Raphael heard all this in silence, leaning his elbows on his friends 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 Lucas despair, that the young man gave way to Raphaels 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 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 fathers 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 Raphaels 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 Dukes 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.
DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIBS ARMY
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail;
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!