"The Madonna di Foligno, however beautiful in the whole arrangement, however excellent in the execution of separate parts, appears to belong to a transition state of development. There is something of the ecstatic enthusiasm which has produced such peculiar conceptions and treatment of religious subjects in other artists—Correggio, for example—and which, so far from harmonizing with the unaffected serene grace of Raphael, has in this instance led to some serious defects. This remark is particularly applicable to the figures of St. John and St. Francis: the former looks out of the picture with a fantastic action, and the drawing of his arm is even considerably mannered. St. Francis has an expression of fanatical ecstasy, and his countenance is strikingly weak in the painting (composed of reddish, yellowish, and grey tones, which cannot be wholly ascribed to their restorer). Again, St. Jerome looks up with a sort of fretful expression, in which it is difficult to recognise, as some do, a mournful resignation; there is also an exaggerated style of drawing in the eyes, which sometimes gives a sharpness to the expression of Raphael's figures, and appears very marked in some of his other pictures. Lastly, the Madonna and the Child, who turn to the donor, are in attitudes which, however graceful, are not perhaps sufficiently tranquil for the majesty of the queen of heaven. The expression of the Madonna's countenance is extremely sweet, but with more of the character of a mere woman than of a glorified being. The figure of the donor, on the other hand, is excellent, with an expression of sincerity and truth; the angel with the tablet is of unspeakable intensity and exquisite beauty—one of the most marvellous figures that Raphael has created."—Kugler.
"In the upper part of the composition sits the Virgin in heavenly glory; by her side is the Infant Christ, partly sustained by his mother's veil, which is drawn round his body: both look down benignly on the votary, Sigismund Conti, who, kneeling below, gazes up with an expression of the most intense gratitude and devotion. It is a portrait from the life, and certainly one of the finest and most life-like that exist in painting. Behind him stands St. Jerome, who, placing his hand upon the head of the votary, seems to present him to his celestial protectress. On the other side, John the Baptist, the meagre wild-looking prophet of the desert, points upward to the Redeemer. More in front kneels St. Francis, who, while he looks up to heaven with trusting and imploring love, extends his right hand towards the worshippers supposed to be assembled in the church, recommending them also to the protecting grace of the Virgin. In the centre of the picture, dividing these two groups, stands a lovely angel-boy, holding in his hand a tablet, one of the most charming figures of this kind Raphael ever painted; the head, looking up, has that sublime, yet perfectly childish grace, which strikes one in those awful angel-boys in the 'Madonna di San Sisto.' The background is a landscape, in which appears the city of Foligno at a distance; it is overshadowed by a storm-cloud, and a meteor is seen falling; but above these bends a rainbow, pledge of peace and safety. The whole picture glows throughout with life and beauty, hallowed by that profound religious sentiment which suggested the offering, and which the sympathetic artist seems to have caught from the grateful donor. It was dedicated in the church of the Ara Cœli at Rome, which belongs to the Franciscans, hence St. Francis is one of the principal figures. When I was asked, at Rome, why St. Jerome had been introduced into the picture, I thought it might be thus accounted for:—The patron saint of the donor, St. Sigismund, was a king and warrior, and Conti might possibly think it did not accord with his profession, as a humble ecclesiastic, to introduce him here. The most celebrated convent of the Jeronymites in Italy is that of St. Sigismund, near Cremona, placed under the special protection of St. Jerome, who is also in a general sense the patron of all ecclesiastics; hence, perhaps, he figures here as the protector of Sigismund Conti."—Jameson's Legends of the Madonna, p. 103.
Wall of Egress.—"The Transfiguration:" Raphael. The grandest picture in the world. It was originally painted by order of Cardinal Giulio de' Medici (afterwards Clement VII.) Archbishop of Narbonne, for that provincial cathedral. But it was scarcely finished when Raphael died, and it hung over his death-bed as he lay in state, and was carried in his funeral procession.
"And when all beheld
Him where he lay, how changed from yesterday—
Him in that hour cut off, and at his head
His last great work; when, entering in, they look'd,
Now on the dead, then on that masterpiece—
Now on his face, lifeless and colourless,
Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed,
And would live on for ages—all were moved,
And sighs burst forth and loudest lamentations."
Rogers.
The three following quotations may perhaps represent the practical, æsthetical, and spiritual aspects of the picture.
"It is somewhat strange to see the whole picture of the Transfiguration—including the three apostles, prostrate on the mount, shading their dazzled senses from the insufferable brightness—occupying only a small part of the top of the canvas, and the principal field filled with a totally distinct and certainly unequalled picture—that of the demoniac boy, whom our Saviour cured on coming down from the mount, after his transfiguration. This was done in compliance with the orders of the monks of S. Pietro in Montorio, for which church it was painted. It was the universal custom of the age—the yet unbanished taste of Gothic days—to have two pictures, a celestial and a terrestrial one, wholly unconnected with each other; accordingly, we see few, even of the finest paintings, in which there is not a heavenly subject above and an earthly below—for the great masters of that day, like our own Shakspeare, were compelled to suit their works to the taste of their employers."—Eaton's Rome.
"It must ever be matter of wonder that any one can have doubted of the grand unity of such a conception as this. In the absence of the Lord, the disconsolate parents bring a possessed boy to the disciples of the Holy One. They seem to have been making attempts to cast out the Evil Spirit; one has opened a book, to see whether by chance any spell were contained in it which might be successful against this plague, but in vain. At this moment appears He who alone has the power, and appears transfigured in glory. They remember His former mighty deeds; they instantly point aloft to the vision as the only source of healing. How can the upper and lower parts be separated? Both are one; beneath is Suffering craving for Aid; above is active Power and helpful Grace. Both refer to one another; both work in one another. Those who, in our dispute over the picture, thought with me, confirmed their view by this consideration: Raffaelle, they said, was ever distinguished by the exquisite propriety of his conceptions. And is it likely that this painter, thus gifted by God, and everywhere recognisable by the excellence of this His gift, would in the full ripeness of his powers have thought and painted wrongly? Not so; he is, as nature is, ever right, and then most deeply and truly right when we least suspect it."—Goethe's Werke, iii. p. 33.
"In looking at the Transfiguration we must bear in mind that it is not an historical but a devotional picture,—that the intention of the painter was not to represent a scene, but to excite religious feelings by expressing, so far as painting might do it, a very sublime idea.
"If we remove to a certain distance from the picture, so that the forms shall become vague, indistinct, and only the masses of colour and the light and shade perfectly distinguishable, we shall see that the picture is indeed divided as if horizontally, the upper half being all light, and the lower half comparatively all dark. As we approach nearer, step by step, we behold above, the radiant figure of the Saviour floating in mid-air, with arms outspread, garments of transparent light, glorified visage upturned as if in rapture, and the hair lifted and scattered as I have seen it in persons under the influence of electricity. On the right, Moses; on the left, Elijah; representing respectively the old Law and the old Prophecies, which both testified of Him. The three disciples lie on the ground, terror-struck, dazzled. There is a sort of eminence or platform, but no perspective, no attempt at real locality, for the scene is revealed as in a vision, and the same soft transparent light envelopes the whole. This is the spiritual life, raised far above the earth, but not yet in heaven. Below is seen the earthly light, poor humanity struggling helplessly with pain, infirmity, and death. The father brings his son, the possessed, or as we should now say, the epileptic boy, who oftentimes falls into the water, or into the fire, or lies grovelling on the earth, foaming and gnashing his teeth; the boy struggles in his arms,—the rolling eyes, the distorted features, the spasmodic limbs, are at once terrible and pitiful to look on.
"Such is the profound, the heart-moving significance of this wonderful picture. It is, in truth, a fearful approximation of the most opposite things; the mournful helplessness, suffering, and degradation of human nature, the unavailing pity, are placed in immediate contrast with spiritual light, life, hope,—nay, the very fruition of heavenly rapture.