LITMIR.BIZ

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and mental suffering are set forth can hesitate in calling the work beautiful.

      On the other hand, many will think I am uttering a paradox when I maintain that the work is also agreeable. A word upon this point.

      Every work of art must show on the face of it that it is such; and this can be done only through what we call sensuous beauty, or agreeableness. The ancients, far from entertaining the modern notion that a work of art must have the appearance of a work of nature, designated their works of art as such through an intentional arrangement of parts; by means of symmetry they rendered easy for the eye an insight into relations, and thus a complicated work was made comprehensible. Through symmetry and opposition slight deviations were made productive of the sharpest contrasts. The pains of the artist were most happily bestowed to place the masses in opposition to each other, and particularly in groups, to bring the extremities of the bodies against each other in a harmonious position; so that every work, when we disregard its import, and look only at its general outline from a distance, strikes the eye by its ornamental air. The antique vases furnish a hundred instances of this sort of agreeable composition, and perhaps it would be possible to exhibit a series of examples of symmetrically artistic and charming groupings, from the most quiet vase-sculptures up to the Laocoon. I shall therefore venture to repeat the assertion that the group of Laocoon, in addition to its other acknowledged merits, is at once a model of symmetry and variety, of repose and action, of contrast and gradation, which produce an impression partly sensible, partly spiritual, agreeably stimulate the imagination by the high pathos of the representation, and by their grace and beauty temper the storm of passion and suffering.

      It is a great advantage for a work of art to be self-included and complete. An object at rest, exhibiting simple being, is thus complete by and in itself. A Jupiter, the thunderbolt resting in his lap; a Juno, reposing in her majesty and feminine dignity; a Minerva, inwardly intent — are all subjects that have no impulse outwards, that rest upon and in themselves; the first, the most lovely subjects of sculpture. But within the noble round of the mythic circle of art, where these separate self-existent natures stand and rest, there are smaller circles, within which the figures are conceived and wrought out with reference to other figures; for example, the nine Muses, with their leader, Apollo, are each conceived and executed separately, but they become far more interesting in their complete and diversified choir. When art attempts scenes of exalted passion, it can treat them also in the same manner; it may either present to us a circle of figures holding a passionate relation to each other, like the Niobe and her children, pursued by Apollo and Diana, or exhibit in the same piece the action and the motive; we have in mind such groups as the graceful boy extracting the thorn from his foot, the wrestler, two groups of fawns and nymphs in Dresden, and the noble and animated group of Laocoon.

      Sculpture is justly entitled to the high rank it holds, because it can and must carry expression to its highest point of perfection, from the fact that it leaves man only the absolutely essential. Thus, in the present group, Laocoon is a bare name; the artists have stripped him of his priesthood, his Trojan nationality, of every poetical or mythological attribute; there remains nothing of all that fable had clothed him with; he is a father with his two sons, in danger of destruction from two fierce animals. In like manner, we see no messenger of the gods, but two plain, natural serpents, powerful enough to overcome three men, but, by no means, either in form or action, supernatural and avenging ministers of wrath. They glide in, as it is their nature to do, twine around, knot together, and one, being irritated, bites. If I had to describe this work without knowing the farther intent of it, I should say it were a Tragic Idyl. A father was sleeping, with his two sons beside him; two serpents twined about them, and now waking, they struggled to free themselves from the living net.

      The expression of the moment is, in this work, of the highest importance. When it is intended that a work of art shall move before the eye, a passing moment must, of course, be chosen; but a moment ago not a single part of the whole was to be found in the position it now holds, and in another instant all will be changed again; so that it presents a fresh, living image to a million beholders.

      In order to conceive rightly the intention of the Laocoon, let a man place himself before it at a proper distance, with his eyes shut; then let him open his eyes, and shut them again instantly. By this means he will see the whole marble in motion; he will fear lest he finds the whole group changed when he opens his eyes again. It might be said that, as it stands, it is a flash of lightning fixed, a wave petrified in the moment it rushes towards the shore. The same effect is produced by the contemplation of the group by torchlight.

      The situation of the three figures is represented with a wise gradation. In the oldest son only the extremities are entangled; the second is encumbered with more folds, and especially by the knot around his breast; he endeavors to get breath by the motion of his right arm; with the left he gently holds back the serpent's head, to prevent him from taking another turn round his breast. The serpent is in the act of slipping under the hand, but does not hide. The father, on the other hand, tries to set himself and the children free by force; he grasps the other serpent, which, exasperated, bites him on the hip.

      The best way to understand the position of the father, both in the 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,

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