The poet who sang that beautiful things bring sadness, named as
beautiful things music and sunset and night, clear skies and transparent
waters. Their sadness he sought to explain by vague soul-memories
of Paradise. Very old-fashioned this explanation; but it contains a
shadowing of truth. For the mysterious sadness associated with the sense
of beauty is certainly not of this existence, but of countless anterior
lives,--and therefore indeed a sadness of reminiscence.
Elsewhere I try to explain why certain qualities of music, and certain
aspects of sunset produce sadness, and even more than sadness. As
for impressions of night, however, I doubt if the emotion that night
evokes in this nineteenth century can be classed with the sadness that
beauty brings. A wonderful night,--a tropical night, for instance,
lucent and lukewarm, with a new moon in it, curved and yellow like a
ripe banana,--may inspire, among other minor feelings something of
tenderness; but the great dominant emotion evoked by the splendor of the
vision is not sadness. Breaking open the heavens to their highest, night
widens modern thought over the bounds of life and death by the spectacle
of that Infinite whose veil is day. Night also forces remembrance of
the mystery of our tether,--the viewless force that holds us down
to this wretched little ball of a world. And the result is cosmic
emotion--vaster than any sense of the sublime,--drowning all other
emotion,--but nowise akin to the sadness that beauty causes. Anciently
the emotion of night must have been incomparably less voluminous.
Men who believed the sky to be a solid vault, never could have felt,
as we feel it, the stupendous pomp of darkness. And our ever-growing
admiration of those awful astral questions in the Book of Job, is mainly
due to the fact that, with the progress of science, they continue to
make larger and larger appeal to forms of thought and feeling which
never could have entered into the mind of Job.
But the sadness excited by the beauty of a perfect day, or by the charm
of nature in her brightest moods, is a fact of another kind, and needs
a different explanation. Inherited the feeling must be,--but through
what cumulation of ancestral pain? Why should the tenderness of an
unclouded sky, the soft green sleep of summered valleys, the murmurous
peace of sun-flecked shadows, inspire us with sadness? Why should any
inherited emotion following an æsthetic perception be melancholy rather
than joyous?... Of course I do not refer to the sense of vastness or
permanence or power aroused by the sight of the sea, or by any vision
of sea-like space, or by the majesty of colossal ranges. That is the
feeling of the sublime,--always related to fear. Æsthetic sadness is
related rather to desire.
* * * * *
“All beautiful things bring sadness,” is a statement as near to truth
as most general statements; but the sadness and its evolutional history
must vary according to circumstances. The melancholy awakened by the
sight of a beautiful face cannot be identical with that awakened by the
sight of a landscape, by the hearing of music, or by the reading of a
poem. Yet there should be some one emotional element common to æsthetic
sadness,--one general kind of feeling which would help us to solve the
riddle of the melancholy inspired by the sight of beauty in Nature. Such
a common element, I believe, is inherited longing,--inherited dim sense
of loss, shadowed and qualified variously by interrelated feelings.
Different forms of this inheritance would be awakened by different
impressions of the beautiful. In the case of human beauty, the æsthetic
recognition might be toned or shadowed by immemorial inheritance of
pain--pain of longing, and pain of separation from numberless forgotten
beloved. In the case of a color, a melody, an effect of sunshine or of
moonlight, the sense-impressions appealing to æsthetic feeling might
equally appeal to various ancestral memories of pain. The melancholy
given by the sight of a beautiful landscape is certainly a melancholy of
longing,--a sadness massive as vague, because made by the experience of
millions of our dead.
“The æsthetic feeling for nature in its purity,” declares Sully, “is
a modern growth ... the feeling for nature’s wild solitudes is hardly
older than Rousseau.” Perhaps to many this will seem rather a strong
statement in regard to the races of the West;--it is not true of the
races of the Far East, whose art and poetry yield ancient proof to the
contrary. But no evolutionist would deny that the æsthetic love of
nature has been developed through civilization, and that many abstract
sentiments now involved with it are of very recent origin. Much of the
sadness made in us by the sight of a beautiful landscape would therefore
be of comparatively modern growth, though less modern than some of the
higher qualities of æsthetic pleasure which accompany the emotion. I
surmise it to be mainly the inherited pain of that separation from
Nature which began with the building of walled cities. Possibly there
is blended with it something of incomparably older sorrow--such as the
immemorial mourning of man for the death of summer; but this, and other
feelings inherited from ages of wandering, would revive more especially
in the great vague melancholy that autumn brings into what we still call
our souls.
* * * * *
Ever as the world increasing its wisdom increases its sorrow, our
dwellers in cities built up to heaven more and more regret the joys of
humanity’s childhood,--the ancient freedom of forest and peak and plain,
the brightness of mountain water, the cool keen sweetness of the sea’s
breath and the thunder-roll of its eternal epic. And all this regret of
civilization for Nature irretrievably forsaken, may somehow revive in
that great soft dim sadness which the beauty of a landscape makes us
feel.
In one sense we are certainly wrong when we say that the loveliness of
a scene brings tears to the eyes. It cannot be the loveliness of the
scene;--it is the longing of generations quickening in the hearts of us.
The beauty we speak of has no real existence: the emotion of the dead
alone makes it seem to be,--the emotion of those long-buried millions
of men and women who loved Nature for reasons very much simpler and
older than any æsthetic emotion is. To the windows of the house of life
their phantoms crowd,--like prisoners toward some vision of bright skies
and flying birds, free hills and glimmering streams, beyond the iron
of their bars. They behold their desire of other time,--the vast light
and space of the world, the wind-swept clearness of azure, the hundred
greens of wold and plain, the spectral promise of summits far away. They
hear the shrilling and the whirr of happy winged things, the chorus of
cicada and bird, the lisping and laughing of water, the under-tone of
leafage astir. They know the smell of the season--all sharp sweet odors
of sap, scents of flower and fruitage. They feel the quickening of the
living air,--the thrilling of the great Blue Ghost.
But all this comes to them, filtered through the bars and veils of their
rebirth, only as dreams of home to hopeless exile,--of child-bliss to
desolate age,--of remembered vision to the blind!