Many, many years ago, in old Urbino, in the pleasant land of Italy, a
little boy stood looking out of a high window into the calm, sunshiny
day. He was a pretty boy with hazel eyes and fair hair cut straight
above his brows. He wore a little blue tunic with some embroidery about
the neck of it, and in his hand he carried a little round cap of the
same color.
[Illustration: RAPHAEL]
He was a very happy little boy here in this stately, yet kindly, Urbino.
He had a dear old grandfather and a loving mother; and he had a father
who was very tender to him, and who was full of such true love of art
that the child breathed it with every breath he drew. He often said to
himself, “I mean to become a painter, too.” And the child understood
that to be a painter was to be the greatest thing in the world; for this
child was Raphael, the seven-year-old son of Giovanni Sanzio.
At this time Urbino was growing into fame for its pottery work, and when
its duke wished to send a bridal gift or a present on other festal
occasions, he often chose some of his own Urbino ware. Jars and bowls
and platters and vases were all made and painted at Urbino, whilst
Raphael Sanzio was running about on rosy, infantine feet.
There was a master potter in that day, one Benedetto, who did things
rare and fine in the Urbino ware. He lived within a stone’s throw of
Giovanni Sanzio, and had a beautiful daughter, by name Pacifica. The
house of Benedetto was a long, stone building with a porch at the back
all overclimbed by hardy rose trees, and looking on a garden in which
grew abundantly pear trees, plum trees, and strawberries. The little son
of neighbor Sanzio ran in and out of this bigger house and wider garden
of Benedetto at his pleasure, for the maiden Pacifica was always glad to
see him, and even the master potter would show the child how to lay the
color on the tremulous unbaked clay. Raphael loved Pacifica, as he loved
everything that was beautiful, and every one that was kind.
Master Benedetto had four apprentices or pupils at that time, but the
one that Raphael and Pacifica liked best was one Luca, a youth with a
noble, dark beauty of his own. For love of Pacifica he had come down
from his mountain home, and had bound himself to her father’s service.
Now he spent his days trying in vain to make designs fair enough to find
favor in the eyes of his master.
One day, as Raphael was standing by his favorite window in the potter’s
house, his friend, the handsome Luca, who was also standing there,
sighed so deeply that the child was startled from his dreams. “Good
Luca, what ails you?” he queried, winding his arms about the young man’s
knees.
“Oh, ‘Faello!” sighed the apprentice, wofully, “here is a chance to win
the hand of Pacifica if only I had talent. If the good Lord had only
gifted me with a master’s skill, instead of all the strength of this
great body of mine, I might win Pacifica.”
“What chance is it?” asked Raphael.
“Dear one,” answered Luca, with a tremendous sigh, “you must know that a
new order has come in this very forenoon from the Duke. He wishes a dish
and a jar of the very finest majolica to be painted with the story of
Esther, and made ready in three months from this date. The master has
said that whoever makes a dish and a jar beautiful enough for the great
Duke shall become his partner and the husband of Pacifica. Now you see,
‘Faello mine, why I am so bitterly sad of heart; for at the painting of
clay I am but a tyro. Even your good father told me that, though I had a
heart of gold, yet I would never be able to decorate anything more than
a barber’s basin. Alas! what shall I do? They will all beat me;” and
tears rolled down the poor youth’s face.
Raphael heard all this in silence, leaning his elbows on his friend’s
knee, and his chin on the palms of his own hands. He knew that the other
pupils were better painters by far than his Luca; though not one of them
was such a good-hearted youth, and for none of them did the maiden
Pacifica care.
Raphael was very pensive for a while; then he raised his head and said,
“Listen! I have thought of something, Luca. But I do not know whether
you will let me try it.”
“You angel child! What would your old Luca deny to you? But as for
helping me, put that out of your little mind forever, for no one can
help me.”
“Let me try!” said the child a hundred times.
Luca could hardly restrain his shouts of mirth at the audacious fancy.
Baby Raphael, only seven years old, to paint a majolica dish and vase
for the Duke! But the sight of the serious face of Raphael, looking up
with serene confidence, kept the good fellow grave. So utterly in
earnest was the child, and so intense was Luca’s despair, that the young
man gave way to Raphael’s entreaties.
“Never can I do aught,” he said bitterly. “And sometimes by the help of
cherubs the saints work miracles.”
“It shall be no miracle,” replied Raphael; “it shall be myself, and what
the dear God has put into me.”
From that hour Luca let him do what he would, and through all the lovely
summer days the child shut himself in the garret and studied, and
thought, and worked. For three months Raphael passed the most anxious
hours of all his sunny young life. He would not allow Luca even to look
at what he did. The swallows came in and out of the open window and
fluttered all around him; the morning sunbeams came in, too, and made a
halo about his golden head. He was only seven years old, but he labored
as earnestly as if he were a man grown, his little rosy fingers grasping
that pencil which was to make him, in
[Illustration: RAPHAEL’S MADONNA OF THE CHAIR]
life and death, more famous than all the kings of the earth.
One afternoon Raphael took Luca by the hand and said to him, “Come.” He
led the young man up to the table beneath the window where he had passed
so many days of the spring and summer. Luca gave a great cry, and then
fell on his knees, clasping the little feet of the child.
“Dear Luca,” he said softly, “do not do that. If it be indeed good, let
us thank God.”
What Luca saw was the great oval dish and the great jar or vase with all
manner of graceful symbols and classic designs wrought upon them. Their
borders were garlanded with cherubs and flowers, and the landscapes were
the beautiful landscapes round about Urbino; and amidst the figures
there was one white-robed, golden-crowned Esther, to whom the child
painter had given the face of Pacifica.
“Oh, wondrous boy!” sighed the poor apprentice as he gazed, and his
heart was so full that he burst into tears. At last he said timidly:
“But, Raphael, I do not see how your marvellous creation can help me!
Even if you would allow it to pass as mine, I could not accept such a
thing,--not even to win Pacifica. It would be a fraud, a shame.”
“Wait just a little longer, my good friend, and trust me,” said Raphael.
The next morning was a midsummer day. Now, the pottery was all to be
placed on a long table, and the Duke was then to come and make his
choice from amidst them. A few privileged persons had been invited,
among them the father of Raphael, who came with his little son clinging
to his hand.
The young Duke and his court came riding down the street, and paused
before the old stone house of the master potter. Bowing to the ground,
Master Benedetto led the way, and the others followed into the workshop.
In all there were ten competitors. The dishes and jars were arranged
with a number attached to each--no name to any.
The Duke, doffing his plumed cap, walked down the long room and examined
each production in its turn. With fair words he complimented Signor
Benedetto on the brave show, and only before the work of poor Luca was
he entirely silent. At last, before a vase and a dish that stood at the
farthest end of the table, the Duke gave a sudden cry of wonder and
delight.
“This is beyond all comparison,” said he, taking the great oval dish in
his hands. “It is worth its weight in gold. I pray you, quick, name the
artist.”
“It is marked number eleven, my lord,” answered the master potter,
trembling with pleasure and surprise. “Ho, you who reply to that number,
stand out and give your name.”
But no one moved. The young men looked at one another. Where was this
nameless rival? There were but ten of themselves.
“Ho, there!” cried the master, becoming angry. “Can you not find a
tongue? Who has wrought this wondrous work?”
Then the child loosened his little hand from his father’s hold and
stepped forward, and stood before the master potter.
“I painted it,” he said, with a pleased smile; “I, Raphael.”
Can you not fancy the wonder, the rapture, the questions, the praise,
that followed on the discovery of the child artist? The Duke felt his
eyes wet, and his heart swell. He took a gold chain from his own neck
and threw it over Raphael’s shoulders.
“There is your first reward,” he said. “You shall have many, O wondrous
child, and you shall live when we who stand here are dust!”
Raphael, with winning grace, kissed the Duke’s hand, and then turned to
his own father.
“Is it true that I have won the prize?”
“Quite true, my child,” said Sanzio, with tremulous voice.
Raphael looked up at Master Benedetto and gently said, “Then I claim the
hand of Pacifica.”
“Dear and marvellous child,” murmured Benedetto, “you are only jesting,
I know; but tell me in truth what you would have. I can deny you
nothing; you are my master.”
“I am your pupil,” said Raphael, with sweet simplicity. “Had you not
taught me the secret of your colors, I could have done nothing. Now,
dear Master, and you, my lord Duke, I pray you hear me. By the terms of
this contest I have won the hand of Pacifica and a partnership with
Master Benedetto. I take these rights, and I give them over to my dear
friend, Luca, who is the truest man in all the world, and who loves
Pacifica as no other can do.”
Signor Benedetto stood mute and agitated. Luca, pale as ashes, had
sprung forward and dropped on his knees.
“Listen to the voice of an angel, my good Benedetto,” said the Duke.
The master burst into tears. “I can refuse him nothing,” he said, with a
sob.
“And call the fair Pacifica,” cried the sovereign, “and I shall give her
myself, as a dower, as many gold pieces as we can cram into this famous
vase. Young man, rise up, and be happy!”
But Luca heard not; he was still kneeling at the feet of
Raphael.--LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE.
_By permission of the publishers, Chatto & Windus, London._
* * * * *
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
--SHAKESPEARE.