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.