DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.48088#0027
THE SISTINE MADONNA.
15
Ismeducci had drawn back in anxiety. He appeared to be studying the face of the
young painter. Raphael’s eye had a thoughtful, almost melancholy expression — there was
inspiration in his sweet and yet immovably firm, searching gaze.... but the painter seemed
cheerful, and even for him, in good spirits. No dark shadow clouded his open charming smile; but
he certainly did not know that the Fornarina had disappeared from the Villa of the Frangipani
dAstura. He looked at the Countess Aldruda very attentively, but it was as if he were studying
the strange effects of light which played around this new Amphritrite, and his smile may have
betrayed astonishment at the boldness with which the lady had dared to bring the delicate tint of
her shoulders and bosom into immediate contact with dazzling silver.
As Raphael was the first layman, who entered, following the Pope, and as the warlike
ecclesiastics were not permitted to escort a lady, the honour fell to the painter of giving his arm
to the lady of the house in her progress round the reception room. Aldruda walked by the side
of Raphael, as if she were leading a prisoner in triumph. The painter answered in monosyllables,
appearing to direct all his attention to the portraits of the Malatesta, which seeemed to look
down darkly upon the festival, from between trophies of arms, and the lights on the wall. How
many beautiful, longing, and envious eyes were directed on Aldruda, and how many of the Roman
ladies now whispered a word, which might cast a doubt on the victory of the Anconese lady:
that word being Fornarina!
Taking his seat the Pope surveyed the festive board which was beautifully laid with rich
dishes. Malatesta presented himself, with his daughter, before Leo.
“Count, you have seen the chief Alexander,” said the Pope smiling, and pointing to Raphael!
“but these two, Giulio Pippi and Polidoro, are also Alexanders’.”
He pronounced the name of the great Macedonian in Greek fashion, and then asked with
a friendly smile: “You do not understand me, Galeotto? And yet you were formerly a good
classical scholar. But, with your permission, Malatesta, I have a commission for my Alexander.”
“Holy Father, it is for you to command,” said the governor, who could scarcely withdraw
his eyes from Raphael, “and Malatesta, the soldier, is bound to obey!”
“It is my wish that Raphael should paint the portrait of your daughter,” said Leo, casting
a side glance on the artist.
“Your Holiness may be assured, that I should esteem it a great honour...,” muttered
Galeotto.
“The Countess Malatesta will I trust condescend to lay her commands on me,” answered
Raphael, bending low. “But I would suggest that the lady should consent to be painted in this
dress of silver sheen. And, if possible, by candle-light.”
“A portrait,” said Leo, “would be less prized by the Countess Aldruda, than a composition,
in which she should play a part. The lady belongs to a family, which can point to heroines as
well as heroes upon its annals. I will only refer to Aldruda del Bertinazzo, the ancestress on
the mother’s side of the Countess Aldruda di Malatesta. In the year 1174, the army of the
Emperor, six thousand horse and thirty thousand foot, advanced before the brave city of Ancona.
The army of the Ghibellines was led by “the German Pope in armour,” Christianas, the
Archbishop of Mayence. The rock fortress defended itself boldly — but the galleys of
treacherous and mercenary Venice appeared in the harbour of Ancona, and hunger began to lay
bare the city of the Guelphs. Napolione del Bertinazzo collected together about twenty thousand
men, Florentines, Romagnese, German, and French mercenaries, and defeated the Archbishop of
15
Ismeducci had drawn back in anxiety. He appeared to be studying the face of the
young painter. Raphael’s eye had a thoughtful, almost melancholy expression — there was
inspiration in his sweet and yet immovably firm, searching gaze.... but the painter seemed
cheerful, and even for him, in good spirits. No dark shadow clouded his open charming smile; but
he certainly did not know that the Fornarina had disappeared from the Villa of the Frangipani
dAstura. He looked at the Countess Aldruda very attentively, but it was as if he were studying
the strange effects of light which played around this new Amphritrite, and his smile may have
betrayed astonishment at the boldness with which the lady had dared to bring the delicate tint of
her shoulders and bosom into immediate contact with dazzling silver.
As Raphael was the first layman, who entered, following the Pope, and as the warlike
ecclesiastics were not permitted to escort a lady, the honour fell to the painter of giving his arm
to the lady of the house in her progress round the reception room. Aldruda walked by the side
of Raphael, as if she were leading a prisoner in triumph. The painter answered in monosyllables,
appearing to direct all his attention to the portraits of the Malatesta, which seeemed to look
down darkly upon the festival, from between trophies of arms, and the lights on the wall. How
many beautiful, longing, and envious eyes were directed on Aldruda, and how many of the Roman
ladies now whispered a word, which might cast a doubt on the victory of the Anconese lady:
that word being Fornarina!
Taking his seat the Pope surveyed the festive board which was beautifully laid with rich
dishes. Malatesta presented himself, with his daughter, before Leo.
“Count, you have seen the chief Alexander,” said the Pope smiling, and pointing to Raphael!
“but these two, Giulio Pippi and Polidoro, are also Alexanders’.”
He pronounced the name of the great Macedonian in Greek fashion, and then asked with
a friendly smile: “You do not understand me, Galeotto? And yet you were formerly a good
classical scholar. But, with your permission, Malatesta, I have a commission for my Alexander.”
“Holy Father, it is for you to command,” said the governor, who could scarcely withdraw
his eyes from Raphael, “and Malatesta, the soldier, is bound to obey!”
“It is my wish that Raphael should paint the portrait of your daughter,” said Leo, casting
a side glance on the artist.
“Your Holiness may be assured, that I should esteem it a great honour...,” muttered
Galeotto.
“The Countess Malatesta will I trust condescend to lay her commands on me,” answered
Raphael, bending low. “But I would suggest that the lady should consent to be painted in this
dress of silver sheen. And, if possible, by candle-light.”
“A portrait,” said Leo, “would be less prized by the Countess Aldruda, than a composition,
in which she should play a part. The lady belongs to a family, which can point to heroines as
well as heroes upon its annals. I will only refer to Aldruda del Bertinazzo, the ancestress on
the mother’s side of the Countess Aldruda di Malatesta. In the year 1174, the army of the
Emperor, six thousand horse and thirty thousand foot, advanced before the brave city of Ancona.
The army of the Ghibellines was led by “the German Pope in armour,” Christianas, the
Archbishop of Mayence. The rock fortress defended itself boldly — but the galleys of
treacherous and mercenary Venice appeared in the harbour of Ancona, and hunger began to lay
bare the city of the Guelphs. Napolione del Bertinazzo collected together about twenty thousand
men, Florentines, Romagnese, German, and French mercenaries, and defeated the Archbishop of