DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.53068#0266
RAPHAEL
study of Adam, in the Uffizi; his hand shields his eyes, as if blinded by a more
than earthly radiance (R. Z- VI, 294). And then, on a drawing, at Oxford, for the
Disputa, line after line is set down for a sonnet (Plate 89, R. Z- VI, 278, 279, 280);
out of an overflowing sense of bliss, occasioned by an incident by night which must
remain for the world in obscurity, Raphael discovers that his tongue is bound,
in a sudden kinship with the Apostle who, caught up into Paradise, “non podde
dir d’arcana dei”—“cannot bear witness to the enrapturing wonders that he has
seen and to the unspeakable words that may not be spoken.”
And now, as the Apostle stands beside Cecilia, these ineffable hymns are
re-echoed from above, and the hand of the Apostle is laid like a clamp upon his
chin, checking every word, in that state of frustration and emotion that makes
us so mysteriously familiar with this mighty man. His fingers merely play about
the pommel of his menacing sword; more important for him seem to be the letters,
the Epistles they are clutching. Thus Raphael conceived the character of this
Roman Knight—as a warrior thrown out of his course, he was relentlessly assailed
by the convulsion that had converted him—a perpetual combatant; here and
perhaps also in the Sacrifice at Lystra, he appears on the scene for the last
time in such a noble form; in him Raphael embodied his ideal for society, the
“cortegiano” perfect in his power, in an equilibrium of essence and semblance.
The lofty bearing of his inner being is shown and intensified with dignity in
outward appearance; in the cast of his cloak, in his slow, serious pace, even
more when he is stirred to the very depths, it is always the same. Yet when
this manly dignity vibrates through and through with a sudden upwelling of
emotion, then its human impressiveness becomes irresistible for anyone who is
allowed to witness it, through the unexpected violence of the onset. Only the
greatest dramatists have been happy in giving such a human radiance to the
heroic without impairing its majesty. From Odysseus, who awakes in his home
but does not recognise his native country, from Peter weeping after the cock
crew thrice, to Coriolanus—“I melt, and am not of stronger earth than others”
—to Sarastro’s resignation in the presence of Pamina—“Thou lov’st another
dearly”—or to the Count’s “Contessa perdoni”, “O Countess, pardon”—
finally to Goethe’s “Das strenge Herz es fuhlt sich mild und weich”—“The
doughty heart, it tender feels and kind”—a marvellous series; in all, a tragic
irony is alive, and we are stirred every time by the spectacle of proud dignity
melting into simple human grief. Thus by the moving power of the back view
of this figure, who has with sweeping cloak just entered the circle of the elect,
the worshipper is, as it were, carried along with it into the region of other-
worldly happenings—seized, with St Paul, by a sense of the vanity of all action
“that has not charity”; and a bridge is thrown across to link him with her who
“loved much” and therefore, her sins forgiven, may enter in before many.
The painter gave her the earthly features of the Vel ata, in whose portrait at
Florence he had just made avowal of the bliss conferred on his soul by a simple
248
study of Adam, in the Uffizi; his hand shields his eyes, as if blinded by a more
than earthly radiance (R. Z- VI, 294). And then, on a drawing, at Oxford, for the
Disputa, line after line is set down for a sonnet (Plate 89, R. Z- VI, 278, 279, 280);
out of an overflowing sense of bliss, occasioned by an incident by night which must
remain for the world in obscurity, Raphael discovers that his tongue is bound,
in a sudden kinship with the Apostle who, caught up into Paradise, “non podde
dir d’arcana dei”—“cannot bear witness to the enrapturing wonders that he has
seen and to the unspeakable words that may not be spoken.”
And now, as the Apostle stands beside Cecilia, these ineffable hymns are
re-echoed from above, and the hand of the Apostle is laid like a clamp upon his
chin, checking every word, in that state of frustration and emotion that makes
us so mysteriously familiar with this mighty man. His fingers merely play about
the pommel of his menacing sword; more important for him seem to be the letters,
the Epistles they are clutching. Thus Raphael conceived the character of this
Roman Knight—as a warrior thrown out of his course, he was relentlessly assailed
by the convulsion that had converted him—a perpetual combatant; here and
perhaps also in the Sacrifice at Lystra, he appears on the scene for the last
time in such a noble form; in him Raphael embodied his ideal for society, the
“cortegiano” perfect in his power, in an equilibrium of essence and semblance.
The lofty bearing of his inner being is shown and intensified with dignity in
outward appearance; in the cast of his cloak, in his slow, serious pace, even
more when he is stirred to the very depths, it is always the same. Yet when
this manly dignity vibrates through and through with a sudden upwelling of
emotion, then its human impressiveness becomes irresistible for anyone who is
allowed to witness it, through the unexpected violence of the onset. Only the
greatest dramatists have been happy in giving such a human radiance to the
heroic without impairing its majesty. From Odysseus, who awakes in his home
but does not recognise his native country, from Peter weeping after the cock
crew thrice, to Coriolanus—“I melt, and am not of stronger earth than others”
—to Sarastro’s resignation in the presence of Pamina—“Thou lov’st another
dearly”—or to the Count’s “Contessa perdoni”, “O Countess, pardon”—
finally to Goethe’s “Das strenge Herz es fuhlt sich mild und weich”—“The
doughty heart, it tender feels and kind”—a marvellous series; in all, a tragic
irony is alive, and we are stirred every time by the spectacle of proud dignity
melting into simple human grief. Thus by the moving power of the back view
of this figure, who has with sweeping cloak just entered the circle of the elect,
the worshipper is, as it were, carried along with it into the region of other-
worldly happenings—seized, with St Paul, by a sense of the vanity of all action
“that has not charity”; and a bridge is thrown across to link him with her who
“loved much” and therefore, her sins forgiven, may enter in before many.
The painter gave her the earthly features of the Vel ata, in whose portrait at
Florence he had just made avowal of the bliss conferred on his soul by a simple
248