The Last Supper.
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]