222 ARTISTS AND AUTHORS follow his manner ; but at length he began to dwell upon his own beau ideal ; he grew impatient of imitation, and felt that his style was deficient in freshness and originality. He longed to pass the narrow bounds to which his invention hac* been confined. With the approbation of Perugino and the consent of his parents, he repaired to Siena ; here he was solicited to adorn the public library with fresco, and painted there with great success. But while he was busily engaged, his friend, Pinturrichio, one day entered. After looking at his friend's work very atten- tively, " Bravo ! " he exclaimed, " thou hast done well, my Raphael — but I have just returned from Florence — oh, would that thou couldst behold the works of Leonardo da Vinci ! Such horses ! they paw the ground and shake the foam from their manes. Oh, my poor Raphael ! thou hast never seen nature ; thou art wasting time on these cartoons. Perugino is a good man and a good painter, I will not deny that — but Leonardo's horses ! " Raphael threw aside his pencil and hastily rose. " Where now ? " asked his friend ; " whither art thou going so hastily ? " " To Florence," exclaimed Raphael. " And what carries you so suddenly ? " "The horses of Leonardo," replied the young artist, sportively; "seriously, however, the desire of excellence implanted in my soul." When he arrived at Florence he was charmed with the appearance of the city ; but his whole mind was absorbed in the works of Leonardo da Vinci and of Michael Angelo, the rival artists of the age. As his stay was to be short, he did not enter upon laborious occupation. His mornings were passed in the rev- eries of his art ; his evenings in the gay and fascinating society of Florence, where the fame of Perugino's beloved pupil had already reached. The frescos at Siena were spoken of ; and the beautiful countenance and graceful deportment of Raphael won him the friendship of distinguished men. Taddeo Taddei, the learned friend of Cardinal Bembo, solicited him to reside in his house ; he con- sented, and in return for the courtesy painted for him two pictures, in what is called his first style, that of Perugino. One evening he retired to his couch at a late hour. He had been the hero ot a fete, and love and beauty had heedlessly scattered their flowers in the path of the living Adonis. In vain he sought a few hours of slumber. He had quaffed the juice of the grape, emptying goblet after goblet, till his beating pulse and throbbing temples refused to be quieted. He started from his couch and ap- proached the lattice ; the heavens had changed their aspect, the still serenity of the evening had passed away, and the clouds were hurrying over the pale and watery moon. Nothing was heard but the low sighing of the wind, and now and then a sudden gust swept through the lattice, and threatened to extinguish the taper which was burning dimly on the table. A slight noise made him turn his eyes, and he perceived a note that the wind had displaced. He hastily took it up. It was Perugino's handwriting. He cut the silken cord that fastened it, and read :
