Raphael - Pages of the Book of Life at Twenty | Page 4

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,