precepts of sculpture or—”
“You’re much more interesting when you aren’t patronizing me,” Sabina said frankly. “You should try talking like a human being more often. So, what’s so special about the Polykleitos
Doryphorus
?”
Hadrian looked down at her. For a moment Sabina thought he’d go back to boring pleasantries, but his hand reached out almost involuntarily and touched the little Atlas. “See the shift in the weight between the feet? Perfectly poised between motion and repose. The Greek sculptor Polykleitos found it was the finest way to express the beauty of the athletic form. His
Doryphorus
is the best example, but he had a very fine Hera in a temple in Argos, and a bronze Amazon in Ephesus—”
“Surely you’re not a sculptor too?” Sabina looked at Hadrian’s large hands. Unscarred and soft, the nails smooth and uniform, not much like Uncle Paris’s chisel-roughened palms.
“No, merely a dabbler in the arts,” Hadrian said with a modesty Sabina found suspect. “I make sketches, and architectural drawings—you can see the same principle in Greek architecture, you know. The Erechtheion caryatids, they don’t just serve as pillars! You can see a knee raised, as if they’re ready to step down off the plinth—”
He was waving his arms now.
“I’m going to build my own villa someday,” he told Sabina. “The perfect blend of Greek and Roman architectural principles. The grace and beauty of Greece—Corinthian columns, we’ve got nothing to match them—but backed up by the solidity of our Roman domes. I’ve made preliminary designs, but I need more study. A tour in Greece; I want to see the Acropolis, the temples. The Greeks have the finest temples in the world.”
“According to you, the Greeks have the finest everything,” Sabina teased, but he was too absorbed to mind her joking now.
“Not everything.” Decisive. “Rome has the finest government, the best engineering, the most perfect system of organization. But culture, that goes to Greece. Architecture, philosophy, dramatics—all we have to offer for dramatists are those dreary pantomime farces, nothing to stand against Sophocles and Euripides. And as for literature—”
“Cicero,” said Sabina promptly. “Martial, Virgil—”
Hadrian snorted. “Overrated.”
“Surely not Virgil,” Sabina protested. “‘
I see wars, horrible wars, and the Tiber foaming with much blood—
’”
“Orotund and overpolished,” Hadrian snapped. “You want an accounting of Aeneas, you’d do better to study Ennius’s
Annals
. Good straightforward Roman prose—”
“You will never win me away from Virgil. What about Cato?”
“Cato I will grant you. He has a textbook on public speaking, sound basis in Greek rhetorical theory—”
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
“Have you? Extraordinary. What about his
Origines…”
Eventually, Uncle Paris’s voice broke into the discussion. “Go away, both of you,” he said without looking up from his chisels. “You’re distracting me.”
Sabina realized they’d been talking loudly, enthusiastically, and for more than an hour. Hastily she bundled up the little figurine of Atlas. “We’re going, Uncle Paris.”
“I’d meant to commission a bust of Emperor Trajan,” Hadrian recalled. “Carved as Alexander—”
“Boring,” said Uncle Paris, and shut the door of his studio.
“Don’t mind him,” Sabina said as they came out into the street. Her litter-bearers straightened hastily, having taken advantage of her absence to flirt with a cluster of slave girls on the way to the market. “Uncle Paris carves for himself, you know, not for his living. You’d better make your commission interesting, or he won’t take it.”
“A true sculptor.” Hadrian fingered his short beard. “I envy such men. A great talent may be a burden, but it does lighten one of destiny. The talent
is
the destiny.”
“I was thinking that myself, earlier,” said Sabina. “But you said it
“You’re much more interesting when you aren’t patronizing me,” Sabina said frankly. “You should try talking like a human being more often. So, what’s so special about the Polykleitos
Doryphorus
?”
Hadrian looked down at her. For a moment Sabina thought he’d go back to boring pleasantries, but his hand reached out almost involuntarily and touched the little Atlas. “See the shift in the weight between the feet? Perfectly poised between motion and repose. The Greek sculptor Polykleitos found it was the finest way to express the beauty of the athletic form. His
Doryphorus
is the best example, but he had a very fine Hera in a temple in Argos, and a bronze Amazon in Ephesus—”
“Surely you’re not a sculptor too?” Sabina looked at Hadrian’s large hands. Unscarred and soft, the nails smooth and uniform, not much like Uncle Paris’s chisel-roughened palms.
“No, merely a dabbler in the arts,” Hadrian said with a modesty Sabina found suspect. “I make sketches, and architectural drawings—you can see the same principle in Greek architecture, you know. The Erechtheion caryatids, they don’t just serve as pillars! You can see a knee raised, as if they’re ready to step down off the plinth—”
He was waving his arms now.
“I’m going to build my own villa someday,” he told Sabina. “The perfect blend of Greek and Roman architectural principles. The grace and beauty of Greece—Corinthian columns, we’ve got nothing to match them—but backed up by the solidity of our Roman domes. I’ve made preliminary designs, but I need more study. A tour in Greece; I want to see the Acropolis, the temples. The Greeks have the finest temples in the world.”
“According to you, the Greeks have the finest everything,” Sabina teased, but he was too absorbed to mind her joking now.
“Not everything.” Decisive. “Rome has the finest government, the best engineering, the most perfect system of organization. But culture, that goes to Greece. Architecture, philosophy, dramatics—all we have to offer for dramatists are those dreary pantomime farces, nothing to stand against Sophocles and Euripides. And as for literature—”
“Cicero,” said Sabina promptly. “Martial, Virgil—”
Hadrian snorted. “Overrated.”
“Surely not Virgil,” Sabina protested. “‘
I see wars, horrible wars, and the Tiber foaming with much blood—
’”
“Orotund and overpolished,” Hadrian snapped. “You want an accounting of Aeneas, you’d do better to study Ennius’s
Annals
. Good straightforward Roman prose—”
“You will never win me away from Virgil. What about Cato?”
“Cato I will grant you. He has a textbook on public speaking, sound basis in Greek rhetorical theory—”
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
“Have you? Extraordinary. What about his
Origines…”
Eventually, Uncle Paris’s voice broke into the discussion. “Go away, both of you,” he said without looking up from his chisels. “You’re distracting me.”
Sabina realized they’d been talking loudly, enthusiastically, and for more than an hour. Hastily she bundled up the little figurine of Atlas. “We’re going, Uncle Paris.”
“I’d meant to commission a bust of Emperor Trajan,” Hadrian recalled. “Carved as Alexander—”
“Boring,” said Uncle Paris, and shut the door of his studio.
“Don’t mind him,” Sabina said as they came out into the street. Her litter-bearers straightened hastily, having taken advantage of her absence to flirt with a cluster of slave girls on the way to the market. “Uncle Paris carves for himself, you know, not for his living. You’d better make your commission interesting, or he won’t take it.”
“A true sculptor.” Hadrian fingered his short beard. “I envy such men. A great talent may be a burden, but it does lighten one of destiny. The talent
is
the destiny.”
“I was thinking that myself, earlier,” said Sabina. “But you said it
Similar Books
