Of these there are at least eight—Symmetry, Curvature, Gradation,
Smoothness, Delicacy, Colour, Lustre, Expression, including Variety and
Individuality.
(_a_) _Symmetry._—"In all perfectly beautiful objects," says Mr. Ruskin,
“there is found the opposition of one part to another, and a reciprocal
balance obtained; in animals the balance being commonly between opposite
sides (note the disagreeableness occasioned by the exception in flat
fish, having the eyes on one side of the head); but in vegetables the
opposition is less distinct, as in the boughs on opposite sides of
trees, and the leaves and sprays on each side of the boughs, and in dead
matter less perfect still, often amounting only to a certain tendency
towards a balance, as in the opposite sides of valleys and alternate
windings of streams. In things in which perfect symmetry is, from their
nature, impossible or improper, a balance must be at least in some
measure expressed before they can be beheld with pleasure.... Symmetry
is the _opposition_ of _equal_ quantities to each other. Proportion the
_connection_ of _unequal_ quantities with each other. The property of a
tree in sending out equal boughs on opposite sides is symmetrical. Its
sending out shorter and smaller towards the top, proportional. In the
human face its balance of opposite sides is symmetry, its division
upwards, proportion.”
Mr. Darwin thus gives his testimony as to the prevalence of symmetry in
Nature: “If beautiful objects had been created solely for man’s
gratification, it ought to be shown that before man appeared there was
less beauty on the face of the earth than since he came on the stage.
Were the beautiful volute and cone shells of the Eocene epoch, and the
gracefully sculptured ammonites of the Secondary period, created that
man might ages afterwards admire them in his cabinet? Few objects are
more beautiful than the minute silicious cases of the diatomaceæ: were
they created that they might be examined and admired under the higher
powers of the microscope? The beauty in this latter case, and in many
others, is apparently wholly due to symmetry of growth” (_Origin of
Species_, chap. vi.)
In the floral world, again, the natural tendency is always towards
symmetry. Wind-fertilised flowers are symmetrical in form; and “as Mr.
Darwin has observed, there does not appeal to be a single instance of an
irregular flower which is not fertilised by insects or birds” (Lubbock),
and therefore modified in form in the effort to adapt itself to useful
insects and to exclude pirates.
Throughout the animal kingdom, including man, this law of symmetry is
true. Hence it is not likely that we should ever admire a lame leg, a
crooked nose, bent on one side, eyes that are not mates, or a face
several inches longer on one side than the other, owing to paralysis—as
_beautiful_, even if, as Jeffrey would have it, Madame Nature should
suddenly take it into her head to associate such abnormalities with
health instead of with disease.
(_b_) _Gradation._—On this law of Nature Mr. Ruskin again has spoken at
once more scientifically and poetically than any other writer on
æsthetics: "What curvature is to lines, gradation is to shades and
colours.... For instances of the complete _absence_ of gradation we must
look to man’s work, or to his _disease_ and _decrepitude_. Compare the
gradated colours of the rainbow with the stripes of a target, and the
gradual concentration of the youthful blood in the cheek with an abrupt
patch of rouge, or with the sharply-drawn veining of old age.
“Gradation is so inseparable a quality of all natural shade and colour
that the eye refuses in art to understand anything as either which
appears without it; while, on the other hand, nearly all the gradations
of nature are so subtile, and between degrees of tint so slightly
separated, that no human hand can in any wise equal, or do anything more
than suggest the idea of them.”
The following remarks which the same writer makes in another place
concerning Gradation show at the same time how asinine it is for a
savage or any other person of uncultivated taste to set himself up as a
judge of Personal Beauty, as good as any one else, on the plea that it
is all “a matter of taste” and _de gustibus non est disputandum_:—
“When the eye is quite uncultivated, it sees that a man is a man, and a
face is a face, but has no idea what shadows or lights fall upon the
form or features. Cultivate it to some degree of artistic power, and it
will then see shadows distinctly, but only the more vigorous of them.
Cultivate it still further, and it will see light within light, and
shadow within shadow, and will continually refuse to rest in what it has
already discovered, that it may pursue what is more removed and more
subtle, until at last it comes to give its chief attention and display
its chief power on _gradations which to an untrained faculty are partly
matters of indifference and partly imperceptible_.”
The words italicised enable us to appreciate what Sokrates must have had
in his mind when he distinguished between that which _is_ beautiful and
that which only _appears_ beautiful. Æsthetic training enables us to see
things as they are, instead of as they appear through inattention,
through ignorance, or through clouds of national prejudice, or
individual utilitarianism.
The way in which æsthetic training enables us to see gradations of
beauty previously imperceptible can be most strikingly illustrated in
the case of music. There are thousands of intelligent folks who cannot
tell the difference between a superb Steinway Grand, just timed for a
concert, and a harsh, clangy, mountain-hotel piano that has not been
tuned for two years. But give these persons a thorough musical
education, and they will soon be able to smile at Jeffrey’s notion that
the tone of the hotel-piano was quite as beautiful as that of the
Steinway, because it _seemed_ so to them. It is not only the imagination
but the senses themselves that require training. A Hottentot or any
unmusical person cannot tell the difference between two consecutive
tones on the piano, whereas a skilled musician can detect all the
gradations from one tone to another, down to the sixty-fourth part of a
semitone!
“It is all a matter of taste!” Precisely. Of good taste and bad taste.
Examples of gradation in the human form are the gradual tapering of the
limbs and the fingers, the exquisite line from the female neck to the
shoulders and the bosom, the blushes on the cheeks, so long as they do
not assume the form of a hectic flush, and the delicate tints of the
complexion in general, varying with emotional states, according as the
veins and arteries are more or less filled with the vital fluid.
Is it then “entirely owing to their associations” with health or disease
that we prefer the complexion of a youthful face to the hideous daubs of
red which Knight refers to as the “richly fretted and variegated
countenance of a pimpled drunkard”? Is it owing to such associations
that we prefer the delicately gradated blushes of coloured marble to the
richly bedaubed countenance of a pimpled brickbat? But it would be a
waste of time to refer again to the crude anti-æsthetic notions of
Messrs. Knight, Alison, and Jeffrey.
One more exquisite illustration of subtle gradation in the human form
divine may be cited from Winckelmann:—
“The soul, though a simple existence, brings forth at once, and in an
instant, many different ideas; so it is with the beautiful youthful
outline, which appears simple, and yet at the same time has infinitely
different variations, and that soft tapering which is difficult of
attainment in a column, is still more so in the diverse forms of the
youthful body. Among the innumerable kinds of columns in Rome some
appear pre-eminently elegant on account of this very tapering; of these
I have particularly noted two of granite, which I am always studying
anew: just so rare is a perfect form, even in the most beautiful youth,
which has a stationary point in our sex still less than in the female.”
(_c_) _Curvature._—"That all forms of acknowledged beauty are composed
exclusively of curves will," Mr. Ruskin believes, “be at once allowed;
but that which there will be need more especially to prove, is the
subtility and constancy of curvature in all natural forms whatsoever. I
believe that, except in crystals, in certain mountain forms admitted for
the sake of sublimity or contrast (as in the slope of debris), in rays
of light, in the levels of calm water and alluvial land, and in some few
organic developments, there are no lines or surfaces of nature without
curvature, though, as we before saw in clouds, more especially in their
under lines towards the horizon, and in vast and extended plains, right
lines are often suggested which are not actual. Without these we should
not be sensible of the value of contrasting curves; and while,
therefore, for the most part, the eye is fed in natural forms with a
grace of curvature which no hand nor instrument can follow, other means
are provided to give beauty to those surfaces which are admitted for
contrast, _as in water by its reflection of the gradations which it
possesses not itself_.”
In a footnote to the last edition of the _Modern Painters_ he adds
regarding the apparent exceptions named: “Crystals are indeed subject to
rectilinear limitations, but their real surfaces are continually curved;
the level of calm water is only right lined when it is shoreless.”
On the other hand, “Generally in all ruin and disease, and interference
of one order of being with another (as in the cattle line of park
trees), the curves vanish, and violently opposed or broken and unmeaning
lines take their place.” I feel tempted to cite another most admirable
passage on curvature throughout Nature—even where it is least looked
for, and the untrained eye cannot see it—in the shattered walls and
crests of mountains which “seem to rise in a gloomy contrast with the
soft waves of bank and wood beneath.” But it is too long to quote, and I
can only advise the reader most earnestly to look it up in chapter xiv.
vol. iv.
“Straight lines,” Professor Bain observes, “are rendered artistic only
by associations of power, regularity, fitness, etc.” “In some situations
straight lines are æsthetic.... In the human figure there underlies the
curved outline a certain element of rigidity and straightness,
indicating strength in the supporting limbs and spine. Whenever firmness
is required, there must be a solid structure, and straightness of form
is a frequent accompaniment of solidity. The straight nose and the flat
brow are subsidiary to the movement and the stability of the face.”
Yet even our straight limbs follow in their motions the law of
curvature. And to this fact that they move more easily and naturally in
a curved than in a straight line, which requires laborious adjustment,
Bain traces part of our superior pleasure in rounded lines.
What infinite subtlety and variety Curvature is capable of is vividly
brought before the eyes by Winckelmann: “The forms of a beautiful body
are determined by lines the centre of which is constantly changing, and
which, if continued, would never describe circles. They are,
consequently, more simple, but also more complex, than a circle, which,
however large or small it may be, always has the same centre, and either
includes others or is included in others. This diversity was sought
after by the Greeks in works of all kinds; and their discernment of its
beauty led them to introduce the same system even into the form of their
utensils and vases, whose easy and elegant outline is drawn after the
same rule, that is, by a line which must be found by means of several
circles, for all these works have an elliptical figure, and herein
consists their beauty. The greater unity there is in the junction of the
forms, and in the flowing of one out of another, so much the greater is
the beauty of the whole.”
_Masculine and Feminine Beauty._—The universality of curvature as a form
of beautiful objects throughout nature and art is of importance in
helping us to determine the question which is the more beautiful form, a
perfect man or a perfect woman—an Apollo or a Venus? A Venus, no doubt.
In those qualities which are subsumed under the terms of the sublime or
the characteristic—in strength, manly dignity, intellectual power,
majesty—the masculine type, no doubt, is superior to the feminine. But
in Beauty proper—in the roundness and delicacy of contours, in the
smoothness of complexion and its subtle gradations of colour, in the
symmetrical roundness and lustrous expressiveness of the eyes—the
feminine type is pre-eminent.
“Woman,” says Professor Kollmann, “is smaller, more delicate, but also
softer and more graceful (_schwungvoller_) in form, in her breasts,
hips, thighs, and calves. No line on her body is short and sharply
angular; they all swell, or vault themselves in a gentle curve.... The
neck and the rounded shoulders are connected by gracefully curved lines,
whereas a man’s neck is placed more at a right angle to the more
straight and angular shoulders.... The hair is softer, the skin more
tender and transparent. All the forms are more covered over with adipose
tissue, and connected by those gradual transitions which produce the
gently rounded outlines; whereas in a man everything—muscles, sinews,
blood-vessels, bones—is more conspicuous.”
Schopenhauer, accordingly, was clearly in the wrong when he endeavoured
to make out that man is vastly superior to woman in physical beauty,—a
notion which Professor Huxley, too, does not appear to disapprove of
very violently. At the same time it is, no doubt, true that there are
more good specimens of masculine beauty in most countries than of
feminine beauty; true also that man’s beauty lasts much longer than
woman’s. A boy is more beautiful than a girl under sixteen, for the very
reason that his form is more like that of an adult woman than a girl’s
is. From eighteen to twenty-five woman is more beautiful than man; while
after thirty, owing to the almost universal neglect of the laws of
health—women are apt to become either too rotund, which ruins their
grace and delicacy, or too angular—more angular than a man under fifty.
(_d_) _Delicacy and Grace._—The difference between masculine and
feminine beauty and the superiority of the latter is also indirectly
brought out in Burke’s remarks on Delicacy, which, though open to
criticism in one or two points, are on the whole admirable and
exhaustive:—
"An air of robustness and strength is very prejudicial to beauty. An
appearance of delicacy, and even of fragility, is almost essential to
it. Whoever examines the vegetable or animal creation will find this
observation to be founded in nature. It is not the oak, the ash, or the
elm, or any of the robust trees of the forest which we consider as
beautiful; they are awful and majestic, they inspire a sort of
reverence. It is the delicate myrtle, it is the orange, it is the
almond, it is the jasmine, it is the vine, which we look on as vegetable
beauties. It is the flowery species, so remarkable for its weakness and
momentary duration, that gives us the liveliest idea of beauty and
elegance. Among animals the greyhound is more beautiful than the
mastiff, and the delicacy of a jennet, a barb, or an Arabian horse is
much more amiable than the strength and stability of some horses of war
or carriage.
“I need here say little of the fair sex, where I believe the point will
be easily allowed me. The beauty of women is considerably owing to their
weakness or delicacy, and is even enhanced by their timidity, a quality
of mind analogous to it. I would not here be understood to say that
weakness betraying very bad health has any share in beauty; but the ill
effect of this is not because it is weakness, but because the ill state
of health, which produces such weakness, alters the other conditions of
beauty; the parts in such a case collapse, the bright colour, the _lumen
purpureum juventæ_ is gone, and the fine variation is lost in wrinkles,
sudden breaks, and right lines.”
Delicacy is a quality closely related to grace, or beauty in motion and
attitude. “Grace,” says Dr. J. A. Symonds, “is a striking illustration
of the union of the two principles of similarity and variety. For the
secret of graceful action is that the symmetry is preserved through all
the varieties of position.” This is well put; but the _first_ condition
and essence of grace is that there must be an exact correspondence
between the work done and the limb which does it. The attitude of an
oak-trunk, with nothing on the top but a geranium bush, however
symmetrical, would always be ungraceful, owing to the ludicrous
disproportion between the support and the thing supported. Conversely, a
weak fern-stalk, trying to support a branch of heavy cactus leaves,
would be equally ungraceful; for there must be neither a waste of energy
nor a sense of effort. Part of this feeling may perhaps be traced to
sympathy—thus showing how various emotions enter into our æsthetic
judgments, sometimes weakening, sometimes strengthening them. As
Professor Bain remarks, _à propos_: “We love to have removed from our
sight every aspect of suffering, and none more so than the suffering of
toil.”
Grace is almost as powerful to inspire Love as Beauty itself. Women know
this instinctively, and in order to acquire the Delicacy which leads to
grace, they deprive their bodies of air and sunshine and strengthening
sleep, hoping thereby to acquire artificially, through ill-health, what
Nature has denied them. Fortunately such violations of the laws of
health always frustrate their object. Delicacy conjoined with Health
inspires Love, but delicacy born of disease inspires only pity—a feeling
which may inspire in a woman what she imagines is Love, but in a man
_never_.
(_e_) _Smoothness_ is another attribute of Beauty on which Burke was the
first to place proper emphasis: It is, he says, “a quality so essential
to beauty that I do not recollect anything beautiful that is not smooth.
In trees and flowers, smooth leaves are beautiful; smooth slopes of
earth in gardens; smooth streams in the landscape; smooth coats of birds
and beasts in animal beauties; in fine women, smooth skins; and in
several sorts of ornamental furniture, smooth and polished surfaces....
Any ruggedness, any sudden projection, any sharp angle, is in the
highest degree contrary to the idea of beauty.”
Though there are exceptions to this rule of smoothness—including such a
marvel of beauty as the moss-rose, as well as various leaves covered
with down, etc.—yet, on the whole, Burke is right. Certainly the smooth
white hand of a delicate lady is more beautiful than the rough, horny
“paws” of a bricklayer; and the inferior beauty of a man’s arm is owing
as much to its rough scattered hairs as to the prominence of the
muscles, in contrast to the smooth and rounded arm of woman. In animals,
however, hairs on the limbs are not unbeautiful, because they are dense
enough to overlap, and thus form a hairy surface admirable alike for its
soft smoothness, its gloss, and its colour.
(_f_) _Lustre and Colour._—Lustrous, sparkling eyes, glossy hair, pearly
teeth,—where would human beauty be without them without the delicate
tints and blushes of the skin, the brown or blue iris, the golden or
chestnut locks, the ebony eyebrows and lashes?
Yet the greatest art-critics incline to the opinion that, on the whole,
colour is a less essential ingredient of beauty than form. “Colour
assists beauty,” says Winckelmann, but “the essence of beauty consists
not in colour but in shape.” “A negro might be called handsome when the
conformation of his face is handsome.” “The colour of bronze and of the
black and greenish basalt does not detract from the beauty of the
antique heads,” hence “we possess a knowledge of the beautiful, although
in an unreal dress and of a disagreeable colour.”
Similarly Mr. Ruskin, who remarks of colour that it “is richly bestowed
on the highest works of creation, and the eminent _sign and seal of
perfection in them_; being associated with _life_ in the human form,
with _light_ in the sky, with purity and hardness in the earth,—death,
night, and pollution of all kinds being colourless. And although if form
and colour be brought into complete opposition, so that it should be put
to us as a stern choice whether we should have a work of art all of
form, without colour (as an Albert Dürer’s engraving), or all of colour,
without form (as an imitation of mother-of-pearl), form is beyond all
comparison the more precious of the two ... yet if colour be introduced
at all, it is necessary that, whatever else may be wrong, _that_ should
be right,” etc.
Again: “An oak is an oak, whether green with spring or red with winter;
a dahlia is a dahlia, whether it be yellow or crimson; and if some
monster-hunting botanist should ever frighten the flower blue, still it
will be a dahlia; but let one curve of the petals—one groove of the
stamens—be wanting, and the flower ceases to be the same. Let the
roughness of the bark and the angles of the boughs be smoothed or
diminished, and the oak ceases to be an oak; but let it retain its
inward structure and outward form, and though its leaves grew white, or
pink, or blue, or tricolour, it would be a white oak, or a pink oak, or
a republican oak, but an oak still.”
“If we look at Nature carefully, we shall find that her colours are in a
state of perpetual confusion and indistinctness, while her forms, as
told by light and shade, are invariably clear, distinct, and speaking.
The stones and gravel of the bank catch green reflections from the
boughs above; the bushes receive grays and yellows from the ground;
every hairbreadth of polished surface gives a little bit of the blue of
the sky, or the gold of the sun, like a star upon the local colour; this
local colour, changeful and uncertain in itself, is again disguised and
modified by the hue of the light or quenched in the gray of the shadow;
and the confusion and blending of tint is altogether so great that were
we left to find out what objects were by their colours only, we would
scarcely in place distinguish the boughs of a tree from the air beyond
them or the ground beneath them. I know that people unpractised in art
will not believe this at first; but if they have accurate powers of
observation, they may soon ascertain it for themselves; they will find
that, while they can scarcely ever determine the _exact_ hue of
anything, except when it occurs in large masses, as in a green field or
the blue sky, the form, as told by light and shade, is always decided
and evident, and the source of the chief character of every object.”
Professor Bain remarks on this topic that “Among the several kinds of
beauty, the eye takes most delight in colour.... For this reason we find
the poets borrowing more of their epithets from colours than from any
other topic.”
This view seems to be confirmed by the fact that lovers in expatiating
on the beauty of their Dulcineas seem to have much more to say about
their brown or golden locks, their light or dark complexion, their blue
or black eyes, than about the shape of their features. This, however,
partly finds its explanation in the fact that colour, being a sensuous
quality, is more easily and more directly appreciated than form, the
perception of which is a much more complicated matter, being a
translation into intellectual terms of remembered impressions of touch,
associated with certain colours, lights, and shades which recall them;
and partly in the greater ease with which peculiarities of colour are
referred to than peculiarities of form. In the days of ancient Greece
the nomenclature of colours was equally undeveloped, and is so vague in
Homer that Gladstone and Geiger actually set up the theory that Homer’s
colour-sense was imperfect, and that that sense has been gradually
developed within historic times,—a theory which I have confuted on
anatomical grounds in _Macmillan’s Magazine_, Dec. 1879.
That as regards human beauty colour is of less importance than form is
shown, moreover, in this, that a girl with regular features and a
freckled complexion will much sooner find a lover than one with the most
delicately-coloured complexion, conjoined with a big mouth, irregular
nose, or sunken cheeks. And a beautifully-shaped eye is sure to be
admired by all, no matter whether blue, gray, or brown; whereas an eye
that is too small or otherwise defective in form can never be redeemed
by the most beautiful colour or brilliancy.
On the other hand, there are several things to be said in favour of
colour that will mitigate our judgment on this point. In the first
place, colour is more perfect in its way than form, so that it is
impossible ever to improve on it by idealising, as it is often with
form. As Mr. Ruskin remarks, “Form may be attained in perfection by
painters, who, in their course of study, are continually altering or
idealising it; but only the sternest fidelity will reach colouring.
Idealise or alter in that, and you are lost. Whether you alter by
debasing or exaggerating, by glare or by decline, one fate is for
you—ruin.... Colour is sacred in that you must keep to facts. Hence the
apparent anomaly that the only schools of colour are the schools of
realism.”
Again, looking at Nature with an artist’s eye, Ruskin discovered and
frequently alludes to the “apparent connection of brilliancy of colour
with vigour of life,” and Mr. Wallace, looking at Nature with a
naturalist’s eye, established this “apparent connection” as a scientific
fact. The passage in which he sums up his views has been once already
quoted; but it is of such extreme importance in enforcing the lesson
that beauty is impossible without health, that it may be quoted again:—
“The colours of an animal usually fade during disease or weakness, while
robust health and vigour adds to its intensity.... In all quadrupeds a
‘dull coat’ is indicative of ill-health or low condition; while a glossy
coat and sparkling eye are the invariable accompaniments of health and
energy. The same rule applies to the feathers of birds, whose colours
are only seen in their purity during perfect health; and a similar
phenomenon occurs even among insects, for the bright hues of
caterpillars begin to fade as soon as they become inactive, preparatory
to their undergoing transformation. Even in the Vegetable Kingdom we see
the same thing; for the tints of foliage are deepest, and the colours of
flowers and fruits richest, on those plants which are in the most
healthy and vigorous condition.”
(_g_) _Expression, Variety, Individuality._—Besides the circumstances
that colour is more uniformly perfect in Nature than form, and that it
is always associated with Health, without which Beauty is impossible,
another peculiarity may be mentioned in its favour. The complexion is a
kaleidoscope whose delicate blushes and constant changes of tint, from
the ashen pallor of despair to the rosy flush of delight, are the
fascinating signs of emotional expression. And herein lies the superior
beauty of the human complexion over all other tinted objects: it
reflects not only the hues of surrounding external bodies, but all the
moods of the soul within.
Form without colour is form without expression. But form without
expression soon ceases to fascinate, for we constantly crave novelty and
variety; and form is one, while expression is infinitely varied and ever
new. Herein lies the extreme importance of expression as a test of
Beauty. Colour, of course, is only one phase of expression. The soul not
only changes the tints of the complexion, but liquifies the facial
muscles so that they can be readily moulded into forms characteristic of
joy, sadness, hope, fear, adoration, hatred, anger, affection, etc.
Why is the portrait-painter so infinitely superior to the photographer?
Because the photographer—paradoxical as this may seem—gives you a less
realistic picture of yourself than the artist. He only gives you the
fixed form, or at most a transient expression which, being fixed
permanently, loses its essence, which is motion—and thus becomes a
caricature—an exaggeration in duration. But the artist studies you by
the hour, makes you talk, notes the habitual forms of expression most
characteristic of your individuality; and, blending these into a sort of
“typical portrait” of your various individual traits, makes a picture
which reveals all the advantages of art over mere solar mechanism or
photography.
This explains why some of the most charming persons we know never appear
well in a photograph, while others much less charming do. The beauty of
the latter lies in form, of the former in expression. But expression is
much more potent to inspire admiration and Love than mere beauty of
features; and not without reason, for beautiful features, being a lucky
inheritance, may be conjoined with unamiable individual traits, whereas
beautiful expression is the infallible index of a beautiful mind and
character; and promises, moreover, beautiful sons and daughters, because
“expression is feature in the making.” It is by such subtle signs and
promises that Love is unconsciously and instinctively guided in its
choice.
Formal Beauty alone is external and cold. It is those slight variations
in Beauty and expression which we call individuality and character that
excite emotion: so much so that Love, as we have seen, is dependent on
individuality, and a man who warmly admires all beautiful women is in
love with none.
Speaking of the Greeks, Sir Charles Bell says: “In high art it appears
to have been the rule of the sculptor to divest the form of
expression.... In the Venus, the form is exquisite and the face perfect,
but there is _no expression_ there; it has no human softness, _nothing
to love_.” “All individuality was studiously avoided by the ancient
sculptors in the representation of divinity; they maintained the beauty
of form and proportion, but without expression, which, in their system,
belonged exclusively to humanity.”
But inasmuch as the Greeks attributed to their deities all the various
emotions which agitate man, why did they refuse them the signs of
expression? One cannot but suspect that the Greeks did not sufficiently
appreciate the beauty of expression. Had they valued it more they would
not have allowed their women to vegetate in ignorance like flowers, one
like the other, but would have educated them and given them the
individuality and expression which alone can inspire Love.
Again, if the Greeks had been susceptible to the superior charms of
emotional expression, is it likely that they would have been so
completely absorbed in the two least expressive and emotional of the
arts—architecture and sculpture?
We cannot avoid the conclusion that the Greeks were as indifferent to
the charms of individual expression as to Romantic Love, which is
dependent on it. In their statues, as Dr. Max Schasler remarks, a mouth
or eye has no more significance as a mark of beauty than a well-shaped
leg. Whereas in modern, and even sometimes in mediæval art, what a world
of expression in a mouth, a pair of eyes!
Leaving individual exceptions (like Homer) aside, it may be said that
the arts have been successively developed to a climax in the order of
their capacity for emotional expression, viz.—Architecture, Sculpture,
Painting, Poetry, and Music. Poetry precedes music, because though its
emotional scope is wider, it is less intense. To-day music is the most
popular and universal of all the arts because it stirs most deeply our
feelings. And just as the discovery of harmony, by individualising the
melodies, has increased the power and variety of music a thousandfold;
so the individualisation of Beauty and character through modern culture
has made Romantic Love a blessing accessible to all—the most prevalent
form of modern affection.
Individuality is of such extreme importance in Love that a slight
blemish is not only pardoned but actually adored if it increases the
individuality. Bacon evidently had this in his mind when he said that
“there is no excellent beauty which has not some strangeness in its
proportion.” Seneca, as well as Ovid, noted the attractiveness of slight
short-comings; and the following anecdote shows that though the
Persians, as a nation, have ever been strangers to Romantic Love, their
greatest poet, Háfiz, understood the psychology of the subject in its
subtlest details:—
“One day Timur (fourteenth century) sent for Háfiz and asked angrily:
‘Art thou he who was so bold as to offer my two great cities Samarkand
and Bokhara for the black mole on thy mistress’s cheek?’ alluding to a
well-known verse in one of his odes. ‘Yes, sire,’ replied Háfiz, ‘and it
is by such acts of generosity that I have brought myself to such a state
of destitution that I have now to solicit your bounty.’ Timur was so
pleased with the ready wit displayed in this answer that he dismissed
the poet with a handsome present.”