_Ital._ Il Cenacolo. La Cena. _Fr._ La Cène. _Ger._ Das Abendmal
Christi.
I have already mentioned the principal scenes in which the Twelve
always appear together; there is, however, one event belonging properly
to the life of Christ, so important in itself, presenting the Apostles
under an aspect so peculiar, and throwing so much interest around them
collectively and individually, that I must bring it under notice here.
* * * * *
Next to the Crucifixion, there is no subject taken from the history
of our redemption so consecrated in Art as the Last Supper. The awful
signification lent to it by Protestants as well as Catholics has given
it a deep religious import, and caused its frequent representation in
churches; it has been, more particularly, the appropriate decoration of
the refectories of convents, hospitals, and other institutions having
a sacred character. In our Protestant churches, it is generally the
subject of the altar-piece, where we have one.
Besides being one of the most important and interesting, it is one of
the most difficult among the sacred subjects treated in Art. While the
fixed number of personages introduced, the divine and paramount dignity
of One among them, the well-known character of all, have limited the
invention of the artist, they have tasked to the utmost his power of
expression. The occasion, that of a repast eaten by twelve persons, is,
under its material aspect, so commonplace, and, taken in the spiritual
sense, so awful, that to elevate himself to the height of his theme,
while keeping the ideal conscientiously bounded within its frame of
circumstance, demanded in the artist aspirations of the grandest order,
tempered by the utmost sobriety of reflection; and the deepest insight
into the springs of character, combined with the most perfect knowledge
of the indications of character as manifested through form. On the
other hand, if it has been difficult to succeed, it has been equally
difficult to fail signally and completely; because the spectator is not
here, as in the crucifixion, in danger of being perpetually shocked by
the intrusion of anomalous incidents, and is always ready to supply
the dignity and meaning of a scene so familiar in itself out of his
own mind and heart. It has followed, that mediocrity has been more
prevalent and more endurable in this than in any other of the more
serious subjects of Art. But where excellence has been in some few
instances attained, it has been attained in such a supreme degree, that
these examples have become a perpetual source of contemplation and of
emulation, and rank among the most renowned productions of human genius.
But, before I come to consider these analytically, it is necessary to
premise one or two observations, which will assist us to discrimination
in the general treatment.
Pictures and works of art, which represent the Last Supper of our
Lord, admit of the same classification which I have adhered to
generally throughout this work. Those which represent it as a religious
mystery must be considered as _devotional_; those which represent it
merely as a scene in the passion of our Saviour are _historical_.
In the first, we have the spiritual origin of the Eucharist; in
the second, the highly dramatic detection of Judas. It is evident
that the predominating _motif_ in each must be widely different. In
paintings which are intended for the altar, or for the chapels of the
Holy Sacrament, we have the first, the mystical version;—it is the
distribution of the spiritual food. In the second form, as the Last
Supper eaten by Christ with his disciples, as leading the mind to an
humble and grateful sense of his sacrifice, as repressing all sinful
indulgence in food, it has been the subject chosen to decorate the
refectory or common dining-room of convents.
It is curious that on the Christian sarcophagi the Last Supper does
not occur. There is, in the Vatican, a rude painting taken from the
catacombs representing twelve persons in a semicircle, with something
like plates and dishes before them. I could not determine whether
this was our Saviour and his apostles, or merely one of those feasts
or suppers instituted by the early Christians called _Agapæ_ or
love-feasts; but I should think the latter.
On the Dalmatica (deacon’s robe) preserved in the sacristy of the
Vatican, there is, if the date be exact (A.D. 795), the most ancient
representation I have seen of the institution of the Sacrament. The
embroidery, which is wonderfully beautiful, is a copy from Byzantine
Art. On one side, our Saviour stands by a table or altar, and presents
the cup to his apostles, one of whom approaches in a reverential
attitude, and with his hands folded in his robe; on the other side,
Christ presents the wafer or host: so that we have the two separate
moments in separate groups.
There exists in the Duomo of Lodi the most ancient sculptural example
of this subject I have met with; it is a bas-relief of the twelfth
century, dated 1163, and fixed in the wall to the left of the entrance.
Christ and the apostles are in a straight row, all very much alike; six
of the apostles lay their hands on their breast,—‘Lord, is it I?’ and
Christ presents the sop to Judas, who sits in front, and is as ugly as
possible.
Although all the Byzantine pictures of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries which have come under my notice represent Christ breaking the
bread or holding the cup, that is, the institution of the Sacrament,
the Greek formula published by Didron distinguishes between this scene
and that of the repast in which Judas is denounced as a traitor.
The earliest representation to which I can refer in Western Art, as
taking the historical form, is the Cenacolo of Giotto, the oldest and
the most important that has been preserved to us; it was painted by
him in the refectory of the convent of Santa Croce at Florence. This
refectory, when I visited it in 1847, was a carpet manufactory, and
it was difficult to get a good view of the fresco by reason of the
intervention of the carpet-looms. It has been often restored, and is
now in a bad state; still, enough remains to understand the original
intention of the artist, and that arrangement which has since been the
groundwork of similar compositions.
A long table extends across the picture from side to side: in the
middle, and fronting the spectator, sits the Redeemer; to the right,
St. John, his head reclining on the lap of Christ; next to him, Peter;
after Peter, St. James Major; thus placing together the three favourite
disciples. Next to St. James, St. Matthew, St. Bartholomew, and a young
beardless apostle, probably St. Philip.
On the left hand of our Saviour is St. Andrew; and next to him, St.
James Minor (the two St. Jameses bearing the traditional resemblance
to Christ); then St. Simon and St. Jude; and lastly, a young apostle,
probably St. Thomas. (The reader will have the goodness to recollect
that I give this explanation of the names and position of the eleven
apostles as my own, and with due deference to the opinion of those who
on a further study of the fresco may differ from me.) Opposite to the
Saviour, and on the near side of the table, sits Judas, apart from the
rest, and in the act of dipping his hand into the dish. It is evident
that the moment chosen by the artist is, ‘He that dippeth with me in
the dish, the same shall betray me.’
Although the excuse may be found in the literal adoption of the words
of the Gospel,[239] it appears to me a fault to make St. John leaning,
as one half asleep, on the lap of our Saviour, after such words have
been uttered as must have roused, or at least ought to have roused, the
young and beloved apostle from his supine attitude; therefore, we may
suppose that Christ is about to speak the words, but has not yet spoken
them. The position of Judas is caused by the necessity of placing him
sufficiently near to Christ to dip his hand in the same dish; while
to have placed him on the same side of the table, so as to give him
the precedence over the more favoured disciples, would have appeared
to the early artists nothing less than profane. Giotto has paid great
attention to the heads, which are individually characterised, but there
is little dramatic expression; the attention is not yet directed to
Judas, who is seen in profile, looking up, not ugly in feature, but
with a mean vicious countenance, and bent shoulders.
The arrangement of the table and figures, so peculiarly fitted for
a refectory, has been generally adopted since the time of Giotto in
pictures painted for this especial purpose. The subject is placed on
the upper wall of the chamber; the table extending from side to side:
the tables of the monks are placed, as in the dining-rooms of our
colleges, length-ways; thus all can behold the divine assembly, and
Christ appears to preside over and sanctify the meal.
In another Cenacolo by Giotto,[240] which forms one of the scenes in
the history of Christ, he has given us a totally different version of
the subject; and, not being intended for a refectory, but as an action
or event, it is more dramatic. It is evident that our Saviour has just
uttered the words, ‘He that dippeth with me in the dish, the same shall
betray me.’ Judas, who has mean, ugly, irregular features, looks up
alarmed, and seems in the act of rising to escape. One apostle (Philip,
I think) points at him, and the attention of all is more or less
directed to him. This would be a fault if the subject were intended
for a refectory, or to represent the celebration of the Eucharist. But
here, where the subject is historical, it is a propriety.
The composition of Duccio of Siena, in the Duomo at Siena, must have
been nearly contemporary with, if it did not precede, those of Giotto
(A.D. 1308); it is quite different, quite original in _motif_ and
arrangement. Seven apostles sit on the same side with Christ, and five
opposite to him, turning their backs on the spectator; the faces are
seen in profile. The attitude of St. John, leaning against our Saviour
with downcast eyes, is much more graceful than in the composition of
Giotto. St. Peter is on the right of Christ; next to him St. James
Minor: two young apostles sit at the extreme ends of the table, whom
I suppose to be St. Philip and St. Thomas: the other apostles I am
unable to discriminate, with the exception of Judas, who, with regular
features, has a characteristic scowl on his brow. Christ holds out a
piece of bread in his hand: two of the apostles likewise hold bread,
and two others hold a cup; the rest look attentive or pensive, but the
general character of the heads is deficient in elevation. The moment
chosen may be the distribution of the bread and wine; but, to me,
it rather expresses the commencement of the meal, and our Saviour’s
address: ‘With desire have I desired to eat this passover with you
before I suffer’ (Luke xxii. 15). The next compartment of the same
series, which represents the apostles seated in a group before Christ,
and listening with upturned faces and the most profound attention to
his last words, has much more of character, solemnity, and beauty, than
the Last Supper. Judas is here omitted; ‘for he, having received the
sop, went immediately out.’
Angelico da Fiesole, in his life of Christ, has been careful to
distinguish between the detection of Judas and the institution of the
Eucharist.[241] He has given us both scenes. In the first compartment,
John is leaning down with his face to the Saviour; the back of his head
only is seen, and he appears too unmindful of what is going forward.
The other apostles are well discriminated, the usual type strictly
followed in Peter, Andrew, James Major and James Minor. To the right of
Christ are Peter, Andrew, Bartholomew; to the left, James Minor. Four
turn their backs, and two young apostles stand on each side,—I presume
Thomas and Philip; they seem to be waiting on the rest: Judas dips
his hand in the dish. I suppose the moment to be the same as in the
composition of Duccio.
But in the next compartment the _motif_ is different. All have risen.
from table; it is no longer a repast, it is a sacred mystery; Christ is
in the act of administering the bread to St. John; all kneel; and Judas
is seen kneeling behind Christ, near an open door, and apart from the
rest, as if he were watching for the opportunity to escape. To dispose
of Judas in this holy ceremony is always a difficulty. To represent him
as receiving with the rest the sacred rite is an offence to the pious.
The expression used by St. John (xii. 30), ‘After he had received the
sop he went out,’ implies that Judas was not present at the Lord’s
Supper, which succeeded the celebration of the paschal supper. St. Luke
and St. Mark, neither of whom were present, leave us to suppose that
Judas partook, with the other disciples, of the mystic bread and wine;
yet we can hardly believe that, after having been pointed out as the
betrayer, the conscience-stricken Judas should remain to receive the
Eucharist. Sometimes he is omitted altogether; sometimes he is stealing
out at the door. In the composition of Luca Signorelli, which I saw at
Cortona, all the twelve apostles are kneeling; Christ is distributing
the wafer; and Judas, turning away with a malignant look, puts _his_
wafer into his satchel. In the composition of Palmezzano, in the Duomo
at Forlì, our Saviour stands, holding a plate, and is in the act of
presenting the wafer to Peter, who kneels: St. John stands by the side
of Christ, holding the cup: Judas is in the background; he kneels by
the door, and seems to be watching for the opportunity to steal away.
The fine composition, fine also in sentiment and character, of
Ghirlandajo, was painted for the small refectory in the San Marco
at Florence. The arrangement is ingenious: the table is of what we
call the horse-shoe form, which allows all the figures to face the
spectator; and at the same time takes up less room than where the
table runs across the picture from side to side. Judas sits in front,
alone; Christ has just designated him. ‘He it is to whom I shall give
the sop when I have dipped it.’ (John xiii. 26.) Judas holds the sop
in his hand, with an alarmed conscious look. Behind sits an ill-omened
cat, probably intended for the fiend. John, to the left of Christ,
appears to have swooned away. The other apostles express, in various
ways, amazement and horror.
It has been a question among critics, whether the purse ought to be
placed in the hand of Judas when present at the Last Supper, because it
is usually understood as containing the thirty pieces of silver: but
this is a mistake; and it leads to the mistake of representing him as
hiding the purse, as if it contained the price of his treachery. Judas
carries the purse openly, for he was the steward, or purse-bearer, of
the party ‘he had the bag, and bare what was put therein’ (John xii. 6,
xiii. 29): and as the money-bag is also the attribute of St. Matthew
the tax-gatherer, we must take care not to confound him with the
traitor and thief. This brings me to the consideration of the subject
as treated by Albert Dürer.
In the series of large woodcuts from the Passion of our Saviour
(styled ‘_La grande Passion_’), the Cenacolo is an event, and not a
mystery. John, as a beautiful youth, is leaning against our Saviour
with downcast eyes; he does not look as if he had thrown himself down
half asleep, but as if Christ had put his arm around him, and drawn
and pressed him fondly towards him. On the right is Peter: the other
apostles are not easily discriminated, but they have all that sort of
_grandiose_ ugliness which is so full of character, and so particularly
the characteristic of the artist: the apostle seated in front in a
cowering attitude, holding the purse which he seems anxious to conceal,
and looking up apprehensively, I suppose to be Judas.
In the smaller set of woodcuts (‘_La petite Passion_’) I believe the
apostle with the purse in the foreground to be St. Matthew; while the
ugly, lank-haired personage behind Christ, who looks as if about to
steal away, is probably intended for Judas: one of the apostles has
laid hold of him, and seems to say, ‘Thou art the man!’
There is a third Cenacolo, by Albert Dürer, which plainly represents
the Eucharist. The cup only is on the table, and Judas is omitted.
In a Cenacolo by another old German, Judas is in the act of receiving
the sop which Christ is putting into his mouth; and at the same time he
is _hiding_ the purse:—a mistake, as I have already observed.
* * * * *
These examples must suffice to give some idea of the manner in which
this subject was generally treated by the early German and Italian
artists. But, whether presented before us as a dramatic scene
expressing individual character, or as an historical event memorable
in the life of Christ, or as a religious rite of awful and mysterious
import—all the examples I have mentioned are in some respects
deficient. We have the feeling, that, whatever may be the merit in
sentiment, in intention, in detail, what has been attempted has _not_
been achieved.
* * * * *
When Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest thinker as well as the greatest
painter of his age, brought all the resources of his wonderful mind
to bear on the subject, then sprang forth a creation so consummate,
that since that time it has been at once the wonder and the despair of
those who have followed in the same path. True, the work of his hand is
perishing—will soon have perished utterly. I remember well, standing
before this wreck of a glorious presence, so touched by its pale,
shadowy, and yet divine significance, and by its hopelessly impending
ruin, that the tears sprang involuntarily. Fortunately for us,
multiplied copies have preserved at least the intention of the artist
in his work. We can judge of what it _has_ been, and take that for our
text and for our theme.
The purpose being the decoration of a refectory in a rich convent, the
chamber lofty and spacious, Leonardo has adopted the usual arrangement:
the table runs across from side to side, filling up the whole extent
of the wall, and the figures, being above the eye, and to be viewed
from a distance, are colossal; they would otherwise have appeared
smaller than the real personages seated at the tables below. The moment
selected is the utterance of the words, ‘Verily, verily, I say unto
you, that one of you shall betray me:’ or rather the words have just
been uttered, and the picture expresses their effect on the different
auditors. It is of these auditors, his apostles, that I have to speak,
and not of Christ himself; for the full consideration of the subject,
as it regards _Him_, must be deferred; the intellectual elevation,
the fineness of nature, the benign God-like dignity, suffused with
the profoundest sorrow, in this divine head, surpassed all I could
have conceived as possible in Art; and, faded as it is, the character
there, being stamped on it by the soul, not the hand, of the artist,
will remain while a line or hue remains visible. It is a divine shadow,
and, until it fades into nothing, and disappears utterly, will have
the lineaments of divinity. Next to Christ is St. John; he has just
been addressed by Peter, who beckons to him that he should ask ‘of
whom the Lord spake:’—his disconsolate attitude, as he has raised
himself to reply, and leans his clasped hands on the table, the almost
feminine sweetness of his countenance, express the character of this
gentle and amiable apostle. Peter, leaning from behind, is all fire
and energy; Judas, who knows full well of whom the Saviour spake,
starts back amazed, oversetting the salt; his fingers clutch the bag,
of which he has the charge, with that action which Dante describes as
characteristic of the avaricious:—
Questi risurgeranno dal sepolcro
Col pugno chiuso.
These from the tomb with clenchèd grasp shall rise.
His face is seen in profile, and cast into shadow: without being
vulgar, or even ugly, it is hateful. St. Andrew, with his long grey
beard, lifts up his hands, expressing the wonder of a simple-hearted
old man. St. James Minor, resembling the Saviour in his mild features,
and the form of his beard and hair, lays his hand on the shoulder of
St. Peter—the expression is, ‘_Can_ it be possible? Have we heard
aright?’ Bartholomew, at the extreme end of the table, has risen
perturbed from his seat; he leans forward with a look of eager
attention, the lips parted; he is impatient to hear more. (The fine
copy of Uggione, in the Royal Academy, does not give this anxious
look—he is attentive only.) On the left of our Saviour is St. James
Major, who has also a family resemblance to Christ; his arms are
outstretched, he shrinks back, he repels the thought with horror.
The vivacity of the action and expression are wonderfully true
and characteristic. (Morghen, the engraver, erroneously supposed
this to represent St. Thomas, and placed on the border of his robe
an inscription fixing the identity; which inscription, as Bossi
asserts, never did exist in the original picture.) St. Thomas is
behind St. James, rather young, with a short beard; he holds up his
hand, threatening—‘If there be indeed such a wretch, let him look
to it.’ Philip, young and with a beautiful head, lays his hand on
his heart: he protests his love, his truth. Matthew, also beardless,
has more elegance, as one who belonged to a more educated class than
the rest; he turns to Jude and points to our Saviour, as if about
to repeat his words, ‘Do you hear what he says?’ Simon and Jude sit
together (Leonardo has followed the tradition which makes them old
and brothers); Jude expresses consternation; Simon, with his hands
stretched out, a painful anxiety.
* * * * *
To understand the wonderful skill with which this composition has been
arranged, it ought to be studied long and minutely; and, to appreciate
its relative excellence, it ought to be compared with other productions
of the same period. Leonardo has contrived to break the formality of
the line of heads without any apparent artifice, and without disturbing
the grand simplicity of the usual order; and he has vanquished the
difficulties in regard to the position of Judas, without making him too
prominent. He has imparted to a solemn scene sufficient movement and
variety of action, without detracting from its dignity and pathos; he
has kept the expression of each head true to the traditional character,
without exaggeration, without effort. To have done this, to have been
the first to do this, required the far-reaching philosophic mind, not
less than the excelling hand, of this ‘miracle of nature,’ as Mr.
Hallam styles Leonardo, with reference to his scientific as well as his
artistic powers.
* * * * *
And now to turn to another miracle of nature, Raphael. He has given us
three compositions for the Last Supper. The fresco lately discovered in
the refectory of Sant’ Onofrio, at Florence, is an early work painted
in his twenty-third year (A.D. 1505). The authenticity of this picture
has been vehemently disputed; for myself—as far as my opinion is worth
anything—I never, after the first five minutes, had a doubt on the
subject. As to its being the work of Neri de’ Bicci, I do not believe
it possible; and as for the written documents brought forward to prove
this, I turn from them ‘to the handwriting on the wall,’ and there I
see, in characters of light, RAPHAEL—and _him_ only. It is, however, a
youthful work, full of sentiment and grace, but deficient, it appears
to me, in that depth and discrimination of character displayed in his
later works. It is evident that he had studied Giotto’s fresco in the
neighbouring Santa Croce. The arrangement is nearly the same.
Christ is in the centre; his right hand is raised, and he is about to
speak; the left hand is laid, with extreme tenderness in the attitude
and expression, on the shoulder of John, who reclines upon him. To
the right of Christ is St. Peter, the head of the usual character;
next to him St. Andrew, with the flowing grey hair and long divided
beard; St. James Minor, the head declined resembling Christ: he holds
a cup. St. Philip is seen in profile with a white beard: (this is
contrary to the received tradition, which makes him young; and I doubt
the correctness of this appellation). St. James Major, at the extreme
end of the table, looks out of the picture; Raphael has apparently
represented himself in this apostle. On the left of Christ, after St.
John, is St. Bartholomew; he holds a knife, and has the black beard
and dark complexion usually given to him. Then Matthew, something like
Peter, but milder and more refined. Thomas, young and handsome, pours
wine into a cup; last, on the right, are Simon and Jude: Raphael has
followed the tradition which supposes them young, and the kinsmen of
our Saviour. Judas sits on a stool on the near side of the table,
opposite to Christ, and while he dips his hand into the dish he looks
round to the spectators; he has the Jewish features, red hair and
beard, and a bad expression. All have glories; but the glory round the
head of Judas is much smaller than the others.[242]
* * * * *
In the second composition, one of the series of the life of Christ,
in the Loggie of the Vatican, Raphael has placed the apostles round a
table, four on each of the three sides; our Saviour presiding in the
centre. John and Peter, who are, as usual, nearest to Christ, look to
him with an animated appealing expression. Judas is in front, looking
away from the rest, and as if about to rise. The other heads are
not well discriminated, nor is the moment well expressed: there is,
indeed, something confused and inharmonious, unlike Raphael, in the
whole composition. I pass it over, therefore, without further remark,
to come to the third example—a masterpiece of his later years, worthy
as a composition of being compared with Leonardo’s; but, never having
been painted, we can only pronounce it perfect as far as it goes. The
original drawing enriches the collection of the Queen of England: the
admirable engraving of Marc Antonio, said to have been touched by
Raphael, is before me while I write. From the disposition of the unshod
feet as seen under the table, it is styled by collectors ‘_il pezzo dei
piedi_:’ from the arrangement of the table and figures it was probably
designed for a refectory.
In the centre is Christ, with both hands resting on the table; in the
head, a melancholy resignation. Peter is on the right, his hand on
his breast. John, on the left, places both hands on his breast, with
a most animated expression,—‘You cannot believe it is I?’ Andrew has
laid his hand on the shoulder of Peter, and leans forward with a sad
interrogative expression. The head of Judas has features akin to those
of the antique satyr, with the look askance of a detected villain:
he has heard the words, but he dares not meet the eye, of his Divine
Master: he has no purse. James Minor, next to John, with his hands
extended, seems to speak sadly to Philip: ‘And they began to inquire
among themselves, which of them should do this thing?’ The whole
composition is less dramatic, has less variety of action and attitude,
than that of Leonardo, but is full of deep melancholy feeling.
* * * * *
The Cenacolo of Andrea del Sarto, in the Convent of the Salvi near
Florence, takes, I believe, the third rank after those of Leonardo
and Raphael. He has chosen the self-same moment, ‘One of you shall
betray me.’ The figures are, as usual, ranged on one side of a long
table. Christ, in the centre, holds a piece of bread in his hand; on
his left is St. John, and on his right St. James Major, both seen in
profile. The face of St. John expresses interrogation; that of St.
James, interrogation and a start of amazement. Next to St. James are
Peter, Thomas, Andrew; then Philip, who has a small cross upon his
breast. After St. John come James Minor, Simon, Jude, Judas Iscariot,
and Bartholomew. Judas, with his hands folded together, leans forward,
and looks down, with a round mean face, in which there is no power of
any kind, not even of malignity. In passing almost immediately from the
Cenacolo in the St. Onofrio to that in the Salvi, we feel strongly all
the difference between the mental and moral superiority of Raphael at
the age of twenty, and the artistic greatness of Andrea in the maturity
of his age and talent. This fresco deserves its high celebrity. It is
impossible to look on it without admiration, considered as a work of
art. The variety of the attitudes, the disposition of the limbs beneath
the table, the ample, tasteful draperies, deserve the highest praise;
but the heads are deficient in character and elevation, and the whole
composition wants that solemnity of feeling proper to the subject.
* * * * *
The Cenacolo of Titian, painted for Philip II. for the altar of his
chapel in the Escurial, is also a notable example of the want of proper
reverential feeling: two servants are in attendance; Judas is in front,
averting his head, which is in deep shadow; a dog is under the table,
and the Holy Ghost is descending from above.
Niccolò Poussin has three times painted the Cenacolo. In the two series
of the Seven Sacraments, he has, of course, represented the institution
of the Eucharist, as proper to his subject; in both instances, in that
pure and classical taste proper to himself. In the best and largest
composition, the apostles are reclining on couches round the table.
Christ holds a plate full of bread, and appears as saying, ‘Take, eat.’
Four are putting the morsel into their mouths. Judas is seen behind,
with an abject look, stealing out of the room.
* * * * *
The faults which I have observed in pictures of this subject are
chiefly met with in the Venetian, Flemish, and later Bolognese schools.
When the _motif_ selected is the institution of the Eucharist, it is a
fault to sacrifice the solemnity and religious import of the scene in
order to render it more dramatic: it ought not to be dramatic; but the
pervading sentiment should be _one_, a deep and awful reverence. When
Christ is distributing the bread and wine, the apostles should not be
conversing with each other; nor should the figures exceed twelve in
number, for it appears to me that the introduction of Judas disturbs
the sacred harmony and tranquillity of the scene. When the _motif_ is
the celebration of the Passover, or the detection of Judas, a more
dramatic and varied arrangement is necessary; but here, to make the
apostles intent on eating and drinking, as in some old German pictures,
is a fault. Even Albano has represented one of the apostles as peeping
into an empty wine-pitcher with a disappointed look.
* * * * *
It appears to me, also, a gross fault to introduce dogs and cats, and
other animals; although I have heard it observed, that a dog gnawing a
bone is introduced with propriety, to show that the supper is over, the
Paschal Lamb eaten, before the moment represented.
Vulgar heads, taken from vulgar models, or selected without any regard
either to the ancient types, or the traditional character of the
different apostles, are defects of frequent occurrence, especially in
the older German schools; and in Titian, Paul Veronese, and Rubens,
even where the heads are otherwise fine and expressive, the scriptural
truth of character is in general sacrificed.
It is a fault, as I have already observed, to represent Judas anxiously
concealing the purse.
* * * * *
Holbein, in his famous Last Supper at Basle, and in the small one in
the Louvre, has adopted the usual arrangement: the heads all want
elevation; but here the attention fixes at once upon Judas Iscariot—the
very ideal of scoundrelism—I can use no other word to express the
unmitigated ugliness, vulgarity, and brutality of the face. Lavater
has referred to it as an example of the physiognomy proper to cruelty
and avarice; but the dissimulation is wanting. This base, eager,
hungry-looking villain stands betrayed by his own looks: he is too
prominent; he is in fact the principal figure;—a fault in taste,
feeling, and propriety.
* * * * *
The introduction of a great number of figures, as spectators or
attendants, is a fault; excusable, perhaps, where the subject is
decorative and intended for the wall of a refectory, but not otherwise.
In the composition of Paul Veronese, there are twenty-three figures;
in that of Zucchero, forty-five; in that of Baroccio, twenty-one. These
supernumerary persons detract from the dignity and solemnity of the
scene.
* * * * *
Tintoretto has introduced several spectators, and among them an old
woman spinning in a corner, who, while she turns her spindle, looks on
with an observant eye. This alludes to an early tradition, that the
Last Supper was eaten in the house of Mary, the mother of Mark the
evangelist. But it is nowhere said that she was present, and therefore
it is an impropriety to introduce her. Magnificent architecture, as in
the picture by B. Peruzzi (who, by the way, was an architect), seems
objectionable: but equally unsuitable is the poor dismantled garret in
this picture of Tintoretto; for the chamber in which the scene took
place was ‘the guest chamber,’ a large upper room, ready prepared; and
as it was afterwards the scene of the Pentecost, it must have held more
than a hundred persons.
* * * * *
It is a fault, as I have already observed, to represent John as
_asleep_ on the breast or the shoulder of our Saviour.
* * * * *
Though countenanced by the highest authorities in Art, I believe it
must be considered as a fault, or at least a mistake, to represent our
Saviour and his apostles as seated, instead of reclining round the
table. It is a fault, not merely because the use of the _triclinium_
or couch at all social meals was general in the antique times,—for the
custom of sitting upright was not so entirely extinct among the Jews
but that it might on any other occasion have been admissible,—but, from
peculiar circumstances, it became in this instance an impropriety. We
know that when the Passover was first instituted the Jews were enjoined
to eat it standing, as men in haste, with girded loins and sandalled
feet: but afterwards it was made imperative that they should eat it
in an attitude of repose, lying upon couches, and as men at ease; and
the reason for this was, that all the circumstances of the meal, and
particularly the attitude in which it was eaten, should indicate the
condition of security and freedom which the Israelites enjoyed after
their deliverance from the Egyptian bondage. In the then imperfect
state of Biblical criticism, this fact seems to have been unknown to
the earlier artists, or disregarded by those who employed and directed
them. Among modern artists, Poussin and Le Sueur have scrupulously
attended to it, even when the moment chosen is the mystical
distribution of the bread and wine which succeeded the Paschal Supper.
Commentators have remarked, that if Christ and his disciples _reclined_
at table, then, supposing Christ to have the central place of honour,
the head of John would have been near to the bosom of Christ: but under
these circumstances, if Judas were sufficiently near to receive the
sop from the hand of Christ, then he must have reclined next to him
on the other side, and have taken precedence of Peter. This supposed
a propinquity which the early Christian artists deemed offensive and
inadmissible.
* * * * *
In the composition by Stradano the arrangement of the table and figures
is particularly well managed: all recline on couches; in the centre
of the table is a dish, to which Christ extends his hand, and Judas,
who is here rather handsome than otherwise, at the same time stretches
forth his; the moment is evidently, ‘He that dippeth with me in the
dish, the same shall betray me.’ Two circumstances spoil this picture,
and bring it down to the level of the vulgar and the commonplace. In
the background is seen a kitchen and the cooking of the supper. Under
Judas crouches a hideous demon, with horns, hoof, and tail, visible
only to the spectator.
* * * * *
When the Cenacolo represents the Eucharist, it is, perhaps, allowable
to introduce angels, because it was, and I believe is, an established
belief, that, visible or invisible, they are always present at the
Sacrament. The Holy Ghost descending from above is unsanctioned by
Scripture, but may serve to mark the mystical and peculiar solemnity
of the moment chosen for representation. It may signify, ‘He that
receiveth me, receiveth _Him_ that sent me.’ But where angels attend,
or where the Spiritual Comforter comes floating down from above, then
the presence of Judas, or of any superfluous figures as spectators or
servitors, or of dogs or other animals, becomes a manifest impropriety.
The introduction of the Devil in person as tempting Judas is rendered
pardonable by the naïveté of the early painters: in the later schools
of art it is offensive and ridiculous.
The Cenacolo of Baroccio, painted by order of Clement VIII. (1594), for
his family chapel in the Santa Maria-sopra-Minerva, is remarkable for
an anecdote relating to it. Baroccio, who was not eminent for a correct
taste, had in his first sketch reverted to the ancient fashion of
placing Satan close behind Judas, whispering in his ear, and tempting
him to betray his Master. The Pope expressed his dissatisfaction,—‘_che
non gli piaceva il demonio si dimesticasse tanto con Gesù Cristo_,’—and
ordered him to remove the offensive figure. This is not the last
example of the ancient manner of treatment. In the Cenacolo of
Franceschini, painted nearly a century later, two angels are attending
on the sacred repast, while Judas is in the act of leaving the room,
conducted by Satan in person.
* * * * *
It is surely a fault, in a scene of such solemn and sacred import,
to make the head of Judas a vehicle for public or private satire, by
giving him the features of some obnoxious personage of the time.[243]
This, according to tradition, has been done in some instances. Perhaps
the most remarkable example that could be cited is the story of Andrea
del Castagno, who, after having betrayed and assassinated his friend
Domenico Veneziano, painted himself in the character of Judas: a
curious instance of remorse of conscience.
* * * * *
Volumes might be written on the subject of the Last Supper. It extends
before me, as I think and write, into endless suggestive associations,
which, for the present, I dare not follow out: but I shall have
occasion to return to it hereafter.[244]