Some critics of antiquity argue that the Laocoon, though a work of Greek
art, must date from the time of the emperors, because it was copied from
the Laocoon of Virgil. Of the older scholars who have held this opinion
I will mention only Bartolomæus Martiani,[30] and of the moderns,
Montfaucon.[31] They doubtless found such remarkable agreement between
the work of art and the poem that they could not believe the same
circumstances, by no means selfsuggesting ones, should have occurred by
accident to both sculptor and poet. The question then arose to whom the
honor of invention belonged, and they assumed the probabilities to be
decidedly in favor of the poet.
They appear, however, to have forgotten that a third alternative is
possible. The artist may not have copied the poet any more than the poet
the artist; but both perhaps drew their material from some older source,
which, Macrobius suggests, might have been Pisander.[32] For, while the
works of this Greek writer were still in existence, the fact was
familiar to every schoolboy that the Roman poet’s whole second book, the
entire conquest and destruction of Troy, was not so much imitated as
literally translated from the older writer. If then Pisander was
Virgil’s predecessor in the history of Laocoon also, the Greek artists
did not need to draw their material from a Latin poet, and this theory
of the date of the group loses its support.
If I were forced to maintain the opinion of Martiani and Montfaucon, I
should escape from the difficulty in this way. Pisander’s poems are
lost, and we can never know with certainty how he told the story of
Laocoon. Probably, however, he narrated it with the same attendant
circumstances of which we still find traces in the Greek authors. Now
these do not in the least agree with the version of Virgil, who must
have recast the Greek tradition to suit himself. The fate of Laocoon, as
he tells it, is quite his own invention, so that the artists, if their
representation harmonize with his, may fairly be supposed to have lived
after his time, and have used his description as their model.
Quintus Calaber indeed, like Virgil, makes Laocoon express suspicion of
the wooden horse; but the wrath of Minerva, which he thereby incurs, is
very differently manifested. As the Trojan utters his warning, the earth
trembles beneath him, pain and terror fall upon him; a burning pain
rages in his eyes; his brain gives way; he raves; he becomes blind.
After his blindness, since he still continues to advise the burning of
the wooden horse, Minerva sends two terrible dragons, which, however,
attack only Laocoon’s children. In vain they stretch out their hands to
their father. The poor blind man cannot help them. They are torn and
mangled, and the serpents glide away into the ground, doing no injury to
Laocoon himself. That this was not peculiar to Quintus,[33] but must
have been generally accepted, appears from a passage in Lycophron, where
these serpents receive the name of “childeaters.”[34]
But if this circumstance were generally accepted among the Greeks, Greek
artists would hardly have ventured to depart from it. Or, if they made
variations, these would not be likely to be the same as those of a Roman
poet, had they not known him and perhaps been especially commissioned to
use him as their model. We must insist on this point, I think, if we
would uphold Martiani and Montfaucon. Virgil is the first and only
one[35] who represents both father and children as devoured by the
serpents; the sculptors have done this also, although, as Greeks, they
should not; probably, therefore, they did it in consequence of Virgil’s
example.
I am well aware that this probability falls far short of historical
certainty. But since I mean to draw no historical conclusions from it,
we may be allowed to use it as an hypothesis on which to base our
remarks. Let us suppose, then, that the sculptors used Virgil as their
model, and see in what way they would have copied him. The cry has been
already discussed. A further comparison may perhaps lead to not less
instructive results.
The idea of coiling the murderous serpents about both father and sons,
tying them thus into one knot, is certainly a very happy one, and
betrays great picturesqueness of fancy. Whose was it? the poet’s or the
artist’s? Montfaucon thinks it is not to be found in the poem;[36] but,
in my opinion, he has not read the passage with sufficient care.
Illi agmine certo
Laocoonta petunt, et primum parva duorum
Corpora natorum serpens amplexus uterque
Implicat et miseros morsu depascitur artus.
Post ipsum, auxilio subeuntem et tela ferentem,
Corripiunt spirisque ligant ingentibus.[37]
The poet has described the serpents as being of a wonderful length. They
have wound their coils about the boys and seize the father also
(corripiunt) as he comes to their aid. Owing to their great length they
could not in an instant have disengaged themselves from the boys. There
must therefore have been a moment when the heads and forward parts of
the bodies had attacked the father while the boys were still held
imprisoned in the hindmost coils. Such a moment is unavoidable in the
progress of the poetic picture; and the poet makes it abundantly
manifest, though that was not the time to describe it in detail. A
passage in Donatus[38] seems to prove that the old commentators were
conscious of it; and there was still less likelihood of its escaping the
notice of artists whose trained eye was quick to perceive any thing that
could be turned to their advantage.
The poet carefully leaves Laocoon’s arms free that he may have the full
use of his hands.