GRICE ITALO A-Z C CAR
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carabellese:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale dell’arena e la
pietra -- la sabbia e la roccia – il segno – scuola di Molfetta – filosofia
barese – filosofia pugliese -- filosofia italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo
di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The Swimming-Pool Library (Molfetta). Filosofo pugliese. Filosofo italiano. Molfetta, Bari, Puglia. Grice: “I
love Carabellese; his masterpiece is ‘the rock and the sand,’ which reminds me
of Tuke’s Cornwall! – Tuke captured some dialectic on the sand and rocks, which
I’m sure were common in Ostia, too, back in the day! Carabellese speaks of a
‘semiotic scandal’ so it all connects with my pragmatics of dialectics or
conversation.” Studia
a Napoli e Roma. Insegna a Palermo e a Roma.A partire da una critica ferrata
alla dottrina cartesiana (Le obbiezioni al cartesianesimo; il metodo, l’idea,
la dualita; Il circolo vizioso in Cartesio) porta a compimento studi critici su
diversi autori, tra i quali spiccano Kant e Rosmini. Elabora la dottrina dell'ontologismo
critico, in cui l'essere non è mero oggetto della coscienza ma è a essa
intrinseco come fondamento irriducibile, cioè essere-di-coscienza, che in
ultima istanza altri non è che Dio (che, come già asseriva Vico, "è"
e non "esiste"). Difese
l'oggettività essenziale dell'essere e la filosofia, non come sapere
specialistico trincerato, ma come operatrice per l'umanità tutta così che la
coscienza filosofica esplica quella teoria che nel diversificarsi concreto
della spiritualità risulta necessariamente implicita. E allora lo sforzo della
filosofia non potrà mai, quindi, essere compiuto atto seppure la teoria si
attui sempre in una pratica, che è l'altro termine del concreto. Insomma
Carabellese difese la filosofia come ascesa teoretico-razionale a realtà
teologiche, o come sentiero che volge al fondamento comune della vita politica
e che alla politica rimane irriducibile. Altre opere: Critica del concreto; Il
problema della filosofia da Kant a Fichte; Il problema teologico come
filosofia; L'idealismo italiano; L'idea politica d'Italia; Da Cartesio a
Rosmini. Fondazione storica dell'ontologismo critico. L'essere e la
manifestazione. L'essere e la manifestazione: Dialettica della Forme. L'essere.
Filosofo della coscienza concreta, Ravenna, Edizioni del Girasole. La sabbia e
la roccia: l'ontologia critica di Pantaleo C.. Il problema dell'io in C..
Metafisica in C.. Kant e C. Dizionario
Biografico degl’italiani. Autolimitazione della metafisica critica? Momenti
della recezione italiana di Fichte con particolare riferimento all'ontologismo
critico di Carabellese. E anche per lui lo gnoseologismo era il fraintendimento
della vera scoperta di Kant, ed era all ' origine della moderna... intesa come
« scoperta » deriva quell ' approfondimento dei concetti tradizionali che il
Semerari chiama « lo scandalo...seDalla filosofia intesa come « scoperta »
deriva quell ' approfondimento dei concetti tradizionali che il Semerari chiama
“lo scandalo linguistico,” cioè la terminologia dell ' Ontocoscienzialismo, a
prima vista sconcertante. See also the important chapter " Lo scandalo
linguistico, " in G. Semerari, La sabbia e la roccia. Merleau - Ponty,
Sens et non - sens, Paris, Nagel; It. trans. by Caruso, Senso e non senso, Milan, Il
Saggiatore. La ontologia di C., così, si prospetta come una ontologia della
coscienza assiologica e semantica, ossia come una critica antinaturalistica e
antipsiscologistica dei valori e dei significati dell’essere. L’importanza del
lavoro filosofico carabellesiano, secondo Semerari, consiste nell’esigenza
radicale di lavorare alle radici del linguaggio filosofico, di andare al di là
della storia già fatta, come scrive Semerari citando C., scendendo sino ai suoi
presupposti: ciò significa portandosi al grado zero della parola per reinventare
il linguaggio filosofico e le connessioni che in esso si sono stabilite lungo
la sua storia, a partire dalla cosa stessa, ossia dall’essere in cui la
coscienza è già implicata. Scrive Semerari: «Sotto questo riguardo non si può
trascurare la convergenza con la ontologia critica di quella parte della
filosofia linguistica contemporanea per la quale, al limite tra fenomenologia,
esistenzialismo e analitica, porre la questione del linguaggio è portarsi al
grado zero della parola, al silenzio come radice di ogni possibilità
linguistica, fare giudice della critica del linguaggio, com’è stato
suggestivamente detto, la ‘coscienza silenziosa’. singolari di Coscienza si
costituiscono come soggetti pensanti in comunicazione tra loro. L’alterità
dell’altro io presuppone l’identità dell’io che lo esperisce come altro.
Reciprocamente la coscienza della propria identità egologica richiede il
rapporto di alterità come intrinseco all’essere stesso dell’io. L’alterità
sempre afferma chi dice io, il quale ciò dicendo, anche trascendentalmente si
distingue, senza per questo separarsi assolutamente, da un chi che riconosce di
fronte a sé. Con questo chi egli afferma una relazione reciproca con la quale
attua l’egoità. Soggettività ed egoità pura sono sempre pura alterità. L’alterità
di ciascun io è, come scrive C., «l’insondabile residuo di meità intraducibile
in esperienza dell’altro. Ma questa intraducibilità, che è il limite che la
meità ha nell’esperienza, non prova che l’alterità sia soltanto di esperienza e
non pura, ma prova, precisamente, il contrario, e cioè che, a fondamento
dell’alterità empirica, c’è l’alterità pura come schietta egoità.. Alterità e
non assolutezza dell’io L’Essere di coscienza richiede la compattezza non la
relazione fra Oggetto universale, Dio, e soggettività molteplice. La relazione
è fra i soggetti: infatti, l’io come uno esistente, implica necessariamente
l’altro, che è sempre un altro io, sottolinea C. Diversamente l’io assoluto
fichtiano, dilaga nella coscienza, identificandosi con essa, riducendo
l’oggettività a negazione; ma resta così l’io nella sua solitudine e, senza
l’altro, cade nel nulla del non pensare. L’io fichtiano, nell’interpretazione
del C., elimina gli altri io dalla coscienza, assolutizzandosi, ma in tal modo
perde la meità, approdando all’Unico, che egli vede come una nuova forma di
eleatismo. C. sottolinea che se non è da percorrere l’identificazione dell’io
con la coscienza, tuttavia questo non conduce alla cancellazione della meità;
invece, pensare l’immediata appartenenza del me all’essere di coscienza, non
assolutizzando il me, apre ad intendere gli altri. Non l’annullamento del me
costituisce la base per la relazione responsabile in sede etica (Lévinas), ma
proprio partendo dal me, per C. si giunge agli altri come altri “di” me,
esistenti nella loro singolarità, non si giunge agli altri “da” me. Il me
esistente nella purezza dell’Essere di coscienza apriori di cui parla C., in
primo luogo non si identifica con il corpo, in quanto quest’ultimo trova il suo
limite nell’altro corpo e, più in generale nell’altra cosa: «Io, come
innegabile esigenza di coscienza non sono, o se volete, non sono affatto corpo.
pur mio. Ora la differenza fra me, che pur sono uno esistente, e il mio corpo,
che anch’esso è uno, sta proprio (non se ne può trovar altra) nel limite, che
il mio corpo trova negli altri corpi, e che io non trovo, se non voglio cadere
nell’assurdo di ritenere me il mio corpo» C. rifiuta l’ipotesi materialistica,
perché se l’io si identificasse con il corpo non potrebbe affermare nemmeno la
propria corporeità, ossia che il corpo è suo. Nella concezione materialistica
l’io si identifica con il corpo che diventa la radice dell’opposizione con gli
altri. Se si realizzasse questa identificazione in realtà si avrebbe la
soppressione dell’io come uno di coscienza, e anche gli altri non sarebbero più
altri uno di coscienza. Il nulla del non pensare si porrebbe
contraddittoriamente come l’essere. Anche la concezione spiritualistica che
intende l’io come spirito finito, ha come esito la riduzione dell’io a corpo,
perché sostenere la limitatezza dello spirito implica sottoporlo al limite,
come il corpo, eliminando così il me. Anche se Fichte ha evitato la riduzione
dell’io al corpo, non ha tuttavia salvato la meità identificando l’io con la
coscienza. Infatti nell’io empirico il me è sostanzialmente ridotto a corpo, a
non-io. Solo l’Io, unico, assoluto pone se stesso. In Hegel, poi, ogni residuo
di meità è tolta nel Soggetto assoluto. L’io perciò è spirito infinito, ma da
questo non deriva per C. che venga eliminata la distinzione dell’io dal tu
nella coscienza, ossia che vengano tolti gli altri, con il rischio di tornare a
Fichte. Per il filosofo italiano «togliere il limite è affermare gli altri»,
non annullarli; infatti, per giungere alla negazione dell’altro, o degli altri,
«bisogna prima ammettere – osserva C. – che gli altri, in quanto tali,
escludano l’uno di tale essere, e che l’uno esclude gli altri; bisogna cioè
cominciare proprio con l’opporre ad uno gli altri dall’uno, ritenendoli diversi
ed opposti a questo e cioè col presupporre che uno (io) sia la coscienza, e gli
altri no, e perciò siano non io, non coscienza. Cioè bisogna cominciare col
presupporre la empirica limitazione dei corpi, la quale appunto, nella
identificazione di me col corpo mio, fa ritenere me, col mio corpo, coscienza e
gli altri, che col loro corpo limitano il corpo mio, non coscienza». Già ne Il
problema teologico come filosofia C. afferma, polemizzando con Fichte, che la
molteplicità soggettiva non è semplicemente empirica, ma pura, condizione
trascendentale della “concretezza”; la singolarità non è solitudine, ma
relazione reciproca nel pensare, sentire, agire l’Universale/Dio. L’io
esistente, singolare, è uno, e come tale è ciascuno, essenzialmente altro. «Il
singolare è quell’uno, di cui si sa l’alterità, ed è perciò ogni uno, ciascuno,
unusquisque. Uno che non sia ciascuno, non è uno. E, ancora più incisivamente:
«Io sono altro: solo così “sum qui sum”» L’altro, spirito infinito come l’io,
per C. non è esteriore, né eterogeneo rispetto al me, non si risolve in una
identificazione con l’oggetto realisticamente inteso. Nell’ultimo sistema C. sostiene
l’“identità” dei soggetti pensanti, portando alle estreme conseguenze la
determinazione dell’omogeneità, senza però indicare come possano differenziarsi
i soggetti l’uno dall’altro. Il rischio dell’annullamento dell’alterità, pur se
non voluto, è evidente; infatti per spiegare il darsi della molteplicità
soggettiva egli parla di alterazione, come moltiplicazione infinita riferendola
però non all’uno, al soggetto, ma all’Unico, ossia all’essenza divina, al che.
Tuttavia, se la moltiplicazionealterazione è riferita da C. all’Unico, non
all’uno: allora l’altro, è un altro uno, ossia un altro soggetto, oppure un
impossibile altro Unico? Ed essendo l’Unico non soggettivo, come possono
derivarne i soggetti? In realtà possiamo muovere anche a C. l’osservazione di
involgersi in una sorta di circolo fra Dio e io, in quanto se da un lato Dio è
la qualità infinita di cui l’io è terminazione, moltiplicazione/alterazione,
nello stesso tempo a Dio, in quanto non soggettivo, sono necessari i soggetti
pensanti. L’uno di cui parla C. è l’io che immediatamente si intuisce
singolare, e che altrettanto immediatamente avverte l’alterità: «Uno che non
sia ciascuno, non è uno», afferma eloquentemente. Egli sente il pericolo di
ricondurre e ridurre la meità ad una ciascunità di identici, perdendo
l’originalità e l’inconfondibilità di ciascuno nei confronti degli altri.
Tuttavia per C. invece proprio il recupero dell’altro consente la realizzazione
di sé. Ma, se si andasse più profondo in questo amor di me spirituale, che è, o
dovrebbe essere, l’amor proprio, se si sviluppasse ciò a cui esso mi costringe,
si vedrebbe, che, se io veramente voglio dare una positività a questa negazione
del “non tu”, se non voglio divenire un puro e semplice “non” devo considerare
me come uno tale che possa e debba riversare l’amor di me uno in altro uno, che
è uno come me, cioè devo riconoscere l’unità, che sono io, nell’alterità.
L’amor mio proprio, che non voglia essere soltanto amor del mio corpo, è
proprio amor dell’altro. L’amor proprio spirituale non mi costringe alla
assolutezza (unicità e incondizionatezza) della mia unità, ma proprio alla sua
alterità: l’amore è sempre amore di altro: è la grande scoperta di Cristo. La
struttura dell’essere di coscienza apriori richiede l’alterità e Dio o, in
altri. termini, l’uno molteplice e l’Unico: in tal modo è la stessa struttura
coscienziale a dare fondamento alla carità. L’amor proprio e l’originalità di
ciascuno si afferma e realizza nella relazione e nel riconoscimento degli
altri: «Io facendo dagli altri riconoscere me tra essi, e riconoscendo me come
altro, non tolgo ma affermo la mia originalità». Per C. l’amor di sé ha insita
l’esigenza della relazione con l’altro; solamente chi concepisce l’io come
l’Unico chiuso in se stesso, privo di meità e di relazione, il solo, parla di
offesa dell’amor proprio, ma in realtà non si avvede che quell’Unico non è più
nemmeno soggetto. Tuttavia i problemi restano: la relazione con l’altro
identico rischia di essere più un narcisistico rispecchiamento, che una vera
relazione, più una sorta di moltiplicazione dell’Unico, un suo reiterarsi che
il faticoso cammino del riconoscersi. Fra i soggetti nella loro purezza, per
cui sono infinitamente penetrativi e interi nella loro relazione, l’identità è
già data immediatamente: ma allora non si comprendono gli erramenti, le lotte e
gli scontri a livello empirico. L’altro per C. è un altro me, non la negazione
del me. Ineludibile il riferimento al Parmenide platonico e all’opposizione che
Platone pone tra uno e altri. Per C., sulla base dell’essere di coscienza, tale
opposizione non si dà; alla domanda del Socrate platonico su quel che siano gli
altri, quando io sia, si può rispondere, che essi, non sono altri dall’uno ma
altri uno, sono perciò altri “me”. C. individua la causa della “cacciata” degli
altri dalla coscienza nella erronea identificazione della coscienza concreta
con l’io: per tale scambio l’io annulla la “qualità” di cui insieme agli altri
è individuazione senza esaurirla. Nello stesso tempo si annulla la “quantità”
pura, restando il solo, che cade nell’assurdo di non essere né soggetto, né
oggetto. L’io infinitamente aperto, illimitato, identico, intero pur se
nell’essenziale relazione, di cui parla C. è apriori, non si identifica con il
singolo uomo vivente, limitato nello spazio e nel tempo: essere condizionato e
limitata persona dell’esperienza, presuppone essere soggetto incondizionato e
illimitato nell’essere di coscienza puro. Sembra presentarsi una scissione fra
il soggetto in quanto pensante e l’uomo vivente spazio-temporalmente, fra
miglior coscienza e coscienza empirica, per utilizzare in chiave euristica espressioni
di Schopenhauer, che riflette sulla duplicità della coscienza, non facendo
ancora riferimento alla volontà come principio metafisico. Però proprio il
pensare, da lui inteso in senso ampio come intendere, sentire e volere che si
esplicano nell’attività spirituale umana, esige il livello della purezza
coscienziale. Come abbiamo visto in precedenza, per C. l’assolutizzazione della.
Cfr. A. Schopenhauer, La dottrina dell’idea, antologia a cura di Mirri,
Armando, Roma. dimensione spazio-temporale, ossia del limite, condurrebbe
all’annullamento dell’attività spirituale umana. C. non intende semplicemente
opporre la propria concezione a quella fichtiana, ma intende condurne
all’estremo le conseguenze, ipotizzando una sorta di esperimento mentale.
Infatti, se l’Io si ritenesse assoluto e si arrogasse il diritto di sopprimere
il tu, riducendolo soltanto a sua esperienza, allora «rimarrebbe sì, solo Io,
ma solo in quanto avrebbe soppresso il tu e quindi anche l’esperienza, che egli
ne ha: non ci sarebbero più i tu, che egli dovrebbe dimostrare essere soltanto
io empirici: gli altri non sarebbero empirici, non ci sarebbero. Or senza i tu
(altri) ci sarei ancora io (uno)?»18. In realtà, per C. c’è un'unica soluzione,
che esclude la fine tragica della disputa: «Non c’è dunque altra via d’uscita
da esso, se non quella che io non mi contenti di ricambiare la tuità, ma gli
ricambi proprio la meità, riconosca in lui non un tu posto da me (Fichte) ma un
altro io, e perciò mentre gli riconosco la meità, che egli non mi riconosce,
gli contesto il diritto di trasformarsi in Io assoluto, mostrandogli che così
egli sopprime se stesso come io, e nega l’assoluto facendolo, lui, sapere e
parlare come Io, Dio, ossia l’Unico, non è soggetto, ma come qualità infinita,
costituisce l’essenza di cui i molti soggetti sono individuazione o
moltiplicazione, con tutti i problemi che ne conseguono20, compreso il
possibile l’esito fichtiano. Secondo C. si può dire che «sono l’identico io
proprio perché siamo due»: se fosse eliminato il tu come altro me, riducendolo
ad esperienza, sarebbe eliminato anche quel consentire in cui consiste la
stessa esperienza. Non solo l’esperienza richiede la dimensione comunitaria, ma
in generale il pensare, che è essenzialmente un convenire, un cum-sapere21 l’Universale,
Dio. Quel cum non è un'aggiunta irrilevante, in quanto la dimensione
intersoggettiva, comunitaria, è essenziale a tutte le forma dell’attività
spirituale umana. «Ci sarà – afferma C. –, anzi c’è senza dubbio, quella
empirica alterità, nella quale ciascuno di noi presenta all’altro un
insondabile residuo di meità intraducibile in esperienza dell’altro, ma questa
intraducibilità, che è il limite che la meità ha nella esperienza, non prova
che l’alterità sia soltanto di esperienza e non pura, ma prova precisamente, il
contrario, e cioè che, a fondamento dell’alterità empirica, c’è l’alterità pura
come schietta egoità, prova che il limite empirico, che separa me da te,
persone viventi, non è la stessa alterazione pura di noi altri due, ciascuno
singolare; io, alterazione pura, per la quale ciascuno, con la propria unità è
immesso nell’altro uno, Cfr. F. Valori, Il problema dell’io in C.. Cfr. in
proposito C., La coscienza. immissione, senza della quale è assurdo non solo
l’innegabile consentimento ma anche la divergenza di noi nell’alterità nostra;
consentimento, e divergenza, per i quali noi, ciascuno come altro, siamo tanti
soggetti dell’Unico, che è immanente a noi molti. La differenza fra le egoità
si dà solo a livello empirico, a livello trascendentale e metafisico i soggetti
sono identici, interi23 e, nello stesso tempo infinitamente penetrativi. C. contrasts the rock of concrete, temporal, plural, relational being in
the light of which the problem of the origin, of the foundation, of validity
cannot be given up, with the sand of historicist becoming, of the historicist
succession of the facts in which law and value coincide with the succession
itself. The metaphor of sand and rock used by the same C. in his later writings
is taken up by Semerari in the title of an essay dedicated to critical
ontologism. This metaphor gives us a good idea of the fundamental theoretical
instance relating to the problem of history. Such a theoretical instance is
asserted by Carabellesian ontology in its opposition to historicism through the
ontological recovery of time and of existence and by contrast as well with the
interpretation, traceable in Heidegger, of time and existence as the outside,
as the not of meta–temporal and meta–existential Being, that is, as its decayed
phenomena21.”La responsabilita profonda, grave, se una se ne vuol trovare, e
questo aver SCAMBIATA LA SABBIA DELL’IERI, OGGI, E DOMANI, SEPARATI, AVER
SCAMBIATA LA SABBIA DEL “FUI” PER LA ROCCIA DELL’ “ESSERE” -- l’eterno – nell’eterno -- nella roccia,
l’ieri, l’oggi, e il domani non sono separati ne successivi – la copula S EST P
– non S FUI P --. La
responsabilita profonda e di questa coscienza storicista, che si resolve
appunto nel credere che tutta la CASA umana sia FATTA SU SABBIA [on sand, not
on rock]– e DI SABBIA. Abbandoniamo questa coscienza storicista di Croce, che
spessso si nasconde, forse piu intransigente anche nel dommatismo ultramondano
degl’ANTI-STORICI, che pur soltanto UNA SABBIOSA STORIA (la storia della
semiotica, la storia di Vitruvio) concedeno all’umana attivita consapevole.
CERCHIAMO LA ROCCIA al di sotto di questo SGRETOLAMENTE (la greta), che sono i
successive e separati ieri, oggi, e domani. CI riuscira forse cosi di ritrovare
il fondamento e di trarre anche dallo SCAVO DI FONDAZIONE, PER LA COSTRUZIONE
DELLA NOSTRA CASA, materiale piu atto che non sia quello datoci dal SABBISO
SUCCEDERSI DI ETA UMANE E COSMICHE. Certo nessuna costruzione noi uomini
pensanti possiame fare SULLA ROCCIA se queso nostro PENSARE NON TOCCA LA
ROCCIA. Nessuna costruzione possiamo fare se nostro pensare no ha LA ROCCIA A
SUO INTIMO FONDAMENTO. Ma tanto meno potremo alcuna costruzione fare SE
INTENDIAMO FARLA CON POLVERE di idee che si facciano sorgere o tramonatre con
la storia. Su Polvere e di polvere non si costruisce. Si COSTRIUCE SOLO CON
PIETRA [stone] DURA [hardened – D. Paul] SULLA ROCCIA. ROCCIA E L’ESSERE
SPIRITUALE CHE *dura* -- durazione, duro – ETERNO.” 24 Omnis ergo, qui audit verba mea haec et
facit ea, assimilabitur viro sapienti, qui aedificavit domum suam supra
petram. 25 Et descendit pluvia, et venerunt flumina, et flaverunt
venti et irruerunt in domum illam, et non cecidit; fundata enim erat supra
petram. 26 Et omnis, qui audit verba mea haec et non facit ea, similis erit
viro stulto, qui aedificavit domum suam supra arenam. 27 Et descendit
pluvia, et venerunt flumina, et flaverunt venti et irruerunt in domum illam, et
cecidit, et fuit ruina eius magna ”. Nome compiuto: Pantaleo Carbellese.
Keywords: la sabbia e la roccia – il segno, lo scandalo del significato, io/tu,
Husserl, intersoggetivita, intersoggetivo, interpersonal, interattivo –
interazione, azione sociale – orientazione all’altro, razionalita strategica,
razionalita comunicativa, complessita intensionale, il significato, i
significati, l’nsieme, la comunita, il noi. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo
di Gioco di H. P. Grice, “Grice e Carabellese,” The Swimming-Pool Library,
Villa Speranza, Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Caracciolo:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale del colloquio – scuola
di San Pietro di Morubio – filosofia veronese – filosofia veneta -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (San Pietro di Morubio). Filosofo
veronese. Filosofo veneto. Filosofo italiano. San Pietro di Morubio, Verona,
Veneto. Grice: “I like Caracciolo – at Harvard, I joked on
Schlipp, and stated that Heidegger was then the greatest (grossest, in German)
living philosopher – as he then was, living --. Caracciolo has dedicated his
life to translate Heidegger’s ‘Dutch’ mannerism into the ‘volgare’: and now I
have concluded that Heidegger is perhaps the grossest dead philosopher – “in
cammino verso il linguaggio: il dire originario” –“. Grice: “Note that Caracciolo’s ‘cammino’
translates Heidegger’s ‘weg’ – my ‘way’ of words – but for Heidegger is ‘way
to’ (weg zur) – as it should!” cf. Speranza, “in cammino verso la
conversazione” – versus “il cammino della convresazione’ –“ Grice: “Note that
in Italian, unlike German, you drop the otiose ‘the’ of ‘way – “Nel cammino” is
o-kay, but “in cammino” is the choice by Caracciolo!” – cf. Aligheri, ‘nel
cammino’ OF his life, towards heaven, or paradise, that is.” Studia a
Verona e Pavia. Fa la conoscenza di Olivelli, con il quale collaborò alla
stesura dei Quaderni del ribelle. Olivelli divenne uno dei più noti martiri
della Resistenza e a lui Caracciolo dedica un saggio, “Teresio Olivelli:
biografia di un martire” (Brescia). Insegna a Pavia, Lodi, Brescia, e Genova. La
sua filosofia si sviluppa inizialmente all'interno della tradizione crociana,
ma poi acquisisce tratti più originali a contatto con Jaspers, Löwith e
Heidegger. In cammino verso il Linguaggio. Di particolare interesse e
importanza sono i suoi studi sul nichilismo a partire da Leopardi e sulla
dimensione religiosa dell'esistenza. Nella sua riflessione egli ha pure
mostrato una forte attenzione per il rapporto tra pensiero e poesia, tra
pensiero e musica. Altre opere: “L'estetica di Croce nel suo svolgimento e nei
suoi limiti (Torino); L'estetica e la religione di Croce (Arona); Estetica
(Brescia); Etica e trascendenza, Brescia); Arte e pensiero nelle loro istanze
metafisiche. I problemi della "Critica del giudizio", Milano); Studi
kantiani, Napoli); La persona e il tempo, Arona; Saggi filosofici, Genova);
Studi jaspersiani, Milano); La religione come struttura e come modo autonomo
della coscienza, Milano); Arte e linguaggio, Milano); Religione ed eticità,
Napoli); Löwith, Napoli); Nichilismo, Napoli); Nichilismo ed etica, Genova); Studi
heideggeriani, Genova); Nulla religioso e imperativo dell'eterno, Genova); Politica
e autobiografia, Brescia); Leopardi e il nichilismo, Milano); La virtù e il
corso del mondo (Alessandria); L'assolutezza del Cristianesimo e la storia
delle religioni, Napoli); Filosofia della religione; In cammino verso il
Linguaggio; Theophania. Lo spirito della religione antica. Filosofia umana.
Esistenza e Trascendenza. Lo spazio della trascendenza. La prospettiva estetica
ed etico-religiosa. Caracciolo. Sentieri del suo filosofare. Unterwegs zur
Sprache. In cammino verso il linguaggio. Herrmann, Die Sprache. Il Linguaggio.
Die Sprache im Gedicht. Il linguaggio nella poesia. Eine Erörterung von Georg
Trakls Gedicht. Aus einem Gespräch von der Sprache. Zwischen einem Japaner und einem Fragenden. Das Wesen der Sprache. L’essenza
del linguaggio. Das Wort. La parola. Il verbo. Der Weg zur Sprache. In cammino
verso il linguaggio. Essere e tempo. La riflessione esplicita sul linguaggio. ζῷον
λόγον ἔχον. Ermeneutica e metodo storico-ermeneutico. Il ‘non’ come fondamento.
Più in alto della realtà sta la possibilità. La Kehre. L’essere: un problema
che rimane problema. Poesia. L'arte come messa in opera della verità.
Hӧlderlin. Il tempo della povertà. Il pensiero come Kehre. In cammino verso il
silenzio. La differenza e il fondamento. In cammino verso il linguaggio: il
dire originario. In cammino verso il linguaggio: il suono del silenzio.
“Heidegger is the greatest living philosopher”. Heidegger In cammino
verso il linguaggio Curatore: C. Mursia. Heidegger scrisse In cammino verso il
linguaggio. Ci sono alcune cose interessanti e volevo proporvele questa sera.
Innanzi tutto l’esordio in cui è molto chiaro e molto deciso dice: L’uomo
parla, noi parliamo nella veglia e nel sonno, parliamo sempre anche quando non
proferiamo parola ma ascoltiamo o leggiamo soltanto perfino quando neppure
ascoltiamo o leggiamo ma ci dedichiamo a un lavoro o ci perdiamo nell’ozio, in
un modo o nell’altro parliamo ininterrottamente, parliamo perché il parlare ci
è connaturato. Il parlare non nasce da un particolare atto di volontà, si dice
che l’uomo è per natura parlante, e vale per acquisito, che l’uomo a differenza
della pianta e dell’animale è l’essere vivente capace di parola, dicendo questo
non si intende affermare soltanto che l’uomo possiede accanto ad altre capacità
anche quella del parlare, si intende dire che proprio il linguaggio fa dell’uomo
quell’essere vivente che egli è in quanto uomo. L’uomo è uomo in quanto parla,
è la lezione di Humboldt, resta però da riflettere che cosa significhi
“l’Uomo”. Ora considera una poesia di Kraus: Quando la neve cade alla finestra
a lungo risuona la campana della sera, per molti la tavola è pronta, la casa è
tutta in ordine. Alcuni nel loro errare giungono alla porta per oscuri
sentieri, aureo fiorisce l’albero delle grazie, la fresca linfa della terra,
silenzioso entra il viandante, il dolore ha pietrificato la soglia, là
risplende in pura luce, sopra la tavola, pane e vino. La sua ferita piena di
grazie lenisce la dolce forza dell’amore “o nuda sofferenza dell’uomo” colui
che muto ha lottato con gli angeli. Ve l’ho letta visto che ne parla, che cosa “chiama”
la prima strofa? Perché lui dice che il linguaggio è qualcosa che “chiama” le
cose letteralmente dice “il linguaggio parla” ma come parla? Dove ci è dato
cogliere questo suo parlare? questo già è interessante perché non è l’uomo, ma
è il linguaggio che parla, dice: innanzi tutto in una parola già detta, in
questa infatti il parlare si è già realizzato, il parlare non finisce in ciò
che è stato detto. Qui sentirete a breve echeggiare anche molte cose di Lacan e
di altri. In ciò che è stato detto il parlare resta custodito, in ciò che è
stato detto il parlare riunisce il modo del suo perdurare, è ciò che grazie ad
esso perdura, il suo perdurare, la sua essenza, ma per lo più, e troppo spesso,
ciò che è stato detto noi lo incontriamo soltanto come il passato del parlare.
// Lui considera la prima strofa e dice: che cosa “chiama” la prima strofa?
Chiama cose, dice loro di venire, dove? Non certo qui, nel senso di farsi
presenti fra ciò che è presente, sicché per esempio la tavola di cui parla
Kraus venga a collocarsi fra le file di poltrone da loro occupate, il
luogo 2 dell’arrivo che è con-chiamato nella chiamata, è una presenza
serbata intatta nella sua natura di assenza, è questo il luogo in cui quel
nominante chiamare dice alle cose di venire, in una assenza, poi preciserà fra
breve il chiamare è un invitare tenete conto che sta dicendo della parola è
l’invito alle cose ad essere veramente tali per gli uomini, la “caduta della
neve” (qui cita un’altra strofa di Kraus) porta gli uomini sotto il cielo che si
oscura inoltrandosi nella notte, il suonare della “campana della sera” li porta
come mortali di fronte al divino, “casa” e “tavola” vincolano i mortali alla
terra, le cose che la poesia nomina in tal modo “chiamate”, adunano presso di
sé cielo e terra, i mortali e i divini, i quattro “cielo, terra, i mortali e i
divini” costituiscono nel loro relazionarsi una unità originaria, le cose
trattengono presso di sé il quadrato dei “quattro”, in questo adunare e
trattenere consiste l’esser cosa delle cose, l’unitario quadrato di cielo e
terra, mortali e divini, immanente all’essenza delle cose in quanto cose, noi
lo chiamiamo “il mondo”. La poesia nominando le cose le chiama in tale loro
essenza, queste nel loro essere e operare come cose dispiegano il mondo, nel
mondo esse stanno e in questo loro stare nel mondo è la realtà e la loro
durata, le cose in quanto sono e operano come tali portano a compimento il
mondo. Nel tedesco antico “portare a compimento” si dice “bern, bären” donde i
termini “gebären” “generare” e “Gebärde” “gesto”, quanto mettono in atto la
loro essenza le cose sono cose, in quanto mettono in atto la loro essenza esse
generano il mondo. La prima strofa chiama le cose al loro esser tali, dice loro
di venire, tal dire chiamando le cose le chiama presso, le invita, al tempo
stesso sospinge verso le cose, affida queste al mondo da cui si manifestano,
per questo la prima strofa nomina non soltanto cose ma insieme il mondo, chiama
i molti che come mortali fanno parte del quadrato del mondo, le cose condizionano
i mortali ciò a questo punto significa: le cose visitano di volta in volta i
mortali sempre e solo insieme col mondo. La prima strofa parla nell’atto che
dice alle cose di venire, la seconda strofa parla in modo diverso dalla prima
eccetera … qual è la questione qui? Importante perché ci sta dicendo che c’è il
mondo che è fatto di che cosa? “dei, mortali, cielo, terra”, il mondo è ciò per
cui le cose sono quelle che sono, adesso ve la dico in modo molto più semplice
e capirete subito: “le cose” sono gli enti, il “mondo” è l’Essere. In questa
posizione sta dicendo che senza il mondo cioè senza l’“Essere”, che poi questo
mondo, lui è preciso qui quando dice “la caduta della neve” per esempio nel
verso “porta gli uomini sotto il cielo che si oscura inoltrandosi nella notte e
il suonare della campana della sera li porta come mortali di fronte al divino”
cioè queste parole costruiscono la scena entro la quale la “cosa” può apparire,
come se fosse, adesso preciseremo meglio, come se la “cosa” fosse una sorta di
significante, adesso sto un po’ stravolgendo ma per farvi capire, il “mondo” il
significato, senza significante non c’è significato e viceversa, il significato
cioè ciò che questa “cosa”, questa parola produce, se lui nomina il “suonare
della campana” è chiaro che questo suonare della campana evoca qualcosa, evoca
il divino, evoca la religione, evoca tantissime cose, adesso lui ne cita solo
una, ma potrebbero essere sterminate ed è all’interno di questo che l’ente
compare, Intervento: come se le cose potessero apparire solo in questa scena
che è il “mondo”. Esattamente, però senza gli enti il mondo non c’è. Intervento:
il mondo è la totalità degli enti? Sì, esattamente, poi: Come il chiamare che
nomina la cose chiama presso e rimanda lontano, così il dire che nomina il
“mondo” è invito a questo a farsi vicino e al tempo stesso lontano. Cosa vuole
dire che “chiama presso e rimanda lontano” questo “chiamare”? le chiama le cose
parlando, io chiamo le cose quindi è come se me le avvicinassi ma mentre avvicino
queste cose, queste cose si allontanano anche, si allontanano perché di cosa
sono fatte? Intervento: c’è sempre quell’assenza di prima. Sì, queste parole
sono assenti, nel senso che non sono lì in quanto tali, sono lì sempre in
quanto riferite al mondo ecco: esso, il chiamare, affida il mondo alle cose e
insieme accoglie e custodisce le cose nello splendore del mondo, il mondo
concede alle cose la loro essenza. Quindi è questo mondo, questa scena, io
adesso uso dei termini che lui non usa ma solo per rendere le cose più
semplici, è questo “mondo” che dà alle cose la loro essenza, qui sembra essere
ancora platonico, questo mondo 3 potrebbe essere pensato come il mondo
delle idee ed è questo mondo delle idee che da alle cose, agli aggeggi la loro
essenza. Le cose d’altra parte fanno essere il mondo, il mondo consente le
cose. Il parlare delle prime due strofe parla nell’atto che sollecita le cose a
venire verso il mondo e il mondo verso le cose- tenete sempre conto che sta
descrivendo cosa fa il linguaggio: neppure però costituiscono soltanto una
coppia, mondo e cose non sono infatti realtà che stiano l’una accanto
all’altra, esse si compenetrano vicendevolmente, compenetrandosi i due passano
attraverso una linea mediana, in questo si costituisce la loro unità, per tale
unità sono intimi linea mediana e l’intimità, per indicare tale linea la lingua
tedesca usa il termine “das …” il “fra” “fra mezzo” la lingua latina dice
“inter”, all’“inter” latino corrisponde il tedesco “unter”. Intimità di mondo e
cosa non è fusione - ora cominciate a pensare a queste due cose “mondo e cosa”
come significato e significante e adesso vi dirò perché non è una fusione fra
le due cose, pensate a De Saussure, L’intimità di mondo e cosa regna soltanto
dove mondo e cosa nettamente si distinguono e restano distinti, nella linea che
è a mezzo tra i due, nel fra mezzo di mondo e cosa, nel loro “inter”, questo
“unter, domina lo stacco. ora adesso non so se è già il caso di dire qua, ecco
qui comincia con la questione della “differenza”: L’intimità di mondo e cosa è
nello stacco, “Schied” “del frammezzo” e nella “dif-ferenza” “Unter Schied”, il
termine “differenza” è qui sottratto all’uso corrente e consueto non indica un
concetto generico nella cui area rientrino molteplici specie di differenza, la
“dif-ferenza” di cui qui si parla esiste solo come quest’una e unica, la
dif-ferenza regge, non però con essa identificandosi, quella linea mediana nel
modo e nella relazione alla quale, e grazie alla quale, mondo e cose trovano la
loro unità, l’intimità della dif-ferenza è l’elemento unificante della diafora,
di ciò che differenziando porta e compone, la dif-ferenza porta il mondo al suo
esser mondo, porta le cose al suo esser cose, portandoli a compimento li porta
l’un verso l’altro. Il termine “dif-ferenza” non indica per ciò più una
distinzione posta tra oggetti del pensiero presentativo – Oggetti del pensiero
presentativo sono quelli che il pensiero mostra, presenta – né la differenza è
solo una relazione oggettivamente esistente tra mondo e cosa, che il pensiero
presentativo venendovisi a imbattere possa constatare, né la differenza è
comunque relazione tra mondo e cosa destinata ad essere in un ulteriore momento
negata e trascesa – cioè non può togliersi – la differenza di mondo e cosa fa
che le cose emergano come quelle che generano il mondo, fa che il mondo emerga
come quello che consente le cose. La dif-ferenza è la dimensione in quanto
misura nella sua interezza facendo essere nella sua propria essenza lo spazio
di mondo e cosa, la differenza come linea mediana di mondo e cose rappresenta
generandola la misura in cui mondo e cosa realizzano la loro essenza, nel
nominare che chiama “cosa” e “mondo” quel che è propriamente nominato è la
dif-ferenza. A questo punto è ovvio che ciascuno di voi ha pensato
necessariamente a Derrida, il quale Derrida ha preso a man bassa da Heidegger
ma tra breve sarà ancora più evidente, lui, Derrida ha preso Heidegger e lo ha
riletto con De Saussure dice: “Questo chiamare” ricordate prima ha detto del
chiamare: Questo chiamare è l’essenza del parlare, la dif-ferenza è la chiamata
dalla quale soltanto ogni “chiamare” è esso stesso chiamato, alla quale
pertanto ogni possibile “chiamare” appartiene. // Il linguaggio parla in quanto
suono nella “quiete” (adesso dirà che cosa intende) la quiete acquieta,
(ovviamente) portando mondo e cose alla loro essenza, il fondare e comporre
mondo e cose nel modo dell’acquietamento è l’evento della dif-ferenza, il
linguaggio, il suono della quiete è in quanto “la dif-ferenza”, è come farsi
evento, l’essere del linguaggio è l’evenire della dif-ferenza. Il suono della
quiete non è nulla di umano, certo l’uomo è nella sua essenza parlante, il
termine “parlante” significa qui che emerge ed è fatto se stesso dal parlare
del linguaggio. (lui è preciso su questo cioè non è l’uomo che parla, è il
linguaggio che parla, e il linguaggio non è un ente, non è un oggetto al pari
degli altri, infatti quando la logica parla di “linguaggio oggetto” compie un
abominio per Heidegger, perché il linguaggio non è un oggetto, mai può essere
oggetto dunque: In forza di tale evenire l’uomo nell’atto che è dalla lingua
portato a se stesso, alla sua propria essenza continua ad appartenere
all’essenza del linguaggio, al suono della quiete (cioè è l’uomo che appartiene
all’essenza del linguaggio non viceversa) tale evento (il suono della quiete)
si realizza in quanto l’essenza del linguaggio (il suono della quiete) si
avvale del parlare dei mortali per essere dai mortali percepita come appunto
“suono della quiete”, solo in quanto 4 gli uomini rientrano nel dominio
del suono della quiete, i mortali sono a loro modo capaci di un parlare
attuantesi in suoni. Il parlare dei mortali è un “nominante chiamare”, (questo
è fondamentale in Heidegger lo ripeto “il parlare è un nominante chiamare”) è
invito alle cose e al mondo farsi presso muovendo dalla semplicità della
differenza. La pura del parlare mortale è la parola della poesia, l’autentica
poesia non è mai un modo più elevato della lingua quotidiana vero è piuttosto il
contrario, che cioè il parlare quotidiano è una poesia dimenticata come
logorata nella quale a stento è dato ancora percepire il suono di un autentico
chiamare. Ecco la questione che sta ponendo è esattamente quella che pone
Derrida, questo suono, questo suono silenzioso che non si sente ma che tuttavia
è ciò che costituisce la condizione della parola che chiama, beh è ciò che
Derrida ha elaborato come “differance”, lui usa per indicare questo suono che
non c’è, usa questo esempio, lui scrive in francese “difference” in francese si
scrive così, però a “difference” sostituisce alla e una a, scrivendo quindi
“differance” che in francese è scorretto perché si scrive “difference”, però
dice anche cambiando la e con la a, il suono della parola in francese “differance”
non cambia, è esattamente lo stesso cioè questa e non si sente, che metta la e
o metta la a, è uguale, non si sente, cioè quella cosa che lui chiama la
“differance” è esattamente questo suono muto, che tuttavia è quella cosa che
consente alla parola di essere tale e cioè di, mettiamola così, lui, forse
dovrei aggiungere qualcosa, lui, Derrida muove a queste considerazioni partendo
da De Saussure, dal segno di De Saussure “significante/significato” e quindi
ciò che dice è che questa barra è quella che divide il significante dal
significato ma è quella che compone il segno, senza questa barra che distingue
il significante dal significato il segno non c’è, però questa barra si scrive,
si mette il trattino, come faceva De Saussure, ma non c’è, non suona né nel
significante né nel significato ecco questa barra è la “dif-ferance”, è quella
cosa che non compare, che non ha suono però è la condizione perché il segno sia
segno, cioè perché la parola sia la parola è indeterminabile cioè questo suono
di cui parla qui Heidegger il “suono della quiete” è questo suono, senza questo
“cosa e mondo”, adesso la dico in modo molto rozzo ma si sovrapporrebbero l’uno
altro, l’ente, cesserebbe di essere tale perché l’ente è tale perché inserito
all’interno del mondo, e il mondo è tale perché esiste un ente che lo pone in
essere, esattamente come il significante e il significato. Heidegger non parla
né di significante né di significato, non gliene importa assolutamente nulla,
per lui il mondo è l’essere, è l’esserci “Dasein”. Ciò che a noi interessa
invece è intendere come anche in Heidegger si siano poste delle questioni molto
precise intorno al linguaggio, soprattutto rispetto al fatto che il linguaggio
non è un oggetto, non è una proprietà dell’uomo, non è una sua facoltà tra
altre, ma è il linguaggio che parla, ricordate la famosa asserzione di Lacan
quando dice “ça parle” cioè qualcosa parla, viene da qui ovviamente, è stato
Heidegger a porre la questione in termini precisi, tali per cui ha preso atto
del fatto che il linguaggio non è una proprietà, è questo che dice, non è una
proprietà, non è un ente, non è qualcosa di cui gli umani dispongano ma è il
linguaggio che parla. Che significa questo per quanto ci riguarda? Significa
una cosa importante: è il linguaggio a parlare e a costruire l’uomo, e anche le
cose, perché Heidegger dice che le chiama, le chiama alla presenza, però di
fatto il linguaggio è quella struttura, come andiamo dicendo da tempo, senza la
quale non sarebbe possibile per gli umani il dirsi tali, non sarebbe possibile
costruire nessun pensiero, nulla. Quindi lui dice che il linguaggio “chiama le
cose”, sì, le chiama nel senso che le crea, le produce letteralmente, e in
effetti non lo dice, forse lo usa da qualche parte, non usa la parola
“costruire” ma in ogni caso ciò che sta dicendo è che il linguaggio è quella
cosa che in un certo senso, adesso permettetemi di dire questa cosa che ad
Heidegger non piacerebbe, ma “preesiste” l’uomo in un certo senso, “preesiste”
tra virgolette, perché è come se il linguaggio fosse da sempre lì, è questo
mondo all’interno del quale qualche cosa può apparire. Ed è una posizione molto
interessante che per altro moltissimi hanno ripreso, tutti coloro che si sono
minimamente interrogati intorno al linguaggio in qualche modo hanno tenuto
conto di queste asserzioni di Heidegger, questo testo è celeberrimo “In cammino
verso il linguaggio” 5 Intervento: scusi, dicendo appunto dell’uomo e del
linguaggio, non dice che il linguaggio “costruisce” o “inventa” l’uomo, ma dice
che il linguaggio fa qualsiasi cosa, però non è giunto a dire che l’uomo non
esisterebbe in quanto uomo, se non ci fosse il linguaggio? Nel senso che
mantiene l’uomo un’entità che parla, che dice delle cose, o no? Dice in modo
molto chiaro: Il linguaggio fa dell’uomo quell’essere vivente che egli è in
quanto uomo, Dice ancora: La parola è cenno e non segno, nel senso di semplice
denotazione la logica ma anche la linguistica ha sempre considerato la parola
come un segno denotante qualche cosa, un segno linguistico che denota un
aggeggio qualunque, lui dice che la parola è cenno, accennare a qualche cosa,
alludere a qualche cosa, riferirsi indirettamente a qualche cosa, come dire
lasciare che questa cosa appaia senza una determinazione precisa, cioè senza
una denotazione, la denotazione appunto “de nota”, la denotazione dice qual è
il significato di una cosa, ricordate la differenza fra denotazione e
connotazione? Dicendo che la parola è cenno, qua nella parte in cui fa questo
dialogo ipotetico con un giapponese, è come dire che la parola indica qualche
cosa ma che è al di là della parola, la parola è un cenno in quanto indica il
mondo all’interno del quale questa parola è inserita, ma lo accenna, non lo
determina, non lo può determinare. Intervento: lo potrebbe determinare
l’esserci, “Dasein”? è l’“esserci” nel mondo che determina la cosa, ovviamente
di volta in volta. Sì, Heidegger oscilla però in genere tende a considerare che
l’essere non può stare senza l’ente, altre volte invece sembra dire che, così
notava Severino, che l’Essere possa darsi senza l’ente, cosa abbastanza
improbabile, è come dire “un significante senza un significato” che cos’è? È
niente. Intervento: non ho capito: che l’ente possa esserci senza l’essere,
significante senza significato? Heidegger dice che l’ente e l’essere non
possono darsi l’uno senza l’altro, così come, stavo dicendo, allo stesso modo
come il significante e il significato non possono darsi l’uno senza l’altro. In
questo senso dicevo, allora qui si riferisce a “Sein und Zeit”: Si trattava e
si tratta, era ed è, di evidenziare l’essere dell’essente, certamente non più
alla maniera della metafisica ma in modo che l’essere stesso si manifesti,
l’essere stesso, ciò significa la presenza di ciò che può farsi presente, (la
“presenza di ciò che può farsi presente”) vale a dire la differenza dei due
momenti sulla base dell’unità, è questa differenza che esige l’uomo per la sua
propria essenza … che è come dire cioè l’essere stesso, a questo punto se lui
lo pone come la differenza dei due momenti “cosa/mondo” sulla base dell’unità,
sulla base del fatto che sono inscindibili, dice che allora: è questa
differenza che esige l’uomo per la sua propria essenza cioè questa differenza
tra il fatto che mondo e cosa pur essendo assolutamente inscindibili sono
tuttavia separati, è da lì che l’uomo trae la sua essenza, dal fatto che il
significante e il significato cioè ogni parola che dice mostra si presentifica
qualche cosa, nel senso che chiama qualche cosa ma mentre chiama la cosa,
chiama anche il mondo all’interno del quale questa cosa è inserita e senza il
quale mondo non esisterebbe neppure … Intervento: è molto vicino alla
semiotica, in fondo parla di connessioni … Tutti coloro che si sono addentrati
in queste questioni, e questa è un’altra cosa che forse compare in ciò che vado
dicendo ultimamente, si sono trovati a interrogare questioni molto simili,
perché quando si incomincia a riflettere sul modo in cui funziona il linguaggio
è inevitabile accorgersi che la parola è all’interno di qualche cosa, per
Heidegger è il mondo, per Greimas non è più il mondo ma un contesto di segni
all’interno del quale il nucleo segnico acquista un significato, per la
psicanalisi è la parola che non si può intendere se a questa parola non vengono
associati tramite associazioni libere le connessioni alle quali è agganciata.
Modi di interrogare una questione che sono sì differenti però incontrano molto
spesso quasi una stessa direzione da seguire, quasi gli stessi elementi
Intervento: però l’uomo incontrando il mondo lo simbolizza nella parola? Può
accadere certo, siamo però già verso Lacan (lo evoca) sì evocandolo può anche
simbolizzarlo, se vuole, non è proibito. Ecco qui parla del “non pensato”
sempre riferendosi indirettamente alla differenza perché è l’impensato, non si
può pensare la differenza in quanto tale, così come non può 6 neanche
dirsi perché non c’è ma pur non essendoci in quanto ente costituisce, come dice
Heidegger quel suono muto che tuttavia è ciò che consente a questi due elementi
la cosa e il mondo di stare distinti ma al tempo stesso uniti. Intervento: non
avevo conosciuto Heidegger su questo aspetto. All’Università … Su alcune cosa
ha riflettuto attentamente, soprattutto intorno al linguaggio qui incomincia a
parlarne in modo abbastanza esplicito già nel suo primo scritto “Essere e
tempo” poi mano a mano riflettendo intorno all’Essere si accorge che una
riflessione intorno all’Essere comporta una riflessione intorno al linguaggio
necessariamente. Il parlare inteso nella sua pienezza significante trascende
sempre la dimensione puramente fisico sensibile del suono ovviamente il parlare
non è soltanto il suono ma il linguaggio come significato fattosi suono o segno
scritto è qualcosa di essenzialmente soprasensibile, qualcosa che perennemente
oltrepassa il puramente sensibile, il linguaggio così inteso è per sua
costitutiva natura metafisico.) È la metafisica che rappresenta, badate bene:
si parla, si rappresenta, se si rappresenta si compie un’operazione metafisica.
Poi sul volere sapere: Il voler sapere e l’avida richiesta di spiegazioni non
portano mai a un interrogare pensante, nel volere sapere si cela già sempre la
presunzione di un auto coscienza che si appella a una ragione auto fondata e
alla sua razionalità, il volere sapere non vuole che si stia in ascolto di
fronte a ciò che è degno di essere pensato. Intervento: è una forma di
controllo Esattamente, e poi c’è la seconda parte di cui ci occuperemo nel
prosieguo perché ciò che stiamo facendo è straordinariamente vicino a ciò che
qui Heidegger ci sta dicendo, lui non ha dubbi sul fatto che l’uomo è quello
che è, perché c’è il linguaggio, non ha nessun dubbio lo pone proprio nelle
prime pagine il che comporta ovviamente delle implicazioni, perché se l’uomo
non è se non nel linguaggio allora, dice lui giustamente, occorre porsi in
ascolto del linguaggio, che non significa ascoltare quello che qualcuno dice,
ma porsi in ascolto del linguaggio e porsi in ascolto della domanda che c’è nel
linguaggio, nella chiamata che il linguaggio è, il linguaggio è un chiamare le
cose e fra le cose, chiama anche l’uomo nonostante che sia l’uomo la condizione
perché ci sia questa chiamata. Questa è una questione sempre presente in
Heidegger, infatti è stato accusato di “umanismo”, “accusato” tra virgolette,
mentre lui si è sempre difeso da questo, la sua non è una posizione
esistenzialista, ha dovuto attraversare l’esistenzialismo perché l’unico
esistente è l’uomo, questo accendisigari per Heidegger non esiste, c’è, ma non
esiste, solo gli umani esistono cioè soltanto coloro che sono in condizioni di
porre la domanda, questo aggeggio, questo accendino non fa nessuna domanda. Per
Heidegger l’uomo è il portatore in un certo senso del linguaggio, forse non
necessariamente l’unico, però a quanto ci consta per il momento si, e questo,
sempre per Heidegger, è fondamentale perché l’uomo può trarre la verità, cioè
la verità sull’essere e quindi il fatto che l’essere non sia nient’altro che
l’esserci dell’uomo in quanto progetto ciascuna volta, solamente nel dialogo.
Nel dialogo tra umani ovviamente, ma un dialogo dove le cose si interrogano,
dove si mantiene aperta la domanda non la chicchera, il parlare per il sentito
dire, il sentito dire vuole dire anche averlo letto da qualche parte, ma non
averlo interrogato in modo autentico. Interrogare in modo autentico e lasciarsi
interrogare dalla cosa: una qualunque cosa pone delle questioni, per esempio
“che cos’è?” o quando mi trovo all’interno di un progetto su come posso
utilizzare quella certa cosa, pone comunque sempre delle domande, l’uomo è
sempre all’interno di questo domandare, continuamente. Questo è il domandare
autentico, quello che si lascia interrogare da ciò che sta dicendo, da ciò che
sta facendo, le cose che sta incontrando, non da colui che invece si precipita
a dare la risposta o come dicevo prima ha la fretta di sapere tutto
dimenticandosi della domanda. Nella parte successiva ci saranno delle cose
molto interessanti da dire. per esempio sulla poesia che per lui è importante
perché la poesia accenna, e in questo accennare lascia che la parola chiami le
cose, senza fermarle, senza bloccarle, senza mortificarle ma le lascia essere,
lasciar essere questo è sempre stato fondamentale per Heidegger. Heidegger
prosegue: La ricerca scientifica e filosofica mira da qualche tempo (siamo nel
‘59) in modo sempre più deciso a costruire ciò che viene chiamato
“metalinguaggio” (qui ce l’ha con i filosofi analitici) giustamente pertanto la
filosofia scientifica che si prefigge di costruire tale super linguaggio,
intende se stessa come metalinguistica. Metalinguistica suona come metafisica,
non soltanto suona “come” ma è, la metalinguistica è infatti la metafisica
della totale trasformazione tecnica di ogni lingua in semplice strumento
interplanetario di informazione, metalinguaggio e sputnik, metalinguistica e
tecnica missilistica sono la stessa cosa. // (Poi cita una poesia, una poesia
di Stefan George, il titolo è Das Wort (la parola). Meraviglia di lontano o
sogno io portai al lembo estremo della mia terra e attesi fino a che la grigia
Norna (Norna è la dea del fato, del destino) il nome trovò nella sua fonte,
meraviglia o sogno potei allora afferrare consistente e forte ed ora fiorisce e
splende per tutta la marca. (la marca è un territorio di confine) Un giorno
giunsi colà dopo un viaggio felice con un gioiello ricco e fine, ella cercò a
lungo e al fine mi annunciò “qui nulla di eguale dorme sul fondo”, al che esso
sfuggì alla mia mano e mai più la mia terra ebbe il tesoro, così io appresi
triste la rinuncia: “nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca”. Un numero infinito
di persone considera non di meno anche questa cosa dello sputnik un prodigio,
questa “cosa” che gira vertiginosamente in uno spazio del mondo ove non è
mondo, e per molti essa era ed è tutt’ora un sogno, prodigio e sogno della
tecnica moderna, la quale dovrebbe essere la meno disposta a riconoscere valido
il pensiero che sia la parola a procurare alle cose la loro esistenza, non le
parole ma le azioni contano nei calcoli dell’ossessivo calcolare planetario,
lasciamo la fretta del pensare, non è proprio anche questa “cosa” quel che essa
è, e così come essa è, in nome del suo nome? Certamente. Se l’affrettare nel
senso del massimo potenziamento tecnico della velocità, di quella velocità nel
cui spazio temporale soltanto le macchine e i congegni moderni possono essere
quello che sono, (questi marchingegni sono quelli che sono perché esiste la
velocità cioè esiste il concetto di velocità) se l’affrettare dunque, non
avesse parlato all’uomo e non l’avesse posto sotto il suo comando, (sta
parlando della tecnica ovviamente) questo comando non avesse spinto e disposto
l’uomo alla fretta, se la parola di un tale disporre non avesse parlato non ci
sarebbe nessuno sputnik, nessuna cosa è là dove la parola manca. La parola del
linguaggio e il suo rapporto con la cosa, con qualunque cosa che è sotto il
riguardo dell’essere e il modo di essere della cosa stessa resta un enigma.
(l’enigma sarebbe il rapporto fra la parola e la cosa, ecco già questo dice
delle cose perché nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca, beh la dice già lunga
sul fatto che se non c’è la parola, se manca la parola non c’è nessuna cosa,
non c’è nulla. Questo Heidegger l’aveva inteso molto bene ovviamente, non è un
caso che riprenda questa poesia di Stefan George) Dice poi: l’ultimo verso
infatti appunto “nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca” in tedesco “Kein ding ist
wo das Wort gebricht” l’ultimo verso potrebbe allora avere anche un significato
diverso da quello di un asserzione e costatazione volta nella forma del
discorso indiretto che dice “nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca”, quel che
segue i due punti, dopo la parola “rinuncia” (perché ci sono due punti dopo
“così io presi triste la rinuncia: nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca”) non
indica ciò cui si rinuncia, ma indica l’ambito entro cui la rinuncia deve
immettersi, indica il comando a consentire e accordarsi al rapporto fra parola
e cosa ora esperito, (“ora” esperito nel momento in cui si dice allora si
esperisce la cosa, allora c’è la cosa, e la cosa è quello che è) ciò di cui il
poeta ha preso la rinuncia è la sua precedente opinione nei riguardi del
rapporto fra cosa e parola, rinuncia concerne il rapporto poetico con la parola
a lui fino a quel momento consueto, la rinuncia è la disposizione a un rapporto
diverso, nel verso “Kein ding sei wo das Wort gebricht” “sai” non sarebbe
allora sul piano grammaticale un congiuntivo (“sai” vuol dire “sia”,
l’indicativo è “ist”) al posto dell’indicativo “ist” bensì una forma
dell’imperativo, un ordine cui il poeta obbedisce per rispettarlo anche in
futuro, nel verso “nessuna cosa “sia” laddove la parola manca”, il “sia”
significherebbe allora “non considerare d’ora in poi una cosa come esistente
dove la parola manca” (è un imperativo categorico” e non so per quale via mi ha
evocato le parole di Parmenide “sulla via del non essere non ti ci
incamminerai, ma seguirai la via dell’Essere.” Con quel “sia” inteso come
8 comando, il poeta si dispone ad accettare quella rinuncia per cui egli
abbandona la convinzione che qualcosa esista, già esista, anche quando la
parola manca. (Non c’è già la cosa) Che significa rinuncia? La parola
“Verzicht” Rientra nell’aria del verbo “verzeihen”; una locuzione antica dice
“Sich eines Dinges verzeihen”, e significa “abbandonare qualcosa”
“rinunciarvi”. Zeihen corrisponde al latino dicere, all’antico alto tedesco
“sagan” (il sagen del tedesco moderno), da cui “saga”. La rinuncia è un
Entsagen, letteralmente un “disdire”. Nella sua rinuncia il poeta dice “no” al
suo precedente rapporto con la parola, questo soltanto? No. Nell’atto in cui
rifiuta qualcosa, già gli è stato destinata una chiamata alla quale egli non si
sottrae più. (nella sua rinuncia, dice, rinuncia soltanto all’idea che qualcosa
ci sia anche senza la parola? già questa è una bella rinuncia. Rinuncia di
fronte a ciò che incontro, a pensare che questa cosa che incontro sia già lì
prima che io la dica, prima della parola, non che io la dica propriamente, però
aggiunge no, non è proprio così, ciò a cui non si sottrae è ciò che gli è stato
destinato “una chiamata alla quale egli non si sottrae più”. Chi lo chiama a
quella maniera, se non la parola?) In termini più chiari il poeta ha capito che
solo la parola fa sì che la parola appaia e sia pertanto presente come quella cosa
che è, la rinuncia che il poeta apprende è della natura di quella compiuta
rinuncia alla quale soltanto è dato attingere ciò che da lungo nascosto è
propriamente già destinato. Il poeta esperisce la sua vocazione di poeta come
una chiamata alla parola, ma cosa raggiunge il poeta? Non una semplice nozione,
seguendo questa chiamata, egli giunge nel rapporto della parola con la cosa,
questo rapporto non è però una relazione fra la cosa da una parte e la parola
dall’altra (qui c’è la parola e lì c’è l’ente e la relazione è in mezzo) la
parola stessa è il rapporto che via via incorpora e trattiene in sé la cosa, in
modo che essa è una cosa. Sulle prime e per lungo tratto pare che alla fonte
del linguaggio (poi dirà che è la parola la fonte dell’Essere) il poeta abbia
bisogno di portare soltanto le meraviglie che lo incantano (qui sta sempre
commentando la poesia di George) e i sogni che lo estasiano, pare che le parole
che a quella fonte egli va, con non incrinata fiducia, a cercare siano solo
quelle che convengono a quanto di meraviglia e sogno ha preso corpo nella sua
fantasia, prima di allora il poeta, confermato in questo dalla felice riuscita
delle sue precedenti composizioni poetiche, era dell’opinione (qui sta parlando
di George) dell’opinione che le cose poetiche meraviglia e sogni avessero già,
da e per sé, garanzia di esistenza (come ciascuno pensa) e che tutto
consistesse poi nel saper trovare per esse anche la parola atta ad esprimerle e
rappresentarle. (non è questo il pensiero comune?) Sulle prime e a lungo è
parso che le parole fossero come pigli che afferrano ciò che già esiste, ed è
per sé esistente considerato, e ad esso danno consistenza ed espressione
portandolo così a bellezza. (qui ripete ancora una parte della poesia): Qui
meraviglia e sogni, là nomi che afferrano gli uni e gli altri fusi in uno e la
poesia era nata, tutto fuso insieme, bastava essa a quello che è il compito del
poeta dar vita a ciò che permane, perché duri e sia? Ad un certo punto giunge
però Stefan, per Stefan George il momento nel quale il poetare che fino allora
gli era stato consueto, quel poetare sicuro di sé viene bruscamente meno
riportandogli alla mente la parola di Hölderlin, ma ciò che permane fondano i
poeti, infatti un giorno il poeta arriva il viaggio per di più è stato buono e
anche per questo egli è pieno di speranza, dalla dea del destino carica d’anni
e chiede il nome per il gioiello ricco e fine che porta sulla mano (questo
gioiello ricco e fine è la parola) solo che lei chiede il nome della parola (e
questo crea qualche problema) questo non è meraviglia di lontano e neppure
sogno, la dea cerca a lungo ma invano, alla fine gli annuncia “nulla d’eguale
dorme qui sul fondo” (non c’è la parola per dire la parola, “nulla d’eguale”
cioè nulla che sia come il gioiello ricco e fine che gli sta sulla mano) la
parola capace di far essere quel gioiello che sta semplicemente lì sulla mano
quello che esso è, una tale parola dovrebbe scaturire da quella sicura custodia
che riposa nella quiete di un sonno profondo, soltanto una parola veniente di
lì potrebbe portare e fermare il gioiello nella ricchezza e gentilezza del suo
semplice essere. (Ripete le parole del poeta) “Nulla di eguale dorme qui sul
fondo” a tal dire esso sfuggì alla mia mano (questo gioiello) e mai più la mia
terra ebbe il tesoro. Il fine ricco gioiello che era lì sulla mano non giunge
all’essere di una cosa, non diventa tesoro cioè ricchezza custodita nella
poesia di quella terra, il poeta non precisa la natura del gioiello che non
poté divenire tesoro della sua terra ma che gli donò tuttavia l’esperienza
del 9 linguaggio, l’occasione di apprendere quella rinuncia nella quale
l’abdicazione corrisponde, da parte del rapporto fra parola e cosa, l’assenso a
un disvelamento, l’oggetto ricco e fine è cosa diversa dalla meraviglia di
lontano oppure sogno, se poi la parola canta il cammino poetico proposto
proprio di Stefan George è lecito pensare che nel gioiello sia adombrata la
delicata ricchezza della semplicità che nell’ultimo periodo della sua attività
si presenta al poeta come ciò che deve essere detto “la parola della parola”.
Qui Heidegger affronta una questione, poi diremo mano a mano, e se la porta
appresso perché ovviamente non ha soluzione cioè quella parola che è
all’origine della parola, e la Norna, la dea del destino, del fato glielo dice
qui “sul fondo non giace nulla di simile”, non c’è, non c’è il fine, il limite
del linguaggio, il punto da cui comincia. Certo che non c’è, Heidegger poi lo
allude, lo allude nel dire autentico del poeta e il dire autentico del poeta è
quello che ovviamente nel pensiero di Heidegger è quello che lascia dire
l’Essere, lo lascia apparire, lo disvela, l’ἀλήθεια. Però ciò che qui il poeta
cerca di fatto è la parola della parola, cioè l’essenza propriamente della
parola, ma qui si scontra contro un qualche cosa che non c’è perché è la parola
che dà l’essenza alle cose, dà l’Essere alle cose, e quindi ci vorrebbe un
altro Essere che dia Essere all’Essere della parola, la cosa non avrebbe più
senso. Heidegger lo pone come una sorta di enigma, però di fatto non possiamo
parlare di enigma quanto piuttosto del tentativo di dare anche alla parola o
meglio di trasformare la parola in ente, lui dirà tra un po’ che la parola non
è un ente al pari di qualunque altro, è un'altra cosa, è ciò che da l’accesso
all’ente, infatti lo dice utilizzando la poesia “nulla è là dove la parola
manca”, se nulla è là dove la parola manca è ovvio che anche la parola potrebbe
essere intesa come ente, ma a questo punto la cosa non funziona più. L’apparire
di qualche cosa che è il λόγος, lo vedremo più avanti, λόγος non inteso come il
discorso, il racconto, la ragione, nulla di tutto ciò, il λόγος è una delle
forme dell’Essere per Heidegger, è questo logos che consente l’apertura cioè il
linguaggio consente l’aprirsi della parola che nomina qualche cosa, nel momento
in cui nomina qualche cosa questa cosa è. C’è. Intervento: la parola è ciò che
differenzia l’istinto dalla pulsione. Intervento: l’uomo, diciamo, arrivando a
possedere la parola nominando gli oggetti, qualificandosi come possessore della
parola, identificandosi come ciò che padroneggia la realtà, come il bambino che
si distacca dall’uniforme primordiale sia come essere sociale, essere sociale
organizza la società che si differenzia dal gruppo indistinto dall’orda
primitiva, o comunque dai gruppi degli animali. Intervento: dal branco degli
animali, esattamente grazie, ecco possedendo la parola ecco io la intenderei
così. Heidegger ha un’opinione differente, perché dice: “quando poniamo una
domanda al linguaggio, una domanda sulla sua essenza, già del linguaggio deve
esserci stato fatto dono, non possiamo chiederci qualcosa sul linguaggio se già
non possediamo il linguaggio, se vogliamo porre una domanda sull’essenza,
sull’essenza cioè del linguaggio allora anche del significato di “essenza” ci
deve essere già stato fatto dono, domanda “a” e domanda “su” presuppongono qui,
come sempre, che ciò cui e su cui va la domanda abbia già fatto giungere la
parola sollecitatrice, ogni posizione di domanda è possibile solo in quanto ciò
che si fa problema ha già iniziato a parlare e a dire di se stesso. // (cita
ancora la frase: nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca) Accenna al rapporto tra
parola e cosa prospettando il modo che la parola stessa risulti il rapporto, in
quanto essa trae all’essere (la parola) e mantiene nell’essere ogni cosa
(qualunque essa sia), senza la parola che si identifica con la forza del
rapporto, il complesso delle cose, il mondo, sprofonda nel buio insieme all’io
che porta all’estremo lembo della propria terra, alla fonte dei nomi ciò che ha
incontrato di meraviglia e di sogno. Perché quel che ci interessa è
un’esperienza, un essere in cammino, noi oggi in questa lezione che segna il
passaggio tra la prima e la terza conferenza (in genere la seconda fa questo,
il passaggio fra la prima e la terza) rifletteremo sul cammino, è necessaria al
riguardo un’osservazione preliminare dato che la maggior parte di loro si
occupa in prevalenza di ricerca scientifica, (il pubblico che aveva)nelle
scienze la via al sapere va sotto il nome di metodo, “metodo” “μετα ὁδός”
“attraverso il cammino” “lungo il cammino”, il metodo non è specie nella
scienza moderna un puro strumento al servizio della scienza 10 anzi al
contrario è il metodo che ha assunto a proprio servizio la scienza. Questo
fatto è stato visto in tutta la sua portata per la prima volta da Nietzsche,
che così ne parla nelle annotazioni che seguono, queste fanno parte del corpus
degli inediti pubblicato postumo dal titolo “Der Wille zur Macht” “La volontà
di potenza”. La prima dice “ciò che caratterizza il nostro XIX secolo non è la
vittoria della scienza ma la vittoria del metodo scientifico sulla scienza”.
L’altra notazione incomincia con la proposizione “Le idee più importanti furono
trovate per ultime, ma le idee più importanti sono i metodi” in realtà anche
Nietzsche è giunto assai tardi a scoprire questo rapporto tra metodo e scienza
e precisamente l’ultimo anno della sua lucidità mentale nel 1888 a Torino.
Nelle scienze non solo il tema viene posto dal metodo ma viene immesso nel
metodo e vi resta sottoposto, la corsa folle, che oggi trascina le scienze
verso mete che esse stesse ignorano, ha la sua forza propulsiva nel
potenziamento e nel progressivo assoggettamento alla tecnica del metodo e delle
possibilità a questo intrinseche, nel metodo è tutta la potenza del sapere, il
tema rientra nel metodo. Bene vi lascio riflettere su queste questioni,
mercoledì prossimo riprendiamo questo testo. Vi rileggo la poesia di Stefan
George perché la riprende si chiama “La parola”, Das Wort: Meraviglia di
lontano o sogno io portai al lembo estremo della mia terra e attesi fino a che
la grigia Norna il nome trovò nella sua fonte, meraviglia o sogno potei allora
afferrare consistente e forte ed ora fiorisce e splende per tutta la marca. Un
giorno giunsi colà dopo viaggio felice con un gioiello ricco e fine, ella cercò
a lungo e alfine mi annunciò “qui nulla d’eguale dorme sul fondo”. Al che esso
sfuggì alla mia mano e mai più la mia terra ebbe il tesoro, così io appresi
triste la rinuncia “nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca”. C’è da dire qui che
la questione che sta ponendo questa poesia è interessante perché di fatto sta
chiedendo alla Norna di fornirgli, dicevamo l’altra volta, la parola della
parola, e cioè un qualche cosa che è fuori della parola e che dovrebbe
garantire l’essere della parola. Ovviamente cercare la parola fuori dalla
parola è un problema, tant’è che la Norna, saggia, dice “qui nulla d’eguale
dorme sul fondo” e allora lui ha appreso la rinuncia: non troverà mai qualche
cosa che da fuori della parola possa garantire la parola. Intervento: sarebbe
il significato del significato? Non esattamente, perché il significato del
significato è ancora un altro significato, quindi un altro termine, un altro
elemento linguistico, qui cerca invece proprio la garanzia, cioè il qualche
cosa che è fuori dal linguaggio e che dia alla parola la sua consistenza.
“Nessuna cosa è dove la parola manca” accenna al rapporto tra parola e cosa,
prospettandolo in modo che la parola stessa risulti il rapporto, in quanto essa
trae all’essere e mantiene nell’essere ogni cosa, qualunque essa sia. //
Infatti fra le primissime cose cui diede voce il pensiero occidentale rientra
il rapporto tra cosa e parola e precisamente nella figura del rapporto tra
essere e dire, questo rapporto sorprende il pensiero in modo così subitaneo e
sconvolgente da dirsi in una sola parola, esso suona “λόγος”, ma ancora più
sconcertante è per noi il fatto che in tutto questo non si fa un’esperienza pensante
del linguaggio, nel senso cioè che il linguaggio stesso in base a quel rapporto
giunga propriamente a dirsi. Cioè sta dicendo che il linguaggio non “si dice”
nel senso che non c’è modo di aggirare il linguaggio, di uscire dal linguaggio
e poi di lì parlare del linguaggio sapendo di che cosa si sta parlando, non c’è
uscita dal linguaggio Se sempre il linguaggio ricusa, in questo senso, la sua
essenza (cioè non dice mai che cosa realmente è, perché appunto dovrebbe uscire
fuori dalla parola) allora questo rifiuto fa parte dell’essenza del linguaggio
(il rifiuto della Norna). Il linguaggio non solo si trattiene così in se stesso
nel nostro corrente parlarlo, ma trattenendosi esso in sé, con la sua origine
nega la sua essenza a quel pensiero presentativo nel quale comunemente ci
muoviamo, per questo non possiamo nemmeno più dire che l’essenza del linguaggio
sia il linguaggio dell’essenza (come diceva prima) a meno che la parola
“linguaggio” non indichi nel secondo caso qualcosa d’altro che cioè quel
rifiuto dell’essenza del linguaggio a dirsi, proprio esso, parla. (In altri
termini sta dicendo che il linguaggio non dice se 11 stesso, si trattiene
dal dire di se stesso nell’accezione che indicavo prima, e cioè come se volesse
parlare da fuori il linguaggio per dire che cos’è esattamente il linguaggio, si
trattiene dal fare questo. Heidegger dice che non possiamo nemmeno più dire che
l’“essenza del linguaggio sia il linguaggio dell’essenza” come diceva prima e
cioè che l’essenza del linguaggio, ciò che è più proprio al linguaggio è il
linguaggio dell’essenza, il linguaggio dell’essenza è quel linguaggio che parla
di ciò che è proprio, a meno che, dice, questo linguaggio non lo si intenda
nelle due cose in modo differente e cioè nel secondo caso intendendo che è proprio
lui che parla e cioè il linguaggio dell’essenza è ciò che parla continuamente,
il linguaggio dell’essenza vale a dire sarebbe, per dirla con Heidegger, il
“dire originario”, quel dire cioè che muove nel momento in cui è qualcosa,
qualcosa appare e questo dire lascia che ciò che appare interroghi, ciò che si
dice, a questo punto, il “λόγος” ciò che fa esistere le cose, a questo punto è
lui, è soltanto lui che parla. Qui c’è adesso forse qualcosa che è ancora più
chiaro, dice:) “Nessuna cosa è (sia) dove la parola manca”. Così suona la
rinuncia del poeta e noi abbiamo aggiunto che qui viene in evidenza il rapporto
fra cosa e parola. (Il rapporto tra cosa e parola è importante perché è ciò che
la metafisica ha sempre cercato di stabilire con certezza, lì c’è la parola e
lì c’è la cosa, però è un problema come dicevamo la volta scorsa, è la
questione tipica della metafisica e cioè il problema del “terzo uomo” come
diceva già Aristotele, cioè c’è un terzo elemento che deve fare da tramite tra
i due, il problema è che questo terzo elemento che deve consentire il bloccarsi
di questa relazione tra cosa e parola, anziché compiere questo rinvia la cosa
all’infinito, perché poi dopo il “terzo uomo” c’è il quarto, c’è il quinto c’è
il sesto e così via all’infinito e quindi non raggiungerà mai la cosa): Abbiamo
anche detto che “cosa” (lui lo mette tra virgolette) indica qui ogni possibile
essente quale ne sia il modo d’essere. (cioè qualunque cosa) Abbiamo detto
ancora riguardo alla parola, che questa non solo sta in rapporto con la cosa ma
porta la cosa che di volta in volta nomina, la cosa in quanto essente che è e
tale, “è”(tra virgolette) in questo reggendola, trattenendola, dandole per così
dire il sostentamento a essere cosa, questo sarebbe il parlare autentico (la
parola che fa essere ciò che dice, nel momento in cui dice le cose è in quel
momento che esistono, che sono quello che sono. È questo che sta dicendo.
Conseguentemente abbiamo detto che la parola non si limita ad essere in
rapporto con la cosa ma che la parola stessa è ciò che porta e serba la cosa
come cosa. (che è ancora di più che “la parola stessa è la cosa”, perché la
parola è ciò che porta e “mantiene” e fa perdurare la cosa in quanto cosa, dice
che la “parola in quanto ciò che porta e serba è il rapporto stesso”. Qui
badate bene che dice “è il rapporto stesso” anzi l’ha già detto varie volte,
come dire che questo rapporto tra parola e cosa è la parola stessa, quindi non
c’è più la parola e la cosa ma c’è una relazione tra parola e cosa, nel senso che
la parola rende la cosa quella che è, e solo la parola può farlo, cioè il
λόγος, e questo è la parola. Qui si potrebbe anche fare un accenno alla
questione della metafisica, così come trascorre da Platone fino a Heidegger,
non è altro che lo spostare una cosa presente a una cosa che presente non è, e
che deve dare il senso, il significato a ciò che è presente, da qui tutte le
distinzioni dalle più antiche alle più recenti: “sensibile – ultrasensibile”,
“immanente – trascendente”, “significante – significato”, “enunciazione –
enunciato”, l’ultimo in ordine di tempo: “conscio – inconscio”. Per questo dico
che tutta questa struttura è metafisica, è metafisica sempre in questa
accezione ovviamente, cioè ciò che questo significato di “metafisica” che, come
dicevo, trascorre da Platone fino ad Heidegger, indica che ciascuna volta in
cui qualche cosa deve la sua esistenza, la sua essenza, il suo significato, a
qualche cos’altro, questa è una struttura metafisica. Che ha degli effetti
ovviamente, perché comporta la supposizione che una certa cosa sia quello che è
in base a quell’altra, quindi quell’altra dà alla prima il suo significato, lo
ferma, lo blocca e che quindi questo secondo elemento costituisca l’essenza,
potremmo quasi dire, del primo, bloccandolo nel significato, ciò che potrebbe,
dico “potrebbe”, consentire un passo fuori, ammesso che sia possibile, dalla
metafisica. È da considerare che invece ciò che dà il significato al primo
elemento costituisca anche questo un elemento che trae il proprio significato
da altro, poi da altro, poi da altro ancora e così via all’infinito, a questo
punto non c’è la possibilità di bloccare un significato 12 ovviamente, ma
questo significato, come ci dice la semiotica, non è altro che un rinvio
continuo, infatti, a quella serie di contrapposizioni potremmo anche aggiungere
quella di Greimas, cioè i sememi danno un senso ai semi nucleari ché da solo,
di per sé, il sema nucleare non significa niente. Ora è chiaro che è il
linguaggio che è strutturato così, per questo da tempo sto dicendo che la
metafisica illustra il modo in cui il linguaggio funziona, né più né meno, per
cui non hanno neanche tutti i torti i metafisici a dire che non c’è uscita
dalla metafisica. Posta in questi termini in effetti non c’è uscita dalla metafisica,
e neanche attraverso la via immaginata da Heidegger ovviamente): La “parola per
la parola” non è dato trovarla là dove il destino dona il linguaggio (cioè se
c’è il linguaggio allora la parola per la parola non c’è, una parola che dica
la parola in modo definitivo, l’ultima parola sulla parola, non c’è, non si
trova perché c’è il linguaggio, il linguaggio che nomina e fa essere, quindi
non c’è), linguaggio che nomina e fa essere per l’essente, non c’è la parola
che dica l’essenza del linguaggio, perché questa sia e come essente splenda e
fiorisca la parola per la parola un tesoro certamente ma un tesoro non
conquistabile per la terra del poeta, e per il pensiero? Può il pensiero?
Quando il pensiero cerca di meditare la parola poetica (cioè la parola autentica
per Heidegger) questo si rivela: la parola, il dire non ha essere. Il nostro
modo corrente di concepire si ribella quando gli si propone un pensiero così
audace. Scritte o parlate ognuno pur vede e sente delle parole, esse sono.
Possono essere come cose, realtà afferrabili dai nostri sensi, basta solo per
far l’esempio più banale aprire un dizionario è pieno di “cose” stampate,
certamente puri vocaboli, non una sola parola, poiché la parola grazie alla
quale i vocaboli si fanno parola, un dizionario non è in grado né di captarla
né di custodirla, dove dobbiamo andare a cercare la parola? dove il dire?
Dall’esperienza poetica della parola ci viene un cenno che può essere di grande
aiuto: la parola non è cosa, nulla di essente, invece noi abbiamo cognizione
delle cose quando per esse c’è a disposizione la parola allora la cosa è. Ma
qual è la natura di questo “è”, “la cosa è”? e questo “è” è anch’esso una cosa
sovrapposta a un’altra, messale su come un cappuccio, noi non troviamo mai
questo “è” come cosa sopra altra cosa, per questo “è” la situazione è la stessa
che per la parola, questo “è” non fa parte delle cose che sono più di quanto
non lo faccia la parola. (sta dicendo che la parola non è, nel senso
dell’Essere, cioè come lo intende la filosofia comunemente, e cioè come ente,
qui allude al fatto che la parola non sia determinabile, così come lo è per
esempio un vocabolo, un lessema, quindi intende con parola ovviamente un’altra
cosa.) Improvvisamente ci risvegliamo dalla sonnolenza di un pensare frettoloso,
e scorgiamo qualcosa di diverso in ciò che l’esperienza del linguaggio dice,
riguardo alla parola gioca il rapporto fra questo “è” che per sé non è, e la
parola che si trova nella stessa situazione che cioè non è nulla che sia, (qui
sta cercando di complicare le cose, adesso vediamo se) né l’“è” nella parola
hanno l’essenza della cosa, (l’abbiamo detto prima: non sono enti) l’Essere né
ha il rapporto con l’“è” la parola al quale è affidato il compito di concedere
via, via un “è”, (sta dicendo che né questo è, quando diciamo che “la parola è
qualcosa”, questo “è” per lui costituisce un problema, diciamo “la parola è”,
“è” cosa? infatti né l’“è” né la parola in questa frase hanno l’essenza della
cosa, cioè non hanno l’Essere) né ha (soggetto l’Essere) il rapporto fra l’“è”
e la parola, ciò non di meno, né l’“è”, né la parola e il dire di questa,
possono venire cacciati nel vuoto del niente (non sono niente, qualcosa pur
sono) Che indica l’esperienza poetica della parola quando il pensiero riflette
su di essa? Essa rimanda a quel degno d’essere pensato, pensare il quale si
pone al pensiero fino dai tempi più antichi e anche se in modo velato come suo
proprio compito, esso rimanda a quello di cui in tedesco può dirsi “es gibt
senza che possa dirsi “ist” cioè è, “gibt” “esso dà” “si offre”, di ciò di cui
può dirsi “est gibt” fa parte anche la parola (adesso incomincia a intravedersi
che cosa intende con quello che sta dicendo “la parola non è, propriamente, ma
è ciò che si dà, ciò che si offre”.)forse non solo anche, ma prima di ogni
altra cosa, in modo tale che nella parola e nella sua essenza si cela quello
che “gibt” appunto “dà”, nella parola si cela quello che essa stessa da. Della
parola pensando con rigore non dovremmo mai dire “es ist” cioè “essa è” ma “es
gibt”, ciò non nel senso di quando si dice “es gibt Worte” “qualcosa dà la
parola” ma nel senso che la parola stessa dà, non è qualcosa che dà la parola
ma è la parola che dà, la parola: la datrice. Ma che dà la parola? 13
secondo l’esperienza poetica e la tradizione più antica del pensiero la parola
dà: l’Essere (ecco perché prima diceva che la parola non è l’Essere, la parola
dà l’Essere) Ma se così stanno le cose allora in quel “es, das gibt” “esso, il
dare” noi dovremmo pensando cercare la parola come ciò stesso che dà e mai è
dato. La parola “es gibt” si trova in tedesco usata in molteplici modi, si dice
per esempio “es gibt an der sonningen Halde Erdbeeren” “ci sono fragole sul
pendio soleggiato”, “là ci sono le fragole”, nella nostra riflessione “es gibt”
è usato diversamente non “des gibt …” “si dà la parola” ma “es das Word gibt…”
cioè “essa la parola dà”. Quando Freud dice “Wo es war, soll Ich werden” questo
“es” può essere inteso benissimo come “qualcosa” “là dove qualcosa era occorre
che io avvenga” è una delle traduzioni che sono state fatte di questa frase.
Così dilegua completamente lo spettro dell’“es” davanti al quale molti e a
ragione trovano sconcerto, ma ciò che è degno di essere pensato resta, si fa
anzi evidente, questa realtà semplice e inafferrabile che noi indichiamo con
l’espressione “es, das word, gibt” si rivela come ciò che propriamente è degno
di essere pensato e cioè che “essa” la parola da, per la determinazione di
questo mancano ancora da per tutto i termini di misura forse il poeta li
conosce ma il suo poetare ha appreso la rinuncia e tuttavia con la rinuncia
nulla ha perduto (la rinuncia era quella del poeta di avere quella parola che
dice la parola stessa, a questo rinuncia perché la Norna dice che non ce l’ha)
il gioiello però gli sfugge certamente ma sfugge nella forma comportata
dall’esser per esso negata la parola (questo gioiello sfugge, ma sfugge in che
senso? Sfugge perché gli sfugge la parola per dirlo) Negare è trattenere ma qui
appunto si rivela l’aspetto sorprendente del potere proprio della parola, il
gioiello (che è la parola) non si dissolve affatto nell’inerte insignificanza
del niente, (qui si riferisce a quando prima diceva, che la parola non è
Essere, non ha l’Essere) la parola non sprofonda nella banale incapacità di
dire (non è che la parola non può dirsi perché non siamo capaci a dirla, dice:)
no, il poeta non abdica alla parola tuttavia il gioiello si sottrae nel mistero
che riempie di stupore … per questo il poeta come dicono i versi introduttivi
al canto medita anche più di prima, compone ancora, compone cioè un dire e in
forma anche diversa da quella di prima. (ecco qui dicendo che non è la parola
che si dà, ma è la parola che dà, ovviamente pone la parola come già aveva
fatto in precedenza come λόγος in quanto Essere, nell’accezione che indica
Heidegger ovviamente, cioè di “Dasein” “esserci”) Se però l’affinità tra
poetare e pensare è quella del dire, allora siamo portati a supporre che
l’evento domini come quel dire originario con il quale il linguaggio ci dice
della sua essenza, il suo dire non si perde nel vuoto esso ha già sempre
raggiunto il segno, che altro è questo segno se non l’uomo? Che l’uomo è uomo
solo se ha risposto affermativamente alla parola del linguaggio, se è assunto
nel linguaggio perché lo parli (ovviamente, questo dicevo è importante perché
la presenza dell’uomo è ciò che fa, per Heidegger, la possibilità stessa
dell’esserci, “esserci” riguarda l’esistente, l’esistente è l’uomo. Per questo
si trova a dire molto spesso che l’Essere è il dialogo da uomo a uomo, perché
la parola abita l’uomo. Anche le nuove teorie cioè i metodi della misurazione
dello spazio e del tempo, la teoria della relatività e dei quanti e la fisica
nucleare, non hanno cambiato in nulla il carattere parametrico di spazio e
tempo (in tutte queste discipline i concetti di spazio e tempo sono sempre
esattamente gli stessi, quelli per esempio di Anassagora) e nemmeno sono in
grado di produrre un simile cambiamento, se ne fossero capaci ne verrebbe a
crollare l’intero apparato della moderna scienza tecnica della natura. (perché
non avrebbe più questi parametri sui quali è stata costruita ogni cosa) Tutto
parla contro, in primo luogo la caccia alla formula fisica capace di
interpretare il cosmo in termini matematici, la famosa teoria del “Tutto”,
sennonché ciò che spinge al perseguimento affannoso di tale formula non è
primariamente la passione personale dei ricercatori, ché questi si trovano ad
essere quel che sono in forza di un esigenza prepotente che coinvolge e domina
il pensiero moderno nella sua globalità, fisica e responsabilità, “bello!” e
nella difficile situazione di oggi importante, ma resta una partita doppia
dietro la quale si cela un passivo che non può essere sanato né da parte della
scienza, né da parte della morale, sempre poi che sanabile sia. (Naturalmente
poi qual è questo passivo che rimane? La dico così brutalmente “è il non sapere
ciò che stanno facendo”, con tutto ciò che questo comporta ovviamente, poi ecco
l’ultimo capitoletto si chiama “la parola”. Qui fa delle domande, tre domande):
(Ripete di nuovo il verso 14 finale “Nessuna cosa è (sia) dove la parola
manca) Si è tentati di trasformare il verso finale in un’asserzione “Nessuna
cosa è dove la parola manca” dove qualcosa “es gebrit” “manca” cioè c’è una
frattura, un danno, “recar danno a una cosa” vuol dire sottrarle qualcosa,
farle mancare qualcosa, non c’è cosa dove la parola manca, solo quando c’è la
parola per dirla la cosa è, (allora ecco le tre domande): 1) Che è la parola
per avere tale potere? 2) Che è la cosa per avere bisogno della parola per
essere? 3) Che significa qui “essere”, dal momento che appare come un dono
conferito alla cosa dalla parola? (qui riassume in una parola tutto ciò che ha
detto nel libro praticamente. Cioè l’Essere stesso appare come “un dono
conferito alla cosa dalla parola”, qui è chiarissimo … Intervento: risponde
alle domande poi, perché qui è un po’ antropocentrico? Si può dire anche di
Heidegger che sia antropocentrico, anche se a lui non sarebbe piaciuto, infatti
per lui l’uomo è oggetto di interesse, cioè l’esistenzialismo, solo perché si
accorge che l’esistenza dell’uomo è la condizione per potere fare un discorso
sull’Essere, cioè dice che non c’è l’Essere senza l’uomo, cioè senza colui che
parla, senza colui che fa essere le cose.) Il primo verso della poesia dà la
risposta “meraviglia di lontano o sogno” “nomi” per quello di cui al poeta
giunge notizia di lontano come di cosa meravigliosa o per quello che lo visita
nel sogno, l’uno e l’altro sono considerati dal poeta senza ombra di dubbio
come realtà reali, come qualcosa che è, realtà che egli tuttavia non vuole
tenere per sé ma vuole rappresentare, per questo occorrono i nomi. Tali nomi
sono parole per mezzo delle quali ciò che già è e per tale è tenuto, assume
così consistente concretezza che da quel momento splende e fiorisce e così
facendo esercita tutta la regione e il dominio che è proprio della bellezza … i
“nomi” sono le parole che rappresentano (Qui si può intendere in due modi,
perché “i nomi sono le parole che rappresentano” può intendersi sia in questo
modo e cioè che i nomi sono parole che rappresentano qualche cos’altro, ma
anche che “i nomi rappresentano altre parole”. I nomi sono le parole che
rappresentano parole rappresentanti altre cose, oppure i nomi sono le parole
che rappresentano, sono le parole stesse che rappresentano i nomi,) Essi (i
nomi) propongono all’immaginazione ciò che già è, grazie alla loro virtù
rappresentativa i nomi testimoniano il loro decisivo dominio sulle cose, è l’esigenza
stessa dei nomi che porta il poeta a poetare, per raggiungerli egli deve prima
giungere con i viaggi là dove … Sono due casi, nel primo caso potremmo dire che
“nomina sunt consequentia rerum” nel secondo “nomina non sunt consequentia
rerum” “i nomi sono la conseguenza delle cose” nel secondo “i nomi non sono la
conseguenza delle cose”. I nomi che la fonte custodisce (qui si riferisce
sempre alla poesia di George) sono come qualcosa che dorme, che ha bisogno solo
di essere destato per servire come rappresentazione delle cose, nomi e parole
sono come un solido patrimonio finalizzato alle cose, che poi viene utilizzato
per rappresentarle, sennonché la fonte, alla quale fino a quel momento il dire
poetico ha attinto le parole cioè i nomi che rappresentano la realtà, non dona
più nulla. Quale esperienza fa qui il poeta? Soltanto quella che quando si
tratta del gioiello portato sulla mano il nome non si trova? (il gioiello è
sempre la parola) soltanto quella che ora il gioiello deve sì restare senza nome,
ma può tuttavia restare sulla mano del poeta? No, altro accade e ha dello
sconcertante, ma sconcertante non è né il fatto che manca il nome, né il fatto
che il gioiello scompare con il mancare della parola, è quindi la parola che
trattiene il gioiello nel suo essere presente: (cioè la parola trattiene se
stessa) la parola, nient’altro che la parola lo prende e lo porta a tale esser
presente e in questo lo serba, la parola presenta improvvisamente un altro più
alto potere, non è più solo la presa sulla realtà, come presenza già colta
dall’immaginazione, quella presa che consiste nel dare un nome, non è soltanto
mezzo per rappresentare ciò che sta dinnanzi, al contrario (qui veniamo alla
questione) è la parola che conferisce la presenza cioè l’Essere, nel quale
qualcosa si manifesta come essente, quest’altro potere della parola trae su di
sé l’attenzione del poeta in modo brusco e improvviso, al tempo stesso però la
parola che ha quel potere manca, perciò il gioiello dilegua, non per questo si
dissolve nel nulla, resta un tesoro che poi il poeta non potrà mai custodire
nella sua terra, (che cosa si dilegua, che cosa manca? Qui non siamo nella
questione della “mancanza a essere”, siamo al fatto che ciò che manca è quella
parola che da fuori del linguaggio finalmente dica che cos’è veramente la
parola. Il nome che si dà alla parola è un’altra parola, non è qualcosa che da
fuori 15 dovrebbe garantire che sia esattamente quella cosa. E qui
insiste sul fatto che la parola fa sì che la cosa sia, cosa tutt’altro che irrilevante)
Il tesoro e la terra del poeta mai giunge a possedere, è la parola per
l’essenza del linguaggio, la potenza e la vita della parola scorta d’improvviso
(qual è la potenza della parola? il fatto di fare essere le cose) il suo essere
e operare vorrebbe pervenire alla parola, alla sua propria parola ma la parola,
per l’essenza della parola, non viene concessa. La parola che dica che cosa
veramente è, è questo che non viene concesso, è questo che manca, in questo
senso diceva. L’ultimo capitoletto “In cammino verso il linguaggio” che poi dà
il nome al testo. Ecco qui parla dell’¡λήθεια: il testo di Aristotele evidenzia
con un dire chiaro e sobrio quella classica struttura in cui si cela l’essenza
del linguaggio inteso come parlare, le lettere indicano i suoni, i suoni
indicano le affezioni dell’anima, le affezioni indicano le cose che colpiscono
l’anima, il “mostrare” “das Zeigen” è quello che costituisce e regge l’intera
impalcatura, in modo vario, velando e disvelando, esso il mostrare, porta qualcosa
ad apparire, fa che ciò che appare sia avvertito e ciò che viene avvertito sia
considerato (cioè esista) quando riflettiamo sul linguaggio in quanto
linguaggio già abbiamo abbandonato il modo di procedere rimasto finora consueto
nella riflessione sul linguaggio. Non possiamo più andare alla ricerca di
concetti generali come “energia” “attività” “lavoro” “forza spirituale”
“visione del mondo”, espressione sotto i quali condurre il linguaggio come un
caso particolare di tale generalità. Anziché spiegare il linguaggio come questa
o quest’altra cosa fuggendone in tal modo lontano, il cammino verso il
linguaggio vorrebbe fare esperire il linguaggio come linguaggio, nell’essenza
del linguaggio, il linguaggio è sì compreso, ma afferrato per mezzo di altro da
esso è il famoso metalinguaggio (di cui diceva prima il metalinguaggio come
metafisica) se volgiamo invece l’attenzione unicamente al linguaggio come
linguaggio, questo pretende allora da noi che mettiamo finalmente in evidenza
tutto quello che fa parte del linguaggio in quanto linguaggio (è quello che ho
cercato di fare in questi anni intendendo che cosa fa funzionare il linguaggio)
Nel parlare rientrano i parlanti, ma il rapporto tra parlanti e parlare non è
riducibile a quello tra causa ed effetto (se no sarebbe come dire che qualcosa
dà la parola, mentre lui è stato preciso, “è la parola che dà”, ma cosa dà? Le
cose, l’Essere.) I parlanti trovano piuttosto nel parlare il loro essere
presenti, presenti a che? A ciò con cui parlano, presso cui dimorano in quanto
realtà che sempre già li riguarda, è quanto dire “gli altri, le cose, tutto ciò
che fa che queste siano cose, queste precise cose e quelli gli altri quei
concreti altri” (questo fa la parola, fa esistere tutte queste cose qui) A
tutto questo ora in un modo, ora in un altro già sempre è andato l’appello del
parlare. // Ma come sono pensati il parlare e il “parlato”, nel breve racconto
che si è precedentemente fatto del linguaggio? Essi si rivelano già come ciò
per cui e in cui qualcosa si fa parola, giunge a farsi evidente in quanto
qualcosa è detto. Dire e parlare non sono la stessa cosa, uno può parlare,
parla senza fine, e tutto quel parlare non dice nulla, un altro invece tace,
non parla e può col suo non parlare dire molto, ma che significa dire, “sagen”
in tedesco? Per esperire questo è necessario attenersi a ciò che la lingua
tedesca già costringe a pensare con la parola “sagen”. “Sagan” significa
“mostrare” “far che qualcosa appaia” “si veda” “si senta” // Ciò che fa essere
il linguaggio come linguaggio è il dire originario “die saghe” in quanto
“mostrare” “die Zeige”, il mostrare proprio di questo non si basa su un qualche
segno ma tutti i segni traggono origine da un mostrare nel cui ambito e per i
cui fini soltanto acquistano la possibilità di essere segni. (Ma non sta
proprio in questo mostrare, nel fatto che tutti i segni traggono origine da un
mostrare che si impianta la metafisica stessa, la sua stessa possibilità? Ma ne
riparleremo perché è una questione tutt’altro che semplice) // (siamo alla fine
volevo riprendere le tre domande che faceva prima, adesso possiamo rispondere a
ciò che si è domandato): Il dire originario è mostrare, in tutto ciò
(ricordate: il dire originario è mostrare. Questo è il dire originario per
Heidegger) in tutto ciò che ci volge la parola, che ci tocca come oggetto di
parola o parola, che ci si partecipa, che in quanto non detto è in attesa di
noi, non solo ma in quello stesso parlare, che noi veniamo mettendo in atto,
che è operante il mostrare sempre e comunque, in virtù di questo che ciò che è
presente appare, ciò che è assente dispare. Questo (è sempre il dire originario
il soggetto) dischiude ciò che è presente nel suo esser presente (che sembra
una ripetizione inutile “dischiude il suo essere presente nel suo essere presente”
ma il fatto che qualcosa sia presente per Heidegger non è così automatico,
occorre qualcosa che dischiuda, apra l’orizzonte entro il quale qualche cosa
può essere presente, non basta che sia presente perché che sia presente da sé
non significa niente se non c’è il linguaggio che fa essere presente.) il dire
originario domina compone in unità la libera distesa di quella radura … da dove
viene il mostrare? La domanda vuol sapere troppo e troppo in fretta (non è che
possiamo sapere tutto subito) gioverà accontentarsi di osservare la natura e
l’origine del moto presente nel mostrare, non è necessaria qui una lunga
ricerca è sufficiente l’intuizione repentina, non obliabile e perciò sempre
nuova, di ciò che, sì, è a noi familiare, ma che noi tuttavia lungi dal
riconoscere nel modo che ci conviene neppure cerchiamo di conoscere, questa
realtà sconosciuta e non di meno familiare da cui ogni mostrare del dire
originario trae il proprio moto, è per ogni essere presente ed essere assente
l’alba di quel mattino nel quale soltanto può trovare inizio la vicenda del
giorno e della notte. Alba che insieme l’ora prima e l’ora più remota tale
realtà appena ci è dato nominarla, essa è l’“ort” che non tollera
“Er-örterung”. Il tempo che non concede di essere raggiunto perché è luogo di
tutti i luoghi e di tutti gli spazi del gioco del tempo, noi la chiameremo con
una parola antica e diremo: ciò che muove nel mostrare del dire originario è lo
“Eignen”. Lo Eignen adduce ciò che è presente e assente in quello che gli è
proprio, cosicché emergendone la cosa presente e assente, si rivela nella sua
vera identità e resta se stessa. // Il linguaggio non si irrigidisce in se
stesso nel senso di un narcisismo di tutto dimentico tranne che di sé, come
sarebbe potuto apparire, (eventualmente) come dire originario il linguaggio è
il mostrare appropriante, che appunto prescinde da sé per dischiudere così per
mostrare la possibilità di rilevarsi nella figura che gli è propria, (cioè il
linguaggio consente alla cosa di mostrarsi e permette anche alla cosa di
mostrarsi per quello che è. Il linguaggio è questa possibilità delle cose di
essere quelle che sono. Ma non toglie alle cose il fatto che sono quelle che
sono.) Il linguaggio che parla dicendosi cura che il nostro parlare, ascoltare
il dire che non ha suono, corrisponda a quel che esso (linguaggio) viene
dicendo, in tal modo anche il silenzio che non di rado si pone a fondamento del
linguaggio, come sua scaturigine, è già un corrispondere (corrispondere alla
chiamata del dire, ovviamente, cioè del λόγος. La conclusione sarà a questo
punto la risposta a quelle tre domande.) Poiché noi uomini, per essere quelli
che siamo, restiamo immessi nel linguaggio, né mai possiamo uscirne e posarci a
un punto da cui ci sia dato circoscriverlo con lo sguardo, noi vediamo il
linguaggio sempre solo in quanto il linguaggio stesso già si è affissato su di
noi (appoggiato su di noi, fissato su di noi) ci ha appropriato a sé, il fatto
che del linguaggio ci è precluso il sapere, (perché per sapere sul linguaggio
bisognerebbe uscire dal linguaggio e tutte queste storie) il sapere inteso
secondo la concezione tradizionale fondata sull’idea che conoscere sia
rappresentare, non è certamente un difetto bensì il privilegio grazie al quale
siamo eletti e attratti in una sfera superiore, in quella in cui noi assunti a
portare a parole il linguaggio dimoriamo come immortali insomma siamo fortunati
ad essere parlanti. Allora le tre domande alle quali potete, a questo punto,
rispondere voi stessi: Che è la parola per avere tanto potere? È l’Essere è il
logos. Perché la parola ha tanto potere? Perché è ciò che in quanto Essere è
ciò che consente alle cose di apparire, ma che è la cosa per avere bisogno
della parola per essere? La parola ha bisogno della parola per essere la cosa,
e quindi è quella cosa che diventa cosa soltanto se la parola la fa essere
cosa. Terza domanda: che significa qui Essere dal momento che appare come un
dono conferito alla cosa dalla parola? che significa qui Essere? Λόγος,
nient’altro che λόγος e bell’è fatto. Ecco, io vi ho fatto considerare queste
cose perché non è tanto il fatto del contenuto delle affermazioni di Heidegger
quanto il modo in cui approccia la questione del linguaggio, in un modo che lui
direbbe “non presentativo” cioè non mostra, non dice che cos’è il linguaggio
come fa la linguistica, come fa la filosofia del linguaggio, come fa la
filosofia in generale approcciando il linguaggio come ente, perché sta qui la
differenza ontologica: ente/Essere. Il linguaggio è Essere non è ente. Sono
considerazioni interessanti che possono portare ad altre considerazioni,
possono aprire altre vie, per questo motivo vi ho letto alcune cose di questo
testo di Martin Heidegger. The uttered speech of private
life is fluctuating and variable. In every period it varies according to
the age, class, education, and habits of the speaker. His social
experience, traditions and general background, his ordinary tastes and
pursuits, his intellectual and moral cultivation are all reflected in
each man’s conversation. These factors determine and modify a man’s mode
of speech in innumerable ways. They may affect his pronunciation, the
speed of his utterance, his choice of vocabulary, the shade of meaning he
attaches to particular words, or turns of phrase, the character of such
similes and metaphors as occur in his speech, his word order and the
structure of his sentences. But the individual speaker is also
affected by the character of those to whom he speaks. He adjusts himself
in a hundred subtle ways to the age, status, and mental attitude of the
company in which he finds himself. His own state of mind, and the mode of
its expression are unconsciously modified by and attuned to the varying
degree of intimacy, agreement, and community of experience in which he
may stand with his companions of the moment. Thus an
accomplished man of the world, in reality, speaks not one but many
slightly different idioms, and passes easily and instinc- tively, often
perhaps unknown to himself, from one to another, according to the
exigence of circumstances. The man who does not possess, to some extent
at least, this power of adjustment, is of necessity a stranger in eveuy
company but that of one particular type. No man who is not a fool will
consider it proper to address a bevy of Bishops in precisely the same way
as would be perfectly natural and suitable among a party of fox-hunting
country gentlemen. A learned man, accustomed to choose his own
topics of conversation and dilate upon them at leisure in his College
common room where he can count upon the civil forbearance of other people
like himself, would be thought a tedious bore, and a dull one at that, if
he carried his pompous verbiage into the Officers’ Mess of a smart
regiment. 'A meere scholler is but a woefull creature says Sir Edmund
Verney, in a letter in which he discusses a proposal that his son should
be sent to Leyden, and observes concerning this ‘ 'tis too private for a
youth of his yeares that must see company at convenient times, and studdy
men as well as bookes, or else his bearing may make him rather ridiculous
then esteemed ^ There is naturally a large body of colloquial
expression which is common to all classes, scholars, sportsmen, officers,
clerics, and the rest, but each class and interest has its own special
way of expressing itself, which is more or less foreign to those outside
it. The average colloquial speech of any age is at best a compromise
between a variety of different jargons, each evolved in and current among
the members of a particular section of the community, and each, within
certain social limits, affects and is affected by the others. Most men
belong by their ciicumstanccs or inclinations to several
speech-communities, and have little difficulty in maintaining Ihhmsclvcs
creditably in all of these. The wider the social opportunities and
experience of the individual, and the keener his lin- guistic instinct,
the more readily does he adapt himself to the company in which he finds
himself, and the more easily docs he fall into line with its accepted
traditions of speech and bc aiing. But if so much variety in
the details of colloquial usage exists in a single age, with such
well-marked differences between the conventions of each, how much greater
will be the gulf which separates the types of familiar conversation in
different ages. Do we realize that if we could, by the workings of some
Time Machine, be suddenly transported back into the seventeenth century,
most of us would find it extremely difficult to carry on, even among the
kind of people most nearly corresponding with those with whom we are
habitually associated in our present age, the simplest kind of decent
social intercourse? Even if the pronunciation of the sixteenth century
offered no difficulty, almost every other element which goes to make up
the medium of communication with our fellows would do so. We
should not know how to greet or take leave of those we met, how to
express our thanks in an acceptable manner, how to ask a favour, pay a
compliment, or send a polite message to a gentleman's wife. We should be
at a loss how to begin and end the simplest note, whether to an intimate
friend, a near relative, or to a stranger. We could not scold a footman,
commend a child, express in appropriate terms admiration for a woman’s
beauty, or aversion to the opposite quality. We should hesitate every
moment how to address the person we were talking to, and should be
embarassed for the equivalent of such instinctive phrases as look here,
old man ; my dear chap ; my dear Sir ; excuse me ; I beg your pardon
; I’m awfully sorry; Oh, not at all; that 's too bad ; that ’s most
amusing ; you see ; don't you know ; and a hundred other trivial and
meaningless expressions with which most men fill out their sentences. Our
innocent impulses of pleasure, approval, dislike, anger, disgust, and so
on, would be nipped in the bud for want of words to express them. How
should we say, on the spur of the moment what a pretty girl 1 ; what an
amusing play I ; how clever and witty Mr. Jones is ! ; poor woman ;
that's a perfectly rotten book ; I hate the way she dresses ; look here,
Sir, you had better lake care what you say ; Oh, shut up ; I'm hanged if
I'll do that ; I’m very much obliged to you. I'm sure ? It is
very probable that we perfectly grasp the equivalents of all these and a
thousand others when we read them in the pages of Congreve and his
contemporaries, but it is equally certain that the right expressions
would not rise naturally to our lips as we required them, were we
suddenly called upon to speak with My Lady Froth, or Mr. Brisk. The
fact is that we should feel thoroughly at sea in such company, and should
soon discover that we had to learn a new language of polite society. In
illustrating the colloquial style of the fifteenth century we have to be
content, either with the account of conversations given in letters, or
with such other passages from letters of the period as appear to be
nearest to the speech of everyday life. The following
passages are from the Shillingford Letters, to which reference is
repeatedly made in this book (see p. 65, &c.}, and are extracted from
the accounts given by the stout and genial Mayor of Exeter, in letters to
his friends, of his conversations with the Chancellor during his visit to
London. Shillingford begins by referring to himself as ‘ the Mayer
but suddenly changes to the first person in describing the actual
meeting, again returning for a moment to the impersonal phrase.
Jolm Shillingford* ‘The Saterdey next (28 Oct. 1447)
tberafter the mayer came to West- minster sone apon ix. atte belle, and
ther mette w* my lorde Chanceller atte brode dore a litell fro the steire
fote comyng fro the Sterrechamber, y yn the courte and by the dore
knellyng and salutyng hym yn the moste godely wyse that y cowde and
recommended yn to his gode and gracious lordship my feloship and all the
comminalte, his awne peeple and bedmen of the Cite of Exceter. He seyde
to the mayer ij tymes “ Well come ’’ and the tyme “Right well come
Mayer'’ and helde the Mayer a grete while faste by the honde, and so went
forth to his barge and w* hym grete presse, lordis and other, &c. and
yn especiall the tresorer of the kynges housholde, w* wham he was at right
grete pryvy communication. And therfor y, mayer, drowe me apart, and
mette w* hym at his goyng yn to his barge, and ther toke my leve of hym,
seyyng these wordis, “ My lord, y wolle awayte apon youre gode lordship
and youre better leyser at another tyme He seyde to me ayen, “Mayer, y
pray yow hertely that ye do so, and that ye speke w* the Chief Justyse
and what that ever he will y woll be all redy”. And thus departed. A
little later: * Nerthelez y
awayted my tyme and put me yn presse and went right to my lorde
Chaunccller and seide, “My lorde y am come at your coinmaundc- ment, but
y se youre grete bysynesse is suchc that ye may not attencle ”, He seide
“Noo, by his trauthe and that y myght right well se”. Y scide “Yee, and
that y was sory and hadde pyty of his grete vexacion”. He seide “ Mayer,
y moste to morun ride by tyme to the Kyng, and come ayen this wyke : ye
most awayte apon my comyng, and then y wol speke the justise and attende
for yow ” &c. He seyde “ Come the morun Monedey ” (the Chancellor was
speaking on Sunday). .. “the love of God ” Y seyde the tyme was to
shorte, and prayed hym of Wendysdey ; y enfourmed hym (of t)he grete
malice and venym that they have spatte to me yn theire answeris as hit
appercth yn a copy that y sende to yow of. My lorde seide, “ Alagge
alagge, why wolde they do so ? y woll sey right sbarpely to ham therfor
and y nogh Brews* The following brief extracts from the
letters of Brews, the affianced wife of Jolm Fasten (junior) are like a
ray of sunlight in the dreary wilderness of business and litigation,
which are the chief subjects of correspondence between the Pa&tons.
Even this Iove*letter is not wholly free from the taint, but the girl's
gentle affection for her lover is the prevailing note* * Yf
that ye cowde be content with that good and my por persone I wold be the
meryest mayclen on grounde, and yf ye thynke not your selffe soe
satysfyed or that ye myght hafe much mor good, as I hafe ujtidyrstonde be
youe afor ; good trewe and iovyng volentyne, that ye take no such labur
iippon yowe, as to come more for that matter, but let it passe, and never
more to be spokyn of, as I may be your trewe lover and bedewoman during
my lyfe .’ Pas ton Letters^ hi, A few years later Mrs. Fasten writes to her
'trewe and Iovyng volentyne ' : ' My mother in lawe thynketh longe
she here no word from you. She is in goode heaie, blissed be God, and al
yowr babees also. I marvel I here no word from you, weche greveth me ful
evele. I sent you a letter be Basiour sone of Norwiche, wher of I have no
word.’ To this the young wife adds the touching postscript : ' Sir I pray
yow if ye tary longe at London that it wii plese to sende for me, for I
thynke longe sen I lay in your armes.’ Paston Letie?-Sj Sir Thomas More. No figure in the
eaily part of Henry VIII’s reign is more distin- guished and at the same
time more engaging than that of Sir Thomas More* A few typical records of
his conversation, as preserved by his devoted biographer and son-in-law
Roper, are chosen to illustrate the English of this time. The context is
given so that the extracts may appear in Roper's own setting.
'Not long after this the Watter baylife of London (sonietyme his
servaunte) liereing, where he had beene at dinner, certayne Marchauntes^
liberally to rayle against his ould Master, waxed so discontented
therwith, that he hastily came to him, and tould him what he had hard:
"and were I Sir” (quoth he) " in such favour and authoritie
with my Prince as you are, such men surely should not be suffered so
villanously and falsly to misreport and slander me. Wherefore 1 would
wish you to call them before you, and to there shame, for there lewde
malice to punnish them.” Who smilinge upon him sayde, " Watter
Baylie, would you have me punnish them by whome 1 reccave more benefit!
then by you all that be my frendes ? Let them a Gods name speakc as
lewdly as they list of me, and shoote never soe many airowcs at me, so
long as they do not hitt me, what am I the worse? But if the should once
hitt me, then would it a little trouble me : howbeit, I trust, by Gods
helpe, (here shall none of them all be able to touch me. I have more
cause, Water Bayly (I assure thee) to pittie them, then to be angrie with
them.” Such frutfiill communication had he often tymes with his familiar
frendes. Soe on a tyme walking a long the Thames syde with me at Chelsey,
in talkinge of other thinges he sayd to me, " Now, would to God,
Sonne Roger, upon condition three things are well estab- lished in
Christendome, I were put in a sacke, and here presently cast into the
Thames.” " What great thinges be these, Sir ” quoth I, " that should
move you $0 to wish?” "Wouldest thou know, sonne Roper, what they
be” quoth he? “Yea marry, Sir, with a good will if it please you”, quoth
I, “ I faith, they be these Sonne ”, quoth he. The first is, that where
as the most part of Christian princes be at mortall warrs, they weare at
universal peace. The second, that wheare the Church of Christ is at this
present soare afflicted witli many heresies and errors, it were well
settled in an uniformity. The third, that where the Kinges matter of his
marriage is now come into question, it were to the glory of God and
quietnesse of all parties brought to a good conclusion : ’’ where by, as
I could gather, he judged, that otherwise it would be a disturbance to a
great part of Christ endome/ ‘ When Sir Thomas Moore had continued
a good while in the Tower, my Ladye his wife obtayned license to see him,
who at her first comminge like a simple woman, and somewhat worldlie too,
with this manner of salutations bluntly saluted him, ‘‘What the good
yeai'e, Moore” quoth shee, I marvell that you, that have beene
allwayes hitherimto taken for soe wise a man, will now soe playe the
foole to lye here in this close filthie prison, and be content to be
shutt upp amonge myse and rattes, when you might be abroad at your
libertie, and with the favour and good will both of the King and his
Councell, if you would but doe as all the Bushopps and best learned of
this Realme have done. And seeing you have at Chelsey a right fayre
house, your librarie, your books, your gallerie, your garden, your
orchards, and all other necessaries soe handsomely about you, where you
might, in the companie of me your wife, your children, and houshould be
merrie, I muse what a Gods name you meane here still thus fondlye to
tarry.’' After he had a while quietly hard her, “ I pray thee good Alice,
tell me, tell me one thinge.” “ What is that ? ” (quoth shee). “ Is not
this house as nighe heaven as myne owne?” To whome shee, after her
accustomed fashion, not likeinge such talke, answeared, “ Tilh valie,
Tille valle ” “How say you, Alice, is it not soe?” quoth he. Bone deus,
bone Deusy man, will this geare never be left?” quoth shee. “Well
then Alice, if it be soe, it is verie well. For I see noe great cause
whie I should soe much joye of my gaie house, or of any thinge
belonginge thereunto, when, if I should but seaven yeares lye buried
under ground, and then arise, and come thither againe, I should not fayle
to finde some Iherin that would bidd me gett out of the doores, and tell
me that weare none of myne. What cause have I then to like such an house
as would soe soone forgett his master?” Soe her perswasions moved him but
a little.* The last days of this good man on earth, and some of his
sayings just before his death, are told with great simplicity by Roper.
We cannot forbear to quote the affecting passage which tells of Sir
Thomas More’s last parting from his daughter, the writer’s wife.
‘When Sir Tho. Moore came from Westminster to the Towreward againe,
his daughter my wife, desireous to see her father, whome shee thought
shee should never see in this world after, and alsoe to have his finall
blessinge, gave attendaunce aboutes the Towre wharfe, where shee knewe he
should passe by, eVe he could enter into the Towre. There tarriinge for
his coininge home, as soone as shee sawe him, after his blessinges on
her knees reverentlie receaved, shoe hastinge towards, without
consideration and care of her selfe, pressinge in amongest the midst of
the thronge and the Companie of the Guard, that with Hollbards and Billes
weare round about him, hastily ranne to him, and then openlye in the
sight of all them embraced and tooke him about the necke, and kissed him,
whoe well likeing her most daughterlye love and affection towards him,
gave her his fatherlie blessinge, and manye goodlie words of comfort besides,
from whome after shee was departed, shee not satisfied with the former
sight of her deare father, havinge respecte neither to her self, nor to
the presse of the people and multitude that were about him, suddenlye
turned backe againe, and rann to him as before, tqoke him about the
necke, and divers tymes togeather most lovinglay kissed him, and at last
with a full heavie harte was fayne to departe from him; the behouldinge
whereof was to manye of them that were present thereat soe lamentablcj
that it made them for very sorrow to mourne and weepe.’ In his last
letter to his ' dearely beloved daughter, written with a Cole Sir Thomas
More refers to this incident :' And I never liked your manners better,
then when you kissed me last. For* I like when daughterlie Love, and
deare Charitie hath noe leasure to looke to worldlie Curtesie
Next morning ‘ Sir Thomas even, and the Utas of St. Peeter in the
yeare of our Lord God, earlie in the morninge, came to him Sir
Thomas Pope, his singular trend, on messedge from the Kinge and his
Councell, that hee should before nyne of the clocke in the same morninge
suffer death, and that therefore fourthwith he should prepare himselfe
thereto. Pope sayth he, for your good tydinges I most hartily
thankyou. I have beene allwayes^ bounden much to the Kinges Highnes for
the benehtts and honors which he hath still from tyme to tyme most
bounti- fully heaped upon mee, and yete more bounden I ame to his Grace
for putting me into this place, where I have had convenient tyme and
space to have remembraunce of my end, and soe helpe me God most of all
Pope, am I bound to his Highnes, that it pleased him so shortlie to ridd
me of the miseries of this wretched world. And therefore will I not fayle
most earnestlye to praye for his Grace both here, and alsoe in another
world, .And I beseech you, good Pope, to be a meane unto his Highnes,
that my daughter Margarette may be present at my buriall.’’ “ The King is
well contented allreadie*' (quoth M^’ Pope) ‘‘that your Wife, Children
and other frendes shall have free libertie to be present thereat “O how
much be- hoiilden” then said Sir Thomas Moore “am I to his Grace, that
unto my poore buriall vouchsafeth to have so gratious Consideration.*’
Wherewithal! Pope takeinge his leave of him could not refrayne from
weepinge, which Sir Tho. Moore perceavinge, comforted him in this wise, “
Quiete yourselfe good M^ Pope, and be not discomforted. For I trust that
we shall once in heaven see each other full merily, where we shall bee
sure to live and love togeather in joyfull blisse eternally.Wolsey.
The Ij/e of Wolsey, by George Cavendish, a faithful and devoted
servant of the Cardinal, who was with him on his death-bed, gives a
wonderfully interesting picture of this remarkable man, in affluence and
in adversity, and records a number of conversations which have a
convincing air of verisimilitude. The following specimens are taken from
the Kelmscott Press edition of 1893, which follows the spelling of the
author's MS. in the British Museum. ‘ After ther departyng^ my lord
came to the sayd howsse of Eston to his lodgyng, where he had to supper
with hyme dyvers of his frends of the court. And syttyng at supper, in
came to hyme Doctor Stephyns, the secretary, late ambassitor unto Rome ;
but to what entent he came I know not ; howbeit my lord toke it that he
came bothe to dissembell a certeyn obedyence and love towards hyme, or
ells to espie hys behaviour, and to here his commynycacion at supper. Not
withstandyng my lord bade hyme well come, and commaundyd hyme to sytt
down at the table to supper; with whome my lord had thys commynycacion
with hyme under thys maner. Mayster Secretary, quod my lord, ye
be-welcome home owt of Rally; whan came ye frome Rome? Forsothe, quod he,
I came home allmost a monethe agoo ; and where quod my lord have you byn
ever sence? Forsothe, quod he, folowyng the court this progresse. Than
have ye hunted and had good game and pastyme. Forsothe, Syr, quod he,
and so I have, I thanke the kyngs Majestie, What good greyhounds have
ye? quod my lord. I have some syr quod he. And thus in huntyng, and
in lyke disports,, passed they all ther commynycacion at supper. And
after supper my lord and he talked secretly together until it was
mydnyght or they departed.’ Than all thyng beyng ordered as it is before
reherced, my lord prepared hyme to depart by water. ^ And before his
departyng he com- maundyd Syr William Gascoyne, his treasorer, to se
these thyngs byfore remembred, delyverd safely to the kyng at his
repayer. That don, the seyd Syr William seyd unto my lord. Syr I ame
sorry for your grace, for I understand ye shall goo strayt way to the
tower. Ys this the good comfort and councell, quod my lord, that ye can
geve your mayster in adversitie? Yt hathe byn allwayes your naturall
inclynacion to be very light of credytt, and mych more lighter in
reporting of false newes, I wold ye shold knowe, Syr William, and all
other suche blasphemers, that it is nothyng more false than that, for I
never, thanks be to god, deserved by no wayes to come there under any
arrest, allthoughe it hathe pleased the kyng to take my howse redy
furnysshed for his pleasyr at this tyme. I wold all the world knewe, and
so I confesse to have no thyng, other riches, honour, or dignyty, that
hathe not growen of hyme and by hyme ; therefore it is my verie dewtie to
surrender the same to hyme agayn as his very owen, with al my hart, or
ells I ware and onkynd servaunt. Therefore goo your wayes, and geve good attendaunce
unto your charge, that no thyng be embeselled.’ ‘And the next day we
removed to Sheffeld Parke, where therle of Shrews- bury lay within the
loge, and all the way thetherward the people cried and lamented, as they
dyd in all places as we rode byfore. And whan we came in to the parke of
Sheffeld, nyghe to the logge, my lord of Shrewesbury, with my lady his
wyfe, a trayn of gentillwomen, and all my lords gentilmen, and yomen,
standyng without the gatts of the logge to attend my lords commy ng,
to receyve hyme with myche honor ; whome therle embraced, sayeng these
words. My lord quod he, your grace is most hartely welcome unto me, and
glade to se you in my poore loge ; the whiche I have often desired ; and
myche more gladder if you had come after another sort. Ah, my gentill
lord of Shrewesbury quod my lord, I hartely thanke you ; and allthoughe I
have no cause to rejoyce, yet as a sorowe full hart may joye, I rejoyce
my chaunce, which is so good to come into the hands and custody of so noble
a persone, whose approved honor and wysdome hathe byn allwayes right well
knowen to all nobell estats. And Sir, howe soever my ongentill accusers
hathe used ther accusations agenst me, yet I assure you, and so byfore
your lordshipe and all the world do I protest, that my demeanor and
procedyngs hathe byn just and loyall towards my soverayn and liege lord ;
of whose behaviour and doyngs your lordshipe hathe had good experyence ;
and evyn accordyng to my trowthe and faythfulnes, so I bescche god helpe
me in this my calamytie. I dought nothyng of your Irouthe, quod therle,
tlierfore my lorde I beseche you be of good chere and feare not, for I
have receyved letters from the kyng of his owen hand in your favour and
entertaynyng the whiche you shall se. Sir, I ame nothyng sory but that I
have not wherwith worthely to receyve you, and to entertayn you accordyng
to your honour and my good wyll ; but suche as I have ye are most hartely
welcome therto, desiryng you to accept my good wyll accordyngly, for I
wol not receyve you as a prisoner, but as my good lord, and the kyngs
trewe faythfull subjecte ; and here is my wyfe come to salute you. Whome
my lord kyst barehedyd, and all hir gentilwomen ; and toke my lords
servaunts by the hands, as well gentilmen and yomen as other. Then these
two lords went arme in arme into the logge, conductyng my lord into a
fayer chamber at thend of a goodly gallery within a newe tower, and here
my lord was lodged.’ Here are some short portions of dialogue between Wolsey and
his friends, just before his death : * Uppon Monday in the
mornyng, as I stode by his bedds' side, abought viii of the clocke, the
wyndowes beyng cloose shett, havyng wake lights burnyng uppon the
cupbord, I behyld hyme, as me seemed, drawyng fast to his end. He
perceyved my shadowe uppon the wall by his bedds side, asked who was
there. Sir I ame here, quod I. Howe do you ? quod he to me. Very well
Sir, if I myght se your grace well. What is it of the clocke ? quod he to
me. Forsothe Sir, quod I, it is past viii. of the clocke in the mornyng.
Eight of the clocke, quod he, that cannot be, rehersing dyvers times
eight of the clocke, eight of the clocke. Nay, nay, quod he at the last,
it cannot be viii of the clocke, for by viii of the clocke ye shal loose your
mayster ; for my tyme drawyth nere that I must depart out of this world.’‘
Mayster Kyngston farewell. I can no moore, but why she all thyngs to have
good successe. My tyme drawyth on fast. I may not tary with you. And
forget not I pray you, what I have seyd and charged you with all : for
whan I ame deade, ye shall peradventure remember my words myche better.
And even with these words he began to drawe his speche at lengthe and his
tong to fayle, his eyes beyng set in his hed, whos sight faylled hyme ;
than we began to put hyme in rembraunce of Christs passion, and sent for
the Abbott of the place to annele hyme ; who came with all spede and
mynestred unto hyme all the servyce to the same belongyng ; and caused
also the gard to stand by, bothe to here hyme talk byfore his deathe, and
also to here wytnes of the same ; and incontinent the clocke strake viii,
at whiche tyme he gave uppe the gost, and thus departed he this present
lyfe.’Latimer. The Sermons of Bp. Latimer present good examples^ of
colloquial oratory, and the style is but little removed from the
colloquial style of the period. The following are from the Sermon of the
Ploughers, preached. ' For they that be lordes vyll yll go to plough. It
is no mete office for them. It is not semyng for their state. Thus came
up lordyng loiterers. Thus crept in vnprechinge prelates, and so haue
they longe continued. ‘ For how many vnlearned prelates haue we now
at this day ? And no maruel. For if ye plough men yat now be, were made
lordes they woulde cleane gyue ouer ploughinge, they woulde leaue of
theyr labour and fall to lordyng outright, and let the plough stand. And
then bothe ploughes nor walkyng nothyng shoulde be in the common weale
but honger. For euer sence the Prelates were made Loordes and nobles, the
ploughe standeth, there is no worke done, the people starue.
‘ Thei hauke, thei hunt, thei card, they dyce, they pastyme m theyr
pre- lacies with galaunte gentlemen, with theyr daunsmge mmyons, and
with theyr freshe companions, so that ploughinge is set a syde. And by
tne lordinge and loytryng, preachynge and ploughinge is cleane gone .
‘But^iiowe for the defaulte of vnpreaching prelates me thinke I coulde
gesse what myghte be sayed for excusynge of them : They are so troubeled
wyth Lordelye lyuynge, they be so placed in palacies, couched m courte^
ruffelynge in theyr rentes, daunceyng in theyr dominions, burdened with
ambassages, pamperynge of theyr paunches lyke a monke that maketh
his jubilie, moundiynge in their maungers, and moylynge in their gaye
manoures and mansions, and so troubeled wyth loy terynge in theyr
Lordeshyppes : that they canne not attende it. They are other wyse
occupyed, some in the kynges matters, some are ambassadoures, some of the
pryuie counsell, some to furnyslie the courte, some are Lordes of the
Parliamente, some are presidentes, and some comptroleres of myntes. Well,
well. Is thys theyr duetye? Is thys theyr offyee? Is thys theyr
callyng? Should we haue ministers of the church to be comptrollers of the
myntes ? Is thys a meete office for a prieste that hath cure of soules ?
Is this hys charge ? I woulde here aske one question : I would fayne
knowe who comp- trolleth the deuyll at home at his parishe, whyle he
comptrolleth the mynte ? If the Apostles mighte not ieaue the office of
preaching to be deacons, shall one Ieaue it for myntyng ? ’
Wilson’s Ar^e of Rhetorique (1560) has a section 'Of deliting the
hearers, and stirring them to laughter ’ in which are enumerated ' What
are the kindes of sporting, or mouing to laughter'. The subject is
illustrated by various ' pleasant ' stories, which if few of them would
now make us laugh, are at least couched in a very easy and colloquial
style and enlivened by scraps of actual conversation. The most amusing
element in the whole chapter is the attitude of the writer to the
subject, and the combination of seriousness and scurrility with which it
is handled. ' The occasion of laughter’ says Wilson, 'and themeane
that maketh us mery ... is the fondnes, the filthines, the deformitie,
and all such euill be- hauiour as we see to be in other? ... Now when we
would abashe a man for some words that he hath spoken, and can take none
aduauntage of his person, or making of his bodie, we either doubt him at
the first, and make him beleeue that he is no wiser then a Goose : or els
we confute wholy his sayings with some pleasaunt iest, or els we
extenuate and diminish his doings by some pretie meanes, or els we cast
the like in his dish, and with some other devise, dash hym out of
countenance : or last of all, we laugh him to scorne out right, and
sometimes speake almost neuer a word, but only in continuaunce, shewe our
selues pleasaunt’. ^p. 136. ‘ A frend of mine, and a good fellowe,
more honest then wealthie, yea and more pleasant then thriftie, liauing
need of a nagge for his iourney that he had in hande, and being in the
countrey, minded to go to Parlnaie faire in Lincolnshire, not farre from
the place where he then laie, and meeting by the way one of his
acquaintaunce, told him his arrande, and asked him how horses went at the
Faire. The other aunswered merely and saidc, some trot sir, and some
amble, as farre as I can see. If their paces be altered, I praye you tell
me at our next meeting. And so rid away as fast as his horse could cary
him, without saying any word more, whereat he then being alone, fel a
laughing hartely to him self, and looked after a good while, vntil the
other was out of sight.’ p. 140. 'A Gentleman hauing heard a Sermon
at Panics, and being come home, was asked what the preacher said. The
Gentleman answered he would first heare what his man could saie, who then
waited vpon him, with his hatte and cloake, and calling his man to him,
sayd, nowe sir, whate haue you brought from the Sermon. Forsothe good
Maister, sayd the seruaunt your cloake and your hatte- A honest true
dealing seruaunt out of doubt, piaine as a packsadclle, bauing a better
soule to God, though his witte was simple, then those haue, that vnder
the colour of hearing, giuc them selues to priuie picking, and so bring
other mens purses home in their bosomes, in the steade of other mens
Sermons.’ pp. 14X-2. These two stories are intended to illustrate
the point that ' We shall delite the hearers, when they looke for one
ansvvere, and we make them a cleane contrary, as though we would not seeme
to vnderstand what they would haue ^Churlish aunsweres like
the hearers sometimes very well. When the father was cast in judgement, the
Sonne seeing him weepe : why weepe you Father? (quoth he) To whom his
Father aunswered. ^What? Shall I sing I pray thee seeing by Lawe I am
condemned to "dye. Socrates likewise bieing^ mooued of his wife,
because he should dye an innocent and guiltlesse in the Law: Why for shame
woman (quoth he) wilt thou haue me to dye giltic and deseruing. When one
had falne into a ditch, an other pitying his fall, asked him and saied :
Alas how got you into that pit ? Why Gods mother, quoth the other, doest
thou aske me how I got in, nay tell me rather in the mischiefe, how I
shall get out.’ The nearest approach to the colloquial style in
Bacon is to be found in the Apophthegms, in which are scraps of
conversation. A few may be quoted, if only on account of the
author. ‘ Master Mason of Trinity College, sent his pupil to an
other of the fellows, to borrow a book of him, who told him, I am loth to
lend my books out of my chamber, but if it please thy tutor to come and
read upon it in my chamber, he shall as long as he will.” It was winter,
and some days after the same fellow sent to M^‘ Mason to borrow his
bellows ; but M^’ Mason said to his pupil, ‘‘ I am loth to lend my
bellows out of my chamber, but if thy tutor would come and blow the fire in
my chamber, he shall as long as he will.” ApophtJi. There were fishermen
drawing the river at Chelsea: M^* Bacon came thither by chance in the
afternoon, and offered to buy their draught : they were willing. He
askcvl them what they would take ? They asked thirty shillings. M^ Bacon
offered them ten. They refused it. Why then said M^* Bacon, I will be
only a looker on. They drew and catched nothing. Saith M^ Bacon, Are not
you mad fellows now, that might have had an angel in your purse, to have
made merry withal, and to have warmed you thoroughly, and now you must go
home with nothing. Ay but, saith the fishermen, we had hope then to make
a better gain of it. Saith M^’ Bacon, ‘‘ Well my master, then I will tell
you, hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.” Otway^s Comedies
have all the coarseness and raciness of dialogue of the latter half of
the seventeenth century, and a pretty vein of genuine comicality. They
are packed with the familiar slang and colloquialisms of the period. A
few passages from Friendship in Fashion illustrate at once the speech and
the manners of the day. Enter Lady SQUEAMISH at the Door,
Sir Noble Clmnsey, Hah, my Lady Cousin ! Faith Madam you see I am
at it. Malagene, The Devil’s wit, I think ; we could no sooner talk
of wh but she must come in, with a pox
to her. Madam, your Ladyship’s most humble Servant. Ldy Squ.
Oh, odious ! insufferable ! who would have thought Cousin, you would have
serv’d me so fough, how he stinks of wine, I can smell him hither. How
have you the Patience to hear the Noise of Fiddles, and spend your time
in nasty drinking ? Sir Noble, Hum ! ’tis a good Creature : Lovely
Lady, thou shalt take thy Glass. Ldy Sgu, Uh gud ; murder 1 I
had rather you had offered me a toad. B b Sir N, Then
Malagene, here’s a Health to my Lady Cousin’s Pelion upon Ossa. [Drinks
and breaks the Ldy Squ, Lord, dear Malagene what ’s that ?
MaL A certain Place Madam, in Greece, much talk’t of by the Ancients
; the noble Gentleman is well read. Ldy Squ. 'Nay he’s an ingenious
Person I’ll assure you. Sir N. Now Lady bright, I am wholly thy
Slave: Give me thy Hand, I’ll go straight and begin my Grandmother’s
Kissing Dance ; but first deign me the private Honour of thy Lip.
Ldy Squ. Nay, fie Sir Noble 1 how I hate you now ! for shame be not
so rude : I swear you are quite spoiled. Get you gone you good-natur’d
Toad you. [Exetmti\ Malagene, . . . I’m a very good Mimick ;
I can act Punchinello, Scara- mouchir, Harlequin, Prince Prettyman or
anything. 1 can act the rumbling of a Wheel -barrow.
Valentine, The rumbling of a Wheel-barrow ! MaL Ay, the
rumbling of a Wheel-barrow, so I say Nay more than that, I can act a Sow
and Pigs, Saussages a broiling, a Shoulder of Mutton a roasting : I can
act a fly in a Honey-pot, Truman, That indeed must be the Effect of
very curious Observation. MaL No, hang it, I never make it my
business to observe anything, that is Mechanicke. But all this I do, you
shall see me if you will : But here comes her Ladyship and Sir Noble.
Ldy Squ, Oh, dear M^ Truman, rescue me. Nay Sir Noble for Heav’n’s
sake. Sir N, I tell thee Lady, I must embrace thee : Sir, do you
know me ! I am Sir Noble Clumsey : I am a Rogue of an Estate, and I live
Do you want any money ? I have fifty pounds. VaL Nay good Sir
Noble, none of your Generosity we beseech you. The Lady, the Lady, Sir
Noble. Sir N. Nay, ’tis all one to me if you won’t take ft, there
it is. Hang Money, my Father was an Alderman. MaL ’Tis pity
good Guineas should be spoil’d, Sir Noble, by your leave. [Picks up
the Guineasl\ Sir N. But, Sir, you will not keep my Money ?
MaL Oh, hang Money, Sir, your Father was an Alderman. Sir N,
Well, get thee gone for an Arch-Wag I do but sham all this while i ^but
by Dad he ’s pure Company. Lady, once more I say be civil, and come kiss
me. VaL Well done Sir Noble, to her, never spare. Ldy
Squ, I may be even with you tho for all this, Valentine : Nay dear Sir
Noble : M^ Truman, I’ll swear he’ll put me into Fits. Sir N, No,
but let me salute the Hem of thy Garment, Wilt thou marry me?
[LTneels.] MaL Faith Madam do, let me make the Match.
Ldy Squ, Let me die Malagene, you are a strange Man, and Fll swear
have a great deal of Wit. Lord, why don’t you write ? MaL Write? I
thank your Ladyship for that with all my Heart. No I have a Finger in a
Lampoon or so sometimes, that ’s all. Truman, But he can act.
Ldy Squ, I’ll swear, and so he does better than any one upon our
Theatres; I have seen him. Oh the English Comedians are nothing, not
comparable to the French or Italian: Besides we want Poets. SirN,
Poets! Why I am a Poet; I have written three Acts of a Play, and have
nam’d it already. ’Tis to be a Tragedy. Ldy Squ. Oh Cousin, if you
undertake to write a Tragedy, take my Counsel : Be sure to say soft
melting tender things in it that may be moving, and make your Lady’s
Characters virtuous whatever you do. Sir N. Moving I Why, I can
never read it myself but it makes me laugh : well, ’tis the pretty’st
Plot, and so full of Waggery. Ldy Sgti, Oh ridiculous I
Mai But Knight, the Title ; Knight, the Title. Sir N, Why let
me see ; ’tis to be called The Merry Conceits of Love ; or the Life and
Death of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, with the Humours of his Dog
Boabdillo. Mai PI a, ha, ha. . Ldy Squ, But dear Malagene, won’t
you let us see you act a little something of Harlequin? I’ll swear you do
it so naturally, it makes me think Fm at the Louvre or Whitehall all the
time. [Mai acis.] O Lord, don’t, don’t neither ; I’ll swear you’ll make
me burst. Was there ever any- thing so pleasant ? Trwn, Was
ever anything so affected and ridiculous ? Her whole Life sure is a
continued Scene of Impertinence. What a damn’d Creature is a decay’d
Woman, with all the exquisite Silliness and Vanity of her Sex, yet none
of the Charms ! [Mai s^peaks in PunchinelMs voicei\ Ldy Squ, O
Lord, that, that ; that is a Pleasure intolerable. Well, let me die if I
can hold out any longer. A Comparison between the Stages, wiih an
Examen of the Generous Conqueror^ printed in 1702, is a dialogue between
^ Two Gentlemen’, Sullen and Ramble (see below), and ^a Critick’,upon the
plays of the day and others of an earlier date. The style is that of easy
and natural familiar con- versation, with little or no artificiality, and
incidentally, the tract throws light upon contemporary manners and social
habits. The following examples are designed to illustrate the colloquial
handling of indifferent topics, and the small-talk of the early
eighteenth century, as well as the treatment of the immediate subject of
the essay. Sullen. They may talk of the Country and what they will,
but the Park for my money. Ramble. In its proper Season I
grant you, when the Mall is pav’d with lac’d shoes ; when the Air is
perfum’d with the rosie Breath of so many fine Ladies ; when from one end
to the other the Sight is entertain’d with nothing but Beauty, and the
whole Prospect looks like an Opera. Sull And when is it out of
Season Ramble ? Ram. When the Beauties desert it ; when the absence
of this charming Company makes it a Solitude : Then Sullen, the Park is
to me no more than a Wilderness, a very Common ; and a Grove in a country
Garden with a pretty Lady is by much the pleasanter Landscape.
Sull To a Man of your Quicksilver Constitution it may be so, and
the Cuckoo in May may be Music t’ee a hundred Miles off, when all the
Masters in Town can’t divert you. Ram. I love everything as
Nature and the Nature of Pleasure has con- triv’d it ; I love the
Town in Winter, because then the Country looks aged and deform’d ;
and I hate the Town in Summer, because then the Country is in its Glory,
and looks like a Mistress just drest out for enjoyment. Sull Very
well distinguish’d : Not like a Bride, but like a Mistress. Ram. I
distinguish ’em by that comparison because I love nothing well enough to
be wedded to ’t : I’m a Proteus in my Appetite, and love to change my
Abode with my Inclination, Sull I differ from you for the very Reason
you give for your change ; the Town is evermore the same to me ; and tho*
the Season makes it look after another manner, yet still it has a Face to
please me one way or other, and both Winter and Summer make it agreeable,
pp. 1-3* B b 2 Here is a conversation during dinner at
the ' Blew Posts \ Critik, What have you order’d ?
Ramh. A Brace of Carp stew’d, a piece of Lamb, and a Sallet ; d’ee
like it ? Crit, I like, anything in the World that will indure
Cutting : Prithee Cook make haste or expect I shall Storm thy
Kitchin. SulL Why thou’rt as hungry as if thou hadst been keeping
Garrison in Mantua : I don’t know whether Flesh and Blood is safe in thy
Company. CriL I wish with all my Heart thou wert there, that thou
mightst under- stand what it is to fast as 1 have done : Come, to our
Places • . . the blessed hour is come. . . . Sit, sit . . . fall to,
Graces are out of Fashion. Ramb. I wish the Charming Madam Subligny
were here. CriL Gad so don’t 1 : I had rather her P'eet were pegg’d
down to the Stage; at present my Appetite stands another way : Waiter,
some Wine ., . or I shall choak. . Suit, This Fellow eats like an
Ostrich, the Bones of these great Fish are no more to him than the Bones
of an Anchovy ; they melt upon his Tongue like marrow Puddings.
Crit Ay, you may talk, but I’m sure I find ’em not so gentle ; here
’s one yet in my Throat will be my death ; the Flask . . . the Flask . .
., Ramb. But Critick, how did you like the Play last Night ?
Crit. I’ll tell you by and by, Lord Sir, you won’t give a Man time to
break his Fast: This Fish is such washy Meat ... a Man can’t fix his
knife in ’t, it runs away from him as if it were still alive, and was
afraid of the Hook : Put the Lamb this way. SulL The Rogue
quarrels with the Fish, and yet you cou’d eat up the whole Pond ; the
late Whale at Cuckold’s point, with all its oderiferous Gar- badge, wou’d
ha’ been but a Meal to him : Well, how do you like the Lamb ? does that
feel your knife? Crit. A little more substantial, and not much :
Well, I shou’d certainly be starv’d if I were to feed with the French, I
hate their thin slops, their Pot- tages, Frigaces, and Ragous, where a
Man may bury his Hand in the Sauce, and dine upon Steam : No, no, commend
me to King Jemmy’s English Surloin, in whose gentle Flesh a Man may
plunge a Case-knife to the tip of the Handle, and then draw out a Slice
that will surfeit half a Score Yeoman of the Guard. Some Wine ye Dog . .
. there ., . now I have slain the Giant ; and now to your Question . . .
what was it you askt me ? Ramb. Won’t you stay the Desert ? Some
Tarts and Cheese ? Crit I abominate Tarts and Cheese, they’re like
a faint After-kiss, when a Man is sated with better Sport ; there ’s no
more Nourishment in ’em, than in the paring of an Apple. Here Waiter take
away. . . . Ramb. Then remove every Thing but the Table-cloth.’,
. Ramb. Here Waiter send to the Booksellers in Pell mell for the
Generous Conqueror and make haste . ., you say you know the Author
Critick. Crit. By sight I do, but no further ; he ’s a Gentleman of
good Extraction, and for ought I know, of good Sense. Ramb.
Surely that’s not to be questioned; I take it for granted that a Man that
can write a Play, must be a Man of good Sense. Crit That is not
always a consequence, I have known many a singing Master have a worse
voice than a Parish Clerk, and I know two dancing Masters at this time,
that are directly Cripples : . . . A Ship-builder may fit up a Man of War
for the West Indies, and perhaps not know his Compas : Or a great
Trpelier, with Heylin, that writ the Geography of the whole World, may,
like him, not know the way from the next Village to his own House.
Ramb. Your Comparisons are remote M*^ Critick. Cfit. Not so
remote as some successful Authors are from good sense ; Wit and Sense are
no more the same than Wit and Humour; nay there is even in Wit an uncertain
Mode, a variable Fashion, that is as unstable as the Fashion of our
Cloaths : This may be proved by their Works who writ a hundred Years ago,
compar’d with some of the modern ; Sir Philip Sidney, Don, Overbury, nay
Ben himself took singular delight in playing with their Words : Sir
Philip is everywhere in his Arcadia jugling, which certainly by the
example of so great a Man, proves that sort of Wit then in Fashion ; now
that kind of Wit is call’d Punning and Quibbling, and is become too low
for the Stage, nay even for ordinary Converse ; so that when we find a
Man who still loves that old fashion’d Custom, we make him remarkable, as
who is more remarkable than Capt. Swan. Ramb. Nay, your
Quibble does well now a Days, your best Comedies tast of ’em ; the Old
Batchelor is rank. Crit. But ’tis every Day decreasing, and Queen
Betty’s Ruff and Fardin- gale are not more exploded ; But Sense
Gentlemen, is and will be the same to the World’s end. SulL
And Nonsense is infinite, for England never had such a Stock and such
Variety. Ramb. Yet I have heard the Poets that flourish’d in the
last Reign but two, complain of the same Calamity, and before that Reign
the thing was the same : All Ages have produced Murmurers ; and in the
best of times you shall hear the Trades-man cry Alas Neighbour ! sad
Times, very hard Times .., not a Penny of Money stirring .Trade is quite
dead, and nothing but War . . . War and Taxes . . . when to my knowledge
the gluttonous Rogue shall drink his two Bottles at Dinner, and his Wife
have half a Score of rich Suits, a purse of Gold for the Gallant, and
fifty Pounds worth of Gold and Silver Lace on her under Petticoats.
Sail, Nay certainly, this that Ramble now speaks of is a great Truth;
those hypocritical Rogues are always grumbling; and tho’ our Nation never
had such a Trade, or so much Money, yet ’tis all too little for their
voracious Appetites : As I live says he, I can’t afford this Silk one
Penny cheaper d’ee mind the Rogues
Equivocation ? as I live ^that is, he lives like a Gen- tleman but let
him live like a Tradesman and be hang’d ; let him wear a Frock, and his
Wife a blew Apron. Ramb, See, the Book ’s here : go Waiter and shut
the Door. pp. 76-9. The dialogue of Hichardson, ' sounynge in moral
vertu ^ devoid of all the lighter touches, is typical of the age that was
beginning, the age of reaction against the levities and negligences in
speech and conduct of the seventeenth and early eighteenth
centuries. The following conversation of rather an agitated
character, between a mother and daughter, is from Letter XVI, in Clarissa
Ifarlozue{i*j4S): * • * • My mother came up to me. I love, she was
pleased to say, to come into this appartment. No emotions child I No flutters
! Am I not your mother FAm I not your fond, your indulgent mother P- Do
not discompose me by discomposixig Do not occasion me uneasiness, when I
would glveyau nothing but pleasure. Come my dear, we will go into
your closet. . . . PI ear me out and then speak ; for I was going to
expostulate. You are no stranger to the end of M^ Solmes’s visits O
Madam! Hear me out; and then speak. He is not indeed everything I wish
him to be : but he is a man of probity and has no vices No vices Madam ! Hear
me out child. You have not behaved much
amiss to him : we have seen with pleasur *. that you have not O Madam,
must I not now speak ! I shall have done pre.‘ fently, A young creature
of your virtuous and pious turn, she was pleased ! say, cannot surely
love a predicate ; you love your brother too well, to wish p see any one
who had like to have killed him, and who threatened youri incles and
defies us all You have had your own way six or seven times : v|? | w^nt
to secure you against a man so vile. Tell me (I have a right to know)
whether you prefer this man to all others ? Yet God forbid that I should
know you do ; for such a declaration would make us all miserable. Yet
tell me, a.re your affections engaged to this man ? I know
what the inference would be if I had said they were not You hesitate You
answer me not You cannot answer me Rising Nevermore will I look upon you
with an eye of favour O Madam, Madam ! Kill me not with your displeasure I
would not, I need not, hesitate one moment, did I not dread the
inference, if I answer you as you wish. Yet be that inference what it
will, your threatened displeasure will make me speak. And I declare to
you, that I know not my own heart if it be not absolutely free. And pray,
let me ask my dearest Mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that
like a giddy creature, I must be forced to marr^r, to save me from from
what ? Let me beseech you Madam to be the Guardian of my reputation \ Let
not your Clarissa be precipitated into a stale she wishes not to enter
into with any man ! And this upon a supposition that otherwise she shall
marry herself, and disgrace her whole family. When then,
Clary [passing over the force of my plea] if your heart be free O my
beloved Mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart operate in my
favour.^ Urge not upon me the inference that made me hesitate. I
won’t be interrupted, Clary You have seen in my behaviour to you, on this
occasion, a truly maternal tenderness ; you have observed that I have
undertaken the task with some reluctance, because the man is not everything
; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in a man too
high. Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me ! Is there then any danger
that I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man’s sake you hint
at ? Again interrupted! Am I to be questioned, and argued with? You
know this won’t do somewhere else. You know it won’t. What reason
then, ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because
you think from my indulgence to you you may ? What can I say
? What can I do ? What must that cause be that will not bear being argued
upon ? Again ! Clary Harlowe Dearest Madam forgive me : it was always
my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But look upon that man see but the
disagreeableness of his person Now, Clary, do I see whose pei'son you
have in your eye ! Now is M^’ Solmes, I see, but coinparatively
disagreeable ; disagreeable only as an« other man has a much more
specious person. But, Madam, are not his manners equally so 1 Is
not his person the true representation of his mind ? That other man is
not, shall not be, anything to me, release me from this one man, whom my
heart, unbidden, resists. Condition thus with your father. Will he
bear, do you think, to be thus dialogued with? Have I not conjured you,
as you value my peace What is it that / do not give up ?*~-This very
task, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a task
indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing ? Have you not refused as
many as have been offered to you ? If you would not have us guess for
whom, comply ; for comply you must, or be looked upon as in a state of
defiance with your whole family. And saying thus she arose, and went from
me.’ Miss AusteiL. The following examples of Miss
Austen’s dialogue are not selected because they are the most sparkling
conversations in her works, but rather because they appear to be typical
of the way of speech of the period, and further they illustrate Miss
Austeff s incomparable art. The first passage is ixomEmma^ which was
written between i8ii and 3^5 i8i6. Mr. Woodhouse and his
daughter have just received an invitation to dine with the Coles,
enriched tradespeople who had settled in the neighbourhood. Emma's view
of them was that they were ' very respect- able in their way, but they
ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the times on which
the superior families would visit them On the present occasion, however,
‘ she was not absolutely w^ithout inclina- tion for the party. The Coles
expressed themselves so properly there was so much real attention in the
manner of it so much consideration for her father/ Emma having decided in
her own mind to accept the invitation some of her intimate friends were
going it remained to explain to her father, the ailing and fussy Mr.
Woodhouse, that he would be left alone without his daughter s company for
the evening, as it was out of the question that he should accompany her.
‘ He was soon pretty well resigned.’ ‘ I am not fond of
dinner-visiting ” said he ; “I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do
not agree with us. I am sorry and Cole should have done it. I think it
would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer and
take their tea with us ; take us in their afternoon walk, which they
might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being
out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I
would not expose anybody to. However as they are so very desirous to have
dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there [this refers to
his friend Weston and his wife], and Knightley too, to take care of her I
cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither
damp, nor cold, nor windy.” Then turning to Weston with a look of gentle
reproach “Ah, Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staled
at home with me.” “ Well, Sir ”, cried Weston, as I took Miss
Taylor away, it is incumbent upon me to supply her place, if I can ; and
I will step to M^’® Goddard in a moment if you wish it.” . . . With this
treatment M^ Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. “
He should be happy to see M^*® Goddard. He had a great regard for
Goddard; and Emma should write a line and invite her. James could take
the note. But first there must be an answer written to M’^® Cole.”
“ You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will
say that I am quite an invalid, and go nowhere, and therefore must
decline their obliging invitation ; beginning with my comj^limentsy of
course. But you will do everything right. I need not tell you what is to
be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be
wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never
been there above once since the new approach was made ; but still I have
no doubt that James will take you very safely ; and when you gel there
you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again ;
and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late.
You will get tired when tea is over.” “ But you would not wish me
to come away before I am tired, papa ? ” Oh no my love ; but you
will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once.
You will not like the noise.” “But my dear Sir,” cried M^’ Weston,
“if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party.”
“ And no great harm if it does ” said Woodhouse. “ The sooner every
party breaks up the better.” “ But you do not consider how it may appear
to the Coles. Emma’s going away directly after tea might be giving
offense. They are good-natured people, and think little of their own
claims ; but still they must feel that anybody’s hurrying away is no
great compliment ; and Miss Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought of than
any other personas in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and
mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever
lived, and who have been your neighbours these /en years.”
‘^No, upon no account in the world, Weston, I am much obliged to
you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any
pain. I know what worthy people they are. Peny tells me that Cole never
touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is
bilious M^' Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving
them any pain. My dear Emma we must consider this. I am sure rather than
run any risk of hurting and Cole you would stay a little longer than you
might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe,
you know, among your friends.” Oh 5^es, papa. I have no fears at
all for myself ; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as
Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your silting up for me.
I am not afraid of your not being ex- ceedingly comfortable with Goddard.
^ She loves piquet, you know ; but when she is gone home I am afraid you
will be sitting up by youiself, instead of going to bed at your usual
time ; and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must
promise me not to sit up.” * The next example is in a very
different vein. It is from Sense and Sensibility (chap, xxi) and records
the mode of conversation of the Miss Steeles. These two ladies are among
Miss Austen's vulgar characters, and their speech lacks the restraint and
decorum which her better-bred personages invariably exhibit. While the
Miss Steeles’ con- versation is in sharp contrast with that of the Miss
Dashwoods, with whom they are here engaged, both in substance and manner,
it evidently passed muster among many of the associates of the latter,
especially with their cousin Sir John Middleton, in whose house, as
relations of his wife's, the Miss Steeles are staying. Apart from the
vulgarity of thought, the diction appears low when compared with that of
most of Miss Austen's characters. As a matter of fact it is largely the
way of speech of the better society of an earlier age, which has come
down in the world, and survives among a pretentious provincial
bourgeoisie. What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is” said Lucy Steele .
'‘And Sir John too ” cried the elder sistei', “ what a charming man he is
! And what a charming little family they have ! I never saw such fine
children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed
I am always destractedly fond of children.” "I should guess so” said
Elinor with a smile “from what I witnessed this morning.” “I
have a notion” said Lucy, “you think the little Middletons rather too
much indulged ; perhaps they may be the outside of enough ; but it is
natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part I love to see children full of
life and spirits ; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet”
“I confess ” replied Elinor, “that while I am at Barton Park, I
never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence. And how do
you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood ? (said Miss Steele) I suppose you
were very sorry to leave Sussex. In some suiyrise at the familiarity of
this question, or at least in the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor
replied that she was. “Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is
not it?” added Miss Steele, “We have heard Sir John admire it
excessively,” said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for
the freedom of her sister. “ I think MISS LUCY STEELE
B11 every one admire it ’'replied Elinor, “who ever saw the
place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do." “ And had you many smart beaux there ? I
suppose you have not so many in this part of the world ; for my part I
think they are a vast addition always." “ But why should you
think " said Lucy, looking ashamec^ of her sister, “that there are
not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex." “ Nay,
my dear, Fm sure I don’t pretend to say that there an’t. Fm sure there ’s
a vast many smart beaux in Exeter ; but you know, how could I tell what
smart beaux there might be about Norland? and I was only afraid the Miss
Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton ; if they had not so many as they
used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about beaux, and
had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are
vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can’t
bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now, there’s Rose at Exeter, a pro-
digious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Simpson, you know, and
yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I sup-
pose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as
he was so rich ? " “ Upon my word," replied Elinor, “I
cannot tell you, for I do not per- fectly comprehend the meaning of the
word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married,
he is one still, for there is not the smallest alteration in
him." “ Oh ! dear 1 one never thinks of married men’s being
beaux they have something else to do." “Lord!
Anne", cried her sister, “you can talk of nothing but beaux; you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think
of nothing else."’ It is not surprising that ‘ “ this specimen
of the Miss Steeles’" was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of
the eldest left her no recommendation and as Elinor was not blinded by
the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real
elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing
them better Greetings and Farewells. Only the slightest
indication can be given of the various modes of greet- ing and bidding
farewell These seem to have been very numerous, and less stereotyped in
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries than at present. It is not easy to
be sure how soon the formulas which we now employ, or their ancestral
forms, came into current use. The same form often serves both at meeting
and parting. In 1451, Agnes Paston records, in a letter, that
"after evynsonge, Angnes Ball com to me to my closett and dad me
good evyn \ In the account, quoted above, p. 362, given by Shillingford
of his meetings with the Chancellor, about 1447, he speaks of
"saluting hym yn the moste godely wyse that y coude ' but does not
tell us the form he used. The Chancellor, however, replies "
Welcome^ ij times, and the tyme Right met come Mayer'% and helde
the Mayer a grete while faste by the honde I In the sixteenth
century a great deal of ceremonial embracing and kissing was in vogue.
Wolsey and the King of France, according to Cavendish, rode forward to
meet each other, and they embraced each other on horseback. Cavendish
himself when he visits the castle of the Lord of Cr^pin, a great
nobleman, in order to prepare a lodging for the Cardinal, is met by this
great personage, who ^ at his first coming embraced me, saying I was
right heartily welcome'. Henry VIII was wont to walk with Sir Thomas
More, ' with his arm about his neck \ The actual formula used in greeting
and leave-taking is too often un- recorded. When the French Embassy
departs from England, whom Wolsey has sb splendidly entertained,
Cavendish says ' My lord, after humble commendations had to the French
King bade them adieu'. The Earl of Shrewsbury greets the Cardinal thus ‘
My Lord, your Grace is most heartily welcome unto me', and Wolsey replies
‘Ah my gentle Lord of Shrewsbury, I heartily thank you '. It
is not until the appearance of plays that we find the actual forms of
greeting recorded with frequency. In Roister Doister, there are a fair
number: God heepe thee worshipful Master Roister Doister; Welcome my good
wenche ; God you saue and see Nourse ; and the reply to this Welcome friend Merrygreeke; Good flight Roger
old farewell Roger old knaue ; well mef^ I bid you right welcome, A
very favourite greeting is God he with you, God continue your
Lordship is a form of farewell in Chapman's Monsieur D'Olive, and God-den
‘ good evening occurs in Middleton's Chaste Maid in Cheapside. Sir Walter
Whorehoimd in the same play makes use of the formula ‘ I embrace your
acquaintance Sir \ to which the reply is vows your service Str\
Massinger's New Way to pay old Debts contains various formulas of
greeting. I ain still your creature^ says Allworth to his step-mother
Lady A. on taking leave ; of two old domestics he takes leave with ‘ rny
service to both \ and they reply ‘ ours waits on you In reply to the
simple Farewell Tom, of a friend, All worth answers ^ All joy stay with
you \ Sir Giles Overreach greets Lord Lovel with ‘ Good day to My Lord '
; and the prototype of the modern how are you is seen in Lady Allworth's
‘ Hoiv dost thou Marrall P ' A graceful greeting in this play is ‘ Fou
are happily encountered'. The later seventeenth-century comedies
exhibit the characteristic urbanity of the age in their formulas of
greeting and leave-taking. ‘ A happy day to you Madam is Victoria's
morning compliment to Mrs. Goodvile in Otway's Friendship in Fashion, and
that lady replies ‘ Dear Cousin, your humble servant'. Sir Wilfull
Witwoud in Congreve's Way of the World, says ‘ Save you Gentleman and
Lady ' on entering a room. His younger brother, on meeting him, greets
him with ‘ Four servant Brother", and the knight replies ‘ servant!
Why yours Sir, Four servant again ; "s heart, and your Friend and
Servant to that \ Tm everlastingly your humble servant, deuce take me
Madam, says Mr. Brisk to Lady Froth, in the Double Dealer.
Your servant is a very usual formula at this period, on joining or
leaving company. In Vanbrugh's Journey to London, Colonel Courtly on
entering is greeted by Lady Headpiece Colonel your servant; her daughter
Miss Betty varies it with^ Four servant Colonel, and the visitor replies
to both Ladies, your most ohedienL Mr. Trim, the formal coxcomb in
ShadwelFs Bury Fair, parts thus from his friends Sir, I kiss your hands ;
Mr, Wildish -S’/r your most humble servant; Trim Oldwii I am your most
faithful servant; Mr. Oldwit Four servant sweet il/'* Trim, Four
servant, madam good morrow to you, is Lady Arabella's greeting to Lady
Headpiece, who replies to you Madam (Vanbrugh's Journey to London). The
early eighteenth century appears not to differ materially from the
preceding in its usage. Lord Formal in Fielding's Love in Several
Masques, says Ladies your most humble servafit, and Sir Apish in the same
play Four Ladyships everlasting creature^ Epistolary
Formulas. The writing of letters, both familiar and formal, is such
an inevitable part of everyday life, that it seems legitimate to include
here some examples of the various methods of beginning and ending private
letters from the early fifteenth century onwards. A proper and
exhaustive treatment of the subject would demand a rather elaborate
classification, according to the rank and status of both the writer and
the recipient, and the relation in which they stood to each other whether
master and servant, or dependant, friend, subject, child, spouse, and so
on. In the comparatively few examples here given, out of many
thousands, nothing is attempted beyond a chronological arrangement The
status and relationship of the parties is, however, given as far as
possible. We note that the formula employed is frequently a conventional
and more or less fixed phrase which recurs, with slight variants, again
and again. At other times the opening and closing phrases are of a more
personal and individual character. 1418. Archbp* Chichele to
Hen. V, Signs simply: your preest and bede- man. Ellis, i. i. 5.
142 5. IVilL Fasten to . Right worthy and worshepfull Sir. I recom-
maunde me to you, &c. Ends : Almyghty God have you in his
governaunce. Your frend unknowen. Past. Letters, i. 19-20.
1440. Agnes to Will. Fasten. Inscribed: To my worshepful housbond
W. Paston be this letter takyn. Dere housbond I reccommaunde me to yow.
Ends : The Holy Trinite have you in governaunce. P. L. . Dtike of Buckingham to
Lord Beau 7 nont, Ryght worshipful and with all my herte right enterly
beloved brother, I recomaunde me to you, thenking right hastili your good
brotherhode for your gode and gentill letters. I beseche the blissid
Trinite preserve you in honor and prosperite. Your trewe and feithfull
broder H. Bukingham. P. L- i. 61-2. 1443. Margaret to John Paston.
Ryth worchipful husbon, I reccomande me to yow desyryng her tel y to her
of your wilfar. Almyth God have you in his kepyn and sendo yow helth,
Yorys M. Paston. P. L. i. 48-9. 1444. James Gresham to Will.
Fasten. Please it your good Lordship to wete, &c. Ends : Wretyn right
simply the Wednesday next to fore the Fest. By your laiost symple
servaunt P. L. i, 50. 1444, Duchess of Norfolk to J. Past 07 i.
Ryght tmsty and entirely wel- bclovcd we grete you wel hertily as we kan,
. . and siche agrement as, &c. ... we shall duely performe yt with
the myght of Jesu who haff you in his blissed keping. P. L. i. 57,
1444. Sir R. Ckamberlayn to Agn. Paston. Ryght worchepful cosyn, I
comand me to you. And I beseche almyty God kepe you. Your Cosyn Sir Roger
Chamberlain. 1445. Agnes to Edm. Fasten. To myn welbelovid sone. I
grete you wel. Be your Modre Angnes Paston. COLLOQUIAL IDIOM 1449, Marg, to
John Paston. Wretyn at Norwych in hast, Be your gronyng Wyfr.-~i.
76“7- 1449. Same to sa 7 ne. No mor I wryte to ^ow atte this tyme*
Your Mar- karyte Paston. i. 42-3. 1449. John Paston, Ends :
Be ^owre pore Broder* . E Its. ^ Clare to J, Paston, No raore I wrighte to
50 w at this tyme, but Holy Cost have 50W in kepyng. Wretyn in haste on
Scynt Peterys day be candel lyght, Be your Cosyn E. C. P. L. i.
89-90. 1450. Duke of Suffolk to his son. My dear and only
welbeloved sone. Your trewe and lovynge fader Suffolk. P. L. i. 12
1-2. 1450, IVilL Lomme to J, Paston, I prey you this bille may
recomaunde me to mastrases your moder and wyfe. Wretyn yn gret hast at
London. P.L. i. 126. 1450.
y. Gresham to ^ my Mats ter Whyte Esguyer\ After due recomen- dacion I
recomaund me to yow. 1450. J, Paston to above, James Gresham, I
pray you labour for the, &c. i. 145* 1450. Justice
Yelverton to Sir J, Fastolf, By your old Servaunt William Yelverton
Justice. P, L. i. 166. 1453. Agnes toJ, Paston, Sone I grete you
well and send you Godys blessyng and myn. Wretyn at Norwych ... in gret
hast, Be your moder A. Paston. P. L. i. 259. 1454. J, Paston
to Earl of Oxford* Youre servaunte to his powr John Paston. P. L. i.
276, 1454. Lord Scales to J, Paston, Our Lord have you in
governaunce. Your frend The Lord Scales. P. L. i. 289. 1454,
Thomas Howes to J, Paston, I pray God kepe yow. Wiyt at Castr hastly ij
day of September, Your owne T. Howes. P. L. i. 301. 1454. The same.
Your chapleyn and bedeman Thomas Howes. *i. 31 8. 1455. /• PoLstolf
to Duke of Norfolk, Writen at my pore place of Castre, Your humble man
and servaunt. P. L. i. 324. 1455. /. Cudworth, Bp. of Lmcoln^ to J,
Patton, And Jesu preserve you, J. Bysshopp of Lincoln. P.L. i. 350. 1456. Archbp,
Bourchier to Sir J, Fastolf, The blissid Trinitee have you everlastingly
in His keping, Written in my manoir of Lamehith, Your feith- full and
trew Th, Cant. P. L. i. 382. 1456 (Nephew to uncle). H, Fylinglay
to Sir J, Fastolf Ryght wor- shipful unkell and my ryght good master, I
recomniaund me to yow wyth all my servys. And Sir, my brother Paston and
I have, &c. Your nevew and
servaunt P. L. i. 397. 1458. John Jerningham to Marg, Paston. Nomor
I wryte unto you at this tyme. . . . Your owne umhle servant and cosyn J.
J. P, L. i. 429. 1458 (Daughter to her mother). Elh, Poynings to
Agn, Paston, Right worshipful and my most entierly belovde moder, in the
most lowly maner I recomaund me unto your gode moderhode. . . . And Jesu
for his grete mercy save yow. By your humble daughter. P. L. . Chancellor
and University of Oxford to Sir John Say, Ryght wor- shipful our trusty
and entierly welbeloued, after harty commendacyon. . . . Ends : yo’-'
trew and harty louers The Chancelir and Thuniversite of Oxon- ford. Ellis.
1477. John Paston to Ms mother* Your sone and humbyll servaunt P. P. L. iii. 176. 1481-4. Edm,
Paston to Ms mother, umble son and servant. P. L. J, Paston to Ms mother. Your sone
and trwest servaunt P. h* iii. 290. 1482. Margery Paston to
her hushaftd. No more to you at this tyme, Be your servaunt and bede
woman. iii. 293, 1485. Duke of Norfolk to J, Faston. Welbelovyd frend I
cummaund me to yow. I shall
content you at your metyng with me, Yower lover J. Nor- folk. iii.
320, 1485. Eliz, Browne to J. Paston. Your loving awnte E. B.
1485. Duke of Suffolk to f Paston, Ryght welbeloved we grete you
well. ., . Suffolk, yor frende. iii. 324-5. 1490. Bp* of
Durham to Sir fohn Paston* IH2, Xps*. Rygiit wortchipful sire, and myne
especial and of long tyme apprevyd, trusty and feythful frende, I in myne
hertyeste wyse recommaunde me un to you. . ., Scribyllyd in the moste
haste, at my castel or manoir of Aucland the xxvij of Januay. Your own
trewe luffer and frende John Duresme. iii. 363. 1490. Lumen H ary
son to Sir f Past on. Onerabyll and well be lov^^'d Knythe, I commend me
on to 5our masterchepe and to my lady 5owyr wyffe. ., . No mor than God
be wyth 50W, L. H. at ^ouyr comawndment. 1503. Q. Margaret of
Scotland to her father Hen. VII. My moste dere iorde and fader in the
most humble wyse that I can thynke I recommaunde me unto your Grace
besechyng you off your dayly blessyngys. . . . Wrytyn wyt the hand of
your humble douter Margaret. Ellis i. i. 43. Hen. VI J to his
Mother.^ the Countess of Richmond. Madam, my most enterely wilbeloved
Lady and Moder . . . with the hande of youre most humble and lovynge
sone. Ellis, i. i. 43-5. Margaret to Hen. VI 1 . My oune suet and
most deare kynge and all my worldly joy, yn as humble manner as y can
thynke I recommand me to your Grace ... by your feythful and trewe
bedewoman, and humble modyr Mar- garet R, Ellis Q. Margaret oj Scotland
to Hen. VI IL Richt excellent, richt hie and mithy Prince, our derrist
and best belovit Brothir. . . . Your louyn systar Margaret. Ellis, i. i.
65. (The Queen evidently employed a Scottish Secre- tary.)
1515. Margaret to Wolsey. Yours Margaret R. Ellis, i. i. 131.
1515. Thos. Lord Howard, Lord Admiral, to Wolsey. My owne gode
Master Awlmosner. . . . Scrybeled in gret hast in the Mary Rose at
Plymouth half o^' after xj at night . . . y^ own Thomas Howard.
. West Bp. of Ely to Wolsey. Myne especiall good Lorde in my most
humble wise I recommaund me to your Grace besechyng you to con- tynue my
gode Lorde, and I schall euer be as I am bounden your dayly bedeman. . .
. Y^ chapelayn and bedman N 1 . Elien. c. 1520. Archbp. Warham to
Wolsey. Please ityo^ moost honorable Grace to understand. ... At your
Graces commaundement, Willm. Cantuar. Ellis, iii. I. 230. Also : Euer, your own
Willm. Cantuar. Langland Bp. of Lincoln to Wolsey. My bownden duety
mooste lowly remembrede unto Your good Grace. . . . Yo^ moste humble
bedisman John Lincoln. Ellis, iii. l. 248. Cath, of Aragon to
Princess Mary. Doughter, I pray you thinke not, &c. Ellis. . Your
lovyng mother Katherine the Queue. Archibald, E. of Angus.
Addresses letter to Wolsey : To my lord Car- dinallis grace of Ingland. Ellis,
iii. i. 291. 1521. Bp. Tunstal to Wolsey. Addresses letter : to the
most reverend fader in God and his most singler good Lorde Cardinal. Ellis,
iii. i* 273. Ends a letter : By your Gracys most humble bedeman
Cuthbert TunstalL Ellis - . Duke of Buckingham to Wolsey,
Yorys to my power E. Bukyngham. Gccvin Douglas, Bp. of
Dunkeld, to Wolsey. ZgI chaplan wy^ his lawfull seruyse Gavin bischop of
Dunkeld. Ellis, iii. i. 294- Zo^ humble servytor and Chaplein of Dunkeld.
Ellis, iii. i. 296. Zo^ humble seruytor and dolorous Chaplan of Dunkeld.
Ellis, iii. i. 303- Wolsey to Gardiner {afterwards Bp. of
Winchester)* Ends : Your assurjd lover and bedysman T. Car^s Ebor. Ellis,
i. 2. 6. Again : Wryttyn hastely at Asher with the rude and shackyng hand
of your dayly bedysman and assuryd frende T. Car^^® Ebor.
1532. T/ios, AudUy {Lord Keeper) to CromwelL Yo^' assured to his
litell Thomas Audeley Gustos Sigiili. Edw. E, of Hertford
{afterwards Lord Protector). Thus I comit you to God hoo send yo^‘
lordshep as well to far as I would mi selfe . . . w^ the hand of yo^
lordshepis assured E. Hertford. Hen. VI 11 to Catherine Parr. No
more to you at thys tyme swethart both for lacke off tyme and gret occupation
off bysynes, savyng we pray you in our name our harte blessyngs to all
our chyldren, and recommendations to our cousin Marget and the rest off
the laddis and gentyll women and to our Consell alsoo. Wryttyn with the
hand off your lovyng howsbande Henry R. Ellis, i. 2. 130.
Princess Mary to CromwelL Marye Princesse. Maister Cromwell I
commende me to you. Ellis, i. 2. 24, Prince Edward to Catherine
Parr. Most honorable and entirely beloued mother. . . . Your Grace, whom
God have ever in his most blessed keping. Your louing sonne, E. Prince. Ellis,
i. 2. 13 1. . Henry Radclyf E. of Sussex, to his wife. Madame with
most lovyng and hertie commendations. Ellis, i. 2. 137.
Princess Elizabeth to Ediv. VI. Your Maiesties humble sistar to
com- maundement Elizabeth. Ellis, i. 2. 146 ; Your Maiesties most humble
sistar Elizabeth. Ellis Princess Elizabeth to Lord Protector.
Your assured frende to my litel power Elizabeth. Ellis, i. 2. 158.
Edward VI to Lord Protector Somerset. Derest Uncle. . . • Your good
neuew Edward. Ellis, ii. i. 148. Q.Mary to Lord Admiral Seymour.
Your assured frende to my power Marye. Ellis, i. 2. 153.
Princess Elizabeth to Q. Mary (on being ordered to the Tower). Your
Highnes most faithful subjec that hath bine from the begining and wyl be
to my ende, Elizabeth. (Transcr. of 1732). Ellis, ii. 2. 257.
, Princess Elizabeth to the Lords of the Council. Your verye
lovinge frende, Elizabeth- Ellis, ii. 2. 213. 1554, Henry
Darnley to Q. Mary of England. Your Maiesties moste bounden and obedient
subjecte and servant Henry Darnley. Queen Dowager to Lord Admiral
Seymour. By her ys and schalbe your humble true and lovyng wyffe duryng
her lyf Kateryn the Quenc. Ellis, i. 2. 152. Q. Mary to
Marquis of Winchester, Your Mystresse assured Marye the Queue. -Ellis,
ii. 2. 252. Sir John Grey of Pyrgo to Sir William Cecil. It is a
great while me thinkethe, Cowsine Cecill, since I sent unto you. ... By
your lovyng cousin and assured frynd John Grey. Ellis, ii, 2. 73-4; Good
cowsyne Cecil!. ., . By yo^ lovyng Cousine and assured pouer frynd
dowring lyfe John Grey. Ellis, ii. 2.
276. Lady Catherine Grey, Cmmtess of Hertford, to Sir W, Cecil.
Good cosyne Cecill . . . Your assured frend and cosyne to my small power
Katheryne Hartford. Ellis, ii. 2. 278 ; Your poore cousyne and assured
frend to my small power Katheryne Hartford. Ellis, ii. 2. 287.
1564. Sir W. Cecil to Sir Thos. Smith. Your assured for ever W.
Cecill. Ellis, ii. 2. 295 ; Yours assured W. Cecill Ellis, ii, 2. 297 ;
Your assured to command W, Cecill Ellis, ii. 2, 300. 1 566.
Duchess of Somerset to Sir W. Cecil. Good M^ Secretary, yf I have let you
alone all thys whyle I pray you to thynke yt was to tary for my L, of
Leycesters assistans. ... I can nomore . ., and so do leave you to God
Yo’^ assured lovyng frynd Anne Somerset, Ellis, ii. 288. Christopher
Jonson, Master of Winchester^ to Sir W, CeciL Right honourable my duetie
with all humblenesse consydered. . . . Your honoures most due to
commando, Christopher Jonson. Ellis, ii. 2. 313. 1569. Lacfy
Stanhope to Sir W, CeciL Right honorable, my humble dewtie premised. . .
. Your honors most humblie bound Anne Stanhope. Ellis, il 2. 324., 1574. Sir
Philip Sidney to the E. of Leicester, Righte Honorable and my singular
good Lorde and Uncle. . . . Your L. most obedi. . ., Philip Sidney.
Works, p. 345. 1576. Sir Philip Sidney to Sir Francis Walsingham,
Righte Honorable ... I most humbly recommende my selfe unto yow, and leaue
yow to the Eternals most happy protection, ., . Yours humbly at
commawndement Philipp Sidney. 1578. Sir Philip Sidney to
Edward Molineux^ Esq. (Secretary to Sir H. Sidney), Molineux, Few words
are best My letters to my father have come to the eyes of some. Neither
can I condemn any but you. . . . (The writer assures M. that if he reads
any letter of his to his father ^ without his commandment or my consent,
I will thrust my dagger into you. And trust to it, for I speak it in
earnest’. . . .) In the meantime farewell. From court this last of May 1
578, By me Philip Sidney. p. 328. 1580. Sir Philip Sidney to his
brother Robert. My dear Brother . . . God bless you sweet boy and
accomplish the joyful hope I conceive of you., . . Lord I how I have babbled :
once again farewell dearest brother. Your most loving and careful brother
Philip Sidney. 1582. Thomas Watson ^ To the frendly Reader^ (in
Passionate Centurie of Love). Courteous Reader, . . and so, for breuitie
sake aprubtlie make and end ;
committing the to God, and my worke to thy fauour. Thine as thou art his,
Thomas Watson. Anne of Denmark to James L Sir ... So kissing your
handes I remain she that will ever love Yow best, Anna R. Ellis, i. 3.
97. c. 1585. Sir Philip to Walsingham. Sir, . . your louing cosin
and frend. In several letters to Walsingham Sidney signs *your humble
Son’. ^ 1586. Wm. Webbe to Ma. (= ^ Master ’) Edward Sulyard
Esquire (Dedi- catory Epistle to the Discourse of English Poetrie). May
it please you Syr, thys once more to beare with my rudenes, &c. ... I
rest, Your worshippes faithfull Seruant W. W. 1593. Edward
Alleyn to his wife. My good sweete mouse . . . and so swett mouse
farwell. Mem. of Edw. Alleyn, L 36; my good sweetharte and loving mouse .
. . thyn ever and no bodies else by god of heaven. ibid. , Thos.,
Lord Buckhurst, afterwards Earl of Dorset^ to Sir Robert CeciL Sir . . .
Your very lo: frend T. Buckhurst. 1 , Sir W. Raleigh to Cecil. S*^
I humblie thanke yow for your letter ., . S^ I pray love vs in your
element and wee will love and honor yow in ours and every wher. And
remayne to be comanded by yow for evermore W Ralegh. 1602.
Same to same. Good Secretary. . . . Thus I rest, your very loving and
assured frend T, Buckhurst, Works, xxxiv-xi. 1603. Same to same. My
very good Lord. . ♦ . So I rest as you know, Ever yours T. Buckurst
1605, Same to same. ... I pray God for your health and for mine own
and so rest Ever yours ... 1607. Same to the University of Oxford.
Your very loving friend and Chancellor T. Dorset xlvi. cr. .
Sir Menry Wotton to Henry Prince of Wales. Youre zealous pooie servant H.
W. Ellis, i. 3* loo. Q. Anne of Denmark to Sir George Villiers
(afterwards Duke of Buc- kingham). My kind Dog. # • . So wishing you all
happiness Anna R. Ellis, i. 3, ICO. Charles Duke of York to Prince
Heniy. Most loving Brother I long to see you, . . . Your H. most loving
brother and obedient servant, Charles. Ellis, i. 3. 96. 1612.
Prince Charles to James L Your most humble and most obedient sone
and servant Charles. Ellis, i. 3. 102. Same to Viljiers. Steenie,
There is none that knowes me so well as your- self. ., . Your treu and
constant loving frend Charles P. Ellis, i. 3. 104. King Jaynes to
Buckingham or to Prince Charles, My onlie sweete and deare chylde I pray
thee haiste thee home to thy deare dade by sunne setting at the furthest.
Ellis, i. 3. 120. Sa 7 ne to Buckingham, My Steenie. . . . Your
clear dade, gosseppe and stewarde.
Ellis, i. 3, 159. Same to both. Sweet Boyes. . . . God
blesse you both my sweete babes, and sende you a safe and happie returne,
James R. Ellis, i. . Prmce Charles a?id Buckingham to James, Y’our
Majesties most humble and obedient sone and servant Charles, and your
humble slave and doge Steenie.Ellis, Buckingham to James. Dere Dad,
Gossope and Steward. . . • Your Majestyes most humble slave and doge
Steenie. Ellis, i, 3. 146-7. 1623. Lord Herbert to James, Your
Sacred Majesties most obedient, most loyal, and most affectionate
subjecte and servant, E. Herbert The letters of Sir John Suckling
(Works, ii, Reeves et Turner) are mostly undated, but one to Davenant has
the date 1629, and another to Vane that of 1632. The general
style is more modern in tone than those of any of the letters so far
referred to. (See on Suckling’s style, pp. 152-3.) The beginnings and
endings, too, closely resemble and are sometimes identical with those of
our own time. To Davenant, Vane, and several other persons of both
sexes, Suckling signs simply ^ Your humble servant J. S.’, or 'J.
Suckling’. At least two, to a lady, end * Your humblest servant The
letter to Davenant begins ‘WilL; that to Vane ‘Right Honorable’. Several
letters begin ‘ Madam ‘ My Lord one begins ‘ My noble friend
another ‘ My Noble Lord several simply ‘ Sir The more fanciful
letters, to Aglaura, begin ‘ Dear Princess ’, ‘ Fair Princess ’, ‘ My
clear Dear ‘ When I consider, my dear Princess ’, &c. One to a cousin
begins ‘ Honest Charles The habit of rounding off the
concluding sentence of a letter so that the valedictory formula and the
writer’s name form an organic part of it, a habit very common in the
eighteenth century in Miss Burney, for instance is found in Suckling’s
letters. For example : ‘ I am still the humble servant of my Lord
that 1 was, and when I cease to be so, I must cease to be John
Suckling’; ‘yet could never think myself unfortunate, while I can write myself
Aglaura her humble servant ’ ; ‘ and should you leave that lodging, more
wretched than Montferrat needs must be your humble servant J. S.’, and so
on. The longwindedness and prolixity wiiich generally distinguish
the openings and closings of letters of the fifteenth and the greater
part of the sixteenth century, begin to disappear before the end of the
latter period. Suckling is as neat and concise as the letter-writers of
the eighteenth century. ‘Madam, your most humble and faithful
servant' might serve for Dr. Johnson. Most of our modern formulas
were in use before the end of the first half of the seventeenth century,
though some of the older phrases still survive. But we no longer find
" I commend me unto your good master- ship, beseeching the Blessed
Trinity to have you in his governance and such-like lengthy
introductions. The Correspondence of Dr. Basire (see pp. 163-4) is very
instructive, as it covers the period from 1634 to 1675, by which latter
date letters have practically reached their modern form. Dr. Basire
writes in 1635-6 to Miss Frances Corbet, his fiancee, 'Deare Fanny ^
Deare Love ^ ^ Love and ends ' Your most faithfuil frend J. B.', 'Thy
faithful frend and loving servaunt J. B.", 'Your assured frend and
loving well-wisher J. B/, 'Your ever iouing frend J. B.' When Miss Corbet
has become his wife, he constantly writes to her in his exile which
lasted from 1640 to 1661, letters which apart from our present purpose
possess great human and historical interest. These letters generally
begin ' My Dearest', and ' My deare Heart', and he signs himself ' Your
very Iouing husband', 'Yours, more than ever', 'Your faithful husband', '
My dearest. Your faithful friend ', ' Yours till death ' Meanewhile
assure your selfe of the constant love of My dearest ^Your loyall husband The lady to
whom these affectionate letters were addressed, bore with wonderful
patience and cheerfulness the anxieties and sufferings incident upon a
state bordering on absolute want caused by her husband's depriva- tion of
his living under the Commonwealth, his prolonged absence, together with
the cares of a family of young children, and very indifferent health. She
was a woman of great piety, and in her letters ‘ many a holy text around
she strews ' in reply to the religious soliloquies of her husband. Her
letters all begin ' My dearest ’, and they often begin and close with
pious exclamations and phrases 'Yours as much as euer in the Lord, No,
more thene euer ' ; ' My dearest, I shall not faile to looke thos plases
in the criptur, and pray for you as becometh your obedient wife and
serunt in the Lord F. B. ’ ; another letter is headed ' Jesu 1 and
ends ' I pray God send vs all a
happy meting, I ham your faithful in the Lord, F. B.' Many of the letters
are headed with the Sacred Name. Others of Mrs. Basire's letters end 'Farwall
my dearest, I ham yours faithful for euer'; 'I euer remine Yours
faithfuil in the Lord'; 'So with my dayly prayers to God for you, I
desire to remene your faithfuil loveing and obedient wif '.
It may be worth while to give a few examples of beginnings and ends
of letters from other persons in the Basire Correspondence, to illustrate
the usage of the latter part of the seventeenth century. These
letters mostly bear, in the nature of an address, long superscrip- tions
such as 'To the Reverend and ever Honoured Doctour Basire, Prebendary of
the Cathedral Church in Durham. To be recommended to the Postmaster of
Darneton' (p. 213, dated 1662). This letter, from Prebendary Wrench
of Durham, begins ' Sir and ends ' Sir, Your faithfuil and unfeigned
humble Servant R. W.' In the same year the Bishop of St. David's
begins a letter to Dr. Basire '
Sir and ends ' Sir, youre uerie sincere friend and seruant, Wil. St,
David's, The Doctor's son begins ' Reverend Sir, and most loving
Father ' and ends with the same formula, adding ' Your very obedient Son,
P. B ^ p. 221. To his Bishop (of
Durham) Dr. Basire begins 'Right Rev. Father in God, and my very good
Lord ending ' I am still, My L<i, Your Lp 3 . faithfull Servant Isaac
Basire’. In 1666 the Bishop of Carlisle, Dr. Rainbow, evidently an old
friend of Dr. B/s, begins 'Good Mr. Archdeacon and ends ' I commend you
and yours to God’s grace and remaine,'Your very faithfull frend Edw,
Carlioi’, p. 254. In 1668 the Bishop of Durham begins ' M^
Archdeacon ’ and ends ' In the interim I shall not be wanting at this
distance to doe all I can, who am, Sir, Your very loving ffriend and
servant TJo. Duresme', p. 273. Dr. Barlow, Provost of Queen’s, begins 'My
Reverend Friend’, and ends ‘Your prayers are desired for, Sir, Your
affectionate friend and Seruant, Tho. Barlow’. Dr. Basire begins a letter
to this gentleman ‘ Rev. Sir and
my Dear Friend ’ . ., ending ' I remain, Reverend Sir, Your affectionate
frend, and faithful servant To his son Isaac, he writes in 1664 'Beloved
Son’, ending ‘So prays your very lovinge and painfull Father, Isaac
Basire ’. Having now brought our examples of the various types of
epistolary formulas down to within measurable distance of our own
practice, we must leave this branch of our subject. Space forbids us to
examine and illus- trate here the letters of the eighteenth century, but
this is the less necessary as these are very generally accessible. The
letters of that age, formal or intimate, but always so courteous in their
formulas, are known to most readers. Some allusion has already been made
(pp. 20-1) to the tinge of ceremoniousness in address, even among
friends, which survives far into the eighteenth century, and may *be seen
in the letters of Lady Mary Montagu, of Gray, and Horace Walpole, while
as late as the end of the century we find in the letters of Cowper,
unsurpassed perhaps among this kind of literature for grace and charm,
that combination of stateliness with intimacy which has now long passed
away. Exclamations, Expletives, Oaths, &e. Under these
heads comes a wide range of expressions, from such as are mere
exclamations with little or no meaning for him who utters or for him who
hears them, or words and phrases added, by way of emphasis, to an
assertion, to others of a more formidable character which are
deliberately uttered as an expression of spleen, disappointment, or rage,
with a definitely blasphemous or injurious intention. In an age like
ours, where good breeding, as a rule, permits only exclamations of the
mildest and most meaningless kind, to express temporary annoyance,
disgust, surprise, or pleasure, the more full-blooded utterances of a
former age are apt to strike u$ as excessive. Exclamations which to those
who used them meant no more than ' By Jove ’ or ' my word ’ do to us,
would now, if they were revived appear almost like rather blasphemous
irreve- rence. It must be recognized, however, that swearing, from its
mildest to its most outrageous forms, has its own fashions. These vary
from age to age and from class to class. In every age there are
expressions which are permissible among well-bred people, and others
which are not. In certain circles an expression may be regarded with
dislike, not so much because of any intrinsic wickedness attributed to it,
as merely because it is vulgar. Thus there are many sections of society
at the present time where such an expression as ‘ O Crikey * is not in
use. No one would now pretend that in its present form, whatever may
underlie it, this exclamation is peculiarly blasphemous, but many persons
would regard it with disfavour as being merely rather silly and
distinctly vulgar. It is not a gentleman’s expression. On the other hand,
^ Good Heavens \ or ^ Good Gracious \ while equally innocuous in meaning
and intention, would pass muster perhaps, except among those who object,
as many do, to anything more forcible than ‘ dear me \ Human
nature, even when most restrained, seems occasionally to require some
meaningless phrase to relieve its sudden emotions, and the more devoid of
all association with the cause of the emotion the better will the
exclamation serve its purpose. Thus some find solace in such a formula as
‘ O liitle haiC which has the advantage of being neither particularly
funny nor of overstepping the limits of the nicest decorum, unless indeed
these be passed by the mere act of expressing any emotion at all. It is
really quite beside the mark to point out that utterances of this kind
are senseless. It is of the very essence of such outbursts the mere
bubbles on the fountain of feeling ^that they are quite unrelated to any
definite situation. There is a certain adjective, most offensive to
polite ears, which plays apparently the chief r 61 e in the vocabulary of
large sections of the community. It seems to argue a certain poverty of
linguistic resource when we find that this word is used by the same
speakers both to mean absolutely nothing being placed before every noun,
and often adverbially before all adjectives and also to mean a great deal
everything indeed that is unpleasant in the highest degree. It is rather
a curious fact that the word in question while always impos- sible,
except perhaps when used as it were in inverted commas, in such a way
that the speaker dissociates himself from all responsibility for, or
proprietorship in it, would be felt to be father more than ordinarily
intolerable, if it were used by an otherwise polite speaker as an
absolutely meaningless adjective prefixed at random to most of the nouns
in a sen- tence, and worse than if it were used deliberately, with a
settled and full intent. There is something very terrible in an oath torn
from its proper home and suddenly implanted in the wrong social
atmosphere. In these circumstances the alien form is endowed by the
hearers with mysterious and uncanny meanings ; it chills the blood and
raises gooseflesh. We do not propose here to penetrate into the sombre
history of blasphemy proper, nor to exhibit the development through the
last few centuries of the ever-changing fashions of profanity. At every
period there has been, as Chaucer knew a companye Of yonge
folk, that haunteden folye, As ryot, hasard, stewes and
tavemes, Wher-as with harpes, lutes and gitemes, They daunce and pleye at
dees both day and night, And ete also and drinken over hit
might, Thurgh which they doon the devel sacrifyse Within the
develes tempel in cursed wyse, By superfiuitee abhominable;
c c 2 Hir othes been so grete and so dampnable^
That it is grisly for to here hem swere; Our blissed lordes
body they to-tere; Hem though te Jewes rent him noght
y-nough. We are concerned, for the most part, with the milder sort
of expres- sions which serve to decorate discourse, without symbolizing
any strong feeling on the part of those who utter them. Some of the
expletives which in former ages were used upon the slightest occasion,
would certainly appear unnecessarily forcible for mere exclamations at
the present day, and the fact that such expressions were formerly used
so lightly, and with no blasphemous intention, shows how frequent
must have been their employment for familiarity to have robbed them of
all meaning. So saintly a person as Sir Thomas More was
accustomed, according to the reports given of his conversation by his
son-in-law, to make use of such formulas as a Gods name^ p. xvi ; would
to God, ibid. ; in good faith, xxviii, but compared with some of the
other personages mentioned in his Life, he is very sparing of such
phrases. The Duke of Norfolk, ‘his singular deare friend*, coming to dine
with Sir Thomas on one occasion, ‘ fortuned to find him at Church
singinge in the quiere with a surplas on his backe ; to whome after
service, as the(y) went home togither arme in arme, the duke said, “ God
body, God body, My lord Chauncellor, a parish Clark, a parish Clarke ! On
another occasion the same Duke said to him ^ By the Masse, Moore, it is
perillous strivinge with Princes ... for Gode's body, Moore, Indignatio
principis mors est *, p. xxxix. In the conversation in prison, with his
wife, quoted above, p. 364, we find that the good gentlewoman ‘ after her
accustomed fashion * gives vent to such exclama- tions as ‘ What the
goody ear e Moore ' : ‘ Tille mile, tille vallc ' ; ^ Bone deus,
hone Deus man \ ‘ I muse what a Gods name you meane here thus fondly to
tarry*. At the trial of Sir Thomas More, the Lord Chief Justice swears by
St, Julian ‘ that was ever his oath p.
li. ‘ Tilly folly, Sir John, ne’er tell me and ‘ What the good year
! ' are both also said by Mrs. Quickly in Henry IV, Pt. II, ii. 4. Marry,
which means no more than ‘ indeed *, was a universally used expletive in
the sixteenth century, Roper uses it in speaking to More, Wolsey uses
it, according to Cavendish ; it is frequent in Roister Doister, and is
con- stantly in the mouths of Sir John Falstaff and his merry
companions. By sweete Sanct Anne, by cocke, by gog, by cocks precious
potsiick, kocks nownes, by the armes of Caleys, and the more formidable
by the passion of God Sir do not so, all occur in Roister Doister, and
further such exclama- tions as O Lords, hoigh dagh !, I dare sweare, I
shall so God me saue, I make God a vow (also written avow), would Christ
I had, &c. Meaning- less imprecations like the Devil take me, a
mischiefe take his token and him and thee too are sprinkled about the
dialogue of this play. The later plays of the great period offer a mine
of material of this kind, but only a few can be mentioned here. What a
Devil (instead of the Devil), what a pox, hfr lady, bounds, d blood, Gods
body, by the mass, a plague on thee, are among the expressions in the
First Part of Henry IV, In the Second Part Mr. Justice Shallow swears by
cock and pie. By the side of these are mild formulas such as Tm a Jew
else^ Tm a rogue if I drink today. In Chapman’s comedies there is a
rich sprinkling both of the slighter forms of exclamatory phrases, as
well as of the more serious kind. Of the former we may note j/ faitk^ Ur
lord^ Ur lady, by the Lord, How the divell (instead of how a devil), all
in A Humorous Day's Mirth ; He he sworne, All Fooles; of the latter kind
of expression Gods precious soles., H. D. M. ; sjoot, shodie, God^s my
life, Mons. D'Olive ; Gods my passion, H. D. M. ; swounds, zwoundes,
Gentleman Usher. Massinger's New Way to pay old Debts has 'slight,
'sdeath, and a fore- shadowing of the form of asseveration so common in the
later seventeenth century in the phrase ‘ If I know the mystery may I
perish ii. 2, It is to the dramatists of the later seventeenth and
early eighteenth century that the curious inquirer will go for expletives
and exclamatory expressions of the greatest variety. Otway, Congreve, and
Vanbrugh appear to excel all their predecessors and contemporaries in the
fertility of their invention in this respect. It is indeed probable that
while some of the sayings of Mr. Caper, my Lady Squeamish, my Lady Plyant,
my Lord Foppington, and others of their kidney, are the creations of the
writers who call these ' strange pleasant creatures ' into existence,
many others were actually current coin among the fops and fine ladies of
the period. Even if many phrases used by these characters are artificial
con- coctions of the dramatists they nevertheless are in keeping with,
and express the spirit and manners of the age. If Mr. Galsworthy or
Mr. Bernard Shaw were to invent corresponding slang at the present day,
it would be very different from that of the so-called Restoration
Dramatists. The bulk of the following selection of expletives and oaths
is taken from the plays of Otway, Congreve, Wycherley, Mrs. Aphra
Behn, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar. A few occur in Shadwell, and many
more are common to all writers of comedies. These are undoubtedly
genuine current expressions some of which survive. Among the
more racy and amusing are : Ld me
die : ‘ Let me die your Ladyship obliges me beyond expression* (Mr. Saunter
in Otway's Friendship in Fashion) ; ^ Let me die, you have a great deal
of wit' (Lady Froth, Congreve's Double Dealer); also much used by
Melantha, an affected lady in Dryden's Marriage \ la Mode. . .
1 Ld me perish ‘ I'm your humble servant let me perish ' (Brisk,
Double Dealer) ; also used by Wycherley, Love in a Wood.
^le (Vanbrugh's Relapse), Death and eternal iartures Sir, I
vow the packet's (= pocket) too high (Lord Foppington), Burn
me if I do (Farquhar, Way to win him). Mai me, ^ rat my packet
handkerchief (Lord Foppington). Never Never stir if it did not'
(Caper, Otway, Friendship in Love) ; * Thou shalt enjoy me always,
dear, dear friend, never stir '• BU take my death you're handsomer
' (Mrs. Millamont, Congreve, Way of the World)., Bm a
Person (Lady Wishfort, Way of the World). Stap my vitals (Lord Foppington
; very frequent). Split my wmdpipe Lord Foppington gives his
brother his blessing, on finding that the latter has married by a trick
the lady he had designed for himself 'You have married a woman beautiful
in her person, charming in her airs, prudent in her canduct, canstant in
her inclina- tions, and of a nice marality split my windpipe
As I hope to breathe (Lady Lurewell, Farquhar, Sir Harry Wildair),
Tm a Dog if do (Wittmore in Mrs. Behn’s Sir Patient Fancy).
By the Universe (Wycherley, Country Wife). I swear and
declare (Lady Plyant) ; / swear and vow (Sir Paul Plyant, Double Dealer)
; I do protest and vow (Sir Credulous Easy, Aphra Behn’s Sir Patient
Fancy) ; I protest I swoon at ceremony (Lady Fancyfull, Vanbrugh,
Provok'd Wife) ; 1 profess ingenuously a very discreet young man (Mrs,
Aphra Behn, Sir Patient Fancy). Gads my hfe (Lady Plyant).
O Crimine (Lady Plyant). O Jeminy (Wycherley, Mrs. Pinchwife,
Country Wife). Gad take me, between you and I, I was deaf on both
ears for three weeks after (Sir Humphrey, Shadwell, Bury Fair).
ril lay my Life he deserves your assistance (Mrs. Sullen, Farquhar,
Beaux' Strategem). By the Lord Harry (Sir Jos. Wittol, Congreve,
Old Bachelor). the universe (Wycherley, Mrs. Pinchwife, Country
Wife). Gadzooks (Heartfree, Vanbrugh, Provok'd Wife) ; Gadt s Bud
(Sir Paul Plyant, Double Dealer) ; Gud soons (Lady Arabella, Vanbrugh,
Journey to London) ; Marry-gep (Widow Blackacre, Wycherley, Plain Dealer)
; ^sheart (Sir Wilful, Congreve, Way of the World) ; Eh Gud, eh Gud
(Mrs. Fantast, Shadwell, Bury Fair); Zoz I was a modest fool; ads^- zoz
(Sir Credulous Easy, Devonshire Knight, Aphra Behn, Sir Petulant Fancy);
'D's diggers Sir (a groom in Sir Petulant Fancy); ^sheart (Sir Wilf.
Witwoud, Congreve, Way of the World); odsheart (Sir Noble Clumsey, Otway,
Friendship in Fashion); Adsheart (fkx Jos, Wittol, Congreve, Old Bachelor)
; Gadswouns (Oldfox, Plain Dealer). By the side of marry, frequent in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the curious expression Marry come up
my dirty cousin occurs in Swift's Polite Conversations (said by the young
lady), and again in Fielding's Tom Jones said by the lady's maid Mrs.
Honor. With this compare marry gep above, which probably stands for ' go
up Such expressions as Lard are frequent in the
seventeenth-century comedies, and the very modern-sounding as sure as a
gun is said by Sir Paul Plyant in the Double Dealer. The
comedies of Dryden contain but few of the more or less mild, and
fashionable, semi-bantering exclamatory expressions which enliven the
pages of many of his contemporaries ; he sticks on the whole to the more
permanent oaths 'sdeath, ^sblood, &c. It must be allowed that the
dialogue of Dry den's comedies is inferior to that of Otway or Congreve
in brilliancy and natural ease, and that it probably does not reflect the
familiar colloquial English of the period so faithfully as the
conversation in the works of these writers. Dryden himself says, in the
Defense of the Essay of Dramatic Poesy, ' I know I am not so fitted by
Nature to write Comedy : 1 want that Gaiety of Flumour which is required
to it. My Conversation is slow and dull, my Humour Saturnine and reserv’d
: In sliortj I am none of those who endeavour to break all Jests in
Com- pmy, or make Repartees It may be noted that the frequent
use almost in ever;^ sentence of such phrases as A/ me perish, hum me,
and other meaningless interjec- tions of this order, is attributed by the
dramatists only to the most frivolous fops and the most affected women of
fashion. The more serious characters, so far as such exist in the later
seventeenth-century comedies, aie addicted rather to the weightier and
more sober sort of swearing. It is perhaps unnecessary to pursue this
subject beyond the* first third of the eighteenth century. Farquhar has
many of the manner- isms of his slightly older contemporaries, and some
stronger expressions, e. g. ‘ There was a neighbour's daughter I had a
woundy kindness for Truman, in Twin Rivals ; but Fielding in his numerous
comedies has but few of the objurgatory catchwords of the earlier
generation. Swearing, both of the lighter kind as well as of the
deliberately profane variety, appears to have diminished in intensity,
apart from the stage country squire, suc h as Squire Badger in Don
Quixote, who says ^ShodUkins and ecod, and Squire Western, whose artless
profanity is notorious. Ladies in these plays, and in Swift's Polite
Conversations, still say lard, O Ltid, and la, and mercy, ^shuhs, God
bless my eyesight, but the rich variety of expression which we find in
Lady Squeamish and her friends has vanished. Some few of the old mouth-filling
oaths, such as zounds, ^sdeath, and so on, still linger in Goldsmith and
Sheridan, but the number of these available for a gentleman was very
limited by the end of the century. From the beginning of the nineteenth
century it would seem that nearly all the old oaths died out in good
society, as having come to be considered, from unfamiliarity, either too
profane or else too devoid of content to serve any purpose. It seems to
be the case that the serious oaths survive longest, or at any rate die
hardest, while each age produces its own ephemersil formulas of mere
light expletive and asseveration. Hyperbole ; Compliments ;
Approval ; Disapproval ; Abuse, Very characteristic of a particular
age is the language of hyperbole and exaggeration as found in phrases
expressive on the one hand of compliments, pleasure, approval, amusement,
and so on, and of disgust, dislike, anger, and kindred emotions, on the
other. Incidentally, the study of the different modes of expressing such
feelings as these leads us also to observe the varying fashion in
intensives, corresponding to the present-day awfully, frightfully, and
the rest, and in exaggeration generally, especially in paying
compliments. The following illustrations are chiefly drawn from the
seventeenth century, which offers a considerable wealth of
material. It is wonderful what a variety of expressions have been
in use, more or less transitorily, at different periods, as intensives,
meaning no more than i>iry, very much, &c. Rarely in Chapman^s
Gentleman Usher ^How did you like me
aunt? 0 rarely, rarely \ ^Oh lord, that, that is a pleasure intolerahU \
Lady Squeamish in Otway’s Friendship in Love ; ‘Let me die if that was
not extravaganily pleasant vtry amusing), ibid. ; ^ I vow he himself
sings a tune extreme prettily \ ibid. : ‘ I love dancing immoderately \
ibid. ; ‘ O dear ’tis violent hot \ ibid. ; ‘ Deuce take me if your
Ladyship has not the art of surprising the most naturally in the world I
hope you'll make me happy in communicating the Poem Brisk in Congreve's
Double Dealer ; ‘With the reserve of my Honour, I aSvSure you Careless, I
don't know anything in the World I would refuse to a Person so
meritorious You’ll pardon my want of expression', Lady Plyant in Double
Dealer; to which Careless replies ‘O your “Xadyship is abounding in all
Excellence^ particularly that of Phrase ; My Lady Froth is very well in
her Accomplishments But it is when my Lady Plyant is not thought of if
that can ever be ' ; Lady Plyant : ‘O you
overcome me That is so excessive' ; Brisk, asked to write notes to Lady
Froth's Poems, cries ‘ With all my Heart and Soul, and proud of the vast
Honour let me perish ‘ I swear Careless you are very alluring^ and say so
many fine Things, and nothing is so moving as a fine Thing. ., . Well,
sure if I escape your Importunities, I shall value myself as long as I
live, I swear ; Lady Plyant. The following bit of dialogue between Lady
Froth and Mr. Brisk illustrates the fashionable mode of bandying exaggerated,
but i*ather hollow compliments. ‘ Ldy P. Ah Gallantry to the last
degree Brisk was ever anything so well bred as My Lord ? Brisk Never
anything but your Ladyship let me perish. Ldy F, O prettily turned again
; let me die but you have a great deal of Wit. Mellefont don^t you think
Brisk has a World of Wit ? MeUefont O yes Madam. Brisk O dear Madam Ldy F» An mfinite deal! Brisk, O Heaven
Madam. 'Ldy F. More Wit than Body. Brisk Pm everlastingly your humble
Servant^ deuce take me Madam. Lady Fancyful in Vanbrugh’s Provok'd
Wife contrives to pay herself a pretty compliment in lamenting the
ravages of her beauty and the con- sequent pretended annoyance to herself
‘ To confess the truth to you, Fm so everlastingly fatigued with the
addresses of unfortunate gentlemen that were it not for the extravagancy
of the example, I should e'en tear out these wicked eyes with my own
fingers, to make both myself and mankind easy Swift's Polite
Conversations consist of a wonderful string of slang words, phrases, and
clicMs^ all of which we may suppose to have been current in the
conversation of the more frivolous part of Society in the early
eighteenth century. The word pure is used for very ‘ this almond pudden
is pure good ’ ; also as an Adj., in the sense of excellent^ as in ‘ by
Dad he's pure Company \ Sir Noble Clumsey's summing-up of the 'Arch- Wag'
Malagene. To divert in the characteristic sense of ‘amuse', and instead
of this ‘ Well ladies and gentlemen, you are pleased to divert
yourselves'. Lady Wentworth speaks of
her ‘munckey' as ‘ full of devertin tricks and twenty years earlier Cary
Stewkley (Verney), taxed by her brother with a propensity for gambling,
writes ‘ whot dus becom a gentilwoman as plays only for divariion I hope
I know The idiomatic use of obliging is shown in the Polite
Conversations, by Lady Smart, who remarks, in answer to rather excessive
praise of her house ‘ My lord, your lordship is always very obliging ' ;
in the same sense Lady Squeamish says 'I sweai*e Mr. Malagene you are a
very obliging person \ Extreme amusement, and approval of the
persons who provoke it, are frequently expressed with considerable
exaggeration of phrase. Some instances are quoted above, but a few more
may be added^. ‘ A you mad slave you, you are a ticUing Acior\ says
Vincentio to Pogio in Chapman’s Gentleman Usher. Mr. Oldwit,
in Shadwelbs Bury Fair, professes great delight at the buffoonery of Sir
Humphrey : ‘ Forbear, pray forbear ; you'll be the death of me ; 1 shall
break a vein if I keep you company, you arch Wag you, . . . Well Sir
Humphrey Noddy, go thy ways, thou art the ar«hesT Wit and Wag. I must
forswear thy Company, thou'lt kill me elsei' The arch wag asks ' What is
the World worth without Wit and Waggery and Mirth ? and describing some
prank he had played before an admiring friend, remarks Mf you’d seen his
Lordship laugh! I thought my Lord would have killed himself. He desired
me at last to forbear ; he was not able to endure it! 'Why what a notable
Wag^s this" is said sarcastically in Mrs. Aphra Behn’s Sir Patient Fancy.
The passages quoted above, pp. 369-71, from Otway’s Friendship in
Love illustrate the modes of expressing an appreciation of ' Waggery
In the tract Reasons of Mr. Bays for changing his religion (1688),
Mr. Bays (Dryden) remarks a propos of something he intends to write ^you 'll half kill yourselves with laughing at
the conceit and again ' I protest Ml’ Crites you are enough to make
anybody split with laugh- ing', Similarly 'Miss’ in Polite Conversation
declares 'Well, I swear you'll make one die with laughing The
language of abuse, disparagement, contempt, and disapproval, whether real
or in the nature of banter, is equally characteristic. The
following is uttered with genuine anger, by Malagene Goodvile in Otway’s
Friendship in Love, to the njusicians who are entertaining the company '
Hold, hold, what insufferable rascals are these ? Why you scurvy
thrashing scraping mongrels, ye make a worse noise than crampt hedgehogs.
’Sdeath ye dogs, can’t you play more as a gentleman sings ? ’
The seventeenth-century beaux and fine ladies were adepts in the
art of backbiting, and of conveying in a few words a most unpleasant
picture of an absent friend 'O my Lady Toothless’ cries Mr. Brisk in
the Double Dealer, ' O she ’s a mortifying spectacle, she "s always
chewing the cud like an old Ewe ’ ; ' Fie M*^ Brisk, Eringos for her
cough ’ pro- tests Cynthia ; Lady Froth :
' Then that t’other great strapping Lady I can't hit of her name ;
the old fat fool that paints so exorbitantly ’ ; Brisk : ' I know whom
you mean But deuce take me I can't hit of her Name neither Paints d’ye
say ? Why she lays it on with a trowel’ Mr. Brisk knows well how to
'just hint a fault ' Don't you apprehend me My Lord? Careless is a very
honest fellow, but harkee ^you under- stand me somewhat heavy, a little
shallow or so Lady Froth has a picturesque vocabulary to express
disapproval '0 Filthy M** Sneer? he's a nauseous figure, a most fulsamic
Fop . Nauseous and filthy are favourite words in this period, but are
often used so as to convey little or no specific meaning, or in a tone of
rather affectionate banter. ^ He ’s one of those nauseous offerers at wit
Wycherley’s Country Wife ; ^ A man must endeavour to look wholesome ’
says Lord Foppington in Vanbrugh's Relapse, ‘lest he make so nauseous a
figure in the side box, the ladies should be compelled to turn their eyes
upon the Play ’ ; again the same nobleman remarks ‘ While I was but a
Knight I was a very nauseous fellow ’ ; and, speaking to his tailor I
shall never be reconciled to this nauseous packet A remarkable use of the
verb, to express a simple aversion, is found in Mrs. Millamont’s ^ I
nauseate walking ; 'tis a country divertion ' (Congreve, Way of the
World). In the Old Bachelor, Belinda, speaking of Belmour with whom
she is Th In^e, cries out, at the suggestion of such a possibility ‘ Filthy Fellow I ... Oh I love your
hideous fancy I Ha, ha, ha, love a Man 1 ' In the same play Lucy the maid
calls her lover, Setter, ‘ Beast, filthy toad ’ during an exchange of
civilities. ‘ Foh, you filthy toad I nay, now IVe done jesting ’ says
Mrs. Squeamish in the Country Wife, when Horner kisses her. ‘Out upon you
for a filthy creature' cries ‘Miss^ in the Polite Conversations, in reply
to the graceful banter of Neverout. Toad is a term of endearment
among these ladies ; ‘ I love to torment the confounded toad' says Lady
Fidget, speaking of Mr. Horner for whom she has a very pronounced
weakness. ‘ Get you gone you good- natur’d toad you ' is Lady Squeamish's
reply to the rather outre compli- ments of Sir Noble. Plague
(Vb.), plaguy^ plaguily are favourite expressions in Polite Con-
versations. Lord Sparkish complains to his host ‘ My Lord, this venison
is plaguily peppered ' ; ' 'Sbubs, Madam, I have burnt my hand with your
plaguy kettle ' says Neverout, and the Colonel observes, with satisfaction,
that ‘ her Ladyship was plaguily bamb'd ‘ Don't be so teizing ; you
plague a body so ! can't you keep your filthy hands to yourself? ' is a
playful rap administered by ‘ Miss ' to Neverout. Strange is
another word used very indefinitely but suggesting mild disapproval ‘ I
vow you'll make me hate you if you talk so strangely, but let me die, I
can't last longer ' says Lady Squeamish, implying a certain degree of
impropriety, which nevertheless makes her laugh ; again, she says, ‘I'll
vow and swear my cousin Sir Noble is a strange pleasant creature
We have an example above of exorbitantly in the sense of ‘out-
rageously', and the adjective is also used in the same sense ^‘Most
exorbitant and amazing' is Lady Fantast’s comment, in Bury Fair, upon her
husband's outburst against her airs and graces. We may close this series
of illustrations, which might be extended almost indefinitely, with two
from the Verney Memoirs, which contain idiomatic uses that have long
since disappeared. Susan Verney, wishing to say that her sister's husband
is a bad-tempered disagreeble fellow, writes ‘poore peg has married a
very humersome cros boy as ever I see' (Mem.). Edmund Verney, Sir Ralph's
heir, having had a quarrel with a neigh* bouring squire concerning
boundaries and rights of way, describes him as ‘very malicious and
stomachfull' (Mem.). The phrase ‘as ever I see' is common in the Verney
letters, and also in the Wentworth Papers. Preciosity, &c.
We close this chapter with some examples of seventeenth-century
preciosity and euphemism. The most characteristic specimens of this kind
of affected speech are put by the writers into the mopths of female
characters, and of these we select Shadwell's Lady Fantast and her
daughter (Bury Fair), Otway's Lady Squeamish, Congreve's Lady Wishfort,
and Vanbrugh's Lady Fancyful in the Provok'd Wife. Some of the sayings of
a few minor characters may be added ; the waiting- maids of these
characters are nearly as elegant, and only less absurd than their mistresses.
Luce, Lady Fantast's woman, summons the latter's stepdaughter as
follows : ^ Madam, my Lady Madam Fantast, having attir'd herself in her
morning habiliments, is ambitious of the honour of your Ladyship's
Company to survey the Fair ' ; and she thus announces to her mistress the
coming of Mrs. Gertrude the stepdaughter :
‘ Madame, M^s Gatty ' will kiss your Ladyship's hands here
incontinently '. The ladies Fan- tast, highly respectable as they are in
conduct, are as arrant, pretentious, and affected minxes as can be found,
in manner and speech, given to interlarding their conversation with sham
French, and still more dubious Latin. Says the daughter ‘To all that which the World calls Wit
and Breeding, I have always had a natural Tendency, a penchen^ derived,
as the learned say, ex traduce, from your Ladyship : besides the
great Prevalence of your Ladyship's most shining Example has
perpetually stimulated me, to the sacrificing all my Endeavours towards
the attaining of those inestimable Jewels ; than which, nothing in the
Universe can be so much a mon gre, as the French say. And for Beauty,
Madam, the stock I am enrich'd with, comes by Emanation from your
Ladyship, who has been long held a Paragon of Perfection : most Charmanf,
most Tuant! ‘Ah my dear Child' replies the old lady, ‘II alas, alas 1
Time has been, and yet I am not quite gone . When Gertrude her
stepsister, an attractive and sensible girl, comes in Mrs. Fantast greets
her with ‘ Sweet Madam Gatty, I have some minutes impatiently expected
your Arrival, that I might do myself the Great Honour to kiss your hands
and enjoy the Favour of your Company into the Fair ; which I see out of
my Window, begins to fill apace.' To this piece of afifectation
Gatty replies very sensibly, ‘ I got ready as soon as e'er I could, and
am now come to wait on you ', but old Lady Fantast takes her to task,
with ‘ Oh, fie, Daughter ! will you never attain to mine, and my dear
Daughter's Examples, to a more polite way of Expression, and a nicer form
of Breeding ? Fie, fie ; I come to wait on you! You should have said; I
assure you Madam the Honour is all on my side ; and I cannot be ambitious
of a greater, than the sweet Society of so excellent a Person. This is
Breeding/ ‘Breeding!' exclaims Gatty, ‘ Why this had been a Flam, a meer
Flam And with this judgement, we may leave My Lady Fantast. We pass
next to Lady Squeamish, who is rather ironically described by Goodvile as
‘the most exact Observer of Decorums and Decency alive Her manner of
greeting the ladies on entering, along with her cousin Sir Noble Clumsey,
if it has the polish, has also the insincerity of her age' Dear Madam
Goodvile, ten thousand Happinesses wait on you ! Fair Madam Victoria,
sweet charming Camilla, which way shall I express my Service to you ? Cousin
your honour, your honour to the Ladies. Sir Noble : Ladies as low as Knee can bend, or
Head can bow, I salute you all : And Gallants, I am your most humble,
most obliged, and most devoted Servant/ The character of this
charming lady, as well as her taste in language, is well exhibited in the
following dialogue between her and Victoria. Oh my dear Victoria !
the most unlock’d for Happiness ! the pleasantest Wlc^ent ! the strangest
Discovery ! the very thought of it were enough to cure Melancholy.
Valentine and Camilla, Camilla and Valentine, ha, ha, ha, Viet,
Dear Madam, what is ’t so transports you ? Ldy Sqti, Nay ’tis too
precious to be communicated : Hold me, hold me, or I shall die with
laughter ha, ha, ha, Camilla and
Valentine, Valentine and Camilla, ha, ha, ha 0 dear, my Heart’s
broke. Viet, Good Madam refrain your Mirth a little, and let me
know the Story, that I may have a share in it. Ldy Squ, An
Assignation, an Assignation tonight in the lower Garden ; by strong good Fortune I overheard it all just
now but to think of the pleasant
Consequences that will happen, drives me into an Excess of Joy beyond all
sufferance. Viet, Madame in all probability the pleasantest
Consequence is like to be theirs, if any body’s ; and I cannot guess how
it should touch your Ladyship in the least. Ldy Squ, O Lord,
how can you be so dull ? Why, at the very Hour and Place appointed will I
greet Valentine in Camilla’s stead, before she can be there herself ;
then when she comes, expose her Infamy to the World, till I have thorowly
revenged my self for all the base Injuries her Lover has done me.
Viet But Madam, can you endure to be so malicious ? Ldy Squ,
That, that ’s the dear Pleasure of the thing ; for I vow I’d sooner die
ten thousand Deaths, if I thought I should hazard the least Temptation to
the prejudice of my Honour. Viet, But why should your Ladyship run
into the mouth of Danger? Who knows what scurvy lurking Devil may stand
in readiness, and seize your Virtue before you are aware of him ?
Ldy Squ, Temptation? No, I’d have you know I scorn Temptation: I
durst trust myself in a Convent amongst a Kennel of cramm’d Friers:
Besides, that ungrateful ill-bred fellow Valentine is iny mortal
Aversion, more odious to me than foul weather on a May-day, or ill smell
in a Morning. ... No, were I inclined to entertain Addresses, I assure
you I need not want for Servants ; for I swear I am so perplexed with Billet-Doux^
every day, I know not which way to turn myself: Besides there’s no
Fidelity, no Honour in Mankind. O dear Victoria I whatever you do, never
let Love come near your Heart : Tho really 1 think true Love is the
greatest Pleasure in the World.’ And so we let Lady Squeamish
go her ways for a brazen jilt, and an affected, humoursome baggage. If
any one wishes to know whither her ways led her, let him read the
play. Only one more example of foppish refinement of speech from
this play the remarks of the whimsical Mr. Caper to Sir Noble Clumsey,
who coming in drunk, takes him for a dandng-master ^ I thought you had known me’ says he,
rather ruefully, but adds, brightening 'I doubt you may be a little overtaken.
Faith, dear Heart, Fm glad to see you so merry I ’ The
character of Lady Wishfort in the Way of the World is perhaps one of the
best that Congreve has drawn; her conversation in spite of the deliberate
affectation ir^ phrase is vivid and racy, and for all its preciosity has
a naturalness which puts it among the triumphs of Con- greve’s art. He
contrives to bring out to the full the absurdity of the lady’s
mannerisms, in feeling and expression, to combine these with vigour and
ease of diction, and to give to the whole that polish of which he is the
unquestioned master in his own age and for long after. The position
of Lady Wishfort is that of an elderly lady of great ouii ward propriety
of conduct, and a steadfast observer of decorum, in sjl^ch no less than
in manners. Her equanimity is considerably upset by the news that an
elderly knight has fallen in love with her portrait, and wishes to press
his suit with the original. The pretended knight is really a valet in
disguise, and the whole intrigue has been planned, for reasons into which
we need not enter here, by a rascally nephew of Lady Wishfort’s. This,
however, is not discovered until the lover has had an interview with the
sighing fair. The first extract reveals the lady discussing the coming
visit with Foible her maid (who is in the plot). ‘ I shall never
recompose my Features to receive Sir Rowland with any Oeconomy of Face Fm
absolutely decayed. Look, F oible. Foible, Your Ladyship has
frown’d a little too rashly, indeed Madam. There are some Cracks
discernible in the white Varnish. Ldy W, Let me see the Glass
Cracks say’st thou ? Why I am arrantly flead (e. g. flayed) I look like
an old peel’d Wall. Thou must repair me Foible before Sir Rowland comes,
or I shall never keep up to my picture. F, I warrant you, Madam ; a
little Art once made your picture like you ; and now a little of the same
Art must make you like your Picture. Your Picture must sit for you,
Madam. Ldy W, But art thou sure Sir Rowland will not fail to come ?
Or will he not fail when he does come? Will he be importunate, Foible,
and push? For if he should not be importunate ... I shall never break
Decorums I shall die with Confusion ; if I am forc’d to advance O
no, I can never advance. ... I shall swoon if he should expect Advances.
No, I hope Sir Rowland is better bred than to j)ut a Lady to the
Necessity of breaking her Forms. I won’t be too coy neither. I won’t give
him Despair But a little Disdain is not amiss ; a little Scorn is
2X\mm%,--Foible.--h little Scorn becomes your Ladyship . Ldy IV. Yes, but Tendeimess becomes me
best A Sort of a Dyingness You see that Picture has a Sort of a Ha Foible
! A Swimmingness in the Eyes Yes, I’ll look so My Neice affects it but
she wants Features. Is Sir Rowland handsom ? Let my Toilet be remov’d
I’ll dress above. I’ll receive Sir Rowland here. Is he handsom ? Don’t
answer me. I won’t know : I’ll be surpris’d ; He’ll be taken by Sm-
prise. By Storm Madam. Sir Rowland’s a brisk Man. TV. Is he ! O then
he’ll importune, if he ’s a brisk Man. I shall save Decorums if Sir
Rowland importunes. I have a mortal Terror at the Apprehension of
offending against Decorums. O Pm glad he ’s a brisk Man. Let my things be
remov’d good Foible*’ The next passage reveals the lady ready
dressed, and expectant of Sir Rowlands arrival. ‘Well, and how do I look Foible! Z; Most
killing well, Madam. Ldy IV, Well, and how shall I receive him ? In what
Figure shall I give 39S colloquial IDIOM his
Heart the first Impression ? There is a great deal in the first
Impression, Shall I sit? No, I won’t sit I’ll walk ay I’ll walk from the
door upon his Entrance; and then turn full upon him No, that will be too
sudden. I’ll lie, ay Ell lie down I’ll receive him in my little
Dressing-Room. There *s a Couch Yes, yes, I’ll give the first Impression
on a Couch I won’t lie neither, but loll, and lean upon one Elbow; with
one Foot a little dangling off, jogging in ^ thoughtful Way Yes Yes
and then as soon as he appears, start, ay, start and be surpris’d,
and rise to meet him in a pretty Disorder Yes O, nothing is more alluring than a Levee from
a Couch in some Con- fusion It shews the Foot to Advantage, and furnishes
with Blushes and recomposing Airs beyond Comparison. Hark ! there ’s a
Coach.’ .^t it is when theure du Berger draws near, as she
supposes, that Lady Wishfort rises to the subiimest heights of expression
: ‘Well, Sir Rowland, you have the
Way, you are no Novice in the Labyrinth of Love— You have the Clue But as
I’m a Person, Sir Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to any
sinister Appetite, or Indigestion of Widow- hood ; nor impute my
Complacency to any Lethar^ of Continence I hope you don’t think me prone
to any iteration of Nuptials If you do, I protest I must recede or think
that I have made a Prostitution of Decorums, but in the Vehemence of
Compassion, or to save the Life of a Person of so much Importance Or else
you wrong my Condescension If you think the least Scruple of Carnality
was an Ingredient, or that Here Foible enters and announces that
the Dancers are ready, and thus puts an end to the scene at its supreme
moment of beauty and absurdity. Even Congreve could not remain at that
level any longer. It is worth while to record that in this play, a
maid, well called Mincings announces ‘ Mem, I am come to acquaint your
Laship that Dinner is impatient The hostess invites her guests to go into
dinner with the phrase ‘ Gentlemen, will you walk ? ' This
chapter and book cannot better conclude than with a typical piece of
seventeenth-century formality. May it symbolize at once the author's
leave-taking of the reader and the eagerness of the latter to pursue the
subject for himself. The passage is from the Provok’d Wife : ‘ Lady FancyfuL Madam, your humble
servant, I must take my leave. Lady Brute. What, going already
madam ? Ldy F. I must beg you’ll excuse me this once ; for really 1
have eighteen visits this afternoon. . . . {Goin^ Nay, you shan’t go one
step out of the room. Ldy B. Indeed I’ll wait upon you
down. Ldy F. No, sweet Lady Brute, you know I swoon at
ceremony. Ldy B, Pray give me leave Ldy F. You know I won’t I^dy B.
You know I must. Ldy F. Indeed you shan’t Indeed I will Indeed you
shan’t Ldy B. Indeed I will. Ldy F. Indeed you shan’t. Indeed,
indeed, indeed, you shan’t’ [Exit running. They follow. Nome
compiuto: Alberto Caracciolo. Keywords: il colloquio, in cammino verso il
linguaggio. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, “Grice e
Caracciolo,” The Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza, Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Caramella:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale degl’eroi di Vico – scuola
di Genova – filosofia genovese – filosofia ligure -- filosofia italiana – Caritone
e Melanippo -- Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Genova). Filosofo
genovese. Filosofo ligure. Filosofo italiano. Genova, Liguria. Grice:”I like
Caramella – like me, he is into the metaphysics of conversation! And he reminds
me that I should re-read Vico!” -- Grice:
“I like Caramella; he prefaced Fichte’s influential tract on ‘la filosofia
della massoneria’ – but also wrote on more orthodox subjects like Kant,
Cartesio, Bergson, and most of them!” – Grice: “Like me, he thought truth is
found in conversation!” Ancora al liceo, comincia a collaborare con Gobetti,
il quale gli affida la trattazione della filosofia su “Energie Nove”. Dopo un
primo contatto con PGobetti e La Rivoluzione liberale, su segnalazione di
questi, entra in collaborazione con Radice, da cui apprese le dottrine del
neo-idealismo di Croce e Gentile. Dopo la laurea, insegna a Genova. Per le sue
idee antifasciste fu arrestato e rinchiuso prima nelle carceri di Marassi a
Genova, e poi fu trasferito a San Vittore a Milano; fu scarcerato, ma venne
sospeso dall'insegnamento e dalla libera docenza. Ottenne, per intercessione di
Croce, l'incarico di filosofia a Messina. Vinse la cattedra a Catania. Prese
parte ai convegni organizzati dalla Scuola di mistica fascista Insegna a Palermo, ereditando la cattedra che
era stata di Gentile. Il suo allievo principale, che ne cura il lascito, è Armetta,
docente alla Pontifica Facoltà Teologica di Sicilia. La sua vasta cultura, gli permise di vedere
la continuità della filosofia antica romana classica e e, nell'ambito della
filosofia italiana, l'unità delle opposte dialettiche nella legge vivente dello
spirito e nel dinamismo della natura e della storia. Apprezzato storico della
filosofia. La sua filosofia si può definire un neo-idealismo crociano e
gentiliano, ma reinterpretatto alla luce dello spiritualismo. La sua filosofia
supera lo storicismo e la dottrina crociana degli opposti e dei distinti, e si
esprime nell'interpretazione della pratica come eticità storica.. La religione
e la teosofia rappresentano la possibilità dello spirito attento da un lato
alla concretezza dell'uomo e dall'altro all'ineffabilità. Lo spirito, anziché
risolversi nella filosofia, colloca il proprio progresso in intima unità con il
progresso della filosofia stessa: da un lato è esclusa la riduzione dello
spirito ad atteggiamento pratico; dall'altro, le è conferito una distinta
funzione teoretica. Altre opere: “Problemi
e sistemi della filosofia, Messina); “Religione, teosofia e filosofia”; “Logica
e Fisica” (Roma); “La filosofia di Plotino e il neoplatonismo” Catania);
Ideologia”; “Metafisica, filosofia dell'esperienza”; “Metalogica, filosofia
dell'esperienza” (Catania); “Autocritica, in: Filosofi italiani contemporanei,
M.F. Sciacca, Milano); “L'Enciclopedia di Hegel, Padova); “La filosofia dello
Stato nel Risorgimento, Napoli); “Introduzione a Kant, Palermo); “Conoscenza e
metafisica, Palermo); “La mia prospettiva etica, Palermo); “Carteggio con Croce.
Carteggio. La dialettica del vero e del certo nella "metafisica
vichiana" di C., in Miscellanea di scritti filosofici in memoria di
Caramella, Palermo. Ontologia storico-dialettica di C..Lo spirito nella
filosofia di C..C.. La verità in dialogo. Carteggio con Radice.Dizionario
biografico degli italiani. Il linguaggio come auto-analisi. 2 C., La cultura
ligure nell’alto Medioevo, in II Comune di Genova, La recente Vita d
i Bruno, con documenti e inediti 1, in cui Vincenzo Spampanato lia potuto
finalmente sintetizzare oltre vent’anni di ricerche bruniane, mi suggerisce
l’opportunità di un breve eenno sul soggiorno del filosofo nella n o s tra
regione, così sulla base di quanto lo Spampanato ha messo novamente in luce
come su quella delle antiche notizie da lui rinfrescate. Cel resto l’unica
seria esposizione dei fatti che stiamo per narrare era, prima delle dotte
pagine dello Spampanato, nella biografia del Berti2: ma sommaria e imprecisa
per molti rispetti. Arrivò il Bruno in Genova poco prima della domenica delle
Palme, nell’anno in cui la festa cadeva il 15 aprile? Cont raria m en te al
parere del Berti, il quale sostiene non essere capace di prova che il filosofo
sia entrato nella nostra città, dobb iam o infatti tener presente una scena del
Candelaio dove tino dei protagonisti giura, entrando in scena, sulla benedetta coda dell’asino, che adorano i
Genoesi’3 », e il passo correlativo dello Spaccio d e lla B e stia trio n fa n
te, che dice proprio così: Ho visto io i
religiosi di Castello in Genova mostrar per breve tempo e far baciare la velata
coda, dicendo: non toccate, baciate: questa è la santa reliquia di quella
benedetta asina che fu fatta degna di portar il nostro Dio dal monte Oliveto a
Jerosolina. Adoratela, baciatela, -porgete limosina: Centum accipietis, et vita
aeternam possidebitis». I religiosi di
Castello» sono, è evidente, i Domenicani di Santa Maria di Castello, dove
uffiziavano: e la preziosa reliquia doveva certo esser mostrata 1 Messina,
Principato, Vedi, per l’argomento di questa com unicazione, Torino, Paravia,
ed. Spampanato (Bari, Laterza), ed. Gentile (Dial. morali di G. B.), Quetifet
Echard, S c rip t. ord. praed., t. il, p. in. Società Ligure di Storia Patria -
al p opolo nella precisa circostanza della commemorazione del giorno in cui
Gesù discese trionfante su ll’asina a Gerusalemme 1. Il Bruno veniva da Roma,
um ile fu ggiasco. A v ev a avu to notizia che il processo istruttorio p
endente presso l’inquisizione, per i sospetti di erodossia avanzati contro di
lui, non annunziava buon esito: e così, deposto l’ abito, si diresse verso la
valle Padana. Più tardi raccontò egli stesso, ai giudici di V enezia, di essere
andato subito a N oli. Ma è prob abile c h e la peste, da cui quella plaga fu
proprio in quel torno di rem po violentemente aiflitta, lo abbia genericam ente
con sigliato a v o lgersi verto la Liguria, contrada m eno infetta, o non
ancora raggiunta dal contagio, e a fermarsi alm eno qualche giorno a Genova. Le
sarcastiche espressioni dello Spaccio ci fanno im m aginare agevolmente il
Bruno là sulla piazzetta della vetusta ch iesa romanica, pieno l’animo non già
di ammirazione estetica perla caratteristica facciata o per gli ornamenti
molteplici dell’ interno, eh’ è tutto un m usaico di con q uiste orientali, - e
tanto meno di interesse psicologico e religioso per la folla affluente ed
effluente dal tempio, - ma di cruccio e disdegno: lui da poco a ccostatosi alle
nuove idee dei riformatori oltremontani, lui per questo costretto a fuggire di
patria e dall’ am ato convento napoletano di San Domenico Maggiore, dove gli
allievi p endevano dalla sua parola, dottamente teologizzante. La peste arrivò
presto, anzi subito, anche a Genova; a Milano l’ ambasciatore veneto Ottaviano
di Mazi ne aveva già n o tizia tre giorni dapo il 15 aprile, il m ercoledì
santo 2. E allora il Bruno, com e ci attestano, questa volta, più veracem ente,
le sue note dichiarazioni ai giudici veneti, se ne andò a N oli. Forse il
ricordo dantesco, che per lui u m anista p oteva con tar qualche cosa, e la
simiglianza del nom e con quello della sua Nola; forse la persistente libertà
della piccola repubblica, e anche, chissà, qualche lettera di raccomandazione,
qualche c o n siglio di amico lo spinsero in quel tranquillo rifugio, l’
unico veramente tranquillo per lui nella storia delie sue lunghe
peregrinazioni. Andai a Noli, territorio
genoese, d ove m i intrattenni quattro o cinque mesi a insegnar la gram m atica
a’ putti ». Io 1 Per la storia d ella re
liqu ia v. Imbriani, Natanar II in Propu gnatore, Vili, M utin elli, Storia
arcana ed aneddotica d’Italia, Società Ligure di Storia Patria - biblioteca
digitale - stetti in Noli circa quattro o cinque mesi, insegnando la grammatica
a’ figliuoli e leggendo la Sfera o certi gentiluomini...1 ». Lo Spampanato, per
ragioni di coerenza con ulteriori dati biografici, pensa che il soggiorno sia
durato un po’ più di quattro mesi. Comunque, le occupazioni del Nolano a Noli
sono ben chiare: l’ esule cercava di trar qualche mezzo di vita con lezioncine
private. Ma anche leggeva la Sfera a
certi gentiluomini »: la Sfera, cioè il famoso trattato di Giovanni da
Sacroboseo, professore alla Sorbona e monaco domenicano quasi contemporaneo di
Dante: che si soleva considerare come perfetta e sintetica esposizione di una
teoria fisico-geometrica fondamentale per l’astronomia tolemaica, (la teoria
delle sfere celesti), e che Γ insinuarsi dell’ ipotesi copernicana aveva, nella
seconda metà del Cinquecento, rimesso in gran voga2. Persino a Noli era dunque
penetrato il novello interesse del secolo per i problemi astronomici; perfino a
Noli alcuni giovani signori sentivano il bisogn o di stipendiare un povero
erudito piovuto di lontano perchè spiegasse loro il sistema del mondo. E il
Bruno cominciava di quia occuparsi direttamente di quelle indagini che fur o n
o oggetto delle polemiche da lui sostenute in Inghilterra e che formano
l’argomento della Cena delle Ceneri. Non possiamo n atu ralm e n te sapere (a
meno che venissero fuori i quaderni di queste sue legioni liguri) s’ egli già a
Noli professasse la dottrina copernicana, servendosi della Sfera per criticare
il sistema tolem aico: o invece, come il Galilei ne’ suoi corsi allo Studio di
Padova, si limitasse all’illustrazione del classico libretto. Un sacerdote
napoletano, anzi padre Iazzarista, Raffaele de Martinis, che p otè consultare
gli atti del Santo Uffizio, asserisce nella sua biografia del Bruno che a
questi fu intentato in Vercelli un processo (che sarebbe il quarto dopo i primi
due di Napoli 1 Docc. veneti, vili, c. 8 r-v. (SPAMPANATO). Vedi A. Pellizzar i,
Il quadrivio nel Rinascimento (Genova, Perrella). Bruno (Napoli). Ma cfr.
Amabile, in Atti Acc. Scienze mor. e politiche di Napoli n.; espampanato (e
anche Tocco in Arch. fiir Gesch. der P h ilo s., Bonghi, ne La Cultura, Gentile,
Bruno e il pensiero del Rinascimento, [Firenze, Vallecchi Società Ligure di
Storia Patria - e il terzo di Roma) dalla Inquisizione dello Repubblica g e n o
vese»: ma dell’asserzione importantissima (secondo la quale si potrebbe proprio
pensare aver il Bruno palesato ancora una volta la sua eterodossia
nell’insegnamento di Noli) il De Martinis non dà, e confessa di non aver potuto
trovare, le prove. E la notizia non pare affatto fondata, posto che manca ogni
riferimento a questo processo genovese nei posteriori documenti processuali di
Venezia, e di Roma dove pur dovrebbe trovarsi, posto che a Vercelli non ci
consta che il Bruno facesse soggiorno (nè quindi l’inquisizione genovese
avrebbe avuto ragione alcuna di perseguirvelo).
Eppoi me partii de là [da Noli] ed andai prima a Savona, dove stetti
circa quindeci giorni; e da Savona a Turino, dove non trovando trattenimento a
mia satisfazione venni a Venezia per il Po1 ». Da Venezia, di lì a due mesi, a
Padova; da Padova a Brescia, Bergamo, Milano. Qui rivestì l’ abito, e poi per
Buffalora, Novara, Vercelli, Chivasso, Torino, Susa arrivò alla Novalesa, sotto
il Cenisio. Un giorno ancora e fu in Francia, oltre monti, lanciato per la gran
carraia della Sua fortuna. Troverà onori, trionfi accademici, soddisfazioni di
filosofo e di scrittore; ma la queta pace di Noli, mai più. C. 1 Docc. veti.,
c. La Logica di Porto Reale. Con Prefazione del Prof. Santino... Storia del
pensiero e del gusto letterario in Italia ad uso dei licei. La scuola di
mistica fascista e la discoperta del vero VICO L'azione combinata della
storiografia al bianchetto e della credulità strisciante fra le righe del
conformismo teologico, ha fatto sparire la notizia della sfida al neoidealismo,
che fu lanciata dalle avanguardie cattoliche inquadrate nella scuola milanese
di mistica fascista. In tal modo la memoria storica degli italiani è stata
privata della nozione necessaria a contrastare seriamente l'ideologia
totalitaria e ad avviare gli studi filosofici su un cammino di ricerca opposto
a quello tracciato dall'intossicante influsso del gramscismo. Un percorso,
quella anticipato dalla scuola di mistica fascista, che avrebbe messo capo ad
un'evoluzione del Novecento - un'autentica rivoluzione italiana - di segno
contrario al coatto e calamitoso trasferimento (narrato da Zangrandi) degli
intellettuali fascisti nel partito di Togliatti. L'accertata esistenza di una
forte opposizione cattolica alla filosofia di matrice hegeliana, comunque, fa
crollare i due pilastri della mistificazione comunista: la leggenda della
complicità cattolica con l'ideologia anticomunista prevalente in Germania -
leggenda sintetizzata dal calunnioso slogan Pio XII papa di Hitler» - e la
rappresentazione degli intellettuali italiani nella figura di un coacervo
nazifascista, redento in extremis dalla longanimità del partito
staliniano. La vicenda degli oppositori italiani all'idealismo rivela,
invece, l'autonomia, la straordinaria vitalità e l'attitudine del pensiero
cattolico ad entusiasmare ed orientare i giovani studiosi, che avevano aderito
al fascismo senza separarsi dalla radice religiosa della patria italiana.
Curiosamente, l'autorità del pensiero cattolico si rafforzò nella prima fase
della II guerra mondiale, quando la Germania nazionalsocialista sembrava
avviata a vincere la guerra. Dopo che il governo italiano ebbe sottoscritto
l'alleanza con la Germania, il dubbio si era, infatti, diffuso fra i giovani,
causando la divisione dell'area fascista in due opposte scuole di pensiero: una
corrente maggioritaria, intesa a metter fine al dominio della cultura tedesca e
perciò risoluta a percorrere la via d'uscita indicata dalla tradizione
cattolica, e una corrente minoritaria, rimasta fedele ai princìpi
dell'idealismo e perciò decisa a seguire le avanguardie germaniche sulla via
del fanatismo e dell'estremismo anticristiano. Espressione del fermento in atto
durante quegli anni cruciali è un magnifico saggio di Tripodi, interprete delle
novità introdotte nella scuola milanese di mistica fascista da Schuster e dal
fondatore dell'Università cattolica del Sacro Cuore, il francescano Gemelli
(confronta Il pensiero politico di Vico e la dottrina del fascismo», Milani).
Tripodi, grazie ad una profonda conoscenza della filosofia italiana tentò un
audace confronto tra lo storicismo cristiano di VICO e la dottrina politica di MUSSOLINI. L'affinità
del fascismo e della scienza nuova, nell'acuta analisi di Tripodi, non è
causata dalle letture (Mussolini, infatti, non cita mai Vico) ma dalla comune
tendenza a riconoscere che maestra non è la mente di questo o quell'uomo che
razionalmente pone un principio, ma la storia delle attività di tutti gli
uomini che si svolgono come debbono svolgersi perché provvidenzialmente si
compia la socialità che ad esse è intrinseca». La scelta di Tripodi cade su
Vico poiché fu perenne nel suo spirito la distinzione tra la sostanza divina e
quella delle creature, tra l'essenza o ragion di essere di Dio e quella delle
cose create, come fu perenne ed inequivocabile la inintelligibilità di Dio se
ricercata nel mondo bruto della natura anziché in quello della storia, nella
quale la Provvidenza si manifesta, chiamando gli uomini a collaboratori della
divinità». Pubblicato e presto rimosso dalla censura di sinistra e
dall'indifferenza di destra, il saggio di Tripodi raccoglie e approfondisce i
risultati delle ricerche iniziate da quegli studiosi cattolici (nel testo sono
citati Chiocchetti, Vecchio, Amerio, Gemelli, Olgiati, C., Orestano, Carlini e
Giuliano) che avevano sostenuto l'irriducibilità della tradizione italiana alla
filosofia tedesca, confutando le tesi di Croce e di Gentile su VICO precursore
dell'idealismo. Tripodi afferma, ad esempio, che il pensiero fascista, per
quanto concerne l'ontologia, ha sempre creduto nella finitezza dell'umano,
riconoscendo che esiste una parete invalicabile, sulla quale lo spirito umano
non può scrivere che una sola parola, Dio» mentre gli idealisti, convinti di
sfondare quella parete, hanno spiegato la dottrina fascista attraverso il
monismo soggettivista o le dimostrazioni immanentistiche, falsando così gli
inequivocabili atteggiamenti dualistici di essa. Di qui il ribaltamento
della linea neoidealista e la scelta dello storicismo cristiano di VICO quale
orizzonte filosofico della tradizione vivente in Italia malgrado gli apparenti
successi della modernità: La stessa barriera che Vico oppone, in nome della
genuinità del pensiero italiano al razionalismo, la oppone il fascismo
all'idealismo. Né GENTILE, né CROCE, anche se il primo ha la camicia nera e
cercò di darla al secondo pongono gli estremi della nostra dottrina». Tripodi
indica in VICO l'antagonista dell'irrealismo e del soggettivismo dominanti
nell'età moderna: Vico non può essere idealista perché la sua filosofia impugna
Cartesio e fa impugnare in Kant gli iniziatori delle dottrine, costruite
unicamente su di una realtà interiore». La filosofia vichiana, inoltre, è
apprezzata perché rivendica la responsabilità dell'azione umana nei fatti della
storia che altre indagini speculative avevano invece interpretato o come
involuti in una meccanica autonoma e materiale o come creazione ideale definita
dal pensiero che l'aveva posta. La coscienza delle proprie virtù creatrici
della storia non deve però indurre l'uomo a dimenticare che la causa prima di
esse sta al di fuori della sua singolarità terrena. E non al di fuori perché
affidata al caso o al fato, ma perché contenuta nella volontà di Dio e
rappresentata nella linea tracciata dalla sua divina provvidenza». L'invito
a separare il destino dell'Italia fascista dalle chimere del razionalismo e
dalle suggestioni dell'attivismo prometeico e dell'amor fati, non poteva essere
formulato con maggiore chiarezza. Nelle penetranti tesi formulate da Tripodi è
in qualche modo anticipato lo schema della strategia culturale elaborata, nel
dopoguerra, dai pensatori dell'avanguardia cattolica (Vecchio, Petruzzellis,
Sciacca, Noce, Tejada, Montano, Grisi, Torti) che nella filosofia di VICO
vedranno lo strumento adatto a contrastare e battere i poteri dell'astrazione
hegeliana trasferita, intanto, nella parodia inscenata dal gramscismo. La posta
in gioco era la corretta impostazione della dottrina del diritto naturale, in
ultima analisi la soluzione del problema riguardante il rapporto tra la
giustizia ideale e le cangianti leggi che i popoli producono nel corso della
loro storia. Dagli scritti giuridici di Vico, Tripodi trasse una indicazione
che gli permise di risolvere il problema senza nulla concedere alle dottrine
storicistiche contemplanti un pensiero dell'assoluto che evolve nel tempo:
esiste non una separazione ma una diversa gradazione d'intensità etica tra
giustizia e diritto. La prima è un diritto naturale soprastorico, che è
patrimonio universale e depositario del sommo vero. Il secondo è dato
dall'insieme delle norme che il mondo delle nazioni partitamente elabora nel
suo progressivo avvicinamento alla giustizia». Di qui l'indicazione di due
altri motivi del consenso fascista alla scienza nuova: il fermo rifiuto delle astrazioni
suggerite dal contrattualismo e la confutazione delle teorie utilitaristiche,
che ritengono l'interesse materiale unica molla delle azioni umane. Nella
definizione del comune fondamento della teoria dello Stato, Tripodi sostiene,
pertanto, che nel pensiero di Vico come in quello di Mussolini la Provvidenza
fa prevalere la solidarietà sull'istinto egoistico: la provvidenza ha il suo
più alto attributo nel senso della socialità che perennemente richiama agli
uomini, facendo loro vincere il senso egoistico per cui vorrebbero tutto
l'utile per se e niuna parte per lo compagno». Tripodi conclude il suo
ragionamento affermando che l'unitario ordine di idee nel quale relativamente
alla concezione dello Stato si muovono la dottrina vichiana e quella fascista»
è dimostrato dalla condivisione del fine soprannaturale: l'uomo trova nello
Stato l'organizzazione storica che gli consente di realizzare quei principi
morali conferitigli dalla divinità e con ciò di assolvere alla sua stessa
funzione trascendente di uomo». E' evidente che l'identificazione della
dottrina fascista con la filosofia vichiana era, per Tripodi, un mezzo usato al
fine rafforzare la convinzione sulla necessità, imposta dai dubbi destati
dall'alleanza con il nazionalsocialismo, di rompere con la cultura prevalente
in Germania e di condurre all'approdo cattolico le vere ragioni dell'ideologia
fascista. E' però incontestabile che le tesi di Tripodi erano un ottimo
strumento per estinguere l'ipoteca che la filosofia tedesca aveva acceso sulla
cultura italiana. Non a caso, nel dopoguerra, Tripodi occupò un posto di prima
fila nel gruppo degli intellettuali dell'INSPE (Vecchio, Costamagna, Ottaviano,
Marzio, Teodorani, Volpe, Sottochiesa, Tricoli, Siena, Grammatico, Rasi)
l'istituto che progettava la trasformazione del MSI di Arturo Michelini in
avanguardia di una moderna e rigorosa destra cattolica. L'attenzione prestata
da Pio XII all'evoluzione del MSI in conformità alle tesi di Tripodi, aprivano
le porte del futuro alla destra. Il congresso del MSI, che doveva tenersi a
Genova, doveva, infatti, approvare in via definitiva la lungimirante linea
culturale e politica di Tripodi, mandando a vuoto i progetti dell'oligarchia
favorevole all'apertura a sinistra. Purtroppo la tollerata (dai democristiani)
violenza della piazza comunista impedì lo svolgimento di quel congresso,
respingendo il MSI nel sottosuolo dionisiaco del pensiero moderno e nelle
magiche grotte del tradizionalismo spurio. La lunga immersione nell'area
dell'indigenza filosofica impoverì a tal punto la cultura di destra che, quando
la discesa in campo di Berlusconi offrì un'altra occasione all'inserimento
nella politica di governo, la classe dirigente del MSI, ottusa dalla retorica
almirantiana ed espropriata dal pensiero neodestro, non seppe produrre altro
che le esangui e rachitiche tesi di Fiuggi. Nato a Genova da Eleucadio e
da Delfò, segui gli studi classici nella città natale. Ancora liceale, cominciò
a collaborare a Energie nuove di Gobetti, con il quale aveva preso contatto
epistolare, dicendosi lettore entusiasta del periodico e seguace della dottrina
filosofica crociana. Gobetti, ormai orientato verso interessi più
specificamente politici, affidò al giovane C. la trattazione sulla rivista dei
temi filosofici. Su segnalazione di GOBETTI (si veda), Radice comincia ad
accogliere i suoi scritti su L'Educazione nazionale. In linea con
l'orientamento pedagogico idealistico del Lombardo Radice, fin dall'inizio
degli anni Venti il C. prese le distanze dal positivismo pedagogico con un
contributo (Studi sul positivismo pedagogico, Firenze), nato proprio da un
suggerimento del pedagogista siciliano che glielo aveva proposto come tema di
studio. È qui osteggiato un pensiero ispirato agli schemi
dell'evoluzionismo deterministico e del positivismo scientifico; in particolare
e avversato il meccanicismo naturalistico biologicoevolutivo (Spencer e
Ardigò), cui viene opposta la concezione umanistica dell'educazione di un
Angiulli, di un Siciliani, di un Gabelli. Un'idea di fondo anima le critiche
del C.: è inutile ogni speculazione teoretica che non sappia apportare nuove
indicazioni pedagogiche per il miglioramento delle condizioni di vita umana,
sociale e pratica. Nello stesso orizzonte critico degli Studi si muovono
Le scuole di Lenin (Firenze), La pedagogia di Gioberti e la Guida bibliografica
della pedagogia, specialmente italiana e recente, che faceva seguito alla
Bibliografia ragionata della pedagogia (Milano) scritta in collaborazione con
Radice. Nutrito di idee democratiche, che gli facevano ritenere
inadeguato per l'obiettivo della costruzione di una "nuova Italia" il
vecchio quadro politico postunitario, il C. si impegnò politicamente
partecipando alla costituzione a Genova di un gruppo democratico di sinistra,
che aveva tra i leader Codignola. Collaborò sia all'Arduo, sia al quotidiano
socialriformista Il Lavoro. In particolare, tipico dei gruppo di
pedagogisti che, in certo qual modo, si ponevano nell'ambito del pensiero
gentiliano (verso cui anche il C. veniva avvicinandosi sulla scia del Lombardo
Radice, sia pure su posizioni autonome), è il tema dell'educazione come
strumento di realizzazione di una coscienza democratico-nazionale. Da qui,
anche per l'influsso delle idee gobettiane, l'attenta considerazione di quanto
veniva fatto in quel campo in Unione Sovietica, all'indomani della rivoluzione
bolscevica. In Le scuole di Lenin l'ammirazione con cui il C. guardava al piano
scolastico educativo diretto da Lunačarskij era determinata in concreto dalla
considerazione che si trattava di una rivoluzione culturale unica nella storia
dell'umanitàl tesa all'elevazione delle classi inferiori per farle partecipare
alla guida della società; la critica più forte, propria della formazione
laico-democratica del C., stava nella denuncia del carattere dogmatico delle
idee del Lunačarskij, quando questi sosteneva che la sua scuola del lavoro non
era disgiungibile dal sistema sociale comunista e dal controllo politico del
partito. Conseguita la laurea in filosofia, ottenne presso l'università di
Genova la libera docenza in storia della filosofia e vinse il concorso per le
grandi sedi per la cattedra di filosofia, pedagogia ed economia negli istituti
magistrali, ottenendo come sede Genova. Frattanto la collaborazione con
Gobetti, che più che un sodalizio intellettuale aveva costituito un formativo
comune impegno politico-sociale all'insegna del programma di democrazia
liberale, lo portò in breve tempo allo scontro con il fascismo ormai
trionfante. è la diffida dei prefetto di
Torino contro la Rivoluzione liberale (alla quale il C. collabora) e i suoi
redattori. La conferma di questo impegno politico e intellettuale, il C. la
offrì ulteriormente curando la pubblicazione postuma di Risorgimento senza eroi
(Torino) del Gobetti e continuando a far uscire IlBaretti, pur orientando la
rivista sempre più verso temi letterari e filosofici onde evitare scontri
ancora più aspri con il regime. Nel 1926, grazie al Croce, che ormai era
divenuto per lui - come per tanti altri antifascisti - "maestro di
libertà", assunse la direzione della collana "Scrittori
d'Italia" edita da Laterza. Nel maggio di quell'anno fu costretto a
rinunciare alla collaborazione all'Enciclopedia Italiana, a cui era stato
invitato dal Gentile, per gli atttacchi mossigli dalla stampa di regime.
Il dissenso dalla politica del fascismo ne provoco l'arresto; rinchiuso prima
nelle carceri. di Marassi a Genova e quindi trasferito a S. Vittore a Milano,
fu scarcerato. Venne sospeso dall'insegnamento e dalla libera docenza. Le
accuse - come si legge in una lettera al Croce (in Il Dialogo) - erano tra
l'altro di aver collaborato "al giornale socialistoide-democratico Il
Lavoro" di Genova e di aver avuto rapporti con l'associazione antifascista
Giovane Italia, insomma di essere "in una condizione di incompatibilità
con le direttive generali del governo". Scagionato anche grazie
all'intervento del Croce, il C. fu riammesso all'insegnamento e la libera
docenza gli fu restituita con d. m. Venne però destinato all'istituto
magistrale di Messina, dove prese servizio. Dall'ottobre di quell'anno
ottenne l'incarico di filosofia e storia della filosofia e di pedagogia presso
il magistero dell'università di Messina. Mantenne questi incarichi finché vincitore
di più concorsi, fu chiamato a coprire la cattedra di pedagogia nell'università
di Catania. Passa alla cattedra di filosofia teoretica, conseguendo
l'ordinariato. Furono questi anni di studio intenso. Pur nel crocianesimo
di base, si intravvede in Religione, teosofia, filosofia (Messina) e in Senso
comune. Teoria e pratica (Bari) lo sforzo di plasmare un proprio e originale
impianto teoretico. In dialogo con i principali pensatori dell'idealismo
tedesco e italiano, il C. si misura particolarmente con la crociana logica dei
distinti. L'indagine si muove sul terreno dell'attività teoretico-pratica dello
Spirito. Particolarmente Religione, teosofia, filosofia rappresenta questo
tentativo compiuto dal C. per una revisione del sistema idealistico: vi è fatta
emergere l'esigenza di un pensiero spirituale più attento da una parte alla
concretezza dell'uomo e dall'altra alla ineffabilità di Dio. Perseguendo tale
assunto, nella ricerca di un ordine della verità oltre la logica e la nozione
di storia del Croce, il C. ripercorre in Senso comune le tappe storiche del
pensiero occidentale, ricostruendo la genesi della dualità dello Spirito nella
filosofia greca e poi seguendola nel suo sviluppo e nel suo problematicizzarsi
nel pensiero moderno. La concezione della filosofia come educazione e storia,
la stretta connessione tra la filosofia e la sua storia pongono il C.
medianamente tra Croce e Gentile, e tuttavia nel senso di una sicura
indipendenza dal loro pensiero. La sua posizione teoretica può essere così
schematizzata: la teoresi è fondamentalmente caratterizzata dalla dialettica dei
distinti, mentre la prassi genera lo scontro tra gli opposti; la sintesi dei
distinti non è un tertium quid da essi distinto, ma consiste nella loro stessa
inscindibile relazione. La loro circolarità consente, come riaffermerà in
Ideologia (Catania), di guardare alla pratica come alla realizzazione della
teoria, così che si può parlare e di un finalismo teoretico della pratica e di
un finalismo pratico della teoria. All'approfondimento critico dei
neoidealismo italiano, il C. affianca l'approfondimento del rapporto tra
ricerca filosofica e fede religiosa. Egli mantiene costante il dialogo tra
filosofia, scienza e fede nelle trattazioni della piena maturità: Ideologia
(Catania), Metalogica: filosofia dell'esperienza, Metafisica vichiana
(Palermo), in cui è auspicata la possibilità della sopravvivenza del problema
metafisico nell'orizzonte di una metafisica rinnovata, Conoscenza e metafisica.
In quest'ultima opera è affrontato il rapporto verità-conoscere, con l'intento
di delimitare i confini del sapere scientifico e di affermare razionalmente la
capacità di intelligere la realtà della rivelazione. Qui la religione, anziché
risolversi nella filosofia, colloca il proprio progresso in intima unità con il
progresso della filosofia stessa: da un lato è esclusa la riduzione della
religione ad atteggiamento pratico; dall'altro, le è conferita una distinta
funzione teoretica. La piena adesione del C. allo spiritualismo cristiano,
dunque, fa si che sia elusa la riduzione della filosofia a metodologia, senza
dover rinunciare alla fondamentale esigenza di criticità, e che l'interesse si
concentri su quelle istanze spiritualistiche, invero in lui presenti dagli anni
giovanili sia come atteggiamento di vita - lo si evince dalle Lettere dal
carcere - sia come ricerca originale di pensiero. In tal senso, l'adesione allo
spiritualismo cristiano va dunque letta più nella prospettiva della continuità,
dinamica e perciò trasformantesi e trasformante, che in quella della
svolta. Durante la sua lunga e proficua attività accademica, il C.
ricoprì numerose cariche, tra cui quella di preside della facoltà di lettere e
filosofia dell'università di Catania; fu presidente di sezione del British
Council di Catania e presidente di sezione della Società filosofica italiana a
Catania e a Palermo; fu anche presidente di sezione dell'Associazione
pedagogica italiana. A Palermo si era stabilito definitivamente allorché venne
chiamato prima alla cattedra di pedagogia e poi a quella di filosofia teoretica
presso la facoltà di lettere e filosofia. Il C. morì a Palermo. Opere:
Per un elenco completo si rinvia a Bibliografia degli scritti di C., a cura di
T. Caramella, in Miscellanea di studi filosofici in memoria di C. (Atti
dell'Accad. di scienze lettere e arti di Palermo), Palermo. Oltre alle opere
citate ci limitiamo a ricordare qui: Bergson, Milano; Antologia vichiana,
Messina, Breve storia della pedagogia, La filosofia di Plotino e il
neoplatonismo, Catania; Autocritica, in Filosofi italiani contemporanei, a cura
di Sciacca, Milano L'Enciclopedia di Hegel, Padova; La filosofia dello Stato
nel Risorgimento, Napoli; Introduzione a Kant, Palermo La pedagogia tedesca in
Italia, Roma; Pedagogia. Saggio di voci nuove, Fonti e Bibl.: Roma, Arch.
centrale dello Stato, Casellario politico centrale, Per l'epistolario del C.
contributi in: Lettere dal carcere di C., in Giornale di metafisica, Carteggio
con Croce e Gobetti, in Il Dialogo, Carteggio Radice-C., a cura di T.
Caramella, Genova. Vedi inoltre: M.F. Sciacca, Profilo di C., in Annali della
facoltà di magistero della università di Palermo, Di Vona, Religione e filosofia nel pensiero
giovanile di C., Conigliaro, Verità e dialogo nel pensiero di C., in Il
Dialogo, Guzzo, C., in Filosofia, Sciacca, Il pensiero di C., in Atti
dell'Accad. di scienze lettere e arti di Palermo, Sofia, Il dialogo di S. C.
con gli uomini d'oggi, in Labor, Cafaro, Commemoraz. di C., in Nuova Riv.
pedagogica, Piovani, La dialettica del vero e del certo nella "metafisica
vichiana" di C., in Miscellanea di scritti filosofici in memoria di C.,
Palermo Ganci, C., Raschini, Commemoraz. del prof. S. C., in Giornale di
metafisica, Brancato, C.: senso fine e significato della storia, Trapani; V.
Mathieu, Filosofia contemporanea, Firenze; P. Prini, La ontologia storico-dialettica
di C., in Theorein, Pareyson, Inizi e caratteri del pensiero di C., in Giornale
di metafisica, Corselli, La vita dello spirito nella filosofia di C., in Labor,
Raschini, Storiografia e metafisica nella interpretazione vichiana di C., in
Filosofia oggi; M. Corselli, La figura di C., in Labor, Sciacca, C. filosofo,
pedagogista, educatore, in Pegaso. Annali della facoltà di magistero della
università di Palermo. δικά, ώς φησιν Ηρακλείδης ο Ποντικός εν τω περί Ερωτικών. ούτοι Φανέντες
επιβουλεύοντες Φαλάριδί, Chariton& Melanippus και βασανιζόμενοι
αναγκαζόμενοί τε λέγειν τους συν- confpirant ειδότας,ουμόνονουκατείπον, αλλά καιτονΦάλα-
adν.Ρhala ριν αυτόν είς έλεον ' των βασάνων ήγαγον, ως α π ο λύσαι αυτουςπολλά
επαινέσαντα. διοκαιοΑπόλ. λων, ησθείς επί τούτοις, αναβολην του θανάτου το
Φαλάριδίέχαρίσατο, τούτο έμφήνας τουςπυν θανομέ νουςτης Πυθία ςόπωςαυτόεπιθώνται
έχρησέτεκαι cπερί των αμφί τον Χαρίτωνα, προτάξας του εξαμέ τρου το πεντάμετρον,
καθάπερ ύστερον και Διονύσιος 'Αθηναίος εποίησεν, ο επικληθεις Χαλκους, εν τοις
Έλεγείοις. έστιδεοχρησμόςόδε ετε -- Ευδαίμων Χαρίτων και Μελάνιππος έφυ,
θείαςαγητηρες έφαμερίοις φιλότατος. 1 Perperamέλαιονms. Εp. et moxα πολαύσαι1ns.
A.proαπολύσαι. α> 737 Σ 2 Alibi άγητήρες. 2 amasius, ut ait Heraclides
Ponticus in libro de Amatoriis. Hi igitur deprehensi insidias ftruxisse
Phalaridi et tormentis subiecti quo coniuratos denunciare coge rentur, non modo
non denunciarunt, fed etiam Phala rin ipsum ad misericordiam tormentorum
commoverunt, ut plurimum collaudatos dimitteret. Quare etiam Apollo, delectatusfacto,
moram mortisindullit Phalaridi, hoc ipsum declarans his qui ipsum de ratione,
qua tyran num adgrederentur, consuluerunt: atque et iamde Charitone et
Melanippo oraculum edidit, in quo pentame ter praepofitus hexametro erat;
quemadmodum etiam poftea Dionysius Athenienfis, isqui Aeneuseft cognomi natus,
in Elegiis fecit. Erat autem oraculum hocce Felix et Chariton et Melanippus
erat, mortalium genti auctores coeleftis amoris. Nome compiuto: Santino
Caramella. Keywords: il culto dell’eroe, gl’eroi, il culto degl’eroi, Niso ed
Eurialo, Nicodemo, gl’eroi di Vico, “la verita in dialogo”, soggetto,
intersoggetivita, lo spirito oggetivo, spiriti intersoggetivi, Apollo su
Nicodemo. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, “Grice e
Caramella,” The Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza, Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Caramello:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implictatura conversazionale dell’interpretare –
scuola di Torino – filosofia torinese – filosofia piemontese -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Torino). Filosofo
torinese. Filosofo piemontese. Filosofo italiano. Torino, Piemonte. Grice: “I
love Caramello – he exemplifies all that I say about latitudinal and
longitudinal unities of philosophy – Aquinas is a ‘great,’ and Caramello has
dedicated his life to him!” Studia al prestigioso
liceo classico Gioberti di Torino, entra in seminario e riceve l'ordinazione
presbiteriale con una speciale dispensa papale dovuta alla giovane età a cui aveva
completato gli studi. Si laurea a Torino. Insegna a Torino, e Chieri. Studia e
cura Aquino. Praemittit autem huic operi philosophus prooemium, in quo
sigillatim exponit ea, quae in hoc libro sunt tractanda. Et quia omnis scientia
praemittit ea, quae de principiis sunt; partes autem compositorum sunt eorum
principia; ideo oportet intendenti tractare de enunciatione praemittere de
partibus eius. Unde dicit: primum oportet constituere, idest definire
quid sit nomen et quid sit verbum. In Graeco habetur, primum oportet poni et
idem significat. Quia enim demonstrationes definitiones praesupponunt, ex
quibus concludunt, merito dicuntur positiones. Et ideo praemittuntur hic solae
definitiones eorum, de quibus agendum est: quia ex definitionibus alia
cognoscuntur. Si quis autem quaerat, cum in libro praedicamentorum de
simplicibus dictum sit, quae fuit necessitas ut hic rursum de nomine et verbo
determinaretur; ad hoc dicendum quod simplicium dictionum triplex potest esse
consideratio. Una quidem, secundum quod absolute significant simplices
intellectus, et sic earum consideratio pertinet ad librum praedicamentorum.
Alio modo, secundum rationem, prout sunt partes enunciationis; et sic
determinatur de eis in hoc libro; et ideo traduntur sub ratione nominis et
verbi: de quorum ratione est quod significent aliquid cum tempore vel sine
tempore, et alia huiusmodi, quae pertinent ad rationem dictionum, secundum quod
constituunt enunciationem. Tertio modo, considerantur secundum quod ex eis
constituitur ordo syllogisticus, et sic determinatur de eis sub ratione
terminorum in libro priorum. Potest iterum dubitari quare, praetermissis
aliis orationis partibus, de solo nomine et verbo determinet. Ad quod dicendum
est quod, quia de simplici enunciatione determinare intendit, sufficit ut solas
illas partes enunciationis pertractet, ex quibus ex necessitate simplex oratio
constat. Potest autem ex solo nomine et verbo simplex enunciatio fieri, non
autem ex aliis orationis partibus sine his; et ideo sufficiens ei fuit de his
duabus determinare. Vel potest dici quod sola nomina et verba sunt principales
orationis partes. Sub nominibus enim comprehenduntur pronomina, quæ, etsi non
nominant naturam, personam tamen determinant, et ideo loco nominum ponuntur:
sub verbo vero participium, quod consignificat tempus: quamvis et cum nomine
convenientiam habeat. Alia vero sunt magis colligationes partium orationis,
significantes habitudinem unius ad aliam, quam orationis partes; sicut clavi et
alia huiusmodi non sunt partes navis, sed partium navis coniunctiones.
His igitur præmissis quasi principiis, subiungit de his, quæ pertinent ad
principalem intentionem, dicens: postea quid negatio et quid affirmatio, quæ
sunt enunciationis partes: non quidem integrales, sicut nomen et verbum
(alioquin oporteret omnem enunciationem ex affirmatione et negatione compositam
esse), sed partes subiectivæ, idest species. Quod quidem nunc supponatur,
posterius autem manifestabitur. Sed potest dubitari: cum enunciatio
dividatur in categoricam et hypotheticam, quare de his non facit mentionem,
sicut de affirmatione et negatione. Et potest dici quod hypothetica enunciatio
ex pluribus categoricis componitur. Unde non differunt nisi secundum
differentiam unius et multi. Vel potest dici, et melius, quod hypothetica
enunciatio non continet absolutam veritatem, cuius cognitio requiritur in
demonstratione, ad quam liber iste principaliter ordinatur; sed significat aliquid
verum esse ex suppositione: quod non sufficit in scientiis demonstrativis, nisi
confirmetur per absolutam veritatem simplicis enunciationis. Et ideo
Aristoteles prætermisit tractatum de hypotheticis enu nciationibus et
syllogismis. Subdit autem, et enunciatio, quæ est genus negationis et
affirmationis; et oratio, quæ est genus enunciationis. Si quis ulterius
quærat, quare non facit ulterius mentionem de voce, dicendum est quod vox est
quoddam naturale; unde pertinet ad considerationem naturalis philosophiæ, ut
patet in secundo de anima, et in ultimo de generatione animalium. Unde etiam
non est proprie orationis genus, sed assumitur ad constitutionem orationis,
sicut res naturales ad constitutionem artificialium. Videtur autem ordo
enunciationis esse præposterus: nam affirmatio naturaliter est prior negatione,
et iis prior est enunciatio, sicut genus; et per consequens oratio
enunciatione. Sed
dicendum quod, quia a partibus inceperat enumerare, procedit a partibus ad
totum. Negationem autem, quæ divisionem continet, eadem ratione præponit
affirmationi, quæ consistit in compositione: quia divisio magis accedit ad
partes, compositio vero magis accedit ad totum. Vel potest dici, secundum
quosdam, quod præmittitur negatio, quia in iis quæ possunt esse et non esse,
prius est non esse, quod significat negatio, quam esse, quod significat
affirmatio. Sed tamen, quia sunt species ex æquo dividentes genus, sunt simul
natura; unde non refert quod eorum præponatur. Præmisso prooemio, philosophus accedit ad propositum exequendum. Et quia
ea, de quibus promiserat se dicturum, sunt voces significativæ complexæ vel
incomplexæ, ideo præmittit tractatum de significatione vocum: et deinde de
vocibus significativis determinat de quibus in prooemio se dicturum promiserat.
Et hoc ibi: nomen ergo est vox significativa et cetera. Circa primum duo facit:
primo, determinat qualis sit significatio vocum; secundo, ostendit differentiam
significationum vocum complexarum et incomplexarum; ibi: est autem quemadmodum
et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo quidem, præmittit ordinem
significationis vocum; secundo, ostendit qualis sit vocum significatio, utrum
sit ex natura vel ex impositione; ibi: et quemadmodum nec litteræ et
cetera. Est
ergo considerandum quod circa primum tria proponit, ex quorum uno intelligitur
quartum. Proponit enim Scripturam, voces et animæ passiones, ex
quibus intelliguntur res. Nam passio est ex impressione alicuius agentis; et
sic passiones animæ originem habent ab ipsis rebus. Et si quidem homo esset
naturaliter animal solitarium, sufficerent sibi animæ passiones, quibus ipsis
rebus conformaretur, ut earum notitiam in se haberet; sed quia homo est animal
naturaliter politicum et sociale, necesse fuit quod conceptiones unius hominis
innotescerent aliis, quod fit per vocem; et ideo necesse fuit esse voces
significativas, ad hoc quod homines ad invicem conviverent. Unde illi,
qui sunt diversarum linguarum, non possunt bene convivere ad invicem. Rursum si
homo uteretur sola cognitione sensitiva, quæ respicit solum ad hic et nunc,
sufficeret sibi ad convivendum aliis vox significativa, sicut et cæteris
animalibus, quæ per quasdam voces, suas conceptiones invicem sibi manifestant:
sed quia homo utitur etiam intellectuali cognitione, quæ abstrahit ab hic et
nunc; consequitur ipsum sollicitudo non solum de præsentibus secundum locum et
tempus, sed etiam de his quæ distant loco et futura sunt tempore. Unde ut homo conceptiones suas etiam his qui distant secundum locum et his
qui venturi sunt in futuro tempore manifestet, necessarius fuit usus Scripturæ.
Sed quia logica ordinatur ad cognitionem de rebus sumendam, significatio vocum,
quæ est immediata ipsis conceptionibus intellectus, pertinet ad principalem
considerationem ipsius; significatio autem litterarum, tanquam magis remota,
non pertinet ad eius considerationem, sed magis ad considerationem grammatici.
Et ideo exponens ordinem significationum non incipit a litteris, sed a vocibus:
quarum primo significationem exponens, dicit: sunt ergo ea, quæ sunt in voce,
notæ, idest, signa earum passionum quæ sunt in anima. Dicit autem ergo, quasi
ex præmissis concludens: quia supra dixerat determinandum esse de nomine et
verbo et aliis prædictis; hæc autem sunt voces significativæ; ergo oportet
vocum significationem exponere. Utitur autem hoc modo loquendi, ut dicat,
ea quæ sunt in voce, et non, voces, ut quasi continuatim loquatur cum prædictis.
Dixerat enim dicendum esse de nomine et verbo et aliis huiusmodi. Hæc autem
tripliciter habent esse. Uno quidem modo, in conceptione intellectus; alio
modo, in prolatione vocis; tertio modo, in conscriptione litterarum. Dicit
ergo, ea quæ sunt in voce etc.; ac si dicat, nomina et verba et alia
consequentia, quæ tantum sunt in voce, sunt notæ. Vel, quia non omnes voces
sunt significativæ, et earum quædam sunt significativæ naturaliter, quæ longe
sunt a ratione nominis et verbi et aliorum consequentium; ut appropriet suum
dictum ad ea de quibus intendit, ideo dicit, ea quæ sunt in voce, idest quæ
continentur sub voce, sicut partes sub toto. Vel, quia vox est quoddam
naturale, nomen autem et verbum significant ex institutione humana, quæ advenit
rei naturali sicut materiæ, ut forma lecti ligno; ideo ad designandum nomina et
verba et alia consequentia dicit, ea quæ sunt in voce, ac si de lecto
diceretur, ea quæ sunt in ligno. Circa id autem quod dicit, earum quæ sunt in
anima passionum, considerandum est quod passiones animæ communiter dici solent
appetitus sensibilis affectiones, sicut ira, gaudium et alia huiusmodi, ut
dicitur in II Ethicorum. Et verum est quod
huiusmodi passiones significant naturaliter quædam voces hominum, ut gemitus
infirmorum, et aliorum animalium, ut dicitur in I politicæ. Sed nunc sermo est
de vocibus significativis ex institutione humana; et ideo oportet passiones
animæ hic intelligere intellectus conceptiones, quas nomina et verba et
orationes significant immediate, secundum sententiam Aristotelis. Non enim
potest esse quod significent immediate ipsas res, ut ex ipso modo significandi
apparet: significat enim hoc nomen homo naturam humanam in abstractione a
singularibus. Unde non potest esse quod significet immediate hominem
singularem; unde Platonici posuerunt quod significaret ipsam ideam hominis
separatam. Sed quia hoc secundum suam abstractionem non subsistit realiter
secundum sententiam Aristotelis, sed est in solo intellectu; ideo necesse fuit
Aristoteli dicere quod voces significant intellectus conceptiones immediate et
eis mediantibus res. Sed quia non est consuetum quod conceptiones
intellectus Aristoteles nominet passiones; ideo Andronicus posuit hunc librum
non esse Aristotelis. Sed manifeste invenitur in 1 de anima quod passiones animæ
vocat omnes animæ operationes. Unde et ipsa conceptio intellectus passio dici
potest. Vel quia intelligere nostrum non est sine phantasmate: quod non est
sine corporali passione; unde et imaginativam philosophus in III de anima vocat
passivum intellectum. Vel quia extenso nomine passionis ad omnem receptionem,
etiam ipsum intelligere intellectus possibilis quoddam pati est, ut dicitur in
III de anima. Utitur autem potius nomine passionum, quam intellectuum: tum quia
ex aliqua animæ passione provenit, puta ex amore vel odio, ut homo interiorem
conceptum per vocem alteri significare velit: tum etiam quia significatio vocum
refertur ad conceptionem intellectus, secundum quod oritur a rebus per modum
cuiusdam impressionis vel passionis. Secundo, cum dicit: et ea quæ
scribuntur etc., agit de significatione Scripturæ: et secundum Alexandrum hoc
inducit ad manifestandum præcedentem sententiam per modum similitudinis, ut sit
sensus: ita ea quæ sunt in voce sunt signa passionum animæ, sicut et litteræ
sunt signa vocum. Quod etiam manifestat per sequentia, cum dicit: et
quemadmodum nec litteræ etc.; inducens hoc quasi signum præcedentis. Quod enim
litteræ significent voces, significatur per hoc, quod, sicut sunt diversæ voces
apud diversos, ita et diversæ litteræ. Et secundum hanc expositionem, ideo non
dixit, et litteræ eorum quæ sunt in voce, sed ea quæ scribuntur: quia dicuntur
litteræ etiam in prolatione et Scriptura, quamvis magis proprie, secundum quod
sunt in Scriptura, dicantur litteræ; secundum autem quod sunt in prolatione,
dicantur elementa vocis. Sed quia Aristoteles non dicit, sicut et ea quæ
scribuntur, sed continuam narrationem facit, melius est ut dicatur, sicut
Porphyrius exposuit, quod Aristoteles procedit ulterius ad complendum ordinem
significationis. Postquam enim dixerat quod nomina et verba, quæ sunt in voce,
sunt signa eorum quæ sunt in anima, continuatim subdit quod nomina et verba quæ
scribuntur, signa sunt eorum nominum et verborum quæ sunt in voce. Deinde cum
dicit: et quemadmodum nec litteræ etc., ostendit differentiam præmissorum
significantium et significatorum, quantum ad hoc, quod est esse secundum
naturam, vel non esse. Et circa hoc tria facit. Primo enim, ponit quoddam
signum, quo manifestatur quod nec voces nec litteræ naturaliter significant. Ea
enim, quæ naturaliter significant sunt eadem apud omnes. Significatio autem
litterarum et vocum, de quibus nunc agimus, non est eadem apud omnes. Sed hoc
quidem apud nullos unquam dubitatum fuit quantum ad litteras: quarum non solum
ratio significandi est ex impositione, sed etiam ipsarum formatio fit per
artem. Voces autem naturaliter formantur; unde et apud quosdam dubitatum fuit,
utrum naturaliter significent. Sed Aristoteles hic determinat ex similitudine
litterarum, quæ sicut non sunt eædem apud omnes, ita nec voces. Unde manifeste
relinquitur quod sicut nec litteræ, ita nec voces naturaliter significant, sed
ex institutione humana. Voces autem illæ, quæ naturaliter significant, sicut
gemitus infirmorum et alia huiusmodi, sunt eadem apud omnes. Secundo,
ibi: quorum autem etc., ostendit passiones animæ naturaliter esse, sicut et
res, per hoc quod eædem sunt apud omnes. Unde dicit: quorum autem; idest sicut
passiones animæ sunt eædem omnibus (quorum primorum, idest quarum passionum
primarum, hæ, scilicet voces, sunt notæ, idest signa; comparantur enim
passiones animæ ad voces, sicut primum ad secundum: voces enim non proferuntur,
nisi ad exprimendum interiores animæ passiones), et res etiam eædem, scilicet
sunt apud omnes, quorum, idest quarum rerum, hæ, scilicet passiones animæ sunt
similitudines. Ubi attendendum est quod litteras dixit esse notas, idest signa
vocum, et voces passionum animæ similiter; passiones autem animæ dicit esse
similitudines rerum: et hoc ideo, quia res non cognoscitur ab anima nisi per
aliquam sui similitudinem existentem vel in sensu vel in intellectu. Litteræ
autem ita sunt signa vocum, et voces passionum, quod non attenditur ibi aliqua
ratio similitudinis, sed sola ratio institutionis, sicut et in multis aliis
signis: ut tuba est signum belli. In passionibus autem animæ oportet attendi
rationem similitudinis ad exprimendas res, quia naturaliter eas designant, non
ex institutione. Obiiciunt autem quidam, ostendere volentes contra hoc
quod dicit passiones animæ, quas significant voces, esse omnibus easdem. Primo
quidem, quia diversi diversas sententias habent de rebus, et ita non videntur
esse eædem apud omnes animæ passiones. Ad quod respondet Boethius quod
Aristoteles hic nominat passiones animæ conceptiones intellectus, qui numquam
decipitur; et ita oportet eius conceptiones esse apud omnes easdem: quia, si
quis a vero discordat, hic non intelligit. Sed quia etiam in intellectu potest
esse falsum, secundum quod componit et dividit, non autem secundum quod
cognoscit quod quid est, idest essentiam rei, ut dicitur in III de anima;
referendum est hoc ad simplices intellectus conceptiones (quas significant
voces incomplexæ), quæ sunt eædem apud omnes: quia, si quis vere intelligit
quid est homo, quodcunque aliud aliquid, quam hominem apprehendat, non
intelligit hominem. Huiusmodi autem simplices conceptiones intellectus sunt,
quas primo voces significant. Unde dicitur in IV metaphysicæ quod ratio, quam
significat nomen, est definitio. Et ideo signanter dicit: quorum primorum hæ
notæ sunt, ut scilicet referatur ad primas conceptiones a vocibus primo
significatas. Sed adhuc obiiciunt aliqui de nominibus æquivocis, in
quibus eiusdem vocis non est eadem passio, quæ significatur apud omnes. Et
respondet ad hoc Porphyrius quod unus homo, qui vocem profert, ad unam
intellectus conceptionem significandam eam refert; et si aliquis alius, cui
loquitur, aliquid aliud intelligat, ille qui loquitur, se exponendo, faciet
quod referet intellectum ad idem. Sed melius dicendum est quod intentio
Aristotelis non est asserere identitatem conceptionis animæ per comparationem
ad vocem, ut scilicet unius vocis una sit conceptio: quia voces sunt diversæ
apud diversos; sed intendit asserere identitatem conceptionum animæ per comparationem
ad res, quas similiter dicit esse easdem. Tertio, ibi: de his itaque
etc., excusat se a diligentiori harum consideratione: quia quales sint animæ
passiones, et quomodo sint rerum similitudines, dictum est in libro de anima.
Non enim hoc pertinet ad logicum negocium, sed ad naturale. Postquam
philosophus tradidit ordinem significationis vocum, hic agit de diversa vocum
significatione: quarum quædam significant verum vel falsum, quædam non. Et circa
hoc duo facit: primo, præmittit differentiam; secundo, manifestat eam; ibi:
circa compositionem enim et cetera. Quia vero conceptiones intellectus præambulæ
sunt ordine naturæ vocibus, quæ ad eas exprimendas proferuntur, ideo ex
similitudine differentiæ, quæ est circa intellectum, assignat differentiam, quæ
est circa significationes vocum: ut scilicet hæc manifestatio non solum sit ex
simili, sed etiam ex causa quam imitantur effectus. Est ergo
considerandum quod, sicut in principio dictum est, duplex est operatio
intellectus, ut traditur in III de anima; in quarum una non invenitur verum et
falsum, in altera autem invenitur. Et hoc est quod dicit
quod in anima aliquoties est intellectus sine vero et falso, aliquoties autem
ex necessitate habet alterum horum. Et quia voces significativæ formantur ad
exprimendas conceptiones intellectus, ideo ad hoc quod signum conformetur
signato, necesse est quod etiam vocum significativarum similiter quædam
significent sine vero et falso, quædam autem cum vero et falso. Deinde
cum dicit: circa compositionem etc., manifestat quod dixerat. Et primo, quantum
ad id quod dixerat de intellectu; secundo, quantum ad id quod dixerat de
assimilatione vocum ad intellectum; ibi: nomina igitur ipsa et verba et cetera.
Ad ostendendum igitur quod intellectus quandoque est sine vero et falso,
quandoque autem cum altero horum, dicit primo quod veritas et falsitas est
circa compositionem et divisionem. Ubi oportet intelligere quod una duarum
operationum intellectus est indivisibilium intelligentia: in quantum scilicet
intellectus intelligit absolute cuiusque rei quidditatem sive essentiam per
seipsam, puta quid est homo vel quid album vel quid aliud huiusmodi. Alia vero
operatio intellectus est, secundum quod huiusmodi simplicia concepta simul
componit et dividit. Dicit ergo quod in hac secunda operatione intellectus,
idest componentis et dividentis, invenitur veritas et falsitas: relinquens quod
in prima operatione non invenitur, ut etiam traditur in III de anima. Sed circa
hoc primo videtur esse dubium: quia cum divisio fiat per resolutionem ad
indivisibilia sive simplicia, videtur quod sicut in simplicibus non est veritas
vel falsitas, ita nec in divisione. Sed dicendum est quod cum conceptiones
intellectus sint similitudines rerum, ea quæ circa intellectum sunt dupliciter
considerari et nominari possunt. Uno modo, secundum se: alio modo, secundum
rationes rerum quarum sunt similitudines. Sicut imago Herculis secundum se
quidem dicitur et est cuprum; in quantum autem est similitudo Herculis
nominatur homo. Sic etiam, si consideremus ea quæ sunt circa intellectum
secundum se, semper est compositio, ubi est veritas et falsitas; quæ nunquam
invenitur in intellectu, nisi per hoc quod intellectus comparat unum simplicem
conceptum alteri. Sed si referatur ad rem, quandoque dicitur compositio,
quandoque dicitur divisio. Compositio quidem, quando intellectus comparat unum
conceptum alteri, quasi apprehendens coniunctionem aut identitatem rerum,
quarum sunt conceptiones; divisio autem, quando sic comparat unum conceptum
alteri, ut apprehendat res esse diversas. Et per hunc etiam modum in vocibus
affirmatio dicitur compositio, in quantum coniunctionem ex parte rei
significat; negatio vero dicitur divisio, in quantum significat rerum
separationem. Ulterius autem videtur quod non solum in compositione et
divisione veritas consistat. Primo quidem, quia etiam res dicitur vera vel
falsa, sicut dicitur aurum verum vel falsum. Dicitur etiam quod ens et verum convertuntur. Unde videtur quod etiam
simplex conceptio intellectus, quæ est similitudo rei, non careat veritate et
falsitate. Præterea, philosophus dicit in Lib. de anima quod sensus propriorum
sensibilium semper est verus; sensus autem non componvel dividit; non ergo in
sola compositione vel divisione est veritas. Item, in intellectu divino nulla
est compositio, ut probatur in XII metaphysicæ; et tamen ibi est prima et summa
veritas; non ergo veritas est solum circa compositionem et divisionem. Ad
huiusmodi igitur evidentiam considerandum est quod veritas in aliquo invenitur
dupliciter: uno modo, sicut in eo quod est verum: alio modo, sicut in dicente
vel cognoscente verum. Invenitur autem veritas sicut in eo quod est verum tam
in simplicibus, quam in compositis; sed sicut in dicente vel cognoscente verum,
non invenitur nisi secundum compositionem et divisionem. Quod quidem sic
patet. Verum enim, ut philosophus dicit in VI Ethicorum, est bonum
intellectus. Unde de quocumque dicatur verum, oportet quod hoc sit per
respectum ad intellectum. Comparantur autem ad intellectum voces quidem sicut
signa, res autem sicut ea quorum intellectus sunt similitudines. Considerandum
autem quod aliqua res comparatur ad intellectum dupliciter. Uno quidem modo,
sicut mensura ad mensuratum, et sic comparantur res naturales ad intellectum
speculativum humanum. Et ideo intellectus dicitur verus secundum quod
conformatur rei, falsus autem secundum quod discordat a re. Res autem naturalis
non dicitur esse vera per comparationem ad intellectum nostrum, sicut posuerunt
quidam antiqui naturales, existimantes rerum veritatem esse solum in hoc, quod
est videri: secundum hoc enim sequeretur quod contradictoria essent simul vera,
quia contradictoria cadunt sub diversorum opinionibus. Dicuntur tamen res aliquæ
veræ vel falsæ per comparationem ad intellectum nostrum, non essentialiter vel
formaliter, sed effective, in quantum scilicet natæ sunt facere de se veram vel
falsam existimationem; et secundum hoc dicitur aurum verum vel falsum. Alio
autem modo, res comparantur ad intellectum, sicut mensuratum ad mensuram, ut
patet in intellectu practico, qui est causa rerum. Unde opus artificis dicitur
esse verum, in quantum attingit ad rationem artis; falsum vero, in quantum
deficit a ratione artis. Et quia omnia etiam naturalia comparantur ad
intellectum divinum, sicut artificiata ad artem, consequens est ut quælibet res
dicatur esse vera secundum quod habet propriam formam, secundum quam imitatur
artem divinam. Nam falsum aurum est verum aurichalcum. Et hoc modo ens et verum
convertuntur, quia quælibet res naturalis per suam formam arti divinæ
conformatur. Unde philosophus in I physicæ, formam nominat quoddam
divinum. Et sicut res dicitur vera per comparationem ad suam mensuram,
ita etiam et sensus vel intellectus, cuius mensura est res extra animam. Unde
sensus dicitur verus, quando per formam suam conformatur rei extra animam
existenti. Et sic intelligitur quod sensus proprii sensibilis sit
verus. Et hoc etiam modo intellectus apprehendens quod quid est absque
compositione et divisione, semper est verus, ut dicitur in III de anima. Est
autem considerandum quod quamvis sensus proprii obiecti sit verus, non tamen
cognoscit hoc esse verum. Non enim potest cognoscere habitudinem conformitatis
suæ ad rem, sed solam rem apprehendit; intellectus autem potest huiusmodi
habitudinem conformitatis cognoscere; et ideo solus intellectus potest
cognoscere veritatem. Unde et philosophus dicit in VI metaphysicæ quod veritas
est solum in mente, sicut scilicet in cognoscente veritatem. Cognoscere autem
prædictam conformitatis habitudinem nihil est aliud quam iudicare ita esse in
re vel non esse: quod est componere et dividere; et ideo intellectus non
cognoscit veritatem, nisi componendo vel dividendo per suum iudicium. Quod
quidem iudicium, si consonet rebus, erit verum, puta cum intellectus iudicat
rem esse quod est, vel non esse quod non est. Falsum autem quando dissonat a
re, puta cum iudicat non esse quod est, vel esse quod non est. Unde patet quod
veritas et falsitas sicut in cognoscente et dicente non est nisi circa
compositionem et divisionem. Et hoc modo philosophus loquitur hic. Et quia
voces sunt signa intellectuum, erit vox vera quæ significat verum intellectum,
falsa autem quæ significat falsum intellectum: quamvis vox, in quantum est res
quædam, dicatur vera sicut et aliæ res. Unde hæc vox, homo est asinus, est vere
vox et vere signum; sed quia est signum falsi, ideo dicitur falsa.
Sciendum est autem quod philosophus de veritate hic loquitur secundum quod
pertinet ad intellectum humanum, qui iudicat de conformitate rerum et intellectus
componendo et dividendo. Sed iudicium intellectus divini de hoc est absque
compositione et divisione: quia sicut etiam intellectus noster intelligit
materialia immaterialiter, ita etiam intellectus divinus cognoscit
compositionem et divisionem simpliciter. Deinde cum dicit: nomina igitur
ipsa et verba etc., manifestat quod dixerat de similitudine vocum ad
intellectum. Et primo, manifestat propositum; secundo, probat per signum; ibi:
huius autem signum et cetera. Concludit ergo ex præmissis quod, cum solum circa
compositionem et divisionem sit veritas et falsitas in intellectu, consequens
est quod ipsa nomina et verba, divisim accepta, assimilentur intellectui qui
est sine compositione et divisione; sicut cum homo vel album dicitur, si nihil
aliud addatur: non enim verum adhuc vel falsum est; sed postea quando additur
esse vel non esse, fit verum vel falsum. Nec est instantia de eo, qui per
unicum nomen veram responsionem dat ad interrogationem factam; ut cum quærenti:
quid natat in mari? Aliquis respondet, piscis. Nam intelligitur verbum quod
fuit in interrogatione positum. Et sicut nomen per se positum non
significat verum vel falsum, ita nec verbum per se dictum. Nec est instantia de verbo primæ et secundæ personæ, et de verbo exceptæ
actionis: quia in his intelligitur certus et determinatus nominativus. Unde est
implicita compositio, licet non explicita. Deinde cum dicit: signum autem
etc., inducit signum ex nomine composito, scilicet Hircocervus, quod componitur
ex hirco et cervus et quod in Græco dicitur Tragelaphos; nam tragos est hircus,
et elaphos cervus. Huiusmodi enim nomina significant aliquid, scilicet quosdam
conceptus simplices, licet rerum compositarum; et ideo non est verum vel
falsum, nisi quando additur esse vel non esse, per quæ exprimitur iudicium
intellectus. Potest autem addi esse vel non esse, vel secundum præsens tempus,
quod est esse vel non esse in actu, et ideo hoc dicitur esse simpliciter; vel
secundum tempus præteritum, aut futurum, quod non est esse simpliciter, sed
secundum quid; ut cum dicitur aliquid fuisse vel futurum esse. Signanter autem
utitur exemplo ex nomine significante quod non est in rerum natura, in quo
statim falsitas apparet, et quod sine compositione et divisione non possit
verum vel falsum esse. Postquam philosophus determinavit de ordine
significationis vocum, hic accedit ad determinandum de ipsis vocibus
significativis. Et quia principaliter intendit de enunciatione, quæ est
subiectum huius libri; in qualibet autem scientia oportet prænoscere principia
subiecti; ideo primo, determinat de principiis enunciationis; secundo, de ipsa
enunciatione; ibi: enunciativa vero non omnis et cetera. Circa primum duo
facit: primo enim, determinat principia quasi materialia enunciationis,
scilicet partes integrales ipsius; secundo, determinat principium formale,
scilicet orationem, quæ est enunciationis genus; ibi: oratio autem est vox
significativa et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, determinat de nomine,
quod significat rei substantiam; secundo, determinat de verbo, quod significat
actionem vel passionem procedentem a re; ibi: verbum autem est quod
consignificat tempus et cetera. Circa primum tria facit: primo, definit nomen;
secundo, definitionem exponit; ibi: in nomine enim quod est equiferus etc.;
tertio, excludit quædam, quæ perfecte rationem nominis non habent, ibi: non
homo vero non est nomen. Circa primum considerandum est quod definitio
ideo dicitur terminus, quia includit totaliter rem; ita scilicet, quod nihil
rei est extra definitionem, cui scilicet definitio non conveniat; nec aliquid
aliud est infra definitionem, cui scilicet definitio conveniat. Et ideo
quinque ponit in definitione nominis. Primo, ponitur vox per modum generis, per
quod distinguitur nomen ab omnibus sonis, qui non sunt voces. Nam vox est sonus
ab ore animalis prolatus, cum imaginatione quadam, ut dicitur in II de anima. Additur
autem prima differentia, scilicet significativa, ad differentiam quarumcumque
vocum non significantium, sive sit vox litterata et articulata, sicut biltris,
sive non litterata et non articulata, sicut sibilus pro nihilo factus. Et quia de significatione vocum in superioribus actum est, ideo ex præmissis
concludit quod nomen est vox significativa. Sed cum vox sit quædam res naturalis,
nomen autem non est aliquid naturale sed ab hominibus institutum, videtur quod
non debuit genus nominis ponere vocem, quæ est ex natura, sed magis signum,
quod est ex institutione; ut diceretur: nomen est signum vocale; sicut etiam
convenientius definiretur scutella, si quis diceret quod est vas ligneum, quam
si quis diceret quod est lignum formatum in vas. Sed dicendum quod
artificialia sunt quidem in genere substantiæ ex parte materiæ, in genere autem
accidentium ex parte formæ: nam formæ artificialium accidentia sunt. Nomen ergo
significat formam accidentalem ut concretam subiecto. Cum autem in definitione
omnium accidentium oporteat poni subiectum, necesse est quod, si qua nomina
accidens in abstracto significant quod in eorum definitione ponatur accidens in
recto, quasi genus, subiectum autem in obliquo, quasi differentia; ut cum
dicitur, simitas est curvitas nasi. Si qua vero nomina accidens significant in
concreto, in eorum definitione ponitur materia, vel subiectum, quasi genus, et
accidens, quasi differentia; ut cum dicitur, simum est nasus curvus. Si igitur nomina rerum artificialium significant formas accidentales, ut
concretas subiectis naturalibus, convenientius est, ut in eorum definitione
ponatur res naturalis quasi genus, ut dicamus quod scutella est lignum
figuratum, et similiter quod nomen est vox significativa. Secus autem esset, si
nomina artificialium acciperentur, quasi significantia ipsas formas
artificiales in abstracto. Tertio, ponit secundam differentiam cum dicit:
secundum placitum, idest secundum institutionem humanam a beneplacito hominis
procedentem. Et per hoc differt nomen a vocibus significantibus naturaliter,
sicut sunt gemitus infirmorum et voces brutorum animalium. Quarto, ponit
tertiam differentiam, scilicet sine tempore, per quod differt nomen a verbo.
Sed videtur hoc esse falsum: quia hoc nomen dies vel annus significat tempus.
Sed dicendum quod circa tempus tria possunt considerari. Primo quidem, ipsum
tempus, secundum quod est res quædam, et sic potest significari a nomine, sicut
quælibet alia res. Alio modo, potest considerari id, quod tempore mensuratur,
in quantum huiusmodi: et quia id quod primo et principaliter tempore mensuratur
est motus, in quo consistit actio et passio, ideo verbum quod significat
actionem vel passionem, significat cum tempore. Substantia autem secundum se
considerata, prout significatur per nomen et pronomen, non habet in quantum
huiusmodi ut tempore mensuretur, sed solum secundum quod subiicitur motui,
prout per participium significatur. Et ideo verbum et participium significant
cum tempore, non autem nomen et pronomen. Tertio modo, potest considerari ipsa
habitudo temporis mensurantis; quod significatur per adverbia temporis, ut
cras, heri et huiusmodi. Quinto, ponit quartam differentiam cum subdit:
cuius nulla pars est significativa separata, scilicet a toto nomine; comparatur
tamen ad significationem nominis secundum quod est in toto. Quod ideo est, quia
significatio est quasi forma nominis; nulla autem pars separata habet formam
totius, sicut manus separata ab homine non habet formam humanam. Et per hoc
distinguitur nomen ab oratione, cuius pars significat separata; ut cum dicitur,
homo iustus. Deinde cum dicit: in nomine enim quod est etc., manifestat
præmissam definitionem. Et primo, quantum ad ultimam particulam; secundo,
quantum ad tertiam; ibi: secundum vero placitum et cetera. Nam primæ duæ particulæ manifestæ sunt ex præmissis; tertia autem
particula, scilicet sine temporeit, manifestabitur in sequentibus in
tractatu de verbo. Circa primum duo facit: primo, manifestat propositum
per nomina composita; secundo, ostendit circa hoc differentiam inter nomina simplicia
et composita; ibi: at vero non quemadmodum et cetera. Manifestat ergo primo
quod pars nominis separata nihil significat, per nomina composita, in quibus
hoc magis videtur. In hoc enim nomine quod est equiferus, hæc pars ferus, per
se nihil significat sicut significat in hac oratione, quæ est equus ferus.
Cuius ratio est quod unum nomen imponitur ad significandum unum simplicem
intellectum; aliud autem est id a quo imponitur nomen ad significandum, ab eo
quod nomen significat; sicut hoc nomen lapis imponitur a læsione pedis, quam
non significat: quod tamen imponitur ad significandum conceptum cuiusdam rei.
Et inde est quod pars nominis compositi, quod imponitur ad significandum
conceptum simplicem, non significat partem conceptionis compositæ, a qua
imponitur nomen ad significandum. Sed oratio significat ipsam conceptionem
compositam: unde pars orationis significat partem conceptionis compositæ.
Deinde cum dicit: at vero non etc., ostendit quantum ad hoc differentiam inter
nomina simplicia et composita, et dicit quod non ita se habet in nominibus
simplicibus, sicut et in compositis: quia in simplicibus pars nullo modo est
significativa, neque secundum veritatem, neque secundum apparentiam; sed in
compositis vult quidem, idest apparentiam habet significandi; nihil tamen pars
eius significat, ut dictum est de nomine equiferus. Hæc autem ratio differentiæ
est, quia nomen simplex sicut imponitur ad significandum conceptum simplicem,
ita etiam imponitur ad significandum ab aliquo simplici conceptu; nomen vero
compositum imponitur a composita conceptione, ex qua habet apparentiam quod
pars eius significet. Deinde cum dicit: secundum placitum etc.,
manifestat tertiam partem prædictæ definitionis; et dicit quod ideo dictum est
quod nomen significat secundum placitum, quia nullum nomen est naturaliter. Ex hoc enim est nomen, quod significat: non autem significat naturaliter,
sed ex institutione. Et hoc est quod subdit: sed quando fit nota, idest quando
imponitur ad significandum. Id enim quod naturaliter significat non fit, sed
naturaliter est signum. Et hoc significat cum dicit: illitterati enim soni, ut
ferarum, quia scilicet litteris significari non possunt. Et dicit potius sonos
quam voces, quia quædam animalia non habent vocem, eo quod carent pulmone, sed
tantum quibusdam sonis proprias passiones naturaliter significant: nihil autem
horum sonorum est nomen. Ex quo manifeste datur intelligi quod nomen non
significat naturaliter. Sciendum tamen est quod circa hoc fuit diversa
quorumdam opinio. Quidam enim dixerunt quod nomina nullo modo naturaliter
significant: nec differt quæ res quo nomine significentur. Alii vero dixerunt
quod nomina omnino naturaliter significant, quasi nomina sint naturales
similitudines rerum. Quidam vero dixerunt quod nomina non naturaliter
significant quantum ad hoc, quod eorum significatio non est a natura, ut
Aristoteles hic intendit; quantum vero ad hoc naturaliter significant quod
eorum significatio congruit naturis rerum, ut Plato dixit. Nec obstat quod una
res multis nominibus significatur: quia unius rei possunt esse multæ
similitudines; et similiter ex diversis proprietatibus possunt uni rei multa
diversa nomina imponi. Non est autem intelligendum quod dicit: quorum nihil est
nomen, quasi soni animalium non habeant nomina: nominantur enim quibusdam
nominibus, sicut dicitur rugitus leonis et mugitus bovis; sed quia nullus talis
sonus est nomen, ut dictum est. Deinde cum dicit: non homo vero etc.,
excludit quædam a nominis ratione. Et primo, nomen infinitum; secundo, casus
nominum; ibi: Catonis autem vel Catoni et cetera. Dicit ergo primo quod non
homo non est nomen. Omne enim nomen significat aliquam naturam determinatam, ut
homo; aut personam determinatam, ut pronomen; aut utrumque determinatum, ut
Socrates. Sed hoc quod dico non homo, neque determinatam naturam neque
determinatam personam significat. Imponitur enim a
negatione hominis, quæ æqualiter dicitur de ente, et non ente. Unde non homo
potest dici indifferenter, et de eo quod non est in rerum natura; ut si
dicamus, Chimæra est non homo, et de eo quod est in rerum natura; sicut cum
dicitur, equus est non homo. Si autem imponeretur a privatione, requireret
subiectum ad minus existens: sed quia imponitur a negatione, potest dici de
ente et de non ente, ut Boethius et Ammonius dicunt. Quia tamen significat per
modum nominis, quod potest subiici et prædicari, requiritur ad minus suppositum
in apprehensione. Non autem erat nomen positum tempore Aristotelis sub quo
huiusmodi dictiones concluderentur. Non enim est oratio, quia pars eius non
significat aliquid separata, sicut nec in nominibus compositis; similiter autem
non est negatio, id est oratio negativa, quia huiusmodi oratio superaddit
negationem affirmationi, quod non contingit hic. Et ideo novum nomen imponit
huiusmodi dictioni, vocans eam nomen infinitum propter indeterminationem
significationis, ut dictum est. Deinde cum dicit: Catonis autem vel
Catoni etc., excludit casus nominis; et dicit quod Catonis vel Catoni et alia
huiusmodi non sunt nomina, sed solus nominativus dicitur principaliter nomen,
per quem facta est impositio nominis ad aliquid significandum. Huiusmodi autem
obliqui vocantur casus nominis: quia quasi cadunt per quamdam declinationis
originem a nominativo, qui dicitur rectus eo quod non cadit. Stoici autem
dixerunt etiam nominativos dici casus: quos grammatici sequuntur, eo quod
cadunt, idest procedunt ab interiori conceptione mentis. Et dicitur rectus, eo
quod nihil prohibet aliquid cadens sic cadere, ut rectum stet, sicut stilus qui
cadens ligno infigitur. Deinde cum dicit: ratio autem eius etc., ostendit
consequenter quomodo se habeant obliqui casus ad nomen; et dicit quod ratio,
quam significat nomen, est eadem et in aliis, scilicet casibus nominis; sed in
hoc est differentia quod nomen adiunctum cum hoc verbo est vel erit vel fuit
semper significat verum vel falsum: quod non contingit in obliquis. Signanter
autem inducit exemplum de verbo substantivo: quia sunt quædam alia verba,
scilicet impersonalia, quæ cum obliquis significant verum vel falsum; ut cum
dicitur, poenitet Socratem, quia actus verbi intelligitur ferri super obliquum;
ac si diceretur, poenitentia habet Socratem. Sed contra: si nomen
infinitum et casus non sunt nomina, inconvenienter data est præmissa nominis
definitio, quæ istis convenit. Sed dicendum, secundum Ammonium, quod supra
communius definit nomen, postmodum vero significationem nominis arctat
subtrahendo hæc a nomine. Vel dicendum quod præmissa definitio non simpliciter
convenit his: nomen enim infinitum nihil determinatum significat, neque casus
nominis significat secundum primum placitum instituentis, ut dictum est.
Postquam philosophus determinavit de nomine: hic determinat de verbo. Et circa
hoc tria facit: primo, definit verbum; secundo, excludit quædam a ratione
verbi; ibi: non currit autem, et non laborat etc.; tertio, ostendit
convenientiam verbi ad nomen; ibi: ipsa quidem secundum se dicta verba, et
cetera. Circa
primum duo facit: primo, ponit definitionem verbi; secundo exponit eam; ibi:
dico autem quoniam consignificat et cetera. Est autem considerandum quod
Aristoteles, brevitati studens, non ponit in definitione verbi ea quæ sunt
nomini et verbo communia, relinquens ea intellectui legentis ex his quæ dixerat
in definitione nominis. Ponit autem tres particulas in definitione verbi:
quarum prima distinguit verbum a nomine, in hoc scilicet quod dicit quod
consignificat tempus. Dictum est enim in definitione nominis quod nomen
significat sine tempore. Secunda vero particula est, per quam distinguitur
verbum ab oratione, scilicet cum dicitur: cuius pars nihil extra
significat. Sed cum hoc etiam positum sit in definitione nominis, videtur
hoc debuisse prætermitti, sicut et quod dictum est, vox significativa ad
placitum. Ad quod respondet Ammonius quod in definitione nominis hoc positum
est, ut distinguatur nomen ab orationibus, quæ componuntur ex nominibus; ut cum
dicitur, homo est animal. Quia vero sunt etiam quædam orationes quæ componuntur
ex verbis; ut cum dicitur, ambulare est moveri, ut ab his distinguatur verbum,
oportuit hoc etiam in definitione verbi iterari. Potest etiam aliter dici quod
quia verbum importat compositionem, in qua perficitur oratio verum vel falsum
significans, maiorem convenientiam videbatur verbum habere cum oratione, quasi
quædam pars formalis ipsius, quam nomen, quod est quædam pars materialis et
subiectiva orationis; et ideo oportuit iterari. Tertia vero particula
est, per quam distinguitur verbum non solum a nomine, sed etiam a participio
quod significat cum tempore; unde dicit: et est semper eorum, quæ de altero prædicantur
nota, idest signum: quia scilicet nomina et participia possunt poni ex parte
subiecti et prædicati, sed verbum semper est ex parte prædicati. Sed hoc
videtur habere instantiam in verbis infinitivi modi, quæ interdum ponuntur ex
parte subiecti; ut cum dicitur, ambulare est moveri. Sed dicendum est quod
verba infinitivi modi, quando in subiecto ponuntur, habent vim nominis: unde et
in Græco et in vulgari Latina locutione suscipiunt additionem articulorum sicut
et nomina. Cuius ratio est quia proprium nominis est, ut significet
rem aliquam quasi per se existentem; proprium autem verbi est, ut significet
actionem vel passionem. Potest autem actio significari tripliciter: uno modo,
per se in abstracto, velut quædam res, et sic significatur per nomen; ut cum
dicitur actio, passio, ambulatio, cursus et similia; alio modo, per modum
actionis, ut scilicet est egrediens a substantia et inhærens ei ut subiecto, et
sic significatur per verba aliorum modorum, quæ attribuuntur prædicatis. Sed
quia etiam ipse processus vel inhærentia actionis potest apprehendi ab
intellectu et significari ut res quædam, inde est quod ipsa verba infinitivi
modi, quæ significant ipsam inhærentiam actionis ad subiectum, possunt accipi
ut verba, ratione concretionis, et ut nomina prout significant quasi res
quasdam. Potest etiam obiici de hoc quod etiam verba aliorum modorum
videntur aliquando in subiecto poni; ut cum dicitur, curro est verbum. Sed
dicendum est quod in tali locutione, hoc verbum curro, non sumitur formaliter,
secundum quod eius significatio refertur ad rem, sed secundum quod materialiter
significat ipsam vocem, quæ accipitur ut res quædam. Et ideo tam verba,
quam omnes orationis partes, quando ponuntur materialiter, sumuntur in vi
nominum. Deinde cum dicit: dico vero quoniam consignificat etc., exponit
definitionem positam. Et primo, quantum ad hoc quod dixerat quod consignificat
tempus; secundo, quantum ad hoc quod dixerat quod est nota eorum quæ de altero
prædicantur, cum dicit: et semper est et cetera. Secundam autem particulam, scilicet: cuius nulla pars extra significat, non
exponit, quia supra exposita est in tractatu nominis. Exponit ergo primum quod
verbum consignificat tempus, per exemplum; quia videlicet cursus, quia
significat actionem non per modum actionis, sed per modum rei per se
existentis, non consignificat tempus, eo quod est nomen. Curro vero cum sit
verbum significans actionem, consignificat tempus, quia proprium est motus
tempore mensurari; actiones autem nobis notæ sunt in tempore. Dictum est autem
supra quod consignificare tempus est significare aliquid in tempore mensuratum.
Unde aliud est significare tempus principaliter, ut rem quamdam, quod potest
nomini convenire, aliud autem est significare cum tempore, quod non convenit
nomini, sed verbo. Deinde cum dicit: et est semper etc., exponit aliam
particulam. Ubi notandum est quod quia subiectum enunciationis significatur ut
cui inhæret aliquid, cum verbum significet actionem per modum actionis, de
cuius ratione est ut inhæreat, semper ponitur ex parte prædicati, nunquam autem
ex parte subiecti, nisi sumatur in vi nominis, ut dictum est. Dicitur ergo
verbum semper esse nota eorum quæ dicuntur de altero: tum quia verbum semper
significat id, quod prædicatur; tum quia in omni prædicatione oportet esse
verbum, eo quod verbum importat compositionem, qua prædicatum componitur
subiecto. Sed dubium videtur quod subditur: ut eorum quæ de subiecto vel
in subiecto sunt. Videtur enim aliquid dici ut de subiecto, quod essentialiter
prædicatur; ut, homo est animal; in subiecto autem, sicut accidens de subiecto
prædicatur; ut, homo est albus. Si ergo verba significant actionem vel
passionem, quæ sunt accidentia, consequens est ut semper significent ea, quæ
dicuntur ut in subiecto. Frustra igitur dicitur in subiecto vel de subiecto. Et
ad hoc dicit Boethius quod utrumque ad idem pertinet. Accidens enim et de
subiecto prædicatur, et in subiecto est. Sed quia Aristoteles disiunctione
utitur, videtur aliud per utrumque significare. Et ideo potest dici quod cum
Aristoteles dicit quod, verbum semper est nota eorum, quæ de altero prædicantur,
non est sic intelligendum, quasi significata verborum sint quæ prædicantur,
quia cum prædicatio videatur magis proprie ad compositionem pertinere, ipsa
verba sunt quæ prædicantur, magis quam significent prædicata. Est ergo
intelligendum quod verbum semper est signum quod aliqua prædicentur, quia omnis
prædicatio fit per verbum ratione compositionis importatæ, sive prædicetur aliquid
essentialiter sive accidentaliter. Deinde cum dicit: non currit vero et
non laborat etc., excludit quædam a ratione verbi. Et primo, verbum infinitum;
secundo, verba præteriti temporis vel futuri; ibi: similiter autem curret vel
currebat. Dicit ergo primo quod non currit, et non laborat, non proprie dicitur
verbum. Est enim proprium verbi significare aliquid per modum actionis vel
passionis; quod prædictæ dictiones non faciunt: removent enim actionem vel
passionem, potius quam aliquam determinatam actionem vel passionem significent.
Sed
quamvis non proprie possint dici verbum, tamen conveniunt sibi ea quæ supra
posita sunt in definitione verbi. Quorum primum est quod significat tempus,
quia significat agere et pati, quæ sicut sunt in tempore, ita privatio eorum;
unde et quies tempore mensuratur, ut habetur in VI physicorum. Secundum est
quod semper ponitur ex parte prædicati, sicut et verbum: ethoc ideo, quia
negatio reducitur ad genus affirmationis. Unde sicut verbum quod significat
actionem vel passionem, significat aliquid ut in altero existens, ita prædictæ
dictiones significant remotionem actionis vel passionis. Si quis autem
obiiciat: si prædictis dictionibus convenit definitio verbi; ergo sunt verba;
dicendum est quod definitio verbi supra posita datur de verbo communiter
sumpto. Huiusmodi autem dictiones negantur esse verba, quia deficiunt a
perfecta ratione verbi. Nec ante Aristotelem erat nomen positum huic generi
dictionum a verbis differentium; sed quia huiusmodi dictiones in aliquo cum
verbis conveniunt, deficiunt tamen a determinata ratione verbi, ideo vocat ea
verba infinita. Et rationem nominis assignat, quia unumquodque eorum
indifferenter potest dici de eo quod est, vel de eo quod non est. Sumitur
enim negatio apposita non in vi privationis, sed in vi simplicis negationis.
Privatio enim supponit determinatum subiectum. Differunt tamen huiusmodi verba
a verbis negativis, quia verba infinita sumuntur in vi unius dictionis, verba
vero negativa in vi duarum dictionum. Deinde cum dicit: similiter autem
curret etc., excludit a verbo verba præteriti et futuri temporis; et dicit quod
sicut verba infinita non sunt simpliciter verba, ita etiam curret, quod est
futuri temporis, vel currebat, quod est præteriti temporis, non sunt verba, sed
sunt casus verbi. Et differunt in hoc a verbo, quia verbum consignificat præsens
tempus, illa vero significant tempus hinc et inde circumstans. Dicit autem
signanter præsens tempus, et non simpliciter præsens, ne intelligatur præsens
indivisibile, quod est instans: quia in instanti non est motus, nec actio aut
passio; sed oportet accipere præsens tempus quod mensurat actionem, quæ
incepit, et nondum est determinata per actum. Recte autem ea quæ consignificant
tempus præteritum vel futurum, non sunt verba proprie dicta: cum enim verbum
proprie sit quod significat agere vel pati, hoc est proprie verbum quod
significat agere vel pati in actu, quod est agere vel pati simpliciter: sed
agere vel pati in præterito vel futuro est secundum quid. Dicuntur etiam
verba præteriti vel futuri temporis rationabiliter casus verbi, quod
consignificat præsens tempus; quia præteritum vel futurum dicitur per respectum
ad præsens. Est enim præteritum quod fuit præsens, futurum autem quod erit præsens.
Cum autem declinatio verbi varietur per modos, tempora, numeros et personas,
variatio quæ fit per numerum et personam non constituit casus verbi: quia talis
variatio non est ex parte actionis, sed ex parte subiecti; sed variatio quæ est
per modos et tempora respicit ipsam actionem, et ideo utraque constituit casus
verbi. Nam
verba imperativi vel optativi modi casus dicuntur, sicut et verba præteriti vel
futuri temporis. Sed verba indicativi modi præsentis temporis non dicuntur
casus, cuiuscumque sint personæ vel numeri. Deinde cum dicit: ipsa itaque etc.,
ostendit convenientiam verborum ad nomina. Et circa hoc duo facit: primo,
proponit quod intendit; secundo, manifestat propositum; ibi: et significant
aliquid et cetera. Dicit ergo primo, quod ipsa verba secundum se dicta sunt
nomina: quod a quibusdam exponitur de verbis quæ sumuntur in vi nominis, ut
dictum est, sive sint infinitivi modi; ut cum dico, currere est moveri, sive
sint alterius modi; ut cum dico, curro est verbum. Sed hæc non videtur esse
intentio Aristotelis, quia ad hanc intentionem non respondent sequentia. Et
ideo aliter dicendum est quod nomen hic sumitur, prout communiter significat
quamlibet dictionem impositam ad significandum aliquam rem. Et quia etiam ipsum
agere vel pati est quædam res, inde est quod et ipsa verba in quantum nominant,
idest significant agere vel pati, sub nominibus comprehenduntur communiter
acceptis. Nomen autem, prout a verbo distinguitur, significat rem sub
determinato modo, prout scilicet potest intelligi ut per se existens. Unde
nomina possunt subiici et prædicari. Deinde cum dicit: et significant
aliquid etc., probat propositum. Et primo, per hoc quod verba significant
aliquid, sicut et nomina; secundo, per hoc quod non significant verum vel
falsum, sicut nec nomina; ibi: sed si est, aut non est et cetera. Dicit ergo
primo quod in tantum dictum est quod verba sunt nomina, in quantum significant
aliquid. Et hoc probat, quia supra dictum est quod voces
significativæ significant intellectus. Unde proprium vocis significativæ est
quod generet aliquem intellectum in animo audientis. Et ideo ad ostendendum
quod verbum sit vox significativa, assumit quod ille, qui dicit verbum,
constituit intellectum in animo audientis. Et ad hoc manifestandum inducit quod
ille, qui audit, quiescit. Sed hoc videtur esse falsum: quia sola
oratio perfecta facit quiescere intellectum, non autem nomen, neque verbum si
per se dicatur. Si enim dicam, homo, suspensus est animus audientis, quid de eo
dicere velim; si autem dico, currit, suspensus est eius animus de quo dicam.
Sed dicendum est quod cum duplex sit intellectus operatio, ut supra habitum
est, ille qui dicit nomen vel verbum secundum se, constituit intellectum
quantum ad primam operationem, quæ est simplex conceptio alicuius, et secundum
hoc, quiescit audiens, qui in suspenso erat antequam nomen vel verbum
proferretur et eius prolatio terminaretur; non autem constituit intellectum
quantum ad secundam operationem, quæ est intellectus componentis et dividentis,
ipsum verbum vel nomen per se dictum: nec quantum ad hoc facit quiescere
audientem. Et ideo statim subdit: sed si est, aut non est, nondum
significat, idest nondum significat aliquid per modum compositionis et
divisionis, aut veri vel falsi. Et hoc est secundum, quod probare intendit.
Probat autem consequenter per illa verba, quæ maxime videntur significare
veritatem vel falsitatem, scilicet ipsum verbum quod est esse, et verbum
infinitum quod est non esse; quorum neutrum per se dictum est significativum
veritatis vel falsitatis in re; unde multo minus alia. Vel potest intelligi hoc
generaliter dici de omnibus verbis. Quia enim dixerat quod verbum non
significat si est res vel non est, hoc consequenter manifestat, quia nullum
verbum est significativum esse rei vel non esse, idest quod res sit vel non
sit. Quamvis enim omne verbum finitum implicet esse, quia currere est currentem
esse, et omne verbum infinitum implicet non esse, quia non currere est non
currentem esse; tamen nullum verbum significat hoc totum, scilicet rem esse vel
non esse. Et hoc consequenter probat per id, de quo magis videtur cum
subdit: nec si hoc ipsum est purum dixeris, ipsum quidem nihil est. Ubi
notandum est quod in Græco habetur: neque si ens ipsum nudum dixeris, ipsum
quidem nihil est. Ad probandum enim quod verba non significant rem esse vel non
esse, assumpsit id quod est fons et origo ipsius esse, scilicet ipsum ens, de
quo dicit quod nihil est (ut Alexander exponit), quia ens æquivoce dicitur de
decem prædicamentis; omne autem æquivocum ÆQVIVOCVM GRICE per se positum nihil
significat, nisi aliquid addatur quod determinet eius significationem; unde nec
ipsum est per se dictum significat quod est vel non est. Sed hæc expositio non
videtur conveniens, tum quia ens non dicitur proprie æquivoce, sed secundum
prius et posterius; unde simpliciter dictum intelligitur de eo, quod per prius
dicitur: tum etiam, quia dictio æquivoca non nihil significat, sed multa
significat; et quandoque hoc, quandoque illud per ipsam accipitur: tum etiam,
quia talis expositio non multum facit ad intentionem præsentem. Unde Porphyrius
aliter exposuit quod hoc ipsum ens non significat naturam alicuius rei, sicut
hoc nomen homo vel sapiens, sed solum designat quamdam coniunctionem; unde
subdit quod consignificat quamdam compositionem, quam sine compositis non est
intelligere. Sed neque hoc convenienter videtur dici: quia si non significaret
aliquam rem, sed solum coniunctionem, non esset neque nomen, neque verbum,
sicut nec præpositiones aut coniunctiones. Et ideo aliter exponendum est, sicut
Ammonius exponit, quod ipsum ens nihil est, idest non significat verum vel
falsum. Et rationem huius assignat, cum subdit: consignificat autem quamdam
compositionem. Nec accipitur hic, ut ipse dicit, consignificat, sicut cum
dicebatur quod verbum consignificat tempus, sed consignificat, idest cum alio
significat, scilicet alii adiunctum compositionem significat, quæ non potest
intelligi sine extremis compositionis. Sed quia hoc commune est omnibus
nominibus et verbis, non videtur hæc expositio esse secundum intentionem
Aristotelis, qui assumpsit ipsum ens quasi quoddam speciale. Et ideo ut magis
sequamur verba Aristotelis considerandum est quod ipse dixerat quod verbum non
significat rem esse vel non esse, sed nec ipsum ens significat rem esse vel non
esse. Et hoc est quod dicit, nihil est, idest non significat aliquid esse.
Etenim hoc maxime videbatur de hoc quod dico ens: quia ens nihil est aliud quam
quod est. Et sic videtur et rem significare, per hoc quod dico quod et esse,
per hoc quod dico est. Et si quidem hæc dictio ens significaret esse
principaliter, sicut significat rem quæ habet esse, procul dubio significaret
aliquid esse. Sed ipsam compositionem, quæ importatur in hoc quod dico est, non
principaliter significat, sed consignificat eam in quantum significat rem
habentem esse. Unde talis consignificatio compositionis non sufficit ad
veritatem vel falsitatem: quia compositio, in qua consistit veritas et
falsitas, non potest intelligi, nisi secundum quod innectit extrema
compositionis. Si vero dicatur, nec ipsum esse, ut libri nostri habent,
planior est sensus. Quod enim nullum verbum significat rem esse vel non esse,
probat per hoc verbum est, quod secundum se dictum, non significat aliquid
esse, licet significet esse. Et quia hoc ipsum esse videtur compositio quædam,
et ita hoc verbum est, quod significat esse, potest videri significare
compositionem, in qua sit verum vel falsum; ad hoc excludendum subdit quod illa
compositio, quam significat hoc verbum est, non potest intelligi sine
componentibus: quia dependet eius intellectus ab extremis, quæ si non
apponantur, non est perfectus intellectus compositionis, ut possit in ea esse
verum, vel falsum. Ideo autem dicit quod hoc verbum est consignificat
compositionem, quia non eam principaliter significat, sed ex consequenti;
significat enim primo illud quod cadit in intellectu per modum actualitatis
absolute: nam est, simpliciter dictum, significat in actu esse; et ideo
significat per modum verbi. Quia vero actualitas, quam principaliter significat
hoc verbum est, est communiter actualitas omnis formæ, vel actus substantialis
vel accidentalis, inde est quod cum volumus significare quamcumque formam vel
actum actualiter inesse alicui subiecto, significamus illud per hoc verbum est,
vel simpliciter vel secundum quid: simpliciter quidem secundum præsens tempus;
secundum quid autem secundum alia tempora. Et ideo ex consequenti hoc verbum
est significat compositionem. Postquam philosophus determinavit de nomine et de
verbo, quæ sunt principia materialia enunciationis, utpote partes eius
existentes; nunc determinat de oratione, quæ est principium formale
enunciationis, utpote genus eius existens. Et circa hoc tria facit: primo enim,
proponit definitionem orationis; secundo, exponit eam; ibi: dico autem ut homo
etc.; tertio, excludit errorem; ibi: est autem oratio omnis et cetera.
Circa primum considerandum est quod philosophus in definitione orationis primo
ponit illud in quo oratio convenit cum nomine et verbo, cum dicit: oratio est
vox significativa, quod etiam posuit in definitione nominis, et probavit de
verbo quod aliquid significet. Non autem posuit in eius definitione, quia
supponebat ex eo quod positum erat in definitione nominis, studens brevitati,
ne idem frequenter iteraret. Iterat tamen hoc in definitione orationis, quia
significatio orationis differt a significatione nominis et verbi, quia nomen
vel verbum significat simplicem intellectum, oratio vero significat intellectum
compositum. Secundo autem ponit id, in quo oratio differt a nomine et
verbo, cum dicit: cuius partium aliquid significativum est separatim. Supra
enim dictum est quod pars nominis non significat aliquid per se separatum, sed
solum quod est coniunctum ex duabus partibus. Signanter autem non dicit: cuius
pars est significativa aliquid separata, sed cuius aliquid partium est
significativum, propter negationes et alia syncategoremata, quæ secundum se non
significant aliquid absolutum, sed solum habitudinem unius ad alterum. Sed quia
duplex est significatio vocis, una quæ refertur ad intellectum compositum, alia
quæ refertur ad intellectum simplicem; prima significatio competit orationi,
secunda non competit orationi, sed parti orationis. Unde subdit: ut dictio, non ut affirmatio. Quasi dicat: pars orationis est
significativa, sicut dictio significat, puta ut nomen et verbum, non sicut
affirmatio, quæ componitur ex nomine et verbo. Facit autem mentionem solum de
affirmatione et non de negatione, quia negatio secundum vocem superaddit
affirmationi; unde si pars orationis propter sui simplicitatem non significat
aliquid, ut affirmatio, multo minus ut negatio. Sed contra hanc
definitionem Aspasius obiicit quod videtur non omnibus partibus orationis
convenire. Sunt enim quædam orationes, quarum partes significant aliquid ut
affirmatio; ut puta, si sol lucet super terram, dies est; et sic de multis. Et
ad hoc respondet Porphyrius quod in quocumque genere invenitur prius et
posterius, debet definiri id quod prius est. Sicut cum datur definitio alicuius
speciei, puta hominis, intelligitur definitio de eo quod est in actu, non de eo
quod est in potentia; et ideo quia in genere orationis prius est oratio
simplex, inde est quod Aristoteles prius definivit orationem simplicem. Vel
potest dici, secundum Alexandrum et Ammonium, quod hic definitur oratio in communi.
Unde debet poni in hac definitione id quod est commune orationi simplici et
compositæ. Habere autem partes significantes aliquid ut affirmatio, competit
soli orationi, compositæ; sed habere partes significantes aliquid per modum
dictionis, et non per modum affirmationis, est commune orationi simplici et
compositæ. Et ideo hoc debuit poni in definitione orationis. Et secundum hoc
non debet intelligi esse de ratione orationis quod pars eius non sit
affirmatio: sed quia de ratione orationis est quod pars eius sit aliquid quod
significat per modum dictionis, et non per modum affirmationis. Et in idem
redit solutio Porphyrii quantum ad sensum, licet quantum ad verba parumper
differat. Quia enim Aristoteles frequenter ponit dicere pro affirmare, ne
dictio pro affirmatione sumatur, subdit quod pars orationis significat ut
dictio, et addit non ut affirmatio: quasi diceret, secundum sensum Porphyrii,
non accipiatur nunc dictio secundum quod idem est quod affirmatio. Philosophus
autem, qui dicitur Ioannes grammaticus, voluit quod hæc definitio orationis
daretur solum de oratione perfecta, eo quod partes non videntur esse nisi
alicuius perfecti, sicut omnes partes domus referuntur ad domum: et ideo
secundum ipsum sola oratio perfecta habet partes significativas. Sed tamen hic
decipiebatur, quia quamvis omnes partes referantur principaliter ad totum
perfectum, quædam tamen partes referuntur ad ipsum immediate, sicut paries et
tectum ad domum, et membra organica ad animal: quædam vero mediantibus partibus
principalibus quarum sunt partes; sicut lapides referuntur ad domum mediante
pariete; nervi autem et ossa ad animal mediantibus membris organicis, scilicet
manu et pede et huiusmodi. Sic ergo omnes partes orationis principaliter
referuntur ad orationem perfectam, cuius pars est oratio imperfecta, quæ etiam
ipsa habet partes significantes. Unde ista definitio convenit tam orationi
perfectæ, quam imperfectæ. Deinde cum dicit: dico autem ut homo etc.,
exponit propositam definitionem. Et primo, manifestat verum esse quod dicitur;
secundo, excludit falsum intellectum; ibi: sed non una hominis syllaba et
cetera. Exponit ergo quod dixerat aliquid partium orationis esse
significativum, sicut hoc nomen homo, quod est pars orationis, significat
aliquid, sed non significat ut affirmatio aut negatio, quia non significat esse
vel non esse. Et
hoc dico non in actu, sed solum in potentia. Potest enim aliquid addi, per
cuius additionem fit affirmatio vel negatio, scilicet si addatur ei
verbum. Deinde cum dicit: sed non una hominis etc., excludit
falsum intellectum. Et posset hoc referri ad immediate dictum, ut sit
sensus quod nomen erit affirmatio vel negatio, si quid ei addatur, sed non si
addatur ei una nominis syllaba. Sed quia huic sensui non conveniunt verba
sequentia, oportet quod referatur ad id, quod supra dictum est in definitione
orationis, scilicet quod aliquid partium eius sit significativum separatim. Sed quia pars alicuius totius dicitur proprie illud, quod immediate venit
ad constitutionem totius, non autem pars partis; ideo hoc intelligendum est de
partibus ex quibus immediate constituitur oratio, scilicet de nomine et verbo,
non autem de partibus nominis vel verbi, quæ sunt syllabæ vel litteræ. Et ideo
dicitur quod pars orationis est significativa separata, non tamen talis pars,
quæ est una nominis syllaba. Et hoc manifestat in syllabis, quæ quandoque
possunt esse dictiones per se significantes: sicut hoc quod dico rex, quandoque
est una dictio per se significans; in quantum vero accipitur ut una quædam
syllaba huius nominis sorex, soricis, non significat aliquid per se, sed est
vox sola. Dictio enim quædam est composita ex pluribus vocibus, tamen in
significando habet simplicitatem, in quantum scilicet significat simplicem
intellectum. Et ideo in quantum est vox composita, potest habere partem quæ sit
vox, inquantum autem est simplex in significando, non potest habere partem
significantem. Unde syllabæ quidem sunt voces, sed non sunt voces per se
significantes. Sciendum tamen quod in nominibus compositis, quæ imponuntur ad
significandum rem simplicem ex aliquo intellectu composito, partes secundum
apparentiam aliquid significant, licet non secundum veritatem. Et ideo subdit
quod in duplicibus, idest in nominibus compositis, syllabæ quæ possunt esse
dictiones, in compositione nominis venientes, significant aliquid, scilicet in
ipso composito et secundum quod sunt dictiones; non autem significant aliquid
secundum se, prout sunt huiusmodi nominis partes, sed eo modo, sicut supra
dictum est. Deinde cum dicit: est autem oratio etc., excludit quemdam
errorem. Fuerunt enim aliqui dicentes quod oratio et eius partes significant
naturaliter, non ad placitum. Ad probandum autem hoc utebantur tali
ratione. Virtutis naturalis oportet esse naturalia instrumenta: quia natura non
deficit in necessariis; potentia autem interpretativa est naturalis homini;
ergo instrumenta eius sunt naturalia. Instrumentum autem eius est oratio, quia
per orationem virtus interpretativa interpretatur mentis conceptum: hoc enim
dicimus instrumentum, quo agens operatur. Ergo oratio est aliquid naturale, non
ex institutione humana significans, sed naturaliter. Huic autem rationi,
quæ dicitur esse Platonis in Lib. qui intitulatur Cratylus, Aristoteles
obviando dicit quod omnis oratio est significativa, non sicut instrumentum
virtutis, scilicet naturalis: quia instrumenta naturalia virtutis interpretativæ
sunt guttur et pulmo, quibus formatur vox, et lingua et dentes et labia, quibus
litterati ac articulati soni distinguuntur; oratio autem et partes eius sunt
sicut effectus virtutis interpretativæ per instrumenta prædicta. Sicut enim
virtus motiva utitur naturalibus instrumentis, sicut brachiis et manibus ad
faciendum opera artificialia, ita virtus interpretativa utitur gutture et aliis
instrumentis naturalibus ad faciendum orationem. Unde oratio et partes eius non sunt res naturales, sed quidam artificiales
effectus. Et ideo subdit quod oratio significat ad placitum, idest secundum
institutionem humanæ rationis et voluntatis, ut supra dictum est, sicut et
omnia artificialia causantur ex humana voluntate et ratione. Sciendum tamen
quod, si virtutem interpretativam non attribuamus virtuti motivæ, sed rationi;
sic non est virtus naturalis, sed supra omnem naturam corpoream: quia
intellectus non est actus alicuius corporis, sicut probatur in III de anima.
Ipsa autem ratio est, quæ movet virtutem corporalem motivam ad opera
artificialia, quibus etiam ut instrumentis utitur ratio: non sunt autem
instrumenta alicuius virtutis corporalis. Et hoc modo ratio potest etiam uti
oratione et eius partibus, quasi instrumentis: quamvis non naturaliter
significent. Postquam philosophus determinavit de principiis enunciationis, hic
incipit determinare de ipsa enunciatione. Et dividitur pars hæc in duas: in
prima, determinat de enunciatione absolute; in secunda, de diversitate
enunciationum, quæ provenit secundum ea quæ simplici enunciationi adduntur; et
hoc in secundo libro; ibi: quoniam autem est de aliquo affirmatio et cetera.
Prima autem pars dividitur in partes tres. In prima, definit enunciationem; in
secunda, dividit eam; ibi: est autem una prima oratio etc., in tertia, agit de
oppositione partium eius ad invicem; ibi: quoniam autem est enunciare et
cetera. Circa primum tria facit: primo, ponit definitionem enunciationis;
secundo, ostendit quod per hanc definitionem differt enunciatio ab aliis
speciebus orationis; ibi: non autem in omnibus etc.; tertio, ostendit quod de
sola enunciatione est tractandum, ibi: et cæteræ quidem relinquantur.
Circa primum considerandum est quod oratio, quamvis non sit instrumentum
alicuius virtutis naturaliter operantis, est tamen instrumentum rationis, ut
supra dictum est. Omne autem instrumentum oportet definiri ex suo fine, qui est
usus instrumenti: usus autem orationis, sicut et omnis vocis significativæ est
significare conceptionem intellectus, ut supra dictum est: duæ autem sunt
operationes intellectus, in quarum una non invenitur veritas et falsitas, in
alia autem invenitur verum vel falsum. Et ideo orationem enunciativam definit
ex significatione veri et falsi, dicens quod non omnis oratio est enunciativa,
sed in qua verum vel falsum est. Ubi considerandum est quod Aristoteles
mirabili brevitate usus, et divisionem orationis innuit in hoc quod dicit: non
omnis oratio est enunciativa, et definitionem enunciationis in hoc quod dicit:
sed in qua verum vel falsum est: ut intelligatur quod hæc sit definitio
enunciationis, enunciatio est oratio, in qua verum vel falsum est.
Dicitur autem in enunciatione esse verum vel falsum, sicut in signo intellectus
veri vel falsi: sed sicut in subiecto est verum vel falsum in mente, ut dicitur
in VI metaphysicæ, in re autem sicut in causa: quia ut dicitur in libro prædicamentorum,
ab eo quod res est vel non est, oratio vera vel falsa est. Deinde cum
dicit: non autem in omnibus etc., ostendit quod per hanc definitionem
enunciatio differt ab aliis orationibus. Et quidem de orationibus imperfectis
manifestum est quod non significant verum vel falsum, quia cum non faciant
perfectum sensum in animo audientis, manifestum est quod perfecte non exprimunt
iudicium rationis, in quo consistit verum vel falsum. His igitur prætermissis,
sciendum est quod perfectæ orationis, quæ complet sententiam, quinque sunt
species, videlicet enunciativa, deprecativa, imperativa, interrogativa et
vocativa. (Non tamen intelligendum est quod solum nomen vocativi casus sit
vocativa oratio: quia oportet aliquid partium orationis significare aliquid
separatim, sicut supra dictum est; sed per vocativum provocatur, sive excitatur
animus audientis ad attendendum; non autem est vocativa oratio nisi plura
coniungantur; ut cum dico, o bone Petre). Harum autem
orationum sola enunciativa est, in qua invenitur verum vel falsum, quia ipsa
sola absolute significat conceptum intellectus, in quo est verum vel
falsum. Sed quia intellectus vel ratio, non solum concipit in seipso
veritatem rei tantum, sed etiam ad eius officium pertinet secundum suum
conceptum alia dirigere et ordinare; ideo necesse fuit quod sicut per
enunciativam orationem significatur ipse mentis conceptus, ita etiam essent
aliquæ aliæ orationes significantes ordinem rationis, secundum quam alia
diriguntur. Dirigitur autem ex ratione unius hominis alius homo ad tria: primo
quidem, ad attendendum mente; et ad hoc pertinet vocativa oratio: secundo, ad
respondendum voce; et ad hoc pertinet oratio interrogativa: tertio, ad
exequendum in opere; et ad hoc pertinet quantum ad inferiores oratio
imperativa; quantum autem ad superiores oratio deprecativa, ad quam reducitur
oratio optativa: quia respectu superioris, homo non habet vim motivam, nisi per
expressionem sui desiderii. Quia igitur istæ quatuor orationis species non
significant ipsum conceptum intellectus, in quo est verum vel falsum, sed
quemdam ordinem ad hoc consequentem; inde est quod in nulla earum invenitur
verum vel falsum, sed solum in enunciativa, quæ significat id quod mens de
rebus concipit. Et inde est quod omnes modi orationum, in quibus invenitur
verum vel falsum, sub enunciatione continentur: quam quidam dicunt indicativam
vel suppositivam. Dubitativa autem ad interrogativam reducitur, sicut et
optativa ad deprecativam. Deinde cum dicit: cæteræ igitur relinquantur
etc., ostendit quod de sola enunciativa est agendum; et dicit quod aliæ quatuor
orationis species sunt relinquendæ, quantum pertinet ad præsentem intentionem:
quia earum consideratio convenientior est rhetoricæ vel poeticæ scientiæ. Sed
enunciativa oratio præsentis considerationis est. Cuius ratio est, quia
consideratio huius libri directe ordinatur ad scientiam demonstrativam, in qua
animus hominis per rationem inducitur ad consentiendum vero ex his quæ sunt
propria rei; et ideo demonstrator non utitur ad suum finem nisi enunciativis
orationibus, significantibus res secundum quod earum veritas est in anima. Sed
rhetor et poeta inducunt ad assentiendum ei quod intendunt, non solum per ea quæ
sunt propria rei, sed etiam per dispositiones audientis. Unde rhetores et poetæ
plerumque movere auditores nituntur provocando eos ad aliquas passiones, ut
philosophus dicit in sua rhetorica. Et ideo consideratio dictarum specierum
orationis, quæ pertinet ad ordinationem audientis in aliquid, cadit proprie sub
consideratione rhetoricæ vel poeticæ, ratione sui significati; ad
considerationem autem grammatici, prout consideratur in eis congrua vocum
constructio. Postquam philosophus definivit enunciationem, hic dividit eam. Et
dividitur in duas partes: in prima, ponit divisionem enunciationis; in secunda,
manifestat eam; ibi: necesse est autem et cetera. Circa primum
considerandum est quod Aristoteles sub breviloquio duas divisiones
enunciationis ponit. Quarum una est quod enunciationum quædam est una simplex,
quædam est coniunctione una. Sicut etiam in rebus, quæ sunt extra animam,
aliquid est unum simplex sicut indivisibile vel continuum, aliquid est unum
colligatione aut compositione aut ordine. Quia enim ens et unum convertuntur, necesse est sicut omnem rem, ita et
omnem enunciationem aliqualiter esse unam. Alia vero
subdivisio enunciationis est quod si enunciatio sit una, aut est affirmativa
aut negativa. Enunciatio autem affirmativa prior est negativa, triplici
ratione, secundum tria quæ supra posita sunt: ubi dictum est quod vox est
signum intellectus, et intellectus est signum rei. Ex parte igitur vocis,
affirmativa enunciatio est prior negativa, quia est simplicior: negativa enim
enunciatio addit supra affirmativam particulam negativam. Ex parte etiam
intellectus affirmativa enunciatio, quæ significat compositionem intellectus,
est prior negativa, quæ significat divisionem eiusdem: divisio enim naturaliter
posterior est compositione, nam non est divisio nisi compositorum, sicut non
est corruptio nisi generatorum. Ex parte etiam rei, affirmativa enunciatio, quæ
significat esse, prior est negativa, quæ significat non esse: sicut habitus
naturaliter prior est privatione. Dicit ergo quod oratio enunciativa
una et prima est affirmatio, idest affirmativa enunciatio. Et contra hoc quod
dixerat prima, subdit: deinde negatio, idest negativa oratio, quia est
posterior affirmativa, ut dictum est. Contra id autem quod dixerat una,
scilicet simpliciter, subdit quod quædam aliæ sunt unæ, non simpliciter, sed
coniunctione unæ. Ex hoc autem quod hic dicitur argumentatur Alexander
quod divisio enunciationis in affirmationem et negationem non est divisio
generis in species, sed divisio nominis multiplicis in sua significata. Genus
enim univoce prædicatur de suis speciebus, non secundum prius et posterius:
unde Aristoteles noluit quod ens esset genus commune omnium, quia per prius prædicatur
de substantia, quam de novem generibus accidentium. Sed dicendum quod
unum dividentium aliquod commune potest esse prius altero dupliciter: uno modo,
secundum proprias rationes, aut naturas dividentium; alio modo, secundum
participationem rationis illius communis quod in ea dividitur. Primum autem non
tollit univocationem generis, ut manifestum est in numeris, in quibus binarius
secundum propriam rationem naturaliter est prior ternario; sed tamen æqualiter
participant rationem generis sui, scilicet numeri: ita enim est ternarius
multitudo mensurata per unum, sicut et binarius. Sed secundum impedit univocationem generis. Et propter hoc ens non potest
esse genus substantiæ et accidentis: quia in ipsa ratione entis, substantia, quæ
est ens per se, prioritatem habet respectu accidentis, quod est ens per aliud
et in alio. Sic ergo affirmatio secundum propriam rationem prior est negatione;
tamen æqualiter participant rationem enunciationis, quam supra posuit,
videlicet quod enunciatio est oratio in qua verum vel falsum est. Deinde
cum dicit: necesse est autem etc., manifestat propositas divisiones. Et primo,
manifestat primam, scilicet quod enunciatio vel est una simpliciter vel
coniunctione una; secundo, manifestat secundam, scilicet quod enunciatio
simpliciter una vel est affirmativa vel negativa; ibi: est autem simplex
enunciatio et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, præmittit quædam, quæ
sunt necessaria ad propositum manifestandum; secundo, manifestat propositum;
ibi: est autem una oratio et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, dicit
quod omnem orationem enunciativam oportet constare ex verbo quod est præsentis
temporis, vel ex casu verbi quod est præteriti vel futuri. Tacet autem de verbo
infinito, quia eumdem usum habet in enunciatione sicut et verbum negativum.
Manifestat autem quod dixerat per hoc, quod non solum nomen unum sine verbo non
facit orationem perfectam enunciativam, sed nec etiam oratio imperfecta.
Definitio enim oratio quædam est, et tamen si ad rationem hominis, idest
definitionem non addatur aut est, quod est verbum, aut erat, aut fuit, quæ sunt
casus verbi, aut aliquid huiusmodi, idest aliquod aliud verbum seu casus verbi,
nondum est oratio enunciativa. Potest autem esse dubitatio: cum
enunciatio constet ex nomine et verbo, quare non facit mentionem de nomine,
sicut de verbo? Ad quod tripliciter responderi potest. Primo quidem, quia nulla
oratio enunciativa invenitur sine verbo vel casu verbi; invenitur autem aliqua
enunciatio sine nomine, puta cum nos utimur infinitivis verborum loco nominum;
ut cum dicitur, currere est moveri. Secundo et melius, quia, sicut supra dictum
est, verbum est nota eorum quæ de altero prædicantur. Prædicatum autem est
principalior pars enunciationis, eo quod est pars formalis et completiva
ipsius. Unde vocatur apud Græcos propositio categorica, idest prædicativa.
Denominatio autem fit a forma, quæ dat speciem rei. Et ideo potius fecit
mentionem de verbo tanquam de parte principaliori et formaliori. Cuius signum
est, quia enunciatio categorica dicitur affirmativa vel negativa solum ratione
verbi, quod affirmatur vel negatur; sicut etiam conditionalis dicitur
affirmativa vel negativa, eo quod affirmatur vel negatur coniunctio a qua
denominatur. Tertio, potest dici, et adhuc melius, quod non erat intentio
Aristotelis ostendere quod nomen vel verbum non sufficiant ad enunciationem
complendam: hoc enim supra manifestavit tam de nomine quam de verbo. Sed quia
dixerat quod quædam enunciatio est una simpliciter, quædam autem coniunctione
una; posset aliquis intelligere quod illa quæ est una simpliciter careret omni
compositione: sed ipse hoc excludit per hoc quod in omni enunciatione oportet
esse verbum, quod importat compositionem, quam non est intelligere sine
compositis, sicut supra dictum est. Nomen autem non
importat compositionem, et ideo non exigit præsens intentio ut de nomine
faceret mentionem, sed solum de verbo. Secundo; ibi: quare autem etc., ostendit
aliud quod est necessarium ad manifestationem propositi, scilicet quod hoc quod
dico, animal gressibile bipes, quæ est definitio hominis, est unum et non
multa. Et eadem ratio est de omnibus aliis definitionibus. Sed huiusmodi
rationem assignare dicit esse alterius negocii. Pertinet enim ad metaphysicum;
unde in VII et in VIII metaphysicæ ratio huius assignatur: quia scilicet
differentia advenit generi non per accidens sed per se, tanquam determinativa
ipsius, per modum quo materia determinatur per formam. Nam a materia
sumitur genus, a forma autem differentia. Unde sicut ex forma et materia fit
vere unum et non multa, ita ex genere et differentia. Excludit autem quamdam
rationem huius unitatis, quam quis posset suspicari, ut scilicet propter hoc
definitio dicatur unum, quia partes eius sunt propinquæ, idest sine aliqua
interpositione coniunctionis vel moræ. Et quidem non interruptio locutionis
necessaria est ad unitatem definitionis, quia si interponeretur coniunctio
partibus definitionis, iam secunda non determinaret primam, sed significarentur
ut actu multæ in locutione: et idem operatur interpositio moræ, qua utuntur
rhetores loco coniunctionis. Unde ad unitatem definitionis requiritur quod
partes eius proferantur sine coniunctione et interpolatione: quia etiam in re
naturali, cuius est definitio, nihil cadit medium inter materiam et formam: sed
prædicta non interruptio non sufficit ad unitatem definitionis, quia contingit
etiam hanc continuitatem prolationis servari in his, quæ non sunt simpliciter
unum, sed per accidens; ut si dicam, homo albus musicus. Sic igitur Aristoteles
valde subtiliter manifestavit quod absoluta unitas enunciationis non impeditur,
neque per compositionem quam importat verbum, neque per multitudinem nominum ex
quibus constat definitio. Et est eadem ratio utrobique, nam prædicatum
comparatur ad subiectum ut forma ad materiam, et similiter differentia ad
genus: ex forma autem et materia fit unum simpliciter. Deinde cum dicit:
est autem una oratio etc., accedit ad manifestandam prædictam divisionem. Et
primo, manifestat ipsum commune quod dividitur, quod est enunciatio una;
secundo, manifestat partes divisionis secundum proprias rationes; ibi: harum
autem hæc simplex et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, manifestat ipsam
divisionem; secundo, concludit quod ab utroque membro divisionis nomen et
verbum excluduntur; ibi: nomen ergo et verbum et cetera. Opponitur autem
unitati pluralitas; et ideo enunciationis unitatem manifestat per modos
pluralitatis. Dicit ergo primo quod enunciatio dicitur vel una absolute,
scilicet quæ unum de uno significat, vel una secundum quid, scilicet quæ est
coniunctione una. Per oppositum autem est intelligendum quod enunciationes
plures sunt, vel ex eo quod plura significant et non unum: quod opponitur primo
modo unitatis; vel ex eo quod absque coniunctione proferuntur: et tales
opponuntur secundo modo unitatis. Circa quod considerandum est, secundum
Boethium, quod unitas et pluralitas orationis refertur ad significatum; simplex
autem et compositum attenditur secundum ipsas voces. Et ideo enunciatio
quandoque est una et simplex puta cum solum ex nomine et verbo componitur in
unum significatum; ut cum dico, homo est albus. Est etiam quandoque una oratio,
sed composita, quæ quidem unam rem significat, sed tamen composita est vel ex
pluribus terminis; sicut si dicam, animal rationale mortale currit, vel ex
pluribus enunciationibus, sicut in conditionalibus, quæ quidem unum significant
et non multa. Similiter autem quandoque in enunciatione est pluralitas
cum simplicitate, puta cum in oratione ponitur aliquod nomen multa significans;
ut si dicam, canis latrat, hæc oratio plures est, quia plura significat, et
tamen simplex est. Quandoque vero in enunciatione est pluralitas et compositio,
puta cum ponuntur plura in subiecto vel in prædicato, ex quibus non fit unum,
sive interveniat coniunctio sive non; puta si dicam, homo albus musicus
disputat: et similiter est si coniungantur plures enunciationes, sive cum
coniunctione sive sine coniunctione; ut si dicam, Socrates currit, Plato
disputat. Et secundum hoc sensus litteræ est quod enunciatio una est illa, quæ
unum de uno significat, non solum si sit simplex, sed etiam si sit coniunctione
una. Et similiter enunciationes plures dicuntur quæ plura et non unum
significant: non solum quando interponitur aliqua coniunctio, vel inter nomina
vel verba, vel etiam inter ipsas enunciationes; sed etiam si vel
inconiunctione, idest absque aliqua interposita coniunctione plura significat,
vel quia est unum nomen æquivocum ÆQVIVOCVM GRICE, multa significans, vel quia
ponuntur plura nomina absque coniunctione, ex quorum significatis non fit unum;
ut si dicam, homo albus grammaticus logicus currit. Sed hæc expositio non
videtur esse secundum intentionem Aristotelis. Primo quidem, quia per
disiunctionem, quam interponit, videtur distinguere inter orationem unum
significantem, et orationem quæ est coniunctione una. Secundo, quia supra
dixerat quod est unum quoddam et non multa, animal gressibile bipes. Quod autem
est coniunctione unum, non est unum et non multa, sed est unum ex multis. Et
ideo melius videtur dicendum quod Aristoteles, quia supra dixerat aliquam
enunciationem esse unam et aliquam coniunctione unam, vult hic manifestare quæ
sit una. Et
quia supra dixerat quod multa nomina simul coniuncta sunt unum, sicut animal
gressibile bipes, dicit consequenter quod enunciatio est iudicanda una non ex
unitate nominis, sed ex unitate significati, etiam si sint plura nomina quæ
unum significent. Vel si sit aliqua enunciatio una quæ multa significet, non
erit una simpliciter, sed coniunctione una. Et secundum hoc, hæc enunciatio,
animal gressibile bipes est risibile, non est una quasi coniunctione una, sicut
in prima expositione dicebatur, sed quia unum significat. Et quia oppositum per oppositum manifestatur, consequenter ostendit quæ
sunt plures enunciationes, et ponit duos modos pluralitatis. Primus est, quod
plures dicuntur enunciationes quæ plura significant. Contingit autem aliqua
plura significari in aliquo uno communi; sicut cum dico, animal est sensibile,
sub hoc uno communi, quod est animal, multa continentur, et tamen hæc
enunciatio est una et non plures. Et ideo addit et non unum. Sed melius est ut
dicatur hoc esse additum propter definitionem, quæ multa significat quæ sunt
unum: et hic modus pluralitatis opponitur primo modo unitatis. Secundus modus
pluralitatis est, quando non solum enunciationes plura significant, sed etiam
illa plura nullatenus coniunguntur, et hic modus pluralitatis opponitur secundo
modo unitatis. Et secundum hoc patet quod secundus modus unitatis non opponitur
primo modo pluralitatis. Ea autem quæ non sunt opposita, possunt simul esse.
Unde manifestum est, enunciationem quæ est una coniunctione, esse etiam plures:
plures in quantum significat plura et non unum. Secundum hoc ergo possumus
accipere tres modos enunciationis. Nam quædam est simpliciter una, in quantum
unum significat; quædam est simpliciter plures, in quantum plura significat,
sed est una secundum quid, in quantum est coniunctione una; quædam sunt
simpliciter plures, quæ neque significant unum, neque coniunctione aliqua
uniuntur. Ideo autem Aristoteles quatuor ponit et non solum tria, quia
quandoque est enunciatio plures, quia plura significat, non tamen est
coniunctione una, puta si ponatur ibi nomen multa significans. Deinde cum
dicit: nomen ergo et verbum etc., excludit ab unitate orationis nomen et
verbum. Dixerat enim quod enunciatio una est, quæ unum significat: posset autem
aliquis intelligere, quod sic unum significaret sicut nomen et verbum unum
significant. Et ideo ad hoc excludendum subdit: nomen ergo, et verbum dictio
sit sola, idest ita sit dictio, quod non enunciatio. Et videtur, ex modo
loquendi, quod ipse imposuerit hoc nomen ad significandum partes enunciationis.
Quod autem nomen et verbum dictio sit sola manifestat per hoc, quod non potest
dici quod ille enunciet, qui sic aliquid significat voce, sicut nomen, vel
verbum significat. Et ad hoc manifestandum innuit duos modos utendi
enunciatione. Quandoque enim utimur ipsa quasi ad interrogata respondentes; puta
si quæratur, quis sit in scholis? Respondemus, magister. Quandoque autem utimur
ea propria sponte, nullo interrogante; sicut cum dicimus, Petrus currit. Dicit
ergo, quod ille qui significat aliquid unum nomine vel verbo, non enunciat vel
sicut ille qui respondet aliquo interrogante, vel sicut ille qui profert
enunciationem non aliquo interrogante, sed ipso proferente sponte. Introduxit
autem hoc, quia simplex nomen vel verbum, quando respondetur ad
interrogationem, videtur verum vel falsum significare: quod est proprium
enunciationis. Sed hoc non competit nomini vel verbo, nisi secundum quod
intelligitur coniunctum cum alia parte proposita in interrogatione. Ut si quærenti,
quis legit in scholis? Respondeatur, magister, subintelligitur, ibi legit. Si
ergo ille qui enunciat aliquid nomine vel verbo non enunciat, manifestum est
quod enunciatio non sic unum significat, sicut nomen vel verbum. Hoc autem
inducit sicut conclusionem eius quod supra præmisit: necesse est omnem
orationem enunciativam ex verbo esse vel ex casu verbi. Deinde cum dicit: harum autem hæc simplex etc., manifestat præmissam
divisionem secundum rationes partium. Dixerat enim quod una enunciatio est quæ
unum de uno significat, et alia est quæ est coniunctione una. Ratio autem huius
divisionis est ex eo quod unum natum est dividi per simplex et compositum. Et
ideo dicit: harum autem, scilicet enunciationum, in quibus dividitur unum, hæc
dicitur una, vel quia significat unum simpliciter, vel quia una est
coniunctione. Hæc quidem simplex enunciatio est, quæ scilicet unum significat.
Sed ne intelligatur quod sic significet unum, sicut nomen vel verbum, ad
excludendum hoc subdit: ut aliquid de aliquo, idest per modum compositionis,
vel aliquid ab aliquo, idest per modum divisionis. Hæc autem ex his coniuncta,
quæ scilicet dicitur coniunctione una, est velut oratio iam composita: quasi
dicat hoc modo, enunciationis unitas dividitur in duo præmissa, sicut aliquod
unum dividitur in simplex et compositum. Deinde cum dicit: est autem
simplex etc., manifestat secundam divisionem enunciationis, secundum videlicet
quod enunciatio dividitur in affirmationem et negationem. Hæc autem divisio
primo quidem convenit enunciationi simplici; ex consequenti autem convenit
compositæ enunciationi; et ideo ad insinuandum rationem prædictæ divisionis
dicit quod simplex enunciatio est vox significativa de eo quod est aliquid:
quod pertinet ad affirmationem; vel non est aliquid: quod pertinet ad
negationem. Et ne hoc intelligatur solum secundum præsens tempus, subdit: quemadmodum
tempora sunt divisa, idest similiter hoc habet locum in aliis temporibus sicut
et in præsenti. Alexander autem existimavit quod Aristoteles hic
definiret enunciationem; et quia in definitione enunciationis videtur ponere
affirmationem et negationem, volebat hic accipere quod enunciatio non esset
genus affirmationis et negationis, quia species nunquam ponitur in definitione
generis. Id autem quod non univoce prædicatur de multis (quia scilicet non
significat aliquid unum, quod sit unum commune multis), non potest notificari
nisi per illa multa quæ significantur. Et inde est quod quia unum non dicitur æquivoce
de simplici et composito, sed per prius et posterius, Aristoteles in præcedentibus
semper ad notificandum unitatem enunciationis usus est utroque. Quia ergo
videtur uti affirmatione et negatione ad notificandum enunciationem, volebat
Alexander accipere quod enunciatio non dicitur de affirmatione et negatione
univoce sicut genus de suis speciebus. Sed contrarium apparet ex hoc,
quod philosophus consequenter utitur nomine enunciationis ut genere, cum in
definitione affirmationis et negationis subdit quod, affirmatio est enunciatio
alicuius de aliquo, scilicet per modum compositionis, negatio vero est
enunciatio alicuius ab aliquo, scilicet per modum divisionis. Nomine
autem æquivoco non consuevimus uti ad notificandum significata eius. Et ideo
Boethius dicit quod Aristoteles suo modo breviloquio utens, simul usus est et
definitione et divisione eius: ita ut quod dicit de eo quod est aliquid vel non
est, non referatur ad definitionem enunciationis, sed ad eius divisionem. Sed
quia differentiæ divisivæ generis non cadunt in eius definitione, nec hoc solum
quod dicitur vox significativa, sufficiens est definitio enunciationis; melius
dici potest secundum Porphyrium, quod hoc totum quod dicitur vox significativa
de eo quod est, vel de eo quod non est, est definitio enunciationis. Nec tamen ponitur affirmatio et negatio in definitione enunciationis sed
virtus affirmationis et negationis, scilicet significatum eius, quod est esse
vel non esse, quod est naturaliter prius enunciatione. Affirmationem autem et
negationem postea definivit per terminos utriusque cum dixit: affirmationem
esse enunciationem alicuius de aliquo, et negationem enunciationem alicuius ab
aliquo. Sed
sicut in definitione generis non debent poni species, ita nec ea quæ sunt
propria specierum. Cum igitur significare esse sit proprium affirmationis, et
significare non esse sit proprium negationis, melius videtur dicendum, secundum
Ammonium, quod hic non definitur enunciatio, sed solum dividitur. Supra enim
posita est definitio, cum dictum est quod enunciatio est oratio in qua est
verum vel falsum. In qua quidem definitione nulla mentio facta est nec de
affirmatione, nec de negatione. Est autem considerandum quod artificiosissime
procedit: dividit enim genus non in species, sed in differentias specificas.
Non enim dicit quod enunciatio est affirmatio vel negatio, sed vox
significativa de eo quod est, quæ est differentia specifica affirmationis, vel
de eo quod non est, in quo tangitur differentia specifica negationis. Et ideo
ex differentiis adiunctis generi constituit definitionem speciei, cum subdit:
quod affirmatio est enunciatio alicuius de aliquo, per quod significatur esse;
et negatio est enunciatio alicuius ab aliquo quod significat non esse. Posita divisione enunciationis, hic agit de oppositione partium
enunciationis, scilicet affirmationis et negationis. Et quia enunciationem esse
dixerat orationem, in qua est verum vel falsum, primo, ostendit qualiter
enunciationes ad invicem opponantur; secundo, movet quamdam dubitationem circa
prædeterminata et solvit; ibi: in his ergo quæ sunt et quæ facta sunt et
cetera. Circa
primum duo facit: primo, ostendit qualiter una enunciatio opponatur alteri;
secundo, ostendit quod tantum una opponitur uni; ibi: manifestum est et cetera.
Prima autem pars dividitur in duas partes: in prima, determinat de oppositione
affirmationis et negationis absolute; in secunda, ostendit quomodo huiusmodi
oppositio diversificatur ex parte subiecti; ibi: quoniam autem sunt et cetera.
Circa primum duo facit: primo, ostendit quod omni affirmationi est negatio
opposita et e converso; secundo, manifestat oppositionem affirmationis et
negationis absolute; ibi: et sit hoc contradictio et cetera. Circa primum
considerandum est quod ad ostendendum suum propositum philosophus assumit
duplicem diversitatem enunciationis: quarum prima est ex ipsa forma vel modo
enunciandi, secundum quod dictum est quod enunciatio vel est affirmativa, per
quam scilicet enunciatur aliquid esse, vel est negativa per quam significatur
aliquid non esse; secunda diversitas est per comparationem ad rem, ex qua
dependet veritas et falsitas intellectus et enunciationis. Cum enim enunciatur
aliquid esse vel non esse secundum congruentiam rei, est oratio vera; alioquin
est oratio falsa. Sic igitur quatuor modis potest variari enunciatio,
secundum permixtionem harum duarum divisionum. Uno modo, quia id quod est in re
enunciatur ita esse sicut in re est: quod pertinet ad affirmationem veram; puta
cum Socrates currit, dicimus Socratem currere. Alio modo, cum enunciatur
aliquid non esse quod in re non est: quod pertinet ad negationem veram; ut cum
dicitur, Æthiops albus non est. Tertio modo, cum enunciatur aliquid esse quod
in re non est: quod pertinet ad affirmationem falsam; ut cum dicitur, corvus
est albus. Quarto modo, cum enunciatur aliquid non esse quod in re est: quod
pertinet ad negationem falsam; ut cum dicitur, nix non est alba. Philosophus
autem, ut a minoribus ad potiora procedat, falsas veris præponit: inter quas
negativam præmittit affirmativæ, cum dicit quod contingit enunciare quod est,
scilicet in rerum natura, non esse. Secundo autem, ponit
affirmativam falsam cum dicit: et quod non est, scilicet in rerum natura, esse.
Tertio autem, ponit affirmativam veram, quæ opponitur negativæ falsæ, quam
primo posuit, cum dicit: et quod est, scilicet in rerum natura, esse. Quarto
autem, ponit negativam veram, quæ opponitur affirmationi falsæ, cum dicit: et
quod non est, scilicet in rerum natura, non esse. Non est autem intelligendum
quod hoc quod dixit: quod est et quod non est, sit referendum ad solam
existentiam vel non existentiam subiecti, sed ad hoc quod res significata per
prædicatum insit vel non insit rei significatæ per subiectum. Nam cum dicitur,
corvus est albus, significatur quod non est, esse, quamvis ipse corvus sit res
existens. Et sicut istæ quatuor differentiæ enunciationum inveniuntur in
propositionibus, in quibus ponitur verbum præsentis temporis, ita etiam
inveniuntur in enunciationibus in quibus ponuntur verba præteriti vel futuri
temporis. Supra enim dixit quod necesse est enunciationem constare ex verbo vel
ex casu verbi. Et hoc est quod subdit: quod similiter contingit, scilicet
variari diversimode enunciationem circa ea, quæ sunt extra præsens tempus,
idest circa præterita vel futura, quæ sunt quodammodo extrinseca respectu præsentis,
quia præsens est medium præteriti et futuri. Et quia ita est, contingit omne
quod quis affirmaverit negare, et omne quod quis negaverit affirmare: quod
quidem manifestum est ex præmissis. Non enim potest affirmari nisi vel quod est
in rerum natura secundum aliquod trium temporum, vel quod non est; et hoc totum
contingit negare. Unde manifestum est quod omne quod affirmatur potest negari,
et e converso. Et quia affirmatio et negatio opposita sunt secundum se, utpote
ex opposito contradictoriæ, consequens est quod quælibet affirmatio habeat
negationem sibi oppositam et e converso. Cuius contrarium illo solo modo
posset contingere, si aliqua affirmatio affirmaret aliquid, quod negatio negare
non posset. Deinde cum dicit: et sit hoc contradictio etc.,
manifestat quæ sit absoluta oppositio affirmationis et negationis. Et primo,
manifestat eam per nomen; secundo, per definitionem; ibi: dico autem et cetera.
Dicit ergo primo quod cum cuilibet affirmationi opponatur negatio, et e
converso, oppositioni huiusmodi imponatur nomen hoc, quod dicatur contradictio.
Per hoc enim quod dicitur, et sit hoc contradictio, datur
intelligi quod ipsum nomen contradictionis ipse imposuerit oppositioni
affirmationis et negationis, ut Ammonius dicit. Deinde cum dicit: dico autem
opponi etc., definit contradictionem. Quia vero, ut dictum est, contradictio
est oppositio affirmationis et negationis, illa requiruntur ad contradictionem,
quæ requiruntur ad oppositionem affirmationis et negationis. Oportet autem
opposita esse circa idem. Et quia enunciatio constituitur ex subiecto et prædicato,
requiritur ad contradictionem primo quidem quod affirmatio et negatio sint
eiusdem prædicati: si enim dicatur, Plato currit, Plato non disputat, non est
contradictio; secundo, requiritur quod sint de eodem subiecto: si enim dicatur,
Socrates currit, Plato non currit, non est contradictio. Tertio, requiritur
quod identitas subiecti et prædicati non solum sit secundum nomen, sed sit
simul secundum rem et nomen. Nam si non sit idem nomen, manifestum est quod non
sit una et eadem enunciatio. Similiter autem ad hoc quod sit enunciatio una,
requiritur identitas rei: dictum est enim supra quod enunciatio una est, quæ
unum de uno significat; et ideo subdit: non autem æquivoce, idest non sufficit
identitas nominis cum diversitate rei, quæ facit æquivocationem. Sunt autem et
quædam alia in contradictione observanda ad hoc quod tollatur omnis diversitas,
præter eam quæ est affirmationis et negationis: non enim esset oppositio si non
omnino idem negaret negatio quod affirmavit affirmatio. Hæc autem diversitas
potest secundum quatuor considerari. Uno quidem modo, secundum diversas partes
subiecti: non enim est contradictio si dicatur, Æthiops est albus dente et non
est albus pede. Secundo, si sit diversus modus ex parte prædicati: non enim est
contradictio si dicatur, Socrates currit tarde et non movetur velociter; vel si
dicatur, ovum est animal in potentia et non est animal in actu. Tertio, si sit
diversitas ex parte mensuræ, puta loci vel temporis; non enim est contradictio
si dicatur, pluit in Gallia et non pluit in Italia; aut, pluit heri, hodie non
pluit. Quarto, si sit diversitas ex habitudine ad aliquid extrinsecum; puta si
dicatur, decem homines esse plures quoad domum, non autem quoad forum. Et hæc
omnia designat cum subdit: et quæcumque cætera talium determinavimus, idest
determinare consuevimus in disputationibus contra sophisticas importunitates,
idest contra importunas et litigiosas oppositiones sophistarum, de quibus
plenius facit mentionem in I elenchorum. Quia philosophus dixerat oppositionem
affirmationis et negationis esse contradictionem, quæ est eiusdem de eodem,
consequenter intendit distinguere diversas oppositiones affirmationis et
negationis, ut cognoscatur quæ sit vera contradictio. Et circa hoc duo facit:
primo, præmittit quamdam divisionem enunciationum necessariam ad prædictam
differentiam oppositionum assignandam; secundo, manifestat propositum; ibi: si
ergo universaliter et cetera. Præmittit autem divisionem enunciationum quæ
sumitur secundum differentiam subiecti. Unde circa primum duo facit: primo,
dividit subiectum enunciationum; secundo, concludit divisionem enunciationum,
ibi: necesse est enunciare et cetera. Subiectum autem enunciationis est nomen
vel aliquid loco nominis sumptum. Nomen autem est vox significativa ad placitum
simplicis intellectus, quod est similitudo rei; et ideo subiectum enunciationis
distinguit per divisionem rerum, et dicit quod rerum quædam sunt universalia,
quædam sunt singularia. Manifestat autem membra divisionis dupliciter: primo
quidem per definitionem, quia universale est quod est aptum natum de pluribus
prædicari, singulare vero quod non est aptum natum prædicari de pluribus, sed
de uno solo; secundo, manifestat per exemplum cum subdit quod homo est
universale, Plato autem singulare. Accidit autem dubitatio circa hanc
divisionem, quia, sicut probat philosophus in VII metaphysicæ, universale non
est aliquid extra res existens. Item, in prædicamentis dicitur quod secundæ
substantiæ non sunt nisi in primis, quæ sunt singulares. Non ergo videtur esse
conveniens divisio rerum per universalia et singularia: quia nullæ res videntur
esse universales, sed omnes sunt singulares. Dicendum est autem quod hic
dividuntur res secundum quod significantur per nomina, quæ subiiciuntur in
enunciationibus: dictum est autem supra quod nomina non significant res nisi
mediante intellectu; et ideo oportet quod divisio ista rerum accipiatur
secundum quod res cadunt in intellectu. Ea vero quæ sunt coniuncta in rebus
intellectus potest distinguere, quando unum eorum non cadit in ratione
alterius. In qualibet autem re singulari est considerare aliquid quod est
proprium illi rei, in quantum est hæc res, sicut Socrati vel Platoni in quantum
est hic homo; et aliquid est considerare in ea, in quo convenit cum aliis
quibusdam rebus, sicut quod Socrates est animal, aut homo, aut rationalis, aut
risibilis, aut albus. Quando igitur res denominatur ab eo quod convenit illi
soli rei in quantum est hæc res, huiusmodi nomen dicitur significare aliquid
singulare; quando autem denominatur res ab eo quod est commune sibi et multis
aliis, nomen huiusmodi dicitur significare universale, quia scilicet nomen
significat naturam sive dispositionem aliquam, quæ est communis multis. Quia
igitur hanc divisionem dedit de rebus non absolute secundum quod sunt extra
animam, sed secundum quod referuntur ad intellectum, non definivit universale
et singulare secundum aliquid quod pertinet ad rem, puta si diceret quod
universale extra animam, quod pertinet ad opinionem Platonis, sed per actum
animæ intellectivæ, quod est prædicari de multis vel de uno solo. Est autem considerandum quod intellectus apprehendit rem intellectam
secundum propriam essentiam, seu definitionem: unde et in III de anima dicitur
quod obiectum proprium intellectus est quod quid est. Contingit autem quandoque
quod propria ratio alicuius formæ intellectæ non repugnat ei quod est esse in
pluribus, sed hoc impeditur ab aliquo alio, sive sit aliquid accidentaliter
adveniens, puta si omnibus hominibus morientibus unus solus remaneret, sive sit
propter conditionem materiæ, sicut est unus tantum sol, non quod repugnet
rationi solari esse in pluribus secundum conditionem formæ ipsius, sed quia non
est alia materia susceptiva talis formæ; et ideo non dixit quod universale est
quod prædicatur de pluribus, sed quod aptum natum est prædicari de pluribus.
Cum autem omnis forma, quæ nata est recipi in materia quantum est de se,
communicabilis sit multis materiis; dupliciter potest contingere quod id quod
significatur per nomen, non sit aptum natum prædicari de pluribus. Uno modo,
quia nomen significat formam secundum quod terminata est ad hanc materiam,
sicut hoc nomen Socrates vel Plato, quod significat naturam humanam prout est
in hac materia. Alio modo, secundum quod nomen significat formam, quæ non est
nata in materia recipi, unde oportet quod per se remaneat una et singularis;
sicut albedo, si esset forma non existens in materia, esset una sola, unde
esset singularis: et propter hoc philosophus dicit in VII Metaphys. quod si
essent species rerum separatæ, sicut posuit Plato, essent individua. Potest autem
obiici quod hoc nomen Socrates vel Plato est natum de pluribus prædicari, quia
nihil prohibet multos esse, qui vocentur hoc nomine. Sed ad hoc patet
responsio, si attendantur verba Aristotelis. Ipse enim non divisit nomina in
universale et particulare, sed res. Et ideo intelligendum est quod universale
dicitur quando, non solum nomen potest de pluribus prædicari, sed id, quod
significatur per nomen, est natum in pluribus inveniri; hoc autem non contingit
in prædictis nominibus: nam hoc nomen Socrates vel Plato significat naturam
humanam secundum quod est in hac materia. Si vero hoc nomen
imponatur alteri homini significabit naturam humanam in alia materia; et sic
eius erit alia significatio; unde non erit universale, sed æquivocum ÆQVIVOCVM
GRICE. Deinde cum dicit: necesse est autem enunciare etc., concludit divisionem
enunciationis. Quia enim semper enunciatur aliquid de aliqua re; rerum autem quædam
sunt universalia, quædam singularia; necesse est quod quandoque enuncietur
aliquid inesse vel non inesse alicui universalium, quandoque vero alicui
singularium. Et est suspensiva constructio usque huc, et est sensus:
quoniam autem sunt hæc quidem rerum etc., necesse est enunciare et cetera. Est
autem considerandum quod de universali aliquid enunciatur quatuor modis. Nam
universale potest uno modo considerari quasi separatum a singularibus, sive per
se subsistens, ut Plato posuit, sive, secundum sententiam Aristotelis, secundum
esse quod habet in intellectu. Et sic potest ei aliquid attribui dupliciter.
Quandoque enim attribuitur ei sic considerato aliquid, quod pertinet ad solam
operationem intellectus, ut si dicatur quod homo est prædicabile de multis,
sive universale, sive species. Huiusmodi enim intentiones format intellectus
attribuens eas naturæ intellectæ, secundum quod comparat ipsam ad res, quæ sunt
extra animam. Quandoque vero attribuitur aliquid universali sic considerato,
quod scilicet apprehenditur ab intellectu ut unum, tamen id quod attribuitur ei
non pertinet ad actum intellectus, sed ad esse, quod habet natura apprehensa in
rebus, quæ sunt extra animam, puta si dicatur quod homo est dignissima
creaturarum. Hoc enim convenit naturæ humanæ etiam secundum quod est in
singularibus. Nam quilibet homo singularis dignior est omnibus creaturis
irrationalibus; sed tamen omnes homines singulares non sunt unus homo extra
animam, sed solum in acceptione intellectus; et per hunc modum attribuitur ei
prædicatum, scilicet ut uni rei. Alio autem modo attribuitur universali, prout
est in singularibus, et hoc dupliciter. Quandoque quidem ratione ipsius naturæ
universalis, puta cum attribuitur ei aliquid quod ad essentiam eius pertinet,
vel quod consequitur principia essentialia; ut cum dicitur, homo est animal,
vel homo est risibilis. Quandoque autem attribuitur ei aliquid ratione
singularis in quo invenitur, puta cum attribuitur ei aliquid quod pertinet ad
actionem individui; ut cum dicitur, homo ambulat. Singulari autem
attribuitur aliquid tripliciter: uno modo, secundum quod cadit in
apprehensione; ut cum dicitur, Socrates est singulare, vel prædicabile de uno
solo. Quandoque autem, ratione naturæ communis; ut cum dicitur,
Socrates est animal. Quandoque autem, ratione sui ipsius; ut cum dicitur,
Socrates ambulat. Et totidem etiam modis negationes variantur: quia omne quod
contingit affirmare, contingit negare, ut supra dictum est. Est autem hæc
tertia divisio enunciationis quam ponit philosophus. Prima namque fuit quod
enunciationum quædam est una simpliciter, quædam vero coniunctione una. Quæ
quidem est divisio analogi in ea de quibus prædicatur secundum prius et
posterius: sic enim unum dividitur secundum prius in simplex et per posterius
in compositum. Alia vero fuit divisio enunciationis in affirmationem et
negationem. Quæ quidem est divisio generis in species, quia sumitur secundum
differentiam prædicati ad quod fertur negatio; prædicatum autem est pars
formalis enunciationis; et ideo huiusmodi divisio dicitur pertinere ad
qualitatem enunciationis, qualitatem, inquam, essentialem, secundum quod
differentia significat quale quid. Tertia autem est huiusmodi divisio, quæ
sumitur secundum differentiam subiecti, quod prædicatur de pluribus vel de uno
solo, et ideo dicitur pertinere ad quantitatem enunciationis, nam et quantitas
consequitur materiam. Deinde cum dicit: si ergo universaliter
etc., ostendit quomodo enunciationes diversimode opponantur secundum
diversitatem subiecti. Et circa hoc duo facit: primo, distinguit diversos modos
oppositionum in ipsis enunciationibus; secundo, ostendit quomodo diversæ
oppositiones diversimode se habent ad verum et falsum; ibi: quocirca, has
quidem impossibile est et cetera. Circa primum considerandum est quod cum
universale possit considerari in abstractione a singularibus vel secundum quod
est in ipsis singularibus, secundum hoc diversimode aliquid ei attribuitur, ut
supra dictum est. Ad designandum autem diversos modos attributionis inventæ
sunt quædam dictiones, quæ possunt dici determinationes vel signa, quibus
designatur quod aliquid de universali, hoc aut illo modo prædicetur. Sed quia
non est ab omnibus communiter apprehensum quod universalia extra singularia
subsistant, ideo communis usus loquendi non habet aliquam dictionem ad
designandum illum modum prædicandi, prout aliquid dicitur in abstractione a
singularibus. Sed Plato, qui posuit universalia extra singularia subsistere,
adinvenit aliquas determinationes, quibus designaretur quomodo aliquid
attribuitur universali, prout est extra singularia, et vocabat universale separatum
subsistens extra singularia quantum ad speciem hominis, per se hominem vel
ipsum hominem et similiter in aliis universalibus. Sed universale secundum quod
est in singularibus cadit in communi apprehensione hominum; et ideo adinventæ
sunt quædam dictiones ad significandum modum attribuendi aliquid universali sic
accepto. Sicut autem supra dictum est, quandoque aliquid attribuitur
universali ratione ipsius naturæ universalis; et ideo hoc dicitur prædicari de
eo universaliter, quia scilicet ei convenit secundum totam multitudinem in qua
invenitur; et ad hoc designandum in affirmativis prædicationibus adinventa est
hæc dictio, omnis, quæ designat quod prædicatum attribuitur subiecto universali
quantum ad totum id quod sub subiecto continetur. In negativis autem prædicationibus
adinventa est hæc dictio, nullus, per quam significatur quod prædicatum
removetur a subiecto universali secundum totum id quod continetur sub eo. Unde
nullus dicitur quasi non ullus, et in Græco dicitur, udis quasi nec unus, quia
nec unum solum est accipere sub subiecto universali a quo prædicatum non
removeatur. Quandoque autem attribuitur universali aliquid vel removetur ab eo
ratione particularis; et ad hoc designandum, in affirmativis quidem adinventa
est hæc dictio, aliquis vel quidam, per quam designatur quod prædicatum
attribuitur subiecto universali ratione ipsius particularis; sed quia non
determinate significat formam alicuius singularis, sub quadam indeterminatione
singulare designat; unde et dicitur individuum vagum. In negativis autem non
est aliqua dictio posita, sed possumus accipere, non omnis; ut sicut, nullus,
universaliter removet, eo quod significat quasi diceretur, non ullus, idest,
non aliquis, ita etiam, non omnis, particulariter removeat, in quantum excludit
universalem affirmationem. Sic igitur tria sunt genera affirmationum in
quibus aliquid de universali prædicatur. Una quidem est, in qua de universali
prædicatur aliquid universaliter; ut cum dicitur, omnis homo est animal. Alia,
in qua aliquid prædicatur de universali particulariter; ut cum dicitur, quidam
homo est albus. Tertia vero est, in qua aliquid de universali prædicatur absque
determinatione universalitatis vel particularitatis; unde huiusmodi enunciatio
solet vocari indefinita. Totidem autem sunt negationes oppositæ. De
singulari autem quamvis aliquid diversa ratione prædicetur, ut supra dictum
est, tamen totum refertur ad singularitatem ipsius, quia etiam natura
universalis in ipso singulari individuatur; et ideo nihil refert quantum ad
naturam singularitatis, utrum aliquid prædicetur de eo ratione universalis
naturæ; ut cum dicitur, Socrates est homo, vel conveniat ei ratione
singularitatis. Si igitur tribus prædictis
enunciationibus addatur singularis, erunt quatuor modi enunciationis ad
quantitatem ipsius pertinentes, scilicet universalis, singularis, indefinitus
et particularis. Sic igitur secundum has differentias Aristoteles
assignat diversas oppositiones enunciationum adinvicem. Et primo, secundum
differentiam universalium ad indefinitas; secundo, secundum differentiam
universalium ad particulares; ibi: opponi autem affirmationem et cetera. Circa
primum tria facit: primo, agit de oppositione propositionum universalium
adinvicem; secundo, de oppositione indefinitarum; ibi: quando autem in
universalibus etc.; tertio, excludit dubitationem; ibi: in eo vero quod et cetera.
Dicit ergo primo quod si aliquis enunciet de subiecto
universali universaliter, idest secundum continentiam suæ universalitatis,
quoniam est, idest affirmative, aut non est, idest negative, erunt contrariæ
enunciationes; ut si dicatur, omnis homo est albus, nullus homo est albus.
Huius autem ratio est, quia contraria dicuntur quæ maxime a se distant: non
enim dicitur aliquid nigrum ex hoc solum quod non est album, sed super hoc quod
est non esse album, quod significat communiter remotionem albi, addit nigrum
extremam distantiam ab albo. Sic igitur id quod affirmatur
per hanc enunciationem, omnis homo est albus, removetur per hanc negationem,
non omnis homo est albus. Oportet ergo quod negatio removeat modum quo prædicatum
dicitur de subiecto, quem designat hæc dictio, omnis. Sed super hanc remotionem
addit hæc enunciatio, nullus homo est albus, totalem remotionem, quæ est
extrema distantia a primo; quod pertinet ad rationem contrarietatis. Et ideo
convenienter hanc oppositionem dicit contrarietatem. Deinde cum dicit:
quando autem etc., ostendit qualis sit oppositio affirmationis et negationis in
indefinitis. Et primo, proponit quod intendit; secundo, manifestat propositum
per exempla; ibi: dico autem non universaliter etc.; tertio, assignat rationem
manifestationis; ibi: cum enim universale sit homo et cetera. Dicit ergo
primo quod quando de universalibus subiectis affirmatur aliquid vel negatur non
tamen universaliter, non sunt contrariæ enunciationes, sed illa quæ
significantur contingit esse contraria. Deinde cum dicit: dico autem non
universaliter etc., manifestat per exempla. Ubi considerandum est quod non
dixerat quando in universalibus particulariter, sed non universaliter. Non enim intendit de particularibus enunciationibus, sed de solis
indefinitis. Et hoc manifestat per exempla quæ ponit, dicens fieri in
universalibus subiectis non universalem enunciationem; cum dicitur, est albus
homo, non est albus homo. Et rationem huius expositionis ostendit, quia homo,
qui subiicitur, est universale, sed tamen prædicatum non universaliter de eo prædicatur,
quia non apponitur hæc dictio, omnis: quæ non significat ipsum universale, sed
modum universalitatis, prout scilicet prædicatum dicitur universaliter de
subiecto; et ideo addita subiecto universali, semper significat quod aliquid de
eo dicatur universaliter. Tota autem hæc expositio refertur ad hoc
quod dixerat: quando in universalibus non universaliter enunciatur, non sunt
contrariæ. Sed hoc quod additur: quæ autem significantur contingit esse
contraria, non est expositum, quamvis obscuritatem contineat; et ideo a
diversis diversimode exponitur. Quidam enim hoc referre voluerunt ad
contrarietatem veritatis et falsitatis, quæ competit huiusmodi enunciationibus.
Contingit enim quandoque has simul esse veras, homo est albus, homo non est
albus; et sic non sunt contrariæ, quia contraria mutuo se tollunt. Contingit tamen quandoque unam earum esse veram et alteram esse falsam; ut
cum dicitur, homo est animal, homo non est animal; et sic ratione significati
videntur habere quamdam contrarietatem. Sed hoc non videtur ad propositum
pertinere, tum quia philosophus nondum hic loquitur de veritate et falsitate
enunciationum; tum etiam quia hoc ipsum posset de particularibus
enunciationibus dici. Alii vero, sequentes Porphyrium, referunt hoc ad
contrarietatem prædicati. Contingit enim quandoque quod prædicatum negatur de
subiecto propter hoc quod inest ei contrarium; sicut si dicatur, homo non est
albus, quia est niger; et sic id quod significatur per hoc quod dicitur, non
est albus, potest esse contrarium. Non tamen semper: removetur enim aliquid a
subiecto, etiam si contrarium non insit, sed aliquid medium inter contraria; ut
cum dicitur, aliquis non est albus, quia est pallidus; vel quia inest ei
privatio actus vel habitus seu potentiæ; ut cum dicitur, aliquis non est
videns, quia est carens potentia visiva, aut habet impedimentum ne videat, vel
etiam quia non est aptus natus videre; puta si dicatur, lapis non videt. Sic
igitur illa, quæ significantur contingit esse contraria, sed ipsæ enunciationes
non sunt contrariæ, quia ut in fine huius libri dicetur, non sunt contrariæ
opiniones quæ sunt de contrariis, sicut opinio quod aliquid sit bonum, et illa
quæ est, quod aliquid non est bonum. Sed nec hoc videtur ad propositum
Aristotelis pertinere, quia non agit hic de contrarietate rerum vel opinionum,
sed de contrarietate enunciationum: et ideo magis videtur hic sequenda
expositio Alexandri. Secundum quam dicendum est quod in indefinitis
enunciationibus non determinatur utrum prædicatum attribuatur subiecto
universaliter (quod faceret contrarietatem enunciationum), aut particulariter
(quod non faceret contrarietatem enunciationum); et ideo huiusmodi
enunciationes indefinitæ non sunt contrariæ secundum modum quo proferuntur.
Contingit tamen quandoque ratione significati eas habere contrarietatem, puta,
cum attribuitur aliquid universali ratione naturæ universalis, quamvis non
apponatur signum universale; ut cum dicitur, homo est animal, homo non est
animal: quia hæ enunciationes eamdem habent vim ratione significati; ac si
diceretur, omnis homo est animal, nullus homo est animal. Deinde cum
dicit: in eo vero quod etc., removet quoddam quod posset esse dubium. Quia enim
posuerat quamdam diversitatem in oppositione enunciationum ex hoc quod
universale sumitur a parte subiecti universaliter vel non universaliter, posset
aliquis credere quod similis diversitas nasceretur ex parte prædicati, ex hoc
scilicet quod universale prædicari posset et universaliter et non
universaliter; et ideo ad hoc excludendum dicit quod in eo quod prædicatur
aliquod universale, non est verum quod prædicetur universale universaliter.
Cuius quidem duplex esse potest ratio. Una quidem, quia talis modus prædicandi
videtur repugnare prædicato secundum propriam rationem quam habet in
enunciatione. Dictum est enim supra quod prædicatum est quasi pars formalis
enunciationis, subiectum autem est pars materialis ipsius: cum autem aliquod
universale profertur universaliter, ipsum universale sumitur secundum
habitudinem quam habet ad singularia, quæ sub se continet; sicut et quando
universale profertur particulariter, sumitur secundum habitudinem quam habet ad
aliquod contentorum sub se; et sic utrumque pertinet ad materialem
determinationem universalis: et ideo neque signum universale neque particulare
convenienter additur prædicato, sed magis subiecto: convenientius enim dicitur,
nullus homo est asinus, quam, omnis homo est nullus asinus; et similiter
convenientius dicitur, aliquis homo est albus, quam, homo est aliquid album.
Invenitur autem quandoque a philosophis signum particulare appositum prædicato,
ad insinuandum quod prædicatum est in plus quam subiectum, et hoc præcipue cum,
habito genere, investigant differentias completivas speciei, sicut in II de
anima dicitur quod anima est actus quidam. Alia vero ratio potest accipi ex
parte veritatis enunciationis; et ista specialiter habet locum in
affirmationibus quæ falsæ essent si prædicatum universaliter prædicaretur. Et
ideo manifestans id quod posuerat, subiungit quod nulla affirmatio est in qua,
scilicet vere, de universali prædicato universaliter prædicetur, idest in qua
universali prædicato utitur ad universaliter prædicandum; ut si diceretur,
omnis homo est omne animal. Oportet enim, secundum prædicta, quod hoc prædicatum
animal, secundum singula quæ sub ipso continentur, prædicaretur de singulis quæ
continentur sub homine; et hoc non potest esse verum, neque si prædicatum sit
in plus quam subiectum, neque si prædicatum sit convertibile cum eo. Oporteret
enim quod quilibet unus homo esset animalia omnia, aut omnia risibilia: quæ
repugnant rationi singularis, quod accipitur sub universali. Nec est
instantia si dicatur quod hæc est vera, omnis homo est omnis disciplinæ
susceptivus: disciplina enim non prædicatur de homine, sed susceptivum
disciplinæ; repugnaret autem veritati si diceretur, omnis homo est omne
susceptivum disciplinæ. Signum autem universale negativum, vel
particulare affirmativum, etsi convenientius ponantur ex parte subiecti, non
tamen repugnat veritati etiam si ponantur ex parte prædicati. Contingit enim huiusmodi enunciationes in aliqua materia esse veras: hæc
enim est vera, omnis homo nullus lapis est; et similiter hæc est vera, omnis
homo aliquod animal est. Sed hæc, omnis homo omne animal est, in quacumque
materia proferatur, falsa est. Sunt autem quædam aliæ tales enunciationes
semper falsæ; sicut ista, aliquis homo omne animal est (quæ habet eamdem causam
falsitatis cum hac, omnis homo omne animal est); et si quæ aliæ similes, sunt
semper falsæ: in omnibus enim eadem ratio est. Et ideo per hoc quod philosophus
reprobavit istam, omnis homo omne animal est, dedit intelligere omnes
consimiles esse improbandas. Postquam philosophus determinavit de oppositione
enunciationum, comparando universales enunciationes ad indefinitas, hic determinat
de oppositione enunciationum comparando universales ad particulares. Circa quod
considerandum est quod potest duplex oppositio in his notari: una quidem
universalis ad particularem, et hanc primo tangit; alia vero universalis ad
universalem, et hanc tangit secundo; ibi: contrariæ vero et cetera.
Particularis vero affirmativa et particularis negativa, non habent proprie
loquendo oppositionem, quia oppositio attenditur circa idem subiectum;
subiectum autem particularis enunciationis est universale particulariter
sumptum, non pro aliquo determinato singulari, sed indeterminate pro quocumque;
et ideo, cum de universali particulariter sumpto aliquid affirmatur vel
negatur, ipse modus enunciandi non habet quod affirmatio et negatio sint de
eodem: quod requiritur ad oppositionem affirmationis et negationis, secundum præmissa.
Dicit ergo primo quod enunciatio, quæ universale significat, scilicet
universaliter, opponitur contradictorie ei, quæ non significat universaliter
sed particulariter, si una earum sit affirmativa, altera vero sit negativa
(sive universalis sit affirmativa et particularis negativa, sive e converso);
ut cum dicitur, omnis homo est albus, non omnis homo est albus: hoc enim quod
dico, non omnis, ponitur loco signi particularis negativi; unde æquipollet ei
quæ est, quidam homo non est albus; sicut et nullus, quod idem significat ac si
diceretur, non ullus vel non quidam, est signum universale negativum. Unde hæ
duæ, quidam homo est albus (quæ est particularis affirmativa), nullus homo est
albus (quæ est universalis negativa), sunt contradictoriæ. Cuius ratio
est quia contradictio consistit in sola remotione affirmationis per negationem;
universalis autem affirmativa removetur per solam negationem particularis, nec
aliquid aliud ex necessitate ad hoc exigitur; particularis autem affirmativa
removeri non potest nisi per universalem negativam, quia iam dictum est quod
particularis affirmativa non proprie opponitur particulari negativæ. Unde
relinquitur quod universali affirmativæ contradictorie opponitur particularis
negativa, et particulari affirmativæ universalis negativa. Deinde cum
dicit: contrariæ vero etc., tangit oppositionem universalium enunciationum; et
dicit quod universalis affirmativa et universalis negativa sunt contrariæ;
sicut, omnis homo est iustus, nullus homo est iustus, quia scilicet universalis
negativa non solum removet universalem affirmativam, sed etiam designat
extremam distantiam, in quantum negat totum quod affirmatio ponit; et hoc
pertinet ad rationem contrarietatis; et ideo particularis affirmativa et
negativa se habent sicut medium inter contraria. Deinde cum dicit:
quocirca has quidem etc., ostendit quomodo se habeant affirmatio et negatio
oppositæ ad verum et falsum. Et primo, quantum ad contrarias; secundo, quantum
ad contradictorias; ibi: quæcumque igitur contradictiones etc.; tertio, quantum
ad ea quæ videntur contradictoria, et non sunt; ibi: quæcumque autem in
universalibus et cetera. Dicit ergo primo quod quia universalis affirmativa et
universalis negativa sunt contrariæ, impossibile est quod sint simul veræ.
Contraria enim mutuo se expellunt. Sed particulares, quæ contradictorie
opponuntur universalibus contrariis, possunt simul verificari in eodem; sicut,
non omnis homo est albus, quæ contradictorie opponitur huic, omnis homo est
albus, et, quidam homo est albus, quæ contradictorie opponitur huic, nullus
homo est albus. Et huiusmodi etiam simile invenitur in contrarietate rerum: nam
album et nigrum numquam simul esse possunt in eodem, sed remotiones albi et
nigri simul possunt esse: potest enim aliquid esse neque album neque nigrum,
sicut patet in eo quod est pallidum. Et similiter contrariæ enunciationes non
possunt simul esse veræ, sed earum contradictoriæ, a quibus removentur, simul
possunt esse veræ. Deinde cum dicit: quæcumque igitur contradictiones etc.,
ostendit qualiter veritas et falsitas se habeant in contradictoriis. Circa quod
considerandum est quod, sicut dictum est supra, in contradictoriis negatio non
plus facit, nisi quod removet affirmationem. Quod contingit dupliciter. Uno
modo, quando est altera earum universalis, altera particularis, ut supra dictum
est. Alio modo, quando utraque est singularis: quia tunc negatio ex necessitate
refertur ad idem (quod non contingit in particularibus et indefinitis), nec
potest se in plus extendere nisi ut removeat affirmationem. Et ideo singularis
affirmativa semper contradicit singulari negativæ, supposita identitate prædicati
et subiecti. Et ideo dicit quod, sive accipiamus contradictionem universalium
universaliter, scilicet quantum ad unam earum, sive singularium enunciationum,
semper necesse est quod una sit vera et altera falsa. Neque enim contingit esse
simul veras aut simul falsas, quia verum nihil aliud est, nisi quando dicitur
esse quod est, aut non esse quod non est; falsum autem, quando dicitur esse
quod non est, aut non esse quod est, ut patet ex IV metaphysicorum.
Deinde cum dicit: quæcumque autem universalium etc., ostendit qualiter se
habeant veritas et falsitas in his, quæ videntur esse contradictoria, sed non
sunt. Et circa hoc tria facit: primo proponit quod intendit; secundo, probat
propositum; ibi: si enim turpis non probus etc.; tertio, excludit id quod
facere posset dubitationem; ibi: videbitur autem subito inconveniens et cetera.
Circa primum considerandum est quod affirmatio et negatio in indefinitis
propositionibus videntur contradictorie opponi propter hoc, quod est unum
subiectum non determinatum per signum particulare, et ideo videtur affirmatio
et negatio esse de eodem. Sed ad hoc removendum philosophus dicit quod quæcumque
affirmative et negative dicuntur de universalibus non universaliter sumptis,
non semper oportet quod unum sit verum, et aliud sit falsum, sed possunt simul
esse vera. Simul enim est verum dicere quod homo est albus, et, homo non est
albus, et quod homo est probus, et, homo non est probus. In quo
quidem, ut Ammonius refert, aliqui Aristoteli contradixerunt ponentes quod
indefinita negativa semper sit accipienda pro universali negativa. Et hoc
astruebant primo quidem tali ratione: quia indefinita, cum sit indeterminata,
se habet in ratione materiæ; materia autem secundum se considerata, magis
trahitur ad id quod indignius est; dignior autem est universalis affirmativa,
quam particularis affirmativa; et ideo indefinitam affirmativam dicunt esse
sumendam pro particulari affirmativa: sed negativam universalem, quæ totum
destruit, dicunt esse indigniorem particulari negativa, quæ destruit partem,
sicut universalis corruptio peior est quam particularis; et ideo dicunt quod
indefinita negativa sumenda est pro universali negativa. Ad quod etiam inducunt
quod philosophi, et etiam ipse Aristoteles utitur indefinitis negativis pro
universalibus; sicut dicitur in libro Physic. quod non est motus præter res; et
in libro de anima, quod non est sensus præter quinque. Sed istæ rationes non
concludunt. Quod enim primo dicitur quod materia secundum se sumpta sumitur pro
peiori, verum est secundum sententiam Platonis, qui non distinguebat
privationem a materia, non autem est verum secundum Aristotelem, qui dicit in
Lib. I Physic. quod malum et turpe et alia huiusmodi ad defectum pertinentia
non dicuntur de materia nisi per accidens. Et ideo non oportet quod indefinita
semper stet pro peiori. Dato etiam quod indefinita necesse sit sumi pro peiori,
non oportet quod sumatur pro universali negativa; quia sicut in genere
affirmationis, universalis affirmativa est potior particulari, utpote
particularem affirmativam continens; ita etiam in genere negationum universalis
negativa potior est. Oportet autem in unoquoque genere considerare id quod est
potius in genere illo, non autem id quod est potius simpliciter. Ulterius
etiam, dato quod particularis negativa esset potior omnibus modis, non tamen
adhuc ratio sequeretur: non enim ideo indefinita affirmativa sumitur pro
particulari affirmativa, quia sit indignior, sed quia de universali potest
aliquid affirmari ratione suiipsius, vel ratione partis contentæ sub eo; unde
sufficit ad veritatem eius quod prædicatum uni parti conveniat (quod designatur
per signum particulare); et ideo veritas particularis affirmativæ sufficit ad
veritatem indefinitæ affirmativæ. Et simili ratione veritas particularis
negativæ sufficit ad veritatem indefinitæ negativæ, quia similiter potest
aliquid negari de universali vel ratione suiipsius, vel ratione suæ partis.
Utuntur autem quandoque philosophi indefinitis negativis pro universalibus in
his, quæ per se removentur ab universalibus; sicut et utuntur indefinitis
affirmativis pro universalibus in his, quæ per se de universalibus prædicantur.
Deinde cum dicit: si enim turpis est etc., probat
propositum per id, quod est ab omnibus concessum. Omnes enim concedunt quod
indefinita affirmativa verificatur, si particularis affirmativa sit vera.
Contingit autem accipi duas affirmativas indefinitas, quarum una includit
negationem alterius, puta cum sunt opposita prædicata: quæ quidem oppositio
potest contingere dupliciter. Uno modo, secundum perfectam contrarietatem,
sicut turpis, idest inhonestus, opponitur probo, idest honesto, et foedus,
idest deformis secundum corpus, opponitur pulchro. Sed per quam rationem ista
affirmativa est vera, homo est probus, quodam homine existente probo, per
eamdem rationem ista est vera, homo est turpis, quodam homine existente turpi.
Sunt ergo istæ duæ veræ simul, homo est probus, homo est turpis; sed ad hanc,
homo est turpis, sequitur ista, homo non est probus; ergo istæ duæ sunt simul
veræ, homo est probus, homo non est probus: et eadem ratione istæ duæ, homo est
pulcher, homo non est pulcher. Alia autem oppositio attenditur secundum
perfectum et imperfectum, sicut moveri opponitur ad motum esse, et fieri ad
factum esse: unde ad fieri sequitur non esse eius quod fit in permanentibus,
quorum esse est perfectum; secus autem est in successivis, quorum esse est
imperfectum. Sic ergo hæc est vera, homo est albus, quodam homine existente
albo; et pari ratione, quia quidam homo fit albus, hæc est vera, homo fit
albus; ad quam sequitur, homo non est albus. Ergo istæ duæ sunt simul veræ,
homo est albus, homo non est albus. Deinde cum dicit: videbitur autem
etc., excludit id quod faceret dubitationem circa prædicta; et dicit quod
subito, id est primo aspectu videtur hoc esse inconveniens, quod dictum est;
quia hoc quod dico, homo non est albus, videtur idem significare cum hoc quod
est, nullus homo est albus. Sed ipse hoc removet dicens quod neque idem
significant neque ex necessitate sunt simul vera, sicut ex prædictis manifestum
est. Postquam philosophus distinxit diversos modos oppositionum in
enunciationibus, nunc intendit ostendere quod uni affirmationi una negatio
opponitur, et circa hoc duo facit: primo, ostendit quod uni affirmationi una
negatio opponitur; secundo, ostendit quæ sit una affirmatio vel negatio, ibi:
una autem affirmatio et cetera. Circa primum tria facit: primo, proponit quod
intendit; secundo, manifestat propositum; ibi: hoc enim idem etc.; tertio,
epilogat quæ dicta sunt; ibi: manifestum est ergo et cetera. Dicit ergo
primo, manifestum esse quod unius affirmationis est una negatio sola. Et hoc
quidem fuit necessarium hic dicere: quia cum posuerit plura oppositionum
genera, videbatur quod uni affirmationi duæ negationes opponerentur; sicut huic
affirmativæ, omnis homo est albus, videtur, secundum prædicta, hæc negativa
opponi, nullus homo est albus, et hæc, quidam homo non est albus. Sed si quis
recte consideret huius affirmativæ, omnis homo est albus, negativa est sola
ista, quidam homo non est albus, quæ solummodo removet ipsam, ut patet ex sua æquipollenti,
quæ est, non omnis homo est albus. Universalis vero negativa includit quidem in
suo intellectu negationem universalis affirmativæ, in quantum includit
particularem negativam, sed supra hoc aliquid addit, in quantum scilicet
importat non solum remotionem universalitatis, sed removet quamlibet partem
eius. Et sic patet quod sola una est negatio universalis
affirmationis: et idem apparet in aliis. Deinde cum dicit: hoc enim etc.,
manifestat propositum: et primo, per rationem; secundo, per exempla; ibi: dico
autem, ut est Socrates albus. Ratio autem sumitur ex hoc, quod supra dictum est
quod negatio opponitur affirmationi, quæ est eiusdem de eodem: ex quo hic
accipitur quod oportet negationem negare illud idem prædicatum, quod affirmatio
affirmavit et de eodem subiecto, sive illud subiectum sit aliquid singulare,
sive aliquid universale, vel universaliter, vel non universaliter sumptum; sed
hoc non contingit fieri nisi uno modo, ita scilicet ut negatio neget id quod
affirmatio posuit, et nihil aliud; ergo uni affirmationi opponitur una sola
negatio. Expositio Peryermeneias, lib. 1 l. 12 n. 4 Deinde cum dicit: dico
autem, ut est etc., manifestat propositum per exempla. Et primo, in
singularibus: huic enim affirmationi, Socrates est albus, hæc sola opponitur,
Socrates non est albus, tanquam eius propria negatio. Si vero esset aliud prædicatum
vel aliud subiectum, non esset negatio opposita, sed omnino diversa; sicut
ista, Socrates non est musicus, non opponitur ei quæ est, Socrates est albus;
neque etiam illa quæ est, Plato est albus, huic quæ est, Socrates non est
albus. Secundo, manifestat idem quando subiectum affirmationis est universale
universaliter sumptum; sicut huic affirmationi, omnis homo est albus, opponitur
sicut propria eius negatio, non omnis homo est albus, quæ æquipollet
particulari negativæ. Tertio, ponit exemplum quando affirmationis subiectum est
universale particulariter sumptum: et dicit quod huic affirmationi, aliquis
homo est albus, opponitur tanquam eius propria negatio, nullus homo est albus.
Nam nullus dicitur, quasi non ullus, idest, non aliquis. Quarto, ponit exemplum
quando affirmationis subiectum est universale indefinite sumptum et dicit quod
isti affirmationi, homo est albus, opponitur tanquam propria eius negatio illa
quæ est, non est homo albus. Expositio Peryermeneias, lib. 1 l. 12 n. 5 Sed
videtur hoc esse contra id, quod supra dictum est quod negativa indefinita
verificatur simul cum indefinita affirmativa; negatio autem non potest
verificari simul cum sua opposita affirmatione, quia non contingit de eodem
affirmare et negare. Sed ad hoc dicendum quod oportet quod hic dicitur
intelligi quando negatio ad idem refertur quod affirmatio continebat; et hoc
potest esse dupliciter: uno modo, quando affirmatur aliquid inesse homini
ratione sui ipsius (quod est per se de eodem prædicari), et hoc ipsum negatio
negat; alio modo, quando aliquid affirmatur de universali ratione sui
singularis, et pro eodem de eo negatur. Deinde cum dicit: quod igitur una
affirmatio etc., epilogat quæ dicta sunt, et concludit manifestum esse ex prædictis
quod uni affirmationi opponitur una negatio; et quod oppositarum affirmationum
et negationum aliæ sunt contrariæ, aliæ contradictoriæ; et dictum est quæ sint
utræque. Tacet autem de subcontrariis, quia non sunt recte oppositæ, ut supra
dictum est. Dictum est etiam quod non omnis contradictio est vera vel falsa; et
sumitur hic large contradictio pro qualicumque oppositione affirmationis et
negationis: nam in his quæ sunt vere contradictoriæ semper una est vera, et
altera falsa. Quare autem in quibusdam oppositis hoc non verificetur, dictum
est supra; quia scilicet quædam non sunt contradictoriæ, sed contrariæ, quæ
possunt simul esse falsæ. Contingit etiam affirmationem et negationem non
proprie opponi; et ideo contingit eas esse veras simul. Dictum est autem
quando altera semper est vera, altera autem falsa, quia scilicet in his quæ
vere sunt contradictoria. Deinde cum dicit: una autem affirmatio etc.,
ostendit quæ sit affirmatio vel negatio una. Quod quidem iam supra dixerat, ubi
habitum est quod una est enunciatio, quæ unum significat; sed quia enunciatio,
in qua aliquid prædicatur de aliquo universali universaliter vel non
universaliter, multa sub se continet, intendit ostendere quod per hoc non
impeditur unitas enunciationis. Et circa hoc duo facit: primo, ostendit quod
unitas enunciationis non impeditur per multitudinem, quæ continetur sub
universali, cuius ratio una est; secundo, ostendit quod impeditur unitas
enunciationis per multitudinem, quæ continetur sub sola nominis unitate; ibi:
si vero duobus et cetera. Dicit ergo primo quod una est affirmatio vel negatio
cum unum significatur de uno, sive illud unum quod subiicitur sit universale
universaliter sumptum sive non sit aliquid tale, sed sit universale
particulariter sumptum vel indefinite, aut etiam si subiectum sit singulare. Et exemplificat de diversis sicut universalis ista affirmativa est una,
omnis homo est albus; et similiter particularis negativa quæ est eius negatio,
scilicet non est omnis homo albus. Et subdit alia exempla, quæ sunt manifesta.
In fine autem apponit quamdam conditionem, quæ requiritur ad hoc quod quælibet
harum sit una, si scilicet album, quod est prædicatum, significat unum: nam
sola multitudo prædicati impediret unitatem enunciationis. Ideo autem
universalis propositio una est, quamvis sub se multitudinem singularium
comprehendat, quia prædicatum non attribuitur multis singularibus, secundum
quod sunt in se divisa, sed secundum quod uniuntur in uno communi. Deinde cum
dicit: si vero duobus etc., ostendit quod sola unitas nominis non sufficit ad
unitatem enunciationis. Et circa hoc quatuor facit: primo, proponit quod
intendit; secundo, exemplificat; ibi: ut si quis ponat etc.; tertio, probat;
ibi: nihil enim differt etc.; quarto, infert corollarium ex dictis; ibi: quare
nec in his et cetera. Dicit ergo primo quod si unum nomen imponatur duabus rebus,
ex quibus non fit unum, non est affirmatio una. Quod autem dicit, ex quibus non
fit unum, potest intelligi dupliciter. Uno modo, ad excludendum hoc quod multa
continentur sub uno universali, sicut homo et equus sub animali: hoc enim nomen
animal significat utrumque, non secundum quod sunt multa et differentia ad
invicem, sed secundum quod uniuntur in natura generis. Alio modo, et melius, ad
excludendum hoc quod ex multis partibus fit unum, sive sint partes rationis,
sicut sunt genus et differentia, quæ sunt partes definitionis: sive sint partes
integrales alicuius compositi, sicut ex lapidibus et lignis fit domus. Si ergo
sit tale prædicatum quod attribuatur rei, requiritur ad unitatem enunciationis
quod illa multa quæ significantur, concurrant in unum secundum aliquem dictorum
modorum; unde non sufficeret sola unitas vocis. Si vero sit tale prædicatum
quod referatur ad vocem, sufficiet unitas vocis; ut si dicam, canis est
nomen. Deinde cum dicit: ut si quis etc., exemplificat quod dictum est,
ut si aliquis hoc nomen tunica imponat ad significandum hominem et equum: et
sic, si dicam, tunica est alba, non est affirmatio una, neque negatio una. Deinde cum dicit: nihil enim differt etc., probat quod dixerat tali
ratione. Si tunica significat hominem et equum, nihil differt si dicatur,
tunica est alba, aut si dicatur, homo est albus, et, equus est albus; sed istæ,
homo est albus, et equus est albus, significant multa et sunt plures
enunciationes; ergo etiam ista, tunica est alba, multa significat. Et hoc si
significet hominem et equum ut res diversas: si vero significet hominem et
equum ut componentia unam rem, nihil significat, quia non est aliqua res quæ
componatur ex homine et equo. Quod autem dicit quod non differt dicere, tunica
est alba, et, homo est albus, et, equus est albus, non est intelligendum
quantum ad veritatem et falsitatem. Nam hæc copulativa, homo est albus et equus
est albus, non potest esse vera nisi utraque pars sit vera: sed hæc, tunica est
alba, prædicta positione facta, potest esse vera etiam altera existente falsa;
alioquin non oporteret distinguere multiplices propositiones ad solvendum
rationes sophisticas. Sed hoc est intelligendum quantum ad unitatem et
multiplicitatem. Nam sicut cum dicitur, homo est albus et equus est albus, non
invenitur aliqua una res cui attribuatur prædicatum; ita etiam nec cum dicitur,
tunica est alba. Deinde cum dicit: quare nec in his etc., concludit ex præmissis
quod nec in his affirmationibus et negationibus, quæ utuntur subiecto æquivoco,
semper oportet unam esse veram et aliam falsam, quia scilicet negatio potest
aliud negare quam affirmatio affirmet. Postquam philosophus determinavit de
oppositione enunciationum et ostendit quomodo dividunt verum et falsum oppositæ
enunciationes; hic inquirit de quodam quod poterat esse dubium, utrum scilicet
id quod dictum es t similiter inveniatur in omnibus enunciationibus vel
non. Et circa hoc duo facit: primo, proponit dissimilitudinem; secundo, probat
eam; ibi: nam si omnis affirmatio et cetera. Circa primum considerandum
est quod philosophus in præmissis triplicem divisionem enunciationum
assignavit, quarum prima fuit secundum unitatem enunciationis, prout scilicet
enunciatio est una simpliciter vel coniunctione una; secunda fuit secundum
qualitatem, prout scilicet enunciatio est affirmativa vel negativa; tertia fuit
secundum quantitatem, utpote quod enunciatio quædam est universalis, quædam
particularis, quædam indefinita et quædam singularis. Tangitur autem hic quarta
divisio enunciationum secundum tempus. Nam quædam est de præsenti, quædam de præterito,
quædam de futuro; et hæc etiam divisio potest accipi ex his quæ supra dicta
sunt: dictum est enim supra quod necesse est omnem enunciationem esse ex verbo
vel ex casu verbi; verbum autem est quod consignificat præsens tempus; casus
autem verbi sunt, qui consignificant tempus præteritum vel futurum. Potest
autem accipi quinta divisio enunciationum secundum materiam, quæ quidem divisio
attenditur secundum habitudinem prædicati ad subiectum: nam si prædicatum per
se insit subiecto, dicetur esse enunciatio in materia necessaria vel naturali;
ut cum dicitur, homo est animal, vel, homo est risibile. Si vero prædicatum
per se repugnet subiecto quasi excludens rationem ipsius, dicetur enunciatio
esse in materia impossibili sive remota; ut cum dicitur, homo est asinus. Si
vero medio modo se habeat prædicatum ad subiectum, ut scilicet nec per se
repugnet subiecto, nec per se insit, dicetur enunciatio esse in materia
possibili sive contingenti. His igitur enunciationum differentiis consideratis,
non similiter se habet iudicium de veritate et falsitate in omnibus. Unde
philosophus dicit, ex præmissis concludens, quod in his quæ sunt, idest in
propositionibus de præsenti, et in his quæ facta sunt, idest in enunciationibus
de præterito, necesse est quod affirmatio vel negatio determinate sit vera vel
falsa. Diversificatur tamen hoc, secundum diversam quantitatem enunciationis;
nam in enunciationibus, in quibus de universalibus subiectis aliquid
universaliter prædicatur, necesse est quod semper una sit vera, scilicet
affirmativa vel negativa, et altera falsa, quæ scilicet ei opponitur. Dictum
est enim supra quod negatio enunciationis universalis in qua aliquid
universaliter prædicatur, est negativa non universalis, sed particularis, et e
converso universalis negativa non est directe negatio universalis affirmativæ,
sed particularis; et sic oportet, secundum prædicta, quod semper una earum sit
vera et altera falsa in quacumque materia. Et eadem ratio est in enunciationibus singularibus, quæ etiam
contradictorie opponuntur, ut supra habitum est. Sed in enunciationibus, in
quibus aliquid prædicatur de universali non universaliter, non est necesse quod
semper una sit vera et altera sit falsa, qui possunt ambæ esse simul veræ, ut
supra ostensum est. Et hoc quidem ita se habet quantum ad propositiones,
quæ sunt de præterito vel de præsenti: sed si accipiamus enunciationes, quæ
sunt de futuro, etiam similiter se habent quantum ad oppositiones, quæ sunt de
universalibus vel universaliter vel non universaliter sumptis. Nam in materia
necessaria omnes affirmativæ determinate sunt veræ, ita in futuris sicut in præteritis
et præsentibus; negativæ vero falsæ. In materia autem impossibili, e
contrario. In contingenti vero universales sunt falsæ et particulares sunt veræ,
ita in futuris sicut in præteritis et præsentibus. In indefinitis autem,
utraque simul est vera in futuris sicut in præsentibus vel præteritis.
Sed in singularibus et futuris est quædam dissimilitudo. Nam in præteritis et
præsentibus necesse est quod altera oppositarum determinate sit vera et altera
falsa in quacumque materia; sed in singularibus quæ sunt de futuro hoc non est
necesse, quod una determinate sit vera et altera falsa. Et hoc quidem dicitur
quantum ad materiam contingentem: nam quantum ad materiam necessariam et
impossibilem similis ratio est in futuris singularibus, sicut in præsentibus et
præteritis. Nec tamen Aristoteles mentionem fecit de materia contingenti, quia
illa proprie ad singularia pertinent quæ contingenter eveniunt, quæ autem per
se insunt vel repugnant, attribuuntur singularibus secundum universalium
rationes. Circa hoc igitur versatur tota præsens intentio: utrum in
enunciationibus singularibus de futuro in materia contingenti necesse sit quod
determinate una oppositarum sit vera et altera falsa. Deinde cum dicit: nam si omnis affirmatio etc., probat præmissam
differentiam. Et
circa hoc duo facit: primo, probat propositum ducendo ad inconveniens; secundo,
ostendit illa esse impossibilia quæ sequuntur; ibi: quare ergo contingunt
inconvenientia et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, ostendit quod in
singularibus et futuris non semper potest determinate attribui veritas alteri
oppositorum; secundo, ostendit quod non potest esse quod utraque veritate
careat; ibi: at vero neque quoniam et cetera. Circa primum ponit duas rationes,
in quarum prima ponit quamdam consequentiam, scilicet quod si omnis affirmatio
vel negatio determinate est vera vel falsa ita in singularibus et futuris sicut
in aliis, consequens est quod omnia necesse sit vel determinate esse vel non
esse. Deinde cum dicit: quare si hic quidem etc. vel, si itaque hic quidem, ut
habetur in Græco, probat consequentiam prædictam. Ponamus enim quod sint duo
homines, quorum unus dicat aliquid esse futurum, puta quod Socrates curret,
alius vero dicat hoc idem ipsum non esse futurum; supposita præmissa positione,
scilicet quod in singularibus et futuris contingit alteram esse veram, scilicet
vel affirmativam vel negativam, sequetur quod necesse sit quod alter eorum
verum dicat, non autem uterque: quia non potest esse quod in singularibus
propositionibus futuris utraque sit simul vera, scilicet affirmativa et
negativa: sed hoc habet locum solum in indefinitis. Ex hoc autem quod necesse
est alterum eorum verum dicere, sequitur quod necesse sit determinate vel esse
vel non esse. Et hoc probat consequenter: quia ista duo se convertibiliter
consequuntur, scilicet quod verum sit id quod dicitur, et quod ita sit in re.
Et hoc est quod manifestat consequenter dicens quod si verum est dicere quod
album sit, de necessitate sequitur quod ita sit in re; et si verum est negare,
ex necessitate sequitur quod ita non sit. Et e converso: quia si ita est in re
vel non est, ex necessitate sequitur quod sit verum affirmare vel negare. Et
eadem etiam convertibilitas apparet in falso: quia, si aliquis mentitur falsum
dicens, ex necessitate sequitur quod non ita sit in re, sicut ipse affirmat vel
negat; et e converso, si non est ita in re sicut ipse affirmat vel negat,
sequitur quod affirmans vel negans mentiatur. Est ergo processus huius
rationis talis. Si necesse est quod omnis affirmatio vel negatio in
singularibus et futuris sit vera vel falsa, necesse est quod omnis affirmans
vel negans determinate dicat verum vel falsum. Ex hoc autem sequitur quod omne
necesse sit esse vel non esse. Ergo, si omnis affirmatio vel negatio
determinate sit vera, necesse est omnia determinate esse vel non esse. Ex hoc
concludit ulterius quod omnia sint ex necessitate. Per quod triplex genus
contingentium excluditur. Quædam enim contingunt ut in paucioribus, quæ
accidunt a casu vel fortuna. Quædam vero se habent ad utrumlibet, quia scilicet
non magis se habent ad unam partem, quam ad aliam, et ista procedunt ex
electione. Quædam vero eveniunt ut in pluribus; sicut hominem canescere in
senectute, quod causatur ex natura. Si autem omnia ex necessitate evenirent,
nihil horum contingentium esset. Et ideo dicit nihil est quantum ad ipsam
permanentiam eorum quæ permanent contingenter; neque fit quantum ad
productionem eorum quæ contingenter causantur; nec casu quantum ad ea quæ sunt
in minori parte, sive in paucioribus; nec utrumlibet quantum ad ea quæ se
habent æqualiter ad utrumque, scilicet esse vel non esse, et ad neutrum horum
sunt determinata: quod significat cum subdit, nec erit, nec non erit. De eo
enim quod est magis determinatum ad unam partem possumus determinate verum
dicere quod hoc erit vel non erit, sicut medicus de convalescente vere dicit,
iste sanabitur, licet forte ex aliquo accidente eius sanitas impediatur. Unde
et philosophus dicit in II de generatione quod futurus quis incedere, non
incedet. De eo enim qui habet propositum determinatum ad incedendum, vere
potest dici quod ipse incedet, licet per aliquod accidens impediatur eius
incessus. Sed eius quod est ad utrumlibet proprium est quod, quia non
determinatur magis ad unum quam ad alterum, non possit de eo determinate dici,
neque quod erit, neque quod non erit. Quomodo autem sequatur quod nihil sit ad
utrumlibet ex præmissa hypothesi, manifestat subdens quod, si omnis affirmatio
vel negatio determinate sit vera, oportet quod vel ille qui affirmat vel ille
qui negat dicat verum; et sic tollitur id quod est ad utrumlibet: quia, si esse
aliquid ad utrumlibet, similiter se haberet ad hoc quod fieret vel non fieret,
et non magis ad unum quam ad alterum. Est autem
considerandum quod philosophus non excludit hic expresse contingens quod est ut
in pluribus, duplici ratione. Primo quidem, quia tale contingens non excludit
quin altera oppositarum enunciationum determinate sit vera et altera falsa, ut
dictum est. Secundo, quia remoto contingenti quod est in paucioribus, quod a
casu accidit, removetur per consequens contingens quod est ut in pluribus: nihil
enim differt id quod est in pluribus ab eo quod est in paucioribus, nisi quod
deficit in minori parte. Deinde cum dicit: amplius si est album etc.,
ponit secundam rationem ad ostendendum prædictam dissimilitudinem, ducendo ad
impossibile. Si enim similiter se habet veritas et falsitas in præsentibus et
futuris, sequitur ut quidquid verum est de præsenti, etiam fuerit verum de
futuro, eo modo quo est verum de præsenti. Sed determinate nunc est verum
dicere de aliquo singulari quod est album; ergo primo, idest antequam illud
fieret album, erat verum dicere quoniam hoc erit album. Sed eadem ratio videtur
esse in propinquo et in remoto; ergo si ante unum diem verum fuit dicere quod
hoc erit album, sequitur quod semper fuit verum dicere de quolibet eorum, quæ facta
sunt, quod erit. Si autem semper est verum dicere de præsenti quoniam est, vel
de futuro quoniam erit, non potest hoc non esse vel non futurum esse. Cuius
consequentiæ ratio patet, quia ista duo sunt incompossibilia, quod aliquid vere
dicatur esse, et quod non sit. Nam hoc includitur in
significatione veri, ut sit id quod dicitur. Si ergo ponitur verum esse id quod
dicitur de præsenti vel de futuro, non potest esse quin illud sit præsens vel
futurum. Sed quod non potest non fieri idem significat cum eo quod est
impossibile non fieri. Et quod impossibile est non fieri idem significat cum eo
quod est necesse fieri, ut in secundo plenius dicetur. Sequitur ergo ex præmissis
quod omnia, quæ futura sunt, necesse est fieri. Ex quo sequitur ulterius, quod
nihil sit neque ad utrumlibet neque a casu, quia illud quod accidit a casu non
est ex necessitate, sed ut in paucioribus; hoc autem relinquit pro
inconvenienti; ergo et primum est falsum, scilicet quod omne quod est verum
esse, verum fuerit determinate dicere esse futurum. Ad cuius evidentiam
considerandum est quod cum verum hoc significet ut dicatur aliquid esse quod
est, hoc modo est aliquid verum, quo habet esse. Cum autem aliquid est in præsenti
habet esse in seipso, et ideo vere potest dici de eo quod est: sed quamdiu
aliquid est futurum, nondum est in seipso, est tamen aliqualiter in sua causa:
quod quidem contingit tripliciter. Uno modo, ut sic sit in sua causa ut ex
necessitate ex ea proveniat; et tunc determinate habet esse in sua causa; unde
determinate potest dici de eo quod erit. Alio modo, aliquid est in sua causa,
ut quæ habet inclinationem ad suum effectum, quæ tamen impediri potest; unde et
hoc determinatum est in sua causa, sed mutabiliter; et sic de hoc vere dici
potest, hoc erit, sed non per omnimodam certitudinem. Tertio, aliquid est in
sua causa pure in potentia, quæ etiam non magis est determinata ad unum quam ad
aliud; unde relinquitur quod nullo modo potest de aliquo eorum determinate dici
quod sit futurum, sed quod sit vel non sit. Deinde cum dicit: at vero
neque quoniam etc., ostendit quod veritas non omnino deest in singularibus
futuris utrique oppositorum; et primo, proponit quod intendit dicens quod sicut
non est verum dicere quod in talibus alterum oppositorum sit verum determinate,
sic non est verum dicere quod non utrumque sit verum; ut si quod dicamus, neque
erit, neque non erit. Secundo, ibi: primum enim cum sit
etc., probat propositum duabus rationibus. Quarum prima talis est: affirmatio
et negatio dividunt verum et falsum, quod patet ex definitione veri et falsi:
nam nihil aliud est verum quam esse quod est, vel non esse quod non est; et
nihil aliud est falsum quam esse quod non est, vel non esse quod est; et sic
oportet quod si affirmatio sit falsa, quod negatio sit vera; et e converso. Sed
secundum prædictam positionem affirmatio est falsa, qua dicitur, hoc erit; nec
tamen negatio est vera: et similiter negatio erit falsa, affirmatione non
existente vera; ergo prædicta positio est impossibilis, scilicet quod veritas
desit utrique oppositorum. Secundam rationem ponit; ibi: ad hæc si verum est et
cetera. Quæ talis est: si verum est dicere aliquid, sequitur quod illud sit;
puta si verum est dicere quod aliquid sit magnum et album, sequitur utraque
esse. Et ita de futuro sicut de præsenti: sequitur enim esse cras, si verum est
dicere quod erit cras. Si ergo vera est prædicta positio dicens quod neque cras
erit, neque non erit, oportebit neque fieri, neque non fieri: quod est contra
rationem eius quod est ad utrumlibet, quia quod est ad utrumlibet se habet ad
alterutrum; ut navale bellum cras erit, vel non erit. Et ita ex hoc sequitur
idem inconveniens quod in præmissis. Ostenderat superius philosophus ducendo ad
inconveniens quod non est similiter verum vel falsum determinate in altero
oppositorum in singularibus et futuris, sicut supra de aliis enunciationibus
dixerat; nunc autem ostendit inconvenientia ad quæ adduxerat esse impossibilia.
Et circa hoc duo facit: primo, ostendit impossibilia ea quæ sequebantur;
secundo, concludit quomodo circa hæc se veritas habeat; ibi: igitur esse quod
est et cetera. Circa primum tria facit: primo, ponit inconvenientia
quæ sequuntur; secundo, ostendit hæc inconvenientia ex prædicta positione
sequi; ibi: nihil enim prohibet etc.; tertio, ostendit esse impossibilia
inconvenientia memorata; ibi: quod si hæc possibilia non sunt et cetera. Dicit
ergo primo, ex prædictis rationibus concludens, quod hæc inconvenientia
sequuntur, si ponatur quod necesse sit oppositarum enunciationum alteram
determinate esse veram et alteram esse falsam similiter in singularibus sicut
in universalibus, quod scilicet nihil in his quæ fiunt sit ad utrumlibet, sed
omnia sint et fiant ex necessitate. Et ex hoc ulterius inducit alia duo
inconvenientia. Quorum primum est quod non oportebit de aliquo consiliari:
probatum est enim in III Ethicorum quod consilium non est de his, quæ sunt ex
necessitate, sed solum de contingentibus, quæ possunt esse et non esse.
Secundum inconveniens est quod omnes actiones humanæ, quæ sunt propter aliquem
finem (puta negotiatio, quæ est propter divitias acquirendas), erunt superfluæ:
quia si omnia ex necessitate eveniunt, sive operemur sive non operemur erit
quod intendimus. Sed hoc est contra intentionem hominum, quia ea intentione
videntur consiliari et negotiari ut, si hæc faciant, erit talis finis, si autem
faciunt aliquid aliud, erit alius finis. Deinde cum dicit: nihil enim
prohibet etc., probat quod dicta inconvenientia consequantur ex dicta
positione. Et circa hoc duo facit: primo, ostendit prædicta inconvenientia
sequi, quodam possibili posito; secundo, ostendit quod eadem inconvenientia
sequantur etiam si illud non ponatur; ibi: at nec hoc differt et cetera. Dicit
ergo primo, non esse impossibile quod ante mille annos, quando nihil apud homines
erat præcogitatum, vel præordinatum de his quæ nunc aguntur, unus dixerit quod
hoc erit, puta quod civitas talis subverteretur, alius autem dixerit quod hoc
non erit. Sed si omnis affirmatio vel negatio determinate est vera, necesse est
quod alter eorum determinate verum dixerit; ergo necesse fuit alterum eorum ex
necessitate evenire; et eadem ratio est in omnibus aliis; ergo omnia ex
necessitate eveniunt. Deinde cum dicit: at vero neque hoc differt etc.,
ostendit quod idem sequitur si illud possibile non ponatur. Nihil enim differt,
quantum ad rerum existentiam vel eventum, si uno affirmante hoc esse futurum,
alius negaverit vel non negaverit; ita enim se habebit res si hoc factum
fuerit, sicut si hoc non factum fuerit. Non enim propter nostrum affirmare vel
negare mutatur cursus rerum, ut sit aliquid vel non sit: quia veritas nostræ
enunciationis non est causa existentiæ rerum, sed potius e converso. Similiter
etiam non differt quantum ad eventum eius quod nunc agitur, utrum fuerit
affirmatum vel negatum ante millesimum annum vel ante quodcumque tempus. Sic
ergo, si in quocumque tempore præterito, ita se habebat veritas enunciationum,
ut necesse esset quod alterum oppositorum vere diceretur; et ad hoc quod
necesse est aliquid vere dici sequitur quod necesse sit illud esse vel fieri;
consequens est quod unumquodque eorum quæ fiunt, sic se habeat ut ex
necessitate fiat. Et huiusmodi consequentiæ rationem assignat per hoc, quod si
ponatur aliquem vere dicere quod hoc erit, non potest non futurum esse. Sicut
supposito quod sit homo, non potest non esse animal rationale mortale. Hoc enim
significatur, cum dicitur aliquid vere dici, scilicet quod ita sit ut dicitur.
Eadem autem habitudo est eorum, quæ nunc dicuntur, ad ea quæ futura sunt, quæ
erat eorum, quæ prius dicebantur, ad ea quæ sunt præsentia vel præterita; et
ita omnia ex necessitate acciderunt, et accidunt, et accident, quia quod nunc
factum est, utpote in præsenti vel in præterito existens, semper verum erat
dicere, quoniam erit futurum. Deinde cum dicit: quod si hæc possibilia
non sunt etc., ostendit prædicta esse impossibilia: et primo, per rationem;
secundo, per exempla sensibilia; ibi: et multa nobis manifesta et cetera. Circa
primum duo facit: primo, ostendit propositum in rebus humanis; secundo, etiam
in aliis rebus; ibi: et quoniam est omnino et cetera. Quantum autem ad res
humanas ostendit esse impossibilia quæ dicta sunt, per hoc quod homo manifeste
videtur esse principium eorum futurorum, quæ agit quasi dominus existens suorum
actuum, et in sua potestate habens agere vel non agere; quod quidem principium
si removeatur, tollitur totus ordo conversationis humanæ, et omnia principia
philosophiæ moralis. Hoc enim sublato non erit aliqua
utilitas persuasionis, nec comminationis, nec punitionis aut remunerationis,
quibus homines alliciuntur ad bona et retrahuntur a malis, et sic evacuatur
tota civilis scientia. Hoc ergo philosophus accipit pro principio manifesto
quod homo sit principium futurorum; non est autem futurorum principium nisi per
hoc quod consiliatur et facit aliquid: ea enim quæ agunt absque consilio non
habent dominium sui actus, quasi libere iudicantes de his quæ sunt agenda, sed
quodam naturali instinctu moventur ad agendum, ut patet in animalibus brutis.
Unde impossibile est quod supra conclusum est quod non oporteat nos negotiari
vel consiliari. Et sic etiam impossibile est illud ex quo sequebatur, scilicet
quod omnia ex necessitate eveniant. Deinde cum dicit: et quoniam est
omnino etc., ostendit idem etiam in aliis rebus. Manifestum est enim etiam in
rebus naturalibus esse quædam, quæ non semper actu sunt; ergo in eis contingit
esse et non esse: alioquin vel semper essent, vel semper non essent. Id autem
quod non est, incipit esse aliquid per hoc quod fit illud; sicut id quod non
est album, incipit esse album per hoc quod fit album. Si autem non fiat album
permanet non ens album. Ergo in quibus contingit esse et non esse, contingit
etiam fieri et non fieri. Non ergo talia ex necessitate sunt vel
fiunt, sed est in eis natura possibilitatis, per quam se habent ad fieri et non
fieri, esse et non esse. Deinde cum dicit: ac multa nobis manifesta etc.,
ostendit propositum per sensibilia exempla. Sit enim, puta, vestis nova;
manifestum est quod eam possibile est incidi, quia nihil obviat incisioni, nec
ex parte agentis nec ex parte patientis. Probat autem quod simul cum hoc quod
possibile est eam incidi, possibile est etiam eam non incidi, eodem modo quo
supra probavit duas indefinitas oppositas esse simul veras, scilicet per
assumptionem contrarii. Sicut enim possibile est istam vestem incidi, ita
possibile est eam exteri, idest vetustate corrumpi; sed si exteritur non
inciditur; ergo utrumque possibile est, scilicet eam incidi et non incidi. Et
ex hoc universaliter concludit quod in aliis futuris, quæ non sunt in actu
semper, sed sunt in potentia, hoc manifestum est quod non omnia ex necessitate
sunt vel fiunt, sed eorum quædam sunt ad utrumlibet, quæ non se habent magis ad
affirmationem quam ad negationem; alia vero sunt in quibus alterum eorum
contingit ut in pluribus, sed tamen contingit etiam ut in paucioribus quod
altera pars sit vera, et non alia, quæ scilicet contingit ut in pluribus.
Est autem considerandum quod, sicut Boethius dicit hic in commento, circa
possibile et necessarium diversimode aliqui sunt opinati. Quidam enim
distinxerunt ea secundum eventum, sicut Diodorus, qui dixit illud esse
impossibile quod nunquam erit; necessarium vero quod semper erit; possibile
vero quod quandoque erit, quandoque non erit. Stoici vero distinxerunt hæc
secundum exteriora prohibentia. Dixerunt enim necessarium esse illud quod non
potest prohiberi quin sit verum; impossibile vero quod semper prohibetur a
veritate; possibile vero quod potest prohiberi vel non prohiberi. Utraque autem
distinctio videtur esse incompetens. Nam prima distinctio est a posteriori: non
enim ideo aliquid est necessarium, quia semper erit; sed potius ideo semper
erit, quia est necessarium: et idem patet in aliis. Secunda autem assignatio
est ab exteriori et quasi per accidens: non enim ideo aliquid est necessarium,
quia non habet impedimentum, sed quia est necessarium, ideo impedimentum habere
non potest. Et ideo alii melius ista distinxerunt secundum naturam rerum, ut
scilicet dicatur illud necessarium, quod in sua natura determinatum est solum
ad esse; impossibile autem quod est determinatum solum ad non esse; possibile
autem quod ad neutrum est omnino determinatum, sive se habeat magis ad unum
quam ad alterum, sive se habeat æqualiter ad utrumque, quod dicitur contingens
ad utrumlibet. Et hoc est quod Boethius attribuit Philoni. Sed manifeste
hæc est sententia Aristotelis in hoc loco. Assignat enim rationem
possibilitatis et contingentiæ, in his quidem quæ sunt a nobis ex eo quod sumus
consiliativi, in aliis autem ex eo quod materia est in potentia ad utrumque
oppositorum. Sed videtur hæc ratio non esse sufficiens. Sicut enim
in corporibus corruptibilibus materia invenitur in potentia se habens ad esse
et non esse, ita etiam in corporibus cælestibus invenitur potentia ad diversa
ubi, et tamen nihil in eis evenit contingenter, sed solum ex necessitate. Unde
dicendum est quod possibilitas materiæ ad utrumque, si communiter loquamur, non
est sufficiens ratio contingentiæ, nisi etiam addatur ex parte potentiæ activæ
quod non sit omnino determinata ad unum; alioquin si ita sit determinata ad
unum quod impediri non potest, consequens est quod ex necessitate reducat in
actum potentiam passivam eodem modo. Hoc igitur quidam attendentes
posuerunt quod potentia, quæ est in ipsis rebus naturalibus, sortitur
necessitatem ex aliqua causa determinata ad unum quam dixerunt fatum. Quorum
Stoici posuerunt fatum in quadam serie, seu connexione causarum, supponentes
quod omne quod in hoc mundo accidit habet causam; causa autem posita, necesse
est effectum poni. Et si una causa per se non sufficit, multæ causæ ad hoc
concurrentes accipiunt rationem unius causæ sufficientis; et ita concludebant
quod omnia ex necessitate eveniunt. Sed hanc rationem solvit Aristoteles
in VI metaphysicæ interimens utramque propositionum assumptarum. Dicit enim
quod non omne quod fit habet causam, sed solum illud quod est per se. Sed illud
quod est per accidens non habet causam; quia proprie non est ens, sed magis
ordinatur cum non ente, ut etiam Plato dixit. Unde esse musicum habet causam,
et similiter esse album; sed hoc quod est, album esse musicum, non habet
causam: et idem est in omnibus aliis huiusmodi. Similiter etiam hæc est falsa,
quod posita causa etiam sufficienti, necesse est effectum poni: non enim omnis
causa est talis (etiamsi sufficiens sit) quod eius effectus impediri non
possit; sicut ignis est sufficiens causa combustionis lignorum, sed tamen per
effusionem aquæ impeditur combustio. Si autem utraque propositionum prædictarum
esset vera, infallibiliter sequeretur omnia ex necessitate contingere. Quia si
quilibet effectus habet causam, esset effectum (qui est futurus post quinque
dies, aut post quantumcumque tempus) reducere in aliquam causam priorem: et sic
quousque esset devenire ad causam, quæ nunc est in præsenti, vel iam fuit in præterito;
si autem causa posita, necesse est effectum poni, per ordinem causarum
deveniret necessitas usque ad ultimum effectum. Puta, si comedit salsa, sitiet:
si sitiet, exibit domum ad bibendum: si exibit domum, occidetur a latronibus.
Quia ergo iam comedit salsa, necesse est eum occidi. Et ideo Aristoteles ad hoc
excludendum ostendit utramque prædictarum propositionum esse falsam, ut dictum
est. Obiiciunt autem quidam contra hoc, dicentes quod omne per accidens
reducitur ad aliquid per se, et ita oportet effectum qui est per accidens
reduci in causam per se. Sed non attendunt quod id quod est per accidens
reducitur ad per se, in quantum accidit ei quod est per se, sicut musicum
accidit Socrati, et omne accidens alicui subiecto per se existenti. Et
similiter omne quod in aliquo effectu est per accidens consideratur circa
aliquem effectum per se: qui quantum ad id quod per se est habet causam per se,
quantum autem ad id quod inest ei per accidens non habet causam per se, sed
causam per accidens. Oportet enim effectum proportionaliter referre ad
causam suam, ut in II physicorum et in V methaphysicæ dicitur. Quidam
vero non attendentes differentiam effectuum per accidens et per se, tentaverunt
reducere omnes effectus hic inferius provenientes in aliquam causam per se,
quam ponebant esse virtutem cælestium corporum in qua ponebant fatum, dicentes
nihil aliud esse fatum quam vim positionis syderum. Sed ex hac causa
non potest provenire necessitas in omnibus quæ hic aguntur. Multa enim hic
fiunt ex intellectu et voluntate, quæ per se et directe non subduntur virtuti cælestium
corporum: cum enim intellectus sive ratio et voluntas quæ est in ratione, non
sint actus organi corporalis, ut probatur in libro de anima, impossibile est
quod directe subdantur intellectus seu ratio et voluntas virtuti cælestium
corporum: nulla enim vis corporalis potest agere per se, nisi in rem corpoream.
Vires autem sensitivæ in quantum sunt actus organorum corporalium per accidens
subduntur actioni cælestium corporum. Unde philosophus in libro de anima
opinionem ponentium voluntatem hominis subiici motui cæli adscribit his, qui non
ponebant intellectum differre a sensu. Indirecte tamen vis cælestium corporum
redundat ad intellectum et voluntatem, in quantum scilicet intellectus et
voluntas utuntur viribus sensitivis. Manifestum autem est quod passiones virium
sensitivarum non inferunt necessitatem rationi et voluntati. Nam continens
habet pravas concupiscentias, sed non deducitur, ut patet per philosophum in
VII Ethicorum. Sic igitur ex virtute cælestium corporum non provenit necessitas
in his quæ per rationem et voluntatem fiunt. Similiter nec in aliis
corporalibus effectibus rerum corruptibilium, in quibus multa per accidens
eveniunt. Id autem quod est per accidens non potest reduci ut in causam per se
in aliquam virtutem naturalem, quia virtus naturæ se habet ad unum; quod autem
est per accidens non est unum; unde et supra dictum est quod hæc enunciatio non
est una, Socrates est albus musicus, quia non significat unum. Et ideo
philosophus dicit in libro de somno et vigilia quod multa, quorum signa præexistunt
in corporibus cælestibus, puta in imbribus et tempestatibus, non eveniunt, quia
scilicet impediuntur per accidens. Et quamvis illud etiam impedimentum secundum
se consideratum reducatur in aliquam causam cælestem; tamen concursus horum,
cum sit per accidens, non potest reduci in aliquam causam naturaliter
agentem. Sed considerandum est quod id quod est per accidens potest ab
intellectu accipi ut unum, sicut album esse musicum, quod quamvis secundum se
non sit unum, tamen intellectus ut unum accipit, in quantum scilicet componendo
format enunciationem unam. Et secundum hoc contingit id, quod secundum se per
accidens evenit et casualiter, reduci in aliquem intellectum præordinantem;
sicut concursus duorum servorum ad certum locum est per accidens et casualis
quantum ad eos, cum unus eorum ignoret de alio; potest tamen esse per se
intentus a domino, qui utrumque mittit ad hoc quod in certo loco sibi
occurrant. Et secundum hoc aliqui posuerunt omnia quæcumque in hoc mundo
aguntur, etiam quæ videntur fortuita vel casualia, reduci in ordinem providentiæ
divinæ, ex qua dicebant dependere fatum. Et hoc quidem aliqui stulti
negaverunt, iudicantes de intellectu divino ad modum intellectus nostri, qui
singularia non cognoscit. Hoc autem est falsum: nam intelligere divinum et
velle eius est ipsum esse ipsius. Unde sicut esse eius sua virtute comprehendit
omne illud quod quocumque modo est, in quantum scilicet est per participationem
ipsius; ita etiam suum intelligere et suum intelligibile comprehendit omnem
cognitionem et omne cognoscibile; et suum velle et suum volitum comprehendit
omnem appetitum et omne appetibile quod est bonum; ut, scilicet ex hoc ipso
quod aliquid est cognoscibile cadat sub eius cognitione, et ex hoc ipso quod
est bonum cadat sub eius voluntate: sicut ex hoc ipso quod est ens, aliquid
cadit sub eius virtute activa, quam ipse perfecte comprehendit, cum sit per
intellectum agens. Sed si providentia divina sit per se causa
omnium quæ in hoc mundo accidunt, saltem bonorum, videtur quod omnia ex
necessitate accidant. Primo quidem ex parte scientiæ eius: non enim potest eius
scientia falli; et ita ea quæ ipse scit, videtur quod necesse sit evenire.
Secundo ex parte voluntatis: voluntas enim Dei inefficax esse non potest;
videtur ergo quod omnia quæ vult, ex necessitate eveniant. Procedunt
autem hæ obiectiones ex eo quod cognitio divini intellectus et operatio divinæ
voluntatis pensantur ad modum eorum, quæ in nobis sunt, cum tamen multo
dissimiliter se habeant. Nam primo quidem ex parte cognitionis vel
scientiæ considerandum est quod ad cognoscendum ea quæ secundum ordinem
temporis eveniunt, aliter se habet vis cognoscitiva, quæ sub ordine temporis
aliqualiter continetur, aliter illa quæ totaliter est extra ordinem temporis.
Cuius exemplum conveniens accipi potest ex ordine loci: nam secundum
philosophum in IV physicorum, secundum prius et posterius in magnitudine est
prius et posterius in motu et per consequens in tempore. Si ergo sint multi
homines per viam aliquam transeuntes, quilibet eorum qui sub ordine
transeuntium continetur habet cognitionem de præcedentibus et subsequentibus,
in quantum sunt præcedentes et subsequentes; quod pertinet ad ordinem loci. Et ideo quilibet eorum videt eos, qui iuxta se sunt et aliquos eorum qui
eos præcedunt; eos autem qui post se sunt videre non potest. Si autem esset
aliquis extra totum ordinem transeuntium, utpote in aliqua excelsa turri
constitutus, unde posset totam viam videre, videret quidem simul omnes in via
existentes, non sub ratione præcedentis et subsequentis (in comparatione
scilicet ad eius intuitum), sed simul omnes videret, et quomodo unus eorum
alium præcedit. Quia igitur cognitio nostra cadit sub ordine temporis, vel per
se vel per accidens (unde et anima in componendo et dividendo necesse habet
adiungere tempus, ut dicitur in III de anima), consequens est quod sub eius
cognitione cadant res sub ratione præsentis, præteriti et futuri. Et ideo præsentia
cognoscit tanquam actu existentia et sensu aliqualiter perceptibilia; præterita
autem cognoscit ut memorata; futura autem non cognoscit in seipsis, quia nondum
sunt, sed cognoscere ea potest in causis suis: per certitudinem quidem, si
totaliter in causis suis sint determinata, ut ex quibus de necessitate
evenient; per coniecturam autem, si non sint sic determinata quin impediri
possint, sicut quæ sunt ut in pluribus; nullo autem modo, si in suis causis
sunt omnino in potentia non magis determinata ad unum quam ad aliud, sicut quæ
sunt ad utrumlibet. Non enim est aliquid cognoscibile secundum quod est in
potentia, sed solum secundum quod est in actu, ut patet per philosophum in IX
metaphysicæ. Sed Deus est omnino extra ordinem temporis, quasi in arce æternitatis
constitutus, quæ est tota simul, cui subiacet totus temporis decursus secundum
unum et simplicem eius intuitum; et ideo uno intuitu videt omnia quæ aguntur
secundum temporis decursum, et unumquodque secundum quod est in seipso
existens, non quasi sibi futurum quantum ad eius intuitum prout est in solo
ordine suarum causarum (quamvis et ipsum ordinem causarum videat), sed omnino æternaliter
sic videt unumquodque eorum quæ sunt in quocumque tempore, sicut oculus humanus
videt Socratem sedere in seipso, non in causa sua. Ex hoc autem quod homo videt
Socratem sedere, non tollitur eius contingentia quæ respicit ordinem causæ ad
effectum; tamen certissime et infallibiliter videt oculus hominis Socratem
sedere dum sedet, quia unumquodque prout est in seipso iam determinatum est.
Sic igitur relinquitur, quod Deus certissime et infallibiliter cognoscat omnia
quæ fiunt in tempore; et tamen ea quæ in tempore eveniunt non sunt vel fiunt ex
necessitate, sed contingenter. Similiter ex parte voluntatis divinæ
differentia est attendenda. Nam voluntas divina est intelligenda ut extra
ordinem entium existens, velut causa quædam profundens totum ens et omnes eius
differentias. Sunt autem differentiæ entis possibile et necessarium; et ideo ex
ipsa voluntate divina originantur necessitas et contingentia in rebus et
distinctio utriusque secundum rationem proximarum causarum: ad effectus enim,
quos voluit necessarios esse, disposuit causas necessarias; ad effectus autem,
quos voluit esse contingentes, ordinavit causas contingenter agentes, idest
potentes deficere. Et secundum harum conditionem causarum, effectus dicuntur
vel necessarii vel contingentes, quamvis omnes dependeant a voluntate divina,
sicut a prima causa, quæ transcendit ordinem necessitatis et contingentiæ. Hoc
autem non potest dici de voluntate humana, nec de aliqua alia causa: quia omnis
alia causa cadit iam sub ordine necessitatis vel contingentiæ; et ideo oportet
quod vel ipsa causa possit deficere, vel effectus eius non sit contingens, sed
necessarius. Voluntas autem divina indeficiens est; tamen non omnes effectus
eius sunt necessarii, sed quidam contingentes. Similiter autem aliam radicem
contingentiæ, quam hic philosophus ponit ex hoc quod sumus consiliativi, aliqui
subvertere nituntur, volentes ostendere quod voluntas in eligendo ex
necessitate movetur ab appetibili. Cum enim bonum sit obiectum voluntatis, non
potest (ut videtur) ab hoc divertere quin appetat illud quod sibi videtur
bonum; sicut nec ratio ab hoc potest divertere quin assentiat ei quod sibi
videtur verum. Et ita videtur quod electio consilium consequens semper ex
necessitate proveniat; et sic omnia, quorum nos principium sumus per consilium
et electionem, ex necessitate provenient. Sed dicendum est quod similis
differentia attendenda est circa bonum, sicut circa verum. Est autem quoddam
verum, quod est per se notum, sicut prima principia indemonstrabilia, quibus ex
necessitate intellectus assentit; sunt autem quædam vera non per se nota, sed
per alia. Horum autem duplex est conditio: quædam enim ex necessitate
consequuntur ex principiis, ita scilicet quod non possunt esse falsa,
principiis existentibus veris, sicut sunt omnes conclusiones demonstrationum.
Et huiusmodi veris ex necessitate assentit intellectus, postquam perceperit
ordinem eorum ad principia, non autem prius. Quædam autem sunt, quæ non ex
necessitate consequuntur ex principiis, ita scilicet quod possent esse falsa
principiis existentibus veris; sicut sunt opinabilia, quibus non ex necessitate
assentit intellectus, quamvis ex aliquo motivo magis inclinetur in unam partem
quam in aliam. Ita etiam est quoddam bonum quod est propter se appetibile,
sicut felicitas, quæ habet rationem ultimi finis; et huiusmodi bono ex
necessitate inhæret voluntas: naturali enim quadam necessitate omnes appetunt
esse felices. Quædam vero sunt bona, quæ sunt appetibilia propter finem, quæ
comparantur ad finem sicut conclusiones ad principium, ut patet per philosophum
in II physicorum. Si igitur essent aliqua bona, quibus non existentibus,
non posset aliquis esse felix, hæc etiam essent ex necessitate appetibilia et
maxime apud eum, qui talem ordinem perciperet; et forte talia sunt esse, vivere
et intelligere et si qua alia sunt similia. Sed particularia bona, in quibus
humani actus consistunt, non sunt talia, nec sub ea ratione apprehenduntur ut
sine quibus felicitas esse non possit, puta, comedere hunc cibum vel illum, aut
abstinere ab eo: habent tamen in se unde moveant appetitum, secundum aliquod
bonum consideratum in eis. Et ideo voluntas non ex necessitate
inducitur ad hæc eligenda. Et propter hoc philosophus signanter radicem
contingentiæ in his quæ fiunt a nobis assignavit ex parte consilii, quod est
eorum quæ sunt ad finem et tamen non sunt determinata. In his enim in quibus
media sunt determinata, non est opus consilio, ut dicitur in III Ethicorum. Et
hæc quidem dicta sunt ad salvandum radices contingentiæ, quas hic Aristoteles
ponit, quamvis videantur logici negotii modum excedere. Postquam philosophus ostendit esse impossibilia ea, quæ ex prædictis
rationibus sequebantur; hic, remotis impossibilibus, concludit veritatem. Et
circa hoc duo facit: quia enim argumentando ad impossibile, processerat ab
enunciationibus ad res, et iam removerat inconvenientia quæ circa res
sequebantur; nunc, ordine converso, primo ostendit qualiter se habeat veritas
circa res; secundo, qualiter se habeat veritas circa enunciationes; ibi: quare
quoniam orationes veræ sunt et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, ostendit
qualiter se habeant veritas et necessitas circa res absolute consideratas;
secundo, qualiter se habeant circa eas per comparationem ad sua opposita; ibi:
et in contradictione eadem ratio est et cetera. Dicit ergo primo, quasi ex
præmissis concludens, quod si prædicta sunt inconvenientia, ut scilicet omnia
ex necessitate eveniant, oportet dicere ita se habere circa res, scilicet quod
omne quod est necesse est esse quando est, et omne quod non est necesse est non
esse quando non est. Et hæc necessitas fundatur super hoc principium:
impossibile est simul esse et non esse: si enim aliquid est, impossibile est
illud simul non esse; ergo necesse est tunc illud esse. Nam impossibile non
esse idem significat ei quod est necesse esse, ut in secundo dicetur. Et similiter, si aliquid non est, impossibile est illud simul esse; ergo
necesse est non esse, quia etiam idem significant. Et ideo manifeste verum est
quod omne quod est necesse est esse quando est; et omne quod non est necesse
est non esse pro illo tempore quando non est: et hæc est necessitas non
absoluta, sed ex suppositione. Unde non potest simpliciter et absolute dici
quod omne quod est, necesse est esse, et omne quod non est, necesse est non
esse: quia non idem significant quod omne ens, quando est, sit ex necessitate,
et quod omne ens simpliciter sit ex necessitate; nam primum significat
necessitatem ex suppositione, secundum autem necessitatem absolutam. Et quod
dictum est de esse, intelligendum est similiter de non esse; quia aliud est
simpliciter ex necessitate non esse et aliud est ex necessitate non esse quando
non est. Et per hoc videtur Aristoteles excludere id quod supra dictum est,
quod si in his, quæ sunt, alterum determinate est verum, quod etiam antequam
fieret alterum determinate esset futurum. Deinde cum dicit: et in
contradictione etc., ostendit quomodo se habeant veritas et necessitas circa
res per comparationem ad sua opposita: et dicit quod eadem ratio est in
contradictione, quæ est in suppositione. Sicut enim illud quod non est absolute
necessarium, fit necessarium ex suppositione eiusdem, quia necesse est esse
quando est; ita etiam quod non est in se necessarium absolute fit necessarium
per disiunctionem oppositi, quia necesse est de unoquoque quod sit vel non sit,
et quod futurum sit aut non sit, et hoc sub disiunctione: et hæc necessitas
fundatur super hoc principium quod, impossibile est contradictoria simul esse
vera vel falsa. Unde impossibile est neque esse neque non esse; ergo necesse
est vel esse vel non esse. Non tamen si divisim alterum accipiatur, necesse est
illud esse absolute. Et hoc manifestat per exemplum: quia necessarium est
navale bellum esse futurum cras vel non esse; sed non est necesse navale bellum
futurum esse cras; similiter etiam non est necessarium non esse futurum, quia
hoc pertinet ad necessitatem absolutam; sed necesse est quod vel sit futurum
cras vel non sit futurum: hoc enim pertinet ad necessitatem quæ est sub
disiunctione. Deinde cum dicit: quare quoniam etc. ex eo quod se habet
circa res, ostendit qualiter se habeat circa orationes. Et primo, ostendit
quomodo uniformiter se habet in veritate orationum, sicut circa esse rerum et
non esse; secundo, finaliter concludit veritatem totius dubitationis; ibi:
quare manifestum et cetera. Dicit ergo primo quod, quia hoc modo se habent
orationes enunciativæ ad veritatem sicut et res ad esse vel non esse (quia ex
eo quod res est vel non est, oratio est vera vel falsa), consequens est quod in
omnibus rebus quæ ita se habent ut sint ad utrumlibet, et quæcumque ita se
habent quod contradictoria eorum qualitercumque contingere possunt, sive æqualiter
sive alterum ut in pluribus, ex necessitate sequitur quod etiam similiter se
habeat contradictio enunciationum. Et exponit consequenter quæ sint illæ res,
quarum contradictoria contingere queant; et dicit huiusmodi esse quæ neque
semper sunt, sicut necessaria, neque semper non sunt, sicut impossibilia, sed
quandoque sunt et quandoque non sunt. Et ulterius manifestat quomodo similiter
se habeat in contradictoriis enunciationibus; et dicit quod harum
enunciationum, quæ sunt de contingentibus, necesse est quod sub disiunctione
altera pars contradictionis sit vera vel falsa; non tamen hæc vel illa
determinate, sed se habet ad utrumlibet. Et si contingat quod altera pars
contradictionis magis sit vera, sicut accidit in contingentibus quæ sunt ut in
pluribus, non tamen ex hoc necesse est quod ex necessitate altera earum
determinate sit vera vel falsa. Deinde cum dicit: quare manifestum est
etc., concludit principale intentum et dicit manifestum esse ex prædictis quod
non est necesse in omni genere affirmationum et negationum oppositarum, alteram
determinate esse veram et alteram esse falsam: quia non eodem modo se habet
veritas et falsitas in his quæ sunt iam de præsenti et in his quæ non sunt, sed
possunt esse vel non esse. Sed hoc modo se habet in utriusque, sicut dictum
est, quia scilicet in his quæ sunt necesse est determinate alterum esse verum
et alterum falsum: quod non contingit in futuris quæ possunt esse et non esse.
Et sic terminatur primus liber. Postquam philosophus in primo libro
determinavit de enunciatione simpliciter considerata; hic determinat de
enunciatione, secundum quod diversificatur per aliquid sibi additum. Possunt
autem tria in enunciatione considerari: primo, ipsæ dictiones, quæ prædicantur
vel subiiciuntur in enunciatione, quas supra distinxit per nomina et verba;
secundo, ipsa compositio, secundum quam est verum vel falsum in enunciatione
affirmativa vel negativa; tertio, ipsa oppositio unius enunciationis ad aliam.
Dividitur ergo hæc pars in tres partes: in prima, ostendit quid accidat
enunciationi ex hoc quod aliquid additur ad dictiones in subiecto vel prædicato
positas; secundo, quid accidat enunciationi ex hoc quod aliquid additur ad
determinandum veritatem vel falsitatem compositionis; ibi: his vero
determinatis etc.; tertio, solvit quamdam dubitationem circa oppositiones
enunciationum provenientem ex eo, quod additur aliquid simplici enunciationi;
ibi: utrum autem contraria est affirmatio et cetera. Est autem considerandum
quod additio facta ad prædicatum vel subiectum quandoque tollit unitatem
enunciationis, quandoque vero non tollit, sicut additio negationis infinitantis
dictionem. Circa primum ergo duo facit: primo, ostendit quid accidat
enunciationibus ex additione negationis infinitantis dictionem; secundo,
ostendit quid accidat circa enunciationem ex additione tollente unitatem; ibi:
at vero unum de pluribus et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, determinat
de enunciationibus simplicissimis, in quibus nomen finitum vel infinitum
ponitur tantum ex parte subiecti; secundo, determinat de enunciationibus, in
quibus nomen finitum vel infinitum ponitur non solum ex parte subiecti, sed
etiam ex parte prædicati; ibi: quando autem est tertium adiacens et cetera.
Circa primum duo facit: primo, proponit rationes quasdam distinguendi tales
enunciationes; secundo, ponit earum distinctionem et ordinem; ibi: quare prima
est affirmatio et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, ponit rationes
distinguendi enunciationes ex parte nominum; secundo, ostendit quod non potest
esse eadem ratio distinguendi ex parte verborum; ibi: præter verbum autem et
cetera. Circa primum tria facit: primo, proponit rationes distinguendi
enunciationes; secundo, exponit quod dixerat; ibi: nomen autem dictum est etc.;
tertio, concludit intentum; ibi: erit omnis affirmatio et cetera. Resumit
ergo illud, quod supra dictum est de definitione affirmationis, quod scilicet
affirmatio est enunciatio significans aliquid de aliquo; et, quia verbum est
proprie nota eorum quæ de altero prædicantur, consequens est ut illud, de quo
aliquid dicitur, pertineat ad nomen; nomen autem est vel finitum vel infinitum;
et ideo, quasi concludens subdit quod quia affirmatio significat aliquid de
aliquo, consequens est ut hoc, de quo significatur, scilicet subiectum
affirmationis, sit vel nomen, scilicet finitum (quod proprie dicitur nomen, ut
in primo dictum est), vel innominatum, idest infinitum nomen: quod dicitur
innominatum, quia ipsum non nominat aliquid cum aliqua forma determinata, sed
solum removet determinationem formæ. Et ne aliquis diceret quod id quod in
affirmatione subiicitur est simul nomen et innominatum, ad hoc excludendum
subdit quod id quod est, scilicet prædicatum, in affirmatione, scilicet una, de
qua nunc loquimur, oportet esse unum et de uno subiecto; et sic oportet quod
subiectum talis affirmationis sit vel nomen, vel nomen infinitum. Deinde
cum dicit: nomen autem etc., exponit quod dixerat, et dicit quod supra dictum
est quid sit nomen, et quid sit innominatum, idest infinitum nomen: quia, non
homo, non est nomen, sed est infinitum nomen, sicut, non currit, non est
verbum, sed infinitum verbum. Interponit autem quoddam, quod valet ad
dubitationis remotionem, videlicet quod nomen infinitum quodam modo significat
unum. Non enim significat simpliciter unum, sicut nomen finitum, quod
significat unam formam generis vel speciei aut etiam individui, sed in quantum
significat negationem formæ alicuius, in qua negatione multa conveniunt, sicut
in quodam uno secundum rationem. Unum enim eodem modo dicitur aliquid, sicut et
ens; unde sicut ipsum non ens dicitur ens, non quidem simpliciter, sed secundum
quid, idest secundum rationem, ut patet in IV metaphysicæ, ita etiam negatio
est unum secundum quid, scilicet secundum rationem. Introducit autem hoc, ne
aliquis dicat quod affirmatio, in qua subiicitur nomen infinitum, non
significet unum de uno, quasi nomen infinitum non significet unum. Deinde cum dicit: erit omnis affirmatio etc., concludit propositum scilicet
quod duplex est modus affirmationis. Quædam enim est affirmatio, quæ constat ex
nomine et verbo; quædam autem est quæ constat ex infinito nomine et verbo. Et
hoc sequitur ex hoc quod supra dictum est quod hoc, de quo affirmatio aliquid
significat, vel est nomen vel innominatum. Et eadem differentia potest accipi
ex parte negationis, quia de quocunque contingit affirmare, contingit et
negare, ut in primo habitum est. Deinde cum dicit: præter verbum
etc., ostendit quod differentia enunciationum non potest sumi ex parte verbi.
Dictum est enim supra quod, præter verbum nulla est affirmatio vel negatio.
Potest enim præter nomen esse aliqua affirmatio vel negatio, videlicet si
ponatur loco nominis infinitum nomen: loco autem verbi in enunciatione non
potest poni infinitum verbum, duplici ratione. Primo quidem, quia infinitum
verbum constituitur per additionem infinitæ particulæ, quæ quidem addita verbo
per se dicto, idest extra enunciationem posito, removet ipsum absolute, sicut
addita nomini, removet formam nominis absolute: et ideo extra enunciationem
potest accipi verbum infinitum per modum unius dictionis, sicut et nomen
infinitum. Sed quando negatio additur verbo in enunciatione posito, negatio
illa removet verbum ab aliquo, et sic facit enunciationem negativam: quod non
accidit ex parte nominis. Non enim enunciatio efficitur negativa nisi per hoc
quod negatur compositio, quæ importatur in verbo: et ideo verbum infinitum in
enunciatione positum fit verbum negativum. Secundo, quia in nullo variatur
veritas enunciationis, sive utamur negativa particula ut infinitante verbum vel
ut faciente negativam enunciationem; et ideo accipitur semper in simpliciori
intellectu, prout est magis in promptu. Et inde est quod non diversificavit
affirmationem per hoc, quod sit ex verbo vel infinito verbo, sicut
diversificavit per hoc, quod est ex nomine vel infinito nomine. Est autem considerandum quod in nominibus et in verbis præter differentiam
finiti et infiniti est differentia recti et obliqui. Casus enim nominum, etiam
verbo addito, non constituunt enunciationem significantem verum vel falsum, ut
in primo habitum est: quia in obliquo nomine non concluditur ipse rectus, sed in
casibus verbi includitur ipsum verbum præsentis temporis. Præteritum enim et
futurum, quæ significant casus verbi, dicuntur per respectum ad præsens. Unde
si dicatur, hoc erit, idem est ac si diceretur, hoc est futurum; hoc fuit, hoc
est præteritum. Et propter hoc, ex casu verbi et nomine fit enunciatio. Et ideo
subiungit quod sive dicatur est, sive erit, sive fuit, vel quæcumque alia
huiusmodi verba, sunt de numero prædictorum verborum, sine quibus non potest
fieri enunciatio: quia omnia consignificant tempus, et alia tempora dicuntur
per respectum ad præsens. Deinde cum dicit: quare prima erit affirmatio
etc., concludit ex præmissis distinctionem enunciationum in quibus nomen
finitum vel infinitum ponitur solum ex parte subiecti, in quibus triplex
differentia intelligi potest: una quidem, secundum affirmationem et negationem;
alia, secundum subiectum finitum et infinitum; tertia, secundum subiectum
universaliter, vel non universaliter positum. Nomen autem finitum est ratione
prius infinito sicut affirmatio prior est negatione; unde primam affirmationem
ponit, homo est, et primam negationem, homo non est. Deinde ponit secundam
affirmationem, non homo est, secundam autem negationem, non homo non est.
Ulterius autem ponit illas enunciationes in quibus subiectum universaliter
ponitur, quæ sunt quatuor, sicut et illæ in quibus est subiectum non
universaliter positum. Prætermisit autem ponere exemplum de enunciationibus, in
quibus subiicitur singulare, ut, Socrates est, Socrates non est, quia
singularibus nominibus non additur aliquod signum. Unde in huiusmodi
enunciationibus non potest omnis differentia inveniri. Similiter etiam prætermittit
exemplificare de enunciationibus, quarum subiecta particulariter ponuntur, quia
tale subiectum quodammodo eamdem vim habet cum subiecto universali, non
universaliter sumpto. Non ponit autem aliquam differentiam ex parte verbi, quæ
posset sumi secundum casus verbi, quia sicut ipse dicit, in extrinsecis
temporibus, idest in præterito et in futuro, quæ circumstant præsens, est eadem
ratio sicut et in præsenti, ut iam dictum est. Postquam philosophus distinxit
enunciationes, in quibus nomen finitum vel infinitum ponitur solum ex parte
subiecti, hic accedit ad distinguendum illas enunciationes, in quibus nomen
finitum vel infinitum ponitur ex parte subiecti et ex parte prædicati. Et circa
hoc duo facit; primo, distinguit huiusmodi enunciationes; secundo, manifestat
quædam quæ circa eas dubia esse possent; ibi: quoniam vero contraria est et
cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo, agit de enunciationibus in quibus nomen
prædicatur cum hoc verbo, est; secundo de enunciationibus in quibus alia verba
ponuntur; ibi: in his vero in quibus et cetera. Distinguit autem huiusmodi
enunciationes sicut et primas, secundum triplicem differentiam ex parte
subiecti consideratam: primo namque, agit de enunciationibus in quibus
subiicitur nomen finitum non universaliter sumptum; secundo de illis in quibus
subiicitur nomen finitum universaliter sumptum; ibi: similiter autem se habent
etc.; tertio, de illis in quibus subiicitur nomen infinitum; ibi: aliæ autem
habent ad id quod est non homo et cetera. Circa primum tria facit: primo,
proponit diversitatem oppositionis talium enunciationum; secundo, concludit
earum numerum et ponit earum habitudinem; ibi: quare quatuor etc.; tertio,
exemplificat; ibi: intelligimus vero et cetera. Circa primum duo facit: primo,
proponit quod intendit; secundo, exponit quoddam quod dixerat; ibi: dico autem
et cetera. Circa primum duo oportet intelligere: primo quidem, quid est hoc
quod dicit, est tertium adiacens prædicatur. Ad cuius evidentiam considerandum
est quod hoc verbum est quandoque in enunciatione prædicatur secundum se; ut
cum dicitur, Socrates est: per quod nihil aliud intendimus significare, quam
quod Socrates sit in rerum natura. Quandoque vero non prædicatur per se, quasi
principale prædicatum, sed quasi coniunctum principali prædicato ad
connectendum ipsum subiecto; sicut cum dicitur, Socrates est albus, non est
intentio loquentis ut asserat Socratem esse in rerum natura, sed ut attribuat
ei albedinem mediante hoc verbo, est; et ideo in talibus, est, prædicatur ut
adiacens principali prædicato. Et dicitur esse tertium, non quia sit tertium prædicatum,
sed quia est tertia dictio posita in enunciatione, quæ simul cum nomine prædicato
facit unum prædicatum, ut sic enunciatio dividatur in duas partes et non in
tres. Secundo, considerandum est quid est hoc, quod dicit quod quando
est, eo modo quo dictum est, tertium adiacens prædicatur, dupliciter dicuntur
oppositiones. Circa quod considerandum est quod in præmissis enunciationibus,
in quibus nomen ponebatur solum ex parte subiecti, secundum quodlibet subiectum
erat una oppositio; puta si subiectum erat nomen finitum non universaliter
sumptum, erat sola una oppositio, scilicet est homo, non est homo. Sed quando
est tertium adiacens prædicatur, oportet esse duas oppositiones eodem subiecto
existente secundum differentiam nominis prædicati, quod potest esse finitum vel
infinitum; sicut hæc est una oppositio, homo est iustus, homo non est iustus:
alia vero oppositio est, homo est non iustus, homo non est non iustus. Non enim
negatio fit nisi per appositionem negativæ particulæ ad hoc verbum est, quod
est nota prædicationis. Deinde cum dicit: dico autem, ut est iustus etc.,
exponit quod dixerat, est tertium adiacens, et dicit quod cum dicitur, homo est
iustus, hoc verbum est, adiacet, scilicet prædicato, tamquam tertium nomen vel
verbum in affirmatione. Potest enim ipsum est, dici nomen, prout quælibet
dictio nomen dicitur, et sic est tertium nomen, idest tertia dictio. Sed quia
secundum communem usum loquendi, dictio significans tempus magis dicitur verbum
quam nomen, propter hoc addit, vel verbum, quasi dicat, ad hoc quod sit
tertium, non refert utrum dicatur nomen vel verbum. Deinde cum dicit:
quare quatuor erunt etc., concludit numerum enunciationum. Et primo, ponit
conclusionem numeri; secundo, ponit earum habitudinem; ibi: quarum duæ quidem
etc.; tertio, rationem numeri explicat; ibi: dico autem quoniam est et cetera.
Dicit ergo primo quod quia duæ sunt oppositiones, quando est tertium adiacens
prædicatur, cum omnis oppositio sit inter duas enunciationes, consequens est
quod sint quatuor enunciationes illæ in quibus est, tertium adiacens, prædicatur,
subiecto finito non universaliter sumpto. Deinde cum dicit: quarum duæ quidem
etc., ostendit habitudinem prædictarum enunciationum ad invicem; et dicit quod
duæ dictarum enunciationum se habent ad affirmationem et negationem secundum
consequentiam, sive secundum correlationem, aut analogiam, ut in Græco habetur,
sicut privationes; aliæ vero duæ minime. Quod quia breviter et obscure dictum
est, diversimode a diversis expositum est. Ad cuius evidentiam
considerandum est quod tripliciter nomen potest prædicari in huiusmodi
enunciationibus. Quandoque enim prædicatur nomen finitum, secundum quod
assumuntur duæ enunciationes, una affirmativa et altera negativa, scilicet homo
est iustus, et homo non est iustus; quæ dicuntur simplices. Quandoque vero prædicatur
nomen infinitum, secundum quod etiam assumuntur duæ aliæ, scilicet homo est non
iustus, homo non est non iustus; quæ dicuntur infinitæ. Quandoque vero prædicatur
nomen privativum, secundum quod etiam sumuntur duæ aliæ, scilicet homo est
iniustus, homo non est iniustus; quæ dicuntur privativæ. Quidam ergo sic
exposuerunt, quod duæ enunciationes earum, quas præmiserat scilicet illæ, quæ
sunt de infinito prædicato, se habent ad affirmationem et negationem, quæ sunt
de prædicato finito secundum consequentiam vel analogiam, sicut privationes,
idest sicut illæ, quæ sunt de prædicato privativo. Illæ enim duæ, quæ sunt de
prædicato infinito, se habent secundum consequentiam ad illas, quæ sunt de
finito prædicato secundum transpositionem quandam, scilicet affirmatio ad
negationem et negatio ad affirmationem. Nam homo est non iustus, quæ est
affirmatio de infinito prædicato, respondet secundum consequentiam negativæ de
prædicato finito, huic scilicet homo non est iustus. Negativa vero de infinito
prædicato, scilicet homo non est non iustus, affirmativæ de finito prædicato,
huic scilicet homo est iustus. Propter quod Theophrastus vocabat eas, quæ sunt
de infinito prædicato, transpositas. Et similiter etiam affirmativa de
privativo prædicato respondet secundum consequentiam negativæ de finito prædicato,
scilicet hæc, homo est iniustus, ei quæ est, homo non est iustus. Negativa vero
affirmativæ, scilicet hæc, homo non est iniustus, ei quæ est, homo est iustus.
Disponatur ergo in figura. Et in prima quidem linea ponantur illæ, quæ sunt de
finito prædicato, scilicet homo est iustus, homo non est iustus. In secunda
autem linea, negativa de infinito prædicato sub affirmativa de finito et
affirmativa sub negativa. In tertia vero, negativa de privativo prædicato
similiter sub affirmativa de finito et affirmativa sub negativa: ut patet in
subscripta figura.Sic ergo duæ, scilicet quæ sunt de infinito prædicato, se
habent ad affirmationem et negationem de finito prædicato, sicut privationes,
idest sicut illæ quæ sunt de privativo prædicato. Sed duæ aliæ quæ sunt de
infinito subiecto, scilicet non homo est iustus, non homo non est iustus,
manifestum est quod non habent similem consequentiam. Et hoc modo exposuit
herminus hoc quod dicitur, duæ vero, minime, referens hoc ad illas quæ sunt de
infinito subiecto. Sed hoc manifeste est contra litteram. Nam cum præmisisset
quatuor enunciationes, duas scilicet de finito prædicato et duas de infinito,
subiungit quasi illas subdividens, quarum duæ quidem et cetera. Duæ vero,
minime; ubi datur intelligi quod utræque duæ intelligantur in præmissis. Illæ
autem quæ sunt de infinito subiecto non includuntur in præmissis, sed de his
postea dicetur. Unde manifestum est quod de eis nunc non loquitur. Et
ideo, ut Ammonius dicit, alii aliter exposuerunt, dicentes quod prædictarum
quatuor propositionum duæ, scilicet quæ sunt de infinito prædicato, sic se
habent ad affirmationem et negationem, idest ad ipsam speciem affirmationis et
negationis, ut privationes, idest ut privativæ affirmationes seu negationes. Hæc
enim affirmatio, homo est non iustus, non est simpliciter affirmatio, sed
secundum quid, quasi secundum privationem affirmatio; sicut homo mortuus non
est homo simpliciter, sed secundum privationem; et idem dicendum est de
negativa, quæ est de infinito prædicato. Duæ vero, quæ sunt de finito prædicato,
non se habent ad speciem affirmationis et negationis secundum privationem, sed
simpliciter. Hæc enim, homo est iustus, est simpliciter affirmativa, et hæc,
homo non est iustus, est simpliciter negativa. Sed nec hic sensus convenit
verbis Aristotelis. Dicit enim infra: hæc igitur quemadmodum in resolutoriis
dictum est, sic sunt disposita; ubi nihil invenitur ad hunc sensum pertinens.
Et ideo Ammonius ex his, quæ in fine I priorum dicuntur de propositionibus, quæ
sunt de finito vel infinito vel privativo prædicato, alium sensum
accipit. Ad cuius evidentiam considerandum est quod, sicut ipse dicit,
enunciatio aliqua virtute se habet ad illud, de quo totum id quod in
enunciatione significatur vere prædicari potest: sicut hæc enunciatio, homo est
iustus, se habet ad omnia illa, de quorum quolibet vere potest dici quod est
homo iustus; et similiter hæc enunciatio, homo non est iustus, se habet ad
omnia illa, de quorum quolibet vere dici potest quod non est homo iustus.
Secundum ergo hunc modum loquendi, manifestum est quod simplex negativa in plus
est quam affirmativa infinita, quæ ei correspondet. Nam, quod sit homo non
iustus, vere potest dici de quolibet homine, qui non habet habitum iustitiæ;
sed quod non sit homo iustus, potest dici non solum de homine non habente
habitum iustitiæ, sed etiam de eo qui penitus non est homo: hæc enim est vera,
lignum non est homo iustus; tamen hæc est falsa, lignum est homo non iustus. Et ita negativa simplex est in plus quam affirmativa infinita; sicut etiam
animal est in plus quam homo, quia de pluribus verificatur. Simili etiam
ratione, negativa simplex est in plus quam affirmativa privativa: quia de eo
quod non est homo non potest dici quod sit homo iniustus. Sed affirmativa
infinita est in plus quam affirmativa privativa: potest enim dici de puero et
de quocumque homine nondum habente habitum virtutis aut vitii quod sit homo non
iustus, non tamen de aliquo eorum vere dici potest quod sit homo iniustus. Affirmativa
vero simplex in minus est quam negativa infinita: quia quod non sit homo non
iustus potest dici non solum de homine iusto, sed etiam de eo quod penitus non
est homo. Similiter etiam negativa privativa in plus est quam negativa
infinita. Nam, quod non sit homo iniustus, potest dici non solum de homine
habente habitum iustitiæ, sed de eo quod penitus non est homo, de quorum
quolibet potest dici quod non sit homo non iustus: sed ulterius potest dici de
omnibus hominibus, qui nec habent habitum iustitiæ neque habent habitum
iniustitiæ. His igitur visis, facile est exponere præsentem litteram hoc
modo. Quarum, scilicet quatuor enunciationum prædictarum, duæ quidem, scilicet
infinitæ, se habebunt ad affirmationem et negationem, idest ad duas simplices,
quarum una est affirmativa et altera negativa, secundum consequentiam, idest in
modo consequendi ad eas, ut privationes, idest sicut duæ privativæ: quia
scilicet, sicut ad simplicem affirmativam sequitur negativa infinita, et non
convertitur (eo quod negativa infinita est in plus), ita etiam ad simplicem
affirmativam sequitur negativa privativa, quæ est in plus, et non convertitur.
Sed sicut simplex negativa sequitur ad infinitam affirmativam; quæ est in
minus, et non convertitur; ita etiam negativa simplex sequitur ad privativam
affirmativam, quæ est in minus, et non convertitur. Ex quo patet quod eadem est
habitudo in consequendo infinitarum ad simplices quæ est etiam
privativarum. Sequitur, duæ autem, scilicet simplices, quæ relinquuntur,
remotis duabus, scilicet infinitis, a quatuor præmissis, minime, idest non ita
se habent ad infinitas in consequendo, sicut privativæ se habent ad eas; quia
videlicet, ex una parte simplex affirmativa est in minus quam negativa
infinita, sed negativa privativa est in plus quam negativa infinita: ex alia
vero parte, negativa simplex est in plus quam affirmativa infinita, sed
affirmativa privativa est in minus quam infinita affirmativa. Sic ergo patet quod
simplices non ita se habent ad infinitas in consequendo, sicut privativæ se
habent ad infinitas. Quamvis autem
secundum hoc littera philosophi subtiliter exponatur, tamen videtur esse
aliquantulum expositio extorta. Nam littera philosophi videtur sonare diversas
habitudines non esse attendendas respectu diversorum; sicut in prædicta
expositione primo accipitur similitudo habitudinis ad simplices, et postea
dissimilitudo habitudinis respectu infinitarum. Et ideo simplicior et magis
conveniens litteræ Aristotelis est expositio Porphyrii quam Boethius ponit;
secundum quam expositionem attenditur similitudo et dissimilitudo secundum
consequentiam affirmativarum ad negativas. Unde dicit: quarum, scilicet quatuor
præmissarum, duæ quidem, scilicet affirmativæ, quarum una est simplex et alia
infinita, se habebunt secundum consequentiam ad affirmationem et negationem; ut
scilicet ad unam affirmativam sequatur alterius negativa. Nam ad affirmativam
simplicem sequitur negativa infinita; et ad affirmativam infinitam sequitur
negativa simplex. Duæ vero, scilicet negativæ, minime, idest non ita se habent
ad affirmativas, ut scilicet ex negativis sequantur affirmativæ, sicut ex
affirmativis sequebantur negativæ. Et quantum ad utrumque similiter se habent
privativæ sicut infinitæ. Deinde cum dicit: dico autem quoniam etc.,
manifestat quoddam quod supra dixerat, scilicet quod sint quatuor prædictæ
enunciationes: loquimur enim nunc de enunciationibus, in quibus hoc verbum est
solum prædicatur secundum quod est adiacens alicui nomini finito vel infinito:
puta secundum quod adiacet iusto; ut cum dicitur, homo est iustus, vel secundum
quod adiacet non iusto; ut cum dicitur, homo est non iustus. Et quia in neutra
harum negatio apponitur ad verbum, consequens est quod utraque sit affirmativa.
Omni autem affirmationi opponitur negatio, ut supra in primo ostensum est. Relinquitur ergo quod prædictis duabus enunciationibus affirmativis
respondet duæ aliæ negativæ. Et sic consequens est quod sint quatuor simplices
enunciationes. Deinde cum dicit: intelligimus vero etc., manifestat quod supra
dictum est per quandam figuralem descriptionem. Dicit enim quod id, quod in
supradictis dictum est, intelligi potest ex sequenti subscriptione. Sit enim quædam
quadrata figura, in cuius uno angulo describatur hæc enunciatio, homo est
iustus, et ex opposito describatur eius negatio quæ est, homo non est iustus;
sub quibus scribantur duæ aliæ infinitæ, scilicet homo est non iustus, homo non
est non iustus. In qua descriptione apparet quod hoc verbum est, affirmativum
vel negativum, adiacet iusto et non iusto. Et secundum hoc diversificantur
quatuor enunciationes. Ultimo autem concludit quod prædictæ enunciationes
disponuntur secundum ordinem consequentiæ, prout dictum est in resolutoriis,
idest in I priorum. Alia littera habet: dico autem, quoniam est aut homini aut
non homini adiacebit, et in figura, est, hoc loco homini et non homini
adiacebit. Quod quidem non est intelligendum, ut homo, et non homo accipiatur
ex parte subiecti, non enim nunc agitur de enunciationibus quæ sunt de infinito
subiecto. Unde oportet quod homo et non homo accipiantur ex parte prædicati.
Sed quia philosophus exemplificat de enunciationibus in quibus ex parte prædicati
ponitur iustum et non iustum, visum est Alexandro, quod prædicta littera sit
corrupta. Quibusdam aliis videtur quod possit sustineri et quod signanter
Aristoteles nomina in exemplis variaverit, ut ostenderet quod non differt in
quibuscunque nominibus ponantur exempla. BOEZIO. COMMENTARII in LIBRUM
ARISTOTELIS IIEPI EPMHNEIAS RECENSUIT CAROLUS MEISER. PARS POSTERIOR SECUNDAM
EDITIONEM ET INDICES CONTINENS. CHE T HILLr L,v-LIPSIÆ IN ÆDIBUS B. G.
TEUBNERI. LIPSIÆ: B. G. TETJBNERI. In secundæ editionis textu recensendo lii
libri manu scripti mihi præsto fuerunt: S codex (Salisb. 10) bibliothecæ
Palatinæ Vindobonensis (Endlicheri) qui continet f. 1 8V versionem continue
scriptam libri Aristotelici itEQi EQiirjvecag, quam littera 2J signavi, deinde
f. 9 176v sex libros Boetii commentariorum. F codex Frisingensis Monacensis s.
XI et X: vetustior manus s. X incipit a f. (editionis Basileensis = nostræ
editionis). T codex (Tegernseensis) Monacensis, qui f. 1 56v priorem editionem
expositionis BOEZIO, f. 57v 65v versionem continuam, quam 1. % signavi, f.
66v191 secundam editionem complectitur. E codex (Ratisb. S. Emm. 582)
Monacensis 14582 s. XI. Præter hos quattuor codices, quorum plenam scripturæ
discrepantiam studio legentium proposui, hi quattuor alii libri a mehic aut
illic inspecti et difficilioribus locis excussi sunt: X codex Einsidlensis 301
s. X, in quo non pauca desiderantur: nam desunt, 17 huius editionis conposita
sit possibile non necessarium, postremo desinit in verba de contingenti et de
possi (sic), ut finis quinti et sextus liber totus perierit. J codex
Einsidlensis PRÆFATIO. G codex Sangallensis 830 s. XI. B codex Bernensis, in
quo desunt p. 383, 1 ut in eo et dicit. Hos omnes codices ex uno eodemque fonte
fluxisse inde apparet, quod eædem in omnibus lacunæ, eædem interpolationes,
eadem vitiorum genera deprehenduntur, et de lacunis quidem conferas præterea de
interpolationibus autem iisdem vero cunctos vitiis foedatos esse ut demonstrem,
satis erit unum aut alterum ex plurimis passim obviis proferre exemplum, nam et
p. 361, ubi Peripatetica interrogationis divisio proditur, cum in codicibus
nostris v. 8 sqq. legatur: 'non dialecticæ autem interrogationis duæ sunt
species, sicut audivimus docet 5, manifestum est pro vocabulo corrupto
audivimus 5 Eu de mus restituendum fuisse, 23 quin recte scripserim: ad
tenacioris memoriæ subsidium 5, cum codices inperversa scritione t elatior is
consentiant, quis est qui dubitet? confer præterea locum illum in omnibus
æqualiter libris turbatum. Pro fundamento autem textus constituendi codicem S
habui, omnium longe præstantissimum, qui non raro ceteris fidelius veræ
scripturæ vestigia servaverit, confer e. c. ubi huius codicis lectio a bonum 5
propius ad verum ad unum 5 accedit quam reliquorum ad bonum 5, hoc unum
dolendum est, quod a correctore quodam, quamquam multa emendata sunt, tamen
ipsis locis difficillimis ita rasuris depravatus est, ut quid primitus in eo
scriptum fuerit sæpe dinosci non possit, nec tamen multum interest, cum propter
similitudinem ceterorum codicum fere semper quid S habuerit ex aliis suspicari
liceat. V Codici S plerumque consentit F, nisi quod in hoc librarius interdum
pravo varietatis studio et verba transposuisse et pro solitis rariora vocabula
inculcasse videtur, nam cum hic codex p. 395, 20 pro voce Socratem mire
elimannum posueri, quod aperte falsum est, iure in dubium vocari potest, num
recte aliis locis hunc codicem solum contra ceterorum consensum secutus sim.
quare hos locos notare velim et quid F habeat, quid ceteri adscribam: F
ceterip. , 21 autumant putant itidem similiter infit dicit , 1 potiores
meliores 246, 20 itidem similiter. Ad S et F libros optimos proxime accedit E,
et ipse optimæ notæ idemque pulcherrime et diligentissime scriptus, a secunda
manu et in S (= S2) et in E (= E2), rarius in F (= F2) multa egregie sunt
emendata. N J G et ipsi in optimis numerandi sunt et intima cognation cum S F E
coniuncti, sed vix quidquam novi ex iis elicitur, quod non in ceteris
reperiatur. Minus fidei codici T tribuendum est, quippe qui fere semper cum
secunda manu codicis G (= G2) consentiat, ut quæ in G supra lineam vel in
margine leguntur in T in textum irrepserint, quare nec interpolationibus vacat
et variæ lectiones promiscue iuxta positæ inveniuntur, sunt tamen quæ in hoc
codice melius quam in ceteris servata videantur. Minimæ auctoritatis et omnium
deterrimus est codex B (plerumque = E2), qui pauca emendavit, plurima demendo
addendo mutando turbavit ac miscuit. Ut in prima, sic in secunda editione
lemmata non plenum Aristotelis textum exhibent, sed pauciora in secunda
editione desiderantur, quorum quædam in E Boetii comment. II. a**VI PRÆFATIO. a
secunda manu in margine et in B sunt addita, ceteram B sæpius prima tantum et
postrema Aristotelis verba expositioni BOEZIO præmittit, quæ vocula 'usque5
(vel 'reliqua usque5) iunguntur. De versione BOZIO ana libri Aristoteliei Ttegi
eQ[ir}- vaiccg eiusque a nostro Aristotelis textu discrepantia in Fleckeiseni
annal. vol. CXVII . 247 253 disputavi. Monachii mense Martio a. MDCCCLXXX. Car.
Meiser. Boezio. IH LIBRVM ARISTOTELIS nEPI EPMHNEIAS COMMENTARII. SECVNDA
EDITIO. BOEZIO (vedasi) comment. S = codex (Salisb. n. 10) Vindobonensis n. 80.
( E præmissa translatio). F = codex Frisingensis
Monacensis T = codex (Tegernseensis) Monacensis (X = præmissa translatio). E =
codex (Ratisb. S. Emm. n. 582) Monacensis n. 14582. N = codex Einsidlensis . J
= codex Einsidlensis G = codex Sangallensis. B = codex Bernensis b = editio
Basileensis BOEZIO COMMENTARIORVM IN LIBRVM ARISTOTELIS IIEPI EPMHNEIA2 SECVNDÆ
EDITIONIS LIBER PRIMYS. Alexander in commentariis suis hac se inpulsum causa
pronuntiat sumpsisse longissimum expositionis laborem, quod in multis ille a
priorum scriptorum sententiis dissideret: mihi maior persequendi operis causa
est, quod non facile quisquam vel transferendi vel etiam commentandi continuam
sumpserit seriem, nisi quod Vetius Prætextatus priores BOEZIO VIRI ILLVSTRIS EX
CONSVLV ORDINE (CONS ORD F) IN PERIERMENIAS ARISTOTOLIS (ARESTOTELIS F)
EDITIONIS SECVNDÆ LIBER I INCIPIT. SF A-M-S-B- SECVNDA ÆDITIO IN LIBRVM PERI
HERMENIAS INCIPIT. GT BOEZIO VIRI ILL ÆDITIONIS SCDÆ IN PERIERMENIAS ARIST- LIB
I INCIPIT. J BOEZIO VIRI CLARISSIMI ET ILLVSTRIS EX CONSVLARI ORDINE PATRICII
SCDÆ EDITIONIS EXPO SITIONV IN ARISTOTELIS PERIHERMENIAS INCIPIT LIBER I E
titulum om. NB 1 Alexander longissimum om. N 2 longissimg T 4
dissidet F 6 etiam om. F 1* ed.Bas SECVNDA EDITIO postremosque analyticos non
vertendo Aristotelem LATINO SERMONE tradidit, sed transferendo Themistium, quod
qui utrosque legit facile intellegit. ALBINO quoque de isdem rebus scripsisse
perhibetur, cuius ego geometricos quidem libros editos scio, de DIALECTICA uero
diu multumque quæsitos reperire non valui, sive igitur ille omnino tacuit, nos
prætermissa dicemus, sive aliquid scripsit, nos quoque docti viri imitati
studium in eadem laude versabimur. sed quamquam multa sint Aristotelis, quæ
SUBTILISSIMA PHILOSOPHIÆ arte celata sint, hic tamen ante omnia liber nimis et
acumine sententiarum et verborum brevitate constrictus est. quocirca plus hic
quam in X prædicamentis expositione sudabitur. Prius igitur quid VOX sit
definiendum est. hoc enim perspicuo et manifesto omnis libri patefiet intentio.
VOX est æris per linguam percussio, quæ per quasdam gutturis partes, quæ
arteriæ vocantur, ab animali profertur, sunt enim quidam alii SONI, qui eodem
perficiuntur flatu, quos lingua non percutit, ut est tussis, hæc enim flatu fit
quodam per arterias egrediente, sed nulla linguæ inpressione formatur atque
ideo nec ullis subiacet elementis, scribi enim nullo modo potest, quocirca vox
hæc non dicitur, sed tantum sonus, illa quoque potest esse definitio vocis, ut
eam dicamus SONUM esse cum quadam imaginatione SIGNIFICAND, vox namque cum
emittitur, SIGNIFICATIONIS alicuius causa profertur, tussis vero cum sonus sit,
nullius SIGNIFICATIONIS causa subrepit 3 Qu§ qui T 4 eisdem E 5 ergo T 6 repp.
sic semper codices 7 omnino ille T 12 nimis tacumine T omnis om. F intentio de
voce SG-J et in marg. T definitio vocis E diff vocis F2 19 guturis F alicuius
SIGNIFICATIONIS G2 in marg. tusis F 30 subripit S surripit GT I. 5 potius quam
profertur, quare quoniam noster flatus ita sese habet, ut si ita percutitur
atque formatur, ut eum lingua percutiat, vox sit: si ita percutiat, ut terminato
quodam et circumscripto sono vox exeat, LOCUTIO fit quæ Græce dicitur Xs%ig.
locutio enim est ARTICULATA VOX (neque enim hunc sermonem id est Xe%iv
dictionem dicemus, idcirco quod cpccGiv dictionem interpretamur, Xi%iv vero
locutionem), cuius locutionis partes sunt litteræ, quæ cum iunctæ fuerint, unam
efficiunt vocem coniunctam conpositamque, quæ locutio prædicatur. sive autem
aliquid quæcumque vox SIGNIFICET, ut est hic sermo “homo”, sive omnino nihil,
sive positum alicui nomen SIGNIFICARE possit, ut est “HLITYRI” (hæc enim vox
per se cum nihil SIGNIFICET, posita tamen ut alicui nomen sit SIGNIFICABIT),
sive per se quidem nihil SIGNIFICET, cum aliis vero iuncta designet, ut sunt
coniunctiones: hæc omnia locutiones vocantur, ut sit propria locutionis forma
vox conposita quæ litteris describatur, ut igitur sit locutio, voce opus est id
est eo sono quem percutit lingua, ut et vox ipsa sit per linguam determinata in
eum sonum qui inscribi litteris possit, sed ut hæc locutio SIGNIFICATIVA sit,
illud quoque addi oportet, ut sit aliqua significandi imaginatio, per quam id
quod in voce vel in locutione est proferatur: ut certe ita dicendum sit: si in
hoc flatu, quem per arterias emittimus, sit linguæ sola percussio, vox est; sin
vero talis percussio sit, ut in litteras redigat sonum, locutio; quod si vis
quoque quædam imaginationis adda- 1 quoniam dei. S2 om. F 2
percutitur atque formatur g2p2g2g. percuti atq. formari SFEN, percuti atq.
formari possit T (possit supra lin. GJ) ut cu eu B 3 sit] est STGNJ ( corr. S2)
5 fit] sit S2FE2 lexis codices, item et 8 lexin, 7 phasin 9 literæ in marg. S
quæ coniunctæ S, corr. S2 13 alicuius SF 14 blythyri SG blithyri NT blytbiri
EF? {in fine suprascr. s F) 21 et ut b 22 scribi? 28 fit T tur, illa
SIGNIFICATIVA vox redditur. concurrentibus igitur his tribus: linguæ
percussione, articulato vocis sonitu, imaginatione aliqua proferendi fit
interpretatio, interpretatio namque est vox articulata per se ipsam 5
SIGNIFICANS, quocirca non omnis vox interpretatio est. sunt enim ceterorum
animalium voces, quæ interpretationis vocabulo non tenentur, nec omnis locutio
interpretatio est, idcirco quod (ut dictum est) sunt locutiones quædam, quæ
significatione careant et cum per se quædam non significent, iunctæ tamen cum
aliis significant, ut coniunctiones. interpretatio autem in solis per se
significativis et articulatis vocibus permanet. quare convertitur, ut quidquid
sit interpretatio, illud significet, quidquid significat, interpretationis
vocabulo nuncupetur, unde etiam ipse quoque Aristoteles in libris quos de
poetica scripsit locutionis partes esse syllabas vel etiam coniunctiones
tradidit, quarum syllabæ in eo quod sunt syllabæ nihil omnino significant,
coniunctiones vero consignificare quidem possunt, PER SE VERO NIHIL DESIGNANT,
interpretationis vero partes hoc libro constituit nomen et verbum, quæ scilicet
per se ipsa SIGNIFICANT, nihilo minus quoque orationem, quæ et ipsa cum vox sit
ex significativis partibus iuncta significatione non caret quare quoniam non de
oratione sola, sed etiam de verbo et nomine, nec vero de sola locutione, sed
etiam de SIGNIFICATIVA locutione, quæ est interpretatio, hoc libro ab
Aristotele tractatur, id circo quoniam in 16 Ar. Poet. c. 20. 1 significatiua
b: significatio SG-TE, significatione FS1 2E2? redditur uox T 4 interpretatio
om. SNF, in marg. addunt GE quæ namq; S2F 10 iunctæ F: iuncta ceteri 14 illud
quoq; E arte poetica S2FE 23 post orationem addit partem esse tradidit S2F cum
om. T 28 in hoc S2F ab om. T I. 7 verbis atque nominibus et in significativis
locutionibus nomen interpretationis aptatur, a communi nomine eorum, de quibus
hoc libro tractabitur, id est ab interpretatione, ipse quoque de
interpretatione liber inscriptus est. cuius expositionem nos scilicet quam 5
maxime a Porphyrio quamquam etiam a ceteris transferentes Latina oratione
digessimus, hic enim nobis expositor et intellectus acumine et sententiarum
dispositione videtur excellere, erunt ergo interpretationis duæ primæ partes
nomen et verbum, his enim 10 quidquid est in animi intellectibus designatur;
his namque totus ordo orationis efficitur, et in quantum vox ipsa quidem
intellectus significat, in duas (ut dictum est) secatur partes, nomen et
verbum, in quantum vero vox per intellectuum medietatem subiectas intellectui
res demonstrat, significantium vocum Aristoteles numerum in X prædicamenta
partitus est. atque hoc distat libri huius intentio a prædicamentorum in
denariam multitudinem numerositate p. 291 collecta, ut hic quidem tantum de
numero SIGNIFICANTIUM vocum quæratur, quantum ad ipsas attinet voces, quibus
significativis vocibus intellectus animi designentur, quæ sunt scilicet
simplicia quidem nomina et verba, ex his vero conpositæ orationes:
prædicamentorum vero hæc intentio est: de significativis rerum vocibus in
tantum, quantum eas medius animi SIGNIFICET intellectus, vocis enim quædam
qualitas est nomen et verbum, quæ nimirum ipsa illa decem prædicamenta
significant, decem namque prædicamenta numquam sine aliqua verbi qualitate vel
30 nominis proferentur, quare erit libri huius intentio de significativis
vocibus in tantum, quantum con- 1 in om. E 3 in hoc S2F 9
dispositio S corr. S2 10 partes primæ T 11 intellectus F corr. F1 totius F 18
in hoc T 20 in tantum? 26 uocibus tractare F, uoc. dicere TE, tractare inmarg.
S 31proferuntur S2F 32 signatiuis S corr. S2 8 SECVNDA EDITIO ceptiones animi
intellectus que significent, de decem prædicamentis autem libri intentio in
eius commentario dicta est, quoniam sit de significativis rerum vocibus, quot
partibus distribui possit earum signifi- 5 catio in tantum, quantum per sensuum
atque intellectuum medietatem res subiectas intellectibus voces ipsæ valeant
designare, in opere vero de poetica non eodem modo dividit locutionem, sed
omnes omnino locutionis partes adposuit confirmans esse locu- 10 tionis partes
elementa, syllabas, coniunctiones, articulos, nomina, casus, verba, orationes,
locutio namque non in solis significativis vocibus constat, sed supergrediens
significationes vocum ad articulatos sonos usque consistit, quælibet enim syllaba
vel quodlibet nomen vel quælibet alia vox, quæ scribi litteris potest,
locutionis nomine continetur, quæ Græce dicitur sed non eodem modo
interpretatio. huic namque non est satis, ut sit huiusmodi vox quæ litteris
valeat adnotari, sed ad hoc ut aliquid quoque significet, prædicamentorum vero
in hoc ratio constituta est, in quo hæ duæ partes interpretationis res
intellectibus subiectas designent, nam quoniam decem res omnino in omni natura
reperiuntur, decem quoque intellectus erunt, quos intellectus quoniam verba
nominaque significant, decem omnino erunt prædicamenta, quæ verbis atque
nominibus DESIGNENTUR, duo vero quædam id est nomen et verbum, quæ ipsos
significent intellectus, sunt igitur elementa interpretationis verba et nomina,
propriæ vero partes 30 quibus ipsa constat interpretatio sunt orationes,
orationum vero aliæ sunt perfectæ, aliæ inperfectæ. 7 Ar. Poet. c. . 3
pro quoniam: cum F 4 quod F 7 arte poetica FE2, arte in marg. S 17 lexis FTE 31
aliæ uero inp. TE, aliæ inperf. om. S in marg. addit S2 I. 9 perfectæ sunt ex
quibus plene id quod dicitur valet intellegi, inperfectæ in quibus aliquid
adhuc plenius animus exspectat audire, ut est Socrates cum Platone. nullo enim
addito orationis intellectus pendet ac titubat et auditor aliquid ultra exspectat
audire, perfectarum vero orationum partes quinque sunt: deprecativa ut Iuppiter
omnipotens, precibus si flecteris ullis, Da deinde auxilium, pater, atque hæc
omina firma, imperativa ut Yade age, nate, voca Zephyros et labere pennis,
interrogativa ut Dic mihi, Damoeta, cuium pecus? an Meliboei? vocativa 0 pater,
o hominum rerumque æterna potestas, enuntiativa, in qua veritas vel falsitas
invenitur, ut Principio arboribus varia est natura serendis, huius autem duæ
partes sunt, est namque et simplex oratio enuntiativa et conposita. simplex ut
dies est, lucet, conposita ut si dies est, lux est. in hoc igitur libro LIZIO
de enuntiativa simplici oratione disputat et de eius elementis, nomine scilicet
atque verbo, quæ quoniam et significativa sunt et significativa vox articulata
interpretationis nomine continetur, de communi (ut dictum est) vocabulo librum
de interpretatione appellavit, et Theophrastus quidem in eo libro, quem de
adfirmatione et negatione conposuit, de enuntiativa oratione tractavit, et Stoici
quoque in his libris, quos ttsqI a^tco^uzcov appellant, de isdem 7 Yerg. Æn. II
689. 691 9 Yerg. Æn. IY 223 11 Yerg. Ecl. III 1 12 Yerg. Æn. X 18 14 Yerg.
Georg. II 9 9 omnia TE 10 pinnis S^1 11 damgta T 12 melibei T ut b :'om.
codices, alterum o om. SFE1 15 creandis Vergilii codices 16 et om. E est et conp. S2FE2 lux est F2E2 21 uox et art. S2FE2 27 peri axiomaton
codices 5 10 15 20 25 nihilominus disputant, sed illi quidem et de simplici et
de non simplici oratione enuntiativa speculantur, Aristoteles vero hoc libro
nihil nisi de sola simplici enuntiativa oratione considerat. Aspasius quoque et
5 Alexander sicut in aliis Aristotelis libris in hoc quoque commentarios
ediderunt, sed uterque Aristotelem de oratione tractasse pronuntiat, nam si
oratione aliquid proferre ut aiunt ipsi interpretari est, de interpretatione
liber nimirum veluti de oratione per scriptus est, quasi vero sola oratio ac
non verba quoque et nomina interpretationis vocabulo concludantur. æque namque
et oratio et verba ac nomina, quæ sunt interpretationis elementa, nomine
interpretationis vocantur, sed Alexander addidit inperfecte sese habere libri
titulum: neque enim designare, de qua oratione perscripserit, multæ namque ut
dictum est sunt orationes; sed adiciendum vel subintellegendum putat de
oratione illum scribere philosophica vel dialectica id est, qua verum falsumque
valeat expediri sed qui semel solam orationem interpretationis nomine vocari
recipit, in intellectu quoque ipsius inscriptionis erravit, cur enim putaret
inperfectum esse titulum, quoniam nihil de qua oratione disputaret adiecerit?
ut si quis interrogans quid est homo? alio respondente animal culpet ac dicat
inperfecte illum dixisse, quid sit, quoniam non sit omnes differentias
persecutus, quod si huic, id est homini, sunt quædam alia communia ad nomen
animalis, nihil tamen inpedit perfecte demonstrasse, quid homo esset, eum qui
animal dixit: sive enim differentias addat quis sive non, hominem animal esse
necesse est. eodem quoque modo et de oratione, si quis hoc concedat primum,
nihil aliud interpretationem dici nisi orationem, 5 alios libros in hunc? 21
recepit? 21.22 scriptionis S^1 23. 24 adiecit T 26 non o. diff. sit E 30 addit
T interpretatione F I. 11 cur qui de interpretatione inscripserit et de qua
interpretatione dicat non addiderit culpetur, non est. satis est enim libri
titulum etiam de aliqua continenti communione fecisse, ut nos eum et de
nominibus et verbis et de orationibus, cum bæc omnia uno interpretationis
nomine continerentur, supra fecisse docuimus, cum bic liber ab eo de
interpretatione notatus est. sed quod addidit illam interpretationem solam
dici, qua in oratione possit veritas et falsitas inveniri, ut est enuntiativa
oratio, fingentis est ut ait Porphyrius significationem nominis potius quam docentis,
atque ille quidem et in intentione libri et in titulo falsus est, sed non eodem
modo de iudicio quoque libri buius erravit. Andronicus enim librum bunc
Aristotelis esse non puta,quem Alexander vere fortiterque redarguit, quem cum
exactum diligentemque Aristotelis librorum et iudicem et repertorem iudicarit
antiquitas, cur in huius libri iudicio sit falsus, prorsus est magna
admiratione dignissimum, non esse namque proprium Aristotelis bine conatur
ostendere, quoniam quædam Aristoteles in principio libri huius de intellectibus
animi tractat, quos intellectus animæ passiones vocavit, et de bis se plenius
in libris de anima disputasse commemorat, et quoniam passiones animæ vocabant
vel tristitiam vel gaudium vel cupiditatem vel alias huiusmodi adfectiones,
dicit Andronicus ex boc probari hunc librum Aristotelis non esse, quod de
huiusmodi adfectionibus nihil in libris de anima tractavisset, non intellegens
in hoc libro Aristotelem passiones animæ non pro adfectibus, sed pro
intellectibus posuisse, his Alexander multa alia addit argumenta, cur hoc opus
Aristotelis maxime esse videatur, ea namque dicuntur hic, quæ sententiis
Aristotelis quæ sunt de enuntia- [5. 6 continentur F 6
cum om. F1 hæc S, corr. S2 10. 11 potius sign. nom. S2F et animæ T in supra lin. T vocabat b prius pro om. S1 Hic E1 5 12
SECVNDA EDITIO] tione consentiant; illud quoque, quod stilus ipse propter
brevitatem pressior ab Aristotelis obscuritate non discrepat; et quod
Theophrastus, ut in aliis solet, cum de similibus rebus tractat, quæ scilicet
ab Aristotele ante tractata sunt, in libro quoque de adfirmatione et negatione,
isdem aliquibus verbis utitur, quibus hoc libro Aristoteles usus est. idem
quoque Theophrastus dat signum hunc esse Aristotelis librum: in omnibus enim,
de quibus ipse disputat post magistrum, leviter ea tangit quæ ab Aristotele
dicta ante cognovit, alias vero diligentius res non ab Aristotele tractatas
exsequitur, hic quoque idem fecit, nam quæ Aristoteles hoc libro de
enuntiatione tractavit, leviter ab illo transcursa sunt, quæ vero magister eius
tacuit, ipse subtiliore modo considerationis adiecit. addit quoque hanc causam,
quoniam Aristoteles quidem de syllogismis scribere animatus num- quam id recte
facere potuisset, nisi quædam de propositionibus adnotaret. mihi quoque videtur
hoc subtiliter perpendentibus liquere hunc librum ad analyticos esse
præparatum, nam sicut hic de simplici propositione disputat, ita quoque in
analyticis de simplicibus tantum considerat syllogismis, ut ipsa syllogismorum
propositionumque simplicitas non ad aliud nisi ad continens opus Aristotelis
pertinere videatur, quare non est audiendus Andronicus, qui propter passionum
nomen hunc librum ab Aristotelis operibus separat. Aristoteles autem idcirco
passiones animæ intellectus vocabat, quod intellectus, quos sermone dicere et
oratione proferre consuevimus, ex aliqua causa atque utilitate profecti sunt:
ut enim dispersi homines colligerentur et legibus vellent esse subiecti
civitatesque condere, utilitas quædam fuit et causa, quocirca 3 et b: uel codices
15 subtilior S1 16 addidit E 17 pro scribere: est T 19 hoc uidetur F 22 in om.
F1 29 uocauit E I c, 1. 13 quæ ex aliqua utilitate veniunt, ex passione quoque
provenire necesse est. nam ut divina sine ulla sunt passione, ita nulla illis
extrinsecus utilitas valet adiungi: quæ vero sunt passibilia semper aliquam
causam atque utilitatem quibus sustententur inveniunt quocirca huiusmodi
intellectus, qui ad alterum oratione proferendi sunt, quoniam ex aliqua causa
atque utilitate videntur esse collecti, recte passiones animi nominati sunt, et
de intentione quidem et de libri inscriptione et de eo, quod hic maxime
Aristotelis liber esse putandus est, hæc dicta sufficiunt, quid vero utilitatis
habeat, non ignorabit qui sciet qua in oratione veritas constet et falsitas. in
sola enim hæc enuntiativa oratione consistunt, iam vero quæ dividant verum
falsumque quæve definite vel quæ varie et mutabiliter veritatem falsitatemque
partiantur, quæ iuncta dici possint, cum separata valeant prædicari, quæ
separata dicantur, cum iuncta sint prædicata, quæ sint negationes cum modo
propositionum, quæ earum consequentiæ aliaque plura in ipso opere considerator
poterit diligenter agnoscere, quorum magnam experietur utilitatem qui animum
curæ alicuius investigationis adverterit, sed nunc ad ipsius Aristotelis verba
veniamus. Primum oportet constituer, quid nomen et quid verbum, postea quid est
negatio et adfirmatio et enuntiatio et oratio. Librum incohans de quibus in
omni serie tractaturus sit ante proposuit, ait enim prius oportere de 2 sunt
om. F1 5 inuenient E 8 animæ? 11 sufficiant b 16 patiantur T 16. 17 quæ iuncta
om. F, in marg. quæ iunctim F2? 17.18 iuncta cum om. S1 20.21 consideratior
SF*T 21 quorum ego: quarum codices 22 curæ ego: cura codices 23 ipsius om. F 25
quid Ar. xL: quid sit codices 26 sit uerbum codices præter 2/E2 est om. 2%
{eras, in S) quibus disputaturus est definire, hic enim constituere definire
intellegendum est. determinandum namque est quid hæc omnia sint id est quid
nomen sit, quid verbum et cetera, quæ elementa interpretationis esse
prædiximus, sed adfirmatio atque negatio sub interpretatione sunt, quare nomen
et verbum adfirmatio- nis et negationis elementa esse manifestum est. his enim
conpositis adfirmatio et negatio coniunguntur. exsistit hic quædam quæstio, cur
duo tantum nomen et verbum se determinare promittat, cum plures partes
orationis esse videantur, quibus hoc dicendum est tantum Aristotelem hoc libro
definisse, quantum illi ad id quod instituerat tractare suffecit, tractat
namque de simplici enuntiativa oratione, quæ scilicet huiusmodi est, ut iunctis
tantum verbis et nominibus conponatur. si quis enim nomen iungat et verbum, ut
dicat Socrates ambulat, simplicem fecit enuntiativam orationem, enuntiativa
namque oratio est ut supra memoravi quæ habet in se falsi verique
designationem, sed in hoc quod dicimus Socrates ambulat aut veritas necesse est
contineatur aut fal- sitas. hoc enim si ambulante Socrate dicitur, verum est,
si non ambulante, falsum, perficitur ergo enuntiativa oratio simplex ex solis
verbis atque nominibus quare superfluum est quærere, cur alias quoque quæ
videntur orationis partes non proposuerit, qui non totius simpliciter
orationis, sed tantum simplicis enuntiationis instituit elementa partiri,
quamquam duæ propriæ partes orationis esse dicendæ sint, nomen 30 scilicet
atque verbum, hæc enim per sese utraque significant, coniunctiones autem vel
præpositiones nihil omnino nisi cum aliis iunctæ designant; participia verbo
cognata sunt, vel quod a gerundivo modo 2 definire om. S1 17 et T 22. 23 est
verum F 25 quæ om. S1 26 proposuit T 33 uerbis E2? vero verbo editio princeps
conata T gerundi FXE (gerunti? F) I c. 1. 15 veniant vel quod tempus propria
significatione contineant; interiectiones vero atque pronomina nec non adverbia
in nominis loco ponenda sunt, idcirco quod aliquid significant definitum, ubi
nulla est vel passionis significatio vel actionis, quod si casibus horum quædam
flecti non possunt, nihil inpedit. sunt enim quædam nomina quæ monoptota
nominantur, quod si quis ista longius et non proxime petita esse arbitretur,
illud tamen concedit, quod supra iam diximus, non esse æquum calumniari ei, qui
non de omni oratione, sed de tantum simplici enuntiatione proponat, quod tantum
sibi ad definitionem sumpserit, quantum arbitratus sit operi instituto
sufficere, quare dicendum est Aristotelem non omnis orationis partes hoc opere
velle definire, sed tantum solius simplicis enuntiativæ orationis, quæ sunt
scilicet nomen et verbum, argumentum autem huius rei hoc est. postquam enim
proposuit dicens: primum oportet constituere, quid sit nomen et quid verbum,
non statim inquit, quid sit oratio, sed mox addidit et quid sit negatio, quid
adfirmatio, quid enuntiatio, postremo vero quid oratio, quod si de omni
oratione loqueretur, post nomen et verbum non de adfirmatione et negatione et
post hanc de enuntiatione, sed mox de oratione dixisset, nunc vero quoniam post
nominis et verbi propositionem adfirmationem, negationem et enuntiationem et
post orationem proposuit, confitendum est, id quod ante diximus, non orationis
universalis, sed simplicis enuntiativæ orationis, quæ dividitur in
adfirmationem atque negationem, divisionem partium facere voluisse, quæ sunt
nomina et verba, hæc enim per se ipsa intellectum simplicem servant, 1. 2 continent
F 7 monopta S concedat b 10 calumpniari E eum? tantum de E2 enuntiatione om. S1
12 sumpserat F 14 omnes SFT 20 et om. F 26 et negationem et F 31 uerba et
nomina F „ quæ eadem dictiones vocantur, sed non sola dicuntur, sunt namque
dictiones et aliæ quoque: orationes vel inperfectæ vel perfectæ, cuius plures
esse partes supra iam docui, inter quas perfectæ orationis species est
enuntiatio, et hæc quoque alia simplex, alia con- posita est. de simplicis vero
enuntiationis speciebus inter philosophos commentatoresque certatur, aiunt enim
quidam adfirmationem atque negationem enuntiationi ut species supponi oportere,
in quibus et Porphyrius est: quidam vero nulla ratione consentiunt, sed
contendunt adfirmationem et negationem æquivoca esse et uno quidem enuntiationis
vocabulo nuncupari, prædicari autem enuntiationem ad utrasque ut nomen
æquivocum ÆQVIVOCVM GRICE, non ut genus univocum; quorum princeps Alexander
est. quorum contentiones adponere non videtur inutile, ac prius quibus modis
adfirmationem atque negationem non esse species enuntiationis Alexander putet
dicendum est, post vero addam qua Porphyrius hæc argumentatione dissolverit.
Alexander namque idcirco dicit non esse species enuntiationis adfirmationem et
negationem, quoniam adfirmatio prior sit. priorem vero adfirmationem idcirco
conatur ostendere, quod omnis negatio adfirmationem tollat ac destruat, quod si
ita 25 est, prior est adfirmatio quæ subruatur quam negatio quæ subruat, in
quibus autem prius aliquid et posterius est, illa sub eodem genere poni non
possunt, ut in eo titulo prædicamentorum dictum est qui de his quæ sunt simul
inscribitur. amplius: negatio omnis, inquit, divisio est, adfirmatio conpositio
atque coniunctio. cum enim dico Socrates vivit, vitam cum Socrate coniunxi; cum
dico Socrates non vivit, vitam a Socrate disiunxi. divisio igitur quædam
negatio est, coniunctio adfirmatio. conpositi autem est con- 1 eædem SF sola
ego: solæ codices 2 quoq; ut b . est species F 5 alias alias E2 12 unum S1T 22
fit T I c. 1. iunctique divisio, prior est igitur coniunctio, quod est
adfirmatio; posterior vero divisio, quod est negatio, illud quoque adicit, quod
omnis per adfirmationem facta enuntiatio simplicior sit per negationem facta
enuntiatione, ex negatione enim particula negativa 5 si sublata sit, adfirmatio
sola relinquitur, de eo enim quod est Socrates non vivit si non particula quæ
est adverbium auferatur, remanet Socrates vivit. simplicior igitur adfirmatio
est quam negatio, prius vero sit necesse est quod simplicius est. in quantitate
etiam quod ad quantitatem minus est prius est eo quod ad quantitatem plus est.
omnis vero oratio quantitas est. sed cum dico Socrates ambulat, minor oratio
est quam cum dico Socrates non ambulat, quare si secundum quantitatem
adfirmatio minor est, eam priorem quoque esse necesse est. illud quoque
adiunxit adfirmationem quendam esse habitum, negationem vero privationem, sed
prior habitus privatione: adfirmatio igitur negatione prior est. et ne singula
persequi laborem, cum aliis quoque modis demonstraret adfirmationem negatione
esse priorem, a communi eas genere separavit, nullas enim species arbitratur
sub eodem genere esse posse, in quibus prius vel posterius consideretur, sed
Porphyrius ait sese docuisse species enuntiationis esse adfirmationem et
negationem in his commentariis quos in Theophrastum edidit; hic vero Alexandri
argumentationem tali ratione dissolvit, ait enim non oportere arbitrari,
quæcumque quolibet modo priora essent aliis, ea sub eodem genere poni non
posse, sed quæ- cumque secundum esse suum atque substantiam priora vel
posteriora sunt, ea sola sub eodem genere non ponuntur, et recte dicitur, si
enim omne quidquid si om. S^E1 16 quoq. priorem F esse om. SF separaret SF,
separabat S2F2, separat T nullus SF1 aliquid prius GrTE consideratur F 26 iis
F2 Boetii comxnent. prius est cum eo quod posterius est sub uno genere esse non
potest, nec primis substantiis et secundis commune genus poterit esse
substantia; quod qui dicit a recto ordine rationis exorbitat, sed quemadmodum
quamquam sint primæ et secundæ substantiæ, tamen utraque æqualiter in subiecto
non sunt et idcirco esse ipsorum ex eo pendet, quod in subiecto non sunt, atque
ideo sub uno substantiæ genere conlocantur: ita quoque quamquam adfirmationes
negationibus in orationis prolatione priores sint, tamen ad esse atque ad
naturam propriam æqualiter enuntiatione participant, enuntiatio vero est in qua
veritas et falsitas inveniri potest, qua in re et adfirmatio et negatio æquales
sunt, æqualiter enim et adfirmatio et negatio veritate et falsitate
participant, quocirca quoniam ad id quod sunt adfirmatio et negatio æqualiter
ab enuntiatione participant, a communi eas enuntiationis genere dividi non
oportet, mihi quoque videtur quod Porphyrii sit sequenda sententia, ut
adfirmatio et negatio communi enuntiationis generi supponantur, longa namque
illa et multiplicia Alexandri argumenta soluta sunt, cum demonstravit non modis
omnibus ea quæ priora sunt sub communi genere poni non posse, sed quæ ad esse
proprium atque substantiam priora sunt illa sola sub communi genere constitui
atque poni non posse. Syrianus vero, cui Philoxenus cognomen est, hoc loco
quærit, cur proponens prius de negatione, post de adfirmatione pronuntiaverit
dicens: primum oportet constituere, quid nomen et quid verbum, postea quid est
negatio et adfirmatio. et primum quidem nihil proprium dixit, quoniam in quibus
et ad- 1 posterius] prius S^E1 6 utræque b 8 sint E 13 et post re om. F 16 ad
ego addidi: om. codices pro a: et SF supponatur SF multiplica F ^ quid sit n.
codices 31 est om. F primum S: primo S2 et ceteri I c. 1. firmatio potest et
negatio provenire, prius esse negatio, postea vero adfirmatio potest, ut de
Socrate sanus est. potest ei aptari talis adfirmatio, ut de eo dicatur Socrates
sanus est; etiam huiusmodi potest aptari negatio, ut de eo dicatur Socrates
sanus non est. quoniam ergo in eum adfirmatio et negatio poterit evenire, prius
evenit ut sit negatio quam ut adfirmatio. ante enim quam natus esset: qui enim
natus non erat, nec esse poterat sanus, liuic illud adiecit: servare LIZIO
conversam propositionis et exsecutionis distributionem. hic enim prius post
nomen et verbum de negatione proposuit, post de adfirmatione, dehinc de
enuntiatione, postremo vero de oratione, sed proposita definiens prius
orationem, post enuntiationem, tertio adfirmationem, ultimo vero loco
negationem determinavit, quam hic post propositionem verbi et nominis primam
locaverat, ut igitur ordo servaretur conversus, idcirco negationem prius ait
esse propositam, qua in expositione Alexandri quoque sententia non discedit,
illud quoque est additum, quod non esset inutile, enuntiationem genus
adfirmationis et negationis accipi oportere, quod quamquam (ut dictum est) ad
prolationem prior esset adfirmatio, tamen ad ipsam enuntiationem id est veri
falsique vim utrasque æqualiter sub enuntiatione ab Aristotele constitui, id
etiam Aristotelem probare, præmisit enim primam negationem, secundam posuit
adfirmationem, quæ res nihil habet vitii, si ad ipsam enuntiationem adfirmatio
et negatio ponantur æquales, quæ enim natura æquales sunt, nihil retinent
contrarii indifferenter acceptæ, est igitur ordo quo proposuit: primum totius
orationis est. potest T 2 non est F; non supra lin. SE; sanus est delet S2 de
eo om. T1 6 eo? 8 post esset addit potuit dici sanus non est T, in marg. G2
enim om. F, eras, in E et hinc E primum F ergo T est F (in rasura) probare
dicit FTE2S2(m»Mf^.) probare dr Misit G (suprascr. dicit Premisit G2) enim om.
E1 quod F, quoq. T elementum, nomen scilicet et verbum, post hæc negationem et
adfirmationem, quæ species enuntiationis sunt, quorum genus id est
enuntiationem tertiam nominavit, quartam vero orationem posuit, quæ ipsius
enuntiationis genus est. et horum se omnium definitiones daturum esse promisit,
quas interim relinquens atque præteriens et in posteriorem tractatum differens
illud nunc addit quæ sint verba et nomina aut quid ipsa significent, quare
antequam ad verba Aristotelis ipsa veniamus, pauca communiter de nominibus
atque verbis et de his quæ significantur a verbis ac nominibus disputemus, sive
enim quælibet interrogatio sit atque responsio, sive perpetua cuiuslibet
orationis continuatio atque alterius auditus et intellegentia, sive hic quidem
doceat ille vero discat, tribus his totus orandi ordo perficitur: rebus,
intellectibus, vocibus, res enim ab intellectu concipitur, vox vero
conceptiones animi intellectusque significat, ipsi vero intellectus et
concipiunt subiectas res et significantur a vocibus, cum igitur tria sint hæc
per quæ omnis oratio conlocutioque perficitur, res quæ sub- iectæ sunt,
intellectus qui res concipiant et rursus a vocibus significentur, voces vero
quæ intellectus designent, quartum quoque quiddam est, quo voces ipsæ valeant
designari, id autem sunt litteræ, scriptæ namque litteræ ipsas significant
voces, quare quattuor ista sunt, ut litteræ quidem significent voces, voces
vero intellectus, intellectus autem concipiant res, quæ scilicet habent quandam
non confusam neque fortuitam consequentiam, sed terminata naturæ suæ
ordinatione constant, res enim semper comitantur eum qui ab ipsis concipitur
intellectum, ipsum vero intellectum vox sequitur, sed voces elementa id est
quarum? res vocibus om. F, in marg. add. F1? significent SF suæ naturæ E
constat SE comitatur F2 eum dei. F2 intellectus F I c. 1. litteræ, rebus enim
ante propositis et in propria substantia constitutis intellectus oriuntur,
rerum enim semper intellectus sunt, quibus iterum constitutis mox significatio
vocis exoritur, præter intellectum namque vox penitus nihil designat, sed
quoniam voces sunt, idcirco litteræ, quas vocamus elementa, repertæ sunt,
quibus vocum qualitas designetur, ad cognitionem vero conversim sese res habet,
namque apud quos eædem sunt litteræ et qui eisdem elementis utuntur, eisdem
quoque nominibus eos ac verbis id est vocibus uti necesse est et qui vocibus
eisdem utuntur, idem quoque apud eos intellectus in animi conceptione
versantur, sed apud quos idem intellectus sunt, easdem res eorum intellectibus
subiectas esse manifestum est. sed hoc nulla ratione convertitur, namque apud quos
eædem res sunt idemque intellectus, non statim eædem voces eædemque sunt
litteræ. nam cum ROMANUS, Græcus ac barbarus simul videant equum, habent quoque
de eo eundem intellectum quod equus sit et apud eos eadem res subiecta est,
idem a re ipsa concipitur intellectus, sed Græcus aliter equum vocat, alia
quoque vox in equi significatione ROMANA est et barbarus ab utroque in equi
designatione dissentit, quocirca diversis quoque voces proprias elementis
inscribunt, recte igitur dictum est apud quos eædem res idemque intellectus
sunt, non statim apud eos vel easdem voces vel eadem elementa consistere,
præcedit autem res intellectum, intellectus vero vocem, vox litteras, sed hoc
converti non potest, neque enim si litteræ sint, mox aliqua ex his significatio
vocis exsistit, hominibus namque qui litteras ignorant nullum nomen quælibet
elementa significant, quippe quæ nesciunt, nec si voces 1 positis F habent T
sit om. F1 designi- ficatione S1 intellectum res F 31 consistit E sint, mox
intellectus esse necesse est. plures enim voces invenies quæ nihil omnino
significent, nec intellectui quoque subiecta res semper est. sunt enim
intellectus sine re ulla subiecta, ut quos centauros vel chimæras poetæ
finxerunt, horum enim sunt intellectus quibus subiecta nulla substantia est.
sed si quis ad naturam redeat eamque consideret diligenter, agnoscet cum res
est, eius quoque esse intellectum: quod si non apud homines, certe apud eum,
qui propriæ divinitate substantiæ in propria natura ipsius rei nihil ignorat,
et si est intellectus, et vox est; quod si vox fuerit, eius quoque sunt
litteræ, quæ si Ignorantur, nihil ad ipsam vocis naturam, neque enim, quasi
causa quædam vocum est intellectus aut vox causa litterarum, ut cum eædem sint
apud aliquos litteræ, necesse sit eadem quoque esse nomina: ita quoque cum
eædem sint vel res vel intellectus apud aliquos, mox necesse est intellectuum
ipsorum vel rerum eadem esse vocabula, nam cum eadem sit et res et intellectus
hominis, apud diversos tamen homines huiusmodi substantia aliter et diverso
nomine nuncupatur, quare voces quoque cum eædem sint, possunt litteræ esse
diversæ, ut in hoc nomine quod est homo: cum unum sit nomen, diversis litteris
scribi potest, namque Latinis litteris scribi potest, potest etiam Græcis,
potest aliis nunc primum inventis litterarum figuris, quare quoniam apud quos
eædem res sunt, eosdem intellectus esse necesse est, apud quos idem intellectus
sunt, voces eædem non sunt et apud quos eædem voces sunt, non necesse
significant F 3 est semper E omnes T2 Denm b 10 snbst. div. E 13 nataram
pertinet F2 14 quædam causa F ut enim cum S2F pro litteræ: uoces E2 easdem E2
pro nomina: literas E2 18 mox non S2FE2 25 namque potest in marg. F res om. F1
non eædem (non supra lin .) F prius sunt om. F I c. 1. est eadem elementa
constitui; dicendum est res et intellectus, quoniam apud omnes idem sunt, esse
NATURALITER constitutos, voces vero atque litteras, quoniam diversis hominum
positionibus permutantur, NON ESSE NATURALITER, SED POSITIONE, concludendum est
igitur, quoniam apud quos eadem sunt elementa, apud eos eædem quoque voces sunt
et apud quos eædem voces sunt, idem sunt intellectus; apud quos autem idem sunt
intellectus, apud eosdem res quoque eædem subiectæ sunt: rursus apud quos eædem
res sunt, idem quoque sunt intellectus; apud quos idem intellectus, non eædem
voces; nec apud quos eædem voces sunt, eisdem semper litteris verba ipsa vel
nomina designantur, sed nos in supra dictis sententiis elemento atque littera
promiscue usi sumus, quæ autem sit horum distantia paucis absolvam, littera est
inscriptio atque figura partis minimæ vocis articulatæ, elementum vero sonus
ipsius inscriptionis: ut cum scribo litteram quæ est a, formula ipsa quæ
atramento vel graphio scribitur littera nominatur, ipse vero sonus quo ipsam
litteram voce proferimus dicitur elementum, quocirca hoc cognito illud dicendum
est, quod is qui docet vel qui continua oratione loquitur vel qui interrogat,
contrarie se habet his qui vel discunt vel audiunt vel respondent in his
tribus, voce scilicet, intellectu et re (prætermittantur enim litteræ propter
eos qui earum sunt expertes), nam qui docet et qui dicit et qui interrogat a
rebus ad intellectum profecti per nomina et verba vim propriæ actionis exercent
atque officium (rebus enim subiectis ab his capiunt intellectus et per nomina
verbaque 0 14 designentur T doctis S1 . min. p. art. voc. E littera T pro a: id T 20 grafio STE 24. 25 vel qui F1 29 profecti ego :
profecto SFE, profectu T, profectus S2F2E2 exercent ego: exercet codices atque
in marg. S pronuntiant), qui vero discit vel qui audit vel etiam qui respondet
a nominibus ad intellectus progressi ad res usque perveniunt, accipiens enim is
qui discit vel qui audit vel qui respondet docentis vel dicentis vel
interrogantis sermonem, quid unusquisque illorum dicat intellegit et
intellegens rerum quoque scientiam capit et in ea consistit, recte igitur
dictum est in voce, intellectu atque re contrarie sese habere eos qui docent,
dicunt, interrogant atque eos qui discunt, audiunt et respondent, cum igitur
hæc sint quattuor, litteræ, voces, intellectus, res, proxime quidem et
principaliter litteræ verba nominaque significant, hæc vero principaliter
quidem intellectus, secundo vero loco res quoque designant, intellectus vero
ipsi nihil aliud nisi rerum significativi sunt, antiquiores vero quorum est
Plato, Aristoteles, Speusippus, Xenocrates hi inter res et significationes
intellectuum medios sensus ponunt in sensibilibus rebus vel imaginationes
quasdam, in quibus intellectus ipsius origo consistat, et nunc quidem quid de
hac re Stoici dicant prætermittendum est. hoc autem ex his omnibus solum
cognosci oportet, quod ea quæ sunt in litteris eam significent orationem quæ in
voce consistit et ea quæ est vocis oratio quod animi atque intellectus
orationem designet, quæ tacita cogitatione conficitur, et quod hæc intellectus
oratio subiectas principaliter res sibi concipiat ac designet, ex quibus
quattuor duas quidem Aristoteles esse NATURALITER dicit, res et animi
conceptiones, id est eam quæ fit in intellectibus orationem, idcirco quod apud
omnes eædem atque inmutabiles sint; 6 et om. S1 uerba et nomina S2F, nomina et
uerba (in ras .) E hæc designant in marg. E significationes F 16 //usippus S,
siue usippus S2FT nunc om. SFT dicunt SF et quod S2FE2 est om. S1 uocis est F 24
quod dei. S2, om. FE 29 intellectus S1 I c. 1. duas vero NON NATURALITER, SED
POSITIONE constitui, quæ sunt scilicet verba nomina et litteræ, quas idcirco
NATURALITER fixas esse non dicit, quod ut supra demonstratum est non eisdem
vocibus omnes aut isdem utantur elementis, atque hoc est quod ait: Sunt ergo ea
quæ sunt in voce earum quæ sunt in anima passionum notæ et ea quæ scribuntur
eorum quæ sunt in voce, et quemadmodum nec litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces
eædem, quorum autem hæc primorum notæ, eædem omnibus passiones animæ et quorum
hæ similitudines, res etiam eædem, de his quidem dictum est in his quæ sunt
dicta de anima, alterius est enim negotii. Cum igitur prius posuisset nomen et
verbum et quæcumque secutus est postea se definire promisisset, hæc interim
prætermittens de passionibus animæ deque earum notis, quæ sunt scilicet voces,
pauca præmittit, sed cur hoc ita interposuerit, plurimi commentatores causas
reddere neglexerunt, sed a tribus quantum adhuc sciam ratio huius
interpositionis explicita est. quorum Hermini quidem a rerum veritate longe
disiuncta est. ait enim idcirco Aristotelen de notis animæ passionum
interposuisse sermonem, ut utilitatem propositi operis inculcaret, disputaturus
enim de vocibus, quæ sunt notæ animæ passionum, recte de his quædam ante
præmisit, nam cum suæ nullus animæ passiones ignoret, notas quoque cum animæ
passionibus non nescire utilissimum est. neque enim illæ cognosci possunt nisi
per voces quæ sunt 1 non om. S1 4.5 eisdem FE noces eædem F Ar.: eædem uoces
ceteri hæ codices cf. p. 43, 6 12 animæ sunt codices : sunt om. Ar. cf. ed. I
hæ 27, he§ X: eædem ceteri 14 dicta post anima X enim om. X1 (enim est X2)
definire se F neglexerunt h: neglexerant codices . explicata E ( corr . E2)
Aristotelem F SECVNDA EDITIO earum scilicet notæ. Alexander vero aliam huius-
modi interpositionis reddidit causam, quoniam, iquit, verba et nomina
interpretatione simplici continentur, oratio vero ex verbis nominibusque
coniuncta est et in ea iam veritas aut falsitas invenitur; sive autem quilibet
sermo sit simplex, sive iam oratio coniuncta atque conposita, ex his quæ
significant momentum sumunt (in illis enim prius est eorum ordo et continentia,
post redundat in voces): quocirca quo- 10 niam significantium momentum ex his
quæ signifcantur oritur, idcirco prius nos de his quæ voces ipsæ significant
docere proponit, sed Herminus hoc loco repudiandus est. nihil enim tale quod ad
causam propositæ sententiæ pertineret explicuit. Ale- 15 x and er vero strictim
proxima intellegentia prætervectus tetigit quidem causam, non tamen principalem
rationem Aristotelicæ propositionis exsolvit. sedPor- phyrius ipsam plenius
causam originemque sermonis huius ante oculos conlocavit, qui omnem apud
priscos philosophos de significationis vi contentionem litemque retexuit, ait
namque dubie apud antiquorum philosophorum sententias constitisse quid esset
proprie quod vocibus significaretur, putabant namque alii res vocibus designari
earumque vocabula esse ea quæ sonarent in vocibus arbitrabantur, alii vero incorporeas
quasdam naturas meditabantur, quarum essent significationes quæcumque vocibus
designarentur: Platonis aliquo modo species incorporeas æmulati dicentis hoc
ipsum homo et hoc ipsum equus non hanc cuiuslibet subiectam substantiam, sed
illum ipsum hominem specialem et illum ipsum equum, universaliter et
incorporaliter co- 2 interprætationis T pro iam: autem S, om. F 7
significantur b 13 ad in marg. E 20 de om. F1 apud om. E1 22 sententiæ S1 24
eorum/////q; SE, eorumq; T uocubula T 25 sonarent ego: sonauerunt S, sonauerint
S2FE, sonuerint T 31 equum significare T I c. 1. gitantes incorporales quasdam
naturas constituebant, quas ad significandum primas venire putabant et cum
aliis item rebus in significationibus posse coniungi, ut ex his aliqua enuntiatio
vel oratio conficeretur, alii vero sensus, alii imaginationes significari
vocibus arbitrabantur. cum igitur ista esset contentio apud superiores et hæc
usque ad Aristotelis pervenisset ætatem, necesse fuit qui nomen et verbum
significativa esset definiturus prædiceret quorum ista designativa sint.
Aristoteles enim nominibus et verbis res subiectas significari non putat, nec
vero sensus vel etiam imaginationes, sensuum quidem non esse significativas
voces nomina et verba in opere de iustitia sic declarat dicens cpvdeL yaQ
ev&vg diriQ^rai tcc rs votf- { Lata nal ta aiGfrri [luta, quod interpretari
Latine potest hoc modo: NATURA enimdivisa sunt intellectus et sensus, differre
igitur aliquid arbitratur sensum atque intellectum, sed qui passiones animæ a
vocibus significari dicit, is non de sensibus loquitur, sensus enim corporis
passiones sunt, si igitur ita dixisset passionescorporis a vocibus significari,
tunc merito sensus intellegeremus, sed quoniam passiones animæ nomina 'et verba
significare proposuit, non sensus sed intellectus eum dicere putandum est. sed
quoniam imaginatio quoque res animæ est, dubitaverit aliquis ne forte passiones
animæ imagi- Ar. fragm. coli. VRose 76 2 per quas se F2 9 designativa b:
designificatiua codices 14 dirjQ7]Tcu ego (cf. Ar. 1162,22 eth. Nic. VIII, 14:
sv&vs yocQ di7iQi]Tcu tu %Qya v.ul S6TLV sxsQu uvSqos Y.ui yv- vaixog):
anhphtai SGNJTE; verba Græca om. F (rsEl FAP EY& et alia in marg. F2),
dicens hic deest grecum quod interpretari B 15 AIZTHMATA EN Latine om. F 16
potes VRose statim ego add.: om. codices diuersa E2 est N 19 a om. S*F 23
designificare F 26 animæ om. F nationes, qnas Græci (pavraCiag nominant, dicat,
sed hæc in libris de anima verissime diligentissimeque separavit dicens etircv
de cpavraoCa eteqov epaOeog nal unoepaGeag' Gvintloxr} yaQ vorj[icctav etirlv
ro ccArjfreg 5 xcd ro tyevdog. rd de tcqcotcc vocata t C dioCcei rov [. irj
cpavrccANTAZMsl codices pro rj: N codices 7 interpretatur EN aliquid S2F .
demonstret T, corr. T2 quis F 25 idem ( pro id est) T2 26 pro qui: quid S, quod
S2F I c. 1. ginatio quædam primæ figuræ sunt, supra quas velut fundamento
quodam superveniens intellegentia nitatur, nam sicut pictores solent designare
lineatim corpus atque substernere ubi coloribus cuiuslibet exprimant vultum, sic
sensus atque imaginatio naturaliter in animæ perceptione substernitur, nam cum
res aliqua sub sensum vel sub cogitationem cadit, prius eius quædam necesse est
imaginatio nascatur, post vero plenior superveniat intellectus cunctas eius
explicans partes quæ confuse fuerant imaginatione præsumptæ. quocirca
inperfectum quiddam est imaginatio, nomina vero et verba non curta quædam, sed
perfecta significant. quare recta Aristotelis sententia est: quæcumque in
verbis nominibusque versantur, ea neque sensus neque imaginationes, sed solam
significare intellectuum qualitatem, unde illud quoque ab Aristotele fluentes
Peripatetici rectissime posuerunt tres esse orationes, unam quæ scribi possit
elementis, alteram quæ voce proferri, tertiam quæ cogitatione conecti unamque
intellectibus, alteram voce, tertiam litteris contineri, quocirca quoniam id
quod significaretur a vocibus intellectus esse Aristoteles putabat, nomina vero
et verba significativa esse in eorum erat definitionibus positurus, recte
quorum essent significativa prædixit erroremque lectoris ex multiplici veterum
lite venientem sententiæ suæ manifestatione conpescuit. atque hoc modo nihil in
eo deprehenditur esse superfluum, nihil ab ordinis continuatione se- iunctum.
quærit vero Porphyrius, cur ita dixerit: sunt ergo ea quæ sunt in voce, et non
sic: sunt si quod S^1 7 ait. sub om. F enim (pro eius) E 10 confuse b: confusæ
SF, confusa TE in im. S2, in yma- ginationem F præsumpta T imaginationis SFE1?
18 sit ( pro possit) S1 19 cogitationem SFE conecti ego : conectit codices,
connectitur b 21 teneri F, corr. F2 esse om. T1 ad T igitur voces; et rursus
cur ita et ea quæ scribuntur et non dixerit: et litteræ, quod resolvit hoc
modo, dictum est tres esse apud Peripateticos orationes, unam quæ litteris
scriberetur, aliam quæ proferretur in voce, tertiam quæ coniungeretur in animo,
quod si tres orationes sunt, partes quoque orationis esse triplices nulla
dubitatio est. quare quoniam verbum et nomen principaliter orationis partes
sunt, erunt alia verba et nomina quæ scribantur, alia quæ dicantur, alia quæ
tacita mente tractentur, ergo quoniam proposuit dicens: primum oportet
constituere, quid nomen et quid verbum, triplex autem nominum natura est atque
verborum, de quibus potissimum proposuerit et quæ definire velit ostendit, et
quoniam de his nominibus loquitur ac verbis, quæ voce proferuntur, idem ipsum
planius explicans ait: sunt ergo ea quæ sunt in voce earum quæ sunt in anima
passionum notæ et ea quæ scribuntur eorum quæ sunt in voce, velut si diceret:
ea verba et nomina quæ in vocali oratione proferuntur [H. P. Grice: UTTER]
animæ passiones denuntiant, illa autem rursus verba et nomina quæ scribuntur
eorum verborum nominumque SIGNIFICANTIÆ præsunt quæ voce proferuntur [H. P.
Grice: UTTER], nam sicut vocalis orationis verba et nomina CONCEPTIONES [not
passions] animi intellectusque significant, ita quoque verba et nomina illa quæ
in solis litterarum formulis iacent ijjorum verborum et nominum significativa
sunt quæ loquimur, id est quæ per vocem sonamus, nam quod ait: sunt ergo ea quæ
sunt in voce, subaudiendum est verba et nomina, et rursus cum dicit: et ea quæ
scribuntur, idem subnectendum rursus est verba scilicet vel nomina, et quod
rursus 1 cur om. F1 proferetur F2T post nomen ras. sex vel octo litt.
in S quid sit n. codices ergo om. SF uerba rursus F uerba orationis F . cum
dicit rursus F vel] et b I c. 1. adiecit: eorum quæ sunt in voce, addendum
eorum nomimum atque verborum quæ profert atque explicat vocalis oratio, quod si
nihil deesset omnino, ita foret totius plenitudo sententiæ: sunt ergo ea verba
et nomina quæ sunt in voce earum quæ sunt in anima passionum notæ et ea verba
et nomina quæ scribuntur eorum verborum et nominum quæ sunt in voce, quod
communiter intellegendum est, licet ea quæ subiunximus deesse videantur, quare
non est disiuncta sententia, sed primæ propositioni continua. nam cum quid sit
verbum, quid nomen definire constituit, cum nominis et verbi NATURA sit
multiplex, de quo verbo et nomine tractare vellet clara significatione
distinxit, incipiens igitur ab his nominibus ac verbis quæ in voce sunt, quorum
essent significativa disseruit, ait enim hæc passiones animæ designare. illud
quoque adiecit quibus ipsa verba et nomina quæ in voce sunt designentur, his
scilicet quæ litterarum formulis exprimuntur, SED QUONIAM NON OMNIS VOX
SIGNIFICATIVA EST, VERBA VERO VEL NOMINA NUMQUAM SIGNIFICATIONIBUS VACANT
QUONIAMQUE NON OMNIS VOX QUÆ SIGNIFICAT QUÆDAM *POSITIONE* DESIGNAT, SED
*QUÆDAM NATURALITER*, UT LACRIMÆ, GEMITUS ATQUE MÆROR – ANIMALIUM QUOQUE CETERORUM
QUÆDAM *VOCES NATURALITER ALIQUID OSTENTANT* UT EX CANUM LATRATIBUS IRACUNDIA
EORUMQUE ALIA QUADAM VOCEM BLANDIMENDA *MONSTRANTUR --verba autem et nomina
positione significant neque solum sunt verba et nomina voces, sed voces
significativæ nec solum significativæ, sed etiam QUÆ POSITIONE DESIGNENT
ALIQUID, NON NATURA: non dixit: sunt igitur voces earum quæ sunt in anima
passionum notæ, namque neque omnis vox significativa quæ sunt in v. nomina in
marg. F 15 sunt] sunt designantes TGr 17 et uerba et T 20 vel]
et b vacant ego: vacarent codices, carent b que om. S1 quadam S2E moerorem S,
merore FE nam FT est et SUNT QUÆDAM *SIGNIFICATIVÆ* QUÆ *NATURALITER* NON
POSITIONE SIGNIFICENT, quod si ita dixisset, nihil ad proprietatem verborum et
nominum pertineret, quocirca noluit communiter dicere voces, sed dixit tantum
ea quæ sunt in voce, vox enim universale quiddam est, nomina vero et verba
partes, pars autem omnis in toto est. verba ergo et nomina quoniam sunt intra
vocem, recte dictum est ea quæ sunt in voce, velut si diceret: quæ intra vocem
continentur intellectuum designativa sunt, sed hoc simile est ac si ita
dixisset: vox certo modo sese habens significat intellectus. non enim ut dictum
est nomen et verbum voces tantum sunt, sicut nummus quoque non solum æs
inpressum quadam figura est, ut nummus vocetur, sed etiam ut alicuius rei sit
pretium: eodem quoque modo verba et nomina non solum voces sunt, sed POSITÆ AD
QUANDAM INTELLECTUUM SIGNIFICATIONEM, vox enim quæ nihil designat, ut est
GARALUS, licet eam grammatici figuram vocis intuentes nomen esse contendant,
tamen eam nomen philosophia non putabit, nisi sit posita ut designare animi
aliquam conceptionem eoque modo rerum aliquid possit, etenim nomen alicuius
nomen esse necesse erit; sed si vox aliqua nihil designat, nullius nomen est;
quare si nullius est, ne nomen quidem esse dicetur, atque ideo huiusmodi vox id
est significativa non vox tantum, sed verbum vocatur aut nomen, quemadmodum
nummus non æs, sed proprio nomine nummus, quo ab alio ære discrepet, nuncupatur,
ergo hæc Aristotelis sententia qua ait ea quæ sunt in voce nihil aliud designat
nisi eam vocem, quæ non solum vox sit, sed quæ cum vox sit habeat tamen aliquam
proprietatem et 4 dicere pro dixit T. des. s. intell. T, corr. T2 nummos S1
garulus F putabit ego: putavit codices aliq. rer. F dicitur T ideo om. F1 non
nummus in marg. S qua ait om. F1 I c. 1. aliquam quodammodo figuram positæ
significationis inpressam. horum vero id est verborum et nominum quæ sunt in
voce aliquo modo se habente ea sunt scilicet significativa quæ scribuntur, ut
hoc quod dictum est quæ scribuntur de verbis ac nominibus dictum quæ sunt in
litteris intellegatur, potest vero hæc quoque esse ratio cur dixerit et quæ
scribuntur: quoniam litteras et inscriptas figuras et voces, quæ isdem
significantur formulis, nuncupamus (ut a et ipse sonus litteræ nomen capit et
illa quæ 10 in subiecto ceræ vocem significans forma describitur), designare
volens, quibus verbis atque nominibus ea quæ in voce sunt adparerent, non dixit
litteras, quod ad sonos etiam referri potuit litterarum, sed ait quæ
scribuntur, ut ostenderet de his litteris dicere quæ in scriptione consisterent
id est quarum figura vel in cera stilo vel in membrana calamo posset effingi,
alioquin illa iam quæ in sonis sunt ad ea nomina referuntur quæ in voce sunt,
quoniam sonis illis nomina et verba iunguntur. sed Porphyrius de utraque
expositione iudicavit dicens: id quod ait et quæ scribuntur non potius ad
litteras, sed ad verba et nomina quæ posita sunt in litterarum inscriptione
referendum, restat igitur ut illud quoque addamus, cur non ita dixerit: sunt
ergo ea quæ sunt in voce intellectuum notæ, sed ita earum quæ sunt in anima
passionum notæ, nam cum ea quæ sunt in voce res intellectusque significent,
principaliter quidem intellectus, res vero quas ipsa intellegentia con-
prehendit secundaria significatione per intellectuum medietatem, intellectus
ipsi non sine quibusdam passionibus sunt, quæ in animam ex subiectis veniunt
rebus, passus enim quilibet eius rei proprietatem, 3 sese E 5 et F scriptas b
se de? . quæ inscriptione T menbrana F proposita F 24 illas Tl 26 si T .
medietatibus (pro pass.) T BOEZIO (si veda) comment. II. quam intellectu
conplectitur, ad eius enuntiationem designationemque contendit, cum enim quis
aliquam rem intellegit, prius imaginatione formam necesse est intellectæ rei
proprietatemque suscipiat et fiat vel passio vel cum passione quadam
intellectus perceptio, hac vero posita atque in mentis sedibus conlocata fit
indicandæ ad alterum passionis voluntas, cui actus quidam continuandæ
intellegentiæ protinus ex intimæ rationis potestate supervenit, quem scilicet
explicat et effundit oratio nitens ea quæ primitus in mente fundata est
passione, sive, quod est verius, significatione progressa oratione progrediente
simul et significantis seorationis motibus adæquante, fit vero bæc passio velut
figuræ alicuius inpressio, sed ita ut in animo fieri consuevit, aliter namque
naturaliter inest in re qualibet propria figura, aliter vero eius ad animum
forma transfertur, velut non eodem modo ceræ vel marmori vel chartis litteræ id
est vocum signa mandantur. et imaginationem Stoici del PORTICO a rebus in
animam translatam loquuntur, sed cum adiectione semper dicentes ut in anima,
quocirca cum omnis animæ passio rei quædam videatur esse proprietas, porro
autem designativæ voces intellectuum principaliter, rerum dehinc a quibus
intellectus profecti sunt significatione nitantur, quidquid est in vocibus
significativum, id animæ passiones designat, sed hæ passiones animarum ex rerum
similitudine procreantur, videns 4 intellegi T (corr. T1) intellectio T Hæc T 8
quidem F quem actum F, actum supra lin. J, s. actum supra lin. S2 oratione ego:
oratio codices; oratio suprascr. s. explicat S2, oratio explicat F
significatione dei et post simul transponit F2 (E in marg.: aliter siue quod
est verius significatione progrediente oratio progressa simul et se signif. or.
mot. adæq.) metibus S1, mentibus F1 transferetur T, corr. T2 17 vel om. F a om.
S1 25 nitatur S^1 animorum SFE et T^1 I c. 1. namque aliquis sphæram vel
quadratum vel quamlibet aliam rerum figuram eam in animi intellegentia quadam
vi ac similitudine capit, nam qui sphæram viderit, eius similitudinem in animo
perpendit et cogitat atque eius in animo quandam passus imaginem id cuius
imaginem patitur agnoscit, omnis vero imago rei cuius imago est similitudinem
tenet: mens igitur cum intellegit, rerum similitudinem conprehendit. unde fit
ut, cum duorum corporum maius unum, minus alterum contuemur, a sensu postea
remotis corporibus illa ipsa corpora cogitantes illud quoque memoria servante
noverimus sciamusque quod minus, quod vero maius corpus fuisse conspeximus,
quod nullatenus eveniret, nisi quas semel mens passa est rerum similitudines
optineret. quare quoniam passiones animæ quas intellectus vocavit rerum quædam
similitudines sunt, idcirco Aristoteles, cum paulo post de passionibus animæ
loqueretur, continenti ordine ad similitudines transitum fecit, quoniam nihil
differt utrum passiones diceret an similitudines, eadem namque res in anima
quidem passio est, rei vero similitudo, et Alexander hunc locum: sunt ergo ea
quæ sunt in voce earum quæ sunt in anima passionum notæ et ea quæ scribuntur
eorum quæ sunt in voce, et quemadmodum nec litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces
eædem hoc modo conatur exponere: proposuit, inquit, ea quæ sunt in voce
intellectus animi designare et hoc alio probat exemplo, eodem modo enim ea quæ
sunt in voce passiones animæ SIGNIFICANT, quemadmodum ea quæ scribuntur voces
DE-SIGNANT, ut id quod ait et ea quæ 1 aliquis om. T, aliqui E feram S, speram
S2FT ui§ (pro vi ac) SF speram FT duum S2F2 sciamusque ego: sciemusq. codices
mens om. T pass. animæ editio princeps inscribuntur SFE eædem uoces codices
enim modo F scribuntur ita intellegamus, tamquam si diceret: quemadmodum etiam
ea quæ scribuntur eorum quæ sunt in voce, ea vero quæ scribuntur, inquit
Alexander, notas esse vocum id est nominum ac verborum ex hoc monstravit quod
diceret et quemadmodum nec litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces eædem, SIGNVM
namque est vocum ipsarum significationem litteris contineri, quod ubi variæ
sunt litteræ et non eadem quæ scribuntur varias quoque voces esse necesse est.
hæc Alexander. Porphyrius vero quoniam tres proposuit orationes, unam quæ
litteris contineretur, secundam quæ verbis ac nominibus personaret, tertiam
quam mentis evolveret intellectus, id Aristotelem significare pronuntiat, cum
dicit: sunt ergo ea quæ sunt in voce earum quæ sunt in anima passionum notæ,
quod ostenderet si ita dixisset: sunt ergo ea quæ sunt in voce et verba et
nomina animæ passionum | notæ, et quoniam monstravit quorum essent voces
SIGNIFICATIVÆ, illud quoque docuisse quibus SIGNIS [“Words are not signs” – H.
P. Grice] verba vel nomina panderentur ideoque addidisse et ea quæ scribuntur
eorum quæ sunt in voce, tamquam si diceret: ea quæ scribuntur verba et nomina
eorum quæ sunt in voce verborum et nominum notæ sunt. nec disiunctam esse
sententiam nec (ut Alexander putat) id quod ait: et ea quæ scribuntur ita
intellegendum, tamquam si diceret: sicut ea quæ scribuntur id est litteræ illa
quæ sunt in voce significant, ita ea quæ sunt in voce notas esse animæ
passionum, primo quod ad simplicem sensum nihil addi oportet, deinde tam brevis
ordo tamque necessaria orationis non est intercidenda partitio, tertium vero
quoniam, si similis significatio est litterarum vo- 5 quo TE1 eædem F, eedem T
quæ F aristotelen T 18 prius et om. TE et b sunt om. SF primum? quidem quod b
deinde quod b tamque] tamquam T esset E2 I c. 1. cumque, quæ est vocum et animæ
passionum, oportet sicut voces diversis litteris permutantur, ita quoque
passiones animæ diversis vocibus permutari, quod non fit. idem namque
intellectus variatis potest vocibus significari, sed Alexander id quod eum
superius sensisse memoravi boc probare nititur argumento, ait enim etiam in hoc
quoque similem esse significationem litterarum ac vocum, quoniam sicut litteræ
non naturaliter voces, sed positione significant, ita quoque voces non
naturaliter intellectus animi, sed aliqua positione designant, sed qui prius
recepit, ut id quod Aristoteles ait: et ea quæ scribuntur ita dictum esset,
tamquam si diceret: sicut ea quæ scribuntur, quidquid ad hanc sententiam
videtur adiungere, æqualiter non dubitatur errare, quocirca nostro iudicio qui
rectius tenere volent Porphyrii se sententiis adplicabunt. Aspasius quoque
secundæ sententiæ Alexandri, quam supra posuimus, valde consentit, qui a nobis
in eodem quo Alexander errore culpabitur. LIZIO vero duobus modis esse has
notas putat litterarum, vocum passionumque animæ constitutas: uno quidem
positione, alio vero naturaliter. atque hoc est quod ait: et quemadmodum nec
litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces eædem, nam si litteræ voces, ipsæ vero
voces intellectus animi naturaliter designarent, omnes homines isdem litteris,
isdem etiam vocibus uterentur, quod quoniam apud omnes neque eædem litteræ
neque eædem voces sunt, constat eas non esse naturales, sed hic duplex lectio
est. Alexander
enim hoc modo legi putat oportere: quorum autem hæc primo- oporteret E 11
recipit S, corr. S2 quam Alexander in marg. S vocum om. S1 . eædem v. codices
hisdem S2F2TE hisdem SF2TE hæ codices rum NOTÆ, eædem omnibus PASSIONES animæ
et quorum eædem similitudines, res etiam eædem, volens enim Aristoteles ea quæ
positione significant ab bis quæ aliquid DE-SIGNANT NATVRALITER segregare hoc
interposuit: ea quæ POSITIONE (thesei, not physei – Grice) SIGNIFICANT varia
esse, ea vero quæ naturaliter apud omnes eadem, et incobans quidem a vocibus ad
litteras venit easque primo non esse naturaliter significativas demonstrat
dicens: et quemadmodum nec litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces eædem, nam si
idcirco probantur litteræ non esse naturaliter significantes, quod apud alios
aliæ sint ac diversæ, eodem quoque modo probabile erit voces quoque NON NATURALITER
SIGNIFICARE, quoniam singulæ hominum gentes non eisdem inter se vocibus conio
quantur. volens vero similitudinem intellectuum rerumque subiectarum docere
NATVRALITER constitutam ait: quorum autem hæc primorum notæ, eædem omnibus
passiones animæ, quorum, inquit, voces quæ apud diversas gentes ipsæ quoque
diversæ sunt SIGNIFICATIONEM retinent, quæ scilicet sunt animæ passiones, illæ
apud omnes eædem sunt, neque enim fieri potest, ut quod APVD ROMANOS “homo”
intellegitur lapis apud barbaros intellegatur, eodem quoque modo de ceteris 25
rebus, ergo huiusmodi sententia est, qua dicit ea quæ voces significent apud
omnes hominum gentes non mutari, ut ipsæ quidem voces, sicut supra monstravit
cum dixit quemadmodum nec litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces eædem, apud
plures diversæ sint, illud vero quod voces ipsæ significant apud omnes homines
idem sit nec ulla ra- 1 animæ sunt codices inchoatis T significas S1,
signifitivas T colloquuntur b ait S, quod ait TE (quod dei. E1?) apud om. F,
add. F1 qui T modo quoq. F 29 apud ego: cum apud codices fit F I c. 1. tione
valeat permutari, qui sunt scilicet intellectus rerum, qui quoniam naturaliter
sunt permutari non possunt, atque hoc est quod ait: quorum autem hæc primorum
notæ, id est voces, eædem omnibus passiones animæ, ut demonstraret voces quidem
esse diversas, quorum autem ipsæ voces significativæ essent, quæ sunt scilicet
animæ passiones, easdem apud omnes esse nec | ullratione, quoniam sunt
constitutæ naturaliter, permutari, nec vero in hoc constitit, ut de solis
vocibus atque intellectibus loqueretur, sed quoniam voces atque litteras non
esse naturaliter constitutas per id significavit, quod eas non apud omnes
easdem esse proposuit, RURSUS INTELLECTUS QUOS ANIMÆ PASSIONES VOCAT PER HOC
ESSE NATURALES OSTENDIT, QUOD *APUD OMNES IDEM SINT, a quibus id est
intellectibus ad res transitum fecit, ait enim quorum hæ similitudines, res
etiam eædem hoc scilicet sentiens, quod res quoque naturaliter apud omnes
homines essent eædem: sicut ipsæ animæ passiones quæ ex rebus sumuntur apud
omnes homines eædem sunt, ita quoque etiam ipsæ res quarum similitudines sunt
animæ passiones eædem apud omnes sunt, quocirca quoque naturales sunt, sicut
sunt etiam rerum similitudines, quæ sunt animæ passiones. H er minus vero huic
est expositioni contrarius. dicit enim non esse verum eosdem apud omnes homines
esse intellectus, quorum voces significativæ sint, quid enim, inquit, in
æquivocatione dicetur, ubi unus idemque vocis modus plura significat? sed magis
hanc lectionem veram putat, ut ita 30 sit: quorum autem hæc primorum notæ, hæ
omnibus passiones animæ et quorumhæ similitudines, res etiam hæ: ut
demonstratio vi- 4 hæ codices animæ sunt codices quarum b: quorum codices
homines F, corr. F2 res quoq. b sunt F autem ovi.deatur quorum voces significativæ
sint vel quorum passiones animæ similitudines, et lioc simpliciter accipiendum
est secundum Her minum, ut ita dicamus: quorum voces significativæ sunt, illæ
sunt animæ passiones, tamquam diceret: animæ passiones sunt, quas significant
voces, et rursus quorum sunt similitudines ea quæ intellectibus continentur,
illæ sunt res, tamquam si dixisset: res sunt quas significant intellectus. sed
Porphyrius de utrisque acute subtiliterque iudicat et Alexandri magis
sententiam probat, hoc quod dicat non debere dissimulari de multiplici
æquivocationis significatione, nam et qui dicit ad unam quamlibet rem commodat
animum, scilicet quam intellegens voce declarat, et unum rursus intellectum
quemlibet is qui audit exspectat, quod si, cum uterque ex uno nomine res
diversas intellegunt, ille qui nomen æquivocum ÆQVIVOCVM GRICE dixit designet
clarius, quid illo nomine significare voluerit, accipit mox qui audit et ad
unum intellectum utrique conveniunt, qui rursus fit unus apud eosdem illos apud
quos primo diversæ fuerant animæ passiones propter æquivocationem nominis.
neque enim fieri potest, ut qui voces POSITIONE SIGNIFICANTES A NATVRA eo
distinxerit quod easdem apud omnes esse non diceret, eas res quas esse
naturaliter proponebat non eo tales esse monstraret, quod apud omnes easdem
esse contenderet, quocirca Alexander vel propria sententia vel Porphyrii
auctoritate probandus est. sed quoniam ita dixit Aristoteles: quorum autem hæc
primorum notæ, eædem omnibus passiones animæ sunt, quærit Ale- . suptiliterq.
SE 11 hoc dei. S2, om. F quod F: quo STEGN, quoque E2 dicit E2 voce eras, in F
utrique? 17 designat T quod T nomen S1 distinxerint T quos (suprascr. d) S, qui
(in marg. quod) T eas] is? demonstraret T pro porphirii E hæ codices I c. 1. x
and er: si rerum nomina sunt, quid causæ est ut primorum intellectuum notas
esse voces diceret Aristoteles? rei enim ponitur nome, ut cum dicimus “homo”
SIGNIFICAMUS (ROMANI) quidem intellectum, rei tamen nomen est id est animalis
rationalis mortalis, cur ergo non primarum magis rerum notæ sint voces quibus
ponuntur potius quam intellectuum? sed fortasse quidem ob hoc dictum est,
inquit, quod licet voces rerum nomina sint, tamen non idcirco utimur vocibus,
ut res significemus, sed ut eas quæ ex rebus nobis io innatæ sunt animæ
passiones, quocirca propter quorum significantiam voces ipsæ proferuntur, recte
eorum primorum esse dixit notas, in hoc vero Aspasius permolestus est. ait
enim: qui fieri potest, ut eædem apud omnes passiones animæ sint, cum tam
diversa sententia de iusto ac bono sit? arbitratur Aristotelem passiones animæ
non de rebus incorporalibus, sed de his tantum quæ sensibus capi possunt
passiones animæ dixisse, quod perfalsum est. neque enim umquam intellexisse
dicetur, qui fallitur, et fortasse quidem passionem animi habuisse dicetur,
quicumque id quod est bonum non eodem modo quo est, sed aliter ARBITRATVR,
intellexisse vero non dicitur. Aristoteles autem cum de similitudine loquitur,
de intellectu pronuntiat, neque enim fieri potest, ut qui quod bonum est malum
esse arbitratur boni similitudinem mente conceperit, neque enim intellexit rem
subiectam. sed quæ sunt iusta ac bona ad positionem omnia naturamve referuntur,
et si de iusto ac bono ita loquitur, ut de eo quod civile ius aut civilis in- 1
quod T causa S F dixerit b pro tamen: quidem T sunt E, corr. E2 quidem post
dictum F 10 nris STE (corr. S2E2) sint S præter T esse prim. F id S, cum id TE
(cum dei. E2) quidem (pro quod est) T quo S2F2: quod SFTE dicetur? si om. S1
ita om. F1 iuria dicitur, recte non eædem sunt passiones animæ, quoniam civile
ius et civile bonum positione est, non natura, naturale vero bonum atque iustum
apud omnes gentes idem est. et de deo quoque idem: cuius quamvis diversa
cultura sit, idem tamen cuiusdam eminentissimæ naturæ est intellectus, quare
repetendum breviter a principio est. partibus enim ad orationem usque pervenit:
nam quod se prius quid esset verbum, quid nomen constituere dixit, hæ minimaæ
orationis partes sunt; quod vero adfirmationem et negationem, iam de conposita
ex verbis et nominibus oratione loquitur, quæ eædem rursus partes sunt
enuntiationis, et post enuntiationis propositionem de oratione loqui proposuit,
cuius ipsa quoque enuntiatio, pars est. et quoniam ut dictum est triplex est
oratio, quæ in litteris, quæ in voce, quæ in intellectibus est, qui verbum et
nomen definiturus esset eaque significativa positurus, dicit prius quorum
significativa sint ipsa verba et nomina et incohat quidem ab his nominibus et
verbis quæ sunt in voce dicens: sunt ergo ea quæ sunt in voce et demonstrat
quorum sint SIGNIFICATIVA adiciens earum quæ sunt in anima passionum notæ.
rursus nominum ipsorum verborumque quæ in voce sunt ea verba et nomina quæ
essent in litteris constituta significativa esse declarat dicens et ea quæ
scribuntur eorum quæ sunt in voce, et quoniam quattuor ista quædam sunt:
litteræ, voces, intellectus, res, quorum litteræ et voces positione sunt,
natura vero res atque intellectus, demonstravit voces non esse naturaliter, sed
positione per hoc quod ait non easdem esse apud omnes, sed varias, ut est et
quemadmodum nec 1 non recte F a ego add.: om. codices 8 quod om. T 15. 16 or. est F 16 postrem. in om. FE ea quæ FE positurus b: positurus
est codices sign. sint F eorum SFE litteras et voces? per om. SFT quod b:
quo///F, quo STE I c. . litteræ omnibus eædem, sic nec voces eædem. ut vero
demonstraret intellectus et res esse naturaliter, ait apud omnes eosdem esse
intellectus, quorum essent voces significativæ, et rursus apud omnes easdem
esse res, quarum similitudines essent animæ passiones, ut est quorum autem hæc
primorum notæ, scilicet quæ sunt in voce, eædem omnibus passiones animæ et
quorum hæ similitudines, res etiam eædem, passiones autem animæ dixit, quoniam
alias diligenter ostensum est omnem vocem animalis aut ex passione animæ aut
propter passionem proferri, similitudinem vero passionem animæ vocavit, quod
secundum LIZIO nihil aliud intellegere nisi cuiuslibet subiectæ rei
proprietatem atque imaginationem in animæ ipsius reputatione suscipere, de
quibus animæ passionibus in libris se de anima commemorat diligentius
disputasse, sed quoniam demonstratum est, quoniam et verba et nomina et oratio
intellectuum principaliter significativa sunt, quidquid est in voce
significationis ab intellectibus venit, quare prius paululum de intellectibus
perspiciendum ei qui recte aliquid de vocibus disputabit, ergo quod supra
passiones animæ et similitudines vocavit, idem nunc apertius intellectum vocat
dicens: Est autem, quemadmodum in anima aliquotiens quidem intellectus sine
vero vel falso, aliquotiens autem cui iam necesse est horum alterum inesse, sic
etiam in voce; circa conpositionem enim et divisionem est falsitas veri- .
eædem v. codices et] ut intellectus esse quarum b: quorum codices 6 hæc E Ar. :
hæ Eet ceteri 8 animæ sunt codices aliud S: aliud est est aliud TE ait. quon.]
quomodo E 22 perspiciendum S: persp. est S2FTE de om. SF disputauit S^F1TE 28
cui Ar. <p cf. ed. I: cum codices 30 autem falsitas veritasq; veritas fals.
ceteri SECVNDA EDITIO tasque. nomina igitur ipsa et verba consimilia sunt sine
conpositione vel divisione intellectui, ut homo vel album, quando non additur
aliquid; neque enim adhuc verum aut falsum est. huius autem signum hoc est:
hircocervus enim significat aliquid, sed nondum verum vel falsum, si non vel
esse vel non esse addatur, vel simpliciter vel secundum tempus. Nome
compiuto : Pietro Caramello. Keywords: interpretare, peryermeneias,
Aquino, blityri – blythyri SG blithyri NT blythiri EF? (in fine suprascr.
S F)”. “signatiuis” “significativis” garalus garulus F. -- Refs.: Luigi
Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice,“Grice e Caramello, » The
Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza, Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carando:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale di Socrate – scuola
di Pettinengo – filosofia piemontese -- filosofia italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice,
The Swimming-Pool Library (Pettinengo). Filosofo piemontese. Filosofo italiano. Pettinengo, Biella, Piemonte. Grice:
“I like Carando; a typical Italian philosopher, got his ‘laurea,’ and attends
literary salons! – There is a street named after him – whereas at Oxford the
most we have is a “Logic lane!” -- Ennio
Carando (Pettinengo), filosofo. Studia a Torino. Si avvicina all'anti-fascismo
attraverso l'influenza di Juvalta (con cui discusse la tesi di laurea) e di Martinetti.
Collaborò alla Rivista di filosofia di Martinetti, dove pubblicò un saggio su
Spir. Insegna a Cuneo, Modena, Savona, La Spezia. Sebbene fosse quasi
completamente cieco dopo l'armistizio si diede ad organizzare formazioni
partigiane in Liguria e in Piemonte (fu anche presidente del secondo CLN
spezzino). Era ispettore del Raggruppamento Divisioni Garibaldi nel Cuneese,
quando fu catturato in seguito ad una delazione. Sottoposto a torture atroci, non tradì i
compagni di lotta e fu trucidato con il fratello Ettore, capitano di artiglieria
a cavallo in servizio permanente effetivo e capo di stato maggiore della I
Divisione Garibaldi. Un filosofo socratico. La metafisica civile di un filosofo
socratico. Partigiano. Dopo l'armistizio Ennio Carando, che insegnava a La
Spezia presso il Liceo Classico Costa, entrò attivamente nella lotta di
liberazione organizzando formazioni partigiane in Liguria e in Piemonte. A chi
gli chiedeva di non avventurarsi in quella decisione così pericolosa rispondeva
fermamente: "Molti dei miei allievi sono caduti: un giorno i loro genitori
potrebbero rimproverarmi di non aver avuto il loro stesso coraggio". For centuries the First Alkibiades was respected as a major
dialogue in the Platonic corpus. It was considered by the Academy to be
the proper introduction to the study of Plato's dialogues, and actually
formed the core of the serious beginner's study of philosophy. Various
ancient critics have written major commentaries upon the dialogue (most
of which have subsequently been lost). In short, it was looked upon as a
most important work by those arguably in the best position to know.
In comparatively recent times the First Alkibiades has lost its
status. Some leading Platonic scholars judge it to be spurious, and as a
result it is seldom read as seriously as several other Platonic
dialogues. This thesis attempts a critical examination of the dialogue
with an eye towards deciding which judgement of it, the ancient or the
modern, ought to be accepted. I wish to take advantage of this opportunity at
last to thank my mother and father and my sister. Lea, who have always
given freely of themselves to assist me. I am also grateful to my
friends, in particular Pat Malcolmson and Stuart Bodard, who, through
frequent and serious conversations proved themselves to be true dialogic
partners. Thanks are also due to Monika Porritt for her assistance with
the manuscript. My deepest gratitude and affection extend to
Leon Craig, to whom I owe more than I am either able, or willing, to
express here. Overpowering curiosity may be aroused in a reader upon his
noticing how two apparently opposite men, Socrates and Alkibiades, are
drawn to each other's conversation and company. Such seems to be the
effect achieved by the First Alkibiades, a dialogic representation of the
beginning of their association. Of all the people named in the titles of
Platonic dialogues, Alkibiades was probably the most famous. It seems
reasonable to assume that one's appreciation of the dialogue would be enhanced
by knowing as much about the historical Alkibiades as would the typical
educated Athenian reader. Accordingly, this examination of the dialogue
will commence by recounting the major events of Alkibiades' scareer, on the
premise that such a reminder may enrich a philosophic understanding of
the First Alkibiades. The historical Alkibiades was born to Kleinias and
Deinomakhe. Although the precise date of his birth remains unknown (cf.
121d), it was most surely before 450 B.C. His father, Kleinias, was
one of the wealthy men in Athens, financially capable of furnishing
and outfitting a trireme in wartime. Of Deinomakhe we know nothing save
that she was well born. As young children Alkibiades and his
brother, Kleinias, lost their father 4 in battle and
were made wards of their uncle, the renowned Penkles. He is
recognized by posterity as one of the greatest statesmen of Greece.
Athens prospered during his lengthy rule in office and flourished to such
an extent that the "Golden Age of Greece" is also called the
"Age of Perikles." When Alkibiades came under his care, Perikles held
the highest office in Athens and governed almost continuously until
his death which occurred shortly after the outbreak of the Peloponnesian
War. At an early age Alkibiades was distinguished for his striking
beauty and his multi-faceted excellence. He desired to be triumphant in
all he undertook and generally was so. In games and sport with other boys
he is said to have taken a lion's share of victories. There are no
portraits of Alkibiades in existence from which one might judge his
looks, but it is believed that he served his contemporaries as the
standard artistic model for representations of the gods. No doubt partly
because of his appearance and demeanor, he strongly influenced his
boyhood companions. For example, it was rumored that Alkibiades was
averse to the flute because it prevented the player from singing, as well
as disfiguring his face. Refusing to take lessons, he referred to
Athenian deities as exemplars, calling upon Athena and Apollon who had
shown disdain for the flute and for flautists. Within a short time
flute-playing had ceased to be regarded as a standard part of the
curriculum for a gentleman's education. Alkibiades was most surely the talk of
the town among the young men and it is scarcely a wonder that tales
of his youthful escapades abound. Pursued by many lovers, he for
the most part scorned such attentions. On one occasion Anytos, who was
infatuated with Alkibiades, invited him to a dinner party. Instead, Alkibiades
went drinking with some of his friends. During the evening he collected
his servants and bade them interrupt Anytos' supper and remove half of
the golden cups and silver ornaments from the table. Alkibiades did not
even bother to enter. The other guests grumbled about this hybristic
treatment of Anytos, who responded that on the contrary Alkibiades had been
moderate and kind in leaving half when he might have absconded with all.
Alkibiades certainly seems to have enjoyed an extraordinary sway over
some of his admirers. Alkibiades sought to enter Athenian politics as
soon as he became eligible and at about that time he first met
Socrates. The First Alkibiades is a dramatic representation of what might
have happened at that fateful meeting. Fateful it was indeed, for the
incalculable richness of the material it has provided for later thought as well
as for the lives of the two men. By his own admission, Alkibiades felt that
his feeling shame could be occasioned only by Socrates. Though it
caused him discomfort, Alkibiades nevertheless chronically returned
to occasion to save Alkibiades' life. The generals were about
to confer on him a prize for his valor but he insisted it be awarded to
AlkiThis occurred near the beginning of their friendship, at the start of
the Peloponnesian War. Later, during the Athenian defeat at the
battle of Delion, Alkibiades repaid him in kind. In the role of
cavalryman, he defended Socrates who was on foot. Shortly thereafter,
Alkibiades charged forward into politicsbiades., campaigns he mounted
invariably meeting with success. Elected strategos (general) in 420 B.C.
on the basis of his exploits, he was one of the youngest ever to wield
such high authority. Generally opposing Nikias and the plan for peace,
Alkibiades as the leader of the democrats allied Athens with various
enemies of Sparta. His grandiose plans for the navy rekindled Athenian ambitions
for empire which had been at best smouldering since the death of
Perikles. Alkibiades' policy proposals favored the escalation of the war,
and he vocally supported Athens' continuation of her position as the imperial
power in the Mediterranean. His first famous plan, the Athenian
alliance with Argos, is recounted in detail by Thucydides. Thucydides
provides an especially vivid portrait of Alkibiades and indicates
that he was unexcelled, both in terms of diplomatic maneuvering and
rhetorical ability. By arranging for the Spartan envoys to modify
their story from day to day, he managed to make Nikias look foolish in his
trust of them. Although Alkibiades suffered a temporary loss of command,
his continuing rivalry with Nikias secured him powerful influence in Athens,
which was heightened by an apparent failure of major proportions by
Nikias in Thrace. Alkibiades' sustained opposition to Nikias prompted some of
the radical democrats under Hyperbolos to petition for an ostrakismos .
This kind of legal ostracism was a device intended primarily for the
overturning of stalemates. With a majority of the vote an ostrakismos
could be held. Citizens would then write on a potsherd the name of the
one man in all of Attika they would like to see exiled. There has been
famous ostracisms before this time, some ofwhich were almost
immediately regretted (e.g., Aristeides the Just, in 482 B.C.). At any
rate, Hyperbolos campaigned to have Alkibiades ostracized. Meanwhile, in
one of their rare moments of agreement, Alkibiades persuaded Nikias to
join with him in a counter-campaign to ensure that the percentage of
votes required to effect Alkibiades' exile would not be attained. They
were so successful that the result of the ostrakismos was the exile
of Hyperbolos. That was Athen's last ostrakismos. Thucydides devotes
two books (arguably the most beautiful of his History of the
Peloponnesian War) to the Sicilian Expedition. This campaign Alkibiades
instigated is considered by many to be his most noteworthy adventure, and was
certainly one of the major events of the war. Alkibiades debated with
Nikias and convinced the Ekklesia (assembly) to launch the expedition. Clearly
no match for Alkibiades' rhetoric, Nikias, according to the
speeches of Thucydudes, worked an effect opposite his intentions
when he warned the Athenians of the ex- 19 Rather than
being daunted by the magnitude of the cost of the pense
expedition, the Athenians were eager to supply all that was
necessary. This enthusiasm was undoubtedly enhanced by the recent reports
of the vast wealth of Sicily. Nikias, Alkibiades and Lamakhos were
appointed co-commanders with full power (giving them more political
authority than anyone in Athen's recent history). Immediately
prior to the start of the expedition, the Hermai throughout Athens
were disfigured. The deed was a sacrilege as well as 22
a bad omen for the expedition. Enemies of Alkibiades took this
opportunity to link him with the act since he was already suspected of
pro¬faning the Eleusian Mysteries and of generally having a hybristic disregard
for the conventional religion. He was formally charged with impiety.
Alkibiades wanted to have his trial immediately, arguing it would
not be good to command a battle with the charge remaining undecided. His
enemies, who suspected the entire military force would take Alkibiades'
side, urged that the trial be postponed so as not to delay the awaiting
fleet's scheduled departure. As a result they sailed with Alkibiades'
charge untried. When the generals arrived at Rhegion, they
discovered that the 24 stories of the wealth of the
place had been greatly exaggerated. Nonetheless, Alkibiades and
Lamakhos voted together against Nikias to remain and accomplish what they
had set out to do. Alkibiades thought it prudent that they first
establish which of their allies actually had been secured, and to
try to persuade the rest. Most imperative, he 26
believed, was the persuasion of the Messenians. The Messenians
would not admit Alkibiades at first, so he sailed to Naxos and then
to Katana. Naxos allied with Athens readily, but it is suspected
that the Katanaians had some force used upon them. Before the Athenians
could address the Messenians or the Rhegians, both of whom held
important geographic positions and were influential, a ship arrived
to take Alkibiades back to Athens. During his absence from Athens,
his enemies had worked hard to increase suspicion that he had been
responsible for the sacrilege, and now, with the populace aroused
against Alkibiades, they urged he be 28 immediately
recalled. Alkibiades set sail to return in his own ship, filled
with his friends. At Thouri they escaped and went to the
Peloponnese. Meanwhile the Athenians sentenced him to death. He revealed
to the Spartans his idea that Messenian support in the west was
crucial to Athens. The Spartans weren't willing to trust Alkibiades
given his generally anti- Spartan policies, and they particularly
did not appreciate his past treatment of the Spartan envoys. In a spectacular
speech, as recounted by Thucydides, Alkibiades defended himself and
his conduct in leaving 30 Athens. Along with a delegation of
Korinthians and Syrakusans, Alkibiades argued for Sparta's participation
in the war in Sicily. He also suggested to them that their best move
against Athens was to fortify a post at Dekelia in Attika. In
short, once again Alkibiades proved himself to be a master of
diplomacy, knowing the right thing to say at any given time, even
among sworn enemies. The Spartans welcomed Alkibiades. Because of his
knowledge of Athenian affairs, they acted 32 upon his
advice about Dekelia (413 B.C.). Alkibiades did further service for
Sparta by inciting some Athenian allies in Asia Minor, particularly at Khios,
to revolt. He also suggested to Tissaphernes, the Persian satrap of
Asia Minor, that he ought to consider an alliance with 33
Sparta. However, in 412 B.C. Alkibiades lost favor with the
Spartans. His loyalty was in doubt and he was suspected of having
seduced the Spartan queen; she became pregnant during a long absence of
the king. Alkibiades prudently moved on, this time fleeing to the
Persian court of Tissaphernes where he served as an advisor to
the satrap. He counselled Tissaphernes to ally
neither with Sparta nor with Athens; it would be in his best
interests to let them wear each other down. Tissaphernes was
pleased with this advice and soon listened to Alkibiades on most
matters, having, it seems, complete confidence in him. Alkibiades told
him to lower the rate of pay to the Spartan navy in order to
moderate their activities and ensure proper conduct. He should also
economize and reduce expenditures. Alkibiades cautioned him against
being too hurried in his wish for a victory. Tissaphernes was so
delighted with Alkibiades' counsel that he had the most beautiful
park in his domain named after him and developed into a luxury
resort. The Athenian fleet, in the meantime, was at Samos, and with
it lay the real power of Athens. The city had been brought quite low
by the war, especially the Sicilian expedition, which left in the hands
of the irresolute and superstitious Nikias turned out to be disastrous
for the Athenians. Alkibiades engaged in a conspiracy to promote an
oligarchic revolution in Athens, ostensibly to ensure his own acceptance
there. However, when the revolution occurred, in 411 B.C., and the Council of
Four 37 Hundred was established, Alkibiades did not
associate himself with it. He attached himself to the fleet at
Samos and relayed to them the promise of support he had exacted from
Tissaphernes. The support was not forthcoming, however, but despite the
sentiment among some of the Athenians at Samos that Alkibiades intended
to trick them, the commanders and 38 soldiers were
confident that Athens could never rise without Alkibiades. They appointed
him general and re-instated him as the chief-in-command of the Athenian
Navy. He sent a message to the oligarchic Council of Four Hundred in
Athens telling them he would support a democratic boule of 5,000 but that
the Four Hundred would have to disband. There was no immediate
response. In the meantime, with comparatively few men and ships,
Alkibiades managed to deflect the Spartans from their plan to form
an alliance with the Persian fleet. Alkibiades became an
increasingly popular general among the men at Samos, and with his
rhetorical abilities he dissuaded them from adopting policies that
would likely have proven disastrous. He insisted they be more
moderate, for example, in their treatment of unfriendly
ambassadors, such as those from Athens. The Council of Four Hundred
sent an emissary to Samos, but Alkibiades was firm in his refusal to
support them. This pleased the democrats, and since most of the
oligarchs were by this time split into several factions, the rule of
the 40 Four Hundred fragmented of its own accord.
Alkibiades sent advice from Samos as to the form of government the 5,000
should adopt, but he still 42 did not consider it the
proper time for his own return. During this time Alkibiades and the
Athenian fleet gained major victories, defeating the Spartans at
Kynossema, at Abydos (411 B.C.), and 43 at Kyzikos
(410 B.C.) Seeking to regain some control, Tissaphernes
had Alkibiades arrested on one occasion when he approached in a
single ship. It was a diplomatic visit, not a battle, yet
Tissaphernes had him imprisoned. Within a month, however,
Alkibiades and his men escaped. In order to ensure that Tissaphernes
would live to regret the arrest, Alkibiades caused a story to be
widely circulated to the effect that Tissaphernes had arranged the
escape. Suffice it to say the Great King of Persia was not pleased.
Alkibiades also recovered Kalkhedonia and Byzantion for the Athenians. After
gathering money from various sources and assuring himself of the
security of Athenian control of the Hellespont, he at last decided
to return to Athens. It had been an absence of seven years.
46 He was met with an enthusiastic reception in the Peiraeus.
All charges against him were dropped and the prevailing sentiment
among the Athenians was that had they only trusted in his
leadership, they would still be the great empire they had been. With the
hope that he would be able to restore to them some of their former glory,
they appointed Alkibiades general with full powers, a most extraordinary
command. He gained further support from the Athenians when he led the
procession to Eleusis (the very mysteries of which he had earlier been
suspected of blaspheming) on the overland route. Several years earlier,
through fear of the Spartans at Dekelia, the procession had broken
tradition and gone by sea. This restoration of tradition ensured
Alkibiades political support from the more pious sector of the public who
had been hesitant about 48 him. He had so consolidated his
political support by this time that such ever persons as opposed
him wouldn't have dared to publicly declare 49 their
opinions. Alkibiades led a number of successful expeditions over
the next year and the Athenians were elated with his command. He
had never failed in a military undertaking and the men in his fleet
came to regard themselves a higher class of soldier. However, an occasion arose
during naval actions near Notion when Alkibiades had to leave the major
part of his fleet under the command of another captain while he sailed to
a nearby island to levy funds. He left instructions not to engage the
enemy under any circumstances, but during his absence a battle was fought
nonetheless. Alkibiades hurriedly returned but arrived too late to
salvage victory. Many men and ships were lost to the Spartans. Such was
his habit of victory that the people of Athens suspected that he
must have wanted to lose. They once again revoked his citizenship.
Alkibiades left Athens for the last time in 406 B.C. and retired
to a castle he had built long before. Despite his complete loss of
civic status with the Athenians, his concern for them did not cease.
In his last attempt to assist Athens against the Spartan fleet
under Lysander, Alkibiades made a special journey at his own
expense to advise the new strategoi . He cautioned them that what
remained of the Athenian fleet was moored at a very inconvenient
place, and that the men should be held in tighter rein given the
proximity of Lysander's ships. They disregarded his advice with
utter contempt (only to regret it upon their almost 52
immediate defeat) and Alkibiades returned to his private retreat.
There he stayed in quiet luxury until assassinated one night in 404
B.C. The participants in the First Alkibiades, Socrates and
Alkibiades, seem at first blush to be thoroughly contrasting. To start
with appearances, the physical difference between the two men who meet this
day could hardly be more extreme. Alkibiades, famous throughout Greece
for his beauty, is face to face with Socrates who is notoriously ugly.
They are each represented in a dramatic work of the period.
Aristophanes refers to Alkibiades as a young lion; he is said to
have described Socrates as a "stalking
pelican." Alkibiades is so handsome that his figure and face
served as a model for sculptures of Olympian gods on high temple
friezes. Socrates is referred to as being very like the popular
representation of siloni and satyrs; the closest he attains to
Olympian heights is Aristophanes' depiction of him hanging in a
basket from the 55 rafters of an old house.
Pre-eminent among citizens for his wealth and his family, Alkibiades
is speaking with a man of non-descript lineage and widely advertised
poverty. Alkibiades, related to a family of great men, is the son of
Kleinias and Deinomakhe, both of royal lineage. Socrates, who is the son
of Sophroniskos the stone-mason and Phainarete the midwife, does not seem
to have such a spectacular ancestry. Even as a boy Alkibiades was famous
for his desire to win and his ambition for power. Despite being fearful
of it, people are familiar with political ambition and so believe they
understand it. To them, Alkibiades seemed the paragon of the political
man. But Socrates was more of a mystery to the typical Athenian. He
seemed to have no concern with improving his political or economic status.
Rather, he seemed preoccupied to the point of perversity with something
he called 'philosophy, 1 literally 'love of wisdom.' Alkibiades sought
political office as soon as he became of age. He felt certain that in
politics he could rise above all Athenians past and present. His combined
political and military success made it possible for him to be the
youngest general ever elected. Socrates, by contrast, said that he was
never moved to seek office; he served only when he was required (by legal
appointment). In his lifetime Socrates was considered to have been
insufficiently concerned with his fellows' opinions about him, whereas
from his childhood people found Alkibiades' attention to the demos
remarkable - in terms either of his quickness at following their cue, or
of his setting the trend. Both men were famous for their speaking
ability, but even in this they contrast dramatically. The effects of their
speech were different. Alkibiades could persuade peop le, and so
nations, to adopt his political proposals, even when he had been regarded
as an enemy. Socrates' effect was far less widespread. Indeed, for most
people acquainted with it, Socratic speech was suspect. People were moved
by Alkibiades' rhetoric despite their knowing that that was his precise
intention. It was Socrates, however, who was accused of making the weaker
argument defeat the stronger, though he explicitly renounced such
intentions. Alkibiades' long moving speeches persuaded many large
assemblies. Socrates' style of question and answer was not nearly so
popular, and convinced fewer men. Socrates is reputed to have never
been drunk, regardless of how much he had imbibed. This contrasts with
the (for the most part) notoriously indulgent life of Alkibiades. He
remains famous to this day for several of his drunken escapades, one of
which is depicted by Plato in a famous dialogue. Though both men were
courageous and competent in war, Socrates never went to battle unless
called upon, and distinguished himself only during general retreats.
Alkibiades was so eager for war and all its attendant glories that he
even argued in the ekklesia for an Athenian escalation of the war. He was
principally responsible for the initiation of the Sicilian expedition and
was famous for his bravery in wanting to go ever further forward in
battle. It was, instead, battles in speech for which Socrates seemed
eager; perhaps it is a less easily observed brand of courage which is
demanded for advance and retreat in such clashes. Both men could
accommodate their lifestyles to fit with the circumstances in which they found
themselves, but as these were decidedly different, so too were their manners of
adaptation. Socrates remained exclusively in Athens except when accompanying
his fellow Athenians on one or two foreign wars. Alkibiades travelled
from city to city, and seems to have adjusted well. He got on so
remarkably well at the Persian court that the Persians thought he was one
of them; and at Sparta they could not believe the stories of his love of
luxury. But, despite his outward conformity with all major Athenian
conventions, Socrates was st ill considered odd even in his home
city. In a more speculative vein, one might observe that
neither Alkibiades nor Socrates are restricted because of their common
Athenian citizenship, but again in quite different senses. Socrates,
willing (and eager) to converse with, educate and improve citizen and
non-citizen alike, rose above the polis to dispense with his need for it.
Alkibiades, it seems, could not do without political or public support
(as Socrates seems to have), but he too did not need Athens in
particular. He could move to any polis and would be recognized as an
asset to any community. Socrates didn't receive such recognition, but he
did not need it. Still, Alkibiades, like Socrates, retained an
allegiance to Athens until his death and continued to perform great deeds
in her service. Despite their outwardly conventional piety (e.g.,
regular observance of religious festivals), Alkibiades and Socrates were
both formally charged with impiety, but the manner of their alleged
violations was different. Alkibiades was suspected of careless blasphemy
and contemptuous disrespect, of profaning the highest of the city's
religious Mysteries; Socrates was charged with worshipping other deities
than those allowed, but was suspected of atheism. Though both men were
convicted and sentenced to death, Alkibiades refused to present himself
for trial and so was sentenced in absentia . Socrates, as we know,
conducted his own defense, and, however justly or unjustly, was legally
convicted and condemned. Alkibiades escaped when he had the chance and
sought refuge in Sparta; Socrates refused to take advantage of a fully
arranged escape from his cell in Athens. Alkibiades, a comparatively
young man, lived to see his sentence subsequently withdrawn. Socrates seems
to have done his best not to have his sentence reduced. His relationship with
Athens had been quite constant. Old charges were easily brought to bear
on new ones, for the Athenians had come to entertain a relatively stable
view of him. Alkibiades suffered many reverses of status with the
Athenians. Surprised from his sleep, Alkibiades met his death
fighting with assassins, surrounded by his enemies. After preparing to
drink the hemlock, Socrates died peacefully, surrounded by his friends.
It seems likely that Plato expects these contrasts to be tacitly in
the mind of the reader of the First Alkibiades . They heighten in various
ways the excitement of this dialogue between two men whom every Athenian
of their day would have seen, and known at least by reputation. Within a
generation of the supposed time of the dialogue, moreover, each of the
participants would be regarded with utmost partiality. It is unlikely that even
the most politically apathetic citizen would be neutral or utterly
indifferent concerning either man. Not only would every Athenian (and
many foreigners) know each of them, most Athenians would have strong
feelings of either hatred or love for each man. The extraordinary fascination
of these men makes Plato's First Alkibiades all the more inviting as a
natural point at which to begin a study of political philosophy.
In the First Alkibiades, Socrates and Alkibiades, regarded by
posterity as respective paragons of the philosophic life and the
political life, are engaged in conversation together. As the dialogue
commences, Alkibiades in particular is uncertain as to their relationship
with each other. Especially interesting, however, is their implicit
agreement that these matters can be clarified through their speaking with
one another. The reader might first wonder why they even bother
with each other; and further wonder why, if they are properly to be
depicted together at all, it should be in conversation. They could be
shown in a variety of situations. People often settle their differences
by fighting, a challenge to a contest, or a public debate of some kind.
Alkibiades and Socrates converse in private. The man identified with
power and the man identified with knowledge have their showdown on the
plain of speech. The Platonic dialogue form, as will hopefully be
shown in the commentary, is well suited for expressing political
philosophy in that it allows precisely this confrontation. A Platonic
dialogue is different from a treatise in its inclusion of drama. It is
not a straightforward explication for it has particular characters who
are interacting in specific ways. It is words plus action, or speech plus
deed. In a larger sense, then, dialogue implicitly depicts the relation
between speech and deed or theory and practice, philosophy and politics,
and reflecting on its form allows the reader to explore these matters.
In addition, wondering about the particulars of Socratic speech may
shed light upon how theory relates to practice. As one attempts to
discover why Socrates said what he did in the circumstances in which he
did, one becomes aware of the connections between speech and action, and
philosophy and politics. One is also awakened to the important position
of speech as intermediary between thought and action. Speech is unlike
action as has just been indicated. But speech is not like thought either.
It may, for instance, have immediate consequences in action and thus
demand more rigorous control. Philosophy might stand in relation to
thought as politics does to action; understanding 'political philosophy'
then would involve the complex connection between thought and speech, and
speech and action; in other words, the subject matter appropriate to
political philosophy embraces the human condition. The Platonic dialogue
seems to be in the middle ground by way of its form, and it is up to the
curious reader to determine what lies behind the speech, on both the side
of thought and action. Hopefully, in examining the First Alkibiades these
general observations will be made more concrete. A good reader will take
special care to observe the actions as well as the arguments of this
dialogue between the seeker of knowledge and the pursuer of power.
Traditionally, man's ability to reason has been considered the
essential ground for his elevated status in the animal kingdom. Through
reason, both knowledge and power are so combined as to virtually place
man on an altogether higher plane of existence. Man's reason allows him to
control beasts physically much stronger than he; moreover, herds outnumber man,
yet he rules them. Both knowledge and power have long attracted men
recognizably superior in natural gifts. Traditionally, the highest
choice a man could 57 confront was that between the
contemplative and the active life. In order to understand this as the
decision par excellence, one must comprehend the interconnectivity between
knowledge and power as ends men seek. One must also try to ascertain the
essential features of the choice. For example, power (conventionally
understood) without knowledge accomplishes little even for the mighty. As
Thrasymakhos was reminded, without knowledge the efforts of the strong
would chance to work harm upon themselves as easily as not (
Republic). The very structure of the dialogue suggests that the
reader attentive to dramatic detail may learn more about the relation
between power and knowledge and their respective claims to rule.
Alkibiades and Socrates both present arguments, and the very dynamics of
the conversation (e.g., who rules in the dialogue, what means he uses whereby
to secure rule, the development of the relationship between the ruler and
the ruled) promise to provide material of interest to this issue.
B. Knowledge, Power and their Connection through Language As
this commentary hopes to show, the problem of the human use of language
pervades the Platonic dialogue known as the First Alkibiades. Its
ubiquity may indicate that one's ability to appreciate the significance of
speech provides an important measure of one's understanding of the
dialogue. Perhaps the point can be most effectively conveyed by simply
indicating a few of the many kinds of references to speech with which it
is replete. Socrates speaks directly to Alkibiades in complete privacy,
but he employs numerous conversational devices to construct circumstances
other than that in which they find themselves. For example, Alkibiades is
to pretend to answer to a god; Socrates feigns a dialogue with a Persian
queen; and at one point the two imagine themselves in a discussion with
each other in full view of the Athenian ekklesia . Socrates
stresses that he never spoke to Alkibiades before, but that he will now
speak at length. And Socrates emphasizes that he wants to be certain
Alkibiades will listen until he finishes saying what he must say. In the
course of speaking, Socrates employs both short dialogue and long
monologue. Various influences on one's speaking are mentioned, including
mysterious powers that prevent speech and certain matters that inherently
demand to be spoken about. The two men discuss the difference between
asking and answering, talking and listening. They refer to speech about
music (among other arts), speech about number, and speech about letters.
They are importantly concerned with public speaking, implicitly with
rhetoric in all its forms. They reflect upon what an advisor to a city
can speak persuasively about. They discuss the difference between persuading
one and many. The two men refer to many differences germane to speaking,
such as private and public speech, and conspiratorial and dangerous
speech. Fables, poems and various other pictures in language are both
directly employed by Socrates and the subject of more general discussion.
Much of the argument centers on Alkibiades' understanding of what the
words mean and on the implicit presence of values embedded in the
language. They also spend much time discussing, in terms of rhetorical
effect, the tailoring of comments to situations; at one point Socrates
indicates he would not even name Alkibiades' condition if it weren't for
the fact that they are completely alone. They refer to levels of knowledge
among the audience and the importance of this factor in effectively
persuading one or many. And in a larger sense already alluded to,
reflection on Plato's use of the dialogue form itself may also reveal
features of language and aspects of its relation to action.
Socrates seems intent upon increasing Alkibiades' awareness of the
many dimensions to the problem of understanding the role of language in the
life of man. Thus the reader of the First Alkibiades is invited to share
as well in this education about the primary means of education: speech,
that essential human power. Perhaps it may be granted, on the basis of the
above, that the general issue of language is at least a persistent theme
in the dialogue. Once that is recognized it becomes much more obvious
that speech is connected both to power, or the realm of action, and
knowledge, the realm of thought. Speech and power, in the politically relevant
sense, are thoroughly interwoven. The topics of freedom of speech and
censorship are of paramount concern to all regimes, at times forming part
of the very foundation of the polity. This is the most obvious
connection: who is to have the right to speak about what, and who in turn
is to have the power to decide this matter. Another aspect of speech
which is crucial politically seems to be often overlooked and that is the
expression of power in commands, instruction and explanation. The more subtle
side of this political use of speech is that of education. Maybe not all
political men do understand education to be of primary importance, but
that clearly surfaces as one of the things which Alkibiades learns in
this dialogue. At the very least, the politically ambitious man
seeks control over the education of others in order to secure his rule
and make his political achievements lasting. With respect to education,
the skilled user of language has more power than someone who must depend
solely on actions in this regard. Circumstances which are actually unique
may be endlessly reproduced and reconsidered. By using speech to teach,
the speaker gains a power over the listener that might not be available
had he need to rely upon actions. Not only can he tell of things that
cannot be seen (feelings, thoughts and the like), but he can invent
stories about what does not even exist. Myths and fables are
generally recognized to have pedagogic value, and in most societies form
an essential part of the core set of beliefs that hold the people
together. Homer, Shakespeare and the Bible are probably the most
universally recognized examples influencing western society. To mold and
shape the opinions of men through fables, lies and carefully chosen
truths is, in effect, to control them. Such use of language can be
considered a weapon also, propaganda providing a most obvious example.
Hobbes, for instance, recognizes these qualities of speech and labels
them 'abuses.' Most of the abuse appears to be constituted by the deception or
injury caused another; Hobbes all the while 58
demonstrates himself to be master of the insult. Summing up these
observations, one notices that speech plays a crucial part in the realm
of power, especially in terms of education, a paramount political
activity. The connection of speech to knowledge, the realm of
thought is much less in need of comment. The above discussion of
education points to the underlying concern about knowledge. Various
subtleties in language (two of which - metaphor and irony - will be
presently introduced), however, make it more than the instrument through
which knowledge is gained, but actually may serve to increase a person's
interest in attaining knowledge; that is, they make the end, knowledge,
more attractive. A most interesting understanding of speech emerges when
one abstracts somewhat from actual power and actual knowledge to look at
the relationship between the realms of action and thought. Action
and thought, epitomized by politics and philosophy, both require speech
if they are to interact. Politics in a sense affects thought, and
thought should guide action. Both of these exchanges are normally
effected through speech and may be said to describe the bounds of the
subject area of political philosophy. Political philosophy deals with
what men do and think (thus concerning itself with metaphysics, say, to
the extent to which metaphysical considerations affect man). Political
philosophy may be understood as philosophy about politics, or philosophy
that is politic. In this latter sense, speech via the expression of
philosophy in a politic manner, suggests itself to be an essential aspect
to the connection between these two human realms - thought and action. The
reader of the First Alkibiades should be alert to the ways in which
language pertains to the relationship between Socrates and Alkibiades.
For example, their concern for each other and promise to continue
conversing might shed some light on the general requirements and
considerations power and knowledge share. As has already been indicated,
considerable attention is paid to various characteristics of speech in
the discussion between the two men. Rhetoricians, politicians,
philosophers and poets, to mention but a few of those whose activity
proceeds primarily through speech, are aware of the powers of language
and make more or less subtle use of various modes of speech. The First
Alkibiades teaches about language and effectively employs many linguistic
devices. Called for at the outset is some introductory mention of a few
aspects of language, in order that their use in the dialogue may be more
readily reflected upon. Metaphor, a most important example, is a complex
and exciting feature of language. A fresh and vivid metaphor is a most
effective influence on the future perceptions of those listening. It will
often form a lasting impression. Surely a majority of readers are
familiar with the experience of being unable to disregard an
interpretation of something illuminated by an especially bright metaphor.
Many people have probably learned to appreciate the surging power of
language by having themselves become helplessly swamped in a sea of
metaphor. There are two aspects to the power of attracting attention
through language that a master of metaphor, especially, can summon. Both
indicate a rational component to language, but both include many more
features of reason than mere logical deduction. The first is the power
that arises when someone can spark connections between apparently
unrelated parts of the world. This is an interesting and exciting feature
of man's rational capability, deriving its charm partly from the natural
delight people apparently take in having connections drawn between
seemingly distinct objects. The other way in which he can
enthrall an audience is through harvesting some of the vast potential for
metaphors that exist in the natural fertility of any language. There are
metaphors in everyday speech that remain unrecognized (are forgotten) for
so long that disbelief is experienced when their metaphoric nature is revealed.
Men's opinions about much of the world is influenced by metaphor. A most
important set of examples involve the manner in which the invisible is
spoken of almost exclusively through metaphoric language based on the
visible. This curious feature of man's rationality is frequently explored by
Plato. The most famous example is probably Socrates's description of education
as an ascent out of a cave ( Republic), but another perhaps no less
important example occurs in the First Alkibiades . Not only is the
invisible metaphorically explained via something visible, but the metaphor is
that of the organ of sight itself (cf. 132c-133c, where the soul and the
eye are discussed as analogues)! The general attractiveness of
metaphor also demonstrates that man is essentially a creature with
speech. That both man and language must be understood in order for a
philosophic explanation to be given of either, is indicated whenever one
tries to account for the natural delight almost all people take in being
shown new secrets of meaning, in discovering the richness of their own
tongue, and in the reworking of images - from puns and complex word games
to simple metaphors and idiomatic expressions. Man's rationality is bound
up with language, and rationality may not be exclusively or even
primarily logic; it is importantly metaphor. Subtle use is often made of the
captivating power of various forms of expression. One of the most
alluring yet bedevilling of these is irony. Irony never unambiguously
reveals itself but suggests mystery and disguise. This enhances its own
attractiveness and simultaneously increases the charm of the subject on
which irony is played; there seems little doubt that Socrates and Plato
were able to make effective use of this feature for they are
traditionally regarded as the past masters of it. Eluding definition,
irony seems not amenable to a simple classifi- catory scheme. It can
happen in actions as well as speeches, in drama as well as actual life.
It can occur in an infinite variety of situations. One cannot be told how
exactly to look for irony; it cannot be reduced to rules. But to discover its
presence on one's own is thoroughly- exciting (though perhaps biting).
The possibility of double ironies increases the anxiety attending ironic speech
as well as its attractiveness. The merest suggestion of irony can upset an
otherwise tranquil moment of understanding. Probably all listeners of
ironic speech or witnesses of dramatic irony have experienced the
apprehensiveness that follows such an overturned expectation of
simplicity. It appears to be in the nature of irony that knowledge
of its presence in no way diminishes its seductiveness but rather
enhances its effectiveness. Once it is discovered, it has taken hold.
This charming feature of Socrates' powerful speech, his irony, is
acknowledged by Alkibiades even as he recognizes himself to be its principal
target (Symposium 215a-216e). The abundance of irony in the First Alkibiades
makes it difficult for any passage to be interpreted with certitude. It
is likely that the following commentary would be significantly altered
upon the recognition of a yet subtler, more ironic, teaching in the
dialogue. It is thus up to each individual, in the long run, to make a
judgement upon the dialogue, or the interpretation of the dialogue; he
must be wary of and come to recognize the irony on his own. The
Superior Man is a Problem for Political Philosophy One mark of a
great man is the power of making lasting impressions upon people he
meets. Another is so to have handled matters during his life that
the course of after events is continuously affected by what he did.
Winston Churchill Great Contemporaries It may be
provisionally suggested that both Socrates and Alkibiades are superior
men, attracted respectively to knowledge and power. Certainly a surface
reading of the First Alkibiades would support such a judgement. One could
probably learn much about the character of the political man and the
philosophic man by simply observing Socrates and Alkibiades. It stands to
reason that a wisely crafted dialogue representing a discussion between them
would reveal to the careful, reflective reader deeper insight into
knowledge, power and the lives of those dedicated to each.
Socrates confesses that he is drawn to Alkibiades because of the
youth's unquenchable ambition for power. Socrates tells Alkibiades
that 59 the way to realizing his great aspirations is
through the philosopher. Accordingly Socrates proceeds to teach
Alkibiades that the acquisition of knowledge is necessary in order that
his will to power be fulfilled. By the end of the dialogue, Socrates'
words have managed to secure the desired response from the man to whom he
is attracted: Alkibiades in a sense redirects his eros toward Socrates.
This sketch, though superficial, bespeaks the dialogue's promise to unravel
some of the mysterious connections between knowledge and power as these
phenomena are made incarnate in its two exceptional participants.
The significance of the superior man to political philosophy has,
for the most part, been overlooked in the last century or so, the exceptions
being rather notorious given their supposed relation to the largest
political event of the Twentieth Century.^ in contemporary analysis, the
importance of great men, even in the military, has tended to be explained
away rather than understood. This trend may be partly explained by the
egalitarian views of the dominant academic observers of political
things. As the problem was traditionally understood, the superior
man tends to find himself in an uneasy relationship with the city. The
drive, the erotic ambition distinguishes the superior man from most
others, and in that ambition is constituted their real threat to the
polity as well as their real value. No man who observed a war could
persist in the belief that all citizens have a more or less equal effect
on the outcome, on history. A certain kind of superiority becomes readily
apparent in battle and the bestowal of public honors acknowledges its
political value. Men of such manly virtue are of utmost necessity to all
polities, at least in times of extremes. Moreover, political philosophers
have heretofore recognized that there are other kinds of battlefields
upon which superior men exercise their evident excellence. It
is, however, during times of peace that the community experiences fear about
containing the lions,^ recognizing that they constitute an internal
threat to the regime. Thus, during times of peace a crucial test of the
polity is made. A polity's ability to find a fitting place for its noble
men speaks for the nobility of the polity. In many communities, the
best youths turn to narrow specialization in particularized scientific
disciplines, or to legal and academic sophistry, to achieve distinction.
It is not clear whether this is due to the regime's practicing a form of
politics that attracts but then debases or corrupts the better sort of
youth, or because the best men find its politics repugnant and so
redirect their ambitions toward these other pursuits. In any event, the
situation in such communities is a far cry from that of the city which
knows how to rear the lion cubs. Not surprisingly, democracy has always
had difficulty with the superior men. Ironically, today the recognition
of the best men in society arises most frequently among those far from
power or the desire to enter politics. Those who hold office in modern
democracies are not able to uphold the radically egalitarian premises of
the regime and still consistently acknowledge the superiority of some
men. This has repercussions at the base of the polity: the democratic election.
Those bent on holding public office are involved in a dilemma, a man's
claim to office is that he possesses some sort of expertise, yet he
cannot maintain a platform of simple superiority in an egalitarian regime. Many
aspirants are required to seek election on the basis of some feature of
their character (such as their expenditure of effort) instead of their
skills, and such criteria are often in an ambiguous relation to the
duties of office. The problem is yet more far-reaching. Those
regimes committed to the enforced equalization of the unequal
incongruously point with pride to the exceptional individuals in the
history of their polities. A standard justification for communist
regimes, for example, is to refer to the distinguished figures in the
arts and sports of their nation. Implicitly the traditional view has been
retained: great men are one of the measures of a great polity.
A less immediate but more profound problem for political philosophy
is posed by the very concept of the best man. Three aspects of this
problem shall be raised, the last two being more fully discussed as they
arise in commenting upon the First Alkibiades . All who have given
the matter some thought will presumably agree that education is, in part
at least, a political concern, and that the proper nurture of youth is a
problem for political philosophy. Accordingly, an appropriate beginning is the
consideration of the ends of nurture. The question of toward what goal
the nurture of youth is to aim is a question bound up with the views of
what the best men are like. This is inevitably the perspective from which
concerned parents adopt their own education policies. Since the young are
nurtured in one manner or another regardless, all care given to the
choice of nurtures is justified It must be remembered that children
will adopt models of behavior regardless of whether their parents have
guided their choice. As the tradition reminds is, the hero is a
prominent, universal feature in the nurture of children. Precisely for
that reason great care ought to be taken in the formation and
presentation (or representation) of heroic men and deeds. The heroes of
history, of literature and of theater presumably have no slight impact on
the character of youth. For instance canons of honesty are suggested by
the historical account of young Lincoln, codes of valor have been
established by Akhilleus, and young men's opinions about both
partnerships and self-reliance are being influenced by the Western
Cowboy. The religious reverence with which many young observe the
every word and deed of their idols establishes "the hero" as a
problem of considerable significance. One could argue that the hero
should be long dead. His less than noble human characteristics can be
excised from the public memory and his deeds suitably embellished (cf.
Republic 391d.6). Being dead, the possibility of his becoming decadent or
otherwise evil is eliminated. Although attractive, this suggestion
presents a rather large problem, especially in a society in which there
is any timocratic element. The honors bestowed on living men may be
precisely what transforms them into the "flesh and blood" heroes of
the young. Should honors not be delivered until after a man's death,
however (when he cannot turn to drink, women or gambling), it may dampen
many timocrats' aspirations. If the superior man is not recognized during
his lifetime, he must at least obtain some assurance of a lasting honor
after his death. This might be difficult to do, if he is aware of how
quickly and completely the opinions of those bestowing honor, the demos,
shift. Since this turned out to assume great importance historically for
Alkibiades, the reader of the First Alkibiades might be advised to pay
attention to what Socrates teaches the young man about power and glory. The
role of heroes extends beyond their pedagogic function of supplying
models to guide the ambitions of youth. Heroes contribute to the pride of
a family, help secure the glory of a nation and provide a tie to the
ancestral. Recognition of this should suffice to indicate that the
problem of superior men is a significant one for political
philosophy. Presumably any political theory requires some account
of the nature of man. It may already be clear at this point that a
comprehensive philosophic account of man's nature must include a
consideration of the superior man. Traditionally, in fact, the concept of
the best man has been deemed central to an adequate understanding. Many
people who would readily grant the importance of the problem of
understanding human nature consider it to be a sort of statistical norm.
That position does not concede the necessity of looking toward the best
man. For the immediate purpose of analyzing this dialogue, it seems
sufficient that the question be reopened, which may be accomplished
simply by indicating that there are problems with seeing nature as
"the normal." Without any understanding of the best man
(even one who is not actualized), comparison between men would be largely
meaningless and virtually any observation of, or statement about persons
would be ambiguous since they involve terms which imply comparing men on
some standard. There would be no consistent way to evaluate any
deviation whatsoever from the normal. For example, sometimes it is better
to be fierce, sometimes it is not. If one describes a man as being
more capable of fierceness than most men one would not know how to
evaluate him relative to those men, without more information. It is
necessary to have an understanding of the importance of those matters in
which it is better to be fierce, to the best man. If it is important for
the best man to be capable of being very fierce, then, and only then,
it seems, could one judge a man who is able to be fierce at times to be
a better man with respect to that characteristic. Any meaningful
description of him, then depends on the view of the best man. This is
implicit in the common sense understanding anyway. The statement "X
is more capable of fierceness than most men,' prompts an implicit
qualitative judgement in most men's minds on the basis of their views of
the best man. The statement "X has darker hair than most men,"
does not, precisely because most understandings of the best man do not
specify hair color. A concept of the best is necessary if a man is to be
able to evaluate his position vis a vis others and discern with what he
must take pains with himself. The superior man understands this. Aiming to
actualize his potential to the fullest in the direction of his ideal, he
obviously does not compete with the norm. He strives with the best of men
or even with the gods. Whenever he sees two alternatives, he immediately
wonders which is best. The superior youth comes to learn that a central
question of his life is the question of with whom is his contest.
Having raised this second aspect of the philosophic concern
about the best man, one is led quite naturally to a related problem he poses
for political philosophy with respect to what has been a perennial
concern of the tradition, indeed perhaps its guiding question, namely:
"What is the best regime?" The consideration of the best
regime may be in light of a concern for the "whole" in some
sense, or for the citizen or for the "whole" in some sense, or
from some other standpoint. Apart from the problem of how to understand
"the whole," a large philosophic question remains regarding
whether the best for a city is compatible with the best for a man. The
notion of the superior man provides a guide of some sort (as the 'norm'
does not) to the answer regarding what is best for a man; the view of the
best regime suggests (as the 'norm' does not) what is good for a city.
But what must one do if the two conflict? As has become apparent,
the complex question of the priority of the individual or the social
order is raised by the very presence of the superior man in a city. The
dialogue at various points tacitly prompts the reader to consider some of
the intricacies of this issue. Upon considering what is best
for man generally, for a man in particular, and for a city, one notices
that most people have opinions about these things, and not all of them
act upon these opinions. One eventually confronts a prior distinction,
the difference between doing what one thinks is good, knowing what is
good, and doing what one knows is good. While it is not entirely accurate
to designate them respectively as power, knowledge, and knowledge with
power, these terms suggest how the problems mentioned above are carried
through the dialogue in terms of the concern for the superior man.
Provisionally, one may suggest that Alkibiades provides a
classic example of the superior man. In a sense not obvious to the
average Athenian, so too is Socrates. They both pose distinct
political problems, and they present interesting philosophic
puzzles as well. But there is another reason, no less compelling
for being less apparent, that recommends the study of the First
Alkibiades . Since antiquity the First Alkibiades has been
subtitled, "On the Nature of Man." At first blush this subtitle
63 is not as fitting as the subtitles of some other aporetic
dialogues. The question "What is the nature of Man?" is
neither explicitly asked nor directly addressed by either Socrates
or Alkibiades, yet the reader is driven to consider it. One might
immediately wonder why " Alkibiades " is the title of a
dialogue on the nature of man, and why Socrates chooses to 64
talk about man as such with Alkibiades. Perhaps Alkibiades is
particularly representative, or especially revealing about man. Perhaps
he is unique or perhaps he is inordinately in need of such a discourse.
One must also try to understand Socrates' purpose, comprehend the
significance of any of Alkibiades' limitations, and come to an
understanding of what the character of his eros is (e.g., is it directed
toward power, glory, or is it just a great eros that is yet to be
directed). In the course of grappling with such matters, one also
confronts one's own advantages and liabilities for the crucial and
demanding role of dialogic partner. Perhaps the very things a
reader fastens his attentions upon are indicative of something essential
about his own particular nature. If the reader is to come to a decision
as to whether the subtitle affixed in antiquity to the dialogue is indeed
appropriate, these matters must be judged in the course of considering
the general question of whether the dialogue is indeed about "the
nature of man." The mystery and challenge of a dialogue may serve to
enhance its attractiveness. One of the most intriguing philosophic
problems of the First Alkibiades may well be the question of whether it
is in fact about man's nature. With a slight twist, the reader is faced
with another example of Socrates' revision of Meno's paradox ( Meno 80e).
Sometimes when a reader finds what he is looking for, discovering
something he was hoping to discover, it is only because his narrowness of
attention or interest prevented him from seeing conflicting material, and
because he expended his efforts on making what he saw conform to his
wishes. The good reader of a dialogue will, as a rule, take great care to
avoid such myopia. In order to find out whether the dialogue is primarily
about the nature of man (and if so, what is teaches about the nature of
man), the prudent reader will caution himself against begging the
question, so to speak. If one sets out ignorant of what the nature of man
is, one may have trouble recognizing it when one finds it. Conversely, to
complete the paradox, to ask how and where to find it (in other words,
inquiring as to how one will recognize it), implies that one ought
already know what to expect from knowledge of it. This could be
problematic, for the inquiry may be severely affected by a preconceived
opinion about which question will be answered by it. "Philosophical
prejudices" should have no part in the search for the nature of
man. This is a difficulty not faced to the same extent by other
aporetic dialogues which contain a question of the form "What
is _?" Once this first question is articulated, the normal way
of pursuing the answer is open to the reader. He may proceed naturally
from conventional opinion, say, and constantly refine his views according
to what he notices. It appears, however, that the reader of the First
Alkibiades cannot be certain that it will address the nature of
man, and the dialogue doesn't seem to directly commence with a
consideration of conventional opinions. Most readers of the dialogue know
what a man is insofar as they could point to one (111b,ff.), but very few
know what man is. Perhaps as the dialogue unfolds the careful reader will
be educated to a point beyond being ignorant of how to look for something
that he mightn't recognize even when he found it. By this puzzle the
reader is drawn more deeply into the adventure of touching on the
mysteries of his own nature. To borrow a metaphor from a man who likely
knew more about Socrates and Alkibiades than has anyone else before or
since, the same spirit of adventure permeates the quest for knowledge of
man as characterizes sailing through perilous unknown waters on a tiny,
frail craft, attempting to avoid perishing on the rocks. One can only
begin with what one knows, such as some rudimentary views about
navigation technique and more or less correct opinions about one's home
port. Upon coming to appreciate the difficulties of knowing, fully and
honestly, one's own nature, one realizes how treacherous is the journey.
In all likelihood one will either be swamped, or continue to sail
forever, or cling to a rock under the illusion of having reached the far
shore. This thesis is an introduction to the First Alkibiades .
Through their discussion, and more importantly through his own
participation in their discussion, Socrates and Alkibiades reveal to the
reader something about the nature of man. Both the question of man's
nature and the problem of the superior man have been neglected in recent
political theory; especially the connection between them has been
overlooked. To state the thesis of this essay with only slight
exaggeration: an understanding of politics - great and small - is impossible
without knowledge of man, and knowledge of man is impossible without
knowledge of the best of men. This thesis, investigating the dialogue
entitled the First Alkibiades, focusses on certain things the dialogue
seems to be about, without pretending to be comprehensive. It is like the
dialogue in one respect at least: it is written in the interest of
opening the door to further inquiry, and not with subsequently closing
that door. Through a hopefully careful, critical reading of the First
Alkibiades, I attempt to show that the nature of man and the superior man
are centrally tied both to each other and to any true understanding of
(great) political things. The spirit of the critique is inspired by the
definition of a "good critic" ascribed to Anatole France:
"A good critic is one who tells the story of his mind's adventures
among the masterpieces." The First Alkibiades begins abruptly with the
words "Son of Kleinias, I suppose you are wondering..." The
reader does not know where the dialogue is taking place; nor is he
informed as to how Socrates and Alkibiades happened to meet on this
occasion. Interlocutors in other direct dramatic dialogues may sooner or
later reveal this information in their speeches. In narrated dialogues,
Socrates or another participant may disclose the circumstances of the
discussion. In the case of this dialogue, however, no one does. The
reader remains uncertain that it is even taking place in Athens proper
and not in the countryside about the city. It may be reasonable to
suggest that in this case the setting of the dialogue does not matter, or
more precisely, the fact that there is no particular setting is rather
what matters. The discussion is not dependent on a specific set of
circumstances and the dialogue becomes universally applicable. The
analysis will hopefully show the permanence of the problems thematically
dealt with in the dialogue. Philosophically it is a discussion in no way
bound by time or place. Further support is lent to this suggestion by the
fact that there is no third person telling the story and Socrates is not
reporting it to anyone. Nobody else is present. Plato
presents to the reader a dramatic exchange which is emphatically private.
Neither Socrates nor Alkibiades have divulged the events of this first
dialogic encounter between the man and the youth. The thorough
privacy of the discussion as well as the silence concerning the setting help to
impute to the reader an appreciation of the autonomous nature of the
discourse. There is a sense in which this dialogue could happen whenever
two such people meet. Consequently, the proposition implicitly put forth
to the reader is that he be alive to the larger significance of the
issues treated; the very circumstances of the dialogue, as mentioned
here, sufficiently support such a suggestion so as to place the onus for
the argument in the camp of those who want to restrict the relevance of
the dialogue to Socrates and Alkibiades in 5th century Athens.
That the two are alone is a feature that might be important to much
of the reader's interpretation, for attention is drawn to the fact by the
speakers themselves. Such privacy may have considerable philosophic
significance, as it has a clear effect on the suitability of some of the
material being discussed (e.g., 118b.5). There is no need for concern
about the effect of the discussion upon the community as there might be
were it spoken at the ekklesia ; the well-being of other individuals need
not dissuade them from examining radical challenges to conventional
views, as might be the case were they conversing in front of children or
at the marketplace; and there is no threat to either participant, as there
might be were they to insult or publicly challenge someone's authority.
Conventional piety and civic-mindedness need place no limitations on the
depth of the inquiry; the only limits are those implicit in the willingness and
capability of the participants. For example, an expectation of pious
respect for his guardian, Perikles, could well interfere with Alkibiades'
serious consideration of good statesmanship. The fact that they are
unaccompanied, that Perikles is spoken of as still living, and that
Socrates first mentions Perikles in a respectful manner (as per 118c,
104b-c), permits a serious (if finally not very flattering) examination
of his qualifications. Socrates and Alkibiades are alone and are not
bound by any of the restrictions normally faced in discussions with an
audience. The reader's participation, then, should be influenced by this spirit
of privacy, at least in so far as he is able to grasp the political
significance of the special "silence" of private
conversation. Somewhere in or about their usual haunts, Socrates
and Alkibiades chanced to meet. If their own pronouncements can be taken
literally, they were in the process of seeking each other. Alkibiades had
been about to address Socrates but Socrates began first (104c-d). Since
his daimon or god had only just ceased preventing him from talking
to Alkibiades (105d), Socrates was probably waiting at Alkibiades'
door (106e.10). Although the location is unknown, the reader
may glean from various of their comments a vague idea of the time of the
dialogue. In this case, it appears, the actual dramatic date of the
dialogue is of less importance than some awareness of the substance of
the evidence enabling one to deduce it. Alkibiades is not yet twenty
(123d) but he must be close to that age for he intends shortly to make
his first appearance before the Athenian ekklesia (106c). Until today
Socrates had been observing and following the youth in silence; they had
not spoken to each other. This corroborates the suggestion that the
action of the dialogue takes place before the engagement at Potidaia (thus
before the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War, i.e. before 432 B.C.) for
they knew each other by that time ( Symposium, 219e). Perikles and his
sons are referred to as though they were living, offering
further confirmation that the dramatic date is sometime before or about
the onset of the war with Sparta. The action of the dialogue must take
place before that of the Protagoras,^ since Socrates has by then a
reputation of sorts among the young men, whereas Alkibiades seems not to
have heard very much of Socrates at the beginning of the First Alkibiades
. Socrates addresses Alkibiades as the son of Kleinias. This
perhaps serves as a reminder to the young man who believes himself so
self- sufficient as to be in need of no one (104a). In the first place,
his uniqueness is challenged by this address. His brother (mention of
whom occurs later in the dialogue - 118e.4) would also properly turn
around in response to Socrates' words. More importantly, however, it
indicates that he too descended from a family. His ancestry is traced to
Zeus (121a), his connections via his kin are alleged to be central to
his self-esteem (104b), and even his mother, Deinomakhe, assumes a role
in the discussion (123c) . He is attached to a long tradition.
Through observation of Alkibiades' case in particular, the fact
that a man's nature is tied to descent is made manifest. Alkibiades lost
his father, Kleinias, when he was but a child (112c) . He was made a ward
of Perikles and from him received his nurture. For most readers, drawing
attention to parentage would not distinguish nature from nurture. One is
a child of one's parents both in terms of that with which one is born,
one's biological/genetic inheritance, and of that which one learns. In
the case of Alkibiades, however, to draw attention to his father is to
draw attention to his heredity, whereas it was Perikles who raised him.
The philosophic distinction between nature and nurture is emphasized by
the apparent choice of addresses open to Socrates. Alkibiades is both the
son of Kleinias and the ward of Perikles. It seems fitting that a dialogue
on human nature begin by drawing attention to two dominating features of
all men's characters, their nature and their nurture. Socrates
believes that Alkibiades is wondering. He is curious about the heretofore
hidden motives for Socrates' behavior. As a facet of a rational nature,
wonder or curiosity separates men from the beasts. Wondering about the
world is characteristic of children long before they fully attain reason,
though it seems to be an indication of reason; most adults retain at
least some spark of curiosity about something. The reader is reminded
that the potential for wonder/reason is what is common to men but not
possessed by beasts, and it serves to distinguish those whom we call
human. Reason in general, and wonder in particular, pose a rather
complex problem for giving an account of the nature of man. Though
enabling one to distinguish men from beasts, it also allows for distinctions
between men. Some are more curious than others and some are far more
rational than others. The philosopher, for example, appears to be
dominated by his rational curiosity about the true nature of things. Some
people wonder only to the extent of having a vague curiosity about their
future. It appears that the criteria that allow one to hierarchically
differentiate man from beast also provide for the rank-ordering of men.
Some people would be "more human" than others, following this
line of analysis. This eatablishes itself as an issue in understanding
what, essentially, man is, and it may somehow be related to the
general problem of the superior man, since his very existence invites
comparison by a qualitative hierarchy. He might be the man who portrays
the human characteristics in the ideal/proper quantities and proportions.
He may thus aid our understanding of the standard for humans.
Another opportunity to examine this issue will arise upon reaching the
part of the dialogue wherein Socrates points out that Alkibiades can come
to know himself after he understands the standard for superior men, after
he understands with whom he is to compete (119c,ff.). There
are at least two other problems with respect to the analysis of human
curiosity. The first is that it seems to matter what people are curious
about. Naturally children have a general wonder about things, but at a
certain stage of development, reason reveals some questions are more
important than and prior to others. It seems clear that wondering about
the nature of the world (i.e., what it really is), its arche (basic
principles), and man's proper place in it, or the kind of wondering
traditionally associated with the philosophic enterprise, is of a higher
order than curiosity about beetles, ancient architecture, details of
history, or nuances of linguistic meaning. This further complicates the
problems of rank-ordering men. The second problem met with in
giving an account of wonder and its appropriate place in life is that
next to philosophers and children, few lives are more dominated by a
curiosity of sorts than that of the "gossiping housewife." She
is curious about the affairs of her neighbors and her neighbor's
children. The passion for satisfying that curiosity is often so strong as
to literally dominate her days. It seems impossible to understand such strong
curiosity as "merely idle," but one would clearly like to
account for it as essentially different from the curiosity of the
philosopher. That the reader may not simply disregard consideration of
gossiping women, or consider it at best tangential, is borne out by the
treatment of curiosity in the First Alkibiades. It is indicated in
the dialogue that daughters, wives and mothers must figure into an account
of wonder. There are seven uses of 'wonder' 6 V (
thaumadzein ). The first three involve Socrates and Alkibiades attesting to
Alkibiades' wonder, including a rare pronouncement by Socrates of his
having certain knowledge: he knows well that Alkibiades is wondering
(104c.4; 103a.1, 104d.4). The last three are all about women wondering. Keeping
in mind the centrality of wondering to the nature of the philosopher (it
seems to be a chief thing in his nature), one sees that careful attention
must be given to curiosity. We have other reasons to suspect that
femininity is in some way connected to philosophy, and perhaps a careful
consideration of the treatment of women in the dialogue would shed light
on the problem. There is a sense in which wonder is a most
necessary prerequisite to seeking wisdom (cf. also Theaitetos 155d). To
borrow the conclusion of Socrates' argument with Alkibiades concerning
his coming to know justice (106d-e; 109e), one has to be aware of a lack
of something in order to seek it. A strong sense of wonder, or an
insatiable curiosity drives one to seek knowledge. This type of intense
wondering may conceivably be a major link in the connection between the reason
and the spirit of the psyche (cf. Republic 439e-440a). In the Republic these
two elements are said to be naturally allied, but the reader is never
explicitly told how they are linked, or what generally drives or draws
the spirit toward reason. An overpowering sense of wonder seems the most
immediate link. Perhaps another link is supplied when the importance of the
connection of knowledge to power is recognized; a connection between the
two parts of the psyche might be supplied by a great will to power, for
power presumably requires knowledge to be useful. However, final
judgement as to how the sense of wonder and the desire for power differ in
this regard, and which, if any, properly characterizes the connections
between the parts of Alkibiades' psyche must await the reader's
reflection on the dialogue as a whole. Likewise, his evaluation as to
which class of men contains Alkibiades will be properly made after he has
finished the dialogue. Socrates believes that Alkibiades is
wondering. Precisely that feature of Alkibiades' nature is the one with
which Socrates chooses to begin the discussion and therewith their
relationship. One may thus explore the possibility that wondering is what
distinguishes Alkibiades, or essentially characterizes him. The
discussion to this point would admit of a number of possibilities.
Curiosity could set Alkibiades apart from other political figures,
or it may place him above men generally, indicating that he is one of the
best or at least potentially one of the best men - should
reason/curiosity prove to be characteristic of the best. Alkibiades'
ostensible wondering could bespeak the high spirit which characterized
his entire life; perhaps one of the reasons he would choose to die rather
than remain at his present state (105a-b) is that he is curious to see
how far he can go, how much he can rule. Socrates remarks that he
is Alkibiades' lover; he is the first of Alkibiades' lovers. Socrates
suggests two features of his manner which, taken together, would be
likely to have roused the wonder of Alkibiades. Socrates, the first
lover, is the only one who remains; all the other lovers have forsaken
Alkibiades. Secondly, Socrates never said a word to Alkibiades during his
entire youth, even though other lovers pushed through hoardes of people
to speak with Alkibiades. A youth continuously surrounded by a crowd of
admirers would probably wish to know the motives of a most constant,
silent observer - if he noticed him. Socrates has at last, after many
years, spoken up. Assuring Alkibiades that no human cause kept him
from speaking, Socrates intimates that a daimonic power had somehow
opposed his uttering a single word. The precise nature of the power is
not divulged. Obviously not a physical restraint such as a gag, it
can nevertheless affect Socrates' actions. Socrates, one is led to
believe, is a most rational man. If it was not a human cause that kept
him from speaking, then Socrates' reason did not cause him to keep
silent. It was not reason that opposed his speech. Whatever the daimonic
power was, it was of such a force that it could match the philosopher's
reason. An understanding of how Socrates' psyche would be under the power of
this daimonic sign would be of great interest to a student of man. In
at least Socrates' case, this power is comparable in force to the power
of reason. Socrates tells Alkibiades that the power of the daimon
in opposing his speaking was the cause of his silence for so many
years. The reader does not forget, however, that the lengthy
silence was not only Socrates'. Something else, perhaps less divine, kept
Alkibiades silent. It is noteworthy that the first power
Socrates chooses to speak of with Alkibiades is a non-human one, and one
which takes its effect by restraining speech. Alkibiades is interested in
having control over the human world; the kind of power he covets involves
military action and political management. Young men seem not altogether
appreciative of speech. Even when they acknowledge the power made
available by a positive kind of rhetorical skill, they do not appear
especially concerned with any negative or restraining power that limits speech
such as the power of this daimon. Not only is talk cheap, but it is for
women and old men, in other words, for those who aren't capable of
actually doing anything. The first mention of power ( dynamis) in the
dialogue cannot appear to Alkibiades to pertain to his interest in ruling
the human world, but it does offer the reader both an opportunity for
reflection on power in general, and a promise to deal with the connection
between power and speech in some fashion. What the dialogue teaches about
language and power will be more deeply plumbed when Alkibiades learns the
extent of the force of his words with Socrates (112e, ff.).
According to Socrates, Alkibiades will be informed of the power of
this daimonic sign at some later time. Since apparently the time is not
right now, either Socrates is confident that he and Alkibiades will
continue to associate, or he intends to tell Alkibiades later during the course
of this very dialogue. Socrates, having complied with his daimon, comes
to Alkibiades at the time when the opposition ceases. He appears to be
well enough acquainted with the daimon to entertain good hopes that it
will not oppose him again. By simple observation over the years,
Socrates has received a general notion of Alkibiades' behavior toward his
lovers. There were many and they were high-minded, but they fled from
Alkibiades' surpassing self-confidence. Socrates remarks that he wishes
to have the reasons for this self-confidence come to the fore. By
bringing Alkibiades' reasons to speech, Socrates implies, among other
things, that this sense of superiority does not have a self-evident basis
of support. He also suggests that there is a special need to have reasons
presented. Perhaps Alkibiades' understanding of his own feelings either
is wrong or insufficient; at any rate, they have previously been left unstated.
If they are finally revealed, Alkibiades will be compelled to assess
them. Socrates proceeds to list the things upon which Alkibiades prides
himself. Interestingly, given his prior claim that he learned
Alkibiades' manner through observation, most of the things Socrates
presently mentions are not things one could easily learn simply through
observation of actions. One cannot see the mobility of Alkibiades' family
or the power of his connections. More important to Socrates' point, one
cannot see his pride in his family. He might "look proud," but
others must determine the reason. It is difficult to act proud of one's
looks, family and wealth while completely abstaining from the use of
language. It has thus become significant to their relationship that
Socrates was also able to observe Alkibiades' speech, for it is through
speech that pride in one's family can be made manifest. By listing these
features, Socrates simultaneously shows Alkibiades that he has given
considerable thought to the character of the youth. He is able to explain
the source of a condition of Alkibiades' psyche without having ever
spoken to Alkibiades. Only a special sort of observer, it seems, could
accomplish that. Alkibiades presumes he needs no human assistance
in any of his 68 affairs; beginning with the body and ending
with the soul, he believes his assets make him self-sufficient. As all
can see, Alkibiades is not 69 in error believing his
beauty and stature to be of the highest quality. Secondly, his family is
one of the mightiest in the city and his city the greatest in Greece. He
has numerous friends and relatives through his father and equally through
his mother, who are among the best of men. Stronger than the advantages
of all those kinsmen, however, is the power he envisions coming to him
from Perikles, the guardian of Alkibiades and his brother. Perikles can
do what he likes in Greece and even in barbarian countries. That kind of
power - the power to do as one likes - Alkibiades is seeking (cf. 134e-135b).
The last item Socrates includes in the list is the one Alkibiades least
relies on for his self-esteem, namely his wealth. Socrates
places the greatest emphasis on Alkibiades' descent and the advantages
that accrue therefrom. This is curious for he was purportedly supplying
Alkibiades' reasons for feeling self-sufficient; if this is a true list,
he has done the contrary, indicating Alkibiades to be quite dependent
upon his family. Even so, the amount of stress on the family appears to
exceed that necessary for showing Alkibiades not to be self-sufficient.
As has already been observed, this is accomplished by paying close
attention to the words at the start of the dialogue. At this point,
Alkibiades' father's relations and friends, his mother's relations and
friends, his political connections through his kinsmen and his uncle's great
power are mentioned as well as the position of his family in the city and
of his city in the Hellenic world. Relative to the other resources
mentioned, Socrates goes into considerable depth with regards to
Alkibiades' descent. It is literally the central element in the set of
features that Socrates wanted to be permitted to name as the cause of
Alkibiades' self-esteem. Quite likely then, the notion of descent and its
connections to human nature (as Alkibiades' descent is connected, by
Socrates' implication, to qualities of his nature) are more important to
the understanding of the dialogue than appears at the surface. This
discussion will be renewed later at the opening of the longest speech in
the First Alkibiades . At that point both participants claim divine
ancestry immediately after agreeing that better natures come from
well-born families (120d-121a). That will afford the reader an
opportunity to examine why they might both think their descent significant. Socrates
has offered this account of Alkibiades' high-mindedness suggesting they
are Alkibiades' resources "beginning with the body and ending with
the soul." In fact, after mentioning the excellence of his physical
person, Socrates talks of Alkibiades' parents, polis, kinsmen, guardian,
and wealth. Unless the reader is to understand a man's soul to be made by
his family (and that is not said explicitly), these things do not even
appear to lead toward a consideration of the qualities of his soul, but
lead in a different direction. One might expect a treatment of such
things as Alkibiades' great desires, passions, virtues and thoughts, not
of his kinsfolk and wealth. Perhaps the reader is not yet close enough to
an understanding of the human soul. At this point he may not be prepared
to discern the qualities of soul in Alkibiades which would properly be
styled "great." Socrates and Alkibiades may provide instruction
for the reader in the dialogue, so that by the end of his study he will
be better able to make such a judgement were he to venture one now, it
might be based on conventional opinions of greatness. By not explicitly
stating Alkibiades' qualities of soul at this point, the reader is
granted the opportunity to return again, later, and supply them himself.
The psyche is more difficult to perceive than the body, and as is
discussed in the First Alkibiades (129a-135e), this significantly compounds the
problems of attaining knowledge of either. If this is what Socrates is
indicating by apparently neglecting the qualities of Alkibiades' soul, he
debunks Alkibiades' assets as he lists them. The features more
difficult to discern, if discerned, would be of a higher rank. Fewer
men would understand them. Socrates, however, lists features of Alkibiades
that are plain for all to see. The qualities that even the vulgar can
appreciate, when said to be such are not what the superior youth would most
pride himself upon. The many are no very serious judges of a man's
qualities. In view of these advantages, Alkibiades has elevated
himself and overpowered his lovers, and according to Socrates, Alkibiades
is well aware of how it happened that they fled, feeling inferior to his
might. Precisely on account of this Socrates can claim to be certain
that Alkibiades is wondering about him. Socrates says that he "knows
well" that Alkibiades must be wondering why he has not gotten rid of
his eros . What he could possibly be hoping for, now that the rest have
fled is a mystery. Socrates, by remaining despite the experience of the
rest, has made himself intriguing. This is especially the case given his
analysis of Alkibiades. How could Socrates possible hope to compete
with Alkibiades in terms of the sort of criteria important to
Alkibiades? He is ugly, has no famous family, and is poor. Yet
Socrates had not been overpowered; he does not feel inferior. Here is
indeed a strange case, or so it must seem to the arrogant young man.
Socrates has managed to flatter Alkibiades by making him out to be
obviously superior to any of his (other) lovers - but he also places
himself above Alkibiades, despite the flattery. In his first
speech to Alkibiades, Socrates has praised him and yet undercut some of
his superiority. He has aroused Alkibiades' interest both in Socrates and
in Socrates' understanding of him. It is conceivable that no other
admirer of Alkibiades has been so frank, and it is likely that none have
been so strange - to the point of alluding to daimons. Yet something
about Socrates and Socrates' peculiar erotic attraction to Alkibiades
makes Alkibiades interested in hearing more from the man. It is
clear that he cannot want to listen merely because he enjoys being
flattered and gratified, for Socrates' speech is ironic in its praise. He
takes even as he gives. Philosophically, this op ening speech
contains a reference to most of the themes a careful reader will
recognize as being treated in the dialogue. Some of these should be
listed to give an indication of the depths of the speech that
remain to be plumbed. The reader is invited to examine the nature of
power - what it is essentially and through what it affects human action.
As conventionally understood, and as it is attractive to Alkibiades,
power is the ability to do what one wants. According to such an account,
it seems Perikies has power. This notion of power is complicated by the
non-human power referred to by Socrates which stops one from doing what
one wants. Power is also shown to be connected to speech. Another closely
related theme is knowledge. All of these are connected explicitly in that
the daimonic power knew when to allow speech . In the opening speech by
Socrates, he claims to know something, and the reader is introduced to a
consideration of observation and speech as sources of knowledge. He is
also promised a look at what distinguishes one's perception of oneself
from other's opinions of one, through Socrates' innuendo that his
perception of Alkibiades may not be what Alkibiades perceives himself to
be. There is also reference to a difference in ability to perceive
people's natures - namely the many's ability is contrasted with
Socrates', as is the ability of the high- minded suitors. The dialogue
will deal with this theme in great depth. Should it turn out that this
ability is of essential importance to a man's fulfillment, the reader is
hereby being invited to examine what are the essentially different
natures of men. Needless to say, the reader of the dialogue should return
again and again to this speech, to the initial treatment of these
fundamental questions. The relationship of body to soul, as well as
the role of 'family' and ' polis ' in the account of man's nature, are
introduced here in the opening words. They indicate the vastness of the
problem of understanding the nature of man. Socrates and Alkibiades seem
superior to everyone else, but they too are separate. Socrates is shown
to be unique in some sense and he cites especially strange causes of his
actions. There is no mention of philosophy or philosopher in this
dialogue, but the reader is introduced to a strange man whose eros is
different from other men, including some regarded as quite excellent, and who
is motivated by an as yet unexplained daimonic power. On
another level, the form of the speech and the delivery itself attest to
some of the thought behind the appropriateness or inappropriateness of saying
certain things in certain situations. Even the mechanics or logistics of
the discussion prove illuminating to the problem. In addition, the very
fact that they are conversing tog ether and not depicted as
fighting together in battle, or even debating with each other in the
public assembly, renders it possible that speech - and perhaps even a
certain kind of speech (e.g., private, dialectical) - is essential to the
relation between the two superior men said to begin in the First
Alkibiades . Finally (though not to suggest that the catalogue of
themes is complete), one must be awakened to the significance of the
silence being finally broken. With Socrates' first words, the dialogue
has begun to take place. Socrates and Alkibiades have commenced their
verbal relationship. There is plenty of concern in the dialogue about
language: what is to be said and not said, and when and how it is to be
said. The first speech by Socrates in the First Alkibiades has alerted the
reader to this. Alkibiades addresses Socrates for the first
time. Though already cognizant of his name, Alkibiades does not appear to
know anything else about him. To Socrates' rather strange introduction he
responds that he was ready to speak with reference to the same issue;
Socrates has just slightly beat him. Alkibiades seems to have been
irritated by Socrates' constant presence and was on the brink of asking
him why he kept bothering him. Socrates' opening remarks have probably
mitigated his annoyance somewhat and allowed him to express himself in
terms of curiosity instead. He admits, indeed he emphatically affirms
(104d), that he is wondering about Socrates' motives and suggests he
would be glad to be informed. Alkibiades thus expresses the reader's own
curiosity; one wonders in a variety of respects about what Socrates'
objective might be. Alkibiades might perceive different possibilities
than the reader since he seems thoroughly unfamiliar with Socrates. A
reader might wonder if Socrates wanted to influence Alkibiades, and to
what end. Did Socrates want to make Alkibiades a philosopher; what kind
of attraction did he feel for Alkibiades; why did he continue to
associate with him? These questions and more inevitably confront the
reader of the First Alkibiades even though they might at first appear to
be outside the immediate bonds of the dialogue. For these sorts of
questions are carried to a reading of the dialogue, as it were; and given
the notoriety of Alkibiades and of Socrates, it is quite possible that
they were intended to be in the background of the reader's thoughts.
Perhaps the dialogue will provide at least partial answers.
If Alkibiades is as eager to hear as he claims, Socrates can assume that
he will pay attention to the whole story. Socrates will not then have to
expend effort in keeping Alkibiades' attention, for Alkibiades has
assured him he is interested. Alkibiades answers that he certainly shall
listen. Socrates, not quite ready to begin, insists that Alkibiades
be prepared for perhaps quite a lengthy talk. He says it would be
no wonder if the stopping would be as difficult as the starting
was. One does not expect twenty years of non-stop talk from
Socrates, naturally, and so one is left to wonder - despite (or
perhaps because of) his claim that 70 there is no cause
for wonder - why he is making such a point about this beginning and the
indeterminacy of the ending. The implication is that there remains some
acceptable and evident relation between beginnings and endings for the
reader to discern. In an effort to uncover what he is, paradoxically, not
to wonder about, the careful reader will keep track of the various things
that are begun and ended and how they are begun and ended in the First
Alkibiades . Although innocuous here, Alkibiades' response "speak
good man, I will listen," gives the reader a foreshadowing of his
turning around at the end of the dialogue. There it is suggested that
Alkibiades will silently listen to Socrates. Until the time of the
dialogue the good man has been silent, listening and observing while any
talking has been done by Alkibiades or his suitors. Assured
of a listener, Socrates begins. He is convinced that he must speak.
However difficult it is for a lover to talk to a man who disdains lovers,
Socrates must be daring enough to speak his mind. This is the first
explicit indication the reader is given concerning certain qualities of
soul requisite for speaking, not only for acting. It also suggests some
more or less urgent, but undisclosed, necessity for Socrates to speak at
this time. Should Alkibiades seem content with the above mentioned
possessions, Socrates is confident that he would be released from his love for
Alkibiades - or so he has persuaded himself. Socrates is attracted to the
unlimited ambition Alkibiades possesses. The caveat introduced by Socrates
(about his having so persuaded himself) draws attention to the difference
between passions and reason as guides to action, and perhaps also a
difference between Socrates and other men. For the most part one cannot
simply put an end to passions on the basis of reason. One may be able to
substitute another passion or appetite, but it is not as easy to rid
oneself of it. However, instead of having to put away his love, Socrates
is going to lay Alkibiades' thought open to him. Socrates
intends to reveal to Alkibiades the youth's ambition. This can only be useful
in the event that he has never considered his goals under precisely the
same light that Socrates will shed on them. By doing this Socrates
will also accomplish his intention of proving to Alkibiades that he has
paid careful attention to the youth (105a). Alkibiades should be in a
position to recognize Socrates' concern by the end of this speech; this
suggests a capability on the part of both. Many cannot admit the motives
of their own actions, much less reveal to someone else that person's own
thoughts. Part of the significance of the following discussion,
therefore, is to indicate both Socrates' attentiveness to Alkibiades and
Alkibiades' perception of it. Should some (unnamed) god ask Alkibiades
if he would choose to die rather than be satisfied with the possessions
he has, he would choose to die. That is Socrates' belief. If Socrates is
right, it bespeaks a high ambition for Alkibiades, and it does so whether
or not Alkibiades thought of it before. His possessions, mentioned so
far, include beauty and stature, great kinsmen and noble family, and
great wealth (though the last is least important to him). In an obvious
sense, Alkibiades must remain content with some of what he has. He
cannot, for example, acquire a greater family. His ambition, then, as
Socrates indicates, is for something other than he possesses. The hopes
of Alkibiades' life are to stand before the Athenian ekklesia and prove
to them that he is more honorable than anyone, ever, including Perikles.
As one worthy of honor he should be given the greatest power, and
having the greatest power here, he would be the greatest among Greeks and
even among the barbarians of the continent. If the god should
further propose that Alkibiades could be the ruler of Europe on the
condition that he not pass into Asia, Socrates believes Alkibiades would
not choose to live. He desires to fill the world with his name and power.
Indeed Socrates believes that Alkibiades thinks no man who ever lived
worthy of discussion besides Kyros and Xerxes ( the Great Kings of
Persia). Of this Socrates claims to be sure, not merely supposing - those
are Alkibiades' hopes. There are a number of interesting features
about the pretense of Alkibiades responding to a god. Alkibiades might
not admit the extent of his ambition to the Athenian people who would
fear him, or even to his mother, who would fear for him; it therefore
would matter who is allegedly asking the question. It is a god, an
unidentified god whose likes and dislikes thus remain unknown. Alkibiades
cannot take into account the god's special province and adjust his answer
accordingly. The significance of the god is most importantly that
he is more powerful than Alkibiades can be. But why could not Socrates
have simply asked him, or, failing that, pretend to ask him as he does in
a moment? It is possible that speaking with an omniscient god would allow
Alkibiades to reveal his full desire; he would not be obliged to hid his
ambition from such a god as he would from most men in democratic Athens.
But it is also plausible that Socrates includes the god in the discussion
for the purpose of limiting Alkibiades' ambition (or perhaps as a
standard for power/knowledge). Not to suggest that Socrates means to
moderate what Alkibiades can do, he nevertheless must have realistic
bounds put upon his political ambition. Assume, for the moment, that more
questions naturally follow the proposal of limiting his rule to Europe.
If Alkibiades were talking to Socrates (instead of to a deity with
greater power), he might not stop at Asia. If he thought of it, he might
wish to control the entire world and its destiny. He would dream that
fate or chance would even be within the scope of his ambition. The
god in this example is presented as being in a position to determine
Alkibiades' fate; he can limit the alternatives open to Alkibiades and
can have him die. With Socrates' illustration, Alkibiades is confronting
a being which has a power over him that he cannot control. The young man
is at least forced to pretend to be in a situation in which he cannot
even decide which options are available. It is important for a political ruler
to realize the limits placed on him by fate. The notion that the
god is asking Alkibiades these questions makes it unlikely that
Alkibiades would answer that he should like to rule heaven and earth, or
even that he would like supreme control of earth (for that is likely to
be the god's own domain). Alkibiades probably won't suggest to a god that
he wants to rule Fate or the gods of the Iliad who hold the fate of humans
so much in hand. Chance cannot be controlled by humans, either
through persuasion or coersion. It can only have its effect reduced
by knowledge. Alkibiades' political ambitions have to be moderated
to fit what is within the domain of fate and chance and to be
educated about the limits of the politically possible. Socrates, by
pretending that a god asks the questions, can allow Alkibiades to admit
the full extent of his ambitions over humans, but it also serves to
keep him within the arena of human politics. If he would have
answered Socrates or a trusted friend in discussion, he might not
have easily accepted that limit. It is necessary for any
politically ambitious man, and doubly so if he is young, to
cultivate a respect for the limits of what can politically be
accomplished under one's full control. This may have helped Alkibiades
establish a political limit m his own mind. Another feature of the
response to the god which should be noted is that it marks the second of
three of Socrates' exaggerated claims to know aspects of Alkibiades'
soul. In the event that the reader should have missed the first one
wherein he claims to "know well" that Alkibiades wonders (104c),
Socrates here emphasizes it. He is not simply inferring or guessing, he
asserts; he knows this is Alkibiades' hope (105c). Shortly he will claim
to have observed Alkibiades during every moment the boy was out of doors,
and thus to know all that Alkibiades has learned (106e). Just
as it is impossible for Socrates to have watched Alkibiades at every
moment, so he cannot be certain of what thought is actually going through
Alkibiades' mind. Socrates' claim to knowledge has to be based on
something other than physical experience or being taught. Alkibiades has
not told anyone that these are his high hopes. Perhaps Socrates' knowledge
is grounded in some kind of experience He knows what state
Alkibiades' soul is in because he knows what Alkibiades must hope,
wonder and know. It may be that Socrates has an access to this
knowledge of Alkibiades' soul through his own soul. His soul may be
or may have been very like Alkibiades'. Since Socrates will later
argue that one cannot know another without knowing oneself perhaps one of
the reasons he knows Alkibiades' soul so well is that it matches his in
some way. It is not out of the question that their souls share essential
features and that those features perhaps are not shared by all other men.
Clearly not all other men have found knowledge of Alkibiades' soul as
accessible as has Socrates. And Socrates will be taking Alkibiades' soul
on a discussion beyond the bounds of Athenian politics and politicians.
He instructs Alkibiades that his soul cannot be patterned upon a
conventional model, just as Socrates is obviously not modelling himself
upon a standard model. These two men are somehow in a special position
for understanding each other, and their common sight beyond the normally
accepted standards may be what allows Socrates to make such apparently
outrageous claims. At this point, instead of waiting to see how Alkibiades
will respond, Socrates manufactures his own dialogue, saying that
Alkibiades would naturally ask what the point is. He is supposing that
Alkibiades recognizes the truth of what has gone before. Since it is
likely that Alkibiades would have enjoyed the speech to this point and
thought it good, Socrates must bring him back to the topic. By using this
device of a dialogue within a speech, Socrates is able to remind
Alkibiades (and the reader) - by pretending to have Alkibiades remind
Socrates - that they were supposed to learn not Alkibiades' ambitions,
but those of Socrates (supposing that they are indeed different).
Socrates responds (to his own question) that he conceives himself
to have so great a power ove r Alkibiades that the dear son
of Kleinias and Deinomakhe will not be able to achieve his hopes without
the philosopher's assistance (105d). Because of this power the god
prevented him from speaking with Alkibiades. Socrates hopes to win as
complete a power over Alkibiades as Alkibiades does over the polis . They
both wish to prove themselves invaluable, Socrates by showing himself
more worthy than Alkibiades' guardian or relatives in being able to
transmit to him the power for which he longs. The god prevented Socrates
from talking when Alkibiades was younger, that is, before he held such
great hopes. Now, since Alkibiades is prepared to listen, the god has set
him on. Alkibiades wants power but he does not know what it is,
essentially. Yet he must come to know in order not to err and harm
himself. Part of the relationship between philosophy and politics is
suggested here, and perhaps also some indication of why Socrates and
Alkibiades need each other. An understanding of the causes of their
coming together would be essential to an account of their relation, it
seems, and such understanding is rendered more problematic by the role of the
god. Socrates wants as complete power over Alkibiades as
Alkibiades does over the polis . If one supposes that the power is
essentially similar, this might imply that Socrates would actually have
the power over the polis . A complete power to make someone else do as
one wants (as power is conventionally understood) seems to be the same
over an individual as over a state. Socrates and Alkibiades hope to
prove themselves invaluable (105a). That is not the same as being worthy
of honor (105b); past performance is crucial to the question of
one's honor, whereas a possibility of special expertise in the future
is sufficient to indicate one is invaluable. If a teacher is able
to promise that his influence will make manifest to one the problems
with one's opinions, and will help to clarify them, the teacher has
indicated himself to be invaluable. Should one then, on the basis of the
teacher's influence change one's opinions, and thus one's advice and
actions, the teacher will, in effect, be the man with power over all that
is affected by one's advice and actions, over all over which one has
power. Socrates, in affecting politically-minded youths, has an
effect on the polity. To have power over the politically powerful is to
have power in politics. Socrates' daimon had not let Socrates approach
while Alkibiades' hopes for rule were too narrowly contained. His
ambitions had to become much greater. If for no other reason than to see
that over which Socrates expects or intends to have indirect power, one
should be eager to discover Alkibiades' ambition - to discover that end
which he has set for himself, or which Socrates will help to set for him.
The reader also has in mind the historical Alkibiades: to the extent to
which Alkibiades' designs in Europe and Asia did come to pass, was
Socrates responsible as Plato, here, has him claim to be? The reader
might also be curious about the reverse: what actions of the historical
Alkibiades make this dialogue (and Socrates' regard) credible?
Alkibiades is astounded, Socrates sounds even stranger than he
looks. But Alkibiades' interest is aroused, even if he is skeptical.
He doesn't admit to the ambitions that have been listed; however he
will concede them for the sake of finding out just how Socrates thinks of
himself as the sole means through whom Alkibiades can hope to realize
them. Perhaps he never had the opportunity to characterize his
ambitions that way - he may never have talked to a god. Socrates may only
have clarified those hopes for Alkibiades; but on the other hand,
the philosopher (partly, at least) may be responsible for imparting
them to the young man. At any rate, even if Socrates merely made
these goals obvious to the youth, one must wonder as to his
purpose. Alkibiades feels confident in claiming that no denial on
his part will persuade Socrates. He asks Socrates to speak
(106a). Socrates replies with a question which he answers himself.
He asks if Alkibiades expects him to speak in the way Alkibiades
normally hears people speak - in long speeches. Alkibiades'
background is thus indicated to some extent. He has
heard orators proclaim. Socrates points out that he will proceed in
a way that is unusual to Alkibiades - at least in so far as proving
claims. By suggesting there is more than one way to speak, Socrates
indicates that differences of style are significant in speech, and
he invites the reader to judge/consider which is appropriate to
which purposes. Socrates protests that his ability is not of that
sort (the orator's), but that he could prove his case to Alkibiades
if Alkibiades consents to do one bit of service. By soliciting
Alkibiades' efforts, Socrates may be intending to gain a deeper
commitment from the youth. If he is responsible somewhat for the
outcome he may be more sincere in 74 his answers. Alkibiades
will consent to do a service that is not difficult;
he is interested but not willing to go to a great deal of
trouble. At this stage of the discussion he has no reason to
believe 75 that fine things are hard. Upon Socrates'
query as to whether answering questions is considered difficult,
Alkibiades replies that it is not. Socrates tells him to a nswer
and Alkibiades tells Socrates to ask. His response suggests that
Alkibiades has never witnessed a true dialectical discuss
ion. He has just played question and answer games. Not many
who have experienced a dialogue, and even fewer who have spoken with
Socrates, would say it is not hard. Alkibiades, too, soon
experiences difficulty. Socrates asks him if he'll admit he has
these intentions but Alkibiades won't affirm or deny except toget
on with the conversation. Should Socrates want to believe it he
may; Alkibiades desires to know what is coming before he
acknowledges more. Accepting this, Socrates proceeds. Alkibiades,
he notes, intends shortly to present himself as an advisor to the
Athenians. If Socrates 76 were to take hold of him as
he was about to ascend the rostrum in front of the ekklesia and were to
ask him upon what subject they wanted advice such as he could give, and
if it was a subject about which Alkibiades knew better than they, what
would he answer? This is an example of a common Socratic device,
one of imagining that the circumstances are other than they are. Socrates
hereby employs I it for the third time in the dialogue,
and each provides a different effe ct. On the first occasion,
Socrates pretended a god was present to provide Alkibiades with an
important choice. Socrates did not speak in his own name. The second
example was when Socrates ventured that Alkibiades would ask a certain
question, and so answered it without waiting to see if he would indeed
have asked that question. In both of those, the physical setting of the
First Alkibi ades was appropriate to his intentions. This
time, however, Socrates supplies another setting - a very different
setting - for a part of the discussion. Speech is plastic in that
it enables Socrates to manufacture an almost limitless variety of
situations. By the sole use of human reason and imagination, people are
able to consider their actions in different lights. This is highly
desirable as it is often difficult to judge a decision from within the
context in which it was made. The malleability of circumstances that is
possible in speech allows one to examine thoughts and policies from other
perspectives. One may thus, for example, evaluate whether it is principle
or prejudice that influences one's decisions, or whether circumstance and
situation play a large or a small role in the rational outcome of the
deliberation. This rather natural feature of reason also permits some
consideration of consequences without having to effect those
consequences, and this may result in the aversion of disastrous
results. The plastic character of speech is crucial to philosophic
discourse as well, providing the essential material upon which dialectics
is worked. In discussion, the truly important features of a problem may
be more clearly separated from the merely incidental, through the careful
construction of examples, situations and counterexamples. If not for the
ability to consider circumstances different from the one in which one finds
oneself, thinking and conversing about many things would be impossible.
And this is only one aspect of the plasticity of speech which proves
important to philosophic discussion. Good dialogic partners exhibit this
ability, since they require speech for much more than proficiency in
logical deduction. Speech and human imagination must work upon each
other. Participants in philosophical argument must recognize connections
between various subjects and different circumstances. To a large extent, the
level of thought is determined by the thinker's ability to 'notice'
factors of importance to the inquiry at hand. The importance of 'noticing'
to philosophic argument will be considered with reference to two levels of
participation in the First Alkibiades, both of which clearly focus on the
prominence of the above mentioned unique properties of speech as opposed
to action. 'Noticing' is important to dialectics in that it
describes how, typically, Socrates' arguments work. An interlocutor
will suggest, say, a solution to a problem, and upon reflection, Socrates
- or another interlocutor (e.g., as per llOe) - will notice, for example, that
the solution apparently doesn't work in all situations (i.e., a
counter-example occurs to him), or that not all aspects of the solution
are satisfactory, and so on. The ability of the participants to recognize
what is truly important to the discussion, and to notice those features in a
variety of other situations and concerns, is wha t
lends depth to the analysis. As this has no doubt been experienced by
anyone who has engaged in serious arguments, it presumably need not be
further elaborated. The other aspect in which 'noticing' is
important to philosophy and how it influences, and is in turn influenced
by, rational discourse is in terms of how one ought to read a philosophic
work. As hopefully will be shown in this commentary on the First
Alkibiades, a reader's ability to notice dramatic details of the
dialogue, a nd his persistence in carefully examining what he
notices, importantly affects the benefit he derives from the study of the
dialogue. Frequently, evidence to this effect can be gathered through
reflective consideration of Socrates' apparently off-hand examples, which
turn out upon examination to be neither offhand in terms of their
relation to significant aspects of the immediate topic, nor isolated in
terms of bringing the various topics in the dialogue into focus. As shall
become more apparent as the analysis proceeds, the examples of ships and
doctors, say, are of exceedingly more philosophic importance than their
surface suggests. Not only do they metaphorically provide a depth to the
argument (perhaps unwitnessed by any participant in the dialogue besides
the reader) but through their repeated use, they also help the
reader to discern essential philosophic connections between various parts
of the subject under discussion. The importance of 'recognition'
and 'noticing' to dialectics (and the importance of the malleability of
subject matter afforded by speech) may be partly explained by the
understanding of the role of metaphor in human reason. Dialectics
involves the meticulous division of what has been properly collected
(c.f., for example Phaidros 266b). Time and time again, evidence is
surveyed by capable partners and connections are drawn
between relevantly similar matters before careful distinctions are outlined.
The ability to recognize similarities, to notice connections, seems
similar to the mind's ability to grasp metaphor. Metaphor relies to an
important extent on the language user's readiness to 'collect' similar
features from various subjects familiar to him, a procedure the reader of
the First Alkibiades has observed to be crucial to the philosophic
enterprise. Socrates often refrains from directly asking a
question, prefacing it by "supposing someone were to ask" or even
"supposing I were to ask." The circumstances of the encounters
need to be examined in order to understand his strategy. What might be
the relevance of Socrates asking Alkibiades to imagine he was about to
ascend the platform, instead of, for example, in the market place, in another
city, near a group of young men, or in the privacy of his own home? And
why could not the setting be left precisely the same as the setting of
the dialogue? The situation at the base of the platform in front of the ekklesia
is, needless to say, quite a bit different from the situation they are in
now. Alkibiades is not likely to give the same answer if his honor and
his entire political career are at stake, as they might be in such a
profoundly public setting. Socrates' device, on this occasion helps serve
to indicate that what counts as politic, or polite, speech varies in
different circumstances. As Socrates has constructed the example,
the Athenians proposed to take advice on a subject and Alkibiades
presumed to give them advice. This might severely limit the subjects on
which Alkibiades or another politician could address them. Were the
ekklesia about to take counsel on something, it would be a m atter
they felt was settled by special knowledge, and a subject on which there
were some people with recognizable expertise. The kinds of questions they
believe are settled by uncommon knowledge or expertise may be rather
limited. It is not likely that they would ask for advice on matters of
justice. Most people feel they are competent to decide that (i.e., that
the knowledge relevant to deciding is generally available, or common).
Expertise is acknowledged in strategy and tactics, but knowledgeability
about politics in general is less likely to be conceded than ability in
matters of efficacy. All of these sentiments limit the kinds of advice
which can be given to the ekklesia, and the councillor's problems are
compounded by such considerations as what things can be
persuasively addressed in public speeches to a mixed
audience, and what will be effective in pleasing and attracting the
sympathy of the audience to the speaker. To be rhetorically effective one must
work with the beliefs/opinions/prejudices people confidently and
selfishly hold. Alkibiades agrees with Socrates that he would answer that it
was a subject about which he had better knowledge. He would have to.
If Alkibiades wishes to be taken seriously by them, he should so answer
in front of the people. Even if he would be fully aware of his
ignorance, he might have motives which demand an insistence on expertise.
He couldn't admit to several purposes for which he might want to
influence the votes of the citizenry. Not all of those reasons can be
made known to them; not all of those reasons can be voiced from the
platform at the ekklesia . Sometimes politicians have to make decisions
without certain knowledge, but must nevertheless pretend confidence.
These considerations indicate again the importance of the role of speech
to the themes of this dialogue. There is a difference between public and
private speech. Some things simply cannot be said in front of a crowd of
people, and other things which would not be claimed in private
conversation with trusted friends would have to be affirmed in front of
the ekklesia . Just as a speaker may take advantage of the fact
that crowds can be aroused and swept along by rhetoric that would not so
successfully move an individual (e.g., patriotic speeches inciting
citizens to war, and on the darker side, lynch mobs and riots), so he
understands that he could never admit to a crowd things he might disclose
to a trusted friend (e.g., criticizing re ligious or political
authorities). Socrates suggests that Alkibiades believes he is a
good advisor on that which he knows, and those would be things which he
learned from others or through his own discovery. Alkibiades agrees that
there don't seem to be any other alternatives. Socrates further asks if
he would have learned or discovered anything if he hadn't been willing to
learn or inquire into it and whether one would ask about or learn what
one thought one knew. Alkibiades readily agrees that there must have
been a period in his life when he might have admitted to ignorance to
which he doesn't admit now. Socrates suggests that one learns only what
one is willing to learn and discovers only what one is willing to
inquire into . The asymmetry of this may indicate the general problems of
the argument as the difference in phrasing (underlined) alerts the reader
to examine it more closely. Discoveries, of course, usually
involve a large measure of accident or chance. And if they are the result
of an inquiry, the inquiry often has a different or more general object.
Columbus didn't set out to discover the New World; he wanted to establish
a shorter trading route to the Far East. Darwin did not set out to
discover evolution; he sought to explain why species were different.
Earlier he did not set out to discover that species were different; he
observed the animal kingdom. Not only may one stumble upon something by
accident, but by looking for one thing one may come to know something
else. For example, someone might not be motivated by a recognition of
ignorance but may be trying to prove a claim to knowledge. In the search
for proof he may find the truth. Or, alternatively, in the pursuit of
something altogether different, such as entertainment through reading a
story, one may discover that another way of life is better. The argument thus appears
to be flawed in that it is not true that one discovers only what one is
willing to inquire into. Thus Alkibiades may have discovered what he now
claims to know without ever having sought it as a result of recognizing
his ignorance. Socrates has been able to pass this argument by Alkibiades
because of the asymmetry of the statement. Had he said "one
discovers only what one is willing to discover," Alkibiades
might have objected. Another difficulty with the argument is that one is
simply not always willing to learn what others teach and one nevertheless
may learn. One might actually be unwilling, but more often one is
simply neutral, or oblivious to the fact that one is learning. In the
case of the former (learning despite being unwilling), one need only
remember that denying what one hears does not keep one from hearing it.
Propaganda can be successful even when it is known to be propaganda.
However, by far the most common counter-example to Socrates'
argument is the learning that occurs in everyday life. Many things are
not learned as the result of setting out to learn. Such knowledge is
acquired in other ways. Men come to have a common sense understanding of
cause and effect by simply doing and watching. One learns one's name and
who one's mother is long before choosing to learn, being willing to
study, or coming to recognize one's ignorance. Language is learned with
almost no conscious effort, and one is nurtured into conventions without
setting out to learn them. Notions of virtues are gleaned from stories
and from shades of meaning in the language, or even as a result of
learning a language. And, in an obvious sense, whenever anything is
heard, something is learned - even if only that such a person said it.
One cannot help observing; one does not selectively see when one one's
eyes are open, and one cannot even close one's ears to avoid
hearing. The above are, briefly, two problems with the part of
Socrates' argument that suggests people learn or discover only what they
are willing to learn or inquire into. The other parts of the argument
may be flawed as well. Socrates has pointed to the reader's discovery
of some flaws by a subtle asymmetry in his question. It is up to
the reader to examine the rest (in this case - to be willing to inquire
into it). For example, there may be difficulties with the first
suggestion that one knows only what one has learned or discovered. It is
possible that there are innate objects of knowledge and that they are
important to later development. Infants, for example, have an ability to
sense comfort and discomfort which is later transferred into feeling a
wide variety of pleasures and pains. They neither learn this, nor
discover it (in any ordinary sense of "discovery"). The sense
of pleasure and pain quite naturally is tied to and helps to shape a
child's sense of justice (110b), and may thus be significant to the
argument about Alkibiades' knowledge or opinions about justice. In any
event, closer examination of Socrates' argument has shown the reader that
the problem of knowing is sufficiently complex to warrant his further
attention. The rest of the dialogue furnishes the careful reader with
many examples and problems to consider in his attempt to understand how
he comes to know and what it means to know. Socrates knows
quite well what things Alkibiades has learned, and if he should omit
anything in the relating, Alkibiades must correct him. Socrates
recollects that he learned writing, harping and wrestling - and refused
to learn fluting. Those are the things Alkibiades knows then, unless he
was learning something when he was unobserved - but that, Socrates
declares, is unlikely since he was watching whenever Alkibiades stepped
out of doors, by day or by night. The reader will grant that the
last claim is an exaggeration. Socrates could not have observed every
outdoor activity of the boy for so many years. Yet Socrates persists in
declaring that he knows what Alkibiades learned out of doors. As suggested
earlier, Socrates may be indicating that he knows Alkibiades through his
own soul. In that event one must try to understand why Socrates couldn't
likewise claim to know what went on indoors, or why Socrates doesn't
announce to Alkibiades an assumption that what goes on indoors is pretty
much the same everywhere. The reader may find what Alkibiades may have
learned "indoors" much more mysterious, and he may consider it
odd that Socrates does not have access to that- What occurs indoors (and
perhaps to fully understand one would need to acknowledge a metaphoric
dimension to "indoor") that would account for Socrates drawing
attention to his knowledge of the outdoor activities of Alkibiades?
Even if one confines one's attention to the literal meaning, there
is much of importance in one's nurture that happens inside the home.
Suffice it to notice two things. The first is that the domestic scene in
general, and household management in particular, are of crucial importance to
politics. The second is that the teachers inside the home are typically
the womenfolk. These are of significance both to this dialogue and
(not unrelated) to an understanding of politics. Attention is directed,
for example, toward the maternal side of the two participants in
this dialogue. In addition, as has already been mentioned, the
womenfolk in this dialogue are the only ones who wonder, besides
Alkibiades. The women are within (cf. Symposium 176e); they have quite an
effect on the early nurture of children (cf. Republic 377b-c and
context). Perhaps the women teach something indoors that Socrates could
not see, or would not know regardless of how closely akin he was to
Alkibiades by nature. If that is so, the political significance of
early education, of that education which is left largely to women,
assumes a great importance. Women> it is implied, are able to do
something to sons that men cannot and perhaps even something which men cannot
fully appreciate. An absolutely crucial question arises: How is it proper
for women to influence sons? Socrates proceeds to find out which of
the areas of Alkibiades' expertise is the one he will use in the assembly
when giving advice. In response to Socrates' query whether it is when the
Athenians take advice on writing or on lyre playing that Alkibiades will
rise to address them, the young man swears by Zeus that he will not
counsel them on these matters. (The possibility is left open that someone
else would advise the Athenians on these matters at the assembly). And,
Socrates adds, they aren't accustomed to deliberating about wrestling in
the ekklesia. For some reason, Socrates has distinguished wrestling from the
other two subjects. Alkibiades will not advise the Athenians on any of
the three; he will not talk about writing or lyre-playing even if the
subject would come up; he will not speak about wrestling because the
subject won't come up. Regardless of the reader's suspicion that the
first two subjects are also rarely deliberated in the assembly, he should
note the distinction Socrates draws between the musical and the gymnastic
arts. The attentive reader will also have observed that the e
ducation a boy receives in school does not prepare him for advising
men in important political matters; it does not provide him with the
kinds of knowledge requisite to a citizen's participation in the ekklesia
. But then on what will Alkibiades advise the Athenians? It
won't be about buildings or divination, for a builder will serve better
(107a- b). Regardless of whether he is short, tall, handsome, ugly,
well-born or base-born, the advice comes from the one who knows, not the
wealthy; the reader might notice that this undercuts all previously
mentioned bases of Alkibiades' self-esteem. According to Socrates, the
Athenians want a physician to advise them when they deliberate on the
health of the city; they aren't concerned if he's rich or poor, Socrates
suggests, as if being a successful physician was in no way indicated by
financial status. There are a number of problems with this
portion of the argument. Firstly, the advisor's rhetorical power (and not
necessarily his knowledge) is of enhanced significance when that of which
he speaks is something most people do not see to be clearly a matter of
technical expertise, or even of truth or falsity instead of taste. This
refers especially to those things that are the subject of political
debate. Unlike in the case of medicine, people do not acknowledge any
clear set of criteria for political expertise, besides perhaps 'success'
for one's polity, a thing not universally agreed upon. Most people have
confidence in their knowledge of the good and just alternatives available
(cf. llOc-d). Policy decisions about what are commonly termed
’value judgements' are rarely decided solely on the basis of reason.
Especially in democracies, where mere whims may become commands, an
appeal to irrational elements in men's souls is often more effective.
Men's fears too, especially their fear of enslavement, can be manipulated
for various ends. Emotional appeals to national pride, love of family and
fraternity, and the possibility of accumulating wealth are what move men,
for it is these to which men are attracted. Rational speech is only
all-powerful if men are all-rational. Secondly, it is not
clear that a man's nobility or ignobility should be of no account in the
ekklesia. At least two reasons might be adduced for this
consideration. There is no necessary connection between knowing and giving
good advice. Malevolence as well as ignorance may- cause it. A bad man
who knows might give worse advice than an ignorant man of good will who
happens to have right opinions. Unless the knower is a noble person there
is no guarantee that he will tender his best advice. An ignoble man may provide
advice that serves a perverse interest, and he might even do it on the
basis of his expert knowledge. Another reason for considering nobility
important in advisors is that it might be the best the citizens can do.
Most Athenians would not believe that there are experts in knowledge
about justice as there are in the crafts. If they won't grant that
expertise (and there are several reasons why it would be dangerous to
give them the power to judge men on that score), then it is probably best
that they take their advice from a gentleman, a nobleman, or even a man
whose concern for his family's honor will help to prevent his
corruption. Thirdly, since cities obviously do not succumb to
fevers and 79 bodily diseases, one must in this case treat
the "physician of the diseased city" metaphorically. It is not
certain that the Athenians would recognize the diseased condition of a
city. To the extent to which they do, they tend to regard political
health in economic terms (as one speaks of a "healthy
economy"). In that case, whether a man was rich or poor would make a
great deal of difference to them. They wouldn't be likely to take advice
on how to increase the wealth (the health) of a city from someone who
could not prove his competence in that matter in his private life. In
addition, since most people are importantly motivated by wealth, they will
respect the opinions of one who is recognizably better at what they are
themselves doing - getting wealthy. It seems to be generally the case
that people will attend to the speech of a wealthy man more than to a
poorer but perhaps more virtuous man. In other words, then,
it is not clear that what Socrates has said about the Athenian choice of
advisors is true (107b-c). Moreover, it is not clear that it should be
true. Factors such as conventional nobility probably should play a part
in the choice of councillors, even if it is basically understood in terms
of being well-born. People's inability to evaluate the physicians of the
city, and people's emphasis on wealth also are evidence against Socrates'
claims. Socrates wants to know what they'll be considering when
Alkibiades stands forth to the Athenians. It has been established
that he won't advise on writing, harping, wrestling, building or
divination. Alkibiades figures he will advise them when they are
considering their own affairs. Socrates, in seeming perversity,
continues by asking if he means their affairs concerning ship-building and
what sorts of ships they should 80 have. Since that is of
course not what Alkibiades means, Socrates proposes that the reason and
the only reason is that the young man doesn't understand the art of
ship-building. Alkibiades agrees, but the reader need not. Socrates, by
emphasizing the exclusivity of expertise through the use of so many
examples, has alerted the reader, should he otherwise have missed the
point, that there are many reasons for not advising about something
besides ignorance. In some matters, for example, it is hard to
prove knowledge and it may not always be best to go to the effort of
establishing one's claim to expertise. If the knowledgeable can perceive,
say, that no harm will come the way things are proceeding, there might
not be any point to claiming knowledge. Another reason for perhaps
keeping silent is that the correct view has been presented. There are thus
other things with which to occupy one's time. Perhaps a major reason for
keeping silent about advising on some matters is simply indifference;
petty politics can be left to others. In fact there are, it would seem,
quite a number of reasons for keeping silent besides ignorance. And, on
the other hand, it is unlikely that someone with a keen interest would
acknowledge ignorance as a sufficient condition for their silence. Many
who voice their opinions on public matters do not thereby mean to
implicitly claim their expertise, but only to express their
interestedness. Socrates' ship-building example has a few other
interesting features. Firstly, in a strict sense what Socrates and
Alkibiades agree to is wrong: knowledge of shipbuilding is not the
exclusive basis for determining which ships to build. Depending on
whether it is a private or public ship-building program, the passenger,
pilot or politician decides. Triremes or pleasure-craft, or some other
specific vessels are demanded. The ship-builder then builds it as best he
can. But his building is dictated by his customers, if he is free, or his
owners, if he is a slave. The prominence of Plato's famous
"ship-of-state" analogy ( Republic 488a-489c) allows the reader
to look metaphorically at the example of 'ship-building,' and the
question of what sort of 'ships' ought to get built. In terms of the analogy,
then, Socrates is asking Alkibiades if he will be giving advice on
statebuilding and what kind of polis ought to be constructed. This is, it
seems, the very thing upon which Alkibiades wants to advise the
Athenians. He wants very much to build Athens into a super Empire. The
recognition of the ship-of-state analogy brings to the surface a most
fundamental political question which lurks behind much of the discussion
of the dialogue: which sort of regime ought to be constructed? The
importance of the question of the best regime to political philosophy is
indicated and reinforced by the very test of the importance of the
question in the analogy. The consideration of what sort of ship ought to be
built stands behind the whole activity of ship-building, and yet is one
that is not answered by the technical expert. The user
(passenger/citizen) and the ruler (pilot/ statesman) are the ones that
make the decision. On the basis of an example that has already been shown
to be suspect, namely Socrates' mention of ship-building, the reader of
the First Alkibiades is provided with the opportunity to consider the
intricasies of the analogy and a question of central importance to the
political man. Alkibiades must gain t he ability to advise the
Athenians as to what ships they ought to build. For the
moment, however, Socrates asks on what affairs Alkibiades means to
give advice, and the young man answers those of war or peace or
other affairs of the polis . Socrates asks for clarification on whether
Alkibiades means they'll be deliberating about the manner of peace
and war; will they be considering questions of on whom, how, when
and how long it is better to make war. But if the Athenians were to
ask these sorts of questions about wrestling, Socrates remarks,
they'd call not on Alkibiades but on the wrestling master, and he
would answer in light of what was better. Similarly, when singing and
accompanying lyre-playing and dancing, some ways and times are better.
Alkibiades agrees.The word 'better' was used both in the case of harping
to accom- 82 pany singing and in the case of wrestling
(108a-b). For wrestling the standard of the better is provided by gymnastics;
what supplies it in the case of harping? Alkibiades doesn't
understand and Socrates suggests that he imitate him, for Socrates'
pattern could be generalized to yield a correct answer in all cases.
Correctness comes into being by the art, and the art in the case of
wrestling is fairly ( kalos) said to be gymnastics (108c). If Alkibiades
is to copy Socrates, he should copy him in fair conversation, as well,
and answer in his turn what the art of harping, singing and dancing is.
But Alkibiades still cannot tell him the name of the art (108c). Socrates
attempts another tact and deviates slightly from the pattern he had
suggested Alkibiades imitate. Presumably Alkibiades will be able to
answer the questions once Socrates asks the right one. He doesn't assume
that Alkibiades is ignorant of the answer, so he takes care in choosing
the appropriate questions. Perhaps his next attempt will solicit the
desired response. The goddesses of the art are the Muses. Alkibiades can
now acknowledge that if the art is named after them, it is called
'Music.' The musical mode, as with the earlier pattern of gymnastics,
will be correct when it follows the musical art. Now Socrates wants
Alkibiades to say what the 'better' is in the case of making war and
peace, but Alkibiades is unable. There are a number of reasons why
he would be unable on the basis of the pattern Socrates has supplied. One
of these has to do with the pattern itself. It is not clear there is an
art ( techne), per se, of making war and peace. The closest one could
come to recognizing such an art would be to suggest it is the art of
politics, but even if that is properly an art (i.e., strictly a matter of
technical expertise) knowing only its name would not provide a clear
standard of 'better.' The term 'political' does not of its own designate
a better way to wage war and peace. Despite the possibility that the art in
this case is of a higher order than music or gymnastics, it remains
unclear that Alkibiades can use the same solution as Socrates suggested
in the case of music. Who are the gods or goddesses who give their name
to the art of war and peace? Perhaps one way to understand this curious
feature of the discussion is to consider that Socrates might be
suggesting that there is a divine standard for politics as well as for
music. According to Socrates, Alkibiades' inability to answer about
the standard or politics is disgraceful (108e). Were Alkibiades an
advisor on food, even without expert knowledge (i.e., even if he wasn't
a physician), he could still say that the 'better' was the more
wholesome. In this case, where he claims to have knowledge and
intends to advise as though he had knowledge (notice the two are not the
same), he should be ashamed to be unable to answer questions on it.
At this point the reader must pause. If Socrates simply wanted to
make this point and proceed with the argument, he has chosen an unfortunate
example in discussing the advisor on food. There are a number of features
of his use of this example that, if transferred, have quite important
repercussions for the discussion of the political advisor. Firstly, it
may be remarked that Socrates has admitted that the ability to say what
the 'better' is, is not always necessarily contingent upon technical
knowledge. Secondly, someone who answers "more wholesome" as
the better in food has already implicitly or explicitly accepted a
hierarchy of values. He has architectonically structured the arts that
have anything to do with food in such a manner as to place health at the
apex. Someone who had not conceded such a rank-ordering might have said "cheapest,"
"most flavorful," or even "sweetest." Thus this
example clearly indicates the centrality of understanding the
architectonic nature of politics. Thirdly, and perhaps least importantly,
Socrates has more clearly indicated a distinction that was suggested in
the previous example. It is a different matter to know that
'wholesome' food is better for one than it is to know which foods are
wholesome. Socrates had, prior to this, been attempting to get Alkibiades
to name the art which provides the standard of the good in peace and war.
Even if Alkibiades had been able to name that art, there would have been
no indication of his substantive knowledge of the art. Conversely it
might be possible that he would have substantive knowledge of something
without being able to refer to it as a named art. One might
account for Alkibiades' inability to n ame the art of political
advice by reference to something other than his knowledge and ignorance.
Perhaps the very subject matter would render such a statement difficult.
For instance, if politics is the 'art' which structures all others, it
would be with a view to politics that the respective 'betters' in the
other arts would be named. The referent of politics would be of an
entirely different order however. Perhaps its 'better,' the comprehensive
'better,' would be simply 'the good.' At any rate, it is a question of a
different order, a different kind of question, insofar as the
instrumentally good is different from the good simply. This suggestion is
at least partly sustained by the observation that Socrates uses a
different method to discover the answer in this case than in the previous
'patterns' supplied by wrestling and harping. Alkibiades agrees
that it does indeed seem disgraceful, but even after further consideration
he cannot say what the 'better' (the aim or good providing a standard of
better) is with respect to peace and war. As Socrates' question about the
goddesses of harping deviated from the example of wrestling, so Socrates'
attempt here is a deviation. He asks Alkibiades what people say they
suffer in war and what they call it. The reader might note peace
has been omitted from consideration. Alkibiades says that what is
suffered is deceit, force and robbery (109b), and that such are suffered
in either a just or an unjust way. Now it is clearer why 'peace'
was not mentioned. It might be more difficult to argue in parallel fashion that
the most important distinction in peace was between just peace and unjust
peace. Socrates asks if it is upon the just or the unjust that
Alkibiades will advise the Athenians to make war. Alkibiades
immediately recognizes at least one difficulty. If for some reason it
would be necessary to go to war with those who are just, the advisor
would not say so. That is the case not only because it is considered
unlawful, but, as Alkibiades adds, it is not considered noble
either. Socrates assumes Alkibiades will appeal to these things when
addressing the ekklesia . Alkibiades here proves he understands the
need for speaking differently to the public, or at least for
remaining prudently silent about certain matters. Within the bounds
of the argument to this point, wealth and prestige (not to mention
dire necessity) may be 'betters' in wars as readily as justice. One may
only confidently infer two things from Alkibiades' admissions. The people
listening to the advice cannot be told that those warred upon are just;
and to tell them so would be unlawful and ignoble. One might be curious as to
the proper relation between lawfulness, nobility and justice, and the
reader of the dialogue, in sorting out these considerations, might
examine the argument surrounding this statement of their relation. The
next few discussions in the First Alkibiades seem to focus on establishing
Alkibiades' claim to knowledge about justice. Either Alkibiades has not
noticed his own ignorance in this matter or Socrates has not observed his
learning and taking lessons on justice. Socrates would like to know, and
he swears by the god of friendship that he is not joking, who the man.was
who taught Alkibiades about justice. Alkibiades wants to know
whether he couldn't have learned it another way. Socrates answers that
Alkibiades could have learned it through his own discovery. Alkibiades,
in a dazzling display of quick answers, responds that he might have
discovered it if he'd inquired, and he might have inquired if there was a
time when he thought he did not know. Socrates says that Aliibiades has
spoken well, but he wants to know when that time was. Socrates seems to
acknowledge Alkibiades' skill in speaking. These formally sharp answers
would probably be the kind praised in question and answer games.
Socrates says Alkibiades has spoken well, but immediately instructs
Alkibiades about how to speak in response to the next question.
Alkibiades is to speak the truth; the dialogue would be futile if he
didn't answer truly. So here it is acknowledged that truth (at least for
the sake of useful dialogue) is the standard for speaking well. He
quickly follows the insincere praise with an indication of the real
criteria for determining if something was well-spoken. Socrates is not
destroying Alkibiades' notion of his ability to achieve ideals, he is
instead destroying the ideals. He acknowledged Alkibiades' skill and then
suggests it is not a good skill to have. Socrates, in effect, tells
Alkibiades to forget the clever answers and to speak the truth. One of
the themes of Socrates' instruction of the youth seems to be the teaching
of proper goals or standards. Alkibiades admits that a year
ago he thought he knew justice and injustice, and two, three and four
years ago as well. Socrates remarks that before that Alkibiades was a child
and Socrates knows well enough that even then the precocious child
thought he knew. The philosopher had often heard Alkibiades as a boy
claim that a playmate cheated during a game, and so labelled him unjust
with perfect confidence (110b). Alkibiades concedes that Socrates speaks
the truth but asks what else should he have done when someone cheated
him? Socrates points out that this very question indicates Alkibiades'
belief that he knows the answer. If he recognized his ignorance, Socrates
responds, he would not ask what else he should have done as though there
was no alternative. Alkibiades swears that he must not have been
ignorant because he clearly perceived that he was wronged. If this
implies that, as a child, he thought he knew justice and injustice, then
so he must. And he admits he couldn't have discovered it while he thought
he knew it (110c). Socrates suggests to Alkibiades that he won't be able
to cite a time when he thought he didn't know, and Alkibiades swears
again that he cannot. Apparently, then, he must conclude that he cannot know
the just on the basis of discovery (llOd). This argument
appears to depend on the premise that one begins at a loss, completely
ignorant, and then one subsequently discovers what justice is. But such
an assumption is surely unwarranted. The discovery could be a slow,
gradual process of continual refinement of a child's understanding of
justice. Often one's opinions are changed because one discovers something
that doesn't square with previous beliefs. If one is sufficiently
confident of the new factor, one's beliefs may change. During the course
of the succeeding dialogue, the reader may see a number of ways in which
this procedure might take place in a person's life. Socrates
draws to Alkibiades' attention that if he doesn't know justice by
his own discovery, and didn't learn it from others, how could he
know it. Alkibiades suggests that perhaps he said the wrong thing
before and that he did in fact learn it, in the same way as
everyone else. It is not clear that this is a sincere move on
Alkibiades' part (though it proves later in the dialogue to have
support as being the actual account of the origin of most people's
views of justice). Perhaps in order to win the argument he is
willing to simply change the premises. Unfortunately, his changing
of this one entirely removes the need for the argument. Socrates
doesn't bother to point out to Alkibiades that if everybody knows
it, and in the same way, then Alkibiades has no claim to special
expertise, and so no basis for presuming to advise the Athenians.
Alkibiades' abilities in speaking have been demonstrated, a care
and willingness to learn from dialogue 86 have yet to
be instilled. As is presently indicated to Alkibiades, his answer
brings about a return to the same problem - from whom did he learn
it? To his reply that the many taught him (llOe), Socrates responds
that they are not 87 worthy teachers in whom he is
taking refuge. They are not competent 88 to teach how
to play and how not to play draughts and since that is insignificant
compared to justice, how can they teach the more serious matter?
Alkibiades perceptively counters this by pointing out that they can teach
things more worthy than draughts; it was they and no single master
who taught Alkibiades to speak Greek. Alkibiades by this point proves that
he is capable of quick and independent thought. He doesn't merely follow
Socrates' lead in answering but in fact points out an important example to the
contrary. The Greek language is taught by the many quite capably even
though they cannot teach the less important draughts nor many other peculiar
skills. A number of issues important to the discussion are brought
to the surface by this example. First, one should notice that language
is another thing Alkibiades has learned which Socrates didn't
mention. Language is necessary for learning most other subjects, and one
can learn quite a lot by just listening to people speaking. A common
language is the precondition of the conversation depicted in the First
Alkibiades, as is some general agreement, however superficial, between
Socrates and Alkibiades as to what they mean when they say 'justice.' In
order to have an argument over whether or not one of them is indeed
knowledgeable about justice and injustice, they must have some notion of
what 'justice' conventionally means. They are not talking about the
height of the sky, the price of gold, or the climate on mountaintops.
Justice ( dikaios) is a word in the Greek language. Most people share
sufficient agreement about its meaning so as to be able to teach people
how the word should be used. This conventional notion of justice thus
informs a child's sense of justice, and as is shown by the strategy of
the Republic as well as of the First Alkibiades, the conventional
opinions about justice must be dealt with and accounted for in any more
philosophic treatment. One must assume that conventional opinions
about justice have some connection, however tenuous, with the truth about
it. This exemplifies the peculiar nature of 'agreement' as a criterion of
knowledge. That experts agree about their subject matter is not altogether
beside the point, but too much emphasis should not be placed upon it.
There are innumerable examples of "sectarian" agreements, none
of which by that fact have any claim to truth. There is also considerable
agreement in conventional opinions and the "world-views" of
various communities which must be accounted for but not necessarily
accepted. Socrates admits to Alkibiades (whom he chooses to
address, at this moment, as "well-born," perhaps in order to
remind him that he distinguishes himself from the many) that the people can be
justly praised for teaching such things as language, for they are
properly equipped (and actually the many do not teach one how to use
language well). To teach, one ought to know, and an indication of their
knowing is that they agree among each other on the language. If they
disagreed they couldn't be said to know and wouldn't be able to teach.
One might parenthetically point to some other important things that the
many teach. Children learn the laws from the many, including the
laws/rules of games. To call someone a cheater (110b) does not mean someone
knows justice; they simply must know the rules of the game and be able to
recognize when such rules have been violated. Rules of games are strictly
conventional. They gain their force from an agreement, implicit or
explicit, between the players. One might wonder if justice is,
correspondingly, the rules of a super- game, or if it is something
standing behind all rule-obeying. The many agree on what stone and
wood are. If one were to say "stone" or "wood," they
could all reach for the same thing. That is what Alkibiades must mean by
saying that all his fellow citizens have knowledge of Greek. And they are
good teachers in as much as they agree on these terms in public and
private. Poleis also agree among each other (cf. Lakhes 186d). Anyone who
wanted to learn what stone and wood were would be rightly sent to the
many. The fact that Greeks agree with each other when they name
objects hardly accounts for their knowledge of the language, much less
their ability to teach it. Naming is far from being the bulk of
speaking a, 89 language, (Hobbes and Scripture to the contrary
notwithstanding ). Not only is it improper to consider many parts
of speech as having the function of designating things, but even
descriptive reference to the sensible world is only a partial
aspect of the use of language. To mention only a few everyday
aspects of language that do not obviously conform, consider the
varied use of commands, metaphors, fables, poetry and exclamation.
To suggest that what constitutes one's knowledge of a language is
to point to objects and use nouns to name them, would be completely
inadequate. It would be so radically insufficient, in fact, that it
could not even account for its own articulation. Language consists
of much more than statements which correspond to observables in the
actual world. But even were one to restrict one's examination of language
to understanding what words mean, or refer to, one would immediately run
into difficulties. All sorts of words are used in everyday language which
demand some measure of evaluation on the part of the user and the
listener. A dog may be pointed to and called "dog." A more
involved judgement is required in calling it a "wild dog," or
"wolf," not to say a "bad dog." Agreement or disagreement
on the use of such terms does not depend on knowledge of the language as
much as on the character of the thing in question. There are
problems even with Socrates' account of naming. One cannot be certain
that the essence of a thing has been focussed upon by those giving the
name to the thing. One might fasten upon the material, or the form, or yet some
other feature of the object. For example, a piece of petrified wood, or a
stone carving of a tree would significantly complicate Socrates' simple
example. It is not at all clear that the same thing would be pointed to
if someone said "stone." The reader may remember that the
prisoners in the cave of the Republic spend quite a bit of their time
naming the shadows on the wall of the cave ( Republic 515b, 516c). The
close connection between this discussion and that of the Republic is
indicated also by the fact that the objects which cast the shadows in the
cave are made of stone and wood ( Republic). People in the cave don't
even look at the objects when they name things. According to the analogy
of the cave they would be the people teaching Alkibiades to speak Greek;
they are the people in actual cities. And what they call
"stone" and "wood" are only an aspect of stone and
wood, the shadowy representations of stone and wood. If the essences of
stone and wood, comparatively simple things, are not denoted by language,
one can imagine in what the agreement might consist in the popular use of
words like "City" and "Man." The question of the relation
of a name to the essential aspect of the thing adds a significant
dimension to the philosophic understanding of the human use of
language. Alkibiades and Socrates seem to be content with this
analysis of naming, however, and Socrates readily proceeds to the next
point in the argument. If one wanted to know not only what a man or a
horse (note the significance of the change from stone and wood) was, but
which was a good runner, the many would not be able to teach that - proof
of which is their disagreement among themselves. Apparently finding this
example insufficient, Socrates adds that should one want to know which
men were healthy and which were diseased, the many would also not be able
to teach that, for they disagree (llle). Notice two features
of these examples that may be of philosophic interest. To begin
with, the respective experts are, first the gymnastics trainer and second,
the physician. In this dialogue, both the gymnastics expert and the
doctor have arguments advanced on their behalf, supporting their claim to
be the proper controllers of, or experts about, the whole body (126a-b,
128c). As supreme rulers of the technae of the body they have different
aspects of the good condition in mind and consequently might give
different advice (for example on matters of diet). Thereupon one is
confronted with the standard problem of trying to maintain two or more
supreme authorities: which one is really the proper ruler in the event of
conflict. There is yet another aspect of the same problem that is
of some concern to the reader of the First Alkibiades . One might say
that the relation of the body to the soul is a very persuasive issue in
this dialogue, and the suggestion that there are two leaders in matters
of the body causes one to wonder whether there is a corresponding
dual leadership in the soul. Secondly, the reader notices
that the composition of "the many" shifts on the basis of what
is being taught. On the one hand, the doctor fits into "the
many" as being unable to tell the good runner; on the other hand,
when the focus is on health, all but the doctor appear to constitute
"the many." The question of how to understand the make-up
of the many points to a very large issue area in philosophy, namely that
which is popularly termed the 'holism vs. individualism debate,' or more
generally, the question of the composition and character of
groups. What essentially characterizes groups - in particular that politically
indispensible group, "the many?" This issue is not superfluous
to this dialogue, nor to this portion of this dialogue. By placing the
doctor alone against the many (in the second example), one unwittingly
contradicts oneself. Alkibiades and Socrates fall among the ranks of the
Many as well as the Few. Perhaps the most obvious problem
connected with determining the composition of the group, "the
many," is brought into focus when one tries to discover how one
"goes to the many" to learn (llld). There are quite a few
possibilities. Does the opinion of "the many" become the
average (mean) opinion of all the different views prevalent in a city?
Or is it the opinion held by the majority? One might go to each
individual, to each of a variety of representative individuals, or even
to 51% of the individuals in a given place, and then statistically
evaluate their opinions, arriving at one or another form of majority
consensus. Or, one might determine conventional opinion by asking
various indi- 91 viduals what they believe everyone
else believes. There seem to be countless ways of understanding "the
many," each of which allows for quite different outcomes. The
problems for the student of political affairs, as well as for the
aspiring politician, are compounded because the many do not appear to
hold a single view unanimously or unambiguously on many of the important
questions. Regardless of which is the appropriate understanding of
"the many, the reader must at all events remember that "the
many" and "the few" are a perennial political division.
There are, likewise, several ways in which "the few" are
conceived. Some consider them to be the men of wealth, the men of
virtue, the men of intelligence, and so on. Reference to "the
few," however, is rarely so vague as reference to the many, since
people who speak of "the few" are usually aware of which
criteria form the bases of the distinction. Despite the lack of clarity
concerning the division between "the many" and "the few,"
it is appealed to, in most regimes as being a fundamental schizm. Most
regimes, it may be ventured, are in fact based either upon the
distinction, or upon trying to remove the distinction, and they appeal to
this division, however vague, to legitimate themselves. At
this point in the discussion of the First Alkibiades (llle), Alkibiades
and Socrates are considering whether the many are capable teachers of
justice. They appear to be making their judgement solely on the basis of
the criterion of agreement. One might stop to consider not only whether
agreement is sufficient to indicate knowledge, but indeed whether it is
even necessary. One cannot simply deny the possibility that one might be able
to gain knowledge because of disagreements. Profound differences of
opinion might indicate the best way of learning the truth, as, for
example the disagreements among philosophers about justice teaches at the
very least what the important considerations might be. Socrates
continues. Since disagreement among the many indicates that they are not
able to teach (though lack of ability rarely prevents them from trying
anyway, cf. Apology 24c-25a; Gorgias 461c), Socrates asks Alkibiades
whether the many agree about justice and injustice, or if indeed they
don't differ most on those very concerns. People do not 92
fight and kill in battle because they disagree on questions of
health, but when justice is in dispute, Alkibiades has seen the battles.
And if he hasn't seen them (Socrates should know this, after all,
cf. 106e) he has heard of the fights from many, particularly from Homer,
because he's heard the Odyssey and Iliad. Alkibiades' familiarity with
Homer is of great significance. It, along with his knoweldge of Greek,
are probably the two most crucial "oversights" in Socrates'
list of what Alkibiades learned. In fact, they are of such importance
that they overshadow the subjects in which he did take lessons, in terms
of their effect on his character development, his common-sense
understanding, and on his suitability for political office. Homer is an
important source of knowledge and of opinion, and is responsible for there
being considerable consensus of belief among the Greeks in many matters.
He provides the authoritative interpretation of the gods as well as of
the qualities and actions of great men. If Alkibiades knows Homer and if
he knows that Homer is about justice, then he has learned much more about
justice than one would surmise on the basis of his formal
schooling. Alkibiades agrees with Socrates' remark that the Iliad
and Odyssey are about disagreements about justice and injustice. He also
accepts the interpretation that a difference of opinion about the just
and the unjust caused the battles and deaths of the Akhaians and Trojans;
the dispute between Odysseus and Penelope's suitors; and the deaths and
fights of the Athenians, Spartans and Boiotians at Tanagra and Koroneia.
(One notes that Socrates has blended the fabulous with the actual, and
has chosen, as his non-mythic example, probably the one over which it
is most difficult for Alkibiades to be non-partisan - the battle in
which his father died. This also raises his heritage to the level of
the epic.) The reader need not agree with this interpretation on a
number of counts. Firstly, the central case is noteworthy in that
Socrates interprets Odysseus' strife with the men of Ithaka to be over a
woman, and not primarily the kingdom and palace. It is not at all clear,
moreover, that what caused the altercation between Odysseus and the suitors
was a difference of opinion about justice. They might have all wanted the
same thing, but the reaction of the suitors at Odysseus' return
indicates that they didn't feel they were in the right - they
admitted 93 gurlt. Secondly, what is noticeable in Homer is
that only one aspect of the epic is about the dispute about justice (and
also, both Homeric examples involve a conflict between eros and justice,
represented by Helen and Penelope). In the epics the disagreement among
the many refers not to the many of one polis but of various poleis
against each other. Indeed the many of each polis in the Trojan war
agree. These observations foreshadow the discussion that will
presently come to the fore in the dialogue under somewhat different
circumstances. The problem of the difference between the just and the
expedient is a key one in political philosophy, and it is introduced by
the reflection that in a number of instances disagreement does not focus
on what the just solution is, but on who should be the victor, who will
control the thing over which the sides are disputing. Both sides agree
that it would be good to control one thing. More shall be said about this
later in the context of the discussion. Socrates inquires of
Alkibiades whether the people involved in those wars could be said to
understand these questions if they could disagree so strongly as to take
extreme measures. Though he must admit that teachers of that
sort are ignorant, Alkibiades had nevertheless referred Socrates to them.
Alkibiades is quite unaware of the nature of justice and injustice and he
also cannot point to a teacher or say when he discovered them. It
thus seems hard to say he has knowledge of them. Alkibiades agrees that
according to what Socrates has said it is not likely that he knows
(112d). Socrates takes this opportunity to teach Alkibiades a most
important lesson. Though apparently a digression, it will mark a pivotal
point in the turning around of Alkibiades that occurs by the middle of
the discussion. Socrates says that Alkibiades' last remark was not
fair ( kalos) because he claimed Socrates said that Alkibiades was
ignorant, whereas actually Alkibiades did. Alkibiades is astounded. Did
he_ say it? Socrates is teaching Alkibiades that the words spoken
in an argument ought indeed to have an effect on one's life, that the
outcomes of arguments are impersonal yet must be taken seriously, and that
responsibility for what is said rests with both partners in dialogue. The
results of rational speech are to be trusted; reason is a kind of power
necessarily determining things. Alkibiades cannot agree in speech and
then decide, if it is convenient, to dismiss conclusions on the grounds
that it was someone else who said it. Arguments attain much more significance
when they are recognized as one's own. One must learn they are not
merely playthings (cf. Republic 539b). Accepting responsibility for them
and their conclusions is essential. It is important politically
with reference to speech, as well as in the more generally recognized
sense of assuming responsibility for one's actions. To cite an instance
of special importance to this dialogue, who is responsible for Alkibiades
- Perikles? Athens? Socrates? Alkibiades himself? One can often
place responsibility for one's actions on one's society, one's
immediate environment, or one's teachers. Perhaps it is not so easy to
shun responsibility for conclusions of arguments. Most men desire
consistency and at least feel uneasy when they are shown to be
involved in contradictions. In this discussion of who must accept
responsibility for the conclusions of rational discourse, Alkibiades
learns yet another lesson about the power of speech. He has, by his own
tongue, convicted himself of ignorance. Socrates demonstrates to
Alkibiades that if he asks whether one or two is the larger number, and
Alkibiades answers that two is greater by one, it was Alkibiades who said
that two was greater than one. Socrates had asked and Alkibiades had
answered; the answer was the speaker. Similarly, if Socrates should ask
which letters are in "Socrates" and Alkibiades answered,
Alkibiades would be the speaker. On the basis of this the young man
agrees that, as a principle, whenever there is a questioner and an
answerer, the speaker is the answerer. Since so far Socrates had been the
questioner and Alkibiades the answerer, Alkibiades is responsible for
whatever has been uttered. What has been disclosed by now is that
Alkibiades, the noble son of Kleinias, intends to go to the ekklesia
to advise on that of which he knows nothing. Socrates quotes
Euripides - Alkibiades "hear it from [himself]
not me." Socrates doesn't pull any punches. Not only does he refer
to an almost incestuous woman to speak of Alkibiades' condition, but he
follows with what must seem a painfully sarcastic form of address (since
it is actually ironic) which the young man would probably wish to hear
from serious lips. Alkibiades, the "best of men,' is contemplating a
mad undertaking in teaching what he has not bothered to learn.
Alkibiades has been hit, but not hard enough for him to change his
mind instead of the topic. He thinks that Athenians and the other Greeks
don't, in fact, deliberate over the justice of a course of action - they
consider that to be more or less obvious - but about its
advantageousness. The just and the advantageous are not the same, for great
injustices have proven advantageous, and sometimes little advantage has
been gained from just action. Socrates announces that he will
challenge Alkibiades' knowledge of what is expedient, even if he should
grant that the just and the advantageous are ever so distinct.
Alkibiades perceives no hindrance to his claiming to know what is
advantageous unless Socrates is again about to ask from which teacher he
learned it or how he discovered it. Hereupon Socrates remarks that the
young man is treating arguments as though they were clothing which, once
worn, is dirtied. Socrates will ignore these notions of Alkibiades,
implying that they involve an incorrect understanding of philosophic
disputation. Alkibiades must be taught that what is ever correct
according to reason remains correct according to reason. Variety in
arguments is not a criterion affecting their rational consistency.
Socrates shall proceed by asking the same question, intending it to,
in effect, ask the whole argument. He claims to be certain that
Alkibiades will find himself in the same difficulty with this argument.
The reader will recognize that Alkibiades is not likely to encounter
precisely the same problems with this new argument. The nature of the
agreement and disagreement by individuals and states over the matter of
usefulness or advantageousness is different than that concerning justice. A man
may know it would be useful to have something, or expedient to do
something, and also know it to be unjust. States, too, may agree on
something's advantageousness, say controlling the Hellespont but they may
disagree on who should control it. The conflict in these cases is not the
result of a disagreement as to what is true (e.g., it is true that each
country's interests are better served by control of key sea routes), but
it is based precisely on their agreement about the truth regarding
expediency. When states and individuals are primarily concerned with
wealth, then knowing what is useful presents far fewer problems than
knowing what is just. Since Alkibiades is so squeamish as to
dislike the flavor of old arguments, Socrates will disregard his inability
to corroborate his claim to knowledge of the expedient. Instead he will
ask whether the just and the useful are the same or different. Alkibiades
can question Socrates as he had been questioned, or he can choose
whatever form of discourse he likes. As he feels incapable of convincing
Socrates, Alkibiades is invited to imagine Socrates to be the people of
the ekklesia ; even there, where the young man is eager to speak, he will
have to persuade each man singly (114b). A knowledgeable man can persuade
one alone and many together (114b-c). A writing master is able to
persuade either one or many about letters and likewise an arithmetician
influences one man or many about numbers. For quite a few reasons
the reader might object to Socrates' inference from these examples to the
arena of politics. Firstly, they are not the kinds of things discussed in
politics, and one might suspect that the "persuasion" involved
is not of the same variety. Proof of this might be offered in the form of
the observation that the inability to persuade in politics does not
necessarily imply the dull-wittedness of the audience. Strong passions
bar the way for reason in politics like they rarely do in numbers and
letters. This leads to the second objection. Not only is knowledge of
grammar and arithmetic fundamentally different than politics, but they
represent extreme examples in themselves. They correspond to two very diverse
criteria of knowledge both of which have been previously introduced in the
dialogue. The subject matter of letters is decided upon almost
exclusively by agreement; that of numbers is learned most importantly
through discovery, and this does not depend on people's agreement (cf.
112e-113a, 126c; and 106e reminds one that Alkibiades has taken lessons
only in one of these). Presumably, however, if the arithmetician
and grammarian can, then Alkibiades also will be able to persuade one man
or many about that which he knows. Apparently the only difference between
the rhetorician in front of a crowd and a man engaged in dialogue is that
the rhetorician persuades everyone at once, the latter one at a time.
Given that the same man persuades either a multitude or an individual, Socrates
invites Alkibiades to practice on him to show that the just is not the
expedient. (Ironically, there may be no one Alkibiades ever meets who is
further from the multitude). If it weren't for his earlier
statement (109c) where he indicated his recognition of the difference between
private and public speech, it would appear that Alkibiades had quite a
lot to learn before he confronted the ekklesia . One might readily
propose that there is indeed very little similarity between persuading
one and persuading the multitude. In a dialogue one man can ask questions
that reveal the other's ignorance; Socrates does this to Alkibiades
in this dialogue, he might not in public. In a dialogue, there needn't always
be public pressure with which to contend (an important exception being
courtroom dialogue); a public speech, especially one addressing the
ekklesia must yield to or otherwise take into account the strength of the
many. Often when addressing a crowd one only has to address the
influential. At other times one need only appeal to the least common
denominator. There are factors at work in crowds which affect
reactions to a speaker, factors which do not seem to be present in
one-to-one dialogue. When addressing a multitude, a speaker must be aware
of the general feelings and sentiments of the group, and address himself
to them. When in dialogue he can tailor his comments to one man's
specific interests. To convince the individual, however, he will have to
be precisely right in his deduction of the individual's sentiments - in a crowd
a more general understanding is usually sufficient. Mere hints at a
subject will be successful; when addressing a multitude with regard to a
policy, a rhetorician will not be taken to task for every claim he makes.
If his general policy is pleasing to the many, it is unlikely that they
will critically examine all of his reasons for proposing the policy. Also, when
speaking to a crowd, one is not expected to prove one's technical
expertise. An individual may be able to discover the limits of one's
knowledge; a crowd will rarely ask. This whola analysis, however, is
rendered questionable by the ambiguity of the composition of "the
many," discussed above. One could, for example, come across a very
knowledgeable crowd, or a stupid individual and many of the above observations
would not hold. However, the situations most directly relevant to the
dialogue involve rhetoric toward a crowd such as that of the ekklesia,
and thoughtful dialogue between individuals such as Alkibiades and
Socrates. If Alkibiades ever intends to set forth a plan of action
to the Athenians, the adoption of his proposal will depend on his
convincing them in the ekklesia . The ability to persuade the multitude
attains great political significance; and especially in democracies, a
man's ability in speaking is often the foundation of his power.
Once recognized, this power is susceptible to cultivation. Rhetoric, the
art of persuasive speech, is the art which provides the knowledge
requisite to gain effective power over an audience. All political
men are aware of rhetoric; their rhetorical ability to a large
extent determines their success or failure. Of course, there
are at least two important qualifications or limits on the power of even
the most persuasive speech. The first limit is knowledge. A man who
knows grammar and arithmetic will not be swayed wrongly about numbers,
when they are used in any of the conventional ways. That an able
rhetorician escape detection in a lie is a necessity if he is to be
successful among those knowledgeable in the topic he addresses.
Presumably those who possess only beliefs about the matter would be more
readily seduced to embrace a false opinion. The second limit
is more troubling. It is the problem of those who simply are not
convinced by argument. They distrust the spoken word. These seem to
fall into three categories. The first is exemplified in the
character of Kallikles in the Gorgias . It primarily includes those
who are unwilling to connect the conclusions of arguments to their
own lives. They may agree to something in argument and, moments
later, do something quite contrary to their conclusions. This
characteristic is well- displayed in Kallikles who, when driven to
a contradiction doesn't even care. He holds two conflicting
opinions and holds them so strongly that he doesn't even care that they
support conclusions that are contrary to reason and yield contrary
results. Kallikles is unwilling to continue discussing with Socrates (
Gorgias); he does not want to learn from rational speech. He remains
unconvinced by Socrates' argument and by his rhetoric ( Gorgias). If
Socrates is to rule Kallikles, he will need more than reason and wisdom
and beautiful speech ( Gorgias 523a-527e); he will need some kind of
coercive power. Secondly, almost all people have some experience of
those who inconsistently maintain in speech what they do not uphold in deed.
This is the most immediate level on which to recognize the problem of the
relation of theory to practice. Alkibiades seems to have this opinion of
speech at the beginning of the dialogue, for he can admit almost anything
in speech (106c.2). Two things, however, show that he is far above it.
He implicitly recognizes that the realm of speech is the realm
within which he must confront Socrates, and he has a desire for
consistency. Kallikles is too dogmatic to even recognize his
inconsistency. But when Socrates forces Alkibiades to take responsibility
for all the conclusions they have reached to that point, he realizes he
must have made an error either in his premises or his argument. This
marks the first and major turning around of Alkibiades. He recognizes
that he has said he is ignorant. A third type of person who
is not convinced by rhetoricians is the one who distrusts argument
because he recognizes the skill involved in speaking. Not because he is
indifferent to the compulsion of reason but precisely because he wants to
act according to reason, he desires to be certain of not being tricked.
(Most people are also familiar with the feeling that something vaguely
suspicious is going on in a discussion.) He is convinced that there
are men - e.g., sophists - who are skilled at the game of question and
answer and can make anyone look like a fool. And so what? He is not
at all moved by their victory in speech. Something other than rational speech
is needed to convince him. Indeed, this is one of the most difficult
challenges Socrates meets in the Republic, and indicates a higher
level of the theory/practice relationship. Adeimantos is not convinced by
mere words. He has to be shown that philosophy is useful to the city,
among other things ( Republic 487b.1-d.5; 498c.5 ff; 367d.9-e.5; 367b.3;
389a.10). Although he is distrustful of mere speech, he learns to respect
it as a medium through which to understand the political. He has the example of
Socrates whose life matches, or is even guided by, his speech. Socrates'
difficulty lies in making the case in speech to this man who does not put
full stock in the conclusions of speech. One must wonder, moreover, what kinds
of deeds will suffice for those others who cannot even view Socrates.
This is the problem faced by all writers who want to reach this sort of
person. Perhaps one might consider very clever speakers like Plato
to be performing the deed of making the words of a Socrates appear like the
deeds of Socrates, in the speech of the Dialogues. Almost paradoxically,
they must convince through speech that speech isn't "mere talk."
Alkibiades charges Socrates with hybris and Socrates acknowledges
it for the time being, for he intends to prove to Alkibiades the opposite
view, namely that the just is the expedient (114d). Socrates doesn't deny
the charge, or even, as one might expect, playfully redirect it as might
be appropriate; the accusation is made by a man who, not much later, will
be considered hybristic by almost the entire Athenian public. It is not
clear precisely what is hybristic about Socrates' last remarks. Hybris is
a pride or ambition or insolence inappropriate to men. Perhaps both men
are hybristic as charged; in this instance it is not imperative that they
defend themselves for they are alone. Possibly anyone who seeks total
power as does Alkibiades, or wisdom like Socrates, is too ambitious and
too haughty. They would be vying with the gods to the extent that they
challenge civic piety and the supremacy of the deities of the polis . One
wants to rule the universe like a god, the other to know it like a god.
The charge of hybris has been introduced in the context of
persuading through speech. Allegedly the person who knows will have the
power to persuade through speech. This is itself rather a problematic
claim as it implies all failure to persuade is an indication of ignorance.
However questionable the assertion, though, the connection it recalls
between these three important aspects of man's life - knowledge, power
and language - is too thoroughly elaborated to be mere coincidence. It is
very likely that the reader's understanding of these two exceptional men
and the appropriateness of the charge of hybris will have something to do
with language's relation to knowledge and power. Alkibiades asks Socrates
to speak, if he intends to demonstrate to Alkibiades that the just is not
distinct from the advantageous. Not inclined to answer any questions (cf.
106b), Alkibiades wishes Socrates to speak alone. Socrates, pretending
incredulity, asks if indeed Alkibiades doesn't desire most of all to be
persuaded and Alkibiades, playing along, agrees that he certainly does.
Socrates suggests that the surest indication of persuasion is freely
assenting, and if Alkibiades responds to the questions asked of him, he
will most assuredly hear himself affirm that the just is indeed the
advantageous. Socrates goes so far as to promise Alkibiades that if he
doesn't say it, he never need trust anybody's speech again.
This astonishingly extravagant declaration by Socrates bespeaks
certain knowledge on his part. Socrates implies he is confident of one of
two things. Perhaps he knows that the just is advantageous, or the true
relationship between the two, and thus argues for the proof of the claim
that anyone who knows can persuade. (The immense difficulties with this
have already been suggested.) What is more likely, however, is that he
does not think the just is identical to the advantageous, but he knows he
can win the argument with Alkibiades and drive him to assert whatever
conclusion he wants (that he could in effect make the weaker argument
appear the stronger). If the latter is true, the reader is reminded of
the power of speech and the possible dangers that can arise from its use.
He will also wonder if Socrates is quite right in his proposal that
Alkibiades need never trust anyone's speech if he cannot be made to
agree. It seems to be more indicative of the untrustworthiness of speech
if Alkibiades should agree, not that he refuse to agree. However, the
reader has been placed in the enviable position of being able to judge
for himself, through a careful review of the argument. His personal
participation, to the limit of his ability, is after all the only means
through which he can be certain that he isn't being duped into believing
something instead of knowing it. Alkibiades doubts he will admit
the point, but agrees to comply, confident that no harm will attend his
answers. Whereupon Socrates claims that Alkibiades speaks like a diviner
(cf. 127e, 107b, 117b), and proceeds, presuming to be articulating
Alkibiades' actual opinion. Some just things are advantageous and
some are not. Some just things are noble and some are not. Nothing can be
both base and just, so all just things are noble. Some noble things might
be evil and some base things may be good, for a rescue is invested with
nobility on account of courage, and with evil because of the deaths and
wounds. However, since courage and death are distinct, it is with respect
to separate aspects that the rescue can be said to be both noble and
evil. Insofar as it is noble it is good, and it is noble because of
courage. Cowardice is an evil on par with (or worse than, 115d) death.
Courage ranks among the best things and death among the worst. The rescue
is deemed noble because it is the working of good by courage, and
evil because it is the working of evil by death. Things are evil because
of the evil produced and good on account of the good that results. In
as much as a thing is good it is noble and base inasmuch as it is evil.
To designate the rescue as noble but evil is thus to term it good
but evil (116a). In so far as something is noble it is not evil, and
neither is anything good in so far as it is base. Whoever does nobly does
well and whoever does well is happy. People are made happy through
the acquisition of good things. They obtain good things by doing well and
nobly. Accordingly, doing well is good and faring well is noble.
The noble and good are the same. By this argument all that is noble
is good. Good things are expedient (116c) and as has already been
admitted, those who do just things do noble things (115a); those who do
noble things do good things (116a). If good things are expedient then
just things are expedient. As Socrates points out, it is
apparently Alkibiades who has asserted all of this. Since he argues that
the just and the expedient are the same, he could hardly do other than
ridicule anyone who rose up to advise the Athenians or the Peparathians
believing he knew the just and the unjust and claiming that just things
are sometimes evil. Before proceeding, the reader must pause and attempt
to determine the significance of the problem of the just versus the
expedient. No intimate familiarity with the tradition of political
philosophy is required in order to observe that the issue is dominant
throughout the tradition/ perhaps most notably among the moderns in the
writings of Machiavelli and Hobbes who linked the question of justice and
expediency to the distinction between serving another's interest and
serving one's own interest. They, and subsequent moderns, in the spirit
of the "Enlightenment," then proceed with the intention of
eradicating the distinction. Self-interest, properly understood, is right and
is the proper basis for all human actions. Not only is there a widespread
connection between the issue, the traditional treatment of the issue, and
human action - but the reader might recall that the ancient philosophers,
too, considered it fundamental. One need only realize that the
philosophic work par excellence, Plato's Republic, receives its impetus
from this consideration. The discussion of the best regime (perhaps the
topic of political philosophy) arises because of Glaukon's challenging
reformulation of Thrasymakhos' opinion that justice is the advantage of
the stronger. Recognition of this fact sufficiently corroborates the
view that this issue warrants careful scrutiny by serious students of
political philosophy. Socrates has chosen this topic as the one on which
to demonstrate the internal conflicts in Alkibiades' soul. Perhaps
that is a subtle indication to the reader as to where he might focus when
he begins the search for self-knowledge, the inevitable prerequisite
for his improvement. Alkibiades swears by all the gods. He is
overwhelmed. Alkibiades protests that he isn't sure he knows even what he
is saying; he continually changes his views under Socrates' questioning.
Socrates points out to him that he must be unaware of what such a
condition of perplexity signifies. If someone were to ask him whether he
had two or three eyes, or two or four hands, he would probably respond
consistently because he knows the answer. If he voluntarily gives
contradictory replies, they must concern things about which he is
ignorant. Alkibiades admits it is likely; but there are probably other
reasons why one might give contradictory answers, just as one might
intentionally appear to err - in speech speech. Alkibiades'
ignorance with regard to justice, injustice, noble, base, evil and good
is the cause of his confusion about them. Whenever a man does not know a
thing, his soul is confused about that thing. By Zeus (fittingly),
Alkibiades concedes he is ignorant of how to rise into heaven. There is
no confusion in his opinion about that simply because he is aware that he
doesn't know. Alkibiades must take his part in discerning Socrates'
meaning. He knows he is ignorant about fancy cookery, so he doesn't get
confused, but entrusts it to a cook. Similarly when aboard ship he
knows he is ignorant of how to steer, and leaves it to the pilot.
Mistakes are made when one thinks one knows though one doesn't. Otherwise
people would leave the job to those who do know. The ignorant person who
knows he is ignorant doesn't make mistakes (117e). Those who make
mistakes are those who think they know when they don't; those who know
act rightly; those who don't, leave it to others. All this is
not precisely true for a number of reasons. Chance or fortune always plays
a part and something unexpected could interfere in otherwise correctly
laid plans. Also, as any honest politician or general would have to say,
sometimes courses of action must be decided and acted upon, even when one
is fully cognizant of one's partial ignorance. The worst sort
of stupidity, Socrates testifies is the stupidity conjoined with
confidence. It is a cause of evils and the most pernicious evils occur
through its involvement with great matters like the just, the noble, the
good and the advantageous. Alkibiades' bewilderment regarding these
momentous matters, coupled with his ignorance of his very ignorance,
imputes to him a rather sorry condition. Alkibiades admits he is afraid
so. Socrates at this point makes clear to Alkibiades the
nature of his predicament. He utters an exclamation at the plight of the
young man and deigns to give it a name only because they are alone.
Alkibiades, according to his own confession, is attached to the most
shameful kind of stupidity. Perhaps to contrast Alkibiades' actual
condition with what he could be, Socrates chooses precisely this moment
to refer to Alkibiades as "best of men" (cf. also 113c). With
such apparent sarcasm still reverberating in the background, Socrates
intimates that because of this kind of ignorance he is eager to enter
politics before learning of it. Alkibiades, far from being alone, shares
this lot with most politicians except, perhaps, his guardian Perikies,
and a few others. Already recognized to be obviously a salient feature
of the action of the dialogue, the fact that the two are alone, engaged
in a private conversation, is further stressed here as the reader
approaches the central teaching of the First Alkibiades . Alkibiades has
been turned around and now faces Socrates. They can confide in each other
even to the extent of criticizing all or nearly all of Athens'
politicians. They shall, in the next while, be saying things that
most people should not hear. And at this moment it seems to be for the
purpose of naming Alkibiades' condition that Socrates reminds the reader
of their privacy. A number of possible reasons for the emphasis on
privacy in this regard come to mind. Socrates likely would not choose to
call Alkibiades stupid in front of a crowd. In the first
place, his having just recognized his ignorance makes him far less stupid
than the crowd and it would be inappropriate to have them feel they are
better than he. Alkibiades is by nature a cut above the many, and it
would be a sign of contempt to expose him to ridicule in front of the
many. Though he may be in a sorry condition, he is being compared to
another standard than the populace. Secondly, to expose and make
Alkibiades sensitive to public censure is probably not in his best
interests. A cultivation in most noble youths of the appropriate source
of their honor and dishonor is important. Socrates, by not making
Alkibiades feel mortified in front of the many, is heightening his
respect for the censure of men like Socrates. Without this alternative,
the man who seeks glory is confronted with a paradox of sorts. He wants
the love/adoration of the many, and yet he despises the things they love
or adore. Alkibiades is being shown that the praise of few (and if the
principle is pushed to its limit, eventually the praise of one - oneself,
i.e. pride) is more to be prized. Thirdly, as Socrates explains to
Meletus in his trial ( Apology 26a), when someone does something
unintentionally, it is correct to instruct him privately and not to
summon the attention of the public. Alkibiades is not ignorant on
purpose; Socrates should privately instruct him. It is also probable that
Alkibiades will only accept private criticism which doesn't threaten his
status. And perhaps fourthly, if Socrates were to insult Alkibiades
in public the many would conclude that there was a schizm between
them. Because they are men whose natures are akin, and because of
their (symbolic) representation of politics and philosophy, or power
and knowledge, any differences they have must remain private. It is in
their best interest as well as the interest of the public, that everyone
perceive the two as being indivisible. And as was observed earlier, even
the wisest politicians must appear perfectly confident of their knowledge
and plans. This is best done if they conceal their private doubts and
display complete trust in their advisors, providing a united front when
facing the many. When Socrates suggests Perikles is a possible
exception, Alkibiades names some of the wise men with whom Perikles
conversed to obtain his wisdom. Those whom he names are conventionally
held to be wise; Alkibiades might not refer to the same people by the end
of this conversation with Socrates. In any event, upon Alkibiades'
mention of the wise men, Socrates insinuates that Perikles' wisdom
may be in doubt. Anybody who is wise in some subject is able to make
another wise in it, just as Alkibiades' writing teacher taught
Alkibiades, and whomever else he wishes, about letters. The person who
learns is also then able to enlighten another man. The same holds true of the
harper and the trainer (but apparently not the flute player, cf. 106e).
The ability to point to one's student and to show his capability is a
fine proof of knowing anything. If Perikles didn't make either of his
sons wise, or Alkibiades' brother (Kleinias the madman),why is Alkibiades
in his sorry condition? Alkibiades confesses that he is at fault for not
paying attention to Perikles. Still, he swears by the king of gods that
there isn't any Athenian or stranger or slave or foreman who is said to have
become wise through conversation with Perikles, as various students of
sophists have been said to have become wise and erudite through lessons.
Socrates doesn't need to explicate the conclusion. Instead, he asks
Alkibiades what he intends to do. The conclusion of the
argument is never uttered. It is obviously meant to question Perikles'
wisdom, but rather than spell it out, the topic is abruptly changed. If
Perikles were dead, not alive and in power, piety would not admit of even
this much criticism to be levied. Alkibiades would be expected to defend
his uncle against those outside the family; and all Athenians to defend
him against critics from other poleis . In addition, if this was a public
discussion, civic propriety would demand silence in front of the many
concerning one's doubts about the country's leaders. But since they are
indeed alone, and need not worry about the effects on others of their
discussion of Perikles' wisdom, they might have concluded the argument.
The curious reader will likely examine various reasons for not finishing
it. Three possibilities appear to be somewhat supported by the discussion
to this point. One notices, to begin with, that it would be
adequate for the argument, if a person could be found who was reputed to
have gained wisdom from Perikles. Given that a reputation among the many
has not been highly regarded previously in the dialogue, there seems
little need to press this point in the argument. If a man was said to
have been made wise by Perikles, the criteria by which that judgment
would be made seem much less reliable than the criteria whereby the many
evaluate a man's skill in letters. There is no proof of Perikles' ability
to make another wise in finding someone who is reputed to be wise.
Conversely, Perikles may well have made someone wise who did not also
achieve the reputation for wisdom. A second point in
connection with the argument is that the three subjects mentioned are
those in which Alkibiades has had lessons. Alkibiades has ability in them, yet
cannot point to people whom he has made wise in letters, harping or
wrestling. That does not seem sufficient proof that he is ignorant (thus
that his master was ignorant and so on) . It is also not clear that
Alkibiades' teachers could have made any student whomsoever they wished,
wise in these subjects; Perikles 1 sons must have achieved their
reputation as simpletons (118e) from failing at something. Knowledge
cannot require, for proof, that one has successfully taught someone else.
Not all people try to teach what they know. There must be other proofs of
competence, such as winning at wrestling, or pleasing an audience through
harping. Similarly, not having taught someone may not prove one's
ignorance; it may just indicate unwilling and incapable students.
Alkibiades, for example, didn't learn to play the flute. There is no
indication that his teacher was incapable - either of playing or of
teaching. Alkibiades is said to have refused to learn it becaus e of
considerations of his own. It might also be suggested that pointing to
students doesn't solve the major problem of proving someone's knowledge. Is
it any easier to recognize knowledge in a student than in a teacher?
A third closely connected point is that some knowledge may be of
such significance that the wise man properly spends his time
actively using it (e.g., by ruling) and not teaching it. Perikles, through
ruling, may have made the Athenians as a whole better off, and perhaps
even increased their knowledge somewhat. Had his son and heirs to his
power observed his example while he was in office, they too might have
become wiser. Adding further endorsement to this notion is the quite
reasonable supposition that some of the things a wise politician knows
cannot be taught through speech but only through example, just as some
kinds of knowledge must be gained by experience. He may communicate
his teaching through his example, or even less obviously, through
whatever institutions or customs he has established or revised.
Some subjects should probably also be kept secret for
the state, and some types of prudential judgement are acquired only
be guided experience. Perikles's very silence, indeed, may be a
testimony to his political wisdom. In response to Socrates'
question as to what Alkibiades will do, the young man suggests that they
put their heads together (119b). This marks the completion of Alkibiades'
turning around. Alkibiades, who began the discussion annoyed and haughty
has requested Socrates' assistance in escaping his predicament. He is ready to
accept Socrates' advice. This locution (of putting their heads together)
will be echoed later by Socrates and will mark another stage of their
journey together. The central portion of the dialogue, the portion
between the two joinings of their heads, is what shall be taken up
next. Since most of the men who do the work of the polis are uneducated,
Alkibiades presumes he is assured of gaining an easy victory over them on
the basis of his natural qualities. If they were educated, he would have
to take some care with his learning, just as much training is required to
compete with athletes. But they are ignorant amateurs and should be no
challenge. Socrates launches into an exclamatory derision of this
"best of men." What he has just said is unworthy of the looks
and other resources of his. Alkibiades doesn't know what Socrates means
by this and Socrates responds that he is vexed for Alkibiades and for his
love. Alkibiades shouldn't expect this contest to be with these men here.
When Alkibiades inquires with whom his contest is to be, Socrates asks if
that is a question worthy of a man who considers himself superior.
Alkibiades wants to ascertain if Socrates is suggesting that his contest
is not with these men, the politicians of the polis . This
passage is central to the First Alkibiades . The answer implicit in Socrates'
response I deem to be far more profound than it might seem to the casual
observer. Hopefully the analysis here will support this judgement and
show as well, that this question of the contest (agon) is a paramount
question in Alkibiades' life, in the lives of all superior men, and in
the quest for the good as characterized by political philosophy. If
Alkibiades' ambition is really unworthy of him, if he thinks he ought to
strive only be be as competent as the Athenians, then Socrates is vexed
for his love. Earlier (104e) the reader was informed that Socrates would
have had to put aside his love for Alkibiades if Alkibiades proved not to
have such a high ambition. Thus Socrates was attracted to Alkibiades'
striving nature. He followed the youth about for so long because
Alkibiades' desires for power were growing. What thus differentiates Alkibiades
from other youths (such as several of those with whom Socrates is shown
in the dialogues, to have spent time) is that he has more exalted
ambitions than they. Should Socrates come to the conclusion that Alkibiades
does not in fact have this surpassing will for power, the philosopher
would be forced to put away his love for Alkibiades. Now, after some
discussion, it seems there is a possibility that Alkibiades wants only to
be as great as other politicians. Many boys wish this; Alkibiades' eros
would not be outstanding. Were this true, it would indeed be no wonder if
Socrates were vexed for his love. However, it appears that this is
just something Alkibiades has said (119c.3, 9). Socrates' love is not
released, so Alkibiades passes this, the test of Socrates' love. It is at
this point in the dialogue that one can finally discern the character of
the test. The question, really, is what constitutes a high enough
ambition. An athlete must try to find out with whom to train and fight,
for how long, how closely, and at what time (119b; 107d-108b). He
determines all of this himself; he determines, in other words, the extent
of his ambition to improve and care for himself in terms of his contest.
That with whom he fights determines how he prepares himself. The contest
is thus a standard against which to judge his achievement.
The next step appears to be obvious: for the athlete of the soul as
well as the athlete of the body, the question is with whom ought he
contest. Socrates suggests shortly that should Alkibiades' ambition be to
rule Athens, then his contest would rightly be with other rulers, namely
the Spartan kings and the Great King of Persia. Since Socrates apparently
proceeds to compare in some detail the Spartan and Persian princes'
preparations for the contest, the surface impression is that Alkibiades
really must presume his contest to be with the Persians and Spartans. The
reader remembers, however, that Alkibiades would rather die than be
limited to ruling Athens (105b-c). What is the proper contest for someone
who desires to rule the known, civilized world and to have his rule
endure beyond his own lifetime; what is the preparation requisite for
truly great politics? At this point the question of the contest assumes
an added significance. The reference cannot be any actual ruler; the
inquiry has encountered another dimension of complexity. The larger
significance is, it is suspected, connected to the earlier, discussion
about the role of the very concept of the superior man in political
philosophy, particularly in understanding the nature of man. The very
idea that a contest for which one ought to prepare oneself is with
something not actualized by men of the world (at least not in an obvious
sense since it cannot be any actual ruler) poses problems for some views
of human nature. For example, in the opinion of those who believe that
man's "nature" is simply what he actually is, or what is
"out there"; the actual men of the world and their demonstrated
range of possibilities are what indicate the nature of man. On this
view, man's nature, typically is understood to be some kind of
statistical norm. These people will agree that politics is limited by man
and thought about political things is thus limited by man's nature, but
they will not concede the necessity of looking toward the best man.
The argument to counter this position is importantly epistemological. It
is almost a surety that any specific individual will deviate from the
norm to some degree, and the difference can only be described as tending
to be higher or lower than, or more or less than, the norm. This
deviation, which is to one side or other of the norm, makes the
individual either better or worse than the norm. Thus individuals, it may
be said, can be arranged hierarchically based on their position relative
to the norm and the better. Whenever one tries to account for an
individual's hierarchical position vis a vis the norm, it is done in
terms of circumstances which limit or fail to limit his realization of
his potential. Since no one is satisfied with an explanation of a
deviation such as "that is understandable, 25% of the cases are higher
than normal," some explanation of why this individual stopped short,
or proceeded further than average is called for. 100 The implicit
understanding of the potential, or of the proper/ideal proportions, then,
is what allows for comparison between individuals. By extension, this
understanding of the potential, whether or not it is actualized, is what
provides the ability to judge between regimes or societies. The amount a
polity varies (or its best men, or its average men) from the potential is
the measure of its quality relative to other polities. The explanation of
this variation (geographic location, form of regime, economic dependency, or
other standard reasons) will be in terms of factors which limit it from
nearing, or allow it to approach nearer the goal. As it is
not uniformly better to have more and not less the normal of any
characteristic, any consistent judgement of deviation from the norm must
be made in light of the best. Indeed, it usually is, either explicitly or
implicitly. This teleological basis of comparison is the common-sensical
one, the prescientific basis of judgement. When someone is heard to
remark "what a man," one most certainly does not understand him
to be suggesting that the man in question has precisely normal
characteristics. Evaluating education provides a clear and fitting
example of how the potential, not the norm, serves as the standard for
judging. A teacher does not attempt to teach his students to conform to
the norm in literary, or mathematical ability. It would be ludicrous for
him to stop teaching mid-year, say, because the normal number of his
students reached the norm of literacy for their age. Indeed, education
itself can be seen as an attempt to exceed the norm (in the direction of
excellence) and thereby to raise it. That can only be done if there is a
standard other than the norm from which to judge the norm itself. The
superior man understands this. He competes with the best, not the norm.
As a youth he comes to know that a question central to his ambition,
or will for power is that of his proper contest. The
theoretical question of how one knows with whom to compete is very
difficult although it may (for a long time) have a straightforward
practical solution. It is at the interface between the normally accepted
solution and the search for the real answer that Alkibiades and Socrates
find themselves, here in the middle of their conversation. For most
people during part of their lives, and for many people all of their life,
the next step in one's striving, the next contestant one must face, is
relatively easy to establish. Just as a wrestler proceeds naturally from local
victory through stages toward world championship, so too does political
ambition have ready referents - up to a point. It is at that point that
Alkibiades finds himself now, no doubt partly with the help of Socrates
prodding his ambitions (e.g., 105b. ff, 105e). What had made it
relatively easy to know his contestant before were the pictures of the
best men as Alkibiades understood them, namely politically successful
men, Kyros and Xerxes (much as an ambitious wrestler usually knows that a
world championship title is held by someone in particular). Alkibiades' path
had been guided. Socrates has chosen to address Alkibiades now, perhaps
because Alkibiades' ambition is high enough that the conventional models
no longer suffice. Alkibiades is at the stage wherein he must discover
what the truly best man is, actual examples have run out. He recognizes
that he needs Socrates' help (119b); no one else has indicated that
Alkibiades' contest might take place beyond the regular sphere of
politics, with contestants other than the actual rulers of the world. But
how is he to discover the best man in order that he may compete?
This is the theoretical question of most significance to man, and
could possibly be solved in a number of ways. Within the confines of the
dialogue, however, this analysis will not move further than to
recognize both the question/ and its centrality to political philosophy.
101 To note in passing, however, there may be many other questions behind
that of the best man. There may, for example, be more than one kind of
best man, and a decision between them may involve looking at a more prior
notion of "best." At any rate, it has been shown that it is
apparently no accident that the central question in a dialogue on the
nature of man is a question by a superior youth as to his proper contest.
What is not yet understood is why a philosophic man's eros is devoted to
a youth whose erotic ambition is for great politics, a will to power over
the whole world. By means of a thinly veiled reference to Athen's
Imperial Navy, over which Alkibiades would later have full powers as
commander, Socrates attempts to illustrate to the youth the importance of
choosing and recognizing the proper contestants. Supposing, for example,
Alkibiades were intending to pilot a trireme into a sea battle, he would
view being as capable as his fellows merely a necessary qualification. If
he means to act nobly ( kalos ) for himself and his city, he would want
to so far surpass his fellows as to make them feel only worthy enough to fight
under him, not against him. It doesn't seem fitting for a leader to be
satisfied with being better than his soldiers while neglecting the
scheming and drilling necessary if his focus is the enemy's leaders.
Alkibiades asks to whom Socrates is referring and Socrates responds with
another question. Is Alkibiades unaware that their city often wars with
Sparta and the Great King? If he intends to lead their polis, he'd
correctly suppose his contest was with the Spartan and Persian
kings. His contest is not with the likes of Meidias who retain a slavish
nature and try to run the polis by flattering, not ruling it. If he looks
to that sort for his goal, then indeed he needn't learn what's required
for the greatest contest, or perform what needs exercising, or prepare
himself adequately for a political career. Alkibiades, the best of
men, has to consider the implications of believing that the Spartan
generals and the Persian kings are like all others (i.e., no better than
normal). 103 Firstly, one takes more care of oneself if one thinks the
opponents worthy, and no harm is done taking care of oneself. Assuredly
that sufficiently establishes that it is bad to hold the opinion
that they are no better than anyone else. Almost as a second
thought, Socrates turns to another criterion which might indicate
why having a certain opinion is bad - truth (cf. Republic 386c).
There is another reason, he continues, namely that the opinion is
probably false. It is likely that better natures come from
well-born families where they will in the end become virtuous in the
event they are well brought up. The Spartan and Persian kings,
descended from Perseus, the son of Zeus, are to be compared with
Socrates' and Alkibiades' ancestral lines to see if they are inferior.
100 Alkibiades is quick to point out that his goes back to Zeus as well,
and Socrates adds that he comes from Zeus through Daidalos and
Hephaistos, son of Zeus. Since ancestral origin in Zeus won't
qualitatively differentiate the families, Socrates points out that in
both cases - Sparta and Persia - every step in the line was a king,
whereas both Socrates and Alkibiades (and their fathers) are private men.
The royal families seem to win the first round. The homelands of the
various families could be next compared, but it is likely that Alkibiades'
her itage, which Socrates is able to describe in detail,
would arouse laughter. In ancestry and in birth and breeding, those
people are superior, for, as Alkibiades should have observed, Spartan
kings have their wives guarded so that no one outside the line could
corrupt the queen, and the Persians have such awe for the king that no
one would dare, including the queen. With the conclusion of
Socrates' and Alkibiades' examination of the various ancestries of the
men, and before proceeding to the discussions of their births and nurtures, a
brief pause is called for to look at the general problem of descent and
the philosophic significance to have in this dialogue. References to
familial descent are diffused throughout the First Alkibiades . It begins
by calling attention to Alkibiades' ancestry and five times in the
dialogue is he referred to as the son of Kleinias. On two occasions he is even
addressed as the son of Deinomakhe. If that weren't enough, this
dialogue marks one of only two occasions on which Socrates' mother, the
midwife Phainarete, is named (cf. Theaitetos 149a). The central of the things
on which Socrates said Alkibiades prides himself is his family, and
Socrates scrutinizes it at the greatest length. The sons of Perikles are
mentioned, as are other familial relations such as the brother of
Alkibiades. The lineages of the Persian kings, of the Spartan kings, of
Alkibiades and Socrates are probed, and Socrates reveals that he has
bothered to learn and to repeat the details. The mothers of the Persian
kings and Spartan kings are given an important role in the dialogue, and
in general the question of ancestry is noticeably dominant, warranting
the reader's exploration. As already discussed in the beginning,
the reference to Alkibiades' descent might have philosophic significance
in the dialogue. Here again, the context of the concern about descent is
explicitly the consideration of the natures of men. Better natures usually
come from better ancestors (as long as they also have good nurtures). At
the time of birth, an individual's ancestry is almost the only indication
of his nature, the most important exception being, of course, his sex.
But, as suggested by Socrates' inclusion of the proviso that they be well
brought up (120e), a final account of man's nature must look to ends not
only origins, and to his nurture, not only descent. Nurture ( paideia) is
intended to mean a comprehensive sense of education, including much more
than formal schooling; indeed, it suggests virtually everything that affects
one's upbringing. The importance of this facet in the development of a
man's nature becomes more obvious when one remembers the different
characteristics of offspring of the same family (e.g., Kleinias and
Alkibiades, both sons of Kleinias and Deinomakhe, or the sons of Ariston
participating in the Republic ). These suggestions, added to the already
remarked upon importance of nurture in a man's life, mutually support the
contention that nature is to be understood in terms of a fulfilled end
providing a standard for nurture. The nature of man, if it is to be
understood in terms of a telos, his fulfilled potential, must be more
than that which he is born as. An individual's nature, then, is a
function of his descent and his nurture. Often they are supplementary, at
least superficially; better families being better educated, they are that much
more aware and concerned with the nurture of their offspring. 'Human
nature' would be distinguished from any individual's nature in so far as
it obviously does not undergo nurture; but if properly understood, it
provides the standard for the nurture of individuals. To the point of
birth, then, ancestry is the decisive feature in a man's nature, and thus
sets limits on his nature. When his life begins, that turns around,
and education and practice become the key foci for a man's
development. After birth a man cannot alter his ancestry, and nurture
assumes its role in shaping his being, his nature. The
issue is addressed in a rather puzzling way by Socrates' claim that
his ancestry goes through Daidalos to Hephaistos, the son of Zeus.
This serves to establish (as authoritatively as in the case of the
others) that he is well-born. It does nothing to counter Alkibiades'
claim that he, like the Persian and Spartan kings, is descended
from Zeus (all of them claiming descent from the king of the
Olympians); in other words, it does not appear to serve a purpose
in the explicit argument and the reader is drawn to wonder why he
says it. Upon examination one discovers that this is not the
regular story. Normally in accounts of the myths, the paternal heritage of
Hephaistos is ambiguous at best . Hesiod relates that Hephaistos
was born from Hera 109 with no consort. Hera did not
mate with a man; Haphaistos had no father. 1 '*’ 0 Socrates thus
descends from a line begun by a woman - the queen of the heavens, the
goddess of marriage and childbirth (cf. Theaitetos; Statesman). By
mentioning Hephaistos as an ancestor, Socrates is drawing attention to
the feminine aspect of his lineage. An understanding of the feminine is
crucial to an account of human nature. The male/female division is the
most fundamental one for mankind, rendering humans into two groups (cf.
Symposium 190d-192d). The sexes and their attraction to each other
provide the most basic illustration of eros, perhaps man's most powerful
(as well as his most problematic) drive or passion. Other considerations
include the female role in the early nurture of children (Republic 450c)
and thus the certain, if indirect effect of sex on the polls (it is not
even necessary to add the suspicions about a more subtle part for
femininity reserved in the natures of some superior men, the
philosophers). Given this, it is quite possible that Socrates is suggesting the
importance of the male/female division in his employment of 'descent' as
an extended philosophic metaphor for human nature. A brief
digression concerning Hephaistos and Daidalos may be useful at this point.
Daidalos was a legendary ingenious craftsman, inventor and sculptor (famous for
his animate sculptures). He is said to have slain an apprentice who
showed enough promise to threaten Daidalos' supremacy, and he fled to
Krete. In Krete he devised a hollow wooden cow which allowed the queen to
mate with a bull. The offspring was the Minotaur. Daidalos constructed
the famous labyrinth into which select Athenian youths were led annually,
eventually to be devoured by the Minotaur. ^ Daidalos, however, was
suspected of supplying the youth Theseus (soon to become a great
political founder) with a means to exit from the maze and was jailed with
his son Ikaros. A well known legend tells of their flight. Minos, the
Kretan king was eventually killed in his pursuit of Daidalos.
Hephaistos was the divine and remarkably gifted craftsman of the
Olympians, himself one of the twelve major gods. Cast from the heavens as
an infant, Hephaistos remained crippled. He was, as far as can be told,
the only Olympian deity who was not of surpassingly beautiful physical
form. It is interesting that Socrates would claim descent from him.
Hephaistos was noted as a master craftsman and manufactured many wondrous
things for the gods and heroes. His most remarkable work might have been
that of constructing the articles for the defence of the noted warrior,
Akhilleus, the most famous of which was the shield (Homer, Iliad).
The next topic discussed in this, the longest speech in
the dialogue, is the nurture of the Persian youths. Subsequently
Socrates discourses about Spartan and Persian wealth and he
considers various possible reactions to Alkibiades' contest with
the young leaders of both countries. The account Socrates presents
raises questions as to his possible intentions. It is quite likely
that Socrates and Xenaphon, who also gives an account of the
nurture of the Persian prince, have more in mind than mere
interesting description. Their interpretations and presentations of
the subject differ too markedly for their purposes to have been simply to
report the way of life in another country. Thus, rather than worry
over matters of historical accuracy, the more curious features of
Socrates' account will be considered, such as the relative emphasis on
wealth over qualities of soul, and the rather lengthy speculation about
the queens', not the kings', regard for their sons. In pointed
contrast to the Athenians, of whose births the neighbors do not even
hear, when the heir to the Persian throne is born the first festivities
take place within the palace and from then on all of Asia celebrates his
birthday. The young child is cared for by the best of the king's eunuchs,
instead of an insignificant nurse, and he is highly honored for shaping
the limbs of the body. Until the boy is perhaps seven years old, then,
his attendant is not a woman who would provide a motherly kind of care,
nor a man who would provide an example of masculinity and manliness, but
a neutered person. The manly Alkibiades, as well as the reader, might
well wonder as to the effect this would have on the boy, and whether it
is the intended effect. At the age of seven the boys learn to ride
horses and commence to hunt. This physical activity, it seems, continues
until the age of fourteen when four of the most esteemed Persians become the
boys' tutors. They represent four of the virtues, being severally
wise, just, temperate, and courageous. The teaching of piety is conducted
by the wisest tutor of the four (which certainly allows for a number of
interesting possibilities) . He instructs the youth in the religion of
Zoroaster, or in the worship of the gods, and he teaches the boy that
which pertains to a king - certainly an impressive task. The just tutor
teaches him to be completely truthful (122a); the temperate tutor to be
king and free man overall of the pleasures and not to be a slave to
anyone, and the brave tutor trains him to be unafraid, for fear is
slavery. Alkibiades had instead an old (and therefore otherwise
domestically useless) servant to be his tutor. Socrates
suspends discussion of the nurture of Alkibiades' competitors. It would
promise to be a long description and too much of a task (122b). He
professes that what he has already reported should suggest what follows.
Thereby Socrates challenges the reader to examine the manner in which
this seemingly too brief description of nurture at least indicates what a
complete account might entail. This appears to be the point in the
dialogue which provides the most fitting opportunity to explicitly and
comprehensively consider nurture. It has become clear to Socrates and
Alkibiades that the correct nurture is essential to the greatest contest,
and Socrates leaves Alkibiades (and the reader) with the impression that
he regards the Persian nurture to be appropriate. One might thus presume
that an examination of Persian practices would make apparent the more
important philosophical questions about nurture. Socrates had been
specific in noticing the subjects of instruction received by Alkibiades
(106e), and the reader might follow likewise in observing the lessons of
the Persian princes. On the face of it, Socrates provides more detail
regarding this aspect of their nurture than others, so it might be
prudent to begin by reflecting upon the teaching of religion and kingly
things, of truth-telling, of mastering pleasures, and of mastering fears.
Perhaps the Persian system indicates how these virtues are properly seen
as one, or how they are arranged together, for one suspects that conflicts
might normally arise in their transmission. These subjects are being
taught by separate masters. A consistent nurture demands that they are
all compatible, or that they can agree upon some way of deciding
differences. If the four tutors can all recognize that one of them ought
to command, this would seem to imply that wisdom somehow encompasses all other
virtues. In that case, the attendance of the one wise man would appear to
be the most desirable in the education of a young man. The wise man's
possession of the gamut of virtues would supply the prince with a model
of how they properly fit together. Without a recognized hierarchy, there might
be conflicts between the virtues. Indeed, as the reader has had occasion
to observe in an earlier context of the dialogue, two of the substantive
things taught by two different tutors may conflict strongly. There are
times when a king ought not to be honest. The teacher of justice then
would be suggesting things at odds with that which pertains to a king.
How would the boys know which advice to choose, independently of any
other instruction? In addition, Socrates suggests that the bravest
Persian (literally the 'manliest') tells or teaches the youth to fear
nothing, for any fear is slavery. But surely the expertise of the
tutor of courage would seem to consist in his knowing what to fear and what not
to fear. Otherwise the youth would not become courageous but reckless.
Not all fears indicate that one is a slave: any good man should run out
of the way of a herd of stampeding cattle, an experienced mountain
climber is properly wary of crumbling rock, and even brave swimmers ought
to remain well clear of whirlpools. For this to be taught it appears that
the courageous tutor would have to be in agreement with the tutor of
wisdom. These sorts of difficulties seem to be perennial, and a system of
nurture which can overcome them would provide a fine model, it seems, for
education into virtues. If the Persian tutors could indeed show the
virtues to be harmonious, it would be of considerable benefit to
Alkibiades to understand precisely how it is accomplished. The
question of what is to be taught leads readily to a consideration of how to
determine who is to teach. The problem of ascertaining the competence of
teachers seems to be a continuing one (as the reader of this dialogue has
several occasions to observe - e.g., llOe, ff.). But besides their public
reputation there is no indication of the criteria employed in the
selection of the Persian tutors. To this point in the dialogue, two
criteria have been acknowledged as establishing qualification for teaching (or
for the knowledge requisite for teaching). Agreement between teachers on their
subject matter (lllb-c) is important for determining who is a proper
instructor, as is a man's ability to refer to knowledgeable students
(118d). As has already been indicated, both of these present interesting
difficulties. Neither, however, is clearly or obviously applicable to the
Persian situation. The present king might prove to be the only student to
whom they can point (in which case they may be as old as Zopyros) and he
might well be the only one in a position to agree with them. It is
conceivable that some kinds of knowledge are of such difficulty that one
cannot expect too many people to agree. If the Persians have indeed
solved the problems of choosing tutors, and of reconciling public
reputation for virtue with actual possession of virtue, they have
overcome what appears to be a most persistent difficulty regarding human
nurture. Another issue which surfaces in Socrates' short account of
the Persian educational system is that of the correct age to begin
such nurture. Education to manhood begins at about the age of puberty
for the prince. If the virtues are not already quite entrenched in
his habits or thoughts (in which latter case he would have needed
another source of instruction besides the tutors - as perhaps one might
say the Iliad and Odyssey provide for Athenian youths such as
Alkibiades), it is doubtful that they could be inculcated at the age of
fourteen. Socrates is completely silent about the Persians' prior
education to virtue, disclosing only that they began riding horses and
participating in "the hunt." Since both of those activities
demand some presence of mind, one may presume that early Persian
education was not neglected. This earliest phase of education is of the
utmost importance, however, for if the boy had been a coward for fourteen
years, one might suspect tutoring by a man at that point would not likely
make him manly. And to make temperate a lad accustomed to indulgence
would be exceedingly difficult. Forcibly restricting his consumption
would not have a lasting effect unless there were some thing to draw upon within
the understanding of the boy, but Socrates supplies Alkibiades with no
hint as to what that might be. Presently the young man will be reminded
of Aesop's fables and the various stories that children hear. If, in
order to qualify as proper nurturing, such activities as children
participate in - e.g., music and gymnastics - ought to be carried out in
a certain mode or with certain rules (cf. Republic), Socrates gives no
indication of their manner here. Unless stories and activities build a
respect for piety and justice, and the like, it is not obvious that the
respect will be developed when someone is in his mid-teens. It would seem
difficult, if not impossible, to erase years of improper musical and
gymnastic education. Socrates remains distressingly silent about so very
much of the Persian (or proper) method of preparing young men for the
great contest. The only one who would care about Alkibiades 1
birth, nurture or education, would be some chance lover he happened to
have, Socrates says in reference to his seemingly unique interest in
Alkibiades' nature. He concludes what was presumably the account of the
education of the Persian princes, intimating that Alkibiades would be
shamed by a comparison of the wealth, luxury, robes and various
refinements of the Persians. It is odd that he would mention such items
in the context immediately following the list of subjects the tutors were
to teach in the education of the soul of the king - including the
complete mastery of all pleasure. It is even more curious that he would
deign to mention these in the context of making Alkibiades sensitive to
what was required for his preparation for his proper contest. The
historical Alkibiades, it seems, would not be so insensitive to these
luxuries as to need reminding of them, and the dialogue to this point has not
given any indication that these things of the body are important to the
training Alkibiades needs by way of preparing for politics. The fact that
Socrates expressly asserts that Alkibiades would be ashamed at having
less of those things corroborates the suggestion that more is going on in
this long speech than is obvious at the surface. Briefly, and
in a manner that doesn't appear to make qualities of soul too appealing,
Socrates lists eleven excellences of the Spartans: temperance,
orderliness, readiness, easily contented, great-mindedness,
well-orderedness, manliness, patient endurance, labor loving, contest
loving and honor loving. Socrates neither described these glowingly, nor
explains how the Spartans come to possess them. He merely lists them.
Then, interestingly, he remarks that Alkibiades in comparison is a child
. He does not say that Alkibiades would be ashamed, or that he would
lose, but that he had somehow not yet attained them. Like some children
presumably, he may have the potential to grow into them if they are part
of the best nature. There is no implication, then, that Alkibiades'
nature is fundamentally lacking in any of these virtues, and this is of
special interest to the reader given the more or less general agreement,
even during his lifetime, as to his wantonness. Socrates here suggests
that Alkibiades is like a child with respect to the best
nature. This part of Socrates' speech reveals two possible
alternatives to the Persian education, alternatives compatible with the
acquisition of virtue. A Spartan nurture was successful in giving
Spartans the set of virtues Socrates listed. Since Alkibiades obviously
cannot regain the innocence necessary to benefit from early disciplined
habituation, and since Socrates nevertheless understands him to be able
to grow into virtue in some sense, there must be another way open to him.
This twenty year old "child" has had some early exposure to
virtue, at least through poetry, and perhaps it is through this youthful
persuasion that Socrates will aid him in his education. Indeed Socrates
appeals often to his sense of the honorable and noble - which is related
to virtue even if improperly understood by Alkibiades. As the dialogue
proceeds from this point/ Socrates appears to be importantly concerned
with making Alkibiades virtuous through philosophy. He is trying to
persuade Alkibiades to let his reason rule him in his life, most
importantly in his desire to know himself. Perhaps, on this account, one
might acquire virtue in two ways, a Spartan nurture, for example, and
through philosophy. Again, however, Socrates stops before he has
said everything he might have said, and turns to the subject of wealth.
In fact, Scorates claims that he must not keep silent with regard to
riches if Alkibiades thinks about them at all. Thus, according to
Socrates, not only is it not strange to turn from the soul to wealth, but
it is even appropriate. Socrates must attest to the riches of Spartans,
who in land and slaves and horses and herds far outdo any estate in
Athens, and he most especially needs to report on the wealth of gold and
silver privately held in Lakedaimon. As proof for this assertion, which
certainly runs counter to almost anyone's notion of Spartan life,
Socrates uses a fable within this fabulous story. Socrates
assumes Alkibiades has learned Aesop's fables - somehow - for without
supplying any other details he simply mentions that there are many tracks
of wealth going into Sparta and none coming out. In order to explain
Socrates' otherwise cryptic remarks, the children's fable will be
recounted. Aesop's story concerns an old lion who must eat by his wits
because he can no longer hunt or fight. He lies in a cave pretending to
be ill and when any animals visit him he devours them. A fox eventually
happens by, but seeing through the ruse he remains outside the cave.
When ths lion asks why he doesn't come in, the fox responds that he sees
too many tracks entering the cave and none leaving it. The
lion and the fox represent the classic confrontation between power and
knowledge. 114 One notices that in the fable the animals generally
believe an opinion that proves to be a fatal mistake. The fox doesn't. He
avoids the error. The implication is that Socrates and Alkibiades have
avoided an important mistake that the rest of the Greeks have made. One
can only speculate on what it is precisely. They seem to be the only ones
aware of one of Sparta's qualities, a quality which, oddly, is in some
sense essential to Alkibiades' contest. Perhaps Socrates' use of the
fable merely suggests that erroneous opinions about the nature of one's
true contestant may prove fatal, but there may be more to it than that.
This fable fittingly appears in the broad context of nurture; myths
and fables are generally recognized for their pedagogic value. Any
metaphoric connection this fable brings to mind with the more famous
Allegory of the Cave in Plato's Republic will necessarily be
speculative. But they are not altogether out of place. The cave, in a
sense, represents the condition of most people's nurtures and thus
represents a fitting setting for a fable related in this dialogue. Given
Socrates' fears of what will happen to Alkibiades (132a, 135e) and
Alkibiades' own concern for the demos, the suggested image of people
(otherwise fit enough to be outside) being enticed into the cave and
unable to leave it might be appropriate. At any rate, in
terms of the argument for Sparta's wealth, this evidence does nothing to
show that the wealth is privately held. It is apparent, after all, that
the evidence indicates gold is pouring into Spsi’ts. from all over
Greece, but not coining' out of the country, whereas Socrates seems to
interpret this as private, not public wealth. Perhaps the reader may
infer from this that a difference between city and man is being subtly
implied. Socrates is suggesting that wealth is an important part of the
contest, and yet he includes himself in the contest at a number of
points. This rather inconclusive and ambiguous reference to the wealth of
Sparta and the Spartans might suggest that the difference between the
city and man regarding riches, may be that great wealth is good for a
city (for example, as Thucydides observes, wealth facilitates warmaking),
and is thus something a ruler should know how to acquire - but not so
good for an individual. Socrates' next statement supports this
interpretation. A king's being wealthy might not mean that he uses it
privately. Socrates informs Alkibiades that the king possesses the most
wealth of any Spartans for there is a special tribute to him (123a- b) .
In any case, however great the Spartan fortunes appear compared with the
fortunes of other Greeks, they are a mere pittance next to the Persian
king's treasures. Socrates was told this himself by a trustworthy person
who gathered his information by travelling and finding out what the local
inhabitants said. Socrates treats this as valuable information, yet
which, given his chosen way of life, he couldn't have acquired
firsthand. Large tracts of land are reserved for adorning the
Persian queen with clothes, individual items having land specially set
aside for them. There were fertile regions known as the "king's
wife's girdle," veil, etc.Certainly an indication of wealth, it also
seems to suggest a wanton luxury, especially on the part of women (and
which men flatter with gifts). Returning to the supposed
contest between Alkibiades and the Spartan and the Persian kings, Socrates
adopts a very curious framework for the bulk of the remainder of this
discourse. He continues in terms of the thoughts of the mother of the
king and proceeds as though she were, in part, in a dialogue with
Alkibiades 1 mother, Deinomakhe. If she found out that the son of
Deinomakhe was challenging her son, the king's mother, Amestris, would
wonder on what Alkibiades could be trusting. The manner in which Socrates
has the challenge introduced to Amestris does not reveal either of the
men's names. Only their mothers are referred to - and the cost of the
mothers' apparel seems to be as important to the challenge or contest as
the size of the sons' estates. Only after he is told that the barbarian
queen is wondering does the reader find out that her son's name is
Artaxerxes and that she is aware that it is Alkibiades who is
challenging her son. She might well have been completely ignorant of the
existence of Deinomakhe's family, or she may have thought it was
Kleinias, the madman (118e), who was the son involved. Since there is no
contest with regards to wealth - either in land or clothing - Alkibiades
must be relying on his industry and wisdom - the only thing the Greeks
have of any worth. Perhaps because she is a barbarian, or because
of some inability on her part, or maybe some subtlety of the Greeks, she
doesn't recognize the Greeks' speaking ability as one of their greatest
accomplishments. Indeed, both in the dialogue and historically, it was
his speaking ability on which Alkibiades was to concentrate much of his
effort, and through which he achieved many of his triumphs. Greeks in
general and Athenians in particular spent much time cultivating the art
of speaking. Sophists and rhetoricians abounded. Rhapsodists and actors
took part in the many dramatic festivals at Athens. Orators and
politicians addressed crowds of people almost daily Cor so it
seems). Socrates continues. If she were to be informed (with
reference to Alkibiades' wisdom and industriousness) that he was not yet
twenty, and was utterly uneducated, and further, was quite satisfied with
himself and refused his lover's suggestion to learn, take care of himself and
exercise his habits before he entered a contest with the king, she would
again be full of wonder. She would ask to what the youth could appeal and
would conclude Socrates and Alkibiades (and Deinomakhe) were mad if they
thought he could contend with her son in beauty ( kalos ), stature,
birth, wealth, and the nature of his soul (123e). The last quality, the
nature of the soul, has the most direct bearing on the theme of the
dialogue, and as the reader remembers, is the promised but not previously
included part of the list of reasons for Alkibiades' high opinion of
himself (104a. ff.). Since it is also the most difficult to evaluate, one
might reasonably wonder what authority Amestris' judgement commands. It
is feasible for the reader to suspect that this is simply Socrates'
reminder that a mother generally favors her own son. But perhaps her
position and experience as wife and mother to kings enables her in some
sense to judge souls. Lampido, another woman, the daughter,
wife and mother of three different kings, would also wonder, Socrates
proposes, at Alkibiades' desire to contest with her son, despite his
comparatively ignoble ( kakos ) upbringing. Socrates closes the
discussion with the mothers of kings by asking Alkibiades if it is not
shameful that the mothers and wives (literally, "the women belonging
to the kings ) of their enemies have a better notion than they of the
qualities necessary for a person who wants to contend with
them. The problem of understanding human nature includes centrally
the problem of understanding sex and the differences between men and
women. Thus political philosophy necessarily addresses these matters.
Half of a polity is made up of women and the correct ordering of a polity
requires that women, as well as men, do what is appropriate. However,
discovering the truth about the sexes is not simple in any event, partly
at least because of one's exclusion from personal knowledge about the
other sex; and it has become an arduous task to gather honest opinions from
which to begin reflecting. The discussion of women in this central
portion of the dialogue is invested with political significance by what
is explored later regarding the respective tasks of men and women (e.g.,
126e-127b). Before proceeding to study the rest of this long speech, it
may be useful to briefly sketch two problem areas. Firstly the outline of
some of the range of philosophic alternatives presented by mankind's
division into two sexes will be roughly traced out. This will foreshadow
the later discussion of the work appropriate to the sexes. Secondly, a
suggestion shall be ventured as to one aspect of how 'wonder' and
philosophy may be properly understood to have a feminine element - an
aspect that is connected to a very important theme of this dialogue.
Thus, in order to dispel some of the confusion before returning to
the dialogue, the division of the sexes may imply, in terms of an
understanding of human nature, that there is either one ideal that both
sexes strive towards, or there is more than one. If there is one goal or
end, it might be either the 'feminine,' the 'masculine, a combination of the
traits of both sexes, or a transcendent "humanness" that rises
above sexuality. The first may be dismissed unless one is willing to posit
that everything is "out-of-whack" in nature and all the wrong
people have been doing great human deeds. Traditionally, the
dominant opinion has implicitly been that the characteristics of 'human'
are for the most part those called 'masculine', or that males typically
embody these characteristics to a greater extent. Should this be correct,
then one may be warranted in considering nature simply "unfair"
in making half of the people significantly weaker and less able to attain
those characteristics. Should the single ideal for both sexes be a combination
of the characteristics of both sexes, still other difficulties arise. A
normal understanding of masculine and feminine refers to traits that are
quite distinct; those who most combine the traits, or strike a mean,
appear to be those who are most sexually confused. The other
possibility mentioned was that there be two (or more) sets of
characteristics - one for man and one for woman. The difficulty with this
alternative is unlike the difficulties encountered in the one- model
proposal. One problem with having an ideal for each sex, or even with
identifying some human characteristics more with one sex than the other,
is that all of the philosophic questions regarding the fitting place of
each sex still remain to be considered. Some version of this latter
alternative seems to be endorsed later in the First Alkibiades. There it
is agreed £md agreement frequently is the most easily met of the
suggested possible criteria of knowledge mentioned in the dialogue) that
there are separate jobs for men and women. Accordingly, men and women are
said to be rightly unable to understand each other's jobs and thus cannot
agree on matters surrounding those jobs. One of the implications of
this, however, unmentioned by either Socrates or Alkibiades, is that women
therefore ought not to nurture young sons. A woman does not and cannot
grasp what it is to be a man and to have manly virtue. Thus they cannot
raise manly boys. However, this is contrary to common sense. One would
think that if there was any task for which a woman should be suited (even
if it demands more care than is often believed) it would be motherhood.
Because of this a mother would have to learn a man's business if she
would bear great sons. At this point the problems of the surface account
of the First Alkibiades become apparent to even the least reflective
reader. If it is the same task, or if the same body of knowledge
(or opinion) is necessary for being a great man as for raising a great
man, then at least in one case the subjects of study for men and women
are not exclusive. Women dominate the young lives of children. They must
be able to turn a boy's ambitions and desires in the proper direction
until the menfolk take over. Since it would pose practical problems for
her to attempt to do so in deed, she must proceed primarily through
speech, including judicious praise and blame, and that is why the fables and
myths women relate ought to be of great concern to the men (cf. for
example. Republic). If, on the other hand, it requires completely
different knowledge to raise great sons than it does to be great men, then
men, by the argument of the dialogue should not expect to know women's
work. If this is the proper philosophic conclusion the reader is to
reach, then it is not so obviously disgraceful for the womenfolk to know
better than Socrates and Alkibiades what it takes to enter the contest
(124a). The disgrace, it seems, would consist in being unable to see the
contradictions in the surface account of the First Alkibiades, and thus
not being in a position to accept its invitation to delve deeper into
the problem of human nature. At this point a speculation may
be ventured as to why, in this dialogue, wonder takes on a feminine
expression, and why elsewhere. Philosophy herself is described as
feiminine Ce.g., Republic 495-b-c, 536c, 495e; Gorgias 482a; cf.
also Letter VII 328e, Republic 499c-d, 548b-c, 607b). One might say
that a woman's secretiveness enhances her seductiveness. Women are
concerned with appearance (cf. 123c; the very apparel of the
mothers of great sons is catalogued) . Philosophy and women may be more
alluring when disclosure ("disclothesure") of their innermost
selves requires a certain persistence on the part of their suitors.
Philosophy in its most beguiling expression is woman-like. When
subtle and hidden, its mystery enhances its attractiveness. Perhaps it
will be suggested - perhaps for great men to be drawn to philosophy she
must adopt a feminine mode of expression, in addition to the promise of a
greater power; if viewed as a goddess she must be veiled, not wholly
naked. To further explore the analogue in terms of expression, one
notices that women are cautious of themselves and protective of their own.
They are aware, and often pass this awareness on to men that in some
circles they must be addressed or adorned in a certain manner in order to
avoid ridicule and appear respectable. As well, a woman's protection of
her young is expected. Philosophy, properly expressed, should be careful
to avoid harming the innocent; and a truly political philosopher should
be protective of those who will not benefit from knowing the truth. If
the truth is disruptive to the community, for example, he should be most
reluctant to announce it publicly. The liberal notion that every truth is
to be shared by all might be seen to defeminize philosophy. Women, too in
speech will lie and dissemble to protect their own; in deed, they are
more courageous in retreat, able to bear the loss of much in order to
ensure the integrity of that of which they are certain is of most
importance. Political philosophy is not only philosophy about politics; it
is doing (or at least expressing) all of one's philosophizing in a
politic way. Its expression would be "feminine." This
suggestion at least appears to square with the role of women in the
dialogue. It accounts for the mothers' lively concern over the welfare
and status of the powerful; it provides a possible understanding of how the
'masculine' and 'feminine' may have complementary tasks; it connects the
female to 'wonder'; it lets the reader see the enormous significance of
speech to politics; it reminds one of the power of eros as a factor in
philosophy, in politics, in Socrates' attraction to Alkibiades, and in
man's attraction to philosophy; it helps to explain why both lines of
descent, the maternal as well as the paternal, are emphasized in the
cases of the man coveting power and the man seeking knowledge. Through
the very expression of either, politics and philosophy become
interconnected. Socrates addresses Alkibiades as a blessed man and
tells him to attend him and the Delphic inscription, "know
thyself." These people (presumably Socrates is referring to the enemy,
with whose wives they were speaking; however, the analysis has indicated
why the referent is left ambiguous: there is a deeper sense of 'contest'
here than war with Persians and Spartans) are Socrates' and Alkibiades'
competitors, not those whom Alkibiades thinks. Only industriousness and
techne will give them ascendancy over their real competitors. Alkibiades
will fail in achieving a reputation among Greeks and barbarians if he
lacks those qualities. And Socrates can see that Alkibiades desires that
reputation more than anyone else ever loved anything. The
reader may have noticed that the two qualities Socrates mentions are very
similar to the qualities of the Greeks mentioned by the barbarian queen
above. Socrates is implicitly raising the Greeks above the barbarians by
making the Greek qualities the most important, and he diminishes the
significance of their victory in terms of wealth and land. He thus
simultaneously indicts them on two counts. They do not recognize that
Alkibiades is their big challenge, sothey are in the disgraceful
condition of which Alkibiades was accused, namely not having an eye to
their enemies but to their fellows. By raising the Greek virtues
above the barbarian qualities, Socrates throws yet more doubt on the view
that they are indeed the proper contestants for Alkibiades. It is
interesting that the barbarian queen knew or believed these were the
Greek's qualities but she did not correctly estimate their importance.
Another wonderful feature of this longest speech in the First
Alkibiades is the last line: "I believe you are more desirous of it
than anyone else is of anything," (124b). Socrates ascribes to
Alkibiades an extreme eros . It may even be a stranger erotic attraction
or will to power than that marked by Socrates' eros for Alkibiades. But
the philosopher wants to help and is able to see Alkibiades' will.
Socrates even includes himself in the contest. Socrates is indeed a
curious man. So ends the longest speech in the dialogue.
Alkibiades agrees. He wants that. Socrates' speech seems very true.
Alkibiades has been impressed with Socrates' big thoughts about politics,
for Socrates had indicated that he is familiar enough with the greatest
foreign political powers to make plausible/credible his implicit is* orf or
explicit criticism of them. Socrates has also tacitly approved of
Alkibiades 1 ambitions to rule not only Athens, but an empire over the
known world. Alkibiades must be impressed with this sentiment in
democratic Athens. In addition to all this, Socrates has hinted to the
youth that there is something yet bigger. Alkibiades requests Socrates'
assistance and will do whatever Socrates wants. He begs to know what is
the proper care he must take of himself. Socrates echoes
Alkibiades' sentiment that they must put their heads together
(124c; cf. 119b). This is an off-quoted line from Homer's Iliad. In the
Iliad the decision had been made- that information must be attained
from and about the Trojans by spying on their camp. The brave warrior,
Diomedes, volunteered to go, and asked the wily Odysseus to accompany
him. Two heads were better than one and the best wits of all the Greek
heroes were the wits of Odysseus. Diomedes recognized this and suggested
they put their heads together as they proceed to trail the enemy to their
camp, enter it and hunt for information necessary to an Akhaian
victory. Needless to say, the parallels between the Homeric
account, the situation between Alkibiades and Socrates, and the Aesopian
fable, are intriguing. When Alkibiades uttered these lines previously, it
was appropriate in that he requested the philosopher (the cunning man) to
go with him. Alkibiades and Socrates, like Diomedes and Odysseus,
must enter the camp of the enemy to see what they were up against in
this contest of contests, so to speak. Alkibiades, assuming the role
of Diomedes, in a sense initiated the foray although an older, wiser man
had supplied the occasion for it. Alkibiades had to be made to
request Socrates' assistance. The part of the dialogue following
Alkibiades's quoting of Homer was a discussion of the contest of the superior
man and ostensibly an examination of the elements of the contest. They
thoroughly examined the enemy in an attempt to understand the very nature
of this most important challenge. This time, however, the
wilier one (Socrates/Odysseus) is asking Alkibiades/Diomedes to join
heads with him. The first use of the quote served to establish the
importance of its link to power and knowledge. The second mention
of the quote is perhaps intended to point to a consideration of the
interconnectedness of power and knowledge. In what way do power and
knowledge need each other? What draws Socrates and Alkibiades together?
The modern reader, unlike the Athenian reader, might find an
example from Plato more helpful than one from Homer. Some of the
elements of the relationship are vividly displayed in the drama of
the opening passages of the Republic . The messenger boy runs
between the many strong and the few 120 ... wise. His role is
similar to that of the auxiliary class of the dialogue but is
substantively reversed. Although he is the go-between who carries the
orders of one group to the other and has the ability to use physical
means to execute those orders (he causes Socrates literally to "turn
around," and he takes hold of Socrates' cloak), he is carrying
orders from those fit to be ruled to those fit to rule. What is especially
interesting is the significance of these opening lines for the themes of
the First Alkibiades . The first speaker in the Republic provides the
connection between the powerful and the wise . And he speaks to effect
their halt. There has to be a compromise between those who know but are
fewer in number, and those who are stronger and more numer ous but are
unwise. The slave introduces the problem of the competing claims to rule
despite the fact that he has been conventionally stripped of his.
Polemarkhos, on behalf of the many (which includes a son of
Ariston) uses number and strength as his claims over the actions of
Socrates and Glaukon. Socrates suggests that speech opens up one other
possibility. Perhaps the Few could persuade the Many. He does not suggest that
the many use speech to persuade the few to remain (although this is what
in fact happens when Adeimantos appeals to the novelty of a torch race).
Polemarkhos asks "could you really persuade if we don't
listen?" and by that he indicates a limit to the power of speech.
Later in the dialogue it is interesting that the two potential rulers
of the evening's discussion, Thrasymakhos and Socrates, seem to fight it
out with words or at least have a contest. The general problem of the
proper relation between strength and wisdom might be helpfully
illuminated by close examination of examples such as those drawn from the
Republic, the Iliad and Aesop's fable. In any event, Socrates
and Alkibiades must again join heads. Presumably, the reader may infer, the
examination of the Spartans and Persians was insufficient. (That was
suspected from the outset because Alkibiades would rather die than be
limited to Athens. Sparta and Persia would be the proper contestants for
someone intending only to rule Europe.) Perhaps they will now set out to
discover the real enemy, the true contestant. The remainder of the
dialogue, in a sense, is a discussion of how to combat ignorance of oneself.
One might suggest that this is, in a crucial sense, the enemy of which Alkibiades
is as yet not fully aware. Socrates, by switching his position with
Alkibiades vis-a-vis the guote, reminds the reader that Odysseus was no
slouch at courage and that Diomedes was no fool. It also foreshadows the
switch in their roles made explicit at the end of the dialogue. But even
more importantly, Socrates tells Alkibiades that he is in the same
position as Alkibiades. He needs to take proper care of himself too, and
requires education. His case is identical to Alkibiades' except in one
respect. Alkibiades' guardian Perikles is not as good as Socrates'
guardian god, who until now guarded Socrates against talking with
Alkibiades. Trusting his guardian, Socrates is led to say that Alkibiades
will not be able to achieve his ambitions except through Socrates.
This rather enigmatic passage of the First Alkibiades (124c) seems
to reveal yet another aspect of the relation between knowledge and power.
If language is central to understanding knowledge and power, it is thus
instructive about the essential difference, if there is one, between men
who want power and men who want knowledge. Socrates says that his
guardian (presumably the daimon or god, 103a-b, 105e), who would not let
him waste words (105e) is essentially what makes his case different than
that of Alkibiades. In response to Alkibiades' question, Socrates only
emphasizes that his guardian is better than Perikles, Alkibiades'
guardian, possibly because it kept him silent until this day. Is Socrates
perhaps essentially different from Alkibiades because he knows when to be
silent? The reader is aware that according to most people, Socrates and
Alkibiades would seem to differ on all important grounds. Their looks,
family, wealth and various other features of their lives are in marked
contrast. Socrates, however, disregards them totally, and fastens his
attention on his guardian. And the only thing the reader knows about his
guardian is that it affects Socrates' speech. Socrates claims that
because he trusts in the god he is able to say (he does not sense
opposition to his saying) that Alkibiades needs Socrates. To this
Alkibiades retorts that Socrates is jesting or playing like a
child. Not only may one wonder what is being referred to as a 121
jest, but one notices that Socrates surprisingly acknowledges that
maybe he is. He asserts, at any rate, he is speaking truly when he
remarks that they need to take care of themselves - all men do, but they
in particular must. Socrates thereby firmly situates himself and
Alkibiades above the common lot of men. He also implies that the higher,
not the lower, is deserving of extra care. Needless to say, the notion
that more effort is to be spent on making the best men even better is
quite at odds with modern liberal views. Alkibiades agrees,
recognizing the need on his part, and Socrates joins in fearing he also
requires care. The answer for the comrades demands that there be no
giving up or softening on their part. It would not befit them to relinquish
any determination. They desire to become as accomplished as possible in
the virtue that is the aim of men who are good in managing affairs. Were
one concerned with affairs of horsemanship, one would apply to horsemen, just
as if one should mean nautical affairs one would address a seaman. With
which men's business are they concerned, queries Socrates. Alkibiades
responds assured that it is the affairs of the gentlemen ( kalos kai
agathos) to whom they must attend, and these are clearly the intelligent
rather than the unintelligent. Everyone is good only in that of
which he has intelligence (125a). While the shoemaker is good at the
manufacture of shoes, he is bad at the making of clothing. However, on
that account the same man is both bad and good and one cannot uphold that
the good man is at the same time bad (but cf. 116a). Alkibiades must
clarify whom he means by the good man. By altering the emphasis of the
discussion to specific intelligence or skills, Socrates has effectively
prevented Alkibiades from answering "gentlemen" again, even if he
would think that the affairs of gentlemen in democracies are the affairs
with which a good ruler should be concerned. Given his purported
ambitions, it is understandable that Alkibiades thinks good men are those
with the power to rule in a polis (125b). Since there are a variety of
subjects over which to rule, or hold power, Socrates wants to clarify
that it is men and not, for example, horses, to which Alkibiades refers.
Socrates undoubtedly knew that Alkibiades meant men instead of horses;
the pestiness of the question attracts the attention of the reader and he
is reminded of the famous analogy of the city made by Socrates in the
Apology . Therein, the city is likened to a great horse ( Apology 30e).
It would thus not be wholly inappropriate to interpret this bizarre
question in a manner which, though not apparent to Alkibiades, would
provide a perhaps more meaningful analysis. Socrates might be asking Alkibiades
if he intends to rule a city or to rule men (in a city). It is not altogether
out of place to adopt the analogy here; corroborating support is given by
the very subtle philosophic distinctions involved later in distinguishing
ruling cities from ruling men (cf. 133e). For example, cities are not
erotic, whereas men are; cities can attain self-sufficiency, whereas men
cannot. It does not demand excessive reflection to see how erotic
striving and the interdependency of men affects the issues of ruling
them. What is good for a man, too, may differ from what is good for a city
(as mentioned above with reference to wealth), and in some cases may even
be incompatible with it. These are all issues which demand the
consideration of rulers and political thinkers. Additional endorsement
for the suitability of the analogy between city and man for interpreting
this passage, is provided by Socrates in his very next statement. He asks
if Alkibiades means ruling over sick men (125b). Earlier (107b-c) the two
had been discussing what qualified someone to give advice about a sick city.
Alkibiades doesn't mean good rule to be ruling men at sea or while
they are harvesting (though generalship and farming, or defence and
agriculture, are essential to a city). He also doesn't conclude that good
rule is useful for men who are doing nothing (as Polemarkhos is driven to
conclude that justice is useful for things that are not in use - Republic
333c-e). In a sense Alkibiades is right. Rulers rule men when they are
doing things such as transacting business, and making use of each other and
whatever makes up a political life. But rule in a precise, but inclusive,
sense is also rule over men when they are inactive. The thoughts and very
dreams are ruled by the true rulers, who have controlled or understood all the
influences upon men. Socrates fastens onto one of these and tries
to find out what kind of rule Alkibiades means by ruling over men
who make use of men. Alkibiades does not mean the pilot's virtue of
ruling over mariners who make use of rowers, nor does he mean the
chorus teacher who rules flute players who lead singers and employ
dancers; Alkibiades means ruling men who share life as fellow citizens
and conduct business. Socrates inquires as to which techne gives that ability
as the pilot's techne gives the ability to rule fellow sailors, and the
chorus teacher's ability to rule fellow singers. At this point the
attentive reader notices that Socrates has slightly altered the example.
He has introduced an element of equality. When the consideration of the
polis was made explicit, the pilot and chorus teacher became
"fellows" -"fellow sailors" and
"fellow singers." This serves at least to suggest that
citizenship in the polis is an equalizing element in political life. To
consider oneself a fellow citizen with another implies a kind of
fraternity and equality that draws people together. Despite, say, the
existence of differences within the city, people who are fellow citizens
often are closer to each other than they are to outsiders who may
otherwise be more similar. There is another sense in which
Socrates' shift to calling each expert a "fellow" illuminates
something about the city. This is discovered when one wonders why Socrates
employed two examples - the chorus teacher and the pilot. One
reason for using more than a single example is that there is more than
one point to illustrate. It is then up to the reader to scrutinize the
examples to see how they importantly differ. The onus is on the reader,
and this is a tactic used often in the dialogues. Someone is much more
likely to reflect upon something he discovered than something that is unearthed
for him. One important distinction between these two technae is that a
pilot is a "fellow sailor" in a way that the chorus teacher is
not a "fellow singer." Even in the event a pilot shares in none
of the work of the crew rules (as the chorus teacher need not actually
sing), if the ship sinks, he sinks with it. So too does the ruler of a
city fall when his city falls. This is merely one aspect of the analogy
of the ship-of-state, but it suffices to remind one that the ruler of a
polity must identify with the polity, perhaps even to the extent that he sees
the fate of the polity as his fate (cf. Republic 412d). Perhaps
more importantly, there is a distinction between the chorus master and
the pilot which significantly illuminates the task of political rule. A
pilot directs sailors doing a variety of tasks that make sailing possible#
whereas the chorus master directed singers performing in unison . Perhaps
political rule is properly understood as involving both. Alkibiades
suggests that the techne of the ruler (the fellow- citizen) is good
counsel# but as the pilot gives good not evil counsel for the
preservation of his passengers, Socrates tries to find out what end the
good counsel of the ruler serves. Alkibiades proposed that the good
counsel is for the better management and preservation of the polis.
In the next stage of the discussion Socrates makes a number of
moves that affect the outcome of the argument but he doesn't make a point
of explicating them to Alkibiades. Socrates asks what it is that becomes
present or absent with better management and preservation . He suggests
that if Alkibiades were to ask him the same question with respect to the
body, Socrates would reply that health became present and disease absent.
That is not sufficient. He pretends Alkibiades would ask what happened in
a better condition of the eyes# and he would reply that sight came and
blindness went. So too deafness and hearing are absent and present when
ears are improved and getting better treatment . Socrates would like
Alkibiades# now# to answer as to what happens when a state is improved
and has better treatment and management . Alkibiades thinks that friendship
will be present and hatred and faction will be absent. From the
simple preservation of the passangers of a ship# Socrates has moved to
preservation and better management# to improved and getting better treatment#
to improvement, better treatment and management. Simple preservation# of
course# is only good (and the goal of an appropriate techne) when the
condition of a thing is pronounced to be satisfactory, such that any
change would be for the worse. In a ship the pilot only has to preserve
the lives of his passengers by his techne, he does not have to either
make lives or improve them. In so far as a city is involved with more than mere
life, but is aiming at the good life, mere preservation of the citizens
is not sufficient. Socrates' subtle transformation indicates the treatment
necessary in politics. Another point that Socrates has implicitly
raised is the hierarchy of technae . This may be quite important to an
understanding of politics and what it can properly order within its
domain. Socrates employs the examples of the body and the eyes. The eyes
are, however, a part of the body. The body cannot be said to be healthy
unless its parts, including the eyes, are healthy; the eyes will not see
well in a generally diseased body. The two do interrelate, but have
essentially different virtues. The virtue of the eyes and thus the techne
attached to that virtue, are under/within the domain of the body and its
virtue, health. The doctor, then, has an art of a different order
than the optometrist. (The doctor and his techne may have competition for
the care of the body; the gymnastics expert has already been met and he
certainly has things to say about the management of the body - cf. 128c
but the principle there would be a comprehensive techne .) Given the
example of the relation of the parts to the whole, perhaps Socrates is
suggesting that there is an analogue in the city: the health of the whole
city and the sight of a part of the city. The reader is curious if the
same relation would hold as to which techne had the natural priority over
the other. Would the interests of the whole rule the interests of a part
of the city? Socrates' examples of the body and the part of the
body could, in yet another manner, lead toward contemplation of the
political. There is a possible connection between all three. The doctor
might well have to decide to sacrifice the sight of an eye in the
interests of the whole body. Perhaps the ruler (the man possessing the
political techne) would have to decide to sacrifice the health (or even
life) of individuals (maybe even ones as important as the "eyes" of
the city) for the well-being of the polis . Thus, analogously# the
political art properly rules the various technae of the body.
Earlier the reader had occasion to be introduced to a system of
hierarchies (108c-e). Therein he found that harping was ruled by music
and wrestling by gymnastics. Gymnastics, as the techne of the body, is,
it is suggested, ruled by politics. Perhaps music should also be ruled
by politics. In the Republic, gymnastics is to the body roughly what
music is to the soul. Both, however, are directed by politics and are a
major concern of political men. It is fortunate for Alkibiades that he
is familiar with harping and gymnastics (106e), so that as a politician
he will be able to advise on their proper performance. One already has
reason to suspect that the other subject in which Alkibiades took lessons
is properly under the domain of politics. Alkibiades believes
that the better management of a state will bring friendship into it and
remove hatred and faction. Socrates inquires if he means agreement or
disagreement by friendship. Alkibiades replies that agreement is meant,
but one must notice that this significantly reduces the area of concern to
which Alkibiades had given voice. He had mentioned two kinds of strife,
and one needn t think long and hard to notice that friendship normally
connotes much more than agreement. Socrates next asks which techne causes
states to agree about numbers; does the same art, arithmetic, cause
individuals to agree among each other and with themselves. In addition to
whatever suspicion one entertains that this is not the kind of agreement
Alkibiades meant when he thought friendship would be brought into a city
with better management/ one must keep in mind the similarity between this
and an earlier argument (111c). In almost the same words, people agreed
"with others or by themselves" and states agreed, with regard to
speaking Greek, or more precisely, with naming. There are two features of this
argument which should be explored. Firstly, one might reflect upon
whether agreement between states is always essentially similar to
agreement between people, or agreement with oneself. People can fool
themselves and they can possess their own "language." Separate
states may have separate weights and measures, say, but individuals
within a state must agree. Secondly, there may be more than one kind of agreement
with which the reader should be concerned in this dialogue. This might be
most apparent were there different factors which compelled different
people, in different circumstances, to agree. Men sometimes arrive at the same
conclusions through different reasons. The first two examples
employed by Socrates illuminate both of these points. Arithmetic and
mensuration are about as far apart as it is possible to be in terms of
the nature of the agreement. Mensuration is simply convention or
agreement, and yet its entire existence depends on people's knowing the
standards agreed upon. Numbers, on the contrary, need absolutely no
agreement (except linguistically in the names given to numbers) and no
amount of agreement can change what they are and their relation to each other.
The third example represents the type of agreement much closer to
that with which it is believed conventional politics is permeated. It is
the example of the scales — long symbolic of justice. Agreement with
people and states about weights on scales depends on a number of factors,
as does judgement about politics. There is something empirical to
observe, namely the action as well as the various weights; there is a
constant possibility of cheating (on one side or another) against which
they must take guard; there is a judgement to be made which is often
close, difficult and of crucial importance, and there is the general
problem of which side of the scale/polity is to receive the goods, and
what is the standard against which the goods are measured. To spell out
only one politically important aspect of this last factor, consider the
difference between deciding that a certain standard of life is to provide the
measure for the distribution of goods, and deciding that a certain set of
goods are to be distributed evenly without such a standard. In one case
the well off would receive no goods, they being the standard; in the
other case all would supposedly have an equal chance of receiving goods.
Other political factors are involved in determining what should be
weighed, what its value is, who should preside over the weighing, and
what kind of scale is to be used. The third example, the scales, surely
appears to be more pertinent to Socrates and Alkibiades than either of
the other two, although one notices that both arithmetic and mensuration
are involved in weighing. Alkibiades is requested to make a
spirited effort to tell Socrates what the agreement is, the art which
achieves it, and whether all parties agree the same way. Alkibiades
supposes it is the friendship of father and mother to child, brother to
brother and woman to man (126e). A good ruler would be able to make the
people feel like a family - their fellow citizens like fellow kin. This
seems to be a sound opinion of Alkibiades; many actual cities are
structured around families or clans or based on legends of common
ancestry (cf. Republic 414c-415d) . There is a complication, however,
which is not addressed by either participant in the dialogue. Socrates
had suggested three parts to the analysis of agreement - its nature, the
art that achieves it, and whether all agree in the same way. Alkibiades
in his response suggests three types of friendship which may differ
dramatically in all of the respects Socrates had mentioned. And the
political significance of the three kinds of friendship also has
different and very far-reaching effects. Consider the different ties, and
feelings that characterize man-woman relationships. And imagine the different
character of a regime that is patterned not on the parent-child relation,
but instead characterized by male-female attraction! In a
dialogue on the nature of man in which there is already support for the
notion that "descent" and "family" figure prominently
in the analysis of man's nature, it seems likely that the three kinds
of familial (or potentially familial) relationships mentioned here would
be worthy of close and serious reflection. Socrates, however, does not
take Alkibiades to task on this, but turns to an examination of the
notion that friendship is agreement, and the question of whether or not
they can exist in a polis . Socrates had himself suggested that
Alkibiades meant agreement by friendship (126c), and in this argument that
restricted sense of friendship plays a significant role in their arriving
at the unpalatable conclusion. The argument leads to the assertion that
friendship and agreement cannot arise in a state where each person does
his own business. asks Alkibiades if a man can agree with a woman
about wool—working when he doesn't have knowledge of it and she does.
And further, does he have any need to agree, since it is a woman's accomplishment?
A woman, too, could not come to agreement with a man about soldiering if
she didn't learn it - and it is a business for men. There are some parts
of knowledge appropriate to women and some to men on this account (127a)
and in those skills there is no agreement between men and women and hence
no friendship - if friendship is agreement. Thus men and women are not
befriended by each other so far as they are performing their own jobs, and
polities are not well-ordered if each person does his own business
(127b). This conclusion is unacceptable to Alkibiades; he thinks a
well-ordered polity is one abounding in friendship, but also that it is
precisely each party doing his own business that brings such friendship
into being. Socrates points out that this goes against the argument. He
asks if Alkibiades means friendship can occur without agreement, or that
agreement in something may arise when some have knowledge while others do
not. These are presumably the steps in the argument which are susceptible
to attack. Socrates incidentally provides another opening in the argument
that could show the conclusion to be wrong. He points out that justice is
the doing of one's own work and that justice and friendship are tied
together. But Alkibiades, perhaps remembering his shame (109b-116d), does not
pursue this angle, having learned that the topic of justice is difficult.
In order to determine what, if anything, was wrongly said, various stages
of the argument will now be examined. By beginning with the
consideration of why anyone would suppose a state was well-ordered when
each person did his own business, one observes that otherwise every
individual would argue about everything done by everybody. The reader may
well share Alkibiades suspicion that what makes a state well-ordered is
that each does what he is capable of and trusts the others to do the same.
This indicates, perhaps, the major problems with the discussion between
Socrates and Alkibiades. Firstly, there are many ways that friendship
depends less upon agreement than on the lack of serious disagreement.
Secondly, agreement can occur, or be taken for granted, in a number of
ways other than by both parties having knowledge. As revealed
earlier in the dialogue, Alkibiades would readily trust an expert in
steering a ship as well as in fancy cooking (117c-d). Regardless of
whether it was a man's or a woman’s task, he would agree with the expert
because of his skill. In these instances he agreed precisely because he
had no knowledge and they did. Of course, faith in expertise may be misplaced,
or experts may lose perspective in understanding the position of their techne
relative to others. But though concord and well-ordered polities do not
necessarily arise when people trust in expertise, friendship and
agreement can come about through each man's doing his own business.
Agreement between people, thus, may come about when one recognizes
his ignorance. It may also arise through their holding similar opinion on
the issue, or when one holds an opinion compatible with knowledge
possessed by another. For example, a woman may merely have opinions about
soldiering, but those opinions may allow for agreement with men, who
alone can have knowledge. Soldiering is a man's work, but while men are
at war the women may wonder about what they are doing, or read stories
about the war, or form opinions from talking to other soldiers' wives, or
have confidence in what their soldier—husbands tell them. There is
also a sense in which, if war is business for men, women don't even need
opinions about how it is conducted for they are not on the battlefield.
They need only agree on its importance and they need not even necessarily
agree on why it is important (unless they are raising sons). Women will
often agree with men about waging war on grounds other than the men's.
For example, glory isn't a prime motivator for most women's complying
with their husbands' desires to wage war. It has been suggested that
agreement may arise on the basis of opinion and not knowledge, and
further that opinions need not be similar, merely compatible. As long as the
war is agreed to by both sexes, friendship will be in evidence regardless
of their respective views of the motives of war. Apathy or some
other type of disregard for certain kinds of work may also eliminate
disagreement and discord, provided that it isn't a result of lack of
respect for the person's profession. For example, a man and a woman might
never disagree about wool-working He may not care how a spindle operates
and would not think of interfering. And he certainly wouldn't have to be
skilled at the techne of wool-working to agree with his wife whenever she
voiced her views - his agreement with her would rest on his approval of
the resulting coat. Socrates has not obtained from Alkibiades'
speech the power to learn what the nature of the friendship is that good
men must have. Alkibiades, invoking all the gods (he cannot be sure who
has dominion over the branch of knowledge he is trying to identify),
fears that he doesn't even know what he says, and has for some time been
in a very disgraceful condition. But Socrates reminds him that this is
the correct time for Alkibiades to perceive his condition, not at the age
of fifty, for then it would be difficult to take the proper care. In
answering Alkibiades' question as to what he should do now that he is aware
of his condition, Socrates replies he need only answer the questions
Socrates puts to him. With the favor of the god (if they can trust in
Socrates' divination) both of them shall be improved. What
Socrates may have just implied is that while Alkibiades' speech is unable
to supply the power to even name the qualities of a good man, Socratic
speech in itself has the power to actually make them better. All
Alkibiades must do is respond to the questions Socrates asks. The proper
use of language, it is suggested, has the power to make good men. One may
object that speech cannot have that effect upon a listener who is not in
a condition of recognizing his ignorance, but one must also recognize that
speech has the power to bring men to that realization. Almost half of the
First Alkibiades is overtly devoted to this task. Indeed it seems
unlikely that people perceive their plight except through some form of
the human use of language except when they are visually able to compare
themselves to others. It would be difficult to physically coerce men into
perceiving their condition. An emotional attempt to draw a person's
awarness - such as a mother's tears at her son's plight - needs speech to
direct it; the son must learn what has upset her. Speech is also
necessary to point to an example of a person who has come to a
realization of his ignorance. Socrates or someone like him, might discern
his condition by himself, but even he surely spent a great deal of time
conversing with others to see that their confidence in their opinions was
unfounded. In any event, what is important for the understanding of the First
Alkibiades is that Socrates has succeeded in convincing Alkibiades that
thoughtful dialogue is more imperative for him at this point than
Athenian politics. Together they set out to discover (cf. 109e)
what is required to take proper care of oneself; in the event that they
have never previously done so, they will assume complete ignorance. For
example, perhaps one takes care of oneself while taking care of one's
things (128a). They are not sure but Socrates will agree with Alkibiades
at the end of the argument that taking proper care of one's belongings is an
art different from care of oneself (128d). But perhaps one should survey
the entire argument before commenting upon it. Alkibiades doesn't
understand the first question as to whether a man takes care of feet when
he takes care of what belongs to his feet, so Socrates explains by pointing
out that there are things which belong to the hand. A ring, for example,
belongs to nothing but a finger. So too a shoe belongs to a foot and
clothes to the body. Alkibiades still doesn't understand what it means to
say that taking care of shoes is taking care of feet, so Socrates employs
another fact. One may speak of taking correct care of this or that thing,
and taking proper care makes something better. The art of shoemaking
makes shoes better and it is by that art that we take care of shoes. But it
is by the art of making feet better, not by shoemaking, that we improve
feet. That art is the same art whereby the whole body is improved, namely
gymnastic. Gymnastic takes care of the foot; shoemaking takes care
of what belongs to the foot. Gymnastic takes care of the hand; ring
engraving takes care of what belongs to the hand. Gymnastic takes care of
the body; weaving and other crafts take care of what belongs to the
body. Thus taking care of a thing and taking care of its belongings
involve separate arts. Socrates repeats this conclusion after suggesting
that care of one's belongings does not mean one takes care of
oneself. Further support is here recognized, in this dialogue, for
a hierarchical arrangement of the technae, but that simultaneously
somewhat qualifies the conclusion of the argument. Gymnastic is the art
of taking care of the body and it thus must weave into a pattern
all of the arts of taking care of the belongings of the body and of
its parts. Its very control over those arts, however, indicates
that they are of some importance to the body. Because they have a
common superior goal, the taking care of the body, they are not as
separate as the argument would suggest. Just as shoes in bad repair
can harm feet, shoes well made may improve feet (cf. 121d, for
shaping the body). They are often made in view of the health or
beauty of the body as are clothes and rings. Because things which
surround one affect one, as one's activities and one's reliance on
some sorts of possessions affect one, proper care for the belongings of the
body may improve one's body. Socrates continues. Even if one cannot
yet ascertain which art takes care of oneself, one can say that it is not
an art concerned with improving one's belongings, but one that makes one
better. Further, just as one couldn't have known the art that improves
shoes or rings if one didn't know a shoe or a ring, so it is impossible
that one should know the techna that makes one better if one doesn't know
oneself (124a). Socrates asks if it is easy to know oneself and that
therefore the writer at Delphi was not profound, or if it is a difficult
thing and not for everybody. Alkibiades replies that it seems sometimes
easy and sometimes hard. Thereupon Socrates suggests that regardless of
its ease or difficulty, knowledge of oneself is necessary in order to
know what the proper care of oneself is. It may be inferred from this
that most people do not know themselves and are not in a position to know
what the proper care of themselves is. They might be better off should
they adopt the opinions of those who know, or be cared for by those who
know more. In order to understand themselves, the two men must find out
how, generally, the 'self' of a thing can be seen (129b), Alkibiades
figures Socrates has spoken correctly about the way to proceed, but
instead of 124 thus proceeding, Socrates interrupts in
the name of Zeus and asks whether Alkibiades is talking to Socrates and
Socrates to Alkibiades. Indeed they are. Thus Socrates says, he is the
talker and Alkibiades the hearer. This is a thoroughly baffling
interruption, for not only is its purpose unclear, but it is
contradictory. They have just agreed that both were
talking. Socrates pushes onward. Socrates uses speech in talking
(one suspects that most people do). Talking and using speech are the
same thing, but the user and the thing he uses are not the same thing.
A shoemaker who cuts uses tools, but is himself quite different from
a tool; so also is a harper not the same as what he uses when
harping. The shoemaker uses not only tools but his hands and his
eyes, so, if the user and the thing used are different, then the
shoemaker and harper are different from the hands and eyes they use. So
too, since man uses his whole body, he must be different from his body.
Man must be the user of the body, and it is the soul which uses and rules
the body. No one, he claims, can disagree with the remark that man is one
of three things. Alkibiades may or may not disagree, but he needs a bit
of clarification. Man must be soul, or body, or both as one whole.
Already admitted is the proposition that it is man that rules the body,
and the argument has shown that the body is ruled by something else, so
the body deesn't rule itself. What remains is the soul. The
unlikeliest thing in the world is the combination of both, gQQj-^-(- 0 g
suggests (130b), for if one of the combined ones was said not to share in
the rule, then the two obviously could not rule. It is not necessary to
point out to the reader that the possibility of a body's share in the
rule was never denied, nor to indicate that what Socrates
ostensibly regards as the unlikeliest thing of all, is what it seems most
reasonable to suspect to be very like the truth. Emotions and appetites,
so closely connected with the body, are a dominant and dominating part of
one's life. They account for a major part of people's lives, and even to
a large extent influence their reason (a faculty which most agree is not
tied to the body in the same way). The soul might be seen to be at least
partly ruled by the body if it is appetites and emotions which affect
whether or not reason is used and influence what kind of decisions will
be rationally determined. Anyhow, according to Socrates, if it is
not the body, or the combined body and soul, then man must either be nothing at
all, or he must be the soul (130c). But the reader is aware that only on
the briefest of glances does this square with "the statement that no
one could dissent to," (cf. 130a). Man cannot be 'nothing' according
to that statement any more than he can be anything else whatsoever, such
as 'dog,' 'gold,' 'dream,' etc. 'Nothing' was not one of the
alternatives. Alkibiades swears that he needs no clearer proof that
the soul is man, and ruler of the body, but Socrates, overruling the
authority of Alkibiades' oath, responds that the proof is merely
tolerable, sufficing only until they discover that which they have just
passed by because of its complexity. Unaware that anything had been
by-passed (Socrates had interrupted that part of the discussion with his
first conventional oath - 129b), the puzzled Alkibiades asks Socrates. He
receives the reply that they haven't been considering what generally
makes the self of a thing discoverable, but have been looking at
particular cases (130d; cf. 129b). Perhaps that will suffice, for the
soul surely must be said to have a more absolute possession of us than
anything else. So, whenever Alkibiades and Socrates converse with
each other, it is soul conversing with soul; the souls using words
(130d.l). Socrates, when he uses speech, talks with Alkibiades' soul, not
his face. Socratic speech is thus essentially different from the speech
of the crowds of suitors who conversed with Alkibiades (103a, cf. also
106b). If Socrates' soul talks with Alkibiades' soul and if Alkibiades is
truly listening, then it is Alkibiades' soul, not one of his belongings
that hears Socrates (cf. 129b-c). Someone who says "know
thyself" means "know thy
soul"; knowing the things that belong to the body means knowing what
is his, but not what he is. The reader will note how the last two
steps of the argument subtly, yet definitely, indicate the ambiguous
nature of the body's position in this analysis. Someone who knows only
the belongings of the body will not know the man. According to the
argument proper, someone who knew the body, too, would still only know a
man's possessions, not his being. Socrates continues, pressing the
argument to show that no doctor or trainer, insofar as he is a doctor or
a trainer, knows himself. Farmers and tradesmen are still more
remote, for their arts teach only what belongs to the body (which is
itself only a possession of the man) and not the man. Indeed, most people
recognize a man by his body, not by his soul, which reveals his true
nature. 126 gocrates pauses briefly to introduce
consideration of a virtue. Seemingly out of the blue, he remarks that
"if knowing oneself is temperance" then no craftsman is
temperate by his te c h ne (131b). Because of this the good man disdains
to learn the technae . This sudden introduction of the virtue/ defining
temperance as self-knowledge/ will assume importance later in the
dialogue (e.g., at 133c). Returning to the argument, Socrates
proposes that one who cares for the body cares for his possessions. One
who cares for his money cares not for himself, nor for his possessions,
but for something yet more remote. He has ceased to do his own
business. Those who love Alkibiades' body don't love Alkibiades but
his possessions. The real lover is the one who loves his soul. The
one who loves the body would depart when the body's bloom is over,
whereas the lover of the soul remains as long as it still tends to the
better. Socrates is the one that remained; the others left when the bloom
of the body was over. Silently accepting this insult to his looks, one of
his possessions, Alkibiades recognizes the compliment paid to himself.
The account of the cause of Socrates' remaining and the others'
departure, however, has changed somewhat from the beginning CIO3b, 104c).
Then the lovers left because a quality of Alkibiades' soul was too much
for them (but not for Socrates) to handle. Now it is a decline in a
quality of the body that apparently caused them to depart, but it is
still an appreciation of the soul that retains Socrates' interest.
Perhaps the significance of this basic shift is to indicate to Alkibiades
the true justification for his self-esteem. His highmindedness was based on his
physical qualities and their possessions, not on his soul. Socrates may
be insulting the other lovers, but he is at the same time making it
difficult for Alkibiades to lose his pride in the things of the body.
Thus Socrates' reinterpretation of the reasons for the lovers' departure
reinforces the point of the argument, namely that one's soul is more
worthy of attention and consideration than one's body. Alkibiades
is glad that Socrates has stayed and wants him to remain. He shall, at
Socrates' request, endeavour to remain as handsome as he can. So
Alkibiades, the son of Kleinias, "has only one lover and
128 that a cherished one," Socrates, son of Sophroniskos
and Phainarite. Now Alkibiades knows why Socrates alone did not
depart. He loves Alkibiades, not merely what belongs to Alkibiades.
Socrates will never forsake Alkibiades as long as he (his soul) is
not deformed by the Athenian people. In fact that is what especially
concerns Socrates. His greatest fear is that Alkibiades will be damaged
through becoming a lover of the demos - it has happened to many good
Athenians. The face (not the soul?) of the "people of great-hearted
Erekhtheos" is fair, but to see the demos stripped is another thing.
As the dialogue approaches its end, Socrates becomes poetic in his
utterances. On this occasion he prophetically quotes Homer ( Iliad II,
547). When listing the participants on the Akhaian side of the Trojan
War, Homer describes the leader of the Athenians, the "people
of the greathearted Erekhtheos," as one like no other born on earth for
the arrangement and ordering of horses and fighters. Alkibiades would
become famous for his attempts to order poleis and his arranging of
naval military forces. In the Gorgias, Scorates relates a
myth about the final judgement of men, and one of the interesting
features of the story is that the judges and those to be judged are
stripped of clothes and bodies ( Gorgias 523a-527e). 129 All that is
judged is the soul. This allows the judges to perceive the reality
beneath the appearance that a body and its belongings provide. Flatterers
(120b) would not be as able to get to the Blessed Isles/ although actually,
in political regimes, living judges are often fooled by appearances.
Judges too are stripped so that they could see soul to soul (133b; cf.
Gorgias 523d), and would be less likely to be moved by rhetoric, poetry,
physical beauty or any other of the elements that are tied to the body
through, for example, the emotions and appetites. It seems thus good
advice for anyone who desires to enter politics that he get a stripped
view of the demos . In addition, those familiar with the myth in the
Gorgias might recognize the importance of Alkibiades stripping himself,
and coming to know his own soul, before he enters politics.
Socrates is advising Alkibiades to take the proper precautions. He
is to exercise seriously, learning all that must be known prior to an
entry into politics (132b). Presumably this knowledge will counteract the
charm of the people. Alkibiades wants to know what the proper exercises are,
and Socrates says they have established one important thing and that is
knowing what to take care of. They will not inadvertently be caring for
something else, such as, for example, something that only belongs to them. The
next step, now that they know upon what to exercise, is to care for the
soul and leave the care of the body and its possessions to others.
If they could discover how to obtain knowledge of the soul, they
would truly "know themselves." For the third time Socrates refers to
the Delphic inscription and he claims he has discovered another
interpretation of it which he can illustrate only by the example of
sight. Should someone say "see thyself" to one's eye, the eye
would have to look at something, like a mirror, or the thing in the eye
that is like a mirror (132d-e). The pupil of the eye reflects the face
of the person looking into it like a mirror. Looking at anything
else (except mirrors, water, polished shields, etc.) won't reflect it.
Just as the eye must look into another eye to see itself, so must a
soul look into another soul. In addition it must look to that very part
of the soul which houses the virtue of a soul - wisdom - and any part
like wisdom. The part of the soul containing knowledge and thought
is the most divine, and since it thus resembles god, whoever sees it will
recognize all that is divine and will get the greatest knowledge of
himself. In order to see one's own soul properly, then, Socrates
suggests that it is necessary to look into another's soul. Alkibiades
must look into someone's soul to obtain knowledge of himself, and he must
possess knowledge of himself in order to be able to rule himself. This
last is a prerequisite for ruling others. Since it lacks a 'pupil,' the
soul doesn't have a readily available window/mirror for observing
another's soul, as the eye does for observing oneself through another's
eye. Such vision of souls can only be had through speech. Through honest
dialogue with trusted friends and reflection upon what was said and done,
one may gain a glimpse of their soul. The souls must be
"stripped" so that words are spoken and heard truly. Socrates,
by being the only lover who remained, and, having shown his value to
Alkibiades, will continue to speak (104e, 105e). He is offering
Alkibiades a look at his soul. This is in keeping, it appears, with
the advice that Alkibiades look to the rational part of the soul.
Socrates is the picture of the rational man; through his speech the
reader is also offered the opportunity to try to see into Socrates' soul to
better understand his own. Again, as discussed above, a man's nature can
be understood by looking to the example of the best, even if it is only an
imitation of the best in Dialogues. Socrates now recalls the
earlier mention of temperance as though they had come to some conclusion
regarding the nature of the virtue. They had supposedly agreed that
self-knowledge was temperance (133c; cf. 131b). Lacking self-knowledge or
temperance, one could not know one's belongings, whether they be good or
evil. Without knowing Alkibiades one could not know if his belongings are
his. Ignorance of one's belongings prohibits familiarity with the belongings of
belongings (133d). Socrates reminds Alkibiades that they have been
incorrect in admitting people could know their belongings if they didn't
know themselves. This latter argument raises at least two
difficulties. Firstly, it renders problematic the suggestion that one
should leave one's body and belongings in another's care. These others,
it seems, would be doctors and gymnastics trainers - the only experts of
the body explicitly recognized in the dialogue. Remembering that neither doctor
or trainer knows himself, one might wonder how he can know
Socrates' and Alkibiades' belongings. He cannot, according to the
argument here (133c-d) know his own belongings without knowing himself
and he cannot be familiar with others' belongings while ignorant of his
own. The argument, secondly, creates a problem with the
understanding heretofore suggested about how men generally conduct their
lives. Most people do not know themselves and do not properly care for themselves.
The argument of the dialogue has intimated that they in fact care
for their belongings. Thus it would seem that, in some sense, they do
know their belongings, just as Alkibiades' lovers, ignorant of
Alkibiades and probably ignorant of themselves, still know that
Alkibiades' body belonged to Alkibiades. And they knew, like he knew
C104a-c) that his looks and his wealth belong to his body. The reader
might conclude from this that the precise knowledge they do not have is
knowledge either of what the belongings should be like, or what their
true importance and proper role in a man's life should be. Knowledge of
one's soul would consist, partly, in knowing how to properly handle one's
belongings. That allows one to do what is right, and not merely do
what one likes. It is the task of one man and one techne (the chief
techne in the hierarchy) to grasp himself, his belongings, and their
belongings. Someone who doesn't know his belongings won't know other mens'. And
if he doesn't know theirs, he won't know those of the polity. This
last remark raises the consideration of what constitutes the belongings
of a polity. And that immediately involves one in reflection upon whether
the city has a body, and a soul. What is the essence of the city? The
reader is invited to explore the analogy to the man, but even more, it is
suggested that he is to reflect upon how to establish the priority of one
over the other. This invitation is indicated by the discussion of the one
techne that presides over all the bodies and belongings. The relation of the
city to the individual man has been of perennial concern to political
thinkers, and a most difficult aspect of the problem terrain involves the
very understanding of the City and Man (cf. 125b). The
question is multiplied threefold with the possibility that an adequate
understanding of the city requires an account of its soul, its body and
its body's belongings. An account of man, it has been suggested in this
dialogue, demands knowing his soul, body, possessions, and the
relation and ordering of each. It is quite possible that what is
proper best for a man will conflict with what is best for a city.
The city might be considered best off if it promotes an average
well-being. Having its norm, or median, slightly higher than the
norm of the next city would indicate it was better off. It is also
possible that the circumstances within which each and every man thrives would
not necessarily bring harmony to a city. The problem of
priority is further complicated by the introduction of the notion that
the welfare of each citizen is not equally important to the city. Perhaps
what is best for a city is to have one class of its members excel, or to
have it produce one great man. What is to be understood as the good of the
city's very soul? Furthermore, even if the welfare of the whole
city is to be identified with the maximum welfare of each citizen, it
might still be the case that the policies of the city need to increase
the welfare of a few people. For example, in time of war the welfare of
the whole polity depends on the welfare of a few men, the armed forces.
As long as war is a threat, the good of the city Cits body, soul, or
possessions) could depend on the exceptional treatment of one class of
its men. Knowledge of the true nature of the polity is essential
for political philosophy and so for proper political decision-making.
Men ignorant of the polity, the citizens, or themselves cannot be statesmen
or economists (133e; cf. Statesman 258e). Such a man, ignorant of his and
others' affairs will not know what he is doing, therefore making mistakes
and doing ill in private and for the demos . He and they will be
wretched. Temperance and goodness are necessary for well-being, so
it is bad men who are wretched. Those who attain temperance not those
who become wealthy, are released from this misery. ^ Similarly, cities
need virtue for their well-being, not walls, triremes, arsenals,
numbers or size (134b; The full impact of this will be felt if one
remembers that this dialogue is taking place immediately prior to
the outbreak of the war with Sparta. Athens is in full flurry of
preparation, for she has seen the war coming for a number of years)
. Proper management of the polis by Alkibiades would be to impart
virtue to the citizens and he could not impart it without having it
(134c). A good governor has to acquire the virtue first. Alkibiades
shouldn't be looking for power as it is conventionally understood - the
ability to do whatever one pleases - but he should be looking for justice
and temperance. If he and the state acted in accordance with those two
virtues, they would please god; their eyes focussed on the divine, they
will see and know themselves and their good. If Alkibiades would act this
way, Socrates would be ready to guarantee his well-being (134e). But if
he acts with a focus on the godless and dark, through ignorance of humself his
acts will go godless and dark. Alkibiades has received the
Socratic advice to forget about power as he understands it, in the
interest of having real power over at least himself. Conventionally
understood, and in most applications of it, power is the ability to do
what one thinks fit ( Gorgias 469d) . Various technae give to the skilled
the power to do what they think fit to the material on which they are
working. The technae, however, are hierarchically arranged, some ruling others.
That is, some are archetectonic with respect to others. What is actually
fit for each techne is dictated by a logically prior techne . The techne
with the most power is the one that dictates to the other techne what is
fit and what is not. This understanding seems to disclose two
elements of power: the ability to do what one thinks is fit, and knowing
what is fit. If a man can do what he wants but is lacking in
intelligence, the result is likely to be disastrous (135a; Republic
339a-e, Gorgias 469b, 470a). If a man with tyrannical power were
sick and he couldn't even be talked to, his health would be
destroyed. If he knew nothing about navigation, a man exercising
tyrannical power as a ship's pilot may well 132 cause
all on board to perish. Similarly in a state a power without excellence
or virtue will fare badly. It is not tyrannical power that
Alkibiades should seek but virtue, if he would fare well, and until the
time he has virtue, it is better, more noble and appropriate for a man,
as for a child, to be governed by a better than to try to govern; part of
being 'better' includes knowledge that right rule is in the subject's
interest. It is appropriate for a bad man to be a slave; vice
befits a slave, virtue a free man (135c; it seems strange that vice
should be appropriate for anyone, slave or free, perhaps, rather, it
defines a slave). One should most certainly avoid all slavery and if one
can perceive where one stands, it may not at present be on the side of
the free (135c). Socrates must indicate to Alkibiades the importance of a
clearer understanding of both what he desires, power, and what this
freedom is. In a conventional, and ambiguous sense, the man with the most
freedom is the king or tyrant who is not sub ject to anyone.
Socrates must educate Alkibiades. The man who wants power like the man
who seeks freedom, doesn't know substantively what he is looking for; the
only power worth having comes with wisdom, which alone can make one
free. Socrates confides to Alkibiades that his condition ought not to
be named since he is a noble ( kalos) man (cf. 118b - is this
another condition which will remain unnamed despite their solitude?).
Alkibiades must endeavour to escape it. If Socrates will it, Alkibiades
replies, he will try. To this Socrates responds that it is only noble to say
"if god wills it." This appears to be Socrates' pious defence
to a higher power. However, since he has drawn attention to the phrase
himself, a reminder may be permitted to the effect that it is not
necessarily quite the conventional piety to which he refers: a strange
parade of deities has been presented for the reader's review in this
dialogue. Alkibiades is eager to agree and wants, fervently, to
trade places with Socrates (135d). From now on Alkibiades will be
attending Socrates. Alkibiades, this time, will follow and observe
Socrates in silence. For twenty years Socrates has been silent toward
Alkibiades, and now, thinking it appropriate to trade places, Alkibiades
recognizes that silence on his part will help fill his true, newly found
needs. In the noise-filled atmosphere of today, it is especially
difficult to appreciate (and thus to find an audience that appreciates)
the importance of the final aspect of language that will be discussed in
connection with knowledge and power - silence. The use of silence for
emphasis is apparently known to few. But note how a moment of silence on
the television draws one's attention, whether or not the program was
being followed. And an indication of a residual respect for the power of
silence is that one important manner of honoring political actors and
heroes is to observe a moment of silence. Think, too, how judicious use
of silence can make someone ill at ease, or cause them to re-examine
their speech. The words "ominous" and "heavy" may often be
appropriately used to describe silence. Silence can convey knowledge as
well as power, and as the above examplss may serve to show, it may have a
significant role in each. When one begins to examine the role of silence
in the lives of the wise and the powerful, one begins to see some of the
problems of a loud society. To start with, the reader
acquaints himself with the role of silence in political power. As
witnessed in the dialogue, and, as well, in modern regimes, there are
many facets of this. Politicians must be silent about much. Until
recently, national defence was an acceptable excuse for silence on the
part of the leaders of a country. The existence of a professional
"news" gathering establishment necessitates that this silence
be total, and not only merely with respect to external powers, for some
things that the enemy must not know must be kept from the citizens as
well (cf. 109c, 124a). Politicians are typically silent about some
things in order to attain office, and about even more things in order to
retain it. Dissenters prudently keep quiet in order to remain undetained or
even alive. Common sense indeed dictates that one observe a politic
silence on a wide variety of occasions. Men in the public eye may conceal
their disbelief in religious authority in the interests of those in the
community who depend on religious conviction for their good conduct. Most
consider lying in the face of the enemy to be in the interests of the
polity, and all admire man who keeps silent even in the face of severe
enemy torture. Parents often keep silent to protect their children,
either when concerned about outsiders or about the more general
vulnerability of those unable to reason. One important political use
of silence is in terms of the myths and fables related to children.
Inestimable damage may be done when the "noble lie" that
idealistically structures the citizen's understanding of his regime is
repudiated in various respects by the liberal desire to expose all to the
public in the interests of enlightenment. At the point where children are
shown that the great men they look up to are "merely human,"
one most clearly sees the harm that may be done by breaking silence.
Everybody becomes really equal, despite appearances to the contrary, since everyone
- even the heroes - acts from deep, irrational motives, appetites, fears,
etc. High ideals and motives for action are debunked. Since
many of the political uses of silence mentioned above concern appropriate
silence about things known, the next brief discussion will focus on
silence and knowledge. The primary aspect of the general concern for
silence in the life devoted to the pursuit of knowledge is a function of
the twin features of political awareness and political concern. Though closely
tied to the aforementioned appropriate uses of silence, this is concerned
less with the disclosure of unsalutary facts about the life and times of
men than with questions and truths of a higher order. For example, if it
could be discerned that man's condition was abysmal, that he would
inevitably become decadent, it would not be politically propitious to
announce the fact on the eight-o'clock newscast There seem to be at least
two situations in which such facts are revealed A politically unaware man
might not realize it; a politically aware but somehow unconcerned man
might not care about the well-being of the community as a whole.
There are at least two additional respects in which silence is important
to the life of knowledge. Both play a part in Alkibiades' education in the
First Alkibiades and contribute to his desire to trade places with
Socrates. Firstly one must be silent to learn what others have to say. On
the face of it, this seems a trivial and fairly obvious thing to say.
However when one appreciates the importance of trust and friendship in
philosophic discourse, one perceives that the notion of silence important
to this aspect of learning is much broader than the mere logistics of
taking turns speaking. To mention only a single example, one has to prove
one's ability to "keep one's mouth shut" in order to develop
the kind of trust essential to frank discussion among dialogic
partners. Secondly, silence enhances mystery if there is reason to
suspect that the silent know more than they have revealed. This
attraction to the mysterious accounts for many things, including to
mention only one example, the great appeal of detective stories. If both
witnesses and the author did not know more than they let on in the beginning,
if the reader/detective did not have to take great care in extracting the
truth from muddled accounts, it is not likely that the genre would have
the enduring readership it now enjoys. Both of these might be
tied directly to Socrates' initial silence toward Alkibiades. Socrates
had kept quiet until Alkibiades had reached a certain stage in the
development of his ambition. His prolonged silence, and then his repeated
reminders of it, as he begins to speak, increases Alkibiades' curiosity.
As it becomes more and more apparent to Alkibiades that Socrates knows
what he is talking about, Alkibiades becomes increasingly desirous of
learning. He wants Socrates to reveal the truth to him, the truth he
suspects Socrates is keeping to himself. Throughout the discussion the men
discuss ever more important subjects and it is readily apparent that
their mutual trust grows at least partly because of their recognition of
what is appropriately kept silent. In addition, at yet another level, it has
been frequently observed that Socrates' silence ragarding a part of the truth,
or the necessity of an example, or a segment of the argument, indicates
to the careful reader a greater depth to the issues. Recognition of
this silence increases the philosophic curiosity of the readers as he
attempts to discover both the subject of, and the reason for, the
silence. Alkibiades has suggested that he shall switch
"places" with Socrates. Socrates has attended on him for all
this time and now Alkibiades wants to follow Socrates. This is only one
of a number of "switches" that occur in the turning around of
Alkibiades, witnessed only by Socrates and the careful reader.
In the beginning Socrates says that the lovers of Alkibiades left
because his qualities of soul were too overpowering. He is flattering
Alkibiades in order, perhaps, to entice Alkibiades to begin listening. In
the end he suggests they ceased pursuing the youth because the bloom of
his beauty (the appearance of his body) has departed from him. At first
glance this is not complimentary at all. Nevertheless it is now that
Alkibiades claims to want very much to remain and listen. He will even
bear insults silently. At the start Alkibiades is haughty, superior
and self-sufficient. In the end he wishes to please Socrates,
recognizing his need for the power of speech in his coming to know
himself. At first he believes he already knows, and arguments seem
extraneous. By the end he wants to talk over the proper care of his soul
at length with Socrates. Probably the most notable turning around
in the dialogue is the lover—beloved switch between the beginning and the
end (cf. also Symposium 217d). But a number of puzzling features come to
the fore when one attempts to draw out the implications of the change. In
what way is their attraction switched? Socrates is attracted to
Alkibiades' unquenchable eros . Perhaps a mark of its great will for power is
that it is now directed toward Socrates. However, what does that suggest
about Socrates' eros in turn, either in terms of its strength or its
direction? What kind of eros is attracted to a most powerful eros which
in turn is directed back to it? Do Socrates and Alkibiades both have the
same intensity of desires and are their ambitions not directed toward the same
ends? Perhaps Socrates' answer will suffice. He is pleased with
the well-born man. His eros is like a stork - he has hatched a winged
eros and it returned to care for him. (This is the first indication
that Socrates assumes responsibility for the form of Alkibiades' desires;
it also indicates another whole series of problems regarding how
Alkibiades will "care for" Socrates). They are kindred souls
(or at least have kindred eros), and their relationship is now one of
mutual aid. Socrates will look into Alkibiades' soul to find his own and
Alkibiades will peer into Socrates' soul in attempting to discern his.
The reader is implicitly invited to look too; he has the privilege starting
again and examining the souls more closely each time he returns to the
beginning. Alkibiades agrees that that is the situation in which
they find themselves and he will immediately begin to be concerned with
justice. Socrates wishes he'll continue, but expresses a great fear. In
an ironic premonition of both their fates, he says he doesn't distrust
Alkibiades' nature, but, being able to see the might of the state (cf.
132a), he fears that both of them will be overpowered.There is always an
irony involved in concluding an essay on a Platonic dialogue. The
most fitting ending, it seems, would be to whet one's appetite for
more. This I shall attempt to do by pointing out an intriguing
feature about the dialogue in general. If one were to look at the
Platonic corpus as a kind of testament to Socrates, a story by
Plato of a Socrates made young and beautiful regardless of their
historical accuracy. For example, the Theaitetos, Sophist and
Statesman all take place at approximately the same time, shortly
before Socrates' trial. Similarly, the Euthyphro and Apology occur
about then. The Crito and Phaido follow shortly thereafter, and so
on. The First Alkibiades has its own special place. The First
Alkibiades may well be the dialogue in which Socrates makes his earliest
appearance. The Platonic tradition has presented us with this as
our introduction to Socrates, to philosophy. Why? This dialogue
marks the first Socratic experience with philosophy that we may
witness. Why? The fateful first meeting between Socrates and
Alkibiades is also our first meeting with Socrates. Why? The
reader's introduction to the philosopher and to philosophizing is in
a conversation about a contest for the best man. Why? One must
assume that, for some reason, Plato thought this fitting. Plato,
Republic 377a.9-10. The dialogue is known as the First Alkibiades,
Alkibiades I and Alkibiades Major . Its title in Greek is simply
Alkibiades but the conventional titles enable us to distinguish it from
the other dialogue called Alkibiades . Stephanus pagination in the text
of this thesis refers to the First Alkibiades of Plato. The Loeb text
(translated by W. Lamb, 1927) formed the core of the reading. However,
whenever a significant difference was noted between the Lamb translation
and that of Thomas Sydenham ( circa 1800), my own translation forms the
basis of the commentary. Unless otherwise noted, all other works referred
to are by Plato. 2. The major sources for Alkibiades' life are
Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch and Plato. It seems to be the case that no
history can be "objective." Since one cannot record everything,
a historian must choose what to write about. Their choice is made on the
basis of their opinion of what is important and therein vanishes the
"objectivity" so sought after but always kept from modern
historians. The superiority of the accounts of the men referred to above
lies partially in that they do not pretend to that
"value-neutral" goal, even though their perspective may
nonetheless be impartial. I wish to take this opportunity to
emphasize the limited importance of the addition of this sketch of the
historical Alkibiades. Were it suggested that such a familiarity were
essential to the understanding of the dialogue, it would be implied that
the dialogue as it stands is insufficient, and that I was in a position to
remedy that inadequacy. As a rule of thumb in interpretation one should
not begin with such presuppositions. However, there are a number of ways in
which the reading of the dialogue is enriched by knowing the career of
Alkibiades. For example, the reader who doesn't know that Alkibiades'
intrigues with (and illegitimate son by) the Spartan queen was a cause of
his fleeing from Sparta and a possible motive for his assassination,
would not have a full appreciation of the comment by Socrates on the
security placed around the Spartan queens (121b-c). At all events,
extreme caution is necessary so that extra historical baggage will not be
imported into the dialogue. It might be quite easy to prematurely
evaluate the historical Alkibiades, and thereby misunderstand the
dialogue. We are also told she had dresses worth fifty
minae. Plutarch, Life of Alkibiades, 1.1 (henceforth referred to
simply as Plutarch); Plato, Alkibiades I, 112c, 124c, 118d—e. Plutarch,
II. 4-6. 6. Diodoros Siculus, Diodoros of Sicily, XII. 38. iii-iv
(henceforth Diodoros). 7. This is the Anytos who was Socrates'
accuser. He was also notorious in Athens for being the first man to bribe
a jury (composed of 500 men)! He had been charged with impiety. Some
suspect that Alkibiades' preference for Socrates caused Anytos to be
jealous and that this was a motive for his accusation of Socrates.
8. Plutarch The historical accuracy of the representation is impossible
to determine and, so far as we need be concerned, philosophically
irrelevant. 10. Actually Alkibiades admits this in a dialogue which
Plato wrote (cf. Symposium 212c-223b, esp. 215a, ff.). 11.
Plutarch, VI. 1. 12. Plato, Symposium 219e-220e; Plutarch. Plato,
Symposium 220e-221c; Plutarch VII. 4; Diadoros cf. Thucydides, History of the
Peloponnesian War. Thucydudes, Cf. also Plutarch, Plutarch, XIV. 6-9;
Thucydides Plutarch, XIII. 3-5. Cf. Aristotle's discussion in his
Politics, Thucydides, Diodoros, Thucydides, Thucydides, Plutarch, XVIII. 1-2;
Thucydides.The Hermai were religious statues, commonly positioned by the
front entrance of a dwelling. Hermes was the god of travelling and of
property. Cf. Thucydides, Thucydides, Plutarch, Thucydides, Thucydides,
VI. 48-50. Thucydides, Thucydides,
Plutarch, Diodoros, Thucydides, Plutarch, Thucydides, Plutarch, Thucydides,
Thucydides, Plutarch; cf. also Plato, Alkibiades, where Plato's mention might
provide some support for a claim that the motive was other than
lust. 35. Thucydides, Plutarch, Plutarch, Thucydides, Diodoros,
XIII. 41. iv-42iii; Plutarch, Thucydides Thucydides, Thucydides, VIII. 97. For
an excellent and beautiful examination of this in Thucydides, read Leo Strauss,
"Preliminary Observations of the Gods in Thucydides' Work."
INTERPRETATION, Nijhoff, The Hague,
Netherlands. Plutarch, Xenophon, Hellenika, Diodoros Xenophon,
Hellenika, I, i, 9-10; Plutarch, Xenophon, Hellenika,
Xenophon, Hellenika, I, iv, 8-17; Plutarch, Xenophon,
Hellenika, I, iv, 20-21; Plutarch,Plutarch, Diodoros, Plutarch, Xenophon,
Hellenika I, v, 11-16; Plutarch, Plutarch, Diodoros, Plutarch. There are
various accounts, the similar feature being the Spartan instigation. It
is not likely that it was a personal assassination (because of the
queen), but it was probably not purely due to political motives, either.
54. Aristophanes, Frogs; cf. Aristophanes, Clouds, Plato, Symposium,Aristophanes,
Clouds, 217 ff. 56. Politically speaking, however, this is not to
be thoroughly disregarded, for in their numbers they can trample even the
best of men. Cf. for example: Plato, Gorgias 500c, Aristotle,
Politics 1324a24 ff., Rousseau, Social Contract, Marx, Theses on
Feuerbach, Hobbes, Leviathan, edited by C. B. MacPherson, Pelican Books,
Middlesex It is interesting that Socrates uses the promise of power to
entice Alkibiades to listen so that he can persuade him that he doesn't
know what power is. It is very important for the understanding of the
dialogue that the reader remember that Socrates has characterized
Alkibiades' desire for honor (105b) as a desire for power. This is of
crucial significance throughout the dialogue, and in particular in connection
with Socrates' attempts to teach Alkibiades from whom to desire honor,
and in what real power consists. The reader is advised to keep both in
mind throughout the dialogue. Perhaps at the end he may be in a position
to judge in what the difference consists. 60. The most notorious
example, perhaps, is Martin Heidegger, although he was surely not the
only important man implicated with fascism. 61. Cf. Aiskhylos,
Agamemnon 715-735, and Aristophanes, Frogs, for the metaphor. The latter is a
reference to Alkibiades himself, the former a statement of the general
problem. (f. also Republic 589b; Laws 707a; Kharmides 155d; and
Alkibiades I 123a). 62. The fully developed model resulting from
this effort should probably only be made explicit to the educators. The
entire picture (including the hero's thoughts about the cosmos, etc.)
would be baffling to children and most adults, and would thus detract
from their ability to identify with the model. Perhaps a less
thoroughly-developed example would suffice for youths. However, the
entire conception of the best man that the youths are to emulate should
be made explicit. The task is difficult but worth the effort, since the
consistency of two or more features of the model can only be positively
ascertained if he is fully developed. An obvious example of where
conflicts might arise should this not be done is where, say, a very
hybristic, superior and self- confident young man is the leader of the
radical democratic faction of a city. Some kind of conflict is inevitable
there, and those tensions are much more obvious though not necessarily
more penetrating than those caused by incompatible metaphysical
views. 63. For example, Lakhes, Kharmides, Republic, Euthyphro
. 64. These questions are not the same, for in many dialogues
the person named does not have the longest, or even a seemingly major
speaking part; e.g., Gorgias, Phaedo, Minos, Hipparkhos .Protagoras, 336d. Here
Alkibiades is familiar with Socrates, for he recognizes his "little
joke" about his failing memory. However, Socrates was not yet
notorious throughout Athens, for the eunuch guarding the door did not
recognize him ( Protagoras 314d). Much of this speculation as to the date
depends on there not being anachronisms between (as opposed to within)
Platonic dialogues. We have no priori reason to believe there are no
anachronisms. However, it might prove to be useful to compare what is
said about the participants in other dialogues. The problem of
anachronisms within dialogues is a different one than we are referring to
in our discussion of the dramatic date. Plato, for a variety of
philosophic purposes, employs anachronisms within dialogues, including
perhaps, that of indicating that the teaching is not time-bound. This is
obviously related to teleology, a way of accounting for things that
concentrates on the fulfilled product, the end or teleos of the thing and
not on its origin, as the most essential for understanding the thing. The
prescientific, or common-sensical, understanding of things is a
teleological one. The superior/ideal/proper characteristic of things somehow
inform the ordinary man's understanding of the normal. This prescientific
view is important to return to, for it is such an outlook, conjoined with
curiosity, that gives rise to philosophic wonder. For this
kind of detailed information, I found the Word Index to Plato,
by Brandwood, an invaluable guide. 68. The challenge to
self-sufficiency is important to every dialogue, to all men. It is
something we all, implicitly or explicitly, strive towards, a key
question about all men's goals. Even these days, one thing that will
still make a man feel ashamed is to have it suggested that he depends on
someone (especially his spouse). The first step toward
self-improvement has to be some degree of self-contempt, and that might
be sparked if Alkibiades realizes his dependency. 69.
Socrates might be saying this to make the youth open up. It isn't purely
complimentary; he doesn't say you are right. (Cf. also Kharmides). I am
indebted for this observation to Proclus whose Commentary on the First
Alkibiades, is quite useful and interesting. In order to claim that
something is or is not a cause for wonder, one apparently would have to
employ some kind of criteria. Such criteria would refer to some larger
whole which would render the thing in question either evident or
worthy of wonder or trivial. None of these has been explicitly suggested
in the dialogue with reference either to difficulty of stopping speech or
beginning to talk. 71. It may be important to note that this
discussion refers to political limits, political ambitions. Perhaps a higher
ambition (perhaps indeed the one Socrates is suggesting to Alkibiades) can be
understood as an attempt to tyrannize nature herself, to rule (by knowing
the truth about) even the realm of possibility and not to be confined by
it. One notices that this, by implication, is a claim by Socrates to
know himself, not exactly a modest claim. 73. Interestingly, he
does not consider what Alkibiades heard in such speeches to be part of
his education, "comprehensively" listed at 106e.
74. This appears similar to Socrates' strategy with Glaukon. Cf. Craig,
L.H., An Introduction to Plato's Republic, pp. 138-202; especially pp.
163-4; Bloom, A., "Interpretive Essay," in The Republic of Plato. Cf.
Republic. Cf. Republic, 327b, 449b; Kharmides, 153b; Parmenides, 126a.While
imagined contexts may influence one's thinking and speaking in certain
ways, one is not naively assuming that then one will speak and act the
same as one would if the imagined were actualized. Many things
might prevent one from doing as well as one imagined. An example familair
to the readers of Plato might be the construction of the good city in
speech. Cf. 105d, 131e, 123c, and 121a. One might be curious as to
the difference between Phainarete's indoor teaching of Socrates and
Deinomakhe's indoor teaching of Alkibiades. Also perhaps noteworthy is
that Alkibiades was taught indoors by his actual mother: the masculine
side of his nurture was not provided by his natural father. Except see
Hobbes, Leviathan, chapter 29; Plato, Republic, 372e. And one must
remember that when the plague strikes, the city is dramatically
affected. 80. Thucydides. Note two things: (1) Athenians don't
debate about this at the ekklesia ; (2) Alkibiades, as well as the
wrestling master, would be qualified (118c-d). Socrates drops
dancing here; perhaps it is similar enough to wrestling to need no separate
mention/ and to provide no additional material for consideration. But if
that were so one might wonder why it was mentioned in the first
place. 83. Perhaps "all cases" should be qualified to
"all cases which are ruled by an art." The general ambiguity
surrounding this remark invites the reader's reflection on the extent to which
Socrates' suggestion could be seen to be a much more general kind of
advice. Perhaps Alkibiades would be better off imitating Socrates -
period. Or perhaps something else about Socrates' pattern (of life) could
be said to provide "the correct answer in all cases," - he is
after all a very rational man. The referent here is unclear in the
dialogue. It could be 'lawfulness' and 'nobility' just as readily as the
'justice' which Socrates chooses to consider; that choice significantly
shapes the course of the dialogue. Note: Socrates brought up 'lawful'
(even though there probably is no law in Athens commanding advisors to
lie to the demos in the event they war on just people); whereas
Alkibiades' concern was nobility. 85. This would be
especially true if considerations of justice legitimately stop at the
city's walls. Cf. also Thucydides, I. 75, and compare the relative
importance of these motives in I. 76. This conclusion may not be fair to
Alkibiades, for he is clearly not similar to Kallikles (see below) since
he is convinced that he must speak with Socrates to get to the truth. He
wants to keep talking. But he is still haughty. He has just completed a
short display of skill that wasn't sufficiently appreciated by Socrates, and,
most importantly, there will be an unmistakeable point in the dialogue at
which Alkibiades does become serious about learning. Alkibiades will
confess ignorance and that will mark a most important change in his
attitude. His attention here isn't focussed on the premises but on
the conclusion of the argument. There are a number of possibilities
here for speculation as to the cause of his taking refuge - from shame?
from the truth? from the argument? 88. Draughts is a table
game with counters, presumably comparable to chess. Draughts is a
Socratic metaphor for philosophy or dialectics. The example arises in
connection with language, and seem to indicate the reader's participation
in the dialogue. First, of course, Plato must have us in mind, for
Alkibiades cannot know that draughts are Socrates' metaphor for
philosophical dialectics. Second, the metaphor itself demands reflecting upon.
How not to play is a strange thing to insert. Though proceeding through
negation is often the only way to progress in philosophy, one doesn't set
out to learn how not to play. The many indeed cannot teach one to
philosophize, but the question of how not to philosophize often has to be
answered in light of the many, as does the question of how not to
"argue." The philosopher must show caution both because of the
many's potential strength over himself, and through his consideration of
their irenic co-existence; he must not rock the boat, so to
speak. Cf. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 100; Genesis 2:19-20. 90. It
is interesting that with reference to "running" (the province
of the gymnastics expert or horseman) Socrates mentions both horses and
men. In the example of "health" he mentions only men. Presumably he
is indicating that there is some distinction to be made between men and
horses that is relevant to the two technae . Quite likely this
distinction shall prove to be a significant aid in the analysis of the
metaphors of 'physician 1 and 'gymnast' that so pervade this dialogue.
Borrowing the analogy of 'horses' from the Apology (30e), wherein cities
are said to be like horses, one might begin by examining in what way a
gymnastics expert pertains more to the city than does a doctor, or why
"running" and not "disease" is a subject for consideration
in the city, while both are important for men. Perhaps a good way to
begin would be by understanding how, when man's body becomes the focus
for his concerns, the tensions arise between the public and private
realm, between city and man. 91. The practical political
problem, of course, is not simply solved either when the philosophic determination
of 'the many' is made, or when empirical observation yields the results
confirming what 'the many' believe. The opinions must still be both
evaluated and accounted for. However, when it is an extreme question
of health - e.g., starvation, a plague - a question of life or death,
they do. The condition of the body does induce people to fight and the
condition of the body seems to be the major concern of most people and is
thus probably a real, though background, cause of most wars and
battles. 93. Homer, Odyssey; In Euripides' play, Hippolytos,
Phaedra, the wife of Theseus, is in love with her stepson Hippolytos, and
though unwilling to admit, she is unable to conceal, her love from her
old nurse. She describes him so the nurse has to know, and then says she
heard it from herself, not Phaedra. 95. It is undoubtedly
some such feature of power as this that Alkibiades expects Socrates to
mention as that power which only he can give Alkibiades. It may be that
Socrates' power is closely tied to speech - we are not able to make that
judgement yet - but Alkibiades is certainly not prepared for what he
gets. The reader is cautioned to remember that Socrates is
assuming power to be the vehicle for Alkibiades' honor. At least one
sense in which this is necessary to Socrates' designs has come to
light. Alkibiades could be convinced that he should look for honor
in a narrower group of people once he thought they were the people with
the secret to power. It is not as likely that he would come to respect
that group (especially not for being the real keys to power) if he hadn't
already had his sense of honor reformed. Cf. Gorgias, beginning at 499b
and continuing through the end. He certainly doesn't seem to care,
although it may be a bluff or a pose. 97. Such as, perhaps, a
dagger only partially concealed under his sleeve - Gorgias 469c-d.
98. This, of course, is from the perspective of the city. Very
powerful arguments have been made to the contrary. The city may not be
the primary concern of the wisest men. 99. Perhaps it should be
pointed out, though, that men who devote themselves to public affairs
frequently neglect their family - again the tension between public and
private is brought to our attention (cf. Meno, 93a-94e). 100.
The fact that oaks grow stunted in the desert does not mean that the
stunted oak of the desert is natural. The only thing we could argue is
natural is that 'natural' science could explain why the acorn was unable
to fulfill its potential, just as 'natural' science can explain how there
can be two-headed, gelded, or feverish horses. In any explanation of this
sort the reference is to a more ideal tree or horse. And any examination
of an existing tree or horse will involve a reference to an even more
perfect idea of a tree or a horse. 101. It may be of no small
significance that Socrates uses the word ' ideas ' in this central
passage. It is the only time in this dialogue that the word is used and
it seems at first innocuous. 'Ideas' is another form of ' eidos ' - 'the
looks' so famous in the central epistemological books of the
Republic. What is so exceptional about the " * use
here is that it occurs precisely where the question of the proper
contest, the question of the best man, is raised. Socrates says, "My,
my, best of men, what a thing to say! How unworthy of the looks and other
advantages of yours." We are perhaps being told it is unworthy of
'the looks,' 'the ideas, 1 that Alkibiades does not pose a high enough
ambition. The translators (who never noted this) are not in complete
error. Their error is one of imprecision. The modifier "your" (
soi) is an enclitic and would have been understood (by Alkibiades) to
refer to "looks" as well as to his other advantages. However,
as an enclitic, it is used as a subtle kind of emphasis, and it is
clearly the "other advantages" that are emphasized. The 'soi'
would normally appear in front of the first of a list of articles. It
doesn't here, and the careful reader of the Greek text would certainly be
first impressed with it as " the looks." The reference to
Alkibiades' looks would be a second thought. And only in someone not
familiar with the Republic or with the epistemological problem of the
best man, would the "second- thought" be weighty anough to drown
the first impression. Incidentally, it is indeed interesting that
the word for the highest metaphysical reality in Plato's works is a word
so closely tied to everyday appearance. Once again there is support for
the dialectical method of questioning and answering, to slowly and
carefully refine the world of common opinion and find truth or the
reality behind appearance. Whether the war justly or unjustly is not
mentioned. I believe that the referent to "others" is left
ambiguous. Note also that here (120c) Socrates speaks of the Spartan
generals ( strategoi ), a subtle change from 'king' (120a) a moment
earlier. Perhaps he is implying a difference between power and actual
military capability. This is/ of course/ generally good advice. Cf.
Thucydides I 84: one shouldn't act as though the enemy were ill-advised.
One must build on one's foresight, not on the enemy's oversight. The
important provision of nurture is added to nature. Cf. 103a and the
discussion of the opening words of the dialogue. 106. Socrates has
included himself in the deliberation explicitly at this point, serving as
a reminder to the reader that both of these superior men should be
considered in the various discussions, not just one. A comparison of them
and what they represent will prove fruitful to the student of the
dialogue. 107. Plato, another son of Ariston, is perhaps smiling
here; we recall why it is suspected that Alkibiades left Sparta and
perhaps why he was killed. Two more facets of this passage
are, firstly, that this might be seen as another challenge by Socrates
(in which case we should wonder as to its purpose). Secondly, it implies
that Alkibiades' line may have been corrupted, or is at least not as
secure as a Spartan or Persian one. Alkibiades cannot be positive that
his acknowledged family and kin are truly his. 108. There is
a very important exception and one significant to this dialogue as well
as to political thinking in general. One may change one's ancestry by
mythologizing it (or lying) as Socrates and Alkibiades have both done.
This may serve an ulterior purpose; recall, for example, the claims of
many monarchies to divine right. 109. Hesiod Theogony 928; cf. also
Homer, Iliad, The opposite of Athena, Aphrodite ( Symposium 180d), and
Orpheus ( Republic 620a). 111. A number of Athenians may have
thought this was much the same effect as Socrates had. He led promising
youths into a maze from which it was difficult to escape. This
discussion should be compared in detail with the education outlined in
the Republic . Such a comparison provides even more material for
reflection about the connection between a man's nurture and his nature.
(One significant contrast: the Persians lack a musical
education). Compare, for example, the difference concerning
horseback riding: Plato, Alkibiades I, 121e; and Xenophon,
Kyropaideia, I, iii, 3. Cf., for example, Machiavelli, The Prince, chapters 18,
19. The only other fox in the Platonic corpus (besides its being the name
of Socrates' deme - Gorgias) is in the Republic where the fox is
the wily and subtle deceiver in the facade of justice which is what
Adeimantos, in his elaboration of Glaukon's challenge, suggests is all
one needs. The reader of the dialogue has already been reminded of
the Allegory of the Cave, also in the context of nurture. Sydenham,
Works of Plato, points out that Herodotos tells us that this is not exclusively
a Persian custom. Egyptians, too, used all the revenue from some sections
of land for the shoes and other apparel of the queen. Cf. Herodotos,
Histories, II, 97. 117. Cf. Pamela Jensen, "Nietzsche and
Liberation: The Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future,"
Interpretation: "[Nietzsche] does not suppose truth to be God, but a
woman, who has good reasons to hide herself from man: her seductiveness
depends upon her secretiveness. This greatly compounds the problems of
understanding the two men and their eros . What has heretofore been
interpreted by Socrates as Alkibiades' ambition for power is now
explicitly stated to be an ambition for reputation. Are we to understand
them as more than importantly connected, but essentially similar? And
what are we to make of Socrates' inclusion of himself at precisely this
point? Does he want power too? Reputation? Perhaps we are to see both men
(and maybe even all erotic attraction whatsoever) as willing to have
power. Socrates sees power as coming through knowledge. Alkibiades
sees it as arising from reputation. Is Socrates in this dialogue engaged in
teaching Alkibiades to respect wisdom over glory in the interests of some
notion of power? The philosopher and the timocrat come out of (or begin
as) the same class of men in the Republic. The reader should examine what
differences relevant to the gold/philosophic class, if any, are displayed
by Socrates and Alkibiades. Perhaps Socrates' education of Alkibiades
could be seen as a project in alchemy - transforming silver into
gold. 119. Homer, Iliad, X. 224-6. Cf. Protagoras, 348d; Symposium,
174d; Alkibiades II, 140a; as well as Alkibiades. This is not intended to
challenge Prof. Bloom's interpretation ( The Republic of Plato, p. 311). As far
as I am capable of understanding it and the text, his is the correct reading.
However, with respect to this point I believe the dialogue substantiates
reading the group of men with Polemarkhos as the many with power, and
Socrates and Glaukon as the few wise. This is left quite ambiguous.
The jest could refer to: a) Socrates' claim to believe in the
gods b) Socrates' reason as to why his guardian is better
c) Socrates' claim that he is uniquely capable of providing
Alkibiades with power. In the Republic, inodes and rules of music
are considered of paramount political importance. Cf. Republic [citato da
H. P. Grice] Cf. however. Symposium, 174a, 213b. At this stage of the
argument Socrates does not distinguish between the body and the self.
124. This is the only time Socrates swears by an Olympian god.
He has referred to his own god, the god Alkibiades "talked" to,
a general monotheistic god, and he has sworn upon the "common god of
friendship" (cf. Gorgias 500b, 519e, Euthyphro 6b), as well as
using milder oaths such as 1 Babai 1. It would probably be very
interesting to find out how Socrates swears throughout the
dialogues and reflect on their connection to his talk of piety, and of
course, his eventual charge and trial. Strictly speaking that is the
remark on which there won't be disagreement, not the one following it.
"Man is one of three things," is something no one can
disagree with. (He is what he is and any two more things may be added to
make a set of three.) Why does Socrates choose to say it this way? And
why three? Are there three essential elements in man's nature? As we
shall presently see, he does assume a fourth which is not mentioned at
this time. 126. Though first on the list of Spartan virtues,
temperance ( sophrosyne ), a virtue so relevant to the problem of
Alkibiades, does not receive much treatment in this dialogue. One might
also ask: if temperance is knowing oneself, is there a quasi-virtue, a quasitemperance
based on right opinion? 127. This is what Socrates' anonymous
companion at the beginning of Protagoras suggests to Socrates with
respect to Alkibiades. Homer, Odyssey, II. 364. Odysseus' son, Telemakhos,
is called the "only and cherished son" by his nurse when he
reveals to her his plan of setting out on a voyage to discover news about
his father. His voyage too (permitting the application of the
metaphor of descent and human nature) is guarded by a divine being.
Alkibiades/Telemakhos is setting out on a voyage to discover his
nature. 129. For other references to "stripping" in the
dialogues, see Gorgias 523e, 524d; cf. also Republic 601b, 612a, 359d,
361c, 577b, 474a, 452a-d, 457b; Ion 535d; Kharmides 154d, 154e;
Theaitetos; Laws 772a, 833c, 854d, 873b, 925a; Kratylos 403b;
Phaidros; Menexenos; Statesman; Sophist. This word for release,
apallattetai, has only been used for the release of eros to this point in
the dialogue. Parenthetically, regarding this last passage, we note also
that the roles of wealth and goodness in well-being have not been
thoroughly 0 xplored. Perhaps he is suggesting a connection between
becoming rich and not becoming temperate. One might interject here
that perhaps the virtues resulting from, say, a Spartan nurture, do not
depend on the virtues of the governors. Perhaps they depend on the virtue
or right opinion of the lawgiver, but maybe not even that. There might be
other counterbalancing factors, as, for example, Alexander Solzhenitsyn
suggests about Russians today - (Harvard Commencement Address, 1978,
e.g., paragraph 22). 132. As was mentioned with respect to their
other occurrences in the dialogue, the metaphors of the diseased city,
physician of the city, doctor of the body, pilot of ship, ship-of-state
and passenger are all worth investigating more thoroughly, and in
relation to each other. There is a dialogue, the Parmenides, in which the
"Young Socrates" speaks. We do not know what to make of this,
but the fact that he is called the "Young" Socrates somehow
distinguishes his role in this, from the other dialogues. He is not
called "Young Socrates" in the Alkibiades I, nor is he referred
to as "Middle-aged Socrates" in the Republic, nor is he named
"Old Socrates" in the Apology. Having come this far, the reader
might want to judge for himself some recent Platonic scholarship
pertaining to the First Alkibiades. In comparatively recent times the
major source of interest in the dialogue has been the popular dispute
about its authenticity. Robert S. Brumbaugh, in Plato for the
Modern Age, (p. 192-3) concludes: But the argument of the
dialogue is clumsy, its dialectic constantly refers us to God for
philosophic answers, and its central point of method - tediously made -
is simply the difficulty of getting the young respondent to make a
generalization. There is almost none of the interplay of concrete situation and
abstract argument that marks the indisputably authentic early dialogues
of Plato. Further, the First Alkibiades includes an almost textbook
summary of the ideas that are central in the authentic dialogues of
Plato's middle period; so markedly that it was in fact used as an
introductory textbook for freshman Platonists by the Neo-Platonic
heads of the Academy it would be surprising if this thin illustration of
the tediousness of induction were ever Plato's own exclusive philosophic
theme: he had too many other ideas to explore and offer. Jowett,
translator of the dialogue and thus familiar with the writings, says in
his introduction to the translation: we have difficulty in supposing that
the same writer, who has given so profound and complex a notion of
the characters both of Alkibiades and Socrates in the Symposium should
have treated them in so thin and superficial a manner as in the
Alkibiades, or that he would have ascribed to the ironical Socrates
the rather unmeaning boast that Alkibiades could not attain the
objects of his ambition without his help; or that he should have imagined
that a mighty nature like his could have been reformed by a few not
very conclusive words of Socrates... There is none of the undoubted
dialogues of Plato in which there is so little dramatic
verisimilitude.Schleiermacher, originator of the charge of spuriousness,
analyzed the dialogue. It is to him that we owe the current dispute.
Saving the best for last: there is nothing in it too difficult or
too profound and obscure for even the least prepared tyro. This
work appears to us but very insignificant and poor and genuinely
Platonic passages may be found sparingly dispersed and floating in a mass
of worthless matter and we must not imagine for a moment that in
these speeches some philosophic secrets or other are intended to be
contained. On the contrary, though many genuine Platonic doctrines are
very closely connected with what is here said, not even the
slightest trace of them is to be met with and in short, however we may
consider it, the Alkibiades, is in this respect either a
contradiction of all other Platonic dialogues, or else Plato's own
dialogues are so with reference to the rest. And whoever does not feel
this, we cannot indeed afford him any advice, but only congratulate him
that his notions of Plato can be so cheaply satisfied... In
any event, much could be said about whether anything important to the
philosophic enterprise would hinge upon the authorship. My comments
concerning the issue will be few. Firstly there is no evidence that could
positively establish the authorship. Even should Plato rise from the dead
to hold a press conference, we are familiar enough with his irony to
doubt the straightforwardness of such a statement. Secondly, many of the
arguments are based on rather presumptuous beliefs that their proponents
have a thorough understanding of the corpus and how it fits together. I
will not comment further on such self- satisfaction. Thirdly,
there are a number of arguments based on stylistic analyses. If only for
the reason that these implicitly recognize that the dialogue itself must
provide the answer, they will be addressed. Two things must be
said. First, style changes can be willed, so to suggest anything
conclusive about them is to presume to understand the author better than
he understood himself. Second, style is only one of the many facets of a
dialogue, all of which must be taken into account to make a final
judgement. As is surely obvious by now, that takes careful study. And
perhaps all that is required of a dialogue is that it prove a fertile ground
for such study. Aristophanes. The Eleven Comedies . New York: Liveright, The
King James BIBLE. Nashville, U.S.A.: Kedeka,Bloedow, E. F. Alcibiades
Reexamined . Weisbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1973. Bloom,
Allan D. The Republic of Plato . Translated, with Notes and an
Interpretive Essay, by Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, Brandwood, Leonard.
A Word Index to Plato . Leeds: W. S. Maney and Son, Ltd., 1976.
Brumbaugh, R. S. Plato for the Modern Age . U.S.A.: Crowell Collier
Press, Churchill, Winston. Great Contemporaries . London: Macmillan; Craig,
Leon H. An Introduction to Plato's Republic . Edmonton: printed and bound
by the University of Alberta, de Romilly, Jacqueline. Thucydides and
Athenian Imperialism . Translated by Philip Thody. Oxford: Basil
Blackwell, Diodorus Siculus. Diodorus of Sicily . Tr. Oldfather; Loeb
Classical Library, London: Heinemann, Friedlander, Plato, New York:
Bollingen Series, 1958. Grene, David; and Richmond Lattimore,
eds. The Complete Greek Tragedies . Aeschylus I, tr. Lattimore; Euripides
I, translated by Lattimore. Chicago, Grote. Plat o and the Other
Companions of Sokrates . London: John Murray, 1885. Hamilton and
Cairns. Plato: The Collected Dialogues . Princeton, Bollingen Series, Hammond and
Scullard, The Oxford Classical Dictionary, Clarendon, Herodotus. The
Histories . Tr. Powell; Oxford, Hesiod. Hesiod . Tr. Lattimore. Ann Arbor:
Michigan; Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan . Ed. Macpherson. Middlesex, England:
Pelican, Homer. Iliad . Translated by Richmond Lattimore. New York: Harper
and Row, Homer. Odyssey . Translated by Richard Lattimore. New York:
Harper and Row, Jensen, Nietzsche and Liberation: The Prelude to a
Philosophy of the Future," Interpretation . 6:2. The Hague:
Nijhoff, Jowett, B., ed. The Dialogues of Plato Translated by Jowett.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, Clarendon Press, MACHIAVELLO MACHIAVELLI (si
veda), The Prince . Tr. and ed. by Musa. New York: St. Martin's.
Marx, Theses on Feuerbach," The Marx-Engels Reader . Ed. Tucker. New
Tork: Norton, McKeon, Richard, ed. The Basic Works of Aristotle . New York:
Random House, Olympiodorus. Commentary on the First Alkibiades of Plato.
Critical texts and Indices by L. G. Wes ter ink'. Amsterdam:‘
North-Holland,O'Neill, William. Proclus: Alkibiades I A Translation and
Commentary. The Hague: Nijhoff, Paulys-Wissowa. Real-Encyclopoedie der
Classischen Altertumswissenschaft . Stuttgart: Metzler Buchhandlung, Plato.
Plato in Twelve Volumes . Loeb Classical Library; translated by R. G.
Bury, H. N. Fowler, W. Lamb, P. Shorey; London: Heinemann, Plutarch.
Lives . Loeb Classical Library, tr. Perrin.
London: Heinemann, Rousseau, J.-J. The Social Contract . Translated and
edited by R. Masters and J. Masters. New York: St. Martin's, RYLE (citato
da H. P. Grice), Plato's Progress. Cambridge, Schleiermacher. Introduction to
the Dialogues of Plato . Translated by W. Dobson. Cambridge: J. et j. j.
Deighton, Shorey, Paul. What Plato Said . Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1933. Solzhenitsyn, A. "Harvard Commencement
Address." Harvard, Strauss, Leo. "Preliminary Observations of the
Gods in Thucydides Work," Interpretation, The Hague z Martinus
Nijhoff, 1974. Sydenham, Floyer, transl. The Works of Plato . Vol.
I. Edited by Thomas Taylor. London: R. Wilks, Taylor, A. E. Plato: The
Man and His Work . New York: Meridian, Thucydides. History of the Peloponnesian
War . Translated by Rex Warner; Introduction and Notes by M. I. Finley.
Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1954. Westlake, H. D.
Individuals in Thucydides . Cambridge. Nome compiuto: Ennio Carando.
Keywords: l’amore platonico, l’amore socratico, l’implicatura di Socrate, filosofo
socratico, Socrate, Alcibiade. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H.
P. Grice, “Grice e Carando,” The Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza,
Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carapelle:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale – linguaggio e
metafilosofia – linguaggio oggetto – meta-linguaggio – Peano – Tarski 1944 – bootstrapping
– scula di Napoli – filosofia napoletana – filosofia campanese -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Napoli). Filosofo
napoletano. Filosofia campanese. Filosofo italiano. Napoli, Campania. Grice: “I
like Carcano; I cannot say he is an ultra-original philosopher, but I may – My
favourite is actually a tract on him, on ‘meta-philosophy,’ or rather ‘language
and metaphilosophy,’ which is what I’m all about! How philosophers misuse
‘believe,’ say – but Carcano has also philosophised on issues that seem very
strange to Italians, like ‘logica e analisi,’ ‘semantica’ and ‘filosofia del
linguaggio’ – brilliantly!” Quarto Duca di Montaltino, Nobile dei
Marchesi di C.. Noto per i suoi studi di fenomenologia, semantica, filosofia
del linguaggio e più in generale di filosofia analitica. Studia a Napoli,
durante i quali si formò alla scuola di Aliotta e si dedica allo studio delle
scienze. Studia a Napoli e Roma. Sulla scia teoretica del suo tutore volle
approfondire le problematiche poste dalla filosofia e riesaminare attentamente
il linguaggio in uso. La sua tesi centrale è che correnti come il pragmatismo,
il positivismo, la fenomenologia, l'esistenzialismo e la psicoanalisi, fossero
il portato dell'esigenza teoretica di una maggiore chiarezza – la chiarezza non
e sufficiente -- delle varie questioni che emergevano da una crisi culturale,
vitale ed esistenziale. Al centro di tale crisi giganteggia la polemica fra
senza senso metafisico e senso anti-metafisica, soprattutto a causa del vigore
critico del positivismo logico, contro il quale a sua volta lui -- che ritiene
necessaria una sostanziale alleanza o quantomeno un aperto dialogo fra la
metafisica e la scienza -- pone diversi rilievi critici, principale dei quali è
quello di minare alla base l'unità dell'esperienza, alla Oakeshott -- che senza
una cornice o una struttura metafisica in cui inserirsi rimarrebbe
indefinitamente frammentata in percezioni fra loro irrelate. A questo
inconveniente si può rimediare temperando il positivismo con lo
sperimentalismo, ovvero accompagnando alla piena accettazione del metodo una
piena apertura all’esperienza così come “esperienza” è stata intesa, ad
esempio, nella fenomenologia intenzionalista intersoggetiva di Husserl. In
questo senso si può procedere a mantenere una costante tensione sui problemi
posti dalla filosofia, in opposizione a ogni dogma di sistema, e al contempo
non cadere nell'angoscia a cui conduce lo scetticismo radicale che tutto
rifiuta, compresa l'esperienza. Non si tratterebbe dunque per la filosofia di
definire verità immutabili ma di sincronizzarsi col ritmo del metodo basato
sull’esperienza fenomenologico, sussumendo i risultati sperimentali e
integrandoli nel continuum di una struttura metafisica mediante il ponte
dell'esperienza. Altre opere: “Filosofia e civiltà” (Perrella, Roma); Filosofia
(Foro Italiano, Roma); Il problema filosofico. Fratelli Bocca, Roma); La
semantica, Fratelli Bocca, Roma – cf. Grice, “Semantics and Metaphysics”)
Metodologia filosofica, una rivoluzione filosofica minore. Libreria scientifica
editrice, Napoli. Esistenza ed alienazione” (MILANI, Padova); Scienza
unificata, Unita della scienza (Sansoni, Firenze); Analisi e forma logica (MILANI,
Padova); Il concetto di informativita, MILANI, Padova); La filosofia
linguistica, Bulzoni Editore, Roma. Dizionario biografico degli italiani, Roma.
Ben altrimenti articolato e puntuale ci sembra l'intervento operato sulla
fenomenologia da C., ed allievo di Aliotta a Napoli e pur fedele estensore
delle sue teorie, sulle quali, per questo mo tivo, ci siamo nell'ultima parte
dilungati sorvolando sullo scarso ruolo t-he gioca in esse l'opera di Husserl.
L'iter formativo di C. interseca
situazioni ed esperienze riscontrabili, come ve dremo, anche in altri giovani
filosofi della stessa generazione. Di più, nel.suo caso, c'è una singolare e
probabilmente indotta analogia con la vicenda teoretica del primo Husserl. In
realtà, scrive l'autore in un brano autobiografico io non posso dire di essere
venuto alla filosofia in maniera diretta, per un'intima voca zione alla
speculazione o per un normale maturarsi dei miei studi e della mia men talità
giovanile, ma questa era soprattutto caratterizzata da un'intensa passione
pèrle scienze e da una viva disposizione per la matematica. Questo germinale
orientamento, unito a una sensibilità religiosa che non tarderà a manifestarsi,
ebbe come primo e scontato effetto di allontanare C. dall'area neo-idealistica,
il cui radicale immanentismo, la esclusione dei concetti di peccato e di grazia
e l'avversione per ogni for- P. Filiasi
C., 17 ruolo della metodologia nel rinnovamento della filo sofia
contemporanea, La filosofia contemporanea in Italia. Invito al dialogo, Asti,
Arethusa. ma di naturalismo, non potevano in alcun modo essere accettati.
Di qui un sentimento di estraneità e di insoddisfazione subito denunciati fin
dai primi scritti, l'intima perplessità e la difficoltà di orientarsi in una
temperie culturale già decisa e fissata nelle sue grandi linee da altri. E,
d'altro canto, un naturale rivolgersi al problema metodologico, come pre
liminare assunzione di consapevolezza circa i percorsi teoretici che con
veniva seguire per ottenere uno scopo valido, senza tuttavia ancora nul la
presumere circa la necessità di quei percorsi o la natura di questo sco po. In
tal senso, l'elaborazione di una qualsivoglia metodologia doveva prevedere come
esito programmatico, da un lato, una sorta di epochizza- zione delle grandi
tematiche metafisiche e della tradizionale formulazione dèi problemi,
dall'altro lato, un lungo e paziente lavoro di analisi, con fronto,
chiarificazióne e comprensione che consentisse di recuperare, di quelle
tematiche e di quei problemi, il contenuto più autentico. Ma più lo sguardo
critico del giovane filòsofo andrà maturando fino ad abbracciare nel suo
complesso il controverso panorama culturale del tempo, più quel programma
iniziale perderà la sua connotazione prope deutica per trasformarsi in compito
destinale, in una ' fighi for clarity* che assumeva i termini di un radicale
esame di coscienza nei confronti della filosofia. Scrive Filiasi Carcano:
Confesserò che varie volte ho avuto ed ho l'impressione di non aver abba
stanza compreso, e per questo alla mia spontanea insoddisfazione (al tempo
stesso scientifica e religiosa) si mescola un senso di incomprensione. Questo
stato d'animo spiega bene il mio atteggiamento che non è propriamente di
critica, ma ha piut tosto il carattere di un prescindere, di una sospensione
del giudizio, di una messa in parentesi, in attesa di una più matura
riflessione 56. Al fondo dei dualismi e delle vuote polemiche che, nella
comunità filoso- fica italiana degli anni Trenta, sembravano prevaricare sulle
più urgenti esigenze scientifiche e di sviluppo, Filiasi Carcano coglie i
sintomi dì un conflitto epocale, di una inquietudine psicologica e di
un'incertezza morale che andranno a comporsi in una vera e propria
fenomenologia della crisi. ' Crisi della civiltà ', anzitutto, come recita il
titolo della sua opera prima, dove al desiderio di fuggire l'alternativa del
dogmatismo fa da 55 Per questi punti mi sono riferito a M. L. Gavazzo, Paolo
Filiasi Carcano,. «Filosofia oggi»; * P; Filiasi Carcano, // ruolo della
metodologia, Cfr. C., Crisi della
civiltà e orientamenti della filosofia contraltare l'eterno dissidio tra
ragione e fede. Crisi esistenziale, di con seguenza, dovuta al prevalere delle
tendenze scettiche e antimetafisiche su quelle spirituali e religiose. Crisi
della filosofia, infine, fondata sulla raggiunta consapevolezza del suo
carattere problematico, sull'incapacità di realizzare interamente la pienezza
del suo concetto. Come moto di reazione immediata occorreva allora, oltreché
circoscrivere le proprie pre tese conoscitive ponendosi su un piano
risolutamente pragmatico, assur gere ad una più compiuta presa di coscienza
storica e conciliare la filoso fia con una mentalità scientificamente educata.
Solo, cioè, il confronto con una seria problematica scientifica (la quale C.
vede realizzata nell'ottica positivista dello sperimentalismo aliottiano) avreb
be potuto segnare per la filosofia l'avvento di una più matura riflessione
intorno alle proprie dinamiche interne e ai propri genuini compiti critici. E a
questo scopo parve a Filiasi Carcano, fin dai suoi studi d'esor dio,
singolarmente soccorrevole proprio l'opera d’Husserl. Scri ve Angiolo Maros
Dell'Oro: A un certo punto si intromise Husserl. C. pensa, o spera, che là
fenomenologia sarebbe stata la scienza delle scienze – REGINA SCIENTIARVM –
Grice --, capace di indicargli la via zu den Sachen selbsf, per dirla con le
parole del suo fondatore. Da allora è stata invece per lui l'enzima patologico
di una problematica acuta. Sùbito rifiutata, in realtà, come idealismo
metafisico, quale eira frettolo samente spacciata in certe grossolane versioni
del tempo (non esclusa, lo abbiamo visto,.quella del suo, maestro), la
fenomenologia viene aggredita alla radice dal giovane studioso, con una cura e
un rigore filologico i quali pure
riscontreremo in altri suoi coetanei — giustificabili solo con l'urgenza di una
richiesta culturale cui l'ambiente nostrano non poteva evidentemente
soddisfare. Non è un caso che C. insista, fin dal suo primo articolo dedicato
ad Husserl, sul valore della fenomeno logia, ad un tempo, emblematico, nel
quadro d'insieme della filosofia contemporanea, e liberatorio rispetto al giogo
dei tradizionali dogmi idealistici che i giovani, soprattutto in Italia, si
sentivano gravare sulle spalle. contemporanea, pref. d’Aliotta, Roma,
Perrella, Cf. Il pensiero scientifico
ìtt Italia 'Creiriòria, Màngiarotti; Cfr. Cartario/ Da Carierò'ad H«w&f/,:«
Ricerche filosofìche. In piena coscienza,
scrive il filosofo se abbiamo voluto scio gliere l'esperienza da una
necessaria interpretazione idealistica, non è stato per forzarla nuovamente nei
quadri di una metafisica esistenziale, ma per ridare ad essa, secondo lo
schietto spirito della fenomenologia, tutta la sua libertà. Tale schiettezza,
corroborata da un carattere decisamente antisistema tico e dal recupero di una
vitale esigenza descrittiva, avrebbe consentito lo schiudersi di un nuovo,
vastissimo territorio di indagine, sospeso tra constatazione positivistica e
determinazione metafisica, ma capace, al tem po stesso, di metter capo ad un
positivismo di grado superiore e ad un più autentico pensare metafisico. Si
trattava, in sostanza, non tanto di dedurre i caratteri di una nuova positività
oppure di rifondare una me- tafisica, quanto piuttosto di guadagnare un più
saldo punto d'osserva zione dal quale far spaziare sul multiverso
esperienziale il proprio sguar do fenomenologicamente addestrato. È in questo
punto che la fenome nologia, riabilitando l'intuizione in quanto fonte
originaria di autorità (Rechtsquelle), operando in base al principio
dell'assenza di presupposti e offrendo i quadri noetico-noematici per la
sistemazione effettiva del suo programma di ricerca, veniva ad innestarsi sul
tronco dello sperimenta lismo di stampo aliottiano, che FC. aveva assimilato a
Napoli negli anni del suo apprendistato filosofia). Il ritorno alle cose stesse
predetto dalla fenomenologia non solo manteneva intatta la coscienza cri tica
rimanendo al di qua di ogni soglia metafisica, ma anche e più che mai serviva a
ribadire il carattere scientifico e descrittivo della filosofia. In un passo si
possono scorrere, a modo di riscontro, i punti di un vero e proprio manifesto
sperimentalista: Descrivere la nostra esperienza nel mondo con l'aiuto della
critica più raffi nata; cercare di raccordarne i vari aspetti in sintesi
sempre più vaste e più com prensive, esprimenti, per cosi dire, gradi diversi
della nostra conoscenza del mon do; non perdere mai il senso profondo della
problematicità continuamente svol- gentesi dal corso stesso della nostra
riflessione; infine stare in guardia contro tutte le astrazioni che rischiano
di alterare e disperdere il ritmo spontaneo della vita: sono questi i
principali motivi dello sperimentalismo e al tempo stesso, i modi mediante i
quali esso va incontro alle più attuali esigenze logiche e metodologiche del
pensiero contemporaneo. D'altro canto, si diceva, non è neppure precluso a
questo program- C., Crisi della civiltà; C., Anti-metafisica e sperimentalismo,
Roma, Perrella ma un esito trascendente, e a fenderlo possibile sarà ancora una
volta, in virtù della sua cruciale natura teoretica, proprio l'atteggiamento
feno menologico. Scrive C. In realtà, il dilemma tra una scienza che escluda
l'intuizione e una intui zione che escluda la scienza, non c'è che su di un
piano realistico ma non su di un piano fenomenologicamente ridotto: su questo
piano scienza e intuizione tornano ad accordarsi, accogliendo una pluralità di
esperienze, tutte in un certo senso le gittime e primitive, ma tutte viste in
un particolare atteggiamento di spirito che sospende ogni giudizio metafisico.
È questo, com'io l'intendo, il modo particola rissimo con cui la filosofia può
tornare oggi ad occuparsi di metafisica. Certo, nella prospettiva husserliana,
il problema del trascendens puro e semplice, che farà da sfondo a tutto il
percorso speculativo di Filiasi Carcano, sembrava rimanere ingiudicato o,
almeno, intenzionalmente rin viato in una sorta di ' al di là ' conoscitivo,
Ma in ordine alla missione spirituale che l'uomo deve poter esplicare nel mondo
storico, il metodo fenomenologico conserva tutta la sua efficacia. Esso nota C.
nelle ultime pagine del suo Antimetafisica e spe rimentalismo — certo
difficilmente può condurre a risultati, ma compie per lo meno analisi e
descrizioni interessanti, e tanto più notevoli in quanto tende a sollevare il
velo dell'abitudine per farci ritrovare le primitive intuizioni della vita
religiosa. Dato questo suo carattere peculiare e l'orizzonte significativo nel
quale viene assunta fin dal principio, la fenomenologia continuerà a va lere
per Filiasi Carcano come referente teoretico di prim'ordine, accom pagnandolo,
con la tensione e la profondità tipiche delle esperienze fon damentali, in
tutti i futuri sviluppi della sua speculazione. La terza grande area di
interesse per il pensiero hussèrliano negli anni Trenta in Italia, fa capo all'Università.di
Torino e si costituisce prin cipalmente intorno all'attività 4i tre studiosi:
il primo, già incontrato e che, in qualche modo, fa da ponte fra questa e la
neoscolastica mila nese è Mazzantini; il secondo è Annibale Pastore ne
parleremo ora che teneva nell'ateneo
torinese la cattedra di filosofia teoretica; C.,. Crisi.della civiltà,:; C., Anti-metafisica
e sperimentalismo. Apparently, Hilbert is the first to use the prefix meta (from
the Greek over) in the sense we use it in meta-language, meta-theory, and now
meta-system. Hilbert introduces the term meta-mathematics to denote a
mathematical theory of mathematical proof. In terms of our control scheme,
Hilbert's MST has a non-trivial representation: a mapping of proofs in the form
of usual mathematical texts (in a natural language with formulas) on the set of
texts in a formal logical language which makes it possible to treat proofs as
precisely defined mathematical objects. This done, the rest is as usual: the
controlled system is a mathematician who proves theorems; the controlling
person is a metamathematician who translates texts into the formal logical
language and controls the work of the mathematician by checking the validity of
his proofs and, possibly mechanically generating proofs in a computer. The
emergence of the metamathematician is an MST. Since we have agreed not to
employ semantically closed languages, we have to use two different languages in
discussing the problem of the definition of truth and, more generally, any
problems in the field of semantics. The first of these languages is the
language which is "talked about" and which is the subject- matter of
the whole discussion; the definition of truth which we are seeking applies
to the sentences of this language. The second is the language in which we
"talk about" the first language, and in terms of which we wish, in
particular, to construct the definition of truth for the first language. We
shall refer to the first language as "the object-language,"and to the
second as "the meta-language." It should be noticed that these terms
"object-language" and "meta- language" have only a relative
sense. If, for instance, we become inter- ested in the notion of truth applying
to sentences, not of our original object-language, but of its meta-language,
the latter becomes automatically the object-language of our discussion; and in
order to define truth for this language, we have to go to a new
meta-language-so to speak, to a meta- language of a higher level. In this way
we arrive at a whole hierarchy of languages. The vocabulary of the
meta-language is to a large extent determined by previously stated conditions
under which a definition of truth will be considered materially adequate. This
definition, as we recall, has to imply all equivalences of the form (T): (T) X
is true if, and only if, p. The definition itself and all the equivalences
implied by it are to be formulated in the meta-language. On the other hand, the
symbol 'p' in (T) stands for an arbitrary sentence of our
object-language. Let “A(p)** mean “I assert p between 5.29 and 5.31’*.
Then q is “there is a proposition p such that A(p) and p is fake”. The
contradiction emerges from the supposition that q is the proposition p in
question. But if there is a hierarchy of meanings of the word “false**
corresponding to a hierarchy of propositions, we shall have to substitute
for q something more definite, i.e. “there is a proposition p of order «,
such that k{p) and p has falsehood of order n*\ Here n may be any
integer: but whatever integer it is, q will be of order « + i? and will not be
capable of truth or falsehood of order n. Since I make no assertion of
order n, q is false, The hierarchy must extend upwards
indefinitely, but not downwards, since, if it did, language could never
get started. There must, therefore, be a language of lowest type. I
shall define one such language, not the only possible one.* I shall
call this sometimes the “object-language”, sometimes the “primary
language”. My purpose, in the present chapter, is to define and describe
this basic lai^age. The languages which follow in the hierarchy I shall
call secondary, tertiary, and so on; it is to be understood that each language
contains all its predecessors. The primary language, we shall find,
can be defined both logically and psychologically; but before attempting
formal definitions it will be well to make a preliminary informal
explora- tion. It is clear, from Tarski’s argument, that the
words “true” and “false” cannot occur in the primary language; for
these words, as applied to sentences in the language, belong to the
(« -t- language. This does not mean that sentences in the primary
language are neither true nor false, but that, if “/>” is a sentence
in this language, the two sentences “p is true” and “p is false” belong
to the secondary language. This is, indeed, obvious apart from Tarski’s
argument. For, if there is a primary language, its words must not be such
as presuppose the existence of a language. Now “true” and “false” are
words applicable to sentences, and thus presuppose the existence of
language. (I do not mean to deny that a memory consisting of images,
not words, may be “true” or “false”; but this is in a somewhat
different sense, which need not concern us at present.) In the primary
language, therefore, though we can make assertions, we cannot say that
our own assertions or those of others are either true or false.
When I say that we make assertions in the primary language, I must
guard against a misunderstanding, for the word “assertion” and,
since q is not a possible value of p, the argument that q is also true
collapses. The man who says ‘T am telling a lie of order n” is telling a
He, but of order n 4 - I. Other ways of evading the paradox have been
suggested, e.g. by Ramsey, “Foundations of Mathematics.” My liierarchy of
languages is not identical with Carnap's or Tarski's. Proceeding
psychologically, I construct a language (not the language) fulfilling the
logical conditions for the language of lowest type; I call this the
“object-language” or the “primary language”. In this language, every word
“denotes” or “means” a sensible object or set of such objects, and,
when used alone, asserts the sensible presence of the object, or of one
of AN INQUIRY INTO MEANING AND TRUTH the set of objects, which
it denotes or means. In defining this language, it is necessary to define
“denoting” or “meaning” as applied to object-words, i.e., to the words of
this language. Nome compiuto: Paolo Filiasi Carcano di Montaltino di
Carapelle. Paolo Filiasi Carcano di Montaltino de Carapelle, quarto duca di
Montaltino. Paolo Filiasi Carcano. Paolo Carcano. Montaltino. Keywords: linguaggio
e metafilosofia, semantica, quarto duca di montaltino, semantica ed esperienza,
semantica e fenomenologia, filiasi carcano, montaltino, carapelle. Refs.: Luigi
Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, “Grice e Carapelle,” The
Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza, Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carbonara:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale l’esperienza e la
prassi – Cicerone e il pratico – scuola di Potenza – filosofia basilicatese -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Potenza). Filosofo
basilicatese. Filosofo italiano. Potenza, Basilicata. Grice: “I like Carbonara;
my favourite of his tracts are one on ‘del bello,’ – another one on ‘dissegno
per una filosofia critica dell’esperienza pura: immediatezza e reflessione’ –
but mostly his ‘esperienza e prassi,’ which fits nicely with my functionalist
method in philosophical psychology: there is input (esperienza), but there is
‘prassi,’ the behavioural output --; I would prefer this to the tract on the
‘filossofia critica’ since I’m not sure we need ‘reflexion’ to explain, say,
communication – not at least in the way Carbonara does use ‘reflessione,’ alla
Husserl. Conseguito il
diploma liceale, si trasferì a Napoli, frequentando la facoltà di filosofia.
Ottenuta la laurea sotto Aliotta, collabora per “Logos”. Insegna a Campobasso, Nocera
Inferiore, Cagliari, Catania, e Napoli.
Con “Disegno d'una filosofia critica dell'esperienza pura”, rifacendosi
alla filosofia kantiana e riprendendo il discorso idealistico ne mette in
rilievo il tentativo fallito di Gentile di dare concretezza all’astratto.
Nell'attualismo, il ritorno all’atto, al fatto, si risolve infatti nell'atto
sempre uguale e sempre diverso del pensare, unica realtà e verità del pensiero
e della storia: «vera storia non è quella che si dispiega nel tempo, ma quella
che si raccoglie nell'eterno atto del pensare».. Il problema secondo C.
anda esaminato riportandolo alla sua origine, cioè al problema del rapporto tra
esperienza e concetto, tra realtà e concetto così come era stato affrontato
dalla filosofia kantiana e che Gentile crede di risolvere stabilendo un rapporto
dialettico tra il concetto e il suo negativo all'interno del concetto stesso.
La soluzione invece era in nuce secondo C. nella sintesi a priori kantiana dove
convivono forma (segnante) e contenuto (segnato) per cui la coscienza è per un
verso forma, contenitore (segnante) di un contenuto (segnato) storico e per un
altro *coincide* col suo contenuto (segnato) in quanto il contenuto (segnato)
non avrebbe realtà al di fuori della forma della coscienza segnante. La
successiva questione si pone considerando oltre il rapporto del pensiero – il
segnante -- con la materia quella collegata all'origine del pensiero stesso.
Ancora una volta Kant intravede la soluzione nella teoria dell' “io penso” che
però va ora intesa non come la struttura logico-metafisica della realtà
storica, ma come la sua struttura psicologica ma *trascendentale* o
"esistenziale", secondo una concezione della "filosofia
dell'esperienza pura" nel senso che l'esperienza coincide col divenire
della vita dello spirito e deve restare indifferente al problema, ch'è
propriamente di natura ontologica, circa la sua dipendenza o indipendenza da
una realtà diversa dal mio spirito. Il rapporto tra pensiero e materia porta C.
ad indagare quello tra filosofia e scienza con “Scienza e filosofia” in
Galilei, in cui sostiene che mentre da un punto di vista filosofico non si può
andare oltre l'ambito dell'autocoscienza (il mio spirito – Il “I am hearing a
noise” di Grice) del cogito cartesiano, al contrario la scienza si basa sulla
necessità di fondarsi sul mondo esterno (nel spirito dell’altro –
intersoggetivita). Forse la soluzione di questa antinomia, sostiene Carbonara,
va ricercata nell'insoddisfazione dello stesso idealismo verso se stesso non potendo rinunciare a se stesso ma neppure
al suo opposto -- nec tecum nec sine te -- solus ipse. Si interessa anche
della filosofia rinascimentale a Firenze. Nota come in quel periodo si fosse
realizzata una fusione tra il cristianesimo e il neo-platonismo così come ad
esempio in Ficino prete cattolico che visse la sua fede come teologia razionale
dando una base filosofica, trascurando la stessa rivelazione, alla sua
spiritualità religiosa: In Ficino, il platonismo si congiunge al
cristianesimo non soltanto sul fondamento di una religiosità profonda da cui il
primo appare permeato, ma anche per una tradizione storica ininterrotta, per
cui l'antichissima saggezza, ripensata da Platone e dai neoplatonici, si
ritrova trasfigurata ma tuttavia persistente nei Padri della Chiesa e nei
dottori della Scolastica. Come apprendiamo dall'Epistolario di Ficino, la
sapienza e intesa come un dono divino e come mezzo per cui l'uomo può elevarsi
fino a Dio. Tale principio fu poi appreso da Pitagora, Eraclito, Platone,
Aristotele, i neoplatonici. Riemerse nella speculazione filosofica ispirata
dalla Rivelazione cristiana e si ritrovò quindi in Agostino. Lo stesso Cicerone
figura nella catena dei platonici romani. Riallacciandosi a quella
tradizione e meditando sui testi platonici, Ficino concepí il disegno, portato
a termine di ricostruire su fondamento platonico la teologia il platonismo vi è
considerato come il nucleo essenziale di una teologia razionale i cui princípi
coincidono con quelli della rivelazione. Tale coincidenza è il principale
argomento con cui si riesce a dimostrare l'eccellenza del cristianesimo
rispetto alle altre religioni positive. Del resto Ficino è disposto ad
ammettere che qualsiasi culto, purché esercitato con animo puro, reca onore e
gradimento a Dio. Altre saggi: “L'individuo, i dividui, e la storia; Scienza e
filosofia in Galilei; Esperienza; Umanesimo e Rinascimento (Catania) Del Bello;
Introduzione alla Filosofia (Napoli; Materialismo storico e idealismo critico; Sviluppo
e problemi dell'estetica crociana; I presocratici; Esperienza ed umanesimo
(Napoli) La filosofia di Plotino; “Persona e libertà”; Ricerche di un'estetica
del contenuto”; Esperienza e prassi; Discorso empirico delle arti, Il
platonismo nel Rinascimento. In un momento diverso dalla storica ora presente
offrire in veste italiana alla coltura filosofica del nostro paese il sistema
di dottrina morale secondo i principi della dottrina della scienza di Fichte
sarebbe stata opera già esaurientemente giustificata e dalla grandezza di
quel genio speculativo, e dal vivo crescente interesse del nostro tempo per il
suo originale sistema idealistico-romantico, e dalla capitale importanza che
nella struttura del sistema stesso ha la dottrina morale, e dall’opportunità,
quindi, di agevolare la diretta conoscenza di questa a quanti tra noi non
fossero in grado di leggerla e gustarla nè nella classica (nonostante i
suoi difetti) edizione tedesca dovuta alla pietà filiale di Fichte — divenuta
oggi assai rara, ma di recente lori. Fichte, Das System der Sittenlehre
nach leu Prinzipletl (lev Wìsseuschaftslehre, Jena und Leipzig, Gabler V. il
voi. IV delle Opere complete (Sitmmtliche 1 Werke) di Fichte, edite con assai
utili prefazioni da Eli. Ehm. Fichte (Berlin, Veit e C.), dopo altri tre
volumi di Opere postume (Nachgelasseiie Werlce) apparsi per cura dello
stesso editore a Bonn, ma aggiunti come ultimi agli precedenti. I
difetti, che sono stati rim- fedelmente riprodotta (con tatti i suoi
difetti) da Fritz Me- proverati all’edizione di Fichte figlio, consistono,
tra gl’altri a parte le critiche riguardanti l’ordinamento generale degli
scritti paterni (sulle quali v. Ravà, Le opere di Fichte, Rivista di Filosofia)
in errori di stampa, lacune casuali o soppressioni arbitrarie di una o più
parole, aggiunte o trasposizioni di vocaboli, deposizione dei capoversi e
punteggiatura non sempre quali si avrebbe ragione di aspettarsi, ecc. ;
donde non poche nè lievi difficolta per intendere bene e rendere esattamente in
altra lingua il pensiero dell’autore. La qual cosa ci preme far rilevare, anche
perchè non sembri esagerazione, se diciamo che fu lavoro di non poca
lena, sostenuta soltanto dall’interesse per l’opera fiehtiana, quello da
noi compiuto attorno a una traduzione che ci proponemmo eseguire
con la più 'scrupolosa fedeltà al testo originale, ma, in pari tempo,
curando il più possibile la chiarezza del contenuto e l’italianità della
forma. Al quale duplice fine ci parve opportuno di riportare tra parentesi
curve le espressioni genuine e più caratteristiche dell’autore, quando il
nostro idioma non si prestava a riprodurle se non inadeguatamente ovvero
assumendo un certo aspetto di stranezza, e di chiudere tra parentesi
quadre [ J le espressioni aggiunte dal traduttore con intento interpretativo o
dilucidativo. Il lettore, in tal modo, è sempre messo sull’avviso circa i
punti in cui il linguaggio dell’autore è meno trasparente e può giudicare
se talvolta al traduttore — secondo il noto bisticcio - non sia accaduto di
essere involontariamente il traditore del pensiero tichtiano. TI quale pensiero
riesce tanto più difficile a restituire nella sua forma genuina, in
quanto che esso non solo fu iu continua evoluzione e trasformazione, ma
ebbe dal Fichte, più oratore elio scrittore, le mutevoli formulazioni
occasionali adatte alla predicazione, all’insegnamento e alla polemica, anziché
la stabile struttura definitiva di un’opera d’arte destinata a tramandare ai
posteri il documento autentico di un sistema compiuto; e la Dottrina
inorale, di cui ci occupiamo qui, risente anch’essa, nello stile, del
carattere proprio a quella gran parte delle opere del Fichte, che sono o
riproduzioni o preparazioni, ampiamente elaborate in iscritto, di lezioni
e corsi accademici. Si aggiunga a ciò che la Sit- tenlehre, e nel
contenuto e uella forma, è la continuazione c l’applicazione di quella
Wissetischaflslehre che il Medicus, in una sua monografia dedicata al
Fichte, uou esita a chiamare “ il libro, torse, più difficile che esista
in tutta la letteratura filosofica (sie ist vielleicht das schiiieriijste
Rudi in der yesmnten philósophischen Lucratile) „ (cfr. Grosse Denker,
editi a Lipsia, Verlag
Quelle dicus —, uè nella libera e, proprio nei punti ove H
testo è meno chiaro, monca versione inglese fattane dal Kroeger; (in
francese o in altra lingua non ci risulta sia stata mai tradotta, il che
non ha certo contribuito ad accrescerle et Meyer, senza «lata, <la E.
vou Aster) della Dottrina della Scienza abbiamo iu italiano la traduzione
fattane da A. Tilouer (Bari, Laterza) — j si noti, inline, che il Fichte
figlio sconsigliava il Bouillier dal tradurre in altra lingua quelle, tra le
opere del padre, che non avessero un contenuto popolare e fossero
scritte in una rigorosa forma scientifico-filosofica — ecco le sue parole.
Te conseille de ne pas traduire les oeuvres
scientifiques proprement dites, «:t d’ uno forme philosophique
rigoureuse. 11 est à peu près impossi- ble de les traduire «lana votre
luugne; il faudrait les transformer et eu changer l’exposition. Uue
traduction littérale mirait le doublé iu- convénient de taire violence à
votre 1 angue, et de ne pas reproduire le veritable esprit du système. „ (cfr.
MéUiode pour arrivar à la tir bica heureuse par Udite, traditit par M.
Bouillier, aver, uno Introdaction par Fichte le File, Paris, Ladrango): e
si sarà, speriamo, meglio disposti a giudicare con qualche indulgenza le
manchevolezze anche da noi sentite, ma che non riuscimmo ad evitare, so
pur erano evitabili, iu questa nostra traduzione, in cui la lettera doveva
più che mai venir suggerita e giustificata dallo spirito della dot- liiua
tradotta, onde ci s imponeva di continuo la necessità di ripen- norr e,
per quanto ci fu possibile, di rivivere il pensiero del Fichte. 11 Jmc
Gotti*. Fichte, IVerke, Auswahl in sechs Btinden (mit nielli ci en
Bildnisxen Fichtes ), edizione e introduzione di FimtzMediCUS, Leipzig.
Non intendiamo detrarre nulla alle lodi giustamente! tributate d’ ogni
parte a questa nuova edizione delle principali opere del Fichte, condotta
di recente a termine e salutata nel mondo fìlosofico come un importante e lieto
avvenimento, soprattutto per il contributo che porterà alla diffusione e alla
conoscenza della dottrina lichtiana; dobbiamo soltanto osservare che,
almeno per quanto concerne .1 System der Sittenlehre, di cui diamo qui la
traduzione, la collazione del testo nelfediz. del Medicus non presenta
assolutamenta nulla di diverso e nulla di migliorato, rispetto a quella
curata da Lm. Era. Fichte ; se mai, anzi, qualche errore di stampa in più
; onde essa non ci è stata di nessun aiuto. Tanto per la verità. The Science of Etìlica as based on thè Science
of knowledge by Ioh. Gotti. Fichte, tradnz. di A. E. Kroeoeh. edita da
Harris (London, Kegau Paul, Treucli, Trubner et Co., Ltd.). il numero
dei lettovi). Dorante, poi, l’attuale immane cataclisma bellico che sì
inaspettatamente ha tutta Europa sconvolto e le nostre coscienze profondamente
turbato, in questa tragica ora chè tigne il mondo di sanguigno, perchè
proprio nella terra classica dell’idealismo filosofico, sfrenatasi
l'ebbrezza mistica di una supposta superiorità di razza e di coltura, prevalso
un malinteso spirito di egemonia mondiale, straripata la prepotenza del
militarismo, scatenatisi gli istinti e le cupidigie più basse, la civiltà
sembra inabissata nel buio e la scienza si è trasformata, con scempio di
ogni leggo umana e divina, in strumento di barbarie, rinnegando quel carattere
umano che della scienza è e deve essere la vera, sovrana, immortale
bellezza, in questa immensa mina di tutta la scala dei valori, due forti ragioni
di più — contrariamente a quanto potrebbe parere a prima vista —
c’inducono all’opera stessa: da un lato mostrare con quale serenità,
imparzialità e altezza di vedute noi italiani, che più volte nella storia fummo
maestri di civiltà, sappiamo riconoscere, pur quando gli animi nostri
siano agitati da moti sentimentali avversi, il possente contributo
di pensiero e di moralità che gli spiriti geniali, a qualunque nazione
appartengano, hanno recato alla coltura ; dal- 1’ altro fornire, con la
divulgazione delle dottrine morali di un filosofo tedesco come il Fichte
— da cui più specialmente con grave errore si vorrebbe derivare il
pangermanismo una prova di più della radicale deviazione che le fiualità
della Germania odierna, rappresentata dai Nietzsche, dai Treitschke, dai
Bernhardi, dai Chamberlain, dai Woltmaun, segnano rispetto alle idealità
profondamente umane e universali rifulgenti in tutta la letteratura e
in tutta la filosofia della Germania classica, rappresentata da un
Leibniz, da un Lessing, da un Herder, da un Gboethé, da uno Schiller, da
un Kant e dallo stesso Fichte. Perchè anche il Fichte, al pari del suo
grande predecessoro Kant il filosofo della pace a cui Con esattozza soltanto
relativa egli fu contrapposito come il filosofo della guerra, aspirava,
pur con tutte le esagerazioni essenzialmente teutoniche del suo pensiero, al
regno della ragione, al Vemunftstaat, basato sul riconoscimento del valore
dello spirito quale unico, vero e assoluto valore, e costituito da personalità
autonome e responsabili che devono svolgersi soltanto entro le linee di
un ordinamento razionale del tutto. Che se la magnificazione e la
glorificazione della lingua e del popolo tedesco a cui il Fichte
assurge, a cominciare dai Caratteri fondamentali dell’età presente -- Revue
de Métaphysique et de Morale, l’importante articolo di. Basch, L’Allemagne
classique et le pangermanisme. V. inoltre Sante Ferra ni, Fra la guerra e
V Università (Seatri Ponente); in questo discorso inaugurale dell'anno
accademico all’università di Genova, l'A., dopo avere stigmatizzato con
indignata parola “ la nuova sofìstica, più audace e più operativa
dell'antica, die in Germania per decenni lavorò a eccitare gli spiriti e
a iriebbriarsi nel sogno del dominio mondiale a qualunque patto,,, “ le
iniquità senza pari, corruttrici, vigliacche, brutali, e le violazioni dei
patti più solenni che quel popolo sostituisce al valore degli eroi
pagani, alla cavalleria del guerriero medievale „ e u la volontà sinistra
che informò i metodi alla subdola preparazione dell'immane delitto, invita
a distinguere in'quella nazione lo opere dei grandi avi e quelle dei
uepoti : “ Quali e quante pagine troveremmo nei primi, atto a rintuz- i
zare, a riprovare, a distruggere le smodate ambizioni dell’ oggi ! e
quanti successori vedremmo rinnegati!, e, per antitesi, si ferma a
illuminare nella loro sublime purezza le figure del Kant e a» del
Fichte. Grundziige dea gegenviirtigen Zeilullers (Sanimi!. Werke).
Queste conferenze si direbbero quasi altrettanti aifreschi di filosofia
della storia, di cui lo Herder aveva dato il mo. sino ai Discorsi alla,
nazione tedesca (*), attraverso la serie di opuscoli politici intermedi,
hanno potuto giustamente apparire come la radice del pangermanismo, non
ne segue perciò che il Pielite stesso fosse un pangermanista. u Come
! esclama il Basoh, pangermanista quel Fichte che parla a Berlino,
ancora occupata dai francesi, dinanzi a spie francesi, dopo Auerstftdt e
Iena, dopo Eylau e Fried iand, dopo quel trattato di Tilsit di cui
sappiamo le stipulazioni draconiane ! Chi non vede che appunto perchè il
suo popolo era asservito, umiliato, esposto a essere cancellato dalla carta d
Europa con un tratto di penna del- l’onnipossente imperatore francese, e
appunto perchè la Germania era stata spezzettata, la Prussia smembrata,
egli ha, per legittima reazione e con sflflrzo ammirevole,
esaltato, idealizzato, divinizzato quel popolo, opponendo alla
realtà la visione magnifica di un avvenire che a lui stesso appare
problematico? Le Reden sono un’ utopia ; un’ utopia cento volte quel
Germano autoctono, quel Mutterland, quella lingua madre; e il Fichte lo
sapeva bene e 1’ ha dello, e in cui il Ciclite, con una miscela di
nazionalismo mistico o di cosmopolitismo umanitario, tratteggia a grandi
periodi l’evoluzione dei genere umano dalle sue più lontane origini sino
ai suoi più remoti destini futuri, passaudo attraverso le cinque età: ni
dell’ innocenze o ragiono istintiva, b) dell’ autorità o ragione
coercitiva, c) del peccato o ribellione contro la ragione sia istintiva
sia coercitiva, d) della giustizia o arte della ragione, e) della santità o
scienza della ragione. Reden an die deutsche Nailon (Summit.
Werke). Segnaliamo, tra gli altri, i Discorsi ai combattenti tedeschi all’inizio
della campagna (Reden an die deutschen Kricgev zu All funge des
Feldzuges) (Stillanti. 11 erke t VII) e i dialoghi patriottici, Il patriottismo
e il suo contrario (Dei Patriotismus und sein Gegentheil), (Sananti.
Werke, Nacliyel. Werke). det-.fo egli st.esso. Questa lingua, questo
popolo egli li póne non come già esistenti, ma come qualcosa che bisogna
creare, se si voleva salvare la nazione tedesca dalla rovina totale e
impedire che fosse radiata dal numero dei popoli \ilidipendenti. Questa
lingua e questo popolo non erano una realtà, ma un ideale -- o meglio un
imperativo. Del lèsto non abbiamo avuto anche noi, nella nostra
letteratura, un (fenomeno analogo ai Discorsi alia nazione tedesca,
in <\\i<\PRIMATO MORALE E VIRILE [SIC] DEGL’ITALIANI, in cui,
invertendo, il puuto di vista fichtiano, GIOBERTI costrue una filosofa
della storia non meno utopistica, ma che pur tanti petti sdpsse, taute
anime accese negli anni più belli del nostro riscatto? Che se poi il
saggio eloquente ed essenzialmente. opera di fede di Fichte sia inteso non alla
lettera ma nel suo profondo significato filosofico, spogliato dei suoi
particolari riferimenti spaziali e temporali e considerato sub specie
aeternitatis, allora non solo oltrepassa il valore di ubo scritto
d’occasione, ma si eleva all’altezza di un’ opera sublime, perennemente
suggestiva di nobili pensieri e di eroiche azioni. L’ autore, sempre
ispirandosi a quel suo idealismo immanente, che egli contrappone a [Li
il leit-motiv proprio di tutta la filosofia fichtiana porre il dover
essere ossia 1’idealo come condizione creatrice e ragione sufficiente e
spiegazione finale dell’ u essere ossia del reale. Se il Kant potè dirsi
il Copernico dolla filosofia, in quanto trasferì il punto di vista del
problema filosofico dall' oggetto al soggetto, dall'essere al conoscere, Fichte
può dirsi anch’egli il Copernico della filosofia, in quanto spostò di
nuovo quel punto di vista dal conoscere al fare, dall’essere al
dover-esserc: la vera realtà, il vero assoluto sta per lui nell’ideale,
nel dovere. Rivista di Filosofa. A. Faggi, Il “ Primato „ del Gioberti e i
“ Discorsi alla nazione tedesca „ del Fichte. qualsivoglia dogmatismo,
specialmente se materialistico, sostiene in sostanza che non c’è
possibilità di filosofia e di poesia, di religione e di educazione, di
libertà e di progresso, se non là dove lo spirito crei o trovi in sè, e
in nessun modo attinga dal di fuori, il principio propulsore e
direttivo di tutta l’esistenza. Questo idealismo immanent/ egli chiama
filosofia tedesca, ossia viva, di fronte a qualsiasi filosofia straniera,
ossia morta. E che intende egli, per tedesco ? Non occorre ricordare che secondo il Fichte
vi sono dué sistemi filosofici rigorosamente conseguenti, ciascuno dal
suo punto di vista: il dogmatismo, l’ idealismo. Ul^cio della filosofia è
spiegare l’esperienza, la quale è costituita dalle rappresentazioni delle cose.
Ora si può a) o far derivare la rappresentazione dalle cose, come fa il
dogmatismo, b) o far derivare la cosa dalla rappresentazione, cóme fa
l’idealismo. Lo scegliere l’una piuttosto che l’altra delle dué vie
possibili dipende dal carattere individuale. Un sistema filosofico basterebbero queste parole a mostrare quanta
fede pratica, quanta iniziativa personale ed energia spirituale Fichte mettesse
nella sua filosofia e quanta ne esigesse da chi questa filosofia voglia
comprendere non è uno strumento
inanimato che si possa a piacimento possedere o alienare : esso scaturisce dal
più profondo dell’anima umana: “ Iras far eine Philosophie man wàihle,
hangt... davon ab, was man far ein Mensch ist: demi ein philosophisclies
System ist nicht ein todter Hausrath, dea man ablegen oder abnehmen
honnte, irte es mis beliebte, sonderà es ist beseelt durch die Seele des
Menschen, der es ìiat. „ (Erste Ein leitung in die Wissensehaftsle'ire,
Scimmtl. IVerke). La scelta sarà diversa secondo che prevarrà in noi il
sentimento dell’indipendenza e dell’attività o il sentimento della dipendenza e
della passività; un carattere flaccido per natura, ovvero rilassato e
incurvato dalla schiavitù dello spirito, dal lusso raffinato o dalla
vanità, non s’innalzerà mai all’idealismo: 11 ein von Notar schiaffar
oder durch Geistesknechtschaft gelehrten Luxus and Eitelkeit erschla/fler
und gekrùmmler Chardhter toird sich nie zum Idealismus erheben. E ciò,
indipendentemente dalle ragioni teoretiche che anch’esse dànno
un’incontestabile superiorità di filosofia esaurientemente persuasiva
all’idealismo di fronte all’in9ufficiente e assurdo dogmatismo. Nel
settimo discorso, in cui si approfondisce il .concotto àe]Y originarie là, e
germanicità di un popolo l’autore stesso ha cura di far rilevar^ u con
chiarezza peretta „ ciò che in tutto il suo libro ha intesò per tedesco
(was uoir in unsrer bishcrigen Schilderung unter Deutschen verstanden haben). “
Il vero e proprio punto di divisione egli scrive sta in questo: o si crede che
nell’uomo ci sia qualcosa di assolutamente primo e originario, si crede
nella libertà, nell’infinito miglioramento e nell’eterno progresso della nostra
specie, oppure si nega tutto ciò e si crede di vedere e comprendere
chiaramente che è vero tutto il contrario. Coloro che vivono creando e
producendo il nuovo, coloro che, se non hanno questa sorte, almeno
abbandonano decisamente quel che non ha valore (das Nichtige) e vivono
aspettando che da qualche parte la corrente della vita originaria venga a
rapirli con sè, coloro che, non essendo neppure tanto avanti, almeno
presentono la verità, e non l’odiano o non la paventano, ma l’amano:
tutti costoro sono uomini originari e, considerati come popolo, sono un
popolo vergine (Urvolk), sono il popolo per eccellenza, sono tedeschi.
Coloro, invece, che si rassegnano a essere un che di secondo e derivato e
chiaramente concepiscono e riconoscono sè stessi come tali, tali sono in
realtà, e sempre più tali divengono in forza di questa loro credenza;
essi sono un’appendice della vita che una volta prima di loro o accanto a
loro viveva per impulso proprio, essi sono l’eco che la roccia rimanda
di [S’intitola: Noch tiefere Erfassung der Ursprunglichkeit utid
Deutscheit eines Volkes (Sammtl. Werke, nella trad. ita!. Burich,
Palermo, Sandron). una voce già spenta, e, considerati come popolo, non
sono un popolo vergine, anzi di fronte a questo sono stranieri ed
estranei (Fremete und Andando-) Ecco, dunque, che cosa significa:
tedesco! non già il tedesco considerato Ine et nune, ma il simbolo di un
tipo ideale, onde Fichte, continuando, aggiunge: u Chiunque crede nella
spiritualità, nella libertà e nel progresso di questa spiritualità
mediante la libertà, egli, dovunque sia nalo, qualunque lingua
parli (wo es auch geboren seg und in welcher Sprache cs reile) e
dei nostri, appartiene a noi, ci seguirà; chiunque, invece, crede nella
stasi generale, nella decadenza, nel ricorso circolare e pone a governo del
mondo una natura morta, egli, dovunque sia nato, qualunque^lingua parli,
è non-tedesco (undeutscll), è per noi uno straniero, ed è desiderabile
che quanto prima si stacchi completamente da noi. I Discorsi alla nazione
tedesca, dunque, soltanto occasionalmente si rivolgono al popolo germanico,
mentre nella loro profonda verità si rivolgono a tutti i popoli moderni,
a tutti gli uomini che hanno fede nella libera spiritualità, di
qualunque paese essi siano, additando a ciascuno la via sulla quale si
può servire alla propria patria particolare e insieme alla gran patria
comune, si può essere a un tempo nazionalista e cosmopolita, perchè gl’
interessi supremi ed essenziali dell’umanità sono sempre e dovunque gli
stessi. Ma a dimostrare in modo* 1 definitivo quanto l’autore
dei Discorsi sia alieno dal cosidetto pangermanismo sta il [ Reden an die
deutsche Nalioti (Stimmll. Werke), il nerette delle parole "
dovunque sia nato ecc. „ è nostro discorso decimoterzo, donde trae maggior luce
il significato di tutti gli altri. Si direbbe che i pangermanisti, ai
quali piace farsi forti dell’auLorità del uostro filosofo, si siano
di proposito arrestati dinanzi a questa sua arringa, che pure è il
punto culminante verso cui tendono le rimanenti e che può dirsi un vero
catechismo antimperialistico. Tutto ciò che all’imperialismo della
Germania odierna sembra l’ideale che essa sarebbe chiamata ad attuare: il
possesso di colonie, l’esclusiva libertà dei mari, il commercio e
l’industria mondiali, le guerre di aggressione e ili conquista, la
barbarie scientificamente organizzata, le vessazioni sui paesi
invasi, la visione di una monarchia universale, l’egemonia
assoluta, vi ò rappresentato come odioso e insensato. Ammettiamo pure che
il Fichte abbia combattuto questa criminosa megalomania perchè essa
s’incarna sotto i suoi occhi nella Francia napoleonica; non è men
vero, però, che l’ideale opposto, a lui caro, rispondeva in modo reciso a
tutta una concezione politica che fa di lui il figlio e il rappresentante
più genuino della rivoluzione francese. La sua vita, i suoi scritti di
filosofia pratica e di filosofia della storia nte sono prova ampia,
piena, sicura, e se anche subirono modificazioni, queste riguardano non il suo
pensiero e i suoi sentimenti, i quali in fondo rimasero sempre gli
stessi, ma le mutate circostanze esteriori, il mutato aspetto della
Francia, divenuta, da repubblicana e liberatrice, imperialistica e liberticida.
Nato popolo figlio di un povero tessitore, infatti, comincia la vita
avviandosi al mestiere paterno e guardando le oche, egli sempre po-
[Kedeii ecc. (Sàmmll. I Verke) polo è rimasto nel più profondo
dell’anima, per quanto ricca e forte sia divenuta poi la sua coltura, a
qualunque sommità della scienza, dell’eloquenza e della gloria
siasi inalzato il sùo genio. Già sin dagl’inizi della sua fama si
rivela un democratico ardente, giacobino quasi, irrecouciliabile avversario di
ogni pregiudizio religioso, politico e nazionalistico. Subito dopo la sua
Rivendicazione della libertà di pensiero dai principi d'Europa die /ino
allora l'acecano oppressa, egli, nei suoi Contributi alla rettifica
dei giudizi del pubblico sulla rivoluzione francese, plaude ai principi dell’89
col fervido entusiasmo d’un uomo la cui classe usciva redenta da quel
grande atto di liberazione sociale, e aterina la sua fede nella
rivoluzione stessa, proclama i diritti del popolo, frusta a sangue il
militarismo, maledice alle guerre mosse da interessi o da capricci
dinastici, e lancia contro principi e monarchie assolute i primi strali di
quell’eloquenza appassionata che fa di lui forse il più grande oratore
della Germania. Zuruckfarderung der Denkfreihe.it von den Filrsten
Europas, die eie bisher unterdriikten (Sdmmtl. If erkeI). Beitriige zar
Berichtigung der Urtheile des PubVcuins iiber die franzòsische Revolution
(Sananti. Werke). In queste sue prime opere politiche, elio per lungo
tempo furono messe all’indice in tutta la Germania, Fichte mostra che la
rivoluzione francese fu il prodotto necessario della libertà del
pensiero, che la persona morale ha il diritto di elevarsi contro lo
Stato, e che l’uomo uscito dalle mani della natura è autonomo, e che è
inalienabile il diritto dei cittadini di moditicare la costituzione, di uscire
da un’associazione politica per crearne una nuova, di fare ciò che
appunto si chiama una rivoluzione. Fine ultimo degli uomini ò la
coltura di tutti per la libertà, ma le monarchie, egli afferma, invece di
lavorare al perfezionamento dei sudditi, sono state centro di depravazione
morale. Come hanno inteso, infatti, i sovrani la coltura dei sudditi a
loro affidati? Sotto forma di educazione alla guerra; perchè, dicono
essi, la guerra coltiva. Qra, è vero che la guerra Il Fondamento del DIRITTO
NATURALE secondo i principi inalza le nostre anime a sentimenti e azioni
eroiche, al disprezzo del pericolo e della morte, alla noncuranza dei
beni continuamente esposti ni saccheggio, a una simpatia per tutto ciò
che ha aspetto umano, perchè i pericoli e i dolori sopportati in comune
stringono di più gli altri a noi. Ma non crediate di vedere in queste mie
parole un panegirico della vostra follia bellicosa, o fors’anco l’umile
preghiera che l’umanità dolente v’indirizzerebbe perchè non cessiate dal
decimarla con guerre sanguinose. La guerra non inalza all’eroismo se non
le anime già per natura eroiche; incita, invece, le anime poco nobili
alla ruberia e all'oppressione della debolezza priva di difesa. La
guerra crea a un tempo eroi e vili rapinatori, ma aitimi ’ delle due
specie quale in numero maggiore ? „ (cfr. Sàmmtl. Werke). Nel
fondare e governare i loro Stati i monarchi mirano a rafforzare la loro
onnipotenza all’interno, ad allargare le loro frontiere all’esterno: due
fini, questi, tutt’altro che favorevoli alla coltura dei loro sudditi. 1
monarchi pretendono di essere i custodi del necessario equilibrio delle
forze europee; ma questo fine, se è il loro, è perciò anche quello dei
loro popoli? “ Credete proprio egli domanda ai principi tedeschi che l'artista
o il contadino lorenese o alsaziano abbia molto a cuore di veder
menzionata la propria città o il proprio villaggio, nei manuali di
geografia, sotto la rubrica dell’impero germanico, e che por ottenere ciò
butti via lo scalpello o l’aratro? Il pericolo della guerra, ossia di ciò
che lede e ferisce a morte la coltura, ultimo fine dell’evoluzione umana,
deriva unicamente dalla monarchia assoluta, la (piale tende per necessità
alla monarchia universale. Sopprimete questa causa, e tutti i mali che ne
derivano scompariranno anch’essi, e le guerre terribili e i preparativi
della guerra, ancor più terribili, non saranno più necessari. Più oltre,
poi, troviamo Fichte antisemita e anti-militarista: antisemita contro quegl’ebrei che
sono refrattari ad assimilarsi alle nazioni in mezzo a cui pluvi vono anti-militarista
contro l’esercito del suo tempo che
mette il proprio onore nella propria umiliazione e trova nell’impunità per le
sue angherie contro i borghesi e i contadini un compenso ai pesi del
proprio stato. E continua. Il più
brutale semi-barbaro crede acquistare con la divisa militare una
superiorità sul contadino timido e spaventato, che sopporta le sue
prepotenze e i suoi insulti per non essere, per soprammercato, anche
bastonato.Il giovincello che può vantare più antenati, ma non certo più
coltura, considera la propria spada come un titolo sufficiente per
guardare dall’alto e con disprezzo il commerciante, l’uomo di scienza e
l’uomo di Stato. \Vilt della Dottrina della scienza e Lo Stato
commerciale chiuso contengono auch’essi una filosofia politica che, scaturita
interamente, oltreché dal pensiero kantiano, dai principi della rivoluzione
francese, supera quel pensiero e questi principi per le conseguenze
economiche che egli fu il primo a trarne, e approda aH’atfermazione di
un diritto dei popoli e di un diritto dei cittadini del mondo
(Volker- und Weltbnrgerrechl) e alla necessità di un’anione di popoli (
Vdlkerbund) ben diversa da uno Stato
di popoli (Volkerstaat) — che garantisca la giustizia e porti
gradatamele alla Pace perpetua (zUm ewigen Friede) Grundlage des Natnrrechte
nach Prinzipien dee ìVissenscliafls Pin e (Siimmil. Werhe, IH). Ber
geschlossene Handelsstaat (StillimiI. Werhe, III). Vediue- auclie la
traduz. ita!, di tì. B. P., Dell'intimo ordinamento di uno Stato ec<\,
Lugano, e l’altra (anonima) Lo Stato secondo ragione e lo Stato
commerciale chiuso, Torino, Bocca. Ecco, sommariamente, la dottrina
politico-economica del Fichte: La radice più profonda dell’Io è l’Io
pratico o la libera volontà; e poiché alla libera volontà di eiasenu
individuo si contrappone quella degli altri, nasce una libera azione
reciproca tra lo diverse volontà individuali, per regolare la quale gli
uomini'hanno concluso IL CONTRATO SOCIALE – “un mito” – H. P. Grice -- da cui è
uscito lo Stato. Nello Stato il potere legislativo appartiene alla comunità dei
cittadini; l’esecutivo può essere affidato sia all’elezione (democrazia), sia
alla cooptazione (aristocrazia), sia all’elezioue e alla cooptazione
insieme (aristodemocrazia). Tutte queste forme di governo sono egualmente
legittime, purché vi sia accanto a esse uu altro potere ìndipendente,
VSforato, il quale decida dei casi in cui il potere esecutivo, essendo
caduto in errori o colpe, deve risponderne dinanzi alla comunità. Oltre a
questo contratto sociale-politico, il Fichte, oltrepassando la prudenza
borghese di Kant, il quale ammetteva come legittima l’ineguaglianza
economica accanto all’eguaglianza politica, istituisce un contratto
sociale-economico (Eitjenthumverlrag) egli proclama originari in ciascun
uomo il diritto alla vita e il diritto al lavoro, e di fronte alla
proprietà privata (prodotti del suolo coltivato, bestiame, case, mobili, ecc.)
dichiara proprietà dello Stato ciò che la natura produce da sola e ciòcia' la
col- sino all’alt,imo anno della sua vita, nelle lezioni sulla
Z>n/- letti vitti produce meglio del
singolo individuo (miniere, foreste, grandi industrie, seryizì pubblici,
ecc.). Per l’elaborazione dei prodotti naturali richiede corporazioni di
competenza tecnica, e sulla qualità o quantità dei prodotti industriali
il diritto di sorveglianza Ha parte dello Stato. Donde segue la necessità
che da uu lato i cittadini ri- uuuzino alla libertà industriale, e
dall’altro si stabilisca uno scambio armonico tra i prodotti naturali e i
prodotti industriali, essendo reciprocamente gli uni indispensabili alla
produzione degli altri. Per questo scambio si è formata la classe
speciale dei commercianti. Per impedire ai produttori di elevare ad arbitrio i
prezzi dei prodotti, lo Stato accumula iu magazzini generali, mediaute
prestazioni in natura degli agricoltori e prestazioni d’opera degli
artigiani, i frutti della terra e gli strumenti del lavoro, si che i prezzi
veugouo livellati. Per obbligare i produttori a vendere, lo stato mette iu
circolazione la moneta, la quale rappresenta la somma di ricchezza che
può essere venduta, e rende possibile a uu produttore di cedere i suoi
prodotti anche in un momento iu cui non gli occorra ancora di prendere in
cambio altri prodotti. E atiinehè sia garantita la proprietà e regolata
la circolazione dei prodotti e mantenuto l’equilibrio tra agricoltori,
industriali e commercianti equilibrio che sarebbe turbato dall’importazione
di prodotti stranieri, dei quali i cittadini debbono assolutamente poter
fare a meno - è necessario che lo Stato vieti tutti gli accessi ai
commercianti di fuori e ai contrabbandieri di dentro, che sia cioè uno
Stato commerciale rigorosamente chiuso. Fichte si ripromette le
conseguenze più vantaggiose per la moralità del popolo fortunato elio adotti la
perfetta chiusura commerciale e viva soltanto di ciò che ò prodotto e
fabbricato dal paese, venduto e consumato nel paese (cfr. Der geschlossene
llandelsstaat, Sàmmll. ÌVerke), e conclude che di li innanzi sarà la scienza il
miglior legame intemazionale tra tutte le nazioni divenute Stati chiusi :
perché “ nessuno Stato della terra, dopoché il sistema
politico-economico dianzi descritto sia diventato universale, e siasi
fonduta pace perpetua tra i popoli, avrà il menomo interesse a celare ad altri
le proprie scoperte, giacché ogni Stato potrà servirsene soltanto
all’interno per il proprio sviluppo e non già per opprimere gli altri
Stati o acquistare una qualsivoglia preponderauza su di essi. Nulla, quindi,
impedirà la libera comunicazione tra i dotti e gli artisti di tutte le
nazioni: di 11 innanzi i giornali, invece di guerre e battaglie, trattati
di pace e di alleanza, conterranno soltanto notizie dei progressi della
scienza, delle nuove invenzioni, del perfezionamento della legislazione e
degli trina dello Sialo, tenute a Berlino, proprio quando la Prussia
si preparava a quella guerra d’indipendenza che egli tanto si era adoperato a
suscitare, si domanda ancora una volta quale sia la guerra
legittima (der Wahrhafte Krieg) e risponde: Una guerra è giusta
soltanto qualora la libertà e l’indipendenza nazionale di un popolo siano
attaccati; gli uomini, per compiere il loro destino, devono formare
società libere, e uno Stato non ha valore se non in quanto può
contribuire all’avvento del regno universale della libertà e della
ragione. A questa guerra veramente popolare vuole Fichte nelle sue le- ordinamenti
di governo; e. ogni Stato si affretterà ad arricchirsi delle scoperte
degli altri popoli. Nè si ha a temere,
del resto, dalla chiusura commerciate dei singoli Stati il loro
isolamento, perchè i rispettivi sudditi, iu quanto cittadini del mondo
(Weltbiirger), circolano liberamente da uno Stato all’altro, portando
seco i diritti inerenti alla persona e alla proprietà; occorre anzi, per
questo, una legislazione comune che garantisca tali diritti e punisca
l’ingiustizia commessa dal cittadino di uno Stato a danno del cittadino
di un altro Stato. I diversi Stati, inoltre, fanno contratti,
concludono trattati e sono rappresentati gli uni presso gli altri da
ambasciatori. Nel caso che uno degli Stati contraenti violi il contratto,
la guerra è 1’ unico mezzo per punirlo di questa violazione. Ma ogni
guerra è aleatoria, e se proprio lo Stato che violò il contratto
rimanesse vittorioso, in quanto più forte?! A evitare tale ingiustizia bisogna
che un’Unione distati, meglio ancora, un’unione di popolim Vslkerbund, s'impegni
a punire, viribus uniti, lo stato che, appartenente o no all’unione, si
rifiuti di riconoscere l’indipendenza degli stati uniti o violi un
contratto concluso con uno di essi, Orundlage des Nata rrechts nach Prinsipien
der Wissenscliaftslelire, Sa minti- Werke. Quanto più questa unione si allarga,
estendendosi a poco a poco su tutta la terra, tanto meglio è assicurata
la pace perpetua, der ewige Friede, che è il solo rapporto legale tra gli
stati. La guerra dev’essere soltanto mezzo al fine supremo, che è la conservazione
della pace; mai fine a sé stessa. Die Slaalslehre oder uber das Verhaltniss des
Urstaates zum Vernunftreiche (Siimintl. Werke). zioni preparare gli
uditori, perchè è questa la guerra legittima, la guerra cioè in cui non
si tratta di famiglie regnanti, ma in cui il popolo si leva a difendere
la propria vita, la propria individualità, le proprie prerogative, la guerra
a eui soltanto i vili vorrebbero sottrarsi, e per cui invece i cittadini
con esultanza daranno i loro beni, il loro sangue, rifiutando ogni
proposta di pace sino a che non siano garantiti contro ogni minaccia
ulteriore. L’oratore, è vero, contrappone ancora una volta qui il
carattere germanico al carattere neolatino e specialmente al francese, per
concluderne che non bisognava aspettarsi certo da un Napoleone,
strangolatore della nascente libertà della Francia rivoluzionaria, l’attuazione
del regno di giustizia che l’architetto del mondo affidava invece
al popolo tedesco; ma ciò attesta anche come il filosofo patriota fosse sempre
sotto la medesima ispirazione che lo animava veut’anni prima nel suo
entusiasmo per la rivoluzione francese; e, malgrado tutte le apparenze in
contrario, è sempre la medesima ispirazione quella che traspare nel Disegno ili
uno scritto politico della prima cera, destinato a illustrare il proclama del
re di PRUSSIA “ Al mio popolo, quivi il Fichte, se, dinanzi al pericolo
mortale che minacciava la nazione tedesca, riconosce la necessità di
porle a capo come despota sovrano (Zwingherr) il re di PRUSSIA, uou
perciò rimane meno fedele al suo ideale democratico; per lui ha dovuto riconoscerlo lo stesso [Veber
den Begriff des wahrhaften Krieges (Summit. Werke) «a dem
Entwurfe zu etnei- politischen Schrift ini FruhUnge (Stimma.
Werke). Treifcscbke la Repubblica, senza re, senza
principe, senza signori, è sempre il vero Stato di ragione. Passato
il pericolo, il sovrano stesso dovrà adoperarsi con tutte le sue forze a
disabituare i suoi sudditi dalla soggezione, a Fichte nini die nationale
Idee, in Historische und politiseli Aufsalse, 4. ediz. Leipzig, Hirzel. Nodi
inumo- sehwebt ihm als hòchtes Zini vor Augeu eine “ Republik dei-
Deutschen oline FUrsten und Erbadel dodi er begreift, dosa diesea Zini
in weiter Ferne liege. Fui- jetzt gilt ee da* “ die Deutscbeu sioh
selbst mit Bewus 9 tsein maoheu „ ». Si, è vero, il Fichte colloca in
un tempo ancora assai lontano la vagheggiala attuazione del suo
ideale repubblicano, al punto che uno ilei frammenti di una sua opera
politica, scritta a Kònigsberg e rimasta incompiuta s’intitola: La repubblica
tedesca sotto il suo V." protettore (Die Republik der Deutschen su Anfani des
sirei- und zwanzigsten Jahrhunderls, un ter ihrem fiinften Reichsvogtei,
ina intanto quale coraggioso e severo linguaggio rivoluzionario egli
tiene contro i principi alemanni, cosi in questo frammento come altrove! Cou la
spietata crudeltà del chirurgo che, per guarire radicalmente una piaga
purulenta, affonda il bisturi nel pili vivo delle carni, egli mette a
nudo tutti i difetti e le turpitudini del suo tempo e del suo paese e
propone come rimedio una nuova costituzione, la quale dovrebbe stabilire
l’eguaglianza di tutti' i popoli teutonici e non ammettere altra disuguaglianza
tra gl’individui elio non sia quella del- p ingegno; una costituzione
adatta a una nazione come la germanica, la quale, die’egli, pressoché
incurante del giudizio dello altre nazioni, ha la caratteristica di
raccogliersi in se stessa e di min chiedere nulla più che di vivere pacificamente
secondo il proprio genio. Una nazione, la quale, còme la tedesca, non mira
che ad affermare e conservare per sé la propria torma disesistenza (ibr
eigentìiiimliches St'jti) e in nessun modo a imporla ad altri
(keinesweges anderen es aufzudringen), non senza intenzione é stata
collocata in mezzo a popoli, i quali, tosto che abbiano acquistato una mediocre
quantità di coltura, sentono il bisogno di diffonderla al di fuori;
nell’eterno disegno della storia umana essa è destinata a servire di diga a
questa intempestiva invadenza e a fornire non solo a sé stessa, ma a
tutti gli altri popoli d’Europa la garanzia di poter progredire, ciascuno
a suo modo, verso il fine comune (sie seg [die deutsche Natimi ],
im eteigen Entwurfe eines Menschengeschlechles jm Qanzen, bestimint,
als ein Damm dazustehen gegen jene unzeitige Zudringlichheit, und
uni renderli, in altri termini, capaci di fare a meno di lui.. u Se
cosi non dovesse avvenire nel futuro della Germania — esclama egli con
forza importerebbe poco che una
parte di essa fosse governata da un maresciallo francese come
Bernadotte, nel cui spirito almeno sono passate le visioni entusiasmanti
della libeità, piuttosto che da un signorotto tedesco, tronfio
d’orgoglio, immorale e di una brutalità e di un’arroganza sfrontate „
('). Quando si leggano queste parole contenute in quel medesimo Scritto
politico della primavera. ISIS, che non interamente a torto si è potuto
considerare come il luogo letterario in cui l’autore si è più inoltrato
sulla via del nazionalismo, e quando si ricordi il noto particolare della
vita del Fichte, ili avere cioè dopo la disastrosa campagna di Russia, impedito
come un orrendo delitto il macello a tradimento della guarnigione
lfaucese rimasta a Berlino, chi vorrà ancora vedere nel nostro filosofo
un pangermanista a cui si possa far risalire la responsabilità non solo
delle teorie insensate degli odierni teutomani, ma persino del cinismo
satanico con cui e per terra e per aria e per mare pretendono apnichf
tuie sich, sonderà nudi alien anderen europaischen Vblkern die Garantie
zu leisten, ilass sie auf dire eigene Weise laufen konnten zìi detti
gemeinsamen Siete) (Sdmmtl. Werke). Quale stridente contrasto tra
l'ufficio storico-politico che il Pielite assegnava alla nazione tedesca o
quello che la Germania odierna pretende arrogarsi ! Aus dem Enluourfe eie.
{Siimitili. ÌVerke). « Weun wir dahor nieht im Auge behielten, vvas
Deutschland zu werden hat, so 18ge an sich nicht so viel durun, ob ein
franzusischer Marscliall, wie Bernadotte, an dem weuigstens friiher
begeisternde Bilder der Freiheit voriibergegangen sind, oder ein
deutscher aufgehaseuer Edel- maun, ohne Sitten uud mit Rohlieit und
frechem Ueberrauthe, iiber eineu Theil von Deutschland gebiete. ] plicarle
i novelli barbari odierni, i rossi devastatori joiù veri e maggiori dello
stesso Attila flagellum Dei? Tanto più tempestivo, e tanto più salutare e
confortevole ci sembra, dunque, dinanzi alla mostruosa degenerazione del senso
morale di cui dà spettacolo l’odierna nazione tedesca, ostentando di non
riconoscere altro diritto all’infuori del despotismo e della forza bruta,
rievocare dalla letteratura classica di questa stessa nazione la dottrina
morale di uno dei più grandi assertori e della forza del diritto e del
diritto che individui e pispoli hanno alla giustizia, all’indipendenza,
alla libertà. Chi abbia seguito nella storia della filosofia le
vicende toccate alla dottrina di
Fichte ('), avrà notato come al grande entusiasmo e ai vivaci
dibattiti suscitati dal suo primo apparire succedesse per vari decenni un
immeritato oblio, dovuto al predominio delle 1 dottrine uscite dal
suo seno e specialmente dello hegelismo, i cui rappresentanti,
imponendo alla storia della filosofia un loro preconcetto di scuola,
quello cioè di non tener conto nella speculazione prehegeliana se non di
quanto avesse contribuito a preparare il sistema del loro maestro, avevano
abituato a vedere nel Fichte nulla più che il pensatore da cui era
derivato un deciso indirizzo idealist ico alla speculazione post kantiana.
Vani furono gli sforzi del figlio ilei Ficht.e, Ema- Ofr. in proposito A.
Ravà, Introduzione allo studi» tirila filosofia (li Fichte, Modena,
Formiggiui, V., per es., Karl Ludw. Michelet, Geschichte der lefzten
Sy- steme der Philosophie in Deutschland voli Kant bis Hegel (Berlin), in
cui alla prima filosofia del Fichte seno dedicate le miele Ermanno, per
mostrare il valore che la filosofia, paterna aveva per sè stessa. Soltanto col
risvegliarsi dello spirito nazionale germanico, risorse la fortuna del
grande rigeneratore della coscienza tedesca, del filosofo popolare,
dell’oratore eloquente, del fervido nazionalista, ilei supposto pangermanista;
ma, appunto per questa circostanza, l’attenzione fu rivolta di
preferenza alla sua filosofia politica, arbitrariamente o
artificiosamente interpretata, e il centenario della nascita del Fichte fu
solennemente celebrato da tutta la Germania ilei voi. I, e alla seconda
filosofia; A. Oli', avendo avuto il torto di prendere quest’opera come
guida principale per una conoscenza della filosofia tedesca postkantiana,
fu trattò a un’eccessiva reazione contro il Kant e contro lo
hegelismo nel suo libro: Hegel ri la philosophie allemande (Paris).
Di Em. Ehm. Fichte, oltre le Prefazioni (dianzi ricordate) a vari degli
undici voli, delle Opere complete di G. A. Pielite, vedi ancora: i
Beitràge sur Charuk'teristik dar ncueren Philosophie (Sulzbach) di cui la
2.“ ediz. può considerarsi come un’opera nuova; il voi. Fichte ' s Lehen
and litterarlscher Briefwechsel (Sulzbach, ISSO), con cui, prima ancora
che con la pubblicazione delle opere, cercò richiamare l’attenzione sulla
personalità e sull’attività pratica del padre, affinchè nascesse cosi
gradatamente anche l’interesse per il suo pensiero; e infine V Introduci
ion (in frane.) alla Méthodc pour arriver à la vie blenheureuse par
Fichte (traduz. Bouillier) (Paris). V., per es.: t due voli, del Busse,
Fidile und sei ne Bezìehung zar Gegenwart des deutsehen Volkes (Halle),
la conferenza dello Zeli.eh, l'idi lo aìs Politiker (ristampata in
Zelleh, Vor- Irdgr und Abliandlinigen, Leipzig) e l’opuscolo del
Lassalle, Melile's poìilisches Vermdchtnis and die neuesle Gegenwart
(Hamburg, ristampato in Lassallk, Reden und Schriflen, Berlin). Bisogna,
invece, uscire dalla Germania per trovare un’esposizione prettamente storica e
serenamente obiettiva di tutta la filosofia del Fichte quale si ha nella solida
opera del Willm, Histoire de la Philosophie allemande drpttis Kant
jusqu’k Hegel (Paris), opera premiata, su relazione del de iléinusat,
dall'istituto di con significato più politico che filosofico; mia singolare fatalità, poi, (che
sembra un’ironia della storia a chi intenda il vero senso delle teorie
politiche del Fichte) ha voluto che il cèntenario della sua morte coincidesse
con l’irrompere improvviso della premeditata aggressione pangermanistica!
Francia e ancora utile e pregevole, nonostante la sua vetustà; la si può
leggere con profitto anche dopo le ampie ed eccellenti monografie
posteriori del Fischer (Fichles Leben,\Verke und Lehre, Heidelberg) e del Leon
(La philosophie de Fichte et ses rapportò uvee la conscience coti tempo
faine, Paris), il quale ultimo dedica al suo soggetto un lungo studio e un
grande amore. Questo carattere politico-nazionalistico degli scritti
usciti in occasione del centenario del Fichte fu ben rilevato da von
Rkichi.IN- Memusco nel suo articolo l)er hundertòte Geburistng ./. O. Fichtes (in Zeitschrift fiir Philosophie uud philos. Kritih,
Halle). Vedine
la lunga lista nell’UKBERWKO-HEiNZE. Grundriss der Geschiclite dcr
Philosophie, IV, Berlin; qui basti ricordare per tutti il discorso già citato
del Treitbchke, Fichte i ind die nutionale Idee. L’uso e l’abuso del
Fichte a scopi patriottici e imperialistici non cessa io Germania col
conseguimento dell'unità tedesca. Più di una volta le conferenze tenute nelle
università tedesche in occasione del natalizio dell’imperatore hanno avuto per
argomento preferito la personalità o qualche dottrina particolare di Fichte:
per es., all’università di Strasburgo, terra di conquista, Windelband fa
un’alta affermazione di germanismo parlando dell’idea dello stato tedesco
secondo Fichte; Windelband, Fiehte's Idee des dentschen Stante, Freiburg i.
Breisgau. All’università di Kiel, Martius inneggia al cinquantesimo anno
di Guglielmo II, ricordando la vita e l’opera d’un uomo, il quale
grandemente co-opera all’elevazione e all’emancipazione delle forze
morali della Germania, e della cui azione efficacissima, insieme e accanto
alla concezione politica dello Stein, ricorre oggi il centenario; d’un uomo,
a cui appunto ora la nazione tedosca si appresta a dimostrare la propria
gratitudine inalzandogli un monumento nella capitale [e il monumento è poi
sorto a Berlino], insomma, di Fichte, (Redc zur Feier des Geburtstages
seiner Majeshit des Deutschen Kaisers Kdttigs von Preiissen Wilhelm 11 von Golz
Martius, Kiel). Se tra molti scritta' rolli di occasione cominciò ad
apparire qualche studio serio di tutta l’opera fichtiaua, il suo aspetto,
per lo spostamento dell’attenzione dal lato politico ai fondamenti teoretici
del sistema, è non meno unilaterale di quello che continuarono a
presentare, in tempi più recenti, le dissertazioni te le monografie sulla
dottrina giuridico-sociale del [Ricordiamo, per es.: Lòwio, Die
Philosophie Fichte’s iiach (lini Gesaimntergehnisse ihrer EntuHchelung
und in ihrem Verhiiltnitise zìi Kant unii Spinosa, Stuttgart [l’Autore, seguace
del dualismo de[ Giintlior e perciò d’indirizzo radicalmente opposto
a tinello di Fichte, mira specialmente a mostrare la logica
coerenza in cui le due diverse forme assunte dal sistema fichtiauo
stanno al principio fondamentale del sistema stesso anche là dove, secondo lui,
si contraddicono, pei concluderne l’insufficienza del principio stesso]; il
L.\s- soN, .Fichte Un Verhaltniss zu Kirche und Slaat (Berlin)
[l’Autore, dominato, com’è, dall’ idea religiosa quale può rientrare
nella concezione hegelismi, considera fondamentale la seconda forma della
lilosolia lichtiana, quella in cui prevale il pensiero religioso, pur
giudicandola non riuscita e insoddisfaeeute] ; e sopra tutti il già ricordato
Fibciusr, Fichtes Leben, Werke und Lehre (Heidelberg, Geschichtc der
neueren Fhilosophic) opera veramente classica per la larghissima e
accuratissima esposizione di quasi tutte le opere del grande idealista;
in essa si sostiene la tesi che le due forme della filosofia fichtiana non
sarebbero che duo opposte direzioni assuute rispetto allo stesso
principio fondamentale del sistema: uel primo periodo il Fichte, partendo
dalla lilosolia teoretica, si sarebbe elevato alla filosofia del diritto, alla
lilosolia morale, alla filosofia religiosa, all'Assoluto; quivi, infatti,
il postulato di quell'ordiuamento morale del mondo, che per lui la tutt
uno con 1 In assoluto e con Dio (die lebendige unii loirkende moralische
Ordnung itti selbst Goti), è il punto di arrivo; noi secondo periodo,
invertito il cammino e trasformato quel postulato da punto di arrivo in
putito di partenza, il Fidilo avrebbe preceduto dall’Assoluto alla
religione, alla morale, al diritto e alla scienza. — Più denigratore che
profoudo è stato giustamente giudicato, infine, il libro del NoàCK, J. G.
Fichte nach sei non Leben, Leliren und Wirken (Leipzig). filosofo
tedesco, inopportunamente staccata da tutto il resto deli’edifizio
speculativo. Anche nella maggior parte degli odierni studi storici
sul Lichte divenuti più che mai frequenti dopoché al moto neo-kantiano
iniziatosi al grido: ritorniamo al Kant! (zurìick zu Kant!) si associò,
come orientamento filosofico, un moto neo-fichtiano: ritorniamo al
Fichte!j(zuriick zu Fichte!) che è andato sempre più accentuandosi
dagli ultimi decenni del secolo scorso ai giorni nostrf è \11 ritorno a Kant si suole farlo
risalire alla celebre lezione dello Zellar: Ueber die Bedeutung und
Aufgabe der Er/ iJnntnistheorie (Heidelberg); ma già il Weisse
pronunziava a Lipsia un discorso: In welchem Sitine sich die deutsche
Philisopkie wieder a " Kanl zu orientieren hai (Leipzig),. dal quale
si rileva la sua avversione alla dialettica hegeliana e il suo sforzo por
contrapporre al panteismo idealistico un teismo etico. n? V '
m P ro P oa ìto I’Uebeuweg-Hbinzb, Grundtjss der Geschichle (ter
p/iilosop/tie seit Beginn des neunzehnten Jahrhundcrts (Berlin), Elnwìrkung
Fichtes auf neuere Lahren. Se ne ricava il largo é potente influsso che
la filosofia fichtiana, intesa sia come idealismo soggettivo, sia come
idealismo etico, sia come panpsichismo, ha esercitato e sopra le varie nuove
dottrine sorte in Germania e sopra menti speculative di altri paesi
(Inghilterra, Nord-America, ecc.). Per la recente e assai ricca letteratura
intorno al nostro filosofo vedi lo stesso voi. dell’Uebervveg-Heinze,
Baldwin, Dictionary of philosophy and psychology, London, e per quella
recentissima, ancor yù abbondante, cfr. i
voli, editi da Rude, Die P/iilosop/tie der Gegemoarl (Heidelberg) e
contenenti pressoché tutta la bibliografia filosofica. Nel centenario della
morte del Fichte e scoppio della guerra europea) la Bibliotheh fUr
Philosop/tie, edita da Stein, pubblica l’opuscolo di Stàhler, Fichte, ein
deutscher Den/ter (conferenza tenuta nel circolo tedesco di Charcow in Russia),
in cui FA., movendo dal bisogno spirituale oggi sempre più intensamente
sentito di una nuova orientazione circa la concezione del mondo, affermava
essere appunto Fichte il più atto a fornire una chiara risposta alla questione,
una forse da rilevare una certa esclusività d’interesse, corrispondente
all’ interesse prevalentemente critico e gnoseologico che ha animato siuo a
ieri il pensiero contemporaneo; di guisa che in questa rifioritura di
studi fichtiani, mentre alla teoria della conoscenza ò assegnato
per lo più il posto d’onore, le altre parti del sistema, in ispecie le più
pratiche, vengono relativamente lasciate nell’ombra. Il che nuoce alla
dottrina e anche alla figura del nostro filosofo, le quali così risultano
monche e diminuite, e spesso oscurale e falsate; quando invece Fichte reclamava
sempre e vivamente che i futuri critici non giudicassero la sua
concezione se non nella sua totalità, se non ponendosi cioè in quel punto
di vista centrale, da cui si dominano e s'illuminano tutti gli aspetti; tanto
più, poi, che nessuu’altra concezione come la sua aspirava a essere una
rigorosa unità, organica, inscindibile, completa, a rispecchiare, quasi,
queiraltra rigorosa unità, altrettanto massiccia quanto severa e
semplice, che era la personalità stessa di Fichte, il quale appartiene
all’eletta schiera di spiriti eminenti che nella storia deH’uinauità
seppero unire in intima connessione la speculazione filosofica con la
vita vissuta, fondendo armonicamente pensiero e azione, investendo del medesimo
prorisposta che 11 non ha nè corna nè denti (die u tceder Horner nodi
Zàhne hai), ed essere sempre Fichte “ la stella polare (der Leit- sternj
verso la quale possiamo di nuovo orientare la nostra vita e il nostro
sapere „ (cfr. la prefazione). Peccato che l’opuscolo dello Srahler
uscisse accompagnato nello stesso anno da altri due volumetti della stessa
Biblioteca, riguardanti, sebbene con intento puramente storico, figure
filosofiche ben diverse dall’ideale figura del Fichte, e di significato
più sintomatico in quel nefasto anno, e cioè: il Protagoras-Niclzsche-Stirner
di B. Iachsiann e il Nietzsches Metaphysik- limi ihr Verhdltniss zu
Erkenntnialheorie u. Ethih di S. Flemming. fondo interesse le più fredde
concezioni astratte della ricerca teoretica e le più ardenti questioni
concrete dell’attività pratica, intensificando la luce diffusa dalla loro
opera in- stauratricè nel campo del sapere col calore irradiantesi
dalla loro missione riformatrice nel campo del dovere. E invero non
si può negare al sistema del nostro filosofo la sua principale caratteristica :
quella di essere cioè È veramente ammirevole in Fichte che Zeller
giustamente definiva anche per il carattere morale un idealista nato il rapporto stretto che uni sempre la
sua vita alla sua dottrina. Jamais la
manière d’agir et di sentir cosi scrive Bauthoi.mf.ss nella sua
Ili- gioire critique des doefriu^s religieuses de la philosophie moderne
(Paris) — jamais la conduite et l’àrae ne fu- rent séparées chez lui de
la manière de penser et de voir. Ce qu : il croyait était eu méme temps
le nerf de sa volonté, le soufflé et. l’inspiration de son existence entière.
Prenant au sérieux tous les mou- vements de son intelligence, il vonlait
vivre de ce qu' il coucevait, et taire vivre ce qu’ il savait, cornine il
ne vonlait savoir que ce qu’ il pouvait aimer, admirer et pratiquer. Ce
n’ótait pas lii l’héroique effet d’uu parti pris, c’était le propre de sa
naturo méme, où lo seu- timent de la valeur morale, de la diguité
personnelle, se confondait avec une telle hauteur de pensée, avec une
hardiesso de speculatimi si intrèpide, qu’ elle pouvait, semidei- la
rósolution d’nn caractère l'u- domptable. La ilestiuée, il est vrai,
avait surtout coutribué à Pac- croissemeut de nette énergie, de cette
trempe primitive. Fiofite avait eu longtemps à combattre, non seulement
des adversaires et des enne- mie, mais les soucis et la misère, le froid
ot la faim. Avant, do lutter pour la libertà de penser et pour P
indépendance de sa patrie, il avaiti pour s'assurer le pain dn jour,
endnré tout.es les rigueurs matórielles ot sociales; et de tant
d’èpreuves diverses, il était sorti plus vigoureux, plus courageux, plus
convaiucu de ce que peut et vaut la no- b lesse d’àme. Ausai ne
saurait-ou contempler, sans ètre à.la foia tou- chó et fortifié, le
tableau de ses souffrauces et de ses victoires, na'i- vemeut et
inodesteraeut trace dans cette Vie et correspondance, qu’ a publiée lo
lils qui porte si eonvenablemeut son illustre nom. con tutti i suoi difetti, i
suoi errori e, diciamolo pure, la sua oscurità un vero sistema. In esso
trovi subito un’idea che l’ha generato tutto quanto, che ne è il
centro, l’anima e ne fa l’unità : idea ovunque presente e ovunque
feconda, da cui nascono il metodo, le divisioni, gli svolgimenti, le
applicazioni, e da cui germogliano in ogni direzione soluzioni, buone o
cattive, a tutti i problemi teoretici e pratici. Esso è non solo uno nel suo
insieme e omogeneo nelle sue parti, ma universale: tutte le grandi questioni
intorno a Dio, all’uomo, alla natura, e ai loro rapporti, rientrano nel suo quadro
e vi si coordinano; vi si potranno notare lacune, rifacimenti,
mutevolezza di atteggiamenti e di espressioni, indefinitezza di disegno e
incompiutezza di linee, ma ciò va attribuito più alle contingenze
esteriori in mezzo a cui il sistema si svolse (‘), che non alla sua idea
ispiratrice, la quale, posta l’universalità della dottrina a cui dà vita,
non poteva non esercitare un influsso auch’esso universale sulla coltura del
tempo e delle età posteriori sino a noi, assicurando così al nome
dell’autore una fama imperitura nella storia dello spirito umano. Intorno itilo
svolgimento del pensiero fichtiano et'r. \V.Kaiutz, S ludi<’u z.
EnUoicklungsgeschichU der Fichteschen Wissemchaftslehre (Berlin) e nnolie
E. Focus, Vom Werden rlreier Denker : Fichte, Schelling, Schleiermachcr, Tiibingen.
cfr. anello IC. Voit LÀNDlSK, Geschichte der Philosophie, Leipzig, Schlegel
considera la Wissenschaftslehre di Fichte una delle “ tre maggiori
tendenze del secolo (circi griissten Tetidenzen iteti Jahrshunderts) „
accanto al Wilhelm Meister del Goethe e alla Rivoluzione francese. E
innegabile che il filosofo di Jena fu il filosofo per eccellenza della scuola
romantica, le cui idee, a giudizio concorde degli storici e in
particolare dello I-Iaym, che su ciò insiste ctm forza (cfr. Die
romantische Schuie), sono derivate in Quale questa idea ispiratrice? È
l’idea più alta e, pei la coscienza comune, la più paradossale che sia
sorta nella storia della filosofìa : la sintesi, cioè, di due termini in
apparenza così inconciliabili come l’io e il non-io, il conoscere e l’essere,
la libertà e la necessità, lo spirito e la natura, nel monismo superiore, nella
“ superiore filosofia (Jiohere Phihsophie) direbbe lo Schelling, della
libertà. Il sistema del Fichte consiste, intatti, in una * filosofia
della libertà e poiché il suo principio metafisico s’identifica con l’ideale
morale, giustamente fu chiamato un Idealismo elico. La vecchia metafisica
s’intitolava scienza dell’essere, ontologia, e nell’essere riponeva
l’assoluto, il reale, e dall’essere derivava ciò che dev’essere l’ideale.
Secondo Fichte, invece l’assoluto, il
principio ultimo e supremo da cui veniamo e a cui tendiamo non ù 1 essei e,
ma grandissima parte dalla Dottrina tirila scienza. E si spiega la
predi- lezione dei romantici per un sistema come il ttchtiano, il «piale
trasforma il kantismo ancora esitante in un idealismo assoluto, e a tutto
uscire, sotto il rispetto metafisico, da «piella stessa genialità dell’
lo, da cui i romantici tutto derivavano sotto il rispetto estetico. Fu
detto anche Idealismo soggettivo, ma tale definizione e ei- ronea, perchè
V Io che il Fichte pone al principio di tutto il suo sistema non è l’io
individuale, sì bene 1 ’/o collettivo, universale, che sta a fondamento
di tutti gl’individui, l’/o,assoluto, l’originaria incognita X, dalla cui
unità, ancora chiusa in sè stessa e incosciente, dovrà uscire, in virtù
di quel misterioso urto (Ansiosa), che è il t eus er m china di tutta la
metafisica Uchtiana, l’antitesi cosciente del soggettivo e
dell’oggettivo. Il mio lo assoluto - dice Fichte - non è l’individuo;
soltanto cortigiani offesi e filosofi irritati contro di me hanno cosi
male interpretato la mia filosofia, per attribuirmi l’infame dottrina dell’egoismo
pratico (mein absolutes Teh tst mcht das Individuili» ; so haben
beleidigte Hóflinge und drgerhchc Phiìo- sophm mich erklàrt, uni mir die
sehandliche Lehre des prahtischen Egoismus anzudichten. Cfr. G. Ws
ioi.lt. Zar GescMchte derneue reti Philosophie (Hamburg). il dovere,
è un ideale che non è, ma dev'essere. L’essere in quanto essere, in
quanto quid stabile e compiuto, in quanto cosa o materia inerte, a rigore
non esiste ; la fissità, l’immobilità di ciò che chiamiamo sostanza, sostrato,
materia, non è che apparenza. Agire, tendere, volere, ecco in che
consiste la realtà vera. L’universo è il fenomeno della Volontà pura, il
simbolo dell’ Idea morale, che è la vera cosa in se, il vero Assoluto.
Filosofare significa com vincersi che l'essere non è nulla, che il dovere
è tutto; significa riflettere sul proprio io empirico, individuale,
unica ultivilà libera che tende incessantemente ad attuare ciò che dev'
essere, ossia il Dovere, il Bene, /.’ Io assoluto, universale; significa
acquistare la coscienza di por- lare con sè la libertà che crea e
soggioga il mondo, appunto per attuare il Dovere, il Bene, l'Ideale
morale, l Io o la Libertà assoluta. Il Kant aveva bene
ammesso che il soggetto, ossia la ragione e la libertà, impone una forma
e una legge agli oggetti della conoscenza: dell’ Io egli aveva fatto, si,
il legislatore del mondo, ma non era giunto a farne addirittura il
creatore; poiché aveva lasciato sussistere ancora, ili fronte al
soggetto, uu oggetto, una cosa in sè, capace d’imporre un limite al
soggetto. Per il Fichte, invece, il quale dà all’ io empirico un
significato universale, questa pretesa cosa in sè, ultimo residuo del
dogmatismo, è una chimera che bisogna esorcizzare, perchè è
semplicemente la parte dell’ Io ancora incosciente che il progresso
della conoscenza trae a poco a poco alla luce della coscienza ;
sarebbe assurda, infatti, di fronte alla Libertà assoluta, alIo assoluto e
universale, una materia non creata da lui e a lui imposta dal di fuori. E
poi, questa misteriosa cosa in sè. supposta al ili là di ogni conoscenza,
questo essere senza intelligenza, a che si riduce, se non a un
contenuto mentale (Oeilankending ) e quasi a un fantasma, creato da
noi stessi a spiegarci le sensazioni e le rappresentazioni che in noi sorgono,
non per libera creazione nostra, ma prodotte dal di fuori. Se un limite
esiste all'attività del- ]> jo, gli è perchè l ’lo stesso lo pone
liberamente alla propria attività illimitata, con lo scopo di avere il modo di
sopprimerlo e di esentare cosi quella stessa attività propria e di
rivelare a si stesso la propria essenza, che è la libertà. La moralità e
la virtù, del resto, non suppongono lo sforzo e la lotta? bisogna,
dunque, per attuarle, crearsi perenue- mente ostacoli e superarli; onde V
Io nel primo momento della propria evoluzione “ pone sè stesso, tesi, nel
secondo momento u contrappone a sè il non-Io, antitesi, e nel terzo
momento si riconosce nel non-Io, sintesi. Tre aiti, questi, a cui corrispondono
i tre modi di esistenza, i tre oggetti del sapere, che sono l’io, il
mondo, il tu. Guai se l’7o desistesse un solo istante dali’esercizio
della propria libera attività! cesserebbe immantinente di esistere;
di qui il carattere titanico che il Fischer ammira nel- p Jo fichtiano,
destinato per natura sua a continuamente agire, produrre, volere. Per
approssimarsi in qualche modo al concetto dell lo iich- tiauo nel quale
va ricercato il fondamento di ogni esperienza, giova fare completamente
astrazione da qualsiasi contenuto rappresentalo della nostra coscienza
empirica. Dopo questa immensa sottrazione, si consideri la
rappresentazione più vuota che possa pensarsi, 1 unica affermazione che
non abbisogni di nessuna dimostrazione, il principio logico d’identità: A
è A, col quale uon si afferma nemmeno che zi esiste, ma soltanto che: se
A esiste, A dev’essere A. Orbene, quantunque con tale affermazione si formuli
soltanto una vuota venta e Un cosi intenso idealismo non era mai
sorto prima.del Pielite. Esso insegna che il variopinto e multisono
mondo sensibile, che si estende nello spazio e si svolge nel tempo,
non ha esistenza propria e indipendente : 1’ unico ch'e veramente esista è l’
lo. E lo stesso Io esiste solo in quanto agisce. Dal suo operare, dal suo
rifrangersi in In e non-lo, sorge per lui il mondo visibile, percepibile
e connesso da non i ponga
nessuna esistenza, si compie, tuttavia, un atto del pensiero, un giudizio, e un
giudizio d’incrollabile certezza, il quale porta direttamente a porre e a
riconoscere 1'esistenza reale dell’/o. Infatti, donde proviene il verbo “è”
con cui il primo A è messo in relazione col secondo A, il soggetto col
predicato? Il nesso tra i due termini del giudizio è beu soltanto nell’/o e per
opera dell’/o. Dunque, nellu precedente proposizioue: A è A, ebe è la più
evidente, per quanto la più vuota di contenuto, che si possa formulare,
si nasconde già l’ lo, si trova già l’attività certa di aè stessa;
perché, meutre per A non si ha il diritto di fare, oltre il giudizio
ipotetico: se A esiste, A è A, nnehe il giudizio categorico: A esiste, in
quantiche anatale affermazione richiederebbe un’ulteriore dimostrazione,
per V Io, invece, anello se non sappiamo assolutamente nulla più di
questo: che è A, possiamo dire non solo: se V Io esiste, l’ Io è l’/o, ma
altresì: l’ Io esiste (ciò elio ricorda l’agostiniano e il cartesiano:
Cogito ergo sum). Ma V Io è, per natura sua, essenzialmente attività, e,
prima ancora di acquistare coscienza dei propri prodotti, dei propri
atti, e di sè stesso, crea, con la sua immagiuazione produttrice, perenne
e inesauribile, le innumerevoli rappresentazioni, che poi lu riHeasioue
farà apparire alla sua intelligenza come oggetti, come non-lo;
perchè va sempre ricordato questo punto originale della dottrina del
Fichte - il non-lo, ossia il mondo esterno, è posto ilall’/o inconscio,
non già dall' Io cosciente; è un prodotto, quindi, anteriore a quella
relazione di antitesi e sintesi tra soggettivo e oggettivo che è la coscienza,
e quando la coscienza nasce, s’impone a essa come già dato. Così, grazie
a questa produzione inconscia dell’ immaginazione dell' lo — di
quell’immaginazione che già per il Descartes era il trait d’union tra l’anima e
il corpo, e per il Kant l’intermediaria tra le intuizioni pure della
sensibilità e le categorie dell’intelletto —, il non-lo apparisce all’
intelligenza come un limite dal di fuori senza essere perciò estraneo
all’/o, essendo sempre un prodotto dell’/o inconscio. leggi, il quale
perciò non è che il sistema delle nostre rappresentazioni, il rispecchiarsi
dell’ lo nell’/o. Ma anche questo rispecchiamento non ci rivela in modo puro e
immediato ]’ intima essenza del nostro spirito, perchè non uel
rappresentarsi è il nostro più alto operare, non nel rappresentarsi è
tutto il nostro Io. Noi operiamo veramente soltanto nel libero volere
morale; noi attuiamo completamente il nostro Io soltanto «piando, con
attività rinnovata al lume della coscienza, ci sforziamo di soggiogare il
mondo delle rappresentazioni scaturite dall’inesauribile fonte dell’ lo
inconscio il quale mondo non è che “ il materiale sensibilizzato
del nostro dovere (unsre Welt ist das versinnlichte Muterial unsrer Pjlicht)
e ci sforziamo di trasformarlo nel mondo della libertà, nel mondo
soprasensibile ed eternamente in fieri del Bene; poiché, esclama il Fichte,
essere liberi è nulla, divenir liberi è il cielo (frei se‘in ist nichts,
frei wenlen ist dei' Ilimmel)! La costruzione filosofica del Fichte può dirsi
monolitica, ed è tale da superare in semplicità persino quella
eretta, da un punto di vista e con centro «li gravita affatto
opposti, dallo Spinoza: al Jacobi
il sistema del filosofo tedesco appariva il rovescio del sistema del
filosofo olaudese. E qui sta il vantaggio della concezione fichtiana
anche sulla kantiana; il Kant non aveva tanto fornito un sistema,
quanto, piuttosto, i germi e i materiali per più sistemi; nella lotta
contro il dogmatismo e contro lo scetticismo egli aveva voluto inalzare
alla scienza propriamente detta, più che un tempio, una fortezza; e, per
rendere questa fortezza iuespuguabile da tutti i lati, ne aveva
costruito -i bastioni quasi in tempi diversi, quasi in stile diverso
: onde nella sua filosofia non solo rimane il dualismo inconciliabile tra
l’essere e il conoscere, tra il conoscere'e il lai e, ma nell ambito
stesso del conoscere manca una rigorosa unità tra i diversi poteri conoscitivi,
tra la sensibilità con lo sue intuizioni pure, l’intelletto con le sue
categorie, la ragione con le sue idee metafisiche. Il filosofa di
Ko- nigsbei'g da una parte pareva chiudere lo spirito umano tutto
nel giro del proprio mondo interno, nel fenomeno, dall altra gli lasciava
intravedere, al di là di questo mondo interno, un altro mondo, il
noumeno, avvolto sempre da densa nebbia e sempre refrattario alla
conoscenza. Donde la domanda : questo mondo esistente in sè è quello
stesso che ci si i ivela nella voce della coscienza, ed è possibile
tiadui lo in atto con la pura e buona volontà? La risposta di Kant, almeno
nell’espressione datale dall’autore, se non nello spirito dell’autore
stesso, era stata cosi cauta, che ognuno poteva trarne le conseguenze a
suo proprio rischio. Iusomma, non si poteva non riportare l’impressione
che nella, dotti ina kantiana la verità fosse svelata soltanto a
mezzo, e che a essa mancasse, dal punto di vista scientifico, cosi il
fondamento come il coronamento. Fichte, invece, da quel pensatore ben più
ardito e deciso ch’egli eia e che si era formato sullo stampo dello
Spinoza, s’impossessò dei materiali kantiani, e fece della Critico un sistema
unitario: Tutto ciò che è, è per noi; tutto ciò che è per noi, può essere
soltanto per opera nostra; nell’attività dell’ lo è racchiuso il conoscere e
l’essere, il sensibile e il soprasensibile, il reale e 1’ ideale ;
nell’autocoscienza (Selbstbeiousstsein)
lo stesso Kant aveva già insinuato che la misteriosa incognita
nascosta sotto i fenomeni sensibili poteva benissimo essere quella stessa
che portiamo con noi è l’unità di tutti i poteri dello spirito, l’unità
delle forme cosi del fenomeno come della cosa in sè che sta a fondamento
del fenomeno, l’unità del sistema delle nostre rappresentazioni e del sistema
dei nostri doveri, l’unità della nostra essenza teoretica e della nostra
essenza pratica: 1’ unità, e con 1’ unità il fondamento e il coronamento
di tutta la dottrina. Se il Reinhold aveva cercato un principio
superiore, come principio unico indispensabile a dare forma sistematica
di scienza alla dottrina della conoscenza, se il Beck aveva interpretato
lo spirito della filosofia kantiana nel senso idealistico, se il Jacobi
aveva reclamato l’eliminazione della cosa in sè ecco nella filosofia di
Fichte soddisfatti tutti insieme questi desideri, e in pari tempo
fornita ai risultati della CRITICA DELLA RAGIONE 1’evidenza richiesta
dallo Schulze. La filosofia di Kant, raccoglie, a dir cosi, in un'unità
vivente tutti i germi e principi motori del pensiero moderno, e il
sistema di Fichte non è che una delle direzioni che poteva prendere il
kantismo. La direzione fichtiana, quindi, scaturisce naturalmente
dalle premesse kantiane, ma non deve considerarsi perciò, come vuole
Leon, quasi l’unico e necessario completamento del kantismo. Altre
direzioni, assai divergenti dalla fichtiana, l'anno capo
legittimamente aneli’esse a Kant, dei cui discepoli può ripetersi ciò che
CICERONE (si veda) diceva dei diversi discepoli di Socrate: ALII ALIVII SVINPSENVIT.
Fichte è un kantiano — Grice un hardieiano -- all’incirca nel medesimo senso
che L’ACCADEMIA è socratica, e sta allo Spinoza come Platone a VELIA (si veda)e;
con Kaut afferma l’ideale morale, con Spinoza l’unità dei “ due
moudi onde la Bua filosofia, dicemmo già, è un’originale sintesi, forse
Unica nel suo genere ai tempi moderni, di ciò che sembra
assolutamente inconciliabile: il monismo e la libertà, il mondo delle
cause o il inondo dei fini. Anziché ritornare sui singoli problemi della
Critica della ragione, egli s’impadronisce del centro animatore di
quella Critica, e trae fuori dal pensiero fondamentale dell’
auto-attività dello spirito, in quanto forza reale e fine a sé stesso, un
uuovo quadro del mondo di grandiosa arditezza, entro il quale
l’idealismo, che nella filosofia kautiana era latente sotto 1’ involucro
di prudenti re- La filosofia di Fichte, abbiamo detto, è una
filosofia della libertà, poiché ha per principio una realtà
assoluta, intesa come Io pratico, come Attività pura, come Auto-determinazione,
ed è uno sforzo poderoso per dedurre da questo principio oltreché le
condizioni della vita etica, anche le funzioni della ragione teorica,
celebrando in tal modo quel primato della ragione pratica che Kant già proclama,
e facendo perciò della ragione pura un organo della moralità. L’attività
dell’ Io assoluto alterna i suoi atti di produzione inconscia con i suoi
atti di riflessione cosciente, la sua direzione centrifuga ed espansiva
che si protende verso l’infinito, con la direzione centripeta e
coustrizioni, viene chiamato a potente vita, e ciò che di sublime il
grande lilosofo dell’ imperativo categorica aveva insegnato intorno alla
libertà morale di fronte alla necessità naturale, viene tradotto dal
linguaggio di un moderato contegno in quello di un energico entusiasmo. li
mondo può comprendersi soltanto in base allo spirito e lo spirito
soltanto in base alla volontà. La dottrina di Fichte è tutta nel vivere e
nel fare, tanto vero che comincia non con la definizione di un concetto,
ma con la richiesta di un atto, Thathandlung, Poni te stesso, fai con
coscienza ciò che bui fatto inconsapevolmente ogni qual volta ti sei
chiamato io, analizza questo atto di autocoscienza e riconosci nei suoi
elementi le energie da cui scaturisce ogni realtà Questa intima vitalità
del principio lichtiaiio, che ricorda l'atto puro aristotelico e il
perpetuo divenire eracliteo, e in conseguenza della quale Dio, anziché
una sostanza assoluta già compiuta, sarebbo un ordino cosmico sempre
attenutesi, mai attuato, si ridette anche uell’opera filosòfica dell’autore, il
cui spirito, fiero e irrequieto, si svolse iu continua lotta non solo
nella pratica, ma anche nel pensiero. Nelle sue lezioni, come nei suoi
scritti, spesso egli riprende daccapo la serie delle sue deduzioni e
sempre iu modo diverso e quasi conversando coi suoi uditori e coi suoi lettori,
mai trascurando le possibili obiezioni da parte di questi; sicché il suo
filosofare sembra compiersi trattile che arresta la prima e respinge V Io
in sè stesso; pone a sè stessa l’urto (Anstoss) della sensazione, il
limite della rappresentazione, l’intoppo del non-Io ; è insomma
teoretica : soltanto al fine di diventare pratica. Tutto 1’ apparato
della conoscenza non serve che a darci la possibilità di compiere il nostro
dovere: quel dovere che è 1’ unica realtà vera, 1’ unico in-sè (An-sich)
del mondo fenomenico, perchè le cose sono in sè ciò che noi
dobbiamo farne; 1’io teoretico pone oggetti, affinchè 1’io pratico
trovi resistenze -- Gegenstand, oggetto, è qui preso come sinonimo di
Widerstund, resistenza. L’oggettività esiste soltanto per essere la materia
indispensabile all’azione, per ricevere da questa la forma che deve
elaborarla e inalzarla sì da rendere sempre più visibile alla
presenza d’interlocutori, è come un filosofare in comune e per più
rispetti richiama alla mente il dialogo platonico. Del resto al Fichte
sarebbe parsa vana una filosofia avulsa dal suo ambiente naturale, l’umanità,
ond'egli si faceva un dovere di agire e influire energicamente sui suoi
contemporanei e su quanti fossero in relazione con lui, e visse in continuo
coutatto col mondo e con la società; al contrario del Kant, tra la vita e la
speculazione del quale non appare certo Io stretto connubio che è nel
nostro filosofo ; infatti, i rapporti sociali e tutto il contegno esteriore del
grande solitario di Konigsberg furono, rispetto alla sua vita interiore e al
suo pensiero, cosi indifferenti come il guscio al gheriglio ma turo ;
mentre il Kant per molti e molti auui aveva portato entro di so,i suoi
gravi pensieri senza che alcuno sospettasse nemmeno che cosa
accadesse nell’ intimo di questo professore che senza differenza dagli
altri teneva i suoi corsi universitari, il Fichte, invece, impaziente di
ogni ritardo nella missione rigeneratrice, a cui con orgogliosa coscienza
di sè si sentiva chiamato, lasciava prorompere la manifestazione delle
sue idee, anche se non definitivamente elaborate, man mano che scaturivano
dal profondo della sua anima agile e trasmutabile e disposta agli
atteggiamenti più diversi secondo i campi a cui si applicava, secondo i
problemi ché affrontava, secondo i momenti in cui agiva. 1’ attività dell
lo. In conclusione, noi siamo Intelligenza Per poter essere Volontà. La
Dottrina della Scienza, quindi, nel sistema del Fichte, è tutta in
servigio della filosofia pratica, la quale, attraverso la dottrina del diritto,
va a culminare nella dottrina morale, e'mira ad attuare quel regno dei
fini che Kant contrapponeva al regno delle cause, e che jier il nostro
filosofo consiste nell’adempimento completo del Dovere, nel dominio
assoluto dell’ lo, nel trionfo supremo della Libertà. E invero,
mentre da un lato la Dottrina della Scienza ci apprende che il fondo,
l’essenza dello spirito umano non è l’intelligenza ma 1’ attività, non il
pensare ma il volere nella forma, almeno, in cui attività e volere
sono accessibili all’uomo, e che l’intelligenza — pur essendo
inseparabile dall’attività, da cui è condizionata e di cui e
condizione resta subordinata all’
attività come la forma al proprio contenuto, come la riflessione al
proprio oggetto, d’altra parte la Dottrina morale ci mostra il
procedimento con cui lo spirito umano si sforza — il che è preciso suo
dovere di prendere coscienza, mediante l’intelligenza, di quell’attività pura,
di quella volontà, di quella libertà infinita, che è appunto il fondo suo,
la sua essenza assoluta. Dal che risulta evidente lo stretto nesso
che avvince la Dottrina morale alla Dottrina della Scienza ; quella si
deduce direttamente dai principi di questa, in quanto la moralità,
secondo il Fichte, non è che uno dei momenti pii importanti, anzi il più
essenziale, dell’ attuazione di quell’ Io puro, di quella Libertà assoluta che
la Dottrina della Scienza pone al di là dei limiti di ogni
coscienza, e da cui l’io empirico deriva e a cui l’io empirico aspira. Il
passaggio dall’ Io puro, assoluto e infinito, per via di limiti e
determinazioni, all’ io empirico, relativo e finito, ossia dalla Libertà
all’Intelligenza, è il problema a cui pili specialmente si applica la dottrina
della scienza ; il passaggio dall’io empirico, relativo e finito, per via
di superamenti e liberazioni, all’Io puro, assoluto, infinito, è il
problema a cui più specialmente si applica la Dottrina morale. L’ un
problema è il reciproco dell’ altro, e la soluzione di entrambi dipende dalla
soluzione dell’antinomia tra la finitezza dell’Io-intelligenza, attività
oggettivante (che pone oggetti, limitazioni, resistenze), e
l’infinitezza dell’ Io-libertà, attività pura (= che ha per essenza l’assolutezza,
l’illimitatezza, l’autonomia). E come Fichte risolve tale antinomia con
quell’attività a un tempo finita e infinita che è lo sforzo (Streben) —
attività finita, perchè lo sforzo implica una limitazione, una
determinazione, che impedisce l’immediato compimento dell’atto nella sua
infinità; attività infinita, perchè questa determinazioue non ha nulla di
assoluto, di fisso, è un limite che l’attività fa indietreggiare
incessantemente per conseguire l’infinità, ne segue che l’idea dello sforzo
è, nella sua filosofia, il cardine fondamentale dell’ attività teoretica
non meno che dell’ attività pratica, dell’ Intelligenza non meno che
della Volontà, della Dottrina della Scienza non meno che della
Dottrina morale. Nella Dottrina morale, a oui ora è rivolta la nostra
attenzione, lo sforzo esprime la tendenza dell’Io a identificare la sua
attività oggettivante con la sua attività pura, e lo svolgimento dell’ Io
è tutto nel rapporto tra queste due attività : l’infinita Libertà non può
attuarsi se non at traverso la limitazione e l’Intelligenza, ma non
c’è limitazione uè Intelligenza se non rispetto all’infinita Attività
pura elle di continuo le sorpassa. Lo sforzo, quindi, può definirsi
un’attività in cui l’infinito è posto non come stato attuale, ma come
meta da raggiungere, un’attività in cui 1’ adeguazione del finito e dell’
infinito non è, ma dev'essere, un’attività, insomma, che ha per
contenuto il Dovere e che del Dovere è a sua volta il contenuto.
Diamo, in breve, il disegno della Dottrina morale. La Dottrina morale si
apre I) con un’ Introduzione, in cui sono sinteticamente presentati i
presupposti filosofici dell’etica; e si svolge in tre Libri, dei quali
II) il primo trae da quei presupposti il principio della moralità) il
secondo deduce da essi la realtà e l’applicabilità di questo principio)
il terzo fa l’applicazione sistematica del principio stesso, ed espone quindi
la morale propriamente detta. I presupposti filosofici dell' etica,
contenuti nell’Introduzione e perfettamente conformi alla Dottrina della
Scienza, muovono dal principio che la vera filosofia soltanto allora è
possibile, quando si abbia un punto in cui il soggettivo e l’oggettivo,
l’essere in sè e la rappresentazione di esso non siano divisi, ma facciano
tutt’uno, e che un tal punto si trova nell’EGOITÀ o io puro,
nell’Intelligenza o Ragione. Senza questa assoluta identità del soggetto e
dell’oggetto nell’Io, la quale peraltro non si lascia cogliere
immediatamente come un dato della coscienza attuale, ma soltanto argomentare
per via di ragionamento, la filosofia non approda a nessun risultato.
Bisogna, dunque, ammettere un’Unità fondamentale e primitiva, la
quale, tosto che nasce una coscienza attuale o anche soltanto
l’autocoscienza, si scinde necessariamente in soggetto e oggetto, poiché “
solamente in quanto io, essere cosciente, mi distinguo da me, oggetto
della coscienza, divengo cosciente di me stesso. Bisogna ammettere, inoltre,
che l’oggettivo abbia causalità sul soggettivo, e viceversa il soggettivo
sull’oggettivo, per rendere concordi tra loro, e in generale possibili,
il pensiero e il pensato, la ragione e il suo dominio sulla natura. E
appunto perchè il legame causale tra soggetto e oggetto è duplice —
ognuna delle due parti è causa ed effetto dell’altra: il soggettivo è
effetto dell’oggettivo nel conoscere, Soggettivo è effetto del soggettivo
nell 'operare, la filosofia si divide in teoretica e pratica.
Senonchè, come avemmo già occasione di notare, l’Io puro, ossia l’Unità
soggettivo-oggettiva ancora indivisa, non è un fatto (Thatsache ), ma un atto (
Thathand - tutiff), la sua natura originaria è attività: è, dunque,
pratica. Perciò il principio : “ Io mi trovo come operante nel mondo
sensibile è di capitale importanza per il nostro conoscere. Da esso
comincia ogni coscienza ; senza la coscienza della mia attività non è possibile
nessuna autocoscienza, senza l’autocoscienza nessuna coscienza di un quid
diverso da me. Infatti, la percezione della mia attività suppone una resistenza
al di fuori di noi; “ ovunque e in quanto tu percepisci attività, tu
percepisci necessariamente anche resistenza ; altrimenti tu non
percepisci attività (Ora la resistenza è affatto indipendente dalla
[Sittenlehre (Stimanti. Werke.) Cfr. pvec. Sittenlehre. mia attività, è anzi il
suq opposto; è qualcosa che esiste soltanto e in nessun modo agisce,
qualcosa di quieto e morto, die tende semplicemente a rimanere quel che
è, qualcosa che nel proprio campo contrasta all’azione*della libertà,
ma non può mai invadere il campo di questa. Un qualcosa di simile,
dunque, è pura oggettività, e si chiama., col suo proprio nome, materia.
Senza la rappresentazione di una tale materia, niente resistenza alla
nostra attività, quindi niente attività, niente autocoscienza, niente
coscienza, niente essere. La rappresentazione del puro oggettivo resta
così dedotta necessariamente dalle leggi stesse della coscienza. Con la
medesima necessità con cui viene dedotto il puro oggettivo, viene posto
anche il suo contrario, il soggettivo, ossia 1’ attività propriamente detta,
sotto la forma di un’ agilità (Agililàt) o forza efficiente. Ma poiché
nella coscienza, quasi come in un prisma, ogni unità si rifrange in
soggetto e oggetto, così in essa, avvenuto lo sdoppiamento dell’Io puro in
soggettivo e oggettivo, anche il soggettivo si sdoppia a sua volta, e si ha da
una parte 1’ attività propriamente detta, veduta come una forza reale,
come un oggettivo esistente in me, dall’altra il soggettivo, fonie
inesauribile di questa forza reale, fonte originaria non derivante da
nessun oggettivo, e dalle cui profondità oscure e inaccessibili sgorga,
con libero, spontaneo e talora impetuoso moto interno, l’infinita varietà
delle nostre rappresentazioni, dei nostri concetti ; per conseguenza la
mia attività ossia il soggettivo ancora indiviso nella sua unità
anteriore alla coscienza —, quando sia veduta attraverso il tramite della
coscienza, appare come un oggettivo, che da un lato scaturisce da un
soggettivo perennemente rinascente a ogni estrinsecarsi dell’oggettivo,
dall'altro determina l’oggetti vita pura dianzi chiamata materia. Così si
rivela alla coscienza la nostra assoluta auto-attività, la cui essenza
sta nel produrre rappresentazioni, nel creare concetti, e la cui
manifestazione sensibile dicesi libertà. Ciascun concetto, riguardato
come determinante l’oggettivo in virtù della propria causalità, diventa
un concetto-line, e allora esso stesso appare un qualcosa di oggettivo e
si chiama uua volizione; e lo spirituale che in noi si considera come
principio immediato delle volizioni dicesi volontà. Spetta, dunque,
alla volontà agire sulla materia ed esercitare causalità nel mondo
sensibile ; ma ciò non le sarebbe possibile se non avesse uno strumento
che sia esso stesso materia, ossia quel corpo articolato che è il
nostro [Nel Leon trovasi ben descritta la natura dell’attività
spirituale nel senso fichtiano, attività clic è, a un tempo e
continuamente, produzione di sè e riflessione sopra di sè, oggettivazione e
soggettività, io reale e io ideale, attualità e potenzialità; chi voglia
intendere una tale attività, che ha la caratteristica di esistere e di essere
anteriore alla propria esistenza, devo ricordarsi che essa non va pensata
alla maniera delle cose, perché, contrariamoute alla natura di queste
ultime, la cui realtè si esaurisce tutta quanta nell'essere oggettivo,
l’attività spirituale può ripiegarsi su di sé, può riflettersi. E a ciò
si deve quel fenomeno meraviglioso e cosi lontano dal meccanismo
materiale, per cui 1’ esistenza ideale determina l’esistenza reale, l’idea ha
causalità, lo spirito è libertà. Onde si vede che la libertà è proprio
(come il Kant aveva ailermato, senza però dimostrarlo) il comiuciamento
assoluto d’uno stato, la creazione di un’ esistenza seuza rapporto di
dipendenza reale con un’ altra esistenza. E si vede altresì che solamente l’essere
ragionevole, dotato d’intelligenza e riflessione, è capace di libertà,
poiché in lui soltanto è possibile una causalità in forza di un
concetto. organismo. E invero u io, consideralo come un principio di
attività nel mondo dei corpi, sono un corpo articolato, e la
rappresentazione del mio corpo non è altro che la rappresentazione di me
stesso come causa nel inondo materiale 5 e perciò, mediatamente, non
altio che un ceito aspetto della mia attività assoluta. Volontà e
corpo sono quindi una medesima cosa, riguardata però da due lati
diversi: una medesima cosa, perchè soltanto fin dove si estende
l'immediata causalità della volontà sul corpo, si estende il corpo
articolato, necessario strumento della causalità sulla materia;
riguardata però da due lati diversi, perchè, in virtù dell’ azione sdoppiatrice
della coscienza, la volontà appare come il soggettivo che esercita la sua
causalità sul corpo, e il corpo come 1 ’oggettivo i cui mutamenti
coincidono con quelli di tutta l’oggettività o realtà corporea.
Similmente una medesima cosa, riguardata però anch’ essa da due lati diversi,
sono la natura che la mia causalità può cangiare, ossia la costituzione
e l’ordinamento della materia, e la natura non cangiabile, ossia la
materia pura : la natura mutevole è l’oggettivo considerato
soggettivamente e in connessione con 1’io, intelligenza attiva ; la natura
immutevolo è Soggettivo considerato oggettivamente e soltanto in
sè. Secondo il precedente ragionamento, i molteplici elementi che
l’analisi ritrova nella percezione della nostra causalità sensibile
vengono dedotti dalle leggi della coscienza e ridotti all' unità, all’ unico
assoluto su cui si tonda ogni coscienza e ogni essere, all 'attività
pura. Questa attività, in virtù della legge fondamentale della
coscienza, Sittenlehre. per cui 1 essere attivo non si comprende senza una
resistenza su cui agisce, non si comprende cioè se non come un
Io-soggetto operante sopra un non-io-oggetto, appare sotto forma di
efficienza su qualcosa fuori dell'Io. Ma tutti gli elementi contenuti in
questa apparenza, a partire dal concetto-fine propostomi assolutamente da me
stesso, sino alla materia greggia del mondo esterno su cui esercito
la mia causalità, non sono che anelli intermedi dell’apparenza
totale, e perciò semplici apparenze anch’essi. L’unico reale 1 vero
è la mia auto-attività, la mia indipendenza, la mia libertà. Da
tali presupposti bisogna ora dedurre il principio della moralità. L’ uomo
trova in sè un’ obbligazione assoluta e categorica a fare o non fare certe
azioni indipendentemente da ogni fine esteriore, la quale si accompagna
immancabilmente con la natura umana e costituisce la nostra caratteristica
morale. Donde ha origine questa obbligazione o Dovere, che vai quanto dire
la leggo morale, ossia il' principio della moralità? Secondo che
esige la Dottrina della Scienza, tale origine non va ricercata altrove
che in noi stessi, nell’ Jo. Onde il primo problema da risolvere a tal
fine è:^ u Pensare sè stesso come puramente sè stesso, ossia come
distaccato da tutto ciò che non è io. La soluzione di questo problema si
ottiene così : Io non trovo me stesso se non nella mia volontà, se
non come volente ; e trovarsi volente significa riconoscere in se
una sostanza che vuole. L’intelligenza è la coscienza puramente
soggettiva; la coscienza del proprio io in quanto io non può nascere che
dalla volontà,. Ma la volontà non si concepisce se non supponendo
qualcosa di diverso dal1’ io, perchè ogni volontà reale è una determinata
volizione che ha un concetto-fine, che tende cioè ad attuare un oggetto
concepito come possibile, un oggetto che stia fuori di noi. Ne segue che,
per trovare me stesso e nuli’altro che me stesso, bisogna fare astrazione
da questo oggetto esterno della mia volontà: ciò che rimane allora sarà
il mio essere puro, la volontà assoluta, il principio della nostra filosofia.
Ne segue altresì che il carattere essenziale e distintivo dell’ io è una tendenza
ad agire di propria iniziativa e indipendentemente da ogni impulso
estraneo, a determinare sè stesso in modo incondizionato e autonomo, è,
in una parola, la libertà. Ora, appunto questa tendenza e questa
libertà costituisce l’io preso in sè, l’io considerato all’ infuori di
ogni relazione con checchessia di diverso da sè. Ma ogni essere non
è se non in quanto viene riferito a un’ intelligenza, la quale sa che
esso è ; in altri termini suppone una coscienza. L’io, quindi, non è se
non in quanto si pone, non è se non in forza della coscienza che ha
di sè; onde esso deve avere la coscienza di quella tendenza alla libera
auto-determinazione che dicemmo costituire la sua essenza. E invero l’io che,
mediante l’intelligenza, pone sè stesso come tendenza all’autonomia
assoluta o libertà, è un essere il cui principio si trova non in un
altro essere, ma in un quid di categoria diversa l’unico quid che possa concepirsi oltre
l’essere — e cioè nel pensiero, inteso non come qualcosa di sostanziale, sì
bene come attività pura, come movimento dell’intelligenza
senza restrizioni e senza fissità. Orbene, da questa intima fusione
dell’io in quanto tendenza all’attività assoluta o libertà e dell’io in
quanto intelligenza, dell’io in quanto essere e dell’ io in quanto
riflessione, è possibile dedurre il principio della moralità. Come?
L’io assoluto, non ancora rifratto dal prisma della coscienza, è
determinato, come abbiamo detto, dalla sua tendenza all’attività
assoluta, e questa determinazione diventa oggetto o contenuto dell’
intelligenza. Ma, siccome l’Io assoluto nella sua unità integrale, nella
sua semplicità e identità originaria non può essere mai oggetto della
coscienza, bisogna che questa si sforzi di apprenderlo, almeno per
approssimazione, attraverso la dualità dell’essere oggettivo e della
riflessione soggettiva, mediante quella specie di espediente che consiste
nel considerare il soggettivo e 1’oggettivo come determina»tisi
reciprocamente l’uno l’altro, come complementari, quindi come inseparabili
e impensabili l’uno senza l’altro. E allora, se si concepisce il soggettivo
come determinato dall’ oggettiv'o (nel qual caso nasce quella relazione
psicologica che si chiama sentimento), essendo l’oggetto, rispetto al
soggetto, qualcosa di per sè stante, di fisso .e permanente, si troverà
che il contenuto del pensiero è immutabile e necessario e che
l’intelligenza impone a sè stessa la legge di una attività propria e
assoluta. Se poi si concepisce l’oggettivo come determinato dal
soggettivo (nel qual caso nasce quell’altra relazione psicologica che si chiama
volontà), essendo il soggetto, rispetto all’ oggetto, qualcosa di mobile,
di attivo e indipendente, si troverà che l’io si pone come libero. Si
arriverà cosi combinando, i due risultati, la legge necessaria da una
parte e la libertà illimitata dal1’altra all’ idea di una legge che l’io
liberamente -impone a sè stesso: la legge ha per contenuto la libertà, e
la libertà è sottoposta alla legge. Legge e libertà, per tal modo, si
determinano reciprocamente : esse fanno insieme una sola e medesima
unità. Tra la libertà ( = attività incondizionata e illimitata) e l’autonomia (
= imposizione spontanea di una legge a sè stesso) non c’ è
incompatibilità; esse nascono entrambe da quello sdoppiamento che è
dovuto alla natura dell’ attività spirituale e che è a un tempo posizione
di sè e riliessione sopra di sè, oggetto e soggetto. In altri termini, si
ha qui l’intima fusione, nel- 1’ unità dell’ io, tra 1’ intelligenza, che
concepisce la nostra essenza come libertà, e la volontà, che è 1’
attuazione del1’autonomia, tra la libertà-concetto e la libertà-atto, e
il legame che unisce 1’ una all’ altra è di causalità non Inec-
canico-coercitiva ma psichico-imperativa, è di necessità non teorica ma
pratica, è il legame morale del dovere. La libertà-idea non può non
tradursi, dece tradursi in libertà- realtà; il Dovere, obbligazione per
eccellenza, sta nell’attuare l’essenza nostra, nel divenire, attraverso la
coscienza, quel ohe siamo in fondo al nostro essere assoluto anteriore
alla coscienza, nel renderci cioè liberi ; e in ciò precisamente consiste il
principio supremo di tutta la moralità, il quale per tal guisa risulta
dedotto, come ci proponevamo, dalla natura dell’ io. Posto l’io, è
in pari tempo posta anche la tendenza all’assoluta auto-attività, alla
libertà; ma la libertà non acquista valore se non per un’ intelligenza
che ne faccia la legge determinante delle nostre azioni ; ne segue
che l’io deve sottoporsi con coscienza e quindi con libertà alla
legge della propria natura, che è la legge della libertà, senz’altro fine
che la libertà, stessa. La moralità, appunto perchè esprime direttamente
l’essenza dell’io, la sua praticità assoluta e la sua autonomia, è una perpetua
legislazione dell’io imposta a sè stesso, sotto un triplice rispetto
: rispetto all’adozione stessa della legge morale, adozione la quale non
può essere che una libera sottomissione, una spontanea adesione alla
logge; rispetto all’applicazione della legge a ciascun caso particolare,
applicazione nella quale il giudizio morale è sempre un atto di
autonomia, un consenso di noi con noi stessi ;rispetto al contenuto della
legge, uel quale contenuto è evidente che ogni determinazione della
volontà da parte di una causa estranea a sè stessa, che vai (pianto dire
alla ragione, costituirebbe un’eteronomia affatto contraria alla legge morale.
Per tal modo si può concludere che la vita morale tutta quanta non è
altro che una ininterrotta auto-legislazione dell’io, una perenne autonomia
dell’essere razionale; e dove questa autolegislazione cessa, ivi comincia
l’ immoralità. IH- - Alla deduzione del . principio della moralità segue
la deduzione della realtà e dell’ applicabilità del principio stesso,
senza di che quest’ ultimo rimarrebbe un’ astrazione e la morale si
ridurrebbe a un formalismo vuoto e sterile. Invece la morale ha una
realtà, la legge morale ha efficacia nel mondo sensibile in cui viviamo
; onde il principio della moralità è non solo vero, logica). A chiarire
ancor meglio la deduzione della legge morale dall’Io, ricollegandola con
i principi e le conseguenze della Dottrina della Scienza giova il seguente
schema fornito un mente possibile e giustificato dalla
ragione, ma altresì reale e applicabile : reale, perchè è un concetto che
deve attuarsi nel mondo sensibile ; applicabile, perchè il mondo
sensibile è tale, per origine e natura, da prestarsi come strumento
all’attuazione di quel principio. da Fischer (Geschichte der neuem
Philosophie, Fichte unti seine Vorgànger) e nel quale viene
simboleggiato lo sdoppiarsi dell’ Io nella coscienza teorica e il suo
reintegrarsi nella legge morale: Io Soggetto = Oggetto Coscienza (Divisione) Soggetto
Autoattività Causalità del
Concetto Libertà Oggetto Materia Causalità della Materia Necessità Libertà
= Necessità Legge della Libertà Libertà sotto la Legge della
Libertà (Assoluta Autonomia) Legge Morale. Come si vede, qui
la realtà del principio morale non è la realtà già attuata di ciò che
esiste nel mondo meccanico dei fatti naturali o nel mondo giuridico della
convivenza sociale, ma la realtà di ciò che deve esistere nel mondo
morale della volontà; le prime due specie di realtà sono sotto la categoria
della necessità (leggi naturali) o della coercizione (leggi sociali),
l’ultima, invece, di cui ora si tratta, è sotto la categoria della
contingenza, della libertà (legge morale). Infatti, il principio
della moralità dianzi dedotto è a un tempo un principio teorico, in
quanto l’io si determina da sè dinanzi a sè stesso come essere
assolutamente indipendente e libero — il che costituisce la materia della
legge morale —, e un principio pratico, in quanto l’io impone da sè a sè stesso
1’ attuazione della propria natura il che costituisce la forma (imperativa)
della legge morale. Ogni singolo io è libero, ecco il principio teorico ;
Ovatterai ogni singolo io come un essere libero, ecco il principio
pratico derivante, sotto forma di comando, da quel principio teorico. In
sostanza la legge pratica della libertà potrebbe formularsi così: Opera
secondo la conoscenza che hai della natura e del fine originario degli esseri
Giusta i principi della Dottrina della Scienza, le cose che abbiamo posto
fuori di noi non sono, in fondo, che le nostre idee ; di qui l’armonia
tra la determinazione teorica degli oggetti e gl’ imperativi morali che
da questa determinazione teorica scaturiscono rispetto agli oggetti
stessi. La spiegazione dell’ accordo dei fenomeni con la nostra volontà
sta nell’accordo della volontà con la natura, a cominciare dalla natura nostra
: noi non possiamo volere se non ciò a cui ci spinge 1’ impulso naturale
; questo impulso non è la legge morale, ma^ legge morale non può
nulla comandare il cui oggetto non sia nella sfera di questo impulso.
L’essere ragionevole, il quale deve porre sè stesso come assolutamente
libero e indipendente, non può far ciò senza in pari tempo determinare
teoricamente il suo mondo mediante la rappresentazione ; e la sua
libertà, che è un principio pratico, esige che questa determinazione
teorica da parte del pensiero si mantenga e si completi mediante l’azione da
parte della volontà. L’azione della liberta dell’ io sul mondo determinato come
rappresentazione consiste nella modificazione di uno stato del mondo
stesso mercè il dominio di un concetto anteriormente posto ; è la
produzione di una realtà conformemente a un’idea data come suo principio
; significa, per conseguenza, proprio l’inverso della rappresentazione, la
quale è la determinazione di un concetto secondo una realtà anteriormente
posta. E come l’enigma della rappresentazione, ossia il rapporto
tra la cosa e l’idea, trovava la sua soluzione nell’identità originaria
dei due termini, essendo la cosa un prodotto inconscio dell’ io, similmente qui
il l’apporto tra il concetto e la realtà ha il suo fondamento nel fatto
che la produzione di questa realtà non è la produzione di una cosa in sè,
di una realtà assoluta, che sarebbe in qualche modo esteriore alla
coscienza, ma è sempre uno stato di coscienza, una determinazione dell’
io. E allora non è più questione di sapere come sia possibile nel mondo
una modificazione da parte della libertà, poiché, essendo il mondo esso
stesso un prodotto della libertà, un limite che l’io pone a sè
stesso, è questione di sapere come sia possibile, mediante la libertà, un
cangiamento nell’io, un’estensione dei suoi limiti ; e se si osserva che
1’ io, oggetto di questa modificazione, è l’io limitato., ossia l’io empirico,
e che la legge della libertà, sotto la quale si operano nell’ io
empirico queste modificazioni, esprime l’io puro, l’io assoluto, è
evidente che il problema circa la realtà del principio morale, circa
l’attuazione della libertà, si riduce, in fondo, alla questione già
esposta anteriormente circa i rapporti tra l’io empirico, naturale, e
l’io eterno, assoluto Sittenlehre. Per dedurre ora la realtà e la conseguente
applicabilità del principio dell’ etica, bisogna dedurne la materia e la
sfera d’ azioue, bisogna stabilire, cioè, anzitutto l'oggetto della nòstra
attività in generale, poi la causalità reale dell’essere ragionevole. Quanto
al primo punto si ha questo teorema. L’essere l'agionevole non può
attribuirsi nessun potere, senza pensare in pari tempo qualcosa fuori di
sè a cui quel potere sia diretto; egli, infatti, non può attribuirsi la
libertà, senza pensare più azioni reali e determinate come possibili per
opera della libertà, e non può pensare nessun’ azione come reale e
determinata, senza supporre all’ esterno qualcosa su cui quest’ azione sia
esercitata. Esiste, dunque, fuori di noi
e posta dal pensiero, una materia a cui la nostra attività si riferisce e
che può essere modificata all’ infinito. Quanto al secondo punto si
ha quest’altro teorema. L’essere ragionevole non può trovare in sè
nessun’applicazione della propria libertà, ossia nessun volere reale,
senza in pari tempo attribuire a sè stesso una reale causalità o
efficienza sul mondo esterno r, e non può attribuirsi una siffatta
causalità o.efficienza, senza determinarla in una certa maniera. Ora,
l’attività pura non può essere determinata in sè, altrimenti non sarebbe
più pura; essa non può essere 'determinata se non da ciò che le si
oppone, ossia dai suoi limiti. Questi limiti non possono essere percepiti se
non nell’esperienza sensibile e, inquanto oggetto d’intuizione sensibile,
consistono in una diversità o varietà di materia. Onde l’io, il quale non
sarebbe attivo se non si sentisse limitato, viene posto come un’ attività che
preme, per allargarli, sopra i limiti entro cui lo rinserra la diversa
materia che gli resiste, il nou-io che gli si oppone. L’essere
ragionevole, dunque, esercita una causalità reale nel mondo sensibile, e
tale causajit.à consiste non già nel creare o distruggere la materia su cui
si esercita tale materia è
condizione indispensabile per l’attività dell’essere ragionevole, ma
nell’introdurvi ulteriori determinazioni nuove ; u io ho causalità „
significa sempre: u io allargo i miei confini che vai quanto
dire: io attuo progressivamente il concetto di libertà secondo che mi è
imposto dalla legge morale, pur non giungendo mai a un’ attuazione completa. Di
guisa che la nostra esistenza, mentre uel mondo intelligibile è legge morale,
nel mondo sensibile è azione reale: il punto in cui le due esistenze si
riuniscono è la libertà intesa come facoltà assoluta di determinare
1’azione mediante la legge. Risulta da quanto precede che il principio della
moralità, ossia la libertà, non può attuarsi se non opponendo
all’attività pura dell’ io una limitazione o un sistema di limitazioni, e
imponendo alla medesima attività un progres [Abbiamo qui una delle
idee fondamentali del sistema ficbtiauo, cioè: l’impossibilità per noi
di separare il sensibile dall’intelligibile, la negazione del dualismo,
l’assurdità di concepire nell’ àmbito della coscienza un carattere noume-
nico radicalmente distinto dal carattere fenomenico. Secondo Fichte
scrive Léon il sensibile è la condizione per l’intelligibile; Benza il
sensibile, il quale determinandolo lo attua, il puro intelligibile
rimarrebbe allo stato di potenza indeterminata e vuota. Questa concezione
segua la rovina del misticismo, che pretende isolare lo spirito dal corpo
e relegarlo in una sfera chimerica ; l'Io fichtiano – cf. l’io griceino –
Fichte’s I, Grice’s I -- non è fatto di singoli pezzi separabili ad arbitrio;
esso forma in tutti i suoi elementi una gerarchia, un vero
organismo. sivo ampliameuto di
questa limitazione o sistema di limitazioni. Il che si verifica anche quando si
tratti non di un fine ultimo, come la libertà assoluta, ma di fini
intermedi. Il più spesso’ci accade di non poter attuare immediatamente un
determinato fine scelto dalla nostra volontà, e siamo costretti, per
conseguirlo, a servirci di certi mezzi già determinati in* antecedenza
senza il nostro intervento : non perveniamo al nostro fine se non
attraverso una serie di gradi interposti ; che equivale a dire : tra il
sentimento da cui sono partito con la volontà e il sentimento a cui
mi sforzo di giungere intercedono altri sentimenti, di cui ognuno è
l’esponente dei limiti che mi si oppongono, limiti che con la mia causalità,
con la mia azione, io fo indietreggiare ogni volta di più, estendendo cosi pi-ogressiva-
mente la mia attività reale. La mia causalità, dunque, appare come un’azione
continua e diversa, come una serie ininterrotta di sforzi e di sentimenti
svariati ; poiché essa è assolutamente una e identica in quanto attività,
ma presenta tuttavia infiniti aspetti multiformi a causa della multiforme
resistenza che incontra da parte degl’ infiniti oggetti esterni; esterni,
s’intende, e posti indipendentemente da noi, per chi non adotti o ignori il
punto di vista della filosofia trascendentale e rimanga al punto di
vista della coscienza comune. Intesa nel modo descritto, la causalità
dell’ essere ragionevole contiene in sé la sintesi assoluta della conoscenza e
dell’ attività, determinantisi reciprocamente nella concezione e nel
perseguimento di un medesimo fine. L’essere ragionevole, infatti, non ha una
conoscenza se non in seguito a una limitazione della propria attività, tesi; ma
d’altro canto non ha attività se non in seguito a una
conoscenza (antitesi) ; conoscenza e attività sono poste come
identiche nella volontà, sintesi. Come si ottiene questa sintesi?
Basta pensare all’ essenza originaria dell’ io oggettivamente considerato
: sappiamo che tale essenza è assoluta attività e nuli’altro che
attività; e poiché l’attività, oggettivamente presa, è impulso, e nell’io
nulla esiste o accade di cui egli non abbia coscienza, cosi, posto nell’
io oggettivo un impulso, vien posto altresì iu esso un sentimento di
questo impulso. Il sentimento o coscienza primitiva dell’impulso è,
dunque, l’anello sintetico in cui con l’attività è posta la conoscenza e
con la conoscenza l’attività. Soltanto è da aggiungere che, se dal
punto di vista pratico la conoscenza e l’attività sono inseparabili, la
coscienza che accompagna qui l’impulso non è affatto la coscienza riflessa e iu
nessun grado una riflessione libera ; in essa non c’ è neppure quella
specie di libertà che caratterizza la rappresentazione e che ci permette di non
rappresentarci l’oggetto, di fare cioè astrazione da esso ; è una
coscienza tutta spontanea, che s’impone a noi con necessità, è un
sentimento di cui non siamo in nessun modo padroni. Il sistema d’impalisi
e di sentimenti di che s’intesse 1’io empirico oggettivo deve quindi
concepirsi come natura, come la nostra natura, come cioè qualcosa di
dato, di non prodotto da noi, d’ indipendente dalla libertà, ma su
cui la libertà può esercitarsi, e si esercita, allorché l’io-soggetto ne
fa oggetto di riflessione e consente o no a soddisfarlo ; e invero, tosto
che riflettiamo sui nostri impulsi originari, non siamo più dominati da
essi ; sono essi, invece, dominati da noi, perchè dipende da noi
assecondarli o no ; comincia allora il vero ufficio della nostra libertà
cosciente. Nasce così la differenza tra la facoltà appetitiva inferiore
del semplice impulso di natura e la facoltà appetitiva superiore del
medesimo impulso sottoposto alla riflessione e alla libertà. Giova
chiarire meglio la facoltà appetitiva inferiore, prima di passare alla
superiore. Abbiamo detto che essa costituisce ciò che in noi si chiama
natura; ma bisogna distinguere la natura nostra dalla natura delle cose
in cui regna il puro meccanismo. Nel mondo meccanico non c’è
attività propriamente detta, c’ è soltanto una trasmissione di urti
attraverso tutta la serie di cause ed effetti, senza che nessun anello
produca o modifichi la forza trasmessa. Nella natura nostra, al
contrario, c’è una vera spontaneità, la quale non è ancora la libera
causalità del pensiero, del concetto, perchè è una necessaria determinazione
dell’esistenza reale per opera di questa esistenza stessa, ma sta
tuttavia al disopra del puro meccanismo, perchè consiste in una
determinazione proveniente da una serie di cause ed effetti disposta non
più secondo un ordine lineare di successione, sì bene secondo un ordine
ricorrente di reciprocanza ; quivi, infatti, le singole parti sono a un tempo
effetti e cause del tutto, onde si ha quel che si dice un or- (Per essere
più chiari : l’impulso e il sentimento che l’accompagna mancano di libertà;
la volontà e la riflessione che ne è condizione hanno per essenza la
libertà; a parte, però, questa differenza di capitale importanza ma soltanto
formale, l’impulso e il sentimento, per quanto riguarda il loro contenuto
materiale, sono identici alla volontà e alla riflessione; l’oggetto a cui
tendono necessariamente i primi diventa l’oggetto liberamente accettato o
ripudiato dalle seconde. gallismo, ossia una costituzione, la
quale, lungi dal dipendere da un’azione esterna, Ira in sè stessa il principio
della propria determinazione, è dotata insomma di spontaneità,. La
reciprocanza di azione tra le parti di un tutto organico in natura si spiega
così: a ciascuna di esse le altre non lasciano che una certa quantità di
realtà, onde ciascuna parte per la rimanente realtà che le manca non ha
che una tendenza o impulso risultante dallo stato determinato delle altre parti
: ciascuna tende a formare il tutto, a integrarsi con la realtà delle
altre ; e cosi in un’ unità organica la realtà è in proporzione
inversa della tendenza (o impulso) derivante dalla mancanza di
realtà; realtà e tendenzfP (o impulso) si completano a vicenda ; ciascuna
parte tende a soddisfare il bisogno di tutte, e tutte a loro volta
tendono a soddisfare il bisogno di ciascuna ; ogni singola parte tende a
combinare la propria essenza e la propria azione con l’essenza e l’azione
delle rimanenti, e questa tendenza giustamente si dice impilino plastico
(Bildungstrieb), cosi nel senso attivo come nel senso passivo della
parola, perchè è la facoltà a un tempo così d’imprimere come di ricevere
forme. Questa facoltà organizzatrice è universale, essenziale, inerente a
tutte le parti e a tutti gli elementi, onde ciò che si chiama un
tutto naturale, ossia un tutto chiuso, può altresì chiamarsi un prodotto
organico della natura, a costituire il quale certi elementi della natura,
in virtù della causalità di cui questa è dotata, hanno riunito il loro
essere e il loro operare in un solo e medesimo essere, in un solo e
medesimo operare. Ciò posto, ecco quanto accade in quel tutto organico
della natura che è l’io individuale, empirico, a partire dai più bassi
impulsi sino alle più alte tendenze. Iu ciascun io individuale,
appunto perchè esso è un tutto organico della natura, l’essenza delle
parti consiste in una tendenza a conservare unite a sè altre
determinate parti, e siffatta tendenza, se attribuita al tutto, dicesi
impulso all' autoconservazione ; alla conservazione, s’intende, non
dell’esistenza in generale, che è un’astrazione, ma di un’esistenza
determinata. L’impulso all’autoconservazione, che è poi la tendenza a
perseverare nel proprio essere, porta 1’ essere organico a inferire a sè
certi oggetti della natura; di qui l’appetito o la brama verso questi
oggetti, appetito o brama dapprima vaghi e indeterminati, quasi COME
IL PRIMO GRIDO INARTICOLATO DELL’ORGANISMO ANCORA INFANTE, POI SEMPRE PIÙ
DETERMINATI E DIFFERENZIATI, COME IL LINGUAGGIO ARTICOLATO DELL’ORGANISMO
ADULTO. E — si noti bene — non già la diversità degli oggetti determina
lo specificarsi dei vari appetiti e desideri; al contrario, i diversi
modi del desiderio, mediante le proprie determinazioni, si creano i propri
oggetti. La coscienza o l’intelligenza* che ci rappresenta gli oggetti non è
che il riflesso dei nostri istinti,, inclinazioni, tendenze, della nostra
vita pratica in generale; non, dunque, gli oggetti suscitano, quasi
loro fine, gli appetiti, ma gli appetiti hanno il proprio fine in sè
stessi, nella propria soddisfazione, e noi non perseguiamo, attraverso gli
oggetti, altro che i nostri desideri esteriorizzati nelle cose. Ma se è
così, se ciò che ci sforziamo d’ottenere è non l’oggetto — il quale si riduce
a im simbolo, sì bene la soddisfazione della nostra tendenza, della nostra
brama, in altri termini, il nostro godimento, il nostro piacere, si comprende
come, tanto dal punto di vista della pura natura irriflessa, quanto da
quell» della riflessione sulla natura, sia il piacere il fine supremo
della nostra condotta ; di guisa che, nel primo passaggio immediato dallo
stato di pura natura allo stato di coscienza riflessa, la nostra azione cangia
di forma da necessaria e istintiva diventa libera e riflessa, e tale
cangiamento ne modifica radicalmente il carattere, ma il suo
contenuto rimane ancora il medesimo, è ancora il piacere: al punto da far
sembrare che l’uomo con la riflessione non si elevi al di sopra della
natura, se non per sottoporlesi meglio e perseguire con pili luce e sicurezza
il fine edonistico. Ora, finché è spinto al piacere e dipende dagli
oggetti dei suoi appetiti, ]' uomo rimane confinato nell’ esercizio
della facoltà appetiti va inferiore. Ma l’attività ragionevole in lui tende con
coscienza e riflessione a determinarsi assolutamente da sé, a rendersi
indipendente da ogni oggetto che non sia essa stessa, quindi anche e
soprattutto dal piacere; e allora la nostra azione si differenzia da
quella compiuta allo stato di pura natura, oltreché per la forma, anche
per il contenuto, essendo questo costituito non pili dal piacere —
comunque ricercato, per istinto cieco e necessario, ovvero per volontà,
cosciente e libera, ma dalla libertà stessa, che è l’es senza nostra e il
nostro vero fine supremo. L’ uomo si eleva cosi all’esercizio della
facoltà appetitiva superiore, di quella che appartiene non a lui prodotto
di natura, ma a lui spirito puro. Ciò non ostante, le due facoltà appetitive,
l’inferiore e la superiore, costituiscono un solo e medesimo impulso
originario dell’io, dell’io veduto da due lati diversi : nella facoltà
appetitiva inferiore, ossia nell’ impulso naturale, mi concepisco come oggetto,
uella facoltà appetitiva superiore, ossia nell’impulso spirituale, mi
concepisco come soggetto, mentre tutta la mia essenza si ritrova nell’
identità del soggetto e dell’oggetto, ò soggetto-oggetto. Dall’azione
reciproca dei due impulsi nascono tutti i fenomeni dell’ io ; ma entrambi
si fondono in un unico e medesimo io, onde debbono essere conciliati, unificati
; ed ecco in qual modo : l’impulso superiore rinunzia alla purezza della
propria attività — purezza che consiste nel non essere determinato da un
oggetto —, lasciandosi determinare da un oggetto, e l’impulso inferiore
rinunzia al piacere in quanto fine, al piacere per il piacere ; si ha
così per risultato della loro unione un’ attività oggettiva, il cui
oggetto e fine ultimo è un’ assolute libertà, un’assoluta indipendenza da
ogni natura;'un fine, questo, proiettato all’infinito e perciò irraggiungibile
raggiungerlo sarebbe porre termine in pari tempo all’attività e alla
natura che dell’attività è il limite correlativo, la condizione
indispensabile; un fine, tuttavia, a cui è possibile avvicinarsi sempre più,
facendo uso della libertà e della facoltà appetitiva superiore. Non si
obietti qui — dice il Fichte ( Sittenlehre) che un’approssimazione
all’infinito è contraddittoria, in quantoche un infinito a cui potessimo
avvicinarci cesserebbe d’essere un infinito e diverrebbe in certo qual
modo suscettivo di misura. L’infinito non è una cosa, un oggetto posto
come dato e verso il quale si avanzerebbe come verso un termine fissato
in precedenza, ma è igu ideale, ossia appunto ciò che si oppone alla
realtà del dato, ciò che nessun dato può esaurire ; Infatti, grazie alla
sintesi dianzi descritta, l’io svelle sè stesso da tutto ciò che sembra
trovarsi fuori di lui, entra in possesso di sè e si pone dinanzi a sè
come assolutamente indipendente, essendo l’io riflettente indipendente per sè
stesso, l’io riflettuto tutfc’ uno con l’io riflettente, ed entrambi uniti in
una sola inseparabile persona, alla quale il riflettuto dà la forza reale
e il riflettente la coscienza. La persona così costituita non può più agire
ormai se non secondo e mediante concetti, e poiché tutto ciò che ha
la propria ragion d’ essere in un concetto è un prodotto della libertà,
cosi d’ ora innanzi l’io non agirà più se non liberamente, anche quando
non faccia che assecondare l’impulso di natura, perchè anche in tal caso egli
non opera meccanicamente ma con coscienza, e in lui non più il
cieco impulso naturale, si bene la coscienza da lui acquistata di questo
impulso naturale è il primo fondamento del suo operare, il quale perciò è
libero come poco fa notammo — se non nel contenuto, almeno nella forma. Ma che
significa essere libero e agire liberamente? Prima di giungere alla
riflessione l’io è di natura sua e questo ideale clie portiamo in
noi stessi indietreggia dinanzi a noi man mano che ci eleviamo verso di
esso. Noi possiamo bene allargare i nostri limiti, inalzarci sempre più verso
la libertà, ma non possiamo mai sopprimere totalmente questi limiti, attuare
cioè la libertà; a qualunque grado di liberazione noi si giunga, la libertà
assoluta rimane sempre un ideale. Insomma, .con l’idea di un progress o
infinito il Fichte risolve la contraddizione tra la libertà e la natura :
la natura deve tendere alla libertà come a un fine infinito, e se
l’infinito potesse essere attuato, la natura s’identificherebbe con la libertà
; la realtà di questo progresso non è nel conseguimento impossibile di un fine fissato a un dato
punto, ma nel valore sempre più alto della nostra azione. (Cfr. Léon)] libero,
ma per un’ intelligenza fuori di lui, non già per sè stesso ; per essere
libero anche agli occhi propri egli deve porsi come tale, e come tale non
si pone se non allorché diventa cosciente del suo passaggio dallo stato
indeterminato a uno stato determinato. L’ io determinante e l’io
determinato scftio un solo e medesimo io, prodotto dalla sintesi del
inflettente e del riflettuto, dell’ io-soggetto e del1’io-oggetto. Per siffatta
sintesi la concezione di un fine diventa immediatamente azione e l’azione
diventa conoscenza della libertà. Senonchè l’indeterminatezza non è
soltanto uon-determinatezza (ossia zei'o), sì bene un deciso
librarsi tra più possibili determinazioni (ossia una grandezza negativa)
; altrimenti essa non potrebbe essere posta e sarebbe un nulla. Ora, finché non
intervenga la facoltà appetitiva superiore, non si vede in che modo la libertà
possa scegliere tra più determinazioni possibili; perchè: o si trova
in presenza del solo impulso naturale, e allora non ha nessuna ragione
per non seguirlo, anzi ha ogni ragione per seguirlo; ovvero si trova in
presenza di più impulsi la quale ipotesi non si comprende nel caso di cui
ora si tratta e allora seguirà
naturalmente il più forte ; nel- l’una e nell’altra ipotesi, dunque,
nessuna possibilità d’indeterminatezza. Siccome però l’essere ragionevole non
può esistere senza quella tra le condizioni della sua ragionevolezza che
si chiama sentimento morale e consapevolezza della libertà, bisogna bene
ammettere, nell’ impulso originario delirio, un impulso ad acquistare la
coscienza e della moralità e della libertà. Ma tale coscienza, si è
visto, ha per condizione uno stato indeterminato, e non si produce se
l’io obbedisce unicamente all'impulso naturale ; occorre, dunque,
che vi sia nell’io un impulso o tendenza a trarre dal proprio seno, e non
già dall’impulso naturale, il contenuto o l’oggetto dell’azione; occorre,
in altri termini, che vi sia una tendenza alla libertà per sè stessa, e che
alla libertà formale quella per cui lo stesso risultato, che la natura
avrebbe prodotto se avesse potuto ancora agire, nasce invece da un
nuovo principio, da una nuova forza, ossia dalla coscienza libera si
aggiunga la libertà materiale quella
per cui si ha non solo un nuovo principio operante, ma altresì una
serie di effetti tutta nuova anche nel contenuto, onde non solo è
l’intelligenza la forza che opera, ma essa intelligenza opera qualcosa di ben
diverso da ciò che avrebbe operato la natura. In virtù della libertà
materiale io mi sento emancipato dall’ impulso di natura, gli oppongo
resistenza, e tale resistenza, considerata come essenziale all’ io, quindi come
immanente, è essa stessa un impulso, l ’impulso purodell’ io. L’impulso
naturale si manifesta come iuclinazione e, per il fatto che io posso
dominare la sua forza e sottoporla alla mia libertà, questa forza diventa
qualcosa di cui non fo stima. L’impulso puro, invece, in quanto mi eleva
sopra la natura e mi pone in grado di contrappormele con la più
semplice risoluzione, si manifesta come tale da ispirarmi stima e da investirmi
di una dignità, la quale, essendo al disopra di ogni natura, m’ impone rispetto
verso me stesso; l’impulso puro, anziché al piacere, porta al disprezzo
del piacere ed esige l’affermazione e la conservazione della mia assoluta
indipendenza e libertà. L’adempimento di questa esigenza e il suo
contrario significano rispettivamente l’accordo e il disaccordo tra
l’ideale tendenza essenziale dell’ io puro all’assoluta libertà e il
reale stato accidentale dell’io empirico ; suscitano, quindi, il mio
interesse m’interessa, infatti, ossia
tocca direttamente il mio sentimento, tutto ciò che lia immediata relazione col
mio impulso fondamentale, si accompagnano, dunque, a piacere o dolore; ma
e questo è di capitale importanza si tratta qui di stati affettivi che
non hanno nulla a fare con l’affettività comune, perchè consistono
in una contentezza e in un disgusto di sè la cui natura non si confonde
mai con quella del piacere o del dolore dei sensi. Il piacere sensibile
che nasce dall’ accordo tra l’impulso naturale e la realtà non dipende da me in
quanto sono un io, ossia in quanto sono libero ; esso è tale da
strappare me a me, da rendermi estraneo a me stesso e da farmi
dimenticare in esso ; è, in una parola, involontario, e questa qualità lo
caratterizza nel modo più esatto. Altrettanto vale del suo opposto, ossia del
dolore sensibile. Il piacere morale, al contrario, che nasce dall’accordo
tra l’impulso puro e la realtà, è qualcosa non di estraneo ma di
dipendente dalla mia libertà, qualcosa che potrei aspettarmi in conformità
d’una regola, come non potrei aspettarmi, invece, il piacere involontario ;
esso, quindi, non mi trasporta fuori di me, anzi mi fa rientrare in me
stesso e, meno tumultuario, ma più intimo del piacere sensibile,
m’in- [Intorno al concetto dell’ interesse Fichte fa una specie di
digressione ( Sittenlehre) per meglio illuminare la sua trattazione sul
sentimento morale e sulla coscienza morale. fonde, in quanto
soddisfazione e auto-stima, nuovo coraggio' e nuova forza. Similmente il
suo opposto, ossia il dolore morale, appunto perchè dipende dalla
libertà, è un rimprovero interno, si associa a un sentimento di auto-disistima
e sarebbe insopportabile se il sentirci ancora capaci di provarlo non ci
risollevasse dinanzi a noi stessi, e non ravvivasse la coscienza della nostra
natura superiore e della nostra assoluta libertà, insomma la coscienza morale
fdas Oetoissen), vale a dire : la consapevolezza immediata
dell’adempimento del dovere, dell’accordo cioè tra l’azione (nel mondo
della natura) e il fine ideale (la libertà). Ora, la coscienza morale si
connette strettamente con l’impulso morale, il quale è di natura mista,
perchè partecipa a un tempo dell’impulso puro e dell’impulso
naturale. Come? Ogni volizione reale tende all’azione e ogni azione
si porta sopra un oggetto : ogni volizione reale, quindi, è empirica. E
poiché non posso agire sugli oggetti se non mediante una forza fisica, la quale
non proviene che dall’impulso naturale, cosi ogni fine concepito
dall’intelligenza finisce per coincidere con 1^ soddisfazione di un IMPULSO
NATURALE. Certo, chi vuole è l'io -intelligenza non già la na-
/M/'fl-iucoscieuza ; ma, quanto al contenuto, il mio volere non può avere
materia diversa da quella che la natura vorrebbe anch’essa, se di volere
fosse capace : non c’ è libertà circa la materia delle azioni. E allora quale
causalità rimane all’impulso puro, che pur non può esserne
destituito? Affinchè rimanga una causalità all’ impulso puro,
bisogna che la materia dell’azione sia conforme a esso non meno (Siltenlekre)
che all’IMPULSO NATURALE. Tale duplice conformità si comprende soltanto così: l’impulso
puro nell'operare tende alla piena emancipazione dalla natura ; ma i
limiti che l’attività dell' io impone a sè stessa costringono l’operare
entro i confini dell’ impulso naturale ; onde l’azione conforme a questo
secondo impulso diventa conforme anche al primo quando al pari di esso
tenda alla piena emancipazione dalla natura, si trovi cioè in una serie
di sforzi, continuando la quale all’infinito, l’io si approssima sempre
più all’indipendenza assoluta. Deve esservi una serie di tal genere, che
muova dal punto in cui la persona si trova posta per la propria
natura e si prolunghi all’ infinito verso il .fine supremo e ideale si badi bene a questo appellativo che
esclude ogni possibilità, di attuazione completa di ogni attività,
altrimenti uon sarebbe possibile una causalità dell’ impulso puro :
questa serie si può chiamare la destinazione morale dell’ essere
ragionevole finito, e seguendola possiamo sapere in ogni momento quale è
il nostro dovere. Il principio della morale può, dunque, formularsi cosi.
Adempì in ogni momento la tua destinazione. Quel che in ogni momento è conforme
alla nostra destinazione morale, ossia al fine a cui si dirige l’impulso
puro, è in pari tempo conforme all’impulso naturale, ma uon tutto quel
che è conforme all’impulso naturale è conforme alla nostra destinazione morale.
Appunto perciò l’impulso morale è misto: esso riceve dall’impulso
naturale la materia dell’operare, dall’impulso pui'O la forma; per esso
io debbo agire con la coscienza di adempiere un dovere ; gl’ impulsi ciechi
della natura, come la simpatia, la compassione, la benevolenza spontanea,
in quanto tali non hanno nulla di morale, perchè contraddice alla
moralità il lasciarsi spingere ciecamente. L’impulso morale
differisce profondamente dal cieco impulso naturale, e molto ai avvicina
all’ impulso puro, perchè la sua causalità è ambigua, può avere effetto e può
anche non averne, perchè esso comanda: sii libero (cioè: sii in grado di fare e
di a'stenerti dal fare). E in questo comando appare per la prima
volta un imperativo categorico, un imperativo che è un prodotto
nostro proprio (nostro in quanto siamo intelligenze capaci di agire per
concetti), e il cui oggetto è il fine non subordinato a nessun altro fine.
L’impulso morale, infatti, non ha per fine nessun godimento ; esso esige
u la libertà per la libertà. È poi evidente in questa formula imperativa
il duplice significato della parola “ libertà la quale sta a
designare nel primo posto un operare in quanto tale, ossia un puramente
soggettivo, e nel secondo posto uno stato oggettivo che dev’essere
conseguito, ossia 1’ ultimo fine assoluto, la piena nostra indipendenza
da tutto ciò che è fuori di noi. In altri termini : io debbo agire con
libertà per divenire libero; e soltanto determinandomi da me stesso e non
seguendo altro che le ispirazioni del sentimento del dovere agisco con
libertà e divengo veramente indipendente dalla natura, veramente libero.
A questa distinzione tra la libertà come attività e la libertà come risultalo,
che è di così grande importanza nel nostro sistema, se ne aggiunge
un’ altra entro il concetto stesso di libertà intesa come attività: la
distinzione, cioè, tra la forma e la materia dell’attività libera; distinzione
da cui nasce la divisione della dottrina morale e con cui si passa all’
applicazione sistematica del principio della moralità. Fichte discorre delle
condizioni formali della moralità delle nostre azioni, del contenuto
materiate della legge morale; e dei doveri. Il principio formale di
ogni moralità può enunciarsi così. Opera sempre secondo la convinzione
che hai intorno al tuo dovere. Questo imperativo o legge che
presuppone naturalmente e logicamente una libera volontà— si scinde in
due precetti, di cui 1’ uno concerne la forma o la condizione : u procurati la
convinzione di ciò che è tuo dovere; l’altro la MATERIA o il condizionato.
Fai ciò che ritieni con convinzione tuo dovere 9 failo soltanto perchè lo
ritieni tale Ora, la convinzione nasce dall’accordo di un atto della
facoltà giudicatrice coll’impulso morale, e il criterio della giustezza della
nostra convinzione è un sentimento intimo al di là del quale non si
può risalire, perchè con esso si raggiunge 1’ espressione diretta della
nostra essenza assoluta e della nostra finalità. Per conseguenza, la
coscienza morale, che in quel sentimento ha radice, va immune per natura sua da
dubbio e da errore, non può ingannarsi, nè è suscettiva di
rettifiche da parte di un’ inconcepibile coscienti più interiore, è
essa stessa giudice di ogni convinzione e le sue sentenze non
ammettono appello. Voler oltrepassare la propria coscienza morale per
timore che possa essere erronea, sarebbe come voler uscire fuori di sè,
voler separarsi da sè stesso. È condizione formale della moralità,
quindi, non decidersi [Della volontà iu particolare e della sua natura
cosi opposta al juro meccanismo, il Pielite tratta nella Sitlenlehre] all’azione
se non per soddisfare alla propria coscienza morale, all’impulso originario
dell’io puro, senza sottostare ad altra autorità che non sia quella della
propria convinzione, del proprio giudizio. Chi, dunque, agisce senza consultare
la sua coscienza, senza essersi prima assicurato j delle decisioni di questa,
agisce, come suol dirsi, senza coscienza, e perciò immoralmente, è colpevole e
non può imputare la sua colpa ad altri che a sè stesso. Similmente opera
senza coscienza, e perciò senza moralità, chi si lascia guidare
dall’autorità altrui, perchè la convinzione della coscienza morale e la
certezza della sua giustezza non nascono mai da giudizi estranei, ma traggono
origine esclusivamente dal soggetto: sarebbe una flagrante contraddizione fare
di qualche cosa che non sono io stesso un sentimento di me stesso. In conclusione:
in tutta la nostra condotta (si tratti della ricerca scientifica, ovvero
della vita pratica) l’azione, per essere morale, deve uscire da un’intima
convinzione, perchè soltanto allora essa esprime veramente la nostra
autonomia spirituale. Ogni azione fatta per autorità (si tratti dell’
accettazione di una verità che non risponde in noi a una convinzione,
ovvero del compimento di un’ azione che accettiamo come un ordine) va
direttamente contro il verdetto della coscienza, è male, è I colpa. Giova
ricordare che per Fichte non vi sono azioni indifferenti; tutte debbono essere
riferite alla legge morale, uon foss’altro per assicurarsi che sono
lecite; onde anche le azioni più indifferenti iu apparenza, vanno
sottoposte a matura riflessione, sempre iu vista della legge morale (Siltenlehre).
Risulta qui ancora una volta definitivamente stabilito il primato della
ragione pratica sulla ragione teorica; di quella ragione pratica che agli
occhi E facile argomentare da ciò quale sia la causa del male o
della colpa nell’essere ragionevole finito. Quel che in generale
costituisce l’essere ragionevole trovasi necessariamente ih ciascun individuo
ragionevole, altrimenti questi non sarebbe più tale. Ora, secondo la
legge morale, l’io individuale, finito, empirico, che vive nel tempo,
deve tendere a divenire un’esatta copia dell’Io primitivo, originario,
infinito, extra-temporale; ma, sottoposto com’è alla condizione del t^mpo,
non può acquistare la chiara coscienza di tutto ciò che primitivamente e
originariamente fa l’essenza dell’Io, se non mediante un lavoro
successivo e una progressione nel tempo. Finché questo lavoro più o
meno faticoso e questa progressione più o meno lenta non abbiano compiuto
nell’ io empirico individuale il passaggio dallo stato d’ irriflessione
al massimo sviluppo della coscienza morale, c’ è sempre luogo nella nostra
condotta all’immoralità, alla colpa, al male. Conviene, dunque, seguire
questa storia dello sviluppo della coscienza emjnrica, per vedere
attraverso quali fasi germogli e maturi il seme della moralità, notando a
tal proposito ohe tutto sembrerà succedere come casualmente, perchè tutto
dipende dalla libertà, e in nessun modo da una meccanica legge di natura.
Anzitutto, e al suo grado pivi dàsso, l’io empirico si riduce a
un’attività istintiva ; l’istinto, senza dubbio, si accompagna con la
coscienza, dista però ancor molto dalla di Fichte è veramente la ragione,
e nella quale si attua l’accordo dell’essere e dell’agire, dell’oggetto e
del soggetto, della produzione e della riflessione, e che ci fornisce
l’intuizione, la coscienza immediata dell’ Io assoluto. E risulta anche
come la morale di Fichte fluisca per essere in sostanza una morale del
sentimento.] riflessione; l’uomo allora segue meramente e semplicemente l’impulso
naturale e, così facendo, è libero per un’ intelligenza fuori di lui, ma per sè
stesso è puro animale. I Tuttavia l’uomo può riflettere su questo stato; e
tale riflessione è per natura sua un atto di libertà : essa non è
nè fisicamente nè logicamente necessaria, ma soltanto moralmente obbligatoria:
chi vuole adempiere la propria destinazione e acquistare in sè la coscienza
dell’ Io puro, deve riflettere su questo suo stato, e mercè tale
riflessione si eleva, quasi, sopra sè stesso, si stacca dalla natura,
se ne distingue e le si oppone come intelligenza libera ; acquista cosi
il potere di differire ‘la propria autodeterminazione e di scegliere quindi tra
più modi — la pluralità dei modi nasce appunto dalla riflessione e dal
differimento della risoluzione di
soddisfare l’impulso naturale. Tale scelta si compie secondo una massima
liberamente adottata dall’ io individuale, e perciò profondamente diversa
dal PRINCIPIO supremo che scaturisce dalla legge morale e CHE NON È, COME LA
MASSIMA, UN LIBERO PRODOTTO DELLA COSCIENA EMPIRICA. Per conseguenza, nel caso
di una MASSIMA cattiva, la colpa spetta tutta all’ io individuale. Ora,
in questa seconda fase di sviluppo, dovuta al primo grado della riflessione,
l’io acquista coscienza del fine a cui tende 1’ impulso naturale, lo fa suo e
adotta come regola di .condotta la MASSIMA della felicità. L’uomo rimane
dunque ancora un animale, ma diventa un animale intelligente,
prudente: è già formalmente libero. Soltanto mette la sua libertà
al servigio dell’impulso naturale. La MASSIMA della felicità, per
quanto sia un prodotto della sua libertà, non può essere diversa da quella che
è, e, una volta posta, egli le obbedisce necessariamente. Senonchè la MASSIMA
stessa, e con essa il carattere ohe ne risulta, non ha nulla di necessario
e non è detto che l’io individuale debba arrestarvi»]/ se vi si arresta è
soltanto sua colpa. Nulla lo costringe L progredire, è vero, ma egli deve
e può progredire, facenti uso della propria libertà ed elevandosi
liberamente a qn piu alto grado di riflessione. Il male morale non deriva
ile non dal fatto che l’uomo il più delle volte non esercita la
propria libertà, onde a ragione Kant
riteneva il male radicale innato nell’uomo e nondimeno prodotto dalla
sua libertà. Quando però — con nuovo miracolo della sua
spontaneità — 1’ uomo, nella fase ora descritta, esercita la propria libertà,
una seoonda riflessione si compie, che, al pari della precedente, ha
carattere non di necessità fisica o logica, ma di obbligatorietà morale, e in
virtù di essa nasce una terza fase, nella quale l’io individuale prende
coscienza della sua opposizione rispetto alla natura e della spontaneità
del proprio operare, ed erige questa spontaneità stessa, ossia la propria
volontà, a nuova massima di condotta. Non piu la ricerca della felicità guida
ora le sue azioni, ma il godimento di un’ indipendenza dal nou-io
la quale non ammette freno al proprio capriccio e fa di sè stessa il
proprio idolo. Si ha, quindi, un progresso verso la libertà assoluta, ma
non ancora la vera libertà morale, non ancora la volontà riflessa
sottoposta alla legge del dovere. Anzi, mentre la MASSIMA della felicità è, si,
mancanza di legge, ma non addirittura rovesciamento della legge > n l’ostilità
contro questa, lt MASSIMA della volontà egoistica e arbitraria, invece,
può portare sino alla trasgressione intenzionale della legge. Il carattere
della condotta ispirata a tale MASSIMA è soltanto la soddisfazione
dell’amor proprio, dell’ orgoglio, del bisogno di dominare, ottenuta
a qualsiasi costo, anche di dolori corporei ; e appunto questa
idolatria della volontà egoistica spiega pressoché tutta la storia umana.
Essa riempie grandissima parte del teatro del inondo con le sue lotte e
le sue guerre, con, le sue vittorie e le sue sconfitte. u II
soggiogamento dei corpi e delle anime dei popoli, le guerre di conquista
e di religione, e tutti i misfatti cou cui l’umanità si è disonorata non si
spiegano altrimenti. Che cosa indusse l'invasore, l’oppressore a perseguire il
proprio fine con pericolo e fatica ? Sperava egli forse che per tal modo
si accrescerebbero le fonti dei suoi godimenti sensitivi? No davvero. 1
Ciò ohe io voglio deve accadere, a quel che io dico si deve stare ’ :
ecco 1’ unico principio che lo moveva. Un siffatto culto della volontà
egoistica certamente non è senza una certa aureola di grandezza, poiché
giunge anche al disinteresse: non al disinteresse che deriva dall'
obbedienza al dovere e che solo ha significato morale, ma a un
disinteresse di carattere impulsivo, derivante dal desiderio di suscitare
ammirazione, di cattivarsi stima, e che rimane tuttora una forma di amor
proprio e di orgoglio. E un culto che porta sino al sacrifizio della vita
e ci vuole del coraggio a vincere in noi la natura. Ma questo
sacrifizio è senza valore etico, perché è fatto soltanto al proprio io
individuale, è puro egoismo. Certo, rispetto alla fase precedente, la
quale non mira che alla felicità sensibile, la fase ora descritta segna
un progresso e sta come a rappresentare l’età eroica dello sviluppo
morale. Ma dal punto di vista della moralità nulla di più pericoluso che
arrestarvisi, perchè essa ci abitua a considerare come nobili e meritori,
come rari e ammirevoli, come opera mpererogativa, atti che sono
semplicemente doverosi, e a considerare d’ altra parto tutto ciò che a
vantaggio nostro si fa da Dio, dalla natura, dagli altri uomini,
come nulla più che doveri verso di noi. Con siffatte pretensioni la
massima della volontà egoistica e senza, freno, adottata in questa fase,
è peggiore di ogni altra, perchè finisce addirittura col corrompere le stesse
radici della moralità: “ >1 pubblicano peccatore non vale più del
fariseo sedicente giusto, in quanto che nessuno dei due ha il menomo
valore ; ma il secondo è assai più difficile a convertire del primo. Per
elevarsi al disopra di questa terza fase basta che l’uomo con un terzo
atto di riflessione, al pari dei precedenti spontaneo ma inesplicabile,
non necessario ma obbligatorio acquisti coscienza chiara di quell’
originario impulso all’ indipendenza assoluta che, considerato
(analogamente a un eminente grado di capacità intellettuale) come un dono
gratuito della natura, può chiamarsi genio della virtù, ma che, allo
^tato d’impulso cieco, pi'oduce un carattere assai immorale. Mercè la
riflessione, quell’ impulso si trasforma in una legge assolutamente
imperativa, e poiché ogni riflessione limita e determina ciò che è
riflettuto, anche quell’impulso sarà limitato dalla riflessione, e da
cieco impulso verso una causalità sconfinata diventerà una legge di
causalità condizionata ; riflettendo, l’uomo sa di dovere assolutamente
qualche cosa ; e affinchè questo sapere si tramuti in azione, bisogna che
egli adotti la MASSIMA: adempì il Ino dovere perchè è tuo dovere. Sorge
così la coscienza morale, la quale impone appunto alla volontà
arbitraria, alla volontà senza regola uè freno della fase precedente,
l’obbedienza al principio assoluto della ragione. Una volta conseguita
questa chiara coscienza del dovere, la nostra condotta vi si conforma
necessariamente, essendo inconcepibile che noi ci decidiamo di proposito
e con piena chiarezza a ribellarci alla nostra legge, a mancare al
nostro dovere, appunto perchè è la nostra legge, appunto perchè è il nostro
dovere. Vi sarebbe in ciò, oltre che una contraddizione evidente, una
condotta veramente diabolica, se lo stesso concetto u diavolo non fosse
contraddittorio. Soltanto può accadere che la chiara coscienza del dovere si
annebbii, si oscuri, che la riflessione non si mantenga sempre alle
altezze della moralità, e la nostra condotta, perciò, cessi di essere
conforme alla legge morale. Il dovere primo, quindi, e anche il più alto, è
mantenere la coscienza del dovere in tutta l’intensità della sua luce
e «Iella sua forza. Bisogna vegliare continuamente su noi stessi,
alimentare senza tregua il fuoco sacro della riflessione; possiamo fare di
questa riflessione un’abitudine, senza perciò renderla una necessità,
senza pregiudizio cioè della libertà, allo stesso modo diesi può fare
un’abitudine dell’irriflessione, con cui la coscienza empirica comincia,
e persistere in essa, senza renderla perciò una necessità e senza
escludere quindi 1’ esercizio della libertà. Nella sua Ascetih «fa Animili/ zur
Murai ( Ascetica conir appendice alta Morale) contenuta in Nuahgelarsene
Werke, e tradotta in inglese da Kroeger. Se la coscienza morale svanisce
del tutto, si da non lasciar sopravvivere più nessun sentimento del
dovere, noi The sciunce of Elltics bij Fichte dianzi ricordato Pielite si adopera a fornire il mozzo
pratico per mantener viva o luminosa, una volta nata per opera della
libertà, la coscienza del dovere, 'l'ale mezzo consiste ned’associazione
delle idee, intermediaria tra la necessità della natura e la libertà della
ragione, e precisamente nell’associare in precedenza la rappresentazione
dell'atto futuro con la rappresentazione dell’atto conforme al dovere.
Occorre, in altri termini, che i due propositi : voglio fare quest’azione; non
voglio agire se non conforme al dovere, siano indissolubilmente uniti
in ima sintesi, e la funzione propria dell’ascetica consiste appunto
in questa associazione permanente e anticipata del concetto del dovere
non solo col concetto della nostra condotta in generale il che sarebbe
ancora troppo vago e astratto ma con i concetti di azioni determinate,
soprattutto di quelle ABITUALI, QUOTIDIANE, in cui più facilmente possiamo
peccare per omissione o violazione del dovere. Mentre invece per le azioni
eccezionali e straordinarie difficilmente manca I intervento della
riflessione e la conseguente chiarezza della coscienza. Di qui due
regole: un esame di coscienza generale dei casi in cui siamo più esposti
al pericolo di cadere in colpa; e la risoluzione ferma e sempre attiva di
ridettero, in questi casi, sopra noi stessi e di sorvegliarci, opponendo
alla forza cieoa e alla resistenza passiva di certi stati di coscienza,
divenuti abitudini quasi invincibili, la causalità iutelligAte della
coscienza morale: è noto ohe spesso basta ridettero sulla propria passione
e rendersi consapevoli delle associazioni che la costituiscono per liberarsene,
dissociando mentalmente i fattori da cui nasce e controbilanciando il
piacere che ci aspettiamo dal suo soddisfacimento col disprezzo che
accompagna la trasgressione del dovere. Ma, affinchè l’esame della
propria coscienza abbia valore etico, bisogna che non si riduca a una
pura aulocontemplazione, a un’ analisi fatta quasi per semplice
giuoco estetico. Bisogna, invece, che si proponga la nostra riforma
morale, il miglioramento della nostra attività. Tale esortazione, del
resto, si rivolge non già agli uomini privi di coltura, la cui vita é
tutta rivolta all’azione, ond’essi non ridettono se non per agire, ma
agli artisti, ai letterati, e persino ai lilosotì e ai sacerdoti, per i
quali è frequente il grave pericolo di dimenticare il valore pratico
delle coso, di arrestarsi alla contemplazione e di nou tradurre la
speculazione in azione. ricadiamo in uno degli stati che precedono
la moralità e OPERIAMO SECONDO LA MASSIMA o della felicità o del
dominio arbitrario della nostra volontà egoistica. Se, invece, ci ri mane
ancora un sentimento vago e intermittente del dóvere. possono verificarsi
le seguenti tre specie d’indeterminatezza corrispondenti alle tre
condizioni che rendono determinato il dovere. L’indeterminatezza può
concernere la MATERIA del dovere, cioè l’applicazione della legge morale
a un dato caso : in ciascun singolo caso tra più azioni possibili
non ce n è che una conforme al dovere. Ma, per insufficiente
attenzione e riflessione, noi cediamo segretamente, e quasi a nostra
insaputa, a qualche altra sollecitazione e perdiamo il filo conduttore
della coscienza --; il MOMENTO del dovere : in ciascun singolo caso si deve
adempiere subito ciò che è dovere. Ma, per l’affievolirsi della
coscienza, ci illudiamo che non occorra affrettarsi a ciò,
procrastiniamo il nostro perfezionamento e ci abituiamo a
procrastinarlo all’ infinito --; la FORMA del dovere : l’imperativo
morale è categorico, esige obbedienza assoluta e incondizionata. Ma, se
perdiamo di vista tale sua caratteristica, consideriamo il dovere,
anziché come un comando, COME UN SEMPLICE CONSIGLIO DI PRUDENZA che si può
seguire quando piaccia e non costi troppa abnegazione, e con cui si può
anche transigere; di qui quei compromessi, quegli accomodamenti con
la propria coscienza che sono altrettanti modi di eludere la legge morale,
altrettante cause di torpore per la riflessione, e che pongono nel
massimo pericolo la nostra salvezza spirituale, quando per caso non
sopravvenga dall’esterno una forte scossa, la quale ci sia occasione
a rientrare in noi, a ravvederci. Quest’ultima maniera d’intendere il
dovere, infatti, accusa la morale di RIGORISMO impraticabile, sotto lo specioso
pretesto che l’ adempimento del dovere impone troppi sacrifizi, quasi che
non fosse appunto in ciò l’obbligo nostro. Nel sacrificar tutto al
dovere, la vita, l’onore e ogni cosa all’uomo più caramente diletta. Quale
che sia il modo di oscurarsi della coscienza, si può dire in generale che
la causa di questo suo oscurarsi e del conseguente smarrirsi della
moralità, la causa iu- somma del male, va ricercata in una sconfitta
della libertà. Se la riflessione che ci eleva alla libertà consiste in
una creazione da parte della libertà e quasi in un colpo di grazia
che ci strappa all’oppressione della natura, il mantenimento della chiara
coscienza del dovere non può essere che un perpetuo riprodursi di questo atto
creativo, una creazione continuata, uno sforzo incessante della
riflessione, dell’attenzione ; e appunto perciò al menomo affievolirsi della
nostra vigilanza consegue la nosti-a caduta e il trionfo delle forze
antagonistiche della natura, le quali sono sempre e necessariamente in
azione: tosto che cessa lo sforzo morale, l’impulso naturale
inevitabilmente ha il sopravvento e, con la luce della coscienza, si
spegue anche LA VIRTÙ. Ogni uomo, dallo stato di natura, con cui
s’inizia la sua vita in una specie d’innocenza perchè sono ancora
ignorati gli stati superiori in cui l’innocenza primitiva assume aspetto
di colpa, perviene necessariamente alla coscienza di sé stesso: a ciò gli
basta riflettere sulla libertà che ha di scegliere tra più azioni possibili per
soddisfare l’impulso naturale. SIAMO ALLORA IN QUELLA FASE IN CUI EGLI OPERA
SECONDO LA MASSIMA DELL’INTERESSE O DELLA FELICITÀ (Siuenlehre). In questo
grado di sviluppo rimano volentieri, trattenutovi dalla forza d 'inerzia che
l’uomo, in quanto essere sensibile, ha in comune con tutta la natura
fisica. È vero che, in virtù della sua natura superiore, egli deve
'strapparsi a questo stato, e può farlo perchè dotato di libertà. Ma proprio la
sua libertà è impedita in questo stato, essendo essa alleata con quella
forza d'inerzia, da cui dovrebbe invece svincolarsi. Come farà egli a elevarsi
alla libertà, quando per questa elevazione stessa deve far uso
della libertà ? Donde attingerà la forza che faccia da contrappeso nella
bilancia per vincere la forza d’inerzia? Certamente non nella sua natura
empirica, la quale in nessun modo fornisce alcunché di simile. Gli
occorre, dunque, un aiuto superiore. L’uomo naturale qui non può nulla da
sé – ma da un miracolo puo essere salvato. Intanto sappiamo che l’inerzia,
la pigrizia — la quale a forza di riprodursi indefinitamente diviene
impotenza morale — è il vizio radicale, il male innato, il peccato
originale. L’'uomo è per natura pigro, dice assai giustamente Kant. Da pigrizia
nasce immediatamente viltà, il secondo vizio fondamentale dell’ uomo. LA
VILTÀ E LA PIGRIZIA D’AFFERMARE LA PROPRIA LIBERTÀ E INDEPENDENZA NELLO
*SCAMBIO ili AZIONE CON GLI ALTRI: donde tutte le specie di schiavitù
fisica e morale tra gli uomini. In genere si ha abbastanza coraggio
dinanzi a coloro di cui si conosce la debolezza relativa, ma si è
disposti a cedere, a umiliarsi, dinanzi a una supposta e temuta
superiorità qualsiasi. Si preferisce la sottomissione piuttosto che lo
sforzo necessario a resistere. Precisamente come quel marinaio che preferiva le
eventuali pene dell’ inferno al lavoro faticoso di correggersi in questa
vita. Il vile si consola di questa sottomissione forzata con l’astuzia e
con la frode. Da viltà nasce inevitabilmente il terzo vizio fondamentale:
falsità. È questa il risultato di uno sforzo indiretto che si
compie per ricuperare l’indipendenza perduta, quell’indipendenza
che nessun nomo può sacrificare ad altri cosi interamente come il pigro
finge di fare per essere dispensato dalla fatica di difenderla in aperta
battaglia. Falsità, menzogna, malizia, insidia derivano dall’esistenza di un
oppressore, e ogni oppressore deve aspettarsi tali frutti. Soltanto il
vile è falso. Il coraggioso non mente e non è falso. Per orgoglio, se non
per virtù. Ma come pud aiutarsi l’uomo, quando in lui è radicata la
pigrizia, la quale paralizza appunto l’unica forza con cui' egli deve
aiutarsi ? Che cosa gli manca propriamente? Non già t la forza, che egli ben
possiede, ma la coscienza della forza e l’Impulso a farne uso. E
donde gli verrà questo impulso? Non da altra foute che dalla
riflessione: è necessario che l’io empirico, avendo in sè l’immagine dell’Io
assoluto, e vedendosi in tutta la propria bruttezza, senta orrore di sè ;
soltanto per questa via potrà formarsi la coscienza di quel che deve
essere, soltanto di là verrà l’impulso. In genere gl’ individui che
formano la grande maggioranza degli uomini hanno bisogno di apprendere la
propria libertà da altri individui liberi, che essi contemplano come
modelli. Ma vi souo nella moltitudine spiriti eletti a cui fu dato di essere
gl’ iniziatori della moralità e quasi i primi maestri dell' umanità, per
es. i fondatori di religione. Si comprende come costoro, non avendo
attinto dall’ esempio altrui la consapevolezza della propria
indipendenza, e non trovando nella propria natura empirica il principio
dell’ emancipazione da questa natura empirica, si credano ispirati dall' alto
da una grazia soprannaturale, da uno spirito divino, mentre invece non
han fatto che obbedire alla propria natura superiore, all’Io assoluto, di
cui l’io finito e individuale deve divenire la copia fedele. Una volta emancipato dalla schiavitù della
natura e divenuto cosciente della propria libertà formale, l’uomo deve
far uso di questa per compiere l’infinita serie di azioni diretta verso l’assoluta
libertà materiale. Quale la materia di queste azioni? In qual modo l’ io
individuale si puo elevere gradatamente sino a quell’ indipendenza
assoluta, a quello stato oggettivo di libertà, che è il fine ultimo della
sua libera attività soggettiva? L’accennammo già. L’attuazione dello stato
di libertà non si ottiene se non determinando il mondo in funzione
della libertà stessa, operando cioè come chi considera e tratta le cose
dal punto di vista non della loro esistenza data, ma della loro FINALITÀ,
non del loro essere, ma del loro dover-essere, e le modifica perciò e le
adatta progressivamente nella direzione di questa FINALITÀ, di questo
dovere. Tale determinazione del mondo secondo l’idea della libertà,
determinazione posta come obbligatoria e come praticamente necessaria,
costituisce il sistema dei nostri doveri, la materia della moralità. In
altri termini, la morale propriamente detta non è che l’insieme delle condizioni
a cui il mondo va sottoposto e a cui deve prestarsi per essere strumento
all’ attuazione della libertà. Queste condizioni possono ridursi a tre,
perchè triplice è il punto di vista da cui può considerarsi il mondo.
Il mondo si può considerare in sè, come pura e semplice materia,
come natura corporea; o nel suo rapporto col pensiero, come materia di
conoscenza; o, finalmente, nel suo rapporto col volere, come oggetto
indispensabile all’ esercizio dell’ attività, come il luogo d’incontro delle
molteplici sfere di libertà individuale, come IL TEATRO DELLA SOCIETÀ. E per
la morale si tratta appunto di mostrare nella nostra natura corporea,
nella nostra intelligenza, e nella NOSTRA VITA SOCIALE, gli strumenti per
l’attuazione della libertà, la quale non può DIVENIRE REALE se non OPERANDO
sul mondo oggettivo, PER MEZZO del corpo, dell’intelligenza e DELLA
SOCIETÀ. Come, dunque, dobbiamo trattare, in vista del fine ideale da
raggiungere: il corpo, l’intelligenza, LA SOCIETÀ? Il nostro corpo, essendo da
una parte prodotto di natura, dall’ altra strumento della causalità del
concetto, funziona da intermediario tra la necessità e la libertà.
La volizione si esercita immediatamente su di esso, e per esso
modifica mediatamente il mondo esterno secondo i nostri concetti. Di qui
risulta chiaro un triplice dovere rispetto al corpo: un dovere negativo :
non far mai del proprio corpo il fine ultimo delle proprie azioni ; un
dovere positivo : conservare e coltivare il proprio corpo nell’interesse
della libertà ; un dovere limitativo : evitare come illecito ogni piacere
corporeo che non si riferisca al fine ultimo della nostra attività. u
Mangiate e bevete in onore di Dio: se questa morale vi sembra troppo
austera, tanto peggio per voi ; non ce n’ è un’ altra. L’intelligenza è
la forma indispensabile attraverso cui può attuarsi la libertà, poiché
soltanto la riflessione dà alla libertà la sua legge; fuori
dell’intelligenza ci sarà 1’ istinto cieco, non già la coscienza morale ;
l’intelligenza è il veicolo stesso della moralità. Diciamo di più-: per
la legge morale, mentre il corpo è condizione materiale puramente esterna
e soltanto della sua causalità, l’intelligenza è condizione materiale veramente
interna e di tutta quanta la sua essenza. Di qui un triplice dovere
anche verso l’intelligenza : un dovere negativo : non subordinare mai
materialiter ossia nelle sue
ricerche e cognizioni
l’intelligenza a nessuna autorità, foss’anche quella della legge
morale ; la ricerca da parte della ragione teorica dev’ essere
assolutamente libera e disinteressata, non deve preoccuparsi di altro che
non sia l’acquisto della conoscenza ; un dovere positivo : formare
l’intelligenza il più possibile ; il più possibile imparare, pensare,
indagare ; un dovere limitativo: subordinare formaliier l’intelligenza
alla moralità, la quale rimane sempre il fine supremo ; riferire al
dovere tutte le nostre investigazioni ; coltivare la scienza non per
curiosità ma per dovere, essendo essa strumento di moralità. LA SOCIETÀ,
infine, può dirsi addirittura l’espressione vivente della libertà, in quanto
questa non si concepisce come qualcosa d’individuale, ma soltanto come
una recijjrocanza di RAPPORTI TRA PIU INDIVIDUI corporei, intelligenti e VOLENTI.
L’ideale della libertà, quindi, si attua non nel singolo uomo, ma NELLA
COMUNITÀ di tutti gli uomini, in seno alla quale l’individuo DIVIENE
PERSONA e senza la quale per l’ individuo nessun perfezionamento, anzi
nemmeno l’esistenza stessa, sarebbe possibile, essendo individuo e SOCIETÀ
termini correlativi, coudizionantisi a vicenda. Se così è, se l’io
empirico non può porsi altrimenti che come individuo, e se come tale NON PUO
PRESCINDERE DA SUOI RAPPORTI CON LA SOCIETÀ, che vai quanto dire dalla
esistenza di ALTRI INDIVIDUI e dalla loro libertà, è evidente che egli
non può voler sopprimere questa esistenza e questa libertà, da cui sono
determinate l’esistenza e la libertà sua propina. La mia tendenza
all’indipendenza assoluta, fine supremo della mia attività, è dunque SUBOARDINATA
ALLA LIBERTÀ DEGLI ALTRI. Le libere azioni degli altri sono gli originari
punti di confine della mia individualità, e a esse io reagisco f non meno
liberamente, autodeterminandomi a quella serie di azioni che prescelgo e da
cui uscirà costituita la mia personalità, non essendo io se non
quel che mi fo • con le mie azioni, e non consistendo il mio essere in
altro che nel mio operare. Soltanto che mentre il mio operare, rispetto a
quegli originari punti di confine della mia individualità, ossia rispetto
ai liberi influssi degli altri, mi appare l’effetto della mia assoluta
autodeterminazioue, della mia libera causalità, quei punti di confine,
quei LIBERI INFLUSSI DEGLI ALTRI, invece, mi appaiono come predeterminati a
priori. Alla stessa guisa che dal punto di vista altrui s’invertono le
parti, e agli altri appare liberamente autodeterminato il loro agire
su di me e predeterminato a priori il mio reagire su di loro. Il
che dà luogo, è vero, a un’ antinomia tra predeterminazione e
autodeterminazione, ma a un’ antinomia che si risolve facilmente cosi. Tutte
le azioni libere (le mie come le altrui) sono predeterminate ab æterno
(ossia fuori del tempo) dalla ragione universale. Ma il momento in
cui ciascuna deve accadere e gli attori di essa non sono predeterminati.
Ecco, quindi, predestinazione e libertà perfettamente conciliate. Ciò premesso
- è evidente il-dovere fondamentale verso la società. Non impedire, con
l’esercizio della propria libertà, la libertà degli altri, hou trattare gli
altri uomini come cose, come semplici strumenti della propria libertà. Ma
anche nell’ interno di questo dovere sembra annidarsi un’ antinomia. Da una
parte devo tendere all’ indipendenza assoluta, all’ emancipazione
da ogni limitazione, dall’altra DEVO RISPETTARE LA LIBERTA ALTRUI, LA
QUALE E UNA VERA LIMITAZIONE ALLA MIA LIBERTA. Da una parte devo agire
sul moudo sensibile si da farne, come il mio corpo, il mezzo per giungere
al line supremo, all’ assoluta libertà, dall’ altra non mi è lecito modificare
i prodotti della libertà altrui. Come comporre questa nuova contraddizione?
Non difficile la soluzione. Basta supporre tra le molteplici libertà
individuali, anziché contrasto, vera COMUNANZA DI AZIONE. Se dal punto di
vista giuridico occorre una forza coercitiva -- l’autorità dello stato --
la quale, restringendo l’esercizio delle libertà individuali
antagonistiche, renda possibile il loro mutuo sviluppo, dal punto di
vista morale, invece, tutti gli individui sottostanno alla medesima
legge, tutti perseguono il medesimo fine, tutti sono in certo qual modo
identici nella loro condotta conforme al dovere. perchè tutti hanno il
medesimo dovere, e l’emancipazione degli uni, lungi dall’opporlesi, è
necessaria all’emancipazione degli altri, perchè l’indipendenza di ciascuno va
di pari passo con l’indipendenza di tutti, perchè LA LIBERTA, INTESA NEL
SENSO MORALE, NON SI ATTUA SE NON NELLA COLLETTIVITA DEGLI ESSERI LIBERI. Dunque,
non già limitazione o interferenza tra le libertà individuali, sì bene CONFLUENZA,
COLLABORAZIONE, CO-OPERAZIONE A UN’OPERA COMUNE, AL TRIONFO DELLE RAGIONE: il
rispetto della libertà altrui è qui compatibile con l’esercizio assoluto
della libertà propria, perchè questa e quella si accordano e si
completano reciprocamente, la liberazione dell’uno è in pari tempo
la liberazione di tutti. E invero, 1’ originaria tendenza
all’indipendenza assoluta non si riferisce a un determinato individuo; ha
per oggetto la libertà assoluta, l’autonomia della ragione in
generale. L’ultimo fine della moralità è il regno della ragione in quanto
ragione, il che NON SI OTTIENE SE NON NELLA COMUNANZA E CON LA COOPERAZIONE di
tutti gli esseri che partecipano della ragione, di tutta l’umanità ; la
libertà, ripetiamo non hì concepisce sotto la forma dell' individualità,
essa è di natura essenzialmeute sociale e universale, e non si attua nel
singolo uomo se uon in quanto questi da u individuo „ si eleva a “ PERSONA„
per confondersi in ispirito con tutti, gli esseri ragionevoli. Di qui
trae luce e spiegazione la nota formula kantiana. Opera in modo da poter pensare
LA MASSIMA DELLA TUA VOLONTA come PRINCIPIO d’ una legislazione universale, formula
più euristica che costitutiva della moralità, perchè non è un
principio come sembra al Kant, a cui il
metodo da lui adottato interdiceva di penetrare sino al fondo delle
cose ma soltanto una conseguenza di quel
vero principio che consiste nel comando dell’ assoluta indipendenza della
ragione. Di qui deriva la necessità che tutti-siano veramente liberi, che
nessuno sia impedito nell’esercizio dulia ragione e nell’adempimento del
dovere, che ciascuno si adoperi ad avvicinare sempre più quell’
ideale per quanto destinato a
rimanere sempre un ideale — che è la moralizzazione dell’umanità.
Soltanto l’uso della libertà contrario alla legge morale ho il dovere di
annullare ; ma siccome ciascuno deve operare secondo le proprie
convinzioni, cosi mi è lecito cercar di determinare o modificare soltanto
la convinzione degli altri, mai la loro azione. E poiché non si può agire
sulle convinzioni degli altri uomini se non vivendo in mezzo a essi,
anche per questa via si ribadisce la necessità morale della società e il
dovere per ognuno di vivere in essa. Segregarsi dalla società
significa rinunziare ad attuare il fine della ragione ed essere indifferente
al propagarsi della moralità, al trionfo della libertà, al bene dell’
umanità. Chi si propone di aver cura sola- Secondo Fichte la
suddetta formula kantiana va intesa non già nel senso: perchè un
quid può essere principio di una legislazione universale, perciò dev’essere
MASSIMA DELLA MIA VOLONTA ma nel senso
opposto : perchè un quid DEV’ESSERE
MASSIMA DELLA MIA VOLONTÀ, perciò può essere anche PRINCIPIO di uua
legislazione universale. In altri termini, non la forma determina il
contenuto della moralità, ma il CONTENUTO determina la forma. Se la moralità ha
per contenuto l’attuazione universale della ragione, ne segue che ciascun
individuo il quale operi di siuteressatameute, secondo ragione, può pensare la
propria condotta come un dovere per chiunque altro operi nelle medesime
circostanze. La proposizione kantiana, appunto con questa universalizzazione
della condotta individuale, non fornisce altro che un eccellente mezzo
di controprova per accertarci se, agli effetti della morale, la
condotta di un individuo sopporti o no universalità, possa o no erigersi
a legge per tutti: è perciò una proposizione euristica, non già
costitutiva della moralità.] mente di sè, dal lato morale, in verità non ha
cura neppure di si, perchè suo fine ultimo dev’essero il prendersi cura
di tutto il genere umano, la sua virtù non è virtù, ma soltanto im
servile, venale egoismo. Non già con una vita eremitica, dedita a
pensieri sublimi e speculazioni pure, non già col fantasticare, ma
soltanto con 1’operare nella e per la società si soddisfa al dovere. La
necessità etica della società e il dovere che ne deriva all’ individuo di
vivere in essa e di lavorarvi alla moi'alizzazione degli uomini, operando
sul loro spirito e formando le loro convinzioni, implica l’istituzione di
quella repubblica morale che i?i chiama la Chiesa e che è condizione
indispensabile per la reciproca azione sociale diretta a produrre
credenze pratiche concordi e con esse il progresso della moralità. La Chiesa,
infatti, rappresenta nel suo simbolo, accettato da tutti i suoi membri,
quell’accordo primitivo e, a dir così, minimo, che solo rende
possibile una comunità spirituale. Ma il simbolo non è, nè può essere,
che un punto di partenza o un mezzo, nou già un punto di arrivo o uu fine
; esso è indefinitamente perfettibile mercè la continua reciproca azione degli
spiriti gli uni sugli altri e il conseguente sviluppo della
moralità, e non può, quindi, rimanere fisso e invariabile. Così, appunto,
l’intende il PROTESTANTISMO. Invece, come fa il papismo, lavorare pur contro la
propria convinzione a mantenere il simbolo in una fissità assoluta, a rendere
la ragione stazionaria, a costringere gli altri in una fede già superata,
significa, oltre che ignoranza, trasgressione del dovere, perchè allora
si fa del simbolo non più 1’ espressione puramente prdVvisoria di un accordo
destinato a permettere la discussione delle diverse opinioni in
vista dell’ ulteriore sviluppo morale della comunità, ma la formula
definitiva di una verità assoluta e immutevole, il che sta in recisa
opposizione con lo spirito della moralità, la cui essenza consiste nello
sforzo e nel progresso all’ infinito. Come la Cliiesa è istituzione necessaria
al perfezionamento morale per quanto riguarda le convinzioni interne, COSI
LO STATO E ISTITUZIONE NECESSARIA per quanto riguarda le azioni esterne,
l’operare sul mondo sensibile. Ciò che sta fuori del mio corpo, ossia
tutto il mondo sensibile, è patrimonio comune e il coltivarlo secondo le
leggi della ragione non spetta a me soltanto, ma a tutti gli
individui ragionevoli; di guisa che il mio operare su di esso
interferisce con l’ operare degli altri, e può accadermi, perciò, di
arrecar danno alla libertà altrui, quando il mio operare non sia all’
unisono con 1’ altrui volontà: il che assolutamente non mi è lecito. Quel che
interessa tutti io non posso fare senza IL CONSENSO di tutti, e senza seguire, quindi,
principi universalmente accettati, previo ACCORDO, tacito o esplicito,
circa una parziale restrizione volontaria e generale delle diverse
libertà individuali. Il consenso a questa restrizione e 1’accordo che
determina i comuni diritti e la reciproca azione sul mondo sensibile è
oggetto del cosidetto contratto sociale e costituisce lo Stato. Lo
Stato, grazie alle leggi conosciute e accettate da tutti i cittadini,
rende possibile a ciascuno di essi di conciliare l’esercizio della
propria libertà col rispetto dovuto alla libertà degli altri; rende passibile,
iu altri termini, prevenendo eventuali conflitti nell’incontro delle libertà
individuali, quella convivenza sociale die è condizione strie iy ua non
della moralità'; di qui il suo alto significato e il suo valore etico. La
necessità del simbolo nella Chiesa, il rispetto delle leggi nello Stato,
impongono, non tanto alle convinzioni dell’individuo le quali sono incoercibili quanto alla loro manifestazione e
comunicazione, certi limiti che non si possono oltrepassare senza
mettersi fuori del simbolo o fuori della legge, fuori, iusomma, della
comunità morale e civile ottenuta iu un dato momento del progresso
umano. E pur tuttavia si è tenuti non solo a formarsi una convinzione
indipendente da ogni autorità, ma anche ad affermarla e parteciparla agli
altri. Come conciliare questa contraddizione tra 1’ assoluta libertà delle
singole coscienze e il rispetto alla fede comune? come risolvere questo
conflitto di doveri ? Non altrimenti che mediante una LIMITAZIONE RECIPROCA dei
due doveri, che vai quanto dire : ammettere la libertà assoluta delle
convinzioni e della loro comunicazione, ma circoscrivere questa libertà e
questa comunicazione a quel particolare gruppo sociale che è
il pubblico dotto. E invero, l’assoluta libertà delle convinzioni e
della loro comunicazione, se è impraticabile nel vasto ambito della
Chiesa e dello Stato, perchè per essere morale dovrebbe raccogliere cosa impossibile 1’ adesione unanime di tutti i membri della
comunità chiesastica e politica, è, invece, praticabile nel ristretto pubblico
dei dotti, il quale sta come anello di congiunzione tra la
convinzione comune e la privata. Il carattere distintivo del
pubblico dotto è uifa assoluti libertà e indipendenza di pensiero ; il
principio della sua costituzione è LA MASSIMA di non sottoporsi a nessuna
autorità, di basarsi in tutto sulla propria riflessione e di rigettare
assolutamente da sè tutto ciò che non sia da questa confermato. Nella
repubblica dei dotti non è possibile nessun simbolo, nessuna direttiva
prestabilita, nessun riserbo ; tra dotti si deve poter dichiaral e tutto
ciò di cui si è persuasi, appunto come si oserebbe dichiararlo alla propria
coscienza ; giudice della verità sarà il tempo, ossia il progresso della
coltura. E come assolutamente libera è l’investigazione scientifica, così pure
libero a tutti deve essere 1’ adito a essa. Per chi nel suo intimo
non può più credere all’ autorità, è contro coscienza continuare a credervi, è
dovere di coscienza associarsi al pubblico dotto. Lo stato italiano e la chiesa
debbono tollerare i dotti, altrimenti violerebbero» te coscienze, perchè
nessuna potenza terrena ha il diritto d’imporsi in materia di coscienza. Lo
tato e la Chiesa debbono anzi riconoscere la repubblica dei dotti, perchè
questa è condizione del loro progresso morale, in quanto che soltanto in
essa possono elaborarsi i concetti che modificheranno,
perfezionandoli, e il simbolo e la costituzione dello Stato: sin anche
come pubblici ufficiali per es.
nelle università i dotti possono
lavorare all’educazione degli uomini e alla formazione scientifica degli
insegnanti e dei funzionari tutti della Chiesa e dello Stato. È da
aggiungere, però, che il dotto, insieme con l’incontestabile diritto che
ha all’ esistenza, all' indipendenza e alla massima libertà di ricerca e
critica nel campo del pensiero, lia anche il preciso dovere di
sottomettersi all’autorità della Chiesa e dello Stato nel campo
deU’azioue ; onde non è lecito a chi ne faccia parte nè diffondere le
propine convinzioni, ancora discutibili e non universalmente accettate,
tra i fedeli e i cittadini che vivono fuori della repubblica dotta, nè,
tanto meno, attuarle senz’ altro nel mondo sensibile, minando cosi,
o addirittura sovvertendo, senza il consenso di tutti, gli ordinamenti e
i poteri costituiti; Stato e Chiesa hanno il diritto di impedire ciò. Sarebbe
un’oppressione della coscienza proibire al predicatore di esporre in
scritti scientifici le sue convinzioni dissenzienti, ma rientra
perfettamente nel1’ordine vietargli di portarle sul pulpito, ed egli
stesso, se'è illuminato, sentirebbe la propria immoralità quando
facesse così. In conclusione: l’ultimo fine di ogni attività
sociale è l’accordo universale tra gli uomini, accordo non
possibile se non sul puro ragionevole, perchè qui soltanto
ritrovasi ciò che agli uomini è comune. Col presupposto d’ un tale
accordo cade la differenza tra un pubblico dotto e un pubblico non dotto ;
scompaiono anche Chiesa e Stato. Condividendo tutti le medesime convinzioni, a
che servirebbe più il potere legislativo e coercitivo dello Stato?
Riunite tutte le coscienze individuali nella visione diretta della
verità assoluta, a ohe servirebbero più i simboli provvisori e mutevoli
della Chiesa ? Il pensiero e l’azione di ciascuno confluirebbe col
pensiero e 1’ azione di tutti, la legge morale troverebbe la sua espressione
nella sublime armonia di tutti gli esseri ragionevoli e buoni, nella
suprema comunione dei santi, l’io empirico e individuale,
completamente liberato da ogni limitazione, svanirebbe completamente
in seno all’Io puro e assoluto, si attuerebbe, insomma, nella
realtà l’Ideale, l’Infinito, Dio. Il contenuto materiale della moralità è
tutto in Questo perenne e progressivo attuarsi del regno della ragione
nel regno della natura, è tutto in questa ascensione, in quest’approssimarsi
del mondo verso lo spirito, vei’so la Libertà. Da quanto precede
risulta evidente che l’io empirico q la persona è soltanto mezzo all’
attuazione del fine supremo morale. La proposizione del Kant : L’uomo è
/ine in se, è giusta purché completata così : l'uomo è fine in .sr. ma
per gli altri. Siccome la legge si dirige a ciascuno e il suo fine è la
ragione in generale, ossia 1’ umanità tutta quanta, ne segue che tutti
sono fine a ciascuno, ma nessuno è fine a se stesso; 1’ attività di ciascuno è
semplice strumento per attuare la ragione. Con che la dignità del1’ uomo
non è abbassata, è anzi inalzata, poiché a ciascun individuo vien
affidato il raggiungimento del fine universale della ragione e dalla cura e
dall’ attività di lui dipende l’intera comunità degli esseri ragionevoli,
mentre egli, invece, non dipende da nulla. Ciascuno diventa Dio
nella misura che gli è possibile, ossia con riguardo alla libertà degli
altri, e appunto perchè tutta la sua iudividualità scompare, egli diventa pura
rappresentazione della legge morale nel mondo sensibile, vero Io puro.
Errano di molto coloro che pongono la perfezione in pie meditazioni, in
un devoto covare sopra sé stessi, e di qui aspettano l’annientarsi della
propria individualità e il loro confluire culi la divinità; la loro virtù è, o
rimane, e geliamo ; essi vogliono fare perfetti soltanto se stessi. La
vera virtù, invece, consiste nell’operare, e nell’operare per la comunità
: è quindi oblio, abnegazione intera di sè nell’interesse della totalità
degli esseri ragionevoli. Se cosi è, se l’io empirico o individuale
serve solamente di mezzo all’attuazione del fine supremo, ossia all’avvento del
regno della ragione, ne segue che i doveri verso l’io empirico sono
mediati e condizionati di fronte a quelli che, riferendosi direttamente
al fine supremo, diconsi immediati e incondizionati, ossia assoluti. Senonchè
la promozione del fine supremo è possibile soltanto in virtù di una ben
disegnata divisione di lavoro, altrimenti potrebbe molto accadere in più
modi, e molto non accadere affatto. È necessario, dunque, attuare una
tale divisione di lavoro, mediante 1’ istituzione di divei'se professioni,
da cui nascono doveri diversi, che diremo particolari o trasferibili
(perchè s’impongono soltanto a chi abbia scelto quella data professione)
di fronte ai doveri che sono generali o intrasferibili (perchè
s’impongono indistintamente a tutti gli esseri umani). Combinando questa
seconda classificazione dei doveri, fatta dal punto di vista del soggetto
della moralità, con la precedente, fatta dal punto di vista dell’oggetto
della moralità, si hanuo quattro specie di doveri: generali
condizionati; particolari condizionati; generali incondizionati; e particolari
incondizionati. I doveri generali condizionati
abbiamo dette si riferiscono all’io empirico in quanto mezzo e
strumento indispensabile per 1 adempimento della legge morale:
primo tra essi, dunque, V autoconservazione, la conservazione,
cioè, di questo mezzo o strumento. *L’ autoconservazione già
richiesta dal diritto naturale come condizione necessaria al I attuarsi di quel
futuro da cui attendiamo la soddisfazione implicita nell’oggetto del
nostro volere presente, e perciò come qualcosa di relativo diventa per la moralità materia di un
comando assoluto ; per 1’ uomo morale si tratta non più di attendere un
risultato più o meno egoistico e interamente conseguibile nel tempo,
ma di lavorare disinteressatamente all’attuazione di quel fine
supremo di cui egli non potrà mai godere, perchè posto all’
infinito. Dal dovere dell’ autoconservazione nasce : un divieto : evita tutto ciò che,
secondo la tua coscienza, può mettere in pericolo la tua conservazione in
quanto strumento della moralità (il digiuno e 1’intemperanza in riguai do al
corpo, l’inerzia intellettuale, il soverchio sforzo, l’occupazione
irregolare, il disordine della fantasia, la coltura unilaterale, ecc. in
riguardo all’ intelligenza) ; non espone al pericolo la tua salute, il
tuo corpo, la tua vita, quando non vi sia necessità morale. Segue da ciò
la più recisa condanna del suicidio : la moralità può comandare di
esporre la vita, non già di distruggerla ; la vita è la condizione stessa
dell’ adempimento del dovere, e il suicidio, distruggendo la vita, la sottrae
appunto al dominio della legge ; suicidarsi significa dichiarare di non
voler più adempiere il dovere; un comando : opera tutto quello che
ritieni necessario alla tua conservazione (il buon mauteuimeuto del corpo,
il nuo adattamento perfetto ai fini che deve conseguire, la coltura
dell’intelligenza, la ricreazione estetica, eco.). Non va mai
dimenticato, però, che il dovere dell’auto-conservazioue è condizionato,
essendo l’io empirico semplice strumento della moralità : quindi, dove il fine
della moralità non fosse compatibile col dovere «Iella conservazione,
sarebbe moralmente necessario che la vita dell’individuo venisse sacrificata a
quel fine, che il dovere coudizionato fosse subordinato al dovere
incondizionato : quando la moralità lo esige, ho il dovere di arrischiare
la mia vita, e tutti i pretesti con cui cercassi di nascondere la
mia viltà per es., quello di
risparmiarmi la vita per operare ancora dell’ altro bene che altrimenti
rimarrebbe incompiuto andrebbero contro
il dovere, il quale comanda in modo assoluto e non ammette indugi al suo
adempimento. Tra i doveri particolari condizionati attinenti, cioè, ai diversi uffici e
alle diverse professioni individuali sta
anzitutto quello d’avere un ufficio, d’esercitare una professione
nell’interesse della società, di contribuire in qualche misura all’
esistenza e all’ organizzazione sociale ; poi 1’ altro di scegliersi a
ogni modo un ufficio, una professione, e non già secondo l’inclinazione, ma con
la coscienza d’ avere la migliore attitudine all’ uno o all’ altra,
considerate le proprie forze, la propria coltura, le condizioni esterne
dipendenti da noi, poiché non il sodisfaci- mento dei nostri gusti dev’
essere lo scopo della nostra vita, ma 1’ avanzamento del fine della
ragione : onde gli uomini uou dovrebbero scegliersi uno stato prima
d’essere giunti alla necessaria maturità della ragione, e sino a
questa maturità si dovrebbe educarli tutti allo stesso modo; infine il
dovere di attendere con tutta coscienza all’ufficio o alla professione
prescelta, formando sempre meglio all’uno o all’ altra il corpo e lo
spirito, secondo che più occorre (all’agricoltore, per es., occorre più
la forza e la resistenza fisica, all’ artista la destrezza e 1’ agilità
dei movimenti, allo scienziato la coltura spirituale in tutte le
direzioni, ecc. Di una gerarchia delle professioni e degli uffici secondo
il loro grado di dignità, si può parlare dal punto di vista sociale
soltanto nel senso che le molteplici occupazioni umane sono subordinate
le une alle altre come il condizionato e la condizione, come il mezzo e il fine
; ma dal punto di vista morale esse hanno tutte lo stesso valore,
tutte la stessa dignità : quel che importa è adempieide bene. I doveri
generali incondizionati si riferiscono non più allo strumento, ma al fine
stesso della moralità, che è il dominio della ragione nel mondo sensibile
e nella totalità degli individui per opera di ciascun individuo.
Primo tra essi il dovere verso quella libertà formale di tutti gli
esseri ragionevoli, nella quale sta 1’origine, la radice stessa della
moralità. La libertà formale di eia- scun individuo poggia sopra due
condizioni : la permanenza del rapporto tra la volontà individuale e il corpo
che ue è 1’ organo esecutivo; la permanenza del rapporto tra il corpo
individuale e il mondo sensibile che ne è la sfera d’ azione. Di qui due
specie di doveri concerneuti l’inviolabilità: del corpo altrui; della
altrui libertà d’azione: L'inviolabilità del corpo altrui implica; il
divieto di esercitare qualsiasi violenza o coercizione fisica su altri (la
condanna, quindi, della schiavitù, della tortura, dell’ omicidio eoe.); il
comando d’aver cura della vita e della salute degli altri come della
propria, essendo gli altri, al pari di noi, strumenti della
moralità (ama il tuo prossimo come te stesso); L’ altrui libertà
d’azione esige : in primo luogo l’esatta
conoscenza dei rapporti tra le cose, senza la quale manca ogni
garanzia che il risultato dell’ azione sarà conforme al disegno
della volontà ; di qui il dovere della veracità, il quale implica: il
divieto d’ingannare il prossimo, con l’inganno [Grice, SNEAKY INTENTIONS] si
danneggia la libertà degl’altri, trattandoli non come persone ma come
cose, e la conseguente condauna DEL VENIR MENO ALLE PROMESSE E DEL MENTIRE. Nessuna
menzogna è lecita, neppure la menzogna pietosa, o la pretesa menzogna
necessaria, neppure col pretesto dell’interesse altrui, o, peggio ancora,
con quello dell’ interesse della moralità, perchè la menzogna stessa, per
essenza sua, nasce da viltà ed è sempre radicalmente immorale; comando
d’illuminare e istruire il prossimo e di COMUNICARGLI LA VERITÀ. In
secondo luogo la proprietà, ossia quella sfera d’azione nel mondo
sensibile senza la quale manca, oltreché la materia prima per attuare i
disegni della propria volontà, altresì la sicura coscienza di non
disturbare, con l’esercizio della propria libertà, la libertà degli
altri, come esige la legge morale ; di qui il dovere dell’ istituzione e
della conservazione della proprietà, il quale implica : a) il divieto di
distruggerla, usurparla o menomarla in qualsiasi maniera; il comando
d’acquistarsi una proprietà e di procurarne una a ciascun individuo (come
ogni oggetto dev’ èssere proprietà di ciascuno affinchè tutto il mondo
sensibile rientri nel dominio della ragione, così ognuno deve avere
una proprietà ; in uno Stato in cui un sol cittadino non abbia una
proprietà, ossia una sfera esclusiva se non di oggetti, almeno di diritti
a certe azioni, non esiste in generale nessuna legittima proprietà ; la
beneficenza consiste non nel fare l’elemosina, ma nel fornire a ciascuno
il modo di vivere del proprio lavoro). In fatto di libertà non può
mai nascere conflitto tra esseri che operino secondo ragione ; ma quando
della libertà si faccia un uso contrario al diritto, nasce collisione tra
determinati atti di più individui e viene posta in pericolo, quindi, la
vita o la proprietà, insomma la libertà del singolo. E poiché è
proprio dello Stato attuare l’idea della legalità, così spetta allo Stato
appianare gli eventuali conflitti tra individui, contenendo, mediante la
forza della legge giuridica, ciascuno entro i propri confini. Non sempre, però,
lo Stato può immediatamente intervenire a comporre contese : sottentra
allora il dovere della persona privata. È dovere universale, in tal caso,
salvare dal pericolo la libertà del1’ essere ragionevole, senza far distinzione
se si tratti di noi o di altri, perchè tutti, indistintamente, siamo
strumenti della logge morale. Se sono io l’aggredito, il dovere dell’
autoconservazione m’impone di difendermi con tutte le forze ; se è in
pericolo il mio simile a me vicino, l’amore del prossimo m’impone di
salvarlo anche a rischio della mia vita ; se più di uno è assalito nello
stesso tempo, si devo portare aiuto anzitutto a quello ohe si può salvare
più presto e del quale oi accorgiamo prima. In questo adempimento del
dovere non può essere mai mio fine uccidere 1’ aggressore, il nemico, ma
soltanto disarmarlo ; posso cercare d’indebolirlo, di ridurlo all’
impotenza di ferirlo, ma sempre in
modo che la sua morte non sia il mio fine. u Se, peraltro, rimanesse
ucciso, ciò dipende dal caso, contro la mia intenzione, e io non sono
perciò responsabile „. Si deve, insomma, trattare il nemico con 1’ amore
dovuto a ogni altro prossimo, perchè è aneli’ egli strumento della
moralità e se dalle sue azioni per il momento non si può concludere che 1’
opposto, non si deve, tuttavia, mai disperare che egli sia capace di
miglioramento. L’ uomo animato da sentimento morale non ha. nè riconosce,
nessun nemico personale; chi sente piu vivamente un’ ingiustizia soltanto
perchè fatta a lui, è ancora un egoista, è ancora lontano dalla vera
moralità. La libertà formale altrui, verso la quale s’impongono i doveri
ora descritti, è condizione necessaria ma non sufficiente per la moralità negli
altri ; questa è resa possibile da quella, ma, alfiuchè sia anche reale,
bisogna che gli altri prendano di fatto coscienza del loro dovere. Di
qui il comando, per chi si sia già elevato alla coscienza del
dovere, di allargare e promuovere la vita morale intorno a sè, di elevare
gli altri alla moralità. In qual modo? Poiché sarebbe assurdo voler
produrre la virtù con mezzi coercitivi, con premi o gastighi : la
moralità non si lascia imporre dal di fuori, nè per forza, ma nasce
soltanto da una determinazione interiore ; come può, dunque, tale
determinazione nascere per opera di un altro in colui che. ne è il
soggetto e che deve possedere già dentro di sé le condizioni atte a
produrla? 14li è che, per chi guardi bene, realmente esiste la possibilità,
di un influsso ^morale da coscienza a coscienza, ed esiste grazie a un
sentimento che serve di leva alla virtù, ma il cui sviluppo esige appunto
un’ azione dal di fuori, l’azione dell’esempio altrui : è questo il
sentimento del rispetto o della stima, il quale, sempre latente nel cuore
dell’uomo, da cui è inestirpabile, si desta, dinanzi alla condotta virtuosa
degli altri, suscita, a sua volta, il bisogno di provare il
medesimo sentimento dinanzi alla condotta propria, il bisogno,
cioè, dell’autostima, e sprona, per tal via, alla moralità. Sorge,
così, per ognuno il dovere del buon esempio, essendo l’esempio il vero
strumento dell’educazione morale. E poiché l’esempio, per avere efficacia, per
agire sulla coscienza altrui, dev’ essere pubblico, ne segue che anche la
pubblicità della condotta morale è per noi un dovere : essa nasce dalla
franchezza dell’ operare virtuoso e non ha nulla di comune con 1’
ostentazione, la quale deriva dal desiderio d’ essere ammirato. I doveri
particolari condizionati si dicono così perchè hanno sempre per oggetto
il fine supremo della moralità, il dominio della ragione, ina, anziché
all’umanità o alla società in genere, si riferiscono a ben
determinate relazioni umane, a ben definiti organismi sociali,
quale che sia la loro origine, vuoi da una stabile legge di natura — nel
qual caso diconsi naturali vuoi dalla
mobile scelta delle singole volontà — nel qual caso diconsi artificiali. Dalle
relazioni naturali nascono i doveri di stato, dalle artificiali i doveri
di vocazione. Due relazioni naturali sono possibili per l’uomo, e insieme
costituiscono l’organismo sociale della famiglia : la relazione tra
coniugi, la relazione tra genitori e figli. Di qui due specie di doveri
di stato : doveri tra coniugi, doveri tra genitori e figli, La relazione
coniugale è già 1’ inizio della moralità nella natura, segna già il
passaggio da questa a quella, perchè è uno stato che da una parte si
fonda sopra un IMPULSO NATURALE l’istinto sessuale — dall’ altra implica, in
entrambi x sessi, sentimenti — reciproca dedizione completa e perpetuo
reciproco amore, reciproca fedeltà che trasformano la sensualità brutale in una
spiritualità umana. Il coniugio, associazione naturale e morale a un tempo, è
condizione precipua per l’esistenza di quella società che vedemmo
essere a sua volta condizione cosi indispensabile per 1’attuarsi della
moralità, e, in quanto t,ale, costituisce un dovere che implica: il comando di
contrarre matrimonio, quando si verifichi la sua base naturale, 1’amore,
(l’individuo umano fisico non è un uomo o una donna, è, a un tempo, 1’uno
e 1’altra; lo stesso dicasi dell’individuo umano morale: vi sono in lui
aspetti dell’ umanità e proprio i
più nobili e disinteressati i quali
solamente nel matrimonio possono formarsi ; perciò u rimaner celibi
senza propria colpa è una grande infelicità, ma rimaner celibi per
propria colpa è una gran colpa „) ; fi) il divieto di relazioni sessuali
fuori del matrimonio (queste relazioni, infatti, sono fondate o sull’
amore della donna, e allora s’impone moralmente il matrimonio, ovvero
soltanto sul' piacere o sull’interesse, ohe vai quanto dire
sull’indegnità della donna, e allora sono immorali non solo per la
donna ohe si avvilisce, ma anche per l’uomo che l’avvilisce, che
vede in lei non più un essere umano e ragionevole, ma un semplice
strumento di voluttà. La relazione tra genitori e figli dà luogo a due
serie inverse di doveri: da parte dei genitori il dovere di vigilare la
vita e la salute dei loro nati e in pari tempo di suscitare e favorire in
essi lo sviluppo della libertà secondo la direzione del fine umano :
insomma il dovere dell’allevamento e del- P educazione alla moralità.
L’adempimento di questo dovere che del
resto è una specificazione del dovere universale che a tutti incombe di
plasmare sè e gli altri in conformità della legge morale risponde nella famiglia a un bisogno
del cuore, perchè la prole, per i coniugi, non è semplicemente prossimo,
ma il prodotto del loro reciproco amore ; da parte dei figli, se minorenni il
dovere di obbedienza, se maggiorenni il dovere di rispetto, venerazione,
assistenza ai genitori. Due relazioni artificiali,ma non meno
indispensabili delle naturali alla vita comune, possono essere stabilite dalla
libera scelta dei singoli individui e insieme costituiscono l’organismo
sociale dello Stato: agire direttamente sugli uomini, in quanto esseri
ragionevoli ; agire sulla natura, in quanto mezzo o strumento per le
nostre azioni verso gli uomini. Su questa base e in forza della
suaccennata necessità di una armonica divisione del lavoro movale e di una
organizzazione gerarchica dell’attività degl’ individui per la promozione del
fine supremo, si distinguono due specie di classi sociali, con due
corrispondenti specie di doveri di vocazione : classi superiori (scienziati,
educatori, artisti, impiegati), che lavo- t vano al
progresso spirituale della società, e sono, perciò, quasi 1’ anima dello
Stato; classi inferiori (minatori, agricoltori, artigiani, commercianti)
che assicurano 1’ esistenza economica della società e sono, perciò, quasi
il corpo dello &tato. Quali i doveri di vocazione delle classi
superiori ? L’ uomo allora soltanto adempirà la sua vera destinazione
quando abbia una visione chiara del dovere ; è necessario, dunque, formare
anzitutto la sua conoscenza teorica. Tale ufficio è la missione del dotto. Chi
consideri tutti gli uomini come una sola famiglia, è tratto a fare
delle loro cognizioni un unico sistema, il quale si accresce e si elabora
attraverso i secoli, come si accresce e si elabora attraverso gli anni
l’esperienza del singolo individuo. Ciascuna generazione, quindi, eredita
dal passato un tesoro di formazione scientifica, che la classe dotta è
chiamata a conservare e aumentare. I dotti sono i depositari e
quasi 1’ archivio della coltura della loro età; non però alla maniera dei
non dotti, che si arrestano ai risultati, si bene come chi possiede anche
i principi ohe condussero lo spi- L’essenza e la missione del dotto
furono più volte per il Fichte argomento di conferenze e di lezioni. Vedi
in proposito nel voi. VI dei Sàmmtl. Werke Ueber die Bestimmung des
Gelchrten, lezioni tenute a Erlangen; e nel voi. Ili dei Nachgel. Werhe,
Ueber die Bestimmung des Gelchrten, cinque lezioni tenute a Berlino.
A rito umano a questi risultati. E primo dovere del dotto,
quindi, acquistare una veduta stori co-filosofica del cammino della scienza
sino al suo tempo: altrimenti egli non potrebbe nè intendere il
significato della verità, uè epurarla dagli errori che 1* offuscano. È inoltre
dovere del dotto amare rigorosamente la verità e lavorare al suo
progresso mediante una ricerca sincera e disinteressata. la quale non si
proponga altro che servire al fine ultimo dell’umanità, all’avvento del
regno della ragione nel mondo. Il dotto, come ogni virtuoso, deve obliare
se stesso in questo fine : fare sfoggio di abilità nel difendere
errori sfuggiti o brillanti paradossi è soltanto egoismo e vanità
che la morale disapprova e un’ elementare prudenza sconsiglia ; perchè soltanto
il vero e il buono permane : il falso, per quanto sfolgori a tutta prima,
è destinato a perire. La formazione della conoscenza teorica è
solfante mezzo al fine supremo di promuovere la moralità, ed è un
mezzo inefficace quando non vi si aggiunga l’operare pratico, quando, cioè,
alla visione da parte dell’intelligenza non si aggiunga l’azione da parte
della volontà. Ora, è ufficio d’ur.a speciale classe di dotti, dedicarsi
in modo particolare all’ educazione della volontà del pubblico non
dotto, alla moralizzazione del popolo : sono essi i ministri della
Chiesa, i quali, appunto perchè si sono messi al servizio della comunità
etico-religiosa, hanno il dovere di adempiere il loro ufficio in nome
della comunità stessa, attenendosi scrupolosamente a ciò ohe è oggetto di
fede generale, al simbolo. Debbono, si, essere uomini di scienza e,
ilei loro campo speciale, vedere al di là e meglio di quanto vedano le
anime affidate alla loro cura, ma nel- 1 educare queste anime, nell’
inalzarle a vedute superiori, devono procedere in modo che tutte a un
tempo possano seguirli, altrimenti si romperebbe quell’accordo
spirituale che fa 1 essenza della Chiesa. Gli educatori del popolo,
in quanto tali, non devono svolgere o dimostrare conoscenze teoretiche e
principi, e tanto meno polemizzarvi sopra, come si fa nella repubblica
dotta; non è loro missione porre articoli di fede o creare la fede — perchè
articoli e fède esistono già come legame vivente della comunità
etico-religiosa ma ravvivare e
rafforzare la fede che il credente ha già nel progresso morale, ed
elevare con essa lo spirito di lui all’eterno, al divino.
Soprattutto l’esempio che danno è importante a tal fine ; la fede
della comunità riposa in grandissima parte sulla fede loro, e il
più spesso non è che una fede nella loro fede. Ora, se in essi la vita
non risponde alla fede, la fiducia in questa rimane profondamente scossa.
Spetta al dotto formare 1’intelligenza, spetta all’educatore morale formare la
volontà dell’ uomo : sta tra i due l’artista, il quale ha il privilegio
di educare il senso estetico, interposto come tratto d’unione tra la
conoscenza teoretica e 1 attività pratica. L’ artista non agisce
soltanto sull’ intelletto, come fa 1’ uomo di scienza, nè soltanto
sul cuore, come fa il moralista popolare, ma sullo spirito umano
tutto quanto : l’arte bella investo e pervade tutta l’anima in quanto
siuLesi di tutte le facoltà. La formula pili espressiva di ciò che 1’ arte fa è
la seguente : l' arie rende coninne il punto di vista trascendentale. Il
filosofo si eleva ed eleva con sé gli altri a questo punto di vista col
lavoro del pensiero e seguendo una regola ; l’artista vi si trova già
senza rendersene conto : nou ne conosce altri. Bai punto di vista
trascendentale il mondo è fatto : dal » punto di vista comune il
mondo è dato ; dal punto di vista estetico il mondo è dato, sì, ma non
altrimenti che come tatto. Il mondo reale, voglio dire la natura,
presenta due aspetti : da un lato è il prodotto delle
determinazioni o limitazioni a noi poste, dall’altro è il prodotto
della nostra attività libera, ideale, trascendentale. Sotto il
primo rispetto la natura è essa stessa limitata da ogni parte,
sotto il secondo è da per tutto libera. La prima maniera di vedere è
volgare, la seconda è estetica. Per es., ogni forma nello spazio può
considerarsi come circoscritta dai corpi vicini, ma anche come la
manifestazione della forza espansiva, della pienezza interna del corpo
che ha questa forma. Chi vede i corpi nelle prima maniera uon vede
che forme contorte, compresse, mostruose : vede la bruttezza ; chi li vede
nella seconda maniera, vede in essi la vigoria, la vita, lo sforzo della
uatura: vede la bellezza. Vale altrettanto della legge morale: in quanto
comanda assolutamente essa comprime ogni tendenza della natura, e
veder la nostra uatura a questo modo è come vederla schiava ; ma la legge
morale fa tutt’ uno con l’Io, ne è anzi l’espressione più intima, onde,
obbedendo ad essa, obbediamo a noi stessi : veder la nostra natura a
quest’altra mauiei’a è vederla esteticamente ^ ossia come bellezza. L’artista
vede tutto dal lato bello, vede in tutto energia, vita, libertà ; il suo
mondo è interiore, è nel1 umanità, e perciò 1’ arte riconduce 1’ uomo al fondo
di ne stesso, strappandolo al dominio della natura, liberandolo dai
vincoli della sensibilità e rendendogli l’indipendenza, che e il supremo
fine morale. Idi guisa che il senso estetico non e.la virtù, ma prepara alla
virtù, e la coltura estetica ha, un rapporto positivo con l’avanzamento
del fine morale. La moralità dell’ artista può raccogliersi in
questi due precetti : un itimelo per
tutti gli uomini : non ti fare artista a dispetto della natura, non
pretendere di essere artista quando la natura uon t’ispira ; un comando
per il vero artista: guardati dal favorire, o per egoismo, o per
desiderio di fama, il gusto corrotto del tuo tempo; sforzati soltanto a
riprodurre l’ideale che è in te; ispiiati alla santità della tua
missione, e sarai, a un tempo, uomo migliore e migliore artista.
L opera del dotto dell’educatore e dell’artista, in servigio del fine
supremo morale, presuppone sempre quella libera reciprocità d’azione tra
gli uomini, che è condizione prima di ogni comunità e a garantir la quale
— finché il regno della ragione non sia una realtà è necessario lo Stato. Quali sono ora i
doveri degli impiegati, ossia degli ufficiali dello Stato ? L’ impiegato
subalterno è rigorosamente legato alla lettera della legge, la quale, perciò,
dev’ essere chiara e uon dar luogo a dubbi d’interpretazione. Quanto all
impiegato superiore, al legislatore, al giudice inappellabile, i quali
non sono che i gerenti della volontà comune affermatasi, espressamente o
tacitamente, nel contratto sociale, debbono aneli’ essi conformarsi
alla costituzione politica attuale, nata dalla volontà comune, con
la riserva, però, di perfezionarla secondo le idee della ragione, tenendo gli
occhi tìnsi alla costituzione ideale. Chi regge lo Stato deve avere una
chiara veduta circa il fine della costituzione il quale non può essere che il
progresso umano — deve, perciò, elevarsi mediante concetti sopra 1’ esperienza
comune, dev’essere un do'tto nella sua materia, deve, come dice Platone,
partecipare alle Idee, e lavorare all’attuazione dell’ideale, favorendo
la coltura delle classi superiori. Da queste classi il progresso si
diffonderà poi nella comunità tutta quanta e trarrà seco, col suffragio
universale, la riforma della costituzione. Il reggitore di uno Stato, quindi, è
sempre responsabile dinanzi al suo popolo del modo ond’egli lo governa, e
se può considerarsi come legittima ogni costituzione che non renda
impossibile il progresso in generale e quello dei singoli individui,
sarebbe assolutamente illegittimo e immorale un governo che si proponesse
di conservare tutto com’ è attualmente. Quali i doveri di vocazione delle
classi inferiori ? La nostra vita e il nostro operare sono
condizionati dalla materia, la quale va trattata conformemente al
fine supremo che è il dominio della ragione sulla natura. Quanto
piu questo dominio si estende, tanto più l’umanità progredisce ; è necessario,
dunque, elaborare la rozza natura e renderla adatta ai fini spirituali ;
è qui, appunto, 1’ ufficio delle classi sociali inferiori, il cui lavoro,
riferendosi come ogni altro alla moralità di tutti, ha il medesimo
valore etico del lavoro delle classi superiori, alla pve/sibilità
del quale è condizione indispensabile. E poiché dal perfezionamento
meccanico e tecnico del lavoro materiale è facilitata] la conquista della
natura, ed è quindi promosso il progresso dell’ umanità, è nu dovere per
le classi inferiori migliorare e inalzare il loro mestiere. TI che
riohiede 1’adempimento d un altro dovere concernente i rapporti tra la classe
inferiore e la superiore. Il perfezionamento industriale dipende da conoscenze,
scoperte, invenzioni, che rientrano nell ufficio professionale dei dotti
; è dovere, dunque, della classe inferiore, onorare la classe piò colta
appunto perchè, tale e attenersi ai consigli e alle proposte che da essa
le provengono per quanto riguarda il miglioramento di questo o quel
ramo d’industria, di questo o quel genere di vite, domestica, di questo o
quel sistema di educazione, ecc. Dal canto suo, poi, la classe superiore,
ben lungi dal disprezzai e, deve tenere nella piu alta stima la classe
inferiore, rispettarne la libertà, riconoscere il valore dell’opera
sua in riguardo agli interessi superiori dell’ umanità. Soltanto in
una giusta reciprocanza di rapporti tra le varie classi sociali sta la
base del perfezionamento umano, inteso come fine supremo di ogni dottrina
morale. Riassumendo, la dottrina morale, nelle tre parti in cui si
divide, si propone un triplice oggetto e ottiene un triplice
risultato. Anzitutto nella deduzione del principio della moralità Fichte
mostra come LA RAGIONE E LA LIBERTÀ, le quali a tutta prima per la
coscienza empirica non sono che ideali, divengano poi in essa principi di
azione, esercitino una causalità. L’io empirico individuale non può porsi
nè pensarsi se non in base all’io puro universale, se non in quanto
ha per principio e per fine l’Ideale; e l’io puro universale non può
attuarsi se non ha per strumento l’io empirico individuale. L’ unità
dell’ ideale non acquista causalità, non diviene efficace nel mondo se non
pluralizzandosi, quasi in centri luminosi, in spiriti individuali, i
quali soltauto possono dirsi realmente esistenti e attivi. Ora, appunto
questo reciproco rapporto tra i molteplici io empirici e 1’unico Io puro
fornisce il contenuto del dovere e rende il dovere intelligibile. Il
dovere, infatti, è la necessita imposta all’io puro, ossia alla Libertà, di
attraversare 1’intelligenza, ossia l’io empirico, di divenire quindi
intelligibile, per passare dallo stato ideale di potenza a quello leale
di atto, necessità che non significa eteronomia perchè non impone alla
Libertà se non la propria attuazione. L’intelligibilità del dovere : ecco il primo
risultato che Fichte ottiene, colmando l’abisso che Kant lascia
aperto tra la conoscenza e la volontà – cf. H. P. Grice, KANTOTLE --, e
facendo dell’ intelligenza la condizione interna, il veicolo della libertà;
poiché l’intelligenza esprime quasi lo sforzo della libertà infinita per
assumere, con la coscienza di sè, la forma del reale. In secondo luogo, a
proposito dell’applicabilità del principio morale, Fichte mostra come il
mondo si presti all attuazione della ragione e della libertà ; il che
significa che la natura non è radicalmeute cattiva, non è assolutamente
refrattaria allo spirito; c’ è anzi una stretta parentela tra lo spirito e la
natura, non essendo questa che un prodotto inconscio di quello. Soltanto
che l’attuazione del1’ideale morale non si compie a un tratto nel mondo
con un semplice decreto della volontà, ma è la meta di un
progresso. L’idea di sviluppo, di progresso è una categoria della
moralità; ecco il secondo risultato che Fichte ottiene eliminando l’assoluta
irriducibilità riaffermata dal Kant tra libertà e natura . spirito e
materia, idealità e realtà, e facendo la natura, la materia, la realtà
suscettive di un progressivo liberarsi, spiritualizzarsi, idealizzarsi
all’infinito. Infine, nel fare 1’applicazione del principio morale, Fichte
mostra come il progresso richieda, per compiersi, una duplice condizione; l’uua
formale : occorre che 1’individuo acquisti in sè la coscienza della
libertà e della legge morale; 1’altra materiale : occorre che
1’individuo apprenda come il contenuto del dovere sia nell’ attuare
la moralità non solo in lui, ma anche fuori di lui, negli altri
individui, nel genere umauo tutto quanto, la cui totalità appunto
rappresenta la ragione universale ; occorre, insomma, che 1’individuo sappia di
essere strumento indispensabile per 1’ attuarsi dell’ ideale nel mondo, per
1’emancipazione cioè dell’ umanità intera dai vincoli della natura e per
la sua elevazione al regno dello spirito. La sostituzione d’ un ideale sociale
a un ideale individuale: ecco il terzo risultato che Fichte ottiene
trasformando la formula kantiana. Ogni uomo è esso stesso fine in quest’altra:
ogni uomo è esso stesso fine in quanto mezzo ad attuale la ragione
universale „ e subordinando così il singolo al tutto, 1’individuo all’
umanità. È facile argomentare, in base a questo triplice risultato, le
radicali innovazioni di cui, rispetto alla morale tradizionale, è feconda la
dottrina fichtiana. L’intelligibilità del dovere porta seco la
razionalità dell’azione e sostituisce alla fede, opera della grazia
divina o di uu impulso incosciente, la convinzione della
propria coscienza, l’unione indissolubile dell’energia della volontà
con la luce del pensiero. Per ben operare, all’ intellettualismo socratico
basta il retto giudizio, al volontarismo cristiano basta il cuore puro: Fichte
fonde i due 'punti di vista ed esige per la moralità degli atti così la
dirittura del giudizio come la purezza del cuore, così l’intima persuasione
come la buona volontà. Un dovere IRRAZIONALE, impenetrabile a ogni sforzo della
riflessione è, secondo lui, altrettanto immorale quanto un dovere
adempiuto per secondi fini. Inintelligibilità e insincerità sono per
Fichte ugualmente incompatibili col concetto del dovere. L’ idea di
sviluppo e di progresso, intesa come categoria della moralità, porta seco la
riabilitazione della natura rispetto allo spirito, alla cui attuazione, anziché
ostacolo, è condizione e mezzo. Senza la natura vedemmo mancherebbe allo
spirito l’oggetto su cui esercitare la propria attività, la quale ha bisogno
d’agire sulla natura per liberarsi dalla natura; senza i corpi
individuali, che della natura fanno parte, mancherebbe alla libertà dello
spirito il modo di pluralizzarsi in tante sfere d’ azione, le
quali, sebbene distinte, sono in recipi'oco rapporto fra loro, sì
da applicarsi tutte al medesimo universo e da rappresentare, unite
insieme, e attuare la vivente unità del cosmo e della ragione universale.
Ogni organismo corporeo, infatti, è strumento indispensabile affinchè la libera
attività spirituale abbia causalità nel mondo ; e da ciò deriva a esso e,
per estensione, a tutta quanta la natura, una consacrazione morale, che
non si accorda con la condanna della natura e del corpo pronunziata dall’
ascetismo cristiano, ma nemmeno con l’apoteosi della natura e del corpo
celebrata dall’edonismo pagauo ; una consacrazione morale che vieta a un
tempo così la macerazione, come il blandimento della carne, e che mentre,
restituisce alla vita dei sensi il suo ufficio subordinato e la sua vera
finalità nella vita morale si ricordi la prescrizione fichtiana già
citata: Mangiate e bevete a gloria di Dio ; se questa morale vi sembra
troppo austera, tanto peggio per voi ; non ce n’ è un’ altra „ non ritiene necessario nè una risurrezione
dei corpi, nè un’ immortalità personale. Perché Fichte non si
contenta più di una moralità che miri a una vita futura, o che si appaghi
di un sogno di perfezione interiore, ma vuole attuare sulla terra stessa
il regno dei cieli, riponendo la beatitudine, come già il Lessing aveva detto
della verità, non nel possesso, ma nella conquista della
libertà: essere liberi è nulla, divenire liberi è il cielo! La
sostituzione dell’ ideale sociale all’ ideale individuale porta seco
l’inversione del rapporto di dipendenza tra morale e diritto,
1’accentuazione massima del valore del regime di giustizia e la radicale
trasformazione del concetto tradizionale di carità. È, infatti, un’
originale caratteristica della dottrina fichtiana l’aver posto non più
come si soleva in passato la morale a condizione del diritto, ma il
diritto a condizione della morale. Per Fichte la libertà, materia del
dovere, non si concepisce senza la società, ma la società non si concepisce
senza rapporti di giustizia, dunque la giustizia, ossia il diritto
(juslitiu da jus = diritto) è il fondamento della morale ; affinchè
la moralità possa attuarsi, occorre prima assicurare a tutti 1’EGUAGLIANZA
nel possesso della libertà esteriore, e procurare a tutti indistintamente, con
una legislazione regolatrice dell’attività economica, quella parte di agiatezza
materiale che è necessaria all’opera di emancipazione morale o di
elevazione verso la vita dello spirito. Questa emancipazione ed elevazione
spirituale, poi, non deve uè può finire nel singolo individuo, che nella
dottrina fiohtiana nou ha per sè nessun valore assoluto, ma dev’ essere
promossa da ciascun uomo in tutti gli altri uomini, perchè l’ideale
etico, ben lungi dal ridurci a una salvezza individuale, a una perfezione
interiore, a una santità eremitica incurante della sorte delle altre
anime, o una santità operosa soltanto per conquistarsi un posto nel cielo,
consiste invece nella moralizzazione e nella salvezza di tutto il
genere umano, nell’avvento del regno della ragione su questa terra
e in tutta 1’umanità. Di qui deriva, secondo Fichte, il vero concetto
della carità : sforzarsi d’inalzare i nostri simili alla moralità. Ciascuno
deve proporsi non la propria felicità, e nemmeno soltanto la propria
libertà e indipendenza particolare, ma la libertà universale, la salute
spirituale di tutti; il culmine della virtù per l’individuo è darsi in
olocausto per la salvezza del mondo, accettando coraggiosamente
l’imperativo ingrato, se si vuole, ma categorico, di lavorare senza riposo e
senza ricompensa, a un fine di cui non vedrà mai l’adempimento completo,
al trionfo infinitamente lontano della ragione, e di lavorarvi in
un ambiente spesso indifferente ed ostile, con penosi sacrifizi, senz’ altro
stimolo che il puro amore del dovere, senz’ altra gioia che quella di
avere colla propria abnegazione contribuito all’ordine universale! Concezione
sublime questa, che ricorda l’altra affine dello Zend Avesta, la
quale fa dipendere aneli’ essa la salvezza di ciascuno dalla salvezza di
tutti e comanda a ognuno di combattere, secondo i propri mezzi e secondo il
posto assegnatogli, il regno delle tenebre e del male e di lavorare al
trionfo della luce e del bene. E nonostante questa abnegazione di
sè nell’ interesse della ragione universale, l’io individuale conserva
tutta la propria realtà e personalità, nè potrebbe avere una dignità
ma'ggiore, poiché quale dignità può ritenersi più grande di quella di un essere
dalla cui azione dipende la salvezza di tutti e alla salvezza del quale
concorre 1’ universalità degli esseri ragionevoli [Tale concezione trovasi
eloquentemente illustrata da Ficlite anche nella terza delle conferenze
da lui tenute a Jena sulla Missione ilei dotto ; ne riportiamo qui,
liberamente tradotta, la bella chiusa che è quasi una lirica: Se l’idea liuora
svolta si considera auche prescindendo da ogni rapporto con noi stessi, siamo
portati a vedere fuori di uoi una collettività in cui nessuno può lavorare per
sè senza lavorare per gli altri, nè lavorare per gli altri senza lavorare
in pari tempo per sè, essendo il progresso dell’ uno progresso di tutti,
la perdita dell’ uno perdita di tutti : spettacolo questo che ci sodisfa
intimamente e solleva alto il nostro spirito con la visione dell’armonia
nella varietà. L’interesse aumenta se, riportando lo sguardo sopra noi stessi,
ci riconosciamo membri di questa grande e stretta comunione. Sentiamo
rafforzarsi la coscienza della nostra dignità e della nostra forza,
quando diciamo a noi stessi ciò che ognuno può dire : la mia esistenza
non è inutile e senza scopo ; io sono un anello necessario dell’ infinita
catena che, dal momento in cui 1’ uomo assurse per la prima volta alla
piena consapevolezza del proprio essere, si svolge verso l’eternità;
quanti, tra gli uomini, furono grandi, buoni e saggi, i benefattori dell'
umanità i cui nomi leggo registrati nella storia del inondo, e i tanti i
cui meriti rimangono, mentre i nomi sono dimenticati, tutti hanno lavorato per
me; io raccolgo i frutti delle loro fatiche; ricalco sulla via che essi
percorsero le loro orme benefiche. Io posso, tosto che lo voglia, riprendere 1’
ufficio altissimo che essi si erano proposto ; rendere, cioè, sempre più
saggi e più felici i nostri fratelli ; posso continuare a costruire là
dove essi dovettero smettere; posso portare più vicino al compimento il
tempio magnifico che essi dovettero lasciare incompiuto. Ma anch’ io dovrò smettere
il [mio lavoro come essi, dirà qualcuno
Oh ! questo è il pensiero più elevato di tutti. Se assumo quell’
ufficio altissimo, non lo potrò mai portare a termine ; quanto è certo
che è mio dovere l’accettarlo, altrettanto è certo che Amiamo sperare che
la precedente esposizione della Dol/t'ina morale del Fichte non riesca
inutile per chi si accinga a leggere il volume, se non nella lingua,
nello stile del suo autore. Certo non tutti accetteranno integralmente
l’ardita metafisica ivi presupposta che
volentieri chiameremmo Etilica come quella dello Spinoza e che è
forse, per adoperare una felice espressione del Barzelletti, la più eroica
presa di possesso che mai mente umana abbia potuto fare, a un tempo, e
del mondo delle idee e del mondo della realtà ma tutti, senza
dubbio, saranno colpiti dalla originalità, profondità e finezza
delle vedute psicologiche ivi proiettate e analizzate con arte
insuperabile, e in particolar modo dalla nobiltà dei senti- non potrò mai
cessare d’operare; quindi non potrò mai cessare d’essere. Ciò che si suoi
chiamare morte non può interrompere 1’ opera mia; perchè l’opera mia
dev’essere compiuta, e non può essere compiuta nel tempo ; perciò la mia
esistenza non è limitata nel tempo ed io sono eterno. Assumendo parte di
quell’ufficio sommo, ho fatto mia l’eternità. Sollevo fieramente il capo
verso le rocce minaccioso, verso le cascate spumeggianti, verso le nuvole
velegginoti in un oceano di fuoco, e dico : io sono eterno e sfido il
vostro potere. Irrompete tutti su di me, e tu, cielo, e tu, terra, precipitate
in un selvaggio tumulto, e voi tutti, o elementi, spumeggiate e
rumoreggiato e stritolate nella lotta selvaggia pur 1’ ultimo atomo del
corpo che io dico mio ; la mia volontà sola, col suo fermo proposito,
aleggerà ardita e fredda sopra le rovine dell’ universo, perchè io ho
assunto la mia missione, e questa è più duratura di voi : è eterna, e, al
pari di essa, sono eterno io (Einige Vorlesungen ilber din
Bcstimmung dea Gelehrten, Summit. Werke)
V. la trad. franc., di Nicolas, De la destinatimi da savant et de
l'liomine de lettres par Fichte, Paris, De Ladrauge; e la trad. ital. di E.
Roncali, con prefaz. di Vitali, G. A. Fichte, La missione del dotto,
Lanciano, Carabba; La Storia della Eiloso/ia (estratto dalla Nuova
Antologia) p. 2. menti ivi espressi con forza sempre, e spesso con
vivezza di colorito. Del resto non c’è una sola opera del nostro
filosofo che non elevi e non fortifichi l’anima del lettore perchè i suoi
seritti, .emanazione diretta delle più intime e salde convinzioni, e la
sua vii* di pensiero, rientrano nel ciclo di quella vita d’azione che fa
del Fichte una personalità tipica, un represen latice man, direbbe l’Emerson.
E invero egli appartiene come già
affermammo all’eletta schiera di quegli
eroi, la cui apparizione nella storia diventa un possesso eterno per
l’umanità, e la memoria dei quali durerà quanto il mondo lontana.
Il carattere adamantino della sua figura morale, la quale è un’
unità altrettanto solida quanto ben fusa, grazie alla più perfetta
armonia tra idee pai-ole e opere, risulta scultoreamente espresso in questa
solenne dichiarazione, da lui fatta all’ inizio della sua carriera
universitaria : u Io sono un sacerdote della verità ; la mia esistenza è
votela al suo servizio; sono impegnato a tutto fare, tutto osare,
tutto soffrire per essa. Se per causa sua fossi perseguitato e odiato, se
dovessi anche morire, che farei di straordinario? nulla più che il mio assoluto
dovere. Parole, queste, che spiegano bene il poderoso influsso,
spiritual- mente rigeneratore, esercitato dal Fichte sui suoi
conna- ziouali e contemporanei, influsso che, propagandosi nello
spazio e nel tempo, ha suscitato e susciterà sempre sublimi emozioni e
risoluzioni virili in mille e mille anime, Cfr. prec. Einiye Vorlesungen
iiber die Bestini muny (Ics Gelehrten (Sdmmtl. Werke). che pur non
udirono mai la voce di lui. Costante missione di questo eminente spirito fu :
destare negli uomini il senso della divinità della propria natura,
fissare i loro pensieri sopra una vita spirituale come l’unica e vera,
insegnar loro a guardare a qualcos’ altro che la pura apparenza e irrealtà e
guidarli così allo sforzo tenace verso i più alti ideali di purezza,
abnegazione, giustizia, SOLIDARIETÀ e libertà. Questa infinita risonanza
di idee, sentimenti e propositi, attraverso le generazioni, nel tempo e nello
spazio, questa immensa simpatia e solidarietà umana che eccelle tra i principi fondamentali della
dottrina liclitiana èprofondamente
sentita dal Fichte stesso, come può rilevarsi anche dalla seguente bella
pagina con cui si chiude la seconda conferenza sulla Missione del Dotto. Ognuno
può dire : chiunque tu sia, tu che hai sembianze umane, sei un membro di
questa grande comunità; sia pure infinito il numero di quelli che stauuo tra me
e te, io so, nondimeno, che il mio influsso giungerà sino a te, e il tuo
sino a me ; chiunque porti sul viso, per quanto rozzamente espressa,
l’impronta della ragione, non esiste invano per me. Ma io non ti conosco,
nè tu conosci me. Oh! quanto è corto che ambedue siamo chiamati a esser
buoni e a divenire sempre migliori, tanto è certo che verrà il giorno, e sia
pure tra milioni e bilioni d’ anni (che è mai il tempo ?), verrà il
giorno, dico, in cui trascinerò anche te nella mia sfera d’azione, in cui
potrò beneficarti e ricevere benefizi da te, in cui anche il tuo cuore
sarà avvinto al mio coi viucoli, i più belli, di un libero scambio di
reciproche azioni (Siimmtl. Werke. Nome compiuto: Cleto Carbonara. Keywords: l’esperienza
e la prattica, esperienza, dull title: “l’empirismo come filosofia
dell’esperienza”! – i periti conversazionale – esperienza dell’altro, persona e
persone – solipsism, anti-solipsismo – esperienza, sperimento, esperire,
perito, perizia, per, fare, fahren, --. altri, altro, l’altro, l’altri, la
filosofia pratica, etica e diritto, la filosofia pratica di Giovanni Amedeo
Fichte, il pratico e l’aletico. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di
H. P. Grice, “Grice e Carbonara,” The Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza,
Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carbone: la
ragione conversazionale e l’implicatrua conversazionale – scuola di Mantova –
filosofia lombarda -- filosofia italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco
di H. P. Grice, The Swimming-Pool Library (Mantova). Filosofia lombarda. Filosofo italiano. Mantova, Lombardia. Grice: “I
love Carbone; my favourite of his tracts are on the ‘unexpressible’ – a
contradictio in terminis – and on ‘the flesh and the voice’ – but the favourite-favourite are his tract on ‘il bello’ (‘eidos ed eidolon’)
and even more, his “La dialettica”. Si laurea a
Bologna con “Marxismo: i soggetti nella storia". Studia a Padova. Insegna
a Milano. Opere: Condannàti alla libertà, adattamento teatrale del romanzo di
Sartre L'età della ragione, che è stato messo in scena in quello stesso anno.
Fonda a Pisa con il sostegno del Leverhulme Trust un
Programma di ricerca sulla filosofia, concentrandolo
su alcune delle sue figure più importanti e sulle parole-chiave: l'essere, la
vita, il concetto». Dirige la collana f«L'occhio e lo spirito. Estetica,
fenomenologia, per Mimesis Edizioni. Si
concentra sulla fenomenologia di Merleau-Ponty, indagandone il duplice ma
unitario significato estetico di riflessione filosofica sull'esperienza
percettiva e sull'esperienza artistica attraverso l'esame del parallelo
interesse manifestato da Merleau-Ponty per Cézanne e Proust. Tale indirizzo di
studi si è allargato dapprima a una più vasta considerazione della
fenomenologia e poi a quella del pensiero post-strutturalistico sviluppatosi in
Francia, pur mantenendosi imperniato sul parallelo interesse per la riflessione
filosofica sulla pittura e sulla letteratura moderne. Questo ampliamento ha
inoltre condotto gli studi ad affrontare tematiche di carattere gnoseologico e
ontologico, spingendolo anche a problematizzare il tradizionale rapporto tra la
filosofia e la "non filosofia". Tli orientamenti hanno trovato sbocco
in una riflessione sul peculiare statuto delle immagini nella nostra epoca,
sulle possibili implicazioni etico-politiche del rapporto con esse e sulla
dimensione ontologica dell'"essere in comune" (morire insieme,
dividualita, dividuo). che in tali implicazioni troverebbe espressione. Cura Merleau-Ponty
(Il visibile e l'invisibile; Linguaggio Storia Natura, La Natura, È possibile
oggi la filosofia? Saggi eretici sulla filosofia della storia) e Cassirer -- Eidos
ed eidolon, il bello. Influenzato prevalentemente
da Merleau-Ponty, di cui ha sviluppato in maniera teoreticamente personale
alcune nozioni. Tra queste, spicca il concetto di "idea sensibile",
intesa quale essenza che s'inaugura nel nostro incontro col sensibile e da
questo rimane inseparabile, sedimentandosi in una temporalità retroflessa --"tempo
mitico". Alla prima di queste nozioni è dedicato il dittico “Ai confini
dell'esprimibile” e “Una deformazione senza precedente: la idea sensibile Porta
a sintesi le implicazioni filosofiche delle nozioni sopra citate nel concetto
di "de-formazione senza precedenti", con cui egli intende
caratterizzare il peculiare statuto che a suo avviso la de-formazione assume
nell'arte, al fine di staccarsi dal principio imitativo della rappresentazione
e dunque dalla concezione del modello inteso quale “forma” preliminarmente
data. Alle nozioni sopra menzionate si è andata successivamente collegando
quella di "precessione reciproca" tra l’immaginario e il reale che
Carbone ha proposto di dar conto del prodursi della peculiare temporalità
retroflessa detta "tempo mitico". Cerca di sviluppare le implicazioni
etico-politiche della concezione della memoria legata all'idea di
"deformazione senza precedenti" nella sua riflessione sue venti di
cui ha sottolineato l'irriducibile carattere visivo indagandolo pertanto
mediante un approccio anzitutto estetico. Cerca le radici ontologiche di tali
implicazioni etico-politiche della filosofia, proponendo le nozioni di
"a-individuale" e di "dividuo" per sottolineare
l'intrinseco carattere re-lazionale (e dunque il divenire e la divisibilità) di
ogni identità. Altre saggi: “Ai confini
dell'esprimibile. Merleau-Ponty a partire da Cézanne e da Proust, Milano,
Guerini); Il sensibile e l'eccedente. Mondo estetico, arte, pensiero, Milano,
Guerini e Associati); Di alcuni motivi in Marcel Proust, Milano, Libreria
Cortina); La carne e la voce. In dialogo tra estetica ed etica, Milano, Mimesis);
Essere morti insieme (Torino, Bollati Boringhieri). Sullo schermo
dell'estetica. La pittura, il cinema e la filosofia da fare, Milano, Mimesis). Una
deformazione senza precedenti. la idea sensibile, Macerata, Quodlibet). Mereologia
Lingua Segui Modifica Ulteriori informazioni Questa voce sull'argomento
concetti e principi filosofici è solo un abbozzo. Contribuisci a migliorarla
secondo le convenzioni di Wikipedia. In filosofia la mereologia (composizione
del grecoμέρος, méros, "parte" e -λογία, -logìa,
"discorso", "studio", "teoria"[1]) è uno dei
"cosiddetti" «sistemi di Leśniewski», ossia è la teoria, o scienza,
delle relazioni parti-tutto[3]; presentata da Achille Varzicome teoria «delle
relazioni della parte al tutto e da parte a parte con un tutto»[4] (o «teoria
delle parti e dell'intero»), da Hilary Putnam come «"il calcolo delle
parti e degli interi"» e da Claudio Calosi come la «teoria formale delle
parti e delle relazioni di parte». Per Ferraris tale relazione parte-interopuò
essere tra oggetti concreti, regioni spazio-temporali, processi (parti temporali),
eventi e oggetti astratti.[8] Storia Modifica Lo studio delle parti
affonda le sue radici nelle speculazioni filosofiche dei presocratici, per poi
essere portato avanti da Platone, Aristotele e Boezio. Di grande importanza
nello sviluppo della mereologia furono anche i contributi di numerosi filosofi
medievali, tra i quali AQUINO, Pietro Abelardo ed Occam. Nel periodo
illuminista, anche Kant e Leibniz si interessarono a quest'ambito. Tuttavia, la
diffusione della mereologia in età contemporanea si dovette a Franz Brentano e
ai suoi studenti, in particolare Husserl, assieme al primo vero tentativo di
avviarne un'analisi attraverso strumenti formali. Leśniewski creò il termine mereologia per
denominare la teoria (che gli si presentò tramite un ragionamento di Husserl)
delle relazioni tra le parti e il tutto a partire dalla differenziazione — il
cui principale fine era "evitare" l'antinomia di Russell— tra
interpretazione distributiva (un oggetto come elemento di una classe) e
interpretazione collettiva (un oggetto come parte di un intero) dei simboli di
classe. Leśniewski, parzialmente influenzato da Whitehead, elaborò poi la
teoria in un sistema assiomatico deduttivo entro cui poter esprimere il calcolo
proposizionale e il calcolo delle classi. I sistemi di Leśniewski. Anche
se cronologicamente è il primo dei sistemi di Leśniewski la mereologia contiene
gli altri due: la prototetica (scienza delle tesi più originarie,
fondamentali ..le «prototesi») che è una logica proposizionale con
l'equivalenza come unico termine primitivo, la proposizione come
categoriafondamentale (ammettente la quantificazione per le proposizioni e i
funtori di qualunque categoria), un solo assioma, e delle regole di
separazione, sostituzione, definizione, separazione dei quantificatori e di
estensionalità. l'ontologia così denominata per la presenza del funtore indicato
con ε «preso nel suo senso esistenziale» (non indica l'appartenenza
insiemistica), essa è derivante dalla prototetica ed è anche denominata
«calcolo dei nomi» poiché gli è aggiunta la categoria dei nomi. Con la
mereologia si presenta una differente definizione d'insieme. Esso non è
definito distributivamente ma collettivamente(mereologicamente): l'insieme è
una concreta totalità di elementi, un aggregato e dunque un oggetto fisico
composto di parti, che è solo se, e finché, esse sono (v. dipendenza
ontologica]). Da ciò risultano varie differenze dalla "normale"
teoria degli insiemi tra le quali che in mereologia è "insensato"
ammettere l'esistenza di un insieme vuoto; indi insiemi di un solo elemento
sono tale elemento e la proprietà, unico termine primitivo della mereologia, di
«essere un elemento» è transitiva e antisimmetrica e riflessiva. Assiomi e
definizioni Modifica Il fondamento concettuale alla base della mereologia è la
nozione di parte. In generale, nelle lingue naturali con «parte» si intende una
porzione costitutiva di un oggetto, gruppo o situazione. Si può dire, ad
esempio, che «la maniglia è parte della porta», che «il Gin è parte del
Martini», che «il cucchiaio è parte dell'argenteria» o che «il calciatore è
parte della squadra». Tuttavia, nell'ambito della mereologia si cerca di
seguire un impianto nominalista definendo questa nozione in termini puramente
logici, prendendo in esame le relazioni tra gli oggetti senza entrare nel
merito di eventuali considerazioni ontologicheriguardo questi ultimi. Di conseguenza,
la relazione di parte si può applicare anche a concetti più astratti, come ad
esempio nelle frasi «la razionalità è parte dell'essere umano» o «la lettera
'c' è parte della parola 'cane'». Assiomi fondamentali Modifica La
nozione mereologica di parte può essere formalizzata mediante il linguaggio
della logica del primo ordine come un predicato, solitamente indicato con P.
Un'espressione del tipo {\displaystyle Pxy} dunque si legge «x è parte di y».
Per convenzione, questo predicato è concepito come una relazione binaria che
gode di tre proprietà fondamentali: il principio della riflessivitàdella
nozione di parte (Rp), il principio dell'antisimmetria della nozione di parte
(aSp) e il principio di transitività della nozione di parte (Tp). (Rp)
ogni cosa è parte di se stessa {\displaystyle (\forall x)(Pxx)}, (aSp) per ogni
x e y distinti, se x è parte di y, allora ynon è parte di x {\displaystyle
(\forall x)(\forall y)(Pxy\land x\neq y\rightarrow \neg Pyx)}, (Tp) per ogni x,
y e z, se x è parte di y e y è parte di z, allora x è parte di z {\displaystyle
(\forall x)(\forall y)(\forall z)(Pxy\land Pyz\rightarrow Pxz)}.[9][4] In altri
termini, la relazione di parte è un ordine parzialelargo. Nonostante bastino
solo questi assiomi per porre le fondamenta della mereologia standard (o
sistema M), si possono definire ulteriori concetti a partire dal predicato P.
Di seguito sono riportati quelli più frequenti: Uguaglianza
{\displaystyle EQxy:=Pxy\land Pyx} (x e y sono uguali se sono uno parte dell'altro),
Parte propria {\displaystyle PPxy:=Pxy\land \neg (x=y)} (x è una parte propria
di y se è parte di y ma è distinto da esso), Sovrapposizione {\displaystyle
Oxy:=(\exists z)(Pzx\land Pzy)} (x è sovrapposto a yse c'è una parte di x che è
anche parte di y), Disgiunzione {\displaystyle Dxy:=\neg Oxy} (x è disgiunto da
y se non ha sovrapposizioni con esso). In particolare, la nozione di parte
propria descrive un ordine parziale stretto (irriflessivo, asimmetrico e
transitivo) a differenza del suo corrispondente primitivo, mentre la
sovrapposizione è riflessiva, simmetrica ma non necessariamente transitiva. È
anche possibile ridefinire il concetto di parte in termini di parte propria:
{\displaystyle Pxy:=PPxy\lor x=y}, ovvero x è parte di y quando è parte propria
di y oppure quando è identico a y. Decomposizione e composizione Modifica
Per disporre di una teoria mereologica che sia realmente in grado di rendere
conto dell'uso del termine «parte» in maniera adeguata, occorre imporre
ulteriori restrizioni sull'ordine parziale P. Nello specifico, vi sono due
tipologie di principi aggiuntivi: quelli di decomposizione (che ragionano
dall'intero alle parti) e quelli di composizione (che ragionano dalle parti
all'intero). Tra gli assiomi di decomposizione, il principio di
supplementazione debole (o WSpp) afferma che nessun intero può avere una
singola parte propria. Ciò risponde all'intuizione comune secondo la quale se
un intero possiede una parte propria, allora deve averne almeno anche un'altra,
che costituisce il rimanente. In simboli si ha che: (WSpp) {\displaystyle
PPxy\rightarrow (\exists z)(Pzy\land \neg Ozx)}, ovvero se x è una parte
propria di y, allora esiste (almeno) un zche è parte di y ma non è sovrapposto
ad x. Similmente, il principio di supplementazione forte (o SSp) prevede che un
se y non è parte di x, allora y ha una parte che non è sovrapposta a x. In
simboli: (SSpp) {\displaystyle \neg Pyx\rightarrow (\exists z)(Pzy\land
\neg Ozx)}. Una conseguenza logica del principio di supplementazione forte è
l'estensionalità (Exp). Questa importante proprietà afferma che due oggetti non
possono essere differenti se hanno le stesse parti proprie, o, in maniera
equivalente, se due oggetti hanno le stesse parti proprie, allora sono lo
stesso oggetto. In simboli: (Exp) {\displaystyle x=y\rightarrow
(\forall z)(PPzx\leftrightarrow PPzy)}. Un sistema mereologico che accetta,
oltre agli assiomi fondametali di M, anche i principi di supplementazione
debole, supplementazione forte ed estensionalità è detto mereologia estensionale
(o EM). Considerazioni ulteriori, che però non fanno riferimento al
significato della nozione di parte, possono includere l'idea che esista un
oggetto privo di parti proprie, ovvero l'atomismo, oppure l'idea che, al
contrario, ogni cosa ha parti proprie, o simili, come la proprietà della
densità, che nega l'esistenza di parti proprie immediate. Atomismo
{\displaystyle (\forall x)(\exists y)(Pyx\land \neg (\exists z)(PPzy))}
Infinitismo{\displaystyle (\forall x)(\exists y)(PPyx)} Densità {\displaystyle
(\forall x)(\forall y)(PPxy\rightarrow (\exists z)(PPxz\land PPzy))} Tra
gli assiomi di composizione, il principio di somma mereologica o fusione
formalizza l'idea esistano degli interi composti esclusivamente ed esattamente
da un certo numero di parti. Ad esempio, la Spagna e il Portogallo compongono
la Penisola Iberica (o, in maniera equivalente, la Penisola Iberica è la somma
mereologica di Spagna e Portogallo). Di contro, la mano destra e la mano
sinistra non compongono il corpo umano, poiché quest'ultimo possiede anche
altre parti (gli occhi, il naso, i piedi, ecc.). Nei casi che, come in
quest'esempio, prevedono solo due parti la somma mereologica può essere
definita come segue: {\displaystyle Szxy:=Pxz\land Pyz\land (\forall
w)(Pwz\rightarrow (Owx\lor Owy))}(ovvero z è la somma mereologica di x e y se x
e ysono parte di z e ogni parte di z è sovrapposta a x o y) Si tratta di un
principio controverso, soprattutto se le parti che compongono la somma sono
potenzialmente infinite e non soltanto due. È infatti possibile generalizzare
tale definizione per indicare una somma di infinite parti: {\displaystyle
Sz\varphi x:=(\forall x)(\varphi x\rightarrow Pxz)\land (\forall
w)(Pwz\rightarrow (\exists x)(\varphi x\land Owx))}, dove φ indica una generica
proprietà. Vi sono almeno tre possibili posizioni che si possono assumere nei
confronti dell'esistenza somma mereologica: Nichilismo mereologico Non
esistono somme mereologiche, e anche gli oggetti che a prima vista sembrano
composti sono in realtà semplici. In altri termini, utilizzando un'immagine già
evocata da Peter van Inwagen, non esiste il tavolo, ma esistono solo atomi
disposti a forma di tavolo. Per un nichilista mereologico la Spagna e il
Portogallo non compongono la Penisola Iberica allo stesso modo di come la mano
destra e la mano sinistra non compongono il corpo umano, perché né la Penisola
Iberica né il corpo umano esistono (in senso mereologico, perlomeno).
Moderatismo Le somme mereologiche esistono soltanto in determinati casi e solo
qualora vengano soddisfatte determinate circostanze. Un moderatista potrebbe
ammettere che la Spagna e il Portogallo compongano la Penisola Iberica in virtù
di qualche proprietà di queste parti, ma negare che la mano destra e quella
sinistra compongano qualcosa. Universalismo Le somme mereologiche esistono in
tutti i casi, anche qualora non sembri possibile a prima vista. Per un
universalista qualsiai insieme di oggetti, ancorché totalmente differenti,
compone qualcosa. Non soltanto, dunque, la Spagna e il Portogallo compongono la
Penisola Iberica, ma anche la mano destra e quella sinistra compongono una
somma, benché non esista un termine per riferirsi ad essa. La nozione di somma
mereologica, assieme a quella di prodotto mereologico, costituisce la base
della mereologia estensionale classica (o CEM). -Logia, in Treccani.it –
Vocabolario Treccani Istituto dell'Enciclopedia Italiana. Coniglione Leśniewski,
Stanisław, in Treccani.it – Enciclopedie on line, Istituto dell'Enciclopedia
Italiana, Varzi ^ Achille Varzi, Ontologia e metafisica, in Agostini e Nicla
Vassallo (a cura di), Storia della Filosofia Analitica, Torino, Einaudi, Putnam
Calosi; Ferraris Torrengo Inwagen, Material Beings, New York, Cornell
University Press, Ithaca, Varzi (2014) per una definizione di prodotto
mereologico. Cotnoir e Varzi, Mereology, Oxford, Lando, Mereology: A
Philosophical Introduction, Londra, Bloomsbury. Varzi, Mereology, in The
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Stanford, Edward N. Zalta, Calosi,
Mereologia, in APhEx (Analytical and Philosophical Explanation),, Lezione 2 -
In difesa della relatività concettuale., in Etica senza ontologia, tr. it. di
Eddy Carli, prefazione di Luigi Perissinotto, Milano, Paravia Bruno Mondadori
Editori, Coniglione, 2.2.8. I contributi in campo logico, in Nel segno della
scienza: la filosofia polacca del Novecento, Milano, FrancoAngeli, Torrengo,
2.6.5. Parte-intero, in Maurizio Ferraris (a cura di), Storia dell'ontologia,
Milano, Bompiani, Ferraris, Glossario, in Ontologia, Napoli, Guida, Voci
correlate Modifica Logica Ontologia Achille Varzi, Spatial reasoning and
ontology: parts, wholes, and locations, in M. Aiello, I. Pratt-Hartmann, e J.
van Benthem (a cura di), Handbook of Spatial Logics, Berlino, Springer-Verlag,
Varzi, Ontologia, in SWIF Edizioni Digitali di Filosofia, Volume Supplementare
2, Roma, Università degli Studi di Bari, Bosco, La Fundierung nella Terza
ricerca logica di Husserl, in Dialegesthai, Roma. Portale Filosofia: accedi
alle voci che trattano di filosofia Ultima modifica 18 giorni fa di FrescoBot
Quantificatore Rappresentabilità Geometria senza punti. Nome compiuto: Mauro
Carbone. Keywords: mereologia, organicismo in Hegel, il tutto e le parti, dialettica,
“individuo e dividuo”, divisio, visio, compositio, de-compositio, divisum,
indivisum -- eidos, forma, shape, il bello, essere en comune, mit-sein, l’impersonale,
l’intrapersonale, l’interpersonale – tutto, parte, tutto-parte, totum-pars,
unita, a-tomon, a-tomism, atomismo logico. tomismo logico, il tutto e le parti
-- #DialetticaDegl’EntrambiDividui -- -- --. Merleau-Ponty ‘linguaggio’,
individuus, dividuus, dividuo -- Refs.: Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di
H. P. Grice, “Grice e Carbone,” The Swimming-Pool Library, Villa Speranza,
Liguria, Italia.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carboni: la
ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale disegno dal vivo,
disgeno del nudo dal vero, disegno dal vero, disegno del nudo dal vero -- disegno
dall’antico, desegno dalla natura -- drawn from life -- tratto dalla vita – royal
academy –drawn from the antique – scuola di Livorno – filosofia toscana -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Livorno). Filosofo toscano. Filosofo italiano. Livorno, Toscana. Grice: “I love
Carboni – my favourite of his tracts is ‘between the image and the ‘parable’” –
a semiotics of communication with sections on ‘the tacit response,’ through the
looking-glass’, ‘towards the hypertext,’ and quoting extensively from some
‘conversational-implicature’ passages in Aristotle’s metaphysics, ‘To ask ‘why
is man man?’ is to ask nothing!” “For some expressions, analogy suffices!”
Insegna a Roma, Bari, Viterbo. Altre
opere: L’angelo del fare. Melotti e la ceramica (Skira) e Il colore nell’arte
(Jaca). Cura Dorfles, Brandi, Deleuze,
Guattari, Adorno. Tra le recensioni dei suoi saggi si segnalano: Giacomo
Marramao, Gianni Vattimo (“L’Espresso”), Gillo Dorfles (“Il Corriere della
Sera”), Victor Stoichita (“il manifesto”). Al Festival delle Letterature di
Mantova hanno presentato i suoi saggi Sini
e Didi-Huberman. Scrive su “Nòema” e “Images Re-vues” e sulla “Rivista di
Estetica”. “L’Impossibile Critico. Paradosso della
critica d’arte, Kappa); “Cesare Brandi. Teoria e esperienza dell’arte, Editori
Riuniti); “Il Sublime è Ora. Saggio sulle estetiche contemporanee, Castelvecchi);
“Non vedi niente lì? Sentieri tra arti e filosofie del Novecento,
Castelvecchi); “L’ornamentale. Tra arte e decorazione, Jaca); “L’occhio e la
pagina. Tra immagine e parola, Jaca); “Lo stato dell’arte. L’esperienza
estetica nell’era della tecnica, Laterza); “La mosca di Dreyer. L’opera della
contingenza nelle arti, Jaca); “Di più di tutto. Figure dell’eccesso,
Castelvecchi); “Analfabeatles. Filosofia di una passione elementare,
Castelvecchi); “Il genio è senza opera. Filosofie antiche e arti contemporanee”
Jaca); “Malevič. L'ultima icona. Arte, filosofia, teologia, Jaca). Drawing after the Antique at the British Museum: “Free” Art Education
and the Advent of the Liberal State, Martin Myrone Drawing after the Antique at
the British Museum: “Free” Art Education and the Advent of the Liberal State; Myrone.
The British Museum in London began regularly to open its newly established
Townley Gallery so that art students could draw from the ancient sculptures
housed there. This article documents and comments on this development in art
education, based on an analysis of the 165 individuals recorded in the
surviving register of attendance at the Museum. The register is presented as a
photographic record, with a transcription and biographical directory. The
accompanying essay situates the opening of the Museum’s sculpture rooms to
students within a farreaching set of historical shifts. It argues that this new
museum access contributed to the early nineteenth-century emergence of a
liberal state. But if the rhetoric surrounding this development emphasized
freedom and general public benefit in the spirit of liberalization, the
evidence suggests that this new level of access actually served to further
entrench the “middleclassification” of art education at this historical juncture.
Authors Martin Myrone is an art historian and curator based in London, and is
currently convenor of the British Art Network based at the Paul Mellon Centre
for Studies in British Art. Acknowledgements The register of students admitted
to the Townley Gallery was originally consulted during my term as Paul Mellon
Mid-Career Fellow in 2014–15. Thanks to Hallett and Turner of the Mellon Centre
for their continuing support and guidance, to Baillie Card and Rose Bell for
their careful editorial work, Tom Scutt for crafting the digital presentation
of my research, the two anonymous readers for their valuable critical input,
and to Antony Griffiths, formerly of the British Museum, and Hugo Chapman,
Angela Roche, and Sheila O’Connell of the British Museum, for providing access
to the register and for their advice. I am especially indebted to Mark Pomeroy,
archivist, and his colleagues at the Royal Academy of Arts for the access
provided to materials there and for advice and suggestions. I would also like
to thank Viccy Coltman, Brad Feltham, Martin Hopkinson, Sarah Monks, Sarah
Moulden, Michael Phillips, Jacob Simon, Greg Sullivan, and Alison Wright. Cite
as Martin Myrone, "Drawing after the Antique at the British Museum: “Free”
Art Education and the Advent of the Liberal State", British Art Studies,
Issue 5, dx.doi.org/10.17658/issn.2058-5462/issue-05/mmyrone From the summer of
1808 the British Museum in London began regularly to open its newly established
galleries of Graeco-Roman sculpture for art students. The collection, made up
almost entirely of pieces previously owned by Charles Townley, had been
purchased for the nation in 1805 and installed in a new extension to the
Museum’s first home, Montagu House, which was built earlier. After some
protracted discussion with the Royal Academy, detailed below, the collection
was made available for its students in time for the royal opening of the
Townley Gallery on 3 June 1808. A written record was kept of students admitted
to draw from the antique. This volume survives in the library of the Department
of Prints and Drawings at the British Museum and identifies one hundred and
sixtyfive separate individuals admitted through to 1817. 1 The register forms
the focus of this essay and is presented here as a facsimile and transcription,
with an accompanying directory of student biographies (see supplementary
materials below). This may be taken as a straightforward contribution to the
literature on early nineteenth-century art education, and the author hopes it
may be useful as such. However, it also situates the opening of the Museum’s
sculpture rooms to students within a rather more far-reaching set of historical
shifts. Namely, it argues that this new form of museum access was part of the
early nineteenth-century emergence of a liberal state that “actively governs
through freedom (free ‘individuals’, markets, societies, and so on, which are
only ‘free’ because the state makes them so)”. 2 Access to the British Museum
was “free” in that there were no charges or fees. Meanwhile, the arrangement
offered a degree of freedom to the students themselves; they were expected to
be largely self-selecting and self-regulating. When the arrangement was exposed
to public scrutiny, as a result of questions asked in parliament in 1821, the freedom
of access and the service this did to the public good were emphasized. But,
once closely scrutinized, the evidence suggests that this manifestation of the
freedoms encouraged by the liberal state had a social disciplinary role (even
if disciplinary function can hardly be recognized as such), in serving to
further entrench the “middle-classification” of art at this historical
juncture. 3 The conjunction of art education and a grandiose notion such as the
liberal state may be unexpected, and rests on three key assertions. The first
is that art worlds are structured and in their structure have a homological
relationship with the larger social environment. 4 The initial part of this
statement (that art worlds are structured) may not be especially hard to swallow,
given the relatively formalized and hierarchical nature of the London art world
during the early nineteenth century, when cultural authority was vested in a
small number of institutions, and the practices associated with academic
tradition in principle still held sway. However, that the structure of the art
world, in its hierarchical dimension, may also be homologically related to the
larger field of power, so that social relationships are reproduced within this
relatively autonomous sphere, is more clearly contentious, and runs contrary to
commonplace beliefs and expectations about talent and luck in determining
personal fate in the modern age—artists’ fortunes most especially. In fact, in
the period under review here, the artist became an exemplary figure in the new
narratives of social mobility: the art world came to serve as a model of how
talent or sheer good fortune could override social origins and destinies. 5 The
second assertion is that the Royal Academy and British Museum were developing
new forms of state institution, underpinned by the conjoined principles of
freedom of access and public benefit. Such has been argued importantly by
Holger Hoock, and while I depart from his arguments in some key regards, his
insights into the status of these institutions and the role of forms of
public–private partnership in their formation are crucial. 6 The third
assertion (and this marks a departure from Hoock), is that the state is not a
stable, centralized entity, or site of power either “up above” or “below”
historical actors. Instead, it is taken to be the sum of actions and
dispositions ostensibly volunteered by these historical agents in all their
multitude and variety. The crucial point of reference here is the sustained
body of work on the liberal state by the historian Patrick Joyce, deploying the
work of Bruno Latour and Michel Foucault, among others, to yield a more
materialistic and decentralized understanding of the emergence and role of
state bodies. 7 The state, in this view, is composed of technologies,
disciplinary structures, habits of mind, and ways of doing things. The
mechanics of art education, insofar as this involves the movement through or
exclusion of individuals from identified places, the arrangement of their
bodies in relation to one another and to their model, the management of their
behaviour within those places, the very motion of their bodies, hands, and eyes
under the surveillance of their peers, teachers or other authorities, may be
considered as a form of biopolitics; the student who entered his or her name
into the British Museum’s register of admission was producing his or her
governmentality. 8 The argument here is emphatically historical and states that
this arrangement, while it may have precedents and may have been seminal,
belongs to an historical moment—the emergence of the liberal state. My case,
which can be sketched out only in outline in this context, is that the
emergence of the familiar institutional arrangements of the modern art world
between the 1770s and the 1830s (in the form of actual institutions and
regulatory structures or permissions, including annual exhibitions, centralized
art schools supported by the state directly and indirectly, emphasis on
quantifiable measures of access and engagement as the test of public value, and
so forth) represents in an exemplary way the illusory freedoms promoted by
liberalism, and renewed by present-day “neo- liberalism”, as addressed by
commentators from the prophetic Karl Polanyi through to the later work of
Foucault and Bourdieu on the state, and Luc Boltanski and Eve Chiapello, among
others. 9 The early nineteenth-century art world can be proposed as a
privileged focus of attention because it was still of a scale which can allow
for the kinds of data-based analysis which must underpin any sort of
sociological exploration, and because its individual membership can be
documented in fine detail in a manner which is simply not possible at an
earlier historical date. Paradoxically, despite its announced commitment to
non-intervention and personal freedom, the emerging liberal state generated
huge amounts of documentation about society and its individual members—tax
records, parochial and civil records, the national census from 1801—which
digitilization has made more readily available than ever before, allowing this
generation of artists to be documented as never previously. 10 The production
of artistic identities through these records is not unrelated to changes in
artistic identity itself over the same timeframe. One way of realizing this
might be to consider the period outlined above——not as a period from the
foundation of the Royal Academy to its removal to Trafalgar Square, or even as
the era of Romanticism, as much literary and cultural history-writing would
dictate, but as the era from Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations (1776) to the
Reform Act (1832) and the Speenhamland system, a last experiment in patrician
social care before the Poor Law Amendment Act (1834), taking in Thomas Malthus
and David Ricardo. The challenge is thinking of these two frameworks not in
sequential or spatially differentiated ways, but as simultaneous and identical.
Within this emerging liberal state the figure of the artist is attributed with
a special degree and form of freedom, what has conventionally been alluded to,
in generally sociologically imprecise ways, as a feature of “Romanticism”,
slumping into “bohemianism” and a generic idea of art student lifestyle. If
this was a moment of unprecedented state investment in the arts (from the Royal
Academy through to the Schools of Design) and government scrutiny (notably with
the Select Committees), it simultaneously saw the emergence of artistic
identities expressing the values of personal freedom, freedom from regulation,
and even active opposition to the state. I propose that art education, as it
took shape in the emerging liberal state, might be explored as a “liberogenic”
phenomenon: among those “devices intended to produce freedom which potentially
risk producing exactly the opposite.” 11 As such, it may have renewed
pertinence for our own time, although this does not entail seeing a “causal”
relationship between the past and present, or a linear genetic relationship
between then and now. In fact, the purpose of this commentary, and the larger
project it arises from, 12 is rather to trouble our relationship with that
past. The intention is not, however, to point unequivocally to the era under
consideration as here entailing “the making of a modern art world”, with the
rise of art education and museums access representing a stage towards
democratization, as illuminated in stellar fashion by the great Romantic
artists (J. M. W. Turner—famously the son of a lowly London
barber—pre-eminently). I would want instead to take seriously Jacques
Rancière’s call for “a past that puts a radical requirement at the centre of
the present”, eschewing causality and “nostalgia” in favour of “challenging the
relationship of the present to that past”. 13 If giving attention to the
“freedom” of art education at the advent of the liberal state provides any
insight at all, it should do so by troubling rather than affirming our
narratives of the genesis of a modern art world. Access to the Townley Gallery
The arrival at the Museum of the Townley marbles, together with the development
of the prints and drawings collection and its installation in new, secure rooms
in the same wing, fundamentally changed the character of the institution. As
Neil Chambers has noted, having been primarily a repository of (often
celebrated) curiosities of many different forms, quite suddenly “The Museum was
now a centre for art and the study of sculpture.” 14 The shift was acknowledged
internally at the Museum by the creation in 1807 of a distinct Department of
Antiquities, which also had responsibility for the collection of prints and
drawings. But while the significance of the opening of the Townley Gallery in
the history of the British Museum is clear, the opening of the collection to
students has barely been noticed in the art-historical literature. The register
has been overlooked almost entirely, and the relevance of this development in
student access may not even be immediately obvious. 15 Figure 1. William
Chambers, The Sculpture Collection of Charles Townley in the dining room of his
house in Park Street, Westminster, 1794, watercolour, 39 x 54 cm. Collection of
the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum
Figure 2. Attributed to Joseph Nollekens, The Discobolus, 1791–1805, drawing,
48 x 35 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of
Trustees of the British Museum Townley’s collection had already famously been
on display for many years at his private house in Park Street, London. William
Chambers’ (or Chalmers’) drawing of the Park Street display from 1794 includes
a well-dressed young woman drawing under the supervision or advice of a man,
promoting the idea that the collection was available for sufficiently genteel
students of the art more generally (fig. 1). In his recollections of the London
art world, J. T. Smith described “those rooms of Mr Townley’s house, in which
that gentleman’s liberality employed me when a boy, with many other students in
the Royal Academy, to make drawings for his portfolios”. 16 Smith’s former
employer, the sculptor Joseph Nollekens, has been identified among the more
established artists who were also engaged by Townley to draw from marbles in
the collection (fig. 2). As Viccy Coltman has noted, “The townhouse at 7 Park
Street, Westminster became an unofficial counterpoint to the English arts
establishment that was the Royal Academy: as an academy of ancient sculpture,
much as Sir John Soane’s London housemuseum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields would
become an academy of architecture in the early 19th century.” 17 Evidently, a
number of the students and artists admitted to draw from the Townley marbles
once they were at the British Museum knew them formerly at first hand from
visiting 7 Park Street; for instance, William Skelton, admitted to draw at the
Museum in 1809, had apparently already studied and engraved three busts from
the collection for inclusion in the design of Townley’s visiting card (fig. 3).
Townley had hoped for a separate gallery to be erected to house the collection,
but his executors, his brother Edward Townley Standish and uncle John Townley
were unable to agree a plan. 18 The sale of the collection to the Museum was a
compromise. With the erection of a new gallery space for the collection
underway, the Museum considered how special access might be given to artists.
That the question was posed at all should be an indication of how far the realm
of cultural consumption and production was being folded in to the emerging
liberal state at this juncture. At a meeting of the Trustees on 28 February
1807, a committee was set up to consider how the prints and drawings
collections might be used by artists, and to draw up “Regulations... for the
Admission of Strangers to view the Gallery of Antiquities either separately
from, or together with the rest of the Museum: And also for the Admission of
Artists”. 19 Figure 3. William Skelton, Charles Townley's visiting card,
1778–1848, etching, 65 x 96 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image
courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum With the Gallery still under
construction, the Sub-Committee was not obliged to move quickly, and it proved
to be a protracted and unexpectedly fractious affair. 20 It was not until the
Museum’s general meeting of 13 February 1808, that the principal librarian,
Joseph Planta, reported “his opinion of the best time et mode of admission of
Strangers as well as artists, to the Gallery of Antiquities”, with the request
that Benjamin West, President of the Royal Academy, be asked to attend a
further meeting. 21 After delays, he did so on 10 March, after which the
Council drew up a set of regulations. 22 These went back to the Academy with
additions and changes, which were accepted by the Council who wrote to the
British Museum on the 10 May to that effect, noting that a General Meeting of
the Academy was to take place, “to prepare the final arrangement for his
Majesty’s approbation”. 23 Accordingly, at the British Museum, the
Sub-Committee’s reports and proposals were approved by the Standing Committee,
with “Resolutions founded on the above mentioned Reports” read at the General
Meeting of 14 May. 24 The resolutions, numbered so as to be inserted in the
existing regulations regarding admissions, were confirmed in the meeting of 21
May, over three months after what should have been a straightforward matter was
raised (see Appendix, below). 25 Clause number eight, concerning the payment of
Academicians charged with the supervision of students, evidently caused some
consternation within the Academy, as recorded in the diary of Joseph Farington.
26 The relative authority of the Council and General Assembly had been a
contentious matter in previous years, and the lengthy dispute over arrangements
with the Museum reflected lingering tensions. On 12 July 1808 the proposals
were read, and “After a long conversation it was Resolved to adjourn.” 27 The
subject was taken up on re-convening on 21 July, but without resolution. 28 At
yet another meeting, on 26 July 1808, the point about the Academy’s provision
of superintendents to monitor the students while at the British Museum was
referred back to Council. 29 We have to turn to Farington’s diary for a fuller
account. He noted that the Academy’s General Assembly had met on 12 July “for
the purpose of receiving a Law made by the Council ‘That permission having been
granted by the Trustees of the British Museum for Students to study from the
Antiques &c at the Museum, certain days are fixed upon for that purpose, et
that an Academician shall attend each day at the Museum et to be paid 2 guineas
for each day’s attendance’... Much discussion took place.” 30 At a further
meeting: “The Correspondence of the Council with the Sub Committee of the
British Museum was read from the beginning” and “much discussion” was had about
the supervision of the students, Farington making the point that: as the
studies of the British Museum shd. be considered those of completion and not to
learn the Elements of art the Academy shd. not recommend any student whose
abilities et conduct wd. not warrant it, that it should be considered the last
stage of study, when those admitted wd. not require constant inspection;
therefore daily attendance of a Member of the Academy wd. not be necessary. 31
The point of contest may have concerned the right of the Council to organize
things independent of the General Assembly of the Academicians, and a more
general question about economy (“Northcote proposed that the Academician who in
rotation shall attend at the British Museum, shd. have 3 guineas a day. West
thought one guinea sufficient”). 32 But Farington’s point is more revealing in
indicating the expectation that the selected students of the Academy were to be
largely self-regulating, and self-disciplining; they were to be granted freedom
because they had already internalized the discipline required by these
institutions. Figure 4. Front cover, Register of Students Admitted to the
Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum The matter finally settled,
students were admitted to the Townley Gallery from at least the beginning of
1809: the first entries in the register book are dated 14 January 1809 (figs. 4
and 5 to 11). On that date four students were enrolled, although only one of
them was at the Royal Academy. That was Henry Monro, the son of Dr Thomas
Monro, Physician at Bedlam and an amateur and collector who ran the influential
“academy” at his home in Adelphi Terrace. The other students included two of
the daughters of Thomas Paytherus, a successful London apothecary, and a Ralph
Irvine of Great Howland Street, who seems quite certainly to have been Hugh
Irvine, the Scottish landscape painter and a member of the landowning Irvine family
of Drum, who gave that address in the exhibition catalogue of the British
Institution’s show in 1809. Another five students registered in February and
July. This included another recently registered Royal Academy student, Henry
Sass, whose name was entered into the Academy’s books in 1805, recommended for
study at the British Museum by the architect and RA John Soane, and the artists
William Skelton, Adam Buck, Samuel Drummond, and Maria Singleton. The mix of
amateur and professional artists, young and old, and indeed the mix of male and
female students (discussed below), continued throughout the register. View this
illustration online Figure 5. Page 1, Register of Students Admitted to the
Gallery of Antiques, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image
courtesy of British Museum View this illustration online Figure 6. Page 2,
Register of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17.
Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the
British Museum View this illustration online Figure 7. Page 3, Register of
Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the
British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum View
this illustration online Figure 8. Page 4, Register of Students Admitted to the
Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum View this illustration online
Figure 9. Page 5, Register of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiquities,
1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees
of the British Museum View this illustration online Figure 10. Page 6, Register
of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiques, 1809–17. Collection of the
British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum View
this illustration online Figure 11. Page 7, Register of Students Admitted to
the Gallery of Antiques, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum Eight of the twelve students
registered on 11 November were current Academy students; this proportion of
Academy students to others continues throughout the record. But on the same day
Planta noted to the standing committee that the Royal Academicians not having
availed themselves of the Regulations in favour of their Pupils, et many
applications having been made to him for leave to draw in the Gallery of
Antiquities, he therefore submitted to the consideration of the Trustees,
whether persons duly recommended might not be admitted in the same manner as in
the Reading Room. 33 The matter was referred on to the general meeting. 34 On 9
December 1809 the new regulations were confirmed: Students who apply for
Admission to the Gallery are to specify their descriptions et places of abode;
and every one who applies, if not known to any Trustee or Officer, will produce
a recommendation from some person of known et approved Character, particularly,
if possible, from one of the Professors in the Royal Academy. 35 On 10 February
1810 it was instructed “That the Regulation respecting the mode of Admission of
Students to the Gallery of Sculpture, as made at the last General Meeting be
printed et hung up in the Hall, et at the entrance into the Gallery”. 36 The students
admitted through 1810 were predominantly students at the Royal Academy, but
also included the emigré natural history painter the Chevalier de Barde and
Charles Muss, already established as an enamel and glass painter. The same
pattern was apparent in subsequent years. Twenty-five students were registered
in 1811 and again in 1812, before numbers dropped to twelve in 1813, eight in
1814, picking up with nineteen in 1815, and dropping to nine in 1816. The
Museum’s original stipulation that no more than twenty Academy students be
admitted each year did not, it appears, create any undue constraints on the
flow of admissions. Far from having a monopoly over student admissions, as the
Museum’s original regulations had anticipated, the Royal Academy had apparently
been distinctly laissez-faire, doing little to try to push students forward to
make up the numbers. The galleries the students gained access to comprised a
sequence of rooms within the new wing added to accommodate the growing
collection of sculptural antiquities, notably the Egyptian material taken from
the French at Alexandria in 1801. The Egyptian antiquities dominated the
galleries in terms of sheer size, although the visual centrepiece, whether
viewed from the Egyptian hall or through the extended enfilade of rooms II–V
where the Townley marbles were displayed, was the Discobolus (fig. 12). 37 The
intimate scale of the galleries brought benefits, as German architect Karl
Friedrich Schinkel noted on his visit of 1826: “Gallery of antiquities in very
small rooms, lit from above, very restful and satisfying”. 38 But is also
imposed a practical limit on the numbers of students who could attend. This
changed when, in 1817, the Elgin marbles were put on display at Montagu House
in spacious, if warehouse-like, temporary rooms newly annexed to the Townley
Gallery (fig. 13). The spike of interest recorded in the register, with
thirty-seven students listed under the heading “1817”, must reflect this new
opportunity. The register terminates at this point, although the volume
continued to be used to record students and artists admitted to the prints and
drawings room (upstairs from the Townley Gallery) from 1815 through to the
1840s. 39 Figure 12. Anonymous, View through the Egyptian Room, in the Townley
Gallery at the British Museum, 1820, watercolour, 36.1 x 44.3 cm. Collection of
the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum
Figure 13. William Henry Prior, View in the old Elgin room at the British
Museum, 1817, watercolour, 38.8 x 48.1 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum Some form of register must
have been maintained, but appears not to have survived, and evidence of student
attendance after 1817 is largely a matter of anecdotal record. 40 These later
records also, incidentally, point to the variety of student practice in the
galleries. While the Museum’s original stipulations made the presumption that
admitted artists would be drawing (“each student shall provide himself with a
Portfolio in which his Name is written, and with Paper as well as Chalk”),
students evidently worked in different media as well. James Ward referred
explicitly to “modelling” in the Museum in his diary entries of 1817; and
George Scharf’s watercolour of the interior of the Townley Gallery from 1827
(fig. 14) shows a student sitting on boxes at work at an easel, with what
appears to be a paintbrush in his right hand and a palette in his left. 41
Nonetheless, the Townley marbles had lost much of their allure. Jack Tupper, a
rather unsuccessful artist associated with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,
recalled his growing disillusion when studying at the British Museum in the
late 1830s: “So the glory of the Townley Gallery faded: the grandeur of ‘Rome’ passed.”
42 Figure 14. George Scharf, View of the Townley Gallery, 1827, watercolour,
30.6 x 22 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of
Trustees of the British Museum The material record of student activity in the
Townley Gallery, in the form of images which seem definitely to derive from
this special access to the Museum, is extremely scarce. 43 Whatever was
produced in the Gallery was, after all, generally only for the purposes of
study, and was unlikely to be retained or valued after the artist’s death. John
Wood, a dedicated student at the Royal Academy from 1819, noted: “I am
surprised at the comparatively few drawings I made in the Antique School at the
Royal Academy, including my probationary one, not exceeding five, with an outline
from the group of the Laocoon.—In the British Museum I made a chalk drawing
from the statue of Libēra for Mr Sass”, that is, the Townley Venus, apparently
drawn by Wood as an exercise for the well-known drawing teacher Henry Sass. 44
Student drawings after the antique must have been numerous, but that does not
mean they were preserved. J. M. W. Turner had apparently attended the Plaster
Academy over one hundred and thirty times up to the point he became an ARA, in
1799. 45 Yet even with a figure of his stature, whose studio contents were so
completely preserved, and whose dedication to academic study was so notable, we
have only a handful of drawings which appear certainly to derive from his time
at the schools. 46 There are, doubtless, traces of study in the Museum to be
uncovered in finished works of the period. Charles Lock Eastlake’s youthful
figure of Brutus in his ambitious early work is evidently a direct lift from
the marble of Actaeon attacked by his own hounds in the Townley collection; he
had been admitted to draw from the antique in 1810 (figs. 15 and 16). But given
the dissemination of classical prototypes (in graphic form as well as in
plaster) it would be hard to insist that it was only access to the British
Museum’s antiquities which made such allusion strictly possible. Figure 15.
Charles Lock Eastlake, Brutus Exhorting the Romans to Revenge the Death of
Lucretia, 1814, oil on canvas, 116.8 x 152.4 cm. Collection of the Wiliamson
Art Gallery et Museum. Digital image courtesy of Wiliamson Art Gallery et Museum
Figure 16. Anonymous, Marble figure of Actaeon attacked by his hounds, Roman
2nd Century, marble, 0.99 metres high. Collection of the British Museum
(1805,0703.3). Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum The
Register of Students as Social Record Of arguably greater interest than the
question of the “influence” of access to the marbles on artistic practice is
the evidence the register provides about the social profile of the students.
This takes us to the heart of the question about the relationship between art
education and the state. This was, in fact, a question raised at the time. The
British Museum was in 1821 obliged to draw up a report on student and public
attendance of the Museum, prompted by Thomas Barrett Lennard MP, who had
entered a motion in the House of Commons seeking reassurance that this publicly
funded institution was not “merely an establishment for the gratification of
private favour or individual patronage”. 47 Lennard’s questions arose from a
growing body of criticism directed against the Museum, which turned on the
question of whether, as a publicly funded body, everyone could expect free
access, or only a more specialist minority. As one critic jibed in 1822, “If
the British Museum is open only to the friends of the librarians, et their
friends’ friends, it ceases to be a public institution.” 48 The report elicited
by Lennard’s question provided a detailed breakdown of admissions. With regard
to providing access to draw from the antique, the Museum indulged the
impression that it not only fulfilled but exceeded its commitment to admitting
Royal Academy students: providing the figures for the period 1809–17 (based,
surely, on the register under consideration here), the Museum’s report
elaborated: The Statute for the admission of Students in the Gallery of
Sculptures being among those required by the Order of the House of Commons, it
may not be irrelevant to add, that the number of students who were admitted to
make drawings in the Townley Gallery, from the year 1809 to the year 1817,
amounted to an average of something more than twenty. 49 Notably, this summary
gives the clear impression that the antiques were being opened to the students
of the Royal Academy; such is, quite reasonably, presumed by Derek Cash in his
recent, careful commentary on admission procedures at the Museum. 50 The report
also pointed to recent changes: In 1818, immediately subsequent to the opening
of the Elgin Room, two hundred and twenty-three students were admitted: in
1819, sixty-nine more were admitted, and in 1820, sixty-three. It asserted
that, now: Every student sent by the keeper of the Royal Academy, upon the
production of his academy ticket, is admitted without further reference to make
his drawings: and other persons are occasionally admitted, on simply exhibiting
the proofs of their qualification. According to the present practice, each
student has leave to exhibit his finished drawing, from any article in the
Gallery, for one week after its completion. 51 Thus stated, the Museum appeared
to be fulfilling its public duty in providing free access to appropriately
qualified students. The bare figures might seem to indicate a steady rise in
student interest, which could be taken as a marker of quantitative success. In
one of the earliest historical accounts of the Museum, Edward Edwards implied
that the statistical record was evidence of how Planta had progressively
extended access to the Museum: “From the outset he administered the Reading
Room itself with much liberality... As respects the Department of Antiquities,
the students admitted to draw were in 1809 less than twenty; in 1818 two
hundred and twenty-three were admitted.” 52 At that level of abstraction the
information appears beyond dispute. What I test in the remainder of this essay
is how these statements stand up to the more individualized account of student
activity represented in the biographical record. That record does include the
most assiduous students of the Royal Academy of the time, who certainly did not
need the kind of “constant inspection” Farington worried about, the kind of
student anticipated by the Museum’s regulations. Among these we could count
Henry Monro, Samuel F. B. Morse and Charles Robert Leslie, William Brockedon,
Henry Perronet Briggs, William Etty and Henry Sass, the last two famously
dedicated as students of the Academy. 53 However, the full biographical survey
of the register points to a more complicated situation. Of the one hundred and
sixty-five individuals named in the register, it has proved possible to
establish biographical profiles for the majority: details are most lacking for
about twenty-four of the attending students, although in most of those cases we
can conjecture at least some biographical context. 54 Slightly less than half
the total number of individuals listed were recorded as students at the Academy
at a date which makes it reasonably likely that they were actively attending
the schools when they were admitted to the British Museum (eighty in all). 55
Around twenty more established male artists attended, and several of these were
formerly students at the Royal Academy, including John Samuel Agar, John
Flaxman, and James Ward. Whether they were pursuing their private studies or
undertaking more specific professional tasks is not always clear. There are,
certainly, a few cases where the latter appears to be the case. When William
Henry Hunt was admitted it was explicitly for the purpose of preparing drawings
for a publication; both William Skelton and John Samuel Agar were probably
admitted in connection with his ongoing work engraving from sculptures at the
Museum. It seems likely that the “Students to Mr Meyer”, that is, the engraver
and print publisher Henry Meyer, were engaged on professional business, as was
Thomas Welsh, recommended by the publisher Thomas Woodfall. More striking,
though, is the determined presence in the register of artists who did not
pursue the art professionally or full-time, including the relatively
well-documented Chevalier de Barde, Arthur Champernowne, John Disney, Hugh
Irvine (assuming he is the “Ralph Irvine” who appears in the register), Robert
Batty, Edward John Burrow, Edward Vernon Utterson, and a number of others
designated as “Esq”, so clearly from the polite classes, even if their exact identities
remain unclear. There are at least fifteen male individuals who appear to come
from backgrounds sufficiently socially elevated or affluent enough to suggest
they were taking an amateur interest rather than pursuing serious studies. 56
Enough of these men are known to have practised art to make it quite certain
that they were not, at least generally, being admitted to consult the
collection without intending to draw, and John Disney was admitted explicitly
“to make a sketch of a Mausoleum”. Notable, in this regard, are the large
number of women admitted to study, most of whom are or appear to be from polite
backgrounds, including the Paytherus sisters, Elizabeth Appleton, Louisa
Champernowne, Miss Carmichael, Elizabeth Batty, Miss Home, Lucy Adams, Jane
Gurney, Maria Singleton, and Anne Seymour Damer. 57 Some were established
artists, or became so; others were pursuing art as a polite accomplishment, or
at least we can assume so given their family circumstances; in other cases the
situation is by no means clear-cut. All were admitted without special comment
or notice despite the issues of propriety around the drawing of even the
sculptured nude figure by female artists which crops up in contemporary
commentaries. 58 This may be all the more striking given the relative paucity
of women admitted as readers at the British Museum library over the same
period: only three out of the three hundred and thirty-three admitted between
1770 and 1810, as surveyed by Derek Cash. 59 On this evidence, the field of artistic
study was, in the most literal terms, relatively female compared even to the
study of literature or history. This points to an under-explored context for
the inculcation of the students into life as an artist: the “feminine” sphere
of the home, and of siblings (whether brothers or sisters) alongside parents.
We have, surely, barely begun to consider the family as the context in which
artists are made as much as, if not more than, the studio and academy. Nor is
it straightforward to assume that those individuals who had enrolled as Academy
students also had expectations about the professional pursuit of the art. Among
the Academy students who attended, a large proportion, including a majority of
the most assiduous, were from polite social backgrounds, with fathers in the
professions, or who were office-holders or from the landowning classes,
including Henry Monro, John Penwarne, Richard Cook, William Drury Shaw, Charles
Lock Eastlake, Henry Perronet Briggs, Alexander Huey, Thomas Cooley, Samuel F.
B. Morse, Andrew Geddes, John Zephaniah Bell, Thomas Christmas, John Owen
Tudor, and Samuel Hancock. Others were the sons of elite tradesmen, highly
specialized craftsmen or merchants, including William Brockedon, Seymour
Kirkup, Charles Robert Leslie, Gideon Manton, and John Zephaniah Bell. These
were not, either, predestined to be artists, by simply following in their
father’s footsteps, but were opting in to an artistic career, having had,
usually, a decent education, and access to material and social support. In many
cases their brothers, who shared the same upbringing, became doctors or
lawyers, property-owners or merchants. A number of individual students gave up
the practice of the art—Thomas Christmas became a landowner in Willisden;
Richard Cook was able to retire, wealthy; Seymour Kirkup languished in Rome
dabbling in the arts; William Brockedon became more engaged as an inventor and
traveller; while others were never really obliged to draw an income from their
practice but pursued art as a pastime. It remains the case that there was a
high level of occupational inheritance; perhaps thirty-eight of the students
(23 percent) had fathers who were architects, engravers or artists in painting
or sculpture. Many were the sons of established artists (including Rossi, Bone,
Stothard, Ward, Dawe, Wyatt, Bonomi, and the brothers Stephanoff); a few were
part of “dynasties” encompassing generations engaged in the arts (Wyatt, Wyon,
Hakewill, Landseer). Even then, there is the case of John Morton (noted
confusingly as “John Martin” in the register, although the address given
provides for a firm identification), who, although the son of an artist and a
student at the Royal Academy, exhibited personally as an “Honorary”, suggesting
he was not professionally engaged. That his brother became quite prominent as a
physician suggests that this was a quite emphatically middle-class family
setting. There are several points to derive from this information, even as
lightly sketched as it necessarily is here. Firstly, it is noteworthy that
while female students were a minority they were a definite presence; in this
regard, the British Museum was like other spaces of artistic study, notably the
painting school at the British Institution. 60 The observation is upheld by the
contemporary records of student attendance at the British Institution or of
copyists at Dulwich Picture Gallery, and should serve as a reminder that the
Royal Academy was exceptional among the spaces of art education in being so
entirely male. 61 Secondly, it is striking how few came from humble backgrounds
unconnected with the art world; really, only a handful, which would include
John Tannock (son of a shoemaker in Scotland), William Etty (son of a baker in
York), John Jackson (son of a village tailor in Yorkshire), and William Henry
Hunt (whose father was a London tin-plate worker). The circumstances which led
to their gaining access to the London art world are, therefore, noteworthy, as
a third and most important point would be to emphasize how emphatically metropolitan,
polite, and middle-class was the British Museum as a site of artistic
education. The Townley Gallery on student days was a place where working
artists, students, amateurs, and patrons mingled. 62 While the Royal Academy is
conventionally seen as an engine of professionalization, it is striking that
the social affiliations of artists point to strong, arguably increasingly
strong, affiliations between amateurs and professionals—to the extent that our
terminology around this point needs to be reconsidered. Looking over the
biographical survey, the kind of social suffering or precariousness typically
associated with artists’ lives, perhaps especially during the era of
industrialization, is markedly absent. When it does appear—most strikingly with
the grim life-stories of the siblings Jabez and Sarah Newell—they are among the
minority of students from backgrounds neither closely connected with the art
world, nor comfortably middle-class or genteel. The examples of stellar social
ascent and achievement on the basis of talent alone are real; but they are the
exceptions rather than representative. The relative weight of personal and
Academic connection is exposed in the record of the provision of references for
students. Of the forty-three referees recorded between 1809 and 1816, less than
half (nineteen) were Academicians. One of those was Henry Fuseli, who as Keeper
of the Academy Schools through this period must have provided references as
part of his duties, and accordingly provided the second largest number of
recommendations (nineteen; all but one students at the RA). The lead in
providing references was taken by William Alexander, artist and keeper of
prints and drawings (twenty-two; mainly but not exclusively students). Overall,
officers and Trustees were most active in admitting students. Most only ever
provided a reference for one, or at most a handful, and the jibe about “friends
of the librarians, et their friends’ friends” contains some truth. But the same
point applies to the artists, most of whom only ever recommended one student,
often known personally to them already: David Wilkie recommended his assistant,
John Zephaniah Bell; George Dawe provided a reference for his own son; Thomas
Lawrence for his pupil William Etty; Thomas Phillips and John Flaxman, the
relatives of fellow Academicians; Thomas Stothard, the son of a neighbour
(Kempe). Geography, too, seems to have played a role, with referees often
coming from the same area as their favoured student: Francis Horner recommended
John Henning, whom he had known in their native Scotland; the Scottish George
Chalmers recommended James Tannock; Arthur Champernowne put forward William
Brockedon, his protégé, whom he had supported in moving from Devon to the
metropolis to pursue art; James Northcote recommended two fellow West
Countrymen; Benjamin West, notorious for giving special assistance to visiting
American students, two such (Leslie and Morse). If the admission procedure
could be interpreted as an opportunity for the Academy to assert a corporate, professionalized
identity, based purely on merit, we can nonetheless detect underlying patterns
of kinship, personal, social, and geographical affiliation. Simply stated, even
if study at the Museum was free and freely available, any given student would still
need to access a letter of reference and the time to go to the Museum (as well
as the material means to acquire the portfolio, paper, and chalks anticipated
by the Trustees). The opening hours for students militated against anyone
attending who had to use these daylight hours for work, a point which was made
quite often with reference to the Reading Room through this period. 63 The most
assiduous students needed the time free to study at the British Museum,
something that well-off students like Eastlake, Brockedon, Briggs, and Monro
had readily available to them. Their peers at the Academy who were obliged to
work during the day to make a living, or who were serving apprenticeships,
would simply not be able to make the hours available at the Museum. 64 The
ambitious painter Thomas Christmas was free to attend the Museum, having
dedicated himself to study after working as a clerk, but his brother, Charles
George Christmas, who held down a job in the Audit Office, would have
struggled; accounting for his studies at the Academy, he had told Farington,
“He shd. continue to do the business at the Auditors' Office, Whitehall, which
occupies Him from 10 oClock till 3 each day, as it will keep His mind free from
anxiety abt. His means of living and leave Him with a feeling of independence.”
65 Given that the students were admitted to the Townley Gallery from noon to 4
o’clock in the afternoon, and that the Trustees continued to prohibit the use
of artificial lights in the Museum, there was scarcely any real possibility of
Charles George Christmas attending, although he also enjoyed the comforts of a
middle-class home background (their father was a Bank of England official).
With the ascent of utilitarian criticism, visitor levels were turned to anew as
a measure of the institution’s fulfilment or failure to fulfil its “national”
purpose. On strictly statistical terms, the Museum seemed to be successful at
providing opportunities for art students. Only under the closest scrutiny, with
attention to the “micro-history” of individual lives, does that illusion start
to be tested. It is, though, at this “micro” level that we can apprehend the
characteristic paradox of an emerging cultural modernity, one that is still
with us. Yet the point, to follow Rancière, is not to see the past ascent of a
present situation, but to force ourselves to feel uneasy with that sense of
recognition and its tacit model of history. The evidence is that free access to
culture and the (circumscribed) promotion of equality were combined with socially
restrictive patterns of preferment. 66 Study at the British Museum may have
been free, and freely available to properly qualified students of the Academy,
but you needed to be in the right place at the right time, to have the time
available, and, indeed, to know or at least be able to access the right people,
to get in. This point may seem unduly sociological or even tendentious, but
overlooking it involves a denial of the socially invested nature of time,
specifically, of the scholastic time (given over to study or contemplation or
to creation) mythically removed from the influence of social forces. 67 The
acts of nomination which saw certain men and women given special access to the
Townley Gallery, acts so seemingly trivial in themselves involving perhaps only
an exchange of words and a scribbled note, were microcosmic manifestations of
social authority of the most far-reaching kind. 68 When Robert Butt, the
principal manager of the bronze and porcelain department at Messrs Howell et James,
Regent-street, was examined by the Select Committee on Arts and Manufactures in
1835, he noted: The process by which a knowledge of the arts of painting and
sculpture is now acquired is this: a young man receives tuition from a private
master; he draws from the antique at the British Museum for a certain time, and
when he shows that he has sufficient talent to qualify him for a student of the
Royal Academy he is admitted; but the expense of acquiring that preliminary
knowledge is considerable, and the young artist must also be maintained by his
relatives during the time that he is acquiring it. 69 The following year, in a
further parliamentary committee, this time dedicated to testing out the British
Museum’s claims to public status, James Crabb, “House Decorator” of Shoe Lane,
Fleet Street, was asked, “Did you ever obtain any assistance, by means of
casts, from the better specimens of sculpture in the Museum or elsewhere?”, to
which he replied, “I should derive assistance from them if I had the
opportunity, but I have not time.” 70 Considered sociologically, as the
personal experience of these men seems to have obliged them to do, time was
certainly of the essence. The prevalence of students with secure middle-class
backgrounds at the British Museum might, then, be taken as evidence of an early
phase in the “middle-classification” of art practice, the awkward but evocative
phrase used recently by Angela McRobbie in her eye-opening observations of
careers in the present-day creative industries. 71 Whatever emphasis may be put
on equality of access to educational opportunity, however rigorously fairminded
and anonymized the tests and measures involved in admission procedures, without
forms of positive support to counterbalance or actively adjust social
inequalities, those same inequalities will tend to be reproduced,
homologically, in the educational field. This is patently not a simple matter
of social and material advantage underpinning artistic enterprise in a wholly
predictable way; such would be a nonsense, in light of the many students who
did not enjoy such advantages. Instead, it is the very flexibility built into
the exclusionary processes of the emerging cultural field which is
significant—the possibility that talented students could get access, gain
reputation, achieve success, without being limited by their social origins.
“Freeing” art education allowed for the expression of personal preferences or
dispositions at an individual level, which at an aggregate level reproduced
larger power relations. Exposing that ultimately exclusionary process, which
may be marked only in small differences, in personal dispositions and
behaviours, in the personal choices and decisions which are neither truly
personal nor really pure as choices, is no small task. This essay, and the biographical
survey accompanying it, with its details of a multitude of student lives
otherwise scarcely recorded or recognized, is intended as a small contribution
to that larger project, with the excess of data presented here perhaps
imposing, in itself, new requirements on our understanding of the history of
art education. Appendix Regulations for the admission of students of the Royal
Academy to the Townley Gallery at the British Museum (May 1808): [7] That the
students of the Royal Academy be admitted into the Gallery of Antiquities upon
every Friday in the months of April, May, June, et July, et every day in the
months of August and September, from the hours of twelve to four, except on
Wednesdays and Saturdays the Students, not exceeding twenty at a time, to be
admitted by a Ticket from the President and Council of the Royal Academy,
signed by their Secretary. [8] The better to maintain decorum among the
Students, a person properly qualified shall be nominated by the Royal Academy
from their own body, who shall attend during the hours of study; the name of
such person to be signified in writing, from time to time, by the Secretary of
the Royal Academy to the Principal Librarian of the British Museum. [9] That
the members of the Royal Academy have access to the Gallery of Antiquities at
all admissible times, upon application to the Principal Librarian or the Senior
under Librarian in Residence [10] That on the Fridays in April, May June et July
one of the officers of the Department of Antiquities do attend in the Gallery
of Antiquities according to Rotation in discharge of his ordinary Duty. [11]
That in the months of August et September some one of the several Officers of
the Museum, then in Residence, do (according to a Rotation to be agreed upon by
themselves et confirmed by the Principal Librarian) attend on the Gallery upon
the Days for the admission of Students. [12] That the attendants in the
Department of Antiquities be always present in the Gallery during the times
when the Students are admitted. 72 Footnotes The original register is held in
the Keeper’s Office, Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum. Patrick
Joyce, “Speaking up for the State” (2014), https://www.opendemocracy.net/ourkingdom/ patrick-joyce/ speaking-up-for-state. These points are
made in light of a larger research project, which has given rise to the present
study: a biographical survey of all the students of paintings, sculpture, and
engraving who were active at the Royal Academy schools between its foundation
in 1769 and 1830 together with a monograph, provisionally titled The Talent of
Success: The Royal Academy Schools in the Age of Turner, Blake and Constable,
c. 1770–1840 (forthcoming). This fuller survey indicates several important
shifts over these decades, including a fundamantal shift in the proportion of
students coming from family backgrounds in the arts and design-oriented
trades, in comparison with those coming from professional and genteel
backgrounds. It exposes, specifically, a new group whose fathers were engaged
as “officers”, in the civil service or bureaucratic roles, who in turn had a
disproportionate representation within the developing art establishment (as
Academicians, or as officials in other cultural bodies). The term “art world”,
as designating a space of co-production, stems from Howard S. Becker, Art
Worlds (1984), rev. edn (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2008).
As deployed here, it is closer in conception to the sociological “field” as
detailed by Pierre Bourdieu across a succession of influential works. Notable
among these, for present purposes because of its methodological statement about
the homological analysis of the world (field) of art in relation to the field
of power, is The Rules of Art, trans. Susan Emanuel (Cambridge: Polity Press,
1996), esp. 214–15. See, notably, the chapter on “Workers in Art” in Samuel
Smiles’s Self-Help, first published 1859 with numerous further editions. On the
self-motivated artist as the model for all forms of work, see Angela McRobbie,
Be Creative: Making a Living in the New Culture Industries (Cambridge: Polity
Press, 2016), esp. 70–76. Holger Hoock, The King’s Artists: The Royal Academy
of Arts and the Politics of British Culture, 1760–1840 (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003) and Hoock, “The British State and the Anglo-French Wars
Over Antiquities, 1798–1858”, Historical Journal 50, no. 1 (2007): 49–72.
Patrick Joyce, The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London:
Verso, 2003) and Joyce, The State of Freedom: A Social History of the British
State Since 1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); also his “What
is the Social in Social History?”, Past and Present 206, no. 1 (2010): 213–48.
On this Foucauldian framing of art education and creative production within
liberalism, see McRobbie, Be Creative, 71–76 and passim. Karl Polanyi, The
Great Transformation: The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time (1944;
Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 2002); Michel Foucault, The Birth of Biopolitics:
Lectures at the Collège de France, 1978–1979, ed. Michel Sennelert, trans.
Graham Burchell (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Luc Boltanski and Eve
Chiapello, The New Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Gregory Elliott (London and New
York: Verso, 2007); Pierre Bourdieu, On the State: Lectures at the Collège de
France, 1989–1992, ed. Patrick Champagne and others, trans. David Fernbach
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2014). See Edward Higgs, Identifying the English: A
History of Personal Identification 1500 to the Present (London: Bloomsbury,
2011), 97–119. Higgs’s account is, essentially, positive about the liberties
and rights secured by this rising documentation. The position taken here is
more determinedly Foucauldian. For the foundational role of statistics in
“liberalisation”, and the hidden affinities between the liberal and the
totalitarian, see Michael Foucault, “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the
Collège de France, 1975–76, ed. Mauro Bertani and Alessandro Fontana,
trans. David Macey (London: Penguin, 2004). Foucault, Birth of
Biopolitics, 69. A biographical dictionary of Royal Academy students from
1769–1830. See note 3, above. Jacques Rancière, The Method of Equality:
Interviews with Laurent Jeanpierre and Dork Zabunyan, trans. Julie Rose
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016), 108. Neil Chambers, Joseph Banks and the
British Museum: The World of Collecting, 1770–1830 (London: Routledge, 2007),
107. The register is mentioned in the notice of Seymour Kirkup in G. E.
Bentley, Blake Records, 2nd edn (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University
Press, 2004), 289n. Kirkup was an unusually assiduous student at the Museum,
admitted in 1809 and renewing his ticket through to 1812. The reference in
Bentley appears to be the only published reference to the register. The
admission of the Paytherus sisters to draw at the Museum is noted by James
Hamilton in his London Lights: The Minds that Moved the City that Shook the
World, 1805–51 (London: John Murray, 2007), 72, although with reference to the
early Reading Room register (marked “1795”) in the British Museum Central
Archive, rather than the volume in Prints and Drawings. See J. T. Smith,
Nollekens and his Times, 2 vols., 2nd edn (London: Henry Colburn, 1829), 1:
242. Viccy Coltman, Classical Sculpture and the Culture of Collecting in
Britain since 1760 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 242–44. See B. F.
Cook, The Townley Marbles (London: British Museum Press, 1985) and Ian Jenkins,
Archaeologists and Aesthetes in the Sculpture Galleries of the British Museum,
1800–1939 (London: British Museum Press, 1992). Chambers, Joseph Banks, Derek
Cash, “Access to Museum Culture: The British Museum from 1753 to 1836”, British
Museum Occasional Papers 133 (2002), 68.
http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/publications/research_publications_series/2002/
access_to_museum_culture.aspx. The British Museum, Central Archive,
C/1/5/1029–30. Library of the Royal Academy of Arts, London, CM/4/50–52.
Library of the Royal Academy of Arts, London, CM/4/59. The British Museum, Central
Archive, C/1/5/1034. The British Museum, Central Archive, C/1/5/1043–144. Cf.
“Chapter III: Concerning the Admission into the British Museum”, in Acts and
Votes of Parliament, Statutes and Rules, and Synopsis of the Contents of the
British Museum (London, 1808), 15–16. Joseph Farington, The Diary of Joseph
Farington, ed. Kenneth Garlick, Angus Macintyre, and others, 17 vols. (New
Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 1978–98), 9: 3284. Library of the
Royal Academy of Arts, London, GM/2/366, 370. Library of the Royal Academy of
Arts, London, GM/2/371. Library of the Royal Academy of Arts, London,
GM/2/372–73. Diary of Joseph Farington, 9: 3313. Diary of Joseph Farington, 9:
3317. Diary of Joseph Farington, 9: 3284. The British Museum, Central Archive,
C/3/9/2426. The British Museum, Central Archive, C/3/9/2428. The British
Museum, Central Archive, C/1/5/1069. The British Museum, Central Archive,
C/1/5/1070. The arrangement of the galleries was first detailed in a written
description provided by Westmacott for Prince Hoare’s Academic Annals (London,
1809) and in Taylor Combe’s A Description of the Ancient Marbles in the British
Museum, 3 vols. (London, 1812–17). See Cook, Townley Marbles, 59–61. Karl
Friedrich Schinkel, “The English Journey”: Journal of a Visit to France and
Britain in 1826, ed. David Bindman and Gottfried Riemann (New Haven, CT, and
London, 1993), 74. The record of admissions to view prints and drawings must
have arisen from the new regulations issued by the Trustees in November 1814;
see, Antony Griffiths, “The Department of Prints and Drawings during the First
Century of the British Museum”, The Burlington Magazine 136, 1097 (1994): 536.
In March 1817 the student artist William Bewick wrote to his brother: “I last
Monday set my name down as a student in the British Museum.” See Thomas
Landseer, ed., Life and Letters of William Bewick (Artist), 2 vols. (London:
Hurst and Blackett, 1871), 1: 37. Edward Nygren, “James Ward, RA (1769–1859):
Papers and Patrons”, Walpole Society 75 (2013): 16. Jack Tupper, “Extracts from
the Diary of an Artist. No.V”, The Crayon, 12 December 1855, 368. An album of
drawings of the Townley Marbles in the British Museum (2010,5006.1877.1–40)
appears to have been collected by Townley himself, so dates to before the
installation of the marbles at the Museum. The drawings serve as records of the
objects rather than student exercises. The drawings by John Samuel Agar in the
Getty Research Institute are evidently preparatory for the prints published in
Specimens of Antient Sculpture. BL Add MS 37,163 f.106. This and other figures
in the Townley collection could also be found as casts in the Royal Academy’s
plaster schools, so even if Wood’s drawing, for example, could be traced, it
could not definitively be said to be made in the Townley Gallery. See Ann
Chumbley and Ian Warrell, Turner and the Human Figure: Studies of Contemporary
Life, exh. cat. (London: Tate Gallery, 1989), 12–13. Eric Shanes, Young Mr
Turner: The First Forty Years, 1775–1815 (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale
University Press, 2016), 33–34. Hansard (House of Commons), 16 February 1821,
c.724 (online at http://hansard.millbanksystems.com/commons/
1821/feb/16/british-museum). See Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 197–225 for
a full account of public discussions around this date. Quoted in Cash, “Access
to Museum Culture”, 208. British Museum: Returns to two Orders of the
Honourable House of Commons, dated 16 th February 1821, House of Commons, 23
February 1821, 2. Cash “Access to Museum Culture”, 71. Quoted in The Literary
Chronicle, 17 March 1821, 168. Edward Edwards, Lives of the Founders of the
British Museum (London: Trübner and Co., 1870), Acts and Votes of Parliament,
Statutes and Rules, and Synopsis of the Contents of the British Museum. London,
1808. Becker, Howard S. Art Worlds (1984). Rev. edn. Berkeley, CA: University
of California Press, 2008. Bentley, G. E. Blake Records. 2nd edn. New Haven and
London: Yale University Press, 2004. Boltanski, Luc, and Eve Chiapello. The New
Spirit of Capitalism. Trans. Gregory Elliott. London and New York: Verso, 2007.
See Martin Myrone, “Something too Academical: The Problem with Etty”, in
William Etty: Art and Controversy, ed. Sarah Burnage, Mark Hallett, and Laura
Turner (London: Philip Wilson, 2011), 47–59. The barest and most conjectural
biographies include those for William Carr of New Broad Street; W. W.
Torrington; Edward Thomson; Richard Moses; and Mr Lewer. Information is most
notably lacking for the trio of Miss Cowper, Miss Moula, and Mr Turner of Gower
Street; William Hamilton of Stafford Place; William Irving of Montague Street;
Thomas Williams of Hatton Garden; Daniel Jones; M. Hatley of Albermarle Street;
Miss Edgar; Miss Carmichael of Granville Street; Mr Atwood; Mr Higgins of
Norfolk Street; George Pisey of Castle Street; Charles White of George Street;
Robert Walter Page of Wigmore Street; Henry A. Matthew; Thomas Welsh; and John
Hall. Students were entered as “probationers” for a period of three months
(which might be extended), and once registered could attend the Schools for a
period of ten years. Ralph Irvine; Arthur Champernowne; the Chevalier de Barde;
John Disney; John Campbell; Edward Utterson; John Lambert; Robert Batty;
Alexander Huey; Richard Thomson; Charles Toplis; John Frederick Williams;
Edward Burrows; William Carr; W. W. Torrington. Jane Landseer; Janet Ross;
Georgiana Ross; the two Misses Paytherus; H. Edgar; Maria Singleton; Elizabeth
Appleton; Louisa Champernowne; Miss Carmichael; Elizabeth Batty; Frances
Edwards; Eliza Kempe; Ann Damer; Miss Cowper; Miss Moula; Miss Trotter; Miss
Adams; Sarah Newell; Emma Kendrick; Jane Gurney. Gentleman’s Magazine (1820)
and A Trip to Paris in August and September (1815), quoted by William T.
Whitley in his Art in England, 1800–1820 (London: Medici Society, 1928), 263,
as evidence that “It was still thought improper for women to study from such
figures” as the Apollo Belvedere. Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 113. As the
American Samuel F. B. Morse (a student at the Royal Academy and the British
Museum) noted in 1811: “I was surprised on entering the gallery of paintings at
the British Institution, at seeing eight or ten ladies as well as gentlemen,
with their easels and palettes and oil colours, employed in copying some of the
pictures. You can see from this circumstance in what estimation the art is held
here, since ladies of distinction, without hesitation or reserve, are willing
to draw in public.” See Edward Lind Morse, ed., Samuel F. B. Morse: His Letters
and Journals, 2 vols. (Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1914), 1: 45. Lists of
students admitted to copy at the British Institution appear in the Directors’
minutes, NAL RC V 12–14, and in contemporary press reports. Individuals
admitted to copy at Dulwich Picture Gallery were routinely listed in the
“Bourgeois Book of Regulations” from 1820; photocopies and notes at Dulwich
Picture Gallery, C1 and H3. This is expecially clearly expressed in James
Ward’s diary notes on his visits in 1817, meeting there the artists William
Skelton, Joseph Clover, Henry Fuseli, and William Long, but also the gentlemen
collectors and scholars William Lock, Edward Utterson, and Francis Douce
(Nygren, “James Ward”). See Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 217 and passim.
Although the timing of the Academy’s evening classes might seem to be more
accommodating, even this may have been challenging. The master of Richard
Westall, later a watercolour painter, “permitted him to draw at the Royal
Academy, in the evenings; but for that indulgence he worked a corresponding
number of hours in the morning”. Gentleman's Magazine, February 1837, 213.
Diary of Joseph Farington, 4: 4783. On educational tests as linking “macro” and
“micro”, “both sectoral mechanisms or unique situations and societal
arrangements”, see Boltanski and Chiapello, New Spirit of Capitalism, 32. See
Pierre Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations, trans. Richard Nice (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2000). “Acts of nomination, from the most trivial
acts of bureaucracy, like the issuing of an identity card, or a sickness or
disablement certification, to the most solemn, which consecrate nobilities,
lead, in a kind of infinite regress, to the realization of God on earth, the
State, which guarantees, in the last resort, the infinite series of acts of
authority certifying by delegation the validity of the certificates of
legitimate existence”, Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations, 245. The potentially
trivial nature of the acts of nomination involved in gaining access to the
British Museum is highlighted in Joseph Planta’s own account of providing
recommendations (for the Reading Room) often only on the basis of casual
conversations. See Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 207. Report of the Select
Committee on Arts and Manufactures, House of Commons, 4 September 1835, 40.
Report of the Select Committee on the British Museum, quoted in Edward Edwards,
Remarks on the “Minutes of Evidence” Taken before the Select Committee on the
British Museum, 2nd edn (London [1839]), 14. McRobbie, Be Creative. The British
Museum, Central Archive, Bourdieu, Pierre. On the State: Lectures at the
Collège de France, 1989–1992. Ed. Patrick Champagne and others. Trans. David
Fernbach. Cambridge: Polity Press Pascalian Meditations. Trans. Richard Nice.
Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press,The Rules of Art. Trans. Susan Emanuel.
Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996. Cash, Derek. “Access to Museum Culture: The
British Museum from 1753 to 1836.” British Museum Occasional Papers 133 (2002)
http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/publications/research_publications_series/2002/
access_to_museum_culture.aspx Chambers, Neil. Joseph Banks and the British
Museum: The World of Collecting, 1770–1830. London: Routledge, 2007. Chumbley,
Ann, and Ian Warrell. Turner and the Human Figure: Studies of Contemporary Life.
London: Tate Gallery, 1989. Coltman, Viccy. Classical Sculpture and the Culture
of Collecting in Britain since 1760. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009.
Combe, Taylor. A Description of the Ancient Marbles in the British Museum, 3
vols. London, 1812–17. Cook, B. F. The Townley Marbles. London: British Museum
Press, 1985. Edwards, Edward. Lives of the Founders of the British Museum.
London: Trübner Remarks on the “Minutes of Evidence” Taken before the Select
Committee on the British Museum. 2nd edn. London [1839]. Farington, Joseph. The
Diary of Joseph Farington. Ed. Kenneth Garlick, Angus Macintyre and others. 17
vols. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1978–98. Foucault, Michel.
The Birth of Biopolitics: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1978–1979. Ed.
Michel Sennelert. Trans. Graham Burchell. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan Society
Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–76. Ed. Mauro
Bertani and Alessandro Fontana. Trans. David Macey. London: Penguin, 2004. Griffiths, Antony. “The Department of Prints and Drawings during the
First Century of the British Museum.” The Burlington Magazine 136 (1994):
531–44. Hamilton, James. London Lights: The Minds that Moved the City that
Shook the World, 1805–51. London: John Murray, 2007. Higgs, Edward. Identifying
the English: A History of Personal Identification 1500 to the Present. London:
Bloomsbury, 2011. Hoock, Holger. “The British State and the Anglo-French Wars
Over Antiquities, 1798–1858.” Historical Journal The King’s Artists: The Royal
Academy of Arts and the Politics of British Culture, 1760–1840. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003. Jenkins, Ian. Archaeologists and Aesthetes in the
Sculpture Galleries of the British Museum, 1800–1939. London: British Museum
Press, 1992. Joyce, Patrick. The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern
City. London: Verso Speaking up for the State” (2014).
https://www.opendemocracy.net/ourkingdom/patrick-joyce/speaking-up-for-state –
The State of Freedom: A Social History of the British State Since 1800.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, What is the Social in Social History?”
Past and Present 206, no. 1 (2010): 213–48. Landseer, Thomas, ed. Life and
Letters of William Bewick (Artist). 2 vols. London: Hurst and Blackett, 1871.
McRobbie, Angela. Be Creative: Making a Living in the New Culture Industries.
Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016. Morse, Edward Lind, ed. Samuel F. B. Morse: His
Letters and Journals. 2 vols. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1914 Myrone, Martin.
“Something too Academical: The Problem with Etty.” In William Etty: Art and
Controversy, ed. Sarah Burnage, Mark Hallett, and Laura Turner. London: Philip
Wilson, 2011, 47–59. Nygren, Edward. “James Ward, RA (1769–1859): Papers and
Patrons.” Walpole Society 75 (2013). Polanyi, Karl. The Great Transformation:
The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time (1944). Boston, MA: Beacon
Press, 2002. Rancière, Jacques. The Method of Equality: Interviews with Laurent
Jeanpierre and Dork Zabunyan. Trans. Julie Rose. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016.
Schinkel, Karl Friedrich. “English Journey”: Journal of a Visit to France and
Britain in 1826. Ed. David Bindman and Gottfried Riemann. New Haven, CT, and
London: Yale University Press, 1993. Shanes, Eric. Young Mr Turner: The First
Forty Years, 1775–1815. New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 2016.
Smiles, Samuel. Self-Help: With Illustrations of Character and Conduct. London:
John Murray, 1859. Smith, J. T. Nollekens and his Times, 2 vols. 2nd edn,
London: Henry Colburn, 1829. Tupper, Jack. “Extracts from the Diary of an
Artist. No.V.” The Crayon, 12 December 1855. Whitley, William T. Art in
England, 1800–1820. London: Medici Society, 1928. drawn from the antique
Artists et the Classical Ideal Adriano Aymonino and Anne Varick Lauder with
contributions from Eloisa Dodero, Rachel Hapoienu, Ian Jenkins, Jerzy Kierkuc
́-Bielin ́ski, Michiel C. Plomp and Jonathan Yarker sir john soane’s museum
2015 Drawn from the Antique: Artists et the Classical Ideal An exhibition
at Teylers Museum, Haarlem 11 March – 31 May 2015 Sir John Soane’s Museum,
London 25 June –26 September 2015 This catalogue has been generously supported
by the Tavolozza Foundation and the Wolfgang Ratjen Stiftung, Vaduz This
exhibition has been made possible through the support of the Government
Indemnity Scheme Sir John Soane’s Museum is a non-departmental body and is
funded by the Department for Culture, Media and Sport Published in Great
Britain 2015 Sir John Soane’s Museum, 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London, wc2a 3bp
Tel: 020 7405 2107 www.soane.org Reg. Charity No. 313609 Text the listed
authors All photographs as listed on pages 254–56 ISBN (paperback):
978-0-9573398-9-7 ISBN (hardback): 978-0-9932041-0-4 Designed and typeset in
Albertina and Requiem by Libanus Press Ltd, Marlborough Printed by Hampton
Printing (Bristol) Ltd Frontispiece: Michael Sweerts, A Painter’s Studio
(detail), c. 1648–50, cat. 12 (p. 134) Page 10: Hendrick Goltzius, The Apollo
Belvedere (detail), 1591, cat. 6 (p. 107) Page 78: William Pether, An Academy
(detail), 1772, cat. 24 (p. 189) Contents Preface 6 Abraham Thomas Introduction
7 Adriano Aymonino and Anne Varick Lauder Acknowledgements 9 Ideal Beauty and
the Canon in Classical Antiquity 11 Ian Jenkins and Adriano Aymonino ‘Nature
Perfected’: The Theory et Practice of 15 Drawing after the Antique Adriano
Aymonino Catalogue Bibliography Photo credits 79 232 254 - authors
of catalogue entries AA: Adriano Aymonino: AVL: Anne Varick Lauder: Eloisa
Dodero: cats 9, 22 JK-B: Jerzy Kierkuc ́-Bielin ́ski: cat. 29 JY: Jonathan Yarker:
cats 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 MP: Michiel C. Plomp: cats 6, 7, 8, 11, 31, 32 RH:
Rachel Hapoienu: cats 1, 2, 4, 33. The exhibition ‘Drawn from the antique:
artists and the classical ideal” examines the crucial role played by antique
sculpture in artistic education and practice, a theme which lies at the heart
of the conception of Sir John Soane’s Museum. As a student at the Royal
Academy, Soane wins a travelling scholarship to embark on the grand tour. This
forms the basis of a classical education which would prove to be an enduring
influence on his subsequent career as one of the most important architects of
the Regency period. The drawings, paintings and prints selected for the exhibition
‘Drawn from the antique – artists and the classical ideal’ offer a glimpse into
an intriguing world of academies, artists’ workshops and private studios, each
populated with carefully chosen examples of statuary which provide compelling
snapshots of classical antiquity. Similarly, within his house and museum at
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Soane creates his own bespoke arrangements of ancient
statuary and architectural fragments, providing educational tools which defined
an informal curriculum for both his Royal-Academy students and the apprenticed
pupils working within his on-site architectural office. In fact, one could
consider much of Soane’s museum as an extended series of studio spaces,
intended for academic improvement and personal inspiration. The concept of the
exhibition ‘Drawn from the antique – artists and the classical ideal’ evolves from
a series of conversations between Timothy Knox, and the collector K. Bellinger,
to see if there may be some way to showcase the Bellinger extraordinary and
unique collection of art-works *depicting* artists’ studios. We extend a
special thanks to K. Bellinger, not only for her generosity in allowing us to exhibit
these wonderful pieces but also for all the hard work in securing some stunning
loans from other collections. We are grateful for the loans from the Getty
Collection, the Rijksmuseum, the Kunsthaus Zürich, the Kunstbibliothek in
Berlin. For the UK loans we would like to thank The British Museum, the Victoria
and Albert Museum, the Royal Academy of Arts and the Courtauld Gallery. “Drawn
From The Antique: Artists and The Classical Ideal” is a collaboration between The
Soane Collection and the Teylers Collection, and I am grateful to M. Scharloo for
agreeing to host the first leg of this exhibition, and also to Michiel Plomp,
for facilitating the exhibition in Haarlem. It feels rather appropriate that
the founders of our two institutions, Teyler and Soane, were both collectors
with singular visions of how their collections should provide a resource for
academic study and creative practice. This exhibition would not have been
possible without the fantastic curatorial team that K. Bellinger assembled: A.
Aymonino, A. Varick Lauder, and R. Hapoienu. I would like to express my
gratitude to them for bringing the project to fruition. I would also like to
thank Paul Joannides for his editing work on the catalogue and all of my
colleagues at the Soane who worked to make this exhibition a reality, especially
S. Palmer, D. Jenkins and J. Kierkuc-Bielinski, as well as S. Wightman at
Libanus for designing such a beautiful catalogue. Finally, I would like to
extend a special thanks to the Tavolozza Foundation and the Wolfgang Ratjen
Stiftung, Vaduz, for their generous support of the exhibition and the
catalogue. The exhibition explores one of the central practices of artists for
years: drawing after the antique – l’antico. Ancient Graeco-Roman statuary provides
artists with a “model” from which he learns how to represent the volume, the pose
and the expression of the male nude and which simultaneously offers a perfected
example of anatomy and proportion. For an established artist, a piece of antique
statuary or a elief offers a repertory of form that serves as inspiration. Because
the imitation (mimesis) and representation of nature is the principal aim of the
classical artist, education in a workshop or an academy revolves around the
study of geometry and perspective – to represent space – and anatomy, the antique
but also THE LIVE MODEL – to learn how to deploy and mould the male body
convincingly in a piece of statuary. This practical approach to the antique –
as a convenient model for depicting or moulding the naked male form – is accompanied by a more
theoretical, aesthetic, and philosophical one. A piece of ancient Graeco-Roman
statuary statue is perceived as a bench-mark of perfection and of the Platonic
concept of ideal beauty, the physical result of a careful selection of the best
parts of nature. Classical Graeco-Roman authors, such as the Italians Vitruvio,
Cicerone or Plinio, reveal to the artist and the philosopher that antique statuary
is based on a system. There is a Pythagoreian harmonic proportions. This rests
on the mathematical relationships between a part of the body and the whole
body. A piece of ancient statuary therefore embodies the same rational
principle on which the harmony of the cosmos and nature are based. It is the
powerful combination of this rational and universal principle that the antique
expresses, together with its extreme versatility as a model of forms, that
guarantees its ubiquitous success. Students in the early stages of their
training are encouraged to ‘assimilate’ fully the idealised beauty of a classical
statue through the copying of plaster casts. Only then can he be exposed to an
‘imperfections of nature’ as embodied by the live naked male model (“Drawn From
Life”). This is intended to provide the craftsman with a standard of perfection
that is then infused into his own statuary. For an artist, it was considered
essential to travel to Rome. At Rome, the artists confront the venerated
antique ‘original’ – not the copy -- and assembles his own ‘drawn’ collections
of models – ‘drawn from the antique’ only, not ‘drawn from life’, for which you
don’t need to go to Rome. Drawing (desegno) is considered the only intellectual
part of an art – the first sensorial (specifically visual) manifestation of an idea.
Drawing from and ‘after’ the Antique (desegno dall’antico) is the union of
intellectual medium and intellectual subject. It becomes an integral part of
the learning process and the activity of the artist who aims at pleasing the
Society gentleman. It proves crucial for legitimising the ambitions of the artist
who fashions himself as a practitioner of a liberal and intellectual activity.
So widespread is it, that representing the practice itself developed into an
artistic genre. Through a selection of pieces exemplifying this fascinating
category of images, by artists as diverse as the Italian Zuccaro, Dutch Goltzius
and Rubens, French Natoire, Swiss Fuseli and English Turner, we may attempt to
analyse this phenomenon. We begin with an image relating to an early Italian
academy and with a portrait, in which a piece of ancient statuary is included.We
may proceed to an image of an artist as he ‘draws’ after a celebrated statue –
the Apollo del Belvedere and the Laoconte, il torso del Belvedere, l’Antino del
Belvedere – in the cortile ottogono del casino della villa Belvedere in Monte
Vaticano, the Belvedere collection that serves as a model. We next may explore
the varied approaches of artists to a piece of ccanonical statuary in Rome and
the ways in which the Italian academic curriculum – with the antique (l’antico)
as one of the two cornerstones (the other being: ‘natura’) – spreads all over
Rome, where each palazzo claims its collection – Farnese, Ludovisi, Albani – and
even up to La Tribuna di Firenze.An Italian drawing manual is a powerful
vehicle for the uncostested establishment and entrenchment of the classical
ideal. Significantly, a manual illustrates the practice of copying after the antique
in their frontispieces. Next follow two of the most relevant images embodying
the classicist credo of the accademia dell’arte at Rome and academie des beaux
arts a Paris. The accademia a Roma codifies a structured syllabus. First-hand
experience of the Antique ‘original’ in Rome becomes a must. Fuseli magnificently
draws the fragments of the head, right hand, and left foot of the colossal
statue of Constantine at the
Campidoglio. Fuseli’s image expresses a ‘romantic’ attitude towards
classical statuary, based on the direct emotion and empathy – the eros of
Plato, and the catharsis of Aristotle -- rather than a ‘study’ (studio) of an idealised
beauty and proportion. Classicism is embraced and an academic syllabus is
developed to graduate from the academy – as opposed to the nobility who can
still practice amateur and present their statues at the annual exhibitions. The
elite, educated in the classics, has a crucial role in disseminating the
classical ideal. For less privileged students at Oxford (‘only the poor learn
at Oxford’) the Ashmolean starts collecting a plaster cast of this or that
original in Rome. Statues serve a decorative purpose in the villa garden
fountain --- and the palazzo interior -- a clear sign of the commercialisation
and further diffusion of the Antique. But while classical statuary becomes a n
attract when doing the calls. Its role within academic curricula remains well-established.
The Antique as a canonical model begins to be challenged by the more dynamic
and innovative forces of art, a challenge that led to its rapid decline. The
last exhibit shows a plaster copy of the celebrated ancient bust of Homer at
the Farnese collection in Napoli is placed on equal footing with a bust of a
non-classical author, neo-classical statuary, and even with a multicoloured
porcelain parrot, reveals how the Antique becomes just one of the many
historical references favoured by society, if not by Society. Although focused
on images representing the relationship of an artist WITH the Antique, that is,
the act or performance of copying or drawing from or after it, this catalogue
includes also examples of the product of the practice: sketches actually ‘drawn
from the antique’ not by students wanting to pass, but by professionals such as
Goltzius, destined to be disseminated through the engraving. We have also
included drawings by Rubens and Turner showing the compromising practice of
setting a live model in the pose of the antique model – lo spinario, i
lottatori in the case of a syntagma or statuary group -- and an early academic
study by Turner the student of the torso del Belvedere (Aiace contempla
suicidio). An image may portray how the artist HIMSELF in the presence of the
Antique. The point of view should always be that of the intended addressee: the
noble Epicurean connoisseur. The form and ideas that he enjoys and seeks in the
classical model, the diversity of his taste according to his mood, and the
kinds of image that are created to show their own relationship with the
Antique. The attitudes towards classical statuary of a manic collector or an antiquarian,
although touched upon in the essays and in some of the entries, are not
discussed at length. We also decided to focus primarily on free-standing in the
round male nude statue or syntagma (i lottatori), as opposed to a relief. The
free-standing in the round reproduction of the male naked body is what the
gentleman enjoys in terms of the proportion, the anatomy and his beauty. A
relief rather serves as a compositional model and inspiration for a narrative mythological
or historical scene. Drawings after reliefs would be the subject of a different
exhibition. The choice of the two venues is entirely appropriate. Haarlem is one
of the earliest Northern cities where the Antique is a subject of debate –
within the private academy established by Mander, Cornelisz, and Goltzius –
whose magnificent series of drawings after canonical classical statues is
preserved in the Teylers Collection. The Soane Collection at Lincoln Fields, on
the other hand, represents an incarnations of the classicist curriculum. It is
an eccentric, kaleidoscopic academy where, in the name of the union of the
arts, the study of Vitruvian and Palladian architecture gets integrated with
the copying of paintings, classical statuary and plaster casts, to attain that
mastery of drawing of the human forms (uomo
vitruviano) advocated by Vitruvius as a crucial element of architecture (to be
replaced by Le Corbusier’s functionalist metron!). The idea for this exhibition
has evolved. The Bellinger Collection is based on a just one theme: the sculptor
at work. Fascinated by the creative process and the mystique surrounding it.
The Bellinger Collection includes items in a range of media – drawings,
paintings, prints, photographs and sculpture. Rather than stage an obvious
‘greatest hits’ exhibition focusing on celebrity, my idea is to show
little-known, rarely exhibited, works and to present aspects of the collection,
which had been rather neglected by scholarship in an attempt to open new
ground. A preliminary step is made by Knox, who approached K. Bellingerto
enquire whether she might showcase works from the collection in the piano
nobile of the Palazz Soane. It soon became apparent that the theme of the
relationship between the sculptor and antique statuary, which seemed so
suitable to the venue of an architect’s palazzo-cum-academy-cum-museum with its
rooms filled with antiquities and plaster reproductions, would have resonance
with the Few. Accompanying a selection of works from the Bellinger Collection
we have attempted to borrow on loan some of the most ‘iconic’ images, and
others less well-known, that demonstrate the evolution of this practice of this
class of ‘Drawn from the Antique’ over an extended period. Almost half of the
works on display have never previously been exhibited and most have not been
shown. The resulting display provides the first overview of a phenomenon
crucial for the understanding and appreciation of ancient Roman art of the
classical Augustean period, which lays stress on the creative processes of the
Italophile artist and on the norms and conventions that guides and inspires his
art. Presenting a relatively small yet coherent display on a topic that
encompasses one of the major themes in the history of Art has been a serious
challenge but a most pleasurable one. Our exhibition could not have been
accomplished without the unwavering support of K. Bellinger, who generously
agreed to part with fourteen choice examples from her little-seen private
collection of images of artists at work and who has remained committed to the
project since its inception: to Ballinger we owe our deepest gratitude. For the
other works on display, we have benefited from the great generosity of
colleagues at lending institutions for agreeing to send works in their care –
some of them among their most popular and requested – to one or both venues of
the exhibition. We owe sincere thanks to H. Chapman at the British Museum, S. Buck
at the Courtauld, R. Hibbard and H. Dawson at the Victoria and Albert, C.
Saumarez-Smith, H. Valentine and R. Comber at the Royal Academy. Abroad we wish
to acknowledge the generosity of L. Hendrix and J. Brooks at Villa Getty, Bernhard
von Waldkirch at the Kunsthaus Zürich, T. Dibbits at the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
and K. Käding at the Kunstbibliothek, Berlin. We are enormously grateful both
to the Soane Collection and the Teylers Collection for hosting this two-venue
exhibition. Thanks are due to T. Knox and A/ Thomas, for their support for the
project, and to S. Palmer, and D. Jenkins, for assisting with the loans. M. Scharloo,
of the Teylers and Michiel Plomp, kindly agreed to house the first showing of
the exhibition and to lend works from their collection. The catalogue was
thoughtfully designed and produced by S. Wightman at Libanus, to whom we owe
our warmest thanks, and printed by Hampton Printing in Bristol. R. Hapoienu,
oversaw the photography and contributed immeasurably to the catalogue. Other
curatorial colleagues have given their time and effort in preparing scholarly
entries or essays: E. Dodero, I. Jenkins, J. Kierkuc -Bielinski, M. Plomp and J.
Yarker. Special thanks are due to Dodero for sharing an infinite knowledge of
antique sources. Finally, we are greatly indebted to Joannides for his input. Any
and all errors are entirely our own. We wish to acknowledge warmly Taylor and
Rembrandt Duits for granting us unfettered access to the Photographic
Collection of the Warburg and other colleagues and friends who assisted in
various ways in bringing this project to fruition: Mattia Biffis, R Blok,
Yvonne Tan Bunzl, Wolf Burchard, Elisa Camboni, Martin Clayton, Zeno Colantoni,
Paul Crane, Daniela Dölling, Alexander Faber, Cameron Ford, Ketty Gottardo, Martin
Grässle, Axel Griesinger, Florian Härb, Eileen Harris, John Harris, Niall
Hobhouse, Matthew Hollow, Peter Iaquinandi, Catherine Jenkins, Theda Jürjens,
Jill Kraye, David Lachenmann, Alastair Laing, Barbara Lasic, Huigen Leeflang,
Cornelia Linde, Anne-Marie Logan, Olivia MacKay, Austeja MacKelaite, Bernard
Malhamé, Patrick Matthiesen, Mirco Modolo, Jane Munro, Lorenzo Pericolo,
Benjamin Peronnet, Camilla Pietrabissa, Eugene Pooley, Pier Paolo Racioppi,
Cristiana Romalli, Gregory Rubinstein, Susan Russell, Nick Savage, Nicolas
Schwed, Ilaria Sgarbozza, Kim Sloane, Perrin Stein, MaryAnne Stevens, Marja
Stijkel, Michael Sullivan, C. Treves, Michiel Ilja M. Veldman, Anna Villari,
Rebecca Wade and Alison Wright. Support for the exhibition and catalogue was
provided by the Tavolozza Foundation and the Wolfgang Ratjen Stiftung, Vaduz,
to whom we owe our sincere gratitude. Ideal Beauty is the Canon in Classical
Antiquity. The practice of drawing from the antique is a time-honoured one – if
not antique! But even the Augustean copy makers knew who to imitate --. Since
Antino became such an icon, we can say that Adrian finished the practice of
‘drawing from the antique’: He started to ask his slaves to ‘draw from nature’
– the nature of his lover! The philosopher should be reminded of the
substantial role that the Antique has played in the education and inspiration
of artists for years. Soane famously mixed marble sculpture with plaster
reproductions in the learned and decorative interiors of his Lincolnfields
villa. A constant theme in ancient philosophy (with which any Oxonian with a
Lit. Hum. is more than acquainted with) is that behind the surface chaos of the
tangible sensible world, there is a hidden order (kósmos). Harmony occurs when the
opposite forces in nature (natura, physis), such as wet and dry, hot and cold,
strong and weak, are properly balanced. Well-being depends upon a set of
complementary humours. Reason (logos) – but cf. Dodds on the irrational -- is
the weapon wielded in a constant struggle against the dark forces of the
natural and non-natural artificial conventional realms alike. The concept of
‘number’ plays an especially important role in the Graeco-Roman, or Italic world
view. Mathematics was most probably acquired from Babylon and first took root
in the cities of Ionia. Pythagora, who had settled in Crotona and Melosponto in
southern Italy, discovers the measurable intervals of the musical scale This demonstrates
that number holds the key to the mysteries of the harmony of the Universe. Pythagoras
was born on the Aegean island of Samos, which was just one of the many city
states that participated in the Ionian Enlightenment with its concentration of
natural philosophers. Applied mathematics finds a new purpose in the creation
of colossal temples in an architectural culture that takes its inspiration from
that of East. The technical aspects of this new tectonic art are explained in
philosophical treatises. None of them survive but they were known to the Roman philosopher
Vitruvio, who uses them extensively for “De Architectura”. His is the only
complete treatise on ancient Roman architecture to survive. It is the main
channel through which knowledge of ancient Roman architectural principles are
handed down. The impact it has on architecture is paramount. Colossal temples are
erected and foremost among them is the archaic temple of Diana at Efeso. Its
forest of columns, some of them carved pictorially and its painted and gilded
mouldings are breath-taking. The Ionian Enlightenment terminates by the
catastrophic destruction of Mileto y the Persians. The Persians next set out to
punish Athens for her instigation of the revolt. The failure of the Persian
invasion in a series of battles on land and sea serve as a catalyst for a great
surge of art and thought in the city that was the world’s first democracy. It
was in Athens – the ‘Athenian dialectic’ -- that humanity’s sense of self is
forged. It is there that mankind acquires a unique and individual soul with
personal responsibility for its welfare. In classical antiquity mankind places itself
at the centre of the universe and is as Protagoras famously says, ‘the measure
of all things’. Protagoras’s contemporary, the philosopher Socrates, leads the
way in a moral philosophy aimed at penetrating the dark hinterland of human
existence. Humanism prompts a “realism” (de rerum matura) in product of an ‘ars’ that re-presents the naked
male body in a ‘naturalistic’ way. There were those, however, who ha less
positive view of human capacity for self-determination. A recurring theme in
the philosophy of Socrates’ famous pupil, Plato, is the theory of ‘mimesis’ (‘imitatio’),
whereby the product of an ‘ars’ is twice
removed from reality by virtue of its being a ‘copy’ of Nature, which is itself
a copy of the hidden, intangible reality of the abstract world of the Idea. In
Plato’s kósmos, reality is not to be found in Nature. Reality (and ideal
beauty) cannot be detected by *sensing*. Rather, reality and beauty is ‘noetic’
and exists beyond nature (trans-naturalia) and can be grasped only through an effort
of the ‘intellectual’ (logistikon) part of the tri-partite soul (the other two
parts being the thymoeides and the epithymtikon). A man never gets to ‘know’ or
grasp this ideal beauty. Man must be governed by the philosopher king, who has the
intellectual capacity to achieve true knowledge and understanding of the universal
law. The nature that man knows is itself a ‘copy’ (mimesis, imitation –
imitative) of this suprasensible realm, so Plato argued and. As an imitation of
nature, a product of an ‘ars’ is twice removed from the meta-physical intelligible
world. There is no place for the pretensions of artists in the world of true
reality. Only the pure and virtuous abstract beauty and goodness
(kalloskagathia, bonus et pulchrus) of a ‘form’ (‘forma’) is to be found in the
realm of the idea. The clearest and most developed account of Plato’s
condemnation of the idols or products of ‘ars’ and his reasons for banning it
from his ideal state (polizia, politeia) are to be found in the Socratic
dialogue known to modern readers as The Polizia (Politeia). The ‘Polizia’
(Politeia) is beautifully crafted in a series of carefully honed set-piece
speeches in which, and the irony is obvious, Plato demonstrates his skills as a
philosophical artist – the dialogue aimed at beauty, rather than truth. It is
difficult to say to what extent Plato puts words into or takes them out of the
mouth of Socrates. The historical Socrates never wrote anything himself. We can
at least be sure of Socrates’ insistence upon the imperative to pursue
justified true belief (knowledge) as distinct from mere belief or opinion
(doxa) and to seek understanding, as distinct from mere creed. These are after
all the goals by which Socrates measures the moral integrity of man’s
intelligence. When it comes to the standing of the product of an ‘ars’ in
Socrates’s moral landscape, we may wonder whether this marble worker who had
followed in his father’s ‘ars’ himself shares aristocratic Plato’s anti-thetical
view of the ‘artista’. In a dialogue recorded by Xenophon between Socrates and
Parrhasio, it is concluded that the product of an ‘ars’ cannot achieve beauty
by simply ‘reproducing’ (or imitating, or copying) an individual, particular, single,
naked male live model. He who pursues to give a product of an ‘ars’ must
instead select the best part of more than one particular, singular male naked
live model – this is not Adriano’s portraiture of Antino -- melding (or moulding) those parts (individua) together
in such a way as to transcend, by way of a universalium, nature itself (the
natural naked male live model) and turn the ‘re-presentation’ of a ‘beautiful’
(kalos) naked male live model into an ‘ideally’ beautiful naked male body. Aristotle.
ever practical, ever helpful, opposes Plato in arguing that, instead of being a
slave to Nature, man may create (poien) as nature itself created. In his
Poetics and Politics he recognises the civic role of the product of an ‘ars’,
as he praises the value of the products of the ‘ars’ of Polygnotos. “For
Polygnotos re-presents but tweaks a natural male body better than the natural
male body is. It’s an improving (perfection) on, rather than an imitation, of
‘imperfect’ nature of this or that particular naked male body – again this is
not Antino’s portraiture – To this product of the ‘ars’ Aristotle grants the
label of an ideal model – not the live model of imperfect nature. It is futile
to try to guess who said what when. Suffice it to say that the statuary-maker
is under pressure from various sides to justify the product of his ‘ars’ as a
proper exemplar that perfects the imperfection of the natural male live model,
reflecting the universal law of the kósmos. The artist has to look at
philosophical mathematics. There is a historic change in the re-presentation
(improved re-presentation, improvement) in the product of ‘ars’ of the body of
a naked live model. Ironically, the abstract concept behind a ‘youth’ or ‘kouros’
[e. g. marble 194.6 cm (h) Met Museum 32.11] with its ‘formulaic’ tendency to
convey the naked male form of a live model through a descriptive line and a block-like
(rather than waving) form gives way to contrapositum
(contrapposto), and a greater fluidity – if not ‘naturalism’ -- conjuring a three-dimensional
volume of live flesh. This ‘naturalistic’ figure type becomes the standard or
canon. The ‘canon’ itself (first canon, as we shall see – cf. Lisippo) referred
to the Doriforo of Policleto. Policleto obviously moulded and cast in bronze as
he was in front of the real ‘doriforo’ (name unknown), the canon (qua model
what exemplum) with copyists, notably in the copy of 212 com (h) at Naples –
Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Napoli, 1st century bc copy of
original of c. 440 bc, -- inv. 6011 The
canon was famous in antiquity for its elaborate system of measurements about
which Policleto wites a philosophical treatise known as ‘The Canon.’ To judge
from what philosophers say about the spear-bearer, it is an explanation of the
principle of proportion that Policleto declares to be the key to perfection in
the product of the ‘ars’ qua re-presentation of the body of the male live
model. The concept of ‘symmetria’ (commensuratio) is used to describe this
system of a measured proportion. To the ancient authors, however, it signified
a commensurability of parts measured in relation to one another and to the
whole. Thus, the length of a finger was calculated in relation to the hand and
the hand in relation to the whole arm and so on. Ideal beauty, based on
mathematical perfection was, therefore, quantifiable. The preoccupation with
numbers in idealised sculpture has strong links to the number-based aesthetics
of the Pythagorean school of mathematics, first anticipated in architecture.
Another link to the natural philosophy of the Ionian Enlightenment is the
deliberate balancing of opposite motifs. There was found a bio-mechanical
system of parts that were at once weight-bearing and weight-free, engaged and
disengaged, stretched and contracted, tense and relaxed, raised and lowered –
an overall balancing principle of contrapposto found in the statue Doryphoros
and in many classical statues extremely influential. Polykleitos trains at a
workshop (not an academy like Plato’s!) of Ageladas of Argos, along with Mirone.
Mirone’s statue [v. Museo Nazionale Romano, Roma, inv. 126371 – 155 cm (h) copy
of original of c. 460-450, marble] is said
to have more by way of ‘commensuratio’ about them than any other statues of his
generation. As with the Doryphoros so with Myron’s Discobolo, known only
through Roman copies, it is pretty difficult to hypothesise the exact system of
proportion that he uses. We detect the deployment of balanced opposites in the
composition. The creators of the doriforo and the discobolo share a common
regard for the live model that transcends the nature of the live model. Although
Polykleitos’ Canon and its physical embodiment, the original doriforo, are lost
– the most famous Roman copy was excavated ONLY AT THE END OF THE OTTOCENTO –
various literary sources handed over to the Renaissance the knowledge of them
and the classical principle that the beautiful model is based on proportion,
commensurability and mathematical perfection. This is the quest for the
beautiful model that is measured and defined within the premises of natural
philosophical mathematics. In the minds of commentators, the attribution of the
power of creation (poiesis) to the statue-maker likens him to a seer and affords
him a unique insight into his subject. It was said of Policleto that while his
skill is suitable for representing what Vico (and Carlyle) calls a ‘hero’
(Italian ‘eroe’ – cf. il culto dell’eroe), the imaginative power of Fidia –
author of the Parthenon’s sculptures, notably the Elgin marble of MARTE qua
simbolo della mascolinita – conjures a ‘deus’ (dio). His positive view of the
intuitive process of artistic creation (poiesis) becomes especially important
in Rome where copies of the great works of Greek classical sculpture are
reproduced in large numbers. ‘Re-produced’, that is, but not ‘re-plicated’ (cf.
replicatura). For no two copies are, by definition, ever exactly *the same*
(for one, the piece of marble is ‘another’). A Roman copyist, so-called, is,
mostly an ethnic [it. ennico] Greek. He probably saw his product as a variation
on a theme, or an improvisation (if not improvement) on the ‘original’, not a slavish
copy – plus, his Roman Mecenas couldn’t care less – connoisseurship was looked
own. A Roman vir has other things in mind, such as battle! It is through this
army of Roman copies that Italian artists acquire a fragmentary knowledge of
the proto-type (cf. Weber’s ideal type], the vast majority of which, in bronze,
as they should – for sculpting marble is different than moulding wax -- are
deliberately melted by Christians as blasphemous pagan, heathen, gods and
heroes. The spectre of the greatest mind of all antiquity, Plato, and his
condemnation of art always hover over the heads of artists and art lovers
alike. In the high empire of ancient Rome a neo-Platonist movement challenges Plato’s
extreme opinion and argues for the product of an ‘ars’ of being possessed of the
intellectually beautiful (even if first perceived through the senses – nihil
est in intellectu quod prior non fuerit in sensu. Plotino notes: ‘now it must
be noted that the wax brought under a hand
to a ‘beautiful’ ‘form’ or ‘shape’ (eidos, idea, morphe) is ‘beautiful’ not ‘he’
or qua wax – for so the crude block would be as ‘pleasant’ or pleasurable or
pleasing – but *qua* form, eidos, shape, morphe, or idea. This practical and
workable Aristotelian and neo-Platonic rather than the Platonic philosophy of
art was that adopted by most Italians (even if they let Ficino dreamed about!).
The paradoxical (feigned, ironic, taunting) superiority of the product of an
‘ars’ art to nature – as a selected, ideal, improved, correctio version of it (no
‘warts and all’) – has been a central premise of the “beau ideal” where ‘beau’
can be in the Romance languages both masculine and neuter (‘il bello’ – il
bello ideale) in the humanistic theory of art and especially in its
neo-classical incarnation. A statue is admired and enjoyed as the embodiment of
a moral aesthetic that can be applied also to a plaster cast. It serves both as
the paradigm of art training and as source of inspiration for artists for
centuries. For an introduction to ancient aesthetics and views on art, see
Tatarkiewicz 1970; Pollitt 1974. Selections of primary sources are included in
Pollitt 1983; Pollitt 1990. The main source for this famous sentence is Platone,
Theaetetus 151e. See also Diogenes Laertius, De Vitis ... philosophorum, 9.51.
3 Platone, Republic, 10, esp. 10.596E–597E. 4 Xenophon, Memorabilia, 3.10.1–5.
5 Aristotele, Poetica, 1448a1; Politica, 1340a33. See also Metafisica, 1.1,
981a. 6 Plinio, Naturalis Historia, 34.57–58. 7 Cicerone, Bruto, esp. 69–70,
296; Plinio, Naturalis Historia, 34.55; Galeno’s treatises, esp. De Placitis
Hippocratis et Platonis, 5, and De Temperamentis, 1.9; Quintiliano, Institutio
Oratoria, esp. 5.12.21 and 12.10.3–9; Vitruvio’s De Architectura, 3.1. 8
Quintiliano, Institutio Oratoria, 12.10.3–9. 9 Plotino, Enneads, 5.8.1.
14 ‘Nature Plus-Quam-Perfected’: -- the ‘Drawn from the Antique’ at the
Royal Academy. ‘Desegno dall’antico’, ‘desegno dalla natura’. In his inaugural lecture
as Professor of Painting at The Royal Academy of Arts in London, Opie arranged a
few headings, which included a general definition of painting, the imitation of
Nature, the idea of general beauty, the idea of general perfect beauty, the
idea of perfect beauty the true object of the highest style, as the aim of the
highest style, design, drawing, the most important part of painting, the uses
of knowledge of anatomy, symmetry and proportion the next in importance. great
excellence of the *ancients*, the ancient sculptor in those points; studying
antique statuary to advantage, perfection of the Art of painting under Vinci, Buonarroti,
and Sanzio. Opie’s outline, with its standardised categories, is a clear
example of ‘inglese italianato e un diavolo incarnato’ and a summary of a
time-honoured aesthetic tradition which indeed he is drawing from the antique!
Opie’s proposal of what constitutes ‘the high style’ is a direct continuation
of the humanistic theory of art, formulated in early Renaissance Florence and
expanded and modified in the succeeding centuries, mainly in Italy. At the core
of this tradition is the thesis that art imitates nature and, in art’s highest
manifestation, perfects nature by selecting her best parts, to create (poien,
design) a model of ideal beauty – drawn from the antique -- a universal
standard to which man aspires. Classical statuary plays a crucial role in this
theoretical framework. An antique statues is perceived, and often revered, as
works in which the process of this selection of the best parts of nature is accomplished.
An antique – and thus a sketch ‘drawn from the antique’ -- offers the ‘antique’
(not natural live) model from which the form, the pose, the gesture and the expression
of a naked male is appreciated, in its idealised anatomy and proportion. As the
theory evolves from the 16th century onwards, the three leading protagonists of
the High Renaissance, Vinci, Buonarroti and Sanzio – not mannerist Bernini,
such as Tasso is not in the canon as Ariosto is -- are placed on the same level
as the antique, as the first trio of non-antique or non-ancient (i. e. modern) artists
– cf. Hymns Ancient et Modern) whose statues equal, if not surpass, the antique
(but there was not ‘Drawn from Buonarroti!’). The humanistic theory of art
remains for centuries the philosophical aesthetics. It undergoes many
developments and was at times challenged. It is primarily through the medium of
‘desegno’, drawing, that one is educated in geometry and perspective – to learn
how to re-present space – and in anatomy and the male naked live model – to
learn how to deploy the naked male. ‘Drawn from the antique’ represents the
essential component of this educational method, initially as a convenient model
for the copying the male form, and then progressively as a bench-mark of
perfection whose appreciation one is supposed to assimilate before being
exposed to ‘fallible Nature’, embodied by the naked male LIVE model with all
its imperfections – the profession being underpayed and carried out by
Italians! – and this or that unnecessary feature – however necessary this
unnecessary feature is for the photographer of Antino, before he photoshops! In
its codified and pedantic rigidity, this Vitruvian categorization reveals that,
at the same time as they held theoretical sway, by the beginning of the 19th
century the tradition that he espoused had become increasingly stifling. At the
dawn of the Modern era, a system based on the principle that art is a rational
practice that can be taught by precepts resting on a fixed aesthetic is progressively
being dismantled by those who advocate subjectivity, individual expression and
the conceptual freedom required by inventive genius. Although the normative
principle of the humanistic theory of art remains solidly established within the
academic programme, the creative forces of art are increasingly to be found ‘outside
Plato’s Academy’. With this epochal shift of aesthetic values, classical
statuary, unsurprisingly, suffered most. Precisely because of its status as a
model and standard of perfection in academic curricula, it inevitably
encountered the indifference, if not open hostility, of Marinetti (if not
Mussolini) and those avant-garde Italian artists who did not believe in the
idealising role of art and, increasingly, not even in its imitative one. The
Antique, which sustains and inspires creativity and diversity in art, offering
an immense repertory of forms, expressions and aesthetic principles, loses its
propulsive drive. To understand the pervasive role the classical statue or statuary group plays
in the education and inspiration of artists in the Early Modern period, that is
from the 15th to the early 19th century, we return to the theoretical
foundations and the practical concerns that create and sustain the conditions
for its immense success and eventual decline. After the Middle Ages, in which
the visual arts had been essentially symbolic, aiming to represent the
metaphysical and the divine, in the early Renaissance focus shifts to an art
that, as in antiquity, aims at a convincing ‘imitation’ of the external world,
the world of Nature, with man at its centre. The primary concern of early
Renaissance artists and art theorists is to set a rational rule for the
faithful (or improved) representation of space and the human figure on a
two-dimensional surface, free-standing, in the round. In his “De Pictura”, Alberti
establishes the principle of art as an intellectual discipline, focusing on
geometry, mathematical perspective and the representation of the naked male. The
philosophical conviction that ‘man is the scale and measure of all things’ is applied
to space: Alberti’s choice of viewpoint and scale in the perspective diagrams is
based on the *height* of a well-formed male and the units into which he is divided.
This philosophical position also accepts that the main aim of the art of
statue-making is the depiction of a man’s action, emotion and deed, what
Alberti called “la storia”. Naturally, the study and drawing of the LIVE model
in a work-shop, and later of anatomy and classical statuary in a studio and an academy
or club, are essential for this purpose. Although Alberti’s approach, and even
the literary structure of De Pictura, is based on classical models and
examples, his conception of art is ‘naturalistic’. For Alberti, to become
skilled in the visual arts ‘the fundamental principle will be that all steps of
learning should be sought from nature’ (“dalla natura”, not “dall’antico”). Earlier,
more practical treatises, like Cennino Cennini’s Libro dell’Arte advocates the
study of a painting produced by a master, a practice that encourages repetition
and which could eventually lead to artistic sterility. Alberti accepts the
copying of two-dimensional works by other artists only because ‘they have
GREATER STABILITY OF APPEARANCE than the living, live, lively, model’, but he
privileges the drawing of a statue because, being life-*like* (cf. ‘natura
morta’), it does not impose just ONE viewpoint on its copyist, but infinite –
which makes ‘drawn from the antique’ a fascinating reflection on the
draughtsman, who seeks, say, for rear views!
Hence, while the practice of the early workshop often involved the
copying of three-dimensional models or drawings of such models, it is as a
preparation for life-study (“DRAWN FROM LIFE”) rather than an end in itself. This
is is not to ignore the impact of antique proto-types on artists, which was
enormous. One need only think of Donatello’s Ganimede who was responding to
antique models from very early in the Quattrocento. But from a theoretical
point of view, for Alberti, the emphasis is on the full mastery of the natural
forms (‘DRAWN FROM LIFE’) rather than on the imitation of other works of art,
even those from antiquity. The artist’s goal is to achieve an illusionistic
translation of the external world onto the flat surface of a drawing (‘DRAWN
FROM LIFE’) or into the volumes and masses of sculpture – as in Italian
statuary not based on the Antique: Michelangelo’s Bacco, Bernini’s Enea, etc.
-- Nevertheless, in Alberti we find the roots of two intertwined concepts, both
originating in classical sources, which progressively support and justify the
practice of copying as in ‘drawn from the antique’. The ultimate point is to
create a ‘beautiful’ naked male by selecting the most ‘excellent parts . . .
from the most beautiful naked males. Every effort should be made to perceive,
understand and express beauty. To substantiate this principle, Alberti recalls
the episode of the celebrated painter of antiquity -- depicted by Vasari in his
fresco at his own palazzo in Arezzo, ‘Zeusi compone Elena dalle fanciulle di
Crotona’-- the Italian Zeuxis, who, in order to create Elena, the image of
female perfection, selects the most beautiful maidens from the city of Crotona and
unfairly goes to choose the best part from each. This silly anecdote – sexist,
since the male equivalent would be unthinkable --, derives from ancient
literary sources, and becomes one of the most recurrent adaggi of the art
treatise in the following centuries. Zeuxis embodies and clearly explains the
idea of art as a form of ‘perfected nature’. The beautiful (‘il bello’, for
Italians hardly use ‘bellezza’, unless you are Sorrentino) is based on a system
of a harmonic proportion. For Alberti, in the perfect male the single part – the
two hands, the head, the two legs, he torso, the back, etc. – is related
numerically to the other parts and to the whole (il totto) in the principle of commensurability or
syn-metron, literally the measurability by a common standard. The overall
result is harmonic perfection (‘ Just look in my direction! Ain’t that
perfection!’) which Alberti defines as ‘concinnitas’, a theory that Alberti
bases on Vitruvio’s De Architectura. Pro-portion, which Alberti covers in depth
in his “De Statua” becomes a major subject of philosophical aesthetic
speculation. Vinci and Dürer produce in-depth studies, and Vinci’s ‘uomo
vitruviano’ is the perfect expression of the theory of the mathematical
conception of the naked male [Vinci, Gallerie dell’Academia, Venezia, inv. 228
– Le proporzione dei corpo umano secondo Vitruvio, metal point, pen and brown
ink with touches of wash, 344 x 245 mm c 1490] For Alberti, one selects the
best from nature and reassembles the selection according to a system of
harmonic proportion ultimately resting on the mathematical relation THAT IS
rationally inferred from Nature itself. This principle is the cornerstone of
aesthetics. Although the central textual foundation for the concept that ‘il
bello’ is based on proportion, Policleto’s Canon, had been lost, Renaissance
artists and scholars are well aware through Vitruvio and other classical
writers that ancient artist base his work on this principle. Therefore, from
the 16th century onwards, and especially in the following two centuries, the
crucial appeal that an antique statue had for artists rested not only in its
aesthetic quality and form, but also on the very fact that it embodied the
intellectual principle of proportional perfection. The rationalistic (indeed
illuministic) approach of the Canova’s French academy (when moulding the wax of
Napoleon in nudita eroica) even provides students with manuals in which the
numerical proportion of a statue is carefully laid out. This idea-guided naturalistic
attitude of art theory, which had in any case been greatly modified in High
Renaissance practice, shifts towards an even more idealistic (hyper-idealistic,
not romantic) approach and, simultaneously, a more systematic one, laying the
ground plan for the classicist theory. Because most art theoreticians consider
their era to be a period of artistic decadence and excess after the great
achievements of the High Renaissance, and also because many of them focus on
the codifying of a rule that may be imposed in the academy, the model of
perfection is increasingly deemed mandatory (Dolce, Lomazzo, Armenini), the antique
that they feel inspired and guided the ‘buona maniera’ of Buonarroti and Sanzio
(whom the pre-raphaelites hated), became the standard by which a fault (errore)
of Nature or this or that affectation (say, the length of necks in Modigliani)
is corrected. The ‘drawn from the antique’ takes a decisive lead over the ‘drawn
from life’ (DESEGNO DALLA VITA), and the construction of taste – the lure of
the antique that had lured the antiques themselves, such as Adriano! Correspondingly,
in the classicist tradition that develops in Rome – the headquarters of the
French Academy at Villa Medici -- the Antique (l’antico) becomes the essential
model for the composition. This, definable as the depiction of episodes based
on Roman mythology or Roman history, with a moral value attached, is considered
from Alberti the highest form and final aim and receives the place of honour in
the academic hierarchy of the genres. Although a naturalistic and
anti-classicist tendency remains alive even within the academic system,
classicism establishes itself as the predominant aesthetic principle, as Opie’s
inaugural lecture as Chair of Painting (but not Chair of Sculpture – since
that’s a whole different animal!) at the Royal Academy attests. Its success
rests primarily on the fact that it represents an aesthetic approach that is
considered to express a universal and a ‘true’ principle. And this, because of its
rational nature, can be taught by rule, which suits the systematic attitude of
Enlightenment culture. The proliferation of the academy encourages the penetration
of this set of values even within contexts and cultures that until then had
been only superficially exposed to it. The humanistic theory of art, clothed in
a new and codified form, eventually reaches the most remote corners of the
world, with the antique army as the herald. At the centre of the education of
any artist in the Renaissance was the practice of ‘disegno,’ drawing or design,
considered to be one of the essential foundations of art from Cennini onwards.
‘Disegno,’ (dall’antico, dalla vita), endowed with an intellectual role by
Vasari and other theorists, as the
manifestation of the idea and invention of the artist, becomes the essential
quality of the Roman and Florentine academies. Successively, it assumed a
central role in the theory of European academies as the expression of the
rational common denominator of the three sister arts: painting, sculpture and
architecture. Opie, himself a poor draughtsman – hence his teaching of
‘disegno’ --, still considered ‘Design, or Drawing, the most important part of
Painting’. Drawing after the Antique, or Drawing from the Antique, as a union
of intellectual medium and intellectual end, becomes integral to the learning
process and the activity of artists, along with ‘Drawn from Life’. The academy
is depicted, the studio, an artists copying from some original or drawing from a
cast, in situ in, usually, Rome or back at home. Whether he is drawing from the
antique on paper to learn how to represent outlines and chiaroscuro – the
effects of light on three-dimensional forms – or to assemble a repertory of the
body’s form, pose and expression, or to assimilate a system of ‘correct’
proportions and anatomy, no would-be member of the academy can avoid confronting
the lessons of the Antique, and of adjusting his creative process in relation
to it. Apart from the didactic and inspirational functions of drawing from the
antique (as opposed as from life), many other reasons justified the practice.
As a result of their pervasiveness, a studio ‘drawin from the antique’
(disegnato dall’antico’) – which are innumerable – are difficult to categorise
because they are produced for different reasons, serve different purposes and
display different conceptions and relations to the antique. Nevertheless, one
might attempt a division. There is the didactic ‘drawn from the antique’: a copy
produced his education as an a course assignment at the Academy: a drawing
produced by a master in a workshop to provide the apprentice with an accessible
repertory of classical forms to copy. There is RECORD drawing: a sketch created
to serve as inspiration for a form, a pose, am expressios, a composition, a movement,
a proportion, etc., for its own artistic purpose. There is translation, a precisely
finished drawings intended to be engraved, usually conveying as much
information as possible about the statue’s form and pose. There is documentary
drawings, produced with the purpose of recording accurately the physical
appearance of an antiquities obviously including any damage the statue may have
undergone. To this category belong many drawings produced specifically for the antiquarian
collector, from the “Codex Coburgensis” to those of the famous ‘Paper Museum’
assembled by Pozzo. There is the marketable
drawing: a finished copy specifically produced to be sold on the market or
commissioned by a collector to fill his ‘paper museum’ of classical
antiquities. Examples are those by Batoni for Richard Topham, Esq. – The Topham
Collection --. There is the promotional drawing, a drawing made with the
specific purpose of promoting the acquisition of an item (statue or statuary
group), such as those by Jenkins to Townley – The Townley Collection. Naturally,
as with any categorisation, these divisions are a simplification and a drawing
may overlap two or more classes, such as this or that drawing by Goltzius, intended
to be engraved, but which also function as a repertory of an antique forms to
be used in the artist’s practice. Whatever their categories, all these drawings
followed the technical evolution of the medium, from the predominant metalpoint
and pen-and-ink to the black and red chalk. Athough pen-and-ink remains a
favoured medium, chalk becomes the choice for FULL-SIZE statuary, as a softer,
more pliable medium it allows a more sophisticated rendering of a tonal passage
and, therefore, of relief and anatomu. Red chalk especially offers the impossibility
of bringing the ANTIQUE (antico) to LIFE (vita), transforming or
transubstantiating inorganic matter into ‘warm flesh’. In artists’ workshops
one of the most important aspects of an apprentice’s training, aside from
mastering the manual procedures of painting, is copying works by the master and
other artists. This is intended as a means to shorten the process of learning
how to represent the THREE-DIMENSIONS onto two thanks to examples already
produced by others. This practice is described by Cennini, although still
intended only to train the apprentice to reproduce the master’s style and not
yet Nature or Life. An aapprentices could resort to copying model books and
sketchbooks already assembled by the master or by others. These were
repertories of a drawing of an animal, a plant, decorative details, a male nude
at rest, a male nude in action, usually produced as teaching tools, and it is
in these collections on paper that we find the earliest surviving drawings
derived from classical antiquities. The Antique is included mainly as a source
of information on the anatomy, its form, modelling, pose, expression,
movementsand the interaction of all t hese elements. Most of the early
drawings that represent antique forms are produced by artists active in Rome
where the largest number of accessible physical remains from antiquity is
concentrated. AN ANCIENT FULL-SIZE STATUE IN THE ROUND may have survived above
ground. Among the most famous publicly displayed examples are the ANTONINO, or
pseudo-Constantine the Great. outside the Lateran Palace, the Spinario, and the
Camillo, both of which are moved from the Lateran to the Campidoglio by Sesto IV;
the Quirinal Horse Tamers, I DIOSCURI, and the two Quirinal Recubantes or
Rivers. Virtually no ancient painting is known, and its appearance was
conjectured from a description (ecphrasis) in a literary sources, notably
Pliny’s Naturalis Historia (esp. book XXXV). It was only with the exploration
at the end of the 15th century of the buried interiors of the Domus Aurea of
Nerone in Rome, known as grotte, that artists access ancient examples, and from
this time a wave of grotesque motifs and decorations spread widely. More
readily available is a sarcophagus relief or a large imperial relief. A drawing
may depict mainly this category of ancient artefacts. They are popular because,
with their complex, frieze-like narratives, it inspires the compostion of a
“storia” as Alberti notes. Among the most frequently represented are the
reliefs of sarcophagi and the imperial reliefs of Trajan’s Column and the
Arches of Titus and Constantine. The subjects preferred by late Gothic or early
Renaissance artists – Bacchic themes, Amazons, the story of Adone, marine
deities or ancient battles – demonstrate an interest in the nude and in the
depiction of movement, dynamism and strong expressions. Although it is recorded
that Donatello and Brunelleschi copy antiquities during their stay at Rome, no
drawings survive by either of them to reveal their approach to the Antique. The
earliest surviving drawings of an antique is by artists in the workshops of
Fabriano and Pisanello, when they were in Rome working for Martino V in St John
in Lateran. The drawings correspond in many ways to the paintings. They show
little awareness of the formal principle of classical art, transforming a figure
from a Roman sarcophagus relief into a Gothic type. They often re-interpret the
pose and, sin! -- proportion of the original, even, as in the case of a sheet of
a fantasia in the Louvre, assembling figures from different s arcophagi. This
process of extra-polation, isolation and modification is common to many
drawings from the Antique. The draughtsman creates a visual repertories of
single figures, or isolated groups of figures which are easy to re-use in their
own compositions. From a teaching point of view, an isolated figure is probably
considered, at least in the model books and sketchbooks, to be more readily
assimilable by the apprentice in the workshop than a whole composition. A good
example of such an approach is seen in a drawing attributed to the so-called
‘Anonymous of the Ambrosiana’, from a sketchbook made in Rome in The original
model is a celebrated sarcophagus relief of the Muses, Minerva and Apollo then
in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. It was copied in drawings by several
later growing archaeological awareness, in parallel with the spread of
antiquarian studies and rising interest in the classical world and its physical
remains. On the other hand, artists display a free handling and more personal
approach to the original, as they move away from the restraints of the model
book. With the exception of Donatello, from whom he learned much, MANTEGNA is
the quattrocento artist who had the most complex and sophisticated relationship
to the antique. Mantegna’s approach is evident in the introduction of direct
quotations from ancient architecture, reliefs and sculptures in his paintings
and frescoes and in his adoption of a precise, highly sculptural painting
style. A drawing by MANTEGNA – or a copy after a drawing – executed during his stay
in Rome accurately renders a classical proto-type but with a vivacious freedom
in style. It represents one of the Trajanic reliefs inserted in the central
passage of the Arch of Constantine. MANTEGNA sketches it at an angle from the
right side and from below. He precisely records the relief’s damaged condition
by showing both the emperor and the helmeted soldier on the right without their
right hands. He interprets the composition freely, concentrating on the most
prominent actors and on the relief’s formal principle, specifically its
treatment of movement and emotion, qualities praised by Alberti as essential
for the construction of a “storia”. The flow from left to right is accentuated,
Trajan has windswept hair.The horse is shown galloping, less upright and
frontal. The mouths are wide open, as are those of the soldiers on the right,
expressing the intensity of emotion in the victory over the Dacians. A drawing
like this serves a two- fold purpose, as a study of a formal principle and a
record of antique costumes, armours, shields and helmets. Its organisational
lessons and visual references could then be re-used to demonstrate the artist’s
power of inventio and his erudite knowledge of the classical past, as Mantegna
indeed does at Mantova in his sequence of canvases of the Triumph of Caesars [Sarcophagus
of the Muses, with Apollo and Minerva, front, 2nd c. ad, marble,
Kunsthistorisches Museum, Antikensammlung, Vienna, inv. I 171. Andrea Mantegna,
or circle of, Drawing after the Relief on the Arch of Constantine, end of the
15th century – beginning of the 16th, black chalk with brown ink, 273 × 189 mm,
Albertina, Vienna, inv. 2583r. Workshop of Pisanello, Three Nude Figures from
Ancient Roman Sarcophagi, c. 1431–32, silver point, pen and brown ink on
vellum, 194 × 273 mm, Louvre, Paris, inv. 2397]. artists, including Lippi and Franco
and it was engraved by Raimondi. The Ambrosiana draughtsman reproduces only a
few figures, changing their position and disregarding their interrelations and
the background, no doubt with the intention of assembling a range of drapery
studies that could be re-used in the future. The artist selects primarily
figures that offered the greatest variety and movement of cascading robes,
leaving the nude Apollo in the bottom right corner unfinished. Two tendencies,
apparently opposed but both symptomatic of a more profound understanding of the
antique, gains ground in sketchbooks and loose drawings. On one hand there was
a [Anonymous of the Ambrosiana, Figures from an ancient Roman Muses
Sarcophagus, c. 1460, metal point, pen and brown ink, heightened in white, on
pink prepared paper, 310 × 200 mm, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. F. 214
inf.] A similar evolution is seen in drawings that reproduce FREE-STANDING
classical statuary. Not surprisingly, all are after the most famous statues
then visible in Rome which, given their size and anatomical detailing, were an
invaluable source for the study of the male body. The earliest examples are
again a group of drawings by Pisanello. They represent, among other figures,
the ANTONINO and one of the two Horse Tamers or Dioscuri on the Quirinal Hill. The
latter is especially relevant for our purpose, as the Dioscuri constitute the two
most complete free-standing nude in Rome. Both Dioscuri are copied repeatedly,
praised by contemporary written sources, and [Trajan overpowering Barbarians,
Roman, c. 117 ad, marble, Arch of Constantine, central arch, north façade, Rome
remained constant sources of inspiration for artists into the 19th century. In
a drawing of one of the Dioscuri, the draughtsman isolates the sculpture from
its context, and focuses exclusively on rendering the anatomy. The cloak on the
forearm is just outlined. Although it is an impressive achievement and while
the male nude is realised much more plausibly than those figures taken from
sarcophagus reliefs, the ELONGATION and SLIMMING
of the figure and the inaccurate rendering of the idealised anatomy betrays a Gothic
mindset. The same DIOSCURO is copied in a drawing by Gozzoli [ Equestrian
Statue of Marcus Aurelius, Roman, 161–180 ad, bronze, 424 cm (h), Capitoline
Museums, Rome, inv. MC3247. Workshop of Pisanello, Marcus Aurelius, c. 1431–32,
pen, brown ink and wash heightened in white on brown-orange prepared paper, 196
× 156 mm, CASTELLO SFORZESCO, Civico Gabinetto dei Disegni, Milan, inv. B 878
SC. One of the Two Dioscuri or Horse Tamers, Roman copy of the 2nd century ad,
after a Greek original of the 5th century bc, marble, 528 cm, Quirinal Square,
Rome] Pollaiuolo. Many are modelled on an ancient proto-type, like those being
handled and studied by the artists at Bandinelli’s academy. But ‘DISEGNO DALLA VITA’
from a posed apprentice is also widely practised and becomes increasingly
common in the final decades, especially in Florence. Another drawing by Gozzoli’s
circle shows the practice of setting a male naked LIVE MODEL in the pose of
(apres, after) “l’antico” – a contradiction: DISEGNO DALLA VITA E DALL’ANTICO. In
this case the obvious reference is the Spinario, the celebrated bronze antique
figure whose complex pose remains one of the most popular for a live model. The
use of the model book as a teaching tool disappeared but sketchbooks and the travel
book reproducing antiquities became more widespread. Their progressive
diffusion is one of the clearest indications of the spread of interest in the antique
and goes hand-in-hand with the formation of collections of antiquities and the
pursuit of antiquarian studies, such as Biondo’s influential “Roma Instaurata”,
a methodical guide to the monuments of Rome. Enthusiasm for classical art and a
more attentive study of its forms and principles is reflected in the increased
dynamism, pathos and complexity of the compositions that we can see in Italian
painting and sculpture in the work of Florentine artists like Pollaiolo,
Ghirlandaio and Lippi [Workshop of Benozzo Gozzoli, A Nude Young Man Seated on
a Block, His Right Foot Crossed over His Left Leg, c. 1460, metalpoint, over
stylus indications, grey-brown wash, heightened with white, on pink-purple
prepared paper, 226 × 150 mm, The British Museum, Department of Prints and
Drawings, London, inv. Pp, 1.7] probably executed when he was in Rome to assist
Fra Angelico in the St Nicholas Chapel in the Vatican Palace]. In this case the
drawing is again far from accurate, and the draughtsman combines the Dioscuro
with the horse held by his twin. Again the forms are isolated. As in the
earlier drawing the supporting cuirass and the strut between the right arm and
thigh are omitted as is the cloak on the forearm. The group is set against a
neutral backdrop and on the ground rather than on its pedestal. Although the
Dioscuro stands firmly, and although his anatomical structure, his surface
musculature and their modelling are rendered much more convincingly than in the
Pisanello drawing, the idealisation of the male is still not emphasised and we seem
to be looking at a real MALE taming his horse rather than at a heroic marble
statue. Although it is difficult to draw general conclusions based on such
exiguous surviving material, it seems safe to say that formost 15th-century
artists, classical free-standing statuary was seen as a model for the nude male,
its poses and movements. With notable exceptions, such as Donatello, artists
did not try to grasp the anatomical and formal principle of the original nor does
he aspire to recreate the process of idealisation innate in so many classical
nudes. For this reason, the drawings are often not immediately recognisable as
copies after the Antique (‘drawn from the antique’). The Antique could also be
copied inside the workshop using SMALL-SCALE three-dimensional models. We have
plenty of evidence about collections of antique statues, often fragments, and
the ownership of plaster casts by artists. Their presence in the work-shop is also
acknowledged in “De Sculptura” by Gaurico, who speaks of artists having
cabinets ‘filled with any sort of sculptures’ and ‘chests filled with casts’. Although
a cast may OBVIOUSLY BE TAKEN from a male naked live model, as described by
Cennini, others are ‘cast from the antique’, such as those mentioned by
Ghiberti and Squarcione, the teacher of Mantegna, whose workshop at Padova
contained a collection of antiquities. Casts and antiquities are part of the
working material of the bottega. They also serve to elevate the status of the
workshop to that of a STUDIO or STUDIUM, a place of cultivation of liberal
arts, the beginning of that process of the intellectual emancipation of the
artist that would be fully developed with the foundation of the academies. A
beautiful drawing of feet, part of a sketchbook by Gozzoli eloquently shows the
use of casts, in this case most likely taken from antique fragments, as
teaching tools in the bottega. We see here one of the earliest visual records
of a [Spinario, Roman, 1st century bc, bronze, 73 cm (h), Capitoline Museums,
Rome, inv. MC1186. Pisanello, or circle of, One of the Two Dioscuri or Horse
Tamers, c. 1431–32, silverpoint, pen and brown ink on vellum, 230 × 360 mm,
Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. F. 214 inf.10v. Benozzo Gozzoli (attr.), One
of the Two Dioscuri or Horse Tamers, c. 1447–49, metalpoint, grey-black wash,
heightened with lead white, on blue prepared paper, 359 × 246 mm, The British
Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, inv. Pp, 1.18. Workshop of
Benozzo Gozzoli, Studies of Plaster Casts of Feet, c. 1460, silverpoint
heightened with white, on green prepared paper, 225 × 155 mm, Museum Boijmans
Van Beuningen, Rotterdam, Benozzo Gozzoli Sketchbook, fol. 53] practice,
copying from a cast, that would expand exponentially. For the study of the naked
male and the three-dimensional form, a pupil could rely also on small models in
wax, CLAY, or bronze, provided by such sculptors as Ghiberti or Sanzio, Buonarroti,
and Rome as the Centre of the Study of the Antique. The following generation,
that of Buonarroti and Sanzio, sees a seismic shift in the approach to the antique.
They now attempted to equal or even surpass the antique by penetrating its
principles.The two titans of the High Renaissance had a radically different
approach towards the classical naked male form, but they both aime at
assimilating the ancient ‘mimetic’ or imitative standard of an idealised
naturalism, full mastery of the naked male, its anatomy and proportions, and
the convincing rendering of the EMOTION or EX-pression (or affect) of the soul.
Vinci expresses a deep interest in the Antique and is directly exposed to it
in Florence and in Rome. The classical naked male form is referenced in
many of his works, particularly in the unrealised project for an equestrian
statue of Francesco Sforza in Milan. But Vinci’s naturalism, based on empirical
observation, means that he always checks his ancient sources against the
scientific observation of the natural world. He remains a naturalist at heart,
famously stating that ‘he who copies a copy is Nature’s grandchild when he may been
her son’. On the other hand, from a practical point of view, Vinci also
acknowledges the usefulness of copying from a ‘good master’ and sculpture. While
for Vinci the Antique remains an interest secondary to Nature, Sanzio’s and
Buonarroti’s engagement with the antique is on an unprecedented level. The
immense impact that Sanzio and Buonarroti have on their own generation and on
Western art in the centuries that followed lies in the very fact that they are perceived
and celebrated as the first modern masters who had equalled, if not surpassed,
the ancients. Opie, lecturing on painting at the Royal Academy, proclaims the
‘perfection of the Arts under Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, and
Raffaelle’, but their status as modern classics was already acknowledged during
their lifetime. Bembo elevates Buonarroti and Sanzio to the same pedestal of
the ‘ancient good masters’ and Vasari sustains his uncompromising panegyric of Buonarroti
by affirming that his Davide (Galleria dell’Accademia, Florence) surpasses in
beauty and measure even the best ancient monumental sculptures of Rome, in
particular the various Rivers and the Horse Tamers on the Quirinal. The Mondern,
now capable of providing an idealised nude more convincing than the most famous
surviving classical ones, outshines the Ancient. Artists of Sanzio’s and
Buonarroti’s generation have the advantage of benefiting from more, and more
readily available, ancient statuary, including those discovered in excavations
and those displayed in relatively accessible settings. However, both Vinci and
Buonarroti must already have been exposed to drawings, casts and models after
the Antique respectively in the workshops of Verrocchio and Ghirlandaio. Both
studied (although Vinci briefly) in the Giardino di San Marco, an informal
academy set up by Lorenzo il Magnifico to train artists specifically in drawing
and copying after the antique under the supervision of the sculptor Giovanni. Vasari
informs us that Buonarroti devoted himself obsessively to the task, and Condivi,
Buonarroti’ss biographer, emphatically states that the genius ‘having savoured
their beauty never again goes to Ghirlandaio’s workshop or
anywhere else, but there he would stay all day, always doing something, as in
the best school for such studies’ As a pupil Sanzio probably did not receive a
similar training in the workshop of Perugino, who had less interest in the
Antique. But some drawings with reference to classical models survive and he
certainly participates in the sophisticated antiquarian environment in Florence,
where he moves. It is the impact of what Buonarroti and Sanzio see in Rome,
where they both moved that has the most far-reaching and radical impact on the
evolution of their art and their relationship with the anqique. Under the
pontificates of Rovere (Giulio II and Leone X, Rome establishes herself as the
centre for the study of the Antique. Many of the most celebrated collections of
antiquities – Medici, Farnese, Borghese, Ludovisi, Albani -- are formed or
consolidated, such as those of Riario, Maffei, and Della Valle and later on the Cesi and the Sassi. The collection
of antiquities at the Campidoglio is enlarged with the transfer of the statues
of the Rivers, the Nile and the Tiber from the Quirinal and the Antonino from
the Lateran, the latter a statue so important for the symbolic imagery of Rome
that Buonarroti designs a square around it. However, the real centre of
attention in the early years of Buonarroti and Sanzio in Rome are the new
discoveries emerging from the soil of the city. Within a few years some of the
statues that would attract the attention of artists and connoisseurs for
centuries to come are discovered, [Anonymous engraver after Maarten van
Heemskerck, The Antique Courtyard of the Palazzo Della Valle, 1553, engraving,
289 × 416 mm, Rijksmuseum, inv. RP-P-1996-38] provoking enormous enthusiasm
among contemporaries: the Apollo del Belvedere, the Laoconte, the Cleopatra, the
Ercole Commodo, and the large rivers Tevere and Nilo. By 1512 all could be
admired, with the addition of the Venere Felice in the Cortile Ottogono del
casino della Villa del Belvedere nel Monte Vaticano, a purpose-built space
commissioned by Giulio II from Bramante, the great interpreter of ancient Roman
architecture. The Cortile, displaying some of the most complete and prestigious
sculptures from antiquity, soon became the canonical Roman site for making a copy
‘drawn from the antique’. It retains its unparalleled prestige, as the many
drawings after its statues eloquently attest. It is invaluable, as the Cortile
del Belvedere offers them the opportunity to study different male forms and
positions and different sub-types of ideal beauty at the same time: moving from
the Apollo, to the strong and pronounced muscular anatomy of Ercole Commodo.
Two more statues are added to the Courtyard: the Antino del Belvedere and the
Torso del Belvedere. The Antino del Belvedere is to become the canonical model
for artists for the perfect proportions of the naked male body. The Torso del
Belvedere becomes one of the most copied of all antiquities, a compulsory
reference for the body of the muscular male at rest, especially because of Buonarroti’s
admiration for it and the popular belief that he gives instructions to leave it
unrestored. The master’s praise of the evocative fragment became a leitmotif in
artistic treatises and literary sources to the point that it [Fig. 17.
Hieronymous Cock after Anonymous Draughtsman, The Capitoline Hill, 1562,
etching and engraving, 155 × 212 mm, Metropolitan Museum, New York, inv.
2012.136.358] became known in 18th-century Britain as the ‘School of
Michelangelo’. The Cortile del Belvedere, the Campidoglio, and the collections
in the various palazzi: Palazzo della Valle and others, remain the privileged
centres for copying the Antique in Rome. The increasing number of accessible
classical statues makes Rome a pole of attraction, to congregate and to complete
one’s education and gather on paper a repertory of classical forms and motifs. This
was a phenomenon central to the development of art. It is evocatively described by Bembo. Under Giulio
II and Leone X both Buonarroti and Sanzio are at the centre of the antiquarian
debate and, as Bembo puts it, play an essential role in their efforts to
emulate and surpass the antique (they fail). Indeed Vasari attributes the rise
of the ‘bella maniera’, and the great achievements of Sanzio and Buonarroti, to
their familiarity and exposure to the Belvedere statues. Even if Vasari’s words
are a retrospective celebration aimed at establishing the primacy of the
Florentine and Roman schools, the spirit of classical art permeates much of
Buonarroti’s and Sanzio’s Roman production and specific antique proto-types are
evoked in many of their works. One need only think of the inspiration Buonarroti
derives from the Torso del Belvedere for his Ignudi in the Sistine Chapel. Given
their familiarity with classical antiquity, it may seem strange therefore that
very few drawings after classical statuary by either Buonarroti or Sanzio
survive. Many might have been intentionally destroyed. Vasari recounts
Buonarroti’s burning large numbers of drawings, sketches [Fig. 18.
Apollo del Belvedere, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period (117–138 ad) after a
Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 224 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome
inv. 1015 Laocoön, possibly a Roman copy of the 1st century ad after a Greek
original of the 2nd century bc, marble, 242 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
1064. Cleopatra, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period after a Greek original of
the 2nd century bc, marble, 162 (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 548] and
cartoons so that none could see the efforts of his creative process. Nonetheless,
in the few surviving drawings which bear direct references to classical models,
one sees their tendency towards ‘assimilating’ the spirit of antique forms
rather than *slavishly* copying them (as an amanuensis would). This attitude
can be shown by comparing a drawing by Aspertini after the Belvedere Cleopatra
with one by Sanzio derived from the same statue. Aspertini’s copy, paired on
the facing page with one from a relief from the Arch of Constantine, embodies
the attitude typically seen in a sketch- book: a more or less faithful
rendering of the antique form, in this case rather finished and accurate, that
serves as a record. Sanzio’s drawing represents a more evolved phase, when the
ancient form takes a new shape: the elegant and difficult pose of the body of
the Cleopatra and the play of the drapery over her intertwined [Aspertini, The
Sleeping Cleopatra and a Relief from Trajan’s Column, (verso) post 1496, pen
and brown ink, over black chalk, on two sheets conjoined, 254 × 423 mm, The
British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, Sanzio, Figure in
the Pose of the Sleeping Cleopatra, c. 1509, pen and brown ink, 244 × 217 mm,
Albertina, Vienna, inv. 219. Sanzio, The Muse Calliope, detail from the
Parnassus, c. 1509–10, fresco, Stanza della Segnatura, Vatican Palace, Rome] legs
are used as an inspiration for the muse Calliope in his Vatican Parnassus.
Sanzio nevertheless also produces some ‘record’ drawings. Nominated by Leo X as
inspector of all the antiquities in and around Rome and embarked on a project
to reconstruct the aspect of ancient Roman buildings based on precise
architectural surveys of their remains. His method, based on a precise analysis
paired with ancient literary sources, remains unmatched. His scholarly attitude
towards classical art and his thorough understanding of it are clearly
expressed in a famous letter that he wrote to Leo X with the help of the
courtier Castiglione in which he appeals against the destruction of classical
monuments. At the same time, he provides an outstandingly accurate description
of the different styles of ancient sculpture found on the Arch of Constantine. One
of the very few surviving exact copies of classical statues in Sanzio’s hand is
indicative of his precise, almost [Hendrik III Van Cleve, Detail from
View of Rome from the Belvedere of Innocent VIII, 1550, oil on panel, 55.5 ×
101.5 cm, Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brussels, inv. 6904.
Pseudo-Antino del Belvedere, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period after a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 195 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
907. Belvedere Torso, Greek or Roman, 1st century bc, marble, 159 cm (h),
Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 1192] archaeological approach to the Antique, and
we can assume that he produced similar ones during his period as inspector of
Roman antiquities. It is a clear rendering of one of the two horses from the
Horse Tamers on the Quirinal, that we encountered in Gozzoli’s study. There
could not be a better comparison to demonstrate the progress made in the
understanding of classical statuary. Sanzio’s drawing is ‘scientific’. We
clearly recognise that the horse is a piece of marble sculpture, with a
faithful record of its missing left leg and the joint between the neck and the
body. The horse is COPIED, i. e. DRAWN AT EYE LEVEL (Sanzio presumably stood on
a platform) and not seen from below, as in most other contemporary views. This
allows the proper study of the proportion of the sculpture, in a way similar to
an architectural elevation. Outstandingly, even the measurements of the statue
are recorded on the drawing, probably by one of his pupils, making this the
first surviving measured drawing of a classical statue. Incidentally Sanzio’s
drawing also shows the introduction of a new medium – red chalk – which would
become one of the preferred tools for drawing after the Antique. It is likely,
nevertheless, that Sanzio generally left making such specific records of
classical sculptures to the pupils of his large workshop, as several surviving drawings
in the hand of Romano and Polidoro da Caravaggio, among others, attest. Some of
these were probably intended to be engraved, as it is in Sanzio's circle that
we find the first printed images of celebrated statues and reliefs, such as
those of Raimondi, Marco [Sanzio The Right Horse of the Horse Tamers on the
Quirinal Hill, c. 1513, red chalk and pen and brown ink over indentations with
the stylus, 219 × 275 mm, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C., inv.
1993.51.3.a, Woodner Collection. Buonarroti, Study of an Antique Torso of
Venus, c. 1524, black chalk, 256 × 180 mm, The British Museum, Departments of
Prints and Drawings, London, inv. 1859,0625.570. Buonarroti, A Youth beckoning;
A Right Leg, c. 1504–05, pen and brown ink, black chalk, 375 × 230 mm, The
British Museum, Departments of Prints and Drawings, London, inv. 1887,0502.117.
Romano
(attr.), Apollo del Belvedere, c. 1513–15, pen and brown ink, pencil, 316 × 155
mm, Albertina, Vienna, inv. 22449. Veneziano, Apollo Belvedere, engraving, c.
1518–20, 269 × 169 mm, private collection. Dente and Agostino Veneziano (c.
1490–after 1536; 29). The print medium, which plays a crucial role in
disseminating the knowledge of the Antique is to be increasingly used in
work-shops and academies for training. One first copies the Antique from a flat
image, before turning to the third dimension of a cast or an original. Sanzio’s
approach towards the Antique, based on study, measurement, reconstruction and
dissemination, cannot be more distant from that of Buonarroti, who constantly
confronts the classical models with a challenging spirit. Several anecdotes
reported by contemporaries reveal his approach towards antiquity. Boissard
informs us that shortly after having seen the Laooconte emerging from the ground
of the Esquiline, Buonarroti enthusiastically comments that it is ‘a singular
miracle of art in which we should grasp the divine genius of the sculptor
rather than trying to make an imitation of it’.This quotation is poignant for
understanding the Platonic concept of divine inspiration for Buonarroti. At the
same time it shows clearly that his relationship with the antique model was not
based on a process of imitation but rather on that of ‘aemulatio,’ a creative
rivalry possible only after the assimilation and internalisation of its
principle. This approach is reinforced in a celebrated passage from Vasari
which became a recurrent leitmotif in subsequent art literature – in which he
reports that Buonarroti creates figures of nine, ten or even twelve heads high,
searching only for the overall grace in the artistic creation, because in
matter of the proportion, ‘it is necessary to have the compass in the eyes and
not in the hand, because the hands *work* and the eyes *judge*’. Advocating the
principle of grace, consistency of artistic creation, and the artist’s own
judgement, Buonarroti therefore disregards the canon of *eight* heads
comprising the male figure established by Vitruvio, implicitly expressing a
relation with the classical proto-type based on empathy and intimate
understanding of its form, rather than on a rational adherence to a rule based
on a number– an approach he replicates in his architecture. Buonarroti’s
surviving copies after classical statues can be counted on one hand, such as a
series of reproducing the torso of an antique Venus, probably made in
preparation for one of the female figures in the Medici Chapel. His free
relationship with the Antique emerges from many of his drawings, for instance the
Beckoning Youth, loosely inspired by the Apollo del Belvedere. Buonarroti evokes
the pose and aspect of the celebrated statue, but turns it into something new,
where the hint of movement of the original is dramatically accentuated and
balance is replaced by unstable dynamism. Sanzio and Buonarroti have been
discussed at length because their different attitudes towards classical forms
resurface constantly in Art. This polarity may be defined as assimilating the
principles of the Antique by sticking to its rules and system of proportions OR
assimilating the creative spirit of the Antique by breaking its rules. At the
risk of oversimplification we could argue that Reni and Poussin fall within the
first sphere and Rubens and Bernini in the second. It is not by chance that the
classicist credo that permeates the Italian and French academies for most of
their history elects *Sanzio* as their champion, while the eccentric and unruly
Buonarroti remains a figure more difficult to celebrate from a didactic point
of view. The Antique in Theory plays a Role in the Academic ‘Alphabet of
Drawing’. More statues emerge from the soil of Rome and those already
discovered are given new life and integrity by partial or full ‘restoration’. A
statue is usually unearthed in fragmentary states, as can be seen from the
evocative drawings of Roman collections by Heemskerck. Whether philologically
correct or not, the practice of restoration allows one to copy the naked male in
its entirety rather than in mutilated fragments. Celebrated restorations
included those of the Apollo del Belvedere and the Laooconte by MONTORSI on the
recommendation of Buonarroti. Among the excavated statues three must be
mentioned as they immediately became constant references for artists. The place
of honour goes to the Ercole Farnese. It provides an ideal model for the
muscular male at rest and copies after it become ubiquitous in artists’
work-shops and academies. The other two statues are discovered together in and
immediately entered the collection of the Villa Medici in Rome: I LOTTATORI,
representing two males in a complexly interlocked ‘syntagma’ or group.
I LOTTATORI are used often in later academies as a source for posing TWO LIVE
MODELS – SYNTAGMA DISEGNATO DALLA VITA (see cats 16 and 27b); and the Niobe Group
whose suffering expressions would be widely referenced as a source for drama
and pathos, for instance by Reni, among others. In time, a standard set of
ideal types (to use Weber’s term) begins to take shape, thanks to the diffusion
of bronze and plaster casts and, especially, of prints. After the loose sheets
of Raimondi, Dente and Veneziano, more systematic enterprises are launched.
Collections such as SPECVLVM ROMANÆ MAGNIFICENTIÆ by Lafréry or ANTIQVARVM STATVARVM URBIS ROMAE by
Cavalieri, play a crucial role in the wide dissemination of a canonical
selection of classical statues, thus attracting more and more artists to Rome
to study the originals. This tendency towards codification also affects the
relationship of artists and art writers with the Antique, as the imitation of
classical statuary is given theoretical underpinning. At the same time the
Antique acquires a clear role within the curricula of the emerging academies as
a teaching tool, systemising a practice that, as we have seen, is already
widely diffused within Renaissance workshops. Art theory in general goes
through a process of radical systematization. Many artists and writers feel that
rules are required to give ‘ars’ an intellectual frame-work that would lift its
status from ‘mechanical’ to ‘liberal’ arts – (as in M. A. Magister in Arts, MA
before DPhil Lit Hum) an ambition dating back to the writings of Alberti. Most
theoreticians and artists believe that a codified precept is also vital to
inculcating the ‘correct’ principle in an age that they considered to be one of
artistic corruption. Armenini speaks explicitly of the ‘pain’ that masters like
Sanzio and Buonarroti would have felt in seeing the art of his own time. And
Armenini, Lomazzo, Zuccaro and others, notwithstanding differences among them,
consider that the rule can be inferred from study of the best examples of the
great Renaissance masters and those of antiquity. The latter especially, it was
thought, would provide with correct proportions and anatomy and inculcate the ideal
standard. A foundation of this theoretical effort is provided by the
assimilation of Artistotle’s Poetica, the first reliable Latin translation of
which circulated widely. Since no comprehensive treatise on painting had [Cavalieri,
The Laocoön, engraving plate 4, from Antiquarum statuarum urbis Romae, Rome,
1585] readily found in his work. For him the best ancient sculptures embodied
the supreme quality of ‘grazia’, which cannot be attained by study but only by
judgement – a concept that remains one of the central tenets of Italian art
theory. Vasari’s Lives also proclaims the superiority of the Central Italian
School of painting, based on ‘disegno’ to the Venetian one, based on ‘colore’,
initiating a debate over the respective merits of the two traditions. Although
traditionally the Venetians aim at imitating nature directly on the canvas
through colour and therefore are less attached to the laborious practice of drawing
after the antique, classical statuary plays a role in the formation of many
Venetian painters, and casts are used in their workshops. Tintoretto, for
instance, owns a large collection of casts and reductions of ancient and modern
sculptures. The importance attached to the study of the Antique by all the
Italian schools of painting is shown by the fact that one of the very first
consistent formulations of the principle of the ‘imitation’ of classical
statuary is to be found in Dolce’s “Dialogo della pittura.” Dolce’s “Dialogo
della pittura” contains the strongest defence of the Venetian tradition against
the Vasarian point of view. It also contains, if not fully developed, most of
the fundamental elements of the artistic theory. Dolce clearly specifies that
in the search for the perfect proportion of the naked male, the artist should ‘*partly*
imitate nature’ and partly ‘the best marbles and bronzes of the antient [sic]
masters’, because through them he can ‘correct’ this or that defects of this or
that living form – the live model -- as they are ‘examples of perfect beauty’, an
ideal version of Nature. But in Dolce we find also a warning against regarding
the copying of ancient sculpture as an end in itself rather than the means by
which an artist creates his own ideal artistic forms – something already
stressed by Vasari in his Lives. An ancient statue is to be ‘imitated’ with
‘judgement’, to avoid turning a pleasing trait into a formula or, worse, an eccentricity.
This warning would be repeated frequently, notably, y Rubens and Bernini and it
could lead to open opposition to copying the Antique. Similar advice appears in
Armenini’s Veri Precetti della Pittura. Armenini’s “VERI PRECETTI DELLA
PITTURA” is quite systematic and offers one of the most articulated approaches
towards the role of the Antique in the artist’s education. Many of Armenini’s ideas
and much of his advice would becomes standard practice. In the chapter on
‘disegno’, Armenini states that to acquire the ‘bella’ or ‘buona
[The Farnese Hercules, Roman copy of the 3rd century ad of a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 317 cm (h), MUSEO ARCHEOLOGICO
NAZIONALE, Napoli, inv. 6001. I
LOTTATORI. Roman copy of a Greek original of the 3rd century bc, marble, 89 cm
(h), Uffizi, Firenze, inv. 216. The Niobe, possibly Roman copy of a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 228 cm (h), Uffizi, Firenze, inv. 294] survived
from antiquity, the Poetics, together with Orazio’s Ars Poetica, offer a
theoretical structure that could be transferred from the literary disciplines
to visual art – justified by Orazio’s celebrated motto ‘ut pictura poesis’, ‘as
is painting so is poetry’. More relevant from our perspective, Aristotle’s
Poetica provides, in several passages, an authoritative ancient source for the
principle that art may ‘perfect’ nature to create an ideal model – a concept
implied but never clearly defined by Alberti – and which constituted one of the
most solid bases for the classicist doctrine of art. This Aristotelian trend
had a counter-balance in a neo-Platonic tendency in which ideal beauty does not
derive from Nature but is infused in the mind of the artist by God, two
approaches that at times were combined by the same author, such as Lomazzo or
Zuccaro. But whether of Aristotelian or Platonic origins, or indeed a
combination of both, the principle of imitation of those works of art that had
already accomplished idealisation – particularly the antique statue – becomes one
of the leitmotifs of Italian art theory (v. Dorfles, “Natura e Artificio”). The
most important writer on art of the Renaissance, Vasari, firmly establishes the
primacy of disegno, design or drawing, as the intellectual part of art, the
‘parent’ of the three sister arts of architecture, sculpture and painting. In
his Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors and Architects drawing is described
as the physical, sensible manifestation EX-pression of an idea, encompassing
‘all the objects in nature’. Although he does not provide a theoretical case
for drawing after the Antique, nonetheless passages referring to the impact
that classical statues have on artists are maniera’ of the great
Renaissance masters, the student needs fully to assimilate through drawing
those principles of the ancient statues that those Renaissance masters
themselves copy, as they embody the best of Nature. Armenini’s importance lies
also in the fact that he is the first to list the specific statues and reliefs to
copy and to praise the didactic use of plaster casts, of which he saw many
collections throughout Italy – testifying to a practice that must already have
been quite widespread. The imitation of the Antique also becomes a central
tenet of the earliest art academies. Deriving their name from the ancient
philosophical Academy (Hekademos) of Plato, an ‘accademia’ is intended as a venue
for the cultivation of the practical, but even more, the intellectual aspects
of art. Its role is conceived in parallel and not in opposition to the artist’s
workshop, where the apprentices is still supposed to learn art’s technical
rudiments. One of the first mentions of the word ‘accademia’ in conjunction
with art is found in the first object shown in this catalogue, the Accademia del
Belvedere run by BANDINELLI eengraved by Veneziano. This depicts an ‘accademia’
centred on disegno set up in the Belvedere, where Leo X gives him quarters. It
shows artists learning how to draw the naked male and it is significant that
the focus of their attention is a series of statuettes modelled after a classical
proto-type. This, and the later view of Bandinelli’s Florentine Academy, are
the very first examples of an iconographical genre: the image of an accademia,
workshop, studio, often created with a programmatic or didactic purpose,
showing pupils learning the different branches of art or going through
different stages in their education. Just glancing at the works illustrated in the
catalogue shows how the presence of the Antique becomes progressively relevant.
The centrality of disegno and the naked male is firmly stressed by the
institutional, more organised, ‘accademia’.. The first, and a model for all
future academies, was the aptly named ‘Accademia del Disegno,’ – or ‘dei
disegnanti’ -- founded in Florence by Cosimo de’ Medici on the initiative of
Vasari. Its aim is to emancipate the artist from guild control, and to affirm
the intellectual status of the art.The two most significant academies that
followed before the are ‘Gl’Incamminati’, or ‘Accademia degl’incamminati,
founded in Bologna by the three Carraccis, and the Accademia di San Luca in
Rome, relaunched and given a didactic curriculum under Zuccaro. These academies
– although there were significant differences among them, and often huge
discrepancies between the theory they supported and the everyday teaching they
practised – proposes a system that could give a broad education to aspiring
artists. This usually included the study of mathematics, geometry and
perspective, to teach the student how to represent space rationally; and of
anatomy, the antique and the live model, -- DISEGNO DALL’ANTICO, DISEGNO DALLA
VITA -- to teach him to master the correct depiction of the naked male. We can
see an idealised version of early academic practices in a complex and
fascinating drawing by Stradano,
engraved by Cort, where the stress is on anatomy, the Antique and on the three
arts of disegno. Similar practices are illustrated in an etching by Alberti
showing a structured curriculum of studies involving anatomical dissection,
geometry, the Antique and architectural drawing. These studies codify artistic
exercises (and give a bad name to ‘academic’) that had been current from the
early Renaissance onwards but important new teaching structures were
introduced. These include a rotating academic staff, a competition and a prize,
and an organised debate on artistic questions and they are supported especially
by the regulations of the Accademia di San Luca. Although we do not know to
what extent and how effectively these new structures functioned in the first
decades of the Roman institution, they soon spread to other academies, becoming
the model for the Académie Royale in Paris. All these institutions strongly
advocate the copy of the Antique, both in plaster reproduction or in the
original. The Accademia del Disegno supervises drawing from the Antique both in
the Academy and in the workshops where apprentices were trained. It also owns a
‘libreria’, which includes drawings, models of statues, architectural plans,
and ancient sculpture, all used as teaching tools. The Accademia di San Luca
lists the copying after the Antique in its first statutes and receives a donation of casts, while numerous
plasters – such as reliefs from Trajan’s Column, the bust and the head of the
Laocoonte, one of the Horse Tamers of the Quirinal, the Torso del Belvedere and
many other entire or in fragments – appear in its early inventories. The
importance accorded by Zuccaro, the founder of the Roman Academy’s curriculum,
to the thorough study of Rome’s most famous statues, emerges from his wonderful
drawing of his brother, Taddeo sketching the Laocoonte at the Belvedere. The
series to which this drawing belongs, produced around the same time as the
foundation of the Accademia di San Luca, illustrates the ideal training that am
artist should follow: imitation of the Antique and the works of Renaissance
masters, such as Sanzio’s Stanze and Loggie, Buonarroti’s Last Judgment and
Polidoro’s painted façades. Another sketch, by a Zuccaro follower, depicts Zuccaro
himself in the Accademia, surrounded by students sketching after the cast of an
ancient torso. The Carracci academy too, although primarily focused on
life-drawin (DISEGNO DALLA VITA), advocates study of the Antique and we know
that Carracci makes his collection of drawings, medals and casts available for
students. Early academies also codified a teaching model, defined as the
‘alphabet of drawing’ or the ‘ABC’ method, which, in a less regulated form, was
already established within work-shops and which would have a long-lasting
impact. This contributes significantly to giving the Antique a fixed place
within teaching curricula. Modelled on the learning of grammar, the ‘alphabet’ is
a sequence that encourage students to advance from elementary unity to complex
whole and from the simple and similar to the varied and different. The scheme
once again originated in Alberti, who advises a painter to follow the method practiced
by teachers of writing, from the alphabet to whole words. So the beginner is supposed
to learn first ‘the outlines of surfaces, then the way in which surfaces are
joined together, and after that the forms of all the members individually; and
they should commit to memory all the differences that can exist in those
members’. He recommends the same process for the study of the male anatomy:
starting from the bones, proceeding to the sinews and muscles, and finally to
the flesh and skin. An iincreased stress on the naked male means that pupils
often start from the eye, then assembles different parts of the body in ever
more intricate combinations, and finally reaches the whole naked male, via the
study of ancient sculpture AND the live model. Benvenuto [Workshop of Federico
Zuccaro, A Group of Artists Copying a Sculpture, c. 1600, 190 × 264 mm, pen,
black and red chalk on prepared paper, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. F 261
inf. n. 128, 125] Cellini reports that starting with the eye is the common
practice and advised, like Alberti, a similar process for the study of anatomy.
This process is reflected in the various images of early academies or studios,
such as Stradanus’ The Practice of the Visual Arts, where one pupil is shown
drawing an eye on his sheet, or Alberti’s Painters’ Academy where an artist is
presenting a similar drawing to his master. A parallel progression led the
student from simplicity to complexity in the depiction of outlines, surfaces,
chiaroscuro, poses and expressions: from copying objects in the same medium and
in two dimensions, to the imitation of three-dimensional figure. The process
usually starts with copying a drawing or print, then paintings, first in
grisaille and then in colour, moving onto ancient sculpture [PRELIMINARY to the
LIVE MODEL – drawn from life], either originals or casts, and, FINALLY, to the
live model. This progression, already outlined by Vinci in his treatise on
painting, and advocated also by Vasari, is codified by Armenini, the first to
list all its stages while simultaneously assigning a central role to classical
statuary in providing a model for ideal forms. Armenini delineates both the
progression from the eye to the whole body and from a drawing or print to the
live model (via the preliminary of the ‘drawn from the antique’, and warned the reader not to subvert this
order. The earliest academies applied this method and Zuccaro’s statutes of the
Accademia di San Luca, which are the most explicit, specifically mentioned the
‘alphabet’ or ‘ABC’ of drawing. It becomes standard practice in academies. The aim is, as most writers reiterated, to
assimilate this repertory of forms through constant study and the exercise of
memory, as to finally be able to create a form from imagination – for a
mythological heroic figure -- *independent* of any object of imitation
(IMITATUM). The ‘alphabet of drawing’ has its physical manifestation in the
publication of the drawing-book, conceived in the environment of the Carracci
academy, such as Fialetti’s “Il vero modo”. The diffusion of such manuals contributed
enormously to spreading the knowledge of the didactic role of the Antique to
artists who makes a grand tour to Rome a compulsory part of his education. Odoardo
Fialetti, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del
corpo humano, Venice, c. 1608, etching, 100 × 140 mm, The Bellinheger Collection].
Rome establishes herself as the preeminent centre for anyone
eager to assimilate the principle of Italian art. The first significant artist,
and one of the greatest of all to do the tour to the Belvedere with the specific
educational intent, is Dürer. Durer spends the years in Rome. The impact of
classical statuary is evident in many of his prints and paintings, for example,
in his “Adam and Eve”. But the largest number of artists to travel to Rome
originates from the Low Countries. Coming from a powerful and influential
pictorial tradition that privileged an analytical representation of nature, and
having received little or no exposure to classical antiquity in their training,
Netherlandish artists seek especially to learn how to master the naked male
through the lessons of the Antique and the works of Sanzio and Buonarroti. Rome
offers also the opportunity of training in one of its many workshops and the
appealing possibility of benefiting from the system of commissions. Indeed the
‘fiamminghi’, as they are called in Rome, gain an increasing number of
commissions, eventually, in their turn, influencing the Roman art world. Some
of them stayed for long periods or moved permanently, such as Stradanus, Giambologna
– il ratto delle sabine, il mcurio di Medici -- or Tetrode. We know about the
Roman years of many of these artists mainly thanks to Mander’s “Schilderboeck”,
the earliest systematic account of Netherlandish and Northern European
painters, based on Vasari’s “Vite”. The approach of these artists towards the
Antique could be varied and multi-faceted. Most fill their sketchbooks with
drawings that served as a collection of forms to be re-used. Others, like
Spranger, according to Van Mander, aim to assimilate the principles of
classical art to establish a repertoires of forms and an attitude towards the
naked male that could be infused in their own creations, rather than spending
too much time in the physical act of drawing. Although ‘Mabuse’ is the first
Fleming to pass time in the peninsula, it was only with Scorel that the lesson
of antiquity was transmitted, through his work-shop at Utrecht. Of his various
pupils, Heemskerck is certainly the most prolific and versatile in copying
antique statuary. Two albums from the
years he spent in Rome are preserved in Berlin. They constitute one of
the largest surviving collections of copies after the Antique and are filled
with exceptional drawings in different media and size, offering an invaluable
opportunity to categorise the many different approaches to classical statuary
that can be described as record drawings. Many are topographical views of Rome
in which Heemskerck indulges in the depiction of architectural ruins and
sculptural fragments, and which he later reuses in imaginary landscapes. Some
of his views are poetic meditations on the colossal ruins of the city, physical
reminders of the passage of time, of human grandeur and fragility, a mood he
shared with other artists, such as Herman [Heemskerck, View of the Santacroce
Statue Court, 1532–37, pen and brown ink, 136 × 213 mm, Staatliche Museen zu
Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I,
fol. 29r] Posthumus. Other drawings are more or less accurate depictions of
classical statues in their physical locations, from the Belvedere to the Campidoglio,
to Roman private courtyards and gardens (figs 16 and 38), where the antiquities
are shown in their still fragmentary state. In numerous detailed drawings
focusing on single statues, we see Heemskerck’s different approaches to copying
the Antique and, correspondingly, the different media he employs to do so. His
drawings range from the precise pen-and-ink study, in which he faithfully
records the condition of celebrated statues, isolating the head as a physiognomic
type to a drawing where the whole statue is presented FROM DIFFERENT ANGLES, to
record the different poses and volumes of the naked male in space. He also makes
copies in which he exploits the softness of red chalk to study anatomical
details, assembling parts from different statues on the same sheet and focusing
on torsos and legs, sometimes even disregarding the face, the drapery or other
details. Finally, in yet other red chalk drawings he carefully records
decorative details from a statue or a relief. The variety of techniques
and handling deployed in these [Fig. 39. (top left) Maarten van Heemskerck,
Head of the Laocoön, 1532–36, pen and brown ink, 136 × 211 mm, Staatliche
Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck
Album I, fol. 39r. Heemskerck, Two Studies of the Head of the Apollo Belvedere,
1532–36, pen and brown ink, 136 × 211 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin,
Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 36v. Heemskerck,
Three Studies of a Fragmentary Statue of a Crouching Venus in the Palazzo
Madama, 1532–36, pen and brown ink, 135 × 210 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin,
Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 06v. Heemskerck,
Studies of Three Torsos and a Leg from Classical Statues in the Casa Sassi,
1532–33, red chalk, 135 × 211 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer
Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 51v. Heemskerck,
The Right Foot of the So-Called ‘Colossal Genius’, 1532–33, red chalk, 135 ×
208 mm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz,
Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 65v ] copies allowed him to
find appropriate solutions to the variety of problems posed by the style and
condition of the works that he copied. The result is a stunning visual
repertory that is easy to access and use, and which would inspire him when he
returned home. Several Frenchmen also established their residence in Rome. Many
of them, such as Beatrizet, Lafréry, or Dupérac, specialise in engraved views
of the city and its ancient remains, catering to a market increasingly
fascinated by Rome’s ruins and statues. In one engraving attributed to
Beatrizet, we find a rare image of an artist in the act of copying from ancient
statuary in situ – in this case the famous colossal “Grande Bellezza” Marforio,
at that time located in the Forum now in the courtyard of the Palazzo Nuovo of
the Campidoglio. The image clearly expresses the sense of awe that one feels in
front of the grandeur of the remains of Roman classical statuary. The
fragmentary condition of so much monumental sculpture inspired thoughts about
the fragility of the human condition and the ultimate insignificance of worldly
troubles, which, as the inscription on the print remarks, the old Marforio
‘does not consider worth a single penny’. It is against this backdrop that we
must consider Goltzius’ draughtsmanly activity in Rome, where he arrived almost
certainly on the recommendation of his friend Mander, who had already been in
Italy. Goltzius was then is celebrated as an [Fig. 44. Beatrizet (attr.), An
Artist Drawing the ‘Marforio’, 1550, engraving, 370 × 432 mm, published in
Antoine Lafréry’s Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae] engraver throughout Europe.
With Mander and Haarlem he establishes an academy in Haarlem. Although we know
almost nothing about this artistic association, it must have involved
discussions about the Antique and its representation among the three friends,
who had the advantage of direct access to Heemskerck’s Roman drawings, then
owned by Cornelisz. It is therefore significant that while in Rome, Goltzius takes
an approach to classical statuary that is very different from Heemskerck’s. Goltzius
concentrates from the beginning on *thirty* of the most famous classical
statues, of which 43 drawings in total survive. Goltzius’s drawings are highly
finished and unprecedentedly detailed, carefully recording the tonal passages
on the muscles of the statues. The viewpoint is almost always close and frontal
to the statue, or exploits the most dramatic or informative angle. Most
importantly, unlike almost all of his predecessors, who fill single pages of
their sketchbooks with details from unrelated sculptures, he devotes a full
page to *each*, a practice followed by Rubens. Goltzius’s intent from the
beginning is clearly to produce a drawing that may be transformed into an engravings
capable of surpassing in precision all previously published series, and which,
in faithfully reproducing the volume of the naked male, would also demonstrate
his renowned virtuosity in handling the burin. His set is intended for a market
of connoisseurs and collectors, but it is also likely that Goltzius wishes to
provide anyone with correct and detailed images of classical statues that they
could copy during their apprenticeships. Goltzius engraves only three plates,
one of which, significantly, shows an artist at work copying the celebrated
Apollo del Belvedere. A few years after Goltzius’s tour to Rome, Rubens arrives.
He spends two prolonged periods in Rome. Rubens constitutes a special case,
being the perfect embodiment of the humanistic ideal of the artist-scholar: the
son of a wealthy Antwerp family, highly educated in the classics and socially
accomplished, Rubens arrives in Rome already equipped with a thorough
understanding of the Antique and its literary sources, a passion he cultivates throughout
his life with his circle of scholarly friends and patrons. Rubens’s approach
towards classical statuary is therefore fascinating, complex and varied.
Rubens’ appetite for the most famous ancient statues must have been stimulated
already in Antwerp through the engravings by Raimondi and his pupils and
through those in the collections published by Lafréry and De Cavalieri. When in
Rome Rubens devotes himself completely to copying this or that original with
unique thoroughness, both to exercise his draughtsmanship and to create an
immense repertory of forms, to which he refers for inspiration throughout his
life. His approach towards classical statuary istwofold. One is purely intellectual,
focused on understanding the mathematical proportions and volumes of this or
that emblematic antique which he divides into different categories according to
muscular strength, to capture the very essence of their perfection. The other is
more direct: to study the statue exhaustively in order to assimilate its formal
principle For Rubens it is not only necessary to ‘understand the antique’, but
‘to be so thoroughly possessed of this knowledge, that it may diffuse itself
everywhere’. Unlike Goltzius, Rubens studies a statue over and over again,
copying it from many, and often unusual, points of view, devoting a single page
to each. No one before Rubens shows such a painstaking interest in
understanding the formal logic of a single statue intended as a whole. Rubens’s
focus on the naked male – to learn the principles of a perfect naked male – on specificslly ‘muscular’ masculine male
statues, such the Laocoonte, the Torso del Belvedere, and the Ercole Farnese
and his choice of the most favourable points of view, may reflect the specific
advice and examples given in Lomazzo’s Trattato and in Armenini’s Veri Precetti.
But, as Dolce and Armenini had already done before him, Rubens also cautions to
focus on the form and not on the matter of the statue, to avoid the ‘smell’ in a
drawing or a creation. Rubens is aware of the danger of transferring the
characteristics and limits of a three-dimensional medium (is flesh the medium
of the live model?) into another – drawing or painting. In a section titled “De
Imitatione Statuarum” of a larger theoretical notebook that he compiles over
several years, Rubens refers to painters who ‘make no distinction between the
form and the matter -- the ‘figura’ and the flesh, with the result
that ‘instead of ‘imitating’ living flesh from the life of nature, they
only represent marble tinged with various colours’. We can see Rubens’s genius
at re-vitalising the ‘inert’ substance of the antique model as if it were a
live model to be drawn from life, by applying his principle of inventive and
transformative imitation in most of his drawings after the Antique, for which
he uses soft chalk on rough paper better to ‘re-translate’ the substance back into
the natural living flesh, as if drawn from life. This is particularly evident
in muscular figures such as the Torso del Belvedere and the Laocoonte, which he
brings back to life, to the life Virgil instilled Laocoonte with, or Aiace had.
-- adopting a dramatic angle and a diagonal that completely abandons the
static [Rubens, The Back of the Belvedere Torso, c. 1601–02, red
chalk, 395 × 260 mm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, inv. 2002.12b] and
the academic frontal point of view of most academic drawings. This attention to
the qualities of the naked male skin and flesh, and the dynamism, pathos, and
drama that he learns mainly from classically Roman – but POST-classically
Greek] statuary is to become the main traits of his own art. In this he is following
in the footsteps of Buonarroti, who, not by chance, Rubens copied extensively,
focusing especially on the nudes of the Sistine Chapel and on his statues. Rubens
adopts a similar approach to the live model, which he often poses in attitudes
reminiscent of an antique – such as the Spinario, or the Wrestlers. Unsurprisingly,
he frequently cited the Laocoonte and the Torso, but the most recurrent is the
Spinario in the Campidoglio – even though the head is not the original one -- for
which several drawings of the complex pose made from different angles survive. The Spinario pose is already chosen by one of
the pupils of Gozzoli for this particular purpose of the antique-imitating live
model, and it remains one of the most popular, even, easiest, for posing the
live model – everyone has a thorn! -- Rubens’s drawings of the Spinario convey
the essence of Rubens’s attitude towards the ideal human form, and the
Spinario’s attitude towards his own thorn. By posing flesh as imitatiang
another substance imitating flresh, Rubens – or the artist who does this -- is
able to bypass the dangers of the ‘matter’ to focus only on the complex form and
pose of the original statue or statuary group or syntagma (think Lottatori!). Back
in Antwerp, Rubens retains until his death his drawings after the Antique,
bound together in separate books, as a distinctive part of the collection of
his house-museum, which hosted also numerous antiquities. They remain a
constant source of inspiration and they may also have been used as teaching
tools – as in the best tradition of Renaissance workshop practices – judging by
the copies deposited by his pupils in the cantoor, Rubens’s cabinet or studio.
The flux of artists coming to Rome did not cease, although most become
fascinated by the radical naturalism of Caravaggio and his followers, rather
than aiming at recreating the principles of classical art. A group of artists even
develops a successful speciality in the depiction of contemporary Roman street
life and everyday reality: a rustic tavern, a drinking scenes, brigands, street
vendors, charlatans and carnivals. The art of the ‘Bamboccianti’, so named
after their leader, Laer, dubbed ‘Bamboccio’, or ‘ugly puppet’, is fiercely
criticised as a debased form of art that deliberately chose the ‘worst’ of nature
(cf. verismo, and the customs of realistic naturalism) by the supporters of
classicism and history painting, such as Albani, Sacchi, and Rosa, as well as
by the philosophers of ‘ideal beauty’ such as Bellori. In contrast to the
Dutch, among the foreign communities in Rome, it was the French who are to take
the lead in the cause of classicism, the defence of Ideal Beauty and the copy
and study of the Antique. The contrasting attitudes of artists towards the
study of art in Rome is perfectly visualised in a canvas by Goubau, a Flemish
painter influenced by the Bamboccianti, who had been in Rome. On the right,
judicious [Rubens, Study of the Laocoön Seen from the Back, c. 1606–08, black
chalk, 440 × 283 mm, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. 624, F 249 inf. n. 5, 11.
Rubens, Study of the Younger Son FIGLIO PIU GIOVANE of the Laocoön Seen from
the Back, black chalk, 444 × 265 mm, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. 623, F
249 inf. n. 5, 11] artists under the supervision of a master are busy at work
among imaginary Roman ruins, copying and measuring an ancient statue or a relief,
among them the ERCOLE FARNESE; on the left the Bamboccianti indulge in the
pleasures of wine and music under the pergola of a rustic tavern. Nevertheless,
this wittily expressed opposition should not be taken too literally, as the
educational and inspirational role of classical statuary had been deeply
assimilated by artists of every inclination or aesthetic Many move between
genres and artistic currents such as the Flemish genre painter Lint, who
produced many drawings after the Antique while in Rome. Even those close to the
Bamboccianti clearly treasured the didactic role of classical statuary, as can
be seen in the depictions of workshops and artists at work by the Flemish Sweerts.
The Antique, and its didactic role in the Italian model of artistic education,
also made rapid progress in all of civilised Europe, supported by the
publication of Karel van Mander’s Schilderboeck. Knowledge was transmitted
mainly through drawings, drawing-books and plaster casts. These are used in the
drawing schools or private academies that proliferate, some of which were
founded by the same artists who had been exponents of the Bamboccianti in Rome.
These drawing schools often had to struggle against regulations by the guilds,
which remained the dominant associations for artists, dictating what goes on in
a workshop – the notable exception being the academy founded in Antwerp by
royal [Goubau, The Study of Art in Rome, 1662, oil on canvas, 132 × 165 cm,
Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp, inv. 185] decree. But despite the heavy
hands of the guilds, many thriving workshops, while accepting individual
apprentices, adopt *Italian* academic practices, such as conducting classes for
groups of students, or implementing a training programme focused on drawing and
the mastery of the human form. This often included the ‘alphabet of drawing’,
as was the practice of Rembrandt’s studio in Amsterdam, in which many students were
taught annually, and of Rubens, who, as court painter, did not have to register
his apprentices with the Antwerp guild.142 According to Van Mander, another
studio famous for its educational efficacy was that of Abraham Bloemaert in
Utrecht (see cat. 11).143 During the second half of the century, other private
drawing schools or ‘colleges’ were founded, which cater for a clientele of
artists or the dilettanti giving them the chance to draw from casts and the
nude live model alongside their studio practice. Among the most famous are those
of Sweerts, opened in Brussels and of Bisschop in The Hague. Closely connected
with workshops’ and schools’ drawing practices was the proliferation of
drawing-books and artists’ manuals. Most of them were based on the example of
Odoardo Fialetti’s Il Vero Modo and Giacomo Franco’s De excellentia et
nobilitate delineationis (1611) sometimes re- printing parts of them.147 Like
their Italian predecessors, Netherlandish drawing-books focused on the human
form, on classical statuary, and on the different stages of the academic
learning process.148 The increasing importance of 38 39 the Antique
in the Netherlands is well expressed by the various Dutch translations of
François Perrier’s Segmenta (1638) – the most successful collection of prints after
classical statues of the 17th century (fig. 57 and cat. 16, figs 3–6) – and by
the equal success of its Dutch counterpart, Jan de Bisschop’s Icones (1668, see
cat. 13), explicitly compiled as a teaching tool.149 Antique models were also
copied by young Northern artists in three dimensions, thanks to the
proliferation of casts, as shown in the frontispiece of Abraham Bloemaert’s
Konstryk Tekenboek (c. 1650) – one of the most influential draw- ing-books of
the second half of the century (see cat. 11). Many studios and drawing schools
owned collections of casts, often of famous prototypes such as the Laocoön or
the Apollo Belvedere. Inventories of the studios of Cornelis Cornelisz. van
Haarlem, Hendrik van Balen (1575–1632), and Rembrandt, for instance, testify to
their presence.150 The diffusion of casts appears explicitly in the numerous
paintings depicting young artists at work, which became popular from the middle
of the century onwards (figs 49–53, see also cats 12 and 14). These works
constitute an individual iconographical genre that probably derives from
Fialetti’s striking etching (see cat. 10), which, as we have seen, was well
known and reprinted several times in the Netherlands.151 This genre was
practised mainly by Jacob Van Oost the Elder (1601–71, 50), Wallerant Vaillant
(1623–77, 51), Balthasar Van den Bossche (1681–1715) and Michael Sweerts (fig.
52 and cat. 12), whose canvases tend to represent the ideal training curricu-
lum, where the copying of plaster casts after the Antique has the place of
honour.152 As ‘low’ genre paintings that celebrate the didactic role of the
Antique – traditionally considered to be essential for the lofty genre of
history painting rather than for scenes of daily life – they indirectly attest
to the ubiquitous penetration of classical models in all 17th-century artistic
practices. Incidentally they are also a direct visual source for the most
widely diffused typologies of classical statues in the North of Europe in the
17th century: from busts of the Apollo Belvedere (figs 18 and 50), of the
Laocoön group, both father and sons (figs 19 and 51), and of the so-called
Grimani Vitellius (fig. 52), to reduced copies of the Spinario (figs 15 and
49), the Belvedere Antinous (figs 22 and 51), the Venus de’ Medici (figs 53 and
56), and the Farnese Hercules (see 32 and cat. 14). Also frequently depicted
are busts of Niobe (see 34 and cat. 12), reduced copies of the Wrestlers (fig.
33) and the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 54). The Italian and the French Academies
in the Seventeenth Century and the Establishment of Classicism The 17th century
witnessed dramatic changes of attitude towards the study of the Antique in
terms of codification, diffusion and theoretical debate; at the same time it
saw the formulation of a style heavily dependent on classical sculp- ture,
setting the stage for the final affirmation of classicism as a pan-European
phenomenon in the following century. The selection of the most significant
antique statues, begun in the 16th century, was further refined, especially in
the cos- mopolitan antiquarian environment of Rome. Excavations continued and
some of the new discoveries immediately joined the canon of ideal models. Three
of them, in particu- lar, were ubiquitously reproduced and copied in studios
and academies: the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 54), discovered in 1611, which soon
became the preferred model for the anatomy of the muscular man in action; the
Dying Gladiator (fig. 55), first mentioned in 1623, whose complex pose could be
drawn from different angles and which offered an ideal of heroic pathos
expressed in the moment of death; and finally, the Venus de’ Medici (fig. 56),
first recorded in 1638 but possibly known in the late 16th century, which
rapidly became the most admired embodiment of the graceful female body.153 New
collections gradually replaced earlier ones and a few families succeeded in
acquiring some of the newly discovered statues that had gained canonical
status. The magnificent urban palaces and suburban villas of the Medici,
Farnese, Borghese, Ludovisi and Giustiniani attracted an increasing number of
visitors and artists, becoming privileged centres for the study of the Antique,
and family names became attached to certain statues, as the Farnese Hercules or
the Venus de’ Medici testify.154 Some of these, such as the Palazzo Farnese
(see cat. 21), and the Casino Borghese retained their status as ‘private
museums’ until the end of the 18th century. Prints continued to play a vital
role in the dissemination of images of classical statues throughout Europe. They
were produced predominantly in Rome, where, as in the 16th century, French
printmakers played a prominent role along- side Italian antiquarians and
engravers.155 Among others, the publications of François Perrier (1594–1649)
and the duo comprising the antiquarian and theoretician Giovanni Pietro Bellori
(1613–96) and the engraver Pietro Santi Bartoli (1615– 1700), offered artists
and the educated public a choice of 54. Agasias of Ephesus, Borghese Gladiator,
c. 100 bc, marble, 199 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. Ma 527 55. Dying Gladiator,
Roman copy of a Pergamene original of the 3rd century bc, marble, 93 cm (h),
Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0747 49. (top left) Jan ter Borch, The Drawing
Lesson, 1634, oil on canvas, 120 × 159 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, inv.
SK-A-1331 50. (top right) Jacob van Oost the Elder, The Painter’s Studio, 1666,
oil on canvas, 111.5 × 150.5 cm, Groeningenmuseum, Bruges, inv. 0000.GRO0188.II
51. (bottom left) Wallerant Vaillant, The Artist’s Pupil, c. 1668, oil on
canvas, 119 × 90 cm, Bonnefantenmuseum, Maastricht, inv. 673 52. (bottom
centre) Michael Sweerts (attr.), Boy Copying a Cast of the Head of Emperor
Vitellius, c. 1658–59, oil on canvas, 49.5 × 40.6 cm, The Minneapolis Institute
of Arts, inv. 72-65 53. (bottom right) Pieter van der Werf, A Girl Drawing and
a Boy near a Statue of Venus, 1715, oil on panel, 38.5 × 29 cm, Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam, inv. SK-A-472 40 41 the ‘best’ ancient statues and reliefs;
the authority of their selections lasted throughout the 18th century. For
full-length statues, crucial was the appearance in 1638 of Perrier’s Segmenta
nobilium signorum et statuarum (fig. 57 and cat. 16 figs 3–6), a collection of
prints which in many ways fulfils what Goltzius had intended to publish four
decades earlier (see cats 6–7).156 Offering good quality reproductions and
different points of view– three for the Farnese Hercules and four for the
Borghese Gladiator, for instance – Perrier’s images were essential in focusing
the attention of artists on a selected number of models considered exemplary in
anatomy, proportions, poses and expressions. Reprinted and trans- lated several
times, the success of the Segmenta was immense and it was used in studios and
academies as a teaching tool for almost two centuries, as we have seen earlier
in the Netherlands. As late as 1820 John Flaxman was still recom- mending the
use of Perrier to his students at the Royal Academy.157 Such publications were
the results of the antiquarian and theoretical interests of a French-Italian
classicist milieu that flourished in the first half of the century in Rome.158
Innumerable French artists now spent time in the city, filling sketchbooks with
copies after the Antique and Renaissance 56. Venus de’ Medici, Greek or Roman
copy of the 1st century bc of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble,
153 cm (h), Uizi, Florence, inv. 224 57. François Perrier, Venus de’Medici,
plate 81, from Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 masters, and
devoting increasing space to the study of Raphael.159 Two of the most relevant
figures in this context were the great French painter Nicolas Poussin
(1594–1665), who resided in Rome between 1624 and 1665 (with a brief sojourn in
France in 1640–42), and his friend and biographer Giovanni Pietro Bellori, possibly
the most influential art writer of the century, who deserves to be called the
pro- tagonist in the theoretical formulation of classicism. Of similar
significance was the scholar, antiquarian, collector and patron Cassiano dal
Pozzo (1588–1657), a friend of both Poussin and Bellori – and patron of the
former – who assem- bled a vast encyclopaedic collection of drawings divided by
themes, a ‘Paper Museum’, with sections devoted to classi- cal antiquity
commissioned from several contemporary artists.160 Classicism found probably
its clearest and most influen- tial formulations in a landmark discourse
composed by Bellori and delivered in 1664, the year before Poussin’s death, in
the Roman Accademia di San Luca: the ‘Idea of the painter, the sculptor and the
architect, selected from the beauties of Nature, superior to Nature’ (see
Appendix, no. 11). Bellori’s theoretical statement, published as a prologue to
his Vite in 1672, was to become enormously influential in defining and
disseminating the central tenets of the classicist ideal (see cat. 15).161
Joining Aristotelian and neo-Platonic premises, Bellori’s Idea advocates in the
selection of the best parts of Nature according to the right judgement of the
artist in order to create ideal beauty – a concept that we have already
encountered many times. According to Bellori, the Idea had been embodied in art
at several periods of history and he traced its development according to a
scheme of peaks and descents. It took shape first and foremost in the ancient world
and was revived in modern times by Raphael, who is accorded nearly divine
status. After the decadence and excesses of Mannerism, it was revitalised by
the Bolognese Annibale Carracci (1560–1609) and by his pupils and follow- ers,
notably Domenichino (1581–1641). Their flame was kept alive in Bellori’s time
by Poussin and Carlo Maratti (1625– 1713), a protégé of Bellori, who fashioned
himself as the new Raphael and whose Academy of Drawing is the most program-
matic representation of the principles of Roman classicism (see cat. 15).
Bellori’s classicism, heir of the rich debates of the first half of the
century, can be defined as a codification and defence of an idealistic style
and of moralising history painting against the radical naturalism introduced by
Caravaggio and his followers, whose slavish dependence on Nature and choice of
low subjects were seen to undermine the intellectual premises of art. On the
other hand, Bellori also confronted the excesses and liberties of the Baroque,
whose representatives, according to him, leaned towards artificiality and
despised the ‘ancient purity’.162 Classicism in many ways was based on the
princi- ples laid down by the art theory of the second half of the 16th
century, as it shared with it a fundamental premise: the neces- sity of the
defence of what was perceived as the ideal path of art – the ‘bella maniera’ –
against contemporary artistic trends which were considered erroneous or even
noxious.163 The classicist theoretical approach further reinforced the practice
of copying: it reinstated the intellectual value of drawing while providing a
selected group of correct models to follow, with the Antique and Raphael on the
loftiest pedestal. These premises were embraced by the Italian and French
academies, and became the basis of most of the European academies of the
following century – Opie’s words to the young pupils of the Royal Academy in
1807 still reiterate their fundamental tenets. Although the debate was at times
fierce – as for instance within the Accademia di San Luca in the 1630s – a
strict division of 17th-century artists into classicist, naturalist and Baroque
categories would be arbitrary and inaccurate, as many of them moved between
currents and at times incor- porated elements of each in their own creations.
Indeed, artists of all allegiances copied, studied and took inspiration from
the Antique. We know from surviving drawings and contemporary written sources
that ‘classicist’ artists such as Annibale Carracci, Poussin and Maratti copied
antique statues (figs 58–61), yet an equal number of ‘Baroque’ 58. Annibale
Carracci, Head of Pan from the marble group of Pan and Olympos in the Farnese
Collection, 1597–98, black chalk heightened with white chalk on grey-blue
paper, 381 × 245 mm, Louvre, Paris, inv. 7193 artists, such as Rubens
(figs 45–47 and cat. 9), Pietro da Cortona (1596–1669, 62) and Bernini (figs
63–64) spent as much time in absorbing the principles of the Antique.164
Nevertheless their approaches towards the Antique could be very different.
Poussin, the intellectual and antiquarian painter par excellence, copied
hundreds of details from classical sculpture, especially reliefs and
sarcophagi, to give archaeo- logical consistency to his art, so that his
paintings would represent classical histories with the maximum of
accuracy, 42 43 59. Nicolas Poussin, Equestrian Statue of Marcus
Aurelius, c. 1630–32, pen and brown ink and brown wash, 244 × 190 mm, Musée
Condé, Chantilly, inv. AI 219; NI 264 60. Carlo Maratti, The Farnese Flora, c.
1645–70, black chalk, 294 × 159 mm, The Royal Collection, Windsor Castle, inv.
904377 61. Carlo Maratti, or Studio of, The Farnese Hercules, c. 1645–70, red
chalk, 292 × 165 mm, The Royal Collection, Windsor Castle, inv. 904382 62.
Pietro da Cortona, The Trophies of Marius, c. 1628–1632, pen, brown ink, brown
wash, heightened in white, on blue sky prepared paper, 518 × 346 mm, The Royal
Collection, Windsor Castle, inv. RL 8249 integrity and power, an approach in
several ways similar to that of Mantegna and Raphael. Bernini, arguably the
greatest 17th-century sculptor, spent his youth obsessively copying the ancient
statues in the Belvedere (see Appendix, nos 9–10) and in his old age
recommended that students of the Académie Royale in Paris begin their studies
by copying casts of the most famous classical statues before approaching Nature
(see Appendix, nos 9–10). But Bernini’s attitude towards ancient statuary was
poles apart from that of Poussin (whom he nevertheless highly admired): he
assimilated its principles in order to create his own independent forms, at
times deviating radically from the classical model – an atti- tude that we have
already seen in Michelangelo and Rubens. To develop their own style and avoid a
slavish dependency on the Antique – something already stressed by Dolce,
Armenini and Rubens (Appendix, nos 4, 6, 8) – he advised his students to
combine and alternate ‘action and contemplation’, that is to alternate their
own production with the practice of copy- ing (Appendix, no. 10). A wonderful
example that allows us to follow Bernini’s creative process of transforming of
the antique model is provided by a study of the torso of the Laocoön, the
unbalanced and twisted pose of which he then ingeniously adapted in reverse for
the complex attitude of his Daniel (figs 63–66). A recollection of the Laocoön
is further- more recognisable in Daniel’s powerful expression (fig. 66).165 A
practical outcome of the French and Italian theoretical formulation of a
classicist doctrine was the foundation in 1648 of the Académie Royale de
Peinture et de Sculpture in Paris, followed in 1666 by that of the Académie de
France in Rome – the latter intended to give prize-winning students the
opportunity to study the Antique in situ and to provide 44 Louis XIV (r.
1643–1715) with copies of classical and Ren- aissance statues.166 The
foundation of the French Académie in Paris is a turning point in the history of
the teaching of art, as its codified programme – based on Italian examples, and
especially the Roman Accademia di San Luca – would constitute the basis for the
academies that spread over the Western world in the 18th and 19th centuries.
Founded by several artists, most of whom had spent periods in Rome such as
Charles Le Brun (1619–90), the Paris Académie was supported by the monarch and
candidates could apply for admission only after they had trained in a workshop.
Its regulations aimed at full intellectual develop- ment for its students to
prepare them for the creation of the highest genre, history painting, or the
grande manière. Although its curriculum was rather loosely organised and, in
the first tw o decades of its history, fairly tolerant in its aesthetic
positions, during the 1660s the Académie was drastically reformed by the
powerful Minister and Super- intendent of Buildings Jean-Baptiste Colbert
(1619–83) and by Le Brun to become an institution in the service of the
absolutist policy of Louis XIV, with a codified version of classicism as its
official aesthetic. The rationalistic nature of French 17th-century culture meant
that the Académie conceived of art as a science that could be taught by rules.
This was explicitly stated by Le Brun in 1670,167 and efforts were concentrated
in clarifying and applying most of the precepts already devised by the early
Italian academies and theoreticians. If a student followed these precepts
correctly he – and only he, as the institution was limited to male pupils until
the late 19th century – would be able to assimilate the principles of ideal
beauty and create grand art.168 The future European success of this regimented
version of the humanistic theory of art rested exactly in its rational nature,
as a clear system of rules easy to export and replicate, offering at the same
time a safe path towards ‘true’ and universal art. Pupils were supposed to
follow the ‘alphabet of drawing’, from copying drawings, to casts and statues,
to the live model, which remained the most difficult task and one reserved for
the most advanced students. Regular lectures on geometry, perspective and
anatomy were provided. As in Federico Zuccaro’s statutes for the Accademia di
San Luca, professors rotated monthly to supervise the life class, prizes were
awarded to students and regular debates were initiated on the principles of art
– the celebrated so-called Conférences, regularly held from 1667 onwards on the
advice of Colbert, although they faltered by the end of the century to be
revived only a few decades later.169 Other aspects of the reforms of the 1660s
included the division of the drawing course into lower classes, devoted to
copying, and higher classes, for 63. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Study of the Torso
of the Father in the Laocoön group, c. 1650–55, red chalk heightened with white
on grey paper, 369 × 250 mm, Museum der Bildenden Künste, Leipzig, inv. 7903 64.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Two Studies for the Statue of ‘Daniel’, c. 1655, red
chalk on grey paper, 375 × 234 mm, Museum der Bildenden Künste, Leipzig, inv.
7890 65. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Daniel in the Lion’s Den, c. 1655, terracotta,
41.6 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 2424 drawing from the live model.
Competitions were further structured to lead towards the highest reward, the
famous Grand Prix or Prix de Rome, which allowed the winners to spend between
three and five years at the Académie de France in Rome, to complete their
education and to assimilate the principles of the greatest ancient and modern
art. The official doctrine of the Paris Académie was distilled and diffused by
André Félibien (1619–95), the most promi- nent French art theorist of the
period, in his preface to the first series of Conférences held in 1667 and
published in 1668. Félibien offered a clear structure for the hierarchy of
genres that would be associated with academic painting for the next two
centuries: at the bottom was still life, followed on an ascending line by
landscape, genre painting, portraiture and finally by history painting, for
which the study of the Antique, of modern masters and of the live model were
considered necessary.170 The first Conférences reveal in their subjects and
approach the central tenets of the Parisian Académie: paintings by Raphael,
Poussin, Le Brun and the Laocoön were meticulously analysed in their parts
according to strict rules: invention, expression, composition, drawing, colour,
proportions etc. Some Conférences were devoted to specific parts of painting:
one given by Le Brun in 1668, on the ‘passions of the soul’, which was printed
posthumously and translated into several languages, constituted the basis for
the study of facial expres- sions until well into the 19th century.171 The
Antique remained one of the favourite subjects to be dissected by the
academicians. After the 1667 Conférence on the Laocoön (see Appendix, no.
12),172 praised as the ideal model for drawing and for the ‘strong expressions
of pain’,173 many more followed specifically devoted to the Farnese Hercules,
Belvedere Torso, Borghese Gladiator, and Venus de’ Medici, the ultimate
selected canon of sculptures.174 Conférences were also given on the study of
the Antique in general.175 Sébastien Bourdon’s (1616–71) Conférence sur les
proportions de la figure humaine expliquées sur l’Antique, in 1670 advised
students to fully absorb the Antique from a very early age, measure precisely
its proportions and control ‘compass in hand’ the 66. Gian Lorenzo Bernini,
Daniel in the Lion’s Den, 1655–57, marble, over life-size, Chigi Chapel, Santa
Maria del Popolo, Rome 45 live model against classical sculptures,
as they are never arbitrary – a method, according to Bourdon, approved by Poussin.176
This extreme rationalistic approach, based on the actual measurement of the
Antique, which, as we will see, would generate opposition, was put into
practice by Gérard Audran (1640–1703), engraver and ‘conseiller’ of the
Académie (Appendix, no. 13). His illustrated treatise of 1682 (figs 72–73)
provided students with the carefully measured proportions of the antique
statues that they were supposed to follow and became a standard reference work
in many languages, continuously republished until 1855. While the Académie de
France in Rome must have started accumulating casts after the Antique from
early on – the inventory of 1684 lists a vast collection of statues, reliefs,
busts, etc.177 – it is not entirely clear how readily the students of the Académie
in Paris had access to casts or copies in the first decades of the
institution’s history. Bernini, in his 1665 visit, explicitly advised the
formation of a cast collection for the Parisian Académie, and some, among them
a Farnese Hercules, were ordered or donated in the following years.178 But
although students certainly copied casts already in Paris, full immersion in
the practice was reserved for the period they spent in Rome.179 ‘Make the
painters copy everything beautiful in Rome; and when they have finished, if
possible, make them do it again’ Colbert tellingly wrote in 1672 to Charles
Errard (c. 1606–9 – 1689), the first Director of the Académie de France in
Rome.180 In Rome a similar practice was encouraged in the Accademia di San
Luca, which, like its Parisian counterpart, was significantly reformed in the
1660s, perhaps a sign of the increasingly important reversal of influence, from
France to Italy. From the beginning of the presidency of Carlo Maratti in 1664,
a staged drawing curriculum, competitions and lectures were implemented and new
casts were ordered (see cat. 15).181 Some twenty years later the Accademia
received the donation of hundreds of casts of antique sculp- tures from the
studio of the sculptor and restorer Ercole Ferrata (1610–86).182 Sharing the
same values and similar curricula, in 1676 the Accademia di San Luca and the
Parisian Académie Royale were formally amalgamated and on occa- sion French
painters even became principals of San Luca – Charles Errard in 1672 and 1678,
and Charles Le Brun in 1676–77.183 But the Italians could never feel wholly
comforta- ble with the extreme rationalisation of art characteristic of so much
French theory.184 After the publication of the French Conférences, debates were
held in defence of the Vasarian tradi- tion and of the value of grace,
judgement and natural talent against the rules and the overly rational analysis
of art and the Antique by the French.185 The engraving by Nicolas Dorigny
(1658–1746) after Carlo Maratti is the most eloquent 46 visual expression of
this intellectual confrontation that con- tinued into the 1680s (cat. 15). Some
of the most doctrinal aspects of the Parisian academy also generated an
internal counteraction and the supporters of disegno, classicism and Poussin,
headed by Le Brun, were challenged by the promot- ers of Venetian colore and
Rubens, led by the artist and critic Roger de Piles (1635–1709) and by the
painter Charles de la Fosse (1636–1716). The battle between ‘Poussinisme’ and
‘Rubénisme’ – a new incarnation of the debate started more than a century
earlier by Giorgio Vasari and Lodovico Dolce – captured the imagination of the
French academic world between the end of the 17th and the first decade of the
18th centuries. The victory of the Rubénistes led the way to a freer,
anti-classicist and more painterly aesthetic and to the eventual affirmation of
the Rococo in French art.186 But the next century would also witness the
triumph of the classicist ideal, as its principles spread all over Europe. The
Antique Posed, Measured and Dissected Given the rationalistic approach of
French artists and theo- rists to the Antique – ‘compass in hand’ – it does not
come as a surprise that, during the 17th century, they actually started to
measure ancient statues in order to tabulate their pro- portions. And as well
as measuring statues they began to merge the study of anatomy with study of the
Antique to provide young students with ideal sets of muscles to copy. Such
efforts produced a series of extremely influential drawing-books filled with
fascinating and disturbing images, in which ancient bodies are covered by nets
of numbers or flayed and presented as living écorchés. In a way it was
inevitable that the study of human propor- tions applied by Alberti, Leonardo
and Dürer to living bodies 67. Peter Paul Rubens, Study of the Farnese
Hercules, c. 1602, pen and brown ink, 196 × 153 mm, The Courtauld Gallery,
Samuel Courtauld Trust, London, inv. D.1978.PG.427.v, 68. Charles Errard,
Antinous Belvedere, plate on 457 in Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Le vite de’
pittori scultori e architetti moderni, Rome, 1672 would eventually be merged
with the study of the ideal bod- ies of ancient statues, to test Vitruvius’
assertion that ancient artists worked according to a fixed canon (Appendix, no.
1). The main problem was that the canonical proportions of 5th-century bc
sculpture had been disregarded from the 3rd century bc onwards. Furthermore, as
we now know, most of the ‘perfect’ Greek statues were actually modified Roman
copies of lost originals. The measuring efforts of 17th- century art theorists
were therefore for the most part in vain, as most of the revered marbles did
not embody the principles of commensurability and overall harmonic proportion
that they believed they did. Although we have seen that Raphael had already
initiated the practice of measuring statues (fig. 27), the first to refer
explicitly to this exercise is Armenini in his 1587 De veri precetti della
pittura, in which a chapter is devoted specifically to the ‘measure of man based
on the ancient statues’.187 Rubens also devoted much attention to trying to
discover the perfect num- bers and forms of ancient statues, dividing for
instance the Farnese Hercules, the strongest type of male body, according to
series of cubes, the most solid of the perfect forms (fig. 67).188 Not
surprisingly, Poussin’s approach to the Antique in Rome was similar, and we
know from Bellori that he and the sculptor François Duquesnoy (1597–1643)
‘embarked on the study of the beauty and proportion of statues, measuring them
together, as can be seen in the case of the one of Anti- nous’ – two
illustrations of which he published in Poussin’s life in his Vite (fig. 68).189
But the first artist to provide accurate drawings of the most famous statues
was the future founding director of the Académie de France in Rome, Charles
Errard, who, later, also provided the measured Antinous illustrations for
Bellori’s Vite (fig. 68). In collaboration with the theorist Roland Fréart de
Chambray (1606–76), and most likely inspired by Poussin, he executed in 1640 a
series of intriguing measured red chalk drawings today preserved at the École
des Beaux-Arts in Paris (figs 69–71).190 Produced only two years after the
publication 69. Charles Errard, or collaborator, Measured Drawing
of the Belvedere Antinous, 1640, red chalk, pencil, pen and brown ink, 430 ×
280 mm, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv. PC6415, no. 27 70.
Charles Errard, Measured Drawing of the Laocoön, 1640, red chalk, pen and brown
ink, 430 × 280 mm, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv.
PC6415, no. 11 71. Charles Errard, Measured Drawing of the Venus de’Medici,
1640, red chalk, pencil, pen and brown ink, 430 × 280 mm, École nationale
supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv. PC6415, no. 28 47 of Perrier’s
successful Segmenta, Errard’s drawings were clearly intended to be published
and to present young artists with a set of certain and ideal proportions on
which they could base their own figures. A similar search for discipline was
undertaken by Fréart de Chambray, and later by other theorists, among the
remains of ancient architecture, which involved an even more intense effort to
discover their ‘perfect’ proportions. Although a few of Errard’s drawings were
published in 1656 by Abraham Bosse – the first professor of perspective of the
Parisian Académie Royale – the first successful manuals appeared in the 1680s,
as a result of the theoretical debates on the proportions of ancient statues
held in the Académie during the previous decade.191 By far the most influential
was a manual we have already encountered, Gérard Audran’s Proportions du corps
humain mesurées sur les plus belles figures de l’antiquité, published in 1683
(Appendix, no. 13). This provided a fully ‘classicised’ drawing-book, following
the ‘alphabet of drawing’ from the measured eye, nose and mouth of the Apollo
Belvedere (fig. 72), to whole canonical statues, such as the Laocoön (fig. 73).
Audran’s book, republished several times in various languages, became the model
for many similar publications that appeared during the 18th and early 19th
centuries and espoused a practice embraced by many artists. Examples from
different nations include a Dutch manual, where, fascinatingly, the Apollo
Belvedere is presented according to Vitruvian principles (fig. 74; see also 2
and Appendix, no. 1); drawings by the sculptor Joseph Nollekens (1737–1823; 75);
and measured notes drawn by Antonio Canova over an engraving of the Apollo
Belvedere from a didactic series of prints after the Antique (fig. 76).192 In
addition to being carefully measured, antique bodies were also dissected. If
classical statues displayed perfect anat- omies, then, it was thought, they
would offer an ideal starting point for young students to study bones and
muscles. Combining the study of the Antique with that of anatomy was intended
to reinforce the familiarity of young artists with ancient canonical models,
now also analysed from the inside. Students until then had trained mainly on
the immensely influential De humani corporis fabrica, published by Andrea
Vesalius in 1543, and on the anatomical treatises that were based on it, but
from the late 17th century new ‘classicised’ manuals appeared.193 The first,
Anatomia per uso et intelligenza del disegno..., based on drawings by Errard,
was published in 1691 by Bernardino Genga (1655–1720), professor of anatomy at
the Académie de France in Rome.194 Probably conceived much earlier, the set of
engravings included fascinating and somewhat morbid images of the skeletons of
classical statues (figs 77–78; although these were not eventually included in
the book) and several different views of the muscles of the strongest types of ancient
prototypes, the Laocoön, the Borghese Gladiator, the Farnese Hercules and the
Borghese Faun (figs 79–80).195 Genga and Errard’s Anatomia was a model for
several similar books which appeared in the 18th and early 19th centuries to
satisfy the needs of the increasingly classicistic curricula of European
academies. Not surprisingly, only male antiquities, and usually the most
muscular ones, were illustrated, both for reasons of decorum and also because
the 74. Jacob de Wit, Measured ‘Apollo Belvedere’, plate 8 in Teekenboek der
proportien van ‘t menschelyk lighaam, Amsterdam, 1747 75. Joseph Nollekens,
Measured Drawing of the ‘Capitoline Antinous’, 1770, pen and brown ink over
traces of black chalk, 431 × 292 mm, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, inv. DBB 1460 76.
Giovanni Volpato and Rafaello Morghen, Measured ‘Apollo Belvedere’, engraving
(with inscribed measures in pencil, red chalk, pen and brown ink by Antonio
Canova), post 1786, plate 35 in Principi del disegno. Tratti dall più
eccellenti statue antiche per il giovanni che vogliono incamminarsi nello
studio delle belle arti, Rome, 1786, Museo Civico, Bassano del Grappa, inv. B 42.69 Audran, Measured Details of the ‘Apollo Belvedere’, plate 27
in Les Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur les plus belles figures de
l’antiquité, Paris, 1683 73. Gérard Audran, Measured ‘Laocoön’, plate 1 in Les
Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur les plus belles figures de
l’antiquité, Paris, 1683 48 49 77. (above left) After
Charles Errard, The Skeleton of the ‘Laocoön’, c. 1691, engraving, 328 × 198
mm, Bibliothèque des Arts décoratifs, Paris, Album Maciet 2-4 (4) 78. (above
centre) After Charles Errard, The Skeleton of the ‘Borghese Gladiator’, c.
1691, engraving, 334 × 280 mm, Bibliothèque des Arts décoratifs, Paris, Album
Maciet 2-4 (1) 79. (above right) After Charles Errard, Anatomical Figure of the
‘Borghese Gladiator’, c. 1691, plate 51 in Bernardino Genga and Charles Errard,
Anatomia per uso et intelligenza del disegno . . ., Rome, 1691 80. (left) After
Charles Errard, Anatomical Figure of the ‘Laocoön’, c. 1691, plate 43 in
Bernardino Genga and Charles Errard, Anatomia per uso et intelligenza del
disegno . . ., Rome, 1691 male body was believed to provide more
anatomical infor- mation compared to the female one. One of the most dis-
turbingly accurate, printed in two colours to distinguish the muscles from the
bones, is the Anatomie du Gladiateur combatant ... published in 1812 by the
military surgeon Jean- Galbert Salvage (1772–1813). Although this provided a
precise anatomical analysis of the head of the Apollo Belvedere (fig. 81), its
main focus was on the anatomy of the Borghese Gladiator analysed in all its
parts (fig. 82). The accuracy of the manual’s plates made it extremely
influential throughout Europe.196 81. Nicolaï Ivanovitch Outkine after
Jean-Galbert Salvage, Muscles and Bones of the Head of the ‘Apollo Belvedere’,
engraving in two colours, plate 1 in Jean Galbert Salvage, Anatomie du
Gladiateur combatant ..., Paris, 1812 82. Jean Bosq after Jean-Galbert Salvage,
Anatomical Figure of the ‘Borghese Gladiator’, engraving in two colours, plate
6 in Jean Galbert Salvage, Anatomie du Gladiateur combatant ..., Paris, 1812 50
The stress on anatomical precision also produced a spectacu- lar
three-dimensional écorché of the Borghese Gladiator created by Salvage in 1804
and acquired as a teaching tool in 1811 by the École des Beaux-Arts, where it
remains (fig. 83).197 An earlier model, which had served as inspiration for
Salvage, was the gruesomely naturalistic écorché posed as the Dying Gladiator
(see 55) made by William Hunter (1718– 83), the professor of anatomy at the
Royal Academy of Arts in London, in collaboration with the sculptor Agostino
Carlini. Casted on the body of an executed smuggler, it was aptly Latinised as
Smugglerius.198 The Antique found its way into academic anatomical manuals for
students throughout the 19th century, and its pervasiveness was enormous,
extending even beyond Western culture. A plate with a flayed Laocoön from the
popu- lar Anatomie des formes extérieures du corps humain, published in 1845 by
Antoine-Louis-Julien Fau (fig. 85), served as inspira- tion for a popular
artists’ manual produced in Japan at the end of the century, resulting in an
extraordinary image which fuses the Western canon and the Japanese woodblock
print tradition of the Ukiyo-e (fig. 86).199 The osmosis between the Antique
and other disciplines of the academic curriculum gained ground also in the
study of the live model. We have seen that already in the 15th century it was
common practice to pose apprentices in imitation of ancient sculpture (see 14),
and great artists like Rubens often returned to this expedient (see cat. 9).
But the practice became increasingly diffused within the codified curricula of
French and Italian academies during the 17th and 18th centuries (figs 87–89).
Recommended by several 83. Jean-Galbert Salvage, Écorché of the ‘Borghese
Gladiator’, 1804, plaster, 157 cm (h), École nationale supérieure des
Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv. MU11927 84. (top left) William Pink after Agostino
Carlini, Smugglerius, c. 1775 (this copy c. 1834), painted plaster, 75.5 ×
148.6 cm, Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/1436 85. (middle left)
M. Léveillé, Anatomical Figure of the ‘Laocoön’, lithography, plate 24 in
Antoine-Louis-Julien Fau, Anatomie des formes extérieures du corps humain,
Paris, 1845 86. (middle right) Anatomical Figures of the ‘Laocoön’ and
of a Small Child, woodblock print, plate in Kawanabe Kyo-sai, Kyosai Gadan.
(bottom left) Antoine Paillet, Drawing of a Model Posing as the ‘Laocoön’,
1670, black and white chalk on brown paper, 580 × 521 mm, École nationale
supérieure des beaux-arts, Paris, inv. EBA 3098 88. (bottom centre) Giuseppe
Bottani, Drawing of a Model in the Pose of the ‘Lycean Apollo’ Type, c.
1760–70, red and white chalks on red-orange prepared paper, 423 × 270 mm,
Philadelphia Museum of Art, inv. 1978-70-197 89. (bottom right) Jacques-Luois
David, An Academic Model in the Pose of the ‘Dying Gaul’, 1780, oil on canvas,
125 × 170 cm, Musée Thomas Henry, Cherbourg, inv. MTH 835.102 51
academicians, posing the live model with the same tension and flexing of
muscles as the ancient statues encouraged students to correct their drawings
after fallible Nature against the perfection of the antique examples and to
derive universal principles from particular living models (see cats 16 and
27b).200 The Eighteenth Century and the Diffusion of the Classical Ideal The
seeds planted by 17th-century classicist theory fully blossomed during the 18th
with the affirmation of Neo- classicism in the second half of the century.
Supported by and supporting the exponential diffusion of academies – from some
nineteen in 1720 to more than 100 in 1800 – the cult of the Antique spread to
the four corners of Europe, from St Petersburg to Lisbon and beyond.201 The
‘true style’, as classicism was often called in the 18th century, was inextri-
cably linked with many of the values of Enlightenment culture: in an age in
search of order and universal principles, the appeal of the rational and
‘eternal’ ideals embodied by classical statuary proved irresistible. At the
same time they provided a useful tool for existing political powers and a for-
midable one for new authorities in search of legitimisation. The new academies
based their curricula mainly on that of Paris and Rome, and the didactic role
assigned to the Antique was physically imported through an army of plaster
casts – the ‘Apostles of good taste’ – as Denis Diderot called them, which
became the most recognisable trademark of the newly founded institutions (fig.
90).202 The progressive method of the ‘alphabet of drawing’ definitively
established itself as the basis of the training of European artists well into
the 20th century. Not necessarily followed in practice, as students often
wanted to rush to the copy of the live model, its didactic value was, in 90.
After Augustin Terwesten, The Life Academy at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in
Berlin, engraved vignette on 217 from Lorenz Beger, Thesaurus Brandenburgicus
Selectus...,3, Berlin, 1701 theory, supported by the vast majority of
academies.203 The plate illustrating the entry on ‘Drawing’ in Diderot and
D’Alembert’s epochal Encyclopédie significantly focuses on the three steps,
being followed in different media (fig. 91).204 While the French model was
spreading throughout Europe during the first half of the century, ironically
the Parisian Académie itself underwent a period of crisis. After the death of
Colbert in 1683 and of Le Brun in 1690, the royal institution became
decreasingly relevant in determining the direction of the national school of
painting. Financial constraints and the waning of royal patronage coincided
with the fact that the vital forces of French art were becoming less interested
in adhering to the precepts of the Académie. A change in taste under the
regency of Philippe d’Orléans (r. 1715–23) favoured the so-called petite
manière, a form of painting dealing with light-hearted subjects – ‘bergeries’,
‘fêtes galantes’ – against the grande manière. Partly as a conse- quence, the
traditional curriculum of the Académie, centred on the study of the human
figure to prepare for history painting, was increasingly neglected.205 But
things changed radically in 1745 with the appointment of Charles-François- Paul
Le Normant de Tournehem – the uncle of Madame de Pompadour – as Surintendant
des Bâtiments du Roi, the official protector of the Académie Royale on behalf
of the king. He initiated a reform involving the reinvigoration of royal
patronage, the re-establishment of Conférences and, more generally, a series of
initiatives aimed at re-establishing the leading role of the Académie and of
history painting in the French art world.206 The principles of Le Normant’s
reform, supported by the influential antiquarian and theorist Comte de Caylus
(1692–1765) and visualised by Charles-Joseph Natoire’s beautiful drawing (cat.
16), paved the way for the final affirmation of the grande manière in the
second half of the century, despite the continuing clamour of dissenting
voices. If Paris progressively became the centre of the modern art world, Rome
retained its status as the ‘academy’ of Europe 91. Benoît-Louis Prévost after
Charles-Nicolas Cochin the younger, A Drawing School, plate 1, illustrating the
entry ‘Dessein’ from Denis Diderot and Jean Le Ronde D’Alambert, Encyclopédie
..., Recueil de planches, sur les sciences, les art libéraux, et les arts
méchaniques ..., Paris, 1763,20 where a thriving international community of
artists congre- gated to round off their education in the physical and spirit-
ual presence of the Antique and the great Renaissance masters.207 The crucial
role that Rome occupied in 18th- century culture is evoked in the words of the
most famous art critic of the age and the champion of classicism Johann Joachim
Winckelmann (1717–68): ‘Rome’ he wrote in his letters ‘is the high school for
all the world, and I also have 208 been purified and tried in it’. Of course,
artists and travel- lers had visited the city to study its art for at least two
centu- ries, but the 18th century represented Rome’s golden age as the
traveller’s ultimate destination. The Grand Tour – as the trip to Italy and to
Rome was known – became a social and cultural phenomenon that included artists,
antiquarians, collectors and, in general, members of European elites.209 It
generated an industry of collectibles that travellers could bring back to their
homeland, and an army of original ancient statues and modern copies in all
media was exported, alongside portraits and paintings of various kinds that
would powerfully recall the time spent by their owners in the eternal city.
Among the most fascinating and systematic evocations of Rome are a series of
celebrated canvases by Giovanni Paolo Panini (1691–1765), where ‘the best of
the best’ of Roman sites and antiquities are gathered together in imaginary
galleries. In the foreground of 92, (see also cat. 20, 5) artists are busy
drawing and measuring with their compasses a selected choice of canonical
classical statues – a reminder of one of the most widespread artistic
activities in the city.210 The demands of the Grand Tour ‘industry’ also
generated a specific category of ‘marketable drawings’ after the Antique
destined to fill the ‘paper museums’ of collectors and anti- quarians all over
Europe. They were mainly produced for collectors and travellers from Britain, a
nation that became increasingly important in the study of the Antique through-
out the century. Among the most famous drawings were those produced in the
workshop of the entrepreneurial painter Francesco Ferdinandi Imperiali
(1679–1740) in the 1720s by various painters and draughtsmen – among them
Giovanni Domenico Campiglia (1692–1775; see cats 19–20) and the young Pompeo
Batoni (1708–87; 93).211 Created for the extensive collection of the
antiquarian Richard Topham 52 53 92. Giovanni Paolo
Panini, Roma Antica, 1754–57, oil on canvas, 186 × 227 cm, Staatsgalerie
Stuttgart, inv. Nr 3315 (1671–1730), Batoni’s red chalk drawings
are among the most extraordinary produced in the 18th century. With their
preci- sion, attention to detail, fidelity to the originals and frontal
viewpoint, they encapsulate many of the typical qualities of this category of
drawings. Their manner continues and devel- ops some of the characteristics
already seen in the classicist drawings of Carlo Maratti, of whom Batoni was
the natural artistic heir (figs 60–61). Growing interest in the classical past
was also supported by massive expansion in antiquarian publications, such as
the monumental Antiquité expliquée (Paris, 1719–24) by the Abbé Bernard de
Montfaucon, an illustrated encyclopaedia of the Antique for the use of the
European educated public. Artists could also benefit from an increase in printed
collec- tions of classical statues.212 Paolo Alessandro Maffei and Domenico de
Rossi’s Raccolta di Statue Antiche e Moderne (1704) set new standards of
accuracy, and it was followed by the various sumptuous volumes devoted to the
antiquities of the Grand Ducal collection in Florence and of the Capitoline
Museum in Rome (see cats 19–20). With its wealth of patrons, artistic
competitions, acade- mies and artists’ studios, many displaying collections of
casts, Rome also offered an unrivalled opportunity to learn and practice the
arts of disegno.213 The classicist direction given to the Accademia di San Luca
by Giovanni Pietro Bellori and Carlo Maratti, was sanctioned by the Pope
Clement XI (r. 1700–21) who in 1702 established papal- supported competitions,
the celebrated Concorsi Clementini, which thrived especially during the second
half of the century (see cat. 20).214 Open to all nationalities, the Concorsi 93.
Pompeo Batoni, Drawing of the Ceres of Villa Casali, c. 1730, red chalk, 469 ×
350 mm, Eton College Library, Windsor, inv. Bn. 3, no. 45 were divided into
three classes of increasing difficulty, the third and lowest class being
reserved for copying, usually after the Antique (see cat. 20, 4). This
reinforced, as nowhere else in Europe, the study of classical statuary as the
cornerstone of the artist’s education, giving to Italian and foreign artists
alike the chance to be rewarded publicly in sumptuous ceremonies held in the
Capitoline palaces, even in early stages of their careers. The cosmopolitan
atmos- phere of the Accademia di San Luca is reflected in the fact that among
its Principals were several foreigners, such as the Frenchman Charles-François
Poerson (elected 1714) or the Saxon Anton Raphael Mengs (1771–2) and the
Austrian Anton von Maron (1784–6). The Accademia was also open to leading women
painters such as Rosalba Carriera (1675–1757) or Elisabeth-Louise Vigée Le Brun
(1755–1842), although they were not allowed to attend meetings. Crucial for
artistic education was the opening of the Capitoline as a public museum in
1734, thanks to the enlight- ened policy of Pope Clement XII (r. 1730–40).215
One of the main reasons behind the papal decision was specifically to support
‘the practice and advancement of young students of the Liberal Arts’ through
the copy of the Antique.216 An evocative vignette inserted in the Musei
Capitolini – the first sumptuously illustrated catalogue of the collection –
reflects the popularity of its cluttered rooms among artists of all nations
(see cat. 20). With the opening in the Capitoline of the Accademia del Nudo in
1754 – specifically devoted to the study of the live model and controlled by
the Acca- demia di San Luca – the museum became a sort of ideal academy where
art students could copy concurrently from the Antique, Old Masters paintings
and the live model.217 Apart from the Capitoline and other traditional places,
such as the Belvedere Court or the aristocratic palaces where original
antiquities could be studied in situ (cat. 21), the other favoured locus for
the study of the Antique in the city was the Académie de France in Rome, which
owned the largest collection of plaster casts in Europe. Although the Académie,
like its Parisian counterpart, had gone through a troubled period in the early
decades of the century – the Prix de Rome was cancelled for lack of funds in
1706–8, 1714 and 1718–20 – its role was revamped and its practices drastically
reformed under the directorship of Nicholas Vleughels (1668–1737) between 1725
and 1737.218 The casts were redisplayed in Palazzo Mancini, the Académie’s
prestigious new location on the Corso, and integrated for didactic purposes
with the study of the live model (see cat. 16). The collection of the Académie
served as an example for similar institutions throughout Europe, as its
arrangement of many copies side- by-side was considered ideal for the
assimilation of classical forms. With the advancing neo-classical aesthetic,
their flawless white appearance was even preferred for didactic purposes above
the originals: young students could concen- trate on their purified forms,
without the signs of time shown by real antiquities. No other nation had as
many members in Rome as France, both as pensionnaires of the Académie and
permanent residents (see cats 17–18, 21).219 The long directorship of
Charles-Joseph Natoire, between 1751 and 1775, greatly devel- oped and expanded
the copying of antiquities that had been reinstated by Vleughels. But Natoire
also encouraged the creation of ‘classical’ landscapes of the Roman campagna, following
the principles established by the great 17th-century French landscapists:
Poussin, Dughet and Claude.220 Natoire and his most gifted and prolific pupil,
Hubert Robert (1733– 1808), who spent more than a decade in Rome between 1754
and 1765, produced a series of drawings in which copy- ing in the city’s
museums and palaces is splendidly evoked (figs 94–97 and cat. 17).221 Focused
in particular on the Capitoline collection, Robert’s images are among the most
fascinating products of a genre – that of the artist drawing in situ surrounded
by classical statues – that, as we know, goes back to the 16th century (see
cat. 5 and 44). Robert specialised in evocative views of the remains of ancient
Rome, with artists and wanderers lost among their crumbling grandeur. In many
ways he recaptured the spirit of wonder and meditation on the ruins of the city
expressed by 16th-century Northern artists, such as Maarten van Heemskerck,
Herman Posthumus, and Nicolas Beatrizet (fig. 44).222 Boosted by the enthusiasm
generated by the unearthing of the remains of Herculaneum and Pompeii in 1738
and 1748, in the second half of the century the ‘true style’ of Neo-classicism
firmly established itself, spreading from the international community in Rome
to the whole of Europe. Significant figures in the formulation of the new taste
were the architect and engraver Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720– 78), whose
lyrical etchings and engravings of ancient and modern Rome established – and
sometimes created – the image of Rome among a European public, and the art
historian Johann Joachim Winckelmann, whose powerful descriptions of classical
statues inspired generations of artists and travellers, firmly establishing a
new classicist doctrine in European taste.223 More than ever before, artists
now aimed not only at assimilating the principles of classical sculpture, but
at recreating its formal aspect, as a universal standard of perfection to which
any great artist should aspire. 54 55 94. Charles-Joseph Natoire,
Artists Drawing in the Inner Courtyard of the Capitoline Museum in Rome, 1759,
pen and brown ink, brown and grey wash, white highlights over black chalk lines
on tinted grey-blue paper, 300 × 450 mm, Louvre, Paris, inv.
3931381 Robert, The Draughtsman at the Capitoline Museum, c. 1763, red
chalk, 335 × 450 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie de Valence, inv. D. 80 96. Hubert Robert, Antiquities at the Capitoline Museum, c. 1763, red
chalk, 345 × 450 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie de Valence, inv. D.
81 97. Hubert Robert, The Draughtsman of the Borghese Vase, c. 1765, red chalk,
365 × 290 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie de Valence, inv. D28 As Winckelmann famously stated in his Reflections on the Painting
and Sculpture of the Greeks (1755): ‘There is but one way for the moderns to
become great, and perhaps unequalled; I mean, by imitating the ancients’ (see
Appendix, no. 15). Although in 1775 new regulations for the Académie de France
in Rome stressed again the centrality in the curriculum of study of the live
model, most pupils now favoured the study of the Antique, an evident sign of
the evolution of taste towards a new radical classicism.224 Of all the artists
converging on Rome, Jacques-Louis David (1748–1825), was one of the most
prolific in making copies after the Antique.225 Leaving Paris in 1775 with the
firm resolution of maintaining his independence and avoiding the seductions of
the Antique, his arrival in Rome, according to his own words, opened his
eyes.226 He started his artistic education again by spending the next five
years as a pension- naire obsessively copying from modern masters and classical
statues, reliefs and sarcophagi with an attention to detail that recalls
Poussin’s approach to antiquity (fig. 98).227 Generally speaking, between the
end of the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th, artists copying from the
Antique concentrated progressively on the outlines of statues rather than on
the modelling or the chiaroscuro, as the neo-classical aesthetic valued the
purity of the line over any other pictorial element, accentuating the stress on
disegno inaugurated by Vasari more than two centuries before. 98. Jacques-Louis
David, Drawing of a Relief with a Distraught Woman with Her Head Thrown Back,
1775/80, pen and black ink with gray wash over black chalk, 196 × 150 mm,
National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C., Patrons’ Permanent Fund1998.105.1.bbb
But coinciding with David’s residence in Rome, other interpretations of the
Antique started to emerge within a circle of artists that included Tobias
Sergel (1740–1814) and Thomas Banks (1735–1805) and which revolved around the
Swiss painter Henry Fuseli (1741–1825).228 The approach of this ‘Poetical
circle’ was utterly anti-academic and prefigures some of the principles that
would be embraced by Romantic artists a few years later. For them ancient
sculptures were embodiments of the emotions of the artists who created them,
rather than models of ideal beauty and proportional perfection. Fuseli’s
extraordinary drawing, The Artist Moved by the Grandeur of Antique Fragments
(cat. 22), which he produced immediately after leaving Rome in 1778, perfectly
expresses this more empathic and meditative relation with classical antiquity
and its lost grandeur. The attitude of Fuseli and his friends represents a
turning point in the relation of the artist with ancient statuary, stressing
the creative genius of the artist, his or her individuality and, in general,
the subjective values of art: all principles that would contribute to the
decline of the classical model in the following century. The Antique in
Britain: The eighteenth century Of the various nationalities of artists
resident in Rome during the 18th century, the British were among the most
numerous. Britain had arrived late on the international artistic stage. Until
the late 17th century, several factors, including the theological disapproval
of pagan and Catholic imagery of large sections of Protestant society, had made
Britain, outside the confined patronage of the Court, a virtual backwater in the
visual arts. There was no established national school of painting or sculpture
and no academy; painters were tied to the craft guild of the Painter Stainers’
Company; it was illegal to import pictures for sale, and there was no proper
art market.229 However, by a century later, things had changed radically:
following the nation’s dramatic political liberalisa- tion and economic
expansion, Britain had one of the most dynamic national art schools in Europe
and a Royal Acad- emy, founded in 1768. Several hundred thousand artworks –
including a multitude of original antiquities and copies – had been imported to
adorn the urban townhouses and country mansions of the upper classes; and
London had become the centre of the international art market, displacing Antwerp,
Amsterdam and Paris.230 The new ruling class that had emerged from the Glorious
Revolution of 1688 embraced classicism, defined as the ‘Rule of Taste’; at the
same time artists started gathering to form private academies where they could
study together and where beginners could receive at least some training, based,
56 57 of course, on the continental model, with the copy after the
Antique as one of its cornerstones.231 Many British artists also travelled to
Rome, where they participated in the Concorsi of the Accademia di San Luca or
attended the Accademia del Nudo in the Capitoline and several built national
and interna- tional reputations thanks to their success in the city.232 In
Rome, furthermore, artists encountered British travellers and potential future
patrons. Plaster casts must already have been relatively widely available
during the first half of the 18th century.233 Drawings after classical
sculptures survive by British artists who did not travel to Italy: among them
some fascinating, rough, early studies by Joseph Highmore, possibly from casts
in the Great Queen Street Academy – which operated under Sir Godfrey Kneller
and Sir James Thornhill between 1711 and 1720 – where he enrolled in 1713 (fig.
99).234 But the insular situation of the British art world, where many painters
struggled in vain to create a modern and national school and genre of painting,
plus an innate distrust of cultural models imported from the Continent,
especially France, meant that copying the Antique encountered strong criticism.
The most vociferous opponent was William Hogarth, who, as director of the
second St Martin’s Lane Academy from 1735, became increasingly hostile to a
curriculum based on the French Académie model and to history painting in
general, although, paradoxically, he demonstrated great admiration for a few
classical statues in his writings (see Appendix, no. 14).235 His war against
fashionable imported taste and didactic principles is well 99. Joseph Highmore,
Study of a Cast of the Borghese Gladiator, Seen from Behind, c. 1713, graphite,
ink and watercolour on paper, 354 × 230 mm, Tate, London, inv. T04232 expressed
by the celebrated first plate in his Analysis of Beauty, where the Antique,
anatomy and the study of proportions evocated in the centre of the composition
are surrounded by vignettes illustrating Hogarth’s own aesthetic ideas (fig.
100).236 But despite such discontented voices, fascination with the Antique
would only intensify, and educational curricula based on French or Italian
models would gradually impose themselves. In 1758, a ‘continental’ enterprise
was launched by the 3rd Duke of Richmond with the opening of a gallery attached
to his house in Whitehall ‘containing a large collec- tion of original plaister
casts from the best antique statues and busts which are now at Rome and
Florence’.237 With a curriculum based on the ‘alphabet of drawing’ and under
the directorship of the Italian painter Giovanni Battista Cipriani (1727–85)
and the sculptor Joseph Wilton (1722–1803) – the first Englishman to receive,
in 1750, the prestigious first prize of the Accademia di San Luca – the gallery
was set up specifically with the didactic purpose of training youths on the
basis of the Antique (fig. 101).238 To compensate for the absence of a national
Academy, a semi-formal system developed probably inspired by the joint model of
the Accademia di San Luca and the Capitoline, where many British artists had
worked.239 Students would have started by copying drawings, prints and parts of
the body in the private drawing school set up in 1753 by the entrepreneur and
drawing master William Shipley (1714– 1803); they would then progress to the
Duke of Richmond’s Academy when they were ready to study three-dimensional
forms; finally they would proceed to the study of the live model in the second
St Martin Lane’s Academy.240 Competi- tions were set up and the Society for the
Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce, which was founded 100.
William Hogarth, The Analysis of Beauty (Plate 1), 1753, etching and engraving,
387 × 483 mm, private collection, London 101. John Hamilton Mortimer,
Self-portrait with Joseph Wilton, and an Unknown Student Drawing at the Duke of
Richmond’s Academy, c. 1760–65, oil on canvas, 76 × 63.5 cm, Royal Academy of
Arts, London, inv. 03/970 in 1754, awarded prizes for the best drawings after
casts and copies, several of which survive in the institution’s archive (figs
102–03).241 The continental system also reached cities outside London. For
example, academies and artists’ societies were set up in Glasgow – in an image
of the Foulis Academy of Art and Design founded there in 1752 we see the
familiar presence of the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 104) – and in Liverpool (see
cat. 24).242 But it was with the foundation of the Royal Academy in London in
1768 that Britain finally had a national institution with a formal curriculum
based on continental models (see cats 25–27). Directed by Sir Joshua Reynolds
(1723–92) – its first president between 1768 and 1792 – the Academy had a
teaching structure that centred on the Antique or ‘Plaister’ Academy and the
Life Academy, to which students would progress after having practised for years
on plaster casts.243 To advance from one stage to another, they had to supply a
presentation drawing showing their skills in depicting antique forms: one by
the young Turner (1775–1851), who enrolled in the Academy in 1789 as a boy of
fourteen, proba- bly belongs to this category (cat. 27a). Several evocative
images testify to the study of the growing collection of plaster casts, both in
daylight and at night (fig. 105 and cats 25–27),244 while the Life Academy is
evoked in the famous painting by Johan Zoffany (1733–1810) which shows the
first academicians in discussion around two male models – one glancing at us in
the pose of the Spinario – surrounded by familiar plaster casts of classical
and Renaissance sculpture (fig. 106). In the background, on the right, an
écorché appears among the other casts, to remind us that anatomy lessons were
delivered in the Academy by the physician William Hunter (1718–83). By bringing
together plaster casts, anatomy and the study of the live model, Zoffany’s
image declared unmistakably the Royal Academy’s affinity with continental
academic models of teaching. The two female members, Mary Moser (1744–1819) and
Angelica Kauffmann (1741–1807) are evoked through their portraits, as their
presence in the Life Academy was considered improper.245 A system of
discourses, competitions and exhibitions, complemented and completed the
teaching curriculum. The official theoretical line of the Academy, fixed in
Reynolds’ celebrated Discourses – which were delivered between 1769 and 1790 –
was a distillation of the idealistic theory of the previous centuries and
included frequent references to the Antique (see Appendix, no. 17). Reynolds’
highest praise was reserved for the Belvedere Torso, which embodied the 102.
William Peters, Study of a Cast of the ‘Borghese Gladiator’, c. 1760, pencil,
black and white chalk on coloured paper, 410 × 450 mm, Royal Society of Arts,
London, inv. PR/AR/103/14/621 103. William Peters, Study of a Cast of the
‘Callipygian Venus’, c. 1760, pencil, black and white chalk on coloured paper,
525 × 355 mm, Royal Society of Arts, London, inv. PR/AR/103/14/669
58 59 104. David Allan, The Foulis Academy of Art and
Design in Glasgow, c. 1760, engraving, 134 × 168 mm, Mitchell Library, Glasgow,
inv. GC ILL 156 105. Anonymous British School, The Antique School of the Royal
Academy at New Somerset House, c. 1780–83, oil on canvas, 110.8 x 164.1 cm,
Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/846 106. Johan Zofany, The Portraits of
the Academicians of the Royal Academy, 1771–72, oil on canvas, 100.1 × 147.5
cm, The Royal Collection, Windsor Castle ‘superlative genius’ of ancient art,
and this judgement is reflected in the official iconography of the Royal
Academy, as the Torso appeared, significantly below the word ‘Study’, on the
silver medals awarded in the Academy’s competitions (see cat. 27a).246 The
muscular fragment reappears as well in one of the female allegories of
Invention, Composition, Design and Colour, commissioned by the Royal Academy
from Angelica Kauffman in 1778 to decorate the ceiling of the Academy’s new
Council Chamber and to provide a visual manifesto for Reynolds’ theory of art
(fig. 107).247 Showing her wit and erudition, Kauffman’s Design is a
significant image, as she took the traditional personification of Disegno,
depicted as male (the word is masculine in Italian), and transformed it into a
woman copying the ideal male body – thereby asserting the right of women to
study the Antique and pursue a traditional artistic career. Although
increasingly questioned by anatomists and by a growing number of artists,
plaster casts were used in the Academy’s curriculum well into the 19th century
and beyond. In London the didactic role of original sculptures and casts was
also exploited outside official institutions. This was the case of the
antiquities assembled by the influential antiquar- ian and collector Charles
Townley (1737–1805) at his house on 7 Park Street, which became a sort of
alternative academy where artists, amateurs – and also women – could study the
statues he had imported from Italy (cat. 28).248 Another private space set up
with the specific intention of training young architects in the study of the
Antique was the house- academy established by Sir John Soane (1754–1837) at No.
13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields (cat. 29). In the labyrinthine spaces of Soane’s
interiors, which were constantly enlarged to house 107. Angelica Kaufman,
Design, 1778–80, oil on canvas, 130 × 150.3 cm, Royal Academy of Arts, London,
inv. 03/1129 his growing collections, he obsessively juxtaposed paintings,
architectural fragments, copies of celebrated classical statues, drawings and
objects of all sorts.249 Architecture, sculpture and painting were seamlessly
integrated to create a whole and to express the qualities of ‘variety and
intricacy’, advocated by Reynolds in his 13th Discourse (1786). This variety
was intended to stimulate the imagination of Soane’s students – in 1806 he was
appointed the Royal Academy’s Professor of Architecture – and to invite
would-be architects not to limit themselves but to train in the three sister
arts, as recommended by Vitruvius.250 Academic training continued as students
gathered to copy the Antique in the newly built galleries of the British
Museum,251 but, as the 19th century progressed, its authority faded
dramatically as young artists looked increasingly to the modern world for their
inspiration. Dissenting Voices and Seeds of Decline The linear evolution of the
classical ideal from the early Renaissance to the beginning of the 19th century
was in reality punctuated by several opposing voices. But none of them, with
rare exceptions, ever questioned the greatness and authority of classical art.
What was at times disputed was the didactic value of copying from the Antique
or the slavish dependence on its forms demonstrated by some of the most
dogmatic devotees of classicism. We have seen that even in the 16th century,
art critics like Vasari, Dolce and Armenini had warned against excessive
dependence on classical forms and had advocated an independent and creative
approach based on the artist’s own judgement. Rubens and Bernini too had warned
against the ‘smell of stone’ in painting or psycho- logical dependence on the
model. This balanced approach to the Antique would become a leitmotif among
later genera- tions of art theorists. Furthermore, artistic traditions outside
Central Italy had always demonstrated a good dose of scepticism towards the
dependence of the Florentine and Roman schools on the forms and ideals embodied
by classical statuary. One of the most intelligent expressions of this attitude
is the famous woodcut by Nicolò Boldrini, almost certainly after an original
drawing by Titian, in which Laocoön and his sons are transformed into three
monkeys and set in a bucolic landscape (fig. 108).252 In this complex image
Titian, one of the greatest creative geniuses of the Renaissance, who him- self
had a profound and fruitful relationship with the Antique, was presumably
issuing an ironic statement against the faithful artistic imitation of the
classical models – a behav- iour similar to that of mimicking monkeys. 108.
Nicolò Boldrini after Titian, Caricature of the Laocoön, c. 1540–50, woodcut,
267 × 403 mm, private collection In the 17th century the pernicious effect on
painting from too-slavish imitation of sculptural forms would be summa- rised
by the Bolognese art theorist Carlo Cesare Malvasia (1616–93) with the specific
neologism ‘statuino’ or ‘statue- like’ (see cats 9 and 15).253 But during the
17th and 18th centuries even the most outspoken critics of the perfection of
the Antique, such as the champion of colore versus disegno Roger de Piles, or
the defender of a modern and independent artistic language like Hogarth, always
demonstrated great admiration for classical statues, especially in terms of
their proportions (see Appendix, no. 14).254 According to Bellori, the only
great master who showed no interest at all in them was the ultra-naturalist
Caravaggio. In a famous passage of his Vite, the champion of classicism
reported that Caravaggio expressed ‘disdain for the superb marbles of the
ancients and the paintings of Raphael’ because he had decided to take ‘nature
alone for the object of his brush’. ‘Thus’, Bellori continues, ‘when he was
shown the most famous statues of Phidias and Glycon so that he might base his
studies on them, his only response was to gesture toward a crowd of people,
indicating that nature had provided him with masters enough’.255 But this
anecdote must not be taken too literally, as it certainly contains Bellori’s
defence of idealism against the dangers of the unselective imitation of Nature,
as repre- sented by Caravaggio and his followers. In fact, although it is not
immediately obvious, Caravaggio had a profound under- standing of antique
forms, and was deeply conscious of High Renaissance prototypes by Michelangelo
(his namesake) and by Raphael. Even if Bellori’s account of Caravaggio had been
accurate, such a radical attitude would have to be considered an exception in
the long period covered here. In the 18th century criticism of the academic
curriculum, in particular that of the Parisian Académie, and the art that it
produced, increased. But, once again, two of its sternest 60
61 critics, Diderot and David, had an immense admiration for classical
statuary and Diderot’s attack was directed at the codified and repetitive
nature of academic practices, in particular the drawing lessons, and at the
slavish dependence on the Antique at the expense of Nature of most of his
contemporaries, not at classical models as such (see Appen- dix, no. 16).256
Significantly David, who played a crucial role in the closure of the Parisian
Académie in 1793 during the French Revolution, would become the hero of the
refounded École des Beaux-Arts in the 19th century. More significant criticism
came from the students forced to copy casts for sessions on end. The great
French painter Jean-Siméon Chardin recalled the frustration that many artists
must have felt by being forced to follow the oppressive ‘alphabet of drawing’,
as powerfully evoked in his recollections (see also cat. 26): We begin to draw
eyes, mouths, noses and ears after patterns, then feet and hands. After having
crouched over our portfolios for a long time, we’re placed in front of the Hercules
or the Torso, and you’ve never seen such tears as those shed over the Satyr,
the Gladiator, the Medici Venus, and the Antinous . Then, after having spent entire days and
even nights by lamplight, in front of an immobile, inanimate nature, we’re
presented with living nature, and suddenly the work of all preceding years
seems reduced to nothing.257 But even the painter of still-lifes and domestic
genre scenes Chardin recognised the greatness of the original statues. The
appeal of the forms and principles of the Antique was still supreme within an
aesthetic system – the humanistic theory of art – that placed the
representation of mankind and its most noble behaviours at the centre of the
artistic mission, and this was true even for painters, like Chardin, who did
not abide by the academic hierarchy of genres. The real beginning of the
decline of the authority of the Antique started when these premises began to be
challenged by artists who felt at odds with a conception of art that they
perceived as increasingly inadequate. Romanticism landed a first, but
eventually fatal, blow by challenging the rationalistic, idealistic and
supposedly ‘universal’ principles of classicism, in the name of subjective
emotion and individ- ual genius. The drastic changes imposed by
industrialisation and urbanisation accelerated the process. Opie’s outline of
what constitutes art, with which this essay began – a pedantic and codified
version of Reynolds’ aesthetic – came to be perceived as increasingly
irrelevant by students exposed to urban life in London, Paris or any other
modern city, as the words of the painter James Northcote (1746–1831) in 1826
clearly express (see Appendix, no. 19). But if various ‘progres- sive’
avant-gardes rejected more decisively the principles of classicism and academic
art, one need only remember that artistic education remained almost everywhere
based on the traditional curriculum and that casts were used in academies and
art schools until a few decades ago. Some of the greatest modern painters, such
as Cézanne, Degas, Van Gogh and Picasso, spent portions of their youth copying
plaster casts. And, as the last part of this exhibition shows (cats 32, 34–35),
with mass-production casts became ever more available to wider audiences,
including women and the bourgeoisie, entering the realm of the private home,
often in a reduced format. But an assault on the canonical status of many of
the most famous sculptures also came from another ‘academic’ direction, as a
new archaeological precision recognised them as more or less accurate Roman
copies of Greek originals. If art education remained solidly structured around
the traditional curriculum, becoming more and more conserva- tive, the creative
forces of European art placed themselves firmly outside the academic system,
and principles of ideal imitation would become progressively irrelevant. An
image that perfectly visualises the dawn of the new aesthetic era, and an ideal
conclusion to our journey, is a painting produced by Thomas Couture as a satire
against the Realist fashion of the mid-19th century (fig. 109) – a preparatory
study for which is in the Katrin Bellinger collection.258 Couture, who ran a
successful studio in Paris, described his own painting in his Methodes et
Entretiens d’Atelier published in 1867: I am depicting the interior of a studio
of our time; it has nothing in common with the studios of earlier periods, in
which you could see fragments of the finest antiquities. At one time, you could
see the head of the Laocoön, the feet of the Gladiator, the Venus de Milo, and
among the prints covering the walls there were Raphael’s Stanze and Poussin’s
Sacraments and landscapes. But thanks to artistic progress, I have very little
to show because the gods have changed. The Laocoön has
been replaced by a cabbage, the feet of the Gladiator by a candle holder
covered with tallow or by a shoe . As
for the painter , he is a studious
artist, fervent, a visionary of the new religion. He copies what? It’s quite
simple – a pig’s head – and as a base what does he choose? That’s less simple,
the head of Olympian Jupiter.259 Couture’s image, wherein a once revered
antique frag- ment of the Olympian god, Jupiter, has been relegated to a mere
stool and the object of study is now the severed head of a pig, encapsulates
the decline of the Antique in the 19th century and the shift of interest from
the ‘ideal’ to the ‘real’. Little did Couture kn0w that in a few decades not
only the traditional role of imitation would be subverted, but that the
principle of imitation itself – formulated by Alberti four hundred years before
– would be questioned in favour of expressive or abstract values, leaving even
less space for the previously revered Laocoön, Borghese Gladiator and the Venus
de Milo. The Antique continued its life in the 20th century in many, often
unexpected ways: quoted, subverted and deconstructed by many avant-garde
artists; in the official art of totalitarian regimes; in the ironic and
playful, but often shallow game of post-modernism; and even, one may say, in
much of the aesthetic of fashion advertisement. The relation of the classical
model and ideal with modernity is a story that still needs to be written fully
and would be a fascinating subject for another exhibition. 109. Thomas Couture,
La Peinture Réaliste, 1865, oil on panel, 56 × 45 cm, National Gallery of
Ireland, Dublin. Hoare 1809, 11. See also Opie 1809,3–52. The italics are the
author’s. On the Renaissance or humanistic theory of art good overviews are:
Lee 1967; Schlosser Magnino 1967; Blunt 1978; Williams 1997; Barasch 2000,1.
Anthologies of primary sources in English translation are: Gilbert 1980;
Gilmore Holt 1981–82; Harrison, Wood and Gaiger 2000. Alberti 1972. See also M.
Kemp’s introduction, in Alberti 1991,1–29. Although initially circulating only
in manuscript form, Alberti’s treatise had an immense impact on artists and
successive art theoreticians. The first Latin (Basel, 1540) and Italian
(Venice, 1547) editions, and subsequent ones, influenced the earliest academies
such as Vasari’s Accademia del Disegno, founded in 1563. The first French
translation (Paris 1651) took shape in the environment of the French Académie
Royale, founded just three years before (1648). The first English translation
(London, 1726) was motivated by the aspirations of English artists towards the
foundation of a national academy based on continental standards. Innumerable
transla- tions and editions contributed to the diffusion of Albertian
principles well into the 19th century. See Alberti 1991,23–24. Alberti 1972, 53
(book 1, chap. 18). Alberti quotes Protagoras, probably through Diogenes
Laertius, De Vitis ... philosophorum, 9.51: Alberti 1991, 53, note 11. On the
sources and structure of De Pictura see especially Spencer 1957 and Wright
1984. Alberti 1972, 97 (book 3, chap. 55). Ibid., 101 (book 3, chap. 58).
Ibid., 99 (book 3, chap. 55). Ibid., 99 (book 3, chap. 56). Albertis’s sources
are Cicero, De inventione, 2.1.1–3 and Pliny, Naturalis Historia, 35.36 (with
differences in detail). Alberti 1972, 75 (book 2, chap. 36). See also Alberti
1988, 156 (book 6, chap. 2) and301–09 (book 9, chaps 5–6), esp. 303. On the
theory of proportions see Panofsky 1955; R. Klein’s introduction to ‘De
Symmetria’ in Gaurico 1969, 76–91; Gerlach 1990. On Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man
see Kemp 2006, 71–136; Salvi 2012, with previous bibliography. Other ancient
surviving sources on the Canonical ideal are Cicero, Brutus, esp. 69–70, 296;
Pliny, Naturalis Historia, 34.55; Galen’s treatises, esp. De 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 Placitis Hippocratis et Platonis, 5, and De Temperamentis,
1.9; Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria, esp. 5.12.21 and 12.10.3-9; Vitruvius’ De
Architectura, 3.1. For Alberti’s concept of historia, see Alberti 1972, 77–83
(chaps 39–42). The clearest definition of history painting according to the
academies of the 17th and 18th centuries is provided by Félibien 1668, Preface
(not paginated). The Codex Coburgensis is preserved in the Kunstsammlungen der
Veste Coburg: see Wrede and Harprath 1986; Davis 1989. Cassiano dal Pozzo’s
Paper Museum is divided between several collections but mainly concen- trated
in the Royal Collection, Windsor Castle and the British Museum, London: see
Herklotz 1999; Claridge and Dodero forthcoming. Macandrew 1978; Connor Bulman
2006; Windsor 2013. London and Rome 1996–97, 257–69; Bignamini and Hornsby
2010. General introductions to drawing techniques in the Renaissance and beyond
are Joannides 1983, 11–31; Bambach 1999, esp. 33–80; Ames Lewis 2000a;
Petherbridge 2010; London and Florence 2010–11. See Ames-Lewis 2000b, 36–37.
Recent general introductions to drawing after the Antique and the training of
young artists in the 15th century include Rome 1988a; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 35–60,
109–40; Jestaz 2000–01; Chapman 2010–11, 46–60. More focused on the 16th
century is Barkan 1999. Haskell and Penny 1981, 252–55, no. 55 (Marcus
Aurelius), 308–10, no. 78 (Spinario), 167–69, no. 16 (Camillus), 136–41, no. 3
(Horse Tamers); Buddensieg 1983; Nesselrath 1988; Rome 1988a, 232–38 (Marcus
Aurelius); Paris 2000–01, 200–25 and 417–20, nos 221–24 (Spinario); Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 223–25, no. 176 (Marcus Aurelius), 254–56, no. 203 (Spinario),
192–93, no. 192 (Camillus), 172–75, no. 125 (Horse Tamers). Dacos 1969; Morel
1997; Miller 1999. Alberti calls the relief of a sarcophagus in Rome
representing the death of Meleager a historia, specifically praising it as a
source for the compositio: see Alberti 1972, 74–75 (chap. 37). Cavallaro
1988b; Cavallaro 1988c; Scalabroni 1988. Cavallaro 1988b; Scalabroni 1988;
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, passim. On Brunelleschi
and Donatello’s Roman trip see the famous account by Antonio di Giannozzo
Manetti: Manetti 1970, 53–57. See also Vasari’s anecdote of Donatello
producing a pen drawing after a sarcophagus that he saw in Cortona on his way
back from Rome to Florence: Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,3, 151–52. See also
Micheli 1983, 93. On the drawings after the Antique produced in the workshops
of Gentile of Pisanello see: Degenhart and Schmitt 1960; Cavallaro 1988a;
Degenhart and Schmitt 1996, 81–117; Paris, 1996, Appendix IX, ‘Le “Carnet de
voyage dessins sur parchemin”’, 465–67; Cavallaro 2005. 26 Rome 1988a, 95–96,
no. 24 (A. Cavallaro); Paris 1996, 180–81, no. 100. 27 See Rome 1988a, 158–59,
no. 51, see also 155–56, no. 49; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 87, no. 38. 28
Wegner 1966, 88–89, no. 228; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 86–87, no. 38. 29 Weiss
1969. 30 London and New York 1992, 445–48, no. 145 (D. Ekserdjian); Paris
2008–09b, 378–79, no. 159 (C. Elam); Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 207, no. 158iii
(158c). 31 Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 207–08, no. 158iii. 32 Alberti 1972, 80–81
(chap. 41). 33 See Lightbown 1986, 140–53, 424–33; Elam 2008–09. 34 For the
drawing after the Marcus Aurelius see Rome 1988a, 232–33, no. 80 (A.
Nesselrath); Rome 2005, 263, II.10.7, 267–68, no. II.10.7 (A. Nesselrath). For
the drawing after the Horse Tamers see Rome 1988a, 211–12, no. 61 (A.
Nesselrath); Paris 1996, 153–54, no. 84; Rome 2005, 334, III.8.1, 338–39, no.
III.8.1 (A. Cavallaro). 35 On the fame of their nudity see the contemporary
comments by Angelo Decembrio in his De Politia litteraria, written in the
central decades of the 15th century: Baxandall 1963, 312. For other mentions in
contemporary written sources see Nesselrath 1988, 196–97. 36 Nesselrath 1988, 197,
61; Cole Ahl 1996, 6, pl. 1; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 120, 57; Cavallaro 2005, 330;
London and Florence 2010–11, 118–19, no. 14 (M.M. Rook). On Gozzoli and the
Antique see Pasti 1988. 37 For a notable exception see Gozzoli’s faithful
drawing of a fragmentary classical Venus: Pasti 1988, 137, 38; Ames-Lewis
2000b, 121, 59. 38 For a general overview see Weiss 1969, 180–202; Ames-Lewis
2000b, 52–60, 79–85. 39 Gaurico 1969, 62–63; Gaurico 1999, 142–43, providing a
less accurate translation. 40 Cennini 1933,2, 123–31. 41 Fiocco 1958–59; Lightbown
1986, 18; Favaretto 1999. On Ghiberti’s col- lection of casts see Ames-Lewis
2000b, 81, with previous bibliography. 42 Ames-Lewis 1995. 43 Fusco 1982;
Ames-Lewis 2000b, 52–55. 44 Ragghianti and Dalli Regoli 1975; Ames-Lewis 2000a,
91–123; Forlani- Tempesti 1994. 45 Ames-Lewis 1995, 394, 397, 10. For the
practice see Schwartz 2000–01. 46 For an overview see Nesselrath 1984–86. Lists
of sketchbooks are provided in Nesselrath 1993, 225–48 and Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 473–96. 47 The first printed edition of Biondo’s Roma Instaurata was
published in Rome in 1471: Weiss 1969, esp. 59–104. 48 On Michelangelo’s and
Raphael’s attitude towards the Antique the bibliogra- phy is vast. For
Michelangelo good surveys are Agosti and Farinella 1987 (pp. 12–13, note 3,
with the most exhaustive bibliography to date); Florence 1987; Haarlem and
London 2005–06, 58–68; Parisi Presicce 2014. On Raphael: Becatti 1968; Jones
and Penny 1983, 175–210; Burns 1984 (p. 399, footnote 2, with exhaustive
bibliography to date); Nesselrath 1984; Dacos 1986. 49 Clark 1969b;
Marani 2003–04; Marani 2007. 50 Leonardo 1956,1, 51, no. 77. 51 Ibid.,1, 45,
no. 59, 64, no. 112. 52 Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 21. On other sources on the para- gone between Michelangelo and the ancients
see Florence 1987, 107–08. 53 Elam 1992; Florence 1992; Joannides
1993; Baldini 1999–2000; Paolucci 2014. 54 Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 9–12;
Condivi 1998, 10–11; Condivi 1999, 10. 55 Knab, Mitsch
and Oberhuber 1984, 51–54; Ferrino Padgen 2000. 56 See Franzoni 1984–86;
Cavallaro 2007; Christians 2010. A list of collec- tions with essential
bibliography is providedalso in Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 497–507. 57 For the
Nile and the Tiber see Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 112–13, no. 65. 58 The Apollo
Belvedere was discovered in 1489, the Laocoön in 1506, the Cleopatra in the
first decade of the 16th century, the Hercules Commodus in 1507, the Tiber in
1512 and Nile probably in 1513: see Haskell and Penny 1981, respec- tively 148–51,
no. 8, 243–47, no. 52, 184–87, no. 24, 188–89, no. 25, 310–11, no. 79, 272–73,
no. 65; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, respectively 76–77, no. 28, 164–68, no. 122,
125–26, no. 79, 180–81, no. 131, 113–14, no. 66, 114–15, no. 67. The discovery
date of the Venus Felix is not known, but it was placed in the Belvedere
Courtyard in 1509: Haskell and Penny 1981, 323–25, no. 87; Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 66–67, no. 16. For the Belvedere Courtyard see Brummer 1970; Winner, Andreae
and Pietrangeli 1998. The first mention of the Belvedere Antinous-Hermes is in
1527 and it was placed in the Belvedere Courtyard by 1545; the Belvedere Torso
is recorded from 1432 and by the middle of the 16th century it was displayed in
the Courtyard: see Haskell and Penny 1981, respectively 141–43, no. 4 and 311–14,
no. 80; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, respectively 62, no. 10 and 181–84, no. 132.
The first mention of Michelangelo’s praise of the Torso is in Aldrovandi 1556, 121.
For a selection of other primary sources see Barocchi 1962,4, 2100–03; Agosti
and Farinella 1987, 43–44. For the Torso as ‘School of Michelangelo’ see
Haskell and Penny 1981, 313. Schwinn 1973, 24–37. Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87,6, 108. Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 126, no. 79. Joannides 1983, 192,
no. 240r; Knab, Mitsch and Oberhuber 1984, 615, no. 375. In this drawing
Raphael also references Michelangelo’s Sistine Adam. Golzio 1971, 38–40, 72–73;
Nesselrath 1984. The original Italian is in Camesasca 1994, 257–322 (esp. 290–98);
Shearman 2003, 500–45. For an English translation, see Holt 1981–86,1, 289–96.
See also Frommel, Ray and Tafuri 1984, 437, no. 3.5.1. (H. Burns and H.
Nesselrath). Nesselrath 1982, 357, 37; Frommel, Ray and Tafuri 1984, 422, no.
3.2.10 (A. Nesselrath); Jaffé 1994, 187, no. 315 617*. For the few other
surviving Raphael drawings after Roman antiquities see Frommel, Ray and Tafuri
1984, 438, no. 3.5.3 (A. Nesselrath). Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 172–75, no.
125. This consideration is already in Jones and Penny 1983, 205. The practice
of measuring classical statues would become widespread from the 17th century
onwards: see 46–49 in the present volume. A good selection is in Mantua and
Vienna 1999. Check also Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 473–96. Oberhuber 1978;
Mantua and Vienna 1999; Viljoen 2001; Pon 2004. Boissard 1597–1602,1, 12–13,
translated by Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 165. According to a letter by
Francesco da Sangallo of 1567, Michel- angelo and Giuliano da Sangallo were
sent by the Pope to witness and comment upon the unearthing of the Laocoön on
the Esquiline in 1506: Fea 1790–1836,1, cccxxix–cccxxxi, letter XVI. Bettarini
and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 109. An opinion then appropri- ated by Vasari himself
in the introduction to his chapter on Sculpture: Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87,1, 84–86. This was repeated later by many authors see for instance
Lomazzo 1584, 332, reprinted in Lomazzo 1973–74,2, 288. Wilde 1953, 79–80, nos
43–44, pls lxx–lxxi; Agosti and Farinella 1987, 33–36, figs 11–14; Tolnay
1975–80,2, 51–53, nos 230–34; Florence 2002, 150–51, nos 2–5 (P. Joannides);
Haarlem and London 2005–06, 64–66. Wilde 1953, 9–10, no. 4, pl. vi; Tolnay
1975–80,1, 58–59, no. 48; Haarlem and London 2005–06, 88–89, 285, no. 13. On
the restoration of classical statues, see Rossi Pinelli 1984–86; Howard 1990;
Pasquier 2000–01a. Specifically on Montorsoli’s restorations: Haskell and Penny
1981, 148, 246; Vetter 1995; Nesselrath 1998b; Winner 1998; Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 77, 165. See Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46; Gasparri
2009–10,3, 17–20, no. 1. On the Wrestlers see Haskell and Penny 1981, 337–39,
no. 94; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 62–63, no. 50 (71). For the Niobe Group see
Haskell and Penny 1981, 274–79, no. 66; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 316–26, nos
596 (1251) (1–14). On Guido Reni using the Niobe Group as a source for the
expression of many of his figures see Bellori 1976, 529. See Haskell and Penny
1981, 16–22. Haskell and Penny 1981, 16–22. On Lafréry see Chicago 2007–08. On
Cavalieri see Pizzimano 2001. See Lee 1967, esp. 3–16; Blunt 1978, esp. 137–59;
Barasch 2000,1, 203–309. Armenini 1587, 136–37 (book 2, chap. 11). Lee 1967, 7,
note 23. See also Weinberg 1961, 361–423. The first commentary appeared only in
1548 and the first Italian translation in 1549. Horace, Ars Poetica, 361. See
Lee 1967, esp. 3–9. Aristotle, Poetics, see esp. 9; 15.11; 25.1–2; 25.26–28.
Lomazzo 1590, see esp. chap. XXVI; Zuccaro 1607. On this see Lee 1967, 13–14;
Panofsky 1968, esp. 85–99; Blunt 1978, 137–59. Also in Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87,1, 110. The definition of Disegno was added only to the second edition
of the Lives in 1568. On Vasari and the Antique see Barocchi 1958; Cristofani
1985. Puttfarken 1991; Rosand 1997, 10–24. Walters 2014, 57. Whitaker 1997. See
for instance Vasari’s comments in the lives of Andrea Mantegna and Battista
Franco: Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, respectively 3, 549–50 and vol 5, 459–61.
Armenini 1587, see esp. 59–60 (book I, chap. 8), 86–89 (book II, chap. 3). See
also Lomazzo’s treatment of the Antique: Lomazzo 1584, 481 (book VI, chap. 64).
General surveys about the development of European academies include Pevsner 1940;
Goldstein 1996. See also Levy 1984; Olmstead Tonelli 1984; Boschloo 1989. On
images of academies see Kutschera-Woborsky 1919; Pevsner 1940, passim; Roman
1984. On the Florentine Accademia del Disegno see Pevsner 1940, 42–55;
Goldstein 1975; Dempsey 1980; Wa ́zbin ́ski 1987; Barzman 1989; Barzman 2000.
On the Carracci Academy see Dempsey 1980; Goldstein 1988, esp. 49– 88; Dempsey
1989; Feigenbaum 1993; Robertson 2009–10. On the Accademia di San Luca the
bibliography is vast. On its early history see Pevsner 1940, 55–66; Pietrangeli
1974; Lukehart 2009. On the teaching in the first decades of the Accademia see
Roccasecca 2009. On Alberti’s print see Roccasecca 2009, 133. Olmstead Tonelli
1984. Alberti 1604, esp. 2–15. Jack Ward 1972, 17–18; Olmstead Tonelli 1984, 96–97.
On the donation of the Salvioni collection of casts in 1598 see Missirini 1823,
73. On the inventories see Lukehart 2009, Appendix 7, esp. 368–69, 371–73,
379–80. On the drawing see Bora 1976, 125, no. 126. Malvasia 1678, 1, 378;
Goldstein 1988, esp. 49–50. On this see Meder 1978, 1, 217–95; Amornpichetkul
1984; Bleeke- Byrne 1984; Roman 1984, 91; Bolten 1985, 243. Alberti 1972, 97
(book 3, chap. 55). Alberti 1972, 75 (book 2, chap. 36). Cellini 1731, 156–59.
Leonardo 1956, 1, 45, chaps 59–61, and esp. 64, chap. 112; Bettarini and
Barocchi 1966–87, 1, 112; Armenini 1587, 51–59, esp. 57 (book 1, chap. 7); See
Bleeke-Byrne 1984. Armenini 1587, see esp. 86 (book 2, chap. 3). The necessity
of exercising one’s memory recurs in Alberti (Alberti 1972, 99, book 3, chap.
55); Leonardo (Leonardo 1956, 1, 47, chaps 65–66); Vasari (Bettarini and
Barocchi 1966–87, 1, 114–15); Cellini (Cellini 1731, 157); and Armenini
(Armenini 1587, 53, book 1, chap. 7). Gombrich 1960; Rosand 1970; Maugeri 1982;
Amornpichetkul 1984; Bolten 1985. On Dürer in Italy see Rome 2007. Dacos 1995; Meijer 1995; Dacos 1997; Dacos 2001. Van Mander 1994-99, 1, 342–45
(fols 271r–v). See Meijer 1995, 50, note 18. Dacos 1995, 19–20;
Dacos 2001, 23–34. Hülsen and Egger 1913–16; Veldman 1977; Dacos 2001, 35–44;
Bartsch 2012; Christian 2012; Veldman 2012. On Beatrizet see Bury 1996; on
Lafréry see Chicago 2007–08; on Dupérac see Lurin 2009. For the print
attributed to Beatrizet see Paris 2000–01, 378–79, no. 184 (C. Scailliérez). On
the Marforio see Haskell and Penny 1981, 258–59, no. 57; Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 110–11, no. 64. ‘I disagi e li affanni tutti del mondo non stima un
quattrino’. On the so-called Haarlem Academy see Van Thiel 1999, 59–90.
Veldman 2012, 21, with previous bibliography. Reznicek On Rubens in Rome and
his approach to the Antique see esp. Stechow 1968; Jaffé 1977, 79–84; Muller
1982; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 41–81; Muller 2004, 18–28; London 2005–06, 88–111.
Jaffé 1977, 79; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 42, note 6. Copies of Lafréry’s
Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae and De Cavalieri’s Antiquarum statuarum urbis
Romae, are listed in Rubens’ son Albert’s library: Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 42,
note 6. It is most likely that they were originally in Peter Paul’s possession,
although we do not know whether he acquired them before, during or after his
Italian years. See Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 69–74. Armenini 1587, see esp. 59–60
(book I, chap. 8), 86–89 (book II, chap. 3). On the ultimate Aristotelian
character of this principle see Muller 1982. See also Cody 2013. On Rubens’
handwritten Notebook, lost in a fire in Paris in 1720, but known through
several transcriptions and partial publications see Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1,
esp. 71, note 11 and 77–78, note 44, with previous bibliography; Jaffé and
Bradley 2005–06; Jaffé 2010. On the drawing after the Torso see Van der Meulen
1994–95, 1, 70–71, 2, 56–59, nos 37–39; New York 2005a, 140–44, no. 34. On the
Laocoön drawings see: Van der Meulen 1994–95, 2, 98, no. 81, 3, 153 (father), 2,
103–04, no. 93, 3, 164 (son); London 2005– 06, 90–91, nos 24 (son), 25
(father); Bora 2013. The question of whether he copied the original Laocoön in
Rome, or a cast derived from it, possibly Federico Borromeo’s in Milan, remains
open: see Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 48; London 2005–06, 90–91, no. 25. Muller
2004, 22; Edinburgh 2002, 43–46, nos 8–14; Wood 2011, 1, 129–241; Cody 2013.
Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 80–81. Muller 2004, 22. On Rubens’ collection see
Antwerp 2004, with previous bibliography. Jaffé 1977, 80; Healy 2004. On the
Bamboccianti see Briganti, Trezzani and Laureati 1983; Cologne and Utrecht
1991–92; Rome and Paris 2014–15. On the fierce criticism by artists see
Malvasia 1678, 2, 267 (Sacchi), 268–69 (Albani); Cesareo 1892, 1, 223–55
(Rosa); Castiglione 2014–15. On Bellori’s condemna- tion
see Bellori 1976, 16. On Goubau see Briganti, Trezzani and Laureati 1983, 295–99.
On the painting see Paris 2000–01, 382–83, no. 188 (J. Foucart); Cappel- letti
2014–15, 48–50. Vlieghe 1979. On other Dutch artists copying the Antique in
Rome in the 17th century see Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 35–36. Already at the
beginning of the 17th century Karel Van Mander explicitly laments the poor
state of the visual arts in the Netherlands, blaming the ‘shameful laws and
narrow rules’ by which in nearly all cities save Rome ‘the noble art of
painting has been turned into a guild’: Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 264–65 (fol.
251v). See also Bleeke-Byrne 1984. On the Antwerp Academy see Pevsner 1940, 126–29;
Van Looij 1989. See Emmens 1968, 154–59; Bleeke-Byrne 1984, 30, 38, notes
76–77. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 448–49 (fol. 297v); Bolten 1985, 248. De Klerk
1989. Bolten 1985, 248–50. For Bisschop’s school see Van Gelder 1972, 11.
Bolten 1985. Bolten 1985, 119, 131, 133–34, 141, 143, 153, 157, 188–207,
243–56; Walters 2009, 1, 79. Bolten 1985, 159–60. Also many Dutch theoretical
treatises on the art of painting and drawing insisted on the human form and on
the stages of the learning process. For instance William Goeree’s influential
Inleydinge tot de al-gemeene Teycken-Konst, Middelburgh, 1668, revised and
reprinted many times, lays out the five stages of artistic training: copy of
prints, drawings, paintings, plaster casts and the life model (pp. 31–37). See
Bleeke- Byrne 1984, 34 and note 45; De Klerk 1989, 284. On Perrier’s diffusion
in the Netherlands see Bolten 1985, 257–58; Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 51–52;
Van der Meulen 1994–95, 76. For Van Haarlem’s 1639 inventory see Van Thiel
1965, 123, 128; Van Thiel 1999, 84, and Appendix II, 254–255, 257, 270–71, 273.
For van Balen’s 1635 and 1656 inventories, see Duverger 1984–2009, 4, 200–11.
For Rembrandt’s 1656 bankruptcy inventory see Strauss and Van der Meulen 1979, 349–88.
For Rembrandt’s use of statues, casts and models, see Gyllenhaal 2008. See also
cat. 23 in this catalogue, note 18. For the use of plaster casts in 17th- and
18th-century artists’ studios in Antwerp and Brussels, see Lock 2010. Also
collections of original antiquities were formed in the 17th century, especially
in the Southern Netherlands and in Antwerp: Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 35–50,
esp. 35, note 65. 64 65 151 For a copy in reverse, dated 1639, see Bolten
1985, 133–34, and 138, fig.a. 152 On Jan ter Boch’s painting (fig. 49) see
Paris 2000–01, 401–02, no. 207 (J. Foucart). On Van Oost the Elder’s painting
(fig. 50), see Antwerp 2008, 77, no. 20 (S. Janssens). On Vaillant’s painting
(fig. 51), see MacLaren 1991, 1, 440, note 8; Amsterdam 1997, 349, 2. On the
painting attrib- uted to Sweert (fig. 52) see Waddingham 1976–77; Amsterdam
1997, 348–52, under no. 74; Paris 2000–01, 400–01, no. 206 (J. Foucart);
Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 134–36, no. 40 (J. Clifton), where the painting is
attributed to Wallerant Vaillant. On Balthasar Van den Bossche’s paintings of
artists’ workshops see Mai 1987–88; Paris 2000–01, 402–03, no. 208 (J.-R.
Gaborit and J.-P. Cuzin); Lock 2010. 153 For the Borghese Gladiator see Haskell
and Penny 1981, 221–24, no. 43; Paris 2000–01, no. 1, 150–51 (L. Laugier);
Pasquier 2000–01c. For the Dying Gladiator see Haskell and Penny 1981, 224–27,
no. 44; Mattei 1987; La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 428–35. For the Venus
de’ Medici, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28, no. 88; Cecchi and Gasparri
2009, 74–75, no. 64 (137). 154 See Haskell and Penny 1981 esp. 23–30. On the
Medici collection of classical sculptures see Cecchi and Gaspari 2009. On the
Farnese’s see Gasparri 2007. On the Borghese’s: Rome 2011–12; on the
Ludovisi’s: Rome 1992–93; on the Giustiniani’s Rome 2001–02. 155 Haskell
and Penny 1981, 16–22; Coquery 2000; Picozzi 2000. 156 Picozzi 2000;
Laveissière 2011; Di Cosmo 2013; Fatticcioni 2013. 157 Haskell and Penny 1981, 21; Goldstein 1996, 144; Coquery 2000, 43–44.
On Perrier’s success in the Netherlands see Bolten 1985, 257–58; Van Gelder and
Jost 1985, 51–52; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 76. 158 Boyer 2000; Montanari 2000;
Rome 2000a; Bonfait 2002; Bayard 2010; Bayard and Fumagalli 2011. 159
Bertolotti 1886; Bousquet 1980; Coquery 2000. 160 Herklotz 1999; see also the
ongoing catalogue raisonné of Cassiano dal Pozzo’s Paper Museum:
http://warburg.sas.ac.uk/research/projects/ cassiano 161 For the text of
Bellori’s Idea see Bellori 1976, 13–25, and for an English translation see
Bellori 2005, 55–65. On it see Mahon 1947, esp. 109– 54, 242–43; Panofsky 1968,
103–11; Bellori 1976, esp. XXIX–XL; Barasch 2000, 1, 315–22; Cropper 2000. 162
Bellori 1976, 299. 163 See Barasch 2000, 1, 310-72. 164 Bellori mentions many
of these artists devoting time and efforts in the copying of celebrated
classical statuary, such as the Farnese Hercules, the Belvedere Torso, the
Niobe Group, the Borghese Gladiator: Bellori 1976, 75, 90–91 (Annibale
Carracci), 529–30 (Guido Reni), 625 (Carlo Maratti). For Rubens, Bernini and
Cortona see Bellori 1976, XXXI. For Annibale Carracci and the Antique see also
Weston-Lewis 1992. For his drawing (fig. 58) see Washington D.C. 1999–2000, 177,
no. 50 (G. Feigenbaum). For Poussin and the Antique the literature is vast: see
Bull 1997; Bayard and Fumagalli 2011; Henry 2011, with previous literature. For
his drawing (fig. 59) see Rosenberg and Prat 1994, 1, 312–13, no. 161. For
Maratti’s drawings (figs 60–61) see Blunt and Cooke 1960, 63, nos 378, 380. On
Pietro da Cortona and the Antique see Fusconi 1997–98. Some of his drawings
after the Antique were commissioned for the Paper Museum of Cassiano dal Pozzo.
On the drawing (fig. 62) see Rome 1997–98, 71, no. 2.4 (G. Fusconi). 165
Wittkower 1963; Princeton, Cleveland and elsewhere 1981–82, 159–73; New York
2012–13, 234–38, no. 25. 166 Pevsner 1940, 82–114;
Goldstein 1996, 40–45. On the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture in
Paris see Vitet 1861; Montaiglon 1875–92; Hargove 1990; Tours and Toulouse
2000; Michel 2012. On the Académie de France in Rome see Montaiglon and
Guiffrey 1887–1912; Lapauze 1924; Henry 2010–11; Coquery 2013, 173–219, with
previous bibliography. 167 Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 346. 168 Women were admitted
to the Académie, then named École des Beaux- Arts, only in 1896 and allowed to
enrol for the Prix de Rome in 1903: Goldstein 1996, 61. 169 Montaiglon 1875–92,
1, 315–17. 170 Félibien 1668, Preface (not paginated). 171 Le Brun 1698. On it
see Montagu 1994. 172 Félibien 1668, 28–40; Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.1,
127–35. 173 Félibien 1668, Preface (not paginated). 174 Lichtenstein and Michel
2006–12, see esp. vols 1-2, passim. 175 Lichtenstein and Michel Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.1, 374–77.
See also Goldstein 1996, 150. 177 Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 1, 129–32.
178 Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 293 (for a Venus donated by Chantelou in 1665), 300,
330–31 (for the cast of the Farnese Hercules ordered in 1666 and delivered in
1668), 366 (for several casts after ancient reliefs and statues copied for the
Académie from the Royal collection on the order of Colbert). 179 See Foster
1998; Schnapper 2000 and Macsotay 2010. 180 Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 1,
36. 181 Goldstein 1978, esp. 2–5. 182 Golzio 1935. 183 Boyer 1950, 117;
Goldstein 1970; Bousquet 1980, 110–11; Goldstein 1996, 45–46. 184 Mahon 1947, 188–89.
185 Missirini 1823, 145–46 (chap. XCI); Mahon 1947, 189; Goldstein 1996, 46.
186 Teyssèdre 1965; Puttfarken 1985; Montagu 1996; Arras and Épinal 2004. 187
Armenini 1587, 93–99, esp. 96 (book 2, chap. 5). 188 See esp. Van der Meulen
1994–95, 1, 69–75; Muller 2004, esp. 18–21; Jaffé and Bradley 2005–06; Jaffé
2010. For the drawing (fig. 67) see Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 71–72, notes 11,
14, 16 with previous literature. Rubens applied this method to several other
statues. 189 Bellori 1976, 451, 473–77, ; Bellori 2005, 311, and for the plates
334–37. See Rome 2000b, 2, 403–04, no. 9 (V. Krahn); Henry 2011; Coquery 2013, 361,
nos G. 179–80. 190 The surviving 39 drawings are today preserved in an ‘Album
de dessins et mesures de statues romaines...’ at the École nationale supérieure
des Beaux-Arts in Paris: Coquery 2000, 48–50; Paris 2000–01, 389–90, no. 195;
Coquery 2013, 37–40; Stanic 2013. For the three drawings repro- duced here see
Coquery 2013, 281, no. D114 (Laocoön), 283, no. D130 (Belvedere Antinous), 283,
no. D131 (Venus de’Medici). 191 Bosse 1656. See the Conférences by Sébastien Bourdon, Charles Le Brun, Henri Testelin,
Michel Anguier, etc.: Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.1, esp. 161–66
(Charles Le Brun), 316–33 (Charles Le Brun), 332–35 (Michel Anguier), 374–77
(Sébastien Bourdon); 1.2, 636–38 (Michel Anguier), 667–71 (Henry Testelin). 192 On De Wit’s Teekenboek (fig. 74) see Bolten 1985, 82–86. On
Nollekens’ drawing (fig. 75) see Blayney Brown 1982, 484, no. 1460; Nottingham
and London 1991, 58–59, no. 31 (Venus de’ Medici); Lyon 1998–99, 123–24, no.
101. On Volpato’s and Morghen’s print annotated by Canova (fig. 76) see Rome
2008, 144, no. 25, with previous bibliography. 193 On the study of anatomy in
the Renaissance and the 17th century see Schultz 1985; Ottawa, Vancouver and
elsewhere 1996–97; London, Warwick and elsewhere 1997–98; and the excellent
essays in Paris 2008– 09a, esp. Carlino 2008–09. On the combination of the study
of anatomy and of the Antique between the 17th and 19th centuries see esp.
Schwartz 2008–09. 194 Paris 2000–01, 391–92, no. 197; Coquery 2013, 195–200;
Paris 2008–09a, 222–23, no. 79. 195 For the skeletons (figs 77–78) and
anatomical figures (figs 79–80) of the Laocoön and Borghese Gladiator see
Coquery 2013, respectively 384, no. G.416, 383, no. G.413, 381, no. G.400, 382,
no. G.408. A series of Conférences at the Académie Royale in Paris had been
devoted to the Antique and anatomy: see esp. Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.2, 581–93 (Pierre Monnier, ‘Sur les
muscles du Laocoon’, 2 May 1676). 196 See Paris
2000–01, 393–94, no. 199, with previous bibliography; Paris 2008–09a, 226–27,
no. 85. 197 See Paris 2000–01, 392–93, no. 198, with previous bibliography;
Paris 2008–09a, 226–27, no. 82. Sauvage also made écorchés of other classical
prototypes. 198 The original cast appears to have been destroyed. The écorché
preserved at the Royal Academy of Arts is a 19th-century copy by William Pink:
see Postle 2004, esp. 58–59, with previous bibliography. 199 See Jordan and
Weston 2002, 97, 4.7. 200 For the practice see Paris 2000–01, 415–29; Schwartz
2008–09; London 2013–14, 62–69. On Paillett’s drawing (fig. 87) see London
2013–14, 21, pl. 1, 96, no. 1. For Bottani’s (fig. 88) see Philadelphia 1980–
81, 59–60, no. 47. For David’s painting (fig. 89) see Rome 1981–82, 101–02, no.
25. 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 Pevsner 1940, 140–41. On the diffusion of
academies in the 18th century see Boschloo 1989, passim. A good recent overview
is Brook 2010–11. Diderot’s remark appeared in an article in the Correspondance
littéraire, philos- ophique et critique, no. 13, 1763: ‘Sur Bouchardon et la
sculpture’, 45. See an English translation in Diderot 2011, 19. On the
diffusion of casts in the 18th century see Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 79–91,
chap. 11; Rossi Pinelli 1984; Rossi Pinelli 1988; Pucci 2000a; Frederiksen and
Marchand 2010. London 2013–14, 36, 46–47. See the explanatory text for the
plate: Diderot and D’Alembert 1762–72, 20, entry ‘Dessein’, 1–20, esp. 2–5. See
also Michel 1987, 284, 288. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Toledo, Chicago and elsewhere
1975–76; Plax 2000. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Schoneveld-Van Stoltz 1989, 216–28,
with previ- ous bibliography. Excellent introductions to the art world of Rome
in the 18th century are the essay contained in Philadelphia and Houston 2000
(see esp. Barroero and Susinno 2000) and in Rome 2010–11b. Goethe 2013, 2, 373.
Overviews on the Grand Tour are Black 1992; London and Rome 1996–97; Chaney
1998; Black 2003. On Panini’s painting see London and Rome 1996–97, 277–78, no.
233; Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 425, no. 275, with previous literature.
Macandrew 1978; Connor Bulman 2006; Windsor 2013, with previous bibliography.
Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 23–30, 43–52; Paris 2010–11, with previous
bibliography. On drawing in Rome in the 18th century see Bowron 1993–94; Percy
2000, with previous bibliography. On collections of casts in private academies
see Bordini 1998, 387. On the Concorsi see Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91;
Rome, University Park (PA) and elsewhere 1989–90; Cipriani 2010–11. On the
early years of the Capitoline as a public museum see Arata 1994; Franceschini
and Vernesi 2005; Arata 2008. See Arata 1994, 75. On the Accademia del
Nudo see Pietrangeli 1959; Pietrangeli 1962; MacDonald 1989; Barroero 1998;
Bordini 1998. Haskell and Penny 1981, 62–63; Raspi Serra 1998–99;
Macsotay 2010; Henry 2010–11. The main source for Vleughels’ reform, rich in
information on the study of the Antique in the Académie under his directorship,
is Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, vols 7–9, passim (for description of the
collection of casts see 7, 333–37). Boyer 1955; Loire 2005–06, 75–81.
Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 115–63. For Natoire’s drawing (fig. 94) see Paris
2000–01, 372, no. 177; Caviglia- Brunel 2012, 415–16, no. D.558. On Robert’s
drawings (figs 95–96) see Paris 2000–01, 373–74, nos 178–79; Rome 2008, 132–33,
nos 12–13; Ottawa and Caen 2011–12, 22–23, nos 1a–1b. For 97 see Paris 2000–
01, 384, no. 190. On Robert in Rome see Rome 1990–91. On Piranesi and his
influence on artists see Fleming 1962; Wilton Ely 1978; Rome, Dijon and
elsewhere 1976; Brunel 1978. On Winckelmann see Potts 1994, with previous
bibliography. Henry 2010–11. For David in Rome see Rome 1981–82. For his
drawings after the Antique see Sérullaz 1981–82; Rosenberg and Prat 2002,
passim, esp. 1, 391– 746, 2, 754–866. Sérullaz 1981–82, 42. For David’s drawing
(fig. 98) see Rosenberg and Prat 2002, 499, no. 642. See Pressly 1979; Valverde
2008; Busch 2013. On all these aspects see Pears 1988, esp. 1–26. As general
introductions see Denvir 1983; Solkin 1992; Brewer 1997; Bindman 2008. On the
‘Rule of Taste’ see Lipking 1970; Barrell 1986, esp. 1–68; Pears 1988, 27–50;
Ayres 1997. For a recent overview see Aymonino 2014. On academies in Britain
before the foundation of the Royal Academy see Bignamini 1988; Bignamini 1990.
See MacDonald 1989. An excellent introduction to the use of the Antique in
artists’ education in 18th-century Britain is Postle 1997. For casts in Britain
in the first half of the 18th century see: Bignamini 1988, 59, note 63, 65, 77,
note 9, 81, note 65, 88, 103. Einberg and Egerton 1988, 64–71. Kitson 1966–68,
esp. 85–86; Postle 1997, esp. 83–84. See Paulson 1971, 2, 168–71; Nottingham
and London 1991, 62, no. 37. Coutu 2000, 47; Kenworthy-Browne 2009. On
Mortimer’s painting see Nottingham and London 1991, 45, no. 11, with previous
bibliography. MacDonald 1989. Allan 1968, 76–88; Bignamini 1988, 108; Postle
1997, 85–87; Coutu 2000, 52; Kenworthy-Browne 2009, 43–44. Ibid. On the Glasgow
Foulis Academy see Pevsner 1940, 156; MacDonald 1989, 84–85; Fairfull-Smith
2001. On the Royal Academy see Hutchison 1986. On its regulations see also
Abstract 1797. On the Antique School at the Royal Academy (fig. 105) see
Nottingham and London 1991, 43, no. 7; Rome 2010–11b, 432, no.V.6. On Zoffany’s
painting see New Haven and London 2011–12, 218–21, no. 44, with previous
bibliography. For the medal see Hutchison 1986, 34. On Kauffman’s painting see
Rome 2010–11b, 325, 432–33, no. V.7. For Townley see particularly Coltman 2009.
On Soane’s collection of plaster casts see Dorey 2010. De Architectura, 1.1,
esp. 1.1.13; Watkin 1996. Jenkins 1992, 30–40. Venice 1976, 114–15, no. 49.
Malvasia 1678, 1, 359, 365, 484. On the 17th-century neologism ‘statuino’ see
Pericolo’s forthcoming article. See De Piles 1677, 253–54; De Piles 1708, esp. 128–38.
Bellori 1976, 214; Bellori 2005, 180. See Pucci 2000a; Bukdahal 2007 Diderot
1995, 4. See also Haskell and Penny 1981, 91. Boime 1980, 330–35, pl. ix.47.
Couture 1867, 155–56. 6609a, 226–27, no. 85. 197 See Paris 2000–01, 392–93, no.
198, with previous bibliography; Paris 2008–09a, 226–27, no. 82. Sauvage also
made écorchés of other classical prototypes. 198 The original cast appears to
have been destroyed. The écorché preserved at the Royal Academy of Arts is a
19th-century copy by William Pink: see Postle 2004, esp. 58–59, with previous
bibliography. 199 See Jordan and Weston 2002, 97, 4.7. 200 For the practice see
Paris 2000–01, 415–29; Schwartz 2008–09; London 2013–14, 62–69. On Paillett’s
drawing (fig. 87) see London 2013–14, 21, pl. 1, 96, no. 1. For Bottani’s (fig.
88) see Philadelphia 1980– 81, 59–60, no. 47. For David’s painting (fig. 89)
see Rome 1981–82, 101–02, no. 25. Pevsner 1940, 140–41. On the diffusion of
academies in the 18th century see Boschloo 1989, passim. A good recent overview
is Brook 2010–11. Diderot’s remark appeared in an article in the Correspondance
littéraire, philos- ophique et critique, no. 13, 1763: ‘Sur Bouchardon et la
sculpture’, 45. See an English translation in Diderot 2011, 19. On the diffusion
of casts in the 18th century see Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 79–91, chap. 11;
Rossi Pinelli 1984; Rossi Pinelli 1988; Pucci 2000a; Frederiksen and Marchand
2010. London 2013–14, 36, 46–47. See the explanatory text for the plate:
Diderot and D’Alembert 1762–72, 20, entry ‘Dessein’, 1–20, esp. 2–5. See also
Michel 1987, 284, 288. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Toledo, Chicago and elsewhere
1975–76; Plax 2000. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Schoneveld-Van Stoltz 1989, 216–28,
with previ- ous bibliography. Excellent introductions to the art world of Rome
in the 18th century are the essay contained in Philadelphia and Houston 2000
(see esp. Barroero and Susinno 2000) and in Rome 2010–11b. Goethe 2013, 2, 373.
Overviews on the Grand Tour are Black 1992; London and Rome 1996–97; Chaney
1998; Black 2003. On Panini’s painting see London and Rome 1996–97, 277–78, no.
233; Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 425, no. 275, with previous literature.
Macandrew 1978; Connor Bulman 2006; Windsor 2013, with previous bibliography.
Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 23–30, 43–52; Paris 2010–11, with previous
bibliography. On drawing in Rome in the 18th century see Bowron 1993–94; Percy
2000, with previous bibliography. On collections of casts in private academies
see Bordini 1998, 387. On the Concorsi see Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91;
Rome, University Park (PA) and elsewhere 1989–90; Cipriani 2010–11. On the
early years of the Capitoline as a public museum see Arata 1994; Franceschini
and Vernesi 2005; Arata 2008. See Arata 1994, 75. On the Accademia del
Nudo see Pietrangeli 1959; Pietrangeli 1962; MacDonald 1989; Barroero 1998;
Bordini 1998. Haskell and Penny 1981, 62–63; Raspi Serra 1998–99;
Macsotay 2010; Henry 2010–11. The main source for Vleughels’ reform, rich in
information on the study of the Antique in the Académie under his directorship,
is Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, vols 7–9, passim (for description of the
collection of casts see 7, 333–37). Boyer 1955; Loire 2005–06, 75–81. Caviglia-Brunel
2012, 115–63. For Natoire’s drawing (fig. 94) see Paris 2000–01, 372, no. 177;
Caviglia- Brunel 2012, 415–16, no. D.558. On Robert’s drawings (figs 95–96) see
Paris 2000–01, 373–74, nos 178–79; Rome 2008, 132–33, nos 12–13; Ottawa and
Caen 2011–12, 22–23, nos 1a–1b. For 97 see Paris 2000– 01, 384, no. 190. On
Robert in Rome see Rome 1990–91. On Piranesi and his influence on artists see
Fleming 1962; Wilton Ely 1978; Rome, Dijon and elsewhere 1976; Brunel 1978. On
Winckelmann see Potts 1994, with previous bibliography. Henry 2010–11. For David in Rome see Rome
1981–82. For his drawings after the Antique see Sérullaz 1981–82; Rosenberg and
Prat 2002, passim, esp. 1, 391– 746, 2, 754–866. Sérullaz 1981–82, 42. For
David’s drawing (fig. 98) see Rosenberg and Prat 2002, 499, no. 642. See
Pressly 1979; Valverde 2008; Busch 2013. On all these aspects see Pears 1988,
esp. 1–26. As general introductions see Denvir 1983; Solkin 1992; Brewer 1997;
Bindman 2008. On the ‘Rule of Taste’ see Lipking 1970; Barrell 1986, esp. 1–68;
Pears 1988, 27–50; Ayres 1997. For a recent overview see Aymonino 2014. On
academies in Britain before the foundation of the Royal Academy see Bignamini
1988; Bignamini 1990. See MacDonald 1989. An excellent introduction to the use
of the Antique in artists’ education in 18th-century Britain is Postle 1997.
For casts in Britain in the first half of the 18th century see: Bignamini 1988,
59, note 63, 65, 77, note 9, 81, note 65, 88, 103. Einberg and Egerton 1988, 64–71.
Kitson 1966–68, esp. 85–86; Postle 1997, esp. 83–84. See Paulson 1971, 2, 168–71;
Nottingham and London 1991, 62, no. 37. Coutu 2000, 47; Kenworthy-Browne 2009.
On Mortimer’s painting see Nottingham and London 1991, 45, no. 11, with previous
bibliography. MacDonald 1989. Allan 1968, 76–88; Bignamini 1988, 108; Postle
1997, 85–87; Coutu 2000, 52; Kenworthy-Browne 2009, 43–44. Ibid. On the Glasgow
Foulis Academy see Pevsner 1940, 156; MacDonald 1989, 84–85; Fairfull-Smith
2001. On the Royal Academy see Hutchison 1986. On its regulations see also
Abstract 1797. On the Antique School at the Royal Academy (fig. 105) see
Nottingham and London 1991, 43, no. 7; Rome 2010–11b, 432, no.V.6. On Zoffany’s
painting see New Haven and London 2011–12, 218–21, no. 44, with previous
bibliography. For the medal see Hutchison 1986, 34. On Kauffman’s painting see
Rome 2010–11b, 325, 432–33, no. V.7. For Townley see particularly Coltman 2009.
On Soane’s collection of plaster casts see Dorey 2010. De Architectura, 1.1,
esp. 1.1.13; Watkin 1996. Jenkins 1992, 30–40. Venice 1976, 114–15, no. 49.
Malvasia 1678, 1, 359, 365, 484. On the 17th-century neologism ‘statuino’ see
Pericolo’s forthcoming article. See De Piles 1677, 253–54; De Piles 1708, esp. 128–38.
Bellori 1976, 214; Bellori 2005, 180. See Pucci 2000a; Bukdahal 2007 Diderot
1995, 4. See also Haskell and Penny 1981, 91. Boime 1980, 330–35, pl. ix.47.
Couture 1867, 155–56. 66 67. Primary Sources On The Antique. Rome to copy its
antiquities as a source of inspiration, a phenomenon that increased over the
subsequent four hundred years. Bembo is, in addition, one of the earliest
writers to rank Raphael and Michelangelo on the level of artists from
antiquity. Excerpt
from Bembo, Prose . . . della volgar lingua, Venice, 1525, XLII r (translation
Michael Sullivan). At all times of day [Rome] witnesses the arrival of
artists from near and far, intent on reproducing in the small space of their
paper or wax the form of those splendid ancient figures of marble, sometimes
bronze, that lie scattered all over Rome, or are publicly and privately kept
and treasured, as they do with the arches and baths and theatres and the other
various sorts of buildings that are in part still standing: and hence, when
they mean to produce some new work, they aim at those examples, striving with
their art to resemble them, all the more so since they believe their efforts
merit praise by the closeness of resemblance of their new works to ancient ones,
being well aware that the ancient ones come closer to the perfection of art
than any done afterwards. These have succeeded more than others, Messer Giulio
[de’ Medici], your Michelangelo of Florence and Raphael of Urbino so
outstanding and illustrious that it is easier to say how close they come to the
good old masters than decide which of them is the greater and better artist. 4.
Ludovico Dolce (1508–68) on the necessity for artists copying from antique
statues to learn how to correct the defects of Nature and to aim for perfect
beauty. In his treatise Dialogo della pittura . . . (1557), the humanist,
writer and art theorist Lodovico Dolce upheld a strong defence of the Venetian
school of painting, based on colour, against the Florentine and Roman ones, based
on drawing, supported by Giorgio Vasari. At the same time he included one of
the earliest theoretical statements on the necessity to study the Antique as a
model of idealised nature and perfect beauty – especially in the study of the
proportions of the human figure. However, in Dolce, one finds also a warning
against the indiscriminate copying of classical sculptures – which should
always be imitated with the correct artistic judgement to avoid eccen-
tricities – a principle that would become a leitmotif in subsequent art
literature, as shown here in excerpts from Rubens (no. 8) or Bernini (no. 10).
For Dolce a slavish dependence on the Antique can lead to the excesses of
Mannerism. Exerpts
from Ludovico Dolce, Dialogo della pittura intitolato l’Aretino . . ., Venice,
1557, 32r–33r. The following translation is from the first English
edition: Aretin: A Dialogue on Painting. From the Italian of Ludovico Dolce,
London, 1770, 127–32. Whoever would do this [to form a justly proportioned
figure] should chuse the most perfect form he can find, and partly imitate
nature, as Apelles did, who, when he painted his celebrated Venus emerging from
the sea [p. 128] drew her from Phryne, the most famous
courtesan of the age; and Praxiteles also formed his statue of the Venus of
Gnidus, from the same model. Partly he should imitate the best marbles and
bronzes of the [p. 129] antient masters, the admirable perfection [p. 130] of
which, whoever can fully taste and posses, may safely correct many defects of
Nature herself, and make his pictures universally pleasing and grateful. These
contain all the perfection of the art, and may be properly proposed as examples
of perfect beauty. [p. 131] Proportion being the principal
foundation of design, he who best observes it, must always be the best master
in this respect: and it being necessary to the forming of a perfect body, to
copy not only nature but the antique, we must be careful that we do this with
judgement, lest we should imitate the worst parts, whilst we think we are
imitating the best. We have an instance of this, at present, in a painter, who
having observed that the [p. 132] antients, for the most part, designed their
figures light and slender, by too strict an obedience to this custom, and
exceeding the just bounds, has turned this, which is a beauty, into a very
striking defect. Others have accustomed themselves in painting heads
(especially of women) to make long necks; having observed that the greatest
part of the antique pictures of Roman ladies have long necks, and that short
ones are generally ungrace- ful; but by giving into too great a liberty, have
made that which was in their original pleasing, totally otherwise in the copy.
5. Giorgio Vasari (1511–74) on drawing as the intellectual foundation of all
arts; on grace, and on the classical sculptures in the Belvedere Courtyard in
the Vatican as the source for the ‘beautiful style’ of High Renaissance
masters. Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors and
Architects – published first in 1550 and in an expanded edition in 1568 – is
arguably the most influential example of art literature of the Renaissance.
Vasari’s biographies of the most famous modern artists set the standard for a
progressive conception of the history of art, with the Florentine and Roman
schools representing its culmination. At the start of his essay on painting, in
a section added to the 1568 edition of the Lives, he provides a definition of
disegno, drawing, to give a theoretical underpinning to his defence of the
Central Italian schools of painting. Vasari’s conception of drawing as the
first physical manifestation of the artist’s idea – the intellectual part of
art common to painting, sculpture and architecture – would provide the founda-
tion for the centrality of drawing in the curriculum of future acade- mies. In
another passage to be found in both editions, Vasari praises the best ancient
sculptures, as they embodied the supreme quality of grazia, or grace, which
cannot be attained by study but only by the judgement of the artist – a concept
that remained one of the central tenets of Italian art theory for the next two
centuries. He attributes the rise of the modern manner or ‘bella maniera’, and
the great achievements of Raphael and Michelangelo, to their familiarity and
exposure to the best examples of classical sculpture in the Belvedere Courtyard
in the Vatican. Excerpts
from Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et
architettori, Florence, 1568, part 1, 43. The following
translation is from Vasari on Technique, ed. G. Baldwin Brown, trans. L. S.
Maclehose, London, 1907, 205–06. 69 SOURCE #1 VITRUVIO (80–70 bc – post c. 15
bc) On harmonic proportions as the principle of ideal beauty. Marcus Vitruvius
Pollio’s De Architectura, c. 30–20 bc, is the only complete treatise on classical
architecture to have survived from antiquity and its impact on Western
architecture from the Renaissance onwards is paramount. Manuscript copies of
the treatise circulated widely in the 15th century and were well known to
Filippo Brunelleschi, Leon Battista Alberti, Donatello and to subsequent
generations of early Renaissance artists and architects. The first printed
Latin edition appeared in 1486, followed by a more popular version in 1511
(edited by Fra Giovanni Giocondo). Italian translations appeared in 1521 (by
Cesare Cesariano) and in 1556 (edited and translated by Daniele Barbaro with
illustrations by Andrea Palladio). The first chapter of book 3, provided
architects and artists with an authoritative account of the principle of
harmonic proportions based on commensurability which had inspired ancient
sculptors and paint- ers in search of ideal beauty. The celebrated passage on
the perfect proportions of the human body was visualised by Leonardo in his
‘Vitruvian Man’ (see 17, 2). The following translation is from the first
integral English edition: The Architecture of M. Vitruvius Pollio. Translated
from the Original Latin, by W. Newton Architect, London, 1771, book 3, chapter
1, 45–46: ‘On the Composition and Symmetry of Temples’.1 The composition of
temples, is governed by the laws of symmetry; which an architect ought well to
understand; this arises from pro- portion, which is called by the Greek,
Analogia. Proportion is the correspondence of the measures of all the parts of
a work, and of the whole configuration, from which correspondence, symmetry is
produced; for a building cannot be well composed without the rules of symmetry
and proportions; nor unless the members, as in a well formed human body, have a
perfect agreement. For nature as so composed the human body, that the face from
the chin to the roots of the hair at the top of the forehead, is the tenth part
of the whole height; and the hand, from the joint to the extremity of the
middle finger, is the same; the head, from the chin to the crown, is an eight
part; the rest of the members have their measures
also proportional; this the ancient painters and statuaries strictly observed,
and thereby gained universal applause. The central point of the body is the navel:
for if a man was laid supine with his arms and legs extended, and a circle was
drawn round him, the central foot of the compasses being placed over his navel,
the extremities of his fingers and toes would touch the circumferent line; and
in the same manner as the body is adapted to [p. 46] the circle, it will also
be found to agree with the square; for, if the measure from the bottom of the
feet to the top of the head is taken, and applied to the arms extended, it will
be found that the breadth is equal to the height, the same as in the area of a
square. Since, therefore, nature has so composed the human body, * All
sentences in Italics are by the present author throughout. 68 that the members
are proportionate and consentaneous to the whole figure, with reason the
ancients have determined, that in all perfect works, the several members must
be exactly proportional to the whole object. 1 The Latin word ‘symmetria’ of
Vitruvius’ text has often been translated in English with ‘symmetry’, while
commensurability – the mathematical relation between the part and the whole
within a given body or building resulting in overall harmonic proportions –
would be a better translation. 2. Cennino d’Andrea Cennini (c. 1370–c. 1440) on
drawing as the foundation of art and on the advantage for young artists of
copying from other masters. Written around 1390 possibly in Padua, Cennini’s Il
Libro dell’Arte is the first art treatise composed in Italian. Although mainly
concerned with practical advice to painters, Cennini also devoted some of the
chapters to the education of the young artist, ofering the first written
evidence of the importance of drawing in the apprenticeship of the aspiring
painter, and especially the copying of works by other artists. Later, in early
Renaissance workshop practices, this increasingly included antique sculpture.
Although not published until 1821, manuscript copies of the Libro circulated
widely in the 16th and 17th centuries, evidenced by the fact that references to
it and passages from it reappear in subsequent art treatises. Excerpts
from Cennino Cennini, Il Libro dell’Arte, ed. F. Brunello, Vicenza, 1971
(translation, present author). [P. 6, chapter 4] The
foundations and the principles of art, and of all these manual works, are
drawing and colouring. [P. 27, chapter 27] If you want to progress further on
the path of this science you must follow this method: take
pain and pleasure in constantly copying the best things that you can find done
by the hands of the great masters. And if you are in a place where many masters
have been, so much better for you. But I will give you some advice: be careful
to imitate always the best and the most famous; and progressing every day, it
would be against nature that you will not eventually be infused by the master’s
style and spirit. 3. Pietro Bembo (1470–1547) on artists going to Rome to copy
the Antique, and on Michelangelo and Raphael having equalled the ancient
masters. Italian scholar, poet, literary theorist, collector and cardinal,
Pietro Bembo was a central figure in the cultivated antiquarian milieu at the
court of Pope Leo X (r. 1513–21) and a personal friend of Raphael and
Michelangelo. His Prose . . . della volgar lingua, a treatise published in
1525, but composed over the previous two decades, contains one of the earliest
and most eloquent reports of artists converging on Seeing that Design,
the parent of our three arts, Architecture, Sculpture and Painting, having its
origin in the intellect, draws out from many single things a general judgement,
it is like a form or idea of all the objects in nature, most marvellous in what
it compasses, for not only in the bodies of men and of animals but also in
plants, in buildings, in sculpture and in painting, design is cognizant of the
proportions of the whole to the parts and of the parts to each other and to the
whole. Seeing too that from this knowledge there arises a certain conception
and judgement, so that there is formed in the mind that something which
afterwards, when expressed by the hands, is called design, we may conclude that
design is not other than a visible expression and declaration of our inner
conception and of that which others have imagined and given form to their idea.
And from this, perhaps, arose the proverb among the ancients ‘ex ungue leonem’
when a certain clever person, seeing carved in a stone block the claw only of a
lion, apprehended in his mind [p. 206] from its size and form all the parts of
the animal and then the whole together, just as if he had had it present before
his eyes. Excerpts
from Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et
architettori, Florence, 1568, part 3, 1, 2–3 of the Preface (unpaginated). The following translation is from Lives of the Most Eminent Painters,
Sculptors and Architects by Giorgio Vasari, ed. and trans. by G. du C. de Vere,
London 1912–14, 4, 81–82. [Fifteenth-century artists] were advancing towards
the good, and their figures were thus approved according to the standards of
the works of the ancients, as was seen when Andrea Verrocchio restored in
marble the legs and arms of the Marsyas in the house of the Medici in Florence.
But they lacked a certain finish and finality of perfection in the feet, hands,
hair, and beards, although the limbs as a whole are in accordance with the
antique and have a certain correct harmony in the proportions. Now if they had
had that minuteness of finish which is the perfection and bloom of art, they
would also have had a resolute boldness in their works; and from this there
would have followed delicacy, refine- ment, and supreme grace, which are the
qualities produced by the perfection of art in beautiful figures, whether in
relief or painting; but these qualities they did not have, although they give
proof of diligent striving. That finish, and that certain something that they
lacked, they could not achieve so readily, seeing that study, when it is used
in that way to obtain finish, gives dryness to the manner. After them indeed,
their successors were enabled to attain to it through seeing excavated out of
the earth certain antiquities cited by Pliny as amongst the most famous, such
as the Laocoön, the Hercules, the Great Torso of the Belvedere, and likewise
the Venus, the Cleopatra, the Apollo, and an endless number of others, which,
both with their sweetness and their severity, with their fleshy roundness
copied from the great beauties of nature, and with certain attitudes which
involve no distortions of the whole figure but only a movement of certain
parts, [p. 82] and are revealed with a most perfect grace, brought about the
disappearance of a certain dryness, hardness, and sharpness of manner, which
had been left to our art by the excessive study . 6. Giovan Battista Armenini (c. 1525–1609)
on assimilating the principles of the Antique through constant drawing as a
safe guide for artistic creation. Giovan Battista Armenini’s De veri precetti
della pittura (1587), consti- tutes one of the most systematic art treatises of
the second half of the 16th century. In it we find the clearest formulations of
a progressive method of learning, later defined as the ‘alphabet of drawing’
(see no. 7), and of the necessity of assimilating the principles of the Antique
through drawing. Armenini is also the first to provide a proper canon of
sculptures and reliefs in Rome that students should copy and to praise the
didactic use of plaster casts. Excerpts from Giovan Battista Armenini, De
veri precetti della pittura, Ravenna, 1587, book 1, ch. 8, 61–63. The following translation is from G. B. Armenini, On the True Precepts
of the Art of Painting, ed. and trans. by J. Olszewski, New York, 1977, 130–34.
[To obtain a good style] it is the general and universal rule only to draw
those things which are the most beautiful, learned and most like the good works
of ancient sculptors. Having familiarised him- self with them through continual
study, the student must know these things so thoroughly that when the occasion
demands he can reproduce one or more of these compositions. He must be so
familiar with them that whatever is good in the old works will be marvellously
reflected in his rough sketches, as well as in finished drawings, and
consequently in large paintings . For
the con- tinual drawing and copying of things which are well made ensures that
one has a proper guide to follow and executes his own work very well. In
order that you may fully know the basis of art, make it the foundation of your
own works, and learn how to recognise excellence with certainty, particularly
in figures, we shall place before you as principal models some of the most
famous ancient sculp- tures which most closely approach the true perfection of
art and are still intact in our own days. [p. 131] For it is well known that
the ancients who fashioned these statues first chose the best that nature
offered in diverse models and then, guided by their excellent judgement,
combined the best perfectly into one work. These
ancient statues are as follows: the Laocoön, Hercules, Apollo, the great Torso,
Cleopatra, Venus, the Nile, and some others also of marble, all of them to be
found in the Belvedere in the papal palace in the Vatican. Some others are
scattered throughout Rome and among the [p. 132] foremost is the Marcus
Aurelius in bronze, now in the square of the Campidoglio. Then there are the
Giants of Monte Cavallo, and the Pasquino, and others not as good as these.
Also well known because of the histo- ries depicted thereon are those in the
arches with very beautiful manner of half and low relief as in the two columns,
the Trajan and the Antonine, which still stand, even though time is hostile to
human work. And even though this study we have been
discussing is not in the power of all students, since as is well known not all
can stay in Rome labouring long and at great expense, yet even they have many
of these works in their own homes. I am speaking of those copies of the
originals fashioned by the masters in plaster or other material. I have seen a
wax copy of the Roman Laocoön, not larger than two spans, but one could say
that it was the original in small size. Still, if those parts that are modelled
in gesso from these works can be obtained, they are better without doubt since
every detail is there precisely as in the marble, so that they can be
scrutinised and serve the student’s needs excellently. Also, they are very
convenient because they are light and easily handled and transported. And, as
for price, one can say it is very cheap, that is, in comparison with the
originals. Therefore, with such excellent aids available, there is no excuse
for anyone who really wishes to learn the good and ancient path. I have seen
studios and chambers in Milan, Genoa, Venice, Parma, Mantua, Florence, Bologna,
Pesaro, Urbino, Ravenna and other minor cities full of such well formed copies.
Looking at these, it seemed to me that they were the very works found in Rome.
Nor is any beautiful living model excluded from these, and the closer it is to
the aforementioned [p. 133] sculptures, the better it may be considered to be,
but this is rarely the case. Now, with so many examples and reasons, such as
these, I believe [p. 134] you should have a good idea of all that you must
consider and observe carefully. 7. The ‘alphabet of drawing’ and the role of
the Antique in the first orders and statutes of the Roman Accademia di San Luca
(1593). The first ‘orders and statutes’ of the Roman Accademia di San Luca,
laid out by Federico Zuccaro (c. 1541–1609) in 1593 and published by Romano
Alberti (active 1585–1604) in 1604, codified a progressive method in learning
how to draw the human figure, considered as the central subject of art: from
details, like the eye, to the whole body. This ‘alphabet of drawing’, based on
Renaissance workshop practices, would become enormously influential in the
teaching of art in Europe well into the 20th century. The Antique had a crucial
role in it, as it gave students the possibility to learn how to approach the
third dimension of the human body through models of idealised beauty, anatomy
and proportions, and the role of ancient statuary is clearly specified in
another passage of the Accademia’s rules and regulations. Excerpts from
Romano Alberti, Origine, et progresso dell’Academia del Dissegno, de’ Pittori,
Scultori, et Architetti di Roma, Pavia, 1604, 5–8 (translation, present
author). [P. 5] Another hour will be devoted to practice and to
teaching drawing to young students, showing them the way and the good path of
study, and for this purpose we have appointed twelve Academicians, one for each
month of the year, in charge of taking particular care and responsibility in
assisting the students in this task. .
The Principal will order the young students to produce something by their hand,
while he will draw himself, and he will award his resulting drawings to the
best students. The first figures – to start from the Alphabet of Drawing (so to
speak) – will be the A, B, C: eyes, noses, mouths, ears, heads, hands, feet,
arms, legs, torsos, backs and other similar parts of the human body, as well as
any other sort of animals and figures, architectural elements, and reliefs in
wax, clay and similar exercises. [P. 8] [The Academician in charge] will start
instructing the students in what to study, assigning to each of them a
different task according to his individual disposition and talent: some will
draw from drawings, others from cartoons or from reliefs; others will copy
heads, feet, hands; others will go out during the week drawing after the
antique or the facades by Polidoro, or land- scapes, buildings, animals and
other similar things; other students in convenient times will draw after live
models, and they must copy them with grace and judgement. Others will do
exercises in architecture and in perspective, following its correct and good
rules, and the best students shall always be rewarded . 8. Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640) on the
usefulness and dangers of copying from the Antique. The great Flemish artist
Peter Paul Rubens spent two extended periods in Rome, between 1601 and 1602 and
from late 1605 to late 1608, with short interruptions. His erudite approach
towards the Antique and his desire to assimilate its principles resulted in
many extraordinary drawings after classical statues, mostly in black and red
chalk. In his theoretical treatise, De Imitatione Statuarum (‘On the Imitation
of Statues’), c. 1608–10, he warned against the dangers of slavishly copying
the Antique and transferring the characteristics and limits of one medium –
marble – into another – drawing or painting. Although Rubens’ manuscript
remained unpublished in his lifetime, it was owned by the influential French
art theorist Roger de Piles (1635–1709), who first published it in his Cours de
peinture par principles, Paris, 1708, 139–47. The following translation is from
the first English edition: Roger de Piles, The Principles of Painting, London,
1743, 86–92. To some painters the imitation of the antique statues has been
extremely useful, and to others pernicious, even to the ruin of their art. I
conclude, however, that in order to attain the highest perfection in painting,
it is necessary to understand the antiques, nay, to be so thoroughly possessed
of this knowledge, [p. 87] that it may diffuse itself everywhere. Yet it must
be judiciously applied, and so that it may not in the least smell of stone. For
several ignorant painters, and even some who are skilful, make no distinction
between the matter and the form, the stone and the figure, the necessity of
using the block, and the art of forming it. It is certain, however, that the
finest statues are extremely beneficial, so the bad are not only useless, but
even pernicious. For beginners learn from them I know not what, that is crude,
liny, stiff, and of harsh anatomy; and while they take themselves to be good
proficient, do but disgrace nature; since instead of imitating flesh, they only
represent marble tinged with various colours. For there are many things [p. 88]
to be taken notice of, and avoided, which happen even in the best statues,
without the workman’s fault: especially with regard to the difference of shades
. [p. 89] He who has, with discernment,
made the proper distinctions in these cases, cannot consider the antique
statues too attentively, nor study them too carefully; for we of this erroneous
age, are so far degenerate, that we can produce nothing like them. 70 71
9. Gianlorenzo Bernini (1598–1680) described as a young boy devoting his days
to copying the statues in the Belvedere Courtyard in the Vatican. In 1713 Gianlorenzo
Bernini’s son Domenico (1657–1723) published a biography of his father that
constitutes, with Filippo Baldinucci’s Vita del cavaliere . . . Bernino (MS.
1682), one of the most important sources on the life and art of the great
Baroque sculptor and architect. A passage describing the impact of the art of
Rome on Gianlorenzo, after his arrival from his native Naples, vividly evokes
the dedication and devotion of the young sculptor in assimilating day and night
the principles of the great classical examples in the Belvedere Courtyard –
especially the Antinous Belvedere, the Apollo Belvedere and the Laocoön. Excerpts
from Domenico Bernini, Vita del cavalier Gio. Lorenzo Bernino, Rome, 1713, 12-13.
The following translation is from Domenico Bernini,
The Life of Gian Lorenzo Bernini, ed. and trans. by F. Mormando, University
Park (PA), 2011, 101. There now opened before him in Rome a marvellous field in
which to cultivate his studies through the diligent observation of the precious
remains of ancient sculpture. It is not to be believed with what dedication he
frequented that school and with what profit he absorbed its teachings. Almost
every morning, for the space of three years, he left Santa Maria Maggiore,
where Pietro, his father, had built a small comfortable house, and travelled on
foot to the Vatican Palace at Saint Peter’s. There he remained until sunset,
drawing, one by one, those marvellous statues that antiquity has conveyed to us
and that time has preserved for us, as both a benefit and dowry for the art of
sculpture. He took no refreshment during all those days, except for a little
wine and food, saying that the pleasure alone of the lively instruction
supplied by those inanimate statues caused a certain sweetness to pervade his
body, and this was sufficient in itself for the maintenance of his strength for
days on end. In fact, some days it was frequently the case that Gian Lorenzo
would not return home at all. Not seeing the youth for entire days, his father,
however, did not even interrogate his son about this behaviour. Pietro was
always certain of Gian Lorenzo’s whereabouts, that is, in his studio at Saint
Peter’s, where, as the son used to say, his girlfriends (that is, the ancient
statues) had their home. The specific object of his studies we must deduce from
what he used to say later in life once he began to experience their effect on
him. Accordingly, his greatest attention was focussed above all on those two
most singular statues, the Antinous and the Apollo, the former miraculous in
its design, the latter in its workmanship. Bernini claimed, however, that both
of these qualities were even more perfectly embodied in the famous Laocoön of
Athen0dorus, Hagesander, and Polydorus of Rhodes, a work of so well-balanced
and exquisite a style that tradition has attributed it to three artists,
judging it perhaps beyond the ability of just one man alone. Two of these three
marvellous statues, the Antinous and the Laocoön, had been discovered during
the time of Pope Leo X amid the ruins of Nero’s palace in the gardens near the
church of San Pietro in Vincoli and placed by the same pontiff in the Vatican
Palace for the public benefit of artists and other students of antiquity. 10.
Gianlorenzo Bernini (1598–1680) on the formative role of ancient sculpture in the
education of young artists. In 1665 Bernini visited France at the invitation of
Louis XIV to discuss designs for the completion of the Palais du Louvre. His
five-month stay was recorded by his guide Paul Fréart, Sieur de Chantelou in
his lively Journal du voyage du Cavalier Bernin en France. The advice given by
Bernini on his visit to the Académie Royale de peinture et de sculpture is
among the clearest statements on the formative role assigned to antique
statuary in the education of young artists in 17th- century Rome. At the same
time it reveals the opinion of the great Baroque sculptor on the dangers of
copying from classical models without also involving independent inspiration
and artistic creations. The manuscript of the Journal du voyage du cavalier
Bernin en France par M. de Chantelou was published for the first time by
Ludovic Lalanne in a series of articles in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts in
1877–84 (a new edition by M. Stanic ́ was published in Paris in 2001). The
following translation is from Paul Fréart de Chantelou, Diary of the Cavaliere
Bernini’s Visit to France, ed. by A. Blunt, trans. by M. Cornbett, Princeton,
1985, 165–67. 5 September: The Cavaliere worked as usual, and in the evening
went to the Academy [p. 166]. The Cavaliere glanced at the
pictures round the room: they are not by the most talented mem- bers. He also
looked at a few bas-reliefs by various sculptors of the Academy. Then, as he
was standing in the middle of the hall sur- rounded by members, he gave it as
his opinion that the Academy ought to possess casts of all the notable statues,
bas-reliefs, and busts of antiquity. They would serve to educate young
students; they should be taught to draw after these classical models and in
that way form a conception of the beautiful that would serve them all their
lives. It was fatal to put them to draw from nature at the beginning of their
training, since nature is nearly always feeble and niggardly, for if their
imagination has nothing but nature to feed on, they will be unable to put forth
anything of strength or beauty; for nature itself is devoid of both strength or
beauty, and artists who study it should first be skilled in recognis- ing its
faults and correcting them; something that students who lack grounding cannot
do [p. 167]. He said that when he was very young
he used to draw from the antique a great deal, and, in the first figure he
undertook, resorted continually to the Antinous as his oracle. Every day he
noticed some further excellence in this statue; certainly he would never have
had that experience had he not himself taken up a chisel and started to work.
For this reason he always advised his pupils, and others, never to draw and
model without at the same time working either at a piece of sculpture or a
picture, combining creation with imitation and thought with action, so to
speak, and remarkable progress should result. For support of his contention
that original work was absolutely essential I cited the case of the late
Antoine Carlier, an artist known to most of the members of the Academy. He
spent the greater part of his life in Rome modelling after the statues of
antiquity, and his copies are incomparable: and they had to agree that, because
he had begun to do original work too late, his imagination had dried up, and the
slavery of copying had in the end made it impossible for him to produce
anything of his own. 11. Giovanni Pietro Bellori (1613–96): his ‘Idea of the
painter, the sculptor and the architect, selected from the beauties of Nature,
superior to Nature’ as the manifesto of the classicist doctrine. Giovanni
Pietro Bellori, a central figure in 17th-century art theory and the champion of
classicism, delivered his epochal speech, the ‘Idea’, in front of the Roman
Accademia di San Luca in 1664 and later published it as a preface to his
influential Vite of 1772. In this he provided one of the clearest and most
influential systematisations for the concept of the idealistic mission of art,
already formulated by various Renaissance art theorists such as Dolce, Vasari,
Armenini and Zuccaro. Joining Aristotelian and neo-Platonic premises, for
Bellori God’s perfect Ideas become corrupted in our world because of accidents
and the innate imperfection of the ‘matter’. The role of ‘noble’ artists is
therefore to aim at recreating the perfection of the original divine ideas in
their works by selecting the best parts of nature. Classical statues ofer the
best guide and example for the modern artists as they are the result of this
process of selection already achieved by ancient artists. In the final
paragraph quoted here, Bellori stresses the value of the imitation of the
Antique against some contemporary artists and theorists, like the Venetian
painter and writer Marco Boschini (1605–81), who criticised the practice. Excerpts
from Giovan Pietro Bellori, Le vite de’ pittori scultori e architetti moderni,
Rome, 1672, 3–13. The following translation is from G. Bellori, The
Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects: a New Translation and
Critical Edition, ed. by H. Wohl, trans. by A. Sedgwick Wohl, introduction by
T. Montanari, Cambridge, 2005, 57–61. [P. 57] The supreme and eternal
intellect, the author of nature, looking deeply within himself as he fashioned
his marvellous works, established the first forms, called Ideas, in such a way
that each species was an expression of that first Idea, thereby forming the
wondrous context of created things. But the celestial bodies above the moon,
not being subject to change, remained forever beautiful and ordered, so that by
their measured spheres and by the splendour of their aspects we come to know
them as eternally perfect and most beautiful. The opposite happens with the
sublunar bodies, which are subject to change and to ugliness; and even though
nature intends always to make its effects excellent, nevertheless, owing to the
inequality of matter, forms are altered, and the human beauty in particular is
confounded, as we see in the innumerable deformities and disproportions that
there are in us. For this reason noble painters and sculptors, imitating that
first maker, also form in their minds an example of higher beauty, and by
contemplating that, they emend nature without fault of colour or of line. This
Idea, or rather the goddess of painting and sculpture , reveals itself to us and descends upon
marbles and canvases; originating in nature, it transcends its origins and
becomes the original of art; measured by the compass of the intellect, it
becomes the measure of the hand; and animated by the imagination it gives life
to the image. [P. 58] Now Zeuxis, who chose from five virgins to fashion the
famous image of Helen that Cicero held up as an example to the orator, teaches
both the painter and the sculptor to contemplate the Idea of the best natural
forms by choosing them from various bodies, selecting the most elegant.1 For he
did not believe that he would be able to find in a single body all those
perfections that he sought for the beauty of Helen, since nature does not make
any particular thing perfect in all its parts. Now if
we wish also to compare the precepts of the sages of antiquity with the best of
[p. 59] those laid down by our modern sages, Leon Battista Alberti teaches that
one should love in all things not only the likeness, but mainly the beauty, and
that one must proceed by choosing from very beautiful bodies their most praised
parts.2 Raphael of Urbino, the great master of those
who know, writes thus to Castiglione about his Galatea: In order to paint one
beauty I would need to see more beauties, but as there is a dearth of beautiful
women, I make use of a certain Idea that comes to into my mind.3 [P. 61] It
remains for us to say that since the sculptors of antiquity employed the
marvellous Idea, as we have indicated, it is therefore necessary to study the
most perfect ancient sculptures, in order that they may guide us to the emended
beauties of nature; and for the same purpose it is necessary to direct our eye
to the contemplation of other most excellent masters; but this matter we shall
leave to a treatise of its own on imitation, to meet the objections of those
who criticise the study of ancient statues. 1 Cicero, De inventione, II, 1,
1–3. 2 Alberti 1972, 99 (book 3, chap. 55). 3 Quoted the first time in Pino
1582, 2, 249. 12. A Conférence of the Parisian Académie Royale de peinture et
de sculpture on the artistic excellence of the Laocoön, 1667. Among the
celebrated seven Conférences given at the Académie in 1667, devoted to the
analysis of famous paintings of the Italian and French schools, the third, held
by the sculptor Gerard van Opstal (1594–1668), was specifically dedicated to
the Laocoön. Opstal’s approach, in which each aspect of the famous statue, from
its anatomy, to its proportions, character and expressions, is discussed in
detail, clearly expresses the analytical and didactic approach of the Académie
to the Antique. Excerpts from André Félibien, Conférences de l’Académie
Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, pendant l’année 1667, Paris, 1668, 28–40. The following translation is from the first English edition: Seven
Conferences held in the King of France’s Cabinet of Paintings . . ., London,
1740, 33–42 (pagination is discontinuous). [Gerard van Opstal] examined all the
Parts of this Figure in order to shew the Excellence of it: and observed with
what Art the Sculptor had given in a large Breast and Shoulders, all the Parts
of which are expressed with a great deal of Exactness and Tenderness. He also
took Notice of the Height of the Hips, and the Nervousness of the Arms: the
Legs neither too thick nor too lean but firm 72 73 and well muscled; and
in general he observed that in all the other Members, the Flesh and Nerves were
expressed with as much strength and sweetness as in Nature herself, but in
Nature well formed. [p. 34]. He did not forget to shew likewise
the strong Expressions which appear in this admirable Figure, where Grief is
not only diffused over the Face, but also over all the other Parts of the Body,
and to the Extremities of the Feet, the Toes of which violently contract themselves.
[p. 35] As every thing about this Statue is contrived with surprising Art,
every one will own that it ought to be the chief study of Painters and
Sculptors: But which they should not consider chiefly as a Model that only
serves to design by; they ought to observe exactly all the Beauties, and
imprint on their Minds an Image of all that is excellent in it: because it is
not the Hand that is to be employed if one desires to make himself perfect in
this Art, but Judgement to form these great Ideas and Memory carefully to
retain them. But as those strong Expressions cannot teach one to design after a
Model, because we cannot put such a Person in a State where all the Passions
are in him at once, and it is likewise difficult to copy them in Persons who
are really active because of the quick Motion of the Soul: It is therefore of
great Importance for Artists to study Causes, and then to try with how great
Dignity [p. 30] they can represent their Effects, and we may aver that it is
only to these fine Antiques they must have recourse since there they will meet
with Expressions which it will be difficult to draw after nature. [P. 31] Every
one will agree that it is from this Model [that] we may learn to correct the
Faults which are commonly found in Nature; for here all appears in a State of
Perfection . 13. Gérard Audran
(1640–1703) on the perfect proportions of antique sculptures. Gérard Audran,
engraver and conseiller of the Parisian Académie Royale, published the most
popular illustrated manual on the measured proportions of selected canonical
ancient statues in 1682 (see 48, figs 72–73). We find in the Preface one of the
clearest expressions of the rationalistic attitude of the Académie: the Antique
here represents an infallible standard of perfect proportions, which Audran has
made available, ‘compass in hand’, for young artists, providing them with
precise references on which to base their own figures. Excerpts from Gérard Audran, Les proportions du corps humain mesurées sur
les plus belles figures de l’antiquité, Paris, 1683, 1-4 of the Preface
(unpaginated). The following translation is from The Proportions of
the Human Body, measured from the most Beautiful Statues by Mons. Audran . . .,
London,There will be, I think, but little occasion to enlarge upon the
Necessity of a perfect Knowledge of the PROPORTIONS, to every Person conversant
in Designing; it being very well known, that without observing them they can
make nothing but mon- strous and extravagant Figures. Everyone agrees to this
Maxim generally consider’d, but everyone puts it differently in practice; and
here lies the Difficulty, to find certain Rules for the Justness and Nobleness
of the Proportions; which, since Opinions are divided, may stand as an
infallible Guide, upon whose Judgement we may rely with Certainty. This appears
at first very easy; for since the Perfection of Art consist in imitating Nature
well, it seems as if we need consult no other Master, but only work after the
Life; nevertheless, if we examin the Matter farther, we shall find, that very
few Men, or perhaps none, have all their Parts in exact Proportion without any
Defect. We must therefore chuse what is beautiful in each, taking only what is
called the Beautiful Nature. I see nothing but the Antique in which we can
place an entire confidence. These Sculptors who have left us those beautiful
Figures have in some sort excell’d Nature; for there
never was any Man so perfect in all his Parts as some of their Figures. They
have imitated the Arms of one, the Legs of another, collecting thus in one
Figure all the Beauties which agreed to the Subject they represented; as we see
in the Hercules all the Strokes that are Marks of Strength; and in the Venus
all the Delicacy and Graces that can form an accomplished Beauty. [p. 2].
I give you nothing of myself; everything is taken from the Antique: but I have
drawn nothing upon the Paper till I had first mark’d all the Measures with the
Compasses, in order to make the Out-Lines fall just according to the Numbers.
14. William Hogarth (1697–1764) against fashionable taste and the uncritical
cult of the Antique. The celebrated painter and engraver William Hogarth played
a crucial role in establishing an English school of painting in the 18th
century. As director of the second St Martin’s Lane Academy from 1735, he
became increasingly hostile to a curriculum based on the French Académie model.
In his theoretical treatise The Analysis of Beauty, published in 1753, he
attacked the idealistic concept of art – as a selection of the best parts of
nature – in favour of a more naturalistic approach. At the same time he
disputed the validity of studies on proportion such as those produced by Dürer
and Lomazzo in the 16th century. Hogarth retained a bold independent-minded
position towards the Antique, criticising the slavish reverential attitude of
connoisseurs and men of taste, while recognising the greatness of certain
antiquities. Their peculiar elegance, according to Hogarth, is the expression
of the ‘serpentine line’, the central principle of his own aesthetic. Excerpts
from William Hogarth, The Analysis of Beauty, London, 1753. [P. 66] We have all
along had recourse chiefly to the works of the ancients, not because the
moderns have not produced some as excellent; but because the works of the
former are more generally known: nor would we have it thought, that either of
them have ever yet come up to the utmost beauty of nature. Who but a bigot,
even to the antiques, will say that he has not seen faces and necks, hands and
arms in living women, that even the Grecian Venus doth but coarsely imitate?
[p. 67] And what sufficient reason can be given why the same may not be said of
the rest of the body? [P. 77, ‘On Proportions’] Notwithstanding the absurdity
of the above schemes [of Dürer and Lomazzo], such measures as are to be taken
from antique statues, may be of some service to painters and sculptors,
especially to young beginners [p. 80]. I firmly believe, that one of our
common proficients in the athletic art, would be able to instruct and direct
the best sculptor living, (who hath not seen, or is wholly ignorant of this
exercise) in what would give the statue of an English-boxer, a much better
proportion, as to character, than is to be seen, even in the famous group of
antique boxers, (or some call them, Roman wrestlers) so much admired to this
day. [P. 91] As some of the ancient statues have been of such singular use to
me, I shall beg leave to conclude this chapter with an observation or two on
them in general. It is allowed by the most skilful in the imitative arts, that
tho’ there are many of the remains of antiquity, that have great excellencies
about them; yet there are not, moderately speaking, above twenty that may be
justly called capital. There is one reason, nevertheless, besides the blind
veneration that generally is paid to antiquity, for holding even many very
imperfect pieces in some degree of estimation: I mean that peculiar taste of
elegance which so visibly runs through them all, down to the most incorrect of
their basso-relievos: [p. 92] which taste, I am persuaded, my reader will now
conceive to have been entirely owing to the perfect knowledge the ancients must
have had of the use of the precise serpentine-line. But this cause of elegance
not having been since sufficiently understood, no wonder such effects should
have appeared mysterious, and have drawn mankind into a sort of religious
esteem, and even bigotry, to the works of antiquity. 15. Johan Joachim
Winckelmann (1717–68) on the Antique. Winckelmann, the greatest art historian
of the 18th century, moved to Rome from Dresden in 1755 and soon established
himself as one of the leading antiquarians and scholars of Europe. His powerful
and intimate descriptions of ancient sculptures, especially those in the
Belvedere Courtyard, had a tremendous impact on the European public and
contributed decisively to the difusion of the classical ideal and the airmation
of the neo-classical aesthetics. His analysis of Greek art provided a stylistic
classification of antiquities by period, stressing the importance of contextual
conditions such as the climate and political freedom of the ancient Greek city
states. This revolutionised the approach to the Antique and contributed to the
establishment of a modern art historical method. He recommended to artists the
imitation of ancient statuary as the only way to achieve perfection, in both
aesthetic and moral terms. Excerpts from Johan Joachim Winckelmann, Gedanken
über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Malerei und Bildhauerkunst,
ed. by C. L. von Ulrichs, Stuttgart, 1885, 6–12, 24. The following translation
is from the first English edition: J. J. Winckelmann, Reflections on the
Painting and Sculpture of the Greeks . . ., trans. by Henry Fuseli, London,
1765. [P. 1] To the Greek climate we owe the production of Taste, and from
thence it spread at length over all the politer world. [P. 2] There is but one
way for the moderns to become great, and perhaps unequalled; I mean, by
imitating the antients. And what we are told of Homer, that whoever understands
him well, admires him, we find no less true in matters concerning the antient,
especially the Greek arts. But then we must [p. 3] be as familiar with them as
with a friend, to find Laocoon as inimitable as Homer. By such intimacy our
judgment will be that of Nicomachus: Take these eyes, replied he to some paltry
critick, censuring the Helen of Zeuxis, Take my eyes, and she will appear a goddess.
With such eyes Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Poussin considered the performances
of the antients. They imbibed taste at its source; and Raphael particularly in
its native country. We know, that he sent young artists to Greece, to copy
there, for his use, the remains of antiquity. Laocoon
was the standard of the Roman artists, as well as ours; and the rules of
Polycletus became the rules of art. [P. 4] The most beautiful body of ours
would perhaps be as much inferior to the most beautiful Greek one, as Iphicles
was to his brother Hercules. The forms of the Greeks, prepared to beauty, by
the influence of the mildest and purest sky, became perfectly elegant by their
early exercises. Take a [p. 5] Spartan youth, sprung from heroes, undistorted
by swaddling-cloths; whose bed, from his seventh year, was the earth, familiar
with wrestling and swimming from his infancy; and compare him with one of our
young Sybarits, and then decide which of the two would be deemed worthy, by an
artist, to serve for the model of a Theseus, an Achilles, or even a Bacchus [p. 6].
By these exercises the bodies of the Greeks got the great and manly Contour
observed in their statues, without any bloated corpulency. [P. 9] Art claims
liberty: in vain would nature produce her noblest offsprings, in a country
where rigid laws would choak her progressive growth, as in Egypt, that
pretended parent of sciences and arts: but in Greece, where, from their
earliest youth, the happy inhabitants were devoted to mirth and pleasure, where
narrow- spirited formality never restrained the liberty of manners, the artist
enjoyed nature without a veil. [P. 30] The last and most eminent characteristic
of the Greek works is a noble simplicity and sedate grandeur in Gesture and
Expression. As the bottom of the sea lies peaceful beneath a foaming surface, a
great soul lies sedate beneath the strife of passions in Greek figures. ’ Tis
in the face of Laocoon this soul shines with full lustre, not confined however
to the face, amidst the most violent sufferings. 16. Denis Diderot (1713–84) on
the excessive dependence on the Antique at the expense of the study of Nature.
Philosopher, polymath and editor of the Encyclopédie, Diderot is one of the
central figures of the French Enlightenment. His celebrated art criticism was
directed towards the biennial Salons organised by the Académie Royale de
peinture et de sculpture in Paris, and covered the period from 1759 to 1781.
His review of the 74 75 1765 Salon included a section on sculpture in
which he criticised Winckelmann’s semi-religious dependence on the Antique and
instead urged artists to return to the study of Nature, as the source of all
excellence in art, classical statues included. Diderot’s ‘naturalistic’ and
anti-academic approach – already difused into European art theory at least from
the 17th century onwards – became predominant in the 19th century.
Nevertheless, Diderot had an immense admiration for classical sculpture in
itself; for him it represented the best result of that fruitful study of Nature
and freedom of artistic creativity that he advocated for contemporary French
art. Diderot’s review of the Salon of 1765 was written for Melchior Grimm’s
Correspondence littéraire, which circulated in manuscript form. It was printed
for the first time in Jacques-André Naigeon, Oeuvres de Denis Diderot publiés
sur les manuscrits de l’auteur, 15 vols, Paris, 1798, 13, 314–16. This
translation is from Diderot on Art – 1: The Salon of 1765 and Notes on
Painting, ed. and trans. by J. Goodman, New Haven and London, 1995, 156–57. I
am fond of fanatics [p. 157]. Such one is Winckelmann when he
compares the productions of ancient artists with those of modern artists. What
doesn’t he see in the stump of a man we call the Torso? The swelling muscles of
his chest, they’re nothing less than the undulation of the sea; his broad bent
shoulders, they’re a great concave vault that, far from being broken, is
strengthened by the burdens it’s made to carry; and as for his nerves, the
ropes of ancient catapults that hurled large rocks over immense distances are
mere spiderwebs in compari- son. Inquire of this charming enthusiast by what
means Glycon, Phidias, and the others managed to produce such beautiful,
perfect works and he’ll answer you: by the sentiment of liberty which elevates
the soul and inspire great things; by rewards offered by the nation, and public
respect; by the constant observation, study and imitation of the beautiful in
nature, respect for poster- ity, intoxication at the prospect of immortality,
assiduous work, propitious social mores and climate, and genius . There is not a single point of this response
one would dare to contradict. But put a second question to him, ask him if it’s
better to study the antique or nature, without the knowledge and study of
which, without a taste for which ancient artists, even with all the specific
advantages they enjoyed, would have left us only medio- cre works: The antique!
He’ll reply without skipping a beat; The antique! and in
one fell swoop a man whose intelligence, enthusiasm, and taste are without
equal betrays all these gifts in the middle of the Toboso. Anyone who scorns
nature in favour of the antique risks never producing anything that’s not
trivial, weak, and paltry in its drawing, character, drapery, and expression.
Anyone who’s neglected nature in favour of the antique will risk being cold,
lifeless, devoid of the hidden, secret truths which can only be perceived in
nature itself. It seems to me that one must study the antique to learn how to
look at nature. 17. Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723–92) on the role of the Royal
Academy and on the study of the Antique. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the foremost
portrait painter in England in the 18th century, served as first president of
the Royal Academy between 1768 and 1792. His fifteen Discourses on Art,
delivered to the students and members of the Academy between 1769 and 1790,
became widely popular in Britain and abroad. They represent a distillation of
the idealistic and academic art theory of the previous centuries in support of
the ‘Grand manner’, mixed with his personal views, such as Reynolds’ huge
admiration for Michelangelo. The Discourses range from didactic guidelines for
the Academy to more theoretical discussions, and references to the Antique can
be found throughout, especially in Discourse 10, devoted to sculpture. Excerpts
from Discourses of Art. Sir Joshua Reynolds, ed. by R. R. Wark, New Haven and
London, 1997. [P. 15] Discourse 1 (1769): The principal advantage of an Academy
is, that, besides furnishing able men to direct the student, it will be a
repository for the great examples of the Art. These are the materials on which
genius is to work, and without which the strongest intellect may be fruitlessly
or deviously employed. By studying these authentic models, that idea of
excellence which is the result of the accumulated experience of past ages may
be at once acquired; and the tardy and obstructed progress of our predecessors
may teach us a shorter and easier way. The student receives, at one glance, the
principles which many artists have spent their whole lives in ascertaining;
and, satisfied with their effect, is spared the painful investigation by which
they come to be known and fixed. [P. 106] Discourse 6 (1774): All the
inventions and thoughts of the Antients, whether conveyed to us in statues,
bas-reliefs, intaglios, cameos, or coins, are to be sought after and carefully
studied: The genius that hovers over these venerable reliques may be called the
father of modern art. From the remains of the works of the antients the modern
arts were revived, and it is by their means that they must be restored a second
time. However it may mortify our vanity, we must be forced to allow them our
masters; and we may venture to prophecy, that when they shall cease to be
studied, arts will no longer flourish, and we shall again relapse into
barbarism. [P. 177] Discourse 10 (1780): As a proof of the high value we set on
the mere excellence of form, we may produce the greatest part of the works of
Michael Angelo, both in painting and sculpture; as well as most of the antique
statues, which are justly esteemed in a very high degree . But, as a stronger instance that this
excellence alone inspires sentiment, what artist ever looked at the Torso
without feeling a warmth of enthusiasm, as from the highest efforts of poetry?
From whence does this proceed? What is there in this fragment that produces
this effect, but the perfec- tion of this science of abstract form? A MIND
elevated to the contemplation of excellence perceives in this [p. 178] defaced
and shattered fragment, disjecti membra poetae, the traces of superlative
genius, the reliques of a work on which succeeding ages can only gaze with
inadequate admiration. 18. The Encyclopédie by Denis Diderot (1713–84) and
Jean-Baptiste le Rond d’Alembert (1717–83) on the advantages for artists to go
to Rome to experience the Antique and modern works of art. The second edition
of Diderot’s and D’Alembert’s epochal Encyclopédie included an entry on the
Académie de France in Rome, in which the role and mission of the institution is
celebrated in superlative terms. A period in Rome was still considered, even by
the anti-academic Diderot, to be essential for young artists to round of their
education in the physical and spiritual presence of the Antique and the great
Renaissance masters. This apology and defence of the Roman Académie was also
perhaps intended to counter the opinion of those, such as the sculptor
Etienne-Maurice Falconet (1716–91), who judged the trip to Rome no longer
necessary, given the quantity of plaster casts available in France. Excerpt from D. Diderot and J.-B. le Rond D’Alembert, Encyclopédie ou
dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des metiers . . ., new ed.,
Geneva, 1, 1777, 238–39 (translation Barbara Lasic). The French Academy in Rome is a school of painting that King Louis XIV
established in 1666, et one of the most beautiful institu- tions of this great
monarch for the glory of the kingdom and the progress of the fine arts . It was one of the greatest causes for the
perfection of art in France ; thus Le
Brun thought that young Frenchmen who intended to study the fine arts should go
to Rome and spend some time there. This is where the works of Michelangelo,
Vignola, Domenichino, Raphael and those of the ancient Greeks give silent
lessons far superior to those that our great living masters could give . Italy has the uncontested advantage and
glory of having the richest mine of antique models that can serve as guides to
the modern artists, and enlighten them in the quest for ideal beauty; of having
revived in the world the arts that had been lost; of having produced excellent
artists of all types; and finally of having given lessons to other people to
whom it had previously given laws [p. 139]. Italy is for artists a true
classical land as an Englishman calls it. Everything there entices the eye of
the painter, everything instructs him, everything awakens his attention. Aside
from modern statues, how many of those antiques, which by their exact
proportions and the elegant variety of their forms, served as models to past
artists and must serve to those of all centuries, does not the superb Rome
contain amid its walls? Although there are in France some very fine statues
like the Cincinnatus and a few others, we can state, without fear of being
mistaken, that there are none of the first rate, or of those that the Italians
call preceptive and that can be put in parallel with the Apollo, the Antinoüs,
the Laocoon, the Hercules, the Gladiator, the Faun, the Venus and many more
that decorate the Belvedere, the Palazzo Farnese, the Borghese grounds and the
gallery of Florence. The gallery Giustiniani alone is perhaps richer in antique
statues than the entire French kingdom. 19. James Northcote (1746–1831) on the
decline of the Antique as a model and on the thirst for novelty in art. The
pungent and lively conversations between the writer and art critic William
Hazlitt (1778–1830), and the painter James Northcote, were published in various
articles in The New Monthly Magazine in 1826 and then collated in 1830, causing
scandal for their frankness among contemporaries. The passage selected is one
of the most revealing testimonies on the growing dissatisfaction with the
Antique and the widespread demand for new forms of art. Excerpts from William
Hazlitt, Conversations of James Northcote, Esq., R.A., London, 1830, 51–53.
‘Did you see Thorwaldsen’s things while you were there? A young artist brought
me all his designs the other day, as miracles that I was to wonder at and be
delighted with. But I could find nothing in [p. 52] them but repetitions of the
Antique, over and over, till I was surfeited.’ ‘He would be pleased at this.’
‘Why, no! that is not enough: it is easy to imitate the Antique: – if you want
to last, you must invent something. The other is only pouring liquors from one
vessel into another, that become staler and staler every time. We are tired of
the Antique; yet at any rate, it is better than the vapid imitation of it. The
world wants something new, and will have it. No matter whether it is better or
worse, if there is but an infusion of new life and spirit, it will go down to
posterity; otherwise, you are soon forgotten. Canova too, is nothing for the
same reason – he is only a feeble copy of the Antique; or a mixture of two
things the most incompatible, that and opera-dancing. But there is Bernini; he
is full of faults, he has too much of that florid, redundant, fluttering style,
that was objected to Rubens; but then he has given an appearance of flesh that
was never given before. The Antique always looks like marble, you never for a
moment can divest yourself of the idea; but go up to a statue of Bernini’s, and
it seems as if it must yield to your touch. This excellence [p. 53] he was the
first to give, and therefore it must always remain with him. It is true, it is
also in the Elgin marbles; but they were not known in his time; so that he
indisputably was a genius. Then there is Michael Angelo; how utterly different
from the Antique, and in some things how superior!’ 76 77. CATALOGUE. Notes to
the reader support. All drawings and prints are on paper. measurements:
Mesurements of all works, both exhibited and reproduced as comparative
illustrations, are given height before width, in millimeters for drawings and
prints and in centimeters for paintings and sculpture. inscriptions: Recto and
verso indications for inscriptions are given only for drawings. For prints it
is assumed they are on the recto. Abbreviations: u.l.: upper left; u.c.: upper
centre; u.r.: upper right; c.l.: centre left; c.r.: centre right; l.l.: lower
left; l.c.: lower centre; l.r.: lower right. The original spelling is always
respected. provenance: Provenance is given in chronological sequence, as
completely as possible. Collectors’ names are given as listed in Lugt
(abbreviated L., L. suppl.) literature/exhibitions: Prints are included in the
Exhibition references when the actual impression catalogued here was shown;
when another impression was exhibited, it is mentioned under Literature. For
exhibition catalogue entries included in the Literature and Exhibition
references, the author or authors are given only when their initials are
specified at the end of the entry. Otherwise it is assumed that the entry was written
by the compilers of the catalogue. If an object has been illustrated in a
publication, a figure or plate number is included. If the object has been
illustrated without a figure or plate number, ‘repr.’ is used. If nothing is
specified, the object was not illustrated. For exhibition catalogues, only the
catalogue number is provided, as it is assumed that it was reproduced.
Otherwise, ‘not repr.’ is used. #1 Agostino dei Musi, called Agostino
Veneziano (Venice c. 1490–after 1536 Rome) After Baccio Bandinelli (Gaiole,
near Chianti 1493–1560 Florence) The Academy of Baccio Bandinelli in Rome 1531
Engraving, state II of III 274 × 299 mm (plate), 278 × 302 mm (sheet) Inscribed
recto, l.c., on front of table support: ‘ACADEMIA . DI BAC: / CHIO . . MDXXXI.
/. A. V.’ selected literature: Heinecken 1778–90, 2, 98; Bartsch 1803–21, 14, 314–15,
no. 418; Pevsner 1940, 38–42, 5; Ciardi Duprè 1966, 161; Wittkower 1969, 232, 70;
Oberhuber 1978, 314.418, repr.; Florence 1980, 264, no. 687; Roman 1984, 81–84,
62; Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497–98, 1; Landau and Parshall 1994, 286, 304;
Barkan 1999, 290–98, 5.12; Fiorentini 1999, 145–46, no. 29; Munich and Cologne
2002, 319, no. 110; Thomas 2005, 3–14, figs 1–3; Hegener 2008, 396–403 and
624–25, pl. 228; Antwerp 2013, 26, repr.; Florence 2014, 528–29, no. 77.
BRANDIN . provenance: Elizabeth Harvey-Lee, North Aston (Oxfordshire), from
whom acquired in 1995. IN . / ROMA . / IN LUOGO . DETTO / . BELVEDERE . /
exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. The Bellinger Collection, inv. no.
1995-047 This renowned print by Agostino Veneziano after a design by Baccio
Bandinelli, the Florentine sculptor and draughts- man, depicts Bandinelli’s
academy for artists in the Belvedere in Rome, where he was granted the use of
rooms by Pope Leo X (r. 1513–21) and Pope Clement VII (r. 1523–34).1 We are
informed of this by the prominent inscription below the table, which renders
this engraving a particularly appropri- ate work to begin this catalogue,
because as well as being the first known representation of artists copying from
statuettes modelled after antique prototypes, it is the first recorded use of
the word ‘accademia’ in conjunction with art and the training of artists.2 This
term had previously been used to describe informal gatherings of men to discuss
liberal or intellectual subjects, such as philosophy or literature.3 Though the
scene does not depict an art academy in the modern sense – the origins of which
are found some thirty years later in Vasari’s Accademia del Disegno4 –
Bandinelli made the association between art and intellectual endeavour very
clear. His design focuses on the fundamental elements of a young artist’s
training, namely, intensive study and copying of the antique sculptures in
miniature scattered around the room, replicated on the artists’ tablets. It is
there- fore evident that artistic academies were from the beginning conceived
of as humanistic educational institutions, reliant, among other things, on
ancient statues as sources of inspira- tion. There is a conspicuous absence
here of drawing from life, which would later become one of the central elements
of Italian and French academic practices.5 The scene also places emphasis on
disegno, a word that encompasses much more than its mere translation as
‘drawing’. It comprises the intellectual capacity to create any kind of art,
including painting and sculpture, as well as drawing itself.6 In Bandinelli’s
own words, his was an ‘Accademia par- ticolare del Disegno’.7 In the print
exhibited here, the almost claustrophobic room and closely bunched apprentices
imply that study was a collaborative endeavour in Bandinelli’s academy, with
discussion among the students encouraged in order that they might better
comprehend the objects of their study, and capture them more effectively on
paper. Bandinelli himself is seated on the right, wearing a fur-lined collar,
holding a statuette of a female nude for his students’ contem- plation. The results
of their efforts are drawn on paper placed on drawing boards, using quills and
ink pots; what appears to be a blotter rests on the near edge of the table. The
noctur- nal setting evokes an atmosphere of mystery and a sense that the
central candle, with its forcefully radiating light, has, as well as a physical
function, a symbolic one, to illuminate the secrets of art and disegno. The
theme of drawing at night recurs throughout this exhibition (cats 2, 23, 24,
34) and reflects a persistent belief that such a setting is essential for
stimulating the introspection necessary for artistic success. It also implies
diligence and commitment, the ability and will to continue working through day
and night, that is required from a master artist.8 For these reasons, a candle
or lamp often symbolises ‘Study’, as seen in Federico Zuccaro’s allegorical
drawing (see cat. 5, 5). It also reveals a didactic reliance on artificial
light as preferable to natural light to emphasise the contours of the
sculptures and the contrasts of their planes, thereby facilitating the copying
process, an idea earlier espoused by Leonardo da Vinci (with whom the young
Bandinelli had personal contact) and later by Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71).9
There is a striking interplay of the shadows cast by the candlelight on the
back walls, with the heads of both statues 80 81 and artists overlapping
one another. This may refer to a well- known passage from Pliny’s Natural
History: ‘The question as to the origin of the art of painting is uncertain but all agree that it began with tracing an
outline around a man’s shadow’.10 The central figure on the rear shelf casts an
improbable shadow, as the hand held perpendicular to the body is reflected on
the wall as upright and perpendicular to the ground. This was corrected in a
copy after the second state (British Museum, London), which is slightly
smaller.11 The design of this copy is more crudely executed than the original,
and there are a number of significant changes to the scene that are unique to
this plate, which suggests that it was created by someone other than
Bandinelli.12 This demonstrates the relative freedom of printmakers to make
adjustments to designs, and may help us to infer that this print was especially
popular; such changes would have necessitated a new plate, which would imply
that demand outstripped the supply, or that the original plate was under
especially tight control by a single owner.13 The male and female statues on
the table are the focus of the artists’ devotion, and are reminiscent of Apollo
and Venus, specifically of the Venus Pudica type.14 They are probably inspired
by the famous statues of the Apollo Belvedere (see 26, 18 and cat. 5, 1) and
Venus Felix (fig. 1), which stood in the Belvedere Court and were constantly
used by artists as ideal models.15 They would have been easily acces- sible to
Bandinelli while lodging at the Belvedere. The male figures may alternatively
be types after Hercules, a figure 1. Venus Felix and Cupid, c. 200 ad, marble,
214 cm (h), Museo Pio-Clementino, Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 936 that is
prevalent throughout Bandinelli’s work (see cat. 3). In fact, Maria Grazia
Ciardi Duprè identified the upper left male figure on the shelf as a bronze
statuette of Hercules Pomarius, now at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London,
and on that basis suggested the statuette be newly attributed to Bandinelli.16
Many subsequent scholars have accepted this,17 but the differences in the two
figures’ poses leaves the present author unconvinced, and it seems more likely
that the figures in the print are generic, idealised types. In an almost
meta-narrative, the intense focus on antique statuary is echoed even by the
central male statuette, as he gazes at a miniature statuette poised on his own
outstretched palm, which twists back to face him, returning his gaze (fig. 2).
The three statues arrayed on the shelf along the back wall – two male and one
female – are all of the same type as those on the table, and may be either
copies or casts of them in wax or clay. The statuettes probably represent
objects sculpted by Bandinelli himself referencing the Antique; Vasari tells us
that while using the rooms at the Belvedere, Bandinelli made ‘many little
figures [. . .] as of Hercules, Venus, Apollo, Leda, and other fantasies of his
own’.18 One of these survives in bronze, a Hercules Pomarius at the Bargello,
in Florence (fig. 3), and it resembles the figures in the engraving.19 The
produc- tion of small models in wax, clay or bronze – many modelled on
ancient prototypes – for young artists to practice drawing in the workshop, was
already common in the 15th century. Several were created, for instance, by
Lorenzo Ghiberti (c. 1381–1455) and Antonio Pollaiuolo (c. 1431–98).20 They 2.
Detail of Veneziano’s engraving, statue gazing at an even smaller statuette 3.
Baccio Bandinelli, Hercules Pomarius, c. 1545, bronze, 33.5 cm (h), Museo
Nazionale del Bargello, Florence, inv. 281 Bronzi served the purpose of
familiarising young artists with the forms and poses of antique models,
allowing them to learn how to draw the three-dimensional human figure from
different angles on a flat surface. The juxtaposition of the statuettes with
several antique-style pots and vessels in the engraving reinforces the
connection between Bandinelli’s ‘academy’ and the classical past, as does the
fragment of a foot on the book that serves as a plinth for the male figure on
the right. The statuettes are positioned so that each faces a slightly
different direction, enabling the viewer to observe them from all angles, just
as the artists are instructed to do. Our participation is further encouraged by
the figure on the far left and by Bandinelli: both gaze outward and seem to
acknowledge our presence. The viewer is thus accorded a role as a fellow
student among the apprentices learning from Bandinelli in his academy. This
link with the academy was less explicit in the original version of Bandinelli’s
design. Ben Thomas drew attention to the first state of the print (Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford),21 in which the inscription – so prominent below the table in
the print exhibited here – was presented only in an abbreviated form on the
tablet hanging on the wall at the far right, without the word ‘academia’, and
with only Veneziano’s monogram and the date 1530, a year earlier than the
present engraving. This tablet, deprived of the inscription in the later
states, became an awkwardly superfluous element of the composition. Also
missing in the first state are the drawings on the sheets of the artists
gathered around the table. In changing these elements in the second state, as
represented here,22 Bandinelli deliberately ensured there was no possibil- ity
of misinterpreting this as a literary, rather than artistic, endeavour; it also
serves as propaganda for the artist himself, as a dissemination of not only his
powers of design, but his role as a teacher and an innovator. This makes it all
the more surprising that on the current print, his name is inscribed as
‘Bacchio Brandin.’ rather than Bandinelli. He adopted the Bandinelli surname in
1529 to align himself with a noble family from Siena, thereby making himself
eligible for the Order of Santiago, which he was awarded by Emperor Charles V
in 1530.23 The inscription dates the print to 1531, after his adoption of this
new genealogy, and so must reflect an error on the part of the engraver,
Veneziano.24 In his self-portrait, seated at the table, Bandinelli also does
not wear the insignia of the Order of Santiago, as he does in his other
self-portraits (cats 2 and 3), and so the design for this print most likely
dates prior to the granting of this award in 1530. Tommaso Mozzati suggested a
date earlier than 1527, when the sack of Rome forced both artists to flee the
city, Veneziano to Mantua, Bandinelli first to Lucca and then Genoa.25 The
inscription itself tells us the design was made in Rome, depicting a room in
the Belvedere. If Veneziano engraved the design after the two artists went
their separate ways, it could explain how the mistake in nomenclature was
allowed to occur.26 Bandinelli’s relentless self-promotion and willingness to
rewrite his family tree to achieve noble status can be explained by his
upbringing. His father, Michelangelo di Viviano (1459–1528), was a prominent
goldsmith in Florence, but the family had lost much of its wealth and prestige
by the time his son was born in October 1493.27 As Bandinelli’s three siblings
left home or died young, he was essentially the only child, charged with
restoring the family’s social standing. His father encouraged his training as
an artist from an early age, as an apprentice within his own workshop.
Bandinelli also worked with the sculptor Gian Francesco Rustici (1474–1554),
learning from him the process of model- ling sculptures in wax and clay for
casting into bronze. This association no doubt provided the opportunity to meet
Rustici’s collaborator at the time on St John the Baptist Preaching (Florence
Cathedral, Baptistry), Leonardo da Vinci (1452– 1519). Bandinelli was a staunch
Medici supporter, even throughout the family’s exile, and this cemented his
financial success as soon as two Medici popes came to power (Giovanni de’
Medici as Leo X in 1513 and Giulio de’ Medici as Clement VII in 1523). However,
it also inspired rabid criticism from many Florentines, who were Republican by
nature. 82 83 Our view of him is also coloured by Vasari’s
biography, in which Bandinelli is treated as the villain to his heroic rival,
Michelangelo.28 Such a bias is perhaps not completely unwar- ranted, as all
three prints on display here by Bandinelli reflect his insistence not only on
publicising his own image, but in vaunting his abilities as both a teacher of
the next generation of artists, as well as having a special and privi- leged
relationship to the Antique. This betrays the arrogance 29 that is also evident
in his writings, and may well have contributed to the negative opinions of his
character that persist to this day. rh 1 Vasari tells us that Bandinelli was
given use of the Belvedere (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 246, 250) but he
never mentions an academy (Barkan 1999, 290). This engraving and cat. 2, as
well as Bandinelli’s own account in his autobiographical Memoriale (which
exists in a single manuscript in the Biblioteca Nazionale in Florence, Cod.
Pal. Bandinelli 12, and is transcribed in Colasanti 1905 and Barocchi 1971–77, 2,
1359– 1411) are the only evidence we have for the existence of Bandinelli’s
academy. 2 A less explicit link between art and the term ‘accademia’ is found
on engravings after Leonardo da Vinci’s designs of knot work, which are
inscribed ‘Academia Leonardi Vinci’ (see Pevsner 1940, 25; Roman 1984, 81; and
Goldstein 1996, 10 and frontispiece). For Bandinelli as the first to use this
word in conjunction with art training, see Pevsner 1940, 39; Barkan 1999, 290;
Munich and Cologne 2002, 319 under no. 110; Thomas 2005, 8; Hegener 2008, 401
and 403. 3 Visual arts were regarded as applied disciplines rather than liberal
arts and thus unsuitable for intellectual discussion (Pevsner 1940, 30–31;
Goldstein 1996, 147; Cologne and Munich 2002, 319 under no. 110; Thomas 2005, 8–9).
4 Although Vasari was the instigator and organiser of the Accademia, officially
it was opened in 1563 by Cosimo de Medici (Pevsner 1940, 42). For more about
the Accademia see Goldstein 1975; Waz ́bin ́ski 1987; Barzman 1989; Barzman
2000. 5 Goldstein 1996, chap. 8; Barkan 1999, 292; Costamagna 2005. 6 Goldstein
1996, 14. 7 Barocchi 1971–77, 2, 1384–85. 8 Roman 1984, 83; Munich and Cologne
2002, 319; Thomas 2005, pp.6–7. 9 Weil-Garris 1981, 246–47, note 39; Barkan
1999, 292; Hegener 2008, 401. 10 ‘De picturae initiis incerta quaestio est omnes
umbra hominis lineis circumducta, itaque primam talem’: Pliny the Elder, Nat.
Hist., 35.5. See Pliny 1999, 270–71. 11 The British Museum print’s inventory
number is V,2.136. 12 Some changes are: the removal of Veneziano’s monogram,
the underlining of ‘Belvedere’ in the inscription and the figure sketches on
the artists’ sheets (Thomas 2005, 12). 13 Thomas 2005, 12. 14 For other statues
of the Venus Pudica type known in the early Renaissance, see Tolomeo Speranza
1988. 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 Hegener 2008, 401. For Venus
Felix, see Spinola 1996–2004, 1, 97, PN 23 and 14 on 98. Ciardi Duprè 1966, 161.
The inventory number of the statuette is A.76-1910. Or they have at least
restated Ciardi Duprè’s thesis without contestation. This includes Fiorentini
1999, 145; Thomas 2005, 11, note 21; and Hegener 2008, 403. Paul Joannides
disagrees and attributes the statuette in the Victoria and Albert Museum to
Michelangelo, saying that it in turn inspired Bandinelli to create his own
version of Hercules Pomarius, now in the Bargello, in Florence (fig. 3), which
is widely accepted as by Bandinelli (Joannides 1997, 16–20). Volker Krahn also
expressed doubt that it is by Bandinelli (Florence 2014, 374). ‘Fece molte
figurine come Ercoli, Venere, Apollini, Lede, ed altre
sue fantasie’ (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 251). See Florence 2014, 372–75, no. 32. Fusco 1982; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 52–55.
See also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 22–23. Thomas 2005, 11. The
print’s inventory number is WA1863.1759. There is also a third state owned by
the Davison Arts Center of Wesleyan University, CT, in which the publisher
Antonio Salamanca’s name is added at the bottom right (Thomas 2005, 12).
Bartsch noted only one state (the second), but was also aware of the copy of
the second state discussed here (Bartsch 1803–21, 314–15, no. 418). The sheet
exhibited here may repre- sent a later impression of the second state, as the
underlining of ‘Belvedere’ has become so worn that it is only visible below the
first ‘el’ and the ‘r’. There is some debate as to when Bandinelli received this
honour. Scholars usually agree on 1529, but in his autobiography, Bandinelli
said it occurred in the same year as the emperor’s coronation, which was in
February 1530. According to Weil-Garris Brandt, the confusion arose because the
Florentine year ended in March (Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 501, note 26). Ben
Thomas agrees with her and says the emperor sent news of the honour to
Bandinelli from Innsbruck, after departing from Bologna on 22 March 1530
(Thomas 2005, 9 and note 12). This is perhaps not the only print to exhibit
such a mistake, as Bandinelli, in his Memoriale, bemoaned a similar error that
had to be corrected on a print of his Martyrdom of St Lawrence (Barocchi
1971–77, 2, 1396). However, this complaint itself is inaccurate, as the
inscription of ‘Baccius Brandin. Inven.’ on the St Lawrence print would have
been a correct appella- tion at the time of its execution in 1524, well before
Bandinelli’s adoption of his new name. Such an anachronism has prompted
speculation that the Memoriale is not actually by Bandinelli, but rather a
forgery by one of his descendants (Thomas 2005, 10); nevertheless, it
represents a familial dissatisfaction with the dissemination of Bandinelli’s
designs once removed from his control. Minonzio 1990, 686 and Florence 2014, 528
under no. 77. However, by 1530, the date on the first state of this print, both
Veneziano and Bandinelli had returned to Rome (Thomas 2005, 11). This does not
preclude Veneziano from having engraved the design during their separa- tion.
It is unlikely that the design was executed at this later date because of the
absence of the insignia of the Order of Santiago; even if the image were retrospective,
it seems unlikely that Bandinelli would miss an opportunity for
self-aggrandisement. For Bandinelli’s biography, see Bandinelli’s own Memoriale
(see note 1), Vasari’s account in Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 239–76,
and more concise surveys in Weil-Garris 1981, 224–42 and Waldman 2004, xv–xxviii.
Weil-Garris 1981, 224. Pevsner 1940, 42. 2. Enea Vico ( Parma 1523–1567
Ferrara) After Baccio Bandinelli (Gaiole, near Chianti 1493–1560 Florence) The
Academy of Baccio Bandinelli c. 1545/50 Engraving, state II of III 314 × 486 mm
(sheet) Inscribed recto, u.r., on left page of open book: ‘Baccius / Bandi: /
nellus / invent’; on right page: ‘Enea vi: / go Par: / megiano / sculpsit.’
Inscribed verso, l. c., on additional paper fragment, now attached, in pencil:
‘Eneas Vico ca 1520 – ca 1570 / Nagler XXII/515 bl 49 / Ein Hauptblatt’; and
below, in pencil, ‘B. Vol 15 B 305 No. 49’; l.l. in pencil: ‘£ 3013 60’ [the
rest illegible] provenance: Venator et Hanstein, Cologne, 3 November 1998, lot
2722, from whom acquired. selected literature: Heinecken 1778–90, 2, 98–99;
Bartsch 1803–21, 15, 305–06, no. 49; Passavant 1860–64, 6, 122, no. 49; Pevsner
1940, 40–42, 6; Ciardi Duprè 1966, 163–64, 26; Goldstein 1975, 147, 1;
Weil-Garris 1981, 235–36, 14; Roman 1984, 84–87, 66; Spike 1985, 305.49-I and
305.49-II, repr.; Landau and Parshall 1994, 286, 303; Barkan 1999, 290–98, 5.13;
Fiorentini 1999, 146–47, no. 30; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 86–88, no. 21;
Thomas 2005, 12–14, 5; Hegener 2008, 404–12 and 625–26, pl. 232; Compton Verney
and Norwich 2009–10, 18, 15; Florence 2014, 530–31, no. 78. 84 85 exhibitions:
Not previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1998-039 This
print by Enea Vico after a design by Baccio Bandinelli depicts a scene similar
to that in his earlier self-styled acad- emy (cat. 1), but it has been expanded
and amplified: the table which occupies all of the space in Agostino
Veneziano’s engraving has been moved to the right side of Vico’s print, and the
perspective is widened to allow a larger room to come into view. The number of
apprentices has grown from six to twelve, the books from one to six and the
antique sculptures from five to ten. The style of the print, as well as Vico’s
chronology, suggest that it is not the Belvedere acad- emy that is depicted
here, but a second academy, established by Bandinelli some twenty years later
after his return to Florence in 1540.1 As in the earlier print, the classical
figu- rines appear to be generalised interpretations of antique statuary rather
than exact copies of specific models, although they have been diversified here
by the addition of a horse’s head and a bust of a Roman emperor on the shelf.
Added to the fragments strewn about the room are skeletons and skulls, which
are now given a status equal to classical sources as inspiration for artists.
These refer to the growing tendency to study the anatomy of the human body in
Italian work- shops around the mid-16th century, mainly through skele- tons, a
practice that was codified by Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71) some twenty years
later in his Sopra i Principi e l’ Modo d’Imparare l’Arte del Disegno, in which
he advised artists to copy anatomical parts in order to attain skill as
draughts- men.2 While Bandinelli’s representation is one of the first to
document the spread of anatomical study among young artists, the practice was
formalised in the second half of the 16th century in the curricula of the first
academies, where sophisticated anatomy lectures were given and dissections were
performed.3 Both antique sculptures and skeletons became common elements in
subsequent representations of artists’ workshops, studios and academies, as
seen in Stradanus’ studio image and Cort’s engraving after it (cat. 4). This is
also reflected in an etching by Pierfrancesco Alberti of a painter’s studio or
academy (fig. 1), which shows a more structured curriculum of studies involving
anatomical dissection, geometry, the Antique and architectural drawing, closely
reflecting the disciplines taught in the earliest Italian academies,
particularly the Roman Accademia di San Luca.4 The light source is another
difference between the two prints after Bandinelli. The single candle in
Veneziano’s engraving has become three forcefully radiating fires, with the
candle on the table now partially dissolving the face of the student standing
to its right. The importance of studying at night, and the diligence and
introspection this implies, is again a primary theme. Another engraving after a
Bandinelli design, The Combat of Cupid and Apollo,5 also places impor- tance on
fire as a source of not only visual illumination, but as a symbol of
philosophical and spiritual revelation. The recurrence of this motif has been
regarded as indicative of Bandinelli’s neo-Platonic leanings; the flame
symbolises divine Reason and its power to defeat the darker, profane vices of
the human condition, allowing man to perceive true, celestial beauty, even
while bound to the terrestrial realm.6 Indeed, the very concept of an academy
is closely inter- twined with Neo-Platonism, as it was widely considered that
the first academy founded since the end of classical times was that of Marsilio
Ficino (1433–99) in Florence, which was specifically based on the philosophy
and teachings espoused by Plato.7 Bandinelli himself is again
represented, but he now stands at the far right, instructing the two students
who face him. He also now wears the cross of St James, as befits a knight of
the Order of Santiago, which he was awarded in 1530, and which is seen in his
other self-portrait (cat. 3). The same insignia is placed prominently above the
fireplace between the two cupids. Bandinelli’s design therefore takes on a more
propagandistic role, and has been described by some scholars as a ‘manifesto’
for his academy.8 The staging here stresses Bandinelli’s nobility, humanism and
sophistication, while the importance of copying from antique sculpture is
rather downplayed, with the casts relegated to the margins of the scene. None
of the artists is now looking at the casts; their focus is instead inward, as
best exemplified by the figure who sits at the centre of the composition, with
his head in his hand. Only one of the students’ drawings is visible, on the
tablet of the standing apprentice at the centre of the scene, and the female
nude emerging from his stylus is unrelated to any of the sculptures surrounding
him, although clearly referring to a model all’antica. She must therefore be a
product of his mind, and so the emphasis here is on the artist’s memory and
imagination; the skeletons and antique sculptures were essential for building
his graphic vocabulary of the human form, but they have been discarded now that
he has successfully internalised them and no longer needs to copy them
directly.9 The exercise of memory was one of the central principles of the
pedagogical practices of the Italian Renaissance, going back as far as Leon
Battista Alberti (1404– 72) and Leonardo (1452–1519).10 Giorgio Vasari
(1511–74), in his Vite explicitly recommended that ‘the best thing is to draw
men and women from the nude and thus fix in the memory by constant exercise the
muscles of the torso, back, legs, arms and knees, with the bones underneath.
Then one may be sure that, through much study, attitudes in any position can be
drawn by help of the imagination without one having the living forms in the
view’.11 The importance of memory was also stressed by Cellini in his
treatise.12 There are three states of this print, differentiated by the
inscriptions.13 In the first state, the inscription identifying Bandinelli as
the designer on the left page of the book on the upper right is included, as is
the address of the Roman pub- lisher, Pietro Palumbo, below the sleeping dog in
the lower centre (not seen here). In the second state, Enea Vico’s name is
added on the right-hand page of the same book, in a differ- ent script. In the
final state, the name of Palumbo’s successor as the publisher of this print,
Gaspar Alberto, is added below the skulls in the lower centre. Nicole Hegener
believed there was an additional state between the first and second, repre- sented
by a version at Yale in which Agostino’s Veneziano’s name was inscribed on the
right-hand page of the book before it was replaced by Vico’s.14 However, it was
noted in 2005 that this was added by hand in pen-and-ink, and was therefore
just a modification of the first state of the print.15 The print exhibited here
was also believed to be a unique 86 87 1. Pierfrancesco Alberti,
Painters’ Academy, c. 1603–48, etching, 412 × 522 mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam,
RP-P-1952-373 example of a state between the first and second, as both
Bandinelli’s and Vico’s names are present on the book, but Palumbo’s is
missing.16 However, close examination of the verso reveals extensive abrasion
over the area where Palumbo’s address would have been. The inscription was
therefore erased from this sheet, and does not reflect any changes to the
original plate. It must, therefore, be an example of the second state, which
was subsequently altered for an unknown reason. Palumbo’s name on the first
state also makes the dating of this print difficult. On stylistic grounds, most
scholars date it to c. 1545/50,17 but Palumbo was not active 1731: Cellini
1731, 155–62 (on the study of the bones and muscles, 157–62). See Olmstead
Tonelli 1984, esp. 101. See also Schultz 1985; Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere
1996–97; London, Warwick and elsewhere 1997–98; Carlino 2008–09. Roman 1984, 91.
See Appendix, no. 7 for the statutes of the Accademia di San Luca. Repr. in
Panofsky 1962, 107. Panofsky 1962, 148–51. Goldstein 1996, 14. For the
neo-Platonic movement during the Renais- sance, see Panofsky 1962, chap. 5.
Compton Verney and Norwich 2009–10, 18; Florence 2014, 520. Thomas 2005, 13–14;
Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 87. Alberti 1972, 96–99 (book 3.55); Leonardo 1956,
1, 47, chap. 65–66. See also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 33. Brown
1907, 210; Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 1, 114–15. Cellini 1731, 157.
Bartsch mistakenly conflated the second and third states and therefore only
listed two states (Bartsch 1803–21, 15, 305–06). He was corrected by Passavant
(1860–64, 6, 122, no. 49) and this is accepted by subsequent scholarship (i.e.
Thomas 2005, 13). Hegener 2008, 405. Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 88, note 1.
See also Florence 2014, 530. Venator et Hanstein sale, Cologne, 3 November
1998, lot 2722. Pevsner remarks on the characteristic ‘Mid-Cinquecento
Mannerism’ of Vico’s print in contrast to Veneziano’s style, which is
reminiscent of Raimondi (Pevsner 1940, 40). The following agree on the
approximate dates c. 1545/50: Weil-Garris 1981, 235; Thomas 2005, 13; Houston
and Ithaca 2005–06, 86; Florence 2014, 530. Fiorentini suggested c. 1550
because after that date Vico used ‘sculptere’ on his works, rather than
‘sculpsit’ as here (Fiorentini 1999, 147). However, the form of Vico’s
inscription as ‘Enea Vigo’ on this print is completely unique, as his other
extant works are signed either ‘E.V.’, ‘Enea Vico’ or variations on ‘AENEAS
VICUS’ (Thomas 2005, 13). Therefore we must be very cautious in making any
assumptions based on this particular inscription. London 2001–02, 230. He
continued working until c. 1586. Florence 2014, 531. 3. Anonymous, 16th-century
Italian Artist After Niccolò della Casa (Lorraine fl. 1543–48) After Baccio
Bandinelli (Gaiole, near Chianti 1493–1560 Florence) Self-Portrait of Baccio
Bandinelli, Seated 1548 Engraving, 416 × 306 mm Datedl.c.:‘1548’;inscribedl.r:‘A.S.Excudebat.’;inscribedl.c.inpencil:‘No
7.’andbelowtor.inpencil:‘No 7’. With the initials of the publisher, probably
Antonio Salamanca (1478–1562). provenance: Léon Millet, Paris (his stamp, not
in Lugt, in blue ink on the verso: ‘Léon Millet / 13 rue des Abbesses’ and
below, printed in black ink: ‘12 Mars 1897’);1 Bassenge, Berlin, 3 December
2003, lot 5155, from whom acquired. selected literature: Heinecken 1778–90, 2, 90;
Bartsch 1854–76, 15, 279–80; Nagler 1966, 1, 542, under no. 1266; Le Blanc
1854-88, 3, 414, 1–2; Steinmann 1913, 96-97, note 8; Florence 1980, 264, 266,
no. 690; Los Angeles, Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89, 76–77, no. 20; Fiorentini
1999, 153–54, no. 34, 34 (see also 150–53, under no. 33); Fiorentini and
Rosenberg 2002, 37, 20, 38, 42, 44; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 32–34, no. 1
(J. Clifton); Hegener 2008, 391–96, version II, 57, 617–18, no. 16 (see also 380–91,
under version I); Florence 2014, 526–27, no. 76 (T. Mozzati). before c. 1562 at
Sant’ Agostino in Rome, Bandinelli’s death. Tommaso Mozzati speculated that
Bandinelli transferred his design to Vico before 1546, when the engraver left
Florence for Rome, and that the publication may have been delayed by a
deteriorating relationship between the two artists.19 If Vico intentionally
withheld the design until after Bandinelli’s death, it might explain how
Palumbo became its first publisher more than a decade later. 1 2 Pevsner 1940, 40–41;
Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 86. This engrav- ing, cat. 1 and Bandinelli’s own
writings in his Memoriale are the only evidence we have for the existence of
his academies (see cat. 1, note 1). Weil-Garris 1981, 246–47, note 39.
Cellini’s fragmentary treatise was probably written during the last two decades
of his life but published only 88 89 which post-dates rh exhibitions: Not
previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2003-020 This
engraving reproduces, in reverse and with variations in detail, an unfinished
engraving by Niccolò della Casa, based on a lost drawing by Bandinelli.2 It is
unclear why the Della Casa engraving, which is known in only a few impressions,
was never finished. The present engraving is smaller than its model, resulting
in a few compositional differences. It was attributed to Nicolas Beatrizet (c.
1507/15–1573) by Erna Fiorentini and Raphael Rosenberg and while this was
accepted by James Clifton, it was rejected by Nicole Hegener and Tommaso
Mozzati.3 Until further information comes to light, it is perhaps safer to
attribute it to an unidentified Italian engraver working in Rome in the
mid-16th century. Hegener identified a further state with the added inscription
at centre right, ‘effigies / Bacci Bandinelli sculp / florentini’ and Karl
Heinrich von Heinecken mentioned yet another without inscriptions (untraced).4
If Bandinelli’s self-portrait inserted among his students in his academies
(cats 1–2) emphasises his role as teacher and mentor, this image speaks of a
solitary and relentless self-promoter.5 By 1548, the engraving’s date,
Bandinelli had achieved great success. He had served two Popes, Leo X (Giovanni
de’ Medici) and Clement VII (Giulio de’ Medici), for whom he had carried out
several important commissions including the classicising Orpheus and Cerberus
(Palazzo Medici Riccardi, Florence, c. 1519) modelled after the Apollo
Belvedere, the monumental Hercules and Cacus (Piazza della Signoria, Florence,
1523–34) and the papal tombs in Santa Maria sopra Minerva (1536–41).6 He was
currently serving the Grand Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici. And yet, it was Baccio’s
close alliance with the Medici, coupled with his on- going rivalry with
Michelangelo, a staunch anti-Medicean Republican, and others, like Benvenuto
Cellini (1500–71) that denied him the full respect and admiration of his
Florentine contemporaries. His intense competitiveness and difficult character
only exacerbated his contemporaries’ widespread dislike of him.7 Projecting
strength, power and authority, this arresting image, clearly intended for
circulation, was no doubt Baccio’s attempt to right those perceived wrongs.8 By
fusing motifs from his own work with motifs from antique sculpture – absorbed
and recast – Bandinelli sought to elevate his status and rank and to assert his
position while defending his work by associating it with the art of Greece and
Rome.9 The multi-layered and intertexual combination of themes and references
that resulted contributes to the engraving’s enigmatic allure and demands
careful interpretation. Significantly, it is the first image in the exhibition
to demon- strate how Antique imagery could be used by an artist to promote his
own art and his own achievements. The engraving shows us a man of great
physical presence, seated as though enthroned. His elevation is enhanced by a
rich costume – the luxurious fur-lined cloak nonchalantly slides off one
shoulder – more typical of an aristocrat than an artist. Emblazoned on his
chest is the cross of St James, the emblem of the prestigious 12th-century
Spanish military Order of Santiago, conferred on Bandinelli in 1530 by the Holy
Roman Emperor Charles V who over- ruled protests that it was unmerited.
Bandinelli took great pride in the honour, justifiably, since he was the only
artist to be awarded the cross of St James, which he included in other
self-portraits (see cat. 2).10 Immediately below the sharp lower point of the
cross his prominent codpiece protrudes through the folds of his tunic, an
unsubtle reference to his virility. His ‘progeny’ – a selection of his small
models and statu- ettes – are seen throughout. Proprietorially and prominently
cradled, and elevated on its own column base, is the figure of Hercules, the
son of Zeus, who heroically carried out the Twelve Labours. Hercules played a
central role in Bandinelli’s work.11 His near obsession with the demi-god, the
embodi- ment of strength in the face of adversity, is demonstrated in Hercules’
constant appearance – in bronze, marble, stucco and drawing – throughout
Bandinelli’s career.12 And since Hercules was the mythical founder of Florence
and an exemplum much favoured by the Medici, in linking his own image so
closely to the hero, Bandinelli was also referencing his association with his
native city and its ruling house.13 Hercules was the perfect foil to David,
another protector of Florence, and to represent the hero gave Baccio the
opportu- nity to display his mastery of the muscular male nude in heroic and
often violent action. Bandinelli also holds a rather different figure of
Hercules in the della Casa engraving, c. 1544 and in his grand painted
self-portrait of c. 1550 (Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston) he proudly
displays a preparatory drawing for the Hercules and Cacus his most spectacular
and ambitious sculpture.14 This colossal group, – a pendant to Michelangelo’s
David – and a commission that he had taken away from Michelangelo, brought him
considerable fame despite the unfavourable reception that it received on its
unveiling in 1534.15 In effect, Hercules was Bandinelli’s calling card and his
prominence in his self-portraits is unsurprising.16 Small-scale, classicising
models made in wax and terra- cotta such as those seen here and in his other
prints (cats 1–2), were central to Bandinelli’s work as tools for teaching, and
as preparation for large-scale sculpture; many were translated into bronze, as
independent statuettes.17 Here, for example, the pose of the male nude seen
from behind standing in contrapposto at the right anticipates that of Adam in
Baccio’s Adam and Eve group of 1551 (Bargello, Florence).18 Perhaps because
Bandinelli was still working out the pose or perhaps to give the figure the
aura of a damaged antique, the left arm is missing below the elbow; several of
the other figurines in the engraving derive from the Antique but have been, as
it were, naturalised into Bandinelli’s own idiom. On equal footing with the
statuette of Hercules that he holds are the two standing female nudes on the
left, also elevated on a column shaft. They derive from the Cnidian Venus of
the 4th century bc, among the most famous works of the Greek sculptor,
Praxiteles, which was probably known 1. Baccio Bandinelli, A Standing
Female Figure, c. 1515, red chalk, 410 × 242 mm, private collection,
Switzerland 2. Giulio Bonasone, Saturn Seated on a Cloud Devouring a Statue, c.
1555–70, etching and engraving, 254 × 154 mm, The British Museum, Department of
Prints and Drawings, London, H,5.137 3. Anonymous, Ferrarese School, Fortitude,
playing card, c. 1465, engraving, 179 × 100 mm, The British Museum, Department
of Prints and Drawings, London, 1895,0915.36 90 91 4. Amico Aspertini, Lion Attacking a Horse,
pen and light brown ink, 107 × 146 mm, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichtkabinett,
Berlin, KdZ 25020 to Bandinelli through a Roman copy.19 Intent on demonstrat-
ing his full knowledge of the statue Baccio presents one woman frontally, while
the other, headless, is seen from behind.20 Slim and regularly proportioned,
the Cnidian Venus was Bandinelli’s preferred female type and examples abound in
his sculpted and graphic work.21 A highly finished red chalk drawing (private
collection Switzerland, 1) compares well with the engraved nude on the left.22
The foreground is occupied with further statuettes: another Hercules stands on
a pedestal on the left and five male torsos are scattered on the ground at his
feet. While they loosely evoke the Antique – the two on the lower left, for
example, recall the Belvedere Torso (p. 26, 23), they have become
generalised.23 Headless and limbless, like antique fragments, they suggest once
more that Bandinelli was equating his work with that of the ancients. The lion
has been interpreted diversely and Bandinelli may well have intended multi-layered
interpretation. It has widely been seen as a heraldic Medici lion (marzocco)
and, as such, a reference to Bandinelli’s favoured position with the Medici as
well as his loyalty to their regime.24 Interpreted as devour- 25 ing a lower
thigh and knee, the lion has also been seen as a symbol of the artist’s prowess
in sculpture. A more complex explanation suggests a link with Saturn devouring
a boulder, a subject illustrated in a print by Giulio Bonasone (fig. 2), which
is accompanied by the motto, ‘in pulverem reverteris’ (‘unto dust shalt thou
return’).26 As such, Bandinelli is not merely subjugating a wild animal but
also triumphing over Time.27 More simply, the lion may also refer to
Bandinelli’s favourite hero, Hercules, who conquered the Nemean lion, or evoke
Fortitude whose traditional attributes were a lion and a broken column, here
transformed into a plinth (fig. 3).28 Finally, it may be that Bandinelli was
again referencing the Antique: the Lion Attacking a Horse – part of a colossal
Hellenistic group (Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome) – in Bandinelli’s day, a
limbless fragment on the The fragment was considered ‘of such excellence that
Michelangelo judged it to be most marvellous’.31 There has been much
speculation about Bandinelli’s pose in the engraving. It might, in fact, refer
to the Belvedere Torso,32 as ‘restored’ in an engraving by Giovanni Antonio da
Brescia (1485–1525) of c. 1515 (fig. 5).33 The arrangement of his legs is also
close, in reverse to that of Laocoön, (p. 26, 19), a direct copy of which, in
marble (c. 1520–25, Florence, Uffizi) com- missioned by Leo X, was one of
Baccio’s greatest successes.34 His preparatory drawing for the sculpture also
in the Uffizi (fig. 6) shows him seated in a comparable pose as seen here.35
Once again, therefore, we see the sculptor referencing and promoting his own
work, employing the associative authority of Antique imagery. In sum,
Bandinelli presents himself here not only with the strength and fortitude of a
modern Hercules who successfully vanquished his adversaries but also as the
greatest, most recognisable hero- martyr and father from antiquity, Laocoön,
with his sculpted ‘offspring’ triumphant. Weil-Garris 1981, 236–37. For the
painting, see O. Tostmann, in Florence 2014, 510–13, no. 69, repr.; Mozzati
2014, 458–63. For a full discussion of the statue, see Vossilla 2014, 156–67,
repr.; Florence 2014, 573, no. VII. For Herculean imagery in the engraving, see
Hegener 2008, 382–86, 389–91, 395–96. Barkan 1999, 304; Krahn 2014, 324–31. As
first observed by Bruce Davis in Los Angeles, Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89, 77.
For the sculpture, see D. Heikamp, in Florence 2014, 314–15, no. 22, repr. He
also appears, in adapted form, in other works by the sculptor (Fiorentini 1999,
152). First noted by B. Davis, in Los Angeles, Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89, 77;
Barkan 1999, 308–09, 5.19. One half expects to see to a third figure to
complete the ‘Three Graces’. On the use of this double-view and his drawings
that may relate to these figures, see Fiorentini 1999, 151–52. Barkan 1999, 309–12;
V. Krahn, in Florence 2014, 356–59, no. 28. B. Davis in Los Angeles, Toledo and
elsewhere 1988–89, 77. The drawing was formerly with Yvonne Tan Bunzl (Bunzl
1987, no. 5, repr.; see also V. Krahn, in Florence 2014, 356, 1). Other copies
by Bandinelli after the same statue, one in red chalk, the other, in pen and
ink, are on a double- sided sheet in in the Biblioteca Reale, Turin (Bertini
1958, 17, no. 37; Barkan 1999, 311, figs. 5.21, 5.22). The same Cnidian Venus
type occurs at left in his drawing, Four Female Nudes, in the Art Gallery of
Toronto, 2006/432 (repr. in Aldega and Gordon 2003, 8, no. 1). A woman very
similar to that engraved at left both in pose, body type and hairstyle, appears
on a sheet in the Louvre, formerly classed as Bandinelli and now given to
Giovanni Bandini (1540–1599), Viatte 2011, 246–47, R2, repr. Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 34. Of course, they could also be a further Herculean reference, as
the Torso was in the Renaissance believed to be that of Hercules (Haskell and
Penny 1981, 313). Fiorentini 1999, 150, followed by Hegener 2008, 388,
considered one of the torsos, the second from the left, to be based on the
torso of a satyr now in the Villa Barbarini, Castel Gandolfo, Rome, which was
in the Ciampolini collection in the Renaissance (Liverani 1989, 92, no. 34,
94–95, figs. 34.1–4). Given the differences in pose, the present author cannot
accept this view. Bandinelli adapted the pose of the Torso Belvedere for his
red chalk drawing, A Nude Man, Seated on a Grassy Bank in the Courtauld
Gallery, as noted by Ruth Rubinstein (Cambridge 1988, 26–27, no. 8, repr.); see
also Barkan 1999, 308–09, fig 5.17. Hegener 2008, 383. Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 34. T. Mozzati, in Florence 2014, 527, who reports that this view is
shared by Mino Gabriele. That author notes (repeating Massari 1983, 125) that
the concept is paralleled in a passage from Ovid’s Metamorphosis (15.236–38).
However, it is also part of a famous passage from Genesis 3:19: ‘In the sweat
of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of
it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ For
the print, see Massari 1983, 1, 125, no. 223, repr. T. Mozzati, in Florence
2014, 527, who also considers that Bandinelli holds a complete statuette, not a
fragment like the others in the print, as a modern manifestation of classicism.
Zucker 1980, 185, no. 53-A (136), repr.; Zucker 2000, 47, .036a. See also
Ripa’s illustrated edition of 1603 (Buscaroli 1992, 142–44, repr.). Fiorentini
1999, 151; Hegener 2008, 383. For the statue: Haskell and Penny 1981, 250–51,
no. 54, 128; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 236–37, no. 185. Faietti and Kelescian
1995, 220–21, no. 4; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 237, 185a. Aldrovandi 1556, 270,
cited and translated by Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 236. As proposed by Hegener
(2008, 380, 382, 389–90) who considered his arms to be based on those of Christ
in Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Zucker 1980, 78, no. 5 (100), repr.; Zucker
1984, 350–51, .028, repr. The pose also anticipates Bandinelli’s God the Father
sculpture of the 1550s in S. Croce, Florence (Florence 2014, 595–98, no. XVIII,
repr.). Although intended as a gift for François I, it never reached its
intended recipient and remained with the next Pope Clement VII, in Florence.
Bober and Rubinstein 2010,pp. 165–66, no. 122b. Capecchi (2014, 129–55)
provides a thorough account of the project. D. Cordellier, in Paris 2000–01, 237–40,
no. 74, repr. 29 Aspertini (1472–1552) (fig.4; Kupferstichtkabinett, Berlin).
avl Rhea Blok has noted (e-mail, 12 August 2014) that the same collector’s mark
is found on Henri Mauperché’s etching, L’Ange conseillant Tobie, with A. et D.
Martinez (Paris 2003, 5, no. 20) and a print by Vincenzo Mazzi (Stage Set from
the Caprici Teatrali, Bologna, 1776) in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New
York, 66.500.27. It also appears on the reverse of the drawing by Hubert
Clerget, La Maison de Boucher, rue Carnot à la Ferte-Bernard, with C. J.
Goodfriend, New York, in 2014. Fiorentini 1999, 150–53, no. 33; Fiorentini and
Rosenberg 2002, 36, 19; Hegener 2008, 380–91, version I, 221, 617, no. 15. J.
Clifton in Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 32–34, no. 1; Hegener 2008, 391; Mozzati
in Florence 2014, 526–27, no. 76. Erna Fiorentini previously attributed it to
Casa with a query (1999, 153). Hegener 2008 618, no. 17, 226; Heinecken
(1778–90, 2, 90). For his portraiture and use of it for self-promotion, see
Weil-Garris 1981, 237–38; Weil-Garris Brandt 1989; Mozzati 2014, 452–63. Florence 2014, 568, no. III; 573, no. VII; 576–81, nos IX.-X. (R.
Schallert). The Orpheus and his copy of the Laocoön (ibid., 571,
no. V) earned his reputation as ‘a great young talent who can export the
Belvedere’. (Barkan, 1999, 279). His personality is revealed in his letters and
the lengthy account in Vasari’s Lives (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 238–76).
See also Weil-Garris 1981, 223–24; Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497. Along with the
date, 1548, the engraving bears the initials and inscription, ‘A.S.Excudebat.’,
presumably Antonio Salamanca, the leading publisher of prints in Rome in the
mid-16th century (Fiorentini and Rosenberg 2002, 38). Many of the prints he
published were of Roman antiquities. See London 2001–02, 233; Pagani 2000;
Witcombe 2008, 67–105. Weil-Garris 1981, 231; Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497. For
a fundamental discussion of Bandinelli and the Antique, see Barkan 1999, 271–408.
Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497, 499–500. Weil-Garris 1981, 237. See V. Krahn, in
Florence 2014, 372–75, cat no. 32 who further notes the similarity between the
Hercules appearing in outline leaning on his club at right in the unfinished
print by Niccolò della Casa (Fiorentini and Rosenberg 2002, 36, 19), and
Bandinelli’s Hercules with the Apple of the Hesperides, c. 1545, in the
Bargello in Florence (372–75, cat. no. 32, repr.). There are many other
engraved representations of Hercules subjects by or based on Bandinelli, who
evidently planned a series, as noted by Roger Ward (in Cambridge 1988, 74,
under cat. no. 42). See also M. Zurla, in Florence 2014, 388–93, cat. nos
37–39. Weil-Garris 1981, 237; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 34. Campidoglio –
freely interpreted by artists like Amico 92 93 5. Giovanni Antonio
da Brescia (fl. 1490–1519), The Belvedere Torso with Legs and Feet, as
Hercules, c. 1500–20, engraving, 166 × 103 mm, The British Museum, Department
of Prints and Drawings, London, 1845,0825.258 6. Baccio Bandinelli, Laocoön,
pen and brown ink, 1520s, 417 × 265 mm, Uizi, Florence, inv. 14785 F
(recto) 4a. Jan van der Straet, called Johannes Stradanus (Bruges
1523–1605 Florence) The Practice of the Visual Arts 1573 Pen and brown ink with
brown wash and white heightening with touches of grey, incised for transfer 436
× 293 mm Inscribed recto, l.c., in pen and brown ink, in reverse sense: ‘io
stradensis flandrvs in 1573 cornelie cort excv’ provenance: Sir H. Sloane
bequest, 1753. literature: Hind and Popham 1915–32, 5, 182, no. 1; Ameisenowa
1963, 58; Wolf-Heiddeger and Cetto 1967, 171, no. 73, repr. on 431; Heikamp
1972, 300 and 1 on 302; Heidelberg 1982, 29, no. 52, pl. 1 on 17; Sellink 1992,
46; Rotterdam 1994, 195–99 (in Dutch), 200–05 (in English), a on 204; Baroni
Vannucci 1997, 63–64, 247, no. 313, repr. on 246. exhibitions: Florence 1980, 213,
no. 523, not repr. (G. G. Bertelà); London 1986, no. 144, repr. on 193 (N.
Turner); Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97, 148–49, no. 39 (M. Kornell);
London, Warwick, and elsewhere 1997–98, 19, 25, 119, no. 142 (D. Petherbridge
and L. Jordanova); London 2001–02, 21, no. 4 (M. Bury); Bruges 2008–09, 227–28,
no. 20 (A. Baroni). The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings,
London, SL,5214.2 exhibited in london only 4b. Cornelis Cort (Hoorn 1533–before
1578 Rome) After Jan van der Straet, called Johannes Stradanus (Bruges
1523–1605 Florence) The Practice of the Visual Arts 1578 Engraving State I of
II1 432 × 295 mm Inscribed recto, l.c., on wooden box: ‘Cornelius Cort fecit. /
1578’; along bottom: ‘Illmo et Exmo Dn ́o Iacobo Boncompagno Arcis Praefecto,
ingenior, ac industriae fautori, Artiú nobiliú praxim, á Io, Stradési Belga
artifiosè expressá, Laureti’ Vaccarius D.D. Romae Anno 1578.’; u.r.: ‘PICTVRA’;
c.l. on table in background: ‘FVSORIA’; u.c. below statue: ‘STATV ARIA’; l.l.
on table: ‘ANATOMIA’; below statue of horse: ‘SCVLPTVRA’; c.r. on book on
table: ‘ARCHITECTVRA’; r. on paper on table: ‘Typorum eneorum / INCISORIA’;
l.c. on stool: ‘Tyrones pi / cture’. provenance: possibly entered Rijksmuseum
collection late 19th century (L.2228)2 literature: Hind and Popham 1915–32, 5, 182;
Bierens de Haan 1948, 199, no. 218, 53; Hollstein 1949–2001, 5, 58, no. 218,
repr.; Ameisenowa 1963, 58; Wolf-Heiddeger and Cetto 1967, 171–72, no. 74,
repr. on 431; Heikamp 1972, 300, 2 on 302; Strauss 1977, 1, 278–79, repr.;
Florence 1980, 213; Parker 1983, 76–77, repr. (as state II); Roman 1984, 88–91,
69; Strauss and Shimura 1986, 249, 218.199; Liedtke 1989, 190, no. 53, repr. on
191; Sellink 1992, 46, 18 on 47; Rotterdam 1994, 195–99 (in Dutch), 200–205 (in
English), no. 69; Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97, 148–51, no. 40;
Baroni Vannucci 1997, 63–64, 436, no. 772; Sellink and Leeflang 2000, part 3, 118–19,
no. 210; London 2001–02, 18–21, no. 3; Munich and Cologne 2002, 321–22, no.
112; Wiebel and Wiedau 2002, 154, repr. on 155; Perry Chapman 2005, 116, 4.7 on
117. exhibitions: Vienna 1987, 320, no. VII.25 (M. Boeckl); Amsterdam 2007, no.
5 (C. Smid and A. White); Bruges 2008–09, no. 21 (A. Baroni); Compton Verney
and Norwich 2009–10, 18–19, no. 16. their careers in Italy. Jan van der Straet
was born in Bruges in 1523, but we know very little of his life before he
arrived in Italy around 1545.4 He settled in Florence but worked in both Rome
and Naples, and became a close collaborator of Giorgio Vasari (1511–74),
assisting him in the decoration of the Palazzo Vecchio and at Poggio a Caiano.
Like Vasari, Van der Straet was immensely versatile, working on paintings and
portraits, making cartoons for tapestries and creating hundreds of designs for
prints. He died in Florence in 1605, and is better known to posterity by the
Italianised version of his name, Johannes Stradanus. He nevertheless maintained
his Flemish identity by signing his works with variations of ‘FLANDRUS’, as
seen in the exhibited drawing; however, it is difficult to decipher, because
Stradanus wrote the inscrip- tion in reverse. This is clear evidence that the
drawing was intended as a design for a print. All the figures use their left
hands, which is further proof, as are the clear indentation lines made to
transfer the design to the plate. Stradanus’ inscription is dated 1573, and
includes the name of the Dutch- man Cornelis Cort, who would engrave the
drawing five years later, in 1578.5 Cort is first documented working in the
printing house of Hieronymous Cock (c. 1510–70) in Antwerp, around 1553, before
he travelled to Italy in 1565.6 At first he worked in Venice, where he formed a
famous partnership with Titian (c. 1488–1576), but he later moved to central
Italy. Cort probably met Stradanus in 1569 in Florence, where the Medicis had
requested his presence to engrave their family tree.7 In the engraving, Cort
moved his own name to the block at the centre foreground, where he also
inscribed the date 1578. Stradanus’ inscription was replaced by one from the
publisher, Lorenzo Vaccari (active 1575–87), dedicating the work to Giacomo Boncampagni,
Prefect of the Castel Sant’Angelo and son of the newly appointed Pope Gregory
XIII (r. 1572–85).8 Cort made several further changes to Stradanus’ design, the
most obvious of which are the inscriptions added to clarify the various
activities being conducted around the room. Thus we can identify the three arts
of disegno taking place in one institution, with painting (‘PICTVRA’) on the
wall, sculpture (‘STATVARIA’ and ‘SCVLPTVRA’) on the plinths in the centre, and
architecture (‘ARCHITECTVRA’), which is given short shrift, repre- sented only
by the man seated at the table before the Venus, holding a pair of dividers.
The architect is in fact overshad- owed by the unusual addition beside him of a
seated engraver, whose burin rests on the corner of the table next to the more
prominent inscription ‘Typorum eneorum INCISORIA’. Michael Bury thought this
focus on engraving was added at Cort’s urging,9 but Stradanus, as the inventor
of more than 560 designs for prints, may himself have decided to place unprecedented
emphasis on the graphic arts.10 Of the three genres of painting – landscape,
portraiture and history paint- ing – the latter was considered the most
admirable, and so it is appropriate that the painting on the wall depicts an
ancient battle scene. Sculpture is depicted hierarchically, with prom- inence
given to the grand marble sculptures atop the plinth, distinguished from the
lesser arts of wax modelling and bronze casting, embodied by the rearing horse
below. While the older bearded masters are at work within their individual
disciplines, their true purpose is to guide the next generation of artists –
the young, clean-shaven students scattered around the room. The foreground is
therefore occupied with training exercises, as the pupils learn to draw after
the Antique and the human body before attempting the loftier projects of
sculpture and painting, exemplified in the upper back registers of the scene.
The role of the Antique is actually more prominent in the print than in the
drawing, as the statuette of Venus – which, like the statuettes in Bandinelli’s
academies (cats 1 and 2), is probably all’antica rather than an antique
original – meets the gaze of a young pupil, whose quill is poised to draw her.
This same youth in Stradanus’ design has already filled his sheet with repeated
sketches of eyes. This reflects a different practice, referred to as the
‘alphabet of drawing’, in which students were encouraged to start with the
smallest part of the human body, usually the eyes, gradually building up a
repertoire of the individual parts before assembling them into more complex
configurations. In the same way, a writer must first learn the alphabet and how
to form indi- vidual letters into words before being able to construct
sentences. Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71) described this as a common practice:
‘The teachers would put a human eye in front of those poor and most tender
youths as their first step in imitating and portraying; this is what happened
to me in my childhood, and probably happened to others as well’ . 1 1 His
statement is corroborated not only by Stradanus’ drawing, but by a similar
youth in Pierfrancesco Alberti’s (1584–1638) etching of a studio (cat. 2, 1)
and by a sheet of eyes from Odoardo Fialetti’s (1573–1638) drawing-book (p. 34,
37). Stradanus repeated the youth and his drawing of eyes in another design for
a print, which appeared in a series called Nova Reperta, published by Philips
Galle (1537– 1612) in the 1590s (fig. 1). This ‘A B C ’ technique of drawing,
as well as the important role of the Antique, were codified in Federico
Zuccaro’s (c. 1540–1609) first statutes for the Accademia di San Luca,
‘re-founded’ in Rome in 1593.12 The idea of progressing from simple elements to
a complex whole originated with Leon Battista Alberti (1404–72), and he
recommended a similar method for the study of human anatomy, starting with the
bones before adding muscles and Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-BI-6381 exhibited
in haarlem only This crowded, idealised vision of a workshop for training artists
is the natural successor to the earlier academies depicted by Baccio Bandinelli
(cats 1 and 2). The Antique still plays a prominent role, seen in the large
marble statues in the centre depicting Rome personified next to the river god
Tiber, both based on the well-known sculptures in the Capitoline,3 and by the
statuette of a Venus Pudica type with her back to us standing on the table in
the foreground. Equal importance, however, is accorded to the study of anatomy,
94 and the young pupils in the foreground focus their attention on the skeleton
and cadaver suspended from ropes and pulleys. This reflects the later
16th-century emphasis on the study of anatomy as an integral part of the
artist’s education, a tendency that was already evident in the skeletons added
to Bandinelli’s second academy print (cat. 2), and which is fully realised in
this scene. The drawing and print catalogued here were produced in close
collaboration by two Northern artists who both made 95 96 97
finally flesh.13 The students in Stradanus’ drawing are dili- gently following
these instructions by examining the bones of a skeleton, while a bespectacled
tutor flays the arm of a corpse to grant them a view of the musculature.
Regardless of which object they are studying, all the pupils are engaged in
drawing, considered to be the essential element in their education. Stradanus’
design is therefore an allegory of the ideal academy, in which all of the arts
are improbably combined under one roof to offer the most well-rounded and comprehensive
instruction to the next generation of artists. Detlef Heikamp, however,
believed it to represent a specific academy, the Accademia di San Luca in Rome,
and to be the pendant to another drawing by Stradanus, now in Heidelberg,
depicting the Accademia del Disegno in Florence (fig. 2).14 Most other scholars
disagree, however, as the Accademia di San Luca was not officially founded
until 1593, exactly 20 years after the drawing was made.15 The drawing also
predates a Breve issued by Pope Gregory XIII in 1577, urging the foundation of
such an academy.16 Heikamp was correct, however, in pointing out the Roman
symbolism of this drawing, evident in the grand statue of Rome personified,
based iconographically on Minerva, flanked by the river god Tiber and the she-wolf
suckling Romulus and Remus. The Heidelberg drawing, by contrast, is decidedly
Florentine, showing Brunelleschi’s dome, the river god of the Arno and the
Florentine lion, the Marzocco. However, the two drawings are very different 2.
Johannes Stradanus, Allegory of the Florentine Academy of Art, c. 1569–70, pen
and brown ink, brown wash and white heightening, 465 × 363 mm, Kurpfälzisches
Museum der Stadt Heidelberg, Inv. Nr. Z 5425 in size,17 and the consensus of
opinion is that they are not a pair, representing separate allegorical,
idealised Roman and Florentine teaching traditions.18 Stradanus himself was a
founding member of the Accademia del Disegno, which opened in 1563 in Florence.
The study of anatomy was a central precept of the Acca- demia, and, while
acting as a consul in the winter of 1563, Stradanus was responsible for
organising a dissection for the students.19 His experience guiding and shaping
young Florentine artists must have informed his designs. Perhaps Stradanus was
compelled to portray such an academy in which the three arts of disegno are
exalted and glorified in order to allay growing concerns about the status of
art and artists.20 Alessandra Baroni made the radical proposal that Cort was
the driving force behind the project, and that it was conceived around 1569
when he and Stradanus were both working in Florence.21 The Medicis commissioned
Cort to engrave their family tree, and while he was in Florence he created a
series of prints with Florentine and Medici themes, including engravings of
tombs in the Medici Chapel. Cort may have undertaken these projects on his own
initiative, and the Heidelberg drawing would have made a fitting addition to
the series. An engraving of it, however, was never executed, perhaps because a
receptive audience could not be found, but in Rome four years later, Cort may
have found a more conducive atmosphere and convinced Stradanus to resume the
endeavour. Whatever the motiva- tion, the design proved very popular, as
evidenced by the existence of two early copies of the engraving, the first of
22 which was published in Venice around 1580. Clearly, Italian audiences were
fascinated by the subject of art and the requisite training necessary for its
creation, in which the Antique played a pivotal role. The second state was
printed 200 years later, when the plate came into the possession of Carlo Losi,
who changed the date on it to 1773 (Bruges 2008–09, 229). I am grateful to Erik
Hinterding, Curator of Prints at the Rijksmuseum, for his correspondence
regarding this provenance. Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 89–90, no. 42 and 113–14,
no. 66. Janssens 2012, 9–10. Karel van Mander’s biography of Van der Straet is
very brief (Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 326–29). A better source is Borghini 1584, 579–89.
There is an excellent chronology of his life, including lists of the related
archival documents, in Baroni Vannucci 1997, 446–51. The inscription ‘CORNELIS
CORT EXCV’ suggests that Cort had intended to publish the print himself. He may
have struggled to do so, explaining the five-year gap between the date of the
drawing and the pub- lication of the print, and it was published by another
man, Lorenzo Vaccari (Bruges 2008–09, 228–29). It may even have been published
post- humously, as Cort died in 1578 (Sellink and Leeflang 2000, part 3, 119).
For Cort’s biography, see Thieme-Becker 1907–50, 12, 475–77. Cock was also the
first publisher with whom Stradanus worked, in 1567, and they had a long
partnership (Baroni 2012, 91). Bruges 2008–09, 228. Boncompagni was appointed
to this post in 1572, and in April 1573 was promoted to Governor General of the
Church. It is strange that the inscrip- tion added to the print in 1578 refers
to Boncompagni by the lesser title of Prefect, which Michael Bury took as proof
that the print was more likely to have been executed in 1573, the same year as
the drawing. He thought it possible that the ‘3’ had simply been changed to an
‘8’ in the date 1578 on the stool; however there are no extant 1573 versions of
the print (London 2001–02, 18, 21). London 2001–02, 18. Leesberg 2012a, 161.
Amornpichetkul 1984, 117 and Cellini 1731, 141. Cellini went on to say he
considered this a ‘poor method’ but he agreed on the means of building up the
bones of a skeleton in order to draw a successful nude. See also Aymonino’s
essay in this catalogue, 33–34. Appendix, no. 7. Alberti 1972, 75 (book 2,
chap. 36) and 97 (book 3, chap. 55). Heikamp 1972, 300. It is true that for
decades the idea for such an institution had been simmer- ing, especially at
the behest of Federico Zuccaro, a founding member of the Accademia del Disegno
in Florence. He was unhappy with its tenets and sought reforms, eventually
simply founding the Accademia di San Luca instead (Pevsner 1940, 59–60).
Heikamp’s theory has been rejected in London 2001–02, 21 and Bruges 2008–09, 226.
The Pope decried the level of decadence in contemporary art and blamed it on
defective training of young artists, arguing that if they had been properly
instructed in both art and religion, they would not sink to such lows (Pevsner
1940, 57). The Heidelberg drawing is much larger and measures 465 × 363 mm. The
figures in the Heidelberg drawing also all use their left hands, so it must
have been intended for a print; however, no such print has come to light
(London 2001–02, 21). Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97, 148. Rotterdam
1994, 200. Bruges 2008–09, 226–27. Bruges 2008–09, 229. For a list of the
copies, see Sellink and Leeflang 2000, part 3, 119. For the practice of copying
after Stradanus’ prints, see Leesberg 2012a. 98 99 1. Published by
Philips Galle after a design by Johannes Stradanus, Color Olivi, plate 14 in
Nova Reperta series, c. 1580–1600, engraving, 201 × 271 mm, private
collection 5. Federico Zuccaro (Urbino c. 1541–1609 Rome) Taddeo in the
Belvedere Court in the Vatican Drawing the Laocoön c. 1595 Pen and brown ink,
brush with brown wash, over black chalk and touches of red chalk, 175 × 425 mm
Inscribed recto in brown pen and ink by the artist on the building in the
background: ‘le camore di Rafaello’; on the figure’s tunic in capital
lettering, ‘THADDEO ZUCCHARO’; numbered u.r. in brown ink: ‘17’. provenance:
Gilbert Paignon Dijonval (1708–92); Charles-Gilbert, Vicomte Morel de Vindé
(1759–1842), see L. 2520; Samuel Woodburn (1786–1853), 1816; Thomas Dimsdale
(1758–1823), see L. 2426; Samuel Woodburn, 1823; Sir Thomas Lawrence
(1769–1830), L. 2445; Samuel Woodburn, 1830; Sold Christie’s, London, 4 June
1860, part of lot 1074; bought by Sir Thomas Phillipps (1792–1872); Thomas
Fitzroy Fenwick (1856–1938); Dr A. S. W. Rosenbach (1876–1952), 1930; Philip H.
and A. S. W. Rosenbach Foundation until 1978; The British Rail Pension Fund,
1978; Their sale, Sotheby’s, New York, 11 January 1990, lot 17; Finacor, Paris;
Their sale, Christie’s, London, 28 January 1999, part of lot 35 (no. 17), from
whom acquired. selected literature:1 Rossi 1997, 64; Acidini Luchinat ; Paul
2000, 5–6, 1; Paris 2000–01, 379–80, under no. 185 (C. Scailliérez); Silver
2007–08, 86; Lukehart 2007–08, 105; Cavazzini 2008, 50, 26; Tronzo 2009, 49, 6,
52–54; Deswarte-Rosa 2011, 27–28, 31, 4; Pierguidi 2011, 29–30, 3; Luchterhandt
2013–14, 38–39, 11. exhibitions: London 1836, 11, no. 17, not repr.; Los
Angeles 1999 (no catalogue); Rome 2006–07, 159–60, no. 51 (M. Serlupi
Crescenzi); Los Angeles 2007–08, 24, 33–34, no. 17 (see also, 7, 40, 70, 86,
127). 1. Apollo Belvedere, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period (117–138 ad) from
a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 224 cm (h), Vatican Museums,
Rome inv. 1015 2. Laocoön, possibly a Roman copy of the 1st century ad after a
Greek original of the 2nd century bc, marble, 242 cm (h), Vatican Museums,
Rome, inv. 1064 The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 99.GA.6.17
exhibited in london only Look here, O Judgment, how he observes the antique and
Polidoro’s style as well as Raphael’s work he studies. (Ecco qui, o Giuditio,
osservando Va de l’antico, e Polidoro il fare E l’opre insiem di Rafael
studiando)2 The series of twenty drawings by Federico Zuccaro of his older
brother, Taddeo (1529–66), is a unique treasure of Renaissance drawing.3 With
cinematic realism and narrative flair, the drawings tell the story of Taddeo’s
travails and even- tual success as a young artist in Rome in the 1540s. It
begins with his heart-rending departure at fourteen from the family home in S.
Angelo in Vado, a provincial town in the Marches, and his arrival in the
Eternal City. There Taddeo sets about following the prescribed course of study
typical for any aspir- ing painter of the period. First, he apprentices with a
local painter, performing menial tasks – preparing pigments and household
chores – and finding time to draw, mostly only at night. After being mistreated
by the painter’s wife, he escapes to discover Rome for himself. He assiduously
copies statues and reliefs from classical antiquity and the work of contem-
porary masters including the frescoes in the Logge and the Stanze of the
Vatican by Raphael, the Last Judgment by Michelangelo and façade paintings by
Polidoro da Caravaggio. After much focused and disciplined study, he triumphs
victoriously with his first major success: the painted façade of Palazzo Mattei
(1548). And this is where the story ends (Taddeo would die prematurely of
illness at the age of thirty-seven). In this drawing, number seventeen, we enter
the story in medias res. Here Taddeo, affectionately identified by name on his
tunic, is at Vatican Belvedere Statue Court studying the most iconic antique
sculptures of the day: the Apollo Belvedere on the left (fig. 1; see also 25–26),
the Nile and Tiber in the centre and the object of his attention, possibly the
most famous work in the collection, the Laocoön on the right (fig. 2; see also 25–26).4
With his back turned, we peer voyeuristi- cally over his shoulder as he draws
intently. He has settled in for a day of intense study; his meagre sustenance,
a small loaf of bread and flask of wine on the ground next to him, has remained
untouched. The notion of the artist drawing inces- santly with little to eat or
drink anticipates the vivid descrip- tion of the young Gian Lorenzo Bernini
(1598–1680) who as a boy spent dawn to dusk at the statue court making copies.5
Significantly, this is the earliest known image of an artist at work at the
Belvedere, the most important and certainly the most influential collection of
classical antiquities assem- bled in the Renaissance.6 Given its unique
accessibility – unlike the collections housed in private aristocratic palaces –
it provided a sanctuary for the unencumbered study of antique statuary, which
also included recently excavated works. Thus, it served a key role in providing
an artistic instruction not just direct but exhilaratingly au courant. It also
meant that the sculptures displayed there would become famous as their images
were disseminated through prints and drawings. When Taddeo visited the
sculpture court in the 1540s, it had undergone a major renovation.7 In 1485,
under Pope Innocent VIII (r. 1484–92), a private villa was built on the hill
behind the old Vatican place, named the Belvedere (‘fair view’), for its
position. In 1503, Pope Julius II (r. 1503–13) commis- sioned the architect,
Donato Bramante (1444–1514), to incor- porate the house with the Vatican
complex thereby creating an enclosed rectangular garden courtyard, the Cortile
del Belvedere, to display his expanding antiquities collection. Wishing it to
be accessible to the public, the Pope had Bramante construct a spiral staircase
that enabled visitors to arrive at the courtyard directly, without having to
enter the palace proper.8 The courtyard was an enchanted world filled with
orange trees, fountains, an elegant loggia, and displayed in the centre of the
court, the colossal marble statues of the Nile and Tiber mounted as fountains.9
Statues including the celebrated Apollo Belvedere and the Laocoön were
displayed in especially created niches.10 Maarten van Heemskerck’s drawing in
the British Museum, c. 1532–33 (fig. 3), the earliest known view of the
Cortile, gives a sense of the space and the disposition of the sculpture
displayed there.11 Immediately evident is that Federico’s al fresco evocation
bears little resemblance to Heemskerck’s and to other con- temporary
descriptions of the courtyard. The setting is now a sun-drenched rise with a
vista, no t an enclosed garden, and the statues are freed from the
confines of their niches. And yet in other ways Federico has gone to lengths to
convince us of the time period – 1540s – as we will see. In fact, so well-known
was this space that Federico needed only to refer to it in short-hand. The
statues depicted would have been instantly recognisable to any viewer and
Taddeo’s location in the Belvedere understood. Since its discovery in January
of 1506 in the ground of a private vineyard on the Esquiline near the remains
of the so-called Baths of Titus, the Laocoön group, comprising the ill-fated
Trojan priest and his two sons violently struggling to free themselves from two
serpents who devour them, was immediately venerated.12 While still in the
ground, the architect and antiquarian, Giuliano di Sangallo, sent to inspect it
by Pope Julius II, identified it as the famous statue singled out by Pliny the
Elder as ‘of all paintings and sculptures the most worthy of admiration’
(Natural History 36.37–38).13 It was installed in the Belvedere in a
chapel-like recess.14 The sculpture’s fame was instant and far-reaching.
Entranced by it, Michelangelo proclaimed it an inimitable miracle.15 Collectors
eagerly sought copies, commissioning Jacopo Sansovino (1486–1570), Baccio
Bandinelli (see cat. 3) and others to make replicas of various sizes in bronze,
marble, wax, terracotta, even gold.16 For artists, its effect was manifold. It
provided an anatomical model for the male nude that was strong, forceful and
capable of dynamic movement. The range of ages and emotions conveyed and
symbolised – fear, agony, heroism in death – also inspired emulation. 3.
Maarten van Heemskerck (1498–1574), View of the Belvedere Sculpture Court, c.
1532–36/37, pen and brown ink, brush with brown wash, 231 × 360 mm, Department
of Print and Drawings, British Museum, London, 1946,0713.639 100
101 102 103 Epitomising human suffering, the statue became a
model for portraying martyrs from Christendom, especially in the
Counter-Reformation.17 For centuries that followed artists would imitate and
infuse this muscular body type and expres- sions in their work (cat. 16). The
group’s influence endured well into the 19th century.18 When the Laocoön was
first discovered, his right arm and that of his youngest son on the left were
missing, as were among other losses the fingers of the eldest son’s right hand.
By the 1530s, the missing appendages were restored including a terracotta arm
by the sculptor, Giovanni Antonio Montorsoli (1507–63).19 Federico’s drawn
version is something of an enigma. In some respects it appears pre-restoration:
the fingers of the eldest son on the right are still missing. But he has
included part of the previously absent right arm of the son on the left but
made him hand-less. Laocoön is shown with his right arm restored but it is out
of view so the angle cannot be determined. In any case, it seems that Federico
has attempted to represent the sculpture as he thought Taddeo and others of his
generation might have first seen it, undoubt- edly to create an air of
authenticity. It is possible that he consulted print sources such as Marco
Dente da Ravenna’s ( f l . 1515–27) Laocoön of c. 1520–23, which makes a
compelling comparison.20 The perfect foil for the Laocoön is the commanding
figure of the Apollo Belvedere anchoring the composition on the left.21 So
instantly recognisable was he that Federico needed only to indicate his lower
half. Discovered at S. Lorenzo in Panisperna in 1489, the statue was acquired
by Giuliano della Rovere, Cardinal of S. Pietro in Vincoli, the future Pope Julius
II, who displayed it in the garden of his palace next to SS. Apostoli.22 After
he became Pope, it was brought to the Vatican in 1508 and installed in a niche
in the Belvedere cortile in 1511. Based on a lost Greek bronze original, it
became one of the most famous statues to survive from antiquity and was copied
by innumerable artists (see cats 6, 25, 26).23 If the Laocoön exemplified the
powerful male nude body in action, the Apollo encapsulated the qualities of its
counterpart, the perfect male youth: elegant, graceful, confident and
restrained; in repose yet poised for action. As the god Apollo he was thought
to have just discharged his arrow at the python of Delphi (see cat. 6) or else,
to be on the verge of killing the sons of Niobe with his arrows, as punishment
for her boasting.24 Praised by Vasari for its instructive importance, every
aspiring artist visited the Apollo in the Belvedere.25 The statue retained
immense popularity in the centuries that followed.26 Federico’s abbreviated
description of the Belvedere Courtyard is a clever device as it allows him to
combine several episodes of Taddeo’s self-education in the same 104 drawing and
a highly sophisticated continuous narration.27 All show Taddeo studying the
Antique in various forms – free- standing statues, narrative reliefs and
contemporary works in an all’antica style. So while the most prominent Taddeo
is at work copying the Belvedere statues, a second Taddeo is visible in the
distance, perched on a window ledge copying Raphael’s celebrated Stanze
frescoes in the papal apartments in the Vatican.28 At the far left is Trajan’s
Column of 113 ad under which are figures, including an artist sketching the
famous reliefs carved on the column shaft, presumably Taddeo again. These
monuments were very distant from one other and yet, countering this artificial
structure, Federico has striven for local historical accuracy. For example, he
shows the column as it would have appeared in Taddeo’s day, omitting the bronze
statue of St Peter at the top that was added by Sixtus V in 1588.29 Lightly
sketched in the left distance is the dome of the Pantheon and on the far right,
what appears to be the Mausoleum of Augustus of 28 bc identifiable by the trees
on the summit.30 Another drawing from the series (fig. 4) further demon-
strates the importance Federico attributed to copying after the Antique, one of
the pillars of artistic education.31 It shows Taddeo studying a relief –
perhaps the right-hand front section of a Muse sarcophagus of a type similar to
an example now in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna (p. 20, 5).32 Having
already sketched the figures – possibly a Muse holding a mask and Apollo – in
black chalk, he is about to go over the contours with pen and ink. Resting on
the relief is the armless body of a male youth similar in type to the Torso of
Apollon Sauroktonos, the so-called Casa Sassi Torso now in the Museo
Archeologico Nazionale in Naples.33 In the back- ground, in another example of
continuous narration, Taddeo copies façade paintings by Polidoro da Caravaggio,
who, specialising in monochrome frescoes imitating marble or bronze reliefs,
represented another type of contemporary all’antica style, one which would
exert an enormous influence on Taddeo’s own approach to painting.34 It is
significant that Federico executed the Taddeo series in the mid-1590s, around
the time that he established a reformed Accademia di San Luca of which he was
elected president in 1593. Learning to draw by copying the work of others – the
Antique, Michelangelo, Raphael and Polidoro da Caravaggio – was already a key
phenomenon of Renaissance workshop practice. Federico codified this practice
further by making such a disciplined approach to drawing central to the
curricu- lum.35 Successful learning also required virtue and hard work – fatica
– both physical and intellectual, and such quali- ties are extolled in
Federico’s drawings of Taddeo.36 According to the guidelines Federico wrote for
the academy, students were required to ‘go out during the week drawing after
the antique’ (see Appendix, no. 7).37 It is significant that in the final image
of the series (fig. 5), an allegorical personification of Study – represented
by a young man diligently copying an antique male torso with other sculptures –
flanks the left side of the Zuccaro family emblem.38 He is joined by
Intelligence on the right. Along with training, Federico was also concerned
with the welfare of young artists and proposed reforms to the artists’ academy
in Florence, the Accademia del Disegno.39 At his death in 1609, he intended the
family palace, the Palazzo Zuccari (now the Bibliotheca Hertziana, Max Planck
Institute for Art History) to house young, struggling artists in Rome, so that
they would not suffer as Taddeo had.40 Appropriate in subject matter, the drawings
may well have prepared a complex arrangement of paintings for the walls of the
palace’s Sala del Disegno.41 This might account for the present drawing’s
unusual dumbbell format.42 Regardless of its intended purpose, the Early Life
of Taddeo series, a touching tribute to one brother from another, sends a clear
message. Drawing, especially after the Antique in all its various forms, was
the cornerstone of artistic education in 16th-century Italy and was to become a
canonical activity throughout Europe in the centuries that followed. As one of
the first great illustrations of this phenomenon in practice, the present
drawing is an ideal visual representation of this exhibition’s theme. avl
4. Federico Zuccaro, Taddeo Drawing after the Antique; in the Background
Copying a Façade by Polidoro, c. 1595, pen and brown ink, brush with brown
wash, over black chalk and touches of red chalk, 423 × 175 mm, The J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 99.GA.6.12 5. Federico Zuccaro, Allegories of Study
and Intelligence Flanking the Zuccaro Emblem, c. 1595, pen and brown ink, brush
with brown wash, over black chalk and touches of red chalk, 176 × 425 mm, The
J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 99.GA.6.20 105 1 Additional
bibliography for the drawings in the series up to 1999 is given in the
catalogue of the Christie’s sale, London, 28 January 1999, 70, lot 35. 2 This
poem written by Federico Zuccaro to accompany this drawing appears on the back
of another sheet in the series (Los Angeles 2007–08, 34, no. 18, 40).
Translation by J. Brooks (ibid., 33–34). 3 The Early Life of Taddeo series,
acquired by the J. Paul Getty Museum in 1999, was the subject of an exhibition
and in-depth catalogue by J. Brooks (Los Angeles 2007–08). 4 For the Tiber and
the Nile see Haskell and Penny 1981, 272–73, no. 65 and 310–11, no. 79;
Klementa 1993, 9–51, nos A1–A39, pls 1–18; 52–71, nos B1–B15, pls 19–23. 5 See
Appendix, no. 9. 6 For essential reading on the Cortile and its history, see
Ackerman 1954; Brummer 1970; Coffin 1979, 69–87; Haskell and Penny 1981, 7–11;
Nesselrath 1994, 52–55; Nesselrath 1998a, 1–16. 7 See Coffin 1979, 69–87;
Haskell and Penny 1981, 7. 8 Coffin 1979, 82. 9 For the two Rivers, see above,
note 4. 10 For statues in their niches, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 11, 4, and
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 122c. 11 First published as Heemskerck in Winner and
Nesselrath 1987, 867; see also M. Serlupi Crescenzi, in Rome 2006–07, 148–49,
no. 37. For a sense of the atmosphere, see the painting by Hendrik III van Cleve
(1524–89), 1550, in the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brussels (M.
Serlupi Crescenzi, in Rome 2006–07, 146–47, no. 34), see Aymonino’s essay in
this catalogue, 26, 21. 12 For the group, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 243–47,
no. 52; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 164–68, no. 122, Pasquier 2000–01b and the
exhibition catalogue devoted to it, Rome 2006–07. 13 Haskell and Penny 1981, 243;
M. Buranelli, in Rome 2006–07, 127–28, no. 13. 14 Coffin 1979, 82; Haskell and
Penny 1981, 243. 15 Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 165, see also Aymonino’s essay
in this catalogue, 28. 16 Haskell and Penny 1981, 244 and Settis 1998, 129–60.
17 Ettlinger 1961, 121–26; Brummer 1970, 117–18; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 166.
18 For the statue’s critical reception, see Bieber 1967; Brilliant 2000;
Décultot 2003 and Rome 2006–07. 19 Haskell and Penny 1981, 246–47; Nesselrath
1998b, 165–74; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 165. Montorsoli’s additions were
removed in 1540 when Primaticcio made a mould of the group unrestored to
prepare a cast in bronze for Francis I (Rome 2006-07, 150–51, no. 40). The
additions were then put back. 20 Oberhuber 1978, 50, no. 353 (268); T.
Schtrauch, in Rome 2006–07, 152–53, no. 42. 21 For their juxtaposition, see
Tronzo 2009, 49–55. 22 According to a document published by Fusco and Corti
2006 (Appendix I, 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 309,
doc. 112; see also 52–56). For the statue, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 148–51,
no. 8; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 76–77, no. 28. In 1532–33 Montorsoli replaced
the existing right arm and restored the hands (Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 77).
Federico presents it in its restored state with bow. Haskell and Penny 1981, 150.
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 76; Vasari’s preface to Part III of the Lives, 1568
ed. (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 4, 7). See Roettgen 1998, 253–74. He
employs the same device in other drawings in the series (Los Angeles 2007–08, 7).
Federico indicates the location on the drawing itself with the inscription, le
camore di Rafaello (the rooms of Raphael). Another drawing in the series shows
him copying the frescoes in the loggia of the Villa Farnesina, see Los Angeles
2007–08, 20, 32, no. 13. For the column, its reliefs and history, see Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 208–10, no. 159. Francesco Soderini purchased the Mausoleum in
1546 in order to transform the tomb into a garden museum with antique statuary.
See Riccomini 1995, especially 267, 91 (Etienne Du Pérac’s engraving, 1575) and
271, 95 (Alò Giovannoli’s engaving, 1619) and Riccomini 1996. Los Angeles
2007–08, 19, 31–32, no. 12. For essential reading on Taddeo, Federico and the
antique and the absorption of it in their work, see Silver 2007–08, 86–91.
Wegner 1966, 88–89, no. 228, plates 11–12. Los Angeles 2007–08, 31. In Taddeo’s
time the torso (CensusID 159347 and Ruesch 1911, 158, no. 491) was in the
courtyard of the Sassi family palace displayed in a niche as seen in
Heemskerck’s famous view reproduced in etching (Paris 2000–01, 360–62, no. 169,
entry by C. Scailliérez). For Polidoro and the Zuccari, see Los Angeles
2007–08, 71–77. Armenini had already advised artists to copy Polidoro’s
frescoes (1587, 58, book 1, chap. 7). Alberti 1604, 7. See also Armenini, 1587,
52–59 (book 1, chap. 7). See also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 32–33
Rossi 1997, 66–68. Alberti 1604, 8 (‘e chi andarà frà la settimana
dissegnando all’antico’), cited and translated in Silver 2007-08, 86). Los Angeles 2007–08, 27, 35, no. 20. Ibid., 2. Ibid. For previous
arguments on the topic and a fascinating hypothetical recon- struction of the
Sala del Disegno, see Strunck 2007–08, 113–25. The shape is adapted slightly in
a version of the present drawing in the Uffizi, Florence, of similar dimensions
(Paris 2000–01, 379–80, no. 185 (entry by C. Scailliérez), believed by Gere to
be autograph (1990, under no. 17) but by Brooks as unlikely to be and the
present author agrees. See Los Angeles 2007– 08, 45, note 48, where two other
copies are also noted: Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid 7656 and the other sold
Phillips, London, 9 July 2001, lot 148. 6. Hendrick Goltzius
(Bracht-am-Niederrhein 1558–1617 Haarlem) a. The Apollo Belvedere 1591 Black
and white chalk on blue paper indented for transfer; 388 × 244 mm provenance:
Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–89)1; Cardinal Decio Azzolini (1623–89);
Marchese Pompeo Azzolini (1654–1706); Don Livio Odescalchi (1658–1713);
purchased from the Odescalchi family by the Teylers Foundation, 1790. selected
literature: Reznicek 1961, 1, 326, no. 208, 2, 170; Van Regteren Altena 1964, 19,
101–02, no. 32; Miedema 1969, 76–77; Brummer 1970, 70–71, repr.; Stolzenburg
2000, 426–27, repr., 439, no. 173; Brandt 2001, 148; Hamburg 2002, 114, repr.
under no. 33; Amsterdam, New York and elsewhere 2003–04, 269, repr.; Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 77, under no. 28; Leesberg 2012b, 2, 370 under no. 380;
Göttingen 2013–14, 22–23, 6; Nichols 2013a, 56, 84, 54; Veldman 2013–14, 105.
exhibitions: Münster 1976, 138, no. 111, 140, repr. Teylers Museum, Haarlem,
inv. no. K III 23 exhibited in haarlem only b. Apollo Belvedere 1592 Engraving,
412 × 300 mm State II of II Inscribed on the base of the statue: ‘HG sculp.
APOLLO PYTHIUS Cum privil. Sa. Cæ. M.’. With the address of the printer at
right ‘Herman Adolfz excud. Haerlemens.’. Inscribed with two lines in the lower
margin, at centre: ‘Statua antiqua Romae in palatio Pontificis belle vider /
opus posthumum HGoltzij iam primum divulgat. Ano. M.D.C.X.VII.’.2 Two Latin
distichs by Theodorus Schrevelius in margin l.l. and l.r.: ‘Vix natus armis
Delius Vulcaniis / Donatus infans, sacra Parnassi iuga’ / ‘Petii. draconem
matris hostem spiculis / Pythona fixi: nomen inde Pythii. Schrevel’.3 Numbered
in l.l. corner: ‘3’. Published by Herman Adolfsz. (fl. 1607) in 1617
provenance: et D. Colnaghi Co., London, from whom acquired in 1854. literature:
Bartsch 1854–76, 3, 45, no. 145; Hirschmann 1921, 60–61, no. 147; Hollstein
1949–2001, 8, 33, no. 147.II, repr.; Strauss 1977, 2, 566–67, no. 314, repr.;
Leesberg 2012b, 2, 370, no. 380, 373–74, repr. exhibitions: Not previously
exhibited. The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London,
1854,0513.106 106 107 It was undoubtedly at the urging of Karel van Mander
(1548– 1606), his friend and fellow Haarlem artist, that Hendrick Goltzius left
for Rome in 1590 in order to study the remnants of classical antiquity and the
works of modern Italian masters.4 He was already thirty-two years old. Northern
artists usually went south when they were much younger, sometimes even half
that age. The tradition of artists travel- ling from Northern Europe to Italy,
eager to learn, had begun almost a century earlier with Jan Gossaert, called
Mabuse (c. 1472–1532). Other well-known Dutch artists who had derived
inspiration from antique remains in Rome and who had produced drawings after
them, were Jan van Scorel (1495–1562) and above all, Maarten van Heemskerck
(1498– 1574), also a native of Haarlem.5 Like these artists Goltzius travelled
to Rome as a mature draughtsman, eager to deepen his knowledge and see with his
own eyes the works of art of which he had heard so much. It was probably family
obligations and his flourishing print workshop that had delayed his Italian
trip for so long. Finally in 1590–91, hoping for relief from the consumptive
state of his health, Goltzius made the long anticipated journey.6 We know from
Van Mander that on arriving in Rome, Goltzius concentrated almost exclusively
on drawing the most important classical sculptures carefully and industri-
ously.7 Goltzius was now a celebrity, for his prints had spread his fame
throughout Europe, but he travelled largely incognito. In Rome, for example, he
donned rustic garb in order to blend in with pupils and amateurs drawing from
the Antique. According to Van Mander, they looked at him pityingly until they
saw what he was capable of, whereupon they started asking him for advice.8
Although this story may be a topos – art-loving Italy values a gifted outsider
– it is not hard to imagine such an encounter when one considers Goltzius’
Roman drawings.9 Forty-three of Goltzius’ drawings after thirty different
classical statues survive, plus one after Michelangelo’s Moses; all are
preserved in the Teylers Museum in Haarlem.10 In the short time at Goltzius’
disposal – he was only in Rome for seven months – he managed to copy all the
most impor- tant sculptures, in both public and semi-public locations
108 109 such as churches and papal palaces, and in some private
collections.11 He must have prepared thoroughly for his drawing expedition and
have studied travel books and prints before his departure. Certainly at his
disposal would have been Maarten van Heemskerck’s Roman sketchbook, now in the
Berlin Kupferstichkabinett, but then owned by his fellow Haarlem artist,
Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem (1562–1638) (see 35, figs 39–43 and cat. no.
8).12 Strikingly Goltzius’ selection more or less corresponded with the antique
statues described in travel literature.13 Evidently, a canon of the most
outstanding classical statues in Rome had already been established and
disseminated to the North and although this canon would later be expanded, most
of the statues drawn by Goltzius in 1591 continued to remain popular models for
artists in subsequent centuries (see cat. nos 14–16, 21, 25–27 and 31).
Goltzius did not make his drawings merely as an exercise. The artist and
printshop owner was well aware of the importance of those statues for their
reproductive potential. He must have envisaged a series of engravings from the
very outset and that is why he went to such lengths to select the most
celebrated and, by then, canonical sculptures. The series he had in mind would
have rivalled existing print series of antique sculptures in Rome, such as
Antoine Lafréry’s Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae, published between 1545 and
1577 (fig. 1), or Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri’s Antiquarum Statuarum Urbis
Romae, published between the 1560s and the 1590s.14 Cavalieri’s reproductions
were printed on small plates, without backgrounds, and incorporated little
information about the sculptures in their locations; the lighting is not
consistent and there is a lack of naturalism in the statues’ rendering. While
the differences between Lafréry’s reproductions and what Goltzius planned to
create are less striking, the burin technique is more refined in Goltzius’
works, his rendering of the statues more realistic and his prints fractionally
larger; moreover, he generally represented the statues from closer vantage
points, thereby creating more engaging compositions.15 What audience did
Goltzius have in mind when he produced his drawings and his prints? While
Cavalieri and Lafréry’s publications were mainly intended for antiquaries and
art lovers, Goltzius seems to have aimed at a broader audience encompassing
artists as well as amateurs. This is supported by his emphasis on
anatomical precision and the sculptures’ three-dimensional character, rather
than accu- racy of reproduction – he sometimes omitted inscriptions, for
example (see cat. 8); the presence of the draughtsman in the print displayed is
also significant in this connection. Goltzius’ project was timely for around
this period a market seems to have been developing for prints after 110
publication, but found himself overwhelmed with other projects. In most of his
drawings after antique sculpture, Goltzius began with a sketch in black and
white chalk on bluish-grey paper, like this drawing of Apollo Belvedere. The
trial-and- error lines by the figure’s legs and waist suggest that he had
difficulty deciding on a vantage point. He would then have used a stylus to
indent the contours of that sketch onto a second sheet of paper, on which he
subsequently produced an extremely precise drawing of the statue. That second
version in red chalk, unfortunately now lost, would have served as the model
for the engraver. Teylers Museum has both drawings for the Farnese Hercules
Seen from Behind (see cat. 7a and 2) but at some point Goltzius’ second version
of the Apollo Belvedere was separated from the group that ended in the Teylers
Museum,20 for in the early 18th century it belonged to the famous collector
Valerius Röver (1686– 1739) of Delft,21 and was listed in his inventory: ‘The
Apollo, with red chalk, transferred to the copper by Goltzius, which print is
herewith attached, fl. 3:10’.22 The engraving is in the same direction as the
black chalk drawing, and the size of the statue is identical in both.23 The
most striking difference between them is the rendering of volume. The statue
appears a little flat in the drawing, while in the print it is highly
sculptural, with a keenly observed interplay between light and shade across the
form lending relief and depth to the engraving. As noted above, Goltzius would
have developed these features in the lost red chalk version of the subject. It
may be that this lost drawing also incorporated the draughtsman seen in the
lower right corner of the print, and the large cast shadow on the left,
accessories and details that Goltzius tended to vary from work to work. In any
event, these added elements reinforce the sense of depth; the draughtsman also
conveys an idea of the scale of the statue (see cat. 7). But perhaps Goltzius
added the young draughtsman for yet another reason. His rendering of this
figure is so direct, so true to life, that it appears to be a portrait. The two
small figures in his reproduction of the Farnese Hercules are also represented
in a fashion which suggests that these too are portraits (cat. 7, 4). It seems
that in Rome Goltzius asked a local artist, Gaspare Celio (1571–1640), to draw
copies of both classical and modern artworks for him and they may have drawn
some works together.24 Could this figure be Celio? Pure speculation, of course,
for remarkably little is known about this mysterious individual.25 At any rate
the figure of the draughtsman is seated exactly as Goltzius must have
positioned himself, although at a different angle, employing the same technique
(n.b. the porte-crayon), the same format paper and probably the same travel board.
And this may point to another reason for Goltzius’ introduction of the young
draughtsman: to emphasise the didactic inten- tion of the series and to convey
the message that these prints allowed artists to draw the finest Roman
sculptures, just like the draughtsman in the image, without having to go to
Rome. Whatever the reason for this figure’s inclusion, his presence
demonstrates – as does Van Mander’s story of Goltzius amidst younger artists –
that during this period the copying of antique sculptures in Rome was very
widespread. The Apollo Belvedere is a Roman copy of a Greek original by
Leochares from c. 330–320 bc. The copy probably dates from the reign of Hadrian
(117–138 bc). In the late 15th cen- tury the Apollo was in the collection of
Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, who, as Pope Julius II, placed it in the
Belvedere, where it was displayed in the small Cortile delle Statue (see 26, 21
and cat. 5). The Apollo Belvedere soon became one of the most famous sculptures
in the collection and was drawn by many artists. Prints of the sculpture by
Agostino Veneziano (c. 1518–20, see 28, 29), Marcantonio Raimondi (c. 1530) and
Goltzius himself (c. 1617), among others, ensured that its fame spread
throughout Europe. However, the Apollo’s prestige began to fade in the 19th
century and nowadays the sculpture, while well-known to art historians is less
appreciated by the general public.26 1. Anonymous engraver after
Marcantonio Raimondi, published by Antoine Lafréry, Apollo Belvedere, 1552,
engraving, 323 × 228 mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-H-232 antique statues for
artists to employ as models. Between 1599 and 1616 Goltzius’ stepson Jacob
Matham published the first known printed sketchbook after the Antique,
Verscheijden Cierage,16 intended, according to its title page, for an interna-
tional public of artists and amateurs.17 And it seems likely that Goltzius
envisaged the same international audience for his projected series, perhaps
particularly young students in Northern Europe – and no doubt his own pupils –
who were not able to undertake the trip to Rome but could use his engravings as
models.18 It was probably in 1592, soon after his return from Italy, that
Goltzius embarked on the print series, engraving after his own drawings three
of the statues: the Farnese Hercules Seen from Behind (cat. 7), Hercules and
Telephus and this Apollo Belvedere. It is unlikely that Goltzius was
disappointed with the results but he progressed no further with the project and
never officially printed the plates which were published posthumously in 1617,
bearing the address of the Haarlem publisher Herman Adolfsz.19 We do not know
why Goltzius did not publish these prints in his lifetime but it may have been
the result of excessive ambition. He probably hoped to market a much longer
series of prints in a single mp I. M.
Veldman revealed the Rudolf II provenance for Goltzius’ Roman portfolio to be a
myth. A more logical provenance might be, as Veldman suggests, through Jacob
Matham (1571–1631), Theodor Matham (1605/06– 76), Joachim von Sandrart
(1606–88) and/or Pieter Spiering (1594/97–1652): Veldman 2013–14, 109–13. ‘An
antique statue in Rome, in the Pope’s Belvedere Palace; a work by H. Goltzius
that is now being published posthumously for the first time, in the year 1617’.
‘Barely born, I, Apollo of the island of Delos, received arms from Vulcan; I
sought the sacred heights of Parnassus; with my arrows I pierced the dragon
Python, my mother Leto’s enemy; thus it is that I bear the name “Pythian”’. I
wish to thank Professor Ilja Veldman, who generously put at my disposal her
Goltzius entries for the forthcoming catalogue of the 16th-century
Netherlandish drawings in the Teylers Museum, which she is preparing with
Yvonne Bleyerveld. For the early tradition of Northern European artists going
to Rome (includ- ing Gossaert, Van Scorel and Van Heemskerck), see Brussels and
Rome 1995. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 388–89 (fol. 282 verso). Ibid., 390–91
(fol. 283 recto). Ibid. Luijten 2003–04, 123. Reznicek 1961, 1, 89–94, 319–46,
nos 200–38; 245–48. From the 1689–90 inventory of Goltzius drawings owned
by Queen Christina of Sweden it is known that Goltzius also produced (now lost)
drawings of two famous antique figures, the Spinario (now in the Capitoline
Museums, Rome, see 23, 15) and the Farnese Bull (now in the Museo Archeologico
Nazionale, Naples); see Stolzenburg 2000, 437, 140–41, 440, no. 180 and Veldman
2013–14, 101. Veldman 2012, 11–23. Reznicek 1961, 90; Brandt 2001, 136. Haskell
and Penny 1981, 18; Brandt 2001, 136. Brandt 2001, 143–46. Fuhring 1992, 57–84.
111 17 Ibid., 64–65, 76, pl. 1. 18 It is tempting at this point to think
of the ‘Haarlem Academy’, of which Goltzius was a member before his departure
for Italy as a true academy, where artists could draw from life and presumably
also after sculptures. However, in all probability this ‘academy’ comprised no
more than three artists: Karel van Mander, Cornelis Cornelisz. and Goltzius.
See also cat. 8. 19 Leesberg 2012b, 2, 368–75, nos 378–80; Luijten 2003–04, 119–20.
20 For the provenance of the drawings see Stolzenburg 2000 and Veldman 2013–14.
21 Van Regteren Altena 1964, 101–02, under no. 32. 22 ‘De Apollo, met
rootaarde, door Goltzius int koper gebragt, welke print hierbij gevoegt is, f
3:10.’ See the manuscript catalogue by Valerius Röver in the Amsterdam
University Library, inv.no. II A 18: Catalogus van boeken, schilderijen,
teekeningen, printen, beelden, rariteiten [1730], portefeuille 2, no. 3. 23 In
view of the incomplete right hand and the missing left hand it seems likely
that the sheet has been trimmed on the right and left, and possibly at the top
as well. 24 Baglione 1642, 377. 25 26 All we really know is that Celio must
have drawn a copy of Raphael’s fresco, The prophet Isaiah in the San Agostino
in Rome for Goltzius (see Luijten 2003, 118). Goltzius used this copy for his
engraving; see Leesberg 2012b, 2, 292–93, no. 333, repr. For a recently
published drawing by Celio in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, with a parade
carriage of his own design incorporating pyrotechnic features, see Stemerding
2012, 13–17. For the history and the fortuna critica of the Apollo Belvedere:
Haskell and Penny 1981, 148–51, no. 8; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 76–77, no.
28. Regarding the sculpture’s reputation today, which some describe as
bordering on total neglect, Kenneth Clark observed in 1969: ‘. . . for four
hundred years after it was discovered the Apollo was the most admired piece of
sculpture in the world. It was Napoleon’s greatest boast to have looted it from
the Vatican. Now it is completely forgotten except by the guides of coach parties,
who have become the only surviving transmitters of traditional culture.’ Clark
1969a, 2. 7. Hendrick Goltzius (Bracht-am-Niederrhein 1558–1617 Haarlem) a. The
Farnese Hercules Seen from Behind 1591 Red chalk, indented for transfer, 390 ×
215 mm. Verso: Design lightly traced in black chalk from recto. The upper
corners cut. literature: Scholten 1904, 40, cat. N 19; Hirschmann 1921, 59;
Reznicek 1961, 1, 337, cat. K 227, 2, 179; Miedema 1969, 76–77, repr. (recto
and verso); Schapelhouman 1979, 67, note 3; Amsterdam 1993–94, 361–62, under
no. 24 (B. Cornelis); Stolzenburg 2000, 439, no. 164; Brandt 2001, 139, 144, 132,
148; Hamburg 2002, 116, under no. 34 (A. Stolzenburg) ; Leeflang 2012, 24–25, 5;
Leesberg 2012b, 2, 368–69, under no. 378; Göttingen 2013–14, 210; Veldman
2013–14, 102–05. exhibitions: New York 1988, 58–60, no. 12; Brussels and Rome
1995, 204, no. 101; Luijten 2003–04, 132–36, no. 42.2. Teylers Museum, Haarlem,
inv. N 19 exhibited in haarlem only b. The Farnese Hercules, 1592 (published
1617) Engraving Only state 416 × 300 mm Lettered on the base of the statue:
‘HERCULES VICTOR’. Lettered in l.l. corner: ‘HGoltzius sculpt. Cum privilig. /
Sa. Cæ. M.’ and ‘Herman Adolfz / excud. Haerlemen’. Inscribed with two lines in
the lower margin, at centre: ‘Statua antiqua Romae in palatio Cardinalis
Fernesij / opus posthumum H Goltzij iam primum divulgata Ano M.D.CXVII.2 Two
Latin distichs by Theodorus Schrevelius in margin l.l. and l.r.: ‘Domito
triformi rege Lusitaniae / Raptisque malis, quae Hesperi sub cardine / Servarat
hortis aureis vigil draco, / Fessus quievi terror orbis Hercules.’3 Numbered in
l.l. corner: ‘1’. provenance: Bequest of Carel Godfried Voorhelm Schneevoogt
(1802–77), Haarlem. literature: Bartsch 1803–21, 3, 44–45, no. 143; Hirschmann
1921, 58–59, no. 145; Hollstein 1949–2001, 8, 33, no. 145, repr.; Strauss 1977,
2, 562–63, no. 312, repr., 569; Leesberg 2012b, 2, 368–69, no. 378, repr. 112
113 1 Odescalchi (1658–1713); purchased from the Odescalchi family by the
Teylers Foundation, 1790. provenance: Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–89);
Cardinal Decio Azzolini (1623–89); Marchese Pompeo Azzolini (1654–1706); Don Livio
exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. KG 02263
The Farnese Hercules, which bears a Greek inscription naming ‘Glykon of
Athens’, a sculptor unknown in classical litera- ture, was one of the most
famous statues in Rome from the time of its discovery until the end of the 19th
century (fig. 1).4 The first certain mention of it dates from 1556, when it
stood in Palazzo Farnese.5 The fragments, unearthed at different times, must
have been reassembled shortly before. The head was found in a well in
Trastevere, probably around 1540. The torso was discovered six years later in
the Baths of Caracalla, followed by the legs.6 However, the legs emerged too
late to be incorporated in the statue because it had already been ‘restored’ and
given new ones by Guglielmo della Porta (1500/10–1577). Oddly enough,
Michelangelo allegedly appealed to the Farnese family to leave the new legs in
place and not replace them with the originals, ‘in order to show that works of
modern sculpture can stand in compari- son with those of the ancients’.7 The
statue recovered its original legs only in the 18th century. In addition to the
Palazzo Farnese, Goltzius drew studies on the Capitol, the Quirinal and in the
Belvedere statue court (see cats 6, 8). He had an ambitious plan for his
drawings: they were to prepare a series of high-quality and accurate engravings
of the most important classical statues, on a scale not previ- ously
attempted.8 The importance he attached to the project is evident from the care
he lavished on many of his drawings. In preparation for this one, which is in
red chalk, he first made an equally large, slightly freer and more loosely
drawn black chalk version on blue paper (fig. 2; see cat. 6a). He then indented
the contours through onto the white sheet on which he made the present drawing.
The contours are conse- quently razor-sharp. He then exercised phenomenal skill
in depicting the statue’s volume and the smooth texture of the marble with a
subtle interplay of light and shade. He achieved this by leaving reserves of
white paper, by alternating pressure on the chalk and by stumping it here and
there so that individual strokes are no longer visible.9 114
115 1. The Farnese Hercules, back view, Roman copy of the
3rd century ad of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, 317 cm (h), Museo
Archeologico Nazionale, Naples, inv. 6001 2. Hendrick Goltzius, The Farnese
Hercules seen from Behind, 1591, black and white chalk on blue paper indented
for transfer, 360 × 210 mm, Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. K III 30 3. Hendrick
Goltzius, The Farnese Hercules, black and white chalk on blue paper, indented
for transfer, 382 × 189 mm, Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. N 20 4. Hendrick
Goltzius, Two Male Heads: Jan Matthijsz Ban and Philips van Winghen (?),
metalpoint on an ivory-coloured prepared tablet, 92 × 117 mm, Amsterdam Museum,
inv. A 10180 demonstrate that he had seen the sculpture in the round, making
this clear by depicting the figure’s ‘alien’ back as well as its usual front.
His choice was probably inspired by a combination of these factors. The
Amsterdam Museum houses Goltzius’ preparatory drawing (fig. 4) of the two men
whose admiring, upturned gazes provide such a fine connection between the front
and back of the Farnese Hercules.16 In the engraving they are repre- sented in
mirror image and have been exchanged for each other. They have portrait-like
features and their identities have been a subject for speculation. The most
serious suggestion made so far, dating from the end of the 19th century, is
that they were Goltzius’ temporary travelling companions: Jan Matthijsz Ban on
the left and Philips van Winghen (d. 1592) on the right; they may even have
witnessed him drawing this statue.17 It is difficult to verify this sugges-
tion, but it is certainly interesting and plausible. Goltzius had produced,
albeit on a larger scale, several portraits of his circle of acquaintances in
Rome and elsewhere such as Giambologna (1529–1608), Dirck de Vries ( fl.
1590–92) and Jan van der Straet, also called Stradanus (1523–1605; see cat.
4).18 Most of his sitters, like Ban and Van Winghen, were northern artists
active in Italy. Ban was a silversmith, and Van Winghen is described by Karel
van Mander as ‘a learned young nobleman from Brussels [ . . . ] who was a great
archaeologist’.19 According to Van Mander the three of them made an excursion
from Rome to Naples in the spring of 1591.20 Van Winghen died unexpectedly in
1592,21 and it was maybe as a tribute to his friend that Goltzius included him
in the plate that he cut that same year. mp
See footnote 1 in cat. 6. ‘An antique statue in Rome, in the palace of
Cardinal Farnese; a work by H. Goltzius that is now being published
posthumously for the first time, in the year 1617’. ‘Now that I have vanquished
the King of Spain with his three bodies [Geryon] and have stolen the apples
that were guarded by a vigilant dragon under the western heaven in the golden
garden, I, Hercules, the terror of the world, rest from my labours’. I wish to
thank Professor Ilja Veldman, who generously put at my disposal her Goltzius
entries for the forthcoming catalogue of the sixteenth- century Netherlandish
drawings in the Teylers Museum, which she is preparing with Yvonne Bleyerveld. U.
Aldrovandi, ‘Delle statue antiche, che per tutta Roma ... si veggono’, in Mauro
1556, 157–58. The Hercules, today in the Museo Archeologico
Nazionale in Naples, is regarded as an enlarged copy of the 3rd century ad
after an original by Lysippos or someone from his school of the 4th century bc.
For its history and fortuna critica see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46;
Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1. Haskell and Penny 1981, 229. Baglione 1642
(facsimile edition, Rome 1935), 151: ‘. . . per mostrare con quel rifarcimento
si degno al mondo, che le opere della scultura moderna potevano stare al
paragone de’lavori antichi’. Reznicek 1961, 2, 89–94;
Brandt 2001, passim; Luijten 2003–04, 117–25. For both drawings see Luijten
2003–04, 132–36. Göttingen 2013–14, 210–11. For the prints by Bos and Ghisi see
Göttingen 2013–14, 205–07, no. II. 18 (Ghisi) and 285–86, no. IV.09 (Bos).
Brandt 2001, 143–46. It has been suggested that Goltzius was prompted to make
his unorthodox choice by a description in Pliny of a painting by Apelles of
Hercules with Face Averted, whose features could nevertheless be guessed.
Goltzius may have known the related engraving by G. J. Caraglio after Rosso
Fiorentino: see Luijten 2003–04, 134 (with previous literature). For the dating
of the three prints see Reznicek 1961, 419; Boston and St. Louis 1981–82, 12,
under no. 6. See the painting Rest by Nicolaes Berchem the Elder (1620–83)
dated 1644 in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the painting The
Return from the Hunt, also by Berchem, from c. 1670 in The J. Paul Getty
Museum, Los Angeles, both of which include a male figure whose attitude is
clearly based on that of the Farnese Hercules (Amsterdam and Washington D.C.
1981–82, 67, 2; Haarlem, Zurich and elsewhere 2006–07, 85, cat. 45, repr.). A
drawing by Berchem, Standing Herdsman from the Back in the Rijksmuseum,
prepares the figure of the standing herdsman in the New York painting (see
Amsterdam and Washington D.C., 1981–82, 67, 1). Schapelhouman 1979, 67 (with
earlier literature); Luijten 2003–04, 135–36. Hymans 1884–85, 187, note 1.
Schapelhouman (1979, 67) does not believe this, while Luijten (2003–04, 135–36)
considers it plausible. It is curious that Goltzius altered the preparatory
drawing of the two men’s heads in the engraving (fig. 3): in addition to
representing them in mirror image and swopping them over, he depicted them in
the same scale as well. Ban (if it is indeed Ban) is now somewhat taller than
Van Winghen, which would reflect reality for Van Mander reports that Ban was a
sizeable man (Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 392–93, fol. 283v). Schapelhouman 2003–04,
147–58. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 392–93 (fol. 283v). Ibid. Between 1592 and 1597
Jacob Matham engraved a portrait of Philips van Winghen after another (unknown)
drawing by Goltzius; see Widerkehr and Leeflang 2007, 2, 256, no. 263. However
beautiful the two drawings in black and red chalk may be, it is only in
Goltzius’ engraving that we really see what he intended. The backlit effect of
the Farnese Hercules is seen to best advantage in the print, in which the added
clouds have a functional role by creating a sense of depth and atmosphere. It
is enhanced by the two observers, also only introduced in the print stage, who
help to convey the statue’s scale. As we view Hercules from behind, the two
admirers are gazing upon the sunlit front. The resulting interaction between
front and back, between seeing and imagining, gives the print an agreeable
tension that is missing in the drawings.10 Goltzius was probably familiar with
the Farnese Hercules even before he went to Italy from descriptions in travel
guides to Rome, through prints of 1562 and around 1575 by Jacobus Bos (c.
1520–c. 1580) and Giorgio Ghisi (1520–82)11 and possibly also from the larger
print series by Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri (1570–84) and Antoine Lafréry
(c. 1575).12 All showed the Hercules from the front, but Goltzius drew it from
both sides (fig. 3). He seems to have been the first artist to appreciate its
beauty from the back, or, at least, the first to record it on paper. He must
have been very pleased with the 116 unorthodox view13 because he chose this
viewpoint in 1592 when he issued the engraving, one of the only three that he
engraved from his series of drawings (see also cat. 6b).14 It was thanks to
Goltzius’ engraving that the back view of the statue became as popular as the
front (see cats 16 and 21). Something of this popularity is revealed by the
fact that by the mid-17th century the Hercules Farnese seen from the rear,
bending slightly forwards with his arm on his back, had permeated Dutch genre
painting.15 The question arises: why did Goltzius choose to adopt this angle?
Could it be that he had a didactic purpose in mind when he produced the first
rendering in a print series of the back of a muscular male body at rest? With
Goltzius’ magnificent print in hand, young artists could now study the anatomy
of a ‘hero’s’ back and use this in their own work. Goltzius’ print of the
Apollo Belvedere (cat. 6b) offered a similar aid with the anatomy of an elegant
youth. Goltzius also drew other figures, such as the Belvedere Torso (cat. 8),
from several angles, but in these he was probably experi- menting with
different points of view rather than having a didactic aim in mind. Goltzius
might also have chosen to represent both sides of the Farnese Hercules
expressly to 117 8. Hendrick Goltzius (Bracht-am-Niederrhein 1558–1617
Haarlem) The Belvedere Torso 1591 Red chalk, 255 × 166 mm provenance: Queen
Christina of Sweden (1626–89)1; Cardinal Decio Azzolini (1623–89); Marchese
Pompeo Azzolini (1654–1706); Don Livio Odescalchi (1658–1713); purchased from
the Odescalchi family by the Teylers Foundation, 1790. literature: Scholten
1904, 42, no. N 31; Reznicek, 1961, 2, 321–22, no. 201, 2, 156; Miedema 1969, 76–77;
Brummer 1970, 146, note 27, 148, repr.; Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 109;
Stolzenburg 2000, 437, no. 143; Brandt 2001, 148; Goddard 2001–02, 39
(erroneously as a drawing in black chalk); Florence 2008, 62, under no. 33 (M.
Schapelhouman); Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 183, under no. 132; Nichols 2013a, 56,
146, under no. A-37, 31. exhibitions: Recklinghausen 1964, no. 87
[unpaginated]; Munich and Rome 1998–99, 44, 43, 160, no. 49; Luijten 2003–04, 130–31,
no. 41.1. Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. no. N 31 From the High
Renaissance onwards the Belvedere Torso was one of the most celebrated of
ancient statues, despite its fragmentary state.2 In the past it was identified
as the torso of Hercules because of the anatomy and the lion’s skin on which it
is seated. However, in the late 19th century doubts were raised as to whether
the skin really was that of a lion, making the Hercules identification uncertain.3
Although the Torso is comprehensively signed ‘Apollonius, son of Nestor, of
Athens’, his name is not found in classical literature. It is assumed that he
lived in the 1st century bc and that the Torso is a repetition or paraphrase of
an earlier model. Although the statue was known from the 1430s, it was only
when it was in the collection of the sculptor Andrea Bregno in the later 15th
century that it began to arouse interest; in the early 16th century the
sculpture entered the papal collections and was placed in the Belvedere (see 26,
23). Direct correspondences with many of Michelangelo’s painted and drawn nude
figures demonstrate the importance of the Belvedere Torso for the great Italian
artist and shortly after Michelangelo’s death a number of stories emerged
connecting him with the Torso.4 According to such one tale, he had been
surprised by a cardinal kneeling before the statue (though only in order to
examine it as closely as possible).5 In 1590 Giovanni Paggi wrote from Florence
to his brother Girolamo: ‘Michelangelo called himself a pupil of the Belvedere
Torso, which he said he had studied greatly, and indeed that he speaks the
truth of this is to be seen in his works.’6 Describing the statue as ‘the
school of Michelangelo’ took this association a step further.7 And yet the
Renaissance artist appears to have spoken only once about the Torso, albeit in
highly positive language: Ulisse Aldrovandi (1522– 1605) noted, in 1556 when
the artist was still alive, that the Torso was ‘singularmente lodato da
Michel’Angelo’.8 Not surprisingly the statue acquired great status both north
and south of the Alps. This status probably preserved it from the restoration
suffered by many antique sculptures in later centuries. Goltzius also seems to
have felt the mysterious beauty of the Torso, for he drew it no less than four
times. All four drawings were together in the collection of Queen Christina of
Sweden (1626–89).9 But while two are now in the Teylers Museum (fig. 1) the
other two have been lost. Goltzius undoubtedly knew the Torso even before he
arrived in Italy, for reduced copies after the sculpture circulated throughout
Europe in the 16th century; thus Goltzius’ friend and fellow Haarlem artist,
Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem (1562–1638), had used the Torso as the model
for a nude figure in a painting 1. Hendrick Goltzius, The Belvedere Torso, c.
1591, black chalk, 253 × 175 mm, Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. no. K I 30
118 119 of the late 1580s.10 It is reasonable to suppose that the Torso
would have been discussed at meetings of the ‘Haarlem Academy’,11 which Karel
van Mander, Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem and Goltzius had set up in the
mid-1580s. One of the purposes of their ‘academy’ was to allow them to ‘study
from life’ (om nae ‘t leven te studeeren), which meant they drew from nude
models and probably from sculpture, plaster casts or other three-dimensional
specimens as well.12 We may assume that during these drawing sessions they
discussed human anatomy and the exemplary way classical artists had depicted
it. All three were able to quote directly from the antique with the aid of
Maarten van Heemskerck’s Roman sketchbook (now Kupferstichkabinett, Berlin),
which was then owned by Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem13 and which contained
two views of the Torso.14 It is noteworthy that Goltzius, who was generally
meticulously faithful in his depiction of classical sculptures, was not always
so precise in his treatment of the inscrip- tions on their pedestals.15 In his
red chalk drawing of the Belvedere Torso from the front he has omitted the
signature, which would have been clearly visible on the base. Even more curious
is the fact that he completely ignored the wear suffered by the statue, the
result of decades spent outdoors. Instead his drawings give the sculpture a
freshness that makes it seem alive. This emphasis on the statue’s lifelikeness
and beauty can probably be explained by Goltzius’ intention that these drawings
should serve as preparations for prints with an educational purpose: the study
of anatomy based on ideal models. The muscles of Goltzius’ Torso appear to be
tensed, the skin lifelike and infused with warmth. The muscles’ extreme
exaggeration and restless tension clearly display a Mannerist emphasis.16 Once
in Rome, surrounded by the clear, classic, ideal vocabulary of ancient
statuary, Goltzius would reject Mannerist exaggeration so the fact that he did
not decide to do so here may indicate that these two studies after the Torso
were among the first drawings he produced after his arrival in Rome. It is
interesting to note that Goltzius clearly used the Belvedere Torso in his fine
Back of an Athletic Man, now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence (fig. 2).17 This
drawing is one of his Federkunststücke, or virtuoso drawings in pen, whose
linear execution often imitates engravings, with lines that swell and taper.
Curiously, the backbone in this drawing curves slightly to the left, while that
of the sculpture curves to the right. Is this a conscious change by Goltzius or
did he recall the statue in mirror image? The suggestion has sometimes been
made that Goltzius produced this great drawing in Italy to display his
virtuosity with the pen;18 however, we know that Goltzius travelled incognito
to avoid admirers (see cat. 6), 120 9. Peter Paul Rubens (Siegen 1577–1640
Antwerp) Two Studies of a Boy Model Posed as the ‘Spinario’ c. 1600–02 Red
chalk with touches of white chalk, 201 × 362 mm Inscribed recto, l.r., in pen
and brown ink by a late 17th- or early 18th-century hand: ‘Rubens’ provenance:
Gabriel Huquier (1695–1772); William Fawkener; his bequest to Museum, 1769.
literature: Hind and Popham 1915–32, 2, 22, no. 52; Burchard and D’Hulst 1963, 1,
34–35, no. 16 and 2, pl. 16; Stechow 1968, 53–55, 43; Held 1986, 82, no. 39,
pl. 23 on 172; New York 1988, 77, under no. 18, 18-I; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1,
80; Paris 2000–01, 419, under no. 222, 222a. exhibitions: London 1977, 28–29,
no. 14 (J. Rowlands); London 2009–10 (no catalogue). Department of Prints and
Drawings, The British Museum, London, inv. T,14.1 2. Hendrick Goltzius,
Back of an Athletic Man, pen and brown ink, 150 × 165 mm, Uizi, Florence, inv.
no. 2365 F so he is unlikely to have felt a need to demonstrate his virtuoso
skills. Perhaps Goltzius created this virtuoso draw- ing after his Italian trip,
or even before he went to Italy as he was already producing pen work of this
quality in the 1580s.19 The son of a wealthy Antwerp family, Rubens was born in
the German city of Siegen in 1577 but in 1589 returned with his family to
Antwerp where he received a humanistic education at the Latin School run by
Rumoldus Verdonck (1541–1620) and an artistic one with the painters Tobias
Verhaeght (1561–1631), Adam van Noort (1561–1641) and Otto van Veen (c.
1556–1629). After entering the Guild of St Luke as an established painter in
1598, Rubens set out for Italy in May 1600. This fundamental step in Rubens’
training had been carefully prepared not only by the study of engravings of
classical statues and Renaissance masters by Marcantonio Raimondi (c. 1480–1527/34)
and his pupils assembled by van Veen in his workshop, but also by eager reading
of Roman texts such as Suetonius, Tacitus and Pliny the Elder.1 The impact of
classical antiquity on Rubens’ art and theory of art was immense. Before
arriving in Rome in 1601, Rubens spent time in Venice, then Mantua, in the
service of the Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga (r. 1587–1612) as a painter and a
curator of his collections, and also in Florence. Although based in Mantua,
Rubens spent two extended periods in Rome, first from July 1601 until April
1602 and again from late 1605 (or early 1606) until October 1608.2 During this
second period he shared a house with his scholarly elder brother Philip
(1574–1611), a pupil of the Flemish philologist and humanist Justus Lipsius (1547–1606).
In Rome Philip Rubens worked on the Electorum Libri duo published in Antwerp in
1608, an influential study of the customs, morals and dress of the ancients.
Peter Paul assisted Philip in making drawings from ancient monuments in
prepara- tion for the plates, and he also contributed to their explanatory
notes. Rubens’ commitment to the systematic study of classical antiquities, and
in particular of sculpture in the round, is testified to by the large number of
sketches and drawings he made during his Italian period, but also by those he
executed after his return to Antwerp in 1608.3 In Rome Rubens visited the
Belvedere Courtyard and some of the most important private aristocratic
collections, such as the Borghese, the Medici, the Farnese, the Mattei and the
Giustiniani. His drawings after the Antique are among the most extraordi- nary
ever produced, most of them in red or black chalk; they show Rubens’ great
virtuosity in handling the medium and, at the same time, his deep understanding
of the formal principles of the antique statues. He obsessively sketched some
of the most ‘muscular’ masterpieces of classical statuary, such as the Laocoön
(see 26, 19) and the Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32), from all sides, many angles
and in great detail, in order to assimilate thoroughly the anatomical structure
and the mathematical proportions of the human body as part of his search for
the rules of perfection achieved by ancient artists.4 Returning to Antwerp in
1608, Rubens established his own studio in an Italianate villa in the centre of
the city – today the Rubenshuis. His drawings after the Antique, bound in
several books, remained in his studio and continued to serve not only as an
important reference and source of inspiration for Rubens himself, but probably
also as teaching tools for his pupils. The purchase in 1618 by Rubens of the
collection of ancient sculptures owned by the English diplomat and collector
Sir Dudley Carleton (1573–1632) represented the first step towards the
formation of one of the most important – but short-lived – collections of
antiqui- ties in Northern Europe, which Rubens sold on to the 1st Duke of
Buckingham in 1626.5 The pre-eminent figure of the Flemish Baroque, a universal
genius, Rubens also had an active diplomatic career which in the 1620s led him
to travel between the courts of Spain and England. His last decade, the 1630s,
was mostly spent in Antwerp, where he devoted himself entirely to painting.
Rubens’ theory on both the usefulness and dangers of copying after the Antique
are effectively expressed in his essay De Imitatione Statuarum, a short
treatise on the imitation of sculpture that remained in manuscript in Rubens’
lifetime mp See footnote 1 in cat. 6. Haskell and Penny 1981, 311–14, no. 80, 165;
Munich and Rome 1998–99; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 181–84, no. 132. Wünsche
1998–99, 67. Michelangelo did indeed use the Torso directly as a model; see
Wünsche 1998–99, 31–37; Haarlem and London 2005–06, 116–17. Haskell and Penny
1981, 312. Guhl 1880, 2, 42; Schwinn 1973, 36–37. Wright 1730, 1, 268; Haskell
and Penny 1981, 312–13; Schwinn 1973, 172; Montreal 1992, 76–77. ‘... un
torso grande di Hercole ignudo, assiso sopra un tronco del medisimo marmo: non
ha testa, ne braccia, ne gambe. È stato questo busto singularmente lodato da
Michel’Angelo’. U. Aldrovandi, ‘Delle statue antiche, che per tutta Roma ... si
veggono’, in Mauro 1556, 115. For Aldrovandi’s complete text ‘nel giardino di
Belvedere, sopra il Palagio del Papa’, see Brummer 1970, 268–69. Stolzenburg 2000, 437, nos 142–44, 439, no. 161. Van Thiel 1999, 79,
294, no. 7, pl. 34. According to an anonymous biographer, shortly after
arriving in Haarlem, around 1583, Karel van Mander entered into a collaboration
with Goltzius and Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, described as follows: ‘the
three of them maintained and made an Academy, for studying from life’, see Van
Mander 1994–1999, 1, 26–27 (fol. S2 recto), 2, 70–72; Van Thiel 1999, 59–90. It
should be stressed that this academy was in no way an institution for advanced
professional training: such institutions came into being only in the 18th
century (see Van Mander 1994–99, 2, 70). It is unclear how and for what length
of time this ‘Haarlem Academy’ exactly functioned (see also Leeflang 2003–04a, 16;
Leeflang 2003–04b, 252. Veldman 2012, 11–23. Hülsen and Egger 1913–16, 1, 34
(fol. 63), 40 (fol. 73). See also Brummer 1970, 144–45, figs 125–26. Brandt
2001, 143. Reznicek 1961, 1, 321–22, no. K 201; Luijten 2003–04, 131. Reznicek
1961, vol 1, 452, no. 431, 2, 132; Florence 2008, 61–62, no. 33 (M.
Schapelhouman). Reznicek 1961, 1, 452. Schapelhouman (in Florence 2008, 62) has
previously questioned the Italian dating for Back of an Athletic Man; for pen
works by Goltzius from the 1580s see: Amsterdam, New York and elsewhere
2003–04, 238–39, figs 93–94, 242–46, nos 84–85. 121 but was published by
the art theorist Roger de Piles in his Cours de peinture par principles of 1708
(see Appendix, no. 8).6 While emphasising the importance for an artist of
becoming deeply familiar with the perfection embodied in ancient models, Rubens
warned that ‘[the imitation of antique statues] must be judiciously applied,
and so that it may not in the least smell of stone’.7 The warning against the
risk of hardening one’s style by copying ancient sculptures, thus creating
paintings that looked ‘dry’ and eccentric, had already been pointed out by
several 16th-century artists and theore- ticians, such as Giorgio Vasari
(1511–74), Ludovico Dolce (1508–68) and Giovanni Battista Armenini
(1530–1609).8 Later in the 17th century the pernicious effect on painting of
too-slavish imitation of antique statuary would be summa- rised by the
Bolognese art theorist Carlo Cesare Malvasia (1616–93) with the specific
neologism ‘statuino’ or ‘statue- like’.9 As stressed by Rubens in the De
Imitatione, young artists needed to learn how to transform marble into flesh
instead of depicting figures as ‘coloured marble’. The two studies on one sheet
presented here perfectly express Rubens’ views: they are in fact an example of
a practice – setting live models in the poses of famous ancient statues –
already diffused from the Early Renaissance (see 23, 14) and common practice
within the curricula of the French and Italian academies.10 Through this
exercise Rubens could concentrate on the classical pose and disre- gard the
‘matter’, something that he repeated in modified form several times, in studies
of live models in poses remi- niscent of the Belvedere Torso, the Laocoön and
other canonical statues.11 In the present drawing, the young model is seen from
his left side in the pose of one of the most celebrated bronzes in Rome, the
Spinario (‘Thorn-puller’), recorded in the city as early as the 12th century
among the antiquities at the Lateran Palace and donated by Pope Sixtus IV (r.
1471– 84) to the Palazzo dei Conservatori in 1471 (fig. 1, see also 23, 15).12
Interpreted in the Renaissance as the personifi- cation of the month of March
or a shepherd, the Spinario has been recently recognised as the young Ascanius,
the son of Aeneas and founder of the gens Iulia.13 The right-hand drawing
faithfully imitates the pose of the statue, with the head looking down towards
the gesture of extracting a thorn from the foot; the left-hand drawing, in
contrast, modifies the original by turning the head towards the spectator and
altering the action so that the youth no longer withdraws a thorn from his
foot, but dries it with a towel. Two similar studies, presumably after the same
young model, are preserved in the Musée des Beaux-Arts, Dijon (fig. 2) and in
London (private collection): the former, in red chalk, shows the model from his
back and his right;14 the latter, in black chalk, from his left.15 The three
drawings were probably done in the same session and they have been dated to one
of Rubens’ two Roman periods, probably the first one (1600–02).16 As long ago
noted by Wolfgang Stechow,17 the pose of 122 123 1. (left)
Spinario (Thorn-Puller), 1st century bc, bronze, 73 cm (h), Capitoline Museums,
Sala dei Trionfi, Rome, inv. 1186 2. (above) Peter Paul Rubens, Two Studies of
a Young Model Posing as the Spinario, red chalk with touches of black chalk,
246 × 382 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Dijon, inv. sup. 49D the Spinario was
employed by Rubens for a young man drying his feet in the Baptism of Christ,
painted for the Jesuit church of Santa Trinità in Mantua in 1605 and now in the
Royal Museum of Fine Arts in Antwerp, a preparatory drawing for which is in the
Louvre,18 as well as for Susanna in Susanna and the Elders, a painting executed
in Rome about 1606–08, 19 ed 1 For Rubens’ early years see Muller 2004, 13–15.
2 On Rubens in Rome and his approach to the Antique see esp. Stechow 1968;
Jaffé 1977, 79–84; Muller 1982; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 41–81; Muller 2004, 18–28.
3 On Rubens’ drawings after the Antique see the fundamental catalogue in Van
der Meulen 1994–95, 2. 4 See Ayomonino’s essay in this catalogue, 46–52. 5 See
Muller 1989, passim; Muller 2004, 35–56. On the collection of antiquities see
in particular Muller 1989, 82–87; Antwerp 2004, 260–63 (F. Healy). On the sale
to the 1st Duke of Buckingham see Muller 2004, 62–63. 6 On the De Imitatione
see Muller 1982; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, esp. note 11, 77–78, note 44;
Antwerp 2004, 298–99; Jaffé and Bradley 2005–06; Jaffé 2010. Transcribed in
Appendix, no. 8, from De Piles 1743, 87–88. For Vasari see Bettarini Barocchi
1966–87, for instance 3, 549–50 and 5, 495–61. For Dolce see Appendix, no. 4.
See Armenini 1587, esp. 59–60 (book I, chap. 8), 86–89 (book II, chap. 3). The
concept was repeated later also by Bernini during his visit to Paris in 1665:
see Appendix, no. 9. See also Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 77–78. Malvasia 1678, 1,
359, 365, 484. On the 17th-century neologism ‘statuino’ see Pericolo,
forthcoming. See Aymonino’s essay in this volume, 50–52. Van der Meulen
1994–95, 1, 80–81. The statue is traditionally considered to be an eclectic
work of the 1st century bc: see Stuart Jones 1926, 43–47, no. 2; Haskell and
Penny 1981, 308–10, no. 78; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 254, no. 203. Recent
analysis has proved that the classicistic head, dating to the 5th century bc,
was added to the Hellenistic body and given a Roman subject presumably in the
1st century bc, see Rome forthcoming. Rome forthcoming. Held 1986, 82; Paris
2000–01, 417–18, no. 222. Held 1986, 82; Paris 2000–01, 418, 222b. Held 1986, 82.
Stechow 1968, 54–55. See also Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1,
80–81. Lugt 1949, 12–13, no. 1009, pl. XIV; Antwerp 1977, 129, no. 121. Coliva
1994, 170, no. 88. 10. Odoardo Fialetti (Bologna 1573–c. 1638 Venice) Artist’s
Studio c. 1608 Etching in Odoardo Fialetti, Il vero modo et ordine per
dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano, Venice, Justus Sadeler,
1608 110 × 152 mm (plate); 194 × 238 mm (sheet) Inscribed l.l. with Fialetti’s
monogram and ‘A 2’ and ‘No 208’. provenance: Elmar Seibel, Boston, from whom
acquired. literature: Rosand 1970, 12–22, 10; Buffa 1983, 315–37, nos 198 (295)
– 243 (301), repr. (for the Artist’s Studio, 321, no. 210 (298), repr.);
Amornpichetkul 1984, 108–09, 83; Bolten 1985, 240–43, 245 and 248; Boston,
Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248–49, no. 130 (D. Becker); London 2001–02, 198–200,
no. 143; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 94–96, no. 24 ( J. Clifford); Walters
2009, 1, 68–79, 2, 254–76, figs. 3.9–3.53; Walters 2014, 62–63, 59; Whistler
2015 (forthcoming). and now in the Borghese Gallery. 124 125 exhibitions: Not
previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, London, 2002–013 A prolific
artist whose large and diverse body of work comprises some fifty-five paintings
and about 450 prints, Fialetti was born in Bologna in 1573 but moved to Venice
where he was apprenticed to Jacopo Tintoretto (1519–94) and where he later
collaborated with Palma Giovane (c. 1548– 1628).1 By 1596 he was listed as a
printmaker and, from 1604 to 1612, a member of the Venetian painters’ guild,
the Arte dei Pittori; he joined the Scuola Grande di San Teodoro between 1620
and 1622.2 His wide-ranging graphic oeuvre comprises religious, mythological,
and literary subjects as well as landscapes, portraits, depictions of sport
(fencing and hunt- ing), ornamental motifs and anatomical studies, and appears
in different formats and genres, from single or series of prints to complete
illustrations for books.3 His etchings remained influential for decades after his
death not only in Venice and northern Italy, but even in France and England.4
Without doubt Fialetti’s most admired and influential works were his two
volumes of etchings: Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parte et
membra del corpo humano (‘The true means and method to draw all the parts of
the human body’) and Tutte le parti del corpo humano diviso in piu pezzi . . .
(‘all the parts of the human body divided into multiple pieces’). The first was
published in Venice in 1608 by Justus Sadeler (Flanders 1583–1620), and the
second, which is undated, presumably appeared in Venice shortly thereafter. The
two books are varied in their plates and paginations and exist in different
compilations, sometimes confusingly, combining elements of both as in the
example shown here.5 The first of their kind to be published in Italy, these
books served as portable instruction manuals in drawing for beginners and
amateurs. They provided techniques for the correct construction of the human
face and body and they also illustrate the crucial role of copying plaster
casts in work- shop practice at the end of the 16th and beginning of the 17th
centuries. The Bellinger volume includes a frontispiece dedication to Cesare
d’Este, the Duke of Modena and Reggio (1561–1628), a leaf with a further
dedication to Giovanni Grimani (the Venetian patrician and collector of
antiquities, 1506–93), six pages with step-by-step instructions on draw- ing
eyes, ears and faces, another title page, Tutte le parti . . . and thirty leaves
of further faces, various parts of the body – arms, legs, torsos – grotesque
heads and portraits.6 The volume concludes with two religious etchings by Palma
Giovane.7 Unusual for manuals of the period is the scene depicted on the first
plate following the dedications: a lively and infor- mal artists’ workshop,
sometimes thought to be Tintoretto’s.8 In the foreground, young students seated
on low wooden benches draw diligently before models and assorted plaster casts
of body parts arranged on and below a table, while two older artists are
painting at large easels in the background.9 At the far left, an apprentice
grinds pigments. Scattered on the ground are various artists’ tools including
compasses, an inkwell and feather quill pen. Boy draughtsmen representing three
different ages – roughly from six to sixteen – diligently record a cast of the
young Marcus Aurelius, similar in type to the marble of 161– 180 ad now in the
Capitoline Museum in Rome (fig. 1).10 Behind them, two slightly older boys
enthusiastically discuss a completed copy. The torso next to the bust, although
reminiscent of the Belvedere Torso, (p. 26, 23), appears to be based on a
different antique sculpture, which seems to be the subject of a drawing of
seven male torsos in various positions in a sketchbook by an unidentified
Northern artist working in Rome in the mid- to late 16th century (Trinity College
Library, Cambridge, 2).11 The torso seen in Fialetti’s etching is comparable to
the one with the upraised right arm placed at the lower centre of the Trinity
page;12 it was evidently a favourite of Fialetti’s as it reappears later in his
book. The cast of the armless female torso on the floor on the right in
the etching also derives from an antique prototype. She is probably based on a
now-lost version of Venus Tying her Sandal, a Hellenistic type well known in
the Renaissance and one that inspired many adaptations,13 such as that in an
anonymous Italian drawing in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (fig.). The male
torso depicted in that drawing is also very similar to that in the etching.
Fialetti would have had ample opportunity to study Antique statuary first-hand
during a trip to Rome, made before he settled in Venice, though plaster casts
were an integral part of Venetian workshop practice from the 16th century
onwards.14 They were in wide use in Tintoretto’s studio where Fialetti trained.
According to his biographer, Carlo Ridolfi, Tintoretto collected plaster casts
of ancient and Renaissance marbles avidly and at great expense: ‘Nor did he cease
his continuous study of whatever hand or torso he had collected’.15 From the
chalk drawings he produced, ‘thus did he learn the forms requisite for his
art’.16 The casts remained in the Tintoretto family workshop when Domenico, his
son, took it over and are 1. Portrait of Marcus Aurelius as a Boy, 161–180 ad,
marble, 74 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Palazzo Nuovo, Albani Collection, Rome,
MC 279 2. Anonymous artist working in Rome, Studies of Male Torsos, mid to late
16th c., pen and brown ink, 280 × 450 mm, folio 47v from the Cambridge
Sketchbook, Trinity College Library, Cambridge, R. 17.3 recorded in his will of
1630.17 The younger Tintoretto for a period considered bequeathing to painters
his house and studio with its contents – reliefs, drawings and models – so that
an academy could be established to train future generations of Venetian
artists, although nothing came of this scheme.18 Whether the Artist’s Studio
seen here is actually Tintoretto’s or simply a generalised venue, Fialetti
asserted the centrality of drawing, especially for young artists.19 This also
recorded his own experience: when as a boy, he asked what he should do in order
to make progress, he was advised by Tintoretto that he ‘must draw and again
draw’.20 By the early 17th century, repeated and systematic study from studio
drawings, plaster casts, sculpture, as well as anatomy and the live model was
deemed essential preparation for the accurate portrayal of the human figure.21
But in order to depict the body as a whole, students first had to master its
individual parts, a tenet of Central Italian working practice that was
perpetuated throughout the 16th century by artists and writers like Giovan
Battista Armenini (1525–1609) and Federico Zuccaro (c. 1541–1609), who
instructed pupils to draw parts of the body, an ‘alphabet of drawing’.22
Similar principles were espoused by the Carracci Academy in Bologna, of which
Fialetti was no doubt aware.23 While precedents for instructional drawing books
are found in 15th-century model and pattern books containing motifs that
artists could copy into their compositions (p. 20, figs 3–4),24 Fialetti’s were
the first aimed at students and amateurs as well as art lovers and
collectors.25 They also seem to be the first of their kind to be printed in Venice.26
Other publications modelled after them soon followed in the Veneto and
elsewhere in Italy, notably De excellentia et nobilitate delineationis libri
duo, published 126 127 by Giacomo Franco in 1611 based on
designs by Palma Giovane and prints by Battista Franco (c. 1510–1561) as well
as Gasparo Colombina’s Paduan publication of 1623.27 Like Fialetti’s compendia,
Giacomo Franco’s treatise featured several plates incorporating antique motifs:
busts of the Laocoön (p. 26, 19), the Emperors Vitellius (p. 40, 52) and Galba
were inserted among the etched portraits on plates 18 and 20 while plates 14
and 25 showed torsos of a female Venus Tying her Sandal type much like that
seen in Fialetti’s etching.28 In the decades that followed, the Antique would
assume a greater role in drawing manuals.29 Several published at the end of the
17th century, like Gérard Audran’s Les Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur
les plus belles figures de l’antiquité,1683 (p. 48, figs 72–73) and Jan de
Bisschop’s Icones, 1668/69 (see cat. 13) and into the 18th century, such as
Giovanni Volpato and Raffaello Morghen’s Principi del disegno, 1786 (p. 49, 76),
would focus on antiquities exclusively. The influence of Fialetti’s books was
far-reaching and persisted long after his death. Plates from them were copied
and adapted for publications appearing both in Italy and elsewhere:30 for
example Johannes Gellee copied the Artist’s Studio and other etchings in his
Tyrocinia artis pictoriae caelatoriae published in Amsterdam in 1639.31
Fialetti’s vol- umes also influenced a great many other books published in the
Netherlands, paving the way for Abraham Bloemaert’s Tekenboek of 1740 (cat. no.
11).32 Furthermore, Fialetti’s manuals catered to a new demo- graphic – the
connoisseur, gentleman scholar and mature artist – and would inspire similar
books printed in England.33 With the growing market for Venetian art in England
during the first decades of the 17th century and accelerated interest in
drawing, Fialetti’s work was esteemed not just by Venetians but by aristocratic
collectors visiting Venice like Sir Henry 3. Odoardo Fialetti, Two Male Torsos
Seen from Behind, c. 1608, etching, 103 × 142 mm, plate 30 from Il vero
modo...1608, Katrin Bellinger collection 4. Anonymous, Roman School, Studies
after Antique Statuary (Fragments), c. 1550, pen and brown ink and brown wash,
black chalk, heightened with white on blue-green paper, 294 × 212 mm,
Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, inv. 2978. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge
Wotton (1568–1639) and Thomas Howard, the 2nd Earl of Arundel (1585–1646),
among others, who undoubtedly admired his facile draughtsmanship.34
Interestingly, Fialetti’s biographer, Malvasia, who praised his versatility,
mentioned that as well as giving drawing lessons to Venetians, he also
instructed Alethea Talbot, the Earl of Arundel’s wife, whose grandson owned one
of Fialetti’s books.35 Through connections like these, Fialetti attracted the
attention of English-based artists and architects including Edward Norgate (c.
1580–1650), Inigo Jones (1573–1652) and Anthony Van Dyck (1599–1641).36 Copied
and emulated, Fialetti’s plates would play a key role in the development of the
drawing book in England.37 Treatises by Norgate (1627–28, 1st ed.; 1648–49, 2nd
ed.), Isaac Fuller (1654), Alexander Brown (1660), and others helped to further
the principles set forth in Fialetti’s books, which were copied well into the
19th century.38 avl For a full appraisal
of his life and work on which this biographical account is based, see Walters
2009 and Walters 2014, 57–67. Walters 2009, 1, 6–7; Walters 2014, 58. Walters
2014, 57. Walters 2009, 1, vi. Beginning with Bartsch, there has been
considerable confusion over the size and content of the two editions. See
Walters 2009, 1, 68–70, particularly note 40 and Walters 2014, 66–67, note 23;
Greist 2014, 14–15. Alexandra Greist (ibid., 12–18) published a little-known
instruc- tional text by Fialetti dictating how he wished the manual to be used,
printed on the versi of nine prints bound together with early editions of both
books (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, C/RM0024.ASC/552*1, Shelfmark 325G6). Among the
plates not included in the present volume is the painter’s studio showing
artists measuring human proportions: Buffa 1983, 321, no. 211 (298). The Holy
Family and Christ Preaching. Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248; Nichols
2013b, 195, 236, note 134. The standing painter in profile is believed by some
scholars to be Tintoretto (Ilchman and Saywell 2007, 392; Nichols 2013b, 236,
note 134). Nichols points to the similarity with the painter as seen in
Francesco Pianta the Younger’s wood-carving, Tintoretto as ‘Painting’, in the
Scuola Grande di San Rocco, Venice (Nichols 1999, 238, 212). His elongated
body, unlike the others in the etching, and his energetic pose and outstretched
right arm, recall Tintoretto’s studies of single figures. Alternatively,
Catherine Whistler (2015, forthcoming) has suggested that the studio may evoke
Palma Giovane ‘given that there is something of his panache in the figure of the
painter at work and in the costume of the seated artist’. She further noted
their similarities to his self-portrait in the Brera (Mason Rinaldi 1984, 92–93,
213, 117). Fittschen and Zanker 1985, 1, 67–68, no. 61, 2, pls 69, 70, 72.
CensusID: 46328. Michaelis 1892, 99, no. 60v; Dhanens 1963, 185, no. 52v, fig.
30; Fileri 1985, 39–40, no. 48, repr. Given in the 19th c. to a Flemish artist
working in Rome around 1583 (Michaelis 1892), more recently the sketchbook has
been associated with the sculptor, Giambologna (1529– 1608), and his Roman trip
of 1550 (Dhanens 1963 and Fileri 1985). As pointed out by Eloisa Dodero
(personal communication). Künzl 1970; Bober and Rubinstein. 2010, 69,
no. 20; CensusID: 58121. Walters 2014, 57. Ridolfi 1984, 16. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 14;
Whitaker 1997. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 14; Ridolfi Tozzi 1933, 316. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 262–63.
Rosand 1970; Walters 2009, 1, 73. Because ‘drawing was
what gave to painting its grace and perfection’, Ridolfi added (Ridolfi 1914, 2,
65; Ridolfi 1984, 16). Muller 1984; Bolten 1985; Walters 2009, 1, 73. Armenini
1587, 52–59 (book 1, chap. 7); Alberti 1604, 5 (quoting Federico Zuccaro);
Amornpichetkul 1984; Bleeke-Byrne 1984; Roman 1984, 91; Greist 2014, 15.
Gombrich 1960, 161–62; Rosand 1970, 7, 14–15; Bolten 1985, 245; Boston,
Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248 (D. Becker); Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 95
(J. Clifford); Walters 2009, 1, 74; Walters 2014, 62, 66, note 6. On the
Carracci’s influence on model books, see Amornpichetkul 1984, 113–16. For model
books, see Gombrich 1960, 156–72; Rosand 1970, 5; Ames- Lewis 2000a, 63–69;
Nottingham and London 1983, 94–101; Amornpichetkul 1984, 109. D. Becker, in
Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248; J. Clifford, in Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 95. Catherine Whistler has argued persua- sively that the book was
aimed at a growing market of virtuosi, art lovers and collectors, who placed a
social value on the knowledge of drawings (Whistler 2015, forthcoming). Walters
2009, 1, 69; Walters 2014, 62. For the growing interest in publishing prints at
this time in Venice, see Van der Sman 2000, 235–47. Rosand 1970, 17–19;
Amornpichetkul 1984, 110–12; Walters 2009, 1,p.74. Rosand 1970, 15, 27.
Amornpichetkul 1984, 115. Ibid., 112; D. Becker in Boston, Cleveland and
elsewhere 1989, 248 (D. Becker); Walters 2009, 1, 75–79. Bolten 1985, 132–39.
Ibid., 119, 131, 133–34, 141, 143, 153, 157, 188–207, 243–56; Walters 2009, 1, 79.
Whistler 2015 (forthcoming). For a fundamental discussion of Fialetti and his
impact in England, see Walters 2009, 1, Chapter 5, 152–197. See also Walters
2014, 64–65. Malvasia 1678, 2, 312; Greist 2014, 12. Walters 2009, 1, 152;
Walters 2014, 64–65 Amornpichetkul 1984, 112; Walters 2009, 1, 78, 152. Walters
2009, 1, 78, 180–97; Greist 2014, 14. 128 129 11. Frederick
Bloemaert (Utrecht c. 1616–90 Utrecht) after Abraham Bloemaert (Gorinchem
1566–1651 Utrecht) A Student Draughtsman, Drawing Plaster Casts 1740 Engraving
and chiaroscuro woodcut with two-tone blocks (brown and sepia), titlepage from
Het Tekenboek (‘The Drawing Book’), Amsterdam, Reinier and Josua Ottens, 1740
303 × 222 mm (image); 378 × 286 mm (sheet) provenance: Elmar Seibel, Boston, from
whom acquired. literature: Strauss 1973, 348, no. 1 64, repr.;
Lehmann-Haupt 1977, 155–57, 125; Amsterdam and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 16–17;
Bolten 1985, 49, repr., 57–67; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395, 2, T1a;
Bolten 2007, 1, 362, 366, under no. 1150. exhibitions: Not previously
exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1995-071 Abraham Bloemaert, a
prolific artist by whose hand over two hundred paintings and sixteen hundred
drawings are known, was born in Gorinchem in 1566.1 From the age of 15 or 16,
he spent three years in Paris from 1581–83, studying for six weeks with the
otherwise unknown Jehan Bassot and then for two and a half years with the
similarly obscure ‘Maistre Herry’. His third teacher in Paris was his fellow
countryman Hieronymus Francken I (1540–1610).2 In 1611, along with Paulus
Moreelse and several colleagues, Bloemaert founded the new painters’ guild in
Utrecht, the Guild of St Luke, and became its deacon in 1618.3 Shortly after
the guild’s foundation, around 1612, some form of drawing academy must have
been established in Utrecht, again with Bloemaert’s involvement. We learn about
this from a letter to the Utrecht antiquarian Arnout van Buchell and in Van ’t Light der Teken en Schilder
konst (‘About the Light of the Art of Drawing and Painting’) of 1643–44, by
Crispijn de Passe the Younger (c. 1597– c. 1670).4 In the introduction to his
book De Passe recalls how he learned his art together with the son of Paulus
Moreelse ‘in a famous drawing school which was, at that time organized by the
most eminent masters’.5 The well-known print Modeltekenen (‘Model Drawing’)
from De Passe’s book is thought to repre- sent this school (fig. 1) and it has
even been suggested that one of the two tutors looking over the students’ work
is Abraham Bloemaert himself.6 We do not know how long this ‘Academy’ existed.
Bloemaert had a large studio of his own with many pupils, including his four
sons and many well-known Dutch artists, such as the Italianate painters
Cornelis van Poelenburgh (1594/95–1667), Jan Both (c. 1618–52) and Jan Baptist
Weenix (1621–60/61), as well as the Caravaggists Gerrit van Honthorst
(1590–1656) and Hendrick ter Brugghen (1588–1629).7 A development can be traced
in Bloemaert’s work from a robust Mannerism, influenced by artists such as
Joachim van Wtewael (c. 1566–1638), towards a more classicist style which he
presumably derived from Hendrick Goltzius (1558–1617) and his Haarlem
colleagues. Caravaggism made a brief appearance in Bloemaert’s work during the
early 1620s, when his first pupils returned from Italy – which, inciden- tally,
he never visited himself. At the end of Bloemaert’s life his style grew
smoother and more even. In teaching, Bloemaert undoubtedly used his own
drawings as examples for his many pupils to copy.8 He found this approach so
productive – and perhaps commercially attractive – that towards the end of his
life he joined forces with his son Frederick (c. 1616–90) in the publication of
the Tekenboek or ‘Drawing Book’, a compilation of specimen drawings.9 The
prints in the Tekenboek, which were cut by Frederick after drawings by his
father, were published in instalments from c. 1650.10 Abraham’s reversed
preparatory drawings, which he probably began around 1645 and some of which
reproduce earlier work, are preserved en groupe in the Fitzwilliam Museum in
Cambridge,11 including that for 1. Crispijn de Passe, Model Drawing, from: Van
’t Light der Teken en Schilder konst (‘About the Light of the Art of Drawing
and Painting’), 1643, engraving, 330 × 390 mm, Rijksmuseum Research Library,
Amsterdam, inv. no. 330B13 130 131 2. Abraham Bloemaert, A Student
Draughtsman, Drawing Plaster Casts, pen and brown ink, 397 × 301, Fitzwilliam
Museum, Cambridge, Inv. PD 166–1963.5. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge the
title page displayed here (fig. 2). The title page of Bloemaert’s Tekenboek,
catalogued here in the most popular 18th-century edition (1740), shows an
artist seated on the floor of an imaginary studio, drawing 13 artist has again
created the suggestion of antique pieces. Images of artists drawing in a studio
combined with assem- blages of plaster casts are highly appropriate subjects
for drawing books. In earlier Italian and Netherlandish examples we encounter
similar images, such as Modeltekenen (‘Model Drawing’) by De Passe from 1643 (fig.
1), by Petrus Feddes (1586–c. 1634) from around 1615, and especially by Odoardo
Fialetti (1573–c. 1638), in his highly influential Il vero modo et ordine per
dissegnar tutte le parte et membra del corpo humano (‘The true means and method
to draw all the parts of the human body’) and Tutte le parti del corpo humano
diviso in piu pezzi . . . (‘all the parts of the human body divided into
multiple pieces’) of c. 1608 (also featured here as cat. 10).18 For
apprentices the copying of two-dimensional works, such as prints and drawings –
and also paintings – was followed by drawing from plaster casts, a crucial
activity in the work- shop practice. Ideal examples were employed to prepare
the student for drawing from life, from the real world and especially from clothed
and nude models.14 Such plaster casts invariably included copies of well-known
classical statues, plus copies of more modern works and casts of limbs and body
parts taken from live models, such as those seen here hanging on the wall
behind the draughtsman. In this image the casts do not include any firmly
identifiable antique statues, although a number are clearly intended to suggest
them, such as the female head at lower right with the short, rounded hairstyle
and the male torso beside it, which resembles the Belvedere Torso (p. 26, 23);
the pose of the reclining man is reminiscent of an antique River God. In this
image Bloemaert made clear his allegiance to classical tradition, and the
importance of antique works as the Bloemaert’s Tekenboek, which only contains
specimens 3. Frederick Bloemaert after Abraham Bloemaert, A Draughtsman Sitting
at a Table, Drawing after Plaster Casts, engraving, 280 × 165 mm, Katrin
Bellinger collection, London from the plaster figure of an elderly, reclining
man. foundation for the learning of art.15 Midway through the Tekenboek,
Bloemaert reiterates this 132 133 sentiment regarding the importance of antique
works by incorporating a similar title page, A Draughtsman Sitting at a Table,
Drawing after Plaster Casts (fig. 3), in the section on ‘Mannelijke en
Vrouwelijke Academie Figuren’ (‘Male and Female Academy Figures’).16 This
features the same or a similar draughtsman, now seated at a table in a more
realistic setting and drawing from a plaster model of a nude male torso. Around
him lie other casts: a male head, a foot and a further torso seen from the
back. As in the first title page, no recognisable antique sculptures can be
seen, although the 17 of heads, faces, body parts and figures, is a product of
direct studio practice. It is thus different in approach from the other
important mid-17th century Netherlandish drawing book, mentioned above, Van ’t
Light der Teken en Schilder konst (‘About the Light of the Art of Drawing and
Painting’; 1643), by De Passe the Younger. De Passe primarily focuses on the
structure, proportion and anatomy of the human body;19 examples of models and
ways to learn to draw them are of secondary importance. Bloemaert’s Tekenboek
is actually closer in character in its approach and images to the two volumes
of etchings produced by Fialetti, which were probably known to the Bloemaerts
in one of the Dutch editions.20 The Bloemaerts’ publication might well be
described as the Northern counterpart to Fialetti’s books.21 And as in those
the emphasis in the Tekenboek is on providing many practical examples of heads,
faces and limbs to draw. Like Fialetti’s works it may be regarded as a portable
instruction manual for drawing. Bloemaert’s Tekenboek was exceptionally popular
from the time of its publication around 1650 to the end of the 18th century.22
Many editions followed the first (very rare) editio princeps, which probably
contained 100 plates arranged in five parts.23 After his father’s death in
1651, Frederick must have published one or more sub-editions with 120 plates in
six parts and around 1685 Nicolaes II Visscher (1649–1702) another with 160
plates. Several decades later, in 1723, an edition by Louis Renard (dates
unknown) appeared (of which only one copy is known), with 166 plates in eight
parts arranged by Bernard Picart (1673–1733).24 The same arrangement was
retained in the best-known edition of Bloemaert’s work, published by Reinier
and Josua Ottens, the magnificent 1740 volume displayed here. At that time the
title was changed to Oorspronkelyk en vermaard konstryk tekenboek van Abraham
Bloemaert (‘Original and famous artful drawing book of Abraham Bloemaert’).
Bloemaert’s popula- rity was certainly not restricted to the Dutch Republic:
artists such as François Boucher (1703–70) and Balthasar Denner (1685–1749)
also took the Utrecht master as a model for their own work.Teekenschool/die op
dien tijt van de voornaamste meesters wiert gehouden heb gedaan’. Schatborn
suggests that this drawing school might have been in France where Van de Passe
spent a long period, 1617–30 (see Amsterdam and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 21).
Veldman emphasises that De Passe’s book is a tribute to the city of Utrecht,
thanking the city for spiritual nourishment including the Utrecht Drawing
School (Veldman 2001, 337–38). Suggestion by Bok in Roethlisberger and Bok
1993, 1, 571. Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 645–51. Such a group of drawings
(mixed with prints) occurs for example in the estate of the painter Gaspar
Netscher (1639–84): ‘In the brown portfolio [ ] are 327 both prints and
drawings [ ] serving for disciples to copy’; see Amsterdam and Washington D. C.
1981–82, 17; Plomp 2001, 37. For artists’ practical education in the
Netherlands and Italy in the 16th and 17th centuries see Bleeke-Byrne 1984, 28–39.
Bloemaert’s Tekenboek was published with the Latin title: Artis Apellae, liber
hic, studiosa juventus, / Aptata ingenio fert rudimenta tuo ... (This book,
studious youths, brings to your minds the appropriate rudiments of the art of
Apelles ...); see Bolten 1985, 51; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395
[translation]). It is possible that Abraham Bloemaert conceived the idea of
producing such a Tekenboek much earlier in his career: the Giroux album,
containing many figure studies, may well constitute Bloemaert’s initial
selection for such a didactic project; see Bolten 1993, 9, note 6; Bolten 2007,
1, 350–61. For the publication in instalments see: Bolten 2007, 1, 362. Bolten
1985, 66; Bolten 2007, 1, 362–97, 1150–1311. For doubts regarding Bloemaert’s
authorship of the drawings in Cambridge see Bolten 1985, 48 (‘A. or F.
Bloemaert’); Roethlisberger 1992, 30, note 41; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 391;
Bolten 1993, 6–8. Bolten 2007, 1, 363, no. 1150, 2, 1150. The scene was
engraved, then supplemented with a chiaroscuro woodcut with two-tone blocks
(brown and sepia). This technique and the dimen- sions (303 × 222 mm [image])
are the same in the editio princeps from c. 1650 and the 1740 edition displayed
here (see Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395). See Aymonino’s essay in the
present volume, 15–77. According to Roethlisberger and Bok (1993, 1, 395),
there is little or no discernible influence of ancient sculpture in his own
work. The engraving, A Draughtsman Sitting at a Table, Drawing after Plaster
Casts (fig. 3), does not appear in the editio princeps from circa 1650, but
does feature in the 1685 edition and later ones (Bolten 2007, 1, 392, under no.
1290). The original drawing for this engraving is also in the Fitzwilliam
Museum, Cambridge: Bolten 2007, 1, 392, no. 1290, 2, 1290. For Feddes, see
Bolten 1985, 18, repr.; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395. For De Passe’s
Tekenboek see: Amsterdam and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 15–17, 21, repr. For
Dutch editions of Fialetti and for Dutch publications based or partially
reprinting Fialetti see Bolten. According to Strauss (1973, 348) Bloemaert’s
title page was ‘patterned partly on the frontispiece of Odoardo Fialetti’s Vero
modo et ordine per dessignar Tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano, Venice
(Sadeler), 1608’. See also Lehmann-Haupt 1977, 157. For Bloemaert’s fortuna
critica see: Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 47–50. Regarding the Tekenboek
Roethlisberger surmises that the 1740 edition was intended for print and book
collectors, rather than artists: ibid., 1, 394. For the various reprints of
Bloemaert’s Tekenboek cited in this paragraph see Bolten 2007, 1, 362. There
were also various editions of sets of prints copied after Frederick’s
engravings [consequently printed in reverse] during the second half of the 17th
century and in the 18th century (see ibid., 362, note 22). The only known copy
of the 1723 edition is in the Centraal Museum in Utrecht (see Bolten 2007, 1, 362).
Slatkin, 1976; Gerson 1983, 109–10 (Boucher and Fragonard), 189
(Piazzetta). 1 2 3 4 5 mp For Bloemaert’s life on which this biographical
account is based, see Roethlisberger and Bok, 1993, 1, 551–87; Bolten 2007, 1, 3–5.
For ‘new’ Bloemaert paintings, see Roethlisberger, 2014, 79–92. Van Mander
1994–99, 1, 448–49 (fol. 297v). Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 570. Ibid., 1, 571.
Verbeek and Veldman 1974, 146, no. 191; De Passe 1643–44, unpaginated
introduction, Aen de Teekunst-lievende en-gunstige lezers, to the first part,
met de zoon van Paulus Moreelse en anderen) in een vermaarde 12. Michael
Sweerts (Brussels 1618–1664 Goa, India) A Painter’s Studio c. 1648–50 Oil on
canvas, 71 × 74 cm provenance: Private collection, Moscow; acquired by Dr
Abraham Bredius (1855–1946); purchased by the Rijksmuseum in 1901 for f. 400.
selected literature: Martin 1905, 127, 131, pl. II [a]; Martin 1907, 139, 149,
no. 10; Horster 1974, 145, 147, 2; Van Thiel 1976, 532, A 1957, repr.; Döring
1994, 55–58, 2, 60–62; Kultzen 1996, 88–89, no. 6, repr., with previous
bibliography. exhibitions: Milan 1951, no. 166, pl. 117; London 1955, 90–92,
no. 77 (D. Sutton), not repr.; Rome 1958–59, 32–34, no. 4 (R. Kultzen);
Rotterdam 1958, 36–37, no. 4; Toyko 1968–69, no. 63; Cologne and Utrecht
1991–92, 270–72, no. 33.1 (R. Kultzen); Hannover 1999, 18–20, 9; Amsterdam, San
Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 97–99, no. VII (G. Jansen); Antwerp 2004–07 (no
catalogue); Brussels 2007–08 (no catalogue); Doha 2011 (no catalogue).
Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, SK-A-1957 We have entered the shadowy inner sanctum of
a painter’s studio in mid-17th-century Rome. A young draughtsman perched on a
wooden stool to the left studies a life-size model of a flayed nude écorché,
assuming a balletic pose at centre right. Behind it, another boy draughtsman,
younger still, sketches a classical female bust resting on a table, which is
shared on the right by the studio assistant who grinds red-hued pigments.
Working at an easel in the left back- ground is a painter, perhaps the master
of the studio, capturing the likeness of a male nude posed in the corner.
Partly obscured in the shadows on the far left are two gentle- men visitors in
Dutch dress. One glances in our direction while the other gestures to our
right, perhaps towards the painter or the écorché. The main attraction,
however, is the abundant array of plaster casts, mostly antique, piled up in
the foreground – heads, torsos, limbs and a relief – all bathed in warm, golden
light. Though widely admired in his lifetime, Sweerts remains a somewhat
enigmatic figure about whom relatively little is known.1 He was born in
Brussels in 1618, but is first docu- mented from 1646 to 1651 as residing on
the Via Margutta in the parish of S. Maria del Popolo in Rome, an area favoured
by Dutch and Flemish expatriates.2 Already twenty-eight when he arrived in the
city, he would have had at least some artistic training before then, probably
in the North, though his early teachers have not been identified. Neither
signed nor dated, this canvas was probably executed by Sweerts c. 1648–50 in
Rome, where he remained until 1652 or later.3 In travelling south, Sweerts was
following a long-standing educational tradition, one succinctly articulated by
Dutch painter and art theorist Karel van Mander (1548–1606) who stated: ‘Rome
is the city where before all other places the Painter’s journey is apt to lead
him, since it is the capital of Pictura’s Schools’.4 It is evident from the
Painter’s Studio and other depictions of the same or similar theme of the
artist at work, a subject that clearly fascinated him, that Sweerts was well
aware of artistic theory of the day, particularly the importance placed on
learning through drawing.5 Karel van Mander recom- mends beginning artists to
‘seek a good master’, one who has decent works of art in his workshop, that is,
an ample supply of study materials such as books, prints, drawings and plaster
casts. The pupil must learn to draw ‘first with charcoal, then with the chalk
or pen’.6 After making copies of prints and drawings by various masters, the
student should progress to plaster casts, an important step. On equal footing
with the copying of casts was the study of anatomy. However, given the
difficulty of procuring corpses, artists at this time copied anatomical figures
in plaster or ‘flayed plaster casts’.7 This was followed by study of the living
figure before the student finally proceeded to painting. Written at the
beginning of the 17th century, Van Mander’s book thus made available for
Northern artists those principles of artistic education, the ‘alphabet of
drawing’ that had been codified in Italy during the 15th and 16th centuries.8
By clearly setting out the stages of study established by Van Mander and
others, first drawing from casts and anatomical figures in plaster, then the
live model, Sweerts’ composition is a visual lesson in the main principles of
studio practice required to become a successful painter.9 The goal is
manifested in Sweerts’ completed Wrestling Match canvas of c. 1648–50 displayed
on the wall in the back- ground, which features figures based on classical
models.10 His didactic intent to illustrate the step-by-step approach to
learning recalls Odoardo Fialetti’s Artist’s Studio, c. 1608, from Il vero
modo, the instructional manual on drawing published in Venice about forty years
earlier (cat.), no doubt known to Sweerts through one of the Dutch publica-
tions that reproduced plates from it.11 Plaster casts and models were in
constant use in Northern workshops from the late 16th century onwards.12 Though
he never travelled to Italy, Van Mander’s friend, Cornelis Cornelisz. van
Haarlem (1562–1638), had a collec- tion of ninety-nine casts after antique and
anatomical 134 135 models.13 Van Mander praised his colleague (with whom
he started, along with Hendrick Goltzius, an informal academy in Haarlem in
1583) for selecting for his work ‘from the best and most beautiful living and
breathing antique sculptures’.1 4 Sumptuously displayed in a large pile in the
foreground, a veritable feast for the eyes, casts play a starring role in
Sweerts’ painting (detail, fig.). While light enters both from the window and
the open door, which reveals an urban view, that light that illuminates the
sculptures so brilliantly and mysteriously emanates from an unseen source, over
the viewer’s shoulder. The casts are presented with clarity and in sharp focus,
in marked contrast to the more generalised treatment of most of the other
elements in the composi- tion.15 While the human expressions seem almost blank,
those of the casts are animated and alive: the comment often made about
Sweerts, that ‘his people often look like sculptures and his plaster casts seem
almost human’, rings very true here.16 Several sources for the antique casts
can be identified, beginning with the head of a woman on the table, the subject
of study for the young boy sketching in the middle distance. As noted
previously,17 she is a much reduced copy of the colossal so-called Juno
Ludovisi (considered now to be a portrait of Antonia Augusta, daughter of
Octavia Minor and Mark Antony), which, from 1622, was in the Ludovisi
collection in Rome and is now in the Palazzo Altemps in Rome.18 The most prominent
among the jumble of casts in the foreground on the right is the head of a
woman, usually identified as Niobe from the famous group in the Uffizi (fig. 2,
see also 30, 34), but equally, the head could be that of one of her daughters
from the same group.19 They were discovered together with the Wrestlers (p. 30,
33) on a vineyard outside Rome.20 Immediately to the left of the Niobe, is a
cast of a limbless Apollo based on a model by François Duquesnoy (1597–1643).21
The head of an old woman in profile at the back of the pile to the left is
inspired by the Roman copy of a Hellenistic original donated in 1566 by Pius V
to the Con-servatori Palace and today in the Capitoline Museum (fig. 3).22 She
contrasts with the youthful beauty to her right, the head of the celebrated
Venus de’ Medici (Florence, Uffizi, see 42, 56). Behind the old woman is a head
of the Laocoön, ‘bronzed’ in effect, while the rest of his body, seen from
behind, rests on the top of the pile of casts (p. 26, 19).23 The relief propped
up against the table at the back is a cast of a Roman terracotta plaque, Winter
and Hercules, from the Campana collection and acquired by the Louvre in 1861 2.
Niobe, from the Niobe Group, possibly a Roman copy of a Greek original of the
4th century bc, marble, 228 cm (h), Uizi, Florence, inv. 294 3. Statue of an
Old Woman, Roman copy of a Hellenistic original, marble, 145 cm (h), Capitoline
Museums, Rome, inv. Scu 640 1. Michael Sweerts, A Painter’s Studio
(detail) 136 (fig. 4).24 It was admired by artists like Giovanni da Udine
(1487–1564) in the 16th century when it was recorded in the collection of
Gabriele de’ Rossi (1517),25 and into the 17th by others such as Pietro da
Cortona (1596–1669) and Pietro Testa (1612–50), whose copies after it are
preserved respec- tively in the Uffizi, Florence, and in the Royal Collection
at Windsor Castle.26 That this collection of casts was an important part of
Sweerts’ working practice is suggested by their regular appearance in other
compositions. Some familiar faces – the head of the old woman, the Juno
Ludovisi, the Niobe and others – return in Sweerts’ later Artist’s Studio,
signed and dated 1652, in the Detroit Institute of Arts (fig. 5). They are seen
among examples, including a cupid and torso by François Duquesnoy; this is
being scrutinised by an elegant young man, probably in Rome on the Grand Tour,
while the painter appears to be explaining how Duquesnoy’s 4. Winter and
Hercules, Roman, 1st century ad, terracotta, 60 × 52 cm, Louvre, Paris, inv. Cp
4169 figures once formed part of a group.27 Closer to the present composition
in conception, is the Artist’s Studio with a Woman Sewing in the Collection Rau
Foundation UNICEF, Cologne (fig. 6).28 Though almost certainly a workshop
picture, it evidently documents Sweerts’ original design and intention. There
is a similar haphazard arrangement of casts, with many of the same specimens
reappearing, including the bronzed head of Laocoön and his torso, placed beside
modern works, including the copy after a marble relief of François Duquesnoy,
Children Playing with a Goat.29 Many other celebrated compositions by Sweerts
feature antique casts (see 40, 52). It is not known why he chose to display
them with such prominence and so frequently, but he may well have been catering
to a new class of patron, the Dutch Grand Tourist.30 Among Sweerts’ most
important benefactors in Rome in the 1640s were Dutch tourists, especially
merchants.31 Thus three of five brothers from the Deutz textile merchant family
were in Italy between 1646 and 1650, and that is when they probably acquired
the many paintings by Sweerts listed in their inventories, including an
Artist’s Studio owned by Joseph Deutz.32 Significantly, the documents also
suggest that Sweerts acted as the Deutz’s agent for purchasing antique
sculpture as well as modern pictures, as so many other painters were to do in
the next century.33 Another important patron in Rome, Prince Camillo Pamphilj,
the nephew of Pope Innocent X (r. 1644–55), may have involved Sweerts in
teaching. He painted a range of works for the Prince, who, interestingly,
possessed a version in porphyry of the ever-present Head of the Old Woman; he
137 also owned the Duquesnoy relief that occurs in Sweerts’
Artist’s Studio now in Cologne (fig. 6).34 An intriguing pay- ment recorded in
the Pamphilj account book to Sweerts on 21 March of 1652 for ‘various amounts
of oil used since 17th February in His Excellency’s academy’, suggests Sweerts’
direct involvement with an academy in Rome.35 By the summer of 1655, Sweerts
had returned to Brussels where he founded ‘an academy of life drawing’,
primarily to educate tapestry and carpet designers.36 Something of its original
appearance might be gleaned from Sweerts’ Drawing School in the Frans Hals
Museum in Haarlem (c. 1655–60), where students of various ages draw from a live
male nude.37 In this painting, conspicuously absent are plaster casts; the
animation is now provided by the more than twenty young students assuming
various attitudes, some concentrating on the task at hand, others less focused.
However, there was probably another version by Sweerts of this painting, now
known only in a copy, where the live nude has been substi- tuted by a cast of a
classical female sculpture.38 Evidently plaster models were never far from his
mind. aa et avl 1 For his life and work, see Kultzen 1996 and Amsterdam, San
Francisco and elsewhere 2002, with previous literature. 2 Sutton 2002, 12;
Bikker 2002, 25–26. 3 Sutton 2002, 21. 4 In his ‘Foundation of the Painter’s
Art’ (Grondt der Schilder-Const), published together with his ‘Lives’ and his
two other theoretical treatises in the Schilder-Boeck (1604). See Van Mander
1604, fol. 6v, chap. 1, no. 66; Van Mander 1973, 1, 92–93, chap. 1, no. 66;
Stechow 1966, 57–58. Van Mander further noted, ‘From Rome bring home skill in
drawing, the ability to paint from Venice, which I had to bypass for the lack
of time.’: Stechow 1966, 58; Sutton Sutton 2002, 11, 17. In the preface to his
book on painters: Van Mander 1604, fol. 9r, chap. 2, no. 9; Van Mander 1973, 102–03,
chap. 2, no. 9; Martin 1905, 126. Martin 1905, 127. See Aymonino’s essay in
this catalogue, 33–34. Martin 1905, 127. Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe;
Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 94–96, no. VI (G. Jansen). For
example, Johannes Gellee’s Tyrocinia artis pictoriae caelatoriae published in
Amsterdam in 1639 where copied versions of the Artist’s Studio and other
etchings appear: see Bolten 1985, 132–39 and for other publications based or
reprinting parts of Fialetti’s treatise see Bolten. For the use of plaster
casts in 17th- and 18th-century artists’ studios in Antwerp and Brussels, see
Lock 2010. Rembrandt’s bankruptcy inventory of 1656 lists numerous plaster casts,
from life as well as from the Antique, which were doubtless an essential part
of his workshop practice (Strauss and Van der Meulen 1979, 349–88; Gyllenhaal
2008). See also cat. 23, note 18. Van Thiel 1965, 123, 128; Van Thiel 1999, 84,
and Appendix II, 254–55, 257, 270–71, 273; Sutton 2002, 18. Van Mander 1604,
fol. 292v; Van Mander 1973, 428–29. Sutton 2002, 18. This also may be due, in
part, to the compromised condition of the canvas. Sutton 2002, 20. Martin 1905,
127; Horster 1974, 145. Haskell and Penny 1981, 100; Palma and de Lachenal
1983, 133–37, no. 58 (de Lachenal). Horster 1974, 145; Döring 1994, 60;
Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 97. For the group, see Haskell and
Penny 1981, 274–79, no. 66, figs 143–47, and for the daughter that it resembles
the most, 145; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 318–19, no. 596.1. Haskell and Penny
1981, 274; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 62–63, no. 50. Noted by Döring 1994, 60–61.
For the Duquesnoy sculpture, see Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 122,
no. XV-2. On Duquesnoy’s fame as a ‘classical’ sculptor during the 17th century
and later see Boudon-Mauchel 2005, 175–210. As first observed by Döring 1994, 62.
For the statue see Stuart Jones 1912, 288–89, no. 22. Döring 1994, 63. The
subject was noted by Denys Sutton (London 1955, 91) and Marita 138 139 5,
Michael Sweerts, An Artist’s Studio, 1652, oil on canvas, 73.5 × 58.8 cm, The
Detroit Institute of Arts, inv. 30.297 6, After Michael Sweerts, Artist’s
Studio with a Woman Sewing, c. 1650, oil on canvas, 82.5 × 106.7 cm, Collection
RAU-Fondation UNICEF, Cologne, inv. GR 1.874 25 26 27 28 29 Horster (1974, 145)
who both identified the motif from a sketchbook by Francisco de Hollanda.
Sutton and Guido Jansen (Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 97)
believed the plaster relief to combine scenes from two separate ones: the
Winter and Hercules and the Cretan Bull. However, as Eloisa Dodero has noted
(personal communication), it is based on the single terracotta relief in the
Louvre, see Christian 2002, 181–84 no. II.15, 25; De Romanis 2007, 235–238, 1.
For the acquisition by the Louvre, see Sarti 2001, 121. Dacos 1986, 222;
Christian 2002, 181–86. For the Cortona drawing: Briganti 1982, 286.27; for the
Testa sheet at Windsor: Christian 2002, 181–82, 26. See Amsterdam, San
Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 120–23, no. XV, where the painting is discussed
at length. Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 110, xii–i (as by or
after Sweerts). Many copies are known suggesting it was a much-admired
composition. Bikker Sutton 2002, 15–16; Bikker 2002, 27–28. Described in
documents in general terms as ‘Ein Schildersacademetje’, it is not known which
of the surviving studio pictures it was. According to the collections database,
Detroit Institute of Arts website, it was theirs (fig. 5). Bikker 2002, 27–28.
Ibid., 28–31, figs 25, 27. Ibid., 29. This was probably a private academy and
not the Accademia di San Luca, of which Sweerts was possibly a member. He was
responsible for collecting membership dues from his compatriots: see Bikker
2002, 25–26. Lock 2010, 251; Bikker 2002, 31. Amsterdam, San Francisco and
elsewhere 2002, 133–35, no. xix (G. Jansen). Present whereabouts unknown; see
Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 133, xix–i. 13. Jan de
Bisschop (Amsterdam 1628–1671 The Hague) Two Artists Drawing an Antique Bust
(recto); A Reclining Man seen from Behind (verso) c. 1660s Pen and brown ink,
brushed with brown wash, 91 × 135 mm Inscribed recto l.r. in pencil: J.
Bisschop. watermark: part of the crowned coat of arms of Amsterdam.1
provenance: Private collection, Germany; Sotheby’s, London, 13 April 1992, lot
260, from whom acquired. literature: London 1992 (unpaginated), repr.; Broos
and Schapelhouman 1993, 51, under no. 34, b. exhibitions: Not previously
exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1992-012 Born in
Amsterdam in 1628, Jan de Bisschop was among a group of talented amateur
artists, including his immediate contemporaries and friends Constantijn Huygens
the Younger (1628–1697) and Jacob van der Ulft (1627–1689) who all worked in
Netherlands around the mid-17th century.2 De Bisschop was classically educated
and trained as a lawyer; he became an advocate at the judicial court of The
Hague. But he also distinguished himself as a writer, theoretician, literary
scholar, and as a connoisseur of the Antique. And although without formal
artistic training, he was an accomplished draughtsman and etcher who, through
his publications reproducing ancient sculpture and Old Master drawings,
disseminated in the Netherlands an anti- quarian culture and an aesthetic based
on the works of classical antiquity. He also helped introduce the practice of
drawing after both antique sculpture and live models in the Hague.3 His large corpus
of drawings, numbering in the upper hundreds, consists of sun-infused,
Italianate land- scapes, lively figure and genre studies, portraits, and many
copies after antique sculpture and paintings by Old Masters, 1. Bust of the
so-called Lysimachus, Roman copy of the Augustan period from a Greek original
of the 2nd c. bc, marble, 49 cm (h), Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli,
inv. 6141 usually executed in pen and brush and wash with a distinc- tive warm,
golden-brown ink, referred to from the late 17th century as bisschops-inkt
(Bisschop’s ink).4 As in the examples illustrated here, he often effectively
combined dense washes with reserves of untouched paper to create a
light-drenched, fresh out-of-doors effect. In this lively and rapid sketch,
probably made on the spot, two seated draughtsmen, seen from the back, draw
after an antique bust of a man. On the reverse one of them is sketched again,
casually reclining. The object of their gaze is a bust nowadays identified as
of Lysimachus, the Greek successor to Alexander the Great, who from c. 306 to
281 bc reigned as King of Thrace, Asia Minor and Macedonia.5 Discovered c.
1576, it was acquired by Cardinal Odoardo Farnese from the Giorgio Cesarini
collection, and is preserved today in the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di
Napoli (fig. 1). Doubt- less known to de Bisschop through one of the plaster
casts which circulated in Northern Europe at the time, the bust was in the 17th
century thought to represent a philosopher; from the 18th century he was
identified more specifically – but wrongly – as the Athenian legislator, Solon.
It was copied profusely from the 17th century onwards, and was included, for
example, in a portrait painted by Isaac Fuller (1606–72) in c. 1670 (Yale
Center for British Art, New Haven) of the architect and sculptor, Edward Pierce
(c. 1635–95), who rests one hand on the bust while gesturing to it with the
other.6 Admiration for the sculpture continued in the 18th century, in France,
where a red chalk copy of it was made by the sculptor, Edmé Bouchardon
(1698–1762) or a member of his circle,7 and particularly in England, where,
catering to a n emerging neo-classical aesthetic, a blemish-free replica of the
Lysimachus was carved in 1758 by Wilton; this was acquired by Rockingham, for
his VILLA at Wentworth and is now in the The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los
Angeles.8 Another copy of the bust, made by the sculptor and restorer of
ancient statues, Bartolomeo Cavaceppi (see cat.), was mentioned in a
letter from the dealer and agent, Thomas Jenkins, to his client, Charles
Townley, as a possible acquisition. His scheme involved fusing Cavaceppi’s bust
with the body of a statue of Achilles; mercifully, this was abandoned when the
original head of Achilles was recovered.9 Its diminutive size and spontaneous
style of execution would suggest the present sheet came from a sketchbook,
probably one like that held by the artist on the right. The draughtsmen have
not been securely identified but they are no doubt to be found among de
Bisschop’s friends and associ- ates; one may be Huygens the Younger, with whom
he made sketching excursions in and around The Hague and Leiden. In fact,
drawings by de Bisschop are often mistaken for works by Huygens, to whom this
sheet was previously assigned.10 A treatment of a similar theme, of two
draughtsmen from the front seated in a landscape but without an antique model
to study, is found in de Bisschop’s drawing in the Amsterdam Museum (fig. 2).11
Executed with the same loose pen work and spontaneous handling of the brush, characteristic
of de Bisschop after 1660, it shows one artist on the left gazing downwards to
– or reading from – a loose sheet held in both hands, while the other appears
to be sketching in a small book. A third rendering of two artists sketching out
of doors, one, with hat removed, holding a drawing board, is among the sheets
by Huygens the Younger in the Municipal Archives of The Hague (fig. 3).12 As
with the present study, the figures are seen from behind in a sunlit setting
but on a bench, near the entrance to the country house, Zorgvliet, near The
Hague, and the subject of their attention is out of view. De Bisschop’s
drawings were admired by collectors and connoisseurs from John Barnard
(1709–84) to Horace Walpole (1717–97), but his main contribution to scholarship
was the publication of two influential books. The first was the Signorum
veterum icones issued in two volumes in 1668–69; 2. Jan de Bisschop, Two
Draughtsmen Seated Outdoors, pen and brown ink with the brush and brown wash,
grey ink, 97 × 149 mm, Amsterdam Museum, inv. nr. A 18179 142 4. Jan de
Bisschop, Allegory of Sculpture, title page to the Signorum veterum icones,
part 1, Amsterdam (?), 1668, etching, 245 × 114 mm, Warburg Institute Library,
London also consulted prints by François Perrier (1590–1650), who had published
a selection of antique statuary in Paris and Rome in 1638 (Segmenta nobilium
signorum et statuarum . . .).18 An album of 140 drawings by de Bisschop
suggests that he intended to publish a third volume of Icones on antique Roman
reliefs, based largely on another publication by Perrier of 1645 (Icones et
segmenta . . .).19 However, de Bisschop’s death from tuberculosis at
forty-three meant that the third volume was never realised. In addition to his
writings on art, de Bisschop contrib- uted in other ways to furthering artistic
education in the Netherlands. He participated in local confraternities of
artists and co-founded a private drawing academy with his friends, including
Huygens the Younger; they met several times a week in the evenings, often
drawing after a live model.20 In 1682, eleven years after de Bisschop’s death,
the first drawing academy in the Northern Netherlands – includ- ing in its
curriculum the study of plaster casts after the Antique – was established in
The Hague.21 De Bisschop’s influence may have extended further, perhaps as a
direct consequence of the Icones. Of significance is a letter dated 1688 from
the artist Romeyn de Hooghe (1645–1708) to the burgermasters of Haarlem, asking
their assistance in setting up an academy for students to study ‘the best
ancient statues, such as Venus, Apollo, Laocoön, in order to familiarise
themselves with the idea of classical beauty’.22 Although that request was
turned down, a Haarlem Drawing Academy was founded in 1772 and although it was
closed in 1795, in the following year, the Haarlem Drawing College was
established, with the study of the Antique remaining a vital part of the
curriculum (see cat. 31).23 3.
Constantijn Huygens, the Younger, Two Draughtsmen near Zorgvliet, detail,
pen and brown ink and wash with the brush over traces of graphite, 243 × 373
mm, Municipal Archives of The Hague, Gr. A 110 the first volume was dedicated
to his friend, Huygens the Younger and the second, to Johannes Wtenbogaard, the
Receiver-General of Holland and a neighbour of his parents. In 1671, de
Bisschop published the Paradigmata graphices variorum artificum, which he
dedicated to the collector Jan Six; this comprised forty-seven etchings based
on Italian Old Master drawings and ten antique busts.13 The two volumes of the
Icones were republished together with the Paradigmata, in later editions.14 Of
particular relevance to us is de Bisschop’s Icones, featuring one-hundred
etched plates after antique sculpture. Its purpose was didactic: to provide a
compilation of the best-known works and to establish norms of classical beauty
for artists, amateurs and collectors. In de Bisschop’s words, they were
‘sculptures and reliefs of the greatest perfection in art and the best sources
for students’.15 The book proved to be an enormously useful resource especially
as it featured, in some cases, the same sculpture seen from different angles;
in essence, in the round. For instance, de Bisschop’s presented five views of
the celebrated Wrestlers sculpture in the Uffizi (see 30, 33, and cats 16 and
27), two of which are shown here (figs 5–6).16 In the Icones, the unusual left
profile view of the Farnese Hercules, in reverse was probably known to Jan
Claudius de Cock and Wallerant Vaillant, who reproduced it from the same
viewpoint (see cat. 14, 4). In fact, Cock took inspiration from several of the
Icones plates for his Allegory of the Arts series (cat. 14). As de Bisschop
probably never travelled to Italy, many of his prints relied on antique
sculptures in Dutch collections, or on casts, and especially on drawings by
artists who had travelled south to visit collections in Florence and Rome, such
as Willelm Doudijns (1630–97), Pieter Donker (1635– 68), Adriaen Backer
(1635/35–84) and others.17 De Bisschop avl 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 See Churchill 1967, pl. 8, no. 9, date: 1665 or pl. 9,
no. 11, date: 1670. For this life and work, see Van Gelder 1972. Van Gelder
1972, 27. Goeree 1697, 91. Gasparri 2009–10, 2, 55–57, no. 32 (F. Coraggio),
and 188–89, pl. XXXII, figs 1–4. Charlton-Jones 1991, 100–01, pl. 89. The
subject of the Louvre drawing (Guiffrey and Marcel 1907–75, 1, no. 1353) was
identified by Rausa 2007a, 172, no. 165.1. Fusco 1997, 56. Coltman 2009, 87.
Sold as Huygens at Sotheby’s, London, 13 April 1992, lot 260. Broos and
Schapelhouman 1993, 51, no. 34 (B. Broos). Amsterdam 1992, 37, no. 22 (R. E.
Jellema and M. Plomp). Van Gelder 1972, 1–2. Both books are published in their
entirety with commentary by Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 2 vols. See also Bolten
1985, 257–58 and Plomp 2010, 39–47. Bolten 1985, 71. Van Gelder 1972, 19. Van
Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 106–08, nos 18–22, 2, pls 18–22. Further plates are
after other artists as well as drawings by Jacob de Gheyn III (1596–1641), who
is not known to have travelled to Italy but visited collections in England (Van
Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 15–16, 155). Van Gelder 1972, 19–20. The album of
classical statues, reliefs, Roman architecture and contempo- rary Dutch figures
and scenes is at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, inv. D.1212:1 to
141-1989. On it see Van Gelder 1972, 8–9 and especially Turner and White 2014, 1,
25–67, no. 23. Van Gelder 1972, 11. Van Gelder 1972, 27. Van der Willigen 1866,
137; Washington D.C. 1977, under no. 69 (F. W. Robinson). Haarlem 1990, 16–17,
34–38. 5. Jan de Bisschop, The Wrestlers, from the Signorum veterum icones,
part 1, Amsterdam (?), 1668, pl. 18, etching, 164 × 215 mm, Warburg Institute
Library, London 6. Jan de Bisschop, The Wrestlers, from the Signorum veterum
icones, part 1, Amsterdam (?), 1668, pl. 21, etching, 199 × 133 mm, Warburg
Institute Library, London 143 14. Attributed to Jan Claudius
de Cock (Brussels 1667–1735 Antwerp) An Allegory of Painting c. 1706 Etching,
141 × 100 mm watermark: possibly part of a coat of arms. provenance: Bassenge,
Berlin, 6 December 2001, lot 5452 (as Anonymous, Southern German, c. 1700),
from whom acquired. literature:None. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited.
Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2001-037 In the corner of a
painter’s workshop, students draw after plaster casts, selected according to
their age and level of study. The youngest, wearing a Roman-style toga and
stand- ing at a pedestal, which supports his open sketchbook, records the
likeness of the head of a boy similar to him in age. He may be copying the bust
itself, or more likely, the drawing after the bust, propped up next to it. At
the left, another pupil, a pre-teen representing a higher level of study,
thoughtfully examines a reduced model, in reverse, of a rather unfit Farnese
Hercules (see 30, 32 and cats 7, 16, 21) elevated on a plinth, and shown in a
similar pose as illustrated by Jan de Bisschop’s Icones (fig. 1). The student
and 1. Jan de Bisschop, The Farnese Harcules, from the Signorum veterum icones,
part 1, Amsterdam (?), 1668, pl. 8, etch- ing, 221 × 105 mm, Warburg Institute
Library, London the statuette are so posed that they appear to exchange
glances. In the background, partially obscured by the sculp- ture’s base, is a
third boy, probably midway in age between the others, who bows his head in
concentration. Displayed on the shelf and walls above are workshop props – a
globe, hourglass, books, compass and additional fragments of plaster casts,
included a female torso and a male one which may be based on the Belvedere
Torso (p. 26, 28). Presiding over the scene is a voluptuously dressed female
figure with an elaborate hairstyle and bared breasts, who holds a palette with
brushes in one hand, and gestures to the statue of Hercules with the other. She
is leaning on a richly carved wooden table bearing bottles of spirit, compasses
and completed figural drawings. She is an Allegory of Painting, as described by
Cesare Ripa in his Iconologia, the widely consulted emblematic handbook first
published in 1593 – and probably known to de Cock through the Dutch editions of
1698 or 1699: a beautiful woman with twisted, unruly hair, holding the tools of
the painter.1 She represents the goal; once pupils had completed their
prescribed course of study, mastering the succession of stages dictated by the
established norms of 16th-century studio practice – first, drawing the
individual parts of the body through drawings of others, prints, fragments and
casts, and finally, the entire figure, a statue or live model – only then, may
they progress to painting (see also cat. 10).2 The attainment of the goal is
encapsulated in the prominently displayed picture on the wall above Hercules,
probably a Mars and Venus. Though acquired as by an anonymous southern German
artist, c. 1700, the etching shares similarities with the work of the Flemish
painter, sculptor, etcher and writer, Jan Claudius de Cock.3 It is particularly
close in style and execution to his drawing of the Allegory of Sculpture
drawing, signed and dated 1706 (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 2), which
is carried out with the same meticulous handling and degree of finish.4 Direct
references to antique sculpture abound in the New York sheet with plaster casts
freely modelled after the Pan and Apollo from the Cesi collection (Museo
Nazionale 144 145 2. Jan Claudius de Cock, Allegory of Sculpture,
1706, pen and brown ink, 317 × 195 mm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New
York, 2010.533 Romano, Rome) at right and, at the left, the Wrestlers, acquired
by the Medici in 1583 (Uffizi, Florence; see 30, 33).5 Antique-inspired motifs
– busts, putti, fragments and a strigilated krater – are also visible
throughout. As with the etching, there is a female personification – in this
case, of sculpture – her hand resting on one bust and pointing to a second with
the other, just as Painting does here in the etching. At her feet are the tools
of her trade: scalpels, mallet and a drill. Other drawings of similar subject
matter, format and date suggest de Cock planned a series on the Allegories of
the Arts, perhaps intending them to appear as etchings in a book. His drawing
of a female sculptor modelling a recumbent Venus (fig. 3), another Allegory of
Sculpture, is also signed, and dated (1706) and is numbered like the New York
drawing.6 Further studies by de Cock no doubt relate to the same series.7
However, while the drawings are roughly the same size, the present etching is
considerably smaller. The colossal Farnese Hercules became enormously popular
immediately after its discovery in the 16th century, and 146 3. Jan Claudius de
Cock, An Allegory of Sculpture, 1706, pen and brown ink, black chalk, 321 × 192
mm, Christie’s, London, 19 April 1988, lot 140 numerous copies after it were
produced, often reduced to life-size or the scale seen here, to make it more manageable
and portable.8 A model strikingly similar to that in the etching occurs in a
mezzotint of a boy drawing in a studio, c. 1660–75, by the Dutch painter and
engraver, Wallerant Vaillant (1623–77), where it is perched on a table at a
nearly identical angle (fig. 4).9 Both prints suggest that by the early 18th
century, plaster models of the Hercules were commonplace in Flemish and
Netherlandish workshops.10 Several of the antiquities in both the etching, here
attrib- uted to de Cock, and his two related drawings discussed above, argue
knowledge of Bisschop’s Icones, by then the standard reference for antique
sculptures in the Netherlands (see cat. 13). For example, the rather unusual
left-profile view of the Farnese Hercules in the etching and the pose of the
Wrestlers in the New York drawing (fig. 2), both shown reversed in respect to
the antique originals, find their counterparts in the Icones (fig. 1 and cat.
13, 5).11 And the pensive Muse, possibly Clio, at the upper right of the 4.
Wallerant Vaillant, A Boy Drawing in a Studio, c. 1660–75, mezzotint, 324 × 300
mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-1889-A-14489 second Allegory of Sculpture
drawing (fig. 3), is a literal quotation from a plate in the second volume of
Bisschop’s 12 Born in Brussels, de Cock was apprenticed in the workshop of
Peeter Verbrugghen the Elder (c. 1609–86) in Antwerp. After Verbruggen’s death,
he established himself in that city, although he later moved to Breda, where
King William III Stadholder of the Netherlands commissioned him to work on
sculpture for a courtyard in the town.14 However, by 1697 or 1698, de Cock had
returned to Antwerp and devoted himself more to teaching, establishing a large
workshop with many pupils, some learning drawing, others, goldsmithing.15 In
1720, he wrote a didactic poetical treatise for his students, Eenighe
voornaemste en noodighe regels van de beeldhouwerije om metter tijdt en goet
meester te woorden (‘Some avl For Pittura from Ripa’s first illustrated edition
(1603), see Buscaroli 1992, 357 and in the Dutch edition of 1698, reprinted in
1699, see Hoorn 1698, II, 515 [c]. Armenini 1587, 52–59 (book 1, chap. 7);
Alberti 1604, 5 (quoting Federico Zuccaro); Roman 1984, 91. Nagler (1966, 3,
no. 2100) and Wurzbach (1906–11, 1, 304–05) only briefly mention his etchings
and this subject does not occur. Acquired Christie’s, London, 7 July 2010, lot
328. It is signed at lower left: ‘Joannes Claud: de Cock invenit delineavit
Anno= MDCCVI’ and numbered below, ‘4’. A further inscription by the artist on
the verso, “Sculptura Pace, et Abondante=”/[. . .], may refer to another
drawing in the series, perhaps an Allegory of Peace and Abundance or a
Concordia. Haskell and Penny 1981, 286–88, no. 70; 337–39, no. 94. Christie’s,
London, 19 April 1988, lot 140. According to the catalogue, it is signed and
dated, ‘Joan Claudius de Cock/invenit delineavit/AoMDCCVI’ and numbered ‘3’
below. They include another signed Allegory of Sculpture close to the New York
drawing in composition, with differences and executed in pencil, 326 × 194 mm
(Christie’s, Amsterdam, 15 November 1993, lot 115) and a signed Allegory of
Architecture, pen and brown-grey ink and wash, 328 × 234 mm (Christie’s,
Amsterdam, 21 November 1989, lot 52). Haskell and Penny 1981, 232; Gasparri
2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1, repr. on 207–13. Hollstein 1949–2001, 31, 119, no.
96. The 1635 studio inventory of the painter, Hendrik van Balen (1575–1632)
mentions a cast of the Hercules among other antique works (Duverger 1984–2009, 4,
208). The torso of a draped male statue on the shelf at upper right in the
drawing probably derives from a further etching by Bisschop, based on copies by
Willelm Doudijns (1630–97), reproducing a marble in the Pighini collection and
now in the Vatican (Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 110–11, no. 26, 2, pl. 26;
Helbig 1963–72, 1, 194, no. 250). Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 184–85, no. 98, 2,
pl. 98. In that drawing, the male torso seen from the back on the shelf at
right recalls de Bisschop’s etching of the Belvedere Torso (Van Gelder and Jost
1985, 1, 108–10, no. 24, 2, pl. 24). Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 184–85;
Haynes 1975, pl. 18. De Gheyn was in London in the summer of 1618 and his
drawing (untraced), was in the collection of J. A. Wtenbogaert in Amsterdam
(Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 16, 155, 185). For his life and work, see C.
Lawrence, “Cock, Jan Claudius de”. Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online,
accessed December 10, 2014, http://www.oxford-
artonline.com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T018366. Pauwels 1977, 37. Published
in Brussels by Mertens 1865; Lawrence 1986, 283. Mertens 1865; Lawrence 1986, 283.
The original marble from the Earl of Arundel’s collection, known to de Bisschop
through a drawing after it by Jacques de Gheyn III, is now in the Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford.13 publication. chief and notable rules from the sculptor in
order to become a good master in due course’) although it remained unpublished
until the 19th century.16 It is entirely possible that he intended the Allegory
of Arts series to illustrate this treatise, in which he expressed his great
admiration for classical sculpture, namely the Laocoön, the Medici Venus – and,
most importantly – the Farnese Hercules.17 147 15. Nicolas
Dorigny (Paris 1658–1746 Paris), after Carlo Maratti (Camerano 1625–1713 Rome)
The Academy of Drawing c. 1702–03 Etching and engraving, 470 × 321 mm (plate);
503 × 331 mm (sheet) State I of II (second state dated 1728 with the address of
Jacob Frey). Inscribed on the plate, l.l. on the ground: ‘TANTO CHE BASTI’,
same inscription repeated l.r. on the perspective drawing on the easel, and
c.l. on the pedestal of the anatomical model. Inscribed u.c.
above the statue of Apollo: ‘NON / MAI ABASTANZA’; u.r. above the Three Graces:
‘SENZA DI NOI OGNI FATICA E VANA’. Inscribed l.c. with the title, ‘A Giovani
studiosi del Disegno’, followed by ten lines explaining the scene: ‘La Scuola
del Disegno, che s’espone delineata con le presenti Figure dal Sig.r Cavalier
Carlo Maratti, può molto contribuire al’disinganno di coloro che credono di
potere con la cognizione, e studio di molte Arti divenir perfet.ti nell’Arte
del dipingere senza procurare in primo luogo d’esser perfettissimi nel Disegno,
e senza il dono naturale, et un particolare istinto di saper con grazia, e
facilità animare, e disporre vagamente le parti di quell’Opera, che prenderanno
a delineare, e và figurando questo suo nobil pensiero con il mezzo
dell’azzioni, che qui si additano. Vedonsi alcuni studiosi delle mathematiche
in quella parte, che spetta alla Geometria, et Ottica, che conferiscono alla
Prospettiva: dall’altro lato, altri applicati all’osservazione d’un Corpo
anatomico, dà cui si apprende la giusta proporzione delle membra, e sito
de’muscoli, e nervi, che compongono una figura, dimostrato eruditame-te dà
Leonardo da Vinci espresso co- la propria effige, con il motto . Tanto che basti
. per dimostrare, che di tali professioni basta, che quello, che attenderà al
Disegno sia mediocrem.te erudito, per ridurre ad un’perfetto fine qualunque
Idea. Mà per coloro, che si esprimono attenti allo studio delle statue antiche,
non serve una leggiera applicazione alle mede, essendo lor d’uopo di farvi
sopra una lunga, et esatta riflessione, e studio per apprendere le belle forme;
e si pone l’esemplare delle statue antiche, come le più perfette, nelle quali
quei grandi Huomini espressero ì Corpi nel più perfetto grado, che possano
dalla natura istessa crearsi, e perciò vi si pone il motto . Non mai abastanza
. Tutto però riuscirebbe vano di conseguire senza l’assistenza delle Grazie,
che intende, come accennammo, per quel natural gusto di disporre, et atteggiare
con grazia, e delicatezza le positure, et ì movimenti delle Figure, dalle quali
poi risulta quella vaghezza, e leggiadria, che destano meraviglia, e piacere in
chiunque le mira, ponendosi queste a tal oggetto in alto, e sù le nuvole per
significare, che questo dono non viene che dal Cielo, con il motto . Senza di
noi ogni fatica e vana . Vivete felici.’1 Inscribed l.l. margin: ‘Eques Carolus
Maratti inven. et delin. Cum privil Summi Pont. et Regis Christ.mi’, and l.r.:
‘N. Dorigny sculp.’. watermark: Possibly a four-legged animal inscribed in a
double circle. provenance: Possibly Hugh Howard (1675–1737); Charles Francis
Arnold Howard, 5th Earl of Wicklow (1839–81), from whom acquired in 1874.
literature: Le Blanc 1854–88, II, 140, no. 51; Mariette 1996–2003, 3, 511, no.
76, 189; Kutschera-Woborsky 1919, 9–28, 5; Goldstein 1978, 1, 1; Rudolph 1978,
Appendix, 203, n. 38; Philadelphia 1980–81, 114–16, no. 101 A (A. E. Golahny);
Johns 1988, 17–21, 5; Goldstein 1989, p.156, 1; Winner 1992, 1; Jaffé 1994, 128,
under no. 251 646; Mertens 1994, 222–24, 94; Goldstein 1996, 47, 14; Rome
2000b, 2, 483–84, no. 2 (S. Rudolph); Pierguidi 2014. exhibitions: Not
previously exhibited. The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings,
London, 1874,0808.1713 This intriguing and complex image has a central
role in this catalogue, as it represents the most eloquent visual expres- sion
of the classicistic credo of the Roman Accademia di San Luca in the final
decades of the 17th century. More generally, it is a strong defence of the
Florentine and Roman academic traditions, with their stress on drawing, their
celebration of Raphael and, above all, on the study, copy and reverence of the
Antique. As we shall see, the original drawing from which the print is derived
was most likely conceived in 1681–82, at a time when the aesthetic belief
supported by the Accademia di San Luca was being challenged by other
pedagogical methods and criticised from other theoretical viepoints, hence its
programmatic nature and didactic aim. Carlo Maratti was the most authoritative
painter in Rome during the final decades of the 17th century and the beginning
of the 18th and the champion of classicism.2 As a boy of twelve he had entered
the large workshop of Andrea Sacchi (1599–1661), where he remained until the
master’s death in 1661. His training followed the usual curriculum of 148 Roman
studios, centred on drawing, and on the copy of the Antique, and of Renaissance
and early 17th-century masters.3 His lifelong friend, mentor and biographer,
the great art theorist and antiquarian, Giovanni Pietro Bellori (1613–96),
tells us that he concentrated especially on copying Raphael’s frescoes.4 He
pursued this commitment throughout his life, incorporating the essential
qualities of the great Renaissance champion of classicism into his own
painting, to the point that he became known as the Raphael of his time.5 In
1664 Maratti became ‘principe’, or president, of the Accademia di San Luca,
where, in the same year, Bellori’s discourse, the ‘Idea of the painter, the
sculptor and the archi- tect, selected from the beauties of Nature, superior to
Nature’, was publicly delivered (see Appendix, no. 11).6 Bellori’s theoretical
statement, then published as a prologue to his Vite in 1672, was to become
enormously influential in defin- ing and diffusing the central tenets of the
classical ideal, preparing the ground for the eventual affirmation of classi-
cism in the 18th century.7 Maratti remained an influential 149 figure
within the Accademia for almost fifty years – while Bellori held the position
of secretary several times – playing a vital role in reorganising its
curriculum according to a comprehensive pedagogical programme, based on the
exer- cise of drawing from drawings, from casts after the Antique and from the
live model, and on students’ competitions and regular lectures.8 The print,
which embodies this theoretical and didactic approach, is based on a drawing
now preserved at Chatsworth (fig. 1), commissioned from Maratti by one of his most
faithful patrons, Gaspar Méndez de Haro y Guzmán, 7th Marquis of Carpio,
(1629–87), Spanish ambassador in Rome between 1677 and 1682.9 A sketchier
version, in the same direction as the print but with differences in detail, is
at the Wadsworth Atheneum (fig. 2).10 Art lover, collector and patron, Carpio
commissioned from contemporary Roman artists a large series of drawings with
the practice, theory, and nature of painting as their subject.11 The result was
a sophisticated collection of allegories of art, of which Maratti’s drawing is
by far the most celebrated, largely due to Dorigny’s print.12 Another drawing
with the Allegory of Ignorance Ensnaring Painting and Massacring the Fine Arts,
now in the Louvre, was probably produced by Maratti for Carpio as a pendant to
the Academy of Drawing, and as such was later engraved by Dorigny with a
similar explanatory inscription devoted to the ‘Lovers of the Fine Arts’ (fig.
3).13 Possibly intended from the beginning to be printed, Maratti’s drawing for
the Academy of Drawing was later engraved by the Parisian printmaker, Nicolas
Dorigny, 1. Carlo Maratti, The Academy of Drawing, c. 1681–82, pen and brown
ink with brown wash, heightened with white gouache, over black chalk, 402 × 310
mm, Chatsworth, The Duke of Devonshire and the Chatsworth Settlement Trustees,
inv. 646 2. Carlo Maratti, The Academy of Drawing, c. 1681–82, pen and brown
ink and red chalk, 505 × 355 mm, Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford,
CT, inv. 1967.309a who spent the years 1687–1711 in Rome. The rare first state,
exhibited here, was probably published around 1702–03 under the supervision of
Maratti, who owned the copper- plates and who, no doubt, was the author of the
explanatory inscriptions below this print and its pendant.14 The reason why it
took twenty years for the original drawing and its pendant to be engraved, may
be due to the fact that Carpio left Rome in 1683 to become Viceroy of Naples
and his move might have brought the original publication project to a halt.
After Maratti’s death in 1713, the plates were purchased by Jacob Frey
(1681–1752) who published a second state in 1728.15 The image is a very
condensed and crowded composi- tion, in line with similar examples by Stradanus
(cat. 4), Pierfrancesco Alberti (cat. 2, 1), and others, which would certainly
have been known to Maratti.16 The Academy of Drawing is presented as an antique
academy devoted to intellectual pursuits, clearly reminiscent of Raphael’s
School of Athens in the Vatican Stanze, and in general subtle refer- ences to
Raphael’s works are ubiquitous throughout.17 We are invited to follow the
different disciplines and principles essential for the education of the young
artists, distributed visually and symbolically in an ascent: from the technical
and mathematical rudiments for the representation of space in the foreground,
to the ideal models for the depiction of the human figure in the upper left
part of the composition, and finally to the divinely inspired grace and
artistic talent on the upper left background, without which all the previous
learning would be useless. Bellori, in his biography 3. Nicolas Dorigny after
Carlo Maratti, Allegory of Ignorance ensnaring Painting and mas- sacring the
Fine Arts, 1704–10, etching and engraving, 468 × 319 mm, The British Museum,
Department of Prints and Draw- ings, London, inv. 1874,0808.1714 that. We know
from another passage in Bellori that Maratti, although he ‘always considered perspective and anat- omy necessary to the
painter’, abhorred some ‘masters, or rather modern censors who, having learned
a line or two of perspective or anatomy, the minute they look at a picture look
for the vanishing point and the muscles, and scold,
correct, accuse and criticise the most eminent masters’.23 Maratti’s attitude
was, in fact, very much in line with the Italian art theory of the second half
of the 16th century.24 Most writers agreed that, although the knowledge of
mathematical sciences was vital, the artist’s judgement and his eye must be the
ultimate criteria in the artistic process. Giorgio Vasari (1511–74) clearly
formulated this concept, paraphrasing Michelangelo’s famous saying that ‘it was
necessary to have the compasses in the eyes and not in the hand, because the
hands work and the eyes judge’.25 This opinion was rephrased by Giovanni Paolo
Lomazzo (1538– 1600) who wrote precisely that ‘all the reasoning of geome- try
and arithmetic, and all the proofs of perspective were of no use to a man
without the eye’, and shared also by Federico Zuccaro (c. 1540–1609) the
founder and first principal of the reformed Accademia di San Luca in 1593 (see
cat. 5).26 A similar approach was reserved for the study of anatomy, the excess
of which, as represented by Michelangelo – who is not alluded to in the print –
was explicitly condemned by Giovan Battista Armenini (c. 1525–1609) and others,
an opinion supported by Bellori and Maratti.27 The ‘Young Students of Drawing’,
to which the print is dedicated, need instead to focus their attention on, and
constantly draw from, ancient statues, here represented by 4. Raphael, Apollo,
detail, School of Athens, 1509–11, fresco, Stanza della Segnatura, Apostolic
Palace, Vatican City of Maratti, left unfinished at his death in 1696,
provides a description of one of Maratti’s original drawings (figs 1–2) and
this, plus the explanatory inscription on the print, constitute the best guide
to interpret the composition.18 At the centre a ‘master of perspective’
indicates to a young disciple the visual pyramid and various geometrical
figures traced on a canvas placed on an easel, at the bottom of which we read:
‘TANTO CHE BASTI’, ‘Enough to suffice’.19 The same inscription recurs on the
ground on the left, in front of another pupil intent at drafting geometrical
figures on the abacus with his compass, a gesture evoking that of Archimedes in
Raphael’s School of Athens. As Bellori explains, this is to signify that ‘once
the young have learned the rules necessary to their studies’ – geometry and
perspec- tive – ‘they should pass on without stopping’.20 On the right, below
the easel, we see a stool supporting the physical tools of the art of painting:
another compass and a palette with various brushes. Behind them a ruler leans
diagonally against the canvas. The same warning ‘TANTO CHE BASTI’ reappears on
the left on the pedestal supporting a life-size anatomical écorché, in a pose
reminiscent of the Borghese Gladiator (see 41, 54 and cat. 23, 1). Several
students draw its muscles, directed by Leonardo, whose anatomical studies were
very well known, especially after the first publication of his treatise on
painting in 1651.21 ‘Anatomy and the drawing of lines’ continues Bellori, ‘do
indeed fall under definite rules and can be learned perfectly by anyone, just
as geometry used formerly to be learned in school from childhood’.22 They
therefore constitute those sciences that can be taught by rational precepts.
But if the young students want to become great artists they need much more
than 150 151 the gigantic Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32 and
cat. 7, 1), by a Venus Pudica reminiscent of the Venus de’Medici (see 42, fig.
56) and by an Apollo, the latter clearly derived from the statue presiding over
the philosophers in the School of Athens (fig. 4).28 Apollo, as patron of the
arts, combining together a reference to the Antique and to Raphael,
conveniently substitutes for the Belvedere Antinous (see 26, fig. 22 and cat.
19) seen on the earlier sketch (fig. 2).29 The study of classi- cal sculptures,
as the inscription on the wall behind the Apollo instructs us, is ‘NON MAI
ABASTANZA’, ‘Never enough’, as they contain ‘the example and the perfection of
painting together with good imitation selected from
nature’ as Bellori tells us.30 In other words, they materialise Bellori’s
concept of the ‘Idea’, intended as the selection of the best parts of Nature
according to the right judgement of the artist in order to create ideal beauty
(see Appendix, no. 11). If a young artist assimilates their principles, he will
have a secure guide towards artistic perfection. On the left, sitting on clouds,
the Three Graces – again referring to the similar figures painted by Raphael in
the Villa Farnesina in Rome – are there to remind us: ‘SENZA DI NOI OGNI FATICA
E VANA’, ‘Without us, all labour is in vain’. Without natural talent and divine
inspiration, all the efforts and studies depicted below would be ultimately
useless. The concept of grace was one of the crucial features in Vasari’s
theory of art, intended as a certain sweetness and facility of execution,
dependent on natural talents – namely judgement and the eye – as opposed to
beauty which is based on the rules of proportions and mathematics.31 But the
great artist must cultivate this natural gift through constant study and, for
Bellori, constant imitation of the Antique and of the great masters, especially
Raphael, the excellence and grace of whom he exalted in several of his
publications.32 Therefore our print reminds us in its subject of the necessary
union of natural talent and study. At the same time it provides in its very
forms an ideal example of inventive imitation, namely Maratti’s assimilation of
the Antique and Raphael. The need to insist on these very points reflects the
particular moment in which our image was created. In 1676 the Accademia di San
Luca and the Parisian Académie Royale were formally amalgamated and at times
French painters became principals of San Luca – Errard and Brun. While sharing
the same values and attitudes, the Italian could never feel comfortable with
the extreme ration- alisation of art characteristic of so much French theory
and academic approach.34 The methodical and precise dissection of painting into
its main components, as expressed for instance in the Académie’s Conférences,
is in fact probably 152 alluded to in the speaker seen below the Graces in our
image, who uses his fingers to enumerate the main points of his arguments –
referring to Socrates in the School of Athens. The early Académie’s Conférences
were published by André Félibien (1619–95) in 1668, and their official
presentation at San Luca in 1681 generated a discussion that was most likely at
the origin of Maratti’s Academy of Drawing, as reported by Melchior Missirini
(1773–1849) in his history of the Accademia di San Luca.35 After the reading of
the last two Conférences, devoted to the analysis of the drawing, colour,
composition, proportions and expressions of Poussin’s paintings, one of San
Luca’s members, Giovanni Maria Morandi (1622–1717), raised the objection that
the French had left out art’s most important and beautiful element: grace, that
sublime and delicate quality of the ‘imitative practice’, which appeals to the
heart rather than the mind.36 The elderly Bellori, present in the audience,
interrupted the speech remarking that grace was indeed Apelle’s and Raphael’s
best quality, ‘and it is well known’, continues Missirini, ‘that Maratti, who
also devoted every effort to obtain this quality, induced by these words
painted his three graces with the motto ‘Without you, everything is
worthless’.37 No doubt conceived as a response to this intellectual debate, as
a defence of the Florentine and Roman attitude and tradition versus its French
counterpart, Maratti’s Accademia must be understood also as a celebration of
classicism against those painters and theorists who were at that time criticising
its values and outcomes. In particular the Venetian Marco Boschini (1515–80)
and the Bolognese Cesare Malvasia (1613–93) in their treatises published in the
1770s had attacked the pictorial tradition based on disegno and imitation of
the Antique, supporting instead colore and naturalism.38 They, as Bellori
remarks right before his discus- sion of Maratti’s drawing, taught ‘in their
schools and in their books that Raphael is dry and hard, that his style is
statue- like’.39 This dispute had its counterpart in France where the Querelle
du coloris had been fiercely debated in the 1770s.40 The theoretical battle
escalated further with the publication in 1681 of the Notizie de’ professori
del disegno by the Florentine Filippo Baldinucci (1625–97), who strongly defended
Vasari and the Central Italian tradition, at the same time directly attacking
Malvasia.41 The early 1680s were therefore a moment of intense debate within
and between the Italian and French artistic schools and theoretical traditions,
of which this image is one of the most telling documents. In the following
decades Maratti became the leading artistic authority in Rome. His devotion to
Raphael was rewarded in 1693 when he was appointed Keeper of the Vatican
Stanze, which he then restored in 1702–03, having already worked on the
restoration of Raphael’s frescoes in the Farnesina from 1693.42 In 1699 he was
re-elected principal of San Luca, a position he held until his death in 1713.
Pope Clement XI (r. 1700–21) nominated Maratti Director of the Antiquities in
Rome in 1702, and officially sanctioned support for his classicism by
establishing papal-sponsored competitions, the Concorsi Clementini, at the
Academy.43 It is probably in celebration of the final affirmation of this
classicist aesthetic that Maratti decided to finally print in 1702, or soon
after, the complex drawing celebrating above all the study of Antique that he
had produced twenty years 44 ‘The School of Drawing, a figurative drawing by
Cavalier Carlo Maratti, can contribute much to the disenchantment of those who
believe that through knowledge and study of many arts they can become most
accomplished in the art of painting without first acquiring the highest skill
in drawing and without the natural gift and innate capacity to give, with grace
and ease, life and shapeliness to the parts of a work they set out to depict.
In addition, he [Maratti] gives form to his fine thought through the activities
pointed out here. To one side there are some students of the mathematics of
Geometry and Optics that feed into Perspective: elsewhere there are others
intent on the observation of an anatomical model, from which can be learned the
just proportions of the limbs, the placement of the muscles and sinews that
compose a figure, as set out with precision by Leonardo da Vinci, a likeness of
whom is given, with the motto ‘Enough to suffice’, to evince that, of these
professional skills, he who pursues drawing must be competent enough to bring
any idea to a perfect outcome. But for those shown engaged in the study of
classical statues, slight attention to the same is of no use since the point is
to make a long and detailed study so as learn the forms of the beautiful; and
classical statues are given as the most perfect for this since those great
sculptors gave shape to bodies in the most perfect state that Nature herself
can create, which explains the presence of the motto: ‘Never enough’.
Everything, however, would be futile without the assistance of the Graces,
understood, as mentioned, as a natural bent for composing and arranging with
grace and delicacy those postures and movement of figures from which derive the
beauty and allure that stir wonder and pleasure in the spectator, wherefore
they are set for that purpose up above on the clouds as indication that this
gift comes only from heaven, and are given the motto: ‘Without us all labour is
in vain’. Live happily’ (translation by Michael Sullivan). For a biographical
summary see Rudolph 2000. Schaar and Sutherland Harris 1967. See Bellori 1976, 625,
636, 639. See Baldinucci 1975, 307. On Maratti’s cult for and imitation of
Raphael see also Mena Marqués 1990. Goldstein 1978, 3. For the text of
Bellori’s Idea see Bellori 1976, 13–25, and for an English translation see
Bellori 2005, 55–65. On it see Mahon 1947, esp. 109– 54, 242–43; Panofsky 1968,
103–11; Bellori 1976, esp. xxix–xl; Barasch 2000, 1, 315–22; Cropper 2000. On
Maratti’s role within the Accademia see Goldstein 1978, esp. 2–5. On Bellori’s
see Cipriani 2000. Jaffé 1994, 128, no. 251 646. It is not fully clear whether
Dorigny used the Chatsworth drawing or a lost copy of it, as he arrived in Rome
in 1687, five years after Del Carpio had left the city to become Viceroy of
Naples: see Rome 2000b, 2, 483, no. 1 (S. Rudolph). Philadelphia 1980–81, 116,
note 3 and 4; Winner 1992, 512, 5. Bellori 1976, 629–31. On Del Carpio’s
commission see Haskell 1980, 190–92; Pierguidi 2008; Frutos Sastre 2009, 369–71.
For other drawings of the series, see Winner 1992. For the drawing (Louvre,
Paris, inv. 17950) see Rome 2000b, 2, 484, no. 3 (S. Rudolph). For the print
see Philadelphia 1980–81, 114–16, no. 101 B (A. E. Golahny); Rome 2000b, 2, 484–85,
no. 4 (S. Rudolph). For the transcription of the print’s inscription see Winner
1992, 517–18, note 7. See Philadelphia 1980–81, 114–16, no. 101 A and B (A. E.
Golahny); Rome 2000b, 2, 483, no. 2 (S. Rudolph). This second state contains
the address of Frey. Rudolph (Rome 2000b, 2, 483, no. 2), supposes that the
long explanatory inscription was added only to this second state, while the
impression exhibited here proves that it was inserted in the first state as
well. The inscription is mentioned also in a chronological list of Maratti’s
prints produced in 1711: see Rudolph 1978, Appendix, 203, no 38.
Kutschera-Woborsky 1919; Winner 1992, especially 521–22, 531. Although some
will be discussed here, the references to Raphael are too many to be covered
comprehensively. For a fuller discussion see Winner 1992. Bellori 1976, 629–31.
For an English translation, see Bellori 2005, 422–23. Bellori’s unfinished
biography of Maratti was first published with modifications in 1731 and
independently in 1732. See Bellori 1976, 571, note 1; Bellori 2005, 435, note
4. For modern critical editions of the text, see Bellori 1976, 569–654; Bellori
2005, 395–440. Winner (1992, 524) suggests that the ‘master of perspective’
could be Vitruvius, as the geometrical figures on the canvas are similar to
those illustrated by Andrea Palladio in Daniele Barbaro’s edition of Vitruvius’
De architectura (1556). On the other hand the visual pyramid clearly refers to
Albertian perspective, as it had been recently republished and illustrated in
Dufresne 1651, see especially 17–18. Bellori 1976, 630; Bellori 2005, 423.
Dufresne 1651: see esp. the ‘Vita di Lionardo da Vinci descritta da Rafaelle du
Fresne’, at the beginning of the volume (not paginated) and 5, ch. XXII, 12,
ch. LVII. Bellori 1976, 631; Bellori 2005, 423. Bellori 1976, 629; Bellori
2005, 422. On Bellori’s sources in general see esp. Barocchi 2000; Perini
2000a. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 6, 109. See also
Vasari’s introduction to his chapter on Sculpture: Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87, 1, 84–86. Lomazzo 1584, 262 (book V, chap. 7). Zuccaro 1607, 2, 29–30
(book II, chap. 6). See Armenini 1587, 63–67 (book I, chap. 8); Bellori 1976, 630;
Bellori 2005, 423. On this see also Pierguidi 2014. Bellori had specifically
praised the Farnese Hercules and the Venus de’Medici in his Idea: Bellori 1976,
18; Bellori 2005, 59. On this see also Winner 1992, 532. On the Farnese
Hercules see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20,
no. 1. On the Venus de’ Medici see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28, no. 88;
Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 74–75, no. 64 (137). On the Belvedere Antinous see
Haskell and Penny 1981, 141–43, no. 4; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 62, no. 10. Bellori
1976, 630; Bellori 2005, 423. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 3, 399, 4, 5–6.
See also Blunt 1978, 93–99. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 3, 399; Bellori
1976, 625–26; Bellori 2005, 421. Also for Armenini
‘una bella e dotta maniera’ could be acquired only if the artist has a natural
gift cultivated by study (Armenini 1587, see esp. 6 of the Proemio and 51–69,
book I, chs 7 and 8). Bellori’s essays on Raphael, written at various dates,
were published in Bellori 1695. On Raphael and grace in Bellori see Maffei
2009. On the cult of Raphael in the 17th century see Perini 2000b. Boyer 1950, 117;
Goldstein 1970, 227–41; Bousquet 1980, 110–11; Goldstein 1996, 45–46. Mahon
1947, 188–89. Missirini 1823, 145–46 (ch. XCI); Mahon 1947, 189; Goldstein
1996, 46. Missirini 1823, 145. Ibid., 146. Boschini 1674; Malvasia 1678.
Bellori 1976, 627; Bellori 2005, 421. On the ‘statuelike’ concept, or
‘statuino’ see esp. Malvasia 1678, 1, 359, 365, 484. See also Pericolo’s
forthcoming article. I wish to thank Dr Lorenzo Pericolo for generously putting
this study at my disposal. See Teyssèdre 1965; Puttfarken 1985; Arras and
Épinal 2004 with previous bibliography. Baldinucci 1681, see esp. his
‘Apologia’ at 8–29. On the controversy between Malvasia and central Italian art
theorists see Perini 1988; Rudolph 1988–89; Emiliani 2000. See Zanardi 2007.
See Johns 1988. The second state of both prints, published by Jacob Frey in
1728 was explic- itly issued in parallel to the reward ceremony of the 1728
Concorso Clementino: see Rome 2000b, 2, 484–85, no. 4. earlier, with the
Allegory of Ignorance as its pendant 16. Charles-Joseph Natoire (Nîmes
1700–1777 Castel Gandolfo) The Life Class at the Royal Academy of Painting and
Sculpture 1746 Pen, black and brown ink, grey wash and watercolour and traces
of graphite over black chalk 453 × 322 mm Signed and dated by the artist on recto,
on the box at l.c., in pen and dark grey ink: ‘C. NATOIRE f. 1746’. provenance:
Possibly sold at the artist’s posthumous sale, Alexandre-Joseph Paillet, Paris,
14 December 1778, lot 100;1 purchased Aubert for 120 livres; Gilbert
Paignon-Dijonval (1708–92); Bruzard, Paris, 23–26 April 1839, part of lot 208;
Walker Gallery, acquired Sir Robert Witt (1872–1952) (L. suppl. 2228b); Sir
Robert Witt Bequest, 1952. selected literature: Bérnard 1810, 142, no. 3348;
Mirimonde 1958, 282, 3; Princeton 1977, 22–23, 3; Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere
1977, 80, under no. 42; Roland Michel 1987, 58–59, 45; Foster 1998, 55–56, 13;
Amsterdam and Paris 2002–03, 85–88, under no. 25; Paris 2009–10, 40, 13;
Petherbridge 2010, 222, pl. 152; Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 122, repr., 336, no. D.
370, repr.; Rowell 2012, 179–80, 9; London 2013–14, 8, repr., 69, 24. selected
exhibitions: London 1950, 18, no. 54; London, York and elsewhere 1953, 27–28,
no. 79, not repr.; London 1953, 91–92, no. 391, not repr. (K. T. Parker and J.
Byam Shaw); Los Angeles 1961, 51, 58, no. 25; London 1962, 9–10, no. 37, not
repr.; Swansea 1962, unpaginated, no. 38; London 1968a, 101, no. 490 (D.
Sutton); King’s Lynn 1985, vi, no. 33, not repr.; London 1991, 80, no. 35 (G.
Kennedy); Paris 2000–01, 405–06, no. 210 (J.-P. Cuzin); London and New York
2012–13, 161–65, no. 33 (K. Scott). The Courtauld Gallery, Samuel
Courtauld Trust, London, D. 1952.RW.397 exhibited in london only Painter,
draughtsman and educator, Natoire was a contem- porary of François Boucher
(1703–70) and like him, executed both cabinet pictures and decorative schemes,
as well as history paintings.2 Trained in the studio of Lemoyne, Natoire
started his career with a series of successes: having won in 1721 the Prix de
Rome of the Académie Royale, he spent the years 1723–28 in Rome where in 1727
he received the most prestigious reward for a young painter, the first prize of
the Accademia di San Luca. Back in Paris in 1730, he was received (reçu) as a
full member of the Académie in 1734 and spent the following two decades
executing decorative ensembles in Royal Palaces and various hôtels and châteaux
of the aristocracy, such as the celebrated Hôtel de Soubise (now the Archives
Nationales) in Paris. In 1751 he was appointed Director of the Académie de
France in Rome and spent the rest of his life there, dying at Castel Gandolfo
in the Alban Hills in 1777. Natoire’s large and beautifully preserved drawing –
of which there is another version, dated 1745, almost identical but less
finished, in the Musée Atger in Montpellier – offers a rare glimpse of the
École du modèle of the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture in Paris,
where young students spent hours copying the live model.3 But rather than a
faithful view of the École du modèle, which was a similar but rather different
space,4 it is an idealised representation of how Natoire thought it ought to
be. In essence, it is a visual manifesto for the Académie’s reform at a time,
as we shall see, when many of its original practices had been abandoned or
neglected. Trying, in a programmatic image, to convey as much infor- mation as
possible, Natoire ingeniously reconfigures the 154 space for his purpose: a
very high ceiling and an angular point of view allow maximum concentration and
display of objects. Crammed together, one on top of the other, we see drawings,
bas-reliefs, paintings of different format and size and, most importantly,
plaster casts after the Antique. Our attention is immediately drawn to the
seated figure at the lower left-hand corner wearing a bright red cloak, no
doubt Natoire himself: he had been appointed assistant pro- fessor at the
Académie royale in 1735, professor in 1737 and from 1736 was instructor in the
life class for the month of February.5 Comfortably seated in an armchair, his
tricorne hat resting on the box in the centre, he carefully corrects the black
chalk drawings after the two live models presented by his pupils. At the centre
of the composition, the attention of all students is directed to the two models
posed together, a monthly event at the Académie that had been introduced in the
mid-1660s.6 The teacher was responsible for placing the models ‘in an attitude’
for afternoon classes lasting two hours, using sunlight during the summer and
artificial light during the winter months.7 The sunlight filtering in from the
left is therefore imaginary, as in February, when Natoire was in charge of the
École du modèle, illumination would have been from lamps. Only male models were
allowed, despite repeated requests for female models from the students, all of
whom were also male since women were not allowed to join the Académie until the
end of the 19th century.8 The same pose was retained for three days in a row
for a total of six hours and students were supposed to produce two study
drawings of the figures each week.9 As in this case, a curtain was usually
placed behind the model or models, to enhance 155 the contours and
isolate the figure from the background. The plinth supporting the model had
hooks at the corner to allow the professor to move it according to the fall of
the light. In addition to posing the model, the ‘duty teacher’ from 1664
onwards was supposed to make his own drawing to serve as an example for the students
and to devote part of each session to correcting students’ works, as we see
represented in this drawing.10 Natoire’s own drawing of the two models may be
in the portfolio leaning against the box in the centre; indeed an identical red
chalk composition survives – although reversed – proving that this pose was
actually used during one of his sessions (fig. 1).11 The models’ attitude in
the middle follows the well- established practice within the Académie of
adopting and adapting poses to recall ancient statuary.12 In this case they
evoke the dynamic, interlocking bodies of the Wrestlers (see 30, 33), of which
the Académie possessed a plaster cast, or possibly the pose of the so-called
Pasquino.13 The main purpose of the practice was to pose the live model with
the same tension and flexing of muscles as the ancient statues, so that
students could then correct their drawings from ‘fallible Nature’ against the
perfection of the antique exam- ple. The practice was diffused already in the
17th century and explicitly recommended by Sébastien Bourdon (1616–71), in his
famous Conférence Sur les proportions de la figure humaine expliquées sur
l’Antique delivered at the Académie in 1670.14 We 1. Charles-Joseph Natoire,
Two Models, c. 1745, red chalk, 490 × 420 mm, sold Sotheby’s, Paris, 18 June
2008, lot 101 know from the influential Abrégé de la vie des plus fameux
peintres, published by the art writer Argenville, that the great painter Champaigne
devoted ‘his evenings to drawing at the Académie and, on his return,
he would correct from the Antique what he had done from the model’.15 Natoire
was exposed to a similar exercise during the years he spent at the Académie de
France in Rome during the 1720s and he must often have returned to this
practice during his sessions at the Académie in Paris.16 Distributed in a
semi-circle around the models are students of different ages, busy drawing the
figures. Most of them are using chalk in porte-crayons, drawing on large sheets
of paper. The exceptions are the two more mature students on the right who are
modelling bas-reliefs in clay with their fingers and wooden sticks; the one on
the right holds a sponge in his hand to clean the clay with water as seen in
the drawing by Cochin engraved for the Encyclopédie (p. 52, 91).17 The process
is clearly described in the Istruzione elementare per gli studiosi della
scultura, the famous manual for students of sculpture published by Francesco
Carradori (1747–1824) in 1802, and illustrated with a strikingly similar image
(fig. 2).18 A third student, in the lower right corner, is wetting rags in a
bucket to keep the clay damp and avoid cracks, as Carradori advised. On his
left a dog – could it be Natoire’s? – stares at us from its sheltered position.
The 2. Carradori, Istruzione elementare per gli studiosi della scultura,
Florence, 1802, detail of plate 5 disposition of the students reflects the
admission conditions and entrance hierarchy of the École du modèle: two-thirds
were painters and one-third sculptors, placed in the back rows.19 Behind the
semi-circle of students we see life-size plaster casts of four of the most
canonical classical sculptures: from left to right the Farnese Hercules (see 30,
32; cat. 7), the Laocoön (see 26, 19; cat. 5), the Venus de’ Medici (see 42, 56)
and the Borghese Gladiator (see 41, 54; cat. 23).20 The Hercules and the Venus
are looking away from the viewer, as if to signal that the study of the Antique
constitutes a different – though inextricably connected – practice from the
study of the live model. The four statues provided the students with idealised
models of human proportions, anatomy, beauty and emotion: the muscular strength
of the heroic male body at rest, embodied by the Hercules, the complex pose and
the pathos and drama of the Laocoön, the grace and beauty of the female body
ideally incarnated by the Venus and, finally, the active anatomy of the
muscular man in motion as expressed by the Gladiator. They repre- sented a sort
of ‘canon within the canon’ of classical sculptures for artists, and their choice
here is not accidental. These four statues – plus the Belvedere Torso and an
antique Bacchus at Versailles – had been specifically selected as subjects of
the Conférences devoted to the Antique held at the Académie Royale during the
1660s and 1670s; the text describing them was constantly being re-read by
academi- cians since then.21 At the time this drawing was made, the Académie
owned casts of all four statues – among many others – but Natoire ingeniously
concentrates here what was actually distributed over various rooms.22
Significantly, all the statues in the drawing are in reverse as Natoire did not
copy them from the casts but from prints in François Perrier’s celebrated
Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum of 1638 (figs 3–6).23 Perrier’s
collection of engravings after ancient statues had been for more than a century
the standard work of reference for students beginning their study of the
Antique, providing them with images in two dimensions that they could master
before approaching the three-dimensional casts. This course was firmly
recommended at the time of the foundation of the Académie in 1648 by Abraham
Bosse (1602–76), its first professor of perspective.24 References to the
glorious past of the Académie continue on the walls, where we are invited to
ascend from drawings and bas-reliefs to paintings. On the lower tier are the
designs and reliefs after the model that teachers had to produce from 1664
onwards (although this requirement was eventually abolished in 1715).25 Above
these are displayed a series of canvases representing some of the greatest
triumphs of modern French painting: the largest and most prominent, on the
left, is Charles Le Brun’s Alexander at the Tent of Darius (1661); to its
right, Jean Jouvenet’s Deposition (1697) and below it, barely discernible,
Eustache Le Sueur’s Solomon and the Queen of Sheba (1650). Above, in the upper
register, is hung another Le Sueur, the circular Alexander and His Doctor
(1648– 49). On the right is François Lemoyne’s Annunciation (1725); and finally,
below it Sébastien Bourdon’s Holy Family (1660– 70).26 The two square paintings
on the upper left, probably a reclining Nymph or Venus and a Cupid and Psyche,
have not been identified; it would be tempting to think that they might be
Natoire’s own creations, but they do not correspond to any of his known
works.27 None of the paintings were displayed at that time in the Académie and
all are reversed, meaning that Natoire deliberately assembled them in this
crowded space from prints.28 All were revered examples of history paintings by
famous past academicians, ranging from Le Brun, Le Sueur and Bourdon, who had
been among the twelve original founding members of the Académie in 1648, to
Lemoyne, Natoire’s own teacher. Showing different kinds of history painting –
Biblical subjects, Mythology and secular history – they here provide the young
students with models both to imitate and aspire to. On the central pier,
presiding over all the artistic activity below, is Bernini’s 1665 bust of Louis
XIV, of which the Académie then displayed a plaster cast,29 reminding us of the
glories of the institution under the reign of the Sun King. Such a deliberately
programmatic image, which assem- bles so many references from different places
and times, must be understood as a visual manifesto in favour of a retour à
l’ordre within the Académie. At the time Natoire conceived it, many of the
original academic practices and credos had long been neglected. After the late
17th century almost no new Conférences were held, and teachers simply re-read
the old ones and the biographies of past academicians.30 Nor does it seem that
the study of the Antique was much promoted and certainly the collection of
casts was not integrated with the École du modèle.31 Finally, and most impor-
tantly, during the first half of the 18th century, history painting had lost
its place of pre-eminence within the Académie, a process foreshadowed by the
success of Jean- Antoine Watteau (1684–1721) and his acceptance into the
Académie in 1717 as a painter of fêtes galantes, a new category that encouraged
the development of the ‘lesser genres’ of painting.32 At the same time, because
of the popularity of ‘the Rococo interior’, history painters were often obliged
to adapt their canvases for decorative schemes, to the point that Natoire
complained in 1747 that his painting was regarded as mere furniture.33
Significantly, a completely different model was in place in Rome during the
years spent by Natoire in the city as a young 156 157 3.
(top left) François Perrier, Farnese Hercules, plate 4, from Segmenta nobilium
signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 4. (top right) François Perrier, Laocoön,
plate 1, from Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 5. (bottom
left) François Perrier, Venus de’Medici, plate 83, from Segmenta nobilium
signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 6. (bottom right) François Perrier, Borghese
Gladiator, plate 28, from Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638
years implemented a series of radical changes – such as the re-establishment of
the Conférences, the acquisition of new casts, and making the history paintings
of the Royal Collection accessible to students – which paved the way to the
triumph of the highest genre in the second half of the century.36 It is at this
moment that Natoire’s drawing was conceived, probably as a statement in support
of Tournehem’s reforms. These, in essence, involved a return to the original
credo and mission of the Académie as devised by Louis XIV’s Minister Colbert
and his Premier Peintre Charles Le Brun (1619–90): a royal institu- tion
intended to support and cultivate History Painting through the practice of
drawing and the study of the live model and the Antique. Natoire would apply
many of the principles proclaimed in his drawing during his tenure as director
of the Académie de France in Rome after 1751. The fact that everything in the
Courtauld drawing – statues, paintings and even models – appears in reverse
would suggest that it was intended to be engraved.37 How- ever, the students
hold the porte-crayons in their right hands, which would seem to contradict
this theory. In any case, it is highly likely that this complex image was
conceived to be diffused for promotional purposes, possibly on the example of
Dorigny’s engraving after Maratti (cat. 15), which Natoire would certainly have
known.38 It would have been a persuasive way to promote the study of the live
model together with the study of the Antique, a training that would effectively
prepare young artists to revive those noble forms of painting that had been the
glory of the Grand Siècle. London 2013–14, 33. See the 11th article of the 1664
reformed statutes of the Académie: Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 253. See also London
2013–14, 33–34. The fact that the drawing is in reverese seems to suggest that
it is a counter- proof. For the drawing see Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 481, no.
D.794, repr. in colour at 128. The drawing was sold at Sotheby’s, Paris, 18
June 2008, no. 101. Some of Natoire’s drawings after the live model were
published in 1745: Huquier 1745. Paris 2000–01, 415–29; London 2013–14, 62–69.
Guérin 1715, 148, no. 49; London 2013–14, 94, note 62. On the pose of the two
models see also Foster 1998, 56–57. On the Pasquino see Haskell and Penny 1981,
291–96, no. 72; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 202, no. 155 Lichtenstein and Michel
2006-12, 1.1, 374–77. See also Goldstein 1996, 150. Dezailler d’Argenville
1745–52, 2, 182. Macsotay 2010, 189–90. As noted by Gillian Kennedy in London
1991, 80, no. 35. I wish to thank Camilla Pietrabissa for a fruitful discussion
on the subject. Carradori 1802, esp. 3–4, article 2, and plate 5; Carradori
2002, 23–24, and 60–61, plate 5. London 2013–14, 34. On the Farnese Hercules
see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1.
On the Laocoön see Haskell and Penny 1981, 243–47, no. 52; Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 164–68, no. 122. On the Venus de’ Medici see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28,
no. 88. On the Borghese Gladiator see Haskell and Penny 1981, 221–24, no. 43;
Paris 2000–01, no. 1, 150–51 (L. Laugier); Pasquier 2000–01c. Lichtenstein and
Michel 2006–12, see esp. vols 1–2, passim. See also Aymonino’s essay in this
catalogue, 45–46. Guérin 1715, 62, no. 35, 105–06, nos 1–2, 185, no. 41; London
and New York 2012–13, 162; London 2013–14, 94, note 62. On Perrier’s
Segmenta see Picozzi 2000; Laveissière 2011; Di Cosmo 2013; Fatticcioni 2013.
Bosse 1649, 98. On the success of the Segmenta see Haskell and Penny
1981, 21; Goldstein 1996, 144; Coquery 2000, 43–44. See also Aymonino’s essay
in this catalogue, 42. London 2013–14, 53. On a similar display in the real
École du modèle see Guérin 1715, 258 London 1991, 80, no. 35; Caviglia-Brunel
2012, 334, no. D.362; London and New York 2012–13, 161. The Montpellier version
also shows Poussin’s circular Time defending Truth against the Attacks of Envy
and Discord on the ceiling: see Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 334, no. D.362. I would
like to thank Alastair Laing for discussing these two paintings with me. London
1991, 80, no. 35. It was previously thought that the print from Lemoyne’s
Annunciation was not in reverse but this has been disproven by Rowell 2012, see
p. 178, 7 and p. 180, note 27. Guérin 1715, p. 165, no. 1. See Lichtenstein and
Michel 2006–12, passim. Guérin 1715, 257–60. See also Foster 1998, 56–57;
Schnapper 2000; Macsotay 2010. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Plax 2000. Jouin 1889;
London 1991, p. 80, no. 35. On the Concorsi Clementini see Cipriani and
Valeriani 1988–91 and Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, p. 54. See also cat.
15. Macsotay 2010; Henry 2010–11. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Schoneveld-Van Stoltz
1989, 216–28; Caviglia- Brunel 2012, 86–87. As already noted in Troyes, Nîmes
and elsewhere 1977, p. 80, no. 42. Dorigny’s print was reissued in 1728, in
parallel to the award ceremony of the Concorsi Clementini, when Natoire was
still in Rome (see cat. 15). student. The Accademia di San Luca
officially supported the copying of the Antique and the production of history
painting through the system of the Concorsi Clementini, established in 1702, of
which, as we know, Natoire obtained the first prize.34 At the same time the
Académie de France in Rome saw a complete reorganisation under the directorship
of Nicholas Vleughels (1668-1737) between 1725 and 1737. Its enormous
collection of casts was redisplayed and integrated with the Ecole du modèle and
its students, like Natoire, were strongly encouraged to compare the ideal of casts
from the Antique against nature in the form of the live model, as we see
promulgated in our drawing.35 These principles began to be re-introduced in
Paris after the election in 1745 of Charles- François-Paul Le Normant de
Tournehem – the uncle of Madame de Pompadour – as director of the Bâtiments du
Roi, the official protector of the Académie Royale on behalf of the king.
Tournehem initiated a reform aimed at the rehabilitation of history painting,
and in the following 158 159 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 aa Lot 100 is probably this
drawing but it could also refer to the very similar version of this sheet now
preserved at the Musée Atger, Montpellier, inv. MA1, album M43 fol. 26: see
Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere 1977, p. 80, no. 42; London 1991, p. 80, no. 35;
Caviglia-Brunel 2012, p. 334, no. D.362 and p. 336, no. D. 370, where the lot
description is transcribed in full. On Natoire see Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere
1977; Caviglia-Brunel 2012. For the Monpellier drawing see above note 1. Guérin
1715, 257–60, plate between 256–57; Caviglia-Brunel 2012, p. 334, no. D.362;
London and New York 2012–13, 161–62, 68. Montaiglon 1875–92, 5, 171, 193;
London 1991, p. 80, no. 35; Caviglia-Brunel 2012, p. 334, no. D.362. Guérin
1715, p. 259; London 1991, p. 80, no. 35; London 2013–14, 46, 62. See the 4th article of the 1648 statutes of the Académie: Montaiglon
1875–92, 1, p. 8. See also Guérin 1715, p. 258. London 2013–14, p. 40. Women
were admitted to the Académie, then named École des Beaux-Arts, only in 1896
and allowed to enrol for the Prix de Rome in 1903: Goldstein 1996, p. 61.
17. Hubert Robert (Paris 1733–1808 Paris) The Artist Seated at a Table, Drawing
a Bust of a Woman c. 1763–65 Red chalk, 333 × 441 mm provenance: Poulet, whence
acquired by Pierre Decourcelle (1856–1926), Paris in October 1912 for 300
francs;1 by descent; Decourcelle sale, Christie’s, Paris, 21 March 2002, lot
317, from whom acquired. literature: Paris 1933, p. 124, under no. 197; Rome
1990–91, p. 191, under no. 135; Ottawa, Washington D.C., and elsewhere 2003–04,
p. 308, under no. 92, 142. exhibitions: Paris 1922, p. 16, no. 85, not
repr. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2002–012 Hubert Robert received a
classical education at the Collège de Navarre before studying drawing in the
studio of the sculptor, Michel-Ange Slodtz (1705–64). Even during this early
period, he showed an interest in ‘architecture in ruins’.2 Although not
eligible for a place at the Académie de Rome – he had not attended the
requisite École Royale des élèves protégés – family connections allowed him to
bypass this regulation and on 4 November 1754 Robert arrived in Rome in the
retinue of the new French ambassa- dor, Étienne-François, comte de Stainville
(1719–85), later duc de Choiseul. The diplomat sponsored Robert for the first
three years of his stay before he was granted pensionnaire status at the
Academy in 1759, under the directorship of Joseph-Charles Natoire (see cat.
16).3 Robert remained in Rome – with intermittent study trips to Naples,
Florence and elsewhere in Italy – for eleven years, responding to the fertile
archaeological climate, sparked by recent excavations at Pompeii and Herculaneum
as well as the newly opened Capitoline Museum, and indulging his fascination
for classical ruins. Natoire encouraged Robert and the other students to sketch
antiquities outdoors in situ, in the Roman campagna and beyond. Robert also
took inspiration from the work of other mentors including the celebrated vedu-
tista, Giovanni Paolo Panini (c. 1692–1765), and the printmaker and
draughtsman, Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720–78). With his friend and
compatriot, Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732–1806), Robert enthusiastically sketched
classical monuments and antiquities in and around Rome, later fusing real and
imagined elements to create highly original compositions – often punctuated by
ancient ruins or dilapidated architectural fragments – that would become a
trademark of his work. The vast repository of motifs amassed by him during this
productive Roman period, coupled to his facile draughtsmanship, would serve him
well for years to come. He became a star pupil of the Academy and his drawings
in particular would be eagerly sought after before he returned to France in
1765, where he entered the Académie Royale and successfully exhibited at the
Salons.4 160 Undoubtedly one of his finest red chalk drawings, the present
study shows the artist in a rare moment of casual repose, seated at a table and
drawing, legs casually extended and crossed, stockinged feet resting carelessly
on a large portfolio of drawings lying open on the floor.5 His relaxed, almost
dishevelled appearance and level of undress – the fallen left knee-sock slumped
around his ankle, the unbut- toned breeches and the disregarded, rumpled, coat,
strewn on a chair opposite alongside his hat and the long shadows cast – all
suggest that it is the end of a long day and he is at home, resuming a favourite
activity: drawing. The focus of Robert’s gaze is the bust of an attractive
young woman in right profile placed on the table. With his chalk-filled
porte-crayon in hand, he stares intently at her, poised to sketch. Her head
titled downwards, she returns his steady gaze; there is a palpable tension
between them. However, the presence of a third figure threatens to interrupt
their private moment. With a side-glance, a bearded man drawn on a sheet pinned
up on the wall between them also watches the young woman, thereby completing an
amusing love triangle of Robert’s invention. The object of the men’s attention
is the Roman Empress, Faustina the Younger (c. ad 125/30–175), daughter of
Emperor Antonius Pius and Faustina the Elder (fig. 1). She married Emperor Marcus
Aurelius, perhaps the bearded rival in the drawing on the wall.6 Her marble
bust was discovered in Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli and in 1748 presented by
Benedict XIV to the Capitoline Museum where Robert would have seen it.7
Bartolomeo Cavaceppi, the Roman sculptor and antiquities restorer, who worked
on the original for a year after its discovery and made several copies after
it, was an acquaintance of Robert’s who occasionally visited his studio (cat.
18).8 In fact, his red chalk drawing in the Château Borély in Marseilles (cat.
18, 6) records an antiquities restorer, quite possibly Cavaceppi himself,
working on a female bust.9 The present composition is repeated in a small
signed painting in the Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen in 161 room’s
generous proportions, the beamed ceiling and for- mal window, the elegant Louis
XV-style table– are consistent with those found in Robert’s detailed sanguine
of Breteuil’s grand Salone.13 Thus, it is highly likely that the composition
was conceived during his stay at the Ambassador’s residence, 1763–65, and that
it is Breteuil’s guest room that is shown. Perhaps the drawing, more a ricordo
than a preliminary study for the painting, was intended as a gift to the host,
as a gesture of gratitude and friendship. A highly regarded collector and
patron of the arts, Breteuil was an ardent admirer of Robert’s work.14 At the
outset of his posting in Rome, Natoire praised the diplomat as an informed
collector who already owned ‘quelque chose’ by Robert.15 Breteuil would later
procure many of Robert’s drawings as well as paintings.16 A close friendship
between patron and artist followed, evidently based on a shared love of art and
antiquity in all its forms.17 Together they translated texts by Virgil and took
sightseeing trips in Rome, and at least one to Florence.18 The Ambassador asked
Robert to accompany him to Sicily ‘pour visiter et dessiner les beaux morceaux
antiques qui sont dans ses cantons-là’, but, it seems, the trip never took
place.19 Representations of artists in the act of drawing antique sculpture and
other works of art are recurrent in Robert’s oeuvre along with representations
of classical architecture in ruin. Detailed studies made on the spot such as
The Draughts- man at the Capitoline, c. 1763 (p. 56, 95) convey something of
the wonder and excitement that he must have felt at 20 encountering these
celebrated sights for the first time. He often represented himself or his
associates in grandiose, stage-like settings or as art tourists, of the sort
that he would frequently have encountered. But as an intimate scene of private
contemplation, the present drawing stands apart 2. Hubert Robert, The Artist in
his Studio, c. 1763–65, oil on canvas, 37 × 48 cm, Museum Boijmans van
Beuningen, Rotterdam, 2586 (OK) 3. Hubert Robert, Young Artists in the Studio,
red chalk, with framing lines in pen and brown ink, 352 × 412 mm, Metropolitan
Museum of Art, New York, 1972.118.23 from these. It bears a close resemblance
to a composition in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (fig. 3) showing the same
room but on another day with visitors: a bare-footed servant and two artists –
one drawing, the other inspecting the portfolio.21 A little-known red chalk
study formerly in the Camille Groult collection in Paris (fig. 4) probably
preceded 22 the present drawing. It shows the same relaxed figure alone –
Robert – in identical attire but fully dressed and outdoors, lying on the
ground and sketching, presumably after his favourite subject: the Antique. 4.
Hubert Robert, Le Dessinateur, red chalk, 300 × 400 mm, present whereabouts
unknown 1. Bust of Empress Faustina the Younger, 147–48 ad,
marble, 60 cm (h), Musei Capitolini, Rome, inv. MC449 Rotterdam (fig. 2).10 It
is of similar dimensions to the drawing but a few modifications were made:
Robert no longer has a full head of hair and the open portfolio used as a foot
rest is now safely closed, while another leans against his chair. The view of
the room is wider and includes a high, beamed ceiling, a generously sized
window and a table on the right, on which rest tools and utensils. A further
nod to antiquity is a lively copy after the celebrated Roman sculpture,
Germanicus (cat. 33, 4) on a pedestal on the left. While it was found in Rome,
in Robert’s time the statue was already in Versailles.11 But its fame endured
in Italy and a plaster cast was available for study at the French Academy in
Rome. Further playful details were introduced: a framed picture and
precariously hung drawings (including a possible por- trait of Faustina); a
charming dog that takes a keen interest in Robert’s casually flung slippers.
While the intimate nature of the scene, bordering on genre, suggests this is
indeed Robert’s private space, its spacious grandeur is not that of his student
lodging at the Academy. When his official term as pensionnaire ended in October
1763, his stay was extended by the largesse of the French Ambassador of the
Order of Malta to the Holy See, the Bailli de Breteuil (1723–85), who housed
him at his palace on the Via dei Condotti until he returned to Paris in July 1
2 3 4 5 6 7 8 avl According to N. Schwed (e-mail, 30 July 2014), this
information was provided to Christie’s at the time of the Decourcelle sale in
2002. Taillasson 1808, 473. Letters exchanged between the influential Marquis
de Marigny, Director General of King Louis XV’s buildings (and brother of his
mistress, Madame de Pompadour), and Charles-Joseph Natoire, Director of the
French Academy in Rome published by A. de Montaiglon and J. Guiffrey between
1887–1912 provide essential details about Robert and his stay in Italy. For Robert and Choiseul, see ibid., 11, 262, no. 5331. Collector and
connoisseur, Pierre-Jean Mariette preferred Robert’s draw- ings to his
paintings: ‘ses tableaux est fort inferieur à ses desseins [sic], dans lesquels
il met beaucoup d’esprit’ (Mariette 1850–60, 4, 414). Letters between Marigny and Natoire mention requests from Mariette for
drawings: Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11, 365, no. 5477; 367, no. 5483; 388,
no. 5521; 428, no. 5589. The traditional view that the drawing is a
self-portrait (Paris 1922, 16, no. 85; Paris 1933, 124, under no. 197), upheld
in the recent literature, need not be questioned. The figure resembles Augustin
Pajou’s marble bust of Robert (1780) in the École Nationale Supérieure des
Beaux-Arts and Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s 1788 portrait of him in the Louvre. He
has all the characteristics of an emperor from the Antonine period. It could
well be a reference to the bust of Marcus Aurelius in the Capitoline Museum.
See Fittschen and Zanker 1985, 1, 76–77, no. 69, 2, pls 79, 81–82. A copy by
Cavaceppi in terracotta is preserved in the Museo del Palazzo di Venezia, see
Rome 1994, 104, no. 19, repr. For the bust, see Fittschen and Zanker 1983, 1,
pp.20–21, no. 19, 2, pls 24–26. For its restoration, see London 1983, 66–67.
Cavaceppi’s posthumous inventory of 1802 mentions two marble Faustinas and one
plaster cast 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 (Gasparri and Ghiandoni
1994, 264, no. 310, 270, no. 624 and 286, no. 109). For surviving copies by
Cavaceppi, predominantly acquired by English collectors, see Howard 1970, 123,
figs 8 and 9, 128; Howard 1982, 240, no. 6, 313, 133, 83, 251, 25–26, 326, 211,
264, no. 14, 268, no. 15, 419; I. Bignamini, in London and Rome 1996–97, 211–12,
no. 159; D. Walker, in Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 242, no. 120. This is
not, however, Faustina, as Marianne Roland Michel proposed (Marseille 2001, 96,
no. 109). For the painting, see J. Ebeling, in Ottawa, Washington D.C. and
elsewhere 2003–04, 308–09, no. 92, 372, with select previous literature listed.
See Haskell and Penny 1981, 119–20, no. 42, 114. Montaiglon and Guiffrey
1887–1912, 12, 86, no. 5856. Paris, Louvre. Méjanès 2006, 77, no. 33 and Ottawa
and Caen 2011–12, 140–41, no. 53. The connection was first noted by J. de
Cayeux in Rome 1990–91, 191, under cat. no. 135. On Breteuil, see
Yavchitz-Koehler 1987, 369–78, Depasquale 2001, and Ottawa and Caen 2011–12, 13–17
and 140–41, no. 53. Letter from Natoire to Marigny, 25 April 1759 (Montaiglon
and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11, 272–73, no. 5346). For the drawings, see letter
from Natoire to Marigny, 5 January 1763, Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11,
455, no. 5636. Compositions by Robert are among the copies made in 1770 by Ango
(active 1759 – after 1773) after works in Breteuil’s collection (Choisel 1986,
nos 23–26, 44, 80). Their close rapport was recorded by Robert’s friend, the
painter Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun (Gabillot 1895, 80–81). Breteuil owned antique
works as well as copies after the antique by contemporary artists. Some are
recorded in drawings by Ango (Choisel 1986, 29, 45, 47, 51, 54–57, 71–72,
74–75, 83 and 125) including a small bronze Venus Pudica, no. 56, and a copy by
Laurent Guiard (1723–88) after the Venus Calllypige from the Farnese collec-
tion (no. 75). Additional antique works and copies are listed in Breteuil’s
posthumous sale in Paris of 16 January 1786, including a copy of the Gladiator
by Luc-François Breton (1731–1800), no. 135, and a copy of the bust of
Germanicus in the Capitoline, no. 143. Although no bust of Faustina is listed,
he may have owned the copy that Robert draws in the present drawing. Gabillot
1895, 61, 81–82. Letter from Natoire to Marigny, 5 January 1763 and another
from Marigny to Natoire, 20 February 1763. Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11,
455, no. 5636 and 462, no. 5649. J.-P. Cuzin, in Paris 2000–01, 373, no. 178.
Michel 1998–2000, 60, 62, 13. Sold Galerie Charpentier, Paris, 21 March 1952,
lot 52. Present whereabouts unknown. 163 of 1765. 162 12 Certain
decorative features in the painting – the 18. Hubert Robert (Paris
1733–1808 Paris) The Roman Studio of Bartolomeo Cavaceppi c. 1764–65 Black
chalk, 339 × 443 mm Inscribed verso l.r. in pencil: ‘Salon de 1783 / No. 61
Intérieur d’un atelier à Rome / dans lequel on restaure des statues / antiques
/ Cet atelier est pratiqué et construit / dans les debris d’un ancien temple /
5 pieds de large sur 3 pieds 9 pounces de haut’ watermark: A coat of arms,
possibly containing a star, three hills and the initials ‘CB’ below, surmounted
by a Cardinal’s hat with tassels on each side (see Heawood 1950, nos 791–99).
provenance: Charles Albert de Burlet (1882–1956), Berlin, around 1910; Sold
Galerie Fischer, Lucerne, 13 November 2006, lot 1944; Private collection,
Switzerland, in 2006; Le Claire Kunst, Hamburg, in 2011; Sold Villa Grisebach,
Berlin, 28 November 2013, lot 307R, from whom acquired. literature: Le Claire
Kunst 2011, no. 13 (unpaginated), repr.; Yarker and Hornsby 2012-13, 65–66, 37;
Körner 2013, lot 307R, repr. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin
Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2013-030 A visit to the studio of
Bartolomeo Cavaceppi (1716–99) the sculptor, dealer, antiquarian, collector and
especially, restorer of ancient sculpture was essential for any serious art
tourist or collector in Rome on the Grand Tour.1 Known as the ‘Museo
Cavaceppi’, by the 1770s it was listed in guide- books as among the top sights
of the Eternal City.2 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832), who lived nearby,
and visited it in 1788 noted that one could experience in the studio ancient
sculpture from close proximity in all its gran- deur and beauty.3 The painters,
Henry Fuseli (1741–1825) and Giovanni Casanova (1728/30–1795) and the sculptor,
Antonio Canova (1757–1822), also came to see the collection.4 The ‘Museo’ was
an international meeting place, frequented by many artists including the
English sculptor, Joseph Nollekens, who worked for Cavaceppi as an assistant in
the 1760s, and the English painter, Charles Grignoin, who resided with him in
1787.5 Strategically located between the Spanish Steps and the Piazza del
Popolo and thus in the social hub of Rome, the sprawling workshop was graced by
European royalty – Catherine the Great, Maria Christina, Duchess of Teschen,
Princess Sophia Albertina of Sweden, her brother, King Gustav III – and a
steady stream of English Grand Tourists like Charles Townley (see cat. 28),
many of whom became important clients.6 From a modest background, Cavaceppi
trained as a sculp- tor before enrolling in the Accademia di San Luca in 1732.
Albani, the nephew of Pope Clement XI and then the most respected private
collector of antiquities in Rome, appoints Cavaceppi as his personal restorer.
The association brought him many profitable commissions from foreign tourists
for whom he found antique statues, restored them, or made copies, in marble or
plaster. He also created original works, rarely signed, that were often
confused with authentic antique originals. Through his friend, the art
historian and archaeol- 164 ogist, Johann Joachim Winckelman (1717–68), who, in
1764, published The History of Art in Antiquity (Geschichte der Kunst des
Alterthums), Cavaceppi secured many English clients, taken with the current
mania for classical antiquity. He later served as chief restorer to the Pope at
the Museo Clementino and was made Knight of the Golden Spur in 1770. In 1768
Cavaceppi published the first volume of his Raccolta d’antiche statue, busti,
teste cognite ed altre sculture antiche con- taining sixty plates of antique
statues that had been repaired in his studio, often ‘corrected’ with missing or
broken parts filled in. Over half of these had been acquired by English
collectors.7 A year later, he published the second volume, essentially a
promotional catalogue with works available for purchase, followed by a third in
1772. Illustrating a total of 196 works, these influential volumes, the first
of their kind, helped to satisfy the seemingly insatiable demand for
unblemished antique sculpture – free of fragmentary vestiges or other perceived
flaws – and to encourage an emerging neo-classical aesthetic. For modern
scholars they serve as an indispensible tool for identifying works he restored.
By 1756 Cavaceppi established his vast studio on the Via del Babbuino, a
workshop and showroom. Cavaceppi employed a range of skilled and unskilled
workers with different roles and specialisations, fifteen of whom have been identified
by name, with Giuseppe Angelini and Carlo Albacini being the most
accomplished.8 The frontispiece to the first volume of Cavaceppi’s Raccolta
provides a fascinating look at his active studio with assistants exercising
different techniques of restoration and antiques in various stages of
completion (fig. 1). It offers a glimpse at what must have been a sprawling
complex of rooms with distinctive architectural details – high ceilings,
lattice windows and an enfilade of vaulted archways connecting each room, one
leading to an open garden courtyard at the back.9 165 1. View of Cavaceppi’s Roman Studio,
engraving, in Raccolta d’antiche statue, 1, frontispiece, Rome, 1768. Photo:
Warburg Institute, London Hubert Robert certainly encountered Cavaceppi during
his Roman sojourn, 1754–65 (see cat. 17), and visited his studio on occasion,
as this drawing testifies. Executed in soft black chalk, it offers a view of
one of the many rooms in the Cavaceppi workshop. As in the engraving, there is
a high ceiling with lattice windows, statues and blocks of stone are scattered
about, and affixed to the wall on the left, is the same type of wooden
structure and lead point suspended on a cord used for measuring sculpture.10
With a chisel in one hand and a mallet in the other, a restorer dressed in
formal attire, perhaps Cavaceppi himself, is busy worker-cutting on the
cascading drapery of an enormous statue of an armless woman. We can identify
this as Cavaceppi’s studio with virtual certainty as two works in the drawing
were illustrated in perhaps Cavaceppi himself, working on a female bust (fig.
6). Captivated by the theme of the artist at work, Robert would return to the
subject of the restorer’s studio. In 1783 he successfully showed the
impressive, rather generically entitled, The Studio of an Antiquities Restorer
in Rome at the Salon (Toledo Museum of Art), which, though clearly an idealised
vision featuring some of the most famous antique works of the day (including
the River Nile, Cupid and Psyche, etc.), is also a wistful reminiscence of the
artist’s own Roman years and passionate study of antique statuary: a diminutive
figure of an artist sketching is visible in the foreground.18 In another
little-known privately owned picture attributed to Robert, well-clad visitors
admire antique statues in a sculptor’s studio while the ubiquitous artist is
seen drawing (fig. 7). Though certain features suggest the small painting may
also represent Cavaceppi’s studio, as with the Toledo canvas, topographical
exactitude is tempered with a more generalised, romantic – and highly saleable
view – of remnants from Rome’s ancient. For his life and work, see especially
Howard 1970, Howard 1982, London 1983, Howard 1991, Gasparri and Ghiandoni
1994, Rome 1994, Piva 2000, Barr 2008, Weiss and Dostert 2000, Bignamini and
Hornsby 2010, 252–55; Piva 2010–11, C. Piva in Rome 2010–11, 418–19, no. IV.1
and Meyer and Piva 2011, 149–55 (for essential bibliography). Howard 1988, 479;
Piva 2000, 5; Barr 2008, 86. Goethe 1827–42, 540, cited in C. Piva in Rome
2010–11b, 418–19, no. IV.1. Piva 2000, 6, 17, note 4; Honour and Mariuz 2007, 26,
60–63. For Nollekens, see Howard 1964, 177–89; Coltman 2003, 371–96. For
Grignoin, see Ingamells 1997, 433–34. Howard 1988, 479. For Cavaceppi’s works
from British collections, see London 1983. Haskell and Penny 1981, 68. Barr
2008, 104 and 184, Appendix B. Some of the same topographical details are
discernible in a little-known floor plan of the building (Piva 2000, 10, 7).
For more on this device and an engraving demonstrating its use (published by D.
Diderot and J. le Rond d’Alembert in the Encyclopédie in 1765), see Myssok
2010, pp. 272–73, 13.2. As first noted by Stefan Körner (Körner 2013, under lot
307R). Ibid., under lot lot 307R; U. Müller-Kaspar, in Hüneke 2009, 416, no.
270. Körner 2013, under lot lot 307R; U. Müller-Kaspar, in Hüneke 2009, 430,
no. 283. Müller-Kaspar 2009, 395. D. Kreikenbom, in Hüneke 2009, pp. 578–79,
no. 357. According to Winckelmann, many statues (including Kalliope and
possibly also Lucilla) were acquired by Bianconi in 1766 from the sale of
Cavaliere Pietro Natali’s collection in Rome. Conceivably, they were brought to
Cavaceppi’s studio while they were still in Natali’s possession (Müller- Kaspar
2009, 395; U. Müller-Kaspar, in Hüneke 2009, pp. 416, 430). Marseille 2001, 96, no. 109. Guiffrey 1869–72, 32, p.25, no. 61:
‘L’intérieur d’un Attelier à Rome, dans lequel on restaure des statues
antiques. Cet Attelier est pratiqué et construit dans les debris d’un ancien
Temple’. 2.
Lucilla Sotto sembianza d’Urania, anch’essa or esistente in Germania, engraving
in Raccolta d’antiche statue, 1, Rome, 1768, pl. 58. Photo: Warburg Institute, London 3. Kore as Urania, body, Antonine, c.
150 ad after a Greek model, 4th century bc; head, 160–170 ad; marble, 270 cm
(h), Berlin, SMBPK, Antikensammlung, Sk 379 in the drawing, to the right, the
muse Kalliope, lost in Berlin during World War II, was also restored by
Cavaceppi (figs 4–5).13 Both were acquired in 1766 by the Bolognese doctor and
antiquarian, Giovanni Ludovico Bianconi, another friend of Winkelmann’s, for King
Frederick William II of Prussia and assigned to Cavaceppi for restoration
before being sent to the Sansssouci Palace in Potsdam in 1767.14 The child’s
sarcophagus visible in the drawing on the left wall is also similar to that
preserved today in Charlottenhof Palace in Potsdam though it does not appear in
the Raccolta.15 The dating of Robert’s drawing is problematic as in 1766, the
year Lucilla and Kalliope were acquired by Bianconi, the 4. Kalliope, engraving
in Raccolta d’antiche statue, 1, Rome, 1768, pl. 45. Photo: Warburg Institute,
London 5. Kalliope, Roman, marble, 98 cm, formerly Berlin, SMBPK,
Antikensammlung, Sk 600, lost c. 1945 6. Hubert Robert, L’Atelier du
restaurateur de sculptures antiques, black chalk, 368 × 323 mm, Château Borély,
Marseilles, Inv. 68-194 painter was already back in Paris, having left Rome in
July 1765. However, it seems highly likely that the works were lodged in
Cavaceppi’s studio before their acquisition and, indeed, they are drawn in
their pre-restoration state.16 During the same period Robert probably made the
black chalk drawing now in Marseille showing an antiquities restorer, 17 7.
Hubert Robert, Studio of a Sculpture Restorer, oil on panel, 13 × 10 cm,
private collection. Photo: Witt Library his Raccolta. 166 11 One of
them, the monumental female statue in the centre, re-appears in the
publication, with arms added and an entirely different head (fig. 2). Cavaceppi
identified her as Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelius, with the attrib- utes
of Urania, the muse of Astronomy (‘Lucilla Sotto sembian- za d’Urania,
anch’essa or esistente in Germania’). A staggering 220-cm in height she is
preserved today, with further restorations, in Berlin (fig. 3).12 The seated
figure behind her past. avl 167 19. Georg Martin Preissler (Nürnberg
1700–54 Nürnberg) after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia (Lucca 1692–1775 Rome)
Self-Portrait of Campiglia Drawing 1739 Engraving, first state (before the
lettering) 226 × 167 mm (image); 315 × 223 mm (sheet) Inscribed l.l. below
image in pencil: ‘Campiglia se ipse del.’; l.r.: in pencil: ‘G. M.
Preisler.Sc.Nor.; and l.c. in pencil: ‘Joh. Dominicus Campiglia, / Pictor
Florent. Delineator / Musei Fiorentini.’ provenance: Trinity Fine Art, London,
1999, from whom acquired. literature: Le Blanc 1854–88, 3, 244, no. 6,
‘Campiglia (Giov. – Dom.). 1739. In – fol. -1er état : avant le lettere.’
exhibitions: London 1999b, 8, no. 16, not repr. Katrin Bellinger collection,
inv. no. 1999–054 A prolific and accomplished draughtsman, painter and
reproductive engraver, Campiglia was a central figure in promoting and
disseminating images of the Antique during the middle decades of the 18th
century and therefore, is a key figure in the present exhibition.1 His
formative years were spent training with his uncle and local painters in Lucca,
Bologna and Florence where he studied drawing, as well as anatomy and
perspective and made copies after the Old Masters. By 1716, he was residing in
Rome studying the most important collections of antique sculpture. That year he
received a first prize for painting and for drawings to illustrate a booklet
for the Accademia di San Luca. He was already respected for his wide culture
and his work was admired by English collectors like Richard Topham, who
esteemed his refined and highly finished chalk studies of antique sculpture, as
well as his portraits.2 His close involve- ment in two lavishly illustrated and
highly successful and influential publications largely devoted to antique
sculpture – the Museum Florentinum and the Museo Capitolino (cat. 20) – brought
him lasting fame and consolidated the taste for classical antiquity that
continued through the rest of the 18th century and beyond.3 In the early 1730s
the Florentine antiquarian, Anton Francesco Gori (1691–1757), began to assemble
a set of vol- umes that aimed to provide a visual record of the art collec-
tions of Florence, mainly those of the Medici, the ruling dynasty. He
commissioned Campiglia, already in the city in 1726, and others to make
drawings of the works selected to be engraved. The Museum Florentinum was
published between 1731 and 1766. It comprised twelve large volumes divided into
four parts: Gemmae antiquae ex Thesauro Mediceo et privatorum dactyliothecis
florentiae..., devoted to engraved gems (1731–32); Statuae antiquae deorum et
virorum illustrium, on antique statues and monuments (1734), Antiqua numismata
aurea et argentea, dedicated to ancient coins (1740–42) and, lastly, Serie di
ritratti degli eccellenti pittori, illustrating 320 portraits of prominent
artists, published in 1752–66. This last volume, based on art- ists’
self-portraits in the Uffizi’s collection, is of particular relevance here, as
we shall see later. This rare engraving by Preissler, hitherto unpublished and
known only in a single impression of the first state, is probably based on a
now untraced self-portrait of Campiglia.4 Without explanation, Le Blanc dates
the print to 1739 – when the artist was 47.5 Wearing an ermine collar with a
crisp, white, open-necked shirt and directly engaging the viewer, he presents
himself as straightforward, successful and brim- ming with confidence. Assuming
that Le Blanc’s date is cor- rect, the print appeared at time when Campiglia
was enjoying considerable success. The first two parts of the Museum Florentinum
had already been published, he had begun work on the Capitolino (see cat. 20)
and, precisely in 1739, he had been appointed Superintendent of the Calcografia
Camerale, the papal printing press. These successes culmi- nated in his
nomination for membership of the Accademia di San Luca in November of that same
year.6 Resting a sheet of paper against a drawings portfolio held in his left
hand, with his right hand he is drawing with a porte-crayon a model of the
Belvedere Antinous standing on the table before him (fig.). At the statue’s
feet is a figurine of a herm with the head of a youth, perhaps Mercury, and two
medals, one showing a man holding a lyre, who may be Homer.7 It is not
surprising that Campiglia, whose reputation was established through skilfully
reproducing artefacts from the ancient world, should present himself with the
Belvedere Antinous, one of the most celebrated statues to survive from
antiquity. Renowned since its discovery in the 16th century and for its
placement in the Belvedere court, it soon ranked among the most famous statues
of Rome.8 Casts of the statue of the handsome youth, the lover of the Roman
emperor, Hadrian, who drowned himself in the Nile and was deified by 168same
year.6 Resting a sheet of paper against a drawings portfolio held in his left
hand, with his right hand he is drawing with a porte-crayon a model of the
Belvedere Antinous standing on the table before him (fig. 1). At the statue’s
feet is a figurine of a herm with the head of a youth, perhaps Mercury, and two
medals, one showing a man holding a lyre, who may be Homer.7 It is not
surprising that Campiglia, whose reputation was established through skilfully
reproducing artefacts from the ancient world, should present himself with the
Belvedere Antinous, one of the most celebrated statues to survive from
antiquity. Renowned since its discovery in the 16th century and for its
placement in the Belvedere court, it soon ranked among the most famous statues
of Rome.8 Casts of the statue of the handsome youth, the lover of the Roman
emperor, Hadrian, who drowned himself in the Nile and was deified by 168
169 adopts the same pose in the print as he did for his person- ification
of painting in the little-known Il Genio della Pittura of around 1739–40 in the
Accademia Nazionale di San Luca (fig. 2).13 The chalk holder becomes a paint
brush and the drawings portfolio a canvas. Not coincidentally, Campiglia seems
to have donated this painting as his entry work to the Academy c. 1740, about
contemporary with the present engraving.14 He cleverly fuses iconographic
elements in an amusing black chalk study of c. 1737–38 in the British Museum
(fig. 3) acquired by Charles Frederick (1709–85) while in Rome on the Grand
Tour, where he depicts himself drawing in the company of a seated monkey who
playfully holds up a paint brush, a clear allegorical reference to art
imitating nature or ‘art as the ape of nature’ as Aristotle describes it in the
Poetics.15 Characterised as ‘a very well-bred communica- tive man’, Campiglia
and his portraits were enormously popular with English collectors.16 Campiglia
made several other self-portraits throughout his career.17 Of particular
relevance is the painting made around 1766 for his pupil and collaborator,
Pietro Antonio Pazzi (c. 1706–after 1766) and now in the Uffizi.18 It shows the
artist at ease, his hands casually resting on his ever-present portfolio. The
picture appears, like so many of the Uffizi self-portraits, as an engraving by
the same Pazzi in the final volume of the Museum Florentinum (fig. 4).19 In
Pazzi’s engraving the format and central image dimensions are nearly identical
to our print of Campiglia by Georg Martin Preissler, who, not coincidentally,
engraved other portrait plates in the Museum Florentinum. Furthermore, the
pencil lettering, Joh. Dominicus Campiglia, / Pictor Florent. Delineator,
beneath the image in our engraving is similar in style and format to the
engraved inscriptions accompanying the other portraits in the book. Also
telling is the final pencil inscription, Delineator Musei Fiorentini, under his
name in the print. All this evidence strongly suggests that Campiglia intended
to use the present image for the Museum Florentinum – and had it engraved by
Preissler for that purpose – but he decided not to use it. Perhaps it served as
a kind of test-print for the engraved self-portraits in the volume. Although
the portrait series was not published until 1752–66, by 1739, Gori and
Campiglia would already have started to plan the format of the later sections.
Interestingly, Charles Le Blanc similarly describes Preissler’s engravings of
Dürer, Eglon van der Neer, Rubens and Raphael, all destined for the Museum
Florentinum, as first states ‘before the lettering’.20 But whatever our print’s
true purpose, by the time the portrait volumes appeared, Campiglia, then well
into his sixties and in the twilight of his career opted to present a more
recent and relaxed version of himself. avl 2. Giovanni Domenico
Campiglia, Genius of Painting, c. 1739–40, oil on canvas, 48 × 63.3 cm,
Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome, Inv. 0075 3. Giovanni Domenico Campiglia, Self-Portrait of Campiglia Drawing, with a
Monkey Seated on the Table at Left, c. 1737–38, black chalk, 417 × 258 mm,
Department of Prints and Drawings, British Museum, London, 1865,0114.820 4.
Pietro Antonio Pazzi after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia, Self-Portrait of
Campiglia, engraving in Museum Florentinum, Florence, 12, 1766, plate XXII, 274
× 176 mm (plate), Sir John Soane’s Museum Library, London, 2848 1. Belvedere Antinous, Roman copy of the
Hadrianic period (117–138 ad) from a Greek original of the 4th century bc,
marble, 195 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 907 the grief-stricken emperor,
were produced almost immedi- ately after its discovery and copies in marble and
bronze were made through the 17th century.9 Considered to embody perfection,
according to Bellori the statue was the subject of studies in ideal proportion
by François Duquesnoy (1597– 1643) and Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665) (p. 47, 68).
The figure had wide-reaching appeal to collectors and connois- seurs, and
enticed a range of artists, who, from the 16th century included it in
portraits.10 During the 18th century small-scale models in bronze or marble,
like that seen in the engraving, were produced in large numbers with ‘restored’
arms, as seen here. Archaeologist and art historian, Winckelmann, no doubt
contributed to the statue’s elevated status even more with his claim, ‘our
Nature will not easily create a body as perfect as that of the Antinous admir-
andus’.11 The widely held belief that the statue was the embodiment of ideal
beauty would be upheld into the 19th century: even the usually acerbic William
Hogarth admitted its proportions were ‘the most perfect of any of the antique
statues’.12 Campiglia was not shy and his other self-portraits make a compelling
comparison with this one. Interestingly, he 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 For essential
biography, see Prosperi Valenti 1974, pp. 539–41; Quieto 1984a; Quieto 1984b.
Through his agent, Francesco Ferdinano Imperiali, Topham commis- sioned
Campiglia and others, including the young Pompeo Batoni, to make dozens, if not
hundreds of drawings with the aim of systematically illus- trating Roman
collections of antiquities. Many of these drawings are now preserved at Eton
College. See Connor Bulman 2002, 343–57 and Windsor 2013, 11, 14–15. The corpus
of his drawings for the Museum Florentinum are in the Uffizi in Florence
(Quieto 1984b, 10) and for the Museo Capitolino, in the Istituto Nazionale per
la Grafica in Rome (Quieto 1984b, 10, 17–26, 29–36; I. Sgarbozza in Rome 2010–11b,
402, no. II.15a-b). It is listed by C. Le Blanc (1854–88, 3, 244, no. 6) among
the prints by G. M. Preissler: ‘Campiglia (Giov. – Dom.). 1739. In – fol. -1er
état : avant le lettere. Frauenholz, 4 flor.’ To the knowledge of the present
writer, no impression of the second state exists nor, for that matter, has either
state previously been published or discussed. The name and price Le Blanc men-
tions – Frauenholz, 4 florins – refer to the Nuremberg-based print dealer and
publisher, Johann Friedrich Frauenholz (1758–1822), who may have owned the
catalogued impression and who sold (or acquired) it for the price of 4 florins.
While it is possible that the present impression is the one described, none of
Frauenholz’s collector’s marks or inscriptions (L. 951, L. 994, L. 1044 and L.
1458) appear on it. Campiglia’s relatively youthful appearance suggests the
drawn or painted original may have been executed a decade or so earlier. He was
proposed by Sebastiano Conca on 15 November 1739 and his mem- bership confirmed,
3 January 1740 (Quieto). As noted by Eloisa Dodero (personal communication),
the herm is similar to the one seen in the background of Campiglia and Pazzi’s
engraving, Students Copying Antiquities at the Capitoline Museum (see following
entry, cat. no. 20). 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 Haskell and Penny
(1981, 139–42, no. 4) give a full account of the sculp- ture’s history and
reception. See also Krahn 1996. See V. Krahn in Rome 2000b, 2, 403–04, no. 9.
Haskell and Penny 1981, 142 and Krahn 1996. Haskell and Penny 1981, 142; and
Winckelmann 1968, 153. Hogarth 1753, 81–83. Faldi 1977, 504, 508, 8. Quieto
1983, 5; Rome 1968, 22, no. 5. Liverpool 1994-95, 72, no. 19. Ibid., 72.
Gentleman’s Magazine 1853, 40, 237, as quoted by H. Macandrew 1978, 138.
Painted self-portraits are in the Palazzo Altieri, Viterbo (formerly Faldi
collection, Rome; Quieto 1983, 5–6, 8, 3, c. 1726–28), the Lemme collection,
Rome (ibid., 1983, 5, 7–8, 4, 1732–34). See also the two mentioned in note 18,
below. Drawn self-portraits of a later date have appeared on the London art
market: Chaucer Fine Arts, 2003 (London 2003a, no. 12), Christie’s, December 6,
2012, lot 56 and Christie’s, April 21 1998, lot 126. See Quieto 1983, 4–5, 2
and Quieto 2007, 93–94, 27. As that author noted, it reprises the composition
of an earlier work painted for the Accademia di San Luca (1983, 5, cover).
Although in 1766 the painting was not yet in the Uffizi – it was not left by
Pazzi to the Grand Ducal collection until 1768 (Quieto 1983, 5) – it is likely
that at that date he had already planned to bequeath it, given the self-
portraits in the Museum Florentinum are based on the Uffizi’s collection. Le
Blanc 1854–88, 3, 244, 8, 23, 28, 30. Interestingly, Le Blanc indicates that
the Dürer and Raphael were also once owned by Frauenholz. It seems that all
these early first states were in a folio together. 170 171 20.
Pietro Antonio Pazzi (Florence c. 1706 – after 1766 Florence) after Giovanni
Domenico Campiglia (Lucca 1692–1775 Rome) Students Copying Antiquities at the
Capitoline Museum 1755 Engraving in Giovanni Gaetano Bottari, Musei Capitolini,
3, Rome, 1755, 1 99 × 186 mm (plate), 444 × 287 mm (sheet) Inscribed l.l.:
‘Gio. Dom. Campiglia inv. e disegn.’; and l. r.: ‘P. Ant. Pazzi incis.’ provenance: Robert Adam (1728–92); his sale, Christie’s,
London, 20–21 May 1818; purchased by Sir John Soane (1753–1837), not listed in
the Christie’s sale catalogue (according to hand list, Sir John Soane’s Museum,
Priv. Corr. XVI.E.3.12: ‘Books purchased at Mr Adam’s sale’). literature:
Haskell and Penny 1981, 84, fig. 46; Lyon 1998–99, 109–10, under no. 89, not
repr. (A. Themelly); Paris 2000–01, 370, fig. 2; Macsotay 2010, 194, fig.
9.3. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Sir John Soane’s Museum
Library, London, 4033 exhibited in london only Few images capture the process
of learning to draw after the Antique in 18th-century Rome as vividly as
Campiglia and Pazzi’s densely populated engraving. More readily accessible than
the Belvedere Courtyard in the Vatican (cats 5 and 6) and the private
aristocratic collections, such as the Borghese and Farnese (cats 6 and 21), the
Capitoline Museum was the ideal venue for students to draw in situ from some of
the most celebrated antiquities preserved in Rome. Founded in 1471 with Pope
Sixtus IV’s (r. 1471–84) dona- tion of several important ancient bronzes – the
She Wolf, the colossal bronze head and hand of Constantine, the Spinario and
the Camillus – all preserved until then in the Lateran Palace, the Capitoline
grew in time to become one of the largest and most prestigious collections of
classical antiqui- ties ever assembled in Rome.1 In 1734, in conjunction with
the recent acquisition of the celebrated collection of Cardinal Alessandro
Albani, and thanks to the enlightened policy of Pope Clement XII (r. 1730–40),
the Capitoline opened as a public museum.2 Established with the two-fold civic
and educational purpose of preserving and making accessible to the public the
city’s antiquities and to cultivate ‘the practice and advancement of young
students of the Liberal Arts’, the museum soon became a lure for Italian and
foreign antiquar- ians and artists alike.3 The didactic function of the museum
was emphasised further by Pope Benedict XIV (r. 1740–58) with the opening of
the Pinacoteca Capitolina in 1748, the first public collection of painting in
Rome, and, in 1754, the establishment of the Accademia del Nudo.4 The
Capitoline thus became the first public museum in Europe in the modern sense of
the word and an ideal academy where art students could copy concurrently from
the Antique, Old Master paintings and the live model. The museum’s educational
mission was sanctioned by its growing associa- tion with the Accademia di San
Luca. Academy members 172 presided over the life classes at the Accademia del
Nudo (Campiglia directed classes there in April 1757 and November 1760)5 and
prizes for the student competitions at the Accademia di San Luca, the Concorsi,
were awarded in sump- tuous ceremonies in the rooms of the Capitoline palaces.6
This image is the engraved vignette that introduces the volume devoted to
ancient statues of the Musei Capitolini, an ambitious publication produced with
the pedagogical intent of spreading knowledge of the museum and its collection
of antiquities.7 Conceived by Cardinal Neri Maria Corsini, the nephew of Pope
Clement XII, it consisted of large engraved plates (fig. 1), all based on
designs by Campiglia, accompa- nied by a substantial commentary by the
antiquarian Bottari; both artist and writer had worked together previously on
the monumental Museum Florentinum (cat. 19). First published in Italian as Del
Museo Capitolino (Rome, 1741–82) and then translated into Latin as Musei
Capitolini (4 vols, Rome, 1750–82) in order to reach a wider foreign audience,
the large volumes can be 1. Carlo Gregori after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia,
The Dying Gladiator, engraving, 202 × 300 mm, plate 68 from Giovanni Gaetano
Bottari, Musei Capitolini, 3, Rome, 1755 173 considered the first
systematic catalogue of a public museum.8 The prestige of the publication, the
clarity and neatness of the illustrations – produced by many of the engravers
who, like Pietro Antonio Pazzi, had participated in the Museum Florentinum –
soon made it a celebrated and indispensible reference work that greatly
contributed to the diffusion of the classical taste in Europe. It was a
familiar presence in the libraries of connoisseurs and artists as this copy, owned
by Soane and before him by Robert Adam (1728–92), testifies. The engraving is a
celebration of the new educational role of the museum and its association with
the Academy of San Luca, of which Campiglia had been a member since 1740 (see
cat. 19). In a crowded space, a group of students is seen sketching and
modelling in clay after two of the most famous statues that had been recently
acquired for the museum: the so-called Dying Gladiator (fig. 2) and the
Capitoline Antinous (fig. 3), now believed to represent respectively a Gaul and
Hermes. The former, discovered around 1623, and already famous in the 17th
century when it was in the Ludovisi collection, had been acquired in 1737 by
Clement XII for the 9 Capitoline. Placed at the centre of the composition, with
2. The Dying Gladiator, Roman copy of a Pergamene original of the 3rd century
bc, marble, 93 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0747 3. The Capitoline
Antinous, Roman copy of the 2nd century ad of a Greek original of the 4th
century bc, marble, 180 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0741 the young
artists assembled in a semi-circle around it as if in a life class, the
Gladiator invited analysis and study of the male anatomy in a complex pose, as
well as offering an example of a noble and heroic death. The Capitoline
Antinous, recorded in Cardinal Albani’s possession from 1733, had been acquired
with the rest of the Cardinal’s collection in the same year and was displayed
in the museum a few years later.10 Quickly eclipsing the Belvedere Antinous (see
26, 22 and cat. 19, 1), it represented a perfect image of the male body in its
youth. It is not by chance that the young students are focusing on these two
statues among the many towering over them in the room, for the Dying Gladiator
and the Capitoline Antinous were the chosen subjects for the third class of the
Concorso Clementino – reserved for the copy – either drawing or modelling –
usually after the Antique, organised by the Accademia di San Luca for the year
1754 (fig. 4).11 But if the engraving alludes to a contemporary event, the
establishment of the museum as a ‘Scuola del Disegno’,12 it is also a
capriccio, as it gathers together sculptures that were in fact displayed
elsewhere in various rooms and collections, much as Hubert Robert would do in
his beautiful red chalk drawing of almost ten years later (p. 56, 96). The
Dying Gladiator, the Capitoline Antinous and the two stand- ing statues behind
him, the Antinous Osiris and the Wounded Amazon, could all be admired and
studied in the privileged space of the Salone of the Palazzo Nuovo, which
housed some of the best masterpieces of the collection.13 The so- called Albani
Crater, half visible on the far left, and the seated Agrippina behind the
Antinous, were however, displayed elsewhere in the Palazzo Nuovo, respectively
in the Stanza del Vaso and in the Stanza dell’Ercole.14 Moreover, Campiglia did
not confine himself to depicting only works from the Capitoline collections:
even more out of place are the two figures on the right, who turn their backs
to 4. Giovanni Casanova, Drawing of the Capitoline Antinous (third award for
the third class in painting of the Concorso Clementino), 1754, red chalk on
brown prepared paper, 510 × 290 mm, Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome, inv.
A.380 5. Giovanni Paolo Panini, View of Ancient Rome or Roma Antica, detail,
c.1755, oil on canvas, 169.5 × 227 cm, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart inv. Nr. 3315 us
as if to signify that they belong elsewhere. These are the much revered
Antinous Belvedere and the Venus de’ Medici – dis- played at that time
respectively in the Vatican and in the Tribuna of the Uffizi.15 Their presence
here probably served to sanction and affirm the canonical status of their
Capitoline companions, all recently excavated or acquired. What we see is
therefore a symbolic space, where reality and fantasy are combined to
legitimise and promote the relatively new collection of the museum. The volumes
of the Musei Capitolini served as a reference tool for many artists and no
doubt inspired the scene showing young students drawing the Dying Gladiator in
the foreground of Giovanni Paolo Panini’s renowned View of Ancient Rome (fig.
5, and 53, 92), the first version of which, not coincidentally, was painted at
about the same 6. Carlo Gregori after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia, Young
Artists Copying the ‘Arrotino’, engraving, 118 × 151 mm, page 225 in Anton
Francesco Gori, Museum Florentinum, Florence, 1754 time as the publication of
this particular volume. Campiglia devised similar graceful allegorical
vignettes for the contemporary volumes of the Museum Florentinum.16 One in
particular, engraved by Carlo Gregori (1719–59), seems to be the Florentine
counterpart of the Roman image, showing students sketching the Arrotino,
surrounded by the symbols of the arts and books on anatomy and geometry (fig.
6).17 Although in the second half of the 18th century access to the museum
sometimes proved difficult due to lack of personnel, and while artists had to
go through the bureau- cratic process of applying to the papal camerlengo or to
the director of the museum for licence to make copies, the Capitoline remained
one of the most popular sites among artists and travellers, as the many views
of its interiors testify (pp. 55–56, figs 94–96).For recent and brief
introductions on the history of the Capitoline collec- tions, with previous
bibliography, see Parisi Presicce 2010; Paul 2012. On the early years of the
Capitoline as a public museum see Arata 1994; Franceschini and Vernesi 2005;
Arata 2008. Document dated 5 December 1733 quoted in Arata 1994, 75. On the
Pinacoteca see Marinetti and Levi 2014. On the Accademia del Nudo see
Pietrangeli 1959; Pietrangeli 1962; MacDonald 1989; Barroero 1998. On Campiglia’s supervision of life classes at the Accademia del Nudo see
Pirrotta 1969. On the Concorsi see Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91; Rome,
University Park (PA) and elsewhere 1989–90; Cipriani 2010–11. See Quieto 1984b;
Kieven 1998; Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 484– 86, no. 329 (S. Prosperi
Valenti Rodinò); Rome 2004, 96–108, nos 1–7 (A. Gallottini); Rome 2010–11b, p.
401, no. II.14 (I. Sgarbozza). Campiglia started working on his designs for the
plates in 1735: see Franceschini and Vernesi 2005, 59–60. See Haskell and Penny
1981, 224–27, no. 44; Mattei 1987; La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 428–35.
See Haskell and Penny 1981, 143–44, no. 5; La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 500–01.
The statue was exhibited in the museum from 1739 or 1742. Cipriani and
Valeriani 1988-91, 2, 219–20, 228. While the 1754 prize drawings depicting the
Antinous survive in the archives of the Accademia, the terracottas representing
the Dying Gladiator are lost. The Dying Gladiator was also chosen as the
subject for the third class in painting in 1758 and the Capitoline Antinous for
the third class in sculpture in 1779, and in painting in 1783: ibid., 3, 9–22,
120, 129–30, 141–46. It was referred to as such in the award ceremony for the
Concorso: see Belle Arti 1754, 36. On the Antinous-Osiris, donated to the
museum by Benedict XIV in 1742 and from 1838 in the Vatican Museum, see Paris,
Ottawa and elsewhere 1994– 95, 78–79, no. 24 (M. Pantazzi). On the Wounded
Amazon, acquired in 1733 as part of Albani collection, see Weber 1976, 46–56.
On the Albani Crater and its base, both previously in the Albani collection,
see Grassinger 1991, 189–90, no. 32. On the so-called Agrippina, already
recorded in the Capitoline collections in 1566, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 133–34,
no. 1; Rome 2011, 324–25, no. 5.9 (A. Avagliano). On their display at that
time, see Venuti 1750, 23, 30, 33–34; Arata 1994. For the Antinous Belvedere
and the Venus de’ Medici see above 26, 22 and 42, 56. Many are found in volumes
8 to 12. On the so-called Arrotino or Knife Grinder, once in the Villa Medici
in Rome and from 1680 in the Tribuna of the Uffizi see Haskell and Penny 1981, 154–56,
no. 11; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 83–84, no. 33. On access to the Capitoline
Museum in the 18th century see Sgarbozza 2010–11. 174
175 21. Louis Chays (Aubagne c.1740–1811 Paris) The Courtyard of the
Farnese Palace in Rome with the Hercules Farnese 1775 Pen and brown ink, brown
wash, pencil and white gouache, 434 × 534 mm Inscribed recto, l.l., in pen and
black ink: ‘chaÿs f. a rome 1775.’; and l.c., in pencil, possibly by different
hand: ‘Cour du Palais Farnése’. provenance: Hippolyte Destailleur (1822–93)
collection (no. 110). literature: Berckenhagen 1970, 394, no. 3027, repr.;
Giuliano 1979, 100, 13; Michel 1981b, 584, 8; De Seta 1992, 240, repr.;
Gasparri 2007, 53, 45 and p. 178, no. 273.4; Macsotay 2010, p. 194; Göttingen
2013–14, p. 208, 53. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited.
Kunstbibliothek, Berlin, Hdz 3027 exhibited in london only Private aristocratic
collections of antiquities in Rome contin- ued to attract large numbers of
artists and visitors during the 18th century. The Farnese Palace, with its
group of canon- ical ancient sculptures – the Farnese Hercules (see p. 30, 32)
the Farnese Bull and the Farnese Flora among others – and its Gallery with the
Loves of the Gods, the widely admired fresco cycle by Annibale Carracci
(1560–1609), offered the ideal opportunity to copy the Antique and a tour de
force of early 17th-century mythological decoration at the same time.1 Drawings
after the famous Farnese statues by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498–1574),
Hendrick Goltzius (1558–1617) (see cat. 7), Annibale Carracci (see p. 43, 58),
Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640; see p. 46, 67), Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665),
Anthony van Dyck (1599–1641), Carlo Maratti (1625–1713; see p. 43, figs 60–61),
Hubert Robert (1733–1808), Jacques Louis David (1748–1825) and
Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780– 1867), to name just a few, testify to the
enduring fame of the palace and its legendary collection of antiquities among
European artists residing in Rome.2 In the 18th century the palace went through
changes of ownership, passing in 1731 from the Farnese to the Bourbon, but it
remained a lively envi- ronment, with many artists and others residing in its
rooms, and was readily accessible for those who wished to draw or model.3
Between 1786 and 1800 all the ancient statues of the collection were removed by
the Bourbon King Ferdinand IV to Naples – where they can be seen today in the
National Archaeological Museum – a decision that marked the end of the palace
as a privileged place for studying the Antique.4 Louis Chays is one of the
lesser-known figures among the French artists who gravitated towards the
Académie de France in Rome in the 1770s. He studied at the Academy in Marseille
under Jacques-Antoine Beaufort (1721–84), before moving to Rome thanks to the
patronage of Louis-Joseph Borély, a wealthy Marseille merchant.5 His five years
in Rome, between 1771 and 1776, were probably spent in the company of such
pensionnaires of the Academy as Joseph-Benoît Suvée (1743–1807), Jean-Simon
Berthélemy (1743–1811), Pierre- Adrien Pâris (1745–1819) and François-André Vincent
(1746–1816). These young artists were of the same generation, they all arrived
in Rome in 1771 and stayed there for a similar span of years. They seem to have
travelled around the city and the Roman campagna as a group, sketching sites,
ruins and landscapes, and they naturally shared a similar style and
repertoire.6 The result of Chays’ artistic wanderings consists mainly of
evocative drawings in the manner of Hubert Robert and Jean-Honoré Fragonard
(1732–1806) though Chays’ drawings lack their characteristic vivacity. The
corpus of his drawings is preserved in the Kunstbibliothek in Berlin.7 This
study, with its companion, The Colonnade of St Peter’s Square, stands apart in
Chays’ known graphic production in being a large-scale and highly finished
pen-and-wash draw- ing.8 The lively view is the only known representation of
groups of students, rather than just individuals, at work in the courtyard of
the Palazzo Farnese; nor does the present writer know of any similar record of
study in other private collections of antiquities in Rome. It is also an
important historical document, being one of the last images to show the statues
in their original location before their removal to Naples, from 1786 onwards.
Chays cleverly chose a low view- point and an angle that allows for maximum
drama: the receding pillars of the portico frame the focus of our atten- tion,
the massive statue of the Farnese Hercules. We are standing in the shadowy
passage leading to the gardens of the palace and we see the Hercules from behind,
by then a view as successful as the front (see cats 7 and 16). Other images of
the Hercules from the back in the Farnese courtyard had been produced decades
earlier by Giovanni Paolo Panini (1691–1765) (fig. 1), Giacomo Quarenghi
(1744–1817) (fig. 2) and Frédéric Cronstedt (1744–1829), and one wonders
whether Chays had seen any of them.9 In any case, to animate his composition
Chays certainly took inspiration from the many capricci by Panini where the
Hercules towers over groups of wanderers and also from such drawings showing
artists at 176 177 1. Giovanni Paolo Panini, View of the Courtyard
of the Palazzo Farnese with the ‘Hercules’ seen from Behind, c. 1730, pen and
black and grey ink and wash, and coloured wash, heightened with white, 419 ×
417 mm, private collection work in Rome produced by Charles-Joseph Natoire (see
55, 94) or Hubert Robert (see 56, figs 95–97). We see here the usual cast of
characters familiar from Robert’s drawings: a combination of artists, beggars,
dogs, young children, and bystanders, some of them dressed in the current
fashion, like the elegant aristocratic couple in the centre, no doubt
accompanied by a tour guide or cicerone. Others are presented in all’antica
dress, such as the beggar and muscular male student on the right, both of whom
wear Roman togas and gaze intently at the sculpture from behind. But among the
many visitors to the courtyard, the true protagonists are the students, busy at
work, sketching on large sheets resting on drawing boards or modelling in clay,
as in Campiglia’s and Pazzi’s engraving (cat. 20). Some focus on the Hercules,
while others, seated on chairs or on the ground in the middle of the courtyard,
turn towards the other star of the collection, the Farnese Flora, visible to
the right of the Hercules.10 The entire palace seems to have been turned into
an academy, with animated conversations taking place throughout: particularly
intriguing is the lively discus- sion taking place around a large drawing in
the central bay of the first floor loggia. In the distance, through the
entrance vestibule on the lower right, we have a glimpse of the Piazza Farnese
and the external world. While the technique in this drawing is precise and
although the details are lively, the rendering of the architec- ture, which was
evidently drawn first and before the figures were superimposed, is less
successful. It is notable that the 2. Giacomo Quarenghi, View of the ‘Farnese
Hercules’ in the Portico of the Courtyard of the Farnese Palace, c. 1775–79,
pen and black ink and wash and coloured wash, 304 × 233 mm, private collection
scale of the two sides of the courtyard visible behind the por- tico does not
quite correspond. In fact, Chays’ real forte was landscape rather than accurate
architectural views, although reasonably faithful depictions of the Villa
Madama and other Roman buildings survive.11 Although this view is largely
imaginary, it seems to evoke the spirit of the courtyard as it appeared to
pupils of the Accademia di San Luca and pensionnairesof the Académie de France
in Rome who frequented the palace regularly. Visits to grandiose palaces such
as this must have left a lasting impression on these young students. The
Accademia di San Luca sent its students around Rome to copy the Antique,
especially on the occasion of academic competitions, the Concorsi.12 In the
18th century the Hercules and the Flora were chosen several times as subjects
for the third class of the Concorso Clementino – reserved for the copy, a
drawing or a model, usually after the Antique – and the students’ gather- ings
in those occasions must have offered a scene as animated as that we see in
Chays’ drawing.13 Most of the artists depicted here are sketching on large
sheets of paper, generally reserved in the 18th century for academic drawings
after the Antique, as seen also in Campiglia’s and Pazzi’s engraving (cat.).14
The Académie de France in Rome had been founded in 1666 with the specific
intent of shaping the taste and manner of young artists ‘sur les originaux et
les modèles des plus grands maîtres de l’Antiquité et des siècles derniers’ and
of furnishing the royal gardens at Versailles with copies of the most famous
antiquities from Rome.15 Although the direct copy from antique statuary had
been neglected for certain periods since the Académie’s founding, it had once
again gained a central place in the official curriculum of the pensionnaires
during the direc- torates of Nicolas Vleughels (1725–37) and Charles-Joseph
Natoire (1751–75) (see cat. 16). Although no surviving drawings after the
Antique by Chays are known, he probably produced them as he spent considerable
time in Rome copying Old Master paintings, such as those by Raphael, Titian and
Reni.16 He returned to Marseilles in 1776 and spent the following years
decorating the château of his patron, today the Musée Borély, where he put into
practice the lessons and skills he had acquired in Rome.17 After becoming one
of the professors of the Académie in Marseilles, Chays participated in the
Revolution and as sergeant-major took part in 1790 in the occupation of the
fort of Notre-Dame de la Garde by the Garde National.18 He later published a
collection of etchings some of which he based on the views that he had
assembled in his Roman years.19 Among the last mentions we have of him are his
Paris Salon entries of 1802 and 1804: perspective drawings of the antiquities
collection of the Louvre. SeeMéjanès1976;WashingtonD.C.1978–79,pp.148–155.
Berckenhagen1970,pp.393–96,nos3026–3074and3673–3674. Ibid.,p.394,no.3026. For
Panini’s drawing see Arisi 1961, 245, no. 80, 359; Sotheby’s New York, 29–30
January 2013, lot 113. Two paintings attributed to Panini (wrongly, in the
opinion of the present writer) in a French private collec- tion show similar
views: see Munich and Cologne 2002, 408–10, nos 187 a/b. For Quarenghi’s
drawing see Sotheby’s New York, 27 January 2010, lot 90. Another, almost
identical version is in the Hermitage, St Petersburg (inv. 25819): Bergamo
1994, 185–86, no. 234. For Cronstedt’s drawing, executed in 1772, now in the
National Museum, Stockholm see Palais Farnèse 1980–94, 2, 131, b. Before the
18th century the same viewpoint had been represented in a drawing by an
anonymous Dutch draughtsman of c. 1540–60, now in the Herzog Anton
Ulrich-Museum, Braunschweig (inv. Z 320r): see Gasparri 2007, 17, 4 and 178,
no. 273.1. The Flora is here shown with its Renaissance restorations by
Guglielmo Della Porta and Giovanni Battista de Bianchi and before Carlo
Albacini’s new restorations undertaken after 1787: see Gasparri 2009–10, 3,
esp. 38–40. See for instance, Berckenhagen 1970, 395, no. 3030. On the Concorsi
see cat. 20, note 6. Both were chosen for the third class in sculpture in 1703:
Cipriani and Valeriani 1988-91, 2, 26–27. The Hercules was chosen for the third
class in both painting and sculpture in 1728 and later on in sculpture in 1783
and in 1789 (this time from a plaster since the statue had been transported to
Naples in 1787): ibid., 2, 182, 3, 130, 153. The Flora was chosen for the third
class in painting in 1750: ibid., 2, 209–10. See the size of the drawings for
the third class of the Concorsi Clementini of the Accademia di San Luca in
Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91, vols 2–3. See also Macsotay 2010, 193–94. ‘On
the originals and the examples of the greatest Antique masters and those of
preceding centuries’: letter from Jean-Baptiste Colbert to Nicolas Poussin,
1664, mentioned in Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 1, 1 and in Lapauze 1924,
1, 2. See Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 44–46. These copies now survive
in the Musée des Beaux-Arts and in the Musée Borély in Marseille: Paris 1989, 268–69,
no. 113 (J.-F. Méjanès). Benoît 1964. Vialla
1910, 484. ‘Ouvrage de 36 feuilles tirées des Porte-feuilles du C[itoye]n S.
[sic] Chays...’. See Thieme-Becker 1907–50, 6, 445. See also Le Blanc 1854–88, 1,
625. ‘Dessins perspectives de différens points de vue, qui donnent le
développe- ment de toutes les figures antiques du Musée [du Louvre], ainsi
qu’une juste idée du local et de la décoration du palais’: Sanchez and Seydoux
1999– 2006, 1, 46, no. 58 (1802), 76, no. 105 (1804). See also Paris 1989, 268–69, no. 113 (J.-F. Méjanès). 178 179 1 2 3 4 5
aa On the Farnese Hercules see above 30 and cat. 7. On the Farnese Flora see
Haskell and Penny 1981, 217–19, no. 41; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 37–42, no. 8, pl.
VI, 1–5 (C. Capaldi). On the Farnese Bull see Haskell and Penny 1981, 165–67,
no. 15; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 20–25 no. 2, pl. II, 1–16 (F. Rausa). See Gasparri
2007, 11 and 157–78. See Michel 1981b and La Malfa 2010–11. In 1775, the year
of this drawing, the palace had 180 inhabitants. See the list in Michel 1981a, 565.
For a list of artists residing in the palace see Michel 1981b, table between 610–11.
Rausa 2007b, 57–60. On Chays (often spelled differently, Chaÿs, Chais, Chaix)
see: Thieme- Becker 1907–50, 6, 445; Benoît 1964; Toronto, Ottawa and elsewhere
1972–73, 143–44, no. 23; Paris 1989, 268–69, no. 113 (J.-F. Méjanès); Raspi
Serra 1997. 22. Fuseli (Zürich–London) The Artist Moved by the Grandeur
of Antique Fragments; The Right Hand and Left Foot of the Colossus of
Constantine c. 1778–79 Pen and sepia ink and wash, red chalk, 420 × 352 mm
Inscribed recto on the pedestal of the foot: ‘S.P.Q.R’, followed by illegible
characters and l.r. in pencil: ‘85 W. Blake’ (false signature, perhaps 19th
century) watermark: ‘ZP’ and the coat of arms of the city of Zurich1
provenance: Susan Coutts, Countess of Guildford (1771–1837) (her stamp on the
verso2); Paul Hürlimann, from whom acquired in 1940. selected literature: Irwin
1966, 47, pl. 32; Schiff 1973, 1, 115, 478–79, no. 665, 2, 145, 665; Tomory
1972, 49, 90, 4; Füssli 1973, 60–61, repr.; Schiff and Viotto 1980, pl. viii,
no. D35 on 112; Klemm 1986, no. 4; Lindsay 1986, 483–84, 1; Taylor 1987, 125,
repr.; Noch- lin 1994, 7–8, 1; Rossi Pinelli 1997, 15, 18, repr.; Bartels 2000,
23, note 2; Patz 2004, 271, 3; Bungarten 2005, cover; Pacini 2008, 55–56, 4;
Valverde 2008, 163–64, 5; Trumble 2010, 6–7, repr.; Barroero 2011, no. 22,
repr.; Mongi-Vollmer 2013, 294, 127. selected exhibitions: Zurich 1941, no.
251; New York 1954, no. 31; Zurich 1969, no. 165; Copenhagen 1973, 55, no. 21,
not repr. (B. Jørnæs); Hamburg 1974–75, 129, no. 45 (G. Schiff); London 1975, 54–55,
no. 10 (G. Schiff ); Paris 1975, unpag., no. 10 (G. Schiff ); Milan 1977–78, 19–20,
no. 6 (L. Vitali); Geneva 1978, 8, no. 3; Munich 1979–80, 279–80, no. 154 (J.
Gage); Tokyo 1983, 62–63, no. 7 (G. Schiff ); Zurich 1984, 49, 179, no. 25;
Stockholm 1990, 33, no. 3 (G. Cavalli-Björkman and R. von Holten); Stuttgart
1997–98, 5–7, no. 10 (C. Becker); Zurich 2005, 256, no. 1, frontispiece 2;
Paris 2008, 120, no. 36 (B. von Waldkirch). The Kunsthaus, Graphische
Sammlung, Zürich, inv. no. 1940/144 exhibited in london only This celebrated
drawing is one of the most powerful images ever produced on the relationship of
the artist with the Antique. It presents a very different response to classical
antiquity from the many didactic compositions shown in this catalogue,
expressing the extremism and the Sturm und Drang that imbued early Romanticism.
The artist here confronts the Antique not as a source of information or
inspiration but on a deeper level: he meditates on the grandeur of a lost past
both as a philosopher, considering the fragility of the human condition and,
more powerfully still, as a creator in despair at his own inability to match
the achievements of classical antiquity. Fuseli’s evocative image effectively
summarises the dramatic change in the approach to the Antique which took place
in Rome in the late 18th century within a circle of anti-academic and largely
self-taught artists, such as Alexander Runciman (1736–85), John Brown
(1749–87), Tobias Sergel (1740–1814) and Thomas Banks (1735–1805), among whom
Fuseli was the most influential.3 For them the ancient sculptures were alive, a
tangible expression of the emotions and individuality of their creators, rather
than models of ideal beauty and proportional perfection. Born Johann Heinrich
Füssli in 1741 in Zurich into a fam- ily of artists, his father, Caspar
(1706–82), a painter and histo- rian, was one of the Swiss correspondents of
Anton Raphael Mengs (1728–79) and Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717– 68).4
Fuseli’s early education benefited from the teaching of Johann Jakob Bodmer
(1698–1783) and Johann Jakob Breitinger (1701–76), forerunners of the literary
and artistic movement Sturm und Drang, who introduced the young artist to the
study of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton and the Niebelungenlied, decisively
contributing to the eclecticism of his imaginative sources. Fuseli moved to
London in 1764 and soon became well acquainted with the city’s lively cultural
milieu and quickly acquired fame as a painter. In 1770, on the advice of Sir
Joshua Reynolds (1723–92), Fuseli travelled to Rome. He stayed there for eight
years, with very few inter- ruptions, leaving in 1778. After spending a few
months in Zurich, he returned to London where he was destined to spend the rest
of his life. Elected academician at the Royal Academy of Art in 1790 and
Professor of Painting in 1799, Fuseli became one of the most acclaimed artists
of his generation; he died in the residence of the Countess of Guilford, one of
his patrons and previous owner of the pre- sent drawing, in Putney Hill in
south-west London, in 1825. The eight years Fuseli spent in Rome were of great impor-
tance for the development of his artistic language and theory of art.
Fascinated by the majestic relics of imperial Rome, but even more impressed by
Michelangelo’s masterpieces, Fuseli soon distanced himself from the idealised
and harmonious view of the Antique espoused in the theoretical works of
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729–81) and of Winckelmann, who had been murdered in
Trieste two years before Fuseli arrived in Rome. This death was symbolic for,
although ini- tially a great enthusiast for Winckelmann’s writings, some of
which he translated into English, Fuseli became one of his most radical
detractors by asserting the importance of appreciating the emotions and
conflicts that ran through 180 181 ancient works of art.5 As Fuseli
stated many years later in the introduction to his Lectures on Painting
presented at the Royal Academy, German critics had taught the artist ‘to
substitute the means for the end, and, by a hopeless chase after what they call
beauty, to lose what alone can make beauty interest- ing – expression and
mind’.6 ‘Expression animates, convulses, or absorbs form. The Apollo is
animated; the warrior of Agasias is agitated; the Laocoon is convulsed; the
Niobe is absorbed’. This is one of the Aphorisms on Art compiled by Fuseli in the
late 1780s, although it was first published only in 1831 by John Knowles in his
The Life and Writing of Henry Fuseli.7 These famous masterpieces of ancient
sculpture, the Apollo Belvedere, the Borghese Gladiator, the Laocoön and the
Niobe Medici, are not seen by Fuseli simply as the embodiment of a canon of
perfection, models to imitate, or points of reference in the academic education
of a young artist; they are treated as animated forms of the subjectivity of
the artists who created them and, ultimately, of their ways of expressing
feeling and emotion.8 Fuseli’s many studies after the Antique are never an end
in themselves, they are rather means of expression and, because of that,
ancient statues can be adapted, distorted, even desecrated by him.9 A homosexual
scene depicted on an ancient Greek red-figured vase can become the model for a
Shakespearean composition showing the King of Denmark poisoned by his brother
in his sleep.10 Likewise, one of the Horse Tamers on the Quirinal Hill (see 22,
10), reproduced and adapted many times by Fuseli, can be turned into Odin
receiving the Prophecy of Balder’s Death.11 If Winckelmann praised the Laocoön
for his dignified grandeur,12 in two of his late sketches Fuseli transformed
the Trojan priest into the object of a courtesan’s sexual desire.13 Even the
famous Nightmare (1781),14 one of the most disquieting compositions ever
created by Fuseli, still retains memories of the Antique, from the devilish
head of the horse peeping out of the curtain, so like those of the Quirinal
horses, to the reclining figure in which one can recognise a transposition of
the celebrated Cleopatra in the Belvedere Court (see 26, fig. 20).15 The Artist
Moved by the Grandeur of Antique Fragments per- fectly embodies the artist’s
revolutionary approach to the Antique. Although no doubt based on sketches made
on the spot, and using a technique, sepia ink and wash, often used by Fuseli in
Rome, the watermark with the coat of arms of the city of Zurich suggests that
the drawing was made during or soon after his brief stay in his home town after
he left Rome in 1778.16 The drawing shows a scantily clad figure seated on a
block dwarfed by two adjacent marble fragments, the left foot and the right
hand of a gigantic statue set on plinths before a wall composed of majestic,
square blocks.17 The pose of the artist, loosely inspired by Michelangelo’s
Ancestors of Christ on the Sistine Ceiling, is deeply expressive; he cradles
his head in deep grief and anguish, and his mood, with his legs casually and unguardedly
crossed, is one of total surrender; the forlornness is enhanced by the wild
weed that audaciously pushes its way up against the colossal marble hand. The
antique fragments are easily recognisable as the left foot and the right hand
of a colossal statue of the emperor Constantine the Great (r. 306–37 ad; figs
1–2) which were found in the west apse of the Basilica of Maxentius in 1486
under the papacy of Innocent VIII (r. 1481–92) along with other fragments
including the head (fig. 3) and the right foot. By Fuseli’s time they could be
admired in the courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori on the Capitoline
hill, where they are still preserved today.18 The monumental scale of these
fragments fascinated generations of artists from the Renaissance onwards, but
they became increasingly a focus of attention in the 17th and 1. Colossal
Statue of Constantine the Great: Right Hand, 313–24 ad, Luna marble, 166 cm
(h), Capitoline Museums, Courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome, inv.
MC0786 2. Colossal Statue of Constantine the Great: Left Foot, 313–324 ad,
Parian marble, 120 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Courtyard of the Palazzo dei
Conservatori, Rome, inv. MC0798 3. Colossal Statue of Constantine the
Great: Head, 313–24 ad, marble, 260 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Courtyard of
the Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome, inv. MC0757 in the drawing (‘S.P.Q.R.’) can
actually be found on the pedestal supporting the right foot and not the left
one, as Fuseli represents it here. The detail, however, is not irrelevant,
since it is part of the inscription, commemorating a restoration of the
fragments promoted by Pope Urban VIII (r. 1623–44) in 1635 and 1636, so that
one can read a clear reference to the awe inspired by the greatness of the ‘Res
Romana’.22 Awe of the Antique is expressed in the drawing by the contrast
between the muscular fragments of the colossus and the diminutive, frail and
almost abstract figure, who can be interpreted both as a personification of a
modern man in general and as a symbolic self-portrait of the artist – ‘Füssli’
in German means ‘little foot’, thus suggesting a visual word- play.23 However,
the title of the drawing given by Gert Schiff, The Artist Moved by the Grandeur
of Antique Fragments, captures only one aspect of the composition, that is, the
feeling of artistic and intellectual inadequacy before the sublime Past.24
Possibly, even the inconsistent perspective of the pedestal of the foot was
consciously introduced to express the artistic inferiority of the moderns
compared to the ancients. But the pose, which recurs many times in Fuseli’s
works, can convey at the same time other meanings.25 It could cause a deep 5.
Hubert Robert, Ancient Sculptures of the Capitoline, red chalk, 442 × 330 mm,
Staatliche Museen, Kunstbibliothek, Berlin, Inv. Hdz 3076 18th centuries:
two wanderers are shown among the colossal ruins in a drawing by Stefano della
Bella (1610–64; 4),19 while the foot and hand appear in an evocative capriccio
by Hubert Robert (1733–1808; 5).20 As in their studies, Fuseli’s drawing shows
the base sustaining the colossal upward pointing right hand on the pedestal
supporting the left foot; only in the early 19th century was the hand moved to
its present location along the wall of the courtyard. Fuseli, however, modifies
the disposition of the fragments in order to create a perfect triangle, whose
apex coincides with the index finger of the hand, pointing authoritatively
upward. The fact that the drawing was made when Fuseli had already left Rome
may account for a few inconsistencies, such as swapping the right foot – flat
on the ground – and the left foot – with the heel slightly raised and set on a
support.21 Moreover, the first line of the inscription roughly transcribed 4. Stefano
della Bella, Courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, after 1659, pen and
grey ink and grey wash, 152 × 194 mm, Istituto Nazionale per la Grafica, Rome,
inv. FC 126001 sense of loss before the dismembered
statue as well as a melancholic frustration at the impossibility of achieving a
whole, satisfactory knowledge of the ancient world. Finally this evocative
image is clearly a grim meditation on human Vanitas, on the cruelty of time and
its inevitability, capable of destroying even the most impressive human
creations.26 In his vision of antiquity Fuseli was following in the footsteps
of Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720–78), the great engraver of ancient Rome,
who populated his images with similar figures dwarfed and seemingly lost among
the colossal remains of Rome’s decaying statues and buildings. Piranesi’s
ancient ruins, the gigantic stones of which fill his modern onlookers with
wonder, are evoked by Fuseli in the massive blocks of the background wall,
which are not part of the courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori. Piranesi
died in 1778, the year that Fuseli left Rome for Zurich where he created this
harrowing memory of the city he had just left behind him. Could the present
drawing be a posthumous homage to the great Italian artist, with whom Fuseli
shared the same inventive, original and imaginative vision of the Antique? aa
et ed 1 Schiff 1973, 479. 2 Ibid., 479. 3 See Pressly 1979; Valverde 2008;
Busch 2013. 4 For Fuseli’s biography see Tomory 1972, 9–46; Schiff 1973, 1;
Zurich 2005, 13–31. 5 See Pucci 2000b and Busch 2009. During his London years
between 1764 and 1770, Fuseli translated into English Winckelmann’s
Beschreibung des Torso del Belvedere Zu Rom (1764, translated as Description of
the Torso Belvedere in Rome in 1765) and the Gedanken über die Nachahmung der
griechischen Werke in der Malerei Und Bildhauerkunst (1755, translated as
Reflections on the Painting and the Sculpture of the Greeks in 1765). 6 See
Wornum 1848, 345. On Fuseli’s Lectures see in particular Bungarten 2005. 7
Knowles 1831, 3, 90, aphorism no. 88. 8 For these statues see respectively 26, 18;
41, 54; 26, 19; 30, 34. 9 For a checklist of Fuseli’s drawings of ancient
sculptures see Schiff 1973, 1, 475–79, Schiff 1973, 1, 450, no. 445 (dated
1771); the ancient scene is taken from D’Hancarville 1766–67, 2, pl. 32. Schiff
1973, 456–57, nos 485 and 487 (c. 1776). See in particular Winckelmann. See
also Appendix, no. 15. Schiff 1973, 1, 547, nos 1072 and 1072a (1801–05).
Schiff 1973, 1, 496, no. 757. See Powell 1973, 67–75. See in particular
Waldkirch 2005, 63–78. For a drawing showing a figure in a similar attire see
Schiff 1973, 1, 476, no. 561 (1777–79); and for one with similar blocks in the
background ibid., 1, 447, no. 425. For the right hand and the left foot see
Stuart Jones 1926, 11, no. 13, pl. 5 (hand), 13–14, no. 21, pl. 5 (foot). For a
discussion on the original colos- sal statue see Fittschen and Zanker 1985, 147–52,
pls 151–52; Deckers 2005; Parisi Presicce 2007 (in particular for the history
of the display); Bardill 2012, 203–17. The provenance of the colossus from the
Basilica is testified to by a caption on a drawing by Francesco di Giorgio
Martini (1439–1501) (Morgan Library et Museum, New York, Codex Mellon, fol.
54r), see Buddensieg 1962; census.bbaw.de/easydb/censusID= 233951. See Paris
2000–01, 371 no. 176 (J.-P. Cuzin); Rome 2004, 346, no. 46 (V. Di Piazza);
another similar drawing is in the Louvre, see Viatte 1974, 63 no. 46, 65, 46.
See Berckenhagen 1970, 332; Paris 2000–01, 374, no. 180 (J.-P. Cuzin). These
details are clearly rendered on the drawings by Della Bella and Robert. Bartels
2000, 23 no. 1.7: ‘Senatus Populus Que Romanus APOLLINIS COLOSSUM A Marco
LUCULLO/ COLLOCATUM IN CAPITOLIO DEIN TEMPORE AC VI SUBLATUM EX OCULIS TU TIBI
UT ANIMO REPRAESENTES PEDEM VIDE ET ROMANÆ REI MAGNITUDINEM METIRE’. (‘The
Senate and the People of Rome; that you may bring before your mind’s eye the
colossal statue of Apollo set by Marcus Lucullus on the Capitol Hill, later
removed from sight by the violence of time; look at this foot and be aware of the
greatness of Rome’: translation Eloisa Dodero). Lindsay 1986, 483. Schiff 1973,
1, 115, 478–79, no. 665, 2, 145, 665. The pose finds parallels in other works
by Fuseli chiefly illustrating mourn- ful scenes, such as the painting showing
Milton Dreaming of His Dead Wife Catherine: Schiff 1973, 1, 523–24, no. 920;
Zurich 2005, 223, no. 184. Remarkable is the closeness of Fuseli’s figure with
the famous Democritus by Salvator Rosa (Statens Museum, Copehangen; see Scott
1995, 97, 101; the composition was known also through a number of etchings, see
for instance Naples 2008, 281, no. 8). The philosopher in Rosa’s composition is
shown deep in thought and surrounded by several symbols of mortality including
antiquities; the caption on the etchings describes the scene as ‘Democritus
omnium derisor/in omnium fine defigitur’ (‘Democritus, who used to laugh about
everything, here meditates on the end of every- thing’). 23. Philippe Joseph
Tassaert (Antwerp 1732–1803 London) A Drawing Academy 1764 Pen and black ink,
grey and black wash drawn with the brush over black chalk, 331 × 309 mm
provenance: Private collection, Vienna; Gallery Kekko, Lucerne, 2004, from whom
acquired. literature:None. exhibitions: Brussels 2004, 75–76, repr.; London
2007–08, no. 59, not repr. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2004-004
Although Tassaert was born in Flanders, he moved at a young age to London where
he trained with the expatriate Flemish drapery painter, Joseph van Aken (c. 1699–1749),
and where he established his career; aside from occasional trips to the
continent, Tassaert remained in London until his death.1 Van Aken had a large
practice executing draperies for most of the major British portrait painters
active during the 1730s and 1740s, and after his death, Tassaert seems to have
followed his example, assisting especially the portrait painter, Thomas Hudson
(1701–79). In 1769, Tassaert joined the Society of Artists of Great Britain and
served as its presi- dent from 1775–77; he exhibited with the Society until
1785.2 Also active as a dealer and picture restorer, Tassaert worked as an
agent for the auctioneer, James Christie (1730–1803), valuing paintings in
French and English collections, includ- ing that of Sir Robert Walpole at
Houghton Hall, for sale to Catherine the Great in 1779.3 He later moved for a
period to Italy, residing in Rome between 1785 and 1790.4 As a mezzotinter,
Tassaert reproduced many composi- tions after earlier painters, especially
those by Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640). The present drawing – a relatively rare
survival compared with his production of prints – shows young students, dressed
in the costumes of Rubens’ era, sketching a reduced model of the Borghese
Gladiator (fig. 1), illuminated by candlelight from above.5 Two instructors,
including the imposing figure of Rubens him-self in the doorway on the right,
inspect drawings made by two pupils who await their verdict. Casts of busts and
statuettes are placed on the shelf above the lamp, as seen in artists’ work-
shops from the Renaissance onwards (see cats 2, 10, 14).6 The present drawing
is closely related to another, rather larger and more loosely executed, representation
of an academy by Tassaert now in the British Museum (fig. 2), that is observed
from a closer viewpoint and is horizontal rather than vertical in format.7
Rendered in warm brown instead of grey ink, the British Museum drawing focuses
on the group clustered around the sculpture on the left. The master, in the
doorway in our drawing, now leans against a chair gesturing towards the
sculpture and the copy of it made by one of the pupils. But that student, seen
in left profile studying the Gladiator intently, remains essentially unchanged
in both sheets. The British Museum drawing is signed and dated, ‘Tassaert. del
Bruxelles. 1764’, and the Bellinger drawing was no doubt made at the same time.
Both were probably made in preparation for a painting, now lost, but described
in a 1774 review of the Society of Artists’ exhibition at the Strand in London:
‘Mr. TASSAERT, Director, F.S.A. [ . . .] 285. An academy with youth’s [sic] at
study. -Yellow shaded with black, has a starved effect’, a description which suggests
that it may have been monochrome. 8 A keen admirer and copyist of Rubens’ work,
Tassaert clearly intended to evoke the atmosphere of the master’s studio. A
drawing by Tassaert, ‘Rubens instructing his pupils’ 1. Agasias of Ephesus,
Borghese Gladiator, c. 100 bc, marble, 199 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. Ma
527 184 185 2. Philippe Joseph Tassaert, A Drawing Academy,
1764, pen and brown ink and brown wash over black chalk, 330 × 406 mm, The
British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, 2003,1129.1 which
was sold in London in 1785 was probably one of the two drawings under
consideration.9 The master in both is physiognomically identical, and wears the
wide-brimmed hat and voluminous cloak seen in Rubens’ mature self-portraits,
such as that of 1623 in the Royal collection, Windsor Castle, an image widely
disseminated through engravings.10 Another
self-portrait,showingtheartistatsixty,intheKunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna
(1633–35), may also have been known to Tassaert through prints.11 No doubt
Tassaert’s drawings and the lost painting for which they presumably prepared,
were intended to commemorate the fact that Rubens’ studio in Antwerp, founded
on his return from Italy in 1608, was one of the first in Northern Europe to be
organised on the ‘academic’ Italian model. Ruben’s studio – much more than a
workshop – encouraged the intellectual as well as practical ambitions of young
artists, who vied with each other to become his pupils. The purpose of
Tassaert’s lost painting is not certain, but one possibility is that he
intended to present it to the recently revamped Brussels art school. It may be
significant that Tassaert, who hailed from Antwerp (where he became a member of
the Guild of St Luke in 1756), signed the British Museum drawing ‘Tassaert. del
Bruxelles’, and dated it, 1764, the year the Brussels school began to flourish
under new stewardship.12 Reportedly discovered in Nettuno in 1611, the Borghese
Gladiator, signed by Agasias of Ephesus, is thought to copy a statue of the
school of Lysippus.13 It was acquired by Cardinal Scipione Borghese
(1576–1633), and between 1650 and 1807, was displayed in a room bearing its
name on the ground floor of the Casino Borghese before it was sold to
Napoleon.14 The statue was keenly admired by artists from the mid-17th century
onwards as it embodied the male nude in an active, heroic and resolute pose.
François Perrier (1590–1650) ranked it among the finest statues in Rome and
published four views of it in his influential collection of etching after antique
sculpture (Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum . . ., Paris, 1638, pls.
26–29), more than he devoted to any other figure. Casts of it were made for
Philip IV of Spain and for the Académie Royale in Paris (see cat. 16) and the
Académie de France in Rome.15 It became a standard presence in artists’ manuals
from the 17th century onwards, as the perfection of its anatomy and proportions
made it an ideal model for young pupils to copy. Its fame endured well into the
18th century as many of the objects in this catalogue make clear (cats 16, 24,
26).16 Rubens, who was thirty-four when the statue was found, revered it
greatly. Although his two Roman sojourns (1601– 02 and 1600–08) pre-date its
discovery in 1611, he certainly knew the statue through copies and probably
owned a cast of it.17 That plaster casts came to be widely used in Northern
workshops of the period is shown in the 1635 and 1656 studio inventories of
Rubens’ contemporary, Balen and of Rembrandt and by the many paintings that
depict artists making copies of them (see 40, figs 49–53 and cat. 14).18
Rubens’ deep interest in antique sculpture, which he collected
enthusiastically, is well-documented.19 In one of his theoretical notebooks, De
Imitatione Statuarum (‘On the Imitation of Ancient Statues’), recording his
observations from 1600 to 1610 on the proportions of the human form, symmetry,
perspective, anatomy and architecture, he defined canonical male body types of
the first rank: the strongest and most robust, the Farnese Hercules (see cats
7, 14, 16, 21); the less muscular and fleshy, Commodus in the Guise of Hercules
and the River Nile (see cat. 5) and the third, lean and slender, with prominent
bones and a longer face, the Borghese Gladiator, which he analysed in a
diagram.20 Finally, there was the slim and handsome type, less strong, among
which statues of Apollo and Mercury were classed.21 Rubens referred to the
Gladiator again in another of his notebooks and he adapted it in some of his
paintings, such as the Mercury and Argus of 1636–37 (Prado, Madrid) where
Mercury in a pose strongly reminiscent of the Gladiator, is about to behead the
multi-eyed giant.22 Although Tassaert would not have known Rubens’ manuscript,
parts of it were published in 1708 by Roger de Piles in his Cours de peinture
par principles, translated into English in 1743 as The Principles of Painting
(see Appendix, no. 8).23 Within twenty years of its discovery, casts of the
Borghese Gladiator were commissioned by Charles I and other English patrons and
it soon became one of the most celebrated 186 187 antique sculptures in
the British Isles.24 By the 18th century, copies of it had becoming a mainstay
of country house collections.25 Joseph Wright of Derby (1734–1797) depicted a
reduced model of the Gladiator studied by candlelight (private collection; see
cat. 24, 2), exhibiting it at the Society of Artists in 1765, just a year after
Tassaert’s drawings and William Pether made a mezzotint after Wright’s painting
in 1769.26 When Tassaert showed his painting of a similar subject, probably
based on his earlier studies, at the same venue in 1774 he may have been
responding to the challenge of his English colleagues, particularly the fellow
mezzotinter, Pether.27 Indeed, it is tempting to suppose that Tassaert, by
exhibiting the finished painting, was asserting the suprem- acy of Flemish
academies over the English ones by establish- ing that the sculpture was
well-known and used as a teaching tool already in Rubens’ time. As will be seen
later (see cats 24–26), study after plaster casts increasingly became an
indispensible part of artistic training in the English Academies as the 18th
century progressed. It is especially significant in the present context that
the catalogue of the posthumous sale of the effects of Tassaert’s master,
Joseph Van Aken, in 1751 in London, lists no fewer than sixty models in
terracotta and plaster after the Antique, among them, the Laocoön, the Farnese
Hercules, heads of Antinous and, significantly, two Gladiators.28 It is well
known that antique models were widely diffused in England in the first half of
the 18th century, well before the foundation of the Royal Academy in 1768 (see
cat. 25), but Van Aken’s collection and Tassaert’s preoccupations suggest that
interest in the Antique had a particularly Flemish dimension. Of course, such
models served a vital role for artists in helping to achieve an idealised
representation of the anatomy, poses and expressions of the human body, but
also, as in the case of Van Aken, they could act as lay-figures for the
arrangement of drapery.29 avl 1 For brief accounts of Tassaert’s life and work,
see Edwards 1808, who, on 282–83, asserts that Tassaert was ‘the scholar’ of
van Aken; Redgrave 1874, 2, 402; Wurzbach 1906–11, 2, 689–90; Thieme-Becker
1907–50, vol, 32, 456; Bénézit 2006, 13, 708–09; Wallens 2010, 328. Edwards
(1808, 282) reports his association with van Aken though the latter had already
moved to London in 1720, before Tassaert was born. They probably met there
though he was only about seventeen when van Aken died. According to Bénézit
(2006, 708), Tassaert was the brother of the sculptor, Jean Pierre Antoine
Tassaert (1727–1788). 2 For his involvement with the Society (and disagreements
with), see Hargraves. His paintings were shown also at the Royal Academy. 3 He
is listed frequently as buyer/seller in Christie’s sale catalogues of c. 1779–
82 (see Kerslake 1977, 1, 337). For Tassaert at Houghton, see Twist 2008, 106–07.
4 Wallens. For his engravings, see Le Blanc 1854–88, 4, 9; Wurzbach 1906–11, 2,
689–90; Smith 1878–83, 3, 1354–56. A further drawing by Tassaert of an artist’s
studio, but with figures in contemporary dress, is in Tate Britain, from the
Oppé collection, black chalk on blue paper, 490 × 317 mm, inv. no. T09847. They
may also be seen lightly sketched at upper right in Tassaert’s drawing of an
artist’s studio in the Tate (see note 5 above). Lock 2010, 255, 12.4; Phillips
2013, 127, 5. ‘Conclusion of the Account of the Pictures now exhibiting at the
Artist’s [sic] great Room near Exeter Exchange, Strand’, published in The
Middlesex Journal, 30 April – 3 May 1774, 2 (as noted by Elizabeth Barker,
under inv. no. 2003,1129.1, British Museum collection database). The same
subject painted by Tassaert, probably more than once, is listed in several
Christie’s sales in London between 1805–12: 1805 (1–2 March, lot 69, seller:
John Mayhew; unsold; 14–15 June, lot 40, seller: John Mayhew; unsold); 1806
(7–8 March, lot 33, seller: John Mayhew; unsold); 1808 (11–12 March, lot 18, seller:
Adam Callander; unsold; 14 May, lot 33, seller: Rev. Philip Duval; bought by
Daubuz); 1809 (17–18 November, lot 65, seller: Adam Callander; bought by J. F.
Tuffen) and 1812 (22 May, lot 44, seller: John Mayhew; unsold; 18–19 December,
lot 80, seller: John Mayhew; bought by J. F. Tuffen). Source: Getty Provenance
Index. Jean-Baptiste-Guillaume de Gevigney, his sale, Greenwood, London, 14–15
April 1785, lot 44. Presumably the same drawing was sold two years later: ‘An
academy by Tassaert, washed in bisque, fine’, Greenwood, London, 14–15 March
1787, lot 29 to John Thomas Smith for £1.0. Jaffé 1989, 281, no. 764. Ibid., 371,
no. 1379. Between 1764 and 1768, the school was revitalized under Count Charles
Cobenzl (Phillips 2013, 127–28). Paris 2000–01, no. 1, 150–51 (L. Laugier);
Pasquier 2000-01b. Haskell and Penny 1981, 221; Laugier 2000–01. See also
Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 41. Haskell and Penny 1981, 221. Ibid., 221–24,
no. 43, 115. For Rubens’ study of sculpture in Roman collections, see Van der
Meulen 1994-95, 1, 41–68. For van Balen’s inventory, see Duverger 1984–2009, 4,
200–11. Among the casts listed are the Laocoön, Hercules, Apollo, Athena and
Mercury (ibid., 208). Rembrandt’s 1656 bankruptcy inventory (Strauss and Van
der Meulen 1979, 349–88) mentions several plaster casts from life, including
hands, heads and arms (ibid., 365, 383), and after the antique (‘A plaster cast
of a Greek antique’ (Een pleijster gietsel van een Griecks anticq), 383, no.
323). Also mentioned are antique statues of unspecified medium, including a
Faustina, Galba, Laocoön, Vitellius (ibid., 365, nos 166, 168; 385, nos 329,
331) and several others. For Rembrandt’s use of statues, casts and models, see
Gyllenhaal 2008. For his collection, see Muller 1989, Appendix C, 82–87 and
Muller 2004, especially, 18–23. The Johnson manuscript (manuscript transcript
of the Rubens Pocketbook), mid-18th century, Courtauld Gallery, London,
MS.1978.PG.1, fols 4v-5r, cited in Muller 2004, 19. See also Muller 1982, 235–36
and Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 72–73. Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 73. Ms de
Ganay (formerly Paris, Marquis de Ganay), fols 22r–23r, transcribed and
translated in Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 254–58. In addition to the Madrid
painting (Georgievska-Shine and Silver 2014, 136, 5.3), the pose of the
sculpture was utilised in other drawn and painted composi- tions by the artist
(Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 239, note 9). De Piles 1708, 139–48; De Piles 1743,
86–92. . Haskell and Penny 1981, 221. However, due to the demand for casts the
Borghese tried to stop moulds from being made (Haskell and Penny 1981, 221).
Liverpool 2007, 132, no. 10; Clayton 1990, 236, no. 154, P3. Tassaert and
Pether, both members of the Society of Artists, had a disagree- ment over the
latter’s proposed exhibition fee for fellows (Hargraves 2005, 141–42).
Landford’s, London, among lots 1–77. It has been suggested that Rembrandt
worked from draped plaster casts, especially during his Leiden years
(Gyllenhaal 2008, 51). 24. William Pether (Carlisle 1731–1821 Bristol) after
Joseph Wright of Derby (Derby 1734–1797 Derby) An Academy 1772 Mezzotint, 579 ×
458 mm Inscribed l.l.: ‘Iosh., Wright, Pinxt.’; and l.r.: ‘W. Pether, Fecit.’;
on the boy’s portfolio in the centre: ‘An / Academy / Published by W Pether, /
Feby, 25th / 1772’; td and l.c., at the foot of the seated artist: ‘Done from a
Picture in / the Collection of the R . Hon. / L . Melburne.’ provenance: The
Hon. Christopher Lennox-Boyd (1941–2012), from whom acquired by the British
Museum in 2010. literature: Chaloner Smith 1883, 2, 46, not repr.; Clayton 1990,
240, no. 159, P9, this impression listed under II, not repr.; Liverpool 2007, 159–62,
no. 33. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. The British Museum, Department
of Prints and Drawings, London, 2010,7081.2228 In 1769 Joseph Wright of Derby
exhibited An Academy by Lamplight (private collection) at the Society of
Artists in London.1 The painting depicted six young boys drawing from casts of
antique sculpture in a vaulted space lit only by a concealed lamp. Wright
repeated the composition the following year for his patron, Peniston Lamb, 1st
Viscount Melbourne (Yale Center for British Art, 1) and it was from this second
version that William Pether took the present mezzotint, renamed simply An
Academy, published in its first state in February 1772.2 The subject-matter is
related to Wright’s earlier painting, Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by
Candlelight (private collection, 2),3 but, by showing a group of students at
work, addresses more directly the theme of education by studying casts of
antique sculpture by candlelight. Artistic education was of paramount
importance to Wright. In December of 1769, the year he settled in Liverpool,
twenty-two men in the burgeoning city formed a Society of Artists that gathered
at a member’s house to make drawings from a substantial collection of prints
and, more signifi- cantly, thirty-five plaster casts.4 These casts had been
pur- chased from John Flaxman senior, a plaster-cast salesman in Covent Garden,
for £8.8.3, and were intended specifically for furnishing an academy.5 While
Wright is not listed as a member of the Society of Artists, his friend, the
engraver Peter Perez Burdett (c. 1735–93), was its first President and Wright’s
landlord in Liverpool, Richard Tate (1736–87), was an amateur painter who
showed works at the Society’s first public exhibition in 1774, so he was
certainly aware of the group’s aspirations. Wright seems also to have had at
least one student in Liverpool, Richard Tate’s brother, William, who was
described by Wright in a letter in 1773 as ‘a pupil of mine’.6 Artistic
education would therefore have been a pressing concern when he was conceiving
An Academy by Lamplight. Wright no doubt encouraged William Tate to take the
same route that he had followed as a pupil of Thomas Hudson (1701–79): first
copying drawings by accomplished masters (which for Tate would have included
works by Wright him- self) as well as prints, before moving to the study of
plaster casts and, ultimately, the life model.7 In 1774 Tate exhibited ‘Venus
with a Shell, a drawing in black chalk’ at the first 1. Joseph Wright of Derby,
An Academy by Lamplight, 1770, oil on canvas, 127 × 101 cm, Yale Center for
British Art, Paul Mellon Collection, New Haven, inv. B1973.1.66 2. Joseph
Wright of Derby, Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight, 1765, oil
on canvas, 101.6 × 121.9 cm, private collection 188 189
Liverpool Society of Artists exhibition, and a sheet in the Derby Museum and
Art Gallery of this subject has been recently been identified as Tate’s
drawing.8 This title of that drawing is highly suggestive as it is pre- cisely
the so-called Nymph with a Shell that the students are shown drawing in
Wright’s painting and Pether’s mezzotint. Housed in the Borghese collection
during the 18th century, the sculpture is now in the Louvre (fig. 3).9 While a
cast of this statue is not listed among those purchased by the Liverpool
Society of Artists, one was probably owned by Wright himself. The other statue
shown in the background on the right is the familiar Borghese Gladiator (see 41,
54 and cat. 23) – the sculpture being studied in Wright’s earlier Three Persons
Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight (fig. 2). Wright’s composition depicts
young students in different attitudes, some at work drawing the Nymph, which is
illumi- nated by a hanging lamp, from varying angles, while others merely
admire her. Wright has created an ideal representation of an academy of young
men, precisely the environment which his contemporaries were attempting to
create in Liverpool. The students’ visible drawings are in black chalk similar
to Wright’s own and those of his ‘pupil’, Tate. The varying ages of the
students, from young boys to young men, also suggests an ideal academic
establishment. The date of the work has further resonance: 1769 was the year
after the foundation of the Royal Academy in London, where a precise programme
of artistic education, which included drawing from antique sculpture, was being
formulated (see cat. 25). The composition continues a theme Wright addressed in
Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight (fig. 2), the first painting
he exhibited in London, showing it at the Society of Artists in 1765. Such was
its popularity that Pether produced a mezzotint of it in 1769 and we can
suppose that our 3. Nymph with the Shell, Roman copy of the 1st century ad
after a Hellenistic type of the 2nd century bc, marble, 60 cm (h), Louvre,
Paris, inv. MR 309-N 247 (Ma 18) mezzotint, published three years later, was
conceived as a pendant.10 Wright’s Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by
Candlelight depicts three men – traditionally identified as Wright himself,
Peter Perez Burdett (c. 1735–93) and John Wilton – comparing a reduced model of
the Borghese Gladiator with a drawn copy of it in black chalk. We know Wright
made drawings of the sculpture; and a study in pen and brown ink on brown paper
by him is preserved at Derby.11 Dating from before his journey to Italy, it
seems likely to have been made from a reduced model. Whilst there is no
evidence that Wright owned a model of the Gladiator, it seems likely that he
did: reduced models of it appear in numerous artists’ sales during the 18th
century and they were also readily available in Derby at the time.12 Viewing
and drawing sculpture by candle-light was a feature of many European academies
as for example those of Bandinelli and Tassaert (see cats 1 and 23).13 This was
intended to emphasise the contrast of the sculpture’s anatomy and facilitate
its copy. There were many perceived artistic benefits in owning models. William
Hogarth noted in his Apology for Painters: ‘the little casts of the gladiator
the Laocoon or the venus etc. if true copies – are still better than the large
as the parts are exactly the same [–] the eye [can] comprehend them with most
ease and they are more handy to place and turn about’.14 It therefore seems
likely that Wright’s picture depicts an evening viewing of his own cast.
Burdett was an amateur draughtsman and printmaker, and the comparison between
Wright’s own drawing and the model is the probable topic of their conversation.
This was the theme that Wright developed more fully in An Academy. Liverpool
2007, 159, no. 31. For Yale version of the painting ibid., 159, no. 32.
Nicolson 1968, 1, 234, no. 188; London 1990, 61–63, no. 22; Liverpool 2007, 132,
no. 10. For a discussion of the foundation of the Society of Artists and a list
of the casts it acquired see Mayer 1876, 67–69. Ibid., 5. Joseph Wright to
William Thompson, Derby 25 March, 1773, in Barker 2009, 72. Wright’s work in
Hudson’s studio is remarkably well documented in an archive of his drawings as
a student preserved in Derby Museum and Art Gallery: see Derby 1997, 49–65.
Liverpool 2007, 162, no. 34. For the relationship between Tate, Wright and the
Liverpool Society of Artists see Barker 2003, 265–74. For the Nymph with the
Shell see Haskell and Penny 1981, 281–82, no. 67; Rome 2000b, 2, 335, no. 10
(F. Rausa); Gaborit and Martinez 2000–01; Paris 2000–01, 327–28, no. 147 (J.-L.
Martinez); Rome 2011–12, 402–05 (I. Petrucci, M.-L. Fabréga-Dubert, J.-L.
Martinez). Clayton 1990, 236, no. 154, P3. Derby 1997, 88, no. 152. An Italian
plaster-modeller based in Oxford, ‘Mr Campione’ is recorded selling: ‘a large
and curious collection of statues, modelled from the Antiques of Italy ... in
fine plaister paris work’ in the Red Lion in Derby. See Barker 2003, 25. On
this see Roman 1984, 83. See also cat. 1, 80, note 8. Kitson 1966–68, 86.
190 191 25. Edward Francis Burney (Worcester 1760–1848 London) The
Antique Academy at Old Somerset House 1779 Pen and grey ink with watercolour
wash, 335 × 485 mm Signed recto, on the portfolio depicted in the drawing at
l.c., in pen and black ink: ‘E.F.B. 1779’; and inscribed verso, in pen and
black ink, with a key identifying the casts and objects shown on recto,
numbered 1–43: ‘View of the Plaister Room in the Royal Academy old Somerset
House / 1. Cincinnatus / 2. Apollo Belvedere / 3. Meleager / 4. Biting Boy / 5.
Foot of the Laocoon / 6. Arm of M. Angelo’s Moses / 7. Paris / 8. Faun / 9
Anatomy of a Horse / 10. Head of Antinous / 11. A young Orator by M. Angelo /
12. Antoninus Pius / 13. Bacchus / 14. PompeyAlexander Model of a Cow Agrippa /
18. Nero / 19. Augustus / 20. Cicero / 21 Other Roman Emperors / 22. Door of Mr
Mosers little Room / 23. Heads. Casts from Trajans pillar / 24. Table for
Drawing Hands Heads etc. on / 25. Screens to prevent Double Lights / 26.
Modelers stands / 27. Large chalk Drawing of the Virgin etc. by Leon: da Vinci
/ 28. Homer / 29. Laocoon / 30. Esculapius / 31. Proserpine / 32. Carracalla /
33. Mithridates / 34. Bacchus / 35. Antinous / 36. River Gods from M. Angelo /
37. Boys by Fiamingo / 38. Dying Gladiator / 39. Lamps for lighting the figures
in Winter / 40. Antique Bass Relieves / 41. Laughing Boys / 42. Head of a Wolf
/ 43. Legs cast from nature etc. etc. etc.’ provenance: From an album of
drawings in the possession of the Burney family; et D. Colnaghi, London, from
whom acquired 5 July 1960. literature: Byam Shaw 1962, 212–15, figs 54–55;
Hutchison 1986, 192, 27; Wilton 1987, 26, 25; Rossi Pinelli 1988, 255, 4;
Nottingham and London 1991, 63, under no. 39, 3; Fenton 2006, 98–99, 100–01,
repr.; Kenworthy-Browne 2009, 45–46, pl. 16; Wickham 2010, 300–01, 14; Brook
2010–11, 158, 5. exhibitions: London 1963, 34, no. 87, not repr.; London 1968b,
211–12, no. 651, not repr.; London 1971, 18, no. 71, not repr.; London 1972, 316,
no. 521, not repr. (R. Liscombe); York 1973, 40, no. 98, not repr.; London
2001, 46, no. 85. Royal Academy of Arts, London, 03/7485 With its
companion The Antique Academy at New Somerset House (fig. 1), this drawing
constitutes one of the best and most evocative visual records of the Antique or
‘Plaister’ Academy at the Royal Academy of Arts in London.1 The Academy was
founded in 1768 and initially occupied rooms in Pall Mall before moving to
Somerset House in 1771. The rather chaotic early records of the Academy means
that Burney’s detailed drawings are fundamental in establishing precisely which
antiquities were available to the first generation of students at the Academy.
Although copying after casts had been a practice fol- lowed in previous British
academies and schools of art – such as the Duke of Richmond’s Academy – it was
only with the foundation of the Royal Academy that it became part of an
extended curriculum modelled on the Roman and Parisian Academies.2 The first
Academicians draughted surprisingly few rules governing the education of
students, other than the requirement that a student have a ‘Drawing or Model
from some Plaister Cast’ approved for admission to the Antique Academy, and
again to progress into the Life Academy.3 For at least the first fifty years of
its existence there was no stipulation about the length of time students should
spend in either School. The timetable itself was fairly minimal, follow- ing
the traditional model in which the purpose of an Academy was to provide
instruction in draughtsmanship and theory whilst the student learned his chosen
art of painting, sculpture or architecture with a master. The Antique or
Plaister Academy was open from 9 to 3 pm with a two-hour session in the
evening, while the Life Academy consisted of only a two- hour class each night.
Until 1860, both were attended by male students only. The collection of casts
was under the control of the Keeper, while a Visitor attended monthly to
examine and correct the students’ drawings and to ‘endeavour to form their
taste’.4 Following the theoretical model of continental academies, the main
didactic purpose of drawing from plaster casts was to teach young students to
become acquainted with and to internalise ideal beauty before being exposed to
Nature in the Life Academy. As Benjamin West (1738–1820), president of the
Royal Academy for almost thirty years from 1792, put it, pro- ficiency was ‘not
to be gained by rushing impatiently to the school of the living model,
correctness of form and taste was first to be sought by an attentive study of
the Grecian figures’.5 Edward Francis Burney studied at the Royal Academy
Schools from 1777 and left in the 1780s to become a suc- 1. Edward Francis
Burney, The Antique Academy at New Somerset House, c. 1780, pen and grey ink
with watercolour wash, 335 × 485 mm, Royal Academy of Arts, London, cessful
book illustrator.6 As a young pupil of the Antique Academy, he recorded in the
present drawing of 1779 and its companion the rebuilding of Somerset House begun
in 1776 by Sir William Chambers (1723–96). This drawing shows the Academy
before Chambers’ intervention in a room that was probably designed by John
Webb in 1661–64, on the south side of
the building facing the Thames. These rooms had windows exposed to direct
sunlight and therefore may have required the ‘Screens to prevent Double
Lights’, visible in the upper left corner of the drawing and annotated on the
verso. The drawing depicts four students at work, the one on the right in the
middle distance being guided by George Michael Moser (1706–83), the first
Keeper of the Royal Academy Schools, including the Antique Academy.7 In the
room everything was moveable. Boxes could be used as seats or as supports for
drawing boards, as one is by the student in the foreground on the left, while
rails were used for holding the individual students’ candles (see cat. 26).
Even the pedestal of the casts could be moved on castors, so that the Keeper
could change their position weekly. The collection of plaster casts was one of
the largest assembled in Britain in the 18th century.8 Many came from the
second St Martin’s Lane Academy, brought by Moser who had been one of its
directors.9 The collection was then expanded considerably thanks to donations
from aristocratic collectors and acquisitions on the London market.10 Among the
most easily identifiable casts are those ubiqui- tous in European workshops and
academies from the 17th century onwards, all listed in the long inscription on
the verso of the drawing: the Apollo Belvedere (p. 26, 18) at left centre,
behind, in the background, the Faun with Kid, and on the far right, the Dying
Gladiator (p. 41, 55), which a student is copying, as innumerable other
students had done before him (see cat. 20).11 In addition, a series of peculiarly
‘English’ casts are on display, some donated, others copied from origi- nals
recently brought to England from Rome. Partly obscured in shadow on the left is
a cast of Cincinnatus – which still survives in the collection of the Royal
Academy (fig. 2) – close 6. Relief from an Honourary Monument to Marcus
Aurelius: Triumph, 176–180 ad, marble, 324 × 214 cm, Capitoline Museums, Rome,
inv. MC0808 7. Relief with Warriors, Roman, 1st or 2nd century ad, marble, 93 ×
82 cm, San Nilo Abbey, Grottaferrata, inv. 1155 Academy’s collection (figs
8–9). Finally, between the shelves and the door on the right, it is possible to
discern Leonardo’s cartoon of The Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the
Baptist, today one of the most celebrated works in the National Gallery in
London – the present drawing is the earliest to document its presence in the
collection of the Royal Academy.16 The cast collection was of paramount
importance to the Royal Academy during its first decades, but the ad hoc nature
of its accumulation and the inclusion of casts of ‘Grand Tour’ souvenirs – such
as Lord Shelburne’s Cincinnatus – left it open to criticism. In 1798 the
Academy’s Professor of Painting, James Barry (1741–1806), launched a stinging
public attack complaining that the Academy was ‘too ill supplied with materials
for observations’ lamenting ‘the miserable beggarly state of its library and
collection of antique vestiges’.17 As a direct result, the sculptors Flaxman
and Bacon were charged with purchasing new casts from the sale of George
Romney’s (1734–1802) collection.18 Flaxman spent much of the rest of his career
attempting to improve the Academy’s cast collection; after 1815, he finally
convinced the Prince Regent to sponsor the 8. Plaster Cast of Head of a Roman
Soldier in Helmet, from Trajan’s Column, 15.7 × 15.4 × 4.4 cm, Royal Academy of
Arts, London, inv. 10/3267 9. Plaster Cast of the Head of Trajan, from Trajan’s
Column Royal Academy of Arts, London, iaa&jy
FortheearlyhistoryoftheRoyalAcademysee Hutchison1986,pp.23–54. For drawing
after casts in Britain before the foundation of the Royal Academy see esp.
Postle 1997; Coutu 2000; Kenworthy-Browne 2009. Hutchison 1986, 29–31. For the
full admission process see London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council
minutes, 1, 4, 27 Dec. 1768; Abstract, 18–19.
Hutchison1986,p.27.Forthe‘RulesandOrders,forthePlaisterAcademy’, see London,
Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1 Council minutes, 1, 6, 27 Dec. 1768, and 17, ;
Abstract 1797, 22–23. For the role of the visitors see ibid., 8. Hoare1805,p.3.
SeeRogers2013. The identification of the teacher with Moser is confirmed by
other like- nesses: see Edgcumbe 2009. The only other collection that could
compete in numbers of casts was the Duke of Richmond’s Gallery: see Coutu 2000;
Kenworthy-Browne 2009. On the Royal Academy collection of casts see Baretti
[1781], esp. 18–30. See Thomson 1771, 42–43; Strange 1775, 74. We would like to
thank Nick Savage for pointing out these two sources to us.
OnplastershopsandtradersinBritaininthesecondhalfofthe18thcentury see Clifford
1992. Among private donors, Thomas Jenkins, the Rome based dealer, sent a cast
of the so-called Barberini Venus shortly after the Royal Academy’s foundation:
London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 38, 9 Aug. 1769.
Jenkins in turn encouraged many of his clients in London to donate casts,
including John Frederick Sackville, Duke of Dorset who sent in 1771 ‘a Bust of
Antinous in his collection’ and ‘a cast of Pythagoras’: ibid., 111, 25 Oct.
1771, and 118, 18 Dec. 1771. Other early donors were Sir William Hamilton, the
Rome-based dealer Colin Morrison and the Anglo-Florentine painter Thomas Patch.
FortheFaunwithKidseeHaskellandPenny1981,pp.211–12,no.37. The Council Minutes
record on 11 June 1774: ‘Resolved that casts be made from three statues in the
possession of Lord Shelburne, viz the Meleager, the Gladiator putting on his
sandals, et the Paris, leave having been already obtained from his lordship’,
London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 179. The three
sculptures had recently been sup- plied by Gavin Hamilton (1723–98) from Rome
and were largely recently excavated pieces: the Meleager had been found at Tor
Columbaro; the Paris and the so-called Cincinatus had both come from an
excavation at Hadrian’s Villa near Tivoli, called Pantanello. See Bignamini and
Hornsby 2010, 1, 321–22 for Shelburne; for the excavation and purchase of the
Cincinnatus and Paris see 1, 162–64, nos 1 and 12; for the excavation and
purchase of the Meleager see 1, 180–81, no. 7. London, Royal Academy of Arts,
PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 38, 9 Aug. 1769 ‘Charles Townly Esq. having
presented the Academy with a cast of the Lacedemorian Boy ... ordered that
letters of thanks should be wrote.’ On the original relief see Boudon-Mauchel
2005, 251–52, no. 43 and on Duquesnoy’s fame as a ‘classical’ sculptor ibid., 175–210.
The cast of the relief had been sent by Sir William Hamilton, then British
ambassador to the court of Naples, in 1770 together with a cast of ‘Apollo’:
see Ingamells and Edgcumbe 2000 32, no. 25, 17 June 1770; see also London,
Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 72, 17 March 1770. For the
Marcus Aurelius relief see Haskell and Penny 1981, 255–56, no. 56; Rome
1986–87. For the relief with warriors see Musso 1989–90, 9–22. The relief was
illustrated in Winckelmann 1767, pl. 136. The same cast appears in Zoffany’s
celebrated Portrait of the Academicians of the Royal Academy, 1771–72, in the
Royal Collections. See Webster 2011, 252–61; New Haven and London 2011–12, 218–21,
no. 44 (M. A. Stevens). For Leonardo’s cartoon see London 2011–12, 289–91, no.
86 (L. Syson). Barry 1798, 7. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/3, Council
minutes, 3, 99–100, 22 May 1801. They purchased 16 casts in total for £68.10.3.
WindsorLiscombe1987. 2. Plaster Casts of the So-Called Lansdowne ‘Cincinnatus’,
1774, 162 cm (h), Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/1488 3. Lansdowne
Paris, Roman copy of the Periodo ADRIANICO – ADRIANO (si veda), from a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 165 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. MNE 946
(n° usuel Ma 4708) 4. Lansdowne Hermes/Meleager, Roman copy of the Hadrianic
Period (117–138 ad) of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 219 cm
(h), Santa Barbara Museum of Art, Gift of Wright S. Ludington, inv. 1984.34.1
to the Faun with Kid is a Paris (fig. 3), and behind Moser the so-called
Lansdowne Meleager (fig. 4). All of these were cast in 1774 from the originals
in the collection of William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne (1737–1805), recently
returned from his Grand Tour.12 Behind the Cincinnatus is partly discernible a
cast of the Knucklebone Players given by Charles Townley in 1769, the antique
original of which could be admired in his London town-house at 7 Park Street
(cat. 28, 1).13 As was customary, the Academy’s collection included also casts
of busts and statuettes distributed on shelves and of ‘dismembered’ body parts
– arms, legs and feet – hung on the wall, so that students could learn how to
draw anatomical details before approaching the whole human figure. Pupils were
also required to draw from reliefs, to become acquainted with the composition
of historie, or narrative scenes, based on classical models. Above the
chimneypiece is a large cast of a relief with music-making angels by François
Duquesnoy (1597–1643) – the Boys by Fiamingo identified on the reverse of the
drawing – whose most classicising works had, by the end of the 17th century,
acquired the same status of antique statuary (fig. 5).14 Above was displayed a
reduced version of one of the Marcus Aurelius reliefs in the Capitoline Museum
(fig. 6), and a comparatively obscure relief with warriors, which had clearly
gained fame because of its inclusion in Winckelmann’s Monumenti Antichi Inediti,
published in 1767 (fig. 7).15 Further identifiable casts included a series of
heads from Trajan’s Column, which we can see hanging from the shelves on the
end wall, many of which remain in the 5. François Duquesnoy, Relief with
Music-Making Angels, 1640–42, marble, 80 × 200 cm. Filomarino Altar, Church of
Santi Apostoli, Naples commissioning of a series of new casts from Antonio
Canova (1757–1822) in Rome.19 Burney’s image illustrates both the Royal
Academy’s aspiration to offer an ‘academic’ education in line with great
Continental examples, but also its differ- ences from them, as a private
organisation sponsored by the monarch rather than a state-run academy.
194 195 26. Anonymous British School, 18th century A View of the
Antique Academy in the Royal Academy c. 1790s Pen and brown ink and grey wash,
with watercolour, over graphite, 294 × 223 mm Stamped recto, l.l., in brown
ink: ‘J.R’; on separate piece of paper now attached to the reverse of the
mount, in pen and black ink: ‘Henry Fuseli R A / 1741–1825. / Bought at Sir J.
Charles Robinson’s sale 1902 / E.M.’ provenance: Robinson; Robinson (not listed in his sales: Christie’s 12–14
May 1902; or Christie’s 17–18 April 1902); Sir Edward Marsh (1872–1953); his
bequest through The Art Fund (then called National Art Collection Fund),
1953. literature:None. exhibitions: London 1969, no.1 (unpaginated), not
repr. The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London,
1953,0509.3 This satirical drawing, probably made by a distracted student who
ought to have been studying diligently from one of the casts, shows an
imposing, heavy-set man towering physi- cally and psychologically over three
young seated pupils drawing in the Antique Academy. While traditionally he has
been identified as the painter Henry Fuseli (1741–1825), Keeper of the Royal
Academy Schools from 1803 to 1825, given the style of the drawing and the
subject’s dress he is more likely to be either Agostino Carlini (c. 1718–90),
Keeper between 1783 and 1790, or Joseph Wilton (1722–1803) who held the
position between 1790 and 1803.1 The view shows one of the end walls of the
Antique, or ‘Plaister’ Academy, housed from 1780 in a purpose-built room in
Somerset House.2 The same wall, with a similar arrangement of casts, appears in
the evocative candlelight view of the room by an anonymous British artist (see 60,
105). The young students are busy at work, copying from casts of the Belvedere
Torso (p. 26, 23), the Apollo Belvedere (p. 26, 18) and the Borghese Gladiator
(p. 41, 54), models of different ideal types of beauty, masculinity and
anatomy, repeatedly praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds in his third Discourse of
1770. It is likely that the three moveable casts were often set side by side by
the Keepers to reflect Reynolds’ conception of ideal beauty and of the ‘highest
perfection of the human figure’, which ‘partakes equally of the activity of the
Gladiator, of the delicacy of the Apollo, and of the muscular strength of the
Hercules’, as expressed in his third Discourse.3 On the wall behind the casts,
are two cupboards possibly containing students’ drawings, which support smaller
casts and busts. Whilst the Antique Academy was a serious, professional space,
it was naturally the focus of humour from the students, who ranged in ages from
fourteen to thirty-four. Several other caricatures exist testifying to the
lighter side of academic life, including an earlier study by Thomas Rowlandson
(1756–1827) showing a bench of students at work in the Life Academy in 1776 and
including mocking depictions of Rowlandson’s fellow students (fig. 1).4 In
terms of its public image the cast collection was an important symbol of the
Academy’s prestige but this view does not seem to have been shared by some of
the students, many of whom must have considered the long hours spent copying
after the Antique as a constraining and repetitive exercise. Joseph Wilton was
a crucial figure within the acad- emy in promoting a rigid curriculum based on
the classical ideal. He never abandoned his firm belief in the didactic value
of plaster casts, established while he was director of the Duke of Richmond’s
Gallery in the late 1750s.5 His strict teaching methods must have generated
discontent and considerable derision, brilliantly visualised in a satirical
print by Cruikshank (fig. 2) which shows Wilton – trans- formed into Bottom
with the head of an ass – inspecting the drawing of an irritated student in the
Antique Academy.6 Wilton’s exacting standards, as the lines below the cartoon
make clear, would prevent him from seeing the genius of a modern day Raphael
and it is clear that some students of the Academy saw him as a ‘formal old
fool’. Unlike the Life Academy, where the Visitor presided, setting the model
and frequently drawing from it himself, the Antique Academy was presided over
by the Keeper of the Schools. Each week the Keeper would set out specific casts
and direct and comment on the students’ work. According to 1. Thomas
Rowlandson, A Bench of Artists, 1776, pen and grey and black ink over pencil,
272 × 548 mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv. T08142 196 197 2. Isaac
Cruikshank, Bless The Bottom, bless Thee-Thou art translated – Shakespere,
1794, hand-coloured etching, 295 × 212 mm, G. J. Saville the rules, students
did not choose which casts to draw and they were not allowed to move them
without permission.7 But depictions of the Antique Academy suggest that the
situation was probably more flexible and may have allowed for individually
tailored study. Several anecdotes point to the unruly life of the Academy and
its students, who were allowed to choose their own seats, with utter chaos
resulting. Joseph Farington (1747–1821) noted in 1794, that they behaved like
‘a mob’: Hamilton says the life Academy requires regulation: but the Plaister
Academy much more. The Students act like a mob, in endeavouring to get places.
The figures also are not turned so as to present different views to the 8 The
reason for the commotion was that once a student had a seat, he was expected to
retain it for the week. The atmos- phere seems to have been generally
boisterous and there are numerous reports in the Council Minutes of the Academy
of misbehaviour, high spirits and students throwing at each. It would be
productive of much good to the Students to deprive them of the use of bread; as
they would be induced to pay more attention to their outlines; and would learn
to draw more correct, when they had not the perpetual resource of rubbing
out.11 aa&jy For the traditional attribution of the sitter see the entry on
the collection online database of the British Museum. The identification of the
sitter with Joseph Wilton has been proposed already by Andrew Wilton in London
1969, no. 1. For a list of Keepers of the Royal Academy see Hutchison 1986, 266–67.
Both Carlini and Wilton presented similar physical character- istics as the man
in the drawing. For a list of their likenesses see respectively Trusted 2006
and Coutu 2008. See Baretti [1781], 18–30. See Reynolds 1997, 47. London 1997, 170–71,
no. 67. See Coutu 2000; Kenworthy-Browne 2009. George 1870–1954, 7 (1793–1800),
118, no. 8519. See ‘Rules of the Antique Academy’: Royal Academy of Arts
PC/1/1, Council Minutes, 1, 4–6, 27 Dec. 1768, quoted in Hutchison 1986, 31.
Farington 1978–98, 1, 281. Pressly 1984, 87. Farington 1978–98, 2, 461–62.
Ibid., 2, 462. These two drawings by Turner epitomise the two principal stages
of education provided by the Royal Academy Schools during the late 18th
century: the Antique, or Plaister, Academy and the Life Academy. Turner
enrolled as a student in the Schools in December 1789 as a boy of fourteen,
spent more than two years in the Antique Academy, and then progressed to the
Life Academy in June 1792, presumably after presenting a drawing for inspection
by the Visitor.1 Although there is no record of the drawing Turner submitted,
it may well have been this finished study of the Belvedere Torso (see 26, 23) a
sculpture of enduring popu- larity among artists as demonstrated by Goltzius’
drawing made almost exactly two hundred years earlier (cat. 8). Turner copied
the same cast of the Torso shown in the satiri- cal view of the Academy (cat.
26). He is recorded as having visited the Antique Academy on 137 separate
occasions during his studentship but only some twenty of his drawings after the
Antique survive (figs 1–4) – many from the casts seen in Burney’s drawing (cat.
25) – and none as highly ren- dered as the present study.2 Turner’s signature
at the lower right also suggests it was esteemed by the artist himself and
prepared for some formal purpose. Whilst the surviving Academy Council Minutes
do not record in detail the process of progression from the Antique Academy to
the Life Academy, contemporary accounts offer some insight. Turner’s
contemporary, Stephen Rigaud noted: I was admitted as a Student in the Life
Academy by Mr Wilton the Keeper, and Mr Opie, the Visitor for the time being,
on the presentation of a drawing from the Antique group of the Boxers, in which
I had copied the strong effect of light and shade in the whole group coming out
by strong lights on one side, and reflected lights on the other, with which Mr
Opie expressed himself much pleased.3 The study of the Torso has all the
characteristics of a presenta- tion drawing. It is on better, more regularly
cut paper than Turner’s other drawings after the Antique and the figure is
highly worked and boldly modelled with hatching and cross- hatching in chalk to
convey the ‘strong effects of light and shade’ mentioned by Rigaud. This is in
keeping with the established tradition of copying casts by candlelight to
enhance contrast, so that the students could learn how to render planes and
anatomical details. Unlike Goltzius’ Torso, being copied in daylight after the
original in the Belvedere Courtyard in Rome, Turner’s cast is strongly lit from
above by an oil lamp and set against a neutral screen to provide a uniform
background – as clearly visible in the view of the Antique Academy (p. 60, 105).
Furthermore, this is the only drawing from the Antique where Turner employed
trois crayons, adding red to black and white chalk, a technique he usually
reserved for studies from life. Might it be that Turner was attempting to turn
marble into flesh, the practice 198 199 students. other the lumps of bread they
were given to erase their draw- ings. Stephen Francis Rigaud (1777–1862), son
of the Royal Academician, John Francis Rigaud (1742–1810) and a student in the
early 1790s, wrote that the Schools were also the forum for political
agitation: The peaceable students in the Antique Academy being continually interrupted
in their studies by others of an opposite character, who used to stand up and
spout forth torrents of indecent abuse against the King One evening I rose and protested that if they
continued to use such abominable language in a Royal Academy I would denounce
every one of them to the Council and procure their expulsion [. . .] this
threat checked them a little; but they shewed their spite by pelting me well
with [. . .] pieces of bread.9 This incident reached the ears of the Academy
Council from which the Keeper was excluded. Wilton told Joseph Farington in
1795: The Students in the Plaister Academy continue to behave very rudely; and
that they have a practise of throwing the bread, allowed them by the Academy
for rubbing out, at each other, so as to waste so much that the Bill for bread
sometimes amounts to Sixteen Shillings a week.10 The Council took the decision
to stop the allowance of bread altogether, as the President, Benjamin West,
noted: 27. Joseph Mallord William Turner (London 1775–1851 London) a. Study of
a Plaster Cast of the Belvedere Torso c. 1792 Black, red and white chalk, on
brown paper, 331 × 235 mm Signed recto, l.r., in pen and black ink: ‘Wm
Turner.’ literature: Postle 1997, 91–93, repr.; Owens 2013, 102–03, pl. 76.
exhibitions: Nottingham and London 1991, 51, no. 18 (M. Postle); Munich and
Rome 1998–99, 49, 50, 164, no. 62 (M. Ewel and I. von zur Mühlen); Munich and
Cologne 2002, 414, no. 192 (J. Rees); London 2011 (no catalogue). Victoria and
Albert Museum, Prints et Drawings Study Room, London, 9261 b. The Wrestlers c.
1793 Black, red and white chalks, on brown paper, 504 x 384 mm Signed recto,
l.r., in pen and black ink: ‘Wm Turner.’ literature: Wilton 2007, 16, repr.
exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Victoria and Albert Museum, Prints et Drawings
Study Room, London, 9262 provenance: Both drawings purchased by the Museum in
1884 from R. Jackson with four other academic drawings by different artists
(Victoria and Albert Museum Register of Drawings 1880–1884, 171, 174).
200 201 prescribed by Rubens (see Appendix, no. 8), something
he may have thought would demonstrate that he was ready to progress to the Life
Academy? The Torso would have been a clever choice for a presentation drawing,
since the antique fragment held a position of great prominence in the mission
and the iconography of the Royal Academy. According to Reynolds the Torso was
the greatest exemplar of classical art. ‘What artist’, he asked in his 10th
Discourse of 1780, ‘ever looked at the Torso without feeling a warmth of
enthusiasm, as from the highest efforts of poetry?’ For him only ‘a MIND
elevated to the contemplation of excel- lence perceives in this defaced and
shattered fragment the traces of superlative genius, the reliques
of a work on which succeeding ages can only gaze with inadequate admi- ration’
(see Appendix, no. 17).4 The muscular figure featured prominently under the
words ‘STUDY’ on the obverse of several medals annually distributed as premiums
to the students and in Angelica Kauffman’s Design for the ceiling of the
Council Chamber, which served also as a second room of the Antique Academy (see
60, 107).5 In Turner’s time as a student, the Academy possessed two casts of
the Torso, one of which we know was presented by the dealer Colin Morrison in
1770, and significantly Turner himself donated a further cast in 1842.6 The
second drawing exhibited here was made from posed models in the Life Academy.
The model would be set by the Visitors and Turner studied under a number of
them, including Henry Fuseli, James Barry and Thomas Stothard (1755–1834). This
drawing possibly dates from 1793 and may represent an unusually elaborate pose
set by the sculptor John Bacon (1740–99). Stephen Francis Rigaud, who entered
the Life Academy a year after Turner, noted: I remember Mr Bacon once setting a
well composed group of two men, one in the act of slaying the other; or a
representation of the history of Cain and Abel, which was continued for double
the time allowed for a single figure, and which gave general satisfaction to
the students.7 This precisely accords with the present group, which shows
specific models engaged in combat. Although designed to represent a biblical
subject, the pose of the two figures was reminiscent of antique groups,
especially the Wrestlers (see 30, 33) which had already served as inspiration
for posing the live models in the Italian and French academies – as seen for
instance in Natoire’s imaginary view of the Académie Royale (cat. 16). Turner
continued to attend the Schools throughout the 1790s until he was awarded
Associateship of the Academy in 1799; he would continue to visit the Life
Academy intermit- tently for the rest of his life.8 He was made inspector of
the cast collection of the Royal Academy in 1820, 1829 and 1838 and served as
Visitor in the Life Academy for a total of eight years between 1812 and 1838.9
In the latter role he became famous for setting the live model in postures
reminiscent of classical sculpture, clearly recalling what he had learned
during his time as a student. Lauding this practice and lamenting its decline,
the artists and essayists Richard (1804– 1. Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a
Plaster Cast of the Apollo Belvedere, c. 1791, black and white chalks on brown
laid wrapping paper, 419 × 269 mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv. D00057 (Turner
Bequest V D) 2. Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a Plaster Casts of
Marquess of Shelbourne’s Cincinnatus, c. 1791, pencil with black and white
chalks and stump on laid buf paper, 425 × 267 mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv.
D00055 (Turner Bequest V B) 4. Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a
Plaster Cast of a Helmeted Head from the Trajan Column, with Other Studies, c.
1791, black, red and white chalks and stump on dark buf paper, 337 × 269 mm,
Tate Gallery, London, inv. D40220 (Turner Bequest V R, verso) 88) and Samuel
(1802–76) Redgrave noted: When a visitor in the life school he introduced a
capital practice, which it is to be regretted has not been contin- ued: he
chose for study a model as nearly as possible corresponding in form and
character with some fine antique figure, which he placed by the side of the
model posed in the same action; thus, the Discobulus (sic) of Myron contrasted
with one of our best trained soldier; the Lizard Killer with a youth in the
roundest beauty of adoles- cence; the Venus de’ Medici beside a female in the
first period of youthful womanhood. The idea was original and very instructive:
it showed at once how much the antique sculptors had refined nature; which, if
in parts more beautiful than the selected form which is called ideal, as a
whole looked common and vulgar by its side.10 aa et jy For Turner’s attendance
at the Academy see Hutchison 1960–62, 130. Finberg 1909, 1, 6–8. See also
Wilton 2012. Pressly 1984, 90. Reynolds 1997, 177–78. On the medals see
Hutchison 1986, 34; Baretti [1781], 28; see also London, Royal Academy of Arts,
PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 24, 20 May 1769. For the Council Chamber see
Baretti [1781], 25–26. On the two copies of the Torso in the Royal Academy see
Baretti [1781], 9, 28. On Colin Morrison’s donation of a cast of the Torso,
together with ‘Cast of a Bust of Alexander’ in 1770 see London, Royal Academy
of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 70, 17 March 1770; on Turner’s donation
see Gage 1987, 33. Pressly 1984, 90. Hutchison 1960–62, 130. See Gage 1987, 32–33.
Redgrave and Redgrave 1890, 234, quoted in Gage 1987, 33. 202 203 3.
Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a Plaster Casts of the Borghese
Gladiator, c. 1791–92, black and some white chalk on buf wove paper, 580 × 457
mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv. D00071 (Turner Bequest V S) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 28. William Chambers ( fl.1794) The Townley Marbles in the Dining Room
of 7 Park Street, Westminster 1795 Pen and grey ink with watercolour and
touches of gouache, indication in graphite, heightened with gum Arabic, 390 ×
540 mm provenance: Charles Townley (1737–1805); by descent to Lord O’Hagan (b.
1945); Sotheby’s, London, 22 July 1985, lot 559; Frederick R. Koch; Sotheby’s,
London, 12 April 1995, lot 90, from whom acquired by the British Museum.
literature: Cook 1977, 8–9, fig.1; Cook 1985, 44–45, 41; Walker 1986, 320–22,
pl. A; Cruickshank 1992, 60–61, 5; Morley 1993, 228, 285, pl. LVII; Webster
2011, 425, 321. exhibitions: Essen 1992, 432–36, no. 360a (C. Fox and I.
Jenkins); London 1995 (no catalogue); London and Rome 1996–97, 258–60, no. 214
(I. Jenkins); London 2000, 229–30, no. 167; London 2001, 42, no. 72;
London. The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London,
1995,0506.8 Charles Townley (1737–1805) was the most influential collec- tor of
antique sculpture in Britain during the second half of the 18th century.1 From
1777 Townley’s considerable collection was arranged in his London residence, 7
Park Street (now 14 Queen Anne’s Gate), a proto-house-museum praised both for
the strength of its collections and their display. It was to become one of the
principal tourist sites in London. Writing about the house, James Dallaway
claimed that ‘the interior of a Roman villa might be inspected in our own
metropolis’.2 Park Street was also a centre of antiquari- anism and Townley –
particularly after 1798, when wars with France curtailed travel to the
Continent – was a hugely 1. Johann Zofany, Charles Townley and Friends in His
Library at Park Street, Westminster, 1781–90 and 1798, oil on canvas, 127 ×
99.1 cm, Towneley Hall Art Gallery et Museum important figure in promoting the
study and interpretation of classical sculpture in Britain initiating numerous
publica- tions, including the Society of Dilettanti’s Specimens of Antient
Sculpture (1809). Townley also formed a famous library and an immense archive
of drawings – in effect a ‘paper museum’ – recording antiquities in both
British and European collections. To complete this ‘paper museum’ and to
prepare publications such as the Specimens, Townley employed numerous young
artists to record his own collection. It is clear from the surviving portions
of his diary and other records that 7 Park Street became, in effect, an
alternative academy in London. Writing in 1829, the then Keeper of Prints and
Drawings at the British Museum, J. T. Smith, published a description of 7 Park
Street and its contents, observing: I shall now endeavour to anticipate the
wish of the reader, by giving a brief description of those rooms of Mr
Townlye’s house, in which that gentleman’s liberality employed me when a boy,
with many other students in the Royal Academy, to make drawings for his
portfolios.3 Townley’s surviving drawings, housed, along with his sculp- ture
collection, in the British Museum, testify to the range of artists he employed
and demonstrate the popularity of Park Street as a venue for artists both to meet
and to draw. Records show that William Chambers – not to be confused with the
architect of the same name – was one of the draughtsmen employed by Townley to
prepare drawings for his ‘portfo- lios’. A payment of £5.5.0 to Chambers is
recorded on 21 October 1795 for the pendant to this drawing, a view of sculp-
ture in the hall at 7 Park Street, also in the British Museum.4 Townley’s diary
records the comings and goings of painters, particularly his friend, Johann
Zoffany (1733–1810) who painted the iconic, largely imaginary view of Townley’s
library filled with his sculpture collection and with the owner in conversation
with his unofficial curator, the Baron d’Hancarville, and two other friends
(fig. 1).5 204 205 The dining room was one of the principal public
spaces of the house and contained some of the largest sculptures in the
collection. These included the Townley Venus, the Discobolus (fig. 2), the
Townley Caryatid, the Townley Vase, and the Drunken Faun, which Chambers places
in the foreground. The modish decoration reflected both advanced neo-classical
thinking and Townley’s own passions; the walls were articulated by simulated
porphyry columns surmounted by capitals whose design came from Terracina; as
d’Hancarville explained: ‘the ove is covered with three masks representing the
three kinds of ancient drama, the comic, tragic and satyric the
choice and disposition of these ornaments leave no doubt that this capital was
intended to characterise a building con- secrated to Bacchus and Ceres’.6
Visitors are shown admiring the collection while a woman seated in the
foreground is drawing from the Drunken Faun. A drawing attributed to Chambers
of the same sculpture, taken from the same angle, made for Townely’s
portfolios, is also in the British Museum (fig. 3). Townley’s wide circle of
acquaintances included a number of amateur and professional female artists,
includ- ing Maria Cosway (1760–1838), whom Townley first met in Florence in
1774. His interest in encouraging young artists led to the publication by
Conrad Metz of a drawing manual based on studies of the sculpture in Park
Street: Studies for Drawing, chiefly from the Antique. 30 plates (1785).
Townley’s support of artists resulted in his taking an active role in the Royal
Academy of Arts from its foundation. He donated casts of his own sculpture and
solicited dona- tions from friends. The Academy’s Council Minutes record his
first donation in August 1769 of a ‘cast of the Lacedemonian Boy’ the so-called
Knucklebone Players which appears in Edward Burney’s view of the RA’s Antique
Academy on the far left, behind the Cincinnatus (cat. 25).7 One of the artists
who appears regularly in Townley’s diary was the sculptor Nollekens who is
recorded donating to the Academy a ‘cast in plaister of the head of Diomede’
belonging to Townley in 1792.8 Townley also donated casts of sculptures in
other collections, among them, in 1794 one ‘of the celebrated Bas relief in the
Capitol, of Perseus et Andromeda’, a cast still in the collection of the
Academy.9 Townley’s solicitude for the Royal Academy and the educa- tion of
young artists continued throughout his life; in 1797 the painter and diarist
Joseph Farington noted: ‘Townley thinks the Academy should have additional
rooms for Statues &c’.10 29. Joseph Michael Gandy (London 1771–1843
Plympton) View of the Dome Area by Lamplight looking South-East 1811 Pen and
black ink, watercolour, 1190 × 880 mm selected literature: Lukacher 2006, 132–33,
fig.150 exhibitions: London 1999a, 160, no. 68 (H. Dorey); Munich 2013–14, 43;
London 2014, (unpaginated). Sir John Soane’s Museum, London, For Townley see
particularly Coltman 2009. Dallaway 1816, 319, 328. Smith 1829, 1, 251. In
February that year he had also paid Chambers £2.2.0. for some unspeci- fied
drawings, and in August £1.1.0. for ‘drawing gems’: see London 2000, 229.
Townley’s diary records Chambers returned in May 1798 when he began to make a
record of an altar of Lucius Verus Helius which Townley had recently acquired
from the Duke of St Albans; he finished the study on Sunday 7 July: London,
British Museum, Townley Archive, TY/1/10. For William Chambers’ pendant to this
drawing see London 2001, 42, no. 71 (with previous bibliography). Webster.
London and Rome 1996–97, 258–60. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council
minutes, 1, 38, 9 Aug. 1769. It arrived with a cast of a Venus donated by
Townley’s principal antiquities dealer in Rome, Thomas Jenkins. The original
Knucklebone Players is in the British Museum, Department of Greek et Roman
Antiquities, inv. 1805,0703.7. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/2, Council
minutes, 2, 173–4, 3 Nov. 1792. The original marble bust is in the British
Museum, Department of Greek et Roman Antiquities, inv. 1805,0703.86, now called
the Head of a follower of Ulysses. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/2,
Council minutes, 2, 201, 7 Feb. 1794. The cast is in the Royal Academy, inv.
03/2018. The original is in the Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. 501: see Helbig
Farington 1978-98, 3, 840. 2. The Townley Discobolus, Roman copy of the 2nd
century ad after a Greek original of the 5th century bc by Myron, marble, 170
cm (h), British Museum, Department of Greek et Roman Antiquities, London, inv.
1805,0703.43 3 Attributed to William Chambers, Drawing of a Statue of an
Intoxicated Satyr, 1794–1805, black chalk and grey wash, 280 × 193 mm, British
Museum, Department of Greek et Roman Antiquities, London, inv. 2010,5006.87 The
Royal Academy School of Architecture was central to the formation of the
professional career and teaching of Sir John Soane (1754–1837), who is chiefly
remembered today as architect to the Bank of England, of Dulwich Picture
Gallery and of his incomparable house-museum at No. 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields,
London. The unique installations of antiquities and casts after the Antique in
the Museum, which he built at the back of the house, and which J. M. Gandy so
atmospherically evokes in this drawing, also attest to the influence of the
Academy on Soane’s pattern of collecting and his own role as a teacher. Soane
entered the Academy in 1771 at the age of eighteen; he was the 141st pupil
since the Academy’s foundation in 1768 and amongst the first students of the
School of Architecture, the earliest institution in Britain to teach
architecture in a formalised way. The School was modelled by Sir William
Chambers (1723–96) on his own experience of studying architecture in
Jean-François Blondel’s École des Arts in Paris, in 1749–50, when the status of
the architect and teaching methods in Britain were then very different from
those in France. The Académie Royale d’Architecture, of which Chambers became a
member in 1762, had been founded in 1671 and was followed, in 1743, by
Blondel’s more progressive École. The École’s curriculum was rigorous; it was
open for study from Monday to Saturday and from eight in the morning until nine
in the evening. The students’ day began with formal discussion of various
topics, followed by lectures on set matters relating to drawing such as mathe-
matics, geometry, perspective, or to building types such as military
architecture, or to practical issues such as drainage and water supply. In the
spring, students would undertake site visits to notable buildings in Paris and
its environs.1 In Britain, by contrast, the professional status of architect
was ill-defined, and was not always distinguished from that of the builder or
mason. The ambiguous status of architecture was not entirely clarified by the
time Soane entered the architecture school. It was the smallest of the
departments at the Royal Academy and Soane was one of only nine pupils admitted
in 1771. And although inspired by Blondel’s École, the programme of the
architecture school was nothing like so rigourous. Students of architecture
were required to attend only six lectures per year.2 The reason for this very
limited formal teaching was that most students were attached to a professional
archi- tect’s office during the day; when Soane enrolled at the Royal Academy
he was working for George Dance the Younger (1741–1825).3 Nor were the teaching
collections available to students at all extensive. The collections of plaster
casts after the Antique (and antiquities) were dominated by the requirements of
painters and sculptors; in the 1810 inventory of 385 casts, only nineteen can
be identified as being architec- tural.4 It is against this backdrop that we
must understand Soane’s own founding of an ‘academy of architecture’ in his
house-museum. The history of Soane’s collections of casts and the manner in
which they were installed, deinstalled and reinstalled over a period of time
and over three different properties belonging to Soane (two at Lincoln’s Inn
Fields and one in Ealing, London) is not straightforward. From the 1790s, Soane
started collecting and displaying casts for the use of the young pupils and assistants
working in his first office in No. 12 Lincoln’s Inn Fields.5 However, as his
collection grew and as his career as an architect developed, the function of
the collection of antiquities and of casts after the Antique changed. Gandy’s
drawing shows the Dome Area of Soane’s Museum as it appeared in 1811 (a year
after the 1810 Royal Academy inventory of casts was com- piled).6 In this view,
atmospherically lit from below by an undisclosed light source, we can readily
identify a number of casts of antique sculpture and of architectural fragments.
The largest casts are the Corinthian capital shown on the south wall, and a
fragment of entablature, shown on the east wall, both taken from the Temple of
Castor and Pollux in Rome, which Soane had purchased in 1801 from the sale of
the architect Willey ‘the Athenian’ Reveley.7 Below the capital, and forming
part of the parapet of the Dome we see a cast of one of the panels, decorated
with a festoon, from the portico of the Pantheon, purchased from the sale of the
architect James Playfair.8 Sculpture is also represented in the casts, and a
number of well-known antiquities can be 206 207 described.
Just visible through the arch in the lower right- hand corner, is an
arrangement of four casts taken from the base of one of the so-called Barberini
Candelabra, among the most prized antiquities in the Museo Pio-Clementino,
Rome, which shows the gods Minerva, Jupiter (twice), and Mercury in low
relief.9 On the east wall, below the entablature of the Temple of Castor and Pollux,
is a cast of a relief of two of the ‘Corybantes’, taken from the marble
original in the Vatican Museums and also purchased from the Playfair sale.10
Although Soane would rearrange these casts and antiquities as his ‘Museum’
expanded, most are still to be found at No. 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields and the
general impression of a dense, ‘romantic’ arrangement remains. If, originally,
Soane’s collection of casts and antiquities was intended to provide exemplars
for the architects training and working in his office, by the time Gandy drew
the arrangements as they appeared in 1811 a shift in their purpose had
occurred. In 1806, Soane became Professor of Architecture at the Royal Academy
and, as a former student, he was well aware of the relatively meagre resources
allocated to the School. He comments on this in his 6th lecture, given to his
students at the RA.11 The arrangement of casts shown by Gandy was installed
between 1806 and 1809, when Soane was preparing his Royal Academy lectures, of
which he gave the first in 1809.12 It has been argued that they are a
three-dimensional analogue of the lectures and their drawn illustrations.13
Indeed, Soane saw the casts as being central to his teaching: ... I propose in
future that the various drawings and models, shall, on the day before, and if
necessary, the day after the public reading of each lecture, be open at my
house for the inspection of the students in architecture, where at the same
time, they will likewise have an oppor- tunity of consulting the plaster casts
and architectural fragments.14 Shortly after Gandy completed this view of the
Dome Area, the European Magazine and London Review described Soane’s
house-museum as an ‘... Academy of Architecture’.15 At the same time as he was
responding to the lack of architectural casts and fragments in the collections
of the Royal Academy, Soane’s ‘academy’ should also be seen as Soane’s
reflection on the ways in which he himself had come to experience Roman
architecture. Unlike the Royal Academy lectures, which Soane arranged
programmatically, the ‘Piranesian’ displays of antiquities, casts and
architectural 16 to recreate the experience of visiting Rome and to recall the
excitement of viewing there the disorganised remains of antiquity.17 However,
another reason why Soane rejected a rational academic approach to the
arrangements of antiquities in his house-museum might lie in the way that Soane
used the collections to form his own identity as an architect. In our drawing
Gandy includes a portrait of Soane who is illuminated from the same undisclosed
light source as his casts, gesturing in, by 1811, the slightly archaic manner
of an interlocutor. He is at once teacher, architect and collector.18 The
arrangements of casts and antiquities are not just for the use of his students
and pupils but also, as he put it, ‘... studies for my own mind’.19 They
reflect one individual’s view of art and architecture through the idiosyncratic
juxtapositions that he created. However, there is yet another level of
self-identification in Soane’s collection and display of antiquities and
architec- tural fragments. In Gandy’s drawing, far above Soane on a shelf, can
be seen a row of Roman antique cineraria and cinerary vases. That at the far
left, decorated with Ammon masks, came from the ‘Museum’ of the great Italian
architect and etcher, Piranesi, as did the cinerary vase decorated with
griffins seen on top of the cinerarium in the middle, and the cinerarium
decorated with genii on the far right. Though it is not seen in this view, in
1811, a full-size cast of the Apollo Belvedere would join the collections of
the ‘academy’. Dating to 1717, it had formerly been owned by Lord Burlington
and displayed in his villa at Chiswick. In 1818, further antiquities – this
time from the sale of the effects of Robert and James Adam – would enhance the
installations. The names of these prominent antiquaries and architects are
significant: they create an intellectual genealogy for Soane, who was born the
son of a bricklayer. Sir John Soane’s Museum is a very rare survival of an
early 19th-century private ‘academy’ in which his collections of casts and of
antiquities can be experienced much in the same manner as his own pupils and
his Royal Academy students experienced them. It also demonstrates how Soane
drew upon the Antique to create his intellectual persona. fragments are
set out idiosyncratically and imaginatively. Why did Soane reject a more
conventional arrangement of casts and antiquities in his ‘academy’? Perhaps he
wished 208 1 2 3 4 j k-b See Bingham 1993, p.5. ‘In regard to the students in
architecture, it is exacted from them only that they attend the library and
lectures, more particularly those on Architecture and Perspective...’.
Reprinted, La Ruffinière du Prey 1977, 47. Soane subsequently entered the
office of Henry Holland in 1772. Bingham 1993, 7. The lack of collections of
casts or of architectural fragments in public collections in Britain, until Sir
John Soane formed his collection, was also commented upon by John Britton in
the preface to his 1827 ‘guide’ to Soane’s house-museum, Britton 1827, p.viii.
209 5 Soane had originally started collecting and displaying casts for
the use of the architects working in his first office in No.12 Lincoln’s Inn
Fields in the 1790s. He also hoped to inspire his eldest son – John Soane
Junior – to become an architect and arranged antiquities and casts at his
country villa, Pitzhanger Manor in Ealing, acquired in 1800 and rebuilt by
Soane, to act as an ‘academy’ for John. For a full description of Soane’s
acquisition and installation of casts in his house-museum and his use of them
see: Dorey 2010. 6 This part of the house was in fact behind No. 13 Lincoln’s
Inn Fields. 7 Reveley had collected these casts in Italy and Soane purchased
every cast from this sale. Dorey 2010, 600. 8 Dorey 2010, p.600. 9 These were found
in the remains of Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli in 1730 and were heavily restored
by Bartolomeo Cavaceppi. The British antiquary Thomas Jenkins acted as agent
for the Pope when negotiating their acquisition. 10 This had been found in 1788
near Palestrina. The subject of the relief is also sometimes identified as the
Pyrrhic Dance. 11 ‘...I have often lamented that in the Royal Academy the
students in architecture have only a few imperfect casts from ancient remains,
and a very limited collection of works on architecture to refer to.’ Reprinted
in Watkin 1996, 579. 12 As Soane explained in his 6th Royal Academy lecture:
‘On my appoint- ment to the Professorship I began to arrange the books, casts,
and models, 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 in order that the students might have the
benefit of easy access to them. Reprinted in Watkin. See: Dorey 2010, 606.
Watkin 1996, p.579. Observations 1812, 382. In fact, Soane does seem to have
entertained the idea of creating a more ‘rational’ Museum where casts,
antiquities and fragments would be arranged according to academic taxonomies. A
drawing by George Bailey, also dating to 1811 and showing the Dome Area (SM
14/6/3), includes a plan relating to a scheme of c. 1809–11 whereby both Nos 12
and 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields would be used by Soane. In this proposed scheme,
the whole of No. 13 would become the Museum with the collections displayed
according to type. As Soane explained in a rejected draft of his sixth Royal
Academy lecture, No. 13 would incorporate: ‘... a gallery exceeding one hundred
feet in length for the reception of architectural drawings and prints, another
room of the same extent over it, to receive models and parts of buildings
ancient and modern’. Reprinted in Watkin 1996, 356. Soane even used plain
yellow glass in the skylights that illuminated the Dome Area, perhaps to evoke
the light of the Mediterranean world rather than that of London. Soane explores
the use of architecture as a type of ‘self-portrait’ in notes he made when
preparing his Royal Academy lectures. See: Soane. J., Extracts, Hints, Etc. for
Lectures, 1813–18, SM Soane Case 170, f.135. Soane, Gijsbertus Johannus Van den
Berg (Rotterdam 1769–1817 Rotterdam) The Drawing Lesson c. 1790s Black and red
chalk, 483 × 375 mm. Framing lines in black chalk. Signed recto l.r. in black
chalk: GVD Berg. fecit provenance: Paris, Drouot, 26 March 1924, part of lot
55, La Leçon de Dessin (sold as a pair with another drawing, La Marchande de
frivolités); Private collection, France; Private collection, England; Florian Härb,
London, from whom acquired. literature:None. exhibitions: Not previously
exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2011-013 Born in Rotterdam,
Van den Berg was a pupil of Johannes Zaccarias Simon Prey (1749–1822), a
leading portrait and decorative painter in that city.1 In the 1780s, he studied
for three years in Antwerp where he received special recogni- tion for his
drawings after live models and casts; he also resided for a time in Düsseldorf
and Mannheim.2 In 1790, he returned to Rotterdam where he established himself
as a portrait painter and miniaturist. The same year he was appointed
‘Corrector’, a judge and arranger of poses for live models, of the Rotterdam
Drawings Society, whose motto was Hierdoor tot Hooger (‘From Hereby to Higher’).3
For the remainder of his career, he devoted himself to teaching. His pupils
included his son, Jacobus-Everardus-Josephus (1802–61), who also became a
professional painter and from 1844, director of the Teeken-Akademie in the
Hague.4 One of Van den Berg’s biographers makes special mention of the finished
portrait studies in black and red chalk that he made after his return to
Rotterdam; the present drawing is certainly one of them.5 Berg preferred
studying female models, usually posing two together: here, two elegantly
dressed women in a panelled interior focus their attention on an idealised
head, probably a variant of the head of an antique Venus.6 The seated
draughtswoman holds up her chalk-filled porte-crayon above an angled
drawing-board, intently appraising her subject. She engages with it much in the
same way as Hubert Robert did some thirty years earlier in his self-portrait
with the Faustina bust (cat. 17). The second woman appears to be commenting on
the work in progress. A portfolio leans against a table leg on the floor below.
Comparably attired women – possibly the same ones – are shown reading a letter
in a sheet by Van den Berg in a private collection.7 The present composition is
similar in style and format to several other chalk studies by the artist of the
1790s. It is especially close to his drawing of a female artist seated at a
table in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (fig. 1). But instead of holding a
porte-crayon, this young woman operates a zograscope, an optical device
invented in the mid-18th century that included a magnifying lens to enhance an
image’s depth and relief; the subject of her scrutiny remains out of view.8
Another comparable drawing, signed and dated 1791 (Royal Collection, Windsor
Castle; 2), shows an elderly man, perhaps a drawing instructor, inspecting a
portrait study from a portfolio.9 He is seated at a table which is nearly
identical to that in the Bellinger example, but Berg shows him in a less formal
attitude, holding a long clay pipe and resting his feet on a portable stove, in
a manner reminis- cent of Dutch 17th-century genre subjects. This drawing, plus
a number of other figure drawings by Van den Berg preserved at Windsor, were
probably obtained as a group by 1. Gijsbertus Johannus Van den Berg, Study of a
Woman Seated at a Table, with an Optical Mirror, black and red chalk, 396 × 303
mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam RP-T-1997-10 210 211 2. Gijsbertus Johannus Van den Berg, A
Connoisseur Examining Drawings, 1791, black and red chalk, 407 × 284 mm, Royal
Collection, RL 12865 King George III around 1810.10 Most are probably studies
after live models set in poses determined in advance in classes at the
Rotterdam Drawings Society.11 Draped plaster casts were used when models were
unavailable.12 As with the Bellinger drawing, their style, with their sensitive
employment of black chalk and red accents for the skin, is strongly reminiscent
of portrait drawings by the English artist Richard Cosway (1742–1821) and no
doubt register the prevailing taste for English art in Rotterdam at the time.13
It is possible that Van den Berg intended his figure studies to be engraved,
perhaps for a series on the art of drawing.14 Women artists did not begin to
acquire the same privileges and educational advantages as men until the end of
the 19th century; as a general rule they were denied membership of academies
and were not permitted to draw after nude or anatomical models.15 They were
largely confined to producing art in private studios and especially in
aristocratic houses, where drawing tutors were sometimes hired to supplement
the education of young women.16 For the most part, they were restricted to
producing non-histor- ical, non-mythological and non-biblical subjects, such as
portraits and still-lifes, as their exclusion from study of the live model and
anatomy was thought to – and generally did 3. Georg Melchior Kraus, Corona
Schröter Drawing a Cast of the ‘Eros of Centocelle’, 1785, watercolour, 380 ×
315 mm, Klassik Stiftung Weimar, KHz/01632 – prevent them from acquiring full
mastery of the human form.17 Instead, they studied sculptural models and espe-
cially antique casts, often ones deemed thematically appro- priate for their
gender, such as the ideal head featured in the Van den Berg drawing catalogued
here. A comparable situa- tion is depicted in a watercolour close in date by
Georg Melchior Kraus (1737–1806), then director of the Weimar drawing school,
in which a beautiful and smartly dressed young lady, Corona Schröter, draws
after a cast of the girlish son of Venus, the Eros of Centocelle (1785; Klassik
Stiftung Weimar; 3), a statue known through Roman copies – namely, the example
discovered by Gavin Hamilton in 1772 in the outskirts of Rome and now in the
Vatican – after a lost bronze original by Praxiteles.18 The tradition of women
drawing from antique plaster casts in Holland, which began in the 17th
century,19 was well advanced by the first quarter of the 18th century,
evidenced in Pieter Van der Werff’s portrayal of a girl draw- ing after the
Venus de’ Medici (1715; Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam; 40, 53). Van den Berg’s
drawing, and others like it, confirm that the practice developed further during
the latter part of the century, and became still more widespread in the 19th.
The importance of plaster casts in artistic training in 212 213 Holland
at this time is indicated by the activities of the Rotterdam Drawing School,
but also by Van den Berg’s own self-portrait of 1794, where a reduced model of
the Dying Gladiator and others are given prominence of place on the shelf directly
behind the artist (Museum Rotterdam).20 avl 1 For his life and work, see Van
der Aa 1852–78, 2, 368–69; Thieme- Becker 1907–50, 3, 387; Scheen Van der Aa 1852–78, 2, 368–69. 3 Ibid., 2, 369;
For the society and his involvement therein, see Amsterdam 1994, 2–3
[unpaginated]. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid.; Amsterdam 1994, 3 [unpaginated]. 6 Amsterdam
1994, 3 [unpaginated]; Berg also oversaw private classes where students drew
after nude female models. 7 Ibid., 3–4 [unpaginated], no. 9. 8 Bulletin van het
Rijksmuseum, 45, no. 3, 1997, 239, fig. 9. For an in-depth study of this
device, known in the 18th century as an ‘optical machine’, see Koenderink 2013,
192–206. 9 Puyvelde 1944, 20, no. 81, pl. 142; Amsterdam 1994, 2 [unpaginated].
10 Puyvelde 1944, 20–21, 75–83. See also on-line collections database:
http://www.royalcollection.org.uk 11 For the society’s use of posed models, see
Amsterdam 1994, 2 [unpagi- nated]. 12 On the role of casts, see Amsterdam 1994,
2 [unpaginated]. An intrigu- ing view of the society’s drawing room, on the
upper floor of the Delftse Poort in Rotterdam, was published in Plomp 1982, 11–12
(drawn by an anonymous artist, 1780, whereabouts unknown). Casts of the
Laocoön, the Apollo Belvedere, and L’Ecorché (Figure of a Flayed Man), 1767 by
Jean-Antoine Houdon (1741–1828) are clearly visible. For the latter, see
Washington D.C., Los Angeles and elsewhere 2003–04, 62–66, no. 1 (Poulet). It
has also been suggested that the finished quality of Van den Berg’s drawings
are reminiscent of engravings by George Morland (Amsterdam 1994, 3
[unpaginated]; Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum, 45, no. 3, 1997, 239). As proposed
by Florian Härb, unpublished fact sheet on the Bellinger drawing, c. 2011. For
essential reading on the subject of women artists from the Renaissance to the
mid-20th century, see Los Angeles, Austin and elsewhere 1976–77 and especially
the authors’ introductory essay, 12–67. See also Goldstein 1996, 61–66. A very
small number of women artists managed to get elected to the French academy
including Adélaïd Labille-Guiard (1749– 1803) and Elisabeth Vigée Lebrun
(1755–1842) in 1783. But from 1663 to the dissolution of the Academy in 1793,
only fourteen in total were accepted (Montfort 2005, 3, 16, note 8). The French
Salon in Paris was not open to non-Academy members until 1791, when women were
permitted to exhibit their work. Goldstein 1996, 62–64. See Los Angeles, Austin
and elsewhere 1976–77, especially 13–58; Goldstein 1996, 62–63. Söderlind 1999,
23. For the statue, see Spinola 1996–2004, 2, 61, fig. 11, 63, no. 85; Piva
2007, 48–49, fig. 7. See for example, A Young Woman Seated Drawing, 1655–60, by
Gabriel Metsu (1629–67) in the National Gallery, London (NG 5225; Waiboer 2012,
205–06, A-62) and A Lady Drawing, c. 1665, by Eglon van der Neer (1635/36–
1703) in the Wallace Collection, London (inv. no. P243; Schavemaker 2010, 462,
no. 29). Dordrecht 2012–13, no. 64A (F. Meijer). 31. Wybrand Hendriks
(Amsterdam 1744–1831 Haarlem) The Haarlem Drawing College 1799 Oil on canvas,
63 × 81 cm Signed and dated lower left: ‘W. Hendriks Pinxit 1799’ provenance:
Wybrand Hendriks (1744–1831); his sale, R.W.P. de Vries et C.F. Roos,
Amsterdam, 27–29 February 1832, lot 30; private collection, Paris; Adolph
Staring (1890–1980), Vorden; given to the Teylers Museum in 1987 by Mrs. J.H.M.
Staring-de Mol van Otterloo. literature: Knoef 1938, repr.; Knoef 1947a, 11–13;
Staring 1956, 174, fig. LIV; Van Regteren Altena 1970, 312, 316; Praz 1971, 37;
Van Tuyll 1988, 17–18, fig. 21; Haarlem 1990, 35–36. exhibitions: Rotterdam
1946, 8, no. 13; London 1947, 4, no. 2; Amsterdam 1947–48, 8, no. 10; Haarlem
1972, 25–26, no. 29, fig. 44; Munich and Haarlem 1986, 96–97, no. 13. 214 215
Teylers Museum, Haarlem, KS 1987 002 exhibited in haarlem only In this painting
we have been admitted to a gathering at the Haarlem Drawing College. In the
18th and early 19th century every self-respecting Dutch town had its own drawing
‘college’ or ‘academy’. It was where artists and wealthy amateurs met, drew
together from the nude or draped model, and where they looked at drawings
together during so-called art viewings or ‘kunstbeschouwingen’. In 1799, the
year this picture was painted, the Haarlem Drawing College had twenty-six
working (as opposed to honorary) members, and this is very probably a group
portrait of them and their committee (leaving aside the boy playing marbles on
the left, who may be the son of one of the members). The setting is a house
that the Haarlem artists rented in Klein Heiligland. The question that
immediately arises is: ‘who’s who?’ Although the label listing the sitters that
was still with the painting at the sale of Hendriks’s estate in 1832 is no longer
preserved, many of the figures can nevertheless be identified with a fair
degree of certainty. The two in the middle are very probably the secretary, Jan
Willem Berg who gestures to the viewer’s left, and the balding treasurer,
Pieter S. Crommelin. On the far right, beneath the bas-relief on the wall, is
Hendriks himself.1 The man in the left background, pointing at one of the
plaster casts on the mantelpiece, has been recognised as Adriaan van der
Willigen (1766–1841), author and art historian avant la lettre.2 Prominently
displayed against the chimneybreast are various plaster casts. The large head
of the famous Apollo Belvedere in the middle is the most eye-catching (see 26,
fig. 18). To the right of it is the classical Callipygian Venus and to the
left, the crouching Nymph Washing Her Foot after Adriaen de Vries (1556–1626).3
Of the two male casts seen frontally, that on the right is after the classical
Farnese Hercules (see 30, fig. 32), while that on the left is probably after a
Mercury by François Duquesnoy (1597–1643).4 Hanging on the wall above
Hendriks’s head is Vulcan’s Forge, also after Adriaen de Vries, and in the
corner on the left is the life-sized cast of another classical statue: the
Venus de’ Medici (see 42, 56).5 The casts displayed, therefore, reproduce as a
whole or in part, statues from classical antiquity and from 16th- and
17th-century Netherlandish sculpture, which in turn reference the Antique. The
casts depicted belonged to the Haarlem Drawing Academy, the forerunner of the
College. Hendriks had bought them and the rest of the inventory in 1795 to help
pay off the academy’s debts, and he donated everything to the Drawing College
when it was founded the following year. The prime mover behind the gift was
probably the Teylers Foundation, a Haarlem body that had been set up in 1778 to
stimulate the arts and sciences. The foundation subsidised art education in
Haarlem for decades, and Hendriks was the curator of its art collection, which
was housed in the Teylers Museum.6 The fact that these plaster casts were
transferred immediately to the Drawing College indicates how impor- tant they
were for a society that promoted drawing, and this is confirmed by the
prominence they are accorded in this group portrait. On the other hand, it
should be appreciated that the supremacy of classical art and the rules of
classicism, which in fact had never been applied very strictly in the Dutch
Republic, were no longer so sacred in the Netherlands by 1800. Members of some
drawing academies often argued that genres like landscape and scenes from
everyday life in which nature was imitated literally and not idealised, should
be valued as highly as history paintings, which were generally inspired by
classical or neo-classical principles. The idea that Adriaan van der Willigen
is the man point- ing at the casts is intriguing. He was a learned amateur and
the best-versed person in the gathering when it came to the history of the
arts. He was very well aware how much they owed to the example of ancient
Greece and Rome. A few years after this painting was executed he wrote an
essay in the Verhandelingen uitgegeven door Teyler’s Tweede Genootschap
(Discourses published by Teylers Second Society) discussing ‘the cause of the
lack of superior history painters in the Netherlands, and the means suitable
for their training’. He praised his countrymen for their colouring,
chiaroscuro, fidelity to nature and brushwork, yet accused them of impre- cise
drawing, inelegant compositions and bad taste. What, Van der Willigen asked, could
be done to overcome these defects? To draw from the ‘purest casts in plaster of
the finest classical statues, busts and bas-reliefs’! And he then gave a list
of the well-known canon of classical sculpture, which included the Apollo
Belvedere, the Laocoön, the Venus de’ Medici and the Belvedere Torso.7 In
short, he was utterly convinced of the importance of classical sculpture and
its formative nature. For him, it was clearly still of paramount importance. mp
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 For the various identifications see Haarlem 1972, 25 and Haarlem
1990, 35–36. The Van der Willigen identification was made by A. Staring and has been adopted by other authors (see
above, note 1). According to Staring, some of the portraits were added later,
when the composition had already been determined, including that of Van der
Willigen, who was not yet living in Haarlem in 1799. Van der Willigen is best
known today for writing a comprehensive collection of biographies of artists
living in the Netherlands from 1750 onwards, together with Roeland van Eynden:
Van Eynden and Van der Willigen 1816–40. For the Callipygian Venus see Haskell
and Penny 1981, 316–18, no. 83; Gasparri 2009–10, 1, 73–76, no. 31 and repr. on
267–69. For the Nymph Washing Her Foot after Adriaen de Vries: Amsterdam,
Stockholm and elsewhere 1998, 131–33, no. 10. For Duquesnoy’s Mercury, of which
there are several versions, some of them slightly different, see Boudon-Mauchel
2005, 264–70. For the Farnese Hercules see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no.
46; Gasparri. For the Venus de’ Medici see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28, no.
88, and for De Vries’ Vulcan’s Forge see Amsterdam, Stockholm and elsewhere
1998, 187–89, no. 27. The plaster casts stood in the top front room of the
house in Klein Heiligland. For a description of the house and of Hendriks’
involvement with the casts, see Sliggers 1990, no. 26, 16–17. Van der Willigen
1809, 282 (colouring etc.), 298 (plaster casts). 216 217 32.
Woutherus Mol (Haarlem 1785–1857 Haarlem) The Young Draughtsman c. 1820 Oil on
canvas 52.3 × 42.6 cm provenance: A. Pluym; his sale, R.W.P. de Vries, A.
Brondgeest, C.F. Roos, Amsterdam, 24 November 1846, 7, no. 22; sold to Gerrit
Jan Michaëlis (1775–1856) for the Teylers Foundation (f 400,-) literature: Van
Eynden and Van der Willigen 1816–40, 4, 244; Huebner 1942, 69, 63; Knoef 1947b,
8–10, repr.; Van Holthe tot Echten 1984, 60–63, 4; Jonkman 2010, 35; Geudeker
2010, 60, 78, 74. exhibitions: Amsterdam 1822, no. 222; Moscow and Haarlem
2013–14, 50 (not numbered). Teylers Museum, Haarlem, KS 015 exhibited in
haarlem only A young draughtsman sitting by an open window is engrossed
in his work. He seems to be copying the object leaning against the wall in
front of him, but whether it is a drawing or a bas-relief is not entirely clear.
The tree visible through the window and the building beyond it stand in a
garden or by a narrow canal-side street. The colourful flowers in a vase on the
windowsill bring a touch of that outside world indoors. The leaded windows,
ceiling beams, whitewashed walls and above all the ornately carved cup- board
show that this is an old Dutch interior. Standing on the cupboard are imposing
plaster casts of famous classical statues: the Dancing Faun, the Venus de’
Medici (p. 42, 56) 1. Woutherus Mol, Painter and Draughtsman in a Studio, c.
1820, oil on canvas, 43.5 × 37 cm, present whereabouts unknown and an
unidentified statue of the Apollo Citharoedus type.1 It is difficult to make
out whether the other objects also record classical prototypes: a bas-relief, a
baby’s head, a couching lion and a vase with prominent handles. The interior is
bathed in a serene calm, so much so that the song of the little bird in the
cage high up on the wall is almost audible. One scholar recently put forward a
fascinat- ing argument that the picture is a commentary on the Classicist view
of art.2 If the tree and the bouquet of flowers are interpreted as ‘nature’,
and the plaster casts as ‘classical antiquity’, then the young draughtsman is
occupying a special position, mid-way between them. According to that view of
art, nature had to be idealised with the aid of beautiful examples, and such
examples were available in abundance in classical antiquity. Statues like the
Venus de’ Medici, the Apollo Belvedere and the Dancing Faun had been for
centuries part of the canon of the most treasured sculptures. At the same time,
however, Mol is remaining true to his Dutch origins, for he has very clearly
set The Young Draughtsman in a traditional Dutch interior. A similar painting
by him, Painter and Draughtsman in a Studio (fig. 1), is again set in a typical
17th-century Dutch space, with a wooden cross window, ‘Kussenkast’ cupboard,
and a massive table with ball feet. It too contains a prominent display of
classical sculpture.3 The apprentice draughtsman is copying a plaster cast of
the Dancing Faun, and on the cupboard are casts of the same Apollo Citharoedus
that we see in our picture, a reproduction of the so-called Priestess in the
Capitoline Museum, and another of the Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32 and cat. 7, 3).
Standing beside the cupboard there is even a copy after a classical vase,
probably the famous Borghese Vase.4 Deliberately or not, the combination of
classical art and a 17th-century Dutch setting relates Mol’s two studio scenes
directly to the debate about the ‘national taste’ being con- ducted in the
Netherlands around 1800 and for some decades 218 219 thereafter. It
was felt that Dutch painting was in a deplorable state: essays were written
about how standards could be raised and competitions were held to encourage
improve- ments. Classical sculpture was regularly invoked: it was only logical
that Dutch painters were lagging behind, it was said, given the absence of
classical statues in Holland, and drawing academies should therefore acquire
copies after antique statues (see cat. 31), and so on.5 Reading between the
lines, though, one sees that the same writers were often great admirers of
17th-century Dutch painting. The painters of that Golden Age had paid little
heed to Classicist art theory; they imitated nature and did not idealise it.
Mol’s two studio scenes contain elements that can be associated with both
artistic theories. He was very much at home in both worlds. Born in Haarlem, he
had received an old- fashioned Dutch training with the landscapist Hermanus van
Brussel (1763–1815). In 1806, however, he went to Paris, where he worked for
several years, partly as an élève in the framework of the new arts policy of
King Louis Napoleon of Holland (1778–1846), apprenticed to none other than
Jacques Louis David (1748–1825). In other words, classicist views about art
were well-known to him. 33. Anonymous, Danish School, 19th century Two Artists
and a Guard in the Antique Room at Charlottenborg Palace c. 1835 Oil on canvas,
38.6 × 33.9 cm provenance: Private collection, Denmark; Thomas Le Claire
Kunsthandel, Hamburg with Daxer et Marschall, Munich in 2003 (as Knud
Andreassen Baade), from whom acquired. literature: Zahle 2003, 271, 117 (as
Julius Friedlænder (?)); Copenhagen 2004, 110–11, no. 8, 16 (as unknown
artist); Fuchs and Salling 2004, 3, 194–95, repr. (as unknown artist). 1 2 3 4
5 mp Haskell and Penny 1981, respectively 205–08, no. 34 (Dancing Faun), 325–28,
no. 88 (Venus de’ Medici). T. van Druten, in Moscow and Haarlem 2013–14, 50.
Mak van Waay sale, Amsterdam, 26 May 1964, lot 366. Haskell and Penny 1981, 205–08,
no. 34 (Dancing Faun), 229–32, no. 46 (Farnese Hercules), 314–15, no. 81
(Borghese Vase). For the Priestess in the Capitoline Museum see Stuart Jones
1912, 345, no. 6, pl. 86; Helbig 1963–72, 2, no. 1227. Koolhaas-Grosfeld and De
Vries 1992, 119, 128. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger
collection, inv. no. 2003-028 The Antique Room of the Copenhagen Academy of
Fine Arts, housed in Charlottenborg Palace, was a popular choice of subject for
19th-century Scandinavian art students, such as H. D. C. Martens (1795–1864),
Martinus Rørbye (1803–48) and Christian Købke (1810–48). The Academy was
founded in 1754 by King Frederik V, but an informal art school had been
established in 1740 by his predecessor, Christian VI, so that there was already
a small collection of casts for the students to study, including one of the
Laocöon, but with the older son missing.1 The Academy’s programme was modelled
on those of others across Europe, especially that in Paris, in which plaster
copies after antique models served as the basis for the instruction of artists;
in some cases casts were even valued above the originals because they made details
more readily accessible to copyists. The expansion of the collection was
primarily due to the efforts of three mem- bers of the Academy: a professor of
sculpture, Christoph Petzholdt (1708–62), who contributed twenty-five casts and
restored many others that had suffered from being moved too often;2 the
sculptor and Academy Fellow Johannes Wiedewelt (1731–1802), who in 1758 sent
three large chests of casts back to Denmark from Rome;3 and the painter and
sculptor Nicolai Abildgaard (1743–1809), who was appointed Director in 1789 and
purchased several casts, including Germanicus and the Belvedere Torso, and the
missing son of the Laocoön.4 The cast collection focused mainly on Roman
copies, and it was not until the first decades of the 19th century that casts
of Greek originals were added.5 This was characteristic of academies across
Europe, which began to recognise the value of the Greek originals over their
Roman derivations, thus diverging from Italian academic tradition. In the
painting on display, an artist in his work-robe holds up a plumb-line to check
the vertical axis of the cast that he is sketching. He draws his copy on a
sheet attached to a drawing-board that rests on his lap, and his portfolio
crammed with other drawings leans against a stool in front of him, along with
his discarded top hat and cravat. A fellow artist considers his handiwork, but
they are about to be interrupted by a museum guard bearing a scroll. When it
was acquired in 2003, this canvas was attributed to the Norwegian artist, Knud
Andreassen Baade (1808–79), whose painting of the same room now belongs to the
National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design in Oslo (fig. 1), and also
features a draughtsman at work, holding up a stylus to check the horizontal
reference line of his subject. The depic- tion of the room in the Oslo
painting, which is dated 1828, just precedes its renovation later that year
when, under the direction of the architect Hansen (1756–1845), the walls were
plastered smooth, as seen in the painting on display here.6 A comparison of the
two canvases shows the way the room was modified to accommodate the growing
collection, as casts were shifted around according to aesthetic, thematic or
chronological principles. In the Oslo painting, the Borghese Gladiator (see 41,
54 and cats 16, 23–24) is placed in the extreme left foreground, creating a
diagonal perspective. The same technique is used in the present painting,
though it is now a statue of Perseus that anchors the work, with his
outstretched hand grasping a missing Medusa’s head. The Perseus was created in
1801 by Canova, 1. Knud Andreassen Baade, Scene from the Academy in Copenhagen,
1828, oil on canvas, 32.4 × 23.8 cm, The National Museum of Art, Architecture
and Design, Oslo, inv. no. NG.M.01589 220 221 2. Relief of
an Eagle with a Wreath, 2nd century ad, marble, church of Santi Apostoli, Rome
who donated a cast of it to the Academy in 1804, thereby becoming a member.
Another modern sculpture hangs on the upper wall at left, which is a roundel
with an allegory of Justice, in which Nemesis reads a list of the guilty to
Jupiter, who sits in judgment. This was the work of Bertel Thorvaldsen
(1770–1844), the leading sculptor in Europe after Canova’s death, who had been
trained in the Academy.7 Also modern is the bust of Frederik V at the end of
the room by the sculptor J. F. J. Saly. The remaining casts in the room are of
antique statues and reliefs, and extant inventory lists attest to the dates of
their acquisition.9 The relief of the eagle in a wreath, after the original in
the church of Santi Apostoli in Rome (fig. 2), is displayed on the wall above a
reduced copy of a frieze, taken from the Parthenon, both of which were
transferred to this southern wall as part of the 1828 reconstruction.10 Facing
the viewer and leaning on a column is a reproduction of the Marble Faun (fig.
3). This was a relatively overlooked sculp- ture, more valued for its
conjectural attribution to Praxiteles 3. Marble Faun, Roman copy, c. 2nd
century ad, after a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 170.5 cm (h),
Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. no. S.739 4. Germanicus, Roman, c. 20 ad, after
a Greek original of the 5th century bc, marble, 180 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv.
no. MA1207 than for its aesthetic significance. It did not achieve world-
renown until the publication of The Marble Faun by Nathaniel Hawthorne in 1860,
after which it became one of the highlights of the Capitoline Museum.11 Behind
the Faun stands a cast of Germanicus (fig. 4), which, in contrast to the Faun,
was one of the most revered antiquities almost from its discovery in the
mid-17th century.12 Casts of it were commissioned for collections across
Europe, including Florence, Mannheim, Madrid and the Duke of Devonshire’s
collection at Chatsworth in Derbyshire. The identity of this figure is
uncertain, and it has been thought by different scholars to represent Augustus,
Brutus, Mercury or an anonymous Roman general; however, its identification as
Germanicus, nephew of Tiberius, has persisted since 1664.13 Between Perseus and
the Faun is the seated figure of Mercury, cast after the bronze original
discovered in Herculan- eum in 1758 (fig. 5). It was one of the most celebrated
archaeo- logical discoveries of the 18th century, and its presence is critical
to the dating of the Bellinger painting because the cast was only acquired by
the Academy in 1834, thus provid- ing a terminus post quem and supporting for
it a date of c. 1835.14 This precludes the authorship of Baade, who left
Copenhagen in 1829 and spent the early 1830s travelling in his native Norway.
In 1836 he followed his mentor, the landscapist J. C. C. Dahl, to Germany,
where he lived until his death in 1879.15 Jan Zahle tentatively proposed that
the painter was Julius Friedlænder (1810–61),16 who is also thought to be the
artist of another painting of the Antique Room in Charlottenborg, dated 1832
(current whereabouts unknown).17 To commemorate the 250th anniversary of
the Seated Mercury, Roman copy, 1st century ad, after a Greek original of
the late 4th century or early 3rd century bc, bronze, 105 cm (h), Museo
Archeologico Nazionale, Naples, inv. NM 5625 Academy in 2004, the Bellinger
painting was presented in the accompanying exhibition catalogue as by an
unknown artist,18 and until further evidence comes to light, it is prudent to
maintain its anonymity. While the Academy continues to function, the cast
collection was relocated and dispersed several times; first in 1883, due to
lack of space, to a new building. The pieces by Thorvaldsen were transferred to
his eponymous museum, founded during his lifetime in 1839 and opened to the
public in 1848. In 1895 the rest of the collection was absorbed into the newly
created Royal Cast Collection, which shared a building with the newly founded
National Gallery of Art, in Copenhagen.19 These casts were neglected over the
subse- quent years, as interest in plaster copies waned in favour of original
and unique works of art. When the museum under- went renovations from 1966 to
1970, the majority of the casts were packed away and allowed to deteriorate.
Only in 1984, due to the combined efforts of concerned art historians,
classical archaeologists and artists, were thousands of casts rescued and
restorations begun. They were rehoused in the West India Company Warehouse, 6.
Antique Room in Charlottenborg Palace recreated in 2004, curated by Pontus
Kjerrman and Jan Zahle, with sculptor Bjørn Nørgaard originally a storehouse
for products of the slave trade, and approximately 2,000 casts can be seen on
display there. The Faun and Germanicus both belong to this collection, while
Canova’s Perseus was transferred to the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. However, in
2004, as part of the anniversary exhibition, replicas of these casts were
reunited in the Antique Room of the Palace, just as seen in numerous
19th-century paintings, such as this one. A visitor in 2004, therefore, could
stand in the very same spot as our anony- mous painter, and witness a nearly
identical scene (fig.). literature:None. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited.
Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1997-020 In this striking candlelight
view of a 19th-century bourgeois interior by the little-known artist,
Desflaches,1 a man examines a work of art displayed on an easel but hidden from
our view. In one hand he holds an oil lamp or candle, illuminating the corner
of the room in soft, golden light and casting strong and dramatic shadows. It
is exactly 10:30, according to the clock on the mantle, and the visitor, proba-
bly a connoisseur, has called on the artist at home, presum- ably to inspect
his latest work. He has removed his hat and cloak, placed on the chair on the
left, and with a pipe in hand, assumes a relaxed yet concentrated stance.
Viewing and producing art by candlelight is a tradition that hearkens back to
the Renaissance when artist-theorists, Leon Battista Alberti (1404–72),
Leonardo da Vinci (1452– 1519), Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71) and others, advised
students to draw sculpture by artificial light, to enhance the effects of
relief, three-dimensionality and shadow.2 Baccio Bandinelli put this concept
into practice, and drawing by candlelight was central to artistic training at
his academy (see cats 1–2). Others followed suit including Jacopo Tintoretto
and his followers who used an oil lamp when making studies after casts of
Michelangelo’s Medici tomb figures and other models ‘so that he could compose
in a powerful and solidly modelled manner by means of those strong shadows cast
by the lamp’.3 The practice of drawing after models, especially casts, at night
continued in the 17th century, as seen in Rembrandt’s small etching, Man
Drawing from a Cast, (c. 1641).4 Nocturnal viewings became common in the late
18th century; white casts were popularly studied by flickering torchlight
because it made them appear animated.5 Indeed, the spectators’ delight is
clearly evident in William Pether’s mezzotints, Three Persons Viewing the
Gladiator by Candlelight (1769) 6 and An Academy (1772; cat. 24), both after
Joseph Wright of Derby. The female model in the Bellinger painting is a reduced
plaster cast of the Crouching Venus – a Hellenistic original of which several
antique variations are known (fig. 1).7 The figure was enormously popular,
especially in the 17th and 18th centuries when many artists produced imitations
of her, the most celebrated being the marble completed in 1686 by the French
sculptor, Antoine Coysevox (1640–1720), also reproduced in bronze.8 She is
generally believed to represent Venus in, or emerging from, the bath, her head
turned sharply to the right and her arms sensuously and protec- tively crossing
her body, suggesting that her ablutions have been interrupted. In Desflaches’
canvas the Crouching Venus has been brightly lit and given primacy of place,
suggesting she may be the subject of the canvas displayed on the easel; her
animation is enhanced by the direct gaze with which she engages the viewer.
While the cast in our painting probably ultimately derives from the antique
marble in the Uffizi, it seems to have been idealised and modified, to reflect
a dis- tinctively Coysevesque sensibility, evidenced in the refined and
delicate features of her face.9 Other identifiable works in the Desflaches
composition include a second plaster cast – a male portrait bust – partly
visible on the covered table in the background, to the visitor’s right. He
probably derives from the marble head of a young man in the Museo
Pio-Clementino in the Vatican (Roman, 1st 1. Crouching Venus, Roman copy, 1st
c. ad after Hellenistic original, marble, 78 cm (h), Uizi, Florence, inv. no.
188 Zahle 2003, 272. For the history of
the Copenhagen Academy see Meldahl and Johansen 1904. Saabye 1980, 6 and Zahle
2003, 272 Zahle Jørnæs 1970, 52. Zahle 2003, 275. Jørnæs 1970, 58. Helsted
1972, lxxxvi. Copenhagen 2004, 201 (S85). An inventory from 1809 is especially
extensive (Fortegnelse over Marmor-og Gibs-Figurerne, samt Receptions-Stykkerne
og flere Konstsager i Den Kongelige Maler-, Billedhugger- og Bygnings-Academie
paa Charlottenborg, partially transcribed in Zahle 2003, 269) and records were
kept for several years by the art historian Julius Lange (see, for example,
Lange 1866). Copenhagen 2004, 198 (S51) and 199 (S61). Haskell and Penny 1981, 210;
La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 446–51, no. 5. Haskell and Penny 1981, 219.
Ibid., 220. Copenhagen 2004, 200 (S72). Thieme-Becker 1907–50, 2, 297. Zahle
2003, 271. Copenhagen 2004, 110, no. 7. Ibid., 110, no. 8. Zahle 2003, 278. 34.
Desflaches (Christian name unknown; probably Belgian, fl. 19th century) The
Connoisseur c. 1850 Oil on canvas, 60 × 50 cm Signed recto lower right,
Desflaches provenance: Galerie Fischer-Kiener, Paris; property of a European
Foundation; their sale, Sotheby’s, New York, 26 October 1990, lot 144; Didier
Aaron Inc., New York; Harry Bailey, New York; Didier Aaron Inc., New York;
Their sale, Christie’s, New York, 22 May 1997, lot 116, from whom
acquired. 224 225 2. Head of Lucius or Gaius Caesar,
or the Young Octavian (Augustus), 52 cm (h), marble, possibly end of the 1st c.
ad or later, Museo Pio-Clementino, Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 714 3. Godfried
Schalcken (1643–1706), An Artist and a Young Woman by Candlelight, oil on
canvas, 44 × 35 cm, private collection, New York century ad; 2).10 This
bust, believed to be either one of the brothers, Lucius or Gaius Caesar, or a
rare depiction of the young Octavian before he became Emperor Augustus in 27
bc,11 enjoyed considerable popularity and was copied by many artists,
particularly in the 19th century. Its authen- ticity has occasionally been
doubted – at one point it was even attributed to the neo-classical sculptor,
Antonio Canova (1757–1822) – but the confirmation of its discovery by Robert
Fagan in the ruins of Tor Boacciana (Ostia) in 1800–02, supports its antique
origin despite it being consid- erably reworked.12 In addition to works
deriving from antique sources are others that directly reference Dutch art of
the 17th century. Immediately behind the Crouching Venus is what appears to be
a pencil drawing after Rembrandt’s celebrated etching, Self Portrait Leaning on
a Stone Sill (1639).13 It is in the same direction as the etching though the
line is faint and the lower half of the figure, with the distinctively posed
left arm, has been omitted altogether, suggesting the source was either a later
impression of the print or a further, reduced copy of the original. To the
right of the Rembrandt, is a moonlit landscape strongly reminiscent of the work
of Aert van der Neer (1603/4–77). On the opposite wall is a portrait of a man,
possibly by, or at least in the manner of, the portraitist and genre painter,
Frans Hals (1582/83–1666). Partly obscured in shadow below appears to be a
drawing, possibly by Jan van Goyen (1596–1656), or one of his contemporaries.
As the distinctive trappings would suggest, the artist may well be Dutch, and
this is supported further by a com- parison with a painting by Godfried
Schalcken (1643–1706) in a private collection, New York (fig. 3), which may
have been known to Desflaches. A pupil of Gerrit Dou (1613–75), Schalcken
specialised in night scenes; here a man, drawing in hand, presumably the
artist, with his female pupil, points suggestively to a small but lively model
of the Crouching Venus, animatedly illuminated by an oil lamp; clearly there is
more 226 than just a drawing lesson at play here. An antique head lies dormant,
face-up on the table below. By the 19th century, the Antique was readily
available, even to amateur artists, via plaster casts, as Desflaches’
composition suggests. Ancient sculpture could now readily be combined with art
of different types and in diverse settings, both on the continent – seen, for
instance, in the work of Woutherus Mol (cat. 32), which also features Dutch and
antique motifs – and in England (cat. 35). As the canon became more diffuse,
the standing of the Antique also declined, as other styles, historical and
modern, became increasingly more dominant as the century progressed. The
painting bears that name at lower right. In the Christie’s catalogue, New York,
22 May 1997, lot 116, the initial of the first name is given as ‘P’, without
explanation, and the nationality, French/Belgian. A painting attributed to the
artist, Still Life with Brass Oil Lamp, Skeleton Key and Pitcher, oil on
canvas, 33 × 29.2 cm, was sold New Orleans Auction Galleries, 20 July 2002, lot
324 (as Desflaches). Weil-Garris 1981, 246–47, note 39; Roman 1984, 83; Hegener
2008, 401. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 14; Ridolfi 1984, 16. White and Boon 1969, 1, 68,
no. B130, 2, 119, repr. Borbein 2000, 31 (see also note 23 listing further
bibliography on night- time viewing of casts). Clayton 1990, 236, no. 154, P3.
Haskell and Penny 1981, 321–23, no. 86, 171. The authors catalogue the example
in the Uffizi, Florence, but discuss the other extant versions as well. See
Lullie 1954, 10–17 and Havelock 1995, 80–83. Haskell and Penny 1981, 40, 22,
323. The marble version is in the Louvre and the bronze, at Versailles (Souchal
1977–93, 1, 191–92). The cast in the painting bears a striking resemblance to
one preserved in the Salzburg Museum, Austria, another idealisation of the
original in the Uffizi, see http://www.salzburgmuseum.at/972.0.html It was in
the collection of the painter, Anton Raphael Mengs (1728–79). In 1782, the
Court of Saxony acquired it, among other casts from his estate, for the Dresden
Academy of Art. Spinola 1996–2004, 2, 131, 22, 137–38, no. 123 with previous
bibliography. Spinola 1996–2004, 2, 137. Ibid. White and Boon 1969, 1, 9–10,
no. B21, 2, 10, repr. 227 35. William Daniels (Liverpool 1813–1880
Liverpool) Self-Portrait with Casts: The Image Seller c. 1850 Oil on canvas,
feigned circle, 43.3 × 43.3 cm provenance: Richard S. Timewell, Tangier, by
descent; Timewell family sale, Brissonneau et Daguerre, Paris, 15 June 2005,
lot 56; W. M. Brady et Co., New York, 2005, from whom acquired. literature:
Bowyer 2013, 49–50, 36. exhibitions: New York 2005b, no. 13, repr.; Compton
Verney and Norwich 2009–10, 12–16, 9, 98. Katrin Bellinger collection,
inv. no. 2005-016 Born into a modest working-class family in Liverpool, Daniels
was apprenticed to his father, a brick maker, loading and arranging new stock;
in his spare time, he drew faces on the bricks and carved and modelled small
figures in wood and clay.1 His artistic talents were recognised by Alexander
Mosses (1793–1837), a local painter, who encouraged him to take evening classes
in drawing at the Royal Institution in Liverpool. The young Daniels was awarded
first prize for a large study ‘in black and white’ of the Dying Gladiator
‘drawn from the round’ which, allegedly, Mosses ‘begged ... off the lad and had
... framed’.2 Daniels later became apprenticed to the painter but was confined
to menial tasks, and could only paint at night, slyly returning the cleaned
brushes in the morning.3 The resulting night scenes or ‘candlelight pic-
tures’, primarily portraits and genre subjects, would become his trademark and
he achieved considerable local success, exhibiting at the Liverpool Academy,
Post Office Place and the Liverpool Society of Fine Arts, and then in London at
the Royal Academy in 1840, 1841 and 1846.4 He became known as the ‘Liverpool
Rembrandt’ or the ‘English Rembrandt’, according to one source reputedly
quoting John Ruskin.5 Daniels also shared with the Dutch master a life-long
preoccupation with his own image; many of his finest painting were portraits of
himself, as noted in one of his obituaries.6 And like the youthful Rembrandt he
was particularly fond of depicting those on the fringes of society with whom he
seemed to share a certain affinity, often representing himself in the guise of
the urban poor – beggars, gypsies, brigands and others.7 Described by one
biographer as ‘of fine, manly form, very handsome’ with ‘a profusion of jet
black curly hair’ and a swarthy complexion, it was sometimes said of him that
there was ‘gypsy blood in his veins’ and that wear- ing earrings only enhanced
his ‘resemblance to the wander- ing tribe.’8 In the striking example seen here,
Daniels has fashioned himself as an Italian travelling salesman of plaster
casts, a popular subject for Victorian artists.9 With the increasing demand for
images in museums, schools and academies but also as adornments in ordinary
homes, celebrated 228 sculptures from antiquity, together with portraits of
modern worthies, were mass-produced in plaster, generally in reduced form.10
The technique was simple and inexpensive: a mixture of marl and clay was poured
into a slip mould of plaster of Paris that absorbed the water, leaving a thin
layer of clay inside the mould that could be easily removed, lightly fired,
producing a brittle but light-weight and easily portable cast.11 Favourite
antique and contempo- rary subjects – including the Farnese Hercules and the
Apollo Belvedere as well as busts of Byron, Milton, Napoleon and Queen Victoria
– were now displayed and offered for sale together.12 While English firms had
been manufacturing casts since the 18th century, the market became increasingly
dominated by Italian makers, particularly from around Lucca who organised large
groups to sell their wares on the streets of London and beyond.13 Having
considerable reach through their travels, these vendors played a seminal role
in disseminating knowledge of the iconic works of antiquity through all classes
of society.14 The British public regarded the image-makers and sellers, men and
boys from forty to fifteen with curiosity and with some suspicion.15 One of the
earliest images of them is an amusing caricature by Rowlandson in the Victoria
and Albert Museum, London (c. 1799, 1). Appearing dishevelled with unbuttoned
shirt and jacket, the salesman peddles his wares to an enthusiastic family
while a woman watches a peep show in the background. A slightly later example,
accompanied by the title, Very Fine. Very Cheap, was etched by Smith, known as
‘Antiquity Smith’, the writer, poet and Keeper of Prints and Drawings at the
British Museum from 1816 to 1833 (fig.). On the seller’s board, a reduced cast
of the Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32) has been relegated to the background,
obscured by a cast of a Roman vase. With a slightly sinister glint in his eyes,
this figure was included in Smith’s Etchings of Remarkable Beggars, Itinerant
Traders and other Persons, published in London, 1815. William James Muller
(1812–45) produced a more sympathetic, even romantic portrayal of the itinerant
cast seller in 1843 (fig. 3). More closely allied to the Daniels’ 229
Copyright: Christie’s Images Limited (2012) painting than the others, this hawker
is less an object of derision than one of wonder, even admiration.17 In the
present example, Daniels, dressed in modest work- man’s attire and silhouetted
against a dark backdrop, bal- ances on his head a board fully loaded with a
casts of every shape and size, securing it with one hand. Many were based on
examples in his own collection, probably used in his studio to prepare
accessories in his portrait commissions. Immediately recognisable in the centre
right is the bust of Shakespeare, whom Daniels particularly admired. He was
said to have a deep familiarity with the poet’s work and could identify the
exact source for every quotation, ‘without a moment’s hesitation’.18 In fact,
busts of the bard are listed in Daniel’s posthumous sale of 1880, one of which
is likely to be the example seen here.19 With the other arm, he cradles a bust
of Homer, the blind epic poet of the Iliad and the Odyssey, another favourite
of Daniel’s as noted by his biographer.20 The source for this cast was a Roman
marble of the Antonine period (138-93 ad, after a lost Hellenistic original of
c. 300 bc), probably the version preserved in the Museo Archeo- logico
Nazionale di Napoli (fig. 4).21 Known in several variants after the same lost
Greek original, this is arguably the most celebrated image of Homer from
antiquity and was used by many artists; arguably the most famous example is
Rembrandt’s Aristotle with a Bust of Homer which passed through various English
private collections in the 19th century (now Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York),
and 230 which Daniels was probably referencing, reinforcing his association
with both poet and artist.22 The other casts on the tray in the painting appear
to reproduce a mixture of English and French works of the mid- to late 18th and
19th century. They include the brightly coloured parrot, probably based on a
Staffordshire porcelain example, c. 1850, after a Meissen original of the 18th
century, and the hooded figure on the front left, possibly an adapta- tion of
‘La Nourrice’ (Nurse and Child) modelled by Joseph Willems at Chelsea (c.
1752–58), after a French terracotta original of the 17th century.23 Popular
images of the three 4. Bust of Homer, marble, 72 cm (h), Roman Antonine period
after a lost Hellenistic original of c. 300 bc, Museo Archeologico Nazionale di
Napoli, inv. 6023 theological virtues, Faith, Hope and Charity, made by the
Wood family at Burslem in Staffordshire, 1800–10, appear to be the inspiration
behind some of the other figures on the tray: Hope at the far right, seen in
profile with hands clasped; Faith, directly behind the parrot; and Charity,
seen from the back, behind the Nurse and Child.24 It has also been suggested
that the bust of a boy seen from the back, directly above Daniels’ right hand,
might be Alexandre Brongniart by Houdon, known in examples in marble,
terracotta, bronze, plaster and biscuit porcelain.25 Daniels appears to be
between thirty-five and forty years old in this painting, slightly older than
his self-portrait at the easel of c. 1845 in the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool
(fig. 5); a completion date of around 1850 therefore seems likely.26 The theme
of the cast vendor clearly intrigued Daniels for he would return to it again
about twenty years later. In An Italian Image Seller (1870; Walker Art Gallery,
Liverpool; 6), the protagonist (probably Daniels again) rests on the wall of an
27 English country lane. The tray is no longer present but on the ground to his
right are two casts, one, a Mercury, the other, the nymph, Clytie (sometimes
identified as Antonia, daughter of Mark Antony and mother of the Emperor
Claudius). The marble original of the nymph, acquired in Naples by the Grand
Tour collector, Charles Townley (1737– 1805) and reportedly his favourite, is
now in the British Museum.28 Copies of the popular statue were made in porce-
lain by the firm Copeland from 1855 and it has been suggested that Daniels
based his depiction on one of them.29 Daniels certainly owned a copy of the
Clytie and other busts after the Antique including a Jupiter, Apollo, Diana and
Laocoön, ‘which he treated with almost reverential admiration’.30 As Daniels’
Image Seller shows, by the mid-19th century iconic antique statues, once
rarefied models of ideal beauty, were now commercialised and readily available
on the open 5. William Daniels, Self-Portrait, c. 1845, oil on canvas, 91.5 ×
71.7 cm, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, WAG 1724 6. William Daniels, An Italian
Image Seller, 1870, oil on canvas, 80 × 63.5 cm, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool,
WAG 3114 market through mass-produced casts. While the Antique continued to be
central to the education of artists both in the studio and in the academy, it
became an ubiquitous presence in the home, especially in middle-class interiors
where reductions of famous statues were displayed alongside works from other
periods, sometimes even assuming a secondary role to them. The amalgamation of
styles and influences, in which Ancient, Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance and
Modern were placed on equal footing, was, by the mid-19th century, the result
of an historicist aesthetic in which the Antique had become just one of the
possible artistic references, thus losing its canonical status and aesthetic
primacy. Rowlandson, An Image Seller, c. 1799, watercolour, 326 × 264 mm,
Victoria and Albert Museum, London, no. 1820-1900 2. John Thomas Smith, Very
Fine. Very Cheap, c. 1815, etching, 192 × 114 mm (plate); 267 × 185 mm (sheet),
from Etchings of Remarkable Beggars, Itinerant Traders and other Persons,
published in London, 31 December 1815, National Portrait Gallery, London,
Reference collection D40098 3. William James Muller, The Plaster Figure Seller,
oil on canvas, 82.5 × 52.1 cm, sold Christie’s, London, 6 November 2012, lot
333. avl An extensive tribute to Daniels was published anonymously in serial
form in the Liverpool Lantern (1880), by his friend, K. C. Spier, editor of the
paper. It may be consulted at: http://art-science.com/WDaniels/LLessay.html
where the artist’s obituaries and private letters and notes also are
transcribed, some of which are referred to in Spier’s essay (cited here as
Spier 1880). For other accounts of his life and work, see Tirebuck 1879; The
Magazine of Art, 5, June 1882, 341–43; Marillier 1904, 95–98; Thieme- Becker
1907–50, 8, 362–63; Fastnege 1951; Bennett 1978, 1, 79. Spier 1880, chapter 4.
The drawing, presumably after a cast of the famous sculpture in the Capitoline
Museum, Rome (see cat. 20, 2) remains untraced. Spier 1880, chapter 4.
Marillier 1904, 96–97; Fastnege 1951, 80; Bennett 1978, 1, 79. Obituary,
Liverpool Journal, 16 October 1880; Liverpool Mercury 15 April 1884; Daily Post
Liverpool, June 1908. Liverpool Journal. Representations of the urban poor in
British art was an increasingly popu- lar genre from around the mid-18th
century onwards. See Hansen 2010. Spier 1880, chapter 5. Lambourne 1982;
Compton Verney and Norwich 2009–10, 13. For the history and use of casts, see
Borbein 2000. For a translation in English by Bernard Fischer, see
http://www.digitalsculpture.org/casts/ borbein/index.html For British cast
makers and/or sellers in the 18th to early 19th c., see Clifford 1992 and for
the 19th c., Haskell and Penny 1981, 117–24; Lambourne 1982; and Simon 2011.
Lambourne 1982, 119. Ibid. Clifford 1992; Simon 2011. Lambourne 1982, 121.
Simon 2011 [unpaginated]. Ibid., 3. For other images of the subject, see
Lambourne 1982, 118–23, figs 1–10. Spier 1880, chapter 2; New York 2005b, under
no. 13. Walker et Ackerley, Liverpool, 6 December 1880, discussed in in Spier
1880, chapter 24. The present writer has not been able to locate a copy of this
catalogue. Spier
1880, chapter 2. Richter 1965, 1, 50, no. IV, no. 7, figs 70–72; Gasparri
2009–10, 2, 15–16, no. 2 (M. Caso), pl. II, 1–4. Liedtke
2007, 2, 629–54, no. 151. Kindly pointed out by Paul Crane (personal
communication), who notes the following example: Melbourne 1984–85, no. 56. As
noted further by Paul Crane, who points out their similarity to examples sold
at Sotheby’s, New York, 15 April 1996, lot 73 (personal communication).
According to Shackelford (personal communication). See Washington D.C., Los
Angeles and elsewhere 2003-04, 127–32, no. 15 (G. Scherf). Bennett 1978, 1, 80,
no. 1724, 2, 129; New York 2005b, under no. 13. Bennett 1978, 1, 83, no. 3114, 2,
134. Cook Dodero 2013. Bennett 1978, 1, 83. Spier 1880,
chapter 17. 231 abbreviations L. F. Lugt, Les marques de
collections de dessins et d’estampes . . ., Amsterdam, 1921 L. suppl. F. Lugt,
Les marques de collections de dessins et d’estampes,Supplément, The Hague, 1956
ODNB Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, http://www.oxforddnb. com/,
published online since 2004. Abstract 1797 Abstract of the
Instrument of Institution and Laws of the Royal Academy of Arts in London:
Established, London, ACIDINI Acidini Luchinat
C. Acidini Luchinat, Taddeo e Federico Zuccari: fratelli pittori del
Cinquecento, 2 vols, Milan, Ackerman, The Cortile del Belvedere, The Vatican. Agosti and
Farinella 1987 G. Agosti and V. Farinella, Michelangelo. Studi di antichità dal
Codice Coner, Turin, 1987. Alberti 1604 R. Alberti, Origine, et progresso
dell’Academia del Dissegno, de’ Pittori, Scultori, et Architetti di Roma,
Pavia, 1604. Alberti 1972 L. B. Alberti, On Painting and on
Sculpture: The Latin Texts of ‘De Pictura’ and ‘De Statua’, ed. and trans. by
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Arts, Antwerp (eds R. A. D’Hulst et al.), 1977. Antwerp 2004 A House of Art. Rubens as Collector,
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2004–07 Rijksmuseum aan de Schelde:
meesterwerken uit de schatkamer van Nederland, Royal Museum of Fine Arts,
Antwerp, 2004–07 (no catalogue). Antwerp 2008 Heads on Shoulders: Portrait
Busts in the Low Countries, Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp (ed. V. Herremans),
2008. Antwerp 2013 Kunst Antwerpen Academie 350, Museum aan de Stroom, Antwerp
(eds K. van Cauteren et al.), 2013. Arras and Épinal 2004
Rubens contre Poussin: la querelle du coloris dans la peinture française à la
fin du XVIIe siècle, Musée des beaux-arts d’Arras; Musée départemental d’art
ancien et contemporain à Épinal (eds E. Delapierre et al.), 2004. Athens 2003–04 In the Light of
Apollo. Italian Renaissance and Greece, National Gallery, Alexandros Soutzos
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Quarenghi, Palazzo della Ragione, Bergamo (eds A. Bettagno et al.), 1994. Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989 Italian Etchers of the Renaissance
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Medici, Groeningemuseum, Bruges (eds A. Baroni and M. Sellink), 2008–09
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Master Drawings. Organization of Antique Fairs, Gallery Kekko, Thurn and Taxis,
Brussels, 2004. Brussels 2007–08 Alle wegen leiden naar Rome. Reizende
kunstenaars van de 16de tot de 19de eeuw, Gemeentelijk Museum van Elsene,
Brussels (D. Vautier), 2007–08 (no catalogue). Brussels and Rome
1995 Fiamminghi a Roma 1508–1608. Artisti dei Paesi Bassi e del Principato di
Liegi a Roma durante il Rinascimento, Palais des Beaux-Arts, Brussels; Palazzo
delle Esposizioni, Rome (eds N. Dacos and B. W. Meijer), 1995. Cambridge 1988 Baccio Bandinelli
1493–1560: Drawings from British Collections, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (R.
Ward), 1988. Chicago 2007–08 The Virtual Tourist in Renaissance Rome: Printing
and Collecting the ‘Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae’, Special Collections
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sous Louis XV: Le cabinet de Jacques-Laure de Breteuil, Bailli de l’Ordre de
Malta 1723–1785, Château de Breteuil, Choisel, 1986. Cologne 1977 Peter Paul
Rubens, 1577–1640, Museen der Stadt, Cologne, 1977. Cologne and Utrecht 1991–92
I Bamboccianti: niederländische Malerrebellen im Rom des Barock,
Wallraf-Richartz-Museum, Cologne; Centraal Museum, Utrecht (eds D.A. Levine and
E. Mai), 1991–92. Compton Verney and Norwich 2009–10 The Artist’s Studio, Compton Verney and
Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, Norwich (ed. G. Waterfield), 2009–10.
Copenhagen 1973 ‘Maegtige Schweiz’.
Inspirationer fra Schweiz. 1750–1850, Thorvaldsens Museum, Copenhagen, 1973.
Copenhagen 2004 Spejlinger i Gips, Det Kongelige Danske Kunstakademi,
Copenhagen (eds Kjerrman et al.), 2004. Derby 1997 Joseph Wright of Derby:
1734–1797, Derby Museum et Art Gallery (J. Wallis), 1997. Doha 2011 The Golden Age of Dutch Painting:
Masterpieces from the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, Museum of Islamic Art, Doha, 2011
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1550–2012, Dordrechts Museum (S. Craft-Giepmans and A. de Vries), 2012–13.
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World-City, 1800–1840, Villa Hügel, Essen (ed. C. Fox), 1992. Florence
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1999-2000 Giovinezza di Michelangelo, Palazzo Vecchio and Casa Buonarroti,
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bellezza ideale, Gallerie dell’Accademia, Florence (eds F. Falletti and J. Katz
Nelson), 2002. Florence 2008 Fiamminghi e Olandesi a Firenze. Disegni dalle
collezioni degli Uffizi, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi, Florence (eds
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Baccio Bandinelli: scultore maestro (1493–1560), Museo Nazionale del
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Heinrich Füssli, Musée d’Art et d’Histoire, Musée Rath Genève, Geneva
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(U. Wegener), 1999. Harvard and Evanston 2011–12 Prints and the Pursuit of
Knowledge in Early Modern Europe, Harvard Art Museums, Cambridge (MA); Mary and
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Heidelberg 1982 100 unbekannte
Zeichnungen und Aquarelle des 16.-18. Jahrhunderts, Kurpfälzisches Museum,
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Liverpool 2007 Joseph Wright of Derby in Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery,
Liverpool (eds E. E. Barker and A. Kidson), 2007. London 1836 The Lawrence
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President of the Royal Academy, London. London 1947 Dutch Conversation Pieces
of the 18th et 19th Centuries, The Allied Circle, London, 1947. London
1950 French Master Drawings of the 18th
Century, Matthiesen Gallery, London, 1950. London 1953 Drawings by Old Masters, Royal Academy of
Arts, London (K. T. Parker and J. Byam Shaw), 1953. London 1955 A Loan
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as a Residential Nursing Home Wildenstein et Co., London (D. Mahon and D.
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Bartolomeo Cavaceppi: Eighteenth-century Restorations of Ancient Marble
Sculpture from English Private Collections, The Clarendon Gallery Ltd., London
(C. A. Picón), 1983. London 1986 Florentine Drawings of the Sixteenth Century,
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London 1992 Drawings Related to Sculpture, 1520–1620, Katrin Bellinger at
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1997 British Watercolours from the Oppé
Collection, Tate Gallery, London (A. Lyles and R. Hamlyn), 1997. London 1999a John
Soane Architect. Master of Space and Light, Royal Academy, London (eds M.
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Portraits of Artists and Related Subjects, Trinity Fine Art, London, .
London A Noble Art: Amateur Artists and
Drawing Masters, British Museum, London (K. Sloan), 2000. London 2001 Marble
Mania. Sculpture Galleries in England, 1640–1840, Sir John Soane’s Museum,
London (R. Guilding), 2001. London 2001–02
The Print in Italy 1550–1620, British Museum, London (M. Bury), 2001–02.
London 2003a Artists by Artists, Chaucer Fine Arts Inc., London, 2003. London
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Artist in Art, Colnaghi in association with Emanuel von Baeyer, London,
2007–08. London 2009–10 Rubens Drawings, British Museum, Department of Prints
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from the 19th Century, Victoria and Albert Museum, London, 2011 (no catalogue).
London 2011–12 Leonardo da Vinci. Painter at the Court of Milan, National
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Nude. Eighteenth-Century Drawings from the Paris Academy, Wallace Collection,
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Making a Prince’s Museum: Drawings for the Late-Eighteenth-century
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Angeles, Austin and elsewhere 1976–77
Women Artists, 1550–1950, Los Angeles County Museum of Art; University
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The Genius of the Sculptor in Michelangelo’s Work, The Montreal Museum
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Lemoine). Rome, University Park (PA) and elsewhere Prize winning drawings from the Roman
Academy, Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome; Palmer Museum of Art,
Pennsylvania State University; and National Academy of Design, New York (eds A.
Cipriani and G. Casale), 1989–90. Rotterdam 1946 Cornelis Troost en zijn tijd,
Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam, 1946. Rotterdam 1958 Michael Sweerts
en Tijdgenoten, Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam (E. Lavagino), .
Rotterdam Cornelis Cort ‘constich
plaedt-snijder van Horne in Holland’ – Cornelis Cort accomplished plate-cutter
from Hoorn in Holland, Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam (M. Sellink),
1994. Stockholm 1990 Füssli, Uddevalla,
Stockholm (ed. G. Cavalli- Björkman), . Stuttgart Johann Heinrich Füssli. Das Verlorene
Paradies, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart (ed. C. Becker and C. Hattendorrf), . Swansea
Exhibition of French Master Drawings,
Glynn Vivian Art Gallery, Swansea. Toledo, Chicago and elsewhere 1975–76 The
Age of Louis XV: French Painting, The Toledo Museum of Art, Ohio; Art Institute
of Chicago; National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa (ed. Rosenberg), 1975–76. Tokyo The Age of Rembrandt: Dutch Paintings and
Drawings of the 17th century, The National Museum of Western Art, Toyko, and
Kyoto Municipal Museum (D. A. van Karnebeek). Tokyo Henry Fuseli, National Museum of Western Art
and City Art Museum Kitakyushu, Tokyo (ed. G. Schiff). Toronto, Ottawa and elsewhere Dessins français du 17e et 18e siècles des
collections americaines. French Master Drawings of the 17th and 18th Centuries
of the North American Collections, Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto; National
Gallery of Canada, Ottawa; California Palace of the Legion of Honor, San
Francisco; New York Cultural Center (eds C. Johnston and Rosenberg), . Tours and Toulouse Les peintres du
roi , Musée des Beaux-Arts de Tours; Musée des Augustins à Toulouse (eds P.
Rosenberg et al.), Paris. Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere Charles-Joseph Natoire (Nîmes, 1700 – Castel
Gandolfo): peintures, dessins, estampes et tapisseries des collections
publiques françaises, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Troyes; Musée des Beaux- Arts,
Nîmes; Villa Medici, Rome, . Venice Tiziano e la silografia veneziana del
Cinquecento, Fondazione Giorgio Cini, Venice (eds M. Muraro and D. Rosand),
Venice Vienna Zauber der Medusa. Europäische Manierismen, Wiener Künstlerhaus, Vienna (ed. W. Hofmann).
Washington D.C. Seventeenth Century
Dutch Drawings from American Collections: A Loan Exhibition, organized and
circulated by the International Exhibitions Foundation, National Gallery of
Art, Washington, D.C. (F. W. Robinson). Washington D.C. Hubert Robert: Drawings et Watercolors,
National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. (V. Carlson), 1978–79. Washington
D.C. The Drawings of Annibale Carracci,
National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. (eds D. Benati et al.). Washington
D.C., Los Angeles and elsewhere Jean-Antoine
Houdon: Sculptor of the Enlightenment, National Gallery of Art, Washington,
D.C.; The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles; Musée et Domaine National du
Château de Versailles (A. L. Poulet et al.), . Williamstown, Madison and
elsewhere Goltzius and the Third Dimension,
Sterling and Francine Clark Institute, Williamstown (MA); Elvehjem Museum of
Art, Madison (WI); Spencer Museum of Art, Lawrence (KS) (eds S. H. Goddard and
J. A. Ganz). Windsor Paper palaces: The
Topham Collection as a Source for British Neo-Classicism, The Verey Gallery,
Eton College, Windsor (A. Aymonino et al.), 2013. York A Candidate for Praise. William Manson
1725–97, Precentor of York, York Art Gallery and York Minster Library (eds B.
Barr and J. Ingamells). Zurich Füssli: Zur Zweihundertjahrfeier und
Gedächtnisausstellung, Kunsthaus Zürich, Zurich (ed. W. Wartmann and M.
Fischer), 1941. Zurich Johann Heinrich
Füssli, , Kunsthaus Zürich, Zurich, . Zurich 1984 Meisterwerke aus der
Graphischen eichnungen, Aquarelli, Pastelle, Collagen aus fünf
Jahrhunderten, Kunsthaus Zürich, Zurich. Zurich Füssli. The Wild Swiss, Kunsthaus Zürich,
Zurich (ed. F. Lentzsch), Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth
II. Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2015 bpk, Berlin /
Museum der bildenden Künste, Leipzig 64. bpk, Berlin / Museum der bildenden
Künste, Leipzig . The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection 66. Photo out
of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 67. The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London . Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 69. bpk, Berlin /
École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais bpk,
Berlin / École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand
Palais 71. bpk, Berlin / École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris,
Dist. RMN – Grand Palais 72. Photo out of copyright (The
Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Photo out of copyright (The
Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam 75. Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford 76. Su gentile concessione
del Museo Biblioteca Archivio di Bassano del Grappa 77. Photo Les Arts décoratifs 78. Photo Les Arts décoratifs. National
Library of Medicine National Library of Medicine The Metropolitan Museum of
Art, Gift of Lincoln Kirstein, metmuseum.org . Royal Academy of Arts, London 83. bpk, Berlin / École nationale supérieure
des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais 84. Royal Academy of Arts, London Royal Academy of Arts, London 86. Private collection 87. bpk, Berlin / École nationale supérieure des
Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais 88. Philadelphia Museum of Art . Cherbourg-Octeville, musée d’art
Thomas-Henry D.Sohier . Heidelberg University Library 91. The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved . Staatsgalerie Stuttgart Foto:
Staatsgalerie Stuttgart 93. Reproduced by permission of the Provost and Fellows
of Eton College 94. bpk, Berlin / Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais /
Susanne Nagy . Musée de Valence, photo Philippe Petiot . Musée de
Valence, photo Philippe Petiot Musée de Valence, photo Philippe Petiot Courtesy
National Gallery of Art, Washington 99. Tate, London .
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 101.
Royal Academy of Arts, London; Photographer: John Hammond Fig. . RSA, London
Fig. 103. RSA, London Fig. CSG CIC Glasgow Museums and Libraries Collection:
The Mitchell Library, Special Collections Fig. 105. Royal Academy of Arts,
London; Photographer: Prudence Cuming Associates Limited Fig. . Royal
Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2015 Fig. . Royal Academy of
Arts, London Fig. 108. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Photograph courtesy of the National Gallery of Ireland
Cat. 1 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow Fig. 1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) Fig. 2. Matthew Hollow. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Cat. 2 Exhibit.
Matthew Hollow Fig. 1. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam Cat. 3 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow .
Courtesy Yvonne Tan Bunzl The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Fig. . bpk,
Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett, SMB / Volker-H. Schneider The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved 6. S.S.P.S.A.E e per il Polo Museale
della città di Firenze – Gabinetto Fotografico Cat. 4 Exhibit a. The Trustees
of the British Museum. All rights reserved Exhibit b. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 1.
Private collection 2. Kurpfälzisches Museum der Stadt Heidelberg Cat. 5
Exhibit. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program 1. Photo
out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. Vatican
Museums and Galleries, Vatican City/ Bridgeman Images 3. The Trustees of the
British Museum. 4. Digital image
courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program Digital image courtesy of the
Getty’s Open Content Program Cat. 6 Exhibit a. Teylers Museum, Haarlem Exhibit
b. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved 1. Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam Cat. 7 Exhibit a. Teylers Museum, Haarlem Exhibit b. Teylers Museum,
Haarlem Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection)
2. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 3. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 4. Courtesy Amsterdam
Museum Cat. 8 Exhibit. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 1. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 2.
S.S.P.S.A.E e per il Polo Museale della città di Firenze – Gabinetto
Fotografico Cat. 9 Exhibit. The Trustees of the British
Museum. All rights reserved 1. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni Musée des Beaux-Arts de Dijon. Photo François Jay Cat.
10 Exhibit. Matthew
Hollow 1. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni . Courtesy of the Master and Fellows of Trinity College Cambridge 3.
Matthew Hollow 4. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge Cat. 11 Exhibit. Matthew
Hollow 1. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 2. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge Matthew
Hollow Cat. 12 Exhibit. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 1. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 2.
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 4. The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection 5. Detroit Institute
of Arts, USA, City of Detroit Purchase/Bridgeman Images 6. Collection Rau for
UNICEF / Gruppe Köln, Hans G. Scheib Cat. 13 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Photo
out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. Courtesy
Amsterdam Museum 3. Courtesy Municipal Archives of The Hague 4. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 6. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Cat. Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. 2015 The
Metropolitan Museum of Art/ Art Resource/Scala, Florence Christie’s Images
Limited Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam Photographic Credits Every effort has been made
to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of
copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions in the
below list and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be
incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book. Ideal Beauty and the
Canon in Classical Antiquity The Metropolitan Museum of Art/Art Resource/Scala,
Florence . The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection ‘Nature Perfected’: The Theory et Practice
of Drawing after the Antique 1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 2. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 3. bpk, Berlin / Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN – Grand
Palais / Gérard Blot . Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini
Picture Library 5. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Fig.. Albertina, Vienna Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) 8. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) . Comune di Milano Photo out of copyright
(The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 11. Veneranda Biblioteca
Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini Picture Library 12. The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved 13. Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen,
Rotterdam. Loan Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen Foundation (collection Koenigs) /
photographer: Studio Tromp, Rotterdam The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved 15. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 16.
Rijksmuseum, Amseterdam The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of
Phyllis Massar, metmuseum.org 18. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) 19. Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican
City/Bridgeman Images . Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) . Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels /
photo: J. Geleyns / Ro scan 22. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 23. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) . The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved . Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna, Austria / Bridgeman Images 26.
Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican City / Bridgeman Images 27. Courtesy
National Gallery of Art, Washington 28. Albertina, Vienna 29. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . The Trustees of
the British Museum. All rights reserved . The Trustees of the British Museum.
All rights reserved 32. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 33. Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy /
Bridgeman Images. S.S.P.S.A.E e per il Polo Museale della città di Firenze –
Gabinetto Fotografico 35. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 36. Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De
Agostini Picture Library. Katrin Bellinger collection 38. bpk, Berlin /
Kupferstichkabinett / Jörg P. Anders bpk, Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett / Jörg
P. Anders 40. bpk, Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett / Volker-H. Schneider 41. bpk,
Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett / Volker-H. Schneider bpk, Berlin /
Kupferstichkabinett / Volker-H. Schneider . bpk, Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett /
Volker-H. Schneider 44. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) The Metropolitan Museum of Art/ Art Resource/Scala,
Florence 46. Veneranda
Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini Picture Library . Veneranda
Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini Picture Library 48. Royal Museum for Fine Arts Antwerp Lukas-Art in Flanders vzw, photo Hugo
Maertens Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 50. Musea Brugge Lukas-Art in Flanders vzw,
photo Hugo Maertens 51. ©Peter Cox/Bonnefantenmuseum Maastricht 52. Minneapolis
Institute of Arts, MN, USA, The Walter H. and Valborg P. Ude Memorial Fund/
Bridgeman Images 53. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 54. Louvre, Paris,
France/Bridgeman Images 55. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 56. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 57. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) . bpk, Berlin / Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN – Grand
Palais / Richard Lambert 59. bpk, Berlin / Musée Condé, Chantilly, Dist. RMN –
Grand Palais / René-Gabriel Ojéda Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen
Elizabeth II Cat. 15 Exhibit. The Trustees of the British Museum. All
rights reserved 1. Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth / Reproduced by permission
of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees / Bridgeman Images 2. Wadsworth Atheneum Museum
of Art, Hartford, CT The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved 4.
Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican City / Bridgeman Images Cat. 16 Exhibit.
The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London 1. Image courtesy of
Sotheby’s 2. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) 3. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) 5. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) 6. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Cat. 17 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Archivio Fotografico dei
Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 2. Museum Boijmans
Van Beuningen, Rotterdam / photographer: Studio Tromp, Rotterdam 3. The
Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of Walter C. Baker, metmuseum.org 4. Witt
Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, London Cat. 18 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow
1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Photo
out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 3. bpk,
Berlin / Antikensammlung, SMB 4. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) bpk, Berlin / Antikensammlung, SMB / Johannes
Laurentius . photo Musées de Marseille 7. Photographic Survey, The Courtauld
Institute of Art, London. Private collection Cat. 19 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1.
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. Accademia
Nazionale di San Luca. Tutti i diritti riservati 3. The Trustees of the British
Museum. All rights reserved . By courtesy of the Trustees of
Sir John Soane’s Museum Cat. Exhibit. By
courtesy of the Trustees of Sir John Soane’s Museum 1. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 3. Archivio Fotografico
dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 4. The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection 5. Staatsgalerie Stuttgart Foto: Staatsgalerie
Stuttgart 6. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Cat. 21 Exhibit. bpk / Kunstbibliothek, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin
1. Image courtesy of Sotheby’s 2. Image courtesy of
Sotheby’s Cat. 22 Exhibit. 2014 Kunsthaus Zürich. All rights
reserved. 1. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Paulo Cipollina 2.
Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Lorenzo De Masi 3. Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Lorenzo De Masi 4. Istituto Centrale
per la Grafica Canoni fotografici (MIBACT) 5. bpk, Berlin / Kunstbibliothek,
SMB / Dietmar Katz Cat. 23 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1.
Louvre, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images 2. The Trustees of the British Museum.
All rights reserved Cat. 24 Exhibit. The Trustees of the British Museum. All
rights reserved 1. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection Private
collection 3. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Cat. 25 Exhibit. Royal Academy of Arts, London 1. Royal Academy of
Arts, London 2. Royal Academy of Arts, London 3. bpk, Berlin / RMN – Grand
Palais / Stéphane Maréchalle 4. Santa Barbara Museum of Art, Gift of Wright S.
Ludington 5. Conway
Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, London . Archivio Fotografico dei
Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 7. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 8. Royal Academy of
Arts, London; Photographer: Paul Highnam Royal Academy of Arts, London;
Photographer: Paul Highnam Cat. Exhibit.
The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Tate, London 2. Courtesy of www.gjsaville-caricatures.co.uk
Cat. 27 Exhibit a. Victoria and Albert Museum, London Exhibit b. Victoria and
Albert Museum, London 1. Tate, London 2014 2. Tate, London. Tate, London .
Tate, London 2014 Cat. 28 Exhibit. The Trustees of the British Museum. All
rights reserved 1. Towneley Hall Art Gallery and Museum, Burnley,
Lancashire/Bridgeman Images . Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 3. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved Cat. 29 Exhibit. By courtesy of the Trustees of Sir John Soane’s
Museum Cat. 30 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Photo Collection RKD, The Hague 2.
Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2015 3. Klassik Stiftung
Weimar, Bestand Museen. Photo Sigrid Geske Cat. 31 Exhibit. Teylers Museum,
Haarlem Cat. 32 Exhibit. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 1. Photo Collection RKD, The
Hague Cat. 33 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. The National Museum of Art,
Architecture and Design, Oslo, photographer Jacques Lathion 2. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 4. Louvre, Paris, France
/ Bridgeman Images 5. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 6. Courtesy of Pontus Kjerrman Cat. 34 Exhibit.
Matthew Hollow Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Courtesy of Olga Liubimova Tomas Abad Cat. 35 Exhibit. Matthew
Hollow Victoria and Albert Museum, London National Portrait Gallery, London
Christie’s Images Limited Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) National Museums Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery
[National Museums Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery Sammlung. Nome compiuto: Massimo
Carboni. Keywords: tratto dalla vita, estetica, arte, icona, parola, immagine,
filosofia antica, il concetto dell’antico, l’antico – l’antico e il moderno –
drawing from the antique – antico – filosofia antica, arte antica, statuaria
antica, the lure of the antique – il gusto e l’antico --. Refs.: Luigi
Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, “Grice e Carboni,” The Swimming-Pool
Library, Villa Speranza, Liguria, Italia.
levi: filosofo italiano - Italian philosopher of
Jewish descent. Author
of “Storia della filosofia romana.”
giornale
critico della filosofia italiana.
Giovanni
d. “Positivismo italiano.”
Luigi
Speranza -- Grice e Cattaneo: essential Italian philosopher. Refs.: Luigi Speranza,
"Grice e Cattaneo," per Il Club Anglo-Italiano, The Swimming-Pool
Library, Villa Grice, Liguria, Italia.
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