In the right wing is a huge Hall (adorned with second-rate statues), with a grand ceiling by Pietro da Cortona (1596—1669), representing "Il Trionfo della Gloria," the Forge of Vulcan, Minerva annihilating the Titans, and other mythological subjects—much admired by Lanzi, and considered by Kugler to be the most important work of the artist. Four vast frescoes of the Fathers of the Church are preserved here, having been removed from the dome of St. Peter's, where they were replaced with mosaics by Urban VIII. Below are other frescoes by Pietro da Cortona, a portrait of Urban VIII., and some tapestries illustrative of the events of his reign and of his own intense self-esteem—thus the Virgin and Angels are represented bringing in the ornaments of the papacy at his coronation, &c. But the conceit of Pope Urban reaches its climax in a room at the top of the house, which exhibits a number of the Barberini bees (the family crest) flocking against the sun, and eclipsing it—to typify the splendour of the family. The Will of Pope Urban VIII. is a very curious document, providing against the extinction of the family in every apparent contingency; this, however, now seems likely to take place; the heir is a Sciarra. The pillars in front of the palace, and all the surrounding buildings, teem with the bees of the Barberini, which may also be seen on the Propaganda and many other great Roman edifices, and which are creeping up the robe of Urban VIII. in St. Peter's.
"The Barberini were the last papal nephews who aspired to independent principalities. Urban VIII., though he enriched them enormously, appears to have been but little satisfied with them. He used to complain that he had four relations who were fit for nothing, the first, Cardinal Francesco, was a saint, and worked no miracles: the second, Cardinal Antonio, was a monk, and had no patience: the third, Cardinal Antonio the younger, was an orator (i.e. an ambassador), and did not know how to speak: and the fourth was a general, who could not draw a sword."—Goethe, Romische Briefe.
On the right, on entering the palace, is the small Collection of Pictures (open when the custode chooses to be there), indifferently lodged for a building so magnificent. We may notice:—
2nd Room.—
34. Urban VIII.: Andrea Sacchi.
35. A Cardinal: Titian.
48. Madonna and Child, St. John, and St Jerome: Francia.
54. Madonna and Child: Sodoma.
58. Madonna and Child: Giovanni Bellini.
63. Daughter of Raphael Mengs: Mengs.
67. Portrait of himself: Masaccio.
74. Adam and Eve: Domenichino.
3rd Room.—
73. The "Schiava:" Palma Vecchio.
"The so-called Slave (a totally unmeaning name) is probably a mere school picture, of grand beauty, but with too clumsy a style of drapery, too cold an expression, and too brown a carnation for Titian—to whom it is attributed."—Kugler.
76. Castel Gandolfo: Claude Lorraine.
78. Portrait: Bronzino.
79. Christ among the Doctors—painted in five days, in 1506: Albert Durer.
81. "The mother of Beatrice Cenci"? Caravaggio.
82. The Fornarina (with the painter's name on the armlet): Raphael.
"The history of this person, to whom Raphael was attached even to his death, is obscure, nor are we very clear with regard to her likenesses. In the tribune at Florence there is a portrait, inscribed with the date 1512, of a very beautiful woman holding the fur trimming of her mantle with her right hand, which is said to represent her. The picture is decidedly by Raphael, but can hardly represent the Fornarina; at least it has no resemblance to this portrait, which has the name of Raphael on the armlet, and of the authenticity of which (particularly with respect to the subject) there can hardly be a doubt. In this the figure is seated, and is uncovered to the waist; she draws a light drapery around her; a shawl is twisted round her head. The execution is beautiful and delicate, although the lines are sufficiently defined; the forms are fine and not without beauty, but at the same time not free from an expression of coarseness and common life. The eyes are large, dark, and full of fire, and seem to speak of brighter days. There are repetitions of this picture, from the school of Raphael, in Roman galleries."—Kugler.
86. Death of Germanicus: Poussin.
88. Seaport: Claude Lorraine.
90. Holy Family: Andrea del Sarto.
93. Annunciation: Botticelli.
But the interest of this collection centres entirely around two portraits—that (81) of Lucrezia, the unhappy wife of Francesco Cenci, by Scipione Gaetani, and that (85) of Beatrice Cenci, by Guido Reni.
"The portrait of Beatrice Cenci is most interesting as a just representation of one of the loveliest specimens of the workmanship of nature. There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features; she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery, from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape, and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate; the eyebrows are distinct and arched; the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed, and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear; her eyes, which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping, and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there is a simplicity and dignity, which, united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow, is inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another; her nature simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and sufferer, are as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her impersonation on the scene of the world."—Shelley's Preface to the Cenci.
"The picture of Beatrice Cenci represents simply a female head; a very youthful, girlish, perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in white drapery, from beneath which strays a lock or two of what seems a rich, though hidden luxuriance of auburn hair. The eyes are large and brown, and meet those of the spectator, evidently with a strange, ineffectual effort to escape. There is a little redness about the eyes, very slightly indicated, so that you would question whether or no the girl had been weeping. The whole face is very quiet; there is no distortion or disturbance of any single feature; nor is it easy to see why the expression is not cheerful, or why a single touch of the artist's pencil should not brighten it into joyousness. But, in fact, it is the very saddest picture ever painted or conceived; it involves an unfathomable depth of sorrow, the sense of which comes to the observer by a sort of intuition. It is a sorrow that removes this beautiful girl out of the sphere of humanity, and sets her in a far-off region, the remoteness of which, while yet her face is so close before us,—makes us shiver as at a spectre. You feel all the time you look at Beatrice, as if she were trying to escape from your gaze. She knows that her sorrow is so strange and immense, that she ought to be solitary for ever both for the world's sake and her own; and this is the reason we feel such a distance between Beatrice and ourselves, even when our eyes meet hers. It is infinitely heart-breaking to meet her glance, and to know that nothing can be done to help or comfort her, neither does she ask help or comfort, knowing the hopelessness of her case better than we do. She is a fallen angel—fallen and yet sinless: and it is only this depth of sorrow with its weight and darkness, that keeps her down to earth, and brings her within our view even while it sets her beyond our reach."—Hawthorne, Transformation.