whole and in detail, seems to be to take the sudden anguish of the
wound as the moving cause of the whole action. The serpent has not
bitten, but is just now biting, and in a sensitive part, above and
just behind the hip. The position of the restored head of the serpent
does not represent the bite correctly; fortunately, the remains of the
two jaws may yet be seen on the hinder part of the statue, if only
these important vestiges are not destroyed in the course of the present
paltry alterations. The serpent inflicts a wound upon the unhappy man,
in a part where we are excessively sensible to any irritation, where
even a little tickling is able to produce the action which in this case
is caused by the wound. The figure starts away towards the opposite
side, the abdomen is drawn in, the shoulder forced down, the breast
thrust out, the head sinks towards the wounded side; the secondary
portion of the situation or treatment appears in the imprisoned feet
and the struggling arms; and thus from the contrast of struggle and
flight, of action and suffering, of energy and failing strength,
results an harmonious action that would perhaps be impossible under
other conditions. We are lost in astonishment at the sagacity of the
artist; if we try to place the bite in some different position the
whole action is changed, and we find it impossible to conceive one
more fitting. This, therefore, is an important maxim: the artist has
represented a sensuous effort, he shows us also its sensuous cause.
I repeat, the situation of the bite renders necessary the present
action of the limbs. The movement of the lower part of the figure, as
if to fly, the drawing in of the abdomen, the downward action of the
shoulders and the head, the breast forced out, nay, the expression of
each feature of the face, all are determined by this instant, sharp,
unlooked-for irritation.
Far be it from me to destroy the unity of human nature, to deny the
sympathetic action of the spiritual powers of this nobly complete
man, to misconceive the action and suffering of a great nature. I
see also anguish, fear, horror, a father’s anxiety pervading these
veins, swelling this breast, furrowing this brow. I freely admit
that the highest state of mental as well as bodily anguish is here
represented; only let us not transfer the effect the work produces
on us too vividly to the piece itself; and above all, let us not be
looking for the effect of poison in a body which the serpent’s fang
has but just reached. Let us not fancy we see a death-struggle in a
noble, resisting, vigorous, but slightly wounded frame. Here let me
have leave to make an observation of importance in art: The maximum
expression of pathos that can be given by art hovers in the transition
from one state or condition to another. You see a lively child running
with all the energy and joy of life, bounding, and full of delight; he
is unexpectedly struck somewhat roughly by a playmate, or is otherwise
morally or physically hurt. This new sensation thrills like an electric
shock through all his limbs, and this transition is full of pathos in
the highest meaning; it is a contrast of which one can form no idea
without having seen it. In this case plainly the spiritual as well as
the physical man is in action. If during the transition there still
remain evident traces of the previous state, the result is the noblest
subject for plastic art, as is the case in the Laocoon where action and
suffering are shown in the same instant. Thus, for instance, Eurydice,
bitten in the heel by the snake she has trodden on, as she goes
joyfully through the meadow with the flowers she has collected, would
make a statue of great pathos, if the twofold state, the joyful advance
and its painful arrest, might be expressed not only by the flowers
that she lets fall, but by the direction of her limbs and the doubtful
fluttering of her dress.
Having now a clear conception, in this respect, of the main figure, we
shall be enabled to give a free and secure glance over the relations,
contrasts, and gradations of the collective parts of the whole.
The choice of subject is one of the happiest that can be imagined,--men
struggling with dangerous animals, and animals that do not act as a
mass of concentrated force, but with divided powers; that do not rush
in at one side, nor offer a combined resistance, but capable by their
prolonged organization of paralyzing without injuring them, three
men, or more or less. From the action of this numbing force results,
consistently with the most violent action, a pervading unity and repose
throughout the whole. The different action of the serpents is exhibited
in gradation. The one is simply twined around its victims, the other
becomes irritated and bites its antagonist. The three figures are in
like manner most wisely selected: a strong, well-developed man, but
evidently past the age of greatest energy, and therefore less able to
endure pain and suffering. Substitute in his place a robust young man
and the charm of the group vanishes. Joined with him in his suffering
are two boys, small in proportion to his figure; again still two
natures susceptible of pain.
The struggles of the youngest are powerless; he is frightened, but
not injured. The father struggles powerfully, but ineffectually; his
efforts have rather the effect to exasperate the opposed force. His
opponent, becoming irritated, wounds him. The eldest son is least
encumbered. He suffers neither anguish nor pain; he is frightened
by the sudden wounding of his father, and his movement thereupon; he
cries out, at the same moment endeavoring to free his foot from the
serpent’s fold. Here then is spectator, witness, and accessory to the
fact; and thus the work is completed. Let me here repeat what I alluded
to above,--that all three figures exhibit a twofold action, and thus
are occupied in most manifold ways. The youngest son strives to free
himself by raising his right arm, and with his left hand keeps back
the serpent’s head; he is striving to alleviate the present, and avert
the greater, evil,--the highest degree of action he can attain in his
present imprisoned condition. The father is striving to shake off the
serpents, while his body recoils from the immediate bite. The oldest
son is terrified by his father’s starting, and seeks at the same time
to free himself from the lightly entwining serpent.
The choice of the highest moment of expression has already been spoken
of as a great advantage possessed by this work of art; let us now
consider this problem in greater detail.
We assumed the case of natural serpents twining about a father sleeping
by his sons, so that in considering the separate moments, we might be
led to a climax of interest. The first moments of the serpents’ winding
about them in sleep are portentous, but not significant for art. We
might perhaps imagine an infant Hercules asleep, with a serpent twined
about him; but in this case the form in repose would show us what we
were to expect when he waked.
Let us now proceed and figure to ourselves a father with his children,
when first--let it have happened how it may--he discovers the
serpents wound about him. There is only one moment of the highest
interest,--when one of the figures is made defenseless by the pressure,
the second can still fight, but is wounded, the third still retains
a hope of escape. In the first condition is the younger son; in the
second, the father; in the third, the eldest son. Seek now to find
another, a fourth condition! Try to change the order of the _dramatis
personae_!
If we now consider the treatment from the beginning, we must
acknowledge that it has reached the highest point; and in like manner,
if we reflect upon the succeeding moments, we shall perceive that
the whole group must necessarily be changed, and that no moment can
be found equal to this in artistic significance. The youngest son
will either be suffocated by the entwining serpent, or should he in
his helpless condition exasperate it, he must be bitten. Neither
alternative could we endure, since they suppose an extremity unsuitable
for representation. As to the father, he would either be bitten by the
serpent in other places, whereby the position of the body would be
entirely changed and the previous wounds would either be lost to the
beholder or, if made evident, would be loathsome, or the serpent might
turn about and assail the eldest son, whose attention would then be
turned to himself,--the scene loses its participator, the last glimpse
of hope disappears from the group, the situation is no longer tragical,
it is fearful. The figure of the father, which is now self-centred in
its greatness and its suffering, would in that case be turned towards
the son and become a sympathizing subordinate.
Man has, for his own and others’ sufferings, only three sorts of
sensations, apprehension, terror, and compassion,--the anxious
foreseeing of an approaching evil, the unexpected realization of
present pain, and sympathy with existing or past suffering; all three
are excited by and exhibited in the present work, and in the most
fitting gradations.
Plastic art, laboring always for a single point of time, in choosing a
subject expressive of pathos will seize one that awakens terror; while
Poetry prefers such as excite apprehension and compassion. In the group
of Laocoon the suffering of the father awakens terror, and that in the
highest degree. Sculpture has done her utmost for him, but, partly to
run through the circle of human sensations, partly to soften the effect
of so much of the terrible, it excites pity for the younger son, and
apprehension for the elder, through the hope that still exists for
him. Thus, by means of variety, the artists have introduced a certain
balance into their work, have softened and heightened effect by other
effects, and completed at once a spiritual and sensuous whole.
In a word, we dare boldly affirm that this work exhausts its subject
and happily fulfils all the conditions of art. It teaches us that if
the master can infuse his feeling of beauty into tranquil and simple
subjects, this feeling can also be exhibited in its highest energy and
dignity when it manifests itself in the creation of varied characters,
and knows how, by artistic imitation, to temper and control the
passionate outbreak of human feeling. We shall give in the sequel a
full account of the statues known by the name of the family of Niobe,
as well as the group of the Farnesian Bull; these are among the few
representations of pathos that remain to us of antique sculpture.
It has been the usual fate of the moderns to blunder in their choice
of subjects of this sort. When Milo, with both his hands fast in the
cleft of a tree, is attacked by a lion, art in vain endeavors to create
a work that will excite a sincere sympathy. A twofold suffering, a
fruitless struggle, a helpless state, a certain defeat can only excite
horror, if they do not leave us cold.
Finally, a word concerning this subject in its connection with poetry.
It is doing Virgil and poetic art a great injustice to compare even
for a moment this most succinct achievement of Sculpture with the
episodical treatment of the subject in the Æneid. Since the unhappy
exile, Æneas, is to recount how he and his fellow-citizens were guilty
of the unpardonable folly of bringing the famous horse into their city,
the Poet must hit upon some way to provide a motive for this action.
Everything is subordinated to this end, and the story of Laocoon
stands here as a rhetorical argument to justify an exaggeration if
only it serves its purpose. Two monstrous serpents come out of the
sea with crested heads; they rush upon the children of the priest who
had injured the horse, encircle them, bite them, besmear them, twist
and twine about the breast and head of the father as he hastens to
their assistance, and hold up their heads in triumph while the victim,
inclosed in their folds, screams in vain for help. The people are
horror-struck and fly at once; no one dares to be a patriot any longer;
and the hearer, satiated with the horror of the strange and loathsome
story, is willing to let the horse be brought into the city.
Thus, in Virgil, the story of Laocoon serves only as a step to a higher
aim, and it is a great question whether the occurrence be in itself a
poetic subject.
THE COLLECTOR AND HIS FRIENDS
(1799)
Yesterday a stranger made his appearance, whose name I was already
familiar with, and who has the reputation of a skilful connoisseur.[3]
I was pleased to see him, made him acquainted generally with my
possessions, let him choose what he would from what I exhibited to him.
I soon noticed his cultivated eye for works of art, and especially for
their history. He knew the masters as well as the scholars; in cases of
doubtful works he was familiar with the grounds of uncertainty, and his
conversation was highly interesting to me.
Perhaps I should have been hurried on to open myself in a more lively
manner towards him, had not my resolve to sound my guest made me from
the first take a more quiet tone. His judgment in many cases agreed
with mine; in many I was forced to admire his sharp and practised
eye. The first thing that struck me was his unmitigated hatred of all
Mannerists. I was in pain for some of my favorite pictures, and was
curious to discover from what source such a dislike could spring....
Before we were all assembled I seized an opportunity to lend a helping
hand to my poor mannerists against the stranger. I spoke of their
beautiful nature, their happy handling, their grace, and added, to
keep myself safe: Thus much I say only to claim for them a certain
degree of forbearance, though I admit that that high beauty, which is
the highest end and aim of Art, is in fact quite a different thing.
He replied--with a smile that did not altogether please me, inasmuch
as it seemed to express a special self-satisfaction and a sort of
compassion for me:--Are you then stanch in the old-fashioned principle
that Beauty is the last aim of art?
I answered that I was not aware of any higher.
Can you tell me what Beauty is? he exclaimed.
Perhaps not, I replied; but I can show it to you. Let us go and see,
even by candlelight, a fine cast of Apollo or a beautiful marble bust
of Bacchus that I possess, and try if we cannot agree that they are
beautiful.
Before we go upon this quest, said he, it would be necessary for us
to examine more closely this word Beauty and its derivation. Beauty
(_Schönheit_) comes from show (_Schein_); it is an appearance, and
not worthy to be the object of art. The perfectly characteristic only
deserves to be called beauty; without Character there is no Beauty.
Surprised by this mode of expression, I replied: Granted, though it be
not proved, that beauty must be characteristic; yet from this it only
follows that character lies at the root of beauty, but by no means that
Beauty and Character are the same. Character holds to the beautiful the
same relation that the skeleton does to the living man. No one will
deny that the osseous system is the foundation of all highly organized
forms. It consolidates and defines the form, but is not the form
itself; still less does it bring about that last appearance which, as
the veil and integument of an organized whole, we call Beauty.
I cannot embark in similitudes, said my guest, and from your own words,
moreover, it is evident that beauty is something incomprehensible, or
the effect of something incomprehensible. What cannot be comprehended
is naught; what we cannot make clear by words is nonsense.
_I._--Can you then clearly express in words the effect that a colored
body produces on your eyes?
_He._--That is again a metaphor that I will not be drawn into. It is
enough that character can be indicated. You find no beauty without
it, else it would be empty and insignificant. All the beauty of the
Ancients is only Character, and only out of this quality is beauty
developed.
Our Philosopher[4] had arrived meanwhile and was conversing with my
nieces, when, hearing us speak earnestly, he stepped forward; and the
stranger, stimulated by the accession of a new hearer, proceeded:
That is just the misfortune when good heads, when people of merit, get
hold of such false principles, which have only an appearance of truth,
and spread them wider and wider. None appropriate them so willingly as
those who know and understand nothing of the subject. Thus has Lessing
fastened upon us the principle that the ancients cultivated only
the beautiful; thus has Winckelmann put us to sleep with his “noble
simplicity and serene greatness”; whereas the art of the ancients
appears in all imaginable forms. But these gentlemen tarry by Jupiter
and Juno, Genii and Graces, and hide the ignoble forms and skulls of
Barbarians, the rough hair, foul beard, gaunt bones, and wrinkled skin
of deformed age, the protruding veins and hanging breasts.
In the name of God, I exclaimed, are there then independent,
self-existing works of the best age of Ancient Art that exhibit such
frightful objects? Or are they not rather subordinate works, occasional
pieces, creations of an art that must demean itself according to
outward circumstances, an art on the decline?
_He._--I give you the specification, you can yourself search and judge.
But you will not deny that the Laocoon, that Niobe, that Dirce with her
stepsons, are self-subsistent works of art. Stand before the Laocoon
and contemplate nature in full revolt and desperation. The last choking
pang, the desperate struggle, the maddening convulsion, the working
of the corroding poison, the vehement fermenting, the stagnating
circulation, suffocating pressure, and paralytic death.
The Philosopher seemed to look at me with astonishment, and I answered:
We shudder, we are horrified at the bare description. In sooth, if it
be so with the group of Laocoon, what are we to say of the pleasure we
find in this as in every other true work of art? But I will not meddle
in the question. You must settle it with the authors of the _Propylæa_,
who are of just the opposite mind.
It must be admitted, said my guest, that all Antiquity speaks for
me; for where do horror and death rage more hideously than in the
representation of the Niobe?
I was confounded by this assertion, for only a short time before I
had been looking at the copperplates in Fabroni, which I immediately
brought forward and opened. I find no trace in the statues of raging
horror and death, but rather the greatest subordination of tragical
situation under the highest ideas of dignity, nobleness, beauty, and
simplicity. I trace everywhere the artistic purpose to dispose the
limbs agreeably and gracefully. The character is expressed only in the
most general lines, which run through the work like a sort of ideal
skeleton.
_He._--Let us turn to the bas-reliefs, which we shall find at the end
of the book.
We turned to them.
_I._--Of anything horrible, to speak truly, I see no trace here either.
Where is this rage of horror and death? I see figures so artfully
interwoven, so happily placed against or extended upon each other, that
while they remind me of a mournful destiny, they give room at the same
time for the most charming imaginations. All that is characteristic is
tempered, the violent is elevated, and I might say that Character lies
at the foundation; upon it rest simplicity and dignity; the highest
aim of art is beauty and its last effect the feeling of pleasure. The
agreeable, which may not be immediately united with the characteristic,
comes remarkably before our eyes in these sarcophagi. Are not the
dead sons and daughters of Niobe here made use of as ornaments? This
is the highest luxury of art; she adorns no longer with flowers and
fruits, but with the corpses of men, with the greatest misfortune that
can befall a father or mother, to see a blooming family all at once
snatched away. Yes, the beauteous genius who stands beside the grave,
his torch reversed, has stood beside the artist as he invented and
perfected, and over his earthly greatness has breathed a heavenly grace.
My guest looked at me with a smile, and shrugged his shoulders.
Alas,--said he, as I concluded,--alas, I see plainly that we can never
agree. What a pity that a man of your acquirements, of your sense,
will not perceive that these are all empty words; that to a man of
understanding Beauty and Ideal must always be a dream which he cannot
translate into reality, but finds to be in direct opposition to it....
_I._--Will you allow me also to put in a word?
_The guest_ (somewhat scornfully.)--With all my heart, and I hope
nothing about mere phantoms.
_I._--I have some acquaintance with the poetry of the ancients, but
have little knowledge of the plastic arts.
_Guest._--That I regret; for in that case we can hardly come to an
understanding.
_I._--And yet the fine arts are nearly related, and the friends of the
separate arts should not misunderstand each other.
_Uncle._--Let us hear what you have to say.
_I._--The old tragic writers dealt with the stuff in which they worked
in the same way as the plastic artists, unless these engravings,
representing the family of Niobe, give an altogether false impression
of the original.
_Guest._--They are passably good. They convey an imperfect but not a
false impression.
_I._--Well, then, to that extent we can take them for a ground to go
upon.
_Uncle._--What is it you assert of the treatment of the ancient tragic
writers?
_I._--The subjects they chose, especially in the early times, were
often of an unbearable frightfulness.
_Guest._--Were the ancient fables insupportably frightful?
_I._--Undoubtedly; in the same manner as your account of the Laocoon.
_Guest._--Did you find that also unbearable?
_I._--I ask pardon. I meant the thing you describe, not your
description.
_Guest._--And the work itself also?
_I._--By no means the work itself, but that which you have seen in
it,--the fable, the history, the skeleton,--that which you name the
characteristic. For if the Laocoon really stood before our eyes such as
you have described it, we ought not to hesitate a moment to dash it to
pieces.
_Guest._--You use strong expressions.
_I._--One may do that as well as another.
_Uncle._--Now then for the ancient tragedies.
_Guest._--Yes, these insupportable subjects.
_I._--Very good; but also this manner of treatment that makes
everything endurable, beautiful, graceful.
_Guest._--And that is effected by means of “simplicity and serene
greatness?”
_I._--So it appears.
_Guest._--By the softening principle of Beauty?
_I._--It can be nothing else.
_Guest._--And the old tragedies were after all not frightful?
_I._--Hardly, so far as my knowledge extends, if you listen to the
poets themselves. In fact, if we regard in poetry only the material
which lies at the foundation, if we are to speak of works of art as if
in their place we had seen the actual circumstances, then even the
tragedies of Sophocles can be described as loathsome and horrible.
_Guest._--I will not pass judgment on poetry.
_I._--Nor I on plastic art.
_Guest._--Yes, it is best for each to stick to his own department.
_I._--And yet there is a common point of union for all the arts
wherefrom the laws of all proceed.
_Guest._--And that is--
_I._--The soul of man.
_Guest._--Ay, ay; that is just the way with you gentlemen of the new
school of philosophy. You bring everything upon your own ground and
province; and, in fact, it is more convenient to shape the world
according to your ideas than to adapt your notions to the truth of
things.
_I._--Here is no question of any metaphysical dispute.
_Guest._--If there were I should certainly decline it.
_I._--I shall admit for the sake of argument that Nature can be
imagined as absolutely apart from man, but with him art necessarily
concerns itself, for art exists only through man and for man.
_Guest._--Where does all this tend?
_I._--You yourself, when you make Character the end of art, appoint the
understanding, which takes cognizance of the characteristic, as the
judge.
_Guest._--To be sure I do. What I cannot seize with my understanding
does not exist for me.
_I._--Yet man is not only a being of thought, but also of feeling. He
is a whole; a union of various, closely connected powers; and to this
whole of man the work of art is to address itself. It must speak to
this rich unity, this simple variety in him.
_Guest._--Don’t carry me with you into these labyrinths, for who could
ever help us out again?
_I._--It will then be best for us to give up the dispute and each
retain his position.
_Guest._--I shall at least hold fast to mine.
_I._--Perhaps a means may still be found whereby, if one does not take
the other’s position, he can at least observe him in it.
_Guest._--Propose it then.
_I._--We will for a moment contemplate art in its origin.
_Guest._--Good.
_I._--Let us accompany the work of art on its road to perfection.
_Guest._--But only by the way of experience, if you expect me to
follow. I will have nothing to do with the steep paths of speculation.
_I._--You allow me to begin at the beginning?
_Guest._--With all my heart.
_I._--A man feels an inclination for some object; let us suppose a
single living being.
_Guest._--As, for instance, this pretty lap-dog.
_Julia._--Come, Bello! It is no small honor to serve as example in such
a discussion.
_I._--Truly, the dog is pretty enough, and if the man we are speaking
of had the gift of imitation, he would try in some way to make a
likeness of it. But let him prosper never so well in his imitation, we
are still not advanced, for we have at best only two Bellos instead of
one.
_Guest._--I will not interrupt, but wait and see what is to become of
this.