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.
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