A placid and typical Perugino—­the Virgin and two saints—­comes next, and then a northern air sweeps in with Van Dyck’s Giovanni di Montfort, now darkening into gloom but very fine and commanding.  Titian’s second Venus is above, for which his daughter Lavinia acted as model (the Venus of the other version being possibly the Marchesa della Rovere), and under it is the only Luini in the Uffizi, unmistakably from the sweet hand and full of Leonardesque influence.  Beneath this is a rich and decorative work of the Veronese school, a portrait of Elisabetta Gonzaga, with another evening sky.  Then we go north again, to Duerer’s Adoration of the Magi, a picture full of pleasant detail—­a little mountain town here, a knight in difficulties with his horse there, two butterflies close to the Madonna—­and interesting also for the treatment of the main theme in Duerer’s masterly careful way; and then to Spain to Spagnoletto’s “S.  Jerome” in sombre chiaroscuro; then north again to a painfully real Christ crowned with thorns, by Lucas van Leyden, and the mousy, Reynoldsy, first wife of Peter Paul Rubens, while a Van Dyck portrait under a superb Domenichino and an “Adam and Eve” by Lucas Cranach complete the northern group.  And so we come to the two Correggios—­so accomplished and rich and untouching—­all delightful virtuosity without feeling.  The favourite is, of course, No. 1134, for its adorable Baby, whose natural charm atones for its theatrical Mother.

On the other side of the door is No. 1129, the perfect “Madonna del Cardellino” of Raphael, so called from the goldfinch that the little boys are caressing.  This, one is forced to consider one of the perfect pictures of the world, even though others may communicate more pleasure.  The landscape is so exquisite and the mild sweetness of the whole work so complete; and yet, although the technical mastery is almost thrilling, the “Madonna del Pozzo” by Andrea del Sarto’s friend Franciabigio, close by—­No. 1125—­arouses infinitely livelier feelings in the observer, so much movement and happiness has it.  Raphael is perfect but cold; Franciabigio is less perfect (although exceedingly accomplished) but warm with life.  The charm of this picture is as notable as the skill of Raphael’s:  it is wholly joyous, and the little Madonna really once lived.  Both are reproduced in this volume.

Raphael’s neighbouring youthful “John the Baptist” is almost a Giorgione for richness, but is as truly Raphael as the Sebastian del Piombo, once (like the Franciabigio also) called a Raphael, is not.  How it came to be considered Raphael, except that there may be a faint likeness to the Fornarina, is a mystery.

The rooms next the Tribuna have for some time been under reconstruction, and of these I say little, nor of what pictures are to be placed there.  But with the Tribuna, in any case, the collection suddenly declines, begins to crumble.  The first of these rooms, in the spring of this year, 1912, was opened with a number of small Italian paintings; but they are probably only temporarily there.  Chief among them was a Parmigianino, a Boltraffio, a pretty little Guido Reni, a Cosimo Tura, a Lorenzo Costa, but nothing really important.