CHAPTER III
THE AGE OF SCOPAS AND PRAXITELES
(400 b.c. TO 330 b.c.)
There is a wealth of worldy wisdom in the saying “Close sits my shirt, but closer my skin.” It reminds us that the relation of the individual to society answers many a riddle. The Athens of the fifth century has furnished us with one great type of individualism—that in which the citizen was willing simply to add his unit to the energy directed by the State. In its sculpture we saw the consequences of a social system which rested upon a foundation essentially unselfish. But, after all, such social altruism is unnatural. Individuality does stand for a dominant passion in humanity. The Athenian communal spirit lasted for a few short years. Then, like many another truly great ideal, it vanished, and with it the school of sculpture to which it had given birth.
After 400 b.c. the Hellenic sculptor found himself in a new world of thought and emotion. The Greek to whom he appealed looked to marble and bronze to express ideals entirely different from those which had been potent fifty years earlier. It would not have been surprising had the sculptor of the later age been overwhelmed by the sense of the achievements of the earlier era. We could have pardoned a half-century of decadent workmanship, while a method suited to the new ideas was being evolved. As a matter of fact, the Greek sculptor passed from one to the other without perceptible effort. The succession of great artists was unbroken.
Nevertheless, the break with the old epoch was complete. Indeed, it will ever be one of the mysteries of art how human craftsmanship could successfully express thoughts and emotions so diverse by the same medium. There was the same sleepless criticism of nature, the same overpowering impulse towards generalisation, which gave the keynote to the sculpture of the fifth century. But the younger school found fresh themes for plastic expression. It drew new passions from the pulsating humanity in the city-states. That the Greek sculptor passed so easily from the one to the other is a sure proof of the natural bias of the Hellenic genius towards sculpture. It shows that for one century and a half, at any rate, Greece was peopled by a race of sculptors. Many individuals lacked the technical resources of the craftsman, but the average Athenian thought in terms of marble or bronze. Denied an outlet in one direction, the natural impulse found it elsewhere. The result was a new melody, a harmony equally perfect—so true is it that the poet-soul of a nation of artists has “but to be struck, and the sound it yields will be music.”
It is by no means easy to distinguish thus strongly between the sculpture of the fifth-century Greece and that of the fourth without, in a measure, appearing to depreciate the one or the other. It is particularly easy to convey some such impression when we have to assert that Scopas and Praxiteles, the typical sculptors of fourth-century Greece, failed to embody in their bronzes and marbles the inmost revelations vouchsafed to the Greek imagination. It is as true that Greece owes to Phidias and Polyclitus the sculpture which is most truly Hellenic, as that we owe to Shakespeare the drama which is most truly English. But the appreciation of the art produced by the England of the twenty years after the Armada does not necessitate our decrying such lyricists as Herrick and Rochester. We know that our literature is the richer for both these elements. We can spare neither the awful pathos of Leah’s recognition of Cordelia, nor Herrick’s “Night Piece to Julia.” We must hold the scales at least as evenly between the art of Phidias and the art of Praxiteles.
In many ways the “[Niobe]” of Scopas and the “[Hermes]” of Praxiteles testify even more strongly to the vitality of the Hellenic genius. Certainly the best work of the fourth-century sculptors appeals far more directly to us. The period is that of the Spartan and Theban supremacy. Athens has practically acknowledged defeat in the struggle for the hegemony of Greece. Instead of the all-pervading pride in citizenship, the Athenian is conscious of an increasing interest in himself as an individual. The old absorption in the ideal citizenship vanishes. For this very reason the sculptor strikes a note more akin to our nature. The cold, almost repellent, beauty of the fifth-century sculpture is replaced by a new and more sensuous grace.
What were the historical circumstances which brought about this entire change in the Greek artists’ outlook upon life? Upon the withdrawal of the calm judgment and imaginative grip of Pericles, the Athenian political system degenerated rapidly. Drunk with the lust for conquest, Athens forgot that no single town could hope to conquer and rule any large portion of the Hellenic world. Under the influence of such firebrands as Alcibiades, Athens pursued the mad phantom of Empire. Defeat was inevitable, and the catastrophe at Syracuse in 413 b.c. was but a prelude to the final disaster nine years later.
There is perhaps no more awful page in the book of human history than that which pictures the scene in the Piræus after Ægospotami, when the last Athenian fleet was destroyed by Lysander in 405 b.c. “That night not a man slept.” Every Athenian remembered the fate of Demosthenes and Nicias at the hands of the revengeful Syracusans. He called to mind the living death of his 7000 countrymen condemned to a slavery in the stone quarries of Achradina. Now that the final catastrophe had come, his memory must have carried him back to his vote in 428 b.c., when the Assembly ordered the execution of the whole adult male population of Mytilene and Lesbos. He recalled the sentence passed upon the inhabitants of the rebellious Melos, which ended in the death of every man of military age. As these thoughts crowded in, each man must have asked if the gods would save him as they had saved the men of Mytilene, or whether his fate would be the death he had meted out to the soldiers of Melos and that of his wife and children the slavery that had befallen the rest of the islanders.
No pleasant picture. But it is to these events that the world owes the sculptures of Scopas and Praxiteles.
Accepting, as we do, the dictum of Pericles, “Athens is the school of Hellas,” we have no hesitation in turning to her social and political history for an explanation of the essential difference between the sculpture of Greece in the fifth and the fourth century. The term “Athenian” cannot be used at will for “Hellenic.” Every city and state in Greece contributed something to the Hellenic genius. Each added its quota to the fund of intellectual and emotional experience upon which the great Greek artists drew. In these 150 city-states all types of political institutions and social customs flourished. Some developed their citizens in one direction, others in another. Men of all types were created. But Athens alone absorbed and utilized all the artistic energies generated in the Ægean peninsula. In the Athenian character alone do we find those traits which, for want of a better name, we may term Pan-Hellenic.
The first effect of the shattering of the imperial dream was to scatter Athenian culture broadcast over the Hellenic world. The store-house of Athenian genius was opened to all. The typical Greek of the new era was the cosmopolitan Xenophon. The ideal of Pericles, “my state right, or my state wrong, but my state, right or wrong,” was sadly out of date. Phidias was an Athenian, born and bred. His life-work was for Athens, and the one thing that Athens shared with Greece—the worship of Zeus. But Scopas was a Parian by birth and an Athenian only by adoption. He worked everywhere and for anybody—as a young man in Tegea; as an old man in Asia Minor upon the great mausoleum erected by the Ephesian Artemisia to her Carian husband.
THE MAUSOLEUM CHARIOTEER
British Museum
For thirty years after Ægospotami, Sparta, with the help of Persia, ruled Greece. After the peace of Callias in 371 b.c. came the domination of Pheræ and Thebes, and the military supremacy of Epaminondas. During all this time Athens looked on. Her commerce had suffered little. The wealth of her capitalists had rather been increased than decreased by the abandonment of the luxury of empire. But if the material difference was small, the psychological difference was immense. Whereas Demosthenes could cry of the Athenian who had fought at Salamis, that he believed himself “not born to his father and mother alone, but also to his country,” the State in the fourth century came to be regarded as a joint stock corporation, to be bled for the benefit of its most noisy members. Mercenaries took the place of citizen soldiers in the army of the State. Regardless of the necessity for providing against emergencies, the citizens voted themselves largesses from the public funds. A popular statesman was the man who lessened the cost of public administration, and so could distribute ever increasing dividends of festival money to the proletariat.
This new regard for the individual was entirely foreign to the ideals which had dominated Hellas fifty years earlier. Each man began to realise that apart from citizenship there was an entity which also claimed attention, an “I” with passions and emotions which required satisfaction and called for artistic expression. The sculptor no longer rejected those subjects which derived their interest from the successful expression of individual emotion.
THE AGE OF SCOPAS
(400 b.c.-350 b.c.)
Scopas was the first artist to realise the new necessity laid upon the plastic arts. He was the chief architect of his day, and in his work we can trace the effect of the new ideas before sculpture was divorced in great measure from architecture. We have already mentioned his association with the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus—one of the “Seven Wonders.” The Carian ruler Mausolus died in 353 b.c., leaving his widow Artemisia to rule. She determined to erect a great monument to his memory, and impressed the best known artists of Magna Græcia into her service for the purpose. The restoration by C. R. Cockerell in the Mausoleum Room at the British Museum, or, still better, that by Oldfield (The Antiquary, vol. liv., pp. 273-362), give some idea of the great pyramidical building, glowing with colour, which stood on a lofty basement by the harbour side. The whole was surmounted by a great chariot group by Pythis, containing the heroic figure of Mausolus, possibly accompanied by Artemisia, after the fashion of Zeus and Hera in the chariot of the gods.
To the art historian, however, the most interesting feature is the frieze. The principal subject of the existing fragments in the British Museum is a fight between Greeks and Amazons. But the most beautiful section is perhaps a sadly-mutilated slab from a portion of the frieze whereon was pictured a chariot race. It is known as the “[Mausoleum Charioteer].” Nothing could bring home more clearly the immense strides Greek art has made than a comparison of this tiny marble fragment with the “Bronze Charioteer” from Delphi, sculptured about one hundred and twenty years earlier. The Mausoleum figure is also clad in the long close-fitting robe of his calling. But every trace of conventionalism has vanished. Even the calm restraint with which an Alcamenes would have treated the subject has gone. Instead we find a passionate intensity which is altogether new. As Mr. E. A. Gardner reminds us, the “[Mausoleum Charioteer]” might well be of the company described by Shelley, who:
“With burning eyes, lean forth and drink With eager lips the wind of their own speed, As if the thing they loved fled on before, And now, even now, they clasped it.”
THE NIOBE GROUP
The “[Mausoleum Charioteer]” is a beautiful illustration of the more individualistic melody which the early fourth-century sculptor drew from the great orchestra of Greek genius. But we can gauge the effects of the new sympathies still more clearly in the celebrated “[Niobe]” group. Even in classical times it was a moot point whether its author was Scopas or Praxiteles. Probably the question will never be settled. Modern criticism, however, generally favours its attribution to Scopas. The group certainly contains all the characteristics which we have associated with his influence.
The series was excavated in Rome in 1583 a.d., near the Church of St. John Lateran. It was acquired by one of the Medici family, and placed in the garden of his villa, where it remained until it was removed to its present resting-place in the Uffizi Palace, Florence.
The Florentine “Niobides” are not from the chisel of a fourth-century craftsman. They are probably copies of those described by Pliny as having been brought to the Temple of Apollo Sosianus in 38 b.c. Indeed, other ancient versions of the great group exist, including a magnificent copy of the daughter of Niobe—“The Chiaramonti”—now in the Vatican. The “Niobides” were almost certainly originally designed to serve an architectural purpose. It has been surmised that they formed a pedimental group for a Temple of Apollo in Asia Minor. To judge of their relation to the rest of Greek art, they must be compared with such a pedimental group as that of the Parthenon, and we have, therefore, preferred to illustrate them from the collection of casts at Munich, instead of from the marbles in Rome or Florence. Incidentally, it is interesting to note that Phidias was content to allow three or four figures in the centre of the group to tell the story. We do not, for instance, even know whether the “[Theseus]” is a god, a hero, or merely a personification of one of the Athenian rivers. But in the [Niobe group] every figure is concerned with the main theme.
Regarded as an incident in the history of Greek sculpture, the “Niobides” brilliantly illustrate the fourth-century artist’s success in the depiction of human expression and passion. The Theban Queen is the incarnation of the belief that womanhood’s greatest glory is to bring into the world “full-breathed, bright-eyed, and happy-hearted human creatures.” She stands for the Hellene’s agreement with Ruskin’s doctrine that the true veins of wealth are purple—“not in rock but in flesh.” But her proud sense of the glory of motherhood has aroused the ire of the Virgin Artemis. The sculptor chooses the moment when Niobe and her fourteen children are suddenly faced with the dread vengeance of Apollo and the goddess. The unseen arrows have stricken some of the fearful boys and girls. Others are as yet unhurt. A brother supports a sister. The centre of the group is occupied by the unfortunate mother, to whom the youngest daughter has fled in her terror.
These Roman copies of the “Niobides” were carved long after the schools of Pergamus and Rhodes had shown the possibility of a far more realistic presentation of physical terror and bodily pain. But they still retain evidence of the Greek sculptor’s determination not to be tempted beyond the limits set by bronze and marble. A desire for dramatic expression does not interfere with that harmony of the planes which to the purest Greek taste made for perfectly beautiful sculpture. There are none of the nervous suggestions of muscular action whereby later artists conveyed ideas of dramatic intensity. Such figures as Niobe with her shrinking girl rather display a desire to postpone physical to spiritual anguish. Upon analysis, this can be traced to the sculptor’s realisation of the impossibility of expressing the ultra-dramatic in terms of perfect beauty.
THE LUDOVISI ARES
Vatican, Rome
MENELAUS AND PATROCLUS
Loggia dei Lanzi, Florence
As we look upon the “[Niobe],” we feel at once that so dramatic a theme would have made no appeal to the generation before Scopas. But we must also feel that the fourth century has struck a new note—a note, moreover, to which marble can respond. But what is most wonderful is the magnificent reserve, the perfect moderation, with which the artist has expressed emotions that had been considered beyond the range of the art. The sculptor has not sacrificed that harmony and repose which he regards as essential to the idea of the beautiful.
The group usually called the “[Menelaus and Patroclus]” displays in equal degree this balance between the expression of deep emotion and the perfect moderation which the Greeks regarded as the hall-mark of the truly beautiful. The limitations incidental to marble as a medium for emotional expression are borne in mind. There is no effort to force the note of pathos.
THE AGE OF PRAXITELES
(360 b.c.-325 b.c.)
If Scopas may be regarded as the first Greek to realise that marble and bronze could express the more passionate intensity of feeling which naturally followed the increasing importance of the individual and the individual’s thoughts and emotions, his successor, Praxiteles, must be associated with the second great characteristic of fourth-century sculpture—its lyrical appeal. Greek sculpture had been epic. It had concerned itself with the heroic myths of the race. But as art became every year less a matter of communal concern, it began to voice the growing self-assertion of the individual Greek. In other words, sculpture became lyric.
Almost any fourth-century work would illustrate what we mean, but a beautiful practical example is furnished from the history of Attic sepulchral sculpture.
Any visitor to Athens will remember the numerous dedicatory reliefs, chapels and memorial stelæ still to be seen in situ in the Ceramicus, the cemetery near the Dipylon Gate. Reconstructing the scene at the time of Praxiteles, we must imagine the roads leading from the principal city gates as flanked with such sculptured memorials of the dead. The Sacred Way to Eleusis, for instance, became a favourite site.
To-day the Ceramicus is in ruins, but its monuments still present some of the finest examples of original Hellenic sculpture extant. There is the famous “[Relief of Dexileus].” It depicts with magnificent vigour an Athenian cavalry-man, triumphing over a prostrate foe. Dexileus died in the war which Athens waged unsuccessfully with the Corinthians, so the monument dates from about 394 b.c., the time when the youthful Scopas was at work upon the pedimental groups at Tegea. The beautiful work often called the “Death of Socrates” is only a few years earlier in date. The connection with Socrates is, of course, apocryphal, the subject really being an Athenian pouring a libation. At the other side is the wife, absorbed as was the wont of Athenian wives in some domestic interest—her dress, or her jewellery. The third figure is a young slave holding the vessel filled with wine.
“THE DEXILEUS RELIEF”
Ceramicus, Athens
Neither of the works memorialises any great political or social figure. Nothing could well be more individualistic than a monument erected to an unknown man by his friends or relations. Dating from about 400 b.c., both belong to an age when sculpture was divorcing itself from its close alliance with the State. But the point to be realised is that a few years earlier such works would have been impossible. Sculptors of such power would not have been at the service of mere individuals, however wealthy. Cicero (“De Legibus,” ii. 26) tells that in the period after Solon’s death, the Athenians legislated against elaborate monuments in such cemeteries as the Ceramicus. No tomb was permitted unless it could be made by ten men in three days.
For many years public opinion approved of these sumptuary laws. It was only when the fifth century was well advanced that they fell into disuse. Even then the transition was gradual. The sepulchral monuments were small and stonemasons only were employed. In the fourth century, however, the best known sculptors accepted such commissions. Pausanias, describing the antiquities near the Piræus Gate, says, for instance: “Not far from the gates is a tomb, whereon stands a soldier standing by his horse; who he was I know not, but it was Praxiteles who made both man and horse.”
But the tendency towards an increased interest in the needs of the individual citizen is even more strongly exemplified by the growth of home life. Home life had been sacrificed to public life in the age of Themistocles and Pericles. The victors of Salamis lived in small houses, which were particularly dark and uncomfortable owing to the lack of glass. The poorer citizens lived in a single “cella.” Families of moderate means had two sets of rooms, the upper floor for the women, and the lower set apart for the men. In the fifth century only a few rich men could afford the series of rooms grouped round the two courts which enabled the wealthy Athenian to receive his friends and enjoy some of the privileges of home life. Under the circumstances, we cannot wonder that the Greek left his home early and preferred the gymnasium or the market-place, the law courts or the covered corridors. A few met in the courtyards of their friends but, as a whole, social life in Athens was public.
In the fourth century, however, the richer members of the community began to build magnificent houses in the suburbs of Athens. Attempts at decorating the interiors followed as a matter of course. It is said that Alcibiades was the first Athenian to try, calling in Agatharchus, the painter, to his aid. The poorness of the light in the majority of the houses doomed the painters’ efforts to failure, but the sculptor had a better chance. His work could be used, at any rate, for the decoration of the courtyards. He was employed to supply portrait busts and a host of single figures, which, appealing as they did to the individual taste alone, would have had no place in the art of the preceding century.
The range of subjects was still further increased by the popular sculptor being no longer chiefly engaged upon huge chryselephantine statues of deities, in which it was manifestly impossible to depart far from the popular types which had been fixed by sculptors like Phidias and Polyclitus. Moreover, the sculptor was no longer compelled to spend most of his time in filling a triangular pediment, a square metope, or shaping his design to the long narrow frieze. The consequence was the discovery of numbers of mythical subjects capable of objective realisation in bronze and marble.
The “[Hermes]” is a beautiful example of the use such a sculptor as Praxiteles made of the new opportunities. The place it occupies in the history of the art is unique. Whereas most sculptures of its class are Roman copies, the “[Hermes of Praxiteles]” is an undoubted original. The marble was found at Olympia in 1877 a.d., on the very spot where Pausanias recorded having seen it. The find was preceded by the identification of a dipteral temple with an Heraion (Temple of Hera) also described by Pausanias. But this was of small interest compared with the statue which the German excavators discovered embedded in a fragment of wall. There was never any doubt as to its identity. It was clearly “the Hermes of stone, carrying the infant Dionysus—a work moreover by Praxiteles”—as Pausanias had recorded.
Every one has seen a cast of the statue. The god is carrying the babe Dionysus to the nymphs. He has stopped for a moment’s rest and is amusing his little charge, may be with a bunch of grapes held in the right hand. The perfect grace of the figure and the pose are essentially Praxitelean. The work illustrates the softer and more sensuous manner of imaging the lesser divinities which arose in the fourth century. In this case the youthful god in the flush of early manhood must be contrasted with the “bearded” Hermes of the age of Phidias. After the time of Praxiteles there was no reversion to the earlier type. He did for Hermes and Apollo what Phidias and Polyclitus had done for Zeus and Hera.
The influence of Praxiteles can be traced in a hundred kindred works produced during the next few centuries. In particular, it led to a fuller appreciation of the value of marble as a medium. Previously most of these single male statues had been bronze. The use of marble in turn led to increased technical skill. Take Praxiteles’ treatment of the hair in the “[Hermes],” for instance. Note the massing of the locks, without an attempt at the realistic representation of the details, and the skilful use of the play of light and shade which such free treatment makes possible.
THE INFLUENCE OF GREEK WOMANHOOD
But even these factors, potent though they were, do not account for the whole of the increased scope afforded to the fourth-century sculptor. We have passed in review various circumstances, political, economic, intellectual and moral. But we have said nothing of a good half of Greek society—the women. Yet the influence exerted by the fairer sex, negatively upon fifth-century, positively upon fourth-century, sculpture was all-important. It must not be overlooked if we would gain a complete understanding of either phase of Hellenic art.
Speaking generally, women occupied a place in Greek society which cannot be readily illustrated from our modern experience. The earliest Greek women is pictured in the pages of Homer. The typical wife is Penelope; the typical virgin is Nausicaa. To Homer, the wife is the trusted friend of her husband. The current belief is that
“The woman’s cause is man’s: they rise or sink Together, dwarf’d or god-like, bond or free.”
HERMES OF PRAXITELES (DETAIL)
Olympia
But prosperity brought a change. At the time of the rise of sculpture—in the early days of Pericles—the interests of the citizens were entirely political. At no time, perhaps, in the history of the world have men and women had so little in common. The duty of an Athenian wife was to stay at home, to order the house economically, and to control the numerous slaves. Wedded, perhaps at fifteen, after a childhood spent in strict seclusion, she could not hope to be a companion to the active-minded Athenian. “The best woman,” said Thucydides, “is she of whom least is said, either in the way of good or harm.”
Towards the end of the fifth century, the political interests became less absorbing, as we have seen. Private affairs began to occupy the major part of the wealthy citizen’s time. It might have been expected that the Athenian wife would have been gradually reinstated in the position of intimate companionship she had occupied before city life became general. But the custom of centuries was too firmly rooted. When the Athenian once more looked for the pleasures that might arise from social contact with his womenfolk he found his wife entirely without charm.
Naturally enough he turned to the Hetaerae. The word is too thoroughly Hellenic to be translated. Demosthenes distinguished the class from the rest of the Athenian women when he said:
“By means of wives we become the fathers of legitimate children and maintain faithful guardians of our homes; the Hetaerae are meant to promote the enjoyment of life.”
The “female friends” were usually captives made in war or, at any rate, strangers who found Athens a convenient market for their physical and intellectual charms. Few Athenian women dared to join their ranks. Every Hetaera was an expert dancer. She could play on the flute or lyre. Her wealth was often considerable. The boast of Phryne—the greatest feminine influence of her day in Greece—did not appear absolutely beyond reason. Yet the courtesan offered to rebuild the walls of Athens at her own cost. Not infrequently the Hetaera’s mental culture was sufficient to enable her to consort with the greatest philosophers and statesmen. Pericles himself imperilled his position in the State by his dealings with Aspasia.
We are not called upon to pass judgment upon these social customs. Our task is rather to estimate the influence of such a state of society upon the child of his time—the artist. Looking the facts in the face, we have simply to note that the old demand for manly vigour and civic unselfishness was giving place to a far less strenuous ideal. The Athenians could applaud a Phryne who at a festival at Eleusis, let down her hair and descended into the sea in the sight of all the Greeks, after the manner of a sea-born Aphrodite. Instead of Zeus and Hera, men looked to Dionysus, the leader of the revels; to Apollo, the chief of the Muses; to Aphrodite, the Queen of Desire, who held in her cestus all the magic of passion.
The greatness of an artist does not rest upon opposition offered to current civic and social ideals. On the contrary, it depends entirely upon the perfect expression which he gives to the body of emotions experienced by the men and women around him. The fame of Praxiteles is due to his complete identification with the paramount influences of his age. A true Athenian, the refined sensuality of his style picked him out as the artist to give objective form to the popular imaginations.
THE EROS OF CENTOCELLE
Vatican, Rome
Praxiteles himself was closely associated with the Hetaera, Phryne. One of his most renowned works was the “[Eros]” which he carved as the artistic expression of his love for the beautiful courtesan, and which was dedicated by Phryne at Thespiae about 360 b.c. The Epigrammatist said of the Thespian “[Eros]” that it “excited transports of love by hurling, not darts, but glances.” There have been many attempts to identify this statue with marbles that have come down to us. It has been often suggested that the beautiful torso found at Centocelle, and now in the Vatican, may be a copy. Without dogmatising, we can realise some of the qualities of Praxitelean art from the “[Eros of Centocelle].” We can see the dreamy melancholy with which the artist no doubt invested the graceful and tender form of the God of Love. It is strongly typical of the Praxitelean imagination that Eros is depicted as on the very verge of youth, at the dawn of the first forebodings of passion.
Praxiteles’ “[Aphrodite of Cnidus]” is equally associated with the memory of the Hetaera, Phryne. Originally executed for the islanders of Cos, it was refused by them on account of the daring manner in which the sculptor had imaged the goddess—a manner which can be realised from the epigram to which it gave rise.
“The Paphian Cytherea went down to the waters of Cnidus desiring to behold her own image; having beheld it, ‘Alas! Alas!’ she cried, ‘where did Praxiteles behold me thus? I thought only three persons, Paris, Anchises, and Adonis had done so.’”
The people of Cnidus differed from their brothers of Cos. As Pliny suggests, their acceptance of the statue made their island famous. The marble was placed in the centre of a grove of myrtle, and was approached by several paths so that it could be viewed from every side. The Vatican replica of the Aphrodite is the best known copy of the work. It is, however, at present disfigured by the addition of metal drapery which the taste of the last century considered necessary. The Praxitelean design can be realised from the copy at the Glyptothek, Munich, originally in the Palace Braschi. There is also an undraped cast of the Vatican statue in the Victoria and Albert Museum, South Kensington. Our own illustration is from a photo of the Vatican copy taken for the Hellenic Society many years ago.
To the people of Cnidus, the statue was not marble white. The eyes and hair of the goddess were coloured. The drapery and the flesh were delicately tinted. In exactly what manner this was done, we do not know. That such statues were painted is beyond argument. Pliny tells that the painter Nicias assisted Praxiteles. He suggests that the sculptor considered the encaustic additions of prime importance and necessitating the greatest skill. Whatever the purpose of this colouring of statues may have been, it is certain that there was no effort to secure greater realism by this addition. The desire seems to have been to soften the harsher tones of the marble and to increase the decorative effect of the statue by distinguishing the principal masses of the composition.
For hundreds of years after it was set up in the myrtle grove in Cnidus, the “[Aphrodite]” was the most renowned statue in Western Europe. This can only be attributed to the exquisite sense of artistic fitness with which Praxiteles carried out his task, together with the fact that he had enshrined in marble one of the ever potent human passions. Phryne had been Praxiteles’ model. But the statue was by no means a realistic presentation of the erotic beauties of the Hetaera. No fault can be found with Praxiteles’ treatment of his theme on that ground.
APHRODITE OF CNIDUS
Vatican, Rome
Nevertheless the representation of a goddess in the guise of a woman shrinking from the revelation of her beauty to mankind argues the loss of a certain morality. True, the Greek sculptor had never aimed at the inculcation of moral ideas. But in an age before the religious sense of the Greek had become dulled, he would have confined himself to the creation of an atmosphere in which moral ideas could range without friction. The “[Aphrodite of Cnidus]” belongs to a time which made no such demand upon its artists. The sculptor no longer believed that he owed a duty to the state in this particular respect. Every work now stood or fell by virtue of its innate truth and beauty.
But Praxiteles was in no sense “a brilliant exponent of decadent art.” On the contrary, his sculptures bear witness to perhaps the most magnificent endowment of the Attic brain—the fineness with which it felt. To-day, we are too apt to regard clarity of thought as the chief attribute of genius. Really genius depends upon the power to call up delicate tones of feeling, of infinite subtlety of texture when compared with the ideas which we often regard as its sole endowment.
Praxiteles has been described as “He who actually blended with his marbles the emotions of the soul.” The phrase is a fitting one with which to close our review of his art. His abiding greatness depends less upon sheer beauty of line than upon the delicacy of the feelings which he made marble convey. The play of the passing emotion on the face of the “[Hermes],” the dreamy passion of the “[Eros],” and the illusive charm with which the “[Aphrodite of Cnidus]” shrinks from the revelation of her beauty—these are typical of what is most characteristic in the sculpture of Praxiteles and his fellow workers. He felt the emotional appeal of the feminine and the youthful male form rather than saw the beauties of line displayed in the new subjects offered for sculptural treatment. It is far from true that the Greek sculptor generally sought for beauty of form to the neglect of all the varied charm that lies in intellectual and emotional expression. This might be said of Phidias and Polyclitus. The insight of the sculptors of the following century into the depths of human emotion, on the contrary, was infinite. Scopas and Praxiteles made marble speak the more delicate emotions of the soul to the last word.