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-centered 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 Aeneid. Since the unhappy exile, Aeneas, 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, enclosed 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 skillful connoisseur. I was pleased to see him, made him acquainted generally with my possessions, let him choose