Most urban societies have had some form of police, in addition to soldiers and armed guards. In the Roman Empire these were known as lictors, employed to act as bodyguards to magistrates, who could also arrest suspects and punish offenders under the magistrate’s authority.

Henryk Siemiradzki’s Christian Dirce of 1897 refers to Dirce, a figure in Greek mythology who was killed by being tied to the horns of a bull. Accounts of Roman martyrdoms report that the killing of Christian women sometimes occurred in enactments of the death of Dirce, hence the scene shown here, in which a woman’s near-naked body is draped over the body of a bull. Siemiradzki shows the emperor and his entourage, including two lictors holding their fasces, symbolic rods and axes, gazing at the grim aftermath. The word Fascism is derived from the fasces, which are themselves often symbolic of Fascist groups.

Various police forces evolved across Europe after the Middle Ages, but it wasn’t until the early nineteenth century that they became recognisable in modern form, with organised professionals. Although by no means the first, the city of London’s Metropolitan Police force was created by Act of Parliament in 1829, and quickly became known as Peelers after the minister responsible.

These police forces adopted distinctive dress, typically dark blue, to set them apart from civil guard and other military formations. Most also wore headgear that made them instantly recognisable as officers of the law.

Jules Breton’s first masterpiece, The Gleaners (1854), shows their oversight by the garde champêtre or village policeman, an older man distinguished by his official hat and armband, who was probably an army veteran.

William Powell Frith’s The Railway Station (1862) is set in the crowded and busy Paddington railway station in London that had only been completed a decade earlier by the great Victorian engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The centre of action is at the right of the painting, where an arrest is being made, shown in the detail below. A man dressed in brown clothes is about to board the train, within which a woman stares aghast at the scene. Two Scotland Yard detectives, complete with top hats, are in the process of serving him a warrant for his arrest, the other stood ready with a pair of handcuffs.

Police forces came to the fore later in the century when industrial unrest spread across the coalfields of Europe.

One of the first prominent paintings of a strike is Alfred Philippe Roll’s Miners’ Strike, exhibited in the Salon of 1880 or perhaps the following year. It’s most probably based on a strike at Denain in the Nord-Pas de Calais coalfield of that year. It shows the desperate and increasingly worrying gathering of striking miners and their families. A woman is restraining one man from throwing a rock at the pithead buildings. Mounted police are present, handcuffing one of the strikers.

Police also became involved in the regulation of prostitution in some cities.

Just before Christmas 1886, Christian Krohg’s first novel Albertine was published by a left-wing publisher. Its central theme is prostitution in Norway at the time, and the police quickly seized all the copies they could find, banning it on the grounds of violating the good morals of the people. At the same time as he was writing that novel, Krohg had been working on his largest and most complex painting: Albertine in the Police Doctor’s Waiting Room (1885-87).

In the novel, Albertine starts as a poor seamstress, who is mistaken for a prostitute by the police officer in charge of the section controlling prostitutes. He plies her with alcohol then rapes her. She is summoned to be inspected by the police doctor, whose examination further violates her, making her think that she is destined to be a prostitute, and that is, of course, exactly what happens.

Albertine isn’t the prominent woman in the centre looking directly at the viewer: Krohg’s heroine is the simple and humble country girl at the front of the queue to go into the police doctor for inspection. Behind her is a motley line of women from a wide range of situations. At the right, in the corner of the room, is another country girl with flushed cheeks. Others are apparently more advanced in their careers, and stare at Albertine, whose profiled face is barely visible from behind her headscarf. Barring the way to the surgery door, and in control of the proceedings, is a policeman.

In Denmark, Erik Henningsen’s first major painting bears the enigmatic title of Summum jus, summa injuria. Infanticide (1886). The Latin quotation comes from Cicero’s De Officiis I, 33, and literally means the highest law, the greatest injustice. It is a warning still used that strict application of rights and the law carries the danger of doing some people a huge injustice, and Henningsen’s narrative is an important example of a serious social and legal problem at the time.

Two labourers are digging a small pit at the side of a track across sand dunes. They are supervised by two policemen, one of whom keeps a written record. Behind and to the right is another policeman who holds a young woman by the elbow. She looks down as she is petting a dog.

The subtitle provides the clue as to what is going on. The labourers are trying to find the body of a baby, who is the subject of a police investigation. The young woman is the child’s mother. Unmarried, she had the baby in secret, smothered it at birth, and disposed of its body. She knows that if her baby is discovered, her punishment will be severe. But this was the only course open to her, as having a baby out of wedlock was against accepted religious and moral standards of the day.

The following year, Henningsen’s Farmers in the Capital (1887) shows migrants freshly arrived in Copenhagen from the country. The father is speaking to a mounted policeman, presumably asking him for directions to their lodgings.

Krohg’s The Struggle for Existence (also translated as The Struggle for Survival) (1889) shows Karl Johan Street in Oslo in the depths of winter, almost deserted except for a tight-packed crowd of poor women and children queuing for free bread. A policeman, wearing a heavy coat and fur hat, walks in the distance, down the middle of the icy street, detached from the scene.

Henningsen’s Evicted from 1892 shows a family of four being evicted into the street in the winter snow. With them are their meagre possessions, including a saw suggesting the father may be a carpenter. In the background he is still arguing with a policeman.

José Uría’s After a Strike, from 1895, revolves around a strike and its violent consequence. The scene is a large forge that’s apparently standing idle because of a strike. At the far right is a row of mounted police, and what may be lifeless bodies laid out on the ground. Inside the factory a woman, presumably a wife, kneels and embraces her child, beside what is presumably the dead body of her husband, who was a worker there. Close to his body is a large hammer, apparently the instrument of his death. In the distance, one of two policemen comfort a younger woman.

The role of police forces has remained as controversial ever since.

Think of Norway and you envisage fjords, but the best-known paintings of the country show its capital Oslo, in Edvard Munch’s Evening on Karl Johan and The Scream. This weekend we’re off to spend a couple of days visiting the streets of the city today, and the surrounding countryside tomorrow.

Oslo became a capital around 1300, and was originally centred on its royal residence and the mediaeval Akershus Fortress built to defend it. Much of the old city was destroyed by fire in 1624, so was rebuilt and renamed Christiania in honour of its King Christian IV. From 1877, when it was growing as a trading port, it was officially respelled as Kristiania, and was only renamed Oslo in 1925.

This map shows the relatively small urban area as it was in 1887. It’s situated at the northern end of Oslofjord, that broadens as it runs south to open into the eastern side of the North Sea opposite the artists’ colony at Skagen in Denmark. Most of its major buildings date from the nineteenth century, when it acquired its Royal Palace, parliament, university and commercial centre. Its population grew rapidly from less than ten thousand at the start of that century to nearly a quarter of a million by its end.

The centre of the city is dominated by its best-known street, Karl Johan, running from the Royal Palace in the west to the central railway station in the east.

Christian Krohg’s Struggle for Existence (also translated as The Struggle for Survival) from 1889 shows Karl Johan in the depths of winter, almost deserted except for a tight-packed crowd of poor women and children queuing for free bread. They are wrapped up in patched and tatty clothing, clutching baskets and other containers in which to put the food. A disembodied hand is passing a single bread roll out to them, from within the pillars at the left edge. That was yesterday’s bread; now stale, the baker is giving it away only because he cannot sell it. A policeman, wearing a heavy coat and fur hat, walks in the distance, down the middle of the icy street, detached from the scene.

Edvard Munch painted numerous views of this street, here Karl Johan in the Rain from 1891. This shows it rising up towards the Royal Palace in the distance, with its pavements crowded with black umbrellas.

Munch’s famous Evening on Karl Johan from the following year was originally just known as Evening. This looks from the Royal Palace towards Storting (the parliament building) with greatly foreshortened perspective to pack the pedestrians together and instil a deep sense of anxiety.

Christian Krohg’s wife Oda painted this wonderful Portrait of Christian Krohg in about 1903. Although made during their years in Paris, it shows the artist by the Grand Café on Karl Johan, as a military band marches along the tramlines.

Munch continued to paint through the 1930s, although little of his work from those years is well known. Summer on Karl Johan Street, Oslo (1933) shows how much his style continued to evolve, and contrasts with his earlier dark, anxious and melancholic scenes. This view is from the west end of Karl Johan, close to the Royal Palace.

When Frits Thaulow returned to Norway at the end of the nineteenth century he painted several views of the Akerselva or Akerselven River running through industrial buildings in the eastern part of the city centre. Those include The Akerselven River in the Snow, probably painted between 1897-1901.

This is Thaulow’s atmospheric pastel of Winter in Akerselva from about 1897.

In 1912, Thorolf Holmboe painted another section of the river in Akerselva by Marselis’ gate. This is a more modern apartment block well to the north of the central station.

Aksel Waldemar Johannessen was born and brought up in the poor suburb of Hammersborg, to the north of Karl Johan.

During the early years of the twentieth century, Johannessen painted colourful street scenes of the city, such as this Market Scene from about 1916.

Johannessen’s Mother and Child (1918-20) is set in the Hammersborg district, where a care-worn working class mother is seen walking out at night, her young child held firmly within her shawl.

Gudmund Stenersen’s contrasting Sunday in Majorstuen from 1921 shows this more affluent suburb at the western edge of the city, where construction didn’t start until the end of the nineteenth century, when the railway reached it and made commuting easy. This winter’s day is sufficiently snowy for many of these folk to be carrying their cross-country skis, and one woman in the foreground is still skiing on hers.

The origin of the umbrella is lost in the mists of time. They have certainly been around in some form for a couple of millennia, but didn’t start to become popular in Europe until the eighteenth century. They have ecclesiastic relations in what’s known as an umbraculum, a small canopy placed over someone like the Pope to indicate their importance.

Although often indistinguishable, umbrellas can be used either to shelter from rain or to cast shade in strong sunlight, while parasols are intended only for the latter purpose. This article concentrates on those used in rain, and its sequel next week will examine those for the sun.

Being more recent, umbrellas don’t appear to have featured in classical or religious narratives, and are seldom involved in those more contemporary.

In Edmund Blair Leighton’s A Wet Sunday Morning from 1896, a well-dressed man is sheltering a young woman under his umbrella as they walk away from church in the rain. There’s a little more depth to this simple story, with two young women enthusiastically watching the couple from the top of the church steps, although no one seems to care about the old widow left to walk behind the couple, alone and without any shelter.

Edgar Degas’ superb narrative pastel painting Waiting (c 1882) shows two women sat side-by-side on a wooden bench in a corridor or waiting area within the ballet of the Paris Opera. Sat to the right of the dancer is a woman wearing black street clothing, holding an unrolled black umbrella, and with black walking or working shoes. Degas here invites the viewer to speculate in constructing their own narrative.

As umbrellas are notoriously hard to handle in strong wind, they may be used to tell the viewer how windy it is.

Christian Krohg’s The Umbrella from 1902 is an unusual one-off: a view looking down from the window of a building on a lone woman. She’s walking up a rough earth track, strewn with rocks, in windy weather, and her umbrella has been blown out by a fierce gust.

The post-Impressionist Maurice Prendergast uses this jostle of multicoloured Umbrellas in the Rain (1899), seen here in Venice, for their visual effect in forming a brilliant arc across the painting.

The great majority of umbrellas seen in paintings simply tell the viewer that it’s raining.

It might not be immediately obvious whether the umbrellas in Louis-Léopold Boilly’s Pay to Pass, from about 1803, are intended to provide shelter from rain or sun. However, the family shown are just about to pay the man at the far left, so they can walk across the muddy street on the comfort of the wooden plank on which they’re standing. This spares them and their clothing a coating of mud from the street, and seems to have been common practice at the time.

Umbrellas grew steadily in popularity in Paris, and the painting below, Paris Street, Rainy Day from 1877, is probably the first masterpiece to show them in such widespread use. Gustave Caillebotte’s study for that finished work below has survived and is shown above.

As the rain continues to fall, all the larger figures in the painting are shown holding umbrellas, most of which are regulation black.

Realist artists like Jean Béraud painted street scenes in the French capital, in his case forming a Paris chronicle. Out in the provinces, painters like Nicolas Sicard were doing the same. Sicard’s Entrance to the Guillotière Bridge in Lyon (1879) captures the scene at rush hour on a wet day, as many are rushing around under the canopies of their umbrellas. Note how even the cab drivers are sheltering under umbrellas: those operating open cabs normally provided them for their passengers too.

Just before the Norwegian Naturalist Christian Krohg went to Grez-sur-Loing in France, he seems to have visited Normandy, where he painted this view of a Village Street in Normandy (1882). Its curved recession of umbrellas with disembodied legs is striking.

Jules Bastien-Lepage’s brilliant protégé, the tragically short-lived Marie Bashkirtseff, featured an umbrella in this, one of her best portraits, The Umbrella (1883). This girl’s tenacious stare at the viewer quickly becomes quite unnerving, an effect enhanced by the severe black background of the umbrella that she carries.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s The Umbrellas from about 1881-86 is packed not only with people, but also their umbrellas. In parts they are so crushed together that the taller pedestrians are raising them high, to avoid bumping into others. Together they form a dark blue-grey band between the people below and the grey sky above.

My final painting of umbrellas used to shelter from rain is one of Nikolai Astrup’s early works, Farmstead in Jølster (1902). Two women, sheltering from the rain under their black umbrellas, are walking up a muddy path threading its way through the wooden farm buildings, guiding a young girl.