Part 8

This is all the testimony we have as to any work by Phidias in marble. Has it any real weight? But grant all these statements, vague and visionary as they are, to their fullest extent, what do they prove? Not that Phidias was especially a marble-worker, but only that he made, exceptionally, one or two statues in marble, and was supposed by some writers five hundred years after his death, to have had a connection with two more, though other testimony, and the facts and dates, clearly show that he could not have made them, or at least throw the very gravest doubts upon his having done so. In this way, we might assert that Raffaelle was a sculptor, because he is supposed to have made, or helped to make, the statue of Jonah in the Santa Maria del Popolo at Rome. But to jump from such shaky facts to the statement and belief that Phidias was the author, or at all events the designer, of all the marble figures in the pediment, theme topes, and the frieze of the Parthenon, is truly “a long cry.” Where is the ground on which such a belief can be founded? There is not a statement or even an allusion by any ancient writer to justify it. The testimony of Plutarch, so far as it goes, is directly opposed to it, and all the known facts are in contradiction of it.

Plutarch says that Phidias was appointed general superintendent of public works; that he made the statue of Athena in the Parthenon; and that, through the friendship of Pericles, he had the direction of everything, and all the artists received his orders. But he contradicts this immediately, if he is understood to mean anything more than that Phidias generally ordered who should be employed to do this or that work; for he distinctly says that Ictinus and Callicrates made the Parthenon,—and we know that Ictinus and Carpion wrote a book upon it. If Phidias designed or executed anything else than the Athena, why does not Plutarch say so, when he takes pains to tell us he made the Athena? The mention of the one excludes the other. If Ictinus and Callicrates made the building, why may they not have made all the rest of the work? Were they not able to do it? There is no reason to doubt their ability to design and execute all the decorative figures belonging to the temple they built. To Ictinus was intrusted the building of the Temple of Apollo at Phigaleia, in the sculptures of which there is shown remarkable ability; and he also built the Temple of the Eleusinian Ceres, and its mystic inclosure or Secos. If Ictinus and Callicrates, or Carpion, did not execute these marbles of the Parthenon, why may they not have intrusted them to some of the numerous artists with whom Athens swarmed at that time? Libon the architect built the temple of Zeus in which the Zeus of Phidias stood, and its pediment figures were sculptured by Alcamenes and Pæonios. Is there any reason to reject such a theory? However, as to this we are entirely in the dark; all our suppositions are purely speculative. Nothing seems clear, except that the figures were not made by Phidias.

Why did not Plutarch tell us who were the sculptors of the marbles in the Parthenon? Probably for the very simple reason that he did not know. He wrote many centuries after Phidias was dead (about B. C. 66), and tradition may not have brought down the names of any who were concerned in the building of the Parthenon, save those of the architects and of Phidias. He did not attempt to supply the hiatus—being, to use his own words, convinced “of the difficulty of arriving at any truth in history: since if the writers live after the events they relate, they can but be imperfectly informed of facts; and if they describe the persons and transactions of their own times, they are tempted by envy and hatred, or by interest and friendship, to vitiate and pervert the truth.”

THE ART OF CASTING IN PLASTER AMONG THE ANCIENT GREEKS AND ROMANS.

I.

The question whether the art of making moulds and casts in plaster was known to the ancient Greeks and Romans was discussed some years ago by Mr. Charles C. Perkins, in an interesting pamphlet entitled “Du Moulage en Plâtre chez les Anciens,”[8] in which he collected various passages from ancient writers bearing more or less on this subject, and endeavored by their authority to establish the fact that this process was known and practiced at a comparatively early period in the history of art. After a careful examination of all his citations and arguments, as well as other authorities which he does not cite, we feel compelled to dissent entirely from his conclusions. We do not think he has made out his case. The question is an interesting one, however, from an archæological point of view at least, and well deserves consideration.

The only passage among the writings of the ancients which at first sight would seem directly to affirm that the process of casting in plaster from life, from clay models, or from statues in the round, in the modern meaning of that phrase, was known to the Greeks and Romans occurs in the “Natural History” of Pliny, and is as follows:—

“Hominis autem imaginem gypso e facie ipsa primus omnium expressit, ceraque in eam formam gypsi infusa emendare instituit Lysistratus Sicyonis, frater Lysippi, de quo diximus. Hic et similitudinem reddere instituit, ante eum quam pulcherrimum facere studebant. Idem et de signis effigiem exprimere invenit, crevitque res in tantum, ut nulla signa statuæve sine argilla fierent. Quo apparet antiquiorem hanc fuisse scientiam quam fundendi æris. Plastæ laudatissimi fuere Damophilus et Gorgasus idemque pictores qui Cereris ædem Romæ ad Circum Maximum utroque genere artis suæ excoluerunt.”[9]

Mr. Perkins, following in substance other translators, thus freely translates and develops this passage:—

“Lysistrate de Sicyone fut le premier à prendre en plâtre des moules de la figure humaine. Dans ces moules il coulait de la cire, puis il corrigeait ces masques de cire d’après la nature. De la sorte, il atteignit la ressemblance, tandis qu’avant lui on ne s’appliquait qu’à faire de belles têtes. Lysistrate imagina aussi de reproduire l’image des statues, procédé qui obtint une telle vogue, que depuis lors ni figure ni statue ne fut faite sans argile, et l’on soit en conclure que ce procédé est antérieur à la fonte du bronze.”

If this translation be correct, there seems to be no doubt either that Pliny was mistaken, or that the ancients knew and practiced the modern art of casting in plaster.

Is, then, this translation correct? It seems to us to be an utter misapprehension of the whole meaning of the passage. Pliny says nothing about moulding or casting, and thus to translate and amplify the words he does use is to assume the very facts in question. What he really says is literally as follows:—

“Lysistratus of Sicyon, brother of Lysippus, of whom we have spoken, first of all expressed the image of a man in gypsum from the whole person [that is, made full-length portraits], and improved it with wax [or color, for, as we shall see, _cera_ means both] spread over the form. He first began to make likenesses, whereas before him the study was to make persons as beautiful as possible. He also invented expressing effigies from statues; and this practice so grew that no statues or signa [which were full-length figures either painted, modeled, cast in bronze, or executed in marble] were made without white clay. From which it would seem that this science [or process] was older than that of casting in bronze. The most famous modelers were Damophilus and Gorgasus, who were also painters, and who decorated the temple of Ceres at Rome with both branches of their art.”

The first sentence, thus literally rendered, it will be perceived, has in many respects the same ambiguity in English as in Latin. The words “image,” “expression,” and “form” have all a double signification, and the question is what is their true meaning in this connection.

If it can be shown that this passage neither describes nor proposes to describe the process of casting in plaster, as we understand that phrase, the keystone of the whole argument that it was known to the ancients falls out. No other writer directly asserts that such a knowledge or practice existed, and all allusions to this matter contained in any ancient author are purely collateral, and have no force in themselves. Further, some well-known facts which we shall have occasion to bring forward later are entirely opposed to the probability of such a knowledge and practice.

It is upon this passage in Pliny, then, that the whole case depends. Now, in a doubtful and obscure question like this, dependent upon the statement of any single author, we have a right to claim three things: first, that the statement should be clear and fairly susceptible of only one explanation; second, that it should not be contradicted by a subsequent statement immediately following; third, that the author himself should be trustworthy.

And in the first place, as to the author. The “Natural History” of Pliny is certainly a most interesting, amusing, and in many respects valuable book, but quite as certainly it is one of the most inaccurate that ever was written, abounding in half-knowledge, second-hand information, legendary statements, and rubbish of every kind. It is, in a word, the commonplace book of an agreeable, gossiping man, of a wide reading, who took little pains to be accurate, who reported everything he heard with slight examination, who was exceedingly credulous, and who accepted as truth and fact the most ridiculous stories. All is fish that comes to his net. In his chapters relating to artists and art he is singularly devoid of judgment or accurate knowledge; he constantly confuses things which have no relation to each other, often contradicts himself, and becomes at times utterly unintelligible. Yet we are forced to turn to Pliny, to give a weight and authority to his words upon art, and to own a deep debt of gratitude to him, not because he is trustworthy, but simply because he alone of all the ancient authors, with the exception of Pausanias, has given us a detailed account of the statues and artists of antiquity. His account of the ancient artists and their works is the fullest we have, and adrift as we often are on a wide sea of conjecture, we are glad to seize upon any straws and fragments, “rari nantes in gurgite vasto” of blankness and doubt; seizing here a bit from Pausanias, Herodotus, or Lucian, there a waif from Cicero, or a floating fragment from one of the great tragic poets, and glad enough to get upon any such raft as that which Pliny gives us, however leaky and rickety. But seaworthy or trustworthy in emergencies Pliny certainly is not.

In the next place, as to the passage under discussion. So far from its being clear and distinct, its obscurity, confusion, and apparent contradiction are so great as to have baffled every effort to explain it satisfactorily; and Dr. Brunn, one of the most accomplished of archæologists, in his history of Greek art, finding it impossible to reconcile the different sentences, does not hesitate to treat a portion as an interpolation, or at least out of place where it appears.

Two views are to be taken of the process described by Pliny: first, that by the term “cera” he means wax; and second, that he means color. Taking the first view, let us now consider the passage in question, sentence by sentence, and endeavor to unravel its real meaning. Lysistratus, first of all, made likenesses of men in gypsum from their whole figure (that is, whole-length portraits), and improved them with wax (or color) spread over the form (core or model) of gypsum. “Imaginem gypso e facie ipsa expressit” are the words of Pliny which Mr. Perkins in common with other translators supposes to mean “made moulds in plaster from the face,”—“prendre en plâtre des moules.” But this simple phrase cannot be twisted into such a meaning. “Exprimere,” according to Forcellinus, is “effingere, rappresentare, assomigliare, _ritrarre dal vivo_.” “Exprimere” alone would be, therefore, according to this last definition, to make a portrait from life. The additional words, “imaginem e facie ipsa,” make this meaning still stronger. “Imaginem” means a full-length figure or likeness, and not a mould, as would be required by Mr. Perkins’s translation. “Exprimere imaginem” cannot be forced to mean “made a mould,” whether in gypsum or in any other material. Suppose we translate the words literally, “to express an image in plaster,” and interpret “image” to mean mould, it is plain that the phrase is wrong; it should be _impress_ and not _express_. You cannot express a mould. It is impressed on the face. In like manner when Plautus says “expressa imago in cera,” or “expressa simulacra ex auro,” he means making a portrait in color or in gold. Again, “facies” does not mean face, but the total outward shape, appearance, or figure of a man. “Vultus” is the proper term for face, and is so used by Pliny himself; as when he speaks, for instance, of the portraits of the head of Epicurus as “vultus Epicuri,” and distinguishes them from the full-length figures of athletes, “imagines athletarum,” with which the ancients adorned their palæstra and anointing-rooms. In fact, the whole chapter in which this passage occurs relates to portraits, and is entitled “honos imaginum.” If there could be any question on this point, it would be settled by a passage in Aulus Gellius (13, 29), in which he defines “facies” as the build of the whole body,—“facies est factura quædam totius corporis;” and Cicero, in his treatise “De Legibus” (1, 9), says, “That which is called ‘vultus’ exists in no living being except man,”—“Is qui appellatur vultus nullo in animante esse præter hominem potest.”[10] So Virgil in “vivos ducent de marmore vultus” means the face. “Imago,” on the contrary, and “facies” mean the whole figure; only “facies” means the real figure, and “imago” the imitation of it. Pliny himself invariably uses them so, and in one of his letters (ep. 7, 33, 2) he recommends that we should be careful to select the best artist to make a full-length likeness,—“Esse nobis curæ solet ut facies nostra ab optimo quoque artifice exprimatur.” By the word “exprimatur” he certainly does not refer to casting. So mechanical an operation as this surely does not require the best of artists. “Imaginem e facie ipsa” means therefore a full-length likeness.

Again, “infundere” does not necessarily mean pour in, but is quite as often used in the sense of poured over or spread on; as where Ovid says, “infundere ceram tabellis;” or where Virgil says, “campi fusi in omnem partem,” or “sole infuso terris;” or again where Ovid uses the phrases “collo infusa mariti” or “nudos humeris infusa capillos,” it can only mean spread over. Wax cannot be poured into a flat surface like a tablet, or hair poured into shoulders.

Mr. Perkins, with Forcellinus before his eyes, after citing his definitions of “exprimere” says: “Explications qui toutes rentrent dans l’idée de représenter, de reproduire, de prendre sur le vif, comme on dit en français, et par conséquent dans l’idée du moulage.” But “ritrarre dal vivo” means nothing more than to make a portrait from life, whatever “prendre sur le vif” may mean; nor can any one of Forcellinus’s definitions be tortured into an allusion to casting. “Mais,” he continues, “cette idée surtout est accusée dans Tacite, qui dit en parlant d’un vêtement que dessinait les formes, un vêtement collant ‘_vestis_ artus exprimens.’” But surely this phrase means simply a garment expressing, or as we should say showing, the limbs, and has nothing more to do with “casting” than “dessinait les formes” has to do with drawing, or a “vêtement collant” has to do with glue. He also thinks another phrase used by Pliny—“expressi cera _vultus_”—has a similar significance. If all our metaphors are to be subjected to this strict test, we must be very careful how we speak. Yet these and similar examples, which he says he could multiply, “peuvent suffire,” he thinks, “pour nous autoriser à croire que Pline a voulu dire que Lysistrate était l’inventeur de la reproduction des statues par le plâtre, en d’autres termes qu’il était le premier qui avait eu l’idée de se servir du gypse pour mouler.” This, to say the least, is going very far. With such philologic views, what would he think of this phrase, “vera paterni oris effigies,” or “vivos ducent de marmore vultus,” or “infans omnibus membris expressa”? Or, to take an English line, what would he make of—

“The express form and image of the King”?

But if Pliny meant casting, why did he not use the appropriate Latin word for that process—“fundere”? In the subsequent sentence, speaking of casting in brass, he says “fundendi æris.” “Fundere” meant to cast, not “exprimere.”

Besides, let us look at the practical difficulty in this process. After the moulds were made and the wax cast into them, as Mr. Perkins interprets Pliny to mean, we have still only wax impressions, and not plaster castings. And how were they got out of the mould after they were cast? We, in modern times, have learned no method of doing this; we should be obliged first to make the mould in plaster, then to make a cast in plaster in that mould, then on that cast to make a piece-mould with sections to take apart,—an elaborate process; and then we could get a wax cast, but not before. The fact that the cast mentioned by Pliny (supposing he means a cast) is in wax not only involves quadruple labor and skill on the part of the caster, but makes the process impossible, or next to impossible, if it were simply as he is supposed to describe it. If the cast were in plaster, it would resist, so that the mould could be broken off from it in bits; but with wax this would be entirely impracticable.

Let us still further consider the phrase “ceraque in eam formam gypsi infusa emendare instituit.” What does “cera in eam formam infusa” mean? Simply to cover or spread wax (or color) over that model; just as Ovid says “infundere ceram tabellis,” to spread wax over the tablets, not to pour wax into the tablets, for that was impossible, they being flat surfaces, nor to cast them. Again, Pliny does not say that Lysistratus introduced the practice of spreading wax over a core, or of pouring wax into a form, or casting; but only of improving the likenesses, or working them up in the wax after it was spread over the plaster: “instituit emendare,” he says, not “instituit infundere.” “Formam” here has not the signification of mould, but of model or image. Undoubtedly the term “forma” in Latin was used to signify a mould as well as a cast, or a model, or a form; and in this respect it had the same ambiguity that the corresponding terms “mould” and “form” have in English. A “form” is a seat, as well as a shape and a ceremony, and “mould” is constantly, though improperly, used to indicate a model or the thing moulded, as well as the real mould in which it is cast; the phrases “to model” and “to mould” are often synonymous in meaning. So “forma” was sometimes employed in its primary significance of figure, shape, and configuration, as when Quinctilian says, “Eadem cera aliæ atque aliæ formæ duci solent,”—various shapes may be given to the same wax; sometimes in the sense of image, as when Cicero speaks of “formæ clarissimorum,” the images of distinguished men; sometimes to mean a model or shape over which a thing is wrought, as a shoemaker’s last,—“Si scalpra et formas non sutor emat,” as Horace says; and sometimes as indicating a hollow mould in which bronze is cast, as when Pliny says, “Ex iis [silicibus] formæ fiunt, in quibus æra funduntur,”—from these pebbles moulds are made, in which brass is cast. But when he uses it in this last sense, it will be observed, Pliny employs the term “fundere,” to cast, and not “exprimere,” nor “emendare.” In the passage about Lysistratus, then, “forma” would seem to mean a model, or core, like the shoemaker’s last, on which the wax was spread for the purpose of emending or improving something. What is that something which Pliny tells us he improved by this means? What can it be except the “imaginem,” the likeness? There is no other word to which “emendare” can refer. If, then, we understand the passage as meaning that Lysistratus modeled a likeness in gypsum, and then improved it or finished it in wax which he spread over the gypsum, the statement is quite intelligible, and not a word is warped from its correct significance. If we adopt the other interpretation, however, we must understand “imaginem gypso expressit” to mean that he made a mould in gypsum, contrary to the direct force of the words; and with wax poured into that mould (making “formam” equivalent to “imaginem,” and referring to it) he emended or improved—something. What? Why, the mould,—which is absurd. Again, we cannot begin by making “imaginem” mean the cast, before the “formam” or mould is made; not only because the practical process is thus reversed, but because then we should have a cast in plaster made by pouring wax into the mould, which is even more absurd. Taking “forma” to have in this sentence any of its meanings except “mould,” we have no difficulty in understanding it; taking it as “mould,” we are forced to change the primary significance of “imaginem” and “expressit,” and are involved in very serious questions.

In addition to these considerations, it must not be forgotten that this cast of gypsum, according to Mr. Perkins’s interpretation of the sentence, was made not of the face alone (“vultus”) which is by no means an easy process, but of the whole figure (“facie”), which is a very hazardous one, and to which, with all the knowledge and experience of the present day in casting, few people would be willing to submit.

A passage of Alcimus Avitus, in his poem “De Origine Mundi” (lib. 1, 6, 75), throws a clear light on the process which seems here to be described as the invention of Lysistratus:—

“Hæc ait, et fragilem dignatus tangere terram Temperat humentem conspersa pulvere limum Molliturque novum dives sapientia corpus Non aliter quam opifex diuturno exercitus usu. _Flectere laxatas per cuncta sequacia ceras Et vultus complere rudes aut corpora gypso Fingere_ vel segni speciem componere massa Sic Pater Omnipotens.”

Here we have the body modeled (“fingere” is to model) in gypsum, and the ductile “cera” spread over all the undulations, and the rude face finished, just as Pliny describes it.

Let us now consider the next sentence, in which he says, “Hic et similitudinem reddere instituit, ante eum quam pulcherrimum facere studebant.” This certainly has nothing to do with casting. It is very important as throwing a reflex light on the previous sentence. The whole stress of the passage is to bring out the fact that Lysistratus made portraits. He used a peculiar process, perhaps, but his specialty was that he made portraits from life (“imaginem hominis e facie ipsa”), which he worked up in wax (“emendare cera”); and not only this, but his portraits were exact likenesses (“similitudinem reddere instituit”), and not merely ideal figures like those of the artists who preceded him (“ante eum quam pulcherrimum facere studebant”).