The Seated Boxer
Terme Museum, Rome
The second is the “Seated Boxer,” a magnificently powerful presentation of an utterly ignoble theme. The fighter is resting; he is waiting for his call to another bout. Each hand is still cased in the leather cæstus. The bruised and swollen features of the man are given with savage truth. By reason of its entirely un-Hellenic subject, the “Seated Boxer” affords as fine an illustration of the Græco-Roman style at its best as can be given. We see the grand technical skill which led the Roman connoisseur to give his commissions to Greek sculptors. In the insistence upon realistic detail and the absence of a high ideal guiding the choice of subject, we can trace the influence of a taste far removed from any that Greek sentiment could have fostered.
Hellenistic works showing the influence of Roman taste as clearly as the “Seated Boxer” are rare. The Roman collector, as a rule, was perfectly content with a work which was practically identical with some earlier Greek design. A close resemblance to a Greek original was in itself a strong recommendation. The faithfulness with which Roman taste abided by Hellenic sculpture is proved by the popularity of the pseudo-archaic school of Pasiteles during the last days of the Roman Republic. Pasiteles was an Italian Greek. Pliny says of him that “he never executed any work without first making a clay model.” Excessive care and excessive emotional sobriety were the keynotes of his style. It is peculiarly interesting to note in the works of this school an obvious revolt against both the sensuous tendencies of the followers of Praxiteles and the theatrical propensities of the Rhodians. The pseudo-archaic sculptors and the patrons for whom they catered had sufficient insight to distinguish between the various epochs of Greek sculpture, that is to say, between work imbued with Hellenic qualities and work which was only Hellenistic.
This can be seen at once in the group by Menelaus known as “Orestes and Electra” (Plate, p. 128), as good an example of the school of Pasiteles as can be found. The sculptor has evidently imitated the style of an Argive artist living just before Polyclitus. In other words, the “Orestes and Electra” represents a reversion beyond even the purely Hellenic style of Polyclitus. So successfully is this archaic manner imitated by the Græco-Roman followers of Pasiteles that modern experts can easily be in doubt, in the case of particular statues, whether the style is real or feigned. Dr. Murray, for instance, has suggested that the Vatican “Spartan Girl,” which is usually assigned to the transitional period of Hellenic sculpture ending with Myron’s “Discobolus,” is actually by a follower of Pasiteles. The likeness of the “Spartan Girl” to the works of the followers of Pasiteles is obvious.
With characteristics like these, how should statues of the school of Pasiteles be classed? That they are not Hellenistic is plain. Equally clearly the resemblance to Hellenic work is so close that it would be absurd to regard the style popularized by Pasiteles as a movement towards a Roman national art. Really a pseudo-archaic statue like the “Orestes and Electra” represents a passing craze. It is the outcome of the fancy of a few art collectors.
One may, however, argue that the popularity of such a school points to a dissatisfaction with the accepted Hellenistic art of the latter Roman Republic. Be that as it may, a genuinely Roman school of sculpture arose directly after.
Roman social and political circumstances began to influence sculpture soon after the year 50 b.c. One hundred and fifty years earlier, the defeat of Hannibal and the fall of Carthage had left Rome with the undisputed headship in Western Europe. Spain was in her hands and her frontiers stretched to the Atlantic. In the East, however, Rome was faced with the Hellenistic kingdoms of Macedonia, Syria and Egypt. One by one these fell before her. Naturally, so tremendous a success was not attained without social and political changes of the first order. Even before the Punic Wars the inner ring of the Roman aristocracy had lost its long-established monopoly of the great offices of State. At the time of the fall of Carthage, the Senate was certainly the supreme authority in Roman affairs, the various magistrates being no more than its executive tools. But the aristocracy had been compelled to recognize a new class of capitalist merchants which had established a claim to Rome’s regard by its ready aid during the Punic wars. The body which directed Rome’s expansion beyond the borders of Italy was therefore composed of a blend of wealthy patricians and plebeians. These were the patrons of the Græco-Roman sculptors. They were the men who composed “the assembly of kings,” whose report the ambassadors of Pyrrhus carried to their master. For close upon a century a senate of this type guided the destinies of the Roman Republic.
By about 100 b.c.—we express time in the roundest of round numbers—it had become apparent that the political foundations upon which Rome’s career of conquest was based were radically unsound. No body of men—even an “assembly of kings”—could deal with the multitudinous problems which arose from an attempt to absorb the whole of the civilized world. The first man to realize this, and to attempt a practical solution of the difficulty, was Marius. Soon after 107 b.c. he proved that he understood the essentials of the problem by reorganizing the Republican armies. He converted them into fit tools for the first “adventurer of genius” by ordaining that the soldiery should be paid by land grants and booty.
The reforms of Marius were none too early. Between 89 b.c. and 64 b.c. the wars with Mithridates of Pontus showed Rome its weakness. Mithridates overran Asia Minor, Macedonia and Greece. Syria was only regained by a gigantic effort. Then came “the adventurer of genius”—Julius Cæsar—the founder of the Roman Imperial system. He was followed by his son Octavius (Augustus Cæsar), the “Organiser of Roman Imperialism.” These two men made Roman sculpture possible. On the day that Cæsar and his eleven legions crossed the Rubicon with the cry “the die is cast,” Roman sculpture was born.
The victory over Pompey at Pharsalia in 49 b.c. left Julius Cæsar in supreme control. Brutus and Cassius led the Republican forlorn hope, and Cæsar himself was murdered in 44 b.c., but he had achieved his end. He had pointed out the only method of consolidating Rome’s vast conquests and bringing peace to the sorely tried State. Augustus realized at once the impossibility of reverting to the discarded republican form of government. In its place he set up a veiled despotism which enabled him to control all the energies and resources of Rome’s great empire. As Imperator, Augustus made himself commander-in-chief of the armies; as Princeps Senatus, he was leader of the Legislative Assembly of the Senate; as Tribune, he acted as the representative of Roman democracy; as Chief Pontiff, he was the head of an all-powerful ecclesiastical organisation.
With the advent of peace Rome was able to turn her energies to art. The consequences were immediate in all departments of culture. It was the patronage of Mæcenas, the chief minister of Augustus, which placed Virgil in a position to write the “Georgics.” By 19 b.c. the “Æneid” was written in honour of Augustus. It was Mæcenas who provided Horace with the farm among the Sabine hills, where the Roman lyricist and satirist wrote all his later works.
The Rise of Roman Portraiture
The effects of this social and political revolution upon sculpture could not be more happily illustrated than by two portraits of the men who brought them to pass. The “Julius Cæsar” is the well-known portrait bust in the British Museum;1 the “Augustus” is the equally famous life-sized figure in the Vatican.
In the first place, both are portraits. This emphasizes the prime fact that the branch of sculpture chiefly affected was portraiture. It is not difficult to surmise why this was so. In all other branches, whether athletic statues, dramatic groups or sculptures of the gods, earlier Hellenic and Hellenistic artists had produced works which the unimaginative Romans could never hope to equal. The copies of, and variations upon, the works of the Greek masters so fitted Rome’s needs that little or no effort was made to produce new works of the same class. But in portraiture this was not the case. In the nature of things portraits cannot be so directly affected by an earlier artistic method. The sculptors of Rome soon found that the methods of their Hellenic masters would not yield the results required. The true Greek portrait sculptor had never aimed at the realistic and life-like representation which was the one desire of the matter-of-fact Roman patron. As we have seen, the Greek had refrained from elaborating expression. He portrayed an ideal type rather than an individualized man or woman.
Take any typical Greek portrait as an illustration—the bust of “Pericles,” in the Elgin Room at the British Museum, for instance. Compare it with the “Julius Cæsar” in the same collection. We see Pericles in the perfection of physical force and mental energy. The ruler of Athens is more than a man. He is an epitome of all that a Greek would be. There is no attempt at characterization. The suggestion of voluptuousness in the lips, which heightens the work so much, is really not an individual trait. It is rather an Hellenic characteristic. It is part of an effort to express a type. But the Roman sculptor of the “Julius Cæsar” never dreamt of embodying a whole race in a single portrait—a philosophy in a statue. He was content to give expression to the man before him. For this very reason the finest Roman portraits possess a vigorous vitality which an Hellenic portrait study lacks. As Pater expressed it: “The seeking of the type in the individual, the abstraction of all that because of its nature endures but for a moment, this involves loss of expression.” That is why the “Pericles” is the portrait of a fifth-century Athenian and the Roman work is the portrait of Julius Cæsar.
Exactly the same must be said of the great statue of “Augustus addressing his Soldiers,” in the Vatican. Compared with the “Phocion,” the “Augustus” is a carefully individualized character-study. The tendency is not, however, carried to the extreme limit attained in later Roman sculpture. The artist evidently hesitates to break entirely with the idealistic method of the Hellenes. He willingly sacrifices the chance of creating an eternal type, symbolizing the idea of Roman imperialism incarnated in the first Emperor, preferring to convey the impression of life-like portraiture. But he shows an ideal Augustus. The statue does not convey the sensation of a moment of time—good, bad or indifferent—captured and fixed for ever, which is so characteristic of Roman portraits during the next century or two.
For this reason there is much to be said in favour of the view which regards Augustan Rome as the last Hellenistic centre. It is still an artist who is Greek at heart who is at work. But he differs from his predecessors inasmuch as he is striving to give his Roman patrons a thrill which they will feel to be national—to be truly Roman.
The Vatican statue of Augustus Cæsar was discovered in 1863. Apart from its interest as a transitional work leading to the pure Roman style, it claims attention owing to the light it throws upon the much discussed problem of the colouring of marble statuary. We have previously noted the fact that it is established beyond possibility of doubt that the great mass of Greek and Roman sculpture was freely coloured. Traces of pigment can still be found in numerous works, but the evidence is insufficient to justify any really dogmatic utterances as to actual methods. We have therefore preferred to do little more than allude to the practice. The evidence furnished by the statue of Augustus is so complete, however, that it suggests the desirability of a rather fuller reference. The work was discovered in the Villa of Livia, near Prima Porta. Otto Jahn, in his Aus der Alterthumswissenschaft, published in 1868, gives the following particulars as to its condition:
“The tunic of Augustus is crimson, the mantle purple, the fringe of the armour yellow; on the nude portions of the body no traces of colour are noticeable, except the indication of the pupils with a yellowish tint; and the hair no longer shows colour. But the relief decorations of the cuirass are painted with especial care, although the flat surfaces are left without colour. The god of heaven, rising from the blue waves or clouds, holds a purplish garment in both hands; the chariot of the sun-god is crimson; before him soars a female with outspread blue wings; the goddess of the earth wears a wreath of wheat in her blonde hair. Apollo in a crimson mantle rides upon a griffon with blue wings; the light haired Diana, in a crimson garment, is borne by a reddish brown stag. In the middle stands a Roman Commander in blue and red armour, crimson tunic, and purple mantle, with a blue helmet. A bearded warrior in crimson tunic and blue trousers holds up a Roman standard with insignia painted blue. The barbarian on the right, with auburn hair, in a purple mantle, holds a war-trumpet; the figure on the left is likewise light haired and clothed in a blue mantle.”
Notes
1 See Furtwängler, “Neuere Fälschungen von Antiken,” p. 14.