From:
Susanna Avery‐Quash (ed.), Ayla Lepine (ed.), Isobel Muir (co‐editor), Fruits of the Spirit: Art from the Heart, digital edition (London: The National Gallery, 2022).

Susanna Avery‐Quash

The great American novelist Henry James is quoted as saying: ‘Three things in human life are important: The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.’¹ Delacroix’s painting of Ovid among the Scythians expresses the same sentiment through paint. A man in a blue toga reclines on the ground and sees three figures approaching, one kneeling with a basket of provisions. While other figures and animals draw near, in the foreground a mare is being milked, the implication being that the stranger will soon be given something to drink as well as to eat. The surroundings appear as beneficent as its inhabitants are friendly: sun radiates through a cloudy blue sky, casting shadows on a lake and a verdant landscape.

The scene represents an imagined episode in the life of the ancient Roman poet Ovid (43 BCE–17 CE), who in 8 CE was banished by the Emperor Augustus to the Black Sea port of Tomis (in present‐day Romania).² At the time, the region was inhabited by the Scythians, a nomadic warrior tribe from southern Siberia. In Ovid’s accounts of his exile, Tomis was a war‐torn cultural wasteland far away from Rome. This is not, however, the way Delacroix chose to depict the place: although one man carries a large shield, he and all the other characters are going about their daily lives in peace and harmony.

For Delacroix, ideas around civilisation and how a civilised society should treat its citizens were of constant interest.³ As early as the mid‐1830s, he had compared Ovid with Daniel Defoe’s fictional castaway, Robinson Crusoe, who spent nearly thirty years on a remote desert island. Delacroix painted images of another poet, the sixteenth‐century Italian Torquato Tasso, as a victim of cruel and arbitrary power in Tasso in the Madhouse.⁴ Delacroix’s first painting of the exiled Ovid appeared in the 1840s, as part of the ceiling decoration for the Palais Bourbon (now the National Assembly) in Paris.⁵ In the National Gallery’s picture of 1859, Delacroix does not focus on the act of banishment or Ovid’s suffering; instead, he underscores the life‐giving nourishment Ovid received from fellow human beings and from the earth. The kind response of the ‘barbarous’ Scythians is implicitly contrasted with Ovid’s cruel treatment by ‘civilised’ Rome.

Whereas Delacroix’s painting shows an act of communal kindness, the paired painting from the Bowes Museum depicts an individual act of kindness in which Christ miraculously heals the ear of a slave even as he himself is being taken captive. The Jewish and Christian religions hold kindness in word and deed at their heart. A fundamental precept, it is derived from Leviticus 19 and Deuteronomy 6, and is woven together in Jesus’s reflections regarding the relationship between love of God, neighbour and self. He offers these as the first and second commandments, saying ‘there is no other commandment greater than these’ (Mark 12.31). A list of charitable acts recounted in the New Testament Gospel of Matthew was quickly codified by the Church into its ‘Seven Corporal Works of Mercy’: feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, giving shelter to travellers, visiting the sick, visiting the imprisoned and burying the dead.

Many world religions hold kindness and acts of charity as key moral principles. Jews read in the Talmud: ‘What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour. This is the whole Torah; all the rest is commentary. Go and learn it.’⁶ Indeed, the concept of chesed, which appears in the Torah more than 190 times and is often translated as ‘loving‐kindness’, means giving of oneself fully, with love and compassion. In Islam, the Quran and the Hadith similarly teach that a person’s every action should be governed by kindness and compassion so that they emulate Allah, who, in the words of the Prophet Muhammad, ‘is kind, and he loves kindness in all matters’.⁷ Acts of kindness for Muslims should encompass, according to the Quran, doing good, both to family and strangers, the latter defined as ‘orphans, the needy, the near neighbour, the neighbour farther away, the companion at your side’.⁸

Countless philosophers, writers and poets have explored these connections. For example, William Wordsworth (1770–1850) spoke feelingly about those ‘little unremembered acts of kindness and of love’ in his poem ‘Tintern Abbey’; Henry David Thoreau’s (1817–1862) poem ‘On Kindness’ includes the lines, ‘And each may other help, and service do,/Drawing Love’s bands more tight,/Service he ne’er shall rue …’; and Wilfred Owen’s (1893–1918) war poem ‘Greater Love’ is inspired by Jesus’ words: ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’⁹ Owen’s poetry honours the actions of those who went far beyond common kindness when they gave their lives for millions of people they would never meet.

As a secular principle, kindness is also a foundational quality for human connection. An article in The Guardian in April 2018 surveyed what it saw as a new ‘cult of kindness’, given expression through such initiatives as the GoFundMe campaigning platform, which since 2010 has seen millions of donors giving billions of dollars to worthy causes.¹⁰ Since the start of the pandemic in March 2020, countless acts of kindness have been demonstrated the world over, for instance, when UK doctors and nurses working in the NHS received donations of food, IT and medical equipment from friends, the local community and global companies. With the invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 and a heightened refugee crisis, the need for kindness remains; indeed, Delacroix’s painting of a kind and civilised society, in which the stranger is welcomed, sheltered, clothed and fed, seems more pertinent than ever.

Jordan Booker

This painting was inspired by the biblical narrative in which Christ and his disciples went outside to pray after the Last Supper, the final meal they enjoyed before Christ’s death: ‘He came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, and the disciples followed him’.¹¹ However, soldiers of Jerusalem’s chief priests soon arrived at arrest Christ. The disciple Judas committed an act of prophesied betrayal when he kissed Christ on the cheek – revealing Christ’s identity to the hostile soldiers. As they mobilise to apprehend Christ, the other disciples desperately crowd around him, asking, ‘Should we strike with our swords?’¹² This impassioned frenzy reaches a climax when the apostle Peter strikes the High Priest’s servant Malchus, cutting off his ear.¹³ ‘No more of this!’ Christ proclaims and, in a moment of calm amid the chaos, heals Malchus’ ear with a single touch.¹⁴ Peter’s violent attack on Malchus is recorded in all four gospels, but Christ’s healing action is only recounted in Luke’s Gospel, while Malchus is only named in John’s.¹⁵ This painting’s emphasis on this moment of healing is very rare.

The unknown artist of the Bowes painting is thought to have been influenced by the Flemish painter and art dealer Louis Finson (1580–1617), an ardent follower of the Italian artist Caravaggio (1571–1610).¹⁶ Paintings of the Passion (the last few days of Christ’s life) inspired by Caravaggio were often dark, dramatic and even claustrophobic, drawing attention to violence and to Christ’s suffering.¹⁷ By contrast, Christ Healing the Ear of Malchus bears witness to a tender exchange where shadows form a framing of kinds around an illumined centre. Differing from Caravaggio’s approach, the artist opted for a mellow palette; the pinks, blues, and yellows are almost pastel in their mildness.

The artist’s approach parallels the message of the texts of the Flemish mystic Jan van Ruusbroec (c.1294–1381), who asserted that ‘none can be kind save the meek’.¹⁸ Although Ruusbroec’s Spiritual Espousals were written in the fourteenth century, a version was published in modern Dutch in 1624.¹⁹ Ruusbroec defines meekness as a ‘peaceful endurance’ which allows one to act calmly and benevolently, even in hostile circumstances.²⁰ This painting’s mildness, when contrasted with contemporaneous examples, reflects the example of ‘peaceful endurance’ that Christ set during his arrest, torture and crucifixion.

The Bowes painting does not show Peter, his sword or Malchus’ pain. An anonymous figure extends an arm around Malchus, a sympathetic gesture which stops the servant from collapsing backwards. Similarly, whereas contemporary renditions emphasised the soldiers’ hostility towards Christ, here the soldier’s grip on Christ’s shoulder appears slack. It is transformed from a forceful means of restraint to a bolstering crutch as the soldier marvels – awe‐struck – at the miracle taking place before him. It seems that at every opportunity the artist breaks from convention to emphasise kindness, compassion and even pacifism over violence and hostility.

In the Bowes painting, the figures’ gestures spiral inward towards the centre of the painting, where Christ’s hand points to his heart. Malchus stares in awe at his healer. The seventeenth‐century viewer would likely have also knelt before the painting in prayer, echoing Malchus’ pose. Consequently, when looking up at the painting, Christ engages the viewer’s attention and the gesture towards his heart becomes a direct appeal to ‘love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return … for [God] is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked’.²¹

Ruusbroec likened a ‘heart full of kindness [to] a lamp full of precious oil [which] enlightens the erring sinner with good example’,²² echoing Christ’s statement in the Gospel of Matthew: ‘Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works’.²³ Ruusbroec also wrote that from ‘kindness’ springs ‘compassion’, that is, ‘a wound in the heart, whence flows a common love to all mankind [that] cannot be healed so long as any suffering lives’.²⁴ In the Bowes painting, half‐obscured in shadow, a noose looms behind Christ, reminding the viewer of the suffering he will soon endure, arguably stirring their sense of compassion and empathy, impelling them to act. To Jan van Ruusbroec, then, ‘kindness’ was a form of activism – a defiant benevolence, spurred on by compassion, which inspired others to follow suit.

In 1604, the Flemish painter, poet and pioneering art historian Carel van Mander (1548–1606) declared that the ‘reckless and destructive Mars is terrifying our country with thundering batteries that raise even the grey hairs of Time’.²⁵ Van Mander was referencing the Eighty Years’ War (1568–1648), a bloody conflict for Netherlandish independence from Spanish (and Catholic) rule, resulting in the separation of the Northern and Southern Netherlands and the formation of the (Protestant) Dutch Republic. April 1609 saw a tentative ceasefire to the hostilities – later known as the Twelve Years’ Truce – but a fully‐fledged peace treaty was never achieved. Fearing religious persecution, many fled the Southern Netherlands, becoming refugees and suffering ‘anti‐immigrant rhetoric and hostility’ even within provinces of their native country.²⁶ Unsurprisingly, the seventeenth‐century Netherlands spawned a number of divergent religious sects, many of which petitioned for kindness and pacifism.²⁷ Perhaps this painting was another plea for compassion and friendship while hostility ravaged the region.

Kindness in the midst of violence is a theme for our own time, too. In March 2022, Global Citizen published an article entitled ‘Nine Acts of Kindness towards Ukraine’s People that Will Give You Hope’.²⁸ This is just one of the numerous articles and social media posts which emphasise kind acts towards Ukrainian refugees. No matter the century or context, kindness is essential and enduring.

Graham A. Cutler

Recorded in all four Gospels in the New Testament, the encounter of Jesus with Malchus is often seen as an aside. However, those who read the Bible often may, over time, begin to understand that it is in these happenstances where important truths or teaching points occur.

The story centres on the betrayal of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, near Jerusalem, when he is arrested. He has never done harm to anyone. Quite the contrary, he has only done good works throughout his life. He has knowingly been betrayed by Judas, one of his twelve disciples, and is now, having been set up, being arrested by the staff of the High Priest of the Temple in Jerusalem. They are acting under their limited authority allowed by the occupying Roman army. Until this point, the life of Jesus has been heading towards a voluntary goal: the redemption of humanity. At this very moment in the garden, Jesus’ free will and decision‐making have been taken away. Now his fate lies in the hands of the authorities.

Whether through love or fear, Peter, the impetuous disciple, lashes out with his sword at the servant of the High Priest and strikes the servant’s ear. It is at this point in the narrative that the artist captures a moment of divine kindness, as Jesus reaches out and heals the servant’s ear. There is an intimacy between the servant and Jesus. Within the chaos of an arrest in the darkness of the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus still sees the real needs of those around him, sees beyond the actions of Peter, the guards and the priests, and attends to the victim’s wound.

If we notice the position of the hands, from the guard to the rear of Jesus and the hands of Jesus himself as well as the character to Malchus’ left, they form a vertical line. Contrast this with the heads of the character to the left of the painting, Jesus and the guard or priest to the right of the work: they form a horizontal line. Is this a deliberate portrayal of the intersecting horizontal and vertical beams of the cross on which Jesus will be crucified later in this story? Is this cross‐like motif a prophetic glimpse of the suffering and victory to come?

Within a faith setting, this motif reiterates to the observer, or devotee, the Gospel message of Good Friday and Easter Sunday, which can be interpreted as the sacrifice of self‐interest for the greater good. Christians believe that the death of Jesus had been prophesied throughout the Old Testament – especially in the book of Isaiah.

Though the incident is mentioned in numerous Gospel accounts, John’s Gospel is the only text that includes Malchus’ name. He matters, as an individual, to Christ and to us. The expression of love within the act of healing is very apparent. Jesus does not just dutifully allay the suffering of the victim, working without emotion to repair the damage inflicted by Peter. Instead, we see Jesus demonstrating deep compassion, even love for the servant of his captor. The position of both Jesus’ right forefinger directed at his own heart and the placing of his left forefinger on the severed ear of the servant draw the viewer to see something of the compassion and love of Jesus as he offer healing to his enemies.

The author of Galatians uses the word xrēstótēs, which is translated as ‘kindness’. The biblical scholar James Strong defines ‘divine kindness’ as the Spirit‐produced goodness which meets the need and avoids human harshness (cruelty).²⁹ The Old Testament has a Hebrew word (not etymologically linked to the Greek) which epitomises the action of kindness as demonstrated by Jesus towards Malchus. Occurring almost 250 times in the Old Testament, most instances of the word chesed are found in the writings of the Psalms. It is a word that is not translatable into English. The English Reformer Miles Coverdale (1488–1569) created the biblical word ‘loving‐kindness’ to communicate the depth and meaning of chesed. This untranslatable word, chesed, expresses the inexpressible intervention of Jesus toward the servant. I find Michael Card’s working definition a really helpful starting point in understanding chesed. He says chesed is: ‘When the person from which I have a right to expect nothing gives me everything.’³⁰

In the Christian community of Barnard Castle & Teesdale, a selection of Methodists and Anglicans was asked about how they understood the painting and the story of Malchus. In response, there were, as expected, many personal testimonies of occurrences in their lives when members of the group had experienced undeserved kindness. Several people recounted instances throughout the recent pandemic when they themselves had received this fruit of kindness from strangers or unknown neighbours.

The viewer’s perception of who is caring for whom can create surprising interpretations and new insights. In Delacroix’s Ovid among the Scythians the idea of a ‘man of culture’ among this barbarous people might have meant that Ovid was in danger of being rejected or worse. His actual lived experience challenged expectations – both the viewer’s and his own. Contrary to popular belief, and perhaps some lived experience, the locals extended towards this ‘civilised man’ hospitality, empathy and care when he was not expecting it. This is true kindness in action.

I recently spoke with someone in my community who had experienced a fall and injury at home. She reflected on a neighbour’s extensive, immediate help, the paramedic’s caring response and action, the wonderful treatment at A&E, and, finally, the kindness of a taxi driver, who drove her home and walked with her to the front door in the early hours of the morning to ensure her safety. The person expressed gratitude for these many acts of kindness. To return to Card’s definition of chesed, they were all ‘people from whom I have a right to expect nothing who gave me everything’.

In a time when there is so much news of conflict, revenge and poverty, it is heartening to hear that the fruit of kindness is still being offered in abundance.

Notes