An appeal was launched last week to raise the money necessary to restore St Paul’s Anglican Pro-Cathedral in Valletta. What makes the matter urgent is that the exterior especially is coming apart very quickly indeed. The people behind this appeal deserve all the support they can get, from government if necessary.
By which I mean the government of Malta, because ‘il-knisja tal-Ingliżi’ is a major instalment in Valletta’s eclectic character. The room I spent the bulk of my time in as a child and teenager had a balcony that faced the tower and steeple. It was much later that I realised that my view had also been an account, in stone, of the aesthetics and political intrigue of the early British period. Part of that story has been told by Conrad Thake in his excellent book on William Scamp.
We owe St Paul’s to William IV’s widow, Adelaide, who in 1838 arrived in Malta for a period of convalescence. One of her first concerns was to push for a decent place where British people stationed in Malta could practise their faith.
This was a thornier matter than might be imagined. First, the British exchequer’s means were too limited to make a church in Malta much of a priority. Second, Malta presented a little problem called the sensitive toes of the Catholic Church, which the British were extremely reluctant to tread on. They knew that empires do not live by military might alone.
I once chanced across a 19th century document that told of British soldiers in Malta who ended up court-martialled for having refused to take part in what they probably saw as popish tomfoolery. Given their keenness to cultivate the Catholic Church, it is not surprising that the British authorities thought that an Anglican church would be something of a powder keg.
Still, queen dowagers tend to be both powerful and rich. The new church would be paid for out of Adelaide’s own pocket, and she laid the foundation stone on March 20, 1839. The people behind last week’s appeal must think it unfortunate that if history repeats itself, it does so only vaguely. As in the first instance, the British government won’t touch the costs. This time, however, there is neither Adelaide nor her resolve and fat purse.
St Paul’s finds itself in a tricky predicament. Because it is tal-Ingliżi, people associate it with a nation-state that still exists, that is not our own, and that might be expected to pay for its upkeep. This contrasts with ‘tal-kavallieri’ heritage, which is fully ours in the absence of a rival claim.
The issue of funds at St Paul’s is as tricky as it was back in 1838. By a delicious déjà vu, it is once more a queen who could save the day
Whatever the association, the cathedral gets no money from the British government. Nor is the government of Malta too forthcoming. It is not tal-Ingliżi and in any case is more interested in spending its money on fancy roundabouts and persons of trust.
What little money there might be comes from the congregation, which is a tiny group of British expats. That puts it in a similar situation to that of Maltese churches, except most Maltese churches can draw on funds raised by substantial pools of locals irrespective of their status as congregations or otherwise.
Thankfully I think, local churches in Malta are seen as places of collective ownership to be maintained, rather than heritage sites to be restored. For example, the Ta’ Ġieżu church in Rabat has just been regilded at considerable cost, and looks as new – never mind that the old gilding made it look like the old church it is. The notion of collective ownership keeps churches well-funded and – maintained.
In this sense, the issue of funds at St Paul’s is as tricky as it was back in 1838. By a delicious déjà vu, it is once more a queen who could save the day. The BBC report last week appealed to the fact that St Paul’s was ‘the Queen’s cathedral’; then-Princess Elizabeth worshipped there when she lived in Malta in 1949-51.
Whether or not that history lesson will melt the hearts of donors in Britain remains to be seen. The point is that the cathedral is as foreign today as it was when a British architect was roped in for the job. It is clear that Scamp, who took over from Lankesheer as the architect of St Paul’s and made it what we know today, wanted something that would stand out.
No surprises there: rather like botanical gardening in reverse, British colonial architecture had few qualms about planting the familiar in unlikely locations. During a performance as part of the baroque festival a few weeks ago, someone remarked to me that the place didn’t feel like a church – by which she meant that it didn’t feel like a church, to a Catholic, in Malta. But then maybe that was Scamp’s idea all along.
The kind of churches it does feel like are found in London. St Paul’s bears more than a passing resemblance to St George’s in Bloomsbury, for example, and the tower looks exactly like that of St Mary-le-Bow in the City. The London churches are by Hawksmoor and Wren respectively. Transplanted in Malta, however, their legacy looks anything but baroque.
It’s hard to tell what Maltese people made of it when they first saw it. What we do know is that a hundred-odd years later they embarked on a plan for a very Catholic-looking dome that would rub elbows with St Paul’s on the Valletta skyline. That, and the minor point that, when finished, the dome would be the taller of the two. Petty or not, old grudges make for multiple stories.
It is for these many reasons that St Paul’s deserves to be rescued by us, the people of Malta. If architecture is symphony in stone, the case at hand is that plus a masterclass of the history of colonial politics and architectural itineraries. That it does no disservice to the Valletta skyline in the process, is added value.
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