Chapter VII: Introduction: To the Propylæa (1)

(1798)

There is no more striking sign of the decay of art than when we find its separate provinces mixed up together.

The arts themselves, as well as their subordinate forms, are closely related to each other, and have a certain tendency to unite, and even lose themselves in each other; but herein lies the duty, the merit, the dignity of the true artist, that he knows how to separate that department in which he labors from the others, and, so far as may be, isolates it.

It has been noticed that all plastic art tends towards painting, all poetry to the drama; and this may furnish the text for some important observations hereafter.

The genuine, law-giving artist strives after artistic truth; the lawless, following a blind instinct, after an appearance of naturalness. The former leads to the highest pinnacle of art, the latter to its lowest step.

This is no less true of the separate arts than of art in general. The sculptor must think and feel differently from the painter, and must go to work differently to execute a work in relief from what he would do with a round and complete piece of statuary. When the work in low relief came to be brought out more and more, and by degrees parts and figures were brought out from the ground, at last buildings and landscapes admitted, and thus a work produced, half picture half puppet-show, true art was on the decline; and it is to be deplored that excellent artists have in more recent times taken this direction.

Whenever we enunciate hereafter such maxims as we esteem true, we shall feel a real desire, since these maxims are drawn from works of art, to have them practically tested by artists. How seldom does one man agree with another concerning a theoretic principle; the practical and immediately useful is far more quickly adopted. How often do we see artists at a loss in the choice of a subject, in the general composition, according to their rules of art, in the arrangement of details; the painter doubtful about the choice of his colors! Then is the time to make trial of a principle; then will it be easier to decide the question,--Do we by its aid come nearer to the great models, and all that we love and prize, or does it forsake us in the empirical confusion of an experiment not thoroughly thought out?

If such maxims should prove useful in forwarding the culture of artists, in guiding them among difficulties, they will also aid the understanding, true estimation, and criticism of ancient and modern works, and, _vice versa_, will again be discovered in the examination of these works. This is all the more necessary, since, in spite of the universally acknowledged excellence of the antique, individuals as well as whole nations have in modern times often misconceived those very things wherein the highest excellence of those works lies.

An exact scrutiny of these will be the best means of securing us against this evil. Let us now take, as an example, the usual course of proceeding of the amateur in plastic art, in order to make it evident how necessary a thorough criticism of ancient as well as modern works is, if we would profit by it.

No person of a fine natural perception, however uncultivated, can see even an imperfect, incorrect cast of a fine ancient work without being greatly impressed by it; for such a representation still gives the idea, the simplicity and greatness of the form, in a word, the general notion at least, such as a man of imperfect sight would see at a distance.

We may often observe how a strong inclination towards art is awakened through such an imperfect reproduction. But the effect is analogous to the object that caused it, and such beginners in art are rather impressed with a blind and indefinite feeling than with the true worth and significance of the object itself. It is such as these who are the authors of the theory that a too curious critical examination destroys our pleasure, and who decry and resist the investigation of details.

But when by degrees their experience and knowledge become wider, and a sharper cast in place of the imperfect one, or an original instead of a cast comes under their observation, their satisfaction increases with their insight, and continually advances when at last the originals themselves, the perfect originals, become known to them.

We are not deterred by the labyrinth of thorough examination, when the details are of equal perfection with the whole work. Nay, we learn that we are able to appreciate the perfect, just so far as we are in a condition to discern the defective: to distinguish the restored from the original parts, the copy from the model, to contemplate in the smallest fragments the scattered excellence of the whole, is a satisfaction that belongs only to the perfect connoisseur; and there is a wide difference between the contemplation of an imperfect whole with groping sense, and the seeing and seizing, with clear eye, of a perfect one.

He who devotes himself to any department of knowledge should aim at the highest. Insight and Practice follow widely different paths, for in the practical each one soon becomes aware that only a certain measure of power is meted to him. But a far greater number of men are capable of knowledge, of insight; we may even say that every man is so who can deny himself, subordinate himself to objects, and does not strive with a rigid and narrow individuality to bring in himself and his poor one-sidedness amid the highest works of nature and art.

To speak suitably, and with real advantage to one’s self and others, of works of art, can properly be done only in their presence. All depends on the sight of the object. On this it depends whether the word by which we hope to elucidate the work has produced the clearest impression or none at all. Hence it so often happens that the author who writes concerning works of art deals only in generalities, whereby indeed the mind and imagination are awakened; but of all his readers, he only will derive satisfaction who, book in hand, examines the work itself.

On this account, therefore, we may in our essays often excite rather than gratify the desire of our readers; for there is nothing more natural than that they should wish to have before their eyes any excellent work of which they read a minute criticism, to enjoy that whole which is in question, and to subject to their own judgments the opinions they hear concerning the parts.

But whilst it is the expectation of the authors to labor in behalf of those who are already acquainted with some works and will see others hereafter, we shall try to do what is possible for those who have neither the prospect nor the retrospect. We shall make mention of copies, point out where casts from the antique or ancient works themselves, especially when these are within easy reach, may be found, and thus forward, as far as in us lies, a true love and knowledge of art.

The history of art can be based only on the highest and most complete conception of art; only through an acquaintance with the most perfect that man has ever been enabled to produce can the chronological and psychological progress of mankind in art, as in other departments, be displayed. At first a limited activity occupied itself in a dry and dismal imitation of the insignificant as well as the significant, then a more delicate and agreeable feeling of Nature was developed. Afterwards, accompanied by knowledge, regularity, strength and earnestness, aided by favorable circumstances, art rose to the highest point, until at last it became possible for the fortunate genius who found himself surrounded by all these auxiliaries to produce the enchanting, the perfect.

Unfortunately, works of art, which give themselves forth with such facility, which make men feel themselves so agreeably, which inspire man with clearness and freedom, suggest to the artist who would emulate them the notion of facility in their production. The last achievement of Art and Genius being an appearance of ease and lightness, the imitator is tempted to make it easy for himself, and to labor at this appearance.

Thus, by degrees, art declines from its high estate, in the whole as well as in details. But if we would form to ourselves a true conception of art, we must descend to details of details, an occupation by no means always agreeable and alluring, but for which gradually our eye’s ready mastery of the whole will richly indemnify us.

If we work out certain general principles through the examination of ancient and mediæval works of art, we shall find them particularly needful in our judgment of contemporary productions; for in forming an estimate of living or lately deceased artists, personal considerations, regard or dislike for individuals, popular attraction or repulsion, are so easily mixed up, that we are still more in need of principles in order to express a judgment of our contemporaries. The examination can be undertaken in two ways. Arbitrary influence is diminished, and the case is brought into a higher court. An opportunity is afforded for proving the principles themselves as well as their application; and even where we cannot agree, the point in dispute is clearly and certainly ascertained.

We especially desire that living artists, about whose works we may perhaps have something to say, should make trial of our judgments in this way. For every one who deserves this name is in our time called upon to form, out of his own experience and reflection, if not a theory, at least a certain set of receipts, by the use of which he finds himself aided in various cases. But it must have been frequently remarked how apt a man is, by proceeding in this way, to advance as principles certain maxims which are commensurate with his talents, his inclinations, his convenience. He is subject to the common lot of mankind. How many in other departments follow the same course. But we do not add to our culture when we simply set in motion without trouble or difficulty what already existed in us. Every artist, like every man, is only an individual being, and will always abide by one side; and therefore a man should take in to himself as far as possible that which is theoretically and practically opposed to him. The lively should look about for strength and earnestness, the severe should keep in view the light and agreeable, the strong should look for loveliness, the delicate for strength, and each will thus best cultivate his peculiar nature, while he seems to be going most out of himself. Each art demands the whole man, the highest step of art all humanity.

The practice of the imitative arts is mechanical, and the cultivation of the artist begins naturally in his earliest years with the mechanical. The rest of his education is often slighted, whereas it should be far more carefully attended to than that of others who have the opportunity of learning from life itself. Society soon civilizes the unpolished; a life of business makes the most open circumspect. Literary labors, which by means of the press come before the great public, find resistance and correction on all sides. But the artist is for the most part confined to a narrow studio, and has few dealings save with those who pay for his works, with a public that is often guided only by a certain sickly feeling, with connoisseurs who worry him, with auctioneers who receive anything new with formulas of praise and estimation that would not be too high for the most perfect.

UPON THE LAOCOON

(1798)

A true work of art, like a true work of nature, never ceases to open boundlessly before the mind. We examine,--we are impressed with it,--it produces its effect; but it can never be all comprehended, still less can its essence, its value, be expressed in words. In the present remarks concerning the Laocoon, our object is by no means to say all that can be said on the subject; we shall make this admirable work rather the occasion than the subject of what we have to say. May it soon be placed once more in a situation where all lovers of art may be able to enjoy and speak of it, each in his own way.

We can hardly speak adequately of a high work of art without also speaking of art in general; since all art is comprehended in it, and each one is able, according to his powers, to develop the universal out of such a special case. We shall therefore begin with some remarks of a general nature.

All high works of art are expressions of humanity. Plastic art relates particularly to the human form; it is of this we are now speaking. Art has many steps, in all of which there have been admirable artists; but a perfect work of art embraces all the qualities that are elsewhere encountered only separately.

The highest works of art that we know exhibit to us--

_Living, highly organized natures._ We look, in the first place, for a knowledge of the human body, in its parts and proportions, inward and outward adaptation, its forms and motions generally.

_Character._ Knowledge of the varieties in form and action of their parts; peculiarities are discriminated, and separately set forth. Out of this results character, through which an important relation may be established among separate works; and, in like manner, when a work is put together, its parts may hold an analogous relation to each other. The subject may be--

_At rest, or in motion._ A work, or its parts, may either be self-centred, simply showing its character in a state of rest, or it may be exhibited in movement, activity, or fullness of passionate expression.

_Ideal._ To the attainment of this, the artist needs a deep, well-grounded, steadfast mind, which must be accompanied by a higher sense,in order to comprehend the subject in all its bearings, to find the moment of expression, to withdraw this from the narrowness of fact, and give to it, in an ideal world, proportion, limit, reality and dignity.

_Agreeableness._ The subject and its mode of exhibition are moreover connected with the sensible laws of art; viz., harmony, comprehensibility, symmetry, contrast, etc.; whereby it becomes visibly beautiful, or agreeable, as it is called.

_Beauty._ Farther, we find that it obeys the laws of spiritual beauty, which arises from just proportion, and to which he who is complete in the creation or production of the beautiful knows how to subject even the extremes.

Now that I have defined the conditions which we demand of a high work of art, much will be comprised in a few words when I say that the Laocoon group fulfils them all, nay, that out of it alone all of them could be developed.

It will be conceded by all that it exhibits acquaintance with the human form, and with what is characteristic in it, and at the same time expression and passion. In how high and ideal a way the subject is treated will presently be shown; and no one who recognizes the harmony with which the extremes of bodily and mental suffering are set forth can hesitate in calling the work beautiful.

On the other hand, many will think I am uttering a paradox when I maintain that the work is also _agreeable_. A word upon this point.

Every work of art must show on the face of it that it is such; and this can be done only through what we call sensuous beauty, or agreeableness. The ancients, far from entertaining the modern notion that a work of art must have the appearance of a work of nature, designated their works of art as such through an intentional arrangement of parts; by means of symmetry they rendered easy for the eye an insight into relations, and thus a complicated work was made comprehensible. Through symmetry and opposition slight deviations were made productive of the sharpest contrasts. The pains of the artist were most happily bestowed to place the masses in opposition to each other, and particularly in groups, to bring the extremities of the bodies against each other in a harmonious position; so that every work, when we disregard its import, and look only at its general outline from a distance, strikes the eye by its ornamental air. The antique vases furnish a hundred instances of this sort of agreeable composition, and perhaps it would be possible to exhibit a series of examples of symmetrically artistic and charming groupings, from the most quiet vase-sculptures up to the Laocoon. I shall therefore venture to repeat the assertion that the group of Laocoon, in addition to its other acknowledged merits, is at once a model of symmetry and variety, of repose and action, of contrast and gradation, which produce an impression partly sensible, partly spiritual, agreeably stimulate the imagination by the high pathos of the representation, and by their grace and beauty temper the storm of passion and suffering.

It is a great advantage for a work of art to be self-included and complete. An object at rest, exhibiting simple being, is thus complete by and in itself. A Jupiter, the thunderbolt resting in his lap; a Juno, reposing in her majesty and feminine dignity; a Minerva, inwardly intent--are all subjects that have no impulse outwards, that rest upon and in themselves; the first, the most lovely subjects of sculpture. But within the noble round of the mythic circle of art, where these separate self-existent natures stand and rest, there are smaller circles, within which the figures are conceived and wrought out with reference to other figures; for example, the nine Muses, with their leader, Apollo, are each conceived and executed separately, but they become far more interesting in their complete and diversified choir. When art attempts scenes of exalted passion, it can treat them also in the same manner; it may either present to us a circle of figures holding a passionate relation to each other, like the Niobe and her children, pursued by Apollo and Diana, or exhibit in the same piece the action and the motive; we have in mind such groups as the graceful boy extracting the thorn from his foot, the wrestler, two groups of fawns and nymphs in Dresden, and the noble and animated group of Laocoon.

Sculpture is justly entitled to the high rank it holds, because it can and must carry expression to its highest point of perfection, from the fact that it leaves man only the absolutely essential. Thus, in the present group, Laocoon is a bare name; the artists have stripped him of his priesthood, his Trojan nationality, of every poetical or mythological attribute; there remains nothing of all that fable had clothed him with; he is a father with his two sons, in danger of destruction from two fierce animals. In like manner, we see no messenger of the gods, but two plain, natural serpents, powerful enough to overcome three men, but, by no means, either in form or action, supernatural and avenging ministers of wrath. They glide in, as it is their nature to do, twine around, knot together, and one, being irritated, bites. If I had to describe this work without knowing the farther intent of it, I should say it were a Tragic Idyl. A father was sleeping, with his two sons beside him; two serpents twined about them, and now waking, they struggled to free themselves from the living net.

The expression of the moment is, in this work, of the highest importance. When it is intended that a work of art shall move before the eye, a passing moment must, of course, be chosen; but a moment ago not a single part of the whole was to be found in the position it now holds, and in another instant all will be changed again; so that it presents a fresh, living image to a million beholders.

In order to conceive rightly the intention of the Laocoon, let a man place himself before it at a proper distance, with his eyes shut; then let him open his eyes, and shut them again instantly. By this means he will see the whole marble in motion; he will fear lest he finds the whole group changed when he opens his eyes again. It might be said that, as it stands, it is a flash of lightning fixed, a wave petrified in the moment it rushes towards the shore. The same effect is produced by the contemplation of the group by torchlight.

The situation of the three figures is represented with a wise gradation. In the oldest son only the extremities are entangled; the second is encumbered with more folds, and especially by the knot around his breast; he endeavors to get breath by the motion of his right arm; with the left he gently holds back the serpent’s head, to prevent him from taking another turn round his breast. The serpent is in the act of slipping under the hand, but _does not bite_. The father, on the other hand, tries to set himself and the children free by force; he grasps the other serpent, which, exasperated, bites him on the hip.

The best way to understand the position of the father, both in the whole and in detail, seems to be to take the sudden anguish of the wound as the moving cause of the whole action. The serpent has not bitten, but is just now biting, and in a sensitive part, above and just behind the hip. The position of the restored head of the serpent does not represent the bite correctly; fortunately, the remains of the two jaws may yet be seen on the hinder part of the statue, if only these important vestiges are not destroyed in the course of the present paltry alterations. The serpent inflicts a wound upon the unhappy man, in a part where we are excessively sensible to any irritation, where even a little tickling is able to produce the action which in this case is caused by the wound. The figure starts away towards the opposite side, the abdomen is drawn in, the shoulder forced down, the breast thrust out, the head sinks towards the wounded side; the secondary portion of the situation or treatment appears in the imprisoned feet and the struggling arms; and thus from the contrast of struggle and flight, of action and suffering, of energy and failing strength, results an harmonious action that would perhaps be impossible under other conditions. We are lost in astonishment at the sagacity of the artist; if we try to place the bite in some different position the whole action is changed, and we find it impossible to conceive one more fitting. This, therefore, is an important maxim: the artist has represented a sensuous effort, he shows us also its sensuous cause. I repeat, the situation of the bite renders necessary the present action of the limbs. The movement of the lower part of the figure, as if to fly, the drawing in of the abdomen, the downward action of the shoulders and the head, the breast forced out, nay, the expression of each feature of the face, all are determined by this instant, sharp, unlooked-for irritation.

Far be it from me to destroy the unity of human nature, to deny the sympathetic action of the spiritual powers of this nobly complete man, to misconceive the action and suffering of a great nature. I see also anguish, fear, horror, a father’s anxiety pervading these veins, swelling this breast, furrowing this brow. I freely admit that the highest state of mental as well as bodily anguish is here represented; only let us not transfer the effect the work produces on us too vividly to the piece itself; and above all, let us not be looking for the effect of poison in a body which the serpent’s fang has but just reached. Let us not fancy we see a death-struggle in a noble, resisting, vigorous, but slightly wounded frame. Here let me have leave to make an observation of importance in art: The maximum expression of pathos that can be given by art hovers in the transition from one state or condition to another. You see a lively child running with all the energy and joy of life, bounding, and full of delight; he is unexpectedly struck somewhat roughly by a playmate, or is otherwise morally or physically hurt. This new sensation thrills like an electric shock through all his limbs, and this transition is full of pathos in the highest meaning; it is a contrast of which one can form no idea without having seen it. In this case plainly the spiritual as well as the physical man is in action. If during the transition there still remain evident traces of the previous state, the result is the noblest subject for plastic art, as is the case in the Laocoon where action and suffering are shown in the same instant. Thus, for instance, Eurydice, bitten in the heel by the snake she has trodden on, as she goes joyfully through the meadow with the flowers she has collected, would make a statue of great pathos, if the twofold state, the joyful advance and its painful arrest, might be expressed not only by the flowers that she lets fall, but by the direction of her limbs and the doubtful fluttering of her dress.

Having now a clear conception, in this respect, of the main figure, we shall be enabled to give a free and secure glance over the relations, contrasts, and gradations of the collective parts of the whole.

The choice of subject is one of the happiest that can be imagined,--men struggling with dangerous animals, and animals that do not act as a mass of concentrated force, but with divided powers; that do not rush in at one side, nor offer a combined resistance, but capable by their prolonged organization of paralyzing without injuring them, three men, or more or less. From the action of this numbing force results, consistently with the most violent action, a pervading unity and repose throughout the whole. The different action of the serpents is exhibited in gradation. The one is simply twined around its victims, the other becomes irritated and bites its antagonist. The three figures are in like manner most wisely selected: a strong, well-developed man, but evidently past the age of greatest energy, and therefore less able to endure pain and suffering. Substitute in his place a robust young man and the charm of the group vanishes. Joined with him in his suffering are two boys, small in proportion to his figure; again still two natures susceptible of pain.

The struggles of the youngest are powerless; he is frightened, but not injured. The father struggles powerfully, but ineffectually; his efforts have rather the effect to exasperate the opposed force. His opponent, becoming irritated, wounds him. The eldest son is least encumbered. He suffers neither anguish nor pain; he is frightened by the sudden wounding of his father, and his movement thereupon; he cries out, at the same moment endeavoring to free his foot from the serpent’s fold. Here then is spectator, witness, and accessory to the fact; and thus the work is completed. Let me here repeat what I alluded to above,--that all three figures exhibit a twofold action, and thus are occupied in most manifold ways. The youngest son strives to free himself by raising his right arm, and with his left hand keeps back the serpent’s head; he is striving to alleviate the present, and avert the greater, evil,--the highest degree of action he can attain in his present imprisoned condition. The father is striving to shake off the serpents, while his body recoils from the immediate bite. The oldest son is terrified by his father’s starting, and seeks at the same time to free himself from the lightly entwining serpent.

The choice of the highest moment of expression has already been spoken of as a great advantage possessed by this work of art; let us now consider this problem in greater detail.

We assumed the case of natural serpents twining about a father sleeping by his sons, so that in considering the separate moments, we might be led to a climax of interest. The first moments of the serpents’ winding about them in sleep are portentous, but not significant for art. We might perhaps imagine an infant Hercules asleep, with a serpent twined about him; but in this case the form in repose would show us what we were to expect when he waked.

Let us now proceed and figure to ourselves a father with his children, when first--let it have happened how it may--he discovers the serpents wound about him. There is only one moment of the highest interest,--when one of the figures is made defenseless by the pressure, the second can still fight, but is wounded, the third still retains a hope of escape. In the first condition is the younger son; in the second, the father; in the third, the eldest son. Seek now to find another, a fourth condition! Try to change the order of the _dramatis personae_!

If we now consider the treatment from the beginning, we must acknowledge that it has reached the highest point; and in like manner, if we reflect upon the succeeding moments, we shall perceive that the whole group must necessarily be changed, and that no moment can be found equal to this in artistic significance. The youngest son will either be suffocated by the entwining serpent, or should he in his helpless condition exasperate it, he must be bitten. Neither alternative could we endure, since they suppose an extremity unsuitable for representation. As to the father, he would either be bitten by the serpent in other places, whereby the position of the body would be entirely changed and the previous wounds would either be lost to the beholder or, if made evident, would be loathsome, or the serpent might turn about and assail the eldest son, whose attention would then be turned to himself,--the scene loses its participator, the last glimpse of hope disappears from the group, the situation is no longer tragical, it is fearful. The figure of the father, which is now self-centred in its greatness and its suffering, would in that case be turned towards the son and become a sympathizing subordinate.

Man has, for his own and others’ sufferings, only three sorts of sensations, apprehension, terror, and compassion,--the anxious foreseeing of an approaching evil, the unexpected realization of present pain, and sympathy with existing or past suffering; all three are excited by and exhibited in the present work, and in the most fitting gradations.

Plastic art, laboring always for a single point of time, in choosing a subject expressive of pathos will seize one that awakens terror; while Poetry prefers such as excite apprehension and compassion. In the group of Laocoon the suffering of the father awakens terror, and that in the highest degree. Sculpture has done her utmost for him, but, partly to run through the circle of human sensations, partly to soften the effect of so much of the terrible, it excites pity for the younger son, and apprehension for the elder, through the hope that still exists for him. Thus, by means of variety, the artists have introduced a certain balance into their work, have softened and heightened effect by other effects, and completed at once a spiritual and sensuous whole.

In a word, we dare boldly affirm that this work exhausts its subject and happily fulfils all the conditions of art. It teaches us that if the master can infuse his feeling of beauty into tranquil and simple subjects, this feeling can also be exhibited in its highest energy and dignity when it manifests itself in the creation of varied characters, and knows how, by artistic imitation, to temper and control the passionate outbreak of human feeling. We shall give in the sequel a full account of the statues known by the name of the family of Niobe, as well as the group of the Farnesian Bull; these are among the few representations of pathos that remain to us of antique sculpture.

It has been the usual fate of the moderns to blunder in their choice of subjects of this sort. When Milo, with both his hands fast in the cleft of a tree, is attacked by a lion, art in vain endeavors to create a work that will excite a sincere sympathy. A twofold suffering, a fruitless struggle, a helpless state, a certain defeat can only excite horror, if they do not leave us cold.

Finally, a word concerning this subject in its connection with poetry.

It is doing Virgil and poetic art a great injustice to compare even for a moment this most succinct achievement of Sculpture with the episodical treatment of the subject in the Æneid. Since the unhappy exile, Æneas, is to recount how he and his fellow-citizens were guilty of the unpardonable folly of bringing the famous horse into their city, the Poet must hit upon some way to provide a motive for this action. Everything is subordinated to this end, and the story of Laocoon stands here as a rhetorical argument to justify an exaggeration if only it serves its purpose. Two monstrous serpents come out of the sea with crested heads; they rush upon the children of the priest who had injured the horse, encircle them, bite them, besmear them, twist and twine about the breast and head of the father as he hastens to their assistance, and hold up their heads in triumph while the victim, inclosed in their folds, screams in vain for help. The people are horror-struck and fly at once; no one dares to be a patriot any longer; and the hearer, satiated with the horror of the strange and loathsome story, is willing to let the horse be brought into the city.

Thus, in Virgil, the story of Laocoon serves only as a step to a higher aim, and it is a great question whether the occurrence be in itself a poetic subject.

THE COLLECTOR AND HIS FRIENDS

(1799)

Yesterday a stranger made his appearance, whose name I was already familiar with, and who has the reputation of a skilful connoisseur.[3] I was pleased to see him, made him acquainted generally with my possessions, let him choose what he would from what I exhibited to him. I soon noticed his cultivated eye for works of art, and especially for their history. He knew the masters as well as the scholars; in cases of doubtful works he was familiar with the grounds of uncertainty, and his conversation was highly interesting to me.

Perhaps I should have been hurried on to open myself in a more lively manner towards him, had not my resolve to sound my guest made me from the first take a more quiet tone. His judgment in many cases agreed with mine; in many I was forced to admire his sharp and practised eye. The first thing that struck me was his unmitigated hatred of all Mannerists. I was in pain for some of my favorite pictures, and was curious to discover from what source such a dislike could spring....

Before we were all assembled I seized an opportunity to lend a helping hand to my poor mannerists against the stranger. I spoke of their beautiful nature, their happy handling, their grace, and added, to keep myself safe: Thus much I say only to claim for them a certain degree of forbearance, though I admit that that high beauty, which is the highest end and aim of Art, is in fact quite a different thing.

He replied--with a smile that did not altogether please me, inasmuch as it seemed to express a special self-satisfaction and a sort of compassion for me:--Are you then stanch in the old-fashioned principle that Beauty is the last aim of art?

I answered that I was not aware of any higher.

Can you tell me what Beauty is? he exclaimed.

Perhaps not, I replied; but I can show it to you. Let us go and see, even by candlelight, a fine cast of Apollo or a beautiful marble bust of Bacchus that I possess, and try if we cannot agree that they are beautiful.

Before we go upon this quest, said he, it would be necessary for us to examine more closely this word Beauty and its derivation. Beauty (_Schönheit_) comes from show (_Schein_); it is an appearance, and not worthy to be the object of art. The perfectly characteristic only deserves to be called beauty; without Character there is no Beauty.

Surprised by this mode of expression, I replied: Granted, though it be not proved, that beauty must be characteristic; yet from this it only follows that character lies at the root of beauty, but by no means that Beauty and Character are the same. Character holds to the beautiful the same relation that the skeleton does to the living man. No one will deny that the osseous system is the foundation of all highly organized forms. It consolidates and defines the form, but is not the form itself; still less does it bring about that last appearance which, as the veil and integument of an organized whole, we call Beauty.

I cannot embark in similitudes, said my guest, and from your own words, moreover, it is evident that beauty is something incomprehensible, or the effect of something incomprehensible. What cannot be comprehended is naught; what we cannot make clear by words is nonsense.

_I._--Can you then clearly express in words the effect that a colored body produces on your eyes?

_He._--That is again a metaphor that I will not be drawn into. It is enough that character can be indicated. You find no beauty without it, else it would be empty and insignificant. All the beauty of the Ancients is only Character, and only out of this quality is beauty developed.

Our Philosopher[4] had arrived meanwhile and was conversing with my nieces, when, hearing us speak earnestly, he stepped forward; and the stranger, stimulated by the accession of a new hearer, proceeded:

That is just the misfortune when good heads, when people of merit, get hold of such false principles, which have only an appearance of truth, and spread them wider and wider. None appropriate them so willingly as those who know and understand nothing of the subject. Thus has Lessing fastened upon us the principle that the ancients cultivated only the beautiful; thus has Winckelmann put us to sleep with his “noble simplicity and serene greatness”; whereas the art of the ancients appears in all imaginable forms. But these gentlemen tarry by Jupiter and Juno, Genii and Graces, and hide the ignoble forms and skulls of Barbarians, the rough hair, foul beard, gaunt bones, and wrinkled skin of deformed age, the protruding veins and hanging breasts.

In the name of God, I exclaimed, are there then independent, self-existing works of the best age of Ancient Art that exhibit such frightful objects? Or are they not rather subordinate works, occasional pieces, creations of an art that must demean itself according to outward circumstances, an art on the decline?

_He._--I give you the specification, you can yourself search and judge. But you will not deny that the Laocoon, that Niobe, that Dirce with her stepsons, are self-subsistent works of art. Stand before the Laocoon and contemplate nature in full revolt and desperation. The last choking pang, the desperate struggle, the maddening convulsion, the working of the corroding poison, the vehement fermenting, the stagnating circulation, suffocating pressure, and paralytic death.

The Philosopher seemed to look at me with astonishment, and I answered: We shudder, we are horrified at the bare description. In sooth, if it be so with the group of Laocoon, what are we to say of the pleasure we find in this as in every other true work of art? But I will not meddle in the question. You must settle it with the authors of the _Propylæa_, who are of just the opposite mind.

It must be admitted, said my guest, that all Antiquity speaks for me; for where do horror and death rage more hideously than in the representation of the Niobe?

I was confounded by this assertion, for only a short time before I had been looking at the copperplates in Fabroni, which I immediately brought forward and opened. I find no trace in the statues of raging horror and death, but rather the greatest subordination of tragical situation under the highest ideas of dignity, nobleness, beauty, and simplicity. I trace everywhere the artistic purpose to dispose the limbs agreeably and gracefully. The character is expressed only in the most general lines, which run through the work like a sort of ideal skeleton.

_He._--Let us turn to the bas-reliefs, which we shall find at the end of the book.

We turned to them.

_I._--Of anything horrible, to speak truly, I see no trace here either. Where is this rage of horror and death? I see figures so artfully interwoven, so happily placed against or extended upon each other, that while they remind me of a mournful destiny, they give room at the same time for the most charming imaginations. All that is characteristic is tempered, the violent is elevated, and I might say that Character lies at the foundation; upon it rest simplicity and dignity; the highest aim of art is beauty and its last effect the feeling of pleasure. The agreeable, which may not be immediately united with the characteristic, comes remarkably before our eyes in these sarcophagi. Are not the dead sons and daughters of Niobe here made use of as ornaments? This is the highest luxury of art; she adorns no longer with flowers and fruits, but with the corpses of men, with the greatest misfortune that can befall a father or mother, to see a blooming family all at once snatched away. Yes, the beauteous genius who stands beside the grave, his torch reversed, has stood beside the artist as he invented and perfected, and over his earthly greatness has breathed a heavenly grace.

My guest looked at me with a smile, and shrugged his shoulders. Alas,--said he, as I concluded,--alas, I see plainly that we can never agree. What a pity that a man of your acquirements, of your sense, will not perceive that these are all empty words; that to a man of understanding Beauty and Ideal must always be a dream which he cannot translate into reality, but finds to be in direct opposition to it....

_I._--Will you allow me also to put in a word?

_The guest_ (somewhat scornfully.)--With all my heart, and I hope nothing about mere phantoms.

_I._--I have some acquaintance with the poetry of the ancients, but have little knowledge of the plastic arts.

_Guest._--That I regret; for in that case we can hardly come to an understanding.

_I._--And yet the fine arts are nearly related, and the friends of the separate arts should not misunderstand each other.

_Uncle._--Let us hear what you have to say.

_I._--The old tragic writers dealt with the stuff in which they worked in the same way as the plastic artists, unless these engravings, representing the family of Niobe, give an altogether false impression of the original.

_Guest._--They are passably good. They convey an imperfect but not a false impression.

_I._--Well, then, to that extent we can take them for a ground to go upon.

_Uncle._--What is it you assert of the treatment of the ancient tragic writers?

_I._--The subjects they chose, especially in the early times, were often of an unbearable frightfulness.

_Guest._--Were the ancient fables insupportably frightful?

_I._--Undoubtedly; in the same manner as your account of the Laocoon.

_Guest._--Did you find that also unbearable?

_I._--I ask pardon. I meant the thing you describe, not your description.

_Guest._--And the work itself also?

_I._--By no means the work itself, but that which you have seen in it,--the fable, the history, the skeleton,--that which you name the characteristic. For if the Laocoon really stood before our eyes such as you have described it, we ought not to hesitate a moment to dash it to pieces.

_Guest._--You use strong expressions.

_I._--One may do that as well as another.

_Uncle._--Now then for the ancient tragedies.

_Guest._--Yes, these insupportable subjects.

_I._--Very good; but also this manner of treatment that makes everything endurable, beautiful, graceful.

_Guest._--And that is effected by means of “simplicity and serene greatness?”

_I._--So it appears.

_Guest._--By the softening principle of Beauty?

_I._--It can be nothing else.

_Guest._--And the old tragedies were after all not frightful?

_I._--Hardly, so far as my knowledge extends, if you listen to the poets themselves. In fact, if we regard in poetry only the material which lies at the foundation, if we are to speak of works of art as if in their place we had seen the actual circumstances, then even the tragedies of Sophocles can be described as loathsome and horrible.

_Guest._--I will not pass judgment on poetry.

_I._--Nor I on plastic art.

_Guest._--Yes, it is best for each to stick to his own department.

_I._--And yet there is a common point of union for all the arts wherefrom the laws of all proceed.

_Guest._--And that is--

_I._--The soul of man.

_Guest._--Ay, ay; that is just the way with you gentlemen of the new school of philosophy. You bring everything upon your own ground and province; and, in fact, it is more convenient to shape the world according to your ideas than to adapt your notions to the truth of things.

_I._--Here is no question of any metaphysical dispute.

_Guest._--If there were I should certainly decline it.

_I._--I shall admit for the sake of argument that Nature can be imagined as absolutely apart from man, but with him art necessarily concerns itself, for art exists only through man and for man.

_Guest._--Where does all this tend?

_I._--You yourself, when you make Character the end of art, appoint the understanding, which takes cognizance of the characteristic, as the judge.

_Guest._--To be sure I do. What I cannot seize with my understanding does not exist for me.

_I._--Yet man is not only a being of thought, but also of feeling. He is a whole; a union of various, closely connected powers; and to this whole of man the work of art is to address itself. It must speak to this rich unity, this simple variety in him.

_Guest._--Don’t carry me with you into these labyrinths, for who could ever help us out again?

_I._--It will then be best for us to give up the dispute and each retain his position.

_Guest._--I shall at least hold fast to mine.

_I._--Perhaps a means may still be found whereby, if one does not take the other’s position, he can at least observe him in it.

_Guest._--Propose it then.

_I._--We will for a moment contemplate art in its origin.

_Guest._--Good.

_I._--Let us accompany the work of art on its road to perfection.

_Guest._--But only by the way of experience, if you expect me to follow. I will have nothing to do with the steep paths of speculation.

_I._--You allow me to begin at the beginning?

_Guest._--With all my heart.

_I._--A man feels an inclination for some object; let us suppose a single living being.

_Guest._--As, for instance, this pretty lap-dog.

_Julia._--Come, Bello! It is no small honor to serve as example in such a discussion.

_I._--Truly, the dog is pretty enough, and if the man we are speaking of had the gift of imitation, he would try in some way to make a likeness of it. But let him prosper never so well in his imitation, we are still not advanced, for we have at best only two Bellos instead of one.

_Guest._--I will not interrupt, but wait and see what is to become of this.

_I._--Suppose that this man, to whom for the sake of his talent we will give the name of Artist, has by no means satisfied himself as yet; that his desire seems to him too narrow, too limited; that he busies himself about more individuals, varieties, kinds, species, in such wise that at last not the creature itself, but the Idea of the creature stands before him, and he is able to express this by means of his art.

_Guest._--Bravo! That is just my man, and his work must be characteristic.

_I._--No doubt.

_Guest._--And there I would stop and go no farther.

_I._--But we go beyond this.

_Guest._--I stop here.

_Uncle._--I will go along for the sake of experiment.

_I._--By this operation we may arrive at a canon useful indeed, and scientifically valuable, but not satisfactory to the soul of man.

_Guest._---How then are you going to satisfy the fantastic demands of this dear soul?

_I._--Not fantastic; it is only not satisfied in its just claims. An old tradition informs us that the Elohim once took counsel together, saying, let us make man after our own image; and man says therefore, with good cause, let us make gods and they shall be in our image.

_Guest._--We are getting into a dark region.

_I._--There is only one light that can aid us here.

_Guest._--And that is?

_I._--Reason.

_Guest._--How far it be a guide or a will-o’-wisp is hard to say.

_I._--We need not give it a name; but let us ask ourselves what are the demands the soul makes of a work of art. It is not enough that it fulfils a limited desire, that it satisfies our curiosity, or gives order and stability to our knowledge; that which is Higher in us must be awakened; we must be inspired with reverence, and feel ourselves worthy of reverence.

_Guest._--I begin to be at a loss to comprehend you.

_Uncle._--But I think I am able to follow in some measure;--how far, I shall try to make clear by an example. We will suppose our artist had made an eagle in bronze which perfectly expressed the idea of the species, but now he would place him on the sceptre of Jupiter. Do you think it would be perfectly suitable there?

_Guest._--It would depend.

_Uncle._--I say, No! The artist must first impart to him something beyond all this.

_Guest._--What then?

_Uncle._--It is hard to express.

_Guest._--So I should think.

_I._--And yet something may be done by approximation.

_Guest._--To it then.

_I._--He must give to the eagle what he gave to Jupiter, in order to make him into a God.

_Guest._--And this is--

_I._--The Godlike,--which in truth we should never become acquainted with, did not man feel and himself reproduce it.

_Guest._--I continue to hold my ground, and let you ascend into the clouds. I see that you mean to indicate the high style of the Greeks, which I prize only so far as it is characteristic.

_I._--It is something more to us, however; it answers to a high demand, but still not the highest.

_Guest._--You seem to be very hard to satisfy.

_I._--It beseems him to demand much for whom much is in store. Let me be brief. The human soul is in an exalted position when it reverences, when it adores; when it elevates an object and is elevated by it again. But it cannot remain long in this state. The general concept of genus leaves it cold; the Ideal raises it above itself; but now it must return again into itself; and it would gladly enjoy once more that affection which it then felt for the Individual, without coming back to the same limited view, and will not forego the significant, the spirit-moving. What would become of it now, if Beauty did not step in and happily solve the riddle? She first gives life and warmth to the Scientific, and breathing her softening influence and heavenly charm over even the Significant and the High, brings it back to us again. A beautiful work of art has gone through the entire circle; it becomes again an Individual that we can embrace with affection, that we can make our own.

_Guest._--Have you done?

_I._--For the present. The little circle is completed; we have come back to our starting point; the soul has made its demands, and those demands have been satisfied. I have nothing further to add. (Here our good uncle was peremptorily called away to a patient.)

_Guest._--It is the custom of you philosophic gentlemen to engage in battle behind high-sounding words, as if it were an ægis.

_I._--I can assure you that I have not now been speaking as a philosopher. These are mere matters of experience.

_Guest._--Do you call that experience, whereof another can comprehend nothing?

_I._--To every experience belongs an organ.

_Guest._--Do you mean a separate one?

_I._--Not a separate one; but it must have one peculiarity.

_Guest._--And what is that?

_I._--It must be able to produce.

_Guest._--Produce what?

_I._--The experience! There is no experience which is not brought forth, produced, created.

_Guest._--This is too much!

_I._--This is particularly the case with artists.

_Guest._--Indeed! How enviable would the portrait painter be, what custom would he not have, if he could reproduce all his customers without troubling people with so many sittings!

_I._--I am not deterred by your instance, but rather am convinced no portrait can be worth anything that the painter does not in the strictest sense create.