CHAPTER II
THE PARTHENON AND THE TEMPLE STATUARY OF GREECE
(470 b.c. TO 420 b.c.)
On the vast canvas of recorded history one half-century has always stood out. The clearer the vision of the observer and the larger his view, the more every line in the composition has appeared to converge upon and lead up to that central point. Ever and again the imagination of man, fascinated by some new beauty, has been tempted away. It has always returned with a new wonder. The advance of knowledge has changed the world’s estimate of this and that part of the glowing record of human action and endeavour. But the relative importance of those fifty years has been preserved throughout the ages.
This, we believe, represents the true position of Athens during the fifth century before our era in the scheme of general history. But a great art is only the expression of a nation’s moods. As the Greek epigram puts it:
“I sang those songs that gain so much renown: I, Phœbus; Homer merely wrote them down.”
We have therefore only to alter a few phrases to arrive at the real position of Athenian sculpture between 470 and 420 b.c. in the scale of artistic achievement. The proposition may need qualification. If so, we may well prepare ourselves for the task by the most generous appreciation of this—the Golden Age of Sculpture.
So much for panegyric. What are the facts? How closely was sculpture connected with the every-day and all-day lives of the Athenian citizens? We shall find that the art was interwoven with all that was most vital in the nation’s history; that its roots struck down deep into the hearts of the people.
The victory at Marathon, which broke the spell of Persian invincibility, and the brilliant sea fight at Salamis, which settled the future course of civilisation in Western Europe, had made Athens the principal city in Greece. The smaller states in her vicinity and the great trading cities of Asia Minor, attracted by the position of Athens as a sea power, joined the Confederation of which she was the leading spirit. Even those which refrained from a political alliance could not withhold their admiration from the men who had done so much to save Greece from the dreaded hordes from the East.
The Athenians had, however, only attained this position at the cost of the destruction of their city. Xerxes had sacked and burnt Athens during the second campaign of 480 b.c. Directly peace was assured the Athenians set to work to rebuild the town. Cimon, the aristocrat, and Pericles, the democrat, vied with each other in ensuring that the new city should outshine the capital of any state in Greece. With fresh markets opening up every year the material prosperity of Attica increased by leaps and bounds. Produce poured in from Asia Minor, the islands of the Ægean, the colonies in Sicily and Italy, and the settlements on the shores of the Black Sea. Directly the absolutely necessary rebuilding had been accomplished and the defences of the town were sufficiently sure, the Athenians prepared to make their city worthy of the headship of the Panhellenic League. In bringing this about they were to do honour to the goddess to whose fostering care they ascribed their victory over the great conqueror of the East. As we have seen, no lack of means hampered the accomplishment of the Athenian ambition.
About 450 b.c. a temple was erected on the south-west of the Acropolis to the honour of Athena Nike—the giver of Victory. A year or two later the colossal bronze statue of Athena was erected in front of the spot where the Parthenon was to be built in the following year.
THE PARTHENON
In the early days of Athens the Acropolis had been a rocky eminence which served as a natural retreat, on which the dwelling of the chiefs was erected with the shrine of the tribal deity. Its precipitous cliffs enabled a body of determined defenders to keep an enemy at bay; so that those living at its foot soon obtained a commanding position among the village tribes of Attica from their ability to offer a place of safety in time of stress. In course of time these tribes became united in the common worship they paid to the Virgin Athena who gave her name to the leading settlement, and all offered their gifts at her shrine in the centre of the fortress when her inspiration gave them the victory. Now, however, Athens was to put the Acropolis to another use. Cimon levelled its rugged plateau, and, by building extensive walls around its slopes and filling in the gaps between the walls and the rock, considerably increased its area. On the top arose the buildings which were to make Athens one of the wonders of the world. The chief of these was, of course, the Parthenon—the temple of the virgin goddess Athena. On this all the genius of Attica was lavished. Ictinus, the greatest architect in Greece, furnished the design. Phidias was by common consent the most fitted to beautify the buildings with the marble groups and reliefs which were now the great feature of every public building in Greece. Under him were placed the most accomplished bronze-workers and stone-cutters of the day. Born about 500 b.c., Phidias was a boy when Miltiades and his eleven thousand Athenians and Platæans drove the army of Darius to its boats at Marathon. Like Sophocles, he may have borne arms at Salamis. He had grown up in an atmosphere saturated with his countrymen’s successes and ambitions. In temperament, the embodiment of the Attic spirit, Phidias was the very man to compose the pæan in marble which should cry his country’s prowess to the world when every Grecian voice was stilled. The others were to carry out his designs for the decoration of the temple, but his own work was to be the great ivory and gold statue of Athena which the Parthenon was to enshrine.
Ten years later (438 b.c.) the work was finished. When the second statue of Athena was unveiled the goddess was found to be no longer the warlike maiden who, spear in hand, led those who bore her name to victory. Phidias’ colossal figure, some forty feet high, portrayed the virgin in her robes of triumph, with the symbol of victory in her hand. From her shoulders hung the ægis wherewith her father Zeus had destroyed his foes, from the centre of which the dreaded gorgon’s head stared out. The face, arms and feet of the goddess were of ivory, the dress being decorated with gold. This statue of Athena Parthenos has been lost to the world since the coming of Christianity to Athens about 430 a.d., but the accounts of classical travellers and some rude reproductions enable us to reconstruct the masterpiece of Phidias, at least in imagination.
The Parthenon itself was built from the golden-hued marble of Pentelicus, quarried from the mines near Athens. Its architecture was of the simple yet stately Doric order. The principal chamber of the temple—the cella—in which the statue of Athena Parthenos stood, was surrounded by a colonnade of Doric pillars. The metopes, or square panels above the colonnade, were filled with groups sculptured in high relief, the outside of the cella being decorated with a frieze in low relief. In judging this it is important to remember that these reliefs stood forty feet above the floor of the colonnade. Colour was added to increase their effect, while the bridles and other appointments of the horses were of metal. The triangular pediments above the porticos were filled with two great groups sculptured in the round.
Throughout the series of sculptured marbles with which the Parthenon was decorated, Phidias’ aim was to illustrate the greatness of the goddess of the Athenians. In the pedimental groups the artist showed Athena’s miraculous birth and her victory in the contest with Poseidon. The eastern pediment pictured Olympus just after the axe of Hephaestus had freed Athena from her father’s head. The virgin stood fully armed by the side of Zeus in the midst of the wondering gods. The design for the western pediment portrayed a scene even more closely connected with Athenian history. Poseidon had claimed the right to give a name to the city of the sons of Cecrops, a demand to which Athena would not agree. It was decided that the one who, in the opinion of Zeus, produced the more serviceable gift for mankind, should secure the privilege. Phidias chose the moment when Zeus had awarded the right to Athena on the ground that the olive tree, which had sprung up on the Acropolis at her command, was of more value to the human race than the horse—the emblem of war—upon which Poseidon had relied.
The carvings of the metopes represented the overthrow of the personifications of the powers of evil of which it was the mission of the goddess of wisdom to rid the world. In some were depicted the victory of the Greeks over the Eastern amazons, in others the victory of the gods over the earth-born giants, and in the rest the contests of Centaurs and Lapiths. They were all in very high relief. It is certain that Phidias had less to do with this portion of the decoration of the temple than with the sculptures in the pediments or the frieze, and the work is of varying merit.
In the low relief on the frieze within the colonnade the sculptor depicted perhaps the most Athenian scene of all—the panathenaic procession. The festival of which this was the culmination was instituted in honour of Athena Polias—the Protectress of the City. Every town in Attica and each colony and subject town contributed its share to the sacrifices in honour of the occasion. On the last day the whole population of the State, some on foot, some on horseback or in chariots, marched in procession to lay the peplos of the goddess in her temple. The concourse included a band of the noblest maidens of the city carrying baskets of offerings, the right to be one of these being the greatest honour to which an Athenian girl could aspire. To adorn the frieze, Phidias imaged this great procession divided into two long lines, running along the north and south sides of the cella respectively. Both met in the eastern face. At this spot the sculptor showed the Athenian maidens with the vessels of sacrifice and the gods, who, though invisible, were among their people on that day. A priest stood in the centre possibly receiving the embroidered robe of the goddess from a little boy. On the right and left were seated the chief divinities of Hellas—on the one side Athena, Hephaestus, Poseidon, and Dionysus, and on the other Zeus and Hera attended by Isis.
“THESEUS”
British Museum
“THE THREE FATES”
British Museum
Enough remains of the various parts of the Parthenon decorations to enable us to judge of the supreme gifts of the artist to whose imagination they were due and under whose direction they were fashioned. An hour in the Elgin room of the British Museum, where the larger part are enshrined, should be sufficient to convince the greatest sceptic. The magnificent group “[The Three Fates]” show the marvellous skill of the Athenian sculptors in dealing with drapery. There is an ideal nobility in such a figure as that familiarly known as “[The Theseus]” which places it on a higher plane of art than either the beautifully proportioned forms of Polyclitus or the rhythmical translations of nature by Myron. The wonderful fertility of invention, which is, perhaps, the most noticeable feature of the whole of the Parthenon designs, would have been an impossible achievement for the steady imagination of the Argive sculptor. It needed the temperament of an Athenian artist working under the inspiration of his subject and certain of the appreciation of his countrymen. It is one of the tragedies of art that one who had deserved the esteem of his fellows so fully did not retain it. Phidias died in exile at Elis. An accusation of misappropriating the gold voted for the statue, together with a charge of sacrilege for engraving his own portrait and that of Pericles on the shield of Athena, caused the great sculptor to leave the city he had served so well. He died about 432 b.c.
So far we have spoken of Phidias, the sculptor, and Ictinus, the architect. Our modern ideas incline us to associate the artist with the work—Wren with St. Paul’s and Raphael with the “Sistine Madonna.” In reality, the foundation-stone of the Parthenon should be inscribed thus: “Pericles and the people of Athens made me.”
A work of art so great, which exemplified the struggles and aspirations of a race so completely, could not but owe the largest debt to the political leader of the State. All the forces of Athens were united to beautify the Acropolis, and these were marshalled, naturally enough, not by an artist but by a politician. The real creator of the temple of Athena was Pericles. He realised that the greatness of his countrymen depended, not upon the breadth of their dominions, but upon the healthy development of every citizen, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He divined that the proud boast “we love the beautiful without extravagance and knowledge without exaggeration” was incompatible with strivings after empire. To engage the Athenian imagination, and to wean it from the road which eventually led to ruin, Pericles bethought him of the erection of the series of monuments witnessing to the glory of the first city of Greece. His was the conception in its entirety, he found the means, and, above all, he never permitted the enthusiasm of his countrymen to flag.
GROUP OF GODS
From the Parthenon Frieze
BOY WITH PEPLOS
From the Parthenon Frieze
These are the chief facts. They prove that the temple of the Virgin goddess and the marbles with which it was adorned, played a part in the life of the fifth-century Athenian, for which there is no modern counterpart. The Parthenon brought heaven to earth. It satisfied the individual Athenian’s craving for light as to his personal destiny. But above all, it stood for those social and political ideals which he estimated far above his own personal wants. It spoke to his soul as the idea of Empire speaks to the patriotic Briton of to-day. The pedimental groups, too, were more than decorations or mere pictures of the great gods; they glowed with a message which we should deem inspired. When the Athenian’s gaze wandered towards the Acropolis—still more when, during some high festival, he stood before the temple marbles—he could forget the perpetual sacrifice of will, liberty and individuality—things which we Europeans deem altogether desirable—and say with all sincerity, “it is worth while.”
THE TEMPLE STATUARY
One thing will have struck our readers throughout the foregoing argument. It has been impossible to avoid a certain tendency towards confusing terms. For instance, stress has been laid upon three factors in Greek life, as exercising an immense influence upon Hellenic sculpture—civic pride, a deep tolerance in religious opinion, and an intense feeling for physical strength and beauty. Yet, directly we have come to grips with these conceptions, they have appeared to be inextricably commingled. The Greek’s pride in his city-state, his absorption in physical beauty, are religious in their fervour and in the way in which they are utilized to uphold a strenuous moral ideal. Again, the actions which are most akin to what we term religion nowadays, closely resemble philosophy in their rigid rejection of everything approaching mysticism.
In relating any art to the social and political circumstances which gave it birth, it is all-important to remember that the distinctions between such terms as science, art, religion, and philosophy are more or less arbitrary. In the earliest times men did not distinguish between any of the four. When the skin-clad dweller in the forests gazed upon the lightning flashing among the oak branches, and imaged the angry ruler of earth and sky, he did not separate the explanation of the natural phenomenon from the symbolical incarnation, or both from the religious belief. Nor was this less so when the human mind rose to more complex conceptions. The Pueblo Indian, for instance, recognizes a Sky-god and an Earth-goddess, the parents of all living things. The Sky-god passes across the heavens with the blazing shield of the sun’s disc in his hand, to vanish beyond the portals of the dark underworld where the spirits of the dead are at rest. This is at once the science, the art, and the religion of the Pueblo Indian. It satisfies two elemental cravings of his nature. In the first place it translates the phenomena of the natural world into terms which his reason can grasp. In the second place it satisfies his yearning for some superior will—we call this God—to which he may attribute the purpose and order which he instinctively assumes in the world.
So it was in Greece. We may be convinced that the Iliad and the Odyssey should be described as art. They are art to our way of thinking; that is to say, to our minds they are clearly more akin to “Paradise Lost” than to the religious poetry of the Jews. But to the Greek they were at once religion and art and philosophy.
Exactly the same remark must preface our consideration of the third class into which the sculptures of fifth-century Greece may be divided—the temple statues, erected to such deities as Zeus, Hera, and Athena.
For five hundred years or more the best elements in the religious faith of ancient Greece had been fostered and sustained by the Homeric poems. These, at least, offered an antidote to the brutal temple myths which had gradually gathered around the names of the gods, the nature of which can be realized from the pages of Hesiod. But the Greeks must at times have hungered for more definite representations of the great gods and goddesses.
In the fifth century, however, the sculptors shook off the bonds of realism, which had prevented the portrayal of such a purely ideal figure as the deity “who dwelt in the heights of the air,” and whose voice could be heard in the rustling of the oak-leaves of Dodona. It was realized that a divine image, as satisfying to the imagination of the Greek as the word-pictures of Homer, was possible. The success of the great artists of the fifth century was instantaneous. Within a short time all the great temples of the Hellenic world were furnished with statues of the deities in whose honour they were erected.
The sculptors were content for the most part to follow the imaginations of the earlier poets. They only sought to realize in the god-like forms their highest ideals of human beauty and dignity. They avoided the example of the Babylonians and Egyptians who had emphasized the unworldliness of their deities by investing them with strange shapes and symbols. The Greek imagination was content to add to the human form a more than human majesty. Gradually these statues became so much a part of their imagination that the Greeks found it impossible to picture the great gods apart from the artists’ portrayals. So widespread was the effect of sculpture on Greek and Roman religious thought that, at length, no other conception of the gods could be formed. In the wall paintings of Pompeii the deities are represented as of the colour and material of statues, the sculptural effect being imitated as closely as possible.
Lucian, too, in one of his dialogues, pictures the assembly of the Olympian deities who are dismayed that men no longer rest upon the faiths of their forefathers. In the course of the dialogue, Zeus orders “that the gods should be seated in order of merit. The gold gods first, then the silver, then the ivory, bronze, and stone,” he commands, “and give preference to any work of Phidias, or Alcamenes, or Myron, or Euphranor, or other artist of distinction.”
The most famous of the religious statues of ancient Greece were erected to Zeus and Hera. Other gods and goddesses were particularly identified with the various cities of Greece, such as Athena with Athens. But for the whole Greek world Zeus and Hera were the recognized rulers among the dwellers in Olympus. The chief temple of Zeus was at Olympia where, as we have seen, the Pan-Hellenic Games were held in his honour. That of Hera lay between Argos and Mycenæ. To these the Hellenic world came from time to time to honour the Father of the gods and his chosen consort. In the inner shrine of each stood a great “chryselephantine” statue—a term used to distinguish the wooden statues, with their veneer of ivory and gold, from the ordinary marbles and bronzes. No trace of either remains to-day. Wood is perishable, and the plunder of gold would doubtless have proved irresistible to the Turk, even had the Christian been scrupulous enough to resist the temptation. Had they been cut from the cold marble it might have been otherwise. They were, however, still in their places in the time of Hadrian, when Pausanias wrote the greatest of all guide-books.
ZEUS
Vatican, Rome
HERA
Terme Museum, Rome
We can picture the great statue of Zeus, possibly the most remarkable creation of the sculptor’s art in Greece. The features of the “Father of the Gods” are majestic, yet not unkindly; the arms and the upper parts of the body are fashioned from the gleaming ivory, the lower limbs being wrapped in the golden mantle. In the days of Pausanias there was a building outside the sacred Grove, which was still treasured by the people of Elis as the workshop in which, for five years, the sculptor wrought the image piece by piece. “Why,” says Pausanias, “the god himself bore witness to the art of Phidias. For when the image was completed Phidias prayed that the god would give a sign if the work was to his mind, and straightway, they say, the god hurled a thunderbolt into the ground at the spot where the bronze urn stood down to my time.” This second-century Baedeker has given us the greater part of our knowledge of the works of antiquity, which are now lost or survive only in Roman copies. He described the statue of Zeus by Phidias thus:
“The god is seated on a throne: he is made of gold and ivory: on his head is a wreath made in imitation of sprays of olive. In his right hand he carries a Victory, also of ivory and gold: she wears a ribbon, and on her head a wreath. In the left hand of the god is a sceptre, curiously wrought in all the metals: the bird perched on the sceptre is the eagle. The sandals of the god are of gold and so is his robe. On the robe are wrought figures of animals and the lily flowers. The throne is adorned with gold and precious stones, also with ebony and ivory; and there are figures painted and images wrought on it.”
The statue of Hera in the temple between Argos and Mycenæ was the work of Polyclitus. It was erected after 423 b.c., when it was necessary to rebuild the shrine of the goddess owing to the burning of the older temple. The goddess was seated on her throne; the crown on her head was decorated with a design of the Graces and the Seasons in relief. Ivory was used to represent the flesh of the “white-armed” goddess, and her rich garments were elaborately decorated with gold, the finish of every detail being even more complete than was the case with the work of Phidias. If the statue of Hera was second to that of Zeus in its suggestion of god-like majesty and repose, it was nevertheless remarkable for its stately beauty. The head, as would be expected from the hand of Polyclitus, was noticeable for the absolute symmetry of every feature. The ripples of hair falling on either side of the central parting gave an impression of dignified calm to the face of the goddess.
The “[Zeus]” of Phidias and the “[Hera]” of Polyclitus are the most famous examples of the Greek statues which we have designated as “religious.” The term is, however, misleading. Religious art proper, religious art in the modern sense of the term, did not exist for the citizens of Periclean Athens: “personal” religion—with its intense subjectivity—was a closed book to him. The mysticism—that yearning to be at one with the ultimate reality—which is the keynote of what we moderns deem religion, would have been simply meaningless to the Argive, the Spartan, or the Athenian of the fifth century. No Greek could ever have said with Bacon, “Our humanity were a poor thing but for the divinity that stirs within us.” Such sentiments as those of the mystic, Antony, the Egyptian, would have struck him as sheer nonsense. “He who sits still in the desert is safe from three enemies—from hearing, from speech, from sight; and has to fight against only one—his own heart.” The Greek had no conception of a “personal” and quasi-human intelligence working in and through the human agent. Human speech, human sight, and, above everything, the promptings of the heart, were all in all to him.
We are, therefore, unable to correlate such a statue as the Zeus of Olympia with such an every-day human craving as that for communion with a personal creator and ruler of the universe which we experience. It rather depends upon a desire for an all-embracing interpretation of the phenomenal world. In other words, such a statue might more rightly be called philosophical than religious.
With the rise of the city-states, the growth of an intense desire for all knowledge brought a new light to bear upon the whole content of consciousness. Men began to distinguish between those impressions which came from outside, and those which seemed rather to depend upon emotional interpretation supplied by the self. The deductions that appeared to be correctly drawn from sense impressions came to be regarded as having a greater validity than the rest, and science arose as a sphere of thought sufficient unto itself and governed by its own rules. During the fifth century the scientists strove to relate the phenomena of the senses, now to one natural force, now to another. But they never reached a unity that carried conviction. The general law upon which they seemed to come ever and again was a constant and eternal flux. “Strife is the father of all things,” said Heraclitus.
But while Greek science was growing there were many—say one half of the Greek world—to whom its generalisations were simply uninteresting. They were the men to whom the poet could appeal. The mystery all desired to fathom was deeper than sense. Each felt, rather than saw, that:
“Something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— Of something felt, like something here, Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.”
To such men the “realities” of the scientists were but shadows behind which lay a more abiding truth. The riddle they desired to solve was what relation the fictional realities of the scientists bore to the abiding truths beyond. And the bolder spirits, spurred on by the great intellectual and emotional flood which followed the Persian wars, started upon the quest.
These were craftsmen all—the artists proper. In obedience to some unreasoned desire, these men bethought them to fashion new representations of “the all of things.” They took the ultimate conceptions of life. For example:
“Him, who from eternity, self-stirred, Himself hath made by His creative word.”
They strove to convey, not only the impressions realised by their brothers, the scientists, but the emotions astir in their own hearts. What matter if the scientists proved these “ideal types” to be mere lies. The artists felt that the unconscious criticism of nature revealed truths far beyond those at which the conscious criticism of science stopped.
THE BARBERINE HERA
Vatican, Rome
By the middle of the fifth century the Greek artist had realized that his true task was not to strive to copy the known, but, “hungry for the infinite,” to seek the ideal whose home was in the unknown. The inmost revelations vouchsafed to Greek thought and imagination in the fifth century found expression in the great temple statues. Earlier they had been embodied in such poems as the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey.” Later they were to find expression in the dialogues of Plato. But between 450 b.c. and 400 b.c. the natural philosophy of the Greek world was embodied in such sculptures as the “[Zeus]” of Olympia and the “[Hera]” of Argos. That is why we call the second half of the fifth century “the golden age of Greek sculpture.” Then, and only then, did it embody all Greek thought; then, and only then, were the workers in marble and bronze inspired to express the passion for physical beauty, the fierce pride in citizenship, as well as the deepest thoughts upon nature and humanity.
The passion for physical beauty found material expression in the great series of athletic sculptures of Argos and Athens. The Parthenon was the outcome of the Hellene’s civic pride. The deepest philosophical beliefs of the fifth-century Greek are to be found in such statues as the “[Zeus Otricoli]” and the “[Hera Ludovisi].” These are certainly the finest conceptions of the great god and goddess which have been preserved to us. Both are based on the statues of Phidias and Polyclitus, though there are traces of a more sensuous and florid taste than would have been possible in the fifth century. In the head of Zeus, for instance, the suggestion of awful power is lacking. The great sculptor working under the inspiration of Homer’s lines: “Spake the Son of Cronus and nodded thereto with swart brows and the ambrosial lock of the King rolled backward from his immortal head and the heights of Olympus quaked,” could not have missed this. The two heads convey all the beauty of the first conceptions, but they lack the serene austerity—the stern aloofness—that we may be sure characterized the work of Phidias and Polyclitus. The fifth-century artists were appealing to men who preserved a measure of unreasoning faith in the gods of their fathers.
The beautiful full length “[Barbarian Hera],” in the Vatican Collection, represents a step further in the emphasizing of sensuous charm, and consequently there is even less insistence upon the severe beauty which the fifth-century sculptor sought to portray. To be understood the statue must be regarded as a work of the fourth century, and be judged by the standards of Scopas and Praxiteles.
The ideal head of Asclepius, in the British Museum, which has been ascribed to Thrasymedes of Paros, the sculptor of the great chryselephantine statue at Epidaurus, is a work bearing a strong resemblance to the “[Zeus Otricoli].” It was found in the Island of Melos, in a shrine dedicated to the Physician of the Gods, hence the title. The expression of the God of Healing, whose worship was so general in Greece at one time that it threatened to become almost universal, is, however, more kindly and human than that of Zeus. It is a beautiful example of the joyousness and sweet reasonableness which Greek sculpture possessed through contact with a system of religious belief which left the intelligence unhampered and the human emotions free. It is true that the religion of ancient Greece lacked the driving power of other and more potent faiths. It was not based upon such personalities as Buddha, Moses, or, greatest of all, the Founder of the faith which eventually Hellenized the Western world. But for a few short years the humane and tolerant religion of Greece was all-sufficient. Any one who would have abundant proof has only to stand for a few minutes before the marbles which sum up and express the Greek belief in an entirely reasonable and beautiful world.