There were a lot of children in the Vatican this morning: small
barbarians scarce out of the nursery, who should have been at home,
at their lessons, or reading fairy books, or carpentering, or
doll-educating, or boat-sailing, or amusing themselves in the hundred
nondescript ways which we seem to forget (remembering only ready-made
toys and ready-made stories) when we grow up. Some were left to their
own devices, and scampered, chattering and laughing, through the
gallery; jumping up three steps at a time, clambering up to windows,
running round isolated statues, feretting into all the little nook and
corner rooms, peeping into the lidless sarcophagi and the great porphyry
baths, with the rough-hewn rings and lions' heads. The others were being
led by their elders: talking in whispers, or silent: demure, weary,
vacant, staring about with dreary, vague little faces; these, who were
not permitted to rush about like the others, seemed chilled, numbed
by a sort of wonder unaccompanied by curiosity, oppressed by a sense
of indefineable desolation. And, indeed, it is a desolate place, this
Vatican, with its long, bleak, glaring corridors; its half-lit, chill,
resounding halls; its damp little Belvedere Court, where green lichen
fills up the fissured pavement; a dreary labyrinth of brick and
mortar, a sort of over-ground catacomb of stones, constructed in our
art-studying, rather than art-loving times where once--when Michael
Angelo was stretched painting on the creaking scaffolding slung from
the roof of the Sixtine--the poppies waved scarlet among the trailing
vines of the pope's orchard, and the white butterflies, like wind-blown
blossoms, swarmed in the tall grass beneath the bending apple trees, and
the fire-flies danced in luminous spirals among the wild rose-hedges.
A dismal scientific piece of ostentation, like all galleries; a place
where art is arranged and ticketed and made dingy and lifeless even as
are the plants in a botanic collection. Eminently a place of exile; or
worse, of captivity, for all this people of marble: these athletes and
nymphs and satyrs, and warriors and poets and gods, who once stood, each
in happy independence, against a screen of laurel or ilex branches,
or on the sun-heated gable of a temple, where the grass waved in the
fissures and the swallows nested, or in a cresset-lit, incense-dim
chapel, or high against the blue sky above the bustle of the market
place; poor stone captives cloistered in monastic halls and cells, or
arranged, like the skeletons of Capuchins, in endless rows of niche,
shelf, and bracket. Galleries are necessary things, to save pictures and
statues (or the little remaining of them) from candle smoke, sacristans'
ladders, damp, worms, and street boys, but they are evil necessities;
and the sense of a sort of negative vandalism always clings to them,
specially to the galleries of statues, so uninhabited, so utterly
sepulchral. Going to a gallery of sculpture, we must be prepared to
isolate what we wish to enjoy, to make for it a fitting habitation in
our fancy: it is like going to read a page of Homer, or the Georgics,
or Shelley, in some great musty, dusty library, redolent of crumbling
parchment and forgotten rubbish. Such is this Vatican, even for us
accustomed to it and knowing what we do and do not want: for us grown-up
creatures, familiar with such matters, and with powers of impression
quite deadened by culture. What, therefore, must not this Vatican be
for a child: a quite small, ignorant barbarian such as has never before
set its feet in a gallery, to whom art and antiquity have been mere
names, to whom all this world of tintless stone can give but a confused,
huge, overpowering impression of dreariness and vacuity. An impression
composed of negative things: of silence and absence of colour, of
lifelessness, of not knowing what it all is or all means; a sense of
void and of unattractive mystery which chills, numbs the little soul
into a sort of emotionless, inactive discomfort. What we were, how we
felt, how we understood and vaguely guessed things, as children, we can
none of us know. The recollection of ourselves when we were so different
from ourselves, this tradition handed down from a dim, far-off creature
of whom we know, without feeling it, that he, was our _ego_, this
mysterious tradition remains to us only in fragments, has been printed
into our memory only by desultory patches: at one point we can read, at
another the ink has not taken; we know as distinctly as the sensation
and impressions of this very morning this or that sensation or
impression of so many, many years ago; and we ask ourselves at the same
time--"how did such another thing affect our mind?"--with the utter
hopelessness of answer with which we should try to look into the soul
of a dog or a cat. Thus it is with our small barbarian child in the
Vatican: how did it feel? Alas, we should, in order to know, first
have to find that little obscure, puzzled soul again; and where is
it gone? this thing which may once have been ourselves, whither has it
disappeared, when has it been extinguished? So we can only speculate and
reconstruct on a general basis. Certain it is that to this child, to
any child, this Vatican must have been the most desolate, the most
unintelligible of places. For, strange as it may seem, this clear and
simple art of sculpture, born when the world was young and had not yet
learned to think and talk in symbolical riddles, this apparently so
outspoken art is, to the childish soul of our days, the most silent art
of any. To the child, the modern child, it is speechless; it knows not
a word of the language understood by the child's fancy. For this fancy
language of our modern child is the language of colour, of movement, of
sound, of suggestion, of all the broken words of modern thought and
feeling: and the statue has none of these. The child does not recognise
in it anything familiar: these naked, or half-naked, limbs are things
which the child has never seen, at least, never observed; they do not,
in their unfamiliarity, their vagueness, constitute an individual
character; the dress, the furrowed face, the coloured hair, the beard,
these are the things which the child knows, and by which it recognises;
but in these vague, white things, with their rounded white cheek, and
clotted white hair, with their fold of white drapery about them, the
child recognises nothing: men? women? it does not ask: for it, they are
mere things, figures cut out of stone. And thus, in their vagueness,
their unfamiliarity, they seem also to be all alike, even as, on first
acquaintance, we sometimes ask ourselves whether those sisters or
brothers we know are four or only three; for in the unknown there is no
diversity. Mysterious things, therefore, these statues for the child;
but theirs is a mystery of mere vacuity, one which does not haunt, does
not seek a solution. For they are dull things, in their dirty whiteness:
they are doing nothing, these creatures, merely standing or sitting or
leaning, they are looking at nothing with their pupilless white eyes,
they have no story to tell, no name to be asked. The child does not say
to them, as to the people in pictures, the splendid people in strange
colours, and holding strange things, "Who are you? why are you doing
that?" It does not even ask or answer itself whether these white things,
who seem to be all the same, are dead or alive: they are not ghosts,
they are things which, for aught the child knows or cares, have never
been born and never will die. A negation, oppressive and depressing,
that is all; and in the infinite multitude of statues in such a place
as this Vatican, their sense must become actively painful to the child.
Hence, the children we meet either rush headlong through corridor and
hall, looking neither to the right nor to the left, or let themselves
be passively led through, listless, depressed, glancing vaguely about,
looking wistfully at the little glimpses of sunlit garden outside, at
the clipped box hedges and trim orange trees in the court of the Pine
Cone. For there, outside, is life, movement, green; little hedged beds
to run round; fountains to be made to spirt aside by sticking fingers
into their pipes; walls on which to walk balanced, and benches to jump
over: there is field and food for the child's fancy, and here, within,
among all these cut stones, there is none.
Hence it is that the child, who will one day become ourselves, rarely
cares to return to these sculpture galleries; or, if it care to return
to any, it is to mixed galleries like those of Florence, where, instead
of the statues, it looks at the pictures. And out of pictures, out of
the coarse blurs of colour in picture-books, out of the black, huddled,
infinitively suggestive engravings in bible and book of travel; out of
fine glossy modern pictures which represent a definite place, or tell a
definite story; out of all this, confused with haunting impressions, of
things seen or heard of (the strange, deeply significant sights and
words of our childhood), do we get our original, never really alterable
ideas and feelings about art; for much as we may clip, trim, and bedizen
our minds with borrowed things, we can never change, never even recast
its solid material: a compact, and seemingly homogeneous soul mass,
made up of tightly-pressed, crushed odds and ends of impression;
broken, confused, pounded bits of the sights and sounds and emotions
of our childhood. To the statues we return only quite late, when this
long-formed, long-moulded soul of ours has been well steeped in every
sort of eclectic and artificial culture; has been saturated with modern
art and modern criticism, with mysticism and realism and sentiment and
cynicism, with Dante and Zola, and Mozart and Wagner and Offenbach,
saturated, with every kind of critically distilled aesthetic essence,
till there is not a flavour and not a scent, good or bad, sweet or foul,
which may not be perceived in this strange soul of ours. Then we return
to the statues; and, having imbibed (like all things) a certain amount
of Hellenic, Pagan, antique feeling, we try also to assimilate the
spirit of the statues of Phidias or Praxiteles; we expound the
civilisation, the mode of thought; we trace the differences of school,
we approve and condemn, we speak marvellously well, with subtlety or
passion; we imagine all manner of occult, ineffable virtues and vices
in this antique art, we dabble deliciously in alternate purity and
impurity (this being the perfection of artistic pleasure), as we even
occasionally, for a few moments, feel actual, simple, unreasoning,
wholesome pleasure in the sight of the old broken marbles. All this
we do, and most often are therewith satisfied. Yet if, weighing our
artistic likings and dislikings, comparing together our feelings towards
so many and so various manifestations, trying to determine what is fresh
and wholesome food to our depraved aesthetic (and aesthetico-moral)
palate, and what is mere highly flavoured, spicy or nauseous drug-stuff,
if, in such a moment of doubt, we ask ourselves, overheard by no one,
whether in reality this antique art is, in the life of our feelings, at
all important, comforting, influential? we shall, for the most part,
whisper back to ourselves that it is not so in the very least. But could
it ever have been? Could this, or any art have been for us more than
merely one of a hundred feebly enjoyed, more or less exotic mental
luxuries; than an historic fossil, by study of which, as with the
bone of a pterodactyl or an ichthyosaurus, we can amuse ourselves
reconstructing the appearance and habits of a long dead, once living
civilisation? Or might these statues have been much more to us? Might
they, perhaps, have shaped and trained our souls with their unspoken
lessons?
Well, once upon a time (let us invent a fairy tale), a child was
brought to the Vatican: just such an one, only perhaps a trifle more
wayward, than those we met this morning, demurely led about, or
scampering through the galleries: its name signifies nothing, suffice it
that it was a child. Now, it so happened, that upon that day the statues
(who, as our forefathers of the middle ages knew) are merely stone
imprisoned demons, dethroned gods of antiquity, were bent upon getting
some small amount of amusement in their dreary lives: all the more
dreary since the great joyful hope of restoration in the hearts of men
which they had conceived when Winckelmann and Goethe came to them and
adored, had been slowly disappointed by seeing that what men cared
for was not them, but merely their own impertinent theories and
grandiloquent speeches. The Statue-demons were sick of the bitter
amusement of watching the follies of their pretended or deluded
worshippers. So they sorely wanted excitement, diversion of some sort;
and in their idleness, they capriciously determined to amuse themselves,
no longer with grown men, but with children. So, as a toy for the
moment, they singled out this particular child we are speaking of,
who was wandering wearily through the gallery, overpowered like its
companions by the sense of negativeness, of greyness, of silence, of
want of character and movement and story, and as it passed them, the
statue-demons looked at each other with their pupilless eyes, as much as
to say: "This is the one we shall take," and determined to cast a spell
upon it which would make it theirs. How they did is more than any of us
can tell: there was a little gurgling fountain in the garden outside,
where a broken-snouted dragon spirted a trickle of water through the
maiden-hair choking up the basin, and of this water the child did drink
a little in the palm of its hand, the rest running up its sleeve; there
was also an old noseless Vertumnus in a corner, on whose pedestal a
great tuft of wild grass had shot up, and round whose arms and neck an
ivy plant had cast its green trailing leaves; and one of these bitter
glossy leaves that child did certainly munch; but whether the charm was
in the water or the leaf, or in neither, and only a mysterious spell,
a sort of invisible winged seed of passion which they cast direct into
that little soul, no one may ever decide. Be it as it may, the child
remained for a while conscious of nothing at all, never dreaming that it
had in any way come in contact with that demon world imprisoned in the
stone. It lived its child life of romping and day dreams and lessons and
punishments, and, with its companions, fretted to get away from this
dreary, horrible Rome of the popes: this warm, wet place with its sordid
houses, its ruins embedded in filth and nettles; its tawdry, stuffy
churches, filled with snuffling of monks and jig-quavering of strange,
cracked, sickening-sweet voices; its whole atmosphere of decay and
sloth, as of a great marsh-pond, sprinkled with bright green weed and
starred with flaunting nauseous yellow lilies. The child wondered at
all these things: dug bits of porphyry and serpentine out of gutters,
collected pieces of potshard from the Palatine; read and re-read
the stories of shipwrecks and red Indians and volcanoes: played in
dressing-gowns and shawls, at processions of cardinals and prelates,
and, with yelling companions in pinafores and napkins, at church music,
with tremendous time-beating with rolls of paper; laughed and pouted and
quarrelled as children do; quite unconscious of being the chosen one,
the changeling, the victim of the statues. But little by little, into
its everyday life, stole strange symptoms; sometimes there would come
like a sudden stop, as of a boat caught in the rushes, a consciousness
of immobility in the midst of swirling, flowing movement, a giddy
brain-swimming feeling; and then things went on again just as before.
But the symptoms returned, and others with them. What was the matter?
A vagueness, a want; a seeking, a clinging, but seeking for, clinging
to the unknown. In the evenings of early spring, when the children had
returned from their scrambling walks, and were waiting for supper,
chattering, looking at books, or strumming tunes; this child would watch
the bank of melting colours, crimson, and smoke-purple and gold, left by
the sun behind the black dome of St. Peter's; and as the white vapours
rose from the town below and gathered on the roofs like a veil, it would
feel a vague, acheless pain within it; and at any stray, trifling word
or bar of dance music, its eyes and its whole little soul would fill
with a mist of tears. The spell cast by the statues was not idle, the
mysterious philter which they had poured into it was working throughout
that childish soul: the child was in love; in love with what it had
hated; in love intensely, passionately, with Rome. And as a part of Rome
it loved, blindly, for no other reason, that desolate Vatican; to the
statues it returned, and in a way, grew up in their presence. And one
day the child looked at itself, and perceived that it was a child no
longer; knew all of a sudden, that in those drowsy years of childish
passion and day dreams, it had been learning something which others did
not know. For it heard one day a few pages of a symphony of Mozart's;
the first it had ever heard save much more modern music; and those bars
of symphony were intelligible words, conveyed to the child a secret. And
the secret was: "we are the brethren, the sounding ones of the statues:
and all we who are brethren, whether in stone, or sound, or colour, or
written word, shall to thee speak in such a way that thou recognise us,
and distinguish us from others; and thou shalt love and believe only in
us and those of our kin." Then the child went forth from the Vatican,
and went in among the pictures, and among the poems and the music, and
did indeed find that all those who were of the same kin as the statues
spoke to it intelligible words, and returned its love by making it
happy. This came of the statues having had the whim of giving to that
child the love potion which had made it love Rome.
All this is a fairy tale, a very meagre one indeed, quite inferior to
any told us by nurse or peasant woman; but a fairy tale nevertheless;
for, of course, we all know that statues cannot give love philters, nor
children fall in love with towns, nor symphonies talk about having
brothers in marble or colour. All this is rubbish of the same sort as
the dancing water, the singing apple, the dragon Fafner's blood which
made Sigurd understand the language of the birds, the enchanted lake
into which Charlemagne sat gazing out his life, because of the ring cast
into it; mere rubbish, and, consequently, not to be examined into or
reasoned about. But as the wise men of to-day tell us that in all our
nursery tales (Heaven forbid that anything so appalling be true) there
is a hidden, sensible meaning; perhaps, also, there may be one in this
absurd little story of the child in the Vatican, and that we may see.
And so, now, we must be serious and examine methodically into the
matter.
To grow up in the presence of the statues; to become acquainted
with antique art long before any other; to perceive the beauty
and enjoyableness of a statue before seeking for the beauty and
enjoyableness of a picture or a piece of music; this is the reverse of
the artistic training which every individual man or woman obtains
consciously or unconsciously in our own day; for we begin with the art
born nearest our time, then proceed to those further; we go from music
to painting, and from painting to sculpture. But humanity at large
received the opposite training in the last four-and-twenty centuries,
since humanity knew beauty in the statue before knowing beauty in the
picture, and beauty in the picture before beauty in music. The first
standard of artistic right and wrong (since architecture, being a thing
partly for use, and only partly for beauty, has a mixed morality of its
own) was the standard of sculpture. Let us see what that was, and how we
must alter and enlarge it (as humankind has done), in order to obtain
the standard of right and wrong in painting and that in music. The
statues, in our fairy tale, told the child that they had brethren in
sound, brethren which, knowing them, he should also know from the
resemblance. But first, what like are these first born of art, these
statues? What is this character in them which, found in the younger
things, in painting and music, shall show that even these are of the
same stock as the statues? What like are these statues? What a question!
it is perfectly insulting to any one of us most aesthetic creatures.
What like are these statues? Does any of us require to ask or to be
taught that? And to begin with, the very question is a gross error, an
unendurable blunder: statues, antique statues.... You think that so
simple, do you? You think, perhaps, like the people of the sixteenth
century, that there is only one kind of antique statue; know, most
impudent of ignoramuses, that there are innumerable sorts of statues
and antique statues, there are good statues and bad statues, and early
statues and late statues, there are Dedalian statues and AEginete
statues, and immediately pre-Phidian and Phidian, and immediately
post-Phidian and Praxitelian statues, and statues of the school of
Pergamus, and statues of the school of Rhodes, and Graeco-Roman statues,
and statues of the Graeco-Egyptian revival under Hadrian, and statues....
Enough, enough! We have been talking of the teachings of the statues
themselves, of the lesson which they, with their unchangeable attitude
and gesture, their lines and curves and lights and shadows of body,
their folds and plaits of drapery, have silently, slowly taught to a
child; and the statues themselves, who have never read Winckelmann,
nor Quatremere, nor Ottfried Mueller, do not know all these wondrous
classifications of schools of which (with their infinite advantage of
teaching us to admire only one or two schools, and abominate all the
others as barbarous, decaying, Graeculan, etc., without even looking at
them) we are so justly proud. Oh, yes, the statues which taught the
child were a very mixed company, such as the carefully-trained of our
day, who can endure only Phidias, and next to Phidias, only Clodion or
Carpeaux, would scarcely like to know at all. Not Phidian, all of them,
nor even, alas, Praxitelian; they were not the Elgin marbles nor the
Venus of Milo, sole objects of the feeble love of us good, learned folk;
they were those extremely harum-scarum statues of the Vatican: a few of
them copies of lost, irreproachable originals, like the Doryphoros, the
Minerva, the Amazon, the Satyr; a certain number of impostors of now
exploded reputation, the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Antinous, and a whole
host of quite despicable others, of every degree of lateness of epoch
and baseness of work. And what is still worse, the child was taught, not
merely by this multifarious company, but by heaven knows what dreadful
statues besides; things to shudder at, things, hewn stones (for the
right-minded cannot call them statues) out in gardens, noseless, armless
things under artificial ruined temples, in niches of clipped box, or
half-swathed up with ivy and creeping roses. All these said to that
child that, although some of them were quite artistic patricians and
princes, and others the merest ragtag and bobtail, nay, unspeakable
ruffians and outcasts, they yet belonged to the same stock, they all
being antique; and that all of them, according to their degree and
power, some in unspoken words perfect as any of Plato's, and others
in horrible, jumbled slang, malaprop gibberish, would teach him the
same lesson, if he would listen to them all: the lesson of their own
nature and kinship. And from all of them, insensibly, slowly, without
archaeologic or aesthetic formulae, in the simple manner in which children
learn all that is most important to know, this child learned. So
that, without desire for archaeologic and aesthetic answers, we now
ask, referring to this lesson learnt by the child--"What like
_are_ the statues?" What like? Why, of course--well, they are
like--like--like--what in the world should statues _be_ like?--things
cannot be defined in that cut and dry fashion--why, statues are like--.
In short, such questions can neither be asked nor answered by
intelligent folk. They can be put only by people who believe in love
philters and symphonies which talk, and children who fall in love with
towns; idiotic questions like "Why should there be sin?"--and "Why love
our neighbours when they are nasty?"--which only children ask--questions
to answer which as they deserve, you had better get hold of your eternal
fairy-story child, and ask him what the statues said they were like.
Nay, do not lose all patience. And see, since you think that the
question, "What like are the statues" is fit to be answered only by the
child of the fairy tale, we will pretend, for a moment, that the fairy
tale is true, and play, for your benefit, the part of that child. And
the things which that child would have learned, scarce consciously, in
the course of its own growth, and during years of familiarity with all
this host of statues, we will try and explain in an hour or so, by
examining together a single work of ancient sculpture. This work is the
Niobe group; and we have chosen it, after a little thought, for the
purpose, because, from the complication of the story and of the group
itself, it will enable us to illustrate a greater number of points than
could well be done in the examination of isolated antique figures, or
groups of merely two or three, such as there are plenty of here in Rome.
But the Niobe is not in Rome, you will say; why not take some statue or
group of statues here in the Vatican? Because the Niobe can teach us
most in least time; and because also, you need not think of the group as
it stands in the gallery in Florence. Indeed, you must not think of that
group at all, spread out as it is, in idiotic confusion, round the walls
of Peter Leopold's oblong hall. What you must think of, look at, is
this--See: here we have all the figures composing the group, very fairly
copied in terra-cotta, the largest not much longer than your arm; and
these figures we have placed, according to their relative size, in this
rough wooden model of the triangular gable of a Greek temple; following
approximately the design of the restored temple front which Cockerell
made years ago for the Florentine gallery.
Come and stand at a little distance from the table on which the wooden
gable and statues are set. So, now we can get an idea (which in the
gallery we cannot) of the general effect of the group. It seems so
simple, but it is not: it is in sculpture something like what a fugue
is in music: it is a homogeneous form due to the extremely skilful
co-ordination of various forms; it is a harmonious whole, because the
parts are combined just at the point where their diversities coalesce.
For, as the various voices of the fugue, some subtly insinuating
themselves half whispered, while the others are thundering their loudest
or already dying away into silence, meet and weave together various
fragments of the same melody, so also do the figures of the group,
some standing, some reclining, some kneeling, some rising, some draped,
some nude, meet our sight in various ways so as to constitute in their
variety, one great pattern; balance each other on opposite sides of the
gable, slope and taper down towards the extremities, grow and rise
higher towards the middle where the vertex of the triangular temple
front, the triumphant centre of the rhythm and harmony of lines, is
formed by the majestic, magnificent mother between her two eldest, most
beautiful daughters. And now, think no more of this terra-cotta than,
having learned the shape of a hymn by Bach or a psalm by Marcello on
the piano, you would think of the poor miserable piano-notes which you
hear with your ears, instead of the mass of voices which you hear with
your fancy. Think of this Niobe group, twice humansized, standing
on the weather-mellowed, delicately painted marble temple front; the
amber-tinted figures against the dark hollow formed by the projecting
roof; the sunshine drawing on the black back-ground, as with a luminous
pencil, the great solemn masses of light and shadow, the powerfully
rhythmed attitudes, the beautiful combinations of lines and light and
shade produced by the gesture, which now raises, now drops the drapery,
opposing to the large folds, heavy and severe, the minute, most supple,
and most subtle plaits; and to the strong broken shadows of the drapery,
the shining smoothness of the nude. Think of that, and remember then the
single figures in their best examples, the mother and eldest daughter of
Florence, the headless younger daughter of the Vatican, the exquisite
dying boy of Munich; and think, by recollecting these dispersed noblest
copies, what must the lost original have been. And thus, looking at the
little rough terra-cotta model, and magnifying it in fancy into the
great superb group such as it must have stood on the temple, there comes
home to us, filling, expanding our mind, an almost ineffable sense of
perfection of line and curve, and light and shade, perfection as of the
sweeping wave of some great mountain, distant and deep blue against the
pale sky; perfection as of the pearled edge of the tiny pink cyclamen
petal; as of the single small voice, swelling and diminishing in crisp
exquisiteness every little turn and shake, and again as of the many
chords of multitudinous voices rolling out in great joyous sound
billows; perfection of whole in harmony and graduation of perfect
parts: perfection of visible form.
But by the side of this overwhelming positive sense of beauty there
creeps into our consciousness an irritating little sense of negation.
For the more intense becomes our perception of the form, the vaguer
becomes our recollection of the subject; the strong imaginative
realization of the story of Niobe, conjured up by the mere mention of
her name, dwindles to nothing in the presence of the group representing
the chief incident of history; the skrieks and desperate scuffling of
feet, which we had heard in our fancy, gradually die into silence; our
senses cease to shrink with horror, our sympathies cease to vibrate with
pity, as we look upon this visible embodiment of the terrible tragedy.
We are no longer feeling emotion; we are merely perceiving beauty. How
has this come to pass? Shall we look into ourselves and analyze in the
darkness of our consciousness? Nay, rather first look for an explanation
in the materially visible, the clear, easily examined work of art. Come
and look at the group once more: this time not to understand its beauty,
but to understand why there is in it nothing beyond this beauty.
Certainly, the group answers very well to the general idea of the
massacre of the Niobides: the figures have the attitudes of men and
women overtaken by a sudden danger against which they seek, but vainly,
to shield themselves: the mother clasps the cowering, clinging, youngest
girl, and tries to cover her with her mantle, her arms, her whole body,
to let the child melt into herself and be lost; the youngest son sinks,
panting and helpless, on to one knee; the eldest daughter bends forward
to throw her veil over a dead brother; the younger daughter mechanically
raises her draped arm to ward off the shafts from her face; another son
hastens away, looking bewildered around him, trying to see from which
side come the arrows, which come from all sides. All this is perfectly
correct in expression; we are bound to admit that these are the probable
movements and gestures of people situated like Niobe and her children.
We cannot find fault with anything, yet we feel a vague sense of
unreality. Unreality to ourselves? Nay, rather, unreality to the
artist: we perceive, little by little, that everyone of these evident
indications of a catastrophe is connected with a grand gesture, a noble
fold, a harmonious combination of masses: the mother raising the arm
covered with her cloak and clasping the child with the other, produces
thereby a magnificent contrast between the round, bunched fold of the
mantle, and the straight, narrow folds of her skirt, nay, between the
simple and ample drapery covering her own bosom, and the minute clinging
crinkles on the back of the little one; the wounded youth sinks
down in such a way as to display the grand muscles of his throat
and shoulders; the girl covering her naked dead brother, forms with
him, a powerfully-balanced mass of brightly-lit nude and broken,
shadow-furrowed drapery; and all the remaining children stoop and cower
and stretch forth their arms in such a way as to produce the inclination
of the two sides of the triangle crowning the temple. Moreover, the
pathetic, upward movement of the mother's head, by slightly drawing
down the jaw, and in upturning the eyes, contracting the brows into a
triangular furrow, accentuates the grandeur of the grand features, and
prevents the light from above falling upon a mere flat expanse of cheek
and forehead; the eldest daughter stooping tenderly over the dead boy
produces, in so doing, an incomparable curve of neck and shoulders; and
thus, with all the other figures, the gesture is invariably productive
of a definite beauty of form. And, on the other hand, there is not
present a single one of the gestures or attitudes which would certainly
produce definite ugliness of form, and would yet be as appropriate and
inevitable to the situation as these. There is not, in this group, any
movement, any effect, of which we could decidedly say that it would not
arise in a scene like this; but, in a scene like this, there would
certainly be a great many movements and effects which cannot be found in
the group. Hence, the dramatic expression of the work is essentially
negative: in the mind of the artist the realisation of the scene, the
bringing home of the story, has been a purely secondary thing, and
therefore the realisation of the scene, the bringing home of the story,
is secondary also to us, the spectators. The impression produced in us
is exactly corresponding to the interest dominant in the artist: he
has cared for the subject only inasmuch as it afforded suggestions for
beautiful forms; and we therefore have perceived the beautiful forms,
and forgotten the subject. The object of the artist has been, whether or
not he formulated it clearly to himself, not to bring home the situation
to the fancy; not to awaken an emotion; but to present to the eye and
the mind a mere beautiful form. And that such has been his object, is
the first and main lesson which we have learned from the Niobe group, as
it was the first and main lesson learned by the child of our fairy tale
from the innumerable statues which, during those long years in the
Vatican, were its silent teachers.
To present to the eye and the mind a mere beautiful form, this seems a
terrible low and limited definition of the aim of a great artist, of a
whole great national art. Surely not this. The aim of the artist, of the
innumerable artists constituting antique art, must have been nobler: the
form for them must have been the mere physical embodiment of the ideas
and the presentation of the beautiful idea must have been their real
object. You think so? well; the child of our fairy tale pretends that
the statues told him the contrary; told him that form was the real
artistic aim, and that the idea was arranged, clipped, sometimes even
mangled, to make it fit the form. We can judge for ourselves. You say
_idea_, and oppose it to form; hence, the _idea_ is, we must presume,
what the _form_ is not, and since the form is the sensible, the visible,
the concrete, the outwardly existing, the idea must be the invisible,
the abstract, the merely intellectually existing. In this sense, what
is the _idea_, the abstract intellectual conception of the Niobe group?
Merely the fact of the slaughtering of the Niobides by Apollo and
Artemis in the presence of their mother, keep this fact (if you can) in
your mind without mentally investing with any shape the Niobides, the
gods, or the mother; conceiving the mere bare fact, without conceiving
what it would look like; do this and when you have succeeded, as far as
any creature not born blind can succeed, you will have the _idea_ of
the Niobe group. Such an idea does not require for its conception that
you be a great sculptor; indeed you understand that for the idea to
be nothing beyond an idea, it requires a man born blind, that is to
say, totally deficient, that activity of plastic conception which is
possessed in the highest degree by the artist. Now what is the product
of that very plastic activity of mind which the artist possesses in the
highest degree, and which you required to deaden in yourself in order to
conceive the _idea_ in its perfect abstract purity, what is that product
of plastic activity? what is it which is for ever hovering before your
mental vision, getting between you and the mere idea, interfering with
the abstract conception, turning that abstract idea into something (even
in your mind) concrete, perceptible by the senses? That something was
the _form_. When you involuntarily said to yourself--"the mother looked
in such a way, the sons in such another," this that you were conceiving
was no longer the mere _idea_, it was the _form_: not the action, but
the visible appearance presented by the action. To conceive the mere
_idea_, all plastic fancy must be in abeyance; to conceive the _form_,
all plastic fancy must be active; and as the artist is the man in
whom plastic fancy is more than usually active, that which the artist
conceives is not the idea, but the form: not the abstract intellectual
side of the action, but the concrete, the visible. The idea, the fact
of the action, and all its non-visible, psychological details, come
to the artist from without; the knowledge that Niobe saw her children
slaughtered by the gods, and the psychological inferences therefrom that
Niobe, being a mother, and mothers feeling anguish at the sufferings of
their children, must have undergone great anguish at thus seeing her
children slaughtered--this fact by its psychologic developments, comes
from without to the artist, it may come from the same individual man of
whom the artist is a portion, but even in this case it comes equally
from without the artist; if Mr. Rossetti invent a story about a Blessed
Damozel, and then paint a picture representing her looking down from
heaven, the story, the idea of the Blessed Damozel is given by Mr.
Rossetti, the poet, that is the man who conceives facts and their
psychologic developments, to Mr. Rossetti, the painter, that is the
man who conceives the visible appearance of actions; the two artists
happen to be united in one person, but they are two distinct artists
nevertheless, and the painter is _not_ the artist who conceives the idea
of the action, but the one who conceives the _form_ of the action. Thus,
the artist is the man who conceives the form. Now, since his activity is
entirely limited to the form, since, as an artist, he can produce only
the form, how is this artist to do what behoves every man and every
artist: his best? How is he to give the world the greatest possible
benefit of his special endowment? Evidently, since his endowment is
for the creation of form, the result of the greatest activity of his
endowment will be seen in the form; if he do his best, he will do his
best with the only thing which, inasmuch as he is an artist, he can
control, namely, the form. But how do his best, with the form? Clearly,
by making the form as good as possible. Good in what way? Shall we
say as expressive as possible? Nay, but the expressiveness is a mere
correspondence between the idea and the form, it is not an inherent
quality of the form itself; given only the form, without the idea, we
cannot judge of its expressiveness: to judge whether or not the Niobe
group is expressive, we must first be told that which it might or might
not express; the idea, the fact and its psychologic developments, which
do not lie within the domain of the man of mere form. Thus the goodness
of the form must not be a fittingness to something outside and separate
from the form, it must be intrinsic in the form itself. And what is
this excellence which can be intrinsic to the form, which can be fully
appreciated in the contemplation of that mere form, which requires no
comparison with anything outside the form? Not expressiveness, we have
seen; not likeness, for that, like expressiveness, is an extrinsic
quality of which we can judge only by bringing into comparison something
besides this form; still less fittingness to some material or moral use.
We must look for the intrinsic possibilities of form, that is for the
effect which the form can, without intermediary or collateral help,
produce upon the spectator; shall we say clearness? Clearness is an
intrinsic quality of form, but it is not an ultimate quality. That a
form is clear means that we can see it well; but the question remains,
why should we care to see it well? what is the intrinsic quality of form
in obtaining which the artist is doing the utmost which, in his capacity
of mere artist, he can do? What is that which can make it desirable
for us to see clearly a form isolated from any extraneous interest of
expressiveness, resemblance or utility? That highest intrinsic quality
of form is beauty; and the highest merit of the artist, of the mere form
creator, is to make form which is beautiful.
Can the Niobe teach us more? Has your Vatican child learned any more
from the statues? you ask, contemptuous at this definition, narrow, as
must be all definitions of duty. Perhaps the Niobe may teach us next how
this highest artistic quality of beauty, this sole aim of the artist, is
to be attained? Be not so contemptuous. The Niobe can teach us something
about the mode of attaining to this end; it cannot, indeed, teach us
what to do, for the knowledge of that, the knowledge of how to combine
lines and curves and lights and shades, is the secret belonging to the
artist, to be taught and learned only by himself; but it can teach us
what not to do, teach us the conditions without which those combinations
of lines and curves and lights and shades, cannot be created. Let us
return to the Niobe once more: let us see the group clearly in its
general composition, and then, with the group before us, let us ask
ourselves what plastic form is conceived in our imagination when there
comes home to it the mere abstract idea of the sudden massacre of the
Niobides, by Apollo and Artemis. Nothing, perhaps, very clear at first,
but clearer if we try to draw what we see or to describe it in words.
In the first place, we see, more or less vaguely, according to our
imaginative endowment, a scene of very great confusion and horror:
figures wildly shuffling to and fro, clutching at each other, writhing,
grimacing with convulsed agony, shrieking, yelling, howling; we see
horrible wounds, rent, raw flesh, arrows sticking in torn muscles,
dragging forth hideous entrails, spirting and gushing and trickling
of blood; we see the mother, agonised into almost beast-like rage and
terror, the fourteen boys and girls, the god and the goddess adjusting
their shafts and drawing their bows; we see all, murderous divinities,
writhing victims, impotent, anguished mother. If we see it, how much
more fully and more clearly, in every detail, is it not seen in the
mind of the sculptor, of the man whose special gift is the conception
of visible appearances? Oh, yes, he sees it: here the mother, here
the elder daughters, there the other children, further off, Apollo
and Artemis, sees how each stands, moves, looks, sees the convulsed
features, the rumpled garments, the fear, the pain, the anger, the
hopelessness, the pitilessness. He takes three planks, nails together
their extremities: this is the gable of the temple, the triangular
cavity or box into which he must fit his group; then, with thumb and
fingers, roughly moulds a certain number of clay puppets, places them in
the triangular box, removes them, alters them, replaces them, takes them
out once more, throws some away, elaborates others; works for hours,
days, weeks, till we return to his workshop, and find a number of
models, tiny moulded dolls in the plank triangle; large statuettes,
half-finished, roughly-worked heads--drawings, perhaps, of parts of the
group. And we examine it all. It is the rudiment of the Niobe group. But
see: of all those things which we saw in our fancy, which the artist,
being an artist, must have seen with infinitely more completeness
and clearness, only a portion has here been reproduced. Of all the
movements and gestures there remain but a very few: the convulsions, the
writhings, and grimacings are gone; there is no trampling, no clutching,
no howling, no grimacing, there are no quivering limbs, or disembowelled
bodies. Why so? Ask the artist. Because, he will answer, all those
movements and gestures were radically ugly; because all that howling and
grimacing in agony entirely ruined the beauty of the features; because
the situation could not be adequately represented, except to the utter
detriment of the form. Hence, of all the movements and gestures which
had presented themselves to his inner vision, at the first mention of
the story of Niobe, the artist has rejected those which were at all
detrimental to the beauty of the form, and accepted those others which
were conducive thereto. He has cast aside a whole portion of the real
appearance of the event, because it interfered with his, perhaps
unspoken and unformulated, but instinctively imperious artistic aim:
to create beautiful form.
But this is not all. He has left out something else which was a most
essential, nay, an all important part of his first mental vision of the
scene. He has actually left out--guess what--some son or daughter of
Niobe?--has run counter to the tradition of the seven girls and seven
boys?--oh, in comparison, that would be nothing. He has actually and
absolutely left out the god and goddess--left out the murderers from
the representation of the murder. Why in the world has he done this?
Granting that he need not transfer to his group all the terrible details
he has seen in his mind, why should he leave out Apollo and Artemis?
They need not be convulsed, or writhing, or grimacing; on the contrary,
they ought to be quite calm and passionless in their cruel beauty. There
is nothing unbeautiful in Apollo and Artemis surely. No: not in Apollo
and Artemis, taken in themselves; but in Apollo and Artemis considered
as part of this group. Listen: we will explain. Since Apollo and Artemis
are, between them, slaughtering all the Niobides, closing them in with
their arrows, it is obvious that Apollo and Artemis must be placed in
such a manner as to command the whole family of Niobides; there must be
no Niobides behind them, for that would mean that there are Niobides who
are out of danger and can escape. So the god and goddess must be placed
in one of three ways: either back to back in the very centre of the
group, each shooting down one half of the family; or else entirely
separated, each at one extremity of the group, so as to face each other
and enclose all the Niobides between them; or else above the Niobides,
floating in mid air and raining down arrows like hail. Now, which of
these three arrangements shall the sculptor select? He rejects at once
the plan of placing the god and goddess back to back in the centre of
the group, and we agree with him; for the two figures, thus applied to
each other, each more or less in profile, would form the most ludicrous
double-headed Janus. Place, then, Apollo at one end and Artemis at the
other. There is nothing ugly in that, is there? There would not be were
the sculptor modelling the oblong bas-relief of a sarcophagus; but there
would be something very ugly now that, as it happens, he is modelling
a group for the triangular gable of a temple. For, as the sides of
the triangle slope sharply down, the figures beneath them necessarily
become smaller and less erect in proportion to their distance from the
vertex; so the god and goddess, if placed at the extremity of the group,
must be flattened down in the acute angles of the base, must crouch and
squat with their bows barely on a level with the knees of their victims.
So this arrangement will not do; there remains the third plan of placing
Apollo and Artemis above the Niobides. This is an admirable idea: the
vertex of the triangle is filled by the floating figures of the gods,
who appear calm, beautiful, mysterious, showering down death from
inaccessible heaven. Will this do? Alas, much less than either of the
others. The arrangement would be beautiful if the triangle of the
gable, instead of being filled with a group of statues, were walled up,
plastered, and could be painted on in fresco. The colour, light and
shade, and perspective of painting, by creating a seeming depth of
back-ground, by hiding one figure partially behind another, so as to
make them appear not in actual contact, by piling up aetherial clouds or
waving light draperies, would permit the artist to show the Niobides on
solid ground below, and the gods in the air, high, distant above. But
the sculptor, without any such means, could only suspend Apollo and
Artemis (at tremendous expense of iron clamps) in such a way that
they should seem to be standing on the shoulders of the Niobides; or
interpose between them a thick bolster of marble clouds, a massive
flutter of streaming marble draperies. Now do you think that the marble
clouds and the marble fluttering drapery would be conducive to the
beauty of the group, to the perfection of visible forms? Certainly not.
And, therefore, Apollo and Artemis, gods though they are and chief
actors in the story, have simply been left out in this its artistic
representation.
For beauty of form has a double origin: it is not only an intellectual
conception, but also a physical embodiment; and the intellectual
conception is altered by the nature of the material in which it is
embodied. The abstract form which will be infinitely delicate and
life-like in the brown clay, which receives every minute dimple and
crease from the finger of the artist, which presents a soft, uniform
tint to the spectator; this same abstract form will be coarse and
lifeless in the purple speckled porphyry, against whose hard grain the
chisel is blunted, and the mottled colour and salt-like sparkle of which
hide from the eye the real relations of line and curve, of concave and
projection. The Mercury who, in the green bronze, floats upwards like a
bubble, would jump like a clodhopper in the dingy white plaster. And
these, remark, are differences only in one category of material and
handling; change the sort of material and manner of handling and the
differences become still greater. Statues, whether in clay, bronze,
porphyry, or plaster, are always similar in the fact of being wholly
free--round as Vasari calls them--of being interfered with by no
complications of shadows like the figures of a high, middle or
bas-relief; hence, as soon as the figures cease to be round, as soon as
they are attached to a back-ground, the whole composition is altered
by the consideration how the different degrees of projection, and the
consequent play of light and shadow, will affect the apparent shape
of the figures. And yet we are still within the domain of sculpture.
How great a difference of form will not result when, instead of the
tintless, tangible projections of stone, we get to the mere semblance
of infinite depth and distance cunningly obtained by light and shade,
colour and perspective, on a flat surface; where the light, instead of
existing variable and confusing outside the work, is within that very
work, inside the picture, combining, graduating every detail, making
form melt gently into form, or stand out in triumphant relief? Thus the
things which can be done in bronze must not be attempted in porphyry,
the group of statues must be conceived differently from the bas-relief;
the picture is different from the statue; for the beauty of form depends
not only on the conception but upon the embodiment: if the material is
violent, the conception is warped; and the same beauty can be obtained
in all the arts only by remembering that those arts are different that,
with the material and modes of handling, must change the conception.
Thus we have seen that the sculptor of the Niobe deliberately refused
to embody his complete mental vision of the scene of massacre; that he
selected among the attitudes and gestures and expressions suggested
to him by this scene, rejected those which were inherently ugly, and
accepted those which were intrinsically beautiful; and that he left out
of his representation of the incidents its principal actors, because he
could not have introduced them without either violating the nature of
the whole composition to which he was bound, or violating the nature of
the material in which he was working, and by so doing sacrificing the
perfection of visible form which, being the only intrinsic quality to
which his art could independently attain, was the one object of his
desires and efforts. Such is the logical conclusion which we have
consciously and perhaps wearisomely obtained from our analysis of the
mode of conception and treatment of the Niobe group; and such the lesson
which, unconsciously, vaguely, the child of our fairy tale must have
learned from its marble teachers in the Vatican: That the only intrinsic
perfection of art is the perfection of form, and that such perfection
is obtainable only by boldly altering, or even casting aside, the
subject with which this form is only imaginatively, most often
arbitrarily, connected; and by humbly considering and obeying the
inherent necessities of the material in which this form is made visible
or audible. That by such artistic laws they themselves had come into
existence, and that all other things which had come into existence
by the same laws, were their brethren, was the secret which those
statue-demons imparted to that child; the secret which enabled it to
understand those symphony notes of Mozart's, when they said: "we also,
the sounding ones, are the brethren of the statues; and all we who are
brethren, whether in stone, or sound or colour, shall to thee speak in
such a way that thou recognize us, and distinguish us from all others;
and thou shalt love and believe only in us and those of our kin; in
return we will give thee happiness." And this, as we have told you,
came to pass solely because the statues took the whim of bewitching
that child into falling in love with Rome.