The figure
melts away the spectator's mind into a sort of passionate tenderness
which he knows not whether he has given to heavenly purity or to earthly
charm. He is intoxicated with the fragrance of the tenderest blossom of
maternity that ever bloomed on earth.
"That's what I call a fine picture," said my companion, after we had
gazed a while in silence. "I have a right to say so, for I have copied
it so often and so carefully that I could repeat it now with my eyes
shut. Other works are of Raphael: this _is_ Raphael himself. Others you
can praise, you can qualify, you can measure, explain, account for: this
you can only love and admire. I don't know in what seeming he walked
among men while this divine mood was upon him; but after it, surely, he
could do nothing but die; this world had nothing more to teach him. Think
of it a while, my friend, and you will admit that I am not raving. Think
of his seeing that spotless image, not for a moment, for a day, in a
happy dream, or a restless fever-fit; not as a poet in a five minutes'
frenzy--time to snatch his phrase and scribble his immortal stanza; but
for days together, while the slow labour of the brush went on, while the
foul vapours of life interposed, and the fancy ached with tension, fixed,
radiant, distinct, as we see it now! What a master, certainly! But ah!
what a seer!"
"Don't you imagine," I answered, "that he had a model, and that some
pretty young woman--"
"As pretty a young woman as you please! It doesn't diminish the miracle!
He took his hint, of course, and the young woman, possibly, sat smiling
before his canvas.
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