LONGFELLOW.--"That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders."
CARY--"That to us he may vouchsafe
The aid of his strong shoulders."
PARSONS.--"And ask for us his shoulders' strong support." [44]
[44] "Che ne conceda i suoi omeri forti."
Canto XVII., line 25:--
LONGFELLOW.--
"His tail was wholly quivering in the void,
Contorting upwards the envenomed fork
That in the guise of scorpion armed its point."
CARY.--
"In the void
Glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork,
With sting like scorpions armed."
PARSONS.--"In the void chasm his trembling tail he showed,
As up the envenomed, forked point he swung, Which, as in
scorpions, armed its tapering end." [45]
[45] "Nel vano tutta sue coda guizzava,
Torcendo in su la venenosa forca,
Che, a guisa di scorpion, la punta armava."
Canto V., line 51:--
LONGFELLOW.--"People whom the black air so castigates.
CARY.--"By the black air so scourged." [46]
[46] "Genti che l' aura nera si gastiga."
Line 136:--
LONGFELLOW.--"Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating."
CARY.--"My lips all trembling kissed." [47]
[47] "La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante."
"Purgatorio," Canto XV., line 139:--
LONGFELLOW.--
"We passed along, athwart the twilight peering
Forward as far as ever eye could stretch
Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent." [48]
[48] "Noi andavam per lo vespero attenti
Oltre, quanto potean gli occhi allungarsi,
Contra i raggi serotini e lucenti."
Mr. Cary's "bright vespertine ray" is only a trifle better; but Mr.
Wright's "splendour of the evening ray" is, in its simplicity, far
preferable.
Canto XXXI., line 131:--
LONGFELLOW.--"Did the other three advance Singing to their
angelic saraband."
CARY.--"To their own carol on they came Dancing, in festive ring
angelical "
WRIGHT.--"And songs accompanied their angel dance."
Here Mr. Longfellow has apparently followed the authority of the Crusca,
reading
"Cantando al loro angelico carribo,"
and translating carribo by saraband, a kind of Moorish dance. The best
manuscripts, however, sanction M. Witte's reading:--
"Danzando al loro angelico carribo."
If this be correct, carribo cannot signify "a dance," but rather "the
song which accompanies the dance"; and the true sense of the passage
will have been best rendered by Mr. Cary. [49]
[49] See Blanc, Vocabolario Dantesco, s. v. "caribo."
Whenever Mr. Longfellow's translation is kept free from oddities of
diction and construction, it is very animated and vigorous. Nothing can
be finer than his rendering of "Purgatorio," Canto VI., lines 97-117:--
"O German Albert! who abandonest
Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage,
And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow,
May a just judgment from the stars down fall
Upon thy blood, and be it new and open,
That thy successor may have fear thereof:
Because thy father and thyself have suffered,
By greed of those transalpine lands distrained,
The garden of the empire to be waste.
Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,
Monaldi and Filippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!
Come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression
Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds,
And thou shalt see how safe [?] is Santafiore.
Come and behold thy Rome that is lamenting,
Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims
'My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?'
Come and behold how loving are the people;
And if for us no pity moveth thee,
Come and be made ashamed of thy renown." [50]
[50] "O Alberto Tedesco, che abbandoni
Costei ch' e fatta indomita e selvaggia,
E dovresti inforcar li suoi arcioni,
Giusto gindizio dalle stelle caggia
Sopra il tuo sangue, e sia nuovo ed aperto,
Tal che il tuo successor temenza n' aggia:
Cheavete tu e il tuo padre sofferto,
Per cupidigia di costa distretti,
Che il giardin dell' imperio sia diserto.
Vieni a veder Montecchi e Cappelletti,
Monaldi e Filippeschi, uom senza cura:
Color gia tristi, e questi con sospetti.
Vien, crudel, vieni, e vedi la pressura
De' tuoi gentili, e cure lor magagne,
E vedrai Santafior com' e oscura [secura?].
Vieni a veder la tua Roma che piagne,
Vedova e sola, e di e notte chiama:
Cesare mio, perche non m' accompagne?
Vieni a veder la gente quanto s' ama;
E se nulla di noi pieta ti move,
A vergognar ti vien della tua fama."
So, too, Canto III., lines 79-84:--
"As sheep come issuing forth from out the fold
By ones, and twos, and threes, and the others stand
Timidly holding down their eyes and nostrils,
And what the foremost does the others do
Huddling themselves against her if she stop,
Simple and quiet, and the wherefore know not." [51]
[51] "Come le pecorelle escon del chiuso
Ad una, a due, a tre, e l' altre stanno
Timidette atterrando l' occhio e il muso;
E cio che fa la prima, e l' altre sanno,
Addossandosi a lei s' ella s' arresta,
Semplici e quete, e lo 'mperche non sanno."
Francesca's exclamation to Dante is thus rendered by Mr. Longfellow:--
"And she to me: There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery." [52]
[52] "Ed ella a me: Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria."
Inferno, V. 121-123.
This is admirable,--full of the true poetic glow, which would have been
utterly quenched if some Romanic equivalent of dolore had been used
instead of our good Saxon sorrow. [53] So, too, the "Paradiso," Canto
I., line 100:--
"Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh,
Her eyes directed toward me with that look
A mother casts on a delirious child." [54]
[53] Yet admirable as it is, I am not quite sure that Dr.
Parsons, by taking further liberty with the original, has not surpassed
it:--
"And she to me: The mightiest of all woes
Is in the midst of misery to be cursed
With bliss remembered."
[54] "Ond' ella, appresso d'un pio sospiro,
Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante,
Che madre fa sopra figlinol deliro."
And, finally, the beginning of the eighth canto of the "Purgatorio":--
"'T was now the hour that turneth back desire
In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart,
The day they've said to their sweet friends farewell;
And the new pilgrim penetrates with love,
If he doth hear from far away a bell
That seemeth to deplore the dying day." [55]
[55] "Era gia l' ora che volge il disio
Ai naviganti, e intenerisce il core
Lo di ch' hen detto ai dolci amici addio;
E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
Che paia il giorno pianger che si more."
This passage affords an excellent example of what the method of literal
translation can do at its best. Except in the second line, where "those
who sail the sea" is wisely preferred to any Romanic equivalent of
naviganti the version is utterly literal; as literal as the one the
school-boy makes, when he opens his Virgil at the Fourth Eclogue,
and lumberingly reads, "Sicilian Muses, let us sing things a little
greater." But there is nothing clumsy, nothing which smacks of the
recitation-room, in these lines of Mr. Longfellow. For easy grace and
exquisite beauty it would be difficult to surpass them. They may well
bear comparison with the beautiful lines into which Lord Byron has
rendered the same thought:--
"Soft hour which wakes the wish, and melts the heart,
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns!" [56]
[56] Don Juan, III. 108.
Setting aside the concluding sentimental generalization,--which is much
more Byronic than Dantesque,--one hardly knows which version to call
more truly poetical; but for a faithful rendering of the original
conception one can hardly hesitate to give the palm to Mr. Longfellow.
Thus we see what may be achieved by the most highly gifted of
translators who contents himself with passively reproducing the diction
of his original, who constitutes himself, as it were, a conduit through
which the meaning of the original may flow. Where the differences
inherent in the languages employed do not intervene to alloy the result,
the stream of the original may, as in the verses just cited, come out
pure and unweakened. Too often, however, such is the subtle chemistry of
thought, it will come out diminished in its integrity, or will appear,
bereft of its primitive properties as a mere element in some new
combination. Our channel is a trifle too alkaline perhaps; and that the
transferred material may preserve its pleasant sharpness, we may need
to throw in a little extra acid. Too often the mere differences between
English and Italian prevent Dante's expressions from coming out in Mr.
Longfellow's version so pure and unimpaired as in the instance just
cited. But these differences cannot be ignored. They lie deep in the
very structure of human speech, and are narrowly implicated with equally
profound nuances in the composition of human thought. The causes which
make dolente a solemn word to the Italian ear, and dolent a queer word
to the English ear, are causes which have been slowly operating ever
since the Italian and the Teuton parted company on their way from
Central Asia. They have brought about a state of things which no cunning
of the translator can essentially alter, but to the emergencies of which
he must graciously conform his proceedings. Here, then, is the sole
point on which we disagree with Mr. Longfellow, the sole reason we have
for thinking that he has not attained the fullest possible measure of
success. Not that he has made a "realistic" translation,--so far we
conceive him to be entirely right; but that, by dint of pushing sheer
literalism beyond its proper limits, he has too often failed to be truly
realistic. Let us here explain what is meant by realistic translation.
Every thoroughly conceived and adequately executed translation of
an ancient author must be founded upon some conscious theory or some
unconscious instinct of literary criticism. As is the critical spirit of
an age, so among other things will be its translations. Now the critical
spirit of every age previous to our own has been characterized by its
inability to appreciate sympathetically the spirit of past and bygone
times. In the seventeenth century criticism made idols of its ancient
models; it acknowledged no serious imperfections in them; it set them
up as exemplars for the present and all future times to copy. Let the
genial Epicurean henceforth write like Horace, let the epic narrator
imitate the supreme elegance of Virgil,--that was the conspicuous idea,
the conspicuous error, of seventeenth-century criticism. It overlooked
the differences between one age and another. Conversely, when it brought
Roman patricians and Greek oligarchs on to the stage, it made them
behave like French courtiers or Castilian grandees or English peers.
When it had to deal with ancient heroes, it clothed them in the garb
and imputed to them the sentiments of knights-errant. Then came the
revolutionary criticism of the eighteenth century, which assumed that
everything old was wrong, while everything new was right. It recognized
crudely the differences between one age and another, but it had a way
of looking down upon all ages except the present. This intolerance shown
toward the past was indeed a measure of the crudeness with which it was
comprehended. Because Mohammed, if he had done what he did, in France
and in the eighteenth century, would have been called an impostor,
Voltaire, the great mouthpiece and representative of this style of
criticism, portrays him as an impostor. Recognition of the fact that
different ages are different, together with inability to perceive that
they ought to be different, that their differences lie in the nature of
progress,--this was the prominent characteristic of eighteenth-century
criticism. Of all the great men of that century, Lessing was perhaps the
only one who outgrew this narrow critical habit.
Now nineteenth-century criticism not only knows that in no preceding age
have men thought and behaved as they now think and behave, but it also
understands that old-fashioned thinking and behaviour was in its way
just as natural and sensible as that which is now new-fashioned. It does
not flippantly sneer at an ancient custom because we no longer cherish
it; but with an enlightened regard for everything human, it inquires
into its origin, traces its effects, and endeavours to explain its
decay. It is slow to characterize Mohammed as an impostor, because it
has come to feel that Arabia in the seventh century is one thing and
Europe in the nineteenth another. It is scrupulous about branding
Caesar as an usurper, because it has discovered that what Mr. Mill calls
republican liberty and what Cicero called republican liberty are widely
different notions. It does not tell us to bow down before Lucretius
and Virgil as unapproachable models, while lamenting our own hopeless
inferiority; nor does it tell us to set them down as half-skilled
apprentices, while congratulating ourselves on our own comfortable
superiority; but it tells us to study them as the exponents of an age
forever gone, from which we have still many lessons to learn, though
we no longer think as it thought or feel as it felt. The eighteenth
century, as represented by the characteristic passage from Voltaire,
cited by Mr. Longfellow, failed utterly to understand Dante. To the
minds of Voltaire and his contemporaries the great mediaeval poet was
little else than a Titanic monstrosity,--a maniac, whose ravings found
rhythmical expression; his poem a grotesque medley, wherein a few
beautiful verses were buried under the weight of whole cantos of
nonsensical scholastic quibbling. This view, somewhat softened, we
find also in Leigh Hunt, whose whole account of Dante is an excellent
specimen of this sort of criticism. Mr. Hunt's fine moral nature was
shocked and horrified by the terrible punishments described in the
"Inferno." He did not duly consider that in Dante's time these fearful
things were an indispensable part of every man's theory of the world;
and, blinded by his kindly prejudices, he does not seem to have
perceived that Dante, in accepting eternal torments as part and parcel
of the system of nature, was nevertheless, in describing them, inspired
with that ineffable tenderness of pity which, in the episodes of
Francesca and of Brunetto Latini, has melted the hearts of men in past
times, and will continue to do so in times to come. "Infinite pity,
yet infinite rigour of law! It is so Nature is made: it is so Dante
discerned that she was made." [57] This remark of the great seer of our
time is what the eighteenth century could in no wise comprehend. The men
of that day failed to appreciate Dante, just as they were oppressed or
disgusted at the sight of Gothic architecture; just as they pronounced
the scholastic philosophy an unmeaning jargon; just as they considered
mediaeval Christianity a gigantic system of charlatanry, and were wont
unreservedly to characterize the Papacy as a blighting despotism. In
our time cultivated men think differently. We have learned that the
interminable hair-splitting of Aquinas and Abelard has added precision
to modern thinking. [58] We do not curse Gregory VII. and Innocent III.
as enemies of the human race, but revere them as benefactors. We can
spare a morsel of hearty admiration for Becket, however strongly we may
sympathize with the stalwart king who did penance for his foul murder;
and we can appreciate Dante's poor opinion of Philip the Fair no less
than his denunciation of Boniface VIII. The contemplation of Gothic
architecture, as we stand entranced in the sublime cathedrals of York
or Rouen, awakens in our breasts a genuine response to the mighty
aspirations which thus became incarnate in enduring stone. And the
poem of Dante--which has been well likened to a great cathedral--we
reverently accept, with all its quaint carvings and hieroglyphic
symbols, as the authentic utterance of feelings which still exist,
though they no longer choose the same form of expression.
[57] Carlyle, Heroes and Hero-Worship, p. 84.
[58] See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, Vol. I. p. 123.
A century ago, therefore, a translation of Dante such as Mr.
Longfellow's would have been impossible. The criticism of that time
was in no mood for realistic reproductions of the antique. It either
superciliously neglected the antique, or else dressed it up to suit
its own notions of propriety. It was not like a seven-league boot which
could fit everybody, but it was like a Procrustes-bed which everybody
must be made to fit. Its great exponent was not a Sainte-Beuve, but a
Boileau. Its typical sample of a reproduction of the antique was Pope's
translation of the Iliad. That book, we presume, everybody has read;
and many of those who have read it know that, though an excellent and
spirited poem, it is no more Homer than the age of Queen Anne was the
age of Peisistratos. Of the translations of Dante made during this
period, the chief was unquestionably Mr. Cary's. [59] For a man born and
brought up in the most unpoetical of centuries, Mr. Cary certainly made
a very good poem, though not so good as Pope's. But it fell far short
of being a reproduction of Dante. The eighteenth-century note rings out
loudly on every page of it. Like much other poetry of the time, it
is laboured and artificial. Its sentences are often involved and
occasionally obscure. Take, for instance, Canto IV. 25-36 of the
"Paradiso":
[59] This work comes at the end of the eighteenth-century period,
as Pope's translation of Homer comes at the beginning.
"These are the questions which they will
Urge equally; and therefore I the first
Of that will treat which hath the more of gall.
Of seraphim he who is most enskied,
Moses, and Samuel, and either John,
Choose which thou wilt, nor even Mary's self,
Have not in any other heaven their seats,
Than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st;
Nor more or fewer years exist; but all
Make the first circle beauteous, diversely
Partaking of sweet life, as more or less
Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them."
Here Mr. Cary not only fails to catch Dante's grand style; he does
not even write a style at all. It is too constrained and awkward to be
dignified, and dignity is an indispensable element of style. Without
dignity we may write clearly, or nervously, or racily, but we have
not attained to a style. This is the second shortcoming of Mr. Cary's
translation. Like Pope's, it fails to catch the grand style of its
original. Unlike Pope's, it frequently fails to exhibit any style.
It is hardly necessary to spend much time in proving that Mr.
Longfellow's version is far superior to Mr. Cary's. It is usually easy
and flowing, and save in the occasional use of violent inversions,
always dignified. Sometimes, as in the episode of Ugolino, it even rises
to something like the grandeur of the original:
"When he had said this, with his eyes distorted,
The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth,
Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong." [60]
[60] "Quand' ebbe detto cio, eon gli occhi torti
Riprese il teschio misero coi denti,
Che furo all' osso, come d'un can, forti."
Inferno, XXXIII. 76.
That is in the grand style, and so is the following, which describes
those sinners locked in the frozen lake below Malebolge:--
"Weeping itself there does not let them weep,
And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes
Turns itself inward to increase the anguish. [61]
[61] "Lo pianto stesso li pianger non lascia,
E il duol, che trova in sugli occhi rintoppo,
Si volve in entro a far crescer l' ambascia."
Inferno, XXXIII. 94.
And the exclamation of one of these poor "wretches of the frozen crust"
is an exclamation that Shakespeare might have written:--
"Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I
May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart." [62]
[62] "Levatemi dal viso i duri veli,
Si ch' io sfoghi il dolor che il cor m' impregna."
Ib. 112.
There is nothing in Mr. Cary's translation which can stand a comparison
with that. The eighteenth century could not translate like that.
For here at last we have a real reproduction of the antique. In the
Shakespearian ring of these lines we recognize the authentic rendering
of the tones of the only man since the Christian era who could speak
like Shakespeare.
In this way Mr. Longfellow's translation is, to an eminent degree,
realistic. It is a work conceived and executed in entire accordance
with the spirit of our time. Mr. Longfellow has set about making a
reconstructive translation, and he has succeeded in the attempt. In view
of what he has done, no one can ever wish to see the old methods of
Pope and Cary again resorted to. It is only where he fails to be truly
realistic that he comes short of success. And, as already hinted, it
is oftenest through sheer excess of LITERALISM that he ceases to be
realistic, and departs from the spirit of his author instead of coming
nearer to it. In the "Paradiso," Canto X. 1-6, his method leads him into
awkwardness:--
"Looking into His Son with all the love
Which each of them eternally breathes forth,
The primal and unutterable Power
Whate'er before the mind or eye revolves
With so much order made, there can be none
Who this beholds without enjoying Him."
This seems clumsy and halting, yet it is an extremely literal paraphrase
of a graceful and flowing original:--
"Guardando nel suo figlio con l' amore
Che l' uno e l' altro eternalmente spire,
Lo primo ed ineffabile Valore,
Quanto per mente o per loco si gira
Con tanto ordine fe', ch' esser non puote
Senza gustar di lui ehi cio rimira "
Now to turn a graceful and flowing sentence into one that is clumsy
and halting is certainly not to reproduce it, no matter how exactly the
separate words are rendered, or how closely the syntactic constructions
match each other. And this consideration seems conclusive as against
the adequacy of the literalist method. That method is inadequate, not
because it is too REALISTIC, but because it runs continual risk of being
too VERBALISTIC. It has recently been applied to the translation of
Dante by Mr. Rossetti, and it has sometimes led him to write curious
verses. For instance, he makes Francesca say to Dante,--
"O gracious and benignant ANIMAL!"
for
"O animal grazioso e benigno!"
Mr. Longfellow's good taste has prevented his doing anything like this,
yet Mr. Rossetti's extravagance is due to an unswerving adherence to the
very rules by which Mr. Longfellow has been guided.
Good taste and poetic genius are, however, better than the best of
rules, and so, after all said and done, we can only conclude that Mr.
Longfellow has given us a great and noble work not likely soon to
be equalled. Leopardi somewhere, in speaking of the early Italian
translators of the classics and their well-earned popularity, says, who
knows but Caro will live in men's remembrance as long as Virgil? "La
belie destinee," adds Sainte-Beuve, "de ne pouvoir plus mourir, sinon
avec un immortel!" Apart from Mr. Longfellow's other titles to undying
fame, such a destiny is surely marked out for him, and throughout the
English portions of the world his name will always be associated with
that of the great Florentine.
June, 1867.
XII. PAINE'S "ST. PETER."
For music-lovers in America the great event of the season has been the
performance of Mr. Paine's oratorio, "St. Peter," at Portland, June 3.
This event is important, not only as the first appearance of an
American oratorio, but also as the first direct proof we have had of the
existence of creative musical genius in this country. For Mr. Paine's
Mass in D--a work which was brought out with great success several years
ago in Berlin--has, for some reason or other, never been performed here.
And, with the exception of Mr. Paine, we know of no American hitherto
who has shown either the genius or the culture requisite for writing
music in the grand style, although there is some of the Kapellmeister
music, written by our leading organists and choristers, which deserves
honourable mention. Concerning the rank likely to be assigned by
posterity to "St. Peter," it would be foolish now to speculate; and
it would be equally unwise to bring it into direct comparison with
masterpieces like the "Messiah," "Elijah," and "St. Paul," the greatness
of which has been so long acknowledged. Longer familiarity with the work
is needed before such comparisons, always of somewhat doubtful value,
can be profitably undertaken. But it must at least be said, as the net
result of our impressions derived both from previous study of the score
and from hearing, the performance at Portland, that Mr. Paine's oratorio
has fairly earned for itself the right to be judged by the same high
standard which we apply to these noble works of Mendelssohn and Handel.
In our limited space we can give only the briefest description of
the general structure of the work. The founding of Christianity, as
illustrated in four principal scenes of the life of St. Peter, supplies
the material for the dramatic development of the subject. The overture,
beginning with an adagio movement in B-flat minor, gives expression
to the vague yearnings of that time of doubt and hesitancy when the
"oracles were dumb," and the dawning of a new era of stronger and
diviner faith was matter of presentiment rather than of definite hope or
expectation. Though the tonality is at first firmly established, yet
as the movement becomes more agitated, the final tendency of the
modulations also becomes uncertain, and for a few bars it would seem as
if the key of F-sharp minor might be the point of destination. But after
a short melody by the wind instruments, accompanied by a rapid upward
movement of strings, the dominant chord of C major asserts itself, being
repeated, with sundry inversions, through a dozen bars, and leading
directly into the triumphant and majestic chorus, "The time is
fulfilled, and the kingdom of heaven is at hand." The second subject,
introduced by the word "repent" descending through the interval of a
diminished seventh and contrasted with the florid counterpoint of the
phrase, "and believe the glad tidings of God," is a masterpiece of
contrapuntal writing, and, if performed by a choir of three or four
hundred voices, would produce an overpowering effect. The divine call
of Simon Peter and his brethren is next described in a tenor recitative;
and the acceptance of the glad tidings is expressed in an aria, "The
spirit of the Lord is upon me," which, by an original but appropriate
conception, is given to the soprano voice. In the next number, the
disciples are dramatically represented by twelve basses and tenors,
singing in four-part harmony, and alternating or combining with the full
chorus in description of the aims of the new religion. The poem ends
with the choral, "How lovely shines the Morning Star!" Then follows the
sublime scene from Matthew xvi. 14-18, where Peter declares his
master to be "the Christ, the Son of the living God,"--one of the most
impressive scenes, we have always thought, in the gospel history, and
here not inadequately treated. The feeling of mysterious and awful
grandeur awakened by Peter's bold exclamation, "Thou art the Christ," is
powerfully rendered by the entrance of the trombones upon the inverted
subdominant triad of C-sharp minor, and their pause upon the dominant of
the same key. Throughout this scene the characteristic contrast between
the ardent vigour of Peter and the sweet serenity of Jesus is well
delineated in the music. After Peter's stirring aria, "My heart is
glad," the dramatic climax is reached in the C-major chorus, "The Church
is built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets."
The second scene is carried out to somewhat greater length,
corresponding nearly to the last half of the first part of "Elijah,"
from the point where the challenge is given to the prophets of Baal.
In the opening passages of mingled recitative and arioso, Peter is
forewarned that he shall deny his Master, and his half-indignant
remonstrance is sustained, with added emphasis, by the voices of the
twelve disciples, pitched a fourth higher. Then Judas comes, with
a great multitude, and Jesus is carried before the high-priest. The
beautiful F-minor chorus, "We hid our faces from him," furnishes the
musical comment upon the statement that "the disciples all forsook him
and fled." We hardly dare to give full expression to our feelings about
this chorus (which during the past month has been continually singing
itself over and over again in our recollection), lest it should be
supposed that our enthusiasm has got the better of our sober judgment.
The second theme, "He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, yet
he opened not his mouth," is quite Handel-like in the simplicity and
massiveness of its magnificent harmonic progressions. With the scene
of the denial, for which we are thus prepared, the dramatic movement
becomes exceedingly rapid, and the rendering of the events in the
high-priest's hall--Peter's bass recitative alternating its craven
protestations with the clamorous agitato chorus of the servants--is
stirring in the extreme. The contralto aria describing the Lord's
turning and looking upon Peter is followed by the orchestra with a
lament in B-flat minor, introducing the bass aria of the repentant and
remorse-stricken disciple, "O God, my God, forsake me not." As the last
strains of the lamentation die away, a choir of angels is heard, of
sopranos and contraltos divided, singing, "Remember from whence thou
art fallen," to an accompaniment of harps. The second theme, "He that
overcometh shall receive a crown of life," is introduced in full chorus,
in a cheering allegro movement, preparing the way for a climax higher
than any yet reached in the course of the work. This climax--delayed
for a few moments by an andante aria for a contralto voice, "The Lord is
faithful and righteous"--at last bursts upon us with a superb crescendo
of strings, and the words, "Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the
dead, and Christ shall give thee light." This chorus, which for
reasons presently to be given was heard at considerable disadvantage at
Portland, contains some of the best fugue-writing in the work, and is
especially rich and powerful in its instrumentation.
The second part of the oratorio begins with the crucifixion and
ascension of Jesus. Here we must note especially the deeply pathetic
opening chorus, "The Son of Man was delivered into the hands of sinful
men," the joyous allegro, "And on the third day he rose again," the
choral, "Jesus, my Redeemer, lives," and the quartet, "Feed the flock
of God," commenting upon the command of Jesus, "Feed my lambs." This
quartet has all the heavenly sweetness of Handel's "He shall feed
his flock," which it suggests by similarity of subject, though not by
similarity of treatment; but in a certain quality of inwardness, or
religious meditativeness, it reminds one more of Mr. Paine's favourite
master, Bach. The choral, like the one in the first part and the one
which follows the scene of Pentecost, is taken from the Lutheran
Choral Book, and arranged with original harmony and instrumentation, in
accordance with the custom of Bach, Mendelssohn, and other composers,
"of introducing into their sacred compositions the old popular choral
melodies which are the peculiar offspring of a religious age." Thus the
noblest choral ever written, the "Sleepers, wake," in "St. Paul," was
composed in 1604 by Praetorius, the harmonization and accompaniment only
being the work of Mendelssohn.
In "St. Peter," as in "Elijah," the second part, while forming the true
musical climax of the oratorio, admits of a briefer description than
the first part. The wave of emotion answering to the sensuously dramatic
element having partly spent itself, the wave of lyric emotion gathers
fresh strength, and one feels that one has reached the height of
spiritual exaltation, while, nevertheless, there is not so much which
one can describe to others who may not happen to have gone through with
the same experience. Something of the same feeling one gets in studying
Dante's "Paradiso," after finishing the preceding divisions of his poem:
there is less which can be pictured to the eye of sense, or left to
be supplied by the concrete imagination. Nevertheless, in the scene
of Pentecost, which follows that of the Ascension, there is no lack of
dramatic vividness. Indeed, there is nothing in the work more striking
than the orchestration of the introductory tenor recitative, the
mysterious chorus, "The voice of the Lord divideth the flames of fire,"
or the amazed query which follows, "Behold, are not all these who speak
Galileans? and how is it that we every one hear them in our own tongue
wherein we were born?" We have heard the opinion expressed that Mr.
Paine's oratorio must be lacking in originality, since it suggests such
strong reminiscences of "St. Paul." Now, this suggestion, it seems to
us, is due partly to the similarity of the subjects, independently of
any likeness in the modes of treatment, and partly, perhaps, to the fact
that Mr. Paine, as well as Mendelssohn, has been a devoted student of
Bach, whose characteristics are so strong that they may well have left
their mark upon the works of both composers. But especially it would
seem that there is some real, though very general resemblance between
this colloquial chorus, "Behold," etc., and some choruses in "St. Paul,"
as, for example Nos. 29 and 36-38. In the same way the scene in the
high-priest's hall might distantly suggest either of these passages, or
others in "Elijah;" These resemblances, however, are very superficial,
pertaining not to the musical but to the dramatic treatment of
situations which are generically similar in so far, and only in so far,
as they represent conversational passages between an apostle or prophet
and an ignorant multitude, whether amazed or hostile, under the sway of
violent excitement. As regards the musical elaboration of these terse
and striking alternations of chorus and recitative, its originality can
be questioned only after we have decided to refer all originality on
such matters to Bach, or, indeed, even behind him, into the Middle Ages.
After the preaching of Peter, and the sweet contralto aria, "As for
man, his days are as grass," the culmination of this scene comes in the
D-major chorus, "This is the witness of God." What follows, beginning
with the choral, "Praise to the Father," is to be regarded as an
epilogue or peroration to the whole work. It is in accordance with
a sound tradition that the grand sacred drama of an oratorio should
conclude with a lyric outburst of thanksgiving, a psalm of praise to the
Giver of every good and perfect gift. Thus, after Peter's labours
are ended in the aria, "Now as ye were redeemed," in which the twelve
disciples and the full chorus join, a duet for tenor and soprano, "Sing
unto God," brings us to the grand final chorus in C major, "Great and
marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty."
The cadence of this concluding chorus reminds us that one of the
noteworthy points in the oratorio is the character of its cadences.
The cadence prepared by the 6/4 chord, now become so hackneyed from its
perpetual and wearisome repetition in popular church music, seems to be
especially disliked by Mr. Paine, as it occurs but once or twice in the
course of the work. In the great choruses the cadence is usually reached
either by a pedal on the tonic, as in the chorus, "Awake, thou that
sleepest," or by a pedal on the dominant culminating in a chord of the
major ninth, as in the final chorus; or there is a plagal cadence, as in
the first chorus of the second part; or, if the 6/4 chord is introduced,
as it is in the chorus, "He that overcometh," its ordinary effect is
covered and obscured by the movement of the divided sopranos. We do not
remember noticing anywhere such a decided use of the 6/4 chord as is
made, for example, by Mendelssohn, in "Thanks be to God," or in the
final chorus of "St. Paul." Perhaps if we were to confess our lingering
fondness for the cadence prepared by the 6/4 chord, when not too
frequently introduced, it might only show that we retain a liking for
New England "psalm-tunes"; but it does seem to us that a sense of final
repose, of entire cessation of movement, is more effectually secured
by this cadence than by any other. Yet while the 6/4 cadence most
completely expresses finality and rest, it would seem that the plagal
and other cadences above enumerated as preferred by Mr. Paine have a
certain sort of superiority by reason of the very incompleteness with
which they express finality. There is no sense of finality whatever
about the Phrygian cadence; it leaves the mind occupied with the feeling
of a boundless region beyond, into which one would fain penetrate; and
for this reason it has, in sacred music, a great value. Something of
the same feeling, too, attaches to those cadences in which an unexpected
major third usurps the place of the minor which the ear was expecting,
as in the "Incarnatus" of Mozart's "Twelfth Mass," or in Bach's sublime
"Prelude," Part I., No. 22 of the "Well-tempered Clavichord." In a less
degree, an analogous effect was produced upon us by the cadence with a
pedal on the tonic in the choruses, "The Church is built," and "Awake,
thou that sleepest." On these considerations it may become intelligible
that to some hearers Mr. Paine's cadences have seemed unsatisfactory,
their ears having missed the positive categorical assertion of finality
which the 6/4 cadence alone can give. To go further into this subject
would take us far beyond our limits.
The pleasant little town of Portland has reason to congratulate
itself, first, on being the birthplace of such a composer as Mr. Paine;
secondly, on having been the place where the first great work of America
in the domain of music was brought out; and thirdly, on possessing
what is probably the most thoroughly disciplined choral society in this
country. Our New York friends, after their recent experiences, will
perhaps be slow to believe us when we say that the Portland choir sang
this new work even better, in many respects, than the Handel and Haydn
Society sing the old and familiar "Elijah"; but it is true. In their
command of the pianissimo and the gradual crescendo, and in the
precision of their attack, the Portland singers can easily teach the
Handel and Haydn a quarter's lessons. And, besides all this, they know
how to preserve their equanimity under the gravest persecutions of the
orchestra; keeping the even tenour of their way where a less disciplined
choir, incited by the excessive blare of the trombones and the undue
scraping of the second violins, would be likely to lose its presence of
mind and break out into an untimely fortissimo.
No doubt it is easier to achieve perfect chorus-singing with a choir of
one hundred and twenty-five voices than with a choir of six hundred.
But this diminutive size, which was an advantage so far as concerned the
technical excellence of the Portland choir, was decidedly a disadvantage
so far as concerned the proper rendering of the more massive choruses in
"St. Peter." All the greatest choruses--such as Nos. 1, 8, 19, 20, 28,
35, and 39--were seriously impaired in the rendering by the lack of
massiveness in the voices. For example, the grand chorus, "Awake, thou
that sleepest," begins with a rapid crescendo of strings, introducing
the full chorus on the word "Awake," upon the dominant triad of D major;
and after a couple of beats the voices are reinforced by the trombones,
producing the most tremendous effect possible in such a crescendo.
Unfortunately, however, the brass asserted itself at this point so much
more emphatically than the voices that the effect was almost to disjoin
the latter portion of the chord from its beginning, and thus to
dwarf the utterance of the word "Awake." To us this effect was very
disagreeable; and it was obviously contrary to the effect intended by
the composer. But with a weight of four or five hundred voices, the
effect would be entirely different. Instead of entering upon the scene
as intruders, the mighty trombones would only serve to swell and enrich
the ponderous chord which opens this noble chorus. Given greater weight
only, and the performance of the admirable Portland choir would have
left nothing to be desired.
We cannot speak with so much satisfaction of the performance of the
orchestra. The instrumentation of "St. Peter" is remarkably fine. But
this instrumentation was rather clumsily rendered by the orchestra,
whose doings constituted the least enjoyable part of the performance.
There was too much blare of brass, whine of hautboy, and scraping of
strings. But in condonation of this serious defect, one must admit that
the requisite amount of rehearsal is out of the question when one's
choir is in Portland and one's orchestra in Boston; besides which the
parts had been inaccurately copied. For a moment, at the beginning of
the orchestral lament, there was risk of disaster, the wind instruments
failing to come in at the right time, when Mr. Paine, with fortunate
presence of mind, stopped the players, and the movement was begun over
again,--the whole occurring so quickly and quietly as hardly to attract
attention.
In conclusion we would say a few words suggested by a recent critical
notice of Mr. Paine's work in the "Nation." While acknowledging the
importance of the publication of this oratorio, as an event in the
art-history of America, the writer betrays manifest disappointment that
this work should not rather have been a symphony, [63] and thus have
belonged to what he calls the "domain of absolute music." Now with
regard to the assumption that the oratorio is not so high a form of
music as the symphony, or, in other words, that vocal music in general
is artistically inferior to instrumental music, we may observe, first,
that Ambros and Dommer--two of the most profound musical critics now
living--do not sustain it. It is Beanquier, we think, who suggests that
instrumental music should rank above vocal, because it is "pure
music," bereft of the fictitious aids of language and of the emotional
associations which are grouped about the peculiar timbre of the human
voice. [64] At first the suggestion seems plausible; but on analogous
grounds we might set the piano above the orchestra, because the piano
gives us pure harmony and counterpoint, without the adventitious aid of
variety in timbre. And it is indeed true that, for some such reason as
this, musicians delight in piano-sonatas, which are above all things
tedious and unintelligible to the mind untrained in music. Nevertheless,
in spite of its great and peculiar prerogatives, it would be absurd
to prefer the piano to the orchestra; and there is a kindred absurdity
involved in setting the orchestra above that mighty union of orchestra,
organ, and voices which we get in the oratorio. When the reason alleged
for ranking the symphony above the oratorio leads us likewise to rank
the sonata above the symphony, we seem to have reached a reductio ad
absurdum.
[63] Now within two years, Mr. Paine's C-minor symphony has
followed the completion of his oratorio.
[64] These peculiar associations are no doubt what is chiefly
enjoyed in music, antecedent to a properly musical culture. Persons of
slight acquaintance with music invariably prefer the voice to the piano.
Rightly considered, the question between vocal and instrumental music
amounts to this, What does music express? This is a great psychological
question, and we have not now the space or the leisure requisite for
discussing it, even in the most summary way. We will say, however, that
we do not see how music can in any way express ideas, or anything but
moods or emotional states to which the ideas given in language may add
determination and precision. The pure symphony gives utterance to moods,
and will be a satisfactory work of art or not, according as the composer
has been actuated by a legitimate sequence of emotional states, like
Beethoven, or by a desire to produce novel and startling effects, like
Liszt. But the danger in purely instrumental music is that it may run
riot in the extravagant utterance of emotional states which are not
properly concatenated by any normal sequence of ideas associated with
them. This is sometimes exemplified in the most modern instrumental
music.
Now, as in real life our sequent clusters of emotional states are in
general determined by their association with our sequent groups of
intellectual ideas, it would seem that music, regarded as an exponent of
psychical life, reaches its fullest expressiveness when the sequence of
the moods which it incarnates in sound is determined by some sequence
of ideas, such as is furnished by the words of a libretto. Not that the
words should have predominance over the music, or even coequal sway with
it, but that they should serve to give direction to the succession of
feelings expressed by the music. "Lift up your heads" and "Hallelujah"
do not owe their glory to the text, but to that tremendous energy
of rhythmic and contrapuntal progression which the text serves to
concentrate and justify. When precision and definiteness of direction
are thus added to the powerful physical means of expression which we get
in the combination of chorus, orchestra, and organ, we have attained
the greatest sureness as well as the greatest wealth of musical
expressiveness. And thus we may see the reasonableness of Dommer's
opinion that in order to restrain instrumental music from ruining itself
by meaningless extravagance, it is desirable that there should be
a renaissance of vocal music, such as it was in the golden age of
Palestrina and Orlando Lasso.
We are not inclined to deny that in structural beauty--in the
symmetrical disposition and elaboration of musical themes--the symphony
has the advantage. The words, which in the oratorio serve to give
definite direction to the currents of emotion, may also sometimes
hamper the free development of the pure musical conception, just as in
psychical life the obtrusive entrance of ideas linked by association may
hinder the full fruition of some emotional state. Nevertheless, in spite
of this possible drawback, it may be doubted if the higher forms
of polyphonic composition fall so very far short of the symphony in
capability of giving full elaboration to the musical idea. The practical
testimony of Beethoven, in his Ninth Symphony, is decidedly adverse to
any such supposition.
But to pursue this interesting question would carry us far beyond our
limits. Whatever may be the decision as to the respective claims of
vocal and instrumental music, we have every reason for welcoming the
appearance, in our own country, of an original work in the highest
form of vocal music. It is to be hoped that we shall often have the
opportunity to "hear with our ears" this interesting work; for as a rule
great musical compositions are peculiarly unfortunate among works of
art, in being known at first hand by comparatively few persons. In this
way is rendered possible that pretentious kind of dilettante criticism
which is so common in musical matters, and which is often positively
injurious, as substituting a factitious public opinion for one that is
genuine. We hope that the favour with which the new oratorio has already
been received will encourage the author to pursue the enviable career
upon which he has entered. Even restricting ourselves to vocal music,
there is still a broad field left open for original work. The secular
cantata--attempted in recent times by Schumann, as well as by English
composers of smaller calibre--is a very high form of vocal music; and
if founded on an adequate libretto, dealing with some supremely grand
or tragical situation, is capable of being carried to an unprecedented
height of musical elaboration. Here is an opportunity for original
achievement, of which it is to be hoped that some gifted and
well-trained composer, like the author of "St. Peter," may find it worth
while to avail himself.
June, 1873.
XIII. A PHILOSOPHY OF ART. [65]
[65] The Philosophy of Art. By H. Taine. New York: Leypoldt &
Holt. 1867.
We are glad of a chance to introduce to our readers one of the works
of a great writer. Though not yet [66] widely known in this country, M.
Taine has obtained a very high reputation in Europe. He is still quite
a young man, but is nevertheless the author of nineteen goodly volumes,
witty, acute, and learned; and already he is often ranked with Renan,
Littre, and Sainte-Beuve, the greatest living French writers.
[66] That is, in 1868.
Hippolyte Adolphe Taine was born at Vouziers, among the grand forests
of Ardennes, in 1828, and is therefore about forty years old. His family
was simple in habits and tastes, and entertained a steadfast belief
in culture, along with the possession of a fair amount of it. His
grandfather was sub-prefect at Rocroi, in 1814 and 1815, under the first
restoration of the Bourbons. His father, a lawyer by profession, was the
first instructor of his son, and taught him Latin, and from an uncle,
who had been in America, he learned English, while still a mere child.
Having gone to Paris with his mother in 1842, he began his studies
at the College Bourbon and in 1848 was promoted to the ecole Normale.
Weiss, About, and Prevost-Paradol were his contemporaries at this
institution. At that time great liberty was enjoyed in regard to
the order and the details of the exercises; so that Taine, with his
surprising rapidity, would do in one week the work laid out for a month,
and would spend the remainder of the time in private reading. In 1851
he left college, and after two or three unsatisfactory attempts at
teaching, in Paris and in the provinces, he settled down at Paris as a
private student. He gave himself the very best elementary preparation
which a literary man can have,--a thorough course in mathematics and the
physical sciences. His studies in anatomy and physiology were especially
elaborate and minute. He attended the School of Medicine as regularly as
if he expected to make his daily bread in the profession. In this way,
when at the age of twenty-five he began to write books, M. Taine was a
really educated man; and his books show it. The day is past when a man
could write securely, with a knowledge of the classics alone. We doubt
if a philosophical critic is perfectly educated for his task, unless he
can read, for instance, Donaldson's "New Cratylus" on the one hand, and
Rokitansky's "Pathological Anatomy" on the other, for the sheer pleasure
of the thing. At any rate, it was an education of this sort which M.
Taine, at the outset of his literary career, had secured. By this solid
discipline of mathematics, chemistry, and medicine, M. Taine became
that which above all things he now is,--a man possessed of a central
philosophy, of an exact, categorical, well-defined system, which
accompanies and supports him in his most distant literary excursions.
He does not keep throwing out ideas at random, like too many literary
critics, but attaches all his criticisms to a common fundamental
principle; in short, he is not a dilettante, but a savant.
His treatise on La Fontaine, in 1853, attracted much attention, both the
style and the matter being singularly fresh and original. He has since
republished it, with alterations which serve to show that he can be
docile toward intelligent criticisms. About the same time he prepared
for the French Academy his work upon the historian Livy, which was
crowned in 1855. Suffering then from overwork, he was obliged to make
a short journey to the Pyrenees, which he has since described in a
charming little volume, illustrated by Dore.
His subsequent works are a treatise on the French philosophers of
the present century, in which the vapid charlatanism of M. Cousin is
satisfactorily dealt with; a history of English literature in five
volumes; a humorous book on Paris; three volumes upon the general theory
of art; and two volumes of travels in Italy; besides a considerable
collection of historical and critical essays. We think that several
of these works would be interesting to the American public, and might
profitably be translated.
Some three or four years ago, M. Taine was appointed Professor in the
ecole des Beaux Arts, and we suppose his journey to Italy must have been
undertaken partly with a view to qualify himself for his new position.
He visited the four cities which may be considered the artistic centres
of Italy,--Rome, Naples, Florence, and Venice,--and a large part of his
account of his journey is taken up with descriptions and criticisms of
pictures, statues, and buildings.
This is a department of criticism which, we may as well frankly
acknowledge, is far better appreciated on the continent of Europe than
in England or America. Over the English race there passed, about two
centuries ago, a deluge of Puritanism, which for a time almost drowned
out its artistic tastes and propensities. The Puritan movement, in
proportion to its success, was nearly as destructive to art in the West,
as Mohammedanism had long before been in the East. In its intense and
one-sided regard for morality, Puritanism not only relegated the love
for beauty to an inferior place, but contemned and spat upon it, as
something sinful and degrading. Hence, the utter architectural impotence
which characterizes the Americans and the modern English; and hence the
bewildered ignorant way in which we ordinarily contemplate pictures
and statues. For two centuries we have been removed from an artistic
environment, and consequently can with difficulty enter into the
feelings of those who have all this time been nurtured in love for art,
and belief in art for its own sake. These peculiarities, as Mr. Mill has
ably pointed out, have entered deep into our ethnic character. Even in
pure morals there is a radical difference between the Englishman and
the inhabitant of the continent of Europe. The Englishman follows virtue
from a sense of duty, the Frenchman from an emotional aspiration toward
the beautiful The one admires a noble action because it is right, the
other because it is attractive. And this difference underlies the moral
judgments upon men and events which are to be found respectively in
English and in continental literature. By keeping it constantly in view,
we shall be enabled to understand many things which might otherwise
surprise us in the writings of French authors.
We are now slowly outgrowing the extravagances of Puritanism. It has
given us an earnestness and sobriety of character, to which much of our
real greatness is owing, both here and in the mother country. It has
made us stronger and steadier, but it has at the same time narrowed
us in many respects, and rendered our lives incomplete. This
incompleteness, entailed by Puritanism, we are gradually getting rid
of; and we are learning to admire and respect many things upon which
Puritanism set its mark of contempt. We are beginning, for instance, to
recognize the transcendent merits of that great civilizing agency, the
drama; we no longer think it necessary that our temples for worshipping
God should be constructed like hideous barracks; we are gradually
permitting our choirs to discard the droning and sentimental modern
"psalm-tune" for the inspiring harmonies of Beethoven and Mozart; and we
admit the classical picture and the undraped statue to a high place
in our esteem. Yet with all this it will probably be some time before
genuine art ceases to be an exotic among us, and becomes a plant of
unhindered native growth. It will be some time before we cease to regard
pictures and statues as a higher species of upholstery, and place them
in the same category with poems and dramas, duly reverencing them as
authentic revelations of the beauty which is to be found in nature. It
will be some time before we realize that art is a thing to be studied,
as well as literature, and before we can be quite reconciled to the
familiar way in which a Frenchman quotes a picture as we would quote a
poem or novel.
Artistic genius, as M. Taine has shown, is something which will develop
itself only under peculiar social circumstances; and, therefore, if we
have not art, we can perhaps only wait for it, trusting that when the
time comes it will arise among us. But without originating, we may at
least intelligently appreciate. The nature of a work of art, and the
mode in which it is produced, are subjects well worthy of careful study.
Architecture and music, poetry, painting and sculpture, have in times
past constituted a vast portion of human activity; and without knowing
something of the philosophy of art, we need not hope to understand
thoroughly the philosophy of history.
In entering upon the study of art in general, one may find many
suggestive hints in the little books of M. Taine, reprinted from the
lectures which he has been delivering at the ecole des Beaux Arts. The
first, on the Philosophy of Art, designated at the head of this paper,
is already accessible to the American reader; and translations of the
others are probably soon to follow. We shall for the present give a mere
synopsis of M. Taine's general views.
And first it must be determined what a work of art is. Leaving for a
while music and architecture out of consideration, it will be admitted
that poetry, painting, and sculpture have one obvious character in
common: they are arts of IMITATION. This, says Taine, appears at first
sight to be their essential character. It would appear that their great
object is to IMITATE as closely as possible. It is obvious that a statue
is intended to imitate a living man, that a picture is designed to
represent real persons in real attitudes, or the interior of a house, or
a landscape, such as it exists in nature. And it is no less clear that
a novel or drama endeavours to represent with accuracy real characters,
actions, and words, giving as precise and faithful an image of them as
possible. And when the imitation is incomplete, we say to the painter,
"Your people are too largely proportioned, and the colour of your trees
is false"; we tell the sculptor that his leg or arm is incorrectly
modelled; and we say to the dramatist, "Never has a man felt or thought
as your hero is supposed to have felt and thought."
This truth, moreover, is seen both in the careers of individual
artists, and in the general history of art. According to Taine, the
life of an artist may generally be divided into two parts. In the
first period, that of natural growth, he studies nature anxiously and
minutely, he keeps the objects themselves before his eyes, and strives
to represent them with scrupulous fidelity. But when the time for mental
growth ends, as it does with every man, and the crystallization of ideas
and impressions commences, then the mind of the artist is no longer
so susceptible to new impressions from without. He begins to nourish
himself from his own substance. He abandons the living model, and
with recipes which he has gathered in the course of his experience, he
proceeds to construct a drama or novel, a picture or statue. Now, the
first period, says Taine, is that of genuine art; the second is that of
mannerism. Our author cites the case of Michael Angelo, a man who was
one of the most colossal embodiments of physical and mental energy that
the world has ever seen. In Michael Angelo's case, the period of growth,
of genuine art, may be said to have lasted until after his sixtieth
year. But look, says Taine, at the works which he executed in his old
age; consider the Conversion of St. Paul, and the Last Judgment, painted
when he was nearly seventy. Even those who are not connoisseurs can see
that these frescos are painted by rule, that the artist, having stocked
his memory with a certain set of forms, is making use of them to
fill out his tableau; that he wantonly multiplies queer attitudes and
ingenious foreshortenings; that the lively invention, the grand
outburst of feeling, the perfect truth, by which his earlier works are
distinguished, have disappeared; and that, if he is still superior
to all others, he is nevertheless inferior to himself. The careers of
Scott, of Goethe, and of Voltaire will furnish parallel examples. In
every school of art, too, the flourishing period is followed by one of
decline; and in every case the decline is due to a failure to imitate
the living models. In painting, we have the exaggerated foreshorteners
and muscle-makers who copied Michael Angelo; the lovers of theatrical
decorations who succeeded Titian and Giorgione and the degenerate
boudoir-painters who followed Claucle and Poussin. In literature, we
have the versifiers, epigrammatists, and rhetors of the Latin decadence;
the sensual and declamatory dramatists who represent the last stages
of old English comedy; and the makers of sonnets and madrigals, or
conceited euphemists of the Gongora school, in the decline of Italian
and Spanish poetry. Briefly it may be said, that the masters copy
nature and the pupils copy the masters. In this way are explained the
constantly recurring phenomena of decline in art, and thus, also, it
is seen that art is perfect in proportion as it successfully imitates
nature.
But we are not to conclude that absolute imitation is the sole and
entire object of art. Were this the case, the finest works would be
those which most minutely correspond to their external prototypes. In
sculpture, a mould taken from the living features is that which gives
the most faithful representation of the model; but a well-moulded
bust is far from being equal to a good statue. Photography is in
many respects more accurate than painting; but no one would rank a
photograph, however exquisitely executed, with an original picture. And
finally, if exact imitation were the supreme object of art, the best
tragedy, the best comedy, and the best drama would be a stenographic
report of the proceedings in a court of justice, in a family gathering,
in a popular meeting, in the Rump Congress. Even the works of artists
are not rated in proportion to their minute exactness. Neither in
painting nor in any other art do we give the precedence to that which
deceives the eye simply. Every one remembers how Zeuxis was said to have
painted grapes so faithfully that the birds came and pecked at them;
and how, Parrhasios, his rival, surpassed even this feat by painting a
curtain so natural in its appearance that Zeuxis asked him to pull it
aside and show the picture behind it. All this is not art, but mere
knack and trickery. Perhaps no painter was ever so minute as Denner.
It used to take him four years to make one portrait. He would omit
nothing,--neither the bluish lines made by the veins under the skin, nor
the little black points scattered over the nose, nor the bright spots
in the eye where neighbouring objects are reflected; the head seems to
start out from the canvas, it is so like flesh and blood. Yet who cares
for Denner's portraits? And who would not give ten times as much for one
which Van Dyck or Tintoretto might have painted in a few hours? So in
the churches of Naples and Spain we find statues coloured and draped,
saints clothed in real coats, with their skin yellow and bloodless,
their hands bleeding, and their feet bruised; and beside them Madonnas
in royal habiliments, in gala dresses of lustrous silk, adorned with
diadems, precious necklaces, bright ribbons, and elegant laces, with
their cheeks rosy, their eyes brilliant, their eyelashes sweeping. And
by this excess of literal imitation, there is awakened a feeling, not of
pleasure, but always of repugnance, often of disgust, and sometimes of
horror So in literature, the ancient Greek theatre, and the best Spanish
and English dramatists, alter on purpose the natural current of human
speech, and make their characters talk under all the restraints of rhyme
and rhythm. But we pronounce this departure from literal truth a merit
and not a defect. We consider Goethe's second "Iphigenie," written in
verse, far preferable to the first one written in prose; nay, it is the
rhythm or metre itself which communicates to the work its incomparable
beauty. In a review of Longfellow's "Dante," published last year, we
argued this very point in one of its special applications; the artist
must copy his original, but he must not copy it too literally.
What then must he copy? He must copy, says Taine, the mutual relations
and interdependences of the parts of his model. And more than this,
he must render the essential characteristic of the object--that
characteristic upon which all the minor qualities depend--as salient
and conspicuous as possible. He must put into the background the
traits which conceal it, and bring into the foreground the traits which
manifest it. If he is sculpturing a group like the Laocoon, he must
strike upon the supreme moment, that in which the whole tragedy reveals
itself, and he must pass over those insignificant details of position
and movement which serve only to distract our attention and weaken our
emotions by dividing them. If he is writing a drama, he must not attempt
to give us the complete biography of his character; he must depict only
those situations which stand in direct subordination to the grand climax
or denoument. As a final result, therefore. Taine concludes that a work
of art is a concrete representation of the relations existing between
the parts of an object, with the intent to bring the essential or
dominating character thereof into prominence.
We should overrun our limits if we were to follow out the admirable
discussion in which M. Taine extends this definition to architecture
and music. These closely allied arts are distinguished from poetry,
painting, and sculpture, by appealing far less directly to the
intelligence, and far more exclusively to the emotions. Yet these arts
likewise aim, by bringing into prominence certain relations of symmetry
in form as perceived by the eye, or in aerial vibrations as perceived by
the ear, to excite in us the states of feeling with which these species
of symmetry are by subtle laws of association connected. They, too,
imitate, not literally, but under the guidance of a predominating
sentiment or emotion, relations which really exist among the phenomena
of nature. And here, too, we estimate excellence, not in proportion to
the direct, but to the indirect imitation. A Gothic cathedral is not,
as has been supposed, directly imitated from the towering vegetation of
Northern forests; but it may well be the expression of the dim sentiment
of an unseen, all-pervading Power, generated by centuries of primeval
life amid such forests. So the sounds which in a symphony of Beethoven
are woven into a web of such amazing complexity may exist in different
combinations in nature; but when a musician steps out of his way to
imitate the crowing of cocks or the roar of the tempest, we regard
his achievement merely as a graceful conceit. Art is, therefore, an
imitation of nature; but it is an intellectual and not a mechanical
imitation; and the performances of the camera and the music-box are
not to be classed with those of the violinist's bow or the sculptor's
chisel.
And lastly, in distinguishing art from science, Taine remarks, that
in disengaging from their complexity the causes which are at work in
nature, and the fundamental laws according to which they work, science
describes them in abstract formulas conveyed in technical language. But
art reveals these operative causes and these dominant laws, not in arid
definitions, inaccessible to most people, intelligible only to specially
instructed men, but in a concrete symbol, addressing itself not only to
the understanding, but still more to the sentiments of the ordinary man.
Art has, therefore, this peculiarity, that it is at once elevated and
popular, that it manifests that which is often most recondite, and that
it manifests it to all.
Having determined what a work of art is, our author goes on to study
the social conditions under which works of art are produced; and he
concludes that the general character of a work of art is determined
by the state of intellect and morals in the society in which it is
executed. There is, in fact, a sort of moral temperature which acts
upon mental development much as physical temperature acts upon organic
development. The condition of society does not produce the artist's
talent; but it assists or checks its efforts to display itself; it
decides whether or not it shall be successful And it exerts a "natural
selection" between different kinds of talents, stimulating some and
starving others. To make this perfectly clear, we will cite at some
length Taine's brilliant illustration.
The case chosen for illustration is a very simple one,--that of a state
of society in which one of the predominant feelings is melancholy. This
is not an arbitrary supposition, for such a time has occurred more than
once in human history; in Asia, in the sixth century before Christ, and
especially in Europe, from the fourth to the tenth centuries of our
era. To produce such a state of feeling, five or six generations of
decadence, accompanied with diminution of population, foreign invasions,
famines, pestilences, and increasing difficulty in procuring the
necessaries of life, are amply sufficient. It then happens that men lose
courage and hope, and consider life an evil. Now, admitting that among
the artists who live in such a time, there are likely to be the same
relative numbers of melancholy, joyous, or indifferent temperaments
as at other times, let us see how they will be affected by reigning
circumstances.