "and
after her--Well! God will; for He feedeth the young ravens."
He seemed moved while speaking of these little creatures. It was easy
to see that he had long been weaned from the sympathy of men, and that
the whole tenderness of his soul, which had been repulsed by them, was
now transferred to dumb animals. "Will you spend any time among our
mountains?" he inquired. "Yes," I replied. "So much the better," he
added; "you will close my eyes, and take care that my grave is dug as
close as possible to those of my mother, wife, and child."
He then begged me to draw towards him a large chest of carved wood,
which was concealed beneath a bag of Indian corn at one end of the
room. I placed the chest upon the bed, and from it he drew a quantity
of papers which he tore silently to pieces for half an hour, and then
bid his old nurse sweep them into the fire. There were verses in many
languages, and innumerable pages of fragments, separated by dates, like
memoranda. "Why should you burn all these?" I timidly suggested; "has
not man a moral as well as a material inheritance to bequeath to those
who come after him? You are perhaps destroying thoughts and feelings
which might have quickened a soul."
"What matters it?" he said; "there are tears enough in this world, and
we need not deposit a few more in the heart of man. These," said he,
showing the verses, "are the cast-off, useless feathers of my soul; it
has moulted since then, and spread its bolder wings for eternity!" He
then continued to burn and destroy, while I looked out of the broken
window at the dreary landscape.
At length he called me once more to the bedside. "Here," said he--"save
this one little manuscript, which I have not courage to burn. When I am
gone, my poor nurse would make bags for her seeds with it, and I would
not that the name which fills its pages should be profaned. Take, and
keep it till you hear that I am no more. After my death you may burn
it, or preserve it till your old age, to think of me sometimes as you
glance over it."
I hid the roll of paper beneath my cloak, and took my leave, resolving
inwardly to return the next day to soothe the last moments of Raphael
by my care and friendly discourse. As I descended the steps, I saw
about twenty little children with their wooden shoes in their hands,
who had come to take the lessons which he gave them, even on his
death-bed. A little further on, I met the village priest, who had come
to spend the evening with him. I bowed respectfully, and as he noted my
swollen eyes, he returned my salute with an air of mournful sympathy.
The next day I returned to the tower. Raphael had died during the
night, and the village bell was already tolling for his burial. Women
and children were standing at their doors, looking mournfully in the
direction of the tower, and in the little green field adjoining the
church, two men, with spades and mattock, were digging a grave at the
foot of a cross.
I drew near to the door. A cloud of twittering swallows were fluttering
round the open windows, darting in and out, as though the spoiler had
robbed their nests.
Since then I have read these pages, and now know why he loved to be
surrounded by these birds, and what memories they waked in him, even to
his dying day.