RAPHAEL

Among the marvellous tales of the Arabian Nights, there is a story told

of a band of robbers who, by whispering certain magic words, were able

to open the door of a secret cave where treasures of gold and silver

and precious jewels lay hid. Now, although the day of such delightful

marvels is past and gone, yet there still remains a certain magic in

some names which is able to open the secret doors of the hidden haunts

of beauty and delight.

For most people the very name of 'Raphael' is like the 'Open Sesame' of

the robber chief in the old story. In a moment a door seems to open out

of the commonplace everyday world, and through it they see a stretch of

fair sweet country. There their eyes rest upon gentle, dark-eyed

Madonnas, who smile down lovingly upon the heavenly Child, playing at

her side or resting in her arms. The little St. John is also there,

companion of the Infant Christ; rosy, round-limbed children both, half

human and half divine. And standing in the background are a crowd of

grave, quiet figures, each one alive with interest, while over all

there is a glow of intense vivid colour.

We know but little of the everyday life of this great artist. When we

hear his name, it is of his different pictures that we think at once,

for they are world-famous. We almost forget the man as we gaze at his

work.

It was in the little village of Urbino, in Umbria, that Raphael was

born. His father was a painter called Giovanni Santi, and from him

Raphael inherited his love of Art. His mother, Magia, was a sweet,

gracious woman, and the little Raphael was like her in character and

beauty. It seemed as if the boy had received every good gift that

Nature could bestow. He had a lovely oval face, and soft dark eyes that

shone with a beauty that was more of heaven than earth, and told of a

soul which was as pure and lovely as his face. Above all, he had the

gift of making every one love him, so that his should have been a happy

sunshiny life.

But no one can ever escape trouble, and when Raphael was only eight

years old, the first cloud overspread his sky. His mother died, and

soon after his father married again.

The new mother was very young, and did not care much for children, but

Raphael did not mind that as long as he could be with his father. But

three years later a blacker cloud arose and blotted out the sunshine

from his life, for his father too died, and left him all alone.

The boy had loved his father dearly, and it had been his great delight

to be with him in the studio, to learn to grind and mix the colours and

watch those wonderful pictures grow from day to day.

But now all was changed. The quiet studio rang with angry voices, and

the peaceful home was the scene of continual quarrelling. Who was to

have the money, and how were the Santi estates to be divided?

Stepmother and uncle wrangled from morning until night, and no one gave

a thought to the child Raphael. It was only the money that mattered.

Then when it seemed that the boy's training was going to be totally

neglected, kindly help arrived. Simone di Ciarla, brother of Raphael's

own mother, came to look after his little nephew, and ere long carried

him off from the noisy, quarrelsome household, and took him to Perugia.

'Thou shalt have the best teaching in all Italy,' said Simone as they

walked through the streets of the town. 'The great master to whose

studio we go, can hold his own even among the artists of Florence. See

that thou art diligent to learn all that he can teach thee, so that

thou mayest become as great a painter as thy father.'

'Am I to be the pupil of the great Perugino?' asked Raphael, his eyes

shining with pleasure. 'I have often heard my father speak of his

marvellous pictures.'

'We will see if he can take thee,' answered his uncle.

The boy's heart sunk. What if the master refused to take him as a

pupil? Must he return to idleness and the place which was no longer

home?

But soon his fears were set at rest. Perugino, like every one else,

felt the charm of that beautiful face and gentle manner, and when he

had seen some drawings which the boy had done, he agreed readily that

Raphael should enter the studio and become his pupil.

Perugia had been passing through evil times just before this. The two

great parties of the Oddi and Baglioni families were always at war

together. Whichever of them happened to be the stronger held the city

and drove out the other party, so that the fighting never ceased either

inside or outside the gates. The peaceful country round about had been

laid waste and desolate. The peasants did not dare go out to till their

fields or prune their olive-trees. Mothers were afraid to let their

little ones out of their sight, for hungry wolves and other wild beasts

prowled about the deserted countryside.

Then came a day when the outside party managed to creep silently into

the city, and the most terrible fight of all began. So long and

fiercely did the battle rage that almost all the Oddi were killed. Then

for a time there was peace in Perugia and all the country round.

So it happened that as soon as the people of Perugia had time to think

of other things besides fighting, they began to wish that their town

might be put in order, and that the buildings which had been injured

during the struggles might be restored.

This was a good opportunity for peaceful men like Perugino, for there

was much work to be done, and both he and his pupils were kept busy

from morning till night.

Of all his pupils, Perugino loved the young Raphael best. He saw at

once that this was no ordinary boy.

'He is my pupil now, but soon he will be my master,' he used to say as

he watched the boy at work.

So he taught him with all possible carefulness, and was never tired of

giving him good advice.

'Learn first of all to draw,' he would say, when Raphael looked with

longing eyes at the colours and brushes of the master. 'Draw everything

you see, no matter what it is, but always draw and draw again. The rest

will follow; but if the knowledge of drawing be lacking, nothing will

afterwards succeed. Keep always at hand a sketch-book, and draw therein

carefully every manner of thing that meets thy eye.'

Raphael never forgot the good advice of his master. He was never

without a sketch-book, and his drawings now are almost as interesting

as his great pictures, for they show the first thought that came into

his mind, before the picture was composed.

So the years passed on, and Raphael learned all that the master could

teach him. At first his pictures were so like Perugino's, that it was

difficult to know whether they were the work of the master or the pupil.

But the quiet days at Perugia soon came to an end, and Perugino went

back to Florence. For some time Raphael worked at different places near

Perugia, and then followed his master to the City of Flowers, where

every artist longed to go. Though he was still but a young man, the

world had already begun to notice his work, and Florence gladly

welcomed a new artist.

It was just at that time that Leonardo da Vinci's fame was at its

height, and when Raphael was shown some of the great man's work, he was

filled with awe and wonder. The genius of Leonardo held him spellbound.

'It is what I have dreamed of in my dreams,' he said. 'Oh that I might

learn his secret!'

Little by little the new ideas sunk into his heart, and the pictures he

began to paint were no longer like those of his old master Perugino,

but seemed to breathe some new spirit.

It was always so with Raphael. He seemed to be able to gather the best

from every one, just as the bee goes from flower to flower and gathers

its sweetness into one golden honeycomb. Only the genius of Raphael

made all that he touched his very own, and the spirit of his pictures

is unlike that of any other master.

For many years after this he lived in Rome, where now his greatest

frescoes may be seen--frescoes so varied and wonderful that many books

have been written about them.

There he first met Margarita, the young maiden whom he loved all his

life. It is her face which looks down upon us from the picture of the

Sistine Madonna, perhaps the most famous Madonna that ever was painted.

The little room in the Dresden Gallery where this picture now hangs

seems almost like a holy place, for surely there is something divine in

that fair face. There she stands, the Queen of Heaven, holding in her

arms the Infant Christ, with such a strange look of majesty and sadness

in her eyes as makes us realise that she was indeed fit to be the

Mother of our Lord.

But the picture which all children love best is one in Florence called

'The Madonna of the Goldfinch.'

It is a picture of the Holy Family, the Infant Jesus, His mother, and

the little St. John. The Christ Child is a dear little curly-headed

baby, and He stands at His mother's knee with one little bare foot

resting on hers. His hand is stretched out protectingly over a yellow

goldfinch which St. John, a sturdy little figure clad in goatskins, has

just brought to Him. The baby face is full of tender love and care for

the little fluttering prisoner, and His curved hand is held over its

head to protect it.

'Do not hurt My bird,' He seems to say to the eager St. John, 'for it

belongs to Me and to My Father.'

These are only two of the many pictures which Raphael painted. It is

wonderful to think how much work he did in his short life, for he died

when he was only thirty-seven. He had been at work at St. Peter's,

giving directions about some alterations, and there he was seized by a

severe chill, and in a few days the news spread like wildfire through

the country that Raphael was dead.

It seemed almost as if it could not be true. He had been so full of

life and health, so eager for work, such a living power among men.

But there he lay, beautiful in death as he had been in life, and over

his head was hung the picture of the 'Transfiguration,' on which he had

been at work, its colours yet wet, never to be finished by that still

hand.

All Rome flocked to his funeral, and high and low mourned his loss. But

he left behind him a fame which can never die, a name which through all

these four hundred years has never lost the magic of its greatness.