Zeuxis

Lucian of Samosata

Lucian, Vol. 6. Kilburn, K., translator. London: William Heinemann, Ltd.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959.

Recently I was on my way home after lecturing to you, when a number of my recent audience met me (I see no objection to telling you a story like this now that you and I are friends)—they met me, then, and after greeting me gave some indication of approval. They accompanied me for some distance, vying in noisy praise until I blushed for shame at the thought that I fell far short of their praises. The substance of their approbation, which all alike emphasised, was the strangeness of the thought in my composition and the degree of freshness it displayed. It would be better to quote verbatim: “What novelty! What marvellous paradoxes! How inventive he is! The freshness of thought is beyond compare!” They continued in this strain. They had clearly been taken with the lecture—I don’t suppose they could have any reason for telling lies and flattering a stranger as they did, one who had no other reason for claiming their attention.

To be honest, however, their praise caused me considerable annoyance, and when they had gone and I was left alone, I reflected as follows: “So this is the only attraction in my writings, that they are unconventional and keep off the beaten track, while good vocabulary, conformity to the ancient canon,

v.6.p.157
penetration of intellect, power of perception, Attic grace, good construction, general competence, perhaps have no place in my work. Otherwise they would not have ignored these qualities and praised only the novel and strange element in my style. I, fool that I was, had thought when they rose in approbation that perhaps this particular feature too had some attraction for them—I remembered the truth of Homer’s remark [*](Od. i, 352.) that the new song takes the fancy of an audience; but I did not think to attribute so much—indeed all of it—to novelty, but supposed novelty to be a kind of additional ornament making some contribution indeed to the approbation of my work, the audience’s real praise and commendation, however, going to those other qualities. As a result my elation overstepped its bounds—to think I nearly believed them when they called me unique and in a class apart in Greece and other flatteries of this kind. In the words of the proverb, my treasure turned out ashes, and their approval is not much different from that which they would give a conjurer.

I want to give you an example from a painter. Zeuxis, that pre-eminent artist, avoided painting popular and hackneyed themes as far as he could (I mean heroes, gods, wars); he was always aiming at novelty, and whenever he thought up something unheard-of and strange he showed the precision of his craftsmanship by depicting it. Among the bold innovations of this Zeuxis was his painting of a female Hippocentaur, one moreover that was feeding twin Hippocentaur children, no more than babies. There is a copy of this picture now at Athens made with

v.6.p.159
strict accuracy from the original. Sulla, the Roman commander, was said to have sent off the original with his other trophies to Italy, but I suppose the ship then sank off Malea [*](Cape Malea, in the southern Peloponnese.) with the loss of all its cargo, including the painting. However that may be, I saw the copy of the painting and will describe it to you as far as I can, though I am certainly no artist. I remember it quite well, as I saw it not long ago in the house of a painter in Athens. The intense admiration I felt at the time for the craftsmanship will perhaps help me in my endeavour to give you a full description.

The Centaur herself is depicted lying on fresh young grass with all the horse part of her on the ground. Her feet are stretched behind her. The human part is slightly raised up on her elbows. Her fore-feet are not now stretched out, as you might expect with one lying on her side; one foot is bent with the hoof drawn under like one who kneels, while the other on the other hand is beginning to straighten and is taking a grip on the ground, as is the case with horses striving to spring up. She holds one of her offspring aloft in her arms, giving it the breast in human fashion; the other she suckles from her mare’s teat like an animal. Towards the top of the picture, apparently on some vantage point, is a Hippocentaur, clearly the husband of her who is feeding her children in two ways. He is leaning down and laughing. He is not completely visible, but only to a point halfway down his horse body. He holds aloft in his right hand a lion’s whelp, suspending it above his head to frighten the children in his fun.

v.6.p.161

The other qualities, not completely discernible by the eye of an amateur like myself, nevertheless display the whole power of his craftsmanship—such things as precision of line, accuracy in the blending of colours, taste in application of the paint, correct use of shadow, good perspective, proportion, and symmetry. But let the sons of artists appreciate these points, men who make it their business to know them. For my part I praised Zeuxis for this in particular, that in one and the same subject he has shown his extraordinary craftsmanship in so many ways. His husband is completely frightening and absolutely wild; he has a proud mane, being almost completely covered in hair—not only the horse part of him but his human chest as well and especially his shoulders, and his glance, although he is laughing, is altogether savage, wild, and of the hills.

Such then is the husband. The horse part of the female he made is most beautiful, with a strong resemblance to Thessalian fillies when they are still untamed and virgin. The top half is that of a very beautiful woman, apart from the ears, which alone of her features are those of a satyr. The union and junction of bodies whereby the horse part is fused with the woman part and joined to it is effected by a gradual change, with no abrupt transition; the eye, as it moves gradually from one to the other, is quite deceived by the subtle change. In the case of the young, their babyhood is wild and already fearsome in its gentleness—I thought this a wonderful touch. I admired too the very babylike way in

v.6.p.163
which both young were looking up at the lion cub as they sucked at the nipple, holding close and nestling against their mother.

Zeuxis thought that this picture would send his viewers into raptures over his skill when they saw it. They certainly applauded it—what else could they do when they met a sight so lovely to gaze upon? But everyone’s warmest praise went to the points they praised in me too just recently; it was the strangeness of the idea, and the freshness of the sentiment of the work, quite unprecedented, that struck them. So when Zeuxis saw that the novelty of the subject was taking their attention and distracting them from the technique of the work, and that the accuracy of detail was taking second place, he said to his pupil: “Come on, Micio, cover up the picture and all of you pick it up and take it home. These spectators are praising only the mere clay of my work, but as to the effects of light, they do not worry much whether they are beautiful and skilfully executed, and the novelty of the subject goes for more than the accuracy of its parts.”

That is what Zeuxis said, with too much anger perhaps. Antiochus—the one called the Saviour—is said to have had a similar experience in the battle against the Galatians. If you agree I’ll tell you this story too. He knew that they were bold fighters and saw that there were many of them, and that their phalanx was compact and firm, with their bronze-clad warriors in the van and heavy-armed troops in the rear to a depth of twenty-four ranks, and that on either flank there were 20,000 cavalry,

v.6.p.165
while in the centre were eighty scythed chariots and twice as many two-horse chariots ready to make a sally. Antiochus then thought little of his chances of defeating such an invincible array. His own force had been hurriedly prepared and was not impressive or strong enough for the engagement. He had very few men, mostly targeteers and light-armed troops—light infantry made up over half of his force. Consequently he thought it prudent to make an immediate truce and to come to some honourable arrangement for putting an end to the war.

He had with him, however, Theodotas of Rhodes, a fine soldier and skilful tactician, and this man’s presence restored his confidence. Now Antiochus had sixteen elephants, and Theodotas told him to keep them hidden as much as possible so they should not be seen towering above the troops; on the signal for battle just when the fighting was to start and the troops to come to grips and the enemy’s cavalry charged, the Galatians would open their phalanx and stand aside to let the chariots through; at that moment a group of four elephants should be sent against the cavalry on either flank, the remaining eight attacking the scythed and two-horse chariots. Such a movement, said Theodotas, would frighten their horses and turn them back in flight against the Galatian ranks. So it turned out.

Neither the Galatians themselves nor their horses had previously seen an elephant and they were so confused by the unexpected sight that, while the beasts were still a long way off and they could only hear the trumpet, ing and see their tusks gleaming all the more brightly against their bodies dark all over and their trunks

v.6.p.167
raised like hooks, they turned and fled in a disorderly rout before they were within bowshot. Their infantry were impaled on each other’s spears and trampled underfoot as they were, by the cavalry, which came riding into them. The chariots too turned back against their own men and broke their ranks, not without bloodshed—in the words of Homer “the chariots clattered as they overturned.” [*](Homer, Il. xvi, 379.) Once the horses had veered from their straight course in their fear of the elephants, they threw off their drivers and the “empty chariots rattled on,” [*](Homer, Il. xi, 160.) actually tearing and cutting with their scythes any of their own men in their path. Many men were caught since there was utter confusion. The elephants followed, trampling on them, tossing them aloft in their trunks, snatching and piercing them with their tusks, and in the end these animals had presented Antiochus with an overwhelming victory.

The Galatians lost many killed in the great slaughter. The rest were taken prisoner, except for a very few who escaped to the mountains in time. Antiochus’s Macedonian contingent raised the Paean and gathering round him crowned him “king of glorious victory” with acclamation. Antiochus is said to have wept as he addressed his troops. “Men,” he said, “we owe our lives to these sixteen animals; so let us rather feel shame. For if the strangeness of what they saw had not thrown the enemy into confusion, what should we have been compared with them?” Then he ordered them to decorate the trophy with a carved elephant and nothing else.

It is time for me to consider whether my army is