he accompanied his guest into a large hall, ‘we have the rare animals collection. I had a taxidermist come from Egypt; he is an expert in sacred cats and crocodiles, and he works extremely quickly.’
Lysippus looked around and was increasingly fascinated, not so much by the stuffed animals – snakes, crocodiles, vultures – as by the anatomical drawings, in which he recognized the skill of a consummate artist.
‘Obviously we have to be very much on our guard against forgeries and scams of all kinds,’ continued Aristotle. ‘Since word has spread of our collection, we have received the most outlandish offers – Pharaoh’s rats, basilisks and even centaurs and sirens.’
‘Centaurs and sirens?’ repeated Lysippus in amazement.
‘Precisely. And we are even invited to inspect these wonders before we purchase them.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Elementary taxidermy. It is not by coincidence that the offers come for the most part from Egypt, where embalmers and taxidermists have thousands of years of experience. For these craftsmen sewing the torso of a man on to the body of a foal, ably concealing the stitches with skin and mane and then embalming everything is nothing at all. The end result of such masterful handiwork is really quite impressive, I assure you.’
‘I can well believe it.’
Aristotle moved towards a window from which there was a view of Lycabettus, with its cover of pine trees, and in the background the Acropolis and the great mass of the Parthenon. ‘What will he do now, in your opinion?’
Lysippus understood immediately that Aristotle had not stopped thinking about Alexander for even one instant.
‘All I know is that he will head south now, but no one knows his true intentions.’
‘He will go on,’ said the philosopher, turning towards the artist. ‘He will continue until he feels he can breathe freely and no one will be able to stop him.’
*
Apelles had stayed on alone at Ephesus, and was busy working on his big equestrian portrait of the King of Macedon. The King himself in the meantime had started off again on his march to Miletus.
The painter had concentrated above all else on the head of Bucephalas, depicting it so realistically that it was as if the animal were about to leap out of the painting. Apelles wanted to astound his client, and he had already organized transport to take him to Alexander’s next camp together with the paintings, so that the King could admire the finished articles.
He had dedicated a long time and much work of precision to depicting the bloody foam around the bit in the horse’s mouth, but he hadn’t managed to reach quite the right depth of colour. Pancaspe, who never shut up, drove him wild with rage – the initial joys of their falling in love had long since passed.
‘If you don’t shut that mouth of yours,’ shouted the exasperated painter, ‘I’ll never manage to finish this!’
‘But, dear . . .’ Pancaspe started again.
‘Enough!’ screamed Apelles, completely out of his mind as he threw a paint-sodden sponge at the painting. By some extraordinary miracle the sponge hit the painting just at the corner of Bucephalus’s mouth before it fell to the floor.
‘There you are,’ she whinged. ‘Happy now? You’ve ruined it! And I suppose it will all be my fault, won’t it?’
But the painter was not listening. He walked incredulous towards his painting, his arms raised in a gesture of utter wonder. ‘It cannot be true,’ he murmured. ‘By the gods, it is not possible.’
The mark of the sponge had rendered the bloody saliva on Bucephalas’s mouth with a realistic effect that no human ability could ever have equalled.
‘Oh, now . . .’ chirped Pancaspe as she too became aware of the miracle.
Apelles turned towards her and lifted his index finger until it was almost touching her nose: ‘If you ever tell anyone about how this particular detail was achieved,’ and his finger moved slowly to point to the miraculous
Lysippus looked around and was increasingly fascinated, not so much by the stuffed animals – snakes, crocodiles, vultures – as by the anatomical drawings, in which he recognized the skill of a consummate artist.
‘Obviously we have to be very much on our guard against forgeries and scams of all kinds,’ continued Aristotle. ‘Since word has spread of our collection, we have received the most outlandish offers – Pharaoh’s rats, basilisks and even centaurs and sirens.’
‘Centaurs and sirens?’ repeated Lysippus in amazement.
‘Precisely. And we are even invited to inspect these wonders before we purchase them.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Elementary taxidermy. It is not by coincidence that the offers come for the most part from Egypt, where embalmers and taxidermists have thousands of years of experience. For these craftsmen sewing the torso of a man on to the body of a foal, ably concealing the stitches with skin and mane and then embalming everything is nothing at all. The end result of such masterful handiwork is really quite impressive, I assure you.’
‘I can well believe it.’
Aristotle moved towards a window from which there was a view of Lycabettus, with its cover of pine trees, and in the background the Acropolis and the great mass of the Parthenon. ‘What will he do now, in your opinion?’
Lysippus understood immediately that Aristotle had not stopped thinking about Alexander for even one instant.
‘All I know is that he will head south now, but no one knows his true intentions.’
‘He will go on,’ said the philosopher, turning towards the artist. ‘He will continue until he feels he can breathe freely and no one will be able to stop him.’
*
Apelles had stayed on alone at Ephesus, and was busy working on his big equestrian portrait of the King of Macedon. The King himself in the meantime had started off again on his march to Miletus.
The painter had concentrated above all else on the head of Bucephalas, depicting it so realistically that it was as if the animal were about to leap out of the painting. Apelles wanted to astound his client, and he had already organized transport to take him to Alexander’s next camp together with the paintings, so that the King could admire the finished articles.
He had dedicated a long time and much work of precision to depicting the bloody foam around the bit in the horse’s mouth, but he hadn’t managed to reach quite the right depth of colour. Pancaspe, who never shut up, drove him wild with rage – the initial joys of their falling in love had long since passed.
‘If you don’t shut that mouth of yours,’ shouted the exasperated painter, ‘I’ll never manage to finish this!’
‘But, dear . . .’ Pancaspe started again.
‘Enough!’ screamed Apelles, completely out of his mind as he threw a paint-sodden sponge at the painting. By some extraordinary miracle the sponge hit the painting just at the corner of Bucephalus’s mouth before it fell to the floor.
‘There you are,’ she whinged. ‘Happy now? You’ve ruined it! And I suppose it will all be my fault, won’t it?’
But the painter was not listening. He walked incredulous towards his painting, his arms raised in a gesture of utter wonder. ‘It cannot be true,’ he murmured. ‘By the gods, it is not possible.’
The mark of the sponge had rendered the bloody saliva on Bucephalas’s mouth with a realistic effect that no human ability could ever have equalled.
‘Oh, now . . .’ chirped Pancaspe as she too became aware of the miracle.
Apelles turned towards her and lifted his index finger until it was almost touching her nose: ‘If you ever tell anyone about how this particular detail was achieved,’ and his finger moved slowly to point to the miraculous
Similar Books
