UMBRIAN SCHOOL (_Continued_) RAPHAEL (1483–1520)

“Oh their Raphael of the dear Madonnas!”

Let us now approach the works of Raphael Sanzio. We know that his name stands with those of Michael Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci, and that the three represent grace, strength, and science.

Giovanni Santi (about 1440–1494), Raphael’s father, was a painter and a poet. The family originally came from Colbordolo, a hill town in Umbria, where it had fine possessions, but it lost them when Malatesta di Rimini made war upon the district and set the town and castle on fire. At that time Giovanni Santi was a boy. At Urbino, where the Santis settled, the father made a fortune. When the time came to choose a profession, Giovanni preferred to prepare himself to be a painter than to follow his father’s successful career.

He painted many pictures. Urbino at the time was ruled over by a just and noble prince, Duke Frederigo di Montefeltro, who invited to his court all the men famed in art and literature. Giovanni Santi was a favourite guest. His pictures were somewhat hard, but were marked by much pious feeling. He also wrote a long poem, or rather a rhymed chronicle, in praise of Frederigo’s virtues, wherein are mentioned the names of the great men his contemporaries. He had married a rich wife, and a son Raphael was born to him. That Giovanni was much thought of at Urbino may be gathered from the fact of his being selected to be the host of Piero della Francesca, when this illustrious painter came to the city at the invitation of the Brotherhood of Corpus Domini.

Here is one of Giovanni’s pictures, “The Madonna and Child” (751). The mother is watching the child as it sleeps, supporting his head with her right hand. The sleeping infant is lying partly on a cushion placed on a stone parapet. The background shows a rocky landscape with blue distant mountains.

Thus we must imagine the youth of Raphael passed in the midst of a brilliant society, among artists and men of letters gathered in his father’s house. It was a gentle training for his noble spirit.

His father taught him drawing, but soon recognised that the boy had a genius far outshining his own. Vasari says that Raphael’s artistic education was then entrusted to Perugino; now, however, it is accepted that Raphael’s first teacher next to his father was a painter named Timoteo Viti. The boy continued under this artist’s care till after his father’s death, when he went to Perugia and entered the studio of Perugino. But a warm and life-long friendship existed between himself and Viti. He was just eleven when his father died, three years before he had lost the mother whom he dearly loved.

It is not certain at what time Raphael became Perugino’s pupil. He imitated his master’s manner so perfectly that it is often impossible to determine whether it was Perugino or Raphael who painted a certain picture. His charming address won for him the love of all, and Perugino often prophesied that his pupil would be a great artist—the greatest of his generation.

The turning-point in the lad’s career came when he went to Florence and saw the sketches by Michael Angelo, Signorelli, and Leonardo da Vinci. He had a marvellous capacity for assimilating the genius of other masters. Michael Angelo’s work greatly impressed him; the loveliness of expression of Leonardo da Vinci’s women fascinated him; the management of light and shade that is so remarkable in this master’s work also fired his imagination. Raphael studied from the nude; he learnt anatomy, and he developed the grace that is the crowning quality of his art. His first manner is called the Umbrian manner.

He was not seventeen when he painted the little masterpiece, “The Vision of the Knight” (213). The knight is asleep under a laurel tree; on either side of him is a beautiful female figure. One is more austere than the other; she is dressed in purple; she holds out a book and a sword—the emblems of study and conflict; the other, a charming creature, the very embodiment of youth and joy, offers to the sleeper a sprig of myrtle—the white blossom with its evergreen foliage, which in old times was dedicated to Venus the Queen of Love, and which even to this day is a bridal flower. Both these dream-women are calling to the knight, both are saying “Follow me.” It is the old, old story of the two influences speaking to the spirit of man. The story of the choice of Hercules, the story that Tennyson sang in “The Two Voices”—

“So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower,

To feel, altho’ no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love.”

This picture belongs to Raphael’s first manner, that of Umbria.

“VISION OF A KNIGHT” (213)

BY RAPHAEL SANZIO

page 60 ]

Let us look at the “Madonna degli Ansidei” (1171), thus called because it was painted for the Ansedei family at Perugia. Raphael was not twenty when he painted it. The Virgin is sitting on a throne under a canopy with St. John the Baptist and St. Nicholas of Bari on either side. How charming is the young mother, how mild and loving is her expression as she holds the Babe on her knee and points with her finger to a pictured page. The Child, a chubby little one, looks attentively at what His mother is showing Him; His head is a little inclined forward, His hand is on His chest. It is a picture of human and divine love beautifully combined. The two saints effectively complete the composition. On one side John the Baptist, a wild figure, holding in his hand a crystal rod bearing the cross, looks up in rapt ecstasy on the divine Child. On the other side is St. Nicholas of Bari, the scholar saint, absorbed in his book, wearing his bishop’s mitre and crook. At his feet are the three purses of gold that tradition says St. Nicholas threw through a window to three dowerless girls.

Then there is the beautiful “St. Catherine of Alexandria” (168), the princess who loved meditation and study rather than splendour and state, whom the tyrant Maximus slew in his rage. She is no meagre and ascetic saint, but one who belongs to a fine type of developed womanhood. She is leaning on the wheel intended for her martyrdom as she looks up to the sky, through which light is streaming, touching her pure young brow and throat with flame. It was said that the wheel was broken by an angel from heaven, but that Maximus would not be put off making a martyr of St. Catherine, so he had her slain with a sword. See how exquisite is every detail in the picture—the folds of the bodice crossed over her bosom, the wonder of her hands, the charm of the homely landscape behind.

Let us also look at the “Garvagh Madonna” (744). It is a lovely representation of the play of childhood. The Saviour and little St. John the Baptist are making merry together; the mother holds the Child on her lap; He has taken a carnation from the hand of St. John. Look at the pretty gesture of the Child Christ, at the eagerness of St. John the Baptist. Never has children’s gaiety been more tenderly represented. The Virgin is a stately young mother; behind her is a luminous background of sky and distant open country. “The Madonna of the Tower” (2069) has all the same attributes—the love light on the mother’s face, the childlike sweetness of the Babe. His arms are round Mary’s neck as He looks at us out of the picture.

Nor must I forget to mention the portrait of “Pope Julius II.” (27), seated in his pontifical chair in his scarlet robes. He is lost in thought. His passionate spirit is for the moment at rest. This portrait is one of the masterpieces of the world.

I cannot dwell longer on the works of Raphael. He touched the summit of art; no one has ever gone beyond him in the technique of painting, in charm and tender grace of expression. His pictures are a revelation of the visions genius gives to the artist and of the power that genius gives to his hand. When you go to the South Kensington Museum you should look at his magnificent cartoons. You will see the human figure painted and drawn in a way that has never yet been surpassed. And Raphael himself was as wonderful as were his works. We are told that when he was at the height of his fame no stranger could call to consult him that he did not leave his work to attend to what was needed. He had the most charming and courteous manners. He presided over a school of some fifty artists, who worked under his influence, and that influence was one of perfect peace. There were no quarrels where Raphael was.

He was born on a Good Friday, and, when he was thirty-seven years of age, on a Good Friday he died. He was painting “The Transfiguration of Christ,” and Vasari tells us that he had put forth all his power to depict the face of the Saviour. It was the last thing he ever did, for there came the call of death. Fever seized him, and he made his will, passing away on the thirty-seventh anniversary of his birthday. “The Transfiguration” was placed at the head of his bier. When the citizens filed in to see the last of the divine painter, the sight of his young inanimate body and of his living work filled them with grief. The room resounded with cries and sobs of lamentation, because Raphael was dead.