A TRUE work of art, like a work of nature, never ceases to open boundlessly before the mind. We examine,—we are impressed with it,—it produces its effect; but it can never be all comprehended, still less can its essence, its value, be expressed in words. In the present remarks concerning the Laocoon, our object is by no means to say all that can be said on the subject; we shall rather make this admirable work the occasion, than the subject, of what we have to say. May it soon be placed once more in a situation where all lovers of art may be able to enjoy, and speak of it, each in his own way.
We can hardly speak adequately of a high work of art, without also speaking of art in general; since all art is comprehended in it, and each one is able, according to his powers, to develop the universal, out of such a special case. We will, therefore, preface with some remarks of a general nature.
All high works of art are expressions of humanity. Plastic art relates particularly to the human form; it is of this we are now speaking. Art has many steps, in all of which there have been admirable artists; but a perfect work of art embraces all the particulars that are elsewhere encountered separately.
The highest works of art that we know exhibit to us—
Living, highly organized natures. We look, in the first place, for a knowledge of the human body, in its parts and masses, inward and outward adaptation, its forms and motions generally.
Character. Knowledge of the varieties in form and action of their parts; peculiarities are discriminated, and separately set forth. Out of this results character, through which an important relation may be established among separate works; and, in like manner, when a work is put together, its parts may hold an analogous relation to each other. The subject may be—
At rest, or in motion. A work, or its parts, may either be self-centred, simply showing its character in a state of rest, or it may be exhibited in movement, activity, or fullness of passionate expression.
Ideal. To the attainment of this, the artist needs a deep, well-grounded, steadfast mind, which must be accompanied by a higher sense, in order to comprehend the subject in all its bearings, to find the moment of expression, to withdraw this from the narrowness of fact, and give to it, in an ideal world, proportion, limit, reality, and dignity.
Agreeableness. The subject, and its mode of exhibition, are moreover connected with the sensible laws of art; viz., harmony, comprehensibility, symmetry, contrast, etc.; whereby it becomes visibly beautiful, or agreeable, as it is called.
Beauty. Further, we find that it obeys the laws of spiritual beauty, which arises from just proportion, and to which he, who is complete in the creation or production of the beautiful, knows how to subject even the extremes.
Having now enounced the conditions which we demand of a high work of art, much will be comprised in a few words when I say that our group fulfills them all, nay, that out of them alone could it be developed.
It will be conceded by all that it exhibits acquaintance with the human form, and with what is characteristic in it, and at the same time expression and passion. In how high and ideal a way the subject is treated will presently be shown; and no one who recognizes the harmony with which the extremes of bodily and mental suffering are set forth can hesitate about 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 sensible 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 harmonizing 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 eye-filling 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 on 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 one conceived and executed separately, but they become far more interesting in their complete and diversified choir. When art attempts scenes of exalted expression, 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 now in mind such groups as the graceful boy extracting the thorn from his foot, the wrestler, two groups of fauns and nymphs in Dresden, and the noble and passionate 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 a man, but by no means, either in form or treatment, 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 further 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 struggle 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 will find 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. This same effect is produced by the contemplation of the group by torchlight.
The situations of the three figures are 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 bite. 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 in the hip.
The best way to understand the position of the father, both in the whole and in detail, seems to me 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 indeed these important vestiges have not been removed in the course of the present paltry alterations. The serpent inflicts a wound upon the unhappy man, in a part where we are excessively sensitive 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 body 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 a 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. It is moreover important to remark that as the artist exhibits a sensible effect, he also gives a sensible cause. I repeat it, 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 body, 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 those 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 hastily 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, uninjured, or but slightly wounded frame. Here let me have leave to make an observation of importance in art: The highest pathetic expression 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 the limbs, and this transition is in the highest degree pathetic; it is a revulsion 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 pathetic statue, because 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, but still two natures susceptible of pain.
The struggles of the youngest are powerless; he is tortured, but uninjured. 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 pressure nor pain; he is terrified 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, viz., that all three figures exhibit a twofold treatment, and thus the greatest variety of interests is produced. The youngest son strives to get breath 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 impending, evil,—the highest degree of action he can attain in his present imprisoned condition. The father is striving to shake off the serpent, while he endeavors instinctively to fly from the bite. The eldest son is terrified by his father’s starting, and seeks at the same time to free himself from the lightly twined serpent.
The choice of the highest moment of expression has been already spoken of as a great advantage possessed by the work,—into which consideration let us enter more deeply.
We supposed the case, that mere natural serpents have twined about a father sleeping by his sons, in order that, by consideration of separate moments, we may have a succession of interest before us. The first moments of the serpents winding about them are portentous, but not adapted to 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. We have now a moment of the highest interest; one of the figures paralyzed by the pressure, the second paralyzed and wounded too, the third still retaining the 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 equal moment! Try to change the order of the dramatis personæ!
If we consider now 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 pressure of the 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 participators, the last glimpse of hope disappears from the group, the situation is no longer tragical, it becomes 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 truest gradation.
Plastic art, laboring always for a single point of time, in choosing a pathetic subject seizes one that awakens terror; while, on the other hand, 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 action by other action, and completed at once a spiritual and sensible whole.
In a word, we dare strongly affirm that this work exhausts its subject, and happily fulfills all the conditions of art. It teaches us that if the master can infuse his feeling of beauty into reposing and simple subjects, the same can also be exhibited in the highest energy and worth, when it manifests itself in the creation of varied character, 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; they belong to the few pathetic representations that remain to us out of the antique sculptures.
It has been the usual fate of the Moderns, to blunder in their choice of subjects of this sort. When Milo, with both 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 the poetic art a great injustice to compare even for a moment this completest achievement of sculpture with the episodical treatment of the subject in the “Æneid.” As soon as the unhappy wanderer Æneas has 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 his treatment. This is the origin of the whole, and the story of Laocoon stands here as a rhetorical argument, to justify an exaggeration which is essential to the design. Two monstrous serpents are brought out of the sea with crested heads; they rush upon the children of the priest who had injured the horse, encircle them, bite them, slaver them, twist and twine about the breast and head of the father, as he hastens to their assistance, and hold up their heads high in triumph, while the victims, inclosed in their folds, scream in vain for help; the people are horror-struck, and fly at once; no one dares to be a patriot longer, and the hearer, satiated with the horror of the strange and dreadful 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.
