WHAT IS THE TRUE ACTUAL?
I.—_Reality and Potentiality._
The immediate object before the senses undergoes change; the real
becomes potential, and that which was potential becomes real. Without
the potentiality we could have had no change. At first we are apt to
consider the real as the entire existence and to ignore the potential;
but the potential will not be treated thus. Whatever a thing _can_
become is as valid as what it is already. The properties of a thing by
which it exists for us, are its relations to other beings, and hence are
rather its _deficiencies_ than its being _per se_. Thus the sharpness in
the acid was pronounced to be the hunger of the same for alkali; the
sharper it was, the louder was its call for alkali. Thus the very
concreteness of a thing is rather the process of its potentialities. To
illustrate this: we have a circle of possibilities belonging to a
thing—only one of them is real at a time; it is, for instance, water,
whose potentialities are vapor, liquid, and solid. Its reality is only a
part of its total being, as in the case of water it was only one-third
of itself at any given temperature. Yet the real is throughout qualified
by the potential. In change, the real is being acted upon by the
potential under the form of “outside influences.” The pyramid is not
air, but the air continually acts upon it, and the pyramid is in a
continual process of decomposition; its potentiality is continually
exhibiting its nature. We know by seeing a thing undergo change what its
potentialities are. In the process of change is manifested the activity
of the potentialities which are thus negative to it. If a thing had no
negative it would not change. The real is nothing but the surface upon
which the potential writes its nature; it is the field of strife between
the potentialities. The real persists in existence through the potential
which is in continual process with it. Thus we are led to regard the
product of the two as the constant. This we call _Actuality_.
II.—_Actuality._
The actual is a process, and is ever the same; its two sides, are the
real and the potential, and the real is manifested no more and no less
than the potentialities, in the process which constantly goes on. The
real is annulled by the potential, and the latter becomes the real, only
to be again replaced. If in the circle of possibilities which make up
the entire being of a thing, that which is real bears a small proportion
to the rest, the real is very unstable, for the potentialities are to
that extent actively negative to it. But let the sphere of the real be
relatively large, and we have a more stable being—there is less to
destroy it and more to sustain it—it is a higher order of being. If the
whole circle of its being were real it would coincide with its
actuality, it would be self-related, exist for itself, and this would be
the existence of the _Idea_.
III.—_The Actual is the Rational._
The highest aim is toward perfection; and this is pursued in the
cancelling of the finite, partial or incomplete, by adding to it its
other or complement—that which it lacks of the Total or Perfect. Since
this complement is the _potential_, and since this potential is and can
be the only agent that acts upon and modifies the real, it follows that
all process is pursuant of the highest aim; and since the actual is the
process itself, it follows that the actual is the realization of the
Best or of the Rational. A somewhat has a low order of existence if the
sphere of its reality is small compared to that of its potentiality. But
the lower its order the more swift and sure are the potentialities in
their work. Hence no matter how bad anything is, the very best thing is
being wrought upon it. Seize the moments of the world-history, and state
precisely what they lacked of the complete realization of spirit, and
one will see clearly that each phase perished by having just that added
to it which it most of all needed.
IV.—“_The Form of Eternity._”
To think according to Reason is to think things under the form of
Eternity, says Spinoza (_Res sub quadam specie aeternitatis percipere_).
The Form of Eternity is what we have found as the true actual. The
Phenomenal world is the constant spectacle wherein each and all is
placed under the form of Eternity. When this is done, all _immediate_
(or mechanical) being appears in a state of transition; all _mediated_
being appears as a merely relative, i. e. as existing in what lies
beyond it; all _absolutely mediated_ (i. e. self-determined) being
appears in a state of development. In the first and second stages the
individual loses its identity. In the third stage the process is one of
unfolding, and hence the continual realizing of a more vivid personal
identity. Thus the Form of Eternity is to the conscious being the
realization of his Immortality.
Footnote 64:
The word “Idea” does not have the sense here given it, except in
Hegel, and in a very few translations of him. For the most part the
word is used, (e. g. in Schelling’s Philosophy of Nature in this
number,) as a translation for the German “_Begriff_,” which we call
“_comprehension_,” adopting the term in this sense from the author of
the “Letters on Faust.” It will do no harm to use so expressive a word
as comprehension in an objective sense as well as in a subjective one.
The thought itself is _bizarre_, and not merely the word; it is
useless to expect to find words that are used commonly in a
speculative sense. One must seek a word that has several meanings, and
grasp these meanings all together in one, to have the speculative use
of a word. Spirit has formed words for speculative ideas by the
deepest of instincts, and these words have been unavoidably split up
into different meanings by the sensuous thinking, which always loses
the connecting links.
A THOUGHT ON SHAKESPEARE.
BY ANNA C. BRACKETT.
To say that Shakespeare excels others by virtue of the genius which
enables him to throw himself for the time completely into each of the
characters he represents, is to say a very common-place thing, and yet
it will bear repeating.
His spirit was so many-sided, so universal, that it was able to take all
forms and perfectly to fit itself to each, so that he always gives us a
consistent character. His personages are individuals whose every word
agrees with every other they have spoken, and while the spirit which
moves in them is Shakespeare, he is all, yet no one of them.
“The water unchanged in every case,
Doth take on the figure of the vase.”
He does not consciously go to work to fashion a character, nor does he
ask himself what that character shall say under the given circumstances,
but his soul, being capable of all, takes on for the time the form of
the character, and then speaks the things which are most natural to
itself in that form. So entirely is this the case, that a comparison of
the way in which one of his personages conducts himself under different
circumstances, is sure to amaze us as we discover the fine touches by
which the unity of the character is preserved. Goethe’s characters
grow—are in a state of becoming. Shakespeare’s are grown: they are
crystallized. The problem with Goethe is, the development of a character
through growth; Shakespeare’s: given a certain character and a certain
collision, how will the given character demean itself? The common man
with an effort could tell what _he himself_ would have done under such
and such circumstances, but Shakespeare could have done _all things_,
and grasping one side of himself he holds it, and shows it for one
person, and another for another. He never confuses—never changes. The
divine inspiration sways him. The power to do this, the Universal which
can take on all and be all, is genius.
This is not claimed as new in any sense. I simply wish to illustrate its
truth with regard to the suitors of Portia, by noticing how perfectly
the feelings which each expresses after the result of his choice is
apparent, are the outcome of the feelings which decided the choice.
The three sets of comments on the caskets and their mottoes, betray
three entirely different men. Their minds move differently; they are
actuated habitually by different motives, and the results of the same
failure in Morocco and Arragon are noticeably different. They are placed
in precisely the same circumstances. They are both disappointed, but
observe how differently they demean themselves. Morocco wastes no words.
His mood changes instantly from a doubting hope to despondency and
heartfelt grief, so powerful that it deprives him of all speech. He goes
at once. But Arragon speaks as if he had been deceived. First—“How much
unlike art thou to Portia!” That is, I was led to suppose one thing; I
have been misled. Then—“How much unlike my hopes!” but, indignation and
wounded pride gaining the ascendency—“_and my deservings!_” He re-reads
the motto, and grows more angry still. He has not been treated fairly,
and at last, forgetting himself, he turns round to Portia with the
fierce, direct question, “Are my deserts no better?” Portia shows her
appreciation of his state of mind by her evasion, plainly intimating
that he had gone too far in his manner of addressing her. His very words
are rough and uncourteous in their abruptness. His question was rude
because so personal. In his haste he has not even noticed the writing,
which now surprises him, as, feeling her quiet rebuke, he turns back to
the casket to hide his embarrassment, and he reads. During the reading
he begins to be conscious that he has been angry without reason, and
that he has not had control enough of himself to conceal the fact. That
he is not a fool is shown by his consciousness that he has behaved like
one in giving away to his temper, and as this consciousness begins to
dawn on him, he is ashamed of himself for having been provoked, and
desires to be gone as soon as possible. He has had a revelation of
himself which is not agreeable, and he turns to depart, no longer angry
with Portia, but so angry with himself that he almost forgets to bid the
lady adieu. But suddenly reminded that she is there, he assumes again
his usual, courtly, outside self, and half in apology for his anger and
rudeness, which might have led her to suppose that he would forget his
promise, half to recall himself to himself, he awkwardly ends the scene
by assuring her that he means to keep his word.
Now, why should Morocco never for one instant lose his gentlemanly
bearing, while Arragon so wholly forgets himself? Turn back to the
comments before the choice, and we have the key at once.
In their remarks on the leaden chest we see at first how much more
quickly than Morocco, Arragon rushes at conclusions. The former becomes
at once thoughtful, and does not pass by even that unattractive metal
without careful pausing. After reading all three mottoes once, he reads
slowly the inscription on the leaden casket again, and begins to repeat
it a second time. He feels thoroughly how much depends on the choice,
and is self-distrustful. Finding that he can gain no suggestion from the
lady, he commends himself for help to the gods before he proceeds. He is
not the man to be daunted by a threat, and thinks he detects in that
very threat a false ring. He is conscious of high motives, but not in
vanity, and he decides, adversely, giving a reason. But Arragon, before
surveying the whole ground, decides at once about the first he sees, and
the summary way in which he dismisses all consideration of the leaden
casket, savors strongly of self-esteem. There is a sort of bravado in
the sudden words without a moment’s pause: “You shall look fairer ere I
give or hazard!” The very use of “shall” with the second person, forces
into view the will of the speaker. He does not turn to Portia. He is
quite capable of directing his own actions without help from any god.
As Morocco considers the silver, the principal thing that attracts his
attention is its “virgin hue.” (Remark that Arragon under the same
circumstances calls it a “treasure house.”) He again begins thoughtfully
to repeat; and again mark the self-distrust. There is an exquisitely
delicate touch of this in—
“If thou be’st rated by thy _estimation_,
Thou dost deserve enough.”
Relying on the judgment of others, rather than on his own, but conscious
too that there is good ground for the estimation in which he knows
himself held, the chivalrous admiration with which he looks up to the
woman he desires, comes in here suddenly with a doubt whether if all
that is thought of him is deserved, it is enough to win a pearl of so
great price. His conscious manhood refuses, however, to weaken itself by
doubting, and he again repeats the clause on which he stopped before. He
goes back to the thought of the estimation in which he is held; he
thinks of his noble birth, of his princely fortune, of his graces, and
qualities of breeding, and enumerating all these, he proves his title to
a better nobility by the sudden thought that the love he bears her is
enough to make him deserve her were she never so precious, and on that,
and that alone, he rests his claim. But before deciding he will read
again from the gold casket, and his exclamations on it are only a
continuation of his previous thought. It seems perfectly plain to him
that this must be the fortunate casket. In his generous love he forgets
himself entirely, and as it were to show her how wholly he believes in
her, he makes his selection here. Why should he be angry at the failure?
He had no self-assertion to be wounded. If he deserved her, it was only
because he loved her; and if he did not deserve her, it was only because
she was more than any one could deserve.
As Arragon, after passing by the lead, turns to the gold, he begins to
be a little more cautious, and repeats like Morocco. But his mind,
instead of turning at once to Portia as the only prize in the world
wholly desirable, begins from a lofty eminence of superiority to
criticise others whom he calls the “fool multitude.” He will not choose
what many men desire, because he prefers to keep out of the ranks. No
democrat, but a proud aristocrat is he, and so the gold casket is set
aside. After reading from the next, he begins to criticise again. It
seems as if he stood outside of all the world and coolly reviewed it. On
consideration he is quite sure that there is no danger of his losing his
place even if “true honor were purchased by the merit of the wearer,”
and basing his choice on his belief that he deserves success, he orders
peremptorily the opening of the “treasure house.”
Is it not most natural that with such feelings, such self-complacency,
he should be angry when he finds he has made a mistake? Nothing can be
more galling to a proud spirit than to discover that the estimation set
upon him by others is lower than that he sets upon himself.
It was not our purpose to compare Bassanio’s comments with the others.
Let us say only that he evidently prizes sincerity above all other
virtues, and prefers a leaden casket that is lead all through, to a
golden one that is gold only on the outside, and so he wins the woman,
who, as she shows us a moment afterwards, is sincere enough to deserve
to be won.
LEONARDO DA VINCI’S “LAST SUPPER,”
AS TREATED BY GOETHE.
[The following extracts from Goethe’s treatment of the master-piece
of Leonardo da Vinci were read at a meeting of the St. Louis Art
Society, pending the discussion of a fine engraving of this
celebrated picture. The MS. kindly presented to us by the translator
we print, in order to give to those unacquainted with the original
an exhibition of Goethe’s thorough manner of penetrating the spirit
of a work of art.—EDITOR.]
The Last Supper * * * was painted upon the wall of the monastery _alle
Grazie_, at Milan. The place where the picture is painted must first be
considered, for here the skill of the artist appears in its most
brilliant light. What could be fitter and nobler for a refectory than a
parting meal, which should be an object of reverence to the whole world
for all future time. Several years ago, when travelling, we beheld this
dining-room still undestroyed. Opposite the entrance on the narrow side,
stood the table of the prior, on both sides of him the tables of the
monks, all of which were raised a step from the floor—and when the
visitor turned round, he saw painted on the fourth, above the doors,
which are of but moderate height, a fourth table, and Christ and his
disciples seated at it, as if they belonged to the society. At meal
times it must have been a telling sight, when the tables of the prior
and Christ looked upon each other as two opposite pictures, and the
monks at their places found themselves enclosed between them. And just
on this account the skill of the artist was compelled to take the
existing tables of the monks as a pattern. Also, the table-cloth, with
its folds still visible with its worked stripes and tied corners, was
taken from the wash-room of the monastery. The plates, dishes, cups, and
other vessels, are like those which the monks used.
Here was no attempt at imitating an uncertain antiquated costume; it
would have been highly improper to stretch out the holy company upon
cushions in this place. No, the picture must be brought near to the
present; Christ must take his last supper with the Dominicans at Milan.
Also, in many other respects, the painting must have produced a great
effect; the thirteen figures about ten feet above the floor, one-half
larger than life-size, take up the space of twenty-eight feet in length.
Only two whole figures can be seen at the opposite ends of the table,
the rest are half-figures; and here, too, the artist found his advantage
in the necessity of the circumstances. Every moral expression belongs to
the upper part of the body, and the feet in such cases are everywhere in
the way. The artist has created here twelve half-figures, whose laps and
knees are covered by the table and table-cloth, but whose feet are
scarcely visible in the modest twilight beneath. Let us now imagine
ourselves in the place; let us consider the moral repose which prevails
in such a monastic dining-hall, and let us admire the artist who has
infused into his picture, powerful emotion, passionate movement, and at
the same time has kept his work within the bounds of Nature, and thus
brings it in close contrast with the nearest reality.
The means of excitement by which the artist arouses the quiet holy
group, are the words of the Master: “There is one among you who shall
betray me!” They are spoken—the whole company falls into disquiet; but
he inclines his head, with looks cast down; the whole attitude, the
motion of the arms, of the hands, everything repeats with heavenly
submission the unhappy words: Yes, it is not otherwise, there is one
among you who shall betray me!
Before we go farther, we must point out a happy device whereby Leonardo
principally enlivened his picture; it is the motion of the hands; this
device, however, only an Italian could discover. With his nation, the
whole body is full of animation; every limb participates in the
expression of feeling, of passion, even of thought. By various motions
and forms of the hand, he expresses: “What do I care!—Come hither!—This
is a rogue! beware of him!—He shall not live long!—This is a main
point!—Observe this well, my hearers!” To such a national peculiarity
Leonardo, who observed every characteristic point with the closest
attention, must have turned his careful eye. In this respect, the
present picture is unique, and one can scarcely observe it enough. Every
look and movement perfectly correspond, and at the same time there is a
combined and contrasted position of the limbs, comprehensible at a
glance, and wrought out in the most praiseworthy manner.
The figures on both sides of the Saviour may be considered by threes,
and each of these again must be thought into a unity, placed in
relation, and still held in connection with its neighbors. First, on the
right side of Christ, are John, Judas, and Peter. Peter the most
distant, in consonance with his violent character, when he hears the
word of the Lord, hastens up behind Judas, who, looking up affrighted,
bends forward over the table, and holds with his right hand firmly
closed, the purse, but with the left makes an involuntary nervous
movement, as if he would say: What’s that? What does that mean? In the
meanwhile Peter has with his left hand seized the right shoulder of
John, who is inclined towards him, and points to Christ, and at the same
time urges the beloved disciple to ask who the traitor is. He strikes a
knife-handle, which he holds in his right hand, inadvertently into the
ribs of Judas, whereby the affrighted forward movement, which upsets the
salt-cellar, is happily brought out. This group may be considered as the
one which was first thought out by the artist; it is the most perfect.
If now upon the right hand of the Lord immediate vengeance is
threatened, with a moderate degree of motion, there arises upon his left
the liveliest horror and detestation of the treachery. James, the elder,
bends back from fear, extends his arms, stares with his head bowed down
as one who sees before him the monster which he has just heard of.
Thomas peers from behind his shoulder, and approaching the Saviour,
raises the index of his right hand to his forehead. Philip, the third of
this group, rounds it off in the loveliest manner; he has risen, bends
toward the Master, lays his hands upon his breast, and declares with the
greatest clearness: Lord, it is not I! Thou knowest it! Thou seest my
pure heart. It is not I!
And now, the last three figures of this group give us new material for
thought; they talk with one another about the terrible thing which they
have just heard. Matthew, with a zealous motion, turns his face to the
left toward his two companions; his hands, on the contrary, he stretches
with rapidity towards his master, and thus, by the most ingenious
artifice, unites his own group with the previous one. Thaddeus shows the
most violent surprise, doubt and suspicion; he has laid his left hand
open upon the table, and has raised the right in a manner as if he
intended to strike his left hand with the back of the right—a movement
which one still sees in men of nature when they wish to express at an
unexpected occurrence: Have I not said so? Have I not always supposed
it? Simon sits at the end of the table, full of dignity—we therefore see
his whole figure; he, the eldest of all, is clothed with rich folds; his
countenance and movements show that he is astonished and reflecting, not
excited, scarcely moved.
If we now turn our eyes to the opposite end of the table, we see
Bartholomew, who stands upon his right foot, with the left crossed over
it; he is supporting his inclined body by resting both hands firmly upon
the table. He listens, probably to hear what John will find out from the
Lord; for, in general, the incitement of the favorite disciple seems to
proceed from this entire side. James, the younger, beside and behind
Bartholomew, lays his left hand upon Peter’s shoulder, just as Peter
lays his upon the shoulder of John, but James does so mildly, seeking
explanation only, whereas Peter already threatens vengeance.
And thus, as Peter reaches behind Judas, so James the younger reaches
behind Andrew, who, as one of the most important figures, shows with his
half-raised arms, his expanded hands in front, a decided expression of
horror, which appears only once in this picture, while in other works of
less genius, and of less profound thought, it recurs unfortunately only
too often.
COPIES GENERALLY.
Before we now come to imitations of our painting, of which the number
amounts to about thirty, we must make some reference to the subject of
copies generally. Such did not come into use until everybody confessed
that art had reached its culminating point, whereupon, inferior talents,
looking at the works of the greater masters, despaired of producing by
their own skill anything similar, either in imitation of nature, or from
the idea; and art, which now dwindled into mere handicraft, began to
repeat its own creations. This inability on the part of most of the
artists did not remain a secret to the lovers of art, who, not being
able always to turn to the first masters, called upon and paid inferior
talents, inasmuch as they preferred, in order not to receive something
altogether destitute of skill, to order imitations of recognized works,
with a view to being well served in some degree. This new procedure was
favored, from reasons of illiberality and overhaste by owners no less
than by artists, and art lowered itself advisedly by setting out with
the purpose to copy.
In the fifteenth century, as well as in the previous one, artists
entertained a high idea of themselves and their art, and did not readily
content themselves with repeating the inventions of others; hence we
find no real copies dating from that period—a circumstance to which
every friend of the history of art will do well to give heed. Inferior
arts no doubt made use of higher patterns for smaller works, as in the
case of _Niello_ and other enamelled work, and, of course, when from
religious or other motives, a repetition was desired, people contented
themselves with an accurate imitation, which only approximately
expressed the movement and action of the original, without paying any
close regard to form and color. Hence in the richest galleries we find
no copy previous to the sixteenth century.
But now came the time, when, through the agency of a few extraordinary
men—among whom our Leonardo must be reckoned and considered as the
first—art in every one of its parts attained to perfection; people
learned to see and to judge better, and now the desire for imitations of
first-class work was not difficult to satisfy, particularly in those
schools to which large numbers of scholars crowded, and in which the
works of the master were greatly in request. And yet, at that time, this
desire was confined to smaller works which could be easily compared with
the originals and judged. As regards larger works, the case was quite
different at that time from what it was at a later period, because the
original cannot be compared with the copies, and also because such
orders are rare. Thus, then, art, as well as its lovers, contented
itself with copies on a small scale, and a great deal of liberty was
allowed to the copyist, and the results of this arbitrary procedure
showed themselves, in an overpowering degree, in the few cases in which
copies on a large scale were desired. These indeed were generally copies
of copies, and, what is more, generally executed from copies on a
smaller scale, worked out far away from the original, often from mere
drawings, or even perhaps from memory. Job-painters now increased by the
dozen, and worked for lower prices; people made household ornaments of
painting; taste died out; copies increased and darkened the walls of
ante-chambers and stair-cases; hungry beginners lived on poor pay, by
repeating the most important works on every scale; yea, many painters
passed the whole of their lives in simply copying; but even then an
amount of deviation appeared in every copy, either a notion of the
person for whom it was painted, or a whim of the painter, or perhaps a
presumptuous wish to be original.
In addition to this came the demand for worked tapestry, in which
painting was not content to look dignified, except when tricked out with
gold; and the most magnificent pictures were considered meagre and
wretched, because they were grave and simple; therefore the copyist
introduced buildings and landscapes in the background, ornaments on the
dresses, aureoles or crowns around the heads, and further, strangly
formed children, animals, chimeras, grotesques, and other fooleries. It
often happened, also, that an artist, who believed in his own powers of
invention, received by the will of a client who could not appreciate his
capabilities, a commission to copy another person’s work, and since he
did so with reluctance, he wished to appear original here and there, and
therefore made changes or additions as knowledge, or perhaps vanity,
suggested. Such occurrences took place of course according to the
demands of place and time. Many figures were used for purposes quite
different from those for which they had been intended by their first
producers. Secular subjects were, by means of a few additions, changed
into religious ones; heathen gods and heroes had to submit to be martyrs
and evangelists. Often also, the artist, for instruction or exercise to
himself, had copied some figure from a celebrated work, and now he added
to it something of his own invention in order to turn it into a saleable
picture. Finally, we may certainly ascribe a part of the corruption of
art to the discovery and abuse of copper-plate engravings, which
supplied job-painters with crowds of foreign inventions, so that no one
any longer studied, and painting at last reached such a low ebb that it
got mixed up with mechanical works. In the first place, the copper-plate
engravings themselves were different from the originals, and whoever
copied them multiplied the changes according to his own or other
peoples’ conviction or whim. The same thing happened precisely in the
case of drawings; artists took sketches of the most remarkable subjects
in Rome and Florence, in order to produce arbitrary repetitions of them
when they returned home.
COPIES OF THE SUPPER.
In view of the above, we shall be able to judge what is to be expected,
more or less, of copies of the Supper, although the earliest were
executed contemporaneously; for the work made a great sensation, and
other monasteries desired similar works. Of the numerous copies
consulted by the author [Vossi] we shall occupy ourselves here with only
three, since the copies at Weimar are taken from them; nevertheless, at
the basis of these lies a fourth, of which, therefore, we must first
speak. _Marco d’Oggiono_, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci’s, though without
any extensive talent, gained the praise of his school chiefly by his
heads, although in them he is not always equal to himself. About the
year 1510, he executed a copy on a small scale, intending to use it
afterwards for a copy on a larger scale. It was, according to tradition,
not quite accurate; he made it, however, the basis of a larger copy
which is in the now suppressed monastery at Castellazzo, likewise in the
dining-hall of the monks of those days. Everything about it shows
careful work; nevertheless the usual arbitrariness prevails in the
details. And although Vossi has not been able to say much in its praise,
he does not deny that it is a remarkable monument, and that the
character of several of the heads, in which the expression is not
exaggerated, is deserving of praise. Vossi has copied it, and on
comparison of the three copies we shall be able to pronounce judgment
upon it from our own observation.
A second copy, of which we likewise have the heads copied before us, is
found in fresco on the wall at Ponte Capriasca; it is referred to the
year 1565, and ascribed to Pierro Lovino. Its merits we shall learn in
the sequel; it has the peculiarity that the names of the figures are
written underneath, a piece of foresight which aids us in arriving at a
correct characterization of the different physiognomies.
The gradual destruction of the original we have described in sufficient
detail, and it was already in a very wretched condition when, in 1612,
Cardinal Frederico Borromeo, a zealous friend of art, endeavored to
prevent the entire loss of the work, and commissioned a Milanese, Andrea
Bianchi, surnamed Vespino, to execute a full-sized copy. This artist
first tried his skill on a few of the heads; being successful in these,
he proceeded and copied the whole of the figures, separately however,
and afterwards put them together with the greatest possible care; the
picture is at present to be found in the Ambrosiana library at Milan,
and lies mainly at the basis of the most recent copy, executed by Vossi.
This was executed on the following occasion.
LATEST COPY.
The Kingdom of Italy was decreed, and Prince Eugène, following the
example of Luigi Sforza, wished to glorify the beginning of his reign by
patronizing the fine arts. Luigi had ordered a representation of the
Last Supper of Leonardo; Eugène resolved to restore, as far as possible,
the painting that had been going to wreck for three hundred years in a
new picture, which, in order that it might be indestructible, was to be
done in mosaic, for which preparation had been made in an already
existing institution.
Vossi immediately receives the commission, and commences in the
beginning of May, 1807. He finds it advisable to execute a full-sized
cartoon, takes up anew the studies of his youth, and applies himself
entirely to Leonardo, studies his art-remains and his writings,
particularly the latter, because he is persuaded that a man who has
produced such splendid works must have worked on the most decided and
advantageous principles. He had made drawings of the heads in the copy
at Ponte Capriasca, as well as of some other parts of it, likewise of
the heads and hands of the Castellazzo copy, and of that of Bianchi.
Then he makes drawings of everything coming from Da Vinci himself, and
even of what comes from some of his contemporaries. Moreover he looks
about for all the extant copies, and succeeds in making more or less
acquaintance with twenty-seven; drawings and manuscripts of Da Vinci’s
are kindly sent to him from all quarters. In the working out of his
cartoon, he adheres principally to the Ambrosiana copy; it alone is as
large as the original. Bianchi, by means of thread-nets and transparent
paper, had endeavored to give a most accurate copy of the original,
which, although already very much injured, was not yet painted over.
In the end of October, 1807, the cartoon is ready; canvass grounded
uniformly in one piece, and the whole immediately sketched out.
Hereupon, in order in some measure to regulate his tints, Vossi painted
the small portion of sky and landscape, which, on account of the depth
and purity of the colors in the original, had still remained fresh and
brilliant. Hereupon he paints the head of Christ and those of the three
apostles at his left, and as for the dresses, he first paints those
about whose colors he had first arrived at certainly, with a view to
selecting the rest according to the principles of the master and his own
taste. Thus he covered the whole of the canvass, guided by careful
reflection, and kept his colors of uniform height and strength.
Unfortunately, in this damp, deserted place, he was seized with an
illness which compelled him to put a stop to his exertions;
nevertheless, he employed this interval in arranging drawings,
copper-plate engravings, partly with a view to the Supper itself, partly
to other works of the master; at the same time he was favored by
fortune, which brought him a collection of drawings, purporting to come
from Cardinal Cæsar Monti, and containing, among other treasures,
remarkable productions of Leonardo himself. He studied even the authors
contemporaneous with Leonardo, in order to make use of their opinions
and wishes, and looked about him for everything that could further his
design. Thus he took advantage of his sickness, and at last attained
strength to set about his work anew.
No artist or friend of art will leave unread the account of how he
managed the details, how he thought out the characters of the faces and
their expression, and even the motions of the hands, and how he
represented them. In the same manner he thinks out the dishes, the room,
the back-ground, and shows that he has not decided upon any part without
the strongest reasons. What care he takes about representing the feet
under the table in correct attitudes, because this portion of the
original had long been destroyed, and in the copies had been carelessly
treated!
* * * * *
Of the relation of the two copies—the merits of the third can be shown
only to the eye, not to the mind in words—we shall state in a few words
the most essential and most decided points, until we shall be fortunate
enough, as we shall perhaps one day be, to be able to lay copies of
these interesting sheets before the friends of art.
COMPARISON.
_St. Bartholomew_, manly youth, sharp profile, compressed, clear face,
eyelid and brow pressed down, mouth closed, as if listening with
suspicion, a character completely circumscribed within itself. In
Vespino’s copy no trace of individual characteristic features, a general
kind of drawing-book face, listening with open mouth. Vossi has approved
of this opening of the lips, and retained it, a procedure to which we
should be unable to lend our assent.
_St. James_ the younger, likewise profile, relationship to Christ
unmistakable, receives from the protruded, slightly opened lips,
something individual, which again cancels this similarity. According to
Vespino, almost an ordinary, academical Christ, the mouth opened rather
in astonishment than in inquiry. Our assertion that Bartholomew must
have his mouth closed, receives support from the fact that his neighbor
has his mouth open. Such a repetition Leonardo would never have endured;
on the contrary, the next figure,
_St. Andrew_ has his mouth shut. Like persons advanced in life, he
presses the lower lip rather against the upper. In the copy of Marco,
this head has something peculiar, not to be expressed in words; the eyes
are introverted; the mouth, though shut, is still _naïve_. The outline
of the left side against the back ground forms a beautiful silhouette;
enough of the other side of the forehead (eye, nose and beard) is seen
to give the head a roundness and a peculiar life; on the contrary,
Vespino suppresses the left eye altogether, but shows so much of the
left temple and of the side of the beard as to produce in the uplifted
face a full bold expression, which is indeed striking, but which would
seem more suitable to clenched fists than to open hands stretched
forward.
_Judas_ locked up within himself, frightened, looking anxiously up and
back, profile strongly dented, not exaggerated, by no means an ugly
formation; for good taste would not tolerate any real monster in the
proximity of pure and upright men. Vespino, on the other hand, has
actually represented such a monster, and it cannot be denied that,
regarded by itself, this head has much merit; it expresses vividly a
mischievously bold malignity, and would make itself eminently
conspicuous in a mob triumphing over an _Ecce Homo_, and crying out
“Crucify! crucify!” It might be made to pass for Mephistopheles in his
most devilish moment. But of affright or dread, combined with
dissimulation, indifference and contempt, there is not a trace; the
bristly hair fits in with the _tout ensemble_ admirably; its
exaggeration, however, is matched only by the force and violence of the
rest of Vespino’s heads.
_St. Peter._—Very problematical features. Even in Marco, it is merely an
expression of pain; of wrath or menace there is no sign; there is also a
certain anxiety expressed, and here Leonardo may not have been at one
even with himself; for cordial sympathy with a beloved master, and
threatening against a traitor, are with difficulty united in one
countenance. Nevertheless, Cardinal Borromeo asserts that he saw such a
miracle in his time. However pleasant it might be to believe this, we
have reason to suppose that the art-loving cardinal expressed his own
feeling rather than what was in the picture; for otherwise we should be
unable to defend our friend Vespino, whose Peter has an unpleasant
expression. He looks like a stern Capuchin monk, whose Lent sermon is
intended to rouse sinners. It is strange that Vespino has given him
bushy hair, since the Peter of Marco shows a beautiful head of short,
curled tresses.
_St. John_ is represented by Marco in the spirit of Da Vinci; the
beautiful roundish face, somewhat inclined to oval, the hair smooth
towards the top of the head, but curling gently downwards, particularly
where it bends round Peter’s inserted hand, are most lovely; what we see
of the dark of the eye is turned away from Peter—a marvellously fine
piece of observation, in that while he is listening with the intensest
feeling to the secret speech of his neighbor, he turns away his eyes
from him. According to Vespino, he is a comfortable-looking, quiet,
almost sleepy youth, without any trace of sympathy.
We turn now to the left side of Christ, in order that the figure of the
Saviour may come last in our description.
_St. Thomas’_ head and right hand, whose upraised fore-finger is bent
slightly toward his brow to imply reflection. This movement, which is so
much in keeping with a person who is suspicious or in doubt, has been
hitherto misunderstood, and a hesitating disciple looked upon as
threatening. In Vespino’s copy, likewise, he is reflective enough, but
as the artist has again left out the retreating right eye, the result is
a perpendicular, monotonous profile, without any remnant of the
protruding, searching elements of the older copies.
_St. James_ the Elder.—The most violent agitation of the features, the
most gaping mouth, horror in his eye; an original venture of Leonardo’s;
yet we have reason to believe that this head, likewise, has been
remarkably succesful with Marco. The working out is magnificent, whereas
in the copy of Vespino all is lost; attitude, manner, mien, everything
has vanished, and dwindles down into a sort of indifferent generality.
_St. Philip_, amiable and invaluable, resembles Raffaelle’s youths,
collected on the left side of _The School of Athens_ about Bramante.
Vespino has, unfortunately, again suppressed the right eye, and as he
could not deny that there was something more than profile in the thing,
he has produced an ambiguous, strangely inclined head.
_St. Matthew_, young, of undesigning nature, with curly hair, an anxious
expression in the slightly opened mouth, in which the teeth, which are
visible, express a sort of slight ferocity in keeping with the violent
movement of the figure. Of all this nothing remains in Vespino; he gazes
before him, stiff and expressionless; one does not receive the remotest
notion of the violent movement of the body.
_St. Thaddeus_, according to Marco, is likewise quite an invaluable
head; anxiety, suspicion, vexation, are expressed in every feature. The
unity of this agitation of the countenance is extremely fine, and is
entirely in keeping with the movement of the hands which we have already
explained. In Vespino, everything is again reduced to a general level;
he has also made the head still more unmeaning by turning it too much
towards the spectator, whereas, according to Marco, hardly a quarter of
the left side is seen, whereby the suspicious, askance-looking element
is admirably portrayed.
_St. Simon_ the Elder, wholly in profile, placed opposite the likewise
pure profile of young Matthew. In him the protruding under lip which
Leonardo had such a partiality for in old faces, is most exaggerated;
but, along with the grave, overhanging brow, produces the most wonderful
effect of vexation and reflection, in sharp contrast with the passionate
movement of young Matthew. In Vespino he is a good-natured old man in
his dotage, incapable of taking any interest in even the most important
occurrence that might take place in his presence.
Having thus now thrown light upon the apostles, we turn to the form of
_Christ_ himself. And here again we are met by the legend, that Leonardo
was unable to finish either Christ or Judas, which we readily believe,
since, from his method, it was impossible for him to put the last touch
to those two extremes of portraiture. Wretched enough, in the original,
after all the darkening processes it had to undergo, may have been the
appearance presented by the features of Christ, which were only
sketched. How little Vespino found remaining, may be gleaned from the
fact that he brought out a colossal head of Christ, quite at variance
with the purpose of Da Vinci, without paying the least attention to the
inclination of the head, which ought of necessity to have been made
parallel with the inclination of John’s. Of the expression we shall say
nothing; the features are regular, good-natured, intelligent, like those
we are accustomed to see in Christ, but without the very smallest
particle of sensibility, so that we should almost be unable to tell what
New Testament story this head would be welcome to.
We are here met and aided by the circumstance that connoisseurs assert,
that Leonardo himself painted the head of the Saviour at Castellazzo,
and ventured to do in another’s work what he had not been willing to
undertake in his own principal figure. As we have not the original
before us, we must say of the copy that it agrees entirely with the
conception which we form of a noble man whose breast is weighed down by
poignant suffering of soul, which he has endeavored to alleviate by a
familiar word, but has thereby only made matters worse instead of
better.
By these processes of comparison, then, we have come sufficiently near
the method of this extraordinary artist, such as he has clearly
explained and demonstrated it in writings and pictures, and fortunately
it is in our power to take a step still further in advance. There is,
namely, preserved in the Ambrosiana library a drawing incontestably
executed by Leonardo, upon bluish paper, with a little white and colored
chalk. Of this the chevalier Vossi has executed the most accurate
_fac-simile_, which is also before us. A noble youthful face, drawn from
nature, evidently with a view to the head of Christ at the Supper. Pure,
regular features, smooth hair, the head bent to the left side, the eyes
cast down, the mouth half opened, the _tout ensemble_ brought into the
most marvellous harmony by a slight touch of sorrow. Here indeed we have
only the man who does not conceal a suffering of soul, but the problem,
how, without extinguishing this promise, at the same time to express
sublimity, independence, power, the might of godhead, is one which even
the most gifted earthly pencil might well find hard to solve. In this
youthful physiognomy which hovers between Christ and John, we see the
highest attempt to hold fast by nature when the supermundane is in
question.
PAUL JANET AND HEGEL.[65]
[In the following article the passages quoted are turned into
English, and the original French is omitted for the sake of brevity
and lucid arrangement. As the work reviewed is accessible to most
readers, a reference to the pages from which we quote will answer
all purposes.—EDITOR.]
Since the death of Hegel in 1831, his philosophy has been making a slow
but regular progress into the world at large. At home in Germany it is
spoken of as having a right wing, a left wing, and a centre; its
disciples are very numerous when one counts such widely different
philosophers as Rosenkrantz, Michelet, Kuno Fischer, Erdmann, J. H.
Fichte, Strauss, Feuerbach, and their numerous followers. Sometimes when
one hears who constitute a “wing” of the Hegelian school, he is reminded
of the “_lucus a non_” principle of naming, or rather of misnaming
things. But Hegelianism has, as we said, made its way into other
countries. In France we have the Æsthetics “partly translated and partly
analyzed,” by Professor Bénard; the logic of the small Encyclopædia,
translated with copious notes, by Professor Vera, who has gone bravely
on, with what seems with him to be a work of love, and given us the
“Philosophy of Nature” and the “Philosophy of Spirit,” and promises us
the “Philosophy of Religion”—all accompanied with abundant introduction
and commentary. We hear of others very much influenced by Hegel: M.
Taine, for example, who writes brilliant essays. In English, too, we
have a translation of the “Philosophy of History,” (in Bohn’s Library;)
a kind of translation and analysis of the first part of the third volume
of the Logic, (Sloman & Wallon, London, 1855); and an extensive and
elaborate work on “The Secret of Hegel,” by James Hutchison Stirling. We
must not forget to mention a translation of Schwegler’s History of
Philosophy—a work drawn principally from Hegel’s labors—by our American
Professor Seelye: and also (just published) a translation of the same
book by the author of the “Secret of Hegel.” Articles treating of Hegel
are to be found by the score—seek them in every text-book on philosophy,
in every general Cyclopædia, and in numerous works written for or
against German Philosophy. Some of these writers tell us in one breath
that Hegel was a man of prodigious genius, and in the next they convict
him of confounding the plainest of all common sense distinctions. Some
of them find him the profoundest of all thinkers, while others cannot
“make a word of sense out of him.” There seems to be a general
understanding in this country and England on one point: all agree that
he was a Pantheist. Theodore Parker, Sir William Hamilton, Mansell,
Morell, and even some of the English defenders of Hegelianism admit
this. Hegel holds, say some, that God is a _becoming_; others say that
he holds God to be _pure being_. These men are careful men
apparently—but only _apparently_, for it must be confessed that if Hegel
has written any books at all, they are, every one of them, devoted to
the task of showing the inadequacy of such abstractions when made the
highest principle of things.
The ripest product of the great German movement in philosophy, which
took place at the beginning of this century, Hegel’s philosophy is
likewise the concretest system of thought the world has seen. This is
coming to be the conviction of thinkers more and more every day as they
get glimpses into particular provinces of his labor. Bénard thinks the
Philosophy of Art the most wonderful product of modern thinking, and
speaks of the Logic—which he does not understand—as a futile and
perishable production. Another thinks that his Philosophy of History is
immortal, and a third values extravagantly his Philosophy of Religion.
But the one who values his Logic knows how to value all his labors. The
History of Philosophy is the work that impresses us most with the
unparalleled wealth of his thought; he is able to descend through all
history, and give to each philosopher a splendid thought as the centre
of his system, and yet never is obliged to confound different systems,
or fail in showing the superior depth of modern thought. While we are
admiring the depth and clearness of Pythagoras, we are surprised and
delighted to find the great thought of Heraclitus, but Anaxagoras is a
new surprise; the Sophists come before us bearing a world-historical
significance, and Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle lead us successively to
heights such as we had not dreamed attainable by any thinking.
But thought is no _immediate_ function, like the process of breathing or
sleeping, or fancy-making: it is the profoundest mediation of spirit,
and he who would get an insight into the speculative thinkers of
whatever time, must labor as no mere flesh and blood can labor, but only
as spirit can labor: with agony and sweat of blood. A philosophy which
should explain the great complex of the universe, could hardly be
expected to be transparent to uncultured minds at the first glance. Thus
it happens that many critics give us such discouraging reports upon
their return from a short excursion into the true wonder-land of
philosophy. The Eternal Verities are miraculous only to those eyes which
have gazed long upon them after shutting out the glaring sunlight of the
senses.
Those who criticise a philosophy must imply a philosophical method of
their own, and thus measure themselves while they measure others. A
literary man who criticises Goethe, or Shakespeare, or Homer, is very
apt to lay himself bare to the shaft of the adversary. There are,
however, in our time, a legion of writers who pass judgment as
flippantly upon a system of the most comprehensive scope—and which they
confess openly their inability to understand—as upon a mere opinion
uttered in a “table-talk.” Even some men of great reputation give
currency to great errors. Sir William Hamilton, in his notes to Reid’s
Philosophy of “Touch,” once quoted the passage from the second part of
Fichte’s _Bestimmung des Menschen_, (wherein onesided idealism is pushed
to its downfall,) in order to show that Fichte’s Philosophy ended in
Nihilism. The _Bestimmung des Menschen_ was a mere popular writing in
which Fichte adopted the Kantian style of exhibiting the self-refutation
of sense and reflection, in order to rest all ultimate truth in the
postulates of the Practical Reason. Accordingly he shows the practical
results of his own system in the third part of the work in question, and
enforces the soundest ethical views of life. He never thought of
presenting his theoretical philosophy in that work. Thus, too, in
Hamilton’s refutation of Cousin and Schelling: he polemicises against
all “Doctrines of the Absolute,” saying that _to think is to limit;
hence to think God would be to determine or limit Him_; and hence is
inferred the impossibility of thinking God as he truly is. This, of
course, is not pushed to its results by his followers, for then its
skeptical tendency would become obvious. Religion demands that we shall
do the Will of God; this Will must, therefore, be known. But, again,
Will is the realization or self-determination of one’s nature—from it
the character proceeds. Thus in knowing God’s will we know his character
or nature. If we cannot do this at all, no religion is possible; and in
proportion as Religion is possible, the Knowledge of God is possible.
If it be said that the Absolute is unthinkable, in this assertion it is
affirmed that all predicates or categories of thought are inapplicable
to the Absolute, for to think is to predicate of some object, the
categories of thought; and in so far as these categories apply, to that
extent is the Absolute thinkable. Since _Existence_ is a category of
thought, it follows from this position that to predicate existence of
the Absolute is impossible; “a questionable predicament” truly for the
Absolute. According to this doctrine—that all thought is limitation—God
is made Pure Being, or Pure Thought. This is also the result of Indian
Pantheism, and of all Pantheism; this doctrine concerning the mere
negative character of thought, in fact, underlies the Oriental tenet
that consciousness is finitude. To be consistent, all Hamiltonians
should become Brahmins, or, at least, join some sect of modern
Spiritualists, and thus embrace a religion that corresponds to their
dogma. However, let us not be so unreasonable as to insist upon the
removal of inconsistency—it is all the good they have.
After all this preliminary let us proceed at once to examine the work of
Professor Paul Janet, which we have named at the head of our article:
“_Essai sur la dialectique dans Platon et dans Hegel_.”
After considering the Dialectic of Plato in its various aspects, and
finding that it rests on the principle of contradiction, M. Janet
grapples Hegel, and makes, in order, the following points:
I. TERMINOLOGY.—He tells us that the great difficulty that lies in the
way of comprehending German Philosophy is the abstract terminology
employed, which is, in fact, mere scholasticism preserved and applied to
modern problems. No nation of modern times, except the Germans, have
preserved the scholastic form. He traces the obscurity of modern German
philosophy to “Aristotle subtilized by the schools.” This he contrasts
with the “simple and natural philosophy of the Scotch.” [This
“simplicity” arises from the fact that the Scotch system holds that
immediate sensuous knowing is valid. Of course this implies that they
hold that the immediate existence of objects is a true existence—that
whatever is, exists thus and so without any further grounds. This is the
denial of all philosophy, for it utterly ignores any occasion whatever
for it. But it is no less antagonistic to the “natural science” of the
physicist: he, the physicist, finds the immediate object of the senses
to be no permanent or true phase, but only a transitory one; the object
is involved with other beings—even the remotest star—and changes when
they change. It is force and matter (two very abstract categories) that
are to him the permanent and true existence. But force and matter cannot
be seen by the senses; they can only be thought.] Our author proceeds to
trace the resemblance between Hegel and Wolff: both consider and analyze
the pure concepts, beginning with Being. To M. Janet this resemblance
goes for much, but he admits that “Hegel has modified this order (that
of Wolff) and rendered it more systematic.” If one asks “_How_ more
systematic?” he will not find the answer. “The scholastic _form_ is
retained, but not the _thought_,” we are told. That such statements are
put forward, even in a book designed for mere surface-readers may well
surprise us. That the mathematical method of Wolff or Spinoza—a method
which proceeds by definitions and external comparison, holding meanwhile
to the principle of contradiction—that such a method should be
confounded with that of Hegel which proceeds dialectically, i. e.
through the internal movement of the categories to their contradiction
or limit, shows the student of philosophy at once that we are dealing
with a _littérateur_, and not with a philosopher. So far from retaining
the form of Wolff it is the great object of Hegel (see his long prefaces
to the “Logik” and the “Phänomenologie des Geistes”) to supplant that
form by what he considers the true method—that of the _objective_
itself. The objective method is to be distinguished from the arbitrary
method of external reflection which selects its point of view somewhere
outside of the object considered, and proceeds to draw relations and
comparisons which, however edifying, do not give us any exhaustive
knowledge. It is also to be distinguished from the method of mere
empirical observation which collects without discrimination a mass of
characteristics, accidental and necessary, and never arrives at a
vivifying soul that unites and subordinates the multiplicity. The
objective method seizes somewhat in its definition and traces it through
all the phases which necessarily unfold when the object is placed in the
form of _relation to itself_. An object which cannot survive the process
of self-relation, perishes, i. e. it leads to a more concrete object
which is better able to endure. This method, as we shall presently see,
is attributed to Plato by M. Janet.
The only resemblance that remains to be noted between the scholastics
and Hegel is this: they both treat of subtle distinctions in thought,
while our modern “common sense” system goes only so far as to
distinguish very general and obvious differences. This is a questionable
merit, and the less ado made about it by such as take pride in it, the
better for them.
Our author continues: “The principal difficulty of the system of Kant is
our ignorance of the ancient systems of logic. The Critique of Pure
Reason is modelled on the scholastic system.” Could we have a more
conclusive refutation of this than the fact that the great professors of
the ancient systems grossly misunderstand Kant, and even our essayist
himself mistakes the whole purport of the same! Hear him contrast Kant
with Hegel: “Kant sees in Being only the form of Thought, while Hegel
sees in Thought only the form of Being.” This he says is the great
difference between the Germans and French, interpreting it to mean:
“that the former pursues the route of deduction, and the latter that of
experience”!
He wishes to consider Hegel under three heads: 1st, The Beginning; 2d,
the dialectical deduction of the Becoming, and 3d, the term Dialectic.
II. THE BEGINNING.—According to M. Janet, Hegel must have used this
syllogism in order to find the proper category with which to commence
the Logic.
(a) The Beginning should presuppose nothing;
(b) Pure Being presupposes nothing;
(c) Hence Pure Being is the Beginning.
This syllogism he shows to be inconclusive: for there are two
beginnings, (a) in the order of knowledge, (b) in the order of
existence. Are they the same? He answers: “No, the thinking
being—because it thinks—knows itself before it knows the being which it
thinks.” Subject and object being identical in that act, M. Janet in
effect says, “it thinks itself before it thinks itself”—an argument that
the scholastics would hardly have been guilty of! The beginning is
really made, he says, with internal or external _experience_. He quotes
(page 316) from Hegel a passage asserting that _mediation_ is essential
to knowing. This he construes to mean that “the determined or concrete
(the world of experience) is the essential condition of knowing!”
Through his misapprehension of the term “mediation,” we are prepared for
all the errors that follow, for “mediation in knowing” means with Hegel
that it involves a _process_, and hence can be true only in the form of
a system. The “internal and external experience” appertains to what
Hegel calls immediate knowing. It is therefore not to be wondered at
that M. Janet thinks Hegel contradicts himself by holding Pure Being to
be the Beginning, and afterwards affirming mediation to be necessary. He
says (page 317), “In the order of knowing it is the mediate which is
necessarily first, while in the order of existence the immediate is the
commencement.” Such a remark shows him to be still laboring on the first
problem of Philosophy, and without any light, for no _Speculative_
Philosopher (like Plato, Aristotle, Leibnitz, or Hegel) ever held that
Pure Being—or the immediate—is the first in the order of existence, but
rather that God or Spirit (self-thinking, “pure act,” Νοῦς, “Logos,”
&c.) is the first in the order of existence. In fact, M. Janet praises
Plato and Aristotle for this very thing at the end of his volume, and
thereby exhibits the unconsciousness of his procedure. Again, “The pure
thought is the end of philosophy, and not its beginning.” If he means by
this that the culture of consciousness ends in arriving at pure thought
or philosophy, we have no objection to offer, except to the limiting of
the application of the term Philosophy to its preliminary stage, which
is called the Phenomenology of Spirit. The arrival at pure thought marks
the beginning of the use of terms in a universal sense, and hence is the
beginning of philosophy proper. But M. Janet criticises the distinction
made by Hegel between Phenomenology and Psychology, and instances Maine
de Biran as one who writes Psychology in the sense Hegel would write
Phenomenology. But M. Biran merely manipulates certain unexplained
phenomena,—like the Will, for example—in order to derive categories like
force, cause, &c. But Hegel shows in his Phenomenology the dialectical
unfolding of consciousness through all its phases, starting from the
immediate certitude of the senses. He shows how certitude becomes
knowledge of truth, and wherein it differs from it. But M. Janet (p.
324) thinks that Hegel’s system, beginning in empirical Psychology,
climbs to pure thought, “and then draws up the ladder after it.”
III. THE BECOMING.—We are told by the author that consciousness
determining itself as Being, determines itself as _a_ being, and not as
_the_ being. If this be so we cannot think _pure being_ at all. Such an
assertion amounts to denying the universal character of the Ego. If the
position stated were true, we could think neither being nor any other
object.
On page 332, he says, “This contradiction (of Being and non-being) which
in the ordinary logic would be the negative of the _posited notion_, is,
in the logic of Hegel, only an excitant or stimulus, which somehow
determines spirit to find a third somewhat in which it finds the other
conciliated.” He is not able to see any procedure at all. He sees the
two opposites, and thinks that Hegel empirically hunts out a concept
which implies both, and substitutes it for them. M. Janet thinks (pp.
336-7) that Hegel has exaggerated the difficulties of conceiving the
identity of Being and nought. (p. 338) “If the difference of Being and
nought can be neither expressed nor defined, if they are as identical as
different—if, in short, the idea of Being is only the idea of the pure
void, I will say, not merely that Being transforms itself into Nothing,
or passes into its contrary; I will say that there are not two
contraries, but only one term which I have falsely called Being in the
thesis, but which is in reality only Non-being without restriction—the
pure zero.” He quotes from Kuno Fischer (p. 340) the following remarks
applicable here:
“If Being were in reality the pure void as it is ordinarily taken,
Non-being would not express the same void a second time; but it
would then be the non-void, i. e. the abhorrence of the void, or the
immanent contradiction of the void.”—(and again from his “Logik und
Metaphysik” II. § 29): “The logical Being contradicts itself; for
thought vanishes in the immovable repose of Being. But as Being
comes only from thought (for it is the act of thought), it
contradicts thus itself in destroying thought. Consequently thought
manifests itself as the negation of Being—that is to say, as
_Non-being_. The Non-being (logical) is not the total suppression of
Being—the pure zero—it is not the mathematical opposition of Being
to itself as a negative opposed to a positive, but it is the
dialectical negative of itself, the immanent contradiction of Being.
Being contradicts itself, hence is Non-being, and in the concept of
Non-being, thought discovers the immanent contradiction of
Being—thought manifests itself at first as Being, and in turn the
logical Being manifests itself as Non-being; thought can hence say,
“I am the Being which is not.”
“Such,” continues our author, “is the deduction of M. Fischer. It seems
to me very much inferior in clearness to that of Hegel.” How he could
say this is very mysterious when we find him denying all validity to
Hegel’s demonstration. Although Fischer’s explanation is mixed—partly
dialectical and partly psychological—yet, as an explanation, it is
correct. But as psychology should not be dragged into Logic, which is
the evolution of the forms of pure thinking, we must hold strictly to
the dialectic if we would see the “Becoming.” The psychological
explanation gets no further than the relation of Being and nought as
concepts. The Hegelian thought on this point is not widely different
from that of Gorgias, as given us by Sextus Empiricus, nor from that of
Plato in the Sophist. Let us attempt it here:
Being is the pure simple; as such it is considered under the form of
self-relation. But as it is wholly undetermined, and has no content, it
is pure nought or absolute negation. As such it is the negation by
itself or the negation of itself, and hence its own opposite or Being.
Thus the simple falls through self-opposition into duality, and this
again becomes simple if we attempt to hold it asunder, or give it any
validity by itself. Thus if Being is posited as having validity in and
by itself without determination, (_omnis determinatio est negatio_), it
becomes a pure void in nowise different from nought, for difference is
determination, and neither Being nor nought possess it. What is the
validity of the nought? A negative is a relative, and a negative by
itself is a negative related to itself, which is a self-cancelling. Thus
Being and nought, posited objectively as having validity, prove
dissolving forms and pass over into each other. Being is a _ceasing_ and
nought is a _beginning_, and these are the two forms of _Becoming_. The
Becoming, dialectically considered, proves itself inadequate likewise.
IV. THE DIALECTIC.—To consider an object dialectically we have merely to
give it universal validity; if it contradicts itself then, _we_ are not
in anywise concerned for the result; we will simply stand by and accept
the result, without fear that the true will not appear in the end. The
negative turned against itself makes short work of itself; it is only
when the subjective reflection tries to save it by hypotheses and
reservations that a merely negative result is obtained.
(Page 369): “In Spinozism the development of Being is Geometric; in the
System of Hegel it is organic.” What could have tempted him to use these
words, it is impossible to say, unless it was the deep-seated national
proclivity for epigrammatic statements. This distinction means nothing
less (in the mouth of its original author) than what we have already
given as the true difference between Wolff’s and Hegel’s methods; but M.
Janet has long since forgotten his earlier statements. (Page 369) He
says, “Hegel’s method is a faithful expression of the movement of
nature,” from which he thinks Hegel derived it empirically!
On page 372 he asks: “Who proves to us that the dialectic stops at
_Spirit_ as its last term? Why can I not conceive a spirit absolutely
superior to mine, in whom the identity between subject and object, the
intelligible and intelligence would be more perfect than it is with this
great Philosopher [Hegel]? ***** In fact, every philosopher is a man,
and so far forth is full of obscurity and feebleness.” Spirit is the
last term in philosophy for the reason that it stands in complete
self-relation, and hence contains its antithesis within itself; if it
could stand in opposition to anything else, then it would contain a
contradiction, and be capable of transition into a higher. M. Janet asks
in effect: “Who proves that the dialectic stops at God as the highest,
and why cannot I conceive a higher?” Judging from his attempt at
understanding Hegel, however, he is not in a fair way to conceive “a
spirit in whom the identity between subject and object” is more perfect
than in Hegel. “What hinders” is his own culture, his own self; “_Du
gleichst dem Geist den du begreifst, nicht mir_,” said the World-spirit
to Faust.
He asks, (p. 374): “When did the ‘pure act’ commence?” From Eternity; it
always commences, and is always complete, says Hegel. “According to
Hegel, God is made from nought, by means of the World.” Instead of this,
Hegel holds that God is self-created, and the world eternally created by
him (the Eternally-begotten Son). “What need has God of Nature?” God is
Spirit; hence conscious; hence he makes himself an object to himself; in
this act he creates nature; hence Nature is His reflection. (P. 386):
“The Absolute in Hegel is spirit only on condition that it thinks, and
thinks _itself_; hence it is not _essentially_ Spirit, but only
_accidentally_.” To “_think itself_” is to be conscious, and, without
this, God would have no personality; and hence if Hegel were to hold any
other doctrine than the one attributed to him, he would be a Pantheist.
But these things are not mere dogmas with Hegel; they appear as the
logical results of the most logical of systems. “But in Plato, God is a
Reason _in activity_, a living thought.” M. Janet mentions this to show
Plato’s superiority; he thinks that it is absurd for Hegel to attribute
_thinking_ to God, but thinks the same thing to be a great merit in
Plato. (P. 392): “Behold the Platonic deduction [or dialectic]: being
given a pure idea, he shows that this idea, if it were _all alone_, [i.
e. made universal, or placed in self-relation, or posited as valid for
itself,] would be contradictory of itself, and consequently could not
be. Hence, if it exists, it is on condition that it mingles with another
idea. Take, for example, the multiple: by itself, it loses itself in the
indiscernible, for it would be impossible without unity.” This would do
very well for a description of the Dialectic in Hegel if he would lay
more stress on the positive side of the result. Not merely does the
“pure idea mingle with another”—i. e. pass over to its opposite—but it
_returns_ into itself by the continuation of its own movement, and
thereby reaches a concrete stage. Plato sometimes uses this complete
dialectical movement, and ends affirmatively; sometimes he uses only the
partial movement and draws negative conclusions.
How much better M. Janet’s book might have been—we may be allowed to
remark in conclusion—had he possessed the earnest spirit of such men as
Vera and Hutchison Stirling! Stimulated by its title, we had hoped to
find a book that would kindle a zeal for the study of the profoundest
philosophical subject, as treated by the profoundest of thinkers.
Footnote 65:
“Essai sur la dialectique dans Platon et dans Hegel,” par Paul Janet,
Membre de L’Institut, professeur à la Faculté des lettres de
Paris.—Paris, (Ladrange,) 1860.
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
Text that was in bold face is enclosed by equals signs (=bold=).
○ Footnotes have been moved to follow the articles in which they are
referenced.