DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.14144#0596
56c
THE DYING GAUL.
nian sculptor no longer stood on mythical ground, but on that of con-
temporary history. He had to fix in the eternity of stone a scene which
had been enacted before his own eyes, and to endow his work with
the value of historic as well as artistic truth. This he succeeds in
doing by a conscious reflexion and discrimination in the selection of
characteristic traits and details. Many of these were the reverse of
beautiful, but he unflinchingly gives them all—the large joints, the
knotted fingers, the horny palms of the hand and soles of the feet,
the folds of thick coarse skin above the wrists and ancles, the general
irregularity of surface common to barbarian races and to the rudest
classes of civilised nations. The arrangement of the unbound, un-
kempt hair, too, which grows far down the nape of the neck, is as
different as possible from that of the Greek models. Both Germans
and Gauls clotted their hair into small knobs, like those of a sheep's
fleece, by some glutinous salve, and then stroked it back over the
crown of the head. This peculiarity, too, is given in the ' Dying
Gaul,' as well as the thick mustaches, which was the only hair which
the noble Gaul allowed to grow on his face.
If these, for the most part, unlovely features had been all that
we could see in this celebrated work, it would be interesting only
to technicians, and ethnologists, and to the vulgar to whom the
power of realistic imitation is the highest merit of the artist. But it
differs from the Greek ideal no less in its moral significance than in
its corporeal features. The action and bearing of the Dying Gaul
are altogether foreign to the Greek character. In the Greek the most
passionate excitement is subject to the rule of reason, which, ' in the
very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of his passion, acquires and
begets a temperance which gives it smoothness;' and this temper-
ance (<Tu><f)poavvT]) is the very soul of the purest Greek art. But the
fury and the despair of the barbarian know no bounds. In the tem-
pest of his passions his whole being suffers shipwreck.
The Gaul killing his wife (fig. 236). Of the same period, and even
of the same somewhat peculiar marble as the ' Dying Gaul,' is the
famous group in the Villa Ludovisi, known under the absurd name of
' Partus and Arria.' The very striking resemblance in style between
these two works is somewhat obscured by the mischievous activity of
THE DYING GAUL.
nian sculptor no longer stood on mythical ground, but on that of con-
temporary history. He had to fix in the eternity of stone a scene which
had been enacted before his own eyes, and to endow his work with
the value of historic as well as artistic truth. This he succeeds in
doing by a conscious reflexion and discrimination in the selection of
characteristic traits and details. Many of these were the reverse of
beautiful, but he unflinchingly gives them all—the large joints, the
knotted fingers, the horny palms of the hand and soles of the feet,
the folds of thick coarse skin above the wrists and ancles, the general
irregularity of surface common to barbarian races and to the rudest
classes of civilised nations. The arrangement of the unbound, un-
kempt hair, too, which grows far down the nape of the neck, is as
different as possible from that of the Greek models. Both Germans
and Gauls clotted their hair into small knobs, like those of a sheep's
fleece, by some glutinous salve, and then stroked it back over the
crown of the head. This peculiarity, too, is given in the ' Dying
Gaul,' as well as the thick mustaches, which was the only hair which
the noble Gaul allowed to grow on his face.
If these, for the most part, unlovely features had been all that
we could see in this celebrated work, it would be interesting only
to technicians, and ethnologists, and to the vulgar to whom the
power of realistic imitation is the highest merit of the artist. But it
differs from the Greek ideal no less in its moral significance than in
its corporeal features. The action and bearing of the Dying Gaul
are altogether foreign to the Greek character. In the Greek the most
passionate excitement is subject to the rule of reason, which, ' in the
very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of his passion, acquires and
begets a temperance which gives it smoothness;' and this temper-
ance (<Tu><f)poavvT]) is the very soul of the purest Greek art. But the
fury and the despair of the barbarian know no bounds. In the tem-
pest of his passions his whole being suffers shipwreck.
The Gaul killing his wife (fig. 236). Of the same period, and even
of the same somewhat peculiar marble as the ' Dying Gaul,' is the
famous group in the Villa Ludovisi, known under the absurd name of
' Partus and Arria.' The very striking resemblance in style between
these two works is somewhat obscured by the mischievous activity of