PART I.

OF THE BEAUTIFUL IN ART.

In an extended introduction, Hegel lays the foundations of the science of the Beautiful: he defines its object, demonstrates its legitimacy, and indicates its method; he then undertakes to determine the nature and the end of art. Upon each of these points let us endeavor to state, in a brief manner, his thought, and, if it is necessary, explain it.

Æsthetics _is the science of the Beautiful_. The Beautiful manifests itself in nature and in art; but the variety and multiplicity of forms under which beauty presents itself in the real world, does not permit their description and systematic classification. The science of the Beautiful has then as its principal object, art and its works; it is the _philosophy of the fine arts_.

Is art a proper object of science? No, undoubtedly, if we consider it only as an amusement or a frivolous relaxation. But it has a nobler purpose. It will even be a misconception of its true aim to regard it simply as an auxiliary of morals and religion. Although it often serves as interpreter of moral and religious ideas, it preserves its independence. Its proper object is to reveal truth under sensuous forms.

Nor is it allowable to say that it produces its effects by illusion. Appearance, here, is truer than reality. The images which it places under our eyes are more ideal, more transparent, and also more durable than the mobile and fugitive existences of the real world. The world of art is truer than that of nature and of history.

Can science subject to its formulas the free creations of the imagination? Art and science, it is true, differ in their methods; but imagination, also, has its laws; though free, it has not the right to be lawless. In art, nothing is arbitrary; its ground _is the essence of things_; its form is borrowed from the real world, and the Beautiful is the accord, the harmony of the two terms. Philosophy recognizes in works of art the eternal content of its meditations, the lofty conceptions of intelligence, the passions of man, and the motives of his volition. Philosophy does not pretend to furnish prescriptions to art, but is able to give useful advice; it follows it in its procedures, it points out to it the paths whereon it may go astray; it alone can furnish to criticism a solid basis and fixed principles.

As to the method to be followed, two exclusive and opposite courses present themselves. The one, _empiric_ and _historic_, seeks to draw from the study of the master-pieces of art, the laws of criticism and the principles of taste. The other, _rational_ and _a priori_, rises immediately to the idea of the beautiful, and deduces from it certain general rules. Aristotle and Plato represent these two methods. The first reaches only a narrow theory, incapable of comprehending art in its universality; the other, isolating itself on the heights of metaphysics, knows not how to descend therefrom to apply itself to particular arts, and to appreciate their works. The true method consists in the union of these two methods, in their reconciliation and simultaneous employment. To a positive acquaintance with works of art, to the discrimination and delicacy of taste necessary to appreciate them, there should be joined philosophic reflection, and the capacity of seizing the Beautiful in itself, and of comprehending its characteristics and immutable laws.

What is the nature of art? The answer to this question can only be the philosophy of art itself; and, furthermore, this again can be perfectly understood only in its connection with the other philosophic sciences. One is here compelled to limit himself to general reflections, and to the discussion of received opinions.

In the first place, art is a product of human activity, a creation of the mind. What distinguishes it from science is this, that it is the fruit of inspiration, not of reflection. On this account it can not be learned or transmitted; it is a gift of genius. Nothing can possibly supply a lack of talent in the arts.

Let us guard ourselves meanwhile from supposing that, like the blind forces of nature, the artist does not know what he does, that reflection has no part in his works. There is, in the first place, in the arts a technical part which must be learned, and a skill which is acquired by practice. Furthermore, the more elevated art becomes, the more it demands an extended and varied culture, a study of the objects of nature, and a profound knowledge of the human heart. This is eminently true of the higher spheres of art, especially in Poetry.

If works of art are creations of the human spirit, they are not on that account inferior to those of nature. They are, it is true, _living_, only in appearance; but the aim of art is not to create living beings; it seeks to offer to the spirit an image of life clearer than the reality. In this, it _surpasses_ nature. There is also something divine in man, and God derives no less honor from the works of human intelligence than from the works of nature.

Now what is the cause which incites man to the production of such works? Is it a caprice, a freak, or an earnest, fundamental inclination of his nature?

It is the same principle which causes him to seek in science food for his mind, in public life a theatre for his activity. In science he endeavors to cognize the truth, pure and unveiled; in art, truth appears to him not in its pure form, but expressed by images which strike his sense at the same time that they speak to his intelligence. This is the principle in which art originates, and which assigns to it a rank so high among the creations of the human mind.

Although art is addressed to the sensibility, nevertheless its direct aim is not to excite sensation, and to give birth to pleasure. Sensation is changeful, varied, contradictory. It represents only the various states or modifications of the soul. If then we consider only the impressions which art produces upon us, we make abstraction of the truth which it reveals to us. It becomes even impossible to comprehend its grand effects; for the sentiments which it excites in us, are explicable only through the ideas which attach to them.

The sensuous element, nevertheless, occupies a large place in art. What part must be assigned to it? There are two modes of considering sensuous objects in their connection with our mind. The first is that of simple perception of objects by the senses. The mind then knows only their individual side, their particular and concrete form; the essence, the law, the substance of things escapes it. At the same time the desire which is awakened in us, is a desire to appropriate them to our use, to consume them, to destroy them. The soul, in the presence of these objects, feels its dependence; it cannot contemplate them with a free and disinterested eye.

Another relation of sensuous objects with spirit, is that of speculative thought or science. Here the intelligence is not content to perceive the object in its concrete form and its individuality; it discards the individual side in order to abstract and disengage from it the law, the universal, the essence. Reason thus lifts itself above the individual form perceived by sense, in order to conceive the pure idea in its universality.

Art differs both from the one and from the other of these modes; it holds the mean between sensuous perception and rational abstraction. It is distinguished from the first in that it does not attach itself to the real but to the appearance, to the form of the object, and in that it does not feel any selfish longing to consume it, to cause it to serve a purpose, to utilize it. It differs from science in that it is interested in this particular object, and in its sensuous form. What it loves to see in it, is neither its materiality, nor the pure idea in its generality, but an appearance, an image of the truth, something ideal which appears in it; it seizes the connective of the two terms, their accord and their inner harmony. Thus the want which it feels is wholly contemplative. In the presence of this vision the soul feels itself freed from all selfish desire.

In a word, art purposely creates images, appearances, designed to represent ideas, to show to us the truth under sensuous forms. Thereby it has the power of stirring the soul in its profoundest depths, of causing it to experience the pure delight springing from the sight and contemplation of the Beautiful.

The two principles are found equally combined in the artist. The sensuous side is included in the faculty which creates—the imagination. It is not by mechanical toil, directed by rules learned by heart that he executes his works; nor is it by a process of reflection like that of the philosopher who is seeking the truth. The mind has a consciousness of itself, but it cannot seize in an abstract manner the idea which it conceives; it can represent it only under sensuous forms. The image and the idea coexist in thought, and cannot be separated. Thus the imagination is itself a gift of nature. Scientific genius is rather a general capacity than an innate and special talent. To succeed in the arts, there is necessary a determinate talent which reveals itself early under the form of an active and irresistible longing, and a certain facility in the manipulation of the materials of art. It is this which makes the painter, the sculptor, the musician.

Such is the nature of art. If it be asked, what is its end, here we encounter the most diverse opinions. The most common is that which gives imitation as its object. This is the foundation of nearly all the theories upon art. Now of what use to reproduce that which nature already offers to our view? This puerile talk, unworthy of spirit to which it is addressed, unworthy of man who produces it, would only end in the revelation of its impotency and the vanity of its efforts; for the copy will always remain inferior to the original. Besides, the more exact the imitation, the less vivid is the pleasure. That which pleases us is not imitation, but creation. The very least invention surpasses all the masterpieces of imitation.

In vain is it said that art ought to imitate beautiful Nature. To select is no longer to imitate. Perfection in imitation is exactness; moreover, choice supposes a rule; where find the criterion? What signifies, in fine, imitation in architecture, in music, and even in poetry? At most, one can thus explain descriptive poetry, that is to say, the most prosaic kind. We must conclude, therefore, that if, in its compositions, art employs the forms of Nature, and must study them, its aim is not to copy and to reproduce them. Its mission is higher—its procedure freer. Rival of nature, it represents ideas as well as she, and even better; it uses her forms as symbols to express them; and it fashions even these, remodels them upon a type more perfect and more pure. It is not without significance that its works are styled the creations of the genius of man.

A second system substitutes expression for imitation. Art accordingly has for its aim, not to represent the external form of things, but their internal and living principle, particularly the ideas, sentiments, passions, and conditions of the soul.

Less gross than the preceding, this theory is no less false and dangerous. Let us here distinguish two things: the idea and the expression—the content and the form. Now, if Art is designed for expression solely—if expression is its essential object—its content is indifferent. Provided that the picture be faithful, the expression lively and animated, the good and the bad, the vicious, the hideous, the ugly, have the same right to figure here as the Beautiful. Immoral, licentious, impious, the artist will have fulfilled his obligation and reached perfection, when he has succeeded in faithfully rendering a situation, a passion, an idea, be it true or false. It is clear that if in this system the object of imitation is changed, the procedure is the same. Art would be only an echo, a harmonious language; a living mirror, where all sentiments and all passions would find themselves reflected, the base part and the noble part of the soul contending here for the same place. The true, here, would be the real, would include objects the most diverse and the most contradictory. Indifferent as to the content, the artist seeks only to represent it well. He troubles himself little concerning truth in itself. Skeptic or enthusiast indifferently, he makes us partake of the delirium of the Bacchanals, or the unconcern of the Sophist. Such is the system which takes for a motto the maxim, _Art is for art_; that is to say, mere expression for its own sake. Its consequences, and the fatal tendency which it has at all times pressed upon the arts, are well known.

A third system sets up _moral perfection_ as the aim of art. It cannot be denied that one of the effects of art is to soften and purify manners (_emollit mores_). In mirroring man to himself, it tempers the rudeness of his appetites and his passions; it disposes him to contemplation and reflection; it elevates his thought and sentiments, by leading them to an ideal which it suggests,—to ideas of a superior order. Art has, from all time, been regarded as a powerful instrument of civilization, as an auxiliary of religion. It is, together with religion, the earliest instructor of nations; it is besides a means of instruction for minds incapable of comprehending truth otherwise than under the veil of a symbol, and by images that address themselves to the sense as well as to the spirit.

But this theory, although much superior to the preceding, is no more exact. Its defect consists in confounding the moral effect of art with its real aim. This confusion has inconveniences which do not appear at the first glance. Let care be taken, meanwhile, lest, in thus assigning to art a foreign aim, it be not robbed of its liberty, which is its essence, and without which it has no inspiration—that thereby it be not prevented from producing the effects which are to be expected from it. Between religion, morals and art, there exists an eternal and intimate harmony; but they are, none the less, essentially diverse forms of truth, and, while preserving entire the bonds which unite them, they claim a complete independence. Art has its peculiar laws, methods and jurisdiction; though it ought not to wound the moral sense, yet it is the sense of the Beautiful to which it is addressed. When its works are pure, its effect on the soul is salutary, but its direct and immediate aim is not this result. Seeking it, it risks losing it, and does lose its own end. Suppose, indeed, that the aim of art should be to instruct, under the veil of allegory; the idea, the abstract and general thought, must be present in the spirit of the artist at the very moment of composition. It seeks, then, a form which is adapted to that idea, and furnishes drapery for it. Who does not see that this procedure is the very opposite of inspiration? There can be born of it only frigid and lifeless works; its effect will thus be neither moral nor religious; it will produce only _ennui_.

Another consequence of the opinion which makes moral perfection the object of art and its creations, is that this end is imposed so completely upon art, and controls it to such a degree, that it has no longer even a choice of subjects. The severe moralist would have it represent moral subjects alone. Art is then undone. This system led Plato to banish poets from his republic. If, then, it is necessary to maintain the agreement of morality and art, and the harmony of their laws, their distinct bases and independence must also be recognized. In order to understand thoroughly this distinction between morals and art, it is necessary to have solved the moral problem. Morality is the realization of the “ought” by the free will; it is the conflict between passion and reason, inclination and law, the flesh and the spirit. It hinges upon an opposition. Antagonism is, indeed, the very law of the physical and moral universe. But this opposition ought to be cancelled. This is the destiny of beings who by their development and progress continually realize themselves.

Now, in morals, this harmony of the powers of our being, which should restore peace and happiness, does not exist. Morality proposes it as an end to the free will. The aim and the realization are distinct. Duty consists in an incessant striving. Thus, in one respect, morals and art have the same principle and the same aim; the harmony of rectitude, and happiness of actions and law. But that wherein they differ is, that in morals the end is never wholly attained. It appears separated from the means; the consequence is equally separated from the principle. The harmony of rectitude and happiness ought to be the result of the efforts of virtue. In order to conceive the identity of the two terms, it is necessary to elevate one’s self to a superior point of view, which is not that of morals. In empirical science equally, the law appears distinct from the phenomenon, the essence separated from its form. In order that this distinction may be cancelled, there is necessary a mode of thinking which is superior to that of reflection, or of empirical science.

Art, on the contrary, offers to us in a visible image, the realized harmony of the two terms of existence, of the law of beings and their manifestation, of essence and form, of rectitude and happiness. The beautiful is essence realized, activity in conformity with its end, and identified with it; it is the force which is harmoniously developed under our eyes, in the innermost of existences, and which cancels the contradictions of its nature: happy, free, full of serenity in the very midst of suffering and of sorrow. The problem of art is then distinct from the moral problem. The good is harmony sought for; beauty is harmony realized. So must we understand the thought of Hegel; he here only intimates it, but it will be fully developed in the sequel.

The true aim of art is then to represent the Beautiful, to reveal this harmony. This is its only purpose. Every other aim, purification, moral amelioration, edification, are accessories or consequences. The effect of the contemplation of the Beautiful is to produce in us a calm and pure joy, incompatible with the gross pleasures of sense; it lifts the soul above the ordinary sphere of its thoughts; it disposes to noble resolutions and generous actions by the close affinity which exists between the three sentiments and the three ideas of the Good, the Beautiful, and the Divine.

Such are the principal ideas which this remarkable introduction contains. The remainder, devoted to the examination of works which have marked the development of æsthetic science in Germany since Kant, is scarcely susceptible of analysis, and does not so much deserve our attention.

_The first part_ of the science of æsthetics, which might be called the Metaphysics of the Beautiful, contains, together with the analysis of the idea of the Beautiful, the general principles common to all the arts. Thus Hegel here treats: _First, of the abstract idea of the Beautiful; second, of the Beautiful in nature; third, of the Beautiful in art, or of the ideal._ He concludes with an examination of the qualities of the artist. But before entering upon these questions, he thought it necessary to point out the place of art in human life, and especially _its connections with religion and philosophy_.

The destination of man, the law of his nature, is to develop himself incessantly, to stretch unceasingly towards the infinite. He ought, at the same time, to put an end to the opposition which he finds in himself between the elements and powers of his being; to place them in accord by realizing and developing them externally. Physical life is a struggle between opposing forces, and the living being can sustain itself only through the conflict and the triumph of the force which constitutes it. With man, and in the moral sphere, this conflict and progressive enfranchisement are manifested under the form of freedom, which is the highest destination of spirit. Freedom consists in surmounting the obstacles which it encounters within and without, in removing the limits, in effacing all contradiction, in vanquishing evil and sorrow, in order to attain to harmony with the world and with itself. In actual life, man seeks to destroy that opposition by the satisfaction of his physical wants. He calls to his aid, industry and the useful arts; but he obtains thus only limited, relative, and transient enjoyments. He finds a nobler pleasure in science, which furnishes food for his ardent curiosity, and promises to reveal to him the laws of nature and to unveil the secrets of the universe. Civil life opens another channel to his activity; he burns to realize his conceptions; he marches to the conquest of the right, and pursues the ideal of justice which he bears within him. He endeavors to realize in civil society his instinct of sociability, which is also the law of his being, and one of the fundamental inclinations of his moral nature.

But here, again, he attains an imperfect felicity; he encounters limits and obstacles which he cannot surmount, and against which, his will is broken. He cannot obtain the perfect realization of his ideas, nor attain the ideal which his spirit conceives and toward which it aspires. He then feels the necessity of elevating himself to a higher sphere where all contradictions are cancelled; where the idea of the good and of happiness in their perfect accord and their enduring harmony is realized. This profound want of the soul is satisfied in three ways: in _art_, in _religion_, and in _philosophy_. The function of art is to lead us to the contemplation of the true, the infinite, under sensuous forms; for the beautiful is the unity, the realized harmony of two principles of existence, of the idea and the form, of the infinite and the finite. This is the principle and the hidden essence of things, beaming through their visible form. Art presents us, in its works, the image of this happy accord where all opposition ceases, and where all contradiction is cancelled. Such is the aim of art: to represent the divine, the infinite, under sensuous forms. This is its mission; it has no other and this it alone can fulfil. By this title it takes its place by the side of religion, and preserves its independence. It takes its rank also with philosophy, whose object is the knowledge of the true, of absolute truth.

Alike then as to their general ground and aims, these three spheres are distinguished by the form under which they become revealed to the spirit and consciousness of man. Art is addressed to sensuous perception and to the imagination; religion is addressed to the soul, to the conscience, and to sentiment; philosophy is addressed to pure thought or to the reason, which conceives the truth in an abstract manner.

Art, which offers us truth under sensuous forms, does not, however, respond to the profoundest needs of the soul. The spirit is possessed of the desire of entering into itself, of contemplating the truth in the inner recesses of consciousness. Above the domain of art, then, religion is placed, which reveals the infinite, and by meditation conveys to the depths of the heart, to the centre of the soul, that which in art we contemplate externally. As to philosophy, its peculiar aim is to conceive and to comprehend, by the intellect alone, under an abstract form, that which is given as sentiment or as sensuous representation.

I. _Of the Idea of the Beautiful._

After these preliminaries, Hegel enters upon the questions which form the object of this first part. He treats, in the first place, of _the idea of the beautiful_ in itself, in its abstract nature. Freeing his thought from the metaphysical forms which render it difficult of comprehension to minds not familiar with his system, we arrive at this definition, already contained in the foregoing: the Beautiful is the true, that is to say, the essence, the inmost substance of things; the true, not such as the mind conceives it in its abstract and pure nature, but as manifested to the senses under visible forms. It is the sensuous _manifestation of the idea_, which is the soul and principle of things. This definition recalls that of Plato: the Beautiful is the _splendor of the true_.

What are the characteristics of the beautiful? First, it is infinite in this sense, that it is the divine principle itself which is revealed and manifested, and that the form which expresses it, in place of limiting it, realizes it and confounds itself with it; second, it is free, for true freedom is not the absence of rule and measure, it is force which develops itself easily and harmoniously. It appears in the bosom of the existences of the sensuous world, as their principle of life, of unity, and of harmony, whether free from all obstacle, or victorious and triumphant in conflict, always calm and serene.

The spectator who contemplates beauty feels himself equally free, and has a consciousness of his infinite nature. He tastes a pure pleasure, resulting from the felt accord of the powers of his being; a celestial and divine joy, which has nothing in common with material pleasures, and does not suffer to exist in the soul a single impure or gross desire.

The contemplation of the Beautiful awakens no such craving; it is self-sufficing, and is not accompanied by any return of the me upon itself. It suffers the object to preserve its independence for its own sake. The soul experiences something analogous to divine felicity; it is transported into a sphere foreign to the miseries of life and terrestrial existence.

This theory, it is apparent, would need only to be developed to return wholly to the Platonic theory. Hegel limits himself to referring to it. We recognize here, also, the results of the Kantian analysis.

II. _Of the Beautiful in Nature._

Although science cannot pause to describe the beauties of nature, it ought, nevertheless, to study, in a general manner, the characteristics of the Beautiful, as it appears to us in the physical world and in the beings which it contains. This is the subject of a somewhat extended chapter, with the following title: _Of the Beautiful in Nature_. Hegel herein considers the question from the particular point of view of his philosophy, and he applies his theory of the _Idea_. Nevertheless, the results at which he arrives, and the manner in which he describes the forms of physical beauty, can be comprehended and accepted independently of his system, little adapted, it must be confessed, to cast light upon this subject.

The Beautiful in nature is the first manifestation of the Idea. The successive degrees of beauty correspond to the development of life and organization in beings. Unity is an essential characteristic of it. Thus, in the mineral, beauty consists in the arrangement or disposition of the parts, in the force which resides in them, and which reveals itself in this unity. The solar system offers us a more perfect unity and a higher beauty. The bodies in that system, while preserving entire their individual existence, co-ordinate themselves into a whole, the parts of which are independent, although attached to a common centre, the sun. Beauty of this order strikes us by the regularity of the movements of the celestial bodies. A unity more real and true is that which is manifested in organized and living beings. The unity here consists in a relation of reciprocity and of mutual dependence between the organs, so that each of them loses its independent existence in order to give place to a wholly ideal unity which reveals itself as the principle of life animating them.

Life is beautiful in nature: for it is essence, force, the idea realized under its first form. Nevertheless, beauty in nature is still wholly external; it has no consciousness of itself; it is beautiful solely for an intelligence which sees and contemplates it.

How do we perceive beauty in natural beings? Beauty, with living and animate beings, is neither accidental and capricious movements, nor simple conformity of those movements to an end—the uniform and mutual connection of parts. This point of view is that of the naturalist, of the man of science; it is not that of the Beautiful. Beauty is total form in so far as it reveals the force which animates it; it is this force itself, manifested by a totality of forms, of independent and free movements; it is the internal harmony which reveals itself in this secret accord of members, and which betrays itself outwardly, without the eye’s pausing to consider the relation of the parts to the whole, and their functions or reciprocal connection, as science does. The unity exhibits itself merely externally as the principle which binds the members together. It manifests itself especially through the sensibility. The point of view of beauty is then that of pure contemplation, not that of reflection, which analyzes, compares and seizes the connection of parts and their destination.

This internal and visible unity, this accord, and this harmony, are not distinct from the material element; they are its very form. This is the principle which serves to determine beauty in its inferior grades, the beauty of the crystal with its regular forms, forms produced by an internal and free force. A similar activity is developed in a more perfect manner in the living organism, its outlines, the disposition of its members, the movements, and the expression of sensibility.

Such is beauty in individual beings. It is otherwise with it when we consider nature in its totality, the beauty of a landscape, for example. There is no longer question here about an organic disposition of parts and of the life which animates them; we have under our eyes a rich multiplicity of objects which form a whole, mountains, trees, rivers, etc. In this diversity there appears an external unity which interests us by its agreeable or imposing character. To this aspect there is added that property of the objects of nature through which they awaken in us, sympathetically, certain sentiments, by the secret analogy which exists between them and the situations of the human soul.

Such is the effect produced by the silence of the night, the calm of a still valley, the sublime aspect of a vast sea in tumult, and the imposing grandeur of the starry heavens. The significance of these objects is not in themselves; they are only symbols of the sentiments of the soul which they excite. It is thus we attribute to animals the qualities which belong only to man, courage, fortitude, cunning. Physical beauty is a reflex of moral beauty.

To recapitulate, physical beauty, viewed in its ground or essence, consists in the manifestation of the concealed principle, of the force which is developed in the bosom of matter. This force reveals itself in a manner more or less perfect, by unity in inert matter, and in living beings by the different modes of organization.

Hegel then devotes a special examination to the external side, or to beauty of form in natural objects. Physical beauty, considered externally, presents itself successively under the aspects of _regularity_ and _symmetry_, of _conformity_ to law and of _harmony_; lastly, of _purity_ and simplicity of matter.

1. _Regularity_, which is only the repetition of a form equal to itself, is the most elementary and simple form. In _symmetry_ there already appears a diversity which breaks the uniformity. These two forms of beauty pertain to _quantity_, and constitute mathematical beauty; they are found in organic and inorganic bodies, minerals and crystals. In plants are presented less regular, and freer forms. In the organization of animals, this regular and symmetrical disposition becomes more and more subordinated in proportion as we ascend to higher degrees of the animal scale.

2. _Conformity to a law_ marks a degree still more elevated, and serves as a transition to freer forms. Here there appears an accord more real and more profound, which begins to transcend mathematical rigor. It is no longer a simple numerical relation, where quantity plays the principal rôle; we discover a relation of quality between different terms. A law rules the whole, but it cannot be calculated; it remains a hidden bond, which reveals itself to the spectator. Such is the oval line, and above all, the undulating line, which Hogarth has given as the line of beauty. These lines determine, in fact, the beautiful forms of organic nature in living beings of a high order, and, above all, the beautiful forms of the human body, of man and of woman.

3. _Harmony_ is a degree still superior to the preceding, and it includes them. It consists in a totality of elements essentially distinct, but whose opposition is destroyed and reduced to unity by a secret accord, a reciprocal adaptation. Such is the harmony of forms and colors, that of sounds and movements, Here the unity is stronger, more _prononcé_, precisely because the differences and the oppositions are more marked. Harmony, however, is not as yet true unity, spiritual unity, that of the soul, although the latter possesses within it a principle of harmony. Harmony alone, as yet, reveals neither the soul nor the spirit, as one may see in music and dancing.

Beauty exists also in matter itself, abstraction being made of its form; it consists, then, in the unity and _simplicity_ which constitutes _purity_. Such is the purity of the sky and of the atmosphere, the purity of colors and of sounds; that of certain substances—of precious stones, of gold, and of the diamond. Pure and simple colors are also the most agreeable.

After having described the beautiful in nature, in order that the necessity of a beauty more exalted and more ideal shall be comprehended, Hegel sets forth the _imperfections_ of real beauty. He begins with animal life, which is the most elevated point we have reached, and he dwells upon the characteristics and causes of that imperfection.

Thus, first in the animal, although the organism is more perfect than that of the plant, what we see is not the central point of life; the special seat of the operations of the force which animates the whole, remains concealed from us. We see only the outlines of the external form, covered with hairs, scales, feathers, skin; secondly, the human body, it is true, exhibits more beautiful proportions, and a more perfect form, because in it, life and sensibility are everywhere manifested—in the color, the flesh, the freer movements, nobler attitudes, &c. Yet here, besides the imperfections in details, the sensibility does not appear equally distributed. Certain parts are appropriated to animal functions, and exhibit their destination in their form. Further, individuals in nature, placed as they are under a dependence upon external causes, and under the influence of the elements, are under the dominion of necessity and want. Under the continual action of these causes, physical being is exposed to losing the fulness of its forms and the flower of its beauty; rarely do these causes permit it to attain to its complete, free and regular development. The human body is placed under a like dependence upon external agents. If we pass from the physical to the moral world, that dependence appears still more clearly.

Everywhere there is manifested diversity, and opposition of tendencies and interests. The individual, in the plenitude of his life and beauty, cannot preserve the appearance of a free force. Each individual being is limited and particularized in his excellence. His life flows in a narrow circle of space and time; he belongs to a determinate species; his type is given, his form defined, and the conditions of his development fixed. The human body itself offers, in respect to beauty, a progression of forms dependent on the diversity of races. Then come hereditary qualities, the peculiarities which are due to temperament, profession, age, and sex. All these causes alter and disfigure the purest and most perfect primitive type.

All these imperfections are summed up in a word: the finite. Human life and animal life realize their idea only imperfectly. Moreover, spirit—not being able to find, in the limits of the real, the sight and the enjoyment of its proper freedom—seeks to satisfy itself in a region more elevated, that of _art_, or of the ideal.

III. _Of the beautiful in Art or of the Ideal._

Art has as its end and aim the representation of the ideal. Now what is the _ideal_? It is beauty in a degree of perfection superior to real beauty. It is force, life, spirit, the essence of things, developing themselves harmoniously in a sensuous reality, which is its resplendent image, its faithful expression; it is beauty disengaged and purified from the accidents which veil and disfigure it, and which alter its purity in the real world.

The ideal, in art, is not then the contrary of the real, but the real idealized, purified, rendered conformable to its idea, and perfectly expressing it. In a word, it is the perfect accord of the idea and the sensuous form.

On the other hand, the true ideal is not life in its inferior degrees—blind, undeveloped force—but the soul arrived at the consciousness of itself, free, and in the full enjoyment of its faculties; it is life, but spiritual life—in a word, spirit. The representation of the spiritual principle, in the plenitude of its life and freedom, with its high conceptions, its profound and noble sentiments, its joys and its sufferings: this is the true aim of art, the true ideal.

Finally, the ideal is not a lifeless abstraction, a frigid generality; it is the spiritual principle under the form of the living individual, freed from the bonds of the finite, and developing itself in its perfect harmony with its inmost nature and essence.

We see, thus, what are the characteristics of the ideal. It is evident that in all its degrees it is calmness, serenity, felicity, happy existence, freed from the miseries and wants of life. This serenity does not exclude earnestness; for the ideal appears in the midst of the conflicts of life; but even in the roughest experiences, in the midst of intense suffering, the soul preserves an evident calmness as a fundamental trait. It is felicity in suffering, the glorification of sorrow, smiling in tears. The echo of this felicity resounds in all the spheres of the ideal.

It is important to determine, with still more precision, the relations of the _ideal_ and the _real_.

The opposition of the ideal and the real has given rise to two conflicting opinions. Some conceive of the ideal as something vague, an abstract, lifeless generality, without individuality. Others extol the natural, the imitation of the real in the most minute and prosaic details. Equal exaggeration! The truth lies between the two extremes.

In the first place, the ideal may be, in fact, something external and accidental, an insignificant form or appearance, a common existence. But that which constitutes the ideal, in this inferior degree, is the fact that this reality, imitated by art, is a creation of spirit, and becomes then something artificial, not real. It is an image and a metamorphosis. This image, moreover, is more permanent than its model, more durable than the real object. In fixing that which is mobile and transient, in eternizing that which is momentary and fugitive—a flower, a smile—art surpasses nature and idealizes it.

But it does not stop here. Instead of simply reproducing these objects, while preserving their natural form, it seizes their internal and deepest character, it extends their signification, and gives to them a more elevated and more general significance; for it must manifest the universal in the individual, and render visible the idea which they represent, their eternal and fixed type. It allows this character of generality to penetrate everywhere, without reducing it to an abstraction. Thus the artist does not slavishly reproduce all the features of the object, and its accidents, but only the true traits, those conformable to its idea. If, then, he takes nature as a model, he still surpasses and idealizes it. Naturalness, faithfulness, truth, these are not exact imitation, but the perfect conformity of the form to the idea; they are the creation of a more perfect form, whose essential traits represent the idea more faithfully and more clearly than it is expressed in nature itself. To know how to disengage the operative, energetic, essential and significant elements in objects,—this is the task of the artist. The ideal, then, is not the real; the latter contains many elements insignificant, useless, confused and foreign, or opposed to the idea. The natural here loses its vulgar significance. By this word must be understood the more exalted expression of spirit. The ideal is a transfigured, glorified nature.

As to vulgar and common nature, if art takes it also for its object, it is not for its own sake, but because of what in it is true, excellent, interesting, ingenuous or gay, as in _genre_ painting, in Dutch painting particularly. It occupies, nevertheless, an inferior rank, and cannot make pretensions to a place beside the grand compositions of art.

But there are other subjects—a nature more elevated and more ideal. Art, at its culminating stage, represents the development of the internal powers of the soul, its grand passions, profound sentiments, and lofty destinies. Now, it is clear that the artist does not find in the real world, forms so pure and ideal that he may safely confine himself to imitating and copying. Moreover, if the form itself be given, expression must be added. Besides, he ought to secure, in a just measure, the union of the individual and the universal, of the form and the idea; to create a living ideal, penetrated with the idea, and in which it animates the sensuous form and appearance throughout, so that there shall be nothing in it empty or insignificant, nothing that is not alive with expression itself. Where shall he find in the real world, this just measure, this animation, and this exact correspondence of all the parts and of all the details conspiring to the same end, to the same effect? To say that he will succeed in conceiving and realizing the ideal, by making a felicitous selection of ideas and forms, is to ignore the secret of artistic composition; it is to misconceive the entirely spontaneous method of genius,—inspiration which creates at a single effort,—to replace it by a reflective drudgery, which only results in the production of frigid and lifeless works.

It does not suffice to define the ideal in an abstract manner; the ideal is exhibited to us in the works of art under very various and diverse forms. Thus sculpture represents it under the motionless features of its figures. In the other arts it assumes the form of movement and of action; in poetry, particularly, it manifests itself in the midst of most varied situations and events, of conflicts between persons animated by diverse passions. How, and under what conditions, is each art in particular called upon to represent thus the ideal? This will be the object of the theory of the arts. In the general exposition of the principles of art, we may, nevertheless, attempt to define the degrees of this development, to study the principal aspects under which it manifests itself. Such is the object of those considerations, the title of which is, _Of the Determination of the Ideal_, and which the author develops in this first part of the work. We can trace only summarily the principal ideas, devoting ourselves to marking their order and connection.

The gradation which the author establishes between the progressively determined forms of the ideal is as follows:

1. The ideal, under the most elevated form, is the divine idea, the divine such as the imagination can represent it under sensuous forms; such is the Greek ideal of the divinities of Polytheism; such the Christian ideal in its highest purity, under the form of God the Father, of Christ, of the Virgin, of the Apostles, etc. It is given above all to sculpture and painting, to present us the image of it. Its essential characteristics are calmness, majesty, serenity.

2. In a degree less elevated, but more determined, in the circle of human life, the ideal appears to us, with man, as the victory of the eternal principles which fill the human heart, the triumph of the noble part of the soul over the inferior and passionate. The noble, the excellent, the perfect, in the human soul, is the moral and divine principle which is manifested in it, which governs its will, and causes it to accomplish grand actions; this is the true source of self-sacrifice and of heroism.

3. But the idea, when it is manifested in the real world, can be developed only under the form of _action_. Now, action itself has for its condition a conflict between principles and persons, divided as to interests, ideas, passions, and characters. It is this especially that is represented by poetry—the art _par excellence_, the only art which can reproduce an action in its successive phases, with its complications, its sudden turns of fortune, its catastrophe and its denouement.

_Action_, if one considers it more closely, includes the following conditions: 1st. A world which serves it as a basis and theatre, _a form of society_ which renders it possible, and is favorable to the development of ideal figures. 2d. A determinate situation, in which the personages are placed who render necessary the conflict between opposing interests and passions, whence a collision may arise. 3d. An action, properly so called, which develops itself in its essential moments, which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This action, in order to afford a high interest, should revolve upon ideas of an elevated order, which inspire and sustain the personages, ennobling their passions, and forming the basis of their character.

Hegel treats, in a general manner, each of these points, which will appear anew, under a more special form, in the study of poetry, and particularly of epic and dramatic poetry.

1. The state of society most favorable to the ideal is that which allows the characters to act with most freedom, to reveal a lofty and powerful personality. This cannot be a social order, where all is fixed and regulated by laws and a constitution. Nor can it be the savage state, where all is subject to caprice and violence, and where man is dependent upon a thousand external causes, which render his existence precarious. Now the state intermediate between the barbarous state and an advanced civilization, is the _heroic age_, that in which the epic poets locate their action, and from which the tragic poets themselves have often borrowed their subjects and their personages. That which characterizes heroes in this epoch is, above all, the independence which is manifested in their characters and acts. On the other hand, the hero is all of a piece; he assumes not only the responsibility of his acts and their consequences, but the results of actions he has not perpetrated, of the faults or crimes of his race; he bears in his person an entire race.

Another reason why the ideal existences of art belong to the mythologic ages, and to remote epochs of history, is that the artist or the poet, in representing or recounting events, has a freer scope in his ideal creations. Art, also, for the same reason, has a predilection for the higher conditions of society, those of princes particularly, because of the perfect independence of will and action which characterizes them. In this respect, our actual society, with its civil and political organization, its manners, administration, police, etc., is prosaic. The sphere of activity of the individual is too restricted; he encounters everywhere limits and shackles to his will. Our monarchs themselves are subject to these conditions; their power is limited by institutions, laws and customs. War, peace, and treaties are determined by political relations independent of their will.

The greatest poets have not been able to escape these conditions; and when they have desired to represent personages nearer to us, as Charles Moor, or Wallenstein, they have been obliged to place them in revolt against society or against their sovereign. Moreover, these heroes rush on to an inevitable ruin, or they fall into the ridiculous situation, of which the Don Quixote of Cervantes gives us the most striking example.

2. To represent the ideal in personages or in an action, there is necessary not only a favorable world from which the subject is to be borrowed, but a situation. This situation can be either indeterminate, like that of many of the immobile personages of antique or religious sculpture, or determinate, but yet of little earnestness. Such are also the greater number of the situations of the personages of antique sculpture. Finally, it may be earnest, and furnish material for a veritable action. It supposes, then, an opposition, an action and a reaction, a conflict, a collision. The beauty of the ideal consists in absolute serenity and perfection. Now, collision destroys this harmony. The problem of art consists, then, in so managing that the harmony reappears in the denouement. Poetry alone is capable of developing this opposition upon which the interest, particularly, of tragic art turns.

Without examining here the nature of the different _collisions_, the study of which belongs to the theory of dramatic art, we must already have remarked that the collisions of the highest order are those in which the conflict takes place between moral forces, as in the ancient tragedies. This is the subject of true classic tragedy, moral as well as religious, as will be seen from what follows.

Thus the ideal, in this superior degree, is the manifestation of moral powers and of the ideas of spirit, of the grand movements of the soul, and of the characters which appear and are revealed in the development of the representation.

3. In _action_, properly so-called, three things are to be considered which constitute its ideal object: 1. The general interests, the ideas, the universal principles, whose opposition forms the very foundation of the action; 2. The personages; 3. Their character and their passions, or the motives which impel them to act.

In the first place, the eternal principles of religion, of morality, of the family, of the state—the grand sentiments of the soul, love, honor, etc.—these constitute the basis, the true interest of the action. These are the grand and true motives of art, the eternal theme of exalted poetry.

To these legitimate and true powers others are, without doubt, added; the powers of evil; but they ought not to be represented as forming the real foundation and end of the action. “If the idea, the end and aim, be something false in itself, the hideousness of the ground will allow still less beauty of form. The sophistry of the passions may, indeed, by a true picture, attempt to represent the false under the colors of the true, but it places under our eyes only a whited sepulchre. Cruelty and the violent employment of force can be endured in representation, but only when they are relieved by the grandeur of the character and ennobled by the aim which is pursued by the _dramatis personæ_. Perversity, envy, cowardice, baseness, are only repulsive.

“Evil, in itself, is stripped of real interest, because nothing but the false can spring from what is false; it produces only misfortune, while art should present to us order and harmony. The great artists, the great poets of antiquity, never give us the spectacle of pure wickedness and perversity.”

We cite this passage because it exhibits the character and high moral tone which prevails in the entire work, as we shall have occasion to observe more than once hereafter.

If the ideas and interests of human life form the ground of the action, the latter is accomplished by the characters upon whom the interest is fastened. General ideas may, indeed, be personated by beings superior to man, by certain divinities like those which figure in ancient epic poetry and tragedy. But it is to man that action, properly so-called, returns; it is he who occupies the scene. Now, how reconcile divine action and human action, the will of the gods and that of man? Such is the problem which has made shipwreck of so many poets and artists. To maintain a proper equipoise it is necessary that the gods have supreme direction, and that man preserve his freedom and his independence without which he is no more than the passive instrument of the will of the gods; fatality weighs upon all his acts. The true solution consists in maintaining the identity of the two terms, in spite of their difference; in so acting that what is attributed to the gods shall appear at the same time to emanate from the inner nature of the _dramatis personæ_ and from their character. The talent of the artist must reconcile the two aspects. “The heart of man must be revealed in his gods, personifications of the grand motives which allure him and govern him within.” This is the problem resolved by the great poets of antiquity, Homer, Æschylus, and Sophocles.

The general principles, those grand motives which are the basis of the action, by the fact that they are living in the soul of the characters, form, also, the very ground of the _passions_; this is the essence of true pathos. Passion, here, in the elevated ideal sense, is, in fact, not an arbitrary, capricious, irregular movement of the soul; it is a noble principle, which blends itself with a great idea, with one of the eternal verities of moral or religious order. Such is the passion of Antigone, the holy love for her brother; such, the vengeance of Orestes. It is an essentially legitimate power of the soul which contains one of the eternal principles of the reason and the will. This is still the ideal, the true ideal, although it appears under the form of a passion. It relieves, ennobles and purifies it; it thus gives to the action a serious and profound interest.

It is in this sense that passion constitutes the centre and true domain of art; it is the principle of emotion, the source of true pathos.

Now, this moral verity, this eternal principle which descends into the heart of man and there takes the form of great and noble passion, identifying itself with the will of the _dramatis personæ_, constitutes, also, their character. Without this high idea which serves as support and as basis to passion, there is no true character. Character is the culminating point of ideal representation. It is the embodiment of all that precedes. It is in the creation of the characters, that the genius of the artist or of the poet is displayed.

Three principal elements must be united to form the ideal character, _richness_, _vitality_, and _stability_. Richness consists in not being limited to a single quality, which would make of the person an abstraction, an allegoric being. To a single dominant quality there should be added all those which make of the personage or hero a real and complete man, capable of being developed in diverse situations and under varying aspects. Such a multiplicity alone can give vitality to the character. This is not sufficient, however; it is necessary that the qualities be moulded together in such a manner as to form not a simple assemblage and a complex whole, but one and the same individual, having peculiar and original physiognomy. This is the case when a particular sentiment, a ruling passion, presents the salient trait of the character of a person, and gives to him a fixed aim, to which all his resolutions and his acts refer. Unity and variety, simplicity and completeness of detail, these are presented to us in the characters of Sophocles, Shakspeare, and others.

Lastly, what constitutes essentially the ideal in character is consistency and stability. An inconsistent, undecided, irresolute character, is the utter want of character. Contradictions, without doubt, exist in human nature, but unity should be maintained in spite of these fluctuations. Something identical ought to be found throughout, as a fundamental trait. To be self-determining, to follow a design, to embrace a resolution and persist in it, constitute the very foundation of personality; to suffer one’s self to be determined by another, to hesitate, to vacillate, this is to surrender one’s will, to cease to be one’s self, to lack character; this is, in all cases, the opposite of the ideal character.

Hegel on this subject strongly protests against the characters which figure in modern pieces and romances, and of which Werther is the type.

These pretended characters, says he, represent only unhealthiness of spirit, and feebleness of soul. Now true and healthy art does not represent what is false and sickly, what lacks consistency and decision, but that which is true, healthy and strong. The ideal, in a word, is the idea realized; man can realize it only as a free person, that is to say, by displaying all the energy and constancy which can make it triumph.

We shall find more than once, in the course of the work, the same ideas developed with the same force and precision.

That which constitutes the very ground of the ideal is the inmost essence of things, especially the lofty conceptions of the spirit, and the development of the powers of the soul. These ideas are manifest in an action in which are placed upon the scene the grand interests of life, the passions of the human heart, the will and the character of actors. But this action is itself developed in the midst of an external nature which, moreover, lends to the ideal, colors and a determinate form. These external surroundings must also be conceived and fashioned in the meaning of the ideal, according to the laws of _regularity_, _symmetry_, and _harmony_, of which mention has been made above. How ought man to be represented in his relations with external nature? How ought this prose of life to be idealized? If art, in fact, frees man from the wants of material life, it cannot, however, elevate him above the conditions of human existence, and suppress these connections.

Hegel devotes a special examination to this new phase of the question of the ideal, which he designates by this title—_Of the external determination of the ideal_.

In our days we have given an exaggerated importance to this external side, which we have made the principal object. We are too unmindful that art should represent the ideas and sentiments of the human soul, that this is the true ground of its works. Hence all these minute descriptions, this external care given to the picturesque element or to the local color, to furniture, to costumes, to all those artificial means employed to disguise the emptiness and insignificance of the subject, the absence of ideas, the falsity of the situations, the feebleness of the characters, and the improbability of the action.

Nevertheless, this side has its place in art, and should not be neglected. It gives clearness, truthfulness, life, and interest to its works, by the secret sympathy which exists between man and nature. It is characteristic of the great masters to represent nature with perfect truthfulness. Homer is an example of this. Without forgetting the content for the form, picture for the frame, he presents to us a faultless and precise image of the theatre of action. The arts differ much in this respect. Sculpture limits itself to certain symbolic indications; painting, which has at its disposal means more extended, enriches with these objects the content of its pictures. Among the varieties of poetry, the epic is more circumstantial in its descriptions than the drama or lyric poetry. But this external fidelity should not, in any art, extend to the representation of insignificant details, to the making of them an object of predilection, and to subordinating to them the developments which the subject itself claims. The grand point in these descriptions is that we perceive a secret harmony between man and nature, between the action and the theatre on which it occurs.

Another species of accord is established between man and the objects of physical nature, when, through his free activity, he impresses upon them his intelligence and will, and appropriates them to his own use; the ideal consists in causing misery and necessity to disappear from the domain of art, in revealing the freedom which develops itself without effort under our eyes, and easily surmounts obstacles.

Such is the ideal considered under this aspect. Thus the gods of polytheism themselves have garments and arms; they drink nectar and are nourished by ambrosia. The garment is an ornament designed to heighten the glory of the features, to give nobleness to the countenance, to facilitate movement, or to indicate force and agility. The most brilliant objects, the metals, precious stones, purple and ivory, are employed for the same end. All concur to produce the effect of grace and beauty.

In the satisfaction of physical wants the ideal consists, above all, in the simplicity of the means. Instead of being artificial, factitious, complex, the latter emanate directly from the activity of man, and freedom. The heroes of Homer themselves slay the oxen which are to serve for the feast, and roast them; they forge their arms, and prepare their couches. This is not, as one might think, a relic of barbarous manners, something prosaic; but we see, penetrating everywhere the delight of invention, the pleasure of easy toil and free activity exercised on material objects. Everything is peculiar to and inherent in his character, and a means for the hero of revealing the force of his arm and the skill of his hand; while, in civilized society, these objects depend on a thousand foreign causes, on a complex adjustment in which man is converted into a machine subordinated to other machines. Things have lost their freshness and vitality; they remain inanimate, and are no longer proper, direct creations of the human person, in which the man loves to solace and contemplate himself.

A final point relative to the external _form of the ideal_ is that which concerns the _relation of works of art to the public_, that is to say, to the nation and epoch for which the artist or the poet composes his works. Ought the artist, when he treats a subject, to consult, above all, the spirit, taste and manners of the people whom he addresses, and conform himself to their ideas? This is the means of exciting interest in fabulous and imaginary or even historic persons. But then there is a liability to distort history and tradition.

Ought he, on the other hand, to reproduce with scrupulous exactness the manners and customs of another time, to give to the facts and the characters their proper coloring and their original and primitive costume? This is the problem. Hence arise two schools and two opposite modes of representation. In the age of Louis XIV., for example, the Greeks and Romans are conceived in the likeness of Frenchmen. Since then, by a natural reaction, the contrary tendency has prevailed. Today the poet must have the knowledge of an archeologist, and possess his scrupulous exactness, and pay close attention, above all, to local color, and historic verity has become the principal and essential aim of art.

Truth here, as always, lies between the two extremes. It is necessary to maintain, at the same time, the rights of art and these of the public, to have a proper regard for the spirit of the epoch, and to satisfy the exigencies of the subject treated. These are the very judicious rules which the author states upon this delicate point.

The subject should be intelligible and interesting to the public to which it is addressed. But this end the poet or the artist will attain only so far as, by his general spirit, his work responds to some one of the essential ideas of the human spirit and to the general interests of humanity. The particularities of an epoch are not of true and enduring interest to us.

If, then, the subject is borrowed from remote epochs of history, or from some far-off tradition, it is necessary that, by our general culture, we should be familiarized with it. It is thus only that we can sympathize with an epoch and with manners that are no more. Hence the two essential conditions; that the subject present the general human character, then that it be in relation with our ideas.

Art is not designed for a small number of scholars and men of science; it is addressed to the entire nation. Its works should be comprehended and relished of themselves, and not after a course of difficult research. Thus national subjects are the most favorable. All great poems are national poems. The Bible histories have for us a particular charm, because we are familiar with them from our infancy. Nevertheless, in the measure that relations are multiplied between peoples, art can borrow its subjects from all latitudes and from all epochs. It should, indeed, as to the principal features, preserve, to the traditions, events, and personages, to manners and institutions, their historic or traditional character; but the duty of the artist, above all, is to place the idea which constitutes its content in harmony with the spirit of his own age, and the peculiar genius of his nation.

In this necessity lies the reason and excuse for what is called anachronism in art. When the anachronism bears only upon external circumstances it is unimportant. It becomes a matter of more moment if we attribute to the characters, the ideas, and sentiments of another epoch. Respect must be paid to historic truth, but regard must also be had to the manners and intellectual culture of one’s own time. The heroes of Homer themselves are more than were the real personages of the epoch which he presents; and the characters of Sophocles are brought still nearer to us. To violate thus the rules of historic reality, is a necessary anachronism in art. Finally, another form of anachronism, which the utmost moderation and genius can alone make pardonable, is that which transfers the religious or moral ideas of a more advanced civilization to an anterior epoch; when one attributes, for example, to the ancients the ideas of the moderns. Some great poets have ventured upon this intentionally; few have been successful in it.

The general conclusion is this: “The artist should be required to make himself the cotemporary of past ages, and become penetrated himself with their spirit. For if the substance of those ideas be true, it remains clear for all time. But to undertake to reproduce with a scrupulous exactness the external element of history, with all its details and particulars,—in a word, all the rust of antiquity, is the work of a puerile erudition, which attaches itself only to a superficial aim. We should not wrest from art the right which it has to float between reality and fiction.”

This first part concludes with an examination of the qualities necessary to an artist, such as imagination, genius, inspiration, originality, etc. The author does not deem it obligatory to treat at much length this subject, which appears to him to allow only a small number of general rules or psychological observations. The manner in which he treats of many points, and particularly of the imagination, causes us to regret that he has not thought it worth while to give a larger space to these questions, which occupy the principal place in the majority of æsthetical treatises; we shall find them again under another form in the theory of the arts.

[The next number will continue this translation through the treatment of the Symbolic, Classic, and Romantic forms of art.]

NOTES ON RAPHAEL’S “TRANSFIGURATION.”

[Read before the St. Louis Art Society in November, 1866.]

I. THE ENGRAVING.

He who studies the “Transfiguration” of Raphael is fortunate if he has access to the engraving of it by Raphael Morghen. This engraver, as one learns from the Encyclopædia, was a Florentine, and executed this—his most elaborate work—in 1795, from a drawing of Tofanelli, after having discovered that a copy he had partly finished from another drawing, was very inadequate when compared with the original.

Upon comparison with engravings by other artists, it seems to me that this engraving has not received all the praise it deserves; I refer especially to the seizing of the “motives” of the picture, which are so essential in a work of great scope, to give it the requisite unity. What the engraver has achieved in the present instance, I hope to be able to show in some degree. But one will not be able to verify my results if he takes up an engraving by a less fortunate artist; e.g.: one by Pavoni, of recent origin.

II. HISTORICAL.

It is currently reported that Raphael painted the “Transfiguration” at the instance of Cardinal Giulio de Medici, and that in honor of the latter he introduced the two saints—Julian and Lawrence—on the mount; St. Julian suggesting the ill-fated Giuliano de Medici, the Cardinal’s father, and St. Lawrence representing his uncle, “Lorenzo the Magnificent,” the greatest of the Medici line, and greatest man of his time in Italy. “The haughty Michael Angelo refused to enter the lists in person against Raphael, but put forward as a fitting rival Sebastian del Piombo, a Venetian.” Raphael painted, as his masterpiece, the “Transfiguration,” and Sebastian, with the help of Michael Angelo, painted the “Raising of Lazarus.” In 1520, before the picture was quite finished, Raphael died. His favorite disciple, Giulio Romano, finished the lower part of the picture (especially the demoniac) in the spirit of Raphael, who had completed the upper portion and most of the lower.

III. LEGEND.

The Legend portrayed here—slightly varying from the one in the New Testament, but not contradicting it—is as follows: Christ goes out with his twelve disciples to Mount Tabor,(?) and, leaving the nine others at the foot, ascends with the favored three to the summit, where the scene of the Transfiguration takes place. While this transpires, the family group approach with the demoniac, seeking help from a miraculous source.

Raphael has added to this legend the circumstance that two sympathetic strangers, passing that way up the mount, carry to the Beatified One the intelligence of the event below, and solicit his immediate and gracious interference.

The Testament account leads us to suppose the scene to be Mount Tabor, southeast of Nazareth, at whose base he had healed many, a few days before, and where he had held many conversations with his disciples. “On the following day, when they were come down, they met the family,” says Luke; but Matthew and Mark do not fix so precisely the day.

IV. CHARACTERIZATION.

It may be safely affirmed that there is scarcely a picture in existence in which the individualities are more strongly marked by internal essential characteristics.

Above, there is no figure to be mistaken: Christ floats toward the source of light—the Invisible Father, by whom _all_ is made visible that is visible. On the right, Moses appears in strong contrast to Elias on the left—the former the law-giver, and the latter the spontaneous, fiery, eagle-eyed prophet.

On the mountain top—prostrate beneath, are the three disciples—one recognizes on the right hand, John, gracefully bending his face down from the overpowering light, while on the left James buries his face in his humility. But Peter, the bold one, is fain to gaze directly on the splendor. He turns his face up in the act, but is, as on another occasion, mistaken in his estimate of his own endurance, and is obliged to cover his eyes, involuntarily, with his hand.

Below the mount, are two opposed groups. On the right, coming from the hamlet in the distance, is the family group, of which a demoniac boy forms the centre. They, without doubt, saw Christ pass on his way to this solitude, and, at length, concluded to follow him and test his might which had been “noised abroad” in that region. It is easy to see the relationship of the whole group. First the boy, actually “possessed,” or a maniac; then his father—a man evidently predisposed to insanity—supporting and restraining him. Kneeling at the right of the boy is his mother, whose fair Grecian face has become haggard with the trials she has endured from her son. Just beyond her is her brother, and in the shade of the mountain, is her father. In the foreground is her sister. Back of the father, to the right, is seen an uncle (on the father’s side) of the demoniac boy, whose features and gestures show him to be a simpleton, and near him is seen the face of the father’s sister, also a weak-minded person. The parents of the father are not to be seen, for the obvious reason that old age is not a characteristic of persons predisposed to insanity. Again, it is marked that in a family thus predisposed, some will be brilliant to a degree resembling genius, and others will be simpletons. The whole group at the right are supplicating the nine disciples, in the most earnest manner, for relief. The disciples, grouped on the left, are full of sympathy, but their looks tell plainly that they can do nothing. One, at the left and near the front, holds the books of the Law in his right hand, but the letter needs the spirit to give life, and the mere Law of Moses does not help the demoniac, and only excites the sorrowful indignation of the beautiful sister in the foreground.

The curious student of the New Testament may succeed in identifying the different disciples: Andrew, holding the books of the Law, is Peter’s brother, and bears a family resemblance. Judas, at the extreme left, cannot be mistaken. Matthew looks over the shoulder of Bartholomew, who is pointing to the demoniac; while Thomas—distinguished by his youthful appearance—bends over toward the boy with a look of intense interest. Simon (?), kneeling between Thomas and Bartholomew, is indicating to the mother, by the gesture with his left hand, the absence of the Master. Philip, whose face is turned towards Judas, is pointing to the scene on the mount, and apparently suggesting the propriety of going for the absent one. James, the son of Alpheus, resembles Christ in features, and stands behind Jude, his brother, who points up to the mount while looking at the father.

V. ORGANIC UNITY.

(_a_) Doubtless every true work of art should have what is called an “organic unity.” That is to say, all the parts of the work should be related to each other in such a way that a harmony of design arises. Two entirely unrelated things brought into the piece would form two centres of attraction and hence divide the work into two different works. It should be so constituted that the study of one part leads to all the other parts as being necessarily implied in it. This common life of the whole work is the central idea which necessitates all the parts, and hence makes the work an organism instead of a mere conglomerate or mechanical aggregate,—a fortuitous concourse of atoms which would make a chaos only.

(_b_) This central idea, however, cannot be represented in a work of art without contrasts, and hence there must be antitheses present.

(_c_) And these antitheses must be again reduced to unity by the manifest dependence of each side upon the central idea.

What is the central idea of this picture?

(_a_) Almost every thoughtful person that has examined it, has said: “Here is the Divine in contrast with the Human, and the dependence of the latter upon the former.” This may be stated in a variety of ways. The Infinite is there above, and the Finite here below seeking it.

(_b_) The grandest antithesis is that between the two parts of the Picture, the above and the below. The transfigured Christ, there, dazzling with light; below, the shadow of mortal life, only illuminated by such rays as come from above. _There_, serenity; and here, rending calamity.

Then there are minor antitheses.

(1) Above we have a Twofold. The three celestial light-seekers who soar rapturously to the invisible source of light, and below them, the three disciples swooning beneath the power of the celestial vision. (2) Then below the mountain we have a similar contrast in the two groups; the one broken in spirit by the calamity that “pierces their own souls,” and the other group powerfully affected by sympathy, and feeling keenly their impotence during the absence of their Lord.

Again even, there appear other antitheses. So completely does the idea penetrate the material in this work of art, that everywhere we see the mirror of the whole. In the highest and most celestial we have the antithesis of Christ and the twain; Moses the law or letter, Elias the spirit or the prophet, and Christ the living unity. Even Christ himself, though comparatively the point of repose of the whole picture, is a contrast of soul striving against the visible body. So, too, the antitheses of the three disciples, John, Peter, James,—grace, strength, and humility. Everywhere the subject is exhaustively treated; the family in its different members, the disciples with the different shades of sympathy and concern. (The maniac boy is a perfect picture of a being, torn asunder by violent internal contradiction.)

(_c_) The unity is no less remarkable. First, the absolute unity of the piece, is the transfigured Christ. To it, mediately or immediately, everything refers. All the light in the picture streams thence. All the action in the piece has its motive power in Him;—first, the two celestials soar to gaze in his light; then the three disciples are expressing, by the posture of every limb, the intense effect of the same light. On the left, the mediating strangers stand imploring Christ to descend and be merciful to the miserable of this life. Below, the disciples are painfully reminded of Him absent, by the present need of his all-healing power, and their gestures refer to his stay on the mountain top; while the group at the right, are frantic in supplications for his assistance.

Besides the central unity, we find minor unities that do not contradict the higher unity, for the reason that they are only reflections of it, and each one carries us, of its own accord, to the higher unity, and loses itself in it. To illustrate: Below, the immediate unity of all (centre of interest) is the maniac boy, and yet he convulsively points to the miraculous scene above, and the perfect unrest exhibited in his attitude repels the soul irresistibly to seek another unity. The Christ above, gives us a comparatively serene point of repose, while the unity of the Below or finite side of the picture is an absolute antagonism, hurling us beyond to the higher unity.

Before the approach of the distressed family, the others were intently listening to the grave and elderly disciple, Andrew, who was reading and expounding the Scriptures to them. This was a different unity, and would have clashed with the organic unity of the piece; the approach of the boy brings in a new unity, which immediately reflects all to the higher unity.

VI. SENSE AND REASON _VS._ UNDERSTANDING.

At this point a few reflections are suggested to render more obvious, certain higher phases in the unity of this work of art, which must now be considered.

A work of art, it will be conceded, must, first of all, appeal to the senses. Equally, too, its content must be an idea of the Reason, and this is not so readily granted by every one. But if there were no idea of the Reason in it, there would be no unity to the work, and it could not be distinguished from any other work _not_ a work of art. Between the Reason and the Senses there lies a broad realm, called the “Understanding” by modern speculative writers. It was formerly called the “discursive intellect.” The Understanding applies the criterion “_use_.” It does not know _beauty_, or, indeed, anything which is _for itself_; it knows only what is good for something else. In a work of art, after it has asked what it is good for, it proceeds to construe it all into prose, for it is the _prose faculty_. It must have the picture tell us what is the _external fact_ in nature, and not trouble us with any transcendental imaginative products. It wants imitation of nature merely.

But the artist frequently neglects this faculty, and shocks it to the uttermost by such things as the abridged mountain in this picture, or the shadow cast toward the sun, that Eckermann tells of.

The artist must never violate the sensuous harmony, nor fail to have the deeper unity of the Idea. It is evident that the sensuous side is always cared for by Raphael.

Here are some of the effects in the picture that are purely sensuous and yet of such a kind that they immediately call up the idea. The source of light in the picture is Christ’s form; _below_, it is reflected in the garments of the conspicuous figure in the foreground. Above, is Christ; opposite and below, a female that suggests the Madonna. In the same manner Elias, or the inspired prophet, is the opposite to the maniac boy; the former inspired by the _celestial_; the latter, by the _demonic_. So Moses, the law-giver, is antithetic to the old disciple that has the roll of the Law in his hand. So, too, in the posture, Elias floats freely, while Moses is brought against the tree, and mars the impression of free self-support. The heavy tables of the Law seem to draw him down, while Elias seems to have difficulty in descending sufficiently to place himself in subordination to Christ.

Even the contradiction that the understanding finds in the abridgment of the mountain, is corrected sensuously by the perspective at the right, and the shade that the edge of the rock casts which isolates the above so completely from the below.

We see that Raphael has brought them to a secluded spot just near the top of the mountain. The view of the distant vale tells us as effectually that this is a mountain top as could be done by a full length painting of it. Hence the criticism rests upon a misunderstanding of the fact Raphael has portrayed.

VII. ROMANTIC _vs._ CLASSIC.

Finally, we must recur to those distinctions so much talked of, in order to introduce the consideration of the grandest strokes of genius which Raphael has displayed in this work.

The distinction of Classic and Romantic Art, of Greek Art from Christian: the former is characterized by a complete repose, or equilibrium between the Sense and Reason—or between matter and form. The idea seems completely expressed, and the expression completely adequate to the idea.

But in Christian Art we do not find this equilibrium; but everywhere we find an intimation that the idea is too transcendent for the matter to express. Hence, Romantic Art is self contradictory—it _expresses_ the _inadequacy_ of _expression_.

“I have that within which passeth show; These but the _trappings_ and the _suits_ of woe.”

In Gothic Architecture, all strives upward and seems to derive its support from above (i. e. the Spiritual, light). All Romantic Art points to a _beyond_. The Madonnas seem to say: “I am a beyond which cannot be represented in a sensuous form;” “a saintly contempt for the flesh hovers about their features,” as some one has expressed it.

But in this picture, Christ himself, no more a child in the Madonna’s arms, but even in his meridian glory, looks beyond, and expresses dependence on a Being who is not and cannot be represented. His face is serene, beatific; he is at unity with this Absolute Being, but the unity is an internal one, and his upraised gaze towards the source of light is a plain statement that the True which supports him is not a sensuous one. “God dwelleth not in temples made with hands; but those who would approach Him must do it in _spirit_ and in _truth_.”

This is the idea which belongs to the method of all modern Art; but Raphael has not left this as the general spirit of the picture merely, but has emphasized it in a way that exhibits the happy temper of his genius in dealing with refractory subjects. And this last point has proved too much for his critics. Reference is made to the two saints painted at the left. How fine it would be, thought the Cardinal de Medici, to have St. Lawrence and St. Julian painted in there, to commemorate my father and uncle! They can represent mediators, and thereby connect the two parts of the picture more closely!

Of course, Raphael put them in there! “Alas!” say his critics, “what a fatal mistake! What have those two figures to do there but to mar the work! All for the gratification of a selfish pride!”

Always trust an Artist to dispose of the Finite; he, of all men, knows how to digest it and subordinate it to the idea.

Raphael wanted just such figures in just that place. Of course, the most natural thing in the world that could happen, would be the ascent of some one to bear the message to Christ that there was need of him below. But what is the effect of that upon the work as a piece of Romantic Art? It would destroy that characteristic, if permitted in certain forms. Raphael, however, seizes upon this incident to show the entire spiritual character of the upper part of the picture. The disciples are dazzled so, that even the firm Peter cannot endure the light at all. Is this a physical light? Look at the messengers that have come up the mountain! Do their eyes indicate anything bright, not to say dazzling? They stand there with supplicating looks and gestures, but see no transfiguration. It must be confessed, Cardinal de Medici, that your uncle and father are not much complimented, after all; they are merely natural men, and have no inner sense by which to see the Eternal Verities that illume the mystery of existence! Even if you are Cardinal, and they were Popes’ counselors, they never saw anything higher in Religion than what should add comfort to us here below!

No! The transfiguration, as Raphael clearly tells us, was a Spiritual one: Christ, on the mountain with his favored three disciples, opened up such celestial clearness in his exposition of the truth, that they saw Moses and Elias, as it were, combined in one Person, and a new Heaven and a new Earth arose before them, and they were lost in that revelation of infinite splendor.

In closing, a remark forces itself upon us with reference to the comparative merits of Raphael and Michael Angelo.

Raphael is the perfection of Romantic Art. Michael Angelo is almost a Greek. His paintings all seem to be pictures of statuary. In his grandest—The Last Judgment—we have the visible presence as the highest. Art with him could represent the Absolute. With Raphael it could only, in its loftiest flights, express its own impotence.

Whether we are to consider Raphael or Michael Angelo as the higher artist, must be decided by an investigation of the merits of the “Last Judgment.”

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.