‘The delivery of the keys to Peter’ and ‘the Charge to Peter,’ (Feed my
sheep,) either in separate pictures or combined into one subject, have
been of course favourite themes in a Church which founds its authority
on these particular circumstances. The bas-relief over the principal
door of St. Peter’s at Rome represents the two themes in one: Christ
delivers the keys to Peter, and the sheep are standing by. In the
panels of the bronze doors beneath (A.D. 1431), we have the chain of
thought and incident continued; Peter delivers the emblematical keys to
Pope Eugenius IV.
It is curious that, while the repentance of Peter is a frequent subject
on the sarcophagi of the fourth century, the delivery of the keys to
Peter occurs but once. Christ, as a beardless youth, presents to Peter
two keys laid crosswise one over the other. Peter, in whose head the
traditional type is most distinctly marked, has thrown his pallium
over his outstretched hands, for, according to the antique ceremonial,
of which the early sculpture and mosaics afford us so many examples,
things consecrated could only be touched with covered hands. This
singular example is engraved in Bottari.[173] An example of beautiful
and solemn treatment in painting is Perugino’s fresco in the Sistine
Chapel. It contains twenty-one figures; the conception is quite ideal,
the composition regular even to formality, yet striking and dramatic.
In the centre, Peter, kneeling on one knee, receives the keys from the
hand of the Saviour; the apostles and disciples are arranged on each
side behind Christ and St. Peter; in the background is the rebuilding
of the Temple;—a double allegory: ‘Destroy this temple, I will build it
up in three days:’ and also, perhaps, alluding to the building of the
chapel by Sixtus IV.
In Raphael’s cartoon[174] the scene is an open plain: Christ stands
on the right; in front, St. Peter kneels, with the keys in his hand;
Christ extends one hand to Peter, and with the other points to a
flock of sheep in the background. The introduction of the sheep into
this subject has been criticised as at once too literal and too
allegorical,—a too literal transcript of the words, a too allegorical
version of the meaning; but I do not see how the words of our Saviour
could have been otherwise rendered in painting, which must speak to us
through sensible objects. The other apostles standing behind Peter show
in each countenance the different manner in which they are affected by
the words of the Saviour.
By Gian Bellini: a beautiful picture:[175] St. Peter kneeling,
half-length, receives the keys from Jesus Christ, seated on a throne.
Behind St. Peter stand the three Christian Graces, Faith, Hope, and
Charity. Poussin has taken this subject in his series of the Seven
Sacraments[176], to represent the sacrament of Ordination. In this
instance again, the two themes are united; and we must also remember,
that the allegorical representation of the disciples and followers of
Christ as sheep looking up to be fed, is consecrated by the practice of
the earliest schools of Christian Art. Rubens has rendered the subject
very simply, in a picture containing only the two figures, Christ and
St. Peter;[177] and again with five figures, less good.[178] Numerous
other examples might be given; but the subject is one that, however
treated, cannot be easily mistaken.
A very ideal version of this subject is where St. Peter kneels at the
feet of the Madonna, and the Infant Christ, bending from her lap,
presents the keys to him; as in a singularly fine and large composition
by Crivelli,[179] and in another by Andrea Salaino. Another, very
beautiful and curious, is in the possession of Mr. Bromley of
Wootten.[180]
* * * * *
After the ascension of our Saviour, the personal history of St. Peter
is mingled first with that of St. John, and afterwards with that of St.
Paul.
‘Peter and John healing the lame man at the gate called Beautiful’ is
the subject of one of the finest of the cartoons at Hampton Court.
Perin del Vaga, Niccolò Poussin, and others less renowned, have also
treated it; it is susceptible of much contrast and dramatic effect.
‘The sick are brought out and placed in the shadow of Peter and John
that they may be healed,’ by Masaccio.[181]
‘Peter preaching to the early converts:’ the two most beautiful
compositions I have seen, are the simple group of Masaccio; and another
by Le Sueur, full of variety and sentiment.
‘Peter and John communicate the Holy Ghost by laying their hands on the
disciples,’ by Vasari.[182] I do not well remember this picture.
The Vision of Peter: three angels sustain the curtain or sheet which
contains the various forbidden animals, as pigs, rabbits, &c. (as in a
print after Guercino).
‘Peter baptizes the Centurion’ (very appropriately placed in the
baptistery of the Vatican). St. Peter meets the Centurion; he blesses
the family of the Centurion. All commonplace versions of very
interesting and picturesque subjects.
‘The Death of Ananias.’ Raphael’s cartoon of this awful scene is a
masterpiece of dramatic and scenic power; never was a story more
admirably and completely told in painting. Those who had to deal with
the same subject, as if to avoid a too close comparison with his
unapproachable excellence, have chosen the death of Sapphira as the
_motif_: as, for example, Niccolò Poussin.[183]
‘Dorcas or Tabitha restored to life.’ One of the finest and most
effective of Guercino’s pictures, now in the Palazzo Pitti: the simple
dignity of the apostle, and the look of sick amazement in the face of
the woman restored to consciousness, show how strong Guercino could be
when he had to deal with natural emotions of no elevated kind. The same
subject, by Costanzi, is among the great mosaics in St. Peter’s. ‘The
Death of Dorcas,’ by Le Sueur, is a beautiful composition. She lies
extended on a couch; St. Peter and two other apostles approach the foot
of it: the poor widows, weeping, show to St. Peter the garments which
Dorcas had made for them (Acts ix. 39).
* * * * *
The imprisonment of Peter, and his deliverance by the Angel, were
incidents so important, and offer such obvious points of dramatic
effect, that they have been treated in every possible variety of style
and sentiment, from the simple formality of the early mosaics, where
the two figures—Peter sitting on a stool, leaning his head on his hand,
and the Angel at his side—express the story like a vision,[184] down to
the scenic and architectural compositions of Steenwick, where, amid a
vast perspective of gloomy vaults and pillars, a diminutive St. Peter,
with an Angel or a sentinel placed somewhere in the foreground, just
serves to give the picture a name.[185]
Some examples of this subject are of great celebrity.
Masaccio, in the frescoes of the Brancacci Chapel, has represented
Peter in prison, looking through his grated window, and Paul outside
communing with him. (The noble figure of St. Paul in this fresco was
imitated by Raphael in the ‘St. Paul preaching at Athens.’) In the next
compartment of the series, Masaccio has given us the Angel leading
forth Peter, while the guard sleeps at the door: he sleeps as one
oppressed with an unnatural sleep. Raphael’s fresco in the Vatican is
not one of his best, but he has seized on the obvious point of effect,
both as to light and grouping; and we have three separate moments of
the same incident, which yet combine most happily into one grand scene.
Thus in the centre, over the window, we see through a grating the
interior of the prison, where St. Peter is sleeping between two guards,
who, leaning on their weapons, are sunk in a deep charmed slumber;[186]
an angel, whose celestial radiance fills the dungeon with a flood
of light, is in the act of waking the apostle: on the right of the
spectator, the angel leads the apostle out of the prison; two guards
are sleeping on the steps: on the left, the soldiers are roused from
sleep, and one with a lighted torch appears to be giving the alarm; the
crescent moon faintly illumines the background.
The deliverance of St. Peter has always been considered as figurative
of the deliverance of the Church; and the two other frescoes of this
room, the Heliodorus and the Attila, bear the same interpretation. It
is worth while to compare this dramatic composition of Raphael with
others wherein the story is merely a vehicle for artificial effects
of light, as in a picture by Gerard Honthorst; or treated like a
supernatural vision, as by that poet, Rembrandt.
Those historical subjects in which St. Peter and St. Paul figure
together will be noticed in the life of St. Paul.
I come now to the legendary stories connected with St. Peter; an
inexhaustible source of popular and pictorial interest.
Peter was at Jerusalem as late as A.D. 52; then at Antioch; also in
Babylon: according to the most ancient testimonies he was at Rome
about A.D. 63; but the tradition, that he resided as bishop in the
city of Rome for twenty-five years, first related by Jerome, seems
questionable.[187] Among the legendary incidents which marked his
sojourn in Rome, the first and the most important is the story of Simon
Magus.
Simon, a famous magician among the Jews, had astonished the whole city
of Jerusalem by his wonderful feats; but his inventions and sorceries
were overcome by the real miracles of Peter, as the Egyptian magi had
been conquered by Aaron. He offered the apostles money to buy the
secret of their power, which Peter rejected with indignation. St.
Augustine tells us, as a characteristic trait of the fiery-spirited
apostle, that ‘if he had fallen on the traitor Simon, he would
certainly have torn him to pieces with his teeth.’ The magician,
vanquished by a superior power, flung his books into the Dead Sea,
broke his wand, and fled to Rome, where he became a great favourite
of the Emperor Claudius, and afterwards of Nero. Peter, bent on
counteracting the wicked sorceries of Simon, followed him to Rome.
About two years after his arrival he was joined there by the Apostle
Paul. Simon Magus having asserted that he was himself a god, and could
raise the dead, Peter and Paul rebuked his impiety, and challenged
him to a trial of skill in presence of the emperor. The arts of the
magician failed; Peter and Paul restored the youth to life: and on many
other occasions Simon was vanquished and put to shame by the miraculous
power of the apostles. At length he undertook to fly up to heaven in
sight of the emperor and the people; and, crowned with laurel, and
supported by demons, he flung himself from a tower, and appeared for a
while to float thus in the air: but St. Peter, falling on his knees,
commanded the demons to let go their hold, and Simon, precipitated to
the ground, was dashed to pieces.
This romantic legend, so popular in the middle ages, is founded on some
antique traditions not wholly unsupported by historical testimony.
There can be no doubt that there existed in the first century a Simon,
a Samaritan, a pretender to divine authority and supernatural powers;
who, for a time, had many followers; who stood in a certain relation to
Christianity; and who may have held some opinions more or less similar
to those entertained by the most famous heretics of the early ages,
the Gnostics. Irenæus calls this Simon the father of all heretics.
‘All those,’ he says, ‘who in any way corrupt the truth, or mar the
preaching of the Church, are disciples and successors of Simon, the
Samaritan magician.’ Simon gave himself forth as a god, and carried
about with him a beautiful woman named Helena, whom he represented as
the first conception of his—that is, of the divine—mind, the symbol
or manifestation of that portion of spirituality which had become
entangled in matter.[188]
The incidents of the story of Simon Magus have been often and variously
treated.
1. By Quintin Matsys: Peter refuses the offer of Simon Magus—‘Thy money
perish with thee!’ Here Peter wears the mitre of a bishop: the picture
is full of coarse but natural expression.
2. ‘Peter and Paul accused before Nero:’ the fresco in the Brancacci
Chapel, attributed by Kugler to Filippino Lippi, is certainly one of
the most perfect pieces of art, as a dramatic composition, which we
have before the time of Raphael. To the right the emperor is seated on
his throne, on each side his ministers and attendants. The countenances
are finely varied; some of them animated by attention and curiosity,
others sunk in deep thought. The two apostles, and their accuser
Simon Magus, are in front. Simon, a magnificent figure, who might
serve for a Prospero, lays his hand on the vest of Peter, as if to
drag him forward; Paul stands aside with quiet dignity; Peter, with a
countenance full of energetic expression, points contemptuously to the
broken idol at his feet. For the felicity and animation with which the
story is told, and for propriety, grace, and grandeur, Raphael has not
often exceeded this picture.
3. Another of the series of the life of Peter in the Brancacci Chapel
is the resuscitation of the youth, who in the legend is called the
nephew of the emperor; a composition of numerous figures. In the centre
stands St. Peter, and before him kneels the youth; a skull and a few
bones are near him—a naïve method of expressing his return from death
to life. The variety of expression in the countenances of the assembled
spectators is very fine. According to the custom of the Florentine
school at that time, many are portraits of distinguished persons; and,
considering that the fresco was painted at a period most interesting in
the Florentine history (A.D. 1440), we have much reason to regret that
these can no longer be discriminated.
4. ‘The Fall of Simon Magus’ is a favourite and picturesque subject,
often repeated. A most ancient and most curious version is that on the
walls of the Cathedral at Assisi, older than the time of Giotto, and
attributed to Giunta Pisano. (A.D. 1232.) On one side is a pyramidical
tower formed of wooden bars; Peter and Paul are kneeling in front; the
figure of the magician is seen floating in the air and sustained by
hideous demons;—very dreamy, poetical, and fanciful. In Mr. Ottley’s
collection I saw a small ancient picture of the same subject, very
curious, attributed to Benozzo Gozzoli. Raphael’s composition in the
Vatican has the simplicity of a classical bas-relief,—a style which
does not appear suited to this romantic legend. The picture by L.
Caracci at Naples I have not seen. Over one of the altars of St. Peter,
we now see the great mosaic, after Vanni’s picture of this subject; a
clever commonplace treatment: the scene is an amphitheatre, the emperor
above in his balcony; Peter and Paul in front, invoking the name of
Christ, and Simon Magus tumbling headlong, forsaken by his demons; in
the background sit the vestals. Battoni’s great picture in the S. Maria
degli Angeli at Rome is considered his best production; it is full of
well-studied academic drawing, but scenic and mannered.
* * * * *
The next subject in the order of events is styled the ‘DOMINE, QUO
VADIS?’ After the burning of Rome, Nero threw upon the Christians the
accusation of having fired the city. This was the origin of the first
persecution, in which many perished by terrible and hitherto unheard-of
deaths. The Christian converts besought Peter not to expose his life,
which was dear and necessary to the well-being of all; and at length
he consented to depart from Rome. But as he fled along the Appian Way,
about two miles from the gates, he was met by a vision of our Saviour
travelling towards the city. Struck with amazement, he exclaimed,
‘Lord! whither goest thou?’ to which the Saviour, looking upon him
with a mild sadness, replied, ‘I go to Rome to be crucified a second
time,’ and vanished. Peter, taking this for a sign that he was to
submit himself to the sufferings prepared for him, immediately turned
back, and re-entered the city. Michael Angelo’s famous statue, now in
the church of S. Maria-sopra-Minerva at Rome, is supposed to represent
Christ as he appeared to Peter on this occasion; and a cast or copy of
it is in the little church of ‘Domine, quo vadis?’ erected on the spot
sanctified by this mysterious meeting.
It is surprising that this most beautiful, picturesque, and, to my
fancy, sublime legend has been so seldom treated; and never, as it
appears to me, in a manner worthy of its capabilities and its high
significance. It is seldom that a whole story can be told by two
figures, and these two figures placed in such grand and dramatic
contrast;—Christ in his serene majesty and radiant with all the glory
of beatitude, yet with an expression of gentle reproach; the apostle
at his feet, arrested in his flight, amazed, and yet filled with a
trembling joy; and for the background the wide Campagna or the towering
walls of imperial Rome;—these are grand materials; but the pictures I
have met with are all ineffective in conception. The best fall short of
the sublime ideal; most of them are theatrical and commonplace.
Raphael has interpreted it in a style rather too classical for the
spirit of the legend; with great simplicity and dignity, but as a
_fact_, rather than a vision conjured up by the stricken conscience and
tenderness of the affectionate apostle. The small picture by Annibale
Caracci in our National Gallery is a carefully finished academical
study and nothing more, but may be referred to as a fair example of the
usual mode of treatment.
Peter returned to Rome, persisted in his appointed work, preaching
and baptizing; was seized with St. Paul and thrown into the Mamertine
dungeons under the Capitol. The two centurions who guarded them,
Processus and Martinian, and many of the criminals confined in the
same prison, were converted by the preaching of the apostle; and there
being no water to baptize them, at the prayer of St. Peter a fountain
sprang up from the stone floor; which may be seen at this day.
‘The Baptism of St. Processus and St. Martinian in the Dungeon,’ by
Trevisani, is in the baptistery of St. Peter’s at Rome; they afterwards
suffered for the faith, and were canonised. In the same church is
the scene of their martyrdom by Valentino; they are seen bound and
stretched on a hurdle, the head of one to the feet of the other, and
thus beaten to death. The former picture—the Baptism—is commonplace;
the latter, terrible for dark and effective expression; it is just one
of those subjects in which the Caravaggio school delighted.
* * * * *
A few days after their incarceration, St. Peter and St. Paul were
condemned to death. According to one tradition, St. Peter suffered
martyrdom in the Circus of Caligula at the foot of the Vatican, and was
crucified between two metæ, i.e. the goals or terminæ in the Circus,
round which the chariots turned in the race; but, according to another
tradition, he was put to death in the court-yard of a barrack or
military station on the summit of Mons Janicula, where the church of
San Pietro in Montorio now stands; that is, on an eminence above the
site of the Circus of Caligula. At his own request, and that his death
might be even more painful and ignominious than that of his Divine
Master, he was crucified with his head downwards.
[Illustration: 72 Crucifixion of St. Peter (Giotto)]
In the earliest representations I have met with,[189] St. Peter is
raised on the cross with his head downwards, and wears a long shirt
which is fastened round his ankles. In the picture of Giotto,[190] the
local circumstances, according to the first tradition, are carefully
attended to: we have the cross erected between the two metæ, and about
twenty soldiers and attendants; among them a woman who embraces the
foot of the cross, as the Magdalene embraces the cross of the Saviour.
Above are seen angels, who bear the soul of the martyred saint in a
glory to heaven. Masaccio’s composition[191] is very simple; the scene
is the court-yard of a military station (according to the second
tradition). Peter is already nailed upon a cross; three executioners
are in the act of raising it with cords and a pulley to suspend it
against a great beam of wood; there are several soldiers, but no women,
present. In Guido’s composition[192] there are only three figures, the
apostle and two executioners; it is celebrated as a work of art, but
it appeared to me most ineffective. On the other hand, Rubens has gone
into the opposite extreme; there are only three persons, the principal
figure filling nearly the whole of the canvas: it is full of vigour,
truth, and nature; but the brutality of the two executioners, and the
agony of the aged saint, too coarsely and painfully literal. These
simple representations of the mere act or fact should be compared with
the fresco of Michael Angelo,[193] in which the event is evolved into
a grand drama. Here the scene is evidently the summit of the Mons
Janiculum: in the midst of a crowd of soldiers and spectators, St.
Peter lies nailed to the cross, which a number of men are exerting
their utmost strength to raise from the ground.
* * * * *
The legend which makes St. Peter the keeper of the gate of Paradise,
with power to grant or refuse admission, is founded on the delivery of
the keys to Peter. In most of the pictures which represent the entrance
of the blessed into Paradise or the New Jerusalem, Peter stands with
his keys near the gate. There is a beautiful example in the great
fresco of Simone Memmi in the chapel _de’ Spagnuoli_ at Florence: St.
Peter stands at the open portal with his great key, and two angels
crown with garlands the souls of the just as they enter joyously hand
in hand.
[Illustration: 73 From the fresco of Simone Memmi, Florence (S. Maria
Novella)]
The legend of St. Petronilla, the daughter of St. Peter (in French,
Sainte Pernelle), has never been popular as a subject of Art, and I can
remember no series of incidents from the life of St. Peter in which
she is introduced, except those in the Carmine at Florence. It is
apparently a Roman legend, and either unknown to the earliest artists,
or neglected by them. It is thus related:—
‘The apostle Peter had a daughter born in lawful wedlock, who
accompanied him in his journey from the East. Being at Rome with
him, she fell sick of a grievous infirmity which deprived her of the
use of her limbs. And it happened that as the disciples were at meat
with him in his house, one said to him, ‘Master, how is it that thou,
who healest the infirmities of others, dost not heal thy daughter
Petronilla?’ And St. Peter answered, ‘It is good for her to remain
sick:’ but, that they might see the power that was in the word of God,
he commanded her to get up and serve them at table, which she did;
and having done so, she lay down again helpless as before; but many
years afterwards, being perfected by her long suffering, and praying
fervently, she was healed. Petronilla was wonderfully fair; and
Valerius Flaccus, a young and noble Roman, who was a heathen, became
enamoured of her beauty, and sought her for his wife; and he being
very powerful, she feared to refuse him; she therefore desired him
to return in three days, and promised that he should then carry her
home. But she prayed earnestly to be delivered from this peril; and
when Flaccus returned in three days with great pomp to celebrate the
marriage, he found her dead. The company of nobles who attended him
carried her to the grave, in which they laid her, crowned with roses;
and Flaccus lamented greatly.’[194]
The legend places her death in the year 98, that is, 34 years after
the death of St. Peter; but it would be in vain to attempt to
reconcile the dates and improbabilities of this story.
St. Peter raising Petronilla from her sick bed is one of the subjects
by Masaccio in the Brancacci Chapel. The scene of her entombment is the
subject of a once celebrated and colossal picture by Guercino: the
copy in mosaic is over the altar dedicated to her in St. Peter’s: in
front, and in the lower part of the picture, she is just seen as they
are letting her down into the grave, crowned with roses; behind stands
Flaccus with a handkerchief in his hand, and a crowd of spectators:
in the upper part of the picture Petronilla is already in Paradise,
kneeling, in a rich dress, before the feet of Christ, having exchanged
an earthly for a heavenly bridegroom. This great picture exhibits, in a
surpassing degree, the merits and defects of Guercino; it is effective,
dramatic, deeply and forcibly coloured, and arrests attention: on the
other hand, it is coarse, crowded, vulgar in sentiment, and repugnant
to our better taste. There is a standing figure of Petronilla in the
Duomo at Lucca, by Daniel di Volterra, very fine.[195]
* * * * *
The life of St. Peter, when represented as a series, generally
comprises the following subjects, commencing with the first important
incident after the Ascension of Christ.
1. Peter and John heal the lame man at the Beautiful Gate. 2. Peter
heals the paralytic Eneas. 3. Peter raises Tabitha. 4. The angel takes
off the chains of Peter. 5. He follows the angel out of the prison. 6.
St. Peter and St. Paul meet at Rome. 7. Peter and Paul before Nero are
accused by Simon Magus. 8. The fall of Simon Magus. 9. The crucifixion
of St. Peter. This example is taken from the series of mosaics in the
Cathedral of Monreale, at Palermo.
The fine series of frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel at Florence is
differently arranged; thus:—1. The tribute money found in the fish by
St. Peter. 2. Peter preaching to the converts. 3. Peter baptizes the
converts. In this fresco, the youth, who has thrown off his garments
and is preparing for baptism, is famous as the first really graceful
and well-drawn undraped figure which had been produced since the
revival of Art. 4. Peter and John heal the cripple at the Beautiful
Gate, and Petronilla is raised from her bed. 5. Peter in his prison is
visited by Paul. 6. Peter delivered by the angel. 7. The resuscitation
of the dead youth. 8. The sick are laid in the way of Peter and John,
‘that at the least the shadow of Peter passing by might overshadow some
of them.’ 9. Peter and John distribute alms; a dead figure lies at the
feet of the apostles, perhaps Ananias. The situation of the fresco
is very dark, so that it is difficult to distinguish the action and
expression of the figures. 10. Peter and Paul accused before Nero. 11.
The crucifixion of Peter.
In St. Peter’s at Rome, we have of course every scene from the life of
the apostle which could well be expressed by Art; but none of these are
of great merit or interest: most of them are from the schools of the
seventeenth century.
* * * * *
ST. PAUL, though called to the apostleship after the ascension of the
Saviour, takes rank next to St. Peter as one of the chief witnesses of
the Christian faith. Of all the apostles he is the most interesting;
the one of whose personal character and history we know most, and
through the most direct and irrefragable testimony. The events of his
life, as conveyed in the Acts and the Epistles, are so well known, that
I need not here particularise them. The legends connected with him are
very few.
* * * * *
The earliest single figure of St. Paul to which I can refer was found
painted on the walls of the cemetery of Priscilla, near Rome.[196] He
stands, with outstretched arms, in the act of prayer; (in the early
ages of Christianity the act of supplication was expressed in the
classical manner, that is, not with folded hands, but with the arms
extended;) he has the nimbus; his dress is that of a traveller, the
tunic and pallium being short, and his feet sandalled, perhaps to
indicate his many and celebrated travels; perhaps, also, it represents
Paul praying for his flock before he departed from Macedon to return
to Jerusalem (Acts xx.): over this ancient figure, which, though ill
drawn, is quite classical in sentiment and costume, is inscribed
PAULUS. PASTOR. APOSTOLOS; on his right hand stands the Good Shepherd,
in reference to the title of PASTOR, inscribed over his effigy. Another
figure of St. Paul, which appears to be of later date, but anterior to
the fifth century, was found in the catacombs at Naples: in this effigy
he wears the dress of a Greek philosopher; the style in which the
drapery is worn recalls the time of Hadrian: he has no nimbus, nor is
the head bald; he has sandals on his feet: over his head is inscribed
his name, PAULUS; near him is a smaller figure similarly draped, who
offers him fruit and flowers in a vase; probably the personage who was
entombed on the spot.
* * * * *
At what period the sword was given to St. Paul as his distinctive
attribute, is with antiquaries a disputed point; certainly, much later
than the keys were given to Peter.[197] If we could be sure that the
mosaic on the tomb of Otho II., and another mosaic already described,
had not been altered in successive restorations, these would be
evidence that the sword was given to St. Paul as his attribute as early
as the 6th century; but there are no monuments which can be absolutely
trusted as regards the introduction of the sword before the end of
the 11th century; since the end of the 14th century, it has been so
generally adopted, that in the devotional effigies I can remember no
instance in which it is omitted. When St. Paul is leaning on the sword,
it expresses his martyrdom; when he holds it aloft, it expresses also
his warfare in the cause of Christ: when two swords are given to him,
one is the attribute, the other the emblem; but this double allusion
does not occur in any of the older representations. In Italy I never
met with St. Paul bearing two swords, and the only instance I can call
to mind is the bronze statue by Peter Vischer, on the shrine of St.
Sebald, at Nuremberg.
Although devotional representations of St. Paul separate from St. Peter
and the other apostles occur very rarely, pictures from his life and
actions are commonly met with; the principal events are so familiar,
that they are easily recognised and discriminated even by the most
unlearned in biblical illustration: considered and treated as a series,
they form a most interesting and dramatic succession of scenes, often
introduced into the old churches; but the incidents chosen are not
always the same.
Paul, before his conversion, was present at the stoning of Stephen, and
he is generally introduced holding on his knees the garments of the
executioners. In some ancient pictures, he has, even while looking on
and ‘consenting to the death’ of the victim, the glory round his head,
as one who, while ‘breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the
disciples of the Lord,’ was already a chosen vessel to bear His name
before the Gentiles.’ But in a set of pictures which relate expressly
to St. Paul the martyrdom of Stephen is, with proper feeling, omitted,
and the series generally begins with the CONVERSION OF PAUL,—in his
character of apostle, the first great event in his life. An incident so
important, so celebrated, and in all its accessories so picturesque and
dramatic, has of course been a frequent subject of artistic treatment,
even as a separate composition. In some of the old mosaics, the story
is very simply, and at the same time vividly, rendered. In the earliest
examples, St. Paul has the nimbus or glory while yet unconverted; he
is prostrate on the ground, grovelling on his hands and knees; rays
of light fall upon him out of heaven, where the figure of Christ,
half-length, is seen emerging from glory; sometimes it is a hand only,
which is the emblem of the Almighty Power; two or four attendants at
most are flying in terror. It is not said in Scripture that St. Paul
journeyed on horseback from Jerusalem to Damascus; but the tradition
is at least as old as the time of Pope Dalmasius (A.D. 384), as it is
then referred to. St. Augustine says he journeyed on foot, because
the Pharisees made a point of religion to go on foot, and it is so
represented in the old Greek mosaics. The expression, ‘It is hard
for thee to kick against the pricks,’ has been oddly enough assigned
as a reason for placing Paul on horseback;[198] at all events, as he
bore a military command, it has been thought proper in later times
so to represent him, and also as surrounded by a numerous cortége of
attendants. This treatment admits, of course, of endless variety,
in the disposition and number of the figures, in the attitudes and
expression; but the moment chosen is generally the same.
1. The oldest example I can cite, next to the Greek mosaics, is an old
Italian print mentioned by Zani. Paul, habited as a Roman warrior,
kneels with his arms crossed on his breast, and holding a scroll, on
which is inscribed in Latin, ‘Lord, what shall I do?’ Christ stands
opposite to him, also holding a scroll, on which is written, ‘Saul,
Saul, why persecutest thou me?’ There are no attendants. Zani does not
give the date of this quaint and simple version of the story.
2. Raphael. Paul, habited as a Roman soldier, is lying on the ground,
as thrown from his horse; he looks upward to Christ, who appears in the
clouds, attended by three child-angels: his attendants on foot and on
horseback are represented as rushing to his assistance, unconscious of
the vision, but panic struck by its effect on _him_: one attendant in
the background seizes by the bridle the terrified horse. The original
cartoon of this fine composition (one of the tapestries in the Vatican)
is lost.
3. Michael Angelo. Paul, a noble figure, though prostrate, appears to
be struck motionless and senseless: Christ seems to be _rushing_ down
from heaven surrounded by a host of angels; those of the attendants
who are near to Paul are flying in all directions, while a long train
of soldiers is seen ascending from the background. This grand dramatic
composition forms the pendant to the Crucifixion of Peter in the
Cappella Paolina. It is so darkened by age and the smoke of tapers, and
so ill lighted, that it is not easily made out; but there is a fine
engraving, which may be consulted.
4. Another very celebrated composition of this subject is that of
Rubens.[199] Paul, lying in the foreground, expresses in his attitude
the most helpless and grovelling prostration. The attendants appear
very literally frightened out of their senses; and the grey horse
snorting and rearing behind is the finest part of the picture: as is
usual with Rubens, the effects of physical fear and amazement are given
with the utmost spirit and truth; but the scriptural dignity, the
supernatural terrors, of the subject are ill expressed, and the apostle
himself is degraded. To go a step lower, Cuyp has given us a Conversion
of St. Paul apparently for the sole purpose of introducing horses in
different attitudes: the favourite dapple-grey charger is seen bounding
off in terror; no one looks at St. Paul, still less to Christ above—but
the _horses_ are admirable.
5. In Albert Dürer’s print, a shower of _stones_ is falling from heaven
on St. Paul and his company.
6. There is a very curious and unusual version of this subject in
a rare print by Lucas van Leyden. It is a composition of numerous
figures. St. Paul is seen, blind and bewildered, led between two men;
another man leads his frightened charger; several warriors and horsemen
follow, and the whole procession seems to be proceeding slowly to the
right. In the far distance is represented the previous moment—Paul
struck down and blinded by the celestial vision.
* * * * *
‘Paul, after his conversion, restored to sight by Ananias,’ as a
separate subject, seldom occurs; but it has been treated in the later
schools by Vasari, by Cavallucci, and by P. Cortona.
* * * * *
‘The Jews flagellate Paul and Silas.’ I know but one picture of this
subject, that of Niccolò Poussin: the angry Jews are seen driving them
forth with scourges; the Elders, who have condemned them, are seated in
council behind: as we might expect from the character of Poussin, the
dignity of the apostles is maintained,—but it is not one of his best
pictures.
* * * * *
‘Paul, after his conversion, escapes from Damascus;’ he is let down
in a basket (Acts ix. 25): the incident forms, of course, one of the
scenes in his life when exhibited in a series, but I remember no
separate picture of this subject, and the situation is so ludicrous and
so derogatory that we can understand how it came to be avoided.
* * * * *
‘The ecstatic vision of St. Paul, in which he was caught up to the
third heaven.’ (2 Cor. xii. 2.) Paul, who so frequently and familiarly
speaks of angels, in describing this event makes no mention of them,
but in pictures he is represented as borne upwards by angels. I find
no early composition of this subject. The small picture of Domenichino
is coldly conceived. Poussin has painted the ‘Ravissement de St. Paul’
twice; in the first, the apostle is borne upon the arms of four angels,
and in the second he is sustained by three angels. In rendering this
ecstatic vision, the angels, always allowable as machinery, have here a
particular propriety; Paul is elevated only a few feet above the roof
of his house, where lie his sword and book. Here the sword serves to
distinguish the personage; and the roof of the house shows us that it
is a vision, and not an apotheosis. Both pictures are in the Louvre.
* * * * *
‘Paul preaching to the converts at Ephesus.’ In a beautiful
Raffaelesque composition by Le Sueur, the incident of the magicians
bringing their books of sorcery and burning them at the feet of the
apostle is well introduced. It was long the custom to exhibit this
picture solemnly in Notre Dame every year on the 1st of May. It is now
in the Louvre.
‘Paul before Felix,’ and ‘Paul before Agrippa.’ Neither of these
subjects has ever been adequately treated. It is to me inconceivable
that the old masters so completely overlooked the opportunity for grand
characteristic delineation afforded by both these scenes, the latter
especially. Perhaps, in estimating its capabilities, we are misled by
the effect produced on the imagination by the splendid eloquence of
the apostle; yet, were another Raphael to arise, I would suggest the
subject as a pendant to the St. Paul at Athens.
‘Paul performs miracles before the Emperor Nero;’ a blind man, a sick
child, and a possessed woman are brought to him to be healed. This,
though a legendary rather than a scriptural subject, has been treated
by Le Sueur with scriptural dignity and simplicity.
* * * * *
‘The martyrdom of St. Paul’ is sometimes a separate subject, but
generally it is the pendant to the martyrdom of St. Peter. According
to the received tradition, the two apostles suffered at the same time,
but in different places; for St. Paul, being by birth a Roman citizen,
escaped the ignominy of the public exposure in the Circus, as well
as the prolonged torture of the cross. He was beheaded by the sword
outside the Ostian gate, about two miles from Rome, at a place called
the Aqua Salvias, now the ‘Tre Fontane.’ The legend of the death of St.
Paul relates that a certain Roman matron named Plautilla, one of the
converts of St. Peter, placed herself on the road by which St. Paul
passed to his martyrdom, in order to behold him for the last time;
and when she saw him, she wept greatly, and besought his blessing.
The apostle then, seeing her faith, turned to her and begged that she
would give him her veil to bind his eyes when he should be beheaded,
promising to return it to her after his death. The attendants mocked
at such a promise, but Plautilla, with a woman’s faith and charity,
taking off her veil, presented it to him. After his martyrdom, St. Paul
appeared to her, and restored the veil stained with his blood. It is
also related, that when he was decapitated the severed head made three
bounds upon the earth, and wherever it touched the ground a fountain
sprang forth.
In the most ancient representations of the martyrdom of St. Paul,
the legend of Plautilla is seldom omitted. In the picture of Giotto
preserved in the sacristy of St. Peter’s, Plautilla is seen on an
eminence in the background, receiving the veil from the hand of
Paul, who appears in the clouds above; the same representation, but
little varied, is executed in bas-relief on the bronze doors of St.
Peter’s. The three fountains gushing up beneath the severed head are
also frequently represented as a literal fact, though a manifest and
beautiful allegory, figurative of the fountains of Christian faith
which should spring forth from his martyrdom.
In all the melancholy vicinity of Rome, there is not a more melancholy
spot than the ‘Tre Fontane.’ A splendid monastery, rich with the
offerings of all Christendom, once existed there: the ravages of that
mysterious scourge of the Campagna, the malaria, have rendered it a
desert; three ancient churches and some ruins still exist, and a few
pale monks wander about the swampy dismal confines of the hollow in
which they stand. In winter you approach them through a quagmire; in
summer, you dare not breathe in their pestilential vicinity; and yet
there is a sort of dead beauty about the place, something hallowed as
well as sad, which seizes on the fancy. In the church properly called
‘San Paolo delle Tre Fontane,’ and which is so old that the date of the
foundation is unknown, are three chapels with altars raised over as
many wells or fountains; the altars are modern, and have each the head
of St. Paul carved in relief. The water, which appeared to me exactly
the same in all the three fountains, has a soft insipid taste, neither
refreshing nor agreeable. The ancient frescoes have perished, and the
modern ones are perishing. It is a melancholy spot.
To return, however, to that event which has rendered it for ages
consecrated and memorable. Among the many representations of the
decollation of St. Paul which exist in sculpture and in painting, I
have not met with one which could take a high place as a work of art,
or which has done justice to the tragic capabilities of the subject.
After his martyrdom the body of St. Paul was interred on a spot between
the Ostian gate and the Aqua Salvias, and there arose the magnificent
church known as San Paolo-_fuori-le-mura_. I saw this church a few
months before it was consumed by fire in 1823; I saw it again in
1847, when the restoration was far advanced. Its cold magnificence,
compared with the impressions left by the former structure, rich with
inestimable remains of ancient art, and venerable from a thousand
associations, saddened and chilled me.
The mosaics in the old church, which represented the life and actions
of St. Paul, were executed by the Greek mosaic masters of the eleventh
century. They appear to have comprised the same subjects which still
exist as a series in the church of Monreale near Palermo, and which I
shall now describe.
1. Saul is sent by the high-priest to Damascus. Two priests are seated
on a raised throne in front of the Temple; Saul stands before them.