In this point the artist must necessarily have followed him; for nothing
contributes more to the expression of life and motion than the action of
the hands. In representations of passion, especially, the most speaking
countenance is ineffective without it. Arms fastened close to the body
by the serpents’ coils would have made the whole group cold and dead. We
consequently see them in full activity, both in the main figure and the
lesser ones, and most active where for the moment the pain is sharpest.
With the exception of this freedom of the arms, there was, however,
nothing in the poet’s manner of coiling the serpents which could be
turned to account by the artists. Virgil winds them twice round the body
and twice round the neck of Laocoon, and lets their heads tower high
above him.
Bis medium amplexi, bis collo squamea circum
Terga dati, superant capite et cervicibus altis.[40]
This description satisfies our imagination completely. The noblest parts
of the body are compressed to suffocation, and the poison is aimed
directly at the face. It furnished, however, no picture for the artist,
who would show the physical effects of the poison and the pain. To
render these conspicuous, the nobler parts of the body must be left as
free as possible, subjected to no outward pressure which would change
and weaken the play of the suffering nerves and laboring muscles. The
double coils would have concealed the whole trunk and rendered invisible
that most expressive contraction of the abdomen. What of the body would
be distinguishable above or below or between the coils would have been
swollen and compressed, not by inward pain but by outward violence. So
many rings about the neck would have destroyed the pyramidal shape of
the group which is now pleasing to the eye, while the pointed heads of
the serpents projecting far above this huge mass, would have been such a
violation of the rules of proportion that the effect of the whole would
have been made repulsive in the extreme. There have been designers so
devoid of perception as to follow the poet implicitly. One example of
the hideous result may be found among the illustrations by Francis
Cleyn.[41] The old sculptors saw at a glance that their art required a
totally different treatment. They transferred all the coils from the
trunk and neck to the thighs and feet, parts which might be concealed
and compressed without injury to the expression. By this means they also
conveyed the idea of arrested flight, and a certain immobility very
favorable to the arbitrary continuance of one posture.
I know not how it happens that the critics have passed over in silence
this marked difference between the coils in the marble and in the poem.
It reveals the wisdom of the artist quite as much as another difference
which they all comment upon, though rather by way of excuse than of
praise,—the difference in the dress. Virgil’s Laocoon is in his priestly
robes, while in the group he, as well as his two sons, appears
completely naked. Some persons, it is said, find a great incongruity in
the fact that a king’s son, a priest, should be represented naked when
offering a sacrifice. To this the critics answer in all seriousness that
it is, to be sure, a violation of usage but that the artists were driven
to it from inability to give their figures suitable clothing. Sculpture,
they say, cannot imitate stuffs. Thick folds produce a bad effect. Of
two evils they have therefore chosen the lesser, and preferred to offend
against truth rather than be necessarily faulty in drapery.[42] The old
artists might have laughed at the objection, but I know not what they
would have said to this manner of answering it. No greater insult could
be paid to art. Suppose sculpture could imitate different textures as
well as painting, would Laocoon necessarily have been draped? Should we
lose nothing by drapery? Has a garment, the work of slavish hands, as
much beauty as an organized body, the work of eternal wisdom? Does the
imitation of the one require the same skill, involve the same merit,
bring the same honor as the imitation of the other? Do our eyes require
but to be deceived, and is it a matter of indifference to them with what
they are deceived?
In poetry a robe is no robe. It conceals nothing. Our imagination sees
through it in every part. Whether Virgil’s Laocoon be clothed or not,
the agony in every fibre of his body is equally visible. The brow is
bound with the priestly fillet, but not concealed. Nay, so far from
being a hinderance, the fillet rather strengthens our impression of the
sufferer’s agony.