The historians' history of the world in twenty-five volumes, volume 01

by Unknown

Battle in a Marsh in Southern Mesopotamia

(Layard)

It appears that the kings of that far-off time and land were connoisseurs of art as well as patrons of literature; and the art treasures of their palaces certainly form the most striking, if not the most important, part of the mementoes they have left to us. The more closely these figures in low relief are examined, the more wonderful they will seem. They take the place of the Egyptian carvings in the round; and if they are less striking to first view than the great sarcophagi, the grotesque gods, and colossal animal forms of that people, they will prove infinitely more expressive and incomparably more artistic on closer inspection. For these flat sculptures depict, not alone gods and sacerdotal scenes, but everyday affairs and the events of Assyrian history. The bas-relief was clearly the focal point of Assyrian art. Even the great bulls and lions that guarded the palace entrances were only partially detached from their background, and a frescoed statue of King Asshurnazirpal shows the same tendency. The full rounded statue was not indeed unknown to them, as several examples testify; but their real forte lay in mural decoration in low relief. And the particular walls on which the artists mainly expended their skill, if we may judge from what the ruins have revealed to us, were not the walls of temples, but the palaces of kings. It is quite clear that these great conquerors of antiquity were very human, very like their successors of after times. They loved to have their heroic deeds, real or alleged, heralded to the world, and recalled incessantly to their own memories. So one finds whole histories epitomised on these walls—wars, conquests, victories; the storming of cities, the slaughter of the enemy, the leading of captives, and bringing of tribute by subject people—everything, in short, but Assyrian reverses; the court artist, true to his colours then as now, never made the mistake of depicting those.

As historical records these sculptures are of priceless value, both for what they tell of political history and for the light they throw on the powers and limitations of antique art. But before you venture to judge the Assyrian artist in the latter regard, you must pass on to the room of Asshurnazirpal, and from that to the adjacent room, where the mural decorations of the dining-hall of the last of the great Assyrian kings, Asshurbanapal, have been placed in situ, reproducing an effect which they first made in the palace of Nineveh in the seventh century B.C. Here you may see at once both another phase of royal life in Assyria and another stage of Assyrian art. Not war, but the chase is now the theme. King Asshurbanapal is seen in pursuit of the goat, the wild ass, the lion. The king, of course, towers above his attendants, though not in the grotesque disproportion of the Egyptian paintings. To the oriental mind such excessive stature seemed indissoluble from royal station. One recalls how the mother of Darius, made captive at Issus, mistook Hephæstion for the king, because he was taller than Alexander; and how Agesilaus, when he went to Egypt as an ally of the Egyptians, was held in contempt, despite his renown, because of his diminutive stature; and one cannot help wondering what would have been the real aspect of the Assyrian and Egyptian monarchs could they have been subjected to the camera. Be that as it may, there was apparently no doubt in the mind of the court artist as to what his chisel should reveal in this respect, and the king may always be distinguished by his stature, without regard to his royal robes. Still, it is notable, as a distinction between Egyptian and Assyrian art, that the realistic eye of the Assyrian sculptor never let him depict the king as a Brobdingnag among the pigmies, after the Egyptian fashion. At the most he is a head taller than those about him.

The royal hunter pursues his quarry sometimes on foot, more usually standing in his chariot. His weapon is usually the bow, sometimes the spear; on one occasion he grapples with the lion, hand to jowl, and stabs the quarry to the heart with a short sword. The quiet dignity and royal calm with which the feat is achieved must have insured the artist a high and enduring place in the royal favour. The action, however, of the human figures in these sculptures is always sedate and reposeful, suggestive of reserved strength perhaps, or possibly of the artist’s limitations. Whichever it is, the real power of the artist is not shown in the human figures. These, to be sure, are in part strongly anatomised; in the main, they are fairly proportioned, and, unlike the Egyptian figures, they have the shoulders drawn in proper perspective. But the faces are fixed, impassive; the eyes are not in perspective, and, as a whole, they cannot claim high merit as works of art, viewed from an abstract modern standpoint. Considered in relation to their time, they are wonderful enough, so far ahead are they of anything that we could suppose to have been accomplished in the world of that day. But they fall far short of the standard which the same artist has himself given us in animal figures of his composition. It seems as if the human figures might have been done from memory, whereas the animal forms are clearly enough from the natural model. Indeed, when we turn to these animal figures we may criticise them, not with reservation as to their age, but from the standpoint of modern art, and as individual figures they will not be found wanting. The three fundamental canons—“proportion, action, aspect”—have been successfully met. The lions skulk sullenly from their cages, spring furiously into action, or roll in death agony at the will of the depicter. The lioness, with spine broken by an arrow, dragging her palsied hind-quarters, is a veritable masterpiece. The same is true of many of the figures of goats, of running and pacing wild asses, and of dogs. As a whole, these animal frescoes are nothing less than wonderful. It is worth a visit to London from the remotest land to see these sculptures from the palace of the old Assyrian king.

Bas-relief of a wounded Lioness

(Now in the British Museum)

Still, though these bas-reliefs have intrinsic merits as works of art, their chief value is for what they teach regarding the evolution of art in the world. Previously to their discovery it had been supposed that the stiff formalism of Egyptian sculpture represented the fullest flight of pre-Grecian art, and that Greek art itself had stepped suddenly forth, rather a new creation than an evolution. But the pick and shovel of Layard at Nineveh dispelled that illusion. For these art treasures, that had lain there under the deposits of centuries, were found to represent an enormous advance upon Egyptian models, precisely in the direction of that realism for which Greek art is distinguished.

If we would judge how direct and unequivocal was the impulse which the dying nation transferred to the adolescent one in point of art, we have but to take a few steps in the British Museum, from the Assyrian rooms to the wonderful hall that holds Lord Elgin’s trophies from the desecrated Parthenon. Look, then, upon the frieze of bas-relief that bears the magic name of Phidias. If anything can reconcile us to the act that deprived Greece of her priceless heirlooms, it is the fact that they have found lodgment here close beside their oriental prototypes, where half a million visitors each year may at least have an opportunity to learn the lesson that human progress is an accretion, a growth, a building upon foundations; and, specifically, that Greek art, no less than other forms of human culture, was an evolution, and not an isolated miracle. For what is the Parthenon frieze, as we now come to it fresh from the palaces of Nineveh, but an Assyrian fresco adapted to the needs and ideals of another race and developed by the genius of a newer civilisation? The profiled figures in low relief coursing together, are they different in conception from the profiled figures of the palaces we have just left? The horses of the Parthenon frieze might almost seem to have stepped bodily from the palaces of Asshurbanapal. They have gained something in suppleness of limb, have altered their attitude in a measure, to be sure, thanks to their new environment. But their type has not changed by so much as an actual breed of horses might be changed in as many generations. Note the head, the most typical and characteristic feature of this Grecian steed. Line for line it is the same head, trappings aside, that we have just seen at Nineveh. Even the defects of the Assyrian drawing are there—the too small and slender face, and receding lower jaw, the tiny ear, the far too full and “chuffy” neck. Possibly no horse in nature was ever like this, but the Assyrian artist so conceives it; the Greek copies that conception; and the distorted type will be transmitted down the generations to the Italian of the Renaissance, to the classical painters of Spain, the Netherlands, and Germany, and France; nay, even to the artist of the nineteenth century. The court artist of an oriental prince of the ninth or tenth century B.C. conceives a certain ideal; and, following him, a certain type of sculptured horse, such as the artist who carved it has never seen, steps before the chariot on Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe in nineteenth-century Paris.[c]