This display of memory bewildered me. Seeming satisfied with my reaction, the Master continued.
“I see—you don’t know anything! Well then, let me explain why I say that this portrait of Leo X was intended to be prophetic. Just two years before Sauli tried to poison the pope, another notable painter, Sebastiano del Piombo, depicted the same would-be assassin in a painting that is very similar to Raphael’s. It was painted in 1516, and in this version, Sauli is shown sitting in a very regal pose next to another illuminated Bible and another small bell. And just as in his intended victim’s portrait, several of his close advisers surround him. Obviously, the cardinal was preparing to become pope,5 and this portrait was part of his public relations campaign.”
“So why wouldn’t Sauli go to Raphael to have his portrait done, if he was the most valued painter of the time?” I asked.
“Well, my boy, that’s an excellent question. It’s possible that he did. The one painting in the world that can clear up that question is right here, in the Prado. It’s called Portrait of a Cardinal. It’s one of Raphael’s undisputed masterpieces, perhaps one of the most important paintings in this museum. With extraordinary realism and in exquisite detail, it depicts a cardinal with a severe look who, amazing as this may sound, has never been identified, even by experts. And it’s not the only great portrait in the Prado with an unidentified subject. For example, there is El Greco’s Nobleman with His Hand on His Chest. While most people agree that it could be a portrait of Cervantes,6 we don’t actually know who it is for certain.”
“Those are big-time art mysteries!” I was impressed.
Sebastiano del Piombo, Cardinal Bandinello Sauli, His Secretary, and Two Geographers (1516). The National Gallery of Art (Samuel H. Kress Collection), Washington, DC.
“Absolutely. A portrait without a name is like a flower without its scent; it lacks something vital. That’s why when scholars get their hands on an enigmatic subject like this, they go into a frenzy coming up with suggestions. For this cardinal alone, they have proposed an endless list of names: Innocenzo Cybo, Francesco Alidosi, Scaramuccia Trivulzio, Alessandro Farnese, Ippolito d’Este, Silvio Passerini, Luis de Aragón . . . But I think mine is the best bet.” He gave a mischievous smile. “If you compare this anonymous cardinal from the Prado with the portrait of Sauli that Sebastiano del Piombo painted in 1516, you can see right away that the two paintings are of the same person. It’s quite obvious. Both have the cleft chin, the same thin mouth, similarly shaped heads—like an inverted triangle. There’s very little doubt—our unidentified cardinal is the spitting image of Leo X’s failed assassin. Don’t you agree that my candidate could solve one of this museum’s small mysteries once and for all?”
“Perhaps . . .” I replied, but I was stuck on another point. “But wait—when was that portrait painted? Was it also around 1518?”
“Well,” he cleared his throat. “Here we have another very interesting clue. It’s quite likely that this anonymous portrait that the Prado houses was painted by Raphael between 1510 and 1511—a good five years before Sauli was positioning himself to be the new reforming pope. It’s odd that Raphael’s portrait would be so influenced by the Mona Lisa, which Leonardo was working on in his studio at about the same time. In fact, when you compare the two paintings, you see that the cardinal has been painted in the same pose and with the same bearing as the Gioconda. However—and this is the important thing—Raphael did not include a particular feature in his painting that would mark it as one of his prophetic works. That’s why Sauli had to go in search of del Piombo to get himself a prophetic portrait.”
“What kind of feature do you mean?”
“The little bells, young man,” he replied. “Placed like that, next to the Bibles as in Raphael and Del Piombo’s later paintings, they are clear visual symbols. They signal that the subjects of both of these paintings have been foretold by sacred texts.”
“Would they really put a symbol like that out in the open?” I asked.
Raphael, Portrait of a Cardinal (1510–1511). The Prado Museum, Madrid.
“Undoubtedly they had their reasons,” he said. “Back in 1516, while Sauli was posing for del Piombo as God’s envoy, a series of prophecies were finally being published in Venice after centuries of being very effectively suppressed. They were written by a Cistercian monk from Calabria, Joachim of Fiore, and they spoke of a new spiritual era in the world, to be led by a man who would bring together both spiritual and political power under his reign. Joachim had died back in 1202 without seeing his vision realized. However, his writings inspired another prophecy which was all over Rome in 1516, and both Sauli and Leo X believed in it completely. Have you ever heard of the Apocalipsis Nova—The New Apocalypse?”
I shook my head but said nothing, afraid of seeming like a complete idiot again.
“Don’t be embarrassed. Sadly, hardly anyone remembers that book today, not even art historians.” Another flash of mischief crossed his face. “Because it was never published. But let me tell you—it is also critical for understanding Raphael and his painting.”
“And what did this New Apocalypse foretell?” I asked him.
“Among other things, it announced the imminent arrival of a ‘pastor angelicus,’ a pope blessed by the Holy Spirit who would ally himself with the emperor to impose peace among Christians and prevent the further advance of Islam.”
In a grave voice, he intoned, “Surget rex magnus cum magno pastore,” and for some reason I shivered in spite of myself. “According to this manuscript, this was all supposed to take place at the very beginning of the sixteenth century. Imagine the scene! Half the cardinals in Rome aspired to be that super-pope, not only Sauli. Leo X had every reason not to trust anyone.”
“I’m surprised that a pope, who’s supposed to be the guardian of Roman Catholic orthodoxy, would let a prophecy have that much authority.”
“Let’s just say that it had exactly the authority it deserved—no less than the Archangel Gabriel!”
“Wait, Doctor, I—I don’t understand . . .” Fovel’s statement had been so surprising that it had made me stammer.
He went on. “Absolutely everyone then—from the pope to a prostitute—believed that The New Apocalypse came directly from the mouth of the Archangel Gabriel, ‘the Messenger.’ ” Here Fovel smiled. “Which is what its real author—Amadeo of Portugal—claimed, and thus everyone believed.”
“I’ve never heard of Amadeo of Portugal.”
“Which is not a surprise, my boy,” said Fovel, falling short of actually scolding me. “What I’m revealing here is the inside history of this art, and one of Raphael’s most important sources of inspiration. Shall I go on?”
“Yes. Please.” I said.
“Amadeo was a Franciscan monk who was close to the true circles of power in the Vatican. He had risen to become no less than personal secretary and confessor to Pope Sixtus IV. By the time Raphael came to paint Leo X’s portrait, poor Amadeo had been dead for over forty years, but his name and work were more famous than ever. Starting in 1502, handwritten copies of his book were being made and distributed everywhere. Obviously, they had to be kept secret. Only a select few could read them. A few copies found their way to Madrid. One of the oldest copies in existence has been kept in the El Escorial monastery since the reign of Philip II.”
Dying of curiosity, I asked, “What was in the book, Doctor?”
His forehead creased like the bellows of an old accordion and his pale eyes became suddenly moist, almost hesitant.
“Well, now, my boy. It seems that the Archangel Gabriel had actually appeared to Amadeo, and over the course of eight lengthy trances, or raptures, Gabriel revealed how God had created the angels, the world, and man.”
Fovel remained quiet for a moment before continuing. “The book was a summa, a Book of Everything, do you understand? The Archangel Gabriel told the friar all about predestination, the names of the seven archangels who guard the entrance to paradise, even the Fr
anciscan idea of the immaculate conception of the Virgin, which was not then accepted by the Church. But most of all, during the fourth visitation, Gabriel told of the arrival of a pastor angelicus—a divine shepherd, who would appear to save the world from the errant path it was on. Decades later, when Raphael came to paint Leo’s portrait, the pope knew all about the text and was anxious to present himself as the Pastor Angelicus of the prophecy.”
My head was swimming. “So you’re saying that Leo believed in Amadeo’s prophecy because it suited him to.”
“And had himself painted by Raphael, making sure that the portrait gave a nod to the book.” He turned to face me. “Sometime when you have a chance find yourself a good reproduction of this portrait, and take a close look at that great tome that the pope has in front of him on the table. The Bible is open to the Gospel According to Luke—the same passages that inspired this painting of the Holy Family,” he said, indicating The Pearl. “You can tell from the miniatures reproduced in the text.7 The interesting thing here is that the pope is shown lifting a page with his hand, thereby creating a space. Now, both Sauli and the pope believed that The New Apocalypse was the inspired continuation of the Gospel of Luke. That’s why the painting has the pope revealing the space after the Book of Luke—that space is for the new Gospel. Presumably the one that predicts that he will become the long-awaited Pastor Angelicus.”
“Do you mean that that same text is the mysterious source for The Pearl?”
“Precisely!” he confirmed. In his excitement, he cut off my exclamation. “In fact, Amadeo’s book reveals many things that are omitted in the Gospels. It gives new details of the young Jesus’s encounter with the doctors in the temple and tells the story of the Good Thief’s origins.
“One of the things that Gabriel’s revelations told of in particular was the relationship that Jesus and John the Baptist had had since their infancy. But this was not all that significant to the Vatican when compared with a prophecy predicting the coming of a pope who would unify spiritual and earthly power. However, to certain painters who read this it was. And one of them,” he finished triumphantly, “was Raphael.”
“One?” My curiosity was growing.
“Yes,” he replied. “The other was Leonardo da Vinci. Finding that text and painting its lessons almost cost him his career!”
2
* * *
DECIPHERING RAPHAEL
Suddenly, Doctor Fovel broke off our conversations. At first I couldn’t tell why. Without warning, my talkative new companion had gone rigid, like one of the nearby bronze statues by Pompeo Leoni. I had the impression that something he had seen or heard had put him on guard, and sure enough, when a group of silent visitors appeared at the other end of the gallery, he paled.
There weren’t very many of them, perhaps seven or eight well-behaved tourists led by a rather waiflike guide who forged a path for the group with her rolled-up umbrella. Neither her manner nor her wardrobe in any way suggested a threat—in fact, she was kind enough to wait for one man who trailed the rest of the group, dragging his left leg with some effort, as if it had lost all feeling, and giving it the occasional tug with his hands.
As innocent as this all appeared, I could sense Fovel’s fear, and though I didn’t share it, my body reacted, and for the second time that day I trembled.
“Be here on Tuesday, and I will tell you the rest,” said Fovel in a low voice, avoiding looking at the group of intruders. “And spend some time with Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks before you come.”
“Is it here?” I asked him.
He gave me a stern look. “No, it’s in the Louvre. There are no Leonardos in the Prado. Or so they say,” he added, ominously.
“How will I find you?” I asked him.
“Look for me in this gallery. I’m always here,” he said. “And if for some reason you don’t see me, try Gallery 13—it’s my favorite.”
And then, just like that, without another word or even a good-bye, he disappeared into the next gallery, leaving me with my mouth open, preparing to reply.
It was very strange. I was confused by what he’d said. He talked more or less as if he owned the museum, but his reaction to the appearance of a mere bunch of tourists contradicted that entirely.
I was late to Sunday dinner in my residence hall. I had left the Prado around eight in the evening, still affected by my encounter, and walked toward the Banco de España Metro stop, letting a brief downpour help to bring me back to reality. Guided by the captivating Christmas lights, I strolled up the Paseo del Prado, soaked to the skin, avoiding the puddles and trying to find shelter from the rain under the building façades of the Army Museum and the Central Post Office.
The walk did me a world of good, so much so that I didn’t question the cold chicken and baguette that I got in the dining hall. On the contrary, I was grateful. I had no desire to sit and have dinner with my fellow students, but I was starving. Without thinking, I improvised a sandwich out of my dinner offerings and took it up to my room to devour. By the time I peeled off my sodden coat, took a shower, put on comfortable clothes, and ate it was getting late for a trip to the library. But luckily for me it was exam time, and they stayed open around the clock, so I made my way there.
Raphael, Pope Leo X with Cardinals Giulio de’ Medici and Luigi de’ Rossi (1518). Uffizi Gallery, Florence.
After a quick scan of the shelves, I assembled an impressive collection of art books on a table. Before I finally retired for the night I wanted to see with my own eyes if the things that my new teacher had told me had any significance, however small.
It took me no more than five minutes to hunt down Raphael’s portrait of Leo X. Fovel’s comments didn’t do the painting justice; it was a wonder. The figures radiated tension and expectation. You could almost hear them muttering. The reproduction took up almost the whole page of the encyclopedia I had open in front of me, and just as the Master had said there was the pope revealing the symbolic space in the pages of a large Bible.
“The New Apocalypse sign!” I muttered, as if it was something I’d just discovered myself.
Excited now, I went through the indexes of each of the textbooks I’d collected. Frustratingly, after almost an hour of looking I had not hit upon a single reference to Amadeo of Portugal or his book. My rather tentative new discovery seemed to be dissolving in front of me like a specter.
“Just like Doctor Luis Fovel,” I muttered grimly, but immediately banished the thought. I decided to continue my search taking a different approach. Before I knew it, it was two in the morning. I sat there surrounded by enormous art books containing reproductions of paintings by Raphael, Sebastiano del Piombo, and Leonardo, and by various books on medieval history. In just a few hours, I had amassed more questions than answers, but I had at least learned a few interesting facts about the man who had painted the portrait of Leo X at the same time as the Prado’s The Pearl . I was impressed by the fact that all the historians without exception lauded the young Raphael’s gift for painting. Some suggested that he had inherited the gift from his father, Giovanni Santi, a poet and painter of altarpieces from the Umbria region, who passed on his various skills as early as he could.
Thanks to his father, Raphael was able to apprentice himself at a young age to Perugino, who paved the way for the young prodigy to go to Florence, the mecca for painters at the time. There, as an adolescent, Raphael became immersed in the great cultural and philosophical revolution that had been set in motion by Leo X’s predecessor, Cosimo de’ Medici. In his new city, he met his rivals, Michelangelo and Leonardo, and soon he was on the front lines of the artistic revolution that was blooming in the heart of the city. It was during this period that he started to paint various versions of the Holy Family, scenes that would later make him famous.
His Madonnas are among the loveliest ever painted—female figures that are young, delicate, fine featured—and very beautiful. They radiate lightness as well as sensuality. But against all church logic, Raphae
l insisted on depicting Mary almost always in the company of two babies.
I read one of the descriptions: “St. John and the baby Jesus are not shown here the way early artists depicted them—as pious idols, sheathed in their holiness. These are real children—happy and mischievous—and yet one can tell that something mysterious and transcendent passes between them.”1
I took that description as a good sign, a clue that seemed to confirm what Fovel had been telling me hours before in the Prado—that in creating his masterworks, Raphael used information from mysterious sources. Was this an example of one of those mysteries—to show St. John and the baby Jesus as twins? I didn’t think anything of it, though at the time, I had no idea of the oceans of ink that had been devoted to arguments over whether or not Jesus had had a twin brother.
As I saw it—with my rather rudimentary knowledge of biblical history—since both children had been conceived through the Holy Spirit by way of the same archangel, it made sense to me that there would be painters who would want to show them as brothers in their paintings. Or was there another reason? As if that weren’t enough, Luke himself mentions that the mothers are cousins (syggenís), and, while the Gospel does not make clear how closely related they might be, in the Middle Ages it was generally understood that they were first cousins. If that were true, that would make John and Jesus second cousins, which could explain their physical likeness.
That same night I looked for a good reproduction of the Virgin of the Rocks, as Fovel had instructed, and I got another surprise—there was not one but at least two Virgin of the Rocks by Leonardo. He had painted the older one of these in 1483, having just arrived in Milan, to decorate the altar of the chapel at San Francesco Grande.
The Master of the Prado Page 3