Rome
Final Years
The years which extend from the invasion of Charles VIII in 1494 to the death of Leo X in 1521 are those which witnessed all the great achievements of Raphael, and they are perhaps the most troubled and sombre years in the whole history of Italy. They were filled with follies, treasons, murders, crimes of every sort. Now we are horrified by the excesses of some pitiless conqueror, and again by the hideous machinations of cruel and cold-blooded diplomacy. The public conscience was blotted out; all notion of right disappeared. The virtuous Savonarola died at the stake, while a French king, Louis XII, the Father of his People, heaped honours upon the infamous Caesar Borgia. Italy was torn by her internal quarrels, as if the destruction worked by French, German, and Spanish invaders were not enough. The most solemn vows were broken; the Swiss guards sold their captain, Ludovico Sforza; the Popes loaded with fetters ambassadors to whom they themselves had given safe-conducts. Venality and corruption were everywhere carried to their last limits; and to complete the infamy, a writer of genius was found to erect government without principle into a system, to glorify the double triumph of brute force and organised deception.
And amid this general corruption the painter preserves an unbroken serenity; he believes in all that is good and beautiful, and compels his contemporaries to share his convictions. For them his works are a continual invitation to virtue. What a contrast this displays! On one side all the vices, on the other all the noble qualities which elevate humanity – justice, liberty, science. Raphael, worthy disciple of the Greeks, rises above the interests and passions of his day; subdues the tempest, and builds, upon the rock of which Lucretius tells us, that common dwelling which the floods cannot reach and in which humanity finds an eternal refuge.
At Santa Maria del Popolo an opportunity was made, in representing the Planets, for celebrating the chief deities of Olympus. Subjects taken from astronomy had never ceased to be held in honour ever since the last days of the Roman Empire. In the Middle Ages nearly every cathedral could show a plan of the zodiac, and at the epoch of the Renaissance those symbolical and hardly-pictorial figures were largely replaced by personifications of the sun, the moon, and the planets. A vast field was thus offered to the imagination of painters, and, at the same time, an excuse was given to them for representing those Olympian divinities who were every year growing in popularity.
If we may judge from the pictures executed after his death, according, probably, to the scheme elaborated by himself and Chigi, he chose the figure of God the Father to fill the apex of the dome; for its lower segments, the creation of the planets, below which were to come the chief episodes of Genesis up to the Fall of Man.
Raphael’s treatment of a theme which was, as we see, by no means new, was nevertheless quite independent of precedent. Mindful of the fact that his works were intended for the decoration of a church, he was especially careful to conciliate, so to speak, the pagan elements of his designs with the spirit of Christianity. The pages of Dante had suggested to him a combination which was as simple as it was beautiful. In his Convito, the poet describes angels as moving the moon, archangels the planet Mercury, and so on. Raphael has, therefore, placed one of those celestial messengers over each planet, and, at the apex of all, the majestic figure of Jehovah stretches His life-giving arms over the world. This arrangement, besides being perfectly consistent with the religious ideas of the time, had the additional advantage of enabling the painter to give a dramatic force and unity to his whole composition which earlier masters had never attempted. His angels play as important a part as the gods committed to their charge; he who accompanies Mars calmly arrests the blade which the fierce god of war raises as if to strike; the angel seated above the pagan Jove raises his arms and points with both hands to heaven as if to say, “It is up there, far above Olympus, that we must seek for the real King of kings”. The compartment which contains these two figures is happily placed immediately beneath the figure of Jehovah, whose proximity thus gives additional point to the gesture of the angel. Faithful to his love of rhythm, Raphael has placed on the opposite side of the circle an angel who, his eye fixed upon the Creator with a touching look of submission, rests with both hands upon the firmament and makes it blaze with stars, in obedience to the command which he has just received:
FIANT LVMINARIA IN FIRMAMENTO CŒLI
In dimensions, the picture known as The Vision of Ezekiel, is little more than a miniature; in style it is worthy of the grandest of its author’s frescoes. Seated on an eagle like an Olympian Jupiter, with inspired gaze, with bare breast, and hair streaming to the wind, Jehovah extends His arms to bless the world. Two angels accompany and support Him, as in the frescoes of the Sistine. The lion and the bull raise their eyes to their Creator, and contemplate Him with awe. The angel of St Matthew, with arms crossed on his breast, bows before Him. Below, at an immeasurable depth, the earth is seen. No words can express the grandeur of this group, which should have been transferred to mosaic for the shrine of some basilica of the primitive church.
Unfortunately, The Vision of Ezekiel leaves much to be desired from a technical point of view. It was either left unfinished, or was completed as we see it by Giulio Romano, whose hard and heavy colouring is, indeed, quite recognisable. But these defects do not weaken the merit of the original composition, which may certainly be reckoned among Raphael’s best.
St John the Baptist in the Desert, Raphael (?) and workshop, c. 1517-1518. Oil on canvas, 165 x 147 cm. Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence
The St John the Baptist in the Desert, painted for Cardinal Colonna, who subsequently presented it to his physician, Jacopo da Carpi, unites the fervour of youth to a beauty which may be compared with that of an antique god. The saint, covered by a panther’s skin, sits on a rock in the midst of a gloomy landscape; with the left hand he holds a banner bearing the inscription DEI: with the right he points to the rays which stream from his little cross of reed.
The original of this St John is in the Uffizi Gallery; it has been much injured. Certain imperfections in drawing and colouring justify the belief that Giulio Romano had a large share in its execution. There is an old replica or copy in the Louvre, which differs considerably from the original. The analogy between this St John and the statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo has been often noticed.
Portrait of Leo x with Cardinals Giulio de’ Medici and Luigi de’ Rossi, c. 1517. Oil on wood, 155.5 x 119.5 cm. Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence
Elegance, grace, and magnificence ought to go hand in hand with nobility, and in those qualities no one has equalled Leo. The universality of his knowledge and the refinement of his tastes made him rank as the first amateur of the 16th century. Fortunately, Raphael’s portrait shows him in this character. In the words of Passavant:
The Pope is seated in an arm chair at a table covered with red cloth, upon which are placed a richly-chased silver hand-bell and an illuminated breviary. He is holding a magnifying-glass, with which he appears to have been examining the miniatures in the book. Upon the left stands the Cardinal de’ Medici (afterwards Clement VII), and on the right is the Cardinal de’ Rossi, who rests his hands on the back of the arm-chair. The Pope wears a cap of red velvet, and beneath his red cape a garment of white damask with large sleeves trimmed with fur.
Who, remembering the works begun under Leo X, the Loggia and the Cartoons, does not feel some of their intellectually voluptuous influence? It is clear to all those who consider beauty as inseparable from austerity, that Leo X had carried the ideas of the Renaissance to their utmost limits.
The Pope’s cousin, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici, the future Clement VII, exercised great influence over Leo. The commission for The Transfiguration and the building of the Villa Madama ensures him the gratitude of posterity. He, alone of all the Medici, kept a just balance between the two rivals who at this time were disputing the crown of art: for without ceasing to admire Raphael he had the courage to appreciate Michelangelo. Among the many other relations and friends of Leo X we must also mention his nephew, Ludovico Rossi, whom Raphael, in this celebrated portrait in the Pitti, has painted standing at the Pope’s elbow.
In the St Cecilia, Raphael has personified ecstasy. In the St Margaret, painted somewhat later, probably for Marguerite of Valois, sister of Francis I, he shows us his heroine resplendent with glory; she is full of the joy of her triumph, and of eternal happiness. Holding a palm branch, her foot resting on the hideous dragon which covers the ground with his monstrous coils, the saint advances towards the spectator, pure, radiant, and transfigured. Though so near to evil and deformity, her thoughts are only of heavenly bliss. She is one of the most ethereal of Raphael’s creations.
According to Vasari, this picture was almost entirely painted by Giulio Romano, after drawings by his master. There are two examples of this St Margaret, one in the Louvre, the other in the Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, in Vienna (vol. 1, p. 234).
St Michael Overwhelming the Demon, or The Large St Michael, c. 1518. Oil on wood, transferred onto canvas, 268 x 160 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris
The St Michael Overwhelming the Demon of the Louvre (signed: RAPHAEL, VRBINAS. PINGEBAT.M.D.XVIII.) is the last in date of the series of compositions which so completely revolutionised the pictorial interpretation of religion. Leo X gave Raphael the commission for this picture, intending it for Francis I, the grand-master of the order of knighthood of which the Archangel was patron saint, and it was sent in 1518 to Lorenzo de’ Medici, Duke of Urbino, who was then on his way to Paris, and who appears to have himself presented it to the French monarch.
The picture differs little in essentials from that painted in 1504, for Guidobaldo of Urbino (see p. *). With bare head and arms, but wearing a rich breastplate, the Archangel has rushed down from heaven, and, placing one foot on Satan, is about to transfix him with his heavy lance (in the painting of 1504 he is armed with a sword only). Radiant with a divine beauty, he betrays more contempt than wrath towards his adversary, who, stretched on the ground, trembles with rage and pain. There is no trace of the fallen angel in the representation of the latter, as there was in the picture of 1504; the demon is drawn with a satyr’s face, hooked claws, and muscular form. The artist perhaps, had his task been to paint Satan alone, would have made him, like Milton, the most beautiful of the angels. That he was capable of such an idea he has shown in the Stanze and Loggia, where he has given the tempter most perfect features. But in St Michael Overwhelming the Demon, a violent contrast is absolutely required between the ugliness of the demon on the one hand, and the grace and pride of his vanquisher on the other.
The Holy Family, or The Pearl, 1519-1520. Oil on wood, 147.4 x 116 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid
The Holy Family in the Prado Museum, which by its beauty has well deserved its title of The Pearl, reminds us too in certain points of Raphael’s early period, when, overflowing with happy inspirations, he commemorated on the banks of the Arno the playfulness of the Child Jesus and of his young companion. Supported by his grandmother, St Anne, and by his mother, the ‘bambino’, ingenuous and smiling, extends his hands to reach the fruit brought him by the infant St John. His burst of joy recalls the most graceful of the Florentine idylls. But the Roman influence reasserts itself fully in the faces of St Anne and the Virgin. In spite of the affection they display towards each other (Mary has passed her arm round her mother’s neck) and for the Child, they are possessed by a gravity and an exaltation which would in vain be sought in the compositions of a previous period.
A rich landscape with ruins, behind the central figure of St Joseph, affords a framework for the animated group in the foreground. At the time Raphael was working on this picture, he seems to have allowed himself no rest in his attempts to emulate the achievements of the Flemish painters. In The Pearl, he has produced a splendid effect of dawn, which enraptured Vasari, and proves that Raphael, who placed his reputation as a technical painter above everything, would not allow any secret or any refinement of the colourist to escape him.
The Holy Family with St Elizabeth, the Infant St John, and Two Angels, . or The Holy Family of Francis I, 1518. Oil on wood, transferred onto canvas, 207 x 140 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris
In the picture at the Louvre which has been known for three centuries under the name of the Great Holy Family of Francis I, Mary is again represented rather as a mother than as the Queen of Heaven. In this masterly work, so full both of power and emotion, we admire in turn the tenderness of the young mother holding out her arms to her Son, who springs towards her beaming with happiness, the dignity of St Joseph, and the grace of the angel who scatters flowers over the divine pair. Maternal love has not robbed Mary of that touching modesty with which Raphael formerly indued her. The young girl of Florence reappears after a long interval, so beautiful and pure that she seems rather the sister than the mother of the Child she caresses. The Child, too, is the same as in the pictures composed on the Arno. He forgets His divine mission to become the most loving of sons. Thus the sentiments which guided Raphael in the prime of his youth, during the fruitful period between 1504 and 1508, appear again, but in a more elevated form, in this Holy Family, the last, apparently, which he painted. Only to such privileged natures as his is it given to be so faithful to past memories, to look back after many changes upon no early errors, to recover in mature age the lost impressions of youth.
Raphael was now at the zenith of his glory. He had founded a powerful school; numberless students from every country accepted his advice as that of an oracle; sovereigns contended for the slightest productions of his brush. Yet even at a time when he might have been excused for hurrying over his work we find him faithful to the principles of accuracy which governed his youth. His studies for The Holy Family of Francis I are a proof of this. As of old, he chooses a living model and reproduces him or her with a scientific exactness and realism that is but rarely to be found in a champion of the ideal; he afterwards commences to refine and to ennoble: in a word, to compose his picture.
La Fornarina, 1520. Oil on wood, 87 x 63 cm. Palazzo Barberini, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, Rome
There seems very little reason to doubt that Raphael was the author of the famous portrait in the Barberini Gallery known as the ‘Fornarina’. In support of this opinion we may quote a letter, dated 1595, in which mention is made of a portrait by Raphael in the possession of the Countess Santa-Fiora in Rome, representing a nude female figure, half-length. A second letter, dated 1597, speaks of the same portrait as a “Venus.” And finally in 1618, Fabio Chigi, the future Pope Alexander VII, formulates the theory that the woman of the portrait was Raphael’s mistress. The comparatively recent date of this last hypothesis has caused its rejection by many modern critics, but we think that an argument in its support, which has hardly received the consideration it deserves, is supplied by the existence in the Villa Lante, on the Janiculum, of an old fresco, representing the Barberini portrait together with a portrait of Raphael, and significantly coupling the two with portraits of Titian and his mistress.
As for the work itself, in the face of the girl immortalised by Raphael, there is much regularity of feature, except in the nose, which lacks refinement: but we miss the grace and nobility which we find in all other female portraits by the artist. Her expression is dull and heavy. In this even M. A. Grayer agrees, for he says, “This portrait produces an impression very different from that usually experienced in looking at Raphael’s works. One is interested without being captivated, attracted without being greatly charmed. It is like an enigma. Raphael’s hand is seen in the picture but his mind is not there.” From a technical point of view the work is a masterpiece. Never perhaps has Raphael given such delicacy and subtlety to his carnations, never did he create a fuller life; we can see the blood circulate, we can feel the beating pulse.
The Transfiguration, 1516-1520. Tempera grassa on wood, 410 x 279 cm. Pinacoteca Vaticana, Musei Vaticani, Vatican City
In the last work of his life, the one which we may call his artistic testament, Raphael takes us back to the history of Christ. Raphael’s Transfiguration resembles none of those which preceded it, yet the artist availed himself of the most natural and legitimate means possible in giving a true life to the subject. He simply re-read the text of St Matthew’s Gospel.
But having gone beyond his predecessors in the accurate reading of the Scriptures, it was only natural that he should interpret them with increased freedom and power. Thus we find him, to his last hour, modifying tradition by his personal research.
Raphael has been reproached with representing two different subjects in the same painting, and consequently with having violated the unities. Nothing could be more baseless than such a charge. An examination of The Transfiguration proves that the two subjects are by no means distinct, all has been asserted. The gesture of the Apostle, who stands upright on the left side of the picture, would in itself suffice to establish the necessary unity of action: he points with his finger to the mountain, over which float the figures of Jesus, Moses, and Elias, and he tells the relatives of the possessed whence help for him must come. Seeing then that the two groups are thus sufficiently linked together, we cannot but applaud the striking contrast which Raphael has established, in which he opposes to each other the calm and splendour of the celestial regions and the feelings which are agitating the human crowd gathered at the foot of the mountain.
